Foxfire (82 page)

“The bald spot. But that's a full day's journey southeast.”

Again, Keirith eyed the sky. Rain would make it harder for the Zherosi to trail them, but it would slow his folk down as well. And Selima's band—no matter how skillful or lucky—could not hold off the Zherosi indefinitely.

Finally, he said, “We'd better make for the notch instead. At least it's high ground. If we have to, we can make a stand there.”

Holtik would have to lead. He had to find his mother. Faelia would be able to survive on her own, but if Mam was hurt . . .

Drawn by Owan's arrival, people had begun drifting toward them. He wished he had his father's gift for inspiring confidence or Callie's gift for words. Then he recalled how the simple tale of Fa's vision quest had eased Selima's fledglings. That was what was needed now—not the exhortations of a chief or the poetry of a Memory-Keeper but simple words, spoken with conviction.

As he waited for the rest of the tribe to gather, he sought his allies: Lisula and Ennit, Mirili and Mother Narthi, Alada and Duba. The strong ones who could be counted on to keep the others from panicking. His gaze rested on Owan, who hid his fear behind a grimace; on Holtik, who had become a loyal friend in the short time they had known each other; on Callie whom he had failed to take into his confidence but who rewarded him now with a quick nod of support.

Always, the family had tried to shield “little Callie,” the youngest, the sweetest, the one who deserved to be free of the doubts and fears that plagued the rest of them. But Callum was a man. He had proven himself in battle and in the everyday disputes that arose among the tribe. As Keirith nodded back, he resolved never to exclude his brother again.

His gaze rested longest on Hircha. Her face was very pale, her lips pressed together in a thin line, but her eyes glittered. Hard and blue as the sky in Pilozhat he had thought them when he first saw her, and so they were now. But he had also seen them filled with wicked merriment when she teased Fa, had seen them grow soft and thoughtful when she smiled at Conn. Her sharp tongue could be merciless, but she rarely used it to wound, only to jolt others—especially him—out of a spiral of blame and guilt. If her temper was less volatile than Faelia's, she was just as brave. If she rarely indulged in displays of affection, she was as fierce as his mam in protecting her family.

Conn had been his best friend. His father had been the center of his world. Since losing them, he had felt adrift and alone. But here was Hircha, with her hard mouth and her glittering eyes. The girl who had shared adversity with him in Zheros. The friend who had always told him the truth, however painful. The woman who knew his dark places and helped him look at them without flinching.

As he continued staring at her, her brows drew together in a quizzical frown. Then her mouth curved in a smile so unexpectedly sweet that his body and spirit seemed infused with its warmth.

With a profound effort, Keirith steadied his breathing. The tribe was waiting. The Zherosi were closing in. His mam and Faelia were missing. And Rigat . . . only the gods knew what had happened to turn him against them.

He took a deep breath. “The Zherosi are marching this way.” There were a few gasps, but most of his folk just nodded grimly. “They're still several miles off, but we must assume they mean to attack. We need to break camp now and head east. Holtik knows the route.”

“Braden took a group of boys and girls into the forest,” Mirili said. “To gather deadwood and set snares.”

“Ennit, sound the ram's horn.” Even the little ones knew to race back to camp when they heard it. And only the hunters and scouts ventured farther afield.

“Pack quickly. Leave the fires burning. It'll make it harder for them to guess when we left. We must move fast, but I want an orderly retreat, not a rout.” He paused, seeking some words to strengthen and inspire them. “We've survived the Zherosi before. We'll do it again. Let's go.”

Hardly inspirational, but they sent the tribe hurrying away with resolve on their faces instead of panic.

“Callie, choose a few of the older boys to make up a rear guard. Owan, tell Selima to harry the Zherosi for a few miles, then follow us to the notch. You can see it from any hilltop. Try and reach us before nightfall. If you can't, make camp and head for the bald spot on the morrow.”

As Owan sprinted off, Keirith heard the protesting bleat of sheep. He whirled around to find Arun and Lorthan tying their belts around the necks of the two ewes. Ennit had already leashed Dugan; the ram's tongue lolled, and he surveyed his captor with baleful eyes.

“Ennit!” he shouted, striding toward them. “Leave the damn sheep!”

“These are my best breeders.”

“Good gods, man, we're running for our lives! We can't drag sheep with us.”

Keirith felt a light touch on his arm and turned to find Lisula gazing up at him. “He'd risk his life for those sheep, but he won't risk the tribe. If they slow us down, he'll abandon them.”

Hearing smothered laughter, he glanced over his shoulder. “Ennit's just following a precedent,” Hircha said. “After all, we left Eagles Mount with three sheep.”

He had to laugh. Callie joined in, then Lisula. Ennit's affronted expression only fed their hilarity. It was absurd, yet oddly comforting to share laughter at such a moment.

“Let's use our sheep, then,” Keirith said. “Ennit, can you drive them along the stream for a mile or two while the Holtik leads the way to the notch?”

A slow smile blossomed on Ennit's face. “Draw the Zherosi off, you mean. Aye. My sheep'll do it. With a little help from me and Lorthan.”

“You'll be able to find us later?” Lisula asked.

Ennit's smile became a scowl. “I'm no hunter, but I can still follow a trail left by a horde of women and children.”

“Let's just hope the Zherosi can't,” Keirith said.

“They couldn't find their arses with both hands.” Ennit slapped Dugan's broad rump and the ram let out a nasal bleat of indignation.

Keirith's laughter abruptly died as the white-haired figure emerged from the trees. The droop of her shoulders and her slow stride told Keirith she was exhausted, but it was his mother's face that stopped him in mid-stride. Her expression was as remote as a dream-walker's or a shaman's, her body moving through this world, but her spirit still ensnared by the visions of the other.

She stopped, blinking as if uncertain she recognized those clustering around her. Callie raised his hand to touch her, but at Keirith's gesture, he let it fall.

“Mam?” Although he spoke softly, she started at the sound of his voice. “It's Keirith, Mam.”

She scanned his face and nodded.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

Her hand groped for Fa's bag of charms. Her eyes closed. When they opened again, the glazed expression was gone, replaced by grief so stark that Keirith shivered.

“Faelia is dead. Rigat killed her.”

T
HROUGHOUT THAT LONG AFTERNOON, her words echoed in Keirith's mind, as relentless as the hurried tramp of feet. And like the rain seeping into the earth, his hope of salvaging Rigat leached away.

He had no time to learn more than the bare facts before he took command of the rear guard. There were so few boys of fighting age and no women with sufficient training that he took only Callie, Braden, and Takinel, another of the orphans from Gath's village. He prayed Ennit's ruse would work, that the rain would obliterate their tracks, that the children would be strong enough for the journey.

They clawed their way up steep hills, slipping and sliding on the wet pine needles. Sidestepped down treacherous slopes, clinging to tree trunks and boulders and fallen logs, knowing one misstep might bring the disaster of a twisted ankle, a wrenched knee. At the top of every rise, Keirith scanned the terrain behind them, searching for movement among the trees, but the dense forest and driving rain made it impossible to spy their pursuers.

By the time they reached the notch, the rain had subsided to a drizzle. The women spread skins on the ground and huddled together, mantles shielding the children from the freshening breeze. The little ones clung to their mothers, too tired to cry, too tired even to eat.

At twilight, Ennit and Lorthan stumbled into their makeshift camp, still dragging the sheep behind them. When darkness fell without any sign of Selima and her recruits, he prayed that they had simply made camp for the night and would catch up with them on the morrow.

He and Callie chose to take the second watch so they could spend some time with their mother first. As they walked toward her, Hircha blocked their path.

“She hasn't said a word. Not to me. Not to anyone. I've never seen her like this, Keirith. Even after Darak died.”

Because she hasn't just lost her daughter, Keirith thought, but her son as well.

At least they had seen Fa's body. Faelia's death was unreal. He kept expecting her to appear out of the gloom and roll her eyes when he told her they had all believed she was dead. Only his mam's tight mouth and staring eyes confirmed the truth.

He crouched on one side of her, Callie on the other. He was reluctant to touch her; she still had the look of a shaman lost in a vision. Or Duba, dream-walking through the long years after she had lost her son.

It was that image that made him clasp her unresisting hand. “I don't know what to say, Mam. Or what to do. But I'm here. We're all here. Please. Don't . . . go away.”

His voice broke on the final words, the voice of a scared little boy, caught up in events he could not control.

He had meant to comfort her, to lend her his strength. But she was the one to pull his head down to her shoulder. Her strong hands held him, her voice murmured his name softly. And his murmured in counterpoint: “Mam. Mam. Mam.”

 

 

 

In his dream, Faelia screamed when the arrowhead cleaved her breastbone. Even when she stopped clawing at the shaft of the arrow, even after she fell to the ground, even after she was dead, the scream just went on and on and on. Only then did he realize it was his mam clawing at the arrow, his mam falling to her knees, his mam's scream tearing the air, tearing his spirit, tearing him apart.

Rigat jolted awake, his cry echoing off stone walls as cold and unforgiving as his mother's face. But her strong hands cradled him against her body, her lips pressed gentle kisses to his wet cheeks, her voice murmured his name softly. And his offered a broken, sobbing counterpoint: “Mam. Mam. Mam.”

Then he saw the waterfall of black hair and the dark eyes, wary as a doe's in the flickering torchlight. He pushed her away, wincing at the pain in his arm and the memories it evoked. “I want the Supplicant! Where's the Supplicant?”

“She's not in Pilozhat. Remember? You sent Nekif to the temple before you went to sleep.”

“She might have come back.”

“Her servants would have given her your message. She would have come to you at once.”

Rigat fell back on the fleeces. “No. He's abandoned me. Like everyone else.”

Her silence confirmed what he had always known: that she would leave him, too. In the end, they would all leave, and he would be alone.

“I'm here. I'll never abandon you.”

The patter of bare feet. Her voice, whispering to a slave. Her hand, touching his bare shoulder.

“Drink this.”

The metal of the goblet, as cool as the fingers stroking his neck. The brew, as sweet as her voice urging him to sleep. Sweeter still, the peace that filled him, deep and dreamless as death.

 

 

 

Selima and her recruits were still missing when Keirith roused the tribe at dawn. Fear sharpened senses dulled by lack of sleep. His mind sifted plans and tactics. His body responded automatically to obstacles: ducking under low-hanging limbs, dodging a thorn bush sprawling across the trail. A small part of him even noted the fresh-washed beauty of the forest: water droplets sparkling in the shafts of sunlight, the crispness of the morning air, the leaves of the birches edged in gold. Like his folk, summer was fleeing.

At every hilltop, he glanced back. Each time he caught the flash of metal among the trees, his bowels clenched. Callie's eyes reflected his fear, but neither of them gave voice to it.

When the tribe stopped beside a stream, swollen with last night's rain, he gulped down a few swallows of the cool water and refilled his waterskin. Then he was on his feet again. Rest brought only the renewed consciousness of aching muscles, the reminder that the Zherosi were coming closer with every heartbeat. Better to seek out Holtik and discuss the next leg of the journey, to walk among his tribe mates offering reassurance to the adults and praise for the children's resilience.