Foxfire (71 page)

Jholianna smiled as she lifted the crown from the jewel-encrusted platter. A circlet of gold, beginning and ending with the head of an adder devouring its tapering tail. As the priests chanted a blessing, she slowly ascended the steps of the dais and bowed three times before circling behind him. He felt cool metal against his brow as she proclaimed him king and Promised One.

The kankhs bellowed. The crowd roared. Despite the haste in planning the coronation, everything had been perfect.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone walking toward him. He wondered who would dare approach at this moment, then glimpsed the red and brown robe of the Supplicant beneath the hooded cloak.

Fellgair leaned close. The glow of torchlight illuminated a lock of black hair, a scruffy white beard, and a single tear glistening on his cheek.

“Darak is dead.”

As the Trickster bowed his head and slowly walked away, the cheering crowd blurred, replaced with an image of Darak. Not the helpless man convulsing in pain, but the father who had tried to love him, the hunter who had shared the excitement of the kill.

Rigat blinked hard, banishing the memories and the moisture that filled his eyes. Then he raised his hands and accepted the thunderous ovation of his people.

PART FOUR

—Lament of the Hunted

“
W
E HAVE CARRIED DEATH out of the village,” Othak proclaimed.

Dully, Keirith repeated the ritual response with the rest of the tribe. “Let it not return to us soon.”

The first rays of the sun slanted across the Death Hut, shedding the false glow of life on his father's face.

“A blessing,” Lisula said. “A blessing from Bel on the spirit of our chief and the tribe he loved.”

Good words. Kind words. And mostly true. His father might not have liked every person gathered here today, but he
had
loved his tribe. He had left his home and his family to protect it, spent his final days trying to ensure its safety.

And how did his people repay him? With a rite conducted in haste, their fearful gazes straying south in search of the Zherosi army marching toward them.

The signal had come during last night's vigil, sparking a panic in the village. When the tribe gathered at dawn, they discovered that most of his father's recruits had slipped away during the night. Now, instead of lingering on the hilltop to honor their chief, men were herding their women and children down the hill, grasping the elbows of old folk to hurry them along.

No word would be sent to other tribes to let them know of his passing. No representatives would arrive to honor the man who had carried the spirit of the Oak-Lord out of Chaos. There would not even be a feast to share memories of the Spirit-Hunter, the chief, the man.

Lying in the Death Hut, his father looked much as he had when they had found him: his mantle draped around his shoulders, his hands folded across his chest, his expression peaceful. Keirith had been too dazed with grief to think about it then, too shocked to even marvel that he was standing before the One Tree. But now he wondered if his father had seen the Dark Hunter approaching and willingly surrendered his spirit—or if someone had found Fa before they had.

He wasn't sure if he meant Rigat or Fellgair.

Contrary to tradition, his mam had insisted on washing Fa's body. Those were the only words she spoke after that first strangled cry when he and Callie returned with Fa in their arms. Just “Darak!”—a prayer, a plea, a desperate cry of hope, quickly shattered.

Hircha had shooed them from the hut, leaving Mam alone with Fa. Neither Faelia nor Callie would permit Othak to enter. And when Othak reminded them that it was customary to cut off a finger to inter in the cairn, Faelia retorted that Fa had few of enough of them left and he would take all of them to the Forever Isles.

They lingered helplessly by the doorway. Callie wept in Ela's arms. Hircha crouched in the dirt, her face stark. Faelia paced back and forth, angry tears streaming down her face. When Mam finally flung back the doeskin, she seemed composed, but then—as now—Keirith could feel her anguish buffeting his spirit.

Tears still eluded him. It was all he could do to breathe. A fist had clenched his heart when his father failed to answer Lisula's summons and it refused to relinquish its relentless grip. He was almost grateful. If the fist relaxed—even for a moment—he was afraid he would shatter.

Behind him, Trath cleared his throat. “Griane . . .”

His mam nodded, but didn't move.

“Give them a moment,” Lisula said.

“Fine. But you must leave the village before the Zherosi get close.”

“We will,” Keirith assured him.

Hircha's eyes burned into him. “We'll stay hidden in the hills. And we won't do anything foolish like sneaking back to surrender ourselves.”

How had she known? He had told no one about his plan.

Although the elders had demanded that his family leave, they had allowed the other men to decide whether to stay in the hill fort or flee. When every man chose to remain, Trath selected ten to protect the women and children who would hide in the hills until the Zherosi departed. Faelia and Keirith had argued against the plan, reminding Trath that the hill fort could never withstand a siege. But Trath was convinced that once the Zherosi discovered Darak dead and his family gone, they would leave. So Keirith had agreed to go—and silently vowed to slip back to the village later.

“I'm putting everyone in danger,” Keirith said. “If I surrender—”

“You think that will satisfy them?” Faelia demanded.

“Fa's dead! Geriv will be furious at losing him, but he might settle for me.”

“Aye, Darak's dead,” Hircha agreed. “He died trying to rescue you.”

Keirith recoiled. No one in his family had ever made the accusation directly, but he knew they were all thinking it.

“And this is how you repay him?” Hircha's expression was as cold as her voice. “By throwing your life away?”

“I'm not—”

“Nay.” His mam's voice was quiet but firm. “I won't have it. I want your oath, Keirith. On your father's spirit. That you will not surrender.”

The fist inside him tightened its grip.

His mam seized his wrist and pressed his palm against his father's hand. He flinched at the touch of the cold flesh, but she forced his splayed fingers down.

“Your oath. On his body. On his spirit. And on the love you bear him.”

“I swear.” He grated the words out between chattering teeth, then jerked his hand free.

Hircha broke the silence. “Trath's right. We should go.” She rested her hand lightly atop Fa's, then turned away and limped down the slope.

One by one, the others made their farewells, Trath first, then Lisula and Ennit and Ela. Callie bent and kissed Fa's forehead. Faelia laid her palm against his cheek. Then Keirith was left on the hilltop with his mother.

Still staring down at Fa, she said, “If you mean to die, make it count, Keirith. As your father did.”

“It's Rigat, isn't it?” He tried and failed to keep the bitterness from his voice. “You want me to live for him.”

“I want you to live for yourself! That's all I've ever wanted for you. But if you can't—or won't—then aye, consider Rigat. You and I are the only ones with any influence over him now. I don't think even Fellgair can control him. Not after what happened in the village.”

“He let Fa die! But you still love him.”

“He's my child, Keirith. Just as you are.”

Nay, not as he was. She would always love Rigat more.

“If it had been me—”

“You would have given up your power and your life to save your father. I know.”

But he hadn't been willing to kill to save him.

“I had a chance,” he whispered. “To cast out a boy's spirit. To take his body. But I couldn't. If I had been stronger—”

“You're confusing strength with ruthlessness. You were never a killer. Perhaps because you could sense the pain of others. So you hate inflicting it yourself.”

Recalling the pain he had inflicted on her in the days following Fellgair's revelations, he whispered, “Forgive me.”

“For what?” His mam seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Everything.”

Her arms went around him, gripping him hard. He clung to her, surprised by her smallness, the delicacy of the bones beneath his fingers. He had never thought of her as either small or delicate, perceiving instead the power of her personality, the strength of her spirit.

As she pulled away, she drew back her hand and slapped him.

The unexpected blow made him stumble backward. With a muttered curse, she flew at him, punching his chest, his arms. He retreated before her fury, hands raised to block the wild blows. Finally, she stopped, breathing hard.

“Well?” she demanded. “Do you feel better now?”

“Nay!”

“That's a pity. I hoped I could knock the foolishness out of you. I should have started years ago. Now you're too big. And too quick.”

He had to smile. So did she. The fist inside him relaxed its grip just a little.

With infinite tenderness, his mother smoothed the three eagle feathers braided in Fa's hair. Then she bent over the low stone wall and kissed him softly on the mouth. As she straightened, she stroked Fa's bag of charms and suddenly stiffened.

“Dear gods. His fingers. The ones Morgath took.”

Keirith's breath caught. He had never suspected that Fa had carried them in his bag of charms all these years.

“Take the bag,” he said. “Else the Zherosi might.”

Gently, he raised his father's head so she could slide the leather thong free. As her fingers closed protectively around the small bag, Keirith found himself squeezing his bag of charms. Before leaving the hut for the rite, Mam had cut a lock of Fa's hair for each of them. His now rested among his other charms, the most precious of all.

“Later,” Mam whispered. “There will be time to cry later.”

Keirith swallowed hard and kissed his father farewell. Together, he and his mother started down the hill. Neither of them looked back.

N
AKED, RIGAT PADDED TO the balcony of his bedchamber and stared north, watching the sky brighten.