Part 44 (2/2)
Strange, the comfort those two words gave him. ”And did you travel to Chaos?”
”Aye.”
”And witness the . . . transformation of your brother?”
This time, the Spirit-Hunter only nodded.
”Thank you.” Malaq offered the deep bow only bestowed upon equals. ”When you and Kheridh have finished speaking, the guards will escort you out of the palace. The road to Oexiak leads west.”
”I know it.”
”Then fare you well, Memory-Keeper. May your path be smooth, your journey swift, and your homecoming joyous.”
”I . . . thank you.”
He frowned. Malaq wondered if he had offended him by offering the Tree People's traditional blessing for travelers, but that didn't account for the odd hesitancy.
”If it makes any difference . . . I don't think I'm absolutely right. About anything. I just . . .” He looked away. ”He's my son.”
”Yes. You are a fortunate man.”
Weary beyond words, Malaq walked away. If the G.o.ds could hear a man's prayers, perhaps his son could, too. After all, the man before him was proof that miracles could happen.
The priest disappeared down the narrow hallway at the far end of the room. Darak watched him go, still stunned by the knowledge that the man had been married to a woman from the tribes. He tried to shake off the questions that filled his mind and the disbelief that a man who knew their culture so well could countenance its destruction.
He might have been lying. Clearly, he was skilled at manipulation. But when he spoke of his son . . . those emotions were genuine.
Darak drained his cup and refilled it with wine. It was pale and gold and as cool as the water. He wondered how they managed to keep wine cool in a place so unbearably hot, then frowned and gathered himself.
In a few moments, Keirith would walk in. They hadn't spoken-really spoken-since the night before the raid. The priest knew about that night. What else had Keirith told him? Surely, he would know better than to trust him. He was young, but he wasn't stupid.
Just scared and alone. Never knowing when he went to sleep if he'd survive another day.
He heard footsteps behind him and spun around.
When he'd first glimpsed Keirith at the entertainment, it had been too dark to see him well. Later, he'd been too stunned by Urkiat's death to study his appearance. It was a shock to see him wearing the baggy half-breeches of the Zherosi. Had he been wearing those last night? His unruly hair was oiled and tied back. He hadn't noticed that either. He'd only seen the stark face, the staring eyes. The face was calm now, if strained, and the eyes met his steadily enough, although he hesitated in the doorway as if reluctant to come closer.
”Keirith.”
”Father.”
Belatedly, he realized he was still clutching the cup of wine. He bent down and placed it on the table so he could embrace his son, but by the time he straightened, Keirith was already walking around the table. G.o.ds, he even moved differently. The sudden spurt in height last year had left him awkward, yet after little more than a moon, he carried himself with the careful grace of a heron picking its way through the reeds, leaving him feeling like the awkward one-too big and too clumsy for this beautiful room.
”I'm sorry,” Keirith said. ”About Urkiat.”
”Aye.” Darak forced down the surge of emotion. ”You look . . . well.”
”I am. Thank you.”
They might have been strangers. Or worse, acquaintances meeting after a long absence and taking refuge in meaningless pleasantries.
”I've come to take you home.”
Keirith grimaced and the breath rushed out of his lungs as if someone had punched him.
He knows the priest is listening. He's just being cautious. Remember Tinnean. Remember how you failed at the thorn tree because you were too impatient. Go slow. Fear is the enemy.
”Let's sit down, Father.”
With an effort, he resisted the impulse to shout, ”Nay, let's not. Let's thrash it out-all that lies between us-and settle it once and for all.” Instead, he simply nodded; time enough later to deal with the past.
”The priest-Malaq-said you could come with me.”
Keirith twirled Malaq's cup by its long stem, refusing to meet his eyes.
”Keirith?”
His fingers continued their restless, repet.i.tive motion. Darak reached across the table and they went still.
”Talk to me, son.”
Instead, Keirith pushed himself up and retreated to the far corner of the room. Immediately, Darak went after him, but as he approached, Keirith held up a hand, warding him off. His son hunched forward, his breath coming in harsh, quick pants. The bones jutted from his naked shoulders, sharp and terribly fragile.
Control the fear.
”What have they done to you?”
Keirith shook his head.
”Have they hurt you? Threatened you? Is it the priest? Is he forcing you-?”
”Nay!”
As Keirith brushed past him, Darak grabbed his arm. They both froze. Keirith stared down at his fingers until Darak dropped his hand.
”You shouldn't have come, Father.”
”Did you think I would simply let them take you? That I would abandon you?” When Keirith hesitated, he knew the answer. Shaken, he could only blurt out, ”Merciful Maker, you're my son.”
”Not here. Here I am just . . . myself.”
”Nay. Here you are Kheridh.” He spat out the name. ”Or the Son of Zhe. But you aren't Keirith.”
”And who is Keirith? The son of the great Darak Spirit-Hunter. The abomination who should be sacrificed at the heart-oak.”
”I would never allow-”
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