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Authors: Barbara Campbell

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BOOK: Heartwood (Tricksters Game)
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But only a man who performed the necessary rites could hunt the forest and only a man who asked the gods for their blessing could hope for success. The rites he could manage, but he was damned if he would humble himself to the gods who had stolen everyone he had ever loved.

He wasn’t sure if his kinfolk blamed him for missing the Midwinter rite or for his refusal to enter the forest now. Perhaps he only imagined the surliness of their replies when he greeted them and the doubt on their faces when he assured them that Tinnean was getting better every day.

He told himself that the strangeness would pass, but it still hurt when his brother flinched at the sound of his voice or shied away when he tried to touch him. He could scarcely believe this was the same boy who used to tag along behind him like an eager puppy. Tinnean seemed to have forgotten all the things he had taught him: how to build a fire and clean a kill, to strip feathers into fletching and chip an arrowhead from flint. The lessons a father taught a son. The lessons that had fallen to him to teach after their father died from the wasting sickness and Tinnean barely walking.

All those years, all those memories—lost. But Tinnean would remember. He would come back.

Sprinkling a handful of snow over the snare, Darak rose. He still had three more snares to check. If they were full, he could stay home tomorrow. Spend some time with Tinnean. Remind him how to play fox and hare or cast-the-bones. He’d always liked games.

Darak had just slung the hunting sack across his body when he saw the two figures racing across the fields. The flame-colored hair could only belong to Griane, which meant the figure running away from her had to be Tinnean.

Fear changed to relief when he saw his brother’s face, alight with joy and excitement. Tinnean flung out his arms. Darak ran toward him, shouting.

His brother froze. Darak’s footsteps slowed, stopped.

“Tinnean?”

The joy faded, replaced by uncertainty and then desperation.

“Tinnean.”

Tinnean backed away, shaking his head. Griane shouted something. Tinnean glanced over his shoulder, then back at him, eyes wild. Darak took one step toward him, hand outstretched.

Tinnean screamed.

Darak watched him lurch off in a new direction. Saw him look over his shoulder to see if they were still pursuing him. Watched him slip, fall, and stagger to his feet again. When he realized his hand was still reaching after his brother, he let it fall to his side.

It was easy to stalk him. Tinnean floundered in the new-fallen snow, exhausting himself unnecessarily. Each time he cut toward the trees, Darak blocked his path. Each time he turned away from the forest, Darak let him run. The third time Tinnean fell, he simply lay there, but as Darak drew close, he rolled over and crawled through the snow on his hands and knees.

Darak seized him by the back of his mantle and spun him around. Tinnean toppled into the snow. Again, he tried to crawl away. Again, Darak flung him back. This time, Tinnean staggered to his feet and stood before him, swaying.

“Please, Darak.”

The first time Tinnean had spoken his name.

“Please, Darak. Home.”

Relief suffused him. Then he realized that Tinnean meant the forest. A dark, unreasoning fury rose up in him. He shook his head and pointed at the village.

He wasn’t sure what he expected Tinnean to do. Plead maybe, or weep, or simply fall to his knees in defeat. The attack took him completely off guard. He fell backward into the snow with Tinnean on top of him, too stunned to do more than raise his arms to shield himself from his brother’s ineffectual punches. When he recovered his wits, he seized Tinnean’s arms and shoved him off.

Tinnean attacked again. Most of the punches landed harmlessly, but one took him in the eye, momentarily blinding him. As if heartened by his success, Tinnean flailed furiously. Nails raked Darak’s cheek and he winced. When had Tinnean stopped biting his nails?

He grabbed his brother’s wrist. Tinnean clawed him with his free hand. “Stop.” He ducked his head, trying to evade the blows. “Tinnean. Stop it!” He seized his other wrist and spun him around, forcing his brother’s arm behind his back, driving him onto his knees. He crouched over him, panting, until he felt Tinnean go limp.

He backed away as Griane stumbled toward them, screaming at him to stop. She threw herself on her knees and wrapped her arms around Tinnean, stroking his snow-dusted hair and crooning soft nonsense, all the while shooting murderous looks his way. Darak watched as long as he could.

“Get up.”

“If you hurt him …”

“Get up!”

With obvious reluctance, she rose, but hovered close as he circled around to face his brother. He held out his hand. Tinnean started and looked up, his eyes as wide and hopeless as the snared rabbit’s. Moving slowly so he would not startle him again, Darak bent down and placed his hands under Tinnean’s elbows. When he submitted to the touch, Darak pulled him to his feet. But when he stretched out his hand to brush the snow off Tinnean’s shoulders, his brother backed away.

“I won’t touch you again. Just tell me why.” Darak lowered his voice so Griane would not hear him beg. “Please.”

Tinnean’s mouth worked, but no words came. Finally, he just shook his head.

Griane pushed him aside and flung her arm around Tinnean’s waist. “It’s all right, Tinnean. Lean on me.”

She turned him toward home. Once, Tinnean paused to look back. Darak felt his brother’s gaze pass over him to linger on the trees. Then Griane murmured something and he turned away. Together, they continued their slow walk back to the village, leaving Darak to trail after them, silent and bitter as the cold.

Chapter 6

S
TRUATH LEANED on his blackthorn staff and stared across the lake. The rolling hills cloaked the western half in twilight, but the rest still shimmered so brightly that his eye narrowed into a squint. Coracles bobbed on the surface, the skin-covered boats looking like children’s toys on the shimmering gray-green expanse. A wedge of geese flew overhead, their nasal honks drowning out the lapping of water against the pebbled beach and the faint voices of the men calling to each other as they paddled home. Standing there, shading his eye against the sun’s glare, he could almost convince himself that all was well.

Reason told him otherwise. His prayers to the gods had gone unanswered. His efforts to restore Tinnean had failed. Even his spirit guide seemed to have deserted him, and only with Brana’s help could he find the answers he sought.

In the first few days after the rite, he had seen fear in the eyes of his tribe. Now, nearly a moon later, those same gazes held suspicion and accusation.

He had offered daily sacrifices at the heart-oak. He had paddled across the lake to discuss the disaster in the grove with the Tree-Father of the Holly Tribe. At the new moon, they had crossed over to the First Forest to make a sacrifice. Fresh offerings nestled at the base of the One Tree, proof that others had preceded them. In the light of day, the damage to the Oak was even more terrible to behold, its great trunk split nearly in two. They spilled their blood on the roots and spent the rest of the day in prayer without daring to speak their fears aloud.

He turned away from the lake to gaze at the three standing stones. Sunlight still bathed the stone guarding the western edge of the burial ground; the easternmost stone was lost in the shadows cast by its brothers. It was the center stone that commanded his attention now.

Two deep grooves bisected its surface, one on the northeast face of the pillar and the other on the south-west face, chiseled ages ago to mark the rising of the sun at Midsummer and the setting of the sun at Midwinter. The stone was nearly twice his height, but each groove was at eye level. A bold slash of charcoal filled the groove on the southwestern face of the pillar. He had drawn it the eve of Midwinter to make the sighting easier. His ability to see into other worlds might have faltered, but everyday vision would give him the answer he sought today.

He took a deep breath and called on the spirits of the Oak and the Holly. Ashamed of the tremor in his voice, he spoke their names again. He called on the gods and goddesses who shared the land: on Lacha, goddess of the lake, and her sister Halam, the earth goddess. On Taran the Thunderer and his brother Nul, Keeper of Lightning. On Bel, the Sun Lord, and his lover Gheala, the Moon Lady whom he chased across the sky. He appealed to Hernan, the god of the forest and protector of the animals, as well as his brother Ardal, the Dark Hunter of spirits. He invoked the Maker and even the Unmaker, the Lord of Chaos.

As always, the familiar litany comforted him. Just as the Oak had the Holly, each god had a counterpart. Just as the Upper World of the gods flourished in the silver branches of the World Tree, so did the Forever Isles of rebirth float among its roots. Here in the Middle World, the same duality prevailed: night yielding to day, winter to summer. Each member of the tribe helped preserve that balance. The shaman offered sacrifices to keep the rival gods content. The fisherman, blessed with a bountiful catch, threw a fish back into the lake. Every debt honored, every favor repaid. Only then could the precarious balance between life and death, order and chaos, be preserved.

He unsheathed the bronze dagger. A treasure crafted by the smiths of the south, he used it only to offer sacrifices: to slit the throat of the first lamb, to gut the first of the season’s salmon. To cut out his master’s heart.

He shoved back his sleeve. Both arms were crisscrossed with scars; yesterday’s wound still leaked blood through the nettle-cloth bandage. He found a patch of unmarked flesh and drew his dagger across his forearm, allowing his blood to drip upon the base of the standing stone.

“I give my blood,” he whispered. “I will give my life if you require it. Just give me a sign. Give me the sign I need.”

Eye fastened upon the groove, he waited. Even after the sun had disappeared behind the cleft in the western hills and the shadows enveloping the lakeshore had deepened from purple to indigo, he stood before the pillar, his mind refusing to accept what his eye had seen.

The shadow of the western stone had fallen neatly across the groove—exactly as it had at Midwinter. The year was not turning.

It was impossible. Surely, the gods would not permit the world to die or allow the Oak-Lord to be destroyed.

“Nay.” He spoke his denial aloud, repeated it again and yet a third time, his fingers flying in the sign to avert evil. That awful presence in the grove might have disrupted the battle, but the Oak’s spirit still lived. Otherwise, the days would be growing shorter. The god must have fled.

A new thought made him gasp. Could the Oak’s spirit have found refuge in Tinnean’s body? It would explain the strange energy he had touched. And it might mean—merciful Maker, let it be so—that the boy’s spirit was safe in the One Tree.

He hurried back to the village, leaning heavily on his staff. He must seek confirmation in a vision. Only then would he share his discovery with the Grain-Mother. He would need her help to retrieve Tinnean’s spirit and ease the Oak’s back into the One Tree. He had brought lost spirits back from the Forever Isles, but no Tree-Father—not even Morgath—had ever attempted to exchange spirits between two bodies. If he failed, he could lose them both. Awful enough to lose the boy; to lose the Oak meant the death of the world.

Buoyed by hope, he paid no attention to the shouting at first. His footsteps slowed as he reached the huts. Flickering torchlight illuminated the crowd. He made out Darak’s tall figure, standing at the doorway of his hut, confronting Jurl. Over the babble of voices, a woman shouted, “It’s his fault!” Others took up the cry. A man shouted, “He has cursed us.”

Tinnean peeped over Darak’s shoulder. Griane flanked the boy, blocking him from the crowd with her body. Red Dugan’s voice rose above the others to yell, “Go to the house, girl.” Griane shouted back, “I live with Mother Netal. In case the brogac’s made you forget.”

After that, it all happened very fast. Red Dugan pushing past Jurl. Darak shouldering Tinnean into their hut, pulling Griane away from Red Dugan’s outstretched hands. Another outburst of shouting, punctuated by Red Dugan’s curses. And then a sudden silence.

“Let me pass.” Struath used his staff to force a way through. “Jurl, Onnig, do you hear me? Dugan, move aside.” He halted abruptly when he saw the naked dagger in Darak’s hand. Darak’s gaze flicked toward him, then immediately returned to Jurl. Struath faced the crowd, summoning his voice of command. “What are you thinking? Tinnean has done nothing to harm you. We are one people. One tribe. We must—”

“The boy is bewitched.”

“He has brought down the gods’ anger.”

“The year is not turning.”

“And you do nothing, old man!”

Speechless, he stared at them. Never had any of his tribe dared to speak to him with such disrespect. Never had he seen their familiar faces twisted with such fury and fear. He was still gazing around in shocked silence when he heard Nionik’s voice and discovered the chief making his way through the crowd. Although he had neither Jurl’s brawniness nor Onnig’s silent menace, the brothers stepped back to allow him to pass.

BOOK: Heartwood (Tricksters Game)
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