Foxfire (91 page)

Rigat's gaze drifted to Fellgair. “Thank you. I didn't . . .” The spasm of pain that silenced him rippled through his body into Griane's. After it subsided, he fell back in her arms, his breath coming in short, hoarse pants. “I didn't want it . . . to be Keirith.”

An unearthly moan escaped Keirith, abruptly cut off as another spasm seized Rigat. Griane closed her eyes, unable to watch his agonized face. She felt Keirith's arms, straining to hold Rigat until the convulsion passed.

She heard the splash of water. Felt someone touch her arm. Griane opened her eyes to find Hircha emptying the contents of the tiny jar into a cup. Callie stood behind her, his face as white as Rigat's. Griane took the cup from Hircha. Fellgair steadied her hand as she held it to Rigat's lips.

“I'm sorry,” Rigat whispered.

“I know, love. Hush, now.”

His teeth rattled against the stone, but he swallowed obediently.

As his head lolled back against her shoulder, she whispered, “Help me. Help me turn him.” She did not want the cold rocks of the grotto's ceiling to be the last thing her boy saw.

Callie helped Keirith roll Rigat onto his side. Griane lay back in Fellgair's arms, her face close to her son's. His mouth moved, but already the numbness would be setting in, making speech impossible.

“I love you,” she whispered. She kissed his mouth. Her lips tingled. Before Ardal's mantle could numb them, she whispered, “Sleep, my beautiful boy.”

She breathed in his breath, his eyelashes brushing hers. The fire crackled once and was silent. Outside the grotto, she heard the liquid trill of a wren. The sacred bird of the Holly-Lord, offering a final glorious salute to the dying light of day. But her boy could not hear it.

In a trembling voice, Keirith began reciting the ancient words that would open the way to the Forever Isles. Griane's mind formed other words, equally ancient:
I seek but cannot find you. I call but receive no answer. Oh, beloved, beloved. Would I had died for you.

K
EIRITH NEVER KNEW how long he sat there with Rigat's cold hand gripped in his. At some point, he noticed that the fire had died to mere embers. Glancing at the entrance of the grotto, he discovered it was dark outside.

Hircha leaned over and whispered something to his mam. She nodded, without taking her gaze from Rigat's face. But as Hircha slipped out of the grotto, his mother reached over and laid her hand atop his.

When Hircha returned, she brought Lisula, Nedia, and Ela. She must have already told them what had happened, for their expressions were dazed rather than horrified. Ela threw herself into Callie's arms and burst into tears, but the priestesses simply sat down beside his mam. Lisula winced, though, when she saw the blood staining the mantle Callie had draped over Rigat's body.

“There are things that need to be done,” Lisula said. “For Rigat and for Griane. My daughters and Hircha will help me. When we're finished, Hircha will fetch you. So you can sit with them for the rest of the night.”

It took Keirith a moment to realize he had been dismissed. His mam gave him a weak smile. When Callie bent down to kiss her forehead, her hand came up to touch his cheek. Fear shredded Keirith's haze of grief when he noticed the fresh blood staining the bandage around her wrist.

He followed Fellgair out of the grotto and leaned against a boulder, sucking in great gulps of the cool night air. Callie draped one arm around his shoulder. Gratefully, Keirith leaned against him. After all the years of protecting Callie, now he was the one who needed his younger brother's strength.

In silence, they watched Hircha and Ela trot past them and return carrying two bundles. In silence, they watched them slip back into the grotto. Gheala rose over the trees and the Archer took his place among the stars and still they stood there, unable—unwilling—to speak.

Finally, the question seared on Keirith's mind burst free. “Why?” he demanded in a fierce whisper. “I would have let him go. I didn't want to fight him.”

“Without his power?” Fellgair replied. “Without the means to save his mother?”

“He could have started over. I would have helped him. He had his whole life ahead of him!”

“Yes. I know.”

The dull grief in Fellgair's voice reminded Keirith that the Trickster was suffering, too. Hard enough for a god to sacrifice his son. Now that he was becoming mortal, grief and guilt must be flooding his spirit. And how much more terrifying those emotions must be for someone who had never felt them before. Even Keirith had to pity him.

After a moment's hesitation, Callie rested his hand on Fellgair's shoulder. “It was his choice. How could he live with himself after Faelia? And without Mam . . .” His voice shook. “How long does she have?”

“Better to ask a healer than a fallen god,” Fellgair replied, “but . . . not long, I think. He didn't finish the healing.”

Callie sank down on a boulder, his head bowed.

“I can sustain her for a little while. But I must save some of my power to help Lisula hold the portal open for you.”

Callie's head came up. “You're not coming with us?”

“The Zherosi must know the Son of Zhe is dead. They must . . . see the body. And carry the news to Pilozhat.”

The crunch of pebbles alerted them to another presence. Hircha's hair gleamed as golden-white as Gheala's crescent. “You can come back now.”

As she continued walking past them, Keirith cried, “Where are you going?”

“Griane wants Ennit.”

The women had washed Rigat's body and folded his hands across the jagged wound in his chest. They had dressed Mam in clean clothes and combed her hair. Her head rested on Lisula's belly. They must have changed the wolfskins, Keirith noted dully as he sat beside her; the fur was unstained.

Her gaze drifted around the grotto until she found Fellgair who hung back near the entrance. “Sit,” she whispered. “Beside Keirith.”

Fellgair hesitated. Their eyes met. Keirith considered all the pain the Trickster had caused his family. Remembered the mocking voice of the Supplicant, the taunts of the fox-man. He didn't know if the rare moments of tenderness outweighed all that Fellgair had done, only that he had to let go of the bitterness before it stained his spirit forever.

He shifted to his right, allowing Fellgair to sit at Mam's shoulder.

“I'm feeling . . . a little weak,” she whispered. “Can you help me?”

Fellgair nodded.

“Just a little. You must save your power. For the crossing. But there are things I need to say and—”

“Hush, you foolish girl.”

His mam smiled. Her eyes closed as Fellgair took her hand. A faint flush appeared on her sunken cheeks. Then Fellgair sagged against him. Automatically, Keirith's arms went around the frail body.

Fellgair's eyes fluttered open. “Forgive me. I'm all right.”

But the pouches beneath his eyes were dark as bruises now. The last clumps of fur had vanished. And the honey-colored eyes had faded to a dull yellowish-brown.

“That bad?” Fellgair whispered, the ghost of a smile curving his mouth.

“Nay,” Keirith managed as he helped him sit up. “You're fine.”

Fellgair's laugh was a mere exhalation of breath. “And I thought Darak was a bad liar.”

The shifting shadows drew Keirith's gaze to the entrance of the grotto. Ennit hobbled past Hircha, tears oozing down his lined cheeks. He drew up short, staring at Rigat. Then he glared across the fire pit.

“I'm not saying good-bye, woman. You hear me?”

“The Zherosi can probably hear you,” Lisula said. “Hush and sit.”

There was barely room for them all to crowd around the fire pit. Ela sat across Callie's lap, while Hircha carefully lifted Rigat's head onto hers.

“You are the people I love most in this world,” his mam said. “But I've never been one for sloppy sentiment and I won't start now.”

Her voice was stronger, the result of Fellgair's infusion of power. But Keirith suspected her will was just as strong. She had things to say and she knew she had little time.

His mother was dying. Fading as he watched. The rational part of him was resigned to that and determined to do whatever he could to make her last days peaceful and happy. That was the part that reminded him that she was probably glad to go, eager to see Fa again and—please, gods—Rigat and Faelia. But the child in him just wanted to cling to her and beg her not to leave.

“I'm not sure how long I have. If I don't live long enough to see our village again, I want you to—Ela, stop that weeping, you're as bad as your father—I want you to take my body to the Death Hut and lay it beside Darak's.”

“Griane . . .” Fellgair began.

“Wait.”

Ennit's eyebrows rose as the Trickster meekly subsided.

“Lisula, take Darak's bag of charms. His finger bones are in it. And Faelia's and Rigat's.”

Keirith exchanged a shocked glance with Callie. The priestesses had folded Rigat's hands to hide the missing forefinger. But Faelia . . . dear gods, his mam must have cut it off herself. He could not imagine the courage that must have taken.

“Lay Darak's bones and mine in the cairn,” she continued calmly. “And the children's.”

“Griane . . .”

She frowned at the second interruption, but even she must have noticed the urgency in the Trickster's voice.

“Forgive me, my dear. But I'm not sure your people should return to the village.”

Stunned silence greeted his words.

“I had hoped that, without Rigat's power to guide them, the Zherosi would cease gobbling up your land. That they would content themselves with what they already possessed. But now . . .” Fellgair's gaze drifted to Rigat's body, then returned to Mam's face. “If they make a martyr of him, the north becomes a holy land. This hill, a shrine to their fallen god. And they will seek vengeance against those who killed him.”

Yet the Trickster had helped Rigat die. The god who had played games with their lives—with the lives of thousands, millions—had opened his arms without hesitation and given his son the death he so desperately desired. Had he known then what the consequences might be? Or had he simply wanted to grant Rigat's wish—like an ordinary father?

“Then it was all for nothing,” Hircha said bitterly.

Callie shook his head. “I won't believe that. There has to be a reason. There has to be hope.”

“I want to believe that, too,” Fellgair replied. “But I fear for your people. I've seen many futures, but in most, the Zherosi cut down the forests. Build settlements. Marry the girls of the tribes. In only a few generations, there might be none left to worship the Oak and the Holly.”

“But there would always be priests to hold the rites,” Lisula said. “And Memory-Keepers to tell the tales.”

“The tales—yes. Those will survive. But that's all they'll be—wonderful stories. About a hunter named Darak. A healer named Griane. A boy named Tinnean.”

Fellgair's voice held only an echo of its former beauty, but it still sent a shiver through Keirith.

“You must keep the tales alive, Callum. In the First Forest.”

“You mean . . . stay there?” Callie asked. “Forever?”

“How would we survive?” Ennit demanded.

“Darak did. Griane did.”

“You gave them fire,” Lisula pointed out.

“Do you think the Tree-Lords would do less? Cuillon would break limbs from his body to feed the fire that would warm you. The Oak-Lord would offer his to give you bows and spears. And the tree-folk of the Summerlands would do the same for the sons of Griane.”

“So great a sacrifice,” Nedia murmured.

“Your people have offered countless sacrifices to the gods,” Fellgair reminded her. “For your people to survive, the gods must make sacrifices, too.”

“That's really why you're staying behind, isn't it?” Callie asked. “To sacrifice yourself.”

“I've already told you why I'm staying,” Fellgair replied with a touch of his old asperity. “I have little time left. When I lose the last remnants of my power, I will die.” A shudder rippled through his thin shoulders. Then he gave a hollow chuckle. “But tell the tale that way if you like. It will make me sound so much nobler.”

Keirith was suddenly aware that his mam had not spoken since Fellgair's announcement. The flush had fled her cheeks and she looked terribly frail, but her expression was as determined as ever.