Foxfire (24 page)

“In a sense.”

Rigat hesitated, then blurted out the question he had longed to ask since their first meeting. “Why did you create me?”

Fellgair studied him in silence. “To change things.”

“What things? How?”

“That is for you to discover.” Fellgair raised a hand, forestalling another question. “I may have given you life, Rigat, but you still have free will. There are many ways you could shape events in the world. For good or ill.”

“Is that why they didn't accept me? Because they think I'll use my power for evil?”

“Every man possesses that potential. In you, the potential—for good and evil—is greater.” Fellgair frowned, considering. “A person's life is like a spiderweb—an intricate pattern of possibilities. Throughout any life, the web is rewoven a thousand times. In most cases, the reshaping has little effect upon the wider world. But sometimes, a choice alters not one life, but thousands. Millions.”

“Like Tinnean's decision to become the One Tree.”

“Exactly. During the quest for the Oak-Lord, your world teetered on the brink of extinction. It took many forces—mortal and immortal—to avert that fate.” Fellgair scowled. “Some might consider my actions ‘interference.' But didn't the Forest-Lord lead Darak back to the grove of the One Tree? Without Hernan's assistance, Darak would likely have died and the spirit of the Oak-Lord would have been lost. What was that but ‘interference?' ”

Fellgair stared off into space, as if arguing with an unseen presence. Then he smiled. “Your life holds even more possibilities than Tinnean's because you are my son and possess greater power. But power comes at a price. And part of that price is the necessity to wield it responsibly.”

“That's what Keirith said. But . . .”

“Go on.”

“What if I choose wrong? And make things worse? Or—”

“Hush.” Fellgair's claws dug into his shoulders, silencing the rush of words. “I know it seems overwhelming. That's why I was reluctant to speak of this. If Tinnean had known his fate, would he have rushed to defend the One Tree? If Darak had known what he would have to endure to free his brother's spirit, would he have embarked on the quest?”

“Nothing would have stopped Darak.”

Fellgair smiled. “Probably not. He's as stubborn as an ox.”

“He's the greatest man in the world!” Rigat exclaimed. “He would have given his life for Tinnean. For any of us. Even for me . . .” His throat grew thick and he clamped his lips together.

“Do you miss him so much?”

Rigat stared at the ground, unable—unwilling—to answer.

“You could have asked to see him. Or your mother. I would not have been offended.”

“It seemed . . . ungrateful.”

“Gratitude for my teaching and love for your family are not mutually exclusive. Far from it. If you had been able to turn your back on them so easily, I would have been disappointed.”

He had not even recognized the test, but still, he had failed it.

“So tell me. Honestly. Do you wish to see them?”

“Why bother to ask? You know everything!”

Aghast at his outburst, he started to babble an apology, but Fellgair merely cocked his head, studying him as he might an interesting beetle or an unusual mushroom. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”

Rigat managed not to squirm under that steady gaze, but he cursed himself silently for allowing his frustration to show.

“First,” Fellgair said, “I do not know everything. There are many matters in the world that require my attention and I do not constantly monitor your needs. Second, I've made a conscious effort not to pry into your mind and spirit, believing that you deserved some privacy as we became acquainted.”

He resented Fellgair's pedantic tone as much as the idea of begging to see his family. Then he remembered that Darak—the proudest man he knew—had gone down on his knees to the god. And—if he was honest—Fellgair hadn't asked him to beg, simply to acknowledge the truth aloud.

He wiped his damp palms against his breeches and took a deep breath. “I miss my family and I'd like to see them. Would you help me?”

“Of course.”

At the flick of Fellgair's fingers, the grove vanished. Expecting to see his village, Rigat was surprised when another forest took shape before him. Slender trunks of pines rose skyward. Sunlight slanted through their boughs. Just visible at the bottom of a rise, two men knelt beside a stream, their faces obscured by Fellgair's strange mist. One of the men looked up, water dripping from his cupped hands. Rigat's heart thudded when he recognized Darak.

“The other man is named Sorig. Temet's second-in-command.”

Before he could ask, Fellgair told him what had happened since he had left home.

“Faelia?” he demanded in a fierce whisper. Then he remembered the two men could neither see nor hear him. “Faelia led the Zherosi to the village? To trick Fa into joining the rebellion? Gods, it must have killed him.”

“Obviously not.”

“But he doesn't want to fight. And even if he did, he's too old. What are they doing out here by themselves? Where's Temet? And—”

“Darak and Sorig are going from village to village, seeking recruits. Since they're still alone, it would seem their efforts have been less than successful.”

As Darak rose slowly to his feet, Rigat asked, “Is he all right? He looks tired. Don't you think he looks tired?”

“As you pointed out, he's an old man.”

“He's not old! He's just . . . not young. And his heart . . .”

His voice trailed off as Darak splashed across the stream. He eyed the steep slope, then shifted his pack grimly and followed Sorig up the hill. When he slipped on a patch of moss, Rigat automatically moved forward to help him.

“If you take another step, he'll see you. Is that what you want?”

Reluctantly, Rigat stepped back. Still, it was hard to watch Darak's progress. His chest was heaving by the time he crested the rise. He bent over, palms splayed on his thighs as he caught his breath. Then he straightened and nodded to Sorig.

He passed so close that Rigat could have touched him. Then he disappeared from view and there was only the crunch of dry needles, growing steadily fainter.

The forest melted into a smear of brown and green. Then the colors coalesced. Trees took shape, alders and crack willows instead of pines. A trail hugged the base of a rocky outcrop, skirting the waterlogged ground where a stream had overrun its banks. The chorus of birdsong suddenly fell silent, allowing him to hear the rhythmic tramp of feet.

A man appeared around the bend in the trail. And then four more. And four more behind them. A long column of Zherosi, marching shoulder to shoulder. Most carried spears, but those at the front had arrows nocked loosely in their bowstrings. They twisted their heads from side to side, darting nervous glances at the shadowy forest.

The leader raised his hand, and the column halted. As he scanned the terrain, the stillness was broken by a crashing in the underbrush. Rigat started as a man staggered past him and collapsed onto the muddy trail.

Despite his torn and filthy clothes, he was clearly a Zheroso. His empty quiver carved a shallow furrow in the mud, and he wore a battered leather helmet on his head.

“What's he saying?”

“Concentrate. You can understand him.”

All he could make out was “Help me” and “Please.”

At a signal from the leader, the column started forward again. Rigat heard muttered curses as the warriors on the left sloshed through the ankle-deep mud, while those on the right jostled each other as they were squeezed back by the sheer rock face.

The leader trotted ahead and went down on one knee beside the stranger. Even he seemed unable to make sense of what the man was saying. He held out his waterskin, but instead of reaching for it, the man seized the leader's arm, obviously overcome by his unexpected rescue.

Rigat was turning toward Fellgair to ask why he had brought them here when arrows rained down from the outcrop. The Zherosi archers toppled onto the trail. The warriors behind them whirled to their right, struggling to raise their shields; most only managed to knock their comrades off balance.

Another wave of arrows flew out of the forest, thudding into unprotected backs. A few men fled into the swampy ground, only to be cut down. Caught in the deadly crossfire, those in the rear retreated, then suddenly drew up short. Only then did Rigat spy the net stretched across the trail, but even with his keen eyes, he couldn't spot the men who must have pulled it taut.

Someone was shouting, trying to restore order, but the screams of the wounded and dying drowned out the words. A group of warriors backed up against the outcrop, shields raised in a protective barrier. Spears hurtled toward them. Some glanced off the rock face with the thunderous crack of giant hailstones, but most found their targets, splintering shields with an ear-piercing screech of wood.

With wild shrieks, the attackers charged out of the trees and fell on the survivors, hacking with axes and swords, or simply clubbing them to death.

It was over in moments. Numbed, Rigat stared at the corpses littering the trail: legs twisted at grotesque angles, arms hanging from a few strands of muscle, pulpy brain matter leaking down shattered faces, steaming loops of intestine spilling through ripped tunics. Men reduced to bloody hunks of meat.

The leader of the Zherosi sprawled near the stranger; in the chaos of battle, Rigat hadn't seen them fall. As he watched, the stranger slowly pushed himself to his feet. Did he intend to fight the rebels alone? The massacre must have shattered his mind.

The rebels surged toward him, whooping and brandishing their weapons. Rigat spied Temet, his fair hair and height betraying his identity. And Faelia who flung her arms around the stranger. But only when the man pulled off his helmet did Rigat recognize his brother.

Keirith's face was utterly expressionless. All around him, the rebels were looting the dead, yanking arrows and spears from corpses, collecting undamaged bows and quivers, pulling off helmets, dagger sheaths, sword belts. In the midst of the frantic activity, Keirith knelt and methodically wiped his dagger clean with a handful of damp leaves.

“Why?” Rigat demanded. “He has a gift. If he wants to fight . . .”

Fellgair shrugged. “Ask Keirith.”

Silently, he vowed that he would. But not now. The stench of blood and shit and piss sickened him. As he turned away, he heard a hoarse caw—the first crow arriving to feast.

“Do you want to see her?” Fellgair asked.

Rigat hesitated, then nodded.

At first, all he could make out were green hills and the pale yellow patches of blooming gorse. Then a figure moved out from behind a gorse bush, a withy basket over her arm.

He must have made some sort of sound, for Fellgair's hand descended on his shoulder. Gods, how could she have changed so much in one moon? Her hair was totally white, the last faint streaks of red gone. And her face was so deeply carved with lines of worry that she seemed to be frowning, even when she lifted her head to smile at Hircha.

She stooped to cut a stalk of mullein, then straightened, one hand pressed against the small of her back. Hircha took her arm, only to release it when Mam batted the helpful hand away. The familiar gesture brought tears to his eyes.

She brushed a wisp of hair off her face as she gazed south. Where Darak must be. And Keirith and Faelia. How could they all have left her?

“Callie?” he choked out.

The greens and yellows of the moor transformed into the mottled gray of a stone wall. Callie sat with his back against it, surrounded by a semicircle of children. They repeated his words in a toneless singsong, but now and then, a high voice would interrupt with a question.

“Where's Nemek?” he asked, afraid to learn the answer.

“He died. Half a moon ago. Of the wounds he sustained in the attack.”

So Callie was Memory-Keeper now. Just as Darak had once been.

Without asking, Fellgair shifted the scene back to the hilltop.

“We should go back,” Hircha said, eyeing the thickening clouds. “Else we'll get caught in the rain.”

His mam gave a dismissive snort. “It won't rain till sunset.”

Just hearing her voice made the ordinary words seem painfully sweet.

“Well, don't blame me if you catch a chill.”

His mam's scowl only deepened the lines around her mouth, but her expression softened as she rested her hand against Hircha's cheek. “You're a good girl. I don't know what I would have done without you this last moon.”

Whether it was the words that surprised Hircha or the gesture, she recovered quickly. “Oh, crawled onto your pallet and pulled the wolfskins over your head, I expect.”

“Tongue like an adder,” Mam replied, turning the caress into a pinch.

Hircha rolled her eyes in her best Faelia imitation. “As opposed to your honey-sweet one?”

They chuckled together and started toward the village. His mam stopped once to gaze south again. Hircha said something that made her raise her chin in the gesture of defiance Rigat had known from childhood.

“Enough,” he whispered, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, they were standing on an empty moor.

He told himself that she might have been gathering plants since daybreak, that the walk from the village had tired her. If her legs were a little unsteady, her spirit was still unbowed.

“She's strong. She'll be all right.” When Fellgair remained silent, he asked, “She will, won't she?”