Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  “You entered my spirit—”

  “And you were helpless to stop me. Just as you were helpless to combat your Tree-Father who deemed you an abomination. Helpless to escape the warriors who attacked your village. Helpless to fight off the men who raped you. But now you have a choice. You can let your hate and your helplessness consume you. You can bewail a world where innocents are raped and dreams are shattered. Or you can learn to live with those realities and understand that only one thing will prevent them from happening again.”

  Keirith found himself with his back up against the wall, breathing as hard as if he were withstanding a physical assault.

  “You have a gift, Kheridh.” Although the Pajhit spoke more gently, his voice held the same intensity. “A gift you’re afraid to use. But only by using it will you gain power. Today, you learned what a man with power can do. Power protects you. It protects those you love. It shields your spirit from attack and allows you to punish those who hurt you. Without power, you will always be a helpless, terrified boy cowering in the dark.”

  Keirith stumbled to the doorway and bolted past the startled guards. The Pajhit’s words pursued him down the corridor. “You cannot run from yourself, Kheridh. Or from the truth.”

  “Follow him—but at a discreet distance,” Malaq instructed the guards. Then he sank down on the stone bench nearest the door.

  He had gambled that honesty would win the boy’s respect, but he’d failed to gauge the depth of Keirith’s reaction to the punishment. He’d pushed too hard, too soon, forgetting how deeply boys feel things at that age.

  Pursuing him now would only drive him away forever. Like a falconer training a hawk, he must demonstrate patience, persistence, dedication, and calm. He had swung the lure. He must wait to see if the boy returned to it.

  Chapter 19

  KEIRITH ROUNDED A CORNER and careened into the Zheron. The startled priest grabbed on to him to steady himself. Without thinking, Keirith shoved him away. “Please. Forgive me. Must go.”

  “What is it? Good gods, what’s the matter?” The concern on the Zheron’s face was at odds with the leer he remembered from his interrogation.

  “Please. Let go. Must . . . please!”

  “Yes. All right.”

  The Zheron glanced around as if seeking help. Over his shoulder, Keirith saw Hircha’s moon-gold hair. The Zheron spoke rapidly to her.

  “The Zheron says you look ill. He wishes to know if he can help.”

  “Please. Thank the Zheron. I am well. I just . . . oh, gods, I just want to get away from this place!”

  Before he could stop her, Hircha was translating. The Zheron frowned—was he going to punish him for that last outburst?—then suddenly smiled. Again, he spoke rapidly to Hircha.

  “The Zheron says you’ve been caged too long. He offers to take you to the beach. To walk. To swim. Whatever pleases you.” When Keirith hesitated, she added, “This is a great honor.”

  Why would the Zheron want to honor him? When they passed in a corridor, the priest responded politely to his bow, but walked on. The thought of having to make conversation sickened him, but how could he refuse without giving offense?

  “The Zheron invites me to accompany you as that will make it easier to talk. But he wishes to assure you there is no need for conversation. It is enough to enjoy the morning air and the freedom.”

  The wistfulness on Hircha’s face finally convinced him. “The guards. They’ll follow us.”

  When Hircha translated, the Zheron grinned and made a short reply before walking away. Keirith stared after him, mystified.

  “He said, ‘Not if we’re clever.’ ”

  Three litters were waiting in the central courtyard. It was easy to let the guards see them crawling into one, then slip out the other side and into the adjacent one. The empty litter headed toward the western gate. Theirs followed the Zheron’s out the main gate.

  He managed well enough when they proceeded along one of Pilozhat’s wide streets, but each time the bearers lurched down another flight of steps, he was thrown against Hircha. Her fingers clutched his arm as she tried to steady herself. Her hair tickled his cheek. Her breast brushed his bare arm. She apologized and laughed and said it would have been less bruising to walk. When she tumbled across his lap, a wave of heat shot through him.

  He had just seen three men castrated. How could his body react this way?

  It took forever to reach the beach. His arms ached from clinging to the frame of the litter. His shoulders ached from the unnatural positions he’d assumed to keep from brushing against her. And his loins ached from the sensations flooding his body.

  When the bearers halted, he crawled out of the litter. Mercifully, the bulky folds of the khirta hid any evidence of his arousal.

  The Zheron waved the bearers off and they retreated down the beach. To give himself a moment to recover, Keirith walked to the edge of the water. The curve of the shoreline screened them from the city. Only the sound of the waves and the cries of the sea birds disturbed the restful silence. After the noise and the crowds in the Plaza of Justice, it seemed a gift from the gods.

  “Would you like to swim?” Hircha asked. “The sea’s very warm.”

  “Nay. Thank you.”

  She reached down to pull her shapeless gown over her head and he quickly turned away. He heard a squeal and glanced back to find her plunging into the water. Her pale bottom flashed as she dove beneath a wave. Moments later, she bobbed back up, her hair streaming over her small breasts.

  “Come in,” she called. “It’s wonderful.”

  Shaking his head, Keirith backed away. “I’m fine. Really. I’ll just sit over there. In the shade.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Resolutely, he walked toward a tumble of boulders and sat down facing the mountain. Even in the shade, the sand was almost too hot for comfort. The Zheron strolled over to him. “Don’t you want to join her?”

  “Thank you, no. This is good. Very less sun.”

  “You can’t swim?”

  “Yes. But no swim today. Thank you.”

  The Zheron flung himself onto the sand, folded his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. “This is good. It’s never peaceful at the palace.”

  “Yes. Thank you for to bring me.”

  “Thank you for bringing me,” the Zheron corrected.

  Dutifully, Keirith repeated the sentence.

  “You learn quickly.”

  “Thank you. I try hard.”

  The Zheron propped himself up on his elbow and studied him for so long that Keirith asked, “Please? Something is wrong?” The speech that followed was largely incomprehensible, but it seemed he was apologizing for something. “Forgive me. I do not understand.”

  The Zheron frowned, clearly frustrated. Then he leaped to his feet and shouted to Hircha.

  Keirith kept his gaze on the sand as she approached. The Zheron tossed her gown to her and the two of them chatted easily while she dressed. She perched on one of the rocks, her damp legs next to his cheek, and wrung the water out of her hair. “How may I serve you, my lord?”

  The Zheron faced him, his expression earnest, and delivered a short speech.

  “The Zheron says I am to translate exactly, not merely give you the essence of his words. He wishes me to do this because he wants to be sure you understand.”

  Keirith nodded.

  “Kheridh. The Pajhit has kept you very close. As is his right. But now that we’re alone, I wish to say . . . I wanted you to know I’m sorry for the way I had to speak to you that first day. I know it was humiliating for you. I was shamed by it, too. I don’t hold a grudge against you for attacking my spirit. I would have done the same had a man spoken thus. And I hope you hold none against me for obeying the Pajhit’s wishes.”

  Uncertain how to respond, Keirith nodded again.

  “Will you clasp arms on it?”

  “What does that mean?” he asked Hircha. “Clasping arms?”

  “It’s a gest
ure of agreement. Of friendship.”

  Keirith hesitated, searching the man’s face for some hint of what lay behind the earnest expression. The Zheron spoke so impatiently that Hircha could barely keep up with him.

  “You hesitate to accept my friendship. I understand. It’s just . . .” Hircha perfectly captured the impotent wave of his hand. “I’m not used to being hated. Since I was a boy, everyone has always liked me. I like . . . being liked. I suppose that’s silly and weak, but . . . never mind. This is beneath us. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forgive me. I hope you enjoy this time away from the palace. I’ll go back now so I don’t spoil it for you.”

  The Zheron rose. Keirith knew enough of palace protocol to recognize his bow as one offered to an equal. As the Zheron spun away, shouting for the bearers, he called out, “Wait.”

  The Zheron slowly turned.

  “I did hate you.” When Hircha hesitated, he said, “Tell him.”

  A grimace twisted the handsome features, but was quickly banished.

  “I wanted to kill you. But you stopped me. How did you do that?”

  “That’s just a trick. Something every Zhiisto learns.”

  “Can you teach me this trick? Without entering my spirit?”

  The Zheron frowned, considering. “We’ve never done it that way. It would be harder—for both of us. But it might be possible. It would mean that much to you?”

  Keirith nodded.

  “The Pajhit may not like it—you coming to me instead of him for instruction. I’ll have to consider the best way to approach him. Or escape his notice. When I have, I’ll tell Hircha when we can meet.”

  “Thank you.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I’m not sure I can offer friendship, but I can dispense with hatred.”

  The Zheron broke into a great smile when Hircha translated. Keirith found his forearms seized in a strong grip.

  “Friendships aren’t built in a day, but we’ve made a good start.” The Zheron stepped back, his smile fading. “And now I have to return to the palace. It’s a great honor to be Zheron, but it’s not much fun. You and Hircha stay. Not too long—the sun will roast those fair skins. Come back during the midday sezhta. That way, you can sneak into the palace while everyone’s resting. If you’re caught . . . well, tell them it was my doing. But try not to get caught. Please. The Pajhit will have my hide if he finds out.”

  Shaking his head at his folly, he waved away the second group of bearers and climbed into his litter. A hand shot through the curtains to wave farewell.

  “That was interesting,” Hircha said after a long silence. “He’s always so . . . wait. I want to go back in the water. We can talk after that.”

  Her gown slapped against his neck. Keirith pulled it off, folded it neatly, and laid it on a rock. Then he sank down on the sand, wondering what had possessed him to tell the Zheron he’d wanted to kill him.

  Hircha was in the water a long time. He’d almost gotten up the courage to join her when he heard her breathless pants. She pulled her gown on and sat down beside him. “You took a great risk.”

  “I know.”

  “Just to learn this trick of shielding your spirit?”

  “And to find out whether he would agree to teach it to me.” He searched her face as intently as he had searched the Zheron’s. “Can I trust him, Hircha? Is he . . . is he a good man?”

  “He can be reckless. Quick to anger—but equally quick to apologize. When I first came here . . .” She swallowed hard. “I was sold to a pleasure house. I was expected to . . . to lie with strangers. To serve their desires.”

  “But you were only nine!”

  For the first time, he understood the fate of the boys and girls who had been sold to the “great houses.” Forced to endure what he had endured—and to smile at their violators.

  “Everyone suffers, boy! Life is suffering.”

  “Xevhan took me away from that. He gave me my life back.”

  Could gratitude alone account for the softness of her expression, the huskiness in her voice? Or did she love him?

  Two tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. She scrambled to her feet and turned away.

  Do something. Take her in your arms. Comfort her.

  But after he rose, he just stood there. A helpless, terrified boy—just as the Pajhit had said. Finally, he whispered, “Please. Don’t.”

  With a small cry, Hircha flung herself at him. His arms came around her. His cheek rested on her wet hair. She smelled of the sea and an earthy musk that must be the scent of her body. Through the damp gown, he could feel her heat.

  “Thank you. Thank you for being so kind.”

  Her eyes were as clear and blue as the sky, her kiss as delicate as the brush of butterfly wings. Sand scratched his cheeks as she cupped them between her palms. Her mouth parted under his. Her tongue darted between his lips. He started and felt her smile. Her tongue moved more slowly, caressing his. He groaned and pulled her closer, groaned again when he felt her body pressing against his: the soft breasts, the warm belly, the firm thighs.

  He reared back. Her hand snaked up to explore his cheek, the curve of his ear. Then it curled around his neck and pulled his head down again. When she released him and stepped back, he gave a strangled cry of protest, but she just smiled and pressed her fingertips to his lips.

  She pulled the gown over her head and this time, he didn’t look away. Nor did he stop her when she unknotted his khirta, although he could feel himself flushing hotly when it fell to the ground. He knew he was scrawny and skinnyshanked, but her eyes admired him and her smile told him he was handsome and her hands told him she wanted to touch him and be touched, to fondle and explore.

  She pulled him down onto the sand. If it was a dream, he didn’t want to wake. He only wanted more of her. At home, there had been dreams that jerked him awake in the night, his seed spurting on his belly, his heart racing as he lay on his pallet, breathless with fear that someone had heard. And the days when he sneaked away to his secret place on Eagles Mount, the sun hot on his belly, his fist moving urgently between his legs. Nothing like the gentle stroking of her fingers, the shock of teeth grazing his nipple, the tickle of damp curls teasing his loins.

  Her soft cries maddened him. His ballocks ached with need. He wanted to have what other men possessed. He wanted to bury his shame in her softness. He wanted to take her, fierce and rough and hard, and feel her helpless beneath him, crying out, begging him . . .

  He wrenched away and staggered to his feet. His hands shook so badly he could barely wind the khirta around his hips. And all he could say was, “Oh, gods. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Chapter 20

  HIRCHA WATCHED KEIRITH stumble down the beach. Before he vanished from sight, one of his guards appeared and led him toward the city.

  She listened to the lapping of the waves and the pounding of her heart and thought about fleeing. But he would find her. He always found her. So she pulled on her gown and shouted for the bearers and let them carry her back to the palace.

  He was waiting for her in his chamber, sitting motionless on one of the stone benches. His eyes were half-closed and his head rested against the wall. The qiij always left him sluggish, but rarely did the lethargy come on him this quickly.

  She kept her eyes lowered as she approached. There was no need to tell him of her failure; she had felt his spirit enter hers, had felt him inside of her throughout the encounter with Keirith, his touch as intimate as the boy’s. Felt, too, the painful wrench of his parting.

  Pleas would disgust him, excuses rouse him to anger. Without a word, she prostrated herself at his feet and waited.

  One sandal tapped the floor. From the chamber above came the dull pounding of more feet and the muffled sound of voices and laughter as the Zhiisti, freed from their morning lessons, converged on the dining hall. A trickle of sweat oozed down her breast. A fly buzzed near her ear. And still the ceaseless tapping of his foot continued, unvarying in its slow, rel
entless rhythm.

  Her knees ached, but she remained motionless. Submissiveness pleased him. She had learned that as a child. One of many things he had taught her.

  He might forgive her. Shrug off her failure and offer her a chance to redeem herself. Or he might beat her.

  Once, she had known how to please him. Once, she had only to walk into this chamber to see him smile and open his arms and pull her onto his lap. He would ask what she had done that day and laugh delightedly at the things she told him. Silly, simple things like using the new oil he had chosen for her bath or walking to and fro in his chamber wearing the new skirt he had ordered—the blue one that matched the color of her eyes—just to listen to the three flounces swish. And he’d tell her to walk for him so he could hear it rustle and she would, and he would tell her she was beautiful and she’d duck her head shyly, and he would raise her chin between his thumb and forefinger and reach into the bowl that he always kept filled with honey balls just for her and pop one into her mouth. And then he would bend his head and she would open her mouth yet again so he could kiss her and share the sweetness.

  It was all sweetness then, before her breasts blossomed and the hair sprouted under her arms and between her legs. Sweet honey in his mouth and sweet oil scenting his body. And so gentle, whether teaching her how to kiss or how to take him in her mouth and suck him like a honey ball.

  He was the only sweetness she knew after the raider tore her, screaming, from her mother’s arms. And if she had been terrified when he first walked into that tiny room in the pleasure house, he had calmed her with his soft hands and his soft voice.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he told her when old Mother Lashi left them. “I won’t hurt you.”

  He held her as if she were as fragile as a wren’s egg. And afterward, when his head fell back and he groaned like a dying man and his lap grew warm and moist beneath her bottom, he kissed the red marks on her arms where his fingers had clenched them and told her he would never hurt her again.