Someone was tugging at his arm. Hircha, her face even harder than his father’s. “Leave. Now. Before you condemn them all. And you should leave, too, Wild Man. Whatever you came for, it’s not worth another death.”
The little man stepped in front of his father. One by one, the other performers closed ranks, forming a circle around his father and Urkiat. You are not one of us, their actions said. You don’t belong. We don’t want you here.
Keirith let Hircha lead him to a litter. He let her help him inside. And when she crawled in next to him, he didn’t even shrink away.
“The Wild Man. He’s Darak Spirit-Hunter. I may have been a child when I was stolen, but I know the tale. How many men possess such hands? And such scars?”
Keirith closed his eyes.
“And he’s your father. Isn’t he?”
In Hircha’s voice, he heard sympathy and understanding. But the voice in his head drowned hers out. His voice, fervently proclaiming his good intentions when he touched an animal’s spirit. The words mocked him now: “I don’t hurt them. I would never hurt them. I’m not like Morgath.”
But he was. He was Keirith the False. Keirith the Destroyer. Keirith the Eater of Spirits.
Chapter 34
EXHAUSTION ALLOWED MALAQ to sleep. When he rose before dawn and learned that Kheridh had not returned, he chided himself for his anxiety. Xevhan’s entertainments could last all night; there was no cause for alarm. Then he returned from the sacrifice and found Kheridh waiting for him.
He had seen men staring up at the dagger that would cut out their hearts, women sitting beside the rubble of their homes. Kheridh’s face had that same dazed look. Malaq took his hand and led him to a bench in the garden. That Kheridh should permit the touch frightened him even more than his expression.
It took all Malaq’s control to remain silent while Kheridh told him what had happened. That the Spirit-Hunter should be in Pilozhat, that this man—of all men—should be Kheridh’s father, and most stunning of all, that Kheridh should trust him enough to reveal it. . . . The revelations made it hard for him to focus on the rest of the story. And yet, it made sense; only an exceptional man could have fathered such an extraordinary son. But extraordinary or not, Kheridh was still a fourteen-year-old boy who, in one night, had discovered his father had come after him, had watched helplessly while his father was injured, and had used his power to lead a man to his death.
When he finished, Malaq asked, “Does Xevhan know?”
“He suspects . . . something. Hircha knows.”
“You told her?”
“Nay. She guessed.”
“Do you look so much alike?”
“I don’t know. I never thought so.” For the first time, Kheridh looked at him. “Will you help him?”
Malaq’s mind was working furiously. Xevhan would go to the queen with his suspicions. At best, the Spirit-Hunter would be held for questioning. If they tortured him, he would talk. All men talked sooner or later.
Too anxious to sit, he rose and paced. He would have to act quickly. Get the Spirit-Hunter out of the city. And the players; some of them might know his true identity. Then it would only be Kheridh’s word against Xevhan’s.
“Please.”
He turned to find Kheridh on his knees.
“I’ll do anything you ask. Teach you everything I know. I . . . I will stay here. As long as you want me. Only please. Don’t let them kill him.”
And there it was. Everything he had ever wanted: Kheridh’s trust, his cooperation, and—if he agreed to help—his gratitude. Gratitude that might be transformed to love in the course of time. All for doing what he was planning already: to get his father away from him.
Very gently, he pulled Kheridh to his feet. “Of course I will help.”
Darak cleaned Urkiat’s body himself, but the others helped carry him to the cart and carve a shallow hole in the hard earth. Even Olinio gathered stones for the cairn. They buried him on a small rise that was sheltered on three sides by steep hills. Although the mountain was visible, the city was not; at least Urkiat would not lie within the shadow of Pilozhat.
When he laid the last rock on the cairn, they all looked at him expectantly. He chanted the death-song for Urkiat. He repeated the words from the rite of Opening, although only a shaman could free a spirit to fly to the Forever Isles. He prayed that Urkiat’s would find its way there. Spirits severed abruptly from their bodies became lost. Like Tinnean and the Oak-Lord, they drifted into Chaos. Perhaps in those last moments, Urkiat had understood what was happening. Perhaps the Maker had guided his spirit. But he would never know until he walked onto the shores of the Forever Isles himself.
After the burial, he removed his tunic and breeches and, for the second time that morning, plunged into the sea. The first time, he had rinsed Urkiat’s blood off his body, unwilling to conduct his final rites covered in gore. Now, he sought to cleanse his spirit. But he knew he would always carry the stain of this death and the guilt of causing it.
Again and again, he went over his actions. Had he moved too suddenly? Had he failed to give Urkiat sufficient time to prepare? Always, it came back to the same thing: Urkiat had simply stood there as if bespelled. His face had a far-away expression, as if he were looking into other worlds, hearing voices no one else could discern. But Urkiat was no shaman. He was just a young man carrying the burden of too many deaths, seeking retribution and forgiveness. These last days, he’d seemed easier in his mind, happy even, shedding a little of the guilt and darkness that shadowed his spirit to caper like a child during their performances or tease him about his ridiculous fur bag.
“Oh, gods.”
Naked, Darak sat on the sand. At least Urkiat’s bones would lie near the sea. And his spirit—please, gods—would live on in the Forever Isles. He hoped there was good fishing there and a sleek currach to carry him over the waves.
He heard a grunt as Bep sat beside him. For a long while, neither of them spoke. Finally, Bep said, “That was your boy.”
Darak nodded.
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
His plans had involved freeing Keirith. He hadn’t expected him to be an honored guest of the people who kidnapped him.
“He might come to you. If they let him.”
“Aye.”
“I could sniff around the palace.”
Darak looked up. “You’re going there?”
“Olinio’s taking Rizhi. To perform for the Zheron.” Bep spat.
“Alone?”
“Not if I can help it. I wouldn’t trust a dog alone with that man.”
“And after?”
“Olinio’s agreed to leave the city. After what happened, he thinks we should make ourselves scarce.” Bep shifted awkwardly. “It’s probably best . . .”
“If I don’t come with you? I wasn’t planning to.”
“No offense. You’d put us in danger. And if you stay, you’ll put your boy in danger, too. He seems well enough. Don’t start bristling, you know what I mean. For whatever reason, the Zheron has taken him under his wing. Else he’d be with the rest of the slaves.”
“Are you suggesting I leave him here?”
“I’m suggesting you watch your step. You stand out in a crowd, Darak. And you don’t have the language. How will you manage without . . . on your own?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, think about it.”
“I just buried my friend. I haven’t slept. Can’t I just—”
“You’ve got the rest of your life to mourn Urkiat. And to sleep. If you’re not careful, the rest of your life could be awful short.”
The brief flare of anger died.
“Do you want my advice?” Bep asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nay. First, put on your clothes.”
He rose, obedient as a child, and slapped the sand off his body. He pulled on his tunic and breeches, but when he started to lace his shoes, his hands shook so bad
ly that Bep had to tie them. He stared at his hands, bemused. They had cleaned the blood off Urkiat, carried him to the cart, dug out a grave, and piled stones above it. Throughout it all, they had been utterly steady.
“Get your share of the money from Olinio now. While he’s feeling guilty. Trust me, that won’t last. Then find a place to hide. Maybe where we camped last night. You’ll be harder to find in a crowd than if you’re alone.”
Darak gazed down the beach. “There’s only one flaw in that plan.”
“What?”
He nodded at the men marching toward them. “Seems they’ve already found me.”
Chapter 35
MALAQ WAVED THE SLAVES away and surveyed his chamber critically. Satisfied, he placed the small clay disk on the table and wiped the few specks of red dust off his hands with a napkin. The other two disks remained in his bedchamber; he hoped he would not need them.
When he’d asked for the safe conducts, Vazh had inundated him with questions.
“Don’t ask why. Just do this for me. For friendship’s sake.”
It was the first time in his life he had ever seen fear on Vazh’s face.
Perhaps there was no need for fear. But twice, Malaq had gone to the queen’s chamber, requesting permission to speak with her, and twice, he had been turned away. She was still recovering from The Shedding. She had a tiring reception this afternoon and the formal banquet this evening. Likely, she was saving her strength. Likely, she was seeing no one. But no matter how many explanations he found, the anxiety remained: what if Xevhan had already given her his version of the events?
He’d been disturbed to learn that the leader of the players would be meeting with Xevhan. In the end, though, he decided it was better to let him keep his appointment. The blind girl would sing. Xevhan would drool over her. And the revolting Olinio would add Xevhan’s payment for last night’s performance to the fat purse of serpents Malaq had given him to speed him on his way.
Barely midday and he was already weary. And he would need all his energy and concentration for this meeting.
When the guard respectfully requested permission to enter, he took a deep breath. The players were taken care of. Now, he must ensure that Kheridh’s father left Pilozhat.
“Enter.”
Darak Spirit-Hunter strode through the doorway. His astonishing pale gaze flicked over him in brief assessment before surveying the room. Searching for Kheridh or examining his escape routes? Both, probably. And looking for Xevhan whom he clearly had expected to find.
Malaq was relieved to discover that Kheridh had gotten his coloring from his mother. Still, a perceptive observer would notice the similarities: the slanting cheekbones, the knife-edged nose, the square chin. The height, too, although Kheridh had yet to fill out his gawky frame. When he did, he would be as imposing as the man before him. If he lived that long.
The guards gripped the Spirit-Hunter’s broad shoulders. He made no sound as his knees hit the floor, but the frown deepened.
“Enough. Wait outside.”
The guards bowed and backed out of the chamber.
“Please. Rise.”
If the Spirit-Hunter was surprised by the tribal tongue, he gave no indication. He rose with easy grace, although he must be close to forty summers. Gods, the man was a giant. He kept his hands lightly clasped in front of him. Did he always hide his maimed hands from strangers or did he fear his identity had been discovered?
Malaq kept his face impassive, but excitement made his heart beat faster. Darak Spirit-Hunter. How much of the tale was true? How much the usual exaggeration of the story-tellers?
“Please.” Malaq gestured to the table. “Let us sit.”
After they were seated, he clapped his hands once. The Spirit-Hunter tensed, then relaxed as the slaves filed in. Malaq had deliberately ordered a lavish meal. Let him see how a priest lives in Pilozhat. Let him note the opulence of the surroundings, the plethora of food. Let him realize that his son had been living like this, not as a prisoner or a slave. And let him wonder how easily a boy—abandoned by his own people—might be seduced by such splendor.
Try as he might to look disinterested, the Spirit-Hunter studied each platter they laid on the table, taking in the roasted squab, the mussels swimming in oil and spices, the steaming slabs of bread, the bowls of jhok and avhash. Expressionless, he examined the thick napkins, the pottery plates painted with brilliant spirals of green and gold.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Malaq said with a deprecating shrug.
“I am.”
The voice was as he’d imagined, deep and resonant, but the admission surprised him. He would have expected the man to deny it, to proudly refuse any food offered by his enemy. Instead, he tore off a piece of bread.
“Try the jhok,” Malaq said, nodding toward the bowl. “It tastes better than it looks.”
“I know.”
“Would you care for wine?”
“Water, please. If you have it. I’d like to keep a clear head.”
He was obviously exhausted, but there was keen awareness in the bloodshot eyes and even dry humor in the voice.
Malaq poured the water into a cup rather than a long-stemmed goblet. The Spirit-Hunter took it between both hands and drained it in a few thirsty gulps. Malaq refilled his cup and set the pitcher down. “If it’s all the same to you, I prefer not to test your patience—or mine—by prolonging this exchange of pleasantries.”
He actually smiled. “I would prefer that as—” He broke off, his expression suddenly wary. “Is it possible that . . . a wildcat could have gotten in here?”
Malaq laughed and swiveled around. “Yes. But she’s quite tame.” He sliced off a strip of squab and held it out. Niqia pulled it daintily from his fingers and dropped it onto the floor.
The Spirit-Hunter half-rose from his place, leaning on the table to watch her.
Dear gods.
He’d seen the same boyish wonder on Kheridh’s face when they studied magic together, the same delighted smile when they were successful.
“She’s small for a wildcat.”
Still dazed from the revelation, Malaq struggled to gather his thoughts. “You mean you’ve seen one? In the wild?”
“Only once. And only for a moment.”
“Niqia is a mixed breed. Very beautiful, but—” Failing to receive another treat, Niqia leaped onto the table, prepared to help herself. Malaq pulled the platter away. “But very spoiled.”
“Or hungry.”
The Spirit-Hunter reached for the knife resting on the platter of squab. Malaq tensed. The maimed hand hovered above the knife. The smile vanished. The pale eyes met his. “I’m not that foolish.”
He was surprisingly deft with the knife; remember that, Malaq cautioned himself. After he sliced off a sliver of meat, he grasped it between his thumb and little fingers and held it out. Niqia picked her way through the platters, ostentatiously ignoring the outstretched fingers, then stalked back. Malaq watched the interplay of the two hunters, the one patient, the other wary. Finally, Niqia deigned to accept his offering. The Spirit-Hunter let his upturned hand rest on the table. When Niqia was finished, she sniffed his fingers cautiously and proceeded to lick them.
“She’s taken a liking to you. She’s fond of Kheridh as well.”
The fingers twitched once and went still. Malaq scooped up Niqia and deposited her on the floor, deliberately prolonging the moment. “That’s what we call your son. You, I believe, are called Spirit-Hunter by some, although your tribal title is Memory-Keeper. You came to Pilozhat in search of Kheridh. Last night, you found him.”
Other than the muscle twitching in his jaw, his face remained impassive. “You know a lot about me. May I ask who you are?”
“Forgive me. I am Malaq, the Pajhit—priest—of Heart of Sky. Kheridh has been under my protection since he arrived here. This morning, after—”
“Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why is he under your prot
ection?”
“Because of his gift.”
“His gift?”
Malaq pushed his wine goblet aside and leaned forward. “There is a prophecy among our people. That a boy will come to us. A boy with hair the color of the setting sun and the gift of speaking with our sacred adders. And he will lead our people into a new age. For generations, we have awaited the coming of the Son of Zhe.”
The Spirit-Hunter’s features relaxed. “You think Keirith is the son of your god?”
“No. Any doubts I might have had on that subject vanished when I saw you.”
The frown returned. Was he unaware of the resemblance? Or was he worried that others might notice it as well?
“Perhaps I see what others do not. But your behavior—and his—during the Zheron’s entertainment aroused . . . speculation. I can protect Kheridh. But I cannot protect you. You must leave Pilozhat today.”
“Not without Keirith.”
He put the slightest emphasis on his son’s name. Malaq made a mental note to use his Zherosi name more frequently.
“You have come many miles to rescue Kheridh. And if he were in danger, I would send him away with you. Believe it or not, I want what is best for him.”
“You have no idea what’s best for Keirith.”
“And you do?”
“Aye. He belongs at home. With his people.”
“The same people who regard him as an abomination?”
Did the fingers tighten on the cup or was that wishful thinking?
“What future does Kheridh have in your village? At worst, he will be sacrificed for using his gift. At best, he will have to hide it the rest of his life.”
“He’ll learn to control it.”
“And who will teach him that? You? Forgive me, but you don’t understand it. Your Tree-Father? He was the first to compare Kheridh to the shaman who mutilated you.”
“You know nothing about . . .”
In a quiet voice, Malaq finished the sentence. “Morgath.”
“I know his name.” The Spirit-Hunter had banished the savage edge from his voice, but for the first time, the effort at control showed.
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