Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (40 page)

T
HE FEW SNATCHED HOURS of sleep gave Darak the strength to go on. He judged that they covered ten miles before the next transformation occurred. Between one step and the next, the grasslands became an ice field studded with twisting, blue columns that belched smoke into the ochre sky. A few miles later, it gave way to a barren plain, its emptiness only relieved by rocks and stunted trees.

They spoke little, even during their brief periods of rest. Darak wondered whether his father felt the same reluctance to delve too deeply into the past or was simply allowing him to conserve his energy. He needed all of it to match his father’s relentless pace. Sweat-soaked and panting, he drove himself, so intent on keeping up that he didn’t realize his father had stopped until he heard him call out.

Sleeve pressed against his streaming forehead, Darak squinted in the direction of his father’s pointing finger. The thicket shimmered in the haze. Rising above the smaller bushes, he made out the shape of a single tree.

His father nodded in answer to his questioning gaze. Without a word, they set off again. Only when he lifted his hand to push aside the heavy clusters of violet flowers did his father speak. “The tree looks strange. But I am sure Tinnean’s spirit is inside.”

No words could prepare him for what he saw when he emerged into the clearing. The grotesquely twisted tree. The crumpled body that lay beneath it. And the holly leaves encasing Cuillon’s hands and feet.

Darak fell to his knees beside him. Cuillon’s chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths. Alive. He was still alive. With shaking hands, he splashed water into his palm. He was rinsing the dirt from Cuillon’s face when his eyelids fluttered. A smile replaced the dazed look.

“Darak.”

“Easy, lad.”

“They are here. I felt them.”

“Don’t talk. Drink this.”

Cuillon obediently swallowed a few sips of water. “Struath … he is dead, Darak. And Yeorna.”

Darak nodded, wiping water from Cuillon’s chin.

“I brought the spirit catcher.”

For the first time, he noticed the pouch resting on Cuillon’s chest.

“That is why I followed you. I knew you would be angry, but—”

“Hush. Save your strength.”

“The pain is not so bad now.” Cuillon must have seen his wince for he added, “Truly. Help me sit up.”

“Cuillon …”

“Please.

Darak eased him into his arms. Cuillon sighed. “I have made a mess of Tinnean’s clothes.”

“Damn the clothes.”

“I have hurt his body.”

Darak glanced at the blood-soaked holly leaves, then looked away.

“Would you cut them off, please? I … it is hard for me to use the dagger.”

One by one, Darak sheared the leaves from Cuillon’s wrists and forearms, trying not to think about the agony he must have endured when they burst through his skin. It took more willpower to touch Cuillon’s fingers. They were an awful greenish-gray, as slender and knobby as twigs. They still bent under his ministrations, but it was the suppleness of green wood, not the resiliency of flesh.

A soft sound behind him made him look up. The mingled pain and longing on his father’s face made him look away again, unwilling to witness such a naked display of emotion from the man who had always kept his feelings private. Tinnean had been a toddler when he died. Hard enough to behold the young man his son had become. To witness the changes that were now destroying his body … it was more than any man should have to bear.

Darak fought to keep his voice steady as he asked Cuillon, “How long has this been happening?”

“It started in the First Forest. Each time I tried to communicate with the trees, it got worse.”

“Can you stop it?”

“I had to find the Oak.”

“I know. I don’t mean that. Can you stop it from happening again?”

“For now. But in time …”

Darak stared at the bloody fingers, studded with sheared-off twigs.

“I am sorry, Darak.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“If I had been stronger …”

He seized Cuillon’s shoulders. “It is not your fault. You hear me?”

“Aye, Darak.” A small smile crossed Cuillon’s face. “You are shouting.”

“Aye. Well. If it’ll help you hear sense.”

“We have the spirit catcher.”

But only Struath knew how to use it. He dared a look at his father, relieved to find him calmer. “Could you find Struath?”

“It would be sheer luck. I cannot feel him.”

Reluctantly, he turned back to Cuillon. “You reached them before.”

“Aye, but now … I think it would destroy Tinnean’s body.”

Darak’s shoulders sagged. To have come all this way, to finally reach their goal, and still be helpless to free them.

“Let it wait, son. See to the Holly-Lord’s wounds. He needs fresh bandages.”

He nodded, grateful to be given a task he could accomplish.

“You are his father. I should have seen. You look so much alike.” Cuillon hesitated, his smile fading.

“But I thought only bad men came to Chaos.”

“Aye. Well.”

His father’s grimace brought back Cuillon’s smile. “You even talk alike.” Cuillon laughed out loud. “And have the same frown.”

“You’re talking too much,” Darak said. “Save your strength.”

He peeled back the shreds of Cuillon’s breeches and started sawing off the holly leaves from his calves and ankles. He looked up only once, when Cuillon said, “My human name is Cuillon.”

“Mine is … was … Reinek.”

“Your son’s body has been a wonder to me.”

The mist swirled so wildly that Darak rose out of his crouch. His father stilled him with a gesture. When he had regained his composure, he said, “My son is a wonder to me as well.” His father’s gaze flicked toward him before returning to Cuillon. “I am honored to see him again after so many years.”

Morgath lay belly-down at the summit of the rise, squinting at the figures in the clearing. Although partially hidden by the shrubs, he could make out the figure of a third man sitting next to the Hunter. Now he had three enemies to confront.

Above the drone of insects, a familiar whining rose. He glanced over his shoulder. The tumble of rocks at the base of the rise shimmered. Through them, he saw a bare tree limb wave as if beckoning him.

Morgath crawled close enough to see a snow-covered field and beyond it, a small circle of huts. Not his tribe’s, perhaps, but a village all the same. Where real people huddled together around real fires and Chaos was only a tale told by the Memory-Keeper.

It had taken him years to find a portal. In the space of—what? Two days? Three?—two had opened before him. Was Chaos gaining a hold on the world beyond? Or was it easier to detect the portals now that he possessed a living body? The first portal had only taken him to another part of Chaos. This one promised freedom.

Morgath hesitated. To leave now meant relinquishing the exquisite pleasure of punishing the Hunter. The portal whined. The tree shivered. Go to safety or stay? Flee or force a confrontation?

Morgath fell back on his haunches as the portal wavered and vanished. There would be other portals. He could have his pick. But he had only one chance to destroy the Hunter.

Once again, he bellied up the rise. He watched the Hunter help the third man to his feet. He was much shorter than the Hunter, but his form looked just as real. That meant he was alive—and a potential threat. Was he only imagining the Hunter’s solicitude as he helped the small man to his feet or could the Hunter’s brother have come to Chaos in search of him?

Even from this distance, it was clear that the boy limped badly. He clung to the Hunter as they made their slow way across the clearing. The Hunter settled him in the shade of a bush and squatted beside him, flexing his wounded arm.

Morgath smiled. Ignoring his protesting back, he crouched low and crept down the slope.

Darak eyed the spirit catcher resting in his palm. Despite its long contact with Cuillon’s body, the crystal felt cool. Its facets twinkled with the sickly ochre light of Chaos. Such a tiny thing for the task ahead, but better prepared than he was. He shook his head, wondering if his distrust of magic could be the answer to Fellgair’s riddle.

Cuillon touched his sleeve. “When I first lay in your hut, Struath came with the others.”

“The others?”

“Yeorna. Gortin. And the girl like a sparrow in winter.”

Darak had to smile; plump, brown-haired Lisula did look like a sparrow in winter. “Do you remember what they did?” he asked.

“The others sang and burned weeds and Struath closed his eye and rocked back and forth for a long time.”

“And then?”

“Then he fell over.”

Darak blew out his breath. Before Cuillon could apologize, he added, “Don’t be sorry. You’re no more a shaman than I am.”

But Tinnean had been—was becoming one. How many times had he rushed into the hut last summer, face alight after a day spent with Struath? Too excited to sit, he’d stand over them, hands waving as he tried to describe what he had learned that day. His mam would ask questions, Maili would smile—and he would crouch by the fire, fletching an arrow or chipping a flint, until he could bear the flood of words no more and tell Tinnean to shut up about Struath and sit.

If only he had listened, tried to understand what Tinnean meant when he talked about connecting with the eternal powers of earth and air, fire and water. All he could remember now was something about breathing and stillness.

His body tensed. Breathing and stillness he understood. Those were the first lessons his father had taught him. Breathing. Stillness. Control.

He walked to the tree and knelt before it.

Merciful Maker, help me.

He rested the fingertips of his left hand against the thorny trunk.

Lord of the Forest, help me.

He raised his right hand, spirit catcher clenched in his fist.

Tinnean—if you are there—help me.

He closed his eyes.

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

He breathed.

Let go of the fear. Just breathe.

He listened to his breathing, slow and even. To the scratch of the tree’s branches as they rubbed against each other in a faint breeze. To a rustling in the thicket behind him.

He whirled around, hand on his dagger, as a yellow-winged bird shot out of the underbrush.

“Never mind that, son. Let me be your eyes and ears.”

He tried, but he kept losing his concentration each time a new sound reached him.

“Just breathe, Darak.”

“Damn it, don’t you think I’m trying?”

“Try harder.”

For a moment, they glared at each other. Unexpectedly, his father grinned and Darak found himself grinning back. His father squatted down beside him. “Don’t try and pretend you’re a shaman. You’re not. And you’ll not teach yourself in a few moments what it took Struath years to learn.” His father leaned closer, face intent. “But maybe if you imagined you were hunting. That Tinnean is the quarry.”

Darak nodded. Again, he raised the spirit catcher and closed his eyes.

He was the hunter. His muscles loose, his head clear.

In. Out. Breathe.

He was the hunter. Moving through the trees. Tracking the quarry.

Silent. Cautious. Alert.

Instead of a bow, he held a crystal.

Hard. Round. Smooth.

Instead of a stag, he sought Tinnean.

Helpless. Unconscious …

Not that trail. Choose another. Find the one that leads to Tinnean’s spirit.

His eagerness to learn. His wonder at the world beyond this world. His stubbornness to choose his own path, no matter where it led, no matter how I warned him …

Go back. Find the place where the trail branched. Start again.

The child’s arms, skinny as snakes. “Look, Darak. Look at that muscle.” Knobby knees peeking out from under his tunic. “I can too run faster than you.” The sweet smile. “Listen, Darak. I can almost play the song now.” The high-pitched squeal. “I caught one, Darak! I caught a fish!”

He’s there.