Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (47 page)

P
AIN CREPT INTO his consciousness with Morgath’s stealthiness.

“Darak?”

He remembered the name. Once, it had belonged to him.

“Darak?”

He remembered the voice, too, but he couldn’t remember who it belonged to. As the first burst of pain retreated, he became aware of other sensations: warm sun on his back, hair tickling his cheek, a small, hard lump pressing against his chest.

“Darak?”

Three times. Three times for a charm.

He opened his eyes. A tangle of hair, gold interwoven with brown. His father’s shoes, the laces still in the neat bows his mam had tied before they carried his body to the Death Hut. An outflung arm, small fingers bent skyward as if beseeching Chaos for salvation. Too small to be his.

“Morgath is dead, son.”

That couldn’t be true. Morgath’s pain fed on his flesh. Morgath’s touch lingered on his body. Morgath’s voice echoed inside his mind.
I am part of you now.

“Morgath is dead. You killed him.”

Then he understood. The mound beneath him was Yeorna’s body. Empty now, for surely he would have sensed if Morgath’s spirit lay coiled inside. They had been joined more intimately than lovers. The connection might have been broken, but the taint permeated him the way the acrid stench of charred wood hung over a forest after a lightning strike.

Yeorna was gone. And Struath. Perhaps he had carried her to the Forever Isles on those black wings. They were free. He was alive. Morgath was dead.

He should feel something—relief, vindication, triumph. All he felt was the dull ache of his wounds and that hard lump digging into his chest. Griane’s chin was like that. Small and hard and demanding, even in sleep. It had felt so good, though, her body nestled against his, that pointed chin poking his shoulder. He should have told her that. Now, she was gone, too.

“Try and stay awake, son.”

His father’s voice brought him back, just as Morgath’s always had. Except at the end. That had been Tinnean’s voice. With a hoarse cry, he heaved himself up. The pain leaped, ripping him open with fiery claws, carrying him into darkness.

When he came to himself, he was lying on his back. His father’s face loomed above him, creased with concern. Darak shrank away from the outstretched hands before he remembered these would not hurt him.

“Tinnean?”

He remembered the harsh croak. He had spoken with the raven’s voice when he hung on the tree.

“I don’t know, son.” His father’s voice shook just a little. “The tree is gone.”

He closed his eyes. How could he have lost them? They had been part of him, shielding his spirit just as Yeorna and Struath had protected his body. In those last moments on the tree, he had felt the heat of their energy blazing through his chest.

His eyes opened. His left hand crept painfully over his belly, trailing fire in its wake, to close around the bag on his chest. The spirit catcher was still there, safe with his other charms. If he concentrated very hard he could feel the tiny facets through the soft leather. His fingers tightened around it and he restrained a wince. Was it his wounds that made it throb?

He forced his right hand to move, gagging with the pain. He turned his head, retching weakly. He retched again when he saw the bandaged stumps of his fingers and the dagger protruding from the ragged wound in his palm. Morgath had inflicted his damage with care; taking the forefinger and middle finger of each hand ensured that he would never again draw a bow or heft a spear.

Let it go.

Twice, he grasped the hilt. Twice, the pain took him. The third time, he wrenched the dagger free, his screams fading too slowly in the welcoming darkness.

His father’s voice called him back, tethering him to the world and to his body and to the tiny bag on his chest. It took a long time for his fingers to reach it, even longer to loosen the drawstrings. He reached inside, sifting through the charms with his thumb to reach the crystal. Heat surged at his touch. Willing his hands to stop trembling, he rolled onto his side and upended the bag, spilling its contents onto the dirt.

The spirit catcher blazed with fire as green as Midsummer leaves. The light pulsed in a slow, steady rhythm. He cupped it between his ruined hands and felt the pulse quicken as if it recognized his touch.

His head fell onto his arm. When he heard the harsh, racking gasps, it took him a moment to realize his father was sobbing. This time, he called his father back. Only when the mist stilled and he was safe again, did Darak close his eyes.

He never knew how long he drifted, carried along by the cadences of his father’s voice, sustained by its strength and its calm. Finally, he sat up, ignoring the fresh blood that seeped from his wounds.

The clearing had transformed into a grassy knoll, the plain into a meadow. The light seemed clearer now. The dew on the grass shimmered so brilliantly it made his eyes tear. Maybe everything appeared fresh and new when you were reborn. The pain was a constant reminder that his newly reborn spirit still clung to his wreck of a body. Somehow, that body must bear him to a portal and back to the First Forest.

Slicing bandages from Yeorna’s mantle and binding his wounds took most of the morning. Dressing himself took even longer. He needed a full day to gouge out a shallow trench in the earth, another to gather rocks for a cairn. His body screamed in protest, but the Grain-Mother’s sacrifice deserved to be honored.

Before he piled the stones over her, he crouched down and unbraided her hair. One by one, he removed the three severed fingers. Carefully, he wrapped them in a strip of wool and tucked them under his belt. He would leave no part of himself behind in Chaos.

They chanted the death-song for Yeorna and for Struath. Only a shaman could perform the rite of opening, freeing the spirit to fly to the Forever Isles. Darak prayed the Maker had guided them—and would guide his father when it was his time.

When their ritual was finished, he asked, “How do we find a portal?”

Strange that after all that had happened, he should still look to his father for answers—and be so shaken by his helpless shrug. His father’s smile was as understanding as it was weary. “One will open soon enough.”

“It took Morgath half a lifetime to find one.”

“I think it must be harder for spirits. The Holly-Lord spotted a portal when I heard and saw nothing. The trick is knowing if it’s the right one.”

Against his chest, Darak felt a blaze of heat. He patted the bag of charms. Even if he didn’t know which path to choose, Tinnean and the Oak would.

T
HE FIRST TIME THEY heard the whining, Darak surged to his feet and staggered in the direction of the sound. The portal opened into a forest, but after a quick flare of green light, the spirit catcher dimmed. The next opened into a village where tattooed people in loincloths fled screaming.

The third was stranger still. He heard the chanting first. Then the portal opened, revealing a naked boy lying upon a shelf of black stone. Behind him stood a man in a red robe. Sweat gleamed on his bald head. As he raised his hands, Darak saw the dagger, blade pointing at the boy’s chest. The man’s head jerked up. Their eyes met.

A babble of voices erupted. Other figures pushed into view: men with shaven heads and smooth, bare chests, black-haired women in brown robes. And another who seemed to be both man and woman.

Darak shook his head, uncertain whether the blurring of the portal or his exhaustion had created the apparition. Half of its head was shaved, but on the left, long, black hair fell to its waist. The left side of its face was painted, the eye outlined in black, the cheek rosy, the lips swollen and red.

The crowd pointed and shouted. One man brandished a spear. Only the naked boy on the stone seemed oblivious and the strange man-woman whose lips curved in a small smile. The portal whined as the spear carrier drew his arm back. At a deep-voiced command from the man-woman, he froze. Another command, unmistakably female this time, caused the noise to subside. The man-woman reached up and removed a dangling ornament from its left earlobe. Just before the portal closed, Darak caught a blur of motion.

He crouched down to discover the sinuous form of a snake, mouth gaping open to reveal the miniature fangs and forked tongue, tail tapering to a needle-thin hook. Each tiny scale was perfectly rendered in the same metal as Struath’s ceremonial dagger. The incredible delicacy of the craftsmanship exceeded anything he had ever seen. Glancing up, he found his father frowning.

“Who were they, do you think? And why would that … person … throw this to me?”

His father’s frown deepened. “Did you understand what they were saying?”

“A few words, maybe. I’m not sure. There was so much noise.” He hesitated, then added, “At the Gatherings. The tribes from the south. The words had that sort of cadence, that guttural quality.”

“Like the ancient tongue. Struath uses it in the rites.”

“They didn’t look like the tribesmen I met. And it’s been generations since any of the tribes offered human sacrifices.” He eyed the snake with misgiving. “Should I keep it?”

His father hesitated. “The Maker only knows what magic it possesses—good or evil.”

Or what payment the giver might exact in return. Hesitantly, he touched the gleaming scales with his thumb. When nothing happened, he used the heel of his right hand to shovel it into his left. Hard to believe anything so beautiful could be evil, but he had seen enough of Chaos to know that beauty could be deceptive.

With a determined nod, he flung the ornament into the grass.

They waited in vain for another portal to open. Darak allowed himself a few sips of water and a strip of venison from Cuillon’s supplies; the rest he would need to sustain him on his journey to the grove. During his fitful intervals of sleep, Morgath pursued him. He jolted awake, sweat-drenched and shivering, to find his father’s worried gaze upon him.

He dragged himself onto the shelf of rock where his father sat. A field of poppies had sprung up while he slept. The giant flowers nodded in the faint breeze, black eyes fixing him with a stare as unblinking as his father’s.

“Son?”

“Aye?”

“Sometimes, it helps to speak of the things that trouble you.”

“You never did.”

He hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but his father winced.

“Forgive me. I didn’t—”

“Nay, you’re right. Words never came easy to me.” A quick smile lightened his features. “As talkative as a stump, your mam used to say of me.”

“Me, too. But she’d smile after.”

“Oh, aye. She had a rare smile.” His father ducked his head, just as Tinnean used to. “Did I ever tell you about the day we were promised?” Again, that shy ducking of the head, this time accompanied by a sheepish smile.

“She was fourteen that summer. I was … what? … twenty, I think. Old for marrying. One morning, just after dawn, I left the hut to go hunting. And she was standing there, hands on her hips. I couldn’t imagine what she wanted. I’d only spoken to her a half dozen times in all the years I’d known her. And while I’m wondering if I was supposed to say something, she gave this little nod. Like she’d made up her mind.”