Part 56 (1/2)
”The Spirit-Hunter's alive.”
Keirith covered his face with trembling hands. Then, ashamed at displaying such emotion in front of the Khonsel, he pretended to smooth his hair. He started when he touched the bare scalp. Of course, he had no hair. Xevhan shaved his head; all the priests did. His stupidity made him chuckle, then laugh. He fell back on the fleece. Even when he heard the rising note of hysteria, he couldn't stop the helpless shrieks of laughter. The Khonsel's grim expression finally sobered him.
”My father took my spirit in when I was dying.”
”Took your spirit in?”
”Yes. We are together. One body. Two spirits.” His Zherosi was fracturing under that narrow-eyed stare. He knitted his fingers together to make his point clearer. ”Hircha and Hakkon took us to the temple of the Supplicant. You must talk to her. The Supplicant. She knows the truth.”
”I did talk to her. She didn't mention anything about 'one body, two spirits.' Perhaps it slipped her mind.”
It was typical of the Trickster-one moment, helping them, and the next, putting them in jeopardy.
”You were saying?” the Khonsel prompted.
”We wake-woke up. In the temple. And then Xevhan came. And you. And the performer-Olinio. And Xevhan says my father kills Malaq. But it is not so. It is just like the vision. I see the dagger in Xevhan's hand . . .”
He gasped, as if reliving that moment when the dream state had shattered, leaving him standing among a sea of fleeing adders, watching the dagger descend.
”Too late . . .”
Malaq slumping against the altar. Xevhan bending to wrench the dagger free. The earth convulsing beneath his feet as he staggered up the steps.
”I fight . . . I try . . .”
He could feel the delicate bones of that wrist under his fingers, the strain in his arms as he tried to hold off death. And then the shock of the blade driving into his flesh.
He fell back against the wall. His hand clawed its way up his chest to grasp the hilt of the dagger. Instead, his fingers closed around the vial of qiij. He was panting now, his heart pounding as wildly as it had during those last moments of life. But he had to make the Khonsel understand. He had to make him believe.
”We see him-my father and I. In the temple. Laughing. Happy. And we want to kill. We make him angry so he will attack. And he does. He is inside us. He tries to cast us out. But I fight. He runs away and I follow. Into his body. And this time, I win.”
The Khonsel nodded thoughtfully and relief washed over him. Slowly, the big hands came up. Palm slapped against palm, steady as a drumbeat at first, and then faster and faster until the Khonsel's applause echoed in the small chamber.
”You missed your calling. Perhaps your friend Olinio can find a place for you among his players.”
”No. Please. You do not understand.”
”You've even got the boy's mannerisms and speech down. Very impressive. You were impressive in the temple, too. All righteous indignation and wrath. Until the man mentioned the vision.”
The Khonsel bared his teeth in a feral grin and Keirith shrank back.
”You nearly p.i.s.sed yourself, didn't you? Pity you didn't know he spoke Zherosi. Still, you might have pulled it off if you'd kept your head. Was it the qiij that pushed you over the edge? Malaq always said you couldn't handle it.”
”You must believe . . .”
In a few long strides, the Khonsel was on him. He seized him by the front of his robe, yanked him off his feet, and shoved him up against the wall.
”I told Malaq the boy would be the death of him. Well, Malaq paid for his stubbornness. And the boy paid as well. That leaves you.”
The Khonsel's face was so close he could see the dust caked in the deep lines that age and exhaustion had carved around his eyes. But exhausted or not, the meaty fingers that encircled his throat were very strong.
”I thought about killing you last night. But I wanted you awake. I wanted to see your eyes go wide-yes, just like that-and smell the stink of fear on you and listen to you beg for your life.”
”Please . . .”
”Good. Beg some more, and I might kill you quickly.”
He was going to die. After twice evading Xevhan, he was going to die at the Khonsel's hands. Fury welled up in him-and just as quickly faded.
The Khonsel wanted to kill Xevhan. He'd never even know that he was giving him the release he sought. Relief made Keirith smile.
The fingers around his throat relaxed slightly. Two lines appeared between the Khonsel's heavy brows.
”Do it,” Keirith whispered.
The Khonsel's expression cleared. ”Yes. You first. And then the Spirit-Hunter.”
”No!”
”Why not?”
”He . . . he is not the Spirit-Hunter.”
”So you lied about that.”
”Yes. Yes, I lied. He is just a cripple.” He had to fight to keep from wincing when he said those words. ”A worthless cripple,” he repeated, injecting scorn into his voice.
”And why do you care about a worthless cripple?”
Desperately, he sought a reason why Xevhan would want to protect the very man who had accused him of murder. It was no good. He should have simply agreed when the Khonsel proposed killing his father, but the denial had sprung to his lips without thought. And now he was trapped. He couldn't save his father. He didn't care about saving himself.
”Do what you want. It does not matter. Malaq is dead.”
”And you killed him.”
Malaq had come to the altar for him, had died because of him. Xevhan merely wielded the dagger that struck him down.
”Yes. I killed him. Your best friend. Your oldest friend. You fought battles together. You ate together, drank together. You even named his cat.”
”His cat?”
”Niqia.”
”I know her name. Why do you think I gave it to her?”
He was too tired to wrangle. He just wanted the Khonsel to stop playing with him and finish this. ”I do not remember.”
”Try.”
”He said . . .”