Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (13 page)

The Holly-Lord was studying him. Darak let out his breath slowly, forcing himself to appear just as dispassionate.

“And then?”

“The Oak disappeared.” He closed his eyes, one hand fisted against his chest. But when he opened them a moment later, his voice was as calm as ever.

“The small … Tinnean … he disappeared. I was rooted again, but not in the earth. I fell. It was dark. And then I woke in this body.”

“Tinnean’s body.” Darak ground out the words between clenched teeth.

“Tinnean’s body,” the Holly-Lord agreed.

“Do you know where they are?” Struath asked. “The Oak and Tinnean?”

“There is a place …” He frowned. “The words are hard to find.” Again, his face went blank. “There is a place where the Oak rests in the warm-time. Where the trees are always green.”

“The Summerlands.” Gortin breathed the words on a soft exhalation of wonder.

“Of course.” Yeorna’s voice was breathless with hope. “That was your vision, Tree-Father. The Oak. The island.”

Struath nodded, but he looked troubled. Darak was, too. “The legends say the Maker carries the spirit of the Oak to the Summerlands after his defeat at Midsummer. Why would he go there now?”

“Because that is where his spirit always goes when he leaves the One Tree,” Gortin said.

“But not at—”

“And the Tree-Father has seen it.”

Darak caught Struath’s eye. The shaman stiffened, but all he said was, “Can you lead us to the Summerlands, Holly-Lord?” The Holly-Lord nodded. “Then we must go.” The shaman’s voice sounded as decisive as ever, but his frown lingered.

“What?” Darak asked. “What troubles you?”

Struath glared at him. “The Oak’s spirit is gone. Your brother is gone. I am about to embark on a journey no mortal has ever undertaken. Surely, that is enough to trouble any man.”

Darak bit back a retort and turned to the Holly-Lord. “Which way?”

He pointed. Hard to gauge the position of the sun through the trees, but Darak judged the direction as roughly southeast. “You can … feel the Summerlands?”

“It is the one place in the forest I cannot feel. That is how I know it is there.”

Struath squared his shoulders. “Gortin, you must return to the village.”

“But Tree-Father—”

“Someone must bring word. And they will need your guidance in the days to come.”

Gortin’s head drooped. “As you command, Tree-Father.”

“Prepare yourself well. The first crossing is difficult. More so when you attempt it alone.”

“But the Grain-Mother …” Darak darted a quick look at Yeorna. “Surely you can help Gortin.”

“The Tree-Father needs my help to restore the Oak and Tinnean. Lisula must fulfill my duties until I return.”

“But you’re—”

“Only a woman. I know, Darak.”

“With respect, Grain-Mother, I was going to say that you don’t know the forest.”

“No one knows this forest.”

She was right. The First Forest was a world where the gods walked, where an alder and a rowan had dragged their roots from the earth and crossed the boundary between the worlds to become the first man and woman. The priests had never ventured beyond this grove. The trails were unknown, unmarked by human footprints. His skills would be valuable, but only the Holly-Lord could guide them to their destination.

He blessed the foresight that had made him bring along his hunting sack and their bundles of clothes. Struath had insisted they would return at sunset, but he had wanted to be prepared in case it took the priests more than a day to work their magic. Only the gods knew how long this journey would take. They had little food, no shelter. It would be a miracle if they lasted the night.

Struath’s brisk instructions interrupted his thoughts. “Gortin, I believe you and Griane will be safe, but ward yourselves until you cross back.”

“I’m not going with Gortin,” Griane said. “I’m coming with you.”

“Nay.” He and Struath spoke at once, exchanging surprised glances at finding themselves in agreement.

“It’s too dangerous,” Darak added.

“All the more reason to have a healer with you.” She cast a pointed look at his bloodstained sleeve.

“I can tend to that later.”

“And can you make a poultice to keep the wound from turning putrid? Or brew a drink to drive away a fever? Or—”

“You’re not coming.” She closed her mouth, but her chin thrust out at a mutinous angle. “You’ve no business being here in the first place. What were you thinking, wandering around the forest at night?”

“I wasn’t wandering,” she said, flushing. “I came to warn you. They were coming for Tinnean.”

“Who?”

“Jurl. Onnig. My uncle. I heard them talking. I was coming to your hut—with these.” She thrust out the lumpy bundle she’d been clutching. “Warm clothes. Herbs. And some food. Just oatcakes and fish. There wasn’t much to spare.”

“Griane, I …” He didn’t know whether to shake her or hug her. Twice in the space of a day, she’d stood with him, defying her uncle, defying the whole tribe.

“So I can’t go back.” Her pointed little chin trembled. “The council would cast me out along with Tinnean.”

“Griane, the council did not vote for a casting-out,” Yeorna said. “The elders agreed to allow us to attempt a restoration.”

Her resolute expression leached away. “Then … you weren’t in any danger at all?”

“That is correct,” Struath said. “If you had waited—”

“The Maker only knows what Jurl might have done,” Darak said.

“They said …” Her voice sounded so soft and small that Darak felt a reluctant tug of sympathy. “They weren’t going to hurt Tinnean. Just keep you from taking him away.” In an even smaller voice, she added, “I listened outside their hut.”

Struath made an inarticulate sound of disgust. “By now, the whole village will be roused.”

“She was trying to help,” Darak said.

“So now you condone her behavior?”

“She might have acted rashly, but only because she was worried about Tinnean. Even you can’t condemn her for that.”

“If I may …” Yeorna ventured.

Struath frowned, but nodded.

“Griane is not a child. She deserves the right to choose for herself.” Before any of them could interrupt, she added, “None of us knows what danger we might encounter in the days ahead. Griane’s gift of healing may prove as important as your skills as a hunter, Darak. Or your knowledge of the spirit catcher, Tree-Father.”

The Holly-Lord smiled. “Come, Griane.”

She smiled back and laid her palm against his cheek. Then her face changed and her hand fell to her side.

“I will come, Holly-Lord.”

Darak and Struath turned to Yeorna. Darak hoped he didn’t look as helpless as the shaman.

“Everything happens for a reason,” Yeorna said.

Whether or not that was true, impulsive acts surely led to disaster. If Griane had waited for the council’s decision, she would be safe at home. If Tinnean had not charged the Tree … His gaze fell on the Holly-Lord who was helping Griane retie her bundle. As soon as he turned back to the Tree, her brave smile faded. She gazed at the giant trees, gnawing her upper lip. When she caught him watching her, she scowled.

Struath motioned Gortin aside to murmur some priestly instructions. He touched the back of his hand to his initiate’s forehead, then drew back, frowning, when Gortin seized his hand and pressed a kiss to the acorn tattoo. Poor Gortin looked crestfallen. He returned Yeorna’s hug, but pulled away to retrieve Struath’s staff and hand it to him.

“Gortin, watch your back after you cross,” Darak offered by way of farewell. “The wolf may still be lurking about.”

Darak’s gaze locked with Struath’s. The shaman was the first to look away.

“How far?” he asked the Holly-Lord.

“Far.”

When it was clear he would get nothing more, Darak nodded. “Right, then. We’ll take it slow. No running ahead, Holly-Lord. Do you understand?”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on the Tree. Darak took him by the shoulder and spun him southeast.

He was not Tinnean. Tinnean was lost. But he would find him. In the Summerlands, in the Forever Isles, in Chaos itself if that’s where he had to search. Meanwhile, he would keep his brother’s body safe until the one who stole it could be sent back into his Tree forever.

M
ORGATH LAY in the thicket, worrying the broken shaft of the arrow protruding from his flank. He had watched the girl stumble into the grove and vanish with the others. Strangers, all of them—except for the old one. Too weak from the crossing to probe his spirit, he might not have known him at all if the Hunter hadn’t spoken the name.

Struath.

His lips drew back in a silent snarl. Time moved differently in Chaos, but he had never imagined that so many years had gone by in the world of men. How many had he lost—twenty? thirty? Half a lifetime stolen by the one who had betrayed him and cast his spirit into Chaos.

Somehow he had escaped. Perhaps his little apprentice had inadvertently drawn him through the portal. Joy had changed to terror when he felt his spirit drifting away. When the owl flew past, he threw all his power at it and pushed the bird’s spirit out. He had done it many times when he had worn a man’s body, sometimes spending half a day in his temporary host, testing his magical powers just as he stretched his newly acquired wings. Expecting to soar with that same effortless skill, he had collided with a low-hanging branch, injuring one wing.

Remembering the rage and helplessness of that moment, Morgath growled. He’d had to roost in an elder for an entire day before he found the strength to look for a new host. This time, he chose carefully. Sluggish with sleep, the bear barely stirred when he usurped its body. The act, coming so soon after stealing the owl, drained what little magical reserves he possessed.

Fat from last summer’s foraging, the bear provided an ideal host for his recovery, but he had not escaped Chaos to drowse away the winter. He had lumbered out of the den, delighting in the feel of blood pumping through his body, the sweet taste of air in his lungs, the delicious reek of his fur. His limbs moved with heavy grace and he loved them. The excitement of seeing out of both eyes again more than made up for the colorless world he beheld.

He found a cluster of elderberries, overlooked by the birds; if he’d still worn a man’s form, he would have wept as the tartness of the shriveled black berries exploded on his tongue. Even more satisfying was the mouse he trapped under his paw: the delicate crunch of its small bones, the tickle of fur as it slid down his throat.

A thick thread of saliva oozed between his half-open jaws. Had the act of eating ever been so satisfying when he was a man?

The mouse had awakened a desire for more flesh. He chased a fox away from its kill, savoring the rabbit’s still-warm flesh and rich, heavy blood before roaring his satisfaction to the forest. The wolf pack had been less willing to surrender its kill. Bodies low to the ground, fangs bared, they waited for him to retreat. When he refused, several of them slunk away from the others to flank him.

He quickly decided to assault the smaller male. The attack followed the same lines as the others: the sudden invasion; the brief but impossible battle to repel him; and finally, that ecstatic moment when the host’s spirit hurtled out of its body, leaving him in possession.

The silver-muzzled male circled the lifeless bear several times before padding toward him. This time, the release of magic had left him barely conscious. If the wolf had chosen to attack, he would have been helpless. Tail lowered, eyes averted, Morgath whined as the pack leader sniffed him. Finally, the male licked him and led the others back to gorge.

He remained with them several nights, gathering his strength and honing his skills. But wolves are wise; they sensed something wrong. Before they could turn on him, he left the pack and made his way back to the grove.

He’d had no time to observe the devastation when he first escaped. He remembered little more than screams and that dizzying flight through the trees. Standing before the One Tree, he wondered if the Tree-Lords had finished their battle. And if not, what consequences did that hold for the world?

That must be the reason the Betrayer had come to the heart-oak—to offer prayers and sacrifices. His lip curled. It would take more than prayers to restore the One Tree. If the Betrayer needed proof of his master’s power, he had only to look at the devastation he had wrought.

Morgath rose and limped into the glade, whimpering as the arrowhead ground deeper into his flank. He had a new enemy now. The Hunter, too, must be punished.

He wove his way toward the heart-oak. The crossing had drained him, but now he was home, standing before the heart-oak to which he had offered so many sacrifices. Blood spattered the tree’s roots. He sniffed eagerly, tongue flicking out to savor the Hunter’s essence. Sacrificial blood was richer than ordinary blood. He wondered if the animals that had feasted upon him so many years ago had recognized the difference.

He nosed through the dead leaves, half-hoping to discover some piece of himself, but of course, there was nothing. His blood had long since soaked into the earth, his flesh devoured by scavengers, his bones scattered. Only his spirit remained to bear witness to the murder.