Bloodstone (40 page)

He lay in the shadowland between dreaming and wakefulness. Once, he heard the sound of voices raised in argument. Later, he felt something cool and damp on his forehead. Still later, a gentle hand raised his head and a cup swam toward him.

“Nay!”

“It’s only tea.”

After he smelled the mint, he took a cautious sip.

“A little more,” the voice urged.

He managed another swallow.

“Good. Rest now.”

The next thing he saw was Malaq. His eyes were as dark as they had appeared in his vision, but held no trace of agony.

“Can you manage a little broth?”

Keirith nodded. He pushed himself into a sitting position, but he had to allow Malaq to spoon the broth into his mouth. It was then he realized he was in Malaq’s bedchamber.

“How did I get here?”

“The guards brought you. You collapsed in Xevhan’s chamber. That was this morning.”

Judging from the flickering oil lamps, it must be evening. A whole day—lost.

“I’ve been asleep?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been here with me?”

“Yes. Finish your broth.”

“The whole time?”

“Stop talking. You’re making a mess.”

“You sound like my mam.”

Malaq lowered the spoon. “Did you dribble broth on her, too?”

“I meant the scolding.”

“I should do more than scold you. I should beat you. I may yet decide to do so. But not until you finish your broth.”

Keirith obeyed, swallowing one spoonful after another. And when he had finished, he said, “I went to Xevhan because of something I saw at the sacrifice.”

By the time he finished describing his vision at the temple, he was shivering uncontrollably. Malaq opened a wooden chest—the only piece of furniture in the chamber—removed a blanket, and draped it around his shoulders. The scratchy wool comforted him.

“I had to find out if my father was safe.”

Malaq didn’t ask why he had waited until now to tell him. He simply nodded.

“I tried to find my father—through vision—but I couldn’t. So I went to Xevhan.”

He frowned, recalling his euphoria. Xevhan must have slipped the qiij into his drink. What a fool not to have realized.

“I asked him to give me qiij.”

“I know.”

“He told you?”

“He didn’t have to. I know the signs.”

No questions, no recriminations, just a great weariness in his voice that added to Keirith’s guilt. He told Malaq how Xevhan had drugged him. It was hard to describe the vision with those sad, dark eyes watching him, but he did. When he finished, Malaq nodded again.

“It was Xevhan,” Keirith blurted out. Although they were speaking the tribal tongue, he instinctively lowered his voice. “I recognized the ring on his finger.”

“I see.”

“Nay, you don’t. It was Xevhan who struck you down.”

“I understand.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“But you have to. He’s dangerous. He wants you dead.”

“I doubt it. He would derive much more satisfaction from my disgrace than my death. The fact that I died in your vision is probably due more to your concern about your father than to any actual threat I face. Even the words were the same, were they not?”

Keirith nodded, unconvinced.

“The end of the vision interests me. With the adders streaming across the ground and the earth collapsing. Did you know there was another tremor today?”

Keirith searched his memory, but everything was jumbled up in his mind.

“You cried out in your sleep. Something about the adders. A few moments later, the Qepo rushed in to tell me they were restless. And then the earth shook. A small tremor. It did no damage. But I wondered if you felt it—or felt the adders’ fear as you did that first time.”

“I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The Pajhit smiled, his expression so similar to the one in the vision that Keirith winced. “You should rest. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“But Xevhan . . .”

“Let me worry about Xevhan.”

“But you won’t!”

“Of more concern to me is the danger you may be in. You’ll have to explain the vision to Xevhan. Not the part about him killing me. Make up something else. Don’t let him know you told me about it. Tell him I was furious at you for taking the qiij. Stick to the story Xevhan planned, that you took it without his permission. It’s a flimsy excuse, but it will have to do. Pretend to be worried that your behavior has compromised further opportunities to meet. Play the innocent. You can do that, can’t you?”

Keirith felt himself flushing under that keen-eyed gaze. “He won’t believe me.”

“But he’ll wonder. If he believes you’re eager to learn from him—that you’ll teach him instead of me—he might not move against you. And that will buy us a little more time.”

“Us.” As many times as he had disobeyed, Malaq had forgiven and protected him. He had given up his bed, nursed him as tenderly as a mother. Keirith wanted to believe it was just an act, a ploy to keep his loyalty, but instinct told him he could trust this man.

“Why are you protecting me?”

“I’m beginning to wonder that myself,” Malaq replied with a rueful smile. “Get some sleep.”

“But where will you sleep?”

“I’ve made up a pallet in the other chamber. Enough,” he added as Keirith opened his mouth to protest. “It’s perfectly comfortable.” He extinguished two of the lamps, but left the third burning. “Good night.”

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

Keirith pulled the blanket around him and lay back on the fleece. A heavy weight descended on his stomach and he gasped. Niqia kneaded him for several moments, sharp claws making him wince.

“Settle.”

She ignored him, continuing her careful kneading until, apparently satisfied, she sprawled across his belly. Keirith stroked the soft fur behind her ears and was rewarded with a contented purr.

The plan to lull Xevhan’s suspicions could work if he played his part well, but it would not help Malaq. Was this what it was like for the priests of Pilozhat? Always watching their backs, always courting friends and observing enemies and plotting against both? It was so alien to his life at home—but then everything here was.

As unnerving as all the plotting was, there was something exciting about it. Pitting your skill against another’s. Using your power to woo him or destroy him. Risking everything. It was as thrilling and frightening as flying with the eagle.

And if the vision was true, it was not only his life at risk, but Malaq’s as well.

G
RIANE SPRINKLED THE last drops of the elder berry wine on the roots of the heart-oak and rested her palm against the tree’s thick trunk. She should say a prayer. If only she knew what to pray for.

The name stuck in her throat.

“Maker, help me. Show me if this is the right path.”

Sunwise, she circled the sacred tree. That’s what the priests always did when they summoned power. But she wasn’t summoning power; she was simply delaying. She closed her eyes and repeated her prayer—and promptly stumbled over a root.

“Please, Maker. Give me a sign. Something to let me know whether I should do . . . what I’m thinking of doing.”

Nothing happened. The birds still twittered, the morning sunlight still slanted through the branches of the trees.

The glade darkened. She gasped and flicked her forefinger three times against her thumb. She considered spitting in the four directions, but while she hesitated, the sunlight returned. It had only been a passing cloud. It would have shadowed Bel’s face no matter what she said. But she
had
said something. She had asked for a sign.

“Bel’s blazing ballocks.”

Signs were no more reliable than visions. Better to trust your common sense. Of course, if she did that, she would leave right now. Of all people in the world, she knew better than to trust Fellgair.

Damn her indecision. Damn Gortin and his visions. And damn Darak for leaving her here with nothing to do but wait and worry.

“Oh, Maker, I didn’t mean it. Especially the part about Darak.” This time she did spit. She’d never discovered if an ill-wish counted if you didn’t speak it aloud, but now was not the time to chance it.

Impatiently, she swiped at her eyes. She’d never been a weeper, but these days she was always crying. The other day, she’d found a patch of speedwell in the forest and burst into tears; poor Sali just stared at her with her mouth hanging open.

“I’m going home,” she announced. And stood staring up at the wide-spreading branches of the heart-oak.

For four days, Gortin’s vision had haunted her. Worse were the images she conjured: Darak’s body twisting with agony, gouts of blood spurting from his chest, his mouth going slack as the scream faded, the gray eyes glazing in death. Four days and four nights with those images racking her mind and helplessness tearing at her spirit like a carrion crow. And always the fear of the consequences if she asked the Trickster for help.

Even if she called, Fellgair might not come. He might not even remember her. It had been fifteen years since she had seen him. He’d been angry with her for leaving the Summerlands without bidding him farewell. But he had opened the way home for a kiss. And promised—predicted—that she would have many years with Darak. Fifteen years wasn’t many. Not as people measured time and certainly not as gods did.

Fellgair had made another prediction that morning—that he and Darak would meet again. Perhaps he’d known even then that she would be standing here, wondering if she should call his name.

In the underbrush, a fox yipped. The hairs on her neck and arms rose. Very slowly, Griane turned.

The fox padded out of the thicket and froze when it saw her. Golden eyes fixed her with an unblinking stare. It lifted one delicate forepaw. Despite the thick mulch of dead leaves littering the glade, it made no sound as it stalked toward her.

The fox paused and cocked its head. Large triangular ears pricked forward. Suddenly, it catapulted high into the air and pounced on a pile of leaves. It nosed through them and emerged with a vole dangling between its jaws. It tossed its head, flinging the vole skyward. The muscles in its hind legs tensed. Just before the unfortunate creature hit the ground, the fox leaped up and snapped it out of the air. Then it settled into a patch of sunlight and proceeded to devour its prey in three quick bites.

A red tongue flicked out to lick the long whiskers. Then the fox yawned, treating Griane to a vivid display of the sharp shears on its upper jaw.

“Is it you?” she whispered.

The fox’s ears pricked up at her voice. It rose. And winked.

The sleek body stretched. The narrow rib cage swelled. Back legs straightened. Forelegs pushed off the ground to hang by its sides. Paws tapered into clawed fingers that waggled a greeting. The thick brush grew even more luxuriant. The muzzle widened. Widened still more as the Trickster smiled and strolled toward her.

“As if I could forget you, Griane.”

“But I didn’t call you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“I only thought . . .”

Fellgair shook a reproving finger. “You see? It does count if you only think it.” He sighed. “Poor Darak. Poor Gherkin.”

“Gortin.”

“Whatever.”

“I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t cursing him. Them.”

“Of course you weren’t.”

“So nothing bad will happen?”

“Ever?”

“Please, Lord Trickster—”

“Oh, must we progress to the pleading so soon? Let’s sit. Chat. Reminisce about old times.”

He flicked a forefinger at some fallen leaves, which arranged themselves into a neat bed between two of the heart-oak’s roots. He sprawled full-length, propping himself up on one elbow, and patted a spot in front of him. Griane chose a root out of reach.

“This reminds me of our time together in the Summerlands. You perched primly on your rock. I, lounging at your feet. You were wearing fewer clothes then.”

After fifteen years, he still had the unerring power to make her blush. As his gaze roved over her, she resisted the urge to tuck her skirt around her ankles.

“Do you miss the Summerlands?”

She nodded. It was the most beautiful, magical place she had ever known. But she had abandoned it eagerly for the chance to return to the world, little knowing that Struath and Yeorna were already dead, and Darak and Cuillon in Chaos.