Foxfire (50 page)

“Alive . . .” she whispered.

His breath wheezed out in a shuddering sigh of relief.

“The Zherosi commander . . . he took Keirith to Little Falls. He gave me his bag of charms. As proof. And said to find you . . . to tell you . . .”

Her eyes closed, and he resisted the urge to shake her. Then they flew open again.

“ ‘Your son is my prisoner. I will free him if you surrender yourself at Little Falls by the half-moon. If you do not arrive by then, your son will die.' ”

He was aware that Selima was still speaking, but all he could hear were those awful words, echoing over and over in his head:
“ . . . your son will die.”

Selima's fingernails bit into his palm. “I was to tell you his name. The commander's. Vanel do Khat.”

He shook his head; the name meant nothing.

“Vanel is a rank,” Mikal said. “The supreme commander of the Zherosi forces in the north. But I don't recognize the name. He must have assumed command recently.”

“He's the nephew of an old acquaintance of yours,” Selima said. “Those were his exact words. ‘An old acquaintance. ' A man named . . .” She paused, searching for the words. “Khonsel . . . oh, gods, what was it?”

“Do Havi,” Darak replied. “Khonsel Vazh do Havi.”

The man who had helped them escape to honor a promise to a dead friend.

“The Vanel. Did he have a patch over one eye?”

Selima nodded.

Geriv. He could barely remember the face, but the name was imprinted on his memory. Like that of the Khonsel, he had repeated it in his prayers for fourteen years.

A harsh bark of laughter escaped him. The others stared at him, no doubt wondering if shock had weakened his mind.

A pity he had sworn never to speak to Fellgair again. Only the Trickster would appreciate the irony.

D
ULL PAIN RADIATING DOWN the back of his head. The creak of branches in the wind. The splash of water.

Keirith tried to open his eyes, but they seemed to be glued shut. So was his mouth.

He could hear the drone of men's voices, but the words were muffled by the rhythmic pounding of a drum. Then a man called, “Raise oars.” In Zherosi.

Only then did he realize that the creaking he heard was the sound of oars, and the gentle rocking was the motion of a ship. He thrashed in helpless terror, only to freeze at the nauseating pain that stabbed his right shoulder.

Footsteps on wood.

Hands seized his head.

Ignoring the pain, he fought them, but his hands and feet were bound, and there were so many of them—seizing his limbs, raising his head, fumbling with the gag and yanking it down. He screamed in terror and frustration. Someone slapped him. A deep voice ordered him to drink.

He pressed his lips together, shaking his head wildly. A hand seized a fistful of hair and yanked his head back. Fingers pinched his nose closed until he was forced to open his mouth to steal a breath. He choked on the sweet liquid, spat it out, but there was no escaping the unseen hands that yanked his head back again, shoved a cup against his teeth, and forced him to swallow.

Sticky dregs dribbled down his chin. A fingernail scratched his cheek as the gag was pulled back over his mouth. The footsteps receded. And he slid back into darkness.

 

 

As Geriv collapsed onto the cushions in his pavilion, he heard do Fadiq's startled exclamation and footsteps thudding across the deck.

He closed his burning eyes against the early morning sunlight and coughed, despising his weakness. He heard the Remil grunt. Felt the cushions sag as the man knelt beside him. Fingers tugged at the straps of his helmet. A hand slid behind his neck and lifted his head. Geriv wheezed a sigh of relief as do Fadiq slid his helmet off.

A callused palm brushed his forehead with unexpected gentleness. “Good gods, man, you're burning up!”

The Remil called for water. Unbuckled the straps securing his armor. Slipped a cushion under his aching neck.

“Drink.”

Geriv sipped the lukewarm water gratefully, then sank back on the cushions, spent. “Watch him,” he managed. “Kheridh.”

The Remil asked something, but a racking chill prevented him from replying.

Something warm and heavy covered him. Wool. A cloak. The Remil's urgent voice receded. And he slid into darkness.

 

 

Keirith woke to another nauseating stab of pain in his shoulder. He seemed to be lurching through the air. Something hard dug into his belly—a man's shoulder. Something cool and wet splattered against his cheek—rain. The scent of woodsmoke and animal dung. Through the haze of fear and pain, he tried to pick out other details that might tell him where he was, but it was all he could do to keep from vomiting into the gag.

A grunt. The crackle of something—rushes? bracken?—as he was lowered to the ground.

He kicked weakly with his bound feet until a boot caught him in the ribs, stealing his breath and the little strength he possessed.

Soft fur beneath his cheek. The clink of metal. The dull thump of a mallet pounding wood. And then the hands again, yanking down the gag. Before he could ask where he was, the cup was pressed against his lips.

“Drink.”

He drank, even though he knew it had to be drugged, knew that was why he kept drifting into oblivion and waking with a furred tongue and dulled senses. He could remember attacking the pockmarked man. An explosion of pain in his shoulder that shattered his burgeoning power. A blow to the head. And then nothing until the ship. How long had he been on it? What had happened to the others?

“There's a waterskin. By your left arm. And a bowl to piss in.”

The same deep voice that had commanded him to drink.

“Your shoulder is out of joint. Our physician will set it. Remain still or you'll injure it again. Nod if you understand.”

Keirith nodded.

“If you refuse food or drink, you'll be beaten. If you attempt to remove the gag or the blindfold, you'll be beaten. If you speak without permission, you'll be beaten.”

“Do you understand?”

He nodded.

The rushes crackled. The labored breathing grew louder. Beneath the odor of stale sweat, Keirith caught a whiff of some spicy scent. Hands fumbled for his wrist and shoved his sleeve up. He could almost feel the intensity of the man's gaze as he scrutinized the snake tattooed on his forearm.

“Do not try to use your power, Kheridh.”

The man's breath warmed his ear. It took all his control to keep from flinching.

“If you do, I will kill you.”

The crunch of rushes. Raindrops pattering dully on the thatch, echoing the frantic beat of his heart. And then the soft slide toward calm, as oblivion, soothing as the drugged brew, came to claim him once more.

 

 

 

Faces swam in and out of Geriv's vision: Korim's, frightened; the physician's, puckered in a frown; Jonaq's, scowling.

Had he asked Jonaq about the Spirit-Hunter? He was certain he'd seen his aide waiting on the shore, but he couldn't remember talking with him. Nor could he remember how he had gotten to his quarters. Just stumbling along the stone pathway that suddenly lurched toward him.

Another face swam into view. The Remil. His loud voice made Geriv wince. He was pathetically grateful that the physician replied in a low murmur.

“Tick fever . . . aches . . . nausea . . . confusion . . . high fever . . .”

He tried to ask about the Spirit-Hunter, but managed only a hoarse croak.

Cold fingers clasped his. Korim's.

“Chill phase . . . flushing phase . . .”

“Jonaq . . .” he mumbled. “The Spirit-Hunter . . .”

“He escaped us. Forgive me, Vanel.”

Even through the fever haze, he heard the shame in Jonaq's voice. Geriv shook his head, trying to reassure him; the ensuing wave of nausea forced him to lie still.

A damp cloth wiping his face. A wooden cup pressed against his mouth.

The bitterness of the tea made him gag. As his body heaved, someone—Korim?—tried to steady him, but he barely managed to turn his head to keep from vomiting on himself.

“Crisis . . . three to five days . . . possible relapse . . .”

He didn't have three to five days. The Spirit-Hunter was coming. And he wasn't the kind of man to surrender without a fight.

And then there was Kheridh. Had he given orders that there must be two guards watching him at all times? Even drugged and gagged and blindfolded, he might be able to summon his power and steal a guard's body. And then he could walk out of the fortress a free man. And destroy everything.

He had to be strong. He had to be ready. This fever would not defeat him. Nor would the Spirit-Hunter and his son.

“Father?”

He flinched at the sound of Korim's voice so close to his ear.

“Tell me how I can help. Tell me what I can do.”

“Just . . . stay . . . away . . .”

Korim recoiled. Tears filled his eyes as he leaped up from the bed.

Geriv tried to summon the strength to call him back, to correct the terrible misunderstanding, to assure his son that he had only meant for him to stay away from Kheridh. But Korim was already pushing past the others, fleeing the room that began to spin and darken as black dots swarmed his vision and engulfed him.

 

 

 

He ate when they pressed a bowl of porridge to his mouth. He pissed when they shoved another bowl against his thighs. When he had to move his bowels, they held him while he squatted, helpless and humiliated, but too weak to object.

No one questioned him about the rebel forces or the part he had played in the ambushes. No one questioned him about his power. They seemed content to keep him prisoner—and that frightened him more than anything.

What were they waiting for?

The truth came to Keirith in one of his few lucid moments. If Deep Voice knew his name, he must know who his father was. The Zherosi wanted Darak Spirit-Hunter, and they were using him as bait.

He tried to keep from swallowing the dream-brew, but the healer pried open his mouth after he drank. He tried to contact Natha, but the honeyed brew subverted every attempt. In desperation, he sought Rigat. If he could touch his brother's spirit, he could tell him the truce was just a trick, urge him to force the Zherosi queen to free him or—failing that—find Fa and warn him to stay away. But he didn't possess Rigat's gift of tracking a person's unique energy and he had never thought to ask him how he did it.

His father would come. The Zherosi would kill him. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

I
N THE VILLAGE, Midsummer came and went. Griane listened to Callie recite the ancient legend, chanted as Gortin and Barasa opened the way to the First Forest, and waited for their return at sunset to celebrate the Holly-Lord's defeat of the Oak-Lord and the turning of the year.

She helped three new babes enter the world and eased the passage of three old folk as they left it. She gathered bracken and meadowsweet for strewing, dock and sunstar for treating rashes, comfrey and yarrow to make ointments for scrapes and bruises. In the evenings, she spun yarn for the weavers and mentally prepared her list of the lichens and plants she would need to gather for mordants and dyes.

She eyed the golden barley and prayed for a good harvest. She eyed Ennit, guarding the flock, and prayed that time would ease his grief. She eyed the hills to the south, mantled in purple heather, and prayed that her husband and children were safe.