by B. V. Larson
Green light shown where his body made contact with the great tree.
“Uncle…? What are you…?” began Trev.
But Myrrdin ignored the boy. His staring eyes were upon the scene above. The dragon had managed to reach the level of the main branches, and they quickly wove themselves into a fine network of leaves and twigs. The latter were as thick as saplings and made of living hardwood. They caught the little firefly just as Myrrdin had urged them to do.
To Myrrdin’s surprise, Trev no longer was content to stand at his root, shouting admonishments up at his uncle. Instead, the cheeky youth had climbed the trunk with startling rapidity. He now stood on Myrrdin’s shoulder and was attempting to peer inside.
Myrrdin knew in an instant what the boy was up to. The half-elf devil knew there was a gaunt sliver of flesh inside the bowels of the living tree. If Trev could manage to climb inside the bole, perhaps he could stop his uncle with the blade he now held gleaming in his hand.
“Stop, child,” Myrrdin said. “Look, I’ve got your scaly friend. He’s not harmed, but he’s in my power. Don’t make me rip his wings off and discard them.”
Trev, panting, rested on a thick, jutting branch. “Why are you doing this, Uncle? It’s very poor manners.”
The two were able to see one another now—at least their real eyes of flesh could meet. Myrrdin stared with shining eyes out of the bole of the tree and Trev met his gaze with an angry look of his own.
“Poor manners—yes, admittedly,” Myrrdin said, “but my victim is a dragon, not one of our kind. She’s not worthy of your respect and friendship. In fact, she’s dangerous. There’s never been a dragon that I’ve known in my long life that was worth calling a friend to anyone—not even to another dragon.”
“You might be right about that. But I brought her here under my protection. She’s my guest, and you’ve violated that trust. You’ve shamed me, and you are my own family.”
Myrrdin might well be mad, but he still felt a pang to hear his nephew’s words. Even the maddest of men sometimes had shreds of pride left in them. The habits of hospitality, honor and respect for social rules ran deep among his kind.
“I’m sorry for that,” Myrrdin said truthfully. “But I can’t have a dragon flying about, telling all and sundry what I’m doing out here. I don’t even want them to know where I am. How you found me at all is a mystery.”
Trev quickly told his uncle about the mound and the connection to the Everdark it represented. The tale was soon interrupted, however, as showers of sparks were falling from above them.
“Tell your idiot dragon to stop trying to burn away the cage I’ve built for her, or I’ll crush her like a buzzing wasp!”
“She doesn’t respond well to threats.”
“Humph, I suppose not,” Myrrdin said, craning back his trunk to stare above. The leaves in the trap were all cinders now, and the sticks were no longer green shoots. They’d been transformed into a spray of woven bars as black as cooked iron.
“Say there!” he called. “I’m going to bring you down. Let us talk for a moment. Perhaps we can come to an understanding.”
Myrrdin had the tree lower the struggling dragon toward them. The branch was licked by flame and scorched in a dozen places before the cage was placed upon the ground. Once there, Myrrdin strode over to it.
He’d never been so reminded of a feral housecat in his life! The dragon raged in the enclosure, scrabbling with claws, firing jets of red at the bars. She seemed beyond speech or reason. Myrrdin had no doubt that she’d free herself given another few minutes time.
“She’s a mad-thing,” Myrrdin said, stepping up to the cage and lifting a massive foot over it. He prepared himself to stomp it flat.
“No!” Trev shouted, climbing as fast as a spider.
Myrrdin pulled his foot back onto the ground in surprise. How had the boy…? He was very close, too close.
Myrrdin reached up with a branch, but the youth was quick. He felt a sting as the point of that tiny dagger bit into the flesh of his real shoulder.
Myrrdin howled and clawed with wooden fingers, seeking to pluck the boy away. Finally, he managed to get him into the air.
At the foot of the whipping tree, Ivor sadly walked around in circles, uncertain about what should be done. Anyone seeing him would know he was torn by his loyalties. He kept saying things like: “Don’t hurt ‘em! Stop it, you two, or there will be no supper!”
No one paid him any heed. Instead, they struggled until at last Myrrdin won out. He had Trev hanging by his tunic thirty feet in the air, suspended in the pinching grip of clacking wooden fingers.
Myrrdin raised his gnarled roots over the dragon’s blackened cage, ready to crush it down. Earth dribbled from his twisted, ugly feet, showering the dragon, who still raged at the bars that enclosed her.
“Shall I?” the wizard asked Trev.
“No, it would be bad form.”
“Is that all you care about? You risked your life and that of your own flesh and blood to save a dragon. What kind of sense—or lack of it—have those Haven people taught you?”
“I don’t know you,” Trev said. “I don’t trust you. But I know that dragon. She and I have fought together and won through more than once. Friendship and trust must be earned, not given.”
“Wise words,” Myrrdin murmured. “I’ll tell you what, I’ve got an idea.”
And he truthfully had gotten an idea. If this boy wanted the dragon spared so badly—why not use that misguided loyalty?
“I’ll tell you what, nephew, I will spare the dragon.”
Myrrdin lowered his foot, and the blue-scaled creature in the cage snarled up at them again, shaking falling clods of earth from her back.
“You propose a wager?” Trev asked.
“No, not a wager—a bargain. She will stay here until you return.”
“And what shall I do in the meantime?”
“You’ll go to Oberon, and ask your questions. It was what you were wanting to do anyway, wasn’t it?”
“Yes…”
“Very well then. The perfect cover. You’ll march right into your grandfather’s camp with purpose. You will make no mention of me, Ivor or the dragon. Instead, you will press for answers about the Dark Jewels. As an aside, let me assure you, if he doesn’t know where they all are, then no one does.”
“Very well. But why do you want me to do this thing?”
“Because you will be serving two purposes with your visit. First, you will satisfy your curiosity, and that of the witch in the wood who seems to have some kind of hold over you. At the same time, you’ll play the spy. You’ll learn of Oberon’s plans. Does he intend to seek me? Does he know where I am, and what I’m doing out here in the Great Erm? I want you to ask your questions and return with the answers to me. Then I’ll release your pet and all will be well between us.”
Trev rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He looked down at the dragon then back up at his uncle.
“I’ll do it,” he said at last.
Myrrdin chuckled, and his branches shook with his mirth. He set Trev down on the forest floor, where the half-elf straightened his clothes and rubbed at a dozen scratches and bruises.
“Be off with you then. Head east until you find a great river, then follow it south. There on the banks you’ll find an elven village populated by their Dead. Hopefully, Oberon is there.”
“You don’t even know? How am I to complete this quest?”
“That’s your problem. You have a week to return. After that, I’ll grow sick of this dragon and crush her for spite. Already, I’m offended by the smell of woodsmoke.”
Trev nodded, and turned away. At a surprisingly fast pace, he sprinted off into the trees.
Myrrdin looked after him curiously. He wondered if the boy would actually succeed. At least he was fleet of foot. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought he was a true elf, not a half-breed mutt.
Chapter Twelve
Trev’s True Nature
&nb
sp; Slet wandered through the Deepwood and into the Haven Wood. He felt as if he walked in a dream. All night he marched, and although he was not so tireless as Puck the Dead-thing, the power of the Black kept him moving.
He knew he should not wield it so cavalierly. Bad things had come to Brand when he’d wielded Ambros with abandon. Brand had almost lost his mind and his soul to the Axe. Necron was different. He didn’t feel that it would take over his mind—not exactly. Nor did it exhort him to battle or bravery.
Instead, he felt that it was leeching away his life. Already, the world looked less colorful. More of it was the gray of a night sky, the umber of deep shadows and the inky black of water seen at night.
This must be how the worlds look to the Dead, he thought. Colorless, quiet, and cold.
He shook himself and put the Black away, tucking it into his belt. Immediately, he felt fatigue. He called out to Puck to get the other to halt.
“Puck, I’m exhausted. Dawn must be near, and I no longer hear any signs of pursuit. Where are we?”
“It is only a few paces farther, Master,” Puck said.
“Farther? To where? Where are you leading us?”
Puck stood stock-still for a moment. When at last he spoke, he sounded vague and slightly confused.
“I’m leading us? I am not the leader here.”
“Fine, just tell me where we are.”
“Near Hamlet, I believe.”
“That far?” asked Slet in concern. “No wonder I’m so tired. We’ve marched for leagues! Hamlet you say…wait, isn’t that where your home used to lie?”
Puck said nothing. Slet noticed the Dead elf was gazing ahead, toward distant lights beyond the trees.
“That’s a cottage over there,” Slet said, standing with Puck and following his gaze. “That’s where you’re taking us, isn’t it? Is that your old home, Puck?”
“I…I’m sorry, Master. I did not mean to lead anywhere. You are the only leader here.”
“Apparently, that is not so. It’s not your fault, and I’m not displeased. I suppose it’s only natural for a man to walk toward home after a long time in the dark.”
Puck made no answer, and Slet frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think I should leave the cover of the trees, Puck. I don’t think I should go out there. And I’m certain no one who lives in that cottage would want to see the troll riding on your shoulders!”
“You’re right, of course.”
“But you do want to go there, don’t you?”
Puck turned his dead eyes toward his master.
“I don’t want anything, other than to obey you.”
Slet smiled and shook his head. “I don’t believe that. You have too much of your old mind left. And that’s not a bad thing. I need a companion who can think, who can reason and help intelligently. I’m not admonishing you. In fact, if it weren’t for you, I would be dead right now and my child would have suffered yet more violence.”
Puck turned back and stood gazing at the cottage in the woods again. Slet could see the windows were reflecting the first red rays of dawn.
“Go to them, Puck, if you would. I’ll wait here. Perhaps you can say goodbye. It is the only way I can think of to reward you.”
“I will do as you have commanded, Master,” said Puck. He began walking toward the cottage at the edge of the woods.
Slet looked after Puck, wondering if he’d done a good thing or performed an act of evil. After all, he’d been reunited with his troll child, but it still breathed. Perhaps those living in that cottage would rather Puck stay in a quiet grave.
He sighed and sat down with his back against a thick rowan tree trunk to wait. In his arms, the troll curled up and slept. Soon, Slet nodded off and joined the troll in exhausted slumber.
* * *
Mari hadn’t set the beacon alight for a thousand long nights. She did it just before dawn today, not to guide home her husband, but to guide home her errant son.
The act of lighting the beacon brought back a flood of memories. She could not help but be reminded of her lost husband and to think of Puck as he once was. She felt sorrowful, and she mourned the losses of her life.
She often reflected upon the oddities of fate. When she’d first taken Puck as a husband, she’d been frightened of growing too old to interest him. She’d believed as she aged, and he did not, his wanderings would grow longer and longer until he never came back to her at all. In the end, the tragic way their relationship ended wasn’t so simple. Instead of leaving her in her dotage, he’d gone and gotten himself killed.
Now here she was, worrying about her own son exactly as she had her husband before him. Such was the fate of a woman who took a mate among the Fae, she thought. She had no one to blame but herself. She’d loved and lived and now she was stuck with the aftermath. Her only hope was that Trev would find his way home to her one more time, as he and his father had done a hundred times before.
Waiting for Trev was even worse than waiting for Puck had been, because she now knew that terrible things could happen during his travels. Before she’d lost Puck, she’d felt certain in her heart he would always return. Now, she knew differently. She knew Trev could die as well.
The long night had passed, and no one had come. In the early light of a fresh new dawn, she rose from bed and put a pot on the stove to boil. The day looked like any other to her, if a trifle cooler than usual.
Her first hint that something was amiss came when the singing birds outside grew still. They stopped singing all at once, as if something had shushed them all.
She frowned and looked toward the window. Had a cat wandered into the yard and frightened them all? She didn’t think it was likely. She didn’t own a cat herself, and the nearest neighbor was a good half-mile’s walk up the lane. What’s more, in her experience, birds tended to scold predators when they appeared suddenly, chirping and squawking from the safety of the treetops.
She stood up from the chair near the stove and set aside the tea she’d been sipping. It was too early for a proper breakfast, so she’d been letting herself awaken slowly before another long day of springtime chores began.
The birds remained silent. She realized how odd that was as she stood there gazing out the window—in the spring mornings they usually made a great deal of noise with their calls.
She could only hear the winds as she listened. They sighed in the treetops and tousled the unmown grass outside. For some reason, the air had grown colder. There was a distinct chill to it, and she wondered if a storm might be brewing in the north. She pulled a shawl from the back of her rocker and wrapped it around herself.
Mari thought she heard a sound. It wasn’t a loud sound—but it wasn’t one of the natural noises she heard every day about her place. She decided to investigate.
As she walked to the door, she found she was moving very slowly. There’s someone out in the yard, she thought. She knew it then, as certainly as anyone could know such a thing without seeing it. She knew her yard so well after living here most of her life that she didn’t have to see a man to know he was there.
“Who is it?” she asked aloud. In her own ears, her voice was tremulous. She cleared her throat and asked again with more force this time. She wasn’t an old spinster yet, she thought, straightening her spine and facing the door.
No one answered.
Mari frowned, gazing at the door and feeling a tickle of dread. Could it be Trev had returned? Or worse—infinitely worse—could it be someone from the militia come to tell her they’d found his corpse?
That idea gripped her. She could well envision the scenario. A representative would be sent to inform her, it had happened to enough of her friends for her to know the procedure. A constable would come, perhaps even an officer like Corbin himself. He would compose himself and knock on the door to deliver the news.
Could it be that this poor man, given the task at hand, had lost his voice? That he was standing out there on the porch, building up the courage to deliver the bad news?
Then she had another thought, almost as horrible. What if it was Trev? What if he had come home wounded and collapsed in the yard? What if he had not answered her because he had spent himself coming home and was now beyond speech?
That thought seemed all too believable to her, and the grim idea of her standing here, doing nothing, while her son bled out in the vegetable garden caused her to move with speed.
She took two quick steps to the door and flung it open. The door flew wide—but there was no one standing on the porch.
Mari walked out quickly, crying Trev’s name. The wind outside had an edge to it, and she pulled the shawl tight around her shoulders. She looked wildly about the garden, toward the shed, and then farther out to the edge of the Haven Wood.
But there was nothing, and no one. She heaved a sigh at last and headed back to her cottage.
I’m turning into a fool, she thought. She had never wanted to be an aging woman who imagined things. She was only glad no one had been nearby to witness her foolishness.
She stepped into the house, pushed the door shut, and turned around.
There, in her rocking chair, sat her long-dead husband.
Puck had laid his bare sword across his knees, but she did not take this as a threatening gesture. He’d done that a thousand times in life. His legs flexed rhythmically, causing the rocking chair to rock. Her first thought was that he’d always loved that chair, and now he was back, as if returning from one of his long stays abroad.
“Puck?” she whispered, as if in a dream.
“Yes, love.”
“You’ve come back to me.”
“No, love.”
Mari paused, mouth open. Now, as she looked at him more fully, the truth struck home. His flesh hung from his face like gray putty. His eyes stared with burning intensity, and they did not blink. There was dust and debris in his unkempt hair, and his clothing was encrusted in grime.
Neither spoke as she took in these facts. Her mind was slow to come to the truth, but at last it could not be denied.
“You are still Dead, love?” she asked.
He nodded slowly. Still, he rocked. His head turned and he gazed out into the garden. It was such a natural gesture for him. She felt tears spring to her eyes.
