Foxfire (20 page)

He calmed the instinctive jolt of panic, but resisted the urge to probe deeper. Like Hua and Duba, Luimi had erected barriers to shield herself from the painful memories. Hers were still fragile and uncertain, the work of days rather than moons or years. But breaking through them would only force her to flee—or shatter her spirit completely.

Instead, he offered memories of her father: Elasoth guiding Luimi's fingers as she tied sinkers onto his net; Elasoth supporting her belly as he taught her to swim; Elasoth cradling her in his lap as he sang a lullaby.

The violent outpouring of pain ripped through Keirith's spirit. New images flashed before him: Elasoth surrounded by bronze-helmeted Zherosi; Elasoth desperately parrying the swords that slashed toward him; Elasoth's scream as one ripped open his belly; Elasoth's fingers fumbling helplessly at the entrails that spilled out of his body like a tangle of worms.

Abruptly, the images vanished, leaving only the wail of Luimi's spirit.

The words—so like Hua's. And the agony of loss. One, a little boy who had seen his mother and father cut down before his eyes. The other, a little girl who had conjured her father's last moments from her memories of the raids she had survived, the men she had seen die, the whispered comments she had overheard.

Keirith trembled with the effort to absorb the pain and the loss and the terror that threatened to shatter Luimi's fragile spirit. Natha coiled around him, cradling him, cradling Luimi, enfolding them both with his warmth, flowing through them like a calming stream. He drew on Natha's strength to find images to comfort Luimi and coax her back from the darkness: Dirna playing hop-frog with her by the lake; Dirna teaching her to weave the nettle fibers into rope; Dirna's body cuddled close on a winter night; Dirna's voice whispering, “Don't leave me”; Dirna's arms flung wide to welcome her home.

For a moment, Luimi hesitated, caught between the father she longed to follow and the sister who urged her to stay. Elasoth's gentle smile released her. As she fled the darkness, Natha dissipated like autumn mist before the sun. Keirith touched Luimi's spirit once more—in acknowledgment and farewell—and gently withdrew.

She gazed at him uncertainly. At his nod, she turned her head and found her sister sitting at her side, hands clenched in her lap.

“Dirna? I'm home.”

Dirna's arms locked around her sister, pulling her into a fierce embrace. As they clung together, rocking and laughing and weeping, Keirith felt a light touch on his shoulder. He looked up to find Duba smiling at him.

He always forgot how exhausted he was after such healings, remembering only the deep peace that filled him. Watching the two sisters, it filled him again, as warm and comforting as Natha's presence.

Afterward, Duba insisted that he seek out others who were willing to allow his healing touch. But as he left her hut, he spied his parents slipping out of the hill fort together. Before he could heal others, he had to heal his own family.

Although his body cried out for rest, he followed them across the moor. As they approached the alders, he flung himself down in the bracken. Only when they disappeared into the trees did he trot down the hill after them. He slowed as he reached the tangle of alders; his father's eyesight had grown weaker, but his hearing was as sharp as ever.

Squatting in the underbrush, he realized they were both too preoccupied with their thoughts to detect his presence. His mam stared at the ground, chewing her upper lip. His father stalked back and forth along the stream bank, his gaze shifting from her to the sky. Clearly, they were waiting for something—or someone. Had Rigat arranged to meet them here?

He crawled closer, grateful that the splashing water drowned out the cracking of twigs. Then he heard the hoarse croak of a raven and a loud flapping of wings. He froze, but his father's head had already jerked toward him.

“Come out!”

Feeling like a complete idiot, Keirith rose from his hiding place. Expecting anger, their horrified expressions shocked him.

“What are you doing here?” his father demanded.

“I was worried.”

“There's nothing to worry about. Go home.”

He shoved through the underbrush. “I'm not a child. Or a fool. You've found Rigat, haven't you? You're meeting him here.”

“Would you do what I—?”

“Enough!” His mam's voice cut through their wrangling. “He'll find out eventually, Darak. Better he should hear it from us.”

All sorts of dire possibilities flitted through his mind: Rigat was dead; Rigat was injured; Rigat had run off to fight the Zherosi. Nothing prepared him for his mother's words.

“Rigat is Fellgair's son.”

Even as he whispered, “That's impossible,” his mind said, “Of course.” He kept shaking his head, unwilling, unable to accept the truth, although everything he knew of Rigat's power and personality confirmed it. But if Rigat was the Trickster's son . . .

His mam flinched.

His parents' love had been one of the few constants in his life, as certain as the sun rising in the east. How could she have betrayed that love? And how long had the knowledge of her betrayal been eating away at Fa?

“It's not your mother's fault. She did it to protect you.”

“Don't, Darak.”

“To protect both of us. She went to the Trickster. When we were in Zheros. And the price he wanted . . . he would only help her if . . .”

“If I agreed to lie with him.”

Keirith closed his eyes. He felt his father's arm around his shoulders. Heard his father's voice, low and urgent, telling him that Gortin had had some sort of terrible vision, that his mam had been alone and frightened, that she had taken every precaution afterward to prevent a child. That they had both been certain that Rigat was theirs.

He heard the words. He understood their meaning. But still the bile rose up in his throat.

Bad enough that his kidnapping had driven her to this unholy bargain. But to have believed for a moment that she would ever betray Fa out of loneliness or anger or lust . . .

He heard his mother walking toward him, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

She seized his shoulders and shook him hard. “You will not take this upon yourself. Do you hear me? This is not your fault. The raiders kidnapped you. Your father went after you. And I went to the Trickster.” Her hands came up to cup his face. “Every day since you returned to me . . . in this body . . . every day for fourteen years, I've blamed myself for . . . not doing more.”

“You did everything you could.”

“I did . . . what I did. And I have to live with the consequences of my choices and go on.”

He nodded. Later, he would find some way to help her bear this and make amends for his lapse of faith. What mattered now was Rigat. Gods, it must have crushed him to learn that the man he had loved and admired all his life was not his real father.

“He went to Fellgair, didn't he?”

His mam nodded. The fierceness had left her. She looked tired and old and unbearably frail.

“And they're coming here today.”

Again, she nodded.

“Will he come home?”

“I don't know.”

Rigat was the son of her heart. It would kill her to lose him.

“Do you still want me to go?” he asked her.

“Go? When the drama is just beginning?”

The voice was deeper than he remembered, but the mocking tone was just the same.

Ever since Zheros, he had pictured the Trickster in the guise he had worn then—a tall, black-haired priestess with eyes as dark as a Midwinter night. This was the fox-man of his father's tales, but the eyes—while golden—held the same unblinking intensity.

The Trickster's claws rested lightly on Rigat's shoulder. Seeing them standing side by side—the intent gazes, the preternatural stillness—his last doubts about Rigat's parentage vanished. Then Rigat gave him a nervous half smile and the Trickster's son transformed into his little brother, silently pleading for understanding and support.

Mam was blinking back tears. Fa was still as stone, but there was murder in his eyes. As Keirith tensed, the rage vanished. Only the muscle twitching in his jaw betrayed his emotions.

“I told you we'd meet again, Keirith.” Despite the greeting, the Trickster was watching Fa, too.

“Rigat.” His mam breathed the name like a prayer. “Are you all right?”

“Aye, Mam.”

“Hello, Darak,” the Trickster said.

“You're sure?” Fa asked Rigat, ignoring the Trickster.

“Aye.”

Not “Aye, Fa.” Just “Aye.” His father's wince told Keirith he had noticed, too.

“I'm sorry I ran away.”

“You were upset,” Keirith said. Nervous sweat prickled his forehead. The Trickster's nostrils flared as if he could smell it. “It was a shock. Naturally. Gods, I can't imagine . . .” He was babbling and he knew it, but the tension was thick, the air as heavy and unsettled as if a thunderstorm approached.

“We should have told you,” Mam said. “Long ago.”

“You were scared. I was, too. But only at first.”

His manner was unnaturally calm, his smile so like Fellgair's that Keirith shuddered.

“We kept waiting,” Fa said. “For the right time. But—”

“You thought I was your son,” Rigat interrupted. “In the beginning.”

“I . . . you are my son.”

“I don't remember how old I was when I realized things were different,” Keirith said. “That
you
were different. With me. But I was little. Five, maybe. Or six.”

“Six.” The single word was heavy with grief.

“When I made the leaves dance.” Rigat nodded as if satisfied, then turned that thoughtful gaze on him. “When did they tell you, Keirith?”

“Just now.”

“And you never suspected?”

“Nay.”

“And now you'll blame Mam, too.”

“Nay! At first, I . . . but that was before I understood she was only trying to protect me.”

“Protect
you?
” The Trickster's gaze shifted briefly to Mam before settling back on Fa. “I see.”

Fa's hands clenched and relaxed. “I'm sorry you had to find out this way, Rigat. We never meant . . .” He shook his head impatiently. “Aye. Well. It's done now. And words won't change it. The important thing is for you to come home.”

“Rigat doesn't belong there,” the Trickster said.

“You cannot stay with him. You know that.”

“He's a man now. Let him choose his own path.”

Fa's head jerked toward the Trickster. “How can he choose when he's dazzled by you?”

With a visible effort, he calmed himself, but it was Mam who said, “You don't know him, Rigat. Or what your power might lead to.”

“I'll get to know him. And I'm not afraid of my power.”

“You should be,” Keirith said. “It can turn a man's head.”

“But I'm not a man. I'm the son of a god.”

“Even gods make mistakes.”

“Is that what I am?” Rigat asked in a soft voice. “A mistake?”

“Nay! But no man should possess such power. It's dangerous.”

“Only if he wields it unwisely. Isn't that what you told me?”

“You saw what happened in the rockslide. You killed people, Rigat!”

“So did you, Keirith! Only you used a sword. I know my power is strong. But only one person can show me how to use it. And that's my father. My real father.”

Keirith winced at Fa's sharp intake of breath. But again, it was his mam who spoke. “Fellgair might have begotten you, but he is not your father. Did Fellgair hold your hand when you took your first steps? Or teach you to wield a sling or read the stars?”

“Nay. But now it's time I had a new teacher.”

“He can teach you things I can't,” Fa said, “but he can never love you.”

“Neither can you.”

His father's head snapped back. Keirith waited for him to vehemently deny Rigat's words, but he hesitated. Only for a moment. A heartbeat, perhaps. Then he said, “Of course I love you.”

But Keirith knew it was already too late.

Mam hurried forward and pressed Rigat's hand to her heart. “Please, Rigat.”

She was the only one who might sway him, the only one whose power over Rigat matched Fellgair's. Mam offered love and Fellgair, knowledge. Mam was home and safety, Fellgair, the lure of adventure and unknown worlds. But if she forced Rigat to choose between them, she would taint their love forever.

“I love you,” Rigat whispered. “More than anything in the world.” And very gently, eased his hand free.

Mam moaned. Fa strode toward her, but in his haste, he stumbled. Keirith lunged for him, but the Trickster was quicker. His father gripped the arms that steadied him. Then he straightened.

Surely, even a god must quail before the fury in those cold, gray eyes. Fellgair simply studied Fa's face, as if memorizing every feature.

Suddenly, Fa recoiled, his forehead creasing in pain. Keirith heard him whisper, “It's too late.” And realized the Trickster was touching his spirit.

Even now, Keirith could recall that touch—infinitely powerful, infinitely gentle. No man could shield himself from that. And for his father, nothing would be a greater violation.

“Let him go!” he shouted at the same time that Rigat cried, “Don't! Please!”