Amber Magic (Haven Series #1)

by B. V. Larson

  With the same careful ritual that she had performed this morning, Gudrin unwrapped her leather-bound book. The clan leaders craned their necks to see what was written on the page, although Brand doubted that any of them could read the odd, blocky script of the Kindred. “To tell the story of the Pact, it is first necessary to know that it was Myrrdin who forged it.”

  Thilfox made an impatient gesture. “We know this, spinner. Pray continue.”

  Gudrin gave him a baleful stare and Thilfox recoiled visibly. Gudrin then turned her attention to her book, thumbing through the pages and muttering. Finally, she closed it and let it rest in her lap.

  She began to speak and while her lips moved, so did her eyes. She caught each of theirs in turn and locked stares for a moment. Even though he was ready for it, Brand sucked in his breath when he met Gudrin’s watery blue eyes. They all fell silent and listened to the Talespinner as if mesmerized.

  Chapter Ten

  Myrrdin’s Tale

  When Myrrdin was yet young, he lived with the Faerie. As many have claimed, he indeed has much Faerie blood in his veins. Some say that his mother was a human princess exchanged for a changeling at birth, others that his father was an elf of almost human stature. All this aside, there is no doubt that Myrrdin is a man of rare talents.

  In his early life, he was raised by the Faerie themselves. He lived in their wondrous lands, which, as all know, can be found by mortals only at twilight or midnight, and only at the foot of a rainbow or widdershins nine turns ‘round an enchanted fairy mound. In this place, Myrrdin grew wise and tricksy, and though he was not ageless, age took a great while to catch him.

  It was on his hundredth birthday or so that manhood finally began to take him. He began to know the females among the Faerie then, in their mryiad forms. He was quite popular among them, as his true youth and semi-mortal life were refreshing and innocent to the ancient ones. He knew enough to avoid those that would kill with their embraces—as I said, he had grown wise in their tutelage. The lovely green-complected mermaids of the sea and the elusive dryads of the forests were his favorites.

  It was on a day like many others that Oberon came to find him. Myrrdin had been chasing a fleet-footed dryad with exquisite brown eyes like burning knotholes through a forest of hazel trees. Oberon appeared to be only a boy of twelve summers or so, but Myrrdin knew him to be much older. He was, in fact, a lord among the Fair Folk and Myrrdin’s benefactor.

  “What service can I perform for you, my lord?” Myrrdin asked respectfully. With some regret, he gave over chasing the dryad. He stood nonchalantly as always when facing one of the powerful ones. His muscles sang like the taut wires of his fiddle, but he hid his tension by leaning against a tree trunk. His eyes he let fall to the ground, that he would not meet Oberon’s sparkling, terrible gaze.

  “It is time, I think, to expand your knowledge of men, my adopted son,” Oberon said, “I wish you to follow me.”

  Myrrdin did as he was told and though he was long of limb and fleet of foot, he was soon winded and panting as he chased Oberon through the endless forests. After a time they came to a wall of black rock that had no seam or opening, but Oberon made one with the touch of his hand. They stepped through and Myrrdin, for the first time in his memory, found himself in the world of men and the Kindred. He stood, in fact, in an open field of grasses. It was in a place not far from here, where an ancient human lord’s barrow had formed a fairy mound. The time was twilight, when the sun touches the sea and turns the sky red. This last was a shock to Myrrdin, for in the lands of the Faerie, it is ever brightest day or blackest night, with no in-between.

  “How is this possible, my lord?” he asked. “The sun bleeds red like a dying creature.”

  “There are many things of wonder here,” answered Oberon, who led him further toward a nearby farm. There, working in the fields, they found two maidens wearing woolen skirts and hats of woven straw. Such was the softness of their approach that they were very near the maidens before they were noticed. One took fright, dropping her hoe and running home, but her sister stood frozen, having met Oberon’s gaze.

  Then, in the way of the Faerie, Oberon enticed her to dance with him. Myrrdin too, he begged to dance. Which Myrrdin did, but with some reluctance, as he had never danced before with a mortal. She was one who was not to be feared, but rather was at his mercy. They both danced with the maiden, Oberon playing pipes and Myrrdin playing his fiddle, and in time Oberon did lead them back to the fairy mound. There, in the last dying gleams of light, they made sweet music and danced upon the mound and around it in a circle with many others of the Faerie, who had come forth to join in. Winged sprites, flaming bright, danced alongside those with hooves and those with the faces of white-skinned children and even the pointed-eared goblins.

  When these last came near the girl, Myrrdin saw fit to intercede, placing his dancing form between the twisted flesh of goblin and fair face of the girl. He knew all too well that evil things delighted these weakest of the Dark Ones and he did not trust them. As he was part mortal and therefore not tireless, he began to weary as the dance went on and on in the darkness with the same wild intensity with which it had begun. Even as he felt the first pangs of fatigue, it was clear that the girl was exhausted. Still, she danced on. She knew nothing but the wild thrall of the dance, and her body twisted and twirled with the frenzied energy of one overcome.

  Eventually, she fell to the earth, and then Oberon, who had been touching her lightly smiled down at her. At last, Myrrdin could take no more. He dropped his fiddle and dared to reach out a long arm, pushing back his lord.

  Oberon turned his gaze upon him, and this time Myrrdin met it, although the effort was painful to him. “Are you Faerie, or mortal, manling?” demanded Oberon, enraged at being touched.

  “I am both, and neither,” said Myrrdin. “To see the Faerie as a mortal is a thing apart from seeing a mortal from the eyes of the Faerie. It is not in me to prey upon weakness and innocence.”

  “It is I then who have taken in a changeling and treated it as my born son!” cried Oberon. His arms he raised up, holding aloft the Blue Jewel known as Lavatis. He wielded Lavatis, calling to the rainbow for the power to strike down his adopted son.

  Such was his greatness that even in the absence of light and rain the rainbow did march from across the seas and lands to do his bidding.

  Myrrdin took these moments to grab up the fallen maiden and run with her toward the farmhouse. Before he reached the door, a savage rainstorm brewed up and lightning chased the rains and came crashing to the earth. At the door the farmer who was the girl’s father came to his hammering. But instead of joy, he was met only with despair: The girl was already dead, her heart exploded within her chest like a horse ridden to death by a drunken lord.

  Myrrdin looked down at the maiden’s dark wet ropes of hair and bloodless white limbs without comprehension. He knew less of death than the maiden had known of the Faerie. He and the farmer regarded one another.

  Myrrdin, soaked and cradling a dead girl, learned much of what it was to be mortal that night. He gave over the farmer’s daughter with what grace he could, and then ran into the storm and into a new world that he little understood.

  His childhood and upbringing at the hands of the Faerie were at an abrupt end. Never again would he call Oberon his sire, and never again would any of the Faerie call him kin.

  * * *

  At this point, Thilfox loudly cleared his throat. Gudrin swept her gaze over to him, but Thilfox kept his eyes focused on his pipe as he said, “Your tale adds detail and color to what legends we’ve heard whispered before, but now I would like to move on, as time is pressing—”

  “It’s not time that will press you all this eve!” roared back Gudrin, face blazing. She held out her ancient book and clapped her hand upon it. “Ever are the biggest fools among us the most impatient to get on with things!”

  “A fool, am I?” huffed Thilfox, rising to his feet. “I’ll not be—”


  Gudrin threw up her arms, imploring both him and the heavens. “I spoke tactlessly. Please, seat yourself and allow me to finish my tale. I promise you will not regret it.”

  With ill grace, Thilfox flumped back into his chair. Scowling at the spinner, he made a broad gesture, indicating that she should continue.

  “Myrrdin,” began Gudrin anew, “after he had left the lands of the Faerie, didn’t immediately join the River Folk, although he resembled them more than any of the other races of Cymru. He wandered for many years instead, and came to join the Kindred, befriending many of our lords who dwelt beneath the mountains and upon them. There are many tales to be told of these times—but not this eve.

  “Those years were an unfortunate time for humans, as their numbers had been greatly reduced by wars among themselves and with the Faerie—and even, though I loathe to say it, with the Kindred.”

  Here, Modi gave a low growl in the back of his throat. All eyes swung to him, and inevitably to his axe. Brand knew that it was from these times that the Kindred had come to be known to the River Folk as the Battleaxe Folk.

  Gudrin ignored the interruption and continued with her tale.

  * * *

  The great kings of the past fell, one by one, and in time there were no more true kingdoms of humanity. Feeling beholden to humans, Myrrdin took it upon himself to walk among them and learn what could be done. He learned that your people were both delightful and wicked, innocent and cunning, silly and wise. He came to love you for your short lives and varied temperaments. Living among the elder races he had found less spice to life. But with your people, each few years brought another fresh generation, eager to learn of the world, to conquer it and to be conquered by it.

  But even though the humans had ended their conflict with Kindred, the Faerie continued to plague them. The same sort of idle wickedness that Myrrdin had first witnessed with Oberon still occurred, and worse things had begun as well.

  It was rumored that one of the Dark Ones had gained a Jewel. Herla—I have spoken his name too many times this night—had found one of the Jewels of power, although none knew the color and name of the Jewel. Clearly, it was known that he wielded it with evil intent. Leading the Wild Hunt upon a mad course, he ravaged the remaining human lands with impunity. They hunted humans like animals, taking their skins and skulls as trophies and making adornments from them.

  It was in this situation that Myrrdin rediscovered the humans of Cymru. It took him but a short time to realize that if no one acted, there would possibly be no humans left alive in this part of the world. He took it upon himself to mount a campaign against the Enemy. Marshaling a small army of men and Kindred, he marched through the Low Marshes, over the Border Downs and into the Black Mountains, where the Wild Hunt was often seen.

  But ever Herla and his coursers evaded him. They would march after their quarry through forests and over mountains and into deep ravines, only to see them rise up into the sky and vanish. For years they chased the Wild Hunt, until the human and Kindred army, hungry and desperate, riddled with foul curses from the Faerie, was set upon and decimated in the quiet depths of the Deepwood.

  Myrrdin and a handful of others escaped. They came after many trials to the shores of the Berrywine, which was then known as the Great Erm, and crossed the flood to stagger onto the rocky beaches of Stone Island.

  A widow of one of Myrrdin’s soldiers took him in and nursed him back to health. When he had his strength back and was ready to leave, he took note of the babe that lay in its cradle near the warm fire.

  “Is this your child, Tabitha?” he asked the widow.

  “Why yes,” she told him. “He is last of my sons yet to live. He is always hungry and never satisfied. He has never left the cradle all these years, never yet spoken a word or taken a step. Hope is all I have for him.”

  Myrrdin eyed the fat infant in its cradle, and it did regard him with a flat stare of dislike. “No normal child stays to its crib for more than a decade,” he said, tugging at his beard, which had grown overlong in the mountains and the forests. Despite the widow’s worried protests, he gathered a fresh egg and blew out the contents, filling the shell with malt and hops. It was the first step of exorcism, of course, and watching him do it, the widow’s tears flowed freely. Once the egg was ready, he began to brew over the fire.

  At this a laugh bubbled up from the cradle. “I am old, old, as old as the night and the moon,” said the changeling, “but never has anyone brewed me a draught of beer in an egg before!” Then it gave a terrible scream, for Myrrdin had taken after it with his walking stick. Around and around the cottage it ran, as fleet-footed as any spring hare, that which had never left its cradle for so many long years!

  Myrrdin chased it out into the yard, and finally down into the river itself. There it vanished, and Myrrdin cast about, hoping that the widow’s son would appear, as is sometimes the case with changelings when they are discovered.

  But there was only the lapping water and the sound of the wind in the pines. The widow’s true son never returned. She sat upon the rock where the changeling had vanished and cried aloud with grief. Feeling for her, Myrrdin vowed that the Dark Ones among the Faerie would not continue with their wicked amusements.

  For long months, as spring shifted into summer, he wandered the land, deep in thought. One night, he found a farmhouse where a woman had set out milk for a cat. He thought to hear the cat, growling and spitting in the yard. He watched from the road and saw one of the Wee Folk, all dressed in waistcoat and top hat, as was their way, vying with the cat for its milk.

  A dark rage filled Myrrdin at even so slight an offense, and he moved to charge and drive off the intruder. Only at the last moment did he check himself, deciding to watch the Wee one instead. After a goodly bit of stick waving and hopping about, the tiny Faerie drove off the cat and ate his fill of the sweet milk. When finally he had scampered away, wiping his tiny mouth and beard, Myrrdin watched the spot where he had vanished for a long time.

  The next night, he told the farmer to turn out the lights again and had them set out two bowls of milk. The Wee one returned, as he had hoped it would. On the third night two of them appeared, one in crimson and one in green. They fought over the milk for a time, until finally deciding to share it. After that, Myrrdin set out more goods. More Wee ones appeared, and each night he set out even more food. He asked the whole village to help, and they did so, because they were indebted to him for his help in the past. Fresh bread, melons, sweet yellow corn, roast fowl and salted venison heaped upon platters in the moonlight.

  On the tenth night, he moved the offering out into the yard, instead of upon the porch. On the twentieth, he placed it in the forest outside, each night moving it further away, into the woods and toward the clearing where the nearest faerie mound was to be found.

  As the nights went on, autumn grew stronger, the leaves fell and the air held a hint of the snows to come. Each night he made the offering larger, using his powers and the efforts of the last of his faithful soldiers to aid him. Many of the Battleaxe Folk were among his soldiers. Each night the offering attracted more of the Faerie, including ones of greater power and wisdom. Soon the air shone with the fiery light of sprites and the pale glow of the elves.

  On the twenty-ninth night, he placed the offering upon the faerie mound itself, and that night Oberon himself came. From concealment Myrrdin and his soldiers watched the phantom feast. Each of the men and the Kindred, save Myrrdin who was immune, had plugged their ears with beeswax so that they couldn’t hear the luring pipes of the Faerie and be enticed to join the dancing ring. Still, it took great efforts of will for them all to keep from coming out into the glade, such was the allure and beauty of the Faerie, even without their sweet music. Heavy smells of spices and wines filled their heads. Shimmering images of fantastic beauty assaulted their eyes. To their great credit, none of them broke.

  On the thirtieth night, the feast was repeated. Oberon came again, and all his retinue were on hand. But t
he food was not. Instead, it was placed at the edge of the forest where Myrrdin and his company waited. When the Faerie approached, the mortals stepped forward and placed themselves before the food.

  “What trick is this?” laughed Oberon, bounding forward and halting before Myrrdin with his hands on his hips. He cocked his head and recognized Myrrdin in an instant. “Why do you trouble me again, my changeling?”

  “We have fed your people for many nights now,” said Myrrdin, his voice carrying not just to Oberon, but to the others, who were eyeing the food with hunger. “We have been free with our gifts, but now we ask a boon.”

  Oberon shouted with laughter and danced away, playing his pipes. “Bring the food to the mound that we all may feast!” he said, speaking to Myrrdin’s soldiers. None moved, as they could not hear him nor his magical music. Oberon soon stopped playing and appeared annoyed. He then ushered forth the dryads and the nymphs, hoping to lure them with the bright, unearthly beauties. Myrrdin’s company were all veterans of such things, but still they were hard put. They averted their eyes or squeezed them shut. Some chewed at their tongues or stabbed their own hands with their daggers until they bled freely upon the grass of the glade. They moaned aloud and fell to their knees, but none stepped forward.

  Again Oberon displayed annoyance. “You hold rein over your mortals well, changeling. It is to your credit. However, it’s not our custom to pay for our needs,” he told Myrrdin. “We will take that which we require.”

  Oberon ordered forward a wave of goblins and elves with their tiny magic bows. Myrrdin and his company fell back to the woods, without fighting.

  With a cry of delight, Oberon was the first to up-end a cask of wine and drink from it. In an instant, he cast the cask aside and screamed in rage. “Vinegar!” he cried. All around him, there were similar cries of dismay among the elves and the other Wee Folk as they bit into rotten fruit and tasted of spoiled milk and maggot-filled meats.