Bloodstone (31 page)

“They’re given drugs,” the Pajhit said. “To keep them from thrashing about.”

Of course. In the orderly world of the Zherosi, even a public castration must go smoothly. The hysteria that had bubbled so near the surface burst out in a bark of laughter that he quickly choked off.

The Pajhit gave him a sharp look. “It’s still within my power to pardon them.”

“Why would you do that? When you’ve gone to so much trouble to convict them?”

The words shocked him into soberness. He was stretched too thin. The gods only knew what might come out of his mouth next.

The crowd had fallen silent and he realized that one of the supervisors had turned to face the Pajhit, an upraised dagger in his right hand. The Pajhit lifted his hand and let it fall. As his assistant spread himself across Gap Tooth’s torso, the man went down on one knee. His left hand reached between Gap Tooth’s spread legs. Keirith felt his sac contracting as if his testicles wanted to crawl up inside his body.

A high, thin scream broke the breathless silence. Gap Tooth bucked once before the assistant restrained him. The other man’s hands moved between his legs and Keirith fought his rising nausea, glad now he couldn’t see the blade. He clenched his teeth, wondering why no one shoved a gag in Gap Tooth’s mouth, then realized that the screaming was part of the entertainment. Just as it had been for the men who raped him.

The screams died. Gap Tooth must have fainted. Keirith’s nausea returned as the man with the dagger leaped to his feet and thrust a bloody hand into the air to display his prize. He strutted the length of the platform to the crowd’s roar of approbation, while his assistant bent over Gap Tooth to tie off the wound.

And it was done. The guards lifted Gap Tooth’s unconscious body from the platform and dragged Greasy Hair onto it. He fought a little harder, but was subdued easily enough. The upraised dagger, the signal from the Pajhit, and it was done. Again. Leaving only the Big One.

Perhaps the drugs had worn off or perhaps he finally realized what was about to happen. He fought hard, lashing out at the guards with his fists and feet, knocking one off the platform and sending another staggering backward.

The crowd laughed and cheered him on, just as Gap Tooth and Greasy Hair had chuckled and urged on the Big One. The crowd would have cheered that, too. Just as they would cheer when the man rose to his feet with the Big One’s testicles clenched in his bloody fist.

“Kheridh. Kheridh! Sit down.”

He sank back on the bench, wondering when he had gotten to his feet. He closed his eyes, conscious of the whispers of those around him. He felt the brush of flaxcloth against his ankle as the Pajhit shifted on the bench. Heard the Big One’s scream of agony, and then another and another until it seemed one ceaseless bestial roar that was finally obliterated by the answering roar of the crowd. It slowly subsided into the garbled noise of everyday conversation. Those on the dais took leave of the Pajhit and launched into new topics of discussion, chattering like sparrows. He caught the phrases “dreadful wine” and “terrible food” and reflected dully that his grasp of the Zherosi language was improving.

“The litter is here.”

The Big One was gone. The platform was deserted. The crowd in the plaza was thinning. For a few days, they would remember the good show that last prisoner put on, but then he would be forgotten. But the Big One would remember. Always. Just as Keirith would. Only death could wipe away his memories of that night or the Big One’s memories of this morning. Until then, the two of them were linked forever in a bond of blood and pain and shame.

He crawled into the litter and sank down on the pillows. Neither of them spoke during the trip back to the palace.

He followed the Pajhit into his chamber and accepted a goblet of wine. The bronze clattered against his teeth, and he lowered it without drinking. The Pajhit reached toward him and he jerked away. Wine sloshed over the rim of the goblet, splashing the priest’s robe. He was still trying to frame an apology when he felt wine dripping down his legs. When he saw the red stain spreading down the front of his khirta, he gagged.

He barely made it outside before vomiting into the bed of bitterheart. When he realized he was down on his hands and knees, he forced himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. He straightened slowly and turned to find the Pajhit holding out the goblet of wine.

“Rinse your mouth.”

His hands shook, but he managed to cleanse the taste of vomit from his mouth. He handed the goblet back. It was just too heavy to hold.

“I’m sorry. I made a mess of your flowers.”

“It was my fault. I know you dislike being touched.”

Keirith forced himself to meet those calm brown eyes. “They didn’t rape a Zhiisto, did they?”

“No.”

“You made it all up.”

“A crime was committed.”

“And no one ever asked to speak with . . . the victim?”

“Oh, yes. I produced a Zhiisto. Told him what he must say. He was quite effective.”

“But if anyone questions him—”

“He has returned home. My gift will enable him to purchase a fishing boat and marry the girl he had given up for lack of a bride price.”

Everything neat and orderly.

“You arranged all this for me. Why? Did you think I would enjoy watching that?”

“Did you?”

“It made me sick.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Then answer mine!” His outburst seemed to shock the Pajhit, but he didn’t care. “Why did you do it?”

“They deserved to be punished for what they did, and this was the only way to make that happen.”

“Because rape isn’t a crime when the victim is a slave.”

“Because no one cares when the victim is a slave.”

Keirith meant his laugh to sound mocking, but he could hear how close it was to hysteria. “I’m supposed to believe you care about me? To be grateful that you raped my spirit and discovered those men raped my body?”

“Believe what you want.”

“I will. I do. You don’t care about me.”

“Not if you’re going to behave like a whining child. The world is cruel, Kheridh. Women die in childbirth. Men die of plague. Children starve. Boys are raped.”

The words shocked another bitter laugh from him. “You’re telling
me
the world is cruel? After what I’ve suffered?”

“Everyone suffers, boy! Life is suffering.”

“I hate you.”

“You hate the fact that you were raped. That you reveled in their punishment. And that I was able to exact the retribution that you could not.”

“You entered my spirit—”

“And you were helpless to stop me. Just as you were helpless to combat your Tree-Father who deemed you an abomination. Helpless to escape the warriors who attacked your village. Helpless to fight off the men who raped you. But now you have a choice. You can let your hate and your helplessness consume you. You can bewail a world where innocents are raped and dreams are shattered. Or you can learn to live with those realities and understand that only one thing will prevent them from happening again.”

Keirith found himself with his back up against the wall, breathing as hard as if he were withstanding a physical assault.

“You have a gift, Kheridh.” Although the Pajhit spoke more gently, his voice held the same intensity. “A gift you’re afraid to use. But only by using it will you gain power. Today, you learned what a man with power can do. Power protects you. It protects those you love. It shields your spirit from attack and allows you to punish those who hurt you. Without power, you will always be a helpless, terrified boy cowering in the dark.”

Keirith stumbled to the doorway and bolted past the startled guards. The Pajhit’s words pursued him down the corridor. “You cannot run from yourself, Kheridh. Or from the truth.”

“Follow him—but at a discreet distance,” Malaq instructed the guards. Then he sank down on the stone bench nearest the door.

He had gambled that honesty would win the boy’s respect, but he’d failed to gauge the depth of Keirith’s reaction to the punishment. He’d pushed too hard, too soon, forgetting how deeply boys feel things at that age.

Pursuing him now would only drive him away forever. Like a falconer training a hawk, he must demonstrate patience, persistence, dedication, and calm. He had swung the lure. He must wait to see if the boy returned to it.

K
EIRITH ROUNDED A CORNER and careened into the Zheron. The startled priest grabbed on to him to steady himself. Without thinking, Keirith shoved him away. “Please. Forgive me. Must go.”

“What is it? Good gods, what’s the matter?” The concern on the Zheron’s face was at odds with the leer he remembered from his interrogation.

“Please. Let go. Must . . . please!”

“Yes. All right.”

The Zheron glanced around as if seeking help. Over his shoulder, Keirith saw Hircha’s moon-gold hair. The Zheron spoke rapidly to her.

“The Zheron says you look ill. He wishes to know if he can help.”

“Please. Thank the Zheron. I am well. I just . . . oh, gods, I just want to get away from this place!”

Before he could stop her, Hircha was translating. The Zheron frowned—was he going to punish him for that last outburst?—then suddenly smiled. Again, he spoke rapidly to Hircha.

“The Zheron says you’ve been caged too long. He offers to take you to the beach. To walk. To swim. Whatever pleases you.” When Keirith hesitated, she added, “This is a great honor.”

Why would the Zheron want to honor him? When they passed in a corridor, the priest responded politely to his bow, but walked on. The thought of having to make conversation sickened him, but how could he refuse without giving offense?

“The Zheron invites me to accompany you as that will make it easier to talk. But he wishes to assure you there is no need for conversation. It is enough to enjoy the morning air and the freedom.”

The wistfulness on Hircha’s face finally convinced him. “The guards. They’ll follow us.”

When Hircha translated, the Zheron grinned and made a short reply before walking away. Keirith stared after him, mystified.

“He said, ‘Not if we’re clever.’ ”

Three litters were waiting in the central courtyard. It was easy to let the guards see them crawling into one, then slip out the other side and into the adjacent one. The empty litter headed toward the western gate. Theirs followed the Zheron’s out the main gate.

He managed well enough when they proceeded along one of Pilozhat’s wide streets, but each time the bearers lurched down another flight of steps, he was thrown against Hircha. Her fingers clutched his arm as she tried to steady herself. Her hair tickled his cheek. Her breast brushed his bare arm. She apologized and laughed and said it would have been less bruising to walk. When she tumbled across his lap, a wave of heat shot through him.