Bloodstone (24 page)

N
EW GUARDS BROUGHT him water and dried fruit in the morning. Keirith wondered if the others had been killed or simply relieved of their duties. He called on his lessons with the Tree-Father, seeking stillness and calm, but ended up pacing his tiny prison. Windowless and dark, it was like a small cairn; he shuddered every time he went inside.

He shuddered now as he heard footsteps. Half the morning had fled while he waited. If that was a ploy by the Pajhit to frighten him, it had succeeded.

One of his guards gestured for him to come out. The Pajhit barely glanced at him before starting down the corridor.

“Where are we going?”

The Pajhit ignored him.

Instead of leading him up the stairs to the interrogation chamber, the Pajhit turned left into another corridor. More than a dozen small chambers lined both sides. Pale light streamed through the doorways on the right, illuminating piles of fleece, but whoever slept on them was gone. Slaves, perhaps? Or guards?

The Pajhit turned left again, leading him away from the bright spill of light ahead that hinted at an entrance to the fortress. In less than ten steps, the tantalizing glimpse of freedom vanished. Their little procession turned right and right again before the corridor came to an abrupt end.

Against the wall to his left, narrow stone stairs led to the level above. Opposite them, an old man stood before a wooden door. Unlike the scantily clad Zherosi Keirith had seen so far, he wore a long-sleeved tunic, creased leather breeches, and stout boots that rose to mid-calf.

“You will go with the Qepo now.”

He searched the Pajhit’s face for some hint of what might await him, but the priest simply mounted the stairs, leaving him with the two guards and the Qepo.

Keirith forced himself to breathe deeply, pretending the air was fresh and forest-clean instead of thick with stale air and smoke from the torches, thicker still with the stink of his fear. The old man said something, but only when he pointed at the wall did Keirith spot the clothes hanging from several bronze hooks embedded in the chinks between the stones.

He pulled the tunic over his head. The stiff leather hampered his movements, but at least it offered some protection from the chill, as did the breeches he pulled over his loincloth. The Qepo knelt and held up a boot. Bracing himself against the wall, Keirith lifted his foot, the creak of leather disturbing the silence. The old man tucked the breeches into the boots and laced them tightly. That done, he rose, holding out something that looked like an enormous stuffed hand. The Qepo slipped it over his fingers and tucked the sleeves of his tunic into it, weaving the leather thongs around his wrist. His hand and forearm looked as thick as a bear’s and felt just as unwieldy.

After the Qepo secured the second bear paw, he straightened. His gnarled fingers sketched a spiral on the wooden door. The guards made the same sign over their chests. Their uneasy expressions only added to his fear.

The door swung open with a dull creak. The Qepo stepped inside, gesturing for Keirith to follow.

The open-air pit was no larger than his family’s hut. The square of light illuminated a tangle of vines in the center. A single torch guttered in the draft of the open door, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls that rose up four or five times his height. Except one, he quickly realized. The Pajhit leaned over that one, flanked by the Zheron and the older priestess—the Motixa?

The Qepo backed away. The door closed behind him with another protesting creak. Bewildered, Keirith raised his head and called, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Speak to them,” the Pajhit replied.

As he examined the pit again, the vines shifted with an almost imperceptible rustle. Startled, he peered at them, searching for the animal underneath.

One of the vines reared up. That’s when Keirith realized that they weren’t vines at all. They were snakes. Dozens of snakes.

As the boy flattened himself against the wall, Xevhan whispered, “Not a very promising start.”

Malaq ignored him, concentrating on the boy whose eyes darted around the walls—seeking handholds, perhaps?—before settling on the adders.

“Well?” Xevhan asked. “What do we do now?”

“We wait,” Malaq replied.

The boy slid down the wall. He sat in the pit, legs splayed in front of him, staring at the adders. Then his head fell back and he closed his eyes.

“Praying?” Xevhan speculated. “Or simply committing his spirit to his gods?”

Malaq resisted the urge to snap at him. Already, he regretted his decision to choose this test. Distasteful as it might have been to enter the boy’s spirit without permission, he could have learned more about him and his gift. Once the boy failed, he would have to be sacrificed.

After yesterday’s escape attempt, Malaq had expected him to show more spirit. The rush of disappointment surprised him. After all, it wasn’t as if he believed he was the Son of Zhe.

The mist writhed around him, mimicking the movement of the adders. Cool air filled his lungs. He tasted subtle hints of moist earth and smooth stone. Bright sparks flashed amid the stately dance of earth and stone, the graceful swirl of air and water. His body jerked helplessly as the elemental dance possessed him. He thrust out his tongue to lap up more of the mist and sighed when his body slid to the earth, so cool and welcoming against his cheek.

The mist was softer than any cushion. The earth cradled him more gently than any arms. He sank into the womb of mist and earth, following the flashes of fire that lurked just out of reach, urging him deeper, promising . . . promising . . .

The mist gave an irritated hiss. Red-brown eyes appeared before him. A long tongue flicked out to sting his lips. Keirith’s head jerked back, knocking painfully against stone.

“You are not ready to go so deep,” Natha said. “You would have lost yourself.”

But how wonderful to be so lost, he thought with regret.

His spirit guide slithered across his throat and Keirith shivered in delight. “Why did you call me?” Natha demanded.

Still dazed by the dance, it took him a moment to remember. “The adders. They want me to speak with them.”

“I do not perform for strangers. Especially these who claim to worship us but keep us in this hole.”

“Perhaps they’re frightened of us.”

Natha’s sigh of satisfaction flowed through him, warmer than the mist but just as pleasurable. “Perhaps they are. And that is good. Come.”

The mist dissipated as Natha led him toward the adders. His limbs moved reluctantly beneath their shroud of leather, the cool air no longer refreshing but a heavy weight that made each step difficult. Even his heartbeat had slowed, which made no sense, for he was frightened. But visions were strange that way and this one was the strangest he had ever experienced, every sensation both real and dreamlike.

What had seemed an undifferentiated mass proved to be a tangle of gray and buff and brown. In the north, adders blended in with grass and leaves, but in a world where green existed only in scenes painted on walls, they would naturally wear the colors of earth and stone.

“Brothers. Sisters.”

Heads reared up as Natha spoke. Tongues flicked out, scenting the air.

“Why are you in this place?”

Perhaps the adders answered Natha in words. Keirith experienced their replies as disjointed images and sensations.

Cold. So cold. Huddling around the heat-stone. Basking in the brief moments when sunlight touched them. Only the strong fed. Only the strongest mated. The young ones were too weak to compete, too sluggish to seek the light and the warmth.

Keirith sent back images of his own. Sun-warmed slabs of rock to bask upon, shady dens to shield them when the heat grew too intense. Brush piles where they could seek mice and nestlings, muddy shallows where they could hunt frogs. Stalking the prey. Fangs sinking into flesh. Following the prey’s scent as it crawled or hopped away. Patiently waiting for the venom to take effect, patiently waiting for the beautiful, tremulous convulsions of death before gorging to repletion and drowsing until the next kill.

Instead of soothing them, his images roused the adders. He saw leather-clad feet walking among them, leather-clad hands reaching for them, separating each from the others, forcing open their mouths, pushing their heads down as the males pushed down the heads of their opponents when they fought for the females. Fangs sought the leather-clad hands and penetrated instead the strange, soft stone pressed into their gaping mouths.

Hatred as pervasive as the cold.

“Natha? What should I do?” His spirit guide slithered between his feet, his small body encircling a boot. “Natha?”

And then, in the way of visions, Keirith understood.

The boy bent his head over his arm.

Xevhan leaned forward. “Why is he chewing the glove?”

His head jerked back and bent again. He repeated this strange ritual several times before Malaq realized he was trying to unlace the glove with his teeth.

Xevhan groaned. “This could take all morning.”

The boy’s arduous progress was punctuated by such pithy observations. Finally, he tucked his hand under his armpit and tugged the glove free. He laid it carefully on the ground. The second glove took less time to remove. He placed it next to the other and went down on one knee.

“Blessed Zhe,” Eliaxa breathed. “What is he doing?”

“He’s unlacing his boot,” Malaq replied.

“I see that. But why?”

“That, of course, is the question.” As the boy tugged the heavy leather tunic over his head, Malaq beckoned the Qepo forward. “How many strikes can he withstand?”

“They were milked this morning, great Pajhit. I did it myself. And they’re sluggish because I extinguished the brazier. They may not attack at all.”

Malaq reluctantly withdrew his gaze from the pit.

The Qepo flinched. “I’ve seen a man take five strikes after a milking and live.”

But this was a boy, of course, not a man.

“Shall I go down, great Pajhit?”

The boy folded his breeches neatly atop his tunic. He unwound his skimpy kharo and let it fall to the ground. Naked, he walked toward the adders.

The Qepo raced toward the stairway, moving far more quickly than Malaq would have expected for one so old.

“Wait!”

The Qepo froze. Eliaxa and Xevhan stirred restively. The boy walked slowly toward the tangle of adders.

“Wait.”