Bloodstone (62 page)

The guard on his left just stared at the steady stream of people pushing past the priests into a passageway. Had Keirith gone that way?

“Kheridh. Zhe-boy.” The drug made the words sound thick and garbled. “Zhe-boy. He comes here?”

The guard in front whirled around, hand upraised for a blow. Another shouted a warning and pulled him out of the path of a careening litter. They collided with one of the bearers who dropped his pole. The litter lurched sideways, spilling its screaming occupants to the ground.

Darak wrenched his arms free. Staggering away from the guards, he raced toward the passageway.

Malaq stumbled and cursed. Glancing to his right, he saw Kheridh, moving with that same inexorable pace along the walkway. A few people followed at a careful distance. He saw no sign of the Spirit-Hunter; perhaps he’d escaped in the confusion.

He had to reach the temple before Kheridh. His only hope of saving him was to play along with this pretense that he was the Son of Zhe. The other two priests might be sufficiently cowed by the boy’s appearance, but he doubted Xevhan would be. Nor would he simply stand there and wait for the adders to swarm over him. Kheridh must be planning to cast out his spirit, but if Xevhan had taken qiij this morning, he would be able to shield himself.

Malaq’s steps slowed. He clawed at the stopper of the vial, his eyes darting from Kheridh to the temple. Grimacing at the bitter taste, he swallowed the undiluted qiij.

An unearthly yowl made him glance behind him. Niqia crouched low to the ground, her tail lashing back and forth. Good gods, had she followed him all the way from his chamber? She yowled again, but he had no time to ease her distress.

The sharp stitch in his side returned after only a few steps. He judged Kheridh’s distance from the temple and fell into a trot. The guttering torches revealed movement behind the altar. He doubted the priests could see the adders, but they had clearly seen Kheridh and realized he was not the sacrifice they were expecting.

Malaq smiled, knowing it was the qiij that gave him confidence. He slowed to a walk and cleared his throat. He’d spent half his life in the priesthood and the other half on battlefields. He knew how to pitch his voice for all men to hear. Sweeping his arm in Kheridh’s direction, he called out the ancient words.

“By these signs shall you know him. His power shall burn bright as Heart of Sky at Midsummer. His footsteps shall make Womb of Earth tremble. Speechless, he shall understand the language of the adder and wingless, soar through the sky like the eagle.”

One priest clutched the serpentine pillar. The other traced a spiral on his chest. Xevhan gave an inarticulate cry of rage.

“No pageantry shall attend his arrival. No poet—”

“It’s a lie!”

“—shall sing his name. No mortal woman shall know his body. No mortal man shall call him son.”

“He is not the Son of Zhe!”

Standing before the altar, Malaq intoned the final words of the prophecy. “Hail the Son of Zhe, the fire-haired god made flesh. Welcome him with reverence and with dread. For with him comes the new age.”

“You fools! Don’t believe him. He’s protected the boy all along. He’s a traitor to our people. A traitor to our gods!”

The other priests were staring past him, their eyes wide. Xevhan’s voice trailed off. They all stood there, dumb-struck, watching the boy arrive amid a seething flood of adders.

“Behold the Son of Zhe!” Malaq called.

“Behold the Child of Serpents,” Kheridh replied. “Behold the Destroyer of the Unrighteous.”

Malaq laughed, the qiij singing through his body. Kheridh’s expression remained as distant as if he
were
the Destroyer of the Unrighteous. Could the trance still be holding him? If not, he should take his place among the premier performers in the kingdom.

One priest fled, then the other. Malaq glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Xevhan. “We were wrong. And the proof of our error is before us.”

Kheridh stood motionless before the altar. The adders writhed wildly around his feet. A few attempted to wriggle up the steps. Malaq was too exhilarated to care. They wouldn’t strike him. Kheridh wouldn’t permit it.

“Welcome, Kheridh. Son of Zhe. Son of my heart. Welcome to your temple.”

Kheridh’s expression changed, the dazed look replaced by shock and—incredibly—horror. Puzzled, Malaq took a step toward him. “Kheridh?”

Agonizing pain ripped through his back, as if Heart of Sky had pierced him with a molten shaft of sunlight. Distantly, he heard a scream but knew it had not come from his mouth. He flung out a hand, groping for the altar, but his fingers slid down the side of the stone. So smooth, so cool. Already, the fire was lessening, the shaft of sunlight oozing warmth down his back.

Cold hands grasped his. He looked up into his boy’s eyes.

Heart of Sky’s first rays bronzed his pale face and turned his hair to fire. His mouth was moving, but Malaq couldn’t understand the words. A delicious chill crept through him. Clouds gathered over Kheridh’s head, although Heart of Sky still illuminated his face. But even Heart of Sky seemed to be dimming.

Rain would feel wonderful.

He wished he could pat Kheridh’s face and assure him that everything would be all right, but his arms were so heavy. He’d hardly slept the last few days and now, it was catching up with him.

The clouds grew thicker, obscuring the beloved face. Thunder rumbled, echoing through the air above him and the earth below.

Malaq smiled. He’d always loved thunderstorms.

The earth groaned as if Halam protested the coming of dawn. Like everyone else at the gate, Darak froze, awaiting another sign from the earth goddess. The sky to the east smoldered with red and orange clouds. Naked tree trunks loomed up, dark against the flaming sky. Nay, not trees. Pillars flanking a walkway.

Darak raced down it, weaving between clusters of people who stood as still as the pillars looming above them. The ground trembled again, and he staggered sideways. He heard a roar like an angry bull, but before he could puzzle it out, the earth convulsed.

He went down hard, knees cracking against stone. When he tried to get to his feet again, he sprawled headlong. The earth goddess bellowed like Taran the Thunderer. She rolled like the waves of the great sea. Stone scraped his naked arms as he slid sideways. Another wave heaved him up and slammed him against a pillar. The small part of his mind that still functioned registered wood beneath his fingers instead of stone. The massive tree trunk shuddered as if it shared his terror.

Most of the people he had passed had flattened themselves on the ground, but a few men lurched down the path, staggering from pillar to pillar. As he watched, Halam flung them to the ground as a child might discard an unwanted toy. One inched forward like a crawling bug before collapsing. As if tired of the game, Halam heaved a final sigh and became still.

Cautiously, Darak pushed himself to his knees. A few heads came up, but most of those on the walkway remained prone. Although it had seemed to take forever, the shaking of the earth could only have lasted mere moments; Bel was barely peeping over the horizon.

As he got to his feet, a figure leaped out from behind a pillar. Darak stumbled backward, only to find himself seized by Hakkon’s strong hands. Before he could ask what he was doing here, Bep scurried toward them.

“Hold out your hands and listen.” Bep sawed at the ropes binding his wrists. “Your boy. He’s up ahead. But he’s—”

Another tremor, stronger than the first, hurled them all to the ground. By the time Darak recovered, he found Hakkon collapsed at the base of a pillar and Bep scuttling sideways across the path like a crab.

All along the walkway, the giant pillars swayed. In Bel’s dawning light, they looked red as blood. A fissure ripped open and snaked across the earth, leaving a trail of cracked paving stones heaved up like huge, broken teeth. Earth poured into the fissure, sending up a cloud of dust. A pillar rocked back and forth, mesmerizing him. How could something so big move so gracefully? Then the pillar tottered uncertainly. Its top knocked against another and they both lurched like drunken men. The second pillar began to topple. He rolled out of the way, only to see the first looming above him—a red giant that blotted out the sky as it slowly descended. He flattened himself next to the fallen pillar and prayed.

The crash reverberated through his body. Gravel, earth, and pebbles rained down on him. Choking, he buried his face in the crook of his elbow. Above the thunderous noise, the high, shrill shrieks of terrified men and women echoed the earth goddess’ agony.

He dared a look up and stared at the palace in horrified fascination. The wall seemed to be . . . dancing. A block near the top teetered and hurtled to the ground, crushing a man beneath it and scattering those nearby who rolled, crawled, and dragged themselves away. Another block cracked and fell, and then another, as if some malevolent god were gleefully ripping apart the wall and tossing it at the hapless people below. And then the wall collapsed with a roar that made him cover his ears.

In the aftermath of the shock, everything went still. The ground ceased shaking. Dust drifted earthward. Even the screaming faded into weak cries for help.

Darak cautiously flexed his legs, then his arms. Finally, he raised his head. The second pillar had fallen crosswise atop the first. An arm’s length away and he would have been crushed.

Shaking, he eased out of his tiny grotto and used his teeth to pull the rope from his wrists. Hakkon rose unsteadily, lifting one hand in weary acknowledgment. Darak peered through the gloom, searching for Bep.

“Oh, gods!”

Incredibly, he was still alive, although his belly and legs were surely crushed by the pillar. Darak knelt beside him and brushed the dirt from his face.

Bep’s eyes fluttered open. His mouth twisted in a semblance of his mocking grin. “What an ending.”

“Just lie still.”

“Listen.” Bep gasped for air. His free arm flailed. Darak caught his hand and squeezed hard. “Your boy. The temple. Go. Now.”

Bel poured soft golden light on the altar. It turned the snakes wriggling away from the stone steps into tiny waves. It painted the feathers in the Zheron’s headdress the colors of fresh blood and birch leaves in autumn. It sent sparks flashing from the bronze dagger between the two struggling figures.

Darak leaped up, screaming his son’s name—in warning, in denial, in a ceaseless prayer to keep the dagger from descending, to stop the deathblow from falling, to let him get there in time.

His legs were so heavy, so slow. His feet tripped over upended paving stones.

The feathered headdress bent lower as the Zheron forced Keirith down.

Keirith’s back arched over the stone. Keirith’s hair streamed over the edge of the slab. Keirith’s upraised fists locked around the priest’s wrist, but—oh, gods—his arms were bending under the strain, his fists inching toward his chest as slowly and relentlessly as the point of the Zheron’s dagger.