Foxfire (64 page)

The slug's tiny tentacles waved. He smashed the thing with his fist, only to watch the flattened blob separate into two pieces, then four, each sprouting a dark tentacled head and a glistening blue body.

On hands and knees, he edged back from the pool, but couldn't help staring with sick fascination as the slugs continued to multiply and grow. There were dozens of them now, the original ones nearly as long as his forearm, the newborns barely the length of his little finger.

As one, they turned to him. Their mouths gaped open, revealing saliva-slick fangs.

“Stop!” But the scream emerged only as a hoarse whisper.

His breath caught on a sob, and he suppressed it ruthlessly. But still they grew, trailing viscous slime as they slid toward him.

“Stop.”

It took Rigat a moment to realize that the voice came from behind him. And another to recognize it. He froze, afraid to look, afraid that this, too, would be an illusion.

A pair of black-clawed feet strode over the slugs, which dissipated like mist. Rigat's gaze traveled up the red-furred legs to the broad chest and finally to the familiar golden eyes.

“Are you real?” he whispered.

“Very much so.”

Strong arms enfolded him, rocking him like a babe. Rigat clung to them, grateful and ashamed. Then Fellgair grabbed his shoulders and held him at arm's length.

“What are you doing here?”

Rigat swiped at his nose. “I came to rescue you.”

As Fellgair's gaze swept over him, Rigat realized how ridiculous that statement must sound, especially coming from a trembling boy with snot running down his chin. At the same moment, they both began to laugh.

Relief at seeing Fellgair again left him giddy and weak. Without his father's hands steadying him, he would probably collapse. Or dissipate as the slugs had. From slavering beasts to misty nothings in a single heartbeat.

His laughter grew louder, edged with hysteria. Fellgair's fingers tightened on his shoulders. With a hiccuping gurgle, Rigat clamped his lips together, controlling the hysteria and the flare of power that had accompanied it.

“That's better.”

“It's true, then? That my power is stronger here?”

Fellgair released him and leaned back on his hands. With a start, Rigat realized that the ever-shifting landscape had solidified into a featureless plain of browning grass. If not for the bruised sky, they might be sitting somewhere in Zheros.

“Stronger? Possibly. But certainly more difficult to control.”

“How did you find me?”

Fellgair frowned. “I felt your energy the moment you entered Chaos. Didn't you feel mine?”

“I . . . I'm not sure. Everything happened so fast.”

“Blood calls to blood here. Surely Darak must have told you.”

He remembered now how Darak claimed his father had sensed his presence. And just as Reinek had tracked down his son, so had Fellgair.

“And speaking of blood . . .” Fellgair nodded at Rigat's wrist.

“I used my blood to help open the portal.”

Fellgair held out his hand, and Rigat obediently offered his wrist. Instead of sealing the wound, Fellgair used his claws to rip a strip of doeskin from his tunic.

“How did you discover I was here?” Fellgair asked as he wrapped the doeskin around his wrist.

“I looked everywhere else I could think of. This was the only place left.”

Fellgair nodded without looking up.

“Why did you come here?” Rigat asked.

Fellgair knotted the bandage and examined his handiwork.

“It was because of me, wasn't it?”

“It's not important.”

“It
is
important. I needed you. After you left . . .”

Finally, the golden eyes met his. “Has something happened? Is Griane in danger?”

“Mam?” Rigat shook his head, confused. “Why would you think that?”

“I thought I heard her call me. Perhaps I was wrong. Even for a god, it's hard to distinguish reality from illusion here. Or desire. Did you see her when you went north?”

As he fumbled for an answer, Fellgair seized his arm, fingers biting deep into the flesh. “You did go back? After the Gathering?”

“There wasn't time!”

He blurted out everything that had happened in Fellgair's absence: the interrogations, the attempted assassination, The Shedding. “Jholianna offered me the crown,” he added, hating the sulky tone of his voice, but unable to disguise it.

Fellgair stared out over the grasslands. Then he sighed. “I'm sorry I wasn't there.”

“I'm sorry, too.” Rigat's voice shook, and he swallowed hard.

“You should have called me,” Fellgair said. “I would have come. No matter the cost.”

“The cost?”

“Do you know who was behind the assassination attempt?”

“Not for sure. I even wondered if the Khonsel was involved. What cost?”

“He would never use a poisoned arrow. Too much risk of hitting the queen.”

“That's what he said. What cost, Fellgair?”

“In a moment. I'm thinking.” Fellgair rose and paced restlessly, flattening a trail in the tall grass. “It's likely that attack was genuine. The man with the dagger, though . . .”

“I thought it was just to distract us. From the real assassin.”

“That's possible. But it's also possible the two attacks were unrelated.” Abruptly, Fellgair stopped pacing. “You're certain the orders for a truce were sent?”

“I told you that before you left.”

“And Geriv received them?” When Rigat hesitated, Fellgair's gaze sharpened. “Did Geriv acknowledge receipt of his orders?”

“I . . . he must have. I didn't ask. So much happened, I just assumed—”

“Yes. You did.”

Stung, Rigat snapped, “What does that have to do with the other assassin?”

“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a great deal.”

“Stop talking in riddles.”

“If the orders were delayed—if Geriv never received them—he would have free rein to continuing pursuing the rebels. Which you might have discovered if you had met Darak. What better way to keep you in Pilozhat than to stage an assassination?”

Rigat's bowels clenched. He shook his head, unwilling to meet Fellgair's gaze.

“It's only one possibility,” Fellgair said. “But he took the initiative once before. After the earthquake.”

“The Khonsel, you mean?”

“The king was dead. The queen weak from Shedding. The city in ruins. Who took control? Who knew Keirith's spirit had survived? Who arranged for Keirith and Darak to escape?”

Bile surged up from Rigat's belly, choking him. He bent over, retching dryly, and felt Fellgair's hands steadying him once again.

“I may be wrong,” Fellgair said. “But if your mother called me . . . she would never do that unless . . .”

“Unless something awful had happened.”

“Or was going to happen,” Fellgair corrected firmly. “Which means you may still have time to prevent it.”

Rigat got to his feet. “Then let's go. Now.”

Fellgair hesitated.

“You can leave, can't you? A moment ago, you said—”

“Yes. I can leave.”

“But there's a cost.”

“There's always a cost. No matter what one chooses. The trick is to weigh all the costs before making the choice.” Fellgair stared off into the distance, his expression almost wistful. Suddenly, he smiled. “You're right, Rigat. It's time for us to leave. But I think I should go to Pilozhat. To keep an eye on things there while you're in the north.”

It could not be that easy. Fellgair would never have left Pilozhat unless the Unmaker had summoned him. And if he were free to leave, he would have done so when he thought he heard Mam call.

Before he could speak, Fellgair ripped open a portal and pulled him through. Bemused by the forest of green-leafed oaks, he wondered if Fellgair had decided to come north with him after all. Then he realized the trees were painted on the wall and that they were standing in Fellgair's opulent private chamber in the temple of the God with Two Faces.

He was suddenly aware that he was exhausted. His power still smoldered within him, easy to control now but noticeably weaker.

“It's a good thing we left when we did. If I'd stayed much longer . . .”

His observation died, unspoken, as he turned to Fellgair.

Ruddy fur shifted to black hair, claws to fingernails. Before the transformation was complete, the Supplicant melted back into the fox-man. Breasts grew and shrank. Fur sprouted on flesh and vanished, the changes happening so quickly that Fellgair's shape became little more than a blur.

“Dear gods . . .” he whispered.

Fellgair's face froze in a grimace. The Supplicant emerged, but her form continued to waver before Rigat's horrified eyes.

“What's happening?”

Fellgair staggered toward a thick pile of cushions and collapsed. As Rigat hurried toward him, Fellgair waved him away. “The portal,” he wheezed. “Close it. Quickly.”

It took Rigat two tries before he managed it. Then he fell on his knees next to his father.

“What is it? What can I do?”

He lifted his hand to brush back the long hair covering Fellgair's face, then recoiled as white hair sprouted among the lustrous black.

Fellgair lifted his head. Deep lines scored his forehead and seamed the corners of his eyes. Slowly, they vanished, and with them the white streaking his hair, but flecks of gold still gleamed in the dark eyes.

“It's the Unmaker,” Rigat whispered. “He's doing this to you.”

Fellgair pushed himself up on the cushions and held out his left hand, frowning when he noted its tremor. He stared fixedly at his hand. The tremor ceased. One by one, fingernails sprouted. Five perfect ovals. Only then did Fellgair lower his hand to his lap.

“I think I'll forgo the paint for now.”

“Fellgair . . .”

“Yes. This is my father's doing. We have been . . . somewhat at odds lately.”

“Because of me.”

“He summoned me to Chaos the morning after you were conceived and threatened to hold me there forever to prevent any further . . . interference. But my mother—the Maker—interceded for me. And for Griane.”

“For Mam?”

“The Maker accepts the need for death, but she also understands a mother's love for her child. In the end, though, I think the Unmaker was simply eager to see what disorder you might bring to the world. I was permitted to leave, but only if I promised never to contact you. At first, I kept my distance, but after you discovered the truth . . .” Fellgair shrugged helplessly. “You are my son.”

“And that's why he summoned you a sennight ago?”

“He summoned me the morning after your vision quest. I chose to ignore him.”

Rigat's mouth dropped open. How did anyone—even a god—ignore the Lord of Chaos?

“He retaliated by draining my power. Just a little at a time. Much crueler, really, than simply destroying me.”

Suddenly, it all made sense: the fluctuations in Fellgair's energy, the unexplained weariness, the unraveled healing.

“But you went to him in the end,” Rigat pointed out.

“Because he threatened to kill you if I didn't.” A brief, mirthless smile. “Not all fathers are as forgiving as Darak. He gave me a choice. If I remained in Chaos until you reached the end of your life, he would permit me to return to the world with my powers—those I still possessed—intact. If I left before that . . .”

“But if the Maker helped you once, surely—”

“No.” Fellgair's voice was very quiet. “Not this time.”

“Then we'll beat the Unmaker at his own game. I'll give you some of my power and—”

“No! Yours is weak enough already.”

“It's strong enough to get me to the north and back. Besides—”

“No, Rigat. You must leave. Now.”

Rigat hesitated, concern for Fellgair warring with fear for his family's safety.

“Please. Go to your mother. Talk to Darak. Make sure all is well. And when you come back, we'll see about beating the Unmaker at his own game.”

As Rigat reluctantly rose, Fellgair seized his hand. “I made my choice when I created you and I've never regretted that decision. If you need me, call. I'll come—if I can.”

G
ERIV AUTOMATICALLY SCANNED the terrain, confident that the Spirit-Hunter had men hidden behind every boulder and tree in sight. But his gaze kept returning to the tall figure standing motionless in the grass.