After yesterday’s escape attempt, Malaq had expected him to show more spirit. The rush of disappointment surprised him. After all, it wasn’t as if he believed he was the Son of Zhe.
The mist writhed around him, mimicking the movement of the adders. Cool air filled his lungs. He tasted subtle hints of moist earth and smooth stone. Bright sparks flashed amid the stately dance of earth and stone, the graceful swirl of air and water. His body jerked helplessly as the elemental dance possessed him. He thrust out his tongue to lap up more of the mist and sighed when his body slid to the earth, so cool and welcoming against his cheek.
The mist was softer than any cushion. The earth cradled him more gently than any arms. He sank into the womb of mist and earth, following the flashes of fire that lurked just out of reach, urging him deeper, promising . . . promising . . .
The mist gave an irritated hiss. Red-brown eyes appeared before him. A long tongue flicked out to sting his lips. Keirith’s head jerked back, knocking painfully against stone.
“You are not ready to go so deep,” Natha said. “You would have lost yourself.”
But how wonderful to be so lost, he thought with regret.
His spirit guide slithered across his throat and Keirith shivered in delight. “Why did you call me?” Natha demanded.
Still dazed by the dance, it took him a moment to remember. “The adders. They want me to speak with them.”
“I do not perform for strangers. Especially these who claim to worship us but keep us in this hole.”
“Perhaps they’re frightened of us.”
Natha’s sigh of satisfaction flowed through him, warmer than the mist but just as pleasurable. “Perhaps they are. And that is good. Come.”
The mist dissipated as Natha led him toward the adders. His limbs moved reluctantly beneath their shroud of leather, the cool air no longer refreshing but a heavy weight that made each step difficult. Even his heartbeat had slowed, which made no sense, for he was frightened. But visions were strange that way and this one was the strangest he had ever experienced, every sensation both real and dreamlike.
What had seemed an undifferentiated mass proved to be a tangle of gray and buff and brown. In the north, adders blended in with grass and leaves, but in a world where green existed only in scenes painted on walls, they would naturally wear the colors of earth and stone.
“Brothers. Sisters.”
Heads reared up as Natha spoke. Tongues flicked out, scenting the air.
“Why are you in this place?”
Perhaps the adders answered Natha in words. Keirith experienced their replies as disjointed images and sensations.
Cold. So cold. Huddling around the heat-stone. Basking in the brief moments when sunlight touched them. Only the strong fed. Only the strongest mated. The young ones were too weak to compete, too sluggish to seek the light and the warmth.
Keirith sent back images of his own. Sun-warmed slabs of rock to bask upon, shady dens to shield them when the heat grew too intense. Brush piles where they could seek mice and nestlings, muddy shallows where they could hunt frogs. Stalking the prey. Fangs sinking into flesh. Following the prey’s scent as it crawled or hopped away. Patiently waiting for the venom to take effect, patiently waiting for the beautiful, tremulous convulsions of death before gorging to repletion and drowsing until the next kill.
Instead of soothing them, his images roused the adders. He saw leather-clad feet walking among them, leather-clad hands reaching for them, separating each from the others, forcing open their mouths, pushing their heads down as the males pushed down the heads of their opponents when they fought for the females. Fangs sought the leather-clad hands and penetrated instead the strange, soft stone pressed into their gaping mouths.
Hatred as pervasive as the cold.
“Natha? What should I do?” His spirit guide slithered between his feet, his small body encircling a boot. “Natha?”
And then, in the way of visions, Keirith understood.
The boy bent his head over his arm.
Xevhan leaned forward. “Why is he chewing the glove?”
His head jerked back and bent again. He repeated this strange ritual several times before Malaq realized he was trying to unlace the glove with his teeth.
Xevhan groaned. “This could take all morning.”
The boy’s arduous progress was punctuated by such pithy observations. Finally, he tucked his hand under his armpit and tugged the glove free. He laid it carefully on the ground. The second glove took less time to remove. He placed it next to the other and went down on one knee.
“Blessed Zhe,” Eliaxa breathed. “What is he doing?”
“He’s unlacing his boot,” Malaq replied.
“I see that. But why?”
“That, of course, is the question.” As the boy tugged the heavy leather tunic over his head, Malaq beckoned the Qepo forward. “How many strikes can he withstand?”
“They were milked this morning, great Pajhit. I did it myself. And they’re sluggish because I extinguished the brazier. They may not attack at all.”
Malaq reluctantly withdrew his gaze from the pit.
The Qepo flinched. “I’ve seen a man take five strikes after a milking and live.”
But this was a boy, of course, not a man.
“Shall I go down, great Pajhit?”
The boy folded his breeches neatly atop his tunic. He unwound his skimpy kharo and let it fall to the ground. Naked, he walked toward the adders.
The Qepo raced toward the stairway, moving far more quickly than Malaq would have expected for one so old.
“Wait!”
The Qepo froze. Eliaxa and Xevhan stirred restively. The boy walked slowly toward the tangle of adders.
“Wait.”
Unblinking eyes watched him as he stepped closer. Although he had shed the heavy leather garments, every movement was slow, as if the cold had seeped deep into his bones, rendering him as sluggish as the adders. He understood their hatred of the leather-clad feet and hands, but each step made his heart thud.
Every summer, someone disturbed an adder and had to be carried to his mam. In spite of the intense pain and swelling, all survived, but Keirith could still remember the screams. And that was one snake, not dozens.
He stopped just out of striking range. Natha wove in and out between his feet, calming his fear, steadying him. Naked, he stretched out on the cool earth.
Slender tongues flicked out, scenting him. Slender bodies slithered toward him. When he felt the dry brush of scales against his ankle, his mind told him to flee, but the dreamlike calm only deepened. Mist touched his cheek—Natha’s touch. Natha’s reassuring whisper echoed inside him: “Be calm. Be still.”
Stillness. Emptiness. Control.
With a sigh of acceptance, Keirith offered himself to them.
An adder slid over his wrist. Another wove a sinuous track across his belly. They wriggled up his legs, around his arms. Their scales drifted across his thighs and genitals. Their tongues kissed his chest, his neck, his mouth.
Fluid as water, smoother than stone, the adders danced. Their eyes were the dull fire of the dying sun. Their voices were autumn leaves, rustling in the wind. Their bodies were vines, weaving around the trunks of trees. And he was the earth beneath them, warm and comforting and alive.
The adders swarmed over him. And the boy smiled. They covered his legs, his torso, his arms. And the boy smiled. They slithered over his neck, their bodies tangled in his hair. And still, the boy smiled.
Eliaxa whispered prayers. Xevhan traced the spiral on his chest. Malaq simply watched, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure the others must hear. All his life, he had longed to see a miracle. In the pit below, it was happening.
Could it be true? Could he really be the one?
As if they heard an unspoken command, the writhing mass of adders became still. One by one, they retreated. Only then did the boy’s eyes open.
His chest heaved in a sigh as he rose. He walked to
ward the door and removed the torch from its bracket. Moving with the same dreamlike grace, he returned to the adders. They parted before him, allowing him to step close to the clay brazier. He touched the torch to the fuel and waited for it to catch. Then he backed away, allowing the adders to seethe toward the heat.
He returned the torch to its bracket and gathered his discarded clothing. With a last, lingering look at the adders, he pulled open the door and disappeared.
The Qepo was the first to recover. He hurried toward the stairs and this time, Malaq let him go. Still lost in the miracle, he stared into the pit.
“It’s impossible,” Xevhan whispered.
“He shed.” Eliaxa’s voice caught on a sob. “As the adder sheds its skin, he shed his clothing. And they blessed him. The adders blessed him.”
“It was cool in the pit,” Xevhan argued. Already, he was regaining his self-possession. “You heard the Qepo. The adders were sluggish. They had just been milked. The danger was minimal.”
“Yes,” Malaq replied. “But the boy didn’t know that.”
“By these signs shall you know him.” Eliaxa swayed as she recited the ancient words. “His power shall burn bright as Heart of Sky at Midsummer. His footsteps shall make Womb of Earth tremble. Speechless, he shall understand the language of the adder, and wingless, soar through the sky like the eagle.”
Movement caught Malaq’s attention. The Qepo stepped aside to allow the boy to pass. He had donned his kharo once more, but his dazed expression conveyed the lingering effects of the trial he had undergone.
“Ask him what they said,” Xevhan demanded.
“Later,” Eliaxa said. “The glory is still upon him. He must rest.”
Malaq gestured for him to follow the guards, but he couldn’t resist asking, “Why did you remove your clothes?”
When the boy frowned, Malaq wondered if he even remembered what had happened. Then Kheridh shrugged, as if the answer should be obvious.
“The adders. They were cold.”
Chapter 15
MALAQ MARCHED UP the wide steps. The royal guards thumped their chests with their fists as he passed, then returned to blank-faced immobility. According to the king, the original builder of the palace had boasted that twenty men could march abreast into the throne room. When a demonstration proved only nineteen could manage the feat, the unfortunate builder was condemned to death. Ten generations later, the king still giggled when he pointed out the delicious irony of sacrificing the man on the newly erected altar of the God with Two Faces.
The babble of voices grew louder as he entered the throne room. He squeezed through the crowd of guests—priests, administrators, courtiers—who had been fortunate enough to secure invitations. What had begun as a solemn rite, attended only by the monarchs and their senior priests, had evolved into a prestigious social occasion. For all the elegant attire and abundance of jewelry on display, he might be at the wedding of a nobleman’s daughter.
As usual, the most favored of the king’s companions lounged on the steps of the dais. At least the queen still insisted that her attendants stand. With flounces of blue and gold and scarlet adorning their long skirts, they looked like a flock of brilliantly plumaged birds. Yet they paled in comparison to the queen.
While her ladies covered themselves with jewelry, she wore only a golden snake coiled around her bicep and another in her hair. Instead of noticing the jewels, the eye was drawn to the slenderness of the arms, the delicacy of the long fingers, the glossy coils of her black hair. A shimmering sheath of imported lilmia swathed her breasts, and her skirt flowed over her thighs like water before cascading into a tumble of blue and green flounces.
He prostrated himself at the base of the dais. The queen smiled as he rose, but the king’s head lolled against the back of his throne. Malaq tried to hide his shock at the king’s sickly pallor, the dark shadows under his eyes, the sunken chest. His sojourn at the summer palace had done him no good at all. He was always weak before The Shedding, but never so bad as this.
The king’s companions managed to bestir themselves long enough for him to mount the steps and take his place beside the king. Eliaxa and Xevhan performed the ritual prostration and took their places, Eliaxa at the queen’s left and Xevhan between the thrones.
The queen raised her hand. The blast of the kankh made everyone wince. Astonishing that a shell so beautiful and delicate could produce a bellow worthy of a bullock. Courtiers shuffled back to create a narrow path down the center of the chamber.
They’ll have to breathe in unison if they want to get any air.
The horn bellowed again as the twenty-six candidates marched toward the thrones. Their escorts squeezed aside to allow them to prostrate themselves. Shoulder to shoulder, given the crush. The queen leaned forward as she motioned them to rise. Even the king sat up a little straighter when they pulled off their short flaxcloth tunics and stood naked before the dais. This year, Malaq had made certain only the strongest candidates were presented to him; he refused to allow the king to choose yet another frail, willowy boy as the Host.
His thoughts drifted as the questioning began; the candidates’ responses mattered little, although the queen always preferred a young woman with wit as well as beauty. Vanity, really; only her beauty would remain after The Shedding.
Today’s council meeting was his only opportunity to speak to the king and queen about the boy. The banquet later would be as much of a crush as this audience and the moon of seclusion began at dawn. After that, no one was permitted to see or speak to them until they emerged for The Shedding; even the two attendants who waited on them must serve and dress them in silence, with eyes averted.
The problem was how much to reveal. He could claim the boy was Zhe himself and get nothing more than a disinterested nod from the king. The queen was another matter.
There had always been false prophets claiming to be the Son of Zhe; during his five years as Pajhit, he’d questioned six. A few possessed genuine power, while others were tools of the men and women who sought power through them. None had ever heard the voices of the sacred adders.
The queen held out her hand to a tall, sturdy-looking girl who fell to her knees and kissed it. A dimple graced her left cheek when she smiled. The king—gods save us—chose the smallest and slenderest of the youths, but at least this one didn’t look as if a gust of wind would drop him to his knees. Doubtless he would do so tonight—before one of the king’s favorites; the king was too enervated by qiij to do more than watch.
Malaq’s hand crept up his chest to touch the tiny vial that hung from the gold chain, the visible reminder that only the rulers and senior priests were permitted the unsupervised use of qiij. Regular consumption of the drug robbed one of the appetite for food as well as sex, but he wondered again if it rendered one sterile as well. Otherwise, the king and queen surely would have produced one child in the ten generations they had ruled. Was that the effect of the adders’ venom or the juice of the pozho plant?
Even if his speculations were unfounded, the queen had only to look at her brother to see the devastation qiij wrought on his body and mind. Perhaps that was the key to convincing her to grant him more time with the boy.
The bellow of the kankh shattered his reverie. The queen rose and took the king’s arm. With a sigh of relief, Malaq left the crowded throne room for the private reception chamber.
Although it was far smaller, it was just as ornate. Thick rugs covered the floor. Colorful cushions lay scattered around the low table. Behind the two thrones, a mural depicted scarlet-winged Zhe rising from the verdant sacred mountain—a bit of artistic overstatement as Kelazhat was neither lush nor green—bearing a golden Heart of Sky through pink and violet clouds. Although the colors were far too garish for his taste, Malaq still preferred it to the mural on the opposite wall that showed Zhe devouring his father. Blackened feathers drifted through a fiery sunset as Zhe plummeted toward a sea that looked disturbingly like blood. Fortunately, protocol dictated that the
priests sit with their backs to the dying gods.
Sky-wells in the two courtyards flanking the chamber admitted light and air. The slaves must have lit a brazier earlier; the smoky scent of incense still lingered, overpowering the fragrance of the thornblossoms and bitterheart that overflowed the vases in the wall niches.
The queen plumped the gold pillow on her brother’s throne before easing him onto it. Then she seated herself and nodded. Malaq and Xevhan held Eliaxa’s elbows while she sank onto a cushion, then sat on either side of her. Vazh and Besul took their places at opposite ends of the long table. An obvious case of seating arrangements reflecting life: Eliaxa always the buffer and mediator, Vazh and Besul as far apart as possible.
As if to prove that point, Vazh took one look at the steaming mounds of bread proffered by the slaves and glared at Besul. The winter rains had delayed the planting of the millet; the recent drought had destroyed the barley. While Eliaxa redoubled her entreaties to Womb of Earth, the eminently practical Vazh had ordered grain rationing. Clearly, Besul did not believe such restrictions applied to the royal council.
Slaves glided in with platters of cold partridge and smoked mussels, bowls of goat cheese and jhok, pitchers of wine and water, then disappeared as silently as they had come. The two royal attendants remained, kneeling beside the thrones to proffer goblets of wine and tidbits of food to the monarchs. The king drank thirstily, but the queen contented herself with a single sip before passing the goblet back.
As usual, the Supplicant of the God with Two Faces was missing. She was as mercurial as the god she served, rarely attending council meetings, scarcely bothering to appear in the god’s temple. The Acolyte conducted most of the sacrifices. Even those were unusual. The Supplicant insisted the god preferred flowers or small animals. But occasionally—and apparently without warning—the god demanded a human life. The Supplicant herself made those sacrifices, ripping out the throat of the man or woman who lay on the altar. Or so it was whispered.
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