Foxfire (11 page)

As the talk turned to birthings and deaths and illnesses, Darak rose and pretended to stretch, all the while scanning the crowd. Still no sign of Rigat. Or Seg. He spotted Keirith easily enough, though. He was talking with Hircha now. As he watched, Keirith strode off. Judging by the determined way Hircha followed, she was not about to let him escape.

It was past time for Keirith and Conn to sort things out. But he doubted even Hircha—strong-willed as she was—could reconcile them if Keirith wasn't ready.

 

 

 

“Why can't you let it go?” Keirith demanded.

“Because this nonsense has gone on long enough. You never visit us. You hardly even talk to Conn. Or me. We used to be best friends.”

Keirith turned away from Hircha's piercing gaze to stare at the lake. The Twins shadowed the western half, but to the east, the water sparkled with red-gold flashes that reminded him of the coins the Zherosi called serpents.

Together, he and Hircha had survived Zheros—and Xevhan. In time, she had learned to look past the body he wore and see him, not the man who had abused her. But although they had grown close, it was friendship, not passion that had evolved.

When Conn's family first arrived in the valley, his milk-brother had been jealous of that friendship, but soon realized he could share it. For nearly a year, things had been perfect.

“Why does everything have to change?” he whispered.

“Conn hasn't changed. Neither have I.”

“So it's my fault.”

Hircha just regarded him silently.

“Things are different now,” he said.

“How?”

“I've another body, for one thing.”

“You had that before we left Eagles Mount.”

“And we're both older. We have responsibilities.”

“And I'm Conn's wife.”

“Aye.”

“What difference does that make?” she demanded.

“Because I'm the one who's alone!”

Appalled at having blurted it out, he turned on his heel. Hircha caught his arm. “You idiot. We're right here. Every day.”

“And every night, you lie together under your furs. While I lie next to my little brother and wake with my seed spurting onto my belly like a boy!”

“Then take a wife,” she snapped. “If you think marriage is just a warm body under the furs and a warm sheath for your cock!”

“Thank you, but I'd prefer to sleep alone than with someone I don't love.”

Her head snapped back.

“I didn't mean that.” But he had and she knew it. “I'm sorry.”

It was Hircha's turn to stare at the glistening lake. “Not everyone is like Darak and Griane. Not everyone wants that . . . closeness.”

Hircha might not, but he suspected Conn did. Still, they seemed happy enough. Conn clearly adored her. And Hircha had found a way to fit in.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated. “I'm just . . . there are times I hate my body and my powers and everyone around me who's . . . normal. And that makes me feel like the worst brother and the worst son and the worst friend in the world.”

“You're never happy unless you're miserable.”

“That's not true.”

“Instead of taking it out on me or Conn, go beat your head against a rock. That ought to cheer you up.”

“It's not funny.”

“And it's not always your fault.”

“You just said I was the one who pulled away.”

“All right. That
was
your fault. Happy now?”

Keirith could feel a smile twitching the corner of his mouth up. “I'm pathetic, aren't I?”

“Aye. And the worst brother, the worst son, the worst friend . . . did I miss anything?”

Hircha smiled. She was not a person who smiled often or easily, so it was always a sort of gift when she did. When he'd first seen her—the morning of his interrogation by Malaq and Xevhan—he'd been struck by her physical beauty: the moon-gold hair, the slender, graceful body. But her face was as cold as stone. Stolen as a child by the Zherosi, she'd learned very early to hide her feelings and thoughts. She might give Conn affection and loyalty and kindness, but Keirith believed that she only opened her heart to him. Or maybe he just wanted to believe he possessed something of her that Conn did not.

“Sometimes, I feel so . . . separate from everyone,” he said.

Her smile vanished. “Sometimes I feel that way, too.” She surprised him by resting her palm against his cheek. “Talk to Conn.”

“I will. Soon.”

Her gaze shifted. “Sooner than you expected.”

He turned to find Conn running toward them. At first, he wondered if Hircha had arranged this, but the expression on Conn's broad face made it clear something was wrong. Only then did he become aware of a commotion around the fire pit.

“What is it?” he asked Conn.

“Seg claims Rigat found a Zherosi spear.”

Hircha was the first to recover. “I'll fetch Darak.”

 

 

 

Why had he insisted on showing off? He should have known Seg wouldn't keep his mouth shut. Already men were shouting that the Zherosi must be on the move, that an attack was imminent. Claiming he had found the spear in the forest would only feed the panic. But how could he possibly reveal the truth?

His vision mate had called him clever, but he'd behaved like a fool. Too much wine, too much boasting. And now he was trapped.

When he saw his father pushing through the crowd, relief made his legs tremble.

“All right,” Fa said. So calm, that voice, so steady. “What's all this about a spear?”

Madig thrust it out. “Rigat claims he found it on his vision quest.”

“Not found it,” Seg corrected. “He said . . . something about his vision mate.”

It was his word against Seg's. Just like before. Only this time Seg was drunk. No one would believe him. But that still didn't explain the presence of a Zherosi spear in the wilderness.

A hand came down on his shoulder. “Rigat is afraid to tell you what happened,” Gortin said. “But I know.”

The fear was a live thing, clawing at his belly.

“After Rigat's vision quest, a portal opened before him. A portal to Chaos. And a Zherosi warrior hurled this spear at him.”

Chaos was the only word to describe the uproar that ensued. But Gortin just stood there, utterly composed and utterly convinced of what he had Seen.

“A Zherosi warrior?” Rothisar snorted. “In Chaos?”

“They call it the Abyss,” Keirith said.

“Chaos or the Abyss,” Madig shouted, “a spirit cannot hurl a real spear through a portal!”

“Did not our own chief enter Chaos as a living man?” Gortin demanded. “Armed with a real dagger?”

The shouting was dying down now. Feeble as Gortin was, he was still Tree-Father.

“I've witnessed the opening of a portal. At that Midwinter battle when the spirit of the Oak-Lord was lost and Morgath returned to this world.”

The silence was absolute now. Even Rigat was caught by the passion in Gortin's voice.

“I can still remember the terror of that night. As Darak must recall the terror of plummeting through a portal into the Unmaker's realm. Is it any wonder Rigat was too frightened to speak of it? And if he had, how many would have dismissed his tale as the imaginings of a young man caught in the glory of his vision quest?”

“Rigat?”

His father's expression was as calm as his voice. But was there a warning in those gray eyes?

The silence stretched, the breathless anticipation of the crowd as real as Gortin's hand on his shoulder. Rigat wished he could draw out the moment, savor it like wine, but his boastfulness had gotten him into too much trouble already.

“I should have known the Tree-Father would See what really happened. But I was too scared to tell.”

Everyone would believe fear made his voice shake, but it was simply relief. He would offer a sacrifice to the Maker in thanks for his reprieve. Or perhaps he should offer one to the Trickster; it was just the sort of irony the god would appreciate.

Madig tossed the spear to the ground as if it were contaminated. The crowd began to drift away. Keirith was still eyeing him though, and Rigat had no desire to talk with his brother. He snatched up the spear, intent on slipping away, when a firm hand grasped his arm.

“We need to talk,” his father said.

“Now?”

“Aye. The three of us.”

That's when Rigat noticed his mam hovering a few paces away, her face pinched and worried.

He wanted to tell her that it was all right. That nothing bad had happened. That his power was a good thing. More than anything though, he just wanted to run away.

“We can't talk here,” he said, desperate to postpone the discussion.

“Nay. At home. It's time, Rigat,” his father added in a gentler voice.

Rigat nodded and numbly followed them toward the hill fort. Then he heard a renewed commotion behind him and froze. Had the Tree-Father realized his error? Or had Seg said something else to turn the tribe against him?

 

 

 

Darak spun around, frowning. “Bel's blazing ballocks. What now?” Then he saw Nemek's younger boy, Arun, tottering toward him. Sweat streaked his face and his chest heaved, but it was the terror in his white-rimmed eyes that held Darak's gaze.

Arun reeled and Darak lunged forward to catch him. The boy's fingers dug into his forearms as he struggled to form words. Darak steadied him, then went down on one knee.

“Are you hurt?”

Arun shook his head.

“Take a deep breath.”

The breath wheezed out in a soft whimper. Darak heard an echoing whimper from Catha. Her left hand reached for Arun, while her right cradled her belly as if to protect her unborn child as well. Nemek's hand descended on her shoulder, stilling her, but her body trembled with the need to comfort her son.

“Arun.” Darak kept his voice soft. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“I was on the hill. Taking food to Jadan. He's on watch today and—”

“What happened, Arun?”

“We saw people. Running across the moor.”

Darak frowned. Jadan should have sounded the ram's horn when he sighted the strangers.

“And there were other people. Chasing them.”

Darak silenced the frenzied babble with a peremptory shout.

“Arun. Tell me everything. Quickly.”

The boy closed his eyes, as if picturing the scene. “Twenty or so people running. Trying to run. The ones chasing them—they were in a square. Once they stopped and shot arrows. But they were out of range. So they started moving again.” Arun's eyes popped open. “There was a man in front. With a metal helmet. I saw the sun glinting off it.”

“It's the Zherosi!”

“An attack!”

“We'll all be killed!”

Arun burst into tears. A woman screamed.

Before the outcry could escalate, Darak jumped to his feet. “By the gods, I will not have panic!” He glared at Catha who happened to be closest; her hand flew to her mouth, stifling her sobs. “Arun. How many warriors did you see?”

“They were all bunched together—”

“How many do you think?”

“I . . . a hundred?”

“How far?”

“A mile. Maybe.”

“In what direction?”

Arun pointed south, then swallowed hard. “The people who were running? I think the one in the lead was a woman. Her hair . . . it looked too long to be a man's.” Arun bit his lip. “It was red, Alder-Chief. Her hair. Bright red.”

Darak closed his eyes.

Stealing his breath. Constricting his heart.

He could taste it, cold and bitter as bronze.

He took a deep breath. Then another. Swallowed the bile that filled his mouth. And opened his eyes.

His gaze found Griane. Rigat. Keirith. Where was Callie? He couldn't find Callie. Wait, there he was, with his arm around Ela.

“All right.” He raised his voice to ensure that those in the back could hear. “We have prayed this day would not come, but it has. Douse that fire. Smother it,” he corrected. “And those in the village.”

Jadan had wisely realized that this war party was unaware of their existence and refused to sound the ram's horn. They must use the element of surprise to their advantage.

Every member of the tribe knew the plan; the children recited their roles at Nemek's knee along with the tribal legends. Still, he took a few moments to review it; in a crisis, it was too easy to forget details.

As he spoke, he scanned the faces of the leaders: Madig's, cold and determined—as irritating as a thorn in the foot, but he could be counted on to do his part; old Trath's, seamed and tanned as leather—he would defend the hill fort to the death; Mirili's, creased with concern as she calmed Catha—a survivor of many attacks, her presence would steady the younger women; Rothisar's, eyes blazing with excitement—best keep him close or he'd charge across the moor alone to attack the invaders.

Othak looked like he was going to be sick, but Gortin stood straight as an oak. Even after all these years, the man continued to surprise him. Barasa was trembling visibly, while Lisula—whose head barely reached the Grain-Mother's shoulder—patted Barasa's clenched fists. Lisula and Gortin—one still brimming with energy, the other whose life was draining away. Like The Twins that guarded the eastern pass, they were the spiritual strength of the tribe.