Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Read Online Free

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