Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK

by Larson, B. V.

  “As you wish, your majesty,” said Jak, bowing deeply and mockingly.

  Brand gave them a wry look. “I’m no king, my noisy relations.”

  “Ah, alas no,” said Jak with mock sadness. “Then we might have had someone to do all this poling for us.”

  All too soon they reached the Riverton docks and found a crowd there waiting to meet them. Brand fully expected to help with the unloading of the cargo, but Gram Rabing, Uncle Tylag and the others would hear nothing of it. He was ushered up to the wedding cart, where his bride awaited him.

  Gram Rabing kept running her fingers over the healed skin of his cheek, marveling at it. He let her, even though the new skin was still sensitive and her light touch was ticklish.

  Brand laid eyes upon Telyn then, and his breath caught in his chest. Never before had he seen her wear a real, full length dress. Never had he seen her with finely groomed hair, clean face and unmarked hands. She smiled at him, and she was radiant.

  As he climbed into the cart and his relatives began to walk the horses to the common, a cheer went up from the crowd at the docks. The axe on his back must have caught some hint of the excitement, for it shifted then of its own accord. Brand reflexively rolled his shoulders to quiet it.

  Telyn noticed the movement and knew its significance. A shadow crossed her face, but she said nothing. He knew she would rather he had left it back at Rabing Isle, or at least not brought it to their very altar, but she said nothing. For they both knew that she married the Axeman this day.

  They were to have a traditional wedding, done at sunset on the very eve of the summer solstice. The mari lwyd was hung over the archway of wicker, and both the horse skull and the wicker itself were heavily woven with daffodils.

  Brand and his new bride had spared no expense. They had invited anyone in the Haven who wanted to come, and most of those from outside it, by the looks of things. The Riverton common was fuller of folks than Brand could remember ever having seen it. Not even during the old ceremonies of harvest and the renewal of the broken Pact had brought more people.

  Loosening the strings of his normally tight purse, he had provided all the guests who came food and ale. At the height of the feast, he announced he would donate three of his finest rubies to the rebuilding of Riverton, which had been ravaged by Piskin’s dastardly fire. No other words amongst the many toasts was received with greater fanfare and cheering than this announcement, as many still struggled with homes burnt to ash.

  It was after his announcement, and as the ceremony was about to begin, that a strange occurrence captured the attention of everyone present. A swirling mist full of colored lights appeared upon the Riverton faerie mound, near the spot the wedding stage had been built.

  Brand gazed that way, as did a thousand other eyes. He licked his lips. Telyn, who had taken his hand, squeezed it so that her nails dug into his palm. He squeezed hers back, lightly, reassuringly. Together they stared at the mound.

  People drew back as if realizing for the first time that the sun had faded overhead and Twilight fell. There was no panic, but many citizens grabbed up their picnic blankets and hustled their children away from the foot of the mound. Brand could not blame them.

  He took a single half-step toward the commotion. Telyn held tightly to him. He glanced down to her, and she shook her head slightly.

  “Let’s see what comes,” she said soothingly, with a voice that belied the tightness of her grip and her face. He had to wonder what she was thinking. Did she worry that somehow, at the very moment of their wedding, fate would steal him away from her side?

  Brand nodded, agreeing with her. He stood his ground. Many of the Haven folk, confused, looked to him to take their cue. Since he stood and stared, seemingly unalarmed, they followed suit. Tense whispering broke out and swept the common with a surreptitious fervor.

  Within a minute, figures could be seen. They were the Shining Folk; there could be no doubt of it. Within three more minutes, as the first stars popped out in the east, these hazy figures began to move down from the mound toward Brand, where he stood with his bride to be.

  He waited, but gestured for those who crowded around to make way for the coming procession. He was obeyed with alacrity. None wanted to be in the path of the strange beings who passed this way.

  At the head of the procession was Oberon himself, who rode a white goat. His hound rode with him, and he stroked it idly as he approached. Concerned, Brand eyed the rest of the line of Fae, hoping not to see King Arawn. Perhaps it was small-minded of him, but he simply didn’t want an undead lich walking into his wedding ceremony uninvited. He was relieved to see that Arawn was not part of the procession.

  He estimated a hundred elves followed their lord. Most were his daughters, with hair of spun gold, silver, cobalt or sparkling magenta. Each fair lady had an attending wisp to orbit her form, tending to her hair and fine clothing.

  At Oberon’s side rode an elf Brand recognized. He was a tall fellow who kept his back straight and whose eyes shone even more than most. It was Puck, the very son of Oberon who had slain Piskin.

  Oberon rode up and halted, he bowed deeply, and awaited Brand’s greeting before speaking. Brand, impressed by this polite gesture, urged him to state his business.

  “I’ve come to you this fine eve to celebrate your wedding with you—if you will have me, Lord Rabing.”

  Brand didn’t hesitate. It would hardly do good for lasting peace to deny such a diplomatic and reasonable request. “I grant your wish, Lord Oberon!”

  The old elf nodded, smiling. “Oh, and let me introduce my son to you.”

  “We’ve met,” said Brand, nodding to Puck.

  Oberon’s brow rose in surprise. “Indeed? I see. But I have more business and request an audience, if I may, after the ceremony. Now, please proceed with the wedding, and allow us to trouble your thoughts no further. We are only guests here.”

  Brand turned to Telyn, who gave him a wavering smile. Brand blinked at her. He eyed Gudrin as well, who stood stiffly, staring at the elf with displeasure. Brand sighed. No one would be able to relax and enjoy the ceremony if things were not settled. Forever after, the only memory people would have would be of Oberon and his intrusion.

  He let go of Telyn’s grasping hands. He turned back to Oberon. “I request to know your business now.”

  “As you wish,” said Oberon, as if he were not in the least surprised. “Firstly, I would ask for the hand of Lady Mari Bowen in marriage to my son Puck, here. I understand the two are—acquainted.”

  Brand smiled tightly. “Yes, I believe they are. But that wish is not in my power to grant. I would have you ask her parents and Mari herself, if she will have him.”

  Mari and her parents pressed through the throng. Fortunately, Brand had made sure they were given a spot close to the ceremony. Mari held in her arms her serious-eyed babe, who seemed to take in everything with a continuously roving gaze. It was a disconcerting expression to see upon the face of an infant.

  “He has your hair, Oberon,” she said boldly.

  Oberon looked mildly amused. He nodded to her. “Would you have my son Puck, as your husband?”

  Mari lifted her hand, which bore a silver ring. It shone slightly in the gathering dark with a blue radiance. “I wear his ring still, and he has my heart,” she said. “If he promises to shun all others while I yet draw breath, then yes. I will have him.”

  “I do so promise,” said Puck.

  Brand wondered at the elf’s commitment. Surely, he would outlive her and know freedom again, but to swear to spend many years with one who would grow old—it was unlike any elf he’d ever heard of.

  “And what of your parents?” asked Puck, directing his gaze toward them.

  “It’s only right,” said the mother.

  Mari’s father nodded, looking as does a man who believes he is dreaming.

  “Does this conclude your business, Lord Oberon?” asked Brand politely. “If so, I think Mari and Puck can stand with us, and s
hare our day. If that’s all right with you, Telyn.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Ah, there is one more thing,” said Oberon, his finger up and his goat shifting under his weight.

  “What would that be?” asked Brand.

  “I would request—with your blessing, of course—that you come to my lands at a future date.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I need to find husbands for these daughters of mine. More than four score of them. They’ve lost their husbands, you see. I wonder if any of your folk might want to find a wife among them.”

  Brand blinked at him. This development was even more unexpected. Had so many elves died that they sought fresh blood to swell their numbers? “You are inviting us to a wedding? You want me to bring River Folk to find wives among your daughters?”

  “Precisely.”

  He looked at Telyn and Gudrin. Neither knew what to make of it. Gudrin frowned distrustfully, but did not tell him to refuse the offer.

  Perhaps this, he thought with blossoming hope, was a more permanent solution than any other. If they intermarried, if more neutral folk such as Myrrdin were raised and left running about, things might be different between their peoples.

  Corbin, who was his best man, tugged at his shirt in concern. “I don’t trust him,” he whispered. “Recall what happened to Herla, when he made just such a promise to Oberon nine hundred years past.”

  Brand turned to Oberon. He faced him fully. “I will do as you ask, and I will bring as many of my men as want to come and find new wives among your lovely daughters. But I must warn you, no tricks such as were played upon my ancestors will be tolerated, Oberon. I will not become Herla, your wraith.”

  “You are indeed a rare student of history,” chuckled Oberon. “But I assure you, I have no such plans.”

  “Good,” said Brand. “We will come to the Twilight Lands for such weddings as can be arranged, one year and one day hence.”

  “One year and one day,” echoed Oberon. The bargain was struck.

  Finally, Brand turned back to his own wedding, which had now grown into a double ceremony. Gudrin had to shout for quiet, practically screeching, before those present settled down enough to hear her words. Eventually, the ceremony commenced.

  Brand, despite everything, was finally allowed an evening of peace, joy and feasting.

  Epilogue

  “You cheated me,” said Hob in a most severe tone.

  “Not at all,” replied Oberon smoothly. “Your boon has been granted, in every detail.”

  “I asked for every widowed elf maid to become my—the consort of a goblin. You have brought none of your fine daughters. Not a single one of them.”

  “Exactly. My daughters are all betrothed.”

  “And how did you manage that with such a deficit of living elf males?”

  Oberon gently explained his arrangement with Brand. In one year and one day, his daughters would have their husbands.

  Hob’s knobby forefinger came up, stopping him. “But what if no human males come? What if they reject your spinsters?”

  Oberon laughed. “What human male wouldn’t give up his life and limb to lie with one of my lovely daughters?”

  Hob made a sound of infinite frustration. “This will not be forgotten, elf!” he shouted as he glided away into the night. “You add insult to injury, preferring the dirty hands of the River Folk upon your daughters to one of your own goblin cousins.”

  “Exactly,” said Oberon, smiling. But Old Hob had vanished into the infinite starry night skies.

  End of Blood Magic

  BONUS Excerpt:

  DEATH MAGIC

  (Haven Series #6)

  by

  B. V. Larson

  Translated from the Teret, the compendium of Kindred wisdom:

  I write this passage in response to those who claim we Kindred are secretive and ill-mannered. When questions are posed to the Kindred, individuals such as myself who’ve seen many centuries of life do not always give clear answers. We are thus labeled evasive, and are quickly accused of secrecy, duplicity and even conspiracy. As the Clanmaster of the Talespinners, I heard the complaints constantly.

  Our detractors come from every possible group: the River Folk, the Wee Folk, the Dead and even the Fae in their myriad forms. To those who would mutter and grumble I say they would do better to hurl their insults into a mirror! It is always they who suspect us of great wrong-doing. The slander and whisperings are too numerous to count, but I will point out the worst here: We are known to many as the Battleaxe Folk, but we do not account ourselves as warlike. In times of strife we often withdraw into our mountain fortresses, but where is the crime in doing so? We are called secretive, but no characterization could be less accurate! Among the Kindred, there are no secrets. We may not care to share our lives with random outsiders, but that is only due to natural caution and hard-won wisdom. On this basis, I will continue to routinely reject the probing of foreign dignitaries without a qualm!

  …after hours of quiet deliberation and healthful jacks of ale, I’ve decided to relent somewhat. In the interests of coexistence, I will pen a limited response to commonly made queries here. I will focus only upon our sacred text, which is known to us as the Teret, and upon our corresponding beliefs. The meaning of the word Teret in the language of the Kindred translates as “circle” or “cycle”. The Great Book is the core of our collected wisdom, gathered while watching the world beyond our stone halls for millennia.

  One fundamental observation I can share with all: this world’s history should not be viewed as a linear sequence of events, but rather as cycles of repeating occurrences. Among all mortal beings, one cycle takes the form of birth, life and death. Among the Kindred specifically, we go through long periods of dithering and sleepy, pointless behavior—eras that often span centuries. But, when a monarch is selected from among us, the nature of the Kindred undergoes a drastic change. Like swarming creatures we become a people apart from ourselves, bent upon a single purpose. Peaceful dithering followed by frenetic activity, this is the cycle that defines us.

  The world at large is driven by other cycles. Events of the past often seem eerily similar to those of the present. Although individuals are not destined to suffer the same fate as their ancestors, they are destined to suffer similar trials when caught up in one of these elemental loops of time. Slaves become masters and masters become themselves enslaved. The greatest creatures of the world sleep, awaken and then drift off to sleep again periodically. Their behavior is as cyclical and predictable as the routine-driven lives of our Mechnician clansmen, who are unsung heroes among the Kindred. They oil the clockwork devices which give our underground world life and sustenance. Their tireless repetition of appointed tasks aids us all, providing us with breath, heat and light in the depths of the cold earth.

  Knowing now this fragment of Kindred wisdom, I ask the reader to look at events and faces around them and compare them to those of the past. What has gone before will come again. What will you do to make your mark upon this world as it spins under all of our feet?

  —Queen Gudrin of the Talespinners, written circa the Fifth Era of the Earthlight

  Chapter One

  The Gift

  I need to find husbands for these daughters of mine. More than four score of them. Brand remembered Oberon’s words, and he remembered staring at elf lord as he said them. A year passed quickly, and when the time came he was ready for the elf’s return. There had been no lack of volunteer husbands, as it turned out. There had been too many, in fact. Brand had held a lottery and the winners were to meet him on the Riverton Common near the Faerie mound tomorrow as the sun fell.

  When the big day came, Telyn did not want to let him go. He was her husband now, and her hands clutched at him as he made ready to walk out their door and head for Riverton. It had been his mistake, of course, to make plans to leave her on their first wedding anniversary. At the time, he had not even considered the significance of the
date, having been very new to married life.

  “It’s been a year and a day, Telyn,” he told her.

  She gripped him. “Not yet. That’s tomorrow.”

  “But I must go today, in order to be at the common in the morning.”

  “It will rain. Let him wait a day.”

  Brand shook his head. He kissed her gently. “The Fae will not understand. I will have broken my word with them. Who knows what ill they would make of that?”

  “This is our anniversary,” she said. She stood with her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. “This is our day. It’s my day.”

  “Listen,” he told her. “I thought we had worked this out? I can’t send eighty men to stand upon the mound alone waiting for the elves to appear. I must guide them and see that nothing horrible happens to them. Think of their mothers.”

  “I’ve seen these prospective husbands,” she said. “That gaggle of ruffians doesn’t look like they have mothers.”

  Brand chuckled. It was true, most of the men were Silures and Hoots, mixed in with various other ne’er-do-wells and layabouts from all over the Haven. A few were honest men in search of good wives. Most of the latter had lost their own women and were hopeful of new companionship.

  Telyn pressed close, and he patted her absently. To him, she seemed overly worked up about this trip.

  “Brand,” she whispered. “I’m with child.”

  Brand blinked in shock. He opened his mouth, but no sound issued forth. He hugged her, and when he managed to unlock his tongue, he whooped and lifted her into the air. He set her back down again quickly, gently.

  “Sorry, sorry!” he said, eyeing her midsection in alarm.

  “I’m not going to break!” she said, laughing.

  They hugged and kissed for a time. At last, she sighed and let him go. She pouted and demanded that he promise to return. He did so solemnly, then strapped the axe in a rucksack across his back and threw open the door. What he saw there made him stumble back a step.