Foxfire (3 page)

“It's all right. It was a long time ago.”

He fought the urge to keep talking, to share the memories. Like picking at an unhealed scab. He had always thought the ache was akin to the dull throb his father sometimes complained of in the stumps of his severed fingers. Or the twinges his mam got when the joint-ill stiffened her hands and made it hard for her to mix her healing brews.

Everyone had wounds—of the body and the spirit. Some were just slower to heal than others.

Because concern etched deeper lines in his father's face and because he trusted him more than anyone in the world, Keirith said, “It's hard. Harder than I expected. To give it up. The way you felt, I suppose, when you stopped being a hunter.”

“Then talk to Gortin. Get him to release you from your oath.”

“What I did was forbidden. Have you forgotten that?”

“Nay. Nor have I forgotten that I lost fifteen years of my life trying to be something I wasn't. Gortin knows you would never use the power to hurt any creature.”

He thought of Xevhan whom he had killed. And Urkiat whose death he had caused, even if it had been his father's hand that drove the dagger home. Flying with the eagle was a pleasure he didn't deserve.

Faint shouts from the village saved him from answering. With a muttered curse, his father pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the hand Keirith thrust out to help him.

As they started down the slope, Keirith said, “It can't be strangers. The sentinels would have blown their horns. . . .”

He glanced over his shoulder and found his father standing perfectly still, one fist pressed against his chest and a distant expression on his face, as if he were listening to voices only he could hear.

“Fa?”

“I just got up too quickly.” His father took a careful breath, then smiled. “You can let go of my arm now. Before you twist it off.”

Keirith relaxed his fingers, but kept a grip on his father's arm as they made their way down the slope. As they started up the rise to the hill fort, his father's breathing grew labored, but when they neared the top, he fell into the long, loose-limbed stride his mam liked to compare to a wolf on the prowl. Keirith thought of it as his “chief's gait”—purposeful and calm. Combined with his height, it gave him an air of authority few would contest. At another moment, he might have teased his father, but now he simply doubled his pace to keep up.

“Don't tell your mother,” his father said quietly. Without waiting for him to agree, he strode through the narrow break in the earthworks and into the village.

The crowd was already drifting away, old folk shaking their heads and muttering, mothers shooing children into their huts for supper. When Keirith saw his brother's bright red hair, he suppressed a groan.

Clearly, the dispute had something to do with the doe lying on the ground before Gortin and Nemek. Two arrows protruded from her side. Their owners glared at each other. Mam dabbed Rigat's nose with a blood-spattered cloth, while Madig, Rothisar, and Jadan stood behind Seg, shoulder to broad shoulder. The three hunters were so inseparable that Faelia had once speculated sourly that they probably pissed in unison.

His father surveyed the scene dispassionately. “What happened here?”

Although he had addressed his question to Gortin, Madig stepped forward to stand at Seg's side. “Just a quarrel over which of them has the right to claim the kill. Nothing to concern yourself with. Alder-Chief.”

The hesitation was just long enough to be noticeable. Madig had been chief of his tribe, and although he served on the council of elders, it still stung him that the title belonged to another.

Keirith's father eyed the two arrows. “Neither shot would have been a clean kill. But you don't need me to tell you that.”

“Nay.”

“So why was there a quarrel?”

“We were hunting together,” Rothisar said, then glanced quickly at Madig who gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Except Rigat, that is. Seg spotted the doe and signaled us. We let him draw first. 'Twas his right. And then . . .”

“Rigat pushed me!” Seg exclaimed.

“I was twenty paces away,” Rigat retorted.

His father regarded Rigat for a long moment before his gaze swung back to Seg.

“I felt it, Alder-Chief. I know it sounds crazy, but . . .” Seg spat. “Who else would have done it?”

“He still got off a shot as the doe bolted,” Madig said, clearly proud of his son's achievement. “And 'twas that shot brought her down.”

Keirith silently willed his brother to look at him. When Rigat gave a small, cool shrug, Keirith quelled the urge to walk over and shake him. Perhaps his frustration showed, for Rigat's cockiness vanished, replaced by the same pleading expression their mam wore.

After a few more questions, Keirith's father said. “I'm not denying what you felt, Seg. Nor can I explain it. A hunt . . . well, it's always a mystery, isn't it? Every sense pitched so keen you think you'll snap in two. I've always imagined it must be similar to a shaman having a vision, but I'm a man with no magic, so you'll forgive me, Tree-Father.”

A quick smile for Gortin, a self-deprecating shrug. Around the circle, heads nodded. Even Madig smiled, for like all the hunters, he understood the mystery, too. Poor Gortin merely looked confused. These days, his old mentor often was.

“Whatever happened, the credit for the kill belongs to both of you.” He waited long enough to receive nods from all the men before adding, “Rigat. Seg. Clasp hands.”

“Nay!”

Keirith's stomach churned as his father turned slowly toward Rigat.

“He had no right to accuse me. He's just jealous because I'm a better hunter.”

With a bellow of outrage, Seg launched himself at Rigat, only to be yanked back by his father. “You see how it is?” Madig demanded.

Fa nodded without taking his eyes off Rigat. “A good hunter doesn't need to boast about his skills. Or belittle the abilities of others.”

Rigat opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again when Mam tugged on his arm.

“Clasp hands. Now.”

Keirith winced. Some men shouted when they were angry. His father became very cold and very quiet.

Madig shoved Seg forward. Mam pushed Rigat. Their fingers met in a fleeting touch. Both boys were turning away when his father said, “You can put your energy to better use than fighting. Go to the lake and fetch water for every family. And at every hut, you will apologize for disturbing the peace of this village.”

Seg glanced at Madig, who gave him a sour nod. Rigat glowered, but even he knew better than to defy Fa twice. Without a word, he strode toward their hut.

“Tree-Father. Memory-Keeper.” His father acknowledged Gortin and Nemek with a small, formal bow before turning back to Seg. “You're going to be as fine a hunter as your father.”

A rare smile lit Seg's face. “Thank you, Alder-Chief.” Madig punched him lightly on the arm as Rothisar and Jadan hefted the doe onto his shoulders. Seg staggered a little, but bore the doe proudly through the earthworks.

Nemek offered his father a sympathetic smile as he walked away. Gortin just stood there, muttering to himself. Then Othak stepped forward and touched him lightly on the shoulder. Still muttering, Gortin let Othak lead him toward the hut they shared, one hand clutching his blackthorn staff, the other clinging to Othak's arm.

Mam was gnawing her upper lip, a sure sign of distress. Her mouth went still as Rigat emerged from their hut with two waterskins slung over his shoulder. After a quick glance at Fa, he strode off, red head high, pointed chin thrust out.

“I'll talk to him,” Keirith said.

His father nodded once as he walked toward Mam. The chief's confident gait was gone. Now he moved like a tired old man.

Of all the gifts Rigat possessed, the greatest seemed to be the power to destroy their parents' happiness.

 

 

 

Keirith loitered at the lake, helping Elasoth and Adinn repair the fishing nets. While his fingers tied on new stone sinkers and replaced broken strands of nettle-rope, his eyes followed Rigat, who scampered back and forth to the hill fort with a zeal that belied his earlier defiance. His moods had always been as changeable as the weather in spring, but he seemed positively cheerful now, reveling in his ability to complete his task before Seg.

The sun had dipped behind The Twins when Rigat made his way back to the lake yet again. But instead of refilling his waterskins, he veered west, following the shoreline to the stream. With a sigh, Keirith rose and followed him.

For years, he had been aware of Rigat's power, but he had yet to determine its full extent. He had forced himself to talk about his gift, hoping it would encourage his brother to confide in him. But even as a child, Rigat had evaded his questions, offering either plausible explanations or wide-eyed looks of confusion. After the refugees arrived, he'd warned Rigat about careless displays of power. Until today, his brother had obeyed.

He pushed through the tangle of alders, cursing as low-hanging branches snagged his mantle. The swollen stream cascaded over the rocks, obscuring all sounds except his undignified crashing through the underbrush. Pale shafts of light filtered through the leafless branches, but he still missed Rigat at first. Then he spotted the faint gleam of his hair and discovered him sitting on a rock. He picked his way along the muddy bank until he stood over him.

Without looking up, Rigat asked, “Is Mam very upset?”

“What do you think?”

Even in the dim light, he could see Rigat wince. “And Fa?”

“He's . . . disappointed.”

When Rigat winced again, Keirith felt a pang of sympathy. Fa had smacked Faelia's bottom as a child, and once—only once—taken his belt to Rigat. Keirith wondered if he realized that all of them would have preferred physical punishment to his silent disapproval.

Fastidious as always, his brother had cleaned the last traces of blood from his face. Thankfully, his nose was only a little swollen. Keirith tweaked it gently and squatted beside him, staring up into the face that could be so expressive one moment and the next, a mask.

“I didn't mean to cause so much trouble.”

Keirith had rarely heard such misery in his brother's voice. He offered an encouraging nod, recalling that moment of anger so many years ago when he had “pushed” Fa. He hadn't meant to do that either. Or invade his spirit. The power had just poured out of him, as wild as the stream after the spring thaw. He shuddered, recalling his father's inarticulate terror echoing inside of him, then pulled his mantle closer, pretending it was just a chill.

“Was it like the time you pushed Faelia?” he asked.

Rigat's eyes widened, just as they had all those years ago. Before he could deny it, Keirith said, “Tell me how you do it.”

Rigat hesitated. “I don't know. I just . . . push. With my mind. And it happens.”

“How long have you been able to do this?”

“As long as I can remember.”

He must have failed to hide his dismay. For the first time, Rigat looked frightened. “Is that bad?”

“Nay.” When he had told Gortin about flying with the eagle, the Tree-Father's horror had terrified him. He refused to scare Rigat that way.

“You've had your power since you were little,” Rigat said.

“Aye.”

“But mine's . . . different. Isn't it?”

“I don't know. Tell me what else you can do.”

After another hesitation, Rigat said, “I used to talk to Old Dugan. That was fun. At first. Sheep are pretty boring.”

“You . . . talked to him?”

“Not like we're talking now. It was more like seeing things. And feeling things. The way he could see and feel them. Like if I wanted to talk about how noisy the stream is, I'd picture the water and hear the different parts of the song and—”

“The song?”

“You know. The roaring where the water pours over the boulders and the foamy hiss when it reaches the pool and the little gurgle when it tumbles between the rocks.”

Rigat spoke impatiently, as if anyone with ears should be able to hear the stream's song. His description reminded Keirith of how he had communicated with the adders in Zheros. But he had needed Natha's help for that; Rigat simply concentrated.

“So you touched Dugan's spirit,” Keirith said.

“What's wrong with that? Tree-Father Gortin touches spirits. So do you.”

“People's spirits. Animals can't give us permission. They'd be frightened if we invaded them.”

“Dugan wasn't frightened. And I wasn't invading him.”

Unwilling to argue, Keirith asked, “What else can you do?”

Rigat looked away. “Feel people's spirits. Without touching them,” he added quickly. “It's like there's this little flame around them. And each one's different. I think that's why I never got lost when I was little and went exploring. I'd just concentrate on Mam and I'd feel her and I could always find my way home.” Rigat hesitated and shot him a quick glance.

“And?”

“And . . . I can shape things.”

“What kind of things? How?”

Rigat just stared at the stream. The intensity of his expression pulled Keirith's gaze toward the water as well.

Small enough to hold in his hand, the stag was perfectly formed from the tines of its antlers to the water dripping off its hooves. It bounded toward them and froze in midair. Then it dissolved into the foam, spraying them with a fine mist.