Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  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.”

  Chapter 54

  CONN 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.”

  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.”