Bloodstone (69 page)

Nothing escaped the man. “Yes.”

“Does it sicken you so much to be in his body?”

The snakes on his forearms sneered at him. “Yes. But . . . it is more than that. Among my people, it is a crime to cast out the spirit of another. A terrible crime.”

“And what would your people do to a man who had committed such a crime?”

“Kill him.” His voice sounded as emotionless as Geriv’s had.

“There’s another choice,” the Khonsel said. “Everyone thinks you’re the Zheron. You could become him. Quite a rise in fortune. You might even fulfill Malaq’s dream of peace between our peoples.”

“First you want to kill me. Now you want me to stay and be the Zheron?” He waited for the Khonsel to smile, but his expression remained serious.

As impossible as it sounded, he realized it might work. A head injury would explain his fractured Zherosi. He could cite the earthquake as a sign of the gods’ displeasure, use it to halt—or at least decrease—the sacrifices. But could he stop the raids? As long as the Zherosi needed slaves to work their fields and timber to build their ships, their eyes would turn north.

Together, he and Malaq might have been able to do it. But alone?

The seductive song of power whispered through him. He could change the policies of a kingdom. He could protect his people. He could use his gift for good. But the song also carried the memory of the triumph that had coursed through him as he battled Xevhan, the pleasure of eradicating his defenses, of destroying his tenacious hold on life. That was his power, too.

He had cast out the spirit of a man. The village elders might accept that he had done so to protect himself and his father, but Morgath had been sentenced to death for less.

His fist pressed against his chest as if that could stifle the yearning that rose up in him. Even if it meant his death, he wanted to see the eagles soaring over the lake and breathe the scent of peat smoke in the air. He wanted to walk into the village of his birth, where every hut was familiar, every face known. More than anything, he wanted to see his mam again, and Faelia and Callie and Conn. He wanted to go home.

“Thank you, Khonsel. But the Zheron is dead.”

The Khonsel nodded once as if satisfied.

“Another test?” Keirith asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The Khonsel shrugged.

“And if I failed?”

“I would have been forced to break my promise to Malaq,” the Khonsel replied evenly.

“Even if he came back to haunt you?”

“Yes. Geriv is right. You are dangerous. And because of you, Malaq is dead. But I made him a promise and as long as you don’t pose a threat to my people, I intend to keep it.”

“Then . . . you will help us? My father and me?”

The Khonsel’s expression hardened. “Tell me something first. Did he suffer?”

Keirith flinched. “The first moment . . . when the dagger goes in . . . that is bad. But after—”

“Not Malaq.”

And then he understood.

“He knew he was going to die. That nothing could save him—not power or pleading or qiij. I ripped his spirit apart and shredded it and hurled the pieces of him into the Abyss. He felt it all. And he died screaming.”

The Khonsel let out his breath slowly. “Thank you.”

F
ELLGAIR HAD DESERTED him. Hakkon was dead. And Keirith . . . gone. The Zheron had been alive when they took him away, but Darak had no way of knowing who had won the battle. He’d tried to tell the man in charge—the Khonsel—everything that had happened, but it was impossible to tell whether the man believed him. And now, more than a day had passed and he’d heard nothing.

The Khonsel hadn’t forgotten about him, though. His guards still lingered in the temple. After a day of enforced inactivity, half of them sprawled on the floor, sleeping. The rest slumped against the wall, barely glancing in his direction.

Hircha had retreated into silence, but she’d watched him all day and half the night. Finally, he’d told her to get some sleep. She was lying near him with her eyes closed, but the tension in her body revealed her wakefulness.

Grief and rage had faded, leaving him numb. He ate to keep Hircha from nagging him. He drank—more than he should—to numb himself further. And waited, disinterested, to learn what his fate would be.

Since taking in Keirith’s spirit, events had spiraled out of his control. His feeble efforts to help his son repel the Zheron had been worthless, his attempt to keep Keirith from pursuing the man even more so. He could not help Keirith now, but he might be able to intercede for the girl.

The guards stirred, kicking their comrades awake. Only then did Darak hear the tramp of feet. By the time the Khonsel strode through the doorway, the guards were standing at attention.

Hircha shot him a wild look before she managed to compose her features. The Khonsel rapped out a command and the guards saluted and withdrew. As soon as they were gone, two others marched in, grim-faced and silent. They took up positions on either side of the doorway as the Khonsel strode toward him, his expression equally grim.

Darak rose. If he was going to be sentenced to death, he preferred to receive the news on his feet. The Khonsel glared at him, but his voice was very soft.

“The Khonsel wants no outbursts.” Hircha’s voice shook as she translated. “Nor displays of emotion.”

Keirith was dead.

“You are to listen to what he has to say and obey his orders without question. Do you understand?”

His boy was dead.

“Darak. Do you—”

“Aye.”

The man’s eyes held his. He spoke low and fast. The only emotion he betrayed was a frown at Hircha’s sudden intake of breath.

“The Khonsel says . . .” Her voice cracked. “Keirith is alive.”

The Khonsel began speaking again, but Hircha’s translation became a meaningless flow of words. Alive. Merciful Maker, he was alive. Hircha was shaking his arm. He knew he must listen to her, but his mind was adrift in joy. No outbursts? No displays of emotion? Dear gods, did the man think he was made of stone? His boy was alive.

He covered his face with a shaking hand and fought for control. “Wait. Please. Start again.”

Slowly, patiently, she repeated what she had just told him. This time, though, he found himself recalling Keirith’s words:
“Sooner or later, I’ll cast out the spirit of a man. As Morgath did.”

From the moment they had carried the Zheron out, he had known it was a possibility. Gods, he had even prayed for that outcome. Keirith was his son. The Zheron had meant to destroy him, to destroy them both. But still an instinctive shudder of revulsion raced through him at an act that was the ultimate subversion of nature.

Hircha’s urgent whisper brought him back. “I’m sorry. I . . . what were you saying?”

“I said Keirith is dressed as an ordinary priest. He’s waiting with Geriv—the man with the eye patch—in a cove west of the city where a fishing boat will take you to Oexiak. The two guards by the door know the place. They are Geriv’s brothers, but they don’t know the truth. You are just a valuable slave who must reach his master before he sails. Do you understand?”

He had to make her repeat it all again. The words made sense, but he simply couldn’t believe them.

“Darak. There’s little time. The boat leaves at dawn.”

It could be a trap. But why would the Khonsel craft such an elaborate lie when he could simply execute him?

“I understand. But . . . why? Ask him why he’s doing this?”

Irritation crossed the Khonsel’s face as he replied.

“He says . . . it doesn’t explain anything, but he said, ‘Because I’m a sentimental fool.’ ”

It was not the face of a man given to sentimentality or foolishness. A determined face and—if he was reading it right—an honest one. The kind of man he’d have welcomed during the quest: stubborn and fearless and strong.

“Darak? Will you go?”

Only when he heard the tremor in Hircha’s voice did he realize the Khonsel’s bargain failed to mention her. “Tell him I’ll go. If you’re allowed to come with me.”

Her breath caught. Her head came up, the incredible blue eyes huge in her thin face. For a moment, he thought she would cry, but she quickly controlled herself and translated his reply. The Khonsel blew out his breath in exasperation and answered her shortly.

“He said, ‘Of course.’ ” Her expression was dazed. “ ‘I thought that was understood.’ ”

“Thank you, Khonsel.” He knew he couldn’t clasp the man’s hand, so he offered a jerky bow instead. “Thank you for our lives. We will remember you in our prayers.”

A tremulous smile lit Hircha’s face as she listened to the soft but vehement reply. “The Khonsel says, ‘Better you should reimburse me the forty serpents I had to lay out for the boat.’ ”

Still scowling, the Khonsel turned on his heel, shouting orders to the guards.

They headed west, skirting the open field where he had camped with the players. Dozens of small fires lit up the plain like fireflies, but once these were behind them, they had only Gheala’s thin sliver of light to guide them.

After the incessant noise of Pilozhat, the stillness was eerie, broken only by the rustle of dry grass and Hircha’s labored breathing. Twice, she missed her footing and sprawled headlong, but picked herself up without a word. After that, though, she permitted him to take her hand and help her over the rough terrain.

The sky to the east was just beginning to brighten when the guards slowed. Ahead, he could make out the dark expanse of the sea. Single file, they zigzagged along the top of a cliff, careful to keep a safe distance from the edge. The guards were clearly looking for a path down, but much of the cliff had fallen away during the earthquake; piles of rocks and debris littered the shoreline.

Finally, the guards halted, their uneasy glances alternating between the sky and the shore below. After a muted discussion, one of them turned and spoke softly. Hircha nodded, but made no attempt to translate; no doubt, the slaves of the rich merchant’s son were expected to understand Zherosi.

One guard started down the slope. Darak seized Hircha’s hand and followed. He slipped once on the loose pebbles, scraping his free hand raw as he caught himself. When they finally reached the bottom, he breathed a thankful prayer to the Maker.

The boat looked like a miniature version of the ones that had raided the village. Men were moving about onboard; others stood on the beach. Before he could search for Keirith, Geriv strode toward them and nodded to their guards. Without a glance, the three started back up the cliff. He wished he had thought to ask for the names of Geriv’s brothers; like it or not, they, too, would be remembered in his prayers.

An older man gestured for them to hurry. As Darak scanned the men again, a sharp command rang out. He flinched when he recognized the Zheron’s voice. Flinched again when he found him standing on the deck of the boat.

He strained to see Keirith’s expression, but all he could make out was a slender figure in a yellow robe. Despite the heat, he was wrapped in some sort of mantle. His arms were folded across his chest, the very picture of a rich young man who had been kept waiting by his dilatory slaves.

Hircha was staring at Keirith, too. The gods only knew what the Zheron had done to her; it must have been something awful to arouse the hatred she had shown earlier and now, this naked fear. She recovered before he did, though, seizing his arm and dragging him to his knees beside her. Bowing her head, she offered what must be an apology for their tardiness, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the robed figure looming above them. He searched for something—anything—that would prove this was his son. Keirith stared back at him, hugging himself as if he was cold. When the older man spoke to him, he nodded impatiently and barked out another order in Zherosi.