“Haughty as that bitch I named her after.” Vazh smiled fondly. “Still living in Oexiak with that rich merchant she left me for. She’s a grandmother now. Can you believe it?”
“Of course. None of us are young anymore.”
“Speak for yourself. I keep my voracious widow satisfied—she’s buried two husbands, drained the life out of ’em, sure as I sit here—and my sword’s still lively enough to tickle that pretty slave I acquired last winter.”
“May its blade never tarnish.”
Malaq sketched a pious sign of blessing and Vazh laughed. He took a deep swig of wine and slapped his belly. “So. Do I get to meet the amazing adder boy, or have you tucked him in for the night?”
If Vazh hoped to discomfit him with the sudden change of subject, he was disappointed. “I’ll summon him if you wish,” Malaq replied, as if the idea had just occurred to him. He nodded to a slave who hurried out of the chamber.
“You’re as transparent as water,” Vazh commented.
“You must not have seen the river lately.”
“Now you’re trying to muddy things.” Vazh laughed at his awful joke and took another gulp of wine. “Has he had any more conversations with the adders?”
“No.” Malaq leaned forward and lowered his voice. “But he has had one with Xevhan.”
Forearms splayed across the table, Vazh listened without interruption to the tale of the girl’s attempted seduction and Xevhan’s subsequent visit. “Could be he just wants to get to the bottom of things.”
“Yes.”
“As the queen commanded.”
“Yes.”
“Still . . .”
“Yes.”
Vazh swore, then abruptly sat back. Without glancing over his shoulder, Malaq knew Kheridh had arrived. He waved him forward, all the while watching Vazh. At first, his gaze held only reluctant curiosity, but as Kheridh came closer, Vazh stiffened. The narrowed gaze flicked toward him, assessing, challenging. Malaq met it, careful to keep his face expressionless.
Kheridh bowed deeply, first to him and then to Vazh.
“Kheridh, this is Khonsel Vazh do Havi, a member of the royal council. Khonsel, this is Kheridh.”
“I am honored to meet you, Khonsel,” he said in perfect Zherosi.
Vazh studied him, his gaze raking Kheridh from the top of his head to his sandaled feet. Brave men had trembled under that silent scrutiny; he’d squirmed under it himself more than once. But that was long ago.
Kheridh’s uncertain smile faded. Straightening his shoulders, he gave Vazh stare for stare. Malaq hid his approval behind his wine goblet.
Vazh scowled and rapped out a series of questions: Where is your village? How long have you lived there? Can you use a bow? A spear? A dagger? How old were you when you made your first kill? Under what moon were you born? How do the adders speak to you? Who is your father?
For the first time, Kheridh hesitated. White-faced but calm, he answered in the northern tongue. Vazh’s imperious gaze swung toward him. “Well?”
Malaq delicately applied a napkin to his lips. “He paraphrased one of our sayings: a man may know the womb from which he emerged, but even the great Khonsel cannot say for sure who planted the seed.”
Vazh’s broad face flushed. Kheridh tensed. Malaq found himself measuring the distance between them. Then Vazh snorted and the tension eased. “Well, he’s arrogant enough to be the son of a god. And clever enough to evade a straight answer. Don’t translate that.”
He didn’t need to. Kheridh could understand the tone if not the words. After his perfect greeting, his Zherosi had slipped, conveying an air of bewildered innocence. Malaq wondered how much of it was deliberate. Despite Kheridh’s apparent calm, the knuckles of his clasped hands were white. Vazh’s gaze lingered on them a moment before he said, “Come here, boy.”
Kheridh took one step forward, careful to remain out of reach.
“I said, come here.”
Vazh’s derisory tone brought a flush to Kheridh’s cheeks, but he came closer.
“Give me your hand.”
After the briefest hesitation, Kheridh thrust out his right hand. Vazh seized it. So intent was he on Vazh’s face, Malaq didn’t see the knife until it was too late. Kheridh’s breath hissed in, but even when the blood beaded his wrist, his gaze never wavered.
Vazh flung his hand aside. “It seems the Son of Zhe bleeds like an ordinary man.”
“The Son of Zhe is not immortal. Or impervious to injury.”
“Obviously. His blood is dripping on your rug.”
Malaq tossed his napkin to Kheridh who caught it one-handed and pressed it to his wrist. “Thank you, Kheridh. You may go now.” Kheridh hesitated, as if he meant to speak, then bowed and turned on his heel.
Vazh picked up his wine goblet with studied casualness. He smacked his lips appreciatively. “I wouldn’t trust a Carilian with my dog, but they do know how to make wine.”
“I shall have a crate delivered to your quarters tomorrow.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Yes, I am.”
Vazh reached for the pitcher and refilled both their goblets. Then he leaned forward, thick fingers engulfing the delicate stem of the goblet as he observed him.
Malaq sighed. “Are we to engage in a staring contest as well? I’m happy to oblige you, old friend, but I’d prefer you to speak your mind.” He smiled, conscious of his weariness. “Your bluntness has always been one of the qualities I treasure most.”
“We’ve known each other—what? Twenty-five years now? You were my best commander. Zhe’s coils, that day at Berov . . .” Impatiently, Vazh waved away the memory of the battle. “But you always possessed a . . . I don’t know . . . call it a romantic streak. And it nearly destroyed your career. Would have if I hadn’t stepped in.”
“These are old battles.”
“It’s the same battle!” Vazh’s fist came down on the table and the dishes rattled. “First, it was the woman.”
“My wife,” said Malaq very quietly. “She was my wife.”
“Then, after I crack my stones to keep you in my command, you throw it all up to become a priest.”
“I discovered my true vocation later than most men.”
“And now, this boy.”
“Yes. This boy.”
Their eyes met. Malaq was the first to look away.
“You don’t truly believe he’s the Son of Zhe.”
Malaq hesitated.
“You won’t find the answer in your wine goblet.”
“Who can say? Visions manifest in the unlikeliest places.” His smile faded. “No. I don’t believe he’s the Son of Zhe.”
“Thank the gods. If you started babbling prophecy at me, I’d have to strangle you. And it’s too hot to do murder. Why let the rumors go unchecked?”
“Times are hard. A failed harvest last year. The floods this winter and the drought that followed. Womb of Earth trembles and the people are afraid.”
“Harvests fail. Rains cease. Womb of Earth trembles like a palsied grandmother . . .” Vazh made a hasty sign of propitiation. “. . . but life goes on.”
“He is . . . special.”
“That business with the adders?” Vazh snorted. “Every priest has the power to touch the spirits of others. Or so you’re always reminding less exalted folk like me.”
“We rely on qiij to . . . never mind.” Vazh had little interest and less patience when it came to spiritual matters. “The point is he can touch spirits without qiij. And he’s only at the cusp of his power.”
“Then he’s dangerous.”
“He can be taught.”
“To use this power better? Are you mad? How long before he turns it against us?”
“I can control him.”
“For now, maybe. Not forever. Meanwhile, he sows dissension. Those who think he’s the Son of Zhe want to worship him. Those who think he’s not want him dead.”
“I can protect him.”
Vazh opened hi
s mouth and closed it again. He cracked his knuckles with methodical violence and then looked up. “He is not Davell.”
Although he had been waiting for it since the moment Vazh first looked upon Kheridh, Malaq’s breath still caught. It had been many years since anyone had spoken the name.
“I realize that.” He was pleased that his voice sounded so calm.
Vazh toyed with a piece of flatbread. “There is . . . a resemblance. I’ll grant you that.” There was only the sound of the flatbread, cracking into smaller and smaller pieces. “The hair, of course.”
Brown as mud when wet, but streaked bronze and russet in the sun. Like the leaves in the northern forests when the first chill of autumn is upon them.
“And the eyes.”
So dark a blue you might think them black. Too big for his face, really. Or his face too thin for those eyes. They always seemed so wide, as if dazzled by the world they beheld. Until the last, of course, when they just stared up at the clouds shadowing his face, all the wonder drained out of them.
“And the stubborn streak.”
Which he got from me. Which killed him. Because I loved him too much to shame him and send him home.
“He fought well that day.”
Keep talking, old friend. Paint him for me with words. The tilt of his head as he squinted at the battlefield. The eager smile when our eyes met and the quick duck of his head when he realized he was smiling. So proud in his uniform. So much taller than the others. Such an easy target.
“Malaq . . .”
“As you say, there is a resemblance. On longer acquaintance, the differences become apparent.”
“Then why not let him go?”
“That would be the stubborn streak, I suppose.”
Vazh refused to return his smile. “The queen won’t let him live.”
“She will if I can prove his value.”
“What value? Other Tree People have this power. I wonder we didn’t net any in the recent raids.”
“We did.”
It took Vazh a moment to grasp the implications. “Burn me! You had them sacrificed.”
“I took the precaution of making my own investigation before the council meeting.”
“Did you even bother to test their power?” When he remained silent, Vazh leaned forward. “Don’t do this,” he said softly. “Don’t risk everything for this boy. When he falls, he’ll take you with him. And he will fall, Malaq.”
“While I am able, I will protect him.”
He looked into the eyes of his oldest friend and waited.
Vazh cursed eloquently; the sheer number and inventiveness of his curses had always impressed Malaq. Still cursing, Vazh shoved himself up from the table. “I’m not promising anything.” He stalked away, then turned back. “The boy was right about one thing. Meaning no disrespect to the memory of your blessed mother, she surely copulated with a mule to produce you.”
“I think it unlikely,” Malaq replied. “Mules are sterile.”
“Would that your father had been!”
Malaq remained at the table, watching the light in the garden fade from orange to rose. For all Vazh’s curses, Kheridh now had one more person watching over him.
When twilight finally yielded to darkness, he pushed himself up, conscious of the stiffness in his knees. He walked down the narrow hallway to his bedchamber. Niqia’s head came up as he sat on the sleeping shelf beside her to unlace his sandals. He removed a pillow from his bed and placed it on the floor before the little alcove.
He knelt before the altar and performed the rites: crumbling fragments of flatbread into the polished black bowl, pouring an offering of wine into the tiny bronze acorn, lighting the cone of incense. He whispered his wife’s name and prayed she had found her way to her people’s paradise. He lit the fourteen beeswax candles, one for each year of Davell’s life. Then, as he did every night before he slept, Malaq closed his eyes and prayed for the spirit of his son.
Chapter 22
SMOKE FROM THE BURNING herbs filled the hut of the three priestesses. Griane sat cross-legged beside Faelia, trying very hard to keep from coughing. She would have preferred that her daughter remain at home, but Muina insisted she come tonight; a girl’s first moon blood was especially powerful.
Powerful or not, Faelia had been less than pleased by her rite of passage, complaining that it would be far more exciting to spend a night in the forest searching for her vision mate than to sit in the moon hut for five days. Griane let her grumble, knowing that her lack of enthusiasm stemmed, in part, from the absence of her father and brother who should have shared the celebration with the rest of the family.
At least they were both alive; Gortin had assured her they were not in the Forever Isles. She still had hope to cling to, unlike poor Duba who had sunk deeper into despair when Gortin told her that Owan’s spirit had flown there. Although Griane tried not to blame Gortin for his inability to find Keirith or Darak, she couldn’t understand why a shaman who could fly to the Forever Isles with his spirit guide could not fly to the land of the raiders. But then, she’d never understood the workings of magic.
Which made it all the more unnerving to sit here tonight. Lisula had suggested a Summoning after Faelia went to the moon hut. Griane had never heard of the rite, but she was so desperate to find out about the welfare of her husband and son that she’d immediately agreed to join the priestesses at the full moon.
As instructed, Griane and Faelia saved the moss they had used to absorb their moon blood. The two clumps lay in separate bowls in the center of their little circle. Two other bowls held water from the lake. Collected at dawn the last three mornings, they had carried it, cupped in their hands, to the priestesses. “It must touch nothing other than your flesh before it is poured into the sacred bowls,” Lisula had warned.
Griane clutched the tuft of Keirith’s baby hair between her thumb and forefinger. She had turned the hut upside down searching for a strand of Darak’s hair before Faelia suggested the wolfskins. Cursing her stupidity, she’d combed through the coarse fur and found a long, dark hair.
All the materials were gathered, all the preparations made. It remained to be seen whether the Summoning would work.
Muina leaned back toward the fire pit, using an oak leaf to waft more smoke around the circle. “Oak-Lord, let your branches spread wide above the forest. Oak-Lord, let your roots burrow deep beneath the earth. Oak-Lord, help us find the lost ones.”
All the priestesses looked about as likely to fall into a trance as Faelia. But Lisula had told her, “We leave flying to the priests. Women’s magic is a thing of earth and water.”
Like a woman’s body, Griane thought. Solid as earth, yet shedding blood every moon.
Lisula handed a holly leaf to Muina who addressed the same chant to the Holly-Lord. Silently, Griane added her own prayer.
Please, Cuillon. Help me find them.
Muina raised the heart-shaped leaf of speedwell and Griane swallowed hard. When Darak bid Tinnean farewell, hundreds of the flowers had sprung up at the base of the One Tree, creating a living blue pathway that led from brother to brother.
Tinnean. Are you here? Can you see us? Can you see them?
Muina finished the chant to Tinnean Tree-Friend and cleared her throat. “A priestess must relinquish the title and responsibilities of Grain-Mother when her moon flow ceases. But if she can no longer call the earth to fertility, she can awaken its hidden powers. If she cannot bless the first sea trout of the year, she can uncover the mysteries that lie beneath the surface of the waters. That is what we will attempt tonight.”
Faelia caught her breath and Muina gave her a reassuring smile. “There’s no danger to you or your mother. And although I’m not as strong as I could wish, the magic will be easier because the three of us share a bond of blood. My mother’s sister was your grandmother, Faelia. My link to your father’s family is more distant, but it’s through the female line as well. That lends power to our Summoning. That and the moon blo
od.”
“Why moon blood?” Faelia asked.
“It’s more powerful than ordinary blood. That’s why women are segregated from the tribe during their moon flow.” Muina’s expression darkened. “Some men call a woman unclean, but that just shows their fear and ignorance of the mystery. How can a woman bleed with no wound? Why does her body weep blood in harmony to Gheala’s ebb and flow?”
Darak had merely seemed resentful that Griane’s moon flow took her away from him. The first time she went to the moon hut after their marriage, he had waited outside the last night so he could see her the moment she emerged at dawn. Years later, Ennit revealed it to Lisula who promptly told her. When Griane asked Darak about it, he’d blushed and mumbled something about killing Ennit. When she told him it was sweet, he’d turned even redder and promised to kill her if she ever told anyone.
Although it might only be a woman’s fancy, she’d always been convinced that Callie had been conceived the day of that conversation with Darak. Just as she firmly believed that Faelia had been conceived after they had quarreled and made up.
A sharp pinch on her knee made her squeak in surprise. As she turned to glare at Faelia, Muina said, “We’ll search for Keirith first. Griane, you will summon him as you share the closest blood tie.”
Lisula placed one of the bowls of water before Muina who passed her hands over it three times. “Lacha, goddess of lakes and rivers. Halam, earth goddess, bone mother. Gheala, moon sister. Lend us your power. Lend us your strength. Lend us your light. Help us find Keirith, child of our tribe, child of Griane’s womb.”
Lisula lifted Griane’s clump of moss with two rowan twigs and dropped it into the water. Then she passed one twig to Muina who chanted, “From one womb, blood and babe. From one flesh, mother and child.” Muina swirled the clump in a slow circle. Then Lisula retrieved the dripping moss and laid it atop the oak leaves Bethia held.
“Stir the water fourteen times with Keirith’s hair,” Muina said. “Don’t let your fingers touch the surface of the water.”
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