Foxfire (53 page)

The pit was larger than the longhut in his village. Brush and grasses littered the bottom. Piles of rocks created shady nooks for the adders. Water glimmered darkly in a shallow bronze bowl and spilled over the sides to trickle down a tiny causeway of pebbles.

A few adders had left their nests to bask in the first rays of sunlight. The female was easy to identify, her body swollen and fat. The ceremony he had witnessed through the portal had blessed their mating. Now, he offered his father's greetings to his beloved children and blessed the safe delivery of their young.

Another roar greeted his pronouncement. He was turning away from the pit to acknowledge it when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

Two of the basking males slithered back between the rocks. The female raised her head. A tongue flicked out, scenting the air. Red-brown eyes gazed up into his.

It was only a trick of the light that made that unblinking gaze seem malevolent, only his overwrought nerves that conjured the wave of revulsion that rippled through her swollen body. She uncoiled with slow, deliberate grace and glided after her brothers, repudiating the false Son of Zhe and his empty blessing.

He shot a wild glance at the Zheron, but he was nodding and smiling like all the others.

Jholianna's fingertips brushed his arm. “Rigat?”

He forced himself to smile. To raise his hands and accept the acclamation of the crowd. To ignore the dryness of his mouth and the weight of the gold breastplate that suddenly seemed heavy enough to crush him. And to dismiss as imagination Faelia's voice, as sibilant as an adder's, whispering, “You are not our father's son.”

The disturbing voice continued to echo in his mind as he visited the other temples. The Motixa placed a crown of bitterheart on his head. The Pajhit slipped thick gold bracelets over his wrists. The Acolyte offered him a sip of honeyed wine. When he raised his hands to accept the goblet, his bracelets clattered like chains.

The priests and nobles paraded after them into the central courtyard where the litter awaited. It had been specially constructed for the triumphal procession through the city. He clambered onto the thick red cushions, while Jholianna settled herself—with infinitely more grace—on the mound of gold ones.

Instead of the usual curtains, the litter's sides were open to permit spectators to see them. Four serpentine posts, painted red, reared up from each corner. Gauzy red fabric, studded with precious gems, had been draped over the top, but it did little to keep out the merciless sun. Even the six slaves who carried their litter were red. As the paint on their bodies began to drip in the heat, they seemed to be oozing blood.

Jholianna sighed. “Perhaps the people will think it's symbolic. The blood of Womb of Earth, spilling forth as she gave birth to Zhe. Or the tears of Heart of Sky who wishes he could spend a day reclining in a litter.”

“The dawn of a new age,” Rigat said, “when flesh melts in the heat.”

“And slaves sweat wine.”

“Voiceless, he shall curse the salty vintage, and wineless, fall on his face like a drunkard.”

Their shared laughter dispelled his lingering disquiet.

The kankhs offered the obligatory salute. Slaves grasped the gilded wooden poles of the litter and raised them carefully to their shoulders. With Jholianna's bodyguard surrounding them, they marched toward the main gate, followed by the council members and a horde of priests and priestesses. Today, all would walk behind the litter; nothing must distract from the glory of the Son of Zhe and his queen.

The procession passed through a smaller courtyard whose soaring columns always reminded him of a grove of trees. Too soon, the grove was behind them and there was only the crowd of people lining the walkway, waving frantically behind the screen of guards.

At the edge of the plateau, Jholianna wrapped one arm around the nearest post and braced her feet against the front of the litter. Moments later, Rigat understood why. He clung to a post with both hands as they lurched down the steps, his crown of bitterheart hanging precariously from one ear.

The procession soon faded into a blur of sweating faces and incessant noise. People hung out of windows and clogged the cobbled streets, all screaming his name, all craning for a glimpse of the Son of Zhe. By the time they reached the harbor, Rigat's jaw ached from smiling, his arm ached from waving, and his ribs ached where the breastplate stabbed him each time he shifted position.

“I'll be black and blue by the time this is over,” he grumbled.

“We must bear our discomfort with smiles,” Jholianna replied, tucking an errant braid into place.

“Next time, you wear the breastplate. Then we'll see if you're smiling at the end of the day.”

Her laugh drew another wave of cheers from the crowd. “All that's left now are the presentations,” she reminded him. “Then we can return to the palace and enjoy the luxury of a long soak before the feast.”

Jholianna's plan had called for them to make stops throughout the city to receive the guild masters, but the Khonsel had refused to allow it, claiming his forces were inadequate to provide security in a dozen plazas. Even when Rigat reminded him that his interrogations had revealed no conspiracies to harm him or the queen, the stubborn old man remained adamant.

“What's the point of having the procession if the guild masters can't present their gifts to me personally?” Rigat demanded.

“The Son of Zhe must meet his people,” Jholianna agreed. “And I must be by his side when he does.”

The Khonsel reluctantly compromised by allowing a single presentation. This pleased no one, especially the guild masters, who resented having to share their moment of glory.

Rigat let out a sigh of relief as they entered the Plaza of Justice. It was just as crowded, but he felt less trapped here than in the narrow streets.

The procession came to a halt in front of a raised dais, shaded—of course—by a scarlet canopy. As the litter scraped cobblestones, he scrambled off the cushions, hoping those watching would interpret his awkwardness as godlike exuberance.

The cheers continued unabated as the council members followed them up the steps. The Khonsel, Rigat noted, placed himself closest to the queen. His narrow-eyed gaze moved ceaselessly, scanning the crowd, observing the disposition of the guards around the dais and atop the roofs. For a moment, their eyes met and held. Then the Khonsel's gaze moved on.

Suddenly, all the elaborate security measures made sense. Ever since his arrival, the Khonsel had challenged him. This was just another test.

Rigat nearly laughed in relief. It was all a game, just as Fellgair had always claimed. Now that he understood that, it was easy to smile when Jholianna presented him, to offer a pretty speech about the dawning of a new age, to accept the jubilant acclamation.

It was harder to maintain his smile during the interminable presentations that followed. After the windy welcome of Pilozhat's Alcadh, he blessed a bag of gold serpents specially minted by the Merchants Guild, a vat reeking of urine for the Tanners Guild, and a motley collection of nets and hooks presented by the Fishers Guild. He consecrated a flower-bedecked loom for the Weavers Guild, and a flower-bedecked bullock hauled forward by the beefy-looking master of the Fleshers Guild.

He praised the artistry of leatherworkers and potters, barrel makers and alewives. He patted the heads of the wide-eyed children apprenticed to the Musicians Guild. He accepted armlets and rings, casks of ale and crates of wine, haunches of meat and bolts of precious lilmia, and—from the whiskery old crone who headed the Bakers Guild—a loaf of bread ostensibly made in his image.

“She must be a seer as well as a baker,” Jholianna whispered as the old woman backed away. “The loaf's burned, too.” She ran her forefinger lightly down his sun-reddened arm.

“It's wonderful,” Rigat assured her. “All of it.”

“You look tired.”

“And you look as fresh and crisp as a new leaf.”

Her breast brushed his arm as she leaned against him. “I feel about as fresh as yesterday's lettuce.”

“I shall eat nothing else at the feast tonight,” Rigat vowed.

“Yesterday's lettuce? Or . . . ?” Her eyebrows soared suggestively and she laughed at his embarrassment. “And in your honor, I shall eat nothing but boiled langhosti. For surely your skin will be the same color as their shells before this day is over.”

He was soon grateful for his sunburn. It hid his blush when the beautiful young men and women of the Prostitutes Guild began to dance. Even a few of the stern-faced guards gawked at their sinuous gyrations. But all too soon it was over, leaving Rigat even more aware of the late afternoon heat.

It rose in waves above the crowd, making the buildings on the far side of the plaza swim before his eyes. He could scarcely draw breath, and when he did, the dry air seared his lungs. His power staved off the worst of its effects, but his poor people had to be suffering. As for the guards in their bronze helmets and breastplates, it was a miracle they hadn't collapsed.

Finally, the last representative rose from his ritual prostration. He was younger than the other guild masters, his thickly muscled arms testifying to his profession as a smith. Across his palms lay a dagger, its hilt and sheath encrusted with precious gems.

The head of Jholianna's bodyguard stepped forward to receive the gift; no one with a weapon—even a sheathed one—was permitted to approach the Son of Zhe.

The guild master smiled as the guard approached. He was still smiling when he knocked him aside with one hard shove of his shoulder.

It happened with dreamlike slowness, but it must have taken only a few heartbeats. The guard staggering. The Khonsel's shout. The naked dagger in the man's hand as he vaulted up the steps. A tiny red gem on the hilt, gleaming like a drop of blood. Jholianna's fingernails scoring his forearm as she stumbled backward. The man's defiant shout—“Carilia!”—as he hurtled toward them, dagger upraised.

Rigat's power roared out of him, but it was too unfocused to stop the dagger from descending. The best he could do was push, as he had once pushed Seg.

The assassin reeled and lost his footing. A guard lunged. The guild master's body went rigid, impaled on the point of the sword. Then the rest of the bodyguard fell on him, swords slashing.

Rigat whirled around and found Jholianna sprawled on the dais. He knelt beside her and pulled her into the shelter of his arm.

“I'm not hurt,” she managed.

He heard shouts and screams, but could see little; a forest of legs and a wall of bronze-armored backs surrounded them.

“Is the queen safe?” The Khonsel's voice, closer now and urgent with fear. “And the Son of Zhe?”

Even in the midst of his confusion and fear, Rigat noted that the Son of Zhe's safety was an afterthought.

“Let the Khonsel through,” he ordered the guards. But they were already backing away.

Disregarding his bad leg, the Khonsel fell to his knees and seized the queen's hand. “Earth's Beloved. Are you injured?”

She shook her head, but the Khonsel seized her shoulders, twisting her from side to side before pulling her forward to inspect her back. Then he remembered himself and fell back on his haunches.

“Earth's Beloved. Forgive me. I—”

Jholianna pressed her fingertips to his mouth. The intimacy of the gesture startled the Khonsel as well as Rigat. “I'm well, old friend. Just bruised.”

“We must get you both back to the palace.”

With a trembling hand, she pushed a lock of hair off her face. “First, we must show the people that we are safe.”

“Earth's Beloved, the man might have an accomplice.”

Someone shoved past the barrier of guards and knelt beside them. The head of the bodyguard, Rigat realized.

“Earth's Beloved, I formally request permission to end my life.”

The Khonsel muttered a filthy oath and struggled to his feet. “You don't deserve such an honor. I'll disembowel you myself and have your corpse flung on the midden for the dogs.”

Jholianna held out her hand so Rigat could help her to her feet. “Punishment can be meted out later. Now we must calm the people.”

The Khonsel scowled and barked out orders. A huge roar went up as they walked to the edge of the dais. Jholianna acknowledged it with an upraised hand and a brilliant smile, but her gaze remained fixed on the corpse of the assassin still sprawled on the lowest step.

“Was it you? Who stopped him?”

“I didn't do much. I didn't have time. All I could do was push him away.”

“That was enough.”

When Rigat put his arm around her waist, he could feel the tremors coursing through her. For just a moment, she leaned against him. Then she shrugged free and lifted her hands, commanding silence.

“People of Pilozhat!” Her voice shook. She took a deep breath and then another before whispering, “Help me.”

This time, she allowed his arm to remain around her. He nodded to her, all the while scanning the crowd for another assassin, but there was no movement in the plaza, no sound at all save for the thin wail of a babe somewhere. He drew on his power again to ensure that his voice would reach those at the back of the crowd.

“People of Pilozhat! Our queen is safe. And the Carilian assassin who attacked her is dead. Truly, the gods are smiling upon Zheros. This is why my father sent me. To protect our queen. To prevent attacks like this from ever happening again. And to bring a victorious end to the war that has sapped our strength for too many years.”