And report everything to her master, of course.

"She was was helpful today," Malaq replied. "It was kind of you to suggest summoning her so that I might save my strength. But for now, the fewer people who come in contact with this boy, the better. And since I have some . . . facility with the language, it should only take a day or two to resolve this matter." helpful today," Malaq replied. "It was kind of you to suggest summoning her so that I might save my strength. But for now, the fewer people who come in contact with this boy, the better. And since I have some . . . facility with the language, it should only take a day or two to resolve this matter."

"As you command, Pajhit." Xevhan bowed stiffly, both the smile and the honey gone.

"It might be advisable to remind the Jhef d'Esqi and the others that we require their silence. We do not want untoward rumors flying about the city."

"I will see to it personally, Pajhit."

Malaq turned to Eliaxa. She looked so frail. She had been priestess of Womb of Earth even before he had come to Pilozhat after the Long Winter. It was time for her to step aside and allow a younger, stronger woman to a.s.sume the responsibilities of Motixa.

"You look tired, my dear. May I see you back to your chamber?"

She nodded, still distracted. Her small hand grasped his arm with surprising strength. "Is it possible, Malaq? Could he be the one?"

Malaq patted her hand, the flesh dry and slack beneath his fingertips. "He's just a boy with red hair and a gift for touching spirits. He's no different than the others."

"The others did not speak to the adders. Or make Womb of Earth tremble."

"Neither did he," Malaq reminded her gently. "He heard their voices-along with those of other creatures-crying out in fear. Womb of Earth trembled as she has many times before. Perhaps he is more sensitive than the others, but that is all."

Her fingers dug into his forearm. "You'll make sure, Malaq? We must be sure. If he is the one and we fail to recognize him . . ."

"I'll make sure. I always do."

"Perhaps Heart of Sky will give you a sign. You are his priest, and he loves you."

In his five years as Pajhit, he'd seen little evidence of the G.o.d's love, but it would only upset Eliaxa to hear that.

Before he could a.s.sure her that he would seek the G.o.d's guidance, she began reciting the prophecy in an eerie sing-song. "Hail the Son of Zhe, the fire-haired G.o.d made flesh. Welcome him with reverence and with dread, for with him comes the new age."

"Yes, dear. Please. Calm yourself. I hate to see you so distressed."

"I'm sorry. I only wish . . ." Tears filled her eyes and spilled down the deep grooves around her mouth. "All my life, I've dreamed of his coming. I pray for it every day. We need him now, so badly."

He patted her hand again. "I know. But you must rest now."

Still muttering the words of the prophecy, she let him lead her from the hall.

Just a boy with red hair and a gift for touching spirits. That's all. He's no more the Son of Zhe than he is my son.

Chapter 13.

DURING THE DAY, Griane kept herself busy. She and Sali visited the convalescents, checking wounds, changing bandages, dispensing potions to aid sleep or reduce fever. They gathered watercress and nettle shoots for tonics, willow bark and yarrow for the joint-ill and fevers, mallow leaves for poultices, goose gra.s.s for straining milk, and elderflowers and violets for infusions to combat coughs.

Some days, she helped the other women in the fields, grubbing out weeds, tenderly urging the newly sprouted stalks of barley and oats to stand upright. Once, she took Callie with her to raid the nests of tufted ducks, but he preferred spending his days with the shepherds. Even a six-year-old could help, and while he was busy throwing stones at marauding foxes or trotting back and forth to Eagles Mount with baskets of food for the weary shepherds, he would not worry so much about his father and brother.

Lisula remained confident that Darak would find Keirith, and while Griane sat beside her in the birthing hut, she was confident, too. But late at night, she lay under the wolfskins, alone with her fears.

Two nights before the Ripening, she sought out Gortin. He seemed to have aged years in the sennight since the attack, but he, too, was driving himself hard, visiting the injured, offering prayers and sacrifices for the dead, even joining the men who mounted a watch every night on the summit of Eagles Mount.

"Forgive me for intruding," she said as Gortin motioned her to sit.

"You're not. I welcome your company."

For five summers, he and Meniad had shared this hut. How empty it must be for Gortin now. The sooner he accepted Othak as his initiate, the better. She didn't know whether the shy boy would make a very good priest, but at least Gortin would have company and Othak would be safe from Jurl's beatings.

"I'm glad you came tonight," Gortin said. "I've been wanting . . . I've been thinking about you. About Keirith."

A spasm of pain crossed his face. Impulsively, she touched his arm. He surprised her by clutching her hand. Immediately, he released it, clearly embarra.s.sed.

"I had to dismiss him," he said in a low voice. "But I didn't . . . I should have handled it better. I think . . . I'm not very good. With people."

"Neither was Struath." Remembering how he still idolized his mentor, she quickly added, "Or Darak when he was younger."

"Tinnean was. Everyone loved him. And Meniad. What fine Tree-Fathers they would have made." When she nodded, the smallest smile lightened his heavy features. "Thank you for not trying to a.s.sure me that I am superior to them."

"You're a good Tree-Father, Gortin. And a good man. But . . ."

"Well? You can't stop there."

"For mercy's sake, stop comparing yourself to Struath. Or Tinnean or Meniad, for that matter. Meniad died young and beautiful, Struath gave his life to defeat Morgath, and Tinnean saved the world! You can never compete with that. Besides, Struath might have been a gifted shaman, but he was also . . . cold. Forgive me, but it's true. Tinnean was the sweetest boy I've ever known but he could be horribly impulsive, and Meniad . . . well, even when he wasn't having visions, his head was in the clouds."

She broke off, horrified at delivering such a tirade. Again Gortin surprised her, this time by laughing. "And you are refreshingly honest but a terrible scold. Mother Netal would be proud."

"Nay, it's awful. Old as I am, I should know better than to blurt things out without thinking." She hesitated, wondering how to turn the conversation to the purpose of tonight's visit without spoiling this rare moment of intimacy.

"And now you're thinking that you should get to the point of your visit." He smiled. "Your face has always been easy to read, Griane."

"Forgive me, Tree-Father. I know you have preparations to make for the Ripening. I wouldn't ask if I weren't so . . ."

Oh, just be "refreshingly honest" and ask him, Griane.

"Could you seek Keirith with your vision? Or Darak? I know they've only been gone a sennight, but-"

"I've tried to find Keirith. He and I share a closer connection, so I thought it would be easier than seeking Darak. So far, I've had no success. I'll try again, but visions cannot be commanded."

"At least I'd feel we were doing something. The waiting is hard."

"I know."

His face clouded. He had been the one left behind on the last quest, forced to wait and wonder what was happening to the man he loved more than anyone in the world.

"I will seek Keirith again after the Ripening."

His promise helped Griane endure the rite. Once, it had been her favorite. The Freshening celebrated the retreat of ice from the streams and rivers, but the world was still locked in winter. The Balancing brought the lambing season, but was fraught with anxiety that a late winter storm could blow in and threaten the survival of the frail newborns. By the Ripening, winter had surrendered its hold on the land, which gratefully responded with an explosion of color and life: green shoots thrusting out of the soil, green leaves unfurling on the tree branches, the peat bog brightened by the pinks of cuckoo flowers and bogblossoms, and the forest festooned with carpets of bluebells, violets, and speedwell.

For her, the rites had a more personal meaning. The Freshening recalled their return from the First Forest, filled with violent swings of emotions: reunions with friends and family marred by the absence of those who had died during their quest; the first tentative explorations of love shattered by Darak's recurring nightmares and inability to find his place. When Darak went back to the First Forest at the Balancing, she wasn't sure he would ever return. But he did, gaunt and haggard but more peaceful in spirit. Although it was customary to marry at either the Spring or Autumn Balancing, she refused to wait. They were married at the Ripening and within two moons, she was pregnant with Keirith.

Celebrating the Ripening without Darak would have been hard enough; the losses suffered by the tribe cast a pall over the rite for everyone. They still sang the joyous song to welcome spring. They repeated the prayers as Gortin blessed three sea trout, the first of those returning to the lake before heading upstream to sp.a.w.n. They marched to the lake as he returned one to the G.o.ddess Lacha in thanks for her bounty. But when Gortin sacrificed the second trout, wrapped it in oak leaves, and carried it into the barrow to feed the spirits of the dead, everyone recalled the ceremony days earlier when he had interred the ashes and bones of those killed in the raid. Men and women alike wept as they added stones to the cairn in memory of those they had lost.

The ceremony at the heart-oak was equally fraught with emotion. Gortin's voice cracked when he laid the third trout between two of the gnarled roots and thanked the sacred tree for watching over their people. Lisula's hand trembled as she sprinkled the libation of water. The children who usually skipped around the tree, scattering blossoms of rowan and quickthorn, simply marched in silence behind their parents.

As she did every Ripening, Griane lingered with the children to sprinkle water at the base of a rowan. It was her way of honoring her friend from the Summerlands, one of the ancient tree-folk who had helped her return to the First Forest after Fellgair abandoned her. She still preserved the sprig of blossoms Rowan had given her when they parted, the petals brittle now and brown with age.

When she said a quick prayer and began plucking blossoms from a sprig, the children stared at her, round-eyed with surprise. She repeated her prayer, hoping the spirit of the tree would understand and forgive her.

While the others returned to their huts to prepare the feast, she led the children back to the lake. They walked west along the sh.o.r.e. By the time they neared the channel, the ground rose too steeply for Callie to go farther, so she stopped and held out her handful of blossoms.

"Throw a petal into the water," she told them, "and say a prayer for Fa and Keirith."

"Is that like putting a stone on the cairn?" Callie asked.

"It's like . . . we're sending our love to them. The river will carry the blossoms all the way to the sea."

"And the sea will take them to Fa and Keirith."

"That's right."

"And they'll know they're from us?"

"Aye."

"And that we're thinking of them?"

"They'll know that anyway," Faelia said.

Griane shot her a warning glance. Faelia had retreated into sullen silence after her father departed. She spent some mornings in the fields, but more often, she disappeared into the forest, returning with squirrels or rabbits or wood pigeons that she tossed beside the fire pit, as if daring her to object. Griane said nothing. Since Darak's departure, she had never seen Faelia weep, but her red-rimmed eyes told a different story.

Together, they tossed the petals into the water and watched as they rolled back to sh.o.r.e.

"It doesn't matter," Griane said as Callie's face puckered. "Our prayers are on the water. Lacha will make sure they reach the sea."

"Will she tell them about the petals, too?"

"Why don't you throw the last one in and ask her?"

Callie heaved the petal with all his might.

"Quick now. Before it comes back."

"Lacha, G.o.ddess of lakes and rivers, please tell Fa and Keirith about the petals and that we're thinking about them and we want them to come home soon and . . ." His voice trailed off as the petal drifted back. "Does it count, Mam?"

"Aye. It counts."

"I'll bring Lacha an offering every day. Just to make sure."

Callie smiled up at her, confident now that he had a plan. All she had was the hope of Gortin's vision.

The blossoms clung forlornly to the wet pebbles. Griane resolutely turned her back on them and led the children home.

Keirith tiptoed to the open doorway of the Pajhit's chamber. Outside, the guards continued their soft conversation. He could only hope they would remain where they were.

The Pajhit had interrogated him all morning, his manner polite but distant. He seemed almost bored by the procedure, but at least that was better than the Zheron's taunts. At midday, the guards had arrived to take him back to the small chamber where he had spent the night. The second round of questioning had scarcely begun when another priest arrived and the Pajhit left with him. Keirith had no idea how long he would be gone; he only knew he would have to act quickly.

Light seeped through the woven draperies drawn across the other doorway of the chamber. Cautiously, he padded across the cool tiles toward them. He hesitated when he pa.s.sed a dim hallway. It probably led to the priest's sleeping quarters. Certainly there was no bedding in the main room, only a few stone benches against the walls and a low stone table surrounded by cushions. Tempted as he was to search for a weapon, he was afraid to linger that long.

He drew aside the draperies. Instead of freedom, he found a walled enclosure. All he could see above it was the cloudless sky. Tall spikes of scarlet flowers nodded against the wall to his left. Stone benches flanked the others.

He climbed onto the one in front of him and peered over the top of the wall. To his left, the glowering mountain thrust up into the sky. To his right, he saw a walkway flanked by giant pillars; unlike those he'd seen on his way to the slave compound, these were red. From the position of the mountain, he guessed the Pajhit's chamber was on the opposite side of this fortress-or temple-from the compound. It was hard to be sure, though; his first impressions had been so clouded by exhaustion and fear.

The walkway led to a stepped platform also flanked by pillars. A smaller rectangular slab of stone squatted atop it. Was that where they offered sacrifices?

With an effort, he shook off the disturbing thought and craned his neck to get a better view. The pillars offered some cover, but the ground was flat and open. A few scraggly bushes clung to the rocky soil. No houses and, surprisingly, no people. Perhaps they were hiding from the heat of the midday sun. With any luck, he would be gone by the time they emerged.

The rubblestone walls of the fortress rose behind him. He'd be clearly visible from the row of windows above. There were probably more on the level below; the drop to the ground was nearly three times his height. But even if he was seen, he'd be halfway across the open ground before an alarm could be sounded. a.s.suming he didn't break a leg when he jumped.

Whispering a quick prayer to the Maker, he gripped the top of the wall. Wriggled the toes of his left foot into a c.h.i.n.k between the stones. Took a deep breath and started to heave himself up.

Something soft brushed against his ankle. As he spun around, he caught a blur of motion and spotted a small furry creature racing toward a bench at the far end of the enclosure. Before he could recover from his shock, a voice said, "I see you've met Niqia."

The Pajhit stood in the doorway, surveying him impa.s.sively.

Keirith's heart raced. Any moment the guards would rush in. Would they kill him on the spot or drag him, screaming and struggling, to the altar?

The Pajhit's gaze shifted to the creature crouched under the bench, lashing its tail. "An old friend suggested Niqia's name. In honor of a . . . lady he used to know. She, too, had a soft body and sharp claws. The Tree People haven't domesticated cats, have they?"

Keirith shook his head.

"Niqia's ancestors were wildcats, much like those that still roam your forests. It's been generations since any have been found in our kingdom. Did you know that you can hand rear wildcats if you take them as kittens before their eyes open? That's how the first ones must have been domesticated. They were crossbred with the Eriptean golden cat. The mix produced a creature smaller than the true wildcat and more of a reddish gold in color, but with the same dark markings. Also, the tail is less bushy."

He paused, as if expecting some response, so Keirith nodded, all the while wondering why the man was lecturing him on cats instead of killing him for trying to escape.

"Niqia's fond of this garden. Although it does get intolerably warm in the afternoon. As you will have noticed. I a.s.sume you also noticed the temple?"

Keirith finally found his voice. "Aye."

"It is sacred to Zhe, the winged serpent. The Zheron is his chief priest. I am the priest of Heart of Sky, our sun G.o.d. You cannot see his temple from here."

"Do you sacrifice captives there?" he blurted out.

"Yes."