Bloodstone (78 page)

“Aye. Well. Think about it. Both of you.”

Keirith shook his head. “I want to go home, Fa.”

“I’ve come this far,” Hircha said, humor gone. “I’ll see it through to the end.”

Keirith shuddered now, recalling her words. Then he remembered his father’s, fierce and soft: “As long as I live, they will never take you to the heart-oak.”

His father had meant to comfort him. Instead, he’d convinced him that if the council voted for death, he must end his life rather than let his father sacrifice his.

A great cry rose up from the shore. Obviously, they’d recognized his father. Keirith scanned the crowd again. When he spied the two bright heads side by side, he caught his breath. Merciful Maker, Faelia was as tall as his mam. And there was Callie, jumping up and down, waving. They were all there: the Grain-Mother and Grain-Grandmother, the Oak-Chief and the Tree-Father, Ennit and . . . aye, there was Conn, shading his eyes, searching for him.

His father was still splashing to shore when Ennit plunged into the water to embrace him. The Tree-Father made the sign of blessing over him. The Grain-Mother kissed his cheek. Callie pushed past them and his father caught him up in his arms. But Faelia and his mam just stood there, staring past his father at him.

He leaped out of his coracle to help Hircha. A few of his kinfolk glanced at him, frowning, but most were too excited by his father’s return to pay much attention to the strangers he’d brought with him.

His father set Callie down so he could hug Faelia. His mam watched them. She was very pale, her cheeks damp with tears, her body rigid with tension. His father must have noticed, too. When he said her name, his voice was soft and hesitant, as if uncertain of his welcome.

The sound of his voice broke his mam’s strange stillness. She stepped into his arms, turning her cheek over and over against his as her fingers clutched his tunic in a white-knuckled grip. His father sought her mouth as a flower, withered by the unrelenting sun, might seek water.

Around them, folks smiled and murmured, but it was too intimate a moment for Keirith to watch. His gaze drifted to Faelia, who stared back at him with disturbing intensity.

His mam whispered something to his father that made him start. After a long moment, he nodded. He turned to face the crowd, but before he could speak, the chief raised his hands for silence.

“We’re glad to have you home, Darak. And we welcome your friends. There will be time later to hear what happened, but for now, perhaps the Tree-Father would say a prayer in thanks for your safe return.”

In less than three moons, the Tree-Father seemed to have aged years. Pouches beneath his eyes bespoke sleepless nights and the hand pressed to his father’s forehead in blessing shook with a visible tremor.

“Maker, we thank you for hearing our prayers and bringing Darak home to us. This very day, we shall offer a sacrifice at the heart-oak in thanks for his return. And we beg your mercy for the other son of our tribe. Wherever Keirith may be, keep his spirit safe until we meet him again in the Forever Isles.”

“Thank you for your welcome and your prayers,” his father said. “But we shall not have to wait to meet Keirith.” He paused, looking around the circle of happy faces and Keirith held his breath. “I bring you a tale of wonder. A miracle vouchsafed by the Maker.” His father’s voice held the deep cadence of the Memory-Keeper now. “I saw my son sacrificed by a Zherosi priest. I saw the dagger in his chest, his blood spilling onto the altar.”

Gasps and moans accompanied this statement. The Tree-Father looked so stricken, Keirith automatically took a step toward him. Then he noticed Othak sidling forward. Othak wearing the brown robe of the initiate. Othak squeezing the Tree-Father’s arm and murmuring words of comfort. Othak who had slipped into the position that should have been his as easily as he slipped through the crowd. Keirith told himself it would have happened even if the raiders hadn’t captured him, but resentment still burned within him.

His father waited for the commotion to subside. “As my son lay dying, I called to him. I opened my spirit to his and sheltered it. Just as Tinnean’s body sheltered the spirit of the Holly-Lord during our quest.”

Amid the whispered speculation, fingers sketched the sign of blessing.

“But the priest who murdered my son pursued us. He attacked our spirits. And together, we drove him out.”

Keirith glanced sharply at his father; that was not what they had discussed. By claiming that he helped drive out Xevhan’s spirit, his father could be held equally culpable for the crime.

“The Zherosi priest is dead. A man who sacrificed hundreds of our people. But my son lives.” His father slipped behind him and put his hands on his shoulders. “This is Keirith, son of Darak and Griane.”

Stunned silence greeted his pronouncement. All eyes were fastened on him, some with disbelief, some with horror.

“It’s true.”

Heads swung toward his mam as she strode forward to stand on his left. Without hesitation, Faelia took up a position on his right. Only Callie remained where he was, his face puckered in a frown.

“The Maker sent me a vision.” His mam gazed defiantly around the crowd, as if daring anyone to contradict her. “This is Keirith, the son of my body. Reborn through the Maker’s mercy. Come home to us at last.”

In the uproar that ensued, his father remained calm, assuring the chief that he would relate the entire story to the elders. The Grain-Grandmother shouted down those who called for the council to meet at once, insisting that the family deserved a night together to celebrate their reunion. The Grain-Mother stepped forward to kiss him on both cheeks. Then, with his father’s arm around his shoulders, they made their way through the crowd and headed home.

Once inside the hut, an awkward silence arose. “This is Hircha,” his father finally said. “I should have introduced her before.” He shrugged apologetically. “Without her, we would not have escaped.”

“Welcome to our home, Hircha.” His mam’s voice was strained, but her smile seemed genuine. “Your home,” she corrected herself. “It’s little enough to thank you.”

“I didn’t do much.”

After another awkward pause, Faelia gave him a quick kiss. Then she pushed Callie forward. “Kiss your brother.”

“That’s not my brother.”

Although Keirith was expecting it, the words still hurt.

His father knelt beside Callie. “Did you hear what I said down by the lake?”

Callie stared at the rushes and nodded.

“A bad man killed your brother. I took Keirith’s spirit inside mine. I kept it safe. And when the bad man died, Keirith took his body. You remember how the Holly-Lord took uncle Tinnean’s body when his spirit left it?”

“But he didn’t keep it. He went back to his tree.”

“Aye. Because that was his true form. But Keirith is a man. So he had to have the body of a man.”

Callie squinted up at him suspiciously. “How do we know?”

“Know what?” his father asked.

“That it’s really Keirith. That it’s not the bad man.”

“Because the bad man’s spirit is gone. It’s gone,” his father repeated in a gentler voice. “This is just his body. But Keirith’s spirit is inside. I know because I’ve talked to him. And once you’ve talked to him, you’ll know, too.”

“Say something Keirith would say,” Callie demanded.

They all looked at him expectantly. To save his life, he couldn’t think of anything. Tears welled up in Callie’s eyes. “I told you! He’s not Keirith. Keirith’s dead!”

Keirith realized he was gnawing his thumb and quickly dropped his hand. His mam always scolded him for that. When he was little, she’d smeared a foul-tasting ointment on his thumb to keep him from sucking it, but even that failed to break him of the habit completely.

His mam and Faelia were both watching him with wide, tear-glazed eyes. As if only now, seeing the familiar gesture, they truly believed who he was. Yet neither had hesitated to stand by him on the beach. His father and Hircha had had a moon to grow used to his appearance; he couldn’t expect the rest of his family to overcome their shock in a few moments.

“You used to call me Keiry,” he said to Callie. “When you were little. And you and Conn and I played wolf among the flocks. And Conn always got mad because he had to be the sheep. Because . . . it was a stupid joke . . . I said he was . . . baaed at barking. Do you remember?”

Callie nodded slowly.

“And . . . and before the raid, you lost your quartz charm. The one shaped like a fish. And I found it. But I didn’t give it to you.”

When Callie frowned, Keirith nudged the rushes with his foot. The light from the fire was too dim to see anything, so he got down on his hands and knees. It had to be here. He remembered that moment so clearly. “I did see it. The night before the raid. It was here—by the doorway.” He clawed through the rushes, ripping up great handfuls and tossing them aside, but the charm was gone. Defeated, he sank back on his haunches.

A small, grubby fist appeared before him. The fingers opened to reveal the charm. “We found it,” Callie whispered. “When Mam and Faelia put down fresh rushes.”

Callie flung his arms around his neck. Keirith wished he could freeze this moment: the warmth of Callie’s body pressed against his, the mingled odors of grass and earth and sheep.

Too soon, Callie squirmed free. “How come if you’re a man your face is so smooth?”

“The raiders don’t have a lot of hair on their faces.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have to shave at all?”

“Nay.”

“Will you ever?”

“Probably not.”

Callie considered this. “Do you have hair in your crotch now?”

“I had hair in my crotch before!”

Faelia giggled. Then Hircha. Keirith felt himself flushing, but then he laughed. In a moment, they were all laughing except Callie, who just looked puzzled. “What about the hair on your head?”

“That’ll grow in.” Keirith took Callie’s hand and drew it back and forth over the soft stubble. “The priests there shave their heads. A moon ago, I didn’t have any hair at all.”

“It feels like the sheep. After the shearing. I know! I’ll shave my head, too, and then we’ll both look the same.”

Keirith pulled him back into his arms and buried his face against the soft, warm neck.

Griane took refuge in preparing supper. She had to do something to keep from staring at Keirith. Before she could ask Faelia to help, Hircha picked up a knife and began skinning the rabbits Faelia had snared that morning.

“I worked in the kitchen,” she said with a hesitant smile.

“Kitchen?”

“Where the food was cooked.”

A place just for cooking. It was as inconceivable as Darak’s claim that you had to purchase water. With half her mind, she listened to the stories they told Callie—silly tales about the strange group of performers Darak had fallen in with and incredible descriptions of the place Keirith had lived. An enormous building of stone with more rooms than there were huts in the village. Painted tree trunks that held up the roofs or simply marched alongside a path for no reason whatsoever. A tame wildcat that took food right from your fingers.

Callie interrupted with dozens of questions, but whenever he asked about the bad man, Darak or Keirith steered the conversation to another topic. Since she was prepared for Fellgair to enter the tale, she could listen with the same wonder as the children when Darak revealed that the raiders worshiped the Trickster, too.

It was harder to hear how Fellgair entered Darak’s spirit. She knew how much pain his brief account hid and found it hard to forgive Fellgair for choosing that method—of all the ones in the world—to help Darak. Still, it had worked. Darak had saved their boy. It was more than she had done.

She doubted Fellgair had told him about their bargain; despite his time with the players, Darak was not a good enough performer to hide his feelings. Yet each time Fellgair’s name came up, she could feel his eyes on her, gauging her reaction. It would be just like the Trickster to hint that a bargain existed without revealing the details.

Then Callie asked why Urkiat hadn’t come home with them.

“He died, son. He was pretending to fight with me. But we were using real swords—they’re like long daggers. And Urkiat . . . he didn’t move when I expected him to.”

“You killed him? You killed Urkiat?”

“Callie!” Her voice sounded too shrill, too sharp. Even Hircha was staring. “It was an accident.”

“The bad man made Fa and Urkiat fight,” Keirith said. “Urkiat was . . . distracted. Just for a moment. Fa didn’t mean to hurt him.”

Fellgair had told her much the same story, but the bitterness in Keirith’s voice proved there was more to it than a simple accident.

To her surprise, Hircha squatted down beside Callie. “He died in your father’s arms.”