Dream Magic (9 page)

“Come closer to me,” Shadgol said.

Trev took a definite pace forward. The two had stood no more than seven paces apart—now it was only six.

“I do not know why you saw me,” Shadgol said. “
The enchantment was broken somehow.”

Trev nodded thoughtfully. “You claim then
that Old Hob used Osang to enchant your person, to make you invisible to me?”

“Another step
for another answer.”

Trev licked his lips, and stepped closer.

“Yes. My master did precisely that.”

Shadgol was lo
oking eager again—almost greedy. His breath came in shallow gasps and his excitement grew ever stronger as Trev came near.

“One more thing,” said Trev softly.

“Ask, and step.”

“Where is your
master now?”

“He watches from above.”

“Flying like an owl in the night sky? Why not come down to witness the glory of the kill?”

Shadgol gestured impatiently. His hook-like fingers scratched at the air. “
You owe me twice over. Step and step again, and I will answer.”

Trev did so
, taking two swift steps, and they now stood only three short paces apart. At this range, the creature’s foulness filled the air and was unavoidable.

“My
master rarely endangers his own person.”

Trev laughed. He had to admit, he could have guessed the answer to that one. He’d been told throughout his youth of the great wars of the recent past, where many folk had cast armies at one another near
right here, on the shoulders of Snowdon. Old Hob had never been one to take chances with his own life—not even remote chances. When violence needed to be done, he preferred to observe from a safe distance while sending minions to die for him.

“
Ask another question,” said Shadgol, his voice growing gutteral with dark anticipation.

“Why
didn’t your master send an army of goblins after me? Why has he gone to such efforts to breed an assassin such as yourself?”

“I know not.”

“That’s no answer.”

“
And yet it is the truth. Step forward, or be known forever as a cheat without honor.”

All
beings of Fae blood, from the simple wisps to the dancing elves themselves understood the meaning of dishonor. They would rather wager their own heads and lose them than to live and be known as an honorless cur.

Trev lifted his foot. The
simulacrum coiled itself. There was no doubt as to its intentions. Once within two paces, Trev would be in range for a lethal thrust. Not even he could reverse himself and bound away in time to escape the other’s motion. Both beings knew it, and Shadgol drooled with anticipation.

But before he took the last fateful step, Trev hurled his dagger at the other. The blade flipped once, and caught the
assassin by surprise. It sunk fully into an eye socket, stabbing into the brain beyond.

Trev stepped
closer then, as he had promised. He looked down at the scrabbling monster, feeling slightly bad for it. That was his human side, he knew. A true elf would have felt nothing resembling mercy or kinship for such a foul beast.

But Trev had never
before killed a creature that could speak. He’d hunted rabbits and deer for his mother’s table, but that was a far cry from this experience. Equally disturbing was his impression that the beastly thing was still alive, and attempting to speak.

“Foul play,” i
t said from the ground at his feet.

“
Never! I played you fair. I said I would step forward, and here I stand. Your safety was never guaranteed in the bargain, and neither was mine.”

A
charcoal-colored hooked finger beckoned him closer, and odd gurgles emanated from the monster’s throat.

Trev was curious, having never heard the dying words of a thinking being before. He inched closer.

Claw-like, the midnight-black hand shot out and gripped his ankle. Trev instantly attempted to bound away. He leapt into the air like a rabbit with its foot caught in a snare, but the simulacrum held fast with its dying strength, and Trev was brought down to earth again.

The assassin had
lost his blade when he fell and was not in any condition to seek it, so Shadgol did the only thing he could—he pulled Trev’s dagger from his own eye socket and stabbed at the scrambling half-elf.

Trev had never been so close to death as he was now, with the exception of the moments he’d faced King Arawn of the Dead. He knew this, and he knew he’d played the fool in this exchange from the beginning.
He could have simply run away, but he had not done so. Like all his kind, his weakness was his curiosity. It hadn’t been good enough to escape death—he’d given in to the urge to toy with his attacker.

Telling himself to forget about such recriminations until later—if there was a later—
Trev did what was necessary. He knelt and gripped the hand that held his dagger, pinning it to the dirt and stones. It was like grappling with a snake. When at last he had his dagger free from the charcoal fingers, he reversed it and plunged the point into the body of his foe again and again.

Gore
as black as oil showered him, but still the thing kept fighting with a horrible vigor. When as last Shadgoal relaxed in death, Trev had no idea how many times he’d driven the knife deep, feeling it scrape on bone as often as not.

Sides heaving, he stood at last and escaped
a grasping web of fingers which had grown rubbery in death. He staggered away, sickened and unable to think of anything other than flight.

He ran then, into the
pink light of dawn. He ran all the way to the great stone gates of Snowdon.

There, he waited on the doorstep of the Kindred. When the sun finally rose into the sky
, the stone gates opened and he was admitted into the Earthlight.

Chapter Five

The Troll

After the disaster years back when Morcant Drake had herded the
Dead of Riverton down from Cemetery Hill, there had been a lull in burials up there. Burning the dead rather than burying them was even considered by the town council seriously. But old traditions die hard, and it was always difficult to deny a grieving family their solace when they were in an emotional state. They did not want to speak of burning their loved ones, it was not their way.

Some clans, such as the Rabing Clan itself, often buried people by dumping them into the
Berrywine River. Most clans preferred internment. After a year or so of haggling about the subject, the burials continued. In time, they came to use the cemetery again, believing it safe to do so.

Since
the original grave tenders had been among the first victims of the Storm of the Dead, respectable people applicants for the newly reopened job were few and hard to come by. When the subject of graveyard digging arose, even the bravest men looked at their feet. Thus it was months before a new grave digger was hired, during which the Riverton Constabulary filled the role as part of an emergency effort.

The new man was far from the best of his kind. Rather than a gentle soul who cared
for and respected his tenants, Slet of the Silure clan was a man who couldn’t get a job doing anything else. He was not a drunkard, but little else could be said for him in a positive vein.

Before the Storm of the Dead, he’d been a mean, pe
tty little man who’d helped his grandfather old Tad Silure by gathering and creating fake wards from the shores of the Berrywine. They’d made a modest income preying upon the fears of local folk who were trying to protect their families from the depredations of the Fae—but who lacked the money to do it rightly.

That lucrative little racket had soon run dry when people had determined the wards were worthless. Bitter, Slet had
taken his share of the loot and turned to whoring down around the docks, working odd jobs for whoever could stand him—souls who were few and far between.

When Brand had come to the townsfolk with an offer of an elven bride for
any unattached man of Riverton, Slet had felt revitalized. He’d been certain that a new beautiful woman could uncover his inner, true self and reveal it to everyone else who sneered at him in the streets.

He’d gone with Brand on one fateful morn to the land of the Fae.
Like his cousin Bret Silure, he’d wanted to find a wife. Unlike his cousin, he’d come back alive and with the woman of his dreams. In the Twilight Lands, he’d met his lovely bride and bedded her that very night. Never had any experience of his brutal life prepared him for the bliss he felt when he was with her.

Slet had
returned from the land of elves a changed man. He brought his new bride with him and showed her to all his relatives. They were stunned, envious and even spiteful—but a few were happy for him. They encouraged him to clean up his life and rejoin the clan as a functioning member.

Soon after, he landed a job as a dockhand with steady pay.
He broke his pipe and discarded it. He ignored the lowlifes he’d spent time with in the past, swearing to his new wife Annelida that he’d never take up with them again—a pledge he’d never broken, from that day to this.

Sadly, things did not go perfectly for Slet. His wife turned up pregnant and quickened with unnatural speed. Alarmed, he did his best to make her comfortable and to provide for her.

But at last, when the night of the birth came, a gale blew hard outside and dark clouds threatened with rumbling thunder. Slet had worked late, and when he returned his family stared at him with sad, tear-filled eyes. They had to tell him his fair wife had died in childbirth, having not been able to get the child free of her womb. He asked to see the child, but the midwives had told him firmly it was best he didn’t. He finally agreed and left.

Grief-stricken, he’d wandered the streets in a daze. It wasn’t until weeks later when the Storm of the Dead lashed the Riverton streets that he’d been able to do anything useful.

When the Dead came, he changed. In those grim hours of desperation, he took up a sword and chopped the bodies of every mad-thing that assailed the houses of the River Folk. He did this with a blood-lusting fury and snarling teeth. Those who saw him attested to his courage, but they also quietly suggested Slet was a man unfit for permanent duty alongside the blue cloaks of the Constabulary. It was felt he was a madman in battle and might cut down his comrades with the same zeal he turned toward his foes.

And so
, when the militia forces disbanded, it was only natural for someone who’d served as a soldier at the cemetery change his sword for a shovel and sword. Slet was given the post, and he had accepted it, not knowing what else to do with his broken life.

Each night that passed
he remembered his beloved Annelida. He wondered what his child had looked like, and he contemplated suicide with regularity. Years rolled by, and old wounds slowly healed. Still, he never drank, took a new wife, nor smiled when called to. Having turned sour in middle age, he had grown into the role of a reclusive hermit. School children frightened one another by invoking his name, and when they came up to Cemetery Hill on a dare, he obliged them by chasing them out with curses and vile threats.

One night while he secured his shop and headed for bed, he thought to see a figure walking among the gravestones. It was long after dark, and visitors here were far and few between even on sunny days. Growing instantly annoyed by the intrusion, Slet furrowed his brow and stormed out to meet the stranger.

He’d intended to order whoever it was back down the hill to their home—but halted, entranced.

The figure he met among the dark, carven headstones was not a drunken fool, a giggling teen
, nor even a sadden mourner. It was a woman, clad all in white.

She was not lovel
y to look upon, nor was she homely. She was plain of face, but had a regal quality to the way she carried herself. Slet shook his head like a hound and started forward again, lifting a hooded lantern and directing its beam toward the woman. Like a watchdog that has taken stock of a seemingly harmless intruder, he’d decided that barking was the best policy, if only to maintain an old habit.

“See here, mad
am, the cemetery is closed. You’ll have to…” he began, but trailed off.

“Yes?” she asked, coming closer.

As she walked toward him, he vaguely noticed there was no sound to her footsteps. He glanced down to see her feet were bare. Then he noticed the jewel clasping her white gown. It reflected the light of his lantern with unusual vigor. A thousand scintillating beams shot back in his direction as if he gazed into a stream reflecting sunlight.

“Who are you, anyway?” he demanded.

“I’m someone who’s come for help,” she said. “I’m looking for something, and I need your aid to acquire it.”

Slet halted and raised the lantern a little higher. He didn’t want to get any closer to this strange woman.

“I’m not paid to help people in the middle of the night.”

“I can see you’re a difficult man to reach,” she said. “You have a heart like a lump of coal. But I can pay
in ways others cannot.”

Slet laughed in an unseemly fashion. “Be that as it may, I must ask you to leave.”

She didn’t leave. Instead, she walked among the graves, running her fingers over the cool granite face of each. She read the names aloud as she walked. Slet tracked her progress with his lantern, growing more concerned as she took each step.

“Betty Fob, Granther James, Gram Rabing…” she said.

“See here, miss—”

The woman suddenly halted over an open patch of land. There was nothing there but green grass and dandelions.

“This is the spot,” she said. “There’s something missing here. A grave gone unmarked.”

Slet shifted uneasily. It was indeed possible she was correct. During the Storm of the Dead, the corpses had fled from here in droves. Most of the graves were empty now. The corpses—hacked, hewn and burned to stop them from moving—had been reburied in a gated area for safety. Over the years, the people had gone back to their old habits, however, and now put their dead to rest on this hill again.

“Most of them are missing,” he said. “Don’t you know about the Storm of the Dead?”

“
Oh yes,” said the woman, “but I’m talking about two creatures that were not part of that storm. They were unsuitable for Arawn’s army.”

Slet licked his lips. He didn’t like the nature of this conversation at all. He turned his head this way and that, staring into the darkness. Was there a pack of ruffians moving in? He didn’t have much, but possibly rumors had grown about his hermitage. He might be wrongly called a
rich
hermit who robbed the dead. Perfect for bandits to prey upon.

It was the strange woman’s turn to laugh. “Your mind reels with absurd fantasies. I’m not here to rob you, bitter grave-tender.”

“Then what, pray tell, brings you to haunt me tonight?”

“You have an inkling of what you face.
Still brave, even in the face of real power. I’m impressed.”

“I’ve got nothing to lose
and, therefore, nothing to be frightened of.”

“Wrong, and wrong again. But let us turn back to the lack I mentioned before. Aren’t you curious as to who lies below this spot? What corpses might here be buried without marker?”

“No, not really,” Slet lied. “But I suppose you’ll tell me anyway.”

“They are none other than your wife
Annelida and your unnamed son.”

Slet stared at her in shock. After the initial stunned moment passed, however, he was goaded into action. He stepped up to her, snarling.

“I’ll not be mocked! No matter who you are!”

He shook a fist at her, but she seemed unafraid—almost amused.
She lifted up a single outstretched finger and touched his knuckles with it.

Slet felt strange at her touch. He felt…weakened. As if his mind had
been numbed. He hadn’t had a drink in over ten long years, but now it was as if he was comfortably drunk again, all at once. He staggered away from the woman, dazed.

“Dig,” she said to him. “Right here. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Dig?” he asked in a foggy voice. “Why would I dig?”

“Because you must,” she said gently.

“Yes. That’s right, I must.”

He turned around and went to his shack. He returned with a long-handled spade. It was specially built to reach down, down into the dark earth. Graves were dug deeply in the Haven
, as people liked to hope the Dead would rest peacefully if they were farther down.

And so he dug. It took an hour, perhaps more. Slet never spoke further, nor did he stop digging until the casket was revealed.

At the bottom he found a cracked-open lid. He frowned, shining his lantern down into it. Something trailed out from the cracked lid. A wisp of gold. What was it?

Slet realized it was hair. The dead hair of the person in the casket. That color…he knew it well. It shone like spun gold. It was his dead wife’s hair.

Slet roared in a sudden fury. He stood woodenly and lifted his shovel. He turned to snarl at the woman in white.

She was there,
but she did not flee from him. Instead, she caressed his cheek. It was such a sudden, purposeful motion. She’d clearly been ready to perform it.

Slet stood
transfixed. He could not move. He could barely breathe.

“You will listen, and you will speak only when I tell you to,” the woman said very softly.

“Who are you, witch?” he whispered back.

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “A strong mind you have. But not strong enough. Sti
ll, I will answer your question since it was so bravely posed. I am Morgana, your mistress. And now I will ask you something. Do you know who lies in this grave?”

“My wife, Annelida.”

“Just so. And can you guess who lies in the unmarked spot beside her?”

Slet’s eyes shifted to the spot indicated. His heart pounded in his chest and he yearned to be free, but she held him. Only his lips and eyes could move.

“Please, mistress,” he said. “Don’t make me dig up my child.”

“But don’t you want to know the truth of the matter?”

“I don’t want to know anything you have to show me.”

Morgana
nodded, as if in sudden understanding. “That is the problem. I have it now, thank you.”

“Please, don’t make me…”

“Put your mind at rest. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. The trick is, of course, that you
do
want to dig up your child and see it with your own eyes. You
want
to see how it died, and why.”

Morgana
touched him again, very lightly, but her touch burned him. After her fingers left his cheek, the spot was on fire. Strangely, he found he now
did
want to see what was down there in that casket. He wanted to know what it was he’d sired so long ago. They’d told him it was a tragedy, and they’d looked remorseful and wept with him all night long, the midwives and his aunts…