Foxfire

WHEN RIGAT SAW THE FIGURE silhouetted in the doorway, he imagined it was Fellgair. Then reason overcame desire, and he recognized Nekif.

“Great lord, I packed the supplies you requested. Dried fruit and meat. They are there—next to your chest of clothes. With the waterskin. And I took the liberty of bringing a bowl of honeyed figs. It’s not wise to begin a journey on an empty stomach.”

He had already wasted an entire day trying to trace Fellgair’s energy: in Zheros, in the north, in all the places they had visited during their first days together, including the First Forest. There was only one place left to look.

He tried and failed to suppress a shudder. But if Darak—a man with no magic—could survive Chaos, so could the Trickster’s son.

Splashing cool water on his face helped clear his mind. Bolting a few of the figs assuaged his hunger. He only wished he could replenish his power so easily, but he was afraid to postpone his mission any longer.

“No, not a khirta,” he said, as Nekif held out a fresh one. “I want my old tunic and breeches today. And my shoes.”

He waited impatiently as Nekif padded back to the carved wooden chest and rummaged through it; no doubt his old clothes were buried under all the Zherosi finery. Nekif finally uncovered them and hurried toward him, the breeches slung over his arm and the tunic held at arm’s length. Although the doeskin had been brushed and cleaned, the old man’s nose wrinkled.

“These are the clothes of my mother’s people. And as such, as worthy to be worn by the Son of Zhe as any golden breastplate.”

Nekif fell to his knees and prostrated himself. “Please forgive this miserable slave. I deserve to be beaten for my impertinence and driven from your presence.”

“And if you ever show such disrespect again, you will be. Now hand me my breeches.”

The tunic was too tight through the shoulders, the breeches straining at the thighs, but after making such a fuss, he couldn’t very well take them off.

“After I’ve left, you may tell the queen I’ve gone north. I should return in a day or two.”

He dismissed Nekif and dug through the chest to retrieve his leather belt and bag of charms. It comforted him to feel the familiar weight of his dagger against his thigh and the small doeskin bag rising and falling with every breath. And perhaps it would bring him luck to emulate Darak who had entered Chaos armed only with the flint of his dagger, the power of his charms, and the strength of his will.

He slipped his arms through the leather straps of the courier’s satchel and settled it on his back. Then he slung the waterskin over his shoulder. He was as ready as he would ever be—if he could open a portal.

He could not follow Fellgair’s energy trail between the worlds. Since the landscape of Chaos was always changing, there was no point in picturing any of the things Darak had described. But if the Trickster’s nature combined elements of order and chaos, surely his son’s must, too.

He focused his mind, trying to tap into the part of his power that drew its strength from the Unmaker. He had often felt it raging uncontrolled through his body, yet now it eluded him.

Analyzing his power with his mind was fruitless. Only when his emotions ruled him did the chaotic aspect of his power burn brightest.

He called on his darkest memories: his terror when Madig nocked the arrow in his bow; the lust that Jholianna aroused in him; the shock of discovering his true identity and the desolation of believing his mam had wanted to kill him; the desperate desire to please both his fathers; and the angry helplessness of being deserted by Fellgair.

With each memory, the power flared. And when it raged through him, hot as a fire through dry brush, he ripped his dagger from its sheath and scored his wrist. Blood bound him to Fellgair as well as magic. It would take both to find his father.

Picturing Fellgair’s face, he raised the blood-spattered dagger and slashed open the veil between the worlds.

Greenish-yellow light seeped through the slit. Gingerly, he pulled on one side and peeped through. A stunted, dead tree loomed before him. A few paces away, a boulder reared out of the ground, its black surface incongruously smooth and glossy, as if it had been polished. The sky was the color of an old bruise, the sickly ocher stained here and there by purple blotches that might be clouds.

The portal oozed around his shoulders. Before his power could dissipate, he shoved through and sealed the portal behind him.

Immediately, his heart began to race, and he had to gasp for air. Was Chaos trying to destroy him? Then why was his power surging as wildly as his heart?

He staggered forward, clutching at a limb of the dead tree for support. Shimmering black dots rose before his eyes, as if ants were swarming over the ground. A sharp pain stabbed his side with every breath, but he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply until the pain ebbed and his vision cleared.

Shaking but relieved, he stepped back from the tree, only to be pulled up short. Assuming the sleeve of his tunic was snagged, he reached up. Then froze.

A cluster of dark twigs curled like claws over his wounded wrist. Thick red slime oozed out between them, solidifying as it spread until the claws appeared to be webbed and bloody. Fat globules dripped onto his fingers, sticky as sap but impossibly warm.

As he recoiled, the branch above dipped, weighted down by another cluster of twigs groping for his left wrist. He yanked it out of reach and tore at the imprisoning claws, but the twigs were as resilient as flesh. He grabbed one in his fist and bent it back until it snapped.

The tree shrieked. Not the harsh sound of splintering wood but an agonized scream that echoed through his body and spirit alike. Before he had time to recover, a shudder raced through the branch that still gripped him. Then the other branches began to sway as if rocked by gusts of wind. But there was no wind, not the faintest breeze.

A branch bent low to pluck at the leather thong of his bag of charms. Another snagged the strap of his satchel. He slipped his arm free, but it claimed his waterskin, dangling it just out of reach as if mocking him.

He didn’t dare try to retrieve it. He had to keep moving, wriggling and twisting to avoid the grasping branches. Frantically, he grabbed another claw and snapped it off. A spray of bloody sap splashed warmly against his cheek. He broke off another claw and another after that, wincing at each all-too-human shriek.

Cursing, sweating, constantly dancing away from the treacherous branches, he finally broke away, only to be tugged back as a relentless claw seized the strap of his satchel again. He wriggled free, abandoning his supply of food as he had his water. In his haste to escape, he stumbled and went down hard. Heels digging into the loose soil, he scuttled backward like a crab.

The branches of the tree were still moving, but now they flapped with perfect precision like so many featherless wings. The roots pulled free and curled under the trunk. With a final screech, the thing rose into the air and flew off.

He had learned the tale at Darak’s knee. How could he have forgotten that Chaos was a place of illusion?

He was still staring at the tree-bird when the black boulder heaved up, spewing sand. Too stunned to move, he watched it grow larger—first, the size of a hut in his village, then a small hill, then as tall as Kelazhat. All in absolute silence.

Yellow flowers sprouted on the gleaming black slopes and grew to the size of trees. Giant sunflowers, he realized, swallowing hard when dozens of eyes blinked open in the dark centers.

Water gushed out of the ground, forming a perfectly circular pool at the base of the mountain. A column of water rose out of it, bluer than the sea at Pilozhat, sparkling silver and gold as if lit by the light of moon and sun alike. The column rose higher and higher until it crested at the mountain’s summit, flashing rainbow-colored shards skyward. The most beautiful waterfall he had ever seen—cascading up the mountainside.

His power raced, as frantic as his heartbeat, as rapid as the continuing shifts in the landscape. Squat brown bushes reared out of the ground near the pool, sprouted eight spindly legs, and skittered away like giant spiders. The sandy soil leached away, forming a sinkhole. Before he scuttled back, he glimpsed the black void that filled it.

As if in sympathy, the sky darkened, illuminated only by a curtain of light that shimmered like the Northern Dancers. Only these Dancers were the same sickly greenish yellow that the sky had been moments earlier.

Something flew past his face, hissing, and he batted it away. Something pattered onto the earth—the earth that was now as hard as stone and as black as the mountain. Although the tiny pellets of hail clattered against the polished surface, they felt as soft as milkweed fluff when they brushed against his hands.

Lightning zigzagged across the ground, opening gaping fissures that closed a moment later. Waves rolled and crested in the sky, shattering the curtain of light. When the ground began rolling as well, Rigat flung himself flat, clutching at the thick stalks of grass that shot up around him. They were as insubstantial as water. Helpless, he was carried up into the air on the wave. Then it crested, hurling him down, drowning him in green.

His stomach heaved and he vomited, tasting bile and honey, spewing bits of undigested figs onto the ground. The figs sprouted like mushrooms, caps whirling, and spun into the air.

He shut his eyes, but that only made the earth’s undulations more sickening. He retched again, fighting to control his body, his mind, and the power that blazed through him. Was it feeding on the unpredictable energy of Chaos—or was Chaos feeding on him?

“My father told me that the spirits in Chaos were drawn to me,” Darak had explained. “Because I was alive. They wanted to get close to that life force.”

If the presence of Darak’s life force had been enough to attract the spirits of Chaos, his power must be even more alluring. Panting with the effort, he tried to tamp it down.

The ground heaved again and went still, plunging him facedown in something cold. He pushed himself up on his elbows and discovered that he was lying at the edge of an ice-scummed pond. Insects swarmed above it, iridescent bodies gleaming as they darted between shafts of murky light. Their monotonous whine maddened him. And his reaction only made the sound louder.

Control. According to Darak, that was the key to surviving Chaos. Only by controlling every emotion—fear, wonder, desire—could you keep the illusions at bay. If Darak had done so through the force of his will, so could he.

He closed his eyes again, trying to calm his breathing and bank the fires of his power. Then something slimy crawled over his hand, shattering his concentration.

The slug’s tiny tentacles waved. He smashed the thing with his fist, only to watch the flattened blob separate into two pieces, then four, each sprouting a dark tentacled head and a glistening blue body.

On hands and knees, he edged back from the pool, but couldn’t help staring with sick fascination as the slugs continued to multiply and grow. There were dozens of them now, the original ones nearly as long as his forearm, the newborns barely the length of his little finger.

His breath caught on a sob, and he suppressed it ruthlessly. But still they grew, trailing viscous slime as they slid toward him.

It took Rigat a moment to realize that the voice came from behind him. And another to recognize it. He froze, afraid to look, afraid that this, too, would be an illusion.

A pair of black-clawed feet strode over the slugs, which dissipated like mist. Rigat’s gaze traveled up the red-furred legs to the broad chest and finally to the familiar golden eyes.

Strong arms enfolded him, rocking him like a babe. Rigat clung to them, grateful and ashamed. Then Fellgair grabbed his shoulders and held him at arm’s length.

As Fellgair’s gaze swept over him, Rigat realized how ridiculous that statement must sound, especially coming from a trembling boy with snot running down his chin. At the same moment, they both began to laugh.

Relief at seeing Fellgair again left him giddy and weak. Without his father’s hands steadying him, he would probably collapse. Or dissipate as the slugs had. From slavering beasts to misty nothings in a single heartbeat.

His laughter grew louder, edged with hysteria. Fellgair’s fingers tightened on his shoulders. With a hiccuping gurgle, Rigat clamped his lips together, controlling the hysteria and the flare of power that had accompanied it.

Fellgair released him and leaned back on his hands. With a start, Rigat realized that the ever-shifting landscape had solidified into a featureless plain of browning grass. If not for the bruised sky, they might be sitting somewhere in Zheros.

Fellgair frowned. “I felt your energy the moment you entered Chaos. Didn’t you feel mine?”

He remembered now how Darak claimed his father had sensed his presence. And just as Reinek had tracked down his son, so had Fellgair.

Fellgair held out his hand, and Rigat obediently offered his wrist. Instead of sealing the wound, Fellgair used his claws to rip a strip of doeskin from his tunic.

“How did you discover I was here?” Fellgair asked as he wrapped the doeskin around his wrist.

“I thought I heard her call me. Perhaps I was wrong. Even for a god, it’s hard to distinguish reality from illusion here. Or desire. Did you see her when you went north?”

As he fumbled for an answer, Fellgair seized his arm, fingers biting deep into the flesh. “You did go back? After the Gathering?”

He blurted out everything that had happened in Fellgair’s absence: the interrogations, the attempted assassination, The Shedding. “Jholianna offered me the crown,” he added, hating the sulky tone of his voice, but unable to disguise it.

Fellgair stared out over the grasslands. Then he sighed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“You should have called me,” Fellgair said. “I would have come. No matter the cost.”

“In a moment. I’m thinking.” Fellgair rose and paced restlessly, flattening a trail in the tall grass. “It’s likely that attack was genuine. The man with the dagger, though . . .”

“That’s possible. But it’s also possible the two attacks were unrelated.” Abruptly, Fellgair stopped pacing. “You’re certain the orders for a truce were sent?”

“And Geriv received them?” When Rigat hesitated, Fellgair’s gaze sharpened. “Did Geriv acknowledge receipt of his orders?”

“If the orders were delayed—if Geriv never received them—he would have free rein to continuing pursuing the rebels. Which you might have discovered if you had met Darak. What better way to keep you in Pilozhat than to stage an assassination?”

“It’s only one possibility,” Fellgair said. “But he took the initiative once before. After the earthquake.”

“The king was dead. The queen weak from Shedding. The city in ruins. Who took control? Who knew Keirith’s spirit had survived? Who arranged for Keirith and Darak to escape?”

Bile surged up from Rigat’s belly, choking him. He bent over, retching dryly, and felt Fellgair’s hands steadying him once again.

“I may be wrong,” Fellgair said. “But if your mother called me . . . she would never do that unless . . .”

“Or was going to happen,” Fellgair corrected firmly. “Which means you may still have time to prevent it.”

“There’s always a cost. No matter what one chooses. The trick is to weigh all the costs before making the choice.” Fellgair stared off into the distance, his expression almost wistful. Suddenly, he smiled. “You’re right, Rigat. It’s time for us to leave. But I think I should go to Pilozhat. To keep an eye on things there while you’re in the north.”

It could not be that easy. Fellgair would never have left Pilozhat unless the Unmaker had summoned him. And if he were free to leave, he would have done so when he thought he heard Mam call.

Before he could speak, Fellgair ripped open a portal and pulled him through. Bemused by the forest of green-leafed oaks, he wondered if Fellgair had decided to come north with him after all. Then he realized the trees were painted on the wall and that they were standing in Fellgair’s opulent private chamber in the temple of the God with Two Faces.

He was suddenly aware that he was exhausted. His power still smoldered within him, easy to control now but noticeably weaker.

Ruddy fur shifted to black hair, claws to fingernails. Before the transformation was complete, the Supplicant melted back into the fox-man. Breasts grew and shrank. Fur sprouted on flesh and vanished, the changes happening so quickly that Fellgair’s shape became little more than a blur.

Fellgair’s face froze in a grimace. The Supplicant emerged, but her form continued to waver before Rigat’s horrified eyes.

Fellgair staggered toward a thick pile of cushions and collapsed. As Rigat hurried toward him, Fellgair waved him away. “The portal,” he wheezed. “Close it. Quickly.”

It took Rigat two tries before he managed it. Then he fell on his knees next to his father.

He lifted his hand to brush back the long hair covering Fellgair’s face, then recoiled as white hair sprouted among the lustrous black.

Fellgair lifted his head. Deep lines scored his forehead and seamed the corners of his eyes. Slowly, they vanished, and with them the white streaking his hair, but flecks of gold still gleamed in the dark eyes.

Fellgair pushed himself up on the cushions and held out his left hand, frowning when he noted its tremor. He stared fixedly at his hand. The tremor ceased. One by one, fingernails sprouted. Five perfect ovals. Only then did Fellgair lower his hand to his lap.

“He summoned me to Chaos the morning after you were conceived and threatened to hold me there forever to prevent any further . . . interference. But my mother—the Maker—interceded for me. And for Griane.”

“The Maker accepts the need for death, but she also understands a mother’s love for her child. In the end, though, I think the Unmaker was simply eager to see what disorder you might bring to the world. I was permitted to leave, but only if I promised never to contact you. At first, I kept my distance, but after you discovered the truth . . .” Fellgair shrugged helplessly. “You are my son.”

“He retaliated by draining my power. Just a little at a time. Much crueler, really, than simply destroying me.”

Suddenly, it all made sense: the fluctuations in Fellgair’s energy, the unexplained weariness, the unraveled healing.

“Because he threatened to kill you if I didn’t.” A brief, mirthless smile. “Not all fathers are as forgiving as Darak. He gave me a choice. If I remained in Chaos until you reached the end of your life, he would permit me to return to the world with my powers—those I still possessed—intact. If I left before that . . .”

“Then we’ll beat the Unmaker at his own game. I’ll give you some of my power and—”

“Please. Go to your mother. Talk to Darak. Make sure all is well. And when you come back, we’ll see about beating the Unmaker at his own game.”

As Rigat reluctantly rose, Fellgair seized his hand. “I made my choice when I created you and I’ve never regretted that decision. If you need me, call. I’ll come—if I can.”