Foxfire (62 page)

The boy wrenched free and twisted to the side. After a few more moments of frenzied dancing, Darak heard a heartfelt groan and the gush of liquid pelting the pine needles.

It went on and on and on. He wouldn't have thought a man could have that much piss inside him, never mind this skinny boy. The stubborn young idiot's bladder must have been near to bursting.

The stream subsided to erratic spurts and finally to silence. The boy sighed. So did Darak, aware of both the sympathetic twinges in his bladder and the peculiar intimacy of the moment.

As the boy tugged and squirmed and adjusted himself, he asked, “Can you manage? Or do you need me to—?”

“I can manage. Thank you.”

Darak was so intent on the boy's progress that he was unaware of Sorig's approach until he heard him whisper, “Everything all right?”

They both started. The similarities of their reactions disturbed Darak; the last thing he wanted was to feel any sort of connection to this boy. After reassuring Sorig, he seized the skinny arm with more force than necessary, led the boy back to the tree, and tied him up again.

He tested the ropes and heard a soft grunt of pain. Angry with himself, he wasted more time loosening the bonds a bit before crouching in front of the boy.

“Do you want water?”

“Nay.”

“Something to eat?”

“I am not hungry.”

The rumble of his belly belied that statement, but Darak refused to shame him by mentioning it.

He knew he should walk away; the boy clearly hated his company. But he couldn't help recalling Keirith's stories of his first days in Zheros: the fear of not knowing what his captors intended, the need to guard himself every moment lest he betray that fear or reveal a damning piece of information that could result in his death.

“Try and get some rest. And don't worry. You'll be back at Little Falls before midmorning.”

When no response was forthcoming, he rose.

“He will not come.”

The boy's voice was flat, utterly devoid of emotion.

Darak slowly sank back down. “Why not?”

“Because Kheridh is more valuable than I am.”

Again, a calm statement of fact.

“Aye. Well. From a warrior's perspective, perhaps. But he's a father, too.”

“You do not know him.”

“Nay. But I've met him. When I was a captive in Zheros.”

“I know.”

“He . . . watched over Keirith.”

“Why?”

The boy sounded startled. Of course, Geriv would never have revealed his part in their escape. And despite everything, Darak was reluctant to do so now. Not to protect Geriv, but to shield this boy. He shook his head, impatient with himself, but still chose his words with care.

“Malaq—the Pajhit—befriended Keirith and feared for his life. So he asked Khonsel do Havi to protect him. The Khonsel had your father shadow Keirith. To make sure he came to no harm. For that, I have remembered him—all of them—in my prayers.”

“You . . . prayed for my father?”

“Aye. It's ironic. Given all that's happened. I can't remember him well—save for the eye patch, of course. He struck me as a good fighter. Stern but not cruel. Or stupid. He'll make the exchange. It may gall him, but he'll do it.”

After a long moment, the boy said, “Kheridh talked about you.”

“You've seen him? He's all right?”

In the silence that followed, his heart nearly failed him. Finally, the boy said, “His shoulder was injured. In the ambush. But he is . . . well.” Another interminable pause before he added, “They were drugging him.”

One part of his mind noted that the boy had said “they” not “we.” But he was too relieved to know that Keirith was all right to pursue that. It took him a moment to understand why they would drug him, but of course, Geriv had been there when Keirith cast out the Zheron's spirit. But why Keirith would talk to this boy—the son of his captor—mystified him.

“He was blindfolded,” the boy explained in response to his question. “I pretended to be from the village. To fool him into giving away information. But I was the fool,” he concluded bitterly.

“It was worth trying.” The words surprised him as much as his desire to shield the boy had. “You speak our language well. Very well. There's the accent, of course, but—”

“Accent?”

“More guttural. Like the tribe folk of the south. But with the drugs dulling his senses, Keirith probably didn't notice.”

“We did not even talk of the rebellion. Not really. Only . . . everyday things. Growing up. Fishing. Our fathers.” The boy cleared his throat. “You must love him very much. To follow him to Zheros all those years ago. And to risk your life for him now.”

Reluctant to discuss his feelings, Darak mumbled an affirmative.

“That is the difference, you see. My father does not love me. Especially now when I have ruined his plans.”

“Aye. Well. A father can get angry with his children and still love them. I've raised my voice—and my hand—to all of mine at one time or another. And your father—”

“My father cannot abide me.”

His voice shook a little, but it was as calm as ever.

“I am . . . a disappointing to him. Disappointing? This is the right word?”

“Disappointment.”

“Thank you. Disappointment. That is why he will not exchange Kheridh for me.”

“I think you're wrong. I pray you are.”

“And if I am not? What will happen at dawn?”

“You've nothing to fear,” Darak assured him. “Even if I were the kind of man who would kill a boy, what would I gain? Your father would kill Keirith, and then we'd both lose our sons.”

“This is true. But my father knows this about you. That you are not a killer. That you love your son. So he can wait. And gamble that, in the end, you will back down.”

He had considered that possibility, but had managed to convince himself that no man would risk his son's life. Confronted by the calm certainty in the boy's voice, Darak couldn't help feeling that, although the boy was his prisoner, he was the one who was trapped.

T
HE GUARDS SHOOK HIM AWAKE. They handed him his bowl of porridge. When they put on his shoes, Keirith knew something unusual was happening. But only when they led him out of the hut did he realize the appointed day had arrived—for his freedom or his death.

Blindfolded, he shambled forward, stumbling over uneven paving stones and gulping great lungfuls of air; even tainted by woodsmoke, it was sweet after the stale air in the hut.

He knew he should be afraid. Instead, he felt oddly calm—like that final dawn in Pilozhat when he had led the adders to the temple of Zhe. Every sensation seemed magnified: the rub of his breeches against his thighs, the grip of the guards' fingers on his arms, even the trembling of his leg muscles after days of inactivity.

Wavering orange light filtered through the blindfold. Men moved around him, speaking in hushed voices. From behind came the tramp of leather-shod feet on stone. In front, a soft command to open the gate. Keirith heard grunts from the straining men and the protesting creak of wood. Then he felt earth beneath his feet instead of stone.

As earth gave way to pebbles, he realized the sound of the rapids had grown louder. They were leading him to the river.

“Step up,” a voice ordered.

Wooden planking. The sound of flapping cloth. Why were they taking him back aboard the ship?

He stumbled as he stepped onto the deck, drawing muttered curses from his guards. They tightened their grip on his arms and led him forward.

“Sit.”

A column of wood at his back. Ropes pulled tight across his chest. Pebbles scraping the hull. And the gentle rocking as the ship floated free.

He strained to hear something that might tell him where they were heading, but there was only the flap of the sail and the slap of water against the hull and the occasional creak of the timbers. No light penetrated the blindfold. No sun warmed his body. Why would they risk a night voyage? Something must have happened. Could Fa have been captured? Or—gods forbid—killed? But why would they be hustling him away in darkness?

He tensed as footsteps thudded on the planks. Flinched as fingers tugged at his blindfold and gag. After so many days in darkness, the torchlight blinded him. He turned his head away, eyes watering.

A shadow blocked the light. When he looked up, he could only make out a dark silhouette, framed by the too-brilliant glare of the torches. Then he caught a whiff of the familiar spicy scent. Expecting a hulking body to match the deep voice, he was surprised that the figure looked as short and wiry as an ordinary Zheroso.

He raised his bound wrists and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Slowly, the man came into focus: a helmet with three eagles' feathers; a black patch over his left eye; a stern mouth.

His gaze dropped to the scarlet tunic, then jerked back to the man's face. It was older, of course. Seamed by years of squinting into the sun. But it was clearly the same man—the shadow who had followed him in Pilozhat, the obedient warrior who had led Fa to freedom, the trusted aide to Khonsel Vazh do Havi who had advised his uncle to kill them.

All he could do was gape, aware that Geriv was speaking, but unable to focus on the words.

“Do you understand?”

“I . . . no . . . I'm sorry, but—”

“Your father has captured my son. We're exchanging you for him.”

“Your son? Was that . . . is his name Jarel?”

“My son's name is Korim.”

For a long moment, Geriv studied him, frowning. Then he bent down so abruptly that Keirith recoiled.

“Korim stopped the drugs. You could have taken his body. Why didn't you?”

Keirith looked away. “Because I'm weak.”

 

 

 

When Sorig raced down the beach shouting, “The ship is coming!” Darak murmured a shaky prayer of thanks. In his relief, he pounded the boy on the back so hard he staggered.

“See? I told you he'd come.”

The boy nodded and quickly averted his face, but Darak had already seen the tears glistening in his eyes. To give him time to recover, he scanned the spot he had chosen for the prisoner exchange.

Hoping to allay Geriv's fears of an ambush, he'd selected a site near the beach with little cover. But he'd been careful to position his men within bowshot, hidden behind boulders, lying in the long grass, standing behind trees.

Kelik and Mikal were among them, thank the gods. They'd reached the narrows late in the night to report the safe arrival of Pujh at Little Falls. So far, everything was going according to plan. And every moment brought his boy closer.

But he couldn't help worrying. About Keirith. About Geriv's intentions. And about last night's dream.

Griane had been bending over him, urging him to wake up, reminding him that he would have plenty of time to sleep after he was dead but in the meantime, he had far too many things to do. The sun was behind her, turning the spiky ends of her hair to fire.

Although he was still asleep in his dream, he had asked, “What did you do to your hair?”

“What do you think?” she had snapped. “I cut it off and left it along the trail to mark the way for you.”

“Well, that was silly. I know the way home.”

His dream-self awakened then and reached for her, but she melted into a shaft of sunlight like some otherworldly spirit.

The dream still haunted him—and the terrifying feeling that he would never see her again.

“Spirit-Hunter? Are you all right?”

“Aye. Just thinking about . . . things.”

“Forgive me. Of course. I should have realized . . .” A deep flush stained the boy's cheeks. “I am stupid.”

Darak shook his head. He was so hard on himself. Just like Keirith.

Ever since he had conceived the idea of the ambush, Darak had been careful to think of him only as “the boy,” seeking the same distance he once had with his recruits. Now his mind reluctantly formed the name: Korim.

“They'll be here soon,” he said. “Remember what I told you. Everyone will be watching us. My men and your father's. If things grow heated, they'll get nervous. And nervous men make mistakes. So it's up to us to stay calm. To set an example.”

Korim nodded solemnly.

“Does your father speak the tribal tongue?”