Foxfire (86 page)

“We've always had the answer. But none of us saw it. The First Forest, Lisula! You and Barasa can open the way for the whole tribe. And we could stay there until it's safe. You
can
open the way?” she added as Lisula frowned.

“I did think of it, Griane. When we first arrived here. But I was afraid to raise people's hopes. I've never had to hold the way open for so many. And the power fades so quickly. Perhaps on the hilltop. With our tree-brothers to help. But without Gortin . . .” She glanced over her shoulder. “Barasa's gift isn't very strong.”

“We have to try! Even if it has to be done in stages. Half at sunset, the rest at dawn.”

“Not at sunset,” Hircha said. “There's too little cover on the hilltop. And if the Zherosi see us disappearing—”

“At dawn, then. On the morrow. Will you try, Lisula?”

“I'll talk with Barasa and Nedia now.”

“And later—”

Griane broke off, watching Holtik picking his way toward them. Hircha made a space for him to crouch beside her, but Holtik just bent down and whispered, “Would you come with me, Mother Griane?”

She must have looked frightened, for he quickly added, “I don't think it's trouble. But . . .” He glanced around at the women and children just beginning to stir. “Please.”

She allowed him to take her hand to lead her up the slope, but once out of earshot, she impatiently tugged free. “Tell me.”

Holtik scratched his head. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“Bel's blazing ballocks! Just—”

“There's an old man. At the summit. Asking for you.”

“An old . . . a stranger?”

“Aye.”

“But . . . how did he get past the sentries?”

Holtik shrugged helplessly. “I'd just left my post. And there he was. Sitting with his back up against a pine tree. And when I went up to him, he asked if I would fetch you.” Holtik cleared his throat. “He's naked.”

A naked old man. Sitting on the summit. Asking for her. Griane was tempted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn't still dreaming.

“Well, mostly naked,” Holtik corrected. “He has a scrap of red-and-brown cloth around his . . . private parts. And this . . . it might have been a tunic. Once. Made of fox fur, it looks like. But all that's left of it—Mother Griane! Wait!”

But she was already scrambling away, heedless of the shower of pebbles that cascaded down the hill in her wake. A rough hand seized her elbow and Holtik grated, “Killing yourself won't help matters.”

Acknowledging the sense of his words with a brusque nod, she accepted his hand. When they reached the top, she spotted Keirith among the small knot of boys in the stand of pines. His stunned expression made her steps falter. As the boys made way for her, she understood the reason for Keirith's shock.

The long nose was the same. And the golden eyes. Otherwise, she would never have recognized the wizened creature slumped against the pine. Wisps of thin white hair framed the wrinkled face. A few patches of fur still clung to his shoulders, but his body was so thin she could see the outlines of his ribs.

“Hello, Griane. It's good to see you.”

The voice that had once sent shivers of pleasure down her spine was little more than a whisper. She fell to her knees beside him, unable to stifle a cry.

Blue veins branched like twigs across the back of the hand that patted hers. Cracked yellow fingernails had replaced the black claws.

“Give him a mantle, one of you. Can't you see he's shivering?” Her voice was sharp with fear, but she prayed the others would mistake it for impatience. “Holtik, fetch Callie. Braden, send Hircha to me.”

“You know him?” Braden blurted.

To reveal that this was their Trickster-God would terrify them and shame Fellgair. “He's . . . an old friend. Don't just stand there,” she snapped as they continued to gape. “Go on. And not a word of this to anyone.”

Even Holtik fled before her glare. She turned back to find Fellgair smiling. “What a queen you would have made.”

“There are enough queens in this world.” She picked up the mantle one of them had dropped and draped it around him. “Can you make it partway down the hill? Keirith and I will help you. There's a grotto where you can—”

“I'm fine. Don't fuss.”

“You're not fine!”

Her voice broke. When Fellgair patted her hand again, it took all her control to keep from weeping. She had argued with him, cursed him, hated him for the pain he had brought her family. But he had brought her as much joy as pain. And he had given her the child of her heart.

“What's happened to you?”

“I'm being punished.”

“The Maker would never do this.”

“No. But the Unmaker would.”

“Because of Rigat?” Keirith demanded. “Why should the Unmaker care? What's a little more chaos in the world?”

“It's not the chaos he resents, but my interference. He seemed to feel I was usurping his powers. So he's stripping away my immortality. Little by little.”

“I remember now,” Griane said. “When I met you by the stream. After Rigat disappeared. You looked . . . different. That's when it started, didn't it?”

“More or less. But I didn't come here to discuss that.”

“I know. You came because I called.”

“Did you?” The beetling white brows rose.

“You . . . you didn't hear me?” Griane asked.

“My powers are . . . diminished. As you can see. I can no longer maintain any shape but this one.” His long nose wrinkled. “Nor can I read minds or hear the voices of those who call upon me.”

“Then how did you find me?”

“I can still feel Rigat's energy. Although even that skill is fading. I followed it. And opened a portal. After that, I walked. An army is very easy to trail.” His rueful smile vanished. “The place that held Rigat's energy . . . it was a glade of foxtails.” He squeezed her hand gently. “I'm so sorry, my dear.”

Griane nodded, unable to speak. It was Keirith who said, “Rigat killed her.”

The golden eyes widened, then squeezed shut as Fellgair leaned his head against the trunk of the pine.

“Did you see that in your web of possibilities?” Keirith demanded, his voice savage.

“Yes,” Fellgair whispered. “But I hoped . . .”

“He allowed the Zherosi to slaughter our kinfolk. Then he set them on us. He cast out the spirits of two women and killed his own sister.”

Fellgair opened his eyes. “Then, perhaps, it's too late.”

His gaze sharpened. Glancing over her shoulder, Griane spied Hircha and Callie hurrying toward them.

“The beautiful Hircha,” Fellgair said as they drew up short. “We met in Pilozhat. Of course, I was beautiful then, too. And you must be Callum.” A wistful smile curved Fellgair's mouth. “You're so like your uncle Tinnean.”

Callie smiled uncertainly. Hircha looked wary.

“It's the Trickster,” Keirith said. “What's left of him.”

“That's enough!” Griane cried.

“Should I be solicitous? After what he's done to my family? To the world?”

“You should be respectful. He's still the god of our people, the god who helped your father rescue Tinnean and the Oak-Lord.”

Keirith had the grace to look abashed, but his voice was still defiant when he asked, “You said it was too late. To reclaim Rigat or save us?”

“I said it might be too late. To do either.”

Callie knelt beside Fellgair. In his face, Griane saw the wonder of coming face-to-face with the god of legend—and pity for what the god had become.

“Because what Rigat has set in motion cannot be wiped away. The balance has shifted. The world has changed. The old ways are dying.” Callie's head drooped. “Even the old gods are dying.”

“But gods can't die,” Hircha protested.

“They can,” Fellgair said. “Oh, not the way I'll die—like an ordinary mortal.” Again, his nose wrinkled in distaste. “The others will simply . . . fade away.”

Griane seized his hand. “Not Cuillon. Not the Oak-Lord.”

“Perhaps not—if there are still people who worship them. But I think even they will change. There's always change. Order and chaos vie for power. And that struggle changes the world and every living creature in it—gods and men alike. In time, another Trickster will emerge. Where would the world be without one?” Fellgair sniffed. “Even if he's only a pale shadow of what I once was.”

“Then there's no hope,” Keirith said. “For us or for the world.”

Hircha squeezed his shoulder. “There's always hope.”

As she explained their plan to cross into the First Forest, Griane watched her boys. Callie's face reflected his excitement; Keirith's showed only his doubts.

“Can it work?” Callie asked.

They all turned to Fellgair. Even now, wasted and frail as he was, they still looked to the Trickster for answers.

“Yes. I think so. I'll help Lisula hold the portal open.”

Callie smiled. Hircha looked relieved. Only Keirith continued to look doubtful. Perhaps, he, too, heard the false note in Fellgair's confident voice.

“But right now, I'd like to speak with Griane. I doubt we'll have time later.”

Callie rose and bowed. Hircha backed away. But Keirith bent over Fellgair and thrust his face close. “If you hurt her, I'll kill you.”

Griane's protest faded as Fellgair said, “I owe you an apology.”

Keirith's face went blank with surprise.

“For what I said the last time we met. It was not my secret to reveal. And doing so was . . . malicious. If I had been myself . . . but I was already changing. Prey to the more unpleasant human emotions. And Darak . . . Darak wounded me. So I lashed out.” His lips pursed as if he had tasted something sour. “Quite unforgivable.”

“Aye. It was.”

Fellgair just smiled. “Callum's like Tinnean. And you're like Darak. He was just as fierce when he was young. Fierce, proud, stubborn. And lonely and bitter, too.”

Keirith flinched.

“It took Griane to mellow him.” Fellgair's gaze drifted past Keirith. “You really must find a good woman. Like your father did.”

For a moment, Keirith was taken aback. Then he scowled. “Haven't you interfered enough?” He stalked away, striding past Hircha without a glance.

“Love among the ashes,” Fellgair mused. “How romantic.”

“Is it love?” Griane wondered aloud. “I'm not sure.”

“Give them time.”

“They've had years.”

“I keep forgetting that a year is a long time for a mortal. To me, their first meeting in Pilozhat happened only a moment ago. And my first meeting with you and Darak, a moment before that. I was with him. At the end.”

“Darak?”

He leaned forward, his face anxious. “If I could have saved him, Griane . . .”

“I know.”

“His vision mate was there, too. They . . . left . . . together.”

Tears blurred her vision and spilled over. Fellgair wiped her cheek and raised his forefinger to his lips. After a moment, he sighed. “They used to be so delicious. Now they simply taste like tears. Forgive me, my dear. I always seem to make you cry.”

“Nay. I'm glad you told me. Glad he wasn't alone.”

“How could he be alone in the grove of the One Tree? With Tinnean and Cuillon?”

“Did Tinnean speak to him? Before the end?”

Fellgair frowned. “You didn't see? When Lisula opened the way?”

She shook her head; they'd all been too shocked to see anything but Darak.

“Whether or not he spoke to Darak in words, Tinnean sent him a path of speedwell. Darak knew his brother was with him, Griane. Bidding him farewell.”

And now Fellgair had come to bid her farewell. It seemed impossible that she would never see him again. That he would die. They had met only a few times in the course of her life, but even during the long absences, he was always there. As much a part of her world as the air she breathed and the earth under her feet. And later, of course, she had Rigat to remind her.

“What will happen to him?” Then she remembered that Fellgair could no longer read her thoughts and added, “Rigat.”

“That's why I shooed the children away. I wanted to see you, of course. But I came to talk about our son.”

“Is he . . . how is he?”

“I saw him only once. After . . . after Faelia. He was . . . sleeping. I found him in Carilia. He'd gone there to end the war.”

Fellgair's tone told her that Rigat had not gone to seek a truce, but to use his power to destroy his enemy. Again.

“You're the only one with any hope of controlling him, Griane. The only one who may still be able to stop him from doing more harm.”

“I've tried to talk to him, to convince him—”

“It's too late for talk.”

“What are you saying? That I should lure him here and stand aside while the tribe kills him?”

“It needn't come to that. Without his power, Rigat is as mortal as any other man. He could not continue to play the Son of Zhe. Or control the fate of nations.” Fellgair hesitated. “But only if his power was drained. Completely.”

And suddenly, she understood what Fellgair refused to say outright. It was as obvious a solution as the tribe fleeing to the First Forest. And just as necessary.