“You’re . . . are you saying Morgath is behind this?”
“Morgath is dead, Darak. Even the most powerful shaman has difficulty recovering when a dagger is driven into his eye. Or should I say her eye? It was, after all, the Grain-Mother’s body he inhabited at the time. There were so many. It’s hard to keep track. An owl, a bear, a wolf, a wren. The lovely Yeorna. Do you still dream about her beautiful blue eyes, Darak?”
“Nay.”
“Or Morgath cutting away your flesh?”
“Nay.”
“Or poking around inside your spirit?”
“Nay!”
“I’m glad. I’d hate to think he had broken you.”
“He didn’t.”
“Then why have you never spoken of what happened? Why did you return home with Griane only to abandon her—setting the pattern early, weren’t you?—and flee back to the First Forest?”
“I didn’t . . . I had to . . .”
“Decide whether you wanted to live or die.”
“Decide what to do with my life.”
“Yes. One gets so tired of the ‘gallant but crippled hero’ role. Still, it’s more fulfilling than the ‘great hunter who cannot hunt.’ Or the ‘Memory-Keeper who cannot free himself from memories.’ ”
The onslaught was as relentless as it was true.
“Griane knew. Such a wise woman, your wife. She saw the possibility that you would not be able to face the world. That her love—great as it was—was not strong enough to hold you. And yet she allowed you to go back. She waited—one long moon—while you decided between life and death. And her beautiful red hair turned white.”
The pain in his gut radiated up into his chest. The mere act of breathing hurt so much he could only take in air with shallow pants. Oddly, his fingers hurt, too. It took several moments before he realized they were splayed against the wall behind him, fingertips scraping stone.
“You’re much crueler now than you were fifteen years ago.”
“We’d only just met,” Fellgair replied with a mocking smile. “I was on my best behavior.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Being cruel?”
“Bringing up the past.”
“Because the past influences the present. The things that happened in the First Forest and in Chaos still affect you today. And everything that affects you affects your son.”
It’s my fault, then. All of it.
“You are his father,” Fellgair replied as if he had spoken aloud. “So you deserve some of the fault—and the credit—for Keirith’s life. But there are other forces at work. Mortal life is a series of possibilities, stretching from the moment of conception to death.”
Fellgair traced a line in the air. A trail of creamy light shimmered in the wake of his claw. “Before a child is born, a single thread connects him to his mother.” The creamy light separated into two strands of intertwined white and gold. “After birth, other threads are woven into the pattern: father, brother, sister.” He sketched new lines in as he spoke: red, green, blue, each thread branching in many directions. “Outside forces may disrupt the pattern: disease . . .” He twisted a blue thread and its light dimmed. “Death.” With a quick slash of his claw, he severed the thread. The blue branches vanished. The other colors flickered uncertainly.
Dear gods, had something happened to Callie? Or Faelia? Or were the blue threads the babe they had lost?
“The child grows older. The pattern widens to include his tribe mates.” With quick gestures, Fellgair sketched in dozens of new threads that stretched out from the white in a spiderweb of color and light. Almost like the wards Struath and Yeorna had erected to protect them from Morgath.
“The child begins to make choices.” Dozens of smaller strands of white light shot out in all directions. “He chooses an eagle’s feather instead of a hawk’s to add to his bag of charms.” One tiny strand flared and vanished; another grew brighter. “He knocks down the older boy who is bullying him.” As an orange thread vibrated wildly, Darak searched his memory for a time Keirith had gotten into a fight. “He hones his skills so that he can surpass his father as a hunter.”
Not Keirith’s life, he realized, but his own, shimmering before him.
“And when his father dies . . .” Red threads flickered and vanished, leaving a gaping hole in the pattern. “. . . he chooses to becomes surrogate father to his brother—teaching him, shaping him, channeling his life into the path he wishes him to follow.” Green threads unwound from white. “By the time the boy is a man, the web of his life has been snipped and spun and reshaped a thousand times. For most, the shaping is small. For others, a single decision can alter their lives forever. Like Tinnean’s decision to defend the Tree. And yours to go in search of him.”
Green threads snapped, their ends waving wildly until only one slender strand remained intact, thickly cocooned by the threads of white.
“I know about my life. Show me Keirith’s.”
A casual wave of Fellgair’s hand erased the spiderweb of his life. “This is Keirith’s pattern before he was kidnapped.” Moving too fast for him to follow, the claws created an intricate new pattern, dominated by threads the deep blue of the Midwinter sky at dusk. “And this is Keirith’s pattern afterward.” Fellgair flicked a finger and half of the threads vanished. “The pattern of his life is still being rewoven.” One by one, the branching strands of blue disappeared, until only one remained.
If Fellgair’s pattern was true, Keirith’s chances of survival were as slender as the trembling thread that represented his life. He forced himself to examine the shimmering pattern more closely. Crossing Keirith’s thread were strands ranging in hues from dusky rose to that of dried blood. The colors of the Zherosi, surely. Just as surely, the web of white threads branching out between them belonged to him. And the brilliant ones that shifted from red to gold as he watched—those must be the Trickster’s. But where were Griane’s? The light blue, so closely intertwined with his white, perhaps. Yet those barely touched Keirith’s.
He had to swallow several times before he trusted himself to speak. “Will you save him?”
“No.”
“Can I save him?”
“Yes.”
The surge of relief left him weak. “How?”
The Trickster merely smiled.
“Please.”
With infinite care, Fellgair plucked a strand of white between two lethal claws. Darak’s heart gave an odd little flutter. As Fellgair lifted the thread, his heart missed a beat.
“What do you want?”
Under Fellgair’s claws, the thread stretched into a tiny white peak. Darak reeled, dimly aware of smooth stone sliding past his fingertips, of the jolt of pain as his knees hit the stone flags, of the duller pain that blossomed in his chest and swelled until he felt his heart must burst. He gasped for breath. Black dots danced in front of his eyes, obliterating the web, obliterating everything except those two claws grasping the peak of the taut white thread. If Fellgair broke it, he would die.
And then he realized that was the bargain Fellgair offered: his life in exchange for his son’s.
Flames erupted at the edge of his vision, brilliant bursts of red and gold. Or perhaps those were Fellgair’s threads. Or Griane’s hair, the way it used to look before the white had stolen in. The way it had looked that morning in the grove, fiery spikes framing her white face.
Forgive me, girl.
His vision blurred. Something warm and wet ran down his cheek. The world tilted. He had fallen like this when Fellgair first bespelled him, as slow and steady as if he were sinking into the waters of the lake.
Griane.
Callum. My sweet boy.
Faelia. My fierce wolf pup.
Wolf. Am I dooming you, too?
Keirith . . .
Never to see them again. Never to touch them. Never to say farewell.
Summoning his strength, he choked out, “Take me.”
The pain in his chest eased,
surprising him. Perhaps Fellgair meant to give him a quick death. He sucked in great gulps of air, helplessly staring up into the golden eyes that would be the last thing he would see. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure Griane’s face. For just a moment, he captured it—the smattering of freckles, the pointed chin, the frown she kept in place to hide her true emotions. And with it came the awareness that she was with him.
He opened himself to her presence, his spirit reaching out for hers. Only then did he realize the truth: it was not Griane’s spirit but Fellgair’s. Inside of him. Invading him. Just as Morgath had invaded him all those years ago.
His eyes flew open and met Fellgair’s calm gaze. He flailed uselessly at the restraining arms, as if by thrusting them away he could somehow rid himself of the god’s spirit.
Fellgair’s voice, the scolding tone as familiar as if he had spoken aloud. He could feel his presence, hovering at the edge of his consciousness.
Why?
He heard mocking laughter, but the Trickster’s face was grave. It was Morgath’s laughter, echoing in his memory.
Panic constricted his chest. A giant fist squeezed his heart. His vision narrowed to those two golden eyes above him. His body convulsed as he fought for air. But there was no air.
Stop breathing? Stop fighting?
Something pressed against his chest, but instead of crushing him, his breathing eased. Relief made him sag in Fellgair’s arms. So strong, those arms. On that final journey to the grove, he had yearned for the Forest-Lord to cradle him like this, but there had only been that one fleeting touch, a warm paw cupping the back of his neck the way his mam used to. Now, instead of Hernan’s leaves ticking his cheek, there was Fellgair’s fur. And the scent of honeysuckle filling his nostrils. And music . . . why did he hear music? And a heartbeat. He’d never imagined that gods possessed hearts, but surely that was Fellgair’s.
His heart slowed its frantic pattering to match that steady beat. As if he were back on the tree in Chaos again, feeling that other heartbeat keeping vigil with him, leading him away from Morgath, guiding him through the dream-forest and deep into the cavern where Tinnean and the Oak dwelled within the World Tree.
The music.
His heartbeat raced again as the word sounded inside of him. What new trick was Fellgair trying by conjuring up the song of the World Tree?
Impatience lanced through him, but before he could panic, Fellgair had withdrawn to the periphery of his consciousness again.
What game is this?
Keirith?
I know, but . . .
It was so hard to think clearly, to move past the terror of Fellgair’s presence inside of him, even if he made no attempt to penetrate deeper.
Denial made his body spasm helplessly.
He struggled to rise, but Fellgair held him fast.
I offered my life.
And Fellgair had. Because he had been foolish enough—and frightened enough—to speak without clearly stating the terms of the bargain.
I meant my life. You know that’s what I meant.
What?
But you’re already inside of me.
Please! You cannot kill my boy!
Why are you doing this?
So simple, really. And so true. Dying would be far easier than opening his spirit to Fellgair—to anyone. But only by making that sacrifice could he save Keirith. Of course, the Trickster knew that. He knew everything. He would never have accepted the lesser price. His hasty offer had just made it easier.
The very thought of opening himself to Fellgair made his spirit shrink, closing like a clenched fist. Immediately, he felt Fellgair drifting away.
Wait.
Nay. I’m—please!
His mind refused to acknowledge the truth, but the Trickster could sense his fear as easily as he could feel the terrified racing of his heart under his hand and the harsh rasp of his breath ruffling the fur of his chest.
With shaking hands, he tried to sit up, but he was ridiculously weak. In the end, all he could do was shift his head to stare up into Fellgair’s face. Silly to think he could read the Trickster’s expression. Sillier still to hope he might find something in it to reassure him.
His head drooped against the furry chest. Fellgair surprised him by taking his hand. The gesture was comforting. Then he noticed the claws curving across the back of his hand.
Tinnean, help me.
Darak opened himself.
Expecting the power of the god to flood his spirit like the song of the World Tree, he was surprised to feel only the slightest probing. As gentle as Struath’s touch the morning he had returned from his vision quest.
The memories filled him: Struath’s eye staring down at him; the shaman’s fingers cupping his cheeks; the shaman’s smile when he called out, “Today, a man walks among us.” His kinfolk pouring out of their huts, shouting and cheering. His mam—laughing, crying, hugging him. So young . . .
He lifted her wasted body.
Oh, gods . . .
A child’s weight in his arms. Her body cold. Her hair lank and streaked with gray. Her merry face sunken and empty. Muina had bathed and dressed her, but he had closed her eyes. Just as he had closed Maili’s.
It took all his control to stop himself from pushing Fellgair away as new images flooded him. Maili’s face, thoughtful and frowning, when he asked her to marry him. “I think we’d suit each other. I think we should wed.” Maili’s nervous smile as he pulled her away from the wedding feast. Maili’s averted eyes as he undressed. He had to hurry. Mam and Tinnean would come soon. He wanted their first time to be private.
Maili’s fingers, fumbling with her braid, freeing her hair to tumble over her shoulders and breasts. Maili’s quick gasp as he pulled her bridal tunic over her head. Another as he eased her onto the furs.
Her skin, creamy in the firelight. Her hands, shielding the dark curls between her legs. His fingers pulling them away, too rough, too eager. Her inadvertent flinch when he touched her there. Her huge eyes when he lowered himself onto her, so dark in the dimness of the hut they looked black. Her scream . . .
He heard a moan and knew it was his.
Fellgair saw it all, felt it all: his groan of completion, Maili’s muffled weeping, his useless apology, her body turning away from him, curling into a ball.
And still the god sought more, probing deeper, sifting through memories of happy times and bad. His life poured out like water from a broken flask. Tinnean’s small fingers clutching his the first time they watched the Northern Dancers weave their pattern in the night sky. Tinnean’s body flinching as the belt struck him. Tinnean’s eyes peeping through the tangle of leaves sprouting from his face.
Remember his eyes, blue as speedwell.
Callie’s eyes, that same blue. His chubby fingers fumbling with Tinnean’s flute. Faelia’s skillful ones whirling a sling over her head, shouting in triumph when she brought down a wood pigeon . . .
“Oh, Fa. It screamed.”
Keirith’s face, tear-streaked and stark. Keirith’s voice, shaking as he shouted his accusations. Keirith’s body, heaved over the side of that giant boat.
“You’ll never be able to shield him from pain or guard him close enough to keep him from harm.”
Lisula holding out the small, naked creature that was his firstborn so
n. The red face, screwed up in a fierce squall of protest. The ten tiny fingers, each of them perfect. The smooth skin, so impossibly soft . . .
Griane’s smile as she left the birthing hut with Keirith in her arms and discovered him waiting for her. Griane’s eyes, the blue that lived at the heart of a flame. Griane’s voice, scolding, bullying, easing his fears, crooning a lullaby. Griane’s hands, binding wounds, patting a babe’s bottom. Stroking his hair. Touching his body. Placing his ruined hands on her small breasts. Shivering with delight at his tentative touch.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
Hands and mouths exploring. The wonder of it. The joy. Laughter in the night instead of tears. Whispered confidences instead of silence. Her legs wrapped around him. Her fingers digging into his buttocks, urging him on, both of them heedless of his newly healed wounds. Pain and pleasure . . .
“Morgath enjoys both in equal measure. You’re very much like him in that respect.”
Morgath humming as he wove his severed fingers into Yeorna’s hair. Morgath oozing through his spirit, relentlessly stripping away his defenses. Morgath laughing with delight at each failed attempt to escape.
“I can read every thought. Feel every fear. Uncover all your dirty little secrets.”
Darak fled, desperately seeking a place where he was safe, where neither memories of Morgath nor the spirit of the Trickster could reach him. Somewhere, he would find that calm he had experienced during the first moments of communion with the World Tree. Somewhere, he would find the music.
The vibration coursed through him, as slow and steady as it had been in Chaos. But it was not the World Tree. It was Fellgair’s heart, beating beneath his cheek. He scarcely had time to realize it before it vanished, along with the god’s presence inside of him.
“Nay!”
Fellgair eased him out of his arms.
“Please.” He stared up into Fellgair’s face, at once stern and sorrowful. “I can do this.”
Fellgair shook his head.
“Let me try again.” He pushed himself onto his knees. “I beg you . . .”
The Trickster vanished.
Darak covered his face with shaking hands. He would not weep. Weeping would not help his son.
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