Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (25 page)

He had wept afterward, because the pleasure had been so intense, because he was grateful that he could give equal pleasure to his beloved mentor—and because he was so proud Morgath had chosen him for this initiation as well.

When Morgath took one of the Grain-Mother’s apprentices for a lover, he had wept again. When Morgath argued that a man must sample all the pleasures of life, he had broken with him. When Morgath told him no woman could ever displace him, he had returned.

As with the flesh, so it was with spirit. When Morgath led him into the realms of dark magic, he had resisted, not only fearful of the dangers of their forbidden quest, but of yielding utterly to the strength and charisma of the older man. Always, though, he relented and returned. Until the day he murdered the wren.

After that, he went no more to that soft bed of rabbit furs, though his body still ached for the touch of those skillful fingers, that knowing mouth. Ached even more for the comfort of those arms that he had once believed would shield him from any danger, any evil. He had never dreamed that the evil lay within.

Later, he always wondered why the elders believed him. Perhaps they, too, feared Morgath’s power. When he denounced the Tree-Father, he spoke no word of his own act of sacrilege. Nor did Morgath. Bound by ropes, bound even tighter by the wards erected by the priests of both the Oak and Holly tribes, Morgath offered no word, no look, not a single gesture to implicate him during the daylong council. Struath accepted the burden of silence, believing that the worst punishment he could endure was to live with his secret shame and guilt. Then the elders told him that he must perform the rite that would cast his mentor’s spirit into Chaos.

That was the only time Morgath acknowledged him—the moment when he knelt next to him in the glade of the heart-oak, the dagger that his mentor had given him held aloft between his trembling fingers, staring down at the smooth white chest that he would carve open. In spite of the wards, he had felt the pull of Morgath’s power, but no wards could protect him from the simple but unendurable compulsion to look into his mentor’s face one last time.

Their spirits touched as they had so many times before. He touched hatred. He touched madness. Disdain for those too cowardly to seek knowledge at all costs. Determination to show no fear and a bottomless terror for the journey his spirit would undergo. It was only when Struath touched a small flicker of love that he severed the connection, plunging the dagger into his mentor’s chest with a great howl of despair that echoed through the silent forest.

Struath clenched the hilt of the dagger. “You are not my master any longer.”

It had taken Morgath thirty years to escape Chaos. Once he had sent the Destroyer back, he would devote the rest of his life to discovering a way to seal him there forever.

T
HE OTHERS WERE STILL sleeping when Darak picked up his bow and quiver, determined to get in a day of hunting before another storm blew in. Moments after he had crawled out of the cave, he heard the rattle of branches behind him and turned to find Griane crouched by the cave’s entrance, muttering imprecations as she struggled to free her mantle. He stilled her impatient fingers, untangled the mantle from the twigs that had snagged it, and pulled her to her feet.

By way of thanks, she glared at him and announced, “I’m coming with you.”

“I see.”

“The others don’t need me, and I’m good with a sling, and we need to lay in a good supply of meat before we move on.”

“All right.”

“And besides, I can—What?”

“I said all right.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you being so nice?”

“Because if I said nay, you’d follow me.” She flushed. “I’ve seen no sign of the wolf, but that doesn’t mean it’s not lurking about. So stay close and for mercy’s sake, keep silent.”

Apart from one cry of triumph when she brought down a squirrel, she obeyed. Even when they rested at midday, sharing a smoked fish and a few swallows of water, she remained mute. Not the brooding silence that followed his assault on the Holly-Lord, but a restful sort of quiet. He found himself enjoying her company, the widening of her eyes when he nodded toward their prey, her quick grin when he made a kill. Even more surprising was his discovery that this impulsive, sharp-tongued girl possessed a hunter’s patience, a hunter’s stillness, communicating with the smallest of gestures, the slightest of nods.

He spotted the deer first. Griane froze a moment later; only her quick intake of breath betrayed her excitement.

His mind formed a silent prayer to the Forest-Lord, but it was his father’s voice he heard in his head.

They mostly browse for a count of twenty, but each deer has its own pattern.

The doe raised her head, scanning the trees. Seeing nothing, she tore another long shred of bark from the tree. Darak counted.

It’ll look for movement. Keep still. Stay relaxed.

Again the doe looked up. Her brown eyes seemed to stare right into his. Only when she lowered her head did he allow himself to blink.

Once you’ve got their pattern, you move.

Four steps only, then freeze.

Never press your luck. One step too many and the deer will catch you mid-stride and be gone.

Four more steps and freeze.

Take your time. Go for the sure shot.

One step forward. Clear of that low branch. Two steps left. Beyond the screen of saplings.

Wait till you’re ready to take the shot before you draw.

Mark the spot between the ribs. Bowstring back. Elbow high. Now!

She crumpled to the ground without taking a step and pure joy flooded him. For the second time in his life, he’d taken a deer with one shot through the heart. Even his father had managed the feat only once.

Griane whooped and threw her arms around his neck. He hugged her hard, glad to share this moment. Then he knelt beside the doe, stroking her neck gently as the soft brown eyes glazed over. He whispered a prayer of thanks, then made a shallow slash down the chest, careful to avoid piercing the stomach and the sac containing the intestines. He inserted his dagger under the skin and peeled back the thick hide. Steam rose from the exposed organs and he breathed it in gratefully before cutting the liver free. He sliced off a chunk and held it out to Griane.

“Nay. It’s your kill.”

He ate it raw, eyes closed as he savored the tender flesh.

“We’d best butcher it here,” he said, “else we’ll attract scavengers to the cave. I’ll cache whatever we can’t carry with us and come back for it later.”

“Darak.”

“Empty your waterskin. The blood’ll make a good base for stews.”

“Darak.”

The soft urgency in her voice brought his head up. She was staring past him, her face pale under the dusting of freckles. Wiping his dagger on his breeches, he murmured, “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice shook just a little. “A man. I think.”

He casually picked up his bow as he rose and pretended to examine the bowstring. All the while, his eyes scanned the underbrush. He missed him at first, so perfectly did he blend in with the shadows. Then he caught a brighter gleam of color among the sun-dappled tree trunks.

The stranger was lounging on a fallen log. Trees shadowed his face, but his legs gleamed ruddy in a shaft of sunlight. He leaned forward. A tail uncurled. He reached around, pulled his thick brush forward, and began grooming it. Without looking up, he said, “Don’t gape, children. It’s unbecoming.”

“Merciful Maker,” Griane breathed.

“Do come closer. I hate to shout.”

His voice was soft as if confiding secrets, yet each word carried clearly.

“And leave the bow.”

Reluctantly, Darak let it slide from his fingers. Although he firmly intended to keep his distance, he found himself walking forward with Griane at his side. They stopped just out of reach of the long arms. Griane slowly knelt; he remained standing until she seized his wrist and dragged him to his knees.

The triangular ears twitched. So did the whiskers around his sharp nose. The long red tongue lolled out as he grinned. Then he turned his attention back to his brush, examining the white tip critically before licking it into a perfect point. Darak tensed when he rose, but after swishing his brush back and forth a few times, he tucked it under him and resumed his seat on the log.

When the Trickster’s mouth curved in a mocking smile, Darak realized he was clutching his bag of charms. He let his hand fall to his side, but kept a firm grip on the hilt of his dagger.

“What is your name, child?”

“Griane, my lord.”

Darak muttered a curse. Names held power. You didn’t offer them to strangers. Especially when the stranger was the Trickster.

“Griane.” He repeated the name as if savoring it. “And do you know who I am?”

“Everyone knows of you, Lord Trickster.”

“A gratifying thought. Come closer. No, not you. Just this delightful girl.”

Griane hesitated, then rose and took a tentative step forward.

The Trickster clasped his white-ruffed cheeks. “Ah. That hair. Lovely.”

Griane fingered her braid uncertainly. “You’re the first to say so, lord.”

“Well. Men can be so stupid, can’t they?” The Trickster’s golden gaze flicked his way before returning to Griane.

Griane shot an amused look over her shoulder.

“Aye, lord.”

Darak resisted the impulse to stuff her lovely braid down her throat. Judging by the Trickster’s lazy smile, the god knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Have you ever met a god before, Griane?”

“Nay, lord.”

“How does it make you feel?”

“I … well … a little afraid.”

“That is wise. Gods can be so fickle. I think it’s because we are immortal and constantly seek something new to amuse us.” He shrugged. “But rest easy, my dear. I mean no harm to you or your silent companion. Today.”

“I … thank you, Lord Trickster.”

“Tell me, Griane. Do you think I am beautiful? I have been told that I am beautiful.” The Trickster’s mocking smile made the heat rise on Darak’s face.

“You are … magnificent.”

“Even better. More awe-inspiring. One always likes to inspire awe. Do I inspire awe in you, Griane?”

“An awful lot of awe.”

The Trickster laughed. “Delightful girl. Such hair. Such wit.”

“I wasn’t trying to be witty, Lord Trickster.”

“Which only makes you more delightful.” The Trickster shot him another glance. “And you—do I inspire awe in you as well?”

“Aye.”

“Ah. It speaks as well as blushes. Does it also have a name?”

“I warrant you know it.”

The bushy brows rose. Griane shot him a quick glare. “Forgive him, Lord Trickster. His name is Darak—”

Darak got to his feet. “Guard your tongue, girl.”

“Oh, please. It’s far too nice day to quarrel. Darak is simply being cautious, my dear. Darak is a cautious fellow. Darak is also an exceedingly rude fellow, but I’ll let that go. This time.”

The hair on the back of his neck rose. Three times, the Trickster had repeated his name. Every child knew that was how you began a charm—or a curse. “Lord Trickster …”

“Call me Fellgair.” His whiskers twitched. “You see? I offer a name for a name.”

Darak considered reminding him that they’d offered him two names, but decided that would be pressing his luck. “Fellgair,” he said. “We shall remember that name. Fellgair. It is a fine name, Fellgair.”

The Trickster rolled his eyes. “Do you really think your petty charms will have any effect upon me? Next you’ll be clutching your little bag again and spitting in the four directions.”

Darak felt his face grow even warmer.

“Though why you should believe in the efficacy of charms when you no longer believe in the gods, I can’t imagine.”

The Trickster’s slow smile told Darak that the god had heard his quick intake of breath. “The charms are a habit, Lord Trickster. As to believing in the gods … should I doubt the evidence of my own eyes?”

“Absolutely. Eyes are notoriously unreliable. Any halfway creditable shaman can cast a glamour that could make you see whatever he wished.”

“Then you’re not the Trickster God?” Griane sounded crestfallen.

“As a matter of fact, I am. Although Darak—dear Darak—rude Darak—the thrice-named man who accompanies you—doesn’t believe in gods. Or rather, he does believe. He simply hates them. Why was that again? Oh, yes. That nasty business with the plague. Don’t clench your jaw, dear boy. You’ll grind down those lovely teeth.”

“It was you, then. Who brought the plague.”

“Did I?”

“Why?”

“Perhaps it amused me.”

Rage flooded Darak. He tamped it down, struggling to keep his voice even. “It amused you to watch them die? The men who praised your cunning? The women who sang songs about your cleverness? And the helpless babes—” His voice broke and he clamped his mouth shut. Was it the Trickster’s doing or his own foolishness?

“For one who cautions Griane to guard her tongue, you’re perilously free with yours.”