Foxfire (28 page)

He nodded, then realized she probably couldn't see him and whispered, “Aye.”

“You were moaning in your sleep.”

She was crouching so close it took all his control to keep from scuttling away.

“Lots of men have them after a battle. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Or . . .” Her fingers groped for his. “Is it the old nightmare?”

Because Faelia was trying to be kind, he whispered, “Both, I expect.”

“Do you want to talk about—?”

“Nay.” Afraid he had sounded too abrupt, he added, “I'm all right now. Really. I'm sorry I worried you.”

Faelia squeezed his hand. “An ambush . . . it strains everyone's nerves. But you did well. Not just today, but the other times, too. Without you, we could never have achieved so much.”

“Our secret weapon,” Temet called him. At least in front of the others. Privately, Temet kept pressing him to use his vision to spy on Zherosi troop movements, but so far, he'd only managed to reach his spirit guide once. And that was to help young Eilin, who had been so traumatized by his first battle that he alternated between violent nightmares and apathetic silence.

As with little Luimi, Natha came to him at once. After soothing Eilin's initial panic, he had managed to touch the dark places in the boy's spirit, share his own fears about battle, and ease his lingering doubts about his bravery. Since then, Eilin's nightmares had faded. Now it was the healer who suffered them.

As Faelia crawled back to Temet, Keirith wondered at his continued failure to achieve the kind of visions Temet expected. Was it a sign that he was not meant to use his gift to help the rebels kill their enemies? Or was he simply afraid of what he would See?

He heard Temet's deep whisper and Faelia's lighter one as she lay down beside him. None of the others stirred and the low buzz of conversation around the fire continued unabated. Thank the gods only Faelia had noticed his thrashing.

Unable to sleep, he rose, but instead of escaping into the solitude of the forest, he reluctantly walked toward the fire. Better to let them know where he was going and why. There were still those who eyed him with suspicion because he looked like a Zheroso; slipping off into the night would only feed their doubts.

His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and he saw Faelia's head come up as he passed. He paused long enough to rest his hand on her hair, then continued across the clearing. The group around the fire looked up, but no one invited him to join them.

“Bad dream?” Mikal asked.

Damn. They had heard. “I just need to piss.”

“They plague some recruits. Especially those who've never seen a real battle.”

“I was blooded at fourteen. When the Zherosi attacked my village.”

“That's right. I forgot.”

He hadn't forgotten; Mikal was just testing him. Faelia claimed he was tough on all the recruits, but he seemed to take particular enjoyment in goading the son of Darak Spirit-Hunter.

Selima punched Mikal on the arm. “Let the man piss. Before he bursts.”

“You'll manage all right on your own?” Pedar asked. “It's dark out there.”

Pedar's concern surprised him; it was more in his nature to joke.

“I'll be fine. Thanks.”

“Just remember,” Pedar said, his face solemn, “it's not a dagger. You'll want to draw it out of your breeches nice and slow.”

Clearly, the others had been waiting for it. Keirith managed a smile and backed away, hoping to escape before Pedar capitalized on his joke.

“I've got a strong right hand. If you need help.”

“He doesn't want that callused paw groping between his legs. Now these . . .” Selima's fingers waggled in the firelight.

Pedar shook his head in mock despair. “It's not a flute, woman. Didn't I tell you that the other night?”

“Oh, aye. But you were happy enough when I blew on it.”

Keirith dutifully laughed with the others and strode off. Some of the rebels used coarse humor to keep their fears at bay, while others sought release in sex. Both made him feel awkward—and reminded him that, at nearly thirty years of age, he had never lain with a woman.

He ruthlessly suppressed the longing that filled him. He was only indulging in such blatant self-pity because he was far from home—a stranger among strangers—and because the nightmare had stirred up all the old feelings.

He leaned against a sapling and took a deep breath. It had been years since he had dreamed of Xevhan, longer still since one of his nightmares had awakened the family, but clearly, Faelia remembered.

Rigat would have remembered, too; they slept side by side, and unlike Callie, Rigat was a light sleeper. Each time Keirith had jolted awake, his brother held his hand until the shaking stopped and mercifully refrained from questioning him later.

Only Fa knew the truth: that shattered fragments of Xevhan's spirit had lodged inside him after their battle. Until tonight, Keirith had believed that he and Natha had rooted out the lingering traces.

He stiffened, recalling the final words of his nightmare. Neither Xevhan nor Faelia had urged him to wake. It had been Rigat. But that was impossible. His brother was with Fellgair. His dreaming mind must have conjured Rigat's voice. And—please, gods—Xevhan's. He couldn't bear the thought that those tainted fragments were still buried deep inside his spirit.

He scanned the graying sky with relief. From long experience, he knew the terrors that stalked a man by night seemed far less formidable in the daylight. He almost welcomed the prospect of another long march. Perhaps it would leave him too exhausted to dream.

Hearing a man's soft chuckle from the underbrush, his mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Clearly, one couple had found another way to banish the night terrors. Although he doubted his presence would distract them, he had no desire to eavesdrop on their encounter.

As he turned back to camp, he heard another rustle and froze. Temet always warned them about making careless assumptions. Likely, it was just a couple making love or a sentry exchanging a quick word with a comrade, but there was always the chance—however remote—that a Zherosi patrol had found them.

Peering into the darkness, his hand moved to the hilt of his dagger. A soft voice said, “Make sure your fingers are wrapped around the right weapon.”

Before he could do more than gasp Rigat's name, his brother emerged from his hiding place and flung his arms around him. They thumped each other on the back, laughing and whispering, too excited to even answer the questions the other asked.

Finally, Keirith pulled back. “How did you find me?”

“Remember how I could follow the trail of Mam's spirit when I left our valley? Now, I can follow anyone's. Well, anyone I know. From hundreds of miles away.”

Even in the dark, Keirith could hear the pride in Rigat's voice and the effort he made to sound matter-of-fact rather than boastful.

“Are you hungry? There's food. A little. And a fire.”

“Nay.”

It took Keirith a moment to understand Rigat's reluctance. “Nobody knows. About you. We told everyone you were scouting the moors.”

“And they believed that?”

“If they didn't, no one said anything.”

“To your face. Nay, it doesn't matter,” Rigat added. “But you mustn't tell anyone you saw me.”

“But—”

“Not even Faelia.”

“All right.”

“Swear.”

“Rigat . . .”

“Swear!”

“All right, all right. I swear.”

“Now give me your hand. And hold on tight.”

The orange glow of the fire winked out. A sudden blast of wind made him close his watering eyes. When he opened them, he discovered they were standing on a moor. Even in the faint light, he could see Rigat's teeth gleam as he grinned.

“Where is this?”

“You don't have to whisper. No one's here.”

Judging from the cool air and the treeless moor, they were farther north. Boulders encrusted with yellow lichens reared up above golden deergrass. Thick carpets of moss covered the flatter rocks. Small pools of rainwater had collected in the pits that time and the elements had carved, and small pink and white flowers had sprung up around them. He crouched down for a closer look, then quickly straightened when he found himself wondering if his mam would recognize the flowers.

“I saw her.”

He spun around to find Rigat studying him intently.

“And Darak, too.”

Keirith slowly lowered himself onto a slab of rock, heedless of the flowers he crushed beneath him. His brother sat beside him, careful to choose a dry place. As Rigat described his encounters, Keirith envisioned his father struggling up the slope, his mother clinging to Hircha's arm. He wasn't aware his fist had clenched until Rigat's fingers curled around it.

“Can't you forgive her?”

“I have.” But Keirith knew the shadow of her choice would always lie between them.

“And Darak? Can you forgive him for being the one she chose?”

Since that day by the lake, neither he nor his father had broached the subject. Nor had they dared discuss the implications for their relationship. But that gulf was just as real as the one that separated him from his mother. Trust Rigat to recognize what he had refused to face himself.

Rigat sighed and released his hand. For a long while, they simply sat together, watching the clouds change from violet to pink in anticipation of Bel's dawning. Then Keirith blurted out, “It was you, wasn't it? Speaking in my dream?”

Rigat hesitated, his expression wary. Then he nodded.

“And you've done it before.”

When Rigat nodded again, Keirith leaped up and stalked away.

“It was an accident. The first time. But there were so many nights when you were thrashing and moaning, and I couldn't think of any other way to help.”

With an effort, Keirith steadied his breathing. “I'm not angry. It's just . . . I thought he was gone. But all the time, it was you driving him away.”

Without Rigat, there would be more nights like tonight, filled with Xevhan's taunting laughter and insidious whispers.

“They're just dreams, Keirith.”

“Are you sure?”

Rigat opened his mouth and closed it again. Finally, he said, “Nay. My power wasn't as strong then. I couldn't tell if the darkness I felt was just the dream or something real. But if I touched your spirit now—”

“There's no time.”

Sharing a link with his father had been difficult enough. For his brother to touch those dark places, to sense all his painful secrets . . .

He forced himself to smile. “Thank you for coming. For . . . easing my dreams all these years. And for telling me about Mam and Fa.”

Rigat looked as if he wanted to pursue the subject of Xevhan, but all he said was, “There was another reason I came. I saw you, too. Leading a Zherosi war party into an ambush. Why, Keirith?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have a gift.”

“A gift that seems to have deserted me,” he replied, unable to disguise his bitterness.

“But you have to try.”

“I have tried!” Only a few moons ago, he had been the one giving advice. Even knowing that Rigat was the son of a god, the reversal in their roles galled him. “I might not be able to See, but at least I'm doing something to help my people.”

“While I've just been having fun?” Rigat shot back.

“I didn't mean—”

“Do you think it's been easy? Trying to deal with everything that's happened and learn about my powers and not having anyone to talk to or think things through with. Except Fellgair. And he doesn't . . . he's not the same as real family.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

The anger drained from Rigat's face. “You know what it's like. To be different. Always trying to find a way to fit in and never really succeeding.” A look of intense excitement spread across his features. “Remember how I said it would take the two of us?”

Keirith nodded.

“You're right. I haven't done enough. But I can. I can be your eagle.”

“My eagle?”

“You can't keep luring the Zherosi into ambushes. Sooner or later, they'll catch on. But I could open portals. Spy on the Zherosi. And tell you what I've seen.”

“I'd have to tell Temet where I got the information.”

Rigat frowned. “I don't want them to know about me. Not yet. Just pretend it came to you in a vision. You can do that, can't you?”

Just swallow his pride and take the credit. Surely, the simple lie would hurt no one. So why was he reluctant?

They had been lucky so far, Temet anticipating the Zherosi response to their ambushes, scouts stumbling on a column of reinforcements. But to know troop movements instead of relying on luck? To know the exact number of men in each war party, at each fortress? With that kind of information, there was no limit to what they might do.

He looked at Rigat's expectant face and grinned. Rigat grinned back and pulled him into a fierce embrace.

“Tinnean and Darak changed the world,” his brother whispered. “So can we.”

He hugged Rigat hard, swept away by his confidence. And then he heard the taunting laughter once more:
“These rebels will never accept you. Because we are one, Kheridh. Now and always.”

“You're shivering,” Rigat said.