Foxfire (61 page)

“Walk with me.”

“I need to—”

“You need to walk with me.”

Reluctantly, Faelia followed her toward the lake. Griane waited, hoping she would speak. When Faelia remained silent, she reached up and grasped her shoulders.

“This wasn't your fault.”

Faelia wrenched free. “I knew he didn't want to fight. And I tricked him into joining us. And now—”

“Now, he's going after your brother. You think you could have stopped him? Or stopped the Zherosi from capturing Keirith? Stop blaming yourself. Trust me, it will only make you more miserable.”

Griane pulled her into her arms. Faelia stood there, tense and unmoving. Then her daughter's arms locked around her.

The last time she could remember holding her like this was the day the Zherosi attacked Eagles Mount. Not once in the intervening years had Faelia sought the comfort of her mother's arms. Perhaps it had taken Temet's death to forge this bond, one that only women could understand and share: to be left behind by the men they loved.

At least Darak and Keirith were still alive. And she refused to stand by helplessly while they met their fate.

Lisula had helped her find Keirith all those years ago. Perhaps she could help her find Rigat now. Her magic had required moon blood and Griane's had long since ceased to flow, but if it would help Darak and Keirith, she would surrender every drop in her body.

And if Lisula's magic failed, she would have to ask for Fellgair's help—and pay any price he demanded.

T
HE DAY HAD BEGUN BADLY with his stilted farewell to his son. Korim had saluted him before marching up the boarding plank. Although Geriv remained on the shore until the ship disappeared beyond the bend in the river, Korim never looked back. Or if he did, he never acknowledged his father's wave.

He spent the rest of the day tramping about the fortress: doubling the men guarding the ships and patrolling the parapet; posting additional guards around Kheridh's hut; inspecting the disposition of provisions; meeting with his officers to ensure that each understood the importance of the next few days. By late afternoon, he was exhausted, but satisfied that he had taken every conceivable precaution to ensure that the Spirit-Hunter could never breach his walls and that Kheridh could never escape them.

He was less sanguine about his relationship with his son. He had tried to ease matters this morning, even asked Korim to remain at Headquarters until he returned so that they would have an opportunity to “reevaluate the future.” Korim had simply nodded and replied, “Yes, Vanel.”

From beginning to end, he had handled the matter poorly. As a commander, he rarely allowed his emotions to rule him; as a father, it seemed to happen with increasing frequency.

What infuriated him the most was that he felt as if he were in the wrong. Dear gods, it was Korim who had endangered himself—endangered everyone in the fortress—with that foolish escapade. Interrogating the prisoner, indeed. Showing off, more likely.

He still hadn't decided what to do about Remil do Fadiq. His lack of judgment was even more appalling than Korim's. Perhaps he should send for do Nizhi. He'd held things together at Eagles Mount well enough. Why not offer him a promotion and let him take charge here? And ship do Fadiq off to one of the smaller posts downriver.

He'd decide after the Spirit-Hunter surrendered. Until then, he needed his mind to be free of all distractions. Including the unfortunate situation with his son.

After a joyless supper with Jonaq, he returned to his quarters. As the slave assigned to serve him fumbled with his sword belt, he regretted the impulse that had made him send Pujh downriver. Whether or not Pujh's presence provided any comfort for Korim, his absence certainly ensured more discomfort for him.

“Never mind. I'll do it myself. Leave me.”

Wearily, he hung his sword belt on the wooden hook and sat on his pallet to remove his sandals. He was still reaching for the laces when he heard the hysterical cry.

He leaped to his feet and grabbed his sword belt. His fingers froze as he belatedly recognized the voice.

Without knocking, Remil do Fadiq flung open the door and stepped aside. Jonaq followed, supporting a weeping Pujh.

“What happened? Did the ship founder? Is Korim all right?”

Unable to make sense of Pujh's babbling, Geriv turned to the Remil who simply held out his hand. Dangling from his clenched fingers was Korim's amulet.

Geriv took it, pleased that his hand was so steady, that he could listen so calmly to Pujh's faltering account of the ambush. Then Pujh cried, “He said to tell you . . . he made me memorize it . . .” The old man choked on a sob. “He said, ‘Your ship is destroyed. Your warriors are dead. Your son is my prisoner. I will exchange him for mine on the morrow at sunrise. At the narrows. Ten miles downriver. Beach your ship on the southern shore. You may bring ten men across the river as . . . as an escort. I will be waiting for you.' It was the Spirit-Hunter, master!”

Geriv nodded, transfixed by the amulet in his palm. He wondered if the Spirit-Hunter had chosen the site deliberately; before marching south to ambush the rebels, Geriv had beached his ship at that very spot.

He carefully laid Korim's amulet on the table. Then he walked to the window and gripped the frame until his fingers ached. To have come so close to success and have it snatched away. And all because of his son's foolhardy behavior.

What would happen if he refused to hand over Kheridh? The Spirit-Hunter must realize that killing Korim would only result in Kheridh's death as well.

Stalemate.

“Vanel?” the Remil asked. “What are your orders?”

He tried to think, to analyze the situation as a commander would, but he kept seeing his son's stark face as he reprimanded him, hearing his own voice, cruel and sarcastic, as he suggested that Korim pack.

The Spirit-Hunter would have men watching the narrows. And probably upriver as well. Could they make a forced march at night and surprise them? Likely, they would just melt into the forest, taking Korim with them. And if by some miracle they did find them, it would be too easy for his son to be killed in a night battle—by the Spirit-Hunter's men or his.

Geriv's gaze swept the compound, the palisades, the half-moon that hung over the southern hills, seeking inspiration, seeking some way out.

“I'm sorry, Vanel.” The Remil's voice sounded resigned. “I think he's beaten us.”

Slowly, Geriv straightened and walked back to Pujh. The slave fell to his knees.

“Forgive me, Master Geriv. I failed you. And our boy.”

He helped Pujh to his feet and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. When the old man flung his arms around him and burst into a fresh storm of tears, he merely patted the heaving shoulders again until the sobs abated.

Then he gently freed himself and said, “Now, Pujh. I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Every detail, no matter how small. Everything about the terrain where the exchange is to take place. And everything you can recall about the Spirit-Hunter.”

 

 

 

Darak leaned against a pine, staring down at the silver stripe of moonlight bisecting the river. Kelik and Mikal should have been back by now. Even if the old slave slowed them down, they would have reached Little Falls before sunset. The night was half gone and there was still no sign of them.

Perhaps they'd waited until dark to set the old man free. That would have been smart. Give Geriv less time to come up with a plan. He should have thought of it himself. Then he wouldn't be standing here, worrying.

He didn't expect Geriv to attempt a night rescue; it was in both their interests to go through with the prisoner exchange. But he had posted sentries in the forest and at the base of the hill. He and Sorig watched the river from the summit. If Geriv came, they'd know.

The ambush had gone better than he could have hoped. He hadn't counted on the slaves, though. They were too terrified of the forest to head downriver to the village. In the end, he'd had to tie them up again; if they were frightened by an owl or a bat and went rushing off into the forest, his men might kill them, mistaking them for Geriv's warriors in the dark.

It was probably for the best; there was no way of knowing what sort of reception they would find at the village. A few of the Zherosi might have made it there, but he doubted they would be in much shape to lead a counterattack.

In spite of his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. The waiting gnawed at his nerves almost as much as the fixed and penetrating gaze of the boy behind him.

Pine needles crunched, and he tensed, only to relax again as he realized the boy was only shifting position. He had refused to give his oath that he would not run away, so Darak had bound him to a tree. The boy had submitted without a struggle. When Darak assured him that he would not be harmed, he'd turned his head away with the same disdain he had shown in refusing his offers of food and water. Later, though, the dark eyes had turned back to him, filled with such resentment that Darak considered blindfolding him. Instead, he had simply turned his back. But he could still feel that gaze burning into him.

What did the boy expect? That he would feel ashamed of capturing him? It was absurd. Yet as the night wore on, his elation at the success of his plan faded, replaced by the very shame he found so ridiculous. He would have preferred not to use a mere boy as a pawn, but Geriv had left him no choice.

The pine needles rustled again, and he glanced over his shoulder. Although he was standing only ten paces away, the boy was little more than a dark shape under the trees. He was turning back to study the river when he heard the soft groan. Reluctantly, he walked over to investigate.

“Are you cold?”

It was a warm night, but the Zherosi were notoriously thin-skinned.

“If you're cold, I'll fetch my mantle.”

The rustling was continuous now as if, despite his best efforts, the boy could not control his trembling. But he still refused to speak.

Nearly blind in the darkness, he checked the ropes. The ones binding his wrists were tight, but the flesh around them didn't feel swollen. And although those that encircled his arms and chest were also secure, Darak was certain they could not be causing the boy's discomfort. Perhaps his arse was simply sore from sitting so long.

“If you're in pain, you need to tell me.”

When this statement failed to elicit any response, Darak sighed. As he straightened, the boy made a hoarse sound, then cleared his throat.

“I need to . . . relieve myself.”

It could be a ploy, but the boy's squirming made it unlikely.

“All right. I'll untie you. Don't do anything stupid like trying to run away. Likely, you'd just tumble down the hill and break your neck.”

It would be easier to saw through the rope with his dagger, but they had no more to bind him again. His fingertips were burning by the time he managed to loosen the knots. He left the rope around the boy's wrists; even with his hands bound, he should be able to take a piss.

He pulled the boy to his feet and gripped his arm to keep him from dashing off. The precaution proved unnecessary; his legs were so wobbly he could barely walk. As Darak led him behind the tree, the boy lurched in the opposite direction. Uncertain what he was up to, Darak let him lead. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips when he realized his prisoner clearly intended to piss on the tree he had been leaning against.

He kept his grip on the skinny arm as the boy tugged at his khirta. From his grunts, he was making little progress. And from the way he danced from one foot to the other, it was anyone's guess whether he would manage to loosen it before he pissed himself.

Darak let the dance go on for a few moments before pushing the boy's hands aside. He fumbled with the heavy folds of cloth, hindered by the darkness and his unfamiliarity with the khirta's draping. He finally found the section that passed between the boy's legs, but it was firmly tucked under his belt.

“Bel's blazing ballocks,” he muttered. “How does the damn thing—?”

“Just pull the cloth aside. So I can reach my kharo.”

“What's a—?”

“My loincloth!”

He grabbed the bulky fold and pulled. The boy yelped. Darak muttered an apology, but haste and embarrassment only made his fingers clumsier. He was sweating by the time he managed to yank the cloth loose.