Foxfire (67 page)

“His own sister cursed him!” Othak shouted. “She knew what he was.”

A woman screamed, “Murderer!”

“Traitor!”

“Abomination!”

Rigat turned and ran. An agonizing burst of pain ripped through his head, sending him reeling into the wall of a hut. Something thudded against the thatch. He looked up as a rock tumbled to the ground. For a moment, he simply stared at it, too shocked to move. His people were stoning him. Stoning
him
. Then another rock grazed his arm, and he spun away.

He could hear them behind him, howling like wolves. A rock smacked into a wall. Another thudded against his back. He drew on his power—just a little, just enough for a final burst of strength that carried him out of the hill fort.

He skidded down the slope. Tripped over something and staggered. Gasped as his knee came down hard on a rock.

His fall drew louder howls from the mob. He dared a glimpse behind him and saw Rothisar nocking an arrow in his bowstring. Trath's arm came up to knock the bow aside. Keirith and Callie surged through the crowd, shoving people out of the way, ripping rocks from fingers, using elbows and fists to ward them off.

Rigat pushed himself to his feet. Pain lanced through his left knee, his head, his side, but fear drove him on.

He reached the lake and veered east around the shore. His lungs felt like they were on fire. A sharp stitch of pain stabbed his side with every breath, along with the duller throb where Faelia had kicked him.

He clawed his way up the hill and paused, panting like a winded deer. They were clustered near the lake, still screaming, still shaking their fists. He didn't wait to observe more. He had to keep running. Far enough for them to give up the chase. And then find a place to hide. Somewhere safe where he could recover his strength and his power.

The Trickster's son. Stoned like a mad dog.

A sob tore at his throat. He swallowed it down. They would not make him weep. Neither those miserable villagers nor his sister. He was stronger than all of them.

He was the Trickster's son.

He fell into a shambling trot. Then he walked, one leaden step after the next. When he glimpsed the stand of alders, he lurched toward them. And when his legs finally gave out, he crawled down the slope and fell belly-down by the little stream, lapping up water like an animal.

When he raised his head, he found Fellgair crouching beside him. Even through the haze of exhaustion and pain and simmering rage, Rigat was shocked to see how haggard he looked. The Unmaker was exacting a brutal retribution from his son.

But even that realization could not prevent him from whispering, “I called you. But you didn't come.”

“By the time I managed to open a portal . . .” With a great effort, Fellgair straightened his slumping shoulders. “You must consider what you will do next.”

The words surprised a harsh bark of laughter from him. “ ‘Next?' There is no ‘next.' ”

“There is still the hope of peace. If you intercede for your people.”

“My people stoned me. My sister cursed me. Spat on me.”

“One village, Rigat. There are many others—”

“Don't you understand? It's over! I wanted an end to the fighting and I got it. The Zherosi have won. The rebels are dead. And Darak—” His voice broke. “Can you save him?”

“No.”

Hearing genuine grief in Fellgair's voice was frightening, but rage consumed the fear. “Are you afraid of what the Lord of Chaos will do? Or doesn't it suit you to save Darak? Because you're still angry about the things he said.”

“No.”

“Then do something! Go to the Summerlands. Bring Mam the healing plants. And the water. She'll know how to use them. Just do that much.”

“I can't.”

“Then open a portal for me and I'll go. I don't have the strength to do it myself.”

“I can't! I cannot go to the Summerlands. I cannot open a portal for you to go to the Summerlands. The way is . . . barred to me.”

The Unmaker's doing. It had to be. To punish Fellgair, but also Fellgair's son.

“There's still time to set things right,” Fellgair was saying. “If you put aside your pride and your anger—even your concern about Darak—and think about the greater good.”

That was why he had refused to give up his power. But that was before his own people had turned on him. And if those who had known him for years always believed the worst of him, how would he convince strangers to trust him?

The rebellion was broken. No more men and women would sacrifice their lives for a doomed cause. Perhaps that was the greater good. Perhaps, from the very beginning, this was how it was meant to end.

He was so tired. Tired of trying to do the right thing and failing. Tired of always being on his guard, of putting on an act for others, of bearing the weight of responsibility thrust upon him by Fellgair and Jholianna. All he wanted to do was go home and lay his head in his mam's lap and have her stroke his hair and tell him everything would be all right, that he was not evil, that he had done everything he could.

Everything within reason.

But would she say that? Or would she look at him with loathing because he had failed to save her first love? Would she choose Darak, just as she had chosen him over Keirith all those years ago?

“There's always a cost,” Fellgair had said. “No matter what one chooses.”

He had chosen Fellgair. Because he had helped one father, he had no power to save the other. And now he could never go home. They would only drive him out—or kill him.

He heard their shrill voices again, saw their faces, twisted with fear and hatred and eagerness for his blood. Then he recalled the voices that had chanted his name in Pilozhat, the wonder and joy of the people in that mountain village after he had healed the little boy.

“I don't know what the greater good means anymore.”

“Rigat—”

“Just leave me alone.”

He closed his eyes. He heard the sound of Fellgair's retreating footsteps. And then he let exhaustion carry him into dreamless sleep.

T
HE RIVER GLISTENED in the early morning sunlight. From a nearby tree, a blackbird warbled. The freshening breeze caressed Geriv's face. Bitterly, he reflected that it was going to be a beautiful day.

“The bodies are laid out for your inspection, Vanel.”

Geriv nodded to the Remil and strode back with him. He still couldn't believe the Spirit-Hunter had planned to rescue Kheridh with only ten men. Once his warship had crossed the river, he'd sent men to scour the area, but they found no sign of a larger force—only a few slaves tied to trees.

At the far end of the row, the spy crouched beside one of the bodies. Riddled with arrows, like the others. Probably only a few years older than Korim, who stared at the corpses, sickened.

“A pity you didn't kill him,” Geriv remarked to the spy.

Korim looked up. “No man could have killed the Son of Zhe.”

“I was talking about the Spirit-Hunter.”

Korim's head jerked toward the spy. “You . . . you shot Darak? Deliberately? But why would you—?”

“Because our anonymous friend wants to end this rebellion,” Geriv replied. “That's what you said, wasn't it? The night we met at Little Falls?”

The spy ignored him, his gaze fixed on his dead comrade.

“What better way to do that than by depriving the rebellion of its leader?”

Still, the spy remained silent, as oblivious to their presence as he was to his wounds. The broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his right arm. Another was embedded in his left shoulder. Blood soaked the sleeves of his tunic and dripped onto the grass at his feet.

Geriv glanced curiously at the dead man whose long face bore a slight resemblance to the spy's. “A kinsman?”

“My cousin. Sorig.” He whispered the name as if it were a prayer. Gently, he closed the staring eyes. “Will you take them to Little Falls? So they can have a proper funeral?”

“I have my own dead to attend to. If Birat wants their bodies, he can send men to collect them.” He turned to the Remil. “I'm going north. On the morrow. With three komakhs. Get the troops ready when we return to the fortress. You'll remain in command there until I return.”

“North?” Korim asked. “Why?”

“I intend to command the assault on the Spirit-Hunter's village.”

“Darak's lung-shot,” the spy said. “He's probably dead already.”

“I'll believe that when I see his body.”

He started toward the river, only to be brought up short when Korim seized his arm. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it's likely that boy—Rigat—took them back to their village. If the Spirit-Hunter is dead, the other members of his family will make excellent hostages.”

“But . . . the Son of Zhe . . .”

“I take my orders from the queen, not some scruffy boy who claims to be the Son of Zhe.”

“Why can't you just leave them alone?”

Geriv jerked his arm free. “You don't allow your enemies to escape if it's in your power to stop them.”

And he would stop them—both the Spirit-Hunter and his accursed son—even if it cost him his command and his life. Damn Vazh. He should have killed them both when he had the chance.

Staring down into his son's shocked face, he chose his words with care. “Kheridh tricked you. The Spirit-Hunter captured you. There was nothing you could have done to prevent that,” he added quickly. “Or to escape. But it doesn't change the fact that they humiliated you.”

Korim winced. When Geriv laid his hand on his son's shoulder, Korim's head came up, his eyes wide and uncertain.

“You may return to Headquarters if you wish. But I hope you'll come with me. The only way to regain the respect of your fellow officers—to regain any measure of self-respect—is to go after these men and crush them. Once and for all.”

After a long moment, Korim nodded.

A
FTER THEY DROVE RIGAT from the village, Othak demanded explanations, but Griane barred him from the hut, shouting that she had a wounded man to attend to. It was Darak who insisted the council of elders be allowed to enter, Darak who told them how Rigat had rescued him and Keirith, Darak who explained that his youngest son possessed the shaman's gift of traveling between worlds and the healer's gift of mending torn flesh. Still bleeding from the wounds in his back and shoulder, still weak from the loss of blood, he left no room for argument or doubt. And when his voice failed him, Keirith took up the story, telling them that Rigat had used his gift to inform the rebels about Zherosi troop movements, that Rigat had given them so many victories. Even Faelia admitted she might have misjudged him.

If there were whispers in the village after that, Griane ignored them. She spent all her time with Darak, watching every movement, monitoring every grimace of pain. It was not enough to be in the same hut with him. She had to touch him, even if it was only her knee brushing his hip or her hand resting on his arm.

She fed him. Bathed him. Changed his bandages. Guided his hand when he had to relieve himself. And studied his body as she had not since they were first married, tracing the groove of his backbone, the whorl of dark hair above the cleft of his buttocks, the tiny mole on the back of his right leg.

After three days, he insisted on getting dressed. With Callie and Keirith supporting him, he tottered about the village. He sought out the young men and women he had recruited, addressing each by name and thanking them for their loyalty. Rebel and villager alike clustered around him, hands thrust out to pat his arm or clasp his hand—as if he were some kind of magic talisman.