Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (24 page)

He nodded at The People’s wisdom; who would want to live far from the forest?

“Their shaman said they must go on and they obeyed him because he was the wisest of men.”

Darak made a little snorting sound and Struath frowned.

“And in time they came to another river,” Yeorna said. “Isn’t that right, Tree-Father?”

“Aye. After many days and nights of travel. The People decided to follow the river. As their shaman advised.”

Without looking up from his hammerstone, Darak said, “Who—being the wisest of men—knew that winter was coming on and if they didn’t find a place to build their homes soon, they’d freeze their arses off.”

This time, Griane snorted. Her face flushed when she caught Darak’s glance, but this time, she did not look away.

Struath cleared his throat. “The People followed the river east for two days and two nights until they reached a lake.”

“Your lake?”

“Aye. And when they paddled up the lake, they saw the sign that their shaman—with his farseeing wisdom—had promised.” Struath paused, looking around the cave. He wondered if he was supposed to guess what the sign was.

Fortunately, Griane blurted out, “The oak. He saw the oak.”

“The oak on the hill?”

“Aye, Holly-Lord.”

“Tell him about Cuillonoc, Tree-Father.”

Yeorna’s interruption reminded him of the reason Struath had begun this story. He sounded out the name softly. The first part rolled around his tongue nicely, but the last part felt like he had something caught in his throat and was trying to cough it out.

“Well, after a time, the Oak Tribe—for so they called themselves now—grew so large that there was not enough grain in the fields to feed them.”

The People must have bred like rabbits. Yet, he had not seen so many of them during his time in Darak’s hut. Less than the leaves on one branch of a small sapling. Perhaps their breeding habits had changed over time.

“It was decided that half of the tribe would find a new home. And so—and this is the wondrous thing—they sailed across the lake, and on the opposite shore, they found a holly. Just as the first tribe had found an oak. And just as the Oak and Holly are connected, our two tribes always remember that we come from the same roots and we share the same past.”

“And the man who led them across the lake was Cuillonoc. Forgive me, Tree-Father.” Struath smiled and waved away Yeorna’s apology. “So. What do you think?”

“I think your people move around a lot.”

“About the name.”

“Oh. I do not like it.”

Darak’s head jerked up. Yeorna gasped. Struath frowned. But Griane’s face held his gaze longest. As he watched, the light in her eyes died just as surely as the sun must have when it sank into the waters of that great sea. He knew it was his fault—all their faces told him that—but he was not sure what he had done other than speak the truth.

“Is there another name you would prefer, Holly-Lord?” Struath asked.

“Nay. I just do not like that one.”

Griane flinched. Hoping to make things better, he said, “It sounds like a cough.”

Before he could say more, she had shoved aside the branches at the cave’s entrance and crawled out. Before the branches had stopped rustling, Darak went after her.

“I did something wrong.”

Struath cleared his throat. Yeorna sighed. The fire hissed. Nothing ever seemed to bother the fire.

“Griane spent a day thinking of a name,” Struath said.

“I know.”

“She wanted it to be a name with meaning.”

“I understand.”

“A name you could be proud of.”

“It sounds like a cough.”

Struath cleared his throat.

“It does not feel right in my mouth.”

Yeorna sighed.

“Is Griane angry because the name sounds like a cough?”

“She is not angry,” Yeorna said. “She is hurt.”

“But I did not touch her.”

“Your words hurt her.”

He had never imagined you could wound with words. He found that more frightening than anything else he had learned since becoming a man.

“Do you remember Darak’s face when you described the battle in the grove?” Struath asked. “When you told him Tinnean screamed?”

He pressed his palm against the front of his tunic to ease the sudden pain in his chest. “My words made Griane feel that way?”

“Well. Not so bad as that,” Struath said.

He stared into the unfeeling fire. “I do not like words.”

Darak crawled back into the cave, brushing snow off. He squeezed his shoulder and squatted beside him again.

“What words should I have used?” he asked Struath.

“You could have said … it was a fine name. A name you liked.”

“But that would be not-true.”

“A lie,” Struath corrected. “But only a small lie, Holly-Lord.”

“Lies are different sizes?”

“Sometimes, we speak words to avoid hurting another’s feelings. Those are small lies. They do not harm the teller or the hearer.”

“I do not understand.”

Yeorna sighed. “Suppose a girl—a girl you liked very much—made you your favorite food in the world. And it wasn’t—”

“Hot apple cider.”

“What?”

“Hot apple cider is my favorite.”

“Oh. All right. Well, suppose the hot apple cider tasted bad.”

“How could hot apple cider taste bad?”

“Forget hot apple cider,” Darak said. “Say a girl asks if you like the oatcakes she made. You say, ‘Oh, aye.’ Even if they’re hard as rocks. Or if a girl asks,

‘Do you think my hair looks pretty this way?’ You say, ‘Oh, aye.’ Even if it looks like a nest of snakes.”

Yeorna cuffed Darak, but she was smiling. Even Struath’s lips were twitching as he said, “What Darak means is that if you like a person, you sometimes need to hold back a little of the truth.”

“But you’ll end up with hard oatcakes,” Darak said, dodging Yeorna’s hand with a grin.

Their smiles faded as Griane crawled into the cave. Darak helped her to her feet and stood by her as she hovered near the entrance, dragging the toe of her shoe in a long arc in front of her. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss. It was silly. It’s only a name.”

He stood up. He always felt better standing at important moments. “It is a fine name. I like it. And I think your hair looks pretty that way.”

“I … it’s a mess.” She smoothed her braid, darting an uncertain glance at Darak who suddenly seemed interested in kicking melting snow off his shoes.

“Thank you.”

“I am sorry I made you unhappy.”

“Nay. It’s your name. If you don’t like it—”

“Just the last part. The Oc.”

“That’s the part that sounds like a cough?” Darak asked.

He thought it was impolite to mention the cough. Griane’s glare confirmed that. She stuck out her tongue. Darak pulled her braid. She swatted his hand away and muttered something under her breath that made him grin. The pain in his chest eased at bit, then flared when he realized how much he would miss their strange displays when he returned to his Tree.

“Suppose you left off the Oc,” Yeorna suggested.

“Names have power,” Struath said. “Cuillon conveys authority and dignity. It brings to mind the founder of the Holly Tribe, but is yours alone. What do you think, Holly-Lord?”

He sounded it out and nodded. “It feels right in my mouth.”

Struath nodded. Yeorna clapped. Darak grinned. When Griane smiled and hugged him, the ache in his chest went away.

Cuillon. He had a name. He only hoped it held enough power to keep the holly thorns from piercing his hands again.

E
ACH NIGHT SINCE they had arrived at the cave, Struath had reached for another vision, but exhaustion and pain had hindered him. Tonight, he was determined to succeed. Soon, they must leave the sanctuary of the cave to seek either the Summerlands or a portal to Chaos. Only Brana could help him determine the true path.

He stared into the fire, waiting for the others to sleep. The flames beckoned him. He felt his body falling away and jerked upright when he realized his head was nodding. He called upon his years of discipline and again, felt himself drifting.

It might have been a moment later or moonset when he heard her voice.

“Wake up.”

Struath knew he was curled up in his mantle, yet he was also perched on a windswept pinnacle, watching dark clouds race across the moon.

Peck, peck, peck between his eyes.

“Forgive me, Brana.”

“Why should I? You never even thanked me for saving you.”

Struath shuddered, remembering their last flight. “Again, I ask your forgiveness. And offer my thanks. If you hadn’t broken the Trickster’s spell—”

A derisive caw cut him off. “If the Trickster had wanted the wolf to have you, you’d be dead. He’s playing with you. He enjoys that. So does the wolf.”

She cocked her head, no doubt expecting him to ask about the wolf again. But tonight, Struath had a more important quest.”

“Brana, I need your help.”

“You always need my help.”

“Is the Oak in Chaos?”

“That is beyond my power of Seeing.”

“Can you open a portal for us?”

“I could carry you to Chaos. Perhaps. But only the Trickster can open a portal for the others.” She winked. “Unless you’d care to ask the wolf.”

Always it came back to the wolf. “Why does it follow us?”

“Will you fly with me?”

“Aye, Brana. I will fly.”

She rose skyward, circling above him. He raised his arms, but found himself still locked in his man’s form. Brana dove. Her powerful talons seized his shoulders. Effortlessly, she ascended, the pinnacle dwindling to a tiny moonlit blot of gray in the darkness.

With a low rattling cough, she released him. He drifted downward, arms outstretched, waiting for his wings to sprout. He flapped his arms. No feathers. No wings. His fingers clawed empty air. He fell faster, tumbling helplessly through black, limitless space, just like the nightmares he’d had as a boy.

An abyss yawned beneath him. When he saw the fangs, he realized it was a gaping mouth. When he saw the yellow eyes, he recognized the wolf. But only when he heard it say, “Have you missed me, little rook?” did he finally See.

He screamed. The wolf’s tongue lolled out, enveloping him in a hot, wet sheath. He struggled futilely as it drew him toward its eager maw. When fangs bit into his shoulders, a terrified cry escaped him. Then he heard the beating of wings and realized Brana had snatched him away, her defiant croak louder than the wolf’s frustrated howl. They soared skyward, out of reach of those jaws, beyond vengeance, beyond terror, beyond death.

She set him down in the cave as gently as a mother laying her babe in a cradle. He woke with tears streaking his cheeks.

How could he have failed to See? All the signs were there: the wolf’s malevolence, its spirit-sickness. He should have recognized that spirit the night of the Midwinter rite or later in the glade of the heart-oak. Brana was right; consciously or unconsciously, he had refused to read the signs.

Morgath had returned.

The man whom he had respected—nay, idolized. The man who had guided him along the paths of magic, opening up unimagined worlds of knowledge and power. How proud he had been that a man so wise and gifted would choose him, a skinny gawk whose only real friend was the raven who visited him in dreams.

He could still remember that morning so many springs ago when he had returned from his vision quest: the weight of Morgath’s hands on his shoulders, the keen gaze that searched him, the smile that penetrated him as surely as that all-seeing eye. And the words: “Such a great gift. You will travel far.”

Struath knotted his trembling hands into fists. Pride. Always, it had been his weakness. Pride had ensured his allegiance to Morgath. Pride had led him along the forbidden paths of dark magic. Even when he had used that ill-gotten knowledge to defeat his master, guilt and remorse had been leavened with an equal measure of pride.

Struath moaned softly. How could he defeat a man who was clever enough to escape from Chaos, powerful enough to cast out the spirit of the Oak-Lord?

He reached into his pack and pulled out the sacrificial dagger. Slowly, he slid it from its sheath. The bronze gleamed dully in the firelight. His master—nay, he must not think of him as that any longer. To do so only added to his power. The Destroyer had been the first to possess such a dagger. He could still recall his wonder when he first beheld it—as if the sun’s rays had been forged into metal. Recalled, too, his gasp of surprise when the Destroyer had presented him with a similar dagger at his initiation. This dagger.

“You deserve no less, little rook,” the nickname a tribute to his spirit guide and to his long, dark hair.

“Great men require the best tools to accomplish great deeds.” Had he winked then or just smiled?

Those long fingers cupping his face. Those full lips pressing against his forehead in benediction, then moving lower, to brush his cheek, his jaw, his mouth.

Struath clamped his lips together. Even after so many years, even knowing the evil Morgath had done, his body still roused at the memories of that night. The eve of Midsummer, the air thick with the scent of wild roses. Hands and mouths exploring, bodies slick with sweat.