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  She was walking away when Bep called, “Girl!” He walked toward her slowly, his eyes hard. “Why are you so eager to help?”

  “I have my own reasons for wanting to hurt the Zheron.”

  “And those are?”

  “None of your business!”

  Bep spat. Hakkon just watched her. Silently, she cursed them. And Keirith for getting her into this. And his father for getting caught. Most of all, she cursed herself for foolishly following her heart instead of her head.

  “I was one of the Zheron’s little girls, too. Does that satisfy you?”

  The shock on their faces was answer enough.

  Chapter 39

  The first thing Darak saw were his charms, scattered on the dry, cracked earth. Tears came to his eyes when he saw the pieces of the fire-blackened twig.

  After all that has happened, how can I weep over a broken charm?

  He forced himself to sit up. Was it the blow to his head that made him so groggy or the aftereffects of his ordeal in Fellgair’s chamber? The sun had disappeared behind the wall of the slave compound. It seemed impossible that he could have slept the afternoon away. Then he saw the bulging waterskin lying beside him. He remembered the guards holding it to his mouth, forcing him to drink. He’d been too grateful for the water to protest.

  Carefully, he returned the charms to his bag and tied it around his neck. His belt pouch was empty; they’d taken the coins and Malaq’s safe conduct disk. He couldn’t believe Malaq had betrayed him. This had to be the Zheron’s work. Which meant that Malaq’s promise to protect Keirith might be worthless now. But if the Zheron had ordered his arrest, why had the guards brought him here? Unless the Zheron meant to question him later.

  He learned little from the men sharing his shelter. Most simply rolled over with a groan or stared at him in confusion. They could barely mutter their own names, never mind recognize Keirith’s. Force of habit made him repeat the names; if he managed to escape, he could bring word to their families. But the news would be grim: nearly all had red hair, which meant they would be taken to the altar of the sun god in a matter of days.

  Simply walking to the next shelter made his heart flutter. The few men who acknowledged him spoke an unrecognizable tongue, but in the third, he discovered men from Keirith’s ship. The only ones who were alert enough to respond were a hunter named Temet and a Memory-Keeper named Brudien. It was a shock to hear the names, part of the long list he had carried in his head for so many days.

  “There were twelve ships,” Temet said. “I think. They put most of the red-haired captives in ours.” He fingered a dirty, blond braid. “Brudien and I have a bet. He says the fair-haired ones like us will make it till Midsummer. I’m wagering they’ll take us before.”

  “The next few days should tell,” Brudien said with a small smile.

  Darak found their calm chilling, a combination of hopelessness and the effects of the drugs the Zherosi must be giving them. Surely, the heat couldn’t account for the lassitude of those in the compound or explain why even Brudien and Temet tended to drift off in the middle of a sentence.

  At sunset, Darak followed them to the long table where the guards dispensed food. The first one frowned when he held up his empty hands, then thrust out two bowls. Darak slung the waterskin over his shoulder and held out his bowl to another guard who ladled a thick fish stew into it. The next dished out a mixture of meat and dried fruit. Awkwardly cradling the bowls against his chest, he walked back to the shelter.

  “You’re lucky,” Temet whispered. “Until yesterday, it was only a watery soup. They must be fattening us up for the sacrifice.”

  The stew smelled delicious, but he followed Temet’s example and dribbled it into the circle of bowls held out by the other men. Then he passed the other bowl around as well. Each man took only a tiny handful; drugged and hungry and enervated from the heat, they still preserved the ways of hospitality in the slave compound.

  “It’s probably in the water, too,” Temet said. “But you can’t do without that.”

  Grimly, Darak determined to try. “Is there any way out?”

  “The gate you came in and that door over there. Unless they want to sell you, you won’t be leaving by the gate.” Temet’s gaze lingered a moment on his hands. “The guards select two men before dawn. Once, they took three. Don’t know why. But those who go out the door never come back.”

  He nodded to the guards who were hauling ladders onto the narrow walkways near the top of the walls. “They pull the ladders up at night. You’d have to scale the wall like a squirrel. Or fly over it.”

  “There are more than a hundred men here. And . . . what? Twenty guards?”

  “On the walls,” Brudien said. “But you saw how many more arrived when they fed us.”

  “Still, if we all attacked at once . . .” Darak’s voice trailed off as he scanned the sleeping men.

  “We waited,” Temet said. “That was our mistake. If we had tried to escape when we first arrived . . .”

  “Nay. The first sennight, we were so drugged, we could scarcely move.” Brudien leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “They’re very thorough, the Zherosi.”

  “A man alone—on his way to the sacrifice. He might break away.”

  Temet shrugged. “You might. The drugs haven’t fuzzled your brain or your body.” A dreamy expression came over his face. “I was the fastest runner in my village. Won every race at the Gatherings. Swift as the wind, I was. Swift as the wind.”

  When the light began to fade, Darak realized no one would come for him until the morrow. Whatever the Zherosi planned for him, he needed to be strong. He stretched out on the ground, whispering the names of those who had already gone to the altar stone and those who still remained from Keirith’s ship. Then he said a prayer for Keirith and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Keirith lay in the pit, staring up at the night sky. Even with Natha’s help, the adders had been too frenzied to send him more than a few disjointed images: stones tumbling into the pit, earth crumbling beneath their bodies. It took their combined power to calm them.

  He had been too caught up in the events of the day to pay much attention to his headache or to Niqia’s behavior. Now it seemed clear another earthquake was coming, but he didn’t know how soon. Nor did he know if the adders’ terror foretold a stronger tremor than the last.

  A few toppling walls wouldn’t devastate the city. And if the walls of the slave compound fell, his father might be able to escape in the confusion, along with all the other captives. If he gave the Qepo a definitive answer, the guards would take him back to his room and he’d be helpless to save his father. If he stalled for time and the earthquake struck, he risked being buried in the pit—and dooming hundreds of people to similar deaths.

  Keirith sat up. The guttering torches on the viewing platform revealed the Qepo and two of the queen’s guards. “The earth shakes. Soon, I think. But I do not know how bad.”

  “They’re quieter now,” the Qepo observed.

  “Yes. I will talk to them again. But first I must rest.”

  The Qepo nodded his reluctant assent.

  “May I speak with the Pajhit? With his magic and mine, we can learn more, faster.” When the Qepo hesitated, he asked, “He is not ill?”

  “No.”

  The Qepo shot a furtive glance at the two guards. Apparently, they intended to remain, replacing the two—why had he never bothered to learn their names?—who usually took over from Ysal and Luzik at night. Finally, he said, “The Pajhit cannot speak with you.”

  Had Malaq been arrested, too? Had Xevhan turned the queen against him? No one would tell him. At least, Malaq had the Khonsel watching out for him. His father was alone. He couldn’t rely on the players; even if Hircha found them, there was no guarantee they would help. And the Supplicant would do nothing. It was up to him.

  Keirith closed his eyes, seeking stillness and emptiness and inspiration. The night drifted by and he drifted with it.
Once, he heard a woman speaking with the Qepo, but he ignored them. Moments later, the Khonsel’s voice demanded to know what was happening. The Qepo’s whispered reply provoked a series of oaths that gradually faded as he stomped out.

  Stillness shattered, Keirith pulled his bag of charms from around his neck and laid each out on the ground. Even without the single torch in the pit, he could have recognized them by touch. The eagle’s feather, the first one he’d collected. The strand of lakeweed, the green fronds hard now but still delicate in design. The stone, as round and red as Bel at sunset. The crooked quickthorn twig. And the last of his charms, the polished bloodstone Malaq had given him.

  One by one, he returned the charms to his bag. He wondered if his father was keeping vigil tonight, too. The thought that they were together in spirit comforted him, as did the weight of his bag of charms against his chest.

  He pulled memories of home from his mind, examining them with the same love and tenderness with which he had examined his charms: the day he and Conn made their blood oath; the morning he returned to the village from his vision quest and heard the Tree-Father proclaim him a man; sitting in a circle with the other children while his father related the ancient legends; sitting around the fire pit with his family while Callie blew a halting melody on his flute; sitting in the Tree-Father’s hut, learning to empty his mind and still his thoughts.

  “You have power, Keirith. Use it.”

  Smoke rose from the four braziers.

  “Power protects those you love. And it allows you to punish those who hurt you.”

  Thin tendrils drifted skyward, as if the spirits of the adders were ascending.

  “Perhaps they are frightened of us. That is good.”

  The tendrils curled like beckoning fingers.

  “His power shall burn bright as Heart of Sky at Midsummer. His footsteps shall make Womb of Earth tremble.”

  “Come,” the smoke whispered with Natha’s voice. “Come with us.”

  His brothers wriggled around him, forming a circle of protection. Like the players with his father.

  “You are one of us,” the smoke whispered. “You belong with us.”

  Fluid as water, ethereal as smoke, the adders danced. Their eyes were the fiery glow of the rising sun. Their voices were Zhe’s blackened feathers, dispersed by the breeze. Their bodies were waves, bearing the fallen god home. And he was the fire-haired god made flesh, bright and terrible and strong.

  Far away, a voice called, “What is it? What’s happening?”

  The smoke whispered its reply. “The coming of a new age.”

  Chapter 40

  A PERSISTENT PRODDING woke Darak—a guard, poking him with the butt of his spear. Gheala hovered over the western wall, a pale fingernail of light in the dark sky. Somewhere in the distance, dogs howled.

  He crawled to his feet and stumbled toward the cluster of men in the center of the compound. Another captive swayed slightly as the guards bound his hands. Darak’s stomach lurched. Temet gave him a bleary smile and accepted the cup a guard thrust toward him.

  Two men. Every morning.

  He was not going to be questioned. He was going to the altar stone he had first seen through the portal in Chaos.

  Obeying the guards’ gestures, Darak removed his tunic, then held out his hands and allowed them to bind his wrists. They left his feet free; clearly, they thought he would be too stupefied to run. When a guard shoved a cup toward him, he hesitated. If he didn’t drink, they would force it down his throat.

  A sudden burst of song shattered the predawn stillness. The guards’ heads jerked toward Temet. A quick slap silenced him, but it gave Darak the precious moment he needed to twist his wrists and let the water splash onto the ground. When the guards looked back, water was dripping from his chin. One peered into the cup and thrust it back at him, forcing him to drain the dregs. It tasted as musty as it smelled. He prayed a swallow wouldn’t impair him.

  His gaze sought Temet, who shrugged and offered that same bleary smile. Just a moment of recognition, of thanks given and acknowledged before the guards moved in.

  Darak’s hope for escape sank as four surrounded him, all armed with swords. Even if he knocked one aside, he doubted he could outrun the others. The one who must be the leader muttered a few words in Zherosi and pointed to him. When Darak caught the word “Zhe,” he wondered why he hadn’t realized his destination immediately. Of course, the Zheron wanted the pleasure of sacrificing him. But at least Temet’s gesture had not been made in vain. If there was no escape, there was still the possibility of revenge.

  They would have to free his hands before the sacrifice. He would have only a moment, but the Zheron would be unprepared. He might be able to wrest a weapon from one of the guards. Or take the dagger out of the Zheron’s hand and slaughter him on the altar of the god he served. Or simply reach up, twist the man’s head between his palms, and break his neck.

  Darak pictured the Zheron’s look of astonishment. He heard the satisfying snap of bone. The bloodlust surged and he tamped it down until the flames were mere embers.

  Soon.

  His hands were utterly steady, just as they had been during the raid. Steady and strong and whole. They had killed for him that morning; they would kill for him again today.

  Very soon.

  His lips were numb. The effect of the drugged water. All the better. It would prevent a smile from betraying him. Slack-jawed and shambling, Darak let the guards lead him across the compound.

  Nelkho roused him before dawn, lighting the lamps and laying out his robe and cloak just as he always did. Either the old slave didn’t know of his fall from grace or he simply assumed that he would follow his usual routine.

  Malaq stood quietly while Nelkho slipped the chain over his head. The queen had not demanded he surrender his vial of qiij. In name, he was still Pajhit. But for the first time in five years, another would stand at the altar of Heart of Sky at dawn.

  Dully, he wondered what would happen if the queen dismissed him. Vazh would loan him enough money to get a new start somewhere. But what could he do? He was unsuited for trade, too old for the army. A provincial priest, perhaps, serving out his remaining years in a run-down temple. If they would have him. Even his relatives might be reluctant to welcome him, fearing the queen’s displeasure.

  Impatiently, he shook off selfish concerns. All he faced was disgrace and poverty. Kheridh faced death. Unless he could shield himself from the queen, she would discover the truth. And once she did, he would die on the altar as surely as his father.

  They would be taking the Spirit-Hunter to the temple now. The man who had bargained with one god and rescued another would die under the dagger of a man unworthy to speak his name. Malaq waved Nelkho away and knelt before his shrine. The least he could do was pray that Darak’s spirit found sanctuary in the Forever Isles.

  A commotion outside disturbed him. He rose and walked to the doorway where he found one of his guards arguing with the queen’s men.

  “What is it?”

  “Please, Pajhit.” It was the young one who guarded Kheridh during the day. “Something’s happening in the adder pit.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I . . . I went there.” He shot a worried look at the queen’s men. “To make sure . . . to see if Kheridh was . . .”

  “Yes, yes. And?”

  “The guards were gone. And the Qepo. But I looked into the pit . . .” He shuddered.

  Malaq seized his shoulders. The sharp stink of the guard’s fear only heightened his.

  “The adders. They were swarming all around him.” The fingers of the other guards flew as they sketched spirals on their chests.

  “Yes. It’s frightening the first time you see it, but there’s nothing—”

  “They were following him. To the door. Like . . . like dogs obeying their master.”

  Malaq’s hands fell to his sides.

  “The Son of Zhe,” one of the queen’s men whispered. “It’s
true.”

  As Malaq started out the doorway, the other guard stepped forward. “Forgive me, Pajhit. But the queen gave orders—”

  “I must go to the pit.”

  “But my orders—”

  “Damn your orders! Let me pass, or I will cast your spirit into the Abyss.”

  The guard hesitated, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Malaq didn’t wait for his decision. He shoved past him and raced down the corridor, pushing through a knot of startled priests on their way to morning prayers.

  A few Zhiisti had gathered in the central courtyard to watch the procession of sacrificial victims. Their shocked faces blurred past him; Malaq imagined the delight they’d take in describing the oh-so-serious Pajhit with his robe hiked up to his knees as he ran up the steps to the throne room.

  When he heard another set of footsteps echoing behind him, he glanced back and discovered the young guard hard on his heels. Malaq pushed through the draperies at the far end of the chamber and bolted into the corridor that led to the royal apartments. He’d barely flung open the door to the viewing platform when he heard the scream.

  Please gods, don’t let him be dead.

  He clattered down the stairs and found the Qepo pressed against the far wall. Kheridh walked toward him, his face serene, his eyes unfocused. Malaq spoke his name softly, but he was too deep in trance to hear. As he passed the stairs, Malaq extended a hand to touch his shoulder, only to draw back, instinctively flattening himself against the wall like the Qepo.

  Kheridh walked among a living tide of adders, a writhing mass of slender bodies that surged past the step on which he stood and spilled over the feet of the terrified Qepo. Ignoring them both, ignoring even their natural instinct to flee. Moving with one mind and one intention—to follow the boy who led them through the anteroom and into the corridor beyond.

  “The coming of a new age.”