Foxfire (56 page)

He sounded gloomy, but there was something else in his voice—resentment?

“You're young,” Keirith said, then wondered if he had revealed too much. “I can tell by your voice. It gets easier when you're older. When I was a boy, I had my share of arguments with my father, but now we're—”

Unexpected emotion choked him.

“Are you all right?”

A hand brushed his shoulder, but he turned his face away. With a whispered apology, Jarel left.

He knew what he had to do. And he knew he had little time. If the Zherosi had brought him to Little Falls, it would take Fa only three or four days to reach it from the Gathering site.

He lay motionless on the furs, waiting for the effects of the dream-brew to ebb, for his mind to grow clear, for his quarry to return. And when he did, Keirith had a smile in place to greet him.

“I was afraid you weren't coming back.”

“I wanted to say again that I was sorry. For upsetting you. Please forgive me.”

“There's nothing to forgive.”

“I was clumsy. And stupid.”

“Nay, you're kind. The only person who's been kind to me here.” A shaky breath. A determined squaring of the shoulders. A soft, reluctant confession: “I've always felt so alone. Never more so than now.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do. I felt that—right from the start.”

Their conversation was halting, but each time an awkward silence fell, Keirith shifted to another topic, offering stories about his youth that encouraged Jarel to respond in kind. They talked about their first clumsy attempts to fish, laughing at each other's tales of tangled lines and lost lures. They shared the dreams they had as boys. Keirith even spoke of his time in Pilozhat, careful to praise the beauty of the sea, the majesty of the palace, the kindness of the Pajhit.

When the healer came and tried to give him the dream-brew, Jarel sent him away with an authority that dispelled Keirith's lingering doubts about whether he was a Zheroso.

Without the brew to hinder him, he felt renewed strength in his limbs, renewed clarity in his thoughts. He laughed at the boy's jokes. Sympathized over the death of his mother. Praised him for defying the Zherosi healer. And as the words flowed effortlessly from his mouth, his stomach roiled with the sickening knowledge that he had to cast out this gentle, lonely spirit.

If the Zherosi captured Fa, they would either keep him a prisoner forever or kill him. He had to suppress the reluctant sympathy he felt for this boy and use his body to escape.

He pulled energy from the earth beneath him, from the breeze drifting in through the open doorway. He let his awareness drift beyond his little prison to the river that flowed past the fortress and the sun that beat down upon it. He called on Natha to guide him, the Maker to protect him, and the powers of earth and air, water and fire to fill him.

Fear for his father sparked the power. Visions of his slain tree-brothers fueled it. Memories of his kidnapping and rape, his captivity and murder . . . he called on all of them to feed the smoldering fire.

Driven by the fierce tattoo of his heart, the power surged up from his belly and down through his limbs, leaving his toes and fingertips tingling. It thundered through flesh and bone and blood, drowning out the boy's soft words. It seared his mind and his spirit, white-hot and inexorable. It sang inside him, as sweet as the dream-brew, but a hundred times more potent.

And he loved it.

He was the lightning strike that consumed a forest, the torrent that swept away everything in its path, the battle cry that called down death and destruction on his enemies. Let them bind his hands and feet. Let them blindfold his eyes and stop up his mouth. When the power raged through him, he was invincible.

Take him, the power sang. He is weak.

Use him, the power urged. He is foolish.

Kill him, the power demanded. He is helpless. As helpless as you were on that ship.

Poised for the strike, the song faltered.

In the distance, he heard a man shouting.

“I'm sorry. I must go. It's my . . . it's the Vanel.”

He could feel the song dying—and with it, his power.

Gasping, he fell back on the furs.

Uncontrollable shivers racked his body.

Limp and drained, he could only lie there and listen to the boy hurrying away.

“
U
NBELIEVABLE!” Afraid that his shaking legs would betray him, Geriv leaned against the wall.

For three days, he had drifted in and out of consciousness, racked by fever and chills. This morning, he had recovered enough to take a few sips of the horrible nettle broth that the physician insisted would restore his strength. He had been eager to see Korim—he remembered something about a misunderstanding that he needed to clear up—but relief that the Spirit-Hunter had not yet arrived drove the matter from his mind. As did the messages that had arrived during his illness.

His satisfaction at learning that the Deepford force had annihilated the third band of rebels had leached away as his scribe read the message from Vazh. It contained belated information about the Gathering and the disturbing news that Rigat would be declared Son of Zhe at the Blessing of the Adders.

Despite his best intentions, he had slept through the afternoon. When he awoke, he summoned Pujh to dress him, ignoring the trembling of his limbs and the slave's protestations. He could not rest easy until he assured himself that all security measures were in place before the Spirit-Hunter reached the fortress. A few steps from his quarters, the physician descended upon him, but instead of chiding him for leaving his bed as Geriv expected, he launched into a tirade about Korim visiting the prisoner.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, glaring at Korim and do Fadiq.

“I was trying to help,” Korim replied, his voice as sullen as his face. “It was a good plan.”

“It was reckless. And foolish. And in direct defiance of my orders.”

“Begging your pardon,” the Remil said, “but your orders were to keep two guards on the prisoner at all times. And to use extreme caution around him. And we did. He was still getting the drugs.”

“And he thought I was from the village.”

“Did it ever occur to you that he was only pretending?” Geriv asked, appalled by his son's gullibility. “That he was trying to wheedle information from you? Or allay your fears so he could attack you?”

“That's . . . it wasn't like that. We just talked. About all sorts of things. The games we played as boys, and fishing, and—”

“Fishing!”

“I was trying to draw him out!”

“You talk as if he were your friend.”

“At least he listened to me! Which is more than you do.”

Geriv bit back a retort and turned to do Fadiq. “You may go.”

The Remil saluted stiffly, then hesitated. “Permission to speak, Vanel.”

“What?”

“When I discovered what Skalel do Khat was up to, I was hesitant. But even if the prisoner guessed he wasn't from the village, we figured a man on drugs might let things slip. And he did. Small things, of course, but the Skalel was making progress. In the end, it was my decision. If anyone is to be punished, it should be me.”

“And you will be. Now leave us.”

As the Remil saluted again and left, Korim said, “The guards were there all the time. If Kheridh had tried anything—”

“You would not have known until it was too late. I was there when he cast out the Zheron's spirit. No one—not even his own father—realized what had happened.”

For the first time, his words seemed to reach Korim. His son swallowed hard. “That's why you gave the orders. I thought . . . I assumed you just wanted to . . . tighten discipline.”

Good gods, a commander didn't order a prisoner drugged and bound and guarded at all times simply to “tighten discipline.”

“And if he had cast out your spirit,” Geriv continued in the same deliberate tone, “I would have had to choose whether to kill him or stand beside him—the man who had stolen my son's body—and exchange him for the Spirit-Hunter.”

By the time he finished speaking, Korim was staring at him with undisguised horror. He wanted to touch the boy, as much to reassure himself as Korim. He needed to touch him, to know that he was truly safe, to quell the lingering terror that still clenched his bowels when he imagined what might have happened.

“Yes,” Korim said, his voice strangely calm. “I understand now.”

Geriv cleared his throat. His hand came up to grasp his son's shoulder.

“It would have been horrible for you. To lose the chance to capture the Spirit-Hunter.”

Geriv's hand froze.

“Which would you have chosen, Father? To kill me or exchange me?”

His hand slowly fell to his side. “I . . . that's not . . . the situation will not arise. You are never going inside that hut again.”

“Of course not. It might jeopardize your plans.”

Was this what Korim thought of him? That he was so cold, so unfeeling that he would consider the death of his son a mere disruption of his plans? More likely, the boy was choosing to misunderstand, lashing out because he was ashamed of his foolhardy actions.

Fear gave way to anger and the desire to strike back, to hurt his son as he had been hurt. “You will never go to Kheridh's hut,” he repeated. “I'm sending you back to Pilozhat.”

Korim's body trembled with suppressed emotion. “You won't allow me to fight. You object when I use my gift for languages to interrogate a prisoner. So what would you have me do?”

Goaded beyond endurance, Geriv shouted, “Do as you please! Play your flute. Compose a poem. Better still, pack! You leave on the morrow.”

He stalked over to the window and waited until he heard the door slam. Then he punched the logs in impotent fury.

Why had he imagined he could turn Korim into a warrior? Or forge a genuine relationship with him? He should have realized long ago that it was too late for that.

H
IDDEN BY THE TALL GRASS on the hilltop, Darak gazed across the river. Even in the uncertain light of the gloaming, he could still make out the palisade of sharpened logs that surrounded the Zherosi compound.

All day, he had watched slaves filling buckets of water at the river, warriors ferrying haunches of meat from the village, craftsmen mending a sail and replacing oars on one of the warships. Everyone who left the fortress had to endure an inspection before the guards readmitted them. Not once had a villager passed through those massive wooden gates, nor had a single coracle ventured onto the river.

The Zherosi were taking no chances that someone could slip into the fortress.

Darak let his head droop onto his folded arms. They had pushed themselves hard, making the three-day journey to Little Falls in two. Even the young men were exhausted; after keeping watch with him throughout the day, Sorig had finally drifted off to sleep beside him.

After they had arrived last night, Kelik had suggested firing the ships beached on the far shore. But even if such a diversion distracted the Zherosi long enough for a few of them to climb over the walls, what were the odds that they could find Keirith, kill his guards—for surely, the cautious Geriv had men guarding him—and escape?