Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (29 page)

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what I said. The role he plays in this game—if any—depends upon you.”

“You call this a game?”

The Trickster waggled a reproving finger. “My turn. How did you feel when Struath revealed the wolf’s true identity?”

He looked down to hide his shock, but Fellgair just chuckled. “So the secretive shaman neglected to mention that Morgath had returned. Interesting.”

Cold sweat broke out on his body, followed by a gut-churning blaze of fury. All the signs had been there—Struath’s terror, his evident knowledge of their enemy, his doubts about his ability to defeat him. Stupid not to have figured it out—but unforgivable for Struath to have hidden this knowledge from them.

“I suppose he also neglected to mention that he was the one who drew Morgath to the grove.”

In spite of his rage, he shook his head. Whatever reason Struath had for keeping the wolf’s identity a secret, he refused to believe that he had deliberately opened the way for Morgath.

“Truth for truth. Your rules.”

“Struath hates Morgath.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“Why would he draw him to the grove?” A wasted question, but he had to know.

“Because they were lovers.”

Darak could only shake his head again.

“Morgath offered his little apprentice pleasure such as he had never experienced before—or since. Pleasure and pain. Morgath enjoys both in equal measure. You’re very much like him in that respect.”

“I am nothing like Morgath.”

“I wonder if your wife would agree.”

Darak rose. “Leave my wife out of this.”

“Are you threatening me?” The idea seemed to amuse the Trickster.

He choked down his anger and shook his head. “My turn. Is Griane safe?”

“For now.”

Another wasted question. He should have asked where she was, how to find her. Still, relief flooded him, making his knees shake. To hide it, he squatted down again.

“My turn.”

Darak braced himself, but the question was surprisingly simple.

“Why are you willing to go to Chaos to find Tinnean?”

“He’s my brother.”

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

“It’s the truth. I’m his older brother. I’m supposed to look out for him. Take care of him.” Darak heard the thickening in his voice and clamped his lips together. Always, around the Trickster, he revealed too much. “My turn. Will you open a portal for me?”

“No.”

Then it was hopeless. They could spend years searching for a portal. Tinnean would be lost forever. The world would die. He wasn’t even aware of getting to his feet until Fellgair asked, “Giving up so soon?”

The Trickster’s mocking smile stiffened his resolve. “Nay. And it’s my turn. How will I find Chaos?”

“You’ll find it very chaotic.”

“Damn it, Fellgair …”

“Can I help it if you ask bad questions?”

“Nay.” Darak smiled through gritted teeth. “And it’s my turn again.” Fellgair acknowledged that small victory with a mocking bow. “How do I find Tinnean and bring him back?”

Fellgair waggled a finger at him. “Rephrase. Two questions in the guise of one.”

Darak took several deep breaths. He had to think clearly. Master his impatience. Ask the right questions.

“How do I free Tinnean?”

“Much better. You will free your brother by acknowledging that your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness.”

“And what is—?”

“My turn. What are you willing to sacrifice to free him?”

Anything, Darak thought. But he forced himself to consider. Would he give up his life for Tinnean? In a moment. Would he give up the Forever Isles, his spirit condemned never to be reborn? Aye. To die and sleep forever—that was not such an awful fate.

“Let me know if you’ll be much longer. I’ll try to squeeze in a little nap.”

Could he sacrifice someone else’s life to free his brother and the Oak? Could he live with that choice?

“I would sacrifice anything that was mine to offer.”

Fellgair rolled his eyes. “A tad cryptic.”

“No more so than that nonsense about acknowledging my greatest weakness.”

“Don’t you want to know what that is?”

“Nay.”

“You asked before.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Afraid?”

“It’s not your turn.”

“Sit down, Darak.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s my job. Did you ever love your wife?”

“I’ve had enough of this game.”

“The game ends when I say so.”

Although Fellgair still wore the same small smile, Darak felt sweat break out on his forehead. The Trickster was clearly waiting for him to sit. Stubbornly, he remained standing.

“What does it matter if I loved my wife or hated my father? I know—that’s another question out of turn. But this is pointless.” He fought for control, keeping his voice as low as the Trickster’s. “This is not a game. The world is dying. How can you stand by and do nothing?”

“Giving you fire was nothing?”

“You turned around and helped Morgath.”

“Of course I did. I am the Trickster. In me, chaos and order combine. I cannot support one without undermining the other.”

“But order is already undermined. The Oak is lost. Restoring its spirit would … it would even things up.”

“Order was undermined by a man. It is up to men to restore it.”

Darak’s shoulders sagged. “So you will not help us?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But—”

“Darak.” The Trickster regarded him as he might a very small, very stupid child. “Men can change their natures. Gods cannot.”

“Not even to save the world?”

“It’s only one world. We have many. But we do care, in our selfish, godlike way.”

Darak nodded, wishing he could believe that. “Lord Trickster …”

“So polite. You must want something.”

“If I do not return from Chaos—”

“Assuming you reach it in the first place.”

“I’ll reach it. I just … would you keep Griane safe? And the Holly-Lord?”

After all his agonizing about sacrificing his folk, here he was condemning Struath and Yeorna. Struath had betrayed them through his silence, but Yeorna… .

Fellgair’s face became grave. “There will be no safe place if your world dies.”

“There are many worlds, you said.”

“And would they thank me for taking them to one, leaving all they have ever known and loved to die?”

Darak sighed. “I don’t know. But they would have each other, at least. And if I knew they were safe, it would … ease me, is all.” He shrugged. “I’ve no right to ask, but … there it is.”

Fellgair regarded him with an unblinking stare. Darak forced himself to return it. “I could—perhaps—protect one. Which will it be?”

“Nay.”

“Griane or the Holly-Lord.”

“Do not ask this of me.”

“Choose.”

“I cannot choose.”

“Choose one or I’ll protect neither.”

“Cuillon!” His voice fell to a whisper. “Protect Cuillon.”

The Trickster stroked his long, black whiskers. “Griane will be wounded.”

Of course, the Trickster would tell her.

“She will understand.”

Wherever Griane was, she was safe. She was strong and resourceful. Cuillon couldn’t even bring himself to kill a fish.

“And he wears Tinnean’s body.”

Darak closed his eyes. Griane might understand, but would she ever forgive him?

“And what would I receive if I promised you this boon?”

He was so tired. Tired of games, tired of trying to stay one step ahead of Morgath and the Trickster and time. Slowly, he got down on his knees. “I will beg. If that’s what you want.”

He raised his hands. Big, blunt, capable hands, strong enough to heave a deer onto his shoulders or bruise a woman’s flesh. He winced. He had never understood why Maili had hated his touch. They had been two strangers, shut away in their own thoughts, cut off from each other. Perhaps a child would have changed that. More likely, they would simply have gone on, day after day, sharing a bed, sharing the chores, patching the chinks in the walls and the holes in their lives.

The Trickster had asked if he loved Maili. On his knees, he offered the only answer he could.

“I never loved my wife. Not as I should have. I never knew what she wanted and I never asked. Maybe I was afraid of what she’d say. I don’t know, Fellgair. I used to be so sure about my life. About everything. Now all I’ve got are questions.”

The red-furred hands were gentle as they clasped his. “My dear boy. That is the beginning of wisdom.”

“I’d rather have the answers.”

Fellgair smiled. “I do like you, Darak. You keep surprising me.” Effortlessly, the Trickster pulled him to his feet. “You have offered three gifts in exchange for the Holly-Lord.”

Had he? He couldn’t remember. Trust Fellgair to keep track. “He is worth it.”

“True. But some men would have negotiated the price. You offered your gifts freely.”

His father had once told him that the greatest sacrifices were made willingly and thus, were most valued by the gods.

“In return for surprising me—something so few mortals are able to do—I offer this: to survive Chaos, you must let go of your conception of reality. For going down on your knees, I offer this: to defeat Morgath, you will have to sacrifice your pride and humble yourself again. And for the story about your wife …” Fellgair tapped his chin with his claw. “For that, I will protect the Holly-Lord.” He held out his hand. “Now we are even.”

His claws were cool and very sharp. Still gripping Fellgair’s hand, Darak asked, “What do you want from me? Not for Cuillon, just …”

“In general?”

Darak nodded.

“I want to see you weep, Darak. I want to see you break.”

Fellgair’s claws dug into his palm, ever so lightly, but his smile was warm, even a little sad. Somehow, that frightened him more than any of the Trickster’s words. He swallowed, the fear as bitter as bile.

“I warrant you’ll get your wish ere this is over.”

The Trickster nodded, his smile gone. “I warrant I will.”

W
HEN GRIANE DISAPPEARED, something inside Cuillon ripped apart, as if a bear had torn open his trunk and shredded his heartwood. Yeorna explained that this was grief. Her way of dealing with grief was to mend her robe. Struath’s was to stare into the fire.

He wished Darak would return. Darak would know how to make the grief more bearable. Each time he heard a rustling at the cave’s entrance, he looked up. Each time he realized it was only the wind rattling the branches, the hope drained away like water into the earth. His ages-old patience seemed to have vanished with Griane. Now, his spirit felt as frayed as Yeorna’s robe.

Finally, he seized a waterskin and crawled outside. He gulped great mouthfuls of air, so clean and sweet after the smokiness of the cave. The gusting wind tore at his mantle and he shivered. Dark clouds crouched over the treetops. Darak would have to hurry or he would be caught in the storm. The branches shielding the cave rattled again. This time, it was Yeorna, her forehead creased in a rare frown.

“Darak said we must stay inside, Holly-Lord.”

He held up the waterskin. “I was going to the river.”

“We have water enough to last till the morrow.”

A great weight seemed to settle on his shoulders. “I just wanted to do something. To help.”

Yeorna patted his cheek, just as Griane used to do. The weight settled into his chest.

“I know it is hard to wait, Holly-Lord. But we must. The wolf might be nearby.”

“Aye, Yeorna.”

She took his hand to lead him back inside, then froze. He glanced around, fearful that the wolf had indeed appeared, but Yeorna’s joyful expression belied that.

“Look.” She pointed at the sunberry bush that stood at the edge of the embankment. “A wren. It’s a good omen, Holly-Lord. The wren is sacred to the Holly.”

He remembered the story. Remembered, too, that the wren was the bird whose spirit Struath had cast out. Seeing Yeorna’s eager excitement, he kept silent, unwilling to steal her happiness the way he had stolen Griane’s. The wren teetered on its perch, one wing fluttering wildly.

“Oh, poor thing. Its wing is broken.”

“Can you fix it, Yeorna?” Griane could. Griane could heal anything.

Yeorna shook her head, sighing. Then her expression brightened. “But we could feed it. If we have any suetcake left.”

“Let me look, Yeorna.”

Her smile made him feel useful again. He watched her pick her way along the embankment. The air felt heavy as it did before a thunderstorm. Yeorna must have noticed, too; she hesitated a few paces from the wren, staring skyward.

He crawled into the cave, trying to remember the last time he had experienced a thunderstorm in winter. He peered into Darak’s hunting sack and finally dumped the contents on the ground, sorting through fishhooks and lures, arrowheads and coiled rope, a pouch filled with fragments of straw and twigs, two fire bundles, and a bag with dusty flakes of meal.

He was repacking the hunting sack when Struath spoke his name. He looked up to find the Tree-Father propped up on one elbow, watching him.