Part 42 (2/2)
His father looked up at him, his eyes dull. ”You didn't kill him.”
Only because I wasn't strong enough to cast out his spirit. I just distracted him-and left you to kill your friend.
”You can't stay here,” Keirith said. ”It's too dangerous.”
His father's expression hardened. ”I haven't gotten what I came for.”
”Please . . .”
Someone was tugging at his arm. Hircha, her face even harder than his father's. ”Leave. Now. Before you condemn them all. And you should leave, too, Wild Man. Whatever you came for, it's not worth another death.”
The little man stepped in front of his father. One by one, the other performers closed ranks, forming a circle around his father and Urkiat. You are not one of us, their actions said. their actions said. You don't belong. We don't want you here. You don't belong. We don't want you here.
Keirith let Hircha lead him to a litter. He let her help him inside. And when she crawled in next to him, he didn't even shrink away.
”The Wild Man. He's Darak Spirit-Hunter. I may have been a child when I was stolen, but I know the tale. How many men possess such hands? And such scars?”
Keirith closed his eyes.
”And he's your father. Isn't he?”
In Hircha's voice, he heard sympathy and understanding. But the voice in his head drowned hers out. His voice, fervently proclaiming his good intentions when he touched an animal's spirit. The words mocked him now: ”I don't hurt them. I would never hurt them. I'm not like Morgath.” ”I don't hurt them. I would never hurt them. I'm not like Morgath.”
But he was. He was Keirith the False. Keirith the Destroyer. Keirith the Eater of Spirits.
Chapter 34.
EXHAUSTION ALLOWED MALAQ to sleep. When he rose before dawn and learned that Kheridh had not returned, he chided himself for his anxiety. Xevhan's entertainments could last all night; there was no cause for alarm. Then he returned from the sacrifice and found Kheridh waiting for him.
He had seen men staring up at the dagger that would cut out their hearts, women sitting beside the rubble of their homes. Kheridh's face had that same dazed look. Malaq took his hand and led him to a bench in the garden. That Kheridh should permit the touch frightened him even more than his expression.
It took all Malaq's control to remain silent while Kheridh told him what had happened. That the Spirit-Hunter should be in Pilozhat, that this man-of all men-should be Kheridh's father, and most stunning of all, that Kheridh should trust him enough to reveal it. . . . The revelations made it hard for him to focus on the rest of the story. And yet, it made sense; only an exceptional man could have fathered such an extraordinary son. But extraordinary or not, Kheridh was still a fourteen-year-old boy who, in one night, had discovered his father had come after him, had watched helplessly while his father was injured, and had used his power to lead a man to his death.
When he finished, Malaq asked, ”Does Xevhan know?”
”He suspects . . . something. Hircha knows.”
”You told her?”
”Nay. She guessed.”
”Do you look so much alike?”
”I don't know. I never thought so.” For the first time, Kheridh looked at him. ”Will you help him?”
Malaq's mind was working furiously. Xevhan would go to the queen with his suspicions. At best, the Spirit-Hunter would be held for questioning. If they tortured him, he would talk. All men talked sooner or later.
Too anxious to sit, he rose and paced. He would have to act quickly. Get the Spirit-Hunter out of the city. And the players; some of them might know his true ident.i.ty. Then it would only be Kheridh's word against Xevhan's.
”Please.”
He turned to find Kheridh on his knees.
”I'll do anything you ask. Teach you everything I know. I . . . I will stay here. As long as you want me. Only please. Don't let them kill him.”
And there it was. Everything he had ever wanted: Kheridh's trust, his cooperation, and-if he agreed to help-his grat.i.tude. Grat.i.tude that might be transformed to love in the course of time. All for doing what he was planning already: to get his father away from him.
Very gently, he pulled Kheridh to his feet. ”Of course I will help.”
Darak cleaned Urkiat's body himself, but the others helped carry him to the cart and carve a shallow hole in the hard earth. Even Olinio gathered stones for the cairn. They buried him on a small rise that was sheltered on three sides by steep hills. Although the mountain was visible, the city was not; at least Urkiat would not lie within the shadow of Pilozhat.
When he laid the last rock on the cairn, they all looked at him expectantly. He chanted the death-song for Urkiat. He repeated the words from the rite of Opening, although only a shaman could free a spirit to fly to the Forever Isles. He prayed that Urkiat's would find its way there. Spirits severed abruptly from their bodies became lost. Like Tinnean and the Oak-Lord, they drifted into Chaos. Perhaps in those last moments, Urkiat had understood what was happening. Perhaps the Maker had guided his spirit. But he would never know until he walked onto the sh.o.r.es of the Forever Isles himself.
After the burial, he removed his tunic and breeches and, for the second time that morning, plunged into the sea. The first time, he had rinsed Urkiat's blood off his body, unwilling to conduct his final rites covered in gore. Now, he sought to cleanse his spirit. But he knew he would always carry the stain of this death and the guilt of causing it.
Again and again, he went over his actions. Had he moved too suddenly? Had he failed to give Urkiat sufficient time to prepare? Always, it came back to the same thing: Urkiat had simply stood there as if bespelled. His face had a far-away expression, as if he were looking into other worlds, hearing voices no one else could discern. But Urkiat was no shaman. He was just a young man carrying the burden of too many deaths, seeking retribution and forgiveness. These last days, he'd seemed easier in his mind, happy even, shedding a little of the guilt and darkness that shadowed his spirit to caper like a child during their performances or tease him about his ridiculous fur bag.
”Oh, G.o.ds.”
Naked, Darak sat on the sand. At least Urkiat's bones would lie near the sea. And his spirit-please, G.o.ds-would live on in the Forever Isles. He hoped there was good fis.h.i.+ng there and a sleek currach to carry him over the waves.
He heard a grunt as Bep sat beside him. For a long while, neither of them spoke. Finally, Bep said, ”That was your boy.”
Darak nodded.
”What will you do?”
”I don't know.”
His plans had involved freeing Keirith. He hadn't expected him to be an honored guest of the people who kidnapped him.
”He might come to you. If they let him.”
”Aye.”
”I could sniff around the palace.”
Darak looked up. ”You're going there?”
”Olinio's taking Rizhi. To perform for the Zheron.” Bep spat.
”Alone?”
”Not if I can help it. I wouldn't trust a dog alone with that man.”
<script>