Foxfire

THE WIND SWIRLED AROUND the hilltop, tugging at robes and skirts. Rain slid like tears down the faces of the dead. As Darak eyed Gortin’s guttering torch, he offered a silent prayer to Taran and Nul to restrain the storm until the bodies were consumed.

They had built the pyre at first light. Sacrificed a ewe in thanks for their deliverance. Struggled up the hill with their dead slung in mantles and carefully placed the bodies on the gorse branches. They lay shoulder to shoulder—his folk and Gath’s and Temet’s—awaiting the flames.

Darak nodded automatically, his troubled gaze fixed on Keirith. At least, he’d managed to break through Ennit’s stunned silence last night; all his efforts to draw Keirith out had failed.

Gortin intoned the final words of the rite and lifted the mullein torch. For a long moment, he stared at the bodies, shaking his head. Suddenly, his despairing expression grew fierce.

“Too many times we have performed this rite. Too many times we have carried our loved ones to the Death Hut or consigned their bodies to fire. Merciful Maker, can you not see our grief? Can you not hear our cries?”

“Oak and Holly, we may be far from your forests, but we are still your children, descendants of the rowan and the alder who pulled their roots from the soil of the First Forest and crossed the boundary between their world and ours to become the first woman, the first man. How can you let these invaders destroy us? Destroy our tree-brothers?”

He could feel Faelia’s burning gaze. Despite Griane’s protests, she had insisted on hobbling up the hill. It was her duty, she claimed, and her right.

“Gods of our people. Welcome these new spirits to the sunlit shores of the Forever Isles. And remember those who are left behind. Show us the path of deliverance. Comfort us in our time of need. Give us a sign of your love and your protection.”

Gortin thrust the torch into the base of the pyre. The gorse ignited with a whoosh of air that made him stagger backward. Orange flames leaped up, licking eagerly at the resinous wood and the tallow-smeared garments of the dead.

Clutching his blackthorn staff for support, Gortin cried, “A sign! No rain can quench the flames. Just as no enemy can destroy our people.”

A roar rose up from the men. Women screamed their defiance, clutching their hair, beating their breasts, swaying and swirling and stamping the earth in the ecstasy of grief.

By the time they returned to the village, the storm had passed and the sun peeked through a break in the clouds. Another good omen, some said.

They shared a paltry feast—whatever the women could throw together. Later, there would be time to honor the dead. Now, there was too much to do for the living.

Rothisar led a party back to the pass to strip the Zherosi dead and dispose of the bodies. Alada and Duba carried furs and spare mantles to the cave. Temet’s warriors were still in the longhut with the rest of the wounded, but when they recovered, they would need somewhere to sleep; the huts were already crowded with the folk from Gath’s village.

Darak convened the council meeting in his hut. With Usok and Elasoth dead, and Madig and Nemek fighting for their lives, only five members remained: the Tree-Father and Grain-Mother, him and Lisula, and old Trath.

He wished he could nominate Ennit to replace one of the fallen elders, but with only Callie and young Lorthan to help, his friend would be busy enough tending the flocks. Instead, after waiting impatiently while Gortin and Barasa offered the ritual prayers, he proposed Sion, a reticent hunter and a bit of a loner, but a man of common sense and wisdom.

Everyone agreed that Callie should join them until Nemek recovered. Trath suggested two fishermen—Adinn and Hakiath. When Barasa put forward Rothisar’s name, Darak suppressed a grimace; the last person he wanted on the council was Jurl’s belligerent nephew.

The elders might take a year to decide upon a name for their tribe, but in a crisis, they were far more decisive. With little discussion, Sion and Adinn were elected as permanent members, with Callie and Hakiath serving until Nemek and Madig recovered.

If Rothisar bristles at the slight, I’ll just tell him we need his hunting skills. With so many of our hunters dead or wounded, it won’t even be a lie.

They waited for the new members to join them before summoning Faelia and Temet. Their accounts were brief and grim. When Temet finished speaking, Darak said, “It’s early in the season for the Zherosi to be on the move.”

All winter, they had wrangled, Temet arguing that they had to attack the Zherosi whenever and wherever they could, Darak claiming that those tactics only provoked reprisals. This time, Gath’s village had paid the price.

Temet shifted his wounded leg, grimacing. “They’d never come in such numbers before. I don’t know how many there were. Two hundred? Three? The villagers fought like wolves. Old men with axes. Women with clubs. Boys younger than your Rigat . . .”

And likely, there would be more: the badly wounded ones in the longhut, perhaps even some of those Temet had sent after the Zherosi.

“We scattered,” Temet interrupted. “As soon as I’m able to travel, I’ll round up the survivors. If there are any. Those who are still recovering from their wounds can stay behind to help defend the village.”

Of course, Temet would have to leave the wounded behind. But volunteering them to defend the village told Darak that he had little hope that all the Zherosi would be caught.

Helpless anger made him want to reject the offer, but common sense prevailed. They would need those extra men and women—to hunt, to teach his folk to fight with swords, to improve their defenses. Gods, they needed their strong arms and backs to help build the terraces so they could get the barley into the ground.

After a brief discussion of the immediate steps that must be taken, Darak called the meeting to a halt. It would be days before Temet could travel. Time enough to craft more detailed plans later.

As the elders filed out of the hut, Darak eyed Temet, considering the deep grooves pain and grief had carved around his mouth, the hollowness under his cheekbones, and his slow, careful movements. But this was one confrontation he refused to postpone.

Darak started toward him, then drew up short as Temet gripped the hilt of his dagger. Temet stared down at his hand, frowning, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had done. Then he slumped wearily against the wall of the hut.

Although Temet’s voice was quiet, the words stung. “I remember you went singing to your death. And bought me the chance to save my son. It’s not your fault I failed.”

“You didn’t fail. Keirith lives. You’ll never know if you could have saved his body, too. And blaming yourself for what you did or didn’t do won’t change that.”

The blunt words might have been cruel if another man had spoken them. But Temet knew more about loss and blame than he did. He had lost his home, his wife, his child. Seen his comrades slaughtered. Yet he was not too hardened to grieve—or to love.

“I didn’t bring up the past to win your trust. Or perhaps I did. I don’t know.” Temet ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. “As bad as things were, it was easier in the slave compound.”

Temet’s short exhalation might have been a chuckle or an exasperated sigh. “We acted together. In that moment, we were men again. In control of our lives, our fate.”

“Can I? All it takes is for one man to escape—one!—and the Zherosi will know where this place is. The place I chose because it was a safe haven.”

“There was! Until you came. Sooner or later, they’re bound to seek revenge. The only way to keep my people safe is to join your damn rebellion.” Darak’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “So it looks like you’ve won the Spirit-Hunter’s support, after all.”

Darak stared at her, too stunned to speak. The hope that she was lying to protect her man vanished when Temet seized her good arm and spun her toward him.

“That cost the lives of every man I sent with you. And what? Eight of the villagers who were counting on you to get them to safety.”

“We all discussed it. And we all agreed. But it was my plan. So if you want to whip anyone for disobeying orders, whip me.”

Her words were directed to Temet, but her gaze remained fastened on her father, begging forgiveness and understanding. When Darak shook his head, her expression grew fierce.

“They’d given up. All of them. But I told them we would be luring their enemies to the village of Darak Spirit-Hunter. That you’d give meaning to their suffering and avenge the deaths of their loved ones and help our people reclaim this land. And I watched mothers bind the bleeding feet of their children and old men’s eyes gleam with hope.”

He looked at this tall stranger in men’s clothing, this warrior he had helped create, whose voice shook with passion and whose eyes brimmed with tears she refused to shed. The woman blurred with the memories of the child who used to ride through the village on his shoulders, small hands reaching up as if to snatch a cloud from the sky. Who disdained needle and thread for sling and stone. Who would crawl into his lap after supper, idly playing with a braid, freckled face raised to his as if she couldn’t bear to let him out of her sight for a moment.

“More than thirty people died yesterday. Others will be maimed for life. This village will be crippled because we’ve lost most of our hunters. All this to secure the allegiance of one man. Tell me, Faelia. Was it worth it?”

Her hand came up as if to touch him. Furious, he batted it aside. The savage gesture made her press her clenched fist against her mouth. The old gesture—one that she’d made ever since she was a child—made him catch his breath, but his voice was cold when he spoke.

“I cannot do this! Not with the ashes of our dead filling the air and the stink of their roasting bodies tainting every breath.”

Temet took Faelia’s arm and eased her away from the doorway. Without looking at either of them, Darak stalked outside.

He visited the homes of the bereaved and sat with grief-stricken widows and frightened children. He went to the longhut to check on the wounded. He told Rothisar to organize combat training, asked Trath to assign watches—and realized he was beginning the transformation from chief of the Alder Tribe to spiritual leader of a rebellion.

Already, he could feel the forest calling, urging him to leave the treeless moors and the wrangling of the elders and the dozens of petty concerns that filled his days. Leave it all behind. Walk again among the oaks and ashes, the rowans and pines. Carry the tale to every village. Remind every listener of the sacred bond between the land and its people.

It was late afternoon before he had time to seek her out. By then, the hopeful sun had lost its battle with the clouds and the skies were as dark as his mood. Rain pelted down as he ducked into the longhut, but in the end, he found her at home with all three of the boys. Their guilty looks and quick exchange of glances made it clear they had been discussing him.

“Nay!” His vehemence drew puzzled frowns and another furtive exchange of glances. They waited for him to say more, but he simply repeated, “Nay.”

As he slumped beside the fire pit, Griane glanced at him, then quickly resumed stirring the stew. When had anyone had time to snare rabbits? Rigat, perhaps. He could keep a fire blazing through the morning and bring home a brace of rabbits in the afternoon.

Ignoring his frown, Rigat began speaking in a low, clear voice. He spoke of pushing Seg, of the portal, of the rockslide. Darak’s fists clenched and unclenched in his lap as he fought the growing wave of nausea. He couldn’t look at the boy. Or at Griane.

When Rigat’s voice finally ran down, Darak rubbed his damp palms against his thighs, knowing he had to speak, to reassure Rigat, to reassure all his boys. And if he could not reassure Griane, he must, at least, hide his fear that the moment had finally arrived—the moment he had dreaded for so many years.

“You spend your life trying to be strong for those you love. Not wanting them to see your uncertainty lest they be afraid, too.”

He wished his father could be here, guiding him. He wished he could close his eyes and pretend that the bad thing would go away as he used to do when he was a child and heard unfamiliar sounds in the dark. He wished he could succumb to the frightened voice inside him that kept screaming, “Nay, nay, nay!” Or just run away and lose himself in the comforting depths of the forest.

But he was no longer a child and he was far from the forest. Faelia wanted him to be the Spirit-Hunter and Rigat needed him to be his father.

“It’ll be all right.” Oddly, it was Callie who offered the comfort, not Keirith as he would have expected, the new sad-eyed Callie whose smile was bittersweet, as if he realized how untrue his words were but couldn’t help speaking them. Keirith was still so numbed by Conn’s death that he could only give him a bleak nod.

Griane’s knuckles grew white as she clenched the spoon. “Thank you for telling me, Rigat. It’s past time we talked. Nay, it’s not your fault. We were all afraid to face the truth.”

He stopped himself before he said more. He felt thin, strained, his body taut with nervous energy, but heavy, so very heavy.

Rigat leaped up to pull the wet mantle from his shoulders. Callie ladled a cup of his tonic. Keirith finally stopped their fussing and shooed his brothers toward the doorway.

“Then make yourselves useful,” Griane said. “Take fresh bandages to the longhut. Fill the waterskins. The wounded are always thirsty. Take the two wolfskins by the doorway to Alada. Tell her we can’t spare more. The stew will be ready by the time you’re back.”

His legs shook as he pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the son who was and wasn’t his. “Aye. I do. Magic . . . scares me. Always has. Tinnean . . . he saw the wonder in it.”

“It is wonderful, Fa. And it’ll never hurt us. I won’t let it.” Rigat’s grave smile was so like Fellgair’s that Darak caught his breath.

After Rigat left, he just stood there, listening to the patter of rain on the thatch and the sizzles from the fire pit when errant drops fell through the vent hole. When he finally turned to Griane, he found her staring down at her clasped hands.

Her gaze finally rose to meet his. And still he couldn’t move. Then his legs responded to his mind’s command. He walked back to the fire pit and sat down opposite her. He tried to still the fluttering of his heart, but hearts were more difficult to control than legs.

Neither of them wanted to be the first to say it. Because he loved her and because he thought it might be easier somehow if he was the one to speak the words aloud, he took a deep breath and said, “He’s Fellgair’s son.”

Even though he knew what her answer would be, her small nod made his heart clench. As if Fellgair were squeezing it between his fingers as he had that afternoon in Zheros. The afternoon he had demanded that Darak open his spirit as the price for saving Keirith—and hinted at the bargain with Griane.

He felt his head nodding, as if she had confirmed something ordinary—that there were wild onions in the stew or that she would be out on the moor gathering plants on the morrow. He heard her say something about a brew that would rid a woman of a child, of her moon flow coming after she took it, but he needed all his concentration simply to breathe. He took shallow, careful breaths to ease the pressure in his chest. When it did, he became aware of the ache in his hands.

He looked down to discover them balled into fists. Slowly, he relaxed his fingers. There were two freckles near the puckered white scar left by Morgath’s dagger. So long ago now. Half a lifetime. More. He had been young and strong and whole then. He had believed that losing Tinnean was the worst thing that could ever happen to him.

Griane’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “I was sure he was yours. Even after the . . . incidents began. Keirith had power, too.”

But how could the power of a mortal ever compare to that of a god? A god never grew old. He was always young and strong and whole. He could bind a child in a woman’s womb. Beguile you with a glance. Choose any form he pleased.

But Darak could no more stop the thoughts than he could control his shaking hands. Griane burying her face in the soft, spiky fur of Fellgair’s chest. Griane digging her fingers into his hips to pull him deeper inside of her. Griane crying out his name at the end.

Did she still dream of that summer day? Remember the tickle of his fur on her thighs and the rasp of his tongue on her cheek? Had she pretended all these years that it was Fellgair’s hands, Fellgair’s mouth, Fellgair’s body loving her?

Fingers grasped his arm. Griane’s fingers. When had she moved to his side? He looked up and saw tears in her eyes.

She snatched her hand away as if she had burned it. When he realized why, his throat closed in silent protest. That she should think that he hated her touch, that he could hate her because of what she had done, that she could imagine he could ever stop loving her no matter how much the visions tormented him, no matter how much the truth scalded his spirit . . . somehow that was worse than everything else.

He tried to say, “Don’t cry,” but the words emerged as a strangled croak. He staggered to his feet, reeling like a drunken man. And suddenly she was there, steadying him, holding him. His girl, his fierce, strong girl.

Darak pulled her close, but when he buried his face in the crook of her neck, she went rigid. Suddenly unsure, he drew back. Her face was so white, the freckles stood out like plague spots. But it was her eyes that caught him. Wide with shock, they stared at something over his shoulder.

Rigat stood in the open doorway. Rain plastered his hair against his head and streamed in rivulets down his cheeks. His eyes were as wide and disbelieving as his mother’s.

Griane cried out his name, but he had already spun away. With a low moan, she tottered toward the doorway. Darak caught her as she collapsed.