Bloodstone (56 page)

Dear gods, had something happened to Callie? Or Faelia? Or were the blue threads the babe they had lost?

“The child grows older. The pattern widens to include his tribe mates.” With quick gestures, Fellgair sketched in dozens of new threads that stretched out from the white in a spiderweb of color and light. Almost like the wards Struath and Yeorna had erected to protect them from Morgath.

“The child begins to make choices.” Dozens of smaller strands of white light shot out in all directions. “He chooses an eagle’s feather instead of a hawk’s to add to his bag of charms.” One tiny strand flared and vanished; another grew brighter. “He knocks down the older boy who is bullying him.” As an orange thread vibrated wildly, Darak searched his memory for a time Keirith had gotten into a fight. “He hones his skills so that he can surpass his father as a hunter.”

Not Keirith’s life, he realized, but his own, shimmering before him.

“And when his father dies . . .” Red threads flickered and vanished, leaving a gaping hole in the pattern. “. . . he chooses to becomes surrogate father to his brother—teaching him, shaping him, channeling his life into the path he wishes him to follow.” Green threads unwound from white. “By the time the boy is a man, the web of his life has been snipped and spun and reshaped a thousand times. For most, the shaping is small. For others, a single decision can alter their lives forever. Like Tinnean’s decision to defend the Tree. And yours to go in search of him.”

Green threads snapped, their ends waving wildly until only one slender strand remained intact, thickly cocooned by the threads of white.

“I know about my life. Show me Keirith’s.”

A casual wave of Fellgair’s hand erased the spiderweb of his life. “This is Keirith’s pattern before he was kidnapped.” Moving too fast for him to follow, the claws created an intricate new pattern, dominated by threads the deep blue of the Midwinter sky at dusk. “And this is Keirith’s pattern afterward.” Fellgair flicked a finger and half of the threads vanished. “The pattern of his life is still being rewoven.” One by one, the branching strands of blue disappeared, until only one remained.

If Fellgair’s pattern was true, Keirith’s chances of survival were as slender as the trembling thread that represented his life. He forced himself to examine the shimmering pattern more closely. Crossing Keirith’s thread were strands ranging in hues from dusky rose to that of dried blood. The colors of the Zherosi, surely. Just as surely, the web of white threads branching out between them belonged to him. And the brilliant ones that shifted from red to gold as he watched—those must be the Trickster’s. But where were Griane’s? The light blue, so closely intertwined with his white, perhaps. Yet those barely touched Keirith’s.

He had to swallow several times before he trusted himself to speak. “Will you save him?”

“No.”

“Can I save him?”

“Yes.”

The surge of relief left him weak. “How?”

The Trickster merely smiled.

“Please.”

With infinite care, Fellgair plucked a strand of white between two lethal claws. Darak’s heart gave an odd little flutter. As Fellgair lifted the thread, his heart missed a beat.

“What do you want?”

Under Fellgair’s claws, the thread stretched into a tiny white peak. Darak reeled, dimly aware of smooth stone sliding past his fingertips, of the jolt of pain as his knees hit the stone flags, of the duller pain that blossomed in his chest and swelled until he felt his heart must burst. He gasped for breath. Black dots danced in front of his eyes, obliterating the web, obliterating everything except those two claws grasping the peak of the taut white thread. If Fellgair broke it, he would die.

And then he realized that was the bargain Fellgair offered: his life in exchange for his son’s.

Flames erupted at the edge of his vision, brilliant bursts of red and gold. Or perhaps those were Fellgair’s threads. Or Griane’s hair, the way it used to look before the white had stolen in. The way it had looked that morning in the grove, fiery spikes framing her white face.

His vision blurred. Something warm and wet ran down his cheek. The world tilted. He had fallen like this when Fellgair first bespelled him, as slow and steady as if he were sinking into the waters of the lake.

Never to see them again. Never to touch them. Never to say farewell.

Summoning his strength, he choked out, “Take me.”

The pain in his chest eased, surprising him. Perhaps Fellgair meant to give him a quick death. He sucked in great gulps of air, helplessly staring up into the golden eyes that would be the last thing he would see. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure Griane’s face. For just a moment, he captured it—the smattering of freckles, the pointed chin, the frown she kept in place to hide her true emotions. And with it came the awareness that she was with him.

He opened himself to her presence, his spirit reaching out for hers. Only then did he realize the truth: it was not Griane’s spirit but Fellgair’s. Inside of him. Invading him. Just as Morgath had invaded him all those years ago.

His eyes flew open and met Fellgair’s calm gaze. He flailed uselessly at the restraining arms, as if by thrusting them away he could somehow rid himself of the god’s spirit.

Fellgair’s voice, the scolding tone as familiar as if he had spoken aloud. He could feel his presence, hovering at the edge of his consciousness.

He heard mocking laughter, but the Trickster’s face was grave. It was Morgath’s laughter, echoing in his memory.

Panic constricted his chest. A giant fist squeezed his heart. His vision narrowed to those two golden eyes above him. His body convulsed as he fought for air. But there was no air.

Stop breathing? Stop fighting?

Something pressed against his chest, but instead of crushing him, his breathing eased. Relief made him sag in Fellgair’s arms. So strong, those arms. On that final journey to the grove, he had yearned for the Forest-Lord to cradle him like this, but there had only been that one fleeting touch, a warm paw cupping the back of his neck the way his mam used to. Now, instead of Hernan’s leaves ticking his cheek, there was Fellgair’s fur. And the scent of honeysuckle filling his nostrils. And music . . . why did he hear music? And a heartbeat. He’d never imagined that gods possessed hearts, but surely that was Fellgair’s.

His heart slowed its frantic pattering to match that steady beat. As if he were back on the tree in Chaos again, feeling that other heartbeat keeping vigil with him, leading him away from Morgath, guiding him through the dream-forest and deep into the cavern where Tinnean and the Oak dwelled within the World Tree.

The music.

His heartbeat raced again as the word sounded inside of him. What new trick was Fellgair trying by conjuring up the song of the World Tree?

Impatience lanced through him, but before he could panic, Fellgair had withdrawn to the periphery of his consciousness again.