Foxfire (89 page)

Three times for a charm.

He flung aside every barrier and opened wide the gateway to his spirit. Waited for her to abandon her ruined body and follow the energy that linked her spirit to his. Braced himself for the initial tumult of their joining, ready this time as he had not been when Jholianna's spirit crashed into his.

Ready.

Eager.

Joyful.

But her spirit held back, unable to surrender its hold on her body. Gently, he urged her closer, only to feel her recoil.

And then he realized the truth. She wasn't afraid. Nor was she unable to break free of her body. She refused to.

How could she reject that hope—her only hope? How could she choose death instead of life? How could she choose death instead of him?

He enveloped her spirit with his power, determined to pull her spirit into his, only to sense the cord between them—the cord he had created with love—begin to fray.

The sob tore free of his throat in a howl of despair. He would not lose her. If she could not endure life in a stranger's body, he could not face centuries of existence without her.

Blood pounded through his face, his chest, his fingertips. His blood, calling to hers.

He summoned it from soaked doeskin and wet fur. Called it from crevices in the rock. Stirred it from congealing puddles around the fire pit.

He couldn't retrieve all of it. He didn't need to. Just enough to feed her body, to win her time to create more herself.

Two streams of blood flowing over the cold fingers and into the gaping wounds at her wrists. Two streams of life spiraling through her veins, up her arms, into her chest, reaching for her heart and embracing it. Two hearts, beating like drums, his thudding with renewed hope, hers sending the sacrificial blood pulsing through her body, filling it with life.

Spilling through the unsealed wounds at her wrists.

“Please . . .”

Her life was still draining away, her spirit tied to her body only by his determined grasp, her heart beating only through his will. His power was as sluggish as the streams he sought to dam, as faint as his mam's heartbeat.

He poured himself into her. The will that had brought an empire to its knees. The power that had dazzled the greatest ruler in the world. The love that had filled him, nurtured him, sustained him through every moment of his existence.

The dying stars shimmered like fireflies in the darkness. Who could have imagined that death could be so beautiful?

The light faded from the brilliant reds and oranges of a sunset in Zheros to the softer roses and pinks of the north. He had forgotten how pretty sunsets were here. How the lingering twilight turned the sky the muted blue-gray of a dove's wing before finally surrendering to the darkness.

A star exploded and died. Another blinked out. But the two drums beat a tattoo as slow and stately as those that had accompanied him into the throne room on the day he had been proclaimed king. His mam's heart and his. Beating together as if they were one being.

A single star still hovered in the sky. White as his mam's hair. Pulsing bravely in the darkness. The last flickering ember of his power.

He had to preserve it. Just that one tiny star. Until he could find someone to stitch her wounds and stop the relentless flow of blood. Until he could grow strong enough to offer another infusion of power.

Desperately, he reached for the star, but it drifted deeper into the vast, black sky.

The star winked, daring him to catch it.

He could feel its light pulsing inside him, the indescribable sensation that had been as much a part of him as his mam's love. And then the star winked again, and there was only darkness.

The twin drumbeats stopped. The brush of his mam's spirit disappeared. There was only the soft sound of her breathing, the slow rise and fall of her chest. Ordinary sensations like the spiky fur of the wolfskins against his bare legs and the hard solidity of the rock underneath, the warmth of the fire and the dull crack as a branch shifted and fell.

Rigat opened his eyes. Embers blazed up from the fire pit only to flicker and die like the stars of his power. The flames danced, but he could only hear the crackle of dead branches. The fire's song—soaring and frenzied in its wildest moods, cheerful and warm when it was banked to embers—that was lost to him now. As was his innate understanding of the birdsong he heard outside the cave, reduced to a discordant chorus of cheeps and trills and squawks.

Empty.

Hollow.

Ordinary.

With an effort, he raised his head and stared into his mam's still face. He could endure the loss of the stream's song and the fire's. The ability to open a portal between worlds with a mere flick of his finger. To understand the language of animals. Even the unquestioned power he had enjoyed in Zheros. But how long before the flush of color on her face faded to the corpselike pallor he had seen when he'd first entered the grotto? How long before his healing unraveled like a poorly woven mantle?

Rigat lowered his head onto her shoulder and sobbed.

It was all for nothing, like his futile attempt to forge a lasting peace. He had squandered his gift and doomed her to the same lingering death Darak had suffered.

Outside, he heard the dull clatter of pebbles. They must have discovered his presence. And now, they were coming for him. They would kill him. Or drive him away. Certainly, they would never let him to stay with his mam.

Somehow he managed to push himself up. He reached for the bloodstained dagger, then let his hand fall. Better to let them kill him. At least that way, he and his mam could be together.

A figure darkened the entrance of the grotto. Once, he would have known the identity of the man simply by sensing his energy. Now, he had to wait for him to duck inside.

Of course, it was Keirith. He had Seen how it was supposed to end.

But he had expected Keirith to come alone. Instead, Hircha pushed past, clutching Mam's healing bag to her chest. Then Rigat noticed the hunched figure hovering behind Keirith and realized that his first instinct had been correct: it was another of Fellgair's tricks and they had all been part of it—even his mam.

A tear slid into the corner of his mouth. It merely tasted salty. But he could still recall the tears he had tasted the day he had discovered he was the Trickster's son. And he knew that whatever his mam had done, she had acted out of love.

A great weight settled upon him. Once, his power would have enabled him to shrug it off. But if that was lost, he still had enough willpower to stagger to his feet.

He knew what he had to do. For once, the path was clear.

T
HE GROTTO REEKED of blood: soaking Mam's clothes, staining Rigat's hands, dripping down his brother's legs. More shocking still was Rigat's smile.

“A clever plan, Keirith. Your idea or Fellgair's?”

“It was hers,” Hircha shot back. She was holding Mam's wrist, fumbling for a pulse. She settled back on her haunches, her expression dazed. “She's alive. I didn't think . . . with all the blood . . . but she's still alive.”

Something—someone—brushed past him. Fellgair, he realized, as he watched the Trickster kneel beside Hircha. And then Rigat said something about “a family reunion.”

He was leaning against the wall of the grotto, grimacing as he wiped his bloodstained palms on his khirta. He looked up long enough to say, “Pull yourself together. You've seen sacrifices before.”

All Keirith could do was shake his head—just as he had when Fellgair told him what Mam intended. The Trickster's face had been so sad, his voice so gentle, even kind—like a father patiently explaining something to a child too young to understand.

When he had finally willed his body to move, it was like wading through the sea, every step slow and awkward. And suddenly—the way the world abruptly shifted in a vision—he was running, stumbling on the uneven ground, slipping on loose pebbles, careening from boulder to boulder, unable to pray, barely able to think. The only thing that kept going through his head was “Nay.” Just that one word.

He repeated it now, his voice as thick and choked as if he were strangling. An errant thought struck him—Fa telling him what it was like right before he loosed an arrow at a deer, of being in the moment, but standing apart, observing everything from a distance. And so it was now, his body shaking, but his mind cataloging random observations: the firelight dancing across his mam's still face; the frenzied blur of Hircha's hands upending Mam's healing bag and digging through the contents; Fellgair's eyes, watching him, watching Rigat; and Rigat, still leaning against the wall of the grotto, looking impossibly bored. Despite the graceful slouch and the impatient sigh, the folds of his brother's khirta shook.

Not bored. Barely able to stand.

“So now what?” Rigat asked. “We fight to the death? Play out your vision of the two eagle chicks?”

Before he could answer, Fellgair asked, “Did you use all your power?”

Rigat's laugh made Keirith wince. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Yes,” Fellgair replied. “I would. That's what she wanted. That's why she was willing to sacrifice her life.”

“And that's why you pretended to be so weak when you came to fetch me. You wanted to be sure you could reduce me to an ordinary mortal.”

“I wanted what Griane wanted. To stop you and Keirith from fulfilling that vision. To save the world that she loved. To save you from yourself.”

“By robbing me of the one thing that makes me myself?”

Keirith finally shook off the enveloping numbness. “You're more than just your power.”

“
Just
my power?” Rigat shook his head. “You've never understood. My power is everything.”

“If that were true, you wouldn't have saved her.”

“I didn't.”

Keirith shot a glance at his mother. Hircha was kneeling beside her, needle darting like a minnowfly as she stitched one wrist.

“Oh, she'll live. For a day or two. But she's lost too much blood. Without another infusion of power, the healing will fade. Just as Darak's did. So you can kill me and save the world. But if you do, Mam will die.” Rigat grinned. “Quite a choice, isn't it? The world or Mam. Which will it be, Keirith?”

“He's lying,” Fellgair said.

“I love her.” For a moment, genuine emotion tore at Rigat's voice. “Would I squander my gift knowing that would doom her?”

“Then go,” Keirith said. “Take Mam and go.”

Rigat's face went blank.

Fellgair began speaking in a low, urgent voice, but Keirith cut him off with an impatient gesture, still watching Rigat. His brother's head drooped. A trembling hand covered his face.

“I don't know whether you have power or not,” Keirith said. “But I won't risk Mam's life to find out. Open a portal. Go to Zheros. Go anywhere. Just keep her alive.”

“That's not what she wanted,” Fellgair persisted.

“She didn't want me to kill my brother, either!”

Rigat slowly straightened. “A noble gesture,” he said softly.

“I just want—”

“Gods, you make me sick.”

Keirith's head snapped back as if Rigat had struck him.

“You have a gift, Keirith. Puny compared to mine, but still a gift. You might have been great if you had been willing to use it. If—just once—you'd actually done something other than fly with your damn eagle. I'm half your age and look at all I've done.”

“Like killing your sister?” Keirith demanded, and had the savage pleasure of seeing Rigat wince.

“Like ending wars.”

“And abandoning your people.”

“Didn't you just tell me to walk away? But you would say that. It's what you've always done. Walked away. Given up. Your power. Your position in the tribe. Hircha.”

“Leave Hircha out of this.”

“Don't tell me you finally convinced the chilly widow to open her legs?”

“That's enough!” Keirith shouted.

“Nay, I didn't think so. Well, thank the gods, I won't die a virgin. Too bad we won't have more time together. I could share some of what I've learned from my queen.”

Keirith bit back a retort. Why was Rigat deliberately goading him? Why didn't he just leave?

“I won't fight you, Rigat. Though that's what you seem to want.”

“You wouldn't like to test your power against mine? Just once? The odds are as even now as they'll ever be. Or perhaps, you'd prefer a more old-fashioned test.”