Bloodstone (83 page)

“What is that?” Hircha asked, peering into the basket.

“It’s called heal-all.”

“I’ve never heard of it before.”

“You wouldn’t have. It’s from the Summerlands.”

Hircha caught her breath. With one forefinger, she gently brushed a slender leaf. “Are they beautiful? The Summerlands?”

“Oh, aye. More beautiful than any Memory-Keeper could describe.” Griane bent closer to the heart-ease. “I should have come before the light went.”

“Let me.”

“Be careful not to bruise the roots. Or pull too hard.”

“I know.” After a moment, Hircha added, “My mother was a healer.”

Griane watched her to be sure she knew what she was doing. “You’ve a gentle touch.”

“She let me help her gather plants. And tie them up for drying. I even helped make infusions—simple ones. But then . . .” Hircha’s voice trailed off.

“Then the raiders came. How old were you?”

“Nine.”

She groped for Hircha’s hand and squeezed it. After that, they harvested the plants in silence, lulled by the chorus of frogs and night insects. When Hircha finally spoke, her voice startled Griane.

“I liked knowing what each plant was used for.”

“Aye. There’s a comfort in plants.”

“Does . . . does Faelia help you?”

“Faelia wouldn’t know Maker’s mantle from mugwort. She’s a hunter.”

“Lots of girls snare rabbits and birds.”

“Aye. But Faelia’s brought down a deer.”

Hircha digested this in silence. “My tribe didn’t allow women to hunt with a bow.”

“Nor does mine.”

Another silence, longer this time. “Does Darak know?”

“There hasn’t been time to tell him. Everything’s happened so fast. Nay, leave the rest. I must remember to tell Sali about them before we go.”

Together, they walked back toward the village. It was a soft, warm night. The smell of peat smoke mingled with the faint odor of decay from the Death Hut. By habit, Griane paused outside the birthing hut, listening for sounds, but both Catha and the babe must be sleeping.

She paused again beside the tribal cairn and rested one hand on the rocks. She had barely finished her prayer when Hircha blurted out, “Did Darak tell you he’d asked me to come with you?”

“We discussed it beforehand. Have you made up your mind yet?”

“I don’t want you to take me just because you feel . . . obligated.”

She peered at the girl, trying to read her expression. Finally she gave up and said, “I told you when you first arrived that our home was yours. And I meant it. We haven’t had much time to get to know each other. I see someone who is young and strong and tough-minded. A little free with her tongue. A bit like me, I suppose. I’d like to have another woman around. Especially one who knows something about healing. And you get on well with the children.” With them, at least, Hircha could let down her guard and dare to show affection. “Both Faelia and Callie seem to like you.”

“Darak doesn’t.”

They did seem uncomfortable with each other, but Darak would never have suggested that Hircha come with them if he disliked her.

“He’s afraid I’ll hurt Keirith.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t know! I don’t want to hurt him. It’s not like I’ll try to.”

“Good.”

There was a long silence. Griane curbed her impatience and waited.

“I hated him,” Hircha said in a low voice. “Keirith. I didn’t want him getting too close. Because if you let people in . . .”

“Sometimes, they’ll hurt you. Even the ones you love. If you’re afraid of people getting close, you should stay here. Even in a village this small, you might be able to manage that way. But not with five other people. We’ll need to trust each other. And we’ll have to risk far more than our hearts if we’re going to survive.” Griane hesitated, then decided to ask the question that had been on her mind since Hircha had arrived. “Do you love Keirith?”

Hircha’s head jerked toward her. “Nay.”

“Does he love you?”

“I . . . I don’t think so.”

“But you’re friends.”

Hircha considered. “Aye. I guess we are.” She sounded surprised but not displeased.

“I think you can help each other. You both understand what it was like in that place.”

“Darak—”

“Is his father. Keirith still needs a friend. And so do you.”

The gods only knew what the raiders had done to the girl. She still wasn’t sure if it had been wise to ask her to join them. But she’d seen the longing in Hircha’s eyes when she listened to them arguing and weeping and laughing together. Hircha needed a home and a family and a place to belong.

Griane bent down to pick up a rock and placed it atop the cairn. “The bones of my mother and father are inside. And my sister. My aunt and uncle. My son. Aye, I had another boy. He only lived a few moments . . .”

And only after a moon could a child of the tribe receive a name. But she had named him in her heart and that was how she remembered him in her prayers. Rigat.

“I’m sorry I won’t lie with them. But a body is just flesh and bone and blood. It’s the spirit that matters. And the heart.”

Darak might understand that, but understanding and accepting were very different.

“It’s hard . . . when the body is before you every day.”

Lost in her thoughts, it took Griane a moment to realize Hircha was talking about Keirith—and the man whose body he now wore.

“I know it’s Keirith inside,” Hircha said. “I can see that. Not just in what he says but the way he walks, the gestures he makes. His kindness.”

She must have known the other man well. Darak claimed she had feared and hated him, but Griane suspected there was more to it—and that Keirith knew what it was. There may not be love between them or desire, but there was a bond. The kind that formed when people shared tremendous adversity and survived. And that could only help them both in the hard times ahead.

“None of us can wipe out the past,” she said quietly.

“No matter how much we might want to. All we can do is acknowledge it—for better or worse—and move on.”

“Aye. But it’s not easy.”

Griane brushed a wisp of hair off Hircha’s face. “I know.”

C
ONN BROKE DOWN only once, when he told him about the rape. After that, he never made a sound. By the time Keirith finished, the faint slivers of light seeping through the chinks in the walls were gone. And no one from his family had come to see him.

“It’s late, Conn. And I . . . I guess I should try to sleep.”

“Aye. But first, we need to make a new oath.”

Conn unsheathed his dagger and stared down at his shaking hand.

“Try not to cut my wrist,” Keirith said.

Conn managed a weak smile. His fingers found the place at the base of his thumb. There was a quick, sharp sting as the dagger bit into his flesh and then the warm swell of blood. Conn passed him the dagger. Keirith was surprised to discover how steady his hand was as he made the cut for Conn.

“To be friends in this life,” Conn said as they clasped hands. “And brothers in the next.”

“Spirit linked to spirit.”

“Heart bound to heart.”

Conn cut two strips from the bottom of his tunic and they bound each other’s wounds. They got to their feet, neither of them willing to say good-bye. Then they heard the voices outside and embraced, a hard fierce hug that promised they would always remember their oath. Conn paused at the doorway, his expression fierce. And then he was gone.

Expecting to see his family, Keirith tried to hide his disappointment when Ennit and Lisula ducked inside. Although he was grateful to them for coming, he just didn’t have the strength for another emotional encounter. The Grain-Mother was the first to realize he wanted to be alone. Before she left, she promised his family would be along soon.

Drained and exhausted, Keirith sat down beside the fire pit. He kept glancing at the doorway, waiting for the sound of footsteps. But none came. Even without the Grain-Mother’s promise, he knew they wouldn’t desert him.

As the night wore on, he feared something had happened. But the village was very quiet. Everyone was asleep. Even old Mintan was snoring.

Abruptly, his droning snores turned to a surprised snort. The bearskin moved. His father stepped inside. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier. Are you all right?”

He looked very tired but calm. Relaxed, even. As if they had all the time in the world.

“Aye. I . . . I saw Conn.”

“I’m glad.”

“Ennit and Lisula came, too.”

“Gortin would have, but he’s been going from hut to hut, trying to convince someone on the council to change his vote.”

His father’s expression was proof enough that no one had.

“Where’s Mam? And Faelia and Callie?”

“Your mam and Hircha went to the lake. How they can see to gather plants at this time of night is beyond me.”

Gathering plants? The night before the tribe was going to cast him out?

“Faelia and Callie are asleep. I thought of waking them, but they’ll have a long day on the morrow and they need the rest.”

Numb with disbelief, Keirith just stared at him.

“You don’t mind?”

A horrifying suspicion was forming, but he couldn’t find the words to voice it.

“Oh, gods.” His father looked stricken. “I’m sorry. I thought . . . since there would be time on the morrow . . . never mind. I’ll fetch them now.”

He was halfway to the door when Keirith grabbed his arm. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”

For a moment, his father’s face was perfectly blank. “I’m talking about leaving the village.” He spoke slowly and carefully, as he might to a child. “All of us. After the casting out.” Whatever his father saw on his face made him take a step back. “You said yourself . . . you said everything would be all right. And I thought you understood. I thought you knew. Gods, Keirith! Did you think we’d abandon you? Stand by and do nothing?”

“I only meant . . . when I said that, I meant I’d accepted the council’s decision.”

“Well, we didn’t!” His father stared at him as if he were a stranger. “You sat here—all night—thinking we weren’t even coming to say farewell? You believed I could do such a thing? After all we’ve been through together?”

“Nay. I . . . I just thought you were giving me time. With Conn. And later, I thought . . . I wondered if you would try and free me. Take me away like you did Tinnean. But not the whole family. You can’t drag Callie and Faelia into the wilderness.”

“I’m not dragging them. We all voted.”

“I didn’t!”

“I voted for you. You were the only one opposed. I made all the arguments you’re going to make now, so you may as well save your breath.”

His father’s implacable calm—nay, arrogance—turned his shock to anger. “You have no right—”

“I’m the head of this family. That alone gives me the right!” His father’s shoulders heaved as he fought for control. “We all discussed it. And we all agreed. I’m sorry you don’t, but the decision has been made.”

“Then you’ll have to unmake it. I won’t permit it!”

“By the gods, you will!” He paced, a caged beast in the tiny hut. “I expected you to be relieved, at least. That we intend to stand by you.”

The hurt in his father’s voice kept Keirith from shouting back. “I am. But you can’t do this.”

“Your mother and I survived in the First Forest for nearly a moon without fire or friends—and me half dead on top of it. We have time to find a place. To build a home.”

“And how are you going to feed everyone? With a Memory-Keeper’s tales?”

His father’s head snapped back. “I’ll hunt,” he said, a savage edge to his voice. “And so will Faelia. We’ll set snares. We’ll gather roots and berries. In the spring, we’ll plant barley—”

“Where are you going to get—?”

“From our share of the tribe’s stores. Nionik has agreed.”

“You’ve told the chief?”

“The whole village knows. Folk have been coming all night. Bringing supplies. Wishing us well. Wishing you well.”

He didn’t trust himself to speak. As if sensing his weakness, his father added, “Not everyone agreed with the council’s decision.”

“And what about the tribe?” His voice was too tentative. He had to strengthen it. He was fighting for his family’s survival. “Sanok is failing. And Sali’s too young—”

“Nemek’s been filling Sanok’s shoes for two moons. And Sali’s older than your mam was when she became healer. The tribe will manage. So will we.”

He had only one argument left and he used it without hesitation. “You’ll never see Tinnean again. There won’t be anyone to open the way to the First Forest.”

His father’s breath caught. He let it out slowly. “Aye. I’d forgotten that. But whether or not I go to the One Tree, I’ll always carry him here.” He laid his palm on his chest. “Those were his last words to me.”