Bloodstone (37 page)

His bleak expression softened. “You wouldn’t think you’d remember such things with all that happened later, but I do. Maybe
because
of what happened later. Or maybe because it was my first watch. But I still remember the cuff and the argument. And the cold—gods, it was cold that night.”

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Two others kept watch on the headland. That was my father’s idea—to have two sets of watchers. But we never even saw them. There was only a little splash. Like fish. And the same kind of creak that branches make when they rub together in the wind. That was the sound of their oars. I didn’t know that then. I was still trying to puzzle it out when Mareth grabbed my shoulder. I tried to shout—” His voice caught and he cleared his throat. “All that came out was a whisper. We just stood there, staring at this . . . giant . . . emerging from the mist by the marshes. And then Mareth shoved me and told me to run. He shouted a warning to the village, shouted at me, but by then, they were everywhere. I screamed then and stumbled. That’s what saved me.” He fingered the scar on his cheek with trembling fingers.

“When I woke up, they were gone. It was quiet. Except for the moaning. The smoke was so thick it choked you. We’d had a lot of rain that autumn and the thatch was damp. The village was empty save for the bodies. I found Mareth. Near me. They’d stabbed him so many times his tunic was in shreds.”

Urkiat swallowed hard and swiped his lips with his fist. “I must have passed out . . . my head . . . I could hardly see. When I woke again, I was in our hut. My grandmother was bending over me. She’d fled into the forest with the others. We lost ten that day. Eight dead and two . . . just gone. Stolen. And all our stores.”

He was silent so long that Darak finally asked, “But your folk didn’t leave?”

“Nay. Even after they came the next autumn and killed eight more, we stayed. The following spring, more ships came. This time, the raiders wanted to talk. And my father . . .” He spat the word out like a curse. “. . . who had buried his firstborn son . . . my father—the chief— invited the leader of the raiders into his hut and offered him wine and fed him salmon and barleycakes. And when they came out, the council met and we had a new treaty with the men who had butchered our people.”

Urkiat leaped up and stalked down the beach, only to whirl around again a moment later. “My father agreed to provide furs and hides every spring and grain every autumn if the raiders left us in peace. My father agreed they could use our village to launch attacks on the tribes farther north. My father agreed they could cut down as many trees as they needed to build their great fortress and repair their ships. And when the leader of the raiders asked for a boy to serve him and run messages to and from the fortress, my father offered me.”

Urkiat’s voice dwindled to a hoarse whisper. “I thought I’d die of the shame. But you don’t, do you? You eat it and drink it and vomit it up like bile.”

“Don’t.” Darak didn’t even know if Urkiat heard him for he was staring out to sea again.

“I served him two years.”

“You were a boy.”

“I was fifteen when I killed him.”

After a long moment, Darak managed, “The leader of the raiders?”

“Aye.”

“You hated him. Hated what he’d done to your people.”

Urkiat laughed, the hoarse croak of a raven. “I loved him.”

Darak opened his mouth and shut it again.

“He was kind. And honorable. And fair. He taught me his language. He told me about the great cities of the Zherosi. He told me his people and mine should be friends, that if we tried very hard to learn each other’s way, we could live together as we had generations ago.”

Urkiat spat. “He was a dreamer. Or a liar. I still don’t know which. But I . . . I loved him like a father. That’s why I had to kill him. Because I was losing myself and everything I thought I believed in and sooner or later, I would choose him over my people and then I’d be . . . nothing.”

Urkiat sank down on the beach as if his legs would no longer support him. “That’s when they destroyed the village. After I killed him. I didn’t plan it. I just . . . it just happened. And then I ran away. I should have stayed. Then they would have killed me, too.”

He stared out at the sea like a man bespelled. “They hanged my father,” he said calmly, “but the rest were impaled against the walls of the fortress. Even the babes. They didn’t waste spears. They shoved sharpened stakes through their bellies. A few were still alive when I found them.”

“Dear gods . . .”

“They must have taken some as slaves. There were only fifty-three bodies. I counted. As I dragged them to the Death Hut. Three days, it took me. They didn’t all fit. I had to lay most of them on the ground. But I folded their hands across their chests and closed their eyes.” His voice had become as light and high as a child reciting his lessons. “It was very warm. Like today. And the sea so bright it hurt to look at it.”

Numbed by the horror of the story, it took Darak a moment before he could move. Urkiat’s head came up. Although his eyes were wild, his voice was still very quiet. “Don’t touch me, please. If you touch me, I’ll weep. And tears are a privilege I don’t deserve.”

Darak went down on one knee, careful not to touch him. “Aye, you do. But if you won’t weep for yourself, weep for your folk. They deserve your tears.”

Very slowly, he reached out and laid his hand on the dark hair. Urkiat’s hands came up, whether to push him away or cling to him, Darak didn’t know, because he was already pulling him into his arms. When Urkiat’s sobs finally ebbed, and the sun dipped into the sea, Darak helped him to his feet. He settled the pack on his shoulders and took his hand, as if he were a little lad like Callie, and led him away from the ruins.

F
OR DAYS, KEIRITH did little but go over the events of the last sennight. He felt like an animal caught in a snare; any move would only tighten the noose around his neck. The Pajhit’s words, so similar to his father’s, echoed in his head:
“Trust your instincts. Your observations.”
Words that applied equally well to both the hunter and the hunted.

Perhaps it was because he thought so much about his father that he dreamed of swimming in the lake with him. They dove deep, squinting at each other through the murky water. Hands clasped, they floated together, enjoying the silence and serenity. But then something pulled him to the surface.

He woke to hear his mam calling his name, her voice as clear and strong as if she sat beside him. Still half asleep, he sat up, looking around the hut for her. Only when he saw the walls of stone and the guards, silhouetted in the doorway, did he remember where he was. He lay back on his fleece, hoping they would think his shivering came from cold instead of fear. And in the morning, he walked into the Pajhit’s chamber and, with a calm he did not feel, laid out his bargain.

“I’ll tell you everything I know about my gift, teach you everything I’ve learned about the way a shaman works with a spirit guide. I . . . I’ll even let you touch my spirit if it’s the only way for you to understand. But in return, I want your oath that I may go home.”

“To a people who view your gift as an abomination? Who would sacrifice you for using it?”

“Your people would sacrifice me as well.”

The Pajhit conceded that with a reluctant nod.

“I want to go home.”

“Very well. You have my oath. Once I’ve learned what I need to know, I’ll help you leave Pilozhat. If you still wish to go.”

And so he became the teacher and Malaq his student. Keirith taught him the lessons he had learned as an apprentice: stillness, emptiness, control. Every afternoon, they sat together in Malaq’s bedchamber while he struggled to master these skills. Without the crutch of qiij, it was impossible for him to slip the bonds of his body, but there were also distractions that broke his concentration: priests calling him to meetings to organize the festival called The Shedding; the Master of Zhiisti wailing about some dispute among his students; or simply the brush of Niqia’s fur against his hand.

“It takes time,” he assured Malaq. “Be patient.”

In the evenings, Malaq became the teacher again. “Shielding will not cast someone out of your spirit, but it will prevent him from searching it. And for two spirits who wish to commune, shielding keeps them from . . . bleeding together.”

“Is that dangerous?”

“It can be—if the spirits touch for a long period of time. Think of the shield as a wall. Partners whose spirits are touching can make the wall as strong as they wish. The more permeable the wall, the greater the connection. And the deeper one spirit may probe another.”

It raised all Keirith’s old fears. Until he mastered the technique of shielding, he would be vulnerable.

“I know you fear what will happen when our spirits touch. But I promise you, I will go no deeper than you permit me.”

The first time he felt the delicate brush of Malaq’s spirit, he instinctively pushed him away. Although Malaq withdrew immediately, Keirith was too drained by the experience to try again until the following evening. This time, he forced himself to withstand the shock of the initial intrusion. Within moments, Malaq’s presence faded until it was barely perceptible.

It was like sharing thoughts with the eagle, except Malaq’s were much fainter.

Instead, he blasted a hole through it. The next night, however, he did a little better. The hardest part was learning to restrain his power, allowing it to unfurl as gently as he had when he touched the eagle. When he apologized yet again for his clumsiness, Malaq looked at him in astonishment. “It takes some Zhiisti a moon to master the rudiments of shielding.”

After that, though, they had to stop the lessons; three nights of using qiij sapped Malaq’s energy. When he recovered, Keirith resumed his instruction, but Malaq was fretful at his continued failure.

“We just haven’t found the right tools to help you,” Keirith assured him. “Sometimes, the Tree-Father gazes into the smoke of a fire. Or into a bowl of water.”

They gave up on the bowl of water after Niqia began drinking from it.

“A polished stone?” Keirith suggested.

After some hesitation, Malaq removed one from the small altar in his bedchamber, a palm-sized disk of greenish-black stone, speckled with red.

“Concentrate on the red blotches,” Keirith said. “Just let yourself fall into them. Become part of the stone.”

The first time, the trance lasted only a few moments, but Malaq was as excited as an apprentice, swearing that the specks had formed the shape of two wings. “What does it mean?”

“What do you think it means?” Keirith replied, just as the Tree-Father would have.

“I think it was you. You were the wings. Carrying me to a new realm of knowledge.” Then Malaq recovered his customary reserve and added dryly, “Or perhaps it was only the pheasant I had for supper.”

They laughed together, giddy with the success and the shared bond of power. Malaq was still chuckling when Keirith rose.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired. Excuse me.”

The next morning, he went back to the Pajhit’s chamber and told him he wanted to observe a sacrifice.

“May I ask why?”

“I . . . I just need to.”

“Very well. I’ll have the guards bring you to the temple of Zhe before dawn.”

“Nay.” Keirith swallowed hard. “I wish to see a sacrifice to Heart of Sky.”

All expression fled Malaq’s face. “As you wish.”

It was still dark when he left the palace, but already the corridors were bustling with slaves carrying platters of food, and anonymous officials ducking into storage rooms. None of them even flinched when they heard the awful blast of the horn, but then they must have heard it thousands of times before.