Foxfire (63 page)

“Aye.” Korim hesitated, then added, “But not very well.”

“Then I'd like you to translate. If you would. So there are no misunderstandings.”

He waited for Korim to nod again before walking down to the water. The ship was heading to the southern shore as he'd directed. He paced nervously, watching its progress, then forced himself to stop when he saw Korim watching him.

“The waiting,” he said. “That's the hardest part.” Then wondered why he was confiding in the boy.

“You are not . . . I expected you to be different. The stories . . .”

“Men make up the stories. And they like stories with heroes. If we'd had more time, I'd have told you what really happened on that quest.”

“Not that. I thought you would be . . . hard. Cruel. And then I met Kheridh . . . and you . . . and . . .” He shrugged helplessly.

“Aye. Well. I can be hard, but I hope I'm not cruel. Mostly, I'm just a man. A husband. A father.”

Korim nodded, watching him with those big doe eyes. Darak had never expected a Zherosi boy to stare at him with the same wide-eyed awe as the lads in the villages.

Not awe, he realized. Yearning.

What kind of life had he led that made him so hungry for kindness that he'd accept it from the man who had captured him?

“Don't worry. Everything'll be fine.”

He wasn't sure if he meant the prisoner exchange or the unhappy lad's future.

W
HEN RIGAT SAW THE FIGURE silhouetted in the doorway, he imagined it was Fellgair. Then reason overcame desire, and he recognized Nekif.

“Great lord, I packed the supplies you requested. Dried fruit and meat. They are there—next to your chest of clothes. With the waterskin. And I took the liberty of bringing a bowl of honeyed figs. It's not wise to begin a journey on an empty stomach.”

“Thank you, Nekif.”

“Shall I help you dress? Or would you prefer to bathe first?”

“I've no time to bathe.”

He had already wasted an entire day trying to trace Fellgair's energy: in Zheros, in the north, in all the places they had visited during their first days together, including the First Forest. There was only one place left to look.

Chaos.

He tried and failed to suppress a shudder. But if Darak—a man with no magic—could survive Chaos, so could the Trickster's son.

Splashing cool water on his face helped clear his mind. Bolting a few of the figs assuaged his hunger. He only wished he could replenish his power so easily, but he was afraid to postpone his mission any longer.

“No, not a khirta,” he said, as Nekif held out a fresh one. “I want my old tunic and breeches today. And my shoes.”

He waited impatiently as Nekif padded back to the carved wooden chest and rummaged through it; no doubt his old clothes were buried under all the Zherosi finery. Nekif finally uncovered them and hurried toward him, the breeches slung over his arm and the tunic held at arm's length. Although the doeskin had been brushed and cleaned, the old man's nose wrinkled.

Rigat snatched the tunic away. “You object to my choice of clothing?”

The grimace vanished. “Of course not, great lord.”

“These are the clothes of my mother's people. And as such, as worthy to be worn by the Son of Zhe as any golden breastplate.”

Nekif fell to his knees and prostrated himself. “Please forgive this miserable slave. I deserve to be beaten for my impertinence and driven from your presence.”

“And if you ever show such disrespect again, you will be. Now hand me my breeches.”

The tunic was too tight through the shoulders, the breeches straining at the thighs, but after making such a fuss, he couldn't very well take them off.

“After I've left, you may tell the queen I've gone north. I should return in a day or two.”

“Yes, great lord.”

He dismissed Nekif and dug through the chest to retrieve his leather belt and bag of charms. It comforted him to feel the familiar weight of his dagger against his thigh and the small doeskin bag rising and falling with every breath. And perhaps it would bring him luck to emulate Darak who had entered Chaos armed only with the flint of his dagger, the power of his charms, and the strength of his will.

He slipped his arms through the leather straps of the courier's satchel and settled it on his back. Then he slung the waterskin over his shoulder. He was as ready as he would ever be—if he could open a portal.

He could not follow Fellgair's energy trail between the worlds. Since the landscape of Chaos was always changing, there was no point in picturing any of the things Darak had described. But if the Trickster's nature combined elements of order and chaos, surely his son's must, too.

He focused his mind, trying to tap into the part of his power that drew its strength from the Unmaker. He had often felt it raging uncontrolled through his body, yet now it eluded him.

Frustration made his power leap. And suddenly, he understood.

Analyzing his power with his mind was fruitless. Only when his emotions ruled him did the chaotic aspect of his power burn brightest.

He called on his darkest memories: his terror when Madig nocked the arrow in his bow; the lust that Jholianna aroused in him; the shock of discovering his true identity and the desolation of believing his mam had wanted to kill him; the desperate desire to please both his fathers; and the angry helplessness of being deserted by Fellgair.

With each memory, the power flared. And when it raged through him, hot as a fire through dry brush, he ripped his dagger from its sheath and scored his wrist. Blood bound him to Fellgair as well as magic. It would take both to find his father.

Picturing Fellgair's face, he raised the blood-spattered dagger and slashed open the veil between the worlds.

Greenish-yellow light seeped through the slit. Gingerly, he pulled on one side and peeped through. A stunted, dead tree loomed before him. A few paces away, a boulder reared out of the ground, its black surface incongruously smooth and glossy, as if it had been polished. The sky was the color of an old bruise, the sickly ocher stained here and there by purple blotches that might be clouds.

“I am the Trickster's son. Welcome me or not.”

The portal oozed around his shoulders. Before his power could dissipate, he shoved through and sealed the portal behind him.

Immediately, his heart began to race, and he had to gasp for air. Was Chaos trying to destroy him? Then why was his power surging as wildly as his heart?

He staggered forward, clutching at a limb of the dead tree for support. Shimmering black dots rose before his eyes, as if ants were swarming over the ground. A sharp pain stabbed his side with every breath, but he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply until the pain ebbed and his vision cleared.

Shaking but relieved, he stepped back from the tree, only to be pulled up short. Assuming the sleeve of his tunic was snagged, he reached up. Then froze.

A cluster of dark twigs curled like claws over his wounded wrist. Thick red slime oozed out between them, solidifying as it spread until the claws appeared to be webbed and bloody. Fat globules dripped onto his fingers, sticky as sap but impossibly warm.

As he recoiled, the branch above dipped, weighted down by another cluster of twigs groping for his left wrist. He yanked it out of reach and tore at the imprisoning claws, but the twigs were as resilient as flesh. He grabbed one in his fist and bent it back until it snapped.

The tree shrieked. Not the harsh sound of splintering wood but an agonized scream that echoed through his body and spirit alike. Before he had time to recover, a shudder raced through the branch that still gripped him. Then the other branches began to sway as if rocked by gusts of wind. But there was no wind, not the faintest breeze.

A branch bent low to pluck at the leather thong of his bag of charms. Another snagged the strap of his satchel. He slipped his arm free, but it claimed his waterskin, dangling it just out of reach as if mocking him.

He didn't dare try to retrieve it. He had to keep moving, wriggling and twisting to avoid the grasping branches. Frantically, he grabbed another claw and snapped it off. A spray of bloody sap splashed warmly against his cheek. He broke off another claw and another after that, wincing at each all-too-human shriek.

Cursing, sweating, constantly dancing away from the treacherous branches, he finally broke away, only to be tugged back as a relentless claw seized the strap of his satchel again. He wriggled free, abandoning his supply of food as he had his water. In his haste to escape, he stumbled and went down hard. Heels digging into the loose soil, he scuttled backward like a crab.

The branches of the tree were still moving, but now they flapped with perfect precision like so many featherless wings. The roots pulled free and curled under the trunk. With a final screech, the thing rose into the air and flew off.

He had learned the tale at Darak's knee. How could he have forgotten that Chaos was a place of illusion?

He was still staring at the tree-bird when the black boulder heaved up, spewing sand. Too stunned to move, he watched it grow larger—first, the size of a hut in his village, then a small hill, then as tall as Kelazhat. All in absolute silence.

Yellow flowers sprouted on the gleaming black slopes and grew to the size of trees. Giant sunflowers, he realized, swallowing hard when dozens of eyes blinked open in the dark centers.

Water gushed out of the ground, forming a perfectly circular pool at the base of the mountain. A column of water rose out of it, bluer than the sea at Pilozhat, sparkling silver and gold as if lit by the light of moon and sun alike. The column rose higher and higher until it crested at the mountain's summit, flashing rainbow-colored shards skyward. The most beautiful waterfall he had ever seen—cascading up the mountainside.

His power raced, as frantic as his heartbeat, as rapid as the continuing shifts in the landscape. Squat brown bushes reared out of the ground near the pool, sprouted eight spindly legs, and skittered away like giant spiders. The sandy soil leached away, forming a sinkhole. Before he scuttled back, he glimpsed the black void that filled it.

As if in sympathy, the sky darkened, illuminated only by a curtain of light that shimmered like the Northern Dancers. Only these Dancers were the same sickly greenish yellow that the sky had been moments earlier.

Something flew past his face, hissing, and he batted it away. Something pattered onto the earth—the earth that was now as hard as stone and as black as the mountain. Although the tiny pellets of hail clattered against the polished surface, they felt as soft as milkweed fluff when they brushed against his hands.

Lightning zigzagged across the ground, opening gaping fissures that closed a moment later. Waves rolled and crested in the sky, shattering the curtain of light. When the ground began rolling as well, Rigat flung himself flat, clutching at the thick stalks of grass that shot up around him. They were as insubstantial as water. Helpless, he was carried up into the air on the wave. Then it crested, hurling him down, drowning him in green.

His stomach heaved and he vomited, tasting bile and honey, spewing bits of undigested figs onto the ground. The figs sprouted like mushrooms, caps whirling, and spun into the air.

“You're not real!”

He shut his eyes, but that only made the earth's undulations more sickening. He retched again, fighting to control his body, his mind, and the power that blazed through him. Was it feeding on the unpredictable energy of Chaos—or was Chaos feeding on him?

“My father told me that the spirits in Chaos were drawn to me,” Darak had explained. “Because I was alive. They wanted to get close to that life force.”

If the presence of Darak's life force had been enough to attract the spirits of Chaos, his power must be even more alluring. Panting with the effort, he tried to tamp it down.

The ground heaved again and went still, plunging him facedown in something cold. He pushed himself up on his elbows and discovered that he was lying at the edge of an ice-scummed pond. Insects swarmed above it, iridescent bodies gleaming as they darted between shafts of murky light. Their monotonous whine maddened him. And his reaction only made the sound louder.

Control. According to Darak, that was the key to surviving Chaos. Only by controlling every emotion—fear, wonder, desire—could you keep the illusions at bay. If Darak had done so through the force of his will, so could he.

He closed his eyes again, trying to calm his breathing and bank the fires of his power. Then something slimy crawled over his hand, shattering his concentration.

“Stop!” he screamed.