Dark Magic (35 page)

“I can scarcely believe even a foolhardy elf would come to find me here.”

Oberon’s smile flickered. “I came to bargain with you, King.”

The skull nodded. It took a shambling step forward and lifted a network of rustling bones. It was the lich’s hand. The hand gestured, indicating he should approach and kneel.

Oberon did not move. “I said I was here to bargain.”

“Of course, and you have only a single thing to bargain with, fool. Now, come here. I would caress your fine locks. I have not tasted an immortal soul for many a year.”

“I have more to give you than that, sire,” said Oberon. His legs tensed, he readied himself to leap.

“Oh, don’t tell me this is to be some kind of contest? How annoying. Can’t you see I’m bent over my cane?”

The lich shuffled forward, and Oberon, trying to retain his dignity, stepped to one side and around. The chamber wasn’t all that large, however, and he was soon forced to circle.

“I don’t think I have made my meaning clear. I wish to form an alliance. I lead a great army, an army of a dozen races. We march to war.”

“To war, you say?” said Arawn. He paused in his shuffling approach. With both sets of knuckles, he leaned upon his rod.

“Yes, my good King. I need your forces. I need you to raise the Dead and march with me.”

“Whatever for?”

“Why, to ensure that I win the battle, sire.”

The lich threw back his skull then. The lower jaw sagged open and a strange rattling, gargling sound emanated from it. Oberon realized after a moment that he was being laughed at. Unused to scornful treatment, his eyes narrowed. He wondered if taking the thing’s head from its shoulders was perhaps not the best idea after all.

The laughter went on and on. Finally, face reddened and brow storming, Oberon turned and made ready to leave.

In that instant, the laughter stopped. “Hold! I wish to show you something, foolish elf lord. You who would be king of a folk who will never serve a king.”

Reluctantly, Oberon turned to eye the other. “What would you show me?”

“This!” said King Arawn. He lifted his rod from the floor, now clearly having never needed it to stand erect. A darkness emanated from the rod and a thousand bones rose up from the floor, then the ceiling, and finally the very walls themselves. A thousand arms extended, white dusty bones all, and five thousand fingertips of ash-grey grasped.

Oberon was held fast, though he sprang up into the air. There was simply no safe place to land. Every inch of his flesh was firmly grasped in hard bone, clutching as they did with cruel, mindless strength. Every bone left an individual impression, sinking deeply into his skin.

Held fast, he did not bother to struggle. “And what was it that you wished to show me?” asked Oberon, mocking to the last.

King Arawn shook his skull and glided forward, his foot bones sliding over the floor of twisting, fleshless arms. The lich came close indeed and tilted its skull to one side, as if curious.

“I relish souls such as yours, you know. They are fine-flavored. Full of memories, both foolish and wise. It would be a delight to drink your life from you, it is the only sensation left to me now.”

Oberon tried not to fear, but he could not help it. He wondered where a soul might go, after having been drunk by such a creature as King Arawn. Still, he stared back at the other evenly. Perhaps, he thought, this was what the Shining Lady had been alluding to. He wished she could have been more clear.

“Then get about it, lich. I’ll not beg.”

“But I won’t,” said Arawn, shaking his skull sadly. He floated away, and the countless finger bones loosened their grip, unknitting themselves from Oberon’s bruised limbs. Oberon stood with difficulty.

“Will you march with me then?”

“Never, my ancient fool,” said King Arawn.

“And why would you let my fine-tasting soul escape?”

“Because fools such as you are far more useful to me whilst alive.”

As Oberon exited the crypt, he thought at times to hear the mocking laugh of King Arawn floating up behind him.

He vowed, should he live long enough, to return one day and burn out this foul place.

Chapter Fourteen

A Babe Is Born

Less than a month after her ordeal in the forest, Mari found herself in her parents’ house again, going through another ordeal, but one with a far sweeter ending. Her babe was born one fine morning in mid-spring. Outside, the sun shone bright and strong. Beams of sunlight streamed in from the blue skies, and every time her mother tried to draw the curtains, she begged her to leave them flung wide. Somehow, the floating flecks of golden dust gave her something to focus on, relieving her pain.

The birth went relatively smoothly, and her fears shifted once it was over with. Would it be a troll, as the old crone in the forest had hinted? Would she have made something that bore fangs and fur and wanted only to creep upon her roof at night? The birth itself had been bad enough, but it was torment of an entirely different kind to have no idea
what
she was she birthing.

She’d been somewhat relieved to know it could not have been covered in spikes and hooked talons. She would have been ripped apart and likely bled to death if that were the case. But many a twist of flesh were still possible, even if it was smooth-skinned.

Her first hint of good tidings came when she saw her mother’s eyes. Before the baby was out, her mother had mirrored her fright, sucking on her lower lips with every moan and heaving contraction Mari had given all morning. Both had been hoping for the best, but fearing the worst, all day. Neither had voiced their concerns, not wanting to fan the flames of worry in the other.

But as the babe came out and her mother’s hands reached down to take it up and sever the cord with an old pair of thick knitting shears, Mari stared at her mother’s face. Mother would be the first to see it. The first to know the truth, awful as it might be.

Concern, yes. Horror, no. Mari could stand it no longer.

“What is it, mother? What
is
it?” she asked.

Her mother looked up at her, and gave her a smile. “It’s a boy,” she said. “A boy with a full head of hair. Each lock is like spun silver.”

And so she spoke the truth. After bathing him and swaddling him, she brought Mari her boy, her first grandchild. The boy, unlike most human babies, never cried. Never a peep came from him. But he suckled well enough, and Mari smiled down at him. Tears ran down her face silently. She had never seen such beauty in a child before, she didn’t know they could possess it. As well, her tears were those of relief. She did not have to care for a troll. With a pair of shears she could keep his hair cropped. With a snug cap, no one would even know. She could lead a normal life.

“Mari,” said Mother, sitting on the rocker beside the bed. She eyed the babe with mixed emotions. “I think it’s time we had a talk.”

Mari glanced at her, then turned her eyes back to her babe. She felt so relieved, she doubted her mother could upset her on this fine day. She began to wonder, having strange thoughts. Had the birth come at midnight, rather than midday, would the results have been different? It seemed like a silly thought, but with the Fae one never knew.

“Mari,” said Mother. “You told me the father wasn’t from the Haven. I had always assumed you meant he was one of these new drifter folk, these people who drag wagons behind bow-backed oxen. But now, I want you to tell me of the father.”

Mari looked at her for a moment. She sighed. There was so much she’d left out of her tales with mother. But now was the time, she supposed. She told her mother of Puck, of their meeting in the woods. Of her dancing and her ward of a double ash-leaf.

Her mother was naturally appalled. “He might have ridden you to death! He was a villain, a—a,” words failed her.

“I chose to lie with him in the end, Mother,” she said.

“Yes, but an
elf?
What were you thinking, Mari?”

“I wasn’t thinking, Mother. He was so different. I don’t know if you can understand the allure. Not unless you meet them.”

“My first grandson is an elf,” said Mother, deflating into her rocker. “Did you somehow forget we just fought a war with these creatures? That we are likely to do so again any day now?”

Mari heaved a sigh. She flicked the silver locks of her babe’s hair about his head, reshaping them. It would be a shame to have to cut it, she thought. The locks were quite beautiful. “Isn’t he beautiful, though, mum?”

They both sighed and gazed at the child, who gazed back with big intense eyes. Mari had to wonder, seeing his gaze, what he was thinking of them. Could it be as they said? That elves were born wise?

* * *

At twilight, as evening fell over the land, there came a knock at their door. Mari, who had been dozing, sat upright, sucking in her breath. She felt something. Her eyes went to her babe, who was awake as well in his basket beside her. His big eyes were wide. He had still yet to make a sound in this world. She wondered at that. Could it be that elf babies didn’t cry?

She gathered him up and held him to her chest. She wondered who was at the door.

She could hear words spoken. Her father’s voice was a bass rumble through the floor. Her room, on the second floor, had only a row of pine planks between it and the parlor below.

Her mother’s voice now, and then a stranger’s. She looked at her babe, and he looked back. Somehow, she felt she should leave again. She had come home for the birth, and things had gone well. Her parents had been apologetic. Everything had been forgiven, or at least had been dropped.

But she didn’t completely trust them, especially not her mother. What if she had sent for someone? Someone like the crone in the forest? Someone who took gold to rid a family of a little problem like her silver-haired son, who she had not even managed to name yet.

She hugged the babe, and had to remind herself not to squeeze him too tightly.

Footsteps came upon the stair. Her breath quickened. It was too late to run, and she was too weak in any regard.

She took up the knitting shears her mother had used to cut the babe’s cord. She slid them underneath the pillows piled behind her back. Her babe, she noticed, watched her with big dark eyes.

“It’s okay,” she told him, not knowing it was or not, but lying the way every parent does to every child in bad moments. “Everything is going to be fine.”

The babe’s eyes slid to the door, and hers followed.

Her mother opened the door. She looked in at her, and then backed into the hall. “She’s awake. You can speak to her, I suppose.”

Lord Rabing walked in then. He had removed his helmet. He looked even more strikingly handsome now, with his scar gone and his beard shaved away.

Mari sighed with relief. “I’m glad it’s only you. You gave me a fright.”

“I’m sorry,” said Brand. He looked behind him. “But I’m not the only one here. I’ve brought another who would speak to you. Will you see him?”

Mari opened her mouth to ask who, but stopped herself. She stared at Brand, at his worried, slightly embarrassed face. She knew who it was then. Her heart began to pound anew. What should she do?

“All right, send him in.”

Puck walked into her room and Brand shut the door behind the two of them.

Puck smiled at her. “You are as lovely as when first we met,” he said.

“Perhaps in your eyes,” said Mari. Her words came out harshly, but she was already blinking back tears.

“This is the babe? A boy? I hope all is well.”

“I’m fine.”

“Excellent,” he said.

The conversation lagged. Tears rolled down Mari’s face. She could not face him.

“I can see you are overcome with emotion. Perhaps I should not have come.”

“Why did you abandon me? Us?”

Puck paused. He blinked at her, as if the question had never occurred to him. “Abandoned? We had an arrangement.”

“You must have known how I’ve suffered. What I went through. How I searched the Twilight Lands for you. You must have known.”

Puck approached the bed, intrigued now. Without asking, he climbed onto the bottom of her bed and sat with crossed legs. “You have been to the Twilight Lands? What must I have known, sweet Mari?”

Mari stared at him. Her babe strained in her arms, turning his head to look at Puck. It was strange behavior for a newborn, she thought.

She proceeded to tell him her tale. When he got to the part concerning Piskin, his face changed from surprise, to a frown. By the end of her story, his face was dark with anger.

“A changeling,” he said, as if trying to wrap his thoughts around something inconceivably monstrous. “He took you to the Twilight Lands to sacrifice you. To bleed our babe to feed the hound.” He nodded slowly, as if some parts of her story had knitted together with thoughts of his own. Then his attention turned to the babe.

“Might I see the babe?”

Mari’s arms tightened reflexively. She didn’t want him jumping out the window with her child, who she’d gone through so much to bring into the world. Grudgingly, she turned him to face his father.

“Might I take a pin and prick his foot?”

“No! Whatever for?”

“To be sure.”

She almost said,
to be sure of what
, but stopped herself. She looked at her babe. Could it be? Could this be a changeling? Perhaps, as she slept... But no! She thought hard. It could not be.

“If you are Piskin,” she told the babe, “I will be forced to burn you in my mother’s stove. And after, I will likely cast myself into the Berrywine with my pockets full of stones.”

Puck came near. She could not release the babe in her hands. Puck inspected him closely, and the babe did inspect the elf in return.

Puck went to the fireplace, and he performed a rite of exorcism. It was done differently than she had heard in tales. An egg was blown, but nothing was brewed within it. Instead, it was tossed unbroken into the flames to sizzle there.

Puck shook his head when he finished. He laughed, and the sound of it was fresh and full of life again. Mari smiled at him, despite all her worries. It was good to hear his laugh again. It reminded her of happier times.

“The babe is just that,” pronounced Puck, coming to her and kissing her suddenly. She responded and they smiled at each other, their faces close.

“Here, take this,” he told her, pressing a small, hard object into her palm. It was a ring of fine silver. Very fine scratching script decorated its face. She could not read it, as the script was not in the language of the River Folk.

“What does it say?”

“It is my signet. Show it to any of the Shining Folk and they will know you are my consort.”

Puck kissed the babe’s silver locks then, and opened her window. Outside, it was a black night. The winds were fresh and cool.

“Where are you going?” she asked him in sudden concern. She had hoped that he might stay. She had hoped he might, somehow—impossibly—try to become a proper father.

“Why, to find Piskin, of course.”

“What for?”

Puck shook his head slightly, as if her questions were silly, the answers being so obvious that only a child would ask them. He tilted his head and gazed at her warmly. He smiled at her, and his pleasant expression filled her heart with new hopes.

“I will first slice out his heart, his eyes and his lungs. I will set aside each part, each limb, and each finger. I will bury these slices in different eldritch places, so that forever they will haunt the land, every ghostly piece searching the long nights for its brothers.”

He vaulted out the window then, and Mari looked after him into the quiet dark.

She shuddered, closed the window, and suckled her babe. After a moment’s thought, she slipped the silver ring onto her finger. In the darkness, it shone with a blue radiance.

* * *

It was Lanet who found the babe. Dripping wet, half-frozen and squalling, it lay upon the porch of Rabing house. They didn’t recognize the newborn, and there was nothing left with the child to identify it. She took it in, calling for Jak. They looked at one another, and Jak nodded. They would care for the babe until such a time as they heard of a mother who had lost a child. Brand had warned them such a thing might happen, but hadn’t explained why.

Piskin left Jak and Lanet behind. The babe was no longer his concern, and he was glad to be rid of the beastly thing. He trotted briskly to the river and dove in. He swam to a series of handy rocks that poked above the surface. He left Rabing Isle behind and hopped from stone to stone, grumbling all the while with intense dissatisfaction. He should never have made such an absurd deal with that lumbering farm-boy, axe or no. Many a moment he had been sorely tempted to simply drop the babe in the forest or into the deeps of the Berrywine. But he had not done so. He had kept his word, as his kind, even the lowest of them, were ever compelled to do.

He cared not a wit for the babe, of course. He cared only that it had been a screamer and a fatter load than most. He had been forced to carry it an absurd distance, not just to a scouted disposal point, but all the way to Rabing Isle. He lamented the fact that his folk had such a sense of honor and kept their word so tightly. To be completely duplicitous would be so much easier and more true to his nature. He did suppose that if his folk never kept their word, however, bargains would be few and far between.