Free Heartwood (Tricksters Game) by Barbara Campbell Page B

man, but he’s a shepherd. Was, I mean, before he became a priest. Nay—hear me out.” He kept his voice respectful, but made no effort to mask his urgency. “Gortin’s no hunter. He cannot protect you from wildcats or wolves.”
    Struath started. Before the shaman could recover, Darak pressed his advantage. “I know the forest. I can watch your backs.”
    Struath and Yeorna exchanged glances. After a long moment, Struath nodded. “You may come. But only as far as the grove of the heart-oak.”
    He was still seeking the words to wring a greater concession when Yeorna added, “You must make a sacrifice at the heart-oak. And ask the gods’ permission to enter the First Forest.” Yeorna held up her hand, forestalling Struath’s objection. “These are extraordinary times, Tree-Father. If the gods are willing to accept Darak’s presence in their grove, it is not for us to deny him.”
    He hardly breathed as he waited for Struath’s response. Finally, the Tree-Father nodded again. “As always, you are wise, Grain-Mother.” The grudging tone of his voice belied the words, but Yeorna accepted them with a gracious smile. Darak resisted the urge to hug her, choosing instead to bow to both of them. Struath’s words caught him as he straightened.
    “You cannot command the gods, Darak. You must humble yourself before them. They will know if your gestures are empty.”
    That single blue eye raked him, just as it had that spring morning nine years ago. He had stumbled out of the forest after sitting three days and three nights in a thicket, starting at every rustle in the undergrowth, battling hunger and thirst and fear as he waited for his vision to come. He could still remember racing across the fields, exhilaration banishing exhaustion. Finding Struath waiting in the center of the village. Feeling the shaman’s hands cupping his face, the sightless eye probing him, searching for confirmation of the vision. And swaying with relief and triumph when Struath called out, “Today, a man walks among us.”
    Darak knew then that Struath had seen the she-wolf, had heard the animal’s howl, just as he had when she called him in the dark. While his kinfolk surged forward, laughing and shouting his name, the shaman whispered, “She hunts with the pack and will kill to defend her pups.” He had been honored by the wolf’s choice, but it still puzzled him. Certainly, he would kill to defend Tinnean, but even as a child, he’d always been a loner.
    Struath was watching him, awaiting his decision. Darak rose and walked around the fire pit. He seized the shaman’s hands and laid the palms against his pitted cheeks. “I will do anything.”
    “Even beg, Darak?”
    Struath’s inexorable gaze bore into him. Darak met it without flinching. “Anything.”

Chapter 8

    W HEN MOTHER NETAL’S breathing subsided into soft snores, Griane slipped out from under the rabbitfurs. The dying embers provided little illumination, but she had lived in the healer’s hut for more than a year now and knew where everything was stored.
    She shoved a few oatcakes into her healing bag, added two smoked trout, and flung her mantle around her. She eyed the other, still hanging from the bone hook by the doorway as if expecting its owner’s imminent return. Until the plague, each mantle in the village was patched and preserved with care, handed down from father to son, mother to daughter. Now there were mantles to spare, but this one, she could not take. Not even for Tinnean.
    “You could wait.”
    She whirled around to find Mother Netal lying on her side, watching her.
    “For the council’s decision, child.”
    “Darak won’t.”
    Mother Netal grunted.
    “He won’t risk a casting-out. He’ll pack weapons and food, but men never think of things like healing herbs or bone needle and sinew for sewing or—”
    “Don’t get caught.”
    She resisted the urge to hug the old healer.
    “Take it.”
    “What?”
    “Umi’s mantle.”
    It was the