Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (17 page)

The wolf leaped.

His wandering spirit slammed back into his body with a physical jolt that left his heart pounding so fiercely he feared he would die. He writhed on the wolfskins, racked by the convulsions that always followed a precipitous return from the other world. Strong arms seized him, held him tightly as he wheezed out his name, once, twice, three times, to reestablish the boundaries of his spirit. When the convulsions ceased, he patted his head, trembling hands moving down his body to reestablish the boundaries of his physical self.

He looked up into Darak’s eyes. Whatever the flickering firelight revealed, it made the younger man grab his hands. Struath clutched them, grateful for their strength.

“Shall I wake Yeorna?” Darak whispered.

Struath shook his head. Darak eased him back on the wolfskins. He held back a soft moan when those strong hands left him, but they returned moments later, lifting his head to dribble water into his mouth.

“Can you tell me?”

Darak listened without interruption, but his grip tightened when he described his narrow escape.

“The place you saw the Oak. It doesn’t sound like the Summerlands.”

“It may not be a real place at all. Visions are like that.”

“But the Oak is alive?”

“Its spirit is immortal. Those were Brana’s words.”

Darak hesitated. “You … you didn’t see Tinnean?”

“Nay, Darak. I’m sorry.”

Darak shook his head as if ashamed for asking. “And the wolf?”

Struath made himself speak the words aloud. “The wolf is my death.”

“Not if I kill it first.” Darak gave him a tight-lipped smile. Though the eyes were gray, they glittered as ferociously as the wolf’s.

Struath shuddered. Darak squeezed his hand again, gently this time. “Try to sleep.” When Struath just stared at him, he added, “Aye. Well. It’ll be dawn soon anyway.”

Darak settled back, arms folded atop his upraised knees. After a long moment, he said, “Now we know the price of fire.”

D
ETERMINED TO PUT as much distance as possible between them and the wolf, Darak pushed the others hard. Although they now had the luxury of fire to warm them at night, they found themselves facing another obstacle during the day: the forest was changing. The trees were still tall, but not as huge as the ancient ones near the grove, giving credence to the legend that the First Forest had sprung up around the One Tree.

Without the giants blocking out the sun, smaller saplings and shrubs could exist. Instead of an open path between the trees, the underbrush grew thick. But it was more than the tangled vegetation that impeded their progress. Bushes seemed to spread wider to block the way. Trees leaned toward them, branches slapping their faces and snagging their mantles. Sharp-toothed brambles tore breeches and robes. Vines wove impenetrable barriers between the trees.

The forest was fighting them—and it was winning. Slowly, inexorably, it forced them north.

Reluctantly, Darak confronted the Holly-Lord. “We’re going the wrong way.”

The Holly-Lord nodded.

“Why?”

“It is the way I always go.”

“When?”

“After the cold-time battle.”

Struath raised his head. Lines of exhaustion etched the shaman’s face but his voice was as strong as ever. “To the Mountain, you mean?”

“Aye.”

“We can’t go north,” Darak said. “If we do, we’ll never reach the Summerlands.”

The Holly-Lord watched him, tense and wary. Belatedly, Darak realized he had clenched his fists. He forced them open and kept his voice low. “We have to change direction. Can you make the forest understand?”

“It is not-right. The trees know that.”

“You’re the Holly-Lord. Command them.”

The Holly-Lord cocked his head, frowning. “I do not understand.”

Through gritted teeth, Darak ground out the words. “Tell them to let us go south.”

Silently, the Holly-Lord rose. He passed among the trees, touching trunks, stroking branches, then turned back to them and shook his head.

“All right. I’ll lead.”

“The forest will not let us pass.”

“We’ll see.”

He bulled his way through the underbrush, shoving back branches that pressed against him with an all-too-real malevolence, using his body to open a way for the others. Occasionally, he would see an opening between the trees, but by the time they fought their way to it, the brush had choked off the path, leaving only that clear trail snaking north. It was as if the forest were taunting them.

Finally, he stopped. Alone, he might have persevered, but he couldn’t risk the others. He wiped his streaming face and forced his gaze to meet the Holly-Lord’s.

“Can you do anything?”

He shrugged helplessly.

Darak surrendered to the forest and turned north.

The Holly-Lord heard the whispers racing through the trees, although he knew the others heard only the rustle of branches. There was no triumph in the sound. The forest did not know that emotion; it only knew the rightness of their new path, just as it had known that their attempt to travel toward the hidden place the others called the Summerlands had been not-right.

Always before, the journey had passed so quickly. After the cold-time battle—winter, they called it winter—there was a rush of air and darkness and always the presence of his Maker, shielding his fragile spirit until he was safe in the ice cavern at the heart of the Mountain. While he rested and grew strong, he maintained his connection to the Holly, existing in both places at once. He could never explain that in words, not even to Struath who trusted him.

Darak clearly did not. He often caught the big man studying him, deep furrows between his eye wings. Eyebrows. He was glad Darak led the way; the feel of those eyes had made unpleasant shivers run up and down his back.

They all treated him differently now. He missed Struath holding his face and Yeorna clasping his hand and Griane’s gentle fingers pushing the hair off his forehead. He had known touch in his other life—the brush of leaves, the scratch of a bird’s claws on his branch—but leaves and claws held far less power than human hands. While he regretted the lost pleasure of physical touch, his daily struggle to reach the other trees with his spirit left him trembling with exhaustion. Worst of all, his connection to the Holly grew weaker with each step away from the grove.

That made the boy’s heart tattoo beat very fast. He knew the Tree had been hurt. He knew it was not-right for him to be separated from it, just as it was not-right for him to go to the Oak’s resting place. But somehow, he must convince the forest to allow them to pass, to recognize that as long as the Oak was lost, nothing was right in the world.

Despite his reluctance to leave his folk unprotected, Darak took to ranging ahead to scout for shelter and bait springpole snares with bits of suetcake. He knew he risked exhausting his reserves of strength, but his folk needed more than a few squirrels or wood pigeons each day to maintain the relentless pace he set. And as long as the wolf trailed them, they must maintain it.

The first time the trail turned east, he exulted in the belief that the forest was relenting. After several days of winding east, then circling northwest, he realized it was simply choosing the easiest route for them, as if it understood the limits of human endurance.

Oak and ash gave way to spruce and pine. The air felt noticeably colder and the frost-covered compost crunched underfoot where before it had felt soft and spongy. Game grew scarcer; some evenings, he returned with only two or three squirrels to share among five people. After one bone-chilling night when their fire was reduced to mere embers, they began collecting deadwood as they hiked and ripping up golden clumps of deer’s hair that grew beside the trail.

None of his folk complained. Not Struath when Griane bandaged his blistered, bleeding feet. Not Yeorna when she tumbled down a slope. Not Griane who was always digging into her magic bag for a mortar and pestle to smash icicles for water, for pouches of roots and bark to brew a lukewarm tea, for ointments to bring the feeling back into numb fingers and toes. As for the Holly-Lord, he grew more silent every day.

Their battles were less glorious than those of legend, in which heroes slew shape-shifters with lightning bolts and wrestled three-headed demons unleashed by Chaos. But they were just as valiant as Struath dragging deadwood to camp when he could hardly stand or Yeorna and Griane working halfway through the nights to fashion mittens and socks from Tinnean’s robe. With her supply of nettle-cloths dwindling, Griane cut up her doeskin skirt for bandages and wore Tinnean’s spare breeches.

They fought the triple nemesis of cold and hunger and exhaustion—and their enemies were winning. Each day, the trail grew steeper, the wind crueler. Each night, Darak fell asleep, worrying how he would keep his folk alive.

Then one morning, he rounded a bend in the trail to find sunlight streaming through a break in the trees. He raced ahead, drawing up short when he burst into the open.

The rolling highlands seemed to stretch on forever, as limitless as the sky crouching over them. Earth and sky seemed to have changed places, transporting him to a boundless wilderness of clouds: undulating gray hills, vast purple plains, and towering ranges of silver-white mountains.

Shaking off the sky’s spell, he skirted the stunted firs to pick his way over a lichen-covered ledge of rock. Bracing himself against the wind’s ferocity, he peered down.

He blinked, afraid his eyes had misled him. After so many days in the forest, the watery sunlight made them tear. When he saw another flash of white at the bottom of the gorge, he threw back his head and gave a hoarse bellow of triumph.

“Have you gone mad?” Griane’s breath steamed in great puffs as she drew up to him. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard. She shoved him away, gasping. “Merciful Maker, you have.”

“Nay, girl. Look.” He pointed at the foaming water tumbling through the rocks below.

“Is it … could it be the river that leads to the Summerlands?”

“I don’t know.” The legends said the Summerlands floated between two rivers carved from the earth by the Maker’s tears. This one looked like an ordinary mountain stream, but it did wind south through a sea of evergreens. “No more melting icicles for water, girl.”

“And no more stringy squirrels. Not that they weren’t delicious,” she added with a quick glance at him. “But fish …” She breathed the words with prayerful reverence, then frowned, gnawing at her upper lip. “It’s awful steep, Darak.”

“I’ll make it down.”

“Getting back up is the trick.”

“I’ll make it.”

He grinned at her and she rolled her eyes. “Just don’t break your neck. I’ve nothing in my magic bag to cure that.”

Darak turned to call to the others, but the words died when he saw the Holly-Lord gazing north, his body rigid. Following the direction of his gaze, Darak understood why.

The edge of the gorge had seemed like the top of the world. Now he realized that the top of the world was that distant peak of snow and ice and stone, so high that wind-driven clouds obscured the summit. The morning sun tinged the snow on its upper slopes gold, while violet shadows clung to its flanks. It was as beautiful as it was terrifying.