Chapter 38
“ UNBELIEVABLE!” Afraid that his shaking legs would betray him, Geriv leaned against the wall.
For three days, he had drifted in and out of consciousness, racked by fever and chills. This morning, he had recovered enough to take a few sips of the horrible nettle broth that the physician insisted would restore his strength. He had been eager to see Korim—he remembered something about a misunderstanding that he needed to clear up—but relief that the Spirit-Hunter had not yet arrived drove the matter from his mind. As did the messages that had arrived during his illness.
His satisfaction at learning that the Deepford force had annihilated the third band of rebels had leached away as his scribe read the message from Vazh. It contained belated information about the Gathering and the disturbing news that Rigat would be declared Son of Zhe at the Blessing of the Adders.
Despite his best intentions, he had slept through the afternoon. When he awoke, he summoned Pujh to dress him, ignoring the trembling of his limbs and the slave’s protestations. He could not rest easy until he assured himself that all security measures were in place before the Spirit-Hunter reached the fortress. A few steps from his quarters, the physician descended upon him, but instead of chiding him for leaving his bed as Geriv expected, he launched into a tirade about Korim visiting the prisoner.
“What were you thinking?” he demanded, glaring at Korim and do Fadiq.
“I was trying to help,” Korim replied, his voice as sullen as his face. “It was a good plan.”
“It was reckless. And foolish. And in direct defiance of my orders.”
“Begging your pardon,” the Remil said, “but your orders were to keep two guards on the prisoner at all times. And to use extreme caution around him. And we did. He was still getting the drugs.”
“And he thought I was from the village.”
“Did it ever occur to you that he was only pretending?” Geriv asked, appalled by his son’s gullibility. “That he was trying to wheedle information from you? Or allay your fears so he could attack you?”
“That’s . . . it wasn’t like that. We just talked. About all sorts of things. The games we played as boys, and fishing, and—”
“Fishing!”
“I was trying to draw him out!”
“You talk as if he were your friend.”
“At least he listened to me! Which is more than you do.”
Geriv bit back a retort and turned to do Fadiq. “You may go.”
The Remil saluted stiffly, then hesitated. “Permission to speak, Vanel.”
“What?”
“When I discovered what Skalel do Khat was up to, I was hesitant. But even if the prisoner guessed he wasn’t from the village, we figured a man on drugs might let things slip. And he did. Small things, of course, but the Skalel was making progress. In the end, it was my decision. If anyone is to be punished, it should be me.”
“And you will be. Now leave us.”
As the Remil saluted again and left, Korim said, “The guards were there all the time. If Kheridh had tried anything—”
“You would not have known until it was too late. I was there when he cast out the Zheron’s spirit. No one—not even his own father—realized what had happened.”
For the first time, his words seemed to reach Korim. His son swallowed hard. “That’s why you gave the orders. I thought . . . I assumed you just wanted to . . . tighten discipline.”
Good gods, a commander didn’t order a prisoner drugged and bound and guarded at all times simply to “tighten discipline.”
“And if he had cast out your spirit,” Geriv continued in the same deliberate tone, “I would have had to choose whether to kill him or stand beside him—the man who had stolen my son’s body—and exchange him for the Spirit-Hunter.”
By the time he finished speaking, Korim was staring at him with undisguised horror. He wanted to touch the boy, as much to reassure himself as Korim. He needed to touch him, to know that he was truly safe, to quell the lingering terror that still clenched his bowels when he imagined what might have happened.
“Yes,” Korim said, his voice strangely calm. “I understand now.”
Geriv cleared his throat. His hand came up to grasp his son’s shoulder.
“It would have been horrible for you. To lose the chance to capture the Spirit-Hunter.”
Geriv’s hand froze.
“Which would you have chosen, Father? To kill me or exchange me?”
His hand slowly fell to his side. “I . . . that’s not . . . the situation will not arise. You are never going inside that hut again.”
“Of course not. It might jeopardize your plans.”
Was this what Korim thought of him? That he was so cold, so unfeeling that he would consider the death of his son a mere disruption of his plans? More likely, the boy was choosing to misunderstand, lashing out because he was ashamed of his foolhardy actions.
Fear gave way to anger and the desire to strike back, to hurt his son as he had been hurt. “You will never go to Kheridh’s hut,” he repeated. “I’m sending you back to Pilozhat.”
Korim’s body trembled with suppressed emotion. “You won’t allow me to fight. You object when I use my gift for languages to interrogate a prisoner. So what would you have me do?”
Goaded beyond endurance, Geriv shouted, “Do as you please! Play your flute. Compose a poem. Better still, pack! You leave on the morrow.”
He stalked over to the window and waited until he heard the door slam. Then he punched the logs in impotent fury.
Why had he imagined he could turn Korim into a warrior? Or forge a genuine relationship with him? He should have realized long ago that it was too late for that.
