Foxfire (18 page)

Why rely on the skills of ordinary men? If he could hear the song of the stream, he could sing trout into his waiting fingers. If he could make leaves dance on a windless day, he could weave vines and branches into a shelter.

But not here. Darak would come after him. And he couldn't face him. He would rest here tonight, but at dawn, he must leave. Head south to the forest. The only home he had now.

Darak wouldn't come after him. He would make up some excuse, convince everyone that he'd run away. Keirith would believe him. And Callie. Faelia had never liked him. His mam might grieve for a while, but even she didn't want him.

It was better to be on his own. Keirith had been banished for casting out a man's spirit. What would the tribe do to him—the half-breed whelp of an unpredictable god? They might demand his death. Cut his heart out. Like Morgath. But they wouldn't succeed. It took more than a mere dagger to kill the son of a god. Didn't it?

They ought to be grateful. They ought to go down on their knees and thank him. He had saved them with the rockslide, kept the fire burning during the rite. He had used his power to help. It wasn't his fault if Seg had been too stupid or slow to save himself.

Why had he shown Seg the spear? That's when it all started to go wrong. But he was so sick of his taunts and boasting. As if a wolf were a better vision mate than a fox.

Rigat wiped his nose and called, “Fox!”

Nothing happened. He had to swallow several times before the lump in his throat eased. Even his vision mate had deserted him.

“Don't be so impatient.”

His head snapped toward the familiar voice, but there was no sign of his vision mate. Then he caught a flash of red among the greens and grays of the underbrush. His greeting died unspoken. Dry-mouthed, he watched the tall figure walk down to the stream.

Keirith had only known him as the black-haired Supplicant of the Zherosi. This was the god Darak had bargained with. The god his mam had lain with. The god—only now did he realize it—who had come to him during his vision quest and called him “my beautiful boy.”

In spite of the ruddy hair that covered his body like a garment, he looked far more human than Rigat had imagined. The white beard gave an illusion of fullness to the narrow face. The ears were large and distinctly triangular, but the long nose was human enough. So were the fingers—except for the curving, black claws.

From the opposite bank of the stream, the Trickster studied him. Had the god observed him for years? Did he see every action? Know every thought? If so, the Trickster must feel his trembling, must sense both his fear and his determination to meet that inscrutable stare no matter how much he wanted to look away.

He searched for something intelligent to say, something that would show the Trickster that his son was worthy. And heard himself blurting out, “What happened to your brush?”

Heat flooded his face. The Trickster could take whatever shape appealed to him: Zherosi priestess or mortal man or fox—or any strange amalgam in between.

The Trickster smiled. “I got tired of it.”

Rigat's answering smile faded as the Trickster splashed through the stream. He tried to force himself to his feet, but his legs wouldn't obey. He could only sit there, watching the approach of the god who had created him.

The potent scent of male fox nearly overwhelmed the delicate aroma of honeysuckle. He should have remembered that from the tale. Golden eyes stared down at him, the slitted pupils darker than any shadow.

The Trickster crouched in front of him. A black-clawed hand rose, and Rigat fought hard to keep from flinching. The palm rested against his cheek. “Spongy as a dog's pads,” according to the tale Nemek told, but to Rigat, it merely felt warm and slightly callused. Like Darak's hand.

The Trickster's eyes blurred into a smear of gold and black. Rigat wanted to duck his head—dear gods, to be weeping like a child—but those eyes held him.

“Hush.”

The Trickster brushed away the tear. His long red tongue flicked out to lick his thumb. Then he caught another tear on his forefinger. He held it out. After a moment's hesitation, Rigat licked it.

He had tasted his tears before and never noticed they were anything but salty and warm. Now he tasted the fear of hiding his true self for so long. The loneliness of possessing gifts he could never share. The guilt of not being the son Darak wanted. And the bitterness of learning that his mam had tried to kill him.

“Taste again.”

As if obeying the Trickster's command, a tear slid into the corner of Rigat's mouth. Salty like the last one with an underlying hint of bitterness, but—impossibly—sweet.

She hadn't known he'd existed when she had cleansed her womb. She would never have done it if she had realized then how much they would love each other. His earliest memories were of his mother's arms holding him, his mother's voice singing to him, his mother's scent—herbs and milk and soap-scoured flesh—filling his nostrils. Fear had made her hide the truth, but her love had cradled him and kept him safe, preparing him for this meeting that had been destined from the day of his conception.

Tears and rain slipped down his cheeks unheeded. His mam had given him love. The Trickster had given him power. And now—with the gift of a tear—knowledge that reminded him of who—and what—he was.

He had never imagined a tear could be so powerful—or so delicious.

“What . . . what should I call you?”

“Call me Fellgair. Your mother does.”

Fellgair rose and held out his hand. Rigat took it, restraining the impulse to fling his arms around him. But Fellgair must have felt his need, for he opened his arms without hesitation. So strong, those arms, stronger even than Darak's. Yet just as gentle as his mam's.

“It's all right,” his father said. “We're together now.”

“
G
ONE?” KEIRITH ECHOED. “Where?” G “I don't know.” His father shot a quick look at Mam who sat in white-faced silence.

“Did you argue? After Callie and I left?”

“Just leave it, Keirith.”

“But why would he—?”

“Leave it!”

After a moment of shocked silence, Callie ventured, “Perhaps someone said something. About the portal. Or Seg. But he'll come home. After he's calmed down.”

“Which way did he go?” Keirith demanded.

His father hesitated.

“You didn't track him? You just let him go?”

“This is not your concern.”

“He's my brother!”

“And he'll be safe.”

“Of course he will,” Callie said. “He knows the moors as well as he knows this village.”

“He could trip. Twist an ankle. Or—”

“He'll be safe,” Fa repeated. “And he'll come back.” He squeezed Mam's hand, but she continued staring at the glowing peat. “Please, boys. Just . . . trust us.”

The misery in his face made Keirith soften his voice. “We do, Fa. What's harder to understand is why
you
won't trust us.”

A third time, Fa turned to her, as if awaiting some sign. When none was forthcoming, he said, “Later. Please.”

Unable to bear the tension, Keirith shoved back the deerskin and ducked outside. Yanking his mantle over his head, he stalked through the village.

It had taken all his willpower to watch the flames devour Conn's body. Now, he feared he would shatter like clay heated too long in the fire.

He slumped against the wall of a hut, recalling the night that he had “pushed” Fa and fled the village. His father had scoured the hills with Conn. His mam had begged Gortin to use his vision to seek him. Although his parents were clearly upset by Rigat's disappearance, they seemed content to let him go.

Two confrontations. Two sons fleeing. And two attacks by the Zherosi. Hard to believe that was merely coincidence; harder still, to accept it as fate.

A racking cough from inside the hut interrupted his thoughts. Only then did he realize where he was. He wondered if this had been his destination all along.

He reached for the doeskin, then hesitated. Ennit and Lisula had enough worries. And he had not spoken to Hircha since he had carried Conn into the village.

While he continued to hesitate, the doeskin was flung up. Hircha drew back with a startled exclamation. “Keirith? Good gods, you're soaked. Come inside.”

Ennit was huddled beside the fire pit, flanked by Ela and Lisula. Lisula managed a tired smile. “It's good of you to come, Keirith. Sit down. Ela, take his mantle.”

“What's wrong?” Hircha demanded.

He shook his head.

“Something's happened,” she persisted.

By now, even Ennit was looking at him with concern.

“It's Rigat. He's . . . run off.”

Ela's cry of dismay was so like Callie's that he almost smiled.

“Sit down,” Hircha ordered. “Tell us what happened.”

Ennit and Lisula were his parents' best friends. Ela was as good as promised to Callie. Whatever his concerns, he could share them here.

“They're not speaking to each other?” Lisula asked when he finished.

“It's more like they know something they're not telling us.”

Ennit's curse brought on another coughing fit. When Lisula dipped a cup into the sweet-smelling brew simmering in the fire pit, he shook his head and hawked a gob of phlegm onto the peat bricks. For a few painful moments, there was only the sound of his wheezing and the sizzle of the peat. Then Ennit exchanged a brief glance with Lisula and nodded.

“Darak and Griane may not talk to us either, but we'll go to them.”

“That's not why I came,” Keirith protested.

“But that's what friends do,” Lisula said.

She pulled her mantle off the bone hook by the doorway. Ela held out Ennit's. Once, he would have protested that he was only walking a dozen paces; tonight, he simply drew the mantle around his shoulders.

“Is Callie all right?” Ela asked.

Before Keirith could respond, Ennit jabbed a blunt forefinger at her. “Tell him to check on the sheep. Or take you for a walk.”

“In the rain?”

“Just get him out of the hut! And take your mantle,” he added, shoving it into her arms as she darted past. With a weary sigh, he held back the doeskin for Lisula. “You'd think the gods could grant us one day of peace. Just one.”

“If the gods cared about us,” Keirith said, “they wouldn't have let Conn die.”

Lisula flinched. As Keirith mumbled an apology, she shook her head. “I used to believe that the gods had a purpose for all that happened. Including death. But I was younger then. It's hard to understand why Conn was taken. I'd like to believe he was simply too good for this world. That he was so perfect that the gods wanted to bless the Forever Isles with that loving spirit. But I suppose every mother believes that about her child.”

“He
was
good,” Keirith said. “And kind and loving. And a better friend to me than I ever was to him.”

“Don't!” Lisula's fingertips pressed against his lips. “It doesn't help. And it won't bring Conn back. He knew you loved him. And he'd rather have you honor his life and his memory than blame yourself for his death.”

Her lips brushed his cheek. Then she led Ennit from the hut.

“Does Faelia know?” Hircha asked.

Keirith shrugged helplessly. That was another mystery. Why had Fa been so adamant about excluding Faelia during Rigat's revelations?

“Perhaps that's what she was upset about,” Hircha said.

“Faelia was upset?”

“I saw her after the council meeting. She wouldn't talk either.” Hircha took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “If she doesn't know, there's no sense worrying her tonight. And if she does . . . well, she has Temet.” The keen gaze locked with his. “You don't have to stay with me.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“I didn't say that. But you needn't sit with the grieving widow if it makes you so uncomfortable.”

“It doesn't—”

“Ennit's the one who needs a hand to hold. Lisula needs to believe Conn died for a reason, that his death was more than just a senseless accident.”

“And what do you need?”

“Not your bottomless guilt. So spare me that, Keirith. Just for tonight.”

He winced. If he blamed himself for failing Conn, Hircha was surely blaming herself for failing to love him as he deserved—and desired—to be loved.