Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  With a soft moan, she sank onto the grass. Everyone was supposed to be happy in the Forever Isles. Why did she have this hard knot of grief in her chest? Frolicking on the sunlit shores, indeed. If Old Sim were here, she’d give the Memory-Keeper a piece of her mind. But he wasn’t here. No one was. She was utterly alone.

  She ground her fists against her burning eyes. The other spirits must be on another part of the island. Or on another island altogether. She had to stop wallowing in self-pity and find them. Together, they could figure out a way to help the others. Just because she was dead didn’t mean she was going to sit around and do nothing.

  Shoving a wisp of hair off her damp forehead, she cast a longing look at the pool. It would be a shame to look bedraggled when she met her family. And it was so hot …

  She stripped and lowered herself into the pool, gasping a little at the water’s chill. Seizing soapwort from the bank with one hand, she tore her braid free with the other and blissfully scrubbed her hair for the first time in a moon. Splashing in the water reminded her of her first swimming lessons: Darak’s pretense of surprise when she and Tinnean dove beneath the surface to grab his ankles, his wicked grin when he charged toward them, cutting through the shallows like a giant boat, heedless of their shrieks of excitement and the gouts of water they hurled at him.

  She had forgotten that. One of many happy memories subsumed by the bitter ones after Darak married Maili. She had always blamed him for her sister’s unhappiness, but it took two to make a marriage work—or fail. Shame filled her when she remembered the words she had flung at him, the stark look on his face. Now, she would never have the chance to take those words back.

  She dragged herself out of the pool, ashamed to be indulging in a bath while her kinfolk were in danger. She dried herself quickly with her mantle and pulled on her tunic. She was reaching for Tinnean’s breeches when she heard a splash behind her and whirled around.

  Sunlight slanted through the ancient oaks shadowing the pool. A shaft of light sliced across the waterfall’s spray, creating a tiny rainbow. Another danced off the quartz chips in the boulders, making them glitter like the Tree-Father’s spirit catcher. On one of the boulders, tossing pebbles into the pool, lounged the Trickster.

  “Awake at last.”

  “Awake? But aren’t I—”

  “Dead?” He shook his head, smiling. “Welcome to the Summerlands, Griane.”

  She sat down abruptly on a sunlit boulder.

  “Disappointed?”

  “Nay. I just …” She shook her head. To go from life to death to life again took a little getting used to. “It was you, then. Who saved me from the wolf.”

  The Trickster rose and bowed, claws over his heart.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “ ‘Thank you, Lord Trickster’ might be appropriate.”

  “Forgive me. Thank you, Lord Trickster.”

  “You’re welcome, Griane.” He strolled over to her and threw himself down on the grass at her feet. His golden eyes slanted up at her, slitted against the sunlight. As his gaze traveled up her legs, she realized her tunic was bunched up around her waist. Blushing, she rose and tugged it down.

  “You’re as lean as a vixen.”

  “If you’re going to insult me—”

  “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “Oh. Well. Thank you. Again.”

  “Again, you are welcome. Sit down, dear. Unless you enjoy having me look up your tunic.”

  She sat, knees pressed firmly together. The white tip of his brush curled over her bare toes. She considered moving her feet, but decided that would be rude, especially after he had saved her life.

  “Does Darak ever offer you compliments?”

  “Aye.” She tried to think of one. “He told me I bound his wound well.”

  “How dull. I should have chided him when I saw him this afternoon.”

  “You saw him? He’s all right? The wolf didn’t hurt him? Did you tell him I was safe? I don’t want him to worry. He has enough on his mind …” Her voice ran down. The Trickster was grinning and no wonder. She was babbling like a fool.

  “Let’s see. Yes. Yes. No. Yes.”

  “And the others?”

  Fellgair shrugged.

  “You must take me back.”

  “Must I?”

  “Please. They’ll be worried. The Grain-Mother’s ankle needs strapping, and the Tree-Father needs warm compresses on his shoulder, and Darak—”

  “Has enough on his mind. Why not enjoy the Summerlands? There are wonders here far greater than the water.” He reached up and took her hand. He was still smiling when his claw slashed open her palm.

  She cried out, more in shock than pain. She tried to jerk her hand away, but he held it fast. With his free hand, he plucked a slender silvery leaf from one of the plants beside the pool and drew it across her bleeding palm. Cool relief eased the fire. Snatching her hand back, she discovered that the wound had closed, leaving only the tiniest silver scar across her palm.

  “Yes, there are many wonders in the Summerlands.” He turned her chin toward another clump of plants with large, glossy leaves. “A decoction of those will soothe the most troubled spirit.”

  “Dried or fresh?”

  “Fresh is more potent.”

  “Steeped how long?”

  “For a man spirit-sick unto death, you should steep them overnight. For a girl fretting over unrequited love …” Bushy eyebrows rose in a suggestive leer.

  “A good dose of common sense will suffice.”

  He reclined on the grass, laughing. “Ah, Griane. You are as refreshing as Summerlands water. I will miss you if you leave.”

  “If?”

  His features shifted, the delighted smile giving way to one of such feral avidity that she scrambled to her feet. “Am I a prisoner? Do you intend to hold me against my will?”

  “Never.” His smile belied his emphatic negation. “But humans are so changeable. Their moods shift as often as the wind.”

  “Mine don’t. I want to return to the First Forest.”

  “I want. I want. You’re as bad as Darak. Did I mention that I saw him today?”

  “Please, Fellgair …”

  “We had a lovely chat. About his father. His brother. His wife …”

  Darak never spoke about Maili, not to anyone.

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Mmm. Darak is quite fond of you, you know.”

  She didn’t know. He never spoke about his feelings either. Except that morning he had told her how helpless he felt.

  “He asked me to protect you and Cuillon.” The tip of his brush caressed her toes. “But when asked to choose between you, he chose the Holly-Lord.”

  She sank down on the boulder and lowered her head, grateful that her wet hair hid her face.

  “I said his choice would wound you. He said you would understand.”

  “Aye.”

  “Which? The choice or the understanding?”

  “Both.”

  He lifted her chin gently. “Are you always so honest?”

  “What’s the point of lying? You’d know the truth anyway.” She swiveled away and began combing out her hair with her fingers.

  His hands covered hers, the pads warm and rough. “Let me do that.” He spread his claws. “Much more effective than fingers, don’t you think?”

  Numbly, she shifted on the boulder so that he could stand behind her. For a moment, his hands lay atop her head as if in blessing. Then his fingers eased their way through the snarled strands and returned to the crown of her head to start the journey again. For a long while, there was only the splash of water, and the warmth of the sun on her face, and the light touch of his claws gliding through her hair.

  “All the colors of fox fur, your hair. Burnished red. Soft streaks of bronze where the sun has bleached it. And here.” His claws brushed the nape of her neck. “Almost brown.” Down and up, his hands moved. Down and up, in a rhythm as ce
aseless and hypnotic as his gentle swaying. “When you’re older, you’ll have the white as well.”

  Her head fell back to rest against his chest. His hands drifted down her neck, smoothing her hair over her shoulders. She turned her cheek into his fur and sighed as his hand cupped the back of her head.

  “Darak asked me to open a portal.”

  Her head jerked up, the mood broken. “What did you say?”

  “I said I would not open a portal. For him.”

  In those slitted eyes, she found the certain knowledge that he would open one for her. But at what cost?

  “Lord Trickster, if I asked you to open a portal … ?”

  “Are you asking?”

  “I … before I ask, I want … I need to know what payment you would ask in return.”

  “Payment?”

  “Aye. What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” He knelt before her, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her knees. “Well. That’s an altogether different question.”

  Bumps of cold rippled up her arms, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud and left her shivering in the shadows. Her nipples hardened and she resisted the urge to cross her arms across her breasts. She closed her eyes. Not such a high price to pay, really. What was a maidenhead compared to the world?

  “All right.”

  “Foxes are monogamous, Griane.”

  Her eyes flew open.

  “Often, a pair remains together for life. You didn’t know that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you wish to rescind your offer?”

  “I … I thought …”

  “Do you wish to rescind your offer?”

  “I would never leave this place? Or see my folk again?”

  The Trickster rose. “You are unwilling.”

  “Wait. Please.”

  “There is nothing more to be said.”

  “Give me a moment. I deserve that much. You’re asking me to give up everything.”

  “I asked no such thing, Griane. You made the offer.”

  “I didn’t think …”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  Darak had said the same thing to her, countless times. Now her impulsiveness threatened them all.

  “Is there nothing else that you would accept?”

  “Do you wish to rescind your offer?”

  “Stop saying that. Can’t you just answer me? I thought you … liked me. Or you wouldn’t have asked … would not have led me to believe—”

  “Do not blame me for your assumptions, Griane.”

  “Do you want me or not?”

  “Yes.”

  The golden eyes bore into her. A liquid glow rose up in her belly, spreading up to her taut nipples and down into her loins. The Trickster’s whiskers twitched as if he could smell her heat. When he offered her a lazy smile, she knew with utter certainty and shame that he did. Of course he could make her desire him; he simply hadn’t bothered when he had returned her kiss.

  Why was she hesitating? If she would miss sliding down a snowy hillside or watching the Northern Dancers illuminate the winter sky, here she would never know cold. If she must forgo the tribal feasts that celebrated the turning of the year, here she would never know hunger. And if the joys of marriage and children were denied her, she would be spared the pain of burying the babes she birthed and watching love yield to the everyday demands of cooking and cleaning, planting and harvesting, mending torn clothes and broken bones. She would live out her life in this glorious cocoon with the Trickster, always amusing, always exciting, always a little dangerous.

  She would never have the chance to apologize to Darak for her hot and hasty words. She would never be able to explain to her folk what had happened. They would believe she had abandoned them. But because of her, they would find Tinnean and the Oak. That would have to suffice.

  Without a word, she lay down in the warm grass. He knelt at her feet, watching her. She realized he was waiting for her to open her legs to him. The sacrifice had to be made willingly.

  Her breath caught on a sob and she clamped her lips together. He saw, of course. He saw everything. She parted her legs. His claws dug very lightly into her ankles as he slowly pushed her knees up. He was careful not to scratch her. She should be grateful for that.

  His fur brushed her legs as he moved between them. His palms caressed the inside of her thighs, opening the way wider. Would a mortal lover touch her with such gentleness?

  “Are you afraid?”

  Why lie when he must notice the pulse beating in her neck and hear the quick rasp of her breath? “Aye.”

  Even if she returned to the world someday, even if she offered herself to a man she loved, she would always remember this moment, with the grass tickling her toes, and the sun hot on her face, and the Trickster’s hands, hotter than the sun upon her flesh. She closed her eyes, willing him to do this quickly before she lost her nerve and begged him to let her go.

  She felt a tear ooze down her cheek and then the rough slide of his tongue. He sighed. “Is anything so delicious as the taste of human tears?”

  And then there was only warm air against her body. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

  She ran, begging him to return, knowing he had sensed that fatal hesitation, promising that she was willing. She ran until her voice grew hoarse from screaming his name. She ran until her legs gave out and she slid to her knees beneath a crab apple. Her head drooped against the tree, the knotty trunk hard against her temple. And then she wept.

  Something soft brushed against her wet cheek. Something white fell upon her knee. She stared at it with a dull sense of wonder, for how could there be snow in the Summerlands? Another fell and then another before she realized the snowflakes were blossoms.

  She sat up. They fell faster, as if a strong wind brought them down, although only the lightest breeze blew. Still they fell, beautiful and somehow sad. Sadder still were the two dark eyes that blinked open in the crab apple’s trunk.

  A blossom slid past one eye, a white-petaled tear that caught on the groove of the mouth. With one shaking forefinger, she brushed it aside and watched it drift downward. Her finger hung in the air. She touched the trunk very lightly and the tree wept white blossoms.

  And then she saw the others—apple, quickthorn, rowan. An entire hillside of flowering trees. A blizzard of white, cloaking the ground like new-fallen snow.

  Griane closed her eyes. Grief should not be so beautiful.

  Chapter 29

  BATTERED BY GRIANE’S disappearance and the Trickster’s revelations, Darak had little heart for another confrontation with Struath. He refused to believe that the Tree-Father had lured Morgath to the grove, that his betrayal could run that deep. But he had concealed his knowledge of Morgath’s presence. No matter what explanation he might offer, Darak doubted he could trust him again.

  The storm broke as he reached the cave. He was still getting to his feet when Cuillon tugged at his sleeve.

  “Darak. It is Yeorna.”

  The Grain-Mother sat with her back against the wall of the cave, her head lowered over the turtle shell Struath held to her lips. She looked up as he approached and her eyes widened. With an inarticulate cry, she shrank back.

  “Do not be frightened,” Cuillon said as he crouched beside her. “It is only Darak.”

  She nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on him.

  Before he could ask what could possibly have reduced her to this state, Struath said, “We found her outside—”

  “Outside?”

  “It was my fault,” Cuillon said, his face miserable. “She followed me. And then we saw the wren with the broken wing. I came back to the cave for suetcake …” His voice trailed off.

  “We think she must have fallen,” Struath continued. “She was only unconscious for a short while, but ever since she awoke, she has been … dazed.”

  Darak stared at Yeorna, sickened.

  “People slip, Darak.” Griane’s words.
“You cannot control it.”

  But he could have—simply by including Yeorna in his bargain with the Trickster.

  He found himself thinking of poor Pol who had been kicked in the head by the ram; ever since that day, the boy had lain in his hut, staring vacantly into space. Had he doomed Yeorna to a similar fate through his negligence?

  “Darak?”

  He found his horror reflected on Cuillon’s face. Damning himself for allowing his emotions to show, he groped for the words that might ease him. In the end, he used Griane’s.

  “It was an accident, lad. At least she’s awake now. That’s a good sign. Sometimes, it takes days …” He frowned, then turned to Struath and spoke with renewed energy. “Remember that winter—years ago—when Onnig dared Jurl to slide headfirst down Eagles Mount? Jurl slammed into a boulder and was out for a full day—”

  “And dazed for another two,” Struath interrupted.

  “But after that …”

  “He was as miserable as ever.”

  Struath offered him a weary smile and Darak found himself smiling back. Then he remembered the shaman’s betrayal and his smile died.

  “So Yeorna will be well again?” Cuillon asked.

  “I hope so, Cuillon.”

  “You are not telling a small lie?”

  Darak shot him an impatient glance. “I don’t have all the answers. If I did, Tinnean would be safe at home and you’d be—” Seeing Cuillon’s stricken expression, he broke off. His shame deepened when he remembered how he’d snapped at Yeorna that morning. No wonder his presence made her flinch.

  “I’m sorry, lad. I’m just … I’m tired, is all.”

  “You were gone a long time. We were worried.”

  “You went back to the clearing, didn’t you?” Struath asked.

  “Aye.”

  “And tracked the wolf.”

  “I met Fellgair.”

  “Does he know where Griane is?” Cuillon asked. “Did he tell you what happened? Did he—”

  “He told me she was safe.”

  Struath sighed heavily. “Thank the gods.”

  “He also told me about Morgath.”

  Struath’s hand froze in the act of making the circle of thankfulness over his heart. His expression removed Darak’s last doubts as to the truth of the Trickster’s words.