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  “And now you’re thinking that you should get to the point of your visit.” He smiled. “Your face has always been easy to read, Griane.”

  “Forgive me, Tree-Father. I know you have preparations to make for the Ripening. I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so . . .”

  Oh, just be “refreshingly honest” and ask him, Griane.

  “Could you seek Keirith with your vision? Or Darak? I know they’ve only been gone a sennight, but—”

  “I’ve tried to find Keirith. He and I share a closer connection, so I thought it would be easier than seeking Darak. So far, I’ve had no success. I’ll try again, but visions cannot be commanded.”

  “At least I’d feel we were doing something. The waiting is hard.”

  “I know.”

  His face clouded. He had been the one left behind on the last quest, forced to wait and wonder what was happening to the man he loved more than anyone in the world.

  “I will seek Keirith again after the Ripening.”

  His promise helped Griane endure the rite. Once, it had been her favorite. The Freshening celebrated the retreat of ice from the streams and rivers, but the world was still locked in winter. The Balancing brought the lambing season, but was fraught with anxiety that a late winter storm could blow in and threaten the survival of the frail newborns. By the Ripening, winter had surrendered its hold on the land, which gratefully responded with an explosion of color and life: green shoots thrusting out of the soil, green leaves unfurling on the tree branches, the peat bog brightened by the pinks of cuckoo flowers and bogblossoms, and the forest festooned with carpets of bluebells, violets, and speedwell.

  For her, the rites had a more personal meaning. The Freshening recalled their return from the First Forest, filled with violent swings of emotions: reunions with friends and family marred by the absence of those who had died during their quest; the first tentative explorations of love shattered by Darak’s recurring nightmares and inability to find his place. When Darak went back to the First Forest at the Balancing, she wasn’t sure he would ever return. But he did, gaunt and haggard but more peaceful in spirit. Although it was customary to marry at either the Spring or Autumn Balancing, she refused to wait. They were married at the Ripening and within two moons, she was pregnant with Keirith.

  Celebrating the Ripening without Darak would have been hard enough; the losses suffered by the tribe cast a pall over the rite for everyone. They still sang the joyous song to welcome spring. They repeated the prayers as Gortin blessed three sea trout, the first of those returning to the lake before heading upstream to spawn. They marched to the lake as he returned one to the goddess Lacha in thanks for her bounty. But when Gortin sacrificed the second trout, wrapped it in oak leaves, and carried it into the barrow to feed the spirits of the dead, everyone recalled the ceremony days earlier when he had interred the ashes and bones of those killed in the raid. Men and women alike wept as they added stones to the cairn in memory of those they had lost.

  The ceremony at the heart-oak was equally fraught with emotion. Gortin’s voice cracked when he laid the third trout between two of the gnarled roots and thanked the sacred tree for watching over their people. Lisula’s hand trembled as she sprinkled the libation of water. The children who usually skipped around the tree, scattering blossoms of rowan and quickthorn, simply marched in silence behind their parents.

  As she did every Ripening, Griane lingered with the children to sprinkle water at the base of a rowan. It was her way of honoring her friend from the Summerlands, one of the ancient tree-folk who had helped her return to the First Forest after Fellgair abandoned her. She still preserved the sprig of blossoms Rowan had given her when they parted, the petals brittle now and brown with age.

  When she said a quick prayer and began plucking blossoms from a sprig, the children stared at her, round-eyed with surprise. She repeated her prayer, hoping the spirit of the tree would understand and forgive her.

  While the others returned to their huts to prepare the feast, she led the children back to the lake. They walked west along the shore. By the time they neared the channel, the ground rose too steeply for Callie to go farther, so she stopped and held out her handful of blossoms.

  “Throw a petal into the water,” she told them, “and say a prayer for Fa and Keirith.”

  “Is that like putting a stone on the cairn?” Callie asked.

  “It’s like . . . we’re sending our love to them. The river will carry the blossoms all the way to the sea.”

  “And the sea will take them to Fa and Keirith.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And they’ll know they’re from us?”

  “Aye.”

  “And that we’re thinking of them?”

  “They’ll know that anyway,” Faelia said.

  Griane shot her a warning glance. Faelia had retreated into sullen silence after her father departed. She spent some mornings in the fields, but more often, she disappeared into the forest, returning with squirrels or rabbits or wood pigeons that she tossed beside the fire pit, as if daring her to object. Griane said nothing. Since Darak’s departure, she had never seen Faelia weep, but her red-rimmed eyes told a different story.

  Together, they tossed the petals into the water and watched as they rolled back to shore.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Griane said as Callie’s face puckered. “Our prayers are on the water. Lacha will make sure they reach the sea.”

  “Will she tell them about the petals, too?”

  “Why don’t you throw the last one in and ask her?”

  Callie heaved the petal with all his might.

  “Quick now. Before it comes back.”

  “Lacha, goddess of lakes and rivers, please tell Fa and Keirith about the petals and that we’re thinking about them and we want them to come home soon and . . .” His voice trailed off as the petal drifted back. “Does it count, Mam?”

  “Aye. It counts.”

  “I’ll bring Lacha an offering every day. Just to make sure.”

  Callie smiled up at her, confident now that he had a plan. All she had was the hope of Gortin’s vision.

  The blossoms clung forlornly to the wet pebbles. Griane resolutely turned her back on them and led the children home.

  Keirith tiptoed to the open doorway of the Pajhit’s chamber. Outside, the guards continued their soft conversation. He could only hope they would remain where they were.

  The Pajhit had interrogated him all morning, his manner polite but distant. He seemed almost bored by the procedure, but at least that was better than the Zheron’s taunts. At midday, the guards had arrived to take him back to the small chamber where he had spent the night. The second round of questioning had scarcely begun when another priest arrived and the Pajhit left with him. Keirith had no idea how long he would be gone; he only knew he would have to act quickly.

  Light seeped through the woven draperies drawn across the other doorway of the chamber. Cautiously, he padded across the cool tiles toward them. He hesitated when he passed a dim hallway. It probably led to the priest’s sleeping quarters. Certainly there was no bedding in the main room, only a few stone benches against the walls and a low stone table surrounded by cushions. Tempted as he was to search for a weapon, he was afraid to linger that long.

  He drew aside the draperies. Instead of freedom, he found a walled enclosure. All he could see above it was the cloudless sky. Tall spikes of scarlet flowers nodded against the wall to his left. Stone benches flanked the others.

  He climbed onto the one in front of him and peered over the top of the wall. To his left, the glowering mountain thrust up into the sky. To his right, he saw a walkway flanked by giant pillars; unlike those he’d seen on his way to the slave compound, these were red. From the position of the mountain, he guessed the Pajhit’s chamber was on the opposite side of this fortress—or temple—from the compound. It was hard to be sure, though; his first impressions had been so clouded by exhaustion and fear.

  The walk
way led to a stepped platform also flanked by pillars. A smaller rectangular slab of stone squatted atop it. Was that where they offered sacrifices?

  With an effort, he shook off the disturbing thought and craned his neck to get a better view. The pillars offered some cover, but the ground was flat and open. A few scraggly bushes clung to the rocky soil. No houses and, surprisingly, no people. Perhaps they were hiding from the heat of the midday sun. With any luck, he would be gone by the time they emerged.

  The rubblestone walls of the fortress rose behind him. He’d be clearly visible from the row of windows above. There were probably more on the level below; the drop to the ground was nearly three times his height. But even if he was seen, he’d be halfway across the open ground before an alarm could be sounded. Assuming he didn’t break a leg when he jumped.

  Whispering a quick prayer to the Maker, he gripped the top of the wall. Wriggled the toes of his left foot into a chink between the stones. Took a deep breath and started to heave himself up.

  Something soft brushed against his ankle. As he spun around, he caught a blur of motion and spotted a small furry creature racing toward a bench at the far end of the enclosure. Before he could recover from his shock, a voice said, “I see you’ve met Niqia.”

  The Pajhit stood in the doorway, surveying him impassively.

  Keirith’s heart raced. Any moment the guards would rush in. Would they kill him on the spot or drag him, screaming and struggling, to the altar?

  The Pajhit’s gaze shifted to the creature crouched under the bench, lashing its tail. “An old friend suggested Niqia’s name. In honor of a . . . lady he used to know. She, too, had a soft body and sharp claws. The Tree People haven’t domesticated cats, have they?”

  Keirith shook his head.

  “Niqia’s ancestors were wildcats, much like those that still roam your forests. It’s been generations since any have been found in our kingdom. Did you know that you can hand rear wildcats if you take them as kittens before their eyes open? That’s how the first ones must have been domesticated. They were crossbred with the Eriptean golden cat. The mix produced a creature smaller than the true wildcat and more of a reddish gold in color, but with the same dark markings. Also, the tail is less bushy.”

  He paused, as if expecting some response, so Keirith nodded, all the while wondering why the man was lecturing him on cats instead of killing him for trying to escape.

  “Niqia’s fond of this garden. Although it does get intolerably warm in the afternoon. As you will have noticed. I assume you also noticed the temple?”

  Keirith finally found his voice. “Aye.”

  “It is sacred to Zhe, the winged serpent. The Zheron is his chief priest. I am the priest of Heart of Sky, our sun god. You cannot see his temple from here.”

  “Do you sacrifice captives there?” he blurted out.

  “Yes.”

  “Including the ones with red hair?”

  The Pajhit’s eyes narrowed, but all he said was, “We could continue this conversation inside. Unless you prefer standing on the bench.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Keirith hopped down.

  Someone had placed a small basket of flatbread on the table. There was also a bowl containing a brownish paste, another with creamy white stuff, and a shallow dish filled with pale green disks, each studded with a circle of white seeds. The Pajhit seated himself on a cushion and reached for a bronze pitcher.

  “The brown paste is jhok. Ground chickpeas and lentils.” Golden liquid flowed into a tall cup that reminded Keirith of a bluebell only it, too, was made of bronze. “Do you have them?”

  “Nay.”

  “Beans. Mixed with spices. You dip the bread in it. This is gyrt and those are kugi. Gyrt is made from goat’s milk. You don’t have goats either, I believe. They’re somewhat like sheep, but they have short hair instead of wool. Kugi are vegetables. They’re like . . . I can’t recall anything similar among your people. You dip them in the gyrt. Very refreshing.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Not right now. Sit, please. My neck is beginning to ache from staring up at you. And help yourself to the wine.”

  Keirith sat. He had no appetite and he was afraid to lift the pitcher for fear the Pajhit would see his hand shake.

  “Your story has been remarkably consistent. Either you’re telling the truth, or you’re an excellent liar. However, to assess the true extent of your gift, our spirits must touch.”

  Shocked by the sudden shift in conversation, Keirith could only shake his head.

  “I’m not suggesting that I enter your spirit. I require you to enter mine.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You did it yesterday. To the Zheron.”

  “I didn’t mean to . . . I mean, I did, but only because I was . . . angry.”

  “Now you’ll attempt to do so without anger.”

  “It’s . . . you don’t understand. My people don’t do that.”

  “Your priests touch the spirits of their tribe mates, do they not?”

  “Only the Tree-Father. For anyone else to do that . . . it’s an abomination. A sacrilege.”

  “So yesterday you committed sacrilege. As you did when you attacked the spirit of the warrior Kha.”

  “He was trying to kill me. Capture me.”

  “So it’s permitted to use this gift under duress?”

  “I . . . nay . . . I don’t know.”

  The Pajhit leaned forward. “Tell me this: if you had defended yourself with a dagger, would your people punish you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you’re not a warrior. You used the only weapon you had. True?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “You’ve only used this weapon against your enemies, not your own people.”

  His father’s scream echoed inside his head.

  “So,” the Pajhit continued in that same reasonable voice, “as you—presumably—consider me your enemy, and since I—definitely—am inviting you to enter my spirit, explain to me how that can be a sacrilege.” He leaned back, waiting.

  “I don’t . . . can’t you test me in some other way?”

  “I could enter your spirit. However, that would be . . . unnerving for you. It always is the first time, even when your partner is a trusted friend. To enter the spirit of another without permission, of course, would be tantamount to rape.”

  Keirith repressed a wince. “Why do you care if it’s . . . unnerving for me?”

  The Pajhit simply set his cup on the table and folded his hands.

  “I could hurt you,” Keirith said.

  “No. You couldn’t.”

  “I hurt the Zheron.”

  “Only because your attack was clumsy. Once he recovered from his initial shock—”

  “He pushed me out.”

  “No. You would have felt that.”

  Keirith went through the encounter again. Slowly, he said, “He shut himself off.”

  A very small smile curved the Pajhit’s mouth. “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “By erecting a protective shield. So you see, you could not hurt me if you entered my spirit.”

  It sounded like the same thing he did to block out the cries of a wounded animal. But the Pajhit was skilled enough to get past any pathetic shield he tried to erect. And then he would be able to peer into the most hidden parts of his being and learn all his secrets—who his parents were, what had happened on the boat.

  “What if I won’t agree?”

  “Then I’ll have to arrange a different test. One that is more dangerous.”

  “What . . . what sort of test?”

  The Pajhit sipped his wine. “I haven’t decided.”

  Keirith studied his smooth face and recalled the whispered conversation that had prompted the Zheron to change tactics and taunt him. The Pajhit knew exactly what test he would choose. He’d known from the beginning. His casual conversation about food and cats was merely a tactic to catch him off
guard, his reluctance to invade his spirit a sham, and his politeness a mask to hide his ruthlessness.

  “And if I fail the test?”

  The Pajhit’s silence was more eloquent than any words. But better to risk failure and die than betray his people—and himself—to his enemies.

  “When will you conduct this test?” His voice came out too loud, but at least it didn’t crack.

  “Tomorrow.” The Pajhit leaned forward. “Are you certain, Kheridh?”

  The priest pronounced his name with an odd slur that made it sound more guttural but strangely melodious.

  “Aye, Pajhit.”

  As he walked to the door, the Pajhit spoke his name again. Keirith turned to find him plucking a flower from a vase resting in a wall niche, the same long-stemmed ones he’d seen in the garden.

  The Pajhit walked toward him and held it out. “I believe the giving of flowers is customary among your people on this day.”

  The day you were condemned to die? Then he realized: it must be the Ripening.

  At home, they would be feasting on sea trout and oatcakes. Callie would run around the circle with the other little ones, showering people with petals of rowan and quickthorn. His mam’s uncle Dugan would drink too much brogac, and she and Jani would have to help him home, all the while scolding him for being too old for such behavior. Couples would sneak off to make love, pursued by the squeals and giggles of Faelia and her friends. And his father’s gaze would turn to the forest, and a hush would fall around the circle as he began the tale of the rowan and the alder that pulled up their roots and crossed the boundary from the First Forest to become the first woman and man in the world.

  To hide his emotions, he sniffed the flower and grimaced at the tangy fragrance.

  “Bitterheart,” the Pajhit said softly. When Keirith looked up, he nodded at the flower. “That’s what we call it.”

  They found a few stretches of beach that made for easy walking, but mostly, they had to pick their way through tumbled piles of boulders or reed-choked marshes. Darak knew he was not the same man who had guided his folk through the First Forest, but he’d always done his share of the physical labor around the village: cutting turf, plowing the fields, bringing in the harvest. Urkiat was half his age; it was foolish—and useless—to resent his stamina, but it still galled him that he was the one slowing the pace.