Bloodstone (7 page)

When the power of the World Tree flooded him, Tinnean had helped him understand he could surrender to the song without losing himself. When Struath sought to learn whether Morgath had taken his body, the assault was brutal but brief. Morgath’s invasion was so gentle he’d scarcely been aware of it. The terror came later.

And now Keirith had attacked him. His son had invaded his spirit.

He squinted into the distance, cursing the failing light and his aging eyes. He could see no signs of movement among the clumps of gorse and moor grass that studded the rocky terrain.

He hadn’t ventured onto Eagles Mount since he was a boy. The northern slope was less steep, but hidden from Gheala’s feeble light. If he circled up from the south, he’d face a more difficult climb. He was still trying to decide the best course when he heard the hoarse panting. He whirled around, shouting Keirith’s name.

Conn pulled up so quickly he nearly dropped his torch. “Nay, it’s me, Memory-Keeper.”

“What is it?”

“Mother Griane. She came to our hut. She said . . . well . . . there’d been a fight. About Keirith’s apprenticeship.”

“You knew?”

Conn took a hasty step backward. “He only told me today.” His head drooped. “We had a fight, too. Because he hadn’t told me before and because . . . I think there’s more to it than he’s letting on.”

Conn gave him a searching look, but Darak just nodded.

“I can take you. To the place he goes. On Eagles Mount.”

Blessing Griane’s foresight and Conn’s loyalty, he squeezed the boy’s shoulder and nodded again.

As they trotted toward Eagles Mount, he kept going over the confrontation with Keirith. He could still feel the lingering ache in his head, still hear his son’s voice screaming inside him.

Instinct. That was all it was. The same instinct that impelled a trapped animal to flee or to fight. He had prevented Keirith from fleeing, so he had to fight, throwing that power at him with mindless strength.

One look at Keirith’s face told him he was horrified by what he’d done. His son hadn’t set out to hurt him. He was just scared and angry. He could have no idea of the memories the attack would evoke.

His children knew the story, of course. Every child did. But he never spoke of Morgath. Even Griane, whom he trusted more than anyone in the world . . . even to her, he had never confessed the helpless terror he’d experienced while he hung on that twisted tree in Chaos.

Now, he was equally helpless to withstand the memories: Morgath wearing Yeorna’s body, her beauty only amplifying his evil; Morgath smiling as he severed the fingers, one by one; Morgath stroking his body, oozing through his spirit, staining him forever with his touch.

“Memory-Keeper? Watch the footing here. It’s tricky.”

Even with Conn’s guidance, he slipped twice, but the bruises and scrapes wouldn’t matter if they found Keirith. Instead, the ledge was empty. If he’d come here, he hadn’t stayed long; the grass was cool, the blades springing straight up under his questing palm.

When he slipped again on the way down, Conn urged him to go home. Reason told him they could search all night without finding Keirith, that they would never find him unless he wanted to be found, that he would have a far better chance of tracking him in the morning. And then he imagined the broken body of his son lying in the cold and the dark.

Conn’s piece of deadwood burned down to a stick no longer than his thumb as they searched the places where Keirith might have gone: the tumble of boulders on the eastern slope of Eagles Mount where the boys used to pretend to be wolves stalking the flocks; the sheltered strip of beach where they had made their blood vow; the small stand of alders where they spied on the girls bathing in the river.

“Don’t tell him I brought you here,” Conn said. “He’d kill me. So would my fa.”

It was the only time that night Darak smiled.

They found no signs of Keirith in any of the familiar places, but near a tiny grotto under the exposed roots of an oak, Gheala’s fleeting light revealed a footprint in the damp earth. It was at least a day old, certainly made before he had come home. The thought of his son hiding there, too ashamed to face him, sickened him.

He knew what it was like to grow up in a father’s shadow. His had been the best hunter in the tribe. He’d spent his youth and early manhood trying to best him. Until he discovered his father’s spirit in Chaos, he had preserved the memory of him as a cold man, distant and critical. He had sworn to be a different sort of father. Yet Keirith’s words and actions bespoke far deeper problems than the natural pulling away that occurred when a boy became a man. Long before this night, he had failed his son—and he wasn’t even sure how.

The night was waning by the time they headed back to the village. The threatened storm had blown past with only a few fat raindrops. Seeing him eyeing the sky, Conn repeated his promise to help him search again at daybreak.

“He won’t have gone far, Memory-Keeper. I know him. He gets in these moods sometimes, but they always pass.”

Darak patted the exhausted boy and told him to go home, but Conn lingered. “If he comes home . . . if you see him before I do . . . just . . . tell him I’m sorry.”

“I will. And thank you, Conn. Keirith’s lucky to have you for a friend.”

Thankfully, the children didn’t stir when he entered the hut, although Urkiat jerked awake. One look at Griane’s face told him Keirith had not come home.

She cleaned his cuts and scrapes without fussing, a sure sign that she was worried. Before he undressed, he bent over Faelia and then Callie, kissing each lightly on the forehead. Later, lying next to Griane under the wolfskins, she told him in a halting whisper that she had gone to the Tree-Father for help. He was surprised and ashamed when she told him that Gortin and Meniad had promised to use their vision to search for Keirith if he was still missing in the morning.

Darak winced, remembering his words to Gortin: “If you’re making up this story to hurt my son—if you’re using him to wreak some kind of twisted vengeance on me because you believe I caused Struath’s death—then by the gods, I will destroy you.”

He had always dismissed Gortin as Struath’s weak successor. Yet Gortin cared enough for Keirith to overlook those awful words, proving himself the better man.

He pulled Griane into his arms, grateful for the comfort of her body nestled against his. Long after she’d finally drifted into sleep, Darak lay awake, staring into the darkness.

The only way Keirith managed to stay warm was by moving. All night he wandered through the foothills north of the village, never daring to go too deep into the forest for fear of losing the path or encountering one of the creatures that roamed the night—the wolves and wildcats of this world, the demons and restless spirits of the other. Despite his earlier bravado, he was no more prepared to face a demon than he was to face his father.

Whenever he thought about what he had done, the shaking started. Sometimes it got so bad he had to kneel until he could force his legs to bear him again. He devised a dozen wild plans to escape his home forever. Cursed the roots and stones that seemed to rear up, determined to trip him. Cursed the gods. Prayed. Cursed himself. Wept. Cursed himself for weeping.

And always, his thoughts returned to his father. When he skirted the path that led to the heart-oak, he remembered the first time his father took him into the forest. When he searched the cloudy sky for the Archer, he remembered his father telling him the point of the constellation’s arrowhead would always guide him home. When he spied the open expanse of the lake, he remembered his father teaching him to swim, the big hands supporting his belly, the soft voice instructing him, the sputtering laugh when his clumsy efforts doused him with water. Every thought, every memory conjured up that awful moment when he attacked his father and felt his spirit’s horror echoing inside him.

Dawn was nearing when he finally collapsed on the beach, a mere bowshot from the village. Mist shrouded the lake, enveloping him in a dense white cloud, like an insect wrapped in a cocoon. His trances always began like this, his vision clouded by mist. One day, the Tree-Father had promised, he would be able to cross the barrier between worlds. So far, he had only succeeded in parting the mists long enough to See farther into this one.

He had not called upon Natha since his apprenticeship ended. He wasn’t even sure a spirit guide could still hear someone who was no longer on the path of the shaman. But Natha was both vision mate and spirit guide, the one relationship forged during his quest to manhood, the other evolving as he learned to access his powers.

Keirith called his name three times, asking Natha to help him conquer the terrible gift that had brought him to this moment and lend him the courage to return home. For he knew he must return. Much as he dreamed of escaping, he had nowhere to go. Even if he did, how could he just disappear, leaving his mam to wonder if he was alive or dead? He could not keep running like a scared animal. A man faced the consequences of his actions.

The mist swirled around him. His body swayed in rhythm to the mesmerizing dance. He sucked in a great gulp of cold air and let it out slowly, steadying himself. He breathed again. In. Out. Slow. Deep. The first skills the Tree-Father had taught him. Controlling your breath. Emptying your mind. Seeking the inner stillness that would allow the spirit to surrender to the gods-given vision.

A long tendril of mist floated toward him. It curled sinuously around his ankles. It rose to encircle his knees, his waist, his chest. Cool and damp, it licked his neck, kissed his cheeks, tickled his eyelashes. Mist filled his vision, blinding him with white. And then a pair of red-brown eyes blinked open so close to his that he gasped.

Natha flowed around him, as insubstantial as the mist. Yet he could clearly see the black scales that zigzagged down the adder’s green back, the dark “X” on the back of his head.

“Where have you been?” Natha whispered.

“Lost.”

Natha sighed, his body dissolving, leaving only the large eyes gazing steadfastly into his. “And now you have found your way.”

“Aye.”

“Good. But first you must See.”

Natha curled around his shoulders, his small body as heavy as a wet mantle. Just as the weight grew oppressive, the mist thinned. Keirith glimpsed the trees on the far side of the lake, the faint outline of Stag’s Leap. Then, as if sucked away by the mouth of a giant, the mist vanished.

Although the valley still lay in shadow, Bel’s light illuminated the summit of Eagles Mount. Just below it, he could make out the female perched on her nest. His heartbeat quickened when he spotted the small blotch of white nestled under her dark breast feathers. A chick had hatched. And he was the first of his tribe to see it.

“Thank you for this gift, Natha.”

His spirit guide hissed. “Foolish boy. Would I waste my time showing you what you could see with your own eyes?”

Puzzled, he let his gaze drift. He spotted the eagle, soaring through the narrow channel between Eagles Mount and Stag’s Leap. Only then, did Keirith See.

The wooden boats were huge, ten or twelve times longer than a man’s height. Above them, giant squares of cloth flapped in the breeze. Even their paddles were enormous, long and slender as saplings. There had to be twenty on each side, like the legs of a crawling insect, only these legs dipped rhythmically into the water, driving the boats swiftly up the lake.

Men clustered together on the wooden planks of the boats, but most wielded the long paddles, their bodies rocking back and forth in a stately, seated dance. He could See their breath steaming in the cool morning air, their muscles bunching under the sleeves of their tunics, the sweat dripping down their backs.

Two boats slowly turned away from the others. On the windcloths, black ovals stared out of circles of red like malevolent, bloodshot eyes. Natha hissed a warning, but he could not look away. The eyes grew larger, filling his vision, mocking his puny gift, pulling him down into twin pools of darkness.

Keirith’s spirit slammed back into his body with such force that he slumped onto the pebbles, as helpless to stop the convulsions as he had been to withstand those all-seeing eyes. Through chattering teeth, he managed to gasp out his name, once, twice, three times. When the convulsions ceased, he patted his body with shaking hands. Then he lay back, exhausted.

Gortin and Meniad always cautioned that visions were unreliable; even they sometimes struggled to make sense of what they saw. Visions could carry you to a familiar place or one that didn’t exist at all, offer glimpses into the past or warn of what might happen far in the future.

He couldn’t ask Natha; his spirit guide had vanished as soon as the trance ended. Mist once again enveloped the beach, muffling the sound of the groaning tree branches and the small splashes made by fish rising to feed. Judging by the number of splashes, the fishermen would have a fine catch.