Bloodstone (35 page)

“Then he’s dangerous.”

“He can be taught.”

“To use this power better? Are you mad? How long before he turns it against us?”

“I can control him.”

“For now, maybe. Not forever. Meanwhile, he sows dissension. Those who think he’s the Son of Zhe want to worship him. Those who think he’s not want him dead.”

“I can protect him.”

Vazh opened his mouth and closed it again. He cracked his knuckles with methodical violence and then looked up. “He is not Davell.”

Although he had been waiting for it since the moment Vazh first looked upon Kheridh, Malaq’s breath still caught. It had been many years since anyone had spoken the name.

“I realize that.” He was pleased that his voice sounded so calm.

Vazh toyed with a piece of flatbread. “There is . . . a resemblance. I’ll grant you that.” There was only the sound of the flatbread, cracking into smaller and smaller pieces. “The hair, of course.”

“And the eyes.”

“And the stubborn streak.”

“He fought well that day.”

“Malaq . . .”

“As you say, there is a resemblance. On longer acquaintance, the differences become apparent.”

“Then why not let him go?”

“That would be the stubborn streak, I suppose.”

Vazh refused to return his smile. “The queen won’t let him live.”

“She will if I can prove his value.”

“What value? Other Tree People have this power. I wonder we didn’t net any in the recent raids.”

“We did.”

It took Vazh a moment to grasp the implications. “Burn me! You had them sacrificed.”

“I took the precaution of making my own investigation before the council meeting.”

“Did you even bother to test their power?” When he remained silent, Vazh leaned forward. “Don’t do this,” he said softly. “Don’t risk everything for this boy. When he falls, he’ll take you with him. And he will fall, Malaq.”

“While I am able, I will protect him.”

He looked into the eyes of his oldest friend and waited.

Vazh cursed eloquently; the sheer number and inventiveness of his curses had always impressed Malaq. Still cursing, Vazh shoved himself up from the table. “I’m not promising anything.” He stalked away, then turned back. “The boy was right about one thing. Meaning no disrespect to the memory of your blessed mother, she surely copulated with a mule to produce you.”

“I think it unlikely,” Malaq replied. “Mules are sterile.”

“Would that your father had been!”

Malaq remained at the table, watching the light in the garden fade from orange to rose. For all Vazh’s curses, Kheridh now had one more person watching over him.

When twilight finally yielded to darkness, he pushed himself up, conscious of the stiffness in his knees. He walked down the narrow hallway to his bedchamber. Niqia’s head came up as he sat on the sleeping shelf beside her to unlace his sandals. He removed a pillow from his bed and placed it on the floor before the little alcove.

He knelt before the altar and performed the rites: crumbling fragments of flatbread into the polished black bowl, pouring an offering of wine into the tiny bronze acorn, lighting the cone of incense. He whispered his wife’s name and prayed she had found her way to her people’s paradise. He lit the fourteen beeswax candles, one for each year of Davell’s life. Then, as he did every night before he slept, Malaq closed his eyes and prayed for the spirit of his son.

S
MOKE FROM THE BURNING herbs filled the hut of the three priestesses. Griane sat cross-legged beside Faelia, trying very hard to keep from coughing. She would have preferred that her daughter remain at home, but Muina insisted she come tonight; a girl’s first moon blood was especially powerful.

Powerful or not, Faelia had been less than pleased by her rite of passage, complaining that it would be far more exciting to spend a night in the forest searching for her vision mate than to sit in the moon hut for five days. Griane let her grumble, knowing that her lack of enthusiasm stemmed, in part, from the absence of her father and brother who should have shared the celebration with the rest of the family.

At least they were both alive; Gortin had assured her they were not in the Forever Isles. She still had hope to cling to, unlike poor Duba who had sunk deeper into despair when Gortin told her that Owan’s spirit had flown there. Although Griane tried not to blame Gortin for his inability to find Keirith or Darak, she couldn’t understand why a shaman who could fly to the Forever Isles with his spirit guide could not fly to the land of the raiders. But then, she’d never understood the workings of magic.

Which made it all the more unnerving to sit here tonight. Lisula had suggested a Summoning after Faelia went to the moon hut. Griane had never heard of the rite, but she was so desperate to find out about the welfare of her husband and son that she’d immediately agreed to join the priestesses at the full moon.

As instructed, Griane and Faelia saved the moss they had used to absorb their moon blood. The two clumps lay in separate bowls in the center of their little circle. Two other bowls held water from the lake. Collected at dawn the last three mornings, they had carried it, cupped in their hands, to the priestesses. “It must touch nothing other than your flesh before it is poured into the sacred bowls,” Lisula had warned.

Griane clutched the tuft of Keirith’s baby hair between her thumb and forefinger. She had turned the hut upside down searching for a strand of Darak’s hair before Faelia suggested the wolfskins. Cursing her stupidity, she’d combed through the coarse fur and found a long, dark hair.

All the materials were gathered, all the preparations made. It remained to be seen whether the Summoning would work.

Muina leaned back toward the fire pit, using an oak leaf to waft more smoke around the circle. “Oak-Lord, let your branches spread wide above the forest. Oak-Lord, let your roots burrow deep beneath the earth. Oak-Lord, help us find the lost ones.”

All the priestesses looked about as likely to fall into a trance as Faelia. But Lisula had told her, “We leave flying to the priests. Women’s magic is a thing of earth and water.”

Like a woman’s body, Griane thought. Solid as earth, yet shedding blood every moon.

Lisula handed a holly leaf to Muina who addressed the same chant to the Holly-Lord. Silently, Griane added her own prayer.

Muina raised the heart-shaped leaf of speedwell and Griane swallowed hard. When Darak bid Tinnean farewell, hundreds of the flowers had sprung up at the base of the One Tree, creating a living blue pathway that led from brother to brother.

Muina finished the chant to Tinnean Tree-Friend and cleared her throat. “A priestess must relinquish the title and responsibilities of Grain-Mother when her moon flow ceases. But if she can no longer call the earth to fertility, she can awaken its hidden powers. If she cannot bless the first sea trout of the year, she can uncover the mysteries that lie beneath the surface of the waters. That is what we will attempt tonight.”

Faelia caught her breath and Muina gave her a reassuring smile. “There’s no danger to you or your mother. And although I’m not as strong as I could wish, the magic will be easier because the three of us share a bond of blood. My mother’s sister was your grandmother, Faelia. My link to your father’s family is more distant, but it’s through the female line as well. That lends power to our Summoning. That and the moon blood.”

“Why moon blood?” Faelia asked.

“It’s more powerful than ordinary blood. That’s why women are segregated from the tribe during their moon flow.” Muina’s expression darkened. “Some men call a woman unclean, but that just shows their fear and ignorance of the mystery. How can a woman bleed with no wound? Why does her body weep blood in harmony to Gheala’s ebb and flow?”

Darak had merely seemed resentful that Griane’s moon flow took her away from him. The first time she went to the moon hut after their marriage, he had waited outside the last night so he could see her the moment she emerged at dawn. Years later, Ennit revealed it to Lisula who promptly told her. When Griane asked Darak about it, he’d blushed and mumbled something about killing Ennit. When she told him it was sweet, he’d turned even redder and promised to kill her if she ever told anyone.

Although it might only be a woman’s fancy, she’d always been convinced that Callie had been conceived the day of that conversation with Darak. Just as she firmly believed that Faelia had been conceived after they had quarreled and made up.

A sharp pinch on her knee made her squeak in surprise. As she turned to glare at Faelia, Muina said, “We’ll search for Keirith first. Griane, you will summon him as you share the closest blood tie.”

Lisula placed one of the bowls of water before Muina who passed her hands over it three times. “Lacha, goddess of lakes and rivers. Halam, earth goddess, bone mother. Gheala, moon sister. Lend us your power. Lend us your strength. Lend us your light. Help us find Keirith, child of our tribe, child of Griane’s womb.”

Lisula lifted Griane’s clump of moss with two rowan twigs and dropped it into the water. Then she passed one twig to Muina who chanted, “From one womb, blood and babe. From one flesh, mother and child.” Muina swirled the clump in a slow circle. Then Lisula retrieved the dripping moss and laid it atop the oak leaves Bethia held.

“Stir the water fourteen times with Keirith’s hair,” Muina said. “Don’t let your fingers touch the surface of the water.”

The pinkish water barely moved, but Lisula gave her an encouraging nod so she must be doing it right.

“Blood of the mother,” Muina muttered. “Hair of the child. Blood and body unite to show us Keirith.”

Griane’s mouth hurt. It took her a moment to realize she was gnawing her upper lip.

When she finished, she sighed with relief and heard Faelia do the same. Still staring into the bowl, Muina said, “Drop his hair into the water.”

Reluctantly, Griane complied. Softer than rabbit fur, she had carefully preserved the tiny tuft since Keirith’s birth. As the strands spread across the surface of the water, Muina said, “Call his name, Griane. Three times.”

She barely managed a whisper, but at Muina’s sharp look, she found the strength to mimic the Grain-Grandmother’s voice of summoning. Oddly, just pretending to have the power made her feel as if she did.

They were all leaning forward now, every pair of eyes fixed on the bowl. And so they remained. Griane’s knees began to ache from kneeling on the rushes. She forced herself to concentrate on the bowl, willing something—anything—to happen. But only when Faelia’s fingers dug into her arm did she see.

Although no earthly power stirred them, the hairs were moving. They circled sunwise around the bowl, slowly at first, then faster as if caught in a whirlpool. An involuntary shiver shook her as the single whirlpool split into two. A third appeared beneath it. The twin whirlpools shuddered. Two blue eyes blinked open. A mouth froze in the act of yawning. The lips moved, forming a single word.

“Mam?”

“Keirith? Keirith, can you hear me?”

Her trembling hands grasped the bowl, and the vision vanished.

“Oh, gods. I’ve lost him.”

“Nay,” Lisula said. “It wasn’t you.”

Muina slumped against Bethia’s shoulder, breathing hard, but one hand came up to wave Lisula’s hands away. “I’m fine, child. Just tired. I’ll need to rest a bit before we try to summon Darak.”

As Bethia lifted a waterskin to Muina’s lips, Faelia whispered, “I saw him, Mam. It was Keirith. I know it was.”

Griane nodded and carefully released the bowl.

“Muina will have seen more,” Lisula whispered. “We can ask her when she’s stronger.”

“I’m strong enough now.” Muina took another sip of water and thrust the skin at Bethia. “He was sleeping. I felt stone all around him. But his sleeping place was familiar to him and comfortable. There were others near him—not Darak,” she added quickly. “Strangers. I sensed an injury. Nothing life-threatening, but . . .”