Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Read Online Free Page B

Oak Tribe had named him Tree-Father, the youngest ever to be accorded the honor. Thirty years since Brun—may his spirit live on in the sunlit Forever Isles—had stood before him and gouged out his left eye with the point of the ceremonial bronze dagger. The right eye to see this world, the blind one to penetrate the unseen one.
    Surreptitiously, Struath wiped his cheek. Thirty years and still the cold made tears ooze from the empty socket. Aching joints he understood, and fingers too swollen to close into a fist. But how could an empty eye weep?
    Not that he was ancient, he reminded himself. Mother Netal and the Memory-Keeper were older. Only three of them left who remembered Morgath as a living man, not merely as the central character in a gruesome cautionary tale.
    At the thought of his predecessor, Struath forced his numb fingers to make the sign against evil. “That it may not come through earth, through water, through air,” he muttered. Relenting, he added a quick prayer that Morgath’s spirit might have found light and peace. Power he would not wish him; his mentor had hungered for it too much while he lived.
    The words brought on a coughing fit that left him feeling as weak as a newborn lamb. He thrust the weakness aside, along with the resentment of knowing how few rites remained to him. All across the world, tribes were gathering to drive away the dark with songs and shouts and blazing torchlight. Tonight, all his strength, all his power must be concentrated on the battle in the grove.
    Tinnean and Lisula stepped aside as they reached the clearing. The chanting ceased, leaving only the sigh of the wind and the groan of bare branches. Struath closed his eye, allowing the ages-old strength of the forest to fill him, drawing on the power of the earth beneath him and the sky above him to drive out cold and pride and doubt. Only then did he open his eye to find Tinnean watching him. So young, Maker bless him, and so eager, illuminated by an inner light far brighter than the torch’s flame. Once, he had possessed that radiance—or so Morgath had said.
    Shaking off his memories, he stepped into the glade. Soaring pines reached skyward, dark, jagged silhouettes against the violet sky. The other trees were indistinguishable from one another in the gloom save for the venerable heart-oak. The light from their torches cast strange shadows on the sacred tree, making the runneled bark seem to shift and move, creating a mouth that now smiled, now frowned, and eyes that followed their movements.
    Struath nodded to Tinnean who took his place before the heart-oak. Then he hesitated. Belatedly, Struath realized why.
    Tradition called for him to pass his torch to the oldest male of his family. That honor should have fallen to Darak. An uncomfortable moment passed before Sim stepped forward. Struath nodded curtly and the Memory-Keeper accepted the torch. When he retreated, Struath stepped forward to stand at Tinnean’s side.
    “In the time before time, The People came to this land. Our ancestors worshiped the One Tree that is Two—the One Tree that is the Oak and the Holly.”
    He paused to allow the tribe to intone the traditional response. “May its roots remain ever strong.”
    “From one People, we became two tribes, forever linked by our common history.”
    Again, the tribe responded. “May our bond remain ever strong.”
    “Since the time before time, we have gathered before our heart-oak to honor the gods and to perform our sacred rites. It is fitting that on this holy day, we gather not only to lend our strength to the Oak-Lord in his battle tonight, but to honor this man’s commitment to the way of the priest.”
    “May his path remain ever clear.”
    Gortin sounded the ram’s horn as Struath faced Tinnean. “Tinnean, son of Reinek and Cluran. Before the gods of our people, do you affirm your willingness to be initiated?”
    “I do so affirm.”
    “Before the sacred tree of our tribe, do you affirm your