Foxfire (4 page)

Keirith could feel Rigat's gaze, but the magic left him speechless.

“Earth's easiest to work with,” Rigat explained, “but water's not too bad. Fire's harder. I can't do much of anything with air.”

“Why didn't you tell us? Before?”

Rigat blew out his breath in exasperation. “I'm not stupid. I saw the way Mam and Fa looked at me when I did something. Like they were scared.”

The same way they had looked at him when they learned about his powers. Only then, their anxiety was leavened by anger because he had kept his gift a secret.

“You hid your gift, too,” Rigat reminded him.

Keirith frowned. He expected to have moments of unspoken communication with his father, but sometimes Rigat seemed to possess that same ability of knowing what people were thinking. Was that another aspect of his power or was he simply as skilled at reading a person's expression as he was at conjuring animals out of water?

“Aye, I hid my gift,” Keirith finally said. “But that was a mistake. If I'd told Gortin—”

“They'd have cast you out that much quicker. People are scared of things they don't understand. And they don't like people who are different. That's why they hate me.”

“Seg's a bully. And he
is
jealous of—”

“Not just Seg. All of them.”

“They don't—”

“I try!” Rigat blurted. “I hide my power, and I'm polite to the old folk, and I do my share of the work. More than my share. I even tried to be friends with Seg in the beginning. But nothing helps. They all know something's wrong with me. They just can't figure out what.”

Keirith seized Rigat's shoulders. “There is nothing wrong with you. You can't help it if you have a gift. But you
can
learn to use it wisely. And to control your temper. What were you thinking? Defying Fa in front of the whole tribe.”

“I didn't mean to. The ‘nay' just popped out. I couldn't back down after that or everyone would have thought I was a coward.”

“So it's better to have them think you're a willful child?”

Rigat's head jerked up, blue eyes blazing. This time, though, he bit back the retort. As Keirith watched, the fire slowly died.

“I wished they'd never come,” Rigat muttered. “It was better when it was just us.”

“In some ways. But remember how many winters we came close to starving? How Mam worried every time Fa or Faelia went hunting?”

“I know we need them. I just wish we didn't.” Before Keirith could reply, he asked, “Doesn't it ever bother you? That you should be Tree-Father after Gortin instead of Othak?”

“You know I can't—”

“Your casting out happened ages ago.”

Keirith almost smiled; to a boy of thirteen, the events that occurred before his birth must seem like ancient history.

“What matters,” Rigat continued, “is the power. Everybody knows you have it. And you use it. Sometimes. So why—?”

“I cannot be Tree-Father.”

Rigat studied him for a long moment. “Why are you afraid of it? Because it's . . . bad?”

“Magic isn't good or bad. It's how people use it.” He felt like a child reciting his lessons.

“But if someone has power, there must be a reason.”

He'd wondered about that so often over the years, desperately seeking an explanation for his kidnap and rape and casting out. To destroy the Zherosi? The earthquake had done more damage than he had. To discover his path as a healer of spirits? But he'd helped only a few people. To save his father's life? Aye, perhaps that was the reason. Who else could help the children of the Oak and Holly withstand the Zherosi?

Perhaps anyone with determination and sensitivity could tap into magic. Or perhaps burdening some mortals with power was simply a cruel joke of the gods.

“I think we're like Fa and Tinnean,” Rigat said, jolting him out of his thoughts. “We're brothers, too. I'm a hunter like Fa. And you wanted to be a shaman like Tinnean. It took both of them to save the world. So maybe it'll take both of us to do . . . something.”

“Like what?”

Rigat eyed him suspiciously, seeking the hidden barb. Apparently satisfied none existed, he said, “I don't know. But it can't be an accident that we both have power. It must mean we're supposed to do something important.”

“Like pushing Seg?”

“All right. That was stupid.”

“And selfish.”

“I know, I know.”

“You don't know!”

Keirith rose and stalked away. Talking about his power always made him uneasy, but he had to put aside his discomfort and help his brother understand.

“I loved the power, too. I could do things no other boy in the village could. Maybe things no other boy in the world could. I felt . . .”

“Like a god.”

At his sharp look, Rigat's eager expression became uncertain. “Aye,” Keirith admitted. “But I'm not a god. And neither are you. Our power should be used for helping people, not for stupid pranks. Suppose when you pushed Seg he'd loosed his arrow and hit one of the other hunters. Did you think of that?”

Rigat hung his head. “I won't do it again. I promise.” Then he grinned. “But you should have seen his face. He whirled around like there was a demon behind him.”

“Instead of one behind the gorse.” But Keirith had to smile, too. It was hard to stay angry with Rigat for long. Then his smile faded. “You've got to tell Mam and Fa.”

Even before he finished speaking, Rigat was on his feet. “Nay!”

“It'll be worse if something happens and they find out that way.”

“Nothing will happen. I'll . . . I'll never use the power again.”

Keirith just shook his head wearily. “Do you want me to talk to them?”

Rigat looked even more horrified. “Nay, I'll tell them. But not tonight. Not when they're already mad at me.”

“Then when?”

“Soon.”

“Rigat . . .”

“After my vision quest. And until then, I won't do anything bad. Please, Keirith.”

He hesitated, torn between his desire to keep Rigat's trust and the memory of his parents' anger after Gortin revealed the truth about his powers. But Rigat's vision quest was only a few days away. Then everything would be out in the open. At least within the family.

Reluctantly, Keirith nodded. Rigat threw his arms around his neck and hugged him. It unnerved him that his baby brother was almost the same height as he.

As they walked back to the village, Rigat's analogy nagged at him. They did seem to be reliving the past, but instead of emulating the heroic deeds of their father and uncle, they were repeating the pattern of secrecy that had pitted their family against the rest of the tribe.

As Gheala rose over the hills to the east, Keirith silently entreated the moon goddess to illuminate his path—and Rigat's—in the days to come.

G
RIANE GRIMLY STABBED her needle through the doeskin patch on Callie's mantle. “It'll be all right, Mam.” Callie's anxious smile belied his words. “Rigat blows up fast, but he's always sorry later. In a few days, everyone will have forgotten what happened.”

She looked up as pale light flooded the hut, but it was only Hircha, a withy basket over her arm. Those cool blue eyes assessed her, but all she said was, “Callie, can you take Conn's supper to him?”

Callie nodded and mumbled something unintelligible through a mouthful of stew.

Thank the gods the lambing would be over soon. Then Callie could return to his studies with Nemek and spend his evenings at home instead of shivering on the moors. With Ennit still recovering from the Freshening cough, the responsibility of minding the flock rested with Callie and Conn. Young Lorthan was still too inexperienced to be much help.

“I made extra nutcakes,” Griane said.

Callie gingerly plucked one off the baking stone and tossed it back and forth between his fingers to cool it. “Remember that first batch Faelia made?” he asked with a grin.

“I remember you were supposed to make sure there weren't any shells,” Hircha said very sweetly.

“I was only seven,” Callie protested.

“And Darak's tooth doesn't bother him at all now,” Hircha replied in the same sweet tone. “Unless he drinks something cold. Or chews on that side. Or—”

Laughing, Callie hurled the nutcake at Hircha, who batted it away. Griane's hand darted out to snag it. Every autumn, the young folk ventured south to scavenge nuts and berries, and to cut tree limbs for crafting weapons. For them, it was a pleasant change—very pleasant, judging from the crop of babies born the following summer. But it was their mothers who had the chore of grinding the acorns and pine nuts into flour; she wasn't about to lose a single cake in the bracken strewn on the dirt floor.

A stern glance made Callie lower a second nutcake. “Wrap them up,” she told him. “Unless you want to bring crumbs to poor Conn. And don't forget the heather tea.”

From autumn to spring, she kept a stone bowl simmering on the peat. The other brew she mixed once a sennight for Darak. Tonight, with the addition of the baking stone and the large pot containing the stew, the fire pit was so crowded it was a wonder anything was hot.

Again, the deerskin swung back. This time, Darak's large form blocked the faint rectangle of light.

“They're coming.”

The momentary cheer vanished. Callie silently wrapped the nutcakes in nettle-cloth. Hircha shoved the pebble stopper into the flask of tea. Griane snatched up the discarded dipper to ladle Darak's warmed wine into a cup.

The bracken crackled as Darak sat beside the fire pit. From long experience, she watched his hands, which rested quietly on his thighs. Perhaps they would have a pleasant meal, after all.

She handed him the tonic of quickthorn berries and broom blossoms, then drew back with a startled exclamation. “Your fingers are freezing.”

He gave her a tired smile. “Stop fussing.”

Quelling the urge to do just the opposite, Griane lowered her head over her mending. Faelia's departure had aged him. Sometimes Griane had resented their closeness, but now that her daughter was gone, she missed her energy and fire, even—occasionally—her sharp tongue.

If only Temet had agreed to remain in the village. But of course, he would never give up his cause. His passionate defense of the rebellion had drawn Faelia to him, despite the fact that he was closer to her father's age than hers. Or perhaps, given Faelia's devotion to Darak, Temet's age only enhanced his allure.

A pity he had never gotten her with child. Clearly, the gods had other plans for Faelia.

Griane's bone needle fell still. She eyed the bunches of wildflowers hanging from the heather thatch, wondering if they had more to do with Faelia's inability to conceive than the gods. In her head, she heard Mother Netal's voice, tunelessly chanting the rhyme:
“Yarrow, tansy, ground-runner—three. Call the moon flow painlessly. Lacha, Gheala. Water and moon. Pluck the child from out the womb.”

Her strangled moan silenced the murmur of conversation. Muttering something about her clumsiness, she sucked the drop of blood from her thumb. With trembling fingers, she knotted the deer gut and cut the dangling thread of sinew. Then she handed the mantle to Callie, avoiding Hircha's gaze. In matters of healing, Griane always welcomed her assistant's keen perception and attentiveness; in matters of the heart, those same qualities were unnerving.

Hircha followed Callie out of the hut. Even after all these years, she favored her right leg. Xevhan had maimed her as surely as Morgath had maimed Darak. During their first moons of exile, Griane had feared that she was too scarred by her ordeals to make a new life with them. She had told her that no one could wipe out the past, only acknowledge it—for better or worse—and move on. She hadn't known then what long shadows the past could throw or how frightening the consequences could be.

Griane heard Callie greet his brothers with his usual affection, then lower his voice, probably to warn Rigat about what he might expect inside. Hircha's greeting was cooler, but it was hard to tell much from that; she was always self-possessed. Keirith's reply was so stiff that Griane sighed.

Keirith held up the deerskin to allow Rigat to duck inside. As always, Rigat's gaze went first to her. She gave him an encouraging smile and received a halfhearted one in return. It fled as he faced Darak.