Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

A man shouted something in Zherosi.

  Keirith jolted awake. Terror, pain, and humiliation crashed into Darak’s unprotected spirit. He tried to rise and fell to his knees, reeling from the horror of Keirith’s violation and the desperate need to conceal it lest he wound his son further.

  Someone seized his groping hand. Amid the babble of voices, he heard Fellgair’s, calm and commanding. He concentrated on that, only that, and felt a new wave of shock emanate from Keirith as he became aware of what was happening.

  The contending voices fell silent. The dusty hem of a red robe appeared before him. Darak raised his head and stared up into the smiling face of his son’s murderer.

  Chapter 44

  STUNNED BY XEVHAN’S arrival and the horrifying certainty that his father knew about the rape, the violent surge of hatred nearly overwhelmed Keirith. He felt the muscles in his father’s legs tense.

  Nay, Fa! The guards will kill you.

  He felt reluctant acquiescence, but beneath it, the bloodlust simmered.

  Once his father backed down, Xevhan’s smile returned. Despite his obvious elation, he looked ill. Perspiration beaded his forehead. His fingers trembled as they smoothed his robe. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy-lidded.

  Fellgair seemed unsurprised by Xevhan’s arrival. But why should he be? He had betrayed them.

 

  Keirith couldn’t understand why his father trusted the Trickster, but the onslaught of shared emotions and thoughts made it difficult to think clearly.

 

  His father’s effort at control helped. At least Keirith was able to concentrate on what Xevhan was saying. Fellgair finally interrupted the torrent of invective to ask, “Are you well, Zheron?”

  “Yes, Supplicant. Very well. Now that I’ve found the man who murdered our Pajhit.”

 

  As Fellgair gasped, Keirith translated quickly. It was hard to see anything of the fox-faced god his father had described in the tall, graceful priestess. The moan of distress was so heartfelt that the closest guard thrust out his hand, clearly fearing the Supplicant might faint. Fellgair clung to the proffered hand and favored the guard with a smile that made his expression glaze over in slack-jawed adoration.

  “I am grieved to learn of our beloved Pajhit’s death. This is a sorrowful day for our people.”

  “Yes. Terrible. But his murder will be avenged and his killer brought to justice.”

  “I am certain of it.” Fellgair’s smile caressed Xevhan, but the dark eyes glittered.

  Keirith was still translating—and trying to understand the Trickster’s game—when shouts from the outer chamber interrupted him. As if ten guards weren’t sufficient, Xevhan had sent for more; he was taking no chances on an escape.

  Khonsel do Havi strode into the chamber. Even with a bloodstained bandage around his head, he retained his air of authority. When he saw Geriv, Keirith wondered if his shadow had witnessed Malaq’s murder after all. Nay, he’d been nowhere near the altar. But the Khonsel would surely remember his vision. If only he could talk with him, convince him of the truth. There had to be a way.

  “Stop! Gods, I can’t stand it!”

  He’d been too caught up in his own excitement to pay attention to his father’s growing agitation. The outburst made the Khonsel break off his greeting to Fellgair.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s been subject to these fits since he was brought here.”

  “Who brought him?”

  “The girl and the man beside him.”

  “You—what’s your name?”

  “He cannot speak,” Fellgair replied. “The girl claims his name is Hakkon.”

  “This is the man!” Xevhan exclaimed. “The one I spoke of in the council meeting.”

  “The mute?”

  “The cripple! The father of the false prophet. The one called the Spirit-Hunter. The one who murdered our Pajhit.”

 

  Keirith translated Xevhan’s meandering account of what had happened at the temple. The Khonsel seemed taken aback by Xevhan’s growing frenzy and eyed him narrowly.

  “Zheron. You are not yourself.”

  “Forgive me.” Xevhan managed a weak smile. “It’s the qiij. And the strain of helping the queen.”

  “She’s still alive?”

  “One of her ladies offered her body for The Shedding. But it was . . . difficult. Coming so soon after the first Shedding. The healers are with her. They assured me she was out of danger.”

  “Thank the gods. If we had lost them both . . .”

  No wonder Xevhan seemed on the verge of collapse. Eliaxa and Malaq had always performed the rite. And if the queen was badly injured, the strain must have been enormous.

  Fellgair intoned a prayer for the spirit of the dead king. Keirith felt more grief for the ordinary folk who must have awakened in terror to find the walls and roofs of their houses caving in on them. Ordinary folk who might have been saved if he had confided his suspicions to the Qepo.

 

  It’s hard not to.

 

  Not for sure. But—

 

  Fellgair droned on; even the Khonsel was shifting his feet.

 

  For what?

 

  Shame accompanied his father’s thought and was banished by renewed determination. Gods, he was strong.

 

  Pride swelled, filling his father’s spirit, flowing into his. His father was proud of him, even after the awful things he had said and done.

  They both retreated before the intensity of the emotions. This time, his father recovered first.

 

  Malaq did.

  He had no time for more; Fellgair had no sooner finished the prayer before Xevhan began speaking again. “We can be thankful for one thing: Malaq’s murderer has been caught. He took refuge here. As if a barbarian deserves the right of sanctuary.”

  “How did you find him?” the Khonsel asked.

  Xevhan smiled and gestured to one of his guards. “Bring him in.”

  The chubby leader of the troupe of players slunk in between the guards. His father’s rage surged and was ruthlessly suppressed. The name surfaced in Keirith’s mind, but he couldn’t be certain if the thought was his or his father’s.

  “This is the man who identified the Spirit-Hunter. When Olinio discovered he was still in the city, he came to the palace at once to inform me.”

  “How much did he pay you?” his father demanded.

  Keirith prepared himself to seize control of his body again and felt impatience ripple through his father.

 

  You can’t attack him.

 

  Intent on each other, they paid no heed to Hakkon until he sprang forward with an inarticulate cry. Too late, his father rose. He was still reaching for Hakkon when the Zheron’s guards moved in. The Khonsel shouted at them to sheathe their swords, but the thrusts caught Hakkon in the back. For a moment he stood frozen, his hands at Olinio’s throat. Then he slowly crumpled to the floor. Olinio shrank away, wheezing.

  Don’t, Father. Don’t!

  “Let me go.”

  An icy calm descended over his father, but anguish roiled beneath it. He could not attack Olinio; he would not be so foolish.

  “Nay.”

  He needed to speak, Keirith realized. The effort of remaining silent taxed his control too much.

  His father moved toward Hakkon. Geriv’s sword rose until the point hovered at his chest. Without even glancing at it, he knelt and pulled Hakkon into his arms.

  Thoughts of Urkiat swirled between them. And Malaq, stabbed in the back just like poor Hakkon. How many more must die before Xevha
n was stopped?

  “If my testimony is not enough, here is more proof.” Xevhan’s voice sounded exulting, triumphant.

  The killing lust stirred.

  “The mute was going to kill the only man who could testify to the murderer’s identity.”

  Blood, it whispered.

  “This is holy ground,” Fellgair said. “And your men have polluted it by committing murder.”

  Retribution, it promised.

  “If your temple is unclean, so is mine. For on its holy altar, this man murdered our beloved Pajhit.”

  Their head snapped up.

  “I demand his immediate execution.”

  Their eyes watched him.

  “Give me a sword. I’ll do it myself.”

  The killing lust sang, drowning out the contending voices. It thundered through flesh and bone, driven by the wild pounding of their heart. It shattered the fragile barrier between their spirits, uniting them in the single, overwhelming desire to destroy.

  If death was the price for revenge, they would welcome it. Death brought release. Death brought freedom. Freedom from memories and nightmares. Freedom from shame and fear. Freedom to hunt with the wolf pack and fly with the eagles. Death was easy. Death was sweet.

  They rose, smiling. With one mind, they formed the words. With one voice, they spoke them.

  “Vazh do Havi. Remember Kheridh’s vision. Remember the dagger in the Zheron’s hand. That dagger drips with Malaq’s blood and Kheridh’s. Their blood cries out for justice. For the death of this unholy priest who profanes this temple with his lies.”

  “He is the liar! A liar and a madman!”

  His fear was delicious, as potent as the song coursing through them, as sweet as the death that awaited them.

  “Water cannot cleanse you. Fire cannot purify you. Earth cannot hide you.”

  Xevhan shouted orders that the Khonsel countermanded. Xevhan turned on him in a fury and Geriv stepped forward, naked sword at the ready. He, too, was shouting and at his command, more men poured into the chamber.

  The bloodsong echoed off the walls, surrounding them, consuming them. Only the Khonsel seemed immune, but he had fought in many wars. He knew the lure of the bloodsong and could resist its seductive call.

  Their gaze swept the chamber, savoring the communion of thirsty spirits, and found Hircha. She had neither spoken nor moved since the Zheron entered. She was watching them, her eyes huge in her narrow face. Defying the bloodsong, they backed away from the two groups of men to shield her from the swords; someone must survive to tell the tale.

  “False priest. Murderer. For you, there is only death. And an eternity in the bottomless Abyss.”

  Xevhan’s gaze darted toward the guard on his left. He licked his lips, eyeing the sword with longing.

  The bloodsong’s rhythm slowed. Patience and control, it sang, stillness and calm. The song of the shaman seeking the gods-given vision. The song of the hunter stalking his prey.

  “Can you take us, murderer? Are you strong enough?”

  Xevhan’s fingers clutched the vial of qiij. The ring on his finger shone with the bright beauty of fresh-spilled blood.

  “Come to us,” they crooned, drawing the words from their shared memories of that first encounter with him. “You want to. You want it so much you’re shaking.”

  Even then, they had sensed what this man was, but in the days that followed, they had allowed themselves to be deceived because they were so lonely, so frightened. They should have recognized his cruelty, his delight in hurting others.

  “We can feel your fear,” they whispered, drawing the words from their shared memories of Morgath’s torture. “We can read every thought. Uncover all your dirty little secrets.” A wolf’s growl rumbled in their throat. An adder’s hiss caressed their tongue. “Come to us, assassin.”

  Although they were expecting Xevhan’s spirit to attack, the force of his assault shattered their union. The world tilted as his father reeled. Keirith heard him cry out as he fell. Dimly, he was aware of a commotion in the chamber. Golden flames burned in the depths of Fellgair’s eyes, but before Keirith could decipher their meaning, Xevhan’s shocked recognition radiated through him. Confronted by two spirits, he hesitated, torn between his hunger to destroy him and his desire to pursue his father, so much weaker, so much easier to cast out.

  Go, Father! Now!

  His father’s spirit fled, desperately seeking a hiding place. Keirith fled after him, flinging up barriers to protect them. Xevhan obliterated them all. Exhausted as he was from helping the queen Shed, he was still so much stronger than Keirith had imagined.

 

  The lingering effects of qiij fed that relentless pursuit. Its heat licked at Keirith’s spirit, threatening to annihilate him.

 

  Scattered like the ashes of a bonfire. Scattered and forgotten.

 

  Xevhan’s delight oozed through him like malignant sap. This is what his father had experienced when Morgath attacked, this hopeless realization that there was no place to hide, no barrier strong enough to shield him. And the boundless terror of that malevolent spirit savoring his fear and prying into his memories.

 

  Summoning his power, Keirith attacked, driving Xevhan back. His momentary surprise gave way to a ripple of pure pleasure.

 

  Again, Keirith attacked, shame as potent as qiij.

 

  The upwelling of wrath surprised them both. His father’s spirit lashed out; even Xevhan, powerful as he was, retreated before the furious assault. It was hopeless; his father knew it. He possessed neither the skills nor the strength to sustain the attack, but it was fueled by something more potent than qiij or shame or hatred.

  Fierce and protective, his father’s love flooded Keirith. Once, he had been blind enough to resent his strength, believing it somehow diminished his. Only now did he realize that it only made him stronger.

  Was it that knowledge that made Xevhan falter? Or was the strain of The Shedding finally taking its toll?

  Keirith summoned his power, drawing energy from unyielding stone and honeysuckle-scented air, from the shuddering fire of the torches and the pool of Hakkon’s blood. He summoned his power for Hircha, for Urkiat, for the nameless men who had died under the Zheron’s dagger. For Malaq, his friend and mentor. And for his father who loved him.

  He summoned the power and held it while the bloodsong swelled, eager yet controlled, hungry yet calm. The song of the hunter closing in for the kill. With heart and mind and spirit, Keirith hurled the coiled energy at Xevhan.

  Shock turned to disbelief, disbelief to fear. And when the relentless power continued to surge, the fear changed to terror.

  It was Xevhan’s turn to flee and his to pursue, carried effortlessly on the tide of his power. He was an eagle swooping in for the kill, deadly talons seeking fur and flesh and bone. His father cried out a warning, but he could no more allow Xevhan to escape than he could harness the power he had unleashed. All he could do was ride the torrent that connected him to Xevhan.

  His spirit ripped free of his father’s body. For a moment, he drifted, observing the shock of those below who watched Xevhan totter backward. The familiar peace stole over him. The thread connecting him to Xevhan was as slender and fragile as the spinneret that had connected him to the eagle. If he severed it, he could fly away forever.

  Hunger for vengeance overrode the desire to escape. He channeled that hunger into the thread, spinnin
g it thicker and stronger. His father cried out his name, but already the power was pulling him forward, carrying him down.

  The world lurched as he rooted himself in Xevhan’s body. Lurched again as Xevhan slammed into a wall. Colors exploded before him—russet, gold, brown—all the colors of autumn. Trees filled his vision—slender birches, thick-trunked oaks. He was home and it was harvest time and he was flying through the forest.

  He blundered into a tree and pushed it aside. Another rose in its place and he burst through it, scattering evanescent shards of wood that flickered like embers in the night sky. He ripped through an interwoven barrier of saplings that screamed as his power shredded them. Nay, not saplings. Shields. Erected by the man who had murdered him.

  His power surged, feeding on the terror. This was what Morgath had experienced: the dizzying invasion, the intoxicating arousal of battle. Xevhan fought hard and that only made it sweeter. Brutal and relentless, Keirith pressed the attack, thrusting at his opponent’s spirit, penetrating it, savaging it. Xevhan’s scream echoed through him and he quivered with anticipation. Xevhan’s body convulsed and he shuddered with pleasure.

  He was close now, so close. He could feel Xevhan’s hold on his body weakening. It required only a final push to expel him. But he was tiring. The battle was draining them both. He sensed a tiny crack in his enemy’s spirit and gathered himself for one last assault.

  For Malaq.

  Xevhan’s spirit shattered. A cascade of discordant emotions inundated Keirith—denial, hatred, terror—and with them, random thoughts and memories: a bloody, pulsating heart, a child’s laugh, a man’s reproving voice. Keirith flung off the contamination, casting out the shreds of Xevhan’s spirit, flinging them into the void.

  Somewhere, a scream was fading into silence. His strength was fading, too. So tired now, too tired to fight. The brilliant colors of the forest dimmed. He looked up to find his father struggling helplessly in Fellgair’s arms. The world shrank to their faces—his father’s contorted, Fellgair’s calm. He tried to speak, to bid his father farewell, but he could only lie there, caught by the golden fire dancing in the Trickster’s eyes.

  Abruptly, the fire went out. The dance vanished, leaving two dark pools that grew larger and larger until they filled his vision. Gratefully, Keirith allowed the welcoming darkness to claim him.