Bloodstone Part 23

"They sink the tops into the ground to keep them from sprouting."

More than a hundred trees had to have been destroyed to make all the pillars he'd seen. At least these held up a roof; the ones lining the walkways were merely decorative.

He sank down on the top step, then leaped up to extend a hand to Hircha who was making her slow way up the steps. Disdaining his help, she sat down, carefully tucking her right ankle behind her left. "I was shocked, too. When I first came here."

"When was that?"

She surprised him by answering. "I was nine."

G.o.ds, she was only a child when they captured her. No wonder she'd been scared. "Was that when you hurt your leg?" Appalled at blurting out the question, he stammered an apology but she interrupted him.

"That was later. I tried to escape. After they brought me back, they cut the tendon behind my right ankle."

"Merciful Maker." He wasn't sure which was more appalling-the punishment or her calm description of it.

"The usual penalty for attempted escape is death. But the Zheron wouldn't allow it. I was lucky. It healed cleanly. And it doesn't hurt. It just . . . slows me down."

For a long while, they sat in the shadow of the great wooden pillars. The central courtyard was nearly deserted now; no one wanted to risk the heat of the midday sun.

"Do you still think about home?" he asked.

"There's no point. I'll never leave Pilozhat."

Hircha could never run far enough or fast enough to escape. But he could. He would.

But no matter how far or how fast I run, they'll still be there. The three of them. Chasing after me in my dreams.

Chapter 17.

IN EVERY VILLAGE, the chief was more than happy to a.s.sist the great Darak Spirit-Hunter. For the price of a tale, they secured food and lodging for the night and, more importantly, a group of men to row two currachs to the next village.

Unfortunately, the great Darak Spirit-Hunter soon discovered he had little stomach for the sea. When he first saw the currachs that would carry them south, he eyed the sleek vessels with misgiving. True, their tapered points-prows, Urkiat called them-looked like they could easily cut through the waves, especially with the aid of the long oars. But the currachs were little wider than a coracle and so lightweight that two men could carry one on their shoulders.

Urkiat had warned him it would be "a bit rough" until they got out beyond the breakers. The men had given him a place on one of the narrow seats near the middle of the boat. Neither precaution prepared him for the wild ride that ensued.

As they fought to crest each wave, the prow reared up, dropping the back of the boat so low that Darak found himself looming above the man in the stern. Then they plunged down into the next trough, sending the stern skyward and drenching them with spray.

When Darak dared a glance at Urkiat's currach, he found him laughing as he battled the waves. Watching the rise and fall of that triumphant face made him more conscious of his lurching stomach, so he kept his gaze on his feet and his hands on the sides of the currach.

After three mornings of vomiting up his porridge, he learned to eat nothing until they reached open water. His stomach could handle the gentle rocking. His mind had more difficulty accepting that a thin skin of hide was the only thing between him and the vast expanse of water. Beautiful and awe-inspiring from the sh.o.r.e, the sea transformed into a splashing, probing, gurgling creature, slapping at the hide as if determined to poke a hole in it. No wonder the men kept an amulet tied to the prow.

As Girn had promised, they reached Illait's village on the evening of the tenth day. Darak staggered ash.o.r.e and apologized to the men who had carried them from the last village, just as he apologized every evening for being such a useless pa.s.senger. As all the others had done, the men just smiled. One a.s.sured him that he'd come to love traveling by sea. Darak managed a sickly grin. Given eternity, he would never enjoy it. He only hoped a man could get around the Forever Isles on foot.

Illait strode down to the beach to welcome them. A small, wiry man with a face given to flushing red with either anger or delight, Darak remembered him mostly as a voluble speaker at the Gatherings, haranguing the northern chiefs about their negligence regarding the raiders. But his face creased in a smile when he saw his visitors.

"Darak. This is a surprise. What brings you to our village? Never mind. That'll wait. Come inside. You look like you could use a drink."

Illait gave him a comradely punch. Fortunately, it was his right arm; the left still ached from the raider's arrow; ten days of stinging salt water hadn't helped.

"Northerners aren't much good on the sea. No shame in it. Takes a while to get used to the pitch of the boat. Up and down. Back and forth."

Darak swallowed down his rising gorge.

"You're lucky you had such good weather. When a storm's brewing, the currachs are tossed about like barley husks at the threshing."

Darak excused himself politely and strode behind the nearest hut. When he returned, he found Illait grinning with delight.

"Holly-Chief, I think I'll have that drink now."

He let Urkiat do most of the talking. Not daring to test his stomach with brogac or wine, he accepted a cup of water from Illait's daughter Sariem and contented himself with nibbles of barleycake while Illait and Urkiat wolfed down fresh venison and salmon. The smell of the fish nearly undid him. Seeing his distress, Illait's wife shooed Sariem outside with the untouched helpings and crouched beside the fire pit to stir herbs into a steaming bowl of water. The soothing fragrance of mint made him smile.

Jirra eyed him critically, but all she said was, "Husband. These men need a good day's rest before they'll be fit to travel."

"What? Oh. Fine." Illait waved a magnanimous hand. "Stay as long as you like."

"Thank you, Holly-Chief, but we can only spare one day." He was reluctant to spare even that, but Jirra was right. "Girn said we should seek your wisdom about the route to take from here."

Illait's chest swelled visibly. "You're safe enough till you reach Ailmin's village. That's four days south of here. More if the weather turns foul. After that, though . . ." He frowned. "Most of the villages have been abandoned. We've little contact with the others. But there are rumors . . ." The fire hissed as he spat into it. "Tales of those in the far south selling off strangers to the raiders."

"Nay!" Urkiat scrambled to his feet, breathing hard. "Pelts and hides, perhaps. But no tribesman would sell one of his own people to the Zherosi."

"Sit down," Darak said.

With a visible effort, Urkiat controlled his temper. "Forgive my rudeness, Holly-Chief."

"Well." Illait spat again. "As I said, they might only be rumors, but it pays to be cautious. This holy city where you think they've taken your boy-it's to the east?"

Darak nodded.

"The pa.s.ses will be open, but it's a fair climb over the mountains."

"We don't have that kind of time."

"Then keep on down the coast. If you skirt the villages by night, you should be safe enough."

"And if we go by currach?"

Illait looked skeptical. "Could you manage a two-man vessel, do you think?"

"I put in a little time at the oars. When I wasn't puking over the side."

Illait took a healthy swig of brogac. "Your best bet might be to make for the big port city. Can't remember the name. Sounds like gargling."

"Oexiak."

Illait gave Urkiat a sharp look. So did Darak. "Aye," Illait said. "That's it. Ailmin's folk used to carry furs there before the raids got so bad."

"Girn said you'd been attacked."

"Once. Last autumn. Killed my oldest girl and her husband." Illait glanced over his shoulder. "Hua never recovered."

The little boy hadn't stirred once since they'd entered the hut. Darak had a.s.sumed he was ill.

"Poor lad saw his mother and father cut down. The shock of it shattered his spirit. Even our Tree-Father can't restore him." Illait grimaced and took another swig of brogac. "Jirra and Sariem feed him. Change him when he soils himself. He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. I don't even know if he hears us. He just . . . lies there."

Like Ania after the bear mauled her. Or poor Pol who'd been kicked in the head by the ram.

Illait cleared his throat, frowning. "Forgive me. You came to me for help, and I'm burdening you with our troubles."

"We share the same troubles," Darak said. "Even the northern tribes understand that now."

"If only it didn't take a disaster to teach us wisdom. Oh, we set watches after the harvest, but they beached their boats farther down the coast and crept up on us in the dark. We nearly starved last winter. Soon as the spring thaw came, we built storage huts in the forest. If they come again, they'll go away empty-handed. And now, we keep watch for a mile around the village, day and night. Every person over the age of ten takes a turn. It's no way to live." Illait shook his head. "I thought Girn was a fool for tearing down his village. Now I'm thinking he was the smart one."

Jirra supported her grandson while Sariem dribbled broth into his mouth from a turtle sh.e.l.l. The boy's eyes stared past them, unseeing.

Darak added Hua to the growing list of the lost.

Chapter 18.

KEIRITH CLIMBED INTO the litter, floundering among the pillows until he managed a semblance of the Pajhit's elegant pose-half-sitting, half-reclining. The priest had given him no explanation for this excursion into the city, but he was too excited to care. Even if it meant skipping his morning lesson with Hircha, he might learn something valuable.

He pulled back the flaxcloth curtains, eager to see everything. The bearers carried them through the central courtyard and into the smaller one that led to the main gate. The soaring columns made him recall his parents' story of walking among the giant trees of the First Forest. Instead of mysterious Watchers, a stream of litters pa.s.sed between the columns.

A pillared walkway branched off from the one they were following. "The temple of Womb of Earth," the Pajhit told him, mercifully keeping the language simple. Like the temple of Zhe, the altar stood on a raised platform of stone, but there was a building behind it that resembled a large cairn.

The Pajhit said something he couldn't catch and then switched to the tribal tongue. "The priestesses still offer their moon blood to Womb of Earth at the dark of the moon, but we also make daily offerings of flowers, fruit, grain, or wine. At the full moon, the Motixa offers the afterbirth of newly delivered ewes to the G.o.ddess."

Perhaps that was why the land was so inhospitable. How could a priestess as old as the Motixa call it to fertility? Since it would be impolite to say so, he merely asked, "Do all your G.o.ds have temples?"

"The Changing One of the clouds has a shrine near the top of Kelazhat. Fishermen and sailors throw their offerings into the sea to honor and appease the Sleepless Sisters."

Just as the fishermen of his tribe offered the first of their catch to Lacha.

"The other G.o.ds have shrines throughout the city attended by a priest or priestess." The Pajhit rapped on the ceiling of the litter. Immediately, the bearers halted and set them down.

The Pajhit led Keirith to the edge of the plateau. Below them, Pilozhat was a patchwork of golden thatch and white walls. What had seemed an endless maze of streets on that long march to the slave compound was really an orderly grid, with paved avenues running roughly north to south and smaller pathways twisting between them. Low walls of rubble created a series of stepped terraces; he wondered if those had been built after the Long Winter to keep the earth from sliding into the sea again.

"Oexiak lies that way." The Pajhit pointed west where a road cleaved the browning fields like a spear. "It's our busiest port, far larger than Pilozhat."

Could he reach it on foot? Or did he have a better chance striking north through the hills?

"And that is the road to Iriku."

Keirith swung his attention east where a bridge spanned the river.

"It, too, lies on the sea. Most of its commerce comes from trade with Eriptos."

"The place with the golden cats."

The Pajhit smiled. "Yes. The marketplaces are open every morning except during religious festivals. The Fishmarket is self-explanatory. The Clothmarket-there-sells woven goods. At the Haymarket-off to the left-merchants sell different goods. Today, barley and millet, tomorrow, wine and ale. The craftsmen-potters, barrel makers, workers of precious metals-keep their shops in specific sections of the city. The tanners are on the outskirts where the stink is less offensive. Of course, we have our own craftsmen in the palace as well."

It was another example of the Zherosi pa.s.sion for organization, but he had to admit it made sense. With craftsmen cl.u.s.tered together, buyers could compare quality and prices. It was a far cry from his village where the "tanners" were five old women.

He squinted at the sea. The sun made it sparkle like Callie's quartz charm.

Don't think about home. Watch. Observe. Remember.

He eyed the dozens of small boats bobbing on the water and asked, "Are there many fishermen in Pilozhat?"

"Of course. The sea supplies much of our food."

He didn't dare ask where the boats were beached at night. Instead, he pointed to another marketplace near the bottom of the steps where a large crowd was gathering.

"What's that?"

"On most days it's the Fleshers Market, selling meat, game, hides, furs. At the half moon, it serves as the Plaza of Justice. Or as it's more commonly known, Blood Court. Condemned criminals are brought there for punishment or execution. Today, I'm overseeing a punishment. Not you," the Pajhit quickly added. "Come. We're late."

Keirith scrambled back into the litter, wondering why he had to witness this punishment, too. Before he could ask, the Pajhit said, "Brace your feet against the front and grab hold of the frame."

Even those precautions failed to keep him from jostling against the Pajhit as the litter lurched down the steps. He grimaced each time their naked arms touched. If the Pajhit noticed his distaste, he had the courtesy to say nothing.

Between the swaying curtains, he caught glimpses of people. They spoke too quickly for him to understand their words, but their excitement was clear. Some goggled at their litter, others paused to sketch a hasty bow, but most rushed headlong down the steps.

The street below was clogged with pedestrians, but as soon as their litter appeared, a pathway miraculously opened. People pressed against the walls, those in back craning for a glimpse of the Pajhit. Either they recognized his litter or they were just naturally curious to see the rich folks who had come to witness the punishment. Their expressions held curiosity and awe. Keirith wondered if any of them had ever been so close to the Pajhit before.

As the close-packed street gave way to the Plaza of Justice, he tried to calm his breathing.

I'm not being punished. It's just another test. If I survived the pit of adders, I can survive this.

The litter sc.r.a.ped against the paving stones. As the Pajhit emerged, hundreds of voices shouted a greeting. Keirith followed him up a short flight of steps to a raised dais shaded by a scarlet canopy. More than a dozen men and women, elaborately garbed and coiffed, sat on carved wooden benches. One man glanced at him, then at the Pajhit. He nudged his neighbor. Their dark gazes flitted over him. The first man's mouth curved in a knowing smile. He whispered something that made the other man chuckle.

Stone-faced, Keirith took a seat next to the Pajhit. The spectators had left a narrow path between their dais and another at the opposite end of the plaza. Two men flanked a long slab of stone. They crossed their wrists over their chests and bowed. The Pajhit raised his hand and every voice fell silent, save for the wailing of a babe somewhere in the crowd.

The Pajhit let his hand fall. A single drum throbbed in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Heads peeped out of tiny windows in the buildings surrounding the plaza. Boys and girls sat on the flat roofs, legs dangling. Suddenly, the crowd erupted in jeers and catcalls. Here and there, Keirith spotted a waving fist, but he had no idea what had caused the outburst.

"Who's being punished?" Too late, he realized he'd spoken the tribal tongue, but no one appeared to have heard over the deafening noise of the crowd.