Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (39 page)

She had a temper, though. Quick to smile, just as quick to anger, she could blister you with her tongue as surely as his father could with his belt. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips, remembering how she’d puff up like a grouse when she started in on one of her lectures. But every lecture always ended with a fierce hug and a smile that told you she loved you anyway, even if you had ruined the tunic it had taken her a moon to sew, or spilled the entire flask of elderberry wine she was saving for the harvest feast.

Griane was like that, too.

His smile faded. Where was she? By now, Fellgair must have told her of their bargain. He could imagine her reaction: the quick toss of her braid, the defiant tilt of that pointed chin. Only the trembling of her lips would betray the hurt, the awful sense of abandonment. And all for nothing. Fellgair had broken his promise and Cuillon was somewhere in Chaos, alone and wounded.

Perhaps his father could help him find Cuillon as well as Tinnean and the Oak. He might even know how a man with no magic could get them out of this place. He wanted to sit his father down and demand answers to all his questions, but some stubborn, angry, childish part of him refused to speak, lest his father suspect that he just wanted to snatch a moment’s rest.

Only when the ravine dwindled to a few tumbled boulders did they stop. Darak sank down in the purple grass, too tired to keep up a pretense of strength. His father squatted a few feet away, watching him with those cool, gray eyes.

Darak unstoppered his waterskin and took a deep pull; the lukewarm water tasted delicious. He held it out to his father who shook his head. “One of the advantages of being dead. You don’t get thirsty or hungry.” The smallest smile creased his face. “Or tired.” The smile faded as quickly as it had come. “When I first felt you—”

“You felt me?”

“Not you in particular, but a relative. Blood calls to blood here. Spirit to spirit. The closer the tie, the stronger the connection. It was only when I saw you that I realized you were alive. That’s why your call was so much stronger than the other.”

“The other?” Darak scrambled to his feet. “You mean Tinnean?”

“Tinnean?” The mist inside his father’s body swirled, then stilled. “Tinnean is in Chaos?”

“That’s why I came.”

“Tell me.”

In a few terse sentences, Darak told him about the battle in the grove. When he finished, his father said,

“I understand now. When I felt the spirit inside the tree—”

“The Oak?”

His father hesitated. “You can judge for yourself when you see it.”

“How far?”

“You need to rest.”

“I didn’t come to Chaos to rest.”

“You’re wounded.”

“It’s nothing.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

“You won’t do Tinnean any good if you’re exhausted. Sit down, boy.”

His father stared up at him, waiting for him to obey.

“I am not a boy. I haven’t been a boy since you took ill. I was ten then, doing the work of a man. That’s what you taught me, wasn’t it? That a man’s first responsibility is to care for his family. That no man can live on the charity of his kinfolk. That no man should be useless.”

His father flinched and he was savagely glad.

“I was the one who made sure my mother and brother had food to eat and skins to clothe them. I was the one who helped Tinnean set his first snare and shoot his first arrow and gut his first fish. And I was the one who came to this unholy place to find him and bring him home. So don’t tell me to sit down and don’t think that you can order me about as you used to. If you won’t help me, I’ll find Tinnean on my own.”

His father’s face was as unreadable as stone, but the mist swirled wildly. The outline of his body grew less distinct. Automatically, Darak reached for him. His fingers went right through his father’s arm. Perhaps the gesture helped. More likely, his father calmed the agitated swirling on his own. In a few moments, his form was as opaque as ever, though he still seemed less defined, as if the effort had drained him.

Darak’s anger drained away as well, replaced by shame. Instead of seeking knowledge about Chaos, he had allowed frustration to master him, lashing out like a resentful child. Abruptly, he sat down.

“Your mam always did say a good argument cleared the air.”

“It takes two to argue.”

Again that small smile. “She said that to me, too. More times than I can count.” His father sighed. “We were always too much alike, you and I. Maybe that’s why we were always butting heads.”

“Aye. Maybe.”

His father regarded him steadily. “Well, you’re too big for me to take a belt to.”

“Wouldn’t do much good. Seeing as I can’t feel you.”

“But I can feel you. You’re like … fire on a winter night. That’s the life in you. The spirits in Chaos will be drawn to you, wanting to get close to that flame, but scared, too, because you burn with emotions and those are dangerous for us.”

In life, his conversations with his father had been limited to hunting, stalking, reading the signs of the forest and the sky. Even then, he’d preferred to teach by example. Darak seized on his last words to keep the conversation alive.

“Is that why you … do emotions make the mist stronger?”

“Aye. Control is our greatest strength here.”

“The Trickster said—”

“You have seen the Trickster God?”

Wonder made his father’s face look almost boyish. In life, he’d always seemed so old, even before the wasting sickness sapped his body and streaked his dark hair gray. Maybe all boys considered their fathers old. Still, it was shock to remember that he had been only thirty-three when he died.

“Darak?”

“Aye. The Trickster. He said I would only free Tinnean by acknowledging that my greatest strength is my greatest weakness.”

“Lack of control is the only weakness in Chaos. Without control, you are prey to the illusions.”

“Can you control the illusions?”

“Aye. But it is … wearying. Better to control yourself. Some men cannot. Some choose not to. They give way to madness. Or despair. And then they vanish.”

“Where do they go?”

“No one knows. Any more than we know what happens to those who find a portal.”

“I saw such a man. He … disintegrated.” His father nodded, face intent. “But he seemed peaceful. Perhaps his spirit went to the Forever Isles.”

“Or simply ceased to exist. Either way, some men seek that escape.”

“You didn’t.”

“Aye. Well.” His father shrugged and looked away. “How old is Tinnean now?”

“Nearly fourteen.”

“Fourteen! I hadn’t realized …” He shook his head. “Time loses meaning here. We remember people as they were. When I first saw you, I thought you were my brother Kelik. You’ve the look of him.”

“Mam always said I looked like you.”

The mist swirled, then stilled.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean—”

“Nay. It’s just …” The mist swirled again. This time, it took much longer for his father to control it. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded faint. “Tell me about them.” When Darak hesitated, he added, “Even if it’s bad. Better to know than to keep wondering.”

Wishing he had Tinnean’s gift for telling stories or Griane’s inexhaustible energy, Darak talked. He told of births and deaths, of good harvests and bad, trying to leaven the unhappy tales with joyful ones. He told him about his mam’s passing and Maili’s, but spared his father the details of their deaths and those of his troubled marriage. He said very little about himself at all, but if his father wondered at that, he said nothing.

For a long time after he had finished speaking, his father simply stared at the ground. Darak knew better than to intrude on his thoughts. And besides, what could he say? “Did you love Mam? Did you miss seeing Tinnean grow up? Did it make you proud to hear how I brought down my first stag?” They weren’t the kind of men who discussed feelings. They had never discussed anything. His father told him what to do and he obeyed.

He was shocked to hear him say, “No man wants to die. Not like that, coughing up blood, too weak at the end to keep from pissing himself.” He rose out of his crouch and surveyed the grass as if searching for an enemy. “You were too young.”

“I tried to keep them safe. To bring up Tinnean as best I could.”

His father turned toward him, frowning. “Of course you did. I only meant … if I had let go of my anger about dying before my time, my regrets about … things …” He swallowed hard. “I would be with your mother now.”

He clenched his fists, fighting the mist that rose up inside of him, calming it with a visible effort that left his form swaying like the grass. “Perhaps that was not my fate. Perhaps I was meant to come here to help my sons.”

Always, his father had seemed so sure about everything, to have the answers to every question. As a youth, he’d resented that, but as a small child, his father’s strength and calm had created a cocoon of safety in the huge, frightening world. He had always believed that when he was a man, he would have the answers, too. Now, he knew better. But how could he have failed to understand that awful sense of helplessness his father must have felt at the end when he had been just as helpless to save his mother and wife?

“I’ve kept you talking too long.”

“Nay. I’m glad … I’m fine.”

“Still.”

“I can go on. I want to reach the tree.”

“It’s a day’s journey.” His father’s gaze took in his wounded arm and sweat-streaked tunic. “Maybe two.”

“I’m ready.”

“I know you are. But ’twould be better if you rested a bit first. Aye?”

His father was right; as tired as he felt, he’d be useless to Tinnean. He stretched out in the grass and tucked his mantle under his head, strangely relieved to have his father watching over him again.

Morgath flung himself down, panting. The woman’s ankle ached. The clumsy bitch must have injured it. Crouching low in the grass had only made it worse. Another thing the Hunter would answer for. The ankle felt warm to the touch, but his whole body was sweat-drenched under this miserable robe. The Hunter would answer for that, too.

The wolf’s lingering senses had helped him pick up the trail, but he had lost the Hunter’s scent now and the keen vision that had allowed him to identify Reinek was fading. Soon he would only be able to rely on his human senses.

He should have finished it when they had first arrived in this cursed place, but the desire to play with the Hunter first had been too strong to resist. And he had still been flooded by sensations he had nearly forgotten: the soft brush of hair against cheek, the rough glide of wool against thighs. The giddy delight of laughter. The delicious shock of colors. And the power to shape words with lips and tongue and teeth, to give voice to them after so many days and nights of communicating with howls and whines and snarls.

His hands reached under the robe, sensitive fingertips exploring the marvelous contrasts of hard bone and yielding flesh, knobby knees and smooth thighs. His fingers traveled higher. Strange to feel only curling hair and moist softness instead of the heavy weight of testicles and penis. He lay back and closed his eyes. The woman was pretty enough. Men would desire her. When he returned to the world, he could have his pick. He wondered what it would be like to feel a man thrusting into the hidden place his fingertips were probing.

He would enjoy learning. Then he would discard her. Choose a strong, young man. He could never settle for being the passive recipient of men’s lust. Besides, women’s bodies were weak. If he possessed his own body, he could face the Hunter boldly instead of skulking among the rocks, an equal match to his strength—and more than his match in cunning.

His fingers stilled and his eyes flew open. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to wait until he escaped Chaos. That would be his ultimate victory over the Hunter—to expel his spirit and steal his body. He stroked himself, considering. The Hunter had much to answer for. He had wounded him with arrow and dagger. Thwarted his attempt on the girl. Dragged him back into Chaos. Casting out his spirit would be sweet, but it would yield only a brief taste of the man’s terror.

He wanted more.

How much sweeter and more satisfying to prolong the ordeal—to watch him tremble with fear, to listen to his screams of pain, to make him beg for the release of death. If he was patient and careful, he could keep the Hunter alive for days.

Morgath’s fingers moved again, more urgently. His hips thrust against them. His back arched as the pleasure surged, and a soft cry escaped him. He settled himself more comfortably, savoring the lassitude that suffused him. A pleasant enough experience, but lacking the delicious power of penetrating a partner, male or female. And not nearly as fulfilling as watching an enemy grovel.