by B. V. Larson
“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 Cmyru. 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.
Chapter Nineteen
The Pact
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 for 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 Cmyru. 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 bro
ke. The weak among them had already perished long ago facing the Wild Hunt in the Deepwood.
On the thirtieth night, the feast was repeated. Oberon came again, and all his retinue were on hand. But the 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.
Into this scene, Myrrdin stepped forward once again.
“I should have hunted you down and struck you dead the first time you ran from me!” raged Oberon. He held aloft Lavatis and the Jewel released a brilliant blue radiance which none could look into. “I will summon the rainbow and destroy you all!”
“Then you will have no more feasts, my lord,” pointed out Myrrdin.
“Then so be it!” cried Oberon.
Myrrdin sighed, he had hoped it would not come to this. “Then I have no choice but to check you with Vaul,” he said, producing the Green Jewel of power and holding it aloft. It exuded its own bath of green light, which conflicted with Lavatis and together the Jewels cast a rich eldritch brilliance the blue-green color of the sea. Myrrdin's company and Oberon's retinue both retreated in dismay, shielding their faces from the awful twin glares of raw power.
For once, Oberon was truly at a loss. “How?” he demanded.
Myrrdin shrugged. “In the Deepwood, I was driven into the underworld by Herla. Many of my comrades perished, but we did rediscover this lost power,” he said bravely. Inside, he was nowhere near so calm, as he had only begun to understand the workings of the Jewel. It was all he could do to command Vaul to cast a brilliant glow. He had hoped to keep the Jewel secret from those of power for some years so that he might master it fully.
Oberon had lost his rage, and now had turned thoughtful. The rainbow he had summoned now marched up behind him to stand upon great shimmering legs. It was a terrible sight for mortal eyes, and some perished quietly in the forest that night from sheer fright. “I am certain that I have a better mastery of Lavatis than you do of Vaul. Perhaps it is best that I destroy you now and so become master of two colors.'“
Myrrdin shrugged again. “It is all one to me. Many times tonight I have surprised you. One more time will be enough, should you require it. But…”
“Of what do you think to speak?”
“It does seem to me a big risk to take over a simple matter of food. We will provide for you and yours, but we ask a boon.”
“Speak!” commanded Oberon. “What do you ask?”
“Each year, at the end of harvest, we will give you one part in seven of our goods, which is enough to feed you all. We will make this Offering on the night of the Harvest Moon, which is tomorrow night. In return, you will swear not to allow your people to harm us, lure us from our homes, place changelings in our cradles or execute curses against us. In essence, your people will not be allowed to walk these lands, and they shall be recognized as the lands of humanity.”
There were a few titterings and catcalls among the Faerie at this. Oberon silenced them with a wave of the hand. “What else?”
“I further propose a Pact, between us, against the Enemy and his Dark Ones, which is to say, those among your kind that have elected to become his minions. You must keep them from harming us, and we will do what we can to keep them from harming you.”
At this point, many of the Faerie voiced their contempt of the humans and the Kindred. They called out shrill insults toward the humans, and some tried to slip away into the trees and circle around behind the mortals. Oberon deliberated for but a moment.
“I accept,” he said, as Myrrdin had gambled he would, for Oberon himself was almost as afraid of Herla as was Myrrdin. The added power of Vaul would do much to hold his nemesis at bay. The Faerie were shocked, and quieted suddenly. Bright eyes suddenly slitted and became dark as many of them vanished into the trees to show their disapproval.
Despite their misgivings, the Fair Folk honored Oberon's word, ceasing their cruel tricks. The rainbow strode away toward a distant storm cloud without releasing its wrath. On the thirty-first night, a great Offering was gathered. From that year to this, for many centuries, when the moon waxes gibbous and heavy with orange light and hangs low and full in the sky, the Offering is made. In this way has the Pact and the peace been maintained.
Chapter Twenty
The Harvest Moon
There had been a gasp or two when Gudrin had mentioned Stone Island, the very land on which they stood, but everyone had managed to keep from interrupting her story until she was finished.
“The town common! You were talking about our faerie mound!” broke in Tylag, his eyes gleaming.
Gudrin didn't take offense this time, as she could tell that her audience was well in hand. She merely glanced up and nodded, a smile playing on her lips. She took a long draught of beer from a mug that was offered her and sat back to rest. With the now familiar ritual, she closed her book, wrapped it, and tucked it under her arm.
After thinking about Gudrin's story, there was little debate left in the council members. It was speedily decided that the Talespinner should stand in for Myrrdin. As twilight was only a few hours away, they adjourned and everyone headed for the town common.
The Harvest Moon Festival was in full swing now, with many folk from Riverton, Hamlet, North End, Swampton and even distant Frogmorton feasting and reveling. There were contests of strength and speed, foot races and tree felling. The berrywine casks flowed freely and many of the people wore masks with floating ribbons and gauze in the guise of the Faerie. Usually stolid and unwavering in their conduct, men and women danced with partners that they would not recall in the morning. Children formed their own faerie rings around tall poles, winding ribbons of every hue into shimmering rainbows.
As twilight fell bonfires were lit upon the common. Yellow firelight illuminated the dome tents and cast wild shadows of the dancing revelers upon them. Brand watched the shadowy forms on the tent walls and once thought to see the capering form of a true goblin. He turned to examine the dancers, but all were human.
Above everything, the moon waxed full and washed the common with its dusky orange light. As it was every year, something of the Wilds slipped through into the River Haven. Things that were
held at bay during the rest of the year awakened under the Harvest Moon. The term of the old Pact had ended and the new Pact had yet to be renewed, and in that brief span of time, the people were lost to the effects of the Fair Folk and the full moon.
Brand looked upon the festival differently this year, finding a kind of terror in it to think of a world where every night was lost such as this one was. What would the world be like without the Pact? Everything good and solid in his life looked now to him as a treasure suspended above flame by a tiny fragile thread. Should the thread ever break, all he had ever known would be lost.
Gudrin climbed the hill at the end of the common to the grove of trees that hid the faerie mound. Only Modi accompanied her, against the wishes and warnings of the clan leaders. Modi had promised not to enter the glade, but only to stand in the trees and observe. The council warned him that only the Talespinner should be present, and that any other entering the clearing did so in peril of his life and soul. Modi only grunted in acknowledgment before stumping after Gudrin who had begun the trek. Gudrin walked as one burdened, and appeared to everyone to be older than she had at any other time. She kept her wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her brow, bore her odd rucksack over her hunched shoulders and kept her book clamped beneath her arm.
“It's time, boys,” hissed Telyn in their ears. Brand and Corbin turned to find her face poked between the two of them. “Here are your wards,” she said, handing each a circle of river stone with a hole worn in the center and a thong of leather run through it. They took them and hung them about their necks. “I found them in stream beds, worn through naturally. Drilled holes wouldn't work.”
“Where's yours?” asked Brand.
“This lucky ash leaf is even more potent, but more fragile,” Telyn said as she fluttered her charm at him. The lucky ash leaf bore two terminal leaflets instead of one. She met his eyes and he frowned at her, reaching to take her arm. This was all the warning she needed. With a laugh, she evaded him and ran away into the darkness behind one of the domed tents.
