Foxfire (94 page)

The voices of the Zherosi were much louder now. Such an ugly, guttural language. As if they were all choking on the words. Or perhaps that was Fellgair.

“Awful. Being human.”

“And beautiful. I wish you had known that part.”

“It was enough . . . to know you.”

The newly risen sun slanted across them, but it held no warmth. Even Fellgair's body, sprawled across hers, failed to drive away the chill.

“Forgive . . .”

“Aye. Rest.”

Another racking breath shuddered through them. She couldn't tell if it was his or hers.

Where did fallen gods go when they died? Did they cross the rainbow bridge into the silver branches of the World Tree? Or—being human—did their spirits fly to the sunlit shores of the Forever Isles? Or tumble into Chaos? Surely, the Maker would forgive Fellgair's interference in the affairs of this world and would secure a safe place for him in the next.

But what of Rigat?

Fellgair's body heaved. Huge, terrified eyes stared up into hers.

“Don't be afraid. I'll be with you.”

He whispered her name. And then Darak's. His eyes widened, as if in surprise. For a heartbeat, golden fire flared in their muddy depths. Then a deep sigh eased free and the frail, tortured body relaxed.

A tear oozed down Griane's cheek and splashed on the still face. The Trickster was gone. And the world had changed forever.

But for her, there would only be one. The Trickster who had teased her in the First Forest. The fox-man who had lain with her in the Summerlands. The god who had become a man and had shared—if only for a short while—the beauty and the pain and the fear of being human.

The voices of the Zherosi were becoming fainter. Perhaps they had decided to leave. She hoped so. She would like to die knowing Keirith and Hircha were safe.

Keirith loved her. She had always known that, of course. But it eased her to recall his words, to know that he had forgiven her for the choice she had made so long ago.

The ground rumbled as it had the evening Rigat caused the rockslide. But her boy was gone, so it must only be a storm approaching. The sun was still shining, though. Its light grew more brilliant with every heartbeat. Before her watering eyes, the stunted pines blurred into a smear of green and brown, mingling with the translucent blue of the sky.

Once again, she was flying. Flying into the sun. Dizzy with the giddy exhilaration of it. Insubstantial as a cloud.

Was this what Keirith had felt when he had flown with his eagle so many years ago? No wonder he had mourned when he was forbidden to fly again. And how foolish they had all been to imagine that such a glorious experience could ever be evil.

But of course, he would have realized it already.

In the distance, she heard voices, but they were too far away to make out the words. Warmth enveloped her like a loving embrace, banishing the pervasive cold. The tang of pine filled the air. And the sweet aroma of honeysuckle.

A shadow blocked the sun, and she frowned. Then the shadow moved.

His face—impossibly young—filled her vision. His voice—caught between a laugh and a sob—spoke her name. His hands—whole and strong and perfect again—reached down to cup her cheeks.

Darak smiled. And Griane knew she had come home at last.

K
EIRITH HEARD SOMEONE shout that he had found a cave. Another shout—much closer—and then shocked cries as the Zherosi discovered Rigat's body. A voice rose above the clamor, ordering four men to carry the Son of Zhe down the hill.

Sandals crunched against pebbles. The light from the entrance faded and swelled as figures slipped past their hiding place. Like clouds drifting past the sun, Keirith thought, and wondered how that fanciful idea could occur to him at such a moment.

A voice shouted, “Wait! I think there's something here!”

To his left, the pine boughs rustled. He flattened himself against the wall, ignoring the rocks that dug painfully into his back. As more light filtered into the grotto, his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.

“Another cave!” the same voice said. “It looks empty, but—”

“Stand back. I'll go in first.”

Keirith closed his eyes. Why—of all the Zherosi—did it have to be this one who discovered them, this one he'd have to kill first? He wondered if Fellgair had seen this confrontation in his web of possibilities, and wished the Trickster could have told him the likely outcome.

He opened his eyes, preparing himself. Impatient hands ripped away the last of the pine boughs. The light suddenly dimmed.

The tip of a bronze blade appeared in the gloom, belly-high. A sandaled foot took a cautious step forward, then hesitated.

Korim thrust his head inside. Still blinded by early morning sunlight, he blinked uncertainly and peered around.

Perhaps he caught the gleam of Hircha's fair hair or smelled their sweat. Suddenly, he whipped around, sword drawn back for a killing slash. Framed in the light, Keirith saw recognition widen the dark eyes.

He had never sensed that moment before dawn. Never felt the fear or the hope or the tremulous anticipation when the world hovered between night and day. Staring back at Korim, he finally understood what his father had tried so hard to describe.

“Skalel?”

The sword point wavered, then steadied. Korim's mouth tightened. Keirith tensed, ready to parry the blow.

For a few days, their lives had touched, a boy and a man out of place among their people. They had shared memories of their childhoods as well as their doubts and fears. Like him, Korim had lived his life in his father's shadow. And like him, Korim must still be grappling with his father's death, trying to find his place in a world that had suddenly shifted under his feet. But for all they had in common, Korim was still a child of Zheros while he was a child of the Oak and Holly.

Only five paces separated them, but the gulf that yawned between them was immeasurable.

“Skalel!”

The dark eyes continued to watch him as Korim straightened. “Just some discarded bundles of clothing. Nothing to interest us. Tell the Komal.”

A fist thumped against leather. The crunch of pebbles slowly faded. Outside, voices still shouted and cursed—in consternation, in wonder, in anger—but in the grotto, it was utterly silent.

Keirith bowed, as formally as if he stood in the throne room of Pilozhat. Korim returned the bow, just as formally. Then he ducked out of the grotto and walked away.

 

 

 

They waited, straining to hear the occasional shout and the tramp of marching feet, gauging the passage of time by the light outside. When a kankh blared three times, Keirith counted to one hundred, then crawled to the entrance of the grotto. He lay there, watching the column of Zherosi march north along the stream. When the last figure disappeared into the trees, he whispered a brief prayer of thanks and held out his hand to Hircha.

As they crested the hilltop, they were momentarily blinded by the sun's brilliance. Then they saw the two figures by the pine.

Fellgair lay across her lap, his face upturned to the sun, his eyes wide and empty. Mam slumped sideways, one hand outflung as if reaching for something. Her face was peaceful, though. The half-open mouth might have been caught in a gasp or a laugh. He wanted to believe it was a laugh, a joyous laugh when she found Fa waiting for her.

They carried them to the grotto where Rigat had died and laid them side by side on the wolfskins. Keirith repeated the prayer of opening, although he hoped their spirits had already flown to the Forever Isles. Then they simply stood in silence.

“How do you begin a new life?” he wondered.

“One step at a time, I guess.”

They shouldered their packs and slowly descended the hill. The heaviness of grief lay upon them. Uncertainty lay ahead. And the half-formed idea that had kept him from following his tribe to the First Forest seemed like a boy's romantic notion.

But romantic or not, impossible or not, the idea still kindled a flame within him. And when he recalled Korim, bowing to him in the grotto, the flame burned brighter. Malaq had dreamed of peace between their people. So had Rigat. And even the Trickster. Neither the god nor his son had been strong enough to realize that dream, but if there were enough men like Korim and Malaq, perhaps it was still possible.

Until then, he would walk the land, healing the spirits of the wounded and telling the tales of their people. And Hircha would walk beside him.

“Keirith.”

He looked up from filling his waterskin, following Hircha's pointing finger.

Far above them, an eagle soared. Three times, it circled the hilltop. Then, with a graceful flap of its majestic wings, it flew west.

They watched it until it was little more than a black dot against the cloudless sky. Then their eyes met in wordless communion and they rose.

They turned their backs on the barren hill and followed the eagle. West to Eilin's village. To Idrian's and Nuala's. West to the distant sea—and Hua.

Only the gods knew how long their journey would take. Or if his dream would ever be realized. But the breeze at his back urged him onward and the soft mulch of pine needles eased every step. The stream gurgled encouragement and the birds sang of new beginnings. Warmed by Bel's sunlight and Hircha's smile, it seemed to Keirith that the world teemed with life and possibilities and hope.