He bumped up against the serving table. Heedless of the greasy platters, he hopped onto it, drawing his feet up in the air. The snakes streamed past. They were adders, he realized, with the same distinctive markings as Natha.
Only then did he remember the rest of his dream, when the rain and the clouds gave way to bands of shimmering blue lights. They arced across the sky like rainbows, then spiraled in on themselves and slithered earthward, hissing his name with Natha’s voice.
Mercifully, none of these adders hissed his name. They simply slithered past the screeching Jhevi, and through the open gates.
For a moment, guards and captives alike simply stood there, staring after the adders. The last screams faded. Even the howling of the dogs ceased. As if by magic, his headache vanished as well. He experienced a moment of pure relief. And then the screaming began again.
Not the voices of frightened men and women, but howls, bleats, squeals, squawks. As if every animal in the world were crying out in terror. Instinctively, Keirith covered his ears, although he knew that he couldn’t shut out the sounds, that it was the spirits of the birds and beasts screaming inside of him. He tried to block them out, but there were too many. Their terror lanced through him, ripping him open until he was screaming, too, begging them to stop, begging the gods to silence them, please, Maker, stop the screaming.
The earth rumbled like the thunder in his dream. The table shuddered beneath him, rattling the bronze platters. A clay jug danced off the edge and shattered. The wine spread like a bloodstain and the greedy earth sucked it up. Ladders tilted off the walls and clattered to the ground. The poles of the shelters swayed like saplings in a storm. Captives staggered drunkenly and fell to their knees. The guards planted their feet, bracing themselves. Human shock mingled with animal terror, crashing over him in ceaseless waves.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The shaking of the earth, the rattling of the platters, the screaming of the animals—it all just stopped. The terror of the men and women in the compound faded more slowly, vibrating inside of him until it was no louder than the drone of bees.
He didn’t know when he had fallen. He was only aware of dusty earth beneath his cheek and dusty toes in front of his face. A voice spoke, but he closed his eyes, too exhausted to respond. Water splashed his face. He licked his lips greedily. His eyes fluttered open, but instead of Temet or Roini or Brudien, he looked up into the flat black eyes of the Slave Master.
The Speaker’s face loomed into view. “Why did you scream?”
Keirith shook his head, then gasped as a whip stung his legs.
“Why did you scream?”
“The earth. It was shaking—”
“You screamed before the earth shook. Why?”
“The snakes . . .”
“You screamed after the snakes fled. Why?”
“Please . . .”
“Why did you say the animals were screaming?”
“The dogs. I heard the dogs.”
Again and again, the same questions and then the pause while the Speaker translated his answers. And throughout it all, the Slave Master’s eyes never left him.
“Which animals screamed?”
“All of them!”
“If you lie, you will be punished.”
“Punish me, then! Just leave me alone!”
Keirith let the guards pull him to his feet; he was too tired to struggle. Then he realized they weren’t taking him to the stake; they were marching him toward the little door.
Terror gave him the strength to break away. He could see guards closing in, but still he ran, knowing he could never reach the gates before the arrows cut him down, not even caring if they did, for at least he would be free of the heat and the pain and the shaking earth and the screaming animals and the Big One pursuing him in his dreams.
But the arrows never came. Instead, something snared his ankles. The breath whooshed out of him as he hit the ground. The last thing he heard amid the babble of strange voices was someone shouting his name.
Chapter 11
THEY DROPPED THEIR packs in the lee of two large boulders. A storm had blown through that afternoon, drenching them, and the wind had turned colder. Darak sent Urkiat to collect deadwood and dug his firestick out. His palms were still raw from four days of paddling, but he’d always found the ritual of making fire strangely soothing. He was kneeling before the fireboard, ash rod cradled between his stiff palms, when he heard Urkiat’s shout.
Grabbing his spear, he raced toward the trees, but his footsteps slowed when Urkiat appeared, smiling.
“What is it?” he asked.
“An old acquaintance.”
The raider lay in a thicket near the base of a rocky outcrop. He must have dragged himself there after he’d fallen. The Maker only knew how he’d managed it with two broken legs. The right was twisted at a grotesque angle. The left was even worse. A white shard of shinbone protruded through a rent in his baggy breeches. His beardless face was deathly pale beneath the dirt, but when Darak crouched beside him and pressed his thumb to the boy’s wrist, he felt a faint, irregular pulse.
“Sweet Maker, he’s still alive.”
“Not for long.”
He’d probably lain here a night and a day. Even with a healer’s care, he wouldn’t survive.
Darak folded the cold hand with its hideously swollen fingers over the boy’s chest and rose. When Urkiat unsheathed his dagger, he said, “He’s beyond pain. And blood will only attract predators.”
The odds had always been against the boy—hundreds of miles from his homeland, alone in the forest, probably starving. In the end, a chance misstep had kept him from reaching his destination. It could happen just as easily to them.
When he realized Urkiat was not following him, he glanced over his shoulder and found him crouched beside the boy, carefully slitting open his breeches.
“What are you—?”
Urkiat seized the bulb of the boy’s limp penis and pulled it. His dagger slashed downward, slicing the penis off at the root. But only when Urkiat thrust the bloody member into the boy’s half-open mouth did Darak finally recover from his shock.
He strode forward and seized Urkiat’s wrist. After a momentary flash of surprise, his features relaxed. “Don’t worry. I’ll save the fingers for you.”
Darak backhanded him across the face. The blow flung Urkiat to the ground. Cursing, he stumbled to his feet and slowly backed away, one hand wiping his mouth, the other still gripping the dagger.
“Are you mad?” Darak demanded.
“You attack me and ask if I’m mad?”
Darak eyed the bloodstained blade pointing at his belly. Urkiat noted the direction of his gaze, but did not lower the dagger. “This is what your folk would have done if he hadn’t escaped. I’m giving them the vengeance they deserve. The vengeance you deserve.”
“The boy’s dying. Isn’t that vengeance enough?”
Urkiat’s fury gave way to bewilderment. “They stole your son. They killed your kinfolk.”
“Mutilating this boy won’t change that. For mercy’s sake—”
“What mercy did they show your people? Or mine?” Urkiat’s hand fell to his side. “I don’t understand you.”
Because you saw me with the bloodlust still burning hot. I wanted to do it then. Would have if Griane hadn’t stopped me. Instead, I only broke his fingers. And I enjoyed his pain and fear as much as Morgath enjoyed mine.
When he was sure he could speak calmly, Darak said, “I’m sorry I struck you.” He waited for Urkiat to nod before adding, “We’ll camp farther down the coast. Pack up our things. I’ll be along in a moment.”
After Urkiat stalked away, he pulled the bloody stump from the boy’s mouth, laid it between his legs, and covered him with the torn flaps of his breeches. With a handful of wet leaves, he wiped the blood from the narrow lips. He didn’t bother checking for a pulse; he’d seen enough dead bodies to recognize that the boy’s spirit had fled.
He was wiping his fingers when he felt the presence of another. He looked up, expecting to see Urkiat, and caught a flicker of movement among the shadowy trees. He reached for his spear as a form slipped soundlessly through the underbrush.
Wolf padded forward, hackles and ears erect. Her bushy tail was as rigid as her body, but her gaze was directed toward the beach.
“Wolf?”
At the sound of his voice, her ears pricked forward and her tail relaxed. When she poked him in the chest with her muzzle, he was shocked to feel only the faintest brush of air. It was like touching his father when he’d found him in Chaos. A creature without fur or fangs, she had said. But the fur was still there and the fangs. His father’s body had been insubstantial, but Wolf’s still looked completely real.
“I was afraid for you, Little Brother. That is why I did not wait for your call.”
“Afraid?”
“I have watched you. With the young one.” A growl rumbled in her chest.
“His name is Urkiat. He goes with me on the hunt.”
“He is not-pack.”
“He’s all the pack I have.”
Her ears went back. “You have me.”
“Aye. Forgive me.”
“The young one is dangerous. He kills for pleasure, not for food, not to defend the pack.”
“He is . . .” How to explain revenge to a creature that did not understand the concept? “His pack was killed by this boy’s. That’s why he attacked.”
“The pup was no threat.”
“This is something men do. Hurt another whose pack has hurt them.”
“Even if the other is dying? This makes no sense.”
Darak tried again. “Foxes. Wildcats. They sometimes play with a kill.”
“Foxes. Wildcats. These are not-pack.”
Her disapproval was so plain he had to smile. “I need this young one.”
“Then you must teach him the ways of the hunt. Or he will fail you when it is time to make the kill.”
Her tongue slid over his cheek. He missed the warm, wet roughness of it.
“I must leave now. But I will be with you, Little Brother.”
Before he could thank her, she had vanished into the deepening shadows of the forest.
Darak headed back to the beach. He made himself smile at Urkiat whose troubled expression cleared. “I scouted a little ways down the beach. There’s a good place to camp—sheltered from the wind by a cliff.”
“Good work.”
Urkiat looked as pleased as Callie when he praised his flute playing. Darak let him chatter on about the prospects of good weather on the morrow. And all the while, Wolf’s warning echoed in his head.
Chapter 12
COOL STONE INSTEAD OF warm earth beneath his cheek. The scent of burning oil. Men’s voices, one loud, the other two softer, uncertain.
Keirith opened his eyes and found himself staring at a neat row of feet, two pairs in boots, two in open-toed shoes. Something nudged him in the back. When he made a feeble movement, the voices broke off. Hands pulled him to his knees. The sudden movement made his head throb. He fell forward, his bound wrists knocking painfully against a stone step. The same hands jerked him upright again, seized his hair, and yanked his head back.
He gasped as much from astonishment as pain. Soaring walls rose four, five times as high as the venthole of their hut. They were brilliantly painted with gold suns, black serpents with crimson feathers, white fish swimming through blue seas. More serpents slithered up the milk-white pillars, tall and broad as oaks, that flanked the stone platform in front of him.
Atop it, a bald man and a white-haired woman sat on a low bench. Another man stood beside them. All three wore robes that bared their left shoulders, the seated man in gold, the younger in red, and the woman in brown. The younger man was also bald, but he sported bracelets and tattoos on his arms. Was he the chief? And the seated couple a priest and priestess?
This must be one of the stone temples the legends spoke of. That could only mean they meant to sacrifice him. Keirith glanced around wildly and discovered the owners of the feet: the Slave Master and the Speaker, and next to them, the grizzled older man he had seen briefly when they moved him onto the second boat. Standing beside him was the Big One.
An inadvertent whimper escaped him and he clamped his lips together. The younger man leaned down to whisper something to the older one who responded with a negligent wave. Then the younger one barked out a command. The Slave Master frowned, but bowed and backed away with the others.
Keirith’s mouth went dry. He tried to get to his feet, but was shoved back to his knees. Two guards scowled down at him. Then they glanced to their left and their expressions changed.
The girl looked to be about his age. She walked with a slight limp, favoring her right leg. She kept her eyes downcast and her hands folded demurely over her stomach. Her shapeless tunic hung to her calves. Hair the color of the newly risen moon fell over her shoulders.
Among the black-haired, fawn-skinned Zherosi, she looked strange and exotic. Was she a child of the Oak and Holly? A slave, he guessed, as she knelt beside him and touched her forehead to the floor. But why would they summon a foreign slave?
She listened intently to the younger man’s short speech, murmured something in reply, then settled back on her heels. The man fixed him with a cold stare and spat out a question.
“What is your name?” she translated.
Her voice was deeper than he would have expected and she spoke the tribal tongue with just a trace of an accent. A little like that man—what was his name?—Urkiat. When he didn’t answer immediately, she lifted her head. Her eyes were as hard and blue as the Pilozhat sky.
“The Zheron asks your name. You must—”
The younger man interrupted. The girl flinched, then said, “Are you deaf, boy? What is your name?”
“Keirith. My name is Keirith.”
She translated this, then paused while the Zheron asked another question.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen summers.”
Slowly, patiently, she translated the questions. Like the tattoos on the Zheron’s arms, they twisted back on themselves, a seemingly innocuous question about his village followed by a swift probe about him. On and on it went until his knees ached as much as his head. He gave them the truth when he suspected they already knew it, but kept his answers short, determined to reveal as little about his tribe as possible.
“Who is your mother?”
“A healer.”
“And your father?”
“A Memory-Keeper.”
The girl spoke at length to the Zheron, obviously explaining what a Memory-Keeper was. She showed no visible emotion when describing his village, a village that must have been like hers. How long ago had she been stolen? She had clearly been here long enough to speak their language effortlessly—and long enough to be trusted to interpret for her masters. Why use her instead of the Speaker? That must have been why the Slave Master had frowned before he acquiesced. Did the Zheron want to check to see if the girl’s translation matched what the Speaker had told him? Was there any way he could use that suspicion to his advantage?
Think, Keirith.
“Your father’s name?”
Did they know the tale of the Long Winter? Perhaps not. But the girl would. She might be a child of the Oak and Holly, but he could not count her as an ally. If she told the Zherosi that his father was the hero who rescued the Oak-Lord from Chaos, they might return to the village, capture him, kill him.
“Ennit,” he blurted out. “My father’s name is Ennit.”
“How many people in your village?”
“Before or after your raiders attacked?”
Before he could take back the words, she had translated them. The Zheron took two steps forward, then halted at a soft murmur from the older man.
“The Zheron wishes me to remind you that your life depends upon your answers. You would be wise to avoid insolence
.”
“Your advice or his?”
Without looking at him, she whispered, “Don’t be a fool.”
“Ninety-seven men, women, and children. Before the attack.”
And then it began again: new questions, old ones, the Zheron circling around his answers like a stalking wolf.
“Please. May I have some water?”
She hesitated and then translated his request. It was the older man who nodded. Keirith heard the soft slap of leather against stone. Then silence. The Zheron’s fingers drummed against his thigh. The older woman fingered the chain around her neck, but the man beside her just watched him.
Then the footsteps returned. One of the guards thrust a wooden cup toward him. The water was cool and delicious, and he drank gratefully.
The questioning began again. He wondered why they didn’t ask about the shaking of the earth or his attack on the Big One. Surely that was why they had brought him here.
“Ninety-seven,” he repeated for the third time. His head jerked up. “Nay, ninety-eight. The Grain-Mother went to the birthing hut the morning before the attack.”
Had she still been struggling to deliver the child when the raiders came? Nay, his mam had been at home. She would never have left the Grain-Mother unless both mother and child were out of danger. Did Conn have a little brother or sister? Was Conn alive?
Always the same questions and never any answers: Were they safe? Were they hurt? Were they dead?
Keirith lowered his head. He would not weep before these murderers. Another question jerked his attention back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“Are you a priest?”
“Nay.”
“The warrior Kha says you attacked his mind. Is this true?”
If it were just the Big One’s word against his, he could lie. But the Speaker and the Slave Master could also testify to his powers.
“Is this true?” the girl repeated.
“I tried to . . . push him away. With my mind. My spirit.”
A flurry of questions: How long had he possessed this skill? Who had taught him? How often had he used it? What did he take to enhance his powers?
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