Bloodstone (41 page)

“Is Rowan still there? And the other tree-folk?”

“Of course.”

“Are they . . . different?”

“How do you mean?”

“More human?”

“That supposes they’re changing from trees to humans and not the other way around.”

“Aren’t they?” she asked, surprised.

“Actually, they are. But that transformation occurs over thousands of years. To your eyes, Rowan would look just the same.”

“And to yours?”

“Even to my eyes, the changes are barely perceptible. The slightest softening of the bark. The tiniest hint of eyelashes.”

“Do you ever change?”

“You just saw me.”

She’d forgotten how difficult he could be. She must remember to phrase her questions more precisely or she would surely end up being tricked by the bargain she made with him. If she made a bargain.

“I meant—”

“I don’t age as you do.” The golden gaze drifted to her hair. “All the colors of fox fur now. Just as I predicted all those years ago. Did you curse him for leaving you again after you arrived home?”

Her hand had reached self-consciously to smooth the white streak in her hair. Now she let it drop back to her lap. “I thought you wanted to reminisce about happy times.”

“I wanted to reminisce.”

His voice was as pleasant as ever, his manner casual. But the threat—however veiled—was always present when you dealt with the Trickster: I establish the rules for the game. Obey them or the game ends.

Heart pounding, she said, “I don’t want to talk about that.” And waited to see how he would respond to such a deliberate violation of the unspoken rule.

“All right. What shall we talk about? The weather? It’s been warm this spring. The barley? Looks like a fine crop. Your health? You have shadows under your eyes because you haven’t been sleeping. Your tunic hangs on you because you haven’t been eating. You dream of him at night and wake, gasping his name. During the day, you keep busy so you won’t notice how frightened you are, but the fear is always there—stalking you like a predator—and when it pounces, you cry. You hate giving in to tears, so you either hug the children too hard or snap at them for pestering you with questions you can’t answer. And then you curse your Darak. Whose face is the first thing your eyes seek when they open in the morning. Whose hands are the last thing your body seeks as you drift into sleep at night. Darak, whom you chivvy and chide and scold in the vain hope that he won’t realize how desperately you need him.”

“Stop. Please.”

“You curse him—just as you did all those years ago when he left you to return to the First Forest barely a moon after you healed his body and gave him the will to live and finally, finally brought him home safe. I’ve missed our little chats, haven’t you?”

Griane pressed her lips together tightly. At least she could be proud that she had surrendered without a tear. “I didn’t curse him.”

“Young love is so beautiful. So you forgave. If not forgot.”

“Aye.”

“And never spoke of it after?”

“Nay.”

“Yet you wondered, didn’t you? Every time he went back to the grove of the First Forest. You kissed him farewell and watched him walking across the fields and wondered if it was the last time you would ever see him.”

“He gave me his oath.”

“Men are fond of giving oaths. They’re also notorious for breaking them.”

“Not Darak. He never would have left me. Not after . . .”

“Not after Keirith was born.” Fellgair’s voice was very gentle. “You’re right, of course. He would never leave then—no matter how much he longed to. It’s ironic, isn’t it? That the child who guaranteed he would remain is the same one who took him away from you in the end. Do you hate him?”

“Darak?”

“Keirith. For taking your Darak away.”

She stumbled to her feet, gagging. Blindly, she reached out a hand for the heart-oak. Fellgair’s fingers closed around hers. She whirled around, flailing at him with her fist, hating him for his truths, hating him for hurting her.

Effortlessly, he swept her into his arms and sat, cradling her against his chest as if she were a child. She slumped against him, breathing in the sharp animal reek that mingled with the sweet aroma of honeysuckle. So perfect for him, that improbable combination of scents. She’d never realized that until now. But for a being in whom order and chaos combined, everything about him was a combination of opposites: cold and warmth, cruelty and kindness, viciousness and charm.

His fur tickled her nose and she sneezed. Hastily, she slid off his lap and blew her nose on the hem of her tunic.

“I made you cry.” His voice held wonder rather than regret.

“You’ve made me cry before.”

“I remember.” He touched the tip of his forefinger to her cheek, careful not to scratch her. He raised the finger and licked it. His eyes closed. A sensual smile curved his mouth.

“Are they alive?”

His eyes opened. The dreamy expression vanished. “Yes.”

Weak with relief, she asked, “Will you bring them home to me?”

“Griane . . .”

“You could just . . . open a portal. Like you opened the portal to Chaos. You could do that.”

“I could.”

“But you won’t. Because that would be interfering. And gods aren’t supposed to interfere in the affairs of men.”

“Correct.”

“But you do it all the time. You told us Tinnean was in Chaos. You opened the portal for Darak. You—”

“I merely fulfilled my part of the bargain.”

“Saving me from Morgath wasn’t part of the bargain.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re better at this than you were fifteen years ago.”

“You did that because you wanted to.”

“Perhaps.”

“So if you interfered then—”

“Saving you had no significant effect upon the game.”

“You call it a game? The world was dying!”

“Yes, yes.” He brushed aside the deaths of thousands, millions with an impatient gesture. “But it was Darak who had the potential to restore the balance of nature. Because he loved his brother and wanted him back.”

“He loves his son and wants him back.”

“But the situation is different, isn’t it? Your world is in no immediate danger of dying. Your husband and son, perhaps. But not the world.”

“The raiders killed twenty-three people in our village.”

“Twenty-three. Oh, dear.”

“Don’t you dare mock their deaths.”

“I’m mocking you, not those who died. Twenty-three deaths or twenty-three hundred. The number is insignificant. We’re talking of the possible annihilation of a culture, not the death of the world.”

“Annihilation?” she echoed, her voice faint.

“It’s a possibility.”

“And you don’t care? If we’re . . . annihilated?”

“I’d prefer if you weren’t.”

“Of course. Who would worship you then? Who would sing songs and make up tales and bow down before you?”

“I haven’t noticed any bowing lately,” he responded dryly. “As to the rest, I am worshiped by many peoples. As are the Maker and the Unmaker, Bel and Gheala. Even the Oak and the Holly. Although, for obvious reasons, their cult is limited to those living in arboreal regions.”

“It’s all a joke to you.”

“No, my dear, it’s not. That is merely my manner—and the cumulative effect of suffering thousands of these arguments with indignant mortals over the ages. You worry about the fate of individuals, Griane. I involve myself in the fate of worlds.”

“Then you won’t help me?”

“I said I would not bring them home. After that, you embroiled me in this debate and lost sight of your purpose in coming here today.” He winked. “The bit about saving you from Morgath was good, though.”

She had hoped to appeal to his affection for her. Now she was reduced to bargaining.

“If you won’t bring them home, will you protect them?”

He considered her for a long moment before replying. “I’ll protect one. Your husband or your son.”

Griane shook her head. “You made Darak do this. Choose between me and Cuillon.”

“And he chose the Holly-Lord.”

He was watching her closely to see if it still hurt after all these years. She’d never been any good at hiding her feelings. Let him see. “I can’t choose.”

“You won’t choose. There’s a difference.”

“All right. I won’t choose.”

“Then we have nothing further to discuss.”

When he started to rise, she clutched his arm. “How can I choose one if it means condemning the other to death?”

He simply watched her.

“Would I be condemning the other?”

He smiled. “You survived without my protection. After I saved you from Morgath, of course.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

His smile broadened as he sank back onto his bed of leaves. “You would not be condemning the other to death. Although his odds of survival might diminish.”

“Might? Will they or won’t they?”

“I cannot predict the future, Griane. There are too many variables.”

“Who has the best chance of surviving without your help?”

“You know them better than I.”

“But you know where they are. What those people are like.”

“They are adequate farmers, excellent forgers of metal, expert seafarers, extraordinary builders, and ruthless warriors. They are ruled by a king and queen with powers similar to Keirith’s, although theirs are enhanced by the use of drugs. They worship the usual assortment of gods and goddesses of whom the greatest are the sun, the earth, a winged serpent, and the God with Two Faces. They have a stratified class system, including a caste of priests and priestesses whose primary responsibility is to offer sacrifices—human and otherwise—to ensure the blessings of these gods. And they are utterly convinced of their right to absorb neighboring countries to exploit their people and their natural resources.” He yawned, revealing his sharp teeth. “Those, of course, are only the broad strokes.”

What chance did either of them stand against such people? Keirith’s gift might intrigue the Zherosi, but they were just as likely to view it as a threat. And Darak? His hunting skills had proved invaluable in the First Forest, but in the land of the raiders?

“Oh, yes. I should probably mention the prophecy.”

“Prophecy?”

“That one day, the son of their winged god will appear among them and herald a new age. He must be a virgin, possess an interesting assortment of powers, and have red hair.” Fellgair tapped a clawed forefinger against his cheek. “Now who does that remind me of?”

“They think Keirith is a god?”

“Son of a god,” he corrected. “Some do. Some don’t.”

Which could mean Keirith was safe or in even greater peril than she suspected.

Her husband or her son. Darak on an altar stone. Keirith treading a dangerous path between the god some wanted him to be and the fragile mortal he was.

“Please, Lord Trickster.” She fell to her knees before him. “If you want me to beg, I will beg. If you want my life, it is yours. Take it. And protect them both.”

“But I don’t want your life, Griane.”

“What do you want?”

He leaned forward, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath. The world receded to those golden eyes, twin fires boring into her. Embers sparked and swirled within the slitted black pupils, a dizzying dance of light within darkness, heat within cold. The cold rippled down her spine. The heat filled her belly, her womb, her loins.

And then he blinked, shattering the spell. She framed the question in her mind, but could only manage to gasp out, “Forever?”

“No. A day will suffice.”

“But in the Summerlands, you said—”

“I said foxes were monogamous. I’m a god, not a fox.”

Fifteen years ago, she had made the stupid mistake of concluding that if she gave herself to him, she would have to give up her family, her friends—her world—along with her maidenhead. She would not make that mistake again.

Shaking off the lingering effects of the spell, she said, “You want me.”

“Yes.”

“My body.”

“Dare I hope to win your heart as well?”

“My body, Fellgair.”

He sighed. “As you please.”

“For a single day.”

“Dawn to dusk.”

“In exchange for protecting them.”

“In exchange for protecting one of them.”

“Nay.”

He shrugged. “That is the offer.”

“Please.”

“I will protect only one, Griane. Choose.”

“I can’t. Fellgair, I can’t!”

He rose and brushed past her.

Darak’s name screamed out of her before she could stop it. In shocked disbelief, she clapped her hands over her mouth.

The Trickster walked slowly across the glade and bent over her. Very gently, he pried her right hand free and clasped it. “Return here at dawn of the first full moon after Midsummer.” His face was grave, without a hint of his usual mocking smile. He pressed a light kiss to her forehead, then turned abruptly and strode into the trees.

She’d let him goad her. She had not even asked him to specify what “protection” meant. She had betrayed her son without even ensuring the life of her husband.

She clutched her arms as she swayed back and forth, as if she were rocking him to sleep. But the song that echoed in her head was not a lullaby, but the lament for the dead.