Foxfire (39 page)

“I was wondering what the oddsmakers would give this venture.”

“What odds would
you
give me?”

“You are Earth's Beloved,” he said stiffly. “Even the son of a god would have difficulty resisting your . . . blandishments.”

“That's a courtier's speech. From Vazh do Havi, I expect bluntness.”

He drained the wine in his goblet. “Two to one. Against.”

“It's hardly worth the wager.”

“The odds might be low, but the stakes are high. It's a dangerous game, Earth's Beloved.”

She sipped her wine, observing him over the rim of the goblet. “That's what makes it interesting.”

R
IGAT WAS SHOCKED WHEN Fellgair told him the queen wished to see him. Their encounter must have been less disastrous than he had feared. Perhaps she expected gods—and their progeny—to be cruel. Or perhaps, as Fellgair insisted, she simply wished to harness his power for Zheros.

“If you allow that, she will control the game, not you.”

“Is that all this is to you? A game?”

“Ignore my phrasing,” Fellgair replied, deftly avoiding an answer. “But not my advice.”

Although their meeting was arranged for midday, Rigat decided the best way to control the game was to catch her off guard. So just before dawn, he opened a portal onto the balcony of her bedchamber.

Fellgair had neglected to mention the fountain. He had to sidestep past it in order to ease through the portal. Stone benches flanked the walls; a canopy had been erected against the one to his left. He could picture the queen sitting there, shielded from the heat of the morning sun, listening to the gentle splash of the fountain, breathing in the heavy aroma of the flowers that filled the urns.

The gauzy draperies across the doorway stirred in the faint breeze. He parted them cautiously and stepped inside.

Two sky-wells brightened the right side of the chamber. Between them, golden torchlight filtered through a doorway, illuminating a large stone dais in the far corner of the chamber. A white-garbed figure moved restlessly atop a pile of fleeces. Another snored softly on the pallet at the foot of the bed.

He heard the shuffle of sandaled feet outside the chamber, the whispers of the guards. Abandoning his plan to approach the bed, he summoned his power and gently touched the queen's spirit.

She was dreaming. Wandering through a sort of maze. He could feel her frustration grow as each turn led to another corridor, a blank wall, an empty sky-well.

Her dream-self turned, seeking the source of the voice.

Hidden in the shadows of the balcony, he waited.

The draperies parted. In her flowing nightdress she looked as if she were clothed in a waterfall. Her long black hair only added to the illusion of night-dark water and frothing foam. As she padded toward him, he caught the fragrance of her perfume. Her gaze took in his doeskin tunic and breeches. After a moment's hesitation, her fingers sought his.

Against his will, the warmth of her flesh stirred him. It was easy to see only her beauty, her youth, and forget that she had lived for hundreds of years, ruling over an empire whose warriors had raided his people's villages, enslaved women and children, and kidnapped his brother.

Deliberately, Rigat called up the face of the mother in the mountain village, the weight of the child in his arms, the soft voices singing around the fire. His people. Just like those of the Oak and Holly.

He squeezed the queen's hand and watched her mouth curve in a smile.

“You came back,” she whispered.

“The Supplicant told you I would.”

“I expected you later. I was going to receive you properly this time. Food and wine . . . I had a new gown . . .” She laughed soundlessly. “Foolishness.”

“I thought you'd be angry. Because I hurt you.”

“I thought you'd be angry. Because I fought you. And because I doubted.”

“And now you believe?”

“I don't know. Forgive me, Rigat.”

Somehow, his name became musical when she spoke it, the
R
deep and throaty, the rest a mere exhalation of breath.

“There's something I want to show you,” he said. “Will you come with me?”

“Where?”

“To my . . . to the land of the Tree People.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I must tell Lady Alikia. My attendant. If she finds me gone—”

“I'll wait.”

He stood in the doorway, listening to their soft voices. Lady Alikia laid something over the queen's shoulders, then knelt before her. When the queen returned, she wore sandals and a cloak.

Lady Alikia followed her onto the balcony, wide-eyed and trembling. Graceful despite her bulk, she prostrated herself at his feet. Then her head came up. “My lord, you'll see that no harm comes to Earth's Beloved?”

The queen gave an annoyed hiss. “You must not speak to him so.”

“Forgive me, Earth's Beloved. But if anything should happen . . .” Her jowls trembled and tears filled her soft, brown eyes.

Rigat held out his hands. She hesitated a moment before grasping them, then let out a long breath as if relieved to discover that his fingers were mere flesh and bone.

“I'll bring your queen back soon. And I swear she'll be safe with me.”

He started as she suddenly bent and pressed her lips to the back of one hand and then the other. A single tear, warm and wet, slid between his forefinger and thumb.

“You're lucky,” he said to the queen, “to inspire such love in those who serve you.”

“Yes.” The queen kissed Lady Alikia on the cheek. “Tell anyone who inquires that I am in seclusion until midmorning.”

“Yes, Earth's Beloved.”

When he opened the portal, Lady Alikia gaped. The queen merely stared at the shadowy silhouettes of the trees.

“Close your eyes,” he told her. “It's easier that way.”

Just before he sealed the portal behind them, a horn blared, signaling the dawn sacrifices. Then there was only the sweeter chorus of birdsong and stream.

Her eyes opened. He heard her quick intake of breath. Although it was still too dark to see much, she turned in a slow circle, her gaze traveling up the tree trunks to the pale blue chinks of sky. She stroked the rough bark of a pine, a moss-furred boulder. Then she walked down to the bank of the stream and crouched down to scoop up a handful of water. A shiver ran through her as she sipped, as if she were drinking the water of the Summerlands.

He led her to the tumble of boulders where he had hidden during the hunt with Darak. So long ago, that seemed now. Kneeling together on his mantle, they waited.

She was as still and silent as any hunter; only her eyes moved, ceaselessly scanning the forest. Yet she failed to spot the herd of does among the trees until he squeezed her hand. She caught her breath, her eyes wide.

The lead doe cautiously scented the breeze, then moved toward the stream. The others followed, some accompanied by fawns, others whose bulging sides showed that they would calve within days. The spindly legs of the fawns trembled visibly as they walked down the steep bank. One, bolder than the others, picked his way across the stream, endearing in his awkwardness. His mother trotted after him, nosing him gently when he faltered. Slowly, the rest of the herd crossed the stream and vanished like spirits into the pattern of sunlight and shadow.

Still staring after them, the queen slowly rose. “This is where you live?”

“No. It's my . . . special place. Where my father gave me my first glimpse of Zheros.”

Her expression sharpened. “It was you, then? Who appeared at the adder pit? It was too dark to see clearly.”

Not too dark to keep the guard from hurling a spear at him, he thought. But he merely nodded.

“What did he look like? Your father.”

“A fox.”

Her head jerked toward him. “A fox?”

“I thought at first he was my vision mate. Until he opened the portal.”

“Why would Zhe appear to you as a fox?”

Rigat shrugged. “Gods can take any form they please, I guess. He probably thought a fox would be less frightening than a giant winged serpent.”

She laughed, her voice as musical as the stream. “Is your village nearby?”

“Not too far,” he replied, unwilling to give away its location.

“In this forest?”

When he shook his head, she sighed, her gaze sweeping the trees again. “A pity. It's so beautiful here. Once Zheros had forests like this. But that was long ago.”

“What was it like? When you were young?”

“Plains where the grass grew higher than my waist. Mountains wreathed with clouds. Pretty little streams like this one. And forests where it was always cool, even at Midsummer.”

“Did you live in the palace?”

“No. Just a simple house. Everything was simpler, then.” A frown creased her forehead. Then she smiled. “There were only forty or fifty families in Pilozhat when I was born. We all lived inside the fortress. In mud-brick houses clustered against the walls.” Her expression grew soft. “Ours had a little courtyard in the middle. With a fountain. And a tiny garden where my mother grew herbs and flowers.”

“Scarlet flowers?” When she started, he added, “I saw them. When I touched your spirit.”

She nodded, but her expression was wary now. Cursing himself for spoiling the pleasant mood, he said, “My mother gathers wildflowers. She ties them into bunches and hangs them from the thatch to dry.”

A wave of longing suffused him. For his mam. His family. His home.

“You miss her.”

He scuffed at the pine needles with the toe of his shoe. “We were . . . close. But I was always different. No one in my family really knew me.”

“She did. You began your life in her body. A mother never forgets that bond. Or so I imagine.”

Abruptly, she walked away. He watched her anxiously, uncertain if he had said something else to disturb her or if the weight of her memories oppressed her.

She swung toward him again, her face stark. “That was why we Shed. The first time. Jholin and I. We had no children. No one to rule after us.”

Fellgair had offered a theory about why the queen had failed to bear a child, even after hundreds of Sheddings. “She conceived. Several times. But she never managed to carry a child to term. Even I'm not sure why, but I think it must be the qiij.”

More likely, the fault was Jholin's. Surely that was the youth he had seen when he touched her spirit. How could that frail, spindly creature father a healthy child? But he could never share that suspicion with her.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I've made you unhappy.”

“This is too beautiful a place for such memories. Thank you for bringing me. I understand now why your mother's people worship trees.”

Eagerly, he strode toward her. “And can you understand why they would fight to keep your people from cutting them down?”

“My people? Are they not yours as well?”

“Of course.” He suppressed a wince at his lapse. “But I know this land—and its people—far better.”

“We shall have to remedy that.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“I can understand why any people would fight to keep their land.”

“It's more than that. We believe the trees are alive. That each has a spirit inside it—just like we do. To us, cutting down a tree is murder.”

“And this is why you came to Zheros? To stop the logging?”

“And the fighting.”

“Without timber, we cannot build ships. Without ships, we cannot trade. Our empire would die. We would become the little people we once were. Would the Son of Zhe wish that?”

“No,” he said slowly. “But there must be a way. One that would satisfy both peoples.”

“Compromise never satisfies anyone.” Her hand came up to brush his cheek. “I wish I had your optimism. But after five hundred years, I have little faith in men.”

“And the gods? Do you have faith in them?”

“I only know that in all the years I've prayed to them, they have never spoken to me. Or shown their faces.”

He wished he could tell her one god had spoken to her for generations. But that was Fellgair's secret to reveal, not his.

“Faith is believing without proof.”

She grimaced. “My priests remind me of that all the time. But still, I doubt.”

“I don't know how else to convince you of who I am. But I can tell you the gods exist. My foster-father knew the Holly-Lord. And my mother bargained with the Trickster. If the gods of the Tree People are real, those of the Zherosi must be, too.”