Bloodstone (71 page)

Could he convince the elders that Keirith had acted in self-defense? Would they be able to separate the boy from the act? Or would they simply remember Morgath and recoil in horror when they saw him?

Even Hircha, who’d hated the Zheron, could scarcely bring herself to look at Keirith. Finally, Darak took her aside and reminded her that Keirith needed kindness and friendship. He spoke gently enough—Griane would have been proud—but Hircha shot him a murderous look and told him to mind his own business.

If her attitude infuriated him, he had no complaints about her stamina. Despite her limp, she never asked them to slow the pace. She helped gather deadwood for their fire every evening and insisted on carrying an equal share of their supplies every day. And through it all, she maintained a stubborn silence as impenetrable as Keirith’s.

Only once did she show any emotion. They had been traveling up the coast for a sennight. When she cried out, he froze, reaching for the dagger he had purchased in Oexiak.

“What? What is it?”

“It must be the same. There can’t be two.”

“Two what?”

“The Old Man.”

His gaze followed hers to the top of a promontory, but he saw no one. Then he understood. With a little imagination, you could see the shape of a face in the rocks: a high forehead, a jutting nose, a pointed chin. Before he could stop her, she was lurching down the beach. He shouted at her to stop, knowing what she would find, but she ignored him. Cursing, he raced after her and saw her steps slow.

The village had been abandoned more recently than Urkiat’s; although most of the roofs had caved in, the walls were still standing and the forest had yet to reclaim the field. Tufts of seagrass sprouted in the doorways. Inside, he found only the stones of the fire pits. Either the raiders had stripped everything or these folk had left of their own accord. For Hircha’s sake, he hoped it was the latter.

She ducked into one hut and remained inside a long while, emerging with a tight mouth and red-rimmed eyes.

“They might have fled deeper into the forest,” Darak said. “Other tribes have. We’ll ask at Ailmin’s village.”

Her mouth quirked in a bitter smile. “It seems you’re stuck with me.”

He’d never realized his resentment was so palpable. Apologies would be useless; this girl valued truth, no matter how painful. Finally, he said, “And you’re stuck with us. I’d say you got the worst of the bargain.”

Something that might have been surprise flashed in her eyes. Her expression softened, reminding Darak of how young she was—and how vulnerable—beneath her tough exterior.

She shrugged. “I’d say we’re about even.”

And with that grudging acknowledgment, he had to be content.

Keirith’s cry startled Hircha out of sleep. She waited for Darak’s soft murmur to calm him. Hearing nothing, she rolled over.

Keirith was tossing restlessly, but Darak was gone. Perhaps he had to relieve himself; even the great Spirit-Hunter must piss sometimes. She shook Keirith gently, but he just moaned.

“Harder,” he muttered. “Make her squeal.”

More astonishing than the words was the fact that he had spoken Zherosi. She shook him hard and he bolted upright. His eyes were wild, his lips twisted in the snarl she’d seen so often when Xevhan was in one of his rages. Instinctively, she scuttled backward.

Keirith blinked. His mouth relaxed. “Hircha?” The voice was Xevhan’s, of course, but the tentative note was Keirith’s. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You were dreaming.”

He hugged his knees to his chest, staring at the glowing embers of the fire.

“Do you want some water?”

He shook his head.

“Shall I fetch Darak?”

Keirith seemed unsurprised to find his father gone. “He’ll be back soon.”

He kept his face half turned from her as if ashamed of his outburst. Or perhaps he wanted to spare her the sight of it. Darak had seen how she avoided looking at Keirith. Keirith would have noticed, too. A hot wash of shame flooded her face. Poor boy. Hard as these last days had been for her, they were a hundred times worse for him.

“Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare, I mean?”

She expected him to say no. He always brushed off his father’s attempts to draw him out and after the way she’d behaved, he had no reason to confide in her. He surprised her by saying, “I was dreaming of the blind girl.”

“The . . . you mean the one with the players?”

He nodded. “She sang for him. And then he watched Miko rape her.”

His words transported her back to Xevhan’s chamber. Her body shuddered as if she were once again absorbing those brutal thrusts. She could hear Miko’s grunts and Xevhan’s labored breathing, hoarse with excitement.

“Hircha?”

Keirith went down on his knees before her, careful not to come too close or touch her. He knew the instinctive lurch of fear when a hand reached out unexpectedly. Even one offered in friendship carried the memories of others that had brought only pain.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

With an effort, she pushed the memories away. “You can’t blame yourself for what they did. You have to put Pilozhat behind you.”

“Like you have?”

“I’m . . . trying.”

“So am I,” he whispered.

Impulsively, she held out her hand. He seized it eagerly.

“It’s . . . I suppose it’s natural,” she said, searching for something that would ease his misery. “For us to think about him. About the things he did. And it’s hard—gods, Keirith, I know how hard it must be. In his body.”

“It’s mine now.”

“Aye.”

“He’s gone.”

“Aye.”

“I’m not him!”

His grip was so tight, she could barely keep from wincing. “I know. I’m sorry if I’ve been . . . unkind.”

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

Her breath caught. She let it out slowly. “Once.”

Before the blind girl. Before all the other little girls. Before qiij and ambition stole the last shreds of decency he possessed.

“But that was a long time ago. And the man I loved . . . the man I thought I loved . . . he never really existed.” She squeezed his hand. “He’s gone, Keirith. He’ll never hurt us again.”

Only later, as she was drifting off to sleep, did she wonder who had told him what Xevhan and Miko had done. Perhaps one of the guards. Or a gossiping slave. How else could he have known what had happened to the poor girl?

T
HREE DAYS AFTER HIS conversation with Hircha, they reached Ailmin’s village. When his father introduced them as captives rescued from the Zherosi holy city, Ailmin’s gaze lingered on him. He probably wondered why a Zheroso needed to be rescued from his own people. His father’s reputation won them hospitality, but it was grudgingly given. No feast was prepared to welcome them. No stories were shared around the fire. Ailmin’s wife served them in silence, and in silence, they ate. And when the grim meal was finished, they curled up beside the fire pit with their weapons close at hand.

Dreading a nightmare among strangers, Keirith waited until everyone was asleep and made his way to the beach. The evening thunderstorm had washed the air clean. The sand was damp and cool under his bare feet. Seaweed and broken shells littered the beach, but the sea was calmer now, the soft shushing of the breakers and the hiss of foam the only sounds in the world.

His bag of charms rested against his chest. The reminder of his past—his true self—comforted him and he was grateful Hircha had preserved it. He spread his mantle on the sand and emptied the bag onto it, touching each of the charms, just as he had the night before the earthquake. Malaq’s bloodstone warmed quickly in his palm. He let his thumb glide over its smooth surface as he stared out to sea.

For days he had tried to convince himself that his dreaming mind was simply weaving nightmarish images into his memories. But how could he know what had happened to the blind singer? How could he experience everything about that encounter so intensely? The skin, soft as a rowan petal. The surprised flinch when Miko seized her wrist. And the screams that went on and on until her sweet voice became hoarse and broken and finally fell silent.

Even the Tree-Father sometimes failed to make sense of visions. And what were dreams but sleeping visions? But there were other images, other memories, too many to dismiss. Xevhan’s spirit had shattered before he cast it out. What if those shattered pieces remained inside him, lost to his waking mind but emerging while he slept?

One by one, he gathered his charms and slipped them back into his bag. The dagger lay against his hip. He drew it from its sheath, remembering the shock of Xevhan’s blade driving into his flesh. He didn’t think he could bear that again. Better to walk into the sea and let the water close over him. He thought of his family waiting at home, considered the possibility that his imagination had conjured the nightmares, weighed the horror of carrying Xevhan’s spirit with him to the Forever Isles against the possibility of escape.

Twice, he had tried and failed to reach Natha. He told himself that snakes were not wolves, that his father’s bond to his vision mate had endured for years. But secretly, he feared Natha no longer recognized his spirit.

“Please, Natha. Please come.”

Gheala’s light cut a wavering swath across the dark waters. Lulled by the sound of the surf, he drifted, as once he had floated in the honeysuckle sea. The night waned. Gheala’s reflection moved slowly westward. It rose and fell with the ceaseless motion of the waves. It slithered across the water, riding the crest of the breakers and vanishing in the foam. It wriggled onto the shore.

The creamy color faded. Clad in his familiar green and black, Natha glided toward him. Tears stung Keirith’s eyes as he felt the brush of scales over his bare toes.

“Why did you seek me that other way? I could not reach you.”

“I didn’t have the strength for trance.”

Natha hissed in irritation. “You did not try.”

“I . . . I’m sorry.”

Natha hissed again, but this time his tongue flicked out to kiss his ankle. “You taste different.”

“I wear another body.”

“I have eyes. Why did you shed the old one?” At his inadvertent flinch, Natha’s head reared up. “Ahh. You did not wish to shed.”

“Nay.”

“Well, it is done now. This body is strong. It will serve you well.”

“I want
my
body! My real body!”

“You speak like a child. I wonder why I bother with you.”

Keirith sighed. “Because you are patient and wise.”

“Yes. And you are impatient and foolish. The gods should have sent you a squirrel for a vision mate. Or a rabbit.”

“Or an eagle,” Keirith retorted, hurt by Natha’s coldness.

A sharp pain stung his ankle as Natha struck. “Then fly with your eagle and leave me in peace.”

“Wait! Don’t go. Please, Natha. I’m sorry.”

Natha slithered back, but remained out of reach.

“I’m scared, Natha. I think . . . the man whose body I wear . . . I think his spirit still lives inside me.”

Natha wriggled over his ankle, up his leg. As he slithered higher, Keirith fell back as if pressed down by a heavy weight. Slow as sap rising, Natha wound his way up his chest, his throat, his chin. The tongue flicked out to kiss his lips. The head butted against his mouth, forcing it open. He choked as the slender body slid over his tongue, but then Natha’s physical being vanished, leaving only the sensation of something flowing down his throat. It warmed him like his mam’s hot apple cider as it filled his belly, warmed him in another way altogether as it gushed into his loins.

His arousal subsided, leaving him as flushed and spent as if he had climaxed. Natha spiraled through him, as ceaseless as the waves, as refreshing as a stream. When that soothing presence vanished, the sense of loss made him want to weep.