Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  Keirith turned on his heel and stalked back to the boat. Fellgair sighed again. “He reminds me of you—rude and impetuous. Let’s hope he improves on future acquaintance as you did.”

  “He’ll be safe?” Darak asked. “The fishermen won’t recognize the Zheron?”

  “Xevhan didn’t mingle with common folk.”

  “Men don’t just disappear.”

  “Dozens have since the earthquake,” Fellgair reminded him. “The Khonsel’s a resourceful man. He’ll think of something. Or perhaps I’ll make my own arrangements. They’re still pulling bodies out of the ruins. Imagine the Khonsel’s surprise when he discovers one of them is the Zheron.”

  “But how . . . ? Nay, I don’t want to know. As long as we’re out of this place forever.” Darak eyed the dark mass of the mountain looming behind Fellgair; even here, it dominated the sky with malevolent watchfulness. “Thank you. For helping me. I wish I’d known—when you entered my spirit—that you were preparing me to save his.”

  “But that would have ruined the fun.”

  “Did you know then what would happen?”

  Fellgair’s expression grew solemn. “His chance of surviving was small. The odds that he would acquire the Zheron’s body were smaller still. Until the oleaginous Olinio entered the fray.”

  “You sent him to the Zheron?”

  “I didn’t have to. His greed was motivation enough. Peace, Darak. Olinio will get the reward he deserves—in this life or the next. Now kiss my hand like a devoted worshipper and run along.”

  Darak bent over the delicate hand. Fur brushed his lips. But when he jerked his head back, he saw only the slender fingers of the Supplicant.

  Someone shouted. The fishermen shoved the boat into the water. Darak scrambled aboard. The men settled themselves on the four wooden benches and bent their backs over the long paddles. Oars. Urkiat called them oars.

  Maker, carry his spirit to the Forever Isles. He got so little happiness in life; he deserves a little after death.

  His stomach lurched as the boat crested the first of the breakers. Two men tugged on ropes, laboriously raising the tall spar bearing the wind cloth. Keirith stared out to sea, but Darak clutched the spar, watching the robed figure on the beach grow smaller and smaller until it vanished from sight.

  PART FOUR

  These acts are offenses against the creatures

  of the world:

  To cut a limb from a living tree

  without a sacrifice offered in return.

  To pull a fish from the waters

  without a sacrifice offered in return.

  To kill a bird or animal

  without a sacrifice offered in return.

  To kill without provocation

  any man or woman or child.

  The punishment for one who commits such offenses

  is to be cast out of the tribe.

  These acts are offenses against the gods:

  To raise a weapon against the One Tree,

  in which dwell the spirits of the Oak and the Holly.

  To raise a weapon against the heart-oak of our tribe.

  To seek power through unnatural communion with a

  creature of Chaos.

  To subvert or subjugate the spirit of any creature.

  The punishment for one who commits such

  abominations is death.

  The Forbidden Acts

  Chapter 47

  THREE DAYS LATER, they were retracing the route Darak had taken half a moon before with Urkiat. They had acquired supplies in Oexiak, purchased with more of the Khonsel’s coins. Keirith exchanged his priest’s robe for the long breeches and tunic worn by the raiders. When Darak pulled Keirith’s mantle from his pack and handed it to him, Keirith stroked the wool with trembling hands and quickly turned away.

  The tunic hid the snake tattoos on his forearms and the mantle would cover his shaven head, but there was no disguising his swarthy complexion and dark eyes. Few would accept him as a child of the Oak and Holly, and no one who knew the tale of the Spirit-Hunter would believe this grown man was his son. Illait and Girn would be wise enough not to ask too many questions, but in the other villages, he would have to pretend Keirith was a man he’d met in Zheros.

  Each day, he grew more accustomed to Keirith’s new form. After a sennight, he no longer started when he heard the voice. But the unexpected gesture could still undermine his control—to see him gnawing his thumb or compulsively rubbing his head. Or to look up and discover him tracing the lines on his palm or the curve of his chin or the swell of a bicep. Exploring his new body with the same fear and fascination that Cuillon had shown when he woke to find himself in Tinnean’s body. Whenever that happened, Darak would ask a quiet question to bring him back, taking care to look away before he spoke so he wouldn’t see Keirith’s guilty start of surprise.

  Even after they left Zheros behind, Keirith maintained a wary distance. At first, Darak thought he was reluctant to speak openly in front of Hircha, but it soon became clear he didn’t want to talk at all. He rebuffed every attempt to draw him out, sometimes with a gentle refusal, but more often, with a sudden flare of anger, quickly followed by a mumbled apology.

  After all Keirith had been through, Darak could understand why his moods swung from anger to depression. His son’s physical condition troubled him more. Just walking along the beach made him break into a sweat. At night, he huddled under two mantles, shivering. He ate little and when he did, he barely managed to keep the food down.

  “It’s the qiij,” Hircha confided in one of their rare conversations. “A drug that Xevhan took. His body still craves it.” But even Hircha didn’t know how long the symptoms would last.

  The nightmares began within days of leaving Zheros. When they grew more violent, Darak risked another rebuff to reach out to his son.

  “Talk to me, Keirith. Let me help.”

  “You had nightmares after Morgath.”

  “Aye.”

  “And they went away?”

  “In time.”

  “Then give me time. Just . . . give me a little time.”

  The same words he’d said to Griane all those years ago. And like Griane, he didn’t press Keirith, although it hurt to see his son’s pain and be helpless to alleviate it.

  As he had after his own quest, he reflected bitterly on the shortcomings of the tribal legends. They were filled with heroic deeds and fierce battles. They taught the lesson that good triumphed over evil, that balance was restored through sacrifice and selflessness. But they failed to speak of what happened after the battle was won, after the goal of the quest had been achieved. They never spoke of the wounds—physical and emotional—that had to be endured, the sleepless nights, the lingering doubts. Old Sim would probably say no one wanted to hear about those, but they were as much a part of the quest as everything that came before.

  He had bent all his energy on finding Keirith and freeing him, refusing to contemplate the possibility of failure. He had warded off thoughts of home lest they weaken him. Only now did he allow himself the luxury of loneliness. He longed to hold his son—as much for his comfort as for Keirith’s. But only in the moments when Keirith fought off a nightmare did his son permit such contact.

  He hadn’t realized how starved he was for companionship until he sought out Wolf. Her joyful greeting brought tears to his eyes. Now that they were back in tribal lands, she was fully restored. If he missed the reality of her rough tongue against his cheek and her thick fur under his fingers, he took comfort in her strength and her wisdom.

  “My pup is wounded, Wolf. And I don’t know how to heal him.”

  She cocked her head, considering. “Do you keep him warm at night? And lick the wound to clean it?”

  “It’s a wound of the spirit, not the body.”

  “Those are harder to reach. But they, too, must be cleaned or they will fester. You know this, Little Brother.”

  In shame and fear, he had buried the memories of his ordeal in Chaos.
The events of the last moons had unearthed them. Wolf was right; he could not let Keirith make the same mistake.

  He wondered if Keirith’s adder could offer the same comfort Wolf gave him. Natha was both vision mate and spirit guide; surely, that made the bond doubly strong. But when he suggested it, Keirith shook his head. “I’m too tired to seek a vision.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to. I can speak to my vision mate—and the gods know, I’m no priest.”

  “But how?”

  “I call her name. I picture her in my mind. And she comes to me.”

  Keirith nodded thoughtfully. “That’s where you go. When you leave camp. I wondered.”

  “Aye. She’d come here, but you wouldn’t be able to see her. And I didn’t want you to think I’d lost my mind and was talking to myself.”

  “After everything that’s happened, you’d have reason enough.” Keirith’s smile failed to hide the bitterness in his voice.

  “After my vision quest, I never saw her again until Chaos. Maybe that . . . changed our bond. Made it stronger somehow. But it’s worth trying, son.”

  He never knew if Keirith followed his advice. Perhaps the very fact that Natha was an adder conjured too many painful memories.

  They continued their silent journey north. Each step brought them closer to home—and to the inevitable confrontation with the council of elders. Keirith seemed unconcerned about his fate; he simply wanted to see his family again. But the thought that he was leading his son to his death haunted Darak.

  Could he convince the elders that Keirith had acted in self-defense? Would they be able to separate the boy from the act? Or would they simply remember Morgath and recoil in horror when they saw him?

  Even Hircha, who’d hated the Zheron, could scarcely bring herself to look at Keirith. Finally, Darak took her aside and reminded her that Keirith needed kindness and friendship. He spoke gently enough—Griane would have been proud—but Hircha shot him a murderous look and told him to mind his own business.

  If her attitude infuriated him, he had no complaints about her stamina. Despite her limp, she never asked them to slow the pace. She helped gather deadwood for their fire every evening and insisted on carrying an equal share of their supplies every day. And through it all, she maintained a stubborn silence as impenetrable as Keirith’s.

  Only once did she show any emotion. They had been traveling up the coast for a sennight. When she cried out, he froze, reaching for the dagger he had purchased in Oexiak.

  “What? What is it?”

  “It must be the same. There can’t be two.”

  “Two what?”

  “The Old Man.”

  His gaze followed hers to the top of a promontory, but he saw no one. Then he understood. With a little imagination, you could see the shape of a face in the rocks: a high forehead, a jutting nose, a pointed chin. Before he could stop her, she was lurching down the beach. He shouted at her to stop, knowing what she would find, but she ignored him. Cursing, he raced after her and saw her steps slow.

  The village had been abandoned more recently than Urkiat’s; although most of the roofs had caved in, the walls were still standing and the forest had yet to reclaim the field. Tufts of seagrass sprouted in the doorways. Inside, he found only the stones of the fire pits. Either the raiders had stripped everything or these folk had left of their own accord. For Hircha’s sake, he hoped it was the latter.

  She ducked into one hut and remained inside a long while, emerging with a tight mouth and red-rimmed eyes.

  “They might have fled deeper into the forest,” Darak said. “Other tribes have. We’ll ask at Ailmin’s village.”

  Her mouth quirked in a bitter smile. “It seems you’re stuck with me.”

  He’d never realized his resentment was so palpable. Apologies would be useless; this girl valued truth, no matter how painful. Finally, he said, “And you’re stuck with us. I’d say you got the worst of the bargain.”

  Something that might have been surprise flashed in her eyes. Her expression softened, reminding Darak of how young she was—and how vulnerable—beneath her tough exterior.

  She shrugged. “I’d say we’re about even.”

  And with that grudging acknowledgment, he had to be content.

  Keirith’s cry startled Hircha out of sleep. She waited for Darak’s soft murmur to calm him. Hearing nothing, she rolled over.

  Keirith was tossing restlessly, but Darak was gone. Perhaps he had to relieve himself; even the great Spirit-Hunter must piss sometimes. She shook Keirith gently, but he just moaned.

  “Harder,” he muttered. “Make her squeal.”

  More astonishing than the words was the fact that he had spoken Zherosi. She shook him hard and he bolted upright. His eyes were wild, his lips twisted in the snarl she’d seen so often when Xevhan was in one of his rages. Instinctively, she scuttled backward.

  Keirith blinked. His mouth relaxed. “Hircha?” The voice was Xevhan’s, of course, but the tentative note was Keirith’s. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  “You were dreaming.”

  He hugged his knees to his chest, staring at the glowing embers of the fire.

  “Do you want some water?”

  He shook his head.

  “Shall I fetch Darak?”

  Keirith seemed unsurprised to find his father gone. “He’ll be back soon.”

  He kept his face half turned from her as if ashamed of his outburst. Or perhaps he wanted to spare her the sight of it. Darak had seen how she avoided looking at Keirith. Keirith would have noticed, too. A hot wash of shame flooded her face. Poor boy. Hard as these last days had been for her, they were a hundred times worse for him.

  “Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare, I mean?”

  She expected him to say no. He always brushed off his father’s attempts to draw him out and after the way she’d behaved, he had no reason to confide in her. He surprised her by saying, “I was dreaming of the blind girl.”

  “The . . . you mean the one with the players?”

  He nodded. “She sang for him. And then he watched Miko rape her.”

  His words transported her back to Xevhan’s chamber. Her body shuddered as if she were once again absorbing those brutal thrusts. She could hear Miko’s grunts and Xevhan’s labored breathing, hoarse with excitement.

  “Hircha?”

  Keirith went down on his knees before her, careful not to come too close or touch her. He knew the instinctive lurch of fear when a hand reached out unexpectedly. Even one offered in friendship carried the memories of others that had brought only pain.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

  With an effort, she pushed the memories away. “You can’t blame yourself for what they did. You have to put Pilozhat behind you.”

  “Like you have?”

  “I’m . . . trying.”

  “So am I,” he whispered.

  Impulsively, she held out her hand. He seized it eagerly.

  “It’s . . . I suppose it’s natural,” she said, searching for something that would ease his misery. “For us to think about him. About the things he did. And it’s hard—gods, Keirith, I know how hard it must be. In his body.”

  “It’s mine now.”

  “Aye.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Aye.”

  “I’m not him!”

  His grip was so tight, she could barely keep from wincing. “I know. I’m sorry if I’ve been . . . unkind.”

  “You loved him, didn’t you?”

  Her breath caught. She let it out slowly. “Once.”

  Before the blind girl. Before all the other little girls. Before qiij and ambition stole the last shreds of decency he possessed.

  “But that was a long time ago. And the man I loved . . . the man I thought I loved . . . he never really existed.” She squeezed his hand. “He’s gone, Keirith. He’ll never hurt us again.”

  Only later, as she was drifting off to sleep, did she wonder who
had told him what Xevhan and Miko had done. Perhaps one of the guards. Or a gossiping slave. How else could he have known what had happened to the poor girl?

  Chapter 48

  THREE DAYS AFTER HIS conversation with Hircha, they reached Ailmin’s village. When his father introduced them as captives rescued from the Zherosi holy city, Ailmin’s gaze lingered on him. He probably wondered why a Zheroso needed to be rescued from his own people. His father’s reputation won them hospitality, but it was grudgingly given. No feast was prepared to welcome them. No stories were shared around the fire. Ailmin’s wife served them in silence, and in silence, they ate. And when the grim meal was finished, they curled up beside the fire pit with their weapons close at hand.

  Dreading a nightmare among strangers, Keirith waited until everyone was asleep and made his way to the beach. The evening thunderstorm had washed the air clean. The sand was damp and cool under his bare feet. Seaweed and broken shells littered the beach, but the sea was calmer now, the soft shushing of the breakers and the hiss of foam the only sounds in the world.

  His bag of charms rested against his chest. The reminder of his past—his true self—comforted him and he was grateful Hircha had preserved it. He spread his mantle on the sand and emptied the bag onto it, touching each of the charms, just as he had the night before the earthquake. Malaq’s bloodstone warmed quickly in his palm. He let his thumb glide over its smooth surface as he stared out to sea.

  For days he had tried to convince himself that his dreaming mind was simply weaving nightmarish images into his memories. But how could he know what had happened to the blind singer? How could he experience everything about that encounter so intensely? The skin, soft as a rowan petal. The surprised flinch when Miko seized her wrist. And the screams that went on and on until her sweet voice became hoarse and broken and finally fell silent.

  Even the Tree-Father sometimes failed to make sense of visions. And what were dreams but sleeping visions? But there were other images, other memories, too many to dismiss. Xevhan’s spirit had shattered before he cast it out. What if those shattered pieces remained inside him, lost to his waking mind but emerging while he slept?