Free Bloodstone by Barbara Campbell Page B

might be taking that journey if Keirith had not sounded the alarm? How many more might have been stolen?
    Keirith. My son. They have taken my son.
    She found Duba rocking back and forth beside the fire pit. Her parents watched with bleak faces until Griane motioned them outside.
    “She hasn’t spoken,” Petha said. “Not since she found out.”
    “It’s the shock. It takes some like that.” Griane leaned close to Mintan so she wouldn’t have to shout; Duba might not be speaking, but she could still hear. Even with Mintan cupping his hand behind his right ear, she had to repeat herself twice. “You’re sure Owan’s not just missing?”
    Mintan shook his head. “Jurl saw them,” he said loudly. “Pulling poor Owan into the boat.” He broke off and abruptly turned away, his thin shoulders shaking.
    “It was his hair,” Petha said. “That’s how Jurl knew. Bright as your Faelia’s.”
    Griane passed the tiny bundle of herbs to Petha. “This will help her sleep. Use half in a bowl of hot water. Let it steep until the brew turns golden.” If only she had the magical heart-ease from the Summerlands. For Duba. For herself. For all those who had lost children today.
    Keirith. My son. They have taken my son.
    Petha touched her arm gently. “We shall pray for your Keirith.”
    Griane nodded and hurried away before the last shreds of her self-control vanished.
    Darak was not in their hut. The fire was dead. The furs lay in scattered heaps. Only Keirith’s sleeping place was tidy, his mantle folded neatly atop his pallet. She fell to her knees and clutched it to her breast. For the first time that awful day, Griane allowed herself to weep.

    She didn’t know how long she knelt there before she heard the shouting. She wiped her face and carefully refolded the mantle before hurrying outside.
    Jurl and Rothisar passed her, dragging a struggling man between them. A group of men trailed in their wake, some shouting curses, others waving weapons. The two men halted by the bodies and shoved the man to his knees. Jurl seized the skinny tail of black hair that hung down the man’s neck and yanked his head back.
    It shocked her to see how young he was—a beardless boy, only a year or two older than Keirith. Droplets of sweat oozed down cheeks the color of pine bark. He screamed curses at Jurl, his dark eyes rolling wildly.
    Jurl tugged the boy’s head to the left. “You see this woman? That’s my mother. And this . . .” Another vicious tug jerked the boy’s gaze to the right. “This is my brother Onnig.”
    “My father!” screamed Rothisar, his face contorted in rage. “My grandmother!”
    “Murdering bastard!” a man shouted.
    “Coward!”
    “Child stealer!”
    Women and children poured out of neighboring huts, as caught by the spectacle as she was. Jani rose from Dugan’s corpse and spat in the boy’s face. Even mild-mannered Lorthan was screaming for blood.
    Jurl drew his dagger. “Do we sacrifice him at the heart-oak or kill him here?”
    The shouting crescendoed to a roar. In a moment, they would tear the boy apart with their bare hands.
    Darak shoved his way through the crowd. Only when people moved aside, did she see Nionik and Gortin behind him. Gortin used his blackthorn staff to clear a path; Nionik’s air of command was enough to make his kinfolk back away.
    The shouting died down as the three men strode toward Jurl and Rothisar. Jurl turned to face them without releasing his grip on the boy’s hair. “We found him trying to steal a coracle.”
    “Let me kill him, Oak-Chief,” Rothisar begged. “Let me avenge the deaths of my father and grandmother.”
    Nionik raised his hands, silencing the roar of approval. “We have all lost family this day.” Grim-faced, the chief turned to Gortin. “Is it fitting to sacrifice an unbeliever at the heart-oak?”
    “Nay. His blood would pollute our sacred tree. Nor will I have it shed here to mingle with the blood of our people. On the morrow, we