Chapter 45
HE WOKE TO FIND himself staring up at a whitewashed ceiling. The scrape of sandals alerted him to another presence. He turned his head to see a figure retreating through the doorway.
Keirith reached for his father’s spirit and felt nothing. He bolted upright. Bracelets clattered against his wrists. A scarlet robe fell to his ankles. A ring with a red stone adorned his right forefinger. Black tattoos snaked up his slender, swarthy forearms.
With a tentative finger, he touched the tattoo on his left arm. Involuntarily, his hand jerked back. He forced himself to touch it again, running his trembling fingers down the length of the twisting snake. Again and again, he traced the snake’s shape until he was rubbing it with mindless ferocity as if to scrub it off. His fingernails scored four red marks in his flesh. The snake slithered through them, mouth agape, laughing at him.
In the flickering light of the oil lamps, the ring winked. He wrenched it from his finger and hurled it away. He tore the bracelets from his wrists and heard them clatter dully against the tiles. But the snakes remained, jeering at his pitiful attempt to obliterate them.
The wave of nausea made him double over. Dully, he noted that Xevhan’s second toe was longer than the big one. He covered his eyes to shut out the sight of them. Helplessly, his fingers played over his face, feeling the clammy forehead, the smooth cheeks, the small cleft in the chin.
Xevhan was dead.
Xevhan was gone.
And now he possessed his body.
“Oh, gods . . .”
He flinched at the sound of that voice. His voice. Deeper than it should be, breathy with horror. He should feel triumphant instead of sick. He had killed his enemy. He had won. He was Keirith the Destroyer. Keirith the Eater of Spirits.
“Feeling better?”
His head jerked up. Khonsel do Havi stood in the doorway, observing him. Belatedly, he realized this was the Khonsel’s chamber. Thin cracks snaked up the whitewashed walls. A thick layer of dust covered the stool. A broken vase spilled wilted bitterheart onto the floor. Judging from the light outside the tiny window, it must be close to nightfall—or dawn.
“How long have I been sleeping?”
“A night and a day.”
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Your quarters were damaged.”
Stupid, Keirith. The Khonsel thinks you’re Xevhan.
He took a deep breath. “Khonsel do Havi, I am not the Zheron. I am Kheridh. My father—”
His father would only know he was gone. He would believe he was dead. He would suffer that same lacerating grief all over again.
“Please. My father. The Spirit-Hunter. Is he alive?”
“The Spirit-Hunter’s alive.”
Keirith covered his face with trembling hands. Then, ashamed at displaying such emotion in front of the Khonsel, he pretended to smooth his hair. He started when he touched the bare scalp. Of course, he had no hair. Xevhan shaved his head; all the priests did. His stupidity made him chuckle, then laugh. He fell back on the fleece. Even when he heard the rising note of hysteria, he couldn’t stop the helpless shrieks of laughter. The Khonsel’s grim expression finally sobered him.
“My father took my spirit in when I was dying.”
“Took your spirit in?”
“Yes. We are together. One body. Two spirits.” His Zherosi was fracturing under that narrow-eyed stare. He knitted his fingers together to make his point clearer. “Hircha and Hakkon took us to the temple of the Supplicant. You must talk to her. The Supplicant. She knows the truth.”
“I did talk to her. She didn’t mention anything about ‘one body, two spirits.’ Perhaps it slipped her mind.”
It was typical of the Trickster—one moment, helping them, and the next, putting them in jeopardy.
“You were saying?” the Khonsel prompted.
“We wake—woke up. In the temple. And then Xevhan came. And you. And the performer—Olinio. And Xevhan says my father kills Malaq. But it is not so. It is just like the vision. I see the dagger in Xevhan’s hand . . .”
He gasped, as if reliving that moment when the dream state had shattered, leaving him standing among a sea of fleeing adders, watching the dagger descend.
“Too late . . .”
Malaq slumping against the altar. Xevhan bending to wrench the dagger free. The earth convulsing beneath his feet as he staggered up the steps.
“I fight . . . I try . . .”
He could feel the delicate bones of that wrist under his fingers, the strain in his arms as he tried to hold off death. And then the shock of the blade driving into his flesh.
He fell back against the wall. His hand clawed its way up his chest to grasp the hilt of the dagger. Instead, his fingers closed around the vial of qiij. He was panting now, his heart pounding as wildly as it had during those last moments of life. But he had to make the Khonsel understand. He had to make him believe.
“We see him—my father and I. In the temple. Laughing. Happy. And we want to kill. We make him angry so he will attack. And he does. He is inside us. He tries to cast us out. But I fight. He runs away and I follow. Into his body. And this time, I win.”
The Khonsel nodded thoughtfully and relief washed over him. Slowly, the big hands came up. Palm slapped against palm, steady as a drumbeat at first, and then faster and faster until the Khonsel’s applause echoed in the small chamber.
“You missed your calling. Perhaps your friend Olinio can find a place for you among his players.”
“No. Please. You do not understand.”
“You’ve even got the boy’s mannerisms and speech down. Very impressive. You were impressive in the temple, too. All righteous indignation and wrath. Until the man mentioned the vision.”
The Khonsel bared his teeth in a feral grin and Keirith shrank back.
“You nearly pissed yourself, didn’t you? Pity you didn’t know he spoke Zherosi. Still, you might have pulled it off if you’d kept your head. Was it the qiij that pushed you over the edge? Malaq always said you couldn’t handle it.”
“You must believe . . .”
In a few long strides, the Khonsel was on him. He seized him by the front of his robe, yanked him off his feet, and shoved him up against the wall.
“I told Malaq the boy would be the death of him. Well, Malaq paid for his stubbornness. And the boy paid as well. That leaves you.”
The Khonsel’s face was so close he could see the dust caked in the deep lines that age and exhaustion had carved around his eyes. But exhausted or not, the meaty fingers that encircled his throat were very strong.
“I thought about killing you last night. But I wanted you awake. I wanted to see your eyes go wide—yes, just like that—and smell the stink of fear on you and listen to you beg for your life.”
“Please . . .”
“Good. Beg some more, and I might kill you quickly.”
He was going to die. After twice evading Xevhan, he was going to die at the Khonsel’s hands. Fury welled up in him—and just as quickly faded.
The Khonsel wanted to kill Xevhan. He’d never even know that he was giving him the release he sought. Relief made Keirith smile.
The fingers around his throat relaxed slightly. Two lines appeared between the Khonsel’s heavy brows.
“Do it,” Keirith whispered.
The Khonsel’s expression cleared. “Yes. You first. And then the Spirit-Hunter.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“He . . . he is not the Spirit-Hunter.”
“So you lied about that.”
“Yes. Yes, I lied. He is just a cripple.” He had to fight to keep from wincing when he said those words. “A worthless cripple,” he repeated, injecting scorn into his voice.
“And why do you care about a worthless cripple?”
Desperately, he sought a reason why Xevhan would want to protect the very man who had accused him of murder. It was no good. He should have simply agreed when the Khonsel proposed k
illing his father, but the denial had sprung to his lips without thought. And now he was trapped. He couldn’t save his father. He didn’t care about saving himself.
“Do what you want. It does not matter. Malaq is dead.”
“And you killed him.”
Malaq had come to the altar for him, had died because of him. Xevhan merely wielded the dagger that struck him down.
“Yes. I killed him. Your best friend. Your oldest friend. You fought battles together. You ate together, drank together. You even named his cat.”
“His cat?”
“Niqia.”
“I know her name. Why do you think I gave it to her?”
He was too tired to wrangle. He just wanted the Khonsel to stop playing with him and finish this. “I do not remember.”
“Try.”
“He said . . .”
Malaq staring up at him, apparently unperturbed to find him standing on a bench in his garden. Delivering his lecture on breeding wildcats in the dry tone he always used during those first days. It was only later that either of them risked speaking from the heart.
“It was the fur,” he said wearily. “Or the body. I forget. Soft body. Sharp claws. Like the lady.” The Khonsel just stared at him. Had he spoken the tribal tongue? “Soft body,” he repeated. “And—”
“Sharp claws. I heard.” Both the Khonsel’s expression and voice were noncommittal. “And did Malaq tell you about Davell, too?”
Keirith closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “No.”
“You’ve never heard the name?”
“No!”
“Or the name of Malaq’s wife?”
“Priests cannot marry.”
“Before that. When he fought with me. She was one of the Tree People.”
Keirith opened his eyes. Perhaps the Khonsel thought he would be shocked by the revelation, but he was beyond shock. Malaq had loved a woman of the tribes. It explained his facility with the language, his knowledge of the legends, his eagerness to find similarities between their peoples. She must have died. Malaq would never have left her. His wife died, and Malaq became a priest. It all made sense now.
“Malaq had a wife,” he murmured to himself.
“And a son.”
He was not beyond shock after all. “Malaq has a son?”
“Had. Davell is dead.”
A strange undertone of excitement lurked in the Khonsel’s voice. Keirith waited for him to continue, but the man just watched him.
“How did he die?”
It must have been the question the Khonsel desired. At any rate, he smiled. “He was killed in battle. When he was fourteen.”
His age. Davell had been his age when he died.
“I thought it would kill Malaq, losing him so young.”
Keirith saw again the terrible grief that had contorted his father’s face at the temple of Zhe and tried to imagine such emotion twisting Malaq’s smooth features.
“He was tall for his age. Stubborn like Malaq. They butted heads more than once.”
His mam’s voice, scolding, “Broody like your father. And stubborn as a rock.”
“Had his mother’s coloring, though. The dark blue eyes.”
The same color as his.
“And the hair, of course.”
The words hung there until Keirith forced himself to ask, “The hair?”
“Auburn.” The Khonsel’s smile widened. “A deep, rich auburn.”
The same age. The same eyes. The same hair.
It wasn’t him. It had never been him. From the first moment, Malaq had only seen the son he had lost.
He wasn’t aware the Khonsel had stepped back until he felt himself sliding down the wall. He pulled his knees up to his chest. His father had warned him that Malaq was using him; he’d believed it himself during the early days of his captivity. He’d tried so hard to push Malaq away, to keep him at a distance. But Malaq wouldn’t let him go. And in the face of that persistence—and his own desperate need to trust someone—he had let down his guard. That had been his mistake, allowing himself to feel genuine affection for the man and deceiving himself into believing that the affection was returned.
Malaq laughing with him in the excitement of sharing knowledge and power. Malaq spooning broth into his mouth, scolding him for making a mess. Malaq holding him in his arms while he crouched on the floor, gentle fingers stroking his hair, gentle voice assuring him that he had done the right thing by sending his father away.
Nay, that was real. Malaq had held him, comforted him, not some replica of his son.
“I don’t care.”
“What?”
His head jerked up. He blinked furiously to clear his vision. “I said . . .” He cursed and switched to Zherosi. “It does not matter. Malaq is dead. I never . . .” Damn his voice for breaking. “I do not care about him. Not now, not ever. Do you hear me?”
“If you don’t lower your voice, the whole palace will hear you.”
He launched himself at the man, hating him for his mockery, his satisfaction, his supreme self-possession. The Khonsel caught him easily and held him as he struggled. And when he finally stopped struggling, the Khonsel sat him down on the sleeping shelf and watched with that same satisfied expression as he wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“Are you through?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Geriv!”
Geriv was there in a moment; he must have heard everything.
“Bring us some food. And wine. And while we’re waiting, boy, you tell me everything you remember from the moment you started herding the adders to the temple.”
“Leave me alone.” Then the words sank in. He raised his head to find the Khonsel waiting patiently for understanding to dawn. “You believe me? But why?” He could feel his face growing warm. “Because I acted like a fool. About Malaq’s son.”
“Mostly. The bit about Niqia helped, too.” The Khonsel leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “There were other things, of course. You expected to find hair on your head. You were concerned about your father. And you still gnaw your thumb when you’re nervous.”
“You knew who I was? When you came in?”
“Sit down. I questioned your father. After he calmed down. A strong man, your father. Took four men to pull him off the Zheron. Off you. Cursing and shouting and calling me a fool for not listening. The girl—what’s her name?”
“Hircha,” he murmured.
“She translated. And filled in a few of the missing pieces. But they couldn’t know who’d won the battle any more than I did when I came in. Xevhan was clever enough to pretend to be you. But even he couldn’t muster tears for Malaq.”
Unable to face the penetrating stare, Keirith fastened his gaze on the floor. The wilted sprays of bitterheart were the color of dried blood. He closed his eyes and saw Malaq offering him the scarlet blossoms. A gift of flowers to celebrate the Ripening. A gift he must have given his wife and his son when they celebrated the festival with him.
“It wasn’t just the resemblance.” The Khonsel’s voice was flat and unemotional. “In the beginning, maybe. But he wouldn’t have risked so much if that’s all it was.”
When he trusted his voice, Keirith said, “Thank you. For saying so.”
“The stubborn old fool would come back and haunt me if I let you think otherwise.” A brief smile, surprisingly tender, softened the lined face. It vanished as he cocked his head, listening. “That’ll be Geriv with the food. We’ll eat here. Too many people coming and going. It would be better if they thought the Zheron was still ailing.”
Geriv arrived with a platter. After he laid it on the floor, he left, only to return moments later with cushions. In his wake, a familiar figure slunk along the wall.
“Niqia!”
At the sound of his voice, her ears went back and her mouth opened in a soundless hiss. She skittered under the stool and crouched there, tail lashing furiously. Keirith swallow
ed down the lump of disappointment; of course, she wouldn’t know him anymore.
“I found her at the temple. Nearly shredded me when I tried to pick her up.” The Khonsel scowled at the scratches on his arms, then settled himself on a cushion with a grunt. “As if I don’t have enough to do without playing nursemaid to a damned cat.” Gingerly, he picked a piece of meat out of one bowl and tossed it toward her. “Sit, Geriv. Even you have to eat. And pour us some wine. Thank the gods that was spared.” He drained his cup in a few thirsty gulps and refilled it from a dented bronze pitcher. “Now. Start at the beginning.”
“What about my father?”
“Later.”
“But—”
“Later.”
His tale was interrupted a dozen times by the endless stream of visitors coming to see the Khonsel: soldiers making reports, slaves bearing messages from someone called the Stuavo; healers arriving with updates on the queen’s condition. Keirith eavesdropped shamelessly on their conversations and grew increasingly impressed with the Khonsel’s efficiency; no wonder Malaq admired him.
“How bad is it?” he asked after the Khonsel returned from yet another interview.
“Only three hundred dead. So far. We’re still digging bodies out of the rubble.”
Only three hundred.
“It would have been worse if I hadn’t had the district closest to the palace hill evacuated.” The Khonsel smiled wearily. “I came to the pit that night.”
“I know. I heard your voice.”
“The Qepo said he’d never seen the adders so wild. I didn’t want to wait and see what you learned.” He started to spit, then restrained himself. “Never been much of a man for magic. The queen refused to evacuate the palace, but I took a few precautions on my own. Ordered the ships out to sea. Moved the oil and flammable supplies out of the storerooms. Had the fires in the kitchen put out.” This time he did spit. “If the damned priests didn’t insist on lighting incense and candles when they pray, we might have prevented more fires. Still . . .”
Bloodstone Page 47