Foxfire

IT WAS STILL DARK when they left the hill fort. Callie and Keirith pleaded with Darak to let them carry him, but he insisted he would walk.

He leaned heavily on his sons as he walked slowly down the slope. She followed behind, trailed by Lisula, Faelia, and Hircha. When they reached the stream, he leaned against an alder, his good arm draped over Keirith’s shoulder. Lines of strain creased his face, but he managed a smile as they waited for dawn.

She had lain awake most of the night, curled on her side, one hand resting on his hip, reassured by the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body. She must have dozed as dawn approached, for she came awake, instantly aware that his breathing had changed, that he was awake, watching her as she had watched him, although the hut was too dark to see his expression.

His hand brushed back her hair. His thumb slid along her cheekbone, then moved lower to follow her jaw to her lips. She leaned close to kiss him, breathing in his breath, savoring the gentleness of the chapped lips. Their foreheads touched. His hand continued its slow path down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder and down her arm. Their fingers played together, her thumb tracing the puckered scar on his palm, his winding a serpentine path around her swollen knuckles. Then his hand slipped away, moving over her hip to cup her bottom and pull her close.

They had laughed together, a mere exhalation of breath, and continued touching and stroking and kissing until it was time to dress.

There were to be no lingering farewells; Darak had made that clear. But as dawn crept closer, Griane struggled to obey his wish. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and pretend that she could heal the hurts of his body. She wanted to bury her face against that broad chest and breathe in the smell of him, feel his bones and flesh under her fingers, trace the lines on his face and the curve of his mouth. She wanted to beg him to stay.

His smile became a grin. It quickly vanished. He raised her chin with his thumb and kissed her softly on the mouth.

She gripped the sleeves of his tunic and pulled him close. His heart thudded beneath her cheek and she could feel hers pounding with equal fierceness.

Griane’s fingers clenched. She forced herself to open them, to lower her arms, to take a step back. To let him go.

Lisula wrapped her arm around his waist. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. They tottered forward, the big man and the little priestess.

Their figures wavered, half in and half out of this world. Swaying in the effort to keep his feet, Darak glanced over his shoulder. He raised his hand and smiled. Then Lisula stepped back, and he was gone.

For a moment, Darak stood there, their faces still imprinted on his mind: Hircha, solemn and still; Callie, smiling despite the tears in his eyes; Faelia, scowling fiercely to hide her emotions; Keirith, looking so terribly bereft.

And Griane. His girl. Standing straight as a spear. White hair pulled back in a tight braid, but always those few wisps escaping around her face. Her eyes, the blue that lived at the heart of a flame. Her mouth, curved in a smile, but her upper lip caught between her teeth.

His legs were shaking badly. The walk to the stream had taken more of a toll than he had expected. But he was damned if he was going to be carried.

Reeling like a drunkard, he staggered toward the One Tree and clung to the pale trunk. Blood clogged his throat, and he turned his head away to spit. He winced when he saw the thick, gleaming clots staining the dry leaves. Then he shrugged. He had offered a blood sacrifice before that long-ago Midwinter quest. If this one was less elegant, he knew Tinnean and Cuillon wouldn’t mind.

He took a few careful steps back so he could study the One Tree. Despite the gloom, the green leaves of the Holly seemed brighter than those of the Oak. But, of course, the Oak-Lord’s spirit would be resting in the Summerlands now, gaining strength after his defeat at Midsummer, awaiting the Fall Balancing when it would return.

The effort of staring up made him dizzy. So he tottered forward again to rest his palms and forehead against the trunk.

He took off the mantle Griane had insisted that he bring, grimacing as the movement pulled at wounded muscles and flesh.

Smiling, he folded the mantle and laid it between the two large roots that had once been his brother’s feet. Then he slowly lowered himself to the ground. His hands automatically reached out to stroke the roots on either side of him. The bark was smooth, as if the wood had been polished. Only someone who knew the tale would realize that the knobs under his thumbs had once been the joints of a man’s toes.

He leaned against the tree, wincing. His mantle would have served him better behind his back, but he was reluctant to have even that much of a barrier between him and the tree. In the end, he simply adjusted his position so that the trunk didn’t press against his wounds.

Death held no horrors for him, although he didn’t relish the process of dying. What gnawed at him were all the things left undone. There might still be scattered pockets of resistance, but who could unite the tribes? Darak Spirit-Hunter’s name might be invoked—a symbol to inspire hope and determination—but who among the rebels possessed Temet’s vision and determination?

Sorig, perhaps. But in his heart, he knew all the men at the prisoner exchange were dead. Only after Keirith described his vision had Darak realized that Mikal was the traitor, that it was his arrow that had struck him in the back. He hoped Sorig had gone to his death without knowing that—and vowed to apologize for his doubts when they met in the Forever Isles.

He said a prayer for Sorig and Kelik and the others. As for Mikal, the Zherosi might have spared him if they had recognized him in time. He would never know. Just as he would never understand why he had betrayed his friends.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Once, he had held the fate of the world in his hands. Not anymore. But he still had some say in the fate of his tribe. He had done what he could to prepare them for the Zherosi. Trath would be a good chief, but he was old. So was Lisula. And Gortin’s gentle leadership would be sorely missed. But his first priority must be his family. Keeping them safe. Assuaging their fears. Concealing his pain for as long as he could.

He grimaced. It was not the death he would have chosen, but what man ever got to choose the manner of his death? Still, he had some time left—days, certainly, maybe even half a moon—and he intended to make the most of them. There was some benefit in knowing your death was imminent. It gave you time to say the things that must be said, to hold your wife in your arms, to assure your children of your love.

He hoped Rigat knew that he understood his choice. Now, it was up to him to ensure that the rest of the family did. Especially Faelia and Keirith.

He rested his head against the trunk, allowing the forest to calm him. It was good to sit with Tinnean and Cuillon, to watch the first shafts of sunlight penetrate the dense canopy, to hear the purr of the wood pigeons and the scolding chatter of a squirrel and the soft rustle of small creatures scurrying through the leaves.

And the smells . . . dear gods, how he loved them. Decaying leaf mold and summer-warm earth, the mustiness of wild mushrooms and the faint sweetness of the fading quickthorn blossoms. Despite his fears for his people, his concern for his family, and his grief that he would leave them so soon, he felt the familiar peace steal over him and whispered a prayer of thanks to the Maker for the gift of this day.

As the morning grew warmer, he drifted between sleep and wakefulness, content to doze and dream, knowing the Watchers would guard him. Sometimes he talked to Tinnean and Cuillon, recalling the day he had taught Tinnean to swim, the night he and Cuillon had made their pact to find their lost brothers. Smiling when he pictured Tinnean’s excitement the first time he had seen the Northern Dancers, and Cuillon’s as he explored his strange, new body.

There had been many times that he’d wished for an ordinary life. Now—despite everything—he would not trade places with any man. He had called the Holly-Lord friend. Heard the song of the World Tree. Felt the Forest-Lord’s gentle touch.

These last years, it seemed Fellgair had given him far more pain than joy. Only now could he admit that the Trickster had meted them out in equal measure. If he had lain with Griane, he had given them Rigat. If he had forced him to open his spirit, that experience had helped him save Keirith. And if Fellgair had not shoved him through that portal to Chaos, he would never have found Tinnean or the Oak-Lord. Or his father. Or Wolf, lost to him for so many years after his vision quest.

What happened to a man’s vision mate when he died? Would Wolf simply vanish into the mists of the First Forest? Or would she come with him to the Forever Isles?

At first, he thought it was Fellgair, but the man who emerged was smaller, with gray hair at his temples and a strange garment of mottled fur covering his body. Then Darak saw the golden eyes and realized that his first impression had been correct.

Fellgair’s mouth curved in the familiar mocking smile. A deprecating wave of his hand encompassed the changes in his appearance. “The Lord of Chaos is displeased with me. Because of my interference.”

Blood gushed from his mouth, terrifying him. He doubled over, the cough tearing at his chest and his wounded back until his whole body was awash with pain.

Fellgair’s hands gripped his arms, steadying him. Slowly, the coughing eased. He spat to clear his mouth, grimacing at the blood-slimed leaves between his feet. Then he slumped against the tree, crying out as his back hit the trunk. Fellgair had to help him shift position. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath and the frantic beating of his heart, but the small bird inside his chest refused to cease its fluttering.

Fellgair squeezed his hand gently, and the bird’s wings stilled. He opened his eyes to discover thick streaks of gray marring Fellgair’s russet hair.

More than anything in the world, he wanted that. Another sennight, another moon. Every day was precious to him now. But could he steal that time if it meant draining Fellgair’s power?

Who would watch over Rigat then? And Griane? With Geriv surely marching to the hill fort and Rigat desperately trying to maintain the guise of the Son of Zhe, his family and his tribe—perhaps all the children of the Oak and Holly—needed Fellgair’s help more than he did.

“Of course, I’ll look after them. That’s the one benefit I can find in this . . . disconcerting change my father has forced upon me. I can interfere with impunity now.”

“And were always the better for it afterward.” Fellgair smiled. “We sound like a quarrelsome old married couple.”

He must have rested for a long while. When he opened his eyes, the shadows in the grove were much longer, but Fellgair still sat beside him.

Her steps were as uncertain as his when he had approached the One Tree, her muzzle as white as Griane’s hair. Twice, her legs gave out. Tears filled his eyes as he watched her fight her way to her feet again. When she finally reached him, she collapsed beside him and rested her muzzle on his thigh.

His hand shook as he stroked her head. After a long moment, she raised it. A milky film clouded her golden eyes, but her tail thumped the familiar greeting.

“That is strange. I thought only my brother could.” Her head flopped down on his thigh again. “It took so long to reach you. I was afraid . . .”

She whined softly. He managed to raise his hand, to scratch behind the tattered left ear, and was rewarded by another feeble thump of her tail.

Strange to hear her voice inside him, to know that they were touching spirit to spirit, and to feel relief instead of the usual terror.

Her face blurred before him. If the gods had given him a good woman and loving children, they had also been generous in their choice of vision mate.

He tried to touch the root, but he was so tired. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the trunk.

He felt Wolf raise her head. His hand slid down the coarse fur of her shoulder. Her wet nose nudged it atop the root.

His eyes flew open, his mind finally registering what his fingers were telling him. But the root looked unchanged. It must have been his imagination. Or another fever-dream. Still, he struggled to sit up, gasping with the effort.

Something touched his shoulders. Warmth seeped through his tunic. The warmth of real flesh, the pressure of real fingers, gently stilling his feeble movements. Fellgair, of course.

Energy flooded his spirit, an outpouring of joy and love so fierce that he knew it was Tinnean. And when the second stream filled him, far more powerful and more ancient than the first, he realized Cuillon was with him, too.

For thirty years, he had longed for this moment. Now that it had arrived, all he could do was weep in helpless gratitude.

He could feel the rhythmic pulsing of their spirits, a slow counterpoint to the pounding of his heart. And the other pulse he had first heard during that dream-journey through Chaos.

The steady vibration filled him. It soothed the torn flesh and the tortured lungs. It stilled the trembling muscles and the palsied shaking of his hands. With unhurried patience, it flowed through bone and blood and spirit.

The World Tree sang. The song echoed through the One Tree, through Tinnean and Cuillon, through his body and Wolf’s, through the silent Watchers and the giant trees. The grove resounded with the song, the First Forest rang with it. Every tree knew the song, every creature that crawled upon the earth or swam in the rivers or soared through the air.

Even the small bird in his chest seemed to recognize the song. It beat its wings wildly, eager to fly with its brothers and know the freedom of the skies. He fought to hold it, to keep it close.

If he had the strength, he might have laughed. The quest to find Tinnean had taught him that his need for control was his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. Yet all his life he had battled with it. To protect himself, to protect the people he loved.

As a boy, he had been afraid he would lose his father’s respect. As a young man, he had been afraid he would lose his brother. But ultimately, he had been afraid that if he relinquished his carefully maintained control, he would lose himself.

Time and time again, he had learned the impossibility of controlling either events or the people he loved. He had learned that he could give up control and not only remain whole, but become stronger. Yet he’d sat here today, fretting over the fate of a rebellion he could never lead, the fate of a world he would soon depart.

Wind and water wore away the strongest rock, chipping away the edges, reshaping it. But unlike a rock, a man could accept the changes or resist them.

He liked Fellgair’s metaphor of the web of life better. Certainly, his life had been woven and rewoven hundreds of times, threads ripped away, new ones spun. And now all that was left was a slender strand, trembling under the frantic wings of that small bird.

Struath would say that life was a battle of opposites. Gortin would remind him that despite the battle, balance was always restored. Fellgair would smile and say something cryptic. And Griane . . .

He bit back a cry of pain. The song of the World Tree flowed through his spirit. Tinnean and Cuillon waited with inhuman patience for his choice, their love—as eternal as the song—filling his spirit.

Tinnean’s voice in the grove during their final moments together: “This isn’t good-bye. Not really. I’ll always be here.”

With a sigh of acceptance, Darak released the small bird and gasped as it soared skyward. Brilliant light flooded his vision. As if the Northern Dancers had suddenly lit up the sky. But it was still daylight so it must be the sun—the most glorious sunset he had ever witnessed.

It danced inside of him, filling the emptiness left behind by the lost bird, bathing his spirit with warmth, bathing the grove in luminous golden light. The circled trees took up the dance, limbs swaying as if they shared his ecstasy.

Something tugged at his breeches. Through the haze of light, he saw Wolf. She bounded away, then raced back. Her yellow eyes gleamed. Her body wriggled with pleasure. She nipped at his breeches again, then bounded toward the light of the setting sun.

He eased away from the tree, astonished to feel no pain in his back or shoulder or chest, no pain in his knees as he scrambled to his feet, no pain at all—only the enveloping warmth of the sunset.

He turned back to whisper his farewell to Tinnean and Cuillon and Fellgair. The tree was lost in the wash of golden light, but Fellgair was still there, a faint shadow amid the light’s glory. Darak lifted his hand, uncertain if Fellgair could see him. He thought the shadow moved, but he couldn’t be sure. The light was blinding now. He could no longer see Wolf either, although he could still hear her yipping excitedly, urging him to run with her.

Once before, Tinnean had offered him this living pathway of heart-shaped leaves and bright blue flowers. The last time, the path had connected him to the One Tree. This time, it led him toward the sun.

He thought of Griane and the children. Felt a fleeting stab of regret for their grief. But the light called to him and the song urged him on.

Darak walked along the path of speedwell, then broke into a trot. A dark shadow streaked across the light as Wolf bounded toward him. Side by side, they ran, hunting the sunset.

Three hundred people crowded the throne room of the palace. Three hundred people stared up at the dais where the Son of Zhe blazed as brilliant as the sunset in his scarlet khirta and golden breastplate.

Jholianna smiled as she lifted the crown from the jewel-encrusted platter. A circlet of gold, beginning and ending with the head of an adder devouring its tapering tail. As the priests chanted a blessing, she slowly ascended the steps of the dais and bowed three times before circling behind him. He felt cool metal against his brow as she proclaimed him king and Promised One.

The kankhs bellowed. The crowd roared. Despite the haste in planning the coronation, everything had been perfect.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone walking toward him. He wondered who would dare approach at this moment, then glimpsed the red and brown robe of the Supplicant beneath the hooded cloak.

Fellgair leaned close. The glow of torchlight illuminated a lock of black hair, a scruffy white beard, and a single tear glistening on his cheek.

As the Trickster bowed his head and slowly walked away, the cheering crowd blurred, replaced with an image of Darak. Not the helpless man convulsing in pain, but the father who had tried to love him, the hunter who had shared the excitement of the kill.

“You and I . . . we’re children of the forest. It’s in our blood and our bones and our spirits. It’s the home we always long for, the dream we always seek.”

Rigat blinked hard, banishing the memories and the moisture that filled his eyes. Then he raised his hands and accepted the thunderous ovation of his people.