Foxfire

GRIANE MOVED THROUGH THE subsequent days like a dream-walker. Outwardly, life in the village settled into a kind of routine. The men filled what little free time they had with lessons on defensive strategy with Temet and the construction of the new terraces with Darak. The women gathered stones and cut turf to build homes for the newcomers. The children lost their pinched expressions of anxiety and no longer froze in fear when they heard an unexpected shout.

Darak flung himself into every activity with a single-minded intensity that left him exhausted at day’s end. But every night, he turned to her as they lay under their wolfskins, offering the strength of his arms and the comfort of his body. Every night, she squeezed his arm and rolled away, unable—unwilling—to be comforted.

They explained Rigat’s continued absence by saying that he had gone south to search for Temet’s warriors. Callie and Faelia knew it was a lie, but they never voiced their questions and seemed to attribute her withdrawal to grief.

Keirith avoided her. When forced to share her company in the evenings, he was invariably polite, but kept his eyes averted, as if the very sight of her sickened him. Yet despite their estrangement, she was still shocked when he announced his intention to accompany Darak and Faelia when they left the village.

Darak’s expression made it clear that Keirith had not discussed it with him, but it was Callie who said, “Surely, you can do more good here. With your gift of vision—”

Griane winced; the words were too reminiscent of Fellgair’s. Only then, of course, it had been her youngest son she was losing, not her firstborn.

At that moment, she hated Temet: his kind voice, his sympathetic expression. First, he had stolen her daughter. Now her husband and son. Silently, she corrected herself. Temet might have maneuvered Darak into leaving, but Griane knew she alone was responsible for Keirith’s decision.

She felt her head nodding. Heard her voice asking what supplies they would need. But inside she was screaming, “Just go! Now! Fight your stupid battles. But leave my husband and children out of it.”

The next morning, Darak went to the longhut to ask Madig to serve as chief during his absence. Although he didn’t like the man, he respected him. And having served as chief of his own tribe, Madig was the best choice to guide theirs through the moons to come.

The fierce light that filled Madig’s eyes told Darak he had made the right choice. Until today, Madig had been listless and withdrawn. His grief over Seg might rage as strong as ever, but his desire to prove himself would give him the will to recover.

Darak ducked out of the hut, gratefully gulping in lungfuls of clean air. To his surprise, Hircha followed him outside and regarded him with a thoughtful frown.

“It doesn’t . . .” With an effort, Darak bit back the words. Although he had never regarded Hircha as a daughter, she was a member of his family and their troubles did concern her.

He leaned against the side of the longhut, staring up at the sky. He had planned to settle things with Faelia after they left the village, but he realized now that Hircha was right. How could he urge Keirith to make peace with Griane if he was unwilling to do the same with Faelia?

Impatiently, Hircha batted the air as if his words were a cloud of midges. “I know all that. But he didn’t tell me the rest.” Her mouth quirked in a bitter frown. “We’re a great family for secrets.”

And then he told her everything: the truth about Rigat, the encounter with Fellgair. Once he started speaking, he couldn’t seem to stop. His lack of control surprised him less than the overwhelming relief he felt in confessing the truth to someone.

Hircha listened in utter silence, although her breath caught when he told her about the choice Fellgair had forced upon Griane. When the flow of words finally ebbed, he simply stood there, relief giving way to anxiety. It was Griane’s secret to reveal, not his.

“At first, perhaps. But even a god can get caught up in his own game.” She studied him for a long moment before adding, “He never expected to fall in love with you.”

Darak felt the heat burning his face. As he struggled to find the words to deny it, Hircha said, “You and Griane.” Her voice was gentle, like a mother explaining something to a very young child. “He had you both, didn’t he? He forced you to offer him your spirit and Griane to offer her body.”

“To hurt you. And Griane. Always, in the past, you’ve acknowledged his power and forgiven him for the pain he caused. This time, you refused. If he can’t have your love, at least he can earn your hatred. Any passion is better than simply being . . . ignored.”

Unwillingly, Darak recalled the words Fellgair had whispered: “I know you feel angry. And betrayed. But if you would trust me—this one, last time . . .”

Hircha shrugged helplessly. “I might be wrong. I don’t know him as you do. What he feels—or doesn’t feel—matters less than what he’s done.” She clasped her hands around her arms as if suddenly chilled. “Giving a woman a child . . . no god has ever done such a thing.”

“Aye. But at what cost?” After a moment of gloomy silence, she gave him a brittle smile. “Well. We can’t worry about the whims of the gods. I have wounded men to care for—and you have to talk to Faelia.”

Her fingertips brushed his sleeve. “She’s lost Rigat. She’s losing you and Keirith and Faelia. If she gives way, even to you—especially to you—she’ll shatter.” Again, that brief, bitter smile. “I speak from experience.”

Still smiling, she ducked back into the longhut. He stared after her a moment, then strode toward the lake, where he knew his daughter would be drilling the men.

Ever since that afternoon on the moor, Keirith had spent his days at the stream. His few attempts to soothe the spirits of troubled children had failed miserably. He should have known better than to try; his emotions were far too turbulent to allow him to find the stillness and emptiness of trance. At least here, he was useful.

With the spring salmon run at its peak, the fishermen had enlisted a few of the older boys and girls to help. Willow rods driven into the stream bottom created a barrier that made spearing the salmon easier. Those that leaped over the barrier elicited screams and squeals from the watching children, but only a few escaped the fishermen waiting upstream or the traps they placed in the riffles between pools.

It was cold, wet work and by the end of each day, his arms ached from hefting the heavy willow traps and lifting his spear with its wriggling bounty. But it gave him an excuse to avoid his parents.

He regretted leaving Adinn and Hakiath to supervise the fishing, but Dirna would help. She had appeared at the stream the day after Luimi’s healing. If Faelia was permitted to hunt with the men, how could they deny Elasoth’s daughter the right to fish? At fourteen, she was skilled in constructing traps and mending nets. And perhaps his absence would give Adinn an opportunity to ask Dirna to marry him. More likely, though, she would do the asking; her brisk, efficient manner reminded Keirith of his mam.

Painfully so, right now. He was glad when she herded the children back to the village for the midday meal, leaving him and Adinn to set the willow traps back in the shallows. Their task completed, they lurched up the steep bank, staggering a bit from the weight of the salmon strung on long lines of deer gut.

As they emerged from the alders, Keirith spied his father striding toward them. He felt like a rabbit helplessly watching a wolf close in for the kill. Shamed, he nodded brusquely.

Adinn’s brows drew together in puzzlement, but he simply nodded and moved on. As soon as he was out of earshot, Fa said, “This is our last night at home.”

“She didn’t have to. Son, the gods only know when we’ll come home again. Or if . . .” He stopped before he could ill-wish them, little finger flicking against his thumb in the sign to avert evil. “Don’t leave like this. For your sake as well as hers. She’s hurting, Keirith.”

His father’s shoulders sagged. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I can’t understand. Not completely. But your mother can. Because long ago, Fellgair forced me to choose between her and Tinnean. And I chose him.”

“Maybe not. But she left everything behind to join me on that quest. And I abandoned her. She knows how that feels, Keirith. And she loved me, in spite of it.”

His father walked away, then stopped. Without turning, he said, “If you can’t forgive her, just tell her that you love her. You do, you know. And sometimes, a man needs to say those words. Especially if he doesn’t know when he’ll get the chance again.”

The day passed far too quickly for Griane. She filled it with the mundane tasks of mending torn breeches, shelling her dwindling supply of nuts, preparing suetcakes. Hircha had already gathered the few bandages, herbs, and ointments still remaining after the attack. Griane began filling a doeskin pouch with quickthorn berries and broom blossoms for Darak’s tonic. This supply had to last until autumn when the berries ripened.

The berries spilled from her palm. She got down on her hands and knees to dig them out of the bracken and remained there, huddled like a wounded animal, until the nausea ebbed.

Five moons. Never knowing if they were alive or dead. At least Fellgair would keep Rigat safe. Temet would protect Darak—he was too valuable to lose. But Keirith was no warrior. And if he was captured . . .

She shoved a hank of hair out of her face and proceeded to gut the salmon for tonight’s supper. As long as she had a task to occupy her, it was harder for her thoughts to stray. It was the night she feared, when she would lie beside Darak for the last time.

As afternoon faded to evening, they began to straggle in. Callie looked tired, but at least tonight Ennit and young Lorthan would mind the flocks so he could spend time with his family. Faelia seemed calmer; she and Darak must have made their peace. Even Temet looked relaxed—or perhaps merely relieved to be leaving on the morrow.

She had invited Hircha to join them for supper, as well as Ennit, Lisula, and Ela. The hut was so crowded they could scarcely squeeze around the fire pit. When Darak arrived, he quickly scanned all the faces. His expression darkened when he saw Keirith was missing.

After supper, Callie pulled out Tinnean’s old flute and began to play. Temet rose and excused himself, claiming he wanted to spend this night with his warriors. Faelia let him go, moving around the fire pit to sit next to Darak. Ennit left soon after, accompanied by Lisula’s admonishment to let Lorthan chase after any wandering sheep. All too soon, she rose as well.

She waved Keirith over and gestured for Darak and Faelia to stand before her. All three bowed their heads as she sketched the signs of protection on their foreheads and over their hearts. Then she stood on tiptoe to kiss Darak softly on the cheek.

As Lisula shooed a sniffling Ela out of the hut, Keirith took Hircha’s arm. “I’ll be back soon,” he said as he led her to the doorway.

For one dreadful moment, Griane feared Darak would insist that he stay, but after a silent contest of wills, he simply said, “Don’t be long.”

But the night was waning before he finally returned. Lying sleepless on her pallet, Griane felt Darak tense and dug her fingers into his thigh. They lay there, neither moving nor speaking until they heard the rustle of Keirith’s bedding. Then Darak rolled toward her and rested his head against her breast. His hand slid under her tunic to caress her naked thigh. His head came up. Even in the darkness, she could sense his question.

When they had lost Keirith that first time, she had been the one to comfort him. Now, he wished to do the same for her. Although his touch could not dispel the misery of her heart, she rolled toward him, breathing in his breath, tasting the faint bitterness of the wine on his lips.

He was slow and tender, wanting to please her. But it was not tenderness she desired. She wanted him inside her, marking her as his, driving out every other thought, every other need.

He tried to hold back, but she urged him on, digging her fingers into his buttocks, thrusting her hips against his, until he obeyed her silent commands and became as wild and fierce as a young lover.

Later, as he drifted into sleep, she held him, relishing the hard solidity of his head on her breast, the pressure of his leg flung over hers, and the tickle of his pubic hair against her thigh. The smell of him, salty and sweet. The callused palm resting on her bare hip. The stickiness of his seed and the faint sheen of sweat already drying on his shoulders and back. After so many years, his body was as familiar as her own, yet she had never lost her delight in it—even tonight, when her spirit felt so heavy.

Long after he had fallen asleep, she stared into the darkness. But she must have slept at some point, because she woke at dawn as he rolled away from her and reached for his clothes.

She lingered over the meal, but of course, the moment of parting still came too soon. One moment, Callie was making them smile as he pretended to inspect his nutcake for fragments of shell, and the next, everyone was scrambling for their supplies: spare clothes rolled in wolfskins; belt pouches stuffed with flints and tinder, bone needles and sinew; the bag of food, bowls, and turtle shells; another with firesticks and fishing line, bone fish hooks and flint arrowheads, braids of ropes, and a dozen other things that Griane was certain they would need, including nettle-cloth bandages, pouches of herbs, and tiny stone jars of ointments and creams, each carefully stoppered with a pebble and sealed with suet.

By the time they ventured outside, the entire tribe had gathered in the center of the village, along with Temet and the few warriors who were fit enough to travel. Griane took her place in the circle with Callie, while the travelers received the ritual blessing.

Gortin’s hand shook as he sketched the signs of protection in the air, but his voice was strong as he intoned the final words. “The blessing of the gods upon you. The blessing of the Oak and the Holly upon you. And the blessing of your Tree-Father and Grain-Mother.”

He thrust his staff at Othak and clutched Darak’s hands. “Twice before, you have left us: once to save the spirit of the Oak-Lord and once to save your son. This time, you go to save our land from those who would destroy it. The gods smile upon your quest, Darak, and bring you—and all who go with you—back to us soon.”

She watched them walk toward her—her husband, her daughter, her son. Faelia flung herself into her arms and whispered, “I’ll watch over him, Mam. I promise.”

Darak hugged Hircha and Callie before taking her in his arms. She clung to him, telling herself to remember the heat of his body against hers, the feel of those broad shoulders under her fingertips.

After Keirith hugged his brother, he turned to her. He hesitated only a moment, but the hurt sliced through her like a dagger. Then his arms went around her in a bruising hug. Her hands had barely closed on his shoulders when he pulled free.

It was Lisula who saved her, raising her voice in the song of farewell, just as she had all those years ago when their family left the village after Keirith’s casting out.

However far we must travel,
However long the journey,
The Oak and the Holly are with us.
Always, forever, the Oak and the Holly are with us.

The rest of the tribe joined in the song their ancestors had sung when they left their homeland, driven out by the Zherosi who once again sought to steal their land.

In the heart of the First Forest,
In the hearts of our people,
The Oak and the Holly are there.
Always, forever, the Oak and the Holly are there.

Slowly, the tribe dispersed. Lisula and Ennit paused beside her. Griane let out her breath when they moved on; even the smallest gesture of kindness would have broken her. Callie lingered, though, and when she walked out of the hill fort to catch a final glimpse of her husband and children, she heard his footsteps behind her.

Early morning mist still shrouded the lake. Along the shore, it had dissipated into wispy skeins that drifted around the travelers and transformed them into strange, otherworldly beings. Like the restless spirits Darak had encountered in Chaos.

Callie’s arm stole around her shoulders, a bleak reminder that only one of her children remained with her. Rigat had always been hers. Faelia had always belonged to Darak. After Zheros, so did Keirith. Callie was the only one they had shared, the only one who had never caused them a sleepless night. And because of it, he had gotten so much less of them—their attention, their worry, and possibly, their love.

He drew her closer, and she leaned against him, surprised at the strength of his arm. Together, they watched the figures crest the rise. The tallest among them paused at the top. Darak’s hand rose. Then Faelia’s. But Keirith simply stood there.

Darak turned away first. That surprised her; she would have expected it to be Faelia. Instead, she lingered a moment, still waving, then slowly followed her father down the hill.

Griane lowered her head, unable to look at that solitary figure. Then she heard Hircha insistently repeating her name. She looked up and discovered her pointing at the hilltop.

Keirith’s right hand was raised in farewell. Frantically, she waved back. Through the hot wash of tears, she watched him turn away, visible from the knees up, then the waist, then the shoulders, until—between one step and the next—he was gone.