Heart hammering, Bram knew there could be no doubt now that the illness was magical.
The light in the refectory was dim, coming from two listing, bad-smelling candles. The castle had not seen beeswax, or even good-quality tallow, in at least a year. It was just as well, because the room looked less shabby when so little of it was visible beyond the long table. Rietta had moved the last of the castle's finely crafted furniture from the large formal dining hall to this communal eating area because this room was smaller and more easily heated. Also, it was closer to the kitchen, important now that they had only one downstairs servant, Gildee the cook.
There were no tapestries here to prevent drafts, and no point in moving the rotted and faded ones from the formal hall. The bare limestone blocks radiated cold, even on the hottest summer day.
"I couldn't help noticing you have new boots, dear," Bram's mother was saying.
"Hmmm?" He turned unseeing eyes to his right, where Rietta was seated at the head of the table. Her black hair was pulled back in a severe knot, and her gown was an old, dun-colored, high-necked affair with grease at the embroidered cuffs.
"Your boots," she prompted, delicately spooning up her carrot soup. "They're new. Where did you get them?"
"Kirah gave them to me for my birthday six days ago," he supplied absently.
"I wonder where the little lunatic got the coin for iiuit," muttered Rietta. "Very likely she stole them."
"I doubt it." Bram knew better than to do much more to defend his aunt to his mother; both of them always came away believing what they would.
"Anyway," Rietta continued in her loud, authoritative voice, "I hope you're not considering going back to the village again to help any of those people."
"You mean your subjects?" Bram asked with a bite in his tone. He shrugged. "I hadn't thought that far, but I 11 go if summoned again." Fiddling his spoon in his thin orangy soup, he gave a self-deprecating snort.
Not that I'll be able to help any of them."
Gildee set a pot of mashed winter parsnips on the table between Bram and Rietta, then backed away.
There's been two more cases in the village since old Nahamkin passed on," she breathed, her fear evident.
Who are-were they?" Bram asked quickly.
That will be all, Gildee," Rietta snapped. The ner- • ou› cook continued backing through the door to the kitchen. Rietta turned dark eyes upon her son. "The DtThons have not sunk so low that we are now converses with the servants at the table, Bram." Rietta gave a dismissive twitch of her lips. "You forget, there's a perfectly competent physicker in the village-"
'Competent?" howled Bram. "Herus's solution is to kill the victims."
"I hear he's ordered people to kill every snake they can find," Rietta remarked. "Still, people say it hasn't reduced the unusual number of them this spring."
Bram's expression was still troubled. "He's addressing the symptoms of the disease, not the cause of it."
Rietta leaned back in astonishment. "And what, may I ask, is wrong with that?"
Bram could only gape at her in disbelief.
Rietta's nose lifted in the air. "I don't care to speak further of such hideous things at the dinner table."
Bram laughed. "Which of us won't be at the dinner table tomorrow?" He shrugged carelessly and fell against the back of his chair. "It's impossible to predict."
Rietta gasped, a hand pressed to her lips. "We're all fine at Castle DiThon. The disease doesn't exist here."
"Yet."
She looked at her son with annoyance. "You've been moody and distracted since you returned from that cotter's."
Bram flushed, his gaze fastened to his soup bowl. Since Nahamkin's death the night before, he had thought of nothing but the snakes who had hissed his Uncle Guerrand's name.
"Why have you taken so much of the burden of this illness on yourself, Bram?" his mother pressed. "You aren't responsible for the cause or cure of this affliction."
"I'm not so sure of that." Still, Bram held in the secret. "I remember a day when a lord's primary responsibility was the welfare of his subjects."
"Is that what this is about?" she demanded. "You think I should expose myself to illness just to help some peasants? Well, I won't do it! Mark my words," Rietta continued, "this plague is heavenly retribution against the villagers for their lazy and dissolute ways. It can be no accident that it hasn't struck here yet."
Bram's temper exploded. "You've practically sealed
off the castle, that's why!"
Rietta's thin shoulders lifted dismissively. "We lead virtuous, worthwhile lives."
Bram laughed without humor. "Do you really believe we DiThons are anything but blue-blooded peasants?" He waved his hands at the squalor in the refectory. Bram couldn't help reflecting that, in many ways, Nahamkin's drafty hovel was more appealing. At least it had a surplus of straight candles.
Rietta frowned darkly at her son. "I didn't raise you to speak to me this way," she said. "You are not so old, nor have we sunk so far, that I'll allow it now." Her tone, meant more to inspire guilt than fear, had been rehearsed to perfection on Bram his entire lifetime.
"The cause of this curse is obvious."
Both Bram and Rietta turned in surprise to look at Cormac, alone in shadow at the far end of the long table. The tall man's head was slumped onto his barrel- shaped chest as usual. Even in the dark Bram could see his father's red-veined nose and that his clothing was way too small for his obese trunk. At least his words weren't slurred, which suggested Cormac had gone easier on the watered-down bottle he usually nursed.
"Who said anything about a curse?" demanded Rietta. "You haven't left the castle walls in four years, Cormac. What could you possibly know about this illness-or anything, for that matter?"
Bram had long since stopped wincing when his mother sliced into his father like this. When he was young, his parents had always bickered. Bram had accepted early on that there was no love lost between them, had seen it as the way of things. But all the bluster had been knocked out of Cormac. Rietta's spiteful remarks, or even Bram's own thoughtful comments, usually went unnoticed.
"Did you have something to add, Father?" Bram prodded gently.
Cormac's glazed expression suggested he hadn't heard the words as much as their cadence. "We have not seen the likes of such upheaval since there was magic in this house. There is vile sorcery at work here, there can be no doubt."
Bram froze. Had Cormac heard a rumor about what the snakes hissed before death?
Rietta threw herself back in her chair. "It always comes back to magic with you, doesn't it, Cormac?"
"That was the start of it all," rumbled Cormac.
"Seven years, and you're still blaming him for your mistakes," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "Everyone knows there was no love lost between Guerrand and me, but-"
"Don't speak that traitor's name!" spat Cormac. "We were doing fine before he brought his sorcery into our lives."
"Fine?" Rietta shrieked. "You'd already spent us into poverty. Frankly, this whole situation is your fault, Cormac," she said. "Bram would be safely away in Solamnia if you hadn't squandered the money we needed to squire him to a true knight."
"Don't you understand, woman?" roared Cormac. "There would be no plague upon our heads if my brother hadn't brought magic into this village, this house. We would not be living in poverty if that bastard had done his familial duty as he'd promised. Instead he lost us the Berwick money and Stonecliff in one fell swoop." Cormac's hammy fist slammed the table. "Mark my words, when so many people die of mysterious causes, there's vile magic involved."
"Father is right." Bram's voice was barely above a whisper. "I've seen for myself that magic has caused this illness. And I fear Uncle Guerrand is somehow responsible." He recounted the last moments of
Nahamkin's life, concluding with the snakes hissing Guerrand's name.
"But why?" she asked. "Why would Guerrand do something so cruel to us after all this time?"
&nbs
p; "I don't know," Bram confessed. "But I intend to find out."
"I'll tell you why," snarled Cormac. "Because Guerrand is a contemptible black-hearted wizard, like all his kindred. That's reason enough."
Rietta's head was shaking slowly in disbelief. "Surely Guerrand is dead after all these years," she breathed. But she had already seen in her son's eyes the interest her husband's words had stirred. Growing alarmed, she took up Bram's hand and squeezed it. "You know I am not the opponent of magic your father is, but you can't possibly be taking Cormac's ravings seriously now, Bram. He hasn't said anything worth listening to in years."
"Father only confirmed what I already knew," Bram said. "I've realized since Nahamkin's death that I would have to leave to find Guerrand. If I can't persuade him to use his magic to stop this sickness, we'll all die."
"You think he'll do it just because you ask him to?" Rietta scoffed. "You don't remember Guerrand as I do, Bram. He was not even willing to marry for the sake of the family! And if he's not to blame for spreading this sickness, I assure you he won't risk getting the plague to save any of us."
"Nevertheless," said Bram, standing, "I feel a lord's responsibility, even if you and father don't. It may have escaped your notice, but I have been working too hard for five years to restore Castle DiThon's productivity to sit by and do nothing while people suffer. I wouldn't care to look beyond DiThon's walls one day and find we're all alone."
"Sometimes I think that would not be such a bad thing," his mother mused distantly. She knew she had lost the argument. "When will you leave?"
"Soon. I need to talk to Kirah first. She might have some idea where Guerrand went."
"You know, of course, that once you leave, you'll not be welcome at Castle DiThon again," his mother said softly. "I cannot risk exposing everyone here to plague for some folly of yours."
Bram saw the manipulation for what it was. Rietta had done the same thing to Kirah when she refused to marry. It was not a typical mother's concern that drove her to these ultimatums. Rietta simply abhorred anyone disrupting the fabric of her life, however threadbare the weave, whatever the cost in others' lives. Like the briefest fluttering of wings, the last glowing coal of tolerant affection for her winked to black in his breast.
"Do what you must," Bram said coldly. He bowed his head formally and backed toward the door. He looked first to Cormac in the shadows. "Good-bye, Father." He locked his determined gaze on Rietta. "Good-bye, Mother. I wish you long life in this self-imposed prison." With that, he slipped from the refectory.
"Bram!" his mother cried, and her hand flew to her mouth. "1 didn't mean-" She sprang to her feet, but instead of following her son, Rietta descended upon her husband at the far end of the table, fists flying. "Damn you, Cormac, for putting the notion in his head! You knew he would feel obligated to do whatever he could to help those miserable peasants!"
Bram couldn't hear his mother's ranting turn to sobs, or see the small, triumphant smile that pulled at his father's lips.
Chapter Eight
Bram sat shipering within tbe circle of broken boulders known before their destruction as Stonecliff, drying his stockinged feet at the small fire he'd managed at length to start. Bram had never been so cold, nor so far from home before.
He had packed wisely enough for the trip to Wayreth, he thought, bringing flint, tinder, knife, a tightly rolled wool blanket, enough food for three days, and an extra pair of trousers and jerkin. But he hadn't anticipated the cold, driving rain that had dogged him all day as he walked on feet blistered by new boots. Nearly everything in the pack was soaked through, but especially the winter cloak, white jerkin, and brown trousers he wore. Fortunately, the healing herbs he'd brought in small glass vials remained dry.
The young nobleman pulled out a knife that was neither very sharp nor strong, meant more for cutting the tender flesh of vegetables than people. Still, it sliced easily enough through the wrinkled flesh of an autumn apple. He munched the sweet fruit in weary distraction, wondering what the next day would bring.
With any luck he would be aboard a ship headed for distant Wayreth. Kirah had told him Guerrand had gone there first in his quest to become a mage. Though many years had since passed, Bram reasoned that even if Guerrand were no longer at the place where mages regularly gathered, the wizards there would know where he was.
Bram's trip to Thonvil to speak again with Kirah had made him only more determined than ever to find his uncle. Two more people had succumbed to the mysterious disease, their snake limbs heard to magically sigh Guerrand's name. There could be no doubt the wizard was somehow involved with the pestilence. The life of every villager depended on Bram's finding Guerrand. He felt the full weight of a lord's responsibility for them. More selfishly, he'd worked long and hard to bring a spark of life back to Castle DiThon's lands. If the plague wasn't stopped soon, there would be no village left to revive.
At first light, he would thread his way down the cliff, cross the River Durris to Hill fort, and offer himself up as a shiphand in exchange for passage on the first ship headed south. The nobleman wouldn't take no for an answer.
Bram snapped some twigs and tossed them on the fire. He stared, unblinking, into the flames until his eyes teared so that his darkened surroundings wavered and blurred as if he were looking through the steam of a boiling pot. Through the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw movement behind a boulder at the limit of the firelight's range. Bram blinked, then dug his fists into
his eyes to clear them.
When he looked again, a cloud of light snowflakes whirled up and caught the firelight like a thousand tiny prisms. The flurry slowly settled, revealing three beings, as short as young children. Each had enormous blue eyes that glowed like the hottest flame. Three heads of feather-fine hair the color of waxed walnut furniture were covered with colorful, jaunty hats of wool. All manner of pouches hung from their shoulders, as well as waist belts with loopholes for tools and carving knives.
"I've heard of you," breathed Bram. "You're brownies, aren't you? I wasn't sure if you really existed."
All three creatures crossed their small arms stiffly. "If I'm not mistaken, that name is also used to describe chocolate cake," said the one wearing a slate-blue cap and mantle. "It makes us sound like a bit of fluff, not at all serious or worthwhile. We'd as soon you called us 'milk' or 'fruit,' if you insist upon naming us after foodstuffs."
Bram put up his hands defensively. "Tell me what you call yourselves, and I will never use that other word again."
"We call ourselves tuatha dundarael." The creature saw Bram's eyes open wide. "If that's too difficult for you, you may use the shortened form, tuatha-pronounced 'too-a-ha.'"
"Tuatha," Bram repeated deliberately, looking relieved. He stood and walked around the three tuatha, peering closely at the small, soft-featured beings. "Where are your wings?"
The blue-mantled tuatha man gave a slight sigh. "Those would be pixies. While also faerie folk, they wear silly, curly-toed shoes like court jesters and, as a rule, come out only at night."
Bram raised his eyebrows and took in the darkened sky. "You can see why I was confused."
The tuatha regarded him through one slow, lazy blink. "Not really."
Bram coughed self-consciously. "I'm sorry, 1 didn't catch your names. I'm Bram," he said, extending a hand.
"Yes." The blue-capped being ignored Bram's hand and put a tiny palm to his chest. "1 am called Thistledown."
He gestured to his companion in the snug red hat. "This is Burdock." The second diminutive creature bowed his head.
Thistledown waved to the last tuatha, a young female wearing a long yellow wool stocking cap and a decorative gold sash from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Her face was rosy and clean. "She is Milkweed." The blush in her cheeks darkened to wine, and she averted her eyes from Bram's.
"Why don't they talk?" the nobleman asked.
"Because I am the speaker in this troop," explained Thistledown matter-of-factly. "Burdock is the pathf
inder. Milkweed is the nchantmentcrafter. King Weador assigned us three to you when he heard you speaking here."
"King Weador?" Bram repeated dully. "I don't understand what you mean, 'assigned you.' "
Thistledown turned to Milkweed, who turned to Burdock, who turned back to Thistledown. Three small sets of shoulders lifted in shrugs. "It's what we do, we tuatha. We attach ourselves, so to speak, to humans of high moral standards."
Bram leaned back and crossed his arms. "I have high moral standards, have I?"
"And a natural earth magical ability," said Thistledown, as if he hadn't been interrupted.
"I do have a way with plants," agreed Bram.
Thistledown's eyebrows were drawn down in annoyance. "Watch that pride, or we'll have to leave," he threatened, while Milkweed and Burdock settled their shoulders as if preparing to disappear behind their speaker.
"I'm sorry," Bram said quickly. "I didn't mean to…" His voice trailed off awkwardly. He dropped back down by the fire and folded large hands around his knees, preparing to listen rather than get further into trouble by speaking.
Thistledown seemed mollified. "We perform small services in exchange for a mug of milk, a little bread, that sort of thing."
The nobleman looked at his wet belongings by the fire and said, "I'd be happy to share my foodstuffs with you." He fished around in his small pack. "I've been eating snow for water, but I have plenty of apples, carrots, and peanuts, and a half-loaf of bread-"
"We're not here to eat your food," interrupted Thistledown. "We've long partaken of the bounty of your gardens."
Bram straightened up in surprise. "You know my fields?"
All three tuatha beamed. "We tuatha have been working at night to help you return those weed patches into workable plots."
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