Heartwood (Tricksters Game) Read Online Free PDF

emerged, full-bellied and fat, from behind the clouds. Tinnean gasped again as her moonlight revealed a grove so large their entire village could fit within it. And at its center, the living heart of this limitless forest, stood the One Tree.
    As always, the sight filled Struath with awe. The One Tree had stood in this grove since the world’s first spring, observing the passing of time as a man might mark the passing of seasons. Each root was thicker than the trunk of their heart-oak. Twenty men with their arms outstretched could barely circle the trunk. But the true miracle was that the One Tree was also Two, for from those roots, from that trunk, grew the Oak and the Holly.
    Tinnean’s eyes were wide, his face as pale as Gheala’s. So I must have looked that first time, Struath thought. He experienced a vivid sensation just then of his mentor’s hand resting on the back of his neck. He hunched his shoulders, shrinking from the memory.
    One by one, each tribe laid its offerings among the Oak’s roots: blood and water, meat and grain, flint arrowheads and smooth stones. One man carried a brace of hares, another a gourd painted with bold green leaves. The gaunt woman before him in the procession offered a bouquet of dried goldenrod. Struath knelt and placed the bullock’s heart next to it.
    “It is not the offering that is important, little rook, but the heart of the one who makes it.” So Morgath had told him before his first battle rite, the deep voice calming his anxiety, the gentle touch stilling his restlessness. Even as Struath shuddered, he realized he had failed to offer such reassurance to Tinnean. As he moved back from the One Tree, he squeezed the boy’s shoulder and was rewarded with a quick, relieved smile.
    By the time each gift had been presented, Gheala’s light had traveled halfway across the grove. Struath’s heartbeat quickened with familiar excitement. In a dozen tongues, they offered the greeting. “Lord of the Oak. Lord of the Holly. We stand before you.” In a dozen tongues, they made the affirmation. “Lords of the First Forest, we come to witness.” And then they waited.
    The air trembled. A shiver ran down Struath’s spine as the energy flowed around him and through him, through all of the watchers, human and tree alike—a circle of living power surrounding the Tree. A shudder rippled through the massive trunk. The sweeping boughs of the Holly shook as the Lord of the Waning Year offered the challenge. The Oak rattled its spindly branches, accepting.
    “They battle!” Tinnean cried.
    The boy should not have spoken, but Struath understood the need to give voice to the wonder. Around the circle of worshipers, the power surged. Through earth and air, the power of the First Forest resonated, filling his senses, making him want to shout like Tinnean with the joy of it.
    Then the Holly attacked. The finger-length spikes of its leaves carved long gouges in the Oak’s trunk. Struath sang with the others, his voice shaking with cold and apprehension. Each day since Midsummer, the Oak-Lord’s strength had dwindled, and with it the strength of the sun. Tonight, his power was at its lowest ebb, yet somehow, the Lord of the Waxing Year must prevail.
    A great bulge ran up the trunk of the Tree. Twigs burst out of the Oak’s naked limbs. They grew thick and strong, swelling with power. The Oak lashed the Holly, the sharp retort of cracking branches punctuating the singing. Green boughs sagged. Red berries, large as fists, rained down.
    Struath flexed his fingers, unaware until now how tightly he’d been clenching his staff. As many times as he had stood here, the battle between the old year and the new was a fearful thing to behold. But all would be well. The Oak-Lord would vanquish his rival, the dying sun would be reborn, and just as their ancient song promised, winter would yield to spring.
    The Holly’s limbs shriveled, retreating before the burgeoning power of the Oak. Even as relief