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  He knew it was foolish to come. Like picking at an un-healed scab. It only reminded him of everything that had gone wrong—and tempted him to fly again.

  How could an experience so wonderful be wrong? He hadn’t dared ask the Tree-Father that or reveal how many other creatures he had touched with his power.

  Keirith shuddered, remembering that first time. He had practiced with the sling for moons before his father took him into the forest to hunt. Gods, he’d been excited. And scared that he might shame himself before the man who had once been the greatest hunter in the tribe.

  He missed his first two shots completely and stunned the wood pigeon with his third. Cheeks burning, he waded through the underbrush; his father always emphasized the importance of a clean kill. When he crouched to wring the bird’s neck, the wood pigeon screamed. He screamed, too, scuttling back in shock.

  “What is it, son?”

  When his father knelt beside him, the bird screamed again. Even with his hands over his ears, he could hear the screams, high and shrill and terrified. Only when his father twisted the bird’s neck did they stop.

  “Keirith. Tell me.”

  “It . . . it screamed. Inside my head. I heard it, Fa. I swear.”

  His father patted his shoulder and wiped his cheeks. But when Keirith asked if he’d heard the dying screams of his prey when he was a hunter, his father slowly shook his head. “Perhaps you’re meant to follow another path.”

  But he refused to give up so easily. He practiced shot after shot, aiming at clumps of grass, at pebbles on the lakeshore, at a groove in a tree stump. He whirled the sling until his arm ached, until he was sure he would always make a clean kill. But inevitably, it happened again, this time with a rabbit he had snared. He managed to control himself long enough to end its misery before he doubled over and vomited.

  He offered extra sacrifices to the spirits of the animals he failed to kill cleanly. He prayed to the gods, begging them to take away the curse. When he mastered the bow, he accepted his father’s praise and pretended not to see the doubt that shadowed his expression. But the first time he sighted down an arrow at a doe, his hands began to shake and sweat broke out on his forehead. His father’s hand came down on his shoulder, gripping him hard despite the missing fingers.

  “Let it go, son.”

  That was the last time they went hunting together. If his father was disappointed, he kept it to himself. Somehow, that was worse.

  He continued to set snares and bring down game with his sling. All boys were expected to do that, and he refused to let this weakness—or power—keep him from doing his share. He taught himself to block some of the terror of the wounded animals before it overwhelmed him. Later, it seemed only natural to reach out to their spirits and calm them. He’d never imagined it could be wrong. Touching the eagle’s spirit . . . that had been different, of course, but even if the impulse was selfish, it wasn’t evil.

  With an effort, he quelled the resentment that rose in him. Throughout his studies, the Tree-Father had praised his ability to fall into a trance, his close communion with his spirit guide Natha. Now he used the same gift to condemn him.

  He couldn’t keep his dismissal a secret forever. Someone was bound to find out the truth. As soon as his father returned from the Gathering, he would have to tell his parents.

  That confrontation would be far worse than the one with the Tree-Father. For if Morgath was the most evil man in tribal legend, his father was the greatest hero. The man who had survived the torture of his body and spirit to destroy Morgath. Who had rescued the spirit of the Oak-Lord from Chaos. The man who had saved the world. How was he going to stand before such a man and admit that he was a failure—again?

  Perhaps he could tell his parents he had erred in believing the way of the shaman was his life-path. Other boys changed their minds, discovering new talents after their vision quests. Not everyone was like Conn. For generations, his family had tended the village flock and he was happily following that tradition.

  A shout made him jerk his head up. As if the thought had conjured him, Conn was scrambling up the slope. Keirith waved back without enthusiasm and when Conn neared the ledge, thrust out a hand to pull him up. The effort left them both panting; he was half a head taller, but Conn was more solidly built. On the other hand, he was starting to get his whiskers in—a few, anyway—while Conn’s round face was still as smooth as a babe’s.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked as Conn flopped down beside him.

  “I followed you. Why aren’t you at your lessons?”

  “Why aren’t you with the sheep?”

  “I saw you sneaking off. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just . . . sometimes a man wants a little peace and quiet.”

  Conn’s features screwed up in The Ferocious Scowl. After their vision quests, they’d spent many evenings practicing manly behavior. Their efforts were less than successful. When Conn’s father observed The Dignified Walk, he inquired if they had sat on nettles. When they tried out The Ferocious Scowl, Keirith’s mam demanded to know the last time they had moved their bowels.

  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Sorry. I was thinking about my mam’s reaction to The Ferocious Scowl.”

  Conn laughed. “Well, that’s what comes of being the son of a healer. Still, it’s better than being the Grain-Mother’s son. Everyone expects you to be so pious.” A wistful expression stole over his face. “At least your mam’s there. When you go to sleep, when you wake up. It’s hard sometimes. On the little ones, I mean.”

  “It’s not like she’s living miles away.”

  “But it’s not the same. Mam living with the other priestesses while the rest of us live with Fa.” Conn sighed. “Sometimes I wish we had a normal family like yours.”

  “My father’s the greatest hero in the world, my mother’s kissed the Trickster-God, and my uncle’s a tree. You call that normal?”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . .” Conn offered an exaggerated version of The Thoughtful Nod and Keirith had to laugh. Then Conn’s expression turned serious again. “So are you going to tell me or not?”

  Keirith told him. Not about flying with the eagle, but about his apprenticeship. Even to his best friend—especially to his best friend—he couldn’t bring himself to reveal that he was an abomination.

  “But a moon ago, everything was fine.”

  “It’s . . . gotten more difficult.”

  “It’s Uncle Gortin, isn’t it? I’ll get Fa to talk to him. Maybe—”

  “Nay! I haven’t even told my parents yet. I tried before Father left for the Gathering, but . . .” His voice trailed off as Conn’s eyes went round with shock.

  “You’ve known that long?”

  “I was going to tell you,” Keirith mumbled.

  “When? At the Ripening? ‘Oh. Sorry,’ ” he mocked. “ ‘I guess you’re wondering why I’m not wearing my ritual robe.’ ”

  “Conn ...”

  “I’m your best friend.”

  Keirith nodded, miserable.

  “Your milk-brother.”

  “I know,” he said, misery deepening. When his mam was in one of her moods, she’d remind him how difficult his birth had been, how for the first moon of his life, the Grain-Mother had nursed him at one breast and her own son at the other.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was ashamed.”

  “Why?” Conn persisted.

  “Because I failed.”

  “Is that what Uncle Gortin said? Gods, I could murder him.”

  “It’s not his fault.”

  “I bet it was Othak. That little sneak. He’s always been jealous of you.”

  “Can we please not talk about this?”

  “What did Uncle Gortin say? Exactly.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  In all his life, this was the one secret he had kept from Conn. But
after seeing the horror on the Tree-Father’s face, he couldn’t bear to witness it on his milk-brother’s.

  “It can’t be that bad.” Conn peered into his face. Whatever he saw must have shaken him, for he swallowed hard. “And even if it is, you know I’ll stand by you.” He thrust out his right hand, revealing the old scar at the base of his thumb.

  They had been eight when they’d made the oath: “To be friends through this life and brothers in the next, spirit linked to spirit and heart bound to heart.” Keirith had thought up the oath, but it was Conn who had insisted they seal it with blood.

  If Conn knew about his forbidden gift, the Tree-Father might punish him as well. He could not let that happen.

  “Please. Just trust me.” Keirith clasped Conn’s hand, just as he had when they made their blood oath. Shepherd’s hands, strong but soft from the grease in the wool.

  Conn jerked his hand free. “Why should I trust you when you won’t trust me?”

  Before he could say anything, Conn scrambled off the ledge. Keirith got down on his hands and knees to follow his descent, wincing each time Conn stumbled, each time he swiped at his cheeks.

  First he had failed his father, then the Tree-Father. Now he had failed his best friend. But he would find a way to make it up to him. Somehow. His gaze swept the horizon, seeking inspiration. Instead, he found the eagle winging downriver.

  If only I could fly away with you. Fly away and never come back.

  He leaned forward, squinting at the small, dark objects that marred the glistening expanse of the river. His stomach lurched. They weren’t expected till the morrow. He had counted on having this one last day to prepare. But there was no mistaking the fifteen coracles moving slowly up the river.

  His father was home.

  Chapter 2

  GRIANE DIPPED HER finger into the sticky sap and slipped it into the babe’s mouth. Even before she tasted her mother’s milk, she must have sap from the ash tree to make her strong. The babe’s face screwed up in outraged protest and she began to howl. With those lungs, she’d make a fine healer.

  “Don’t be afraid to shout,” Mother Netal had always told her. “It inspires confidence. And don’t let anyone order you about. Except me, of course.”

  Fifteen years since her mentor had died, and Griane still missed her earthy humor, her grumbling, her wisdom. Especially her wisdom.

  Three generations of priestesses were in the birthing hut today, along with Griane and her apprentice. Sali crouched by the fire pit, frowning into the stone bowl. “Be sure to add some honey to cut the bitterness of the thistle,” Griane instructed.

  Sali squeaked at the sound of her voice and then nodded nervously. She was clever with plants, but had about as much spirit as the rabbitskins Lisula lay upon.

  This was the fourth time Griane had helped ease a child from Lisula’s womb, but their friendship had begun after the Long Winter. Both of them elevated too soon into positions of authority—Griane to healer, Lisula to Grain-Mother—they had started by sharing their concerns and ended up sharing confidences about their men and later, their children.

  The Grain-Grandmother and Grain-Sister began the chant to welcome the newborn into the tribe, Muina’s voice cracking with age, Bethia’s high and light. Griane joined the two priestesses at the fire pit, lightly pressing the babe’s face to her breast to shield her from the peat smoke. Twice, they circled sunwise before Griane passed the babe across the low flames to Muina.

  “That your mind should be wise. That your heart should be full. That your body should be strong.” With a bony thumb, Muina sketched a circle upon the babe’s brow, chest, and belly. “Maker, bless this child.”

  Bethia touched the babe’s left hand with an acorn and her right with a sprig of holly. “Oak and Holly, bless this child.”

  Together, they anointed the babe, Muina sprinkling earth upon her toes, Bethia drizzling water over her head, Griane brushing a feather across her body. Although it was not part of the ritual, she tickled the babe’s belly, smiling when her cries changed to surprised hiccups.

  Alone, Muina circled the fire pit a final time. “Earth and air, fire and water. Bless this child, the daughter of our tribe.”

  The babe waved her fists in the air.

  “I’ve birthed a warrior,” Lisula said, smiling.

  “More likely, she’s still angry about the ash sap,” Griane replied.

  “Are you sure she’s the last?”

  “Did you hear a pop when I threw the afterbirth on the fire?”

  “Nay. But Muina coughed just then, so I was hoping . . .” Lisula sighed, her face forlorn. “I suppose it’s only a matter of time now before my moon flow stops.”

  “Well, of course it is,” Muina scolded. “Just like it’s only a matter of time before these old bones are resting in the tribal cairn. But you have years left to serve the tribe. I was Grain-Mother for seventeen years.”

  “Eighteen,” Griane corrected.

  “And I came to it far later than you. You’re only . . . what? Twenty-nine?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  Lisula laughed. “Griane should be Memory-Keeper instead of Darak.”

  “The things I remember never get into the legends.”

  Muina held the child up and gave a dry chuckle. “Well, Lisula may be done with childbearing, but you’re not, Griane. ‘If a babe should spy you between its legs, ’tis you who’ll be nesting on the eggs.’ ”

  “My nesting days are over.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Lisula replied. “What do you wager, Muina? A count of ten or a count of twenty after Darak’s coracle touches the beach before Griane has him out of his breeches?”

  “A count of ten. By twenty, she’ll be yowling loud enough to rattle the bones in the cairn.”

  Heat flooded Griane’s face. She hoped the others would think it came from the fire. She was a matron, the tribe’s healer, the mother of three children, but her kinfolk never tired of reminding her of her enthusiastic response to married life.

  For three moons after her wedding, she’d been puzzled by the giggles that followed her each time she emerged from their hut. Lisula had finally broken down and told her. Apparently, old Sim had given a memorable performance: a frown, a puzzled shake of the head, a rheumy look of bewilderment. “I was that frightened. Thought sure poor Darak had trapped a wildcat in his hut. Judging from those bite marks on his neck, I guess he did.”

  Trust a Memory-Keeper to create a story that would live forever.

  “Look at her smiling,” Lisula said. “The poor man doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Grain-Mother, I have a rite to perform.”

  “Aye, Mother Griane,” Lisula responded with mock solemnity. “Give Ennit my love.”

  Griane took the babe back from Muina and ducked through the low doorway of the birthing hut. She straightened to find Ennit shaking the stiffness out of his bandy legs.

  The other men in the tribe would expect her to make the presentation at their huts, but Darak and Ennit always waited together outside the birthing hut, in fair weather and foul. This was the first time Ennit had to keep vigil alone; Darak had been confident he’d be back from the Gathering before the birth.

  As tradition dictated, she held the babe out to Ennit. “I bring you Lisula’s daughter.”

  Only when the man took the newborn was the child acknowledged as his. Ennit immediately stretched out his hands for the squalling babe, cradling her in the crook of his arm with the ease that bespoke many years of practice.

  “I accept my daughter, Mother Griane.” He peered down at her. “She’s beautiful.”

  Griane smiled. Ennit said that every time. And every time, the same foolish grin softened his homely features. The little shepherd was a treasure. Father and mother both to his children, for the babe would remain with Lisula only until she was weaned. After that, she would live with Ennit and the other children.

  Hard enough to be separated from Darak while he attended the Gathering;
she could not imagine living apart from him. She shot a quick glance at the lake, but the only coracles she spied belonged to the fishermen.

  “He’s not due home till the morrow, Griane.”

  The telltale heat flooded her cheeks again. Why did her face have to be as transparent as water?

  “Let me have the child. She’s hungry.”

  “Is that it?” With obvious reluctance, Ennit relinquished his daughter, but he couldn’t resist drawing his hand across the dark fuzz on her head. “I was afraid my ugly face scared her.”

  “Oh, hush. You’re not ugly. You’re not handsome, but you’re not ugly.”

  Ennit laid his hand over his heart. “Ah, Griane. I always wondered how Darak remained humble in the face of his accomplishments. Now I know.”

  “Get back to your sheep before they fall off Eagles Mount.”

  “Conn’ll mind them. And Trian,” he added as an afterthought.

  At fourteen, Conn was already more responsible than his uncle. A strange assortment of brothers had come out of that womb—Gortin so dour, Ennit dour of face but merry of heart, dreamy Trian. And Pol, of course. A blessing when his spirit had finally flown to the Forever Isles. Neither Mother Netal nor Struath had been able to heal the poor lad after the ram kicked him in the head.

  “How is Conn? I’ve hardly seen him since the lambing began.”

  “Tired. Happy. Lambing time’s always busy. But the newborns are sweet.” Ennit cast a fond look at his daughter. “And Keirith?”

  “I don’t know. He’s turned broody again.”

  “It’s a broody age. Gods, I wouldn’t be fourteen again for anything.”

  “I wouldn’t mind fifteen. Or sixteen.”

  “Oh, aye.” He threw back his head and yowled.

  Griane punched him. “I’ll give Lisula your love.”

  “I’ll do that myself. Lisula!”

  Startled by his bellow, the babe began to wail again. Griane glared at Ennit and tried to soothe the poor mite.