Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  But he had. The first time he had lain with her, she had not been able to stifle her tears. He wept with her and promised it would be better the next time. And it was.

  “You are beautiful,” he told her, oiled fingers easing between her legs.

  “You are perfect,” he told her, lying next to her in the dark, stroking her hairless thigh.

  “I love you.”

  When her moon flow began, she hid the truth from him. She’d learned by then that there had been others before her and always, they were sent away when the blood came. For three moons, she kept her secret, claiming a stomach complaint, a spring chill, a nettle rash. But she could not hide the more obvious changes her body was undergoing.

  That was the first time he beat her. Worse than the beating was the disgust in his eyes. She begged him to let her stay and serve him in other ways. Grudgingly, he gave his permission.

  Then came the night she found him smiling down at another little girl in a flounced skirt. She fled the palace, neither knowing nor caring where she was going. Men with leashed dogs found her and brought her back. That was the second time he beat her. But instead of sending her to the pleasure house as she expected, he took the small dagger he used to slice fruit and cut the tendon behind her right ankle.

  He smiled at her after, his eyes bright with excitement, his fingertips bright with her blood. As one slave dragged her out of the chamber, she heard him shouting to another to bring little Emitzia to him.

  And so it had been for more than three years. A little girl on his lap was no longer enough to arouse him. A little girl on her knees took too long to bring him to climax. And a little girl screaming as he thrust into her again and again . . .

  Qiij fired the appetite at first, only to dull it later. Like little girls who grew up.

  His foot ceased its relentless tapping. Now there was only the patter of her heartbeat. She felt a gentle nudge against her forehead. When she raised her head fractionally, the sandaled foot slid beneath her chin. Slowly, he pushed her head back. She tried to remain prostrate but the pressure forced her to fall back on her haunches. That’s when she saw the braided leather whip in his lap.

  She dared a look at him then. He smiled, one hand stroking the whip.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered.

  He struck her across the face. Before she could prostrate herself, he seized her by the hair. The tiles scraped her knees as he dragged her toward the low table where they had sat, side by side, as he fed her dainties from his plate.

  Miko was waiting. It was always Miko who held her down. He smiled as he seized her wrists and dragged her facedown across the table. A ragged fingernail scratched her back as he yanked her gown over her waist.

  When the first blow fell, she flinched, but made no sound. At the tenth blow, she bit through her lip and tasted blood. By the twentieth blow, her back and buttocks were on fire and the blood ran down her chin. But she was determined to stifle the cries that would only add to his pleasure.

  His breathing grew hoarse, each crack of the whip punctuated by a curse. “Worthless. Bitch. Worthless. Stupid. Ugly. Bitch.”

  He paused, panting. Miko released her wrists and she let her breath out. She struggled to get her shaking hands under her to push herself up from the table. A hand pushed her back down. Sweat stung her wounded back.

  “Take her.”

  Dazed from pain and exhaustion, she wondered why he would hold her down if he meant for Miko to take her back to the little room she shared with five other girls. Only when rough hands spread her thighs did she understand.

  She struggled against the hands, one pair smooth and sweaty, the other rough and dry. She heard Miko spit, felt him rooting between her thighs, one fist bumping against her body, while the fingers of the other bit deep into the flesh at her hip.

  His sudden thrust tore a scream of denial from her throat. Even after she forced herself to silence, it echoed inside her head, the high keening cry of a dying creature mingling with the animal grunts of the man behind her and the hoarse panting of the one watching.

  Miko shuddered and groaned. She gasped as he collapsed on top of her. Then he pushed himself up, leaving only the warm ooze of his slime on her thighs and the stinging sweat of his belly on her buttocks.

  She got to her feet. She pushed her tangled hair off her face. She made herself look at the man who had once claimed to love her. His handsome features twisted with disgust.

  “Get her out of my sight,” Xevhan said. “And send Xia to me.”

  Miko knotted his loincloth at his waist and took her arm. She hated herself for needing his support to negotiate the short trip to her quarters.

  He pushed her through the doorway and stood there, frowning. “Why don’t you scream? When he beats you. He likes it when they scream.”

  “I know.”

  He shrugged. “Pride’ll only get you bruises.”

  “Get out.”

  His face darkened and he stalked into the room. Despite her determination to show no emotion, she flinched and threw up both hands to ward off a blow. Without even touching her, he managed to back her up against the wall.

  “You’re not his little queen anymore, girl. You haven’t been for years now. You should have let him send you back to the pleasure house before he got a taste for hurting you. And it’s not just the beatings anymore. He liked watching us. First time in a moon he’ll be fit to plow Xia. And that’ll make him want to watch again. You treat me nice and pleasant and respectful between times and I’ll do you easy instead of rough. Makes no difference to me,” he added as he walked toward the doorway, “but it’ll save some wear and tear on your honey hole.”

  She waited until his footsteps receded before stripping off her gown and throwing it on the floor. Her legs trembled as she bent, wincing, to reach for the cloth that hung over the basin they used for washing. She dipped it in the water and dabbed gingerly between her thighs. Jaw clenched, she rinsed the cloth and slowly, methodically cleaned all traces of him from her body. When she was finished, she collapsed onto her pallet of fleece, shivering.

  She stared at the wall, thinking of Xevhan, her lover and tormentor, thinking of Keirith, who might have been her friend and whose refusal to lie with her had provoked both the beating and the rape. She didn’t know why he had pulled away from her. Perhaps he had sensed that she was unclean. Or with his powers, he had seen into her spirit and knew she was false.

  But there had been one moment when he stared at her and his eyes told her she was beautiful, even with her bobbing breasts and the hair between her legs. She’d loved those shining eyes and that soft, trembling mouth. She’d wanted to bask in his admiration and her power to rouse it, to pretend that he was just an ordinary boy and she was just an ordinary girl and that they could touch and kiss as if it were the first time for both of them.

  What a fool. Of all the lessons Xevhan had taught her, the most enduring was that you could trust no man. You could only be used by them and then discarded like a dirty cloth.

  Unless, she reflected, you used your power to possess them. She had lost her power over Xevhan, but she might still wield it over this boy.

  The palace was awash with rumors: he was the Pajhit’s illegitimate son, he was the Pajhit’s lover, he was the Son of Zhe. More likely, he was just a boy who’d been stolen from his home as she had been.

  But he had power and—for now—the protection of the Pajhit. Two good reasons for Xevhan to hate him. And he was afraid and alone—two good reasons for Keirith to trust her.

  Miko was right. Whether or not Xevhan had always had a taste for hurting others, he’d discovered the pleasure of it with her. As the qiij robbed him of potency, his need would only escalate. Three years ago, he had cut a tendon. Today, he’d watched another man rape her. Sooner or later, he would kill her.

  She had failed to escape before, but with Keirith’s help, she might succeed. But before she fled, she would teach Xevhan the meaning of fear. And before he died, she would
watch his eyes widen with the shocked realization that his submissive little girl had destroyed him.

  Chapter 21

  THE GUARD TOLD HIM about discovering Kheridh on the beach, but Malaq learned of the incident with the girl from Xevhan.

  “I know I should have consulted you. But the opportunity arose, and . . .” Xevhan shrugged. “Anyway, the girl bungled it.”

  “He might have escaped.”

  “Worth the risk, don’t you think? To find out if he was the Son of Zhe. Besides, the bearers were only a shout away.”

  Since that morning, he had kept Kheridh close. He’d ended the language instruction with the girl and taught him himself. He’d threatened the guards with disembowelment if they let Kheridh out of their sight again.

  Kheridh said nothing about the girl’s absence. Indeed, Malaq could hardly drag anything out of him. He pursued his lessons dutifully. He was unfailingly polite. But the wall that he had thrown up after learning his dream had been breached remained impenetrable.

  It was the girl who provided the opening he needed. He noticed her limping down the corridor, observed the careful way she moved, and called her name. She flattened herself against the wall, wincing. Her lower lip was swollen, the newly-healed cut plain.

  After a quick glance to ensure they were alone, Malaq asked, “How badly did he beat you?”

  Her head jerked up. Quickly, she lowered it again, but he had already seen the flash of cold, blue fire in her eyes.

  “My lord, it is his right—”

  “Answer my question.”

  “He whipped me.” She licked her bruised lip. “Then gave me to his manservant.”

  “Gave you to him? To serve, you mean?”

  “He raped me.”

  Her voice was flat. She might have been discussing the weather. But her fingers, hidden in the folds of her gown, tightened convulsively, bunching the fabric at her thighs.

  “Come to my chamber tonight.”

  “My lord . . .”

  “If anyone stops you, say I have summoned you.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He watched her hurry away, her limp more pronounced in her haste to escape him. When she appeared that evening, Kheridh flushed but said nothing.

  “Tell Kheridh the truth,” Malaq instructed her. “All of it.”

  He waved the guards outside and followed them, resisting the urge to linger in the corridor and eavesdrop. When he returned a short while later, they were still standing opposite each other. The girl’s face was swollen from crying, but Kheridh was pale and tight-lipped. As she turned to leave, he lifted his hand as if to touch her, but let it drop to his side.

  When she left, he stalked into the garden. Malaq hesitated in the doorway, watching him gulp the night air like a drowning man.

  Without turning, Kheridh asked, “You knew?”

  “That she was Xevhan’s cat’s-paw? Of course.”

  “But you didn’t tell me.”

  “Would you have believed me if I had?”

  Instead of answering, Kheridh said, “The man who did this to her. Will he be punished?”

  “No.”

  “Because she’s a slave.”

  “Because the man who raped her was acting on Xevhan’s orders.”

  “And this, I suppose, is another lesson about the danger of being powerless.” At last, Kheridh turned. Moonlight made his face look as ghastly as a corpse’s. “What do you want?”

  “I want to teach you. And learn from you.”

  “To what end?” His voice cracked.

  “Your gift is a wonder to me. Among our people, only the king, the queen, and the chief priests can access that power at will and only through the use of a drug called qiij. It frees the spirit while enslaving the body. I would free our people from this hunger.”

  “You don’t seem . . . hungry.”

  “I use it rarely.”

  “Did you use it to invade my dreams?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe I’m the Son of Zhe?”

  He should have suspected the girl would tell him of the prophecy. Hoping the darkness hid his surprise, he said, “I don’t know.”

  “That’s why I’m still alive?”

  “It doesn’t matter to me what you are.”

  “But it matters to Xevhan. I didn’t think he was that devout.”

  “Xevhan is devoutly ambitious.”

  “And what does he gain by proving I’m not the Son of Zhe?”

  “The queen’s approval.”

  His eyes widened. “She’s behind this?”

  “If you mean did she suggest that Hircha seduce you, no. But she wants to know the truth about you.”

  “So do you. Isn’t that why you sent the slaves to me after I spoke with the adders?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you and Xevhan aren’t so different.”

  “Believe that if you like. However, I’ve suggested to the queen that you are of value to us, regardless of your . . . paternity.”

  “So if she thinks what I know outweighs who I am, she’ll keep me alive.”

  “That is my hope.”

  Kheridh sank down on the bench. For a long while, he simply stared at the stone flags. When he raised his head, he looked utterly drained. “There’s no way I can win, is there? Some people want me dead. Others want me alive. I’m like . . . what’s that game? With the ball?”

  “Pelinq?”

  “Aye. You’re on one team. Xevhan’s on the other. The queen watches from the seats. And I’m the ball kicked back and forth between the players.” His smile was bleak. “The ball never wins.”

  “Then be a player.”

  “On your team.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if the queen favors Xevhan’s?”

  “You could never join Xevhan.”

  “Because of what he did to Hircha?”

  “Because your spirit is clean and uncorrupted. Because you can fly with a bird for the sheer love of it, not for the power you gain over it. Because you are good.”

  Kheridh took a long, shaking breath and buried his face in his hands. Malaq remained where he was, watching him fight for control. When he lifted his head again, his eyes were dry. “Everything that happened . . .” His voice was a reedy whisper, as if all the life had been sucked out of him. “I thought it was because I was bad.”

  “No.”

  His hands clenched and relaxed, then clenched again. “I’ll never go home again, will I?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think it would be permitted.”

  His throat worked. “May I go to my room, please?”

  Malaq nodded.

  At the threshold, he paused. “I’ll never know if you’re lying to me, will I? I’ll never know who I can trust.”

  Malaq fought the urge to cry, “Trust me!” The boy yearned for a friend, might even turn to him for comfort. But later, alone in his room, he would have time to think, to remember, to sift through the events of the last days and realize that in Pilozhat, trust was a commodity more precious than water.

  “Trust yourself,” he said. “Your instincts. Your observations. Reveal your powers, but not your heart. You are enmeshed in a dangerous game, and your life depends on your ability to play it well.”

  The blue eyes searched his face. Whatever he found there made his shoulders droop. Exhaustion and tension had etched new lines around his mouth and the skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones. Even if he survived, Malaq wondered if the damage could ever be healed, if he would lose the last shreds of innocence and wonder that still filled his dreams.

  Kheridh bowed politely. “Good night, Pajhit,” he said in Zherosi.

  Malaq returned the bow. “Good night, Kheridh.”

  Two days later, Malaq invited Vazh to supper. He wondered at his perversity, but decided that the danger to Kheridh was great enough to warrant his friend’s inevitable recriminations.

  Vazh spent most of the meal complaining about Besul, the wea
ther, the incompetence of the generals conducting the Carilian campaign, and the growing resistance among the Tree People.

  “They turned on the garrison at Two Forks. You heard? Damned fools don’t even know when they’re beaten.”

  “Perhaps they’re not beaten.”

  Vazh eyed him over his goblet of wine. “You don’t approve, of course.”

  “Of subjugating the Tree People? No. That should hardly come as a surprise.”

  “A hundred pelts a year. Plus a levy of barley or oats.”

  “Plus the slaves,” Malaq reminded him in a mild voice.

  “Four a year. Is that so much to ask?”

  “It is if it’s your child.”

  “They breed like rabbits. And don’t give me that slit-eyed look. You know it’s true. Besides, I was willing to waive the requirement in exchange for timber.”

  “Hardly a viable offer for people who worship trees.”

  “Would they rather be overrun? Their villages destroyed? All their children carried off?”

  “I imagine they’d rather be left alone.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen. We need the land and the timber.”

  “There is such a thing as trade.”

  Vazh slammed his goblet down on the table. “Gods, I hate it when you talk all mincing and proper.”

  “Forgive me. I will try not to mince.”

  “Your mouth purses like a virgin’s crack.”

  Malaq gestured to the slave bending down to proffer a platter. “Try the skewered goat. It’s really quite delicious.”

  “Shove the skewer up your arse. It’s really quite invigorating.”

  As the shocked slave hurriedly backed away, Malaq found himself returning Vazh’s grin. After so many years, he was used to the crudeness. Vazh was the one person in Pilozhat he could trust and the only one to whom he could speak his mind.

  Niqia leaped onto the low table and picked her way carefully toward the goat meat. With an oath, Vazh scooped her up and deposited her on the floor again. “Damn cat.” He waved his napkin at Niqia who ignored him. Only when he half-rose did she abandon her grooming. After favoring him with a malevolent stare, she padded away with slow dignity.