Bloodstone (26 page)

As usual, the Supplicant of the God with Two Faces was missing. She was as mercurial as the god she served, rarely attending council meetings, scarcely bothering to appear in the god’s temple. The Acolyte conducted most of the sacrifices. Even those were unusual. The Supplicant insisted the god preferred flowers or small animals. But occasionally—and apparently without warning—the god demanded a human life. The Supplicant herself made those sacrifices, ripping out the throat of the man or woman who lay on the altar. Or so it was whispered.

Malaq repressed a shudder; all in all, he was relieved that the Supplicant had chosen to absent herself, although he continued to wonder why the queen permitted it.

The queen raised her hand, commanding their attention. “We have enjoyed our sojourn in the north, but always we welcome our return to our holy city. And the opportunity of speaking with our trusted counselors. We have much to discuss today and many preparations to make before we enter our moon of seclusion. Let us begin.”

With difficulty, Malaq quelled his restiveness during the lengthy discussion of the upcoming trade negotiations with Eriptos, the measures being taken to alleviate the drought, and the state of hostilities in the east. Besul and Vazh wrangled with each other as always. As the senior civil authority in the kingdom, Besul oversaw trade, while Vazh supervised internal security. Unfortunately, the slave raids required their cooperation. Vazh coordinated the raids, but it fell to Besul to ensure that there were enough ships to convey the captives to Zheros, enough food to feed them during their voyage, and adequate facilities to house those who were brought to Pilozhat.

It was a pity Vazh had been wounded in Carilia. He was far better suited to the life of a general than that of administrator. Still, Malaq was glad the leg injury had brought his old friend back to Pilozhat. He only wished the press of their responsibilities allowed them more time to enjoy each other’s company.

He reminded himself that he wasn’t old; past his prime, perhaps, but still vigorous. It was this business with the boy that wearied him. Shutting out Besul’s interminable drone, he considered again the meaning of the dream.

He’d overcome his reluctance and entered Kheridh’s spirit while he slept. Although it was easiest to touch a spirit then, the results of such explorations were always difficult to evaluate. Dreams of flying were common enough. What stood out in the boy’s was the clarity of detail: the circle of huts beside a lake, the long silver thread of the river. Judging from the glimpses he’d caught of long, brown wing feathers, it seemed the boy had been transformed into a hawk or an eagle. That, too, was common, but now he wondered. Had he actually ridden the bird’s spirit in violation of his people’s laws?

Kheridh’s joy was so infectious that Malaq had to strengthen his shield lest he be detected. Then, in the sudden way that dreams have of shifting time and place, there was darkness and a terror even more palpable than the joy. Footsteps. Rough hands. Men’s laughter. And before the ultimate violation, the scream that jolted the boy awake and forced Malaq to flee.

The faces of the attackers had been invisible, but he guessed one was the warrior who had testified during that first interrogation. Rapes occurred on every raid. But red-haired captives were reserved for the Midsummer sacrifice to Heart of Sky and as such, were safe from abuse. Should be safe.

Malaq banished a pang of sympathy. It was his duty to learn as much from the boy as possible. Hard enough to win the trust of a captive; harder still when he had suffered so. And impossible if the queen refused to give him more time.

As the discussion turned to the recent raids, Malaq forced his wandering attention back to the meeting.

“We garnered sixty-eight slaves for the altar of Heart of Sky,” Besul reported. He shot Vazh an innocent look. “It was anticipated that we would capture the full complement required. Was there some unexpected problem?”

“The ships that fell short had a night’s journey upriver.” Ignoring Besul, Vazh addressed the queen directly. “Both villages were already stirring when they arrived.”

“A risk you pointed out, Khonsel, at the time the plan was discussed,” the queen noted. “Still, the raids brought in more than four hundred slaves, I believe.”

“Four hundred and twenty-two,” Besul said; his attention to detail was invaluable, if tiresome. “The sixty-eight previously mentioned will be reserved for the Midsummer sacrifice. Forty-five additional slaves were brought to Pilozhat to augment the fifty-three still remaining in the slave compound from previous raids. These will be used for our daily sacrifices, save for the seventeen sold to the Jhevi. The rest were taken directly to Oexiak for sale.” After a quick glance at Vazh, he added, “I hesitate to recommend additional raids at this time, Earth’s Beloved. We do have to feed the slaves.” He sighed, obviously regretting the necessity.

“In light of our depleted granaries, it’s wise to keep them for as short a time as possible.” The queen waved away the basket of bread her attendant proffered.

“Yes, Earth’s Beloved,” Besul agreed. “But it’s a delicate balance. Made even more difficult when raids do not deliver the anticipated results.”

“Burn me!” Vazh exclaimed.

Malaq repressed a wince. The king’s eyes fluttered open, but the queen seemed mildly amused by Vazh’s blasphemy.

“You can’t predict everything that’ll happen in a raid. Especially one of this scale. You’d know that if you’d spent one day fighting with the army instead of counting your bales of wool.”

“I am quite aware of the exigencies of war. And I resent—”

“Stuavo. Khonsel. Peace.” The two men subsided, still glaring at each other. “We understand the difficulties you face and are grateful for your dedication and loyalty in carrying out your responsibilities. Do you recommend more raids on the north at this time, Khonsel?”

“The ships are needed to ferry troops and supplies to Carilia. They can bring the slaves we require for the Midsummer sacrifice on the return voyage.” Vazh thrust up a hand up to forestall Besul’s interruption. “If we need more, I’ll organize a smaller raid on the Tree People as we approach Midsummer.”

“Let it be done.” The queen glanced at the king whose eyes had closed. “We thank the Khonsel and the Stuavo for attending. There are a few matters pertaining to The Shedding that we must review with the priests, but we will not bore you with those.”

Vazh heaved an audible sigh of relief and winced as he pushed himself to his feet. The stubborn old fool insisted on sitting on a cushion, no matter how it aggravated his leg.

The queen held out her hands and both men bent low to kiss them. She clung to them a moment, murmuring something too soft to hear. Whatever she said made Vazh and Besul exchange a quick glance, looking as guilty as first-year Zhiisti who’d been caught raiding the kitchen for a snack. They nodded reluctantly and won a smile from the queen before she dismissed them.

The details of The Shedding were dispatched quickly; he and Eliaxa had overseen the rite enough times for it to become almost routine.

“Now. About this boy.”

As always, the queen’s network of spies was efficient. Malaq would have given much to have seen Xevhan’s expression and gauge whether he was one of them, but short of leaning past Eliaxa, it was impossible.

“What boy?” the king asked.

“A captive from the north. He is supposed to possess . . . interesting powers. Would you like to see him?”

“I suppose. But then I want to lie down. I have a headache. That awful kankh.” His voice was thin and fretful, preserving little of the sweetness that had been so admired after the last Shedding.

The queen nodded to her attendant who slipped out of the chamber. Malaq had been prepared for such a summons; he only hoped Kheridh was.

“Zheron, I believe you conducted the initial interrogation. While we wait for the guards to bring the boy, please enlighten us.”

Xevhan’s report was concise but accurate. When he finished, Malaq described the events in the adder pit and his subsequent conversation with Kheridh.

“‘They were cold?’ Those were his exact words?”

“Yes, Earth’s Beloved.”

“And the things he told you later. Do you believe them?”

“If he sought to curry favor, I doubt he would have told me that the adders were . . .”

“Miserable.” Her fingers drummed on the arm of the throne. “Yet we have cared for them thus for generations and our people have prospered.”

“I’ve instructed the Qepo to place additional braziers in the pit,” Malaq said, “and to keep them burning at all times—save for the mornings when the adders are milked.”

The queen held up her hand. Malaq glanced behind him and saw the boy hovering in the doorway, flanked by his two guards. His awed glance took in the sumptuous decorations before settling on the queen.

“Let him come forward.”

Malaq rose and beckoned. Although he had personally supervised Kheridh’s garbing—much to his discomfiture—he still found himself inspecting every detail of his dress; boys’ clothes had a lamentable ability to fall into disarray within moments of donning them.

A lock of unruly hair had escaped the simple leather thong at the nape of his neck, but his khirta was in order. It had taken an inordinate amount of wrestling with the sheath of flaxcloth before Kheridh mastered the trick of drawing the fabric between his legs and allowing the folds of the short trousers to cascade over his hips. Knotting it at the waist proved so ineffective that Malaq had to resort to a leather girdle. His scabbed knees and hairless chest made him look even younger than his years, but there was no helping—or hiding—those.

Boys at the cusp of manhood were awkward creatures. Eventually, the gods would finish the task of putting them together, but in the meantime, there was something endearing about watching one try to cope with newly-long legs and a treacherous voice that cracked into a falsetto at inopportune moments.

Kheridh was watching him with a look of panic. Malaq realized he was frowning and quickly nodded.

He performed the ritual prostration correctly and remained motionless until the queen commanded him to rise. Malaq translated, adding a reminder to remain on his knees; a slave never stood in the presence of royalty.

“He doesn’t look like the Son of Zhe,” the king noted.

“Sky’s Light, we don’t know that he is,” Malaq replied.

“Didn’t he speak with the adders? Or something?”

“Yes, Jholin.” The queen squeezed his hand. “Remember? They were cold.”

“Oh. Yes. I think so.”

“Tell us what else you know of him,” the queen commanded.

Briefly, Malaq reviewed Kheridh’s dream, leaving out any mention of the rape. He also related the incidents with the slaves he’d sent to Kheridh’s room, ostensibly to reward him for his success in the adder pit.

When he concluded, the king leaned forward. “Perhaps he suffers some infirmity.”

“Sky’s Light?”

“That prevented him from lying with the slaves.”

Trust the king to fasten on that. “The girl—and the guards—swore that he was . . . aroused. He showed no interest in the male slave.”

His reaction had been somewhat more dramatic. One guard described his expression as “horrified,” the other said “disgusted.”

“It’s very strange,” the king mused. “Don’t you think so, Jholianna?”

“A mystery.” She turned her dark gaze on Kheridh whose head had remained appropriately bowed throughout their conversation. “What is your name, boy?”

His head jerked up as Malaq translated. “My name is Kheridh,” he replied in Zherosi.

“He speaks our tongue?” the queen asked, clearly startled.

“I instructed him in a few sentences, Earth’s Beloved.”

“What else can he say?”

At his prompting, Kheridh said, “Earth’s Beloved, this slave is unworthed to kneel at your foots.”

“Unworthy,” Malaq corrected. “Feet.”

“Forgive me. Unworthy feet.”

“He means—”

“Yes. I know.” The queen extended her hands, then drew back, frowning, as the boy tensed.

“Take the queen’s hands,” Malaq ordered, thanking the gods he’d insisted on filing down the ragged nails and soaping out the dirt accumulated under them.

“Your hands are very cold,” the queen said, her voice a low caress.

The boy swallowed hard. “I’m scared,” he whispered in the tribal tongue.

“Your presence fills him with awe, Earth’s Beloved.”

“Without the decoration, please.”

“He said, ‘I’m scared.’ ”

“As he should be. Don’t translate that.” She favored the boy with one of her dazzling smiles. Color flared on his pale cheeks. A nervous smile came and went.

“You are so beauty,” he whispered in Zherosi.

Still smiling, the queen asked, “Was that one of the phrases you taught him?”

“No, Earth’s Beloved.” Bad enough that he had the temerity to construct an independent thought from the standard phrases he had learned; to address the queen without her permission could earn him a whipping.

“You are bold,” she said.

“Forgive me, Earth’s Beloved.” Fear replaced the glazed look of adoration. “Please . . .” He fumbled with the words and dragged his gaze from the queen. “Would you tell her I meant no disrespect? I’m not . . . my people . . . our chiefs . . .”

“He asks your forgiveness again, Earth’s Beloved, and assures you he meant no disrespect. His people are accustomed to less formality when addressing their chiefs.”

“So you tell your chief that she is beautiful?”

Kheridh laughed, then quickly controlled himself. “Earth’s Beloved, our chief is a man.”