Foxfire (65 page)

Damn the man. Ever since their first meeting, Geriv had been unnerved by him. Not merely his physical presence, but that odd combination of power and vulnerability. One moment, tenderly cradling the dead body of the mute in his arms and the next, condemning the Zheron to an eternity in the Abyss in a voice so cold and inexorable that it still sent shivers down Geriv's spine to recall it. And then, the naked anguish when he believed his son's spirit was lost.

A muffled grunt made his head whip around. “Help him up!” he snapped to the guards. “And take off the blindfold.”

They hauled Kheridh back to his feet—again. Hard to believe he had possessed the power to cast out the Zheron's spirit. Even harder to make sense of his strange confession. “I'm weak,” he'd admitted. Yet the Spirit-Hunter had risked everything to save him.

He waited impatiently while the guards untied the blindfold. For a moment, Kheridh just stood there, dazed. Then his wandering gaze fixed on his father and his face came alive, the combination of joy and yearning as naked as the Spirit-Hunter's anguish all those years ago.

Did Korim watch his approach with so much yearning? With half that joy?

As they neared the little rise, the Spirit-Hunter moved behind Korim, cleverly shielding himself with the boy's body. Geriv countered by signaling his archers to nock arrows and fan out behind him. The Spirit-Hunter simply rested both hands on Korim's shoulders and waited.

It was clear he was not restraining Korim. Nor did Korim seem to resent the gesture. Incredibly, as the Spirit-Hunter leaned down to whisper something, Korim smiled. As if the man were his protector instead of his captor.

Rage flooded him. Fury at the Spirit-Hunter who had apparently won Korim's affection in a single night when he had striven in vain to do so for years. And even greater fury at his son—for being so easily beguiled and for destroying his plans to capture this man and crush the rebellion for good.

Damn Korim and his soft heart. And damn the Spirit-Hunter for playing on it.

With the small part of his mind that remained dispassionate, he noted his labored breathing, his racing heartbeat, the surge of bloodlust that filled his mouth with saliva. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to cut the Spirit-Hunter down and be done with this.

In the end, the commander triumphed. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat calmed. He spat to clear his mouth and continued down the beach, only to draw up short as Kheridh cried out.

Geriv whirled around and found him staring up at the two hills that guarded the narrows.

“What? What do you see?”

“Nothing. The hills. They reminded me of . . . but it's nothing.”

“Then stop this nonsense! Before you get us all killed.”

As the first red rays of the rising sun spilled through the trees, he seized Kheridh's arm and marched him toward the Spirit-Hunter.

“Vanel do Khat,” his father called.

“Spirit-Hunter.”

Nearly three moons since he'd heard his father's voice. Keirith wished he could see his face more clearly, but the shadows of the trees lay across him. Although only a few dozen paces separated them, Geriv had cautiously ordered the rest of his warriors to remain behind, out of range of any archers that might be hidden around the meeting place.

“The Spirit-Hunter has asked me to translate for him. To avoid misunderstandings.”

Korim's features were equally shadowed, but Keirith recognized the voice at once. Saw, too, the way Geriv tensed. But his expression remained wooden. If he was happy to see his son or relieved that he was unhurt, no one would ever know.

“Are you all right, son?” his father called.

Without waiting for Korim's translation, Geriv demanded, “What did he say?”

Keirith swallowed hard. “He asked if I was all right.”

“Answer him.”

“I'm fine, Fa. And you?”

“Tired. And worried about you, of course. But otherwise, I'm holding up.”

Keirith translated for Geriv's benefit and waited for him to ask after Korim. But Geriv simply called out, “Let's get on with this.”

Keirith heard the murmur of his father's voice. Then Korim said, “The Spirit-Hunter is anxious to avoid bloodshed. He gives his oath that none of his men will attack yours.”

“My men are easy targets. His are hidden. Let them show themselves.”

After Korim translated, Fa hesitated for a moment, then called out the order. One by one, figures appeared, arrows nocked. Keirith's breath hissed in when a man rose behind Fa, then eased out in a shaky sigh of relief when he recognized Mikal.

“And the rest?” Geriv demanded.

“There are no others,” Korim replied.

Ten men. Fa had done it all with just ten men. Seeing Geriv's look of shock and the flush that crept up his neck, Keirith struggled to hide his pride lest he antagonize the man further.

“The Spirit-Hunter suggests that both sides lay down their bows. To ensure there are no . . . accidents.”

Geriv cursed softly, then nodded. As both commanders shouted the order, their warriors reluctantly placed their bows on the ground.

“Send Korim over to me. And I will release Kheridh.”

Whatever Fa said in response to Korim's translation made the boy smile—and provoked another soft curse from Geriv.

“The Spirit-Hunter prefers that both prisoners are released at the same time.”

Geriv's fingers tightened on his arm. “Your oath,” he muttered, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Fa and Korim. “On your father's life. That you will not use your power.”

Keirith stared at him in disbelief. Why would he use his power? This was a straightforward exchange of prisoners. Was Geriv planning some trick? Or was he just nervous?

“And if I refuse?”

“I'll order my archers to cut him down where he stands.”

“And risk killing Korim?”

Geriv's expression hardened. “Your oath.”

“If you give me yours that my father leaves with me.”

Before Geriv could answer, Fa called out, “Keirith? What's wrong?”

Keirith glanced at his father. His vision swam. He blinked hard and realized it was not his vision, but some disturbance in the air next to Fa. He raised his bound wrists to shade his eyes, still uncertain if what he was seeing was real. Then Fa's head jerked toward the odd rippling. He took a step back, pulling Korim with him.

Geriv's fingers dug deeper into his bicep. “What's happening?”

The air split open. Keirith could have sworn he heard his mam and Callie, but when the figure stepped forward into the sunlight, the voices ceased.

“Geriv do Khat. I am the Son of Zhe, the Promised One of prophecy. In the name of the winged serpent who is my father, I command you to release Keirith at once.”

Keirith heard the nervous muttering of the Zherosi archers. Saw one of Fa's men reach for his bow. Quickly, he shouted, “Don't shoot! It's my brother Rigat!”

“Kelik! Hold!” his father cried. Geriv's head snapped around and he shouted the same order to his men.

Gods, why couldn't Rigat have come a sennight ago? Why now when his presence only fueled the tension?

“Rigat, please. Just go!”

Rigat gaped at him. Then he shouted, “Release my brother! Now!”

The hand gripping Keirith's arm began to tremble. Slowly, the fingers uncurled. Geriv stared at his hand as if it were some foreign object attached to his wrist.

“Keirith—come to me.”

The urge to obey was irresistible—as if Rigat were pulling him forward, just as he had compelled Geriv to release his grip. He took a step. Geriv's hand came up as if to yank him back and hung there, trembling violently, before it slowly fell to his side.

He took another step, and another. Son of a god or not, he would knock his little brother on his arse later. His penchant for drama had come close to ruining everything.

Something moved in the shadows behind Fa. Mikal, he realized. Ducking behind a boulder. And reemerging with his bow.

Keirith's footsteps slowed, stopped. Too late, he realized what was going to happen, what
was
happening.

Mikal raising the bow. The man named Kelik snatching up his. Shouts all around, a garbled chorus of Zherosi and the tribal tongue. The voices oddly distant, as if they came from miles away. Another voice—his voice—screaming, “Fa!” But only in his mind, his lips uselessly shaping the word.

His feet, stumbling over a stone. His hands, flung out to catch himself as he fell.

Rigat's eyes, as piercing and blue as the sky. His red braid swinging wildly as he turned toward Mikal.

His father's hand, planted against Korim's back, shoving him to the ground. His other hand, reaching for Rigat, pulling him close, shielding him with his body, never realizing that he was the one who needed protection.

Fa's arms, flung out as if to embrace him. Fa's mouth, opening as if to call his name. But his eyes, oh, gods, his eyes . . .

Gray braids masked his face as he spun around. The arrow quivered in his broad back. Rigat screamed, as high and shrill as the wood pigeon.

Natha hissed in his ear. Feathers brushed his cheek. His father staggered as the second arrow hit his shoulder. Rigat caught him as he fell, and both of them toppled to the ground.

Arrows flew overhead, all hissing with Natha's voice. The earth trembled with the impact of men's feet.

A cacophony of shouts. His father's face twisting in agony. Rigat's hand grasping his. Rigat's voice ordering him to hold on, hold on tight.

Fa's features blurred. And the world vanished.

T
HEY SAT IN ANXIOUS SILENCE, hope warring with fear as they waited for Rigat's return. Griane had just begun ladling Hircha's porridge when the shoe sprouted from the air. The bowl slipped from her fingers and shattered on the stones of the fire pit. She heard Callie whisper, “Merciful Maker,” but she could only stare at the disembodied shoe.

A leg appeared, clad in worn doeskin. And then Rigat had stepped into the hut and asked her if everything was all right. Moments later, he was gone. Now they could only wait—and pray.

Suddenly, the wall of the hut melted into a shaft of sunlight. Keirith crouched in it, gazing wildly around him. His body sagged with relief when he saw them. As he staggered to his feet, she glimpsed the two figures behind him.

“Help me!” Rigat cried.

Callie was the first to recover, rushing forward to help Keirith pull Darak into the hut. She could hear shouts and glimpsed the frightened face of a boy staring at her. Then Rigat stepped through the portal, and it snapped shut behind him.

“Callie,” Keirith whispered. “Pull the doeskin across the doorway.”

Darak sprawled on his right side, his head resting in Keirith's lap. One arrow had gone through the meaty part of his left shoulder. The other was embedded in his back. Worse than the blood drenching his tunic or the terrible pallor of his face was the liquid gurgle of his breath and the bloody froth that stained his lips.

His lung is punctured, the healer analyzed.

He's going to die, the woman screamed.

As if he had heard her, his eyes fluttered open. Incredibly, he smiled. He spat out a mouthful of blood and whispered, “I told you I'd bring him home.”

He choked, his body heaving helplessly as he spewed thick gouts of blood over Keirith's thighs.

“Sit him up!” she cried. “Hircha—”

But Hircha was already shoving the healing bag into her arms. Callie and Keirith tried to drag Darak to a sitting position, but the shaft of the arrow in his shoulder prevented Keirith from getting a good grip.

“Snap it off!” she ordered.

She didn't remember jumping to her feet. One moment, she was sitting beside the fire pit and the next, crouching beside him. His gaze held hers, his lips framing a word.

“Faelia arrived yesterday,” she assured him. “With the others. She's hunting.”

His head lolled, and he choked again. Keirith grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked his head up, averting his face as blood sprayed him.

Hircha flung a mantle down on the rushes behind Darak. Griane crawled over to it and dumped out the contents of her healing bag.

Darak had often spoken of that moment right before a kill when he was both hunter and observer. It was the same with a healer. Part of her agonized over him—her husband, her lover, the father of her children. Yet her hands quickly laid out her tools: the daggers, the nettle-cloth bandages, the needles and sinew, the two-pronged bone hook she called the “ram's horns” that she would need to remove the arrowhead. Her voice spoke in the confident tone she had learned from Mother Netal, urging Keirith and Callie to hold Darak still, asking Hircha for bowls of water and fresh yarrow compresses. And her mind pictured the incisions she would make even before she picked up the narrow-bladed dagger.