“I am changing.”
“Then we’d best hurry.”
“Please, Trickster …”
“I am not Morgath, Holly-Lord. Begging will not affect me. Although one can’t help enjoying it a little.” He winked and flexed his claws. “Are you ready?”
Wincing, Cuillon fell to his knees.
The Trickster frowned, but his voice was gentle. “I meant what I said, Holly-Lord. I cannot help Darak.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“You’ve been around Darak too long. You’re starting to sound like him.” The Trickster raised him to his feet. “Darak made his choice. He must see it through.”
“Will you help him?”
The Trickster sighed. “Trees are so single-minded. It must come from being rooted. Hear me, Holly-Lord. We all have our little tasks. Darak’s is to free the Oak and Tinnean. Yours is to get back to the First Forest. Mine—for the moment—is to get you there. Will you come?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“There is always a choice, Holly-Lord.”
Cuillon hesitated, clutching the pouch that lay against his chest.
“You must go,” Reinek said. “I will do what I can for Darak.”
The Trickster’s brows rose in mock surprise. “Not coming with us, Reinek?”
“I have my own promise to fulfill, Trickster.”
“What a pity. Cluran has been waiting so long.”
Reinek’s eyes closed briefly. “My wife would understand.”
“That’s what Darak said about Griane. Understanding women—such treasures. Take my hand, Holly-Lord, and hold tight. Oh, never mind. I’ll hold onto you.”
Cuillon shook off the Trickster’s hand. He embraced Reinek, hugging him hard even though his arms went right through him, hoping Reinek could feel something even if he could not. “Tell Darak I am safe.”
“I will. May the Maker guide your steps, Holly-Lord.”
“May the Maker speed you to your Floating Islands, Reinek.”
The Trickster rolled his eyes as he peeled back the doorway. “May the Maker save me from endless farewells.”
Claws closed around his wrist. Cuillon caught one final glimpse of Reinek’s stark face before the Trickster pulled the portal closed behind them.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, another moment to conquer the terror of floating among stars. They spread out in an intricate web of light that seemed to stretch forever. Before he had time to admire their beauty, they melted. The world blurred, as if he were viewing it through tears. The white streaks of the stars gave way to colors—gray and green and occasional blots of yellow—each spinning past, faster and faster, until he was only aware of smears of color and light and the grip of the Trickster’s claws.
He clung to the Trickster as the path shuddered. Time and space slowed, stuttering to a halt. Images slid into place. Leafless trees shivering in the wind. A sunberry bush, heavy with melting snow. Struath’s cairn. His journey to Chaos was ending where it had begun.
The Trickster had vanished, but he was not alone. A figure knelt by the riverbank. As he watched, it rose, shouldering a waterskin. The sun flashed on the long red braid and once again, the world blurred before Cuillon’s eyes.
Griane turned toward the embankment and went very still, like a doe scenting the breeze for danger. Then she gave a great shout and clambered up the slope. Cuillon’s ages-old patience deserted him. He slid down, nearly toppling them both. Her arms went around him. Her tears wet his face. He held her close, unable to do more than repeat her name.
She reached for his hand and her eyes went wide with shock. Before the questions could pour out of her, he held up one bandaged hand. “Would you help me into the cave, please? Then I will tell you everything.”
Chapter 43
AT FIRST, THERE WAS only darkness and the steady pulse of the heartbeat. Then darkness gave way to the smoke-gray of a Midsummer gloaming. As the light brightened, the shadowy silhouettes around him took on form. A birch. A bramble bush. A fallen log.
When he saw the blasted sapling, Darak realized he was standing in the clearing where he had met the Trickster and confronted the wolf. He wondered if a portal had opened into the First Forest while he hung on the tree, then shook his head. Despite his nakedness, he felt no cold.
He raised his ruined hands and stared at the blood-soaked bandages. He touched the oozing strips of raw flesh on his arms. He traced the careful pattern of shallow gashes on his chest and belly, reached behind him to touch the trails of crusted blood snaking down his buttocks.
He felt no pain, only a great weariness, as if he had walked for many miles. For one terrifying instant, he thought he was dead, but his heart still raced in rhythm with that other heartbeat. He tried to pinpoint its direction, but it seemed to be coming from all around him. Whatever this place was, the heartbeat had led him here, carrying him away from Morgath. But even here, Darak could feel his presence. Morgath was following him.
His hand crept up to clutch the bag that still hung around his neck. His charms comforted him as did the knowledge that the spirit catcher nestled among them. Scanning his surroundings, he realized that this place was like and unlike the clearing in the First Forest. Several trails twisted through the trees. The one nearest the bramble bush reeked of Morgath’s malevolence. Another was partially obscured by a tangle of vines and ivy. The blasted sapling stood beside the last path, but it was not the slender oak of the First Forest: between the blackened shards of bark, Darak glimpsed the blood-red heartwood of an alder.
The first man in the world had been an alder. He had walked out of one world and into a new one. Surely that was a good omen. He rested his maimed hand on the scarred trunk long enough to whisper a prayer of healing, then set off.
The trail twisted through a forest at once familiar and foreign. Here, the boulder on the little outcropping that guarded the approach to the heart-oak. A few footsteps later, the clearing in the First Forest where he had struggled and failed to make fire. It was as if both forests had somehow grown together or sprung anew from the tangle of his memories.
When the underbrush on either side of the trail gave way to waist-high stands of sedge, he quickened his pace. The bog looked as daunting as ever. He wondered if he was meant to cross. The heartbeat offered no clue.
As he waited for a sign, one of the hummocks stirred. The frost-hardened moss cracked. The hummock heaved, showering ice crystals. A hand reached up, then another.
Somehow, he knew—even before he saw the curly dark hair or the sorrowful eyes or the pale doeskin of the tunic and skirt, as pristine as the day he had carried her to the Death Hut. He had dreamed of her, had even imagined their eventual meeting in the Forever Isles when he would finally have the chance to set things right between them. Now Maili stood before him and he had no words.
“Why did you summon me, Darak?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t mean to.”
“What is this place?”
“I … I don’t know. I was in Chaos and then—”
“I don’t like it. I don’t want to be here.”
“You’re not. I don’t think … this isn’t real.”
“Let me go, Darak.”
“But I’m … Maili, I’m not trying to hold you. I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“Don’t you?”
Her form wavered and an involuntary cry escaped him. “Don’t go. Not yet. It’s been so long …”
“Aye.”
She smiled and he restrained a wince. “If we could just talk …”
“It’s too late.”
“But we may never get another chance.”
“Why were you so unkind to me?”
“I didn’t … I tried to be kind. I know I made mistakes but—”
“I hated you. Did you know that?”
Numbly, he shook his head.
“I was so young and scared and you took me like an animal.”
“I d
idn’t …” The same useless negation, over and over. “I’d never been with a woman. I’d never even … I had the care of my mother and brother, and the tribe expecting me to bring back meat every time I went hunting. And helping with the planting and the harvest and the shearing.”
His voice trailed off as she stared at him.
“I thought it would all just … work.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Maili.”
“You’re sorry.”
He flinched at the sound of her harsh laughter.
“It might have gotten better. In time.”
“We were married nearly a year.”
“And no matter what I did, you turned from me. I couldn’t even touch your hand without you pulling away.” He tried to quell the rising frustration, but the words roared out of him. “You were my wife, damn it!”
“And that gave you the right to use me as you pleased.”
“That’s not—”
“I never refused you.”
“You never gave me a chance!” Again, his voice rose to a shout. Again, he controlled himself. “If you had, we might have gotten to know each other.”
“You didn’t want to know me. Any more than a stag in rut wants to know the hinds it services.”
“That’s not fair.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“Nay.”
“Even now, you try and hide from it.”
He shook his head, beyond words.
“The truth hurts. Doesn’t it, Darak?”
She laughed again, her voice rising into hoarse shrieks that shook her whole body. He stumbled backward and slammed into a tree. Stunned, he slid to his knees and doubled over, retching dryly. As he raised his head, Maili’s smile faded. She shuddered and fell to her knees. Her torso swelled. Her tunic burst open. Black fur sprouted on breasts and belly. She fell forward onto hands already thickening into paws. Claws sprouted, shredding the deerskin slippers. A tail snaked out between furry haunches, grew into a bushy plume. The head reared up. Golden eyes regarded him down a narrow muzzle.
Still reeling from the confrontation with Maili, Darak could only stare at the wolf. Although he knew this was not the beast he had confronted in the First Forest, it took long moments before he recognized her. The blaze of silver on her chest. The ragged left ear. The thick tail, as expressive as a human face. Even then, he instinctively reeled back as the she-wolf bounded effortlessly across the hummocks. If Chaos could conjure Maili out of the bog, it could just as easily create the illusion of his vision mate.
Clutching the tree for support, he hauled himself to his feet as the wolf leaped to shore. Unable to move or to speak, he simply watched her and waited.
“Hello, Little Brother.”
It took two tries before his voice worked. “Is it really you?”
“Of course.”
“How did you find me?”
“I have always been with you, Little Brother. We are pack.”
“But I’ve never seen you … not since that night.”
“You never called.”
All these years, he could have felt her presence, could have recaptured the joy of that night, if only he had reached for her. He closed his eyes, only to open them again when he felt a rough, warm tongue against his leg. His hand skimmed over her head in wonder; even if this was a dream, he would always carry with him the memory of her thick fur. He got down on his knees so they could be face-to-face.
“I’m … oh, Wolf, I am so glad you are here.”
The wet nose touched his. “So am I, Little Brother.”
“I thought of you. On the tree.”
“I know.”
“But you didn’t come then.” Afraid that this would sound like a reproof, he stammered an apology. Wolf stopped his words by butting him lightly with her head.
“I could not reach you there.”
“Aren’t we still in Chaos?”
“Your body still hangs on the tree. But your spirit came here.”
“Where is … here?”
“Forest.”
“Not the First Forest.”
“Your forest. Your memories.” The wolf’s fur bristled. “Morgath uses them against you.”
Of course, Maili would never have spoken such lies. Maili had never hated him. It was Morgath, twisting his memories, subverting the truth. He wondered if rage was the greatest strength and weakness of Fellgair’s riddle, for rage had kept him from surrendering to Morgath’s tortures and it boiled through him now—and quickly died. The words Morgath had conjured for Maili were the ones he had been hearing in his head ever since she had died. He would never know what Maili had thought or felt, just as he would never fully understand what had gone wrong between them. Those truths were lost to him—just as she was.
“Morgath is close.”
“I know.” Lingering with the illusion of Maili had cost him precious time. He longed to set an ambush for his enemy and force the final confrontation, but choosing that path would delay his search for Tinnean.
“Wolf. Do you know where the Oak is?”
She cocked her head. Perhaps she sensed the heartbeat, too. “The Oak is everywhere.”
“Aye, but how do I reach it?”
“There are many paths through the forest.”
Darak tried again. “I am looking for my pack. My human brother. Can you help me?”
“It is hard to hunt alone.”
“For a wolf.”
“For a man, too. Without the pack, you are weak.” Even as a boy, he had preferred to hunt alone. For his peers, hunting was sport. If they brought down game, they celebrated, but if not, their fathers and brothers could help feed the tribe. If he had missed their good-natured insults and the friendships they had formed, he had gained the skills that made him the best hunter in the tribe. He’d always believed he had gotten the better bargain. Now he recalled Struath’s words when he had returned from his vision quest: “She hunts with the pack and will kill to defend her pups.”
He had failed to grasp the full import of that message. Now he had lost his pack. Maili and his mam. Then Tinnean. And in the quest that followed, the others: Griane first, then Struath and Yeorna, and finally Cuillon and his father. But at least he had found his vision mate again.
“What should I do, Wolf?”
“We will hunt together.”
The skin of his face pulled taut as if it had been years since he had smiled.
“Aye. Let us hunt the Oak.”
Chapter 44
STRUATH STARED AT the twisted branches rising above the low scrub. “Could it be the Oak?”
“That … thing?” Yeorna shuddered.
“You’re sure Morgath is there?”
“I think so.” At his questioning look, she added, “The energy is weaker now.”
“Perhaps Morgath is tiring.”
“Perhaps. But I think I am losing my connection to my body. Nay, Tree-Father, it’s all right. Somehow, it is … easier … without it.”
Struath nodded. After the initial shock of finding himself in Chaos, he had felt only relief at shedding his frail human form. But his body was dead. Yeorna still had a chance to recover hers. He wasn’t sure how to help her. He could still erect wards, but when he had tried to summon the destroying energy, he had nearly destroyed himself. Yeorna speculated that the energy drew on his emotions as well as his skill for its power. But how else could he defeat Morgath?
“Yeorna, if it comes to freeing the Oak or casting Morgath out of your body—”
“Nothing is more important than the Oak.” Yeorna’s smile was sad. “I’m not even sure I want my body back, Tree-Father. Not after Morgath’s spirit has contaminated it.”
“It’s odd, but …” Struath stared back at the tree. Morgath was somewhere in that thicket. When they had started their journey through Chaos, all he had desired was the chance to face his enemy again, to wreak vengeance on the man who had destroyed him.
“What is it, Tree-Father?”
&nb
sp; “These last days—terrifying as they have been—have brought me a sort of … peace. Does that make any sense?”
Yeorna nodded slowly. “For me, it has come through accepting the loss of my body forever. It seemed such a terrible thing, but now, I feel … freer.”
“I feel like an apprentice again, relearning my first lessons. Emptying the mind. Letting go of pride and envy and jealousy.”
“Achieving balance.”
“Aye. For so long, Morgath cast a shadow over my life.” Struath shook his head impatiently. “I let him cast the shadow. I allowed him to taint my spirit. You helped me realize that.”
“Me?”
Struath smiled at Yeorna’s squeak of astonishment. “You had … have … all the gifts I lacked. Your kindness, your generosity, your gift of understanding people.”
“But your skills are far greater—”
“Skills can be learned.” Because of Morgath, Yeorna would never achieve the greatness she deserved—and the tribe would lose a Grain-Mother of rare sensitivity. “I thank you for the lessons you’ve taught me. Even if you never knew you were teaching them.”
Yeorna seized his hand. Although he could no longer feel her, the gesture alone comforted him.
“Are you ready, my dear?”
“Aye, Tree-Father.”
Bent low, they raced through the grasslands. He saw his smile reflected on Yeorna’s face—as if they were children pretending to be wind in the grass, instead of priests about to confront the greatest test of their lives. He felt the same joy he’d known when Brana first came to him, the same exhilaration he’d experienced on their first flight. He wished she could be with him now to share what might be his final moments of existence.
They crawled through the bushes. A gasp escaped him when the tree came into view, the same nightmarish thing he had seen in his vision. Instead of a robin lying on the parched ground, a golden-haired woman sat cross-legged, lost in trance. Only when they circled around did Struath realize what Morgath was staring at.
“Merciful gods,” Yeorna whispered. “Is he alive?” Before Struath could answer, he caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. He rose to flee, then sank back into a crouch.
Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Page 30
