Bloodstone Part 8

She went back inside the longhut to check her patients. She dribbled water between a pair of cracked lips, changed a bandage over a seeping wound. She gave her strength and her skill and her concentration to the men and women who needed her. But it was not enough to drown out the high-pitched scream that drifted down from the hilltop.

The babe's whimpering woke her. Still half-asleep, she rolled toward him, guiding her nipple to his mouth. With a small animal growl, the toothless gums clamped on it and sucked greedily.

She shifted position, cupping her son's naked bottom with one hand and his head with the other. Too soon to know if the soft fuzz would darken or remain as unrepentantly red as hers.

Her eyes closed, blissful with the suckling. Tiny fingers kneaded her breast. Bigger ones closed on her thigh. She opened her eyes to look into Darak's. For a long while, he simply watched them while his fingers stroked her thigh, as rhythmic and sensual as the babe's suckling but slower than the insistent tug at her nipple.

"What does it feel like?"

She smiled; how to explain such a thing to a man? "It tingles. As if all the energy in me is being pulled into that greedy little mouth."

"It doesn't . . . drain you?"

"Nay. It feels good."

"I wondered . . ." Even in the predawn gloom, she thought he was blushing. "Maybe it was like . . . well, when you . . ."

Her smile widened. "It's not at all the same as when I drain you."

Now she knew he was blushing. She loved to make him blush. Even after a year, there were moments like this when he would turn unexpectedly shy. Whether it was his natural reserve or the lingering effects of his first marriage, she never knew.

The babe lay limp and heavy in her arms. She shifted him to her right nipple, but no amount of gentle urging would rouse him. With a sigh, she lay back.

"He's finished already?"

"I'll wake him in a bit and see if he'll take some more." She cupped her swollen breast, wincing.

"Does it pain you?"

"A little. But if he won't feed again, it'll ache something fierce."

His fingers covered hers, gently tracing the curve of her breast. She eased her right arm behind his head and pressed him closer. His lips fastened on her nipple and she moaned. He started to raise his head, but she pulled him back. His mouth was gentle, nothing like the babe's relentless tug.

"Harder," she whispered.

His mouth obeyed, while his fingers brushed her body, gentle as fern fronds. Her hand wandered over the scarred shoulders and back. Locked together, they drifted, dreamlike, until the gentle rocking of their bodies carried them into another rhythm, fiercer than the first and even more ancient.

"Mam?"

Griane jerked awake to find Faelia squatting beside her.

"You were dreaming."

"Aye."

The shreds of the dream still clung to her, her nipples swollen, her body flushed with unsatisfied desire. Even as she noted the sensations, others intruded: the groans of the wounded, the smoky stench of the longhut.

"I heated up the stew," Faelia said. "Shall I fetch it here, or will you come home?"

Griane got to her feet, shaking the stiffness out of her limbs. She cast a quick look around the hut. Sali was sprawled near her, sound asleep. Mirili still sat by Nemek. Griane frowned when she saw Catha had joined her; the longhut was no place for a woman so big with child, but she could no more send Catha away than the others who had come to keep watch over their wounded.

"Go home," Mirili said. "We'll send to you if we have need."

Griane nodded. She couldn't have slept for long; the heaviness of exhaustion still lay on her. Judging from the dark smudges under her eyes, Faelia was equally exhausted. She rested her hand briefly against her daughter's cheek. "Thank you. For helping."

"I had to do something." Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. "I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes . . ."

"You saw him."

Faelia nodded.

"I can mix you something to help you sleep."

"It won't help me forget," Faelia said, her voice soft but savage.

"Nay." She took her daughter's shoulders, the bones sharp under her fingers. "Only time can do that. For all of us."

"Can we forget this?" Faelia gestured around the hut. "Or the dead lying outside?"

"We will never forget. Nor should we." Griane heard the sharpness in her voice and softened it. "But we will learn to bear it. Because we must."

Callie was waiting outside the longhut. His tremulous smile of greeting changed to a look of horror. When she realized he was eyeing her bloodstained tunic, she got down on her knees and took his hands. "The blood is from the men and women who were injured. I had to st.i.tch their wounds and bandage them."

"Will they be all right now?"

She hesitated, then gave him the truth. "Most of them. But some of the wounds were very bad."

"Then we should pray for them."

"Aye."

"And for Keirith."

Not trusting her voice this time, she just nodded. Callie studied her, his face puckered with concern. "Don't worry, Mam. Fa will find him."

Young as he was, Callie knew.

"Of course he will." Shielding her eyes against the sun's glare, she saw Nionik and the other elders making their way toward the village. "Children-go home. As soon as I find your father, we'll join you."

"Where is he?" Callie asked, his voice gone shrill with fear. "Did the bad men come back?"

"Nay, love, nay. He went with the elders to . . . to talk to the man they captured. I'll find him. I'll bring him home. All right?"

Callie nodded, blinking back the tears that welled in his eyes.

"That's my good boy." She hugged him hard. "Go with your sister. We'll be there soon."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Gortin and Muina trailed behind the other elders. Urkiat strode past them, but stopped when Muina called his name. His stormy expression only heightened Griane's anxiety.

"Is he still up there?" she asked.

Gortin nodded. "We'll set a watch tonight in case he-"

"He went toward the lake," Muina interrupted.

"Who? Oh. Darak. Aye. He handled the questioning well-" Urkiat's inarticulate exclamation made Gortin break off, frowning. "He only had to break-"

"Tree-Father."

Gortin looked offended at Muina's second interruption.

"I know you must gather men to cut wood for the pyre. We shouldn't be keeping you. Or Urkiat," she added pointedly. "I'm sure you could use his strong arms."

"You're right. Thank you, Grain-Grandmother."

"I'm going after Darak," Urkiat said.

"Nay," Muina replied. "You're going to cut wood." Her head barely reached Urkiat's shoulder, but he was the one to back down. With a muttered oath, he strode after Gortin.

"Dear G.o.ds, what happened up there?" Griane asked.

"Urkiat is young and thirsty for blood."

"d.a.m.n Urkiat! Is Darak all right?"

"Nay. But he hides it well. Wait!" Muina's hand shot out to clutch her arm. "Give him a moment."

"Was it that bad?"

"The boy p.i.s.sed himself before Darak even touched him. Two broken fingers and he was babbling so fast Urkiat could hardly keep up with him." The keen blue eyes gazed up into hers. "As for Darak? Well. You know him better than anyone."

So she had thought-before this morning.

"He holds things close. Always has, ever since he was a lad. When he went back to the First Forest, there were those who thought he'd gone for good. 'Twas Darak's love for you that brought him back and 'twas your love that healed him. And I don't mean love of the spirit, Griane. 'Twas the comfort of your body he needed then and it's what he needs now. And you could do with the comfort of his as well."

Muina pressed a light kiss to her forehead and walked away.

He stood in the lake, water lapping around his waist. His skin looked very white. Whiter still were the scars on his back where the thorn tree in Chaos had torn his flesh.

He bent down to scoop up water in his cupped hands, then straightened and threw it over himself. The droplets sparkled in the sunlight, creating little rainbows around his head before streaming over his shoulders and back.

He shifted position so that he stood in profile to her and repeated the ritual, shivering a little as the water dripped over him. Again, he turned, this time facing her. Blood stained the bandage on his arm. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved although she heard no words. His shivering was more p.r.o.nounced now; even from her hiding place in the thicket, she could see the b.u.mps of cold on his arms.

When he bent a fourth time, she knew this was no simple act of bathing. So might a shaman cleanse himself before conducting a ritual or a hunter before going into the forest. Facing each direction, seeking the power of the four winds, the strength of earth and air, fire and water. Not only washing the body, but cleansing the spirit as well.

A cloud drifted across the sun, leaving him in shadow as he waded back to the beach. He squatted beside his discarded breeches, his wet hair hanging in snarled tangles. When he rose again, he held his dagger. His lips moved as he raised his hand. Blood blossomed in a thin line across his wrist. He waited a moment, then snapped his wrist, flinging droplets of blood into the water. Twice more he repeated the gesture.

Three times for a charm-or a curse. Every child knew that.

He stood very still, head raised as if listening. She held her breath, listening with him. Her heart thudded loudly, nearly drowning out the soft lapping of the waves and the faint rustling of a small animal in the underbrush.

Tree limbs moaned in a gust of wind. A shaft of sunlight emerged from a break in the clouds. For a heartbeat, Bel's rays burnished his body. Then the trees fell silent and Bel ducked back behind the cloud, leaving the beach in shadow again.

He sat down on a rock, arms folded across his knees. His body tensed when he heard her approach, but he didn't raise his head.

She pulled off her tunic and walked toward the lake. The shock of the cold water made her gasp. She sifted through the pebbles for a handful of sand, scrubbing the blood of the wounded from her body, washing the stench of death from her hair. By the time she was finished, she was shaking so hard she had to clench her jaw to keep her teeth from knocking together.

He watched her come out of the water, but his gaze never reached her eyes. She stopped in front of him, willing him to look at her. When he refused, she reached out very slowly, as if to touch a wild creature, and laid her hand on his hair.

A strangled cry escaped him. He flung out a hand blindly, fingers closing around her wrist in a punishing grip that would surely leave bruises. She eased between his legs and pulled his face to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but he kept shaking his head, refusing the comfort she offered.

His mouth brushed her nipple. A moan shuddered through his body and into hers. Then his lips closed and his arms came around her and he laid his head against her breast. Gently, she stroked his hair and held him until the shaking stopped.

"Griane . . ."

"Hush."

She led him into the thicket and pulled him down beside her. Blessing Muina's wisdom, they shared the wordless comfort of their bodies and a respite from the wounds of their hearts.

Chapter 7.

HE HAD FOUND OUT as much as he could from the boy. He had washed off the raiders' blood and offered his to the G.o.ds for their blessing and their guidance. He had spent a few precious moments with his son and daughter. Only one thing remained for Darak to do.

Meniad was dead. Gortin must keep vigil over the bodies. And so, in defiance of shame and ancient taboo, Darak made his way to the birthing hut to ask a woman, newly delivered, to rise from her childbed and open the way to the First Forest.

He found Ennit sitting outside with Muina. Before he could speak, Ennit rose. His mouth worked. "I heard. About Keirith. Oh, Darak . . ."

Darak held him as he wept. His eyes were dry. He had shattered once, when Griane touched him. Then, in her wisdom, she had taken all his emotions-rage, fear, disgust, shame-and trans.m.u.ted them to a more primitive need. In her flesh, he found forgiveness and understanding and-for a few moments-oblivion.

He felt as distant from Ennit's grief as his own. He had experienced the sensation often when he was a hunter, the strange separateness of being in the moment yet standing apart, observing the prey, the surroundings, and his reactions. His dangerous tangle of emotions had been consumed in the fire of that brief, violent lovemaking, leaving him calm and hollow. But somewhere in the charred remains, an ember of shame flickered.

He comforted Ennit. He asked after Lisula and the babe. And then he turned toward home, knowing he could not ask Lisula for help.

He had nearly reached his hut when the shouting penetrated his mind. "Are you deaf, boy?" Muina said by way of greeting.

"Forgive me. Come inside and sit a moment."

She slapped away his hand. "There's no time to sit. 'Twill be sunset soon. If you're going to the grove, you must hurry." Between pants, she managed a hoa.r.s.e chuckle at his look of surprise. "That's why you came to Lisula, wasn't it? To ask her to open the way?"