Part 32 (1/2)

”Perhaps I could confer with the Pajhit and the Motixa. Determine if they would permit an exception to the law.”

”Thank you, yes.”

”And in return, you might teach me the trick of vision.”

”Yes. There is much we can learn together. But how can we meet? Without the Pajhit knowing?”

”We can find a way.”

Keirith's confidence soared. Of course, they could find a way. The Pajhit was busy. Guards could be bought. It all seemed so easy now. He wondered why he had never realized it before. He laughed, enjoying the unexpected euphoria of feeling in control again. How could he have ever doubted his gift of vision? He would seek Natha. He would find his father-perhaps see his entire family.

He jumped to his feet, eager to return to his room and try. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him; he must have gotten up too quickly. Or perhaps he was simply light-headed with relief. He found himself clinging to Xevhan, laughing at his giddiness.

Xevhan smiled, too, but his eyes narrowed. ”Perhaps you should lie down.”

”Nay, I'm fine.” He realized he'd spoken the tribal tongue and giggled. ”I am sorry. I mean to say that I am well. Wonderful, really. I'm liking caja better and better all the time.” He'd slipped into the tribal tongue again. Babbling like an idiot. What was wrong with him?

Nothing. For the first time since arriving in Pilozhat he felt strong and whole. He could fight ten men and emerge unscathed. He could scale Kelazhat without pausing for breath. He could raise his arms and fly like an eagle. He was just having a little trouble staying on his feet.

He reeled and clung to Xevhan. Good old Xevhan. Always there when you needed him. A girl for your pleasure? A friendly cup of caja? Xevhan could provide both.

So helpful, too. Steadying him when he tripped on the rug that rose up like a red and gold wave. Walking him down a hallway that seemed a mile long. Sitting him down on the sleeping shelf. The blankets were soft against his cheek. Lamb's wool. Had to be. Nothing rough that might scratch the Zheron's smooth skin. Only the softest wool from the softest little lambs.

Keirith baaed.

”Be still,” someone hissed.

But Natha wasn't there. Perhaps Xevhan was his spirit guide now. But why did he need him? Oh, aye. The vision. He wanted to seek a vision. But he was suddenly tired. The giddy rush of euphoria was fading, leaving a comfortable glow that warmed him like a fire on a winter night.

He reached for his bag of charms. The scrying stone would help him concentrate. If only he could loosen the drawstrings.

”What? What do you want?”

”The bloodstone,” he mumbled. ”To help me See.”

Xevhan slapped his hands aside and fumbled inside the bag.

His body felt as if it had turned to water, his flesh liquid, his bones limp as lakeweed. Yet his senses felt more alive than ever. How else could he hear the slow and steady drumming of his heart? Or feel every thread in the weave of the blanket? Or see every red speckle on the face of the dark disk that suddenly loomed before him.

”Look at the stone,” someone whispered.

It seemed as large as the sun. It filled his vision, wobbling a little as it hung there. The wobbling made him dizzy and he closed his eyes.

”Look at the stone, Kheridh.”

Obediently, he opened his eyes. Surely the pale things around the edge of the sun were fingernails. Or were they moons? Four little waxing moons and one waning moon circling the dark sun.

”Look into its heart.”

He couldn't see the sun's heart, but its face was covered with freckles. Great swatches of them. Faelia's were nothing compared to the sun's. Perhaps that's where freckles came from. Perhaps the sun sweated freckles. Or shed them. That must be what The Shedding was all about. The sun shedding freckles like an adder shed its skin. Or weeping them.

Bloodred tears spattered the face of the sun. Droplets of blood spattered his father's lips.

”Father!”

”Speak Zherosi,” the voice demanded. ”Tell me what you see.”

b.l.o.o.d.y tears oozed down the dark face and were caught in a swirling spiral.

”Come back! Please, Fa, come back.”

The sun retreated from him. Or perhaps the spiral was growing. He was falling into it, but floating up at the same time. Rising to the ceiling. Scattering the flocks of painted birds. Bursting through stone and into sunlight. Flying like the eagle.

”Like Zhe.”

”What about Zhe? Do you see him? Is he speaking to you now?”

”Father? Where are you?”

”Are you the Son of Zhe? Are you? Answer me!”

The sun was blood, dripping gore onto the slopes of Kelazhat. The sun was fire, s.h.i.+mmering on the altar, gleaming on Malaq's bald head, s.h.i.+ning on the bronze dagger that appeared over his shoulder. The sun was death, colder than the ring on the priest's forefinger, swifter than the dagger that plunged downward, stooping like a hawk on a pigeon.

”Behind you!”

The sun smiled in benediction and promise. Or was that Malaq?

”What do you see? Tell me!”

The sun shattered and screamed. The blood gushed down the steps of the altar, flowing like a river, flowing like the adders that surged across the sacrificial ground, flowing like earth, a cataract of earth that groaned like a dying man and swept everything away in its path until only Malaq's eyes remained, twin pools of agony.

”You have murdered me.”

He lay in the shadowland between dreaming and wakefulness. Once, he heard the sound of voices raised in argument. Later, he felt something cool and damp on his forehead. Still later, a gentle hand raised his head and a cup swam toward him.

”Nay!”

”It's only tea.”

After he smelled the mint, he took a cautious sip.

”A little more,” the voice urged.

He managed another swallow.

”Good. Rest now.”

The next thing he saw was Malaq. His eyes were as dark as they had appeared in his vision, but held no trace of agony.

”Can you manage a little broth?”