by B. V. Larson
Brand hadn't faced the Riverton Council since he was a child. He hesitated at the foot of the steps, then plunged ahead, swinging the knocker and sending an echoing clatter through the halls on the other side. After a lengthy wait Brand made ready to lift the knocker again. The door swung open even as he reached out his hand. He snatched it back hastily.
The man who answered the door was an elderly fellow with bushy white eyebrows and a squint. He took one look at them and waved them away. “You’ve come for courting early, eh? Anyone you boys would be looking for has already left for the common,” he said. He made as if to shut the door, but then leaned out to have one more word. “And watch that you don't make free with the young ladies of the Drake clan tonight, gentlemen.”
“Sir, excuse me,” said Brand, stepping forward. “We are looking for Tylag of Clan Rabing, sir.”
“Eh, what's this?” asked the man. “Tylag?”
“Yes sir, he sent us to look for Myrrdin.”
“Myrrdin?” asked the man in surprise. His eyes slid back and forth between the two boys and then narrowed suddenly. “Is this a joke? We don't take well to jokes here. I'll have you whipped off the estate!”
“No sir,” said Brand, taking a step back in surprise. “We aren't joking.”
The man squinted at Brand closely. “You're Jan's boy. Jan Rabing's boy. Only Jan could have had a son so tall.”
“You knew my father?”
“Of course,” he snapped. Then he eyed Corbin. “And this great lout must be Corbin Rabing. Well, well.”
“Is Tylag here, sir?” asked Corbin.
The man made an impatient gesture. “Of course,” he said. He turned and walked away quickly. A crooked finger over his shoulder was the only hint they had that they were to follow. They stepped into the entry hall and shut the door behind them. The hall was everything that Brand had remembered, but perhaps with an extra layer of dust on it. The mosaic floor was a spiral pattern of black and white that gave one the impression of falling into a whirlpool if you stared at it too long. The grand staircase that swept down into the hall from the second story was of carven stone and heavy oak beams. It was up these steps that the old man currently disappeared.
Hustling after him, the boys took the steps two at a time. In the sudden presence of wealth, they were now hotly aware of their simple clothes and muddy boots. Brand began to self-consciously stuff his shirt into his pants.
They reached the top of the steps and for a moment thought they had lost their guide. “There!” said Corbin, pointing to a door that was just swinging shut at the end of the nearest hallway. Brand marched for the door down a hall of dark stained wood. Painted tapestries of various heroic acts performed by Drake clan leaders lined the walls of the dark hall. Brand grabbed hold of the door handle and twisted. They tumbled into the room beyond.
They blinked in unexpected brilliance. The entire back wall of this room and much of the ceiling was made up of stained glass. Brand stood in wonder, recalling the colored lights of the council chamber from when he was a boy. The floor was carpeted with several huge silver wolf pelts taken from the Deepwood. An oval table of great size sat in the middle of the room with twenty-one chairs arranged around it, one for each of the clan leaders.
There were only five people in the room now: Tylag, the man who had answered the door, Gram Rabing, old man Tad Silure and Irva Hoot. Brand could tell that they weren't getting along.
“Sorry about the delay, gentlemen,” said the man who had let them in. “These louts of yours, Tylag, seem to have returned early-and without Myrrdin.”
“Well, it was a long shot, Thilfox,” sighed Tylag.
“Thilfox?” asked Brand, stepping forward. “You're Thilfox Drake?”
The old man made an impatient gesture. “Of course, boy.”
“I apologize, sir. I didn't…” Brand began, but the others were all talking, ignoring them. They were trying to decide who should perform the ceremony of the Offering. Old man Tad Silure and Gram Rabing seemed particularly bitter, while Irva Hoot looked bored.
Brand stepped forward, but Corbin took his arm. “Perhaps we should just go.”
“No, we must tell them about the Kindred and about Arlon.”
“Eh? What was that?” demanded Thilfox suddenly. He rose up and approached them. “Did you say something about the Kindred, meaning the Battleaxe Folk? What would you boys know of such wanderers?”
Brand was a bit taken aback. Thilfox seemed at times deaf and at other times possessed of the keenest hearing. “I–I would like to tell you that we have brought with us Gudrin of the Talespinners and Modi of the Warriors. Gudrin has much craft and lore, I believe she may be well qualified to perform the Offering.”
“Oh you do, do you, boy?” asked old man Tad Silure, rising to his feet. He was a balding man of exceptional age and vitality. He had a habit of smiling and sneering at the same time, which revealed his long yellow teeth. “Who are you to make the council's decisions for them? Like everyone in your clan, you think you own the River itself.”
“Why don't we all control ourselves and hear what they have to say, Tad,” suggested Tylag, checking his own anger with an obvious effort.
“Yes boy, make your report,” said Irva Hoot. She adjusted her clay pipe so that it poked from the opposite side of her mouth and peered at them dubiously.
Brand explained at length what had happened to them for the last couple of days, including the encounters with the shade, the Battleaxe Folk and Arlon's boat. He left out any mention of Telyn's odd candle, or her plans for this evening. When he was finished, Thilfox eyed him oddly.
“That's all you wish to say, Brand?” asked Thilfox.
Brand looked down. “That's all, sir.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Festival
“Then we will discuss this shade at greater length tomorrow,” said Thilfox, turning away from the Brand. “Tonight, all that matters is that the Pact is maintained.”
The clan leaders began to debate the issue heatedly. Only Gram Rabing stepped over to the boys and asked them a few questions about Jak and how they were faring out on the Isle alone. She tipped her head back toward the others. “They will come up for air shortly. In the meantime, why don't you boys go find these friends of yours?”
“Why are they fighting so fiercely, Gram?” asked Brand.
“None of them want to perform the ceremony, but neither are any of them willing to entrust another. That's why Myrrdin was so helpful. He was always a neutral party. Now, why don't you boys move along. There isn't a lot of time left before the ceremony. Be back by twilight. By then they will be desperate to get anyone to do it.”
They turned to go, and found Thilfox holding the door open for them. As he let them out, he gave the boys a rare thin-lipped smile. “You did well to bring back the Talespinner. If she is as you say, it might just save the Pact. Now don't dawdle! Flirt with the girls only sparingly!”
Shaking their heads, Brand and Corbin trotted down the gravel path to the street and turned toward the town common. The snow had almost all melted away, except for certain white mounds beneath trees and sheltered by boulders. On the common the celebration was in full swing beneath the great domed tents and out on the playing fields. Children laughed and capered in circles, making faerie rings of their own in the icy grass. Young girls, wearing multi-hued dresses and mock wings of gauze chased one another in the wooded area. Vendors hawked sweetmeats and rainbow-sticks, which bore ribbons of every color that would flutter in the wind or when a child ran with it held aloft. Wheelbarrows loaded with cider and gingerbeer moved through the crowds, making frequent sales.
“Too bad we are on such an urgent mission,” said Corbin regretfully.
Brand agreed. The two of them searched through the crowds. Brand wondered if the mood of the people would have changed if they knew that it still had not been decided who was going to make this year's Offering.
After they had searched for several minutes, Brand fel
t a tap on his back. He whirled to find Telyn smiling up at him. “You never do look back, do you?” she asked.
“Telyn! It's good that you found us. The council wants to see Gudrin right away.”
Telyn led them to the second great dome tent, where the livestock for the Offering were kept. There they found Jak, Gudrin and Modi. Modi had already downed several mugs of ale and wasn't pleased to have to leave the festival. Gudrin quieted his complaints with a gesture.
Sometime later they all arrived at the door of Drake manor. This time Modi did the knocking. The door was flung open almost immediately. Thilfox ushered them all in and up to the council chambers.
Irva Hoot and old man Tad Silure were the most reluctant to accept Gudrin as a genuine authority. They seemed to think that the Rabing clan had brought her in to upstage them somehow. Tylag quickly grew exasperated.
“Here, here,” said Gudrin finally, holding up her hand. Her voice was such that it carried to the limits of the chamber and brought quiet with the power of its volume. “I will tell you a bit of what I know of your Pact. Recall that for the Kindred, only a handful of generations have passed since the Pact was made. Our memories are therefore fresher.”
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 before going on. 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 Seventeen
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 widdershuns 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 taunt 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 somehow 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, 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 that it had began. 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 t
he 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.
Chapter Eighteen
Interruption
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 hands upon it. “Ever are the biggest fools among us the most impatient to get on with things!”
