Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  Numb with horror, Keirith could only stare at them. The beautiful queen who had spoken so kindly to him cast out the spirit of another and took the body for herself. Just as Morgath had done with Grain-Mother Yeorna.

  “And afterward?” he managed. “What happens to . . . to the Hosts?”

  Both guards made the sign of the spiral. “Their spirits fly to Paradise,” Ysal said, “where they live among the green hills and the flowing rivers. They’re honored above all mortal men and women. It’s your turn, Kheridh.”

  Yeorna’s spirit didn’t fly to the Forever Isles; it was cast into Chaos. He remembered the sickly king, lolling on his throne. Now he possessed the body of a beautiful young man. He was strong again and revitalized. Until next year when it happened all over again. No wonder Malaq had brushed aside his questions about The Shedding.

  “Roll the dice,” Ysal urged. “You need two serpents to beat Luzik.”

  Keirith strode to the doorway.

  “Where are you going?” Luzik demanded.

  “The kitchen.”

  “But what about the game?” Ysal called plaintively.

  The Master was screaming at the First Cook who had dared change the special herbs he used to season his seaweed pottage. The Fish Cook was screaming at an undercook for overcooking the eels. The Meat Cook was beating the spit boys for falling asleep and allowing the mutton to char on one side, and the Sauce Cook was clouting the sauce boy with a ladle for allowing the cream for the rabbit stew to curdle.

  Hircha kept a wary eye on the senior cooks as she chopped leeks and onions. The heat from the open fires was so intense that sweat dripped off her forehead onto the table. Between the screaming cooks and the crying boys and the clatter of pots and pans and utensils, she couldn’t even hear what the Wine Keeper was shouting. His assistant rushed forward to placate him and skidded on the spot where a flask of olive oil had shattered earlier. He flailed, knocking the Wine Keeper into a pot girl, and all three went down amid a shower of cutlery.

  It was always chaotic here. During the seven-day festival that began with The Shedding and climaxed with the Midsummer rite, there were simply more tantrums, more screaming, and more beatings. Last year, one of the undercooks stabbed his senior with a carving knife. After a brief struggle, a pot boy seized a frying pan and bashed the undercook over the head. Until the guards appeared, everyone simply stepped over the unconscious bodies and took extra care not to slip in the blood.

  When she’d first arrived in the kitchen, she’d been given the most unpleasant and backbreaking tasks. They all knew she’d been the Zheron’s favorite and delighted in making her life miserable. Now, they mostly ignored her.

  Hircha swiped her wrist across her forehead, flinging droplets of sweat into a tureen of mussels. If it were only the feasts, it might not be so bad, but of course, the kitchen had to continue to supply food for the ordinary folk as well. Feeding two hundred people was a chore at any time, but during the festival, the population of the palace swelled as noble families and rich merchants traveled from as far away as Oexiak.

  And it wasn’t only the great feasts in the royal hall that required special attention, but the smaller, private gatherings. They shouldn’t have to prepare lavish dishes for those, but who would dare refuse the Zheron?

  Once, she had attended those little gatherings, sitting on his lap, laughing at the performers he had paid to entertain his guests. One year, there had been a troupe with animals: a bear that danced on its hind legs, a goat that could beat a drum with its hoof, little dogs that jumped over clay pots and skittered through barrels. She liked the dogs best. When the performance was over, the Zheron summoned the trainer so she could hold one in her lap and pet it.

  Hircha swept the leeks and onions into one bowl as an undercook slammed another down in front of her. Wiping her hands on her gown, she picked up her knife to slice the kugi.

  “Not too thick,” the undercook snarled.

  “Yes, Master.” He didn’t deserve the title, but she’d learned to be lavish with compliments—as long as the Master himself was out of earshot.

  She’d been nervous when she received Xevhan’s summons yesterday, but when he smiled and spoke to her as if nothing had happened, fury welled up inside of her. Miko handed her the clothes she was to wear while serving at the entertainment. His fingers lingered on her wrist and it took all her strength not to snatch her hand away. After she was dismissed, she went back to the kitchen and was quietly sick. She cleaned the bowl before anyone could shout at her and returned to her work.

  Her determined slicing slowed. She found herself staring at the knife. It was too large to steal. But one of the smaller ones used for paring fruit . . . that she could slip unnoticed into her gown. She’d be killed, of course. But as long as she had the satisfaction of seeing the blood gushing out of his throat, it would be worth it.

  She heard a fresh commotion and glanced up. Keirith was standing in the doorway, arguing with one of the undercooks. The Master strode forward, scowling, but his expression changed to one of obsequious politeness when he saw Keirith. Clearly, he’d heard the rumors about the captive from the northern tribes and was taking no chance of offending the boy who might be the Son of Zhe.

  When Keirith spied her, he stalked past the Master, seized her arm, and led her out of the kitchen. Hircha shot a pleading look at the Master and resisted the urge to shake Keirith off. Didn’t he realize she could get a beating for this? Or didn’t he care?

  Once they were safely in the corridor, she waited for a young soldier with an eye patch to pass before twisting free. “What are you doing here?” She kept her voice low, eyeing Keirith’s guards who hovered nearby.

  “Is it true? About The Shedding?”

  “What about The Shedding?”

  “That the king and queen cast out the spirits of the Hosts and steal their bodies.”

  He was very pale. And although his voice was low, it was shaking. His whole body was shaking. She stopped herself from snapping out the obvious answer. This was the first time they had spoken since their encounter in the Pajhit’s chamber. He had come to her for the truth, but she doubted he wanted to hear it.

  “The priests help them,” she said. “The Pajhit and the Motixa. But aye. It’s true.”

  He looked so shocked and lost. Like a little boy who had found out his best friend had betrayed him. She felt a flash of sympathy and ruthlessly suppressed it.

  “I should have told you. During our lessons.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Whose, then? The Pajhit’s? He had taken over the lessons after her dismissal. Would it help her plans to try and turn Keirith against him?

  “It is . . . shocking. The first time you realize. And understand what these people are capable of.”

  “They say the spirits of the Hosts go to Paradise.”

  “If they said they were cast into the Abyss, do you think anyone would volunteer?”

  “But still, it’s a . . . a willing sacrifice.”

  “What does that matter?”

  “Tree-Father Struath told my . . . he said the greatest sacrifices are made willingly. That those find the most favor with the gods. So perhaps their spirits do go to Paradise.”

  “Perhaps.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “I must get back or I’ll get a . . . I’ll be punished,” she finished. For good measure, she bit her lip.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

  “It’s all right. It’s not every day a kitchen slave gets a visit from the Son of Zhe.” When she received no answering smile, she said, “Why don’t you ask the Pajhit? He’ll be able to tell you more.”

  Keirith’s eyes flashed. The bewildered expression vanished. “If he tells me the truth.”

  So he did believe the Pajhit had betrayed him. They must have grown close during the last half-moon.

  “You can’t believe anything they tell you. I should know.” Her voice trembled with genuine emotion. What an innoc
ent she had been. Even more innocent than poor Keirith.

  “I wanted to see you,” Keirith said. “After we talked. I didn’t mean to . . . to abandon you.”

  “You didn’t.” She touched his arm and felt him tremble. “I never blamed you.” Another quick glance at the kitchen. Another bite of the lip. But this time, she was surprised to feel shame at her blatant manipulation.

  Don’t be a fool.

  “You’ve only to send for me and I’ll come. Even if it does mean a beating.”

  She kissed him lightly on the cheek and hurried back to the kitchen. The stupid pot girls whispered and giggled, but the Master regarded her thoughtfully. She had already returned to slicing up the kugi when she felt him beside her.

  “Things are well in hand here. You may return to your chamber.”

  “Thank you, Master.” Flashing a smile of gratitude, she reached for a discarded cloth. She swept the small paring knife under it and wiped her hands. “You are very kind to this slave.” She dropped the cloth on the table. Her right hand remained hidden in the folds of her gown, the knife a hard, comforting presence against her thigh. As she sidled past the Master, she allowed her arm to brush lightly against his. Like a pig, he grunted with pleasure.

  All men were the same. They wanted a warm body in their beds and a warm sheath for their cocks. Except Keirith.

  She wished now that he’d never revealed what had happened to him on that ship. She didn’t want to be drawn into his pain. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for him. She frowned, recalling his horror at learning the truth about The Shedding and that nonsense about a willing sacrifice. Willing or not, you were still dead. And she doubted Paradise awaited you afterward.

  Despite all the betrayals, he still believed he could understand these people—and worse, trust them. Poor, stupid boy. They’d break his heart if they didn’t kill him first.

  Chapter 32

  PILOZHAT SHIMMERED IN the afternoon sunlight. Darak eyed the palace where they would perform, wondering how he would ever find Keirith in such a huge place. They were camped in the parched fields to the west of the city, along with hundreds of others too poor or too thrifty to pay for lodging during the festival. All morning, people had streamed into Pilozhat, leaving friends behind to guard their possessions.

  “They’ll get their turn,” Urkiat had assured him. “The inns and pleasure houses will be open all night.”

  During the heat of the day, those in the fields sought a patch of shade, some under carts, some in the lee of boulders, others simply shoving two sticks in the ground and draping a cloth over them. Now that the afternoon was waning, they were beginning to stir.

  None of the players had ever witnessed the Midsummer rite. So while Hakkon accompanied Olinio to the palace to make final arrangements for the Zheron’s entertainment, he and Urkiat wandered from camp to camp, hoping to gather information while they advertised the players’ public performances. Darak listened eagerly as Urkiat translated the accounts of those who had seen the rite before.

  “A hundred men,” asserted one man. “I counted.”

  “Did you see the Pajhit cut their hearts out?”

  “Sure as I see you. Got there two days before to stake out my place. And there was already a crowd, let me tell you. I was too far back to have any blood splatter on me, though.”

  Darak’s stomach roiled when Urkiat translated. Judging from the expressions of those listening, they sympathized with the speaker’s misfortune.

  “I’m too old to be sitting in the sun for six days,” he continued. “And if you want to feel the hot blood on your face, that’s what it means. But don’t worry. There’s plenty to be had after.”

  “Be sure and bring your own cloths,” another man interjected. “Or jars if you’re looking to carry home enough to sprinkle on your fields and livestock.”

  “I thought the priests sold those at the temple,” a young man said.

  “And charge a year’s income for them.”

  “But they’re blessed.”

  “So they say.” The first expert shrugged. “It’s the blood that’s sacred, not the jar you put it in.”

  “My wife screeched like a gull when I bought one last year,” another man confirmed with a rueful grin. “So this year, I packed two—and didn’t I leave home with her screeching at me that I should have brought more?”

  Urkiat said something that provoked a lively discussion. Only later, as they were walking away, did he explain. “One man claimed the captives were held in a separate compound. There.”

  “That building nestled in the slope of the hill?”

  “Nay, that’s the temple of the God with Two Faces. See that section of the palace that juts out? That’s it. They march the captives to the temple of Heart of Sky. You can’t see it from here.”

  “Could we free Keirith during the procession?”

  “Too many guards. And the captives are roped together.”

  “How reliable is the information?”

  “Everyone who’d seen the sacrifice agreed about the procession. And the guards.”

  “So we’ll have to get him out of the compound.” When Urkiat remained silent, Darak gave him a sharp look. “What?”

  “Look at those walls. And there are guards inside. You can’t just walk in, snatch Keirith out from under their noses, and walk out again.”

  Darak’s hand went to his bag of charms where the token from the Supplicant lay. “I might.”

  “There’s something else. I asked whether the captives ever tried to escape. And the man laughed. He said they all stood in line, meek as lambs, waiting to climb the steps to the altar. He took it as a sign that they were glad to offer their lives to the sun god.”

  “More likely they’re drugged.”

  “And that will make it even harder to free Keirith. If he doesn’t want to come—”

  “Of course he’ll want to come!”

  “I mean if he doesn’t understand what’s happening.” Urkiat shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. It just seems so impossible.”

  “You expect me to give up now? After coming all this way?”

  “Nay. But—”

  “Good. First thing we need to do is get a look at the place where they’re holding Keirith. If I can get inside—”

  “How?”

  “Let me worry about that. We’ve got the performance tonight. That’ll give us an opportunity to see a bit of the palace. Maybe pick up some more information.”

  The first flaw in his plan was revealed after Olinio and Hakkon returned. “A small change,” Olinio announced. “Nothing important.” And he launched into a long speech.

  “What?” Darak whispered as Urkiat’s face fell.

  “We’re to perform on the beach.”

  As soon as Olinio finished speaking, Darak stalked over to him. “You said we’d be performing in the palace.”

  “The Zheron decided the beach would be more festive. He’s arranged a special pavilion for his guests and a tent—”

  “We won’t be anywhere near the palace.”

  “It’s not the setting that’s important, but the audience. Some of the finest families in the kingdom will be in attendance.”

  “What about the other priests?”

  “I imagine some of them will be invited, too.”

  “You imagine?”

  “Well, I could hardly ask to see the guest list, could I?”

  “You promised we would perform in the palace. Before the priesthood.”

  “Well, the situation has changed!” Olinio snapped. “The money’s the same, no matter where we perform or who attends. Trust me, we are far better off showcasing our talents to the nobility. They, at least, understand that artists do not survive on prayers. We’re certain to garner any number of offers for additional appearances. It’s a coup, I tell you! You should be elated, excited, ecstatic.” He bustled off, shouting instructions.

  Darak found Bep watching him with a sardonic smile. “Maybe it’s a good t
hing there won’t be any priests. Those rich folk probably couldn’t care less about the legend of the Spirit-Hunter.”

  Darak strode over to the cart and worked out his frustration packing up their supplies.

  The site selected for the entertainment was a secluded cove east of the city. Sweating slaves worked through the afternoon, erecting canopied shelters, arranging rugs and cushions beneath them, and setting torches in the sand. Others trudged down from the palace, laden with baskets and platters, crates and jugs. Judging from the sheer number of supplies, they could be entertaining a hundred people, not the forty the Zheron had told Olinio to expect.

  Olinio insisted they practice their mock battle twice. The shifting sand made the footwork tricky and each time one of them slipped, he clutched his head, moaning. Only when Urkiat suggesting using the difficult terrain to create drama did he brighten.

  “Dear Urkiat, you may have a warrior’s face, but you possess the spirit of an artist.”

  Urkiat solemnly agreed. Darak just kicked at the sand, disgusted.

  The sun was touching the horizon when Hakkon spotted the litters coming down the beach. Darak counted ten before Olinio hustled everyone into the tent. He remained outside, offering obsequious bows to each guest. The performers took turns peeping through the tent flap.

  “Is that the Zheron?” Darak asked Thikia, eyeing an older man, littered with bronze jewelry.

  “Nay. That’s him. Over there. Talking to the woman in blue.”

  “He’s so young.”

  “But rich. Which probably accounts for his rise. Doesn’t look very pious, does he?”

  In fact, he looked like most of the men there: smooth-faced, handsome, laden with jewelry, quick to laugh. He broke off a cluster of grapes from a platter held by a slave girl and offered it to the woman in blue, leaning close to whisper something that made her smile.

  The slave girl gave Darak a start. With that long blonde hair—so pale it looked almost white—she could be a child of the Oak and Holly. She looked completely out of place among the Zherosi, but none of the guests spared her a glance.