Bloodstone (11 page)

“Don’t you? What can he possibly tell you? The raiders will come or they won’t. Knowing the number of men on one of their boats or how fast they travel cannot help us.”

And then she realized. Darak didn’t care about that. He wanted to know where they had taken Keirith. He meant to go after him. What a fool not to have realized it immediately.

“I must go,” Darak said.

“Please. If he must be tortured, let it be someone else. I can’t bear to see you do this.”

“Then don’t watch.”

With Urkiat at his heels, he splashed across the stream. Sanok passed her, supported by Nionik and Gortin. When she felt a light touch on her shoulder, Griane turned to discover Muina beside her. She would not have thought it possible for the Grain-Grandmother to look any older, but the meager flesh on her cheeks sagged and grief had carved deeper grooves around her mouth.

“The elders mean to question him at the oak,” Muina said. “Will you come?”

Griane hesitated. If she couldn’t stop the torture, she could make sure the boy didn’t bleed to death. But perhaps it would be more merciful if he did. It would spare him the lingering death that awaited him on the morrow.

But she did care. She had never killed a man, although she had been prepared to do so this morning. But it was one thing to kill someone who threatened her children, another to slice flesh off a helpless man and listen to his screams. That would not bring back Keirith. Or Owan. Or any of their dead.

“Will you come?” Muina repeated.

Could she watch the torture? Aye. She was strong enough for that. But she could not watch her husband wreak the same vengeance on the body of this nameless boy that Morgath had wreaked on him all those years ago.

Slowly, Griane shook her head.

She went back inside the longhut to check her patients. She dribbled water between a pair of cracked lips, changed a bandage over a seeping wound. She gave her strength and her skill and her concentration to the men and women who needed her. But it was not enough to drown out the high-pitched scream that drifted down from the hilltop.

“Mam?”

Griane jerked awake to find Faelia squatting beside her.

“You were dreaming.”

“Aye.”

The shreds of the dream still clung to her, her nipples swollen, her body flushed with unsatisfied desire. Even as she noted the sensations, others intruded: the groans of the wounded, the smoky stench of the longhut.

“I heated up the stew,” Faelia said. “Shall I fetch it here, or will you come home?”

Griane got to her feet, shaking the stiffness out of her limbs. She cast a quick look around the hut. Sali was sprawled near her, sound asleep. Mirili still sat by Nemek. Griane frowned when she saw Catha had joined her; the longhut was no place for a woman so big with child, but she could no more send Catha away than the others who had come to keep watch over their wounded.

“Go home,” Mirili said. “We’ll send to you if we have need.”

Griane nodded. She couldn’t have slept for long; the heaviness of exhaustion still lay on her. Judging from the dark smudges under her eyes, Faelia was equally exhausted. She rested her hand briefly against her daughter’s cheek. “Thank you. For helping.”

“I had to do something.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes . . .”

“You saw him.”

Faelia nodded.

“I can mix you something to help you sleep.”

“It won’t help me forget,” Faelia said, her voice soft but savage.

“Nay.” She took her daughter’s shoulders, the bones sharp under her fingers. “Only time can do that. For all of us.”

“Can we forget this?” Faelia gestured around the hut. “Or the dead lying outside?”

“We will never forget. Nor should we.” Griane heard the sharpness in her voice and softened it. “But we will learn to bear it. Because we must.”

Callie was waiting outside the longhut. His tremulous smile of greeting changed to a look of horror. When she realized he was eyeing her bloodstained tunic, she got down on her knees and took his hands. “The blood is from the men and women who were injured. I had to stitch their wounds and bandage them.”

“Will they be all right now?”

She hesitated, then gave him the truth. “Most of them. But some of the wounds were very bad.”

“Then we should pray for them.”

“Aye.”

“And for Keirith.”

Not trusting her voice this time, she just nodded. Callie studied her, his face puckered with concern. “Don’t worry, Mam. Fa will find him.”

Young as he was, Callie knew.

“Of course he will.” Shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare, she saw Nionik and the other elders making their way toward the village. “Children—go home. As soon as I find your father, we’ll join you.”

“Where is he?” Callie asked, his voice gone shrill with fear. “Did the bad men come back?”

“Nay, love, nay. He went with the elders to . . . to talk to the man they captured. I’ll find him. I’ll bring him home. All right?”

Callie nodded, blinking back the tears that welled in his eyes.

“That’s my good boy.” She hugged him hard. “Go with your sister. We’ll be there soon.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Gortin and Muina trailed behind the other elders. Urkiat strode past them, but stopped when Muina called his name. His stormy expression only heightened Griane’s anxiety.

“Is he still up there?” she asked.

Gortin nodded. “We’ll set a watch tonight in case he—”

“He went toward the lake,” Muina interrupted.

“Who? Oh. Darak. Aye. He handled the questioning well—” Urkiat’s inarticulate exclamation made Gortin break off, frowning. “He only had to break—”

“Tree-Father.”

Gortin looked offended at Muina’s second interruption.

“I know you must gather men to cut wood for the pyre. We shouldn’t be keeping you. Or Urkiat,” she added pointedly. “I’m sure you could use his strong arms.”

“You’re right. Thank you, Grain-Grandmother.”

“I’m going after Darak,” Urkiat said.

“Nay,” Muina replied. “You’re going to cut wood.” Her head barely reached Urkiat’s shoulder, but he was the one to back down. With a muttered oath, he strode after Gortin.

“Dear gods, what happened up there?” Griane asked.

“Urkiat is young and thirsty for blood.”

“Damn Urkiat! Is Darak all right?”

“Nay. But he hides it well. Wait!” Muina’s hand shot out to clutch her arm. “Give him a moment.”

“Was it that bad?”

“The boy pissed himself before Darak even touched him. Two broken fingers and he was babbling so fast Urkiat could hardly keep up with him.” The keen blue eyes gazed up into hers. “As for Darak? Well. You know him better than anyone.”

So she had thought—before this morning.

“He holds things close. Always has, ever since he was a lad. When he went back to the First Forest, there were those who thought he’d gone for good. ’Twas Darak’s love for you that brought him back and ’twas your love that healed him. And I don’t mean love of the spirit, Griane. ’Twas the comfort of your body he needed then and it’s what he needs now. And you could do with the comfort of his as well.”

Muina pressed a light kiss to her forehead and walked away.

He stood in the lake, water lapping around his waist. His skin looked very white. Whiter still were the scars on his back where the thorn tree in Chaos had torn his flesh.

He bent down to scoop up water in his cupped hands, then straightened and threw it over himself. The droplets sparkled in the sunlight, creating little rainbows around his head before streaming over his shoulders and back.

He shifted position so that he stood in profile to her and repeated the ritual, shivering a little as the water dripped over him. Again, he turned, this time facing her. Blood stained the bandage on his arm. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved although she heard no words. His shivering was more pronounced now; even from her hiding place in the thicket, she could see the bumps of cold on his arms.

When he bent a fourth time, she knew this was no simple act of bathing. So might a shaman cleanse himself before conducting a ritual or a hunter before going into the forest. Facing each direction, seeking the power of the four winds, the strength of earth and air, fire and water. Not only washing the body, but cleansing the spirit as well.

A cloud drifted across the sun, leaving him in shadow as he waded back to the beach. He squatted beside his discarded breeches, his wet hair hanging in snarled tangles. When he rose again, he held his dagger. His lips moved as he raised his hand. Blood blossomed in a thin line across his wrist. He waited a moment, then snapped his wrist, flinging droplets of blood into the water. Twice more he repeated the gesture.

Three times for a charm—or a curse. Every child knew that.

He stood very still, head raised as if listening. She held her breath, listening with him. Her heart thudded loudly, nearly drowning out the soft lapping of the waves and the faint rustling of a small animal in the underbrush.

Tree limbs moaned in a gust of wind. A shaft of sunlight emerged from a break in the clouds. For a heartbeat, Bel’s rays burnished his body. Then the trees fell silent and Bel ducked back behind the cloud, leaving the beach in shadow again.