Bloodstone (20 page)

“Your father’s name?”

Did they know the tale of the Long Winter? Perhaps not. But the girl would. She might be a child of the Oak and Holly, but he could not count her as an ally. If she told the Zherosi that his father was the hero who rescued the Oak-Lord from Chaos, they might return to the village, capture him, kill him.

“Ennit,” he blurted out. “My father’s name is Ennit.”

“How many people in your village?”

“Before or after your raiders attacked?”

Before he could take back the words, she had translated them. The Zheron took two steps forward, then halted at a soft murmur from the older man.

“The Zheron wishes me to remind you that your life depends upon your answers. You would be wise to avoid insolence.”

“Your advice or his?”

Without looking at him, she whispered, “Don’t be a fool.”

“Ninety-seven men, women, and children. Before the attack.”

And then it began again: new questions, old ones, the Zheron circling around his answers like a stalking wolf.

“Please. May I have some water?”

She hesitated and then translated his request. It was the older man who nodded. Keirith heard the soft slap of leather against stone. Then silence. The Zheron’s fingers drummed against his thigh. The older woman fingered the chain around her neck, but the man beside her just watched him.

Then the footsteps returned. One of the guards thrust a wooden cup toward him. The water was cool and delicious, and he drank gratefully.

The questioning began again. He wondered why they didn’t ask about the shaking of the earth or his attack on the Big One. Surely that was why they had brought him here.

“Ninety-seven,” he repeated for the third time. His head jerked up. “Nay, ninety-eight. The Grain-Mother went to the birthing hut the morning before the attack.”

Had she still been struggling to deliver the child when the raiders came? Nay, his mam had been at home. She would never have left the Grain-Mother unless both mother and child were out of danger. Did Conn have a little brother or sister? Was Conn alive?

Always the same questions and never any answers: Were they safe? Were they hurt? Were they dead?

Keirith lowered his head. He would not weep before these murderers. Another question jerked his attention back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“Are you a priest?”

“Nay.”

“The warrior Kha says you attacked his mind. Is this true?”

If it were just the Big One’s word against his, he could lie. But the Speaker and the Slave Master could also testify to his powers.

“Is this true?” the girl repeated.

“I tried to . . . push him away. With my mind. My spirit.”

A flurry of questions: How long had he possessed this skill? Who had taught him? How often had he used it? What did he take to enhance his powers?

“Take?”

“Drugs. Drinks. Herbs.”

“Nothing. Well . . . water. Afterward. To clear my head.”

“You take nothing to open your powers?”

“Nay.”

The Zheron made him repeat his answers twice before turning to the older man for a swift, muted conversation.

Keirith let his head droop, still reeling from what he had seen on their faces, what they had revealed through their questions. They understood his power. There had been surprise, aye, but mostly that his gift was untaught. So the Zherosi—some of them, anyway—must possess the same power. And clearly did not consider it an abomination. It sickened him to realize that only among his enemies could his power be accepted.

“Do you speak to the gods?”

“What? Nay.”

“Do your priests?”

“Aye. That is, a priest has a spirit guide. An animal. Who helps him cross between the worlds. Helps him communicate with the gods.”

“And your mother? The healer? Does she communicate with the gods?”

“Nay. But she—”

He broke off. The Zheron was watching him, his expression eager. Keirith felt a trickle of sweat ooze down his side. He had almost told them his mam had spoken with the Trickster. He must be more careful.

“She calls on the gods. To aid her healing.”

“The scribe of the Jhef d’Esqi says that you knew of the shaking of the earth before it happened. Is this true?”

He started to nod, then hesitated. “I knew something would happen. I didn’t know the earth would shake.”

This provoked a heated exchange between the Zheron, the Slave Master, and the Speaker. By the end of it, the Speaker’s expression of satisfaction had dwindled to one of fearful appeasement.

“The Zheron says you will tell him what happened.”

He told them, choosing his words carefully. Unless he remained vigilant, he might reveal something that could endanger not only his life, but the lives of his fellow captives.

“Which animals spoke?”

“There were many.”

“Did their voices sound alike?”

“Nay.”

“Then you heard different animals.”

“Aye, but they were all screaming. Terrified. There were dogs. And birds—I don’t know what kind. And sheep, I think. And the adders, of course.”

The older woman gasped. In the prolonged silence that followed, he realized he had made a terrible error. The faces of the Zherosi revealed shock, wonder, disbelief. Only the older man seemed unmoved, although he leaned forward on the bench.

The Zheron slowly descended the steps. “You heard the adders speak?”

“I . . . I think so. It all happened so fast . . .”

“What did their voices sound like?”

“Like . . . like adders. Low. Hissing.”

“Many snakes hiss. You said adders.”

“My spirit guide is an adder. They sounded like him.”

“You said only priests had spirit guides.”

Another error.

The Zheron’s hand darted out and Keirith shrank away, but strong fingers seized his chin and forced him to look up. “And you claimed you were not a priest.”

“I’m not.”

“But you have a spirit guide. An adder.”

“Because I wanted to be a priest. Once. Natha—my spirit guide—came to me. But I’m not a priest. I’m not even an apprentice anymore.”

He was saying too much. They would hear the desperation in his voice, see the way he was shaking, and know he was hiding something.

The older man beckoned the Zheron, then addressed the spectators. The four men bowed and backed away. Keirith could feel the Big One’s gaze, but he refused to look at him. Their footsteps receded and there was silence.

After a brief consultation with the older man, the Zheron straightened. Slowly, he descended the steps again. “Speak to them.”

“What?”

“Speak to the adders. Now.”

“I can’t.”

The Zheron circled him like a hungry wolf. A sneer twisted his lips. “You lied.”

“Nay.”

“You cannot speak to the adders.”

“I never said I could. I heard them. Screaming.”

The Zheron bent over him and Keirith flinched. “You miserable savage. Do you think you can deceive us?”

“I wasn’t . . . what do you want?”

“I want you to speak to the adders.”

“I can’t! It doesn’t work that way.”

“How does it work?”

“I don’t know. I just . . . reach out. And if the bird or the animal permits me, I can touch its spirit.”

“And a man? Can you touch a man?” The Zheron’s sneer vanished, replaced by a smile. “Could you touch me?”

Sickened by the girl’s seductive whisper, Keirith swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat and looked at the floor.

“Do you want to touch me, little savage?”

Cool fingers brushed his cheek. Keirith slapped them away, only to have the guards seize his elbows.

“Touch me. I want you to. I want to feel you inside of me.”

He shook his head, fighting down the impotent fury.

“You want to. I know you do. You want it so much you’re shaking.”

Keirith averted his face, but he was helpless to stop the fingers that traced a cool, lingering path down his jaw. He jerked his head away, wild to escape, but the Zheron seized his face between his hands. The dark eyes stared into his, the full mouth curved in a teasing smile.

“Or shall I take you? Would you like that better?”

The 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 seek the release, to obliterate that mocking smile and shatter his enemy’s spirit.

“Shall I be gentle? No. You like it rough, don’t you? Rough and hard and—”

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, more intense than any emotion he had ever known. 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 lay slumped on the steps, his shoulders rising and falling in quick breaths. He slowly raised his head and grimaced—not in pain, but as if the touch had contaminated him.

Keirith swayed, drained by the release of the energy and the long interrogation and his sense of failure. When the guards released him, he collapsed to the floor and lay there, too spent and humiliated to care what they did to him.

During the raid, his arrows had brought down raiders, but 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.”

He heard footsteps approaching and opened his eyes. A face swam into focus. The older man knelt beside him. Keirith flinched, but the man made no move to touch him.

“You are tired,” he said. “You must rest. Go with the guards.” His panic must have been obvious, for the man added, “No one will harm you.”

The guards lifted him to his feet. He wanted very much to walk out of the chamber unaided, but his legs wouldn’t support him. The Zheron had risen as well. His voice was as strong as ever as he rapped out an order. The girl rose and bowed, wrists crossed over her breasts, before walking away. Not once did she glance in his direction. Keirith was surprised how much that hurt.

Even if she could help him, she wouldn’t. She had survived this long by obeying her masters and ignoring the plight of her people.

Keirith allowed the guards to help him from the chamber. He drew up short at the doorway and looked over his shoulder. The older man was watching him. In his exhaustion, the words had simply flowed over him. But the man had spoken to him directly, without the aid of a translator. With utter fluency, he had spoken the language of the tribes.

Malaq returned the boy’s stare, absently toying with the vial of qiij that hung around his neck. As soon as the guards escorted him out, he turned to Xevhan who still looked a bit shaken from the attack. Malaq chided himself for enjoying that.

“He didn’t hurt you?”

“Of course not. Once I erected the barrier, he simply . . . stopped.”

“When did you take the qiij?” he asked quietly.

Xevhan hesitated. “After I received your summons. It was a wise precaution,” he added defensively.

He’d guessed as much from Xevhan’s restlessness and the light sheen of perspiration on his face. Of more concern was his haggard appearance. All priests took qiij—to facilitate communication with the gods, to touch the spirit of another—but there were always those who used the drug for pleasure. Xevhan was young enough—and arrogant enough—to ignore the long-term effects.

“He made no attempt to breach the shield?” Malaq asked.

“He clearly did not possess the skill.”

Or had decided that he had demonstrated too much of his power. Or was simply too exhausted to try.

“How did you guess what would provoke him?” Xevhan asked.

Malaq shrugged. “The Tree People are less broad-minded about sexual relations. Particularly those between members of the same sex.”

“We are fortunate that you know so much about their customs.”

Xevhan’s voice and expression held only respect, but Malaq sensed the hidden barb.

He heard Eliaxa’s slow shuffle, but before he could go to her, Xevhan vaulted up the steps with the graceful—if annoying—exuberance of youth and offered his arm. She gave him a quick smile, but her expression remained distracted. “Do other Tree People possess this power?”

No barb in Eliaxa’s words. He wondered if she even remembered his former ties to the Tree People; since her illness last winter, her mind was often as uncertain as her gait.