Fellgair pulled the portal closed and held up a hand to forestall her furious questions. “He would not have harmed her. But he has offered his blessing.”
“I don’t want his blessing. I want him to leave my daughter alone.”
“It’s too late for that. Faelia is a hunter like her father. To try and turn her from this path would be as cruel as . . .”
“As what? What?”
“As attempting to turn Darak from his,” Fellgair concluded, his voice gentle.
“But I didn’t . . . Darak chose to become a Memory-Keeper. Even you encouraged him.”
“I sent a dream to Old Sim. Who offered Darak a choice. Which Darak accepted. It’s taken him nearly half his life to understand that he made the wrong choice. No man who abandons his life-path can be truly happy.”
Vehement denials rose to her lips and died. She had seen Darak bring down a doe in the First Forest with one shot to the heart, remembered the fierce joy on his face, the exuberance of his embrace. When, in all his years as Memory-Keeper, had she ever seen such exultation?
“Has he been so . . . so miserable all these years?”
“You know he hasn’t.”
It helped to hear Fellgair confirm that. Darak loved her. And the children. He’d been happy with them—and unhappy with himself. A part of her had always recognized the truth, but she had thrust it away, fearing that if he went back to the forest, she would lose him.
“They will need more than your love when they return, Griane. They will need your acceptance.”
She nodded, her heart pounding. Not “if” they returned but “when.” They were both coming back to her.
“There’s more.”
“Is it . . . bad?”
For a long moment, Fellgair hesitated. Then he sliced open the sky once again. This time, she saw two men standing on a beach. Although their backs were turned to her, she recognized Darak at once. A soft whimper escaped her as he turned toward the other man. He looked exhausted. His clothes hung on him. But he was alive, thank the Maker. Alive and unharmed.
The other man continued staring out to sea, his shoulders slumped. Compared to Darak, he looked positively frail. Although he wore the tunic and breeches of a raider, his hair was very short, little more than a cap of dark fuzz.
Darak was speaking with some urgency, and she longed to hear what he was saying. But it was the hunger on his face that shocked her, a naked longing that he masked immediately when the other man glanced up at him.
“Who is he?” she whispered.
His sparse hair had made her conclude the man was Darak’s age, but he was young and smooth-cheeked. He kept shaking his head until Darak seized his shoulders. Then his eyes squeezed shut and an expression of despair came over his face. Darak pulled him close. Slowly, the younger man’s arms came up and he rested his cheek against Darak’s chest.
They were still standing there, locked in each other’s arms, when Fellgair pulled the portal shut.
“Tell me who that was.”
“That was Keirith.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I know my own son.”
And then Fellgair told her what had happened.
At some point, she must have sat down, for the grass was much closer. And Fellgair must have stopped speaking, for there was only birdsong and the ceaseless splash of the waterfall. The sun was low in the sky. She could still feel its heat on her face, but she was shivering.
The sun still shone. The birds still chirped. The waterfall splashed. The Summerlands took no heed of her son’s murder. It neither grieved for the loss of his body nor rejoiced at his spirit’s survival. Nor did it condemn her for the choice she had made, the choice that had led Keirith to the altar she had seen so many times in her nightmares.
“Is he alive?” she had asked the Trickster. And he had told her the truth. But he lived in the body of the man who had murdered him. He saw with his eyes, moved with his body—transformed like Tinnean into something new.
If she had chosen differently, would it be Darak returning to her in the body of a stranger? Or would they both be dead? She would never know. But every day, for the rest of her life, she would look into her son’s eyes—dark now instead of blue—and wonder.
Did I make the right choice?
Was the right choice not to have chosen at all?
Can I ever make it up to him?
Dry-eyed, she stared up at the one who had offered her the choice, but even a god couldn’t give her the answers.
Keirith, my son, my firstborn, my child.
Forgive me.
Fellgair knelt before her, his hands cupped. “Drink, Griane.”
The cold water burned her throat. Fellgair gently stroked her face with the back of his hand. The fur was soft against her cheek.
In time, she would feel again, instead of merely noting sensations. In time, the numbness would give way to pain and grief and anger. Dully, she wondered why Fellgair had allowed her to see Keirith. It was hardly the best way to seduce a partner, unless he wished her to be numbed to compliancy.
He pressed his damp hand between her breasts. Obediently, she tried to lie back, but his left arm came up to circle her shoulders and hold her still. So she simply sat there and waited for his next command.
The hand on her chest was warm. It eased the shivering and she was grateful, for her muscles had begun to ache. The warmth moved up into her shoulders and neck, down into her arms and hands. Her head lolled against his chest. Her fingers unclenched. Her hands lay limp in her lap.
The warmth flooded her belly and loins. Not the moist heat of desire but a subdued glow as if a tiny fire had been kindled inside of her. But this fire was a molten stream that flowed gently through her legs. Her bent knees relaxed. Her heels slid through the grass. Her toes flexed once, tingling with sensation.
She could have floated there forever, suspended between the curve of Fellgair’s arm and the hand still resting between her breasts. But the hand demanded more. It seemed to grow heavier until it became a great weight that threatened to crush her. Heat radiated from the fingers, no longer a gentle stream but five white-hot shafts of energy penetrating her. She struggled feebly, her heart clenching into a small fist that protested the intrusion with every beat.
The fingers between her breasts massaged her gently. The fingers inside her body encircled her heart, cradling it. The spasm of pain made her gasp.
“Call his name, Griane.”
Her heart was a stone in her chest. She fought, lips clamped together, but she had no strength left to resist the inexorable pressure that squeezed the stone and shattered it.
Grief and loss, self-hatred and fury—every bitter emotion she had carefully locked inside burst free. The scalding torrent raged through her and she was helpless to stop it. Only the voice could do that, the voice that kept repeating, “Call his name, Griane.”
And as she had in the glade of the heart-oak, she heard herself scream it.
“Darak!”
The bolt of heat shot through her chest, another white-hot flash that radiated through her body, singing through flesh and blood and bone, easing the bitterness of grief, cleansing the lacerating guilt, filling her with light and peace. And in its wake, came the tears she had not been able to shed.
When she finally raised her head, she discovered sadness in Fellgair’s ancient eyes. In that moment, she loved him. Not as she loved Darak—nothing could supersede that love—but for giving her this day, so full of sorrow and joy, pain and hope. When he bent his head to hers, she lifted her mouth with a willing heart, but instead of kissing her, his lips brushed her damp cheeks and his rough tongue scoured away the last traces of tears.
He undressed her quickly and laid her down on the cooling grass. With his hands and mouth, he offered her pleasure and, true to his nature, he was by turns gentle and fierce. She never knew if she was still beguiled by the spell he had woven earlier or if her desire was simply created by his skillful fingers and teasing mouth.
Twice, she murmured his name, once in affection, and then, more urgently, as she sought release. Only then did he move between her legs, spiky-soft fur tickling her body, whiskers tickling her cheeks. She tried to hide her face in his chest, but he pulled back, golden eyes fathomless and rapt. She was as helpless to look away as she was to control the sensations flooding her body. When she locked her legs around him, urging him to move faster, he smiled and obeyed her silent command, and all the while, his eyes held hers, savoring the frenzy building inside her.
Then he froze abruptly and reared back. Still awash in the sensations he had aroused, she whispered, “Please,” not knowing if she meant “enough” or “go on” or “tell me what’s wrong?”
“Fellgair?”
With a sound that was almost a groan, he thrust deep inside her, once, twice, three times, a fierce, bruising invasion that penetrated to her womb. She cried out as the climax roared through her and the hot flood of his release filled her.
He rolled away from her and rose. “We’ve overstayed our welcome. Please dress. We must leave.”
She rose and pulled on her clothes, wondering at his sudden coldness. Although her body still pulsed with the satiated afterglow of sex, her mind could not reconstruct exactly what had happened. The same mist he had created to shield her from Faelia seemed to have fallen over her memory. Confusion gave way to shame. What could she have done to displease him so?
Without looking at her, he proffered the knotted handkerchief that held the healing plants. Then he thrust out his hand. She took it, closing her eyes against the inevitable dizziness of the journey. When she opened them again, she found herself on the lakeshore, far enough east of the village to be out of sight of any fishermen returning home. At least she would not have to see Jurl’s body again.
“What have I done?”
“Nothing.” He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Forgive me, Griane.”
“I don’t understand. It’s only a little after sunset.”
He shook his head, a pained smile twisting his lips. Finally, he met her eyes. His expression became so fierce that she involuntarily took a step back. “If you ever need me, just call my name. Three times.” Again, that strange, pained smile. “Three times. And I will come to you.” He waited until she nodded and then vanished.
Slowly, she pulled off her clothes and draped them over a rock. The water was shallow at this end of the lake and still retained a little of the day’s warmth. Her hand came up once to touch the sticky wetness between her thighs. It felt the same as a man’s. It looked as milky. But the scent was different—sharper and more acrid.
She scrubbed between her legs, then used handfuls of sand to scour her body. Shivering, she emerged from the water and dried herself with her skirt. She didn’t dare bring the healing plants home, but neither could she discard them. In the end, she found a secluded place to plant them. Nearby, she dug another hole to bury Fellgair’s handkerchief.
She washed her hands and turned slowly toward the village. The bargain was fulfilled. Darak was safe. Keirith was . . . alive. And no matter what her need, she would never call on the Trickster again.
Chapter 50
ALTHOUGH KEIRITH WAS grateful for the currachs that carried them from village to village, he worried about his father’s seasickness. Some days, he ate little more than an oatcake. At night, he fell asleep, exhausted. But no matter how tired he was, he always took time to speak with the Memory-Keeper and recite the litany of names.
He’d gathered the names during his brief time in the slave compound. But most of the captives had been taken elsewhere. They must be scattered throughout Zheros now. Their families could only hope they might escape someday, like those who had fled after the earthquake. Some would be recaptured and others would perish in the wilderness, but Keirith hoped a few would find their way home. If any could survive, it would be Temet and Brudien—the one strong in body, the other in spirit. All he could offer them—and all the lost children of the Oak and the Holly—were his prayers.
As they traveled north, more names were recognized by the Memory-Keepers and more villages welcomed them, although most of the inhabitants still eyed him uneasily. Only in Illait’s village did his father introduce him as “Keirith, my son.” There were surprised murmurs from those who had gathered to greet them. As Illait’s keen gaze swept over him, Keirith held his breath, waiting for the inevitable questions.
“ ’Twas the same with me,” Illait finally said. “My father, tall and broad as an oak. My mam, near as fair as you, girl. And me, small and skinny as a weasel with a face to match.”
Tolerant smiles blossomed on the faces of his kinfolk; clearly, they’d heard the story dozens of times.
“ ’Course it’s hard to see much of a resemblance with your fa’s face as green as summer leaves. Terrible seafarer, your fa. Me, I love it. Riding a wave up and up, and then plunging down, down, down, so fast you think your stomach’s still hanging in the air above you. Where are you off to, Spirit-Hunter?”
His father strode behind a hut and reappeared a few moments later. He wiped his mouth and glared at Illait. “Holly-Chief, you are cruel.”
“Never. But it does comfort us lesser men to know that the great Spirit-Hunter’s got one weakness.”
“More than one, I assure you.”
“Well, come along to my hut. And while Jirra brews up something for that tender stomach of yours, you can tell me about the others.”
Once they were alone, Illait dismissed his father’s thanks for their welcome. “As long as I’m chief, you and yours will always find one here. Now. Tell me what’s happening with the gods-cursed raiders. We get nothing but rumors.”
While the women served food, Illait plied his father with questions about fortifications and weapons. A look of grim satisfaction crossed his face when they described the earthquake, but it faded when Keirith assured him the Zherosi would rebuild.
“Maker curse them. If Halam cannot swallow their holy city, how are we to stop them?”
“By standing together,” his father said. “And fighting off every encroachment.”
“Begging your pardon, but ’tis us will be encroached on first. I’m thinking we should do what Girn did and relocate farther inland.”
“But maintain your watches on the coast. Light signal fires on the hilltops as soon as a ship is spotted. That way, no village will be taken by surprise.”
“What if the Tree-Fathers could work out a way to communicate with each other?” Keirith suggested. “Spirit to spirit?”
“They can do that?” Illait asked.
“I don’t know. But a Tree-Father knows the spirit of every member of his tribe. So if your daughter married into a tribe to the north, your Tree-Father could still find her. And maybe warn her if the raiders were spotted.” He grew more excited as he thought about the idea. “You’ve said yourself, Father, that the tribal bloodlines are all tangled together. There must be a way to use that to our advantage.”
“If the Tree-Fathers can’t do it, the Grain-Mothers can.”
They all looked at Jirra.
“What are you talking about?” Illait demanded.
“Women’s magic,” she said calmly.
“And what do you know about that?” Illait’s face was growing red.
“I hear things.”
“What kind of—”
“Things that don’t concern men. Even chiefs. Now stop bellowing and eat your stew before it gets cold.”
Illait’s face got even redder, but whatever he muttered was lost in his cup of brogac.
It was only when the meal was over that his father glanced toward the little boy sleeping atop a pile of rabbitskins. “I take it Hua is no better.”
Illait and Jirra exchanged a quick, pained look.
“Is he sick?” Hircha asked.
“Spirit-sick,” Jirra replied. “He saw the raiders kill his parents. The Tree-Father has done everything he can, but . . .” She shrugged helple
ssly. “Every day he grows a little weaker. Soon there will be nothing left of him.”
“The gods know I love the boy,” Illait said, “but it’ll be a blessing when his spirit flies to the Forever Isles.”
Keirith became aware that both his father and Hircha were watching him. Suddenly, the air in the hut was stifling. He mumbled an apology and got to his feet so abruptly he collided with Illait’s daughter.
“Forgive me. I . . . I need to go outside. To . . . relieve myself. Forgive me.”
“No need for forgiveness, lad. When you’ve got to piss . . .” Jirra cleared her throat loudly and Illait’s voice trailed off.
He was headed toward the beach, gulping great lungfuls of salt-scented air, when he heard his father call his name. Conscious of the folk sitting outside their huts, enjoying the cool of the evening, neither of them spoke until the village was behind them. Then Keirith flung up his hand and said, “Nay.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You want me to try and help him.”
“You heard Jirra. The boy’s dying.”
“I haven’t the skill. And even if I did, I don’t have the right.”
“Your power gives you the right.”
“You didn’t think so when I tried to cast out Urkiat’s spirit.”
His father winced. “This is different.”
“It’s the same power!”
“Used to heal, not to destroy. If the power was inherently evil, every Tree-Father in every village would be condemned. Struath used the power to try and reach Tinnean’s spirit. Illait’s Tree-Father has used it to try and save Hua. You used it to help the ewe birth her lambs.”
“That’s not the same as reclaiming a boy’s spirit.”
“I know.”
“I’m not a shaman. I’m not even an apprentice.”
“I know!”
“I’d be hauled before the tribal council.”
“The council would never know.”
“Illait—”
“Loves his grandson. So does Jirra. They can be trusted.”
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