Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Read Free Page B

time. He would be blessed by Struath and formally acknowledged as his initiate. And he would never again live in the hut of his birth.
    Tinnean smoothed the folds of the robe, the gesture so loving that Darak looked away. This was his last chance. He had to say something. But all he could do was stand there, fists digging into the damp folds of his mantle, as Tinnean added his few personal belongings to the pile of clothes: his bag of charms, his flint dagger, his flute.
    Tinnean gathered the ends of the mantle in his fist. “I must go, Darak. I can’t keep the Tree-Father waiting.”
    He’d carved the flute for Tinnean from the bone of a crane’s leg. He’d taught him to play it. Struath had sat here, listening to the music, smiling at Tinnean’s gift. Now the shaman was stealing him.
    “It’s not like I’m leaving forever. I’ll sleep in the priests’ hut, but I’ll see you every day. Every day, I promise.” Tinnean’s blue eyes were soft now and pleading. “Can’t you be a little bit happy for me?”
    Darak tossed the mantle aside and placed his hands on Tinnean’s shoulders. “Give this up. Then I will be happy.”
    He remained utterly still, as if his brother were a deer he was stalking. Tinnean’s eyes searched him for a long moment. When his shoulders slumped, Darak’s heart slammed into his chest. He had his brother back. Maybe the gods heard his prayers, after all.
    He was still smiling when Tinnean said, “Even if I gave this up, you wouldn’t be happy. I’m sorry, Darak.” Tinnean stood on tiptoe to press a light kiss on his forehead. “May the Oak-Lord be with you.”
    Darak shook his head, the unspoken words of the blessing like ashes in his mouth. In the end, Tinnean completed the blessing himself. “And may his spirit fill you with power, with light, and with peace on this Midwinter night.”
    Tinnean’s lips brushed each cheek. He smelled of soap and wool; a hint of peat smoke lingered in his hair. Darak’s hands tightened on his shoulders, but he couldn’t bring himself to look into his brother’s face. Instead, he stared at the rushes, silently willing Tinnean to stay.
    With unwonted firmness, Tinnean removed the restraining hands and slipped out of his grasp. Darak only looked up when he heard the shouted greetings from the men carving up the carcass of the bullock. Jurl’s bellow rose above the others, hailing his brother as “our new little priest.”
    Darak picked up the jug of brogac. His brother was the last of his family and the gods had taken him, as surely as they had taken his mother and his wife. He hadn’t been able to prevent that, but damned if he would sing their praises. He would march into the forest with the rest of the tribe, but he would offer no gift to the heart-oak. Let the others sing the night away after the priests crossed into the First Forest to witness the battle of the Tree-Lords. Let them shout joyous greetings when Struath returned at dawn to proclaim that the Oak had defeated the Holly.
    This year, his voice would remain silent. As silent as the gods who had turned their backs on him.

Chapter 2

    S TRUATH’S KNEES ACHED. Piety, he reflected, did as little to ease the miseries of old age as the three layers of furs upon which he knelt. He leaned forward and threw another handful of herbs on the fire, quelling the sigh of relief that the brief change in position offered. As he settled back, Tinnean’s stomach growled. The boy shot him a quick, guilty look and Struath lowered his head to hide his smile. Next to him, he heard Gortin sigh and his smile changed to a frown.
    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.
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