Part 10 (1/2)

”Five people went into the First Forest. You and Darak came back.”

”I was lucky.”

”Maybe.” He nudged her. ”Did you lie with him?”

”Darak?”

”The Trickster.”

”Nay. Nay!” she repeated in a fierce whisper.

”Always figured you did. To get him to help you. But if that's your story-”

”It's not a story. It's the truth.”

”As you will.”

When he took another deep drink, she said, ”You'd best go easy.”

”You think I can't hold my drink?”

”I think you'll have a raging headache on the morrow.”

”I'll still be sober enough to cut off his ballocks.”

”Well, don't come to me for a tonic.”

She rose out of her crouch and found her ankle snagged by rough fingers. ”Why'd you come tonight?”

”I told you.”

He jerked her off balance and she sat down hard. Glaring at him, she said, ”I thought you'd kill him.”

”And spoil the fun?” He leaned close, the scent of brogac mingling with his unwashed body. ”I know why you really came.”

She turned her head away. ”Then why bother asking?”

He released her ankle, but only to run his fingers up her leg. She slapped his hand away.

”All these years, married to a cripple. I've got all my fingers, Griane. And a spar that'll make you squeal when I plough your sweet furrow.”

”Be quiet! You'll wake Rothisar.”

It was the wrong answer. Moving far too quickly for a man who had consumed so much brogac, Jurl seized both ankles and yanked her flat. She fought him silently as he spread her legs and shoved between them.

”I remember how you screeched when you first married him. The whole village could hear you. Not lately, though.”

He s.h.i.+fted his weight. His fingers groped between their bodies. Hoping to catch him off balance, she shoved him hard in the chest. He rocked backward, then held her down with one hand while the other continued its persistent fumbling at the waist of his breeches.

Her fist grazed his cheek. He chuckled as he caught her wrist. ”I saw you slap him this afternoon. Guess that's what it takes to straighten Darak's twig.”

With her free hand, she flailed for her healing bag, a rock, something to use as a weapon. Her fingers found the discarded flask. Gripping it by the neck, she swung it as hard as she could. It shattered against the side of his head.

Jurl smiled. Then his eyes glazed and he slumped over.

She managed to shove herself out from under him. Too angry to be frightened, she lay back, panting. Then she cautiously raised her head. A few trickles of blood, black in the moonlight, marred his face, but his breathing was deep and regular. Clumsy ox hadn't even managed to unlace his breeches. She felt his pulse, then got to her feet and kicked him once in the ribs.

She retrieved the waterskin and slung her healing bag over her shoulder. Rothisar was still snoring. As she approached the oak, she heard the boy's quick intake of breath. She squatted next to him, wrinkling her nose at the faint stink of urine. Her fingers found his right hand. He gasped when she touched the broken fingers, grotesquely swollen now. Patting his arm, she rose.

The knots were tight. It took a long while to work them free, using her teeth as well as her fingers; she didn't dare cut them with her dagger. As it was, Jurl might accuse her. Still, it would be her word against his and he wouldn't want her to add the tale of attempted rape to her story because Darak would kill him.

Even after the rope fell to the ground, the boy just sat there, staring at her. Realizing he would never manage one-handed, she loosened the knots at his wrists. Then she backed away, sucking her chafed fingers, and motioned him to rise.

It took him three tries before he managed it. She pointed toward the lake, made a paddling gesture, and then pointed downriver. He nodded but continued to stand there even after she shooed him away. c.o.c.king his head, he whispered something in his language. Even without the words, it was not hard to imagine what he was asking.

Why?

Because I'm a healer. Because I have a son. Because I don't want another mother to experience this grief, to imagine her waiting for your boat and scanning the faces of the men as they land, antic.i.p.ation changing to uncertainty and then to panic when she finds you're not among them. And never knowing, through all the years remaining to her, if you're alive or dead.

Griane folded her arms as if cradling a baby. Then she laid one hand over her heart and placed the other on the boy's chest. His heart thudded wildly beneath her fingers. He moved suddenly and she stumbled back, safely out of reach. He shook his head and said something else in his horrible-sounding language. Then he sketched a spiral on his chest and bowed very formally. Not knowing what else to do, she bowed, too. By the time she straightened, he had vanished.

In giving him his life, she had also given him the opportunity to kill to preserve it. She hoped she had made the right choice. She hoped that if a woman-a mother-encountered her son, she would show him the same measure of mercy and kindness. She hoped-she prayed-that Keirith was still alive.

Keirith, my son, my firstborn, my child.

The first time, Keirith woke to pain.

The throbbing in his head radiated down his neck to his stiff arms and finally to his wrists. Only then did he realize they were lashed together and tied to some kind of wooden beam. He heard the rhythmic creak of paddles from above and the splash of water against the sides of the boat and then a soft moan. He lifted his head and discovered Owan lying near him. c.h.i.n.ks of light filtered through the planks, enough to tell him they were lying in the bowels of the boat, but too dim for him to make out the extent of Owan's injuries. He whispered his name, but got no response. After a while, the moaning ceased.

He dreamed of flying with the eagle. All of his kinfolk gathered by the lakesh.o.r.e to watch. When he soared overhead, they shouted his name over and over to the rhythmic pounding of a drum.

He came awake in joy and bit back a moan when he realized where he was. The light was nearly gone, but the drumming was real-the same rumble he had heard before the boats came out of the mist. Pebbles crunched against the bottom of the boat as it shuddered to a halt.

Tense and alert, he listened to the sounds from above: the tramp of boots, the creak of wood, men calling to each other and laughing. And then silence. A square of gray light appeared and the blinding flare of a torch. A rope ladder was flung into the hole and two men climbed down. He shrank back against the beam when he recognized the Big One and Gap Tooth.

The Big One scowled at him. Then Gap Tooth whispered something that made him smile. The Big One picked up Owan's limp wrist, then flung it down with a sound of disgust. He gestured to Gap Tooth who heaved Owan over his shoulder. Crouching to keep from b.u.mping their heads against the planks, they made their way back to the rope ladder, hauled Owan out of the hole, and slammed the wooden door shut behind them.

Keirith struggled briefly, but only succeeded in pulling the rope tighter. The air was close and dank and smelled of pine resin, but he also caught the faint scent of woods-moke. The growl of distant thunder proved too rhythmic and regular; he guessed he was hearing the crash of waves against the sh.o.r.e.

The boat must have reached the place where the river emptied into the great sea. Only days earlier, his father had been here for the Gathering. Was he still alive? Had his mam escaped with Faelia and Callie? How many of his kinfolk had been killed? How many others had been stolen?

He struck his head against the beam, allowing fresh pain to drive away thought. As the pale light faded to darkness, he succ.u.mbed to the lulling rhythm of the waves and slept once more.

The third time, he woke to terror.

Hands dragged him from sleep. There seemed to be dozens of them, shoving a piece of cloth into his mouth, fumbling with the rope around his wrists, digging into his armpits to lift him. He kicked and heard a grunt as his foot struck flesh. A fist punched him in the belly and he doubled over, retching dryly into the gag.