Foxfire (41 page)

Rigat scratched a midge bite, frowning. It still rankled that Fellgair should imagine him so weak—or so foolish. Of course, luxuries didn't matter. But he refused to feel guilty for enjoying them.

Too excited to sleep, he watched the sky fade from blue to violet to the soft gray of the gloaming. His confidence leached away with the sky's color. What if Darak didn't want to see him? What if—despite all his protestations—he was secretly relieved to be rid of him? And then there was Keirith's odd behavior. He had always been broody, but never cold. Could he be jealous of his little brother's accomplishments?

Shaking off his disquiet, Rigat summoned his power to locate Darak's camp. Except for the dozen sentries, the rebels were all asleep. He decided to wait for darkness in a stand of birches a short distance away. But moments after settling himself, he jumped to his feet and began pacing. Unable to contain his impatience, he reached out to Darak's sleeping spirit.

At first, he sensed only exhaustion. Then the stupefied confusion of sleep fled and Darak's panic slammed into him with such force that it woke an answering echo of fear in his spirit. He tamped it down, but despite the soothing energy he sent, Darak's shock hammered through him like a terrified heartbeat.

Shock, panic . . . those were reactions any man might have. But Rigat touched revulsion so deep that he was stunned. Sick at heart, he retreated, only to be inundated by Darak's memories: Morgath oozing through his spirit, whispering in his mind, taunting him with his helplessness.

Instead of relief, he touched suspicion and doubt.

Even before Darak's shame flooded him, he wanted to take back the thought. He might as well be Morgath, taunting Darak for his fear.

Darak's panic resurged. For a moment, he thought it came from the prospect of seeing him again. Then he realized the truth.

He hoped it was true; it had been half a moon since he'd seen Mam and Callie.

Gently, he withdrew from Darak's spirit, cursing himself for his missteps. First Keirith, now Darak. How was he going to convince either of them of the soundness of his plan if he made such foolish mistakes?

Even with his keen senses, he failed to hear Darak approach. Then he saw the tall figure atop the rise, black against the gray sky.

As Rigat moved out of the trees, Darak froze, then padded forward again, the long stride as easily recognizable as the silhouette. At the last moment, his steps faltered. Rigat hesitated, too. Then pride reasserted itself. He had negotiated with a queen. He refused to allow Darak to transform him into a tongue-tied child.

He took a step back just as Darak's arms came up. Quickly, he stepped into Darak's embrace, but the moment was spoiled.

“Are you well?” Darak asked.

Rigat swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat. “Aye.”

“And you're certain your mam's all right? And your brothers and sister?”

“They're fine. I told you.”

“Is . . . is he treating you well?”

Rigat twisted away from the hand cupping the back of his neck. “It's been better than I could have dreamed.”

He was acting like a child, striking out because Darak had wounded him. It was stupid to use his power to pierce the darkness and search that familiar face for a hint of genuine affection. Worse still, to find it and feel the senseless renewal of hope. He fought the urge to blurt out all the fears and doubts that plagued him, desperately wishing he could return—just for a few moments—to a time when he really had been Darak's son and the Trickster was only a god, fascinating but remote.

Instead, he told Darak about the family, then quickly turned to the subject of a truce. Darak stirred restively as he outlined his plan, but when he revealed that he was using the guise of the Son of Zhe to bring it to fruition, Darak exclaimed, “Are you out of your mind? Have you forgotten what those people did to your brother?”

“Of course not. But Keirith wasn't the Son of Zhe.”

“Neither are you!”

“Nay. But I
am
the son of the God with Two Faces. Or have you forgotten that Fellgair is worshiped in Zheros?”

“I haven't forgotten anything about Zheros! Least of all the sight of Keirith lying on an altar with his life's blood pouring out. Do you have how any idea how dangerous this is?”

“I'm not a fool.”

Darak took a deep breath, clearly fighting for control. “I know you're not. But if they should discover the truth—”

“They won't. They can't. Besides, they need me. They want to believe. Even the queen.”

“She might want to placate you by—”

“She's not placating me!”

“—by considering this truce. What does she have to lose? They log the forests in the winter. That gives them plenty of time to send more men north, to augment the strength of their existing garrisons, and build new fortresses along the river.”

“She won't do those things,” Rigat retorted with more confidence than he felt.

“She's using you.”

“Nay! I'm using her. To put an end to the bloodshed and buy time to work out a permanent peace that will satisfy both the Zherosi and the Tree People.”

Darak recoiled. “The Tree People?” he repeated very softly.

“It's just an expression.”

“A Zherosi expression.”

“What does it matter?”

“The children of the Oak and Holly are your people.”

“If I am truly my father's son, the Zherosi are my people, too.”

“If you're truly your father's son—”

“What? Say it.” When Darak remained silent, Rigat said, “Then I will. If I'm truly my father's son, you want nothing to do with me.”

“That's not—”

“I come here with the offer of a truce that could save hundreds—thousands—of lives. And you won't even consider it because I'm Fellgair's son.”

“Rigat . . .”

“You think he betrayed you. Well, maybe he did. But he had his reasons. And one of them was to foster peace. And I can make that happen, although you obviously think I'm too stupid and trusting—”

“Stop putting words in my mouth!”

They were practically nose to nose, both of them breathing hard. Then Darak stepped back and let out a long sigh. “I'm just worried, is all. About you. About all that's happening. You're right—I don't know the queen. But she hasn't survived this long without being clever. And you're . . . you may be the son of a god, but you're still very young. I know you hate being reminded of that, but it's true. You're not immortal, Rigat. Your blood can stain an altar as easily as Keirith's did.”

“But don't you see I have to try? As long as there's any chance for success. What were the odds that you could march into Chaos and return with Tinnean's spirit? And the Oak-Lord's? But you went all the same.”

“I didn't march into Chaos. Fellgair pushed me.” It was hard to read Darak's expression in the uncertain light, but the dry humor in his voice was plain enough. “As to the rest . . .” He sighed again. “You're right. I had to go. And short of killing me, there was nothing anyone could have done to stop me.”

“So you'll help?”

He was silent for so long that Rigat thought he was going to refuse.

“There's a Gathering,” Darak finally said. “Of several rebel bands. At the full moon.”

Rigat wondered why Keirith had failed to mention it. Surely, he had to know.

“I'll talk to them, Rigat. Tell them what you've told me. But I can't tell them a truce is in our best interests when I'm not certain myself.”

“But you've never supported the rebellion.”

“Aye. But like it or not, I'm part of it now. And there are eighty-six young men and women who've joined it because of me.”

“You have to convince them to accept a truce. You have to!”

“I'll talk to them,” Darak snapped. “That's all I can promise. And scowling at me won't change my mind.”

Reluctantly, Rigat smiled. “It's too dark to tell if I'm scowling.”

“Aye. Well, I did live with you for thirteen years.” Darak hesitated, shifting his feet. “Can you stay a while longer? Tell me what you've been doing? And . . . how your Mam is?”

Rigat knew he should return to Pilozhat, but right now, he would exchange all the feasts and soft beds and adulation in the world for the chance to sit and talk the way they used to.

“Aye. I'll stay.”

Darak's hug made him catch his breath. Rigat released him reluctantly, grateful that the darkness hid his watering eyes.

Bad enough that he continued to yearn for Darak's love and approval, but even worse to accept such scraps of affection with damp-eyed gratitude. And he would always get scraps; Darak's love was reserved for the children of his blood. He had to accept that and stop longing for what he could never have.

T
HE TOWERING THUNDERHEADS gathering over the fortress at Little Falls were as dark as Geriv's mood.

He had left Eagles Mount half a moon ago to continue his tour of inspection, taking only two members of his personal staff with him: his aide Jonaq do Mekliv and an enthusiastic Korim. Although reluctant to bring his son into the heart of rebel territory, Geriv knew he must begin treating Korim like a real officer or the boy would never win the respect of his peers. But he'd given him strict instructions to stay inside the fortresses; the situation upriver was far too unsettled for him to dash off to the neighboring villages as he was wont to do at Eagles Mount.

After a disheartening stay at Deepford, they had continued on to Little Falls, accompanied by two ships bearing troops and supplies. Geriv had quickly discovered that conditions here were even worse than at Deepford.

“The whole place stinks of fear,” Jonaq muttered, brushing past Korim as he paced the parapet.

“Not surprising. With two komakhs lost in the last moon. Settle, Jonaq.”

Jonaq planted his feet, but his fingers drummed an impatient tattoo against one of the logs of the palisade. “Two komakhs
presumed
lost.”

“The first message was clear enough.”

“And since then, there's been no word at all.”

“The rebels could never take The Bluff,” Geriv replied, speaking more for Korim's edification than Jonaq's. “More likely they killed the birds bearing the messages.”

He had originally planned to transfer the fresh troops to The Bluff, but five days at Little Falls had convinced him to keep the men here until the second convoy arrived from Graywaters. He had helped to put down a mutiny during the first Carilian campaign. The situation at Little Falls was not that desperate, but all the ingredients were there: an isolated outpost, a string of defeats, an unseen enemy lurking nearby, and an atmosphere of smoldering tension exacerbated by bad food and monotony. Despite the lack of rebel activity in the last half-moon, the men remained holed up in the fortress, under orders from their commander to venture no farther than the river.

Geriv turned away from the compound to look out over the palisade, his frown deepening as he regarded the ship that had arrived earlier today. As bad as conditions at Little Falls were, the news it brought was worse.

Although his uncle's message was more detailed than the queen's, both recounted the appearance of a boy claiming to be the Son of Zhe. Had the information come from more credulous sources, he would have dismissed it, but Vazh's description of the boy's powers was disturbing. Bad enough that he had invaded the queen's spirit. More shocking still, he claimed to be the foster-son of the Spirit-Hunter. And he was seeking a truce.

To agree was to admit that the rebels had them on the run. Given that encouragement, they would only attract more recruits.

He swore softly, and silently reproved himself when Korim asked, “What is it, Father? Vanel.”

Geriv nodded toward the beach. “Those fires. When darkness falls, the guards will never be able to spot anyone creeping up on their position.”

Jonaq spat over the palisade. “The rebels would never dare attack this fortress.”