Foxfire (87 page)

Darak had offered himself on that tree in Chaos. This was her sacrifice. And if it could protect the children of the Oak and Holly, the life of one old woman was a small price to pay.

“Can you take me to him?”

“I'm not certain he's still in Carilia. And my power is ebbing. Bringing you through portals with me while I search for him will only drain it faster. I'm sorry, Griane. It must be here.”

“The grotto, then. Before nightfall. The men sleep there and—”

“Give me until sunset. I'll bring him to you then. I swear it.”

“And if he refuses to come?”

“He'll come. He will always come for you.”

She had Ardal's mantle. But she needed a method that was slower, if just as sure. After a moment's hesitation, Griane drew her dagger, surprised by the steadiness of her hand. Aye, a dagger would be best.

Something warm and wet splashed on her hand. She blinked hard to clear her vision. But when she looked up, she realized it was the Trickster who was weeping.

 

 

 

The day passed in a sort of haze. Griane heard herself speaking to people in what sounded like a normal voice. She watched her hands wrap a fresh bandage around Owan's arm with their usual skill. But a part of her was already sitting in the grotto, waiting for Rigat.

There could be no farewells, of course. Nothing to suggest that this day was different from any other. All she could do was share time with those she loved.

As she inspected Ennit's ankle, she reminisced with him and Lisula about happier times. She admired Mirili's granddaughter and spoke of the joys and tribulations of raising children. She thanked Holtik for his loyalty to the tribe and his friendship with Keirith.

It was harder to be with her family. She hoped they would understand her choice. More than anything, she hoped they would forgive Rigat for forcing her to it.

With Callie, she shared memories of Darak's first experience with fatherhood. With Hircha, she tried to speak only of practical matters such as conserving their supply of herbs, but inevitably, she ended up talking about Keirith.

“I've never pried. You know that. But if you love him—or believe you could . . .”

“How can I even think of that?” Hircha demanded in a fierce whisper. “With everything that's happening?”

“How can you not?” Griane countered.

Hircha shoved a hank of hair out of her face. “I don't know what I want, Griane. I just know I don't want to hurt him by making promises I can't keep.”

“Then don't make promises. Just . . . be with him. Share his worries. Don't let him retreat into himself.”

The afternoon was waning before she managed to get Keirith alone. He was lying belly-down at the western edge of the hilltop, watching the smoke of the Zherosi campfires. Expecting him to pelt her with questions about Fellgair's appearance, his brooding silence disturbed her. In the end, she asked that he try and forgive the Trickster.

“You saw him, Keirith. He's going to die. Soon.”

“He had enough power to open a portal.”

“And the effort left him too weak to stand! Blame him for telling you of my choice. Blame him for creating Rigat. But don't become so bitter that you forget the good he's done. He saved me from Morgath. He helped Darak survive Chaos. And he gave Darak the means to save you in Pilozhat. Can't you see that?”

“I See far more than I want to!”

It was the way his face froze after he blurted out the words that made Griane seize his arm. “What? What have you Seen?”

He shook his head, but she clung to him even when he tried to rise. Finally, he slumped beside her again. “I Saw you. Lying in the cave. Asleep. I thought the man with you was Fa. But when I saw Fellgair today . . .”

Griane went very still. “We were sleeping?”

Although Keirith nodded, he refused to look at her. She knew then that he had Seen her death—and Fellgair's.

“You should have told me.”

“How could I?” he whispered. “I wasn't even sure myself.”

“What else have you Seen?”

He shook his head.

“Keirith . . .”

“I've Seen your death! Isn't that enough? Oh, gods, Mam. I'm sorry. I—”

“Hush. It doesn't matter. And if your vision was true, it sounds like a peaceful death.”

His fingers clamped around her wrist. “It may not happen. It may happen years from now. There's no way of knowing.”

“Aye. Visions are chancy. At least, that's what Gortin always said. Well, chancy or not, I've got too much to do to worry about dying.”

She managed a rueful grin and was relieved when Keirith smiled, too. But she left him after that, afraid she would say too much.

She found Hircha in the cave, bandaging Arun's finger and scolding him for being so careless with his dagger. Impatiently, Griane waited for her to send the boy away, then leaned down to whisper, “I must talk with you. Alone.”

They made their way to the grotto Callie and Ela had shared. The daisies had been placed in a small clay flask. They were wilted now; water was too precious to waste on flowers. The shriveled petals on the wolfskins reminded Griane of the weeping trees of the Summerlands.

She thrust the memory aside and pulled Hircha down beside her. “Has Keirith spoken of a vision about Rigat?” When Hircha hesitated, she grabbed her shoulders. “I know he's Seen my death. I don't care about that. But if he's Seen anything to do with Rigat, you must tell me.”

She listened with growing horror to Hircha's description of the battle between the two eagle chicks, a battle in which the female eagle was present but aloof. Did that mean she would already be dead when her boys fought? Or that she was helpless to stop them?

“Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't
you
tell me?”

Hircha mumbled something about protecting her, and Griane bit back a rebuke. “Hircha, listen to me. There's very little time.”

She told Hircha her plan and watched the color drain from her face.

“There has to be another way!”

Griane just shook her head.

“And if he refuses to give up his power?”

“Rigat loves me.”

“He's changed, Griane.”

“Not that much. But he'll need time for the healing. You must keep Keirith away from the grotto, Hircha. By any means in your power.”

The blush rose and faded on Hircha's cheeks. “I tried to seduce him once. At Xevhan's behest. Did you know that?”

“I'm not . . . I only meant . . .”

“I know what you meant. So do you. Let's not fool ourselves. If I . . . distract him . . . he'll realize the truth soon enough. And he'll never forgive me for deceiving him.”

“It's his life, Hircha! If they confront each other while Rigat still possesses his power, Keirith will die. You're the only one who can prevent that.”

Hircha rose. “Don't worry. I'll play my part. Just as I did the last time. But you might have allowed me to volunteer my services. I would have, you know. No matter the cost to me. That would have been . . . kinder.”

Griane's cry stopped Hircha at the entrance to the grotto. “Don't go! Not like this. I was wrong to suggest . . . what I did. I've always been too plainspoken. And now, I'm . . . I'm frightened for my boys. But I can't part with you like this, knowing I may never speak with you again.”

Griane held out her arms, and Hircha stumbled into them. She hushed her flood of apologies and held her until the trembling ceased. Then she wiped Hircha's damp cheeks and sent her off with a final kiss.

She glanced around the grotto and found the tools she would need. Patiently, she twirled the firestick until a spark caught in the tinder. Breathed life into the smoking nest. Fed the fire with dead twigs and branches until she was certain it would provide enough light for Rigat to work by. Belatedly, she realized he might not even require the light, but the fire cheered her.

She murmured a prayer to the Maker. Another to Fellgair. Then she drew her dagger and waited for sunset.

F
ROM THE BALCONY OF HIS bedchamber, Rigat watched the purple shadows crawl up the western face of Kelazhat. Darak had always considered sunrise the magical time, because it heralded the beginning of a new day. Rigat preferred sunset. It heralded Nekif's arrival with the brew that brought darkness and escape.

Nekif had cried during the whipping, although Rigat had given him only six strokes with the rod, enough to demonstrate the Promised One's displeasure without leaving any lasting scars. Since then, he had been very gentle with him, but the old slave always trembled in his presence.

Behind him, sandals pattered softly against tile, then abruptly ceased.

“You're not dressed yet,” Jholianna said.

He turned. The dusky rose artfully applied to her cheeks deepened under his scrutiny.

“You're very beautiful.”

His words seemed to startle her. He must remember to compliment her more often.

“The feast will begin soon,” she reminded him.

“The feast. Yes.”

He would have to postpone the pleasure of oblivion. The Carilians had surrendered. The war was over. He had brought the news yesterday and accepted the frenzied acclaim of the court. Messages had been sent by bird, by runner, by ship. The empire would resound with praise and prayers for the Son of Zhe, the Promised One, the fire-haired god made flesh.

A discerning man, Geriv. Except in the case of the noblemen. True, three were executed—the ones who had considered inciting a mutiny—but thanks to him, the others had lost only their fortunes and estates.

“You
are
coming? To the feast?”

“Of course.”

He would make a passionate speech that would move the drunken courtiers to tears. He would smile during the songs composed in his honor. He would even listen to the Zheron recite the prophecy without wincing. He knew his role as well any player in the acting troupe that would perform tonight.

“Shall I send Nekif to help you dress?”

“Yes. Thank you.” But he turned back to gaze north once more.

“Are you all right?”

“Just tired. Give me a few moments. Then send Nekif in.”

Despite the obvious dismissal, Jholianna continued to hover behind him. Slowly, he turned. His expression must have alarmed her, for she shrank back.

Schooling his voice to patience, he asked, “Was there something else?”

“I was thinking . . .” A tentative smile. A light brush of fingertips against his forearm. “Now that the war is over, perhaps we should go to the summer palace. In the mountains. It's quiet there. Restful. The change would do us both good.”

As if a change of scenery would banish the nightmares. As if the mountains would do anything but remind him of the steep, forested hills of his homeland. But he nodded. A small concession to ease her anxiety.

“You've accomplished so much since you came to Zheros. More than I dared dream.”

The words seemed familiar. Then he remembered that Fellgair had said much the same thing before he went to Chaos. Before everything went wrong.

“Remember those accomplishments, my dear. And try not to dwell on the past. On what cannot be changed. That way lies despair.”

Or madness. Or the slow slide into oblivion afforded by the drugs. Perhaps Jholin had been wise, after all.

“Give yourself time. And try to be kind to yourself.” She raised his hand to her lips. “And remember, I am always here.”

As her footsteps retreated, he chastised himself. Jholianna was only trying to be kind, to offer him the wisdom of her experience. She would offer whatever he needed—wisdom, passion, solace, drugs. Anything to keep him beside her, to harness his power for Zheros. But at least she was loyal. Unlike the others. The Khonsel and Geriv. Faelia and Keirith. Mam.

He was turning to go inside when he caught a flicker of movement in the corner of the balcony. The air rippled and subsided. Rippled again. For just a moment, he glimpsed a figure. Then the air shattered, and he stumbled backward.

An old man swayed between the roiling columns of air. The bulky woolen mantle draped around his hips only accentuated the frailty of his body. It took Rigat a moment to recognize Fellgair, another to recover from the shock of his father's continuing deterioration.

Rigat summoned his power to hold the portal open. Fellgair took a single uncertain step. Then his legs buckled.