Foxfire (57 page)

“Slim,” Sorig had admitted. “Impossible,” Mikal had claimed.

Geriv's deadline was still three days away, but they were no closer to devising a plan to free Keirith than they had been when they headed north.

At least Faelia was safe. He had insisted that she take the bulk of the recruits home. Even if their numbers had been greater, freeing Keirith would require stealth, not force. And if a spy had given the Zherosi the site of the Gathering and the routes they were taking to reach it, he might easily have revealed the location of their village as well.

She had grudgingly accepted his logic, but insisted that he send Sorig or Mikal to warn the village. Finally, Darak had folded his fingers around her fist.

“I cannot help Keirith if I'm worrying about you. I'm asking you to do this. Because you love me and because we must make Temet's death—all those deaths—count. Take them home, Faelia. Please.”

He might have shielded his daughter from harm, but his son was still caged. The knowledge sickened him, as did the mutilation of the land around Little Falls. Although Sorig had described what had happened at Eagles Mount, this was Darak's first glimpse of the devastation wrought by the Zherosi. All along the river, the forest had been reduced to rotting stumps. A few brave saplings clung to the hillsides, but the Zherosi would soon chop those down for firewood.

Too late, he realized Temet had been right to resist. But Temet was dead. And most of his warriors. No one knew if Nial's band had escaped the carnage. Although he had urged Faelia to keep the fight alive, her band was too small and inexperienced to rout the Zherosi from one fortress, never mind drive them back to the sea.

So many lives lost. He would not add Keirith's to that list.

For the first time in his life, he wished he possessed magic so that he could contact Rigat. It might be days before he ventured north to learn the results of the Gathering. By then, it would be too late. No matter what inducements the queen offered, Rigat would never remain in Pilozhat if he knew that the Zherosi had massacred the rebels and imprisoned his brother.

But the Trickster had to know. Which meant he was deliberately hiding the truth from Rigat.

Darak's hands clenched into fists.

Reluctantly, he shook Sorig awake. As much as he longed to stay near Keirith, it would be full dark soon and it was three miles to the forest. Although he doubted the Zherosi would look for them there, someone from the village might stumble upon them. They had already moved camp twice, choosing spots that were far from the trails and streams where the hunters stalked game.

The gloaming gave way to darkness long before they reached the forest. Weaving between the stumps of trees, stumbling over unseen roots and rocks, Darak cursed himself for tarrying so long. Yet he was grateful for the clouds that hid Gheala from view; at least, he was spared the sight of her dwindling body and the visible reminder of how little time remained to devise a plan that would save him and Keirith.

Suddenly, Sorig drew up short. Darak gripped the hilt of his sword, peering into the darkness for an enemy. Instead, he spotted a faint green glow off to their left. Another blossomed a few paces in front of them. Frozen, Darak watched the hills flare with the luminescent glow of foxfire.

Only once—during his vision quest—had he ever seen the eerie green light that radiated from the bark of rotting trees. Legends claimed they were the spirits of dead trees, unwilling or unable to leave the shell that had held them. Generations ago, someone had named it foxfire. A hunter, perhaps, reminded of a fox's eyes, gleaming in the light of his campfire.

He had never thought to see so much foxfire in one place, but neither had he imagined that the Zherosi would come to his land and chop down whole forests of his tree-brothers. Recalling the Watchers who guarded the grove of the One Tree, he wondered if these tree-spirits had chosen to remain behind, offering a mute protest to the destruction.

As they picked their way around the stumps, he whispered a prayer. Perhaps his Tree-Brothers heard—or perhaps they sensed that the men who walked among them were not the ones who had murdered them. But he still let out his breath in relief when they reached the forest.

Sorig paused at the edge of the trees and glanced back. “It's beautiful, isn't it? Until you remember what caused it.”

 

 

 

It was so dark under the trees that Darak smelled the others before he entered the tiny clearing. He heard a few muted greetings and the shuffle of bodies as the men made a place for them to sit. He had brought only ten with him, mostly the older, more experienced hunters. But only those without wives or children.

“Is everything all right?” Kelik whispered. “We were worried.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stay so long.”

“Eat something. There are still a few suetcakes. And the last of the dried trout.”

“Stop fussing. You're worse than my wife.” But he patted Kelik's knee and gratefully accepted the hard sliver of fish pressed into his hand. “Did you find out anything?” he asked, raising his voice just a little so the others could hear.

“Nothing that can help.” Mikal's voice, ragged with exhaustion. “The Zherosi have stockpiled provisions. And water. No one will be leaving the fortress after tonight.”

Although Mikal had wanted to take Sorig with him, Darak had suggested Kelik instead. Mikal had grumbled, claiming people didn't know Kelik, but Sorig had accepted the decision in silence. Even if Mikal didn't suspect the reason for his choice, Sorig did. Both men had had the opportunity to betray them. For all he knew, the cousins might be working together. Darak didn't want either of them venturing near the village unless someone he trusted went with them.

“They're sending a ship downriver,” Kelik said. “You must have seen them outfitting it.”

“Aye. But I can't believe Geriv will transfer any troops. Not this close to the deadline.”

“Just some of their sick and wounded,” Kelik replied. “And his son.”

“His son?” Darak echoed as Mikal growled, “That's just a rumor.”

“Aye,” Kelik said. “But rumor has it they had some sort of quarrel and the Vanel's shipping the boy off.”

“Who told you?” Darak demanded.

“Mikal's father,” Kelik replied. “Birat overheard some of the warriors talking when they came to pick up provisions.”

“Is Geriv sending an escort with the boy? Other than the sick and wounded?”

“I don't know, Darak. I'm sorry.”

“Likely, they'd send at least a skalekh,” Sorig said. “If you're thinking of snatching the boy when he embarks—”

“Nay. But they use their ships to carry dispatches. Geriv will want to send messages about his victory. Instructions for the fortifications downriver. They might stop at Deepford. Maybe even spend the night.”

“Maybe,” Sorig replied. “But they'll have the current with them. And the wind, unless it changes. If they left at dawn, they might be able to make Eagles Mount in a day.”

“What does it matter when they leave?” Mikal asked. “Or where they spend the night?”

“Because it might give us a little more time,” Darak replied.

“Time for what?”

“To set a trap for the Vanel's son.”

T
HE FIRST TIME, RIGAT WOKE in darkness, dimly aware of the smoky scent of incense and the drone of chanting. Flickering torchlight danced on the ceiling, creating the illusion that the painted clouds were drifting across the brilliant blue sky.

A long face loomed above him, blocking out the clouds. The thin mouth curved in a satisfied smile. As the face vanished, a voice proclaimed, “He wakes! The Son of Zhe wakes!” Joyous cries greeted this announcement, but Rigat was already drifting into sleep.

The second time he woke, the face was back, this time at a safer distance. From the man's questions, he realized this must be Jholianna's physician. He tapped Rigat's chest briskly and fingered the five pulses of health, all the while murmuring, “Good . . . very good.” Rigat was even more comforted by the power—faint but discernible—that simmered inside him.

As the physician backed away from his bed, others clustered around: the Pajhit squeaking out his relief, the Zheron intoning a prayer, the Stuavo tracing a spiral across his chest, and the Motixa with tears shining in her eyes. Even the Khonsel looked relieved.

Jholianna's face was not among those peering down at him. Nor was Fellgair's.

“The queen?” Rigat asked.

“She's well, my lord.” For the first time, the Khonsel didn't hesitate before speaking his title.

Before he could ask about the Supplicant, the Zheron said, “We've declared a day of thanksgiving on the morrow, my lord.”

“You
will
be strong enough to attend?” the Stuavo asked anxiously.

Rigat nodded, wondering how he could endure a day of ceremonies when he still felt as weak as a newborn lamb.

As if sensing his thoughts, the Khonsel said, “Just a brief appearance in the throne room.”

The Zheron frowned. “And at the temple of Zhe.”

“Out of the question.”

“But they should offer sacrifices—”

“I won't permit either of them to leave the palace,” the Khonsel insisted. “Not until we've apprehended the conspirators.”

As the argument escalated, the physician said, “The Son of Zhe is not to be disturbed with these matters now. He needs his rest.” And with that, he shooed the council members out as if they were a pack of fretful children.

The third time he woke, Rigat was immediately aware that he was ravenous. The physician declared this an excellent sign, but would only allow him a bowl of clear soup and a piece of flatbread.

“You haven't eaten in two days, my lord. It would be unwise—”

“Two days?”

The Gathering would be concluding soon. Maybe it already had; even with the truce, he doubted the rebels would remain in one place more than a few days.

“. . . but after the ceremony,” the physician was saying, “perhaps a nice millet gruel.”

The prospect of a bath was far more inviting. He was pleased that he managed to sit up without Nekif's assistance, but puzzled by a twinge in his right wrist. Frowning, he examined the flaxcloth bandage.

“Just a shallow cut,” the physician assured him. “At first I was afraid you'd been injured in the attack. Then I saw the scar and realized it was an old wound. Perhaps the drain on your power allowed it to reopen? Well, no matter. I stitched it close again. In a day or two, you'll hardly notice it.”

Rigat nodded automatically, but instead of the physician's voice, he heard Fellgair's:
“You're not a god. The healing will fade. That's why I sealed your wound.”

“Has the Supplicant returned yet?” he asked Nekif.

“Surely not, great lord. The Acolyte would have relayed your command to her as soon as she—”

“Send someone to the temple to make sure.”

“At once, great lord.”

He might not be a god, but Fellgair was. So why would his father's healing fade?

 

 

 

Brief as it was, the ceremony of thanksgiving left him limp and exhausted—and gave him something else to worry about besides Fellgair.

Although he knew perfectly well what Jholianna would look like, it was still a shock to see Miriala walking toward him. None of the other courtiers seem bothered by Jholianna's new body, but of course, they had all witnessed dozens of Sheddings.

Had Darak reacted with this shock, this . . . revulsion . . . when he'd first seen Xevhan walking toward him and known it was Keirith? And what must Mam have felt? Expecting to celebrate the return of her son and greeting instead a tawny-skinned stranger?

He regretted the impulse that had made him ask Miriala's name. Everyone knew names had power. Knowing hers forged a closer link between them and made it even harder to accept Jholianna's usurpation of an innocent girl's body.

Jholianna avoided his gaze as she thanked him for saving her life. He avoided hers as he apologized for any suffering he might have caused her. As soon as the ceremony was over, they both hurried back to their chambers.

As disturbing as Jholianna's appearance was, he was more worried about what she might have discovered while their spirits dwelled together in his body. He hoped she'd been too frightened to learn anything. Certainly, he'd had no time to probe her spirit; he'd needed all his concentration to maintain his shield and keep her from seizing control of his body.