Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (21 page)

“This might hurt,” he said.

Despite his pain, Struath managed a sour smile. “You’re a comfort.”

He had to admire the old man. Nionik had been in such pain when he put his shoulder out that he hadn’t been able to speak.

“Are you ready?”

“Just get on with—”

Struath broke off as Darak whipped the elbow up and in. Darak gasped at his broken ribs stabbed him. Sweat poured down Struath’s face. The arm, which had seemed so light when he lifted it, felt as heavy as stone. Darak was about to give up the effort when the shoulder slid into place with a soft crunch.

Struath stared up at him in amazement. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“It will. We’ll have to strap it for a day or two and after that, you’ll need to go slow.”

“You are not to move your arm at all until I give you leave,” Griane said. “I’ll fashion a sling for you, Tree-Father. And Darak, I want to look at your ribs. And your back. Don’t gape at me. I can see how you’re moving.” She rummaged in her magic bag. “And I need to put a compress on that eye. It’s already swelling.”

He shook his head, staring up the slope. “I shouldn’t have risked it.”

“We were all willing to risk it,” Struath said.

“Still.”

“Stop it.” Griane glared at him. “Yeorna slipped on some wet leaves. It happens.”

“One mistake. That’s all it takes.” Like a hunter leaving camp without his bow. Or a boy rushing to protect his tribe’s sacred tree.

“You cannot foresee every accident.”

“I must try.”

“People slip, Darak. They twist their ankles. They put their shoulders out. You cannot control it. Any more than you can control a storm. We’re alive. Bruised and battered, aye, but alive.”

He nodded, too tired to argue. “See to Struath. I’ll scout the river for a place to camp.”

“Not before I’ve seen to you.”

He captured her hands as they seized the hem of his tunic. “I’ll do, girl.”

“You’ll do what I tell you. Stumbling around like a half-blind bullock. Serve you right if you fell in the river and drowned.”

Darak snatched at the air, capturing the words before they reached the ears of the gods. “Last time you said that, I ended up in the bog.” Stricken, Griane opened her mouth, looking for all the world like a baby bird waiting to be fed. He opened his fist, keeping his palm flat against her lips until she had swallowed her words.

“I’ll be back before dark. I promise.”

She brandished the doeskin bandages. “I’ll just strap your ribs. That’s all.”

He surrendered. Some forces of nature were beyond any man’s control. Griane was one of them.

P
ERHAPS THE GODS heard prayers after all, else he might never have found the cave. Screened by tumbled boulders and brush, it was larger inside than he would have guessed from the narrow cleft in the hillside. It was full dark by the time he got them safely inside. Griane chittered like an angry squirrel when he carried Yeorna up the embankment and his ribs didn’t thank him either, but the Grain-Mother was tight-lipped from limping along the riverbank.

The next day, he stayed close to the cave, daring Griane’s wrath to help her collect deadwood for the fire and fill their waterskins. He used the rest of his time to tend to his weapons, chipping the flint of his dagger to an even sharper point, restringing his bow, and inspecting every arrow in his quiver. The few blood spatters he’d found after the wolf attack told him the beast’s injuries were minor. He might have slowed it down, but if the wolf could find a way out of Chaos, it would surely find their trail.

On the second morning, watching his folk make do with half a suetcake each, he unpacked his fishing gear.

“Nay,” Griane said.

“We need food.”

“You need to rest.”

“Griane …”

“Your eye’s swollen shut.”

“I’ve got another one.”

“And your ribs—”

“Hardly hurt at all.”

Her snort told him she didn’t believe that lie. “I’m coming with you.”

“You need to tend to Yeorna and Struath.”

“What if the wolf’s about?”

“I’ll have my spear.”

“I won’t have you going alone.”

Before he could tell her to hush, the Holly-Lord said, “I will go.”

This time, Darak was the one to snort. “You’re going to protect me from the wolf?”

“Nay. But I could fish.”

“You don’t know how to fish.”

“You could teach him,” Griane said.

He could hardly bear to be in the Holly-Lord’s presence. The last thing he wanted was to teach him to fish. “Everyone helps but me,” the Holly-Lord said. “Please, Darak. Take me with you.”

The breath leaked out of him. The same pleading look, even the same words Tinnean had spoken the first time he had allowed his brother to hunt with him.

They were all watching him now. He rose with a curt nod, waiting impatiently while Griane pulled the Holly-Lord’s mantle up around his chin and tied his mittens tightly. He blew out his breath. A moment ago, she’d been fussing at him and now he was acting like some jealous boy because she did the same for the Holly-Lord.

He crawled outside and waited for the Holly-Lord to join him. “Stay here until I signal you. And go slow down the embankment. The pebbles are tricky underfoot.”

He chose a spot downstream where the thin brush offered little cover. Although he had yet to spot wolf spoor, there were other predators in the forest. He allowed the Holly-Lord to rummage through his selection of lures. “Nay. Those are duck feathers; they’ll only lure lake fish.” He held up another, the iridescent blue-green feathers of the daggerbird tied to a tiny piece of quartz. “See how the rock sparkles? That’ll attract the fish. And since the daggerbird is a river feeder, its feathers’ll ensure a good catch.”

The Holly-Lord nodded solemnly, just as Tinnean had so many years ago. He showed him how to bait the bone hooks with bits of suetcake, how to tie on the lures, how to secure the hooks to the line with a bit of sinew, correcting him with a word or a shake of his head. He refused to touch him; it brought back too many memories of guiding Tinnean’s grubby fingers as he fumbled with hook and lure. The fingers were just as grubby now, but long and slender. So much more graceful than his. The nails had grown. He found himself missing his brother’s bloody hang-nails and shook his head.

“Is it wrong?”

He looked up to find the Holly-Lord watching him. “It’s fine.”

“You shook your head.”

“I was … it doesn’t matter. Now we must ask Lacha, goddess of lakes and rivers, to share her bounty with us.”

“What do we say?”

“Lacha, goddess of lakes and rivers, share your bounty with us.”

“Oh.”

The Holly-Lord dutifully repeated the prayer. Darak tied the line to an alder. “Watch the branch, not the water. If the branch bends, you’ve caught a fish.”

Hefting his spear, he picked his way across the wet rocks to a boulder midstream where the foaming water broke into two smaller streams that created a pool. He breathed another prayer, this one for his brother. It seemed he was always praying these days—for fire, for fish, for Tinnean to be safe.

The Holly-Lord crouched on the riverbank, brows drawn together in concentration as he gazed up at the alder’s low-hanging branch. “You needn’t stare at it all the time,” Darak called. “You’ll see it move out of the corner of your eye.”

The Holly-Lord nodded. He faced the river, whipping his head around every few moments to stare at the alder. Darak smiled, realized he was smiling, and frowned.

Tinnean had been six or seven the first time he had taken him upriver to fish. Darak had spent most of that time hushing his excited chatter, warning him that he would scare off the fish. Watching the Holly-Lord, so still and silent on the bank, he realized how much he missed that chatter and the good-natured grin that had always followed the scolding.

I scolded him too much. I should have let him be.

His father had always managed to silence him with a frosty stare that told him plainer than any words that he had failed to meet his expectations. Recalling the way his spirit had shriveled under that gray-eyed gaze, he decided a scolding would have been far easier to endure.

A shout from the Holly-Lord interrupted his thoughts. “Darak! A fish. I caught a fish.”

His vision blurred. The Holly-Lord’s figure became the child, staggering under the weight of a trout, squealing when the tail slapped his belly. He blinked hard and shouted, “Haul the line up.”

Hopping from stone to stone, he made his way back to the bank in time to see the fish fly over the Holly-Lord’s head. Standing on his toes, he managed to hook his forefinger through the gills while he cut the snagged line. He held it up, marveling at its size. When a shaft of sunlight struck it, he caught the iridescent flash of a rainbow amid the dark speckles on its side.

“It is beautiful.”

“Aye.” He eased the hook free and tossed the fish onto the bank. “Next time, try not to haul it into the trees.”

“Darak.”

“What?”

The Holly-Lord pointed at the trout. It flopped on the bank, gills fluttering weakly. “Make it stop.”

Darak picked the fish up by the tail and slammed its head on a rock. When he glanced up, he found the Holly-Lord staring at him. “What?”

“You killed it.”

The Holly-Lord’s horrified expression made his voice harsh. “You’ve seen the game I’ve brought to camp.”

“Aye.”

“Well?”

“It is different. To watch them die. To kill.”

“Men hunt. Just like animals. The wolf kills the deer. The owl kills the mouse.”

The Holly-Lord nodded, but his face was still troubled. Darak squatted opposite him. “When a wolf kills or an owl, it’s neither good nor bad. It’s how they survive. We will survive because this fish gives us strength. Can you understand that?”

“Aye, Darak. I understand.”

“Good.”

“But I do not want to kill again.” The Holly-Lord looked away. “I cannot help after all.”

Against his will, Darak sympathized. He knew what it was like to feel helpless. “Say a prayer, then.”

“To Lacha?”

“To the fish. Thank it for giving up its life for us.”

“This is what the wolf does? And the owl?”

“It’s what a man does.”

“What do I say?”

“Whatever seems right.”

The Holly-Lord crouched beside the trout and stroked its gleaming scales. “Fish. I did not want you to be dead. But I thank you for helping us live. Because of you, we will be strong and we will find the Oak.” He looked up, a question in his eyes.

Darak nodded and rose; barely midmorning and already he was tired. “Do you want to go back?”

“I will stay. I will say a prayer for the fish you catch.”

B
Y THE FOURTH DAY in the cave, the Holly-Lord noticed that the ugly colors—bruises, Griane called them—were fading from the boy’s body. Yeorna could limp around the cave, but Struath still dozed most of the day. Darak could see out of both eyes now, but his movements were slow and careful. Even so, he always left at first light, returning at day’s end with fresh game or fish.

The Holly-Lord no longer asked to accompany him, but the women found tasks for him. Griane showed him how to rub a fish with herbs and bury it in the embers in a little den of clay. Yeorna showed him how to cut off the tails and fins with her dagger and grind them into a magic powder that would save a man from drowning. He had no idea that fish were so useful; he had just thought them beautiful.

He learned many other things during their days together. Caves were damper than huts. Catching fish was easier than mending clothes. Being a female was much harder than being a male.

Yeorna laughed when he told her that. “That just shows how wise you are, Holly-Lord. Women have been telling men that for ages. And men never believe them.”

“I do.” He pushed the bone needle at the strand of sinew again. Griane took the sinew from him, sucked one end, and poked it through the hole in the needle. She was a wonder.

She could even play the long bone in Darak’s pack. Just by blowing into one end and twiddling her fingers over the holes, she made sounds as beautiful as birdsong. When he tried, it sounded like the wheezes Struath made while he slept.