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the words twenty-seven times while the brew steeps.”
    â€œTwenty-seven?” she had asked.
    â€œThree times three times three. It’s a powerful medicine you’re brewing, and it needs a powerful charm to contain it. And you must walk in a circle while you say it. Against the sun. This is a spell for banishing, after all.”
    That was the first time she had heard the chant to scour away an unborn child.
    â€œSix cups,” Mother Netal had told her. “Day and night until the moon blood comes.”
    â€œWhat if it doesn’t?”
    â€œIt will.”
    It was years before she had cause to test Mother Netal’s recipe—the morning after her return from the Summerlands with Fellgair.
    Unwilling to dwell on the memory of the painful cramping, Griane chose to recall the autumn that followed when she realized she was pregnant. The prospect of giving birth with only Hircha to help worried her, but joy outweighed the fear, for she knew the child was Darak’s, conceived the night he had returned with Keirith. They’d had no time—or energy—for lovemaking during the long journey.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    Darak’s voice, too casual. Darak’s eyes, carefully averted. Not questioning that she was pregnant, but seeking reassurance that he was the father.
    â€œI’m sure.”
    That was the only time since he’d learned of her bargain with Fellgair that he ventured close to the forbidden topic of whether she had lain with the Trickster.
    Neither of them was disturbed when Rigat arrived half a moon early; given their harsh living conditions, they were simply grateful that she hadn’t lost the babe. The labor was brief and far easier than any of the others. Hircha had little to do other than catch the babe as he slid between her legs, tie off the cord, and cut it. At midday, Griane presented Darak with his son.
    Did he hesitate before taking Rigat in his arms or was it the events that came later that made her think so now? He peered down at the babe, as if searching for some feature that resembled his, but Rigat looked like all her other children: red-faced and squalling, damp hair plastered against his skull, blue eyes screwed shut as he protested his arrival.
    She named him for the child she had lost so many years earlier. He, too, had been born before his time. Although the laws of the tribe prohibited a couple from naming a child for a moon after its birth, it had comforted her to name him in her heart. Just as it comforted her to bestow that secret name upon her newborn son.
    The doubts came later. Although Rigat was a fretful infant, he was never sick. As a child, he never broke a bone. Even ordinary cuts and scrapes healed quickly. And then there was the wordless communion they seemed to share, his gift of knowing what she thought and felt. At first, she had imagined it proof of their special bond. From the moment she knew she was carrying him, she had sworn she would never make the mistakes with him that she had made with the other children. She would never hurt him as she had Keirith. She would be the perfect mother.
    But there were other things: his sensitivity to birds and beasts; the sudden tantrums and the easy charm; the morning he “pushed” Faelia without ever touching her; the afternoon Darak discovered him by the stream, sitting in a pile of fallen leaves, laughing as they swirled around him in a wild dance while those on the trees hung motionless.
    She conjured every memory and faced it. The memories of what happened after each incident were harder to face: the silent exchange of looks with Darak, her fierce struggle to find explanations. It was her imagination. It was guilt. Rigat was different. Rigat was special. If Keirith possessed power, why shouldn’t he?
    The fear pounced, and she stifled a moan. She had taken every precaution a woman could, but what human precautions could defeat the power of a god?
    The bracken crunched