Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Read Free

speak, but …”
    Struath shook his head, smiling. “It is the duty of every priest to guide his people. You did well, Tinnean.”
    As Tinnean stammered his thanks, Struath’s gaze met Darak’s and his gentle smile shifted into one of satisfaction. Darak spun away, narrowly avoiding a collision with Sim. Quickly righting his flaming torch, he seized the Memory-Keeper’s arm to steady him. The old man clung to him, wincing, and Darak eased his grip.
    “You’ve a strong hand, Hunter.”
    “And you’re too silent by half, Memory-Keeper.”
    Four yellowed teeth flashed beneath the long white mustache. “I was a hunter, too, once. Before I found my true path. As Tinnean has.”
    Darak glanced over his shoulder to find Tinnean staring worshipfully at Struath. “Paths can change.”
    “For some men.” Sim’s rheumy blue eyes regarded him steadily. Darak waited, trying to curb his impatience. Perhaps Sim sensed it, for he chuckled. The chuckle turned into a wheezing cough. Darak pounded him on the back until the old man raised a protesting hand. “Some paths change,” Sim managed between gasps. “Some are set. Didn’t the blackbird sing to him on his vision quest?”
    Darak scowled. “And didn’t an eagle scream at Jurl?”
    “Any creature with sense would scream at Jurl.” Sim chuckled again and hawked a gob of phlegm onto the snow.
    “A bird came to them both, aye. But Jurl was no more destined to be a priest than Tinnean.”
    “Let him go, Darak.”
    “He’s a boy. He doesn’t know what—”
    “Let him go. Or you’ll lose him.”
    Darak offered Sim a stiff bow. “With respect, Memory-Keeper, I think I’m a better judge of that than you.”
    With a final glance at Tinnean, he strode back to their hut. Crouching beside the fire pit, he touched his torch to the stack of peat and dried dung. The smoke burned his eyes and he turned away, coughing, to seize a handful of dead twigs.
    Let him go or you’ll lose him.
    With a quick, savage gesture he broke the twigs in half. The last thing he needed today was Old Sim and his homilies. He took several deep breaths, letting each out slowly. Twig by twig, he fed the fire, keeping each movement small and controlled. By the time the spark had grown to a flame, he was calm again.
    Sim meant well, of course. And he could forgive the old man’s meddling, for he had grown up on the Memory-Keeper’s tales, had listened to that reedy voice intoning the ancient legends at every rite. His youngest son shared the title now, but it was Old Sim who held the tribe’s heart—and its awe. Who among them had seen sixty summers? Not even Mother Netal and she was as ancient as Eagles Mount. Sim looked like a good breeze would topple him, but the stringy old man had outlived all his children save Sanok. Still, Darak wished he’d stick to the familiar legends and leave off interfering in matters he could not understand.
    A draft at his back announced Tinnean’s arrival. Without looking up, Darak said, “Close the bearskin before we freeze.”
    Pale sunlight leaked through the smoke hole in the roof and the chinks in the turf and stone walls, but neither sunlight nor fire could dispel the cold. Darak pulled his mantle closer, scraped the remains of yesterday’s porridge into two bowls, and held one out to Tinnean.
    “We cannot eat until after the battle, Darak. You know that.”
    Of course he did. He’d been distracted by thoughts of Old Sim and his hands had moved without thinking. Thankful that drink was not forbidden, he reached for the jug of brogac, sighing as the fiery liquor settled in his belly.
    Tinnean’s frown deepened, but he merely turned away and pulled off his dusky woolen robe. Beneath it, he wore the tunic their mam had made him. She had scraped and sewed the doeskin herself, presenting it to Tinnean when he had completed his vision quest and been accepted into the tribe as a man. He peeled it off now, shivering. Skinny as a stick, pale skin pebbled with