"Including the ones with red hair?"

The Pajhit's eyes narrowed, but all he said was, "We could continue this conversation inside. Unless you prefer standing on the bench."

After a moment's hesitation, Keirith hopped down.

Someone had placed a small basket of flatbread on the table. There was also a bowl containing a brownish paste, another with creamy white stuff, and a shallow dish filled with pale green disks, each studded with a circle of white seeds. The Pajhit seated himself on a cushion and reached for a bronze pitcher.

"The brown paste is jhok. Ground chickpeas and lentils." Golden liquid flowed into a tall cup that reminded Keirith of a bluebell only it, too, was made of bronze. "Do you have them?"

"Nay."

"Beans. Mixed with spices. You dip the bread in it. This is gyrt and those are kugi. Gyrt is made from goat's milk. You don't have goats either, I believe. They're somewhat like sheep, but they have short hair instead of wool. Kugi are vegetables. They're like . . . I can't recall anything similar among your people. You dip them in the gyrt. Very refreshing."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Not right now. Sit, please. My neck is beginning to ache from staring up at you. And help yourself to the wine."

Keirith sat. He had no appet.i.te and he was afraid to lift the pitcher for fear the Pajhit would see his hand shake.

"Your story has been remarkably consistent. Either you're telling the truth, or you're an excellent liar. However, to a.s.sess the true extent of your gift, our spirits must touch."

Shocked by the sudden shift in conversation, Keirith could only shake his head.

"I'm not suggesting that I enter your spirit. I require you to enter mine."

"I can't do that."

"You did it yesterday. To the Zheron."

"I didn't mean to . . . I mean, I did, but only because I was . . . angry."

"Now you'll attempt to do so without anger."

"It's . . . you don't understand. My people don't do that."

"Your priests touch the spirits of their tribe mates, do they not?"

"Only the Tree-Father. For anyone else to do that . . . it's an abomination. A sacrilege."

"So yesterday you committed sacrilege. As you did when you attacked the spirit of the warrior Kha."

"He was trying to kill me. Capture me."

"So it's permitted to use this gift under duress?"

"I . . . nay . . . I don't know."

The Pajhit leaned forward. "Tell me this: if you had defended yourself with a dagger, would your people punish you?"

"Of course not."

"But you're not a warrior. You used the only weapon you had. True?"

"Aye, but-"

"You've only used this weapon against your enemies, not your own people."

His father's scream echoed inside his head.

"So," the Pajhit continued in that same reasonable voice, "as you-presumably-consider me your enemy, and since I-definitely-am inviting you to enter my spirit, explain to me how that can be a sacrilege." He leaned back, waiting.

"I don't . . . can't you test me in some other way?"

"I could enter your your spirit. However, that would be . . . unnerving for you. It always is the first time, even when your partner is a trusted friend. To enter the spirit of another without permission, of course, would be tantamount to rape." spirit. However, that would be . . . unnerving for you. It always is the first time, even when your partner is a trusted friend. To enter the spirit of another without permission, of course, would be tantamount to rape."

Keirith repressed a wince. "Why do you care if it's . . . unnerving for me?"

The Pajhit simply set his cup on the table and folded his hands.

"I could hurt you," Keirith said.

"No. You couldn't."

"I hurt the Zheron."

"Only because your attack was clumsy. Once he recovered from his initial shock-"

"He pushed me out."

"No. You would have felt that."

Keirith went through the encounter again. Slowly, he said, "He shut himself off."

A very small smile curved the Pajhit's mouth. "Yes."

"How?"

"By erecting a protective shield. So you see, you could not hurt me if you entered my spirit."

It sounded like the same thing he did to block out the cries of a wounded animal. But the Pajhit was skilled enough to get past any pathetic shield he tried to erect. And then he would be able to peer into the most hidden parts of his being and learn all his secrets-who his parents were, what had happened on the boat.

"What if I won't agree?"

"Then I'll have to arrange a different test. One that is more dangerous."

"What . . . what sort of test?"

The Pajhit sipped his wine. "I haven't decided."

Keirith studied his smooth face and recalled the whispered conversation that had prompted the Zheron to change tactics and taunt him. The Pajhit knew exactly what test he would choose. He'd known from the beginning. His casual conversation about food and cats was merely a tactic to catch him off guard, his reluctance to invade his spirit a sham, and his politeness a mask to hide his ruthlessness.

"And if I fail the test?"

The Pajhit's silence was more eloquent than any words. But better to risk failure and die than betray his people-and himself-to his enemies.

"When will you conduct this test?" His voice came out too loud, but at least it didn't crack.

"Tomorrow." The Pajhit leaned forward. "Are you certain, Kheridh?"

The priest p.r.o.nounced his name with an odd slur that made it sound more guttural but strangely melodious.

"Aye, Pajhit."

As he walked to the door, the Pajhit spoke his name again. Keirith turned to find him plucking a flower from a vase resting in a wall niche, the same long-stemmed ones he'd seen in the garden.

The Pajhit walked toward him and held it out. "I believe the giving of flowers is customary among your people on this day."

The day you were condemned to die? Then he realized: it must be the Ripening.

At home, they would be feasting on sea trout and oatcakes. Callie would run around the circle with the other little ones, showering people with petals of rowan and quickthorn. His mam's uncle Dugan would drink too much brogac, and she and Jani would have to help him home, all the while scolding him for being too old for such behavior. Couples would sneak off to make love, pursued by the squeals and giggles of Faelia and her friends. And his father's gaze would turn to the forest, and a hush would fall around the circle as he began the tale of the rowan and the alder that pulled up their roots and crossed the boundary from the First Forest to become the first woman and man in the world.

To hide his emotions, he sniffed the flower and grimaced at the tangy fragrance.

"Bitterheart," the Pajhit said softly. When Keirith looked up, he nodded at the flower. "That's what we call it."

They found a few stretches of beach that made for easy walking, but mostly, they had to pick their way through tumbled piles of boulders or reed-choked marshes. Darak knew he was not the same man who had guided his folk through the First Forest, but he'd always done his share of the physical labor around the village: cutting turf, plowing the fields, bringing in the harvest. Urkiat was half his age; it was foolish-and useless-to resent his stamina, but it still galled him that he was the one slowing the pace.

Sometimes a soaring cliff forced them inland, but they didn't dare go too deep into the forest. If the breeze was from the west, they would smell the smoke from the cook fires, but if not, it would be too easy to walk past a village and never know it was there.

By the end of each day, all he wanted to do was make a fire and curl up beside it. He had to force himself to make conversation with Urkiat. Mostly, he took refuge in trying to learn a few phrases in the Zherosi tongue. They both shied away from personal matters-and never discussed their confrontation over the young raider.

On the fourth afternoon of their journey down the coast, the sound of singing drew them up a shallow stream. The voices died when the feasting villagers spied them.

Darak called out the traditional greeting. "I am Darak, son of Reinek and Cluran, of the Oak Tribe."

"I am Urkiat, son of Koth and Lidia, of the Holly Tribe."

"We are travelers, seeking your hospitality."

A heavyset man with three eagle feathers in his hair rose. Girn had attended the Gatherings for years and the few times he'd spoken at the convocation of chiefs, his words had always been thoughtful and sensible.

"Darak and Urkiat, you are welcome to our village."

"Your welcome warms us at the Ripening."

Formalities dispensed with, Girn strode across the circle. His smile dimmed a bit when he recognized Urkiat-clearly, he remembered his outburst at the Gathering-but he clasped his arms firmly, sealing the welcome before his kinfolk.

"I had not expected to see you after the Gathering," Girn said. "What brings you to our village?"

Darak lowered his voice. "Bad times, I fear."

Girn nodded slowly. "Come to my hut. We can talk there."

Two young men trotted forward to relieve them of their packs. An older woman hurried toward one of the huts. They turned out to be members of Girn's family. His sons dropped the packs and after polite greetings, immediately left. His wife lingered long enough to pour cups of berry wine. Then she, too, departed.

As soon as the ritual toast had been drunk, Darak set his cup down. "Forgive me for spoiling the Ripening with ill tidings."

Girn waved away his words. "Tell me your news, Memory-Keeper."

That was another reason he liked Girn. Unlike so many of the chiefs, he never used the ridiculous t.i.tle Spirit-Hunter when he addressed him. Without mentioning their encounter with the raider, Darak told him of the attacks along the river and the losses sustained by the villages.

"Merciful G.o.ds. So many?" For a long moment, Girn stared into the fire pit. Then his head jerked up. "And your family, Memory-Keeper?"

"My son." Darak cleared his throat; even after repeating the story so many times, the words still came with difficulty. "They stole my son."

Another man might have cursed or lamented or gripped his arm in fellowship. Girn simply asked, "What can I do?"

"We need a boat. Small enough for two men to handle."

"You're going after him."

Darak nodded.

"You'll make better time in a currach. My men will take you to Foroth's village."

"Oak-Chief, you don't have to-"

"You should reach Illait's village in ten days if the weather holds. He can advise you about the best route to take after that. We don't hear much from the villages in the far south."

"The raiders have never attacked you?" Darak asked.

"Nay. Until now, the farthest north they've ventured is Illait's village. After that attack, I ordered our huts torn down and rebuilt here where they would be hidden from the sea. But if the raiders are striking as far north as your village, I'd best mount a watch on the beach as well. Better to lose a little sleep than-" Girn broke off abruptly. "Well. You'll be tired after your journey. If you'd like, I'll have the women bring food here."

It would be rude to absent themselves from the feast, especially after Girn's generous offer of help. "Urkiat and I would be honored to share the Ripening with your folk."

Girn's smile told him it was the correct answer. After another toast, they joined the circle of celebrants. Round-eyed children watched every bite of roast venison and fish as if shocked to discover that the great Spirit-Hunter ate real food. One, bolder than the others, darted close enough to toss a handful of rowan blossoms on his head. His mother scolded, but the other women nodded their approval when he smiled. A few of the men questioned him about the reason for his visit, but subsided when Girn shifted the conversation to crops and the weather.

As the shadows lengthened, the Memory-Keeper rose to recite the legend of the rowan-woman and alder-man. Darak kept his smile carefully in place, but hearing the tale told by another only reminded him that he was far from home.

When the Memory-Keeper concluded his recitation, he motioned for silence. "Darak Spirit-Hunter."

Darak restrained a wince.

"Your presence honors our village and heightens the joy of this Ripening. Would it be too much to ask you to share a tale with us?"

Oh, G.o.ds. He should have known.

"It would give us great joy to hear from your own lips the tale of your magnificent quest."