Bloodstone Part 53

Angrily swiping the tears from her cheeks, she limped after Hakkon.

PART THREE.

I seek but cannot find you.

I call but receive no answer.

Oh, beloved, beloved.

Would I had died for you.

Lament for the Dead

Chapter 42.

LIKE A NIGHTMARE, random images and sounds im pressed themselves on Hircha's consciousness: the horrible chorus of human and animal cries that came from the palace, echoed by others, faint but clear, from the city below; a lone priestess, rooted before a gaping wound in the ground where the temple of Womb of Earth had stood; a man crouched beside a fallen pillar, lifting the hand of the person crushed beneath it to his mouth. His head shook back and forth in a frenzy of grief. Only when she got closer did she realize he was trying to work a ring free with his teeth.

The clouds of dust had settled, revealing the capricious devastation the earthquake had wrought. Pillars rose up between those that had toppled. The eastern wall of the palace had collapsed, but the others still stood. However, smoke billowed from the north wing, smearing the pale blue of the sky with black.

Men and women clawed through the rubble. Others streamed through the south gate, most with only the clothes on their backs. A few dragged carts behind them, hauling whatever was left of their belongings, only to abandon them with wails and curses when they reached the edge of the plateau.

The steps that led to the city were gone. All that remained of the houses that had clung to the hillside was a heap of debris. The buildings closer to the sh.o.r.e had escaped destruction, but they were threatened by the flames licking eagerly at the thatch of the collapsed roofs. Lines snaked from the sea; people must be pa.s.sing buckets to control the flames before they engulfed the entire city.

She could not worry about Pilozhat's fate. She had to consider hers and Hakkon's and the Spirit-Hunter's whose head dangled limply against the big man's shoulder.

Incredibly, the stairway that led to the temple of the G.o.d with Two Faces was still intact, but it was clogged with refugees, shouting and shoving as they fought their way to lower ground. Amid the chaos, a woman stood immobile, barely covered by the shreds of her nightdress. As they pa.s.sed, she called out, "Have you seen my little girl? She was right beside me at the gate."

All the way down the steps, above the shouts and the curses and the weeping and the prayers, Hircha could hear that high-pitched voice calling, "Have you seen my little girl? Have you seen my sweet Shevhila?"

The temple of the G.o.d with Two Faces appeared unscathed. Outside, the tall figure of the Supplicant moved calmly through the crowd. A word, a touch, and the seething ma.s.s quieted. People paused to accept a dipper of water from her acolytes. In spite of her raging thirst, Hircha scuttled past with her head down, hoping Hakkon's bulk would shield her from the Supplicant's gaze.

It seemed like half of Pilozhat had taken refuge in the western fields. Some were dazed, some cradled the limp bodies of loved ones in their arms, but many were ripping up khirtas for bandages, tending to the wounded, sharing food and water. Squads of soldiers rounded up able-bodied men and women and marched them toward Pilozhat, probably to help fight the fires and dig out those trapped in the rubble. Hircha had to marvel at the efficiency of the Zherosi; it was almost like they knew the earthquake was coming.

As they neared the road to Oexiak, Hircha spied a pink tunic, incongruously bright among the dusty grays and tans. Olinio's querulous voice rose above the cacophony of shouts and moans. Soldiers tossed costumes, scenery, and sacks of belongings out of the cart, ignoring his shrieks of protest.

"My mother is dead. Must you steal from me, too?"

"We need the cart to carry the dead," a soldier explained patiently. "Shall we take them?"

Only then did Hircha notice the two bodies. Apart from a small cut on her forehead, the old woman looked unhurt; perhaps she had simply died of fright. The smaller body was covered with a bloodstained cloak.

"My mother was an artist. You expect me to allow you to throw her into a ma.s.s grave with . . . with n.o.bodies?"

"The bodies will be burned. But if you want to bury her, that's your business. As long as it's done soon." The soldier shrugged apologetically. "The heat. You understand."

Olinio's wail turned into a cry of astonishment when he finally noticed them. He exclaimed again when Hakkon lowered the Spirit-Hunter to the ground. "Oh, Hakkon. Thank the G.o.ds you're alive. And Reinek, too. If only Mother had been spared. And poor Bo. The bullock went wild and . . . oh, it was terrible, terrible. It trampled him. No, don't look. It's too awful. And Bep is missing."

Hakkon shook his head, his grim expression testifying to Bep's fate. Olinio threw up his hands and wailed again.

"Stop that noise!" Hircha ordered. Olinio broke off, his mouth hanging open. Before he could recover, she said, "The soldiers are waiting. Do you want them to take your mother or not?"

Olinio sniffed. "Take Bo. The little man there. But not my mother."

Two soldiers lifted the small body and laid it in the cart with surprising gentleness. As they dragged the cart away, Olinio stared down at his mother. "Why didn't she listen to me? If we had left last night . . ." His voice trailed off in a sob.

"Your mother is beyond pain. I know you don't want to leave her, but Hakkon and I have to get the . . . Reinek out of the city. We didn't save him from the Zheron's knife to have him recaptured."

Olinio gasped. "You disrupted a sacrifice? Are you mad? The Zheron will have your heads."

"The Zheron has other things to worry about."

For now. But the Spirit-Hunter had witnessed Keirith's murder and possibly the Pajhit's. Xevhan could never allow him to live.

Olinio drew himself up. "I must arrange a proper rite for my mother. With a priest to officiate. And chanting. She'd like that." He turned to Hakkon, his jowls quivering. "I am shocked-shocked!-that you would tarnish the reputation of this company by engaging in criminal activities. And after all I've done for you! I shouldn't even permit you to remain in my employ. But given these uncertain times, I am willing to-"

He fell to his knees, his expression ghastly. Mystified, Hircha looked over her shoulder and saw the Supplicant moving steadily through the crowd. Although she stretched out her hands to touch those she pa.s.sed, her gaze remained fixed on them.

Olinio babbled prayers under his breath; even stoic Hakkon seemed nervous. Hircha just stood there, frozen, as the Supplicant approached. Her dark gaze swept over them to rest on the Spirit-Hunter.

"He is injured?" she asked quietly.

"He collapsed. After Keirith . . ." Hircha's voice cracked and she took a deep breath. "He's dead, lady. Keirith is dead. And Reinek . . ."

"Bring him to my temple."

"But we have to leave the city. At once."

Two small lines appeared between the Supplicant's brows. "Perhaps you misunderstood. That was not a request."

"Yes. Of course. Instantly," Olinio stammered. "You do us great honor, lady. Inexpressible honor. I am-"

"Speechless?"

Olinio pressed his lips together and nodded. The Supplicant turned to Hakkon. "You risked much to help him. I thank you. And I am sorry for the death of your friend."

Hakkon's mouth trembled as he nodded.

"Bep will receive a hero's welcome in the afterworld. He will eat of the finest fruits and drink of the finest wines. He will lie on the softest fleece, beneath a bower of the sweetest honeysuckle, beside a stream that flows with the purest water. And large-breasted beauties with skillful hands and knowing mouths will vie with each other to pleasure him."

The Supplicant winked. After a moment of stunned surprise, Hakkon nodded again.

"And when your turn comes to take that flight, you, too, will receive a hero's welcome. And there will be large-breasted beauties should you desire them. But your mother will be the first to welcome you. And when her hand clasps yours to lead you into the sunlight, you will finally be able to speak aloud the words of love you have carried in your heart these many years."

The tears filling Hakkon's eyes spilled over, carving pale tracks in his dirty cheeks. The Supplicant pulled his head down to her shoulder and held him while he wept. When he finally raised his head, she gave him a lingering smile and slowly walked away.

Olinio wiped his forehead, leaving grimy streaks on the sleeve of his tunic. "She must have taken a fancy to you when she saw you in Oexiak. If only I'd known. I could have arranged a special performance for her. Oh, well. Take Reinek to the temple. Be polite. Do whatever she asks. And smile, Hakkon, smile! You must learn to take advantage of unexpected opportunities when they-Here. You. Girl! What are you doing?"

Without interrupting her rummaging, Hircha said, "I'm looking for Reinek's pack." She dug a battered hide bag out of the pile of discarded supplies and held it up. "Is this it?"

"Yes. I think so. Urkiat's is there, too. Somewhere. Yes, that's it. I don't suppose you could take the rest of the things . . . ? Oh, never mind. I'll manage." His eyes gleamed. "The G.o.d with Two Faces is smiling on me again. Just as Mother predicted. And I didn't even have to spend money for an offering."

Chapter 43.

HE FLOATED IN A SEA of honeysuckle. Dimly, he sensed another presence, but it was too far away to trouble him. The summons disturbed his peace and he retreated deeper into the restful sea. When the summons came again, he bent his will on resisting it. A faint throb of resentment emanated from the other; it, too, preferred the peace and comfort of the honeysuckle sea. The third summons pulled him upward, overriding his desire to drift, overriding even the nameless terror he sensed lurking at the surface.

The sea disgorged him. His chest heaved with the effort of breathing. His muscles ached. And that was wrong. Frantically, he sought the sanctuary of the sea, but the voice commanded him to open his eyes.

The face of the Supplicant filled his vision. "Welcome back, Keirith."

A wave of nausea heaved him up. Cool hands grasped his arms, steadying him. As the nausea faded, memory returned. The piercing joy from his father's spirit when he first touched it, followed by the violent shock that threatened to shatter them both. The helpless terror of dissolution and the ferocious wrench as he was pulled back from the brink. And then plummeting into an abyss, as dark and bottomless as the Supplicant's eyes.

He tried to shake his head, but the effort was beyond him. The Supplicant eased him back on the fleece and took his hand. As she raised it, he squeezed his eyes shut.

"You must look."

Against his will, his eyes opened and he saw what he had feared. The antler tattoo, branching across the thick wrist. The scar, puckering the dust-grimed skin of the palm. The swollen stumps of the forefinger and middle finger that Morgath had sawed off in Chaos.

He had tried to comfort his father. Instead, he had killed him.

Grief roared through him and then an echoing surge of terror. He had only a moment to realize the terror was not his, another to recognize the other presence. Then his new body was torn from his control.

His father's spirit fought with mindless desperation, insensible of everything except his horrified belief that Morgath had taken possession of his body as well as his spirit. Keirith knew he should calm him, but the instinct for survival overwhelmed reason. Even the Supplicant's command failed to restrain him. His body convulsed as they battled. Desperate, he summoned his power.

"No! You will cast him out!"

Keirith's heart slammed against his ribs. The power continued to swell, as wildly uncontrolled as his thrashing body. Too late, he tried to call it back. A bolt of pure agony pierced him and he screamed, then screamed again as he felt the aftershock rip through his father's spirit. He was still screaming when his father vanished.

The Supplicant's voice spoke inside him. His body went limp. His scream faded. A shrill voice shouted something, but it came from outside his spirit and he could identify neither the speaker nor the words. He groped for his father and met an impenetrable wall. He battered against it, a b.u.t.terfly a.s.saulting stone.

His whimper of relief sounded loud in his ears.

The whimper crescendoed to an animal cry of fear.

Guilt filled him, overwhelming the fear.

Why are you helping us? You're a Zherosi priestess.

Who are you?

His spirit shuddered and shrank away.

Why should I believe you?

He felt something that might have been exasperation.

There was a pause and then he felt the voice again, still soft, but far more gentle and unquestionably masculine.

The wall prevented him from sensing his father's responses. Unless it was a trick.

It was as if the Trickster kept them isolated in separate rooms, able to hear and speak to both of them, while they could only communicate with him.

There was a brief pause.

Another pause, longer than the first.

Another flash of exasperation, this time directed at his father.

The tiniest c.h.i.n.k cracked open in the wall. For a panicked moment, he felt nothing and wondered if his father refused to touch him. Obeying the Trickster's instructions, he quelled his anxiety, remembering how it had been when he and Malaq shared a connection. But instead of Malaq's gentle probing, a wild torrent of emotions and thoughts poured through the gateway. He touched uncertainty and fear and a tremulous determination, but stronger than any of these was the sense of delirious relief.

I'm here, Fa. I'm all right. I didn't mean to hurt you.

That was all he managed before his father disappeared. Although he knew Fellgair had simply closed the gateway, his panic resurfaced. Again, he mastered it, but the effort left him exhausted. With his remaining strength, he willed himself to surrender his father's body.

He drew his breath in. His father let it out. Keirith could feel the heaving chest and the beating heart, but the sensations came from a great distance. It was stranger still to hear his father's voice murmuring his name, feel his father's fingers clenching and unclenching in the fleece, and be helpless to make the sound or the movements.

And will my father . . . will he know what I'm feeling?

Before he could prevent it, the emotions flooded him: the helpless terror of the rape, the sickening joy of the castration, the guilt of Urkiat's death, and the growing horror of the half-life that stretched ahead of him. Only now did he begin to grasp the implications of his rescue. The endless vigilance required lest their most private thoughts and emotions be laid bare to each other. The impotence of being locked in a body he could never possess-feet moving without his volition, mouth opening to receive food he couldn't taste. Every private act of his father's exposed-when he p.i.s.sed, when he moved his bowels, when he . . . dear G.o.ds, what about his mam? His father's lips kissing her, his father's hands touching her, his father's . . .

The Trickster's presence filled him, bathing him with the calm and peace of the honeysuckle sea. But instead of retreating into that restfulness, Keirith fought.

Let me go.