“Because that is where his spirit always goes when he leaves the One Tree,” Gortin said.
“But not at—”
“And the Tree-Father has seen it.”
Darak caught Struath’s eye. The shaman stiffened, but all he said was, “Can you lead us to the Summerlands, Holly-Lord?” The Holly-Lord nodded. “Then we must go.” The shaman’s voice sounded as decisive as ever, but his frown lingered.
“What?” Darak asked. “What troubles you?”
Struath glared at him. “The Oak’s spirit is gone. Your brother is gone. I am about to embark on a journey no mortal has ever undertaken. Surely, that is enough to trouble any man.”
Darak bit back a retort and turned to the Holly-Lord. “Which way?”
He pointed. Hard to gauge the position of the sun through the trees, but Darak judged the direction as roughly southeast. “You can … feel the Summerlands?”
“It is the one place in the forest I cannot feel. That is how I know it is there.”
Struath squared his shoulders. “Gortin, you must return to the village.”
“But Tree-Father—”
“Someone must bring word. And they will need your guidance in the days to come.”
Gortin’s head drooped. “As you command, Tree-Father.”
“Prepare yourself well. The first crossing is difficult. More so when you attempt it alone.”
“But the Grain-Mother …” Darak darted a quick look at Yeorna. “Surely you can help Gortin.”
“The Tree-Father needs my help to restore the Oak and Tinnean. Lisula must fulfill my duties until I return.”
“But you’re—”
“Only a woman. I know, Darak.”
“With respect, Grain-Mother, I was going to say that you don’t know the forest.”
“No one knows this forest.”
She was right. The First Forest was a world where the gods walked, where an alder and a rowan had dragged their roots from the earth and crossed the boundary between the worlds to become the first man and woman. The priests had never ventured beyond this grove. The trails were unknown, unmarked by human footprints. His skills would be valuable, but only the Holly-Lord could guide them to their destination.
He blessed the foresight that had made him bring along his hunting sack and their bundles of clothes. Struath had insisted they would return at sunset, but he had wanted to be prepared in case it took the priests more than a day to work their magic. Only the gods knew how long this journey would take. They had little food, no shelter. It would be a miracle if they lasted the night.
Struath’s brisk instructions interrupted his thoughts. “Gortin, I believe you and Griane will be safe, but ward yourselves until you cross back.”
“I’m not going with Gortin,” Griane said. “I’m coming with you.”
“Nay.” He and Struath spoke at once, exchanging surprised glances at finding themselves in agreement.
“It’s too dangerous,” Darak added.
“All the more reason to have a healer with you.” She cast a pointed look at his bloodstained sleeve.
“I can tend to that later.”
“And can you make a poultice to keep the wound from turning putrid? Or brew a drink to drive away a fever? Or—”
“You’re not coming.” She closed her mouth, but her chin thrust out at a mutinous angle. “You’ve no business being here in the first place. What were you thinking, wandering around the forest at night?”
“I wasn’t wandering,” she said, flushing. “I came to warn you. They were coming for Tinnean.”
“Who?”
“Jurl. Onnig. My uncle. I heard them talking. I was coming to your hut—with these.” She thrust out the lumpy bundle she’d been clutching. “Warm clothes. Herbs. And some food. Just oatcakes and fish. There wasn’t much to spare.”
“Griane, I …” He didn’t know whether to shake her or hug her. Twice in the space of a day, she’d stood with him, defying her uncle, defying the whole tribe.
“So I can’t go back.” Her pointed little chin trembled. “The council would cast me out along with Tinnean.”
“Griane, the council did not vote for a casting-out,” Yeorna said. “The elders agreed to allow us to attempt a restoration.”
Her resolute expression leached away. “Then … you weren’t in any danger at all?”
“That is correct,” Struath said. “If you had waited—”
“The Maker only knows what Jurl might have done,” Darak said.
“They said …” Her voice sounded so soft and small that Darak felt a reluctant tug of sympathy. “They weren’t going to hurt Tinnean. Just keep you from taking him away.” In an even smaller voice, she added, “I listened outside their hut.”
Struath made an inarticulate sound of disgust. “By now, the whole village will be roused.”
“She was trying to help,” Darak said.
“So now you condone her behavior?”
“She might have acted rashly, but only because she was worried about Tinnean. Even you can’t condemn her for that.”
“If I may …” Yeorna ventured.
Struath frowned, but nodded.
“Griane is not a child. She deserves the right to choose for herself.” Before any of them could interrupt, she added, “None of us knows what danger we might encounter in the days ahead. Griane’s gift of healing may prove as important as your skills as a hunter, Darak. Or your knowledge of the spirit catcher, Tree-Father.”
The Holly-Lord smiled. “Come, Griane.”
She smiled back and laid her palm against his cheek. Then her face changed and her hand fell to her side.
“I will come, Holly-Lord.”
Darak and Struath turned to Yeorna. Darak hoped he didn’t look as helpless as the shaman.
“Everything happens for a reason,” Yeorna said.
Whether or not that was true, impulsive acts surely led to disaster. If Griane had waited for the council’s decision, she would be safe at home. If Tinnean had not charged the Tree … His gaze fell on the Holly-Lord who was helping Griane retie her bundle. As soon as he turned back to the Tree, her brave smile faded. She gazed at the giant trees, gnawing her upper lip. When she caught him watching her, she scowled.
Struath motioned Gortin aside to murmur some priestly instructions. He touched the back of his hand to his initiate’s forehead, then drew back, frowning, when Gortin seized his hand and pressed a kiss to the acorn tattoo. Poor Gortin looked crestfallen. He returned Yeorna’s hug, but pulled away to retrieve Struath’s staff and hand it to him.
“Gortin, watch your back after you cross,” Darak offered by way of farewell. “The wolf may still be lurking about.”
Darak’s gaze locked with Struath’s. The shaman was the first to look away.
“How far?” he asked the Holly-Lord.
“Far.”
When it was clear he would get nothing more, Darak nodded. “Right, then. We’ll take it slow. No running ahead, Holly-Lord. Do you understand?”
He nodded, his gaze lingering on the Tree. Darak took him by the shoulder and spun him southeast.
He was not Tinnean. Tinnean was lost. But he would find him. In the Summerlands, in the Forever Isles, in Chaos itself if that’s where he had to search. Meanwhile, he would keep his brother’s body safe until the one who stole it could be sent back into his Tree forever.
Chapter 11
MORGATH LAY in the thicket, worrying the broken shaft of the arrow protruding from his flank. He had watched the girl stumble into the grove and vanish with the others. Strangers, all of them—except for the old one. Too weak from the crossing to probe his spirit, he might not have known him at all if the Hunter hadn’t spoken the name.
Struath.
His lips drew back in a silent snarl. Time moved differently in Chaos, but he had never imagined that so many years had gone by in the world of men. How many had he lost—twenty? thirty? Half a lifetime stolen by the one who had betrayed him and cast hi
s spirit into Chaos.
Somehow he had escaped. Perhaps his little apprentice had inadvertently drawn him through the portal. Joy had changed to terror when he felt his spirit drifting away. When the owl flew past, he threw all his power at it and pushed the bird’s spirit out. He had done it many times when he had worn a man’s body, sometimes spending half a day in his temporary host, testing his magical powers just as he stretched his newly acquired wings. Expecting to soar with that same effortless skill, he had collided with a low-hanging branch, injuring one wing.
Remembering the rage and helplessness of that moment, Morgath growled. He’d had to roost in an elder for an entire day before he found the strength to look for a new host. This time, he chose carefully. Sluggish with sleep, the bear barely stirred when he usurped its body. The act, coming so soon after stealing the owl, drained what little magical reserves he possessed.
Fat from last summer’s foraging, the bear provided an ideal host for his recovery, but he had not escaped Chaos to drowse away the winter. He had lumbered out of the den, delighting in the feel of blood pumping through his body, the sweet taste of air in his lungs, the delicious reek of his fur. His limbs moved with heavy grace and he loved them. The excitement of seeing out of both eyes again more than made up for the colorless world he beheld.
He found a cluster of elderberries, overlooked by the birds; if he’d still worn a man’s form, he would have wept as the tartness of the shriveled black berries exploded on his tongue. Even more satisfying was the mouse he trapped under his paw: the delicate crunch of its small bones, the tickle of fur as it slid down his throat.
A thick thread of saliva oozed between his half-open jaws. Had the act of eating ever been so satisfying when he was a man?
The mouse had awakened a desire for more flesh. He chased a fox away from its kill, savoring the rabbit’s still-warm flesh and rich, heavy blood before roaring his satisfaction to the forest. The wolf pack had been less willing to surrender its kill. Bodies low to the ground, fangs bared, they waited for him to retreat. When he refused, several of them slunk away from the others to flank him.
He quickly decided to assault the smaller male. The attack followed the same lines as the others: the sudden invasion; the brief but impossible battle to repel him; and finally, that ecstatic moment when the host’s spirit hurtled out of its body, leaving him in possession.
The silver-muzzled male circled the lifeless bear several times before padding toward him. This time, the release of magic had left him barely conscious. If the wolf had chosen to attack, he would have been helpless. Tail lowered, eyes averted, Morgath whined as the pack leader sniffed him. Finally, the male licked him and led the others back to gorge.
He remained with them several nights, gathering his strength and honing his skills. But wolves are wise; they sensed something wrong. Before they could turn on him, he left the pack and made his way back to the grove.
He’d had no time to observe the devastation when he first escaped. He remembered little more than screams and that dizzying flight through the trees. Standing before the One Tree, he wondered if the Tree-Lords had finished their battle. And if not, what consequences did that hold for the world?
That must be the reason the Betrayer had come to the heart-oak—to offer prayers and sacrifices. His lip curled. It would take more than prayers to restore the One Tree. If the Betrayer needed proof of his master’s power, he had only to look at the devastation he had wrought.
Morgath rose and limped into the glade, whimpering as the arrowhead ground deeper into his flank. He had a new enemy now. The Hunter, too, must be punished.
He wove his way toward the heart-oak. The crossing had drained him, but now he was home, standing before the heart-oak to which he had offered so many sacrifices. Blood spattered the tree’s roots. He sniffed eagerly, tongue flicking out to savor the Hunter’s essence. Sacrificial blood was richer than ordinary blood. He wondered if the animals that had feasted upon him so many years ago had recognized the difference.
He nosed through the dead leaves, half-hoping to discover some piece of himself, but of course, there was nothing. His blood had long since soaked into the earth, his flesh devoured by scavengers, his bones scattered. Only his spirit remained to bear witness to the murder.
He raised his muzzle and howled. Roosting doves fled skyward with a noisy flapping of wings. His legs collapsed under him and his vision clouded. He dragged himself back to the thicket and laid his head down on his paws.
They could not return until sunset. When they did, he would be waiting.
PART TWO
In the springtime of the world, the One Tree stood alone.
And the Maker created the sacred trees to stand with
the One Tree.
And the trees became the First Forest and it covered
the earth.
And among the trees roamed the beasts of the
woodlands.
And above the trees soared the birds of the air.
And between the trees swam the fish of the rivers.
And beneath the trees crawled the creatures of the
earth.
But no people walked here …
—Legend of the First Forest
Chapter 12
AT FIRST, DARAK THOUGHT the giant trees were making him uneasy; even the smallest birch loomed above them. By midmorning, he realized it was more. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d catch a flicker of movement, a shadow flitting from trunk to trunk. Once he noticed the shadows, he saw more, as if his very awareness drew them closer. He had spent too many years in the forest to dismiss the sensation.
He let his gaze drift across the trees, hoping to spot a break in the pattern of color and light and motion. Struath watched him, two vertical creases forming between his brows. “What is it?”
“There’s … something.” Struath nodded; he must have noticed the shadows, too. Darak lowered his voice. “The wolf couldn’t cross over until sunset, could it?”
“Nay. At least …” Struath swallowed, then turned to the Holly-Lord. “There is a strange presence in the forest.”
“It is only the rootless ones.”
Struath’s breath hissed in. “So the story is true.”
“What story?” Darak asked.
“About the trees who have died—struck by lightning, killed by rot. Their spirits live on in the First Forest, guarding the living trees.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“My … the man who told me the story … he said the Watchers are not malevolent. As long as we do no harm to the trees, I think they will leave us alone.”
“And you trust the man who told you this?”
Struath looked away. “I believe the story.”
Darak estimated it was only midafternoon—it was impossible to tell in the dimness of the forest—but he called a halt when they reached a clearing. Harmless or not, he preferred to keep the Watchers at a distance. Besides, Struath looked utterly drained. If a day’s easy march exhausted him, how would he ever reach the Summerlands?
While Griane showed the Holly-Lord how to scoop up fallen leaves and pine needles for bedding, Darak squatted down to clear a space for the fire pit. “Yeorna, gather fuel, please. Twigs, pinecones …”
“Darak.”
“A moment, Struath. Bigger branches, too, if you find them. Struath, we’ll need stones for the fire pit.”
“Darak, you cannot light a fire.”
Darak examined the clearing again. The lowest branches were easily ten times a man’s height. Even if an errant spark flew that high, the wood was too wet to catch.
“There’s little danger. Griane, that’ll do for bedding—we’ve got the wolfskins as well.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Darak swiveled toward the shaman. “Then speak plain.”
“This is the First Forest. To light a fire here is an act of disrespect.”
“You expect us to survive without fire?”
“
Fire is anathema to the forest. To build one can only incur its wrath.”
“So we’re damned if we build a fire and we freeze to death if we don’t. That’s our choice?”
“We have no choice, Darak.”
Darak rose. “Are you telling me you will not permit me to light a fire?”
“I am telling you that the First Forest will not permit it.”
“Tree-Father. Darak.” Yeorna dropped the dead branch she was dragging and walked toward them.
“When a hunter cuts ash to make a bow, he asks permission of the tree first. When we clear trees for a field, we offer a sacrifice. We’ve always done this and the trees have never punished us.”
Struath hesitated, then turned to the Holly-Lord. “Can you explain our need?”
The Holly-Lord looked troubled, but he walked among the trees, pausing to lay his palms against their trunks. When he turned back to them, he shook his head. “It is hard. Fire is the destroyer. They fear it.”
“Then I’ll build it,” Darak said. “And I’ll make the sacrifice. If the forest seeks vengeance, let it fall upon me and me alone.” He stared from his bloodstained sleeve to the dagger in his hand.
“Water,” Struath said.
“We need the water for ourselves.”
“Then it is a greater sacrifice than blood.”
After a moment, Darak nodded. He circled the clearing, sprinkling water on the ground while Struath and Yeorna chanted, “Water of life, we offer you. Fire, we ask in return.”
Even with a flint dagger, it was hard work digging up the frozen earth; despite the cold, he was sweating by the time he finished. After smoothing the furrowed earth with his fingers, he laid the rocks Griane had gathered in a circle. He dug into his belt pouch and dropped a handful of tinder into the shallow pit, then placed his notched fireboard over it to catch the first spark. Finally, he reached for his firestick.
He had crafted it from an ash branch, scraping it with the sharpened tine of an antler until it was only the thickness of his forefinger. Most men made a new firestick each winter; he had clung to his for three. In all their years together, it had never failed him.
Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Page 9
