Foxfire (70 page)

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Authors: Barbara Campbell

BOOK: Foxfire
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What happened to a man's vision mate when he died? Would Wolf simply vanish into the mists of the First Forest? Or would she come with him to the Forever Isles?
He called her name softly, then repeated it twice more. And saw movement in the underbrush.
At first, he thought it was Fellgair, but the man who emerged was smaller, with gray hair at his temples and a strange garment of mottled fur covering his body. Then Darak saw the golden eyes and realized that his first impression had been correct.
Fellgair's mouth curved in the familiar mocking smile. A deprecating wave of his hand encompassed the changes in his appearance. “The Lord of Chaos is displeased with me. Because of my interference.”
“And he waited until now to punish you?” Darak blurted.
Fellgair laughed. After a moment, Darak did, too. Then he choked.
Blood gushed from his mouth, terrifying him. He doubled over, the cough tearing at his chest and his wounded back until his whole body was awash with pain.
Gods, not yet. Please, not yet.
Fellgair's hands gripped his arms, steadying him. Slowly, the coughing eased. He spat to clear his mouth, grimacing at the blood-slimed leaves between his feet. Then he slumped against the tree, crying out as his back hit the trunk. Fellgair had to help him shift position. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath and the frantic beating of his heart, but the small bird inside his chest refused to cease its fluttering.
Fellgair squeezed his hand gently, and the bird's wings stilled. He opened his eyes to discover thick streaks of gray marring Fellgair's russet hair.
“You're losing your power,” he managed.
“Yes. But I still have enough to ease your pain. And to give you more time—if you wish.”
More than anything in the world, he wanted that. Another sennight, another moon. Every day was precious to him now. But could he steal that time if it meant draining Fellgair's power?
Who would watch over Rigat then? And Griane? With Geriv surely marching to the hill fort and Rigat desperately trying to maintain the guise of the Son of Zhe, his family and his tribe—perhaps all the children of the Oak and Holly—needed Fellgair's help more than he did.
Another sennight. Another moon. No matter how much time Fellgair gave him, it would never be enough.
“Thank you,” he said. “But nay.”
Fellgair nodded, accepting his choice.
“If you would . . . I know I don't have to ask, but . . . Griane . . . and Rigat . . .”
“Of course, I'll look after them. That's the one benefit I can find in this . . . disconcerting change my father has forced upon me. I can interfere with impunity now.”
“You always interfered with impunity.”
“And you were always exceedingly rude.”
“Plainspoken.”
“And proud.”
“I humbled myself to you often enough.”
“And were always the better for it afterward.” Fellgair smiled. “We sound like a quarrelsome old married couple.”
“Gods forbid.” But Darak smiled, too.
Fellgair's gaze slid away. “Shall I stay with you? Or would you prefer—”
“Stay. Please. But I don't have the strength for talking.”
Fellgair's hand cupped the back of his neck. “Close your eyes, then. And rest a bit.”
His mam's gesture, his mam's words. To ease him when he was broody. Of course, Fellgair would remember.
He must have rested for a long while. When he opened his eyes, the shadows in the grove were much longer, but Fellgair still sat beside him.
“It'll soon be time for me to go,” Darak said.
“Yes.”
“I wish . . .”
“What?”
“I wish I could have seen Wolf. Just once more.”
Fellgair smiled and nodded toward the underbrush.
At first, Darak saw only the shadows beneath the trees. And then he saw her, a shadow among the shadows.
Her steps were as uncertain as his when he had approached the One Tree, her muzzle as white as Griane's hair. Twice, her legs gave out. Tears filled his eyes as he watched her fight her way to her feet again. When she finally reached him, she collapsed beside him and rested her muzzle on his thigh.
His hand shook as he stroked her head. After a long moment, she raised it. A milky film clouded her golden eyes, but her tail thumped the familiar greeting.
“Little Brother.”
“Wolf.”
“It is good to see you.”
“And good . . . so very good . . . to see you.”
The cloudy eyes regarded Fellgair. “He seems familiar. But I do not think I have ever seen him before.”
“He's . . . an old friend.”
“He looks at me as if he can see me.”
“I
can
see you,” Fellgair said.
“That is strange. I thought only my brother could.” Her head flopped down on his thigh again. “It took so long to reach you. I was afraid . . .”
She whined softly. He managed to raise his hand, to scratch behind the tattered left ear, and was rewarded by another feeble thump of her tail.
“I smell blood, Little Brother. Are you hurt?”
“A fight between packs. It's over now.”
“And your pack drove them off?”
“Nay, Wolf. They drove mine off.”
A soft growl rumbled in her throat. “And your mate? And your pups?”
“They're safe. Our . . . our den is well-hidden.”
“That is good.” Her tongue flicked out to lick his hand, and he smiled to feel the warm, wet roughness.
Can you hear me? If I only think the words?
Her ears pricked up as if he had spoken aloud. <
I do hear you. But this has never happened before.>
Strange to hear her voice inside him, to know that they were touching spirit to spirit, and to feel relief instead of the usual terror.

Aye, Wolf. Now and always.

We're getting old. And I don't like it much either. Especially since I don't feel old inside.

The same pup squatting in a thicket, afraid to move when you howled my name.

I called to
you
?

Her face blurred before him. If the gods had given him a good woman and loving children, they had also been generous in their choice of vision mate.

It's enough to see you. And talk. I was talking to my brother. Before you came. But he couldn't hear me.
He tried to touch the root, but he was so tired. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the trunk.
He felt Wolf raise her head. His hand slid down the coarse fur of her shoulder. Her wet nose nudged it atop the root.
So smooth, the bark. Smooth as polished wood. And supple as flesh.
His eyes flew open, his mind finally registering what his fingers were telling him. But the root looked unchanged. It must have been his imagination. Or another fever-dream. Still, he struggled to sit up, gasping with the effort.
Something touched his shoulders. Warmth seeped through his tunic. The warmth of real flesh, the pressure of real fingers, gently stilling his feeble movements. Fellgair, of course.
Energy flooded his spirit, an outpouring of joy and love so fierce that he knew it was Tinnean. And when the second stream filled him, far more powerful and more ancient than the first, he realized Cuillon was with him, too.
For thirty years, he had longed for this moment. Now that it had arrived, all he could do was weep in helpless gratitude.
He could feel the rhythmic pulsing of their spirits, a slow counterpoint to the pounding of his heart. And the other pulse he had first heard during that dream-journey through Chaos.
The steady vibration filled him. It soothed the torn flesh and the tortured lungs. It stilled the trembling muscles and the palsied shaking of his hands. With unhurried patience, it flowed through bone and blood and spirit.
The World Tree sang. The song echoed through the One Tree, through Tinnean and Cuillon, through his body and Wolf's, through the silent Watchers and the giant trees. The grove resounded with the song, the First Forest rang with it. Every tree knew the song, every creature that crawled upon the earth or swam in the rivers or soared through the air.
Even the small bird in his chest seemed to recognize the song. It beat its wings wildly, eager to fly with its brothers and know the freedom of the skies. He fought to hold it, to keep it close.
If he had the strength, he might have laughed. The quest to find Tinnean had taught him that his need for control was his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. Yet all his life he had battled with it. To protect himself, to protect the people he loved.
As a boy, he had been afraid he would lose his father's respect. As a young man, he had been afraid he would lose his brother. But ultimately, he had been afraid that if he relinquished his carefully maintained control, he would lose himself.
Time and time again, he had learned the impossibility of controlling either events or the people he loved. He had learned that he could give up control and not only remain whole, but become stronger. Yet he'd sat here today, fretting over the fate of a rebellion he could never lead, the fate of a world he would soon depart.
Perhaps that's what it meant to be human. Or perhaps that was simply his nature. Stubborn as a rock.
Wind and water wore away the strongest rock, chipping away the edges, reshaping it. But unlike a rock, a man could accept the changes or resist them.
He liked Fellgair's metaphor of the web of life better. Certainly, his life had been woven and rewoven hundreds of times, threads ripped away, new ones spun. And now all that was left was a slender strand, trembling under the frantic wings of that small bird.
Struath would say that life was a battle of opposites. Gortin would remind him that despite the battle, balance was always restored. Fellgair would smile and say something cryptic. And Griane . . .
He bit back a cry of pain. The song of the World Tree flowed through his spirit. Tinnean and Cuillon waited with inhuman patience for his choice, their love—as eternal as the song—filling his spirit.
Oh, Griane . . .
Her eyes, the blue that burned at the heart of a flame.
Fellgair's, golden as honey, dark as that portal to Chaos.
Rigat's face, alight with triumph when he brought down the stag.
Keirith's, filled with exhaustion and a newfound peace when he brought little Hua back from the shadowlands.
Faelia, whooping with excitement when she snared her first rabbit.
Callie, lisping the tribal legends at his knee.
Tinnean's voice in the grove during their final moments together: “This isn't good-bye. Not really. I'll always be here.”
His mam's hand cupping the back of his neck, her voice urging him to rest a bit.
His father's arms outstretched to catch him as he took his first step.
With a sigh of acceptance, Darak released the small bird and gasped as it soared skyward. Brilliant light flooded his vision. As if the Northern Dancers had suddenly lit up the sky. But it was still daylight so it must be the sun—the most glorious sunset he had ever witnessed.
It danced inside of him, filling the emptiness left behind by the lost bird, bathing his spirit with warmth, bathing the grove in luminous golden light. The circled trees took up the dance, limbs swaying as if they shared his ecstasy.
Something tugged at his breeches. Through the haze of light, he saw Wolf. She bounded away, then raced back. Her yellow eyes gleamed. Her body wriggled with pleasure. She nipped at his breeches again, then bounded toward the light of the setting sun.
He eased away from the tree, astonished to feel no pain in his back or shoulder or chest, no pain in his knees as he scrambled to his feet, no pain at all—only the enveloping warmth of the sunset.
He turned back to whisper his farewell to Tinnean and Cuillon and Fellgair. The tree was lost in the wash of golden light, but Fellgair was still there, a faint shadow amid the light's glory. Darak lifted his hand, uncertain if Fellgair could see him. He thought the shadow moved, but he couldn't be sure. The light was blinding now. He could no longer see Wolf either, although he could still hear her yipping excitedly, urging him to run with her.
As he hesitated, he caught a flash of blue amid the gold.
Speedwell. Hundreds of them. Springing out of the earth, sprouting around his feet, vanishing into the light.
Once before, Tinnean had offered him this living pathway of heart-shaped leaves and bright blue flowers. The last time, the path had connected him to the One Tree. This time, it led him toward the sun.
He thought of Griane and the children. Felt a fleeting stab of regret for their grief. But the light called to him and the song urged him on.
Darak walked along the path of speedwell, then broke into a trot. A dark shadow streaked across the light as Wolf bounded toward him. Side by side, they ran, hunting the sunset.
 
 
 
Three hundred people crowded the throne room of the palace. Three hundred people stared up at the dais where the Son of Zhe blazed as brilliant as the sunset in his scarlet khirta and golden breastplate.

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