Chapter 13
LIKE THE REST OF THE FAMILY, Keirith maintained the fiction that Rigat was keeping watch in the hills. They all tried to behave normally. His father supervised the construction of the terraces. His mother cared for the wounded. Faelia conducted daily trainings in swordplay, and Callie alternated between tending the flocks and teaching the children.
Keirith resumed his duties with the other fishermen. Twice, he sought a vision to help him find Rigat, but he could not even manage to contact Natha. So when Duba asked him to use his gift to help Elasoth’s younger daughter, he hesitated, fearing he would only fail again.
“You helped Luimi before,” Duba reminded him. “And she trusts you. You must try, Keirith. She’s just . . . drifting away.”
As Duba had after her son died. Until he reclaimed her shattered spirit, she’d lived a kind of half-life, silent and unresponsive. He could not allow that to happen to Luimi.
He followed Duba to the hut she shared with Alada and their orphans. Dirna glanced up before returning her bleak gaze to her sister. Luimi lay on the rabbitskins, staring up at the thatch. He sat beside her and explained that he wanted to touch her spirit, but if his words reached her, she gave no indication.
He took her unresisting hand. Closed his eyes. Tried to shut out the crackle of dead twigs in the fire, the scent of salmon simmering in its nest of damp leaves, the weight of the hopeful eyes watching him. Relinquished his fear that he would fail this little girl. Concentrated only on the slow tattoo of his heart, the rhythm of his breathing, and the small hand clasped in his. Sought stillness and emptiness—and Natha.
Later, he was shocked that it was so easy. At the time, he felt only relief when Natha’s sinuous warmth flooded his spirit. He let the energy pass from his hand to Luimi’s. It seeped through flesh and bone, pulsed through her blood, flowed into her spirit.
He calmed the instinctive jolt of panic, but resisted the urge to probe deeper. Like Hua and Duba, Luimi had erected barriers to shield herself from the painful memories. Hers were still fragile and uncertain, the work of days rather than moons or years. But breaking through them would only force her to flee—or shatter her spirit completely.
Instead, he offered memories of her father: Elasoth guiding Luimi’s fingers as she tied sinkers onto his net; Elasoth supporting her belly as he taught her to swim; Elasoth cradling her in his lap as he sang a lullaby.
The violent outpouring of pain ripped through Keirith’s spirit. New images flashed before him: Elasoth surrounded by bronze-helmeted Zherosi; Elasoth desperately parrying the swords that slashed toward him; Elasoth’s scream as one ripped open his belly; Elasoth’s fingers fumbling helplessly at the entrails that spilled out of his body like a tangle of worms.
Abruptly, the images vanished, leaving only the wail of Luimi’s spirit.
<Don’t make me look, Keirith!>
The words—so like Hua’s. And the agony of loss. One, a little boy who had seen his mother and father cut down before his eyes. The other, a little girl who had conjured her father’s last moments from her memories of the raids she had survived, the men she had seen die, the whispered comments she had overheard.
Keirith trembled with the effort to absorb the pain and the loss and the terror that threatened to shatter Luimi’s fragile spirit. Natha coiled around him, cradling him, cradling Luimi, enfolding them both with his warmth, flowing through them like a calming stream. He drew on Natha’s strength to find images to comfort Luimi and coax her back from the darkness: Dirna playing hop-frog with her by the lake; Dirna teaching her to weave the nettle fibers into rope; Dirna’s body cuddled close on a winter night; Dirna’s voice whispering, “Don’t leave me”; Dirna’s arms flung wide to welcome her home.
For a moment, Luimi hesitated, caught between the father she longed to follow and the sister who urged her to stay. Elasoth’s gentle smile released her. As she fled the darkness, Natha dissipated like autumn mist before the sun. Keirith touched Luimi’s spirit once more—in acknowledgment and farewell—and gently withdrew.
She gazed at him uncertainly. At his nod, she turned her head and found her sister sitting at her side, hands clenched in her lap.
“Dirna? I’m home.”
Dirna’s arms locked around her sister, pulling her into a fierce embrace. As they clung together, rocking and laughing and weeping, Keirith felt a light touch on his shoulder. He looked up to find Duba smiling at him.
He always forgot how exhausted he was after such healings, remembering only the deep peace that filled him. Watching the two sisters, it filled him again, as warm and comforting as Natha’s presence.
Afterward, Duba insisted that he seek out others who were willing to allow his healing touch. But as he left her hut, he spied his parents slipping out of the hill fort together. Before he could heal others, he had to heal his own family.
Although his body cried out for rest, he followed them across the moor. As they approached the alders, he flung himself down in the bracken. Only when they disappeared into the trees did he trot down the hill after them. He slowed as he reached the tangle of alders; his father’s eyesight had grown weaker, but his hearing was as sharp as ever.
Squatting in the underbrush, he realized they were both too preoccupied with their thoughts to detect his presence. His mam stared at the ground, chewing her upper lip. His father stalked back and forth along the stream bank, his gaze shifting from her to the sky. Clearly, they were waiting for something—or someone. Had Rigat arranged to meet them here?
He crawled closer, grateful that the splashing water drowned out the cracking of twigs. Then he heard the hoarse croak of a raven and a loud flapping of wings. He froze, but his father’s head had already jerked toward him.
“Come out!”
Feeling like a complete idiot, Keirith rose from his hiding place. Expecting anger, their horrified expressions shocked him.
“What are you doing here?” his father demanded.
“I was worried.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. Go home.”
He shoved through the underbrush. “I’m not a child. Or a fool. You’ve found Rigat, haven’t you? You’re meeting him here.”
“Would you do what I—?”
“Enough!” His mam’s voice cut through their wrangling. “He’ll find out eventually, Darak. Better he should hear it from us.”
All sorts of dire possibilities flitted through his mind: Rigat was dead; Rigat was injured; Rigat had run off to fight the Zherosi. Nothing prepared him for his mother’s words.
“Rigat is Fellgair’s son.”
Even as he whispered, “That’s impossible,” his mind said, “Of course.” He kept shaking his head, unwilling, unable to accept the truth, although everything he knew of Rigat’s power and personality confirmed it. But if Rigat was the Trickster’s son . . .
His mam flinched.
His parents’ love had been one of the few constants in his life, as certain as the sun rising in the east. How could she have betrayed that love? And how long had the knowledge of her betrayal been eating away at Fa?
“It’s not your mother’s fault. She did it to protect you.”
“Don’t, Darak.”
“To protect both of us. She went to the Trickster. When we were in Zheros. And the price he wanted . . . he would only help her if . . .”
“If I agreed to lie with him.”
Keirith closed his eyes. He felt his father’s arm around his shoulders. Heard his father’s voice, low and urgent, telling him that Gortin had had some sort of terrible vision, that his mam had been alone and frightened, that she had taken every precaution afterward to prevent a child. That they had both been certain that Rigat was theirs.
He heard the words. He understood their meaning. But still the bile rose up in his throat.
Bad enough that his kidnapping had driven her to this unholy bargain. But to have believed for a moment that she would ever betray Fa out of loneliness or anger or lust . . .
He heard his mother walking toward him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
She seized his shoulders and shook him hard. “You will not take this upon yourself. Do you hear me? This is not your fault. The raiders kidnapped you. Your father went after you. And I went to the Trickster.” Her hands came up to cup his face. “Every day since you returned to me . . . in this body . . . every day for fourteen years, I’ve blamed myself for . . . not doing more.”
“You did everything you could.”
“I did . . . what I did. And I have to live with the consequences of my choices and go on.”
He nodded. Later, he would find some way to help her bear this and make amends for his lapse of faith. What mattered now was Rigat. Gods, it must have crushed him to learn that the man he had loved and admired all his life was not his real father.
“He went to Fellgair, didn’t he?”
His mam nodded. The fierceness had left her. She looked tired and old and unbearably frail.
“And they’re coming here today.”
Again, she nodded.
“Will he come home?”
“I don’t know.”
Rigat was the son of her heart. It would kill her to lose him.
“Do you still want me to go?” he asked her.
“Go? When the drama is just beginning?”
The voice was deeper than he remembered, but the mocking tone was just the same.
Ever since Zheros, he had pictured the Trickster in the guise he had worn then—a tall, black-haired priestess with eyes as dark as a Midwinter night. This was the fox-man of his father’s tales, but the eyes—while golden—held the same unblinking intensity.
The Trickster’s claws rested lightly on Rigat’s shoulder. Seeing them standing side by side—the intent gazes, the preternatural stillness—his last doubts about Rigat’s parentage vanished. Then Rigat gave him a nervous half smile and the Trickster’s son transformed into his little brother, silently pleading for understanding and support.
Mam was blinking back tears. Fa was still as stone, but there was murder in his eyes. As Keirith tensed, the rage vanished. Only the muscle twitching in his jaw betrayed his emotions.
“I told you we’d meet again, Keirith.” Despite the greeting, the Trickster was watching Fa, too.
“Rigat.” His mam breathed the name like a prayer. “Are you all right?”
“Aye, Mam.”
“Hello, Darak,” the Trickster said.
“You’re sure?” Fa asked Rigat, ignoring the Trickster.
“Aye.”
Not “Aye, Fa.” Just “Aye.” His father’s wince told Keirith he had noticed, too.
“I’m sorry I ran away.”
“You were upset,” Keirith said. Nervous sweat prickled his forehead. The Trickster’s nostrils flared as if he could smell it. “It was a shock. Naturally. Gods, I can’t imagine . . .” He was babbling and he knew it, but the tension was thick, the air as heavy and unsettled as if a thunderstorm approached.
“We should have told you,” Mam said. “Long ago.”
“You were scared. I was, too. But only at first.”
His manner was unnaturally calm, his smile so like Fellgair’s that Keirith shuddered.
“We kept waiting,” Fa said. “For the right time. But—”
“You thought I was your son,” Rigat interrupted. “In the beginning.”
“I . . . you are my son.”
“I don’t remember how old I was when I realized things were different,” Keirith said. “That you were different. With me. But I was little. Five, maybe. Or six.”
“Six.” The single word was heavy with grief.
“When I made the leaves dance.” Rigat nodded as if satisfied, then turned that thoughtful gaze on him. “When did they tell you, Keirith?”
“Just now.”
“And you never suspected?”
“Nay.”
“And now you’ll blame Mam, too.”
“Nay! At first, I . . . but that was before I understood she was only trying to protect me.”
“Protect you?” The Trickster’s gaze shifted briefly to Mam before settling back on Fa. “I see.”
Fa’s hands clenched and relaxed. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, Rigat. We never meant . . .” He shook his head impatiently. “Aye. Well. It’s done now. And words won’t change it. The important thing is for you to come home.”
“Rigat doesn’t belong there,” the Trickster said.
“You cannot stay with him. You know that.”
“He’s a man now. Let him choose his own path.”
Fa’s head jerked toward the Trickster. “How can he choose when he’s dazzled by you?”
With a visible effort, he calmed himself, but it was Mam who said, “You don’t know him, Rigat. Or what your power might lead to.”
“I’ll get to know him. And I’m not afraid of my power.”
“You should be,” Keirith said. “It can turn a man’s head.”
“But I’m not a man. I’m the son of a god.”
“Even gods make mistakes.”
“Is that what I am?” Rigat asked in a soft voice. “A mistake?”
“Nay! But no man should possess such power. It’s dangerous.”
“Only if he wields it unwisely. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“You saw what happened in the rockslide. You killed people, Rigat!”
“So did you, Keirith! Only you used a sword. I know my power is strong. But only one person can show me how to use it. And that’s my father. My real father.”
Keirith winced at Fa’s sharp intake of breath. But again, it was his mam who spoke. “Fellgair might have begotten you, but he is not your father. Did Fellgair hold your hand when you took your first steps? Or teach you to wield a sling or read the stars?”
“Nay. But now it’s time I had a new teacher.”
“He can teach you things I can’t,” Fa said, “but he can never love you.”
“Neither can you.”
His father’s head snapped back. Keirith waited for him to vehemently deny Rigat’s words, but he hesitated. Only for a moment. A heartbeat, perhaps. Then he said, “Of course I love you.”
But Keirith knew it was already too late.
Mam hurried forward and pressed Rigat’s hand to her heart. “Please, Rigat.”
She was the only one who might sway him, the only one whose power over Rigat matched Fellgair’s. Mam offered love and Fellgair, knowledge. Mam was home and safety, Fellgair, the lure of adventure and unknown worlds. But if she forced Rigat to choose between them, she would taint their love forever.
Let him go, Mam. And trust that he’ll come back in the end.
“I love you,” Rigat whispered. “More than anything in the world.” And very gently, eased his hand free.
Mam moaned. Fa strode toward her, but in his haste, he stumbled. Keirith lunged for him, but the Trickster was quicker. His father gripped the arms that steadied him. Then he straightened.
Surely, even a god must quail before the fury in those cold, gray eyes. Fellgair simply studied Fa’s face, as if memorizing every feature.
Suddenly, Fa recoiled, his forehead creasing in pain. Keirith heard him whisper, “It’s too late.” And realized the Trickster was touching his spirit.
Even now, Keirith could recall that touch—infinitely powerful, infinitely gentle. No man could shield himself from that. And for his father, nothing would be a greater violation.
“Let him go!” he shouted at the same time that Rigat cried, “Don’t! Please!”
Fellgair ignored them both, staring at Fa with an expression that could only be described as tender. The face of a father scanning the features of a beloved son. Or a man gazing upon the face of his lover.
“Get out!” his father demanded.
The Trickster let his hands fall. Fa backed away unsteadily, but this time, Fellgair made no move to help him. “It appears Rigat has made his choice.”
“He never had a choice,” Fa replied. “Not after he met you.”
“You seem to think my influence will be wholly bad. You should know better. In me—”
“Order and chaos combine. Aye. And that’s fine for a god. But Rigat doesn’t deserve to be the battleground for order and chaos. He’s just a boy.”
“He was never ‘just a boy.’ ”
“You used my wife to gratify your lust. You gave her a child. And now, you’re stealing him away from her. From all of us. But I suppose we’ve only ourselves to blame. For trusting you. For believing you would ever leave us in peace.”
“Spare me your self-righteous indignation. You’re hardly a paragon of unflinching honesty, Darak. You’ve lied to yourself for years, not for Rigat’s sake, but because you couldn’t bear to picture your wife in my arms. You’ve lied to Rigat. You’re still lying to him, clinging to the pretense that you love him. Oh, you try. It’s a measure of your decency that you try so very hard. It’s just a pity the effort is so obvious. Every time you look at him or force yourself to touch him or avoid calling him son.”
“Enough!” Keirith cut through the mesmerizing flow of words only to have that pitiless golden gaze turned on him.
“And then there’s Keirith. And the lies you’ve told him.”
“Nay!” His mam blazed with the ferocity he had seen earlier. “You will not hurt him!”
“But we all must live with the consequences of our choices. Isn’t that what you said?”
Fa seized his arm. “Go, Keirith. Please. Go now.”
Keirith’s gaze darted from face to face, trying to understand how he had become the focus of contention.
Fellgair’s eyes gleamed. “Such a small family to have so many secrets.”
<It wasn’t Mam’s fault.>
Keirith started when he felt Rigat’s presence inside his spirit.
<Fellgair made her choose. Between you.>
Dimly, Keirith was aware of his parents shouting at Fellgair, but their voices were drowned out by those clamoring in his mind. His father’s, insistent: “She did it to protect you.” Fellgair’s, surprised and skeptical: “Protect you?” His mam’s, trembling with sorrow: “Every day for fourteen years, I’ve blamed myself . . .”
Fellgair made her choose. And she had chosen Fa.
He stumbled away, flinging out a hand to ward his father off. Ignoring the warning, Fa pulled him into an embrace. Keirith just stood there, arms hanging at his sides.
“She went to Fellgair for you, Keirith. She didn’t mean to say my name. It just happened. Your mam loves you. You know that.”
He turned his head to escape the suffocating protection of his father’s shoulder. Rigat had his arm around Mam’s waist and was speaking urgently, but for once, she ignored her beloved child to stare at him, her eyes huge in her stark, white face.
Fa claimed it had just happened. But he was wrong. Or lying. She had chosen Fa because she loved him more. And although a part of him had always recognized that—had even accepted it—the truth knifed through him with the remembered agony of Xevhan’s dagger. Only this agony would go on and on, dimming a little in the course of time, but always present, a wound that would never completely heal.
Poor Mam. No wonder she had refused to force Rigat to choose. She knew from experience how that felt. And poor Fa. He had endured the mutilation of his body, the rape of his spirit, and now this damning revelation by the god who had seduced his wife and splintered their family.
He made himself look up. The anxious lines of his father’s face collapsed into each other and for a moment, Keirith was afraid he would weep.
“Don’t,” he said. “I couldn’t bear that.”
His father nodded, but continued watching him, silently pleading. He knew what Fa wanted, but he couldn’t face her, not yet. Later, perhaps, when he could banish the bitterness from his voice and the pain from his face and trust himself to say the right things. Later, he could tell her that he understood, that these things “just happened.”
All he could do now was glance her way and mutter, “It’s all right. I’m all right.” As he turned away, fingers clutched his shoulder, spinning him around.
“Please, Keir. Give it time,” Rigat pleaded. “I know it’s hard. But don’t walk away.”
“Take care of yourself,” Keirith replied. “And don’t stay away long. Mam needs you.”
“She needs you, too.”
Keirith nodded, but he was desperate to put this place and everything that had happened here behind him. He had nearly reached the safety of the underbrush when he heard his mother’s voice.
“I curse you, Trickster. Not for what you did to me all those years ago, but for the pain you caused Keirith today and the harm I know you will do Rigat. Every morning when I wake and every night before I sleep, I will curse your name. And pray that the gods who created you will make you suffer for what you’ve done.”
Fellgair opened his mouth to reply. Then he shrugged and held out his hand to Rigat. Instead of taking it, Rigat flung himself into their mother’s arms.
“I love you. All of you. And I’ll make you proud.” His brother’s eyes met his. Then Rigat hurried toward the Trickster, and Keirith fled, pursued by his mother’s anguished voice, calling his name.
