Bloodstone (72 page)

“Remember,” Natha whispered. “Follow the path I took when you seek sleep. Or when you feel the man stirring.”

“He’s there? He lives?” Keirith couldn’t keep the panic from his voice.

“Fragments only. Rid yourself of them.”

“How?”

“Are you a hatchling? They must be disgorged or digested. Excrete him as you would feathers or fur.”

“I’m not an adder!”

“No, you are a foolish boy. The principle is the same whether the fragments are those of a man’s spirit or a nestling’s body. If they remain too long inside of you, they will putrefy.”

Already, he seemed to feel the taint spreading through his spirit. Natha’s tongue caressed his cheek, calming him. “We will take the path together. Seek out the fragments and expel them.”

Keirith didn’t ask how or when. It was enough to know that Natha would be with him, that Xevhan would be rooted out, that—please, gods—when death came for him, he would not carry the taint to the Forever Isles.

“The wolf lover comes. You must wake now.”

With an effort, he pushed himself up. Where Natha had lain, he saw two large bare feet. His father’s gaze rested on the dagger that lay forgotten on the mantle. As Keirith reached for it, he swooped down and seized his wrist.

“It’s all right,” Keirith said. “I wasn’t going to . . . I spoke with Natha.”

His father’s grip eased just a little. The strength he possessed with only three fingers always astonished Keirith.

“It’s all right,” he repeated.

His father released him, but only when he sheathed the dagger did the tension leave his body. “May I sit with you?”

Keirith slid over, making space on the mantle. His father’s thumb beat a nervous tattoo on his thigh. Before Keirith could reassure him again, he said, “Tinnean said I must speak of Morgath or he would live in me forever. He was right. You bury the memories. Forget about them for days, moons at a time. But they’re still there. You can never bury them deep enough.”

“And if they remain inside too long, they putrefy.” When his father’s head jerked toward him, he added, “Natha’s words.”

His father nodded. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. And then he began to speak of what had happened to him during his quest.

Every Midwinter, Sanok told the tale of Darak Spirit-Hunter, the hero. This was the story of the man: the agony of having pieces of his body cut away; the horror of Morgath’s invading spirit stripping away his defenses; the hope and terror and, ultimately, understanding that arose from his communion with the World Tree; and those final shattering moments when, surrounded by the love of his brother and father, he had faced up to the darkest parts of himself and conquered Morgath.

Even when his father described Tinnean’s transformation, his voice remained calm. Only when he spoke of what had happened after he returned to the village did Keirith detect the first tremor of emotion.

“I didn’t believe I could ever hunt again. I didn’t know what to do. Who to be. I was lost. And . . . and scared. The nightmares were bad. As if he were still inside of me.”

“I . . . I left your mam. I told her I needed time. And I went back to the First Forest. I sat under the tree—Tinnean’s tree—and I thought about dying. Not killing myself so much as sitting there and letting the life drain out of me. A slow death, but a peaceful one. No more nightmares. No more memories. No more wondering what to do with my life.”

The fingers clenched around his knees and relaxed.

“But there was your mam. I loved her. It was . . . a gift I’d never expected. I thought about her sitting in our hut, waiting, wondering . . . and I got up and came home. Well, Lisula fetched me, actually. She’d had a dream that I was ready. I suppose you can guess who sent it.”

Keirith offered a silent prayer that the Trickster would never take such an interest in him.

“I begged your mam’s forgiveness. And told her some of what I’ve told you. But not all.”

Once it would have shocked him to imagine his father keeping secrets from his mam; they seemed so much a part of each other. Now he understood.

“I think you already knew most of this. Two spirits dwelling together . . . there’s little you can hide from each other. Whether it’s what happened to me on that tree—or what happened to you on that ship.”

He forced himself to meet his father’s eyes and nod.

“Since that morning at the altar, I’ve wondered if I did wrong. If I should have let you go. Maybe that would have been kinder. But I . . . I couldn’t. I didn’t think about the consequences. I didn’t consider what kind of life I was bringing you back to. I just knew I couldn’t let you go. So maybe all that happened after is my fault—for being selfish.”

When Keirith made a sound of denial, his father shook his head fiercely. “You cast out his spirit and took his body. According to our laws, that’s a crime. But I can’t see it that way. You fought him as an equal with the only weapon you had.”

“I don’t regret casting out Xevhan’s spirit. It’s . . .” He had to take a deep breath before he could say the name. “It’s Urkiat I keep thinking about.”

“Aye. We’ll always bear the burden of his death.”

“It’s my burden, not yours.”

“Don’t.”

“Sometimes, I wish I
had
cast out his spirit. That would have been better than leaving you to—”

“Don’t!”

His father shoved himself to his feet. “We both bear the guilt. There’s nothing we can say or do to change that. You were trying to save me. You made a choice. I understand.”

But he would never forgive him. And Urkiat’s death would always lie between them.

His father sank down beside him again. Keirith wondered if his expression had betrayed his thoughts or if his father had simply sensed them. Ever since their spirits had dwelled together, each of them seemed to know without words what the other was thinking and feeling.

“Urkiat had committed an act that he thought was unforgivable. And I made him confront it. I didn’t realize what I was asking of him. If I had . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “Facing his past was one of the hardest things Urkiat ever did. But I think it gave him peace. Sometimes it helps to speak of the things that haunt you. Bring them into the light. Look at them plainly. If you’re lucky, the thing you fear shrinks down to a size you can handle. But even if it still scares you, at least it’s out in the open, not lurking in the shadows. Or in your dreams.”

His father sounded so tired and so old. As if the weight of his life would crush him.

“Urkiat died because of us. But he also died
for
us. If we waste our lives in guilt and shame, we dishonor his death. You and I—we’ve both felt . . . tainted by the things that have happened to us, the choices we’ve made. We’ve looked at the future and wondered if we could bear it. Dying is easy, son. You know that now. It’s living that’s hard. But as long as there are those who love you, it’s worth the struggle. And no matter what, I’ll be here.”

His father’s fingers groped across the mantle, then stopped. Slowly, Keirith reached out and covered them with his. And then he began his tale, from those first moments of terror on the ship to his last conversation with Natha.

When he was finished, his father whispered, “I wish to gods it could have been me. That would be easier to bear.”

Keirith squeezed the clenched fist.

In the same fierce whisper, his father said, “We’ll get through this. We will.”

After that, they sat together in silence, watching Bel’s dawning light chase away the shadows.

F
OR GRIANE, MIDSUMMER passed in a numbing haze of fear and recrimination. While the rest of the tribe offered sacrifices to ensure the Holly-Lord’s victory, she could only wonder if her son had been sacrificed to appease the hungry gods of the raiders. Waking and dreaming, she pictured Gortin’s vision, only now it was Keirith’s eyes staring up at the priest’s dagger, Keirith’s blood drenching the altar stone, Keirith’s body convulsing in its death throes.

A few of her kinfolk still spoke of Darak and Keirith as if they were alive, but most avoided mentioning them at all. Others filled their places now. At Midsummer, Othak stood beside Gortin, wearing the brown robe of the initiate. Sanok still recited the legend of the Oak and the Holly, but he stumbled over the words so often that Nemek had to finish the tale. Although no one said so, it was clear that Nemek was Memory-Keeper in all but name.

Callie went daily to the lake with offerings for Lacha. Faelia disappeared into the forest. And every night, Griane turned her face to the night sky, watching Gheala grow fat and counting the days until she must fulfill her bargain with Fellgair.

To avert Faelia’s suspicions, she began going to the glade every morning at dawn to pour an offering of water over the heart-oak’s roots. To her surprise, the ritual soothed her, allowing her to voice her fears to the sacred tree and giving her the strength to face another day. Perhaps the Maker heard her prayers as well, for the nightmares abated; she even managed to sleep soundly the night before she was to meet Fellgair.

She dressed quietly that morning and slung a waterskin over her shoulder. As she made her way through the village, the scent of peat smoke filled the air and the occasional cry of a babe broke the silence as other mothers built up their fires and hushed their fretful children.

The gray half-light faded to darkness under the thick canopy of the forest, but she knew the path too well to stumble. She made her offering to the heart-oak and said prayers for the safe return of her husband and son. Only when she asked the Maker to guide her did her voice falter.

She had lain with only one man in her life. The mechanics must be similar with a god. But what if it was . . . better? Even after fifteen years, she could remember the gentleness of Fellgair’s touch. She prayed today’s memories would not intrude each time Darak reached for her, but if they did, she would bear them in silence.

She heard a twig snap behind her. Taking a deep breath, she turned to greet Fellgair.

Jurl rested his bow against a birch and eased the quiver of arrows off his back. “So this is where you sneak off to every morning.”

“I leave sneaking to you,” Griane managed when she recovered from her surprise.

“When did you become so pious?”

“When the raiders stole my son. What do you want, Jurl?”

His smile was more unpleasant than usual. “We’ve got unfinished business.”

Chinks of blue peeped through the leaves. Fellgair would arrive any moment.

“Whatever business we have can wait.”

“I’ve waited long enough.” He advanced on her slowly, the smile gone. “I didn’t tell anyone you freed that boy. It’s just you and me, so don’t bother denying it. I kept my mouth shut. I let everyone think I was a fool. The way I see it, you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you anything. You were drunk then and you must be drunk now to talk like this.”

“Besides, you’re the kind of woman who needs a man between her thighs at night.”

“It’s morning. And my thighs are just fine, thank you.”

They were shaking, in fact, but she wouldn’t let Jurl know that. Like all bullies, he would give this up if she refused to back down. To her dismay, he kept walking toward her, forcing her to back away. Gods, he’d be chasing her around the heart-oak soon.

“When Darak comes home—”

“Darak’s dead.”

“He’s not.”

Jurl shrugged. “Dead or alive. Doesn’t matter to me. I’m not talking marriage. I need a young girl for that. A breeder to get sons on. Real sons, not miserable little whiners like Othak. But you’ll do fine in the meantime.”

“I’ll do nothing in the meantime.”

“You will. Else I’ll tell the whole tribe about the boy. And I’ll tell your precious Darak that you offered yourself to me to shut me up.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You think I’m afraid of him? The great Spirit-Hunter?” Jurl spat. “I’ll tell him. And I’ll make him believe it. I’ll describe every mole and freckle on your body.”

He moved even before he finished speaking, and although she’d been expecting it, she reacted too slowly. Still, she might have gotten away if she hadn’t tripped over an exposed root. He was on her in an instant, shoving her facedown across the root, trapping her hands beneath her. She grunted in pain as his heavy body fell on her. When she screamed, he left off fumbling with her skirt long enough to press her face into the soft mulch. She twisted her head, gulping for air, choking as leaves and earth filled her mouth.

The weight on her back and thighs suddenly eased. She shoved herself up and kicked out with a bare foot. Although she struck empty air, she heard a thud behind her and a horrible wheezing. Scrambling to her knees, she reached for the dagger at her waist.

Her hand froze. Jurl was tearing at the neck of his tunic, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Griane hesitated, then dropped to her knees beside him. She peered into his open mouth, but saw nothing stuck in his throat. Knowing he was too heavy to turn over, she clenched her fists together and pounded his chest. It only made him gasp harder.