But even his failures leached away, like rain into soft earth, like blood into sand. There was only the sun, bright and remorseless, yet incapable of driving away the cold that crept up his legs, stealthy as Niqia stalking a butterfly.
He closed his eyes. Behind his lids, the crimson sun faded as if a cloud had passed overhead. From far away, he heard the voice, calling him. Felt the hands, gripping him.
Keirith opened his eyes and saw his father’s stark face, stubbled with a day’s growth of beard. He was always so meticulous about shaving, but of course, so much had happened. He smiled and his father’s face crumpled and disappeared. Then it bobbed back. Calloused fingers brushed the hair off his face. Cracked lips moved, but a sudden breeze snatched away the words.
He was flying. Not the soaring flight he had known with the eagle or the jolting disorientation of emerging too quickly from a trance. He was drifting skyward, like a wisp of smoke rising through the venthole of their hut. But like his flight with the eagle, his eyes were keener than they had ever been as a boy.
There were the adders, wriggling toward the mountains and freedom. There was Xevhan, fleeing in the opposite direction. And there was Hircha, standing on the ruined path he had just walked, shading her eyes against the glare of the rising sun as she watched Xevhan.
I’m sorry, Hircha. I might have killed him if the earthquake had come a moment later.
Two men were dragging the Khonsel away from the crumbling hillside overlooking the city. The slender man reminded him of Ysal. The other glanced up, shouting at the column of soldiers trotting toward them. When Keirith saw the eye patch, he recognized Geriv who had shadowed him since that morning in the Khonsel’s chamber. But today, he must have had other responsibilities. No one would bear witness to Malaq’s murder.
His regret faded as he drifted higher. He saw Temet, leaning against the ruined altar of Heart of Sky, bellowing out the hunter’s song. He saw dozens of people fleeing the palace. Among the dark heads was a cluster of color. The newly risen sun made their hair shimmer like the fires licking through the palace. Perhaps that fair head belonged to Brudien. Perhaps the red one beside it was Sinand’s, but he was too high now to discern their features.
Pilozhat was a pile of tiny white blocks that lay tumbled one atop the other at the bottom of the hill. The sea rose and fell like a panting bosom, tossing the ships about, but even as he watched, her anxiety began to subside. Soon she would be placid again; Womb of Earth could no more destroy the sea than she could tear a hole in the limitless sky.
The sunlight was everywhere, but now it bathed him in peace. This was how the sun must shine in the Forever Isles, soft and radiant and eternal. He wondered if it shone that way in Malaq’s Paradise. Perhaps Paradise and the Forever Isles were the same. He hoped so. He would like to see Malaq waiting for him on those sun-drenched shores.
A terrible howl shattered the silence in which he drifted. The sunlight retreated as if affronted. He felt himself floating earthward again and resisted the pull. But the howl came again—a hoarse, animal cry of pain that tugged him away from the sea and the sky and the sun, pulling him back over the ruined city, back to the altar.
He didn’t want to go there. There was only pain at the altar. Pain and failure.
A third time, the howl rent the air. And this time, he knew it was not the cry of a wounded animal, but the grief-stricken scream of a man.
Three times for a charm. Everyone knew that.
Reluctantly, Keirith answered his father’s call. He hovered over the temple. Malaq’s body sprawled on the steps. His body lay on the altar. There was so much blood. He hadn’t realized that. The big man from the troupe of players was bending over his father. Hircha was there now, too. And Niqia. At least Fa wouldn’t be alone. That was good.
But his father seemed unaware of that. His head was thrown back, his face contorted with grief. Keirith wished he could tell him that everything was all right now. His father’s pain made him ache, pulled him farther from the welcoming sunlight.
The earth was sliding into the gorge behind the temple, just melting away. Soon, the temple would melt with it. They had to leave. Hircha tugged on his father’s arm. Even in the midst of disaster, she knew what to do. Cool, clever Hircha. She would keep them safe.
But Fa wasn’t listening. He was still clinging to that body. His body.
I’m not there, Fa. Let go.
“Come into me. Keirith! Please. Come into my body.”
Suddenly, Keirith understood. He had to reassure his father that all was well. Then he would cease his grieving and allow him to fly away.
Without the distraction of his body, it was so easy. His spirit flowed toward his father, gently seeking, gently touching.
“There’s no time for this!” Hircha shouted. “Pick him up. Drag him if you have to.”
Before Hakkon could move, the Spirit-Hunter reared back, his eyes huge. He crumpled onto the steps of the altar, then began convulsing. Hakkon heaved him into his arms to keep him from striking his head, but big as he was, he couldn’t restrain him. The Spirit-Hunter writhed. His legs jerked in helpless spasms. His eyes rolled back in his head and his back arched. For a heartbeat, he remained frozen in agony. Then he collapsed.
Hircha seized his limp arm, frantically searching for a pulse. “He’s alive. Whatever happened, he’s alive.”
A rumble behind her warned of another rockslide.
“You’ll have to carry him.”
East held death at the bottom of the gorge. To the north, there was only wilderness, to the south, only the sea. Hakkon heaved the Spirit-Hunter over his shoulder, grunting with the effort. Without waiting for her, he strode west.
Hircha paused. With a trembling hand, she lifted Keirith’s head and pulled his bag of charms free; his father should have some token of the son he had lost. Then she gently closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry. For everything. But I’ll see your father safe. I swear it on my life. So you can fly away. Fly to the Forever Isles. You’re lucky to be out of this miserable world.”
Niqia yowled. She turned to find the cat sniffing the Pajhit’s face. When the pink tongue darted out to lick his cheek, Hircha burst into tears.
The Spirit-Hunter had lost his son. Hundreds of people must have seen their loved ones die this morning. And she was crying because a cat had lost its master.
She bent down to pick up Niqia, but the cat arched her back, hissing.
“Fine. Stay here. I can’t be responsible for you, too.”
Angrily swiping the tears from her cheeks, she limped after Hakkon.
PART THREE
I seek but cannot find you.
I call but receive no answer.
Oh, beloved, beloved.
Would I had died for you.
Lament for the Dead
Chapter 42
LIKE A NIGHTMARE, random images and sounds im pressed themselves on Hircha’s consciousness: the horrible chorus of human and animal cries that came from the palace, echoed by others, faint but clear, from the city below; a lone priestess, rooted before a gaping wound in the ground where the temple of Womb of Earth had stood; a man crouched beside a fallen pillar, lifting the hand of the person crushed beneath it to his mouth. His head shook back and forth in a frenzy of grief. Only when she got closer did she realize he was trying to work a ring free with his teeth.
The clouds of dust had settled, revealing the capricious devastation the earthquake had wrought. Pillars rose up between those that had toppled. The eastern wall of the palace had collapsed, but the others still stood. However, smoke billowed from the north wing, smearing the pale blue of the sky with black.
Men and women clawed through the rubble. Others streamed through the south gate, most with only the clothes on their backs. A few dragged carts behind them, hauling whatever was left of their belongings, only to abandon them with wails and curses when they reached the edge of the plateau.
The steps that led to the city were gone. All tha
t remained of the houses that had clung to the hillside was a heap of debris. The buildings closer to the shore had escaped destruction, but they were threatened by the flames licking eagerly at the thatch of the collapsed roofs. Lines snaked from the sea; people must be passing buckets to control the flames before they engulfed the entire city.
She could not worry about Pilozhat’s fate. She had to consider hers and Hakkon’s and the Spirit-Hunter’s whose head dangled limply against the big man’s shoulder.
Incredibly, the stairway that led to the temple of the God with Two Faces was still intact, but it was clogged with refugees, shouting and shoving as they fought their way to lower ground. Amid the chaos, a woman stood immobile, barely covered by the shreds of her nightdress. As they passed, she called out, “Have you seen my little girl? She was right beside me at the gate.”
All the way down the steps, above the shouts and the curses and the weeping and the prayers, Hircha could hear that high-pitched voice calling, “Have you seen my little girl? Have you seen my sweet Shevhila?”
The temple of the God with Two Faces appeared unscathed. Outside, the tall figure of the Supplicant moved calmly through the crowd. A word, a touch, and the seething mass quieted. People paused to accept a dipper of water from her acolytes. In spite of her raging thirst, Hircha scuttled past with her head down, hoping Hakkon’s bulk would shield her from the Supplicant’s gaze.
It seemed like half of Pilozhat had taken refuge in the western fields. Some were dazed, some cradled the limp bodies of loved ones in their arms, but many were ripping up khirtas for bandages, tending to the wounded, sharing food and water. Squads of soldiers rounded up able-bodied men and women and marched them toward Pilozhat, probably to help fight the fires and dig out those trapped in the rubble. Hircha had to marvel at the efficiency of the Zherosi; it was almost like they knew the earthquake was coming.
As they neared the road to Oexiak, Hircha spied a pink tunic, incongruously bright among the dusty grays and tans. Olinio’s querulous voice rose above the cacophony of shouts and moans. Soldiers tossed costumes, scenery, and sacks of belongings out of the cart, ignoring his shrieks of protest.
“My mother is dead. Must you steal from me, too?”
“We need the cart to carry the dead,” a soldier explained patiently. “Shall we take them?”
Only then did Hircha notice the two bodies. Apart from a small cut on her forehead, the old woman looked unhurt; perhaps she had simply died of fright. The smaller body was covered with a bloodstained cloak.
“My mother was an artist. You expect me to allow you to throw her into a mass grave with . . . with nobodies?”
“The bodies will be burned. But if you want to bury her, that’s your business. As long as it’s done soon.” The soldier shrugged apologetically. “The heat. You understand.”
Olinio’s wail turned into a cry of astonishment when he finally noticed them. He exclaimed again when Hakkon lowered the Spirit-Hunter to the ground. “Oh, Hakkon. Thank the gods you’re alive. And Reinek, too. If only Mother had been spared. And poor Bo. The bullock went wild and . . . oh, it was terrible, terrible. It trampled him. No, don’t look. It’s too awful. And Bep is missing.”
Hakkon shook his head, his grim expression testifying to Bep’s fate. Olinio threw up his hands and wailed again.
“Stop that noise!” Hircha ordered. Olinio broke off, his mouth hanging open. Before he could recover, she said, “The soldiers are waiting. Do you want them to take your mother or not?”
Olinio sniffed. “Take Bo. The little man there. But not my mother.”
Two soldiers lifted the small body and laid it in the cart with surprising gentleness. As they dragged the cart away, Olinio stared down at his mother. “Why didn’t she listen to me? If we had left last night . . .” His voice trailed off in a sob.
“Your mother is beyond pain. I know you don’t want to leave her, but Hakkon and I have to get the . . . Reinek out of the city. We didn’t save him from the Zheron’s knife to have him recaptured.”
Olinio gasped. “You disrupted a sacrifice? Are you mad? The Zheron will have your heads.”
“The Zheron has other things to worry about.”
For now. But the Spirit-Hunter had witnessed Keirith’s murder and possibly the Pajhit’s. Xevhan could never allow him to live.
Olinio drew himself up. “I must arrange a proper rite for my mother. With a priest to officiate. And chanting. She’d like that.” He turned to Hakkon, his jowls quivering. “I am shocked—shocked!—that you would tarnish the reputation of this company by engaging in criminal activities. And after all I’ve done for you! I shouldn’t even permit you to remain in my employ. But given these uncertain times, I am willing to—”
He fell to his knees, his expression ghastly. Mystified, Hircha looked over her shoulder and saw the Supplicant moving steadily through the crowd. Although she stretched out her hands to touch those she passed, her gaze remained fixed on them.
Olinio babbled prayers under his breath; even stoic Hakkon seemed nervous. Hircha just stood there, frozen, as the Supplicant approached. Her dark gaze swept over them to rest on the Spirit-Hunter.
“He is injured?” she asked quietly.
“He collapsed. After Keirith . . .” Hircha’s voice cracked and she took a deep breath. “He’s dead, lady. Keirith is dead. And Reinek . . .”
“Bring him to my temple.”
“But we have to leave the city. At once.”
Two small lines appeared between the Supplicant’s brows. “Perhaps you misunderstood. That was not a request.”
“Yes. Of course. Instantly,” Olinio stammered. “You do us great honor, lady. Inexpressible honor. I am—”
“Speechless?”
Olinio pressed his lips together and nodded. The Supplicant turned to Hakkon. “You risked much to help him. I thank you. And I am sorry for the death of your friend.”
Hakkon’s mouth trembled as he nodded.
“Bep will receive a hero’s welcome in the afterworld. He will eat of the finest fruits and drink of the finest wines. He will lie on the softest fleece, beneath a bower of the sweetest honeysuckle, beside a stream that flows with the purest water. And large-breasted beauties with skillful hands and knowing mouths will vie with each other to pleasure him.”
The Supplicant winked. After a moment of stunned surprise, Hakkon nodded again.
“And when your turn comes to take that flight, you, too, will receive a hero’s welcome. And there will be large-breasted beauties should you desire them. But your mother will be the first to welcome you. And when her hand clasps yours to lead you into the sunlight, you will finally be able to speak aloud the words of love you have carried in your heart these many years.”
The tears filling Hakkon’s eyes spilled over, carving pale tracks in his dirty cheeks. The Supplicant pulled his head down to her shoulder and held him while he wept. When he finally raised his head, she gave him a lingering smile and slowly walked away.
Olinio wiped his forehead, leaving grimy streaks on the sleeve of his tunic. “She must have taken a fancy to you when she saw you in Oexiak. If only I’d known. I could have arranged a special performance for her. Oh, well. Take Reinek to the temple. Be polite. Do whatever she asks. And smile, Hakkon, smile! You must learn to take advantage of unexpected opportunities when they—Here. You. Girl! What are you doing?”
Without interrupting her rummaging, Hircha said, “I’m looking for Reinek’s pack.” She dug a battered hide bag out of the pile of discarded supplies and held it up. “Is this it?”
“Yes. I think so. Urkiat’s is there, too. Somewhere. Yes, that’s it. I don’t suppose you could take the rest of the things . . . ? Oh, never mind. I’ll manage.” His eyes gleamed. “The God with Two Faces is smiling on me again. Just as Mother predicted. And I didn’t even have to spend money for an offering.”
Chapter 43
HE FLOATED IN A SEA of honeysuckle. Dimly, he sensed another presence, but it was too far aw
ay to trouble him. The summons disturbed his peace and he retreated deeper into the restful sea. When the summons came again, he bent his will on resisting it. A faint throb of resentment emanated from the other; it, too, preferred the peace and comfort of the honeysuckle sea. The third summons pulled him upward, overriding his desire to drift, overriding even the nameless terror he sensed lurking at the surface.
The sea disgorged him. His chest heaved with the effort of breathing. His muscles ached. And that was wrong. Frantically, he sought the sanctuary of the sea, but the voice commanded him to open his eyes.
The face of the Supplicant filled his vision. “Welcome back, Keirith.”
A wave of nausea heaved him up. Cool hands grasped his arms, steadying him. As the nausea faded, memory returned. The piercing joy from his father’s spirit when he first touched it, followed by the violent shock that threatened to shatter them both. The helpless terror of dissolution and the ferocious wrench as he was pulled back from the brink. And then plummeting into an abyss, as dark and bottomless as the Supplicant’s eyes.
He tried to shake his head, but the effort was beyond him. The Supplicant eased him back on the fleece and took his hand. As she raised it, he squeezed his eyes shut.
“You must look.”
Against his will, his eyes opened and he saw what he had feared. The antler tattoo, branching across the thick wrist. The scar, puckering the dust-grimed skin of the palm. The swollen stumps of the forefinger and middle finger that Morgath had sawed off in Chaos.
He had tried to comfort his father. Instead, he had killed him.
Grief roared through him and then an echoing surge of terror. He had only a moment to realize the terror was not his, another to recognize the other presence. Then his new body was torn from his control.
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