Part 17 (1/2)
”Including the ones with red hair?”
The Pajhit's eyes narrowed, but all he said was, ”We could continue this conversation inside. Unless you prefer standing on the bench.”
After a moment's hesitation, Keirith hopped down.
Someone had placed a small basket of flatbread on the table. There was also a bowl containing a brownish paste, another with creamy white stuff, and a shallow dish filled with pale green disks, each studded with a circle of white seeds. The Pajhit seated himself on a cus.h.i.+on and reached for a bronze pitcher.
”The brown paste is jhok. Ground chickpeas and lentils.” Golden liquid flowed into a tall cup that reminded Keirith of a bluebell only it, too, was made of bronze. ”Do you have them?”
”Nay.”
”Beans. Mixed with spices. You dip the bread in it. This is gyrt and those are kugi. Gyrt is made from goat's milk. You don't have goats either, I believe. They're somewhat like sheep, but they have short hair instead of wool. Kugi are vegetables. They're like . . . I can't recall anything similar among your people. You dip them in the gyrt. Very refres.h.i.+ng.”
”Are you going to kill me?”
”Not right now. Sit, please. My neck is beginning to ache from staring up at you. And help yourself to the wine.”
Keirith sat. He had no appet.i.te and he was afraid to lift the pitcher for fear the Pajhit would see his hand shake.
”Your story has been remarkably consistent. Either you're telling the truth, or you're an excellent liar. However, to a.s.sess the true extent of your gift, our spirits must touch.”
Shocked by the sudden s.h.i.+ft in conversation, Keirith could only shake his head.
”I'm not suggesting that I enter your spirit. I require you to enter mine.”
”I can't do that.”
”You did it yesterday. To the Zheron.”
”I didn't mean to . . . I mean, I did, but only because I was . . . angry.”
”Now you'll attempt to do so without anger.”
”It's . . . you don't understand. My people don't do that.”
”Your priests touch the spirits of their tribe mates, do they not?”
”Only the Tree-Father. For anyone else to do that . . . it's an abomination. A sacrilege.”
”So yesterday you committed sacrilege. As you did when you attacked the spirit of the warrior Kha.”
”He was trying to kill me. Capture me.”
”So it's permitted to use this gift under duress?”
”I . . . nay . . . I don't know.”
The Pajhit leaned forward. ”Tell me this: if you had defended yourself with a dagger, would your people punish you?”
”Of course not.”
”But you're not a warrior. You used the only weapon you had. True?”
”Aye, but-”
”You've only used this weapon against your enemies, not your own people.”
His father's scream echoed inside his head.
”So,” the Pajhit continued in that same reasonable voice, ”as you-presumably-consider me your enemy, and since I-definitely-am inviting you to enter my spirit, explain to me how that can be a sacrilege.” He leaned back, waiting.
”I don't . . . can't you test me in some other way?”
”I could enter your your spirit. However, that would be . . . unnerving for you. It always is the first time, even when your partner is a trusted friend. To enter the spirit of another without permission, of course, would be tantamount to rape.” spirit. However, that would be . . . unnerving for you. It always is the first time, even when your partner is a trusted friend. To enter the spirit of another without permission, of course, would be tantamount to rape.”
Keirith repressed a wince. ”Why do you care if it's . . . unnerving for me?”
The Pajhit simply set his cup on the table and folded his hands.
”I could hurt you,” Keirith said.
”No. You couldn't.”
”I hurt the Zheron.”
”Only because your attack was clumsy. Once he recovered from his initial shock-”
”He pushed me out.”
”No. You would have felt that.”
Keirith went through the encounter again. Slowly, he said, ”He shut himself off.”
A very small smile curved the Pajhit's mouth. ”Yes.”
”How?”
”By erecting a protective s.h.i.+eld. So you see, you could not hurt me if you entered my spirit.”
It sounded like the same thing he did to block out the cries of a wounded animal. But the Pajhit was skilled enough to get past any pathetic s.h.i.+eld he tried to erect. And then he would be able to peer into the most hidden parts of his being and learn all his secrets-who his parents were, what had happened on the boat.
”What if I won't agree?”
”Then I'll have to arrange a different test. One that is more dangerous.”
”What . . . what sort of test?”
The Pajhit sipped his wine. ”I haven't decided.”
Keirith studied his smooth face and recalled the whispered conversation that had prompted the Zheron to change tactics and taunt him. The Pajhit knew exactly what test he would choose. He'd known from the beginning. His casual conversation about food and cats was merely a tactic to catch him off guard, his reluctance to invade his spirit a sham, and his politeness a mask to hide his ruthlessness.