Bloodstone (5 page)

“That must have gone over well.”

“Not as well as I hoped.”

His glower gave way to a reluctant smile and Griane decided she might like him, after all.

“Darak and your chief—Nionik? They called a meeting of the chiefs from the tribes along your river. I spoke better there. A little. But they all said they had enough to do with the planting and the peat cutting. And after that, of course, there was the thatching and the shearing. Time enough come the harvest to worry about the raiders.” With a visible effort, he calmed himself. “I came to speak to your council and the elders of the Holly Tribe across the lake. Gods grant I have better luck with them.”

“You’re tired and hungry and heartsore. You’ll tell the tale soon enough, but for now, try and let these matters go.” She drew back the bearskin that hung across the doorway of their hut. “Urkiat, you are welcome to our home.”

Instead of offering the ritual response, he just stood there. “This . . .” He took a deep breath. “This is where you live.”

“Aye, Urkiat,” Darak said, his voice dry. “It’s a hut. Come in and sit down.”

Urkiat dropped his pack and seated himself beside Darak.

“Faelia, put the oatcakes on the fire. Callie, stop rummaging in your father’s bag and fetch the brogac.” Darak dipped his little finger into the stew, deftly avoiding the smack she aimed at his hand. “Enjoy the brogac. The stew will be a while yet.”

“We could open the presents,” Callie suggested.

“Best wait for your brother,” Darak said.

Faelia tossed her braid. “Who knows when he’ll appear? Half the time he doesn’t even come home for the midday meal.”

“He’ll be home,” Griane said with more assurance than she felt.

“I could fetch him,” Callie said. “After we open the presents.”

Darak laughed and pulled Callie into his lap for a hug. “All right. We’ll have the presents.”

He’d brought a new shell for Callie’s collection and a dagger for Faelia who squealed when she saw the bronze blade. Griane gave Darak a long look. The gift was far too expensive and offering her a dagger would only feed her illusions of becoming as great a hunter as her father had been.

With an apologetic shrug, Darak held out the dagger to Faelia, carefully cradling it in both hands. Over the years, he’d become skilled at manipulating objects, but it still hurt Griane to see the stumps where Morgath had severed the forefinger and middle finger of each hand, to watch him holding a weapon and remember how skillful those hands had once been with dagger, with sling, with bow. The tribe still valued his hunting instincts and many fathers sent their boys to him for instruction. He taught them with the same quiet patience he showed when teaching the children the legends of the tribe, but since he had taken the path of Memory-Keeper, he had abandoned the hunt.

“The oatcakes are burning, Mam.”

“Well, turn them over, Faelia. If you can tear yourself away from your gift.”

Faelia sniffed. “You’re just jealous.”

“Faelia.”

Although Darak’s voice was quiet, Faelia flushed. Griane wished she had the gift of controlling their volatile daughter with a single word.

“What did you bring Mam?” Callie asked, oblivious to the undercurrents.

“What do I always bring your mam?”

He fumbled in his bag and pulled out several small packets made of that wonderfully light woven material the southerners called “flaxcloth.” She unwrapped the first, bending her head to sniff the small blue-violet buds.

“Mmm. They’re lovely.”

“They’re called sweet spike. The trader said ladies put the packets in their clothes to keep them smelling nice. They’re also supposed to relieve headaches and irritability.”

I’ll dose Faelia with them tonight, she thought.

Callie leaned over her shoulder, his soft hair tickling her cheek. “What are these little ones, Fa?”

“Flea seeds. Good for the bowels—tightening
and
loosening, the trader claimed. And those are sunburst, sun blossom . . . sun something or other. Fine Memory-Keeper I am. Anyway, you make the flowers into an ointment for skin rashes, cuts, and scrapes. The trader said it was especially good for babes—scalp itch and arse rash—and also for a woman’s nipples when they get sore from breast-feeding.”

The children were used to such conversations, but Urkiat’s mouth hung open. Again. She was about to tell him Darak had picked up a good deal about healing from her, when she realized she’d completely forgotten to pass along the news of Lisula.

“And Ennit?” Darak asked, after she’d told him about the birth.

“Plumped up like a partridge, of course.”

“I wish I could have been here. Well, I’ll visit him after supper.” He glanced toward the doorway, thumb drumming an impatient tattoo on his thigh. “What’s keeping Keirith?”

She had been wondering the same thing. Darak had urged her to give Keirith time to work out whatever was troubling him. Well, he’d had time. Tonight, they would sit him down for a talk. It wasn’t the way she had planned to spend Darak’s first evening at home, but the sooner they got this matter into the open, the better.

“ . . . how he can spend all day there,” Faelia was saying. “Well, the visions might be interesting, but the praying and the chanting . . .” She gave an exaggerated shudder, then glanced at Urkiat. “You’re not studying to be a shaman, are you?”

“Nay.”

“I didn’t think so. With that scar on your—”

“See to the oatcakes, Faelia.”

“We can’t eat without Keirith,” Callie said.

“Your father and our guest need something in their bellies.”

“I could go to the Tree-Father’s and fetch him.”

Faelia gingerly plucked the oatcakes off the baking stone and dropped them into a reed basket. “I’d just as soon he stayed away. He’s been so difficult lately.”

“Should I go, Fa? I could go.”

“Fine. Go. Fetch him.”

Before Darak finished speaking, Callie was dashing out. Griane sighed. “Do you have children, Urkiat?”

“Nay.”

“Are you married?” Faelia asked.

“Nay.”

“Really? Oatcake?” She held out the basket, favoring him with a wild fluttering of her pale lashes.

From hunter to whining child to flirt. Griane couldn’t keep up with her daughter’s transformations. If she was this difficult at eleven, gods preserve them—and whatever quarry she sought—when she became a woman.

Since Faelia was in a helpful mood, Griane let her scoop the cheese into a bowl and pass it around. It was good to sit and sip her elderberry wine while the men regaled them with tales of the Gathering: the trader with the brightly-colored bird that could curse in three languages; the tribesman from the north who shot four arrows through a gourd resting on a rock one hundred paces away; the boy who could keep three apples in the air at the same time.

She had hoped to attend this year’s Gathering with Darak; they’d had such fun at the others, giggling like young lovers in their furs at night. After she weaned Callie, she’d expected to share more times like that, but there were always birthings to attend, bones to set, illnesses to monitor. Hard to believe the girl who had braved the First Forest had left her village only four times since she had returned.

Darak still went to the grove with the priests for the spring and fall rites of Balancing. Never at Midwinter or Midsummer; he couldn’t bear to witness the battle between the Oak and the Holly. As for her, she would never go there again. Although it was the place where they had found love, there were too many painful memories. The quest had left Darak’s spirit as badly scarred as his body. It was moons before he could sleep through the night without jolting awake, sweat-sheened and shaking. Longer still before the shadows left his face.

The shadows were there now, this time conjured by their son. Although Darak nodded his head and exclaimed over Faelia’s exhaustive description of every snare she’d set in his absence, his thumb continued its relentless tattoo.

Griane tested the stew, scowled, and laid out some smoked salmon. She was considering whether to send Faelia to a neighbor to augment their meager fare when Callie slipped back inside. To her surprise, Gortin followed.

Darak rose and bowed. “Tree-Father. Your presence honors us.”

Neither his words nor his manner betrayed the lie. Nor, to his credit, did Gortin’s. His square face had never been handsome, but as a young man, there had been a certain softness, an eager light—sweet and pitiful at the same time—that illuminated it. That disappeared after Struath died. Tonight, the scars around the shadowed eye socket gave him a particularly sinister look.

She chided herself for her silliness. Gortin couldn’t help the scars. The Tree-Father from the Holly Tribe had been too sick and too old to conduct the rite properly. All the poultices in the world couldn’t undo the damage that shaking dagger had inflicted. She still remembered Gortin’s screams.

Darak and Gortin were just staring uncomfortably at each other. “Please. Join us,” she said. “We were just about to have some supper.”

“Thank you. I’ve eaten.” Gortin hesitated, his gaze lingering on Urkiat. “There is a matter we need to discuss, but I fear this is not the best time.”

Urkiat turned to Faelia. “After hearing so much about the rabbits you snared, perhaps you’d show me the best spots. We might even have time to set some snares before the light goes. If Callum will help us.”

“Callie’s too little—”

“I am not. I helped the other day. I sprinkled dirt over the snare and everything.”

“Fa ...”

Before Darak could speak, Griane said, “It’s too late to be wandering about the lakeshore. Take Urkiat to Ennit’s. Both of you.”

Urkiat had eaten their food; he was honor-bound not to violate the laws of hospitality. And Darak must trust the man if he’d brought him home. Still, his angry outbursts made her reluctant to send the children off with him.

As Gortin sat down, Darak said, “I take it Keirith’s not with you.”

“Nay.”

“Is there a problem? Has he been neglecting his lessons?”

“He hasn’t told you?”

Griane’s stomach lurched. Darak shot her a quick look and she shook her head, as puzzled as he was.

“Keirith assured me . . . I’m sorry. I should have told you myself.”

“Aye. Well.” Darak’s voice was calm enough, but she could hear the edge in it. “Suppose you tell us now.”

B
Y THE TIME KEIRITH neared the village, the sun had disappeared behind Eagles Mount. He endured some good-natured chaffing from the returning peat cutters who marveled that he could have ripped his tunic during a vision, and silently blessed the women who herded the begrimed men and children toward the lake to wash.

He paused at the little stream that flowed into the lake to assess the damage the gorse bush had inflicted during his headlong flight down Eagles Mount. The dim light in the hut might hide the scratches on his bare legs, but his mam would surely spy the hole in the elbow of his tunic; her eyes were as sharp as the eagle’s. Maybe if he kept his arm straight . . .

Kneeling under the big willow, he splashed water in his face and smoothed his hair. Hoping his meager ablutions would suffice, he hurried toward the village.

A few children scampered past, heading home for supper. The usual group of old women sat outside Jurl’s hut, scraping hides and gossiping. Old Erca looked up as he walked by, and, in her penetrating screech, demanded to know if he’d been wrestling with a gorse bush.

“For shame. Scampering around the hills instead of welcoming your father home.”

“Darak’ll take his belt to him.”

“More likely Griane. She’ll have to mend the tunic.”

“Boys are so hard on their clothes. I could scarcely keep up with my two when they were that age.”

“My Jurl—thank the Maker he’s settled down now—but the scrapes that rascal used to get into! I still remember that Midsummer . . . oh, he couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven . . .”

Mercifully, they lost interest in him, chuckling and nodding over the oft-heard tales of their own children and grandchildren.

He’d have to find a way to get Callie and Faelia out of the hut. It would be bad enough to break the news to his parents without Faelia rolling her eyes and Callie interrupting with a hundred questions.

His footsteps slowed, stopped. He scuffed his big toe in the dirt.

As he strode toward the hut, he heard his father shouting. When he recognized the Tree-Father’s voice, also raised in anger, the wave of nausea made sweat break out on his forehead. He took one step forward, then another, determined to ignore his pattering heart and churning stomach.

A hand lifted the bearskin. The Tree-Father ducked outside. His expression grew even grimmer when he saw him. “Callum came to my hut to fetch you.”