Dream Magic

by B. V. Larson

  “There are only two Jewels then left to seek,” Trev said in hopes of getting something useful from Gudrin. “Two that are not accounted for. What can you tell me of the Quicksilver and the White?”

  Gudrin gave him a strange gaze, then looked out the window again. “First, tell me who sent you, boy. Who really sent you?”

  Trev opened his mouth and closed it again in surprise. “I—I’m on a quest for knowledge.”

  “That much you’ve said.”

  “Well, there was this woman I met in the forest—”

  “Ha!” barked Gudrin. “Now we get to it. Have you reached such an age already, child? I still think of you as a small boy trotting about your parent’s cottage. So quickly they grow up these days.”

  “Yes, well…”

  “So it is for the heart of a woman you seek this knowledge?”

  “It was her idea, yes.”

  “Some kind of quest for her hand? I’ve heard of such nonsense from the humans. I bet it was a human girl, wasn’t it?”

  Trev nodded vaguely. He thought the witch in the wood had appeared to be human. To him, a vague acknowledgement wasn’t the same as a lie. He never lied…but it could be said that he misled people from time to time.

  “Should have known. All right, I’ll tell you what I do know. The Quicksilver has the power to negate the magic of all the others. It does more than that, however. It can redirect it as well.”

  Trev nodded encouragingly. Inside, he was hoping she didn’t ask him any more direct questions about Morgana. No one seemed to appreciate that he knew what he was doing in regards to that strange woman.

  “By redirect, I mean that if I were to burn you down, and you possessed the Quicksilver, you could send the fire back at me, or out this window.”

  “Ah, I see. What does it look like?”

  She shook her head. “That varies, from tale to tale. But what is consistent is that it is a Living Jewel. Like the Red.”

  He stared at her. “You mean it appears as a dog or something?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “And what of the White?”

  “That is the strangest of them all. It has many powers attributed to it, but that might be because it is confused in the literature with the original whole Sunstone. It is supposed to be a small chip that is pure in nature and contains some of all the others. But mostly, it affects the mind of any who encounter it.”

  “Don’t many of the Jewels do that?”

  “Yes. The Amber, for example, can cause an army to march with leering zeal. The White is similar, but more versatile. It can bewitch people to do almost anything.”

  “I see,” he said. And he did see. He now suspected that the witch he’d met in the wood had carried the White. Could it be true? Had he faced a bearer of a Jewel thought lost to Cymru? The idea was somewhat chilling. Perhaps his mother had been right, perhaps he’d been in more danger than he’d believed.

  Then he had another, more worrying thought: was he bewitched by Morgana? Was that why he was so far from home, daring the road untraveled, being hunted by Old Hob and assassins and Brand Rabing himself? It was a shocking realization that it could be true. He’d never even considered the possibility.

  He had been thinking of the witch in the wood frequently since their encounter, of course. What young man didn’t think often and fondly of his first carnal meeting with a woman? The boys of the Haven who claimed they’d lain with a girl talked of little else, whether it was true or not. So, he’d believed his thoughts of Morgana were just that: memories of a pleasant experience.

  Now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe his daydreams were lingering desires she wanted him to feel. Confused, he tried again to listen to what Gudrin was saying. Fortunately, she was waxing eloquent in her lecture concerning the Jewels and didn’t seem to have noticed his distraction.

  “…and that is why we call them to this day the Eyes of the Dragons. You see, it was the lens of each that formed the original Jewels. Moreover—”

  “But I thought you said that you don’t believe they really were dragons,” Trev interjected.

  Gudrin deflated somewhat and looked at him in annoyance. “Quite so. But I’m telling you the common belief structure. Sometimes truth can be buried in the fiction, you know.”

  “I need to know your best guess as to the location of these last two.”

  She made a face. “Impatient like all your kind!”

  “All my kind?”

  “I mean youth. All youthful beings just want to get on with it. I don’t understand any of you. Possibly, this is because my own youth is four centuries gone.”

  Privately, Trev thought this was very likely the case, but thought it might be construed as rude to say so. He made an encouraging gesture instead.

  “I’m sorry, that’s about all I have that’s germane to the subject. I know quite a bit about how these things operate but precious little about where the last two lie. That is part and parcel with them being labeled as lost.”

  Trev sighed. “I expected as much. My next question is my last one. Who might know more?”

  “Hmm. Oberon, Myrrdin…”

  “I’ve had others suggest them. But Myrrdin is mad and Oberon is dangerous.”

  Gudrin laughed. “Or is it the other way around?” she asked. “To the mind of the Kindred, they are both mad and dangerous. But I’d thought that perhaps for you things would go differently if you went to seek their council. After all, you are their kin.”

  “That’s no guarantee of safety or even consideration.”

  “Wisely said. Well, you could seek out one of the Wurms of the Deep. They tend to know where all treasure lies, even if they can’t or won’t seek it.”

  “Really? But aren’t they even more dangerous than the elves?”

  “Therein lies the problem.”

  Trev took his leave soon after that. He promised to visit again and to keep Gudrin apprised of his progress, if any. Then he walked out into the Great Cavern and wandered the dusty streets of Darrowton, a Kindred village nearby.

  He found the Earthlight fascinating. This, of all the places he’d ever been and ever seen in his short life, was truly different. As a half-elf raised in the River Haven, he’d rarely been indoors in a large building, much less buried beneath a mile of stone in a massive cave complex. The underworld was so utterly alien to him; he wanted to examine everything and everyone.

  The Kindred he met in the streets were bemused by Trev as well. They didn’t see too many outsiders, and those they did encounter were generally jaded peddlers with carts of goods and crooked backs. Trev was an oddity, but a welcome one.

  He met members of most of the clans. The society of the Kindred was broken down into clans—which were really castes related to skills and ranks rather than strictly hereditary. In most cases, the son of a Farmer or a Mechnician would grow up to be a member of the same clan his parents were part of, but this wasn’t always the case. Occasionally, an individual Kindred might have a natural talent for something else, so a Talespinner might join the Warriors, or a Miner might become a Builder. These changes didn’t happen often, and the requirements for entry into a clan one hadn’t been born into were greater, but there was some flexibility in the system.

  Trev found the architecture of Darrowton especially strange. There were three primary types of structures: carven, cast or assembled. The carven types were the most rare and the oldest, such as the Citadel itself. Carven buildings were cut from a single massive rock, usually one of the softer, volcanic types. These had been here since the last time the Earthlight boiled over and flooded the floor of the cavern with fresh magma. Most of these carven structures were some kind of shrine or other important place and staffed by the Talespinners.

  The cast buildings were metal structures. He’d never seen the like of them. They were riveted together, and generally made of dark iron sheets, each as big as tabletops in a tavern. These tended to house factories and mills, and their walls reverberated with hammers a
nd clicking gears.

  The most common sort of structure was assembled of heavy, foot-thick stone slabs. Placed carefully and held together with metal anchors, these buildings were by no means flimsy. The common Kindred farmhouse was built this way, as were shops and most other dwellings.

  At the very center of Darrowton, Trev found the type of building he’d been seeking all along: a tavern. He pressed his way thru a heavy metal flap that served the establishment as a doorway and moved into the dim interior.

  All conversation didn’t halt when he appeared in the doorway—but it did falter. The buzz of talk and occasional guffaws of drunken laughter paused, then went on after a moment’s respite. The revelers were eying him coldly, but not with hostility.

  Trev took a spot on a bench and signaled the barmaid. She approached with pursed lips and her fists on her wide hips.

  “What are you up to, then?” she asked.

  “I’d like a drink, maid.”

  “Really? We don’t serve milk here, boy.”

  Trev tried not to frown, but it was difficult. He tried to think of how his father would handle such a situation. His demeanor changed suddenly, and he leaned over the table toward the barmaid with a half-smile and a wink.

  “Never heard of the Fae before?” he asked. “We look younger than our true years, Miss.”

  This statement troubled the barmaid. She cocked her head at him and frowned—but then relented. She slammed down a stone mug of ale onto the table, striking the two blocks together so hard Trev feared they might crack one another—but Kindred stoneware was harder than that.

  Trev lifted the mug to his lips with one hand, although his arm trembled with exertion. A few others watched and nudged one another. Trev took a great drink and placed the mug back on the table without dropping it.

  The ale was strong and he wanted to cough, but he managed to hold back the urge. After two more drinks, he felt quite at home in this dingy place.

  That was when a red-cloaked Kindred with a massive beard of orange came to sit across from him. He gave Trev a nod and waved for the barmaid to bring them two more stone mugs.

  Trev was alarmed but didn’t refuse the hospitality. He’d planned to have a single mug and leave, but now he doubted he’d get away so easily. The red-cloak was of the Warrior clan and getting attention from one of them was probably harder than from anyone else in the Earthlight. He didn’t want his new friend to think he was some kind of weakling.

  “Hail visitor,” said the Warrior. “I’m Harrdin, of the Warriors.”

  “Trev of the Riverton,” Trev replied. “Glad and well met.”

  They exchanged pleasantries for a moment before Harrdin got down to business. He leaned forward and spoke to Trev with a smile that didn’t show in his eyes.

  “I’ve been following you since you entered the Earthlight. Did you even notice, boy?”

  Trev looked at him, startled. Frowning, he thought about it. Yes…could it be? Wasn’t this the warrior that had looked him over at the Gate?

  “Your duties at the Gates are done so soon?”

  Harrdin nodded, leaning back in satisfaction. “Good, at least you recognize me. Now, go slow with the drinking. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

  Trev shook his head. “Doing what?”

  Harrdin leaned closer and said, “doing Morgana’s work for her, that’s what. Why do you think we’re both here?”

  Trev’s face froze. He knew then why the Warrior had followed him and approached him here after he’d talked to Gudrin. He was another of the Sorceress’ agents.

  Again, he wondered as to his own state of mind. He felt normal enough. Was he under her spell? Did his every thought and deed revolve around doing her will? The idea was chilling and intriguing at the same time. He’d never had a real adventure, at least not since the Storm of the Dead was broken. He felt that this was his time now, his chance to walk in the footsteps of his father and grandfather.

  Trev took a big swig of ale, lifting the mug with both hands and smacking it down again. Ale ran down his chin, neck and into the neck of his tunic. His eyes glowed with excitement.

  “Shall we drink to our fair Lady of the forest, then?” he asked.

  It was Harrdin’s chance to be surprised. He huffed, then drank with Trev in Morgana’s name.

  How could he not?

  * * *

  Slet knew what had to come. He’d been entrusted with the keeping of the Drake Crypt, and he’d broken his vows to leave the place undisturbed. A thousand times worse, he’d gone down into that hole, taken the Black for his own and wielded it to raise minions of the walking Dead. He could scarcely imagine a series of crimes against his own people that might be considered worse.

  When the patrol of three mounted guardsmen came galloping up the hill at midmorning, he saw their blue livery among the trees first, then the flash of the swords on their belts. Somehow, he’d been sighted. Possibly, an early mourner had spied the trio at the gravesite or seen him exiting the Drake Crypt. It really didn’t matter how or why the Constabulary had been alerted, the fact was they had been, and Slet was in serious trouble.

  He didn’t want to harm them. That was the last thing he wanted to do. But he couldn’t see any other way out of his predicament. He had performed crimes greater than they could know. The fact he’d saved his infant son after ten years in a grave wouldn’t impress them. They would probably think a troll left dead in a hole was a good thing. He could not plead for sympathy.

  As they made their way off the tree-lined roadway and onto the broad sloping sward of grass, walking their horses now, he made what hasty preparations he could.

  He sent Morcant down into the ground, to hide crouching in the open grave. His son, who’d he’d yet to even name, had accepted his offered hand. The tiny, furry thing had climbed onto his father’s body and hugged him tightly.

  This last had melted Slet’s heart. Perhaps if the infant had hissed and snapped, he could have been persuaded to give up the Black and beg for mercy and understanding from the Riverton courts. But not now. He’d taken too many chances with his son’s life, and he’d fought valiantly to save him. The child—troll or not—seemed to understand this and had accepted Slet as his protector.

  Atop of his protective instincts for his son, he’d begun to have similar feelings for the Black Jewel as well. Like all the Jewels of Power, Necron made its every owner love it. Slet could not bear the thought of surrendering and being stripped of this new Power. Why, the child might well be slain, and the Jewel pried from Slet’s dirty fingers.

  Neither of these things could be allowed.

  And so he made his preparations. Morcant hunkered down into the grave while Puck stood at Slet’s side, his head down and his face hooded. Slet kept his own cloak closed, with the infant troll and the Scepter hidden beneath it.

  He straightened as the guardsmen approached. They were tall and imposing on horseback. They were also wary. The man who led them was a big fellow, and after a moment Slet recognized him: it was none other than Corbin Rabing, the Captain of the Constabulary.

  “Morning Slet,” Corbin said, eyes sliding over the scene. Those eyes traveled from the burnt cage, to the open graves, to Slet and the still figure at his side. Then they moved uphill to the Drake Crypt, which stood open.

  Slet followed the other’s gaze and inwardly cursed. He hadn’t had the time or the presence of mind to shut the gates and click the hasps on the heavy locks.

  Corbin looked back down at Slet with fresh concern. “Have things gone badly here, Slet?”

  Slet opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he managed to speak. “Corbin,” he said at last. “You are a good man. You and your brother both. I beg you to turn round and ride back to town. There is nothing you can do here.”

  Corbin heaved a sigh and nodded. “I was worried about this job from the beginning, you know,” he said in a sad voice. “I feared for you, Slet. No man should have been put up here alone to watch what sleeps in this plac
e. It was too much to ask of anyone. But that was why the task fell to you, in the end. No one else wanted it.”

  “I wish I’d never taken the job. Believe me I do.”

  Corbin walked his horse two paces closer. Slet stood firm, not retreating, but he stiffened, watching the other’s sword hand, which now rested on the hilt of his blade.

  “Give it up now,” Corbin said urgently, leaning forward in his saddle. “We fought the Storm of the Dead together, and we beat it before. Let us be on the same side again this day.”

  Slet swallowed. “That’s a fair offer. I’m saddened I can’t accept.”

  “But why, man?”

  Slet thought of confessing everything. He thought about giving up the Black. The concept was painful to him, even at this early stage, but he believed he might manage it. But he could not reveal his son, the tiny thing that clung to his side even now with claws that dug deep, leaving bloody punctures in twin arcs across his ribs.

  “Alas,” Slet said, “I’m lost and trapped. I can’t take your offer. But let me give you one of my own. Go back to town and summon a host. The three of you—it will not be enough.”

  Corbin’s face hardened. He cast worried glances under beetling brows in every direction, scanning the surroundings. He eyed the graves again and the open crypt. He nodded as if he understood.

  His men at arms, however, were not so easily dissuaded from their tasks. They did not draw their blades but instead pulled iron-headed truncheons from their saddles.

  “The council has sent us, milord,” one reminded Corbin. “We are to arrest them now.”

  Corbin nodded. “Time is of the essence in these matters. If there is a fresh cancer, it must be cut out this very day, this very hour. Slet, if you value your life and your skull, fall to your knees now and let us bind you. And you sir, please do the same.”