Foxfire (21 page)

Fellgair ignored them both, staring at Fa with an expression that could only be described as tender. The face of a father scanning the features of a beloved son. Or a man gazing upon the face of his lover.

“Get out!” his father demanded.

The Trickster let his hands fall. Fa backed away unsteadily, but this time, Fellgair made no move to help him. “It appears Rigat has made his choice.”

“He never had a choice,” Fa replied. “Not after he met you.”

“You seem to think my influence will be wholly bad. You should know better. In me—”

“Order and chaos combine. Aye. And that's fine for a god. But Rigat doesn't deserve to be the battleground for order and chaos. He's just a boy.”

“He was never ‘just a boy.' ”

“You used my wife to gratify your lust. You gave her a child. And now, you're stealing him away from her. From all of us. But I suppose we've only ourselves to blame. For trusting you. For believing you would ever leave us in peace.”

“Spare me your self-righteous indignation. You're hardly a paragon of unflinching honesty, Darak. You've lied to yourself for years, not for Rigat's sake, but because you couldn't bear to picture your wife in my arms. You've lied to Rigat. You're still lying to him, clinging to the pretense that you love him. Oh, you try. It's a measure of your decency that you try so very hard. It's just a pity the effort is so obvious. Every time you look at him or force yourself to touch him or avoid calling him son.”

“Enough!” Keirith cut through the mesmerizing flow of words only to have that pitiless golden gaze turned on him.

“And then there's Keirith. And the lies you've told him.”

“Nay!” His mam blazed with the ferocity he had seen earlier. “You will not hurt him!”

“But we all must live with the consequences of our choices. Isn't that what you said?”

Fa seized his arm. “Go, Keirith. Please. Go now.”

Keirith's gaze darted from face to face, trying to understand how he had become the focus of contention.

Fellgair's eyes gleamed. “Such a small family to have so many secrets.”

Keirith started when he felt Rigat's presence inside his spirit.

Dimly, Keirith was aware of his parents shouting at Fellgair, but their voices were drowned out by those clamoring in his mind. His father's, insistent:
“She did it to protect you.”
Fellgair's, surprised and skeptical:
“Protect you
?” His mam's, trembling with sorrow
: “Every day for fourteen years, I've blamed myself . . .”

Fellgair made her choose. And she had chosen Fa.

He stumbled away, flinging out a hand to ward his father off. Ignoring the warning, Fa pulled him into an embrace. Keirith just stood there, arms hanging at his sides.

“She went to Fellgair for you, Keirith. She didn't mean to say my name. It just happened. Your mam loves you. You know that.”

He turned his head to escape the suffocating protection of his father's shoulder. Rigat had his arm around Mam's waist and was speaking urgently, but for once, she ignored her beloved child to stare at him, her eyes huge in her stark, white face.

Fa claimed it had just happened. But he was wrong. Or lying. She had chosen Fa because she loved him more. And although a part of him had always recognized that—had even accepted it—the truth knifed through him with the remembered agony of Xevhan's dagger. Only this agony would go on and on, dimming a little in the course of time, but always present, a wound that would never completely heal.

Poor Mam. No wonder she had refused to force Rigat to choose. She knew from experience how that felt. And poor Fa. He had endured the mutilation of his body, the rape of his spirit, and now this damning revelation by the god who had seduced his wife and splintered their family.

He made himself look up. The anxious lines of his father's face collapsed into each other and for a moment, Keirith was afraid he would weep.

“Don't,” he said. “I couldn't bear that.”

His father nodded, but continued watching him, silently pleading. He knew what Fa wanted, but he couldn't face her, not yet. Later, perhaps, when he could banish the bitterness from his voice and the pain from his face and trust himself to say the right things. Later, he could tell her that he understood, that these things “just happened.”

All he could do now was glance her way and mutter, “It's all right. I'm all right.” As he turned away, fingers clutched his shoulder, spinning him around.

“Please, Keir. Give it time,” Rigat pleaded. “I know it's hard. But don't walk away.”

“Take care of yourself,” Keirith replied. “And don't stay away long. Mam needs you.”

“She needs you, too.”

Keirith nodded, but he was desperate to put this place and everything that had happened here behind him. He had nearly reached the safety of the underbrush when he heard his mother's voice.

“I curse you, Trickster. Not for what you did to me all those years ago, but for the pain you caused Keirith today and the harm I know you will do Rigat. Every morning when I wake and every night before I sleep, I will curse your name. And pray that the gods who created you will make you suffer for what you've done.”

Fellgair opened his mouth to reply. Then he shrugged and held out his hand to Rigat. Instead of taking it, Rigat flung himself into their mother's arms.

“I love you. All of you. And I'll make you proud.” His brother's eyes met his. Then Rigat hurried toward the Trickster, and Keirith fled, pursued by his mother's anguished voice, calling his name.

G
RIANE MOVED THROUGH THE subsequent days like a dream-walker. Outwardly, life in the village settled into a kind of routine. The men filled what little free time they had with lessons on defensive strategy with Temet and the construction of the new terraces with Darak. The women gathered stones and cut turf to build homes for the newcomers. The children lost their pinched expressions of anxiety and no longer froze in fear when they heard an unexpected shout.

Darak flung himself into every activity with a single-minded intensity that left him exhausted at day's end. But every night, he turned to her as they lay under their wolfskins, offering the strength of his arms and the comfort of his body. Every night, she squeezed his arm and rolled away, unable—unwilling—to be comforted.

They explained Rigat's continued absence by saying that he had gone south to search for Temet's warriors. Callie and Faelia knew it was a lie, but they never voiced their questions and seemed to attribute her withdrawal to grief.

Keirith avoided her. When forced to share her company in the evenings, he was invariably polite, but kept his eyes averted, as if the very sight of her sickened him. Yet despite their estrangement, she was still shocked when he announced his intention to accompany Darak and Faelia when they left the village.

“We've discussed the matter,” he said, nodding to Temet.

Darak's expression made it clear that Keirith had not discussed it with him, but it was Callie who said, “Surely, you can do more good here. With your gift of vision—”

“That can be used anywhere. And my . . . appearance . . . could be useful.”

“As a spy, you mean?” Callie shook his head. “It's been years since you've spoken the language. If you're caught—”

“I'll claim I was captured. And managed to escape.”

“It's too risky. If you really want to help—”

“I've made up my mind.”

“You're no more a warrior than I am.”

“He can learn,” Faelia said. “I did.”

“But he hates killing!” In desperation, Callie turned to Darak who just said, “Keirith's a man. It's his choice.”

Griane winced; the words were too reminiscent of Fellgair's. Only then, of course, it had been her youngest son she was losing, not her firstborn.

“When will you go?” she asked Temet.

“Two days,” he said. “Three at the most.”

She had not expected it would be so soon. When she discovered her fist was pressed against her breastbone, she lowered her hand.

“Those who are badly wounded will need another half a moon to recover,” Temet continued. “We can't wait that long.”

At that moment, she hated Temet: his kind voice, his sympathetic expression. First, he had stolen her daughter. Now her husband and son. Silently, she corrected herself. Temet might have maneuvered Darak into leaving, but Griane knew she alone was responsible for Keirith's decision.

She felt her head nodding. Heard her voice asking what supplies they would need. But inside she was screaming, “Just go! Now! Fight your stupid battles. But leave my husband and children out of it.”

“Well,” she said. “I think the stew's finally hot. I hope you're hungry, Temet.”

Her hand was steady as she held out the bowl and her cheeks ached with the effort of smiling.

 

 

 

The next morning, Darak went to the longhut to ask Madig to serve as chief during his absence. Although he didn't like the man, he respected him. And having served as chief of his own tribe, Madig was the best choice to guide theirs through the moons to come.

The fierce light that filled Madig's eyes told Darak he had made the right choice. Until today, Madig had been listless and withdrawn. His grief over Seg might rage as strong as ever, but his desire to prove himself would give him the will to recover.

Darak ducked out of the hut, gratefully gulping in lungfuls of clean air. To his surprise, Hircha followed him outside and regarded him with a thoughtful frown.

“What?” he finally asked.

“You need to speak with Faelia. Nay, she's said nothing to me. But anyone with eyes can see something has happened.”

“It doesn't . . .” With an effort, Darak bit back the words. Although he had never regarded Hircha as a daughter, she was a member of his family and their troubles
did
concern her.

He leaned against the side of the longhut, staring up at the sky. He had planned to settle things with Faelia after they left the village, but he realized now that Hircha was right. How could he urge Keirith to make peace with Griane if he was unwilling to do the same with Faelia?

In a low voice, he asked, “Has Keirith said anything to you?”

Hircha's frown deepened. “He told me he was leaving. But not why.”

“He thinks his appearance—”

Impatiently, Hircha batted the air as if his words were a cloud of midges. “I know all that. But he didn't tell me the rest.” Her mouth quirked in a bitter frown. “We're a great family for secrets.”

He grimaced, recalling Fellgair's words. “Too many secrets.”

And then he told her everything: the truth about Rigat, the encounter with Fellgair. Once he started speaking, he couldn't seem to stop. His lack of control surprised him less than the overwhelming relief he felt in confessing the truth to someone.

Hircha listened in utter silence, although her breath caught when he told her about the choice Fellgair had forced upon Griane. When the flow of words finally ebbed, he simply stood there, relief giving way to anxiety. It was Griane's secret to reveal, not his.

“I knew the Trickster was dangerous,” Hircha said. “But I never understood why he took such an interest in your family.”

“It's a game,” Darak replied.

“At first, perhaps. But even a god can get caught up in his own game.” She studied him for a long moment before adding, “He never expected to fall in love with you.”

Darak felt the heat burning his face. As he struggled to find the words to deny it, Hircha said, “You and Griane.” Her voice was gentle, like a mother explaining something to a very young child. “He had you both, didn't he? He forced you to offer him your spirit and Griane to offer her body.”

“And got a son on my wife. What more does he want?”

“Perhaps he simply wants to be loved.”

“He wants to possess. That's different.”

“Maybe that's the closest he can manage. And since he couldn't possess you or Griane—not forever, not completely—he took Rigat.”

“But why hurt Keirith? Why go out of his way—?”

“To hurt you. And Griane. Always, in the past, you've acknowledged his power and forgiven him for the pain he caused. This time, you refused. If he can't have your love, at least he can earn your hatred. Any passion is better than simply being . . . ignored.”