Foxfire (10 page)

Somewhere in the crowd, Rigat heard Callie give a great whoop, provoking laughter and cheers. Dazed, Rigat listened to the unexpected acclaim. Fa's hug made his ribs ache. Keirith and Callie thumped him on the back so hard he nearly fell over. Hircha pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then ran her palm over the soft whiskers that his brothers called fuzz. Mam's mouth trembled as she smiled. So did the arms that came up to embrace him. Was she just relieved that he had passed his testing or worried because he'd found a fox?

He let himself be swept up by his family and marched to their hut where Fa retrieved a leather flask of elderberry wine and poured a cup for everyone. Rigat's grimace drew a laugh from his brothers, but the wine left a pleasant afterglow that made up for its tartness.

One by one, his family presented him with their gifts: a new doeskin tunic from his mam, arrowheads from Fa, a flask of elderberry wine from Hircha, a scrap of fleece Callie had lovingly preserved from Old Dugan—“because you and he were such good friends.” Even Faelia had left him a gift: six new arrow shafts fletched with owl feathers. He was surprised and touched at her thoughtfulness, but he lingered longest over Keirith's gift.

He had seen the dagger only once. He had come upon Keirith, sitting alone by the stream, staring at it. When he had admired the delicate spirals incised on the bronze blade, Keirith had replied, “Aye. It's beautiful to look at.” But he refused to say more about it, and when they returned to the hut, he put it away. Although his brother had never said as much, Rigat had always wondered if it was the same dagger the priest had driven into Keirith's heart.

There was no time to question him now. He had to change into his new tunic, drag a bone comb through his tangled hair, and scrape the whiskers from his cheeks—not an easy task with his father and brothers speculating about whether he would cut his throat, and Mam alternating between scolding them and cautioning him about how sharp the flint was.

The afternoon was waning when they all trooped down to the lake for the feast. When the Grain-Mother sliced off the first piece of mutton and offered it to Seg, it was all Rigat could do not to snatch it out of her hands. Instead, he waited his turn and accepted his slice with a polite bow. After a quick exchange of glances, he and Seg fell on the meat, drawing laughter from the rest of the tribe and a shouted observation from someone that Seg might have found a wolf, but they both ate like one.

After that, the day only got better. When his name was shouted—along with Seg's—he responded with the obligatory swig of wine and won roars of approval from the men—especially those who had been hefting their flasks a little too often. Sour or not, the wine helped ease the headache that lingered from Gortin's testing.

“Go easy,” Callie warned him. “It has a way of sneaking up on you.”

Rigat laughed, recalling the aftermath of Callie's celebration of manhood. “Don't worry,” he boasted. “Fa won't have to carry me to bed.”

He wandered through the crowd, shrugging modestly when the men congratulated him, smiling at the women who tweaked his braids and called him “Fox Cub.” Unlike Seg who pointedly ignored the younger boys, Rigat answered all their stammered questions about his vision quest, thrilled by their awestruck expressions. He was prouder still when some of the men asked him to speculate about his father's reasons for refusing to lend his support to the rebellion, and gladly offered his opinion on the matter.

He was a man now—a full member of the tribe. He could drink, he could venture an opinion, he could even choose a wife if he wanted, although, of course, he would wait. No sense rushing into anything. The son of Darak Spirit-Hunter was a catch. No wonder so many of the older girls smiled when he strolled past.

Nedia's smile warmed him even more than the wine. A priestess could choose any lover she wished. Why not him? If only Seg would leave her alone. Every time he circled back, Seg was there, touching her hand, nudging her shoulder, leaning close to whisper something but obviously just trying to brush up against her breast. Even more infuriating was the way Nedia smiled at his boasts and laughed when he threw back his head and howled like a wolf. If that kind of behavior appealed to her, perhaps she wasn't the one for him, regardless of her flashing dimples and full breasts and lovely, round bottom.

Still, you'd think Ennit and Lisula would do something. Or Conn. But Nedia's parents just walked away. Conn—as always—had eyes for no one but Hircha, and Hircha—as always—observed everything and said nothing.

Well, he was a man. And no one was going to show him up. Ignoring Hircha's cool blue gaze, he squeezed past her to stand at Nedia's shoulder.

“Well, if it isn't the Fox Cub,” Seg boomed. When Nedia patted the ground beside her, he shook his head. “Nay. Foxes and wolves don't get along.”

Nedia frowned. “Today they do.”

Seg staggered to his feet and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Wolves drive intruders from the pack.”

“Just because you found a wolf doesn't mean you are one,” Rigat replied, injecting the perfect note of bored indulgence into his voice.

Nedia giggled. Seg's head snapped toward her, then jerked back up. “At least my vision mate is noble. You won't catch a wolf stealing eggs from a plover's nest.”

Heads had begun to turn in their direction. Pitching his voice to carry, Rigat replied, “With all you've had to drink, you couldn't catch an egg, never mind a fox.” Savoring the chuckles from those around him, he sketched an elaborate bow and swaggered off.

He had reached the edge of the crowd when a hand seized his arm.

Seg glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You can't fool me. I know you pushed me the other day. It's just the kind of sneaky thing you'd do. No wonder you found a fox.”

“Let me go.”

Seg's fingers bit deeper into his arm. “If not for you, I'd have brought down that doe myself.”

“But you didn't. And I'm the one with the antler tattoo.” Rigat shoved back his sleeve, enjoying Seg's scowl.

“Aye. But I finished my vision quest first.”

It was Rigat's turn to scowl. “I was in the forest and—”

“If you were stupid enough to go that far away, it serves you right to be second.”

“I still would have beaten you. But my fox came back to show me . . .”

Rigat's voice trailed off. Cold sweat bathed his body.

“Show you what? A vision? So now you're a shaman?” Seg leaned so close that Rigat averted his face to escape the wine fumes. “Or just an abomination like your brother?”

Slowly, Rigat's head turned. Whatever Seg saw on Rigat's face made him release Rigat's arm and take an uncertain step back.

The power swelled, more potent than any wine. Rigat trembled with the desire to release it. He would scour the evil words about Keirith from Seg's mouth. He would sear those lips, rip out that tongue, shatter every tooth in his head until Seg was on his knees, begging for forgiveness.

It took all his control to contain the power, to force it deep inside him. The effort left him gasping and evoked a scornful smile from Seg.

What choice did he have but to fling the words into that sneering face?

“You want proof? Come with me.”

D
ARAK NODDED TO ENNIT AND Lisula, but his gaze remained fixed on Rigat and Seg.
Please, gods, don't let them get into another fight.

Lisula sighed as she sat down beside him. “They're sweet, aren't they?”

His frown of incomprehension turned to a smile when he realized she was watching Callie and Ela wander along the lakeshore, hand in hand.

“We used to do that,” Lisula said with a fond glance at Ennit.

“Ennit was always romantic.” Griane's glance was as pointed as the elbow she poked into Darak's side.

“And he would whisper the most wonderful, wicked things to see if he could make me blush.”

“Mostly, she giggled.” Ennit placed his hand over his heart and batted his eyelashes at Lisula, who—predictably—giggled. Despite the streaks of silver in her dark hair and the wrinkles that seamed the skin around her eyes, she still seemed like the plump little Grain-Sister of Darak's youth.

“He once told me my breasts were like goose down.”

“Goose down?” Darak grimaced. “Good gods. Now I'm going to picture you with feathers sprouting on your bosoms.”

“Because they were very white,” Ennit explained.

“So I gathered.”

“And so soft that—”

“Thank you, Ennit.” Darak gave his best friend a quelling glare.

“Now it's my hair that's white.” Lisula heaved a mournful sigh.

Griane paused in her examination of a nutcake to frown at her braid. “Darak once said my hair was so bright it was like I carried the sun on my shoulders.”

“Aye. Well.”

“But you never compared my breasts to anything.”

Ennit patted Griane's knee. “Darak was never the poet I was.”

Darak snorted. “Breasts like goose down?”

“He was a man of action. Fighting his way through Chaos, romping in the First Forest . . .”

“I have never romped.”

“Making his wife yowl like a wildcat.” Ennit snatched his hand back before Griane could smack it. “If I have one regret in my long and happy life, it's that my wife has never yowled when we've made love. A moan, now and then, but nothing like Griane. Why, you could hear her clear across—ow!” He rubbed his shoulder and shot Griane a reproachful glance.

Griane's frown deepened. “Stop looking so smug, Darak, or you'll get the same.”

“I'm just sitting here,” he protested.

“Looking smug.”

Before he could ask how she knew he looked smug when she was peering at the nutcake in her hand, Griane gave a triumphant cry. She brandished a fragment of shell, then flicked it away. “Duba makes the best nutcakes in the village—”

“But she always misses the shells,” the rest of them chorused.

Gods, it was good to sit with friends and forget his worries. He rolled his shoulders to ease the knots of tension that had been there ever since Rigat returned. Although he'd acted cheerful, Darak knew he hated being bested by Seg. Still, his testing had gone well. Well enough. Gortin seemed to have recovered now and was talking with Keirith. As usual, Othak hung on every word.

“I wish Othak would leave him be.”

“Gortin would be lost without him,” Lisula replied.

“Not much risk of that,” Ennit muttered. “I'm lucky if Othak lets me into the hut to visit. And Gortin my brother!” A rare scowl darkened Ennit's face. “If Othak hadn't become a priest, I could have used him to guard the flock.”

“You just don't like him,” Lisula said.

“Neither do you.”

Lisula pursed her lips primly, then sighed. “Poor boy. Jurl ruined him.”

“He's not a boy,” Ennit said. “And he's had years to get over Jurl's beatings.”

Darak massaged the stumps of his first two fingers thoughtfully. “Some things linger in a man's mind long after the bruises fade.” He looked up to find them all watching him. When he realized they thought he was brooding about Morgath, he quickly added, “My father blistered my arse any number of times, but I can't remember those whippings half as well as the one I gave Tinnean.”

“Where did he go?”

The others exchanged glances. “Darak,” Griane said, “you know where Tinnean is.”

“I wasn't . . . good gods, woman, I haven't lost my senses. I went from Tinnean to Rigat.”

“And I'm supposed to read your mind?”

“He and Seg were pestering Nedia,” Ennit said. “She's a flirt. Like her mother.” He caught Lisula's hand and pressed it to his lips.

“I would never have looked at a boy three years my junior. No matter how manly he was.” Lisula giggled. “Remember Conn and Keirith after their vision quests?”

“The way they strutted around,” Ennit said. “Like they'd grown an extra set of ballocks.”

“Or Griane had shoved bear grease up their arses to loosen their bowels,” Darak said.

“And now they hardly talk.”

Griane's words made Ennit shift uncomfortably. “It'll work itself out. In time.”

“They've had time,” Griane retorted. “Conn and Hircha have been married since the Fall Balancing.”

“Interfering won't help matters.” Ennit's voice was equally sharp.

Before Griane could reply, Darak took her hand. “It's Rigat's day. Let's enjoy it.”