"I do not tell that tale. Ever."

Silence fell around the circle. The Memory-Keeper's smile disappeared. Even Girn looked uncomfortable.

"Forgive me," he managed. "I did not mean to be rude. But that story . . . it's not just a legend about things that happened long ago. Those . . . things . . . happened to me. To my wife. To my brother." He realized he was rubbing the stumps of his fingers and clenched his hands together. "I do not tell that tale," he said, his voice softer now and under control. "I cannot."

He knew he should offer another tale, but each one conjured memories of other feast days. It was hard enough to be away from home when he should be sharing this day with Griane, but to celebrate it with strangers when his son . . .

Lost. Lost like Tinnean.

With an effort, he quelled the rush of fear. Later, when he was alone, he could confront it. If he had no heart for this celebration, he could at least avoid ruining it for his hosts.

He stared down at his hands. A rowan petal lay on his knee. He picked it up and rubbed it gently between his thumb and little fingers. Then he looked around the circle of expectant faces and cleared his throat.

"With your permission, I will tell another tale. It's one that rightly belongs to my wife, but it's a good tale for the Ripening, and I don't think she'd mind if I told it."

He rose and took a deep breath to steady himself. "You'll have heard how Griane the Healer led the Holly-Lord back to the grove of the First Forest. But the tale barely mentions her adventures in the Summerlands and that is a wonderful story. For in the Summerlands, Griane met the Trees-Who-Walk. One of them was a rowan-woman. Just like the one in the legend. This is how it happened."

He conjured Griane as he spoke, recalling the emotions that had flitted across her expressive face when she first told him the story: fear, awe, wonder, joy. He was surprised to feel those emotions now and find them reflected in the faces of his listeners. When he described the thunder of the tree-folk's feet as they pursued her, the children gasped. When he told how they used their own shoots and leaves to create a raft to carry her back to the First Forest, the men nodded thoughtfully. And when he described her farewell to Rowan, many women wiped their damp eyes.

"And she stood on the bank of the river and watched the raft grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared behind the wall of mist. And still she waved, for she was alone and frightened. But then she smelled the sweet fragrance of the rowan sprig and realized she carried Rowan's love with her. Griane still has those blossoms, though they are no longer soft and white like this one. And every year at the Ripening, she looks at them and remembers the kindness of the tree-folk and the tear Rowan wept when they parted."

A sigh eased its way around the circle. A little girl shouted, "Tell it again!" and the laughter warmed him. He bowed and excused himself, suddenly tired. Instead of returning to Girn's hut, he sought the privacy of the beach.

He sat by the water's edge, content to watch Bel sink into the sea, trailing a shimmering streak of orange behind him. When he heard the crunch of pebbles, he took a deep, calming breath.

"Are you all right?"

It was Urkiat, of course. Darak nodded without turning, hoping Urkiat would leave him alone. Instead, more pebbles crunched as he strode forward. "The Memory-Keeper shouldn't have made you speak."

"He didn't know what had happened."

"You should have told them."

"And spoil their celebration?" Darak shook his head.

Urkiat scuffed at the pebbles. "Doesn't it bother you? Their complacency? Their happiness?"

"Resenting other folks' happiness only adds to your misery."

But he understood. When he'd first looked around that circle of happy faces, he had resented every father who sat beside his son, every husband with his arm casually flung around his wife's shoulders.

"Sometimes I hate them," Urkiat said. "All those who don't know what it's like. Who'd rather live in ignorance than face the truth."

"And what is the truth?"

"That there's nowhere to hide. Nowhere safe. They're like a plague. A hailstorm that flattens the barley or lightning that strikes a tree. They won't be satisfied until they've destroyed us."

"Sooner or later, balance will be restored."

Urkiat spat.

"We've survived plague and hailstorms and lightning strikes," Darak reminded him. "We survived the Long Winter when the world teetered on the brink of extinction. We'll survive the Zherosi, too. Somehow."

"It took only a handful of people to restore the world after Morgath destroyed the One Tree. It'll take every child of the Oak and Holly to destroy the Zherosi."

A seabird cried overhead like a mother keening for a lost child.

Darak rose. "We'd best go back."

"I'm sorry. You wanted to enjoy the peace of the evening, and I've ruined it. I just . . . I thought I could help. Share your worries. Or talk about . . . things. I didn't want you to feel alone."

Darak considered reminding him that he had been a hunter for the first half of his life. He liked being alone. He still hungered for the quiet of the forest, the peace. And then the sudden rush of excitement when you saw the prey, the muscles tensing in your arms as you drew the bow, the moment just before you released when the world seemed to go absolutely still. And that perfect moment when your arrow found its target and the blood pounded in your ears and every fiber of your being sang.

Urkiat was watching him, his face strained.

"Thank you for your concern," Darak said, wishing he sounded less stiff and formal. He still didn't know what to make of Urkiat. He could kill with dispa.s.sion and then suddenly erupt in anger over an imagined slight. One moment, he seemed as world-weary as an old man and the next, he behaved like an awkward boy. Now he was watching him like a dog that had been beaten by its master.

"I was proud when you agreed to let me come with you." Urkiat's voice was little more than a whisper. "Proud to think you needed me."

"I did. I do."

Urkiat nodded eagerly.

G.o.ds, he was tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. But Urkiat was his only ally, and he needed to be able to count on him. "It's hard. Being away from my family. Worrying about my son. Sharing this day with strangers."

Wasn't this obvious? Why should he have to explain it? But Urkiat kept nodding, hungry for the words, so he forced himself to continue. "I should have expected the Memory-Keeper to ask for a tale. It's customary. But to have asked for that one . . ."

"You've never told the tale? I thought you just said that. To shut him up."

"Nay."

"Not even to Griane?"

"I've told her . . . most of it." He frowned and steered the conversation away from Griane. "Sometimes, the children ask me things. 'What did you eat?' 'Were you scared when you met the Trickster?' 'Did you cry when he cut off your fingers?' "

"They ask that?"

"Those are the things they wonder about."

"And you don't mind?"

"It's . . . different with children. I remember what it was like to feel small in a big world, to feel clumsy and stupid and scared. If Darak Spirit-Hunter can admit to being afraid, they know it's all right for them to feel afraid, too."

"So you always answer them?"

"I'm their teacher. I owe them honesty."

Urkiat hesitated. "Did you . . . ?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Bel's blazing ballocks, man. What?"

Half-ashamed, half-eager, Urkiat asked, "Did you cry? When he cut off your fingers?"

Darak's hands closed into fists. "Nay. I screamed."

Chapter 14.

NEW GUARDS BROUGHT him water and dried fruit in the morning. Keirith wondered if the others had been killed or simply relieved of their duties. He called on his lessons with the Tree-Father, seeking stillness and calm, but ended up pacing his tiny prison. Windowless and dark, it was like a small cairn; he shuddered every time he went inside.

He shuddered now as he heard footsteps. Half the morning had fled while he waited. If that was a ploy by the Pajhit to frighten him, it had succeeded.

One of his guards gestured for him to come out. The Pajhit barely glanced at him before starting down the corridor.

"Where are we going?"

The Pajhit ignored him.

Watch, Keirith. Watch. Observe. Remember.

Instead of leading him up the stairs to the interrogation chamber, the Pajhit turned left into another corridor. More than a dozen small chambers lined both sides. Pale light streamed through the doorways on the right, illuminating piles of fleece, but whoever slept on them was gone. Slaves, perhaps? Or guards?

The Pajhit turned left again, leading him away from the bright spill of light ahead that hinted at an entrance to the fortress. In less than ten steps, the tantalizing glimpse of freedom vanished. Their little procession turned right and right again before the corridor came to an abrupt end.

Against the wall to his left, narrow stone stairs led to the level above. Opposite them, an old man stood before a wooden door. Unlike the scantily clad Zherosi Keirith had seen so far, he wore a long-sleeved tunic, creased leather breeches, and stout boots that rose to mid-calf.

"You will go with the Qepo now."

He searched the Pajhit's face for some hint of what might await him, but the priest simply mounted the stairs, leaving him with the two guards and the Qepo.

Keirith forced himself to breathe deeply, pretending the air was fresh and forest-clean instead of thick with stale air and smoke from the torches, thicker still with the stink of his fear. The old man said something, but only when he pointed at the wall did Keirith spot the clothes hanging from several bronze hooks embedded in the c.h.i.n.ks between the stones.

He pulled the tunic over his head. The stiff leather hampered his movements, but at least it offered some protection from the chill, as did the breeches he pulled over his loincloth. The Qepo knelt and held up a boot. Bracing himself against the wall, Keirith lifted his foot, the creak of leather disturbing the silence. The old man tucked the breeches into the boots and laced them tightly. That done, he rose, holding out something that looked like an enormous stuffed hand. The Qepo slipped it over his fingers and tucked the sleeves of his tunic into it, weaving the leather thongs around his wrist. His hand and forearm looked as thick as a bear's and felt just as unwieldy.

After the Qepo secured the second bear paw, he straightened. His gnarled fingers sketched a spiral on the wooden door. The guards made the same sign over their chests. Their uneasy expressions only added to his fear.

The door swung open with a dull creak. The Qepo stepped inside, gesturing for Keirith to follow.

Maker, guide me.

The open-air pit was no larger than his family's hut. The square of light illuminated a tangle of vines in the center. A single torch guttered in the draft of the open door, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls that rose up four or five times his height. Except one, he quickly realized. The Pajhit leaned over that one, flanked by the Zheron and the older priestess-the Motixa?

The Qepo backed away. The door closed behind him with another protesting creak. Bewildered, Keirith raised his head and called, "What am I supposed to do?"

"Speak to them," the Pajhit replied.

As he examined the pit again, the vines shifted with an almost imperceptible rustle. Startled, he peered at them, searching for the animal underneath.

One of the vines reared up. That's when Keirith realized that they weren't vines at all. They were snakes. Dozens of snakes.

As the boy flattened himself against the wall, Xevhan whispered, "Not a very promising start."

Malaq ignored him, concentrating on the boy whose eyes darted around the walls-seeking handholds, perhaps?-before settling on the adders.

"Well?" Xevhan asked. "What do we do now?"

"We wait," Malaq replied.

The boy slid down the wall. He sat in the pit, legs splayed in front of him, staring at the adders. Then his head fell back and he closed his eyes.

"Praying?" Xevhan speculated. "Or simply committing his spirit to his G.o.ds?"

Malaq resisted the urge to snap at him. Already, he regretted his decision to choose this test. Distasteful as it might have been to enter the boy's spirit without permission, he could have learned more about him and his gift. Once the boy failed, he would have to be sacrificed.

After yesterday's escape attempt, Malaq had expected him to show more spirit. The rush of disappointment surprised him. After all, it wasn't as if he believed he was the Son of Zhe.

The mist writhed around him, mimicking the movement of the adders. Cool air filled his lungs. He tasted subtle hints of moist earth and smooth stone. Bright sparks flashed amid the stately dance of earth and stone, the graceful swirl of air and water. His body jerked helplessly as the elemental dance possessed him. He thrust out his tongue to lap up more of the mist and sighed when his body slid to the earth, so cool and welcoming against his cheek.

The mist was softer than any cushion. The earth cradled him more gently than any arms. He sank into the womb of mist and earth, following the flashes of fire that lurked just out of reach, urging him deeper, promising . . . promising . . .

The mist gave an irritated hiss. Red-brown eyes appeared before him. A long tongue flicked out to sting his lips. Keirith's head jerked back, knocking painfully against stone.

"You are not ready to go so deep," Natha said. "You would have lost yourself."

But how wonderful to be so lost, he thought with regret.

His spirit guide slithered across his throat and Keirith shivered in delight. "Why did you call me?" Natha demanded.

Still dazed by the dance, it took him a moment to remember. "The adders. They want me to speak with them."

"I do not perform for strangers. Especially these who claim to worship us but keep us in this hole."

"Perhaps they're frightened of us."

Natha's sigh of satisfaction flowed through him, warmer than the mist but just as pleasurable. "Perhaps they are. And that is good. Come."

The mist dissipated as Natha led him toward the adders. His limbs moved reluctantly beneath their shroud of leather, the cool air no longer refreshing but a heavy weight that made each step difficult. Even his heartbeat had slowed, which made no sense, for he was frightened. But visions were strange that way and this one was the strangest he had ever experienced, every sensation both real and dreamlike.

What had seemed an undifferentiated ma.s.s proved to be a tangle of gray and buff and brown. In the north, adders blended in with gra.s.s and leaves, but in a world where green existed only in scenes painted on walls, they would naturally wear the colors of earth and stone.