Bloodstone (54 page)

“And who is Keirith? The son of the great Darak Spirit-Hunter. The abomination who should be sacrificed at the heart-oak.”

“I would never allow—”

“If I go back, I’d be going to my death. We both know that.”

“Not if you refuse to use this power.”

“But I want to use it! Don’t you understand? I love the power, and I love using it.” Keirith’s voice cracked as he laughed. “I may not be the Son of Zhe, but when I touch the spirit of another, I feel like I am. In those moments, I
am
a god.”

Darak’s hand came up and Keirith flinched. Fingers clenched, he lowered it. “He’s poisoned your mind.”

“He’s opened my mind. He’s taught me more in a moon than Gortin could in a lifetime. He understands me better than ...”

“Better than I do,” Darak said softly.

Keirith took a deep breath. “Please, Father. If we go on, we’ll only hurt each other more.”

How could anything hurt more than hearing that his son believed a stranger—an enemy of their people—knew him better than his own father? Had the priest cast a spell over him? Surely, Keirith couldn’t have changed so much.

“This priest may understand your power. And he may cultivate it. But have you asked yourself why? How many questions has he refused to answer? How many times have you caught him in a lie? He’s using you, son. If you cross him—if you threaten him or any of these people—how long do you think it’ll be before you’re lying across their sacrificial stone?”

“You don’t know him.”

“Neither do you.” The uncertainty in Keirith’s face made him add, “You and I . . . we may not always agree. We may . . . say things, do things to hurt each other. We’re both stubborn and strong-willed.”

His father’s words. And now, despite all his efforts, he seemed to be repeating the pattern with his son. Keirith watched him, wary and confused, waiting for him to continue.

“No matter what lies between us, we come from the same roots. We worship the same gods. We are children of the Oak and Holly, who have lived all our lives in the village our ancestors founded when they fled from these people.”

Tentatively, Darak raised his hand and, although Keirith drew back, he laid it gently on his son’s shoulder. A fine vibration coursed through Keirith’s body. His fingers tightened. “Please. Come home with me.”

Keirith wrenched free. “I’m sorry, Father.”

Shocked, Darak could only stammer, “He’s threatening you. He must be. Otherwise—”

“He is not threatening me. I want to stay. I want to learn from him. I’m sorry you had to come. That I put you in danger. But you can leave—you must leave. Take this and go.”

Keirith scooped up the disk and held it out. When he didn’t take it, Keirith seized his hand and thrust it into his palm.

“Please. Just . . . go.”

Darak stared at the disk, as useless as Struath’s tiny crystal that had failed to retrieve Tinnean’s spirit. Nay,
he
had failed, not the crystal. Just as he had failed now. And not just now but for years, or Keirith could never reject him so easily.

Of course, he had made mistakes. Every father did. The night of Keirith’s attack, the day of the raid—those were the worst. But did they wipe out everything else? The summer days when he taught him a hunter’s skills? The winter nights when they sang songs together at the fire pit? He was there to catch him when he’d taken his first steps, to embrace him when he’d returned from his vision quest. And he was here now. What greater proof could he offer of his love?

The smell of the food choked him. The oil scenting Keirith’s hair sickened him. The immaculate breeches, the neatly laced sandals, the perfectly trimmed fingernails . . . they had stolen his son and left this copy behind as surely as if they had cast out his spirit and invested the empty body with a stranger’s.

“And what am I to tell your mother?” Keirith winced, and he was savagely glad. “And your brother and sister? That after a mere moon in this cursed place, you’ve chosen to abandon them to become a Zherosi priest? To take your place before the sacrificial stone and cut out the hearts of your own kinfolk? To feel like a god?”

“Tell them whatever you want! Tell them . . .” Keirith took a deep breath and turned away. “Tell them I am dead.”

“Better that you were. Better that you had died when the raiders attacked. Then we could mourn you and remember you in our prayers and hope to meet you again in the Forever Isles.”

Keirith’s shoulders hunched as if he had struck him.

“Look at me. Look at me!”

Slowly, Keirith turned. Unshed tears made his eyes bright, but his mouth was pressed into a tight, hard line.

“Tell me that you’re abandoning us of your own free will.”

Keirith’s mouth worked. He swallowed hard and whispered, “Go home, Father.”

“Tell me—”

“Aye!”

“And if I don’t believe you?”

“Then believe this. I killed Urkiat.”

“What . . . what are you talking about?”

“Oh, it was your hand that drove the sword into his chest. But have you wondered what made him stand there, waiting for the blow? That was me, Father. I tried to cast out his spirit. I wasn’t strong enough to do it, but I did manage to distract him. Just long enough for you to strike the blow that killed him.”

His mind realized the truth, but his heart and his spirit shrank from accepting it.

“But why? Urkiat would never . . . I wasn’t in any real danger . . .”

“Xevhan had decided on a fight to the death. One of you was going to die. I chose Urkiat. That is what the power gives you. The ability to choose.”

“But not the right!”

“And if I hadn’t? What then?”

“I would have done . . . something.”

“You’d be dead.”

There was no emotion in his son’s voice. None at all.

“Last night, I gave you your life. Now you must give me mine.” For just a moment, Keirith hesitated. Then he shook his head impatiently. “I can’t go home, Father. Not now.”

“No one has to know.”

“You know. I know. I’ve already struck out at you. I led Urkiat to his death. Sooner or later, I’ll cast out the spirit of a man. As Morgath did.”

“You could never become as evil as Morgath.”

Keirith made a sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Dear gods, Father. I already am.”

Darak stared at this stranger who wore his son’s face and his son’s body, unable to speak.

“Good-bye, Father.”

Perhaps it was the lack of emotion in his voice or the confidence of his stride that made Darak call out, “Kheridh!”

His head came up at the name. Darak fumbled in his bag of charms until his fingers found what he wanted. He flung it across the floor and watched it slide to a halt next to Keirith’s foot. “It was a gift. From the Supplicant of the God with Two Faces. You’ll find better use for it than I will.”

Damning his shaking voice, he strode out of the chamber, startling the guards. For once, he was grateful for their presence; he would never allow himself to weep in front of them.

Keirith sank to his knees. The tears in his eyes made the little snake shimmer. His hand groped for it. The bronze was still warm from his father’s body.

He fell forward. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. All he could do was rock back and forth, slowly and deliberately striking his forehead against the floor again and again and again, as if the physical pain could banish the deeper agony.

Strong arms enfolded him. Not his father’s arms. He would never know their touch again. Gentle hands stroked his hair. Not his mother’s hands, those clever, nimble fingers that could stitch together a man’s flesh and ease the burn of a child’s skinned knee.

“I’m so sorry. I know it was hard. But you had to speak to him that way. Otherwise, he never would have left and that would have put you both in jeopardy. Now he’ll be safe. I promise you that, Kheridh.”

He shuddered, remembering his father’s bitter voice. How could one word cut so deeply?

“In time, he’ll accept your decision.”

The bile rose in his throat. He shoved Malaq away and retched helplessly, as if he could cleanse himself of the evil things he had said, vomit up every awful part of himself until he was clean and whole. But he would never be clean, or whole, again.

He’d done the only thing he could to ensure that his father left before anyone discovered his identity. But still he had expected the determined footsteps to slow. He had waited for that, praying he would feel the warm hand descend on his shoulder and hear the deep voice announce that they were leaving together, that nothing else mattered, that everything—somehow—would be all right.

But his father’s footsteps never faltered.

How could he fail to see through his pretense? How could his father believe he had changed so much? Unless, in his heart, this was how he had always seen him—a cold, power-hungry, ruthless creature. Like Morgath.

Exhausted, he lay on the floor while Malaq wiped his face and cleaned up the mess he had made. It astonished him to think that the Pajhit of the Zherosi would shame himself by performing such an ugly, menial task rather than shame him by summoning slaves.

“You are the only one who can convince him,” Malaq had said. And he had. His father had repudiated him. His family was lost. His gods would never hear his prayers. There was no going home. There was only this new life among strangers, stretching ahead of him in an endless succession of empty days and spirit-draining nights.

But he was not alone. He had Malaq. The friend he had never expected to find, the mentor whose knowledge and wisdom would guide his path. The father of his spirit, if not his body.

N
UMBED BY HIS ENCOUNTER with Keirith, Darak stumbled after the two guards. Only when sunlight blinded him did he realize they were standing at the western entrance of the palace. One of the guards seized his arm and pulled him out of the way of a litter. The other pointed to something in the distance and repeated “Oexiak” several times. When Darak nodded his understanding, they left.

He slid down the wall. An endless line of litters streamed past him. From behind their swaying curtains came the sounds of laughter and excited conversation. Even the litter bearers wore eager looks, despite the sweat running down their faces. So did the women, straggling toward the gate. Some had babes strapped to their backs, others, small children clinging to their legs. All clutched bowls like the beggars he’d seen squatting in the streets of Oexiak.

He was the only beggar in Pilozhat who wasn’t celebrating. Despite his pleas, Keirith had rejected him—just as, fifteen years ago, Tinnean had defied him to choose the path of the shaman. His journey through Chaos had taught him the danger of trying to control the lives of others. But how could he simply walk away from his son?

The horror surged anew. It was one thing to attack in a moment of anger, but to do so coldly, without provocation . . .

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. No matter what Keirith said, no matter what he had done, Darak refused to believe he was evil. But left among these people, he would be seduced by the terrible gift he possessed. Whether they killed him or not, the Zherosi would destroy him.

If it had been his father in the arena, would he have sacrificed another to save him? Aye. And to keep him safe, he would have used any argument, even if it meant risking his hatred and driving him away. But his father would have recognized the desperation that prompted the bitter words. He would have suppressed his pain and resisted the urge to lash out. And he would have stayed in that chamber—just as he had remained beside him throughout his ordeal in Chaos.