Bloodstone (81 page)

All afternoon, the debate raged. As Memory-Keeper, it fell to Darak to recite the law that might condemn his son. He stumbled only once, when he reached the last of the acts deemed offenses against the gods: “to subvert or subjugate the spirit of any creature. The punishment for one who commits such abominations is death.”

A lengthy discussion followed. Had a crime been committed? If so, was it justified? In the case of murder, the law was clear: anyone who killed without provocation would be cast out of the tribe. But the law didn’t specify whether subversion or subjugation of a spirit could be justified—as could murder—if the act was committed in self-defense.

“As elders, it’s our duty to interpret the law as well as enforce it,” Lisula insisted.

“Of course,” Lorthan agreed.

“Why is it so vague?” Elasoth asked.

“Because it was only set down after Morgath’s sacrilege,” Muina replied. “Until then, no one could imagine anyone would subvert the spirit of another creature.”

“Or possess the power to do so.” Strail glanced at Ifrenn who nodded.

“Struath did,” Darak interjected.

“What Struath did—or didn’t do—has no bearing on our deliberations,” Gortin said.

“I believe it does. Struath was a great shaman, but he told me that he had cast out the spirit of a wren. He didn’t mean to. He was young. Just a few years older than Keirith. And under Morgath’s influence.”

“I will not sit here and listen to you vilify Struath!” Gortin exclaimed.

“I saw Struath use his power to try and cast out Morgath’s spirit.”

“He was fighting for his life!”

“So was Keirith!”

“Stop shouting, both of you.” Nionik’s glare swung from him to Gortin. “Struath is dead, may his spirit live on in the Forever Isles. Whatever . . . mistakes he might have made, he paid for. We will not debate his actions here.”

He couldn’t belabor the point without risking the censure of the entire council, but he had to make them understand that the tribe’s greatest shaman had used the same power as his son. You could not revere one and condemn the other.

“Struath once told me that magic was not evil,” Lisula said, “only those who misused it.”

Lorthan nodded thoughtfully. “Very wise.”

“Tree-Father, you know Keirith well,” she continued. Better than any of us. Except Darak, of course. When you dismissed him from his apprenticeship, did you believe he had misused his gift?”

Darak didn’t trust himself to look at Gortin. What a fool to provoke him by bringing up Struath.

“I was afraid of his power. And the potential to abuse it. Naturally, I thought of Morgath.”

Darak’s hands clenched into fists.

“But Keirith is not Morgath. It was my duty as Tree-Father to help him understand his gift, to teach him to use it wisely. Instead, I acted out of fear. And . . . jealousy.”

Slowly, Darak raised his head.

“Keirith sought communion with the eagle, not power over it. He would never touch any wild creature with the intent to harm it. In casting out the spirit of this foreign priest, I believe he acted in self-defense. If Keirith had killed him with a dagger, we would exonerate him. He had to use another weapon—the only one he possessed.”

Once again, Gortin had proved himself the better man. And all Darak could do was nod his thanks.

By late afternoon, they were all exhausted, but Darak was confident that Muina, Lisula, Gortin, and Nionik would stand with him. Lorthan, too, probably; he always voted with the chief.

Nionik held out two small bowls. One contained black pebbles, the other white. “No one should be swayed by another’s choice. For that reason, we will cast our votes anonymously. When I pass the bowls, please take four pebbles—two black and two white.”

He waited for the bowls to return before continuing. “The first vote will determine if Keirith was justified in casting out the spirit of this man. If you believe he was, place a white pebble in this.” He held up a small deerskin pouch, not much larger than the bag of charms each man wore around his neck. “If you believe Keirith’s act was not justified, place a black pebble in the bag. Is that clear?”

After receiving nods from everyone, Nionik added, “If there are more white pebbles than black, Keirith is exonerated and our deliberations are over. If not, Keirith will be deemed guilty of a crime and we must vote on his punishment.”

“What . . . ?” Elasoth faltered. “What punishment will we vote on?”

“I’m coming to that,” Nionik replied. His ill-concealed impatience made Elasoth flush. “Forgive me. I’m tired. We all are. You’re right to seek clarification. We’re deciding a young man’s fate today and there must be no confusion as to our proceedings. For a crime of this nature, there are only two punishments: casting out or death. If you place a black pebble in this bag, you are condemning Keirith to one of those punishments. Is that clearly understood?”

Nionik’s gaze moved slowly around the circle and lingered on him. Darak wanted to believe it was Nionik’s way of showing his support, but it was hard to read anything other than exhaustion in his face.

Gortin got to his feet stiffly and closed his eye. “Maker, guide the heart and mind of each person sitting around this circle. Oak and Holly, give us wisdom and help us to judge this boy—the child of our tribe—as we would wish to be judged.”

As Gortin sat again, Lisula rose. “Lacha, soothe our hearts with your eternal waters. Bel, fill our minds with the light of truth. Halam, earth mother, guide the hands that hold Keirith’s fate. Taran, Thunderer, proclaim the path we must follow. Eternal elements of life, bless this council and bless Keirith, who needs our wisdom. And deserves our mercy.”

Nionik frowned at Lisula who glared back at him defiantly, Maker bless her.

When Darak’s turn came to vote, his hands betrayed him and he fumbled the bag. Both Elasoth and Muina reached out to help him, but he shook his head and carefully slipped a white pebble inside. Lisula gave him an encouraging smile as she passed the bag to Nionik who poured the pebbles out.

Darak could only make out a spill of black and white among the rushes. Lisula’s sharp cry told him the outcome.

Nionik looked up. “Keirith has been judged guilty.”

He could feel Muina’s fingers gripping his knee. He could hear Lisula’s soft murmurs of distress. But all he could do was stare at Nionik and shake his head.

“I’m sorry, Darak. Truly sorry.”

They had condemned his boy. His own folk had condemned him.

“The council has decided that Keirith committed a crime.”

“Nay.”

“We must now vote to determine whether he will be cast out of the tribe—”

“Nay!”

“Or sentenced to death.”

Darak’s gorge rose and he staggered outside. He barely made it behind the longhut before his legs gave out. He fell to his knees, fighting the urge to vomit. He could scarcely breathe for the hard knot in his chest. It was like Fellgair was holding his heart again, squeezing it between remorseless fingers. When he felt the hand on his shoulder, he looked up, surprised to find Lisula kneeling beside him instead of the Trickster.

She pulled his head down to her breast. Something damp and warm oozed down his face. Lisula’s tears, he realized. Why couldn’t he weep for his son?

He should never have allowed Keirith to come home. He should have forced him to stay with Illait. But he had been so sure . . .

“Darak. Dear. They’re waiting for you.”

He shoved himself upright with such force that Lisula fell back on her elbows. “You expect me to vote on whether my child’s heart should be cut out of his chest or whether he should be driven from his home?”

“Darak, please . . .”

“Get away from me.”

He leaned against the longhut, his fist pressed against his chest. It had all been for nothing—the endless journey, the terror of opening his spirit, Keirith’s battle to defeat the Zheron. Urkiat’s death. And Bep’s and Hakkon’s and Malaq’s.

In his arrogance, he had refused to heed Malaq’s warning, assuring him that Keirith belonged with his people. The same people who were now deciding whether to kill him or cast him out of his tribe forever.

He heard footsteps in the grass and turned.

“The council has voted for a casting out,” Nionik said.

Instead of relief, the rage burned hotter. He had only to look at Nionik’s face to realize the truth. “It was you.”

“What?”

“Muina. Gortin. Lisula. They voted with me. It was you.” Nionik met his gaze without flinching. “Aye.”

“He’s my son.”

“You think it was easy for me? Good gods, Darak, I have a son, too.”

“How could you do it?”

“I had to vote my conscience.”

Darak bit back the curse that rose to his lips.

“He could have stopped,” Nionik said.

“What?”

“After he drove the man’s spirit from your body. Instead, he pursued him. He cast out his spirit and took his body. He could have stopped, Darak. But he didn’t.”

“The Zheron meant to sacrifice me on his altar. He drove a dagger into my son’s chest. You think he would have stopped? Ever?”

When Nionik shook his head wearily, Darak grabbed him by the front of his tunic and shoved him up against the wall of the longhut. “If Keirith had stopped, we would have died. But that would have been all right. Because then, Keirith would have paid for his mistake—as Struath did.”

Nionik pushed him off. “I don’t know! But I do know this power is dangerous. And so do you. And one day, Keirith will turn it on someone else.”

“Then why not kill him?”

“Because . . . none of us could bear the thought of it.”

“He’s fourteen years old. He can’t hunt for fear he’ll hear the screams of the animals he kills. Casting him out
is
killing him. You’ve just offered him a slow death instead of a quick one. Can you bear the thought of that?”

“Darak . . .”

“Let go of me.”

Nionik dropped his hand. His shoulders drooped, but when he finally raised his head, he wore the face of the chief once more—stern and emotionless. “The council has voted. The law must be upheld.”

“You think I’ll stand by while you drive my son from the village?”

“Then you’ll be violating the law and you, too, will be punished.” Nionik rubbed his eyes. “I know how hard this is. But without the law, we are savages.”

“And with the law, you are murderers. May the gods forgive you, Nionik. I never will.”

Numbly, he walked home. He could hear the sounds of families inside their huts, but no children lingered outside to play, no old folks chatted together, enjoying the last rays of sunlight. Perhaps word had already spread and everyone wished to avoid him, uncertain of what to say, unwilling to face his bitterness—or fearful they might be tainted by association.

Even before he reached his hut, he knew what he had to do, but he still needed a moment to gather himself before going inside. To his surprise, he found Gortin there with Muina and Lisula. Muina was hushing Lisula whose cheeks were wet with tears. Griane was dry-eyed but very pale. Callie clung to her skirt, sucking his thumb; it had been years since he’d done that. Somewhere behind them, he could hear Faelia sobbing and Hircha murmuring comfort.

Keirith stepped forward. Incredibly, he smiled. “It’ll be all right, Fa. Really. It will.”

Between them, no words were needed. But even if Keirith understood his intentions, he was clearly fighting for calm. As much as Darak wanted to hold him, he knew such a gesture would shatter his son’s control. In the end, all he could do was smile back. “Aye, son. We’ll get through this. Together.”

Before he could say more, the bearskin was drawn aside. Darak recoiled when he saw Nionik. He remained in the doorway, wise enough to know he was not welcome.