Foxfire

THREE HUNDRED PEOPLE FILLED the royal dining hall for the Midsummer feast. The fortunate ones like the council members had the privilege of sitting on the dais with Rigat and the queen. The rest were squeezed shoulder to shoulder on either side of the low wooden tables that stretched from dais to doorway.

The air was stifling, the din incredible, the smoke from the incense so thick that it obscured the paintings on the ceiling, if not the reek of perfumed oil and sweat. Torches blazed along muraled walls and in standing lamps as tall as a man. Everywhere, the soft gleam of gold and bronze vied with the brighter sparkle of gemstones.

Rich ladies and merchants, city officials and noblemen all craned their necks to watch him eat, just like the poor folk in the mountain village. Instead of two musicians, there were twenty playing on the balcony above him, although no one beyond the dais was likely to hear them. Instead of fermented milk and roasted goat, there were chilled fruit juices and heady wines, dozens of platters of meat and fish, overflowing bowls of fruits and nuts.

Fortunately, the slaves served the queen first so he could mimic her behavior: draping the scrap of flaxcloth across his lap before eating; dipping his fingertips into the bowl of water instead of drinking it as he had intended. As the feast went on, he was relieved to discover that the Zherosi seemed to eat and drink much like the children of the Oak and Holly, although the number of dishes presented by the slaves was staggering.

He recognized the rabbits cooked in a thick cream sauce. And the partridges and woodcocks, although he’d never seen them served with their feathered wings intact. He burned his mouth on the crusted spices coating the slabs of mutton and gaped at the gaudy tail plumes that adorned the roast pheasant.

The queen had to identify the more exotic dishes: seaweed pottage; fried squid; boiled langhosti, whose sweet flesh belied its hard shell and wicked-looking claws; pungent greens and crisp vegetables called kugi, blissfully refreshing after the spicy meats. And tiny smoked eels.

He shifted uncomfortably on his cushion, grateful that the bulky folds of his khirta hid his arousal. The queen had chosen the shimmering scarlet fabric herself, as well as the ring that adorned his right hand—a rare bloodstone that was completely red save for a few tiny speckles of black. She had also ordered the belt of beaten gold, the bracelets that clasped his biceps, and the jewel-studded sheath for his ceremonial dagger. And the dagger—it was even more beautiful than the one Keirith had given him, the bronze blade etched with spiraling serpents, the hilt wrapped in gold wire.

Amazing that she had procured all this finery in a day. Even more amazing that she would bother with such details. But nothing escaped her notice, including his shocked look as countless platters of uneaten food—enough to feed his village for days—were returned to the kitchens. He was relieved when she assured him that it would be distributed to the poor.

She had been just as discerning at the dawn sacrifice to Zhe. In response to her anxious inquiry, he’d managed a shaky smile as the handsome young man ascended the steps to the altar. He tried not to envision Keirith lying on the slab of stone, to remain impassive when the Zheron lifted the ceremonial dagger. But it was one thing to understand that blood strengthened and honored their god and another to watch the Zheron reach into the man’s chest and raise his dripping heart skyward. Just as it was impossible to forget that Darak would have been sacrificed like this if not for the earthquake that had shaken Pilozhat.

He’d had to remind himself to look past the horrors that had befallen his family. Only then could he reluctantly acknowledge the artistry of the sacrifice: the first red rays of the sun bathing the man’s body; the priest’s knife darting like a minnowfly. The triumphant shouts of the crowd drowned out the bellows of the kankhs, and every face was filled with joy, with pride, with the knowledge that this nameless man had ensured Zhe’s strength to carry the sun through the waning half of the year.

It was a pity he’d have to wait half a moon for that. The queen insisted that they postpone his official recognition until she could organize a proper celebration. As if this feast wasn’t grand enough.

He nodded to a hovering slave who spooned honeyed figs into a small bronze bowl. Like the man who had offered himself to Zhe, the slaves serving them were Zherosi. All looked sleek and well-fed—better fed than the folk in his village. But their presence made him uncomfortable, and he was glad to be distracted by the arrival of the dancers.

As he watched them weave a serpentine path across the tiled floor, a thought struck him. “How many of the Tree People are slaves in Zheros?”

“It’s been years since we raided the northern villages. The commanders of our fortresses try to maintain good relations with the Tree People living nearby.”

Rigat hesitated. She had agreed to proclaim him the Son of Zhe. She was considering a truce. If he pushed too hard, he risked losing her support.

“May I make a request?” Receiving a wary nod, he asked, “As a token of your goodwill—toward me—I’d like you to free the slaves. And send them back to their homeland.”

Her frown deepened. “It would take half a moon—longer—to census each estate, determine who owned slaves from the north, organize ships to—”

“Ships sail north all the time, don’t they? Carrying troops and supplies to the fortresses. And surely you have enough administrators to conduct this . . . census.”

Her dark eyes studied him. Then she smiled. “If it would please you, of course it will be done. Perhaps we could even include their departure in the festivities that follow your proclamation as the Son of Zhe.”

Rigat seized her hand eagerly. “I could address each ship before it left. Give them food and water for the voyage. Maybe even—”

After far too little sleep, he set out the next day in search of Darak. He found him quickly enough, but it was impossible to speak with him alone. Close to a hundred men and women accompanied him now, all vying for the opportunity to walk with the Spirit-Hunter, eat with the Spirit-Hunter, do everything, it seemed, but piss with the Spirit-Hunter.

Realizing his best chance of catching Darak alone was to draw him out of camp after dark, he decided to seek out Keirith. He hadn’t had a chance to talk with him since Fellgair took him to Zheros and he was eager to tell his brother everything that had happened.

He found the rebels camped on a hilltop overlooking a narrow lake. Hidden behind his mist-shield, he called Keirith and waited impatiently for him to respond to the summons. When he arrived, Rigat thought he looked tired and edgy, but perhaps that was only from the strain of fighting. Still, he was surprised when Keirith failed to hug him and just asked brusquely where he had been.

“In Zheros. Arranging a truce.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Keirith’s eyes widen. “I’ve taken up the mantle of Son of Zhe.”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t told them you’re alive. Just worked a few bits of magic and touched the queen’s spirit to convince her. She’s going to recognize me officially in half a moon. And has agreed to free all the children of the Oak and Holly still enslaved in Zheros. But the best thing is she’s willing to consider a truce—if the rebels agree. I’m going to see Darak today. He’s the only one who can convince them.”

Keirith just stared at him. Rigat had expected surprise—even shock—but he’d hoped his brother would share his triumph. Merciful gods, he’d accomplished more in a sennight than the rebels had in years.

Then Keirith swallowed hard, and Rigat cursed himself for his stupidity. Any discussion of Zheros would conjure awful memories for Keirith and spark fears that he would suffer a similar fate.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blurted it all out like that. But you mustn’t worry. Everything’s going just as I planned. Better.” He peered at his brother uncertainly. “Are you all right? You look awful.”

“Oh, aye. But I can make sure she sends the orders for the truce. And you can start working on Temet. Get him to call off the attacks on the Zherosi now. As a measure of good faith. Just tell him you had a vision.”

He thought Keirith winced, but it was hard to tell with his head bowed. The nightmares must be bad. Or maybe he was still having trouble contacting his spirit guide.

Keirith fixed him with such a piercing stare that Rigat drew back. What was the matter with him? Torn between bewilderment and impatience, he snapped, “Nay. That’s all. Just . . . take care of yourself.”

Keirith nodded and turned to go. Then he strode forward and flung his arms around Rigat. “Be careful. It’s not a game you’re playing. Your life may depend upon it. And Fa’s.”

“And yours and Faelia’s and everyone’s. I know, Keirith.” Rigat eased free, nettled that his brother had so little faith in his judgment.

He opened a portal onto one of his secret places. It was just a grassy meadow watered by a small stream, but the scarlet poppies filled it with color. Unwilling to linger on his unsettling encounter with Keirith, he stretched out on the grass, hoping to snatch a little sleep before he met with Darak.

The hard earth beneath him was a far cry from the luxurious chamber he had slept in last night. The goose down pallet was so thick it was like floundering through a snow-drift. The puffy clouds that adorned the ceiling were more luminous than those floating overhead, the painted blue of the sky more brilliant than the real one.

Although Fellgair had expected him to leave the palace after the feast, he was glad now that he had stayed. What better way to demonstrate his authority than to sleep in the bedchamber of the late king?

He had reminded Fellgair of that this morning when he’d visited the temple of the God with Two Faces. For a long moment, Fellgair studied the mural that adorned one wall of his private chamber, a forest of majestic oaks in green-leafed summer splendor. Then he snapped, “Remember why you are here. And don’t be seduced by soft beds and fine food. Or a woman.”

Rigat scratched a midge bite, frowning. It still rankled that Fellgair should imagine him so weak—or so foolish. Of course, luxuries didn’t matter. But he refused to feel guilty for enjoying them.

Too excited to sleep, he watched the sky fade from blue to violet to the soft gray of the gloaming. His confidence leached away with the sky’s color. What if Darak didn’t want to see him? What if—despite all his protestations—he was secretly relieved to be rid of him? And then there was Keirith’s odd behavior. He had always been broody, but never cold. Could he be jealous of his little brother’s accomplishments?

Shaking off his disquiet, Rigat summoned his power to locate Darak’s camp. Except for the dozen sentries, the rebels were all asleep. He decided to wait for darkness in a stand of birches a short distance away. But moments after settling himself, he jumped to his feet and began pacing. Unable to contain his impatience, he reached out to Darak’s sleeping spirit.

At first, he sensed only exhaustion. Then the stupefied confusion of sleep fled and Darak’s panic slammed into him with such force that it woke an answering echo of fear in his spirit. He tamped it down, but despite the soothing energy he sent, Darak’s shock hammered through him like a terrified heartbeat.

Shock, panic . . . those were reactions any man might have. But Rigat touched revulsion so deep that he was stunned. Sick at heart, he retreated, only to be inundated by Darak’s memories: Morgath oozing through his spirit, whispering in his mind, taunting him with his helplessness.

Even before Darak’s shame flooded him, he wanted to take back the thought. He might as well be Morgath, taunting Darak for his fear.

Darak’s panic resurged. For a moment, he thought it came from the prospect of seeing him again. Then he realized the truth.

Gently, he withdrew from Darak’s spirit, cursing himself for his missteps. First Keirith, now Darak. How was he going to convince either of them of the soundness of his plan if he made such foolish mistakes?

Even with his keen senses, he failed to hear Darak approach. Then he saw the tall figure atop the rise, black against the gray sky.

As Rigat moved out of the trees, Darak froze, then padded forward again, the long stride as easily recognizable as the silhouette. At the last moment, his steps faltered. Rigat hesitated, too. Then pride reasserted itself. He had negotiated with a queen. He refused to allow Darak to transform him into a tongue-tied child.

He was acting like a child, striking out because Darak had wounded him. It was stupid to use his power to pierce the darkness and search that familiar face for a hint of genuine affection. Worse still, to find it and feel the senseless renewal of hope. He fought the urge to blurt out all the fears and doubts that plagued him, desperately wishing he could return—just for a few moments—to a time when he really had been Darak’s son and the Trickster was only a god, fascinating but remote.

Instead, he told Darak about the family, then quickly turned to the subject of a truce. Darak stirred restively as he outlined his plan, but when he revealed that he was using the guise of the Son of Zhe to bring it to fruition, Darak exclaimed, “Are you out of your mind? Have you forgotten what those people did to your brother?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything about Zheros! Least of all the sight of Keirith lying on an altar with his life’s blood pouring out. Do you have how any idea how dangerous this is?”

“—by considering this truce. What does she have to lose? They log the forests in the winter. That gives them plenty of time to send more men north, to augment the strength of their existing garrisons, and build new fortresses along the river.”

“Nay! I’m using her. To put an end to the bloodshed and buy time to work out a permanent peace that will satisfy both the Zherosi and the Tree People.”

“What? Say it.” When Darak remained silent, Rigat said, “Then I will. If I’m truly my father’s son, you want nothing to do with me.”

“I come here with the offer of a truce that could save hundreds—thousands—of lives. And you won’t even consider it because I’m Fellgair’s son.”

“You think he betrayed you. Well, maybe he did. But he had his reasons. And one of them was to foster peace. And I can make that happen, although you obviously think I’m too stupid and trusting—”

They were practically nose to nose, both of them breathing hard. Then Darak stepped back and let out a long sigh. “I’m just worried, is all. About you. About all that’s happening. You’re right—I don’t know the queen. But she hasn’t survived this long without being clever. And you’re . . . you may be the son of a god, but you’re still very young. I know you hate being reminded of that, but it’s true. You’re not immortal, Rigat. Your blood can stain an altar as easily as Keirith’s did.”

“But don’t you see I have to try? As long as there’s any chance for success. What were the odds that you could march into Chaos and return with Tinnean’s spirit? And the Oak-Lord’s? But you went all the same.”

“I didn’t march into Chaos. Fellgair pushed me.” It was hard to read Darak’s expression in the uncertain light, but the dry humor in his voice was plain enough. “As to the rest . . .” He sighed again. “You’re right. I had to go. And short of killing me, there was nothing anyone could have done to stop me.”

“I’ll talk to them, Rigat. Tell them what you’ve told me. But I can’t tell them a truce is in our best interests when I’m not certain myself.”

“Aye. But like it or not, I’m part of it now. And there are eighty-six young men and women who’ve joined it because of me.”

“Aye. Well, I did live with you for thirteen years.” Darak hesitated, shifting his feet. “Can you stay a while longer? Tell me what you’ve been doing? And . . . how your Mam is?”

Rigat knew he should return to Pilozhat, but right now, he would exchange all the feasts and soft beds and adulation in the world for the chance to sit and talk the way they used to.

Bad enough that he continued to yearn for Darak’s love and approval, but even worse to accept such scraps of affection with damp-eyed gratitude. And he would always get scraps; Darak’s love was reserved for the children of his blood. He had to accept that and stop longing for what he could never have.