Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (30 page)

“I put everything back.” Humans were very particular about their possessions. Struath would allow no one to touch the curved dagger that lay next to his sleeping place or the little pouch that contained the round crystal that would carry the Oak’s spirit out of Chaos.

“What are you looking for?”

“Suetcake. For Yeorna.”

Struath frowned. “Where is Yeorna? She didn’t go outside?”

“Do not worry. I will bring her back.”

He licked his finger and dipped it into the bottom of the pouch. A few flakes of meal clung to it. He hoped this would be enough. Carefully holding his finger upright, he crawled back through the branches and rose, smiling.

Struath was still trying to puzzle out why Yeorna needed suetcake when he heard the Holly-Lord’s shout. He forced himself to his hands and knees and crawled under the branches, only to collide with a pair of legs. The Holly-Lord tugged him to his feet.

“Something happened to Yeorna,” he said and pointed.

She lay sprawled beside a sunberry bush. Clutching the Holly-Lord’s arm, Struath hurried toward her. Had she fainted? Or fallen? It would be easy enough to lose your footing among the shifting pebbles and slick leaves.

Awkwardly, he knelt and pressed his fingertips to her wrist. Her pulse was rapid but steady. No bleeding from the ears. No visible wound anywhere. Perhaps the wound was inside, like Crel who had fallen from a ledge while driving the sheep down from Eagles Mount.

“Did you see anything?”

“Nay. I came into the cave to find some suetcake for the wren …” The Holly-Lord glanced around. “It must have flown away. Maybe its wing was not broken after all.”

“And then … ?”

“When I came back out, she was lying on the ground.”

Struath’s searching fingers found a rock hidden in the leaves. Carefully, he lifted Yeorna’s head. He could feel no lump, although her scalp felt warm. How long did it take for a lump to rise? He wished Griane were here; she would know.

Could it be some woman’s ailment? Everyone knew women acted strangely at their moon-times. Of course, he had never actually seen a woman then; those days were spent in seclusion. But sometimes, he had heard laughter and whispers coming from the women’s hut.

“Help me get her into the cave.” He grimaced as he pulled her arm around his neck; it was forbidden for a man to touch a woman during her moon-time.

By the time they lowered her onto her wolfskins, he was shaking with exhaustion. How would he ever find the strength to face Morgath again?

“What should we do, Struath?”

He shook his head helplessly. “Keep her warm. And wait for her to wake.” If she woke.

W
ARMTH CARESSED HER, penetrating her flesh to inhabit her bones. Griane resisted the urge to open her eyes; she wanted to savor her first impressions of the Forever Isles. The golden luminescence of the light on her closed eyelids. The crisp texture of grass between her fingers. The splash of water and the soft shushing of leaves. And the breeze. Sweet Maker, the air was rich enough to eat. She breathed in the aromas of sun-warmed earth and grass, mildly astonished that her chest rose and fell exactly as it had when she was alive.

When she finally opened her eyes, a tempest of color burst upon her winter-whitened senses. The blue bolder than any sky at home, the clouds so brilliantly white they made her eyes water. Squinting, she sat up. The legends promised that your family would welcome you to the Forever Isles, but there was only a waterfall, cascading into a pool over a series of ledges so even and straight that they might have been carved into the hillside. Purple spikes of loosestrife hugged the fringe of the pool; red clover dotted the shining expanse of green grass. Purple, red, green—such commonplace words for the shimmering intensity of hues that seemed to breathe along with her.

She got to her feet. Perhaps Maili and her parents were waiting elsewhere. The legends had neglected to mention that possibility and the fact that her body would feel as solid as ever, her head still sore where the branch had scraped it. She had assumed she would be like the man in the bog, some spirit-form of herself. Instead, Tinnean’s breeches clung to her and real sweat trickled down her sides.

She crouched down and scooped water into her cupped palm. Sweet, clean, and cold, she gasped as the single swallow suffused her with warmth. Then she remembered the wolf and shivered. She was almost sure she had heard Darak’s voice at the end. Had he killed the wolf—or gods forbid, been killed?

With a soft moan, she sank onto the grass. Everyone was supposed to be happy in the Forever Isles. Why did she have this hard knot of grief in her chest? Frolicking on the sunlit shores, indeed. If Old Sim were here, she’d give the Memory-Keeper a piece of her mind. But he wasn’t here. No one was. She was utterly alone.

She ground her fists against her burning eyes. The other spirits must be on another part of the island. Or on another island altogether. She had to stop wallowing in self-pity and find them. Together, they could figure out a way to help the others. Just because she was dead didn’t mean she was going to sit around and do nothing.

Shoving a wisp of hair off her damp forehead, she cast a longing look at the pool. It would be a shame to look bedraggled when she met her family. And it was so hot …

She stripped and lowered herself into the pool, gasping a little at the water’s chill. Seizing soapwort from the bank with one hand, she tore her braid free with the other and blissfully scrubbed her hair for the first time in a moon. Splashing in the water reminded her of her first swimming lessons: Darak’s pretense of surprise when she and Tinnean dove beneath the surface to grab his ankles, his wicked grin when he charged toward them, cutting through the shallows like a giant boat, heedless of their shrieks of excitement and the gouts of water they hurled at him.

She had forgotten that. One of many happy memories subsumed by the bitter ones after Darak married Maili. She had always blamed him for her sister’s unhappiness, but it took two to make a marriage work—or fail. Shame filled her when she remembered the words she had flung at him, the stark look on his face. Now, she would never have the chance to take those words back.

She dragged herself out of the pool, ashamed to be indulging in a bath while her kinfolk were in danger. She dried herself quickly with her mantle and pulled on her tunic. She was reaching for Tinnean’s breeches when she heard a splash behind her and whirled around.

Sunlight slanted through the ancient oaks shadowing the pool. A shaft of light sliced across the waterfall’s spray, creating a tiny rainbow. Another danced off the quartz chips in the boulders, making them glitter like the Tree-Father’s spirit catcher. On one of the boulders, tossing pebbles into the pool, lounged the Trickster.

“Awake at last.”

“Awake? But aren’t I—”

“Dead?” He shook his head, smiling. “Welcome to the Summerlands, Griane.”

She sat down abruptly on a sunlit boulder.

“Disappointed?”

“Nay. I just …” She shook her head. To go from life to death to life again took a little getting used to. “It was you, then. Who saved me from the wolf.”

The Trickster rose and bowed, claws over his heart.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“ ‘Thank you, Lord Trickster’ might be appropriate.”

“Forgive me. Thank you, Lord Trickster.”

“You’re welcome, Griane.” He strolled over to her and threw himself down on the grass at her feet. His golden eyes slanted up at her, slitted against the sunlight. As his gaze traveled up her legs, she realized her tunic was bunched up around her waist. Blushing, she rose and tugged it down.

“You’re as lean as a vixen.”

“If you’re going to insult me—”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you. Again.”

“Again, you are welcome. Sit down, dear. Unless you enjoy having me look up your tunic.”

She sat, knees pressed firmly together. The white tip of his brush curled over her bare toes. She considered moving her feet, but decided that would be rude, especially after he had saved her life.

“Does Darak ever offer you compliments?”

“Aye.” She tried to think of one. “He told me I bound his wound well.”

“How dull. I should have chided him when I saw him this afternoon.”

“You saw him? He’s all right? The wolf didn’t hurt him? Did you tell him I was safe? I don’t want him to worry. He has enough on his mind …” Her voice ran down. The Trickster was grinning and no wonder. She was babbling like a fool.

“Let’s see. Yes. Yes. No. Yes.”

“And the others?”

Fellgair shrugged.

“You must take me back.”

“Must I?”

“Please. They’ll be worried. The Grain-Mother’s ankle needs strapping, and the Tree-Father needs warm compresses on his shoulder, and Darak—”

“Has enough on his mind. Why not enjoy the Summerlands? There are wonders here far greater than the water.” He reached up and took her hand. He was still smiling when his claw slashed open her palm.

She cried out, more in shock than pain. She tried to jerk her hand away, but he held it fast. With his free hand, he plucked a slender silvery leaf from one of the plants beside the pool and drew it across her bleeding palm. Cool relief eased the fire. Snatching her hand back, she discovered that the wound had closed, leaving only the tiniest silver scar across her palm.

“Yes, there are many wonders in the Summerlands.” He turned her chin toward another clump of plants with large, glossy leaves. “A decoction of those will soothe the most troubled spirit.”

“Dried or fresh?”

“Fresh is more potent.”

“Steeped how long?”

“For a man spirit-sick unto death, you should steep them overnight. For a girl fretting over unrequited love …” Bushy eyebrows rose in a suggestive leer.

“A good dose of common sense will suffice.”

He reclined on the grass, laughing. “Ah, Griane. You are as refreshing as Summerlands water. I will miss you if you leave.”

“If?”

His features shifted, the delighted smile giving way to one of such feral avidity that she scrambled to her feet. “Am I a prisoner? Do you intend to hold me against my will?”

“Never.” His smile belied his emphatic negation. “But humans are so changeable. Their moods shift as often as the wind.”

“Mine don’t. I want to return to the First Forest.”

“I want. I want. You’re as bad as Darak. Did I mention that I saw him today?”

“Please, Fellgair …”

“We had a lovely chat. About his father. His brother. His wife …”

Darak never spoke about Maili, not to anyone.

“You.”

“Me?”

“Mmm. Darak is quite fond of you, you know.”

She didn’t know. He never spoke about his feelings either. Except that morning he had told her how helpless he felt.

“He asked me to protect you and Cuillon.” The tip of his brush caressed her toes. “But when asked to choose between you, he chose the Holly-Lord.”

She sank down on the boulder and lowered her head, grateful that her wet hair hid her face.

“I said his choice would wound you. He said you would understand.”

“Aye.”

“Which? The choice or the understanding?”

“Both.”

He lifted her chin gently. “Are you always so honest?”

“What’s the point of lying? You’d know the truth anyway.” She swiveled away and began combing out her hair with her fingers.

His hands covered hers, the pads warm and rough. “Let me do that.” He spread his claws. “Much more effective than fingers, don’t you think?”

Numbly, she shifted on the boulder so that he could stand behind her. For a moment, his hands lay atop her head as if in blessing. Then his fingers eased their way through the snarled strands and returned to the crown of her head to start the journey again. For a long while, there was only the splash of water, and the warmth of the sun on her face, and the light touch of his claws gliding through her hair.

“All the colors of fox fur, your hair. Burnished red. Soft streaks of bronze where the sun has bleached it. And here.” His claws brushed the nape of her neck. “Almost brown.” Down and up, his hands moved. Down and up, in a rhythm as ceaseless and hypnotic as his gentle swaying. “When you’re older, you’ll have the white as well.”