Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Read Free Page A

cold, he looked about as manly as a newborn calf.
    Darak lowered the jug as his brother crouched beside the stone basin that held their water and broke the ice with his fist. Shivering, Tinnean splashed water on his shoulders, then bent to pick up the chunk of wool-fat soap.
    “You must have washed before.”
    “I cleansed myself with Gortin and Struath.” Tinnean glanced at him, then looked away. “I meant to come back, Darak. I wanted to talk to you about … about what we saw. But—”
    “It doesn’t matter.” He’d lain awake the rest of the night, waiting for his brother, but that was unimportant now. “Why wash again?”
    “I want to be clean. Before … the ceremony.” Again, that half-fearful look, the inadvertent flinch.
    As if he thought I’d strike him.
    With an effort, he kept his voice light. “Well, don’t scrub so hard. You’ll wear your skin off.”
    The sudden smile made his breath catch in his throat. He tried to remember the last time his words had brought a smile to his brother’s face. Tinnean shot him another sidelong glance, this one mischievous. He whistled, scrubbing his body harder.
    “Fine, then. Don’t blame me if you catch your death of cold.”
    “Fine, then. I won’t.” Tinnean’s smile became a grin.
    Darak grinned back at him. “Impudent pup.”
    “Old woman.”
    Darak flung a stale oatcake at his brother. Tinnean ducked and hurled the soap across the fire pit. Darak caught it one-handed and tossed it back, glimpsing downy fuzz under Tinnean’s arm as he reached up to snatch the soap out of the air.
    “You throw like a girl,” Darak said.
    “You drink too much.”
    “I do not.” He took another long pull from the jug. “What else is there to do at Midwinter?”
    “Pray.”
    “The gods don’t hear my prayers.”
    “The Forest-Lord does. Else you wouldn’t be the best hunter in the tribe.”
    “If the gods heard my prayers, you wouldn’t be leaving.”
    Tinnean took a deep breath. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, Darak.”
    “Two summers ago, you wanted to be a hunter.”
    “I was a child then.”
    “You’re still a child.”
    “I am fourteen. Almost.”
    “At fourteen—almost—you should be thinking about girls, not gods.”
    “I do think about girls.” Tinnean ducked his head. “Sometimes. At night.”
    Darak frowned. “You’re too young to be thinking about girls. And little good it’ll do you as a priest.”
    “Priests are not forbidden the … pleasures of the flesh.” Despite his solemn voice, Tinnean’s beardless cheeks flushed pink
    “But they are forbidden to marry. And if you die without children, our family name dies with you.”
    “You might marry again.”
    Darak slowly lowered the jug.
    “I know it’s been scarcely five moons …”
    “Leave it, Tinnean.”
    “I grieve for Maili, too. And for Mam. For all those who—”
    “I said leave it.”
    Two small creases appeared between Tinnean’s brows, but he just threw handfuls of water across his soap-streaked chest. Darak frowned at the jug dangling from his forefinger. The mood had turned dark, the atmosphere in the hut charged with tension again.
    “Will you hand me my mantle, Darak?”
    Darak rose and pulled off his own. Hunching to keep from knocking his head on the curving roof stones, he dried Tinnean briskly, ignoring his brother’s look of surprise. A drop of water stole down Tinnean’s cheek. Darak wiped it away with his thumb, the simple gesture bringing that sweet smile to his brother’s face.
    Encouraged by its reappearance, Darak said, “All I’m asking is that you wait a bit. Till you’re sure.”
    The smile died. “I am sure.”
    Tinnean slipped on his tunic again, then spread his woolen mantle across his bed of skins and laid out the ritual garb: white woolen undertunic and leggings, braided leather belt, and the brown woolen robe of the initiate. Before sunset, he would stand with his tribe before the heart-oak, wearing that robe for the first