Foxfire

IN HIS THIRTEEN YEARS OF LIFE, Rigat had never ventured more than a half-day’s journey from home. During his first moon with Fellgair, he discovered how vast the world truly was.

He explored deserts where golden sand rippled like the waves of an endless sea, and forests so dense and humid that water dripped ceaselessly from giant leaves. Glimpsed stone temples that towered over sprawling cities, and tiny villages guarded by tall wooden columns carved with animal faces. Observed fur-clad shamans pouring blood over sizzling stones, and naked priestesses tossing garlands of flowers into bubbling springs.

He was surprised that they never visited Zheros, for he knew Fellgair was worshiped there as the God with Two Faces. Nor did they enter the First Forest. But Fellgair did take him to the Summerlands.

Rigat stared in wonder at the enormous tree that would shelter the spirit of the Oak-Lord after his defeat at Midsummer. He gaped at the tree-folk his mam had met and shivered with delight when Rowan’s leafy fingers touched his hair. Then Fellgair took him to a pretty little waterfall.

Rigat nodded. Although Darak and his mam rarely spoke of Fellgair, he knew that much from the tale Nemek told.

This time, the shiver that raced down his spine was far less pleasant. It was one thing to know he was the Trickster’s son and another to picture Fellgair and Mam lying together in the thick grass.

Fellgair allowed him to walk openly through the Summerlands, but during the rest of their travels, they remained hidden by the strange mist Fellgair conjured to shield them from observation. At first, Rigat feared his father was disappointed with him. Fellgair just shook his head, smiling, and explained that he must master his power before showing it off to strangers.

Under Fellgair’s tutelage, Rigat learned to control his power so he could call upon it at will. To open portals and travel from one place to another. To understand languages that at first seemed like gibberish.

Although he was still too much in awe of his father to feel completely comfortable, it was a relief to talk openly about his power and get answers to the questions that had plagued him for years. Fellgair was an ideal teacher—patient, amusing, and wise. If he never hugged him after he mastered a new skill, his smile assured Rigat that he was proud. If he sometimes vanished for a day, he always returned, eager to see what Rigat had accomplished in his absence.

Left on his own, Rigat dutifully practiced his magic and hunted for food. But hunting lost some of its allure once he learned to guide an arrow straight to his quarry’s heart, and it always conjured bittersweet memories of that day with Darak, just as visits to the Summerlands reminded him of his mam. Alone at night, he recalled the noisy meals around the fire pit and the warmth of his brothers’ bodies flanking his. But he reminded himself that the knowledge he was gaining was worth any sacrifice.

During one of Fellgair’s absences, he rose before dawn, determined to visit the First Forest. Guided by Darak’s description of the One Tree, he pictured it in his mind, then raised his hand and jabbed the air with his forefinger. The air shuddered, as if in protest, then reluctantly gave way. He inserted his fingers into the long rent and peeled it back. After a moon of practice, it was as easy as skinning a rabbit, but it still unnerved him to see another forest through the gap.

He stepped through and carefully sealed the portal behind him. “Never leave a portal open,” Fellgair had warned, “lest some unwary creature stumble through it.”

He had heard the tale of the ancient tree that had stood since the world’s first spring, its trunk so massive that twenty men with their arms outstretched could not encircle it. And the tale of the second tree that had sprouted from Tinnean’s body after Morgath destroyed the first. But mere words failed to capture the beauty of the grove.

Although sunlight had yet to penetrate the canopy of leaves, the One Tree seemed to glow. Its pale bark was the only reminder that it had once been the body of a man. Compared to the giants around it, the Tree was small and slender. It might almost be mistaken for a birch, if not for the leaves of holly and oak that grew from its branches.

The Oak’s heavy boughs nearly obscured the Holly, a single branch that sprouted from the notch where the trunk split in two. Yet like the Oak, its leaves seemed to shimmer, imbued with the spirit of the god who gave it life.

Darak and his mam had stood in this very place. Had Darak wept as he watched his brother’s transformation? Had Mam chewed her upper lip, torn between wonder at the miracle unfolding before her and concern for the man beside her?

A Watcher flitted past him, a welcome distraction from such painful thoughts. Darak had described them as a shadowy flash of movement, but Rigat saw them clearly, some with the pale, mottled coloration of birches, others darker and thick-trunked as the oaks they once had been. Their agitation increased as he stepped toward the One Tree, then stilled as if recognizing that he represented no threat. Tentatively, Rigat raised his hands.

As a child, he had made leaves dance. Fellgair had taught him to see inside a leaf, to feel the movement of water through its tiny veins. Where once he could only hear water singing in a stream, his power now allowed him to detect the graceful sigh of waterweed swaying beneath the surface, the chatter of pebbles in the rapids, the trill of darting minnows and the deeper hum of a fat trout.

Would he be able to hear the voices of the gods? Or Tinnean? That would be something—to give Darak a message from the brother he had lost. But it was more than pride or a desire to prove himself to Darak that made him rest his palms against the trunk. Tinnean was the only being in the world who was both human and “other”—like him.

At first, all he could feel was the same thrum of life that emanated from an ordinary tree. As he drew more deeply on his power, it grew stronger, washing over him like water, but through him—into him—as well. As the thrum swelled, so did his power, as if fed by the life-stream of the Tree’s energy.

Not a single stream, he realized, but two. One roared through his spirit like a river swollen with the spring runoff. That must be the Oak, whose power grew stronger as Midsummer approached. The other—a mere trickle—must be the Holly-Lord, so weak that it seemed impossible that he could defeat his brother and rival during the Midsummer battle.

Underlying both was a faint vibration, steady and rhythmic as a heartbeat. He could feel his heart slowing to match it, his chest rising and falling with the inexorable rhythm. A wave of warmth engulfed him, and then another. His body flushed with heat as it did when he climaxed, but this pleasure filled the mind as well as the body, spirit as well as flesh.

This must be the song Darak had heard in that dream-cavern in Chaos—the song of the World Tree, created by the Maker at the beginning of time, linking the realm of the gods who dwelled among its silver branches to the world of men who existed within its trunk to the sunlit Forever Isles that floated among its roots.

The song filled him, flooding him with awareness. He knew the ant that marched around his shoe and the robin that sang in the branch above his head. He knew the Watchers that circled the grove and the tree-folk who wandered the Summerlands. He knew the whisper of the wind and the call of the distant sea and the ceaseless flow of time, spiraling through him as slow and certain as sap rising in the spring.

His legs were trembling so much he had to lean his forearms against the Tree to support himself. Like a leaf caught in a current, he drifted, carried by the song and the twin streams of energy that were the Tree-Lords. His helplessness should have frightened him, but instead, he felt a peace and a contentment he had never known.

Was this what Tinnean had experienced—was experiencing? Did his spirit still live within the World Tree or had his essence been absorbed into it after so many years?

Something brushed against his consciousness, so fleeting a touch that he thought he had imagined it. But there it was again, a soft patter like rain hitting thatch. Only when he brought all his power to bear upon it did he realize the pulse was as regular as the rhythm of the World Tree’s song.

When he whispered Tinnean’s name, the pulse swelled. He touched excitement and joy and love—radiant, fierce, and utterly human. He gasped, too overcome to do more than absorb the flood of emotion.

Suddenly, the pulse faded. The eternal flow of the World Tree faltered. Crestfallen, he let his hands slide down the smooth bark.

The mingled scents of honeysuckle and wild animal filled his nostrils. Rigat whirled around, blinking hard to clear his vision.

“You surprised them,” Fellgair replied. “They’ve never encountered a being like you. There has never been a being like you.”

“But he wanted Darak.” For the first time, he truly understood how Keirith must have felt when he learned their mam had chosen Darak instead of him.

“Of course he did,” Fellgair replied in the same reasonable voice. “Tinnean loves his brother. And he doesn’t know you.”

“But I’m different. They were created by the Maker, the supreme force of order in the world. I am the child of the Maker and the Unmaker. I appreciate . . . disorder.”

Rigat hesitated, then blurted out the question he had longed to ask since their first meeting. “Why did you create me?”

“That is for you to discover.” Fellgair raised a hand, forestalling another question. “I may have given you life, Rigat, but you still have free will. There are many ways you could shape events in the world. For good or ill.”

“Every man possesses that potential. In you, the potential—for good and evil—is greater.” Fellgair frowned, considering. “A person’s life is like a spiderweb—an intricate pattern of possibilities. Throughout any life, the web is rewoven a thousand times. In most cases, the reshaping has little effect upon the wider world. But sometimes, a choice alters not one life, but thousands. Millions.”

“Exactly. During the quest for the Oak-Lord, your world teetered on the brink of extinction. It took many forces—mortal and immortal—to avert that fate.” Fellgair scowled. “Some might consider my actions ‘interference.’ But didn’t the Forest-Lord lead Darak back to the grove of the One Tree? Without Hernan’s assistance, Darak would likely have died and the spirit of the Oak-Lord would have been lost. What was that but ‘interference?’ ”

Fellgair stared off into space, as if arguing with an unseen presence. Then he smiled. “Your life holds even more possibilities than Tinnean’s because you are my son and possess greater power. But power comes at a price. And part of that price is the necessity to wield it responsibly.”

“Hush.” Fellgair’s claws dug into his shoulders, silencing the rush of words. “I know it seems overwhelming. That’s why I was reluctant to speak of this. If Tinnean had known his fate, would he have rushed to defend the One Tree? If Darak had known what he would have to endure to free his brother’s spirit, would he have embarked on the quest?”

“He’s the greatest man in the world!” Rigat exclaimed. “He would have given his life for Tinnean. For any of us. Even for me . . .” His throat grew thick and he clamped his lips together.

“Gratitude for my teaching and love for your family are not mutually exclusive. Far from it. If you had been able to turn your back on them so easily, I would have been disappointed.”

Aghast at his outburst, he started to babble an apology, but Fellgair merely cocked his head, studying him as he might an interesting beetle or an unusual mushroom. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”

Rigat managed not to squirm under that steady gaze, but he cursed himself silently for allowing his frustration to show.

“First,” Fellgair said, “I do not know everything. There are many matters in the world that require my attention and I do not constantly monitor your needs. Second, I’ve made a conscious effort not to pry into your mind and spirit, believing that you deserved some privacy as we became acquainted.”

He resented Fellgair’s pedantic tone as much as the idea of begging to see his family. Then he remembered that Darak—the proudest man he knew—had gone down on his knees to the god. And—if he was honest—Fellgair hadn’t asked him to beg, simply to acknowledge the truth aloud.

He wiped his damp palms against his breeches and took a deep breath. “I miss my family and I’d like to see them. Would you help me?”

At the flick of Fellgair’s fingers, the grove vanished. Expecting to see his village, Rigat was surprised when another forest took shape before him. Slender trunks of pines rose skyward. Sunlight slanted through their boughs. Just visible at the bottom of a rise, two men knelt beside a stream, their faces obscured by Fellgair’s strange mist. One of the men looked up, water dripping from his cupped hands. Rigat’s heart thudded when he recognized Darak.

“Faelia?” he demanded in a fierce whisper. Then he remembered the two men could neither see nor hear him. “Faelia led the Zherosi to the village? To trick Fa into joining the rebellion? Gods, it must have killed him.”

“But he doesn’t want to fight. And even if he did, he’s too old. What are they doing out here by themselves? Where’s Temet? And—”

“Darak and Sorig are going from village to village, seeking recruits. Since they’re still alone, it would seem their efforts have been less than successful.”

As Darak rose slowly to his feet, Rigat asked, “Is he all right? He looks tired. Don’t you think he looks tired?”

His voice trailed off as Darak splashed across the stream. He eyed the steep slope, then shifted his pack grimly and followed Sorig up the hill. When he slipped on a patch of moss, Rigat automatically moved forward to help him.

Reluctantly, Rigat stepped back. Still, it was hard to watch Darak’s progress. His chest was heaving by the time he crested the rise. He bent over, palms splayed on his thighs as he caught his breath. Then he straightened and nodded to Sorig.

He passed so close that Rigat could have touched him. Then he disappeared from view and there was only the crunch of dry needles, growing steadily fainter.

The forest melted into a smear of brown and green. Then the colors coalesced. Trees took shape, alders and crack willows instead of pines. A trail hugged the base of a rocky outcrop, skirting the waterlogged ground where a stream had overrun its banks. The chorus of birdsong suddenly fell silent, allowing him to hear the rhythmic tramp of feet.

A man appeared around the bend in the trail. And then four more. And four more behind them. A long column of Zherosi, marching shoulder to shoulder. Most carried spears, but those at the front had arrows nocked loosely in their bowstrings. They twisted their heads from side to side, darting nervous glances at the shadowy forest.

The leader raised his hand, and the column halted. As he scanned the terrain, the stillness was broken by a crashing in the underbrush. Rigat started as a man staggered past him and collapsed onto the muddy trail.

Despite his torn and filthy clothes, he was clearly a Zheroso. His empty quiver carved a shallow furrow in the mud, and he wore a battered leather helmet on his head.

At a signal from the leader, the column started forward again. Rigat heard muttered curses as the warriors on the left sloshed through the ankle-deep mud, while those on the right jostled each other as they were squeezed back by the sheer rock face.

The leader trotted ahead and went down on one knee beside the stranger. Even he seemed unable to make sense of what the man was saying. He held out his waterskin, but instead of reaching for it, the man seized the leader’s arm, obviously overcome by his unexpected rescue.

Rigat was turning toward Fellgair to ask why he had brought them here when arrows rained down from the outcrop. The Zherosi archers toppled onto the trail. The warriors behind them whirled to their right, struggling to raise their shields; most only managed to knock their comrades off balance.

Another wave of arrows flew out of the forest, thudding into unprotected backs. A few men fled into the swampy ground, only to be cut down. Caught in the deadly crossfire, those in the rear retreated, then suddenly drew up short. Only then did Rigat spy the net stretched across the trail, but even with his keen eyes, he couldn’t spot the men who must have pulled it taut.

Someone was shouting, trying to restore order, but the screams of the wounded and dying drowned out the words. A group of warriors backed up against the outcrop, shields raised in a protective barrier. Spears hurtled toward them. Some glanced off the rock face with the thunderous crack of giant hailstones, but most found their targets, splintering shields with an ear-piercing screech of wood.

With wild shrieks, the attackers charged out of the trees and fell on the survivors, hacking with axes and swords, or simply clubbing them to death.

It was over in moments. Numbed, Rigat stared at the corpses littering the trail: legs twisted at grotesque angles, arms hanging from a few strands of muscle, pulpy brain matter leaking down shattered faces, steaming loops of intestine spilling through ripped tunics. Men reduced to bloody hunks of meat.

The leader of the Zherosi sprawled near the stranger; in the chaos of battle, Rigat hadn’t seen them fall. As he watched, the stranger slowly pushed himself to his feet. Did he intend to fight the rebels alone? The massacre must have shattered his mind.

The rebels surged toward him, whooping and brandishing their weapons. Rigat spied Temet, his fair hair and height betraying his identity. And Faelia who flung her arms around the stranger. But only when the man pulled off his helmet did Rigat recognize his brother.

Keirith’s face was utterly expressionless. All around him, the rebels were looting the dead, yanking arrows and spears from corpses, collecting undamaged bows and quivers, pulling off helmets, dagger sheaths, sword belts. In the midst of the frantic activity, Keirith knelt and methodically wiped his dagger clean with a handful of damp leaves.

Silently, he vowed that he would. But not now. The stench of blood and shit and piss sickened him. As he turned away, he heard a hoarse caw—the first crow arriving to feast.

At first, all he could make out were green hills and the pale yellow patches of blooming gorse. Then a figure moved out from behind a gorse bush, a withy basket over her arm.

He must have made some sort of sound, for Fellgair’s hand descended on his shoulder. Gods, how could she have changed so much in one moon? Her hair was totally white, the last faint streaks of red gone. And her face was so deeply carved with lines of worry that she seemed to be frowning, even when she lifted her head to smile at Hircha.

She stooped to cut a stalk of mullein, then straightened, one hand pressed against the small of her back. Hircha took her arm, only to release it when Mam batted the helpful hand away. The familiar gesture brought tears to his eyes.

She brushed a wisp of hair off her face as she gazed south. Where Darak must be. And Keirith and Faelia. How could they all have left her?

The greens and yellows of the moor transformed into the mottled gray of a stone wall. Callie sat with his back against it, surrounded by a semicircle of children. They repeated his words in a toneless singsong, but now and then, a high voice would interrupt with a question.

“We should go back,” Hircha said, eyeing the thickening clouds. “Else we’ll get caught in the rain.”

His mam’s scowl only deepened the lines around her mouth, but her expression softened as she rested her hand against Hircha’s cheek. “You’re a good girl. I don’t know what I would have done without you this last moon.”

Whether it was the words that surprised Hircha or the gesture, she recovered quickly. “Oh, crawled onto your pallet and pulled the wolfskins over your head, I expect.”

They chuckled together and started toward the village. His mam stopped once to gaze south again. Hircha said something that made her raise her chin in the gesture of defiance Rigat had known from childhood.

“Enough,” he whispered, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, they were standing on an empty moor.

He told himself that she might have been gathering plants since daybreak, that the walk from the village had tired her. If her legs were a little unsteady, her spirit was still unbowed.

“She’s strong. She’ll be all right.” When Fellgair remained silent, he asked, “She will, won’t she?”

When Rigat obeyed, Fellgair turned his hand palm up and pushed up his sleeve, revealing the bold shape of the branching antlers and the fainter white scar at the base of his wrist where he had made the blood oath with Darak. “Today, we start anew,” Darak had said. And they had—but in a way neither of them had expected.

A black claw slashed across his wrist. The shock was greater than the searing pain. Rigat could only gasp and stare at the blood that welled up from the deep gash.

The blood pulsed with the same frantic rhythm of his heart. He told it to stop, commanded it to stop, but unlike the spear that had flown through the portal during his vision quest, it refused to obey.

He closed his eyes, but that only made him more aware of the contrast between the warm blood and his cold, shaking fingers. Deliberately, he blocked out the sensations. He took a deep breath and held it for a count of three before releasing it. Another breath and then another until his heartbeat began to slow and with it, the spurt of his lifeblood.

Don’t think about that. Think about the earth beneath your feet. And the cool breeze against your face. The fire of the sun and the song of the stream.

He could feel the blood, flowing out from his heart, down through his limbs, and then up again to return to his heart. An endless circle of energy, moving as inexorably through his body as time unfolded through the roots and trunk and branches of the World Tree.

He could see the blood, as clearly as he had seen the tiny droplets of water inside the leaf. As he traced its path, warmth flowed into his forearm, into his fingers. Like a spider repairing her web, he directed his power to his wrist. And as he wove, the warmth spread, as if molten fire flowed through him.

A great lassitude filled him and an overwhelming desire for sleep. But he continued his weaving, painstakingly sealing the severed arteries and veins before joining the flaps of skin at his wrist the way his mam sewed a rip in his breeches. Over and under and through, the power pricking his flesh like so many tiny needles, until at last he knew the wound was closed.

He opened his eyes and stared down at the raw stripe of flesh. Fellgair’s forefinger glided across the wound, so cool after the fire. When he lifted his finger, a new white scar had obliterated the one from his blood oath with Darak.

“You’re tired now. That’s only natural. Even your power has limits. It will be days before you can use it again. If the wound had been deep, it might have drained you completely.”

Never to hear the song of the stream or the language of the birds. Never to travel between worlds or touch the spirits of the Tree-Lords. To be . . . ordinary.

“An infusion of your power will always strengthen the recipient. But strong as you are, you’re not a god. So the power—and the healing—will fade. That’s why I sealed your wound. By the time your healing unraveled, your body’s natural healing would have begun. But a serious injury would require multiple infusions of power.” Fellgair’s mouth quirked. “And the more prosaic assistance of a healer.”

Fellgair lifted him as if he weighed nothing at all. Rigat rested his cheek against the furry chest and closed his eyes. Sunlight bathed his face. He breathed in air so sweet and fresh he knew that Fellgair had brought him to the Summerlands.

He would willingly sacrifice some of his power for his mam. Or he could bring her those magical plants she had discovered long ago in the Summerlands. Heart-ease would soothe her troubled spirit and heal-all would help the aches of her body. But news of Darak and Keirith and Faelia would restore her faster than any magic. As soon as he was stronger, he would bring her that gift—and watch the light return to her tired face.