Foxfire (52 page)

They laid Gortin on the furs. Keeping a cautious eye on Othak, Griane knelt beside him. She pressed her fingers to his wrist and drew back with a startled exclamation.

“He's cold. Why didn't you summon me at once?”

“I did!” Othak protested. “As soon as I found him.”

“What was he doing outside?”

“I don't know. Perhaps he was going to your hut. To tell you what he had Seen.”

“He could have sent you.”

“I was asleep!” Othak's gaze darted around the circle of frowning faces. “I meant to sit with him. I did. But I . . . I failed him. And when I woke . . .” His voice trailed off on a sob.

“Instead of placing the blame on Mother Griane,” Lisula said, “you'd do better to shoulder it yourself. If you had called her immediately—”

“It doesn't matter,” Griane interrupted. “Nothing will bring him back now.”

She folded Gortin's hands over his chest. There were no signs of suffocation or any indication of a struggle. There was a lump on the side of his head, but that could have been the result of his fall. There was nothing—nothing—to indicate Othak was responsible.

Numbly, she stroked the thin gray hair. Soon, Gortin's spirit would reach the Forever Isles, where—if the gods were kind—Struath would be waiting to welcome him. At any rate, he was free now. Free of his tired body and failing memory. Free of the loneliness that had haunted him since Struath's death. Free of Othak's hovering presence and tainted, jealous nature.

She would never be able to prove that Othak had killed Gortin. To accuse him would only create more dissension in the tribe, as would her claim that Gortin had wanted Keirith to become Tree-Father.

As she made her way back to her hut, she paused to gaze up at the moon. Perhaps it was only her imagination that made her see a half-smile on Gheala's face, a narrowed eye that seemed to wink at her, mocking her impotence.

“Oh, Rigat,” she whispered. “Hurry home. I need you.”

R
IGAT LEANED ON THE LOW wall of his balcony in a vain attempt to glimpse the temple of Zhe. All he could see was the milling crowd, little more than a seething black fog in the uncertain light.

The eager ones had begun arriving days ago to witness the dawn ceremony that would proclaim him the Son of Zhe. By yesterday afternoon, there were so many people on the plateau, Womb of Earth was groaning.

Or so Nekif assured him. For the last two days, he'd been trapped in the bowels of the palace, interrogating the thirteen noblemen accused of conspiring with Carilia.

The interrogations had been easy enough, although the drain on his power was noticeable. This morning, he'd been so tired that Nekif had to shake him in order to rouse him—and then prostrated himself, babbling apologies for touching the Son of Zhe without permission.

More disturbing was discovering that the noblemen had met several times with their Carilian counterparts, and exchanged some clumsily coded messages about pressuring their rulers to end the war. Three of the men had gone so far as to suggest more drastic measures—including inciting a mutiny among the troops in the east. In the end, they had shied away from such outright acts of treason. And in every spirit, he had touched a genuine love for the queen and for Zheros.

Although both Jholianna and the Khonsel made it clear that they considered the men guilty of treason, he continued to waver. “If they're guilty of anything,” he'd told her, “it's being foolish enough to believe they could bring the war to an end.”

He could still remember her eyes, dark with pity—for him, not the prisoners.

“They're playing on your kind heart. And the fact that you're still a stranger here. I've lived many centuries, Rigat. And I've learned the importance of ruling with a firm hand.”

“And is there no place for mercy?”

“Yes. But it must be used sparingly. The world interprets mercy as weakness.”

Reluctantly, he recalled the times he had played When I Become Chief. He had decided to cast Elasoth's daughters out of the tribe simply because their father had voted against Keirith. Yet now he was acting squeamish about punishing men who had conspired against their queen.

He'd never really imagined that his game could become so serious, that he might really control whether people lived or died. But now he did. The accused men would all receive trials, but the verdict was as certain as sunrise—unless he intervened. Saving them from execution might demonstrate how merciful the Son of Zhe was, but it was just as likely to prove that he was a softhearted boy, easily manipulated by others.

With Fellgair still absent, he had no one to turn to for advice. In the end, he won Jholianna's grudging consent to postpone the sentencing until after the moon of celebration. That would give him time to consider his choices—and give Fellgair time to return to Pilozhat.

Impatiently, he adjusted the golden serpent that circled his neck and traced the dimples in the hammered gold scales of his breastplate. For the third time, he smoothed his hair. Jholianna had insisted on braiding it herself, alternating between marveling at its softness and scolding him as she combed out the tangles. Just as his mam used to.

He had dreamed of her last night, standing in the center of the village, gazing up at the moon. Her eyes were closed, but he could see her lips moving so he guessed she was praying. He heard a voice calling him—too deep to be hers. And then he woke to find Nekif shaking him.

Hearing footsteps on the tiled floor, he whirled around. “Well?” he demanded as Nekif prostrated himself.

“Forgive me, great lord. But the Supplicant was not at her temple.”

He ordered Nekif out of his chamber and began pacing, anger warring with concern. This was the most important day of his life. Fellgair should be here to witness it. Surely, nothing could have happened to him. He was a god, after all, not some puny mortal.

Refusing to let disappointment taint the day, he summoned his power. Although it was still sluggish from the interrogations, he easily opened a tiny sliver of a portal behind the temple. The first shafts of sunlight spilled through the serpentine pillars onto the altar, revealing the bloody carcass of a white ram, a special sacrifice to honor the Son of Zhe.

Rigat winced and looked away; one day, he would be able to see a sacrifice on that altar without imagining his brother lying there.

Torchlight danced across the bronze armor of the guards surrounding the temple. Clusters of scarlet and gold at the front of the crowd allowed him to identify the priests of Zhe and Heart of Sky. He spotted the half-shaven heads of the servants of the God with Two Faces, but had to squint before he made out the priestesses of Womb of Earth in their brown robes.

The kankhs blared, and the ground-fog of people seethed, only to fall still a moment later when the drums began. In contrast to the slow, measured tattoo, Rigat's heart raced. His power shuddered through him, flashing brighter with each drumbeat. The muscles in his legs trembled, and he had to fight the urge to leap through the portal to relieve the growing tension in his body.

Just when he thought the procession would never arrive, he saw Jholianna marching between the two lines of guards flanking the walkway from the palace. Like him, she was bedecked with jewelry, from the thin gold chain woven through her elaborate braids to the gem-studded one around her throat, and the bracelets encircling her arms.

“The common folk expect to see us dripping with jewelry,” she had told him. “Especially on an occasion like this.”

Rigat was certainly dripping; although the sun had barely risen, his power alone kept the sweat from running in streams down his body. He hated to use it for such a mundane purpose, but the Son of Zhe couldn't sweat like a slave.

If her jewelry seemed excessive, her gown was stunningly simple, the sheath binding her breasts the color of the first green leaves of spring, the flounces on her skirt the deeper greens of a Midsummer forest. She looked as a slender as a sapling, reminding him of the ancient legend of the rowan that had pulled up its roots and become the world's first woman.

Her simple elegance made the Zheron's finery look slightly ridiculous. Red, gold, and black feathers sprouted from the band of bronze that circled his forehead. More cascaded over his shoulders in a feathered cloak. By contrast, the Pajhit's shimmering cloak of pink and rose and ruddy red lent the little priest a rare dignity.

Rigat eagerly peered at the tall priestess walking beside the Motixa, and swallowed his disappointment when he realized it was not Fellgair. The common folk probably wouldn't even realize that it was not their Supplicant, for the Acolyte's half-shaven head and robe were identical to hers. A garland of honeysuckle crowned her head, while the Motixa wore one of bitterheart. In her brown robe, the plump Motixa was doomed to look dowdy, yet her innate grace and serene expression enhanced the aura of maternal compassion that shone from her.

Slowly, they mounted the steps and took their places, Jholianna directly in front of the altar, the priests and priestesses one step below, flanking her. The kankh blared again and the drums ceased.

It was almost time.

“By these signs shall you know him,” the Zheron intoned. “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,” Jholianna proclaimed. “And wingless, soar through the sky like the eagle.”

“No pageantry shall attend his arrival. No poet shall sing his name. No mortal woman shall know his body. No mortal man shall call him son.”

By now, all the assembled priests and priestesses were reciting the ancient words. And when the crowd joined them—hundreds of voices filling the air—a delicious shiver shook Rigat.

“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.”

As one, the queen and her chief priests turned to face the altar.

Rigat allowed the tension to build until it seemed the air itself would scream for release. Then he ripped open the portal and stepped into the rosy shaft of sunlight beside Jholianna.

Every person in the crowd drew breath in a collective gasp. The shocked silence that followed made him glance nervously at Jholianna, who gave him a reassuring nod. As if to affirm her confidence, the silence was shattered by a deafening roar of acclamation.

It went on and on, as wild and unstoppable as flames consuming dry wood. His power surged, feeding on the crowd's excitement, and he trembled with the effort to contain it.

Jholianna's gleaming eyes mirrored his intoxication. A flush stained her cheeks. Her lips parted. When her tongue flicked out to wet them, he realized he was licking his as well. He quickly tamped down the lust and the power until the thundering of his blood ebbed.

Jholianna dropped gracefully to her knees and prostrated herself before him. Like grain bowing before the wind, every man, woman, and child on the plateau followed suit.

“The prophecy is fulfilled!” Rigat cried. “The fire-haired god is made flesh. Rise, my people! Rise and look upon the face of Zhe's beloved son.”

They rose. They cheered. They shrieked in delight as the priests of Zhe showered him with red petals. Shrieked again as he descended the steps, unaware that his careful movements were prompted by the fear that he would trip over his long scarlet khirta.

Hand in hand, he and Jholianna walked down the pathway. Children gawked. Old folk wept. Women trilled the high, ululating cry that the Zherosi used to express triumph or defiance or exaltation. Hundreds of voices became one continuous chant: “Rigat! Rigat! RIGAT!”

An old man stepped forward. Immediately, a guard blocked his path, but lowered his spear at Rigat's signal. As Rigat reached for the outstretched hand, the old man's fingertips moved higher, then hesitated.

Rigat took the trembling fingers and guided them to his hair. With a start, the old man pulled his hand back and stared at his palm in shock.

“It doesn't burn!” he cried. And laughed, showing toothless gums.

Rigat laughed with him, and a roar—louder than any of the others—split the air.

He zigzagged down the path, clasping hands, laying his palm atop the heads of children, blessing them as he had seen Fellgair do. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw people crawling forward to kiss the stones his sandals had touched.

Only when he neared the eastern wall of the palace did the uproar ebb. The priests of Zhe spread out in a red-robed circle around the pit Rigat had first glimpsed during his vision quest. This time, there were no terrified shouts, no guards brandishing spears to drive him off, only a respectful silence as he stepped to the edge.