Bloodstone

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

KEIRITH’S POWER SURGED, FED BY FURY and shame so intense that he thought he would scream if he couldn’t release it. His blood pounded in his ears, a frenzied drumbeat that urged him to let go, to obliterate that mocking smile and shatter his enemy’s spirit.

Screaming, he hurled his power at his tormentor. The man staggered backward, tripping over the step. Keirith touched shock and disbelief. A savage joy filled him. He pushed harder, wanting to destroy that sneering spirit, to send it hurtling out of the man’s body into Chaos, to feel his scream, to taste his helpless terror.

Instead he felt . . . nothing. As if the connection between them had abruptly been severed The Zheron slowly raised his head and grimaced—not in pain, but as if the touch had contaminated him.

Keirith swayed, drained by the release of energy and the long interrogation and his sense of failure. When the guards released him, he collapsed to the floor.

Until now, he had never felt such an overwhelming desire to kill. This was what the Tree-Father had feared. This was why his father had reacted with such horror. They had known he possessed this potential for violence, that one day, he would turn his power on someone with the deliberate intent to destroy.

“Merciful Maker,” he whispered. “Help me. . . .”

BARBARA CAMPBELL’S

Trickster’s Game
Series:

 

HEARTWOOD (Book One)
BLOODSTONE (Book Two)

Copyright © 2006 by Barbara Campbell.

eISBN : 978-1-101-11919-8

All Rights Reserved.

 

 

DAW Book Collectors No. 1372.

 

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

 

 

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Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

First Printing, August 2006

 

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.

 

 

S.A.

The gang at The Never-Ending Odyssey 2005, who helped me celebrate the publication of my first novel and reviewed the opening chapters of this one. Special thanks to Bob Cutchin, Geoffrey Jacoby, Laurie Lemieux, Susan Sielinski, and Susan Winston.

 

Laurie Lanzdorf and Michael Samerdyke, who critiqued the first draft, asked the tough questions, and pointed out the occasional horrifying gaffe like having a character die in one chapter and show up, alive and well, in the next.

 

The experts: Professor Ellis Underkoffler for insights into earthquakes and tsunamis and Joe Abene, keeper of the Bronx Zoo Reptile House, for advice on adders.

 

Susan Herner, my agent and friend, who helped keep me calm and focused when deadlines loomed.

 

Sheila Gilbert, my terrific—and terrifically patient—editor. Her feedback shaped the story and her comments and questions helped me manage this large cast of characters without losing my mind. Too often.

 

And finally, David Lofink, my husband, my first reader, and my best friend. Whether discussing characters, bringing home takeout food, or demonstrating how a “loose-limbed wolf on the prowl”
really
moves, he kept me going during the writing of
Bloodstone
and I dedicate it to him.

—The Legend of Morgath

H
E WAS FLYING. Not the dizzying whirl of emerging from a trance or the effortless drifting of dreams. He was flying with the eagle.

Keirith wanted to laugh, to shout with the joy of it, but he was voiceless now. His body still sat on the boulder. He could see it far below, face upturned to the sky, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on his knees. He could even feel the sun-warmed rock under his thighs and the breeze that stirred his hair. The core of his being still rested there while his spirit reached skyward, a spider’s spinneret that connected him to the eagle.

They soared over Eagles Mount, great wings scarcely moving despite the cool gusts of air that ruffled the tips of their dark feathers. Below them, shadowed by the overhanging shelf of rock, the female perched on her nest of sticks and bracken. As long as Keirith could remember, the pair had nested on this crag. The tribe regarded them with awe; most eagles preferred the open moors of the north to the dense forest that surrounded the village.

They rode the air currents up, banking around the circle of huts. Each was the size of a man’s fist from this height, and the lake looked small enough to jump across. Their eyes—keen enough to pick out the blossoms on a gorse bush—swept over the glistening thread of the river as they searched for prey. With their hooked talons and muscled legs, they could easily carry off one of the newborn lambs frolicking on the rocky slopes of Eagles Mount, but the shepherds and their dogs would be watching. Aye, there was Conn, one hand raised to shade his face from the sun as he followed their flight.

Keirith yearned to call out a greeting to his milk-brother. Surrendering to his eagerness, the eagle gave a soft chirrup, a silly, weak sound for such a majestic bird.