Part 43 (2/2)
He actually smiled. ”I would prefer that as-” He broke off, his expression suddenly wary. ”Is it possible that . . . a wildcat could have gotten in here?”
Malaq laughed and swiveled around. ”Yes. But she's quite tame.” He sliced off a strip of squab and held it out. Niqia pulled it daintily from his fingers and dropped it onto the floor.
The Spirit-Hunter half-rose from his place, leaning on the table to watch her.
Dear G.o.ds.
He'd seen the same boyish wonder on Kheridh's face when they studied magic together, the same delighted smile when they were successful.
”She's small for a wildcat.”
Still dazed from the revelation, Malaq struggled to gather his thoughts. ”You mean you've seen one? In the wild?”
”Only once. And only for a moment.”
”Niqia is a mixed breed. Very beautiful, but-” Failing to receive another treat, Niqia leaped onto the table, prepared to help herself. Malaq pulled the platter away. ”But very spoiled.”
”Or hungry.”
The Spirit-Hunter reached for the knife resting on the platter of squab. Malaq tensed. The maimed hand hovered above the knife. The smile vanished. The pale eyes met his. ”I'm not that foolish.”
He was surprisingly deft with the knife; remember that, Malaq cautioned himself. After he sliced off a sliver of meat, he grasped it between his thumb and little fingers and held it out. Niqia picked her way through the platters, ostentatiously ignoring the outstretched fingers, then stalked back. Malaq watched the interplay of the two hunters, the one patient, the other wary. Finally, Niqia deigned to accept his offering. The Spirit-Hunter let his upturned hand rest on the table. When Niqia was finished, she sniffed his fingers cautiously and proceeded to lick them.
”She's taken a liking to you. She's fond of Kheridh as well.”
The fingers twitched once and went still. Malaq scooped up Niqia and deposited her on the floor, deliberately prolonging the moment. ”That's what we call your son. You, I believe, are called Spirit-Hunter by some, although your tribal t.i.tle is Memory-Keeper. You came to Pilozhat in search of Kheridh. Last night, you found him.”
Other than the muscle twitching in his jaw, his face remained impa.s.sive. ”You know a lot about me. May I ask who you are?”
”Forgive me. I am Malaq, the Pajhit-priest-of Heart of Sky. Kheridh has been under my protection since he arrived here. This morning, after-”
”Why?”
”I beg your pardon?”
”Why is he under your protection?”
”Because of his gift.”
”His gift?”
Malaq pushed his wine goblet aside and leaned forward. ”There is a prophecy among our people. That a boy will come to us. A boy with hair the color of the setting sun and the gift of speaking with our sacred adders. And he will lead our people into a new age. For generations, we have awaited the coming of the Son of Zhe.”
The Spirit-Hunter's features relaxed. ”You think Keirith is the son of your G.o.d?”
”No. Any doubts I might have had on that subject vanished when I saw you.”
The frown returned. Was he unaware of the resemblance? Or was he worried that others might notice it as well?
”Perhaps I see what others do not. But your behavior-and his-during the Zheron's entertainment aroused . . . speculation. I can protect Kheridh. But I cannot protect you. You must leave Pilozhat today.”
”Not without Keirith.”
He put the slightest emphasis on his son's name. Malaq made a mental note to use his Zherosi name more frequently.
”You have come many miles to rescue Kheridh. And if he were in danger, I would send him away with you. Believe it or not, I want what is best for him.”
”You have no idea what's best for Keirith.”
”And you do?”
”Aye. He belongs at home. With his people.”
”The same people who regard him as an abomination?”
Did the fingers tighten on the cup or was that wishful thinking?
”What future does Kheridh have in your village? At worst, he will be sacrificed for using his gift. At best, he will have to hide it the rest of his life.”
”He'll learn to control it.”
”And who will teach him that? You? Forgive me, but you don't understand it. Your Tree-Father? He was the first to compare Kheridh to the shaman who mutilated you.”
”You know nothing about . . .”
In a quiet voice, Malaq finished the sentence. ”Morgath.”
”I know his name.” The Spirit-Hunter had banished the savage edge from his voice, but for the first time, the effort at control showed.
”And I know this man also possessed an extraordinary ability to touch the spirits of others. That he used his power for evil. With my help, Kheridh will learn to understand his gift, to use it wisely. Here it will be revered. In your village . . .” Malaq shrugged. ”He has some ability to s.h.i.+eld himself from other spirits, but how long do you think it would be before he's provoked? Or succ.u.mbs to temptation? A wounded creature, screaming in pain. An eagle, begging him to fly once more. A tribe mate, threatening him or his family. Kheridh will will use the gift, Memory-Keeper. Just as-in a moment of fear and anger-he used it against you.” use the gift, Memory-Keeper. Just as-in a moment of fear and anger-he used it against you.”
That shook him. It had shaken Malaq when Kheridh revealed it to him earlier while they formulated their strategy for this meeting.
”I may not understand this power,” the Spirit-Hunter said, ”but I know my son. He would never choose to live among the murderers of his people.”
”Our land is as harsh as our G.o.ds. To ensure its fertility, we offer the ultimate gift of human life.”
”And what about the thousands of our people who weren't offered up as sacrifices but slaughtered by your raiders or carried off into slavery?”
Malaq adjusted the folds of his napkin. ”These are difficult times in Zheros. Pestilence has decimated the ranks of our workers-”
”Slaves.”
”-and drought has destroyed our crops. We require wood for our s.h.i.+ps, land to feed our people. Your forests are rich, your soil fertile. In the past, we have offered . . . accommodations.”
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