Have 2 Sky Magic (Haven Series 2) (9 page)

Brand and the others came up from the docks and followed the blue glow of the huge lantern that gave the Inn its name. They entered and were quickly ushered to a table by the rotund innkeeper, Pompolo. He, like most of the folk in North End, was of the Sonner clan. Pompolo had only one hand, the other having been lost long ago in a boating accident that had ended his career as a fisherman and brought him into a new career: inn-keeping. Always good-natured, he claimed that the hook the physician had attached to his severed wrist worked better than his old hand as he could gather the handles of more empty ale tankards with it.

“Pompolo!  My good man!  Never has a sight been more welcome to my eyes than your round face!” said Brand as he took his place.

“Ah!  Master Brand and Master Corbin!  Excellent to see you lads!  It has been months since you came to taste my beer!” said Pompolo, placing great frothing mugs of his home brew in front of them without even asking. His eyes passed over Telyn and the two Battleaxe Folk, and his smile faded, then came back on, full force. “But you must tell me, where is your brother Jak? And what’s this news I hear that something has gone amiss with the Pact?”

Brand and the others exchanged glances. He cleared his throat. He briefly explained the events of the past nights, leaving out the details of the fighting at Froghollow and the suspicions of many that the Rabing and Fob clans had caused it all. That news would come to North End soon enough.

“Oh!  Such grim tidings!  Whatever will we do with the Wee Folk running amok in our village!  My beer will sour and the fish will slip our nets as if oiled!” cried Pompolo, slapping his hand to his forehead.

Brand took a good slug of the beer, not bothering to wait for the foam to subside. It was excellent. His new mustache of white bubbles made the others smile. “It will take more than an army of the Wee Folk to sour this beer, Pompolo,” he declared.

Pompolo dipped his head to the complement, beaming. He waved to one of his two barmaids, the one called Serena, Brand thought. She came to take their orders for food.

“We are searching for Myrrdin, whom we heard might be lodging here,” said Gudrin. “Where could we find him?”

Pompolo took on a look of great thought. “He is here, indeed, somewhere in North End, although I can’t say that I could pinpoint his whereabouts just now. I’ve been so busy, what with all the traffic to the Harvest Moon festival and all.”

“So he is up and about, fully recovered? This is good news,” said Gudrin. “If you see him, be sure that you tell him we wish to have words with him.”

Pompolo assured him that he would.

Brand drank more of the beer. It was strong brew, and on his empty stomach the warm feeling of it was already spreading through him pleasantly. “I should introduce my friends,” he said, waving to Telyn and the two Kindred. “First, this lady is Telyn Fob, of Riverton—”

“Everyone calls me Scraper,” she announced, interrupting.

“—And this is Gudrin of the Talespinners and her companion, Modi of the Warriors. They are friends of the River Folk and already have used their strong hands and quick minds in defense of the River Haven.”

Pompolo took all this in with a sweep of his eyes. Brand watched him, knowing that he was sharper than most people credited. He was, in fact, the Hetman of North End, although he didn’t put on airs. There were many questions in his eyes. He made a few polite inquiries as to the health of Jak, then said: “The defense of the River Haven? You sound as though we were at war, lad.”

“You are,” said Modi, draining his mug with a gulp and wiping his mouth and bristling beard with the back of his hand.

Pompolo flicked his eyes at him, then shifted his attentions to Gudrin. “Well, madam, did I hear correctly that you are a talespinner?”

Gudrin nodded, smiling.

“Excellent!  Far and wide reaches the reputation of the Talespinners of the Battleaxe Folk!  It is said that the Faerie themselves will put aside their mischief to listen to one of your stories!” Pompolo swept up Modi’s empty tankard with his hook and replaced it with a fresh one even as he spoke, “Should you feel moved to tell the folk here one of your tales, your food and lodging will be free for the night.”

Gudrin stroked her hair. “If we have the time, and if the mood is right, I will do so,” she said after a moment’s contemplation.

“As you say milady, as you say!” gushed Pompolo. He excused himself then and rushed to a knot of fisherman as they entered the common room.

Corbin chuckled and leaned close to Brand’s ear. “I have the feeling Gudrin might have told a tale even if not asked,” he whispered.

Brand smiled and nodded back. “Right you are, Corbin, the beer is excellent.”

The food came soon after, and they set to devouring a load of fried trout and river cod. Tubers from Old Hob’s Marsh were on hand as well, and they didn’t taste quite as bland as usual to the hungry travelers. Brand took a moment to notice the others in the common room. They were mostly fishermen, with a few foresters and flap-footed marshmen among them. The fin-like marsh shoes of the marshmen were stacked along the wall at the entrance. One old granddaddy of a marshman sat in the corner by the fire warming the chill from his bones.

The conversation fell to where Myrrdin might be, and how he could be reached. Modi spoke little, but seemed the most distrustful of Myrrdin’s motives for not showing up, suggesting that he knew the Pact would not be remade. “A battle not fought is a battle not lost for one such as Myrrdin, but we all lose just the same,” he grunted.

Brand looked out the window and thought about the unpleasant changes that were overtaking the River Haven. Outside the inn dusk stole over the land. The people of North End vanished with the dying light, closing up shops and locking their doors. A few harried-looking souls trotted down the muddy street, hoods pulled low, trying to get home quickly. Brand frowned and shook his head, it was wrong that people should so fear twilight.

“Where is Myrrdin?” demanded a voice loudly. Brand turned from the dimming scene outside to see it was the granddaddy marshman at the fire who spoke. “Not only has he missed the Harvest Moon, but he has yet to appear and make his excuses!”  There was muttered agreement around the common room. He held aloft the stick he had been poking the fire with and waved it in the air.

“Where is he? Does he stalk the fair maidens of North End, playing upon their honest new fears of darkness and the Shining Folk? Or perhaps he has even fled as far as Hamlet by now, shirking his duties to the Haven and now pretends to be some other wandering personage!”

All eyes in the common room were now upon the old marshman, who stood with stooped back and hooded face. He made sweeping gestures with his walking stick, causing those near him to duck their heads and raise their hands to shield themselves. Brand glanced at Gudrin and Modi, who looked annoyed.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Gudrin. “Myrrdin would not abandon these folk.”

The marshman wheeled on them, very spry on his feet for one so aged and bent. His long white beard flew about his head as he advanced on their table. Taking everyone by surprise, he swung his walking stick and struck the table a resounding blow. The stick came down between the two Kindred, the loud crack of it making everyone jump. There was a flash of fire and a wisp of smoke rose up from the table, which was blackened where the stick had landed. Orange sparks leapt about the table. One fell in Brand’s mug of beer and sizzled there. Brand blinked in wonderment and could only imagine that the tip of the stick had been burned to coals by the fire.

Modi was not amused. With a roar of challenge, he stood, his chair springing away from his legs. His hand flew to the haft of his battleaxe, which was now revealed to all as he swept back his cloak. The double-curved blades gleamed redly in the firelight, echoing the killing light in his eyes.

Gudrin gestured for him to be seated, but for once he ignored the talespinner. Modi and the marshman faced one another.

With a fluid motion of change, the oldster seemed to grow before them. His back straightened and his shoulders rose. Finally, he threw back his hood. The craggy, weathered face beneath had white brows and flowing white hair. The face was like that of a hawk, complete with a hooked nose and dark, shining eyes.

“Myrrdin!” shouted Gudrin, coming to her feet and stepping toward the man, who was indeed Myrrdin. A clamor arose from the common room around them as people exclaimed in surprise.

“The Clanless One,” breathed Telyn, looking as she had when first seeing the Faerie.

Only Modi seemed unmoved by the revelation. He continued to eye Myrrdin angrily. “You don’t take my duties seriously enough, Wanderer.”

Myrrdin returned his gaze. Amusement danced in his eyes. “Why, Modi of the Warriors, you seem less than happy to see me.”

Modi shrugged, his huge shoulders rising and falling. “I spotted you at the fire when we first entered.”

Myrrdin cocked his head, eyeing Modi for a moment. He nodded. “I do believe you did, hmm…interesting,” he said, sounding less than pleased. “And so your goading remarks make more sense.”

Gudrin could contain herself no longer. She pushed forward and clasped Myrrdin’s hand in both of her own. She ushered him to a spot beside hers at the table and called for more beer. Pompolo himself hurried over with fresh mugs for all.

Modi, clearly disapproving of Myrrdin’s antics, waited until all the others were seated before he eased his bulk into a chair. His face was grim and he maintained a stony silence. Brand noted to himself that Modi didn’t have much of a sense of humor.

The group exchanged greetings and introductions for a time, and all the River Folk were surprised when Myrrdin recognized each of them. With ease he named each of their parents and close clansmen. He even seemed to have foreknowledge of their personalities, which Brand found most fascinating.

Myrrdin turned his gaze to Brand last, and Brand felt something of the sensation that he felt when he met Gudrin’s eyes. There was power in them, perhaps even more so than was the case with the talespinner, but it was a gentler power. He stood up to it unflinchingly, and thought to see Myrrdin give a tiny nod of approval.

“Nothing about this party surprises me, save one thing,” said Myrrdin. “Where is your brother Jak?”

Brand told him, then began to describe the events of the last few days, telling Myrrdin far more than they had told Pompolo. He found that without even considering it, he was speaking of things that he had edited previously. Corbin reached under the table and crushed his foot briefly with his huge boot, but after only a momentary glance of confusion at his cousin, he went on speaking rapidly. When he got to the attack by the rhinogs at Froghollow, Myrrdin stopped him with an upraised hand.

Brand stopped and blinked. He noted with embarrassment that he had the attention of everyone in the common room. Shocked looks, hidden gestures and buzzing conversation swept the room. He had been speaking of fighting with the Faerie firsthand, an idea both foreign and terrifying to simple people such as those of North End. It wasn’t this that bothered him the most, however, for they were sure to learn the dark truth in the next few days anyway. What annoyed him was his lack of control. He blamed it on the beer partly, but that did little to make him feel better. He chided himself not to fall under Myrrdin’s more subtle influences so easily again. He was no child, not any longer.

“Perhaps this is something best discussed in private,” suggested Myrrdin, and the others all agreed, many with relief.

After a bit of lighter talk, they moved to the large sleeping room that Pompolo had provided for them. The North End folk watched them go with a mixture of suspicion, relief and disappointment. After checking the doors and windows, and making sure no one was eavesdropping, Myrrdin bade Brand to finish his tale. Brand did so, and when he stopped Myrrdin heaved a great sigh. Again he looked old and worn, but soon he brightened and sprang to his feet with new vitality.

“Things are bad!  Worse than I or any of us had imagined!” he said, but looking bright of eye all the same. “But I believe here in this chamber there are answers for many of our problems, should we all listen and think.”

Brand smiled, liking him for his optimism. He wondered just how old Myrrdin was, and wondered at the way he seemed both old and young at the same time. “Could you tell us your tale now, Myrrdin?”

Myrrdin rose up to his full height, which was greater than any there save Brand himself. He grinned at the River Folk and the Kindred alike. “Finally, the question comes!”

Then he collapsed in a chair, kicking up a footstool to place under his feet with a precise movement. He sighed, suddenly appearing old all over again. Brand shook his head bemusedly.

“It is a sad tale. The grim tidings from the north attracted me, as no doubt these good folk have told you about,” he said, gesturing to Gudrin and Modi.

“We have heard some dark tidings from the north,” said Corbin, speaking slowly and clearly. “But not from Gudrin and Modi.”

“What!” shouted Myrrdin, and Brand half expected him to leap to his feet again. This time he only straightened bolt upright and faced the Battleaxe Folk. “You haven’t told them of the wars in Snowdonia!”

“There was no need to frighten them further,” said Modi. “They’ve been trembling like rabbits just at the hints and the casual contact with the enemy they’ve had.”