Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (43 page)

Darak’s eyes flew open. He jerked away from Morgath’s questing hands and the pain leaped, fierce as a wildcat.

On his knees, Morgath smiled up at him. “Are you sure, Darak? Struath always loved it.”

Bile rose in his throat. He gagged and fought it down, but when Morgath leaned closer, he spat the filth into that upturned face. A convulsion seized him, shook him hard enough to make his teeth click against each other and shoot arrows of pain through his body. He clenched his teeth, stopping their chattering, but he couldn’t control his body. He could only hang upon the tree while the arrows tore at him, and gasp when finally, the convulsions stopped and the pain subsided.

And then the flames returned, searing his shoulder. But it wasn’t fire. It was Morgath, cutting away a long, bloody strip of his flesh.

There was no beginning to the pain and no end. His body was fire. His body was blood. His body was raw meat impaled upon Morgath’s dagger, dangling from Morgath’s fingers, disappearing between Morgath’s lips.

He could not hold back the screams then. And once they began, he could not stop them. Even when his voice shattered and dwindled to a hoarse sob, the screams echoed in his head, pulsing with that other heartbeat.

“Shall I stop it, Darak?”

Morgath’s voice, tender as a lover’s.

“Shall I make it go away?”

Aye. Please. Anything.

“You can die, Darak. The pain would stop then.”

Oh, gods, it hurts.

“Shall I help you die, Darak?”

Maker, help me. Lord of the Forest, help me. Tinnean …

He opened his eyes. The fire retreated, waiting in the shadows with the pain. The oak trembled, its rhythmic vibration fluttering uncertainly. Even the breeze ceased to blow, as if the wind caught its breath and waited with Morgath for his decision.

Rage roared through him, hotter than any fire, stronger than any pain, coalescing into the words that poured out of his mouth. “Damn you. Damn you, feasting on my flesh. I will not die. I will not.”

Unleashed, the fire raged back, red-hot and vicious, and with it the pain, and with that, the screams, fading too slowly into silence.

Morgath called him back.

“You’re strong. I like that.”

He stepped close. His hands came up. Darak flinched.

“Water, Darak. Drink.”

He lowered his head, lapping up the water like an animal. Only a mouthful—barely enough to wet his lips and ease his raw throat—before Morgath opened his fingers and let the water drain through them. The damp palms cupped his cheeks. The blue eyes gazed into his. The soft lips parted in a tender smile.

He felt pressure at his temples, then a dull pain between his eyes. The pain receded. He wondered if Morgath had done that.

Aye, Darak.

The voice spoke inside of him, as close and intimate as his thoughts. Fear clawed at him when he realized Morgath had invaded his spirit.

That’s right. I am part of you now. I can read every thought, feel every fear, uncover all your dirty little secrets. Even the ones you try to hide from yourself.

Somewhere a man moaned.

Your moan, Darak. I feel it, just as I felt the wolf’s terror when I took it. It was delicious. So are you. Even more delicious than the wolf. Or the woman. I hardly had the chance to enjoy her. You, I can savor. I will use your spirit as freely as I used your body.

The insidious presence oozed through him, a slow, deliberate invasion of mind and spirit. Each barrier he flung up, Morgath destroyed, as easily as he might brush away a cobweb. Each memory he sought to protect, Morgath pried loose and examined. Each time he retreated, Morgath followed.

Like a child with a new toy, Morgath played with him, sometimes lingering over a new discovery, sometimes surging forward to obliterate another line of defense. The shaman stripped his spirit, leaving it as raw and quivering as his abused flesh. And Morgath loved it; Darak could feel his pleasure as viscerally as he could feel his own terror and shame.

He fled deeper into himself, desperately seeking a hiding place. He only succeeded in forging a trail that Morgath could follow, a trail that led to the very core of his being. There was no place to hide, no way to shield himself.

Summoning his will, Darak attacked. He felt Morgath’s momentary surprise as he retreated and his arousal when he returned.

Good. Fight me, Darak. That will make the final possession sweeter.

He concentrated on the pain, forcing his consciousness back into his wreck of a body. Again, Morgath withdrew, but in the space of a heartbeat, he was back.

Who is Tinnean?

Before he could stop them, images flooded his mind. Tinnean lurching through the village on chubby legs, frowning with the effort of keeping his balance. Tinnean racing after him when he went hunting: “Take me with you, Darak. I won’t make a sound this time.” Tinnean following him out of the hut, calling to his back: “Walking away won’t change anything, Darak. I have found my life-path and I will not give it up.”

Ahh.

Morgath’s pleasure rippled through him.

So Tinnean is the brother and his spirit is trapped inside the tree with the Oak. The Trickster didn’t mention that. He likes to keep secrets. Just like us. We’re very much alike, you and I.

Darak reared back against the tree, forcing the thorns deeper into his body, forcing Morgath to retreat once more.

The vibration in the tree pulsed faster, whether in rhythm to his heartbeat or driven by some urgency of its own. He pushed aside the fear and the pain and the knowledge of Morgath’s imminent return and focused all his awareness on that vibration, praying it was Tinnean.

Morgath’s voice summoned him. Darak’s spirit fled, following the beckoning heartbeat.

W
HEN THE AIR IN FRONT OF HIM ripped open, Cuillon stumbled and fell. He pushed himself to his feet, wondering how he could have missed the whining that always preceded the opening of a portal. Then a long nose emerged from the starry void.

The Trickster stepped into Chaos and pinched the portal closed behind him. Golden eyes surveyed him dispassionately. “You’re a mess.”

“Darak needs you.”

“Everyone needs me. It’s one of the more tiresome aspects of being a god. Hello, Reinek. Did you enjoy your little reunion with Darak?”

Reinek’s mouth moved, his eyes wide as he gazed at the Trickster. After a long moment, he mastered his shock, the now-familiar frown slipping back into place. “Chaos is not conducive to enjoyment.”

The Trickster’s teeth gleamed in a brief smile. “I suppose not. I’m quite fond of your son, you know—in spite of his rudeness.”

“Darak can be blunt.”

“Who does he get that from, I wonder?”

“Will you help him?” Cuillon asked.

“I am helping him. I am fulfilling my promise to keep you safe. Although you’ve certainly done your best to make my task more difficult. What have you done to yourself?”

“I am changing.”

“Then we’d best hurry.”

“Please, Trickster …”

“I am not Morgath, Holly-Lord. Begging will not affect me. Although one can’t help enjoying it a little.” He winked and flexed his claws. “Are you ready?”

Wincing, Cuillon fell to his knees.

The Trickster frowned, but his voice was gentle. “I meant what I said, Holly-Lord. I cannot help Darak.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“You’ve been around Darak too long. You’re starting to sound like him.” The Trickster raised him to his feet. “Darak made his choice. He must see it through.”

“Will you help him?”

The Trickster sighed. “Trees are so single-minded. It must come from being rooted. Hear me, Holly-Lord. We all have our little tasks. Darak’s is to free the Oak and Tinnean. Yours is to get back to the First Forest. Mine—for the moment—is to get you there. Will you come?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“There is always a choice, Holly-Lord.”

Cuillon hesitated, clutching the pouch that lay against his chest.

“You must go,” Reinek said. “I will do what I can for Darak.”

The Trickster’s brows rose in mock surprise. “Not coming with us, Reinek?”

“I have my own promise to fulfill, Trickster.”

“What a pity. Cluran has been waiting so long.”

Reinek’s eyes closed briefly. “My wife would understand.”

“That’s what Darak said about Griane. Understanding women—such treasures. Take my hand, Holly-Lord, and hold tight. Oh, never mind. I’ll hold onto you.”

Cuillon shook off the Trickster’s hand. He embraced Reinek, hugging him hard even though his arms went right through him, hoping Reinek could feel something even if he could not. “Tell Darak I am safe.”

“I will. May the Maker guide your steps, Holly-Lord.”

“May the Maker speed you to your Floating Islands, Reinek.”

The Trickster rolled his eyes as he peeled back the doorway. “May the Maker save me from endless farewells.”

Claws closed around his wrist. Cuillon caught one final glimpse of Reinek’s stark face before the Trickster pulled the portal closed behind them.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, another moment to conquer the terror of floating among stars. They spread out in an intricate web of light that seemed to stretch forever. Before he had time to admire their beauty, they melted. The world blurred, as if he were viewing it through tears. The white streaks of the stars gave way to colors—gray and green and occasional blots of yellow—each spinning past, faster and faster, until he was only aware of smears of color and light and the grip of the Trickster’s claws.

He clung to the Trickster as the path shuddered. Time and space slowed, stuttering to a halt. Images slid into place. Leafless trees shivering in the wind. A sunberry bush, heavy with melting snow. Struath’s cairn. His journey to Chaos was ending where it had begun.

The Trickster had vanished, but he was not alone. A figure knelt by the riverbank. As he watched, it rose, shouldering a waterskin. The sun flashed on the long red braid and once again, the world blurred before Cuillon’s eyes.

Griane turned toward the embankment and went very still, like a doe scenting the breeze for danger. Then she gave a great shout and clambered up the slope. Cuillon’s ages-old patience deserted him. He slid down, nearly toppling them both. Her arms went around him. Her tears wet his face. He held her close, unable to do more than repeat her name.

She reached for his hand and her eyes went wide with shock. Before the questions could pour out of her, he held up one bandaged hand. “Would you help me into the cave, please? Then I will tell you everything.”

A
T FIRST, THERE WAS only darkness and the steady pulse of the heartbeat. Then darkness gave way to the smoke-gray of a Midsummer gloaming. As the light brightened, the shadowy silhouettes around him took on form. A birch. A bramble bush. A fallen log.

When he saw the blasted sapling, Darak realized he was standing in the clearing where he had met the Trickster and confronted the wolf. He wondered if a portal had opened into the First Forest while he hung on the tree, then shook his head. Despite his nakedness, he felt no cold.