Part 3 (2/2)
The children were used to such conversations, but Urkiat's mouth hung open. Again. She was about to tell him Darak had picked up a good deal about healing from her, when she realized she'd completely forgotten to pa.s.s along the news of Lisula.
”And Ennit?” Darak asked, after she'd told him about the birth.
”Plumped up like a partridge, of course.”
”I wish I could have been here. Well, I'll visit him after supper.” He glanced toward the doorway, thumb drumming an impatient tattoo on his thigh. ”What's keeping Keirith?”
She had been wondering the same thing. Darak had urged her to give Keirith time to work out whatever was troubling him. Well, he'd had time. Tonight, they would sit him down for a talk. It wasn't the way she had planned to spend Darak's first evening at home, but the sooner they got this matter into the open, the better.
” . . . how he can spend all day there,” Faelia was saying. ”Well, the visions might be interesting, but the praying and the chanting . . .” She gave an exaggerated shudder, then glanced at Urkiat. ”You're not studying to be a shaman, are you?”
”Nay.”
”I didn't think so. With that scar on your-”
”See to the oatcakes, Faelia.”
”We can't eat without Keirith,” Callie said.
”Your father and our guest need something in their bellies.”
”I could go to the Tree-Father's and fetch him.”
Faelia gingerly plucked the oatcakes off the baking stone and dropped them into a reed basket. ”I'd just as soon he stayed away. He's been so difficult lately.”
”Should I go, Fa? I could go.”
”Fine. Go. Fetch him.”
Before Darak finished speaking, Callie was das.h.i.+ng out. Griane sighed. ”Do you have children, Urkiat?”
”Nay.”
”Are you married?” Faelia asked.
”Nay.”
”Really? Oatcake?” She held out the basket, favoring him with a wild fluttering of her pale lashes.
From hunter to whining child to flirt. Griane couldn't keep up with her daughter's transformations. If she was this difficult at eleven, G.o.ds preserve them-and whatever quarry she sought-when she became a woman.
Since Faelia was in a helpful mood, Griane let her scoop the cheese into a bowl and pa.s.s it around. It was good to sit and sip her elderberry wine while the men regaled them with tales of the Gathering: the trader with the brightly-colored bird that could curse in three languages; the tribesman from the north who shot four arrows through a gourd resting on a rock one hundred paces away; the boy who could keep three apples in the air at the same time.
She had hoped to attend this year's Gathering with Darak; they'd had such fun at the others, giggling like young lovers in their furs at night. After she weaned Callie, she'd expected to share more times like that, but there were always birthings to attend, bones to set, illnesses to monitor. Hard to believe the girl who had braved the First Forest had left her village only four times since she had returned.
Darak still went to the grove with the priests for the spring and fall rites of Balancing. Never at Midwinter or Midsummer; he couldn't bear to witness the battle between the Oak and the Holly. As for her, she would never go there again. Although it was the place where they had found love, there were too many painful memories. The quest had left Darak's spirit as badly scarred as his body. It was moons before he could sleep through the night without jolting awake, sweat-sheened and shaking. Longer still before the shadows left his face.
The shadows were there now, this time conjured by their son. Although Darak nodded his head and exclaimed over Faelia's exhaustive description of every snare she'd set in his absence, his thumb continued its relentless tattoo.
Griane tested the stew, scowled, and laid out some smoked salmon. She was considering whether to send Faelia to a neighbor to augment their meager fare when Callie slipped back inside. To her surprise, Gortin followed.
Darak rose and bowed. ”Tree-Father. Your presence honors us.”
Neither his words nor his manner betrayed the lie. Nor, to his credit, did Gortin's. His square face had never been handsome, but as a young man, there had been a certain softness, an eager light-sweet and pitiful at the same time-that illuminated it. That disappeared after Struath died. Tonight, the scars around the shadowed eye socket gave him a particularly sinister look.
She chided herself for her silliness. Gortin couldn't help the scars. The Tree-Father from the Holly Tribe had been too sick and too old to conduct the rite properly. All the poultices in the world couldn't undo the damage that shaking dagger had inflicted. She still remembered Gortin's screams.
Darak and Gortin were just staring uncomfortably at each other. ”Please. Join us,” she said. ”We were just about to have some supper.”
”Thank you. I've eaten.” Gortin hesitated, his gaze lingering on Urkiat. ”There is a matter we need to discuss, but I fear this is not the best time.”
Urkiat turned to Faelia. ”After hearing so much about the rabbits you snared, perhaps you'd show me the best spots. We might even have time to set some snares before the light goes. If Callum will help us.”
”Callie's too little-”
”I am not. I helped the other day. I sprinkled dirt over the snare and everything.”
”Fa ...”
Before Darak could speak, Griane said, ”It's too late to be wandering about the lakesh.o.r.e. Take Urkiat to Ennit's. Both of you.”
Urkiat had eaten their food; he was honor-bound not to violate the laws of hospitality. And Darak must trust the man if he'd brought him home. Still, his angry outbursts made her reluctant to send the children off with him.
As Gortin sat down, Darak said, ”I take it Keirith's not with you.”
”Nay.”
”Is there a problem? Has he been neglecting his lessons?”
”He hasn't told you?”
Griane's stomach lurched. Darak shot her a quick look and she shook her head, as puzzled as he was.
”Keirith a.s.sured me . . . I'm sorry. I should have told you myself.”
”Aye. Well.” Darak's voice was calm enough, but she could hear the edge in it. ”Suppose you tell us now.”
Chapter 3.
BY THE TIME KEIRITH neared the village, the sun had disappeared behind Eagles Mount. He endured some good-natured chaffing from the returning peat cutters who marveled that he could have ripped his tunic during a vision, and silently blessed the women who herded the begrimed men and children toward the lake to wash.
He paused at the little stream that flowed into the lake to a.s.sess the damage the gorse bush had inflicted during his headlong flight down Eagles Mount. The dim light in the hut might hide the scratches on his bare legs, but his mam would surely spy the hole in the elbow of his tunic; her eyes were as sharp as the eagle's. Maybe if he kept his arm straight . . .
Kneeling under the big willow, he splashed water in his face and smoothed his hair. Hoping his meager ablutions would suffice, he hurried toward the village.
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