Chapter 42
FAELIA STARED UP AT THE TWINS and felt neither joy at reaching home nor satisfaction at leading her band to safety. When Selima squeezed her shoulder and whispered, “You did it,” she simply stared at her.
Eighty men and women had begun the journey with her; less than half remained. Eilin had been one of the first to leave. He had begged Fa to let him go to Little Falls to rescue Keirith, but of course, Fa had refused to take such an inexperienced fighter. Perhaps he’d lost heart after that. Or feared that without Keirith’s presence to steady him, his courage would fail him.
At least Eilin had told her he was going home. Most of the others simply slipped away during the night. Every morning, she woke to discover their ranks had thinned. Every evening, she watched the moon rise, her hopes dwindling along with Gheala’s body. And every night, she saw Temet’s ruined face and mutilated body in her dreams.
Losing him had been a crushing blow, but somehow, abandoning her father was worse. In joining Temet, she had chosen a life where danger stalked them every day. Her mind had always known that death could separate them; her heart simply refused to dwell on it.
But when Fa sent her away, something inside of her had died. Although she had managed to hold back her tears when they parted, she had clung to him like a frightened child. Then she’d stumbled away without daring to look back.
Why hadn’t she paused—just for a moment—to catch a final glimpse of him? Why had she thrown away that opportunity to study his expression and posture, to imprint them on her mind and heart forever? How could she leave, knowing she would never see him again?
Even the great Darak Spirit-Hunter would not be able to free his son from that fortress. And once he surrendered the Vanel would either execute him or ship him to Zheros, where there was no possibility of escape or rescue.
To be shut away behind stone walls. Never to feel the wind on his face or snow melting on his tongue. Never to see the sun or the forest or his family. Better a speedy execution than such a living death.
“Keep this fight alive,” Fa had said. But even if a miracle occurred and he succeeded in freeing Keirith, what then? More useless attacks on the Zherosi? More ceaseless wandering through the wilderness, seeking new recruits, other rebel bands? Temet had tried and failed. Rigat’s truce was a sham. And she was crawling home like a whipped dog.
As the sentinels blew two long blasts on their horns to signal the arrival of strangers, she squared her shoulders and started toward the gap in the hills. In the dying rays of the sun, the sprawling clumps of heather on the slopes of The Twins looked like dozens of small fires. Once, she might have gloried in the sight. Today, she felt only dread.
Her mam’s face would be lit with hope as she watched them arrive. She would scan the faces, looking for Fa and Keirith. And as hope slowly died, her gaze would settle at last on the traitorous daughter who had lured them away.
Griane recognized Faelia’s bright hair first. It took longer to discover that Darak and Keirith were not with her. When she saw Faelia’s grim expression, her hand sought Callie’s.
“They’re alive,” Faelia said by way of greeting.
“But where—?”
“Later, Mam. After I get these people settled. Selima—you’d best go to Mam’s hut and have her take a look at you.”
It was Selima who told them about the massacre. Numb, Griane sat by the fire pit and allowed Hircha to inspect the woman’s wounds.
Keirith, a captive of the Zherosi. Darak, determined to rescue him. It was as if time had spiraled backward and the nightmare was beginning again.
“But why did you come here?” Hircha asked. “Instead of staying with Darak and the others?”
“Darak’s decision.” Selima flexed her shoulder carefully. “It would have taken more men than we had to free Keirith by force. And Darak feared the Zherosi commander would send troops here. There’s a history between them.”
Hircha’s hands froze on the roll of nettle-cloth. “What’s his name?”
“Do Khat. Geriv do Khat. A one-eyed man.” Selima studied Hircha a moment before adding, “You know him, too.”
“Aye.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten you were there.”
“I was there.”
As soon as Hircha helped her ease into a fresh tunic, Selima headed for the doorway. As she reached for the deerskin, she paused. “Faelia . . . she thinks you blame her, Griane.”
“But she wasn’t even with Keirith when—”
“Not that. For taking him and Darak away in the first place.”
Griane shook her head wearily.
“Then tell her that,” Selima said. “And make her believe you. She’s hurting.”
“Thank you,” Griane replied stiffly. “I’m aware of that.”
Selima grimaced. “Sorry. I’m not . . . I’m used to giving orders. Or taking them. When you don’t know if you’ll be alive on the morrow, you don’t waste breath on niceties. I meant well.”
“Thank you,” Griane repeated with more warmth. “It’s kind of you to look out for her.”
“She’s a good woman. And a good fighter. Losing her man . . .” Selima stared up at the thatch and swallowed hard. Then she turned abruptly and left.
Moments later, Callie slipped into the hut.
“You heard?” Griane asked.
He nodded. She had never seen him look so grim. For a moment, they all sat in gloomy silence. Then Hircha asked, “And where was Rigat during all this?”
Bad enough that Othak continued to circulate his malicious lies. For a member of her family to doubt Rigat was unbearable.
“Are you accusing him, too?”
“Nay. But why didn’t he warn them?”
“Because he’s not omnipotent! He doesn’t see everything that happens like . . .”
“Fellgair,” Callie finished. “Do you think this is his doing?”
His way of punishing us. Of punishing me.
“I don’t know.”
Somehow, she had to find a way to get word to Rigat. Only he could help Darak and Keirith now. But first, there was her daughter to think about. For once, she would put Faelia first.
While Callie headed to Trath’s hut to pass along the information Selima had given them, she and Hircha made their way to the cave. Mirili had already gathered spare bedding and food. Griane was relieved to discover that the most serious problems were blisters, exhaustion, and hunger. The recruits seemed appallingly young—most of them only a few years older than Rigat. As she spread ointment on scrapes and bandaged blistered feet, she intercepted more than a few wide-eyed looks.
“You’re Griane the Healer?” a red-haired boy whispered. “From the tale?”
He looked so crestfallen that she laughed. “I was younger then.”
The heavy-set man sitting beside him cuffed the boy lightly. “That was thirty years ago. Even Darak Spirit-Hunter and Griane the Healer can’t make time stand still. He was well when we saw him last,” he added.
“Thank you.” She took a moment to control her voice. “You’re married, too, I take it.”
The boy gaped. The man simply said, “My wife died. Last winter.”
“How did you know?” the boy blurted. “That he had a wife?”
“A married man would think to give another man’s wife news of him.”
Her explanation deflated the boy further. Clearly, he had imagined that Griane the Healer possessed the power to see into men’s minds as well as ease the aches of their bodies.
“My name is Holtik,” the man said. “This one—with his mouth hanging open—is Owan.”
“You are welcome to our village,” she replied automatically. “I wish we could offer you a more comfortable place to stay.”
Holtik shrugged. “We’ve been sleeping in the open. A cave’s a luxury.”
She hesitated. Although she had just met the man, she liked his broad, honest face and his innate sensitivity.
“There’s a bound to be a council meeting soon. To discuss what steps should be taken in case the Zherosi march on the village. I think you should be there.”
He frowned. “Faelia and Selima—they’re the leaders.”
“Aye. But some men listen better to the words of another man.”
“Your elders must all be unmarried, then. Else they’d have learned better.” A brief, wistful smile lit his face. “But I’ll mention it to Selima.”
Although she hungered for more news of Darak, Griane rose and made her way over to her daughter.
“Walk with me.”
“I need to—”
“You need to walk with me.”
Reluctantly, Faelia followed her toward the lake. Griane waited, hoping she would speak. When Faelia remained silent, she reached up and grasped her shoulders.
“This wasn’t your fault.”
Faelia wrenched free. “I knew he didn’t want to fight. And I tricked him into joining us. And now—”
“Now, he’s going after your brother. You think you could have stopped him? Or stopped the Zherosi from capturing Keirith? Stop blaming yourself. Trust me, it will only make you more miserable.”
Griane pulled her into her arms. Faelia stood there, tense and unmoving. Then her daughter’s arms locked around her.
The last time she could remember holding her like this was the day the Zherosi attacked Eagles Mount. Not once in the intervening years had Faelia sought the comfort of her mother’s arms. Perhaps it had taken Temet’s death to forge this bond, one that only women could understand and share: to be left behind by the men they loved.
At least Darak and Keirith were still alive. And she refused to stand by helplessly while they met their fate.
Lisula had helped her find Keirith all those years ago. Perhaps she could help her find Rigat now. Her magic had required moon blood and Griane’s had long since ceased to flow, but if it would help Darak and Keirith, she would surrender every drop in her body.
And if Lisula’s magic failed, she would have to ask for Fellgair’s help—and pay any price he demanded.
