Foxfire

KEIRITH NEVER KNEW how long he sat there with Rigat’s cold hand gripped in his. At some point, he noticed that the fire had died to mere embers. Glancing at the entrance of the grotto, he discovered it was dark outside.

Hircha leaned over and whispered something to his mam. She nodded, without taking her gaze from Rigat’s face. But as Hircha slipped out of the grotto, his mother reached over and laid her hand atop his.

When Hircha returned, she brought Lisula, Nedia, and Ela. She must have already told them what had happened, for their expressions were dazed rather than horrified. Ela threw herself into Callie’s arms and burst into tears, but the priestesses simply sat down beside his mam. Lisula winced, though, when she saw the blood staining the mantle Callie had draped over Rigat’s body.

“There are things that need to be done,” Lisula said. “For Rigat and for Griane. My daughters and Hircha will help me. When we’re finished, Hircha will fetch you. So you can sit with them for the rest of the night.”

It took Keirith a moment to realize he had been dismissed. His mam gave him a weak smile. When Callie bent down to kiss her forehead, her hand came up to touch his cheek. Fear shredded Keirith’s haze of grief when he noticed the fresh blood staining the bandage around her wrist.

He followed Fellgair out of the grotto and leaned against a boulder, sucking in great gulps of the cool night air. Callie draped one arm around his shoulder. Gratefully, Keirith leaned against him. After all the years of protecting Callie, now he was the one who needed his younger brother’s strength.

In silence, they watched Hircha and Ela trot past them and return carrying two bundles. In silence, they watched them slip back into the grotto. Gheala rose over the trees and the Archer took his place among the stars and still they stood there, unable—unwilling—to speak.

Finally, the question seared on Keirith’s mind burst free. “Why?” he demanded in a fierce whisper. “I would have let him go. I didn’t want to fight him.”

The dull grief in Fellgair’s voice reminded Keirith that the Trickster was suffering, too. Hard enough for a god to sacrifice his son. Now that he was becoming mortal, grief and guilt must be flooding his spirit. And how much more terrifying those emotions must be for someone who had never felt them before. Even Keirith had to pity him.

After a moment’s hesitation, Callie rested his hand on Fellgair’s shoulder. “It was his choice. How could he live with himself after Faelia? And without Mam . . .” His voice shook. “How long does she have?”

“Better to ask a healer than a fallen god,” Fellgair replied, “but . . . not long, I think. He didn’t finish the healing.”

The crunch of pebbles alerted them to another presence. Hircha’s hair gleamed as golden-white as Gheala’s crescent. “You can come back now.”

The women had washed Rigat’s body and folded his hands across the jagged wound in his chest. They had dressed Mam in clean clothes and combed her hair. Her head rested on Lisula’s belly. They must have changed the wolfskins, Keirith noted dully as he sat beside her; the fur was unstained.

Her gaze drifted around the grotto until she found Fellgair who hung back near the entrance. “Sit,” she whispered. “Beside Keirith.”

Fellgair hesitated. Their eyes met. Keirith considered all the pain the Trickster had caused his family. Remembered the mocking voice of the Supplicant, the taunts of the fox-man. He didn’t know if the rare moments of tenderness outweighed all that Fellgair had done, only that he had to let go of the bitterness before it stained his spirit forever.

His mam smiled. Her eyes closed as Fellgair took her hand. A faint flush appeared on her sunken cheeks. Then Fellgair sagged against him. Automatically, Keirith’s arms went around the frail body.

But the pouches beneath his eyes were dark as bruises now. The last clumps of fur had vanished. And the honey-colored eyes had faded to a dull yellowish-brown.

The shifting shadows drew Keirith’s gaze to the entrance of the grotto. Ennit hobbled past Hircha, tears oozing down his lined cheeks. He drew up short, staring at Rigat. Then he glared across the fire pit.

There was barely room for them all to crowd around the fire pit. Ela sat across Callie’s lap, while Hircha carefully lifted Rigat’s head onto hers.

“You are the people I love most in this world,” his mam said. “But I’ve never been one for sloppy sentiment and I won’t start now.”

Her voice was stronger, the result of Fellgair’s infusion of power. But Keirith suspected her will was just as strong. She had things to say and she knew she had little time.

His mother was dying. Fading as he watched. The rational part of him was resigned to that and determined to do whatever he could to make her last days peaceful and happy. That was the part that reminded him that she was probably glad to go, eager to see Fa again and—please, gods—Rigat and Faelia. But the child in him just wanted to cling to her and beg her not to leave.

“I’m not sure how long I have. If I don’t live long enough to see our village again, I want you to—Ela, stop that weeping, you’re as bad as your father—I want you to take my body to the Death Hut and lay it beside Darak’s.”

Keirith exchanged a shocked glance with Callie. The priestesses had folded Rigat’s hands to hide the missing forefinger. But Faelia . . . dear gods, his mam must have cut it off herself. He could not imagine the courage that must have taken.

“I had hoped that, without Rigat’s power to guide them, the Zherosi would cease gobbling up your land. That they would content themselves with what they already possessed. But now . . .” Fellgair’s gaze drifted to Rigat’s body, then returned to Mam’s face. “If they make a martyr of him, the north becomes a holy land. This hill, a shrine to their fallen god. And they will seek vengeance against those who killed him.”

Yet the Trickster had helped Rigat die. The god who had played games with their lives—with the lives of thousands, millions—had opened his arms without hesitation and given his son the death he so desperately desired. Had he known then what the consequences might be? Or had he simply wanted to grant Rigat’s wish—like an ordinary father?

“I want to believe that, too,” Fellgair replied. “But I fear for your people. I’ve seen many futures, but in most, the Zherosi cut down the forests. Build settlements. Marry the girls of the tribes. In only a few generations, there might be none left to worship the Oak and the Holly.”

“The tales—yes. Those will survive. But that’s all they’ll be—wonderful stories. About a hunter named Darak. A healer named Griane. A boy named Tinnean.”

“Do you think the Tree-Lords would do less? Cuillon would break limbs from his body to feed the fire that would warm you. The Oak-Lord would offer his to give you bows and spears. And the tree-folk of the Summerlands would do the same for the sons of Griane.”

“Your people have offered countless sacrifices to the gods,” Fellgair reminded her. “For your people to survive, the gods must make sacrifices, too.”

“I’ve already told you why I’m staying,” Fellgair replied with a touch of his old asperity. “I have little time left. When I lose the last remnants of my power, I will die.” A shudder rippled through his thin shoulders. Then he gave a hollow chuckle. “But tell the tale that way if you like. It will make me sound so much nobler.”

Keirith was suddenly aware that his mam had not spoken since Fellgair’s announcement. The flush had fled her cheeks and she looked terribly frail, but her expression was as determined as ever.

“Fellgair is right. I’d hoped . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. On the morrow—before dawn—I want to be carried up to the hilltop so I can watch you go.”

It took a moment for the import of her words to reach him. His cry of protest was immediately joined by others, but his mam simply waited for their voices to fall silent.

Resentment blazed, hot and fierce, at the prospect of Fellgair sharing Mam’s final moments of life, but when the Trickster’s mud-colored eyes fastened on him, it leached away. Whatever Fellgair had done—to him, to Mam, to Fa—it didn’t matter any longer.

“Callie,” she said, “give me your dagger.” Her hand rose, only to fall back onto her lap. With an impatient sigh, she said, “You’ll have to do it.”

“Winter is cruel in the First Forest—even with the gods’ help. The tribe must go to the Summerlands. And you must lead the way, Callie. You know the tale by heart. Go to the mouth of the great river and call Rowan. I know . . . I’m sure she’ll hear you. And she’ll take you in.”

“That strand is for you. Cut two more, please. For Keirith and Hircha.” As Callie obeyed, she mused, “I did this in the First Forest. To mark the trail for Darak. That was the first thing he said when he woke up. ‘What happened to your hair?’ I could have killed him.”

“He kept it, you know. That circlet of hair. In his bag of charms.” Suddenly, her hand darted out to squeeze Callie’s knee. “You must take his bag. Show the hair to Rowan. She’ll remember. I gave her one just like it.”

All night, they sat with her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. She drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes waking long enough to talk with them. Always of the past—of the happy times. Mostly, she seemed content to listen, offering an occasional nod or smile.

Hircha changed the bandages on her wrists. Keirith and Callie added wood to the fire. Each time Mam stirred, they all tensed, only to relax when she drifted off again.

Dully, Keirith reflected that the Maker—and perhaps even the Unmaker—must appreciate the symmetry. Order and chaos fought, but in the end, balance was restored. And so it was with his brother, a creature of light and dark, order and chaos, god and man. All his life, Rigat had struggled to find that balance. Perhaps in death he had.

Their sporadic conversation waned along with the night, until only the crackle of burning wood and the soft sound of their breathing disturbed the stillness. Keirith stared into the fire, awash in memories. Images formed before his dazzled eyes: the widespread wings of an eagle, the sinuous shape of an adder. A small shadow swallowed up by the longer one of the man who walked before him. A bronze blade slicing open the blue expanse of the sky. The frenzied splashing of fish in a pool. A stag, crafted from the water’s foam. Malaq’s freckled bloodstone. Rigat’s freckled face. And the pregnant woman from his vision, waving farewell.

He pulled himself from his reverie to stare around their little circle. There was Callie, who had always known his life-path and would fulfill it in the First Forest. Rigat, who had tried—and failed—to fulfill his. Hircha, who would become healer to the tribe. Fellgair, who had shaped the destinies of millions. And his all-too-human mam, the only woman in the world who had walked the fields and forests of the Summerlands, who had shared a life with the hero who helped save the world, and created a son with the god who was becoming a man.

His twisting life-path had brought him to this grotto. What lay beyond it? A future with Hircha, perhaps. But whether as friends or lovers, he couldn’t guess. Tree-Father to the tribe? Once that thought would have filled him with joy; now, he felt strangely empty.

He would see many wonders in the First Forest. He would have the opportunity to help his people weather the difficult days ahead and recover from the suffering they had endured. He had insisted that Rigat could start over, yet here he was, hanging back. Had the losses of this world left him immune to the wonder of the other? Or was he destined by his nature—or fate—to be forever dissatisfied?

Impatiently, he rose, startling Hircha and Callie. He muttered something about going outside to clear his head, but the crisp air did little more than chill him.

The orange glow of the fire faded. Turning, he discovered Fellgair at the entrance of the grotto, hands splayed on the rock to support him. As he shuffled forward, Keirith flung an arm around his waist and carefully eased him onto a boulder.

“Nay. I mean . . . it’s different now. Everything’s . . . changed.” His voice sounded forlorn, like a child crying for a lost toy—or an old man, longing for the happy, half-remembered past.

Fellgair seized his hand, startling him. “Stop looking back, Keirith. Stop clinging to the boy who died in Pilozhat. Or the wounded young man who lived on in the body of a stranger. Rigat’s words tonight were cruel, but they were mostly true. You’ve always been reluctant to use your gift. In Pilozhat, circumstances forced you to act. But in your own land, you seemed content to . . . drift. I’m not blaming you,” Fellgair quickly added. “When choices bring pain—to you or to others—it’s easier to avoid making them. But you must seize your life, Keirith. As shaman or rebel, healer or chief. You must weave the pattern yourself.”

Fellgair paused, gasping for breath. But when Keirith bent over him, the Trickster pushed him back. “Forgive me if I’m interfering. An old habit. Or if I appear to be playing the role of father. I’m ill-equipped to do so. But I love your parents. And I want their son to be happy. As mine never was.”

“I don’t know. Fa wasn’t seeking happiness when he joined the rebellion. Nor was Rigat when he declared himself the Son of Zhe. Now that they’re gone, it seems selfish to seek happiness when they were willing to die for the causes they believed in.”

“He believed in his family. In keeping us safe. That was always his cause. No matter what the tales say, he went into the First Forest to save Tinnean, not the Oak-Lord.”

Fellgair sighed. “And lived to raise a family of zealots. You. Faelia. Rigat. Even Callum, with his fervent devotion to the old tales. The world is changing, Keirith. Gods are dying. Tell your own tale.”

Keirith went very still. The image of the pregnant woman flashed through his mind. The intent faces of Selima’s fledglings as they listened to the story of Fa’s vision quest. And the trembling smiles of those whose spirits he had healed with his power—Hua and Eilin, Duba and Luimi, Idrian and Nuala.