Bloodstone Part 57

"It wasn't just the resemblance." The Khonsel's voice was flat and unemotional. "In the beginning, maybe. But he wouldn't have risked so much if that's all it was."

When he trusted his voice, Keirith said, "Thank you. For saying so."

"The stubborn old fool would come back and haunt me if I let you think otherwise." A brief smile, surprisingly tender, softened the lined face. It vanished as he c.o.c.ked his head, listening. "That'll be Geriv with the food. We'll eat here. Too many people coming and going. It would be better if they thought the Zheron was still ailing."

Geriv arrived with a platter. After he laid it on the floor, he left, only to return moments later with cus.h.i.+ons. In his wake, a familiar figure slunk along the wall.

"Niqia!"

At the sound of his voice, her ears went back and her mouth opened in a soundless hiss. She skittered under the stool and crouched there, tail las.h.i.+ng furiously. Keirith swallowed down the lump of disappointment; of course, she wouldn't know him anymore.

"I found her at the temple. Nearly shredded me when I tried to pick her up." The Khonsel scowled at the scratches on his arms, then settled himself on a cus.h.i.+on with a grunt. "As if I don't have enough to do without playing nursemaid to a d.a.m.ned cat." Gingerly, he picked a piece of meat out of one bowl and tossed it toward her. "Sit, Geriv. Even you have to eat. And pour us some wine. Thank the G.o.ds that was spared." He drained his cup in a few thirsty gulps and refilled it from a dented bronze pitcher. "Now. Start at the beginning."

"What about my father?"

"Later."

"But-"

"Later."

His tale was interrupted a dozen times by the endless stream of visitors coming to see the Khonsel: soldiers making reports, slaves bearing messages from someone called the Stuavo; healers arriving with updates on the queen's condition. Keirith eavesdropped shamelessly on their conversations and grew increasingly impressed with the Khonsel's efficiency; no wonder Malaq admired him.

"How bad is it?" he asked after the Khonsel returned from yet another interview.

"Only three hundred dead. So far. We're still digging bodies out of the rubble."

Only three hundred.

"It would have been worse if I hadn't had the district closest to the palace hill evacuated." The Khonsel smiled wearily. "I came to the pit that night."

"I know. I heard your voice."

"The Qepo said he'd never seen the adders so wild. I didn't want to wait and see what you learned." He started to spit, then restrained himself. "Never been much of a man for magic. The queen refused to evacuate the palace, but I took a few precautions on my own. Ordered the s.h.i.+ps out to sea. Moved the oil and flammable supplies out of the storerooms. Had the fires in the kitchen put out." This time he did spit. "If the d.a.m.ned priests didn't insist on lighting incense and candles when they pray, we might have prevented more fires. Still . . ."

He waved away the priests and their rituals impatiently and gulped more wine. "The palace district was pretty much destroyed. What the earth didn't take, the fires did. But at least some of the wells were spared. And none of our other cities suffered major damage, thank the G.o.ds. I've sent birds requesting food, water, supplies, but it'll be another day before the first s.h.i.+pments arrive. Womb of Earth, spare us from more aftershocks."

"More?"

"You were asleep. Just a bit of a rumble. But it gave people a scare." He broke off as Geriv came in to murmur something. "No other incidents of looting? Good. Commend your brother. And then come back. We have other matters to discuss."

"What happens now?" Keirith asked after Geriv left.

"We rebuild."

"But the king . . . and Malaq . . ."

"The queen lives. New priests will be appointed to replace those who were lost. We still have the Supplicant." The Khonsel shook his head in wonder. "Hers was the only temple undamaged in the earthquake. The G.o.d with Two Faces looks after his own."

Certainly, Fellgair wouldn't tolerate any damage to his beautiful temple.

"But the adders . . . without them, you cannot make qiij."

"We'll capture more. As we've done in the past. An earthquake topples buildings, boy. Not kingdoms." The Khonsel shot him a keen look. "Does that disappoint you?"

Keirith took advantage of Geriv's return to gather his thoughts. "I did not want people to die. Good people. Innocent people. But-"

"Like the Motixa."

Keirith winced. "Yes. She was innocent. But my people are innocent, too. You steal them, sacrifice them, turn them into slaves."

"Is that why you didn't tell anyone the earthquake was coming?"

"But I do-did-tell the Qepo."

"Not when. Not how bad."

"I only knew soon. Not how bad." The Khonsel watched him, waiting. "Not . . . so bad as this."

"And would you have said anything if you'd known it was going to be 'so bad as this'?"

He started to say, "Of course." The words died under the Khonsel's relentless stare.

He could protest that his father was going to be sacrificed, that he hoped he might have a chance to escape when the earthquake struck-that all the captives might have a chance. He could claim that, even if he had spoken up, the queen would have sacrificed his father and then sent him to the altar stone as well. But why tell the Khonsel what he must already suspect?

"I do not know if I would have said anything. I think . . . no."

The Khonsel refilled his goblet. "So. What would you do with him, Geriv?"

"Kill him," Geriv replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "He's dangerous."

And no one would ever know. Only Geriv and the Khonsel had seen him.

The Khonsel leaned forward. "You wanted to die. Earlier."

Nothing escaped the man. "Yes."

"Does it sicken you so much to be in his body?"

The snakes on his forearms sneered at him. "Yes. But . . . it is more than that. Among my people, it is a crime to cast out the spirit of another. A terrible crime."

"And what would your people do to a man who had committed such a crime?"

"Kill him." His voice sounded as emotionless as Geriv's had.

"There's another choice," the Khonsel said. "Everyone thinks you're the Zheron. You could become him. Quite a rise in fortune. You might even fulfill Malaq's dream of peace between our peoples."

"First you want to kill me. Now you want me to stay and be the Zheron?" He waited for the Khonsel to smile, but his expression remained serious.

As impossible as it sounded, he realized it might work. A head injury would explain his fractured Zherosi. He could cite the earthquake as a sign of the G.o.ds' displeasure, use it to halt-or at least decrease-the sacrifices. But could he stop the raids? As long as the Zherosi needed slaves to work their fields and timber to build their s.h.i.+ps, their eyes would turn north.

Together, he and Malaq might have been able to do it. But alone?

The seductive song of power whispered through him. He could change the policies of a kingdom. He could protect his people. He could use his gift for good. But the song also carried the memory of the triumph that had coursed through him as he battled Xevhan, the pleasure of eradicating his defenses, of destroying his tenacious hold on life. That was his power, too.

He had cast out the spirit of a man. The village elders might accept that he had done so to protect himself and his father, but Morgath had been sentenced to death for less.

His fist pressed against his chest as if that could stifle the yearning that rose up in him. Even if it meant his death, he wanted to see the eagles soaring over the lake and breathe the scent of peat smoke in the air. He wanted to walk into the village of his birth, where every hut was familiar, every face known. More than anything, he wanted to see his mam again, and Faelia and Callie and Conn. He wanted to go home.

"Thank you, Khonsel. But the Zheron is dead."

The Khonsel nodded once as if satisfied.

"Another test?" Keirith asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The Khonsel shrugged.

"And if I failed?"

"I would have been forced to break my promise to Malaq," the Khonsel replied evenly.

"Even if he came back to haunt you?"

"Yes. Geriv is right. You are dangerous. And because of you, Malaq is dead. But I made him a promise and as long as you don't pose a threat to my people, I intend to keep it."

"Then . . . you will help us? My father and me?"

The Khonsel's expression hardened. "Tell me something first. Did he suffer?"

Keirith flinched. "The first moment . . . when the dagger goes in . . . that is bad. But after-"

"Not Malaq."

And then he understood.

"He knew he was going to die. That nothing could save him-not power or pleading or qiij. I ripped his spirit apart and shredded it and hurled the pieces of him into the Abyss. He felt it all. And he died screaming."

The Khonsel let out his breath slowly. "Thank you."

Chapter 46.

FELLGAIR HAD DESERTED him. Hakkon was dead. And Keirith . . . gone. The Zheron had been alive when they took him away, but Darak had no way of knowing who had won the battle. He'd tried to tell the man in charge-the Khonsel-everything that had happened, but it was impossible to tell whether the man believed him. And now, more than a day had pa.s.sed and he'd heard nothing.

The Khonsel hadn't forgotten about him, though. His guards still lingered in the temple. After a day of enforced inactivity, half of them sprawled on the floor, sleeping. The rest slumped against the wall, barely glancing in his direction.

Hircha had retreated into silence, but she'd watched him all day and half the night. Finally, he'd told her to get some sleep. She was lying near him with her eyes closed, but the tension in her body revealed her wakefulness.

Grief and rage had faded, leaving him numb. He ate to keep Hircha from nagging him. He drank-more than he should-to numb himself further. And waited, disinterested, to learn what his fate would be.

Since taking in Keirith's spirit, events had spiraled out of his control. His feeble efforts to help his son repel the Zheron had been worthless, his attempt to keep Keirith from pursuing the man even more so. He could not help Keirith now, but he might be able to intercede for the girl.

The guards stirred, kicking their comrades awake. Only then did Darak hear the tramp of feet. By the time the Khonsel strode through the doorway, the guards were standing at attention.

Hircha shot him a wild look before she managed to compose her features. The Khonsel rapped out a command and the guards saluted and withdrew. As soon as they were gone, two others marched in, grim-faced and silent. They took up positions on either side of the doorway as the Khonsel strode toward him, his expression equally grim.

Darak rose. If he was going to be sentenced to death, he preferred to receive the news on his feet. The Khonsel glared at him, but his voice was very soft.

"The Khonsel wants no outbursts." Hircha's voice shook as she translated. "Nor displays of emotion."

Keirith was dead.

"You are to listen to what he has to say and obey his orders without question. Do you understand?"

His boy was dead.

"Darak. Do you-"

"Aye."

The man's eyes held his. He spoke low and fast. The only emotion he betrayed was a frown at Hircha's sudden intake of breath.

"The Khonsel says . . ." Her voice cracked. "Keirith is alive."

The Khonsel began speaking again, but Hircha's translation became a meaningless flow of words. Alive. Merciful Maker, he was alive. Hircha was shaking his arm. He knew he must listen to her, but his mind was adrift in joy. No outbursts? No displays of emotion? Dear G.o.ds, did the man think he was made of stone? His boy was alive.

He covered his face with a shaking hand and fought for control. "Wait. Please. Start again."

Slowly, patiently, she repeated what she had just told him. This time, though, he found himself recalling Keirith's words: "Sooner or later, I'll cast out the spirit of a man. As Morgath did." "Sooner or later, I'll cast out the spirit of a man. As Morgath did."

From the moment they had carried the Zheron out, he had known it was a possibility. G.o.ds, he had even prayed for that outcome. Keirith was his son. The Zheron had meant to destroy him, to destroy them both. But still an instinctive shudder of revulsion raced through him at an act that was the ultimate subversion of nature.

An act I drove him to. For didn't I subvert nature when I called him back from death? At that moment, I sentenced him to committing this sacrilege-or remaining trapped inside my body until he could bear it no longer and fled into oblivion.

Hircha's urgent whisper brought him back. "I'm sorry. I . . . what were you saying?"

"I said Keirith is dressed as an ordinary priest. He's waiting with Geriv-the man with the eye patch-in a cove west of the city where a fis.h.i.+ng boat will take you to Oexiak. The two guards by the door know the place. They are Geriv's brothers, but they don't know the truth. You are just a valuable slave who must reach his master before he sails. Do you understand?"

He had to make her repeat it all again. The words made sense, but he simply couldn't believe them.

"Darak. There's little time. The boat leaves at dawn."

It could be a trap. But why would the Khonsel craft such an elaborate lie when he could simply execute him?