Foxfire (8 page)

He drew back to stare into his son's face. “It's my fault. I should have said something, helped you. Gods, you'd think I'd know better. After what Keirith went through as a lad.” He squeezed Rigat's shoulders. “It'll be different now. You'll see.”

“But it'll never be like it is with Callie or Keirith.”

Worse than the words was Rigat's smile—so knowing, so sad, so forgiving.

“Aye. Well. You're all different people.” But that was an evasion. Rigat had already turned away when he added, “Callie was always easy. Keirith . . . it was harder with him. He was the first. You always make mistakes with the first.”

Rigat nodded cautiously.

“What happened in Zheros changed things. We shared a body. Our spirits were linked. It's hard—sharing yourself like that. But it brought us closer.”

Closer than a father and son ought to be, he sometimes thought. But he couldn't tell Rigat that.

“I forget sometimes. What it's like to be your age. I was a loner like you. Never had any friends to speak of. Only happy in the forest. Always pushing myself—to provide for the tribe, to take care of my mother and brother, to be better than everyone else. Especially my father.”

“And you were.”

“A better hunter, maybe. But not half so wise.”

“Well, he
was
dead. When you found him in Chaos, I mean. That probably helped.”

Rigat's earnest expression made him smile. “Maybe we're all wise after we die.”

“That doesn't help much now.”

“Nay. But we have to keep trying.”

Rigat's gaze fell. “I do try, Fa.”

“I know you do. And so do I.”

“I know.”

Darak winced. Had his doubts been so plain, his efforts to be a loving father so forced?

“I make mistakes, Rigat. All the time. I try to learn from them, but . . .” He shook his head. “You're my son. As much as Callie or Keirith. If I can't understand your gift, I can share this with you.” His hand swept out to encompass the forest. “Not only the hunt or even today's kill, as wonderful as that was. You and I . . . we're children of the forest. It's in our blood and our bones and our spirits. It's the home we always long for, the dream we always seek.”

He stopped, embarrassed by his poetic outpouring. He was talking like a Memory-Keeper, not a father. Rigat's thoughtful nod told him he understood, but the moment called for something more powerful than words.

He drew his dagger and scored his wrist before holding out the blade. Rigat's hand shook as he made the cut, the blood welling in a string of tiny bright beads.

Darak took Rigat's hand and pressed their wrists together. “You are the son of my blood. The child of my spirit. And today, we start anew.” He flicked his wrist four times, once in each direction, and Rigat did the same.

They smiled awkwardly at each other. A shaman understood how to bring his people back to the everyday world from the rarified one of the spirit. Even a Memory-Keeper knew how to end a tale. Darak just stood at the edge of the stream, the blood warm on his fingers.

Finally, he said, “Aye. Well. At this rate, we'll both bleed to death before we get home.”

Rigat's laugh was as pure and refreshing as the crisp air. Using strips cut from the bottom of their tunics, they bandaged their wrists. Together, they slid the branch under the stag's bound hooves. Even Darak staggered when he hefted the branch onto his shoulder; the deer weighed more than a full-grown man. It would be a long walk home.

As Rigat led the way across the stream, Darak saw his head jerk toward a pine spar.

“What is it?” he called. “Did you see something?”

Rigat glanced back over his shoulder. “Just a fox.” His forehead creased in sudden concern. “You're shivering, Fa. Do you want my mantle?”

“Nay, I'll warm up soon as we start moving.”

Darak kept his smile in place until Rigat turned away.

T
HE TRIUMPH OF THE HUNT convinced Rigat to return to the forest for his vision quest. It was a risky choice—Seg would probably venture only a mile from the village—but the kill had been too clear a sign to ignore.

Even before darkness fell, he grew impatient. He shifted restlessly on the mound of pine needles and toyed with the charms he had collected over the last moon: the feather of a blackcock; a fire-blackened heather twig; the scaly fin of a trout; and a mossy tine from the antler of the stag he had brought down—his most precious and powerful charm.

He returned them to the small doeskin bag he wore around his neck and shoved back his sleeve to examine his right forearm. The Tree-Father should have created the tattoo, but Gortin's eyesight was so poor that Othak had to do it. Rigat had borne the pain stoically, too thrilled by the sight of the branching antlers slowly taking shape above his bandaged wrist to mind the repeated stab of the bone needle. Almost as wonderful as the hunter's tattoo was the quiet pride on Fa's face—and the envy on Seg's.

When he completed his vision quest first, his rival would have another reason to be envious. Rigat was certain his vision mate would come before moonrise. If he left for home immediately, he would arrive just as the sun was cresting the hills. He smiled as he pictured himself striding past the lake, sunlight framing his body and turning his hair to fire. And while Seg squatted in the bracken, he would stand before the Tree-Father and hear the words he'd awaited so eagerly: “Today, a man walks among us.”

As the night waned and Gheala's swollen body sailed west, his confidence ebbed. Perhaps the gods were punishing him for being too cocky. Certainly, Gheala peeped between the pines, as if teasing him with his vision mate's tardiness. Swaying branches created shadowy forms that danced through the patches of moonlight. The stream danced, too, and gurgled with laughter as the moon goddess coaxed tiny sparks of light from its surface.

The whole forest seemed to be singing tonight: dead needles rustling as a small animal crept over them; pine boughs sighing in the breeze; dead branches rattling like the dice Keirith had carved from an antler. The snort of a deer. The hoot of an owl. A rush of wings and the terrified squeak of a mouse, suddenly silenced.

He yawned and shifted position again. His arse was getting sore from sitting so long. And his empty belly growled after a day of fasting. To distract himself, he crafted figures from the tumbling water, calling forth the silhouette of a hawk, the lithe body of a stalking fox. He shaped the foam into a mound of snow. The fox stepped onto it, leaving a trail of tiny prints.

Too late, Rigat remembered his promise to Keirith. The fox melted into the freshet with a barely perceptible splash.

He was glad he'd confided in his brother—and in Fa. He hadn't told them everything, of course, but at least he'd laid their worst fears to rest. Fa's, he could understand; in spite of all he had done, he knew little of magic. But Keirith's ambivalence baffled him.

Only once had he managed to wheedle his brother into talking about the battle to cast out the spirit of the Zherosi priest. Of course, a child of the Oak and Holly wasn't supposed to do such things, but the man was an enemy. Keirith should be proud that he'd used his power to destroy him and save Fa's life. That's the kind of thing heroes did. Except Keirith never acted like a hero. He seemed almost . . . ashamed.

Rigat frowned and searched for something more pleasant to occupy his mind. He settled on his favorite game: When I Become Chief. The best part was deciding which of his tribe mates to cast out. Elasoth would have to go. Hard to imagine the meek little man had ever possessed the courage to defy Fa and cast Keirith out of the tribe. Harder still to believe that Keirith was actually friends with him. He never would have forgiven such a betrayal.

He felt a fleeting regret for Elasoth's daughters, but allowing them to remain was a risk. For all he knew, an aptitude for treachery could be handed down from one generation to the next.

Which made the issue of Nemek so tricky. True, his father had been the chief who had voted to cast out Keirith, but he liked Nemek. Everyone did. Besides, the tribe needed two Memory-Keepers to ensure that the bloodlines and legends were preserved, and Callie was still completing his training. But such difficult choices made the game more challenging.

He went hut by hut, disposing of some tribe mates quickly, lingering over others. He was proud of his leniency toward Faelia; if he were vindictive, he would toss her out with the rest. She had ignored him when he was little and as he got older, had directed more than her usual share of caustic comments at him. He wasn't sure if she was jealous of his hunting prowess or if she just disliked him. But blood was blood. And history had proved how important it was for family to stick together.

One day, he would play the game in earnest, but only after his father's spirit had flown to the Forever Isles. The thought cast a shadow over his pleasure. Fa always shrugged off their concerns about his heart, but they all worried about him. Especially Mam.

Maybe after his vision quest, though, he and Fa could come back here. Just for a few days. They could hunt during the day and at night, Fa could tell him the story of his quest to find Tinnean and the Oak-Lord. As many times as he'd heard it, he still found it thrilling. Especially the part where Fa bargained with the Trickster.

He was trying to imagine what he would say to a god when something about the wavering moonlight made him sit up straighter.

The fox rose out of the stream, just like the one he had conjured with his magic. Although its ruddy fur and white ruff looked real enough, he could see right through its body to the foaming water beyond.

It stood utterly still on a flat rock in the middle of the stream, watching him. He waited in an agony of impatience, praying that the moment had finally arrived. And then, in a high-pitched, rasping voice that Rigat heard only in his mind, the fox called his name.

He thought his heart would burst, it was pounding so hard. He opened his mouth to thank his vision mate, but before he could, it melted back into the water.

Rigat leaped to his feet with a triumphant whoop. Then, abashed, he knelt and offered a prayer to the Maker. Only then did he remember his mam's outburst when Keirith predicted he would a find a fox during his vision quest. Her reaction still puzzled him, but he refused to allow it to lessen his joy.

Too excited to sleep, he returned to his bed of pine needles and relived the brief encounter again and again. Every few moments, he paused to scan the sky, as if that would hurry the dawn. Finally, he decided to return to his game. At least that would keep his mind busy.

He had no particular grudge against Othak, although the Tree-Brother always looked like he'd eaten something that disagreed with him. But he had to leave the tribe so that Keirith—in spite of his silly objections—could become Tree-Father after Gortin died.

Conn presented a bigger problem. He was Keirith's best friend, but he was married to Hircha. And Hircha belonged with Keirith. They had shared all that wonderful danger in Zheros, had practically slept side by side in the years that followed. He didn't understand why it hadn't worked out. He'd dropped any number of casual hints about marriage, yet when Conn arrived, Keirith had just stood aside and let him woo and wed the woman who should have been his.

Clearly, Keirith needed
someone
. Over the years, Rigat had been jolted out of sleep many times by his brother's thrashing. Until recently, he had assumed it was just one of his nightmares. But this past year, he had discovered for himself that another sort of dream could pull a man from sleep. The first time he'd experienced one, Keirith eased his embarrassment with the whispered reassurance that all boys had such dreams. Less comforting was the knowledge that his body—always prone to arousal at the most inopportune moments—was sneaky enough to betray him while he was asleep.

His parents still made love. He tried not to listen, but it was a small hut, after all. He was glad they still wanted each other. Proud, too, that such old folk had the stamina for it. Faelia had Temet—he wasn't around much, but when he was, they were always doing it—and Callie would surely marry Ela at the Fall Balancing. But Keirith had no outlet at all—save for his fist.

Did he sneak off to watch the young women bathing in the reeds at the eastern edge of the lake? Or spy on the courting couples as they made love in the bracken? Rigat prided himself on knowing the best spots for observation, but it was a little disturbing to think of his brother crouching in them, too. A man shouldn't have to do that.
He
certainly wouldn't, once he was old enough to take a wife.