Bloodstone (68 page)

“And why do you care about a worthless cripple?”

Desperately, he sought a reason why Xevhan would want to protect the very man who had accused him of murder. It was no good. He should have simply agreed when the Khonsel proposed killing his father, but the denial had sprung to his lips without thought. And now he was trapped. He couldn’t save his father. He didn’t care about saving himself.

“Do what you want. It does not matter. Malaq is dead.”

“And you killed him.”

Malaq had come to the altar for him, had died because of him. Xevhan merely wielded the dagger that struck him down.

“Yes. I killed him. Your best friend. Your oldest friend. You fought battles together. You ate together, drank together. You even named his cat.”

“His cat?”

“Niqia.”

“I know her name. Why do you think I gave it to her?”

He was too tired to wrangle. He just wanted the Khonsel to stop playing with him and finish this. “I do not remember.”

“Try.”

“He said . . .”

Malaq staring up at him, apparently unperturbed to find him standing on a bench in his garden. Delivering his lecture on breeding wildcats in the dry tone he always used during those first days. It was only later that either of them risked speaking from the heart.

“It was the fur,” he said wearily. “Or the body. I forget. Soft body. Sharp claws. Like the lady.” The Khonsel just stared at him. Had he spoken the tribal tongue? “Soft body,” he repeated. “And—”

“Sharp claws. I heard.” Both the Khonsel’s expression and voice were noncommittal. “And did Malaq tell you about Davell, too?”

Keirith closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “No.”

“You’ve never heard the name?”

“No!”

“Or the name of Malaq’s wife?”

“Priests cannot marry.”

“Before that. When he fought with me. She was one of the Tree People.”

Keirith opened his eyes. Perhaps the Khonsel thought he would be shocked by the revelation, but he was beyond shock. Malaq had loved a woman of the tribes. It explained his facility with the language, his knowledge of the legends, his eagerness to find similarities between their peoples. She must have died. Malaq would never have left her. His wife died, and Malaq became a priest. It all made sense now.

“Malaq had a wife,” he murmured to himself.

“And a son.”

He was not beyond shock after all. “Malaq has a son?”

“Had. Davell is dead.”

A strange undertone of excitement lurked in the Khonsel’s voice. Keirith waited for him to continue, but the man just watched him.

“How did he die?”

It must have been the question the Khonsel desired. At any rate, he smiled. “He was killed in battle. When he was fourteen.”

His age. Davell had been his age when he died.

“I thought it would kill Malaq, losing him so young.”

Keirith saw again the terrible grief that had contorted his father’s face at the temple of Zhe and tried to imagine such emotion twisting Malaq’s smooth features.

“He was tall for his age. Stubborn like Malaq. They butted heads more than once.”

His mam’s voice, scolding, “Broody like your father. And stubborn as a rock.”

“Had his mother’s coloring, though. The dark blue eyes.”

The same color as his.

“And the hair, of course.”

The words hung there until Keirith forced himself to ask, “The hair?”

“Auburn.” The Khonsel’s smile widened. “A deep, rich auburn.”

The same age. The same eyes. The same hair.

It wasn’t him. It had never been him. From the first moment, Malaq had only seen the son he had lost.

He wasn’t aware the Khonsel had stepped back until he felt himself sliding down the wall. He pulled his knees up to his chest. His father had warned him that Malaq was using him; he’d believed it himself during the early days of his captivity. He’d tried so hard to push Malaq away, to keep him at a distance. But Malaq wouldn’t let him go. And in the face of that persistence—and his own desperate need to trust someone—he had let down his guard. That had been his mistake, allowing himself to feel genuine affection for the man and deceiving himself into believing that the affection was returned.

Malaq laughing with him in the excitement of sharing knowledge and power. Malaq spooning broth into his mouth, scolding him for making a mess. Malaq holding him in his arms while he crouched on the floor, gentle fingers stroking his hair, gentle voice assuring him that he had done the right thing by sending his father away.

Nay, that was real. Malaq had held
him,
comforted
him,
not some replica of his son.

“I don’t care.”

“What?”

His head jerked up. He blinked furiously to clear his vision. “I said . . .” He cursed and switched to Zherosi. “It does not matter. Malaq is dead. I never . . .” Damn his voice for breaking. “I do not care about him. Not now, not ever. Do you hear me?”

“If you don’t lower your voice, the whole palace will hear you.”

He launched himself at the man, hating him for his mockery, his satisfaction, his supreme self-possession. The Khonsel caught him easily and held him as he struggled. And when he finally stopped struggling, the Khonsel sat him down on the sleeping shelf and watched with that same satisfied expression as he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“Are you through?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Geriv!”

Geriv was there in a moment; he must have heard everything.

“Bring us some food. And wine. And while we’re waiting, boy, you tell me everything you remember from the moment you started herding the adders to the temple.”

“Leave me alone.” Then the words sank in. He raised his head to find the Khonsel waiting patiently for understanding to dawn. “You believe me? But why?” He could feel his face growing warm. “Because I acted like a fool. About Malaq’s son.”

“Mostly. The bit about Niqia helped, too.” The Khonsel leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “There were other things, of course. You expected to find hair on your head. You were concerned about your father. And you still gnaw your thumb when you’re nervous.”

“You knew who I was? When you came in?”

“Sit down. I questioned your father. After he calmed down. A strong man, your father. Took four men to pull him off the Zheron. Off you. Cursing and shouting and calling me a fool for not listening. The girl—what’s her name?”

“Hircha,” he murmured.

“She translated. And filled in a few of the missing pieces. But they couldn’t know who’d won the battle any more than I did when I came in. Xevhan was clever enough to pretend to be you. But even he couldn’t muster tears for Malaq.”

Unable to face the penetrating stare, Keirith fastened his gaze on the floor. The wilted sprays of bitterheart were the color of dried blood. He closed his eyes and saw Malaq offering him the scarlet blossoms. A gift of flowers to celebrate the Ripening. A gift he must have given his wife and his son when they celebrated the festival with him.

“It wasn’t just the resemblance.” The Khonsel’s voice was flat and unemotional. “In the beginning, maybe. But he wouldn’t have risked so much if that’s all it was.”

When he trusted his voice, Keirith said, “Thank you. For saying so.”

“The stubborn old fool would come back and haunt me if I let you think otherwise.” A brief smile, surprisingly tender, softened the lined face. It vanished as he cocked his head, listening. “That’ll be Geriv with the food. We’ll eat here. Too many people coming and going. It would be better if they thought the Zheron was still ailing.”

Geriv arrived with a platter. After he laid it on the floor, he left, only to return moments later with cushions. In his wake, a familiar figure slunk along the wall.

“Niqia!”

At the sound of his voice, her ears went back and her mouth opened in a soundless hiss. She skittered under the stool and crouched there, tail lashing furiously. Keirith swallowed down the lump of disappointment; of course, she wouldn’t know him anymore.

“I found her at the temple. Nearly shredded me when I tried to pick her up.” The Khonsel scowled at the scratches on his arms, then settled himself on a cushion with a grunt. “As if I don’t have enough to do without playing nursemaid to a damned cat.” Gingerly, he picked a piece of meat out of one bowl and tossed it toward her. “Sit, Geriv. Even you have to eat. And pour us some wine. Thank the gods that was spared.” He drained his cup in a few thirsty gulps and refilled it from a dented bronze pitcher. “Now. Start at the beginning.”

“What about my father?”

“Later.”

“But—”

“Later.”

His tale was interrupted a dozen times by the endless stream of visitors coming to see the Khonsel: soldiers making reports, slaves bearing messages from someone called the Stuavo; healers arriving with updates on the queen’s condition. Keirith eavesdropped shamelessly on their conversations and grew increasingly impressed with the Khonsel’s efficiency; no wonder Malaq admired him.

“How bad is it?” he asked after the Khonsel returned from yet another interview.

“Only three hundred dead. So far. We’re still digging bodies out of the rubble.”

“It would have been worse if I hadn’t had the district closest to the palace hill evacuated.” The Khonsel smiled wearily. “I came to the pit that night.”

“I know. I heard your voice.”

“The Qepo said he’d never seen the adders so wild. I didn’t want to wait and see what you learned.” He started to spit, then restrained himself. “Never been much of a man for magic. The queen refused to evacuate the palace, but I took a few precautions on my own. Ordered the ships out to sea. Moved the oil and flammable supplies out of the storerooms. Had the fires in the kitchen put out.” This time he did spit. “If the damned priests didn’t insist on lighting incense and candles when they pray, we might have prevented more fires. Still . . .”

He waved away the priests and their rituals impatiently and gulped more wine. “The palace district was pretty much destroyed. What the earth didn’t take, the fires did. But at least some of the wells were spared. And none of our other cities suffered major damage, thank the gods. I’ve sent birds requesting food, water, supplies, but it’ll be another day before the first shipments arrive. Womb of Earth, spare us from more aftershocks.”

“More?”

“You were asleep. Just a bit of a rumble. But it gave people a scare.” He broke off as Geriv came in to murmur something. “No other incidents of looting? Good. Commend your brother. And then come back. We have other matters to discuss.”

“What happens now?” Keirith asked after Geriv left.

“We rebuild.”

“But the king . . . and Malaq . . .”

“The queen lives. New priests will be appointed to replace those who were lost. We still have the Supplicant.” The Khonsel shook his head in wonder. “Hers was the only temple undamaged in the earthquake. The God with Two Faces looks after his own.”

Certainly, Fellgair wouldn’t tolerate any damage to his beautiful temple.

“But the adders . . . without them, you cannot make qiij.”

“We’ll capture more. As we’ve done in the past. An earthquake topples buildings, boy. Not kingdoms.” The Khonsel shot him a keen look. “Does that disappoint you?”

Keirith took advantage of Geriv’s return to gather his thoughts. “I did not want people to die. Good people. Innocent people. But—”

“Like the Motixa.”

Keirith winced. “Yes. She was innocent. But my people are innocent, too. You steal them, sacrifice them, turn them into slaves.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell anyone the earthquake was coming?”

“But I do—did—tell the Qepo.”

“Not when. Not how bad.”

“I only knew soon. Not how bad.” The Khonsel watched him, waiting. “Not . . . so bad as this.”

“And would you have said anything if you’d known it was going to be ‘so bad as this’?”

He started to say, “Of course.” The words died under the Khonsel’s relentless stare.

He could protest that his father was going to be sacrificed, that he hoped he might have a chance to escape when the earthquake struck—that all the captives might have a chance. He could claim that, even if he had spoken up, the queen would have sacrificed his father and then sent him to the altar stone as well. But why tell the Khonsel what he must already suspect?

“I do not know if I would have said anything. I think . . . no.”

The Khonsel refilled his goblet. “So. What would you do with him, Geriv?”

“Kill him,” Geriv replied, his voice devoid of emotion. “He’s dangerous.”

And no one would ever know. Only Geriv and the Khonsel had seen him.

The Khonsel leaned forward. “You wanted to die. Earlier.”