Foxfire (35 page)

T
HE FIRST THING RIGAT NOTICED was how cool and shadowy the room was. Like a forest. A forest of stone. He even caught the faint whiff of pine, but perhaps that was the incense.

Seated on the ornately carved throne, the queen seemed more delicate than she had standing on the dais. Her shimmering blue skirt clung to her thighs before cascading into a series of flounces that spilled over her knees and ankles like a waterfall. A strip of the same fabric bound her breasts. Her hair hung loose today, like a young girl's, but there were shadows under the dark doe-eyes, as if she had suffered a sleepless night.

He hoped his exhaustion was less noticeable. Even with Fellgair's help, creating the signs had sapped his energy and his power. Fellgair had been less helpful regarding the strategy for this meeting. He had described the council members and the response Rigat might expect from each, but most of his advice could have come from Mam: “Stand up straight. Don't fidget. And double knot your khirta. You don't want it sliding off.” Direct pleas for information were met with a shrug and a stream of questions that forced him to think—and rethink—his plan.

When he had imagined these first moments, he had assumed the council members would fall on their knees or exclaim in wonder. Instead, they just stared at him. Perhaps his appearance had shocked them into immobility. The queen, however, appeared more wary than shocked. Waiting for him to make the first move.

Reminding himself that the son of a god outranked even a queen, Rigat nodded gravely. “Greetings, Earth's Beloved.”

The queen rose. “Greetings. And welcome to my holy city.”

Her manner was calm, her voice light and pleasing. Less pleasing was her obvious omission of his title. If she refused to acknowledge his claim, the council never would.

Should his manner be conciliatory or arrogant? Should he chide them for failing to prostrate themselves or ignore their lack of manners as beneath his notice? He licked his lips nervously and resisted the urge to glance at Fellgair for support. Of all the tests his father had given him, this was the greatest. And he would succeed or fail on his own.

To give himself time to gather his thoughts, he examined the chamber. He marveled briefly at the intricate design of intertwined flowers and leaves on the rug before him. The colors—red and gold, green and brown—reflected those in the mural behind the two thrones. The mountain must be Kelazhat—perhaps long ago, it had been that lush and green—for surely the scarlet-winged serpent rising above it was Zhe.

All in all, he preferred having a fox for a father, but he studied the mural, hoping his face conveyed reverence. Then he faced the council. Only the Zheron's expression looked remotely worshipful. The red-faced Stuavo was sweating, the Motixa seemed worried, and the little Pajhit looked like he wanted to bolt.

His gaze lingered longest on the Khonsel. The old man leaned heavily on his stick, but his right hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed dagger. Fellgair had described him as the most formidable member of the council and the one closest to the queen. Darak had called him a hard man, loyal to his friends and implacable with his enemies. A good thing, then, that Rigat knew the secret the old man had kept for so many years—that the queen's loyal Khonsel had helped Darak, Keirith, and Hircha escape from Pilozhat.

Buoyed by the knowledge, he sauntered toward the queen. With what he hoped was a godlike wave, he said, “Please. Let us be comfortable.” And seated himself on the vacant throne.

Someone gasped. One of the men muttered. The queen hesitated, dark eyes boring into his. Her smile was cold, the recognition of a worthy adversary rather than a gracious acceptance of his right to sit on the king's throne. Without taking her eyes off him, she slowly sat. One by one, the council members followed suit.

“I expected a warmer welcome for the Son of Zhe.”

“You must forgive us,” the queen replied. “There have been so many who have claimed that title. Including a red-haired boy named Kheridh.” She leaned back, idly toying with one of the flounces on her skirt. “Perhaps my memory deceives me, but you look very much like him.”

He almost laughed. But of course, she was remembering the auburn-haired boy who had come to Pilozhat, not the tawny-skinned, black-haired Keirith that he had known all his life. Should he claim Keirith was a distant relative or boldly admit the truth? If they somehow discovered it later, it would cast doubt on everything he said. As long as he never revealed that Keirith was still alive, perhaps truth would serve him better.

Praying he was doing the right thing, he said, “Keirith was my half brother.”

The queen's eyes widened. The Pajhit gave a little squeak of dismay.

“You might remember my foster-father as well. The children of the Oak and Holly call him Darak Spirit-Hunter.”

The Khonsel's face was as smooth and hard as stone, but he gripped his stick so tightly that the tendons on his hand stood out like twigs.

Enjoying himself now, Rigat mimicked the queen's gesture and adjusted the drape of his khirta. “My foster-father managed to escape from Pilozhat. Before he was sacrificed. My half brother was murdered by your Zheron. Your former Zheron,” he added with a polite nod to the current one.

Their shocked expressions pleased him. They must be afraid that he wanted vengeance. Except the Khonsel, of course. He'd be wondering if his little secret was about to be revealed.

“I did not come here to exact retribution,” he assured them. “Xevhan paid for his crime.”

“What crime?” the queen asked. “Kheridh helped your foster-father kill our Pajhit. And when Xevhan came to the Pajhit's defense, Kheridh turned on him.”

Rigat eyed the Khonsel. “You told her that, I suppose.” “The Khonsel told me what the Spirit-Hunter claimed,” the queen replied. “Was I to believe a stranger?”

“As queen, you're supposed to seek the truth.”

“Which is what she is doing now,” the Khonsel interjected. “Whatever happened fourteen years ago, one fact is clear: despite his gifts, Kheridh was just another in a long line of impostors.”

“My lord,” Rigat said.

“What?”

“If you will not give me my proper title, you should at least call me ‘my lord.' ”

He waited, his eyes locked with the Khonsel's, until the old man finally added, “My lord.”

Rigat decided to ignore the grudging tone. “And you believe I'm the latest of these impostors.”

At the Khonsel's shrug, the Pajhit squeaked again. “Your miraculous appearance in the throne room—and today, of course—those clearly indicate extraordinary power, my lord.”

“And the signs,” the Zheron added with a stern look at the Khonsel. “Any man of faith would accept those as proof.”

One ally, then.

“If he made them.” The Khonsel bared his teeth in a grin. “Meaning no disrespect. My lord.”

The Zheron glared. The Pajhit seemed ready to piss himself. But the queen was watching the interplay avidly. “She may appear to be a pretty girl of sixteen,” Fellgair had warned him, “but her spirit is hundreds of years old. Never underestimate her.”

As he eyed the Khonsel, Rigat tapped one forefinger against his lips. When Fellgair did it, his heart always raced in fearful anticipation, but the Khonsel seemed utterly unmoved.

“So what
would
satisfy you, Khonsel? If I killed you?”

His gaze never wavered. “Well, I'd be dead, wouldn't I? So my satisfaction wouldn't count for much. Might impress the others, though.”

Rigat heard the queen's quick intake of breath but kept his eyes on the Khonsel, allowing the silence to stretch until he could smell the stink of fear in the chamber. “Vazh do Havi. You have ballocks the size of boulders.”

His comment elicited gasps from the priests and a brief smile from the Khonsel, but the old man's fingers remained firmly clenched around the hilt of his dagger.

“If I may interject,” Fellgair said. “Regardless of the size of the Khonsel's testicles, I would be too grief-stricken over his death to feel any satisfaction. Might I suggest another test?”

Rigat pretended to ponder, then signaled his willingness with a gracious wave.

“Perhaps our guest would allow the Khonsel to . . . oh, I don't know . . . cut him?”

Had Fellgair foreseen this moment? Was that why he had slashed his wrist?

The Zheron recovered first. “Sacrilege!”

“
If
he is the Son of Zhe. In which case, I shall implore his forgiveness.”

“The Son of Zhe is not immortal,” the Motixa noted. “He would bleed like any man.”

“True,” the Khonsel agreed. “But surely, he could heal the wound.”

The gleam in the Khonsel's eyes made Rigat hesitate. He had not yet recovered his full power. If the Khonsel merely pricked his finger or scored his forearm, he could close the wound. But if he slashed his wrist as Fellgair had? Or stabbed him in the chest?

Angry at losing the initiative so quickly, he said, “I'm the Son of Zhe, not a trained dog performing tricks for its master. How many more tests will you demand before you accept that?”

“As many as it takes. My lord.”

“Enough, Khonsel.” Despite the queen's stern tone, Rigat sensed her pleasure at the Khonsel's daring. He wondered if they had planned it together, playing him as surely as a boy played a trout on a fishing line.

“You must understand our dilemma,” she said, turning to him with an apologetic smile. “We must be sure. And only one test will prove beyond doubt that you are the Son of Zhe.” She waited, eyebrows raised. When Rigat remained silent, she said, “You must allow me to touch your spirit.”

He hadn't even been able to shield himself completely from Gortin. The queen's skills must be far greater. But if he backed down, they would never accept him.

“I shall return at sunset, then. You'll require time for the qiij to take effect.” And he needed time to prepare.

The queen surprised him by laughing. Her hand came up to stroke the golden vial hanging at the end of the chain around her throat. “But I've already taken the qiij. While you were sparring with the Khonsel.”

He had been so intent on that match that he had failed to notice. Just as he had failed to notice her slitted pupils. How could he when her eyes were so dark? The laughter might be a side effect of the drug; Fellgair had told him many users became euphoric when they first took it. But she could just as easily be taunting him.

The queen smiled. “With your permission, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I'll need to touch you.” Lazily, she held up her hand.

Even if he stretched out his arm, he would not be able to reach her fingertips without leaving the throne. He was damned if he would stand before her like one of her subjects. He might not be the Son of Zhe, but he
was
the son of a god.

He mimicked her gesture and waited. When she laughed again and rose, Rigat's triumph faded; her graceful acquiescence made him seem like a petulant child.

She grasped his hand. Her thumb traced the outline of the antler tattoo. “Where did you get this?”

“My tribe's Tree-Brother. After I brought down a stag with one shot to the heart.”

Her thumb teased its way across the pale scar. “And this?”

“My father. He tested me, too.”

“Did you pass the test?”

“That's what you're about to find out.”

The ring on her forefinger bit into his wrist bone. She studied his face, frowning, then closed her eyes.

Like a man beckoning his lover, he called forth his power. Eagerly, it responded, flushing his body with heat. It was his to use in any way he chose. To make the earth tremble or a queen.

He banked the power, awaiting her touch. It brushed against his spirit as lightly as her thumb had skimmed across his flesh. To the Hosts whose spirits she cast out during The Shedding, the touch would have been imperceptible. But he was not a helpless girl.

With a suddenness that made him gasp, she drove deep into his spirit, seeking the hidden places where his secrets lay. An assault as brutal as Gortin's, but launched with cunning deliberation.

Anger bathed his body in renewed heat. A tingling burst of energy raced down his arms. As it leaped from his flesh to hers, her eyes flew open. She tried to pull away, but he seized her hands, dragging her closer.

Her perfume was as sweet as the power singing through him, singing through her, penetrating flesh and blood and bone. He heard cries from the council members, heard Fellgair shout, “Wait!” But he ignored them all, guiding the power to her spirit, piercing it as swiftly and surely as an arrow penetrated flesh.