Bloodstone (53 page)

“And I know this man also possessed an extraordinary ability to touch the spirits of others. That he used his power for evil. With my help, Kheridh will learn to understand his gift, to use it wisely. Here it will be revered. In your village . . .” Malaq shrugged. “He has some ability to shield himself from other spirits, but how long do you think it would be before he’s provoked? Or succumbs to temptation? A wounded creature, screaming in pain. An eagle, begging him to fly once more. A tribe mate, threatening him or his family. Kheridh
will
use the gift, Memory-Keeper. Just as—in a moment of fear and anger—he used it against you.”

That shook him. It had shaken Malaq when Kheridh revealed it to him earlier while they formulated their strategy for this meeting.

“I may not understand this power,” the Spirit-Hunter said, “but I know my son. He would never choose to live among the murderers of his people.”

“Our land is as harsh as our gods. To ensure its fertility, we offer the ultimate gift of human life.”

“And what about the thousands of our people who weren’t offered up as sacrifices but slaughtered by your raiders or carried off into slavery?”

Malaq adjusted the folds of his napkin. “These are difficult times in Zheros. Pestilence has decimated the ranks of our workers—”

“Slaves.”

“—and drought has destroyed our crops. We require wood for our ships, land to feed our people. Your forests are rich, your soil fertile. In the past, we have offered . . . accommodations.”

“What? To sell our children? To destroy the trees who are our brothers?”

“Some of your southern tribes accepted this compromise.”

“And those that didn’t were slaughtered.”

Malaq sighed, appreciating the irony of championing a policy he had always despised. “We will never agree on religion. Or on politics.”

“Or what’s best for my son.” A grim smile twisted his mouth. “Did you really think you could convince me that Keirith would be better off here? That I would agree that he should turn his back on his people, his beliefs, his gods? Would any father agree to such a choice?”

“You love Kheridh. I understand that. He’s the kind of boy . . .” Malaq hesitated. “Kheridh has a gift for inspiring love.”

Idly, he allowed his fingers to caress the stem of the goblet. Up and down. Up and down. From under his lowered lashes, he watched the Spirit-Hunter. Only his eyes moved, flicking from the fingers stroking the goblet to the knife lying on the platter and finally to his face.

“Choose your weapons more carefully, priest. If I thought you were bedding my son, I’d kill you, but I wouldn’t abandon him.”

“That was unpardonably crude. And a lie. Forgive me.”

“So your taste runs to girls?”

“My tastes are none of your concern,” Malaq snapped. He took a deep breath, annoyed that he had allowed the Spirit-Hunter to provoke him. “For a man of my position to take Kheridh as a lover would be an unforgivable abuse of power.”

“Which you would never stoop to.”

Malaq answered the heavy sarcasm with a short laugh. “Are you really so narrow-minded that you see yourself as the personification of all things good and decent while I—perforce—am the opposite? That you are absolutely right about absolutely everything? For a man who has witnessed miracles and spoken with gods, your arrogance is not only astonishing but dangerous. The world—and the people in it—are a bit more complex than that, Memory-Keeper.” He shook his head. “I pity your son. And I finally begin to understand the burden he faced growing up with such a father.”

The Spirit-Hunter pushed himself to his feet. “We have nothing more to say to each other.”

“One thing only. You claim to know your son’s mind. You’re certain he would never choose to remain here. Shall we ask him? Shall we allow Kheridh to choose his path freely and without coercion?”

“Freely? When he knows you need only clap your hands to have me killed?”

“I am not your enemy!”

“You have my son. I want him back. That makes you my enemy.”

“Yes, I want Kheridh to remain. But if I kept him against his will or used you to ensure his cooperation, I would lose him more surely than if I sent him away. I can offer no proof of my sincerity . . . except to say that I do understand how you would feel to lose him.”

“Only a father could understand that.”

“Yes.”

His eyes widened. Malaq couldn’t bring himself to say more, not even to win the man’s support. “Would you sit, please?”

He sat, surprise changing to wariness.

Malaq pushed forward the clay disk. “This will provide you safe passage through our lands. It’s marked with my seal.”

The Spirit-Hunter barely glanced at it. “You know I can’t read what’s written on it.”

“Actually, you can. So can any illiterate guard who might stop you. The disk has a simple picture—a man missing two fingers of each hand.”

The narrowed eyes flicked from the disk to his face.

“And yes, this might be a trap. The disk might direct a guard to execute you on the spot. But it doesn’t. If Kheridh chooses to go with you, I’ll provide another safe conduct for him. I give you my oath—on the gods that I worship—that you may both leave Pilozhat with no fear of pursuit or retribution.”

“Not on your gods. Swear on your son’s life.”

Malaq’s breath caught. Rage blinded him. But, of course, it was the clever move. He should have anticipated it.

“My son is dead.” His voice sounded foreign to him, thick and clogged as if he were choking. “Shall I swear on his spirit’s hope for rebirth?”

Their gazes locked. Finally, the Spirit-Hunter said, “Nay. I accept your oath.”

“Your wife—she was a child of the Oak and Holly, wasn’t she?”

Even Vazh never called her that. Just “his woman.”

“That’s why you speak our tongue so well. And know the legends.”

He would not give the man the satisfaction of nodding.

“I’m sorry for your loss. And for reminding you of it.”

“I don’t want your sympathy.” Despising his weak, pathetic voice, Malaq cleared his throat. “I want you to leave Pilozhat.”

“On that, we both agree.”

“Even if it means losing Kheridh, I am willing to let him choose his own path. Are you willing to risk the same?”

Another endless pause before the Spirit-Hunter gave a short nod.

Malaq rose and walked to the doorway to instruct the guards. After they left, he turned back. “You and I will not meet again. Would you permit me to ask you something?”

This time, the nod was cautious.

“Did you really speak with your Trickster-God?”

The Spirit-Hunter hesitated, considering the implications of his answer. In the silence, Malaq said, “I’ve been a priest for fifteen years. The gods have never shown themselves to me. It would be a relief to know they actually exist.”

“Even if the gods aren’t yours?”

“If your gods exist, mine must as well. Who knows? Perhaps all gods are the same. Perhaps they merely show different faces to those who worship them.”

“They exist.”

Strange, the comfort those two words gave him. “And did you travel to Chaos?”

“Aye.”

“And witness the . . . transformation of your brother?”

This time, the Spirit-Hunter only nodded.

“Thank you.” Malaq offered the deep bow only bestowed upon equals. “When you and Kheridh have finished speaking, the guards will escort you out of the palace. The road to Oexiak leads west.”

“I know it.”

“Then fare you well, Memory-Keeper. May your path be smooth, your journey swift, and your homecoming joyous.”

“I . . . thank you.”

He frowned. Malaq wondered if he had offended him by offering the Tree People’s traditional blessing for travelers, but that didn’t account for the odd hesitancy.

“If it makes any difference . . . I don’t think I’m absolutely right. About anything. I just . . .” He looked away. “He’s my son.”

“Yes. You are a fortunate man.”

Weary beyond words, Malaq walked away. If the gods could hear a man’s prayers, perhaps his son could, too. After all, the man before him was proof that miracles could happen.

The priest disappeared down the narrow hallway at the far end of the room. Darak watched him go, still stunned by the knowledge that the man had been married to a woman from the tribes. He tried to shake off the questions that filled his mind and the disbelief that a man who knew their culture so well could countenance its destruction.

He might have been lying. Clearly, he was skilled at manipulation. But when he spoke of his son . . . those emotions were genuine.

Darak drained his cup and refilled it with wine. It was pale and gold and as cool as the water. He wondered how they managed to keep wine cool in a place so unbearably hot, then frowned and gathered himself.

In a few moments, Keirith would walk in. They hadn’t spoken—really spoken—since the night before the raid. The priest knew about that night. What else had Keirith told him? Surely, he would know better than to trust him. He was young, but he wasn’t stupid.

He heard footsteps behind him and spun around.

When he’d first glimpsed Keirith at the entertainment, it had been too dark to see him well. Later, he’d been too stunned by Urkiat’s death to study his appearance. It was a shock to see him wearing the baggy half-breeches of the Zherosi. Had he been wearing those last night? His unruly hair was oiled and tied back. He hadn’t noticed that either. He’d only seen the stark face, the staring eyes. The face was calm now, if strained, and the eyes met his steadily enough, although he hesitated in the doorway as if reluctant to come closer.

“Keirith.”

“Father.”

Belatedly, he realized he was still clutching the cup of wine. He bent down and placed it on the table so he could embrace his son, but by the time he straightened, Keirith was already walking around the table. Gods, he even moved differently. The sudden spurt in height last year had left him awkward, yet after little more than a moon, he carried himself with the careful grace of a heron picking its way through the reeds, leaving him feeling like the awkward one—too big and too clumsy for this beautiful room.

“I’m sorry,” Keirith said. “About Urkiat.”

“Aye.” Darak forced down the surge of emotion. “You look . . . well.”

“I am. Thank you.”

They might have been strangers. Or worse, acquaintances meeting after a long absence and taking refuge in meaningless pleasantries.

“I’ve come to take you home.”

Keirith grimaced and the breath rushed out of his lungs as if someone had punched him.

“Let’s sit down, Father.”

With an effort, he resisted the impulse to shout, “Nay, let’s not. Let’s thrash it out—all that lies between us—and settle it once and for all.” Instead, he simply nodded; time enough later to deal with the past.

“The priest—Malaq—said you could come with me.”

Keirith twirled Malaq’s cup by its long stem, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Keirith?”

His fingers continued their restless, repetitive motion. Darak reached across the table and they went still.

“Talk to me, son.”

Instead, Keirith pushed himself up and retreated to the far corner of the room. Immediately, Darak went after him, but as he approached, Keirith held up a hand, warding him off. His son hunched forward, his breath coming in harsh, quick pants. The bones jutted from his naked shoulders, sharp and terribly fragile.

“What have they done to you?”

Keirith shook his head.

“Have they hurt you? Threatened you? Is it the priest? Is he forcing you—?”

“Nay!”

As Keirith brushed past him, Darak grabbed his arm. They both froze. Keirith stared down at his fingers until Darak dropped his hand.

“You shouldn’t have come, Father.”

“Did you think I would simply let them take you? That I would abandon you?” When Keirith hesitated, he knew the answer. Shaken, he could only blurt out, “Merciful Maker, you’re my son.”

“Not here. Here I am just . . . myself.”

“Nay. Here you are Kheridh.” He spat out the name. “Or the Son of Zhe. But you aren’t Keirith.”