Foxfire (55 page)

His body went limp. Somewhere, a woman moaned. “Oh, sweet Womb of Earth, we've lost them both.”

He managed to wheeze out a denial, and a hand seized his. He opened his eyes. Felt Jholianna's terror piercing the shield. And saw the Motixa's tear-streaked face looking down at him.

“In me. She is . . . in . . . me.”

The damp brown eyes widened, then squeezed shut as she whispered a prayer.

“What did he say?” The Khonsel's voice, thick with phlegm and fear.

“The queen's spirit is safe. The Son of Zhe is sheltering it.”

“Hurry,” Rigat whispered.

“Yes. Yes.” The Motixa squeezed his hand again. “She must have a new Host. Now. If their spirits remain in his body too long they will bleed together.”

Another flash of terror from Jholianna. He tried to send soothing energy, but maintaining the shield required all his strength. He could not even muster the will to keep his eyes open.

“Where is the Host?” the Motixa demanded.

“Fetch a slave,” the Khonsel replied. “Any woman. Quickly!”

“No.”

Rigat didn't recognize the woman's voice. It was shaking, though.

“It's not fitting for a slave to Host the spirit of our queen. I will do it.”

He opened his eyes and found everyone staring at the Avokhat's daughter. Her face was strained and the flounces of her skirt trembled, but she returned the Khonsel's gaze steadily. Her mother and father were weeping, but they seemed unsurprised. Clearly, they must have come to this decision while he was fighting to save Jholianna.

The Khonsel's knees thudded on the tiles. He seized the girl's hand and kissed it.

“My lady. Your sacrifice will be honored and your memory revered as long as the sun rises and sets on Zheros.”

She swallowed hard and nodded.

How old was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? And in a few moments, she would die. It happened every year, of course, hundreds vying for the privilege of serving as the queen's Host. But knowing the rite existed was far different than witnessing a girl's death.

Rigat watched the Motixa drain her vial of qiij. And then he closed his eyes.

The Avokhat's daughter had probably awakened early, eager to witness the ceremony in the Plaza of Justice. Perhaps she had stood in one of the upper story windows, craning for a glimpse of the Son of Zhe and the queen, observing the parade of guild masters with the same impatience he had felt.

Tonight, she might have accompanied her parents to the palace—so excited, so honored that her father's position had won them a coveted invitation to the feast. Perhaps her dark eyes would have lingered on a young man—the son of a nobleman or a prosperous merchant. After the feast, they might have slipped away from the stifling hall to stroll the moonlit grounds and breathe in the scent of night-blooming flowers. Hidden by the darkness, she might even have permitted him to steal a kiss.

And in time, a match would have been made and a wedding planned. Tears would have been shed then, too—happy tears celebrating a daughter's marriage instead of honoring her death.

The Motixa was murmuring something. Telling him that she was going to touch his spirit, reminding him to prepare the queen, assuring him that he need do nothing himself, that she and the queen had done this many times. He lowered the barrier slightly, just enough to convey the information to Jholianna. Before he retreated behind it again, a wave of joyful anticipation reached him.

“She's ready,” he whispered.

During the formal Shedding, the Host was given qiij to ease her spirit on its journey. This girl would have to manage without it. Nor could he help her; his power was as dull as the embers of the dying stars. He prayed that the Motixa was skillful and gentle. Eager to root herself in a new body, he doubted whether Jholianna would be.

His eyes fluttered open. He turned his head, searching for the Avokhat's daughter. She was sitting on the bench with the Khonsel, staring down at the lifeless body of her queen. Someone had straightened Jholianna's gown and draped a shawl over her face.

“Your name. Please.”

Her head came up. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she managed a trembling smile. There was a tiny gap between her front teeth, Rigat noticed.

“Miriala, my lord.”

“Miriala.” The name emerged on a sigh. “Gods keep you, Miriala.”

The Motixa's touch was light and assured. One moment, Jholianna's spirit was waiting expectantly, and the next it was gone.

He heard a gasp. The shuffle of feet. The rustle of a gown. The Khonsel urgently repeating, “Earth's Beloved? Earth's Beloved?”

As Rigat drifted into unconsciousness, he heard the Motixa's joyful cry. And amid the relieved babble of prayers that followed, the soft, unceasing sound of a mother weeping for her lost child.

PART THREE

—Tribal proverb

H
IS ANKLES WERE CHAINED to some kind of stake. When his bare toes touched wood, Keirith realized they had removed his shoes. It seemed such an unnecessary precaution that he laughed. Barefoot or shod, where was he going to run? The chain was shorter than his forearm. His ankles were bound together. He was blindfolded and gagged, drugged and guarded.

Trust the Zherosi to be thorough.

His head no longer hurt when he turned it, and the pain in his shoulder had subsided to a dull ache. The Zherosi healer still forced the dream-brew on him several times a day, but he had longer periods of clarity upon waking.

He used that time to lie on his furs, pretending to sleep, while calling on his senses to help him discover anything that might be useful. There were always two guards with him; he could detect the differences in their breathing. Occasionally, he heard the tramp of marching feet, voices shouting orders, the bellow of a bullock. The stink of woodsmoke pervaded the camp, but he failed to catch the briny scent of the sea. He must be in one of the fortresses along the river.

He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or alarmed that the deep-voiced man did not return. But one morning—two days after arriving? Three?—he heard someone enter the hut and caught a whiff of that familiar spicy scent.

The guards shifted on the rushes. Fists thumped against leather. There was a whispered discussion. Then a guard protested, “But the Vanel gave no orders—”

He abruptly fell silent. Keirith heard more whispering and the crackle of rushes as someone approached.

“My name is Jarel,” a voice said in the tribal tongue. “I am the grandson of the Holly-Chief from the neighboring village. He sent me to make sure you are being treated well.”

Which Holly-Chief? Which village?

“Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?”

He nodded, desperately trying to gather his thoughts. The voice held just a trace of an accent, a guttural swallowing of the consonants. Where had he heard it before?

“Can you lift your head?”

Urkiat. He'd had a similar accent. Dear gods, had the Zherosi taken him that far south? Surely, he couldn't have been on the ship that long.

Something brushed his fingertips—the smooth texture of a deer's bladder. A hand patted his shoulder. Gentle fingers fumbled with the gag.

“Don't touch him!” a guard shouted.

Water splashed his chest and belly. Someone shoved him. A heated conversation ensued, with Jarel protesting that he was only offering the prisoner some water, and the guards insisting that he keep his distance. Jarel's grasp of the Zherosi tongue was flawless. His village must have been cooperating with them for years. Which meant he was as likely to be a spy as a friend.

Rough hands dragged the gag from his mouth. With a final warning, the guards retreated.

“I am sorry,” Jarel said. “They are nervous.”

His speech was strangely formal. But perhaps he was nervous, too. Keirith could smell his sweat—and that spicy scent. Why did he smell like the deep-voiced man? Unless he was a Zheroso, pretending to be a friend to lure him into damning revelations.

Jarel expressed concern about the rope burns on his wrists and ankles. He seemed shocked to learn he had been given only porridge to eat and promised to do his best to alleviate his discomfort—as if he were an honored guest instead of a prisoner.

“Thank you,” Keirith said. “You're very kind.”

Another commotion at the doorway prevented him from saying more. An unfamiliar voice bellowed, “Zhe's coils, what are you doing in here?”

There was a flurry of movement. Whispering voices growing fainter as the footsteps retreated. A sigh from one of the guards. A mutter from the other. The crackle of rushes as one approached. The overwhelming stink of fear-sweat as the man yanked the gag over his mouth.

Keirith waited, tense and alert. When he heard someone enter, he wondered if Jarel had gotten his way. Then he recognized the musty scent of herbs and knew the healer had come to drug him again.

 

 

 

When he woke and heard Jarel's voice outside the hut, relief swamped him. He had feared that the Bellower would keep him away, but clearly Jarel was important enough to overrule him. Whether he was a Zherosi officer or the chief's grandson, Keirith was certain he was young; when he was nervous, his voice broke like a boy on the cusp of manhood.

He caught the aroma of roast mutton as soon as Jarel entered the hut. His hands shook so badly, he feared he would drop the wooden plate. He tore into the meat and licked the juice from his fingers; it took an effort of will to keep from licking the plate as well.

At first, they talked of unimportant things, like the prospects for the harvest. Then Jarel asked a tentative question about his childhood. Soon they were sharing stories about hunting, Jarel confiding that he preferred playing his flute, Keirith admitting he puked the first time he made a kill. What was the harm in telling him that? But he had to be careful. He was still muzzy-headed from the drug and it would be too easy to let damaging information slip.

When Jarel learned that Keirith had been a fisherman before joining the rebellion, he exclaimed, “But I, too, am a fisherman! Trout, salmon. Trout, most of all. They are clever.”

Those were the words of someone who fished for pleasure rather than to put food in the mouths of his family. Yet another indication the boy was a Zheroso.

“Salmon are fierce, though,” Keirith replied. “And strong. Swimming upriver from the sea. You have to admire that.”

“You admire strength more than cleverness?” Jarel sounded disappointed.

“I don't know. When I was a boy, perhaps. I was never fierce or strong.”

“But you cast out the spirit of a Zherosi priest. That took strength. And fierceness.”

“That was different. I was fighting for my life. And my father's.”

He waited for Jarel to inundate him with questions about Fa. Instead he fell silent.

“I guess everyone's nervous,” Keirith said. “The Zherosi and your folk. Waiting for my father. That's why I'm here, isn't it? The Zherosi want to exchange me for him.”

After a brief pause, Jarel said, “They do. I am sorry. I did not want to upset you by talking about it. Or your father.”

“I don't mind talking about my father. People are always curious about him.”

Even with that encouragement, Jarel merely asked, “Was it hard? Having such a great man as your father?”

“Sometimes. I always felt like I was in his shadow.”

Jarel sighed. “It is the same for me.”