Bloodstone Page 31

  Noticing that the last priest had finally given up his contemplation of the rock garden, Keirith said, “Please to explain to me the meaning of the rocks.”

  Together, they wandered toward it.

  “The spiral in the center represents our sacred adders.”

  “He knows about the qiij,” Keirith whispered.

  “The crystals represent Heart of Sky.”

  “I told him I took it from you. Not that you gave.”

  “The red stones represent Zhe.”

  “I said I do not remember my vision.”

  “And the black . . .”

  “But I do.”

  “. . . the black stones are Womb of Earth.”

  “I saw Malaq. Struck down by Zhe.”

  “And those . . . the ones placed at random . . . they represent the God with Two Faces.”

  “The god of changing fortune?”

  “Yes.” Xevhan gave him a hard look, then bowed his head as if in prayer. “We cannot talk here. Come to my chamber.”

  “He forbids me to see you alone again.”

  “Lose the guards.”

  “They follow me always.”

  Xevhan glanced up, noting the guards who loitered just outside the courtyard. These two had been assigned to him the morning after he recovered from the qiij. Keirith doubted Xevhan was the sort of man who noticed the faces of guards, but if he did, it would support his tale of Malaq’s displeasure.

  “I’m hosting an entertainment,” Xevhan whispered. “After The Shedding. Find a way to attend.”

  “But the Pajhit—”

  “Find a way to attend.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Keirith noticed another priest approaching and bowed to Xevhan. “Thank you, great Zheron, for your teaching.”

  Xevhan nodded absently and left the courtyard with the other priest without a backward glance. At least, he was intrigued. Whether or not he could keep him intrigued was another matter. Now for the second part of his plan.

  “I wish to speak with Khonsel Vazh do Havi,” he told his guards.

  The older one shook his head. “You don’t want to be bothering the Khonsel.”

  “Yes. Please. I do. Does the Pajhit forbid that I speak with him?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then please to take me there.”

  The guards exchanged glances. The younger one shrugged. The older one frowned, but finally said, “All right. But if you try anything foolish, I’ll knock you flat, Son of Zhe or not.”

  “That is fairness. Thank you.”

  The guards led him up the narrow stairway built into the corner of the palace. He’d never been on this floor. Scribes carrying clay tablets edged past harried-looking men in khirtas who argued vociferously as they strode through the windowless corridor. Rectangles of light from the doorways stretched across the floor. Most of the small rooms held only fleece pallets, lined up with typical Zherosi precision on the floor. A few contained collections of spears and swords. Although there were guards posted outside, he noted their location all the same.

  His guards paused outside a chamber where a line of men waited for admittance. Two men complained about the confusion. Another reminded them it was always this way right before The Shedding. Talk turned to the upcoming ceremony, but the men spoke too softly for Keirith to catch much of what they were saying. Clearly, they longed to witness the formal presentation after the rite, but that, apparently, was reserved for those with noble blood or a great deal of money.

  When they finally made it to the doorway, Keirith saw the Khonsel bending over a wooden table. Half a dozen men were gathered around him, making the chamber seem even smaller than it was. All were staring with apparent fascination at the hide that lay stretched out on the table. The men wore amulets on their chests and bands of bronze around their biceps. Some bands were wider than others—a symbol of power, perhaps. Certainly, the two with the widest bands talked more than the others.

  At one point, the Khonsel looked up. When their eyes met, he frowned and immediately returned to his examination of the hide. He jabbed his blunt finger at several places, talked briefly about “a coordinated assault” and “an overland sweep,” which made Keirith wonder if they were planning more raids on his people. Finally, the Khonsel rolled up the hide and thrust it at one of the wide-banded men. They all thumped their chests and bowed. Keirith dodged aside as they marched toward the doorway.

  The older of his two guards bowed very low. “Forgive this interruption, Khonsel, but the boy asked to speak with you.”

  The Khonsel methodically cracked his knuckles. “Leave us,” he said at last.

  “Forgive me, great Khonsel, but the Pajhit has given us orders never to leave the boy unattended.”

  “He won’t be unattended. He’ll be with me.”

  “Great Khonsel—”

  “Zhe’s coils, he’s not going to fly out the window. Wait outside.”

  The guards bowed and backed away. The Khonsel nodded to a young man with a patch over his left eye. “That’s all, Geriv. Tell the Stuavo what we’ll require.”

  Bundling up the remaining hides that lay strewn across the table, Geriv quickly departed.

  “Khonsel do Havi. Please to be listening—”

  “Not here.”

  Keirith followed him into the adjoining chamber. A well-worn rug lay in front of the sleeping shelf. A stool sat in one corner. The small window admitted little light at this time of day. The severity of the whitewashed walls was relieved only by a niche containing a vase with purple flowers. They seemed incongruous in the spartan setting—even more incongruous given what he knew of Vazh do Havi.

  The Khonsel seated himself on the sleeping shelf. “All right. Tell me. But keep your voice down.”

  Keirith took a deep breath, praying his grasp of the Zherosi tongue would be adequate. He told the Khonsel what he had seen at the sacrifice. He told him about the qiij and the vision. He told him about his conversation with Malaq and his subsequent conversation with Xevhan. With such a man, he thought it unwise to try and hide anything.

  Years of squinting into the sun had etched deep creases at the corners of the Khonsel’s eyes and the heavy lids made him look half asleep, but there was nothing sleepy about the dark eyes boring into his as if they would pierce his spirit.

  When he was finished, the Khonsel said, “Tell me again. From the beginning.”

  This time, when he completed his story, the Khonsel asked, “Why did you come to me with this tale?”

  “You are Malaq’s—the Pajhit’s—friend.”

  “How would you know?”

  “He does not eat with others. Only you. And you speak to him . . . it is different than others. Without the pretending.”

  The Khonsel grunted. “Did Malaq send you?”

  “No. He says there is no danger.”

  “Stubborn old fool.”

  “Yes. No. I mean—”

  “Why should you care if Malaq is in danger?”

  “He is . . . kind to me.”

  “And he’s an important man, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to stay on his good side.”

  “Excuse me, please?”

  “You think I’ll run to Malaq and tell him you came here. So eager to help. So trustworthy.”

  “I do want to—”

  “And then you’ll bind him to you so close he’ll never be free.”

  “I do not understand.”

  The Khonsel rose. “Get out.”

  “You must watch Malaq. Help him. Then I go.”

  The Khonsel was on him in three strides. Keirith stumbled back so quickly he slammed into the wall.

  “You dare give me orders?” the Khonsel demanded, thrusting his big face close.

  “Aye, you great bully!”

  The Khonsel reared back. Although he had spoken the tribal tongue, the meaning of his words was probably clear enough. He waited for the blow. Instead, the Khonsel laughed. “You’
ve got stones, boy. I’ll say that for you.”

  Keirith didn’t know what rocks had to do with anything, but he nodded politely. “Yes. Thank you. You are a man of stones, too.”

  “Big enough.”

  “Please. Malaq is your friend. You are an important man. You can keep him safe.”

  “Why do you care?” he asked again.

  Keirith took a moment to choose his words. He had to make the Khonsel believe him or he, too, would wave aside the danger. “He gives me his bed when I am sick. He feeds me broth. He thinks of the danger to me, but not of the danger to him. He says . . . he says I am good.” He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes to meet the Khonsel’s. “I am not so good. Oftenest, I am scared and not knowing who is a friend. Malaq says to trust my heart. My head. They say he is good. That you are his friend. And Xevhan is not.”

  The Khonsel’s smile made him look even more menacing. “And do your heart and head tell you that you are the Son of Zhe?”

  Even Malaq had never come right out and asked him. He found himself remembering the day he had freed the wounded rabbit from the snare and felt the terrified beating of its heart beneath his fingers. His heart was beating like that now.

  Maker, help me.

  He could evade the question as he had the first time the Khonsel confronted him, but he doubted a clever proverb would suffice now. “If I answer, I put my life in your hands. Into Malaq’s hands, I could put my life. But not—forgive me, please—not yours.”

  The Khonsel studied him for a long moment. “I didn’t think you were,” he said, as if he’d just admitted the truth. “Nor does Malaq. He said so the other night.”

  “He did?” His voice broke with surprise. “But—”

  “Enough. Get out.”

  “What about Malaq?”

  “I’ll watch his back. Same as I’ve been watching yours.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He made me promise. The night I met you.”

  Malaq knew he was not the Son of Zhe, but far from betraying him, he had asked his friend to protect him.

  “Go on. Get out. And don’t come to me again. It’ll only make Xevhan suspicious.”

  “But if something happens—”

  “Talk to Geriv. The young fellow with the eye patch. He’s my sister’s son. You can trust him.”

  “How do I find Geriv if I am needing him?”

  “He’ll find you.”

  Keirith got out of the chamber as quickly as his legs would carry him. The Khonsel’s smile left him with little doubt that his actions would be scrutinized more carefully than ever. And if he did anything to arouse his distrust, he’d have an enemy instead of a protector.

  Chapter 30

  DESPITE OLINIO’S ASSERTION that he did not tramp from one miserable village to the next, that was exactly what they did. Every evening, they unfurled their banner in another dusty town. Olinio’s troupe sang, danced, and recited to audiences who were as generous with their applause as they were stingy with their coins. More often than not, they received food and lodging as their payment.

  The players were the strangest assortment of people Darak had ever met. In addition to Hakkon, there was Rizhi, a beautiful blind singer even younger than Faelia; Bo and Bep, who had the burly arms and torsos of men but stood only as high as his belly; and Thikia, a hump-backed old woman who cooked their meals, sewed their costumes, and attended to any bruises, scrapes, and ailments that afflicted the company. Like Olinio, she spoke the language of the tribes. Darak wondered if they had been born in the north or simply acquired the tongue in their travels.

  “How long have you been with Olinio?” Urkiat asked her as they trudged alongside the cart that carried their possessions.

  “You’d do better to ask how long Olinio’s been with me.” Thikia grinned, showing astonishingly good teeth for one so old. “Forty years, we’ve been together. Since the day his father—may his cock stand as tall as a tree in Paradise—planted Olinio in my womb.” She laughed at their slack-jawed expressions.

  Everyone was expected to perform a variety of roles. In addition to serving as Olinio’s bodyguard and performing feats of strength for the audience. Hakkon cared for the bullock that pulled the cart, repaired the wheels when they cracked, and erected the cloth that served as scenery for the performances. Thikia supplemented her roles as healer, cook, and seamstress by playing the visionary prophet, the wise grandmother, and the wicked enchantress—often in the same play.

  “Change the wig, throw a cloak over your robe . . .” She shrugged. “People are easy to fool.”

  Olinio quickly decided that Urkiat would assume the heroic role because of his facility with the language. The club foot was abandoned in favor of red paint to highlight his scar. For Darak, he created a new character.

  “The Wild Man of the North. You will fight Urkiat—the gallant Zherosi warrior—who will, of course, slay you. You will be fearsome yet farcical, terrifying and tremendous. And it has the added benefit that you needn’t say anything—simply wave your club, growl, and die in agony. I don’t suppose you could foam at the mouth? Perhaps we can concoct something. Mother! Foam! And fur. The Wild Man needs fur!”

  Each midday, while the rest of the company lounged in the shade of the cart, he and Urkiat practiced their battle. “I feel like a fool,” Darak muttered.

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “Not for you.”

  Urkiat was clothed in an immaculate khirta and wore a headband of gold-painted leather. He held a wooden sword, also painted gold. Darak was still waiting for Thikia to finish his costume, but his ridiculous “club” looked suspiciously similar to the ones Bo and Bep wielded.

  They were the comical performers, juggling everything from fruit and balls to wine flasks and jugs. When a play called for an animal, they donned fleece or fur and crawled about on all fours. They engaged in mock battles with snakelike sacks of grain that they waggled lewdly at each other.

  “I’m sure your club won’t waggle half as much,” Urkiat assured him earnestly.

  Although Bo and Bep were ostensibly twins, they shared little in common save for their diminutive stature. Bo was Zherosi-dark, while Bep was fair-haired and blue-eyed. Bo was as sweet-natured as Bep was sullen. But it was Bep who coached Urkiat on lunges and thrusts, all designed to look terribly menacing without doing any harm. Nevertheless, Darak’s ribs were bruised after the first practice session and Urkiat nearly incoherent with apologies.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Darak said, repressing a wince as Thikia slapped a poultice on his side. “I just have to sidestep faster. We’ll try it again—on the morrow.”

  Only Rizhi was immune from the chaffing—good-natured and ill—of the others. Even Bep treated her with surprising tenderness, helping her on and off the cart, refilling her bowl at mealtimes, and shielding her from the boys who crowded around her after a performance. Although Darak couldn’t understand most of her songs, her clear, sweet voice could move an audience to tears during a ballad, while her wicked smile made them roar with approval at what he assumed were bawdy songs.

  Darak was shocked to learn that her parents had sold her to Olinio last autumn. She seemed perfectly happy with the troupe, making him wonder what kind of a life she had known before—and what kind of parents would sell their child.

  By the third day of their journey, the roads were packed with people heading for Pilozhat. Every performance was crowded with folk eager for some respite from the monotony of travel. Olinio announced that the time was ripe for the debut of the Wild Man of the North. After they pulled their cart into the parched field where they would perform, Thikia shoved a handful of fur at him.

  “What’s this?” Darak asked.

  “Your costume.”

  He dangled the small rabbitskin pouch by its two leather thongs. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “It’s no bigger than the bag I keep my charms in!”

  “It’s for holding other charms, Wild
Man.”

  “I can’t wear this,” he said, scandalized. “My arse’ll be hanging out for the whole world to see.”

  “That’s the idea.” Thikia licked her lips. “The ladies’re going to love you.”

  “Not when they see the scars on my back.”

  “Scars? Even better. You wait. After the performance, you’ll have to beat ’em off with your club.”

  “I’ll talk to Olinio.”

  “It was Olinio’s idea.”

  “But . . .” Darak turned to Urkiat who suddenly became very busy knotting his khirta around his waist. “I won’t do it,” he said firmly.

  “You will,” Thikia promised, just as firmly. “Or Olinio’ll leave you here with nothing but the clothes on your back. Assuming he doesn’t take those to pay for all the training you’ve received.”

  “Training? Waving a sack of grain and growling?”

  “Save your breath, Wild Man. If you want to get to Pilozhat, you’ll wear your furry little cock bag and keep your mouth shut.”

  Thanking the gods Rizhi couldn’t see him and Hakkon couldn’t comment, Darak ducked behind the painted backdrop to put the damn thing on. If Griane were here, she would be the one howling. As for Keirith, once he got his son safely home, he would remind him every day for the rest of his life how much he owed his father.

  He emerged to a loud whistle from Thikia and a coarse laugh from Bep. Bo gave him an encouraging smile and quickly looked away. Hakkon just blinked, but Darak could have sworn he was fighting a smile.

  “It’s not so bad,” Urkiat said.

  “Stop saying that!”

  “All the important things are covered.”

  “I warn you . . .”

  “Just be sure and double knot the thongs.”

  Urkiat’s serious expression gave way to a grin. Darak swung his club and Urkiat ducked, still grinning.

  “I liked you better when you were awestruck.”

  “I’m still awestruck. It’s a wondrous great fur bag. A prodigious . . . ow!”

  Olinio’s head poked around the backdrop. “Stop this fooling around. Our audience is gathering.” His voice dropped an octave as it always did when he referred to the audience. As if they were performing before the king and queen of Zheros and not a crowd of farmers and laborers.