Foxfire (81 page)

“Destroy myself? That's what Keirith thinks.”

“Lose yourself.”

He stared down at their clasped hands. “Maybe I'm already lost.”

“If I believed that, I wouldn't have come today.”

His hands clenched convulsively around hers. “Do you know why I came? Other than to see you again, I mean?” His head came up, his eyes shining. “To tell you that I would call off the Zherosi.”

She pulled him into her arms and held him tight. “Oh, Rigat, I'm so glad. So proud of you.”

He pulled away, his face eager and excited. “You're right. It was stupid. I don't have to prove myself to the tribe. Or anybody. Least of all, you.”

“I'll tell them today. As soon as I get back to camp. Everyone will be so relieved. So happy to go home.”

Then she remembered what they would find there: the ruins of their homes, the corpses of the slain. She thrust the images aside, unwilling to let anything spoil this moment.

“And then we'll go away together,” Rigat said.

She smiled, imagining him opening portals to give her glimpses of unknown places just as Fellgair had done that day in the Summerlands when they had created Rigat.

“You can come with me to Zheros. Or I'll find another place. Wherever you like. I'll take care of you. I'll keep you safe.”

Griane's smile faded. “You mean . . . leave the tribe?”

“It's the only way we can be together, Mam. Don't you see? I can't come back. No matter what Keirith says.”

“But the tribe needs me.”

“So do I!” He scowled. “You did it before. For Keirith.”

“Keirith was cast out! How could we let him leave the village alone?”

“But you'll let me leave. You'll let me go on alone.”

“It's not the same.”

“You said you'd give your life for me.”

It was no longer her child standing before her but his father, bargaining over the price of opening a portal to Chaos. She had misinterpreted Fellgair's demands, but Rigat's were clear: to give up her family, her friends, her home. Would he allow her to see her other children? Or would she spend the rest of her life as his prisoner? Cherished and protected, but jealously guarded against anyone with a claim on her affection.

If she refused, he might rescind his offer to call off the Zherosi. Hurt and angered by her rejection, he might abandon the children of the Oak and Holly altogether. She had to prevent that. Later—perhaps—she could reason with him.

“All right, Rigat. I'll go with you.”

For the first time in her life, she had to force herself to return his embrace. As she stepped back, he seemed to sense her reluctance.

“I want you to do something for me,” she said.

His expression grew wary. “What?”

“I want you to promise that you'll do everything in your power to protect your people and your tree-brothers.”

“You're bargaining with me?” he demanded. “As if I were Fellgair?”

She wanted to point out that he was forcing her to choose between him and her other children, just as Fellgair had forced her to choose between Darak and Keirith. Instead, she kept her voice gentle.

“I'm willing to give up everyone I love for you. Can't I ask this favor in return?”

“I need you more than they do.”

“There are more important things in the world than what you need! Or what I need.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm, to be persuasive. “The Zherosi are swallowing us up. Already, chiefs sacrifice their tree-brothers for a few sacks of grain. How long before they make sacrifices in Zherosi temples? Our way of life will die, Rigat. Who knows, even our gods may die.”

Her last words startled a reaction from him, but instead of shock or surprise, Rigat looked stricken. Only for a moment, though. Then he shrugged and kicked a foxtail spike. Pink flowers tumbled into the grass.

“Will you give me your promise? Will you help your people?”

When Rigat stiffened, she feared she had pushed too hard. Then she realized he was looking past her.

“You might as well come out,” Rigat called. “I know you're there.”

Among the trees, a figure moved. Sunlight flashed off the bright hair.

“Oh, gods,” Griane whispered.

Faelia stepped out of the shadows, an arrow nocked in her bowstring.

“I should have known,” Rigat whispered. “It was all a trick.”

“Nay!”

She reached for him, but he backed away, his mouth twisting in an ugly scowl.

“First Keirith would try to convince me to give up my power. Then you'd promise anything if I'd use it for the tribe. And if that failed—”

“That's not true!” Finding only scorn on her son's face, Griane turned to her daughter. “Faelia. Lower your bow.”

Faelia simply moved to her left, seeking a clear shot. Immediately, Griane countered, shielding Rigat with her body.

“He is your brother!”

Rigat eased away. “Go on, Faelia. You've been wanting to do this since the day I was born.”

“Stop it! Both of you!” Again, Griane stepped between them. “Faelia, don't be stupid. His power is greater than any arrow.”

“Take your shot. I won't even use my power until you release. I call that fair.”

She took a step toward her daughter, hands outstretched in supplication, and tried to keep the panic from her voice. “Please, Faelia. Lower your bow and we'll talk.”

She heard the swish of grass behind her. Watched Faelia's bow move to the right. Saw her daughter's strong hands drawing back the bowstring, her wide mouth curving in a smile.

Griane whirled around and flung herself at Rigat, stumbling in her haste. His head snapped toward her. His hands came up to steady her. His mouth curved in a reassuring smile, her little boy's smile that promised he would always protect her. Then he suddenly spun away and staggered backward.

They both stared in disbelief at the arrow piercing his arm. Griane shouted at Faelia, who was already nocking another in her bowstring. When she turned back to Rigat, her little boy had vanished. In his place, stood the implacable man-god who killed all who opposed him.

“Rigat! Nay!”

His lips curled in a feral snarl. She never saw him snatch the arrow out of the air. One moment, it was flashing toward him and the next, he was clutching it in his fist. She was still reaching for his arm when he spun the arrow around and hurled it at Faelia.

How long does it take an arrow to cut down your child? Two heartbeats? Three? Long enough to burn the image of her in your mind forever. The long legs slightly apart to steady her stance. Left arm outstretched, fingers gripping the bow. Right elbow high, just as her father had taught her. The bright hair, so like Rigat's, unruly wisps escaping from her braid to caress her sunburned cheeks.

And then the picture shatters. The mouth opens in a silent scream. The arrow falls harmlessly into the grass. The bow that had never failed her slips from nerveless fingers. Her head dips as she gazes down at the arrow in her chest. The long braid slides over her shoulder. And the hands that had crafted the arrow and the bow, that had wielded both so expertly against animals and men alike, those strong hands reach up to grip the shaft, only to fall, as weak and helpless as the legs that buckle beneath her.

All this Griane saw as she ran across the glade, screaming her daughter's name, trampling foxtails underfoot along with the hope that Faelia would live, that she was young and strong, she had her whole life before her, she could not die, not like this, it should be me, why couldn't it have been me?

She wanted to believe Faelia felt her mother's hands struggling to lift her, that she heard her mother's voice repeating her name, the only word Griane could manage, a prayer and a promise and a testament to a love too often unspoken. She wanted to believe the wide blue eyes recognized her. That the slack mouth curved in a smile. That the final exhalation of breath was Faelia whispering, “Mam.”

And when she could no longer pretend, she closed the staring eyes and gripped the limp fingers and rocked her daughter in her arms, praying that Darak would find their girl and guide her spirit to the Forever Isles.

When she finally raised her head, dark clouds shadowed the glade. Rigat was gone. She opened her mouth to call his name and closed it again.

She eased Faelia onto the ground and pushed herself to her feet. Slowly, she walked back across the glade to retrieve her waterskin and healer's bag. Then she returned to her daughter.

She broke the shaft of the arrow, but it had penetrated Faelia's breastbone and she could not pull the arrowhead free. Instead, she dampened a scrap of nettle-cloth and gently washed the dirt from her daughter's face and hands. She turned Faelia's head so she could untie the thong binding her braid. With her fingers, she combed the pine needles and grass and fragments of birch leaves from her hair, then carefully braided it again.

She brushed the dirt from her breeches. Straightened the sprawling legs. Folded her hands around the broken shaft of the arrow. There were not enough stones for a cairn, but she gathered what she could and laid them around her daughter's body. She kissed her on the forehead, on the mouth, and on both cheeks. Then she drew her dagger and cut off a lock of the fiery hair.

After intoning the prayer to free her spirit, Griane hesitated, uncertain whether she had the strength for what she meant to do. Then she lifted Faelia's right hand and laid it atop a stone.

She spread the fingers wide. She picked up her dagger once more. Slowly, carefully she cut through the flesh and sinew and bone of her daughter's forefinger.

She had to pause then, until the dizziness passed. Then she washed the finger, wrapped it in a strip of nettle-cloth, and placed it in her bag of charms.

Someday, perhaps, they would find a new home and erect a cairn. Until then, she would carry the bones of her loved ones next to her heart.

“
S
HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN BACK by now,” Cal-Slie said.

Hircha paced back and forth along the stream bank. Her limp was more noticeable than usual, a testament to her anxiety as well as the hard days of travel. “It's my fault. I shouldn't have let her go alone.”

“It's no one's fault,” Keirith said. He gazed at the lowering sky and frowned. “Which way did she go?”

“Upstream,” Hircha replied at the same time that Callie said, “South.”

Hircha drew up short. “She told me she was going upstream. To look for dandelion and dock.”

“But she was heading south when Ela and I met her. To gather foxtails.” Callie shook his head. “Why would she lie?”

Before Keirith could reply, he spied Holtik striding toward them with Owan at his side. Holtik's expression was grave and Owan was so breathless that some of the women turned to look after them.

“What is it?” Keirith asked.

As Owan struggled for breath, Holtik said, “The Zherosi have broken camp. They're heading this way.”

Callie was the first to recover. “Why now?” he asked.

“Rigat,” Keirith replied. “It must be. I saw him yesterday. We parted on good enough terms, but something must have happened afterward.”

“Dear gods,” Hircha whispered. “Faelia's hunting. You don't suppose the two of them met and—”

“You saw him?” Callie echoed.

“I'm sorry,” Keirith said, wincing at Callie's expression. “I wanted to tell you, but—”

“There's no time for this,” Holtik interrupted. “We have to move. Now!”

“Griane's missing,” Hircha snapped. “And so is Faelia.”

“Then Keirith must lead,” Holtik replied. “You've more experience fighting the Zherosi than any of us.”

Faelia had spoken often of the need to find a defensible site and discussed strategies to hold off their pursuers. But it was hard to think about making a stand when they needed all their energy simply to survive. Now that the day had come, they were no better prepared than they had been when they first began their flight.

They were all watching him, waiting for his command. Had his father felt this instinctive panic when his tribe turned to him for wisdom? Or was he so used to leading them that he could meet every crisis calmly?

“How close are they?” he asked Owan.

“Three miles. Selima will hold them off as long as she can.” Owan swallowed hard, clearly wondering how many of his friends would be dead before sunset.

Keirith turned to Holtik. “You've done the most scouting. What's the best position?”