Foxfire

RIGAT LEANED ON THE LOW wall of his balcony in a vain attempt to glimpse the temple of Zhe. All he could see was the milling crowd, little more than a seething black fog in the uncertain light.

The eager ones had begun arriving days ago to witness the dawn ceremony that would proclaim him the Son of Zhe. By yesterday afternoon, there were so many people on the plateau, Womb of Earth was groaning.

Or so Nekif assured him. For the last two days, he’d been trapped in the bowels of the palace, interrogating the thirteen noblemen accused of conspiring with Carilia.

The interrogations had been easy enough, although the drain on his power was noticeable. This morning, he’d been so tired that Nekif had to shake him in order to rouse him—and then prostrated himself, babbling apologies for touching the Son of Zhe without permission.

More disturbing was discovering that the noblemen had met several times with their Carilian counterparts, and exchanged some clumsily coded messages about pressuring their rulers to end the war. Three of the men had gone so far as to suggest more drastic measures—including inciting a mutiny among the troops in the east. In the end, they had shied away from such outright acts of treason. And in every spirit, he had touched a genuine love for the queen and for Zheros.

Although both Jholianna and the Khonsel made it clear that they considered the men guilty of treason, he continued to waver. “If they’re guilty of anything,” he’d told her, “it’s being foolish enough to believe they could bring the war to an end.”

“They’re playing on your kind heart. And the fact that you’re still a stranger here. I’ve lived many centuries, Rigat. And I’ve learned the importance of ruling with a firm hand.”

Reluctantly, he recalled the times he had played When I Become Chief. He had decided to cast Elasoth’s daughters out of the tribe simply because their father had voted against Keirith. Yet now he was acting squeamish about punishing men who had conspired against their queen.

He’d never really imagined that his game could become so serious, that he might really control whether people lived or died. But now he did. The accused men would all receive trials, but the verdict was as certain as sunrise—unless he intervened. Saving them from execution might demonstrate how merciful the Son of Zhe was, but it was just as likely to prove that he was a softhearted boy, easily manipulated by others.

With Fellgair still absent, he had no one to turn to for advice. In the end, he won Jholianna’s grudging consent to postpone the sentencing until after the moon of celebration. That would give him time to consider his choices—and give Fellgair time to return to Pilozhat.

Impatiently, he adjusted the golden serpent that circled his neck and traced the dimples in the hammered gold scales of his breastplate. For the third time, he smoothed his hair. Jholianna had insisted on braiding it herself, alternating between marveling at its softness and scolding him as she combed out the tangles. Just as his mam used to.

He had dreamed of her last night, standing in the center of the village, gazing up at the moon. Her eyes were closed, but he could see her lips moving so he guessed she was praying. He heard a voice calling him—too deep to be hers. And then he woke to find Nekif shaking him.

I’ll go see her on the morrow. Just for a little while. I’ll be back before Jholianna even notices I’m gone.

He ordered Nekif out of his chamber and began pacing, anger warring with concern. This was the most important day of his life. Fellgair should be here to witness it. Surely, nothing could have happened to him. He was a god, after all, not some puny mortal.

Refusing to let disappointment taint the day, he summoned his power. Although it was still sluggish from the interrogations, he easily opened a tiny sliver of a portal behind the temple. The first shafts of sunlight spilled through the serpentine pillars onto the altar, revealing the bloody carcass of a white ram, a special sacrifice to honor the Son of Zhe.

Rigat winced and looked away; one day, he would be able to see a sacrifice on that altar without imagining his brother lying there.

Torchlight danced across the bronze armor of the guards surrounding the temple. Clusters of scarlet and gold at the front of the crowd allowed him to identify the priests of Zhe and Heart of Sky. He spotted the half-shaven heads of the servants of the God with Two Faces, but had to squint before he made out the priestesses of Womb of Earth in their brown robes.

The kankhs blared, and the ground-fog of people seethed, only to fall still a moment later when the drums began. In contrast to the slow, measured tattoo, Rigat’s heart raced. His power shuddered through him, flashing brighter with each drumbeat. The muscles in his legs trembled, and he had to fight the urge to leap through the portal to relieve the growing tension in his body.

Just when he thought the procession would never arrive, he saw Jholianna marching between the two lines of guards flanking the walkway from the palace. Like him, she was bedecked with jewelry, from the thin gold chain woven through her elaborate braids to the gem-studded one around her throat, and the bracelets encircling her arms.

“The common folk expect to see us dripping with jewelry,” she had told him. “Especially on an occasion like this.”

Rigat was certainly dripping; although the sun had barely risen, his power alone kept the sweat from running in streams down his body. He hated to use it for such a mundane purpose, but the Son of Zhe couldn’t sweat like a slave.

If her jewelry seemed excessive, her gown was stunningly simple, the sheath binding her breasts the color of the first green leaves of spring, the flounces on her skirt the deeper greens of a Midsummer forest. She looked as a slender as a sapling, reminding him of the ancient legend of the rowan that had pulled up its roots and become the world’s first woman.

Her simple elegance made the Zheron’s finery look slightly ridiculous. Red, gold, and black feathers sprouted from the band of bronze that circled his forehead. More cascaded over his shoulders in a feathered cloak. By contrast, the Pajhit’s shimmering cloak of pink and rose and ruddy red lent the little priest a rare dignity.

Rigat eagerly peered at the tall priestess walking beside the Motixa, and swallowed his disappointment when he realized it was not Fellgair. The common folk probably wouldn’t even realize that it was not their Supplicant, for the Acolyte’s half-shaven head and robe were identical to hers. A garland of honeysuckle crowned her head, while the Motixa wore one of bitterheart. In her brown robe, the plump Motixa was doomed to look dowdy, yet her innate grace and serene expression enhanced the aura of maternal compassion that shone from her.

Slowly, they mounted the steps and took their places, Jholianna directly in front of the altar, the priests and priestesses one step below, flanking her. The kankh blared again and the drums ceased.

“By these signs shall you know him,” the Zheron intoned. “His power shall burn bright as Heart of Sky at Midsummer. His footsteps shall make Womb of Earth tremble.”

“Speechless, he shall understand the language of the adder,” Jholianna proclaimed. “And wingless, soar through the sky like the eagle.”

“No pageantry shall attend his arrival. No poet shall sing his name. No mortal woman shall know his body. No mortal man shall call him son.”

By now, all the assembled priests and priestesses were reciting the ancient words. And when the crowd joined them—hundreds of voices filling the air—a delicious shiver shook Rigat.

“Hail the Son of Zhe, the fire-haired god made flesh. Welcome him with reverence and with dread, for with him comes the new age.”

Rigat allowed the tension to build until it seemed the air itself would scream for release. Then he ripped open the portal and stepped into the rosy shaft of sunlight beside Jholianna.

Every person in the crowd drew breath in a collective gasp. The shocked silence that followed made him glance nervously at Jholianna, who gave him a reassuring nod. As if to affirm her confidence, the silence was shattered by a deafening roar of acclamation.

It went on and on, as wild and unstoppable as flames consuming dry wood. His power surged, feeding on the crowd’s excitement, and he trembled with the effort to contain it.

Jholianna’s gleaming eyes mirrored his intoxication. A flush stained her cheeks. Her lips parted. When her tongue flicked out to wet them, he realized he was licking his as well. He quickly tamped down the lust and the power until the thundering of his blood ebbed.

Jholianna dropped gracefully to her knees and prostrated herself before him. Like grain bowing before the wind, every man, woman, and child on the plateau followed suit.

“The prophecy is fulfilled!” Rigat cried. “The fire-haired god is made flesh. Rise, my people! Rise and look upon the face of Zhe’s beloved son.”

They rose. They cheered. They shrieked in delight as the priests of Zhe showered him with red petals. Shrieked again as he descended the steps, unaware that his careful movements were prompted by the fear that he would trip over his long scarlet khirta.

Hand in hand, he and Jholianna walked down the pathway. Children gawked. Old folk wept. Women trilled the high, ululating cry that the Zherosi used to express triumph or defiance or exaltation. Hundreds of voices became one continuous chant: “Rigat! Rigat! RIGAT!”

An old man stepped forward. Immediately, a guard blocked his path, but lowered his spear at Rigat’s signal. As Rigat reached for the outstretched hand, the old man’s fingertips moved higher, then hesitated.

Rigat took the trembling fingers and guided them to his hair. With a start, the old man pulled his hand back and stared at his palm in shock.

He zigzagged down the path, clasping hands, laying his palm atop the heads of children, blessing them as he had seen Fellgair do. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw people crawling forward to kiss the stones his sandals had touched.

Only when he neared the eastern wall of the palace did the uproar ebb. The priests of Zhe spread out in a red-robed circle around the pit Rigat had first glimpsed during his vision quest. This time, there were no terrified shouts, no guards brandishing spears to drive him off, only a respectful silence as he stepped to the edge.

The pit was larger than the longhut in his village. Brush and grasses littered the bottom. Piles of rocks created shady nooks for the adders. Water glimmered darkly in a shallow bronze bowl and spilled over the sides to trickle down a tiny causeway of pebbles.

A few adders had left their nests to bask in the first rays of sunlight. The female was easy to identify, her body swollen and fat. The ceremony he had witnessed through the portal had blessed their mating. Now, he offered his father’s greetings to his beloved children and blessed the safe delivery of their young.

Another roar greeted his pronouncement. He was turning away from the pit to acknowledge it when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

Two of the basking males slithered back between the rocks. The female raised her head. A tongue flicked out, scenting the air. Red-brown eyes gazed up into his.

It was only a trick of the light that made that unblinking gaze seem malevolent, only his overwrought nerves that conjured the wave of revulsion that rippled through her swollen body. She uncoiled with slow, deliberate grace and glided after her brothers, repudiating the false Son of Zhe and his empty blessing.

He forced himself to smile. To raise his hands and accept the acclamation of the crowd. To ignore the dryness of his mouth and the weight of the gold breastplate that suddenly seemed heavy enough to crush him. And to dismiss as imagination Faelia’s voice, as sibilant as an adder’s, whispering, “You are not our father’s son.”

The disturbing voice continued to echo in his mind as he visited the other temples. The Motixa placed a crown of bitterheart on his head. The Pajhit slipped thick gold bracelets over his wrists. The Acolyte offered him a sip of honeyed wine. When he raised his hands to accept the goblet, his bracelets clattered like chains.

The priests and nobles paraded after them into the central courtyard where the litter awaited. It had been specially constructed for the triumphal procession through the city. He clambered onto the thick red cushions, while Jholianna settled herself—with infinitely more grace—on the mound of gold ones.

Instead of the usual curtains, the litter’s sides were open to permit spectators to see them. Four serpentine posts, painted red, reared up from each corner. Gauzy red fabric, studded with precious gems, had been draped over the top, but it did little to keep out the merciless sun. Even the six slaves who carried their litter were red. As the paint on their bodies began to drip in the heat, they seemed to be oozing blood.

Jholianna sighed. “Perhaps the people will think it’s symbolic. The blood of Womb of Earth, spilling forth as she gave birth to Zhe. Or the tears of Heart of Sky who wishes he could spend a day reclining in a litter.”

The kankhs offered the obligatory salute. Slaves grasped the gilded wooden poles of the litter and raised them carefully to their shoulders. With Jholianna’s bodyguard surrounding them, they marched toward the main gate, followed by the council members and a horde of priests and priestesses. Today, all would walk behind the litter; nothing must distract from the glory of the Son of Zhe and his queen.

The procession passed through a smaller courtyard whose soaring columns always reminded him of a grove of trees. Too soon, the grove was behind them and there was only the crowd of people lining the walkway, waving frantically behind the screen of guards.

At the edge of the plateau, Jholianna wrapped one arm around the nearest post and braced her feet against the front of the litter. Moments later, Rigat understood why. He clung to a post with both hands as they lurched down the steps, his crown of bitterheart hanging precariously from one ear.

The procession soon faded into a blur of sweating faces and incessant noise. People hung out of windows and clogged the cobbled streets, all screaming his name, all craning for a glimpse of the Son of Zhe. By the time they reached the harbor, Rigat’s jaw ached from smiling, his arm ached from waving, and his ribs ached where the breastplate stabbed him each time he shifted position.

Her laugh drew another wave of cheers from the crowd. “All that’s left now are the presentations,” she reminded him. “Then we can return to the palace and enjoy the luxury of a long soak before the feast.”

Jholianna’s plan had called for them to make stops throughout the city to receive the guild masters, but the Khonsel had refused to allow it, claiming his forces were inadequate to provide security in a dozen plazas. Even when Rigat reminded him that his interrogations had revealed no conspiracies to harm him or the queen, the stubborn old man remained adamant.

“What’s the point of having the procession if the guild masters can’t present their gifts to me personally?” Rigat demanded.

The Khonsel reluctantly compromised by allowing a single presentation. This pleased no one, especially the guild masters, who resented having to share their moment of glory.

Rigat let out a sigh of relief as they entered the Plaza of Justice. It was just as crowded, but he felt less trapped here than in the narrow streets.

The procession came to a halt in front of a raised dais, shaded—of course—by a scarlet canopy. As the litter scraped cobblestones, he scrambled off the cushions, hoping those watching would interpret his awkwardness as godlike exuberance.

The cheers continued unabated as the council members followed them up the steps. The Khonsel, Rigat noted, placed himself closest to the queen. His narrow-eyed gaze moved ceaselessly, scanning the crowd, observing the disposition of the guards around the dais and atop the roofs. For a moment, their eyes met and held. Then the Khonsel’s gaze moved on.

Suddenly, all the elaborate security measures made sense. Ever since his arrival, the Khonsel had challenged him. This was just another test.

Rigat nearly laughed in relief. It was all a game, just as Fellgair had always claimed. Now that he understood that, it was easy to smile when Jholianna presented him, to offer a pretty speech about the dawning of a new age, to accept the jubilant acclamation.

It was harder to maintain his smile during the interminable presentations that followed. After the windy welcome of Pilozhat’s Alcadh, he blessed a bag of gold serpents specially minted by the Merchants Guild, a vat reeking of urine for the Tanners Guild, and a motley collection of nets and hooks presented by the Fishers Guild. He consecrated a flower-bedecked loom for the Weavers Guild, and a flower-bedecked bullock hauled forward by the beefy-looking master of the Fleshers Guild.

He praised the artistry of leatherworkers and potters, barrel makers and alewives. He patted the heads of the wide-eyed children apprenticed to the Musicians Guild. He accepted armlets and rings, casks of ale and crates of wine, haunches of meat and bolts of precious lilmia, and—from the whiskery old crone who headed the Bakers Guild—a loaf of bread ostensibly made in his image.

“She must be a seer as well as a baker,” Jholianna whispered as the old woman backed away. “The loaf’s burned, too.” She ran her forefinger lightly down his sun-reddened arm.

“Yesterday’s lettuce? Or . . . ?” Her eyebrows soared suggestively and she laughed at his embarrassment. “And in your honor, I shall eat nothing but boiled langhosti. For surely your skin will be the same color as their shells before this day is over.”

He was soon grateful for his sunburn. It hid his blush when the beautiful young men and women of the Prostitutes Guild began to dance. Even a few of the stern-faced guards gawked at their sinuous gyrations. But all too soon it was over, leaving Rigat even more aware of the late afternoon heat.

It rose in waves above the crowd, making the buildings on the far side of the plaza swim before his eyes. He could scarcely draw breath, and when he did, the dry air seared his lungs. His power staved off the worst of its effects, but his poor people had to be suffering. As for the guards in their bronze helmets and breastplates, it was a miracle they hadn’t collapsed.

Finally, the last representative rose from his ritual prostration. He was younger than the other guild masters, his thickly muscled arms testifying to his profession as a smith. Across his palms lay a dagger, its hilt and sheath encrusted with precious gems.

The head of Jholianna’s bodyguard stepped forward to receive the gift; no one with a weapon—even a sheathed one—was permitted to approach the Son of Zhe.

The guild master smiled as the guard approached. He was still smiling when he knocked him aside with one hard shove of his shoulder.

It happened with dreamlike slowness, but it must have taken only a few heartbeats. The guard staggering. The Khonsel’s shout. The naked dagger in the man’s hand as he vaulted up the steps. A tiny red gem on the hilt, gleaming like a drop of blood. Jholianna’s fingernails scoring his forearm as she stumbled backward. The man’s defiant shout—“Carilia!”—as he hurtled toward them, dagger upraised.

Rigat’s power roared out of him, but it was too unfocused to stop the dagger from descending. The best he could do was push, as he had once pushed Seg.

The assassin reeled and lost his footing. A guard lunged. The guild master’s body went rigid, impaled on the point of the sword. Then the rest of the bodyguard fell on him, swords slashing.

Rigat whirled around and found Jholianna sprawled on the dais. He knelt beside her and pulled her into the shelter of his arm.

He heard shouts and screams, but could see little; a forest of legs and a wall of bronze-armored backs surrounded them.

Disregarding his bad leg, the Khonsel fell to his knees and seized the queen’s hand. “Earth’s Beloved. Are you injured?”

She shook her head, but the Khonsel seized her shoulders, twisting her from side to side before pulling her forward to inspect her back. Then he remembered himself and fell back on his haunches.

Jholianna pressed her fingertips to his mouth. The intimacy of the gesture startled the Khonsel as well as Rigat. “I’m well, old friend. Just bruised.”

With a trembling hand, she pushed a lock of hair off her face. “First, we must show the people that we are safe.”

The Khonsel muttered a filthy oath and struggled to his feet. “You don’t deserve such an honor. I’ll disembowel you myself and have your corpse flung on the midden for the dogs.”

Jholianna held out her hand so Rigat could help her to her feet. “Punishment can be meted out later. Now we must calm the people.”

The Khonsel scowled and barked out orders. A huge roar went up as they walked to the edge of the dais. Jholianna acknowledged it with an upraised hand and a brilliant smile, but her gaze remained fixed on the corpse of the assassin still sprawled on the lowest step.

When Rigat put his arm around her waist, he could feel the tremors coursing through her. For just a moment, she leaned against him. Then she shrugged free and lifted her hands, commanding silence.

“People of Pilozhat!” Her voice shook. She took a deep breath and then another before whispering, “Help me.”

This time, she allowed his arm to remain around her. He nodded to her, all the while scanning the crowd for another assassin, but there was no movement in the plaza, no sound at all save for the thin wail of a babe somewhere. He drew on his power again to ensure that his voice would reach those at the back of the crowd.

“People of Pilozhat! Our queen is safe. And the Carilian assassin who attacked her is dead. Truly, the gods are smiling upon Zheros. This is why my father sent me. To protect our queen. To prevent attacks like this from ever happening again. And to bring a victorious end to the war that has sapped our strength for too many years.”

He paused only long enough to acknowledge the frenzied cheers with a wave. Then, surrounded by the guards, he led Jholianna down the steps, carefully skirting the corpse. As he handed her into the litter, he slipped on the blood-slick cobblestones and had to seize one of the litter’s posts to keep from falling.

Something brushed his cheek, soft as Jholianna’s hair. But when he looked up, he found her gaze fixed on a clump of feathers on the cushion beside her. Bemused, he wondered how they had gotten in the litter. When his mind finally registered what his eyes were seeing, his bowels clenched.

Before he could pull the arrow free, he heard the Khonsel shouting and the frenzied slap of leather-shod feet. Someone shoved him into the litter. He sprawled across the cushions, but when he tried to sit up, a hand thrust him down again.

As the litter lurched forward, he twisted his head and discovered the Khonsel’s stark face a handsbreadth from his own. The late afternoon sunlight penetrating the gauzy awning cast a rosy glow on his cheeks, as if he were blushing.

Screams erupted as the guards beat a way through the terrified spectators with the flats of their swords. The litter rocked wildly. A violent tug on his khirta kept him from sliding out.

The Khonsel shifted his weight, and her breath eased out in a shaky sigh. Rigat wriggled one hand free to give her arm a comforting squeeze and was rewarded by a wan smile.

There was a brief moment of shade as they passed under a stone archway. Then renewed heat as the litter bearers entered a courtyard. The splash of water from an unseen fountain made Rigat realize he desperately needed to empty his bladder. Only because he’d had no opportunity to do so all day, he told himself. Not because he was afraid.

Even before the litter came to rest, the Khonsel slid out and bent to lift Jholianna. Ignoring her weak protestations, he gathered her in his arms and limped off, surrounded by guards.

Without waiting for permission, the guards yanked him out of the litter with as much ceremony as fleshers hauling a haunch of meat from a cart.

The interior was dim and blessedly cool, but filled with frantic activity. As Rigat obediently submitted to the hands tugging him this way and that, searching for a wound, the Khonsel barked orders to post guards on the roof and the entranceways. A dozen raced to obey. Others were already slamming wooden shutters across windows.

An elderly man—probably the judge who owned the house—watched the activity with helpless amazement. His wife snapped at the slaves to light torches to alleviate the gloom. Both fell to their knees when they saw him.

Only then did he spy Jholianna, slumped on a bench against the far wall. The Khonsel sat beside her, his face bent close to her blood-smeared arm. When Rigat spotted the shallow cut near her shoulder, the wave of relief left him giddy; he could heal that in moments.

“We’ve sent for a physician,” the Avokhat’s wife said. “But it might take him some time. The crowds . . .”

A richly dressed girl—the Avokhat’s daughter?—hurried toward the Khonsel, a bronze basin clutched in her hands. The Khonsel plucked the cloth from her arm, dampened it, and dabbed gently at Jholianna’s wound.

She bore it without flinching. Indeed, she seemed scarcely aware of the chaos around her. Her head rested against the wall, seeming to sprout incongruously from the dark center of a painted sunflower. Her eyes were half-closed, but they fluttered open when the Khonsel suddenly leaned forward and seized her chin.

Rigat heard a gasp behind him and the shuffling of feet. A guard hurried forward, gripping the black shaft of the arrow between his thumb and forefinger as if he feared it would come to life. Rigat clamped his lips together to prevent a burst of nervous laughter from escaping. Then he noticed the man’s expression.

Although he could still hear the slaves’ bare feet slapping against the tiles and a guard racing up a flight of stairs, everyone around him was frozen, every pair of eyes riveted on the arrow. And every face wore the same expression of horror as the guard’s.

The Khonsel was the first to recover. He unsheathed his dagger and sawed a long strip of fabric from his khirta. But instead of bandaging Jholianna’s wound, he tied the fabric higher on her arm.

“It’s poison,” the Khonsel snarled. Jholianna’s arm jerked as he knotted the fabric. “The Carilians always paint the shafts of poisoned arrows black. So they don’t mistake them.”

He’d assumed she was just suffering from the shock of the attack. Only now did he notice her waxy complexion and drooping eyelids. Her chest rose and fell in quick pants as she sucked at the air like a fish out of water. Spittle oozed out of the corner of her gaping mouth. The Avokhat’s wife slipped onto the bench beside her and gently wiped it away.

“We must prepare her to Shed.” Even as he snapped out the orders, the Khonsel’s hands were moving, one gripping Jholianna’s wrist, the other lifting his dagger. He made two small incisions above her wound. Jholianna’s body jerked in protest, but he ignored her to suck at the cuts. He reared up and spat, spraying blood onto the yellow tiles. Three more times, he repeated the ritual, then sat back, rubbing his lips with his fist.

They were all watching him, just as before their eyes had been riveted on the arrow. Rigat tried to form words, but it was all happening too quickly.

The Avokhat’s daughter eased back. Her hands shook so badly that water sloshed over the side of the basin, wetting his khirta and dripping down his leg.

The Khonsel slid off the bench, allowing him to sit. Jholianna’s hand felt limp and boneless, but her flesh was warm and her pulse thudded rapidly under his thumb.

A hand descended on his shoulder. “They use different poisons.” The Khonsel’s voice was calm, but his hand trembled, and that terrified Rigat. “Usually a combination. Yew berries. Helmet-flower. Snake venom. I don’t know if that helps . . .”

Silently, he cursed himself for wasting his power on cooling his body and drying his sweat, especially when it was already weakened by the interrogations. He closed his eyes, thrusting aside the useless regrets, desperately trying to steady himself. Dimly, he was aware of the Khonsel muttering orders. A woman’s muffled weeping. A man’s soft prayers. And the hoarse, uneven rasp of Jholianna’s breath.

When he placed his right palm over the wound, heat seared him. Not the ordinary heat of injured flesh, but sharp, penetrating pain as if dozens of bees were stinging him.

He fought the urge to snatch his hand away and flung his power into the wound. Jholianna’s hand ripped free of his grasp. He opened his eyes to find her writhing in the arms of the Avokhat’s wife, one hand clawing at the vial of qiij at her throat. With an oath, the Khonsel stumbled to the other side of the bench, shoved the woman aside, and used his weight to pin Jholianna against the wall.

As the Avokhat’s wife fumbled with the stopper of the vial, the Khonsel pulled Jholianna into his arms and held her head back. She reared up, choking on the qiij, but he clapped his hand over her mouth until she swallowed.

Rigat squeezed his eyes shut again. Jholianna’s terror screamed inside his spirit, but he could not afford to squander his power on calming her.

Despite the sting of the poison, it was as amorphous as fog. Deadly and elusive in the tidal race of her blood, every heartbeat sent it coursing through her body.

He made his power into a spear, hurling a pure current of energy through Jholianna’s blood. Tiny black dots blossomed and exploded as he cleaved the miasma. But in his wake, the poison coalesced again, oozing through the chinks in the barriers he erected to dam it up.

He poured more of his power into her, fighting both the poison and the certainty that it would swallow up the healing energy, even as it was devouring Jholianna’s life. He heard the wild drumbeat of her heart, then realized the sound came from outside his body.

Abandoning the effort to hold back the poison, he sent his power surging toward her lungs. They were as flaccid as empty waterskins. He surrounded them with his power, squeezing them as the smith’s apprentice pumped the bellows in the royal armory. Slowly and rhythmically, the boy had worked, and although fear urged him to hurry, Rigat did the same.

He was so focused on helping Jholianna breathe that he sensed the upwelling of her power too late. The energy crashed into him with such force that he lost connection with his body. He could no longer feel the bench against his thighs or the smoothness of Jholianna’s flesh. A dense cloud veiled his vision. He could still hear voices, but they faded as his hearing deserted him along with his other senses.

Shock coursed through him when he realized that she was trying to cast out his spirit. For a heartbeat, he hung suspended, clinging to his body by a fragile thread. But if Jholianna’s instinct to survive was strong, so was his.

Terror and desperation fueled his faltering power. It roared up from the core of his being, hotter and wilder than he had ever known it, spinning strength into the thread of his existence, seizing his drifting spirit and hurtling it back into his body.

Before his power, Jholianna’s wilted. Neither qiij nor her instinct for survival could match it. He was ablaze with the power, gloriously alive, spirit and body alike inundated by sensations. And all so vivid, so beautiful. To feel the grain of the wooden bench through his khirta. To hear the slap of sandals on cobblestones and the anxious murmur of a guard in the courtyard. To smell the scent of fresh-baked bread from the kitchens and the oil that perfumed the Avokhat’s hair and the fear-stink of the Khonsel’s sweat. To be supremely alive, supremely powerful.

Light flared behind his closed eyelids—red light and orange and a fiery white. Hundreds of bursts of light that filled his senses and shimmered with the luminescence of the Northern Dancers, until his entire being seemed infused with their radiance.

A tiny red star exploded, blinding him with its brilliance. As it flickered and died, another exploded, and another and another. The dance was still beautiful, but it was dying now, the blaze ebbing to a dull red glow. A wave of sadness engulfed him, and with it, an overwhelming lassitude. Only then did he realize that it was not only the dance that was dying, but his power.

Panic destroyed the last vestiges of his exultation. His power shuddered in response to the sudden jolt of fear, and it horrified him to feel how weak it had become. Lost in the glory of the dance, he had continued to expend it recklessly when he should have been conserving it for Jholianna’s sake—and his.

Her death would cripple Zheros and destroy any hope for peace in the north. The Zherosi would turn on him. For how could the true Son of Zhe fail to save their queen?

The connection between their spirits faded. Her terror leached away, replaced by anguish. And then it, too, receded, until all he could feel was her hopeless acceptance of death.

Without any power, Darak had sheltered Keirith’s spirit. Surely, he could do the same for Jholianna until a Host could be found.

The Khonsel was shouting something, but Rigat ignored the intrusive voice, focusing all his energy on the link between his spirit and hers. She had drifted so far away in those wasted moments of self-congratulation. How could he have been so careless?

He drew what strength he could from the wooden bench beneath him, from the incense-scented air, from the meager light of the oil lamps, and the sweat rolling down his face. And then he opened himself and drew her fragile spirit closer.

It happened so quickly it caught them both by surprise. There was a moment of shared recognition and relief. Then his limbs began to flail.

He landed hard on the tiles, writhing helplessly. He fought down his panic, trying to soothe her, to control her without terrifying her, to overcome centuries of Shedding that told her she must gain possession of this new body and cast out the alien spirit that still shared it. In the end, all he could do was retreat and throw up a barrier to shield them from each other.

He managed to wheeze out a denial, and a hand seized his. He opened his eyes. Felt Jholianna’s terror piercing the shield. And saw the Motixa’s tear-streaked face looking down at him.

“Yes. Yes.” The Motixa squeezed his hand again. “She must have a new Host. Now. If their spirits remain in his body too long they will bleed together.”

Another flash of terror from Jholianna. He tried to send soothing energy, but maintaining the shield required all his strength. He could not even muster the will to keep his eyes open.

He opened his eyes and found everyone staring at the Avokhat’s daughter. Her face was strained and the flounces of her skirt trembled, but she returned the Khonsel’s gaze steadily. Her mother and father were weeping, but they seemed unsurprised. Clearly, they must have come to this decision while he was fighting to save Jholianna.

“My lady. Your sacrifice will be honored and your memory revered as long as the sun rises and sets on Zheros.”

How old was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? And in a few moments, she would die. It happened every year, of course, hundreds vying for the privilege of serving as the queen’s Host. But knowing the rite existed was far different than witnessing a girl’s death.

The Avokhat’s daughter had probably awakened early, eager to witness the ceremony in the Plaza of Justice. Perhaps she had stood in one of the upper story windows, craning for a glimpse of the Son of Zhe and the queen, observing the parade of guild masters with the same impatience he had felt.

Tonight, she might have accompanied her parents to the palace—so excited, so honored that her father’s position had won them a coveted invitation to the feast. Perhaps her dark eyes would have lingered on a young man—the son of a nobleman or a prosperous merchant. After the feast, they might have slipped away from the stifling hall to stroll the moonlit grounds and breathe in the scent of night-blooming flowers. Hidden by the darkness, she might even have permitted him to steal a kiss.

And in time, a match would have been made and a wedding planned. Tears would have been shed then, too—happy tears celebrating a daughter’s marriage instead of honoring her death.

The Motixa was murmuring something. Telling him that she was going to touch his spirit, reminding him to prepare the queen, assuring him that he need do nothing himself, that she and the queen had done this many times. He lowered the barrier slightly, just enough to convey the information to Jholianna. Before he retreated behind it again, a wave of joyful anticipation reached him.

During the formal Shedding, the Host was given qiij to ease her spirit on its journey. This girl would have to manage without it. Nor could he help her; his power was as dull as the embers of the dying stars. He prayed that the Motixa was skillful and gentle. Eager to root herself in a new body, he doubted whether Jholianna would be.

His eyes fluttered open. He turned his head, searching for the Avokhat’s daughter. She was sitting on the bench with the Khonsel, staring down at the lifeless body of her queen. Someone had straightened Jholianna’s gown and draped a shawl over her face.

Her head came up. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she managed a trembling smile. There was a tiny gap between her front teeth, Rigat noticed.

The Motixa’s touch was light and assured. One moment, Jholianna’s spirit was waiting expectantly, and the next it was gone.

He heard a gasp. The shuffle of feet. The rustle of a gown. The Khonsel urgently repeating, “Earth’s Beloved? Earth’s Beloved?”

As Rigat drifted into unconsciousness, he heard the Motixa’s joyful cry. And amid the relieved babble of prayers that followed, the soft, unceasing sound of a mother weeping for her lost child.