Chapter 64
FROM THE BALCONY OF HIS bedchamber, Rigat watched the purple shadows crawl up the western face of Kelazhat. Darak had always considered sunrise the magical time, because it heralded the beginning of a new day. Rigat preferred sunset. It heralded Nekif’s arrival with the brew that brought darkness and escape.
Nekif had cried during the whipping, although Rigat had given him only six strokes with the rod, enough to demonstrate the Promised One’s displeasure without leaving any lasting scars. Since then, he had been very gentle with him, but the old slave always trembled in his presence.
Behind him, sandals pattered softly against tile, then abruptly ceased.
“You’re not dressed yet,” Jholianna said.
He turned. The dusky rose artfully applied to her cheeks deepened under his scrutiny.
“You’re very beautiful.”
His words seemed to startle her. He must remember to compliment her more often.
“The feast will begin soon,” she reminded him.
“The feast. Yes.”
He would have to postpone the pleasure of oblivion. The Carilians had surrendered. The war was over. He had brought the news yesterday and accepted the frenzied acclaim of the court. Messages had been sent by bird, by runner, by ship. The empire would resound with praise and prayers for the Son of Zhe, the Promised One, the fire-haired god made flesh.
“Tremble before him and greet him with dread. For with him comes only death.”
A discerning man, Geriv. Except in the case of the noblemen. True, three were executed—the ones who had considered inciting a mutiny—but thanks to him, the others had lost only their fortunes and estates.
“You are coming? To the feast?”
“Of course.”
He would make a passionate speech that would move the drunken courtiers to tears. He would smile during the songs composed in his honor. He would even listen to the Zheron recite the prophecy without wincing. He knew his role as well any player in the acting troupe that would perform tonight.
“Shall I send Nekif to help you dress?”
“Yes. Thank you.” But he turned back to gaze north once more.
“Are you all right?”
“Just tired. Give me a few moments. Then send Nekif in.”
Despite the obvious dismissal, Jholianna continued to hover behind him. Slowly, he turned. His expression must have alarmed her, for she shrank back.
Schooling his voice to patience, he asked, “Was there something else?”
“I was thinking . . .” A tentative smile. A light brush of fingertips against his forearm. “Now that the war is over, perhaps we should go to the summer palace. In the mountains. It’s quiet there. Restful. The change would do us both good.”
As if a change of scenery would banish the nightmares. As if the mountains would do anything but remind him of the steep, forested hills of his homeland. But he nodded. A small concession to ease her anxiety.
“You’ve accomplished so much since you came to Zheros. More than I dared dream.”
The words seemed familiar. Then he remembered that Fellgair had said much the same thing before he went to Chaos. Before everything went wrong.
“Remember those accomplishments, my dear. And try not to dwell on the past. On what cannot be changed. That way lies despair.”
Or madness. Or the slow slide into oblivion afforded by the drugs. Perhaps Jholin had been wise, after all.
“Give yourself time. And try to be kind to yourself.” She raised his hand to her lips. “And remember, I am always here.”
Always here. Always watching. Like a fox in the grass.
As her footsteps retreated, he chastised himself. Jholianna was only trying to be kind, to offer him the wisdom of her experience. She would offer whatever he needed—wisdom, passion, solace, drugs. Anything to keep him beside her, to harness his power for Zheros. But at least she was loyal. Unlike the others. The Khonsel and Geriv. Faelia and Keirith. Mam.
He was turning to go inside when he caught a flicker of movement in the corner of the balcony. The air rippled and subsided. Rippled again. For just a moment, he glimpsed a figure. Then the air shattered, and he stumbled backward.
An old man swayed between the roiling columns of air. The bulky woolen mantle draped around his hips only accentuated the frailty of his body. It took Rigat a moment to recognize Fellgair, another to recover from the shock of his father’s continuing deterioration.
Rigat summoned his power to hold the portal open. Fellgair took a single uncertain step. Then his legs buckled.
Rigat caught him as he fell. Fellgair’s mouth opened, but all that emerged was a wheezing gasp. He squeezed his father’s hand—the fingers like dry twigs between his—and let his power seep into him.
Fellgair’s body sucked it up as greedily as Darak’s. Flesh fattened the hollows between his ribs. Color returned to the ashen face. But he shook his head, his eyes so desperate that Rigat broke off the healing. Only then did the straining body relax in his arms.
“Why didn’t you come to me sooner? I told you I would help.”
“I did.” A reedy voice, barely recognizable. “You were too drugged to listen.”
It was possible. He needed the drugs every night to keep the nightmares at bay. But he recalled one time in Carilia. Golden eyes staring into his. A voice calling his name. He’d assumed the drugs had twisted his perception. So he had blamed Nekif. And beaten him.
Guilt made his voice brusque. “Well, I’m not drugged now. What do you want? And if you’re just going to lecture me—”
“Your mother is dying.”
Rigat recoiled. “If this is one of your tricks—”
“Don’t be a fool, boy! Griane is dying! Use your power if you don’t believe me. Search for her energy. But hurry. Please! There’s not much time.”
The raw terror on the Trickster’s face swayed him. And when Rigat focused his power on his mother and felt the uncertain flicker of her energy, the same terror engulfed him.
The sky blazed with color—gold, rose, purple. It reminded Keirith of the spectacular sunsets he had seen in Zheros. He was still admiring it when he heard the rustle of grass. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Hircha trotting toward him.
“I brought your supper,” she said, sliding to the ground beside him.
“You didn’t have to do that. Holtik will take the watch as soon as it’s dark.”
She handed him a tiny doeskin bundle. “The last of the mutton.”
“That’s for the children. We all agreed.”
“The women decided the men needed the meat more. You’re skin and bones, all of you.”
He unwrapped the bundle and rolled onto his side, chewing the tough meat slowly. Hircha lay beside him, gazing west.
“It’s like a gift,” he said. “A final, beautiful sunset before we cross into the First Forest.”
“Do you think it will work?”
“It has to.”
“Even with Fellgair’s help, we may not get everyone through.”
Keirith grimaced; talking about Fellgair spoiled the beauty of the sunset.
“Why do you hate him so much?”
“Why does everyone keep defending him? You. Mam.”
“Griane cares about him. And I . . . I care about Griane.”
“I wished he’d stayed away. Why can’t he just let her go?”
“Because he loves her. Just as he loved Darak.”
“He has a strange way of showing his love.”
Still gazing out over the forest, Hircha said, “So do you.”
For a moment, he could only stare at her. Then he cleared his throat, feeling as awkward and uncertain as he had that afternoon on the beach in Zheros when she had tried to seduce him. And the morning three years later when they had kissed for the second time.
It had taken him days to work up the courage. When he had seen her walking toward the lake, he’d clutched his fishing line so tightly his nails dug into his palms. He must have looked desperate—or terrified; her smile of greeting changed into an anxious frown. Before he lost his nerve, he dropped the line and grabbed her shoulders. He could still remember her waterskins bumping against his legs, the painful click of their teeth—and then, her hands pushing him away.
A hot flush of shame suffused him at the memory. And then another—hotter still but not of shame—as her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips. He waited for her to look at him, to give him some sign, but she kept staring at the forest.
Then she licked her lips again. “Everyone in the cave . . . they’re packing and talking and telling the children stories about the First Forest.”
Confused by the sudden shift in the conversation, he mumbled, “Are they?”
“The children can’t wait to see the One Tree. But the adults are thinking about what might go wrong. Wondering if this is our last night together.”
“It won’t be,” he said with more confidence than he felt.
Hircha nodded, clearly unconvinced.
“You said yourself there was hope.”
“Like a child reciting a charm. Say it often enough and maybe the bad things will go away. But they never do.”
For the first time, she looked at him. He was taken aback by her fierce expression.
“Well, if something goes wrong, don’t expect me to say good-bye. I lost my birth family. My husband. And one by one, I’m losing my second family. First Darak. Then Faelia. And now—” She broke off. “I can’t lose you, too.”
Before he could offer any meaningless reassurance, she pushed him back on the grass. His arms automatically went around her, but his mind registered the bruising intensity of her kiss, the rigidity of her body. He told himself it was only her need to make up for so many lost years. His body ached with the same need. It urged him to forget that they could be seen by anyone on the hilltop, to accept their awkward groping as an indication of passion long suppressed, to ignore the gnawing doubt that there was something wrong about this moment.
He tore his mouth away from hers to whisper, “Hircha. Wait.”
She silenced him with more kisses and shoved his tunic up. The shock of her cool fingers sliding over his flesh jolted him into momentary forgetfulness, but when she fumbled with the drawstrings of his breeches, his hands captured hers.
“Not here. Later. In one of the grottos.”
“Nay!”
The fear in her voice doused his passion. “Why not?” He grabbed her arms, holding her away from him so he could look up into her face. “Why not, Hircha?”
“I want you now.”
“We’ve waited this long . . .”
Strands of hair brushed his cheeks as she shook her head. Her fear stabbed his spirit, as real as the scream of the wood pigeon all those years ago, as visceral as the screams of dying men.
He pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair. One part of him marveled that this was happening; another continued to seek explanations. She could have come to him anytime since they had arrived at the hill. Why today? Especially since they had a plan that could—would—guarantee the tribe’s survival.
It must have something to do with Fellgair’s visit. He would not have come simply to bid Mam farewell. They were planning something. And Hircha knew about it and was determined to keep it from him.
Rigat. It had to be. Rigat was coming to see Mam. And Hircha had decided to seduce him rather than risk having his vision come true.
He thrust her away and shook her hard. “When is he coming?”
No mistaking the terror in her eyes or the desperate way she clutched at him. When he broke free, she grabbed his ankle. He fell hard, bruising his hip. She fought him as fiercely as she had kissed him, but he finally managed to push her off.
“Please, Keirith! You have to wait!”
“For what?”
Her gaze shifted past him and her eyes widened. Keirith staggered to his feet and spun around, groping for his dagger. Then he froze.
“You must wait,” Fellgair said, “for Rigat to choose.”
