Foxfire (38 page)

Jholianna had heard it all countless times, but today, she detected a nervous undercurrent to the chatter, a sharper edge to the laughter. Belatedly, she realized her attendants were carefully avoiding all mention of the mysterious boy who claimed to be the Son of Zhe.

“Are you unwell, Earth's Beloved? You're shivering.”

“You tickled me, Lady Alikia.”

The drooping folds of flesh under Lady Alikia's chin shook as she chuckled. “A thousand pardons, Earth's Beloved.”

Jholianna waited while Lady Alikia made the final adjustments to her attire. She knew she would blaze like Heart of Sky at tonight's feast. Knew, too, that her appearance was utterly unimportant. Only the boy mattered.

She had sensed the name while their spirits were linked. The memory of the encounter made her shiver again.

She had welcomed him with dread, but hardly reverence. The qiij had made her reckless. But she knew her failure was due more to pride than to the drug.

As soon as she felt his touch, she realized he was more powerful than any person she had ever encountered. But only when he stripped away her defenses, leaving her spirit naked before his, did she believe he might be the son of a god.

His apology had shocked her. Why would the Son of Zhe apologize to anyone, even the queen of Zheros? He was young, of course. Still uncertain of himself and his power. But his humility raised new doubts in her mind.

The question haunted her, as did her inability to contact him.

He would never allow her to touch his spirit again. If their battle had not convinced her, what possible test could? The Supplicant was right: there was no sure way to prove who he was.

Lady Alikia finished anointing her throat and wrists with scented oil, then dabbed a bit more onto the thick coil of hair that crowned her head. “You have never looked more beautiful, Earth's Beloved.”

“You always say that.”

“And it's always true.”

From another, it might be sycophancy, but Lady Alikia had served her with loyalty and discretion for more than thirty years. Jholianna laid her palm against the dry cheek, then glanced up as one of her ladies discreetly cleared her throat.

“The Supplicant is here, Earth's Beloved.”

“Show her in.”

As Lady Varis retreated, Jholianna seated herself on one of the stone benches that flanked the walls. Her ladies sank into deep curtsies as the Supplicant entered, then scattered like quail to the benches surrounding the two pillars farthest away. Lady Varis retrieved her flute and began to play, the soft music a further deterrent to eavesdropping. The rest returned to distaff and spindle and gossip.

As the Supplicant touched her forehead to the floor, Jholianna mused that only the priestess of the God with Two Faces could make the ritual prostration seem an ironic gesture rather than a humble one.

Jholianna nodded to a slave boy, who hurried forward with a bronze tray. The Supplicant favored him with a brilliant smile that made him shake so badly the goblets rattled. Jholianna forestalled disaster by seizing them and dismissing the boy.

“Pretty,” the Supplicant commented as he hurried away. “If nervous.”

“You have that effect on people.”

“Not on you, Earth's Beloved.”

“No,” Jholianna said firmly. “Shall I call for food?”

“Thank you, no. I would not like to tempt fate twice.”

The Supplicant's gaze traveled slowly around the chamber, taking in the murals of green forests and white-capped mountains, the blue-painted pillars with their tiny, white-spiraled waves, and the mosaic of summer flowers that seem to sprout from the tiles. In all the years the Supplicant had served her, this was the first time Jholianna had ever invited her to her private apartments. The Supplicant was certain to guess the reason, but she simply sipped her wine.

“Carilian late harvest. It must be a special occasion.”

“A visit with you is always a special occasion.”

The Supplicant laughed. “You're a cool one, Earth's Beloved. I've always admired that about you.”

“And you possess great power, Supplicant. I've always admired that about you. If I wanted to contact this boy, how would I go about it?”

Far from being unsettled by the sudden change of subject, the Supplicant merely tapped her goblet with a red nail. “Well, there's always prayer.”

Jholianna waited, feigning patience.

“Are you certain you want to contact him?”

“No. But if I did . . . would you help me?”

“I'm your loyal servant, Earth's Beloved.”

“You're the servant of the God with Two Faces. Whose wishes may—or may not—coincide with mine.”

“True.” The Supplicant swirled the wine in her goblet. “I thought you were still undecided about the validity of his claim.”

“I am.”

“Inviting him back will encourage him to believe that you're ready to acknowledge him.”

“I know.”

This time, it was the Supplicant who waited, her eyebrows elevated in a silent question. Jholianna chose her words with care; she respected the priestess, but she was wary of her, too.

“He has great power. Power that could be . . . useful.”

“He's also young. And unpredictable. As you know. You felt his—how did you describe it?—his desire for peace between the Zherosi and the Tree People. His ties there are deep. If he suspects you're manipulating him in an effort to destroy those ties—or the Tree People—you could lose more than his support.”

“That's why I'm hesitating.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

“My heart?” The question shocked her. “I rule with my mind, not my heart.”

The Supplicant rose. “I will pray to my god for guidance. And if I receive any definitive signs, I will tell you.”

Jholianna could not escape the feeling that she had just failed an important test.

“My heart . . . wants to believe. That he's the Son of Zhe. That the gods hear our prayers and—occasionally—answer them. As to a peace between the Zherosi and the Tree People . . .”

The Supplicant watched her as intently as a fox stalking a mouse.

“A boy—however powerful—might believe that such a dream is possible. But I've lived a very long time, Supplicant. And I no longer put much faith in dreams.”

“But it is only in our dreams—our visions—that we discover the will of the gods.”

 

 

 

Jholianna gave herself the rest of the day to consider the Supplicant's words. The next morning, she sent for Vazh do Havi.

She winced when he entered leaning heavily on his stick, too stubborn and too proud to request a litter. She refused to shame him by choosing a seat near the doorway, but it was difficult to watch his slow, painful progress between the six pillars that marched down the center of the chamber.

Shafts of light from the sky-wells revealed sweat glistening on his forehead. The barrel-like body had lost flesh in recent moons, but the arms were still thick and muscular. And although he must be more than seventy years of age, his spirit was as indomitable as ever.

When he finally reached her, she patted the gaily-colored cushion beside hers. As he carefully lowered himself onto the bench, she signaled the hovering slave and pretended to observe him critically until the Khonsel's breathing eased. Only then did she lift the two goblets from the tray.

He waited for her to sip before draining his. “I didn't think there was any Carilian late harvest left.”

“The Stuavo had the foresight to put aside a few crates before our relations with Carilia worsened. I'll send one to your quarters.”

She gestured to the boy to refill the goblet. This time, the Khonsel sipped more slowly.

“Some food?” She nodded to the platter held by another slave. A basket of flatbread, a bowl of jhok, a plate of skewered goat; unlike his preference for expensive wine, the Khonsel's taste in food tended toward the plain but hearty fare of the common soldier.

He nibbled a small piece of flatbread out of politeness, then shook his head. As soon as the slave hurried away, he turned to scrutinize her. His face was as wrinkled as a dried apple, but the brown eyes were still keen.

“So,” he said, flexing his leg with a grunt. “The Son of Zhe.”

“The Son of Zhe,” she echoed. As if they were making a toast.

“The oddsmakers are giving three to one against.”

“They didn't touch his spirit.”

“But you did. And you're still not convinced.”

“How many spirits have I touched during my reign? Hundreds. Thousands. Those of my Hosts, my priests, the false prophets . . . too many to count or remember. My brother's spirit—as ancient as mine—even his was still human. But this boy's . . .” She fumbled for the words. “It was unlike any I have ever encountered.”

“Which proves he's different. Not the Son of Zhe.” The Khonsel leaned against the wall and studied the ceiling, but she doubted the artistic rendering of a rosy sun peeping through a tangle of vines commanded his attention. “He may be powerful, but he's still mortal.”

Their eyes met in perfect accord. No need to state explicitly the best solution to this problem. And no fear of unsettling the other by implying it. One did not rise to power—and remain there—without a certain degree of ruthlessness. But the consequences of choosing the wrong path could be deadly—for them and the empire.

“I'll do it,” the Khonsel said. “You can deny any foreknowledge of the act.”

“That would appease the public. But the priests?”

“I'm old. My wits are wandering. I mistook him for the boy who killed my best friend.”

She caught the faint note of bitterness in his voice. So he still mourned Malaq after all these years. How fortunate for both to have shared such a friendship.

“You may be old, but your wits are firmly in place.” She rested her palm briefly on the back of his hand, conscious of the loose, dry skin and the raised fretwork of veins. “That's why I wanted your counsel.”

He stared into his goblet, frowning. “We could wait. See if he comes back. That'll give us time.”

“Whether or not he's the Son of Zhe, he's wreaking havoc on the peace of my holy city. The sooner we decide how to deal with him, the better.”

“All the choices are risky. If we don't acknowledge his claim, we could alienate him. If we try to . . . eliminate him and fail . . .”

“That would definitely alienate him,” Jholianna said dryly.

The Khonsel's grin quickly faded. “Once you proclaim him Son of Zhe, there's no turning back. And if he's a fraud—”

“Does it matter?”

The shaggy eyebrows soared, and she had the rare pleasure of knowing she had surprised him.

“Times are bad,” she said. “The rebellion among the Tree People. The slave revolt in the east. The war with Carilia.”

“We've faced bad times before.”

“The people need the Son of Zhe. They need hope.”

“Last time, that hope turned around to bite us in the . . . posterior. Begging your pardon, Earth's Beloved.”

“Kheridh was stolen from his home, brought here as a slave. And still Malaq was able to win his trust—and his love.”

“And it cost Malaq his life.” The Khonsel's voice was flat, but his eyes flashed.

Because Malaq made the mistake of loving him in return, she thought. Unwilling to criticize him to the Khonsel, she merely said, “Perhaps if he'd had more time, he might have won Kheridh to our cause.”

“That's what you hope to do? Win this boy to our cause?”

“You disagree?”

“Why would the Son of Zhe want peace between us and the Tree People?”

“Men are dying on both sides. Perhaps he objects to it. After all, his foster-father is one of the Tree People. And his mother.”

She was the real threat. That scrawny, white-haired crone Jholianna had glimpsed. The one who held Rigat's heart and his loyalty.

“All the more reason to avoid any talk of peace,” the Khonsel insisted. “His ties in the north jeopardize our interests.”

“He's heard only their side of the story. We'll give him ours—and let him judge the truth for himself.”

“And if he orders us to suspend the logging? Or withdraw altogether?”

She swirled the golden wine, considering. “We stall for time. Explain the difficulties. Offer him new experiences to distract him. The respect the Tree People have withheld. The acceptance he craves. The worship of thousands. A heady combination for any man, but for a young one?”

“You talk as if were an ordinary boy.”

“In some ways, he is. He's neither all-knowing nor all-wise. I touched doubt and insecurity. A desire for recognition. Pride. He enjoys showing off his powers. Proving himself to others. And he is . . . attracted to me.”

The Khonsel gave a sort of growl and shifted awkwardly on his cushion.

“I'm envisioning another sort of seduction, Khonsel.” She cut off his protest with an impatient gesture. “I'll avoid official recognition as long as possible, but I cannot risk losing him. Or the power he wields.”

The Khonsel muttered something under his breath.

“Yes?”