Foxfire (34 page)

Rigat studied his father for a long moment. “This is why you created me. Isn't it?”

Fellgair stared up into the sky as if his great web of possibilities hung suspended among the stars. “It's one of the reasons.”

A
S THE KANKH BLARED A THIRD time, Jholianna extended her hand to the Motixa, disguising the brief pang of grief with a well-practiced smile. After fourteen years, she had become accustomed to Jholin's absence, but she still mourned him. Now, instead of her brother beside her, it was the priestess of Womb of Earth.

Fitting, perhaps, for among Jholianna's many titles, her principal one was Earth's Beloved. But since Jholin's death, no ruler had embodied Sky's Light. She had refused to consider her council's tentative suggestion that she take another husband. What ordinary mortal deserved to stand at the side of the queen who had ruled Zheros for more than five centuries?

The shifting of sandals on stone interrupted her thoughts. The Pajhit, of course. She glanced over her shoulder. The priest of Heart of Sky flashed a nervous smile and smoothed his golden robe. The man was as twitchy as a virgin in a pleasure house. An amusing contrast to the stolid Zheron who stood beside him. The rabbit and the bullock.

And then there was her Motixa, whose plump cheeks and prominent front teeth made comparisons to a marmot inevitable. But at least the priestess appreciated the importance of making an entrance. Anticipation among the waiting courtiers would be peaking now, wonder shifting to nervousness with every passing moment.

She turned to the Motixa and nodded. Together, they walked past the blank-faced guards and entered the throne room.

A deafening cheer greeted her appearance. The crowd seethed restlessly, every person craning for a glimpse of her new body. Jholianna kept her smile in place as she mounted the steps to the dais. This year's Shedding had been easy, the Host so eager for the sacrifice that her spirit had required only the smallest push to vacate her body. But the effects of the qiij were wearing off and the effort of mastering this unfamiliar body—so much taller than the last—required all her concentration.

The Motixa's eyebrows rose in a silent question. Jholianna nodded again and received a toothy smile in return. Only then did the priestess join the Pajhit and the Zheron.

Like all rituals, this one was carefully choreographed. The Pajhit and the Motixa flanked the thrones of the king and queen. The Zheron, as earthly representative of Zhe, stood between the thrones, just as the winged serpent linked the incompatible gods who had given him life, forever serving—and betraying—them.

With that example of filial loyalty, perhaps it was a blessing that she and Jholin had never produced a child. A living child. Against her will, she recalled the hideous blob of bloody flesh that had slid from her body after her first miscarriage.

Angry at allowing the memory to tarnish the glory of this moment, she observed the crowd. Every face was turned to her, like flowers seeking the sun. Bedewed flowers, she noted, eyeing the multitude of sweat-sheened foreheads. In the sweltering throne room, her courtiers would soon be wilted.

The metaphor made her laugh; clearly, the qiij had not worn off completely. At this evidence of her delight, the cheering swelled. She allowed it to go on for a moment, then raised her hands. The sooner the ceremony concluded the better; if anyone fainted, it would be considered a bad omen.

In hushed silence, the crowd awaited the ritual greeting.

“Behold Earth's Beloved!” she cried. “Reborn to serve her people.”

Amid much shuffling and shifting, her people fell to their knees and touched their foreheads to the tiled floor.

Jholianna caught a flicker of movement and silently cursed the Pajhit for fidgeting during the ritual prostration. Her frown deepened when she saw his motionless figure. Could it have been one of the guards? Or the guttering of a torch? But how could flames flicker when the air was so heavy and still?

Then she saw it again, a subtle disturbance in the air. It had to be an illusion created by the heat or the qiij. But neither heat nor drug could conjure disembodied fingers.

As she opened her mouth to alert her guards, the groping fingers became a pair of hands. They pushed at the air, as if it were somehow solid. Two slender wrists appeared. Two bare arms. A skinny, muscular leg.

A boy stepped out of the air and onto the dais. Although he wore an immaculate khirta and leather sandals, that flaming hair and pale skin proclaimed him one of the Tree People.

But Kheridh was dead. She had seen his body. And this one gazed around the throne room with far more confidence than Kheridh had ever possessed—until those final moments before the earthquake.

The kankh blared, and he started. She was dimly aware of people shuffling to their feet, of the Pajhit's squeak of surprise. A few voices recited the ritual greeting, but they were drowned out by the startled exclamations of those who had noticed the stranger. Ignoring the outcry, he smiled at her and raised his hands, commanding silence just as she had.

“Behold the Son of Zhe, the fire-haired god made flesh. Welcome me with reverence and with dread, for with me comes the new age.”

In the shocked silence that followed, he whispered, “Look for my signs.” Then he vanished, leaving chaos behind.

 

 

 

At sunset, the earth rumbled in a minor tremor that shattered a clay vase and sent her attendants into hysterics. At midnight, a guard roused her from sleep, babbling about a fire atop the sacred mountain. At dawn, the Zheron arrived at his temple to discover an eagle perched on one of the pillars. It rose into the sky and circled the temple three times before winging north.

For the second time in as many days, Jholianna summoned her council. When she arrived, she found everyone clustered around the wooden bench she had installed for the comfort of the Khonsel. They hastily backed away as she entered, but before they could prostrate themselves, she waved them toward the low stone table at the center of the chamber. One by one, they seated themselves on the cushions. No one showed any interest in the platters of food, but both the Pajhit and the Stuavo held out their goblets for wine.

Thank the gods for Vazh do Havi. He had served her for nearly fifty years, the last fifteen as Khonsel in charge of internal security. Together, they had weathered earthquakes and slave revolts, famine and pestilence—and another red-haired boy who had claimed to be the Son of Zhe.

Less comforting was the presence of the Supplicant, as mercurial—and mysterious—as the god she served. Jholianna permitted her erratic behavior because her advice was always wise and her barbed humor offered much-needed relief from the tedium of council meetings.

As if she had spoken her thoughts aloud, the Supplicant broke off her muted conversation with the Pajhit. Brushing the glossy black hair off her left shoulder, she winked.

Oddly, her insolence steadied Jholianna. If the Supplicant remained undaunted, perhaps the situation was not as grave as she feared.

As she waited for the slaves to present more food that would doubtless go uneaten, she fought to conceal her disquiet. She had seen many false prophets, but none had ever chosen to enter her holy city in such an unorthodox manner.

It would be a miracle. And she wasn't sure she believed in miracles. Or in the gods.

Her wandering gaze was caught by the mural on the opposite wall. She should have had it repainted years ago. No one should have to render judgment while looking at a vengeful Zhe devouring his father in one panel and in the other the dying god plummeting into a bloodred sea. How appropriate that the vases in the wall niches flanking the mural contained bitterheart.

At her impatient gesture, the slaves scuttled away. Her guards checked the sky-wells for eavesdroppers then bowed and left. Jholianna took a deep breath and fixed each of the council members with her gaze.

“You all know why we're here. Opinions, please.”

The Zheron cleared his throat and began a ponderous recitation of the prophecy, which everyone knew, and the recent signs, which everyone had witnessed. Schooling her expression to patience, she waited for him to finish.

“Thank you, Zheron. But let us set aside prophecy for the moment and consider whether these occurrences could have been caused by natural phenomena rather than the boy who appeared in my throne room.”

“Womb of Earth has trembled more times than I can count,” the Khonsel said. “Eagles are rare in Pilozhat, but they've been seen before.”

“Perched atop the temple of Zhe?” the Zheron demanded. “And let us not forget his earlier appearance. At the mating of the adders.”

“You said yourself it was too dark to see anything,” the Khonsel said.

“I could see a great hole in the air. And trees. He was watching us even then.”

“And your guards threatened him!” the Pajhit exclaimed.

“How were they to know?” the Zheron protested. “How were any of us to know? Then.”

Jholianna held up her hand and the two priests fell silent. “What of this fire atop Kelazhat? You found no burn marks, Khonsel. No charred wood. No ashes.”

“Which might only mean the instigators removed the evidence.”

“Then you still believe this is some sort of plot by the Tree People?”

The Khonsel shrugged. “Like you, Earth's Beloved, I like to exhaust every rational explanation before leaping to the miraculous.”

“And his appearance in the throne room?” the Motixa asked. “Can any rational explanation account for that?”

“The priests of the Tree People claim to be able to step between the worlds to witness the battle of their gods. Perhaps he did something similar.”

“Or perhaps he truly is the Son of Zhe.” The Zheron sketched a spiral over his chest.

The Supplicant favored the others with a gracious smile. “That's the trouble, isn't it? How
does
one prove that someone is the son of a god? Short of killing him and seeing if his father levels the city?”

The other priests made strangled sounds of objection. The Khonsel merely snorted.

“Well, I'll say this.” The Stuavo stabbed the table with a thick forefinger. “Son of Zhe or not, the city is in turmoil. People are fleeing. Those who remain are terrified. If word of this gets out, it's only a matter of time before merchants refuse to enter Pilozhat.”

“Burn me!” the Khonsel swore. “There are more important issues here than trade.”

“But as Stuavo, my first concern is trade. Without it, the empire would collapse. So kindly allow me to offer my point of view.”

To forestall an argument, Jholianna asked, “Have there been more disturbances?”

“A few demonstrations,” the Khonsel replied, repeating for the council's benefit what he had told her earlier that morning. “Nothing violent. Problem is, between The Shedding and the Midsummer rite, the city's already overcrowded. That means more men drinking and dicing and whoring—begging your pardon, Earth's Beloved. And if word spreads that the Son of Zhe's arrived . . .” The Khonsel shook his head. “I've put extra men on the streets, but it'll take more than that if a mob of pilgrims marches into Pilozhat.”

“Has he been seen?” the Motixa asked.

“Plenty of rumors. Nothing that can be verified.” The Khonsel massaged his leg and grimaced. “Some old crone's charging a copper frog to look at a loaf of bread that she claims bears the imprint of his face.”

“What an enterprising creature.” The Supplicant leaned forward to waggle a reproving finger at the Stuavo. “And you said trade would suffer.”

“What more can we do?” the Pajhit whined, nervously rubbing the vial of qiij that hung on his chest. “We've offered sacrifices. We've asked the gods to enlighten us.”

“And have the gods answered?” Jholianna asked.

“The gods speak in riddles,” the Pajhit replied, “and show us mysteries.”

“As always. Just once, it would be nice to get a straight answer.”

The Khonsel smiled. The Supplicant laughed out loud. The other council members gasped.

“Earth's Beloved,” the Motixa chided.

“Yes, yes. It's a time for supplication, not impiety.” Jholianna fixed her gaze on the Supplicant, who was examining the painted nails of her left hand. “Has the God with Two Faces offered any insights about this mysterious boy or told you what he wants from us?”

“The God has offered many insights, most of them as contradictory as his nature. As to what this boy wants . . .” The Supplicant glanced toward the doorway and smiled brightly. “Why don't you ask him?”