Foxfire (77 page)

She appointed a new Vanel for the north and a new Khonsel to oversee security. The Vanel of the Eastern Army reported that the assassin had finally been identified—the son of a Carilian nobleman who had lost both his father and brother in the war. Although her spies were still trying to learn if the man had acted alone, the announcement helped dissipate the tension that had pervaded the court since the attempted assassination.

Commerce boomed in the wake of the victories in Carilia. She missed the brusque efficiency and common sense of Vazh do Havi. And the mocking humor of the Supplicant; no one seemed to know where she was. But Jholianna reminded herself that neither was as vital to the empire as the Son of Zhe.

On the evening before negotiations with Lilmia were to begin, Rigat presented her with a small leather bag. Smiling, she watched him tug open the drawstrings. When he opened his lightly clenched fist, three tiny white balls, whiskered in wood ash, rolled across the polished stone of the table. In disbelief, she stared at the fortune that came to rest against the sweating bronze pitcher.

“Seems like a lot of fuss about worms,” he said.

The small island nation of Lilmia had one export, the precious fabric of the same name, and its ruler guarded her monopoly with such diligence that Jholianna's spies had been unable to steal a single cocoon in which the insects bred. Each year, she was tempted to cancel the shipment, and each year, she relented, knowing it would only increase the hunger for the fabric and create an illegal market for it in Zheros. So she sat through the haggling, a fixed smile on her face, and tried to charm the ambassador into a few meager concessions.

“How did you do it?”

“How do you think? I stole them. Gods, it was hot inside that hut. I don't know how the children could breathe. They use children to tend the cocoons, did you know that? You should have seen their faces when I appeared.”

The mask vanished as he grinned. Then the frowning stranger returned. “I couldn't manage to snatch a dewberry bush. When the moths hatch, we'll have nothing for them to feed on. But maybe the sight of these will encourage the Lilmian ambassador to be generous.”

She leaped up and raced around the table to embrace him. When he stiffened, she let her arms fall. But as she stepped back, he seized her hand. She had only a moment to glimpse his desperate eyes and twisted mouth before he pushed her down on the rug.

Rough fingers fumbled with her gown and spread her thighs. His face averted, he took her with frantic haste. Then he rolled off her, adjusted his khirta, and hurried out.

She removed her crumpled gown and walked slowly down the stairs to her bathing room. As she drizzled a few drops of sweet spike oil into a bowl of water, she considered whether to go after him. By the time she had cleaned and dried herself, she had decided to risk his anger.

Lady Alikia was waiting, a nightdress over one arm and a boar bristle brush in her hand. “He went to his bedchamber,” she whispered as she eased the tangles from Jholianna's hair.

Jholianna nodded and raised her arms to allow Lady Alikia to slip the nightdress over her head. Disdaining slippers or robe, she padded barefoot down the corridor, past guards who discreetly averted their faces.

She hesitated in the doorway of his apartments. Then she saw him through the draperies, a dark silhouette against the deepening blue of the evening sky.

He straightened when he heard her footsteps, but continued staring north. His body was rigid with tension, his fingers curved like claws over the top of the stone wall.

Careful not to touch him, she asked, “Why don't you go to her?”

His quick intake of breath betrayed his surprise. “I'm not ready yet.”

“But you watch her. You watch all of them.”

After a long hesitation, he nodded.

“She's your mother. And you love her. Do you think I resent that?”

“No.”

“Then what? If I've offended you—”

“No. It's just . . . I can't keep both of you in my mind.”

“I don't understand.”

“When I see her, all I want is to go to her. To go home. Back. And when I'm with you . . .” His hands clenched into fists. “I thought it would help if I stayed away. From both of you. If I . . . if you and I didn't . . .” He took a deep breath. “I want you both. But I can't have that. And I can't choose.”

She risked touching him then. A fine tremor coursed through his arm, steady as the purr of a cat. “I'm not greedy. I can share your love. But if you're happier apart from me . . .”

For the first time, he faced her. “What do you get from me? Not Zheros. You. I know it's not . . . the lovemaking isn't . . .”

Again, the boy resurfaced, red-faced and stammering. She found herself recalling those first few moons with Jholin—almost as young, certainly as impatient—then resolutely pushed all thoughts of him away.

“Did you open a portal the first time you tried? Or understand the language of birds? Lovemaking is a skill like any other. It takes practice. And patience. My experience is limited, but I'm told young men are notoriously lacking in patience. Although I believe they generally enjoy the practice.”

That surprised a smile from him. Encouraged, she took his hand. “Be patient, Rigat. In time, you'll have everything you desire.”

“And what do you desire?”

“You.”

“And a child?”

She caught her breath. “That . . . that's not possible.”

“I'm the son of a god. Who knows what's possible?”

He led her to the bed where he proved he could be both patient and tender. And when he brought his power to their lovemaking, he gave her greater pleasure than she had ever known. But when she woke near dawn, he was standing on the balcony again, his body quivering with tension as he stared north.

She knew then that she would never truly possess him as long as his mother lived.

B
OUND BY HIS OATH to his mother, Keirith made no attempt to escape, but each day, the weight of the accusing stares grew heavier. Scouting with Holtik allowed him to avoid them during the day. Sentry duty at night postponed sleep, which brought twisted dreams of blood-drenched battles and Xevhan's insidious whispers about his cowardice.

His father's death, the slaughter in the village—it all seemed as unreal as this endless flight to nowhere. They had hoped the Zherosi would abandon the hunt once they reached the forest, but they knew from Selima's runners that the komakh was still pursuing them. Never closer than a mile behind the rear guard, never farther than three, the Zherosi seemed content to trail them without closing in for the kill.

After a sennight, Faelia risked calling a day of rest. While the boys and girls gathered deadwood for a fire, Callie helped Ennit slaughter three of the ewes. The novelty of full bellies helped eased the tension in camp. When Holtik and Braden returned the next morning from carrying food to the rear guard, they reported that the Zherosi had never stirred from their camp.

“They must have seen our smoke,” Faelia said. “Gods, they're close enough to have smelled the meat. What are they doing?”

“Why don't we find out?” Keirith suggested. “All warriors grumble about orders. If we can get close enough—”

“They post sentries at night. Selima's seen them.”

“But not many.” Keirith had heard that report, too. “And they won't expect us to try and infiltrate. I could slip past them—”

“Nay. We'll stay here. Another day. And see what happens.”

For a day they sat in their camp while the Zherosi remained in theirs. After that, Faelia reluctantly agreed to send him and Holtik to find out what Selima knew.

When they reached her camp at midday, Selima greeted him with a fierce hug. “I hope you brought more mutton.”

Keirith smiled and shoved the bag into her arms. “And here I thought you were just happy to see me.”

“I am. I'm surrounded by children.”

The recruits protested with noisy good humor, clearly used to Selima's chaffing. Although she was probably Faelia's age, that still gave her ten years over the most senior member of her band. To compensate, they were all attempting to grow beards; the scraggly fluff on their cheeks made them look like a flock of fledglings.

“They're a pretty worthless lot,” Selima continued with a heavy sigh. “I don't know what Darak was thinking.”

Her breath hissed in. Keirith interrupted her stammered apology to remark that his father had always been fond of children, and the awkward moment passed.

Over a shared meal of cold mutton, it soon became clear that they were as mystified by the Zherosi tactics as Faelia.

“When we move, they move,” Selima said. “When we stop, they stop. I've let them come within bowshot, Keirith! But they just stand there, waiting for us to shoot first.”

“Do you?”

“Once—over their heads. I wish Faelia would let me kill a few. Maybe that would drive them off.”

“Or bring them down on us.”

“Aye. But still . . .” Selima spat. “Better a real fight than this. It makes no sense.”

The red-haired lad named Owan spat, too. “The Spirit-Hunter always said the Zherosi plan everything. So there must be a reason.”

Keirith kept his suspicions to himself, determined to broach them first to his family.

As talk turned to other subjects, his father's name came up again and again. Tentative until they gauged his reaction, the fledglings were soon vying to offer anecdotes about the Spirit-Hunter.

“It was like he could smell danger on the wind.”

“And his eyes—they could see right through you.”

“Remember when he spoke in the village? His voice made my ballocks quiver.”

“Your ballocks are always quivering!”

“He patted me on the shoulder.”

A respectful silence greeted Owan's words. The boys' faces grew dreamy as if each imagined himself the recipient of that approving pat.

“That day we came back from scouting. Me, Lendon, and Cradaig.” Owan nodded to the boys flanking him.

It was a simple story of panicked boys reporting the approach of a Zherosi war party, but the hushed voices of the three who took turns telling it and the faces of those listening changed it into something almost magical.

If Owan lived to start a family, he would tell the tale to his grandchildren. By then, the approving pat would have become a hug and the decision to head north an example of the Spirit-Hunter's godlike wisdom. That was the way with tales, always changing and growing, no matter what the Memory-Keepers recited. And that was why his father had insisted on deflating the myth when he told the tale of his quest to the children of Eagles Mount, emphasizing his fear instead of his bravery, his doubts rather than his certainty of success.

“They need to know there's no shame in being afraid,” Fa once told him. “It's how you meet the fear that counts. If they grow up thinking only great men can accomplish great things, they'll never dare anything for fear of failing.”

The Memory-Keeper lived on in Callie, the hunter and warrior in Faelia. But what part of Fa lived on in him?

The boys fell silent. A sigh eased around the circle. Even Selima's face was soft with recollection. But it was Holtik who said, “You knew him best, Keirith. Would you share a story about him?”

Keirith's gaze moved across the eager, expectant faces. With the Zherosi so close, they didn't need to hear about the man who had screamed when Morgath hacked off his fingers. A tale from Keirith's youth would only remind them of families they might never see again. But perhaps he could give these boys a tale from Fa's youth, one that might give them a source of strength in the coming days.

He cleared his throat and began to speak of his father's vision quest. How he had expected to find a wildcat or a fox when he went into the forest, for they were solitary creatures as he was. How he waited three days and nights, crouched in a thicket, fighting hunger and thirst and the fear that came with every snapping twig and rustle in the underbrush. He described his father's surprise at hearing the she-wolf call his name, and later, the realization that she had come to remind him that he was not alone, but a member of a pack. And he spoke of the comfort and wisdom that his vision mate had offered—on the treeless moors, on the plains of Zheros, even in Chaos.

The boys' silence made him fear he had failed them. Then Lendon looked up. Absently stroking the birthmark on his cheek, he said, “I found a bear on my vision quest. Some of the other boys laughed. Because I was small for my age.” His defiant look dared any of them to comment. “But our Tree-Father said it was because my spirit was fierce.”