Foxfire (69 page)

“And the Khonsel. I'll punish him, too. I'll punish everyone who betrayed me.”

“But later. You're tired. And heartsick. You should rest. Or are you hungry? I could—”

He shook his head.

“A bath, then. And afterward, we'll talk again.”

She bent down, intending to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. His hand seized the back of her neck. He pulled her closer and clamped his mouth on hers.

She froze, uncertain whether to respond. She had teased him, enjoying his blushes, wondering how far she should take it. Now that the moment had come, she could only register the bruising desperation of the kiss—the rough, unskilled fumbling of an unhappy boy.

As suddenly as he had grabbed her, he pushed her away and staggered to his feet. “I can't.”

“It's all right.” Clearly, his mind was too caught up in the events of the last few days to allow him to enjoy the pleasures of the body.

“The prophecy.”

Puzzled, she just stared at him.

“The Son of Zhe. He must be a . . . a virgin.”

The blush rose up from his throat. His arousal strained against the tight breeches.

Her mind whispered that there was no better way to bind him to her. Her body responded with an unforeseen eagerness. It had been fourteen years since Jholin's death. Even before, he had only been capable in the first moon after The Shedding; the qiij that fueled his ardor inevitably stole it.

To lie with the son of a god. To feel the power that had invaded her spirit penetrating her body.

Warmth flooded her loins. Her nipples hardened under the sheer robe. His gaze dropped to her breasts. Immediately, he looked away, but his breath quickened.

Jholianna chose her words with care. “The prophecy states that ‘no mortal woman shall know his body.' Well, I've lived for five centuries. Can any mortal woman claim that?”

He licked his lips and swallowed hard.

“And while it implies that the Son of Zhe must be a virgin when he first appears, it certainly doesn't demand that he remain one.”

“But the priests . . .”

“We rule Zheros. Not the priests.”

Again, she held out her arms. Awkward but eager, he came to her.

I
T WAS STILL DARK when they left the hill fort. Callie and Keirith pleaded with Darak to let them carry him, but he insisted he would walk.

Stubborn as a rock, Griane thought, and silently vowed not to weep.

He leaned heavily on his sons as he walked slowly down the slope. She followed behind, trailed by Lisula, Faelia, and Hircha. When they reached the stream, he leaned against an alder, his good arm draped over Keirith's shoulder. Lines of strain creased his face, but he managed a smile as they waited for dawn.

She had lain awake most of the night, curled on her side, one hand resting on his hip, reassured by the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body. She must have dozed as dawn approached, for she came awake, instantly aware that his breathing had changed, that he was awake, watching her as she had watched him, although the hut was too dark to see his expression.

His hand brushed back her hair. His thumb slid along her cheekbone, then moved lower to follow her jaw to her lips. She leaned close to kiss him, breathing in his breath, savoring the gentleness of the chapped lips. Their foreheads touched. His hand continued its slow path down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder and down her arm. Their fingers played together, her thumb tracing the puckered scar on his palm, his winding a serpentine path around her swollen knuckles. Then his hand slipped away, moving over her hip to cup her bottom and pull her close.

She felt him rouse to her and pulled back in surprise.

“Are you strong enough?” she whispered.

“Nay. But a man can dream.”

They had laughed together, a mere exhalation of breath, and continued touching and stroking and kissing until it was time to dress.

As the sky continued to lighten, the children moved closer.

“Are you sure you don't want to wait until you're stronger?” Faelia asked again.

“The crossing is easy, child. Don't worry.”

“We'll be waiting right here,” Callie assured him. “When you come back.”

“I know.”

“Callie and I can carry you to the One Tree,” Keirith said.

“I'll manage. Stop fussing, all of you.”

“It's nearly time,” Lisula said. And softly began the chant.

There were to be no lingering farewells; Darak had made that clear. But as dawn crept closer, Griane struggled to obey his wish. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and pretend that she could heal the hurts of his body. She wanted to bury her face against that broad chest and breathe in the smell of him, feel his bones and flesh under her fingers, trace the lines on his face and the curve of his mouth. She wanted to beg him to stay.

The soft gray eyes settled on her. “I'll be home at sunset. Try not to worry.”

That made her scowl, and her scowl made him smile.

“I don't want you sitting here all day.”

“And I don't want you to go. So we'll both be disappointed.”

His smile became a grin. It quickly vanished. He raised her chin with his thumb and kissed her softly on the mouth.

“You are my heart,” he whispered.

She gripped the sleeves of his tunic and pulled him close. His heart thudded beneath her cheek and she could feel hers pounding with equal fierceness.

“It's time,” Lisula said.

Griane's fingers clenched. She forced herself to open them, to lower her arms, to take a step back. To let him go.

Lisula wrapped her arm around his waist. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. They tottered forward, the big man and the little priestess.

Their figures wavered, half in and half out of this world. Swaying in the effort to keep his feet, Darak glanced over his shoulder. He raised his hand and smiled. Then Lisula stepped back, and he was gone.

 

 

 

For a moment, Darak stood there, their faces still imprinted on his mind: Hircha, solemn and still; Callie, smiling despite the tears in his eyes; Faelia, scowling fiercely to hide her emotions; Keirith, looking so terribly bereft.

And Griane. His girl. Standing straight as a spear. White hair pulled back in a tight braid, but always those few wisps escaping around her face. Her eyes, the blue that lived at the heart of a flame. Her mouth, curved in a smile, but her upper lip caught between her teeth.

What had he ever done to deserve such a woman? Or such children?

His legs were shaking badly. The walk to the stream had taken more of a toll than he had expected. But he was damned if he was going to be carried.

Reeling like a drunkard, he staggered toward the One Tree and clung to the pale trunk. Blood clogged his throat, and he turned his head away to spit. He winced when he saw the thick, gleaming clots staining the dry leaves. Then he shrugged. He had offered a blood sacrifice before that long-ago Midwinter quest. If this one was less elegant, he knew Tinnean and Cuillon wouldn't mind.

He took a few careful steps back so he could study the One Tree. Despite the gloom, the green leaves of the Holly seemed brighter than those of the Oak. But, of course, the Oak-Lord's spirit would be resting in the Summerlands now, gaining strength after his defeat at Midsummer, awaiting the Fall Balancing when it would return.

The effort of staring up made him dizzy. So he tottered forward again to rest his palms and forehead against the trunk.

But as always, there was only the rustle of leaves.

He took off the mantle Griane had insisted that he bring, grimacing as the movement pulled at wounded muscles and flesh.

“I don't want you taking a chill,” she had told him before they left the hut.

“It's summer!”

“Summer chills are the worst. And what if there's a storm?”

“It's not going to rain.”

“Well, your old arse will be a lot more comfortable with a mantle underneath it than a pile of leaves.”

And she called him stubborn.

Smiling, he folded the mantle and laid it between the two large roots that had once been his brother's feet. Then he slowly lowered himself to the ground. His hands automatically reached out to stroke the roots on either side of him. The bark was smooth, as if the wood had been polished. Only someone who knew the tale would realize that the knobs under his thumbs had once been the joints of a man's toes.

He leaned against the tree, wincing. His mantle would have served him better behind his back, but he was reluctant to have even that much of a barrier between him and the tree. In the end, he simply adjusted his position so that the trunk didn't press against his wounds.

Death held no horrors for him, although he didn't relish the process of dying. What gnawed at him were all the things left undone. There might still be scattered pockets of resistance, but who could unite the tribes? Darak Spirit-Hunter's name might be invoked—a symbol to inspire hope and determination—but who among the rebels possessed Temet's vision and determination?

Sorig, perhaps. But in his heart, he knew all the men at the prisoner exchange were dead. Only after Keirith described his vision had Darak realized that Mikal was the traitor, that it was his arrow that had struck him in the back. He hoped Sorig had gone to his death without knowing that—and vowed to apologize for his doubts when they met in the Forever Isles.

He said a prayer for Sorig and Kelik and the others. As for Mikal, the Zherosi might have spared him if they had recognized him in time. He would never know. Just as he would never understand why he had betrayed his friends.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Once, he had held the fate of the world in his hands. Not anymore. But he still had some say in the fate of his tribe. He had done what he could to prepare them for the Zherosi. Trath would be a good chief, but he was old. So was Lisula. And Gortin's gentle leadership would be sorely missed. But his first priority must be his family. Keeping them safe. Assuaging their fears. Concealing his pain for as long as he could.

He grimaced. It was not the death he would have chosen, but what man ever got to choose the manner of his death? Still, he had some time left—days, certainly, maybe even half a moon—and he intended to make the most of them. There was some benefit in knowing your death was imminent. It gave you time to say the things that must be said, to hold your wife in your arms, to assure your children of your love.

He hoped Rigat knew that he understood his choice. Now, it was up to him to ensure that the rest of the family did. Especially Faelia and Keirith.

He rested his head against the trunk, allowing the forest to calm him. It was good to sit with Tinnean and Cuillon, to watch the first shafts of sunlight penetrate the dense canopy, to hear the purr of the wood pigeons and the scolding chatter of a squirrel and the soft rustle of small creatures scurrying through the leaves.

And the smells . . . dear gods, how he loved them. Decaying leaf mold and summer-warm earth, the mustiness of wild mushrooms and the faint sweetness of the fading quickthorn blossoms. Despite his fears for his people, his concern for his family, and his grief that he would leave them so soon, he felt the familiar peace steal over him and whispered a prayer of thanks to the Maker for the gift of this day.

As the morning grew warmer, he drifted between sleep and wakefulness, content to doze and dream, knowing the Watchers would guard him. Sometimes he talked to Tinnean and Cuillon, recalling the day he had taught Tinnean to swim, the night he and Cuillon had made their pact to find their lost brothers. Smiling when he pictured Tinnean's excitement the first time he had seen the Northern Dancers, and Cuillon's as he explored his strange, new body.

There had been many times that he'd wished for an ordinary life. Now—despite everything—he would not trade places with any man. He had called the Holly-Lord friend. Heard the song of the World Tree. Felt the Forest-Lord's gentle touch.

And he had known the Trickster.

These last years, it seemed Fellgair had given him far more pain than joy. Only now could he admit that the Trickster had meted them out in equal measure. If he had lain with Griane, he had given them Rigat. If he had forced him to open his spirit, that experience had helped him save Keirith. And if Fellgair had not shoved him through that portal to Chaos, he would never have found Tinnean or the Oak-Lord. Or his father. Or Wolf, lost to him for so many years after his vision quest.