Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  “Who is Morgath?” Cuillon asked.

  “Tell him, Struath.” He kept his voice soft so he would not frighten Yeorna. Struath’s mouth worked, but no words would come. “Nay? Then I will. Morgath attacked the One Tree. He cast my brother’s spirit out. And because he had no form of his own, he stole the body of a wolf and followed us from the grove so he could destroy us all.” The shaman’s wince sent a savage thrill of pleasure through him. “And Struath knew. All along.”

  Struath shook his head.

  “You knew. And you hid the truth from us.”

  Cuillon’s fingers dug into his arm. He fought the urge to fling off that restraining hand, to seize Struath by his scrawny throat and roar the accusations in his face. Instead, the single word came out as a strangled croak.

  “Why?”

  Struath’s face crumpled. “I failed to See.” His head came up, a trace of the old power returning to his face. “But I did not realize it was …” Trembling fingers made the sign of protection. “I did not know. Until I had the vision.” Again, the shaman’s head drooped. “I did withhold the knowledge. I endangered everyone. You, most of all, Darak, for I allowed you to go into the forest alone. And Griane …” His breath caught. “I shall never forgive myself for Griane.”

  Struath drew the bronze dagger from its sheath with a trembling hand. “I have failed you all—as your Tree-Father and as a man. I do not ask for your forgiveness. I do not deserve it. But I swear that I shall not fail you again.”

  Yeorna’s breath hissed in as Struath pushed back the sleeve of his robe. Cuillon winced when he saw the old scars and the bandage stained with fresh blood. Even Darak made an involuntary gesture to stay Struath’s hand, but the Tree-Father shook his head.

  “This time, I make the cut unaided.”

  “Nay.” The unexpected tone of command in Cuillon’s voice took them both by surprise. “You will not hurt yourself again.”

  “I must make a blood sacrifice.”

  “There has been enough blood.”

  “Then … what can I offer?”

  Cuillon frowned. Then his face brightened. “We shall spit. We will all swear not to fail each other and we will all spit. Aye, Darak?”

  He gave the Holly-Lord stare for stare. In the end, he was the one who looked away, nodding curtly.

  They spat into their palms. Darak clasped Cuillon’s left hand and reluctantly shifted his gaze to Struath. The shaman was the first to extend a hand. It shook so badly that Darak wondered if it was a trick of the flickering firelight. When he gripped the cold fingers, he knew better. He tightened his grip, willing strength into that trembling hand; only if the Tree-Father remained strong could he rescue Tinnean and the Oak. When Struath gave him a peremptory nod, he knew his unspoken message was understood.

  “Now spit, Yeorna. Like this.” Cuillon spat into his right palm again. Yeorna watched, her face intent. Her gaze shifted to her hands, lying limp in her lap. Frowning in concentration, she raised her left hand, darting occasional glances at Cuillon who rewarded each movement with an eager nod. Darak watched her, relief mixed with dismay. Perhaps Yeorna would recover—but how long would that take? Meanwhile, Griane was lost, Morgath roamed the forest, and Tinnean suffered in Chaos.

  Cuillon beamed as Yeorna lowered her head over her upraised hand and allowed a trickle of spittle to drip into it. “Now hold your hand out to me. Can you do that?”

  With the same agonizing slowness, Yeorna stretched her hand toward Cuillon. A small gasp escaped her as he clasped it and then a smile blossomed on her face.

  “Good, Yeorna. Now spit into your other hand.”

  Yeorna’s lips puckered. Her untidy hair fell forward as she lowered her head to her cupped hand. She spat with greater force. This time, her smile was triumphant.

  “Very good. Now take Struath’s hand.”

  After a moment of hesitation, she obeyed.

  “Now we will swear. Struath, it is your swearing so you should say the words.”

  Struath glanced around the circle, his haggard face solemn. “I swear by the mercy of the blessed Maker to support each member of this fellowship with my body, my heart, and my spirit. And if I fail in my duty, may my spirit never fly to the Forever Isles, but sink forever into Chaos.”

  “And so do I swear,” Darak said.

  “And so do I swear.” Cuillon turned to Yeorna. She licked her lips, eyes darting uncertainly to each of them as her mouth struggled to form the words. “If you cannot speak the words, Yeorna, you can just nod. It will still be a swearing, will it not, Struath?”

  The Tree-Father nodded. Two lines formed between Yeorna’s brows. Her lips parted. They all leaned toward her, as if to help her summon the power of speech.

  “I … swear.”

  Cuillon threw his arms around her. The look of sheer animal terror faded as she accepted his embrace. Noting her flushed face and damp eyes, Darak touched Cuillon on the shoulder.

  “Slowly, lad. Let her get her bearings.”

  Cuillon pulled back, but she clung to his hand, gazing into his face with an expression of such infinite pain and hopeless pleasure that Darak’s breath caught. After a long moment, she raised her right hand and stared at it. Releasing her grip on Cuillon, she rubbed two fingers back and forth across the palm. When she looked up and caught him watching her, her face went blank for a moment, then relaxed into a smile.

  Darak managed a shaky smile in return before he got to his feet. Catching Struath’s eye, he jerked his head toward the cave’s entrance. As the shaman rose stiffly, Cuillon looked up.

  “We’re just going to get some fresh air,” Darak said.

  “Now I know you are telling a small lie.”

  “We’re not going to kill each other, damn it. It’s just … there are things we need to talk over.”

  “Talk here.”

  Struath leaned down to whisper something. Cuillon still looked worried, but he nodded.

  Darak crawled through the branches, then held them back to ease Struath’s passage. The shaman struggled to his knees, impeded by his long robe. He tried to rise, but sank back down, an expression of furious shame twisting his features. Darak thrust out his hand. After the briefest hesitation, Struath took it and allowed Darak to pull him to his feet.

  Although dark clouds still lowered overhead, the rain had ceased. To the west, the sky was streaked with rose and violet, the beauty a stark counterpoint to the events of the day.

  “A good sign,” Struath murmured.

  “A fair day on the morrow, anyway.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Darak caught the helpless shivering that shook Struath. He slipped off his mantle, but the shaman’s baleful glance forestalled him.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re cold.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Will you just take the damn mantle and stop playing the hero?” He flung it over Struath’s shoulders.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Struath broke it by saying, “I know I have much to atone for, but if we are—”

  Darak cut him off with an impatient gesture. “I took the oath and I meant it.”

  “But in your heart—”

  “We’ve more important things to worry about than my heart. Or yours.” Struath drew himself up, but Darak just shook his head and dragged a weary hand across his face. “We must get to Chaos. Fellgair will not help us. There’s only your spirit guide.”

  “Brana cannot open the way for all of us.”

  “Not all of us. Just you and me. Nay, listen. Yeorna will need days to recover. And we cannot allow Cuillon to go to Chaos. Even with Fellgair’s protection—”

  “What?”

  Quickly, he related his conversation with the Trickster. With the oath fresh in his mind, he revealed everything, including the revelations about his father and Maili and the bargain that had resulted in Yeorna’s injury. As difficult as it had been to share his innermost thoughts with the Trickster, it was harder still
to offer them up to Struath, but perhaps the shaman could discover clues he had overlooked. What was his pride compared to saving Tinnean and the Oak?

  Struath listened without interruption, his face unreadable. At the end, Darak added, “So we can’t take Yeorna and we daren’t risk Cuillon. It has to be you and me.” At Struath’s helpless gesture, his voice sharpened. “You’re the shaman. Find a way.”

  “While you hunt the wolf.” When he remained silent, Struath’s face grew stern. “You have no idea what you are facing.”

  “Yesterday, perhaps.”

  “You cannot defeat him.”

  “I’m still alive.”

  “Only because I was there.”

  “What do you want, Struath? Tearful expressions of gratitude? If I had any tears to shed, I’d offer them to Griane.” Struath’s head jerked back as if he had struck him. Muttering a curse, Darak slumped against a boulder. “This … wrangling … serves no purpose. We both know that.”

  “Old habits are hard to break.” The faintest smile lit Struath’s face. It died as suddenly as it had appeared. “But I mean what I say about … the wolf.” Darak noted that he was still unable—or unwilling—to speak Morgath’s name. “It will mean your death, Darak. Better to go back to Fellgair. Beg him, if you must.”

  “I have begged. On my knees.” His mouth twisted in a semblance of smile at Struath’s shocked expression. “You told me once I’d have to humble myself before the gods.”

  “Once, it would have pleased me.”

  “My knees can stand it, Struath. And my pride.”

  With sudden resolve, the shaman said, “Brana might be able to carry me alone.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “And hunting the wolf is not?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know!” Darak’s voice rose to a shout. “It just is.”

  Struath’s croak of laughter brought a reluctant smile to his face. “You seek Brana. Again. I’ll seek Fellgair. Again. I don’t know what else I can offer him, but there must be something.”

  Struath hesitated, then spoke in a low voice. “We need you alive, Darak.”

  “We need the Oak more.”

  “Now who’s playing the hero?”

  “I’m not trying to be heroic, Struath. Just practical.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’ve already offered the Trickster anything that was in my power to give. He could have asked for my life—but he didn’t.”

  “He wants to keep you alive.”

  “He wants to see me break.” Darak smiled grimly. “That alone might protect me from the wolf. Letting Morgath take me would be too easy.”

  “Perhaps Brana will know how to win the Trickster’s help.”

  Darak nodded, but he held little hope that Struath’s spirit guide could sway Fellgair. Griane might have been able to … but she was gone.

  Although he braced himself for the despair, it came on a wave of nausea so violent it made him gag. He spun away from Struath, choking. Only by exerting all his willpower did he keep from shaming himself. Each ragged intake of breath caught on his clenched teeth with a hiss. His ribs ached with the effort to control his panting. He concentrated on that, only that, until his breathing eased and the nausea ebbed and he could trust himself to shape Griane’s name again in his mind.

  It took longer before he managed to shape the other.

  Tinnean.

  Once, his greatest fear was losing his brother forever. Now, he feared what he would find. Would Tinnean’s spirit be shattered by madness or twisted into something unrecognizable?

  A weight descended on his shoulder. “It is hard not to lose hope,” Struath said, his voice very soft. “Not to look back and think ‘If only I had made a different choice.’ ” Struath’s sigh warmed the back of his neck. “All we can do is learn from our mistakes and go on. And believe that the Maker will not allow our world to die. Chaos may have the upper hand now, but in the end, balance will … must … be restored.”

  “Aye, Struath.”

  He started as Struath grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him around. “You must be strong. For Griane. For Tinnean. For all of us.”

  Just as he had demanded strength from Struath during the oath-taking, so did the shaman demand it of him now. Neither of them could afford the luxury of despair, any more than one could hope to achieve the goal of their quest without the other. Like it or not, they were bound together. He had always known that, of course; what surprised him was the upwelling of relief.

  Perhaps his astonishment showed, for Struath’s hands slid away as the shaman took a hesitant step backward. Darak captured the retreating hands and pressed them between his.

  “I will be strong. I will not lose hope. And so do I swear, Tree-Father.”

  Chapter 30

  DARAK WOKE FROM a fitful doze to find Struath slumped by the fire, his hands over his face. Cuillon sat beside him, patting the shaman’s shoulder. Even before Struath lifted his head, revealing a face ravaged by exhaustion, Darak knew he had failed.

  “I’m sorry, Darak. I tried.”

  “And you’ll try again when you’re stronger.” Still stupid from lack of sleep, Darak groped for his bow and quiver.

  “Nay.”

  “I may be desperate, Struath, but I’m not so foolish as to try and confront the wolf alone. But I might be able to find his lair, work out the best place to lay an ambush.”

  “Darak—”

  “If you’re still weak from your encounter, then so is he. The longer I wait, the stronger he’ll grow.”

  “He … is … right.”

  They all turned to stare at Yeorna. Belatedly, Cuillon leaped up and helped her struggle to a sitting position. “Go … Darak.”

  Darak was already on his feet. “I’ll be back before twilight. In the meantime, Tree-Father, you will rest.” He forced a smile as he echoed Struath’s words from the previous night. “You must be strong. On the morrow, you and I will confront Morgath and destroy him.”

  That resolution lent new strength to his tired legs. He trotted back to the clearing and followed the trail of splintered branches deeper into the forest. Claw marks gouged the leaf-strewn earth, tufts of fur clung to low bushes. He drove himself hard, heedless of burning lungs and aching muscles. Bloodlust surged, hot and wild, but he fought it, seeking that cold, calm center that allowed him to observe the signs and choose his path. Morgath had raced mindlessly through the forest, the man’s spirit helpless before the wolf’s instinct for survival. He must remain the hunter, bending mind and body and spirit to the single task of tracking his enemy.

  At the top of a gentle slope, he halted, panting. He waited for his breathing to ease before following the twisting skid marks to the creek below. The tracks were shallower here and obscured by leaves. He bent closer, then drew back to study the area. Frenzied claw marks churned up the ground and the faintest whiff of urine still clung to the leaves, testifying to a terror far greater than that Morgath had experienced in the clearing. Yet, he had survived the threat to belly under a nearby spikecrown bush. Darak wrapped his mantle over his arm to protect himself from the thorns and gingerly raised a low-hanging branch.

  Too exhausted to dig out a burrow, Morgath had simply collapsed. Darak laid his palm against the flattened leaves, grimly pleased that his hand remained steady. Morgath had rested here, perhaps while he’d been helping Struath back to the cave; the leaves were too damp for him to have spent the night in this makeshift lair. Darak eased himself out from under the bush, smiling. This was the path Morgath had taken back to the stream. This was the place he had broken through the thin crust of ice to drink. And then he had moved slowly upstream, pausing frequently as if searching for something.

  But what?

  Although the trail was a day old, Darak unslung his bow. Bending low, he ducked under the drooping boughs of a spruce. When he straightened, he saw the furry tail peeking out from behind a tumble of boulders.

  He fr
oze, willing his galloping heartbeat to slow. He drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it in the bow. The air was still, but he edged back, using the spruce to screen him from his prey as he worked his way downwind. One step forward. The tail remained utterly still. Was Morgath waiting for him to get close before he attacked? Or was he wounded? Darak had found no trace of blood, but perhaps Struath’s magic had injured him.

  Wait for Struath or go for the kill? Only Struath could consign Morgath’s spirit to Chaos. But he had done that once before and Morgath had escaped.

  One step to the right.

  It had to be now. A clean kill—one shot to the heart—before Morgath’s spirit could flee to another body.

  Another step right. That small opening between those two branches. A clear shot.

  Cold sweat broke out on his body and he slowly lowered the bow.

  The wolf’s haunches were splayed over the pebbled stream bank. Small patches of snow, fallen from the branches of a crack willow, coated the silver-tipped shoulders. Its muzzle lay in the water, a skin of ice around it.

  Arrow drawn, he approached with caution, uncertain whether Morgath’s spirit might still linger inside the body. When he reached the bank, he realized it was impossible. Ice encased the whiskers. The once-fierce eyes were glazed and unseeing. He nudged the wolf with his foot, then slung his bow and knelt beside it, searching for a wound. Finally, he heaved the animal over, grunting with the effort.

  No blood. No broken bones. No cracks in the skull. The wolf was dead, but only because Morgath had chosen another host.

  Cursing, Darak stumbled to his feet and ran.

  Turning his face to the watery sun, Struath breathed a prayer of thanks for Yeorna’s recovery. The effects of the blow to her head seemed to be diminishing. She could feed herself now and her speech was less halting. She had even managed a rueful smile when she explained how she slipped on the slick pebbles at the top of the embankment. She was still so weak, though. And too often, she would lapse into silence, staring at her outstretched fingers or touching her face and her hair as if they belonged to a stranger—almost like the Holly-Lord when he had awakened in Tinnean’s body.