Foxfire

RIGAT RAN ACROSS THE moor, heedless of the pelting rain. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. He just had to get away from Mam and Fa.

All his life, he had tried to win Darak’s love. Now he understood why he had failed. Seeing him standing there, staring at him with horror . . . that was bad enough. But his mam . . .

But he wasn’t “anyone else.” He was the Trickster’s son. That was why he could hear the song of the stream and the speech of animals. Why he could stop a spear in midair. Why Darak had always watched him and his mam had tried to kill him before he was born.

Did his brothers and sister know? Was that why Faelia had always disliked him? Why even Keirith was so distant sometimes?

He swiped his palms across his eyes and raced on. Faster than any man. Fast enough to outrace the truth.

The moor melted into a blur of gray and brown and green. He leaped over stones, dodged sprawling gorse bushes, all without thought, without effort. He could fly if he put his mind to it. Just spread his arms and will his body into the air. He didn’t need an eagle like Keirith. He could do it alone. Soar over the trees and the mountains and never come back again. Then they’d be sorry.

His steps slowed. The world fell back into place. Each breath tore at his chest. His throat felt like he had swallowed fire. And his legs shook, muscles hot and aching from the frantic race.

Over the roaring in his ears, he heard the sound of water tumbling over rocks. Through the tangle of underbrush at the bottom of the slope, he caught a flash of gray-green. Slowly, he made his way down the hill and slid to his knees on the muddy bank.

The icy water burned his throat. He forced himself to stop after a few mouthfuls, lest he make himself sick, but continued to splash water on his cheeks. How could they be so hot when he was shivering?

He collapsed on a slab of rock and drew his sodden mantle closer. He had no weapons save his dagger. No spare clothes or food. No place to hide.

There was water aplenty. Alder branches that could be carved into fishing spears, vines that could be twisted into snares. A small hollow in the hill where he could shelter for the night.

Why rely on the skills of ordinary men? If he could hear the song of the stream, he could sing trout into his waiting fingers. If he could make leaves dance on a windless day, he could weave vines and branches into a shelter.

But not here. Darak would come after him. And he couldn’t face him. He would rest here tonight, but at dawn, he must leave. Head south to the forest. The only home he had now.

Darak wouldn’t come after him. He would make up some excuse, convince everyone that he’d run away. Keirith would believe him. And Callie. Faelia had never liked him. His mam might grieve for a while, but even she didn’t want him.

It was better to be on his own. Keirith had been banished for casting out a man’s spirit. What would the tribe do to him—the half-breed whelp of an unpredictable god? They might demand his death. Cut his heart out. Like Morgath. But they wouldn’t succeed. It took more than a mere dagger to kill the son of a god. Didn’t it?

They ought to be grateful. They ought to go down on their knees and thank him. He had saved them with the rockslide, kept the fire burning during the rite. He had used his power to help. It wasn’t his fault if Seg had been too stupid or slow to save himself.

Why had he shown Seg the spear? That’s when it all started to go wrong. But he was so sick of his taunts and boasting. As if a wolf were a better vision mate than a fox.

Nothing happened. He had to swallow several times before the lump in his throat eased. Even his vision mate had deserted him.

His head snapped toward the familiar voice, but there was no sign of his vision mate. Then he caught a flash of red among the greens and grays of the underbrush. His greeting died unspoken. Dry-mouthed, he watched the tall figure walk down to the stream.

Keirith had only known him as the black-haired Supplicant of the Zherosi. This was the god Darak had bargained with. The god his mam had lain with. The god—only now did he realize it—who had come to him during his vision quest and called him “my beautiful boy.”

In spite of the ruddy hair that covered his body like a garment, he looked far more human than Rigat had imagined. The white beard gave an illusion of fullness to the narrow face. The ears were large and distinctly triangular, but the long nose was human enough. So were the fingers—except for the curving, black claws.

From the opposite bank of the stream, the Trickster studied him. Had the god observed him for years? Did he see every action? Know every thought? If so, the Trickster must feel his trembling, must sense both his fear and his determination to meet that inscrutable stare no matter how much he wanted to look away.

He searched for something intelligent to say, something that would show the Trickster that his son was worthy. And heard himself blurting out, “What happened to your brush?”

Heat flooded his face. The Trickster could take whatever shape appealed to him: Zherosi priestess or mortal man or fox—or any strange amalgam in between.

Rigat’s answering smile faded as the Trickster splashed through the stream. He tried to force himself to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t obey. He could only sit there, watching the approach of the god who had created him.

The potent scent of male fox nearly overwhelmed the delicate aroma of honeysuckle. He should have remembered that from the tale. Golden eyes stared down at him, the slitted pupils darker than any shadow.

The Trickster crouched in front of him. A black-clawed hand rose, and Rigat fought hard to keep from flinching. The palm rested against his cheek. “Spongy as a dog’s pads,” according to the tale Nemek told, but to Rigat, it merely felt warm and slightly callused. Like Darak’s hand.

The Trickster’s eyes blurred into a smear of gold and black. Rigat wanted to duck his head—dear gods, to be weeping like a child—but those eyes held him.

The Trickster brushed away the tear. His long red tongue flicked out to lick his thumb. Then he caught another tear on his forefinger. He held it out. After a moment’s hesitation, Rigat licked it.

He had tasted his tears before and never noticed they were anything but salty and warm. Now he tasted the fear of hiding his true self for so long. The loneliness of possessing gifts he could never share. The guilt of not being the son Darak wanted. And the bitterness of learning that his mam had tried to kill him.

As if obeying the Trickster’s command, a tear slid into the corner of Rigat’s mouth. Salty like the last one with an underlying hint of bitterness, but—impossibly—sweet.

She hadn’t known he’d existed when she had cleansed her womb. She would never have done it if she had realized then how much they would love each other. His earliest memories were of his mother’s arms holding him, his mother’s voice singing to him, his mother’s scent—herbs and milk and soap-scoured flesh—filling his nostrils. Fear had made her hide the truth, but her love had cradled him and kept him safe, preparing him for this meeting that had been destined from the day of his conception.

Tears and rain slipped down his cheeks unheeded. His mam had given him love. The Trickster had given him power. And now—with the gift of a tear—knowledge that reminded him of who—and what—he was.

Fellgair rose and held out his hand. Rigat took it, restraining the impulse to fling his arms around him. But Fellgair must have felt his need, for he opened his arms without hesitation. So strong, those arms, stronger even than Darak’s. Yet just as gentle as his mam’s.