Foxfire (72 page)

By now, they would have carried Darak's body to the Death Hut. It should have been Gortin leading the rite; he hated to think of Othak intoning the ancient words and opening the way for Darak's spirit to fly to the Forever Isles. Keirith would retreat into guilt and despair. Callie would weep. Faelia would scream and wail with the other women, but his mam's grief would be too deep to display to the world.

Her face rose before him, the lines around her mouth carved deeper by Darak's death, her teeth digging into her upper lip to keep any cry from escaping. Had Darak known he would never return from the First Forest? Nay, he would not have left her, not even to see Tinnean one last time. And she would never have been able to let him go. They all must have believed they would have a few more days together.

Fellgair had realized the truth. And although he could not save Darak, he had chosen to spend those last moments with him, to witness his death instead of his son's coronation.

Lucky Darak. In the end, everyone chose him.

Behind him, bare feet pattered on the tiles. A moment later, Jholianna's arms twined around his waist.

“Come back to bed,” she whispered.

A lock of hair fell over his shoulder as she kissed his neck. Her bare breasts pressed against his back and her pubic hair tickled his buttocks. The sensations aroused him, as did the memory of their lovemaking. But despite the promise of pleasure, he pushed away the hand slipping down his belly.

She stepped around him and studied his face. “You're going back.”

“Yes. But first I have to pay a call on the Khonsel.”

She looked away, her long hair masking her expression. “He has served me well.”

“I know.”

He dressed in a simple khirta and sandals and left her.

The corridors in the north wing of the palace were still quiet; the guests at his coronation had only sought their beds a short while ago. But in the west wing, he passed slaves bearing platters of food and guards returning to their quarters after the night watch. Scribes slipped in and out of the chambers on either side of the windowless corridor. All prostrated themselves when they saw him. Some of the faces were curious, most fearful.

He had to ask a groveling slave the way to the Khonsel's chamber. When he reached it, he was surprised to discover that it was an ordinary workroom. The Khonsel stood with his back to the doorway while a scribe, seated on a low stool, scribbled furiously. Apparently, the Khonsel had not yet been to bed; he was still dressed in the formal khirta he had worn at the coronation feast. But now a sword hung at his hip.

When the scribe saw him, he fell to his knees, knocking over his box of writing supplies in his haste to prostrate himself.

The Khonsel glanced over his shoulder, then turned and bowed formally. “Good morning, Promised One. Please. Come in.” He gazed down at the trembling scribe. “It's finished? Then you may go.”

The scribe handed a tablet-box to the Khonsel. Then he gathered up the rest of his supplies and scurried out of the chamber.

The Khonsel seated himself at the simple wooden table. A clay pitcher rested on one corner, with two cups beside it. Clearly, he had anticipated this visit.

Instead of offering him a drink, the Khonsel pulled a gold ring from his finger and pressed it into the wax. After peering at the impression, he closed the tablet-box and began tying the leather cords.

“Darak is dead.”

The Khonsel's fingers fell still. He looked up, frowning. “I'm sorry.”

“Are you?”

“For the sake of my country, no. But he was your foster-father. And you loved him. His death must pain you.”

“Yet you planned it. You and your nephew.”

The Khonsel picked up a stick of wax from a small clay dish at his elbow and held it to the flame of an oil lamp. As he watched the melting wax drip onto the knots, he said, “No. Geriv was careful not to apprise me of his plans.”

“But you suspected. And arranged that sham attack by the smith to keep me here.”

The Khonsel regarded him for so long that Rigat wondered if Fellgair's suspicions were misplaced. Then he said, “When did you figure it out?”

“It doesn't matter. Your deception cost Darak his life.”

“And now mine will be forfeit as well.”

“Yes.”

The Khonsel nodded, unperturbed. But, of course, he must have been expecting it.

“The queen didn't know,” the Khonsel said. “About Geriv's plan. Or the false assassin.”

Rigat hid his relief with a disinterested shrug. “I've been trying to decide if I should tell her that you lied about Keirith's death. And arranged for him and Darak to escape Pilozhat.”

For the first time, he caught a glimmer of emotion on the man's face. “I would prefer that you didn't. But I don't suppose my feelings count for much.”

“No.”

“And the manner of my death? Will I have any say in that?”

Rigat hesitated. As Jholianna had noted, the Khonsel had served her well. And if not for him, Darak and Keirith would have died in Zheros.

“Do you have a specific request?”

“Let me die by my own hand.”

He had never seen a man take his life. Would the Khonsel be able to do it? Or would his courage fail him?

Rigat folded his arms and nodded.

“Thank you, my lord.” The Khonsel pressed his ring into the blobs of wax, sealing the knots of the tablet-box. “Instructions regarding my estate.”

“Are you wealthy?”

The Khonsel laughed. “Hardly. But I have property in Pilozhat. And slaves. None of them Tree People. Are you really the Son of Zhe?”

“No. I'm the son of the God with Two Faces.”

His eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. “Well, that explains a lot.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “I suppose there's no point in asking you to spare Geriv.”

“No.”

The Khonsel's mouth tightened. With a brisk nod, he rose and walked across the room to pluck a scarlet cloak from a hook. After settling it across his shoulders, he picked up the pitcher and poured wine into both cups.

“The last of the Carilian late harvest. Would you join me?”

Ballocks the size of boulders, Rigat had said at their first meeting. Despite the man's treachery, he had to admire his courage.

He downed the wine quickly. The Khonsel sipped his, his mouth curving in an appreciative smile.

“The Carilians might copulate with dogs, but they do know how to make wine.”

He raised the cup in salute and drained the contents. Then he picked up a dagger—Rigat hadn't even noticed it on the table—and walked into the adjoining chamber, motioning for him to follow.

This room was as simple as the other. A sleeping shelf with a pillow at one end and a neatly folded coverlet at the other. A threadbare rug. A stool in one corner. And in the small window niche, a vase containing a spray of red flowers.

“Bitterheart,” the Khonsel said, noting the direction of his gaze. “Malaq's favorite. And especially appropriate today.”

He sat on the sleeping shelf, adjusting his sword so that he was comfortable. His thumb stroked the worn leather on the hilt of his dagger. Then he gripped it firmly and held the blade under the left side of his throat.

“Good luck, Rigat. I think you'll need it.”

Before he could frame a suitable reply, the Khonsel plunged the dagger into his neck. Blood fountained from the wound, spraying the whitewashed wall. His mouth twisting in a grimace, the Khonsel dragged the blade across his throat.

His body slumped sideways. The dagger clattered onto the tiles. Unmoving, unmoved, Rigat watched the body convulse once, the eyes glaze, the relentless gouts of blood slow as the heart faltered. The choked gurgling subsided, until the only sound in the little chamber was the droning buzz of a fly.

Rigat stared down at the body; it seemed so much smaller without that fierce spirit inhabiting it. He had expected to feel triumph or satisfaction or perhaps revulsion at witnessing his death throes, at seeing all that blood, as scarlet as the bitterheart. Instead, he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

 

 

 

He opened the portal atop a hill just south of the village. Coracles dotted the river. Children trotted from the shore with bulging waterskins. Women moved among the golden barley, rooting up weeds. On the ridge to the east, the black forms of carrion birds perched on the roofless walls of the Death Hut.

Rigat scanned the fortress on the opposite shore where Keirith had been imprisoned. Then he headed toward the Death Hut.

He had gone to the site of the hostage exchange first. Finding all of the bodies gone, he had come here, hoping for information—and retribution.

As he crested the hill, the sweet-rotten stench of decay hit him. Crows ascended with protesting squawks; clearly, they had been feasting for days. And animals as well. Empty eye sockets stared skyward. Tunics and breeches had been ripped open by sharp beaks and fangs and claws. Partially gnawed entrails spilled out of bellies; in some places, bone showed through the torn flesh.

He managed to identify the man—Sorig?—who had recruited volunteers with Darak. The others were nameless strangers. But he said prayers for each of them, hoping their spirits had reached the Forever Isles. They were loyal. They had died trying to defend Darak.

None of the ravaged faces belonged to the traitor Mikal. With a grim smile, Rigat walked down the hill to the village.

Although he had changed into his breeches and tunic, people stared openly as he passed; a few mothers pulled their children close. After the recent battle downriver, the presence of any stranger might trouble them, but the Zherosi might have circulated a report about the red-haired boy who had disrupted the hostage exchange. If so, he'd have to be cautious.

He approached a group of old women, who left off their mending and gossiping when they saw him. In answer to his inquiry, one pointed the way to the chief's hut. He thanked her politely and continued on his way.

Outside the hut, he paused to identify himself as a friend of Mikal's and requested permission to enter. When a man's voice answered, he ducked inside, hesitating by the doorway until his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Birat peered up at him suspiciously. “Callum, you said your name was? Mikal never mentioned you.”

“I'm one of the new recruits.” He allowed emotion to choke his voice. “I managed to escape. After the battle.”

“You were there? You saw what happened?”

His expression remained suspicious rather than grief-stricken. Had he plotted Darak's death with his son? Or was he ignorant of Mikal's treachery?

Rigat bowed his head and whispered, “I . . . gods forgive me, I ran. That's why I came here. To beg Mikal's forgiveness and try to make amends for my cowardice.”

Birat spat into the fire pit. The peat sizzled briefly. “Don't apologize for being smart. Or lucky. These days, it's the only way to survive. Look what happened to the others. And the Spirit-Hunter.” He spat again. “Mikal spouted some nonsense about him vanishing during the battle. Him and his son. And some red-haired lad claiming to be . . .” His eyes narrowed.

“. . . the son of some god. Aye. Came out of thin air. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it. I couldn't make sense of half of what he said. All I know is right after that, the arrows started flying.”

“And so did you.” Birat chuckled. “No wonder the Vanel all but had fire coming out his nose. Watching the Spirit-Hunter slip through his fingers like that.” His expression clouded. “Still . . . that sort of magic . . . it gives a man the shivers. The Vanel should have just let them go.”

“He didn't?”

“Marched out the very next day. Off to attack the Spirit-Hunter's village. Never thought he was such a headstrong fool, but when a man's pride is touched . . .” He shrugged.

“Were there any other survivors? I . . . I couldn't bear to go to the Death Hut.”

“Only Mikal. He's gone to the healer. His shoulder's troubling him. But he should be back soon. So you can beg his forgiveness.”

Ignoring the malicious smile, Rigat shook his head. “If you don't mind . . . I'd rather get this over with now.”

“Suit yourself. Mother Eminna's hut is across the way. If you get lost, just ask.”

Rigat bowed and quickly ducked out of the hut. Tempted as he was to kill the spiteful old man, he needed to conserve his power for more important tasks.

He entered the hut without announcing himself. The healer glanced over her shoulder, frowning at his rudeness, but Rigat ignored her, his gaze focused on his prey. Even in the dim light, he could see Mikal's eyes widen with recognition. He was still fumbling for his dagger when Rigat invaded his spirit.

He touched fear and helpless rage, but beneath those emotions lurked another. Without bothering to analyze it, he concentrated his power into a tight ball of fury and hurled it deep into the traitor's spirit.

The silent scream echoed inside him long after Mikal's spirit drifted away. Into Chaos, he hoped. The man had betrayed Darak in life; he didn't deserve to join him after death.

While the healer bent over the body, frantically searching for a pulse, he opened a portal onto a moor where he could rest and allow his power to recover. It must be strong when he came face-to-face with the Vanel.

He lay back in the long grass and closed his eyes. He had felt nothing at the Khonsel's death, but Mikal's warmed him as surely as the late summer sun. His pleasure waned when he identified the other emotion he had touched before he cast out the traitor's spirit. In his last moment of existence, Mikal had felt relief.