Bloodstone Part 30

FOR DAYS, KEIRITH did little but go over the events of the last sennight. He felt like an animal caught in a snare; any move would only tighten the noose around his neck. The Pajhit's words, so similar to his father's, echoed in his head: "Trust your instincts. Your observations." "Trust your instincts. Your observations." Words that applied equally well to both the hunter and the hunted. Words that applied equally well to both the hunter and the hunted.

Perhaps it was because he thought so much about his father that he dreamed of swimming in the lake with him. They dove deep, squinting at each other through the murky water. Hands clasped, they floated together, enjoying the silence and serenity. But then something pulled him to the surface.

He woke to hear his mam calling his name, her voice as clear and strong as if she sat beside him. Still half asleep, he sat up, looking around the hut for her. Only when he saw the walls of stone and the guards, silhouetted in the doorway, did he remember where he was. He lay back on his fleece, hoping they would think his shivering came from cold instead of fear. And in the morning, he walked into the Pajhit's chamber and, with a calm he did not feel, laid out his bargain.

"I'll tell you everything I know about my gift, teach you everything I've learned about the way a shaman works with a spirit guide. I . . . I'll even let you touch my spirit if it's the only way for you to understand. But in return, I want your oath that I may go home."

"To a people who view your gift as an abomination? Who would sacrifice you for using it?"

"Your people would sacrifice me as well."

The Pajhit conceded that with a reluctant nod.

"I want to go home."

"Very well. You have my oath. Once I've learned what I need to know, I'll help you leave Pilozhat. If you still wish to go."

And so he became the teacher and Malaq his student. Keirith taught him the lessons he had learned as an apprentice: stillness, emptiness, control. Every afternoon, they sat together in Malaq's bedchamber while he struggled to master these skills. Without the crutch of qiij, it was impossible for him to slip the bonds of his body, but there were also distractions that broke his concentration: priests calling him to meetings to organize the festival called The Shedding; the Master of Zhiisti wailing about some dispute among his students; or simply the brush of Niqia's fur against his hand.

"It takes time," he a.s.sured Malaq. "Be patient."

In the evenings, Malaq became the teacher again. "Shielding will not cast someone out of your spirit, but it will prevent him from searching it. And for two spirits who wish to commune, shielding keeps them from . . . bleeding together."

"Is that dangerous?"

"It can be-if the spirits touch for a long period of time. Think of the shield as a wall. Partners whose spirits are touching can make the wall as strong as they wish. The more permeable the wall, the greater the connection. And the deeper one spirit may probe another."

It raised all Keirith's old fears. Until he mastered the technique of shielding, he would be vulnerable.

"I know you fear what will happen when our spirits touch. But I promise you, I will go no deeper than you permit me."

The first time he felt the delicate brush of Malaq's spirit, he instinctively pushed him away. Although Malaq withdrew immediately, Keirith was too drained by the experience to try again until the following evening. This time, he forced himself to withstand the shock of the initial intrusion. Within moments, Malaq's presence faded until it was barely perceptible.

It was like sharing thoughts with the eagle, except Malaq's were much fainter.

Instead, he blasted a hole through it. The next night, however, he did a little better. The hardest part was learning to restrain his power, allowing it to unfurl as gently as he had when he touched the eagle. When he apologized yet again for his clumsiness, Malaq looked at him in astonishment. "It takes some Zhiisti a moon to master the rudiments of shielding."

After that, though, they had to stop the lessons; three nights of using qiij sapped Malaq's energy. When he recovered, Keirith resumed his instruction, but Malaq was fretful at his continued failure.

"We just haven't found the right tools to help you," Keirith a.s.sured him. "Sometimes, the Tree-Father gazes into the smoke of a fire. Or into a bowl of water."

They gave up on the bowl of water after Niqia began drinking from it.

"A polished stone?" Keirith suggested.

After some hesitation, Malaq removed one from the small altar in his bedchamber, a palm-sized disk of greenish-black stone, speckled with red.

"Concentrate on the red blotches," Keirith said. "Just let yourself fall into them. Become part of the stone."

The first time, the trance lasted only a few moments, but Malaq was as excited as an apprentice, swearing that the specks had formed the shape of two wings. "What does it mean?"

"What do you think it means?" Keirith replied, just as the Tree-Father would have.

"I think it was you. You were the wings. Carrying me to a new realm of knowledge." Then Malaq recovered his customary reserve and added dryly, "Or perhaps it was only the pheasant I had for supper."

They laughed together, giddy with the success and the shared bond of power. Malaq was still chuckling when Keirith rose.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired. Excuse me."

The next morning, he went back to the Pajhit's chamber and told him he wanted to observe a sacrifice.

"May I ask why?"

"I . . . I just need to."

"Very well. I'll have the guards bring you to the temple of Zhe before dawn."

"Nay." Keirith swallowed hard. "I wish to see a sacrifice to Heart of Sky."

All expression fled Malaq's face. "As you wish."

It was still dark when he left the palace, but already the corridors were bustling with slaves carrying platters of food, and anonymous officials ducking into storage rooms. None of them even flinched when they heard the awful blast of the horn, but then they must have heard it thousands of times before.

Torches blazed near the steps of the temple, illuminating the shadowy figures standing at the altar. Behind the temple, Kelazhat's looming ma.s.s was black against an azure sky striped with rose and gold clouds.

Malaq stood atop the platform with two other priests. A band of bronze circled his forehead. A shimmering cloak in shades ranging from pink to ruddy red cascaded over his golden robe.

Keirith's guards halted directly before the platform. The guttering torchlight made it difficult to decipher Malaq's expression. He probably knew why he had insisted on coming here today. Perhaps he considered it another test. And it was. Only this time Keirith was testing himself.

It had come to him so clearly in that moment of shared laughter. He liked teaching Malaq and was eager to learn the skills Malaq could teach him. He enjoyed sharing his gift with another who accepted and admired it, who accepted and admired him. He was losing himself in the lessons and the fellowship and the sense of belonging. Today's sacrifice would remind him that he was still a prisoner, still an outsider-always an outsider-among the enemies of his people.

His stomach roiled when the horn bellowed again.

Please, Maker. Don't let it be someone I know.

He had watched the Tree-Father slit the throat of a bullock each Midwinter, the throat of a young ram each Midsummer. He had watched the blood spurt into the sacred bowl, smelled its hot, salty-sweet scent. But he had never watched a man lying helpless on a slab of rock as a dagger carved open his chest.

When he heard the footsteps, he resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder and stared straight ahead. The polished stone of the altar gleamed in the torchlight. It was the same greenish-black color as the stone Malaq had used to help him fall into a trance. Only now, the red blotches looked like spatters of blood.

The captive stumbled up the steps, supported by two guards. The man must be drugged, just like the three who'd been castrated. The guards staggered a little as they eased him onto the stone slab; the man was big and the drugs made him ungainly. The guards pulled his arms over his head and took a firm grip on his wrists. Two others stepped forward to seize his ankles. The man's head turned to watch them and Keirith let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding: the victim was a stranger.

The Pajhit lifted the bronze dagger skyward. The man hummed a hoa.r.s.e little counterpoint to the priests' chanting.

Maker, let it be quick. Don't let him suffer.

Keirith never knew if it was the chanting or the billowing smoke or the sweet-scented oil in which the torches had been dipped. All he knew was the sensation of falling and rising at the same time, every sense sharpened by the impending sacrifice that unfolded with dreamlike slowness.

The man's pale skin blushing as the first rays of the sun bathed him. The momentary flash of the dagger as it darted like a swallow, first from breastbone to belly, then across the ribs. Rivulets of blood like tiny red waterfalls. The scent of it, hotter than the summer breeze. The body arching in agonized protest, then collapsing back onto the slab. Two hands reaching into his chest. Another dagger, quick and delicate as the zigzagging flight of a minnowfly. The heart, redder than the newly risen sun, weeping its lifeblood through the fingers that raised it skyward.

But it was no longer a stranger's face that stared open-eyed at the Pajhit. Even as Keirith watched, the features shifted: the nose becoming more prominent, strands of gray sprouting among the dark hair, pockmarks blistering the cheeks.

And then the head turned. His father's eyes, gray as a Midwinter sky, stared down at him. His father's lips, spattered with his heart's blood, moved. And his father's voice, softer than the hiss of an adder, whispered, "You have murdered me."

Chapter 25.

GRIANE WAS Sc.r.a.pING Faelia's uneaten stew back into the pot when the bearskin twitched aside to reveal Gortin hovering in the doorway. "Forgive me for intruding on your meal."

"Nay, we were . . ." Her voice trailed off. "You've had a vision."

He nodded. His grim face told her it was bad. With an effort, she kept her voice calm. "Faelia, take Callie to Ennit's."

"Is it about Fa?"

"Go to Ennit's."

"I have a right to hear."

"Don't talk back!"

"It's not fair," Faelia muttered, but she tossed her braid over her shoulder and pulled Callie out of the hut, without so much as a nod to Gortin.

"Forgive my daughter's manners, Tree-Father. Please sit down." Mouthing the niceties gave her a chance to reclaim her composure.

"Before I begin, I must warn you that visions are . . . chancy. You can never be entirely certain of their meaning. The best you can do-"

"For mercy's sake, stop dithering and tell me what you saw!" Immediately, she stammered out an apology, but Gortin just shook his head and took a deep breath.

Oh, G.o.ds, don't let them be dead.

"I saw Darak. Lying on a slab of stone. An altar . . ."

Gortin's voice droned on. He probably thought his calm would steady her, but somehow, his lack of emotion made the images even more horrifying.

"You think Keirith has killed his father?"

"Nay!" Gortin looked shocked. "Visions-"

"Are chancy. Aye."

"-reveal what might happen as well as what will happen. I might have touched Keirith's nightmare. Or one of his visions. Or it may simply be a warning that Darak will face great danger in the holy city. He couldn't have reached it yet. It's been only a moon since he left."

"Only a moon."

"I know it must seem longer to you, but I beg you not to lose hope. If Darak could walk out of Chaos, he will surely return to us."

"Of course."

"I'm sorry, Griane. Perhaps I should have waited until I had better news."

"Nay. You were right to come. I thank you." She rose on shaking legs. If she had to make polite conversation any longer, she would scream.

Gortin rose as well, quickly tracing a sign of blessing on her forehead with his thumb. "As soon as I see anything more . . ."

"Thank you, Tree-Father. Good night."

Griane waited to leave the hut until she trusted herself to face her children and lie. It amazed her that the earth was still solid beneath her feet, that the western sky still blushed pink. Outside Ennit's hut, she took a deep breath, praying that neither her face nor her manner would betray her. Even before she straightened, Faelia was on her feet.

"It was nothing," she said. Her voice sounded appropriately disgusted. "Just some strange ritual. Even Gortin couldn't make sense of it."

"Was Keirith there?"

"Aye. And a bunch of priests."

"What was he doing?"

"Watching a sacrifice."

"What kind of sacrifice?"

"I don't know, Faelia!" Too sharp, her voice was too sharp. "A lamb, perhaps. I asked Gortin over and over again, but he could only say that visions were chancy, that the things you see often mean something else."

"So what did the lamb mean?" Callie asked.

"That . . . Keirith feels young. And helpless. Maybe the lamb reminded him of home."

"Or maybe Conn was the lamb," Callie said. Then he gasped. "But that means something awful's going to happen to him."

"Nothing's going to happen to Conn," Ennit a.s.sured him. "More likely, Gortin had lamb stew for supper and it didn't agree with him."

Thank the G.o.ds for Ennit. Callie was smiling now, although Faelia continued to study her. When she opened her mouth to pose another question, Griane said, "It's getting late. Ennit needs to get the girls to sleep."

She shooed Callie and Faelia out of the hut. She could hear Callie chattering about lamb stew and Faelia telling him all he ever thought about was his stomach. Griane closed her eyes, grateful for the ordinary sound of quarreling. Then a hand grabbed her arm.

"Ennit! Good G.o.ds, you gave me a fright."

"What did he really see?"

"I told you-"