Foxfire (92 page)

“Fellgair is right. I'd hoped . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn't matter. On the morrow—before dawn—I want to be carried up to the hilltop so I can watch you go.”

It took a moment for the import of her words to reach him. His cry of protest was immediately joined by others, but his mam simply waited for their voices to fall silent.

“I won't argue. I haven't the patience—or the time—for that.”

“But we can't just leave you here alone!” Hircha cried.

“I won't be alone.” Her gaze drifted to Rigat before settling on Fellgair. He seemed unsurprised by her choice.

Resentment blazed, hot and fierce, at the prospect of Fellgair sharing Mam's final moments of life, but when the Trickster's mud-colored eyes fastened on him, it leached away. Whatever Fellgair had done—to him, to Mam, to Fa—it didn't matter any longer.

But the thought of leaving her behind was unbearable.

“Callie,” she said, “give me your dagger.” Her hand rose, only to fall back onto her lap. With an impatient sigh, she said, “You'll have to do it.”

Uncertainly, Callie glanced at the blade in his hand. “Do what?”

“Cut off a lock of my hair.”

Callie rose onto his knees and carefully sliced off a small strand.

“Winter is cruel in the First Forest—even with the gods' help. The tribe must go to the Summerlands. And you must lead the way, Callie. You know the tale by heart. Go to the mouth of the great river and call Rowan. I know . . . I'm sure she'll hear you. And she'll take you in.”

Callie's fingers clenched around the lock of white hair. “Mam . . .”

“Promise.”

He took a shuddering breath and nodded.

“That strand is for you. Cut two more, please. For Keirith and Hircha.” As Callie obeyed, she mused, “I did this in the First Forest. To mark the trail for Darak. That was the first thing he said when he woke up. ‘What happened to your hair?' I could have killed him.”

Keirith's hand shook as he accepted the lock of hair. He knotted it once and placed it in his bag of charms with Fa's.

“He kept it, you know. That circlet of hair. In his bag of charms.” Suddenly, her hand darted out to squeeze Callie's knee. “You must take his bag. Show the hair to Rowan. She'll remember. I gave her one just like it.”

“Aye, Mam.”

Reassured, she sank back again. Even that small effort had drained her.

“Lisula. Ennit. Girls. Go back to the others. Tell them what has happened. And help them prepare for the crossing.”

“And you?” Lisula asked.

“I'll just rest a bit. So I'll have strength for the morrow.”

But it was already the morrow. Too soon, dawn would arrive. And then they would be parted forever.

All night, they sat with her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. She drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes waking long enough to talk with them. Always of the past—of the happy times. Mostly, she seemed content to listen, offering an occasional nod or smile.

Hircha changed the bandages on her wrists. Keirith and Callie added wood to the fire. Each time Mam stirred, they all tensed, only to relax when she drifted off again.

Fellgair spoke only once. Staring at Rigat's body, he whispered, “He was born in a cave, too.”

Dully, Keirith reflected that the Maker—and perhaps even the Unmaker—must appreciate the symmetry. Order and chaos fought, but in the end, balance was restored. And so it was with his brother, a creature of light and dark, order and chaos, god and man. All his life, Rigat had struggled to find that balance. Perhaps in death he had.

Their sporadic conversation waned along with the night, until only the crackle of burning wood and the soft sound of their breathing disturbed the stillness. Keirith stared into the fire, awash in memories. Images formed before his dazzled eyes: the widespread wings of an eagle, the sinuous shape of an adder. A small shadow swallowed up by the longer one of the man who walked before him. A bronze blade slicing open the blue expanse of the sky. The frenzied splashing of fish in a pool. A stag, crafted from the water's foam. Malaq's freckled bloodstone. Rigat's freckled face. And the pregnant woman from his vision, waving farewell.

He pulled himself from his reverie to stare around their little circle. There was Callie, who had always known his life-path and would fulfill it in the First Forest. Rigat, who had tried—and failed—to fulfill his. Hircha, who would become healer to the tribe. Fellgair, who had shaped the destinies of millions. And his all-too-human mam, the only woman in the world who had walked the fields and forests of the Summerlands, who had shared a life with the hero who helped save the world, and created a son with the god who was becoming a man.

His twisting life-path had brought him to this grotto. What lay beyond it? A future with Hircha, perhaps. But whether as friends or lovers, he couldn't guess. Tree-Father to the tribe? Once that thought would have filled him with joy; now, he felt strangely empty.

He would see many wonders in the First Forest. He would have the opportunity to help his people weather the difficult days ahead and recover from the suffering they had endured. He had insisted that Rigat could start over, yet here he was, hanging back. Had the losses of this world left him immune to the wonder of the other? Or was he destined by his nature—or fate—to be forever dissatisfied?

Impatiently, he rose, startling Hircha and Callie. He muttered something about going outside to clear his head, but the crisp air did little more than chill him.

The orange glow of the fire faded. Turning, he discovered Fellgair at the entrance of the grotto, hands splayed on the rock to support him. As he shuffled forward, Keirith flung an arm around his waist and carefully eased him onto a boulder.

“Can I get you something? Water? Or—?”

“No. Listen. I know you hate the idea of leaving your mother with me.”

“Nay. I mean . . . it's different now. Everything's . . . changed.” His voice sounded forlorn, like a child crying for a lost toy—or an old man, longing for the happy, half-remembered past.

Fellgair seized his hand, startling him. “Stop looking back, Keirith. Stop clinging to the boy who died in Pilozhat. Or the wounded young man who lived on in the body of a stranger. Rigat's words tonight were cruel, but they were mostly true. You've always been reluctant to use your gift. In Pilozhat, circumstances forced you to act. But in your own land, you seemed content to . . . drift. I'm not blaming you,” Fellgair quickly added. “When choices bring pain—to you or to others—it's easier to avoid making them. But you must seize your life, Keirith. As shaman or rebel, healer or chief. You must weave the pattern yourself.”

Fellgair paused, gasping for breath. But when Keirith bent over him, the Trickster pushed him back. “Forgive me if I'm interfering. An old habit. Or if I appear to be playing the role of father. I'm ill-equipped to do so. But I love your parents. And I want their son to be happy. As mine never was.”

“Just . . . happy?”

Fellgair reared back, peering at him in the darkness. “Isn't that enough?”

“I don't know. Fa wasn't seeking happiness when he joined the rebellion. Nor was Rigat when he declared himself the Son of Zhe. Now that they're gone, it seems selfish to seek happiness when they were willing to die for the causes they believed in.”

“Darak never believed in the rebellion.”

“He believed in his family. In keeping us safe. That was always his cause. No matter what the tales say, he went into the First Forest to save Tinnean, not the Oak-Lord.”

Fellgair sighed. “And lived to raise a family of zealots. You. Faelia. Rigat. Even Callum, with his fervent devotion to the old tales. The world is changing, Keirith. Gods are dying. Tell your own tale.”

Keirith went very still. The image of the pregnant woman flashed through his mind. The intent faces of Selima's fledglings as they listened to the story of Fa's vision quest. And the trembling smiles of those whose spirits he had healed with his power—Hua and Eilin, Duba and Luimi, Idrian and Nuala.

He bowed to the Trickster. “Thank you. I understand now.”

I
T WAS STILL DARK when Holtik and Braden came to the grotto, packs strapped to their backs. They carried others that they handed to Callie and Hircha and finally, to him. Keirith hesitated, then slipped his arms through the ropes. Then he strapped on his sword belt.

As Holtik turned to go, Keirith stopped him. “Thank you. For everything. I wish—” But he couldn't tell Holtik what he wished. He could only add, “You're a good friend.”

Callie gathered Mam in his arms. The Trickster managed a few tottering steps before he collapsed. Ignoring his protests, Keirith picked him up; he was as light and spindly as a lamb.

When they reached the hilltop, he made out the shadowy forms of the rest of the tribe, huddled in the small stand of pines. Carefully, he set Fellgair down beside Mam and eased through the crowd, seeking Lisula. He heard the fretful wail of a babe, quickly hushed. A man's low murmur. And the nasal bleat of Young Dugan.

His head jerked toward the pale blur of fleece. Cursing under his breath, he hurried toward it.

Ennit's head came up as he approached. “He's coming with us,” he whispered, nodding to the struggling ram. “Him and Blossom.”

“Blossom?”

“My ewe.”

“Ennit . . .”

“If we're meant to stay forever, I'm taking my flock with me. They made it this far. They deserve to come.”

They would be lucky to get the tribe across, never mind the damn sheep. But he had more important battles to fight.

Now that the time had come, his choice weighed heavily upon him. His carefully prepared words fled as he walked toward Callie and Hircha, still sitting at the edge of the trees with his mam and Fellgair.

He eased the pack off his back, crouched next to his mother, and took her hand. “There's not much time. So I'll be quick. I'm not going with the tribe. Nay, let me finish! Fa and Rigat and Faelia . . . hundreds of men and women . . . they sacrificed their lives for this land.”

“And you mean to do the same?” Hircha demanded.

“Listen to—”

“You'll never get past their camp.”

“One man. Alone. Who looks like a Zheroso in the dark? Of course I can.”

“If you're doing this,” his mam began in a reedy whisper, “because you don't want to leave me . . . or because you believe you're somehow unfit . . .”

“I'm doing this because I want my life to mean something. Fa called me a healer of spirits. Maybe I got that from you, Mam. But I always wondered what part of Fa lived in me. I think I've finally discovered that.”

He took a deep breath. “In the days to come, our people are going to need my power to heal. But they also need to hear the tales. Not just the ones about Darak Spirit-Hunter and Griane the Healer, but Fellgair's tale and Rigat's. And Temet's and Faelia's. Tales of our vision quests and our rites. Simple tales about the way we live, the truths we believe in. Those are the stories I want to tell. I'll go village to village, like Fa did when he was looking for recruits.”

Hircha shook her head. “Who will listen to what a Zheroso has to say? Even if you manage to convince them that you're Darak's son, you'll only revive the old accusations that got you cast out of the tribe.”

“Hua will listen. And Eilin. I might even be able to find Idrian and Nuala. They all know me. And trust me. They'll tell their tribes who I am. What I do. And we'll find others. Tree-Fathers and Grain-Mothers who can help heal the spirits of the wounded. Memory-Keepers who can help preserve the tales and teach them to others. There may only be a few in the beginning. But isn't that how Temet started? And Fa? In time, there will be more. And if the gods are kind, we'll keep our ways—and our truths—alive.”

“But we need you, too,” Callie protested. “As our Tree-Father. Our chief.”

“Holtik will be a better chief. And young Arun already has the makings of a shaman. Please, Callie. Try and understand. More than anything in the world, I want to come with you. But someone must do this.”

“Then it should be me. I'm the Memory-Keeper.”

“And a husband. Soon to be a father. And you're the heart of the tribe. Without you, they'll be lost.”

“And without you, I'll be lost!” Callie cried.

“No,” Fellgair said. “You've always known your path. Keirith has finally found his. And today is not a farewell. As long as there's a Grain-Mother or a Tree-Father to open the gateway, you will find each other.”