Foxfire (17 page)

He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he had a firm grip on his emotions.

“More than thirty people died yesterday. Others will be maimed for life. This village will be crippled because we've lost most of our hunters. All this to secure the allegiance of one man. Tell me, Faelia. Was it worth it?”

“It will be. If Darak Spirit-Hunter joins us.”

Her hand came up as if to touch him. Furious, he batted it aside. The savage gesture made her press her clenched fist against her mouth. The old gesture—one that she'd made ever since she was a child—made him catch his breath, but his voice was cold when he spoke.

“Let me pass.”

“Fa . . .”

“I cannot do this! Not with the ashes of our dead filling the air and the stink of their roasting bodies tainting every breath.”

Temet took Faelia's arm and eased her away from the doorway. Without looking at either of them, Darak stalked outside.

 

 

 

He visited the homes of the bereaved and sat with grief-stricken widows and frightened children. He went to the longhut to check on the wounded. He told Rothisar to organize combat training, asked Trath to assign watches—and realized he was beginning the transformation from chief of the Alder Tribe to spiritual leader of a rebellion.

Already, he could feel the forest calling, urging him to leave the treeless moors and the wrangling of the elders and the dozens of petty concerns that filled his days. Leave it all behind. Walk again among the oaks and ashes, the rowans and pines. Carry the tale to every village. Remind every listener of the sacred bond between the land and its people.

But he could not commit to that path until he had spoken with Griane.

It was late afternoon before he had time to seek her out. By then, the hopeful sun had lost its battle with the clouds and the skies were as dark as his mood. Rain pelted down as he ducked into the longhut, but in the end, he found her at home with all three of the boys. Their guilty looks and quick exchange of glances made it clear they had been discussing him.

“Where's Faelia?” Callie asked.

“I don't know.”

“She should be here.”

“Nay!” His vehemence drew puzzled frowns and another furtive exchange of glances. They waited for him to say more, but he simply repeated, “Nay.”

As he slumped beside the fire pit, Griane glanced at him, then quickly resumed stirring the stew. When had anyone had time to snare rabbits? Rigat, perhaps. He could keep a fire blazing through the morning and bring home a brace of rabbits in the afternoon.

Rigat cleared his throat. “You wanted to talk to me. The other night. At the feast.”

Ignoring his frown, Rigat began speaking in a low, clear voice. He spoke of pushing Seg, of the portal, of the rockslide. Darak's fists clenched and unclenched in his lap as he fought the growing wave of nausea. He couldn't look at the boy. Or at Griane.

When Rigat's voice finally ran down, Darak rubbed his damp palms against his thighs, knowing he had to speak, to reassure Rigat, to reassure all his boys. And if he could not reassure Griane, he must, at least, hide his fear that the moment had finally arrived—the moment he had dreaded for so many years.

He wished his father could be here, guiding him. He wished he could close his eyes and pretend that the bad thing would go away as he used to do when he was a child and heard unfamiliar sounds in the dark. He wished he could succumb to the frightened voice inside him that kept screaming, “Nay, nay, nay!” Or just run away and lose himself in the comforting depths of the forest.

But he was no longer a child and he was far from the forest. Faelia wanted him to be the Spirit-Hunter and Rigat needed him to be his father.

He forced himself to smile. “Forgive me. I'm . . . tired. The last two days . . .”

“It'll be all right.” Oddly, it was Callie who offered the comfort, not Keirith as he would have expected, the new sad-eyed Callie whose smile was bittersweet, as if he realized how untrue his words were but couldn't help speaking them. Keirith was still so numbed by Conn's death that he could only give him a bleak nod.

Griane refused to look at him.

“We're family,” he said. “We stand together. Nothing can change that.”

Griane's knuckles grew white as she clenched the spoon. “Thank you for telling me, Rigat. It's past time we talked. Nay, it's not your fault. We were all afraid to face the truth.”

He stopped himself before he said more. He felt thin, strained, his body taut with nervous energy, but heavy, so very heavy.

“I'm tired,” he repeated. “I think . . . if you don't mind . . . I'll rest before supper.”

Rigat leaped up to pull the wet mantle from his shoulders. Callie ladled a cup of his tonic. Keirith finally stopped their fussing and shooed his brothers toward the doorway.

“But it's raining,” Rigat protested.

“Then make yourselves useful,” Griane said. “Take fresh bandages to the longhut. Fill the waterskins. The wounded are always thirsty. Take the two wolfskins by the doorway to Alada. Tell her we can't spare more. The stew will be ready by the time you're back.”

Keirith and Callie ducked outside, but Rigat hesitated in the doorway. “You're not mad, are you, Fa?”

“Nay.”

“Or . . . disappointed?”

Gods, he was so young. And it wasn't his fault.

“Nay,” he managed.

“But you wish I was like the other boys.”

His legs shook as he pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the son who was and wasn't his. “Aye. I do. Magic . . . scares me. Always has. Tinnean . . . he saw the wonder in it.”

“It
is
wonderful, Fa. And it'll never hurt us. I won't let it.” Rigat's grave smile was so like Fellgair's that Darak caught his breath.

After Rigat left, he just stood there, listening to the patter of rain on the thatch and the sizzles from the fire pit when errant drops fell through the vent hole. When he finally turned to Griane, he found her staring down at her clasped hands.

Her gaze finally rose to meet his. And still he couldn't move. Then his legs responded to his mind's command. He walked back to the fire pit and sat down opposite her. He tried to still the fluttering of his heart, but hearts were more difficult to control than legs.

Neither of them wanted to be the first to say it. Because he loved her and because he thought it might be easier somehow if he was the one to speak the words aloud, he took a deep breath and said, “He's Fellgair's son.”

Even though he knew what her answer would be, her small nod made his heart clench. As if Fellgair were squeezing it between his fingers as he had that afternoon in Zheros. The afternoon he had demanded that Darak open his spirit as the price for saving Keirith—and hinted at the bargain with Griane.

He felt his head nodding, as if she had confirmed something ordinary—that there were wild onions in the stew or that she would be out on the moor gathering plants on the morrow. He heard her say something about a brew that would rid a woman of a child, of her moon flow coming after she took it, but he needed all his concentration simply to breathe. He took shallow, careful breaths to ease the pressure in his chest. When it did, he became aware of the ache in his hands.

He looked down to discover them balled into fists. Slowly, he relaxed his fingers. There were two freckles near the puckered white scar left by Morgath's dagger. So long ago now. Half a lifetime. More. He had been young and strong and whole then. He had believed that losing Tinnean was the worst thing that could ever happen to him.

Not freckles. Age spots. Of course.

Griane's voice seemed to come from a great distance. “I was sure he was yours. Even after the . . . incidents began. Keirith had power, too.”

But how could the power of a mortal ever compare to that of a god? A god never grew old. He was always young and strong and whole. He could bind a child in a woman's womb. Beguile you with a glance. Choose any form he pleased.

Had he worn the body of the fox-man that day in the Summerlands?

But Darak could no more stop the thoughts than he could control his shaking hands. Griane burying her face in the soft, spiky fur of Fellgair's chest. Griane digging her fingers into his hips to pull him deeper inside of her. Griane crying out his name at the end.

Did she still dream of that summer day? Remember the tickle of his fur on her thighs and the rasp of his tongue on her cheek? Had she pretended all these years that it was Fellgair's hands, Fellgair's mouth, Fellgair's body loving her?

Fingers grasped his arm. Griane's fingers. When had she moved to his side? He looked up and saw tears in her eyes.

“Don't.”

She snatched her hand away as if she had burned it. When he realized why, his throat closed in silent protest. That she should think that he hated her touch, that he could hate her because of what she had done, that she could imagine he could ever stop loving her no matter how much the visions tormented him, no matter how much the truth scalded his spirit . . . somehow that was worse than everything else.

He tried to say, “Don't cry,” but the words emerged as a strangled croak. He staggered to his feet, reeling like a drunken man. And suddenly she was there, steadying him, holding him. His girl, his fierce, strong girl.

Darak pulled her close, but when he buried his face in the crook of her neck, she went rigid. Suddenly unsure, he drew back. Her face was so white, the freckles stood out like plague spots. But it was her eyes that caught him. Wide with shock, they stared at something over his shoulder.

Even before he turned, he knew what he would see.

Rigat stood in the open doorway. Rain plastered his hair against his head and streamed in rivulets down his cheeks. His eyes were as wide and disbelieving as his mother's.

Griane cried out his name, but he had already spun away. With a low moan, she tottered toward the doorway. Darak caught her as she collapsed.

R
IGAT RAN ACROSS THE moor, heedless of the pelting rain. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care. He just had to get away from Mam and Fa.

All his life, he had tried to win Darak's love. Now he understood why he had failed. Seeing him standing there, staring at him with horror . . . that was bad enough. But his mam . . .

Blinded by tears and rain, he stumbled and quickly regained his balance.

But he wasn't “anyone else.” He was the Trickster's son. That was why he could hear the song of the stream and the speech of animals. Why he could stop a spear in midair. Why Darak had always watched him and his mam had tried to kill him before he was born.

Did his brothers and sister know? Was that why Faelia had always disliked him? Why even Keirith was so distant sometimes?

He swiped his palms across his eyes and raced on. Faster than any man. Fast enough to outrace the truth.

The moor melted into a blur of gray and brown and green. He leaped over stones, dodged sprawling gorse bushes, all without thought, without effort. He could fly if he put his mind to it. Just spread his arms and will his body into the air. He didn't need an eagle like Keirith. He could do it alone. Soar over the trees and the mountains and never come back again. Then they'd be sorry.

His steps slowed. The world fell back into place. Each breath tore at his chest. His throat felt like he had swallowed fire. And his legs shook, muscles hot and aching from the frantic race.

Over the roaring in his ears, he heard the sound of water tumbling over rocks. Through the tangle of underbrush at the bottom of the slope, he caught a flash of gray-green. Slowly, he made his way down the hill and slid to his knees on the muddy bank.

The icy water burned his throat. He forced himself to stop after a few mouthfuls, lest he make himself sick, but continued to splash water on his cheeks. How could they be so hot when he was shivering?

He collapsed on a slab of rock and drew his sodden mantle closer. He had no weapons save his dagger. No spare clothes or food. No place to hide.

There was water aplenty. Alder branches that could be carved into fishing spears, vines that could be twisted into snares. A small hollow in the hill where he could shelter for the night.