Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  His fur tickled her nose and she sneezed. Hastily, she slid off his lap and blew her nose on the hem of her tunic.

  “I made you cry.” His voice held wonder rather than regret.

  “You’ve made me cry before.”

  “I remember.” He touched the tip of his forefinger to her cheek, careful not to scratch her. He raised the finger and licked it. His eyes closed. A sensual smile curved his mouth.

  “Are they alive?”

  His eyes opened. The dreamy expression vanished. “Yes.”

  Weak with relief, she asked, “Will you bring them home to me?”

  “Griane . . .”

  “You could just . . . open a portal. Like you opened the portal to Chaos. You could do that.”

  “I could.”

  “But you won’t. Because that would be interfering. And gods aren’t supposed to interfere in the affairs of men.”

  “Correct.”

  “But you do it all the time. You told us Tinnean was in Chaos. You opened the portal for Darak. You—”

  “I merely fulfilled my part of the bargain.”

  “Saving me from Morgath wasn’t part of the bargain.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re better at this than you were fifteen years ago.”

  “You did that because you wanted to.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So if you interfered then—”

  “Saving you had no significant effect upon the game.”

  “You call it a game? The world was dying!”

  “Yes, yes.” He brushed aside the deaths of thousands, millions with an impatient gesture. “But it was Darak who had the potential to restore the balance of nature. Because he loved his brother and wanted him back.”

  “He loves his son and wants him back.”

  “But the situation is different, isn’t it? Your world is in no immediate danger of dying. Your husband and son, perhaps. But not the world.”

  “The raiders killed twenty-three people in our village.”

  “Twenty-three. Oh, dear.”

  “Don’t you dare mock their deaths.”

  “I’m mocking you, not those who died. Twenty-three deaths or twenty-three hundred. The number is insignificant. We’re talking of the possible annihilation of a culture, not the death of the world.”

  “Annihilation?” she echoed, her voice faint.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “And you don’t care? If we’re . . . annihilated?”

  “I’d prefer if you weren’t.”

  “Of course. Who would worship you then? Who would sing songs and make up tales and bow down before you?”

  “I haven’t noticed any bowing lately,” he responded dryly. “As to the rest, I am worshiped by many peoples. As are the Maker and the Unmaker, Bel and Gheala. Even the Oak and the Holly. Although, for obvious reasons, their cult is limited to those living in arboreal regions.”

  “It’s all a joke to you.”

  “No, my dear, it’s not. That is merely my manner—and the cumulative effect of suffering thousands of these arguments with indignant mortals over the ages. You worry about the fate of individuals, Griane. I involve myself in the fate of worlds.”

  “Then you won’t help me?”

  “I said I would not bring them home. After that, you embroiled me in this debate and lost sight of your purpose in coming here today.” He winked. “The bit about saving you from Morgath was good, though.”

  She had hoped to appeal to his affection for her. Now she was reduced to bargaining.

  “If you won’t bring them home, will you protect them?”

  He considered her for a long moment before replying. “I’ll protect one. Your husband or your son.”

  Griane shook her head. “You made Darak do this. Choose between me and Cuillon.”

  “And he chose the Holly-Lord.”

  He was watching her closely to see if it still hurt after all these years. She’d never been any good at hiding her feelings. Let him see. “I can’t choose.”

  “You won’t choose. There’s a difference.”

  “All right. I won’t choose.”

  “Then we have nothing further to discuss.”

  When he started to rise, she clutched his arm. “How can I choose one if it means condemning the other to death?”

  He simply watched her.

  Think, Griane.

  “Would I be condemning the other?”

  He smiled. “You survived without my protection. After I saved you from Morgath, of course.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  His smile broadened as he sank back onto his bed of leaves. “You would not be condemning the other to death. Although his odds of survival might diminish.”

  “Might? Will they or won’t they?”

  “I cannot predict the future, Griane. There are too many variables.”

  “Who has the best chance of surviving without your help?”

  “You know them better than I.”

  “But you know where they are. What those people are like.”

  “They are adequate farmers, excellent forgers of metal, expert seafarers, extraordinary builders, and ruthless warriors. They are ruled by a king and queen with powers similar to Keirith’s, although theirs are enhanced by the use of drugs. They worship the usual assortment of gods and goddesses of whom the greatest are the sun, the earth, a winged serpent, and the God with Two Faces. They have a stratified class system, including a caste of priests and priestesses whose primary responsibility is to offer sacrifices—human and otherwise—to ensure the blessings of these gods. And they are utterly convinced of their right to absorb neighboring countries to exploit their people and their natural resources.” He yawned, revealing his sharp teeth. “Those, of course, are only the broad strokes.”

  What chance did either of them stand against such people? Keirith’s gift might intrigue the Zherosi, but they were just as likely to view it as a threat. And Darak? His hunting skills had proved invaluable in the First Forest, but in the land of the raiders?

  “Oh, yes. I should probably mention the prophecy.”

  “Prophecy?”

  “That one day, the son of their winged god will appear among them and herald a new age. He must be a virgin, possess an interesting assortment of powers, and have red hair.” Fellgair tapped a clawed forefinger against his cheek. “Now who does that remind me of?”

  “They think Keirith is a god?”

  “Son of a god,” he corrected. “Some do. Some don’t.”

  Which could mean Keirith was safe or in even greater peril than she suspected.

  Her husband or her son. Darak on an altar stone. Keirith treading a dangerous path between the god some wanted him to be and the fragile mortal he was.

  “Please, Lord Trickster.” She fell to her knees before him. “If you want me to beg, I will beg. If you want my life, it is yours. Take it. And protect them both.”

  “But I don’t want your life, Griane.”

  “What do you want?”

  He leaned forward, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath. The world receded to those golden eyes, twin fires boring into her. Embers sparked and swirled within the slitted black pupils, a dizzying dance of light within darkness, heat within cold. The cold rippled down her spine. The heat filled her belly, her womb, her loins.

  And then he blinked, shattering the spell. She framed the question in her mind, but could only manage to gasp out, “Forever?”

  “No. A day will suffice.”

  “But in the Summerlands, you said—”

  “I said foxes were monogamous. I’m a god, not a fox.”

  Fifteen years ago, she had made the stupid mistake of concluding that if she gave herself to him, she would have to give up her family, her friends—her world—along with her maidenhead. She would not make that mistake again.

  Shaking off the lingering effects of the spell, she said, “You want me.”

  “Yes.”
/>   “My body.”

  “Dare I hope to win your heart as well?”

  “My body, Fellgair.”

  He sighed. “As you please.”

  “For a single day.”

  “Dawn to dusk.”

  “In exchange for protecting them.”

  “In exchange for protecting one of them.”

  “Nay.”

  He shrugged. “That is the offer.”

  “Please.”

  “I will protect only one, Griane. Choose.”

  “I can’t. Fellgair, I can’t!”

  He rose and brushed past her.

  Darak’s name screamed out of her before she could stop it. In shocked disbelief, she clapped her hands over her mouth.

  The Trickster walked slowly across the glade and bent over her. Very gently, he pried her right hand free and clasped it. “Return here at dawn of the first full moon after Midsummer.” His face was grave, without a hint of his usual mocking smile. He pressed a light kiss to her forehead, then turned abruptly and strode into the trees.

  Too late. Too late to take it back. Oh, gods—oh, gods—oh, gods.

  She’d let him goad her. She had not even asked him to specify what “protection” meant. She had betrayed her son without even ensuring the life of her husband.

  She clutched her arms as she swayed back and forth, as if she were rocking him to sleep. But the song that echoed in her head was not a lullaby, but the lament for the dead.

  Keirith, my son, my firstborn, my child.

  Forgive me.

  Chapter 28

  AFTER HIS CONFESSION, Urkiat had watched him uneasily for a day or so. Darak was gentle with him, asking his advice on the route they should take, praising him when he brought down game, dutifully repeating phrases in Zherosi and questioning him about the port city of Oexiak. Urkiat gradually relaxed, glowing with a quiet pride at the confidence placed in him and eager to demonstrate that he was worthy of it.

  He could have kept him at a distance, offering the cold advice to let go of the past and concentrate on their quest. But Darak knew how memories could eat away at a man’s spirit. So he had opened his arms, offering his strength and compassion and accepting, in return, the weight of Urkiat’s pain and his obvious desire for a father figure to replace the two who had died. Not all of those who were lost had been killed or captured by the raiders.

  Wolf disapproved. “He is weak,” she told him when he sneaked out of camp to visit with her.

  “All men are weak.”

  “A weak pack member endangers the hunt.”

  “He’s trying. He’s like . . . a half-grown pup.”

  “Half-grown pups play at hunting. They watch their elders. Only when they have the proper skills do they join the real hunt.”

  “I’ll teach him,” Darak assured her. “In time, he’ll grow strong.”

  “We do not have much time. Soon you will reach the stone place. I cannot find you there. I am a creature of the forest. So watch him, Little Brother. And be careful.”

  When he returned to camp, Urkiat was gazing into the fire. “Is it because you can’t bear to sleep near me? Is that why you go away at night?”

  Hoping to ease his anxiety, Darak told him about Wolf. Urkiat just stared at him as if he’d sprouted fur and claws.

  “You could try to reach your vision mate, too.”

  “I think it’s different for you. Because of . . . who you are.”

  He had expected the journey to wear away the remnants of Urkiat’s awe; watching a man heave up the contents of his stomach day after day wasn’t especially conducive to worship.

  “I still put on my breeches one leg at a time. My legs ache every evening from walking. My bladder aches every morning with the need to take a piss. And I piss urine just like you. Not brogac.”

  That surprised a smile out of Urkiat. “Good thing. Darak Spirit-Hunter sounds a lot better than Darak Brogac-Pisser.”

  Laughter dispelled the awe. For the first time since leaving home, Darak felt he had a true comrade.

  Their new bond strengthened them as the journey grew more difficult. Villages nestled on the narrow strip of coast-line, forcing them into the foothills. The dense forests of oak and ash gave way to scrub pine that offered little shelter from the sun. And it was always sunny. Climbing the steep hills left them both sweat-soaked and exhausted. Their food supplies dwindled and some nights they went to sleep with only a suetcake to ease their hunger.

  Then one afternoon, they reached the summit of a hill and came to an abrupt halt. Below them, open fields stretched for miles, as vast as the cloudless sky above them. Here and there through the shimmering haze, Darak could make out clusters of dwellings that must be villages and the meandering path of the river that connected them. But there were no trees on the riverbank. There were no trees anywhere. It was as if they stood at the edge of another world.

  Urkiat pointed to a mass of white buildings overlooking the sea. “That’s Oexiak. And that’s the road to Pilozhat.”

  Where Keirith was—if the raider had spoken true.

  “We should rest now. Better to cross the fields at night and reach Oexiak in the morning.”

  Curbing his impatience, Darak settled down on the hillside, but sleep eluded him. He stared at the city, glistening in the haze, and prayed that it held the answers he needed.

  Nothing prepared him for Oexiak. Until they walked through the northern gate, the Gatherings were the largest confluence of men and animals Darak had ever seen. Oexiak was like twenty Gatherings packed into a sprawling mass of stone houses that perched atop the cliffs like an enormous flock of nesting sea birds. Again and again, they lost their bearings on the stone paths that wandered through the close-packed buildings. Luck and repeated directions from incurious pedestrians led them eventually to something called the Fleshers Market.

  Bellowing oxen, bleating sheep, and squawking birds vied with the screeching of buyers and sellers haggling over bloody slabs of meat, braces of pheasants and hares, and heaps of fleece piled high atop the wooden stalls. Dogs slunk between them, lapping up blood and dodging kicks from customers and traders alike.

  Darak had feared his coloring and height would make him stand out. Although the marketplace teemed with Zherosi, there were many others who had to be foreigners. Men with skin the color of charcoal and close-cropped black hair as curly as a lamb’s. Men with the same hide-colored complexions as the Zherosi, but with luxuriant manes of hair that fell halfway down their backs. Men with beards and men who were clean-shaven. Men who sported tattoos and others who sported bronze necklaces. Men in woolen tunics, men who wore strange half-breeches that seemed to be made of flaxcloth, and men in sleeveless tunics and baggy breeches made of materials that were completely unknown to him.

  He saw far fewer women and most of those were barefoot and simply dressed. When he asked about that, Urkiat shouted, “The rich women send their slaves to the market. And the poorer folk can’t afford meat.”

  Chief or shepherd, fisherman or hunter, in his village everyone lived in the same huts, wore the same clothes, ate the same food. But he had glimpsed the taller buildings on the upper slopes of the hill; it wasn’t only geography that gave them the appearance of looking down on the sprawling city below.

  His height allowed him to pick out the traders dealing with hides and furs. Once he overcame his reluctance to shove people aside, his size helped him bull his way through the press of bodies and clear a space for Urkiat to unroll the furs they had carried from home. Darak stood back, watching uneasily as Urkiat negotiated with the weasel-faced trader. This involved so much shouting, groaning, and fist shaking that he feared they would come to blows, but suddenly the two men spat into their palms and slapped them together three times.

  After the trader counted shiny disks into his cupped palms, Urkiat turned to him, sweat-sheened and grinning. “A good trade. Ten serpents and six eagles. Keep your share in your belt pouch. Harder for the coin snatchers to get at them there.�
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  Darak did as he was ordered, although the only part of Urkiat’s instructions he’d understood was where he should keep the disks.

  “We’ll head for the harbor—where the ships are beached. Best place to find out about the captives.”

  As they threaded their way west, Urkiat educated him about coins and thieves and other aspects of city life, information he had gleaned from the stories of the unnamed Zherosi warrior he had served and loved and killed. Stories that must have seemed as incredible to Urkiat as the legends Darak told the children.

  Apparently, the eagle coin had a feather stamped on it and the serpent coin had a spiral, but how thirteen eagles could equal a serpent remained a mystery. “Just remember that serpents are worth more,” Urkiat told him. “It’s not like the Gathering where you trade pelts for daggers. Here you must have coins to buy what you need.”

  Coins. Streets. Harbor. He needed an entirely new vocabulary just to make sense of what he saw. For the first time, he understood how Cuillon must have felt, assaulted by strange smells and tastes, alien objects and rituals. At least he could communicate with Urkiat. Standing on the docks, all he could make out was a harsh wash of sound as women haggled over the price of fish, fishermen sang as they repaired their nets, and sailors traded shouts and curses as they loaded bales of fleece, bolts of cloth, and huge earthenware jars of . . . the Maker only knew what.

  By midday, they had merely confirmed that the red-haired captives were taken to Pilozhat for the Midsummer sacrifice. Although Darak had lived with the knowledge for more than a moon, he had hoped—foolishly—that the story might be false.

  Fear is the enemy.

  They still had twelve days. Twelve days to reach Pilozhat, find Keirith, and free him.

  Control the fear.

  As he had so many times since Keirith was stolen, he found himself conjuring the vision he had seen through the portal in Chaos: the naked boy stretched out upon the stone altar, the priest standing behind him with his dagger upraised, the strange man-woman who had tossed the token through the open portal.

  Darak’s hand crept up his chest where the sinuous bronze snake lay nestled among his charms. He had discarded it in Chaos, believing it too dangerous to keep, only to discover it clinging to his woolen mantle after he escaped. Fellgair had told him to guard the token, but he’d refused to explain its purpose or importance. Could it help him find Keirith? Did it possess some magical power that could save him from the altar?