Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (38 page)

Rowan stepped onto the raft and held out her hand. Griane tapped the leaves with her foot and found them hard as wood. She took a careful step, bracing herself for the raft to tilt or rock as a coracle might, but it was as solid underfoot as hard-packed dirt. She was still trying to find common ground between what should be and what was when she realized they were drifting away from shore.

She clutched Rowan’s arm, but the raft skimmed the surface of the water so smoothly they might have been floating in the air. She waved to the tree-folk clustered on the shore and shouted her thanks. Here and there, arms rose in salute. She caught a final glimpse of green forest and blue sky and then the world turned white.

She could not see the leaf-raft under her feet; even Rowan’s features were indistinct. Sound seemed to have vanished as well. Only the feel of Rowan’s fingers curled around hers held panic at bay.

As suddenly and silently as they had entered the mist-wall, they emerged. Cold seared her lungs. After the brilliant colors of the Summerlands, the First Forest looked diminished, a gray-white world of bare-limbed trees and patchy snow. Even the greens of the pines and spruces seemed faded.

She let out her breath in a grateful sigh when their raft drifted onto the bank, heaved another to feel earth beneath her feet. Rowan slipped a sprig of flowers behind her ear, a sweetly scented reminder of the Summerlands to carry with her. Griane sliced a strand of hair off with her dagger and offered it to Rowan. A thick bead of sap oozed down her face as she wound it around her wrist. Griane clung to her for a long moment, reluctant to leave the protection of those strong, encircling arms.

Long after Rowan had disappeared, Griane stood on the riverbank waving, as if the act would stave off the loneliness that enveloped her as surely as the mist engulfed the little raft. Finally, she let her aching arm fall to her side. She pulled the sprig of white rowan blossoms from behind her ear and breathed in its fragrance. Then she turned her back on the mist-wall and started upriver to find her folk.

B
RACING HIMSELF FOR the inevitable pain, Cuillon sent his energy in search of the Oak once more. He maintained the connection as long as he could bear it. After that, he could only lie panting, his throat raw from the screams.

If Griane were here, she would hold him. Yeorna would stroke his hair and croon one of her chants. Struath would tell a long story to distract him from the pain. And Darak would squeeze his hand and not even mind the thorns that cut his palm. All he could do was clutch Griane’s magic bag to his chest and pretend he was holding her.

He forced himself to sit up, wincing as the twigs dug into his palms. His toes had burst through his shoes again, curving into long, twisted growths. How many more times could he reach for the Oak before his feet became rooted in the soil of Chaos?

He fumbled for the dagger and clumsily sheared off the newly-sprouted leaves from his fingers. His feet were more difficult, but he could not walk on them as they were. He tied his dilapidated shoes to his belt and sawed off the growths, crying out when his dagger cut the boy’s flesh along with the woody protuberances that grew from it. He bound the bloody stumps with doeskin, but left the leaves that sprouted from his wrists and ankles; they would only burst through again, tearing new holes in Tinnean’s sleeves and breeches.

He pushed himself to his feet and tottered up a rise, following the trail of the Oak’s energy. When he reached the top, his heart tattoo quickened.

It might be any tree, rising above the thicket, but the sweep of the branches looked so familiar that he found himself running. A tearing pain in his side made him slow to an awkward trot. Finally, he had to rest, never taking his eyes off the tree, fearful that if he looked away, it would vanish.

Please, Maker, let it be real. Please let it be the Oak.

He started off again, deliberately keeping his pace slow. The branches that had looked so wide from a distance seemed to dwindle along with his strength. But of course the Oak would have changed, just as he had. Inside, they were still the same.

His legs were shaking when he reached the low scrub. Branches ripped new holes in Tinnean’s breeches. Twigs scraped his legs. Panting, he pushed past a squat shrub with clusters of violet flowers and stumbled into a clearing.

His expectant smile faded. The stubby tree was the size of a rowan, its grooved trunk and twisted branches studded with thorns. Only when he stepped closer did he realize that the shriveled, brown leaves clinging to the branches had seven lobes and that the pebbles dotting the parched ground were misshapen acorns.

Perhaps the Oak had taken shelter in this tree, just as he had taken refuge in the boy’s body. Perhaps the Oak was watching him right now, unable to recognize him.

“Oak? I am the Holly. I am here.”

Willing himself to ignore the pain of his inevitable transformation, he unwound the bandages on his hands and placed his fingertips between the thorns on the trunk.

The energy rose to meet him, pulsing like a heartbeat. Each pulse carried the memories of earth beneath them and sky above, of intertwined roots and interlaced branches, of the first morning of creation and the cold, dark night of their final battle. Into him and through him, the energy flowed, filled with strange currents he had never sensed before: the loss that tinged the Oak’s memories of Midwinter, the helplessness that ate away at its heartwood. And within these currents, yet another. In his eagerness to reach the Oak, he had not sensed it immediately, but now he recognized the energy. How could he fail to when he had touched it once before? A small pulse within the ebb and flow of the Oak’s energy, but distinct and real and alive.

Tinnean.

Icicles melting on tree branches. Sap rising in the trunk.

The boy gave him images of spring.

New buds sprouting on twigs. Leaves unfolding on lightning-blasted branches.

The Oak gave him images of renewal.

Panting, he fought the pain to offer his own image:
seedlings springing up beside a fallen log.

Cuillon fell to the ground, screaming. Desperately, he fought the transformation, calling up the essence of the boy’s humanity to keep his true self from reclaiming him, calling upon all he knew about men: their passion, their fierceness, even their willingness to kill to protect their own. Black dots danced before his eyes, mocking his efforts. His vision narrowed to focus on a single acorn, then to a tiny nub on its cap. The pain receded and Cuillon surrendered to the darkness.

He could feel his heart beating. He could hear the rasp of his breath and see light behind his closed eyelids and taste sour bile in his mouth. So he must be alive.

Darak opened his eyes and stared up into a golden sky, studded with puffy, pink clouds. He sat up slowly and peered inside his tunic. The sky-spear had left no mark. His fingers touched only a mat of springy hair and beneath it, firm, warm flesh. If not for the dull ache on each intake of breath, the attack might not have happened at all.

He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. Long enough for the beach to become a narrow ravine. The light stained its walls gold; the few splotches of pink made it seem as if the clouds had made the rocks blush. Ordinary-looking trees clung to ledges and ordinary-looking birds roosted in their branches. Even if the ravine was an illusion, he breathed a quick prayer of thanks; he had never expected to find beauty in Chaos.

Beautiful it might be, but dangerous, too. The walls of the ravine hemmed him in. If attacked, he would have to go forward or retreat down the steep slope. He was still trying to choose the better course when he glimpsed movement among the rocks.

Maker, let it be Morgath.

His gaze darted around the ravine, settling on two large boulders. He scrambled over loose rocks, smiling. This kind of danger he understood.

He crouched down behind a tumbled rock pile, pulled his sling from his belt, and picked through the rubble at his feet until he found a smooth stone. With the walls of the ravine at his back and the boulders guarding his flanks, he’d be well protected.

He glanced back up the ravine. Again, that tantalizing flicker of motion, as if the Watchers of the First Forest had been transported to Chaos. He caught a brief glimpse of a figure before it disappeared behind a boulder. Too far away to make out its identity.

He cradled the sling between loose fingers, waiting. His breathing slowed. The familiar calm stole over him, contrasting with the bloodlust that sang through his body.

The figure emerged again. He searched eagerly for Yeorna’s golden hair and her long green robe, but it was a man who strode over the shifting pebbles with an easy, eerie grace. Not a man, he realized, but the same sort of spirit he had seen in the bog. No wonder he’d had such difficulty spotting him.

He followed the spirit-man with his eyes, wondering if he should reveal himself. He might know where the Oak was; he might have seen Cuillon. Still, the flower had looked harmless and it had tried to bite off his hand. His sling would be no defense; the rock would pass right through the creature, just as his spear had sliced through the man in the bog.

Frustration raged through him. As if the spirit-man could sense it, he stopped. His head slowly turned.

The stone fell from Darak’s fingers. He tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t obey. Bracing himself against a boulder, he pushed himself upright and stumbled down the slope.

Two neat braids framed the lined face. The tunic hung on his wasted frame. The gray eyes widened as he drew near, but the fleeting expression of shock gave way to the familiar impassivity.

Darak wet his lips, forcing them to shape the words.

“Hello, Father.”

O
F ALL THE ILLUSIONS Chaos had offered, this was the most monstrous. His father stared at him, the rocks of the ravine clearly visible through his body. All Darak could do was stare back, waiting for him to change into something—a beast or a bird or one of the grotesque trees that had screamed at him for help.

His father glanced up and down the ravine. “This place is dangerous. Come.” He headed down the ravine without a backward glance. Then he knew it was truly his father, as cold and distant after death as he had been in life. He wanted to shout at that rigid back that he knew the position was dangerous, that he’d been choosing the best direction. Only his concern that he would sound like a whining child kept him silent. Instead, he trotted after his father, relegated once again to the role of obedient son.

Eleven years since his father had died—and all he could offer his firstborn son was an implicit criticism for lingering in the ravine. The gods only knew why he was trapped in this damnable place; certainly, his father would never tell him. One thing was clear enough: even Chaos lacked the power to soften him.

How could his mother have loved this man? She had always been the heart of their family. When he was tired or sad—“broody,” his mam called it—she always seemed to sense it. She would put down her mending and lay her hand on the back of his neck and say, “Rest a bit.” And he would lay his head against her hip and she’d hum to him and stroke his hair. It always seemed that nothing could ever hurt him then, not even his father’s silent disapproval.