Have 2 Sky Magic (Haven Series 2)

by Larson, B. V.

  “Yes,” agreed Myrrdin, gritting his teeth as Gudrin’s strong hands tied off the red-soaked bandages. “He is one of the more barbaric types that inhabit swamps and barrens rather than clean forests and farmlands.”

  At this, Tomkin chuckled. “If that’s not a strange insult from a half-breed cheat! I know thee now by the blood in thy veins, witch! I know thou hast as much kin with Tomkin as these prattling River Folk!”

  “Silence now, my servant,” demanded Myrrdin. “It is time for you to don your new keepsake.” He produced the pouch and handed it to the manling. Tomkin snapped his sharp teeth at Myrrdin’s fingers once, just to make him jump. Myrrdin did jump, and his brows furrowed darkly.

  “You are indeed tainted by the darkest of your ilk,” he said.

  With ill grace, Tomkin donned the pouch. Beady eyes glared at Myrrdin.

  “Now, my servant, you shall rejoin your clan and report back to me any news of that which Oberon has lost. Even if you hear nothing, you shall report back to us every week hence for the next year and a day,” said Myrrdin. He turned to Corbin, who held the creature’s cord. “Free him.”

  “But you have not asked him about what he already knows,” protested Corbin.

  Tomkin waited no longer, but seized the rope and began chewing through it. The others made as if to stop the manling, but Myrrdin restrained them. “Let him go. I can only ask him to do things afresh. Old knowledge he is free to twist and lie about.”

  Reluctantly, they watched Tomkin free himself and bound to the window sill. He crouched there for the moment, framed by the open window. He turned and touched his thumb to his nose. Then with a great bound, he disappeared into the night.

  “Can we trust him?” asked Brand.

  Modi snorted.

  “He is one of the Wee Folk, and a wild one at that. We can trust his greed, his malicious nature and his instinct for self-preservation,” said Gudrin.

  “And,” added Myrrdin, “we can trust his sworn word, to a point—and the effects of my poultice.”

  Modi grunted and stumped to the window. He looked out into the cold night. “He’s gone. Either he’ll lose the pouch and his memory, or his clansmen will drown him in the marsh for treachery.”

  “Possibly,” admitted Myrrdin with a shrug. “Time will tell. A week, to be exact.”

  “But, what do we do in the meantime?”

  “I suggest we seek out the merlings and see what they know,” said Myrrdin.

  The River Folk were stunned. “What? Are you mad?” demanded Brand. He quickly recovered. “I’m sorry, but no one in the River Haven ever seeks out a merling…unless it is for revenge.”

  “Which, of course, does little to endear them to our plight,” agreed Myrrdin.

  Even Telyn was aghast. “The Faerie are one thing,” she said, “at least we can make deals with them. But the merlings are nothing other than evil, baby-stealing animals.”

  “No!” said Myrrdin, “as I’ve said before, they aren’t unintelligent. Just primitive. They have no lost love of the River Folk, it’s true. But the Pact has benefited them as much as the humans in the Haven, and I think they would do almost anything to get it restored…even parlay with us.”

  After Tomkin’s departure, the party readied themselves for bed. Sleep came slowly to Brand, and once it did finally take him, his mind was filled with dreams of ice-white teeth and snapping jaws.

  * * *

  Tomkin bounded out the window with his heart soaring. He still drew breath! The River Folk had been fools not to slay him. His first flying leap carried him from the second story window sill of the Blue Lantern all the way to the thatched roof of a marshman’s hut, which was across a narrow alley. Being light and small, he didn’t crash through the roof, but rather crunched into it. The landing made a sound not unlike that a tomcat might make after a similar leap. Tomkin heard the marsh people below, stirring in their beds. He did not wait for them to come out and see what had been thrown atop their roof. He bounded again, this time to their chimney, which still smoked faintly. Trotting over the crumbling mud-brick chimney, he gave a single wheezing cough and launched himself to the next roof, which covered a stable. The horses within nickered and shuffled, sensing Tomkin’s nature. Domesticated animals feared his kind even more than the cowardly River Folk. Still happy with his escape, Tomkin leapt again to yet another roof. This time, a baby awoke at the sound and began squalling.

  Traveling across the town of North End roof-to-roof, he began to enjoy the experience. It had been too long since he’d played games with the River Folk. Perhaps that should change…. His broad mouth spread wider and curved up at the corners. He would play games with them! What was the wording of the foul witch’s enchantment? He must rejoin his clan and report back. Well, he needed something to report, then! He would give the River Folk events to ponder! They would not be so quick to enslave one of his kind when he was done!

  Leaping from the roof of a fletcher to a wet, green field beyond, he raced out of the town toward the marsh he called home. He ran as fast as he could, knowing he had little time to waste. It was already near midnight and dawn was barely five hours off.

  Finding Wee Folk in a swamp is a difficult task for any creature, but Tomkin knew his people well. He did not race about calling for them, that would only cause them to hide or possibly attack him. By his people’s calendar, which revolved around moon phases and varieties of trees, this was the month of Ngetal, the month of the reed. Very fortunate indeed, he realized now. His kind would gather where the reeds were thickest, and of course, where else would that be other than a marsh?

  Tomkin knew the difficulty in finding a group of his kind would not be in finding a large area of reeds. Being a marsh, they were plentiful. The trouble was in finding the right reeds. He thought he knew the place, however. There was a spot northwest of North End where the reeds were thick on an island of birch. The Wee Folk liked birch in particular, although Tomkin didn’t share their taste for them.

  Heading for the island, Tomkin reflected that he had not been in contact with his own kind for many years now. The River Folk had called him crude and barbaric. Perhaps they were right, he reflected. Maybe it was time to rejoin his people tonight and share in their nightly festivals.

  Tomkin heard the music first. Fiddles and pipes. At a distance, one could mistake the sweet sounds for the sighing of the wind, but as he grew closer, he knew the truth. The sounds of the Fae frightened and enchanted humans, but to Tomkin they were natural and homey.

  He saw the lights next. They floated over the murky pools of bog-water and cast up reflections of magenta, azure and reddish-gold. They were wisps, he knew. The flittering creatures never could resist a good party, and if nothing else they provided some welcome illumination.

  Tomkin reached the edge of the island and hesitated. The group that piped and fiddled in the midst of the three clustered birches were not known to him. They might not like his intrusion. Myrrdin had ordered him to find his clansmen and report on their activities, but the joke was on him, as Tomkin had no clan to call his own! At the time, Tomkin had thought this was a fine jest and that he would return each week to report nothing, exactly as the week before, because there was no clan to report upon. But the geas was too strong for that. Whatever guiding spirit held his reins, he was not allowed to ignore his commitments. The term clan was widened in meaning to include all Wee Folk, and thus he’d been forced to seek them out. The situation was most unfair, but there it was.

  He took another few steps forward onto the island, and paused again. The fiddling and piping continued. He could see their shadows now, flickering as they leapt in circles amidst the birches.

  Suddenly, he heard a rustling behind him. Another telltale splash, a tiny sound from pools to his left, finished the scenario. Tomkin turned and leapt high, but he was too late.

  Two of his own kind leapt up to meet him. Like a group of mad hares, they met in midair and commenced a vicious fight. The other two wore top hats and
tails, they were town-types, unlike him. The type of Wee Folk that liked to ape humanity. Unfortunately for Tomkin, in addition to their clothing, the others carried stout cudgels of gnarled hardwood. They swung them with urgency.

  One cudgel crashed into Tomkin’s scalp, while the other popped him on the back. Tomkin was knocked from the air and splashed down into a bubbling pool, but he was not out of the fight. The other two laughed and saluted one another.

  “He’s down, Dando!” shouted one.

  “Let us crack him again!” returned the one known as Dando.

  They lifted their staves, but Tomkin launched up from the mud and into their faces. He had in his hands a glittering knife. His shockingly large mouth opened, and his teeth caught one of the cudgels before it could be brought down upon him. The bitten wood snapped and the staff fell in two halves.

  Tomkin put the knife under Dando’s chin.

  Dando dropped his cudgel immediately and looked shocked. “It was only a bit of fun, brother!” he said.

  Tomkin growled in response. For a cold few seconds, they regarded one another. Two ruffians of the soft life faced a feral, clanless Wee One of the marshes. Tomkin could see they were suddenly fearful. He enjoyed the taste of their fear, and decided he would taste their blood as well. Let them savor this moment—

  No! said a voice in Tomkin’s mind. He knew instantly it was the spirit enforcing the geas. It felt to him as if it squeezed his mind. He gave a twisting, snarling howl of frustration. He wanted to cut these two, but he could not. The two Wee Folk looked on warily, not knowing what form of madman they’d had the misfortune to meet. The pipes and fiddles came to a halt and several others stepped forward and gathered around and see what was amiss.

  “He’s a wild one, step lightly!” said one of the pipers.

  “It will take all of us to bring him to justice after poor Dando’s brought down!”

  Dando sputtered at this talk. “Nonsense!” he cried, trying desperately to sound confident. “It’s only a long-lost cousin, attracted back to share our feast and festival. Make him welcome, everyone!”

  None of the others moved. Tomkin’s face continued to writhe as he fought his own muscles for control of his body. His tiny knife, however, remained under Dando’s chin as if glued there.

  “Be you a mad thing?” asked Dando in a hushed voice. His eyes were huge and gleaming. “A mindless assassin?”

  Finally, Tomkin mastered himself enough to speak coherently. He shook his head. He stared at Dando quizzically. “Who art thee, miserable fop, to be believing thou warrants an assassin?”

  Dando shook his head a fraction, but as the movement made the blade at his neck saw against his skin, he froze again. “No one, sirrah.”

  “How can this party be?” asked Tomkin with growing suspicion. He could not recall such a large gathering of his people in the marsh. Not ever.

  “What is your meaning, brother?”

  “So many of our kind. In my marsh. Why does this occur?”

  “It is a party,” called another Wee One who worn a lavender hat as tall as half-pint mug. “We dance in Dando’s honor!”

  Tomkin eyed the fancy creature called Dando with slitted eyes. He did not look important in Tomkin’s eyes. Could this gathering truly be to honor such a scoundrel? He’d never had a party thrown for him by anyone. He eyed the crowd that had gathered around and didn’t like any of them. They were of a different breed entirely. They thought him a wild lout—while he considered them conceited and foolish.

  “This swamp is my home,” Tomkin growled. “I’ve come to my island and discovered ruffians. I’ve been attacked, and did nothing but defend myself.”

  Several of the Wee Folk sputtered protests. They said he could not claim this land, as it was clearly sacred ground for all the Folk. Dando waved a silencing hand at them desperately, all the while keeping his gaze locked upon Tomkin.

  “I apologize profusely!” Dando said. He spoke quickly in an ingratiating tone. “I am abject in my error! We are all sorrowful, and would be boundlessly in your debt fine sir—if you would only allow us use of your lands!”

  Tomkin found his groveling disgusting, but he listened. The other Wee Folk huffed and snorted.

  “Boundlessly in my debt?” asked Tomkin, tilting his head in a manner that was suddenly predatory.

  Dando licked his lips. His eyes flashed to his comrades, who looked sour.

  “Well, I can only speak for myself. But what is it you came for? Companionship?”

  Tomkin stared at him for several long seconds. His hand, which held the knife, wanted to cut them all. But he could not, due to the pouch that hung like a slave’s collar around his neck. He hissed vexedly.

  “Companionship,” he said at last. “Yes. I will partake of that.”

  Dando dared a fluttering smile. “Will you join us in festival then, this lovely eve?”

  “No,” Tomkin said. “Instead, thee shall join me. We will work our charms upon the town nearby. The River Folk have offended me personally. I have declared an imbalance, and it must be settled.”

  “Tonight?” asked Dando. “We have not done a raid on a town for so very long. Perhaps another—” Dando broke off with a squeak, as Tomkin’s knife pressed closer. A thin pink line appeared upon his skinny throat.

  “Yes!” said Dando instantly. “Tonight would be excellent! I promise and do hereby swear: I will aid thee to make this night a special memory for the River Folk.”

  Tomkin nodded finally and gave them all a final, snarling curl of his lips. He meant it as a smile, but such expressions were not natural to him. He removed the blade from Dando’s throat and the throng relaxed.

  The pipes and the fiddles immediately began to play again. The colored wisps rose up and circled, brightening their glow in tune with the lighter mood. Everyone cheered and sang—except for Tomkin, who stood grumpily on the outer shore of the island.

  Dando threw his arm around Tomkin and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “You had me going there for a moment, brother! You know, I could use a fellow like you at my side.”

  “Remove thy skinny fingers, or I’ll have that hand off,” Tomkin replied.

  Dando’s hand vanished, but his smile broadened. “Sorry! Just trying to be friendly, you understand?”

  “No,” Tomkin answered, staring with slitted eyes. “We shall go now.”

  “Where?”

  “To North End.”

  “Oh yes, that,” said Dando, looking annoyed. He sighed. “It will take most of the night, will it not?”

  “Until dawn, I should think,” Tomkin said.

  Dando looked toward the party wistfully. There were Wee Folk maids there, and Dando obviously loathed leaving them. Suddenly, he brightened.

  “Everyone! Everyone, may I have your attention please?”

  Tomkin looked after Dando in irritation. What kind of delay would this weasel attempt now?

  “I have a boon for you all,” Dando said, throwing his voice suddenly downward into a low, conspiratorial tone. “We shall raid this town near us. We shall do as we have not done in two centuries! The Pact has fallen, and we need no longer cavort amongst lonely trees on swampy isles! Let’s do as our elders did before us, as those who are aged may still remember. Let us play—with the River Folk serving as our toys!”

  The Wee Folk considered his words with glassy eyes and waxy skins shining in the night. Suddenly, with a whoop, they began to bound into the air and shouted together: “Yes! Yes! Yes, we shall play!”

  Within minutes, a troop of Wee Folk were bounding toward North End. They giggled, flipped and twisted in mid-air as they went. When they reached the sleeping village, they quieted and went about their tricks and mischief as stealthily and quickly as they could.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Marsh

  Brand and his comrades awoke to a gloomy marsh morning. The sun was a red disk that could not burn through the mist rising from the swamp that surrounded North End. After groaning and climbing out
of bed shortly after dawn, the group all ate a dull breakfast of watercress and fish that tasted of grit. When the complained about the poor fare, they learned there had been a rash of small tricks and hexes performed during the night. Cows had gone dry, whole wracks of smoked fish had been stolen and spoiled. One woman even claimed that her child had been replaced by a changeling, but Myrrdin, after a very serious inspection of the squalling child, pronounced that it was only a mild case of rickets. He prescribed a remedy of acidic fruits and by ten o’clock they were ready to depart.

  “It is well known that the merlings have a hidden stronghold in Old Hob’s Marsh outside North End,” Myrrdin said. “It is there that I propose to parlay with them.”

  The others, rather unenthusiastically, agreed to accompany him. Brand was silently thankful that Jak had not come with them, as he doubted that his brother would have readily agreed to doing anything with merlings that didn’t involve killing some of them.

  They purchased marshshoes for the journey, but decided to head into the backwaters of the marsh by poling up the slow waterways on their skiff, rather than going in by foot. Myrrdin cut and fashioned a parlay staff of hickory, with three long ribbons attached, two green and one white. This universal symbol of diplomatic intentions was fixed to the prow of the skiff, where the three ribbons wafted in the slow, dank breezes of the marsh. Brand wondered whether the merlings were sophisticated enough to even recognize the parlay staff. Modi commented that the thing would only encourage attack by stating the group’s probable lack of weapons.

  After sailing upstream on the Berrywine into the entrance of a wide slow tributary, the skiff soon lost its wind and had to be poled. Gray-green reeds and lilies clustered around the boat, clinging to the prow and to their poles. Heavy frogs made odd, croaking cries and plopped in the water as they approached.