Part 33 (1/2)

”I've made up a pallet in the other chamber. Enough,” he added as Keirith opened his mouth to protest. ”It's perfectly comfortable.” He extinguished two of the lamps, but left the third burning. ”Good night.”

”Forgive me,” he whispered.

”There's nothing to forgive.”

Keirith pulled the blanket around him and lay back on the fleece. A heavy weight descended on his stomach and he gasped. Niqia kneaded him for several moments, sharp claws making him wince.

”Settle.”

She ignored him, continuing her careful kneading until, apparently satisfied, she sprawled across his belly. Keirith stroked the soft fur behind her ears and was rewarded with a contented purr.

The plan to lull Xevhan's suspicions could work if he played his part well, but it would not help Malaq. Was this what it was like for the priests of Pilozhat? Always watching their backs, always courting friends and observing enemies and plotting against both? It was so alien to his life at home-but then everything here was.

As unnerving as all the plotting was, there was something exciting about it. Pitting your skill against another's. Using your power to woo him or destroy him. Risking everything. It was as thrilling and frightening as flying with the eagle.

”You are enmeshed in a dangerous game, and your life depends on your ability to play it well.”

And if the vision was true, it was not only his life at risk, but Malaq's as well.

Chapter 27.

GRIANE SPRINKLED THE last drops of the elder berry wine on the roots of the heart-oak and rested her palm against the tree's thick trunk. She should say a prayer. If only she knew what to pray for.

Don't be a ninny, Griane. You know why you're here. Just do it.

The name stuck in her throat.

”Maker, help me. Show me if this is the right path.”

Sunwise, she circled the sacred tree. That's what the priests always did when they summoned power. But she wasn't summoning power; she was simply delaying. She closed her eyes and repeated her prayer-and promptly stumbled over a root.

Well, that's what happens when you try to walk and pray with your eyes shut. Any fool would know better. And only a fool would take that for a sign.

”Please, Maker. Give me a sign. Something to let me know whether I should do . . . what I'm thinking of doing.”

Nothing happened. The birds still twittered, the morning sunlight still slanted through the branches of the trees.

What did you expect? A clap of thunder? A flash of lightning?

The glade darkened. She gasped and flicked her forefinger three times against her thumb. She considered spitting in the four directions, but while she hesitated, the sunlight returned. It had only been a pa.s.sing cloud. It would have shadowed Bel's face no matter what she said. But she had had said something. She had asked for a sign. said something. She had asked for a sign.

”Bel's blazing ballocks.”

Signs were no more reliable than visions. Better to trust your common sense. Of course, if she did that, she would leave right now. Of all people in the world, she knew better than to trust Fellgair.

d.a.m.n her indecision. d.a.m.n Gortin and his visions. And d.a.m.n Darak for leaving her here with nothing to do but wait and worry.

”Oh, Maker, I didn't mean it. Especially the part about Darak.” This time she did spit. She'd never discovered if an ill-wish counted if you didn't speak it aloud, but now was not the time to chance it.

Impatiently, she swiped at her eyes. She'd never been a weeper, but these days she was always crying. The other day, she'd found a patch of speedwell in the forest and burst into tears; poor Sali just stared at her with her mouth hanging open.

”I'm going home,” she announced. And stood staring up at the wide-spreading branches of the heart-oak.

For four days, Gortin's vision had haunted her. Worse were the images she conjured: Darak's body twisting with agony, gouts of blood spurting from his chest, his mouth going slack as the scream faded, the gray eyes glazing in death. Four days and four nights with those images racking her mind and helplessness tearing at her spirit like a carrion crow. And always the fear of the consequences if she asked the Trickster for help.

Even if she called, Fellgair might not come. He might not even remember her. It had been fifteen years since she had seen him. He'd been angry with her for leaving the Summerlands without bidding him farewell. But he had opened the way home for a kiss. And promised-predicted-that she would have many years with Darak. Fifteen years wasn't many. Not as people measured time and certainly not as G.o.ds did.

Keirith would never let them hurt his father. Never.

Fellgair had made another prediction that morning-that he and Darak would meet again. Perhaps he'd known even then that she would be standing here, wondering if she should call his name.

In the underbrush, a fox yipped. The hairs on her neck and arms rose. Very slowly, Griane turned.

The fox padded out of the thicket and froze when it saw her. Golden eyes fixed her with an unblinking stare. It lifted one delicate forepaw. Despite the thick mulch of dead leaves littering the glade, it made no sound as it stalked toward her.

The fox paused and c.o.c.ked its head. Large triangular ears p.r.i.c.ked forward. Suddenly, it catapulted high into the air and pounced on a pile of leaves. It nosed through them and emerged with a vole dangling between its jaws. It tossed its head, flinging the vole skyward. The muscles in its hind legs tensed. Just before the unfortunate creature hit the ground, the fox leaped up and snapped it out of the air. Then it settled into a patch of sunlight and proceeded to devour its prey in three quick bites.

A red tongue flicked out to lick the long whiskers. Then the fox yawned, treating Griane to a vivid display of the sharp shears on its upper jaw.

”Is it you?” she whispered.

The fox's ears p.r.i.c.ked up at her voice. It rose. And winked.

The sleek body stretched. The narrow rib cage swelled. Back legs straightened. Forelegs pushed off the ground to hang by its sides. Paws tapered into clawed fingers that waggled a greeting. The thick brush grew even more luxuriant. The muzzle widened. Widened still more as the Trickster smiled and strolled toward her.

”As if I could forget you, Griane.”

”But I didn't call you.”

”I've missed you, too.”

”I only thought . . .”

Fellgair shook a reproving finger. ”You see? It does count if you only think it.” He sighed. ”Poor Darak. Poor Gherkin.”

”Gortin.”

”Whatever.”

”I didn't mean it. I wasn't cursing him. Them.”

”Of course you weren't.”

”So nothing bad will happen?”

”Ever?”