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  The supplicant rose and bowed, first to the queen, then to the king, and quietly left the chamber. For a moment, they all stared after her.

  “Zheron.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Malaq saw Xevhan start.

  “While we appreciate your diligence in attempting to discover the boy’s identity, allowing him to take qiij was a grave error. Neglecting to mention it to us, a worse one.”

  “Forgive me, Earth’s Beloved.”

  “After Midsummer, you will retire to the sanctuary of Avhilat for a moon to reflect on your shortcomings.”

  A miserable eyrie in the most forsaken part of Zheros. Where he would be cut off from his supply of qiij.

  “I will appoint another to carry out the duties of Zheron during your absence.”

  And that would hurt even more than the loss of qiij.

  “Motixa.” The queen spoke gently. “Instead of probing the boy’s spirit yourself—or pressing the Pajhit to do so—you allowed your hope for the coming of the Son of Zhe to blind you to the possibility that the boy is a fraud. We do not chide you for your faith, but in the future, we hope you will leaven it with skepticism.”

  “Yes, Earth’s Beloved.”

  “Pajhit.”

  No gentleness in the voice now and none in the face that regarded him.

  “You have allowed your affection for this boy to take precedence over your duties to your people. We must reflect on whether your past service to us outweighs your divided loyalties. After we have examined the boy, we will decide whether you are fit to continue as Pajhit. Until that time, you are relieved of your responsibilities and confined to your chamber.”

  Malaq bowed his head. “Yes, Earth’s Beloved.”

  Chapter 38

  HIS ROOM FELT LIKE a cairn. Malaq’s chamber held the memories of his encounter with his father. So, despite the relentless sun, Keirith took refuge in the garden.

  He sat in a small patch of shade, knees drawn up to his chest. The air was almost too hot to breathe. His head ached. His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, but he didn’t dare close them for then he might dream. If the Big One didn’t pursue him, his father would. Or Urkiat.

  Niqia had fled indoors, irritable from the heat. Malaq was at the reception. Ysal kept poking his head through the draperies, trying to tempt him with a game of dice, a plate of food, a cup of cool water.

  His worried face appeared again. “That girl is here. Hircha. I told her I didn’t think you’d want to see her, but she won’t go away.”

  Before he could reply, the draperies were flung aside. Ysal gave a startled yelp as Hircha pushed past him.

  “I told you to wait—”

  “I need to talk with you.”

  She seemed tense and agitated. Her fingers kept plucking at her gown.

  “It is all right, Ysal. Thank you.”

  Ysal shot a pained look at Hircha. “I’m only trying to do my duty, you know. It wouldn’t kill you to be polite.” Still muttering, he left them alone.

  “What is it?” Keirith asked. “Is something wrong?”

  She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, “I saw something. When I took the kitchen scraps to the gate. For the poor. We do that during the festival. After the sezhta. We take food to all four gates—”

  “Aye. And?”

  “I was at the western gate. I saw the Zheron’s guards coming up the path. Your father was with them.”

  “That’s impossible. My . . . the Spirit-Hunter’s gone. He left the city.”

  “It was him. He stood head and shoulders above the guards.” She refused to look at him, just stared at the stone flags while her fingers creased her gown and smoothed it again. “They were headed toward the slave compound.”

  All he could do was shake his head.

  “I couldn’t come before. I only just finished in the kitchen. I wasn’t even sure if I should tell you. But . . . he’s your father. And I thought you should know.”

  Finally, he managed to move, but as he pushed past Hircha, she grabbed his arm. “What are you going to do?”

  “I have to go to him!”

  “You’ll only make things worse.”

  “Then I’ll find Malaq.”

  “Only the queen can help him now.”

  “Then I’ll go to her!”

  “Xevhan probably ran to her while the blood from this morning’s sacrifice was still warm.” Hircha grimaced. “Unless he waited until he was finished with the blind girl.”

  The thought of what Xevhan might have done to the little singer only fueled his bloodlust. His mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed hard, refusing to give in to the overwhelming urge to find Xevhan and kill him.

  He shook off Hircha and began pacing Malaq’s chamber. He had to do something. He couldn’t just wait here while they tortured his father to get the truth from him. Then he saw the snake earring, lying on the table. He scooped it up and was heading toward the doorway when Hircha said, “If you’re looking for me, I can save you a hot, dusty trip.”

  It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t Hircha’s voice, another to turn and discover the apparition, lounging in the doorway of the garden. Part of his mind registered her strange appearance; the other was trying to imagine how she had scaled the wall to Malaq’s garden in her long robe.

  “We can talk more privately outside.”

  He exchanged a quick look with Hircha before following her.

  They found her lolling on the bench at the far end of the garden. “In a few moments, the queen’s guards will arrive to take you to the adder pit, so I fear we must dispense with pleasantries. I am the Supplicant of the God with Two Faces. How I got here is unimportant. Your father will be sacrificed at dawn tomorrow on the altar of Zhe. And if you’re going to faint, I suggest you put your head between your knees and breathe slowly.”

  The scorn in her voice brought his head up. “I’m not going to faint.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  “And I was coming to you. You gave my father this. He gave it to me.”

  “I’m aware of the chain of events.”

  “Can you help him?”

  “I’ve already given Darak the help he requires.”

  Keirith stumbled toward her and went down on his knees.

  “First your father, now you. It’s obviously a day for begging. To save time—and your knees—let us consider your anguished pleas completed. I refuse.”

  “But . . . he’s going to die. You can’t let that happen.”

  “I can. But it would mean breaking a promise, which I am loath to do. Besides, I’m fond of Darak.”

  “How do you—?”

  “I have neither the time nor the inclination to enlighten you as to my relationship with your father. Nor do I have the patience to listen to you plead. It seems to me you do very little else. ‘Supplicant, help my father.’ ‘Malaq, help my father.’ When are you going to help him?”

  Keirith got to his feet, anger overcoming his shock. “I tried to help him!”

  “Oh, yes. Urkiat. That did show initiative. Now it’s time to show a bit more. For years, you’ve complained about being in your father’s shadow. Here’s a marvelous opportunity to step out of it.” Her expression grew stern. “You have power, Keirith. Far more than your father possessed when he destroyed Morgath. Why don’t you use it?”

  “How?”

  “That, I’m afraid, you’ll have to figure out for yourself.” She smiled brightly. “It’s been lovely meeting you. I hope we shall see each other again, but that’s rather difficult to predict at the moment. Oh, and Hircha. You showed initiative in bringing Keirith the news of his father’s arrest. That sort of behavior will serve you far better than limping about, nursing your resentment.”

  The draperies billowed as she stepped into the chamber. In the time it took him to rip them aside, she had vanished; there was no possible way she could have reached the doorway so quickly.

  Hircha flicked her forefinger against her thumb three t
imes, then smacked her palms together four times in the Zherosi sign to banish evil.

  Forget about how she comes and goes. Think about what she said.

  He must use his power. But how? To convince the queen to be merciful? To kill Xevhan before he could sacrifice his father?

  Think, Keirith, think.

  He’d never be able to sway the queen. If he killed Xevhan, another priest would simply take his place as Zheron. Short of killing every guard in the slave compound, he wouldn’t be able to free his father. And regardless of the Supplicant’s mockery, he doubted his power alone could save him.

  “Hircha? Will you help me?”

  “I . . . what do you want me to do?”

  “Go to the place Xevhan held the entertainment. If the players aren’t there, see if you can find them.”

  “They could be anywhere in the city!”

  “I know!” Quickly, he lowered his voice. “Just try. Find the little man. The fair-haired one who sang with my father. He might help.”

  “Do what?”

  “Free him.”

  “You’ll never get him out of the slave compound.”

  “Nay. The only time will be right before the sacrifice.”

  “He’ll be guarded.”

  “Aye. But they won’t be expecting an attack.”

  “An attack? It’s suicide!”

  “Just ask the fair-haired man to be there. And to bring the big shepherd. If he’ll come.” Hearing voices in the corridor, he pulled Hircha to the far end of the garden, buying a few precious moments of time. “Try to get to Malaq. I’m not sure they’ll let me see him. Tell him what we’re planning.”

  “I don’t even know what we’re planning!”

  “Neither do I. But I’ll come up with something.”

  Someone called his name.

  “Please, Hircha.”

  She scowled. “All right. I’ll try. I must be as crazy as you are.”

  He squeezed her hand and walked forward to meet the queen’s guards.

  It was close to sunset before Hircha found the players. The grooves left in the sand by their cart led her to the fields west of the city. It would have taken her until midnight to search every camp, but few could afford the luxury of a bullock.

  Only the big man was there. She quickly discovered he couldn’t tell her anything about the fair-haired dwarf’s whereabouts, and his closed expression made her doubt he’d do so even if he could speak. So she told him what had happened to Darak and the fate that awaited him at dawn. She took care to call him “The Wild Man.” But she did admit that Keirith was his son and that he had sent her to ask for their help.

  At first, he stood there with his arms folded across his chest, staring toward the city as if she didn’t exist. She wondered if he was deaf as well as mute. Then he frowned and looked at her and she knew he understood. He made a circling motion with his hand as if he wanted her to repeat the story again.

  “I’m just going to have to tell it all over again when the dwarf comes.”

  When the mute turned away to contemplate the city again, she sighed. Now she had offended him. “He is coming back, isn’t he?”

  The mute inclined his head.

  “Any time soon?”

  He shrugged.

  Hircha sat down and leaned against the cart. The mute stood over her, as silent and unmoving as a pillar. And very nearly as tall.

  If she were smart, she’d go back to the palace now and get some sleep and get on with her life. Better still, she should set out west and find a new life. She wasn’t expected back in the kitchen until midnight to help clean up after the banquet. Assuming it was over; sometimes, these formal affairs lasted all night. Even if the Master noticed her absence, no one would have time to look for her until dawn. She could be free of Pilozhat and free of Xevhan.

  It was all Keirith’s fault. Ever since that first interrogation. Reminding her of the tongue she used to speak, the home she used to have, the girl she might have been. Seeking her sympathy with his sad eyes and trembling hands.

  The Supplicant had praised her for showing initiative in telling Keirith about his father. If only she’d shown some last night. The knife had been strapped to her thigh. Each time she’d passed behind Xevhan, her fingers had trembled with the urge to plunge it into his back. She might have managed it during the fight. With all eyes fixed on the men in the arena, she might even have slipped away unnoticed.

  With one blow, she could have killed Xevhan and severed her bond to Keirith. But she had hesitated. Later, she tried to convince herself that she had been caught up in the battle, but the truth was she had allowed her emotions to rule her reason. Because she had feared Keirith would be accused in her place. Because she had seen how desperate he was to save his father. Because the Spirit-Hunter had come hundreds of miles to save his son, and no one had ever risked so much for her. She envied their love and hungered for a little piece of it—even more than she hungered for Xevhan’s blood.

  It was pathetic. She would count to one hundred. If the dwarf hadn’t returned by then, she would leave.

  She’d reached one hundred and fifty-five when the mute grunted and pointed toward Pilozhat. His eyes were better than hers. In the fading light, it took a while before she picked out the players among the small clusters of people returning from the city. They straggled up to the cart. The fair-haired dwarf’s eyes were bloodshot as if he’d been drinking or crying. The others looked equally gloomy.

  “You were there,” the dwarf said. “Last night.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Did the Zheron send you to spy on us?”

  The mute grabbed his shoulder and shook his head. Ignoring them both, Hircha addressed herself to the leader of the troupe, choosing her words with care. “The Zheron has arrested the Wild Man. He means to sacrifice him tomorrow at the temple of Zhe.”

  “Sacrifice him?” The leader splayed his fingers over his heart. “Merciful gods. First Urkiat. Then Rizhi. Now this.”

  “Rizhi?” For the first time, she realized the blind girl was missing. Had Xevhan decided to keep her? “Where is she? What’s happened?”

  “She’s dead.” The fair-haired dwarf turned his malevolent gaze on the leader.

  “He said he wanted to hear her sing. That was all.”

  He spoke eagerly, as if trying to convince the others. Or perhaps he only wanted to convince her; judging from their expressions, the players had heard it all before.

  “She was fine when Hakkon and I brought her back. A little distant perhaps, but I thought she was tired. We all thought she was tired. She’d gotten no sleep last night, after all. And she’d spent half the morning performing for the Zheron. I could never have anticipated it. One moment, she was sitting beside the cart. And the next, she had a knife in her hands. She couldn’t even see. How could she grab the knife so quickly? How could I have stopped her?”

  “How could you let her bleed to death?” the fair-haired dwarf demanded savagely.

  “I tried! But the wounds were . . .” He shuddered. “You all saw me. I bound her wrists myself. With cloth cut from my own tunic. I didn’t hesitate a moment, even though it was brand new and the cloth cost me two eagles. Oh, it’s a tragedy. A terrible tragedy.”

  Presumably, he meant Rizhi’s death, not the mutilation of his tunic.

  “At least, the poor child got a decent funeral.”

  “Only because I insisted,” the dwarf said. “If you’d had your way, you would have shoved her in a hole the way we did Urkiat.”

  “Bep.” The old woman rested her hand on his shoulder. “It’s done. Blaming each other isn’t going to bring Rizhi back. Or Urkiat.” She managed a weak smile. “Thank you for coming to tell us about poor Reinek. He was a good man. Quiet but dependable. And although I always suspected his heart wasn’t in his work, he was an exceptional Wild Man. We will pray for him.”

  “After we leave Pilozhat,” the leader insisted. “Hakkon, hitch up the bullock. If we break camp now, we
can—”

  “No.”

  To Hircha’s surprise, the leader wilted at the old woman’s voice.

  “But we can’t stay. Not after all that’s happened.”

  “We’ve been two days and a night without sleep, Olinio. We’ve buried two of our comrades and another is dying tomorrow. We’ll leave when the sun’s up.”

  “You’re not suggesting we witness the sacrifice?”

  “No. But we should at least lay an offering on the altar of the God with Two Faces afterward. Perhaps that will encourage him to smile on us again.”

  “But, Mother . . .” As he launched into a volley of protests, the old woman walked away. Still protesting, he trotted after her.

  “I’m sorry about the little girl,” Hircha said. “She had a beautiful voice.”

  “She had a beautiful spirit, too,” Bep said. “Until the Zheron crushed it.”

  The dark-haired dwarf sat slumped against the wheel of the cart, either exhausted or disinterested, but she didn’t want him listening. Hircha jerked her head away from the camp. After a moment, Bep and Hakkon followed her.

  “Keirith—the boy who spoke to the . . . to Reinek last night—he sent me.”

  “And you’re a good friend of Keirith’s, of course. And the Zheron’s slave.”

  “Look. The last thing I want is to get involved in this crazy scheme. But Keirith asked me to come to you, and I agreed. He wants to try and help Reinek escape right before the sacrifice. After the procession leaves the palace. But he can’t do it alone. Not with four guards around Reinek. Keirith’s still working out details—”

  “Well, that’s reassuring. So far, it’s worse than the plot of one of our pantomimes.” Bep slapped his forehead. “Wait! I’ve got it! I’ll pretend to be a dog and bite one guard, while Hakkon beats another to death with his staff. That’ll just leave one each for Reinek and the boy.”

  It took all her self-control not to slap him. “If you want to help, fine. If not, I’ve delivered the message.” She tried one last time. “I know freeing Reinek isn’t as good as killing the Zheron, but it’s . . . it’s something.”