Foxfire (79 page)

Keirith closed his eyes. Although Faelia had not seen Othak after the massacre, Keirith had always suspected that Rigat had killed him. Given Othak's role in driving Rigat from the village—and Mam's suspicions about his involvement in Gortin's death—Keirith found it difficult to blame Rigat for that. But Donncha was an old woman with a vicious tongue, and Catha, just a frightened young mother. Rigat had deliberately snuffed out their lives. How could he forgive that? How could he encourage this vengeful boy to return to them when any slight—however small—might bring down his wrath?

He didn't know the limits of love, but his mam still believed Rigat could be reclaimed. And for her sake, he had to try.

Keirith opened his eyes to find Rigat watching him. Immediately, his brother's gaze slid away and he began shaking pine needles from the folds of his khirta.

“Give up the power,” Keirith urged him. “Before it destroys you. Give it up and come back to us.”

Three times for a charm. But was any charm powerful enough to influence the son of a god? Or avert the death his visions foretold?

“I'll stand by you,” Keirith promised.

Rigat's head came up. For a long moment, his brother studied him. “Will you? I wonder.”

With a flick of his forefinger, Rigat opened a portal and was gone.

R
IGAT SANK DOWN AGAINST THE boulder where Darak had crouched the morning of their hunt—the last completely happy day he could remember. As exciting as the kill had been, it was Darak's pride in him and the triumph they had shared that had made the day so joyful.

Would he still be proud now? Or as horrified as Keirith?

The song of the stream sounded like the babble of a fretful child; the breeze in the pines, an ominous whisper. He told himself that his unsettling encounter with Keirith had tainted his perception. But he hadn't imagined the dark emotions that shadowed his brother's spirit: horror at the deaths of Donncha and Catha; fear and envy of a power so much greater than his; and the anguish of losing Darak, still as raw as a fresh wound, an insurmountable barrier to any reconciliation.

Yet beneath it all, reluctant and barely acknowledged, he had touched love.

But only if he gave up his power. The power Keirith claimed would destroy him.

When he'd learned that the Unmaker was draining Fellgair's power, he had feared his would dissipate as well. If anything, it felt stronger. He could always feel it now, flickering inside of him. As he called upon it, the tension in his body drained away, replaced by the same joy, the same comfort he had once found in this place. How could that be bad? His spirit might be weary and his nerves frayed, but that was a small price to pay for all that he had accomplished.

Why couldn't his brother understand that he had killed Donncha to protect him? He'd even arranged Catha's death to look like an accident to prevent anyone from blaming Keirith.

It had been a mistake to seek him out. Keirith had always been ambivalent about his own gift, and his too-tender conscience made it impossible for him to understand that power must sometimes be used to punish the guilty as well as protect the innocent.

He had hoped this last half-moon would show his family how much they needed him, would help them understand why he couldn't save Darak. But only his mam had remained steadfast.

He would go to her. Let her love soothe him like his power. But first, he would go to the Summerlands and fetch those healing plants for her. After Darak's healing, he had been too weak to open a portal. Now it would be easy.

The pines in front of him blurred, as if tears distorted his vision. Then their trunks became distinct again. Frowning, he raised his hand and tried again. The air felt impossibly thick; it was like moving his finger through water. Yet his power surged eagerly in response to his summons.

He fixed the Summerlands in his mind. Pictured the waterfall cascading over the ledges. The long shadows of the oaks stretching across the pool. The vibrant green of the grass and the sparkle of quartz in the rocks.

A third time, the portal refused to open.

“I cannot go to the Summerlands,” Fellgair had said. “The way is barred to me.”

Clearly, the way was barred to him as well.

Despite the warmth of the afternoon, Rigat shivered. Then he shook his head impatiently. If he couldn't open a portal directly into the Summerlands, he would find another way there.

It was nearly sunset before he managed to carve a gateway into the First Forest. Shaken by his difficulty in opening the portal, he peered at the grove.

In the slanting rays of red-gold light, the One Tree seemed to glow. Shadowy Watchers darted between the trees. Birds sang a final chorus to the fading glory of the day. And in the midst of the dead leaves that carpeted the grove, a brilliant blue path of flowers stretched west from the One Tree to his feet.

Speedwell. Of course. Tinnean had offered Darak that sign when they parted all those years ago. He must have done so again, allowing Darak to go to his death knowing his brother still remembered and loved him.

As he blinked back tears, he noticed a mound of leaves nestled among the roots of the One Tree. Had Darak sat there during his final day of life? It seemed such a lonely death—a world away from his family, with only the trees and the Watchers as witnesses. And Fellgair.

The pathetic little nest drew him, but the path of speedwell blocked his way. Reluctant to crush the flowers, he stepped carefully through the portal and closed it behind him.

The light in the grove faded. The birds fell silent. Even the Watchers hesitated. Although the sky was still the same deep blue, it was as if twilight had suddenly fallen.

Despite his uneasiness, he refused to be thwarted now. Dead leaves crunched as he stepped off the path. He turned to inspect the damage and caught his breath.

Two black shapes marred the blue, as if the weight of his sandals had not only crushed the speedwell, but scorched it beyond recognition. As he watched, the devastation crept slowly toward the One Tree. The brilliant blue of the flowers faded. The heart-shaped leaves trailed limply on the ground. When the dying path reached Darak's nest, the leaves erupted in a tiny whirlwind, swirling like those he had made dance so many years ago.

As he hurried toward it, the Watchers streamed out of the trees to surround the One Tree. The dance subsided, scattering leaves over the exposed roots, but the Watchers only grew more frantic.

A dark form leaped at him, then retreated as he stumbled aside. To his shock, more rushed at him. Spectral limbs buffeted him like gusts of wind. Waves of cold assailed him as the Watchers passed into him and through him, trailing fear and malevolence in their wake.

Anger flared and with it, his power. He hurled it at an approaching Watcher, which dissipated like the slugs in Chaos. His grim satisfaction turned to panic as the others renewed their attack. He staggered away from them and tripped over a root. Flinging out his hand, he touched bark.

The Watchers froze. Beneath his palm, the Tree-Lords' thrumming energy raced as wildly as his heartbeat. The song of the World Tree faltered. Then Rigat felt Tinnean's energy swell and pressed both hands against the trunk. Tinnean would tell them he had not come here with any evil intent, that he had simply defended himself against an unprovoked attack.

The song of the World Tree throbbed inside him, relentless as death, slow as rot eating through heartwood, the energy of the world that moved with the unhurried patience of the ages. It crawled over his body, scouring skin, gnawing through bone. It penetrated his spirit, illuminating the dark places, scorching them with pitiless fire.

The World Tree screamed.

From the Tree-Lords and Tinnean came answering screams. From the Watchers and the trees in the grove came a circle of relentless, unforgiving cries. Birds erupted from branches. Animals crashed through the underbrush, maddened. The scream of the World Tree lanced through Rigat, through the First Forest, through every being created by the Maker since the world's first dawning, a howl of anguish and despair that sent him staggering backward.

In the sudden silence, the Watchers melted back into the trees. The birds returned to their roosts. But the scream echoed inside of Rigat, thudding like a second heartbeat.

“You should not have come here.”

Fellgair's voice sounded weary. Rigat had not seen him since the coronation. Nor had he sought him out, secretly fearing his displeasure at the choices he had made, the lives he had taken. Now, he wanted to run to him and let his father shield him from the horror of the Tree-Lords and the revulsion of the World Tree.

Instead, he took a moment to steady his breathing and arrange his features into some semblance of calm. Then he turned.

“Dear gods . . .”

Patches of pale flesh peeked out between the matted clumps of fur on Fellgair's shrunken body. Scraggly locks of white hair clung to the balding head. A fretwork of lines marred his face. But the golden eyes were the same.

“They fear you,” Fellgair said. “And what you're becoming.”

Hiding his terror, Rigat demanded, “And what is that?”

“A creature of Chaos.”

“You're the one who said I had to make choices! And I have. Hard choices. With little enough help from you. And what about all the good I've done? I'm bringing the war in Carilia to an end. I won trading concessions from Lilmia. Good gods, I even carved irrigation canals through Zheros to keep the crops watered. I'm bringing order, not chaos.”

“And what of the children of the Oak and Holly?”

“I freed them from slavery, didn't I? A ship is on its way north now, carrying them home. Some of them. Those who wanted to go.”

“But what kind of life awaits them?”

“A better life than they had in Zheros!”

“And your dream of peace?”

Rigat winced. “Peace requires sacrifice.”

“Is that what Darak was? And Vazh? And Geriv? And—”

“That's not fair!” His voice broke. “I'm not a monster.”

“No. Of course not.” Fellgair sighed. “I'm sorry, Rigat. I've failed you.”

“You gave me life and power and the skill to use it. Thanks to you, I'm changing the world.”

“Yes. Thanks to me.” For a long moment, Fellgair simply stared at the roots of the One Tree. Then he roused himself. “So. What will you do next?”

“I want . . . I'm going to see my mother.”

He sounded like a small, scared child, but the encounter with the World Tree had shaken him badly. And Fellgair's words only undermined his confidence further.

“I'm glad. Listen to her counsel, Rigat. She's far wiser than I am.” Fellgair laid his palm against the trunk of the One Tree and recoiled. “We don't belong here.”

“That will change,” Rigat replied with more assurance than he felt. “In time.”

And he could change as well. He would prove that to his family—to the whole tribe—by calling off the hunt.

He summoned his power, eager to leave the One Tree behind. Then he hesitated. “Can I stop it? What's happening to you?”

“It's too late for me. But you still have time to change your path.”

Rigat glanced at the dead speedwell and shuddered.

The portal opened easily, as if the First Forest was eager to be rid of him.

I
N GRIANE'S DREAM, Rigat stood knee-deep among pink spikes of foxtails, his hair blazing in the sunlight.