Part 21 (2/2)
Chapter 16.
KEIRITH SAT ON the stone bench, watching Niqia purring in the Pajhit's lap. In the sennight since his arrival in Pilozhat, he'd gone from slave to suspect to . . . what? Three days after his audience with the queen, he still wasn't sure.
His life had fallen into a routine. Mornings and afternoons, Hircha taught him the rudiments of the Zherosi tongue. Every evening, he shared a simple meal with the Pajhit. And every night, he returned to his little room and prayed the nightmares wouldn't come.
He'd found the language surprisingly easy to learn; it was similar to the ancient words the Tree-Father spoke during their rituals. Still, by the end of the day, his head ached from the effort of mentally translating every thought into Zherosi and he was grateful when the Pajhit allowed him to lapse into his native tongue. When Keirith asked how he came to speak it so well, the Pajhit said he'd grown up in the north of Zheros where there was a good deal of trading and intermingling with the children of the Oak and Holly.
They spent most evenings here in the garden. Although you couldn't describe the air as cool, it seemed almost refres.h.i.+ng after the sun went down. The Pajhit didn't seem perturbed by his continued refusal to demonstrate his gift or by his reluctance to talk about his home. He seemed content to answer his questions about Zherosi food and daily life and religion.
”I know you are sun-priest. And the Motixa is earth-priest. And-”
”Priestess.”
”Priestess. Yes. Thank you. And Zheron is Zhe-priest. But who is Zhe? He is . . .” Keirith fumbled for the word ”important” and gave up. ”. . . very big G.o.d. He is your Maker?”
The Pajhit studied him for so long that Keirith wondered if he had committed another blunder. ”Forgive me. I mean no disrespect.”
He knew those two sentences by heart; he was always apologizing for his lack of understanding or inability to choose the correct words.
”We will speak your tongue as I want to be certain you understand.” The Pajhit's hand glided across Niqia's head and down the striped back. ”Zhe was born after the creation of the sky and the earth. Heart of Sky fell upon Womb of Earth and ravished her. Legend says the cataclysm of their union created Kelazhat, our sacred mountain.”
Keirith repressed a shudder. It made perfect sense to him that the brooding mountain had been created as a result of rape.
”To punish Heart of Sky, Womb of Earth imprisoned him in the mountain. Nine moons later, she gave birth to Zhe, the winged serpent. The mountain split open during her birth pains-you've noticed Kelazhat's jagged peak?”
Keirith nodded; it looked like fangs.
”Zhe was seduced by his father's warmth and light into defying his mother. He rose from the mountain at dawn to carry his father across the heavens. Womb of Earth ripped open creva.s.ses in the ground and hurled boulders down the slopes of Kelazhat. In her deep, booming voice, she called out, 'My son. My son. Why have you betrayed me?' ”
The Pajhit swept his hand across the sky. ”To escape his mother's voice, Zhe fled west, but the longer he flew, the hotter his father burned. His scarlet wings turned black. His body shriveled. Furious that his father should betray him after he had freed him from his underground tomb, Zhe turned on Heart of Sky and devoured him, leaving only his father's spirit-self-the moon-to light the ensuing darkness. And then he plummeted toward the Abyss.”
A bitter tale of rape and betrayal and death. How much kinder the G.o.ds of his people were, with Bel chasing his lover Gheala through the skies. And how strange to believe the moon was merely the shadow of another G.o.d instead of a G.o.ddess in her own right.
”But Heart of Sky couldn't have died,” Keirith said. ”He rises every day.”
”Womb of Earth's lamentations so moved The Changing One of the clouds that her tears flooded the Abyss before Zhe could reach its bottom. Zhe swam across the sea to our winding river-it flows through the gorge just there, beyond the temple-and finally reached the slopes of Kelazhat. Cold and sluggish, he wriggled up to the summit where, with his dying breath, he disgorged Heart of Sky whose heat restored him to life. And so it has been every sunset and every dawn. Zhe loves the cool embrace of his mother, but cannot resist his father's warmth. Each day, he rises from the summit of Kelazhat. Each night, he returns.” The Pajhit scratched Niqia behind the ears. ”So. What do you think of our G.o.ds?”
Keirith hesitated. ”They seem to suffer so much.”
”That is why we must feed them with sacrifices.”
”Human sacrifices.”
”As your people once did.”
”Long ago.”
”Until fifteen years ago, we offered human sacrifices only once a year. But then came the Long Winter.”
”You call it that, too?”
”Yes.” The Pajhit eased Niqia off his lap. She stretched, mouth gaping in a pink yawn, and padded inside in search of a more hospitable nest.
”The rains fell for a moon. The earth slid into the sea. We thought-as your people must have-that the world was ending. That Heart of Sky was dying or that Zhe had grown too weak to carry his father through the sky. And so we began offering daily sacrifices to Heart of Sky and to Zhe. Not slaves or captives, but strong young men who offered their lives freely so our world might live again. But still the days did not grow longer. We realized that the G.o.d with Two Faces must also be appeased if we wished to change our fortune.”
”The G.o.d has two heads?”
”It refers to his nature rather than his anatomy,” the Pajhit replied with a hint of a smile.
”And Womb of Earth?”
”She is the G.o.ddess of life. It would be unfitting to offer death on her altar. To her, our younger priestesses offered the blood they shed each moon. On the day we offered sacrifices to all four G.o.ds, the sun came out. The year began to turn again. And the world was saved.”
”But that's not . . .” Keirith's voice trailed off. He didn't want to offend the Pajhit by denigrating his beliefs, but he felt impelled to tell him what had really happened.
”That's not the legend your people tell. You believe the Oak's spirit was lost during the Midwinter battle and a man went in search of him. Yes?”
Keirith nodded, surprised that he knew the story. The quest had occurred long after the Pajhit had left his northern village.
”This man-what do you call him?”
”Darak Spirit-Hunter,” Keirith replied, careful not to give the words too much weight.
”Yes. This Spirit-Hunter went to Chaos-we call it the Abyss-and brought the Oak's spirit back.”
”Not just the Oak,” Keirith interrupted. ”The Spirit-Hunter's brother-we call him Tinnean Tree-Friend-his spirit had been lost in the Midwinter battle, too. The Spirit-Hunter brought them both back. Tinnean Tree-Friend gave up his body. He became a tree. The One Tree that shelters the spirits of the Oak and the Holly. Only then could the Midwinter battle be completed.”
”And once it was, the year began to turn.” The Pajhit nodded thoughtfully; he seemed remarkably undisturbed at learning the truth. ”It's interesting, isn't it? The similarities between the tales. Not the details, of course, but the necessity of sacrifice in order to restore the world.”
”It's not just a tale. It happened.” When the Pajhit nodded politely, he said, ”It did. Darak Spirit-Hunter and Griane the Healer-they were there. In the grove of the First Forest. They saw Tinnean transform. They witnessed the battle.”
”I understand.”
”Then . . . ?”
”Why do we believe something different?” The Pajhit rose and crossed toward him. To Keirith's relief, he made no attempt to sit beside him. ”Every culture has its legends about the Long Winter. Your people believe that Tinnean Tree-Friend's sacrifice made the seasons turn. My people believe that human blood gave our G.o.ds the strength to live. The Eripteans built giant bonfires on their mountain-tops; they believe the flames rekindled the light of the sun.”
”But Darak Spirit-Hunter-”
”I'm not denying what your Spirit-Hunter did or what he claimed to have witnessed. I'm merely suggesting that it might have required the prayers and sacrifices of many people-and the will of many G.o.ds-to restore the world.”
The Pajhit bent over him and Keirith tensed. Immediately, the Pajhit straightened, but his expression remained intent. ”You find it hard to accept our beliefs. The necessity of offering human life to feed our G.o.ds. But we believe such sacrifices are essential to preserve our world, to honor the suffering of our G.o.ds, and to give them the strength to endure that suffering. Ours is a harsh land.”
But if the legends were true, it had once been a lush paradise, where the barley grew higher than a man's head and the forests stretched to the horizon. Perhaps the ancestors had come from another part of the world. This land held little more than rocks and scrub and a relentless sun that robbed even the great river of its water.
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