Part 60 (2/2)
She had lain with only one man in her life. The mechanics must be similar with a G.o.d. But what if it was . . . better? Even after fifteen years, she could remember the gentleness of Fellgair's touch. She prayed today's memories would not intrude each time Darak reached for her, but if they did, she would bear them in silence.
She heard a twig snap behind her. Taking a deep breath, she turned to greet Fellgair.
Jurl rested his bow against a birch and eased the quiver of arrows off his back. ”So this is where you sneak off to every morning.”
”I leave sneaking to you,” Griane managed when she recovered from her surprise.
”When did you become so pious?”
”When the raiders stole my son. What do you want, Jurl?”
His smile was more unpleasant than usual. ”We've got unfinished business.”
c.h.i.n.ks of blue peeped through the leaves. Fellgair would arrive any moment.
”Whatever business we have can wait.”
”I've waited long enough.” He advanced on her slowly, the smile gone. ”I didn't tell anyone you freed that boy. It's just you and me, so don't bother denying it. I kept my mouth shut. I let everyone think I was a fool. The way I see it, you owe me.”
”I don't owe you anything. You were drunk then and you must be drunk now to talk like this.”
”Besides, you're the kind of woman who needs a man between her thighs at night.”
”It's morning. And my thighs are just fine, thank you.”
They were shaking, in fact, but she wouldn't let Jurl know that. Like all bullies, he would give this up if she refused to back down. To her dismay, he kept walking toward her, forcing her to back away. G.o.ds, he'd be chasing her around the heart-oak soon.
”When Darak comes home-”
”Darak's dead.”
”He's not.”
Jurl shrugged. ”Dead or alive. Doesn't matter to me. I'm not talking marriage. I need a young girl for that. A breeder to get sons on. Real sons, not miserable little whiners like Othak. But you'll do fine in the meantime.”
”I'll do nothing in the meantime.”
”You will. Else I'll tell the whole tribe about the boy. And I'll tell your precious Darak that you offered yourself to me to shut me up.”
”You wouldn't dare.”
”You think I'm afraid of him? The great Spirit-Hunter?” Jurl spat. ”I'll tell him. And I'll make him believe it. I'll describe every mole and freckle on your body.”
He moved even before he finished speaking, and although she'd been expecting it, she reacted too slowly. Still, she might have gotten away if she hadn't tripped over an exposed root. He was on her in an instant, shoving her facedown across the root, trapping her hands beneath her. She grunted in pain as his heavy body fell on her. When she screamed, he left off fumbling with her skirt long enough to press her face into the soft mulch. She twisted her head, gulping for air, choking as leaves and earth filled her mouth.
The weight on her back and thighs suddenly eased. She shoved herself up and kicked out with a bare foot. Although she struck empty air, she heard a thud behind her and a horrible wheezing. Scrambling to her knees, she reached for the dagger at her waist.
Her hand froze. Jurl was tearing at the neck of his tunic, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Griane hesitated, then dropped to her knees beside him. She peered into his open mouth, but saw nothing stuck in his throat. Knowing he was too heavy to turn over, she clenched her fists together and pounded his chest. It only made him gasp harder.
Could it be an attack like the one Old Dren suffered last summer? But Dren hadn't appeared to be suffocating as Jurl surely was. She tried breathing into his mouth, but he was thras.h.i.+ng too wildly.
His face slowly darkened to the color of raw liver. His heels gouged great furrows in the mulch. His bulging eyes pleaded with her, but all she could do was kneel beside him and squeeze his hand.
A foul smell a.s.saulted her nostrils as he voided his bowels. His convulsions grew weaker. His legs slowly relaxed. The tortured gasping ceased, and the blue lips went slack.
Griane closed the staring eyes, but could not bring herself to whisper a prayer that his spirit should fly to the Forever Isles. All his life, Jurl had been a brute and a bully. His first wife had died of childbed fever; the second had fled back to her family. His only surviving child was terrified of him. At least poor Othak was safe from his father's beatings now, although he would probably carry the emotional scars forever.
A sudden whiff of honeysuckle drove away the stink of death. Black-clawed feet appeared before her. Golden eyes regarded Jurl's body. The long nose wrinkled in distaste.
”You did this?”
”It's past dawn. Today you were promised to me.” Fellgair shrugged. ”Besides, I never liked him. Shall we go?”
She had witnessed many of Fellgair's moods-mocking, seductive, stern, even sorrowful-but she had never seen him so ruthless. For the first time in their long acquaintance, she was truly afraid of him.
His face softened. ”Do you think I would ever deal with you like that?”
She hesitated only a moment, but it was long enough. His expression became remote. ”Do you wish to rescind our bargain?”
”Nay.”
He studied her a moment, then nodded. She clasped his outstretched hand and clung to it tightly as the glade of the heart-oak melted into a smear of color and light.
Even with her eyes closed, she knew where he had taken her. For fifteen years, she had preserved the sensations in her memory: the crispness of the gra.s.s between her bare toes, the gentle splash of the waterfall, the heady aroma of the air, richer than any that existed in her world. But memory failed to capture the brilliance of the colors that burst upon her when she opened her eyes: the lush greens and vivid reds, the bold blue of the sky, and the rich browns of the tree trunks. As if the Maker had splashed the colors across the Summerlands that very morning.
The pool was exactly as she remembered, the water cascading over ledges carved with otherworldly precision into the hillside. A mere swallow of that water would slake her thirst for the entire day. The plants she had named still grew beside the pool: silver-leafed heal-all that could seal a wound with a touch, broad-leafed heart-ease that could soothe the most troubled spirit. They had kept Cuillon strong during that long journey back to the grove of the One Tree and helped Darak survive the damage Morgath had inflicted on his body.
She shaded her eyes, gazing across the gra.s.slands, but the clumps of trees seemed firmly rooted in the earth.
”Would you like to see her again?” Fellgair asked.
She hesitated, wondering what that pleasure would cost her.
Fellgair's lips pursed in exasperation. ”Not every gift I offer has a price. If it would please you to see Rowan again, I will take you to her. Give me your hand.”
”Can't we just walk?”
”Waste our day plodding through the Summerlands? What an extraordinary idea.” He thrust out his hand, but still she hesitated.
”I'd like to see Rowan, but I would give it up if you'd tell me . . . if I knew for certain . . . is Keirith alive?”
”Yes.”
In spite of her best effort at control, she burst into noisy, foolish tears. At least Fellgair had the decency not to comfort her. He simply sat on a rock, the model of patience, while she choked and gasped and finally gave up and sat on the ground at his feet and allowed herself to weep. Only when her sobs subsided into hiccups and her hiccups to moist sniffles did he hold out a sc.r.a.p of cloth. She smoothed the delicate white square with her fingertips.
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