Foxfire (2 page)

“Surveying your kingdom, mighty chief?”

Without opening his eyes, his father smacked him on the knee. “Disrespectful pup.”

“Cantankerous old man.”

His father shrugged, unrepentant.

They sat in companionable silence. Only here—away from the hill fort, alone with his father—was Keirith truly content. Although the tribe seemed to accept his appearance and his power, the gulf would always exist. He was a fisherman with a shaman's gift of touching spirits. A child of the Oak and Holly who had taken the body of a Zherosi priest. The man who had been cast out of his tribe for his crime against nature.

In the last two years, he'd learned to expect the reactions when newcomers learned this tawny-skinned, dark-eyed man was the eldest son of the great Darak Spirit-Hunter: confusion or surprise from the refugees who hadn't heard the story, suspicion or fear from those who had. All received the traditional night of hospitality, but only those who accepted him were permitted to stay longer.

His father's hand came down on his knee again, this time in a silent question.

“You're right,” Keirith said. “Mam is a worrier.”

His father accepted the half-truth with a nod. He didn't need to press. Their spirits had dwelled together in one body. They had shared each other's deepest fears and darkest thoughts. And the bond created during that perilous time had only grown stronger in the intervening years.

Keirith shot him a sour look. “You know it's a pure pain in the arse sometimes.”

His father laughed. “It's not like I always know what you're thinking.”

“But you always know when I'm . . . troubled.”

“I've only to look at your face to know that.” His father hesitated, then asked, “Is it your mam? Or . . . Rigat?”

“Rigat? Why? Has something happened?”

“Not today.”

Observing his father's grimace, Keirith quickly changed the subject. “How was the council meeting?”

His father shrugged and traced a sparkling vein of quartz with his thumb. So now it was Fa's turn to elude and his to pursue.

Suppressing a grin, Keirith pulled off his mantle and draped it around his father. “No wonder you look so tired,” he said, his voice oozing solicitude. “Now you just rest a bit and—”

His father cursed genially and flung the mantle back. “Can't an old man have any fun?”

“Nay. Tell me.”

“Well. The elders agreed that we needed to clear more land.”

Keirith curbed his impatience. Even before Temet brought the last group of refugees to their valley, they could barely grow enough barley to sustain them. One bad harvest meant the difference between starvation and survival.

“And,” his father continued, drawing out the tale, “they agreed that the lower slope of the eastern hill was the best place.”

Again, a foregone conclusion. On every side of the valley, hills plunged down to the lake. The few strips of arable land were already under cultivation, and the hilltops were too exposed.

Try as he might, his father couldn't hide his satisfaction. In fact, he looked so smug that Keirith knew the council had approved their plan.

He had gotten the idea from the Zherosi holy city. If the Zherosi could build low walls of rubble to keep the earth from sliding into the sea, why couldn't their tribe construct terraces to keep the rain from washing away the newly sprouted barley?

“It'll be brutal work hauling the rocks,” his father said. “I'd give the rest of my fingers for a couple of bullocks.”

Bullocks—like level ground for planting—were a thing of the past. Breaking the rocky soil with foot plows was arduous enough; leveraging the boulders would test the strength and willpower of the strongest men.

“It'll work, Fa. I know it will.”

“I told them it was your idea.”

“And they still voted for it?”

Although he had kept his voice light, his father gave him a sharp look. “There was the usual discussion. But not half so bad as the business about the name.”

With their village comprised of refugees from many different tribes, dissension was inevitable. It had taken a full year to agree on the name Alder Tribe. But a new name could not change old allegiances; Keirith still considered himself a member of the Oak Tribe that had cast him out.

Hircha and his family had chosen to share his exile from Eagles Mount. It had taken two moons to reach this remote upland valley, their progress slowed by six-year-old Callum and the three sheep. It was a welcome haven after their long journey, but the only trees for miles were the alders that lined both banks of the stream.

Still, there was a stark beauty to the rolling moors. At Midsummer, the fragrance of gorse sweetened the air. In autumn, the hills blazed with the scarlet fire of bracken. If the tiny lake froze solid in the winter, it provided amusement for the children who greased their shoes with tallow and slid across it, squealing and laughing. If the stream was small enough to jump across, its pools were rich with trout, and the cheerful splash of its water soothed the spirit during the harsh winters.

His father's gaze shifted south to the distant blue-green blur of pine-covered hills. Longing softened the lines on his face carved by age and worry and years of squinting against sunlight and bitter winds.

“Who'd have thought I'd end my days so far from the forest,” he mused. Before Keirith could reply, he added, “Do you miss the old days? When it was just us?”

Relieved to abandon thoughts of his father's mortality, Keirith said, “Oh, aye. I'd love to live in a damp cave again. With three sheep. And a screaming babe.”

“That was only the first winter. And I'll not have you say anything against the sheep.”

Keirith noticed he didn't include Rigat in his protest.

“Old Dugan served us well,” his father said. “Nearly broke my heart when we lost him.”

Callie had named the irascible ram after their mam's uncle. He had wept when Dugan died and refused to eat a bite of the meat. Not that he'd missed much, tough and stringy as it was.

“Young Dugan's a fine breeder,” Keirith said.

“But he just doesn't have the same spirit. It seems more an obligation to him than a pleasure. When Old Dugan chased after a ewe, his eyes would roll and his tongue would hang out and those great black ballocks of his would swing back and forth like waterskins.”

The wistfulness in his father's voice made Keirith laugh. “And all these years I thought it was your heroic deeds that won Mam's heart. When really you were chasing her through the First Forest with your tongue hanging out.”

His father's hand shot out to cuff him. Keirith accepted it with good grace, but his mood darkened as he considered the question again. “I do miss when it was just us. And the village at Eagles Mount.”

“That's an old battle,” his father said, responding to the thought rather than the words. “Let it go.”

“Like you have?”

That stubborn look came over his father's face. He and Conn called it The Obstinate Scowl, a tribute to the gestures and expressions they had named when they returned from their vision quests and were desperately trying to mimic what they considered manly behavior.

Conn. Another painful subject.

“For years, you accused Gortin of holding a grudge,” Keirith said. “But you're doing the same with Elasoth.”

“It's different.”

“Because Gortin was wrong and you're right.”

“Aye! Besides, Gortin never thought I caused Struath's death. He just couldn't bear to hear me criticize him. Elasoth voted to cast you out of the tribe.”

“Fourteen years ago! If I've forgiven him, why can't you?”

“Aye. Well. I'm stubborn as a rock.” His father's expression softened. “And you're a better man than I am.”

“Oh, Fa . . .”

“I could forgive him for voting against me. But not my child.”

No point in reminding him that he was a grown man now. His father would always look upon him as his child, to be protected against any threat. “This is our place,” he had told the thirty-five survivors from their old village when they straggled into the valley two years ago. “It was our sweat, our hands, our bodies that made a home here. Those who stay, stay on my terms.”

And the terms were clear: to accept him as chief, his daughter as a hunter, and his firstborn son's gift of touching spirits.

Although Keirith knew some people still feared his power, others had benefited from it: Duba whom he had brought back from years of silence after the death of her son; little Luimi whose silent cries of terror sent him racing to the deep pool into which she had stumbled. In truth, he used his gift so infrequently that most would have forgotten it were it not for his swarthy skin and dark eyes. But his father was always watching, always listening, fearful that someone would turn on him again.

Observing his anxious gaze, Keirith said, “You're right. These are old battles. And we need to save our strength for new ones.”

“You've Seen something?”

“Not since the last vision. But I'm sure she's safe.”

His father's mouth tightened. He rarely spoke of Faelia, but Keirith often found him at this spot, gazing south as if he expected to see her striding over the hills. Hoping to ease his fears, Keirith had used his power more often this last moon, calling on Natha, the adder who was his spirit guide and vision mate. But even with Natha's help, he had found Faelia only once, sitting in a forest clearing with Temet and his band of rebels.

His visions gave him glimpses of the world beyond their valley, fleeting images of villages abandoned, forests razed, men dragging logs onto the great ships that carried them south to Zheros. He had hoped his visions would show him Hua, but the boy whose spirit he had healed so many years ago seemed as lost to him now as the dream of creating a spirit-linked network of communication among the tribes.

Gazing over their valley, the disturbing visions seemed unreal. Children raced to greet a returning band of hunters. Girls carried bulging waterskins up from the lake. Only the hill fort that crowned the highest promontory testified to the danger that lurked beyond.

“Will it last?” his father asked quietly.

The westering sun bathed the hill fort in warm, golden light. Clumps of greening moor grass studded the earthworks. If not for the thin curls of smoke drifting up from the huts, no one would guess that a village lay behind that carefully constructed wall of earth.

“We're more than one hundred strong,” he finally said, “but half are children and old folk. If the Zherosi come in force—”

“I know we can't stand against them. I'm asking if they
will
come.”

It was the first time his father had ever admitted the possibility. Lacking the oaks and pines the Zherosi coveted and navigable waterways to float the logs to the sea, there was little here to tempt them. But Keirith's gaze lingered on the hills to the west where the two peaks they had named The Twins protected the pass. Sentinels stood silhouetted against clouds striped rose and gold from Bel's dying rays. Day and night, they kept watch, every man and woman between the ages of thirteen and fifty taking a turn.

“Urkiat once compared them to a lightning strike,” his father said. His voice was just a little too casual; even after fourteen years, it was hard for either of them to discuss Urkiat.

“Lightning strikes just happen,” Keirith reminded him. “The Zherosi plan everything.” Including the rape of a land and the annihilation of a people.

“He also said it would take every man, woman, and child in the tribes to stand against them.”

The same words Temet repeated each time he came to the village to beg Fa to join the rebellion.

His father sighed. “I just keep going round and round and coming up with the same answers. If we attack their fortresses, we'll provoke reprisals. If we wait . . .”

For twelve years, they had lived in total isolation. Since then, each new wave of refugees brought news of the outside world and each time, the news was grimmer. The Zherosi were pushing east. The twice-yearly tribal Gatherings had been suspended. Some tribes bought peace with a tribute of pelts. Others even countenanced the destruction of the forests. A few fought back, most in scattered bands like Temet's, but the tribes were as likely to betray the rebels as aid them, for their villages paid the price in steeper tribute or summary executions.

Keirith eyed the thumbs drumming an agitated tattoo on his father's thighs. “I'm sorry, Fa. I wish I had the answers you need.”

“And I wish . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

For a long moment, his father studied him. “I was remembering how you flew with the eagle all those years ago. And wishing you could do that now. Fly over the mountains and spy out the land for us.”

Fourteen years and still he could recall every moment of that brief flight and the welter of emotions that had accompanied it. The exultation of finally overcoming the eagle's wariness. The terror of those first giddy moments when they soared, spirit-linked, over Eagles Mount. And the wonder of seeing the world in a way he had only dreamed.

With an effort, Keirith kept his voice calm. “I gave Gortin my oath.”

“I know.”

“I promised I would never—”

“I know!”

“I'm sorry, Son. I shouldn't have said anything.”