Foxfire by Barbara Campbell Read Free Book Online Page B

one the village’s location lest he jeopardize the tribe’s safety. If she was going to put her plan into action, she must do it without his knowledge.
    Praying she was making the right decision, Faelia lay back in her lover’s arms and waited for dawn.

Chapter 4

    T HIS WAS THE TIME—before day leached the darkness from the sky, before the birds stirred in their roosts—the time when the whole world held its breath. Even the breeze died, as if it, too, awaited the dawn. Whether lying under his wolfskins or crouching on a wind-swept moor, Darak could feel that hushed expectancy, potent as a prayer. But here in the forest, where every sense was more alive, it resonated in flesh and blood, in bone and spirit. A few moments—a dozen beats of the heart—when day and night hung in perfect balance and a man had to wonder if dawn would come or if time would remain suspended forever.
    The first time he had taken Callie hunting, he’d had to hush the boy’s excited chatter so he could experience this moment. Keirith had looked guilty for failing to notice it. Even Faelia, whose senses were so attuned to the natural world, simply thought he had glimpsed a deer.
    Darak glanced at Rigat. He was standing utterly still, his head cocked.
    Only Rigat understood. Only Rigat had truly shared this moment with him, requiring no warning of its coming or explanation after to appreciate its perfection, to understand the anxiety that warred with the anticipation, the melancholy that tinged the joy.
    Love swelled and with it, the familiar pain. Darak waited for the pain to wash over him and drain away, determined that nothing would spoil this day.
    A wood pigeon coughed. Another answered. And the moment passed.
    Beyond the hill, the stream babbled, as oblivious to the wonder as Callie had been. Darak let out his breath, his gaze locked with Rigat’s. He nodded in the direction of the stream. Rigat nodded back. Together, they padded up the slope.
    In the early years, it had been ridiculously easy to bring down a deer; they had never seen a human before and simply did not recognize them as predators. That had changed with the influx of refugees. None of the other hunters could be bothered with the half-day’s journey to the forest when deer were plentiful on the moors, but Darak still preferred to hunt here. He loved the chinks of sky peeping through the pine boughs, the ever-shifting pattern of color and light, the carpet of pine needles cushioning his feet, the tang of resin filling his nostrils.
    Although Rigat had grown up on the moors, he understood the forest’s magic, too. Darak was grateful for that—and grateful that they could share these two days.
    He’d hesitated before suggesting this journey. The work on the terraces had just begun and some would view the trip as an indulgence. His doubts had fled when Rigat’s face lit up, making him all the more ashamed of his coldness the night before.
    They reached the pinewoods just before the light went. A storm made it impossible to start a fire, but even that failed to dampen their spirits. They took shelter in the lee of a hill where the boughs of two partially uprooted pines protected them from the squalls that swept through the valley. Wrapped in their mantles, they shared a cold meal of smoked trout and suetcakes, talking only of safe topics like hunting. Darak slept soundly, too tired to dream, and awakened Rigat before dawn so they could rub acorn oil on the soles of their shoes before walking the short distance to the spot he had discovered more than ten years earlier.
    Rigat halted at the top of the rise. Darak drew up beside him, panting. The roar of the stream was loud enough to drown out the chorus of birdsong. Through the trees, he glimpsed the gray-green water gushing over the banks, leaping from rock to rock as if delighted that winter had finally ceded its hold on the land.
    There was one spot where the stream had eaten