Dream Magic

by B. V. Larson

  “Why have you come back to haunt me, my husband?” she asked.

  “I…I did not wish to disturb you. But I was near, and I felt…a longing.”

  Mari was in shock, but the initial cold calm was leaving her now. She still felt as if she dreamed, but she was beginning to adapt to the situation, to wrap her thoughts around it and to force herself to think.

  When one lives in Cymru, one must come to accept that nightmares can and do come to life with regularity. This was another one of the many unfortunate moments in her life. Mari had had more than her share of them. Besides meeting and falling in love with this elf when he was still alive, she’d dealt with the most foul wielders of the Jewels of Power, such as Piskin and his evil blood-magic. She’d met the King of the Dead, traveled to the Twilight Lands and even fought with a troll and a witch personally.

  Her past had left her stronger than most. She was no screaming weakling. Her mother had been tough, and Mari knew that she was tougher still.

  Moving as naturally as possible, she walked to the stove, where she had hung her ward. It was a stone ward with a hole worn through naturally by the restless waters of the Berrywine. Such wards were helpful against the Fae, and she hoped they might work to stop a Dead one. She took the ward down and put the thong over her head. Then she took a deep breath, and spoke to the thing on the rocking chair.

  “Tell me what you’ve come to say,” she said. “I would hear it. Is our son dead, Puck? Has he joined you in the earth’s embrace?”

  Puck, who’d been gazing out the window with vacant eyes, turned slowly to face her. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Why then? Why would you rise and walk again? What could have…” she stopped, taking in a sharp breath. “It was me, wasn’t it? I tormented you with my beacons at night, calling for you. I’m so sorry, Puck. I didn’t mean to disturb your rest. I didn’t think the magic was so powerful as that.”

  Puck stared at her thoughtfully. At last, he shook his head. He went back to gazing out at the garden.

  “You may have influenced me to come here, with my master’s leave. But you did not cause me to rise. And you did not disturb my rest. That was done by another.”

  “Another? Your Master? Tell me you aren’t speaking of the lich king!”

  “No, another has taken hold of the Black. He caused me to walk again.”

  Mari nodded in understanding. It had happened before. The Jewels didn’t like to be left lying about for long. After a decade or a century, they came back into play again. Throughout history, they had plagued the world with death and strife. To Mari’s mind, they were all foul things that ought to be destroyed.

  She sat down, relaxing. Their child was not in immediate danger. Puck was not here to slay her. A new master of the Black was about, but she felt that perhaps she could dare to steal a quiet moment with her husband alone.

  She gazed out the window with him into the garden. The first bees were buzzing from flower to flower, pollinating determinedly.

  “Puck, what is death like for you?”

  “It is like sleeping without a sheet under an open window. Like a long, cold night without end. Uncomfortable, but not agony. For me, there is no dreaming, nor awakening. There is only something in-between. I can’t quite tell if what is happening around me is real or just phantoms playing in my sleepy mind.”

  Mari thought about that, and she shivered. An existence without end that was never whole. It sounded awful.

  “How can I help you, husband?” she asked. As she said these words, she was terribly concerned and her voice broke, almost shifting into a sob. She hoped and prayed he would not ask her to release him from his hellish existence.

  He might ask her to take up the sword on his knees and remove his head. That would not be easy for her. She didn’t know if she could do it. But she knew too, that if he did ask for such relief, she would attempt it for the love of him. She could not leave him to the cold hands of the grave robber, to servitude of a necromancer.

  “You can tell me of our son,” Puck said.

  Mari heaved a sigh of relief. “Yes, I can do that.”

  And so she did tell Puck of Trev, of his adventurous spirit, his quick feet, his silver locks that could not be contained. She told him the boy loved nothing more than to wander off and had done so recently, going to Castle Rabing and from there she knew not where else. She worried about him nightly, as any mother was sworn to do, but she had faith in him, believing he would always return to her.

  She did not add that she’d had that same faith in Puck, and he’d gone and gotten himself killed anyway. Worse, he’d finally returned this very day as a Dead-thing to haunt her. Such additions seemed rude at the moment.

  Suddenly, Puck stood up. The movement seemed unnatural to Mari. He did not lean and heave as would a normal man. His knees simply flexed and he stood stiffly. His blade was now in his withered right hand again, and his head turned to face her.

  “I must go.”

  Mari stood too, and took a step toward him. She wanted to embrace him, but she did not quite dare. He did not stink as one might expect the Dead to do, but he did not smell like a living man, either. He smelled of earth, rather than sweat.

  “Puck, find Trev and help him if you can. Please?”

  “If my master wills it,” Puck said.

  “You have some shred of your own will left. You would not have come here if you didn’t. It might be thin, like a thread of flame fed by a single dry stalk of grass, but it is there. I know it. Do this thing for me, my love. It is all that I ask.”

  Puck had been gazing out the window again, as if he heard pipes playing in the distance—a tune she could not hear. He turned his head to look down at her, and he slowly nodded.

  “I will do what I can, love,” he said.

  Then he left, and Mari collapsed onto the floor. Her legs would not hold her aloft any longer.

  Finally, the tears came, and they would not stop until midday. She grieved all over again, feeling her loss freshly as she had not felt it for many long years. It was a terrible thing, and she would not wish it upon another.

  “Why can the Dead not stay in their graves?”

  She asked this of no one, and no one answered her.

  When at last she regained her wits, she left the cottage. She went to the barn and strapped a saddle and bridle onto her carthorse. The old horse rolled its eyes in surprise. He was rarely ridden these days since Trev had taken to other pursuits, and he’d never been much of a mount in his prime.

  “Sorry, Pinter,” Mari whispered to him. “I’ll make it up to you if we live a month further, but today, you must suffer.”

  She could not afford to have the animal slowly drag her in a cart. And in any case, she was headed up to Rabing Island, where there were few serviceable roads. Going on horseback—even on Pinter’s back—would be much faster.

  With a grunt of soreness, she heaved herself into the saddle. It wasn’t comfortable, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t as young as she once was, but she was more determined than ever.

  The horse whickered in shock when she applied the lash to his rump, but he knew what was expected. He broke into a trot before they left the sagging barn, and by the time they reached the lane, he managed an uneven canter.

  Mari hoped Pinter wouldn’t lose a shoe. She’d been telling Trev to care for the animal all year, but as far as she knew he’d done little more than give him feed and brush him, ignoring the next dozen chores involved in maintaining a horse.

  Rabing Island was miles north of Hamlet and sat in the middle of the flood of the Berrywine. Mari took the main road as far as she could, then left it behind to take a winding track that neared the river bluffs. There at last, as evening fell, she found a small boat.

  There was no one there to help her, but she was more determined than ever. She left Pinter on the banks with his bridle off so he could forage. He lapped up the river water greedily as she heaved on the oars to cross the river.

 
; Fortunately, the boat was serviceable and had been cared for. Probably, it belonged to the young Rabing boys of the island. She paddled slowly across, fighting the current.

  It was a close thing in the end. She was nearly dragged downstream by the current past the southern end of the island. If that had happened, she knew she wasn’t strong enough to row back to it.

  Mari tied the boat at dusk and hurried up the banks. The island was fairly large, several acres of prime land. Here they grew broadleaf melons and fruit trees. Everything that grew here was nourished by the river and was lush and sweet.

  She came into sight of the house as darkness fell. Lamps burned in the windows, and Mari heaved a sigh of relief. She would not be coming to an empty house, at least.

  She’d come to warn Brand. Others must know that the Black was in the hands of a necromancer, and that Puck served him. She also hoped that someone might know what had happened to her son.

  Her knuckles rapped on the big, barred door. She thought to herself it looked sturdier than it had in the past. There were iron rivets shot through the hardwood, and straps of metal that looked freshly-oiled.

  When the door did open, it was Jak who stood there with a frown and a crossbow in his hand. Mari noted the crossbow was cocked and loaded. She raised an eyebrow at it.

  “Mari?” he asked, surprised. “I didn’t expect you. But come in! Get under roof, out of the night. It’s no time to be out after dark.”

  Mari stepped inside and found the main hall to be populated with the Rabing family. Lanet was there, along with Jak’s children of which there were no less than five now. They spanned in ages from teenagers down to a quiet-eyed seven year old girl.

  “And who is this one?” Mari asked, talking to the smallest. She had never met her.

  “That’s Molly, our baby,” Lanet said.

  “I’m no baby,” Molly said. “Are you a lady Dead-thing?”

  The adults chuckled nervously, both amused and horrified by the rude comment. Lanet ushered away the children, while Jak led Mari to the sitting room. There they found comfortable chairs, and Jak adjusted a hot kettle of tea he had hanging over the fire.

  Telyn came downstairs next. She poured tea for Jak and Mari before taking a seat herself.

  Mari could not help but notice Telyn was armed. It seemed unusual for a mother, even a mother on a lonely island, to be sporting a pair of foot-long daggers at her sides—but she was.

  Mari nodded to herself as her eyes lingered on the blades. She sipped her tea politely, then put it aside.

  “Now, to business, if you won’t find it rude.”

  “Not at all,” Jak said.

  “The Dead,” she said, “they’re walking again. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and I know you two are aware of it by your attitudes. Can you tell me what’s being done?”

  Jak and Telyn exchanged glances. Technically, it was Jak’s house, as he was the elder Rabing heir. But Telyn was the wife of Brand, who owned a castle and a famous magical Axe. There was some question, therefore, as to who was in charge.

  Jak made a gesture to Telyn, suggesting she do the talking. Mari turned to Telyn with serious eyes.

  “We’re aware the Dead have begun to walk again,” Telyn began. Then she related the tale Corbin had told them of the events at Drake Crypt.

  Mari, in turn, told them of Puck’s visit. No sooner had she finished than Jak stood up and went to check the door to make certain it was barred.

  They listened for a time to the wind outside. It sighed and whispered, but they were all soon satisfied it was the wind and nothing else.

  “If they come,” Jak said, “they’ll walk across the bottom of the Berrywine.”

  “Jak, don’t even talk about it,” Telyn said. “Nothing will come here.”

  “They came to Mari’s cottage. They’re moving, and we have no idea where they are. I’m going upstairs to check on all the windows and the children. I think you should fashion a beacon and call Brand back home.”

  Telyn pursed her lips, considering. She turned to Mari.

  “Do you think he meant you harm?”

  “No, but he was a Dead-thing, and he said he had a master.”

  “His master is Slet, we believe.”

  “Slet Silure? How can that be?”

  “He’s been the caretaker up at the cemetery for years now.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know. I can see how that would change a man. Not that Slet was ever a good man—but he wasn’t a devil. He never showed any interest in magic.”

  Jak left them and they listened to him stomping around upstairs, going into every child’s room and rattling the locks on the shutters. The voices of sleepy children drifted down, and they could hear Lanet asking him quiet questions.

  “The Black may have taken an interest in him, rather than the other way around. You know all too well how the power of such objects calls to the souls of people nearby. Recall Piskin? He was twisted by the Red, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m sure he was,” Mari said, suppressing a shudder, “but I think he was twisted even before he located the hound and took it for his own.”

  Mari was filled with grim memories of her past. Piskin, one of the most vile of Wee Folk, had been a changeling who’d drained her blood to feed the bloodhound. The Red Jewel hid itself in the guise of a small disgusting dog that thirsted for blood.

  In her mind she could still hear Piskin’s voice: “The hound thirsts, girl. The hound thirsts...”

  Mari shuddered.

  “My Puck killed that little monster,” she said, staring into the fire. “It isn’t right that another upstart wielder of Jewels should force my man to walk. It isn’t right.”

  Telyn nodded in agreement. She looked troubled.

  “Mari, I think I am going to call Brand. We have a system—much as you and Puck did. Oh yes, I knew about that. I was making beacons to summon the odd folk of the night long before you knew such things were possible. I’m lucky I didn’t catch my death with that net as a foolish young girl.”

  Mari looked at her, wondering about her. People often said Telyn had more than a drop of elf blood in her veins. Not so much as Trev, who was a half-breed, but more than a drop. It was showing now, as she aged. The woman looked almost as young and fit as she had when Mari had first met her.

  “Light your beacon then, Lady,” Mari urged. “Do it tonight. Wait no longer. For things are going bad in the Haven. I’m not sure what’s happening exactly—but I’m certain of that.”

  Giving her hand a squeeze, Telyn left her and went upstairs. Mari knew that she would begin her sorcerous work in private. Wax must be melted, mixed with blood and milk, and then the finished candle would be carved as the mixture hardened. When lit, the final taper would be visible to whoever it was fashioned to call upon for many, many leagues.

  She hoped it would call Brand home again, and he would make things right in the Haven upon his return.

  * * *

  Trev experienced a hard, lonely journey through the wilds of the Great Erm to find Oberon and his elves. The trail itself had grown cold, and although there were still broken branches to mark the passage of Myrrdin through the forest, the trees were quickly recovering. The branches were green again, as it had been weeks since they’d been snapped by the rampaging monster Myrrdin had become.

  As he followed the leagues-long trail, Trev had to wonder at a few things that seemed glaringly obvious to him: first off, why had the elves not followed this exact trail to find Myrrdin? Secondly, why had Myrrdin himself not covered his tracks, nor even thought to do so?

  He was not sure, but he thought he knew the answer to the second mystery: Myrrdin was mad. Not just filled with a bit of idle eccentricity, which was to be expected of any wizard, but stark raving mad.

  Trev suspected that Myrrdin’s stay beneath the earth had so unbalanced the wizard’s mind he’d become something other than himself in both form and spirit. Be that as it may, the first mystery still puzzled him. Elves were mercurial
creatures, and thus they might well take their time in exacting revenge. But they would eventually come hunting for a being who’d slain them in number. Of this, Trev was certain. And yet, for some reason, they had never bothered to do so.

  A single possible answer to this confounding fact came to him as he climbed over fallen logs, broken trunks and thickets of wild thorns and vines. Could it be that Myrrdin had slain more elves than he’d realized? Had he gone mad for weeks, marching from one village to the next, killing all of them in the region? This seemed unlikely but chilling if true. In his heart, Trev hoped this was not the case. He didn’t want to find countless bodies strewn here and there throughout the forest as he sought Oberon. It would be a terrible thing to discover the people who represented half his heritage were all dead.

  And so it was with trepidation that he approached the elf village when he found it at last.

  The signs were all there, and they were not good. There was a woven wall of wood, but it was knocked down in one section—the section directly in the path of Myrrdin’s rampage. No one had bothered to repair it.

  He crept to the gap in the wall and stared inside. Just as Myrrdin had told him, it was a scene of vast devastation. Dozens of huts were flattened. Only a few stood tall and proud, as if fresh-grown from the loam of the forest floor.

  Trev used great stealth as he passed the walls and entered the village. The mushroom huts here were different. They were lighter in color and shorter than the others…

  He smiled to himself. The elves were rebuilding. This place was not all dead. His people lived yet.

  “Quite a rude way to introduce yourself,” said a melodious voice behind him.

  Trev jumped and whirled around with a start. There, standing alarmingly close, was an elf. He had his arms crossed and his foot was tapping. A smile played over his lips, and his face seemed to Trev to be both youthful and infinitely old at the same time.

  “I’m sorry,” Trev said. “I’m Trev, and I’ve come to seek the elves. When I saw the damaged wall and the crushed homes inside, I feared the worst and proceeded with caution.”