Foxfire (47 page)

He allowed the slaves to remove his jeweled belt and sandals, then held out his arms so Nekif could unwind his khirta. The old slave folded it and handed it to another who held it as if he feared it would fly away.

At first, Rigat had insisted on dressing and undressing himself, but he'd soon overcome his embarrassment. Today, he welcomed the efficient hands that stripped off his clothing, cooled him with palm fans, and proffered the cup of wine, the bowl of figs.

He was still unsettled by the day's events. He'd agreed to interrogate the conspirators; the Gathering would not conclude for days and he was tired of etiquette lessons and the endless round of feasts and entertainments. But he would have to look into these difficulties about freeing the slaves.

It had seemed like such a wonderful idea—the perfect way to help his people. He should have foreseen the possibility that after decades of exile, some would consider Zheros their home. Or at least consulted Fellgair to ensure that everything went smoothly. But he'd had so little time to speak privately with Fellgair since his return from the north. A quick meeting after the dawn sacrifice. A brief exchange of words at a council meeting.

His frustration had led him to commit two blunders today. The exchange with the Stuavo had been unpleasant, but attacking the Khonsel's spirit had been stupid—especially since he'd found no evidence of treachery. The meetings with Keirith and Darak had left him edgy and irritable, looking for conspiracies that did not exist. He couldn't give into his nerves now—not when he was so close to achieving everything he desired.

Impatiently, he drained his goblet and held it out to be refilled. In his haste to obey, the slave poured too quickly, splattering wine on Rigat's bare feet.

“Clumsy fool!” Nekif cuffed the cowering slave before seizing a cloth and patting Rigat's feet dry. “I shall have him whipped, great lord.”

“No. It was just an accident.”

Nekif bowed low. “As you command, great lord.”

If he had said he wanted the slave killed, Nekif would have said exactly the same thing and bowed with just as much reverence.

Eager for his bath, he hurried down the stairs to the winter bedchamber, followed by his retinue of slaves. Outside the little bathing room, he paused to allow Nekif to unwind the loincloth of soft lambskin. Another slave, given the privilege of receiving the discarded kharo, averted his eyes and held up a length of flaxcloth. After Nekif laid the kharo on it, the slave quickly bundled it up. The loincloth would be burned in a formal ceremony; after such intimate contact with the Son of Zhe's body, it was deemed too precious to wash and wear again.

Oil lamps flickered in the bathing room, but the light filtering in from the sky-well rendered them more decorative than necessary. Here, another slave waited. He draped a fleece over the back of the hipbath, then retrieved a bronze pitcher from the wall niche.

Postponing the bliss of immersing himself, Rigat allowed Nekif to rinse his body, watching the water trickle through the bronze-slatted drain. Really, the Zherosi artisans were marvels. They had even created special rooms where the rulers could relieve themselves. Perched on the wooden seat, surrounded by walls decorated with blooming flowers and lush vegetation, any man would feel like a god.

Three times, Nekif dipped the pitcher into the bath and poured the water over him. “In token of your parentage,” the Zheron had explained. “Once for Zhe, once for Heart of Sky, and once for Womb of Earth.”

The Zheron had invented dozens of such rituals. Rigat had one slave whose sole function was to place a special bronze bowl under the latrine seat to collect his waste, then hand it to a priestess of Womb of Earth—discreetly waiting outside—who carried it to the temple for consecration. The Motixa herself carried the consecrated shit to the fields to increase the earth's fertility.

At least that served a purpose. At home, they collected dung to fertilize the soil and used stale urine for tanning hides and setting dyes. They just didn't make such a fuss about it.

As Nekif handed the pitcher back to the waiting slave, Rigat climbed gratefully into the cool water. He leaned forward to permit Nekif to untie the gold cord at the end of his braid. The slave's dexterous fingers loosened his hair and kneaded the back of his neck, drawing a contented groan from Rigat.

“I think you have magic in your fingers.”

Nekif chuckled. “No magic, great lord. Just many years of experience.”

“You served the king, didn't you?”

“For most of my life, great lord. May his spirit find eternal rest in the shaded groves of Paradise.”

“And afterward?”

“The queen gave me the position of Chief Palace Slave. An immense honor. But nothing compared to the honor of serving you, great lord.”

“Were you frightened? When she asked you to attend me?”

The fingers hesitated, then returned to their gentle kneading. “At first, great lord. There were so many rumors.”

Rigat smiled. “That I had wings? And claws?”

“And scales.” Nekif's voice was solemn. “It must sound foolish to you, great lord, but it was a relief to discover that you were so . . .”

“Ordinary?”

“Human. In appearance. And you were . . . are . . . so kind. I had not expected that.”

Rigat digested this in silence. Then he felt the trembling of Nekif's fingers. Before he could speak, the old man prostrated himself on the honey-colored tiles.

“Forgive this unworthy slave, great lord. I should not be disturbing you with my chatter.”

“You're not disturbing me. I hope I can always rely upon you to be honest with me—and to teach me the things I need to learn.”

“Great lord, I am unworthy to teach you anything.”

“You taught me that kugi are even better on the eyes than in the mouth.”

Nekif's head came up. After a moment, he grinned. The first time Nekif had placed the thin vegetable rounds over his eyes, Rigat had laughed so hard they fell into the water.

“Shall I fetch them now, great lord?”

“Please.”

Nekif rose and returned with a small tray, inlaid with sparkling quartz that flashed in the light of the oil lamps. Rigat's gaze lingered on the luxuries it held: the tiny bowl with the slices of kugi; the fist-sized ball of scented soap; the washing cloth made of fetal lambskin; the bronze vial with the emulsion of whey, seaweed, and alojha juice for washing his hair; and the smaller one containing oil of sweet spike for scenting his body.

Growing up, a bath had consisted of a plunge in the lake. The Zherosi had elevated it to an art form.

He lay back against the fleece, frowning as he recalled Fellgair's words.

“My lord? Is something wrong?”

“No. I just . . . I thought I heard my father's voice.”

The vials rattled on the tray. Nekif gazed skyward as if expecting Zhe to burst through the ceiling.

“Leave me.”

“Yes, lord. At once.” Nekif deposited the tray on the stool beside the bath and prostrated himself. “Shall I summon the musicians?”

“Yes. Fine.”

Nekif scuttled out. Moments later, Rigat heard the trill of a flute and the gentle thrum of a lyre. The musicians must have been hovering in the corridor. As always, Nekif had anticipated his wishes. For some reason, the slave's efficiency irritated him now. As did the mural on the opposite wall with its cascading waterfall and brilliant blue pool and—of course—the ever-present adders basking on the rocks.

The flute gave a piercing shriek. The lyre fell silent. A shadow darkened the doorway of the bathing room.

“Great lord. Forgive me.” Nekif swallowed hard.

“What is it?”

“The Supplicant. She begs permission to speak with you.”

He was too tired for one of Fellgair's lectures, but it was foolish to risk his ire. And lately, Fellgair was always irritable. Rigat missed the mocking humor of their early days.

He nodded to Nekif and rose. Hoping he might still enjoy a relaxing soak, he simply wrapped a length of flaxcloth around his hips. Then he took a deep breath and marched out to face his father.

The slaves and musicians had fled. Fellgair sat alone on a bench against the far wall. As his head came up, Rigat's steps faltered. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw the features of the fox-man superimposed on those of the Supplicant. It was probably just the play of light and shadow in the chamber. But there was no mistaking the strain on Fellgair's face. Shocked, Rigat hurried over to him.

“Are you unwell?”

The deep grooves between his eyebrows and the dark circles beneath his eyes simply vanished, leaving his face its usual smooth, smiling mask.

Fellgair patted the bench. “Sit with me.”

Rigat obeyed, wondering what sort of game Fellgair was playing now.

“I must leave Pilozhat.”

“Leave?”

“Today.”

“But the Blessing of the Adders . . . my recognition ceremony . . .”

“I hope to return by then.”

“You have to be here!”

“I said I will try!” Fellgair snapped. “I can do no more than that.”

Alarmed, Rigat asked, “What is it? Has something happened? Not Mam . . .”

“No. I saw her three days ago. And Darak.” A smile lightened Fellgair's face. “He was trudging toward the Gathering spot with his recruits trailing after him like sheep. Faelia's waiting for him there. And Keirith should arrive soon with the rest of Temet's band.”

“You saw them all?” Relief gave way to renewed anxiety; it was almost as if Fellgair was bidding them farewell, too. “Did you speak with them?”

The smile fled. “After our last meeting, I didn't think they would welcome me.”

“But if they're all right . . . I don't understand. Why do you have to leave now?”

Fellgair hesitated, staring at the tiles. “There's something I must do. Something that cannot be postponed any longer.”

“What could be more important—?”

“This need not affect our plans. But I wanted you to know that it might be impossible for me to return as quickly as I desire. And to urge you once more to remember why you are here.”

“How can I forget when you're always reminding me?”

“Please. Just listen to me. This one last time.”

“Last time?” Rigat echoed, his anger abruptly vanishing.

“Before I go.”

Fellgair's dismissive wave drew Rigat's gaze. The red polish on his nails was gone. Perhaps he had simply tired of it, but Rigat's uneasiness increased.

“Something's wrong. I know it. When you touched my spirit during the council meeting, it felt . . . different. And now—”

“Now I'm simply tired. Even gods get tired.”

Did they? Fellgair was the only god he had ever met, and he never seemed tired. At least, he hadn't until now.

“Please. Tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help.”

Fellgair leaned forward. “Then you do care about me. A little.”

“Well, I . . . of course. You're my father.”

“That is no guarantee of filial devotion.”

The dry tone sounded so much like the old Fellgair that Rigat smiled with relief.

Fellgair smiled, too, but his expression quickly became grave. “The best way you can help is to let nothing distract you from your plan for peace.”

“I won't.”

Fellgair seized his hand. “Promise me, Rigat.”

The nails bit into his flesh, but the intensity of Fellgair's gaze bothered him more. “I promise.”

“Then I'll say good-bye. For now.”

At the doorway, Fellgair hesitated. “I should have waited. To take you with me. If I could have given you a few more years with Darak and Griane . . .” He frowned and shook his head impatiently. “It doesn't matter now. You've accomplished so much, so quickly. More than I dared to hope. I'm proud of you, my son.”

Before Rigat could reply, Fellgair turned abruptly and strode out.

 

 

 

Jholianna had just finished dressing for dinner when one of her attendants rushed in to whisper that the Khonsel was waiting in her private reception chamber. She hurried down the winding stairs, fighting to control her anxiety.

The Khonsel bowed but refused her invitation to sit. “I've just received a message from Geriv. Requesting that you postpone the truce until after the dark of the moon. When he will have finished his inspection of the river fortifications and be better able to advise you.”

Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “He's already received my orders?”

“No. Or hadn't when he sent this message. It was dated six days ago. From Little Falls.”

The captain must have kept the slaves at the oars day and night to reach Pilozhat so quickly. That nonsense about inspecting fortifications was clearly a precaution in case the message was intercepted. Geriv must be planning something. But what? The Gathering would begin on the morrow. If he planned to attack the rebels then, why did he require another half-moon to notify them of his success—or failure?

The Khonsel's expression provided no hints. Even if he knew what Geriv intended, he would refuse to tell her in order to protect her from Rigat.

“The interrogations will keep Rigat busy until the Blessing of the Adders,” she said. “But once the Gathering concludes, he'll want to go north immediately. We can't allow that.”