Part 42 (1/2)

His father scuttled backward, right arm raised to fend off Urkiat's slow, deliberate blows. He kept trying to find a foothold in the loose sand, but instead of rising into a crouch, he ended up on his knees. Urkiat advanced, the tip of his sword pointed at his father's throat.

Xevhan would end the fight now. He had to.

The crowd was shouting, men and women alike on their feet, shaking their fists, screaming for blood. Screaming for his father's death.

”Your lip is bleeding, Kheridh.”

He didn't trust himself to look at Xevhan. He picked up a napkin, dabbed at his lip, and tossed it aside before Xevhan could notice his shaking hands.

”What do you think? Should I let him kill the Wild Man?”

”He is brave. He fights well. Why kill him?”

Xevhan gestured to the screaming men and women. ”It seems my guests demand it.”

Urkiat wouldn't kill his father, no matter what Xevhan ordered. But if he refused, Xevhan could have them both killed. The crowd didn't care as long as blood was shed.

”Great Zheron. They are tree lovers. Like me. I ask this. As a greatest of favors. Stop the fight now.”

”Dear Kheridh. I would so like to oblige you. But I fear my first obligation is to my guests.”

Slowly, Xevhan rose and walked into the arena.

Keirith heard Hircha's voice, whispering in his ear. ”There's nothing you can do. Except help me kill Xevhan when this is over.”

Killing Xevhan later wouldn't save his father. Was he strong enough to cast out his spirit now? If Xevhan had taken qiij, he would be able to s.h.i.+eld himself. He didn't seem drugged. G.o.ds, why hadn't he observed him more closely before he got up? Why hadn't he watched him all night? Watch. Observe. Remember. That's what he was supposed to do.

If he guessed wrong, his father would die.

G.o.ds, forgive me.

Keirith closed his eyes and summoned his power.

”The Zheron's coming out,” Urkiat said. ”What do you want me to do?”

”Finish it now. Before he gets in the way.”

Urkiat nodded. Darak tightened his grip on the sword. They'd practiced the move a dozen times. More. Olinio called it breathtaking. It had better be. Otherwise, this bloodthirsty crowd would have both their heads.

He took a deep breath, signaling his readiness, and lunged upwards, his sword driving toward Urkiat's heart. But instead of spinning away, Urkiat remained motionless.

Darak had only a heartbeat to glance up and see his frozen look of abstraction. He screamed Urkiat's name, hoping to shock him into action, but even as he did, he knew it was too late to stop his body's momentum, too late to avert the thrust.

The sword drove up and under his breastbone. Urkiat's sword fell from his nerveless fingers. Darak flung out an arm to catch him, the weight of Urkiat's body dragging them both to the ground. His right hand, bound to the sword, was useless. All he could do was cradle Urkiat in his left arm while the blood gushed out of his chest. In Urkiat's eyes, he saw the reflection of his own shock and disbelief. And all he could say was, ”G.o.ds, man. G.o.ds. What happened?”

Urkiat's mouth opened as if he might speak, as if he could explain what had gone so horribly wrong. Then his back arched in an agonized spasm and his heels dug into the sand. Darak tightened his grip, his breath coming in the same deep, ragged gasps as Urkiat's. He buried his face in Urkiat's damp hair, then jerked his head up again.

Let him have the face of a friend before him. Let that be the last thing he sees.

He hoped Urkiat would want that. He hoped his face would give him comfort instead of reminding him that it was his friend-the man he trusted and respected as a father-who had killed him.

”I'm with you, lad. I'm right here.”

The world narrowed to the man in his arms, to the struggling body and the staring eyes, to the feel of bone and flesh under his arm, to the warmth of blood soaking his hand. It was so quiet. As if the world were dying with Urkiat. No birds sang. No men shouted. His mind was screaming, ”Why did this happen?” but his voice continued its ceaseless murmur, offering words of comfort, of friends.h.i.+p, of love.

The dark blue eyes were glazing. The struggle was nearly over.

”Go easy, lad. I'll be with you. Always. To the Forever Isles and beyond.”

Urkiat's chest rose and fell. Rose again. Slowly sank as the breath left him. Moments pa.s.sed. Darak's heart thudded, a painful testament to life. Urkiat's chest rose once more. His eyes darkened. His head lolled. And he was gone.

Through the receding haze, Keirith heard a clear, high voice singing. He lifted his head. No one seemed to have noticed him slumping across the cus.h.i.+ons. They were too enthralled by the spectacle in the arena.

It was the blind girl, her sorrowful face tilted skyward. He was too exhausted to try and make out the words, but the slow, mournful melody made it plain enough that it was a lament. To Keirith's amazement, some of the Zherosi joined her. A moment ago, they had been screaming for death and now they mourned it. Who could understand them? Who would ever want to?

He pushed himself into a sitting position. One of the little men was kneeling beside his father. As he reached for the thongs binding the sword, his father's head came up, his mouth twisted in a snarl. Then he saw who it was and allowed the little man to free his hand.

His father tried to ease the sword from Urkiat's chest, but in the end, he had to wrench it free. He flung the sword away and pulled Urkiat closer, rocking him like a babe. And then his head came up again. He seemed to be listening to the lament. The little man bent closer, questioning him, but his father just kept shaking his head.

”Not one of their songs!”

His chest heaved. He shook the hair out of his face. And then he closed his eyes and sang.

The sun hides his s.h.i.+ning face And the moon shrouds herself in darkness. The winds scream upon the hilltops And the waters of the rivers swell with tears.

One by one, the Zherosi fell silent, until there was only his father's halting voice, choking on the tears that coursed down his face.

The branches of the trees echo my moans And the earth falls away beneath my feet. The clouds cast shadows upon my face And the bitterness of winter fills my spirit.

His voice broke. The little man took up the lament in a voice rough as sand.

I seek but cannot find you. I call but receive no answer. Oh, beloved, beloved. Would I had died for you.

His father's voice fell to a whisper on the last words. He closed Urkiat's eyes. Brushed a damp strand of hair off his forehead. Bent to kiss him softly on the mouth.

As Xevhan started toward his father, Keirith struggled to rise. He swayed and nearly fell; the magic had taken the last remnants of his strength. He staggered past Xevhan and faced the silent crowd.

”It is time to go.” His voice was little more than a whisper. He repeated the words again, raising his voice so that everyone could hear. ”No more killing. Please.”

The little man clutched his father's arm, whispering urgently. Xevhan must have seen death in his father's eyes, for he backed away, beckoning the chubby man. ”Come to my chamber at midmorning for your payment. Bring the blind girl.”

He strode toward his litter, shouting at the bearers to hurry. For of course, it was nearly dawn. And time for another sacrifice.

His father's gaze followed Xevhan. The little man grabbed his face, forcing him to look at him. The performers drew closer. The one who had played the shepherd held his staff at the ready, but he didn't need it. As Keirith watched, the tension drained out of his father's body.

”I'm sorry,” Keirith whispered.