Something jabbed him in the small of his back.
“My turn,” Bep said.
Darak relinquished his position and ducked out the back of the tent where the air was less stifling. The feast would go on all evening. Olinio had sternly warned them to stay out of sight lest they ruin “the magic.” There was still too much light to allow him to wander, unseen, down to the sea and dare a refreshing plunge in the surf. So he simply sat in the shade of the tent, arms folded atop his knees, and tried to come up with a plan to rescue Keirith.
The Supplicant’s token might get him into the slave compound, but he had no way of guessing whether it would allow him to free his son or simply lead to his own imprisonment. He could seek her out at the temple of the God with Two Faces, but for all he knew, she was still in Oexiak. Even if he did find her, how did he know if she was trustworthy?
Too many questions and far too few answers. But he could not allow himself to believe—to even admit the possibility—that he had come so far, only to stand by helplessly while the Zherosi sacrificed his son.
Keirith clung to the sides of the litter. He was shaken enough from his quarrel with Malaq without this lurching journey to the beach.
He had returned to his room to dress for Xevhan’s entertainment. It gave him the time he needed to calm himself before confronting Malaq. But he must not have been calm enough; as soon as he began questioning him about The Shedding, Malaq turned on him in a fury.
“Yes, I might have told you. But if I had, you wouldn’t have heard one other thing I said. And I have other things to do than constantly reassure you.”
Keirith had been too stunned by his vehemence to respond. Malaq had immediately apologized, pleading the difficulty of the king’s Shedding. Observing his pallor and obvious exhaustion, Keirith hadn’t pressed him. It was Malaq who had promised they would talk again on the morrow.
The litter thumped to the ground and Keirith crawled out. He wished Ysal and Luzik were escorting him instead of the men who guarded him at night. It would have been comforting to have someone he knew—other than Xevhan.
He smoothed his khirta nervously. He’d dressed with care: scrubbing his body with the soap and cloth Malaq provided; perfuming his hair with oil and tying it back with a gold thread; fastening his khirta with a bronze pin instead of simply knotting it. But compared to the other guests, he knew he looked as out of place as he felt.
He was eyeing the crowd with misgiving when he realized what was nagging at him: this was the same cove where Hircha had tried to seduce him. Was that Xevhan’s not-so-subtle way of unsettling him? Perhaps he simply liked this place. It was a perfect setting for the feast. The sky was tinged pink from the setting sun. The waves rolled gently onto the beach. Dozens of multicolored cushions lay scattered beneath the three scarlet canopies. On the third side of the square, a large blue cloth hung between two poles. Crude trees and mountains had been painted on it. It must have something to do with the promised entertainment.
The gold and bronze of the guests’ jewelry flashed in the torchlight, as did the bowls and platters and goblets passed by the slaves. They were all young and beautiful, the boys dressed in skimpy loincloths, the girls wearing skimpier bands of cloth around their breasts and short skirts that revealed their slender legs. He saw one guest fondle a girl’s breast before accepting a goblet of wine, without pausing in his earnest conversation with another man. A woman reclining beneath a canopy boldly reached between a slave boy’s legs. He smiled uncertainly as she giggled with her companion.
But most of the guests ignored the slaves completely. Their animated voices vied with the soft shushing of the waves and the sounds of flute and drum and lyre. It surprised him to see how many of the men wore daggers; perhaps they merely wanted to display the jewels studding the sheaths. As for the women, they fluttered from group to group like brilliantly colored butterflies.
“So you have come at last.”
Heads turned to see whose arrival had prompted Xevhan’s hearty greeting. Conversation ebbed, then rose again in feverish speculation.
Xevhan’s smile dimmed fractionally when he saw the guards. “Help yourself to food and drink,” he told them. “You may sit with the litter bearers. Don’t worry—your charge won’t be going anywhere.” As soon as they were out of earshot, he whispered, “There was no problem with Malaq?”
“At first, he was angered. Then he says, yes, yes—you must go.”
“He wants you to spy on me.”
“I can say enough to make him easy in his mind. And to make him want us to meet again. And then we talk and teach and learn together, yes?”
Instead of replying, Xevhan turned to his guests. “My friends. This is Kheridh, the boy I was telling you about. But I warn you. He’s more accustomed to speaking to our sacred adders than to Zherosi nobility, so keep your words simple or you’ll turn his head.”
Amid the laughter, Keirith did his best to look awestruck and nervous. In such glittering company, it wasn’t difficult.
As Xevhan led the way toward one of the shelters, a woman pushed forward and said, “You must tell us all about the adders. We keep two in our household, of course, but they’ve never said a word to me.”
“No wonder,” the man at her side replied. “They can’t get a word in edgewise.”
The woman slapped his arm. “Don’t pay any attention to my husband.”
This provoked more laughter. Keirith smiled politely, wishing she would not walk quite so close. Xevhan sat down and waved him to the cushion next to his. To his dismay, the woman promptly took the cushion on his left. Her fingertips played along his arm. “Such pale skin. Isn’t it really the palest skin you’ve ever seen?”
“I don’t know,” her husband replied. “This pretty little creature looks like she was dipped in moonlight.”
Keirith looked up, startled to find Hircha standing behind them clutching a bronze pitcher. A rigid smile twisted her lips as she stepped out of reach of the man’s hand. “Wine, noble lord?”
“That’ll do for a start.” He winked at her. His wife laughed.
Keirith felt himself flushing, ashamed that Hircha should have to endure such treatment. He wondered how much worse it would get as the feast progressed and the wine flowed freely. Xevhan just watched it all with a small smile that made Keirith shudder in spite of the warmth of the evening.
Bep had gotten hold of a pitcher of wine. By the time Darak reentered the tent, he was draining it. When Bep tossed the pitcher aside and tried to pull Rizhi into a dance, Darak grabbed him and shook him hard.
He never saw Bep move. He simply felt fingers fumbling between his legs and then a shocking pain as they squeezed. He roared and punched Bep in the head. Bep staggered into Bo, knocking him into Urkiat’s wooden sword. Bo yelped, Bep laughed.
Olinio chose that moment to shove back the tent flap, his face nearly as red as his tunic. Bep stopped laughing. Turning his head away, he vomited between Hakkon’s bare feet. Olinio launched into a stream of Zherosi and swept out again.
Darak started laughing, but he had to stop because it made his ballocks ache even more. In a moment, they were all laughing. Bep wiped his eyes and apologized profusely to Rizhi. Her fingers fumbled for Bep’s face. Cradling it between her hands, she kissed him lightly on the forehead and whispered something that made him blush.
While poor Hakkon cleaned up the vomit and Thikia inspected Bo’s arse for damage, Bep sidled over to him. “Sorry about your ballocks. No hard feelings?”
“I doubt I’ll be feeling hard for a number of days, thank you.”
Bep grinned. “Maybe we can work it into the act.”
“Only if we use your ballocks.”
“Nay, Wild Man. It’s much funnier when I do it to you.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“That, my friend, is the essence of comedy.”
It might only be the wine that made Bep so friendly, but Darak was glad to put aside suspicion for one night and enjoy the f
ellowship.
A drum sounded outside. Olinio launched into his opening speech. Thikia snatched up her wise grandmother’s shawl. Hakkon led Rizhi forward. Bo and Bep retrieved their clubs. Carefully adjusting his fur bag, Darak plucked his wooden sword from the pile of accessories near the tent flap.
The magic was about to begin.
They started snickering as soon as the chubby man began his speech. Although he looked silly in his scarlet tunic and sky-blue breeches, Keirith couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Sweat plastered his thin hair over his scalp and ran down his jowls. His hearty voice grew more tremulous as the snickering turned to open laughter.
“What a ridiculous man.” His dinner companion casually rested one hand on his bare knee as she leaned across him to speak to Xevhan. “Where did you find him?”
“His troupe of oddities performed for me last year. If you think he’s ridiculous, wait until you see them.”
“I hope it’s soon,” someone called. “Can’t you make him shut up?”
Something flew through the air and struck the man on the chest. His speech stuttered to a halt. With a sickly grin, he swept his arms wide and shouted, “Behold the amazing half-men!”
Two small men raced out from behind the blue cloth and circled the torchlit performing area, waving limp-looking things that resembled clubs. They ran smack into each other and somersaulted backward, only to rise to their feet and begin exchanging blows amid the laughter of the audience.
The woman cooed delightedly. “Oh, how perfectly ugly they are. Don’t you think so, Kheridh?”
He nodded politely and took a deep drink. He was as much an oddity as the poor little men, but at least he didn’t have to perform to the jeers and laughter of these spoiled rich people.
The crowd fell temporarily silent while Rizhi sang, but the mood turned raucous again when Olinio announced the epic battle of the great Zherosi warrior and the Wild Man of the North.
“They’re drunker than I am,” Bep said, struggling with the thongs that secured the moth-eaten fleece.
Thikia glanced around the circle of performers. “Urkiat—translate for me so Reinek understands. All right, everyone. They’ll laugh at us no matter what we give them, so we might as well make it a comedy. We’ll cut my wise grandmother’s recitation and start with the shepherdess scene. Bep, Bo—play up the sheep. Reinek, we’ll need a lot of howling. Chase Bo and Bep around. Tear at their fleeces. Hakkon—wave your staff, shake your fist, smack Reinek on the arse. Rizhi . . . just look sweet, dear. Urkiat—lots of eye rolling and gestures during your opening speech. Make it a parody of the ones they’re used to hearing from their heroes.”
“Olinio will kill me,” Urkiat muttered.
“Olinio is a professional. He’ll understand. As for the battle, make it as ridiculous as you can. No sword tonight, Reinek. Urkiat—chase him around the arena, swat him with your sword, pick your nose. Anything. After you’re defeated, Reinek, let’s have a lot of staggering and groaning. Go right up to the pavilions. Curse the men. Wave your fur bag at the ladies. Then get back to the center of the arena and die.”
“What about the speech afterward?” Urkiat asked.
“Cut it. Hakkon will bring out Rizhi and give you her hand. Bo, Bep . . . oh, you know what to do. I’ll waft on and say something about good triumphing over evil and then we’ll go right into the final song.” She flashed a grin. “Smile, everyone, smile. It may not be magic, but it’s a living.”
Keirith’s head ached from the wine and the smoke and the braying laughter of the woman next to him. When the chubby man announced some sort of a battle—dodging a rain of kugi and grapes—he struggled into a sitting position.
Merciful Maker, let this be the end.
They had been here half the night. A few men were snoring. Those who remained awake were thoroughly drunk. As the little blind girl stepped forward, flanked by the two half-men in what he guessed were sheep costumes, the woman’s husband groaned. He rose on unsteady feet, seized the hand of a startled slave girl, and pulled her into the darkness.
His wife took this opportunity to snuggle closer. She rested her cheek against his shoulder. Her breast brushed his arm. Her wandering hand settled on his knee.
Keirith cast a quick glance at Xevhan but he was staring at the blind girl, a rapt expression on his face. Everyone else was roaring at the antics of the sheep-men. The roar grew louder when a naked man leaped out from behind the blue cloth and howled. Mercifully, his appearance made the woman next to him lean forward. The Wild Man’s hair hung over his face, but no one was looking at that, least of all his dinner companion.
“Your vision,” Xevhan whispered. “Tell me.”
After a quick glance at the woman, Keirith whispered, “I feel the earth shaking. There are adders everywhere.”
The crowd roared. The Wild Man had lifted his leg and was pretending to piss on one of the sheep-men.
“Go on,” Xevhan urged.
“I see Malaq. Smiling. But then the sun turns dark. A shadow comes down.”
A loud cheer made him look up again. The Wild Man was chasing off the big shepherd. The little blind girl sank into a graceful faint. The Wild Man strutted toward her, shaking his fur-clad penis. A few people shouted warnings, but more cheered him on. “Give it to her,” the woman cried, her face flushed with excitement.
“The shadow,” Xevhan prompted.
“The shadow covers Malaq. I see feathers. Big, black feathers. And Malaq falls. I think it is Zhe who strikes him down.”
Loud boos accompanied the appearance of another man, clad in a khirta and holding a sword. Clearly, the crowd was more interested in seeing the Wild Man ravish the helpless girl. The warrior made a rude gesture that turned the booing to applause. He flung his head back and flashed a triumphant grin.
“Was I there?”
Keirith just stared at the warrior. It was the man his father had brought home. The one he had fought beside. Urkiat. Good gods, what was he doing here?
“Did you see me in the vision?”
“Once.”
Keirith lowered his head. It was dark under the canopy. Urkiat had the torchlight in his eyes. He would never see him. He would never even notice one person among so many.
“What was I doing?”
“You . . . you rise. Like Zhe at dawn.”
He dared a look at Urkiat who was chasing the Wild Man. Disbelief turned to horror as Keirith watched them.
“Rise. You mean flying? I was flying?”
“Flying. Yes. Flying. Over Malaq.”
It couldn’t be. He was drunk. He was tired. He was imagining things. Many men were tall and dark-haired and powerfully built. That was not his father shaking his head and snarling. His father was at home with his mam and Callie and Faelia.
He found himself leaning forward, searching for the telltale scars on his back, craning for a glimpse of his hands, but the Wild Man moved so quickly that he couldn’t be certain.
Urkiat issued his challenge. The Wild Man fell to his knees and flung up his hands in pretended terror. Even in the uncertain light of the torches, Keirith could see the stumps of the missing fingers. Just as he could see his father’s sharp profile when the Wild Man threw back his head and howled.
Darak lunged at Urkiat, who squealed like a girl and fled, obliging him to chase him around the perimeter of the performing area again. He stopped in front of one of the canopied shelters to catch his breath. He snatched a bunch of grapes away from a man and ate them slowly, all the while grinning like an idiot. A woman held out a goblet of wine and called out something. He drained the goblet and tossed it over his shoulder, then whirled around in pretended terror at discovering Urkiat creeping up on him. He flung the grapes at Urkiat’s face, enjoying his startled expression.
“That’s for making me chase you. Twice.”
Urkiat brandished his sword and bellowed something in Zherosi that provoked enthusiastic cheers.
“Can we finish this, please?” Darak added
a howl for good measure. “I’m too old for this.”
“As you wish, Wild Man.”
Urkiat lowered his sword and ran right at him. Darak sidestepped and Urkiat careened past. Darak jumped up, jeering and pointing. Another pass, another sidestep. Urkiat hacked at him and he ducked. Then, just as they’d planned, he dove for Urkiat’s legs. He knocked him on his arse and they rolled over a few times. Both of them were spitting sand by the time Urkiat shoved him away. Darak fell onto his back.
“I give up.”
“About time.”
With a hideous cry, Urkiat raised his sword and drove it into the sand near his armpit. Darak screamed and writhed as Urkiat twisted the blade back and forth. Finally, Urkiat straightened to tumultuous applause.
Coughing and clutching his side, Darak staggered to his feet. He lurched toward the nearest shelter and was greeted by a number of feminine squeals. He bared his teeth at the men and winked at an older woman who winked back. Then it was off to the next shelter for more of the same.
The smoke from the torches made his eyes water and the light was too blinding to see the faces of the people under the canopy. But Olinio had said the Zheron was seated near the middle of this one and had begged him to pass close. Fine. He’d give the priest a quick snarl, a nice growl. After that, he was going to die.
He fell to his knees, peering at the occupants, but his eyes were too dazzled by the torchlight to see more than shadowy forms. He gave a genuine groan as he got up again. Hoping for the best, he stumbled into the shelter.
He went down on all fours. He snarled. He lowered his head and growled. And then he looked up into his son’s eyes.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. All he could do was stare back at his father. Already, the squeals and laughter and exclamations were giving way to surprised muttering. He could feel Xevhan’s eyes on him. He had to do something, say something before he put his father in danger.
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