Haven 3 Shadow Magic (Haven Series 3) (7 page)

Brand thought hard. “I’ve chosen the items wagered, perhaps you could suggest an acceptable challenge,” he said at last.

Oberon looked at him then, and smiled. “Wise again,” he said. He thought for a quick moment. “I will wager that thou cannot strike through the central flagstone of this castle’s southern tower.”

“Strike through a flagstone? With the axe?” asked Brand, surprised. “I don’t know if I can do it. Won’t the axe shatter, or just bounce off?”

“That’s what I’m wondering, Axeman!” Oberon laughed and circled Brand twice. He took out his pipes and played six thrilling notes. “Hence, the excitement of the wager!”

Brand opened his mouth then closed it. Words failed him. The Fae were so strange. One moment they might be your mortal enemies, the next they may appear to be blood-brothers. But then the third moment came, when they seemed completely mad. Their natural way was to treat all of life as a game—even death could be an amusement.

Oberon circled him again and came close, putting his lips near Brand’s ear. The axe twitched at his presumption.

“Hast thou never a thought for the axe?” the elf lord whispered. “Does the mystery of it not burn thy very soul?”

“I think of little else,” Brand admitted.

“Then we shall test its edge and your strength of mind together upon a single flagstone!” proclaimed Oberon. A cheer went up from the smaller ones, who had returned and now surrounded them. “The wager is spoken and it is done!”

“It is done,” said Brand.

Oberon danced with excitement. His pipes traveled up and down the scale twice with impossible speed and precision. Brand wondered that Oberon could be so joyous while his dead daughter lay cooling at his feet. The Faerie were a strange folk, of that he was sure. Grief and joy, life and death, these things seemed so close together with them as to be one and the same.

Shouldering the axe, he followed the elf toward the southern tower. As he walked, he noted that he still held the silvery lock of the elfkin-maiden’s hair, Llewella’s hair, in his hand. Absently, he slipped it into his pocket.

Surrounded by the Shining Folk, he saw that they carried the dead body of the elfkin maiden, held high like a trophy. Of his own companions, he saw nothing. He wondered vaguely if they could see him. It was said in the old tales that those taken by the Faerie often saw the same world, but couldn’t locate the people in it. To both the taken and their families, it forever seemed as if the others had vanished from the world.

Brand soon stood in the midst of the southernmost tower. It was the one where Telyn and he had spent the night when they met the redcap.

Oberon indicated the very flagstone upon which they had lit their fire. That night now seemed a very long time ago. It was here that the redcap had stained its cap with Telyn’s blood. Brand eyed the top of the broken walls, but saw nothing of the creature. Shining Folk thronged the walls, however, reminding Brand of Riverton children watching the Harvest Moon races.

Brand eyed the flagstone and reached up to grasp the handle of the axe again. “Lavatis and my head are yours should I lose. Should I win, my debt is erased,” he said to Oberon and half to himself.

Oberon just eyed him. He cocked his head, in what Brand had learned to be the manner of the Faerie when they were curious about River Folk. It seemed that for them, once something was said, there was no need to repeat it later.

Brand flexed his fingers and reached for the axe. Around him, the gathered Faerie fell silent. All their strange eyes glittered, focused upon him and the haft of the axe.

Brand raised the axe aloft. As if it had been awaiting this moment, the axe sent a surge of pleasure through him. His face split and his teeth revealed themselves. The axe rose overhead almost by itself. The Eye of Ambros burned brightly, out-shining the moon that rode the heavens overhead. The warm amber light lit up the ruined tower and the encircling Faerie, and even the Shining Folk drew back from its glory. The manlings and wisps whispered in hushed tones, striking wagers of their own.

Brand no longer doubted himself or the axe. He stood squarely over the scorched flagstone and held the axe aloft in both hands. He brought it down with a single, crashing stroke.

The flagstone exploded into fragments and fell inward with a  crash. A pall of dust exploded up into Brand’s face. He realized that there was a hole there, that he had broken into a hidden chamber beneath the tower. The amber light of Ambros caused things to gleam with yellowy reflections. Golden motes of dust glittered and floated around him.

“What trick is this?” demanded Brand. As the dust cleared, he made out the shapes of weapons in the chamber. Swords, pikes and crossbows filled the space beneath the tower.

“An Armory?” asked Brand. “What are you playing at, Oberon? I’ve won our wager!”

“Almost,” said Oberon quietly.

Brand looked at him then turned back to the broken flagstone. Yellow eyes glared up at him from the chamber. He knew in an instant the he was face to face with the redcap.

“Ah!” shouted Brand. “You want me to slay this foul bogey! I see your game now, and you won’t be disappointed!”

He jumped down into the dusty blackness and the very stones of the castle seemed to swallow him up.

Brand stumbled, and felt a pain that should have crippled his ankle, but it was as nothing to him. He held the axe high to light up the scene. A great number of finely-made weapons met his eyes, and the sight of them brought him pleasure. Then he saw the redcap. It had retreated to one of the racks, where it took up an ornate sword and shield. Brand recognized the black diamond on its shield: it was the mark of his clan.

Without further hesitation, Brand strode forward to strike down the redcap. It was a menace and it had harmed Telyn. It was not fit to live.

The redcap hissed and made ready to meet him. There was a brief passage of arms. Brand was surprised when the redcap caught his axe upon his shield and turned it. He was even more surprised to find the other’s sword poised at his throat.

For some reason, however, the creature paused in slaying him. Its yellow gaze met Brand’s, and Brand knew he faced death a thousand times over in those ancient eyes.

Then he willed the axe to flash, and it did as he bid, filling the chamber with blinding Amber light. The redcap screeched and Brand beat its sword away from his throat. He struck again and again, knocking aside his foe’s guard. When its breast lay open to a killing stroke, he raise the axe again.

Panting hard, he felt the exultation of victory. To slay his enemies and drink their small lives, that was his purpose now, it was clear in his mind.

Yet, something tugged at him, gnawed at his guts. It was the black diamond on the shield. The creature at his feet, he knew, was the last defender of Castle Rabing. It was related to him, somehow. It seemed wrong that its passing should be so ignoble.

“Know, last defender of Castle Rabing, that your task is at an end,” he told it. “I, a Rabing by birth, am now the lord of this place. I release you from your duties.”

For a frozen moment, the two regarded one another. Brand wondered if the thing could even understand his speech. Then it made an effort, although not a violent one, to rise. Moving with the painful efforts of an old man, the creature knelt before him, exposing its neck.

Brand knew immediately what it wanted, but despite the axe’s urging, he resisted. “No,” he said. “Perhaps you have had a hard path, but it is at an end. You are free to go.”

The redcap said nothing. It removed its stained cap, clutching it to its breast. Brand wondered how many victims had been drained of their blood to feed this thing and soak its vile cap. His lip curled of its own accord.

Brand turned as if to go. The redcap’s hand shot out and it grasped his ankle with steel fingers. “Release me, lord,” it croaked.

Brand knew pity and disgust. He gave in to the urgings of the axe. With a single stroke, he chopped off its head.

The head rolled to a stop at his feet. The dead mouth smiled at him.

Brand grabbed up the shield and climbed his way back into the tower and the misty night outside. The Faerie were gone. There was no sign of them. Brand realized numbly that he had won the wager. His head was his to keep—for now. He felt alone and cold. He shivered in the darkness.

He walked back toward the tiny flame of what he suspected must be another of Telyn’s beacons. Singular point of light burned steadily in the distance. Nothing else of the gatehouse could be seen in the darkness. Brand indeed felt drawn to that steady pinpoint of brightness. He wondered distantly if he could have seen it from leagues away. Had the axe changed him in some way, so as to make the beacon shine more clearly to him? Had he become a creature of the twilight? He was only a river-boy of the Haven, yet lately he had walked and dealt with the greatest of the Faerie. Could a man do such a thing without permanently changing his spirit?

As he walked onward over the dark landscape, thinking such weighty thoughts, he absently put the axe back into his knapsack.

It went without complaint. He stared down at the ice-white blades. His hand was free of it, without a struggle. It was as Oberon had said: he truly was its master.

* * *

 “Brand!” cried Corbin. “Brand has returned!”

Brand made no response, but instead trudged up to the gatehouse’s entrance with his head hung low.

“You’ve been gone for days, man!” said Corbin. “We worried you would never return!”  He scrambled down from his watchman’s post on the walls and strained at a lever. The grille shifted just enough to allow Brand to enter the gatehouse.

“Days?” asked Brand vaguely. “I recall only one night.”

“Often,” said Myrrdin, “people who walk with the Faerie find that time moves at a different pace with them.”

Corbin came close to him now, and Brand heard him suck in his breath. “Are you hurt, cousin?” asked Corbin in concern. He took Brand’s arm. “You’re wet and sticky—” Corbin drew in his breath sharply. “Is that blood? Are you wounded?”

Brand shook his head. “It’s not my blood,” he said in a hollow voice.

Brand felt the other’s hands lessen their grip then, as if they wanted to pull away from him. He felt a pang at this. He was a murderer, and none would want to stain themselves with the blood of his victims. He thought of Oberon’s daughter and her silver locks. He recalled her name,
Llewella
, and felt a wave of sickness come over him. Would all others revile him from this day forward?

Corbin helped him to the fire, then drew away and tried to inconspicuously cleanse his hands. Brand felt tainted. He thought of the redcap, who also wore garments soaked in the blood of its victims. He crouched before the fire and stared into the dancing yellow tongues, oblivious to those around him.

Myrrdin approached him. He sighed as he seated himself on a fallen log they had pulled near the firepit to serve as a bench.

“A new dawn is only hours off and Herla has yet to break through the charm that protects this place,” said Myrrdin. “Even the dark bard has given over his endless music as futile. It appears that we will pass another night safely.”

Brand stuck out his hands to warm them. Then he saw they were stained and splotched with blood and drew them back into his cloak. In his pockets his hand felt the feathery touch of the elfkin-maiden’s silvery hair. He rubbed it briefly between his bloodstained fingers. His eyes stung and he blinked back tears.

“I’ve looked often to the Faerie mound where I sent you,” said Myrrdin gently. “Each night there have been dancing colored lights and signs of great activity. What has occurred, Brand?”

“I’ve slain innocence and evil both,” said Brand. He stuck out his hands again and looked at them. He wondered at the price upon his soul that mastering the axe had taken. “I’ve slain them in the world and in myself, both together.”

Myrrdin looked troubled, but he nodded. “Was there a wager to be reckoned?”

“Yes,” said Brand.

“Have we lost—anything?”

“Oberon wanted Lavatis, but I wagered my head instead,” said Brand in a dead voice.

Telyn sucked in her breath sharply in alarm. Modi gave a heavy grunt of approval. Brand realized for the first time the others were all listening intently.

“It seems to me that you must have won the wager, given the stakes,” said Myrrdin.

Brand nodded.

“Who then was slain?” Myrrdin asked.

Brand eyed the blood on his hands and flexed them experimentally. For the first time, he considered washing them, but doubted he could ever fully remove the stain. “A daughter of Oberon. I cradled her severed head in my hands.”

“Ah,” said Myrrdin. He nodded in understanding. “It is a wicked feeling, is it not?”

“Yes, wicked,” said Brand. He eyed Myrrdin, and the other looked to him like an ancient man, crooked and bent with years and hard times. Brand knew he thought of the farmer’s daughter he had danced to death, or perhaps of worse things that he had known over his long life. “I also slew the redcap that guards this place,” Brand added.

Myrrdin bounded up from the bench. He stood over Brand. “You have slain the redcap of Rabing Castle?” he demanded.

“Yes,” said Brand, not looking up from his hands.