Bloodstone (61 page)

They would have to free his hands before the sacrifice. He would have only a moment, but the Zheron would be unprepared. He might be able to wrest a weapon from one of the guards. Or take the dagger out of the Zheron’s hand and slaughter him on the altar of the god he served. Or simply reach up, twist the man’s head between his palms, and break his neck.

Darak pictured the Zheron’s look of astonishment. He heard the satisfying snap of bone. The bloodlust surged and he tamped it down until the flames were mere embers.

His hands were utterly steady, just as they had been during the raid. Steady and strong and whole. They had killed for him that morning; they would kill for him again today.

His lips were numb. The effect of the drugged water. All the better. It would prevent a smile from betraying him. Slack-jawed and shambling, Darak let the guards lead him across the compound.

Nelkho roused him before dawn, lighting the lamps and laying out his robe and cloak just as he always did. Either the old slave didn’t know of his fall from grace or he simply assumed that he would follow his usual routine.

Malaq stood quietly while Nelkho slipped the chain over his head. The queen had not demanded he surrender his vial of qiij. In name, he was still Pajhit. But for the first time in five years, another would stand at the altar of Heart of Sky at dawn.

Dully, he wondered what would happen if the queen dismissed him. Vazh would loan him enough money to get a new start somewhere. But what could he do? He was unsuited for trade, too old for the army. A provincial priest, perhaps, serving out his remaining years in a run-down temple. If they would have him. Even his relatives might be reluctant to welcome him, fearing the queen’s displeasure.

Impatiently, he shook off selfish concerns. All he faced was disgrace and poverty. Kheridh faced death. Unless he could shield himself from the queen, she would discover the truth. And once she did, he would die on the altar as surely as his father.

They would be taking the Spirit-Hunter to the temple now. The man who had bargained with one god and rescued another would die under the dagger of a man unworthy to speak his name. Malaq waved Nelkho away and knelt before his shrine. The least he could do was pray that Darak’s spirit found sanctuary in the Forever Isles.

A commotion outside disturbed him. He rose and walked to the doorway where he found one of his guards arguing with the queen’s men.

“What is it?”

“Please, Pajhit.” It was the young one who guarded Kheridh during the day. “Something’s happening in the adder pit.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I . . . I went there.” He shot a worried look at the queen’s men. “To make sure . . . to see if Kheridh was . . .”

“Yes, yes. And?”

“The guards were gone. And the Qepo. But I looked into the pit . . .” He shuddered.

Malaq seized his shoulders. The sharp stink of the guard’s fear only heightened his.

“The adders. They were swarming all around him.” The fingers of the other guards flew as they sketched spirals on their chests.

“Yes. It’s frightening the first time you see it, but there’s nothing—”

“They were following him. To the door. Like . . . like dogs obeying their master.”

Malaq’s hands fell to his sides.

“The Son of Zhe,” one of the queen’s men whispered. “It’s true.”

As Malaq started out the doorway, the other guard stepped forward. “Forgive me, Pajhit. But the queen gave orders—”

“I must go to the pit.”

“But my orders—”

“Damn your orders! Let me pass, or I will cast your spirit into the Abyss.”

The guard hesitated, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Malaq didn’t wait for his decision. He shoved past him and raced down the corridor, pushing through a knot of startled priests on their way to morning prayers.

A few Zhiisti had gathered in the central courtyard to watch the procession of sacrificial victims. Their shocked faces blurred past him; Malaq imagined the delight they’d take in describing the oh-so-serious Pajhit with his robe hiked up to his knees as he ran up the steps to the throne room.

When he heard another set of footsteps echoing behind him, he glanced back and discovered the young guard hard on his heels. Malaq pushed through the draperies at the far end of the chamber and bolted into the corridor that led to the royal apartments. He’d barely flung open the door to the viewing platform when he heard the scream.

He clattered down the stairs and found the Qepo pressed against the far wall. Kheridh walked toward him, his face serene, his eyes unfocused. Malaq spoke his name softly, but he was too deep in trance to hear. As he passed the stairs, Malaq extended a hand to touch his shoulder, only to draw back, instinctively flattening himself against the wall like the Qepo.

Kheridh walked among a living tide of adders, a writhing mass of slender bodies that surged past the step on which he stood and spilled over the feet of the terrified Qepo. Ignoring them both, ignoring even their natural instinct to flee. Moving with one mind and one intention—to follow the boy who led them through the anteroom and into the corridor beyond.

“The coming of a new age.”

It must have been the young guard who spoke; the Qepo had slid down the wall, shaking uncontrollably.

Malaq lurched around the corner after Kheridh. His shoulder scraped stone and he winced as he flung out a hand to push himself forward. His legs moved reluctantly and his feet rose and fell as if weighted with heavy stones. He remembered wading waist-deep through the river that flowed beside his village, ponderous as a bullock as he fought the swift, icy current. He’d been frightened then, too, but elated by the battle. And now, just as in the battles he had fought, time seemed to slow and tiny details impressed themselves on his senses: the laces of his sandals, snapping against his ankles; a drop of sweat trickling down his forehead; his giant shadow capering grotesquely on the opposite wall.

He rounded one corner and caught a glimpse of Kheridh disappearing around another. Where was he going? There was nothing on this level save for storage rooms and slave quarters.

He heard a scream. The clatter of bronze. Passed a slave boy huddled against the wall. A girl, sprawled in the doorway of her chamber. Terrified faces peeped out at him as he rushed past. Other slaves poured in from adjoining corridors, blocking his way, ignoring his shouts and curses. The young guard edged past him and used his sword to clear a path. After that, Malaq had only to follow the new eruption of screaming to see Kheridh heading toward the central courtyard.

When he reached it, he drew up short. A crowd had already gathered. Torches illuminated fleeing figures, but most stood transfixed, watching the boy who strode with awful majesty through the courtyard and the tide of adders that streamed after him.

Someone grabbed his arm. He started to shake off the restraining hand when he saw it was Hircha, her sullen face transformed with wonder.

“Where is he going?” Malaq demanded. “Do you know?”

“To the temple of Zhe. To free his father.” Her smile was radiant. “And kill Xevhan.”

Before Malaq could react, a woman cried, “He comes! He comes!”

He saw the white hair first. Then the crowd parted to reveal Eliaxa hurrying toward Kheridh, her face alight with joy. She had clearly been on her way to the temple of Womb of Earth; her arms were still filled with bitterheart, although the chaplet crowning her head was askew.

“Behold the fire-haired god made flesh! Behold the Son of Zhe!”

In the terrified silence that followed, another voice spoke. “Behold the Son of Zhe who brings a new age to Zheros and death to the unrighteous.”

He thought he knew Kheridh’s voice. Halting at times, defiant at others, broken with anguish, wooden with shock. Only rarely—very rarely—had it possessed the eagerness or excitement that should be the right of every boy on the cusp of manhood. This was the deep, resonant voice of prophecy, the unforgiving voice of doom. And everyone acknowledged it with moans and gasps and muttered prayers. Men and women fell to their knees. Eliaxa chanted the prophecy, her voice as strong as the boy’s despite the tears streaming down her cheeks.

As if scripted by the gods, the Motixa led the Son of Zhe and his escort of adders forward. Malaq trailed behind, the lone acolyte who passed among the kneeling figures who wept and prayed and rocked back and forth in terror and ecstasy.

He heard shouts behind him and turned to see guards clearing a path for the queen. Even in her nightdress, she was a commanding figure. She shouted Kheridh’s name and demanded that he stop.

His inexorable stride slowed. He turned to face her. His hand came up. An accusing forefinger stabbed the air. “Eater of spirits, eater of life. Womb of Earth will destroy you and all who obey you.”

Screams drowned out the prayers. Malaq saw the queen’s mouth move. Guards edged toward Kheridh, their swords drawn, but their eyes were on the adders, seething around his feet. Ignoring the chaos, Kheridh strode into the passageway that led to the eastern gate. Again the queen shouted. A guard hefted his spear.

Malaq raced forward. There was a blur of movement: a flurry of white, a shower of red, the spear arcing through the air toward Kheridh’s unprotected back.

Eliaxa’s hands came up, clutching the shaft of the spear protruding from her chest. Her dark eyes flew wide, but—dear gods, have mercy—she was smiling as she crumpled to the ground.

Her spirit had already fled by the time Malaq knelt beside her. Sprays of bitterheart—bright as Eliaxa’s blood—lay scattered around her body like an offering. He closed the staring eyes and sketched a spiral on her forehead before rising.

“No one touches him!” he shouted over the uproar. “No one! Or I will call the wrath of the gods down upon this city.”

His gaze met the queen’s. She shook her head. In disbelief? Disappointment? She seized the arm of the nearest guard. A moment later, the man sprinted toward the administrative wing.

Already, people were pushing past Eliaxa’s body to pour into the passageway after Kheridh. He would never get through. He told Kheridh’s guard to find the Khonsel and bring him to the temple of Zhe. Then Malaq ran for the northern gate.

Darak emerged from the dark passageway into chaos. Figures dashed madly through the open area, while others were on their knees, moaning and wailing. The guard in front of him thrust out an arm to stop a fleeing man. Between sobs, Darak caught the word “Zhe.” The hands gripping his arms tightened convulsively; the fear on his captors’ faces was obvious.

The dawn sacrifices couldn’t have generated all this commotion. Had something happened to the Zheron? Or Keirith? Malaq had said some believed him to be the Son of Zhe.

The guard in front shouted a command. Shouted again when the others refused to move. Temet and his guards marched left. Swords drawn, his guards led him straight ahead. Men darted past, clutching makeshift bundles that leaked coins and bronze jewelry; others followed in their wake, stooping to snatch up the discarded treasure. Women hugged screaming babes to their breasts; others dragged sleepy-eyed children by the hand. He searched the crowd for a glimpse of auburn hair, but he’d never be able to spot Keirith in this mob.

Something scuttled over Darak’s foot. A moment later, the guard on his left cried out. Screams broke out all around.

That was when he saw the rats. Gods, they were everywhere. Scurrying across the compound, drawing screams and exclamations from the people who jumped aside to avoid them. All except the robed priests who knelt calmly at the base of a wide stone staircase, singing. With mounting horror, Darak heard “Kheridh” repeated over and over again.

Calling on his limited Zherosi, he stammered out, “Kheridh. Zhe-boy. Where?”