Foxfire (9 page)

He realized he was stroking himself through his breeches and quickly snatched his hand away. Then he shrugged. He had to do something to pass the time. And this was even more enjoyable than When I Become Chief.

He closed his eyes, fingers moving with delicious slowness over the laces of his breeches as he considered various candidates. Callie's courtship had put a definite crimp on his fantasies; it just felt wrong to be lusting after Ela now. Her older sister, on the other hand . . .

During more than one rite, his gaze had drifted to Nedia, enjoying the outline of her firm thighs beneath her robe, the sway of her full breasts as she circled the worshipers. She'd make a far better Grain-Mother than Barasa who was tall and stately, but awfully skinny. No wonder the barley crop was always so meager.

He blew into his fist to warm it before reaching inside his breeches. With a contented sigh, he settled back and allowed his mind to conjure Nedia's soft hands, Nedia's generous mouth, and Nedia's welcoming thighs.

He was rapidly approaching the climax of that welcome when something intruded on his concentration. He shrugged off the distraction and found the rhythm again, but still something felt . . . not wrong so much as out of place. Frowning a little, he redoubled his efforts. Nay, there it was again. Barely discernible over the sighing of the breeze and the moaning of the branches and the gurgling song of the stream.

Laughter.

Rigat opened his eyes. His hand tightened reflexively, and he bit back a yelp.

The fox sat between his splayed legs, observing him down the length of its narrow muzzle. There was only one reason why his vision mate could have returned. He had failed to preserve the holiness of his quest and now he was going to be punished. Oh, gods, why hadn't he forced himself to sleep? Why hadn't he prayed until his knees ached?

Once again, the voice spoke only in his mind. The teasing tone was even more astonishing than the words themselves. Keirith's vision mate had no sense of humor, but what could you expect from an adder? Callie claimed his Starling was good-natured, though, and Fa's Wolf was often playful. Perhaps it depended upon the animal.

Oddly, though, his vision mate's voice sounded deeper and less raspy. And its—nay, the voice was definitely masculine—
his
body seemed more substantial, too.

The shaft of moonlight in which he sat leached the ruddiness from the fur on his shoulders and back, but the white of his neck, chest, and belly seemed to glow in Gheala's light. It took Rigat a moment to realize that the moonlight couldn't possibly be so bright. Nor could it be streaming through the branches from the east when Gheala was barely visible in the west.

Of course, his vision mate could look and sound any way he chose. If it really was his vision mate and not simply a vision. Maybe he
had
fallen asleep. Maybe this was just a dream.

The large, triangular ears pricked forward.

A hot flush suffused him. He yanked his hand free and hastily adjusted his clothes. This was not at all what he had expected from his vision quest.

He had to grin, although he knew the poor Tree-Father would die of embarrassment when he touched his spirit during the testing.

The fox's black whiskers twitched. <
Then it would be wise to shield him from this particular aspect of your vision quest.>

“How?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

The fox directed a pointed glance at his lap, and Rigat's face grew warmer.

Well, his family would. He wasn't so sure about the others.

He shook his head, but his vision mate was too wise to be fooled.

The wave of relief surprised him. Even Keirith couldn't understand—not completely. But his vision mate did.

When the fox rose, he failed to suppress a cry of dismay. The thick brush lashed once and he winced, fearing he'd angered his vision mate.

The voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of . . . something. Anticipation? Eagerness?

The familiar predawn hush had settled over the forest. Although the sky overhead had lightened to charcoal, the shaft of moonlight in which the fox stood was as brilliant as ever. Rigat waited, sharing his vision mate's eagerness.

The fox's brush lashed again, and the moonlight rippled like someone drawing a finger across the still surface of a pool. As Rigat rose to his knees, the shaft of moonlight split open. But instead of the trunks of pines, he found himself staring at the back of a man in a long robe.

Again, the thick brush moved, more lazily this time. The gap widened, as if two unseen hands had grasped the edges of the white light and were slowly pulling them apart. There were dozens of people, he realized, gathered in a circle. Peering between their bodies, he spied a dark, gaping pit.

A red-robed priest in a feathered cloak raised his staff. Although the man had to be forty paces away, Rigat could clearly see the black markings zigzagging down its sinuous length, the painted red eyes that stared skyward, even the grain of the wood. His eyesight had always been keen, but this was impossible. It took him a moment to realize that the staff looked like a giant adder.

As one, the people began to chant. The language was unfamiliar, but Rigat was certain the meaning of the words lay just beneath the surface of his consciousness.

The chant grew louder as the sky lightened. Perhaps it was some kind of prayer to welcome the dawn. But the gaze of every person remained fixed on the pit as if fascinated by whatever was happening in it. Determined to see more, he pushed himself to his feet and took a cautious step forward.

A man's head jerked toward him. He shouted something unintelligible. The chanting faltered. More heads turned. People gaped at him, some frozen in shock, others pointing, still others peering uncertainly as if they could not quite make him out. Fingers flew as they made signs across their chests, all the while jabbering in their tongue.

Guards converged around a black-haired girl on the far side of the circle. Another spun toward him, spear upraised. Before Rigat could do more than open his mouth, the spear arced toward him.

Panic ignited his smoldering power. It penetrated flesh and muscle and bone. It warmed his belly and stiffened his cock. It surged through his legs and down his arms until his toes and fingertips tingled.

The spear slowed as if the air around it had grown thick. Tiny details impressed themselves on his mind: the sweet-smoky scent of the torches, a tiny scratch on the surface of the bronze spear point, the fox's eyes—golden as honey.

He controlled the power, feeding on it and allowing it to feed on him. And all the while, he watched the point of the spear coming closer. Now ten paces away. Now five. Only when he felt his body would burst with the power, only when he could smell the metal, cold and bitter as a winter morning, did he whisper, “Stop.”

The spear hung in the air, the point a mere handsbreadth from his chest. Rigat reached up and wrapped his fingers around the shaft. Only then did he accept that it was real. Distantly, he heard shouts and screams, but when he raised his head, the portal snapped shut.

His arm fell to his side, suddenly heavy. The spear slipped from his grasp. Then his shaking legs folded.

The pungent odor of male fox vied with something sweet—honeysuckle? But that only bloomed in the summer.

The slide of a wet tongue against his cheek startled him. Opening his eyes, he found his vision mate staring down at him.

A small part of him registered happiness, but body, mind, and spirit were numb. Never before had the use of his gift left him so drained.

He summoned enough strength to ask, “Why did you show me that?”

Stubbornly, he fought the overwhelming lethargy. “When?”

This time, Rigat succumbed to the soothing voice. As he drifted off, he smiled. My beautiful boy. His mam used to call him that when he was little.

 

 

 

He woke to a chorus of birdsong, the chirps and twitters of sparrows and starlings vying with the throbbing purr of wood pigeons. The chorus melted into the raw air of dawn and coaxed the watery sun into the sky. Rigat wasn't sure if a few moments had passed or an entire day and night. He certainly felt strong and rested. Perhaps it was only the lingering exhilaration of his vision quest, but his legs carried him effortlessly over the hills; even the wind blew from the south as if to speed him homeward.

Only when he reached their valley did he hesitate. He circled west and, discovering no one at the stream, paused long enough to hide the spear between two boulders, carefully mounding a shallow layer of dirt over it. If his vision mate wanted him to conceal their second encounter from the Tree-Father, he couldn't very well walk into the village clutching a spear. Later, perhaps, he would show it to Keirith. His brother could confirm his growing suspicion that he had witnessed some strange Zherosi rite. Besides, the truth was too exciting to hide from everyone.

As he hurried toward the lake, anticipation gave way to puzzlement. There was no one in sight, not even any children playing along the shore. If not for the threads of smoke rising from the hill fort, he would have thought the village deserted.

Suddenly scared that something had happened to Fa, he raced up the slope and skidded to a halt just inside the entrance. The wall of backs confronting him was eerily reminiscent of the scene he had glimpsed through the portal. Instead of chanting, the Tree-Father's quavering voice broke the silence: “Today, a man walks among us. That man is Seg, son of Madig and Anetha. And his vision mate is the wolf.”

The roar of acclamation made his stomach churn, but he could not help craning his neck for a glimpse of Seg. There he was, standing between Gortin and Othak, grinning like a fool. Rigat shrank back against the earthworks, but Seg had already spotted him. His grin widened. He raised both hands, commanding silence, then called out a greeting.

Head high, Rigat marched forward. Gortin smiled and handed his blackthorn staff to Othak. The white film that dimmed Gortin's right eye made it look like the sky on a misty autumn morning, while the scars around his empty eye socket appeared to be bleeding.

Rigat flicked his forefinger against his thumb, then resolutely stilled his fingers. The poor Tree-Father couldn't help the way he looked or how the sunlight struck his face. He mustn't allow his overactive imagination to conjure an evil omen out of such ordinary things.

Gortin's hands groped for his shoulders. In a halting voice, he recited the ancient words. Finally, he closed his eye. Quelling the urge to stroke his bag of charms for luck, Rigat took a deep breath and willed himself to be calm.

When Callie had returned from his vision quest, Keirith had performed the rite with him. Rigat could still remember sitting beside the fire pit, watching Callie's eyes widen and his mouth become a round O of surprise when Keirith touched his spirit. Fa had described Tree-Father Struath's touch as feather-light. Keirith had warned him that Gortin was less skilled than his predecessor, but Rigat was still shocked by the sudden, brutal assault.

Like a bear blundering through the underbrush, Gortin shoved deep into his spirit. The relentless battering made Rigat gasp, each agonizing jolt resonating throughout his spirit until he thought he would scream.

Desperately, he concentrated on what he wanted the Tree-Father to find: the fox poised on a rock in the middle of the stream, the shadowy trunks of the pines visible through its body. But other memories kept spilling through: his vision mate's mocking laughter, the warmth of that teasing voice, the dispassionate golden eyes watching as the spear hurtled toward him.

With a strangled cry, Rigat jerked free of Gortin's hands, breaking the connection between them.

Gortin swayed. Othak rushed forward to support him, but Gortin shook his head. He raised a trembling hand, silencing the worried murmurs of the onlookers.

Rigat lowered his head, trying to still his frantic heartbeat.

Labored breathing filled the awful silence. Gortin's fingers tightened on his shoulders. He looked up and saw a tear oozing down the deep crease beside the Tree-Father's nose.

“Forgive me,” Rigat whispered.

The Tree-Father's hands cupped his cheeks, the palms as dry as birch bark. “So young,” he murmured. “But so powerful. Like your brother.”

Gortin turned him to face the tribe. “Today, a man walks among us. That man is Rigat, son of Darak and Griane. And his vision mate is the fox.”