Foxfire (32 page)

From Fellgair, he also heard the ancient tales. Creation stories about Heart of Sky ravishing Womb of Earth who held him captive in the sacred mountain Kelazhat until the birth of Zhe, the winged serpent. The story of Zhe's betrayal of his parents, first by freeing his father and then, his wings singed and blackened by the sun's heat, devouring him, leaving only Heart of Sky's spirit-self, the moon, to light the darkness. Tales of redemption and rebirth, as the tears of The Changing One of the Clouds swept Zhe out of the Abyss and back to Kelazhat, where he disgorged his father and was reborn by the sun's heat. And the tale that promised the Son of Zhe would come to Zheros one day and usher in a new age.

Rigat listened with avid interest; neither Darak nor Keirith liked to speak of Zheros or what had happened to them here.

In Oexiak, Fellgair allowed them to walk openly through the streets. With so many foreigners thronging the seaport, Rigat's pale skin and red hair attracted little notice. Fellgair's presence caused far more commotion. Nobles and slaves alike eyed him with mingled fear and awe. Even those who had never seen the Supplicant of the God with Two Faces recognized the priestess from the tales. Half-man, half-woman, it was whispered. And Fellgair's garb and appearance bore out the illusion.

“I can understand wearing a robe that's brown and red,” Rigat whispered, as two well-dressed men backed into a wall in their eagerness to clear a path. “And shaving half your head and painting the nails on your left hand. Even having breasts and a penis. But do they have to be so . . . big?”

“You should see me without the robe,” Fellgair replied. “They're even more impressive. Ask Darak.” And laughed when Rigat blushed.

Fellgair won them passage through the crowded marketplaces where merchants and vendors shouted at each other and flashed the brightly-colored disks called coins as they haggled over bundles of fur and hides, sacks of grain, child-sized jugs of wine, screeching fowl, and slabs of bloody meat. The merchants snarled at the more obstreperous of the loincloth-clad beggars, but most dropped coins into the bowls of the men who sat on one side of the square. Some had lost limbs, others were blind, but all wore cloaks studded with tiny metal decorations, incongruously bright against the dusty wool. Campaign medallions, Fellgair explained.

Although Rigat reminded himself that these men might have been injured fighting against his people, he still felt a twinge of pity. If Darak had returned from Chaos so badly wounded, his tribe mates would have cared for him all his life, whether or not his quest had been successful.

Just as they would take care of Madig.

The memory of that encounter still haunted him, as did the fear that his mam might believe he was responsible. He had tried to touch her spirit, but either she was too far away or he was too unskilled to reach her.

At first, he thought that Fellgair had brought him to Zheros simply to distract him, but as they wandered the cobbled streets of Oexiak, he wondered if his father had another purpose. Perhaps Fellgair meant to impress him with the strength of the Zherosi and convince him to return home and warn Keirith that the fight was hopeless.

From the few bits of information he had gleaned from his family, he knew Darak had come to Oexiak in search of Keirith. Had his foster-father been as overwhelmed as he was by the press of bodies and the ceaseless, mind-numbing clamor? And the smells . . . dear gods, after only a day, Rigat wanted to flee back to the clean, fresh scents of the forest. Even the tempting odors of roasting meat and fragrant incense were overpowered by the eye-watering reek of poorly tanned hides and rotting fish.

Surely, Darak must have stared openmouthed at the ships in the harbor, naked masts rising like a forest of pine spars. He, too, must have shuddered at the long lines of warriors that marched with perfect precision up those boarding planks, and winced at the equally long lines of slaves that shuffled down them. Rigat couldn't help picturing Keirith among the half-naked men, tethered like an animal, head bowed in defeat.

That image gave him the courage to ask Fellgair to take him to Pilozhat, which he had glimpsed only briefly when the portal opened. His father eyed him for a long, unnerving moment before agreeing. But Fellgair insisted on conjuring the mist-shield this time, no doubt suspecting that Rigat would be too distracted to concentrate.

As they followed the steep streets to the plateau, Rigat wondered if he was retracing the path Keirith had taken to the slave compound. He found little evidence of the earthquake that had ravaged the city, save for the fact that the whitewashed houses on the upper slopes of the hill looked less weathered by sun and time than those closer to the harbor. Glancing down at the lower city, he noticed that none of the flat, thatched roofs had vent holes for smoke. Instead, it seemed to be rising from a patchwork of open squares in the center of the houses.

“Sky-wells,” Fellgair explained. “To let in light and air and allow the smoke to escape.”

“And those?” Rigat asked, pointing at an enormous clay jar atop one roof. “The Zherosi must drink a lot of wine.”

Fellgair smiled and shook his head. “They're for collecting rainwater.” He pointed to a narrow pipe that snaked down from the roof. “The pipes carry the water to underground cisterns that supply the wells around the city. And washing tanks like those.” He nodded to a group of young women clustered around a raised stone trough. Although their shapeless flaxcloth gowns marked them as slaves, Rigat couldn't help noticing that they laughed and chattered together as they worked.

Unwilling to be impressed by the ingenuity of the Zherosi architects or the apparent happiness of the house slaves, he followed Fellgair up another steep flight of steps. Zigzagging between litters borne by straining slaves, Rigat caught snatches of conversation—women lamenting the rising cost of something called lilmia, men arguing about whether to stockpile their grain or sell it now. Through the gauzy curtains of the litters, he glimpsed golden bracelets adorning women's arms and gem-encrusted dagger sheaths bouncing against the folds of the billowy half-breeches called khirtas.

He loathed these rich, idle strangers who lived off the misery of slaves and were too lazy to walk. He despised their privileged laughter and the harsh, guttural cadences of their speech. And he hated the fact that they worshiped Fellgair just as his people did.

At the top of the steps, he froze, resentment giving way to awe.

The building atop the plateau looked as large as the walled city of Graywaters. Late afternoon sunlight lent a rosy glow to the towering rubblestone walls. Giant pillars marched beside the stone walkways that branched from it. Beyond the gateway facing him, he spied a courtyard large enough to house his entire village. To the west, a long line of men and animals streamed to and from the building: merchants in ox-drawn carts, others leading floppy-eared donkeys piled with so many bundles that only their legs and heads were visible.

“The palace,” Fellgair said.

Rigat managed a casual nod. “And the temple of Zhe?”

Fellgair pointed east, then seized his arm to drag him out of the path of an approaching litter. “But first, let's visit my temple.”

They headed west, passing a group of shaven-haired boys in red robes arguing earnestly about whether Zhe's betrayal of his mother was fated from the beginning or the god's choice.

“Zhiisti,” Fellgair informed him. “Training to become priests of Zhe.” Before Rigat could reply, he pointed to a section of the palace that jutted out. “That used to be the slave compound. Where Darak and Keirith were held.”

“Used to be?”

“After the earthquake that claimed the life of their king, the Zherosi priests feared that human sacrifices had angered their earth goddess. So now they only offer human sacrifices twice a year. One man at Midsummer and another at Midwinter. Both Zherosi,” Fellgair added pointedly. “The rest of the year, they sustain Zhe with the blood of birds and beasts—the same that nourish his sacred adders. And light a fire at dawn on the altar of the sun god so that he may feed on its flames.”

Rigat digested this in silence before asking, “And the God with Two Faces? What sacrifices do the Zherosi offer him?”

“This and that. I'm especially partial to honeysuckle.”

Fellgair's temple seemed more appropriate to the earth goddess. Built into the side of the plateau, it resembled a cave. But after Rigat ducked inside the low entrance, he discovered soft, golden light spilling through another doorway. Easing past two priests—whose red-and-brown robes and half-shaven heads mimicked Fellgair's—they entered the main chamber of the temple.

It was as queer as the appearance Fellgair adopted as the Supplicant, one half illuminated by oil lamps hanging from the ceiling, the other shadowy and dark. It was mercifully cool, though, and the rugs underfoot as soft and thick as the mulch of pine needles in the forest. The aroma of honeysuckle filled the chamber. The flower couldn't possibly grow in arid Zheros, but the polished stone altar in the center of the chamber was heaped with bunches of yellow blossoms. As they approached it, three priestesses entered from another chamber, their arms overflowing with more flowers.

Fellgair watched them, smiling. For the first time, Rigat realized that he cared as much about the Zherosi as the children of the Oak and Holly.

Suddenly, the sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle sickened him. Without a word, he fled. When a priest gaped at him, he realized he had moved beyond Fellgair's shield. Moments later, his father caught up with him. The priest stared in shocked disbelief at the spot where Rigat had vanished and inscribed a spiral over his chest with trembling fingers.

Outside, Fellgair observed him silently as he gulped great lungfuls of the hot, dusty air.

“I'm sorry,” Rigat managed. “I just . . . I had to get out of there.”

Fellgair merely nodded, his expression more disappointed than angry. Perhaps he had hoped that his son would love his temple as much as he did.

Determined to hide his emotions, Rigat followed Fellgair back to the plateau. They circled north around the palace and paused at the temple of Heart of Sky. Behind it loomed the barren crag where Fellgair had opened the portal.

“Kelazhat,” Fellgair informed him.

He'd had no idea that they had been standing atop the sacred mountain, but the parched, rock-strewn earth seemed an appropriate site for rape and betrayal.

Two golden-robed priests flanked the fire that blazed atop the stone altar. A few old men knelt at the bottom of the steps, each clutching a small bundle of sticks or straw.

As Rigat watched, a wispy-haired old man held out his bundle. One of the priests accepted the offering and bent down to catch the words the old man whispered. Then he ascended the steps and approached the pyre. Lifting the sticks skyward, he exclaimed, “Heart of Sky, hear his prayer! Heart of Sky, accept his offering!”

The priest tossed the bundle into the fire. As the flames leaped, the old man's expression brightened. He touched his forehead to the dusty earth and rose, glancing skyward as if in thanks.

As they made their way east, Fellgair said, “It's the custom for old folk to make their petitions to Heart of Sky at this time of day. Like them, the sun god is approaching the end of his journey. A young man—seeking strength in a battle or help with a difficult decision—would bring an offering in the morning.”

Rigat frowned. It was customary for his people to ask the sun god for strength and enlightenment, too.

His uneasiness grew when he saw the serpentine pillars at the end of the stone walkway. He surreptitiously wiped his damp palms on his breeches as he approached the temple and took a deep breath to steady himself.

A small dove lay on the altar of Zhe, the pristine whiteness of its breast feathers marred by congealed blood. Fourteen years ago, his brother's blood had stained that green-black slab of stone. It had been close to Midsummer then, too, but just past dawn. The stone would have been cool beneath Keirith's back, the rising sun warm on his face. As warm as the blood pouring out of his chest.

The tears Rigat refused to shed made his eyes feel hot and dry. His face burned with simmering rage. Sensitive to his mood, his power leaped like the flames on the altar of Heart of Sky. He clenched his fists in an effort to contain it, secretly wishing it were strong enough to make the earth shake again and destroy this temple, to reduce every building in the city to rubble.

“I hope he's suffering.”

Only when Fellgair asked, “Xevhan?” did Rigat realize he had spoken aloud.

“Aye. I hope he was terrified before Keirith cast him out. And that his spirit's still suffering. Wherever it is.”

“His spirit is in the Abyss,” Fellgair said quietly. “What's left of it. And yes, it is suffering.”

“Good.” Seeing Fellgair's impassive expression, Rigat demanded, “Why shouldn't he suffer? After what he did.”

“Perhaps he should,” Fellgair said in the same quiet voice. “That doesn't mean I relish the thought of it.”

Rigat would have thought the Trickster would enjoy the irony that Xevhan had been killed by the very boy he had tried to murder. The more time he spent with his father, the less he understood him.

“Have you seen enough?” Fellgair asked.

“More than enough.”

“Then let's go elsewhere.”

Rigat took the proffered hand and grimly watched the temple blur and vanish. As the world slid into place again, he thought he was back atop Kelazhat, but instead of the palace below them, he spied a cluster of huts in a narrow valley.

“What is this place?”

“Just a village. In the northern mountains of Zheros. Come.”