Foxfire

DARAK NODDED TO ENNIT AND Lisula, but his gaze remained fixed on Rigat and Seg. Please, gods, don’t let them get into another fight.

Lisula sighed as she sat down beside him. “They’re sweet, aren’t they?”

His frown of incomprehension turned to a smile when he realized she was watching Callie and Ela wander along the lakeshore, hand in hand.

“We used to do that,” Lisula said with a fond glance at Ennit.

“Ennit was always romantic.” Griane’s glance was as pointed as the elbow she poked into Darak’s side.

“And he would whisper the most wonderful, wicked things to see if he could make me blush.”

“Mostly, she giggled.” Ennit placed his hand over his heart and batted his eyelashes at Lisula, who—predictably—giggled. Despite the streaks of silver in her dark hair and the wrinkles that seamed the skin around her eyes, she still seemed like the plump little Grain-Sister of Darak’s youth.

“He once told me my breasts were like goose down.”

“Goose down?” Darak grimaced. “Good gods. Now I’m going to picture you with feathers sprouting on your bosoms.”

“Because they were very white,” Ennit explained.

“So I gathered.”

“And so soft that—”

“Thank you, Ennit.” Darak gave his best friend a quelling glare.

“Now it’s my hair that’s white.” Lisula heaved a mournful sigh.

Griane paused in her examination of a nutcake to frown at her braid. “Darak once said my hair was so bright it was like I carried the sun on my shoulders.”

“Aye. Well.”

“But you never compared my breasts to anything.”

Ennit patted Griane’s knee. “Darak was never the poet I was.”

Darak snorted. “Breasts like goose down?”

“He was a man of action. Fighting his way through Chaos, romping in the First Forest . . .”

“I have never romped.”

“Making his wife yowl like a wildcat.” Ennit snatched his hand back before Griane could smack it. “If I have one regret in my long and happy life, it’s that my wife has never yowled when we’ve made love. A moan, now and then, but nothing like Griane. Why, you could hear her clear across—ow!” He rubbed his shoulder and shot Griane a reproachful glance.

Griane’s frown deepened. “Stop looking so smug, Darak, or you’ll get the same.”

“I’m just sitting here,” he protested.

“Looking smug.”

Before he could ask how she knew he looked smug when she was peering at the nutcake in her hand, Griane gave a triumphant cry. She brandished a fragment of shell, then flicked it away. “Duba makes the best nutcakes in the village—”

“But she always misses the shells,” the rest of them chorused.

Gods, it was good to sit with friends and forget his worries. He rolled his shoulders to ease the knots of tension that had been there ever since Rigat returned. Although he’d acted cheerful, Darak knew he hated being bested by Seg. Still, his testing had gone well. Well enough. Gortin seemed to have recovered now and was talking with Keirith. As usual, Othak hung on every word.

“I wish Othak would leave him be.”

“Gortin would be lost without him,” Lisula replied.

“Not much risk of that,” Ennit muttered. “I’m lucky if Othak lets me into the hut to visit. And Gortin my brother!” A rare scowl darkened Ennit’s face. “If Othak hadn’t become a priest, I could have used him to guard the flock.”

“You just don’t like him,” Lisula said.

“Neither do you.”

Lisula pursed her lips primly, then sighed. “Poor boy. Jurl ruined him.”

“He’s not a boy,” Ennit said. “And he’s had years to get over Jurl’s beatings.”

Darak massaged the stumps of his first two fingers thoughtfully. “Some things linger in a man’s mind long after the bruises fade.” He looked up to find them all watching him. When he realized they thought he was brooding about Morgath, he quickly added, “My father blistered my arse any number of times, but I can’t remember those whippings half as well as the one I gave Tinnean.”

Or the one I gave Rigat.

“Where did he go?”

The others exchanged glances. “Darak,” Griane said, “you know where Tinnean is.”

“I wasn’t . . . good gods, woman, I haven’t lost my senses. I went from Tinnean to Rigat.”

“And I’m supposed to read your mind?”

“He and Seg were pestering Nedia,” Ennit said. “She’s a flirt. Like her mother.” He caught Lisula’s hand and pressed it to his lips.

“I would never have looked at a boy three years my junior. No matter how manly he was.” Lisula giggled. “Remember Conn and Keirith after their vision quests?”

“The way they strutted around,” Ennit said. “Like they’d grown an extra set of ballocks.”

“Or Griane had shoved bear grease up their arses to loosen their bowels,” Darak said.

“And now they hardly talk.”

Griane’s words made Ennit shift uncomfortably. “It’ll work itself out. In time.”

“They’ve had time,” Griane retorted. “Conn and Hircha have been married since the Fall Balancing.”

“Interfering won’t help matters.” Ennit’s voice was equally sharp.

Before Griane could reply, Darak took her hand. “It’s Rigat’s day. Let’s enjoy it.”

As the talk turned to birthings and deaths and illnesses, Darak rose and pretended to stretch, all the while scanning the crowd. Still no sign of Rigat. Or Seg. He spotted Keirith easily enough, though. He was talking with Hircha now. As he watched, Keirith strode off. Judging by the determined way Hircha followed, she was not about to let him escape.

It was past time for Keirith and Conn to sort things out. But he doubted even Hircha—strong-willed as she was—could reconcile them if Keirith wasn’t ready.

“Why can’t you let it go?” Keirith demanded.

“Because this nonsense has gone on long enough. You never visit us. You hardly even talk to Conn. Or me. We used to be best friends.”

Keirith turned away from Hircha’s piercing gaze to stare at the lake. The Twins shadowed the western half, but to the east, the water sparkled with red-gold flashes that reminded him of the coins the Zherosi called serpents.

Together, he and Hircha had survived Zheros—and Xevhan. In time, she had learned to look past the body he wore and see him, not the man who had abused her. But although they had grown close, it was friendship, not passion that had evolved.

When Conn’s family first arrived in the valley, his milk-brother had been jealous of that friendship, but soon realized he could share it. For nearly a year, things had been perfect.

“Why does everything have to change?” he whispered.

“Conn hasn’t changed. Neither have I.”

“So it’s my fault.”

Hircha just regarded him silently.

“Things are different now,” he said.

“How?”

“I’ve another body, for one thing.”

“You had that before we left Eagles Mount.”

“And we’re both older. We have responsibilities.”

“And I’m Conn’s wife.”

“Aye.”

“What difference does that make?” she demanded.

“Because I’m the one who’s alone!”

Appalled at having blurted it out, he turned on his heel. Hircha caught his arm. “You idiot. We’re right here. Every day.”

“And every night, you lie together under your furs. While I lie next to my little brother and wake with my seed spurting onto my belly like a boy!”

“Then take a wife,” she snapped. “If you think marriage is just a warm body under the furs and a warm sheath for your cock!”

“Thank you, but I’d prefer to sleep alone than with someone I don’t love.”

Her head snapped back.

“I didn’t mean that.” But he had and she knew it. “I’m sorry.”

It was Hircha’s turn to stare at the glistening lake. “Not everyone is like Darak and Griane. Not everyone wants that . . . closeness.”

Hircha might not, but he suspected Conn did. Still, they seemed happy enough. Conn clearly adored her. And Hircha had found a way to fit in.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m just . . . there are times I hate my body and my powers and everyone around me who’s . . . normal. And that makes me feel like the worst brother and the worst son and the worst friend in the world.”

“You’re never happy unless you’re miserable.”

“That’s not true.”

“Instead of taking it out on me or Conn, go beat your head against a rock. That ought to cheer you up.”

“It’s not funny.”

“And it’s not always your fault.”

“You just said I was the one who pulled away.”

“All right. That was your fault. Happy now?”

Keirith could feel a smile twitching the corner of his mouth up. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

“Aye. And the worst brother, the worst son, the worst friend . . . did I miss anything?”

Hircha smiled. She was not a person who smiled often or easily, so it was always a sort of gift when she did. When he’d first seen her—the morning of his interrogation by Malaq and Xevhan—he’d been struck by her physical beauty: the moon-gold hair, the slender, graceful body. But her face was as cold as stone. Stolen as a child by the Zherosi, she’d learned very early to hide her feelings and thoughts. She might give Conn affection and loyalty and kindness, but Keirith believed that she only opened her heart to him. Or maybe he just wanted to believe he possessed something of her that Conn did not.

“Sometimes, I feel so . . . separate from everyone,” he said.

Her smile vanished. “Sometimes I feel that way, too.” She surprised him by resting her palm against his cheek. “Talk to Conn.”

“I will. Soon.”

Her gaze shifted. “Sooner than you expected.”

He turned to find Conn running toward them. At first, he wondered if Hircha had arranged this, but the expression on Conn’s broad face made it clear something was wrong. Only then did he become aware of a commotion around the fire pit.

“What is it?” he asked Conn.

“Seg claims Rigat found a Zherosi spear.”

Hircha was the first to recover. “I’ll fetch Darak.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Why had he insisted on showing off? He should have known Seg wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. Already men were shouting that the Zherosi must be on the move, that an attack was imminent. Claiming he had found the spear in the forest would only feed the panic. But how could he possibly reveal the truth?

Think, Rigat, think!

His vision mate had called him clever, but he’d behaved like a fool. Too much wine, too much boasting. And now he was trapped.

When he saw his father pushing through the crowd, relief made his legs tremble.

“All right,” Fa said. So calm, that voice, so steady. “What’s all this about a spear?”

Madig thrust it out. “Rigat claims he found it on his vision quest.”

“Not found it,” Seg corrected. “He said . . . something about his vision mate.”

It was his word against Seg’s. Just like before. Only this time Seg was drunk. No one would believe him. But that still didn’t explain the presence of a Zherosi spear in the wilderness.

A hand came down on his shoulder. “Rigat is afraid to tell you what happened,” Gortin said. “But I know.”

The fear was a live thing, clawing at his belly.

“After Rigat’s vision quest, a portal opened before him. A portal to Chaos. And a Zherosi warrior hurled this spear at him.”

Chaos was the only word to describe the uproar that ensued. But Gortin just stood there, utterly composed and utterly convinced of what he had Seen.

“A Zherosi warrior?” Rothisar snorted. “In Chaos?”

“They call it the Abyss,” Keirith said.

“Chaos or the Abyss,” Madig shouted, “a spirit cannot hurl a real spear through a portal!”

“Did not our own chief enter Chaos as a living man?” Gortin demanded. “Armed with a real dagger?”

The shouting was dying down now. Feeble as Gortin was, he was still Tree-Father.

“I’ve witnessed the opening of a portal. At that Midwinter battle when the spirit of the Oak-Lord was lost and Morgath returned to this world.”

The silence was absolute now. Even Rigat was caught by the passion in Gortin’s voice.

“I can still remember the terror of that night. As Darak must recall the terror of plummeting through a portal into the Unmaker’s realm. Is it any wonder Rigat was too frightened to speak of it? And if he had, how many would have dismissed his tale as the imaginings of a young man caught in the glory of his vision quest?”

Dear gods, I’m going to get away with it.

“Rigat?”

His father’s expression was as calm as his voice. But was there a warning in those gray eyes?

The silence stretched, the breathless anticipation of the crowd as real as Gortin’s hand on his shoulder. Rigat wished he could draw out the moment, savor it like wine, but his boastfulness had gotten him into too much trouble already.

“I should have known the Tree-Father would See what really happened. But I was too scared to tell.”

Everyone would believe fear made his voice shake, but it was simply relief. He would offer a sacrifice to the Maker in thanks for his reprieve. Or perhaps he should offer one to the Trickster; it was just the sort of irony the god would appreciate.

Madig tossed the spear to the ground as if it were contaminated. The crowd began to drift away. Keirith was still eyeing him though, and Rigat had no desire to talk with his brother. He snatched up the spear, intent on slipping away, when a firm hand grasped his arm.

“We need to talk,” his father said.

“Now?”

“Aye. The three of us.”

That’s when Rigat noticed his mam hovering a few paces away, her face pinched and worried.

He wanted to tell her that it was all right. That nothing bad had happened. That his power was a good thing. More than anything though, he just wanted to run away.

“We can’t talk here,” he said, desperate to postpone the discussion.

“Nay. At home. It’s time, Rigat,” his father added in a gentler voice.

Rigat nodded and numbly followed them toward the hill fort. Then he heard a renewed commotion behind him and froze. Had the Tree-Father realized his error? Or had Seg said something else to turn the tribe against him?

Darak spun around, frowning. “Bel’s blazing ballocks. What now?” Then he saw Nemek’s younger boy, Arun, tottering toward him. Sweat streaked his face and his chest heaved, but it was the terror in his white-rimmed eyes that held Darak’s gaze.

Arun reeled and Darak lunged forward to catch him. The boy’s fingers dug into his forearms as he struggled to form words. Darak steadied him, then went down on one knee.

“Are you hurt?”

Arun shook his head.

“Take a deep breath.”

The breath wheezed out in a soft whimper. Darak heard an echoing whimper from Catha. Her left hand reached for Arun, while her right cradled her belly as if to protect her unborn child as well. Nemek’s hand descended on her shoulder, stilling her, but her body trembled with the need to comfort her son.

“Arun.” Darak kept his voice soft. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I was on the hill. Taking food to Jadan. He’s on watch today and—”

“What happened, Arun?”

“We saw people. Running across the moor.”

Darak frowned. Jadan should have sounded the ram’s horn when he sighted the strangers.

“And there were other people. Chasing them.”

Darak silenced the frenzied babble with a peremptory shout.

“Arun. Tell me everything. Quickly.”

The boy closed his eyes, as if picturing the scene. “Twenty or so people running. Trying to run. The ones chasing them—they were in a square. Once they stopped and shot arrows. But they were out of range. So they started moving again.” Arun’s eyes popped open. “There was a man in front. With a metal helmet. I saw the sun glinting off it.”

“It’s the Zherosi!”

“An attack!”

“We’ll all be killed!”

Arun burst into tears. A woman screamed.

Before the outcry could escalate, Darak jumped to his feet. “By the gods, I will not have panic!” He glared at Catha who happened to be closest; her hand flew to her mouth, stifling her sobs. “Arun. How many warriors did you see?”

“They were all bunched together—”

“How many do you think?”

Arun pointed south, then swallowed hard. “The people who were running? I think the one in the lead was a woman. Her hair . . . it looked too long to be a man’s.” Arun bit his lip. “It was red, Alder-Chief. Her hair. Bright red.”

Darak closed his eyes.

Fear is the enemy.

Stealing his breath. Constricting his heart.

Control the fear.

He could taste it, cold and bitter as bronze.

Control yourself.

He took a deep breath. Then another. Swallowed the bile that filled his mouth. And opened his eyes.

His gaze found Griane. Rigat. Keirith. Where was Callie? He couldn’t find Callie. Wait, there he was, with his arm around Ela.

“All right.” He raised his voice to ensure that those in the back could hear. “We have prayed this day would not come, but it has. Douse that fire. Smother it,” he corrected. “And those in the village.”

Jadan had wisely realized that this war party was unaware of their existence and refused to sound the ram’s horn. They must use the element of surprise to their advantage.

Every member of the tribe knew the plan; the children recited their roles at Nemek’s knee along with the tribal legends. Still, he took a few moments to review it; in a crisis, it was too easy to forget details.

As he spoke, he scanned the faces of the leaders: Madig’s, cold and determined—as irritating as a thorn in the foot, but he could be counted on to do his part; old Trath’s, seamed and tanned as leather—he would defend the hill fort to the death; Mirili’s, creased with concern as she calmed Catha—a survivor of many attacks, her presence would steady the younger women; Rothisar’s, eyes blazing with excitement—best keep him close or he’d charge across the moor alone to attack the invaders.

Othak looked like he was going to be sick, but Gortin stood straight as an oak. Even after all these years, the man continued to surprise him. Barasa was trembling visibly, while Lisula—whose head barely reached the Grain-Mother’s shoulder—patted Barasa’s clenched fists. Lisula and Gortin—one still brimming with energy, the other whose life was draining away. Like The Twins that guarded the eastern pass, they were the spiritual strength of the tribe.

Griane would never let him down. Already she’d be tallying her supplies and mentally ticking off which women could be relied upon to help with the wounded. But Hircha’s fist was clenched over her heart, and her eyes were fixed on him as if his mere presence could ward off the attack. This was the first time since their escape from Zheros that the enemy had threatened her. She had to be recalling her capture as a child and the long years of slavery that followed. But as he watched, she slowly lowered her fist and nodded once.

Keirith’s gaze met his. We have fought them before, his expression said. Fought them and won. But his fingers ceaselessly rubbed his left forearm where the black tattoo of the Zherosi’s sacred adder twisted from wrist to elbow.

So many thoughts chasing after each other in his mind while his voice calmly laid out the strategy. So many frightened faces turned to his, but he could only see those terrified people on the moor, running for their lives. He pictured the leader desperately herding them toward the gap in the hills. Saw the tangled red hair streaming behind her, heard her shouted exhortations to hurry, felt his heart pounding in rhythm to hers.

“If we can save these strangers, we will. But our first priority is to protect our folk. I want no heroics. No needless sacrifices.”

Faelia, my only daughter. My brave hunter. Forgive me.

“Let’s go. And may the gods keep us safe.”