Bloodstone (51 page)

“The Zheron’s coming out,” Urkiat said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Finish it now. Before he gets in the way.”

Urkiat nodded. Darak tightened his grip on the sword. They’d practiced the move a dozen times. More. Olinio called it breathtaking. It had better be. Otherwise, this bloodthirsty crowd would have both their heads.

He took a deep breath, signaling his readiness, and lunged upwards, his sword driving toward Urkiat’s heart. But instead of spinning away, Urkiat remained motionless.

Darak had only a heartbeat to glance up and see his frozen look of abstraction. He screamed Urkiat’s name, hoping to shock him into action, but even as he did, he knew it was too late to stop his body’s momentum, too late to avert the thrust.

The sword drove up and under his breastbone. Urkiat’s sword fell from his nerveless fingers. Darak flung out an arm to catch him, the weight of Urkiat’s body dragging them both to the ground. His right hand, bound to the sword, was useless. All he could do was cradle Urkiat in his left arm while the blood gushed out of his chest. In Urkiat’s eyes, he saw the reflection of his own shock and disbelief. And all he could say was, “Gods, man. Gods. What happened?”

Urkiat’s mouth opened as if he might speak, as if he could explain what had gone so horribly wrong. Then his back arched in an agonized spasm and his heels dug into the sand. Darak tightened his grip, his breath coming in the same deep, ragged gasps as Urkiat’s. He buried his face in Urkiat’s damp hair, then jerked his head up again.

He hoped Urkiat would want that. He hoped his face would give him comfort instead of reminding him that it was his friend—the man he trusted and respected as a father—who had killed him.

“I’m with you, lad. I’m right here.”

The world narrowed to the man in his arms, to the struggling body and the staring eyes, to the feel of bone and flesh under his arm, to the warmth of blood soaking his hand. It was so quiet. As if the world were dying with Urkiat. No birds sang. No men shouted. His mind was screaming, “Why did this happen?” but his voice continued its ceaseless murmur, offering words of comfort, of friendship, of love.

The dark blue eyes were glazing. The struggle was nearly over.

“Go easy, lad. I’ll be with you. Always. To the Forever Isles and beyond.”

Urkiat’s chest rose and fell. Rose again. Slowly sank as the breath left him. Moments passed. Darak’s heart thudded, a painful testament to life. Urkiat’s chest rose once more. His eyes darkened. His head lolled. And he was gone.

Through the receding haze, Keirith heard a clear, high voice singing. He lifted his head. No one seemed to have noticed him slumping across the cushions. They were too enthralled by the spectacle in the arena.

It was the blind girl, her sorrowful face tilted skyward. He was too exhausted to try and make out the words, but the slow, mournful melody made it plain enough that it was a lament. To Keirith’s amazement, some of the Zherosi joined her. A moment ago, they had been screaming for death and now they mourned it. Who could understand them? Who would ever want to?

He pushed himself into a sitting position. One of the little men was kneeling beside his father. As he reached for the thongs binding the sword, his father’s head came up, his mouth twisted in a snarl. Then he saw who it was and allowed the little man to free his hand.

His father tried to ease the sword from Urkiat’s chest, but in the end, he had to wrench it free. He flung the sword away and pulled Urkiat closer, rocking him like a babe. And then his head came up again. He seemed to be listening to the lament. The little man bent closer, questioning him, but his father just kept shaking his head.

“Not one of their songs!”

His chest heaved. He shook the hair out of his face. And then he closed his eyes and sang.

One by one, the Zherosi fell silent, until there was only his father’s halting voice, choking on the tears that coursed down his face.

His voice broke. The little man took up the lament in a voice rough as sand.

His father’s voice fell to a whisper on the last words. He closed Urkiat’s eyes. Brushed a damp strand of hair off his forehead. Bent to kiss him softly on the mouth.

As Xevhan started toward his father, Keirith struggled to rise. He swayed and nearly fell; the magic had taken the last remnants of his strength. He staggered past Xevhan and faced the silent crowd.

“It is time to go.” His voice was little more than a whisper. He repeated the words again, raising his voice so that everyone could hear. “No more killing. Please.”

The little man clutched his father’s arm, whispering urgently. Xevhan must have seen death in his father’s eyes, for he backed away, beckoning the chubby man. “Come to my chamber at midmorning for your payment. Bring the blind girl.”

He strode toward his litter, shouting at the bearers to hurry. For of course, it was nearly dawn. And time for another sacrifice.

His father’s gaze followed Xevhan. The little man grabbed his face, forcing him to look at him. The performers drew closer. The one who had played the shepherd held his staff at the ready, but he didn’t need it. As Keirith watched, the tension drained out of his father’s body.

“I’m sorry,” Keirith whispered.

His father looked up at him, his eyes dull. “You didn’t kill him.”

“You can’t stay here,” Keirith said. “It’s too dangerous.”

His father’s expression hardened. “I haven’t gotten what I came for.”

“Please . . .”

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. Y
ou 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.

E
XHAUSTION 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.