Griane stepped close enough to the Trickster to start Darak’s heart thudding again. “Will you help us, Lord Fellgair?”
“Griane.” Darak hoped she could hear the warning in his voice. He had not asked for the gift of fire, but he had accepted it—and the Trickster had promptly aided the wolf. Who knew what price he would exact now?
The Trickster tapped his lips with one elegantly lethal claw. Griane knelt. “Please.” Somehow, she made the word sound more like a command than a plea. Darak stared at the stiff shoulders, the straight back. Even while he shook his head, he found himself admiring her courage.
They remained there, Griane on her knees, the Trickster on his log, staring into each other’s eyes for so long that Darak feared she had been bespelled. Then the Trickster stretched out his hand. He let his palm rest against her hair, then drew his knuckles slowly down her cheek.
“What will you offer in return for my help?”
Before Darak could warn her to make no bargains, Griane leaned forward and pressed her lips against the Trickster’s mouth.
Fellgair’s eyes closed. He smiled, his lips still touching hers. Then he drew back to study Griane’s face. “I have stolen my share of kisses from mortal women. You are the first to offer one freely.”
He rose, extending a graceful hand to help Griane to her feet. Then he held out the other. After a moment’s hesitation, Darak stepped forward. He caught his breath as the Trickster’s peculiar scent hit him, the foxy reek at odds with the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle. With some trepidation, he took the proffered hand. The palm was spongy but rough, like a dog’s pads.
To his surprise, Fellgair simply placed Griane’s hand in his. The golden eyes regarded him gravely. “You will find what you are seeking in Chaos.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. “Tinnean is in Chaos?”
The Trickster smiled and strolled into the trees.
“And the Oak-Lord? Is he with Tinnean?”
For one moment, the Trickster’s ruddy pelt gleamed among the gray tree trunks. Then there was only everyday sunlight, and everyday shadows, and Griane’s hand cold in his.
Chapter 24
FROM HIS HIDING PLACE in the thicket, Morgath watched the two figures walk upstream, the Hunter staggering a little under the weight of the doe. Saliva oozed from his jaws, the hunger pangs fiercer than the throbbing wound in his side.
Twice now, the Hunter had thwarted him. He would pay for that. The wound hindered his hunting. It had taken him five days to find their lair. Ever since, he had kept watch, but until today, he’d seen only the Hunter. A low whine escaped him at the thought that the Betrayer might have perished, although he had seen no body, nor the rock pile that marked the grave of a dead pack member.
Cairn.
He repeated the name in his mind. Words were power. Words were his connection to his true self. Lately, when he lost himself in the hunt or ripped open the belly of a hare, it seemed that he had always been a wolf, had always seen the world through these eyes, snuffed it with this nose. Unless he exerted his control, nothing would remain of the man he had been, not even his hatred. Then he would wander the First Forest, a stranger to himself.
He whined softly. He’d been alone so long, while the Hunter had his pack. Even now, the little female trotted obediently beside him, glancing up occasionally to expose her throat to him. Morgath bellied forward, hindquarters twitching in the desire to attack. The Hunter would have to drop the doe before he could use his weapons. He measured the distance. Too far to be certain. No cover to protect him. He could not risk it, no matter how much he longed for the Hunter’s blood.
He whined again. The Betrayer was his primary quarry. Sometimes he forgot that was why he had come so far—to send his spirit to Chaos and feast on his flesh. He’d rip open that soft belly as easily as gutting a hare. He’d lap up the hot, salty blood. The liver, he would save for later, tender though it was. He’d have the heart first. Tear it out, just as the old man had torn his from his body. Tear it out and devour it.
He watched the Hunter struggle up the embankment. The female turned and seized his arm. When she paused to push the Hunter’s hair off his face, longing filled him, more intense than the desire to hunt, to kill, to destroy.
And then he knew what he wanted. Not merely to kill the Betrayer, but to walk toward him on two legs. To speak aloud the words that would remind him of his perfidy and condemn him to Chaos. To watch the old man kneel at his feet and call him master, just as he used to.
As they disappeared into the cave, Morgath rose and stretched. Night was approaching. The time for hunting. Later, when his belly was full, he could decide which of their strong, young bodies he would make his own.
The faces of the others told Cuillon it was a bad thing for the Oak to be in the place they called Chaos. Darak’s silence told him even more; he would not speak the name aloud, even when he interrupted Griane’s telling to question Struath.
“Can you penetrate it with your Sight?” Darak asked.
“Nay.”
“What about the portals? Can you sense them before they open?”
“Nay.”
“Can you open one yourself?”
“Nay!”
The two glared at each other. Then Darak rose without a word to leave the cave. Yeorna seized Griane’s arm as she started after him. “Give him time.” His belly gave one of its odd little flutters as she sank back down.
“Please,” he said. They all started at the sound of his voice. “Why is Chaos a bad place?”
“It is not bad,” Struath said. “Not in and of itself. But it is a place of illusion, where existence is ever-changing.”
“Like the seasons?”
“Imagine if autumn followed winter,” Yeorna said, “and then came winter again with no spring or summer.”
“Oh.”
Struath stared into space, stroking the underside of his chin. Griane squirmed. The Holly-Lord resisted the urge to do the same. Struath’s stories were interesting, but sometimes he preferred Darak’s straightforward answers. His impatience troubled him, further proof of the changes his spirit was undergoing.
Struath placed his hands on his knees. “In the beginning, before gods or men existed, before there was sun or moon, earth or sea, there was Chaos. Out of Chaos, rose the Maker and the Unmaker. The Unmaker ruled Chaos, delighting in his realm, but the Maker longed for order. She took fire and shaped Bel, the Sun Lord, and Gheala, the Moon Lady. She created Nul, the Keeper of Lightning, and all the stars in the night sky. Her breath became the four winds and her voice became Nul’s brother, Taran the Thunderer. One star, smaller than the others, fell from the sky. The Maker wept, and her tears created the waters of the world and the gods of sea and lake and river. Into the waters, the star fell and cooled and became earth. And here, the Maker placed the World Tree.”
“My Tree?”
“Nay, Holly-Lord. The tree that connects the Upper World of the gods to the Middle World—”
“That’s the First Forest and our world,” Griane added.
“ … to the Lower World where the Forever Isles float.”
He tried to remember if he had ever felt this World Tree when his spirit had lived in the Holly. His roots had spread deep and far; he had touched many other trees. Perhaps, they had all been touching this World Tree, which had shared the energy of one among all.
“So the Maker planted the World Tree—”
“Nay, Holly-Lord. First, the Maker created the silver branches.”
“The branches came first?”
“They are the dwelling place of the gods, Holly-Lord. Gods came into being before men.”
“But how can the tree stand without roots?”
“The World Tree is not an ordinary tree.”
“It does not make sense.” Surely, if the Maker valued order as much as Struath believed, she would have planted the roots firmly in the earth.
“Some things must be taken on faith.”
&
nbsp; He absorbed this in silence. Perhaps faith was something that allowed men to believe things that made no sense.
“Shall I continue?”
“Please, Struath.”
“The Lord of Chaos was jealous of the gods because they were immortal, just as he was. And so the Unmaker spilled his seed upon the emerging trunk of the Tree.”
Cuillon opened his mouth to ask about this, but closed it when he saw Struath frown. To himself, he imagined a pile of sunflower seeds atop a fallen log.
“By spilling his seed on the trunk of the World Tree, the Unmaker ensured that each drop of life would contain a drop of death.”
He amended the previous image to one of salmon spawning in a river. As an afterthought, he added a large tree growing out of the water. Neither image seemed right.
“Once death entered the Middle World, the Maker could not remove it. But she gave her youngest children—men—a great gift to compensate them for their short lives.”
Cuillon waited patiently until he realized that this time, Struath wanted him to ask a question. “What was the gift, Struath?”
When Struath smiled, he knew he had guessed correctly. “By the time the roots of the World Tree appeared, the Maker’s tears had washed away the Unmaker’s seed. There in the roots, she created the Forever Isles, where men and women could await rebirth after death came for them.” Struath sighed. “They are a place of great beauty.”
“You have been there?”
“When I fly with my spirit guide.”
“But you cannot fly into Chaos?”
Struath’s lips pressed into a tight line. Fear and doubt returned to their faces. The fluttering in his belly solidified into an icicle. He had stolen the comfort the story had given them, just as he had stolen Griane’s happiness when he had spoken against the name she had chosen.
“Perhaps …”
The hope on their faces hurt more than the fear. “I was thinking of how the rowan pulled up her roots and walked out of the First Forest.”
Hope gave way to confusion. He spoke more quickly. “If the rowan could do that, when no tree had done such a thing before, then we can go to Chaos and bring back the Oak and Tinnean.”
They smiled. The icicle inside his belly melted. The talk turned to ways of finding a portal, of the preparations they must make. He stared into the fire, lips pressed together to keep other questions from escaping. He was glad he had given them back the comfort he had stolen. Gladder still that they had believed the small lie.
Darak set out at first light. If Struath could not open a portal, Fellgair could. Whatever the price the Trickster demanded, he would pay it. When he heard the crunch of footsteps on pebbles, he spun around, ready to order Griane back into the cave. The words died when he saw Struath.
“The wolf is still abroad.”
He nodded impatiently.
“You must not kill it, Darak.”
“What?”
“This is not an ordinary animal.”
“I know that, Struath. What’s your point?”
“The spirit inhabiting the wolf disrupted the battle in the grove.”
The bloodlust flooded him, making him gasp. He forced his clenched fists open, forced himself to breathe slowly. “You had another vision.”
Struath nodded. “This spirit can move from body to body.”
“Not if the body’s dead.”
“He will never let you get close enough for a kill.”
“He?”
“He. It. Call it what you will.” Struath’s gaze slid away, then met his squarely. “If you try and kill it on your own, it will simply leave the body it now inhabits and take another. Yours, if it chooses. And you will be powerless to stop him.”
“So how can we destroy it?”
Struath’s shoulders relaxed. “I must be present at the kill to perform the rite that will consign its spirit to Chaos. Can we lure the wolf here?”
Darak resisted the urge to ask how Struath could keep this spirit in Chaos if it knew how to open a portal. “It would never come so close—not in broad daylight.”
“At night, then? If you hid yourself—”
“Whatever spirit lives inside, it’s still a wolf, Struath. Even with the wind in the right direction, I’d be hard-pressed to mask my scent completely. And if it’s as dangerous as you say, I’d not want to risk the others.”
“Of course. You’re right. Above all, we must keep the Holly-Lord safe.” Struath stared off, apparently lost in thought. “It wants me. If I went into the forest, faced it alone …”
“What’s to keep it from tossing your spirit out?”
Struath smiled grimly. “I will toss its spirit out first.”
“We’re not talking about a wren, Struath.”
The smile faded. “I am aware of the danger.”
“It’s too risky. If we lose you, who will wield the spirit catcher and bring back Tinnean and the Oak?” Belatedly, he realized how heartless that sounded, but he had more important things to consider than Struath’s feelings. “I’ll track it today.”
“You keep thinking of it as you would a real wolf.”
“This … being has inhabited the wolf’s body for … what? A moon, maybe longer. The Holly-Lord can’t communicate with the trees as well in Tinnean’s body. So a spirit—out of place—might take on the characteristics of the host. Or lose some of its powers. Aye?”
The deep furrows on the shaman’s forehead eased a bit. “If that were true … if he had lost power …” He shook his head. “We cannot count on that.”
“We can’t count on anything. But we can choose the time—and with any luck—the place to meet it. All you have to do is hold your own till I get off a shot. Can you do that?”
“I will. I must.”
Darak jerked his head toward the cave. “Keep the others inside. We’ve food for a sennight and I’ll fill the waterskins before I come back.” He allowed Struath to turn toward the cave before adding, “Just tell me one thing.”
As he’d expected, Struath’s body tensed.
“You said the wolf wanted you.”
Struath nodded cautiously.
“Will it try to kill you straight off? Or take its time?”
Struath’s shoulders sagged. When he spoke, his voice was so soft, Darak had to strain to hear him over the gusting wind.
“He will want to take a long time.”
Struath bent, wincing, and crawled back into the cave. The shaman had borne the miseries of this journey as well as any of them, but now both body and spirit seemed diminished by the weight of his knowledge. For clearly, Struath knew the spirit inhabiting the wolf—knew and feared it. Why was he intent on deceiving him? Especially when his silence endangered them all.
“Damn.”
If he tried to force the truth from Struath, the shaman would close up tighter than a clamshell. Yeorna, perhaps, might wheedle it out of him; she had a gift for knowing how to talk to people. He would take her aside tonight while Struath slept. For now, all he could do was stalk his enemy and see what he could learn.
A day, maybe two before he’d be ready for the kill. Until then, his conversation with Fellgair would have to wait.
Chapter 25
IT WAS STILL DARK when Griane left the cave. Darak had been so exhausted from tracking the wolf that he never stirred. When he did, he would be furious, although strictly speaking, she had not lied. When Darak had returned last night, he had told her he didn’t want her leaving the cave for any reason and asked if she understood. And she’d said “Aye, Darak” with just the right degree of resentment to sound convincing. She couldn’t help it if he chose to interpret that as a promise.
After all, she had a perfectly sound reason for disobeying. Darak had his hands full with the wolf. It was up to her to contact the Trickster. Even if Darak could have gone, she was a far more suitable emissary. Fellgair liked her. He had called her “delightful” and “witty” and had praised her appearance. Her hair, anyway. And when s
he kissed him, he had most definitely kissed her back. The experience had proved mildly disappointing; she had assumed that kissing a god would make her senses reel and her pulse flutter and her body flush with … something. Mostly, she had noticed that his long whiskers tickled. Even Darak’s brief, hard kiss at the gorge had been more stimulating, although it had left her lips a bit bruised.
Belatedly realizing that she was stroking her mouth with her forefinger, she frowned and broke into a trot. When she returned with the Trickster’s promise to open a portal, Darak would forgive her. He would shout and threaten to wallop her, but he would understand why she’d had to go; he was willing to risk anything to get Tinnean back, too.
Although the chinks of sky had lightened to a dull gray, it was too dark among the trees to move fast. She had to guide herself with her hands, letting her feet tell her when she ventured off the narrow trail. Despite her care, she ran headlong into a low-hanging branch. She picked herself up, swiping impatiently at her forehead. Just a scrape, hardly bleeding at all. She’d just have to move more slowly. But Darak would be awake by now and he would guess her intention. She had to find the Trickster before Darak found her. Bent almost double, she hurried on.
Two ghostly forms loomed ahead of her. She straightened so quickly she slipped on the slick leaves and landed on her arse. Shaking her braid back, she looked up and recognized the twin birches where the trail veered.
Disgusted, she rose, wiping her hands on her breeches. Tinnean’s breeches. The feel of the soft leather comforted her. It was easy to remember his face—it was before her every day—but sometimes, she found herself struggling to recollect his mannerisms: the sound of his laugh or the exact way he’d gnaw his fingernails. It was silly, but just touching his breeches brought him closer.
But standing here rubbing them won’t bring him back.
The waterskin bumped against her hip. The stones she had packed inside it comforted her almost as much as Tinnean’s breeches. She wasn’t a complete curd-brain, although Darak would probably call her far worse. If she did meet up with the mysterious wolf, sling and stones would scare it off.
Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Page 18