Part 51 (1/2)
”Yes. I will talk to them again. But first I must rest.”
The Qepo nodded his reluctant a.s.sent.
”May I speak with the Pajhit? With his magic and mine, we can learn more, faster.” When the Qepo hesitated, he asked, ”He is not ill?”
”No.”
The Qepo shot a furtive glance at the two guards. Apparently, they intended to remain, replacing the two-why had he never bothered to learn their names?-who usually took over from Ysal and Luzik at night. Finally, he said, ”The Pajhit cannot speak with you.”
Had Malaq been arrested, too? Had Xevhan turned the queen against him? No one would tell him. At least, Malaq had the Khonsel watching out for him. His father was alone. He couldn't rely on the players; even if Hircha found them, there was no guarantee they would help. And the Supplicant would do nothing. It was up to him.
Keirith closed his eyes, seeking stillness and emptiness and inspiration. The night drifted by and he drifted with it. Once, he heard a woman speaking with the Qepo, but he ignored them. Moments later, the Khonsel's voice demanded to know what was happening. The Qepo's whispered reply provoked a series of oaths that gradually faded as he stomped out.
Stillness shattered, Keirith pulled his bag of charms from around his neck and laid each out on the ground. Even without the single torch in the pit, he could have recognized them by touch. The eagle's feather, the first one he'd collected. The strand of lakeweed, the green fronds hard now but still delicate in design. The stone, as round and red as Bel at sunset. The crooked quickthorn twig. And the last of his charms, the polished bloodstone Malaq had given him.
One by one, he returned the charms to his bag. He wondered if his father was keeping vigil tonight, too. The thought that they were together in spirit comforted him, as did the weight of his bag of charms against his chest.
He pulled memories of home from his mind, examining them with the same love and tenderness with which he had examined his charms: the day he and Conn made their blood oath; the morning he returned to the village from his vision quest and heard the Tree-Father proclaim him a man; sitting in a circle with the other children while his father related the ancient legends; sitting around the fire pit with his family while Callie blew a halting melody on his flute; sitting in the Tree-Father's hut, learning to empty his mind and still his thoughts.
”You have power, Keirith. Use it.”
Smoke rose from the four braziers.
”Power protects those you love. And it allows you to punish those who hurt you.”
Thin tendrils drifted skyward, as if the spirits of the adders were ascending.
”Perhaps they are frightened of us. That is good.”
The tendrils curled like beckoning fingers.
”His power shall burn bright as Heart of Sky at Midsummer. His footsteps shall make Womb of Earth tremble.”
”Come,” the smoke whispered with Natha's voice. ”Come with us.”
His brothers wriggled around him, forming a circle of protection. Like the players with his father.
”You are one of us,” the smoke whispered. ”You belong with us.”
Fluid as water, ethereal as smoke, the adders danced. Their eyes were the fiery glow of the rising sun. Their voices were Zhe's blackened feathers, dispersed by the breeze. Their bodies were waves, bearing the fallen G.o.d home. And he was the fire-haired G.o.d made flesh, bright and terrible and strong.
Far away, a voice called, ”What is it? What's happening?”
The smoke whispered its reply. ”The coming of a new age.”
Chapter 40.
A PERSISTENT PRODDING woke Darak-a guard, poking him with the b.u.t.t of his spear. Gheala hovered over the western wall, a pale fingernail of light in the dark sky. Somewhere in the distance, dogs howled. PERSISTENT PRODDING woke Darak-a guard, poking him with the b.u.t.t of his spear. Gheala hovered over the western wall, a pale fingernail of light in the dark sky. Somewhere in the distance, dogs howled.
He crawled to his feet and stumbled toward the cl.u.s.ter of men in the center of the compound. Another captive swayed slightly as the guards bound his hands. Darak's stomach lurched. Temet gave him a bleary smile and accepted the cup a guard thrust toward him.
Two men. Every morning.
He was not going to be questioned. He was going to the altar stone he had first seen through the portal in Chaos.
Obeying the guards' gestures, Darak removed his tunic, then held out his hands and allowed them to bind his wrists. They left his feet free; clearly, they thought he would be too stupefied to run. When a guard shoved a cup toward him, he hesitated. If he didn't drink, they would force it down his throat.
A sudden burst of song shattered the predawn stillness. The guards' heads jerked toward Temet. A quick slap silenced him, but it gave Darak the precious moment he needed to twist his wrists and let the water splash onto the ground. When the guards looked back, water was dripping from his chin. One peered into the cup and thrust it back at him, forcing him to drain the dregs. It tasted as musty as it smelled. He prayed a swallow wouldn't impair him.
His gaze sought Temet, who shrugged and offered that same bleary smile. Just a moment of recognition, of thanks given and acknowledged before the guards moved in.
Darak's hope for escape sank as four surrounded him, all armed with swords. Even if he knocked one aside, he doubted he could outrun the others. The one who must be the leader muttered a few words in Zherosi and pointed to him. When Darak caught the word ”Zhe,” he wondered why he hadn't realized his destination immediately. Of course, the Zheron wanted the pleasure of sacrificing him. But at least Temet's gesture had not been made in vain. If there was no escape, there was still the possibility of revenge.
They would have to free his hands before the sacrifice. He would have only a moment, but the Zheron would be unprepared. He might be able to wrest a weapon from one of the guards. Or take the dagger out of the Zheron's hand and slaughter him on the altar of the G.o.d he served. Or simply reach up, twist the man's head between his palms, and break his neck.
Darak pictured the Zheron's look of astonishment. He heard the satisfying snap of bone. The bloodl.u.s.t surged and he tamped it down until the flames were mere embers.
Soon.
His hands were utterly steady, just as they had been during the raid. Steady and strong and whole. They had killed for him that morning; they would kill for him again today.
Very soon.
His lips were numb. The effect of the drugged water. All the better. It would prevent a smile from betraying him. Slack-jawed and shambling, Darak let the guards lead him across the compound.
Nelkho roused him before dawn, lighting the lamps and laying out his robe and cloak just as he always did. Either the old slave didn't know of his fall from grace or he simply a.s.sumed that he would follow his usual routine.
Malaq stood quietly while Nelkho slipped the chain over his head. The queen had not demanded he surrender his vial of qiij. In name, he was still Pajhit. But for the first time in five years, another would stand at the altar of Heart of Sky at dawn.
Dully, he wondered what would happen if the queen dismissed him. Vazh would loan him enough money to get a new start somewhere. But what could he do? He was unsuited for trade, too old for the army. A provincial priest, perhaps, serving out his remaining years in a run-down temple. If they would have him. Even his relatives might be reluctant to welcome him, fearing the queen's displeasure.
Impatiently, he shook off selfish concerns. All he faced was disgrace and poverty. Kheridh faced death. Unless he could s.h.i.+eld himself from the queen, she would discover the truth. And once she did, he would die on the altar as surely as his father.
They would be taking the Spirit-Hunter to the temple now. The man who had bargained with one G.o.d and rescued another would die under the dagger of a man unworthy to speak his name. Malaq waved Nelkho away and knelt before his shrine. The least he could do was pray that Darak's spirit found sanctuary in the Forever Isles.
A commotion outside disturbed him. He rose and walked to the doorway where he found one of his guards arguing with the queen's men.
”What is it?”
”Please, Pajhit.” It was the young one who guarded Kheridh during the day. ”Something's happening in the adder pit.”
”What?”
”I don't know. I . . . I went there.” He shot a worried look at the queen's men. ”To make sure . . . to see if Kheridh was . . .”
”Yes, yes. And?”