Part 46 (2/2)
”And did you see the possibility that my son would be kidnapped by the Zherosi? Is that why you gave me your token all those years ago?”
”Only when a child is conceived is the pattern of his life spun,” Fellgair replied, deftly avoiding a direct answer.
”But later?”
”Later? Yes, of course, I saw the possibility.”
”And didn't warn me?”
”Oh, forgive me. I hadn't realized that my role in the universe was to avert your family crises.”
”I only meant-”
”A role better suited to a father than to the Trickster.”
That silenced him. ”I tried to find him.”
”After you drove him from your hut or after you abandoned him to the mercy of the raiders?”
As many times as those same words had echoed in his head, it was still shocking to hear them spoken aloud.
”To answer your earlier question, I did not bring the Zherosi to your village. I did not encourage you to abandon your son to seek the pleasure of the kill. And I did not make the raider club Keirith over the head and drag him back to his s.h.i.+p. Men set those events into motion. Just as, fifteen years ago, a man came through a portal from Chaos into the grove of the First Forest.”
”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 sc.r.a.ping 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 s.h.i.+mmered 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 G.o.ds, 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 surpa.s.s his father as a hunter.”
Not Keirith's life, he realized, but his own, s.h.i.+mmering 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 coc.o.o.ned 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 s.h.i.+mmering 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 s.h.i.+fted 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.”
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