Keirith nodded his acceptance.
“Naked you came into this tribe and naked you must leave it.”
He removed his shoes. He unfastened his belt. He pulled his bag of charms over his head and then his tunic. As he dropped it to the ground, he heard gasps. Someone spat. A man cursed. His father took a step forward, but froze as the chief silenced the muttering with a sharp command.
Hircha and his father had seen the tattoos, but the tunic’s sleeves had hidden them from everyone else. His hands came up to cover them, then slowly went to the waist of his breeches. He fumbled with the drawstrings, but finally worked them free. Before his courage failed, he slid his breeches down and stepped out of them. The heat rose in his face as he cupped his hands over his genitals.
He stared at the grass, too ashamed to raise his head. Then, as clearly as if he had spoken aloud, he heard his father call his name. He looked up then and found strength in his father’s fierce gaze. He held it until the three figures blocked it from view.
“Keirith. I cast you out of the tribe.” The chief touched his chest with the hilt of his dagger.
“Keirith. I cast you out of the tribe.” The Tree-Father’s voice shook as he touched him with the tip of his blackthorn staff.
“Keirith. I cast you out of the tribe.” The Grain-Mother’s barley brushed his chest. Before she stepped back, she kissed his cheek, drawing murmurs from the rest of the tribe.
“From this day forward,” the chief said, “no member of the tribe may offer this man food or shelter. No one may speak his name. His existence is wiped from the bloodlines. His bones shall not be interred in the cairn of our ancestors.”
“He is dead,” the Tree-Father intoned. “He is forgotten. He is cast out.” He thumped his staff three times. The Grain-Mother raised and lowered her sheaf of barley.
After a moment, Keirith realized it was over. No one would order him away because he no longer existed.
Before he could gather up his clothes, his father bent and retrieved them. Of course. The law said he must leave with nothing. He couldn’t even use his discarded garments to cover his nakedness.
The circle opened so they could pass. He concentrated on taking one step, then another. Each step reminded him that he would never again walk through the village. He would never swim in the lake or hear the breeze rustle through the barley. Never watch the eagles circling their nest. Never see the faces of his kinfolk or hear their voices.
Another step and another after that. And now he heard the footsteps behind him. His father drew up to him and gave him a quick nod, but he didn’t speak. Keirith had to lengthen his stride to keep up. It was then that he heard the Grain-Mother’s voice, high and tremulous.
However far we must travel,
However long the journey,
The Oak and the Holly are with us.
Always, forever, the Oak and the Holly are with us.
The Tree-Father’s voice joined hers and others as well, a ragged chorus singing the song of farewell, the song Brudien had sung when the ship carried them away, the song their ancestors had sung when they left their homeland.
In the heart of the First Forest,
In the hearts of our people,
The Oak and the Holly are there.
Always, forever, the Oak and the Holly are there.
His steps faltered. His father appeared before him, thrusting out a bundle. His clothes, he realized. He could not resist squeezing his bag of charms after he pulled it over his head. His eyes, his skin color, the tattoos on his arms . . . those would always set him apart, but his charms would remind him of who he really was.
Treading carefully between the rows of barley, they made their way across the fields. His family was waiting, their expressions anxious. One by one, he hugged them. His eyes widened when he noticed the bundles of supplies, but his mouth fell open when he saw the three sheep.
“Our share of the flock,” his father said.
“We’re going into the forest—on trails even you haven’t traveled—and we’re dragging sheep behind us?”
His father’s mouth twitched. “Ennit assured me they would frolic at our heels.”
The laughter surprised him. “This is absurd.”
“No more absurd than venturing into the First Forest in search of Tinnean and the Oak-Lord,” his mam said. “There were five of us that time, though, not six.”
“No sheep either,” his father added.
They grinned at each other. Then their expressions softened. Their gazes held, intimate as a touch.
“I think they’re sweet,” Callie said. It took Keirith a moment to realize he meant the sheep.
Faelia rolled her eyes. “Sweet or not, you prod them in the arse if they get stubborn.”
“Nay. We’ll let Keirith talk to them. Spirit to spirit. Then they’ll understand.” Callie’s face lifted to his, shining in earnest appeal.
“Better keep a stick handy,” Hircha said. “In case they’re not listening.”
His father divided up the supplies; even Callie had a small pack to carry. Only then did Keirith look back. His kinfolk stood at the edge of the fields. Here and there, hands rose in silent salute: the Grain-Mother and Grain-Grandmother, Conn and Ennit. The Tree-Father traced a circle in the air, blessing him. He raised his hand and returned the blessing.
As he was turning away, he saw the eagles gliding in a slow circle above their nest and caught a flash of movement under the overhanging shelf of rock. He had to squint before he made out the fledgling, teetering on the edge of the nest. Its wings flapped with ungainly desperation. Twice, the young one sought to rise and each time, settled back onto the sticks. Then, in a blur of movement, it took flight.
The fledgling’s wings flapped frantically as it sought equilibrium. A current of air caught it and lifted it up. The wings flapped again, more slowly, as the young eagle circled the nest in a wobbly parody of its parents’ grace.
Come the harvest, it would fly away, north probably, where the open moors offered good hunting. One day, it would mate and build a nest on a rocky crag like Eagles Mount. And if its eyrie overlooked a village, another boy might stare skyward and wonder what it would be like to fly.
Keirith took a deep breath and turned his back on the place of his birth. His family waited in the shadows of the trees, taking their last look at the village. His mam and Faelia hid their trepidation behind identical scowls. Callie hopped from foot to foot in excited anticipation of the journey. And Hircha inspected her new tribe with a small smile.
His father was the first to look at him. His face was tranquil, his body relaxed, as if he were coming home instead of leaving it. But his eyes held a question.
The gods only knew what lay ahead. Danger, certainly. Hunger. Loneliness. An endless struggle to survive. Another danger lurked inside him: the remnants of Xevhan’s spirit. Yet for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t afraid.
With a firm nod to his father, Keirith strode forward into a new life.
Bloodstone Page 59
