Bloodstone (84 page)

Stubborn as a rock? Gods, he was stubborn as a boulder and just as unmovable.

“Why are you doing this?”

His father went rigid with shock. “You have to ask?”

“There are limits to love.”

“Are there? I haven’t found them yet.”

“You’ve done enough. Suffered enough.”

“It’s got nothing to do with suffering! You’re my son.”

“I know!”

“Nay. You don’t. You can’t.” His father dragged his hands through his hair as he paced. “My father tried to explain and I listened to the words and they all made sense. But I didn’t understand. Not until Lisula carried you out of the birthing hut and put you into my arms. This red-faced, red-haired scrap of flesh. I was scared to death I was going to drop you, me with my clumsy hands.”

He held them out, staring at them as if he’d never seen them before. “That’s when I began to understand what it meant to be a father. The love. The pride. The fear. That, most of all. What if something happens to him? If he should take sick? Or drown in the lake? Or fall out of a tree? Knowing I could never shield you from every danger. Or unhappiness. Or just the pain of growing up and wanting to be a man while you’re still little more than a child. To see you pulling away and knowing I had to let you, even though every step terrified me. And made me proud.”

It was too hard. He couldn’t bear this.

“You and I . . . we know the best and the worst of each other. And the best of me is my love for my family. And maybe the worst is my stubbornness, my determination to hold on to all of you.”

“But you’ll only lose us all, Fa. Can’t you see that? Isn’t it better to lose only me? If anything should happen to Callie or Faelia . . . to any of you . . . I couldn’t live with myself.”

“Any more than we could live with ourselves if we let you walk away.”

He backed away, putting the fire pit between them. This was the final test and the hardest. He could not allow love to sway him from doing what was right. If he’d been stronger, he would have done it before. Now he had no choice.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s all right. I know you’re just trying to—”

His father broke off as he unsheathed his dagger.

“I love you, Fa. But I won’t let you destroy everyone in the family just to protect me.”

“Son. Listen to me.”

“You know I’ll do it.”

“Aye. But if you do . . . I don’t think either of us will survive it.”

The pain in his father’s voice nearly unmanned him. He tightened his grip on the dagger. “Please, Fa. Let me go.”

For a long moment, his father stood there. Then, slowly, awkwardly, he knelt on the rushes.

“Nay.”

“I’ve gone down on my knees—willingly—only three times in my life.”

“Get up.”

“Once, to your mam, to beg her forgiveness for leaving her. Once, to the Trickster, to ask for his help in finding Tinnean. And again to the Trickster, to ask him to help me save you.”

“Don’t.”

“Now I’m begging you. On my knees. Please, Keirith.”

“You’re killing me!”

The dagger fell from his fingers. His hands came up to cover his face. He knew he must find the dagger. He must finish it now. He must be strong enough to do this. But his father’s hands were grasping his shoulders, his father’s arms were holding him, his father’s voice was murmuring his name over and over. And gods forgive him, he could only cling to him, feeling the gentleness of the hands stroking his hair, the strength of the arms cradling him, the hoarse, broken longing of the voice that spoke his name like a prayer.

He didn’t know how long they remained locked together. In the end, he was the one who found the strength to let go. He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. His father was more direct; he raised his tunic and blew his nose on the hem.

“It’ll be dawn soon. Could you sleep, do you think?”

Keirith shook his head.

“Then we’ll just sit together until . . . until it’s time. Your mam’s going on ahead—with Faelia and Callie. They’ll leave before the ceremony.”

Relief washed over Keirith. He could manage if he didn’t have to see his mam’s stricken face.

“I invited Hircha to come with us. And she said yes. Well, what she really said was she’d promised to stay till the end, and clearly, it wasn’t over yet. So. She’s coming. You don’t mind?”

“Nay.” His face grew warm under his father’s scrutiny; at least with his darker skin, no one would notice when he blushed. “We’re not . . . we’re just friends. And I know she can be difficult. But she’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

“Aye. Well.” His father shook himself as if beset by deerflies. “Anyway, they’ll all be waiting for us. After the ceremony. But I’ll be with you. The whole time. Just keep your eyes on me.”

They spent the rest of the night talking about anything other than the upcoming ceremony. When the ram’s horn sounded, their gazes locked. They rose together. His father hugged him hard. The ram’s horn sounded again and his father’s arms tightened, as if to shield him from the sound and all it meant. Then he drew back, but kept his hands on his shoulders.

“It’ll be hard, son. There’s no point in denying that. But it’ll be over quickly. And then we can leave. Together.”

Keirith swallowed hard and nodded.

Their kinfolk were already gathered. The Tree-Father blew the ram’s horn a third time and handed it to Othak. No one spoke as they took their places in the circle, but all eyes watched him. He sought out Conn and found him standing beside Ennit. Both gave him a quick nod of encouragement. The Tree-Father looked as exhausted as the Grain-Mother. They stood on either side of the chief, the Grain-Mother with the sheaf of barley that symbolized her power, the Tree-Father with his blackthorn staff.

“Keirith.”

He started a little as the chief spoke his name and his father’s hand came down on his shoulder.

“Step forward.”

Slowly he walked into the center of the circle.

“Keirith, son of Darak and Griane. You have cast out the spirit of another creature. The council of elders could not excuse this act, but neither could it condemn you to death for defending yourself and your father. It is the sentence of the council that you be cast out of the tribe forever. Do you understand this judgment?”

“Aye.”

“Do you wish to say anything?”

He shook his head; what could he say now that he hadn’t said before?

“As long as I’ve been chief, there has never been a casting out. And I perform this one with no joy.” The chief’s gaze lingered a moment on his father who refused to look at him. “But the law is the law,” he continued in a stronger voice, “and it will be upheld.”

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.

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.

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.