Foxfire (29 page)

“The wind's cold.”

“And the sun's coming up. I must get you back. Look, I'm not sure when I'll be able to come again. So for now, just slip away from camp every night and pretend to seek a vision.”

Did Rigat even hear the hint of derision in his voice? Or was he too caught up in his scheme to notice?

Swallowing his resentment, Keirith said, “Be careful.”

“Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.” A confident grin, a careless shrug. “Now hold on tight. And close your eyes else you'll get dizzy.”

Obediently, Keirith closed his eyes, shutting out the bloody curve of the rising sun.

A
T FIRST, RIGAT ENJOYED playing eagle. The most difficult part was learning when and where to open a portal. In the end, Keirith gave him the clue he needed, passing along what he knew of the fortresses and their locations. After that, he was able to move from place to place, observing the activities around the fortresses and the movement of troops upriver.

With Fellgair's help, he finally mastered the trick of hiding his presence by pulling moisture from a nearby body of water or cloaking himself in a mantle of sunbeams. It was harder to maintain the illusion while he spied on the Zherosi. Twice, he became so engrossed that he allowed his shield to dissipate and had to hastily seal the portal before a scouting party attacked. But the danger only added to the excitement.

Using his information, the rebels ambushed a relief column marching from Little Falls to The Bluff, then two hunting parties in the hills around The Bluff. After that, the Zherosi rarely left either fortress. An entire sennight went by in which Rigat did little more than squat on a hilltop, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

Spying, he realized, was mostly dull work—and in his case, thankless. Although he knew the victories would have been impossible without him, it was Keirith who received the accolades, Keirith who was acclaimed a hero.

To relieve his restiveness, he ventured farther downriver. At Eagles Mount, he surveyed the place where his entire family had been born and tried to picture it as it must have been before the Zherosi came. Farther west, he found three smaller fortresses and dutifully reported his estimate of the men in each and the number of ships he spotted on the river. He traveled as far as the great sea itself. Even more impressive than the endless expanse of water was the sprawling city at the mouth of the river.

He stared in fascination at the stone buildings—two, three, even four times the height of a man; the orderly grid of streets; the dozen ships rocking gently beside the long stone walkways that jutted out into the water. And the people—he had never seen so many in one place, Zherosi and tribe folk alike.

In Graywaters, the only battles being fought were over the price of goods in the marketplaces. He wandered freely through the streets, observing Zherosi sailors dicing with fishermen, Zherosi servants haggling with hunters over haunches of venison, Zherosi warriors flirting with the local women filling their waterskins at a well.

Not all was harmony, of course. He witnessed the occasional fistfight, a toothless old woman begging at a corner. At sunset, his people retreated to their village, while the Zherosi closed the massive wooden gates at the four entrances of the city and mounted armed guards around the walls. Not once did he observe any of his people entering the sawmill to the east of the city, but neither did they try to burn it down.

Rigat reported his observations to Keirith, but kept his doubts to himself. Temet had only fifty or sixty in his band. Keirith claimed there were other rebel forces scattered throughout the north, but even if they all joined together, how could they possibly defeat the hundreds—thousands—of Zherosi? Especially when most of their people seemed to have given up the fight.

 

 

 

If Fellgair knew he was spying for the rebels, he said nothing. He saw his father less frequently now, but loneliness was better than Fellgair's unblinking scrutiny.

The Summerlands—beautiful and serene—only made him more restless. He preferred to spend his nights in one of his forest lairs, sleeping on a bed of leaves or pine needles.

After one such night, he rose and washed his face and hands in a pool. He stared down at his wavering reflection: the unkempt hair studded with leaves and twigs, the scruffy cheeks, the collar of grime around his neck. Then he drew his dagger.

He shaved the red fuzz from his cheeks, but despite his care, he had to use his power to seal the nicks. He used it yet again to mend the hole in the elbow of his tunic, but satisfied himself with brushing off the worst of the dirt; although he wanted to look his best, he refused to waste his magic on cleaning his clothes.

He opened a portal south of the village. For a moment, he simply stood there, allowing his anticipation to build. Then he strode over the hill, eagerly noting the changes since Fellgair had brought him here. The newly-sheared ewes looked skinny and frail, the irregular pink patches of skin like giant freckles. Gorse set the hills aflame with brilliant splashes of yellow, and barley stood knee-high on the terraces.

Fishermen shouted greetings when they recognized him. Children, attracted by the noise, raced down the slope from the hill fort, calling his name. He entered the village, heady with excitement, and was immediately surrounded by a crowd.

He answered their questions absently as he searched for his mam. Instead, he saw Callie coming toward him, a great smile on his face. He flung himself into his brother's arms and clung to him for a moment. Then he realized how unmanly that must seem and pulled away, punching Callie lightly on the shoulder. He glimpsed Madig's frowning face and the Grain-Grandmother's smiling one, but the others faded into a blur when he saw his mam.

She stood at the doorway of their hut, motionless at the back of the restless crowd. Her chin shook as she caught her upper lip between her teeth, but her eyes were huge and shining. He pushed past the others, his heart beating a wild tattoo. But when they stood only a pace apart, they both stopped, shy and awkward as strangers.

Her hand came up. Tentatively, she touched his cheek. “I wasn't sure you were real.”

Unwilling to trust his voice, he nodded.

Her arms were as strong as he remembered. The scent of herbs clung to her, and wool-fat soap, and that indefinable something that was simply Mam.

She thrust him away, swiping at her nose and laughing. “You're so tall.”

“That's what Keirith said.”

“Keirith? You've seen him?”

“And Fa and Faelia. And so much else, Mam. I don't even know where to begin.”

Her expression changed, as if some light inside her had been smothered. Rigat turned to find Madig studying him.

“So. You're back.”

“For a while.”

“Where have you been?”

“Scouting. For Temet.”

It was impossible to tell from Madig's grunt whether he believed him or not.

“The council of elders will need to hear what you've learned. And Temet's warriors.”

“They're still here?”

“A few. Come to the longhut at midday.”

“He's just gotten home,” his mam protested. “Surely, it can wait until the morrow.”

“Midday,” Madig said. “Then you can tell us all about scouting for Temet.”

Fingers bit deep into his bicep, and Rigat choked back a retort.

“There are fields to be weeded and huts to repair,” Madig reminded the onlookers as he limped away. “Let's waste no more time here.”

Only then did Rigat discover that the fingers gripping his arm belonged to Hircha.

“Darak named him chief in his absence,” she said in an undertone. “Stay out of his way. He's never forgiven you for Seg's death.”

“But that wasn't my—”

“It doesn't matter. And mind what you say in front of Callie. He doesn't know.”

“Know what?”

“The truth. About you.”

Shocked, he glanced at his mam, who nodded. “Darak told her.” As Callie approached, she summoned a quick smile. “Let's go inside and talk. The children's lessons can wait, can't they, Callie? Callie is Memory-Keeper now,” she added. “Nemek . . . I lost him.”

His mam always grieved when her healing skills failed to save a life, but Nemek's loss must have hit her hard. He had always been a favorite of hers—of everyone in the village.

“You did everything you could,” he assured her.

“But it wasn't enough.”

He studied her face, wondering if she was thinking of Nemek or Keirith.

 

 

 

In the short time they had together before the council meeting, he told them what he could, assuring them that Darak looked well, that Keirith seemed content, that Faelia was heartened by the victories. If they had doubts, they hid them, each pretending for the others that the glimpses he offered were complete, that their loved ones were safe, that soon, they would all be together again.

The succession of half-truths left him nervous and edgy. Repeating them to the council of elders only increased his frustration. Lisula and Gortin seemed genuinely happy to see him, but Madig interrogated him as if he were the enemy. Worse, the elders had invited two of Temet's warriors to attend, and they pressed him impatiently for specifics about the ambushes, the strength of the Zherosi forces, and Darak's success in recruiting others to the cause.

Faced with the need to hide the true extent of his spying, he had to rely on what he had learned from Keirith. Here, too, his brother was hailed as a hero. Beside Keirith's visionary skills and selfless bravery, his efforts sounded puny. When he tried to elaborate on his scouting expeditions, he received skeptical glances from Madig and the warriors who clearly thought he was boasting. By the time they ran out of questions, he was trembling with the effort to control his temper.

“If there's nothing else, I'd like to spend the rest of the day with my family.”

“Run along,” Madig said, as if he were a child.

He offered a jerky bow and ducked out of the longhut. Unwilling to speak to anyone until he was calmer, he simply stalked past the group of old women scraping hides.

“Oh, look at him.” Donncha didn't bother to lower her voice. “Too big for his breeches to even share a bit of news.”

“That's enough.” Mirili's voice, quiet but firm.

“Looks like Madig put him in his place,” Donncha continued. “About time someone did.”

He whirled around to tell the meddling old gossip to mind her tongue, but managed to choke back the words. His face must have betrayed his anger, for Donncha clucked her tongue in disapproval.

“Always had a temper. Got that from Griane.”

Rigat slowly advanced on her. “Don't you ever speak ill of my mother. Do you hear me?”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then Donncha clucked her tongue again. “You ought to be ashamed. Talking so disrespectfully to your elders. Who do you think you are?”

He wanted to shout, “I am the Trickster's son! And if you say another word, I'll cast your miserable bones into Chaos!”

“He's my hot-tempered son.” His mam's voice came from somewhere behind him. “Who apparently had words with the council members and is taking his frustration out on the first person he sees. Apologize, Rigat.”

Staring at the ground, he mumbled an apology.

“You're right, Donncha,” Mam continued. “I was just as hot-tempered at his age. I've learned better manners since. While you still enjoy sniping at people behind their backs.”

Donncha's mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. Before she could come up with a suitable reply, his mam's hand descended on the back of his neck, steering him toward the entrance of the hill fort.

She waited until they were out of earshot to say, “I've been wanting to tell her off for forty years. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.” Then she cuffed him. “Don't ever talk that way to one of your elders.”

“Aye, Mam.”

“And wipe that grin off your face.”

“I will if you will.”

She cuffed him again, but the smile remained until he told her about the council meeting.

“I can't believe Fa—Darak—named Madig chief.”

“Oh, he's not a bad chief,” she said, surprising him. “He drives the people a little hard, but that's only natural. He couldn't protect his son, so he's made it his mission to protect this village. Against any threat.”

“Like me.”