Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Read Online Free Page A

direction. Patches of damp earth showed through the snow where the men had scraped away the blood and entrails; at least this year, Red Dugan had remained sober enough to complete the task properly.
    Yeorna approached with Lisula behind her, bearing the leather flask of sacrificial blood. Struath nodded, signaling the Grain-Mother to begin the chant.
    A rim of sunlight still haloed Eagles Mount, staining the uppermost branches of the forest orange. The rest of their valley lay in shadow; the circled huts resembled twenty small cairns. Shaking off that disturbing image, Struath walked sunwise around his kinfolk, pressing the back of his left hand to each forehead, blessing each person with the touch of the tattooed acorn. He repressed a pang at the sunken cheeks, the new lines etched by grief. Nearly one hundred people had gathered here at Midsummer; little more than half remained.
    He extended his hand to offer his blessing to Darak, then drew back at the mingled reek of stale body odor and brogac. Instead of hanging his head in shame as any decent man would, Darak had the effrontery to stare down at him, his eyes as menacing and gray as storm clouds.
    He could no more permit Darak to attend the rite in this condition than he could tolerate such an open challenge. But after all the bad omens, he feared that the absence of even one voice would undermine the Oak-Lord’s strength.
    As if sensing his quandary, Darak smiled. That decided him. Struath stepped back and raised his voice so all could hear. “Darak, you are an affront to gods and men alike. Go back to your hut. On the morrow, I will choose a fitting punishment for your irreverence.”
    The strangled cry shattered Darak’s veneer of cockiness. As one, their gazes shifted to Tinnean. The boy’s lips were pressed together to prevent another outburst, but his eyes pleaded with him to relent. Struath hesitated, knowing how much Darak’s absence would wound Tinnean. He turned back to Darak, waiting for some sign of repentance. Instead, his expression hardened into its usual stoniness and he stalked away.
    Worried murmurs rose from the rest of the tribe. Struath quelled them with a peremptory gesture. “Only one who is clean in body and mind may stand before our heart-oak. Only then can we help the Oak defeat the Holly.”
    Tinnean’s head drooped. His shoulders rose and fell in a shuddering breath. When he raised his head again, he nodded once. Struath wished he could call Darak back, if only to restore the light to the boy’s face, but not even for Tinnean would he allow his authority to be undermined.
    Three times, Struath thumped the frozen earth with his blackthorn staff. Three times, Yeorna raised and lowered the dried sheaf of barley, the symbol of the Grain-Mother’s power. Tinnean and Lisula broke the circle; tonight, the youngest had the honor of leading the tribe into the forest.
    Struath eyed the guttering torches and murmured a brief prayer to strengthen the fire. A balky bullock could be ignored. Even Darak’s arrogance could be overlooked; he had refused permission to attend the rites before because of drunkenness. The death of the flames would be disastrous.
    The bones in his hair clicked in a gust of wind. Once, wool and piety had been enough to shield him from the cold, but long before the procession reached the forest’s verge, Struath was shivering so hard that his staff shook in his numbed fingers. The icy air seared his lungs. As he picked his way along the narrow forest trail, his chants barely rose above a whisper. Yeorna, bless her, chanted all the louder so the others would not notice.
    He knew there were whispers in the tribe, though none dared to speak against him openly. After all their troubles, it was only natural that some would wonder if he had lost his power to intercede with the gods. Tonight, he would prove them wrong. And tomorrow, he would humble Darak before the entire tribe.
    It had been thirty years since the elders of the