Foxfire (84 page)

“Good gods, where?”

Holtik jerked his head over his shoulder. “Here. On the summit. Now all the boys are mad to set snares.”

“Braden can take Arun and Takinel. They're responsible. But for mercy's sake, tell them to stay under cover.”

Holtik nodded and slipped away.

All night, the tribe had huddled in the cave, while sentries kept watch on the hilltop. They had lit no fires, conversed only in whispers, all of them praying the Zherosi would pass them by. But as darkness fell, Keirith had seen their campfires, twinkling like fireflies among the trees to the west.

They had prepared as best they could. The children had gathered stones for their slings. The women and girls filled every waterskin, pot, and cup at the stream. The men had chopped up fallen trees for firewood.

It was a miracle they had accomplished so much in the short time they had. Even more miraculous than getting the children up the hill had been hauling the damn sheep. Keirith had been tempted to tell Ennit to leave them, but they both knew the tribe would need the meat.

So Ennit, Lorthan, and Braden coaxed, tugged, and prodded the protesting sheep up to the summit. It had cost Ennit a sprained ankle and the boys a good number of bruises, but they had done it. Once there, the sheep settled down to graze in the tall grass that sprouted among the scrub pines. They would eat better than the rest of the tribe.

Keirith knew their fate depended less on prayer and preparation than on Rigat. Perhaps his brother regretted Faelia's murder. Perhaps he would relent and sweep in to save them. That had been his plan once. Although he had no way to contact him, Keirith was certain Rigat would come—and that they would fight.

Oddly, he felt little fear. That was the comfort of knowing at least part of the future; it left you free to worry about more immediate concerns.

The sound of approaching footsteps made his head jerk up. He relaxed when he saw Callie scuttling through the scrub pines.

“What's happened?” he asked as his brother flung himself to the ground.

“Two Zherosi. At the edge of the rockfall. I think they want to parley.”

Keirith had little hope of securing any terms other than surrender, but at least he could take the measure of the officers who led the enemy force.

“Do you want Holtik to go with you?” Callie asked.

“I'd rather have you. If you'll come.”

Callie cuffed him. “Of course, I'll come. Idiot. I just didn't want to ask.”

It took forever to pick their way across the loose pebbles. Twice, Keirith skidded, but he managed to reach the bottom without disgracing himself before his enemies.

The hawk-faced commander looked familiar; he must have been with Geriv at Little Falls. Keirith's mind had been too muddled by the drugs and the prospect of the prisoner exchange to pay much attention. But when he turned his gaze on the slim young officer standing next to him, he drew up short.

“What is it?” Callie whispered.

“The young one. It's the Vanel's son. Korim.”

“The one Fa captured? Gods.”

He had never imagined Korim would be among those pursuing them. From the stories they had exchanged, he knew the boy had little stomach for battle. Perhaps Geriv's death had changed that.

The commander surveyed them both with a grimace of distaste. “I am Jonaq do Mekliv, acting Komal. You've already met Skalel do Khat.”

A dark flush stained Korim's beardless cheeks, but his expression remained wooden.

“I am Keirith, son of—”

“I know who you are.”

“And this is my brother, Callum. As he does not speak your language, I would prefer to conduct these negotiations in the tribal tongue.” He bowed to Korim. “If you'll translate.”

Before Korim could respond, the Komal said, “The negotiations, as you call them, will be brief. You can tell him what he needs to know.”

Keirith shrugged and translated for Callie, who whispered, “We won't get any concessions from him. Arrogant bastard.”

“What terms are you offering?” Keirith asked.

“Terms?” The Komal laughed. “Surrender. And you and your family will be spared.”

“And the rest of our tribe?”

“They're unimportant.”

“Not to me. If we surrender, do I have your word that no harm will come to them?”

“For that, you must apply to the Son of Zhe. His moods are . . . changeable.”

“And if we refuse to surrender?”

The Komal gestured brusquely. Three warriors emerged from the trees, spears held aloft.

Sickened, Keirith stared at the severed heads: Rendaron, the one Fa had nicknamed the Chatterer; Cradaig, who had shared with Owan and Lendon the thrill of reporting the planned ambush to the Spirit-Hunter; and Selima, her cracked lips still curled in a grimace of defiance.

“The others are rotting somewhere in the forest. And those with you will rot as well—unless you surrender. I'm a patient man. I can wait until you starve.”

“But the Son of Zhe is not patient,” Keirith replied, and had the brief satisfaction of watching the Komal's smile vanish. “And it will be many days before we starve.”

“But far fewer until thirst drives you mad.”

Keirith just shrugged. Let the man wonder if there was a spring hidden among the rocks.

“You have my terms. What is your answer?”

“I have your terms, but not your oath that my people will be spared.”

The Komal hesitated. Then he smiled. “Very well. My oath, then. Your people will leave this place unharmed.”

The massacre at the hill fort was too fresh in Keirith's memory to take comfort in those words. Komal do Mekliv would keep his oath. But once the tribe left its stronghold, he would slaughter everyone.

Keirith searched Korim's face, but he could read nothing in his dark eyes. “And will you give me your oath that my people will be safe?”

For the first time, Korim met his gaze. “I give you my oath that they will leave the hill unharmed,” he said, his voice as cold as his expression.

The deliberate repetition of the Komal's phrasing could be a warning not to trust him. More likely, Korim had repudiated the tentative friendship that had sprung up between them at Little Falls. And why not? Keirith had deceived him, Fa had captured him, and Rigat had ordered his father's death.

He considered casting out the Komal's spirit and ordering the Zherosi to march away, but immediately rejected the idea. The Zherosi knew the power he possessed. He would never be able to fool them for long. His hesitation in replying to the offer had already made the Komal's eyes narrow in suspicion.

“I'll bring your ultimatum to the tribe. And I ask permission to take the heads of our dead comrades with us so that we may give them the proper rites.”

“The heads remain atop our spears. But I'll leave them here. Where your people can see them.”

As the Komal stalked off, Korim hesitated. Then he bowed and followed his commander.

When Keirith told Callie of the Komal's decision to display the heads, Callie spat. Then he marched toward the warriors, still standing at attention with their grisly prizes. Seeing the men tense, Keirith called out, “We only wish to say a prayer for our dead.”

Only a shaman could open the way for their spirits to fly to the Forever Isles, but Keirith repeated the words, staring from one pair of empty eyes to the next.

“I'll tell the tale,” Callie whispered. “And I promise your sacrifice was not in vain.”

As they made their way up the hill, Keirith told Callie about the ultimatum and the Komal's oath.

Callie spat again. “They'll cut us down as soon as we're in the open.”

“Save your spit. We have thirsty days ahead of us.”

“Could we provoke him? Force an attack?”

“Only a madman would storm that hill.”

They continued toward the summit in gloomy silence. Then Callie blurted out, “Do you think Rigat gave the order? To kill everyone except us?”

“I don't know.”

But the Komal would never risk the wrath of the Son of Zhe. Either Rigat had tacitly approved the slaughter or he had simply shrugged off the loss of the rest of the tribe.

“He might be testing us,” Callie said. “The way he did before.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Nay.” Callie turned back to stare at the severed heads. “There must be something we can do. It can't . . . it just can't end this way.”

But this wasn't one of the tales Callie told. In those, the hero always triumphed against the malevolent forces arrayed against him. Even a tale of defeat, like the diaspora of The People, became a tale of redemption and rebirth in the mouths of the Memory-Keepers.

Who would be left alive to tell their tale? Or that of Selima and her brave boys? The Memory-Keepers would recite the legend of the Spirit-Hunter's epic quest, but the true story of his life would be lost, and with it, the story of the man—the real man—and his determination to preserve his family, his tribe, his way of life.

“Keirith?”

Callie's voice jolted him from his thoughts.

“There's something I've been meaning to ask you. Ela and I want to marry. Now.”

Keirith nodded; only the gods knew if any of them would be alive at the Fall Balancing.

“We want you to perform the rite. You and Barasa.”

“But . . . I'm not a Tree-Father. I can't—”

“You're the closest thing we have. You were Gortin's apprentice. And you performed the rite of manhood with me when I returned from my vision quest.”

Would it even be a real marriage without a Tree-Father to officiate? Looking into Callie's pleading face, Keirith decided it didn't matter. “We can do it today.”

“Not today! Ela would kill me. She'll want to fix her hair and brush her tunic. Make herself pretty.”

Mam would have stood before the tribe barefoot and dressed in a ripped tunic in order to marry Fa. And Hircha . . .

She never paid any attention to her appearance. But she had looked beautiful the day she married Conn, that moon-gold hair flowing down her back like a waterfall, her serenity and stillness such a contrast to Conn who kept rolling his shoulders as if his tunic had grown suddenly tight, his face alternately anxious and beaming.

“On the morrow, then,” he said to Callie. “That'll give us all time to prepare.”

As he ducked into the cave, his mood darkened again. No tale should end with severed heads and starving children. Or with a child dying unborn in its mother's womb. There had to be a way out. If Rigat refused to help them, perhaps Natha could.

A
S CALLIE AND ELA TOOK their places, Griane could not help contrasting this wedding with hers. Instead of standing under the open sky in the center of their village, the tribe huddled in the cave, while sentries kept watch on the summit. Instead of a daylong feast, they would share a few sips of lukewarm water, a few mouthfuls of roast mutton. And instead of dancing around a bonfire at night, the children would whimper in their sleep while the adults talked in muted voices about surviving another day.

Yet Callie and Ela gazed at each other as if this hurried ceremony were the perfect culmination of their love. Their expressions dreamy, they listened to Keirith and Barasa reciting the ancient words, oblivious to their kinfolk's filthy clothes and strained smiles—and to the threat that hung over them all.

In Keirith's dark eyes, Griane found an acknowledgment of that reality. In his smile, the desire to forget it. And in his voice, deeper than usual and soft with meaning, she heard the lilt of a Memory-Keeper, rather than the grave cadences of a Tree-Father.

She wanted to believe he was watching, that Faelia stood beside him in the Forever Isles, Temet's arm around her waist, celebrating the rite they had never shared in life.

The sudden stab of grief brought the memory of her last glimpse of Faelia. Some claimed the dead looked like they were sleeping, but even from across the glade, she would have known Faelia's spirit had left her body. She had spent too many nights listening to her daughter thrashing on her pallet, grunting, muttering, sighing. Ever restless, her Faelia. Except in death.

Even if they had been home, Darak's absence would have made tonight's celebration bittersweet. Faelia's death was too recent, the wound too raw to feel joy. But for Callie's sake, she tried to put grief aside, along with thoughts of what Rigat had done—was doing—to them.

Keirith and Barasa enclosed the couple's clasped hands in theirs. The smile Keirith offered Callie was so full of love that it made her ache.