Bloodstone (34 page)

“Xevhan is devoutly ambitious.”

“And what does he gain by proving I’m not the Son of Zhe?”

“The queen’s approval.”

His eyes widened. “She’s behind this?”

“If you mean did she suggest that Hircha seduce you, no. But she wants to know the truth about you.”

“So do you. Isn’t that why you sent the slaves to me after I spoke with the adders?”

“Yes.”

“So you and Xevhan aren’t so different.”

“Believe that if you like. However, I’ve suggested to the queen that you are of value to us, regardless of your . . . paternity.”

“So if she thinks what I know outweighs who I am, she’ll keep me alive.”

“That is my hope.”

Kheridh sank down on the bench. For a long while, he simply stared at the stone flags. When he raised his head, he looked utterly drained. “There’s no way I can win, is there? Some people want me dead. Others want me alive. I’m like . . . what’s that game? With the ball?”

“Pelinq?”

“Aye. You’re on one team. Xevhan’s on the other. The queen watches from the seats. And I’m the ball kicked back and forth between the players.” His smile was bleak. “The ball never wins.”

“Then be a player.”

“On your team.”

“Yes.”

“Even if the queen favors Xevhan’s?”

“You could never join Xevhan.”

“Because of what he did to Hircha?”

“Because your spirit is clean and uncorrupted. Because you can fly with a bird for the sheer love of it, not for the power you gain over it. Because you are good.”

Kheridh took a long, shaking breath and buried his face in his hands. Malaq remained where he was, watching him fight for control. When he lifted his head again, his eyes were dry. “Everything that happened . . .” His voice was a reedy whisper, as if all the life had been sucked out of him. “I thought it was because I was bad.”

“No.”

His hands clenched and relaxed, then clenched again. “I’ll never go home again, will I?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it would be permitted.”

His throat worked. “May I go to my room, please?”

Malaq nodded.

At the threshold, he paused. “I’ll never know if you’re lying to me, will I? I’ll never know who I can trust.”

Malaq fought the urge to cry, “Trust me!” The boy yearned for a friend, might even turn to him for comfort. But later, alone in his room, he would have time to think, to remember, to sift through the events of the last days and realize that in Pilozhat, trust was a commodity more precious than water.

“Trust yourself,” he said. “Your instincts. Your observations. Reveal your powers, but not your heart. You are enmeshed in a dangerous game, and your life depends on your ability to play it well.”

The blue eyes searched his face. Whatever he found there made his shoulders droop. Exhaustion and tension had etched new lines around his mouth and the skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones. Even if he survived, Malaq wondered if the damage could ever be healed, if he would lose the last shreds of innocence and wonder that still filled his dreams.

Kheridh bowed politely. “Good night, Pajhit,” he said in Zherosi.

Malaq returned the bow. “Good night, Kheridh.”

Two days later, Malaq invited Vazh to supper. He wondered at his perversity, but decided that the danger to Kheridh was great enough to warrant his friend’s inevitable recriminations.

Vazh spent most of the meal complaining about Besul, the weather, the incompetence of the generals conducting the Carilian campaign, and the growing resistance among the Tree People.

“They turned on the garrison at Two Forks. You heard? Damned fools don’t even know when they’re beaten.”

“Perhaps they’re not beaten.”

Vazh eyed him over his goblet of wine. “You don’t approve, of course.”

“Of subjugating the Tree People? No. That should hardly come as a surprise.”

“A hundred pelts a year. Plus a levy of barley or oats.”

“Plus the slaves,” Malaq reminded him in a mild voice.

“Four a year. Is that so much to ask?”

“It is if it’s your child.”

“They breed like rabbits. And don’t give me that slit-eyed look. You know it’s true. Besides, I was willing to waive the requirement in exchange for timber.”

“Hardly a viable offer for people who worship trees.”

“Would they rather be overrun? Their villages destroyed? All their children carried off?”

“I imagine they’d rather be left alone.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. We need the land and the timber.”

“There is such a thing as trade.”

Vazh slammed his goblet down on the table. “Gods, I hate it when you talk all mincing and proper.”

“Forgive me. I will try not to mince.”

“Your mouth purses like a virgin’s crack.”

Malaq gestured to the slave bending down to proffer a platter. “Try the skewered goat. It’s really quite delicious.”

“Shove the skewer up your arse. It’s really quite invigorating.”

As the shocked slave hurriedly backed away, Malaq found himself returning Vazh’s grin. After so many years, he was used to the crudeness. Vazh was the one person in Pilozhat he could trust and the only one to whom he could speak his mind.

Niqia leaped onto the low table and picked her way carefully toward the goat meat. With an oath, Vazh scooped her up and deposited her on the floor again. “Damn cat.” He waved his napkin at Niqia who ignored him. Only when he half-rose did she abandon her grooming. After favoring him with a malevolent stare, she padded away with slow dignity.

“Haughty as that bitch I named her after.” Vazh smiled fondly. “Still living in Oexiak with that rich merchant she left me for. She’s a grandmother now. Can you believe it?”

“Of course. None of us are young anymore.”

“Speak for yourself. I keep my voracious widow satisfied—she’s buried two husbands, drained the life out of ’em, sure as I sit here—and my sword’s still lively enough to tickle that pretty slave I acquired last winter.”

“May its blade never tarnish.”

Malaq sketched a pious sign of blessing and Vazh laughed. He took a deep swig of wine and slapped his belly. “So. Do I get to meet the amazing adder boy, or have you tucked him in for the night?”

If Vazh hoped to discomfit him with the sudden change of subject, he was disappointed. “I’ll summon him if you wish,” Malaq replied, as if the idea had just occurred to him. He nodded to a slave who hurried out of the chamber.

“You’re as transparent as water,” Vazh commented.

“You must not have seen the river lately.”

“Now you’re trying to muddy things.” Vazh laughed at his awful joke and took another gulp of wine. “Has he had any more conversations with the adders?”

“No.” Malaq leaned forward and lowered his voice. “But he has had one with Xevhan.”

Forearms splayed across the table, Vazh listened without interruption to the tale of the girl’s attempted seduction and Xevhan’s subsequent visit. “Could be he just wants to get to the bottom of things.”

“Yes.”

“As the queen commanded.”

“Yes.”

“Still . . .”

“Yes.”

Vazh swore, then abruptly sat back. Without glancing over his shoulder, Malaq knew Kheridh had arrived. He waved him forward, all the while watching Vazh. At first, his gaze held only reluctant curiosity, but as Kheridh came closer, Vazh stiffened. The narrowed gaze flicked toward him, assessing, challenging. Malaq met it, careful to keep his face expressionless.

Kheridh bowed deeply, first to him and then to Vazh.

“Kheridh, this is Khonsel Vazh do Havi, a member of the royal council. Khonsel, this is Kheridh.”

“I am honored to meet you, Khonsel,” he said in perfect Zherosi.

Vazh studied him, his gaze raking Kheridh from the top of his head to his sandaled feet. Brave men had trembled under that silent scrutiny; he’d squirmed under it himself more than once. But that was long ago.

Kheridh’s uncertain smile faded. Straightening his shoulders, he gave Vazh stare for stare. Malaq hid his approval behind his wine goblet.

Vazh scowled and rapped out a series of questions: Where is your village? How long have you lived there? Can you use a bow? A spear? A dagger? How old were you when you made your first kill? Under what moon were you born? How do the adders speak to you? Who is your father?

For the first time, Kheridh hesitated. White-faced but calm, he answered in the northern tongue. Vazh’s imperious gaze swung toward him. “Well?”

Malaq delicately applied a napkin to his lips. “He paraphrased one of our sayings: a man may know the womb from which he emerged, but even the great Khonsel cannot say for sure who planted the seed.”

Vazh’s broad face flushed. Kheridh tensed. Malaq found himself measuring the distance between them. Then Vazh snorted and the tension eased. “Well, he’s arrogant enough to be the son of a god. And clever enough to evade a straight answer. Don’t translate that.”

He didn’t need to. Kheridh could understand the tone if not the words. After his perfect greeting, his Zherosi had slipped, conveying an air of bewildered innocence. Malaq wondered how much of it was deliberate. Despite Kheridh’s apparent calm, the knuckles of his clasped hands were white. Vazh’s gaze lingered on them a moment before he said, “Come here, boy.”

Kheridh took one step forward, careful to remain out of reach.

“I said, come here.”

Vazh’s derisory tone brought a flush to Kheridh’s cheeks, but he came closer.

“Give me your hand.”

After the briefest hesitation, Kheridh thrust out his right hand. Vazh seized it. So intent was he on Vazh’s face, Malaq didn’t see the knife until it was too late. Kheridh’s breath hissed in, but even when the blood beaded his wrist, his gaze never wavered.

Vazh flung his hand aside. “It seems the Son of Zhe bleeds like an ordinary man.”

“The Son of Zhe is not immortal. Or impervious to injury.”

“Obviously. His blood is dripping on your rug.”

Malaq tossed his napkin to Kheridh who caught it one-handed and pressed it to his wrist. “Thank you, Kheridh. You may go now.” Kheridh hesitated, as if he meant to speak, then bowed and turned on his heel.

Vazh picked up his wine goblet with studied casualness. He smacked his lips appreciatively. “I wouldn’t trust a Carilian with my dog, but they do know how to make wine.”

“I shall have a crate delivered to your quarters tomorrow.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Yes, I am.”

Vazh reached for the pitcher and refilled both their goblets. Then he leaned forward, thick fingers engulfing the delicate stem of the goblet as he observed him.

Malaq sighed. “Are we to engage in a staring contest as well? I’m happy to oblige you, old friend, but I’d prefer you to speak your mind.” He smiled, conscious of his weariness. “Your bluntness has always been one of the qualities I treasure most.”

“We’ve known each other—what? Twenty-five years now? You were my best commander. Zhe’s coils, that day at Berov . . .” Impatiently, Vazh waved away the memory of the battle. “But you always possessed a . . . I don’t know . . . call it a romantic streak. And it nearly destroyed your career. Would have if I hadn’t stepped in.”

“These are old battles.”

“It’s the same battle!” Vazh’s fist came down on the table and the dishes rattled. “First, it was the woman.”

“My wife,” said Malaq very quietly. “She was my wife.”

“Then, after I crack my stones to keep you in my command, you throw it all up to become a priest.”

“I discovered my true vocation later than most men.”

“And now, this boy.”

“Yes. This boy.”

Their eyes met. Malaq was the first to look away.

“You don’t truly believe he’s the Son of Zhe.”

Malaq hesitated.

“You won’t find the answer in your wine goblet.”

“Who can say? Visions manifest in the unlikeliest places.” His smile faded. “No. I don’t believe he’s the Son of Zhe.”

“Thank the gods. If you started babbling prophecy at me, I’d have to strangle you. And it’s too hot to do murder. Why let the rumors go unchecked?”

“Times are hard. A failed harvest last year. The floods this winter and the drought that followed. Womb of Earth trembles and the people are afraid.”

“Harvests fail. Rains cease. Womb of Earth trembles like a palsied grandmother . . .” Vazh made a hasty sign of propitiation. “. . . but life goes on.”

“He is . . . special.”

“That business with the adders?” Vazh snorted. “Every priest has the power to touch the spirits of others. Or so you’re always reminding less exalted folk like me.”

“We rely on qiij to . . . never mind.” Vazh had little interest and less patience when it came to spiritual matters. “The point is he can touch spirits without qiij. And he’s only at the cusp of his power.”