Bloodstone (30 page)

“Girn said you’d been attacked.”

“Once. Last autumn. Killed my oldest girl and her husband.” Illait glanced over his shoulder. “Hua never recovered.”

The little boy hadn’t stirred once since they’d entered the hut. Darak had assumed he was ill.

“Poor lad saw his mother and father cut down. The shock of it shattered his spirit. Even our Tree-Father can’t restore him.” Illait grimaced and took another swig of brogac. “Jirra and Sariem feed him. Change him when he soils himself. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. I don’t even know if he hears us. He just . . . lies there.”

Like Ania after the bear mauled her. Or poor Pol who’d been kicked in the head by the ram.

Illait cleared his throat, frowning. “Forgive me. You came to me for help, and I’m burdening you with our troubles.”

“We share the same troubles,” Darak said. “Even the northern tribes understand that now.”

“If only it didn’t take a disaster to teach us wisdom. Oh, we set watches after the harvest, but they beached their boats farther down the coast and crept up on us in the dark. We nearly starved last winter. Soon as the spring thaw came, we built storage huts in the forest. If they come again, they’ll go away empty-handed. And now, we keep watch for a mile around the village, day and night. Every person over the age of ten takes a turn. It’s no way to live.” Illait shook his head. “I thought Girn was a fool for tearing down his village. Now I’m thinking he was the smart one.”

Jirra supported her grandson while Sariem dribbled broth into his mouth from a turtle shell. The boy’s eyes stared past them, unseeing.

Darak added Hua to the growing list of the lost.

K
EIRITH CLIMBED INTO the litter, floundering among the pillows until he managed a semblance of the Pajhit’s elegant pose—half-sitting, half-reclining. The priest had given him no explanation for this excursion into the city, but he was too excited to care. Even if it meant skipping his morning lesson with Hircha, he might learn something valuable.

He pulled back the flaxcloth curtains, eager to see everything. The bearers carried them through the central courtyard and into the smaller one that led to the main gate. The soaring columns made him recall his parents’ story of walking among the giant trees of the First Forest. Instead of mysterious Watchers, a stream of litters passed between the columns.

A pillared walkway branched off from the one they were following. “The temple of Womb of Earth,” the Pajhit told him, mercifully keeping the language simple. Like the temple of Zhe, the altar stood on a raised platform of stone, but there was a building behind it that resembled a large cairn.

The Pajhit said something he couldn’t catch and then switched to the tribal tongue. “The priestesses still offer their moon blood to Womb of Earth at the dark of the moon, but we also make daily offerings of flowers, fruit, grain, or wine. At the full moon, the Motixa offers the afterbirth of newly delivered ewes to the goddess.”

Perhaps that was why the land was so inhospitable. How could a priestess as old as the Motixa call it to fertility? Since it would be impolite to say so, he merely asked, “Do all your gods have temples?”

“The Changing One of the clouds has a shrine near the top of Kelazhat. Fishermen and sailors throw their offerings into the sea to honor and appease the Sleepless Sisters.”

Just as the fishermen of his tribe offered the first of their catch to Lacha.

“The other gods have shrines throughout the city attended by a priest or priestess.” The Pajhit rapped on the ceiling of the litter. Immediately, the bearers halted and set them down.

The Pajhit led Keirith to the edge of the plateau. Below them, Pilozhat was a patchwork of golden thatch and white walls. What had seemed an endless maze of streets on that long march to the slave compound was really an orderly grid, with paved avenues running roughly north to south and smaller pathways twisting between them. Low walls of rubble created a series of stepped terraces; he wondered if those had been built after the Long Winter to keep the earth from sliding into the sea again.

“Oexiak lies that way.” The Pajhit pointed west where a road cleaved the browning fields like a spear. “It’s our busiest port, far larger than Pilozhat.”

Could he reach it on foot? Or did he have a better chance striking north through the hills?

“And that is the road to Iriku.”

Keirith swung his attention east where a bridge spanned the river.

“It, too, lies on the sea. Most of its commerce comes from trade with Eriptos.”

“The place with the golden cats.”

The Pajhit smiled. “Yes. The marketplaces are open every morning except during religious festivals. The Fishmarket is self-explanatory. The Clothmarket—there—sells woven goods. At the Haymarket—off to the left—merchants sell different goods. Today, barley and millet, tomorrow, wine and ale. The craftsmen—potters, barrel makers, workers of precious metals—keep their shops in specific sections of the city. The tanners are on the outskirts where the stink is less offensive. Of course, we have our own craftsmen in the palace as well.”

It was another example of the Zherosi passion for organization, but he had to admit it made sense. With craftsmen clustered together, buyers could compare quality and prices. It was a far cry from his village where the “tanners” were five old women.

He squinted at the sea. The sun made it sparkle like Callie’s quartz charm.

He eyed the dozens of small boats bobbing on the water and asked, “Are there many fishermen in Pilozhat?”

“Of course. The sea supplies much of our food.”

He didn’t dare ask where the boats were beached at night. Instead, he pointed to another marketplace near the bottom of the steps where a large crowd was gathering.

“What’s that?”

“On most days it’s the Fleshers Market, selling meat, game, hides, furs. At the half moon, it serves as the Plaza of Justice. Or as it’s more commonly known, Blood Court. Condemned criminals are brought there for punishment or execution. Today, I’m overseeing a punishment. Not you,” the Pajhit quickly added. “Come. We’re late.”

Keirith scrambled back into the litter, wondering why he had to witness this punishment, too. Before he could ask, the Pajhit said, “Brace your feet against the front and grab hold of the frame.”

Even those precautions failed to keep him from jostling against the Pajhit as the litter lurched down the steps. He grimaced each time their naked arms touched. If the Pajhit noticed his distaste, he had the courtesy to say nothing.

Between the swaying curtains, he caught glimpses of people. They spoke too quickly for him to understand their words, but their excitement was clear. Some goggled at their litter, others paused to sketch a hasty bow, but most rushed headlong down the steps.

The street below was clogged with pedestrians, but as soon as their litter appeared, a pathway miraculously opened. People pressed against the walls, those in back craning for a glimpse of the Pajhit. Either they recognized his litter or they were just naturally curious to see the rich folks who had come to witness the punishment. Their expressions held curiosity and awe. Keirith wondered if any of them had ever been so close to the Pajhit before.

As the close-packed street gave way to the Plaza of Justice, he tried to calm his breathing.

The litter scraped against the paving stones. As the Pajhit emerged, hundreds of voices shouted a greeting. Keirith followed him up a short flight of steps to a raised dais shaded by a scarlet canopy. More than a dozen men and women, elaborately garbed and coiffed, sat on carved wooden benches. One man glanced at him, then at the Pajhit. He nudged his neighbor. Their dark gazes flitted over him. The first man’s mouth curved in a knowing smile. He whispered something that made the other man chuckle.

Stone-faced, Keirith took a seat next to the Pajhit. The spectators had left a narrow path between their dais and another at the opposite end of the plaza. Two men flanked a long slab of stone. They crossed their wrists over their chests and bowed. The Pajhit raised his hand and every voice fell silent, save for the wailing of a babe somewhere in the crowd.

The Pajhit let his hand fall. A single drum throbbed in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Heads peeped out of tiny windows in the buildings surrounding the plaza. Boys and girls sat on the flat roofs, legs dangling. Suddenly, the crowd erupted in jeers and catcalls. Here and there, Keirith spotted a waving fist, but he had no idea what had caused the outburst.

“Who’s being punished?” Too late, he realized he’d spoken the tribal tongue, but no one appeared to have heard over the deafening noise of the crowd.

“Three men.”

“What crime did they commit?”

The Pajhit brushed a speck of dust off his robe. “Rape.”

It couldn’t be the same three men. It had to be a gruesome coincidence. He realized his fingers were digging into the bench, his arms taut and trembling. He forced himself to relax, to fold his hands in his lap like the Pajhit, to calm his unsteady breathing.

A procession moved slowly through the screaming crowd into the plaza. Guards flanked the prisoners, obscuring them from view. All he could make out were three bowed heads and the rope halters that linked one to the next. As they neared the dais, his breath caught.

They shuffled forward in silence. Greasy Hair swayed and had to be shoved back in line. Gap Tooth stared dully ahead. The Big One had a bruise on his cheek and his mouth was slack.

The procession halted directly before the dais. The drum ceased its relentless pounding. The guards shoved the three men to their knees. The Pajhit rose and the crowd fell silent. Greasy Hair and Gap Tooth stared at the cobblestones but the Big One slowly raised his head.

Keirith slumped down on the bench, his gaze fastened on his shaking hands as he waited for his tormentor to speak, to raise his bound wrists and point an accusing finger, to laugh and claim that he’d only gotten what he deserved.

The Pajhit’s speech washed over him. From under his lashes, Keirith dared a glance at the Big One. The man was looking right at him. He had to see him shrinking on the bench, but he just knelt on the stones, his eyes as dull and glazed as a dream-walker’s.

The crowd roared. The drum renewed its beat. The men were dragged to their feet and the procession moved toward the other platform.

The Big One hadn’t recognized him, hadn’t noticed him at all. Through his haze of relief, he realized the Pajhit was addressing him. “Excuse me. I do not hear—”

“I said they were convicted of raping a boy,” the Pajhit said in the tribal tongue. “They caught him alone. At night. He tried to fight but . . . three men against one. He never had a chance.”

Keirith tasted blood and realized he’d bitten his lip.

“One of our Zhiisti. That’s why I’m here. To witness on the boy’s behalf.”

“He . . . he told you? The boy?”

“He was too ashamed to come forward. When I discovered the truth, I went to the authorities myself.”

“But how . . . ?” He licked his bleeding lip and tried again. “How did you discover the truth?”

For the first time, the Pajhit looked at him. “One night, while he was sleeping, I touched his dreams.”

Keirith drew breath on a shaking sob and immediately clamped his lips together to prevent another sound from escaping. Had they raped another boy? Or had the Pajhit, after all his protestations, entered his spirit?

The Pajhit’s gaze returned to the prisoners. The guards were cutting the ropes around Gap Tooth’s neck and ankles. His legs collapsed under him and he had to be dragged onto the platform.

“They were lucky the boy survived,” the Pajhit said in the same flat voice. “If not, the punishment would be death. Instead, they’ll be castrated.”

Savage pleasure shot through him. In sleep, he dreamed of the rape, but awake, he dreamed of revenge—of stalking them, catching them one by one, and exacting slow vengeance for what they had done. In those dreams, he was always the one wielding the knife. He wished he wielded it now. He wanted the Big One to look into his eyes and see him—see
him
. He wanted to watch those dark eyes widen with recognition. He wanted to see him struggle against the men holding him, to taste the sour bile of terror flooding his mouth, to scream until his voice was hoarse, to beg for mercy and weep when none was forthcoming.

The guards cut away Gap Tooth’s tunic. Naked, he crawled onto the stone slab. When Keirith saw him on his hands and knees, his body jerked in a convulsive shudder. He controlled himself with an effort as the two men supervising the proceedings directed the guards to lay Gap Tooth on his back at the edge of the slab. Two shoved their hands under the small of his back, while a third placed a thick cushion under his buttocks. The men who had raised him seized his ankles and lifted his legs straight out from his body, while the other pulled his bound wrists over his head. Through it all, Gap Tooth lay limp and unresisting. Spring lambs about to be castrated put up more of a fuss.