Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (42 page)

Her voice trailed off when she saw the mound of snow near the sunberry bush. Surely, it hadn’t been there before. Only when she came closer did she realize that the thing protruding from it was a dagger. With trembling fingers, she grasped the hilt. It slid free with the dull screech of metal against stone. The bronze gleamed in the sunlight. Falling to her knees, she feverishly shoved away the snow. Her mittened fingers scraped against rock.

She fell back on her haunches, staring at the Tree-Father’s cairn. Then she screamed Darak’s name, and Cuillon’s, and finally Yeorna’s. Only the wind answered.

She staggered to her feet and ran, skidding on snow-slick pebbles, falling, jarring her knee so hard she gasped, rising again with a grimace to limp the final distance to the cave. No smoke. No footprints. No sounds. Frenzied, she shoved her way through the branches.

For a moment, she could only crouch in the darkness, listening to the hoarse rasp of her breath. Finally, she tore off her mittens and forced herself to crawl forward, feeling for the fire pit. Cold stone under her hands. Cold ashes sifting through her shaking fingers.

She crawled back outside. The cairn gave mute testament to the Tree-Father’s death, but she saw no blood, no evidence of struggle. She ripped away the dead branches at the mouth of the cave, hacked through those on the living bushes. Midday sunlight relieved the gloom enough for her to make out Darak’s bow lying beside his sleeping place, the contents of her magic bag spilled onto the ground, the furs where the Tree-Father slept hastily tossed aside.

They had fled, then, or been forced out. At least one had survived to bury the Tree-Father. Nay, the rest must be alive, too; otherwise, she would have seen more cairns. Had the wolf attacked again? Had a portal opened, forcing them to leave suddenly? Even so, Darak would never leave his bow behind.

Griane made her way back to the cairn. The sunlight, so welcome when she awoke this morning, now mocked her. The sky should be gray, the clouds should lower over the treetops, mourning the death of the Tree-Father. She thrust the dagger back into the stones and said a prayer that his spirit might have flown to the Forever Isles.

Then she picked up her discarded basket and gazed at the endless expanse of forest. Darak would look for signs. Scout around the cave in ever-widening circles for footprints, broken branches, anything that might hint at the direction they had taken. She had several hours of light left, plenty of time to find answers. Anything was better than sitting in the cave, alone with her fear.

With Reinek at his side, Cuillon lurched across the plain. They had stopped only once, when they heard the awful scream. He thought then that he would lose Darak’s father. Helplessly, he could only watch as his body dissolved. Somehow, Reinek had mastered himself and they had gone on. He did not know where they were going. He was not sure the Trickster would come for him, or if he wanted him to. If the Trickster carried him out of Chaos, Darak would be trapped here.

When the high-pitched whining began, Reinek halted, darting glances around him. Cuillon pointed to the quaking sapling. Reinek squinted at the tree as if he could not quite make it out.

“It is a portal.”

“It could lead anywhere.” The first words Darak’s father had spoken since they had left the clearing.

The tree thinned to a pale, gray sliver. Cuillon drew closer. It might be a wintry sky or merely the reflection of sky in a still pool. The surface rippled. Something darted toward him and he stumbled backward.

The fish flopped helplessly, just like the fish he had caught that morning with Darak. Cuillon picked it up and tossed it back through the portal. Drops of water sprayed him as it dove into the pool. The ripples were still spreading out when the portal shuddered close.

“You could have eaten the fish,” Reinek said.

“It did not deserve to be eaten.”

“You did not deserve to be expelled from your tree. Tinnean’s spirit did not deserve to be cast into Chaos. Darak—” Reinek took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“If I had stayed in the First Forest, Darak would not be suffering.”

“And if I had seen Morgath coming …” The mist swirled and stilled. Reinek’s mouth settled into a grim line. “Looking back serves no purpose save to make men miserable. And in Chaos, to drive men mad. The only thing we can do now is get you out of here.”

“I could find Struath. He would know how to use the spirit catcher.” Reinek just shook his head. “Or go back to the tree and kill Morgath.”

“Forgive me, Holly-Lord, but you could not even kill a fish.”

“The fish did not deserve to die. Morgath does.”

“It would only end in your death and Darak’s.”

“Then I will find the Lord of Chaos.”

“Morgath is his creature. Why should he help you?”

“I am a god. Not such a great one as he is, but …” Reinek’s expression told him this plan was as useless as the others. “I have to do something. I cannot just run away.”

Reinek surprised him by smiling. “You talk like a man, Holly-Lord.”

“I have been one for a long while now.”

“Not so long. Not as you measure time.”

“Nay. But it seems very long. It is hard to be a man.”

The smile faded. “Aye, Holly-Lord. It is.”

H
E HUNG UPON the twisted oak, staring out at the empty plain. As soon as Cuillon and his father disappeared, he had lunged at Morgath. The brief terror that crossed the shaman’s face was his only reward. The belt held his wrist fast. The thorns ripped open new wounds on his back and buttocks, and the agony of the dagger, grating against the delicate bones and tendons of his right hand, took him to the edge of unconsciousness.

Morgath brought him back. Each time a new torture threatened to allow him to escape into oblivion, Morgath brought him back, sometimes with a sip of water, sometimes with a slap.

He hung upon the tree. There was no day, no night, no way to mark the passing of time save by the changes in his body. The pain ebbed and flowed according to Morgath’s whim, but it was always present, as much a companion as the oak that scored his body with its thorns. He could bear the pain the oak inflicted: the spiked trunk scraping against his spine with each breath, the ache in his shoulders, the lines of fire down his arms where the thorns ripped open his flesh. For if the tree hurt him, it also helped. An odd vibration pulsed through the trunk, like a twin heartbeat. He told himself it was Tinnean, keeping vigil for him, and he endured.

Time drifted by, and he drifted with it, carried along by Morgath’s tuneless humming. He hummed while he scored his chest and belly with the dagger. He hummed while he licked the wounds. Even when he sawed off two more fingers and tenderly bandaged the wounds, Morgath hummed.

The shock of the mutilation was worse than the pain, the knowledge that he would never draw a bow again harder to bear than the terror that gripped his bowels each time Morgath raised the dagger.

He tried putting words to the humming, mixing prayers and chants and fragments of old songs to give him strength. For the ability to endure this, to survive until he found a way to free Tinnean, must be the greatest strength of Fellgair’s riddle. How it could also be his greatest weakness, he didn’t know; he’d never been good at riddles.

But the words conjured up images: his mam crooning a lullaby to Tinnean, his father teaching him the hunter’s song. Those weakened him as much as the sight of Morgath, sitting cross-legged on the ground, weaving his severed fingers into Yeorna’s hair.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift back to a time when Chaos was only a name to frighten children, a time when the world made sense, when his brother’s face was filled with wonder and joy. The mysteries of the unseen world evoked the wonder, but something as ordinary as the bleat of a newborn lamb could evoke the joy.

Did all children feel that joy? Had he felt it? Mostly, he remembered resentment that he was too small to do the things his father could, too small to resist his father’s will. And fear, too, that he could not control the huge world around him. Then he recalled the night of his vision quest when the black she-wolf had come for him. He had felt joy then. So long ago.

He had always envied Tinnean’s simple faith. Once, he had shared it. The belief that the gods would never desert his people, that spring would follow winter, that, despite all the dangers in the world, his parents would keep him safe. When had he lost that faith? Long before he’d lost Tinnean. He tried to recall the moment things had changed for him, but it seemed that his faith had just been chipped away over the years, flaking off like flint under a hammerstone.

Maybe the same thing had happened to his sense of joy. Maybe faith and joy were linked. That would explain why the simplest things could delight Tinnean: a bowl of porridge on a cold winter morning, a patch of bluebells in the spring woods. Or just running, running, running down the beach, laughing at his too-serious older brother who shouted at him to slow down.

“Wake up, Hunter.”

A slap. A splash of water. And Morgath holding up the dagger again.

Pain drifted into fear. Not the burst of terror when Morgath took another finger, but a stealthy thing, creeping up on him like a predator stalking its prey.
I am the hunter,
he told it, and felt it slink back into the shadows, waiting like Morgath for him to shatter.

Heat beat down on him, hotter than the Midsummer sun. Flames flicked at him with serpents’ tongues, seeking out his most vulnerable places: his shoulders, his lungs, his ribs. Drawn to the pain, feeding it and feeding on it, sometimes retreating, but never going away.

He stretched out his toes, holding himself up to shield those weak places.
I am the hunter,
he told the fire, and felt it retreat. Only for a few moments, only to shift its attack to his toes, his ankles, his calves. Finally, he let his body sag and felt the flames sear him, reeking with delight.

He hung upon the tree, sweat rolling down his face, stinging his cracked lips. His bag of charms pressed against his chest, a heavy weight that made each breath difficult. The flames grew bolder. Even when he closed his eyes, he could see the brilliant bursts of red and gold, shimmering like the Northern Dancers, shining like the sky-spears.

A raven croaked, deep and hoarse. He opened his eyes, wondering where the bird was, then realized the croak came from him.

“I am the hunter,” he said.

Morgath reached up and stroked his cheek. “Not anymore.”

Darak closed his eyes. So cool, those fingers. So good after the fire. They traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. Drew a trail of refreshing relief down his neck.

“Does it feel good, Darak?” Yeorna’s voice, throaty and soft. “Shall I give you more?” Yeorna’s fingers soothing the welts on his chest. Yeorna’s hair brushing against his shoulder, light as a breeze. Yeorna’s breath warm against his face, her tongue wetting his dry lips.

“I can give pleasure as well as pain.”

Hair tickling his chest. Tongue licking his belly. Cool fingers stroking his genitals.