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  As he passed the birthing hut, he heard Lisula singing the death chant. Gortin could lead the rite of Opening, freeing the spirits of their dead to fly to the Forever Isles, but Lisula’s sweet voice would help ease the grief of their kinfolk.

  His footsteps faltered when he saw the pyre. It stood nearly chest high and, although narrow, was the length of four huts. He realized why it was so narrow when they began laying the bodies on it. Even the tallest men struggled to accomplish the task with grace and dignity; had the pyre been any wider, they would have had to fling the bodies of their loved ones atop it.

  A greasy sheen covered the doeskin garments. Tallow, he realized, smeared on tunics, breeches, and skirts to help the bodies burn. The greenwood at the top of the pyre had been anointed in a similar fashion, while deadwood and brush had been stacked at the bottom where it would burn—please, gods—hot and fast.

  Although it was the right and responsibility of the family members to prepare the dead for their final journey, he stepped forward to help. In a tribe as small as theirs, all of the bloodlines were intermingled. And if his hands were a liability, his height and strength gave him an advantage in lifting the bodies into position.

  He felt no revulsion when he clutched bony shoulders or a pair of cool, stiff legs, only grief and a sense of shame that they must endure his greasy fingers fumbling with their limbs. And even that faded as he concentrated on maintaining his grip lest the tallow-smeared garments slip through his maimed hands.

  In spite of the morning chill, sweat ran down his sides. His arms trembled from the effort of lifting bodies. Surreptitiously, he wiped his palms on his breeches before reaching for Callie’s hand. The ceremony would be hard enough for him to witness without the memory of his father’s greasy hand clasping his.

  Family members stepped forward to lay gifts of food beside their loved ones to strengthen them for their journey. They lay in rows of three, heads nearly touching the shoes of their kinfolk, feet facing southwest so they could follow the sun to the Forever Isles.

  The chanting ceased. Gortin circled the pyre sunwise, reciting the names of the dead. Two more had died in the night. No wonder Griane had trembled.

  Callie’s grip tightened as Gortin approached. Although he had witnessed other rites, Gortin’s appearance must still frighten him. The right side of his face was blackened with soot, signifying life’s dark passage into death, while the left bore a spiral, painted in blood.

  He squeezed Callie’s hand and then gripped it so hard that his son whimpered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Griane’s head snap toward him, but he couldn’t take his eyes from Gortin.

  In an ordinary rite, the bodies would be left in the Death Hut until scavengers cleaned the flesh from the bones. Always, the Tree-Father retained a finger bone of the deceased, braiding it into his hair before interring the rest of the bones in the tribal cairn. For this morning’s ceremony, Gortin wore twenty-three braids, one for each of the dead, just as tradition dictated. At the end of each plait hung a severed finger.

  A part of him realized that Gortin probably intended to lay each in the Death Hut, preserving one small part of the rite. But all Darak could see was Morgath sitting cross-legged before him on the parched earth of Chaos, smiling and humming as he braided each of his severed fingers into Yeorna’s golden hair.

  Sweat drenched him. Bile rose into his throat. He clamped his lips together, choking it down, but even with his eyes closed, Morgath’s smiling face remained. He concentrated on controlling his body, on Griane’s fingers digging into his forearm. In the end, though, it was his father’s words that kept him from shaming himself before his tribe.

  “You’ve fought so hard, son. Don’t let him beat you now.”

  Morgath’s face receded, replaced by his father’s, his expression stern but sorrowful.

  “The scars on your body you’ll carry forever. It’s the wounds to the spirit and the mind that are harder to heal.”

  He opened his eyes to find Griane watching him, her thin face pinched with worry. He couldn’t manage a smile—she wouldn’t have believed it anyway—but he nodded once and saw the taut lines of her face ease a little.

  Gortin’s voice rose, dispelling Darak’s memories. Torch held high, he shouted the final words of the rite: “We have carried Death out of the village.”

  Together, they intoned the response: “Let it not return to us soon.”

  Gortin’s eye swept the circle gathered around the pyre. “The fire may eat their flesh. The wind may scatter their ashes. But their spirits shall fly on the wings of eagles to the sunlit shores of the Forever Isles.”

  As he thrust the torch into the pyre, a great wail rose from the women. It crescendoed to a high keening as the brush caught. Some beat their breasts. Others fell to their knees, tearing at their hair. As the frenzy grew, a few began to sway, then to whirl and spin, all the while shrieking their grief. The shaman could open the gateway to the other-world, but the women’s voices would announce the arrival of these new spirits.

  Griane and Faelia screamed with the others. Faelia’s red hair whipped around her as she danced. Like most of the men, Darak stood in silence. A man was permitted to weep or roar the name of a loved one, but the shrill death-song belonged to the women.

  The flames reached higher, embracing the bodies. Hair ignited, shrouding the faces in a blaze that quickly died. Doeskin burned more slowly, the stink of tallow and leather gradually overwhelmed by the appalling stench of burning flesh.

  Callie bent over, retching. Darak wiped his mouth with the hem of his tunic. Other parents did the same for their children. Even a few of the adults had to leave the circle, then stumble back to bear witness.

  No amount of tallow could speed the flames. The death-song ebbed, choked by grief and smoke. In silence, the tribe watched the pyre collapse. Ashes fell like dirty snow. Darak wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared, sickened, at the greasy gray stain. The thick smoke slowly dispersed, revealing the sun high above the trees to the east.

  He was surprised to hear Gortin summon the people back to the village. For the first time, he glanced toward the standing stones. “Where is the boy?” he whispered to Griane.

  “Escaped.”

  “What?”

  “Last night.”

  “But that’s—”

  “Not now.”

  He’d watched Jurl lash him to the oak. The boy could not have wriggled free.

  As they neared the village, his stomach lurched. It was customary to feast after any rite, but the smell of the roasting meat sickened him. What he wanted—and needed—was a drink. Others clearly felt the same; although it was only midmorning, men were passing jugs of brogac and skins of wine.

  Urkiat trailed after him as he followed his family into the hut. Faelia rushed to the stone basin and plunged her hands into the water, scrubbing her face, her neck, her arms. One by one, they did the same, cleaning the ashes of the dead from their bodies.

  Callie shivered as Griane wiped his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For getting sick.”

  “Other folk got sick. Even grown-ups.”

  “Faelia didn’t. You didn’t. Fa didn’t.”

  Darak crouched before his son. “I had your hand for strength—and your mam’s. Otherwise . . .” He shrugged. “It was hard today. For all of us.”

  “Try and remember them as they were,” Urkiat said. “That helps. A little.”

  Callie thought a moment. “Tree-Brother Meniad—he was always kind.”

  “Aye,” said Darak. “And remember the stories Trian used to tell? And what a good fisherman Elathar was? And the way Erca’s voice carried through the village, no matter how hard you tried to get away from it?”

  Callie’s eyes went wide and then his lips curved in a smile so much like Tinnean’s it made him ache. “Even if you covered your ears.”

  “Aye. Even then.”

  “She always knew if you’d done something wrong,” Faelia said.

&
nbsp; “And never hesitated to tell you,” Griane added.

  They were all smiling now. Relieved, he got to his feet.

  “Callie, take the pot of cheese.” Griane’s voice was brisk. “Faelia, bring the skin of elderberry wine. I’ll put some oatcakes on the fire before I check on the wounded. Urkiat . . .”

  “I’ll see if the men need any help with the fish traps.”

  Darak waited until they left. Even then he hesitated, watching Griane knead the melted dripping into the oats. She was the first to break the silence. “You asked about the boy?”

  He nodded, relieved to postpone the discussion of his departure.

  “Jurl and Rothisar roused the village before dawn. He’d stolen a coracle, but Nionik sent out search parties anyway. Jurl wasn’t sure how he got free. He must have loosened the ropes somehow. Apparently, the boy taunted him. When Jurl went over to the tree to teach him to mind his tongue, the boy grabbed his ankle. He fell and hit his head on a rock.”

  “And Rothisar?”

  “Slept through it all. They’d both been drinking.”

  “How do you know?”

  Without looking up, she said, “I was there.” Her hands never faltered as they shaped the dough into flat circles.

  “Did you free him, Griane?”

  This time she did look up. “Aye.”

  Darak took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Does anyone suspect?”

  “Jurl. But he won’t say anything.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Her smile was mirthless. “Better to be overpowered by a half-grown boy than a woman.”

  “You hit him? Sweet Maker.” He rubbed his eyes and finally asked, “Why, Griane?”

  She tested the baking stone, frowned, and went back to patting the oatcakes. “I kept thinking how his mother would feel. If her son didn’t come home to her.”

  “He might have attacked you or—”

  “Nay.” Her hands fell still and she stared into the fire. “He bowed to me. And put his hand over his heart.”

  Darak stalked to the doorway and back. “You’re sure Jurl will keep his mouth shut?”

  “Aye.” She gnawed at her lip. “Do you hate me?”

  “What?”

  “For freeing him.”

  “Nay. They would have torn him apart. I couldn’t have stopped it. And I’d . . . I would have hated having the children witness that. Still . . .” He sighed. “Aye. Well. It’s done now.”

  There was something she wasn’t telling him, but before he could question her, she said, “I packed. Food, extra clothing.” She gave him a weary smile as she laid the oatcakes on the baking stone. “I guessed. When you wanted to question the boy.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “You went to Chaos and back for your brother. You could do no less for our son.” Briskly, she dusted meal off her hands. “Ennit will take the children. I’ll speak with Sali before we go. Make sure she knows what to do.”

  It took him a moment to realize what she was saying.

  “I need to make up some more decoctions. That will give us a little time with Callie and Faelia.”

  “Griane . . .”

  “I know you want to leave as soon as possible, but for the children’s sake—”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and jerked her to her feet. “Listen to me!”

  She reared back, her eyes enormous.

  “You cannot come.”

  “I’ve done all I can for the wounded. And Sali—”

  “Sali’s an apprentice.”

  “So was I when I returned from the First Forest!” She shoved past him, breathing hard. “You can’t go alone.”

  “I’m not. Urkiat’s coming with me.”

  “Good gods, Darak, you barely know him.”

  “He speaks the language. He knows the land.”

  “There’s a darkness in him. A violent streak.”

  “The raiders wiped out his family. Of course, he’s dark-natured. But I need him.”

  “And not me.”

  “You know I need you. But our children need you more. A quarter of their kinfolk are dead. Their brother has been stolen. They can’t lose both their parents as well. If anything should happen—”

  She whirled around and slapped her fingers against his mouth. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

  Obediently, he swallowed his words before they could reach the ears of the gods. Then he took her hand. “The children have lost their brother. Now they’re losing me. They need you to keep them strong.”

  “Ennit . . . or Alada . . .”

  “They need you, Griane. You know I’m right.”

  “And why should you be the one to go? I guided Cuillon back to the grove. I kept him alive. I chose the trail. I marked it for you to follow.”

  “I know.”

  “And yet you claim I’m not strong enough or clever enough—”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then why must I remain behind?” When he didn’t answer, her mouth twisted. “Because I’m a woman.”

  “Nay.”

  “And a woman’s place is by the hearth. Or grubbing in the fields. That’s all we are fit for, isn’t it? To bear your children and cook your meals and harvest your crops.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it? A girl isn’t permitted to find a vision mate. Or to hunt. If she’s lucky, she might become a healer or a priestess, but never a hunter. And yet you teach Faelia, encourage her to dream of becoming the one thing she can never be. What happens when she comes to you to learn to draw a bow and you refuse? How will you explain to her that slings and snares are one thing, but a bow is only for men? Will she thank you for your wisdom and your teaching then?”

  “She would have thanked me yesterday when her skill saved your lives!” Angry now, he paced. “What do you want me to say? That it’s unfair that women cannot do everything that men can? You’re right. It is. It’s unfair that a girl doesn’t have the same choices as a boy. It’s unfair that our son has been stolen, that our kinfolk have been slaughtered. It’s unfair that I lost my life-path and can only teach others to do what I can’t. Life is unfair, Griane.”

  Again, he seized her shoulders, staring down into her resentful face. “There is no one—no one—I would rather have guarding my back. If it were only you and me, we would already be gone. It’s not because you’re a woman, Griane. It’s because you’re a mother.”

  Deliberately, he softened his voice. “And that, too, is unfair. But the fact remains that I have a better chance of finding him. I’m stronger than you. A better tracker. And if I can no longer draw a bow, I can use sling and snare to feed myself and a dagger to gut the man who attacks me. I can trade a story for a meal. And when I reach this city where they’ve taken him, I can wander into places a woman cannot without risking rape or death.”

  He caught her pointed chin between his thumb and little fingers and tilted it up. “I know what I’m asking. And I know it’s not easy. Especially for you. You were never much good at waiting.” He gave her a bleak smile. “I need to know that you’re here. Watching over our children, keeping our tribe strong. I need you guarding my back.”

  Although he was desperate to leave, he knew his limits. He’d slept little in the last two nights, had eaten even less. He took his leave of Nionik and Sanok, asked Elathar’s oldest boy for the loan of two coracles, asked Ennit to look after his family. He sat beside Duba and promised he would search for Owan, but she just stared at him as if his words made no sense. Then he made his way to the birthing hut. Standing outside, he told Lisula his plans and asked for her blessing.

  He heard the low murmur of voices from within and then Muina emerged. “Since you cannot look upon Lisula or touch her, I will help perform the rite.”

  Lisula spoke the words, while Muina sketched the signs of protection on his forehead and over his heart. “May the wind be at your back and the sun upon your shoulders. May the moon chase away the da
rkness and the stars guide your feet. May your path be smooth, your journey swift, and your homecoming joyous.”

  Muina pulled his head down. “The blessing of the gods upon you.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “The blessing of the Oak and the Holly upon you.” Her lips brushed one cheek, then the other. “The blessing of your Grain-Mother. And your Grain-Grandmother.” Hands cupping his face, she kissed him twice on the mouth. Finally, she folded his hands between hers. “It’s the strength of your spirit that will carry you on this journey, not the strength of these hands. Remember that, boy. And hurry back to us.”

  He returned to his hut and found Urkiat silently chipping the flint of his dagger to a sharper edge. Griane and the children crouched near the fire pit, their heads close together. His eyes widened when he saw the pile of supplies.

  Everyone in the village must have contributed: arrowheads and sinew, bone hooks and fishing line, stone bowls and turtle shells, a bag of oatmeal, a coiled braid of nettle rope, and most valuable of all, a bundle of furs to trade. With shaking hands, he unwrapped doeskin packets containing strips of dried venison, smoked salmon, and suet-cakes.

  Had Ennit passed the word? Or Nionik? Or had they all realized from the beginning that he would go after his boy?

  Carefully, Darak rewrapped the food and packed the supplies into the bag that had once carried his hunting gear. The children helped him make up fire bundles to carry embers from one camp to the next. He talked quietly to them as they worked, explaining the route he and Urkiat would take, their hope of staying with other tribes for the first part of the journey. Much of it he simply made up; even Urkiat didn’t know how many villages remained along the coast.

  Callie stuffed flints, tinder, and straw into the small belt pouch. Faelia wrapped his firestick in his extra tunic. As he added it to his bag, he heard a choked sound and looked up to find Griane holding Keirith’s folded mantle. Tenderly, he took it from her and laid it beside his hunting bag.

  Then he took his children’s hands and led them outside. He sang with his kinfolk, adding his memories to theirs, sharing laughter and tears and stories as the afternoon waned. By the time the sun was gone, most of the men were drunk and a few of the women as well. Tired beyond words, he let Griane lead him back to the hut.