Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  It must have been the young guard who spoke; the Qepo had slid down the wall, shaking uncontrollably.

  Malaq lurched around the corner after Kheridh. His shoulder scraped stone and he winced as he flung out a hand to push himself forward. His legs moved reluctantly and his feet rose and fell as if weighted with heavy stones. He remembered wading waist-deep through the river that flowed beside his village, ponderous as a bullock as he fought the swift, icy current. He’d been frightened then, too, but elated by the battle. And now, just as in the battles he had fought, time seemed to slow and tiny details impressed themselves on his senses: the laces of his sandals, snapping against his ankles; a drop of sweat trickling down his forehead; his giant shadow capering grotesquely on the opposite wall.

  He rounded one corner and caught a glimpse of Kheridh disappearing around another. Where was he going? There was nothing on this level save for storage rooms and slave quarters.

  He heard a scream. The clatter of bronze. Passed a slave boy huddled against the wall. A girl, sprawled in the doorway of her chamber. Terrified faces peeped out at him as he rushed past. Other slaves poured in from adjoining corridors, blocking his way, ignoring his shouts and curses. The young guard edged past him and used his sword to clear a path. After that, Malaq had only to follow the new eruption of screaming to see Kheridh heading toward the central courtyard.

  When he reached it, he drew up short. A crowd had already gathered. Torches illuminated fleeing figures, but most stood transfixed, watching the boy who strode with awful majesty through the courtyard and the tide of adders that streamed after him.

  Someone grabbed his arm. He started to shake off the restraining hand when he saw it was Hircha, her sullen face transformed with wonder.

  “Where is he going?” Malaq demanded. “Do you know?”

  “To the temple of Zhe. To free his father.” Her smile was radiant. “And kill Xevhan.”

  Before Malaq could react, a woman cried, “He comes! He comes!”

  He saw the white hair first. Then the crowd parted to reveal Eliaxa hurrying toward Kheridh, her face alight with joy. She had clearly been on her way to the temple of Womb of Earth; her arms were still filled with bitterheart, although the chaplet crowning her head was askew.

  “Behold the fire-haired god made flesh! Behold the Son of Zhe!”

  In the terrified silence that followed, another voice spoke. “Behold the Son of Zhe who brings a new age to Zheros and death to the unrighteous.”

  He thought he knew Kheridh’s voice. Halting at times, defiant at others, broken with anguish, wooden with shock. Only rarely—very rarely—had it possessed the eagerness or excitement that should be the right of every boy on the cusp of manhood. This was the deep, resonant voice of prophecy, the unforgiving voice of doom. And everyone acknowledged it with moans and gasps and muttered prayers. Men and women fell to their knees. Eliaxa chanted the prophecy, her voice as strong as the boy’s despite the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  As if scripted by the gods, the Motixa led the Son of Zhe and his escort of adders forward. Malaq trailed behind, the lone acolyte who passed among the kneeling figures who wept and prayed and rocked back and forth in terror and ecstasy.

  He heard shouts behind him and turned to see guards clearing a path for the queen. Even in her nightdress, she was a commanding figure. She shouted Kheridh’s name and demanded that he stop.

  His inexorable stride slowed. He turned to face her. His hand came up. An accusing forefinger stabbed the air. “Eater of spirits, eater of life. Womb of Earth will destroy you and all who obey you.”

  Screams drowned out the prayers. Malaq saw the queen’s mouth move. Guards edged toward Kheridh, their swords drawn, but their eyes were on the adders, seething around his feet. Ignoring the chaos, Kheridh strode into the passageway that led to the eastern gate. Again the queen shouted. A guard hefted his spear.

  Malaq raced forward. There was a blur of movement: a flurry of white, a shower of red, the spear arcing through the air toward Kheridh’s unprotected back.

  Eliaxa’s hands came up, clutching the shaft of the spear protruding from her chest. Her dark eyes flew wide, but—dear gods, have mercy—she was smiling as she crumpled to the ground.

  Her spirit had already fled by the time Malaq knelt beside her. Sprays of bitterheart—bright as Eliaxa’s blood—lay scattered around her body like an offering. He closed the staring eyes and sketched a spiral on her forehead before rising.

  “No one touches him!” he shouted over the uproar. “No one! Or I will call the wrath of the gods down upon this city.”

  His gaze met the queen’s. She shook her head. In disbelief? Disappointment? She seized the arm of the nearest guard. A moment later, the man sprinted toward the administrative wing.

  Already, people were pushing past Eliaxa’s body to pour into the passageway after Kheridh. He would never get through. He told Kheridh’s guard to find the Khonsel and bring him to the temple of Zhe. Then Malaq ran for the northern gate.

  Darak emerged from the dark passageway into chaos. Figures dashed madly through the open area, while others were on their knees, moaning and wailing. The guard in front of him thrust out an arm to stop a fleeing man. Between sobs, Darak caught the word “Zhe.” The hands gripping his arms tightened convulsively; the fear on his captors’ faces was obvious.

  The dawn sacrifices couldn’t have generated all this commotion. Had something happened to the Zheron? Or Keirith? Malaq had said some believed him to be the Son of Zhe.

  The guard in front shouted a command. Shouted again when the others refused to move. Temet and his guards marched left. Swords drawn, his guards led him straight ahead. Men darted past, clutching makeshift bundles that leaked coins and bronze jewelry; others followed in their wake, stooping to snatch up the discarded treasure. Women hugged screaming babes to their breasts; others dragged sleepy-eyed children by the hand. He searched the crowd for a glimpse of auburn hair, but he’d never be able to spot Keirith in this mob.

  Something scuttled over Darak’s foot. A moment later, the guard on his left cried out. Screams broke out all around.

  That was when he saw the rats. Gods, they were everywhere. Scurrying across the compound, drawing screams and exclamations from the people who jumped aside to avoid them. All except the robed priests who knelt calmly at the base of a wide stone staircase, singing. With mounting horror, Darak heard “Kheridh” repeated over and over again.

  Calling on his limited Zherosi, he stammered out, “Kheridh. Zhe-boy. Where?”

  The guard on his left just stared at the steady stream of people pushing past the priests into a passageway. Had Keirith gone that way?

  “Kheridh. Zhe-boy.” The drug made the words sound thick and garbled. “Zhe-boy. He comes here?”

  The guard in front whirled around, hand upraised for a blow. Another shouted a warning and pulled him out of the path of a careening litter. They collided with one of the bearers who dropped his pole. The litter lurched sideways, spilling its screaming occupants to the ground.

  Darak wrenched his arms free. Staggering away from the guards, he raced toward the passageway.

  Malaq stumbled and cursed. Glancing to his right, he saw Kheridh, moving with that same inexorable pace along the walkway. A few people followed at a careful distance. He saw no sign of the Spirit-Hunter; perhaps he’d escaped in the confusion.

  He had to reach the temple before Kheridh. His only hope of saving him was to play along with this pretense that he was the Son of Zhe. The other two priests might be sufficiently cowed by the boy’s appearance, but he doubted Xevhan would be. Nor would he simply stand there and wait for the adders to swarm over him. Kheridh must be planning to cast out his spirit, but if Xevhan had taken qiij this morning, he would be able to shield himself.

  Malaq’s steps slowed. He clawed at the stopper of the vial, his eyes darting from Kheridh to the temple. Grimacing at the bitter taste, he swallowed the undiluted qiij.

  An unearthly yo
wl made him glance behind him. Niqia crouched low to the ground, her tail lashing back and forth. Good gods, had she followed him all the way from his chamber? She yowled again, but he had no time to ease her distress.

  The sharp stitch in his side returned after only a few steps. He judged Kheridh’s distance from the temple and fell into a trot. The guttering torches revealed movement behind the altar. He doubted the priests could see the adders, but they had clearly seen Kheridh and realized he was not the sacrifice they were expecting.

  Nor will he be.

  Malaq smiled, knowing it was the qiij that gave him confidence. He slowed to a walk and cleared his throat. He’d spent half his life in the priesthood and the other half on battlefields. He knew how to pitch his voice for all men to hear. Sweeping his arm in Kheridh’s direction, he called out the ancient words.

  “By these signs shall you know him. His power shall burn bright as Heart of Sky at Midsummer. His footsteps shall make Womb of Earth tremble. Speechless, he shall understand the language of the adder and wingless, soar through the sky like the eagle.”

  One priest clutched the serpentine pillar. The other traced a spiral on his chest. Xevhan gave an inarticulate cry of rage.

  “No pageantry shall attend his arrival. No poet—”

  “It’s a lie!”

  “—shall sing his name. No mortal woman shall know his body. No mortal man shall call him son.”

  “He is not the Son of Zhe!”

  Standing before the altar, Malaq intoned the final words of the prophecy. “Hail the Son of Zhe, the fire-haired god made flesh. Welcome him with reverence and with dread. For with him comes the new age.”

  “You fools! Don’t believe him. He’s protected the boy all along. He’s a traitor to our people. A traitor to our gods!”

  The other priests were staring past him, their eyes wide. Xevhan’s voice trailed off. They all stood there, dumb-struck, watching the boy arrive amid a seething flood of adders.

  “Behold the Son of Zhe!” Malaq called.

  “Behold the Child of Serpents,” Kheridh replied. “Behold the Destroyer of the Unrighteous.”

  Malaq laughed, the qiij singing through his body. Kheridh’s expression remained as distant as if he were the Destroyer of the Unrighteous. Could the trance still be holding him? If not, he should take his place among the premier performers in the kingdom.

  One priest fled, then the other. Malaq glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Xevhan. “We were wrong. And the proof of our error is before us.”

  Kheridh stood motionless before the altar. The adders writhed wildly around his feet. A few attempted to wriggle up the steps. Malaq was too exhilarated to care. They wouldn’t strike him. Kheridh wouldn’t permit it.

  “Welcome, Kheridh. Son of Zhe. Son of my heart. Welcome to your temple.”

  Kheridh’s expression changed, the dazed look replaced by shock and—incredibly—horror. Puzzled, Malaq took a step toward him. “Kheridh?”

  Agonizing pain ripped through his back, as if Heart of Sky had pierced him with a molten shaft of sunlight. Distantly, he heard a scream but knew it had not come from his mouth. He flung out a hand, groping for the altar, but his fingers slid down the side of the stone. So smooth, so cool. Already, the fire was lessening, the shaft of sunlight oozing warmth down his back.

  Cold hands grasped his. He looked up into his boy’s eyes.

  Heart of Sky’s first rays bronzed his pale face and turned his hair to fire. His mouth was moving, but Malaq couldn’t understand the words. A delicious chill crept through him. Clouds gathered over Kheridh’s head, although Heart of Sky still illuminated his face. But even Heart of Sky seemed to be dimming.

  Rain would feel wonderful.

  He wished he could pat Kheridh’s face and assure him that everything would be all right, but his arms were so heavy. He’d hardly slept the last few days and now, it was catching up with him.

  The clouds grew thicker, obscuring the beloved face. Thunder rumbled, echoing through the air above him and the earth below.

  Malaq smiled. He’d always loved thunderstorms.

  The earth groaned as if Halam protested the coming of dawn. Like everyone else at the gate, Darak froze, awaiting another sign from the earth goddess. The sky to the east smoldered with red and orange clouds. Naked tree trunks loomed up, dark against the flaming sky. Nay, not trees. Pillars flanking a walkway.

  Darak raced down it, weaving between clusters of people who stood as still as the pillars looming above them. The ground trembled again, and he staggered sideways. He heard a roar like an angry bull, but before he could puzzle it out, the earth convulsed.

  He went down hard, knees cracking against stone. When he tried to get to his feet again, he sprawled headlong. The earth goddess bellowed like Taran the Thunderer. She rolled like the waves of the great sea. Stone scraped his naked arms as he slid sideways. Another wave heaved him up and slammed him against a pillar. The small part of his mind that still functioned registered wood beneath his fingers instead of stone. The massive tree trunk shuddered as if it shared his terror.

  Most of the people he had passed had flattened themselves on the ground, but a few men lurched down the path, staggering from pillar to pillar. As he watched, Halam flung them to the ground as a child might discard an unwanted toy. One inched forward like a crawling bug before collapsing. As if tired of the game, Halam heaved a final sigh and became still.

  Cautiously, Darak pushed himself to his knees. A few heads came up, but most of those on the walkway remained prone. Although it had seemed to take forever, the shaking of the earth could only have lasted mere moments; Bel was barely peeping over the horizon.

  As he got to his feet, a figure leaped out from behind a pillar. Darak stumbled backward, only to find himself seized by Hakkon’s strong hands. Before he could ask what he was doing here, Bep scurried toward them.

  “Hold out your hands and listen.” Bep sawed at the ropes binding his wrists. “Your boy. He’s up ahead. But he’s—”

  Another tremor, stronger than the first, hurled them all to the ground. By the time Darak recovered, he found Hakkon collapsed at the base of a pillar and Bep scuttling sideways across the path like a crab.

  All along the walkway, the giant pillars swayed. In Bel’s dawning light, they looked red as blood. A fissure ripped open and snaked across the earth, leaving a trail of cracked paving stones heaved up like huge, broken teeth. Earth poured into the fissure, sending up a cloud of dust. A pillar rocked back and forth, mesmerizing him. How could something so big move so gracefully? Then the pillar tottered uncertainly. Its top knocked against another and they both lurched like drunken men. The second pillar began to topple. He rolled out of the way, only to see the first looming above him—a red giant that blotted out the sky as it slowly descended. He flattened himself next to the fallen pillar and prayed.

  The crash reverberated through his body. Gravel, earth, and pebbles rained down on him. Choking, he buried his face in the crook of his elbow. Above the thunderous noise, the high, shrill shrieks of terrified men and women echoed the earth goddess’ agony.

  He dared a look up and stared at the palace in horrified fascination. The wall seemed to be . . . dancing. A block near the top teetered and hurtled to the ground, crushing a man beneath it and scattering those nearby who rolled, crawled, and dragged themselves away. Another block cracked and fell, and then another, as if some malevolent god were gleefully ripping apart the wall and tossing it at the hapless people below. And then the wall collapsed with a roar that made him cover his ears.

  In the aftermath of the shock, everything went still. The ground ceased shaking. Dust drifted earthward. Even the screaming faded into weak cries for help.

  Darak cautiously flexed his legs, then his arms. Finally, he raised his head. The second pillar had fallen crosswise atop the first. An arm’s length away and he would have been crushed.

  Shaking, he eased out of his tiny grotto and used his teeth to pull the rope from
his wrists. Hakkon rose unsteadily, lifting one hand in weary acknowledgment. Darak peered through the gloom, searching for Bep.

  “Oh, gods!”

  Incredibly, he was still alive, although his belly and legs were surely crushed by the pillar. Darak knelt beside him and brushed the dirt from his face.

  Bep’s eyes fluttered open. His mouth twisted in a semblance of his mocking grin. “What an ending.”

  “Just lie still.”

  “Listen.” Bep gasped for air. His free arm flailed. Darak caught his hand and squeezed hard. “Your boy. The temple. Go. Now.”

  Bel poured soft golden light on the altar. It turned the snakes wriggling away from the stone steps into tiny waves. It painted the feathers in the Zheron’s headdress the colors of fresh blood and birch leaves in autumn. It sent sparks flashing from the bronze dagger between the two struggling figures.

  Darak leaped up, screaming his son’s name—in warning, in denial, in a ceaseless prayer to keep the dagger from descending, to stop the deathblow from falling, to let him get there in time.

  Maker, help me.

  His legs were so heavy, so slow. His feet tripped over upended paving stones.

  Maker, don’t let him kill my boy.

  The feathered headdress bent lower as the Zheron forced Keirith down.

  Keep fighting, son, keep fighting, just a few moments more.

  Keirith’s back arched over the stone. Keirith’s hair streamed over the edge of the slab. Keirith’s upraised fists locked around the priest’s wrist, but—oh, gods—his arms were bending under the strain, his fists inching toward his chest as slowly and relentlessly as the point of the Zheron’s dagger.

  Please, Maker, don’t take my boy. Please, Fellgair, take me, take me, take me!

  Chapter 41

  THE INITIAL BURST of agony was already ebbing when Xevhan’s face suddenly disappeared. The sunlight burned his eyes. More painful was the sense that he had failed. Malaq was dead. Xevhan had won. And his father . . . he could only hope his father had escaped in the chaos of the earthquake.