Bloodstone Part 46

The room was small, but far more opulent. And it was very cool, perhaps because it was built under the hill. A slender girl crawled around the low table on her hands and knees, pausing to plump cushions of red and brown. Other servants-all young and beautiful, even the boys-scurried past with platters and pitchers. Did they know she was coming? Or where she had gone? Although there were no other doors in the chamber, she had vanished-just as she had that night in Oexiak.

The spicy aromas of the food vied with the fragrance of honeysuckle from the vases adorning niches in the walls. Paintings of trees covered one wall of the chamber, an autumn forest of gold and brown and scarlet. Not for the first time, he longed for the sight of something green.

He carefully placed her jewelry on the table. The servants bowed and left. The chanting continued in the outer room, augmented by the sweet trills of a flute. And still, there was no sign of her.

"Welcome, Darak."

His greeting died when he turned to discover her emerging from the painted forest on the wall. There was no door. She simply . . . walked out of the trees. But even her entrance-incredible as it was-paled in comparison to her naked body.

"Don't gape, dear. It's unbecoming."

The words conjured up a memory, but he simply couldn't grasp it. All he could do was stare at her, his gaze shifting between the heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the thick p.e.n.i.s jutting from the black thatch of hair.

"How sweet. You can still blush." She advanced on him slowly. "And do you still think I'm beautiful?" Her lips pursed in a pout when he failed to reply. "If you don't find me beautiful, I shall be hurt. You don't want me to be hurt, do you?"

Numbly, he shook his head.

The scent of honeysuckle wafted toward him as she approached. Her eyes were level with his. In the dark depths, gold flecks swirled. He could feel himself falling into them, just as he had when Fellgair's golden eyes first bespelled him.

A hand brushed his cheek, the palm as rough and spongy as a dog's pads. Two long shears sprouted from her upper jaw. A red tongue lolled out between them.

"Have you missed me, Darak?"

He could feel his mouth moving, but no words would emerge.

"Welcome to my temple."

"Your . . . ?" And then he realized. The G.o.d with Two Faces.

"I told you I had many worlds. This is one of my favorites. They treat me so well here. A lovely temple, devoted followers . . ." The Trickster strolled toward the table. "The finest food. Shall we eat?"

"Put some clothes on first."

"It's too hot for clothes."

"Fur, then."

Fellgair shuddered. "Far too hot for fur. Don't you like me like this? My followers find me quite impressive."

"I don't doubt it. With that . . . spear hanging between your legs."

Fellgair heaved an exaggerated sigh. "A heavy burden, indeed. As are these." He hefted the full b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The coolness of the room had caused the plum-colored nipples to tighten into tiny buds. "Come. Sit."

Darak collapsed onto one of the cushions. Fellgair seated himself far more gracefully across the table. "You're staring," he chided. "I always thought your taste ran to small-breasted women. With red hair."

"Leave Griane out of this."

"But she's already involved. Who do you think requested that I look in on you? Well, you know how persuasive she can be. And when she wept-"

"She . . . she wept?"

"Or perhaps that was me. I can't remember."

"Is she all right? Are the children safe?"

Fellgair leaned forward, proffering a bowl. "Jhok?"

"Why did Griane come to you?"

"Try the lamb, then. It's rolled in spices, then roasted on skewers."

"d.a.m.n the skewers." Darak shoved the platter aside, sending it crashing into a pitcher. He leaped up to steady it, cursing himself for losing control in front of Fellgair. "I'm sorry. That was . . ." His voice trailed off.

Fellgair glanced up from grooming his brush. "Rude? Petulant? Childish?" He gave the white tip of his brush a final lick, smoothed the fur on his ruff, and settled himself on the cushions again. His black whiskers twitched as he grinned. "You seem more comfortable with me in this guise."

"Fox or man-or woman-I'm never comfortable with you."

"Very wise. Mortals should always quail in the presence of a G.o.d. Speaking of which . . ." Fellgair held out another platter. Three golden-brown quail lay atop a nest of leafy vegetables.

"Did you make some sort of bargain with Griane?"

"I don't wish to discuss that."

Darak turned on his heel and stalked toward the doorway.

"But I am prepared to discuss your son. The interview didn't go especially well, did it?"

Of course, Fellgair would know what had happened. After fifteen years, he'd almost forgotten how exhausting it was to try and keep up with the Trickster. Slowly, he turned. "What do you want?"

"A conversation. Why don't you begin with, 'I'm delighted to see you again after all these years.' You are are delighted, aren't you?" delighted, aren't you?"

"Surprised."

"Then you might also be surprised to learn that your dull little Tree-Father-what's his name?-had a disturbing vision in which your heart was cut out. Keirith was there at the time. Watching attentively. You look pale, Darak. Perhaps you should sit."

He remained where he was, grateful for the wall at his back. "Did you send Gortin that vision?"

"You always think the worst of me. If my nature weren't so forgiving, I might take offense."

"If your nature weren't so devious, I wouldn't think the worst of you."

Fellgair grinned. "Very good. Thrust and parry. Oh. My condolences about Urkiat. Was it terrible for you?"

"We were talking about Gortin's vision."

"Your verbal skills have improved. It must be your training as a Memory-Keeper. Who'd have thought it?"

"You predicted it."

"It was one possibility."

"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 ship. 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 shimmered 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, shimmering 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 shimmering 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 shifted 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."