Foxfire (19 page)

“If Conn were here,” he said quietly, “he'd knock us both senseless.”

Hircha pressed her lips together tightly. “Nay,” she finally whispered. “He'd hit the wall. Or the stones of the fire pit. He'd break his hand before he'd lift it to either of us. And then he'd apologize for making me bind it.” She took a deep breath. “I still have a flask of elderberry wine. I was saving it. For a special occasion.”

“Then let's drink to Conn.”

Unwilling to dwell on his death or their recent estrangement, Keirith shared memories of their childhood. At first, his words were slow and faltering, the memories only feeding his grief. But after he won a smile from Hircha by confessing how they used to spy on the girls bathing in the lake, the words flowed more easily and the constriction in his chest eased. Then Ennit and Lisula returned, grim-faced, and the comfort evoked by his stories leached away.

He rose and left them. Although the rain had stopped, the wind chilled him. Somewhere on the moors, Rigat huddled under a clump of heather or in the lee of a boulder. At home, his parents maintained their silent vigil. And Keirith could think of no way to help any of them.

His steps slowed when he saw the figure leaning against the wall of their hut, staring up at the night sky.

His father's head turned toward him, then tilted skyward again. “Do you think we look as small to the stars as they appear to us?”

Unprepared for such a question, Keirith just stared at him.

“Like ants, I'd think. Or beetles. Scurrying about. Gathering food. Living. Dying. With so many of us to watch, we must seem insignificant.”

“But that doesn't mean we are.”

“True. We have our loves, our hates, our fears. Our choices.” His father took a long, shuddering breath. “Fellgair once told me each man's life was a web of possibilities. A pattern woven by chance and luck, the choices of others and the choices he makes. Strands woven and broken and rewoven hundreds of times. Thousands. Shaping and reshaping a life.

“Who knows what might befall us on the morrow because we lingered here instead of crawling under our furs? I might be weary from lack of sleep and snap at a man leaving for the hunt. Perhaps he shrugs it off and returns with a deer. Or perhaps he broods and cannot concentrate. He comes home empty-handed. Every pot has less meat. Every child goes to bed hungry. All because I'm standing here, gazing at the sky. And if such a small act carries such weighty consequences, what of the more important choices we make?”

“Please, Fa. Won't you let me help?”

His father just stared at the tiny, unblinking stars.

“No matter what's happened—no matter how bad it seems—you can trust me.”

“I do,” his father assured him. “More than anyone in the world.” And then he winced.

It took Keirith a moment to understand. It wasn't just Rigat. It was something to do with Mam, too. Suddenly, he was as terrified as that spring morning when he heard the wood pigeon's scream echoing through his spirit.

G
RIANE PAUSED NEXT TO THE boulder to trace the cluster of acorns and the jagged holly leaf Darak had carved during their first moon in the valley. Rain and snow and ice had worn away all but the faintest marks of his dagger, but at the full moon, the priestesses daubed fresh dye on the stone. Today, the holly berries looked like tiny drops of blood.

Despite the disturbing thought, she wished she could linger here; although the boulder would never hold the same power as the ancient heart-oak, this was still a sacred place. But she knew she had to move on; she was far too close to the village.

She headed east, the direction Darak claimed Rigat had taken. She felt naked and exposed on the empty moor, trapped between the vast sky and the endless expanse of rolling hills. Still, she pushed on until she spied the line of alders. The fishermen never ventured this far upstream—and it comforted her to have these few scraggly trees as allies.

She had brought no gift for Fellgair. She knew he would come; he'd promised her that when they returned from the Summerlands. Whether he would allow her to see Rigat was another matter.

Anger swelled, swamping the despair. She clasped her hands together to keep from pounding the slender trunk of an alder, but the rage still simmered.

The first time she called his name, her voice cracked. The second time, it rang out clearly, startling a raven that took flight with a loud croak of annoyance. She wanted to believe that was a good omen—hadn't Struath's spirit guide been a raven?—but she could only remember the carrion eaters circling over the bodies of her kinfolk the morning the raiders stole Keirith.

Was that when it all began? Or was it earlier still—at her first encounter with the Trickster? Or when Tinnean defended the One Tree? In the tribal legends, the gods always seemed so wise, so helpful. Few of the tales hinted at the dire consequences that could ensue when a mortal attracted their attention.

She called his name a third time. As she waited, anger slowly gave way to fear. Was he just playing with her? Or punishing her?

A dipperbird flew past, a gleam of chestnut and white. The branches of a shrub swayed. Ruddy fur gleamed in a shaft of sunlight as the Trickster emerged from the underbrush.

Usually he liked to startle her, appearing without a sound or transforming from fox to man before her eyes. Today, he simply splashed across the stream like an ordinary mortal and, instead of offering a clever quip, regarded her gravely.

What did he see when he looked at her? Not the girl who had boldly kissed him in the First Forest or the woman who had lain beneath him on the warm grass of the Summerlands. An old woman, shrunken and small, knuckles swollen with the joint-ill, breasts sagging beneath her tunic. Her hair was probably as untidy as ever, but now it was as white as his beard.

“You'll always be beautiful to me.”

She had long since grown used to his compliments, but even now, his voice could still send a shiver of delight down her back. For some reason, he had chosen to look more like a man than a fox today, but she had more pressing concerns than Fellgair's appearance.

“Is he safe?”

“Yes.”

“Will you bring him back?”

“If he wishes to come.”

What if Rigat refused? What if he never wanted to see her again?

“He loves you, Griane.”

“You weren't there. You didn't see his face. He looked . . .”

“He loves you.”

She pressed her hand against her mouth to hold back the sob, but the tears came anyway. The storm was brief; perhaps she had shed so many tears in her life that she had only a few left.

“Will you take him away again?”

“If he chooses to remain with me—”

“He's not ready.”

“Is that my fault?” When she didn't reply, he added, “You've had him for thirteen years, Griane. You could have told him anytime.”

“How do you tell a child such a thing?”

“By accepting that he is not simply a child, but the son of a god.” The golden eyes narrowed. “You've known the truth for years. You should have trusted his ability to accept it.”

“How dare you lecture me! After what you've done.”

“I've offered my son acceptance and understanding.”

“That's not what I meant. You always claim that you don't—you can't!—interfere in human affairs. Yet you gave me a child.”

“Some women would have considered it a gift.”

“He is a gift, but—”

“Should I take him back? I have the power to—”

“Nay! Nay,” she repeated more quietly. “You knew when we parted that I carried a child. You could have taken him then. Or let my brew do its work. Before I knew him. Before I loved him.” When Fellgair simply continued to study her, she asked the question that had haunted her for years. “Why? Why did you do it?”

He was silent so long that she feared he would refuse to answer. Finally, he said, “Our son has the potential to change the world, Griane.”

“He's just a boy. He shouldn't have to. When may I see him?”

Fellgair hesitated, as if he meant to pursue the topic further. Then he shrugged. “Meet me here at midday tomorrow.” As she turned to go, he added, “And bring Darak.”

Slowly, she faced him. “Why?”

“I wish to see him.”

“Why?”

“I'm fond of him.”

“That's not—”

“And this might be the last time we shall ever see each other.”

Her mouth opened, but no words emerged.

“I'm not foretelling his death, Griane. He may live for years. But one day, that great heart will fail him.”

She was the one who made up the tonic. Who worried every time he walked up a steep hill. Who counted each day, each night like a squirrel hoarding nuts before a long winter. She knew she could not ward off death forever, but hearing the words spoken aloud was unbearable.

As always, Fellgair sensed her feelings. When he put his arms around her, she was angry and grateful for their strength. Every encounter with him left her more confused, more uncertain of the future. She hated him for giving her a child—and she loved the child he had given her. She wanted to scream at him for possessing such arrogance, such willful blindness that he could imagine a child was just another playing piece on some immortal game board—and she wanted to cling to him and pretend that everything would be all right.

“I don't regret giving you Rigat,” he said. “But I do regret making you unhappy.”

She freed herself from his embrace. “I don't regret him either. And I can bear my unhappiness. But if you hurt my boy—or Darak—I shall find a way to make you suffer.”

L
IKE THE REST OF THE FAMILY, Keirith maintained the fiction that Rigat was keeping watch in the hills. They all tried to behave normally. His father supervised the construction of the terraces. His mother cared for the wounded. Faelia conducted daily trainings in swordplay, and Callie alternated between tending the flocks and teaching the children.

Keirith resumed his duties with the other fishermen. Twice, he sought a vision to help him find Rigat, but he could not even manage to contact Natha. So when Duba asked him to use his gift to help Elasoth's younger daughter, he hesitated, fearing he would only fail again.

“You helped Luimi before,” Duba reminded him. “And she trusts you. You must try, Keirith. She's just . . . drifting away.”

As Duba had after her son died. Until he reclaimed her shattered spirit, she'd lived a kind of half-life, silent and unresponsive. He could not allow that to happen to Luimi.

He followed Duba to the hut she shared with Alada and their orphans. Dirna glanced up before returning her bleak gaze to her sister. Luimi lay on the rabbitskins, staring up at the thatch. He sat beside her and explained that he wanted to touch her spirit, but if his words reached her, she gave no indication.

He took her unresisting hand. Closed his eyes. Tried to shut out the crackle of dead twigs in the fire, the scent of salmon simmering in its nest of damp leaves, the weight of the hopeful eyes watching him. Relinquished his fear that he would fail this little girl. Concentrated only on the slow tattoo of his heart, the rhythm of his breathing, and the small hand clasped in his. Sought stillness and emptiness—and Natha.

Later, he was shocked that it was so easy. At the time, he felt only relief when Natha's sinuous warmth flooded his spirit. He let the energy pass from his hand to Luimi's. It seeped through flesh and bone, pulsed through her blood, flowed into her spirit.