Bloodstone by Barbara Campbell

his father.
    Whenever he thought about what he had done, the shaking started. Sometimes it got so bad he had to kneel until he could force his legs to bear him again. He devised a dozen wild plans to escape his home forever. Cursed the roots and stones that seemed to rear up, determined to trip him. Cursed the gods. Prayed. Cursed himself. Wept. Cursed himself for weeping.
    And always, his thoughts returned to his father. When he skirted the path that led to the heart-oak, he remembered the first time his father took him into the forest. When he searched the cloudy sky for the Archer, he remembered his father telling him the point of the constellation’s arrowhead would always guide him home. When he spied the open expanse of the lake, he remembered his father teaching him to swim, the big hands supporting his belly, the soft voice instructing him, the sputtering laugh when his clumsy efforts doused him with water. Every thought, every memory conjured up that awful moment when he attacked his father and felt his spirit’s horror echoing inside him.
    Dawn was nearing when he finally collapsed on the beach, a mere bowshot from the village. Mist shrouded the lake, enveloping him in a dense white cloud, like an insect wrapped in a cocoon. His trances always began like this, his vision clouded by mist. One day, the Tree-Father had promised, he would be able to cross the barrier between worlds. So far, he had only succeeded in parting the mists long enough to See farther into this one.
    He had not called upon Natha since his apprenticeship ended. He wasn’t even sure a spirit guide could still hear someone who was no longer on the path of the shaman. But Natha was both vision mate and spirit guide, the one relationship forged during his quest to manhood, the other evolving as he learned to access his powers.
    Keirith called his name three times, asking Natha to help him conquer the terrible gift that had brought him to this moment and lend him the courage to return home. For he knew he must return. Much as he dreamed of escaping, he had nowhere to go. Even if he did, how could he just disappear, leaving his mam to wonder if he was alive or dead? He could not keep running like a scared animal. A man faced the consequences of his actions.
    The mist swirled around him. His body swayed in rhythm to the mesmerizing dance. He sucked in a great gulp of cold air and let it out slowly, steadying himself. He breathed again. In. Out. Slow. Deep. The first skills the Tree-Father had taught him. Controlling your breath. Emptying your mind. Seeking the inner stillness that would allow the spirit to surrender to the gods-given vision.
    A long tendril of mist floated toward him. It curled sinuously around his ankles. It rose to encircle his knees, his waist, his chest. Cool and damp, it licked his neck, kissed his cheeks, tickled his eyelashes. Mist filled his vision, blinding him with white. And then a pair of red-brown eyes blinked open so close to his that he gasped.
    Natha flowed around him, as insubstantial as the mist. Yet he could clearly see the black scales that zigzagged down the adder’s green back, the dark “X” on the back of his head.
    “Where have you been?” Natha whispered.
    “Lost.”
    Natha sighed, his body dissolving, leaving only the large eyes gazing steadfastly into his. “And now you have found your way.”
    “Aye.”
    “Good. But first you must See.”
    Natha curled around his shoulders, his small body as heavy as a wet mantle. Just as the weight grew oppressive, the mist thinned. Keirith glimpsed the trees on the far side of the lake, the faint outline of Stag’s Leap. Then, as if sucked away by the mouth of a giant, the mist vanished.
    Although the valley still lay in shadow, Bel’s light illuminated the summit of Eagles Mount. Just below it, he could make out the female perched on her nest. His heartbeat quickened when he spotted the small blotch of white nestled under her dark breast feathers. A chick had