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  Keirith’s mouth worked. He swallowed hard and whispered, “Go home, Father.”

  “Tell me—”

  “Aye!”

  “And if I don’t believe you?”

  “Then believe this. I killed Urkiat.”

  “What . . . what are you talking about?”

  “Oh, it was your hand that drove the sword into his chest. But have you wondered what made him stand there, waiting for the blow? That was me, Father. I tried to cast out his spirit. I wasn’t strong enough to do it, but I did manage to distract him. Just long enough for you to strike the blow that killed him.”

  His mind realized the truth, but his heart and his spirit shrank from accepting it.

  “But why? Urkiat would never . . . I wasn’t in any real danger . . .”

  “Xevhan had decided on a fight to the death. One of you was going to die. I chose Urkiat. That is what the power gives you. The ability to choose.”

  “But not the right!”

  “And if I hadn’t? What then?”

  “I would have done . . . something.”

  “You’d be dead.”

  There was no emotion in his son’s voice. None at all.

  “Last night, I gave you your life. Now you must give me mine.” For just a moment, Keirith hesitated. Then he shook his head impatiently. “I can’t go home, Father. Not now.”

  “No one has to know.”

  “You know. I know. I’ve already struck out at you. I led Urkiat to his death. Sooner or later, I’ll cast out the spirit of a man. As Morgath did.”

  “You could never become as evil as Morgath.”

  Keirith made a sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Dear gods, Father. I already am.”

  Darak stared at this stranger who wore his son’s face and his son’s body, unable to speak.

  “Good-bye, Father.”

  Perhaps it was the lack of emotion in his voice or the confidence of his stride that made Darak call out, “Kheridh!”

  His head came up at the name. Darak fumbled in his bag of charms until his fingers found what he wanted. He flung it across the floor and watched it slide to a halt next to Keirith’s foot. “It was a gift. From the Supplicant of the God with Two Faces. You’ll find better use for it than I will.”

  Damning his shaking voice, he strode out of the chamber, startling the guards. For once, he was grateful for their presence; he would never allow himself to weep in front of them.

  Keirith sank to his knees. The tears in his eyes made the little snake shimmer. His hand groped for it. The bronze was still warm from his father’s body.

  He fell forward. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. All he could do was rock back and forth, slowly and deliberately striking his forehead against the floor again and again and again, as if the physical pain could banish the deeper agony.

  Strong arms enfolded him. Not his father’s arms. He would never know their touch again. Gentle hands stroked his hair. Not his mother’s hands, those clever, nimble fingers that could stitch together a man’s flesh and ease the burn of a child’s skinned knee.

  “I’m so sorry. I know it was hard. But you had to speak to him that way. Otherwise, he never would have left and that would have put you both in jeopardy. Now he’ll be safe. I promise you that, Kheridh.”

  He shuddered, remembering his father’s bitter voice. How could one word cut so deeply?

  “In time, he’ll accept your decision.”

  And he will hate me and curse my name and never, ever understand.

  The bile rose in his throat. He shoved Malaq away and retched helplessly, as if he could cleanse himself of the evil things he had said, vomit up every awful part of himself until he was clean and whole. But he would never be clean, or whole, again.

  He’d done the only thing he could to ensure that his father left before anyone discovered his identity. But still he had expected the determined footsteps to slow. He had waited for that, praying he would feel the warm hand descend on his shoulder and hear the deep voice announce that they were leaving together, that nothing else mattered, that everything—somehow—would be all right.

  But his father’s footsteps never faltered.

  How could he fail to see through his pretense? How could his father believe he had changed so much? Unless, in his heart, this was how he had always seen him—a cold, power-hungry, ruthless creature. Like Morgath.

  Exhausted, he lay on the floor while Malaq wiped his face and cleaned up the mess he had made. It astonished him to think that the Pajhit of the Zherosi would shame himself by performing such an ugly, menial task rather than shame him by summoning slaves.

  “You are the only one who can convince him,” Malaq had said. And he had. His father had repudiated him. His family was lost. His gods would never hear his prayers. There was no going home. There was only this new life among strangers, stretching ahead of him in an endless succession of empty days and spirit-draining nights.

  But he was not alone. He had Malaq. The friend he had never expected to find, the mentor whose knowledge and wisdom would guide his path. The father of his spirit, if not his body.

  Chapter 36

  NUMBED BY HIS ENCOUNTER with Keirith, Darak stumbled after the two guards. Only when sunlight blinded him did he realize they were standing at the western entrance of the palace. One of the guards seized his arm and pulled him out of the way of a litter. The other pointed to something in the distance and repeated “Oexiak” several times. When Darak nodded his understanding, they left.

  He slid down the wall. An endless line of litters streamed past him. From behind their swaying curtains came the sounds of laughter and excited conversation. Even the litter bearers wore eager looks, despite the sweat running down their faces. So did the women, straggling toward the gate. Some had babes strapped to their backs, others, small children clinging to their legs. All clutched bowls like the beggars he’d seen squatting in the streets of Oexiak.

  He was the only beggar in Pilozhat who wasn’t celebrating. Despite his pleas, Keirith had rejected him—just as, fifteen years ago, Tinnean had defied him to choose the path of the shaman. His journey through Chaos had taught him the danger of trying to control the lives of others. But how could he simply walk away from his son?

  “I killed Urkiat.”

  The horror surged anew. It was one thing to attack in a moment of anger, but to do so coldly, without provocation . . .

  “You could never become as evil as Morgath.”

  “Dear gods, Father. I already am.”

  But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. No matter what Keirith said, no matter what he had done, Darak refused to believe he was evil. But left among these people, he would be seduced by the terrible gift he possessed. Whether they killed him or not, the Zherosi would destroy him.

  If it had been his father in the arena, would he have sacrificed another to save him? Aye. And to keep him safe, he would have used any argument, even if it meant risking his hatred and driving him away. But his father would have recognized the desperation that prompted the bitter words. He would have suppressed his pain and resisted the urge to lash out. And he would have stayed in that chamber—just as he had remained beside him throughout his ordeal in Chaos.

  He could not bring back Urkiat, but there was still time to save his son. He must go back. If reason and pleading couldn’t convince Keirith to leave this place, then by the gods, he would drag him away by force.

  Darak stuffed the clay disk into his belt pouch and rose. A shiver raced down his spine. At his feet, a tiny bronze snake lay atop a clump of parched grass. It was the twin of the one he had given Keirith—unless somehow it had returned to him, just as it had when he’d discarded it in Chaos.

  He snatched it up, craning his neck to see if Keirith was among those near the gate. Instead, he spied the tall, robed figure, looming above the growing crowd of beggars. First, the Supplicant appeared in Oexiak, now here. This time, he would not let her escape. Whoever she was, he was certain she could
help him—and Keirith.

  She slipped in and out among the beggars, always just within view, always just out of reach.

  Like the Forest-Lord, leading me back to the grove after I escaped from Chaos.

  At the edge of the hillside, he paused to get his bearings. The path led down the hill past a pillared courtyard. It must be the temple of the God with Two Faces. But the Supplicant was nowhere to be seen.

  Ignoring the curses of the bearers, he zigzagged through the line of litters and hurried down the steps. He almost missed the bronze chain, casually draped over a stubby bush, its tiny medallion still swinging back and forth. At the base of a pillar, he found a bracelet. Each of the circular gold pieces bore a face. On half, he made out the smiling countenance of a young woman, on the others, a skull.

  First she mimicked the Forest-Lord, now Griane who had left circlets of hair to mark his way back to the grove. Just as surely, the Supplicant had led him to the entrance of her temple.

  It seemed to have been built directly into the hillside. The low doorway only enhanced the feeling that you were entering a cave. He hesitated a moment, then ducked inside.

  He saw a rectangle of light just ahead, although his sun-dazzled eyes missed the shadowy figures flanking the inner doorway until he was nearly on top of them. The guards—or priests—bowed politely. Voices exclaimed from within. Two robed figures fell to their knees. The Supplicant laid her hands on their heads, then glanced over her shoulder, watching him and waiting.

  He hadn’t come this far to turn back now. With a confidence he didn’t feel, Darak strode inside.

  The brightness was misleading. Half of the chamber was illuminated, while the other lay in shadow. There were more people than he had thought, all of them on their knees. The Supplicant led him deeper into the chamber, across woolen rugs as soft and thick as mulch. Tiny flames flickering from the hanging bowls made it seem as if the place was lit by a swarm of fireflies. Shadows danced among the paintings, barely visible, that decorated the walls.

  He smelled the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle before he saw the flowers. Huge bunches spilled over a stone table—or altar—that appeared to be carved from the same stone as his tribe’s ritual vessels. They might have sprung from different cultures, worshipped different gods, but at one time, his people and the Zherosi had some things in common.

  “Who knows? Perhaps all gods are the same.”

  He backed away as new worshippers approached. He could only make out a few words of their chant, but there was no mistaking the joy on their faces. Clearly, the Supplicant was beloved if her appearance was greeted with such fervor.

  Gauzy draperies billowed as she slipped through them. Still clutching her discarded jewelry, he followed.

  The room was small, but far more opulent. And it was very cool, perhaps because it was built under the hill. A slender girl crawled around the low table on her hands and knees, pausing to plump cushions of red and brown. Other servants—all young and beautiful, even the boys—scurried past with platters and pitchers. Did they know she was coming? Or where she had gone? Although there were no other doors in the chamber, she had vanished—just as she had that night in Oexiak.

  The spicy aromas of the food vied with the fragrance of honeysuckle from the vases adorning niches in the walls. Paintings of trees covered one wall of the chamber, an autumn forest of gold and brown and scarlet. Not for the first time, he longed for the sight of something green.

  He carefully placed her jewelry on the table. The servants bowed and left. The chanting continued in the outer room, augmented by the sweet trills of a flute. And still, there was no sign of her.

  “Welcome, Darak.”

  His greeting died when he turned to discover her emerging from the painted forest on the wall. There was no door. She simply . . . walked out of the trees. But even her entrance—incredible as it was—paled in comparison to her naked body.

  “Don’t gape, dear. It’s unbecoming.”

  The words conjured up a memory, but he simply couldn’t grasp it. All he could do was stare at her, his gaze shifting between the heavy breasts and the thick penis jutting from the black thatch of hair.

  “How sweet. You can still blush.” She advanced on him slowly. “And do you still think I’m beautiful?” Her lips pursed in a pout when he failed to reply. “If you don’t find me beautiful, I shall be hurt. You don’t want me to be hurt, do you?”

  Numbly, he shook his head.

  The scent of honeysuckle wafted toward him as she approached. Her eyes were level with his. In the dark depths, gold flecks swirled. He could feel himself falling into them, just as he had when Fellgair’s golden eyes first bespelled him.

  A hand brushed his cheek, the palm as rough and spongy as a dog’s pads. Two long shears sprouted from her upper jaw. A red tongue lolled out between them.

  “Have you missed me, Darak?”

  He could feel his mouth moving, but no words would emerge.

  “Welcome to my temple.”

  “Your . . . ?” And then he realized. The God with Two Faces.

  “I told you I had many worlds. This is one of my favorites. They treat me so well here. A lovely temple, devoted followers . . .” The Trickster strolled toward the table. “The finest food. Shall we eat?”

  “Put some clothes on first.”

  “It’s too hot for clothes.”

  “Fur, then.”

  Fellgair shuddered. “Far too hot for fur. Don’t you like me like this? My followers find me quite impressive.”

  “I don’t doubt it. With that . . . spear hanging between your legs.”

  Fellgair heaved an exaggerated sigh. “A heavy burden, indeed. As are these.” He hefted the full breasts. The coolness of the room had caused the plum-colored nipples to tighten into tiny buds. “Come. Sit.”

  Darak collapsed onto one of the cushions. Fellgair seated himself far more gracefully across the table. “You’re staring,” he chided. “I always thought your taste ran to small-breasted women. With red hair.”

  “Leave Griane out of this.”

  “But she’s already involved. Who do you think requested that I look in on you? Well, you know how persuasive she can be. And when she wept—”

  “She . . . she wept?”

  “Or perhaps that was me. I can’t remember.”

  “Is she all right? Are the children safe?”

  Fellgair leaned forward, proffering a bowl. “Jhok?”

  “Why did Griane come to you?”

  “Try the lamb, then. It’s rolled in spices, then roasted on skewers.”

  “Damn the skewers.” Darak shoved the platter aside, sending it crashing into a pitcher. He leaped up to steady it, cursing himself for losing control in front of Fellgair. “I’m sorry. That was . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Fellgair glanced up from grooming his brush. “Rude? Petulant? Childish?” He gave the white tip of his brush a final lick, smoothed the fur on his ruff, and settled himself on the cushions again. His black whiskers twitched as he grinned. “You seem more comfortable with me in this guise.”

  “Fox or man—or woman—I’m never comfortable with you.”

  “Very wise. Mortals should always quail in the presence of a god. Speaking of which . . .” Fellgair held out another platter. Three golden-brown quail lay atop a nest of leafy vegetables.

  “Did you make some sort of bargain with Griane?”

  “I don’t wish to discuss that.”

  Darak turned on his heel and stalked toward the doorway.

  “But I am prepared to discuss your son. The interview didn’t go especially well, did it?”

  Of course, Fellgair would know what had happened. After fifteen years, he’d almost forgotten how exhausting it was to try and keep up with the Trickster. Slowly, he turned. “What do you want?”

  “A conversation. Why don’t you begin with, ‘I’m delighted to see you again after all these years.’ You are delighted, aren’t you?”

  “Surprised.”r />
  “Then you might also be surprised to learn that your dull little Tree-Father—what’s his name?—had a disturbing vision in which your heart was cut out. Keirith was there at the time. Watching attentively. You look pale, Darak. Perhaps you should sit.”

  He remained where he was, grateful for the wall at his back. “Did you send Gortin that vision?”

  “You always think the worst of me. If my nature weren’t so forgiving, I might take offense.”

  “If your nature weren’t so devious, I wouldn’t think the worst of you.”

  Fellgair grinned. “Very good. Thrust and parry. Oh. My condolences about Urkiat. Was it terrible for you?”

  “We were talking about Gortin’s vision.”

  “Your verbal skills have improved. It must be your training as a Memory-Keeper. Who’d have thought it?”

  “You predicted it.”

  “It was one possibility.”

  “And did you see the possibility that my son would be kidnapped by the Zherosi? Is that why you gave me your token all those years ago?”

  “Only when a child is conceived is the pattern of his life spun,” Fellgair replied, deftly avoiding a direct answer.

  “But later?”

  “Later? Yes, of course, I saw the possibility.”

  “And didn’t warn me?”

  “Oh, forgive me. I hadn’t realized that my role in the universe was to avert your family crises.”

  “I only meant—”

  “A role better suited to a father than to the Trickster.”

  That silenced him. “I tried to find him.”

  “After you drove him from your hut or after you abandoned him to the mercy of the raiders?”

  As many times as those same words had echoed in his head, it was still shocking to hear them spoken aloud.

  “To answer your earlier question, I did not bring the Zherosi to your village. I did not encourage you to abandon your son to seek the pleasure of the kill. And I did not make the raider club Keirith over the head and drag him back to his ship. Men set those events into motion. Just as, fifteen years ago, a man came through a portal from Chaos into the grove of the First Forest.”