Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (31 page)

Her head fell back to rest against his chest. His hands drifted down her neck, smoothing her hair over her shoulders. She turned her cheek into his fur and sighed as his hand cupped the back of her head.

“Darak asked me to open a portal.”

Her head jerked up, the mood broken. “What did you say?”

“I said I would not open a portal. For him.”

In those slitted eyes, she found the certain knowledge that he would open one for her. But at what cost?

“Lord Trickster, if I asked you to open a portal … ?”

“Are you asking?”

“I … before I ask, I want … I need to know what payment you would ask in return.”

“Payment?”

“Aye. What do you want?”

“What do I want?” He knelt before her, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her knees. “Well. That’s an altogether different question.”

Bumps of cold rippled up her arms, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud and left her shivering in the shadows. Her nipples hardened and she resisted the urge to cross her arms across her breasts. She closed her eyes. Not such a high price to pay, really. What was a maidenhead compared to the world?

“All right.”

“Foxes are monogamous, Griane.”

Her eyes flew open.

“Often, a pair remains together for life. You didn’t know that?”

She shook her head.

“Do you wish to rescind your offer?”

“I … I thought …”

“Do you wish to rescind your offer?”

“I would never leave this place? Or see my folk again?”

The Trickster rose. “You are unwilling.”

“Wait. Please.”

“There is nothing more to be said.”

“Give me a moment. I deserve that much. You’re asking me to give up everything.”

“I asked no such thing, Griane. You made the offer.”

“I didn’t think …”

“No. You didn’t.”

Darak had said the same thing to her, countless times. Now her impulsiveness threatened them all.

“Is there nothing else that you would accept?”

“Do you wish to rescind your offer?”

“Stop saying that. Can’t you just answer me? I thought you … liked me. Or you wouldn’t have asked … would not have led me to believe—”

“Do not blame me for your assumptions, Griane.”

“Do you want me or not?”

“Yes.”

The golden eyes bore into her. A liquid glow rose up in her belly, spreading up to her taut nipples and down into her loins. The Trickster’s whiskers twitched as if he could smell her heat. When he offered her a lazy smile, she knew with utter certainty and shame that he did. Of course he could make her desire him; he simply hadn’t bothered when he had returned her kiss.

Why was she hesitating? If she would miss sliding down a snowy hillside or watching the Northern Dancers illuminate the winter sky, here she would never know cold. If she must forgo the tribal feasts that celebrated the turning of the year, here she would never know hunger. And if the joys of marriage and children were denied her, she would be spared the pain of burying the babes she birthed and watching love yield to the everyday demands of cooking and cleaning, planting and harvesting, mending torn clothes and broken bones. She would live out her life in this glorious cocoon with the Trickster, always amusing, always exciting, always a little dangerous.

She would never have the chance to apologize to Darak for her hot and hasty words. She would never be able to explain to her folk what had happened. They would believe she had abandoned them. But because of her, they would find Tinnean and the Oak. That would have to suffice.

Without a word, she lay down in the warm grass. He knelt at her feet, watching her. She realized he was waiting for her to open her legs to him. The sacrifice had to be made willingly.

Her breath caught on a sob and she clamped her lips together. He saw, of course. He saw everything. She parted her legs. His claws dug very lightly into her ankles as he slowly pushed her knees up. He was careful not to scratch her. She should be grateful for that.

His fur brushed her legs as he moved between them. His palms caressed the inside of her thighs, opening the way wider. Would a mortal lover touch her with such gentleness?

“Are you afraid?”

Why lie when he must notice the pulse beating in her neck and hear the quick rasp of her breath? “Aye.”

Even if she returned to the world someday, even if she offered herself to a man she loved, she would always remember this moment, with the grass tickling her toes, and the sun hot on her face, and the Trickster’s hands, hotter than the sun upon her flesh. She closed her eyes, willing him to do this quickly before she lost her nerve and begged him to let her go.

She felt a tear ooze down her cheek and then the rough slide of his tongue. He sighed. “Is anything so delicious as the taste of human tears?”

And then there was only warm air against her body. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

She ran, begging him to return, knowing he had sensed that fatal hesitation, promising that she was willing. She ran until her voice grew hoarse from screaming his name. She ran until her legs gave out and she slid to her knees beneath a crab apple. Her head drooped against the tree, the knotty trunk hard against her temple. And then she wept.

Something soft brushed against her wet cheek. Something white fell upon her knee. She stared at it with a dull sense of wonder, for how could there be snow in the Summerlands? Another fell and then another before she realized the snowflakes were blossoms.

She sat up. They fell faster, as if a strong wind brought them down, although only the lightest breeze blew. Still they fell, beautiful and somehow sad. Sadder still were the two dark eyes that blinked open in the crab apple’s trunk.

A blossom slid past one eye, a white-petaled tear that caught on the groove of the mouth. With one shaking forefinger, she brushed it aside and watched it drift downward. Her finger hung in the air. She touched the trunk very lightly and the tree wept white blossoms.

And then she saw the others—apple, quickthorn, rowan. An entire hillside of flowering trees. A blizzard of white, cloaking the ground like new-fallen snow.

Griane closed her eyes. Grief should not be so beautiful.

B
ATTERED BY GRIANE’S disappearance and the Trickster’s revelations, Darak had little heart for another confrontation with Struath. He refused to believe that the Tree-Father had lured Morgath to the grove, that his betrayal could run that deep. But he had concealed his knowledge of Morgath’s presence. No matter what explanation he might offer, Darak doubted he could trust him again.

The storm broke as he reached the cave. He was still getting to his feet when Cuillon tugged at his sleeve.

“Darak. It is Yeorna.”

The Grain-Mother sat with her back against the wall of the cave, her head lowered over the turtle shell Struath held to her lips. She looked up as he approached and her eyes widened. With an inarticulate cry, she shrank back.

“Do not be frightened,” Cuillon said as he crouched beside her. “It is only Darak.”

She nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on him.

Before he could ask what could possibly have reduced her to this state, Struath said, “We found her outside—”

“Outside?”

“It was my fault,” Cuillon said, his face miserable. “She followed me. And then we saw the wren with the broken wing. I came back to the cave for suetcake …” His voice trailed off.

“We think she must have fallen,” Struath continued. “She was only unconscious for a short while, but ever since she awoke, she has been … dazed.”

Darak stared at Yeorna, sickened.

“People slip, Darak.”
Griane’s words.
“You cannot control it.”

But he could have—simply by including Yeorna in his bargain with the Trickster.

He found himself thinking of poor Pol who had been kicked in the head by the ram; ever since that day, the boy had lain in his hut, staring vacantly into space. Had he doomed Yeorna to a similar fate through his negligence?

“Darak?”

He found his horror reflected on Cuillon’s face. Damning himself for allowing his emotions to show, he groped for the words that might ease him. In the end, he used Griane’s.

“It was an accident, lad. At least she’s awake now. That’s a good sign. Sometimes, it takes days …” He frowned, then turned to Struath and spoke with renewed energy. “Remember that winter—years ago—when Onnig dared Jurl to slide headfirst down Eagles Mount? Jurl slammed into a boulder and was out for a full day—”

“And dazed for another two,” Struath interrupted.

“But after that …”

“He was as miserable as ever.”

Struath offered him a weary smile and Darak found himself smiling back. Then he remembered the shaman’s betrayal and his smile died.

“So Yeorna will be well again?” Cuillon asked.

“I hope so, Cuillon.”

“You are not telling a small lie?”

Darak shot him an impatient glance. “I don’t have all the answers. If I did, Tinnean would be safe at home and you’d be—” Seeing Cuillon’s stricken expression, he broke off. His shame deepened when he remembered how he’d snapped at Yeorna that morning. No wonder his presence made her flinch.

“I’m sorry, lad. I’m just … I’m tired, is all.”

“You were gone a long time. We were worried.”

“You went back to the clearing, didn’t you?” Struath asked.

“Aye.”

“And tracked the wolf.”

“I met Fellgair.”

“Does he know where Griane is?” Cuillon asked. “Did he tell you what happened? Did he—”

“He told me she was safe.”

Struath sighed heavily. “Thank the gods.”

“He also told me about Morgath.”

Struath’s hand froze in the act of making the circle of thankfulness over his heart. His expression removed Darak’s last doubts as to the truth of the Trickster’s words.

“Who is Morgath?” Cuillon asked.

“Tell him, Struath.” He kept his voice soft so he would not frighten Yeorna. Struath’s mouth worked, but no words would come. “Nay? Then I will. Morgath attacked the One Tree. He cast my brother’s spirit out. And because he had no form of his own, he stole the body of a wolf and followed us from the grove so he could destroy us all.” The shaman’s wince sent a savage thrill of pleasure through him. “And Struath knew. All along.”

Struath shook his head.

“You knew. And you hid the truth from us.”

Cuillon’s fingers dug into his arm. He fought the urge to fling off that restraining hand, to seize Struath by his scrawny throat and roar the accusations in his face. Instead, the single word came out as a strangled croak.

“Why?”

Struath’s face crumpled. “I failed to See.” His head came up, a trace of the old power returning to his face. “But I did not realize it was …” Trembling fingers made the sign of protection. “I did not know. Until I had the vision.” Again, the shaman’s head drooped. “I did withhold the knowledge. I endangered everyone. You, most of all, Darak, for I allowed you to go into the forest alone. And Griane …” His breath caught. “I shall never forgive myself for Griane.”

Struath drew the bronze dagger from its sheath with a trembling hand. “I have failed you all—as your Tree-Father and as a man. I do not ask for your forgiveness. I do not deserve it. But I swear that I shall not fail you again.”

Yeorna’s breath hissed in as Struath pushed back the sleeve of his robe. Cuillon winced when he saw the old scars and the bandage stained with fresh blood. Even Darak made an involuntary gesture to stay Struath’s hand, but the Tree-Father shook his head.

“This time, I make the cut unaided.”

“Nay.” The unexpected tone of command in Cuillon’s voice took them both by surprise. “You will not hurt yourself again.”

“I must make a blood sacrifice.”

“There has been enough blood.”

“Then … what can I offer?”

Cuillon frowned. Then his face brightened. “We shall spit. We will all swear not to fail each other and we will all spit. Aye, Darak?”

He gave the Holly-Lord stare for stare. In the end, he was the one who looked away, nodding curtly.

They spat into their palms. Darak clasped Cuillon’s left hand and reluctantly shifted his gaze to Struath. The shaman was the first to extend a hand. It shook so badly that Darak wondered if it was a trick of the flickering firelight. When he gripped the cold fingers, he knew better. He tightened his grip, willing strength into that trembling hand; only if the Tree-Father remained strong could he rescue Tinnean and the Oak. When Struath gave him a peremptory nod, he knew his unspoken message was understood.

“Now spit, Yeorna. Like this.” Cuillon spat into his right palm again. Yeorna watched, her face intent. Her gaze shifted to her hands, lying limp in her lap. Frowning in concentration, she raised her left hand, darting occasional glances at Cuillon who rewarded each movement with an eager nod. Darak watched her, relief mixed with dismay. Perhaps Yeorna would recover—but how long would that take? Meanwhile, Griane was lost, Morgath roamed the forest, and Tinnean suffered in Chaos.

Cuillon beamed as Yeorna lowered her head over her upraised hand and allowed a trickle of spittle to drip into it. “Now hold your hand out to me. Can you do that?”