Bloodstone (55 page)

He could not bring back Urkiat, but there was still time to save his son. He must go back. If reason and pleading couldn’t convince Keirith to leave this place, then by the gods, he would drag him away by force.

Darak stuffed the clay disk into his belt pouch and rose. A shiver raced down his spine. At his feet, a tiny bronze snake lay atop a clump of parched grass. It was the twin of the one he had given Keirith—unless somehow it had returned to him, just as it had when he’d discarded it in Chaos.

He snatched it up, craning his neck to see if Keirith was among those near the gate. Instead, he spied the tall, robed figure, looming above the growing crowd of beggars. First, the Supplicant appeared in Oexiak, now here. This time, he would not let her escape. Whoever she was, he was certain she could help him—and Keirith.

She slipped in and out among the beggars, always just within view, always just out of reach.

At the edge of the hillside, he paused to get his bearings. The path led down the hill past a pillared courtyard. It must be the temple of the God with Two Faces. But the Supplicant was nowhere to be seen.

Ignoring the curses of the bearers, he zigzagged through the line of litters and hurried down the steps. He almost missed the bronze chain, casually draped over a stubby bush, its tiny medallion still swinging back and forth. At the base of a pillar, he found a bracelet. Each of the circular gold pieces bore a face. On half, he made out the smiling countenance of a young woman, on the others, a skull.

First she mimicked the Forest-Lord, now Griane who had left circlets of hair to mark his way back to the grove. Just as surely, the Supplicant had led him to the entrance of her temple.

It seemed to have been built directly into the hillside. The low doorway only enhanced the feeling that you were entering a cave. He hesitated a moment, then ducked inside.

He saw a rectangle of light just ahead, although his sun-dazzled eyes missed the shadowy figures flanking the inner doorway until he was nearly on top of them. The guards—or priests—bowed politely. Voices exclaimed from within. Two robed figures fell to their knees. The Supplicant laid her hands on their heads, then glanced over her shoulder, watching him and waiting.

He hadn’t come this far to turn back now. With a confidence he didn’t feel, Darak strode inside.

The brightness was misleading. Half of the chamber was illuminated, while the other lay in shadow. There were more people than he had thought, all of them on their knees. The Supplicant led him deeper into the chamber, across woolen rugs as soft and thick as mulch. Tiny flames flickering from the hanging bowls made it seem as if the place was lit by a swarm of fireflies. Shadows danced among the paintings, barely visible, that decorated the walls.

He smelled the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle before he saw the flowers. Huge bunches spilled over a stone table—or altar—that appeared to be carved from the same stone as his tribe’s ritual vessels. They might have sprung from different cultures, worshipped different gods, but at one time, his people and the Zherosi had some things in common.

He backed away as new worshippers approached. He could only make out a few words of their chant, but there was no mistaking the joy on their faces. Clearly, the Supplicant was beloved if her appearance was greeted with such fervor.

Gauzy draperies billowed as she slipped through them. Still clutching her discarded jewelry, he followed.

The room was small, but far more opulent. And it was very cool, perhaps because it was built under the hill. A slender girl crawled around the low table on her hands and knees, pausing to plump cushions of red and brown. Other servants—all young and beautiful, even the boys—scurried past with platters and pitchers. Did they know she was coming? Or where she had gone? Although there were no other doors in the chamber, she had vanished—just as she had that night in Oexiak.

The spicy aromas of the food vied with the fragrance of honeysuckle from the vases adorning niches in the walls. Paintings of trees covered one wall of the chamber, an autumn forest of gold and brown and scarlet. Not for the first time, he longed for the sight of something green.

He carefully placed her jewelry on the table. The servants bowed and left. The chanting continued in the outer room, augmented by the sweet trills of a flute. And still, there was no sign of her.

“Welcome, Darak.”

His greeting died when he turned to discover her emerging from the painted forest on the wall. There was no door. She simply . . . walked out of the trees. But even her entrance—incredible as it was—paled in comparison to her naked body.

“Don’t gape, dear. It’s unbecoming.”

The words conjured up a memory, but he simply couldn’t grasp it. All he could do was stare at her, his gaze shifting between the heavy breasts and the thick penis jutting from the black thatch of hair.

“How sweet. You can still blush.” She advanced on him slowly. “And do you still think I’m beautiful?” Her lips pursed in a pout when he failed to reply. “If you don’t find me beautiful, I shall be hurt. You don’t want me to be hurt, do you?”

Numbly, he shook his head.

The scent of honeysuckle wafted toward him as she approached. Her eyes were level with his. In the dark depths, gold flecks swirled. He could feel himself falling into them, just as he had when Fellgair’s golden eyes first bespelled him.

A hand brushed his cheek, the palm as rough and spongy as a dog’s pads. Two long shears sprouted from her upper jaw. A red tongue lolled out between them.

“Have you missed me, Darak?”

He could feel his mouth moving, but no words would emerge.

“Welcome to my temple.”

“Your . . . ?” And then he realized. The God with Two Faces.

“I told you I had many worlds. This is one of my favorites. They treat me so well here. A lovely temple, devoted followers . . .” The Trickster strolled toward the table. “The finest food. Shall we eat?”

“Put some clothes on first.”

“It’s too hot for clothes.”

“Fur, then.”

Fellgair shuddered. “Far too hot for fur. Don’t you like me like this? My followers find me quite impressive.”

“I don’t doubt it. With that . . . spear hanging between your legs.”

Fellgair heaved an exaggerated sigh. “A heavy burden, indeed. As are these.” He hefted the full breasts. The coolness of the room had caused the plum-colored nipples to tighten into tiny buds. “Come. Sit.”

Darak collapsed onto one of the cushions. Fellgair seated himself far more gracefully across the table. “You’re staring,” he chided. “I always thought your taste ran to small-breasted women. With red hair.”

“Leave Griane out of this.”

“But she’s already involved. Who do you think requested that I look in on you? Well, you know how persuasive she can be. And when she wept—”

“She . . . she wept?”

“Or perhaps that was me. I can’t remember.”

“Is she all right? Are the children safe?”

Fellgair leaned forward, proffering a bowl. “Jhok?”

“Why did Griane come to you?”

“Try the lamb, then. It’s rolled in spices, then roasted on skewers.”

“Damn the skewers.” Darak shoved the platter aside, sending it crashing into a pitcher. He leaped up to steady it, cursing himself for losing control in front of Fellgair. “I’m sorry. That was . . .” His voice trailed off.

Fellgair glanced up from grooming his brush. “Rude? Petulant? Childish?” He gave the white tip of his brush a final lick, smoothed the fur on his ruff, and settled himself on the cushions again. His black whiskers twitched as he grinned. “You seem more comfortable with me in this guise.”

“Fox or man—or woman—I’m never comfortable with you.”

“Very wise. Mortals should always quail in the presence of a god. Speaking of which . . .” Fellgair held out another platter. Three golden-brown quail lay atop a nest of leafy vegetables.

“Did you make some sort of bargain with Griane?”

“I don’t wish to discuss that.”

Darak turned on his heel and stalked toward the doorway.

“But I am prepared to discuss your son. The interview didn’t go especially well, did it?”

Of course, Fellgair would know what had happened. After fifteen years, he’d almost forgotten how exhausting it was to try and keep up with the Trickster. Slowly, he turned. “What do you want?”

“A conversation. Why don’t you begin with, ‘I’m delighted to see you again after all these years.’ You
are
delighted, aren’t you?”

“Surprised.”

“Then you might also be surprised to learn that your dull little Tree-Father—what’s his name?—had a disturbing vision in which your heart was cut out. Keirith was there at the time. Watching attentively. You look pale, Darak. Perhaps you should sit.”

He remained where he was, grateful for the wall at his back. “Did you send Gortin that vision?”

“You always think the worst of me. If my nature weren’t so forgiving, I might take offense.”

“If your nature weren’t so devious, I wouldn’t think the worst of you.”

Fellgair grinned. “Very good. Thrust and parry. Oh. My condolences about Urkiat. Was it terrible for you?”

“We were talking about Gortin’s vision.”

“Your verbal skills have improved. It must be your training as a Memory-Keeper. Who’d have thought it?”

“You predicted it.”

“It was one possibility.”

“And did you see the possibility that my son would be kidnapped by the Zherosi? Is that why you gave me your token all those years ago?”

“Only when a child is conceived is the pattern of his life spun,” Fellgair replied, deftly avoiding a direct answer.

“But later?”

“Later? Yes, of course, I saw the possibility.”

“And didn’t warn me?”

“Oh, forgive me. I hadn’t realized that my role in the universe was to avert your family crises.”

“I only meant—”

“A role better suited to a father than to the Trickster.”

That silenced him. “I tried to find him.”

“After you drove him from your hut or after you abandoned him to the mercy of the raiders?”

As many times as those same words had echoed in his head, it was still shocking to hear them spoken aloud.

“To answer your earlier question, I did not bring the Zherosi to your village. I did not encourage you to abandon your son to seek the pleasure of the kill. And I did not make the raider club Keirith over the head and drag him back to his ship. Men set those events into motion. Just as, fifteen years ago, a man came through a portal from Chaos into the grove of the First Forest.”

“You’re . . . are you saying Morgath is behind this?”

“Morgath is dead, Darak. Even the most powerful shaman has difficulty recovering when a dagger is driven into his eye. Or should I say her eye? It was, after all, the Grain-Mother’s body he inhabited at the time. There were so many. It’s hard to keep track. An owl, a bear, a wolf, a wren. The lovely Yeorna. Do you still dream about her beautiful blue eyes, Darak?”

“Nay.”

“Or Morgath cutting away your flesh?”

“Nay.”

“Or poking around inside your spirit?”

“Nay!”

“I’m glad. I’d hate to think he had broken you.”

“He didn’t.”

“Then why have you never spoken of what happened? Why did you return home with Griane only to abandon her—setting the pattern early, weren’t you?—and flee back to the First Forest?”

“I didn’t . . . I had to . . .”

“Decide whether you wanted to live or die.”

“Decide what to do with my life.”

“Yes. One gets so tired of the ‘gallant but crippled hero’ role. Still, it’s more fulfilling than the ‘great hunter who cannot hunt.’ Or the ‘Memory-Keeper who cannot free himself from memories.’ ”

The onslaught was as relentless as it was true.

“Griane knew. Such a wise woman, your wife. She saw the possibility that you would not be able to face the world. That her love—great as it was—was not strong enough to hold you. And yet she allowed you to go back. She waited—one long moon—while you decided between life and death. And her beautiful red hair turned white.”

The pain in his gut radiated up into his chest. The mere act of breathing hurt so much he could only take in air with shallow pants. Oddly, his fingers hurt, too. It took several moments before he realized they were splayed against the wall behind him, fingertips scraping stone.

“You’re much crueler now than you were fifteen years ago.”

“We’d only just met,” Fellgair replied with a mocking smile. “I was on my best behavior.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Being cruel?”

“Bringing up the past.”

“Because the past influences the present. The things that happened in the First Forest and in Chaos still affect you today. And everything that affects you affects your son.”

“You are his father,” Fellgair replied as if he had spoken aloud. “So you deserve some of the fault—and the credit—for Keirith’s life. But there are other forces at work. Mortal life is a series of possibilities, stretching from the moment of conception to death.”

Fellgair traced a line in the air. A trail of creamy light shimmered in the wake of his claw. “Before a child is born, a single thread connects him to his mother.” The creamy light separated into two strands of intertwined white and gold. “After birth, other threads are woven into the pattern: father, brother, sister.” He sketched new lines in as he spoke: red, green, blue, each thread branching in many directions. “Outside forces may disrupt the pattern: disease . . .” He twisted a blue thread and its light dimmed. “Death.” With a quick slash of his claw, he severed the thread. The blue branches vanished. The other colors flickered uncertainly.