Bloodstone (38 page)

Torches blazed near the steps of the temple, illuminating the shadowy figures standing at the altar. Behind the temple, Kelazhat’s looming mass was black against an azure sky striped with rose and gold clouds.

Malaq stood atop the platform with two other priests. A band of bronze circled his forehead. A shimmering cloak in shades ranging from pink to ruddy red cascaded over his golden robe.

Keirith’s guards halted directly before the platform. The guttering torchlight made it difficult to decipher Malaq’s expression. He probably knew why he had insisted on coming here today. Perhaps he considered it another test. And it was. Only this time Keirith was testing himself.

It had come to him so clearly in that moment of shared laughter. He liked teaching Malaq and was eager to learn the skills Malaq could teach him. He enjoyed sharing his gift with another who accepted and admired it, who accepted and admired him. He was losing himself in the lessons and the fellowship and the sense of belonging. Today’s sacrifice would remind him that he was still a prisoner, still an outsider—always an outsider—among the enemies of his people.

His stomach roiled when the horn bellowed again.

He had watched the Tree-Father slit the throat of a bullock each Midwinter, the throat of a young ram each Midsummer. He had watched the blood spurt into the sacred bowl, smelled its hot, salty-sweet scent. But he had never watched a man lying helpless on a slab of rock as a dagger carved open his chest.

When he heard the footsteps, he resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder and stared straight ahead. The polished stone of the altar gleamed in the torchlight. It was the same greenish-black color as the stone Malaq had used to help him fall into a trance. Only now, the red blotches looked like spatters of blood.

The captive stumbled up the steps, supported by two guards. The man must be drugged, just like the three who’d been castrated. The guards staggered a little as they eased him onto the stone slab; the man was big and the drugs made him ungainly. The guards pulled his arms over his head and took a firm grip on his wrists. Two others stepped forward to seize his ankles. The man’s head turned to watch them and Keirith let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding: the victim was a stranger.

The Pajhit lifted the bronze dagger skyward. The man hummed a hoarse little counterpoint to the priests’ chanting.

Keirith never knew if it was the chanting or the billowing smoke or the sweet-scented oil in which the torches had been dipped. All he knew was the sensation of falling and rising at the same time, every sense sharpened by the impending sacrifice that unfolded with dreamlike slowness.

The man’s pale skin blushing as the first rays of the sun bathed him. The momentary flash of the dagger as it darted like a swallow, first from breastbone to belly, then across the ribs. Rivulets of blood like tiny red waterfalls. The scent of it, hotter than the summer breeze. The body arching in agonized protest, then collapsing back onto the slab. Two hands reaching into his chest. Another dagger, quick and delicate as the zigzagging flight of a minnowfly. The heart, redder than the newly risen sun, weeping its lifeblood through the fingers that raised it skyward.

But it was no longer a stranger’s face that stared open-eyed at the Pajhit. Even as Keirith watched, the features shifted: the nose becoming more prominent, strands of gray sprouting among the dark hair, pockmarks blistering the cheeks.

And then the head turned. His father’s eyes, gray as a Midwinter sky, stared down at him. His father’s lips, spattered with his heart’s blood, moved. And his father’s voice, softer than the hiss of an adder, whispered, “You have murdered me.”

G
RIANE WAS SCRAPING Faelia’s uneaten stew back into the pot when the bearskin twitched aside to reveal Gortin hovering in the doorway. “Forgive me for intruding on your meal.”

“Nay, we were . . .” Her voice trailed off. “You’ve had a vision.”

He nodded. His grim face told her it was bad. With an effort, she kept her voice calm. “Faelia, take Callie to Ennit’s.”

“Is it about Fa?”

“Go to Ennit’s.”

“I have a right to hear.”

“Don’t talk back!”

“It’s not fair,” Faelia muttered, but she tossed her braid over her shoulder and pulled Callie out of the hut, without so much as a nod to Gortin.

“Forgive my daughter’s manners, Tree-Father. Please sit down.” Mouthing the niceties gave her a chance to reclaim her composure.

“Before I begin, I must warn you that visions are . . . chancy. You can never be entirely certain of their meaning. The best you can do—”

“For mercy’s sake, stop dithering and tell me what you saw!” Immediately, she stammered out an apology, but Gortin just shook his head and took a deep breath.

“I saw Darak. Lying on a slab of stone. An altar . . .”

Gortin’s voice droned on. He probably thought his calm would steady her, but somehow, his lack of emotion made the images even more horrifying.

“You think Keirith has killed his father?”

“Nay!” Gortin looked shocked. “Visions—”

“Are chancy. Aye.”

“—reveal what might happen as well as what will happen. I might have touched Keirith’s nightmare. Or one of his visions. Or it may simply be a warning that Darak will face great danger in the holy city. He couldn’t have reached it yet. It’s been only a moon since he left.”

“Only a moon.”

“I know it must seem longer to you, but I beg you not to lose hope. If Darak could walk out of Chaos, he will surely return to us.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry, Griane. Perhaps I should have waited until I had better news.”

“Nay. You were right to come. I thank you.” She rose on shaking legs. If she had to make polite conversation any longer, she would scream.

Gortin rose as well, quickly tracing a sign of blessing on her forehead with his thumb. “As soon as I see anything more . . .”

“Thank you, Tree-Father. Good night.”

Griane waited to leave the hut until she trusted herself to face her children and lie. It amazed her that the earth was still solid beneath her feet, that the western sky still blushed pink. Outside Ennit’s hut, she took a deep breath, praying that neither her face nor her manner would betray her. Even before she straightened, Faelia was on her feet.

“It was nothing,” she said. Her voice sounded appropriately disgusted. “Just some strange ritual. Even Gortin couldn’t make sense of it.”

“Was Keirith there?”

“Aye. And a bunch of priests.”

“What was he doing?”

“Watching a sacrifice.”

“What kind of sacrifice?”

“I don’t know, Faelia!” Too sharp, her voice was too sharp. “A lamb, perhaps. I asked Gortin over and over again, but he could only say that visions were chancy, that the things you see often mean something else.”

“So what did the lamb mean?” Callie asked.

“That . . . Keirith feels young. And helpless. Maybe the lamb reminded him of home.”

“Or maybe Conn was the lamb,” Callie said. Then he gasped. “But that means something awful’s going to happen to him.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to Conn,” Ennit assured him. “More likely, Gortin had lamb stew for supper and it didn’t agree with him.”

Thank the gods for Ennit. Callie was smiling now, although Faelia continued to study her. When she opened her mouth to pose another question, Griane said, “It’s getting late. Ennit needs to get the girls to sleep.”

She shooed Callie and Faelia out of the hut. She could hear Callie chattering about lamb stew and Faelia telling him all he ever thought about was his stomach. Griane closed her eyes, grateful for the ordinary sound of quarreling. Then a hand grabbed her arm.

“Ennit! Good gods, you gave me a fright.”

“What did he really see?”

“I told you—”

“And I know you. Was it that bad?”

Try as she might, she couldn’t control either her shaking voice or the words that poured out. Ennit’s hand tightened on her arm, but all he said was, “Keirith would never stand by and watch someone hurt Darak.”

“I know.” But she couldn’t help remembering that last evening: Keirith, wild-eyed, by the doorway, Darak slumped by the fire pit.

“Likely it’s just as Gortin said. A warning. Or something.”

“Aye.”

“You know how strong Darak is. How determined. If he could escape from Chaos—”

“I know! Every day someone tells me that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ennit was only trying to help. Everyone tried to help. But they all seemed to forget that Darak was fifteen years older, a Memory-Keeper instead of a hunter.

Ennit sighed. “Gods, I wish Struath were here. He had a rare gift of vision.”

“Gortin tried.”

“And visions are—”

“Chancy. Aye. So Gortin said.”

“I’m no use to you at all, am I?”

She gave him a quick hug. “Of course you are. If not for you and Lisula . . .” The tears were too close; all she could do was hug him again.

“He’ll come back, Griane.”

“So now you’re having visions?”

“Nay. I know Darak. He’ll come back. Just try and be patient. I know it’s the hardest thing in the world—especially for you.” He flashed her an understanding smile. “Just don’t do anything . . . foolish.”

“Like what? Pack up my things and go after them?” She patted Ennit’s cheek. “I’m not that foolish. Thank you for listening. It does help. Really.”

“You know you can always come to me. If you need to talk. Or shout. Or keep from strangling Faelia.”

“You’re a dear man. Lisula is very lucky.”

Gods help her, her voice broke on that. She hurried toward her hut, then veered away. She couldn’t face Faelia and Callie. Not yet. She needed a few moments to gather herself.

The familiar sounds of families at supper—talking, arguing, laughing—were too painful. She fled the village and headed toward the lake, but there were too many memories there. In the end, she simply stopped where she was and leaned against an alder.

Visions were chancy. Dreams or reality. Predictions or possibilities. Nothing you could base your life on. Nothing you could trust. Not like you’d trust a poultice of elderflowers to take the fire out of a burn or crushed yarrow leaves to stop bleeding. Of course, there were uncertainties in healing, too. A wound could heal clean or fester. When it healed, you thanked the gods. When it didn’t, you knew what steps to take and in what order and if those didn’t work, you did your best to ease the pain of this world and the transition to the next. And prayed to the gods for a miracle.

Who could determine what was skill or luck or the will of the gods? Had the Forest-Lord led Darak back to the grove of the First Forest all those years ago or had it been the circlets of her hair she’d used to mark the path? Had the Maker saved Darak when his fever raged or had it been her skill? Or Mother Netal’s spirit guiding her? Or the magical healing leaves she had brought back from the Summerlands?

The Summerlands—where the Trickster had taken her after he rescued her from Morgath.

Relying on the Trickster was chancier than any vision. It was a measure of her desperation that she would even consider it. Well, she might be desperate, but she wasn’t a fool. Fellgair’s protection always came at a price. If he had demanded that she give up all hope of returning to the world in exchange for opening a portal to Chaos, the gods only knew what he would ask to keep Darak and Keirith safe.

She must be patient and strong and try not to worry. And banish any temptation to call on the Trickster for help.