Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (36 page)

G
RIANE SAT BESIDE THE POOL, staring out across the rolling grasslands. For just a moment, when she had first awakened, she had reveled in the early morning sunlight and the soft splash of the water. Then she remembered what had happened the previous day: her failure to fulfill her bargain with the Trickster, her desperate search for him, the gentle trees that had wept with her, and the long walk back to the pool. She had sat up half the night, staring up at the star-studded sky and praying that Fellgair would relent. Now, with the morning half gone, she knew he would not. If she wanted to leave the Summerlands, she would have to find the way herself.

She scrambled up the steep hillside. The mist from the waterfall made the rocky path treacherous, but she reached the top with only minor scrapes. Below her in every direction, the grass undulated in rippling waves. Vivid patches of yellow—broom, perhaps, or furze—gilded the hills to the south. Farther inland, she made out the dark outlines of a forest. One tree towered over the rest, trunk thrusting skyward, wide-spreading branches shadowing the smaller trees.

Her breath caught. It had to be the tree that sheltered the spirit of the Oak after the Midsummer battle. Perhaps if she could reach it and explain their quest, it might help her find a way back to her folk.

She earned more scrapes and bruises on her precipitate descent, but a few swipes from the silvery wound healer dealt with them, just as a sip of water from the pool eased the ache in her belly. She discarded the rocks from her waterskin and filled it before bundling Tinnean’s breeches and shoes in her mantle. Renewed in body and spirit, she headed inland.

Despite the urgency of her mission, she still found time to admire the beauty of the Summerlands and the aura of peace that was as tangible as the sunlight on her shoulders and the air that she breathed. The song of larks and pipits accompanied her. Once, she surprised a plump partridge from the grasses; it rose on whirring wings, its annoyed chuck-chuck making her smile. Rabbits and small game abounded and she thought she caught the shadow of a deer retreating into a thicket. But, of course, there were no people. She might have been the rowan-woman on that first day after she had crossed the veil from the First Forest. At least, she thought with a touch of sadness, the rowan-woman had the alder-man to share the new world with her.

At midday, she rested at the top of a low rise. The land ahead was more thickly wooded; a small copse lay directly in her path. She was reluctant to leave the open grasslands, for here she could easily spot an enemy, but the way to the giant oak lay through the woodlands, so that was the way she must go.

She started down the rise, then hesitated, frowning at the rumble of distant thunder. A cloud shadowed the copse, but the rest of the sky was brilliantly blue. Belatedly, she realized the rumble came from the earth, but unlike the rockslides that sometimes tumbled down the slopes of Eagles Mount, the sound was as rhythmic as a drumbeat. Shading her eyes, her gaze swept the landscape, passing over the copse, then snapping back again.

She blinked once, wondering if the passing cloud created the illusion or if it was her light-headedness from lack of food. She blinked again, her mind grappling with the impossibility of what she witnessed. The trees were moving. Not just leaves fluttering in the breeze. The trees were walking.

The legends always portrayed the Summerlands as a paradise, second only to the Forever Isles in their beauty. The Memory-Keeper’s tales were rich with descriptions of hot sun and long days and shadowy forests, but woefully lacking such details as walking trees. Trees that, even now, were walking up the rise toward her.

Perhaps they would welcome her—or perhaps they would view her as a dangerous intruder.

Griane turned and fled. She stumbled, sliding down the slope, but regained her footing at the bottom. Glancing over her shoulder, she discovered the trees had already crested the rise. She raced on, the continuous rumbling in the ground evidence that the trees had abandoned their rhythmic stride for a more determined pursuit. Lancing pain shot through her with each breath. She pressed her hand to her side, slowing long enough to dare another glance behind her. Her breath leaked out on a shaking sob. Ten more strides and they would be on her.

Damn Fellgair. He could have easily taken her to another part of the First Forest. Why bring her here if her presence was an abomination? And why should the trees hunt her down when all she was trying to do was leave this place?

Whirling around, she thrust out a hand and shouted, “Stop. Right now.”

Incredibly, they did, planting themselves so quickly that they might have been rooted once more. Now that they were closer, she realized that they weren’t simply walking trees, but some strange amalgam of tree and human. Among the mass of watchers were some that seemed more treelike than others, their skin dark and rough, their faces indistinct, as if they had dressed too quickly in the shape of men. Whether that meant they were older or younger, she couldn’t guess.

They all had hands and feet, though the fingers were green and the toes looked like gnarled roots. Despite their similarities, she quickly discerned their different origins: the mottled silver of the birch’s torso, the thin needles covering the fir’s arms. And clearly, there were different sexes, too. Tufted red buds capped the scaly breasts of the hazel, while the oak … Merciful Maker, his dark-red penis was longer than her forearm. Blushing, she fastened her gaze on his broad chest, but not before she had glimpsed the heavy testicles, smooth and green as unripe acorns. Very large acorns.

When one of the tree-folk stepped forward, Griane instinctively backed away, then froze, gaping at the legend come to life. Eyes the color of Midsummer leaves regarded her. The smooth, gray face creased into a smile. Nine long fingers reached down to touch her hair. A cluster of white flowers brushed her cheek, perfuming the air with sweetness.

The rowan-woman’s leaves fluttered as she gestured to the others. Soon, all their leaves were fluttering. The others approached. Surrounded by a circle of trunks, she might have believed herself to be in the forest again, were it not for the eyes of green and gold and brown that gazed down at her.

“My name is Griane.”

The rowan’s gray lips pursed into a knothole.

“I’m trying to get back to the First Forest.” Although they continued to sway, she could not tell if they understood. When she remembered Cuillon could only communicate through touch, she seized the rowan-woman’s hand, careful not to crush the delicate fingers. She poured out the tale of the Midwinter battle, the loss of the Oak, the need to find a portal to Chaos.

The rowan-woman watched her, bark grooving in a frown. The oak-man’s expression remained inscrutable. After a great deal of leaf fluttering, they turned and headed back in the direction from which they had come. Defeated, Griane stared after them until the rowan-woman held out her hand.

She had to trot to keep up with the tree-folk, taking three steps for each of their strides. Only when they entered the woodlands did their pace slow. Branches rustled as they passed; shrubs leaned closer as if to inspect her. An almost palpable air of excitement riffled through the leaves. How astonishing to think that she might be as wondrous to them as they were to her.

Just as she was beginning to tire, the trees gave way to a vast open space, the mulch underfoot to bare earth. Griane peered around Rowan and confronted a wall of wood. It took her a moment to realize it was the trunk of a tree. The branches were so dense they blocked out the sunlight, the arched roots high enough for a hut to nestle beneath. This was the tree she had seen from her vantage point above the pool.

Rowan pulled her forward. Hesitantly, she stepped up to the ancient oak and repeated her tale. If the tree understood, it gave no sign that she could see. She laid her palms in one of the deep grooves scoring its bark and tried to send the oak images of the battle. The forest went silent, as if all the creatures of the Summerlands were awaiting the giant’s response.

Finally, she squatted on the ground and smoothed the cool earth with her hands. With her forefinger, she drew the outline of the One Tree, sketching a holly leaf on one branch and the seven-lobed leaf of a blood-oak on the other. A rustling overhead made her look up. The oak’s branches drooped lower.

She jumped up. Standing as straight as she could, she pounded her chest and pointed to the oak leaf. Then she leaped across the drawing and became the Holly. Feverishly, she acted out their battle, then fell to her knees. How could she depict a portal when she’d never seen one? A lightning bolt, she decided. That, the tree-folk would understand. She sketched it in the earth, then drew her dagger. Pointing from her dagger to the lightning bolt, she stabbed the drawing of the One Tree.

The tree-folk swayed, their leaves fluttering wildly. She smoothed the edges of the holly leaf, shaping the lines into the form of a man. Then she dug her fingers into the earth, obliterating the oak leaf, and hurled the dirt into the air. Sweat pouring down her sides, she drew one last picture: the image of the One Tree, shattered and broken. Panting and spent, she sat back on her haunches. She had done her best. She only hoped the great tree understood.

A shudder ran up the oak’s trunk. A root ripped free of the earth, dredging a crevasse that snaked across the grove, nearly toppling a birch-woman. The tree-folk’s branches moaned. Roots stamped the ground. The earth shook. Griane flung out a hand to steady herself, then snatched it away when she felt the oak’s bark heave.

The explosion of air made her curl into a ball, hands cradling her head. The leaves of the tree-folk twisted like tiny creatures in their death throes. Their anguish sped around the grove. Twigs and branches rained down. Birds erupted from the trees, wings slapping the air in a frantic attempt to escape the tumult. And then, with a suddenness that left her gasping, it simply stopped. The tree-folk’s leaves drifted back into stillness, the branches of the rooted ones fell silent.

The depth of their grief made hers seem small. Not knowing what else to do, Griane embraced the oak. She knelt there, her cheek resting against a ridge, her arms too short to even feel the curve of the root.

Then she crawled away and drew a new picture. A single oak leaf. She pointed at her breast, pointed at the leaf. Crouched down and cupped her hands. Cradling the imaginary leaf in her palms, she walked back to the drawing of the shattered Tree and pretended to place the leaf at the end of one branch. She smoothed away the jagged scar in the trunk, drew new lines to reconnect the broken branch.

Rowan’s sigh drifted around the circle of tree-folk. She patted Griane’s cheek, then gently nudged her toward the oak. A sense of peace stole over her as she curled up under one of the huge roots. For the first time since they had started their quest, Griane slept soundly.

I
N THE FIRST FOREST, it must be nearing moonset. In the unchanging light of Chaos, Darak could only judge the passage of time by his weariness. Distance, too, seemed to obey other laws here, for the trees grew no closer as he walked. Often, he lost sight of them altogether as new obstacles appeared.

Rocks sprouted pointed muzzles and rows of spikes along their backs like hedgehogs. The hedgehogs grew to the size of sheep, savaging each other with their tusks, showering blood and pebbles across the path before lumbering off, apparently uninterested in him.

Worse were the scrubby trees, whose twisted branches transformed into grotesquely deformed arms. Mouths gaped open in the trunks. Tormented eyes looked out. Groans of misery alternated with beseeching wails as their many arms reached toward him.

“Help us.”

Knobby fingers circled his ankles, tugged at his breeches.

“Save us.”

He ran. They pursued, screaming his name. He tore at the clutching fingers, staring in horror as they snapped off, geysering yellow slime over the stumps. He hurled them away, but more reached for him, slipping through the rents in his breeches to touch his flesh.

“Warm,” they whispered. “Alive. Real.”

“You’re not real.”

“Touch us.”

“You’re an illusion!”

“Feel us.”

They rubbed against him like cats, pushing him to the ground, eager fingers sliding over his flesh. Hot, fetid breath filled his nose. Crusty tongues licked his neck, his face, his lips. All those arms twining around him in a hideous embrace, all those eyes begging him for help.

Fear is the enemy. Control the fear. Control yourself.

The despairing wails became shrieks of laughter. Arms, fingers, and tongues melted into furry gray balls, sticky as spiderwebs. When he scrambled to his feet, they floated away like dandelion fluff. Had he driven them away or had they simply tired of the game?

Too late, he wondered if Tinnean’s face had been among them. He told himself it was impossible, his brother could not have been transformed into one of those loathsome creatures. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from reaching up to capture an errant ball of fluff. A barb darted out and he jerked his hand away.