Part 27 (2/2)
”I am honored to meet you, Khonsel,” he said in perfect Zherosi.
Vazh studied him, his gaze raking Kheridh from the top of his head to his sandaled feet. Brave men had trembled under that silent scrutiny; he'd squirmed under it himself more than once. But that was long ago.
Kheridh's uncertain smile faded. Straightening his shoulders, he gave Vazh stare for stare. Malaq hid his approval behind his wine goblet.
Vazh scowled and rapped out a series of questions: Where is your village? How long have you lived there? Can you use a bow? A spear? A dagger? How old were you when you made your first kill? Under what moon were you born? How do the adders speak to you? Who is your father?
For the first time, Kheridh hesitated. White-faced but calm, he answered in the northern tongue. Vazh's imperious gaze swung toward him. ”Well?”
Malaq delicately applied a napkin to his lips. ”He paraphrased one of our sayings: a man may know the womb from which he emerged, but even the great Khonsel cannot say for sure who planted the seed.”
Vazh's broad face flushed. Kheridh tensed. Malaq found himself measuring the distance between them. Then Vazh snorted and the tension eased. ”Well, he's arrogant enough to be the son of a G.o.d. And clever enough to evade a straight answer. Don't translate that.”
He didn't need to. Kheridh could understand the tone if not the words. After his perfect greeting, his Zherosi had slipped, conveying an air of bewildered innocence. Malaq wondered how much of it was deliberate. Despite Kheridh's apparent calm, the knuckles of his clasped hands were white. Vazh's gaze lingered on them a moment before he said, ”Come here, boy.”
Kheridh took one step forward, careful to remain out of reach.
”I said, come here.”
Vazh's derisory tone brought a flush to Kheridh's cheeks, but he came closer.
”Give me your hand.”
After the briefest hesitation, Kheridh thrust out his right hand. Vazh seized it. So intent was he on Vazh's face, Malaq didn't see the knife until it was too late. Kheridh's breath hissed in, but even when the blood beaded his wrist, his gaze never wavered.
Vazh flung his hand aside. ”It seems the Son of Zhe bleeds like an ordinary man.”
”The Son of Zhe is not immortal. Or impervious to injury.”
”Obviously. His blood is dripping on your rug.”
Malaq tossed his napkin to Kheridh who caught it one-handed and pressed it to his wrist. ”Thank you, Kheridh. You may go now.” Kheridh hesitated, as if he meant to speak, then bowed and turned on his heel.
Vazh picked up his wine goblet with studied casualness. He smacked his lips appreciatively. ”I wouldn't trust a Carilian with my dog, but they do know how to make wine.”
”I shall have a crate delivered to your quarters tomorrow.”
”You're too kind.”
”Yes, I am.”
Vazh reached for the pitcher and refilled both their goblets. Then he leaned forward, thick fingers engulfing the delicate stem of the goblet as he observed him.
Malaq sighed. ”Are we to engage in a staring contest as well? I'm happy to oblige you, old friend, but I'd prefer you to speak your mind.” He smiled, conscious of his weariness. ”Your bluntness has always been one of the qualities I treasure most.”
”We've known each other-what? Twenty-five years now? You were my best commander. Zhe's coils, that day at Berov . . .” Impatiently, Vazh waved away the memory of the battle. ”But you always possessed a . . . I don't know . . . call it a romantic streak. And it nearly destroyed your career. Would have if I hadn't stepped in.”
”These are old battles.”
”It's the same battle!” Vazh's fist came down on the table and the dishes rattled. ”First, it was the woman.”
”My wife,” said Malaq very quietly. ”She was my wife.”
”Then, after I crack my stones to keep you in my command, you throw it all up to become a priest.”
”I discovered my true vocation later than most men.”
”And now, this boy.”
”Yes. This boy.”
Their eyes met. Malaq was the first to look away.
”You don't truly believe he's the Son of Zhe.”
Malaq hesitated.
”You won't find the answer in your wine goblet.”
”Who can say? Visions manifest in the unlikeliest places.” His smile faded. ”No. I don't believe he's the Son of Zhe.”
”Thank the G.o.ds. If you started babbling prophecy at me, I'd have to strangle you. And it's too hot to do murder. Why let the rumors go unchecked?”
”Times are hard. A failed harvest last year. The floods this winter and the drought that followed. Womb of Earth trembles and the people are afraid.”
”Harvests fail. Rains cease. Womb of Earth trembles like a palsied grandmother . . .” Vazh made a hasty sign of propitiation. ”. . . but life goes on.”
”He is . . . special.”
”That business with the adders?” Vazh snorted. ”Every priest has the power to touch the spirits of others. Or so you're always reminding less exalted folk like me.”
”We rely on qiij to . . . never mind.” Vazh had little interest and less patience when it came to spiritual matters. ”The point is he can touch spirits without qiij. And he's only at the cusp of his power.”
”Then he's dangerous.”
”He can be taught.”
”To use this power better? Are you mad? How long before he turns it against us?”
”I can control him.”
”For now, maybe. Not forever. Meanwhile, he sows dissension. Those who think he's the Son of Zhe want to wors.h.i.+p him. Those who think he's not want him dead.”
”I can protect him.”
Vazh opened his mouth and closed it again. He cracked his knuckles with methodical violence and then looked up. ”He is not Davell.”
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