Bloodstone (21 page)

“Their priests claim to use spirit animals to guide them into trance, rather than rely on qiij or similar brews. It is said that the shaman of each tribe has the power to touch the spirits of his people.”

“But one so young? He cannot be older than sixteen.”

Without correcting her, Malaq said, “Even among our first-year Zhiisti, we see varying degrees of power. Some need only a sip of qiij to slip the bonds of their bodies. Others require so much that they are rendered helpless for days.”

Xevhan’s breath hissed in, and Malaq gave him a mild glance. Inwardly, though, he chided himself again.

Eliaxa appeared oblivious to the undercurrents. Her wrinkles deepened as she frowned. “Will you conduct the testing yourself?”

“If I may speak, Pajhit . . . ?” The title dripped off Xevhan’s lips like honey.

“Yes?”

“The slave Hircha may prove useful again. She could question the boy. Under my supervision, of course.”

“She
was
helpful today,” Malaq replied. “It was kind of you to suggest summoning her so that I might save my strength. But for now, the fewer people who come in contact with this boy, the better. And since I have some . . . facility with the language, it should only take a day or two to resolve this matter.”

“As you command, Pajhit.” Xevhan bowed stiffly, both the smile and the honey gone.

“It might be advisable to remind the Jhef d’Esqi and the others that we require their silence. We do not want untoward rumors flying about the city.”

“I will see to it personally, Pajhit.”

Malaq turned to Eliaxa. She looked so frail. She had been priestess of Womb of Earth even before he had come to Pilozhat after the Long Winter. It was time for her to step aside and allow a younger, stronger woman to assume the responsibilities of Motixa.

“You look tired, my dear. May I see you back to your chamber?”

She nodded, still distracted. Her small hand grasped his arm with surprising strength. “Is it possible, Malaq? Could he be the one?”

Malaq patted her hand, the flesh dry and slack beneath his fingertips. “He’s just a boy with red hair and a gift for touching spirits. He’s no different than the others.”

“The others did not speak to the adders. Or make Womb of Earth tremble.”

“Neither did he,” Malaq reminded her gently. “He heard their voices—along with those of other creatures—crying out in fear. Womb of Earth trembled as she has many times before. Perhaps he is more sensitive than the others, but that is all.”

Her fingers dug into his forearm. “You’ll make sure, Malaq? We must be sure. If he is the one and we fail to recognize him . . .”

“I’ll make sure. I always do.”

“Perhaps Heart of Sky will give you a sign. You are his priest, and he loves you.”

In his five years as Pajhit, he’d seen little evidence of the god’s love, but it would only upset Eliaxa to hear that.

Before he could assure her that he would seek the god’s guidance, she began reciting the prophecy in an eerie sing-song. “Hail the Son of Zhe, the fire-haired god made flesh. Welcome him with reverence and with dread, for with him comes the new age.”

“Yes, dear. Please. Calm yourself. I hate to see you so distressed.”

“I’m sorry. I only wish . . .” Tears filled her eyes and spilled down the deep grooves around her mouth. “All my life, I’ve dreamed of his coming. I pray for it every day. We need him now, so badly.”

He patted her hand again. “I know. But you must rest now.”

Still muttering the words of the prophecy, she let him lead her from the hall.

D
URING THE DAY, Griane kept herself busy. She and Sali visited the convalescents, checking wounds, changing bandages, dispensing potions to aid sleep or reduce fever. They gathered watercress and nettle shoots for tonics, willow bark and yarrow for the joint-ill and fevers, mallow leaves for poultices, goose grass for straining milk, and elderflowers and violets for infusions to combat coughs.

Some days, she helped the other women in the fields, grubbing out weeds, tenderly urging the newly sprouted stalks of barley and oats to stand upright. Once, she took Callie with her to raid the nests of tufted ducks, but he preferred spending his days with the shepherds. Even a six-year-old could help, and while he was busy throwing stones at marauding foxes or trotting back and forth to Eagles Mount with baskets of food for the weary shepherds, he would not worry so much about his father and brother.

Lisula remained confident that Darak would find Keirith, and while Griane sat beside her in the birthing hut, she was confident, too. But late at night, she lay under the wolfskins, alone with her fears.

Two nights before the Ripening, she sought out Gortin. He seemed to have aged years in the sennight since the attack, but he, too, was driving himself hard, visiting the injured, offering prayers and sacrifices for the dead, even joining the men who mounted a watch every night on the summit of Eagles Mount.

“Forgive me for intruding,” she said as Gortin motioned her to sit.

“You’re not. I welcome your company.”

For five summers, he and Meniad had shared this hut. How empty it must be for Gortin now. The sooner he accepted Othak as his initiate, the better. She didn’t know whether the shy boy would make a very good priest, but at least Gortin would have company and Othak would be safe from Jurl’s beatings.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Gortin said. “I’ve been wanting . . . I’ve been thinking about you. About Keirith.”

A spasm of pain crossed his face. Impulsively, she touched his arm. He surprised her by clutching her hand. Immediately, he released it, clearly embarrassed.

“I had to dismiss him,” he said in a low voice. “But I didn’t . . . I should have handled it better. I think . . . I’m not very good. With people.”

“Neither was Struath.” Remembering how he still idolized his mentor, she quickly added, “Or Darak when he was younger.”

“Tinnean was. Everyone loved him. And Meniad. What fine Tree-Fathers they would have made.” When she nodded, the smallest smile lightened his heavy features. “Thank you for not trying to assure me that I am superior to them.”

“You’re a good Tree-Father, Gortin. And a good man. But . . .”

“Well? You can’t stop there.”

“For mercy’s sake, stop comparing yourself to Struath. Or Tinnean or Meniad, for that matter. Meniad died young and beautiful, Struath gave his life to defeat Morgath, and Tinnean saved the world! You can never compete with that. Besides, Struath might have been a gifted shaman, but he was also . . . cold. Forgive me, but it’s true. Tinnean was the sweetest boy I’ve ever known but he could be horribly impulsive, and Meniad . . . well, even when he wasn’t having visions, his head was in the clouds.”

She broke off, horrified at delivering such a tirade. Again Gortin surprised her, this time by laughing. “And you are refreshingly honest but a terrible scold. Mother Netal would be proud.”

“Nay, it’s awful. Old as I am, I should know better than to blurt things out without thinking.” She hesitated, wondering how to turn the conversation to the purpose of tonight’s visit without spoiling this rare moment of intimacy.

“And now you’re thinking that you should get to the point of your visit.” He smiled. “Your face has always been easy to read, Griane.”

“Forgive me, Tree-Father. I know you have preparations to make for the Ripening. I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so . . .”

“Could you seek Keirith with your vision? Or Darak? I know they’ve only been gone a sennight, but—”

“I’ve tried to find Keirith. He and I share a closer connection, so I thought it would be easier than seeking Darak. So far, I’ve had no success. I’ll try again, but visions cannot be commanded.”

“At least I’d feel we were doing something. The waiting is hard.”

“I know.”

His face clouded. He had been the one left behind on the last quest, forced to wait and wonder what was happening to the man he loved more than anyone in the world.

“I will seek Keirith again after the Ripening.”

His promise helped Griane endure the rite. Once, it had been her favorite. The Freshening celebrated the retreat of ice from the streams and rivers, but the world was still locked in winter. The Balancing brought the lambing season, but was fraught with anxiety that a late winter storm could blow in and threaten the survival of the frail newborns. By the Ripening, winter had surrendered its hold on the land, which gratefully responded with an explosion of color and life: green shoots thrusting out of the soil, green leaves unfurling on the tree branches, the peat bog brightened by the pinks of cuckoo flowers and bogblossoms, and the forest festooned with carpets of bluebells, violets, and speedwell.

For her, the rites had a more personal meaning. The Freshening recalled their return from the First Forest, filled with violent swings of emotions: reunions with friends and family marred by the absence of those who had died during their quest; the first tentative explorations of love shattered by Darak’s recurring nightmares and inability to find his place. When Darak went back to the First Forest at the Balancing, she wasn’t sure he would ever return. But he did, gaunt and haggard but more peaceful in spirit. Although it was customary to marry at either the Spring or Autumn Balancing, she refused to wait. They were married at the Ripening and within two moons, she was pregnant with Keirith.

Celebrating the Ripening without Darak would have been hard enough; the losses suffered by the tribe cast a pall over the rite for everyone. They still sang the joyous song to welcome spring. They repeated the prayers as Gortin blessed three sea trout, the first of those returning to the lake before heading upstream to spawn. They marched to the lake as he returned one to the goddess Lacha in thanks for her bounty. But when Gortin sacrificed the second trout, wrapped it in oak leaves, and carried it into the barrow to feed the spirits of the dead, everyone recalled the ceremony days earlier when he had interred the ashes and bones of those killed in the raid. Men and women alike wept as they added stones to the cairn in memory of those they had lost.

The ceremony at the heart-oak was equally fraught with emotion. Gortin’s voice cracked when he laid the third trout between two of the gnarled roots and thanked the sacred tree for watching over their people. Lisula’s hand trembled as she sprinkled the libation of water. The children who usually skipped around the tree, scattering blossoms of rowan and quickthorn, simply marched in silence behind their parents.

As she did every Ripening, Griane lingered with the children to sprinkle water at the base of a rowan. It was her way of honoring her friend from the Summerlands, one of the ancient tree-folk who had helped her return to the First Forest after Fellgair abandoned her. She still preserved the sprig of blossoms Rowan had given her when they parted, the petals brittle now and brown with age.

When she said a quick prayer and began plucking blossoms from a sprig, the children stared at her, round-eyed with surprise. She repeated her prayer, hoping the spirit of the tree would understand and forgive her.

While the others returned to their huts to prepare the feast, she led the children back to the lake. They walked west along the shore. By the time they neared the channel, the ground rose too steeply for Callie to go farther, so she stopped and held out her handful of blossoms.

“Throw a petal into the water,” she told them, “and say a prayer for Fa and Keirith.”

“Is that like putting a stone on the cairn?” Callie asked.

“It’s like . . . we’re sending our love to them. The river will carry the blossoms all the way to the sea.”

“And the sea will take them to Fa and Keirith.”

“That’s right.”

“And they’ll know they’re from us?”

“Aye.”

“And that we’re thinking of them?”

“They’ll know that anyway,” Faelia said.

Griane shot her a warning glance. Faelia had retreated into sullen silence after her father departed. She spent some mornings in the fields, but more often, she disappeared into the forest, returning with squirrels or rabbits or wood pigeons that she tossed beside the fire pit, as if daring her to object. Griane said nothing. Since Darak’s departure, she had never seen Faelia weep, but her red-rimmed eyes told a different story.