“Ennit! Good gods, you gave me a fright.”
“What did he really see?”
“I told you—”
“And I know you. Was it that bad?”
Try as she might, she couldn’t control either her shaking voice or the words that poured out. Ennit’s hand tightened on her arm, but all he said was, “Keirith would never stand by and watch someone hurt Darak.”
“I know.” But she couldn’t help remembering that last evening: Keirith, wild-eyed, by the doorway, Darak slumped by the fire pit.
“Likely it’s just as Gortin said. A warning. Or something.”
“Aye.”
“You know how strong Darak is. How determined. If he could escape from Chaos—”
“I know! Every day someone tells me that.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ennit was only trying to help. Everyone tried to help. But they all seemed to forget that Darak was fifteen years older, a Memory-Keeper instead of a hunter.
Ennit sighed. “Gods, I wish Struath were here. He had a rare gift of vision.”
“Gortin tried.”
“And visions are—”
“Chancy. Aye. So Gortin said.”
“I’m no use to you at all, am I?”
She gave him a quick hug. “Of course you are. If not for you and Lisula . . .” The tears were too close; all she could do was hug him again.
“He’ll come back, Griane.”
“So now you’re having visions?”
“Nay. I know Darak. He’ll come back. Just try and be patient. I know it’s the hardest thing in the world—especially for you.” He flashed her an understanding smile. “Just don’t do anything . . . foolish.”
“Like what? Pack up my things and go after them?” She patted Ennit’s cheek. “I’m not that foolish. Thank you for listening. It does help. Really.”
“You know you can always come to me. If you need to talk. Or shout. Or keep from strangling Faelia.”
“You’re a dear man. Lisula is very lucky.”
Gods help her, her voice broke on that. She hurried toward her hut, then veered away. She couldn’t face Faelia and Callie. Not yet. She needed a few moments to gather herself.
The familiar sounds of families at supper—talking, arguing, laughing—were too painful. She fled the village and headed toward the lake, but there were too many memories there. In the end, she simply stopped where she was and leaned against an alder.
Visions were chancy. Dreams or reality. Predictions or possibilities. Nothing you could base your life on. Nothing you could trust. Not like you’d trust a poultice of elderflowers to take the fire out of a burn or crushed yarrow leaves to stop bleeding. Of course, there were uncertainties in healing, too. A wound could heal clean or fester. When it healed, you thanked the gods. When it didn’t, you knew what steps to take and in what order and if those didn’t work, you did your best to ease the pain of this world and the transition to the next. And prayed to the gods for a miracle.
“Try not to worry.”
“Try to be patient.”
“Don’t lose hope.”
“Trust in the gods.”
Who could determine what was skill or luck or the will of the gods? Had the Forest-Lord led Darak back to the grove of the First Forest all those years ago or had it been the circlets of her hair she’d used to mark the path? Had the Maker saved Darak when his fever raged or had it been her skill? Or Mother Netal’s spirit guiding her? Or the magical healing leaves she had brought back from the Summerlands?
The Summerlands—where the Trickster had taken her after he rescued her from Morgath.
“Don’t do anything foolish.”
Relying on the Trickster was chancier than any vision. It was a measure of her desperation that she would even consider it. Well, she might be desperate, but she wasn’t a fool. Fellgair’s protection always came at a price. If he had demanded that she give up all hope of returning to the world in exchange for opening a portal to Chaos, the gods only knew what he would ask to keep Darak and Keirith safe.
She must be patient and strong and try not to worry. And banish any temptation to call on the Trickster for help.
Chapter 26
KEIRITH TRIED TELLING himself that he’d simply imagined his father lying on the altar, that it had not been a vision at all. But still he saw those blood-spattered lips and heard that familiar voice saying, “You have murdered me.”
Almost as disturbing as the vision of his father was how little thought he had given to the man who had been sacrificed. A true child of the Oak and Holly would be haunted by his death, would protest the injustice of it, or attempt to help the remaining captives. Yet he could barely recall the man’s features, and when he heard the horn at dawn, he covered his ears and tried to forget what it heralded.
Perhaps that was the meaning of his father’s words: that by abandoning one of his people, he had abandoned them all. Watching a stranger die upon the altar was as damning as if the stranger had been his father.
He had gone to the sacrifice to remind himself of who he was. Instead, he was more adrift than ever. He could see the concern on Malaq’s face, but he couldn’t confide in him; that would only deepen their friendship. And he couldn’t continue with the lessons in shielding for fear Malaq would learn what he had seen. When he’d asked for a scrying stone, Malaq gave him the speckled bloodstone and asked no questions. But even with it, he could not find the stillness and emptiness he needed to reach Natha. Qiij might open his power of vision, but only one person would dare violate the prohibition and give it to him.
So this morning, he rose with the kankh horn and went to the little courtyard. He pretended to admire the rock garden, but all the while he watched the corridor for Xevhan’s return from the dawn sacrifice. When Keirith heard his voice, he raced out of the courtyard, accompanied by startled oaths from his guards. Xevhan’s steps slowed as he approached, surprise turning to wariness. They had not spoken since the day on the beach.
Keirith bowed. “I am glad to see you, Zheron.”
“And I to see you. Are you well?”
“I am, thank you. And you?”
“Very well, I thank you.”
“May I speak with you?”
Xevhan hesitated, eyeing the two guards. “I was just going to take a little caja and bread in my chamber. Would you join me?”
“That would pleasure me much.”
Xevhan’s chamber was far more opulent than Malaq’s. Black serpents crawled up red-painted pillars. Multicolored birds circled the gold sun on the ceiling. Thick rugs of red and gold lay strewn on the floor.
One place had been laid at the low table. At Xevhan’s command, a slave quickly set another. A man leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. When Xevhan addressed him as Miko, Keirith realized he was the man who had raped Hircha. He was surprised at how ordinary he looked. He’d imagined a burly man with muscular arms and a thick chest.
Like the Big One.
It sickened him to sit at the table where Hircha had been raped, but he forced himself to make polite conversation and sip the bitter caja. Xevhan must have noted his reaction to the drink because he smiled. “Caja is an acquired taste.”
“Yes.”
His shudder drew an appreciative chuckle from Xevhan. It seemed impossible that he could have beaten Hircha so brutally and then ordered his slave to rape her, but Keirith was convinced she was telling the truth.
When he’d told her he understood what she had gone through, she’d shaken her head impatiently. When he repeated the words, he saw understanding dawn. They’d exchanged no hugs, no reassurances of sympathy, but the shared knowledge of their ordeals dispelled some of the taint of that day on the beach.
Resolutely, he put thoughts of Hircha aside and smiled at Xevhan. “It is many days since we speak. Since we spoke.”
“The Pajhit was angry about our outing.”
“Old people do not understand fun.”
“He’s not
so old,” Xevhan reproved.
“He is not so young either,” Keirith said.
That provoked another chuckle. “Your studies have been fruitful. You speak very well.” Xevhan eyed him over the rim of his cup. “But I can summon Hircha if you’d be more comfortable.”
Keirith hoped his shrug conveyed disinterest. “It is better if Hircha is not here. There are things I want to say to you. Alone.”
Xevhan slowly set his cup on the table, then turned to Miko. “Wait outside.”
Without changing expression, Miko left. Keirith knew he’d still have to speak cautiously; neither the guards nor Miko would enter without Xevhan’s invitation, but they could listen. He’d seen few doors in the palace; eavesdropping must be a popular—and informative—pastime.
“The Pajhit makes me teach him the trick of vision. He says if I do this, he sends me home.”
“I see.”
“I think he lies. I think he wants the trick for nothing. He does not teach me to shield my spirit from another.”
Xevhan dipped a fragment of bread in his cup of caja and remained silent.
“You say you can teach me this.”
“I said I could try. But I doubt the Pajhit would approve.”
“He is not your master, is he?” Keirith tried to look innocent, as if the hierarchy of the Zherosi priesthood remained a mystery.
“Of course not.” Xevhan’s voice was calm, but Keirith detected a slight flush on the sallow cheeks.
“Always, he is planning The Shedding. He does not teach. Or let me try qiij.”
Keirith had to ask Xevhan to repeat his response. Finally, he grasped that Xevhan was telling him qiij was forbidden to the uninitiated. “You, I think, are a man who makes rules.”
Xevhan’s gaze went to the doorway. “Your guards will tell the Pajhit,” he said softly.
“They do not have to know.”
“The effects of taking qiij can last all day. And if you should become ill . . .” Xevhan shrugged. “The Pajhit will find out. And your defiance will displease him.”
“I am an ignorant tree lover.” He’d heard that phrase often enough to know it by heart. “What do I know of such dangers?”
“But I know. Why should I take such a risk for . . . an ignorant tree lover?”
Keirith took a deep breath. “Four days ago, I see—saw—a sacrifice. At the temple of Heart of Sky.”
“Malaq permitted you to observe a sacrifice?”
“He wanted me to go to your temple. But I said no. His.”
Xevhan patted his lips with a napkin. Keirith wondered if he did it to hide a smile.
“I saw something at the sacrifice. A vision. The man on the altar becomes a Zherosi priest.”
“Who?”
“I could not see his face. But the head is shaved.” That was vague enough. All the priests shaved their heads. “Since I come here, I see much. Greater visions than ever. This place . . . the mountain . . .” He allowed what he hoped was a dreamy look to fill his face. “It is beautiful, the mountain. Like . . . like home. After the sacrifice, I try to see clearer. But the way is blocked. Qiij, I think, opens the way.”
Even if Xevhan didn’t believe him to be the god made flesh, he might hope he would reveal something damning under the influence of the drug. Still, it was a dangerous gamble.
“Have you told the Pajhit about this vision?”
“No.” Keirith pouted. “He takes knowledge and gives nothing in return.”
Xevhan considered and finally shook his head. “I cannot give you qiij.” His fingers rose to stroke the tiny vial. “Of course, if you should overpower me . . .”
For a slave to attack the Zheron must be a crime. Even Malaq might not be able to save him.
“I would, of course, swear you meant no harm. And would see to it that you were not punished for your foolishness.”
Or condemn him to the altar stone.
Keirith rose and bowed. “As you say, great Zheron, it is foolishness. I thank you for speaking to me. And for your friendship.”
He was at the threshold when Xevhan called his name. “Among our people, the host and guest drain their cups as a sign of friendship.”
Reluctantly, he took his place opposite Xevhan again and raised his cup.
“To new beginnings,” Xevhan said.
“New beginnings.”
Xevhan drained his cup and Keirith did the same. The caja settled into his belly with a comforting warmth that almost made up for its bitterness.
“Perhaps I could confer with the Pajhit and the Motixa. Determine if they would permit an exception to the law.”
“Thank you, yes.”
“And in return, you might teach me the trick of vision.”
“Yes. There is much we can learn together. But how can we meet? Without the Pajhit knowing?”
“We can find a way.”
Keirith’s confidence soared. Of course, they could find a way. The Pajhit was busy. Guards could be bought. It all seemed so easy now. He wondered why he had never realized it before. He laughed, enjoying the unexpected euphoria of feeling in control again. How could he have ever doubted his gift of vision? He would seek Natha. He would find his father—perhaps see his entire family.
He jumped to his feet, eager to return to his room and try. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him; he must have gotten up too quickly. Or perhaps he was simply light-headed with relief. He found himself clinging to Xevhan, laughing at his giddiness.
Xevhan smiled, too, but his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you should lie down.”
“Nay, I’m fine.” He realized he’d spoken the tribal tongue and giggled. “I am sorry. I mean to say that I am well. Wonderful, really. I’m liking caja better and better all the time.” He’d slipped into the tribal tongue again. Babbling like an idiot. What was wrong with him?
Nothing. For the first time since arriving in Pilozhat he felt strong and whole. He could fight ten men and emerge unscathed. He could scale Kelazhat without pausing for breath. He could raise his arms and fly like an eagle. He was just having a little trouble staying on his feet.
He reeled and clung to Xevhan. Good old Xevhan. Always there when you needed him. A girl for your pleasure? A friendly cup of caja? Xevhan could provide both.
So helpful, too. Steadying him when he tripped on the rug that rose up like a red and gold wave. Walking him down a hallway that seemed a mile long. Sitting him down on the sleeping shelf. The blankets were soft against his cheek. Lamb’s wool. Had to be. Nothing rough that might scratch the Zheron’s smooth skin. Only the softest wool from the softest little lambs.
Keirith baaed.
“Be still,” someone hissed.
But Natha wasn’t there. Perhaps Xevhan was his spirit guide now. But why did he need him? Oh, aye. The vision. He wanted to seek a vision. But he was suddenly tired. The giddy rush of euphoria was fading, leaving a comfortable glow that warmed him like a fire on a winter night.
He reached for his bag of charms. The scrying stone would help him concentrate. If only he could loosen the drawstrings.
“What? What do you want?”
“The bloodstone,” he mumbled. “To help me See.”
Xevhan slapped his hands aside and fumbled inside the bag.
His body felt as if it had turned to water, his flesh liquid, his bones limp as lakeweed. Yet his senses felt more alive than ever. How else could he hear the slow and steady drumming of his heart? Or feel every thread in the weave of the blanket? Or see every red speckle on the face of the dark disk that suddenly loomed before him.
“Look at the stone,” someone whispered.
It seemed as large as the sun. It filled his vision, wobbling a little as it hung there. The wobbling made him dizzy and he closed his eyes.
“Look at the stone, Kheridh.”
Obediently, he opened his eyes. Surely the pale things around the edge of the sun were fingernails. Or were they moons? Four little waxing moons and one waning moon circling the dark sun.
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“Look into its heart.”
He couldn’t see the sun’s heart, but its face was covered with freckles. Great swatches of them. Faelia’s were nothing compared to the sun’s. Perhaps that’s where freckles came from. Perhaps the sun sweated freckles. Or shed them. That must be what The Shedding was all about. The sun shedding freckles like an adder shed its skin. Or weeping them.
Bloodred tears spattered the face of the sun. Droplets of blood spattered his father’s lips.
“Father!”
“Speak Zherosi,” the voice demanded. “Tell me what you see.”
Bloody tears oozed down the dark face and were caught in a swirling spiral.
“Come back! Please, Fa, come back.”
The sun retreated from him. Or perhaps the spiral was growing. He was falling into it, but floating up at the same time. Rising to the ceiling. Scattering the flocks of painted birds. Bursting through stone and into sunlight. Flying like the eagle.
“Like Zhe.”
“What about Zhe? Do you see him? Is he speaking to you now?”
“Father? Where are you?”
“Are you the Son of Zhe? Are you? Answer me!”
The sun was blood, dripping gore onto the slopes of Kelazhat. The sun was fire, shimmering on the altar, gleaming on Malaq’s bald head, shining on the bronze dagger that appeared over his shoulder. The sun was death, colder than the ring on the priest’s forefinger, swifter than the dagger that plunged downward, stooping like a hawk on a pigeon.
“Behind you!”
The sun smiled in benediction and promise. Or was that Malaq?
“What do you see? Tell me!”
The sun shattered and screamed. The blood gushed down the steps of the altar, flowing like a river, flowing like the adders that surged across the sacrificial ground, flowing like earth, a cataract of earth that groaned like a dying man and swept everything away in its path until only Malaq’s eyes remained, twin pools of agony.
“You have murdered me.”
He lay in the shadowland between dreaming and wakefulness. Once, he heard the sound of voices raised in argument. Later, he felt something cool and damp on his forehead. Still later, a gentle hand raised his head and a cup swam toward him.
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