"I understand. But . . . why? Ask him why he's doing this?"

Irritation crossed the Khonsel's face as he replied.

"He says . . . it doesn't explain anything, but he said, 'Because I'm a sentimental fool.' "

It was not the face of a man given to sentimentality or foolishness. A determined face and-if he was reading it right-an honest one. The kind of man he'd have welcomed during the quest: stubborn and fearless and strong.

"Darak? Will you go?"

Only when he heard the tremor in Hircha's voice did he realize the Khonsel's bargain failed to mention her. "Tell him I'll go. If you're allowed to come with me."

Her breath caught. Her head came up, the incredible blue eyes huge in her thin face. For a moment, he thought she would cry, but she quickly controlled herself and translated his reply. The Khonsel blew out his breath in exasperation and answered her shortly.

"He said, 'Of course.' " Her expression was dazed. " 'I thought that was understood.' "

"Thank you, Khonsel." He knew he couldn't clasp the man's hand, so he offered a jerky bow instead. "Thank you for our lives. We will remember you in our prayers."

A tremulous smile lit Hircha's face as she listened to the soft but vehement reply. "The Khonsel says, 'Better you should reimburse me the forty serpents I had to lay out for the boat.' "

Still scowling, the Khonsel turned on his heel, shouting orders to the guards.

They headed west, skirting the open field where he had camped with the players. Dozens of small fires lit up the plain like fireflies, but once these were behind them, they had only Gheala's thin sliver of light to guide them.

After the incessant noise of Pilozhat, the stillness was eerie, broken only by the rustle of dry gra.s.s and Hircha's labored breathing. Twice, she missed her footing and sprawled headlong, but picked herself up without a word. After that, though, she permitted him to take her hand and help her over the rough terrain.

The sky to the east was just beginning to brighten when the guards slowed. Ahead, he could make out the dark expanse of the sea. Single file, they zigzagged along the top of a cliff, careful to keep a safe distance from the edge. The guards were clearly looking for a path down, but much of the cliff had fallen away during the earthquake; piles of rocks and debris littered the sh.o.r.eline.

Finally, the guards halted, their uneasy glances alternating between the sky and the sh.o.r.e below. After a muted discussion, one of them turned and spoke softly. Hircha nodded, but made no attempt to translate; no doubt, the slaves of the rich merchant's son were expected to understand Zherosi.

One guard started down the slope. Darak seized Hircha's hand and followed. He slipped once on the loose pebbles, sc.r.a.ping his free hand raw as he caught himself. When they finally reached the bottom, he breathed a thankful prayer to the Maker.

The boat looked like a miniature version of the ones that had raided the village. Men were moving about onboard; others stood on the beach. Before he could search for Keirith, Geriv strode toward them and nodded to their guards. Without a glance, the three started back up the cliff. He wished he had thought to ask for the names of Geriv's brothers; like it or not, they, too, would be remembered in his prayers.

An older man gestured for them to hurry. As Darak scanned the men again, a sharp command rang out. He flinched when he recognized the Zheron's voice. Flinched again when he found him standing on the deck of the boat.

It's not the Zheron. It's Keirith. That is my son.

He strained to see Keirith's expression, but all he could make out was a slender figure in a yellow robe. Despite the heat, he was wrapped in some sort of mantle. His arms were folded across his chest, the very picture of a rich young man who had been kept waiting by his dilatory slaves.

He's pretending. Just as he did the night of the performance. He can't show any emotion or it would give everything away.

Hircha was staring at Keirith, too. The G.o.ds only knew what the Zheron had done to her; it must have been something awful to arouse the hatred she had shown earlier and now, this naked fear. She recovered before he did, though, seizing his arm and dragging him to his knees beside her. Bowing her head, she offered what must be an apology for their tardiness, but he couldn't take his eyes off the robed figure looming above them. He searched for something-anything-that would prove this was his son. Keirith stared back at him, hugging himself as if he was cold. When the older man spoke to him, he nodded impatiently and barked out another order in Zherosi.

Hircha rose and walked toward the boat. Two men pulled her over the side, then extended their hands to help him. Darak was reaching for them when their expressions changed. He whirled around to see the Supplicant walking across the sand. The fishermen fell to their knees. Fellgair smiled pleasantly at them before crooking his finger at Keirith.

After a moment's hesitation, Keirith jumped onto the sand. As he pa.s.sed, their gazes met again. The shadows under his eyes looked as purple as new bruises. Sweat glazed his forehead. Despite the confidence of his stride, he was trembling, fighting hard for control. The urge to touch him was overwhelming. Before Darak could succ.u.mb to it, he ducked his head.

I have to help him. I have to play my part. Later, there will be time to talk, to hold him. To make things right.

In a low voice, Keirith said, "Come."

It shocked him to hear the tribal tongue coming from the Zheron's mouth. Keirith's mouth. And this was Keirith's voice, this light baritone made harsh by emotion. What had it been like to wake up in that body? To hear that voice for the first time? Had he been terrified? Triumphant? Or simply numb, as he had been when he had awakened to discover himself lying atop Morgath's corpse?

The same numbness seemed to possess him now as he trailed after Keirith. Fellgair regarded them with a complacent smile. "You neglected to say good-bye," he chided.

With difficulty, Darak dragged his gaze from his son. "Aye. I'm sorry. You were gone. I wanted to thank you for all you did."

"Yes. Everything's turned out quite well, hasn't it?"

"Malaq is dead," Keirith said. "And Urkiat. And hundreds of others." Although his voice was quiet, it sounded raw and hoa.r.s.e. As if he had been shouting-or screaming. "And I will spend the rest of my life wearing the body of the man who murdered me."

"It's a delicious irony, isn't it? Although I doubt Xevhan would appreciate it."

"Neither am I."

"If you dislike this body, you can always acquire another. You could live forever, skipping from one to the next like our beloved queen."

"Never!"

"After all, what's a body? It gets old. It dies. Spirit is what matters. Ask the beloved but bark-encrusted Tinnean."

Keirith opened his mouth and shut it again. Fellgair bestowed a beneficent smile upon him, then sighed. "Our intrepid sailors grow restless. The tide waits for no man. And tempted though I am to hold it while we linger over our farewells, such an act would be far too ostentatious. Even for me."

Fellgair leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "I hope we shall meet again, Darak." A shadow darkened his expression, but it was gone in a moment. "But I'll certainly encounter you, Keirith. Won't that be fun?"

Keirith turned on his heel and stalked back to the boat. Fellgair sighed again. "He reminds me of you-rude and impetuous. Let's hope he improves on future acquaintance as you did."

"He'll be safe?" Darak asked. "The fishermen won't recognize the Zheron?"

"Xevhan didn't mingle with common folk."

"Men don't just disappear."

"Dozens have since the earthquake," Fellgair reminded him. "The Khonsel's a resourceful man. He'll think of something. Or perhaps I'll make my own arrangements. They're still pulling bodies out of the ruins. Imagine the Khonsel's surprise when he discovers one of them is the Zheron."

"But how . . . ? Nay, I don't want to know. As long as we're out of this place forever." Darak eyed the dark ma.s.s of the mountain looming behind Fellgair; even here, it dominated the sky with malevolent watchfulness. "Thank you. For helping me. I wish I'd known-when you entered my spirit-that you were preparing me to save his."

"But that would have ruined the fun."

"Did you know then what would happen?"

Fellgair's expression grew solemn. "His chance of surviving was small. The odds that he would acquire the Zheron's body were smaller still. Until the oleaginous Olinio entered the fray."

"You sent him to the Zheron?" sent him to the Zheron?"

"I didn't have to. His greed was motivation enough. Peace, Darak. Olinio will get the reward he deserves-in this life or the next. Now kiss my hand like a devoted worshipper and run along."

Darak bent over the delicate hand. Fur brushed his lips. But when he jerked his head back, he saw only the slender fingers of the Supplicant.

Someone shouted. The fishermen shoved the boat into the water. Darak scrambled aboard. The men settled themselves on the four wooden benches and bent their backs over the long paddles. Oars. Urkiat called them oars.

Maker, carry his spirit to the Forever Isles. He got so little happiness in life; he deserves a little after death.

His stomach lurched as the boat crested the first of the breakers. Two men tugged on ropes, laboriously raising the tall spar bearing the wind cloth. Keirith stared out to sea, but Darak clutched the spar, watching the robed figure on the beach grow smaller and smaller until it vanished from sight.

PART FOUR.

These acts are offenses against the creatures of the world: To cut a limb from a living tree without a sacrifice offered in return.

To pull a fish from the waters without a sacrifice offered in return.

To kill a bird or animal without a sacrifice offered in return.

To kill without provocation any man or woman or child.

The punishment for one who commits such offenses is to be cast out of the tribe.

These acts are offenses against the G.o.ds: To raise a weapon against the One Tree, in which dwell the spirits of the Oak and the Holly.

To raise a weapon against the heart-oak of our tribe.

To seek power through unnatural communion with a creature of Chaos.

To subvert or subjugate the spirit of any creature.

The punishment for one who commits such abominations is death.

The Forbidden Acts

Chapter 47.

THREE DAYS LATER, they were retracing the route Darak had taken half a moon before with Urkiat. They had acquired supplies in Oexiak, purchased with more of the Khonsel's coins. Keirith exchanged his priest's robe for the long breeches and tunic worn by the raiders. When Darak pulled Keirith's mantle from his pack and handed it to him, Keirith stroked the wool with trembling hands and quickly turned away.

The tunic hid the snake tattoos on his forearms and the mantle would cover his shaven head, but there was no disguising his swarthy complexion and dark eyes. Few would accept him as a child of the Oak and Holly, and no one who knew the tale of the Spirit-Hunter would believe this grown man was his son. Illait and Girn would be wise enough not to ask too many questions, but in the other villages, he would have to pretend Keirith was a man he'd met in Zheros.

Each day, he grew more accustomed to Keirith's new form. After a sennight, he no longer started when he heard the voice. But the unexpected gesture could still undermine his control-to see him gnawing his thumb or compulsively rubbing his head. Or to look up and discover him tracing the lines on his palm or the curve of his chin or the swell of a bicep. Exploring his new body with the same fear and fascination that Cuillon had shown when he woke to find himself in Tinnean's body. Whenever that happened, Darak would ask a quiet question to bring him back, taking care to look away before he spoke so he wouldn't see Keirith's guilty start of surprise.

Even after they left Zheros behind, Keirith maintained a wary distance. At first, Darak thought he was reluctant to speak openly in front of Hircha, but it soon became clear he didn't want to talk at all. He rebuffed every attempt to draw him out, sometimes with a gentle refusal, but more often, with a sudden flare of anger, quickly followed by a mumbled apology.

After all Keirith had been through, Darak could understand why his moods swung from anger to depression. His son's physical condition troubled him more. Just walking along the beach made him break into a sweat. At night, he huddled under two mantles, shivering. He ate little and when he did, he barely managed to keep the food down.

"It's the qiij," Hircha confided in one of their rare conversations. "A drug that Xevhan took. His body still craves it." But even Hircha didn't know how long the symptoms would last.

The nightmares began within days of leaving Zheros. When they grew more violent, Darak risked another rebuff to reach out to his son.

"Talk to me, Keirith. Let me help."

"You had nightmares after Morgath."

"Aye."

"And they went away?"

"In time."

"Then give me time. Just . . . give me a little time."

The same words he'd said to Griane all those years ago. And like Griane, he didn't press Keirith, although it hurt to see his son's pain and be helpless to alleviate it.

As he had after his own quest, he reflected bitterly on the shortcomings of the tribal legends. They were filled with heroic deeds and fierce battles. They taught the lesson that good triumphed over evil, that balance was restored through sacrifice and selflessness. But they failed to speak of what happened after the battle was won, after the goal of the quest had been achieved. They never spoke of the wounds-physical and emotional-that had to be endured, the sleepless nights, the lingering doubts. Old Sim would probably say no one wanted to hear about those, but they were as much a part of the quest as everything that came before.

He had bent all his energy on finding Keirith and freeing him, refusing to contemplate the possibility of failure. He had warded off thoughts of home lest they weaken him. Only now did he allow himself the luxury of loneliness. He longed to hold his son-as much for his comfort as for Keirith's. But only in the moments when Keirith fought off a nightmare did his son permit such contact.

He hadn't realized how starved he was for companionship until he sought out Wolf. Her joyful greeting brought tears to his eyes. Now that they were back in tribal lands, she was fully restored. If he missed the reality of her rough tongue against his cheek and her thick fur under his fingers, he took comfort in her strength and her wisdom.

"My pup is wounded, Wolf. And I don't know how to heal him."

She c.o.c.ked her head, considering. "Do you keep him warm at night? And lick the wound to clean it?"

"It's a wound of the spirit, not the body."

"Those are harder to reach. But they, too, must be cleaned or they will fester. You know this, Little Brother."

In shame and fear, he had buried the memories of his ordeal in Chaos. The events of the last moons had unearthed them. Wolf was right; he could not let Keirith make the same mistake.

He wondered if Keirith's adder could offer the same comfort Wolf gave him. Natha was both vision mate and spirit guide; surely, that made the bond doubly strong. But when he suggested it, Keirith shook his head. "I'm too tired to seek a vision."

"Maybe you don't have to. I can speak to my vision mate-and the G.o.ds know, I'm no priest."

"But how?"

"I call her name. I picture her in my mind. And she comes to me."

Keirith nodded thoughtfully. "That's where you go. When you leave camp. I wondered."