Foxfire (7 page)

Her heart thudded when she realized that a victory might still be salvaged from this terrible defeat. She opened her mouth to share her idea, then closed it again. Temet had given Fa his oath to tell no one the village's location lest he jeopardize the tribe's safety. If she was going to put her plan into action, she must do it without his knowledge.

Praying she was making the right decision, Faelia lay back in her lover's arms and waited for dawn.

T
HIS WAS THE TIME—before day leached the darkness from the sky, before the birds stirred in their roosts—the time when the whole world held its breath. Even the breeze died, as if it, too, awaited the dawn. Whether lying under his wolfskins or crouching on a wind-swept moor, Darak could feel that hushed expectancy, potent as a prayer. But here in the forest, where every sense was more alive, it resonated in flesh and blood, in bone and spirit. A few moments—a dozen beats of the heart—when day and night hung in perfect balance and a man had to wonder if dawn would come or if time would remain suspended forever.

The first time he had taken Callie hunting, he'd had to hush the boy's excited chatter so he could experience this moment. Keirith had looked guilty for failing to notice it. Even Faelia, whose senses were so attuned to the natural world, simply thought he had glimpsed a deer.

Darak glanced at Rigat. He was standing utterly still, his head cocked.

Only Rigat understood. Only Rigat had truly shared this moment with him, requiring no warning of its coming or explanation after to appreciate its perfection, to understand the anxiety that warred with the anticipation, the melancholy that tinged the joy.

Love swelled and with it, the familiar pain. Darak waited for the pain to wash over him and drain away, determined that nothing would spoil this day.

A wood pigeon coughed. Another answered. And the moment passed.

Beyond the hill, the stream babbled, as oblivious to the wonder as Callie had been. Darak let out his breath, his gaze locked with Rigat's. He nodded in the direction of the stream. Rigat nodded back. Together, they padded up the slope.

In the early years, it had been ridiculously easy to bring down a deer; they had never seen a human before and simply did not recognize them as predators. That had changed with the influx of refugees. None of the other hunters could be bothered with the half-day's journey to the forest when deer were plentiful on the moors, but Darak still preferred to hunt here. He loved the chinks of sky peeping through the pine boughs, the ever-shifting pattern of color and light, the carpet of pine needles cushioning his feet, the tang of resin filling his nostrils.

Although Rigat had grown up on the moors, he understood the forest's magic, too. Darak was grateful for that—and grateful that they could share these two days.

He'd hesitated before suggesting this journey. The work on the terraces had just begun and some would view the trip as an indulgence. His doubts had fled when Rigat's face lit up, making him all the more ashamed of his coldness the night before.

They reached the pinewoods just before the light went. A storm made it impossible to start a fire, but even that failed to dampen their spirits. They took shelter in the lee of a hill where the boughs of two partially uprooted pines protected them from the squalls that swept through the valley. Wrapped in their mantles, they shared a cold meal of smoked trout and suetcakes, talking only of safe topics like hunting. Darak slept soundly, too tired to dream, and awakened Rigat before dawn so they could rub acorn oil on the soles of their shoes before walking the short distance to the spot he had discovered more than ten years earlier.

Rigat halted at the top of the rise. Darak drew up beside him, panting. The roar of the stream was loud enough to drown out the chorus of birdsong. Through the trees, he glimpsed the gray-green water gushing over the banks, leaping from rock to rock as if delighted that winter had finally ceded its hold on the land.

There was one spot where the stream had eaten away the bank and a pine had fallen, creating a little pool. Here, the stags would drink before heading north to spend the day browsing on the moors.

It had been more than a year since they had hunted together. Darak had tried to convince himself that Rigat no longer needed his guidance, that both of them preferred to hunt alone. But the excuses simply allowed him to avoid the darker truth.

Without a word, Rigat started downhill. Yesterday's rain had left the thick mulch of pine needles slick and treacherous, and Darak had to pick his way carefully to the outcropping of rock. Squinting in the gloom, he could just make out Rigat's figure, crouched behind the tumble of boulders. In all the years of hunting together, Rigat had always hit his target. Once, Darak had taken pride in that, believing Rigat had inherited his skills as a hunter.

Shaking off the traitorous thought, he strung his bow and nocked an arrow. The waist-high shelf of rock partially screened him from the stream. From this distance, he would appear as innocuous as a spar wedged between a crack in the rocks.

He waited, relaxed but alert, seeking the inner stillness and peace the forest always gave him. Today, his thoughts were as wild as the stream. Always the same thoughts, and never any answers.

Rigat could be temperamental and selfish, but Faelia was the same. He could be as broody as Keirith or as sweet-natured as Callie. But Darak had loved him.

And never more than now. Separate yet linked in the hunt—the patient waiting, the carefully banked eagerness, the knowledge that their quarry was coming and that they were ready.

The subtle tension in Rigat's shoulders alerted him.

Without turning his head, Darak watched the stag move out of the trees. It scented the air and scanned the underbrush for predators. Six others emerged behind it. Most were two-year-old spikers, their short tines soft and rounded with the spring growth of stag-moss. The leader was older, three or four years judging from the branching antlers.

Rigat ignored the spikers, his arrow aimed at the older stag. If anything spooked the herd before it came within range, they would all be gone before he got a shot off. A hunter had to be supremely confident of his skills to risk it.

Two spikers lifted their dripping snouts and trotted through the shallow pool. Rigat remained utterly still as they bounded past his hiding place. Another followed, picking its way carefully over the rocks. And still Rigat waited.

Only when the last spikers raised their heads did the stag approach. It paused at the edge of the stream. Its brown eyes seemed to stare directly at Rigat. Then it lowered its head to drink.

Rigat drew the bowstring back. As the arrow hissed past, the spikers bolted. The stag's head came up and it swung toward the trees, but after a single bound, it crumpled. Rigat leaped up, his triumphant shout mingling with Darak's.

He had been sixteen before he'd brought down a deer with one shot through the heart. Rigat had bested him by three years. Darak acknowledged his wistfulness with a rueful grin. Then a darker speculation intruded: could an ordinary boy have done it?

Rigat knelt beside the fallen stag and gently stroked the ruddy hide. As Darak waded toward him, his hand stilled. “Do you mind very much?”

“Of course I do.” But he smiled, and the tension left Rigat's body.

“It was like a dream, Fa. At the end, I mean. I was concentrating so hard and I was scared my hands would start shaking and I was praying every prayer I could think of. But when he lowered his head and I drew . . .” Rigat sighed happily.

“Aye.”

That feeling of being in the moment and standing apart, hushed and expectant as the world at dawn.

“There's nothing better, is there?” Rigat asked.

Darak thought of telling him that making love to a woman—the right woman—could be better. Or holding your newborn child for the first time. Instead, he simply said, “It'll always be one of the best moments of your life.”

Rigat's expression clouded. “But it won't be as good. The next time.”

“It won't be the same. But you'll have the pride of knowing you've done it twice. And the third time, you'll have bested me for good and all. So be kind to an old man and wait a few years.”

Rigat's grin became a grimace as he braced himself against the stag's haunch and tugged the arrow free. He looked up, panting a little. “You could have taken one of the spikers, Fa.”

“Well, thank you very much,” he said so dryly that Rigat laughed. “But we'll have our work cut out for us carrying this one home.”

Rigat meticulously cleaned the arrowhead and shaft before slipping the arrow into his quiver. Then he removed his dagger, sliced off the stag's tongue, and laid it on a flat slab of rock.

Darak closed his eyes. During his life, he must have made a thousand such offerings to the Forest-Lord, the rite more ancient than any the priests conducted: kneeling beside a kill; whispering a prayer of thanks to the animal he had slain; breathing in the salty-sweet aroma of blood; savoring the triumph and gratitude and contentment of knowing that this was where he belonged.

These days, such moments were rare. There were always council meetings to attend and disputes to settle, new refugees who needed homes, new ground to be cleared for planting. He had taken on the role of chief to protect his family and he had never regretted that decision, but hunting had become a luxury.

Soon he would be too old to enjoy it. When he was young, he'd taken his keen eyes and strong arms and tireless legs for granted. He could spend all day traipsing through the forest or plowing a field or hauling stones to build a hut and still make love to Griane afterward. Twice. It never mattered how tired he was. A look, a smile—gods, just watching her tie up a bundle of herbs—and the next thing he knew . . .

Aye. Well. It wasn't only a man's eyes and arms and legs that betrayed him as he got older. He should thank the gods that part of his anatomy still worked reliably. More or less. If they made love less often, it was sweeter than ever. And only now did he truly appreciate the pleasure of a good piss in the morning.

He had a horror of dying from some lingering illness as his father had. If not for Griane, he'd pray that his fluttering heart would simply stop beating while he was hunting—right at that moment before dawn. A quick, clean death with the smell of the forest around him and the cool earth beneath him. And the Forest-Lord smiling down at him in blessing.

Fingers brushed his shoulder, and he started. It was Rigat, of course, not Hernan. When he saw the stout branch at Rigat's feet, he realized he'd been drifting for some time, like an old graybeard dreaming in the sun.

He pulled a length of nettle-rope from his hunting bag and sliced off two sections. As Rigat lashed the stag's hooves together, Darak said, “I'm glad I was with you today. To see it.”

“That's why I waited.”

The rope slipped from Darak's hands. Rigat jumped up to finish the job. Darak watched his fingers—quick and clever like Griane's—deftly truss the stag's rear legs.

“Waited?” he finally asked.

Rigat tugged on the rope, testing the knots. “For the stag.”

The tension drained out of him, replaced by shame. Lately, he was always reading into what Rigat said, looking for a reason to doubt his intentions.

“I was showing off, I guess. But I . . . I wanted you to be proud.”

“I was. I am.”

Rigat studied him, as if to peer into the most secret parts of his spirit—or dare him to look away. Darak met that unblinking gaze, but it required an act of will.

“I didn't use magic.”

For a moment, he thought the noisy stream had distorted Rigat's words or that his mind had conjured them.

“Keirith said I should tell you. That I have powers. Like his. I wanted to wait. Until after my vision quest. But I couldn't bear it if you thought I'd cheated.”

The shock of hearing him admit to possessing magic was lost in the relief that flooded him. Powers like Keirith's. Hard enough to accept that, but—oh, gods!—nothing as bad as the nightmarish doubts that had plagued him for so many years.

“I know you knew,” Rigat whispered. “But it seemed to scare you so much—”

He pulled his son into his arms. Rigat was shaking as if he had a fever. Or maybe that was him.

All his life, he'd distrusted and feared magic. Tinnean's fascination with it had drawn him to the shaman's path and then to that fateful Midwinter battle. Keirith's gift had saved their lives, but it had cost him his body and his home. Young as he was, Rigat was already paying the price—too wise for his years, too impatient with those of lesser ability, a clever boy but a lonely one. And paying the worst price of all: having a father who couldn't hide his suspicion that his youngest child wasn't his.