Heartwood (Tricksters Game) (4 page)

Perhaps he should have elevated Gortin to Tree-Brother. His initiate was dutiful and devout. It was not his fault that he was also … dull. Struath appended a silent prayer of forgiveness to that thought. But to name Gortin Tree-Brother would give his tacit consent for Gortin to follow him as Tree-Father and that honor must go to the boy who knelt on his left.

Five more winters. Maker, grant me that much time to make him ready.

Others had come into their power young. He had been barely twenty summers when he had assumed the title of Tree-Father. Yeorna had risen from initiate to Grain-Mother within one turning of the year. Of course, Muina had to step down when her moon-blood ceased to flow and Aru had died in the plague, but difficult times bred change.

Besides, Tinnean was special; he’d known that even before the boy had returned from his vision quest. He had only to sit before the fire and stare into the flames to fall into the trance state. His nature made him easy to love—and a priest who was loved by his people would be followed without question. He could be impulsive, allowing the beauty of a summer morning to lure him into the forest when he should be honing his skills, but he was learning to curb that aspect of his nature. A few moons ago, he would have aroused the whole tribe when he saw the sky-flames. Last night, Tinnean had come to him.

Struath shifted uncomfortably on the furs. He had withheld the terrible omens from the rest of the tribe, even from the Grain-Mother. Gortin knew, of course. His initiate shared his hut and had heard Tinnean’s story, but both had accepted his explanation: the sky-flames represented the red of the Holly-Lord’s berries and their sudden disappearance proved the Oak-Lord would triumph in tonight’s battle. He could trust Gortin and Tinnean. He’d been less confident about Darak, but Tinnean had assured him that Darak would say nothing.

The boy’s face had clouded then, as it always did when his brother’s name intruded on their conversations. It infuriated Struath that Darak should steal the joy of this day. Any other man would be proud of the honor shown his brother. And any other man would recognize how important Tinnean’s pure faith was to the well-being of the tribe—especially now.

After all his tribe had suffered, he had taken extra precautions to ensure the gods’ blessing for the Midwinter rites. He had fasted for the requisite three days. Risen before dawn to cleanse his body in ice-cold water. Braided his hair fifty-two times, one plait for each living member of the tribe, each plait tied off with a finger bone of the tribe’s dead. Despite his careful preparations, the bullock had stumbled before the sacrifice, Bel had hidden his golden face behind the clouds, and the ritual fire had taken forever to kindle. Although faith and experience told him balance would be restored, in these last six moons it seemed that the Lord of Chaos would triumph over the Maker for control of the world.

Gortin cleared his throat, jarring Struath from his thoughts. “Aye, Gortin. I know.” Seeing his initiate’s downcast expression, Struath softened his voice. “Will you fetch the ram’s horn?”

Gortin nodded, eager and obedient as a dog.

Gods forgive me. He is a good man, loyal and true. I must be kinder to him.

Struath rose stiffly, waving away Gortin’s hand. “Are you ready, Tinnean?”

Tinnean nodded, gazing at him with those shining eyes. Struath wondered if he had possessed such a purity of spirit at that age. He hesitated, then leaned forward to press his lips against the boy’s forehead. Belatedly, he offered the same blessing to Gortin, turning away abruptly when he saw tears in his initiate’s eyes.

He seized his blackthorn staff and ducked outside the hut. The cold hit him like a blow. He breathed in quick, shallow breaths to keep from coughing, smiling wryly as Tinnean raised his face skyward, sucking in great gulps of the frigid air. Thankfully, Bel had re-emerged from the clouds. At last, a good omen.

Gortin sounded the ram’s horn three times, its low, mournful call filling the silence of the village. One by one, families emerged from their huts and formed a circle around the fire pit where slabs of meat roasted under hot stones in preparation for the morrow’s feast. A few men cast longing glances in that direction. Patches of damp earth showed through the snow where the men had scraped away the blood and entrails; at least this year, Red Dugan had remained sober enough to complete the task properly.

Yeorna approached with Lisula behind her, bearing the leather flask of sacrificial blood. Struath nodded, signaling the Grain-Mother to begin the chant.

A rim of sunlight still haloed Eagles Mount, staining the uppermost branches of the forest orange. The rest of their valley lay in shadow; the circled huts resembled twenty small cairns. Shaking off that disturbing image, Struath walked sunwise around his kinfolk, pressing the back of his left hand to each forehead, blessing each person with the touch of the tattooed acorn. He repressed a pang at the sunken cheeks, the new lines etched by grief. Nearly one hundred people had gathered here at Midsummer; little more than half remained.

He extended his hand to offer his blessing to Darak, then drew back at the mingled reek of stale body odor and brogac. Instead of hanging his head in shame as any decent man would, Darak had the effrontery to stare down at him, his eyes as menacing and gray as storm clouds.

He could no more permit Darak to attend the rite in this condition than he could tolerate such an open challenge. But after all the bad omens, he feared that the absence of even one voice would undermine the Oak-Lord’s strength.

As if sensing his quandary, Darak smiled. That decided him. Struath stepped back and raised his voice so all could hear. “Darak, you are an affront to gods and men alike. Go back to your hut. On the morrow, I will choose a fitting punishment for your irreverence.”

The strangled cry shattered Darak’s veneer of cockiness. As one, their gazes shifted to Tinnean. The boy’s lips were pressed together to prevent another outburst, but his eyes pleaded with him to relent. Struath hesitated, knowing how much Darak’s absence would wound Tinnean. He turned back to Darak, waiting for some sign of repentance. Instead, his expression hardened into its usual stoniness and he stalked away.

Worried murmurs rose from the rest of the tribe. Struath quelled them with a peremptory gesture. “Only one who is clean in body and mind may stand before our heart-oak. Only then can we help the Oak defeat the Holly.”

Tinnean’s head drooped. His shoulders rose and fell in a shuddering breath. When he raised his head again, he nodded once. Struath wished he could call Darak back, if only to restore the light to the boy’s face, but not even for Tinnean would he allow his authority to be undermined.

Three times, Struath thumped the frozen earth with his blackthorn staff. Three times, Yeorna raised and lowered the dried sheaf of barley, the symbol of the Grain-Mother’s power. Tinnean and Lisula broke the circle; tonight, the youngest had the honor of leading the tribe into the forest.

Struath eyed the guttering torches and murmured a brief prayer to strengthen the fire. A balky bullock could be ignored. Even Darak’s arrogance could be overlooked; he had refused permission to attend the rites before because of drunkenness. The death of the flames would be disastrous.

The bones in his hair clicked in a gust of wind. Once, wool and piety had been enough to shield him from the cold, but long before the procession reached the forest’s verge, Struath was shivering so hard that his staff shook in his numbed fingers. The icy air seared his lungs. As he picked his way along the narrow forest trail, his chants barely rose above a whisper. Yeorna, bless her, chanted all the louder so the others would not notice.

He knew there were whispers in the tribe, though none dared to speak against him openly. After all their troubles, it was only natural that some would wonder if he had lost his power to intercede with the gods. Tonight, he would prove them wrong. And tomorrow, he would humble Darak before the entire tribe.

It had been thirty years since the elders of the Oak Tribe had named him Tree-Father, the youngest ever to be accorded the honor. Thirty years since Brun—may his spirit live on in the sunlit Forever Isles—had stood before him and gouged out his left eye with the point of the ceremonial bronze dagger. The right eye to see this world, the blind one to penetrate the unseen one.

Surreptitiously, Struath wiped his cheek. Thirty years and still the cold made tears ooze from the empty socket. Aching joints he understood, and fingers too swollen to close into a fist. But how could an empty eye weep?

Not that he was ancient, he reminded himself. Mother Netal and the Memory-Keeper were older. Only three of them left who remembered Morgath as a living man, not merely as the central character in a gruesome cautionary tale.

At the thought of his predecessor, Struath forced his numb fingers to make the sign against evil. “That it may not come through earth, through water, through air,” he muttered. Relenting, he added a quick prayer that Morgath’s spirit might have found light and peace. Power he would not wish him; his mentor had hungered for it too much while he lived.

The words brought on a coughing fit that left him feeling as weak as a newborn lamb. He thrust the weakness aside, along with the resentment of knowing how few rites remained to him. All across the world, tribes were gathering to drive away the dark with songs and shouts and blazing torchlight. Tonight, all his strength, all his power must be concentrated on the battle in the grove.

Tinnean and Lisula stepped aside as they reached the clearing. The chanting ceased, leaving only the sigh of the wind and the groan of bare branches. Struath closed his eye, allowing the ages-old strength of the forest to fill him, drawing on the power of the earth beneath him and the sky above him to drive out cold and pride and doubt. Only then did he open his eye to find Tinnean watching him. So young, Maker bless him, and so eager, illuminated by an inner light far brighter than the torch’s flame. Once, he had possessed that radiance—or so Morgath had said.

Shaking off his memories, he stepped into the glade. Soaring pines reached skyward, dark, jagged silhouettes against the violet sky. The other trees were indistinguishable from one another in the gloom save for the venerable heart-oak. The light from their torches cast strange shadows on the sacred tree, making the runneled bark seem to shift and move, creating a mouth that now smiled, now frowned, and eyes that followed their movements.

Struath nodded to Tinnean who took his place before the heart-oak. Then he hesitated. Belatedly, Struath realized why.

Tradition called for him to pass his torch to the oldest male of his family. That honor should have fallen to Darak. An uncomfortable moment passed before Sim stepped forward. Struath nodded curtly and the Memory-Keeper accepted the torch. When he retreated, Struath stepped forward to stand at Tinnean’s side.

“In the time before time, The People came to this land. Our ancestors worshiped the One Tree that is Two—the One Tree that is the Oak and the Holly.”

He paused to allow the tribe to intone the traditional response. “May its roots remain ever strong.”

“From one People, we became two tribes, forever linked by our common history.”

Again, the tribe responded. “May our bond remain ever strong.”

“Since the time before time, we have gathered before our heart-oak to honor the gods and to perform our sacred rites. It is fitting that on this holy day, we gather not only to lend our strength to the Oak-Lord in his battle tonight, but to honor this man’s commitment to the way of the priest.”

“May his path remain ever clear.”

Gortin sounded the ram’s horn as Struath faced Tinnean. “Tinnean, son of Reinek and Cluran. Before the gods of our people, do you affirm your willingness to be initiated?”

“I do so affirm.”

“Before the sacred tree of our tribe, do you affirm your willingness to be initiated?”

“I do so affirm.”

“Before the people of your tribe, do you affirm your willingness to be initiated?”

“I do so affirm.”

“Kneel, then.”

Tinnean knelt between two of the oak’s exposed roots. Struath gazed down at him. His vision blurred. Thirty years ago, he had knelt there to cut out Morgath’s heart.

Do not taint this sacred place by thinking of him.

Struath paused to gather himself. Tonight of all nights, his mind must be uncluttered.

“Tinnean, son of Reinek and Cluran. Do you vow to honor the gods, worshiping them with your body, your mind, and your spirit?”

“I do so vow.”

“Do you vow to honor the Oak and the Holly, worshiping them with your body, your mind, and your spirit?”

“I do so vow.”

“Do you vow to honor the laws of our tribe, following them with your body, your mind, and your spirit?”

“I do so vow.”

Gortin stepped forward, holding the cluster of acorns. He raised them toward the naked branches of the heart-oak before pressing them against Tinnean’s forehead. “The blessing of the Oak upon you.”

Lisula proffered the leather flask. Struath dipped his forefinger into it and daubed Tinnean’s cheeks with two spots of blood. “The blessing of the Holly upon you.”

The Grain-Mother touched Tinnean’s chest with her sheaf of barley. “The blessing of the fruitful earth upon you.”

Even in the fading light, Struath could see the awe on the boy’s face as he took him by the shoulders. He could still recall the shiver of excitement that had shaken his body so long ago, the swell of pride when he rose to his feet, the comfort of Morgath’s hands on his shoulders …

Struath shook his head, frowning, and Tinnean’s expectant smile died. He offered the boy a quick, reassuring nod and turned him to face the tribe.

“He knelt before us a man. He stands before us a priest. Welcome, Tinnean. Initiate of the Oak Tribe.”

“Welcome, Tinnean.” The shout rolled through the glade, shattering the forest’s stillness. The sound was still fading when Struath raised his hand.

“People of the Oak. The day is waning. On the morrow, we will celebrate the Oak’s victory and Tinnean’s first battle rite. But now we must make ready.”