Heartwood (Tricksters Game)

by Barbara Campbell

  “Son?”

  “Aye?”

  “Sometimes, it helps to speak of the things that trouble you.”

  “You never did.”

  He hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but his father winced.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t—”

  “Nay, you’re right. Words never came easy to me.” A quick smile lightened his features. “As talkative as a stump, your mam used to say of me.”

  “Me, too. But she’d smile after.”

  “Oh, aye. She had a rare smile.” His father ducked his head, just as Tinnean used to. “Did I ever tell you about the day we were promised?” Again, that shy ducking of the head, this time accompanied by a sheepish smile.

  “She was fourteen that summer. I was … what? … twenty, I think. Old for marrying. One morning, just after dawn, I left the hut to go hunting. And she was standing there, hands on her hips. I couldn’t imagine what she wanted. I’d only spoken to her a half dozen times in all the years I’d known her. And while I’m wondering if I was supposed to say something, she gave this little nod. Like she’d made up her mind.”

  His father chuckled softly. “She marched up to me and said, ‘I hope you’re better at listening than you are at talking for I’m only saying this once. Arrows’ll be good for my father. He’s always admired your fletching. Rabbitskins for my mam. I’ll leave the rest to you, but bring a flask of your mother’s elderberry wine. They’re both partial to that.’ ”

  He chuckled again. “Gods save me, I still didn’t know what she was talking about. All I could do was stare at her. Finally, she rolled her eyes and shook her head like I’m the greatest fool in the world. Which I was, now that I look back on it. And she says, ‘Bridegifts, Reinek. Gather them quick. I want to be wed by harvest time.’ And then she flipped her hair over her shoulder and marched off with nary a look back.”

  “You must have been quick enough,” Darak said.

  “Oh, aye. Couldn’t have done otherwise.”

  “Did you … ?” Darak hesitated. “Did you love her?”

  “Oh, aye.” His father grinned. “Couldn’t have done otherwise.”

  “How did you do it? You and mam. You were so different.”

  “Aye. Well. We had time to work on it.”

  “So it got easier.”

  “Not really.”

  Darak laughed with him, gasping a little as the wounds on his belly stretched and split.

  “Your mam’d put up with my silences for a time and then she’d just … drag it out of me. Whatever was on my mind.” His father looked out over the field, his eyes soft. “I was lucky. I married the right woman.”

  Darak stared down at his ruined hands.

  “It’s done, Darak. Whatever happened with your wife. And with Tinnean.” His father reached for him, then let his hand fall back to his knee. “Learn from it if you can, but don’t keep chewing on it. Let it go and move on. Else you’ll end up a bitter old man.”

  “It’s … hard.”

  “I know. None better.” His father sighed. “You spend your life trying to be strong for those you love. Not wanting them to see your uncertainty lest they be afraid, too. It’s only when you hold your firstborn child in your arms that you realize that you’re the helpless one. You’ll never be able to shield him from pain or guard him close enough to keep him from harm. You can lose him so easy—to sickness, to accident. Or just to the pulling away that comes as boys grow into men.”

  Just as I lost Tinnean, Darak thought. Now he had a chance to set things right, as his father was trying to do.

  “As for what happened back there… .” His father nodded in the direction of the clearing. “He maimed your body. You’ll carry the scars forever. It’s the wounds you can’t see … the wounds to the spirit and the mind … those are harder to heal. Time helps. So does a woman—the right one, anyway. But in the end, it lies with you. You’ve fought so hard, son. Don’t let him beat you now.”

  This time, Darak was the one to stretch out his hand. He laid it atop his father’s, his fingers sinking through it onto hard rock. They were still sitting there when the familiar whining began.

  It took him a moment to pick out the poppy whose head drooped lower than the others. By the time he had started toward it, the petals hung nearly to the ground, their brilliant red faded to a dull pink. The whining crescendoed. They were both running now, his father following his lead. Darak winced as petals brushed his flayed arms and hairy stalks slapped against his belly. Twice, he had to slow, using his ears to guide him among the forest of flowers. He nearly ran right into the portal, stopping abruptly when he saw the thick trunk of a tree through the translucent center of the flower. The spirit catcher burned his palm, blazing with green fire.

  “Go, Darak. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Father …” So much left unsaid, so many things he wanted to ask.

  “I know, son.” The strain eased a little as he smiled. “Quick, now. Before it disappears.”

  Already, the portal was fading. Darak took a ragged breath and plunged into it. The shock of the cold air made him gasp. He gasped again as he careened into a tree and slid to his knees in the mulch blanketing its roots. The portal wavered. His father’s form slipped through, moving with a hunter’s instinctive caution. Even before the portal winked out behind him, he began to fade, legs melding with the shadows of the forest, tunic blending with the tree trunks. The wariness on his face gave way to surprise and then to wonder. He cocked his head as if listening to something Darak couldn’t hear.

  “I will tell Tinnean. I will tell him everything.”

  His father nodded, but he was drifting away, out of one world and into another. The long hair eddied and vanished. The stern mouth curled up in a smile. And then, between one breath and the next, he was simply gone.

  Darak sat there, staring into the shaft of sunlight that marked the place where he had vanished. A good omen, surely. A sign that he was safe. Even now, he could be walking onto the shores of the Forever Isles, arms wide to scoop up his mam as she raced toward him.

  When the sunlight struck him full in the face, he realized how much time had passed. He struggled to his knees, blinking. When he saw something gleaming on the bottom of his mantle, he thought it was a trick of the light. He bent closer. Despite the sunlight bathing him, he shivered when he saw the snake.

  The hook on its tail had caught in the threads of his mantle. He must have brushed past it during that final, frantic race to the portal. Better to believe that than to imagine it had followed him back into the world.

  He fumbled open the drawstrings of his bag of charms and slid the snake inside. For good or ill, he was meant to have this thing. He shivered again, certain that someday he would meet its previous owner and face a reckoning.

  Staggering to his feet, he glanced up to set a course by the westering sun. His gaze was caught by the blaze of a burnished leaf, incongruous among the naked twigs of a bush. Only when he stepped closer did he realize what it was.

  He had to wait for his vision to clear, for his hands to cease trembling before he dared reach for it. It took even longer to free the long strand of red hair for she had wound her talisman around the branch very tightly so neither breeze nor animal could disturb it. He murmured her name as he would a prayer before adding it to his bag of charms. Then, dragging his sleeve across his eyes, Darak headed west.

  He covered a mere mile before the light faded. Spent, he burrowed into the dead leaves beneath a rowan’s roots, a wounded creature seeking its nest.

  The next morning, he nearly fainted as he crawled out from under the rowan. The cold numbed most of the pain, but fire raged through his right hand and crawled up his arm. He made himself stand, take one step, then another. A day or two to reach the grove, judging by the size of the trees. He could make it that far; he had to.

  Too often, he found himself drifting. Without his father’s voice to call him back, he wandered aimlessly among the ancient trees. He clutched
the spirit catcher in his left hand, the burning in his palm warning him when he strayed too far.

  He found four more circlets of her hair that day, but he was shaking too badly to free them. After a night racked by fever chills, he set out again. The trees seemed to sway, but he knew that was only the fever blurring his vision. Once, he discovered that he was talking to his father and had to lean against a tree until his mind cleared.

  When he found another of Griane’s talismans, he couldn’t resist reaching for it. He reeled, crying out as the spirit catcher fell from his grasp. The leaves rose up to meet him. The crystal rolled away from his questing fingers, Midsummer green among the browns and duns of the forest floor. The spirit catcher winked: You can’t catch me, Darak. Tinnean’s voice. Or was it one of the shadowy Watchers circling around him?

  The shadows parted as one approached, more daring than his companions and many times larger. The ground shook with each footstep. Another illusion created by the fever, for the Watchers always moved silently. The branches of the trees drooped as the giant passed. Leaves rustled as he stroked their trunks.

  The giant emerged into the sunlight. Only then did Darak make out the rack of antlers, the green leaves cascading over his shoulders, the massive, furred chest. A fever-dream. It had to be. But when he closed his eyes and opened them again, the Forest-Lord still loomed above him.

  Every hunter dreamed of this moment. Darak had imagined it would come after the perfect kill. The god would step out of the trees. He would smile, silently commending his skill. And then he would vanish. Now that the moment had come, Darak could only lie there, gazing up into eyes as dark as a Midwinter night.

  When the Forest-Lord stepped back into the shadows, a hoarse cry escaped him. The god looked back over his shoulder. Darak struggled to his knees. He crawled toward the spirit catcher, captured it between shaking hands, and tucked it in his bag of charms.

  The god was still watching him. Determined not to appear helpless, he dragged himself to his feet. His hands left bloody smears on the tree trunk. He staggered forward, weaving between the trees. No matter how many steps he took, the Forest-Lord was always just ahead of him. When he fell, the god waited. When he got to his feet again, the god rewarded him with a smile that sent a shiver of pleasure down his back. No wonder the trees sought his touch—and the Watchers. They flitted around him like dark moths, growing more substantial each time they brushed against him.

  Darak stumbled, slapping a hand against a tree to steady himself. The pain didn’t matter. All that mattered was reaching Hernan. He wanted to know the feel of those strong arms, the scent of those cascading leaves. He wanted to let his head droop against that chest and know that everything would be all right.

  All that afternoon, he followed the Forest-Lord until the trees gave way to a clearing and a voice cried out his name. Just before the god blended with the shadows, Darak felt a large, warm paw cup the back of his neck, just as his mam used to.

  Chapter 49

  HE WAS ALIVE. Thin and ragged, burning up with fever, and dear gods, his poor hands. But he was alive. Griane pressed a quick kiss to his hot forehead.

  “Cuillon. Quick.”

  After a moment, she looked up and found him staring at the Tree, oblivious to Darak’s return.

  “Cuillon. It’s Darak. He’s come back.”

  “It is too late.”

  The first words he’d spoken since discovering the Tree was dead. She should be glad—even the healing magic of the heart-ease had failed to penetrate his silence—but Darak demanded all her attention now.

  As she snatched up her magic bag, Cuillon said, “It would be kinder to let him die.”

  Griane whirled around. She crossed to Cuillon in three quick strides, drew back her hand and slapped him as hard as she could. “Don’t you say that. Don’t even think it. Darak saved your life. You will not sit there and tell me we should let him die.”

  He touched his cheek, blinking as if awakening from a disturbing dream. The anger drained out of her. She crouched down and hugged him hard. “Oh, Cuillon, I’m sorry. It’s just … Darak needs us. Both of us.”

  “Forgive me, Griane. What should I do?”

  She kissed his cheek. “Help me roll him over.”

  Together, they managed it. While Cuillon unwrapped the filthy bandages around Darak’s hands, she rummaged in her magic bag. She had used most of the heal-all on Cuillon’s wounds. She hoped the handful she had left would be enough.

  Cuillon gasped. She looked up. The packet of heal-all slipped through her fingers.

  Morgath had taken the forefinger and middle finger from both hands. The stumps of the missing fingers were crusted with blood and dirt. When she cut away the wool sticking to his right hand, thick yellow pus oozed from the inflamed wound on his palm. Cuillon turned his head, gagging at the sour-rotten stench. Griane just stared at the red streaks creeping up Darak’s wrist.

  She had once seen a man with those same angry streaks. Mother Netal had made a poultice to draw out the poison and dosed Eddin with willowbark for the fever. His arm swelled and stank. The red streaks turned black. Three men had held him down while Jurl chopped the arm off at the elbow. Eddin had died two days later.

  Maggots could eat away the rotting flesh. Brogac could cleanse the wound. But she had no maggots, no brogac, only a handful of heal-all.

  She shook her hair out of her eyes. “Fetch the waterskins. Cuillon! Over there.” She hacked a strip of wool from her mantle, thrusting it toward Cuillon when he crawled back with the waterskins. “Wet this and clean his hands. Use the Summerlands water.” Cuillon sloshed water onto the cloth, splashing them both. “Don’t waste it!”

  “I am sorry, Griane.”

  “You’re doing fine. Like this. Be firm.”

  “But he … he is bleeding.”

  “The blood will wash the wound clean. Don’t worry. Darak can’t feel it.”

  As if to give lie to her words, he moaned.

  “That’s … he’s just dreaming.”

  She squeezed out most of the pus and probed the wound. Small chips of bone shifted beneath her fingers.

  “Wipe his face, Cuillon. With the plain water.”

  She sliced strips from her tunic to use as bandages and laid out her tools: dagger, bone scraper, heal-all. “Cuillon. I have to cut the poisoned flesh away. You must hold Darak’s arm still. Sit on it if you have to.”

  “Aye, Griane.” He was very pale, but his expression was determined.

  She wiped her palms on her breeches and grasped the dagger. Her hand shook. Cuillon looked up. “You can do it, Griane.”

  Mother Netal, help me.

  As if the prayer had invoked her, she heard the old healer’s voice, as clearly as if her teacher stood behind her.

  Cut deep, girl. Press out as much pus as you can. Scrape away the dead flesh. Let the wound bleed. Then wash it with that fancy water of yours.

  Despite her fear, Griane smiled.

  Do the same with what’s left of his fingers. But don’t use those silvery leaves just yet. Just bandage him. Not too tight. When the swelling’s gone and the seepage is clear, you can seal the wounds.

  Darak convulsed when she made the cut, but Cuillon held him until he slipped deeper into unconsciousness. She worked quickly, her fingers moving as surely as if they had performed this procedure a dozen times. And always, Mother Netal’s voice guided her.

  When Cuillon helped her strip him, she saw the full extent of Morgath’s brutality. She kept her horror in check while she cleaned the wounds, applied a poultice to the raw flesh on his arms, and lightly bandaged the weeping sores on his back.

  By the time they had dressed him again, the light was gone and she was sweat-drenched. She moved the bag of charms so it wouldn’t chafe the wounds on his chest and felt something round and hard under her fingers. She tore open the bag and withdrew the spirit catcher. Silently, she held it out to Cuillon. He touched it with one tentative forefinger. They both gasped as it blaz
ed with green fire.

  “The Oak. Cuillon, it must be the Oak.”

  He nodded, but his gaze shifted to the dead Tree. When she pressed the spirit catcher on him, he shook his head and curled up next to Darak, his back to her. She tucked the spirit catcher back into Darak’s bag. She and Cuillon could warm him, but perhaps Tinnean and the Oak could offer him healing beyond her powers.

  Her fingers touched something soft inside the bag. A long strand of hair.

  Only when she was sure Cuillon was asleep did she permit herself to weep.

  Chapter 50

  COLD AIR AGAINST his face. Something soft under his cheek. A girl’s voice, repeating his name.

  “Darak? Can you open your eyes?”

  Dead leaves fluttered like moths. Patches of blue sky peeked through the branches. The sun was rising behind a fiery cloud. A white face floated in the middle of the cloud. Griane’s face. Her eyes were the blue that burned at the heart of a flame and her hair stood out like the spines of a hedgehog.

  “Darak, can you speak?”

  She must be worried. Otherwise, she’d just order him to speak.

  “Your. Hair.”

  Her hand flew to her head. Her tremulous smile shifted into a scowl. She blew up fast and roared down on him, fiercer than any blizzard. He closed his eyes while she told him that she’d been marking a trail and it had worked, hadn’t it, and if she’d known he was only going to save one bit of hair, she might have saved herself the trouble of chopping off all the rest. When she started in on how she had pulled out so much in the last three days that it was a miracle she wasn’t completely bald, his eyes opened again.

  “Three days?”

  “Since you walked into the grove. You had a high fever. It’s gone now, but you gave us both a fright, and if you ever scare me like that again—”

  “The Forest-Lord.”