Foxfire

THE GUARDS SHOOK HIM AWAKE. They handed him his bowl of porridge. When they put on his shoes, Keirith knew something unusual was happening. But only when they led him out of the hut did he realize the appointed day had arrived—for his freedom or his death.

Blindfolded, he shambled forward, stumbling over uneven paving stones and gulping great lungfuls of air; even tainted by woodsmoke, it was sweet after the stale air in the hut.

He knew he should be afraid. Instead, he felt oddly calm—like that final dawn in Pilozhat when he had led the adders to the temple of Zhe. Every sensation seemed magnified: the rub of his breeches against his thighs, the grip of the guards’ fingers on his arms, even the trembling of his leg muscles after days of inactivity.

Wavering orange light filtered through the blindfold. Men moved around him, speaking in hushed voices. From behind came the tramp of leather-shod feet on stone. In front, a soft command to open the gate. Keirith heard grunts from the straining men and the protesting creak of wood. Then he felt earth beneath his feet instead of stone.

As earth gave way to pebbles, he realized the sound of the rapids had grown louder. They were leading him to the river.

Wooden planking. The sound of flapping cloth. Why were they taking him back aboard the ship?

He stumbled as he stepped onto the deck, drawing muttered curses from his guards. They tightened their grip on his arms and led him forward.

A column of wood at his back. Ropes pulled tight across his chest. Pebbles scraping the hull. And the gentle rocking as the ship floated free.

He strained to hear something that might tell him where they were heading, but there was only the flap of the sail and the slap of water against the hull and the occasional creak of the timbers. No light penetrated the blindfold. No sun warmed his body. Why would they risk a night voyage? Something must have happened. Could Fa have been captured? Or—gods forbid—killed? But why would they be hustling him away in darkness?

He tensed as footsteps thudded on the planks. Flinched as fingers tugged at his blindfold and gag. After so many days in darkness, the torchlight blinded him. He turned his head away, eyes watering.

A shadow blocked the light. When he looked up, he could only make out a dark silhouette, framed by the too-brilliant glare of the torches. Then he caught a whiff of the familiar spicy scent. Expecting a hulking body to match the deep voice, he was surprised that the figure looked as short and wiry as an ordinary Zheroso.

He raised his bound wrists and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Slowly, the man came into focus: a helmet with three eagles’ feathers; a black patch over his left eye; a stern mouth.

His gaze dropped to the scarlet tunic, then jerked back to the man’s face. It was older, of course. Seamed by years of squinting into the sun. But it was clearly the same man—the shadow who had followed him in Pilozhat, the obedient warrior who had led Fa to freedom, the trusted aide to Khonsel Vazh do Havi who had advised his uncle to kill them.

All he could do was gape, aware that Geriv was speaking, but unable to focus on the words.

For a long moment, Geriv studied him, frowning. Then he bent down so abruptly that Keirith recoiled.

Because I remembered Xevhan’s scream. And mine when they raped me. And the horror of being utterly helpless. And even with my father’s life at stake, I hesitated.

When Sorig raced down the beach shouting, “The ship is coming!” Darak murmured a shaky prayer of thanks. In his relief, he pounded the boy on the back so hard he staggered.

The boy nodded and quickly averted his face, but Darak had already seen the tears glistening in his eyes. To give him time to recover, he scanned the spot he had chosen for the prisoner exchange.

Hoping to allay Geriv’s fears of an ambush, he’d selected a site near the beach with little cover. But he’d been careful to position his men within bowshot, hidden behind boulders, lying in the long grass, standing behind trees.

Kelik and Mikal were among them, thank the gods. They’d reached the narrows late in the night to report the safe arrival of Pujh at Little Falls. So far, everything was going according to plan. And every moment brought his boy closer.

But he couldn’t help worrying. About Keirith. About Geriv’s intentions. And about last night’s dream.

Griane had been bending over him, urging him to wake up, reminding him that he would have plenty of time to sleep after he was dead but in the meantime, he had far too many things to do. The sun was behind her, turning the spiky ends of her hair to fire.

Although he was still asleep in his dream, he had asked, “What did you do to your hair?”

“What do you think?” she had snapped. “I cut it off and left it along the trail to mark the way for you.”

His dream-self awakened then and reached for her, but she melted into a shaft of sunlight like some otherworldly spirit.

The dream still haunted him—and the terrifying feeling that he would never see her again.

“Forgive me. Of course. I should have realized . . .” A deep flush stained the boy’s cheeks. “I am stupid.”

Ever since he had conceived the idea of the ambush, Darak had been careful to think of him only as “the boy,” seeking the same distance he once had with his recruits. Now his mind reluctantly formed the name: Korim.

“They’ll be here soon,” he said. “Remember what I told you. Everyone will be watching us. My men and your father’s. If things grow heated, they’ll get nervous. And nervous men make mistakes. So it’s up to us to stay calm. To set an example.”

“Then I’d like you to translate. If you would. So there are no misunderstandings.”

He waited for Korim to nod again before walking down to the water. The ship was heading to the southern shore as he’d directed. He paced nervously, watching its progress, then forced himself to stop when he saw Korim watching him.

“The waiting,” he said. “That’s the hardest part.” Then wondered why he was confiding in the boy.

“Men make up the stories. And they like stories with heroes. If we’d had more time, I’d have told you what really happened on that quest.”

“Not that. I thought you would be . . . hard. Cruel. And then I met Kheridh . . . and you . . . and . . .” He shrugged helplessly.

“Aye. Well. I can be hard, but I hope I’m not cruel. Mostly, I’m just a man. A husband. A father.”

Korim nodded, watching him with those big doe eyes. Darak had never expected a Zherosi boy to stare at him with the same wide-eyed awe as the lads in the villages.

What kind of life had he led that made him so hungry for kindness that he’d accept it from the man who had captured him?