Foxfire (36 page)

Shock rippled through her spirit. She fled deeper inside herself, flinging up barriers. He destroyed them with ease, only to be thrust back by her unexpected assault.

Clever. And strong. But he was stronger.

When he renewed his attack, her knees buckled. He slid off the throne and wrapped his arms around her, both of them swaying like dancers, like lovers. But her narrowed eyes and fierce grimace proved that they were combatants, locked together in the tide of their mutual power.

He touched fear, but beneath it was a strange excitement that only fed his. He was wildly aroused—by the battle, by her strength, by her body pressed hard against his. He wanted to throw her to the floor and take her, thrusting into her body as he thrust into her spirit. And she wanted it, too. He could feel her desire, as potent as the power.

Humiliation left him vulnerable. She pressed her advantage, driving past his shields, and the memories poured out of him: the uncertainty of the World Tree when he touched it; Madig's voice, soft and malevolent: “A murderer. An abomination. Just like your brother.” And Mam's haunted face as she pressed his hand to her heart and whispered, “Please, Rigat.”

Fury lent him renewed strength. He turned the full force of his power upon her, stripping away her defenses to probe the secret places of her spirit with the same ruthlessness that she had attempted to uncover his: scarlet flowers blooming in a small garden; a frail youth with glazed eyes and a sleepy smile; a tiny, blood-spattered face, barely recognizable as human.

Her mouth opened. But it was her spirit that screamed.

Shaken by her rage and terror, his fury died, leaving only shame. He had told Fellgair he wanted to use his power to heal. Instead, stung by her teasing, he had lashed out. And although he might have convinced her that he was the son of a god, he had also demonstrated that he was a cruel and vindictive child.

What would his mam think of him? Or Darak? Unbidden, their faces rose before him, Darak's stern with disapproval, his mam's shocked and grief-stricken. He had failed them as surely as he had failed the queen. Even if she believed he was the son of Zhe, she would never trust him again. And there would never be peace between their peoples.

She moaned as he withdrew from her spirit. Gently, he lowered her onto her throne and waited for her eyes to focus. And then, because he wasn't sure his thoughts had reached her, he whispered, “Forgive me.”

The others were all on their feet, their expressions ranging from horror to anger to terrified submission. The Khonsel's dagger was in his hand; only Fellgair's grip kept him from charging.

His father's expression was unreadable.

Rigat bowed to them all, but directed his words to Fellgair and the Khonsel. “You were right to doubt me. I don't deserve to be the son of a god.”

He could barely manage to rip open a portal. Perhaps Fellgair helped him; he was too tired to be certain. But when he saw the welcoming shadows of the forest, he fled toward them, desperate to leave shame and failure behind.

“
T
HAT DAMNED FORTRESS is locked tighter than a virgin's legs,” Pedar grumbled. “That's the price of success,” Temet replied. “And we have Keirith to thank for it.”

Keirith saw Temet's grin reflected on the faces of the others—Faelia and Selima, Mikal and Pedar—the special few who planned every attack and discussed every strategy. Now he was part of that inner circle.

It had been more than a sennight since he'd seen Rigat. At their last meeting, his brother had seemed distracted. Perhaps the recent inactivity had left him as restless as everyone else.

“I'm sorry I've been so useless lately,” he said.

“You've been pushing yourself too hard,” Faelia replied. “Healing Eilin. And Idrian and Nuala.”

Mikal frowned; he'd made no secret of the fact that he resented Keirith “squandering” his gift on healing the spirits of the “weak.”

“You can't seek a vision every night,” Faelia continued. “I told you—”

“I know, I know.”

“You may know, but you don't listen.”

“You're supposed to listen to me. You
are
my little sister.”

Pedar made a great show of covering his head with his arms. “Oh, gods. No bloodshed.”

Faelia punched his arm, and he yelped. “It's him you should be hitting.”

“You're closer.”

“Temet, control your woman.”

“You're on your own, friend. It'd be worth my head to interfere.”

“Not to mention other parts of your anatomy,” Faelia said with a sweet smile.

“Don't take those,” Selima protested. “They're the only parts worth having.”

Pressing his hand over his heart as if stricken, Pedar rolled off the log. Mikal waited for the laughter to ebb before nudging him with his foot. “Get up, fool. And help us figure out how to open the virgin's legs.”

Pedar glanced from Faelia to Selima, but the looks they gave him were enough to send him back to his place with only a meek, “Oh. Right. The fortress.”

“They have to come out eventually,” Selima said. “Even if it's only to hunt.”

Mikal shook his head. “Not if they're rationing their supplies.”

“Or if our people are hunting for them,” Temet added.

His words dispelled the lingering good humor created by Pedar's silliness. They all knew that the village near The Bluff traded with the Zherosi.

“We could pressure them . . .”

Mikal's voice trailed off as Temet shook his head. “Then we'd be no better than the Zherosi.”

“Well, we're too few to consider an assault on Little Falls,” Selima said. “And it would be suicide to attack The Bluff.”

Faelia leaned forward. “But the garrison is undermanned. And thanks to our ambushes, the Zherosi haven't been able to reinforce it.”

“They'd cut us down before we were halfway up the hill,” Selima insisted.

“I still say we could fire the palisade.”

Pedar groaned. “We've been over this a dozen times.”

“Nay, listen. Say a dozen of us sneak up the hill. With some brush to—”

“There's precious little darkness this close to Midsummer,” Pedar interrupted. “They're bound to notice a lot of shrubs creeping up on them.”

Selima jabbed him with her elbow. “Let her talk.”

“Forget the brush,” Faelia said. “If we can get within bowshot, we could use flaming arrows to fire the palisade. All we need is pine resin—or animal fat—”

“Or some of that lovely scented oil the Zherosi commanders use on their hair.”

“Shut up, Pedar!”

The first time Keirith had witnessed one of their arguments, he'd feared they would come to blows. Only Temet remained aloof, content to listen and offer a quiet remark when tempers flared. Like a father with a brood of quarrelsome children. When he finally raised his hand, the contentious voices immediately fell silent.

“I still say it's too risky. Unless we have Nial's band with us. They're the closest.”

“Nial's a stiff-necked bastard,” Mikal said. “Do you really think he'll cooperate?”

“That's the whole point of this Gathering. To find ways we can work together.”

“Fa and Sorig will be back by then,” Faelia said. “If they've brought recruits—”

“A big ‘if,' ” Selima interrupted. When Faelia stiffened, she quickly added, “If anyone can convince them to fight, the Spirit-Hunter can. But we can't pin our strategy on that.”

“Which is why we'll wait until the Gathering to finalize our plans,” Temet said.

“What if we fired the ships?” Keirith asked.

They all stared at him. Until now, he had simply relayed Rigat's information and allowed them to discuss strategy.

Pedar blew out his breath in exasperation. “There are no ships at The Bluff. The river's too shallow—”

“Not The Bluff. Little Falls. We could swim across the river at night—”

“Nial tried that,” Mikal interrupted. “The guards heard the splashing and picked them off. Like spearing salmon in a fish trap.”

“That was at Deepford,” Faelia said. “At Little Falls, the rapids would disguise any noise.”

Keirith shot his sister a grateful look. “And they wouldn't expect an attack. Not on their largest fortress.”

Pedar shuddered. “Which is a damn good reason not to attack it.”

“The ships will be guarded,” Mikal said. “And we'd have to avoid the village.” His scowl reminded everyone that his tribe willingly cooperated with the Zherosi. “It might work. But . . .”

“What?” Temet asked.

Mikal moved his shoulders as if his tunic had suddenly grown too tight. “There's bound to be changes since Keirith's last vision. I'd just feel better if we could see the fortress firsthand.”

An awkward silence fell. With Sorig gone, Mikal was the obvious choice, but everyone knew how much he hated going anywhere near his birthplace.

“It can wait,” Temet said. “After Sorig returns, we can—”

“Nay,” Mikal interrupted. “If we want to convince Nial to help, we'll need as much information as possible before the Gathering.”

“Right.” Temet's voice was brisk, but he squeezed Mikal's shoulder briefly. “Choose two or three others to go with you.”

“It might be better if I went alone.” Mikal grimaced. “I can always say I came back to mend my differences with my father.”

Temet nodded. “We'll move camp tonight, but stay close to The Bluff for a sennight in case there's another attempt to relieve it. After that, we head west to the Gathering place.”

Keirith knew better than to ask where it was. Temet had probably told Mikal the location, but the rest of them would only learn their exact destination on the final leg of the journey.

The group slowly dispersed for the evening meal. Probably suetcakes and smoked venison again. Although they were half a day's journey from The Bluff, Temet had ordered that no fires were to be lit until after the Gathering, fearing a hunter might spy the smoke and report to the Zherosi.

As Keirith wandered through the clearing, he passed men and women sharpening blades and fletching arrows. A few—less industrious—sprawled on the grass, their bodies striped by the sunlight slanting through the trees. Hard to imagine that less than half a moon ago, these same men and women had slaughtered dozens of Zherosi.

At the edge of the embankment, he spied Eilin at the stream below, picking his way across the rocks. The boy started as two of the bathing men playfully hurled gouts of water at him. Then he smiled and brandished his fishing spear with exaggerated menace.

In the first days after his healing, Eilin had tagged after him like a puppy, afraid to let him out of his sight. But he seemed more confident now—and he'd lost that glaze-eyed look of silent terror.

He'd been less successful with Idrian and Nuala. Temet had sent them both home, overruling Keirith's pleas that they simply needed more time to recover.

“Maybe so,” Temet had said. “But they'll have to do that elsewhere. I send the wounded home to keep them from slowing us down. These two may have different wounds, but I can't permit them to endanger the rest of us.”

At least he had helped them through the worst of it. And Temet had been kind in his farewell, assuring them that he would need them come winter when the Zherosi began their logging operations.

Keirith's worries faded as he meandered through a pretty little copse of birches. He caressed the slender trunks, delighting in the feathery curls of bark. As the trees gave way to a rocky ledge, he caught his breath.

It was like standing at the edge of the world. Rolling hills spread out beneath him, an endless canopy of green that faded into a soft blue in the distance. Shading his eyes against the setting sun, he made out the occasional glint of water, and, far to the west, a thin haze where smoke rose from a village.

Could the Zherosi really destroy all of this? It seemed impossible. Yet he had seen the sun-baked plains of their homeland where legends claimed forests had once stretched for miles.

Choosing a spot well away from the edge, he sat and rested his back against a sun-warmed boulder. He had always loved sunsets in the north, the soft colors melting together as evening approached, the lingering half-light of the gloaming fading so slowly you could still make out the black outlines of the trees far into the night.