Foxfire (58 page)

Keirith and Darak never talked about the time their spirits had been linked. Each time he pressed, a look would pass between them—a dark intimacy silently acknowledged and accepted. Ultimately, that experience—as terrifying as it must have been—had brought them closer. But they had been bound together by love, not duty or circumstance. The moments of enforced intimacy that he and Jholianna had shared now seemed to divide them more effectively than any shield.

Lying uselessly in bed only fueled his concerns about Fellgair, about his relationship with Jholianna, about the progress of the Gathering, and the investigation into the attempted assassination. Although Nekif dutifully reported everything that had happened while he was unconscious, Rigat needed a more reliable source of information. Postponing the inevitable confrontation with Jholianna, he summoned Vazh do Havi.

The Khonsel's limp was more pronounced, his face tight with pain and exhaustion. Wondering when he had last slept, Rigat waved him to the bench next to his.

Ignoring the gesture, the Khonsel bowed. “I would like to offer my apologies, my lord. For failing to protect you. And my thanks for saving the queen.”

But he was unwilling to discuss Miriala with the Khonsel. Instead he said, “I owe you an apology, too. For insisting on the presentation in the plaza. Please. Sit.” As the Khonsel slumped onto the bench, Rigat asked, “Have your investigations uncovered anything? I'm told the archer was dead when you found him. And that he was a Carilian.”

“Might be a Carilian,” the Khonsel corrected. “Anyone can paint an arrow black. Or gain access to poison. But it's probable, yes. I've had his likeness drawn and sent to the commanders in the east. Perhaps one of their prisoners can identify him.”

“And his coconspirator? The man with the dagger?”

“The head of the Smiths Guild, not an imposter. Lived in Pilozhat all his life. Mother's people are from Iriku, though. Might be a connection there. I've brought in his family and associates for questioning, but still haven't discovered a link between him and the second assassin.”

“Hold off further interrogations. When I'm stronger, I'll examine them.” The gods only knew how many innocents had already suffered. At least he could spare them further torture.

“There are more than fifty people—”

“I will examine them, Khonsel.”

“The queen's orders—”

“And I'll deal with the queen.”

The Khonsel bowed his head.

“You don't suspect the noblemen in this plot, I hope? I would have discovered their involvement when I interrogated them.”

“Unless they were unwitting dupes of the real conspirators.”

Rigat conceded that possibility with a reluctant nod. “I'm certain those men would never knowingly countenance an attack on the queen.”

The Khonsel stared down at the tiles. “My lord, the queen might not have been the target.”

As many times as he had gone over the events, that thought had never occurred to him. Stupid to assume that because he was the son of a god he was immune to attack.

“I could be wrong. It might have been some madman with a personal grudge against the queen. But a planned conspiracy by the Carilians?” The Khonsel shook his head. “Killing the queen would only harden resistance to any peace overtures.”

“While killing me . . .”

The Khonsel shifted uncomfortably. “Your death might be taken as a sign. That the gods had turned against Zheros.”

“Yes. I see.” He was pleased that his voice sounded so calm.

“That would benefit Carilia, of course. But Lilmia, too. They're both jealous of our power. The whole damn world is jealous of our power. Which makes it hard to figure out who was behind this. Anyone can buy an assassin. All it takes is money and connections.”

Rigat leaned back against the wall, staring up at the garish sunset that adorned one corner of the ceiling. “Even in Zheros, there are those who would benefit from my death. The slave owners, for instance, who oppose my plan to return the Tree People to their homeland. Or the families of the noblemen.”

“The slave owners will be compensated for their losses. As for the noblemen's families, they should be grateful you used your power instead of torture.”

“Someone who doubts my claim to be the Son of Zhe.”

“It's . . . possible. Yes.”

Rigat idly smoothed his khirta. “Someone who opposes the truce.”

The Khonsel stiffened.

“Someone with money and connections. Like you.”

The flush began at the base of the Khonsel's bull neck and rose up to stain his cheeks a dusky red. With a grunt, he shoved himself to his feet. “Are you accusing me of planning the assassination?”

“Did you?”

“You think I'd trust an assassin to make that shot? With the queen a handsbreadth away?” The Khonsel hawked a gob of phlegm onto the tiles. “If I wanted you dead, I could have taken you out after the interrogations. Or any time these last two days when you were too weak to piss without slaves holding you up. I'd have plunged this dagger into your heart and damned the consequences!”

Rigat folded his hands to hide their trembling. “So many lost opportunities.”

The color slowly faded from the Khonsel's face. “Burn me. You're too cool by half.” But there was grudging admiration in his voice.

“Once again, I apologize, Khonsel. These days, it's easy to see conspiracies everywhere.”

The man's outrage seemed genuine enough, but when his power recovered, he would touch the Khonsel's spirit. Just to be sure. For now, he would maintain his vigilance—and choose new guards to replace the ones the Khonsel had posted outside his chamber.

 

 

 

The confrontation spurred him to visit Jholianna. If he was the target of the attempted assassination, he could not permit their relationship to unravel.

Could Fellgair's powers really be failing? Or was this some kind of twisted test?

The corridor between their apartments bristled with guards. Outside the doorway of her bedchamber, one stepped forward to block his path.

“Forgive me, great lord. But we have orders to announce everyone.”

“Announce me, then. And be quick.”

Before he could, Jholianna appeared in the doorway. “Fool,” she said, glaring at the guard. “Those orders do not apply to the Son of Zhe. He is to be admitted at any time.” As the guard retreated, inundating them both with apologies, she added, “Please. Come in.”

Rigat strode into the chamber, shaking his head. “I suppose the Khonsel gave that order?”

“The Khonsel wanted every visitor searched. I pointed out that the Son of Zhe was unlikely to hide a dagger in his khirta when he could simply cast out my spirit.”

Jholianna grimaced. So did Rigat.

“Let's go out on the balcony,” she suggested. “It's cooler there. A little. And more private.”

They made stilted conversation about the weather, the moon of celebration, anything to avoid talking about The Shedding. Finally, they lapsed into silence, both gripping the wall of the balcony and staring at Kelazhat's brooding silhouette.

Jholianna cleared her throat. “Thank you again. For preserving my spirit.”

“I wish I'd been stronger. You would have suffered less.”

“You mustn't blame yourself.”

“Who else?”

“I thought . . . perhaps . . . you blamed me.”

“No. At least . . . no.”

“But you cannot bear to look at me.”

“A weakness we seem to share,” he snapped, then quickly murmured an apology.

“When I fought you . . . I didn't mean . . .” Her hand stirred, then settled back on the stone. “It shames me to remember.”

“There's no shame in fearing death.”

“But there is shame in facing it so poorly. That girl . . .”

“Miriala. Her name was Miriala.”

He felt more than saw her turn toward him. “You do blame me.” When he remained silent, she added, “You regret her death.”

“Of course I regret her death! And I blame myself for it. And you for asking me to conduct the interrogations, and the assassin who shot you, and the Khonsel for failing to protect you, and Miriala's parents who stood back and let her die, and—gods forgive me—Miriala, too. For going to her death like a sheep to the slaughter. I know that The Shedding is a holy rite. But I can't help thinking of the hundreds of girls who have died. All because you couldn't bear a child. And refused to grow old.”

Her breath hissed in. “You think I instituted the rite out of vanity?”

“No. Because you were terrified of dying. The same reason you tried to cast my spirit out of my body.”

“My death would have left the empire in chaos!”

“Chaos is a part of life. Chaos and order.”

“You talk like one of the Tree People.”

“I
am
one of the Tree People!” In a calmer voice, he added, “And my father is a Zherosi god. And I've tried so hard to make sense of that. To understand the Zherosi as well as the children of the Oak and Holly. To do what's best . . .”

To his horror, his voice broke. He gripped the stone hard as he fought for control.

“This power I possess . . . I try to use it responsibly. To heal people. To make things better. I don't always succeed. Even the son of a god makes mistakes. Or . . . falls short. And when I do, I hope you'll believe it's not for want of trying. Everything . . . it's all happening so fast. Three moons ago, I didn't even know who my real father was. And now—” He caught himself before he blurted out something damaging. “It's been a sennight since we've spoken. Sometimes, I think he's forgotten me.”

As soon as the words emerged, he wanted to take them back. Gods, he was pathetic. Whining about his father. Next, he'd be confessing how much he missed his mam.

He stalked away, only to freeze as her hand gripped his forearm. Instead of the slender, tapering fingers he had always admired, these were short and blunt-nailed, the cuticles red and raw where Miriala must have gnawed them.

It was strange to look down to meet Jholianna's gaze. Did she mind being shorter now? Did she consider the cheekbones too high, the mouth too wide? Or resent the tiny gap between her front teeth? Oddly, the small imperfections increased her vulnerability and made her—in his eyes, at least—more beautiful.

“We're both tired,” she said. “And our nerves are frayed from all that's happened.”

There were gold flecks in her dark eyes—or perhaps that was just the reflection of the torchlight.

“I wish I could ease your mind. Give you the comfort you need. You and I . . . we're joined now. In a way no one else could understand.”

Darak could. And Keirith. But he banished that thought. They were far away and could not comfort him, either.

She stepped back, regarding him gravely. “I've been thinking about this for some time, but after . . . after The Shedding, I became certain. I want you to accept the crown of Zheros and rule beside me.”

Shocked, he could only stare at her.

“Please don't be offended. I know it's only an earthly honor. Hardly fitting for the son of a god. But you've done so much for Zheros. For me. If I had died . . .”

He tried to speak, but she pressed her fingertips to his mouth. He breathed in the scent of the cream she used and tried to ignore the unfamiliar calluses.

“If I had died, you are the only one who could have saved the empire. The only one my people would trust.”

Gently, he took her hand from his lips. “Would they? Would you? As you say, I'm one of the Tree People. And I don't always understand your customs.”

“A moon ago, we didn't even know one another. And look what we've accomplished. Time is our ally, Rigat.” She squeezed his hand. “You don't have to answer now. Just . . . think about it?”

The new hesitancy in her voice endeared her to him in a way that her flirting never had. But how could he accept the crown? She'd been right to describe him as a stranger here. There was still so much he needed to learn. And he'd made so many mistakes—bungling that initial confrontation with her, rushing forward with his plan to free the slaves, dismissing the danger of assassination as a game of wills with the Khonsel. Never mind the fact that his foolish squandering of power had nearly cost Zheros its queen.

Jholianna's fingers tightened on his. Seeing her anxious expression, he fumbled for a way to reassure her.

“There's only one drawback to your plan. If I become king, the Zheron will invent a hundred new rituals for everyone to perform.”

Jholianna's smile was the first genuine one he had seen since the assassination attempt. “And a title. Jholin was called Sky's Light, but you'll need another. Wingless Eagle?”

Rigat glanced at his freckled arms. “Supreme Langhosto,” he suggested and was rewarded by her laughter.

They shared a light supper, and as they talked of the future, his anxiety dissipated. But as soon as he returned to his chamber, he sent Nekif to the temple of the God with Two Faces. Again, Nekif returned alone, regretfully informing him that the Supplicant was not there.

Rigat touched the power smoldering inside him, each day a little stronger. Surely strong enough to search for Fellgair. He had to talk with him—about Jholianna's offer of the crown, about the assassination attempt, about the puzzle of his unraveled healing. Even if it meant delaying his return to the north one more day.