Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  Malaq returned her limpid gaze stolidly. Until today, the queen had never cared about the fate of slaves.

  “Zheron, you will investigate the remaining slaves. Pajhit, provide the Khonsel any information that would help us target these priests in future raids. And continue to study the boy.”

  “Thank you, Earth’s Beloved.”

  “But enlist another to teach him our language. The Shedding is a moon away and the Midsummer rite follows hard on its heels. You have too many responsibilities to allow yourself to be distracted.”

  “There are several scribes who—”

  “The slave Hircha,” Xevhan suggested. “Who translated during the initial interrogation. She’s quite capable. And the boy will be more likely to reveal information to one of his own people.”

  “A male slave might be—”

  “No.” The queen smiled. “Use the girl.”

  “Yes, Earth’s Beloved.” Malaq bowed his head, his fury carefully hidden.

  The queen swiveled slightly on her throne. “Jholin. Dearest. Would you like Dax to take you to your chamber?”

  The king opened his eyes. “Is the meeting over?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Oh, good. What did we decide?”

  “We will continue to investigate the boy. As you suggested.”

  “Did I?” He smiled. “You’d remember. You remember everything.”

  “Yes. I do.” The queen’s smile was pained, but when she turned back to their table, she was as composed as ever. “My brother and I thank you for your counsel and hope to see you at tonight’s banquet to celebrate our homecoming.”

  Malaq rose with the others, but as he turned to leave, the queen’s voice stopped him. “A moment, Malaq.” She whispered something to her attendant who rose and left the chamber.

  Dax entered and prostrated himself; he must have been waiting outside in anticipation of the summons. At the queen’s gesture, he approached the throne and gently lifted the king. Cradled against the slave’s broad chest, the king’s body looked even more wasted. After they disappeared through the doorway leading to the royal apartments, the queen sighed.

  “Do you remember how beautiful he was after last summer’s Shedding?”

  “Yes, Earth’s Beloved.”

  “And will be again.”

  “Yes, Earth’s Beloved.”

  She favored him with an ironic smile. “I detect your hand, I think, in the selection of the Hosts. Thank you.”

  Malaq bowed.

  “Others pander to his tastes. Indulge him. Well. You know.”

  Her rare confidences no longer shocked him, but he was wise enough not to voice his agreement.

  “You don’t believe he is the Son of Zhe.”

  The sudden change in subject and tone took him aback. “Earth’s Beloved, I cannot say. The gods offer the same riddles as the prophecy.”

  “Riddles are the gods’ way of testing our faith. And our patience.”

  A lesser being could be put to death for uttering the last words, but she was Earth-Made-Flesh and far above the judgment of mortal men.

  “You’re drawn to this boy. Why?”

  Since he was certain she’d seen his surprise, he must give her part of the truth. “Perhaps because of what happened in the pit. If you had seen him, covered by the adders—smiling.” Malaq shrugged. “Or perhaps it is only that he’s young and gifted and I . . . envy him.”

  “Yes. It is hard to remember what it was like to be young.”

  He’d rarely heard such wistfulness in her voice. It was easy to see only a beautiful woman, wise beyond her years, and forget that her spirit had lived for ten generations. How must it feel to be so ancient? To have seen everyone she had ever known die? Except, of course, her brother-husband.

  “Xevhan is young as well,” the queen continued. “And eager to prove himself. But he is faithful to our ways.”

  “As am I, Earth’s Beloved.”

  “It was a reminder of Xevhan’s character. Not a criticism of yours.”

  Malaq bowed his head, accepting the rebuke.

  “Take care that your affinity for this boy—and your past association with his people—do not blind you to the danger he represents.”

  “Earth’s Beloved—”

  “Already you and Xevhan vie to control him. I am willing to permit this contention. It may even prove . . . fruitful. Use the moon of my seclusion to learn all you can about this boy’s powers. Especially his ability to touch spirits without the use of qiij. Discover how it is done. Determine conclusively whether he is the Son of Zhe. By Midsummer, I will require a report.”

  “Earth’s Beloved, to learn about his gift is one thing. To master it is quite another.”

  “We can always find other Tree People with this ability. It’s only a matter of time before we gain the knowledge we seek.”

  “And if we don’t know by Midsummer whether or not he’s the Son of Zhe?”

  “If he is willing to adopt our ways and worship our gods, I will consider—consider, Malaq—letting him live. If not, he will be the first sacrifice you offer to Heart of Sky.”

  Chapter 16

  KEIRITH SAT ON the stone bench, watching Niqia purring in the Pajhit’s lap. In the sennight since his arrival in Pilozhat, he’d gone from slave to suspect to . . . what? Three days after his audience with the queen, he still wasn’t sure.

  His life had fallen into a routine. Mornings and afternoons, Hircha taught him the rudiments of the Zherosi tongue. Every evening, he shared a simple meal with the Pajhit. And every night, he returned to his little room and prayed the nightmares wouldn’t come.

  He’d found the language surprisingly easy to learn; it was similar to the ancient words the Tree-Father spoke during their rituals. Still, by the end of the day, his head ached from the effort of mentally translating every thought into Zherosi and he was grateful when the Pajhit allowed him to lapse into his native tongue. When Keirith asked how he came to speak it so well, the Pajhit said he’d grown up in the north of Zheros where there was a good deal of trading and intermingling with the children of the Oak and Holly.

  They spent most evenings here in the garden. Although you couldn’t describe the air as cool, it seemed almost refreshing after the sun went down. The Pajhit didn’t seem perturbed by his continued refusal to demonstrate his gift or by his reluctance to talk about his home. He seemed content to answer his questions about Zherosi food and daily life and religion.

  “I know you are sun-priest. And the Motixa is earth-priest. And—”

  “Priestess.”

  “Priestess. Yes. Thank you. And Zheron is Zhe-priest. But who is Zhe? He is . . .” Keirith fumbled for the word “important” and gave up. “. . . very big god. He is your Maker?”

  The Pajhit studied him for so long that Keirith wondered if he had committed another blunder. “Forgive me. I mean no disrespect.”

  He knew those two sentences by heart; he was always apologizing for his lack of understanding or inability to choose the correct words.

  “We will speak your tongue as I want to be certain you understand.” The Pajhit’s hand glided across Niqia’s head and down the striped back. “Zhe was born after the creation of the sky and the earth. Heart of Sky fell upon Womb of Earth and ravished her. Legend says the cataclysm of their union created Kelazhat, our sacred mountain.”

  Keirith repressed a shudder. It made perfect sense to him that the brooding mountain had been created as a result of rape.

  “To punish Heart of Sky, Womb of Earth imprisoned him in the mountain. Nine moons later, she gave birth to Zhe, the winged serpent. The mountain split open during her birth pains—you’ve noticed Kelazhat’s jagged peak?”

  Keirith nodded; it looked like fangs.

  “Zhe was seduced by his father’s warmth and light into defying his mother. He rose from the mountain at dawn to carry his father across the heavens. Womb of Earth ripped open crevasses in the ground and hurled boulders down the slopes of Kelazha
t. In her deep, booming voice, she called out, ‘My son. My son. Why have you betrayed me?’ ”

  The Pajhit swept his hand across the sky. “To escape his mother’s voice, Zhe fled west, but the longer he flew, the hotter his father burned. His scarlet wings turned black. His body shriveled. Furious that his father should betray him after he had freed him from his underground tomb, Zhe turned on Heart of Sky and devoured him, leaving only his father’s spirit-self—the moon—to light the ensuing darkness. And then he plummeted toward the Abyss.”

  A bitter tale of rape and betrayal and death. How much kinder the gods of his people were, with Bel chasing his lover Gheala through the skies. And how strange to believe the moon was merely the shadow of another god instead of a goddess in her own right.

  “But Heart of Sky couldn’t have died,” Keirith said. “He rises every day.”

  “Womb of Earth’s lamentations so moved The Changing One of the clouds that her tears flooded the Abyss before Zhe could reach its bottom. Zhe swam across the sea to our winding river—it flows through the gorge just there, beyond the temple—and finally reached the slopes of Kelazhat. Cold and sluggish, he wriggled up to the summit where, with his dying breath, he disgorged Heart of Sky whose heat restored him to life. And so it has been every sunset and every dawn. Zhe loves the cool embrace of his mother, but cannot resist his father’s warmth. Each day, he rises from the summit of Kelazhat. Each night, he returns.” The Pajhit scratched Niqia behind the ears. “So. What do you think of our gods?”

  Keirith hesitated. “They seem to suffer so much.”

  “That is why we must feed them with sacrifices.”

  “Human sacrifices.”

  “As your people once did.”

  “Long ago.”

  “Until fifteen years ago, we offered human sacrifices only once a year. But then came the Long Winter.”

  “You call it that, too?”

  “Yes.” The Pajhit eased Niqia off his lap. She stretched, mouth gaping in a pink yawn, and padded inside in search of a more hospitable nest.

  “The rains fell for a moon. The earth slid into the sea. We thought—as your people must have—that the world was ending. That Heart of Sky was dying or that Zhe had grown too weak to carry his father through the sky. And so we began offering daily sacrifices to Heart of Sky and to Zhe. Not slaves or captives, but strong young men who offered their lives freely so our world might live again. But still the days did not grow longer. We realized that the God with Two Faces must also be appeased if we wished to change our fortune.”

  “The god has two heads?”

  “It refers to his nature rather than his anatomy,” the Pajhit replied with a hint of a smile.

  “And Womb of Earth?”

  “She is the goddess of life. It would be unfitting to offer death on her altar. To her, our younger priestesses offered the blood they shed each moon. On the day we offered sacrifices to all four gods, the sun came out. The year began to turn again. And the world was saved.”

  “But that’s not . . .” Keirith’s voice trailed off. He didn’t want to offend the Pajhit by denigrating his beliefs, but he felt impelled to tell him what had really happened.

  “That’s not the legend your people tell. You believe the Oak’s spirit was lost during the Midwinter battle and a man went in search of him. Yes?”

  Keirith nodded, surprised that he knew the story. The quest had occurred long after the Pajhit had left his northern village.

  “This man—what do you call him?”

  “Darak Spirit-Hunter,” Keirith replied, careful not to give the words too much weight.

  “Yes. This Spirit-Hunter went to Chaos—we call it the Abyss—and brought the Oak’s spirit back.”

  “Not just the Oak,” Keirith interrupted. “The Spirit-Hunter’s brother—we call him Tinnean Tree-Friend—his spirit had been lost in the Midwinter battle, too. The Spirit-Hunter brought them both back. Tinnean Tree-Friend gave up his body. He became a tree. The One Tree that shelters the spirits of the Oak and the Holly. Only then could the Midwinter battle be completed.”

  “And once it was, the year began to turn.” The Pajhit nodded thoughtfully; he seemed remarkably undisturbed at learning the truth. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? The similarities between the tales. Not the details, of course, but the necessity of sacrifice in order to restore the world.”

  “It’s not just a tale. It happened.” When the Pajhit nodded politely, he said, “It did. Darak Spirit-Hunter and Griane the Healer—they were there. In the grove of the First Forest. They saw Tinnean transform. They witnessed the battle.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “Why do we believe something different?” The Pajhit rose and crossed toward him. To Keirith’s relief, he made no attempt to sit beside him. “Every culture has its legends about the Long Winter. Your people believe that Tinnean Tree-Friend’s sacrifice made the seasons turn. My people believe that human blood gave our gods the strength to live. The Eripteans built giant bonfires on their mountain-tops; they believe the flames rekindled the light of the sun.”

  “But Darak Spirit-Hunter—”

  “I’m not denying what your Spirit-Hunter did or what he claimed to have witnessed. I’m merely suggesting that it might have required the prayers and sacrifices of many people—and the will of many gods—to restore the world.”

  The Pajhit bent over him and Keirith tensed. Immediately, the Pajhit straightened, but his expression remained intent. “You find it hard to accept our beliefs. The necessity of offering human life to feed our gods. But we believe such sacrifices are essential to preserve our world, to honor the suffering of our gods, and to give them the strength to endure that suffering. Ours is a harsh land.”

  But if the legends were true, it had once been a lush paradise, where the barley grew higher than a man’s head and the forests stretched to the horizon. Perhaps the ancestors had come from another part of the world. This land held little more than rocks and scrub and a relentless sun that robbed even the great river of its water.

  “Our legends say our people fled from invaders,” Keirith said carefully, “who cut down our tree-brothers and stole our children for sacrifice.”

  “And ours say that the people who lived here refused to let us build our temples and worship our gods. When they attacked us, we fought back—and in the end, they left us in peace. Which story is true?” The Pajhit shrugged. “Both, no doubt.”

  He was always pointing out the similarities between their peoples, their languages, their legends. No matter what Keirith said—or how hotly he spoke—the Pajhit always had a calm, reasonable reply. And every morning at dawn, this calm, reasonable man cut the heart out of another captive and offered it to his hungry sun god.

  The next evening, he bluntly asked, “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “That depends upon you.”

  “You want to touch my spirit. To have me touch yours. But I’ve already—”

  “You’ve made it clear you won’t allow that.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Am I wasting my time with you?”

  “It’s not just because you enjoy finishing all my sentences.”

  The Pajhit smiled. “When I was younger—before I became the priest of Heart of Sky—I was the Master of Zhiisti. I instructed the first-year apprentices.”

  “Did you enjoy it? Teaching?”

  “Very much.”

  “So does my—” Keirith broke off. This time, the Pajhit waited. “. . . my father.”

  “Ah, yes. The Memory-Keeper. What was his name again?”

  “You remember his name.” The man remembered everything.

  “Has Ennit always been a Memory-Keeper?”

  “As long as I can remember.”

  The Pajhit chuckled. “Very good. I probe. You evade. I don’t suppose you’d tell me if you have brothers or sisters.”

  Keirith considered. “One of each.”

  “And yo
u are the eldest.”

  “How did . . . ?”

  Because you just told him. In two words.

  “I’ve lost track of the score,” the Pajhit said. “Who’s winning tonight?”

  “Is that all this is to you? A game?”

  The Pajhit’s smile vanished. “No. But I’m willing to play by the rules you establish. For now.”

  It was easier with Hircha. She never asked any questions. But she was just as good at evasion as the Pajhit.

  She was later than usual this morning, leaving him to sit in the garden and play with Niqia. Absently dangling the end of his khirta just out of reach of her questing paw, Keirith admitted that he looked forward to their lessons.

  At first, Hircha had seemed as wary of him as he was of her. She’d told him that she was required to report everything he said and did, but as they grew more comfortable, he sometimes forgot her warning and found himself confiding in her. Just the frustration of being held here against his will, his anxiety about his fate. He never used the word fear; a man didn’t let on such things to a girl. Still, he felt better when she confessed that she’d been scared during her first moons in Pilozhat. But when he’d asked about her capture, she’d abruptly changed the subject, leaving him to curse himself silently for his clumsiness.

  He often felt clumsy around her. He’d never spent much time with girls—except Faelia. And she didn’t count.

  His khirta jerked in his hands as Niqia pounced. He tried to tug it free, but that only caused her to seize the fabric between her teeth. When he rose, she darted away.

  “Niqia. Stop that.”

  She raced under another bench, leaving him to trail after her. He laughed, realizing how ridiculous he must look, down on his knees, one hand clinging to the taut length of flaxcloth, the other grabbing a fistful of material to keep the khirta from sliding off his hips. When he heard echoing laughter, he looked up to discover Hircha standing in the doorway. His face grew warm and he tugged hard enough at the flaxcloth to drag Niqia out of hiding. After a brief tussle—careful lest Niqia decide his fingers made a more tempting target than a strip of cloth—he managed to free himself.