“Bram!” his mother cried, and her hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t mean—” She sprang to her feet, but instead of following her son, Rietta descended upon her husband at the far end of the table, fists flying. “Damn you, Cormac, for putting the notion in his head! You knew he would feel obligated to do whatever he could to help those miserable peasants!”
Bram couldn’t hear his mother’s ranting turn to sobs, or see the small, triumphant smile that pulled at his father’s lips.
Bram sat shivering within the circle of broken boulders known before their destruction as Stonecliff, drying his stockinged feet at the small fire he’d managed at length to start. Bram had never been so cold, nor so far from home before.
He had packed wisely enough for the trip to Wayreth, he thought, bringing flint, tinder, knife, a tightly rolled wool blanket, enough food for three days, and an extra pair of trousers and jerkin. But he hadn’t anticipated the cold, driving rain that had dogged him all day as he walked on feet blistered by new boots. Nearly everything in the pack was soaked through, but especially the winter cloak, white jerkin, and brown trousers he wore. Fortunately, the healing herbs he’d brought in small glass vials remained dry.
The young nobleman pulled out a knife that was neither very sharp nor strong, meant more for cutting the tender flesh of vegetables than people. Still, it sliced easily enough through the wrinkled flesh of an autumn apple. He munched the sweet fruit in weary distraction, wondering what the next day would bring.
With any luck he would be aboard a ship headed for distant Wayreth. Kirah had told him Guerrand had gone there first in his quest to become a mage. Though many years had since passed, Bram reasoned that even if Guerrand were no longer at the place where mages regularly gathered, the wizards there would know where he was.
Bram’s trip to Thonvil to speak again with Kirah had made him only more determined than ever to find his uncle. Two more people had succumbed to the mysterious disease, their snake limbs heard to magically sigh Guerrand’s name. There could be no doubt the wizard was somehow involved with the pestilence. The life of every villager depended on Bram’s finding Guerrand. He felt the full weight of a lord’s responsibility for them. More selfishly, he’d worked long and hard to bring a spark of life back to Castle DiThon’s lands. If the plague wasn’t stopped soon, there would be no village left to revive.
At first light, he would thread his way down the cliff, cross the River Durris to Hillfort, and offer himself up as a shiphand in exchange for passage on the first ship headed south. The nobleman wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Bram snapped some twigs and tossed them on the fire. He stared, unblinking, into the flames until his eyes teared so that his darkened surroundings wavered and blurred as if he were looking through the steam of a boiling pot. Through the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw movement behind a boulder at the limit of the firelight’s range. Bram blinked, then dug his fists into his eyes to clear them.
When he looked again, a cloud of light snowflakes whirled up and caught the firelight like a thousand tiny prisms. The flurry slowly settled, revealing three beings, as short as young children. Each had enormous blue eyes that glowed like the hottest flame. Three heads of feather-fine hair the color of waxed walnut furniture were covered with colorful, jaunty hats of wool. All manner of pouches hung from their shoulders, as well as waist belts with loopholes for tools and carving knives.
“I’ve heard of you,” breathed Bram. “You’re brownies, aren’t you? I wasn’t sure if you really existed.”
All three creatures crossed their small arms stiffly. “If I’m not mistaken, that name is also used to describe chocolate cake,” said the one wearing a slate-blue cap and mantle. “It makes us sound like a bit of fluff, not at all serious or worthwhile. We’d as soon you called us ‘milk’ or ‘fruit,’ if you insist upon naming us after foodstuffs.”
Bram put up his hands defensively. “Tell me what you call yourselves, and I will never use that other word again.”
“We call ourselves tuatha dundarael.” The creature saw Bram’s eyes open wide. “If that’s too difficult for you, you may use the shortened form, tuatha—pronounced ‘too-a-ha.’ ”
“Tuatha,” Bram repeated deliberately, looking relieved. He stood and walked around the three tuatha, peering closely at the small, soft-featured beings. “Where are your wings?”
The blue-mantled tuatha man gave a slight sigh. “Those would be pixies. While also faerie folk, they wear silly, curly-toed shoes like court jesters and, as a rule, come out only at night.”
Bram raised his eyebrows and took in the darkened sky. “You can see why I was confused.”
The tuatha regarded him through one slow, lazy blink. “Not really.”
Bram coughed self-consciously. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names. I’m Bram,” he said, extending a hand.
“Yes.” The blue-capped being ignored Bram’s hand and put a tiny palm to his chest. “I am called Thistledown.”
He gestured to his companion in the snug red hat. “This is Burdock.” The second diminutive creature bowed his head.
Thistledown waved to the last tuatha, a young female wearing a long yellow wool stocking cap and a decorative gold sash from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Her face was rosy and clean. “She is Milkweed.” The blush in her cheeks darkened to wine, and she averted her eyes from Bram’s.
“Why don’t they talk?” the nobleman asked.
“Because I am the speaker in this troop,” explained Thistledown matter-of-factly. “Burdock is the pathfinder. Milkweed is the enchantmentcrafter. King Weador assigned us three to you when he heard you speaking here.”
“King Weador?” Bram repeated dully. “I don’t understand what you mean, ‘assigned you.’ ”
Thistledown turned to Milkweed, who turned to Burdock, who turned back to Thistledown. Three small sets of shoulders lifted in shrugs. “It’s what we do, we tuatha. We attach ourselves, so to speak, to humans of high moral standards.”
Bram leaned back and crossed his arms. “I have high moral standards, have I?”
“And a natural earth magical ability,” said Thistledown, as if he hadn’t been interrupted.
“I do have a way with plants,” agreed Bram.
Thistledown’s eyebrows were drawn down in annoyance. “Watch that pride, or we’ll have to leave,” he threatened, while Milkweed and Burdock settled their shoulders as if preparing to disappear behind their speaker.
“I’m sorry,” Bram said quickly. “I didn’t mean to …” His voice trailed off awkwardly. He dropped back down by the fire and folded large hands around his knees, preparing to listen rather than get further into trouble by speaking.
Thistledown seemed mollified. “We perform small services in exchange for a mug of milk, a little bread, that sort of thing.”
The nobleman looked at his wet belongings by the fire and said, “I’d be happy to share my foodstuffs with you.” He fished around in his small pack. “I’ve been eating snow for water, but I have plenty of apples, carrots, and peanuts, and a half-loaf of bread—”
“We’re not here to eat your food,” interrupted Thistledown. “We’ve long partaken of the bounty of your gardens.”
Bram straightened up in surprise. “You know my fields?”
All three tuatha beamed. “We tuatha have been working at night to help you return those weed patches into workable plots.”
Bram’s face lit with sudden understanding. “I’ve wondered some mornings about finding gleaming pitchforks and shovels when I left dirty ones in the garden the night before,” he breathed. Bram leaned back from the fire. “So how long have you been helping me?”
Thistledown leaned toward Burdock. “Time has no meaning for us,” he announced at length. “We have aided you longer ago than yesterday, but less than we will have tomorrow. This is the first time Burdock, Milkweed and I have been sent as a troop to aid you.”
Bram blinked. “How many tuatha are there?”
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Thistledown turned again to his companions before speaking. “I daresay we tuatha outnumber you humans.”
“I’m surprised, then, that I never saw even one of you before,” observed Bram.
“We did not want you to see us until now,” Thistledown said simply. “We live in the faerie realm, beyond human sight. In this place where earthly magic once flourished, your thoughts were particularly resonant in our realm. That is why King Weador sent us to give you aid.”
Bram used the toe of a new boot to nudge the unburned ends of a log into the flames. “Unless you have a ship and a full crew,” he said, “I can’t see that you can do anything to help me get to Wayreth.”
“You could be there in no time if you took the faerie road,” suggested Thistledown.
Bram waited for the tuatha man to explain, but as usual, Thistledown stared at him expectantly. “What’s a faerie road?” the nobleman asked at length.
Once again, Thistledown conferred with his colleagues. “Burdock reminds me that the faerie road is like time. It looks different to every human who traverses it, and decidedly different to you than it does to us tuatha. It will magically allow you to travel great distances in a matter of heartbeats.”
Thistledown turned to Milkweed, who dug into a pouch and extracted a small object she then pressed into the speaker’s waiting palm.
“Here’s your coin,” said Thistledown. A gold coin of unfamiliar design glinted brightly in the light of the white moon.
Bram stared at the gold piece in Thistledown’s palm. “I don’t understand. Why are you paying me?”
The tuatha man flipped the coin in his small, pale hand. “This is milled faerie gold, the coin of our realm,” he explained. “Only those invited to Wayreth may find its twin towers; the coin will serve as invitation. In addition, it will offer you protection in the faerie land, but only if you keep the coin with you and never stray from the main road.”
“What happens if I step from that path or lose the coin?”
“You’ll either be struck dead or kept hostage in some horrible fashion,” Thistledown responded promptly.
“What if I meet up with bandits along the way and it’s stolen from me?”
“The bandit who touches it without your leave will be struck dead.”
“Hmmm.” Bram stroked his chin thoughtfully. “What if I choose to spend it along the way for food, or I simply lose it, or I give it up to save my life?”
“Dead, dead, and dead.”
Bram pursed his lips in dismay. “I should risk my life on this road?”
Thistledown looked east toward the cliff that overlooked Hillfort. “Only you can decide which of your options is the greater risk to you or the villagers for whom you feel a duty. I can assure you that you will be perfectly safe on the faerie road if you bide my warnings.”
Bram looked toward Hillfort and knew the answer he must give. “How do I get to this faerie road?” he asked. “Is it far?”
“As near as here.” Thistledown reached over to touch a finger, light as a feather, cool as running water, to Bram’s right temple. “You have but to take the coin and speak aloud the name of your destination. A road will appear before you.”
Bram stood, collected his belt and small pouch, then reached for the golden coin in Thistledown’s hand. To his surprise, the tuatha man drew his own hand back.
“Remember,” he admonished, “neither stray from the main road, nor give away the coin while in the faerie realm. Only the third fork to the left will take you to Wayreth.”
Milkweed abruptly pulled Thistledown’s ear to her lips again. “We have been advised to also tell you that when you reach Wayreth, you’re to give the coin to a man named Par-Salian, and Par-Salian only. It will prove you took the faerie road, for the only humans to possess such a coin in your world are those who have safely traveled that road in ours.”
That said, Thistledown placed the coin in Bram’s waiting palm. The minted gold felt unexpectedly warm and heavy and bore the symbol of a disk that was half sun, half moon. On the other side was an image that Bram assumed was that of King Weador. Bram clasped the coin tightly as he gave a warm smile that took in all three tuatha, even the ones who’d never spoken to him. “Will I see you again after I return from Wayreth?”
Bram saw Thistledown’s lips move frantically for one brief second, but he could hear no sound coming from them. He blinked once, twice, before realizing he’d unwittingly uttered the name of his destination. In the third blink of the nobleman’s eye, the chilly hillside in Northern Ergoth gave way to a lush, green forest.
Bram had entered the realm of the tuatha.
Bram’s first thought was to keep the faerie coin safe, so he slipped it into a small inner pocket just beneath the drawstring that held up his brown trousers. Only then did he let himself look at his surroundings.
The road beneath his feet, crafted of interlocking blocks of stone worn or carved flat, was the smoothest he’d ever felt. This was no Ergothian dirt path riddled with wagon ruts and potholes of frozen water. His eyes followed its flat, gently curving ways around broad, gnarled trees and protruding boulders.
Above the road the green canopy was thick and close on all sides, making the path resemble a dark tunnel. The trees were a variety he didn’t recognize, with broad, flat, oval leaves, some variegated with whorls of white, the rest a solid, blackish green. The bark was smooth and gray like that of a young maple, broken only by huge gnarls where once branches had grown. The underbrush was thick with thorny holly and rosy barberry bushes and a host of common roadside weeds, though how any of them received enough light through the canopy was a puzzle to Bram. Occasional thin slivers of bright blue limned the uppermost leaves, suggesting that somewhere above a sky and a sun existed. Unlike Stonecliff, the air was as warm as Ergoth in the month of Corij.
Strangely, it was a cheery forest in a dark, well-manicured sort of way. It looked neither magical nor foreboding as Thistledown’s description of a death-dealing place would suggest.
Bram’s fingertips traveled to the hidden pocket in his trousers for reassurance. Through the fabric he could feel the small, round outline of the faerie coin. Bram flung the heavy lapels of his winter cloak over his shoulders, looped the strap of his pack from waist to opposite collar bone, then set off down the road at a brisk pace.
He had not walked very far before he noticed that the forest was strangely silent, so silent he began to hear only his own footsteps. No birds sang, no squirrels chittered or shook the underbrush at the sound of his approach. Bram found himself self-consciously stepping so lightly that his heels made no noise to break the unnatural silence.
The road cut through a copse of draping, willowlike trees when the strange whispering began. Bram spun around, looking for the source of a vague, distant mumbling.
“Hello?” There was no one in sight behind or ahead of him on the road, nor could he see anyone among the denseness of the trees. He thought it odd that while no breeze lifted his hair, the thin, golden vines of the surrounding trees wafted in some mysterious wind.
“Is anyone here?” he called again. His voice echoed back at him three times, but there came no answering call. Just the odd whispering. He looked more closely at the unfamiliar variety of tree that surrounded him. The leaves were long, pink-tinged, and slightly humped in the middle. Though they looked vaguely like willow leaves, what each resembled more aptly was a delicate pair of lips.
The strange muttering began to grate on Bram’s nerves, and he hastened down the road, hoping to escape the irritating noise. He left the odd copse of trees behind, and the whispering gradually receded. Bram began to relax.
It was only a matter of moments, however, before he spotted a flock of flamingo-sized birds perched on a single, bowed branch to the right of the path. With bodies of pink feathers and heads of orange fur, they watched him pass as one, five sets of yellow eyes glowing like small suns. They seemed more disturbing than dangerous, yet Bram picked up his pace to pa
ss them quickly.
He had not walked very much farther when he heard a child’s voice, thin and reedy, up ahead. The child sounded frantic and in need of help, so Bram broke into a run. His eyes searched the shrubs, looking for the owner of the plaintive voice.
The road curved gently to the right, and a narrow fork, obscured by tall brush, abruptly appeared on his left. Bram stopped at the turn and peered down the smaller path for the source of the voice. Several paces away was a small child, no more than ten years of age. The child wore a grubby, ripped, pink tunic that hung past its knobby knees and brushed the tops of the rags that wrapped its feet. Pale yellow hair dangled in limp, tangled ropes to the shoulders. Bram could not be certain if the child was a boy or a girl.
“Please!” the child cried. “You must help me. My mother is trapped beneath a log near our home, and I haven’t the strength with my girlish arms to move it off her. She’s been there for some time and near to blue, sir.”
Bram hesitated, peering down the path behind the girl, then back to the main road Thistledown had instructed him to take.
Seeing his reluctance, the young girl dropped to her knees. “Please, sir,” she begged, holding up clenched hands, “with your muscles, it will take but moments to move the log that traps my mother.”
Bram squinted again over her shoulder, looking for a cottage or any other sign of life behind the girl, but all he saw was a path much narrower than the one on which he stood, as dark and confining as a tomb. “Where’s your father?” he asked her.
“He’s in the forest, beyond the sound of my voice,” she said. “The forest is thick and dark near our cottage. He left to chop some holes to the sky.”
Bram could make no sense of any of this. “How did your mother come to fall beneath a log?”
The girl had begun to wring her hands. “She wanted to help my father by trimming some trees near our cabin. I warned her not to, for fear a log would strike our little home, but she wouldn’t listen.” She looked frantically over her shoulder yet again. “It’s not very far to our cabin, just around that first bend.”
The Medusa Plague Page 13