Foxfire

IN GRIANE’S DREAM, Rigat stood knee-deep among pink spikes of foxtails, his hair blazing in the sunlight. <Come to me, Mam. Please come.>

She knew it was the glade Faelia had discovered while she was hunting. Knew, too, the trail that would take her there. Yet when she awoke, she quelled the urge to rush away from camp and joined Mother Narthi and Hircha at the fire pit. They spent the morning melting the beeswax the older children had gathered and mixing in handfuls of knitbone leaves to make an ointment for the burns and scrapes and rashes incurred almost daily.

Their work was frequently interrupted as folk sought help for ailments ranging from moon flow cramping to morning sickness to the joint-ill. With their dwindling supply of barley reserved for nursing mothers and toddlers, it seemed half the tribe was costive.

“Our bowels trouble us more than the Zherosi,” Hircha muttered as she brewed up another decoction of dandelion root and dock.

Blessing Hircha for giving her an excuse to leave camp, Griane wiped her hands on her skirt. “I’ll see if I can find some more.” It was the wrong season for harvesting the roots, but her supplies would run out long before the Fall Balancing.

“I’m not an invalid, girl. I’ll just follow the stream east for a bit. See if I find a patch of open ground. You see to these folk. Get Colla to help.”

Madig’s daughter had a gift with plants, perhaps from nursing her father. In the moons after the raid, the girl had shadowed Griane so persistently that she began instructing her in treating simple ailments. Although Colla was still too young to become her apprentice, she valued the girl’s help and knew the work offered a distraction from grief.

No one asked where she was going; the tribe was used to the sight of her scouring the woods with her doeskin bag slung across her chest. She paused beside the stream to fill her waterskin. As soon as she was out of sight, she veered south toward the glade, only to draw up short when she saw Callie and Ela.

Their guilty expressions made her smile. Everyone knew when the two slipped away and had entered a quiet conspiracy to give the lovers some privacy. Since Faelia had warned Callie that it was too dangerous to leave camp after dark, they confined their lovemaking to the daylight, oblivious of the fond looks and knowing smiles that followed them as they casually wandered into the trees.

Griane wondered if Ela had confided her secret to Callie. She had suspected for some time, even before Ela came to her to request a brew to ease her unsettled stomach. She wished now that she had shared her suspicions with Darak; the knowledge that his line would continue would have brightened his last days. But mostly, she was happy that Callie and Ela had found joy during this dark time.

Still frowning, Callie nodded. She patted his cheek, then carefully plucked a leaf from his hair. Ela blushed. Callie’s frown became an abashed smile. She kissed them both and walked on.

Excitement and trepidation built with every step. Keirith had told her about his meeting with Rigat. It was a measure of his trust in Hircha that he had included her in the conversation as well. Keirith had viewed the meeting as a test and believed he had failed it. Today’s meeting would be another test; how well she met it would determine whether she could convince Rigat to return to them.

An empire worshiped him now. A queen bowed before him. Rigat had been unwilling to sacrifice his power for Darak. Would he give it up for her?

Perhaps it was too much to expect. Perhaps she should only ask him to call off their pursuers. Even those who had refused to listen to Donncha and Catha were whispering now, wondering how much longer they would have to run.

“People are frightened,” Lisula had said only yesterday. “And Faelia’s refusal to speak with them only makes it worse. Talk to her, Griane.”

Faelia was a good fighter and wise in the ways of the forest, but she knew little about leading a tribe. Temet had a cause to unite his band. Darak had his stature as the Spirit-Hunter and a lifetime of leadership. If the two men had chafed at the interminable meetings of their councils, they had understood the necessity of involving their people in the important decisions facing them.

Griane had tried to convince Faelia to do the same. “If they feel they have a say in their future, they’ll follow you more willingly.”

The same resentment she had been nursing since childhood. Women were not allowed to hunt or find a vision mate. Unless they chose the path of healer or priestess, they could only hope to become wives and mothers. Faelia had defied those rules. But too often, she belittled the opinions of women who had chosen a more traditional life-path. And her attitude only made them more reluctant to follow her.

Griane dispensed common sense and calming words along with her poultices and infusions, but her nerves were frayed by the conflicting demands of healer and mother, and even more by the dissension among her children over Rigat. Although she continued to champion him, the deaths of Donncha and Catha had shocked her. If he intended to kill every person who spoke against his family—or him—there would be no end to the bloodshed. Added to those worries was the daily struggle to survive and the fear of what the future might hold. And beneath it all, the ever-present pain of losing Darak.

Her hand came up to caress his bag of charms. Through the worn doeskin, she traced the knobs and grooves of his finger bones. She had never opened the bag to look at them, but had memorized their contours.

As a child, she had paid little attention to his hands, save for the time he had smacked her bottom for filling his shoes with porridge. And the day he had ripped the belt out of her uncle Dugan’s grasp. Darak held out his hand afterward, but she refused to take it; she was nine years old, after all, not a baby. But she still remembered the warmth of his palm on her back as he guided her to his hut, how he talked with her at supper without the annoying condescension of so many adults, and later, tucked her under the wolfskins with Tinnean and awkwardly tweaked a braid by way of wishing her good night.

She had studied his hands many times after she had grown to love him. Even after Morgath’s dagger had done its damage, the strength remained and traces of the beauty they had once possessed. He’d always blushed when she called them beautiful. The blush only deepened as her fingers glided over his skin, massaging the knotted scar on his palm, tracing the calluses on his thumb and the fat pad of flesh at its base.

Her breath caught, and she had to lean against the trunk of a pine. That was the danger of memories; even the sweetest ones could transform the ache of loss into a sharp stab of grief. Especially the sweetest ones.

But the pain reminded her that she was alive. After the first shock of Darak’s death, the days had passed in a muffled haze. Her mind meticulously cataloged the hurts she must heal, her hands sorted herbs and brewed decoctions, but her spirit seemed to have left with Darak’s. Gradually, it had returned, and with it, the will to keep her tribe strong and her family intact.

She continued walking, drawing strength from Darak’s fingers clutched in hers. She would need all her strength—and his—for this meeting with Rigat.

The dappled sunlight among the trees gave way to the brightness of the glade. Accustomed to the muted colors of the forest, the brilliant pink of the foxtails startled her eyes. A skilled healer could use the leaves to regulate the heartbeat, but in the wrong hands, they could be deadly. Even she had feared to use them to help Darak, preferring to rely on the weaker brew of broom and quickthorn.

She shook off the thought and slowly knelt among the colorful spikes. Years of healing were too ingrained to ignore the bounty before her.

She gathered a few handfuls of leaves, wrinkling her nose at their unpleasant odor, and paused to flex her fingers. Heat infused her swollen joints and the dull ache ebbed. She stared skyward before she realized that the sun could never have effected the healing. Shading her eyes, she scanned the trees.

Rigat stood at the edge of the glade, a being of sunlight and shadow like his father. Then he stepped forward, a tentative smile on his face, and he became her little boy again.

Too long since she had felt the softness of his hair against her cheek and the strong bones of his shoulders beneath her hands. Longer still since she had felt the smooth flesh of his back. In her dream, he had been dressed in his old tunic and breeches, but he wore Zherosi garb today. She tried to hide her displeasure as she stepped back to look at him.

The red-gold hair on his chest shocked her. More shocking was his haggard face. Even Keirith’s warning failed to prepare her. His eyes were bloodshot and pouched. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth, and the bones stood out like ridges above his hollowed cheeks. She stifled a cry and pulled him back into her arms, wishing she could protect him from the burdens that had turned him from a boy into this tired, old man.

She sat with him among the foxtails, his hand clasped between hers. No longer a boy’s hand, but a man’s, just as the triumphs he recited were a man’s. Only two moons ago, his face had been alight as he described each obstacle overcome, each new piece of knowledge gained. He seemed to take little joy in his successes now. Perhaps even magic grew stale.

He mentioned the queen, but only in passing and always with a sidelong glance as if gauging her reaction. Of Donncha and Catha, of the men at the hill fort, he said nothing.

When his voice finally ran down, he began plucking blades of grass. She waited for him to look at her, but his head remained bowed.

“You’ve told me much about Zheros. What about this land?” His hand moved between hers, and she tightened her grip. “The children of the Oak and Holly are your people as well.”

He waited, obviously hoping she would say that he couldn’t have saved Darak. But she refused to assuage his guilt. She had to be ruthless, using any weapon to win her boy back.

The flush started at the base of his throat and rose up into his cheeks. She knew that they ruled together, but were they also lovers? Distaste vied with admiration for the woman’s cunning. What better way to bind the adolescent man-god to her than sharing her bed as well as her throne?

The familiar grin made her ache. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “I haven’t forgotten my . . . homeland. But first, I need to consolidate my power in Zheros.”

He gaped at her. No one in Zheros would dare speak to him that way, of course. But she had wiped his bottom and washed his dirty clouts. No matter how much power he possessed, she refused to be awed by him.

“To hear you tell it, everyone in Zheros jumps if you so much as sneeze. If your power is not consolidated now, when will it be?”

“Stop winning the war in Carilia. Stop winning trade concessions from . . . that place with the worms. Just let the world muddle along by itself.”

Once, she had been enough for him, but no longer. Much as he loved her, he loved the power—and all that it brought him—more. It had seduced him. Just as it had seduced Morgath.

But even as she denied the possibility, she realized something else. “That’s why you sent the Zherosi after us, isn’t it? So you could swoop in and rescue us. Oh, Rigat . . .”

He whirled around to confront her again. “And where would you have been if I hadn’t rescued you from Donncha? And Catha?”

“I survived Morgath and the First Forest. Keirith lived through that ordeal in Zheros. Faelia’s a veteran of a dozen battles. We didn’t need to be rescued from two frightened women. And whatever their faults, Donncha and Catha didn’t deserve to die.”

He was breathing hard, his body poised for flight. As she struggled to rise, he hesitated, then strode forward and held out his hands to pull her to her feet.

“Maybe so. But vengeance is an abuse of your gift. You know I love you,” she added as he opened his mouth to argue. “I’d give my life for you. But I won’t stand by and watch you—”

His hands clenched convulsively around hers. “Do you know why I came? Other than to see you again, I mean?” His head came up, his eyes shining. “To tell you that I would call off the Zherosi.”

He pulled away, his face eager and excited. “You’re right. It was stupid. I don’t have to prove myself to the tribe. Or anybody. Least of all, you.”

Then she remembered what they would find there: the ruins of their homes, the corpses of the slain. She thrust the images aside, unwilling to let anything spoil this moment.

She smiled, imagining him opening portals to give her glimpses of unknown places just as Fellgair had done that day in the Summerlands when they had created Rigat.

“You can come with me to Zheros. Or I’ll find another place. Wherever you like. I’ll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe.”

It was no longer her child standing before her but his father, bargaining over the price of opening a portal to Chaos. She had misinterpreted Fellgair’s demands, but Rigat’s were clear: to give up her family, her friends, her home. Would he allow her to see her other children? Or would she spend the rest of her life as his prisoner? Cherished and protected, but jealously guarded against anyone with a claim on her affection.

If she refused, he might rescind his offer to call off the Zherosi. Hurt and angered by her rejection, he might abandon the children of the Oak and Holly altogether. She had to prevent that. Later—perhaps—she could reason with him.

For the first time in her life, she had to force herself to return his embrace. As she stepped back, he seemed to sense her reluctance.

She wanted to point out that he was forcing her to choose between him and her other children, just as Fellgair had forced her to choose between Darak and Keirith. Instead, she kept her voice gentle.

“There are more important things in the world than what you need! Or what I need.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm, to be persuasive. “The Zherosi are swallowing us up. Already, chiefs sacrifice their tree-brothers for a few sacks of grain. How long before they make sacrifices in Zherosi temples? Our way of life will die, Rigat. Who knows, even our gods may die.”

Her last words startled a reaction from him, but instead of shock or surprise, Rigat looked stricken. Only for a moment, though. Then he shrugged and kicked a foxtail spike. Pink flowers tumbled into the grass.

“First Keirith would try to convince me to give up my power. Then you’d promise anything if I’d use it for the tribe. And if that failed—”

“That’s not true!” Finding only scorn on her son’s face, Griane turned to her daughter. “Faelia. Lower your bow.”

“Stop it! Both of you!” Again, Griane stepped between them. “Faelia, don’t be stupid. His power is greater than any arrow.”

She took a step toward her daughter, hands outstretched in supplication, and tried to keep the panic from her voice. “Please, Faelia. Lower your bow and we’ll talk.”

She heard the swish of grass behind her. Watched Faelia’s bow move to the right. Saw her daughter’s strong hands drawing back the bowstring, her wide mouth curving in a smile.

Griane whirled around and flung herself at Rigat, stumbling in her haste. His head snapped toward her. His hands came up to steady her. His mouth curved in a reassuring smile, her little boy’s smile that promised he would always protect her. Then he suddenly spun away and staggered backward.

They both stared in disbelief at the arrow piercing his arm. Griane shouted at Faelia, who was already nocking another in her bowstring. When she turned back to Rigat, her little boy had vanished. In his place, stood the implacable man-god who killed all who opposed him.

His lips curled in a feral snarl. She never saw him snatch the arrow out of the air. One moment, it was flashing toward him and the next, he was clutching it in his fist. She was still reaching for his arm when he spun the arrow around and hurled it at Faelia.

How long does it take an arrow to cut down your child? Two heartbeats? Three? Long enough to burn the image of her in your mind forever. The long legs slightly apart to steady her stance. Left arm outstretched, fingers gripping the bow. Right elbow high, just as her father had taught her. The bright hair, so like Rigat’s, unruly wisps escaping from her braid to caress her sunburned cheeks.

And then the picture shatters. The mouth opens in a silent scream. The arrow falls harmlessly into the grass. The bow that had never failed her slips from nerveless fingers. Her head dips as she gazes down at the arrow in her chest. The long braid slides over her shoulder. And the hands that had crafted the arrow and the bow, that had wielded both so expertly against animals and men alike, those strong hands reach up to grip the shaft, only to fall, as weak and helpless as the legs that buckle beneath her.

All this Griane saw as she ran across the glade, screaming her daughter’s name, trampling foxtails underfoot along with the hope that Faelia would live, that she was young and strong, she had her whole life before her, she could not die, not like this, it should be me, why couldn’t it have been me?

She wanted to believe Faelia felt her mother’s hands struggling to lift her, that she heard her mother’s voice repeating her name, the only word Griane could manage, a prayer and a promise and a testament to a love too often unspoken. She wanted to believe the wide blue eyes recognized her. That the slack mouth curved in a smile. That the final exhalation of breath was Faelia whispering, “Mam.”

And when she could no longer pretend, she closed the staring eyes and gripped the limp fingers and rocked her daughter in her arms, praying that Darak would find their girl and guide her spirit to the Forever Isles.

When she finally raised her head, dark clouds shadowed the glade. Rigat was gone. She opened her mouth to call his name and closed it again.

She eased Faelia onto the ground and pushed herself to her feet. Slowly, she walked back across the glade to retrieve her waterskin and healer’s bag. Then she returned to her daughter.

She broke the shaft of the arrow, but it had penetrated Faelia’s breastbone and she could not pull the arrowhead free. Instead, she dampened a scrap of nettle-cloth and gently washed the dirt from her daughter’s face and hands. She turned Faelia’s head so she could untie the thong binding her braid. With her fingers, she combed the pine needles and grass and fragments of birch leaves from her hair, then carefully braided it again.

She brushed the dirt from her breeches. Straightened the sprawling legs. Folded her hands around the broken shaft of the arrow. There were not enough stones for a cairn, but she gathered what she could and laid them around her daughter’s body. She kissed her on the forehead, on the mouth, and on both cheeks. Then she drew her dagger and cut off a lock of the fiery hair.

After intoning the prayer to free her spirit, Griane hesitated, uncertain whether she had the strength for what she meant to do. Then she lifted Faelia’s right hand and laid it atop a stone.

She spread the fingers wide. She picked up her dagger once more. Slowly, carefully she cut through the flesh and sinew and bone of her daughter’s forefinger.

She had to pause then, until the dizziness passed. Then she washed the finger, wrapped it in a strip of nettle-cloth, and placed it in her bag of charms.

Someday, perhaps, they would find a new home and erect a cairn. Until then, she would carry the bones of her loved ones next to her heart.