Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (27 page)

“The wolf is still abroad.”

He nodded impatiently.

“You must not kill it, Darak.”

“What?”

“This is not an ordinary animal.”

“I know that, Struath. What’s your point?”

“The spirit inhabiting the wolf disrupted the battle in the grove.”

The bloodlust flooded him, making him gasp. He forced his clenched fists open, forced himself to breathe slowly. “You had another vision.”

Struath nodded. “This spirit can move from body to body.”

“Not if the body’s dead.”

“He will never let you get close enough for a kill.”

“He?”

“He. It. Call it what you will.” Struath’s gaze slid away, then met his squarely. “If you try and kill it on your own, it will simply leave the body it now inhabits and take another. Yours, if it chooses. And you will be powerless to stop him.”

“So how can we destroy it?”

Struath’s shoulders relaxed. “I must be present at the kill to perform the rite that will consign its spirit to Chaos. Can we lure the wolf here?”

Darak resisted the urge to ask how Struath could keep this spirit in Chaos if it knew how to open a portal. “It would never come so close—not in broad daylight.”

“At night, then? If you hid yourself—”

“Whatever spirit lives inside, it’s still a wolf, Struath. Even with the wind in the right direction, I’d be hard-pressed to mask my scent completely. And if it’s as dangerous as you say, I’d not want to risk the others.”

“Of course. You’re right. Above all, we must keep the Holly-Lord safe.” Struath stared off, apparently lost in thought. “It wants me. If I went into the forest, faced it alone …”

“What’s to keep it from tossing your spirit out?”

Struath smiled grimly. “I will toss its spirit out first.”

“We’re not talking about a wren, Struath.”

The smile faded. “I am aware of the danger.”

“It’s too risky. If we lose you, who will wield the spirit catcher and bring back Tinnean and the Oak?” Belatedly, he realized how heartless that sounded, but he had more important things to consider than Struath’s feelings. “I’ll track it today.”

“You keep thinking of it as you would a real wolf.”

“This … being has inhabited the wolf’s body for … what? A moon, maybe longer. The Holly-Lord can’t communicate with the trees as well in Tinnean’s body. So a spirit—out of place—might take on the characteristics of the host. Or lose some of its powers. Aye?”

The deep furrows on the shaman’s forehead eased a bit. “If that were true … if he had lost power …” He shook his head. “We cannot count on that.”

“We can’t count on anything. But we can choose the time—and with any luck—the place to meet it. All you have to do is hold your own till I get off a shot. Can you do that?”

“I will. I must.”

Darak jerked his head toward the cave. “Keep the others inside. We’ve food for a sennight and I’ll fill the waterskins before I come back.” He allowed Struath to turn toward the cave before adding, “Just tell me one thing.”

As he’d expected, Struath’s body tensed.

“You said the wolf wanted you.”

Struath nodded cautiously.

“Will it try to kill you straight off? Or take its time?”

Struath’s shoulders sagged. When he spoke, his voice was so soft, Darak had to strain to hear him over the gusting wind.

“He will want to take a long time.”

Struath bent, wincing, and crawled back into the cave. The shaman had borne the miseries of this journey as well as any of them, but now both body and spirit seemed diminished by the weight of his knowledge. For clearly, Struath knew the spirit inhabiting the wolf—knew and feared it. Why was he intent on deceiving him? Especially when his silence endangered them all.

“Damn.”

If he tried to force the truth from Struath, the shaman would close up tighter than a clamshell. Yeorna, perhaps, might wheedle it out of him; she had a gift for knowing how to talk to people. He would take her aside tonight while Struath slept. For now, all he could do was stalk his enemy and see what he could learn.

A day, maybe two before he’d be ready for the kill. Until then, his conversation with Fellgair would have to wait.

I
T WAS STILL DARK when Griane left the cave. Darak had been so exhausted from tracking the wolf that he never stirred. When he did, he would be furious, although strictly speaking, she had not lied. When Darak had returned last night, he had told her he didn’t want her leaving the cave for any reason and asked if she understood. And she’d said “Aye, Darak” with just the right degree of resentment to sound convincing. She couldn’t help it if he chose to interpret that as a promise.

After all, she had a perfectly sound reason for disobeying. Darak had his hands full with the wolf. It was up to her to contact the Trickster. Even if Darak could have gone, she was a far more suitable emissary. Fellgair liked her. He had called her “delightful” and “witty” and had praised her appearance. Her hair, anyway. And when she kissed him, he had most definitely kissed her back. The experience had proved mildly disappointing; she had assumed that kissing a god would make her senses reel and her pulse flutter and her body flush with … something. Mostly, she had noticed that his long whiskers tickled. Even Darak’s brief, hard kiss at the gorge had been more stimulating, although it had left her lips a bit bruised.

Belatedly realizing that she was stroking her mouth with her forefinger, she frowned and broke into a trot. When she returned with the Trickster’s promise to open a portal, Darak would forgive her. He would shout and threaten to wallop her, but he would understand why she’d had to go; he was willing to risk anything to get Tinnean back, too.

Although the chinks of sky had lightened to a dull gray, it was too dark among the trees to move fast. She had to guide herself with her hands, letting her feet tell her when she ventured off the narrow trail. Despite her care, she ran headlong into a low-hanging branch. She picked herself up, swiping impatiently at her forehead. Just a scrape, hardly bleeding at all. She’d just have to move more slowly. But Darak would be awake by now and he would guess her intention. She had to find the Trickster before Darak found her. Bent almost double, she hurried on.

Two ghostly forms loomed ahead of her. She straightened so quickly she slipped on the slick leaves and landed on her arse. Shaking her braid back, she looked up and recognized the twin birches where the trail veered.

Disgusted, she rose, wiping her hands on her breeches. Tinnean’s breeches. The feel of the soft leather comforted her. It was easy to remember his face—it was before her every day—but sometimes, she found herself struggling to recollect his mannerisms: the sound of his laugh or the exact way he’d gnaw his fingernails. It was silly, but just touching his breeches brought him closer.

But standing here rubbing them won’t bring him back.

The waterskin bumped against her hip. The stones she had packed inside it comforted her almost as much as Tinnean’s breeches. She wasn’t a complete curd-brain, although Darak would probably call her far worse. If she did meet up with the mysterious wolf, sling and stones would scare it off.

A pheasant burst out of the bushes. The scream escaped before she could stop it.

Curd-brain. Mutton-head. Ninny-mouth.

She bent over, one hand pressed against her side until her breathing slowed. As an afterthought, she removed a stone from the skin. She doubted she would need it. From the little she could glean from Darak’s grunts and the Tree-Father’s cryptic comments, the wolf—or more accurately, the spirit inhabiting the wolf—could have little interest in her. Still, there were other predators in the forest. Better to be prepared than to fumble for a stone at a critical moment.

Darak would approve that kind of foresight. She would have to be sure and tell him when she saw him—assuming he let her get a word in.

She wasn’t afraid of a beating. She’d had enough of them from her Uncle Dugan, that drunken bully. Darak had smacked her bottom a time or two when she was little, if only with the flat of his hand. Still, it was a big hand and it had stung. She had called him a lot of names, but she hadn’t cried. That was something to be proud of. She was less proud of the names she had called him the night he had threatened Cuillon. Darak could be domineering and he was certainly stiff-necked, but he was no wife beater.

A jay’s raucous screech interrupted her thoughts. She glanced up and promptly tripped over a rock.

Clod. Oaf. Wool-gathering mutton-head.

It would serve her right if the wolf got her.

Although she had only thought the words, her hand flew to her mouth. She walked on, more slowly, hoping that an ill-wish only counted if you spoke the words aloud.

Ahead of her, a bramble bush sprawled across the trail. Just beyond it was the little clearing where she and Darak had met the Trickster. Avoiding the brambles, she waded into the deeper underbrush beside the trail, accompanied by a cacophony of snapping twigs and rustling leaves. Certainly, the Trickster would be well-warned of her arrival. Too late, she realized she had forgotten to bring an offering. Perhaps he would accept another kiss. If she were a god, she would prefer that to a dead animal.

She stumbled into the clearing, plucking stray twigs and leaves from her tunic. One hand went to her braid. Smoothing the errant wisps of hair as best she could, she faced the fallen log.

Three times, she called his name. Then, uncertain what sort of ritual was required when asking a god to appear, she faced each direction and called his name again. As an afterthought, she said, “Lord Trickster, I need you. I’ll wait as long as I can, but Darak’s following me, so I don’t have much time and I’d be very grateful if you would get here before he does.”

She had never been much good at waiting. When forced to it, she managed by keeping her mind or her hands busy. All she had for her hands was the stone, which she began tossing in the air. That left her mind too free to wander, so she pretended she was a hunter.

She turned in slow circles, scanning the branches for birds and squirrels, searching the ground for tracks of hare or pheasant. The shushing of the leaves underfoot was so loud that she gave up her circling. Head cocked, she listened to the forest. Except for two tree branches rubbing against each other with a sorrowful moan, it was utterly silent—as if all living creatures had fled.

In that eerie silence, the rustling in the underbrush was a relief. She spun around, a smile in place for the Trickster, and found herself facing the wolf.

The fear was a live thing, clawing at her throat. Her breath came in harsh pants, puffing out in white clouds. Her heart pounded loud enough for the whole forest to hear.

Don’t run. Wolves pursue prey that runs.

Even if she had wanted to flee, she could only stand there, staring into unblinking yellow eyes nearly at a level with hers. Some part of her mind recalled how the Trickster had bespelled Darak with his eyes. She blinked, forcing herself to look away, to note the burrs in the creamy fur around its throat, the swirl of white on its forehead.

Half a dozen paces separated them. The wolf could cover that distance in one leap.

It moved and her breath leaked out in a ragged sob. But instead of attacking, it sat down, bushy tail curling around its forepaws.

Heat burned her cheeks. Was the demon laughing at her? Enjoying her fear? Her hands clenched, fingers closing around the solid reality of flesh-warmed stone.

Without taking her eyes off the wolf, her other hand moved slowly to her waist. The wolf observed her, unmoving. Its stillness chilled her. Her fingers moved more quickly, tangling in the leather straps of the sling.

It’s looped through your belt, Griane. Just like always.

Her fingers remembered and obeyed. Still the wolf remained motionless, apparently content to watch her free the sling and fit a stone into the leather pouch.

The air grew thick, crackling with energy as it did when a thunderstorm approached. The stench of brimstone assailed her nostrils, obscuring the wolf’s scent. An odd prickling ran over her body. Even as she swung the sling over her head, she wondered how midges could survive in the dead of winter.

The wolf rose. She raised her foot to take a step back, but it was like moving underwater, all her actions too slow, all her limbs too heavy. Her arm fell to her side. The stone fell to the ground with a damp thud. The sling slid from her nerveless fingers.

The scream roared out of her, dying in her throat when she felt warmth envelop her. She was rising, floating. The forest blurred into a dizzying smear of gray and brown and white. Far away, she heard Darak’s shout, but she was flying now, faster than any bird. If she had known this giddy exhilaration awaited her, she would never have feared death.