Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (34 page)

T
HEY CLUNG TO EACH OTHER like lovers. Stars streaked past in a pale blur. It was like skidding down the icy slopes of Eagles Mount at night—except now the ground lay above them and instead of the shriek of wind, Darak heard only Yeorna’s scream, fading to a hoarse sob and then to silence.

And still they tumbled, the stars spinning around them in sickening circles. Darak closed his eyes, but that only made it worse. He opened them again to discover a milky opalescence filling the sky, now overhead, now beneath. A false promise of dawn, of hope, in a place that possessed neither.

Something loomed out of the light. Above, below, above, below. A wall? A cliff? They hurtled toward it. Yeorna screamed again. Darak could make out rocks, creamy and jagged. Above. Below. Holding fast to Yeorna, he hurled his body to the right, bracing himself for a bone-jarring collision. They landed as softly as falling into a pile of fleece.

They lay panting, still clinging to each other. In the Grain-Mother’s eyes, he saw his surprise, in her smile, the same giddiness at their unexpected deliverance.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded. He rose and extended a hand to help her to her feet.

“What happened?”

She lowered her head. “Cuillon went outside. To watch for you. Struath followed. They were gone so long, I grew frightened. So I went after them.” She darted a glance at him, biting her lip. “They were by the sunberry bush. Struath was … he was …”

“For mercy’s sake, Yeorna. Just tell me!”

“Cuillon was lying facedown over a boulder. I thought perhaps he was sick, but then I saw Struath reach down … and pull his robe up.” Her voice broke. “I think I must have screamed then. Struath looked up … oh, gods, Darak, his face. It was terrible. And then he attacked me.”

Darak kept shaking his head, but Fellgair’s words rang in his head:
“They were lovers. Morgath offered him pleasure such as he had never experienced before or since.”

“Struath couldn’t … he would never hurt Cuillon.”

“There were things that happened … while you were hunting. I just thought … gods forgive me, I thought Struath was being … affectionate.”

Struath would never force himself on the Holly-Lord. Never. Yeorna was wrong.

“I had to protect myself.”

The blue light had surrounded both of them. Yeorna could erect wards, but if she possessed that destroying power, surely Struath would have enlisted her help to combat the wolf.

“You’d have done the same. Merciful gods, Darak, he’s your brother.”

He went very still, then abruptly turned away as if overcome with emotion. The wren. Morgath had taken the wren. And when poor Yeorna had gone to help it, he had taken her.

The sudden heaviness in the air alerted him. He whirled around and the dagger sliced open his arm. As Morgath raised his hand for another blow, he jabbed his fist into his belly. Morgath fell to his knees, doubled over.

Energy crawled over Darak’s skin like a thousand ants. The ants became bees, the irritating prickles a net of stingers that settled over him. In the wake of the pain, numbness crept down his arms.

He seized Morgath by the hair and yanked his head back. Against his will, his gaze was drawn away from the slender throat, past the trembling mouth and the flushed cheeks to the twin tears trembling on the pale lashes and finally, to those pleading blue eyes.

Yeorna was dead. It was Morgath staring out of those eyes now.

The dagger shuddered in his hand like a frightened animal—or a tiny, terrified wren.

Morgath threw himself back, toppling them both. The dagger slipped from Darak’s numb fingers. Morgath twisted out of his grasp and scuttled away on hands and knees. Darak could only crouch there, hands trailing limply on the ground.

“Things change in Chaos, Hunter. Lucky for you. Otherwise, you’d be dead.” Morgath smiled. “Do you have any final words before I—?”

Darak exploded out of his crouch. He heard a satisfying grunt as his head rammed into the soft belly, another when Morgath collided with the cliff. The numbness ebbed and strength returned to his hands. He pinned Morgath’s wrist against the wall. His free hand gripped the slender throat.

Don’t think of that. Yeorna is gone.

The air roiled, the same energy he had felt at the bog. Behind Morgath, the cliff shimmered, the white stone turning clear as quartz. Darak flung himself backward, regaining his balance in time to see Morgath lunge through the stone. He thought he heard laughter, but it faded as the cliff dissolved into a waterfall that tumbled out of the sky.

The insistent whine died. Morgath was gone. He was alone on a star-studded plain.

The Tree-Father lay huddled against a boulder, his arm and legs twisted at strange angles. Cuillon crouched beside him, searching for his heart tattoo.

“He’s gone, Holly-Lord.”

Ignoring the Trickster, Cuillon stroked Struath’s hand. He had disobeyed Darak and left the cave. Now Struath was dead. Darak had fallen into Chaos. Yeorna …

He gazed at the wren and the pressure in his chest grew heavier. Yeorna was gone, too. Morgath had taken her body. Now her spirit would never reach the Floating Islands. It would be trapped in Chaos with the Oak and Tinnean.

“Why did you open the portal?” he asked.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Not like that.”

“So particular. I do hope Griane is more grateful.” The Trickster’s breath warmed his ear. “She is in the Summerlands, Holly-Lord. I could take you to her.”

Joy filled him, as fierce and pure as when he had first seen his Mountain. Then he stared down at Struath’s hand. Thin blue twigs branched under the loose skin to curve around the brown mark of the acorn. “I cannot leave Struath.”

“Humans do. They leave their dead to the elements. Then bury the bones in a cairn.”

“Cairn?”

“A pile of stones.”

Animals left their dead in the forest. Their bodies fed the carrion eaters. Their bones fed the earth. It was right. But Struath hated the cold. How could he leave him here, exposed to snow and rain, to sharp beaks and fangs?

“I will bury Struath.”

“As you wish.”

“You will help me.”

He expected the Trickster to argue, but he simply shrugged. Together, they carved out a shallow trench in the earth and laid Struath in it. Cuillon straightened the twisted legs, folded his hands across his chest, and closed the robin’s-egg eye. That way, Struath almost looked like he was sleeping.

The first raindrop fell while they were building the thing called cairn. The shower quickly became a downpour, as if the Maker wept for Struath. He was lowering a stone onto Struath’s neck when he noticed the leather thong. He dug through the rocks until he uncovered the small green pouch. Tugging open the strings at the top, he removed the spirit catcher. The first time he had seen the crystal, it had sparkled as if it held the sun. Now it lay in his palm, as empty as Struath’s body.

“Take it if you like, but let’s be done with this.” The Trickster looked disgruntled. Rain dripped off his long nose. He shook himself, sending droplets flying.

“The sun is shining in the Summerlands and Griane awaits us.”

“I cannot go to the Summerlands.”

The Trickster sighed. “Of course you can. Just give me your hand.”

“I have to go to Chaos.”

The Trickster’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot go to Chaos.”

“Darak needs the spirit catcher.”

“Darak does not know how to use the spirit catcher.”

“We will find a way.”

“I will not permit it.”

Cuillon rose. So did the Trickster. Cuillon squinted up at him, blinking back raindrops. “I may not be as old as you, but I am still a god.”

“In the very fragile body of a human.”

“Do you threaten me, Trickster?”

“Not yet.”

“You must open a portal.”

“I cannot.”

“You opened one before.”

“I cannot open a portal to Chaos for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I gave Darak my word that I would keep you safe.”

Cuillon swiped the rain out of his eyes. The Trickster glared at him. “Yes, you heard me. I told Darak I would protect you.”

“I will tell him that you lied.”

The Trickster drew back. “I never lie. I may hold back certain details, but I never lie.”

“We will finish Struath’s cairn. Then you will open the portal.”

“Are you deaf, Holly-Lord? Or has the human body you now inhabit eroded your wisdom?” The Trickster stalked back and forth, tail lashing. “Do you want the Oak and the Holly to be trapped in Chaos?”

“When Darak and I have our brothers’ spirits, you can open a portal so that we can escape.”

“Can I?”

“Aye. Then you will not have broken your promise.”

“But allowing you to go to Chaos in the first place is breaking the promise!” The Trickster’s voice rose to a shout. He clamped his mouth shut. The fur on his neck subsided. “You have made me lose my temper.” He sounded more aggrieved than angry.

“I am sorry. But I must go to Chaos. If you will not take me, I will walk through the forest until a portal opens.”

“You could wander for years and never stumble upon a portal.”

“Then the boy’s body will die. And my spirit will be lost.”

Cuillon crouched beside the cairn. Rain streaked Struath’s grizzled cheeks like tears. Raising the Tree-Father’s head, he slid the pouch free and tucked the spirit catcher inside.

“I thank you for recognizing me, Struath. And for helping me. And for your stories. Even the very long ones. I hope that you are in the Floating Islands where there are many trees. But if you are not, then I will meet you in Chaos.”

The Trickster muttered something under his breath. Cuillon ignored him and carefully placed the last stones atop the cairn. Sliding the spirit catcher’s pouch over his head, he rose.

The rain stopped.

“It is a sign,” Cuillon said.

“A sign that the storm is past.”

A shaft of sunlight burst through the clouds and hit Cuillon full in the face. He smiled. An angry swish of the Trickster’s tail caught him across the knees.

“I liked you better when you were a tree.”

“Once we return with the Oak, I will go back to my tree. Then you can piss on me if you like.”

The Trickster stared at him, then burst into yips of laughter. Cuillon was not sure why. Humans considered it a deadly insult to piss on an enemy. He thought the offer would be a fair exchange for the portal.

“I take it back,” the Trickster said, wiping his eyes. “You are much more amusing as a man.”

“Then you will open a portal.”

The Trickster sighed and raised his hand.

“Wait!”

Cuillon snatched up Darak’s bow and collected the arrows that had fallen from his quiver. He crawled into the cave and laid them next to Darak’s sleeping place. He sorted through the contents of Griane’s magic bag, setting aside an empty leather pouch to hold water and a roll of doeskin bandages; he would need those if the thorns returned. He thrust them back into her bag, adding three smoked fish and a few strips of venison. Finally, he drew Struath’s curved dagger from its sheath. Returning to the cairn, he thrust it through the stones.

Griane would not wait in the Summerlands. Like the rowan-woman, she would grow impatient. He hoped she would understand this sign when she found it.

“Lovely,” remarked the Trickster. “Are you finished?”

“Not yet.”

He filled the pouch at the river and returned to the cairn, wondering if he had forgotten anything. Darak was always so careful when preparing for a hunt. Then he remembered.

“Maker, guide me to the Oak. Forest-Lord, watch over Darak.”

He closed his eyes, allowing the Holly-energy to seep through him, controlling it so that only a single thorn pierced his palm. Pressing his hand to the earth, he offered his blood—Tinnean’s blood. He hoped Darak would not be angry. He cut away the thorn and licked his palm clean. Looking up, he found the Trickster watching him.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Holly-Lord?”

“Nay. But I think I must.”

The Trickster dragged his clawed forefinger through the air—up from the earth, across the sky, and down to the ground again, creating a shape like the entrance to Darak’s hut. He grasped one corner of the invisible doorway and peeled it back, revealing a swirl of stars.

The Trickster bowed; when he straightened, his face was solemn. “May you find what you are seeking, Holly-Lord.”

“Thank you, Trickster.”

Cuillon closed his eyes and stepped into the void.