Foxfire (25 page)

Fellgair sighed. “All humans are mortal, Rigat. Even you.”

“But if someone was sick or hurt or . . . dying . . . could I use my power to heal her?”

Fellgair's brows contracted, then relaxed. “Give me your hand.”

When Rigat obeyed, Fellgair turned his hand palm up and pushed up his sleeve, revealing the bold shape of the branching antlers and the fainter white scar at the base of his wrist where he had made the blood oath with Darak. “Today, we start anew,” Darak had said. And they had—but in a way neither of them had expected.

A black claw slashed across his wrist. The shock was greater than the searing pain. Rigat could only gasp and stare at the blood that welled up from the deep gash.

“Heal yourself.”

The blood pulsed with the same frantic rhythm of his heart. He told it to stop, commanded it to stop, but unlike the spear that had flown through the portal during his vision quest, it refused to obey.

“I can't!”

“You can. Concentrate.”

He closed his eyes, but that only made him more aware of the contrast between the warm blood and his cold, shaking fingers. Deliberately, he blocked out the sensations. He took a deep breath and held it for a count of three before releasing it. Another breath and then another until his heartbeat began to slow and with it, the spurt of his lifeblood.

He could feel the blood, flowing out from his heart, down through his limbs, and then up again to return to his heart. An endless circle of energy, moving as inexorably through his body as time unfolded through the roots and trunk and branches of the World Tree.

He could see the blood, as clearly as he had seen the tiny droplets of water inside the leaf. As he traced its path, warmth flowed into his forearm, into his fingers. Like a spider repairing her web, he directed his power to his wrist. And as he wove, the warmth spread, as if molten fire flowed through him.

A great lassitude filled him and an overwhelming desire for sleep. But he continued his weaving, painstakingly sealing the severed arteries and veins before joining the flaps of skin at his wrist the way his mam sewed a rip in his breeches. Over and under and through, the power pricking his flesh like so many tiny needles, until at last he knew the wound was closed.

He opened his eyes and stared down at the raw stripe of flesh. Fellgair's forefinger glided across the wound, so cool after the fire. When he lifted his finger, a new white scar had obliterated the one from his blood oath with Darak.

“You did well, Rigat. Very well.”

All he could do was nod.

“You're tired now. That's only natural. Even your power has limits. It will be days before you can use it again. If the wound had been deep, it might have drained you completely.”

“And then I'd . . . I'd die?”

“No. You'd simply be a man. Like any other.”

Never to hear the song of the stream or the language of the birds. Never to travel between worlds or touch the spirits of the Tree-Lords. To be . . . ordinary.

“And if I healed someone else?”

“An infusion of your power will always strengthen the recipient. But strong as you are, you're not a god. So the power—and the healing—will fade. That's why I sealed your wound. By the time your healing unraveled, your body's natural healing would have begun. But a serious injury would require multiple infusions of power.” Fellgair's mouth quirked. “And the more prosaic assistance of a healer.”

“Why didn't you just tell me that?”

“Because showing you was more powerful. Come, my son. You need to rest and grow strong again.”

Fellgair lifted him as if he weighed nothing at all. Rigat rested his cheek against the furry chest and closed his eyes. Sunlight bathed his face. He breathed in air so sweet and fresh he knew that Fellgair had brought him to the Summerlands.

He would willingly sacrifice some of his power for his mam. Or he could bring her those magical plants she had discovered long ago in the Summerlands. Heart-ease would soothe her troubled spirit and heal-all would help the aches of her body. But news of Darak and Keirith and Faelia would restore her faster than any magic. As soon as he was stronger, he would bring her that gift—and watch the light return to her tired face.

G
ERIV DO KHAT SAT CROSS-LEGGED in the pavilion of the warship, scanning the two peaks that guarded the narrows. Either would have made an ideal site for a fortress, but judging from the size of the palisades atop both crags, they were used only as lookout posts.

Another example of a commander taking the easy way out. But why should this one make any effort when the Vanel of the Northern Army—the former Vanel—had spent all his time in his hilltop villa, extorting bribes from the local merchants to purchase marble to pave his floors, tapestries to line his walls, and slave boys to warm his bed?

Geriv permitted himself a small smile. He hadn't been able to do anything about the marble floors, but the tapestries had bought enough grain and arms to fill the holds of the two supply ships that sailed with them. The Vanel—the former Vanel—had squealed like a virgin when they were pulled off the walls, but hadn't dared do more. After his lackluster handling of the rebellion, he was lucky the queen was permitting him to retire to his country estate in Zheros. She should have ordered his execution. But, of course, she couldn't risk alienating his family, one of the richest in the empire.

Politics. The bane of every warrior.

The ear-splitting blast of a kankh horn interrupted his thoughts. Korim clutched his forearm. “That must be the hill the Tree People call the Mountain of Eagles.”

“Eagles Mount.”

Although he had spoken gently, a dark flush stained his son's cheeks. Geriv suppressed a sigh. At fourteen, he, too, had been stung by every criticism—real or imagined—but he had never been as sensitive as Korim.

The thought of his irascible uncle evoked another smile. After Geriv had lost his left eye in the first Carilian campaign, he had feared he would never see active duty again. Vazh's intercession resulted in a transfer to the lands of the Tree People. A bitter disappointment at the time, for only second-rate officers were posted here, but he had risen faster—and higher—than he could have elsewhere.

Twelve years in the southern provinces of the Tree People, the last three as Vanel. He had hoped his success in subduing those provinces would win him a command in Carilia. Instead, the queen sent him north.

He had cleaned up the mess at his new headquarters at Graywaters in just two moons. Another moon would complete his inspection of the river fortifications. After that, he would deal with the rebels. And then—please, gods—he could leave this barbarous land forever.

He felt less confident about his ability to deal with his son. It might have been different if the other children had lived. Or if he had been home to supervise Korim's upbringing. Instead, the boy had remained in Pilozhat, pampered and petted by his mother and grandmother. After Kezha's death, he had summoned Korim to his command post, determined to toughen him up. He had spent more time with his son in the past year than in the previous thirteen, but they were still strangers.

Korim leaned out from under the awning for a better view of Eagles Mount. Then he flopped back on the cushions with a heavy sigh. “There's not a single eagle,” he said, clearly disappointed.

As they entered the channel, the ship rocked, its timbers groaning like a dying man. Geriv reached for his protective amulet, then firmly quelled the desire and contented himself with tracing the spiral of the gold serpent that clasped his cloak. He had insisted on traveling in the warship after all. The tricky currents and easterly wind necessitated the use of rowers. Although the tubby supply ships offered better accommodations, he refused to arrive in a vessel that, under oars, resembled a fat insect trying to fly with small, weak wings.

The drum master quickened the beat and the rowers responded, muscles bunching in their naked backs and arms as they bent over the oars. On the fifth stroke, the ship shot out of the narrow channel onto the broad, placid expanse of a lake.

Korim caught his breath and let it out in a soft exhalation of wonder. “It's beautiful.”

Geriv bit back a dismissive retort. True, the gray-green water sparkled in the sunlight, but it couldn't compare with the magnificent blue of the sea at Pilozhat. Instead of white sand, the shore was littered with pebbles. Green reeds testified to a marsh at the far end of the lake. Three smaller warships, suitable for patrolling upriver, were beached on the northern shore. In contrast to their sleek silhouettes, the fishermen's coracles looked like oversized drinking cups.

“I wonder if the fishing's good,” Korim mused.

“There will be salmon,” Geriv replied without enthusiasm.

“And trout,” Korim said, still eyeing the bobbing coracles.

Two moons ago, the only things bobbing on the lake would have been logs, ready to be floated downriver after the spring thaw. And the log-riders with their spiked boots and poles. The first time he had seen them herding the logs downriver, he had been as breathless as Korim.

It was a ritual almost as significant to the people of Zheros as the shedding of the adders. Since both events occurred in the early spring, the priests claimed this was proof that the gods blessed their logging operations.

Blessed or not, it irritated Geriv that his warriors spent so much time felling trees. But that sentiment he shared only with his uncle Vazh, who inevitably responded with a filthy curse and a lament about the old days “when a man could concentrate on chopping off heads instead of branches.”

Unfortunately, Zheros needed timber for its ships, so its warriors had to ensure the logs reached the sea. And its Vanel had to answer to the queen if they didn't.

“Imagine how beautiful it must have been before they cut down all the trees.”

Frowning at the wistful note in Korim's voice, Geriv scanned the hills that loomed dark green and treacherous in the distance. That's how this place would have looked. Gloomy even at midday, a narrow track—ridiculous to call it a road—meandering through forests so dense that a man could see only a few paces into their depths. Easy to imagine a rebel behind every tree trunk. Easier still for a superstitious man to hear spirits whispering instead of the rustle of leaves.

Realizing he was stroking his amulet, Geriv let his hand drop to his lap and surveyed the southern shore. The usual circle of turf and stone huts. A field of sprouting barley. White blobs among the tree stumps on the hills—the ubiquitous sheep. Figures milling on the beach, attracted by the arrival of the ships.

“The villages are so much smaller in the north,” Korim said.

“And more isolated. It's made the conquest difficult. That and the stubbornness of the people. The southern chiefs were wiser, and their villages have prospered under our rule.”

“They look peaceful enough. Mostly women and children.”

“Women and children can spy for the rebels as easily as men,” Geriv reminded him. “But this village hasn't given us any trouble in years. That's why we bring them grain—when our harvests are good. To reward them for their good behavior.”

Before he continued upriver, he would have to arrange for someone to row him across the lake so he could personally present the sacks of millet. That would honor the chief, but it would entail making pleasant conversation with the tribal elders and enduring the eye-watering peat smoke, the stench of their unwashed bodies, and an interminable meal.

“Can we go there today?”

Geriv eyed the opposite shore. He spotted only three company standards. And although the line of warriors extended the length of the beach, the three komakhs were clearly undermanned; a quick estimate indicated barely two hundred men instead of the five hundred that should be posted here.

“No,” he finally replied. If the administration was as sloppy as he feared, he might be tied up for days putting things to rights. The chief of the Tree People could wait.

Shouts rang out aboard ship. The steersman leaned on his long oar and the rowers on the starboard side redoubled their efforts. As the ship swung away from the northern shore, he glimpsed the pointed stakes of a large palisade rising above a steep embankment.

Both sets of rowers bent over the oars. At another shout from the captain, the drum fell silent, the oars rose skyward, and the ship drifted toward the unseen shore behind him. Pebbles scraped the hull, and the ship shuddered to a halt.