Bloodstone (57 page)

Morgath humming as he wove his severed fingers into Yeorna’s hair. Morgath oozing through his spirit, relentlessly stripping away his defenses. Morgath laughing with delight at each failed attempt to escape.

Darak fled, desperately seeking a place where he was safe, where neither memories of Morgath nor the spirit of the Trickster could reach him. Somewhere, he would find that calm he had experienced during the first moments of communion with the World Tree. Somewhere, he would find the music.

The vibration coursed through him, as slow and steady as it had been in Chaos. But it was not the World Tree. It was Fellgair’s heart, beating beneath his cheek. He scarcely had time to realize it before it vanished, along with the god’s presence inside of him.

“Nay!”

Fellgair eased him out of his arms.

“Please.” He stared up into Fellgair’s face, at once stern and sorrowful. “I can do this.”

Fellgair shook his head.

“Let me try again.” He pushed himself onto his knees. “I beg you . . .”

The Trickster vanished.

Darak covered his face with shaking hands. He would not weep. Weeping would not help his son.

He staggered out of the chamber, ignoring the surprised glances of the worshippers. He still had time. He would find Keirith. He would get him out of this place. The Trickster could not stop him. Or the Pajhit. Or even Keirith himself.

The afternoon sunlight blinded him. His heart fluttered as if a tiny bird were trapped in his chest. When the guards marched toward him, he felt such joy he was afraid it would fail him. One of them pulled his dagger from its sheath, but he made no move to stop him. It was all he could do to cling to the arms of the two who helped him up the steep hillside.

Only when they turned away from the gate did he realize that Keirith had not changed his mind, that these guards were not the ones who had come for him before. He struggled feebly. Something struck his head. After that, they dragged him.

Through the whirl of his vision, he made out another gate in another wall. Men dozed under canopied shelters. When the guards shoved him into one, the man he jostled stirred long enough to mutter a curse in the language of the tribes. With bitter irony, Darak realized he had managed to get inside the slave compound after all.

“No more today. Come back tomorrow.”

The undercook’s third assistant shooed the last of the women away and muttered a curse. “All right, you girls, back to the kitchen. We’ve done our charity work for the day and we have an important feast to prepare. Hircha! Stop dawdling, or I’ll have you whipped.”

Hircha picked up the empty basket, murmuring an apology. The undercook’s third assistant cuffed her anyway. “Just because you served at the Zheron’s entertainment last night doesn’t mean you can shirk your duties today.”

The other girls tittered. The undercook’s third assistant grinned. Hircha followed them back to the kitchen. The pot boys struggled with a sack of grain, but in her mind, she saw the Zheron’s men dragging the Spirit-Hunter to the slave compound.

F
OR AN ENTIRE AFTERNOON, Malaq had stood beside the king, a fixed smile on his face, as an endless parade of nobles, merchants, and officials from every town in Zheros expressed their heartfelt joy that, once again, their beloved rulers had Shed their old bodies and emerged in reborn glory to guide their people. The queen had waved away his request to speak privately, assuring him there would be time to talk at the council meeting following the reception.

All afternoon, he’d been conscious of Xevhan’s covert glances. Although he looked haggard from lack of sleep, there was no mistaking the glitter of triumph in his eyes. Once again, he told himself that Xevhan’s accusations couldn’t harm him. The Spirit-Hunter was gone. So were the players. Kheridh knew what to say if questioned. He only hoped the poor boy would remember the story they had agreed upon; he’d been so dazed with grief that Malaq was forced to repeat it twice.

As yet another noble lord prostrated himself, the king slumped in his throne, a sullen expression on his face. Clearly, the effects of the qiij were wearing off. Malaq had urged him—as he did every year—to exercise restraint now that he had a fresh, strong body, but the habit was so ingrained it was probably impossible to break.

He envied Eliaxa; she merely maintained a connection to the queen’s spirit throughout The Shedding to be sure nothing went wrong. But the king was so weak that Malaq had to cast out the Host’s spirit himself and then ease the king’s into the lifeless body. It was an exhausting ordeal; this year, he’d nearly lost the king.

The queen leaned forward, smiling at the nobleman. She seemed perfectly at ease in her new body. If she lacked the willowy grace he had admired for the last year, the shimmering gown of gold she had chosen for today set off her darker skin perfectly.

Malaq shifted his weight and stifled a yawn; that he could even consider the queen’s clothes with everything else on his mind proved that the tedium of a royal reception overcame all fears.

They resurfaced as soon as the kankh announced the end of the reception. As he followed the king and queen into the private chamber, Vazh appeared at his elbow.

“What’s this meeting about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Possibly.”

Even if there had been time to say more, he must keep his distance; if anything went wrong, he didn’t want Vazh implicated.

He sank onto the cushion with a grateful sigh; his legs ached from standing so long. He caught a faint whiff of honeysuckle as the Supplicant lowered herself onto the empty cushion to his right. Perhaps it was merely coincidence that she had chosen to attend today’s meeting, but he doubted it. He hoped his polite smile covered his dismay.

A strand of black hair fell forward to tickle his shoulder as she whispered, “Rumors are flying. Has the Son of Zhe come to earth at last?”

“If so, it would be the greatest miracle of our age.”

“Second only to my appearance at a council meeting.”

She had the disturbing gift of divining the thoughts of others—and she loved demonstrating it. Even after so many years, he was always taken aback by the strange man-woman duality. There were times he could swear he saw not only the swell of breasts beneath her robe but the bulge of a penis as well. Appearances, of course, could be deceiving. He had only to look at Xevhan’s handsome face to be reminded of that.

“Let us begin,” the queen said. Her voice was higher now, lacking the familiar breathiness. “We have only a short time before we must prepare for the formal banquet.”

“And I’m worn out from that reception,” the king muttered.

If his body was reborn after The Shedding, his personality remained unchanged.

“Some of you might be aware of the events that have transpired, but for those who are not, I’d like to ask the Zheron to speak.”

Xevhan’s recitation held no surprises, although Eliaxa was clearly disturbed when he mentioned the resemblance between “The Wild Man” and Kheridh and proclaimed them father and son. The queen’s expression was utterly unreadable. When Xevhan concluded, she said, “Pajhit? Can you shed any light on these events?”

“Yes, Earth’s Beloved.”

Calmly, he countered all of Xevhan’s points. Yes, Kheridh knew the man; he had once belonged to his tribe. No, he had not told the Zheron; he was shocked into speechlessness at his unexpected appearance, and after the other man’s death, the Zheron had to hurry away for the dawn sacrifice. As to the resemblance, Kheridh said the man was a relative—but of course, everyone in those tiny villages was related.

“A relative,” the queen said. “Not his father.”

“No, Earth’s Beloved.”

“Did you note a resemblance?”

She might be guessing, but if her spies—or Xevhan’s—had reported that he’d spoken with the Spirit-Hunter, it was better to admit it than be caught in a lie. “The coloring is altogether different,” he replied evenly. “But there are similarities in the bone structure. Again, not uncommon when the bloodlines are such a tangle.”

“And when did you speak with this man—what is his name?”

He froze, trying to remember what name the dreadful Olinio had used. “Urnek? Renek? Forgive me, Earth’s Beloved. It’s been a long day, and I simply cannot remember.”

“Reinek,” Xevhan said.

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” So he’d taken time from ogling the singer to make inquiries. “I had my guards bring the man to me for questioning after Kheridh informed me what had happened at the Zheron’s . . . entertainment. I did try to inform you of my intentions, Earth’s Beloved, but you were resting.”

“Oh, very good,” the Supplicant murmured.

Distracted, Malaq paused to take a sip of wine. “I thought the man might have information that would prove useful on future raids. Unfortunately, he left his tribe several years ago, so I’m not sure how accurate it is.”

“And afterward?” the queen asked.

Malaq shrugged. “I released him. He’d committed no crime. The death of the other man was clearly an accident. An investigation would reveal that the Zheron had instigated the fight, and I was loath to have a senior member of the priesthood implicated in such a sordid affair.”

For some time he had been aware of Xevhan’s restiveness. Now he shoved himself to his feet. “He is the boy’s father. Before I could question him, Malaq spirited him out of the city.”

“Releasing him is hardly the same as spiriting him out of the city.”

Xevhan’s smile chilled him. “Nor is it the same as providing him with this.”

The safe conduct disk clattered onto the table.

“My men discovered it after they took him to the slave compound. Unlike you, I took the precaution of having the man detained. Would you care to explain how he got it?”

“Obviously, I gave it to him.” Malaq hoped he sounded bored, but his stomach was churning.

“And why would you do that?”

“To get him away from Kheridh.”

“Because he’s the boy’s father!”

“Because he upset him!” He was on his feet now, too. “I will not have him distracted by the fate of a tribe mate when he should be focusing his attention on teaching us about his gift.”

“Teaching
you
, Pajhit. The rest of us have learned nothing.”

“Perhaps you might have—if you weren’t plying him with qiij.”

Xevhan’s head snapped back.

“You gave him qiij?” the queen asked sharply.

“He came to me. Demanding it. When I refused, he took it.”

Malaq shot him a scornful look, but remained silent, allowing the others to picture Kheridh attempting to rip the vial of qiij off Xevhan’s neck, remove the stopper, and swallow the drug before Xevhan could prevent him.

“Merciful gods,” the Supplicant said. “The boy must be a brute. I hope you weren’t too badly injured.”

“He’s not permitted to take qiij,” the king noted. “He should be punished.”

“I am the one who should be punished,” Malaq insisted, “for failing to make it clear to him.”

“He knew,” Xevhan said. “I told him.”

“Before he overpowered you?” the Supplicant asked.

Besul rapped the table impatiently. “We are straying from the subject. Pajhit. Zheron. If you would sit, please. Now. As I see it, there are several issues to consider. One: the incident with the qiij. Troubling, yes, but with time so limited, we can surely afford to delve into the matter later. Two: the propriety—or impropriety—of the Pajhit giving this man a safe conduct. And the Khonsel for providing one. Again, troubling, but . . .”

The queen cut off Vazh’s bellow of protest with a peremptory gesture.

“. . . but only worth exploring as it relates to issue three: the relationship of this man to the boy Kheridh. The boy claims they are distantly related. The Zheron claims they are father and son. If true, the boy clearly cannot be the Son of Zhe.”