Dark Magic (46 page)

“What’s happened here?” asked Brand in disgust. “Is that an elk carcass I see?”

“The two Jewels,” Oberon explained. “I needed
big
animals, you see, to feed this large of a growth. The kind of animals which only flourish in the Deepwood.”

Brand looked at him in alarm. “Are you telling me this vine is grown with blood as well as leaf and stalk?”

“Exactly!” cried Oberon, almost dancing in agitation. “Isn’t it fantastic? It was my greatest experiment.”

“It’s disgusting!” shouted Brand. His breathing caused his sides to heave as he gulped air. His teeth bared themselves as might those of angry wolf. His hand trembled, but he did not yet reach for the axe.

“Not perfect, no,” Oberon said.

Brand stared, barely able to credit what he was seeing and hearing. He kicked aside leaves and stalks to get a better view of what lay here on his riverbank, hidden by the massive, fluttering leaves. There were feeding tubers, operating like hoses or straws, which ran from each carcass to the plant’s thick root. This elf had gone too far. He had intruded with his magical experiments upon Brand’s own home isle. He’d practiced his vile research upon Haven lands without permission.

“What of Myrrdin?” Brand demanded. “Why is he not bearing his Jewel? Why does he not instruct you on the use of the Green, if that is his wish?”

“He is…missing.”

“I see,” said Brand. He stood tall and grasped the haft of his axe. Strength and resolve surged through him, and later he could not recall drawing it forth—but there it was, in his hand. He walked to the root of the thing that had been grown across the Berrywine. With a single flashing stroke, he chopped it down. A massive, rippling roar went up as the living bridge splashed into the churning river. The vine cracked and snapped on the far side, breaking away from Rabing Isle. A section of the cliff tore free with it, showering clumps of soil and stones into the river. Brand watched in satisfaction as the entire thing collapsed and was washed downstream.

“Your latest abomination befouls Haven waters,” Brand complained. He watched the bridge roll over and partly sink. The fast-moving waters tugged at it, however, pulling it downstream.

At Brand’s feet, a vile substance bubbled and spat. It was a mix of blood and sap, as far as Brand could see. It came up from the roots which had simultaneously drunk at the river, suckled the dead animals dry and consumed the soil of the riverbank.

Oberon watched the proceedings coldly. “I take it you did not approve of my gift,” he said.

“No. Please never grow another new evil upon my lands.”

“Will you still come to the weddings?”

Brand thought about it. He wiped the axe clean on huge leaves nearby and dipped the blades in the river. The shining edges were soon clear. He shoved the weapon back into his rucksack and let go of it. He could think more clearly once he’d released the handle.

“I will come, because I’ve said that I would. But I will not help you master Myrrdin’s Jewel.”

“Tomorrow night at the mound, then,” said Oberon, touching his hat in salute. He turned his goat into the Deepwood. Soon, he’d vanished into the gloom under the trees.

Brand looked after him, wondering what this was all about, and wondering how far he would have to walk to find a boat. Cursing every elf the worlds had seen fit to birth, he began walking downriver toward Hamlet. If he walked all night, he could get a ferry from there to Riverton.

Chapter Two

Beneath the Great Erm

Myrrdin’s lot in life had taken a turn for the worse. Unable to forgive Oberon’s treachery and, more importantly, unwilling to swear fealty to his father, he had been cast into a dungeon within the Great Erm.

Fae dungeons were things quite apart from those built by the River Folk or the Kindred. They were not made of stone, mortar and iron bars. Instead, they were simple holes in the earth. These holes, however, were covered completely and amounted to forgotten nodules, enchanted pockets of air within the greater stratum of forest loam.

To prevent escape, a tough shell was grown around the cell. To keep the prisoner alive, the tiny region inside was fed with natural organs. A hose-like tuber provided air—which was not by any definition
fresh
—but it was breathable. Fleshy roots gently drew liquids from the soil around the cell. Dribbling down the rippled interior walls like tears, the slimy waters gathered around Myrrdin’s bare feet and pooled there, mixing with his wastes. He soon learned to lick at the orifice that dribbled the waters in maddeningly tiny amounts down the walls, before the liquid became befouled at the bottom of his spherical cell. A thin, mealy gruel was provided by repulsive-tasting fungus that grew constantly near the water orifice. The evacuation of waste was a function managed in a similar fashion to the way air was provided: tubers had been grown into the floor of the cell. All these growths were especially for their purposes by Oberon’s clever, elvish foresters.

Myrrdin spent an unknown and unknowable time entombed there within the earth of the Twilight Lands. He knew that above him each night, on the distant surface world there were open skies and cheerful music. Above him elves danced with elf maidens and made merry. The wind ruffled their shining hair and their fine cloaks, and the eternal starlight lit their beautiful faces. He wondered if they had forgotten about him entirely, or if they drank a toast of ale and relieved themselves nightly atop his tomb, knowing that the plants that fed him would eventually transport their bodily waters down to his waiting lips.

A thousand regrets would not begin to cover Myrrdin’s mood. He knew every form of reaction possible over time. He raged, he cried, he sat despondent for days. He tried to allow himself to waste away, but eventually he always came crawling back to the orifice and licked there, cursing his weakness of spirit. He sometimes told himself long, exquisitely worded oratories. He composed songs and even experimented with new dances and exercises—although his tomb would barely allow him to stand erect.

In the end, it was madness that threatened him most greatly. An elf, or any true immortal, could fare better under such circumstances. One might think the knowledge of immortality and thus a possibly endless imprisonment would work against one of the Fae, but their minds were differently constructed.
Knowing
they were immortal allowed them to endure under such horrid circumstances. They existed, secure in the knowledge that in the greatness of time their current situation, while regrettable, was only temporary. They knew they would, in the fullness of their existence, come to forget this unhappy chapter, whether it lasted a month, a decade…or a century.

Myrrdin was only a half-elf, however. He had enough human blood in him to grow old. He worried about the wastage of lifespan this unjust imprisonment represented. It took longer for him to lose his mind than it would have for a human, but insanity finally came to swallow the last of his faded spirit. He gave into its darkness in the end, and when he finally embraced the loss of his mind…he felt a strange sense of relief.

* * *

Only a single man of the four-score souls Brand led to Oberon’s Twilight Lands caused undue trouble. Bret Silure, cousin to Slet Silure, was a grandnephew of Old Tad Silure’s and a general wastrel. Skinny, long of limb and tooth, Bret had never said a kind word to anyone, as far as Brand could determine. He had volunteered to take a Faerie wife, however, and had won the right in the Riverton lottery to do so. Word was he’d spent the night before carousing with his equally unsavory friends, bragging of his future exploits upon the wedding bed of wild flowers the Fae were reported to prefer. In the morning he’d brought a fresh jug of broadleaf whiskey with him to the Riverton Commons and worked on it steadily throughout the day. By the time twilight came and the future husbands followed Brand around the mound, he had to be hauled to his feet and frequently kicked in the direction of the path by the others. Stumbling and half-blind, still with one thumb hooked in his jug’s handle, he managed to make it seven circuits around before seeing something that gave him a great fright. He panicked and ran from the path.

Brand heard the fuss behind him, but was not sure what the matter was. He stood on the path, and urged others forward. “We’re almost there, keep moving, men!” he called, and they shuffled past him. There was yellow fear in every eye that met his as they passed. He could see they were glad to have an experienced veteran who knew how to cross between worlds to lead them.

When the final knot of men went by, they walked with many glances over their shoulders. “He’s vanished, Brand,” said a Hoot boy who looked too young to take a wife, but who had somehow slipped into the mix.

“Who?”

“Bret,” said the Hoot boy. “Bret Silure. He’s lost his way.”

Brand felt a pang, but it was not a sharp one. “Damn the man. He should never have become so drunk.”

“I wish I was drunk,” said one of the men, a fat baker of Clan Gwyr who’d lost his wife in the Riverton Fire a year earlier.

“Me as well,” chorused others.

Brand called to Oberon, who led the procession to his world on his goat, but the other was too far ahead to hear—or so it seemed.

“Stand where you are and close your eyes, everyone,” Brand said loudly. “I’m going to try to signal Bret.”

The men did as he asked after a moment. Brand pulled out the axe, and felt an unexpected surge of excitement. The axe was tense—more than usual. He tried to push aside the strange thoughts that interrupted his mind.

—treachery!

The axe spoke to him, telling him the things it imagined with its usual paranoid fervor.

Brand shook his head of these alien thoughts. He commanded the axe to wink. An amber gush of light bathed every face. Those that had obeyed and closed their eyes winced, seeing it right through their eyelids. Those who had not screamed and clutched at their faces. Brand paid no heed. He had not directed a full strength flash, one that would burn the skin and boil away the eyes. The fools who had not listened to him would be dazzled for a time, but not blinded.

When he flashed the axe, he eyed the gray world around carefully. He did it again, then twice more. Curses and complaints came up from the men who stood near.

“Do you want to blind us all, man?”

“Bret is lost. Stop with the lightning!”

“Can we walk yet? I want to get away from this place.”

“Hold,” said Brand. He looked and thought to see movement in the distance. He directed the axe that way, and let it flash one more time. A beam of amber light shined into the infinite fog between worlds, illuminating that which is never normally seen by mortal eyes.

What Brand saw there caused him to suck in his breath. He caught a glimpse of two creatures he’d never suspected could exist. They were shaped like leaves made of skin, like things that swam in the deepest seas. Between them they held what appeared to be a flopping corpse, but Brand quickly realized the skinny man was still alive. The creatures worked to devour what could not be anyone other than Bret Silure. Blood flowed from his eyes and wide-open mouth. He appeared to be screaming, but no sound issued that Brand could detect. He still had his jug wrapped around a single thumb.

Brand let the axe drop to his side. There, it bubbled with light, wanting to release more energy, wanting to chop at the things that consumed a man nearby. Brand knew he could not afford to leave the path, however. He could not go to rescue the man—if he could be rescued. The chances were too high he’d never find the path again himself.

“He’s gone,” Brand said. “Open your eyes, and keep them open until we reach our destination.”

“What of Bret?”

“He’s one less fool I’ll take to wed an elf today,” Brand said gruffly. He turned and pushed his way through the throng, walking quickly and shouldering his axe. The men ducked and swallowed in fear as he passed them. None wanted to be near the axe which rippled with yellow light as might a guttering candle flame.

At the distant head of the line, he found Oberon on his goat.

“Could you not hear my calls?” he demanded.

“Hmm?” Oberon purred. “I suppose I could.”

“There were to be no tricks played this day!”

Oberon laughed. “I’m not responsible for a trick one of your River Folk plays upon himself!”

Brand fell silent and brooded the rest of the way. The men following him were subdued and quiet. No more of them strayed from the path.

When they had circled the mound for the final time and stepped out onto the silver grasses of the Twilight Lands, the men gazed around with open mouths. When their eyes rose to look up to the top of the mound, they froze there and gasps escaped them.

Atop the mound a great throng stood. Most of them were lovely elvish ladies dressed in spun gossamer. These were the widowed daughters of Oberon. Their hair shone like spun gold, silver, raven-black, cobalt or sparkling magenta. Each fair lady had an attending wisp to orbit her form, tending to her hair and fine clothing. Their clothing was considerably less substantial than when they’d come to visit Brand on his wedding day. In the tradition of elves, these females dressed without modesty. There could be no doubt to any male gazing upon them that they were interested in attracting mates—and with their shapely forms, they would have no trouble doing so.

Brand walked up the mound toward Oberon, who stood proudly in front of his brood. “How is this to be done?” Brand asked.

“Such crude manners,” Oberon said. “Put away the axe, axeman, so we may talk civilly.”

Brand noticed with some surprise that the axe did still ride his shoulder. He thought about putting it away—really, he should do so. But something made him doubt this thought. He did not
want
to put it away. The axe fairly hummed with excitement, counting every elf it sensed near as an enemy and every man at his back as a warrior to lead to battle.

Oberon hopped from his goat and trotted close. He leaned near and whispered. As he did so, the axe shivered in Brand’s tight grip.

“Recall, axeman, how badly things went with another of my daughters upon such an occasion. I do not relish a repeat performance.”

Brand jerked his head at the elf lord’s words. He had slain one of Oberon’s innocent young daughters long ago on a mound such as this when the axe had goaded him into swinging it thoughtlessly. He nodded.

“As you say,” he said, putting Ambros away and releasing the handle. It was more difficult than usual, but he managed it. The axe had been drawn and had used its power over light, but had not been sated with blood. It felt cheated, and was reluctant to be set aside.

Everyone relaxed around him when the axe was safely out of sight. Brand forced a smile. “So, how shall your daughters and my men choose their mates?”

Oberon clucked his tongue. “Directly to the point, is it?” he asked. “How disappointed Telyn must be every eve.”

The elves and a good number of the River Folk snickered. Brand’s face darkened and he yearned to draw out the axe again. Ever it was with these little—

“Brand?” asked Oberon. “Do I have your attention again? I said it must be done randomly, with beauty and decorum.”

“Randomly?” echoed Brand.

“Aw,” complained a man behind him. “I had my eye fixed upon the gold-haired nymph in the front row.”

Oberon flicked a look of annoyance at the man. It was Brand’s turn to smile. Calling an elf maid a nymph was an insult. Nymphs were mindless beings of sensation, not the same as elves, who viewed themselves as infinitely more sophisticated.

“Randomly…” Brand said thoughtfully. “We could roll dice, I suppose. The men who roll the highest can choose.”

Oberon huffed. “Where is the fun in that? My daughters will choose. But they will do so blindly.”

Brand shrugged and agreed. The men were sent out to the bottom of the mound in a great circle standing a few yards apart. The elf-maids were blindfolded and instructed to dance their way down the mound until they fell into the arms of a prospective husband.

Elf males appeared, a trio of them. Brand recognized a few as Oberon’s sons. Puck was among them and held a lute, another lifted a grand set of pipes and the third worked upon skinned drums with his fingertips. All of them wore broad smiles and seemed eager to give away their sisters.

Oberon stood with Brand behind the circle of hungry-seeming men, who laughed and called to one another. Atop the hill the females blindfolded one another securely, making sure none of their sisters could see and thus cheat. When they were all blinded, the music began. It was sweet and enchanting. The tempo increased and the elf women began to dance. The sight of eighty lovely maids moving with poise and grace made Brand’s heart pound. His men stopped their calls, so stricken were they all.