Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  The pinkish water barely moved, but Lisula gave her an encouraging nod so she must be doing it right.

  “Blood of the mother,” Muina muttered. “Hair of the child. Blood and body unite to show us Keirith.”

  Griane’s mouth hurt. It took her a moment to realize she was gnawing her upper lip.

  Please, Maker, don’t let me drop the hair.

  When she finished, she sighed with relief and heard Faelia do the same. Still staring into the bowl, Muina said, “Drop his hair into the water.”

  Reluctantly, Griane complied. Softer than rabbit fur, she had carefully preserved the tiny tuft since Keirith’s birth. As the strands spread across the surface of the water, Muina said, “Call his name, Griane. Three times.”

  She barely managed a whisper, but at Muina’s sharp look, she found the strength to mimic the Grain-Grandmother’s voice of summoning. Oddly, just pretending to have the power made her feel as if she did.

  They were all leaning forward now, every pair of eyes fixed on the bowl. And so they remained. Griane’s knees began to ache from kneeling on the rushes. She forced herself to concentrate on the bowl, willing something—anything—to happen. But only when Faelia’s fingers dug into her arm did she see.

  Although no earthly power stirred them, the hairs were moving. They circled sunwise around the bowl, slowly at first, then faster as if caught in a whirlpool. An involuntary shiver shook her as the single whirlpool split into two. A third appeared beneath it. The twin whirlpools shuddered. Two blue eyes blinked open. A mouth froze in the act of yawning. The lips moved, forming a single word.

  “Mam?”

  “Keirith? Keirith, can you hear me?”

  Her trembling hands grasped the bowl, and the vision vanished.

  “Oh, gods. I’ve lost him.”

  “Nay,” Lisula said. “It wasn’t you.”

  Muina slumped against Bethia’s shoulder, breathing hard, but one hand came up to wave Lisula’s hands away. “I’m fine, child. Just tired. I’ll need to rest a bit before we try to summon Darak.”

  As Bethia lifted a waterskin to Muina’s lips, Faelia whispered, “I saw him, Mam. It was Keirith. I know it was.”

  Griane nodded and carefully released the bowl.

  “Muina will have seen more,” Lisula whispered. “We can ask her when she’s stronger.”

  “I’m strong enough now.” Muina took another sip of water and thrust the skin at Bethia. “He was sleeping. I felt stone all around him. But his sleeping place was familiar to him and comfortable. There were others near him—not Darak,” she added quickly. “Strangers. I sensed an injury. Nothing life-threatening, but . . .”

  “A broken limb? A head wound?”

  “Nay. His back, perhaps. It must have happened a while ago. If it were more recent, the color would have been darker.”

  “His eyes?”

  “Nay, child. I see colors in the water. They tell me if a person is hurt. A sound body will look blue or green. Wounds will flare bright red. Keirith . . .” Her frown deepened. “His body is sound enough, but there is something. Perhaps a wound to his spirit. Those I cannot see.”

  “At least he’s not in any immediate danger,” Lisula said.

  Muina’s face remained troubled. “Or he didn’t sense the danger. He sleeps alone. I would have expected him to be with the captives taken from the Holly Tribe. Unless . . .”

  Unless they had met the same fate as Owan.

  “Keirith might have escaped,” Lisula suggested. “Or be in hiding. Or have found a protector.”

  Or the raiders might have discovered his power and removed him from the other captives.

  “He’s alive,” Bethia said in her calm voice. “He is unharmed. The Tree-Father will continue to seek a vision, and when it comes, he will be able to tell us more.”

  For once, Bethia’s serenity made Griane want to shake her.

  “The night is waning,” Muina said. “And we still must seek Darak.”

  “Are you strong enough, Grain-Grandmother?”

  Muina gave Bethia a withering glance. “I’ll manage. Help me up. Faelia, you must summon your father.”

  “Not Mam?”

  “She shares no blood link to him. You do.”

  As the chanting began, Griane tried to still her turbulent thoughts.

  Keirith’s safe. For now. That’s something. Gortin will keep trying. The vision will come. It must.

  She held up her hand so Faelia could untie the precious hair from her forefinger. “How many times?” Faelia whispered.

  “What?”

  “Fa’s age!”

  “Oh. Thirty-eight.”

  Faelia’s lips moved as she counted each circle. The hair trailed limply in the motionless water and Griane found herself chewing her lip again. Faelia cleared her throat. Her “Fa!” was loud enough to make them all start.

  “His name,” Muina said. “You must say his name.”

  Faelia looked stricken. “Have I ruined it?”

  “Nay, child. He is ‘Fa’ to you, after all. So say that twice more and then his name three times.”

  Faelia obeyed, crawling forward on hands and knees to stare into the bowl. The water gave a small shiver and subsided.

  “Faelia’s blood link to Darak is not as strong as yours to Keirith,” Lisula whispered. “Give it time.”

  Instead of swirling in a circle, the water rose into tiny crests, lapping like miniature waves against one side of the bowl. Griane’s gaze kept darting from the bowl to Muina’s face. Two lines formed between her brows and her lips were pressed together as if in pain.

  Please, gods, let him be there. Please let him be all right.

  She pictured Darak’s eyes in her mind—soft as twilight when he was happy, dark as storm clouds when angered. She willed them to appear in the water, to blink open as Keirith’s had. And then the mouth would curve up in that lopsided smile and the deep voice would assure he that he was fine.

  “Stop fussing.”

  For a fleeting moment, she thought Muina was speaking Darak’s words. Then Griane looked up and found her leaning against Bethia. When she looked down at the bowl again, the water was still.

  “Is he dead?” Her voice sounded utterly calm. How was that possible?

  “Nay!” Faelia’s cry seemed torn from her throat. “I did something wrong. Please, can we try again?”

  “Hush, child.” Muina’s voice was little more than a whisper. Lines of strain creased her forehead. “Darak lives.”

  Griane heard a strangled moan, but only when Lisula’s arms went around her did she realize it came from her. Her hand reached out blindly for Faelia who seized it with icy fingers.

  “Darak lives. But he’s sick.”

  “Darak’s never sick. He survived the plague. He’s never even had a fever, save for the one after he escaped from Chaos.” When Muina remained silent, Griane added, “You all know how strong he is.”

  “Strong as a boar,” Lisula said, patting her hand.

  “Stop coddling her.” Muina’s voice was sharp. “That she can get from any woman. She came to us to learn the truth. Do you want to hear it or not?” When Griane nodded, her stern features relaxed. “His body was aching and exhausted. But his stomach troubles him more.”

  “His stomach?” She stopped herself from saying that Darak could eat anything.

  “It felt . . . raw. And his throat. As if he’d been retching.”

  Darak was too wise in the ways of the forest to eat something poisonous. A flux of some kind?

  “Is he dying?” Faelia’s voice sounded so scared that Griane squeezed her hand hard.

  “Nay, child. He’s taken some food recently and likely the illness will pass. But he’s not as young as he once was.”

  Strong as a boar—and stubborn as a rock. In his anxiety to reach Keirith, he would drive himself hard.

  “Do you know where he is?” she asked.

  “I sensed stone and turf around him, so he must be in a hut. There were o
thers sleeping there, too.”

  The village healer could give him something for his stomach, but short of tying him down, Griane doubted anyone—or any ailment—could keep him from his quest. Urkiat was too much in awe to try. That was the trouble with strangers; they knew the Spirit-Hunter, not the man.

  “Darak’s not a fool,” Muina said. “He knows he must conserve his strength to search for Keirith. That alone will make him take care of himself.”

  But he hadn’t done that during the quest for Tinnean. He’d gone hunting when he was injured and exhausted, and when the hunting was bad, he’d gone without so those who were weaker could eat. He’d been shouldering a man’s responsibilities since he was eleven. If he’d learned to trust others over the years, that early self-reliance was too deeply ingrained to be forgotten.

  “Isn’t there anything else we can do?” Faelia asked.

  “Not tonight. But rest easy. You did everything right. Searching for Keirith wearied me, else I’d have seen more of your father.” Muina’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “The magic needs a woman past her moon flow, but I’m getting too old for it.”

  “Thank you,” Griane said. “Lisula and Bethia, I thank you as well.”

  She kissed all three priestesses and left the hut. As soon as they were outside, Faelia said, “At least they’re all right. That’s something.”

  “Aye. Keirith—wherever he is—is safe. Your father is wise enough to know the limits of his strength.”

  And Faelia was young enough to be comforted by the words. But long after the children had fallen asleep, Griane lay awake, her fingers digging helplessly into the wolfskins.

  Men went off to be tested for courage: at their vision quests, on their hunting trips, into a strange land or into the heart of Chaos itself. Women were tested for endurance: for their ability to bear the pain of childbirth, the anxiety of sitting up with a sick child, or the bone-deep ache of loneliness while they waited and worried and watched for a loved one’s return.

  Men were lucky.

  Her mind formed the prayer she repeated every night before she slept: Maker, keep them safe. Maker, bring them home. Maker, give me the strength to endure.

  Chapter 23

  BY THE TIME THEY reached Ailmin’s village, Darak was so weak from seasickness that he had to rest for two days. The chief was a hard-faced man about his age, the third the tribal elders had chosen in ten years; the raiders had killed his predecessors.

  When he asked for the loan of a currach, Ailmin frowned. “There’s a deserted village three days south of here. My men will take you that far. After that, you’ll have to go on foot. You don’t have the skills or stamina to manage a currach on your own.”

  Urkiat bristled at his dismissive tone, but Darak knew Ailmin was right. Still, the truth stung as did the realization that the hospitality so prized among the northern tribes was given grudgingly here, even to the man who had rescued the Oak-Lord. In the north, strangers were welcomed for the news and gossip they brought. Here, they were suspect. The raiders were killing more than the children of the Oak and Holly; they were destroying a way of life.

  Ailmin’s men beached their currachs in the deserted village and remained only long enough for the supplies to be unloaded before launching them again. There were no farewells, no earnest blessings for their safe journey, just sullen faces as closed and hard as their chief’s.

  “They had no right to treat you like that,” Urkiat fumed. “They owe their lives to you.”

  “Ailmin gave us food and transport. And a map.” Darak patted his belly, where the scrap of hide lay safely nestled under his tunic. Crudely drawn with a charred twig, it gave them the location of every village—inhabited or deserted—along the coast.

  “All the same, it was an insult. If I ever see them again, I—”

  “Let it be, Urkiat. Our enemies are the Zherosi.”

  They made little progress the first day; scaling a gentle slope was enough to leave him panting and exhausted. But he slowly regained his strength and his appetite, thanks in large part to Urkiat. When he wasn’t scolding him for going beyond the limits of his endurance, Urkiat ranged through the forest to bring down squirrels, set snares at night to trap rabbits, and crouched over the fire pit stirring Jirra’s restorative herbs into a hot brew to ease Darak’s stomach. Although the insistent fussing made him feel like a useless old man, Darak knew he would never have managed alone. One night, after batting Urkiat’s hands away as they tucked his mantle under his chin, he told him he was worse than Griane with his fussing and scolding. But he smiled when he said it, and Urkiat blushed like a boy.

  He missed Griane, as much for her common sense and good instincts as for the presence of her body nestled next to his at night. And he had no opportunities to seek out Wolf; if he so much as walked away from the fire to piss, he found Urkiat sitting bolt upright, waiting anxiously for his return.

  The farther south they journeyed, the steeper the land became and the hotter the weather. A sennight had passed without rain; in the north, there were showers almost every day at this time of year.

  Urkiat grew more uncommunicative daily. On the fourth day after leaving the deserted village, he broke his silence to insist that they abandon the coastal route.

  “But that makes no sense.” Darak spread the map on the ground. “Look. Here’s the next village.” He tapped the tiny cairn that Ailmin used to depict a deserted village. “And there’s the next.” He pointed to the circle that indicated an inhabited one. “It’s a good ten miles south. If we turn inland now, we’ll lose two or three days in the hills.”

  “They might see us from their currachs.”

  “If they do, we make for the forest.”

  “It’s too dangerous. I know this land. And I’m telling you we must go inland. Now.”

  Darak took in the white face, the shaking voice, and the desperate eyes. “It’s your village, isn’t it?”

  Urkiat’s shoulders sagged. Silently, he nodded.

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “I was . . . I didn’t want you to think I was a coward.”

  “There’s no shame in wanting to avoid a place that holds so many bad memories. But we’ve got to be able to trust each other. And we can’t do that by keeping secrets.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me now if you can face this. If not—”

  Urkiat’s head jerked up, his expression stark but determined. “I can face it.”

  They reached the village late that same afternoon. Once, it must have been a pretty place, nestled beneath a rocky promontory in the gentle curve of the beach. Scrub pines shaded the circle of huts while farther down the shore, a heron waded through the gently waving reeds of a marsh.

  A few huts still retained their walls, although the roofs had long since caved in. The rest had fallen into ruin, mere tumbles of stones, interlaced with a tangle of vines and fallen branches. Seedlings had sprouted among them and in the meadow that must have once been a small field.

  The cairn was still intact. When Darak bent to pull a tall clump of salt grass that blocked the entrance to the barrow, Urkiat spoke for the first time. “Let the forest take it.”

  All the same, Darak placed a stone atop the cairn and whispered a prayer. He looked up to find Urkiat wandering down the beach. Shouldering his pack, he followed.

  When Urkiat finally sat on a flat rock, Darak hesitated, wondering if he should intrude on his thoughts. In the end, he approached, but stood a little apart from him. If Urkiat wanted to talk, he would listen, but he would not force him to share his memories. Some tales were better left untold.

  Urkiat took a deep, shuddering breath. “I was keeping watch with my brother. He was sitting on this rock and I was next to him—where you are—on the ground. We’d argued about that—him getting the more comfortable spot. Mareth cuffed me. He was fourteen. He’d been standing watch for two years. When I kept watch with a younger boy, then I could take the good spot.” />
  His bleak expression softened. “You wouldn’t think you’d remember such things with all that happened later, but I do. Maybe because of what happened later. Or maybe because it was my first watch. But I still remember the cuff and the argument. And the cold—gods, it was cold that night.”

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Two others kept watch on the headland. That was my father’s idea—to have two sets of watchers. But we never even saw them. There was only a little splash. Like fish. And the same kind of creak that branches make when they rub together in the wind. That was the sound of their oars. I didn’t know that then. I was still trying to puzzle it out when Mareth grabbed my shoulder. I tried to shout—” His voice caught and he cleared his throat. “All that came out was a whisper. We just stood there, staring at this . . . giant . . . emerging from the mist by the marshes. And then Mareth shoved me and told me to run. He shouted a warning to the village, shouted at me, but by then, they were everywhere. I screamed then and stumbled. That’s what saved me.” He fingered the scar on his cheek with trembling fingers.

  “When I woke up, they were gone. It was quiet. Except for the moaning. The smoke was so thick it choked you. We’d had a lot of rain that autumn and the thatch was damp. The village was empty save for the bodies. I found Mareth. Near me. They’d stabbed him so many times his tunic was in shreds.”

  Urkiat swallowed hard and swiped his lips with his fist. “I must have passed out . . . my head . . . I could hardly see. When I woke again, I was in our hut. My grandmother was bending over me. She’d fled into the forest with the others. We lost ten that day. Eight dead and two . . . just gone. Stolen. And all our stores.”

  He was silent so long that Darak finally asked, “But your folk didn’t leave?”

  “Nay. Even after they came the next autumn and killed eight more, we stayed. The following spring, more ships came. This time, the raiders wanted to talk. And my father . . .” He spat the word out like a curse. “. . . who had buried his firstborn son . . . my father—the chief— invited the leader of the raiders into his hut and offered him wine and fed him salmon and barleycakes. And when they came out, the council met and we had a new treaty with the men who had butchered our people.”