Dark Magic (2 page)

Chapter Two

Unrest in the Haven

The River Haven, generally called the Haven by residents, consisted of the lands stretched along both shores of the Berrywine river. The river itself was the biggest in Cymru, about three hundred yards wide in most places, and ran south to north. The forests to the east of the river were called the Haven woods, and were generally considered more wholesome, while the forests to the west were called the Deepwood, a place full of thorny thickets and wild things. The Haven was bordered in the north by the great marshlands and the town of North End. In that direction, past the great swamps, lay the sea. To the south, Frogmorton was the farthest settlement to be found, surrounded on all sides by forests and mountains. And in the center of the Haven, in the midst of the very river itself, stood Stone Island. The island boasted cliffs of granite guarding three sides, all sides save for the east. Riverton, the largest town and the capital of the Haven sat on the shores of the east side of the island. There on the island, a patch of land less than ten miles long, the River Folk gathered for every festival and felt safest.

Mari had grown up in the Haven, and lived on her family’s farm on the eastern shores of the Berrywine. The Haven woods had long been the border to her world, and she had spent her childhood playing in the shadows of the trees there. But now, she herself was with child.

She had lain with an elf named Puck after All Hallows Eve, and he had left her with a new worry. She knew she was pregnant by the time the second snows came, in mid-November. She should not have known so soon, she thought. She was a farm girl, and she had witnessed the process of mating and birth. It should have taken longer for her to notice the swelling, but there it was, plain to see.

She had met with Puck and lain with him on the final warm days of the year, after the first snows had melted. Barely two months had passed since then. The world had turned a wintery white and it would likely stay that way until spring.

She was swelling very fast. It was not possible, not so quickly, but it was happening. By the time the family prepared for the winter festivals, she had taken to wearing baggy clothing. She had told her mother she was cold and feared falling ill. Fussing, mother had dug into the wardrobes and given her a heavy flowing cloak that she now wore night and day. The cloak worked well to hide a bump, but the bump continued swelling with alarming speed.

Less than three months in, she could feel the child squirm and kick. Every time it did so, Mari’s heart pounded with fear. What had she done? What had she
made?

One afternoon when she thought she could get away without notice, she made her way out to the wheat fields. She took with her the ash leaf ward and her great cloak. Crunching through snow that would not soon melt, she stood at the edge of the forest. She cried for Puck. She cried out his true name. But he didn’t come. No one did. When the land fell dark, she returned home with tears on her face.

Somehow, when she got back that night to the house, her mother knew. She looked at her and saw that tears had drawn streaks on her face. Her hair had not been done up in a ribbon for weeks. Her heavy cloak could barely conceal her swollen belly and breasts.

Mother, hands on her hips, stared at her. It was a hard, appraising stare. Mari met those accusing eyes briefly, but then cast hers downward. That was the moment. Mother knew now, and both of them understood this.

The men of the house, of course, were oblivious. Father wanted supper, and nothing else. Mari was the oldest daughter, and her brothers only had eyes for other girls. To them, she was a moody, fattening sister, and almost invisible.

After the plates had been cleared away and the dishes washed, her mother came to speak to her.

“You didn’t eat much, Mari.”

“I’m not very hungry tonight.”

“Strange. A girl in your condition normally has quite an appetite.”

Mari made no reply. Somehow, every moment of denial kept the truth away from her mind and kept her going. What had she been thinking? She had told Puck they would owe each other nothing after they had lain together. That was a fine arrangement for a male. But it had proven disastrous for her.

Still, her mother’s hands were on her hips. She stood closer now, looming over Mari. Mari said nothing. She fidgeted with the ties to her cloak.

Mother bade her to follow and led her outside into the cold, fresh night air. They went to get firewood together. It was there, in the woodshed, that Mari confessed she was indeed carrying a child. She did not say who the father was. Not yet.

Mother’s lips were compressed into two firm lines. The lecture was long and stern and Mari fully expected it would come to blows, but it didn’t.

Mother told her that they would not tell father, not yet. Maybe not ever. They would go visit an old woman in the forest. A woman who sold potions and poultices. She was a Fob woman, and she was wise in these matters. Mother said that they would talk to this old Fob woman in the forest, and they would see what could be done.

Mari blinked back her tears, wondering what she meant. What
could
be done, after all?

Mother left her there in the woodshed alone, before any more questions could be asked in private. Mari loaded up her arms with firewood and staggered back to the farmhouse.

She wondered where Puck was and what he was doing.

* * *

Piskin had been bitter and vengeful before. He had been robbed of his lady fair, the maid Lanet Drake, after only a few happy hours. He had been abused by Dando, and although Dando was dead, that abuse he still listed in Piskin’s private column of debts unpaid.

The abuses had not stopped there, however. Oh no, fate and every other actor on the stage had a ready foot to kick poor Piskin. After Dando’s friends had chased him from his fairly acquired crib, he had tried to seek reasonable compensation. When another of his kind named Tomkin had stolen the Blue Jewel, Piskin had sought to seize it. After all, it was only right that the property of the dead Dando become his. Dando had greatly wronged him and therefore first claim went to the wronged party. Any court would have stood with him, he felt sure. It was irrelevant that none of the Wee Folk had ever respected the rulings of any court in history. Fair was fair.

But, had Tomkin handed over the Jewel, that which was clearly Piskin’s due? Far from it, instead the vicious bastard had done him a grave injury. His hand was off, and wouldn’t likely regrow for decades, perhaps a century.

If one of his glass-like eyes could have cried, Piskin would have shed a tear for his severed hand. What good was a changeling with a missing hand? How would one carry off a babe with but a single hand? Worse, far, far, worse, was the second question: what mother would accept a semblance of her child when that child was suddenly missing a hand? She would at the very least consult a physician and demand an explanation. Piskin knew that physicians were charlatans, the same as he, but if there was one thing a sham-artist did well, it was spotting others of his own kind.

And so it was that Piskin had no chance of seeking solace in the arms of a fresh maid. That avenue of joy, which he had waited out the centuries of the Pact to experience again, was cut off from him, just as surely as his hand had been removed.

What he dwelt upon now, as he sat upon a tree stump in the gloom of the Deepwood, brooding, was something else entirely. He wanted revenge. He wanted blood and pain and most of all, he wanted his enemies to regret greatly what they had done to him. They would be sorrowful they had ever heard the name of Piskin.

Accordingly, he had investigated the players involved in his mistreatment. He had asked among the growing throng of fools and run-abouts that Tomkin had gathered to him. These dupes believed the black-hearted knave Tomkin to be some kind of lord, some kind of hero. They didn’t tell him much and he knew he was unwelcome, but he learned of Brand and the axe and the disposition of the other Jewels.

Each of the powers involved seemed well accounted for. Brand had the axe, Tomkin had Lavatis, Hob had the horn Osang. The possession of each item of power was known, save for one. That one was the bloodhound. What had happened to that creature? What
was
that creature?

Piskin intended to find out. He sought out the one person who possibly hated Dando, Tomkin and Brand as much as he did. The one person who had been wronged by these foul tricksters. Oberon.

Oberon, Lord of the Shining Folk and sire of many of them, had not been seen much of late. He no longer danced upon the mounds. At twilight, he did not accost maidens and play his pipes as had ever been his favorite pastime. Piskin imagined that somewhere, in the Twilight Lands, Oberon was sulking. Perhaps he was bitter, even as Piskin was. Perhaps his hate ran as deep, and the wrongs heaped upon him were as poison in his mind.

Piskin smiled at the thought. It would be good to have a fellow vengeful comrade. He set off around the nearest mound, starting at midnight. Nine times widdershins did he circle the mound, and with each circling he became less distinct to those in the mortal world.

After the ninth circuit, he vanished completely.

Chapter Three

Brand’s Horse

By the time of the Winter Festival, Brand was an unhappy man. He spent his days working on his family Isle, shoveling snow from the roof and heating water over a fire to keep the animals from freezing. It was a far cry from slaying rhinogs and undead kings. Soon his body had fully healed from his fight with the giant, Twrog, and he was itching for more adventure.

At one point during the mind-numbingly dull routines of farm life, he scared a large hare. The animal burst out of the snow-frosted brush and sprang down the hillside in a wild run for freedom.

Before he knew what was happening, Brand had pulled out the axe. It flashed more brightly than the sun and the stunned hare almost ran into a tree, such was its pathetic fright. Brand hissed at the overzealous axe, realizing it was only an animal and feeling the fool. Frustrated, he cut a wide swath with the axe, slashing down a sapling birch in a single stroke with the bone-white blade.

“Have a care, man!” shouted Jak, his voice full of surprise, but not anger.

Jak watched the hare run, and he laughed heartily. Brand heard a snort, buried in that long belly-laugh, and that was the part that didn’t sit right with him. He turned one glaring eye to his brother. His mouth was a grim line. He hadn’t been through so much this year to be mocked.

Jak’s hand came up and his laughter faltered, “Hold, brother! Don’t tell me the axe has such a grip on you in one second! Go chase the hare if you must. Sweat it out.”

Brand drew a deep breath and forced himself to smile.

Jak lowered his hand, and smiled back uncertainly.

Brand lowered the axe and put it away. “The hare gave me a start, that’s all.”

“Woe to me if I should surprise you in the tub.”

Brand forced a laugh and shook himself. “Somehow, the farm isn’t the same to me now. It’s still home, mind you, but I feel I’ve outgrown its simple charms.”

“I’ve got news then that may improve your mood.”

“Tell me.”

“Recall that horse you wanted? The one you swore to have when you saw him?”

“The roan? Down at the Riverton stables?”

“The same. He’s for sale. A fine stallion that people say few can ride. No one has completely broken that horse. Some suggest he should be put out to stud, while others walk away with strained backs and mutter about making sandwiches of him.”

Brand smiled, but shook his head. “He’s as bad as all that, is he? I’m not really much of a rider. Why have they not gelded the beast yet?”

Jak shrugged. “We could ask old man Silure. He’s selling the animal.”

“Old Tad?” asked Brand, incredulous. The only thing he’d ever heard of Old Tad Silure selling, besides false wards, was slander. “He’s raising horses now?”

“You and Telyn put him out of the ward business, remember?”

Brand rubbed at his chin. His fingers were stiff and red from the frost. “Okay,” he said at last, “let’s head up this week and see about it. At the very least I’ll get to visit Telyn again.”

They gave over chopping wood and shoveling frost for the day and chased the animals back into the barn for the night. On the way back to the house, Jak suggested they go to town in the morning.

Brand agreed. The more he thought about the trip, the better he felt. Somehow Rabing Isle, which he had grown upon, seemed more like a prison to him now, especially in the dead of winter. Since the Wee Folk had declared ownership of the Blue Jewel and Brand had so clearly and repeatedly demonstrated the control that humanity had over the Amber, few had dared molest the River Folk. The Haven was at peace again. This ought to have been a good thing, but somehow peace ate at Brand. Or rather, it ate at the axe, which craved excitement and danger. He wondered if the axe was simply bored.

The night was uneventful, as far too many nights had been lately. In the morning, with a fresh sun in the gray sky, they headed to Stone Island. The wind was cold, but brisk. The wind carried them down river swiftly, and they made good time in their skiff. Before the sun had set, they reached Riverton’s white-glazed docks.

“Have a care with your footing, brother!” called Jak as he stepped on the slippery dock. Brand nodded resignedly. Iced docks were treacherous, but he was no longer a child in his brother’s shadow. In fact, he towered over his older brother and was easily a head taller and a shoulder wider. His brother had probably given him such admonishments a thousand times. He hoped they both lived long enough that he would hear them a thousand more times—but he had heard Jak’s repetitive worries enough to last out this winter.

Jak watched him quietly as they tied off the skiff and secured the sails. Brand could tell he was thinking.

“When are you going to ask her?”

“Ask who what?” Brand replied. He knew, of course, that his brother was speaking of Telyn. But he honestly wasn’t certain what his brother was suggesting.

“About marriage, of course.”

“Me?” sputtered Brand, “I’m years younger. What of you?”

Jak smiled and coiled rope. “I’ve been thinking in that direction as well.”

Brand stood dumbfounded for a moment. Could his brother honestly be considering Telyn? He shook his head, he wasn’t thinking clearly. Telyn would not have him, even if he was the heir to Rabing Isle.

“Who?”

Jak tipped his head. “Lanet Drake.”

“Ah,” said Brand, understanding somewhat. Her husband hadn’t made it home after the battle of the Dead Kingdoms, as it had come to be known.

“We got to know each other while you were marching about up in the marshes and I was recovering from being elf-shot. I came to Riverton to check on Aunt Suzenna who was staying at Drake manor even then.”

Brand nodded.

“We became close when her husband—when he didn’t make it. She needs a man, and I need a woman. It’s a natural enough thing.”

Brand frowned, feeling a twinge of guilt. He had led the charge that had taken her husband’s life. He wondered what it would be like to sit across from Lanet on holidays, meeting her eye and knowing he had had a hand in her husband’s death.

Jak caught his expression and misinterpreted it. “We need some new faces around the Isle, you know. The clan will die out—in fact the whole Haven will depopulate if people don’t marry and raise a new generation. Or is it that you can’t believe such a beauty would have the likes of a river-boy? Or is it because she already has a son—”

Brand put up his hand. In the past, his brother had always been the hot-head, the one to jump off to unwarranted conclusions that bordered on fantasies. Only recently, with the introduction of the axe into their relationship had Brand become the one easily unhinged. It was almost good, in a way, to see his brother back in a fiery mood. He’d forgotten about the axe for once. Today, the Axeman was just Jak’s little brother again. That felt strangely good.

“Hold man!” he said, “I’m frowning for reasons of my own, and they don’t involve you at all. I will be very pleased to have a sister-in-law of such quality. She lights up every room she enters.”

Jak smiled and nodded. He took a deep breath. “All right then, sorry. So, why the worried look?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Don’t make me guess, I’m not Corbin.”

Brand snorted.

“Very well then,” said Jak, imitating Corbin’s voice and manner as they walked up the docks. “Let me think about it.”

Brand groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Why would Lanet trouble you? You have your own lady... Ah, perhaps that’s it. You managed to dodge my question about marriage, didn’t you? Second thoughts about Telyn?”

Brand shook his head. “Never.”

“You plan marriage? Eventually?”

“Yes, but—”

“I have it,” interrupted Jak. “You think you might run off and die with that axe any minute. You think you don’t own any land to put her on. Sure, you own a castle of rubble in the midst of a haunted swamp, but that is hardly a honeymoon spot, is it?”

“Look,” Brand said, stopping, “marry Lanet. Do it at the first hint of spring.”

“You should do the same. Telyn will say yes. You are the champion of the Haven. Any girl in town would marry you.”

“But I don’t have anything except a bad tempered axe and a job title that might result in death at any moment. What is that to offer a girl?”

“You forget who we are talking about here! Telyn is no shrinking violet. She craves adventure, I daresay, as much as that crazy axe of yours. At least think about it.”

Brand nodded and he did think about it as they headed to the Spotted Hog for some dinner and ale. He had been thinking about Telyn a lot lately.

* * *

In the morning they headed out to Old Tad Silure’s horse farm. It wasn’t much to look at. Tad had picked it up for a song from a widow after her husband had never returned from the marshes last fall. Brand was again grimly reminded of the toll of death he had so recently had a hand in. He was glad he didn’t have to face the widow. Bartering with her would have gone badly, and if he’d wanted the horse, he probably would have paid double its worth out of guilt.

But instead, the snaggle-mouthed Slet was there. Old Tad was nowhere in evidence, but had been there in the morning.

“He’s gone off to Riverton on business,” Slet explained.

Brand and Jak nodded. Brand knew they were both thinking the same thing: Tad must have run out of corn whiskey. Or perhaps, he had consumed too much in the night and was sleeping it off in his shack on the docks.

Brand eyed Slet and wondered if he had managed to join the Riverton army during the battle last year. He did not recall having seen him in the field. He might have shirked the muster and hidden here at home, but Brand said nothing about it. His own brother Jak had not gone, having been injured at the time. Slet was polite enough, in fact, he seemed cheerful.

“I hear talk you are looking for a horse,” Slet said.

Brand nodded and put his hands on the rails of the corral. He eyed the big roan that was still there. There were only five horses in evidence.

Slet came up beside him. It was hard not to bristle. He and Slet had not always gotten along well. In fact, they’d never gotten along at all. The axe sensed his mood and shifted uneasily on his back.

Slet pointed to the roan, “he’s all saddled up. You gonna try it?”

Brand looked at him and didn’t like the confident grin on his face. He didn’t think Brand could ride him.

“Sure,” said Brand, opening the gate and walking into the corral. He’d brought some carrots for this moment. The big roan nickered and threw his head a few times, but let him approach without shying away.

Slet draped himself over the fence next to Jak and grinned. “Tough horse to ride.”

“So I hear.”

He fed the horse a carrot. With the second one in hand, he got hold of the reins. The roan snorted, but went for the second carrot without backing off. So far, so good.

The horse’s coat was an even mix of white and red, with darker red at the head and feet. The tail was long and almost brushed the snow.  Brand smiled with a surge of confidence. He moved to the horse’s side and put one foot in the stirrup.

“Might want to bring him over here to the fence,” suggest Jak.

Brand rolled his eyes at him. When would he stop playing the older brother? Probably never, he thought.

Brand heaved and threw a leg up over the saddle. That was when everything went wrong.

The horse, who had a moment before been calmly eating his second carrot, reared and bolted. Brand had only one foot in a stirrup at that point and was nearly thrown. The horse charged straight ahead, then pulled up sharply, wheeling when he ran into the fence again.

This time, Brand lost his grip and fell off, flopping over the corral railing. He picked himself up. Jak was there with a quick hand on his elbow.

“You okay?” he asked.

Brand shook him off angrily. He could hear Slet laughing. Flushed red with anger, he headed back into the corral.

“Round two?” asked Slet, chuckling still. Brand didn’t answer, he was almost beyond speech.

Sensing his mood, the horse shied and circled the corral at a trot, snorting and tossing his head. Brand followed him around, hands up to grab the reins. He tried not to let his foul mood show, but it was difficult. He had not realized that the axe was going to make this entire experience harder. He considered setting it down outside the corral while he worked with the horse, but he was feeling stubborn about it. The way the horse had been so calm to start with, he felt he had almost had it, but had moved too quickly and upset the stallion.

He tried the carrots again. The roan wasn’t interested, but he sniffed for just a second and Brand managed to grab the reins again before he could shy away.

Brand took deep breaths, trying to calm both himself and the horse. He was partly successful. When he mounted again, the horse shuffled, but he managed to get into the saddle.

Once again, the roan took off, circling the corral and rearing. He considered lopping the fool thing’s head off, but told himself that was just the axe talking, and that the head that really needed removal was Slet’s. The Silure boy was laughing harder than before. Belly-laughing, with one hand over his stomach and leaning on the top rail of the corral for support.