Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK (7 page)

Brand himself, and his axe, was the reason many of them had come. They had trekked in from wild settlements in areas beyond the borders of the Haven. Things had grown worse for them since the breaking of the Pact. The faerie were on the prowl, and since they dared not enter the Haven under threat of Brand’s axe, they had sought out humans beyond the borders he maintained.

These people, simple and uneducated, weren’t barbarians, but rather lost peasants from tiny villages in the wild areas. He felt for them, and hoped they could be made to feel comfortable. He knew that Thilfox and the others regarded their migration as critical, and welcomed everyone, even the haunted women, the ones that had been used to sire rhinogs or worse things. He welcomed them, and found them lodging, and considered even adding new clans from this clanless group to the council. He felt that since they may be soon drafted into the militia to guard the borders, they should have some form of family representation in decisions. That option had not yet made it past the council, however, as none of them relished a watering down of their voting power.

Brand turned his attention back to the wedding itself. He smiled as he watched the proceedings, his brother Jak was so happy. He was sure that over the months to come he would grow even more joyous, as he had never shared his life with woman. Brand smiled, but he did not weep. He wondered, looking around the garden, if he had the only dry eye in the vicinity, save for the clanless ones. Then he spotted Tomkin, swinging his legs as he watched from an almond tree that had just blossomed. That one, he was certain, had dry eyes like black stones. He doubted the Wee Folk were capable of tears—except possibly when lamenting their own losses.

Brand watched Tomkin, and the manling’s eyes slid to return the gaze. Tomkin tipped his hat, showing he was naturally aware of the scrutiny. Brand nodded to his strange little friend, thinking that the manling had the instincts of feral cat in a field.

And that’s where Brand wanted to be. Off, in a field somewhere, marching and adventuring. He sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to another. His axe, heavy on his back, shifted its weight in an echo of his movement. Taking a seat with the others was unthinkable. He had a hard enough time bearing the long ceremony, even though he knew the River Folk were enjoying it thoroughly.

He bore it all with good grace, of course. He hid his agitation as best he could. He truly was happy for his brother Jak, and he already loved Lanet, her boy and the Thilfox family. He could not help but think, however, that with each passing moment Piskin was escaping his grasp. Escaping justice, the justice his axe desired so
strongly
to mete out.

His state of mind had largely to do with the axe, he knew. Ambros was bored, which it almost always was when it wasn’t cutting flashing arcs through the air and preferably removing heads with every stroke. It urged him to speed, at this very delicate time, when things could least be politely hurried.

Gifts and flowers and windblown dresses. Lanet was enchantingly beautiful, her hair floating around her like a gauzy cloud. She beamed at Jak, and just seeing this helped soften Brand’s heart. He could not bear to interrupt this procession, this outpouring of hope for the future.

He and his axe represented the grim side of their world, the part that was full of death, fright and violence. Could he not give the other side its due? He chided himself. The wedding was a celebration of life and happiness. A commitment to new families and smiling children. He would do well to study and enjoy the proceedings, to use them to draw upon for strength and resolve in his next dark hour, which would surely come soon.

And so he did his best to relax, to enjoy the festivities which most there seemed to delight in. He rolled his shoulders when the axe poked up its haft and tremored upon his back, as one might do when trying to avoid a buzzing insect.

The fact that he bore the weapon, even during a wedding, had uplifted many eyebrows. But he never considered leaving it in the house or some other safe spot. He knew that he would never stop thinking about it if he did, and would thus even more thoroughly ruin his experience on this fine day.

Besides… One never knew when its services might be needed. When better for an enemy to strike than in the midst of a celebration?

The vows were sweet, but long. The humming, rising up into full song, that followed from the congregation was the best part for Brand. He joined them all, singing loud and long. A few eyes widened and gave him frequent glances, but he barely noticed. The axe, he knew, was very fond of song. It knew it uplifted men’s hearts to acts of courage and renown. This was no battle song of old, of course, only a greeting for spring, but he sang hard and loud nonetheless, enjoying every pulsing second of the experience.

Gram Rabing came up to him after the ceremony and the final song had been sung. She eyed him curiously. Her corncob pipe poked out of her mouth at an odd angle.

He waited for her to speak, not knowing what was on her mind.

She pulled her pipe out of her mouth and pointed at his burnt side with the stem of it.

“That’s quite a shiner you got there. A dragon did that, they say. A real dragon?”

Brand nodded, unsurprised at her directness. She had always been one to speak her mind—even to the point of rudeness. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “A real dragon.”

Gram Rabing took a half-step closer. She peered over his shoulder next, eyeing the axe handle that protruded into the air. The axe twitched under her gaze. He resisted the urge to slap at it.

“That thing drives you dammed near crazy, doesn’t it, boy?”

He snorted lightly. “I suppose, Gram. Sometimes it does.”

“Lord Rabing. That’s what they call you now? Huh.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, feeling slightly hot now, despite the fresh springtime breezes in off the river. He decided to attempt to steer the conversation to lighter topics. “Lovely wedding, wasn’t it?”

“You ever kill anyone with that thing, and regret it later?” she asked suddenly.

He stared at the old woman. He’d known her as a tot, of course. She had changed his pants and spanked him plenty of times. Somehow, he found her direct approach disarming, not angering. In another person, he might have taken insult. But from Old Gram Rabing, he felt it was her due. She had somehow earned the right to be rude.

“Yes, Gram,” he said quietly, seriously. “I have done so.”

Unbidden, the lovely image of Oberon’s daughter came into his mind. Her silver lock of hair he no longer carried with him. He suspected it had somehow been burned away, perhaps in his battles with the dragons beneath Snowdon.

She nodded, as if he were only confirming her suspicions. She leaned closer still to him. “Well, you sure do sing better than you used to as a kid. That’s part of it, isn’t it? Drives you to sing like a drunken docksman. That’s at least a bonus, isn’t it?”

He laughed then, the tension sliding away from him. He looked around the crowd, as if seeing them all for the first time. They all eyed him from time to time, apprehensively. He must have seemed like a brooding lout, standing off from the ceremony. He wondered if he had been scowling. He couldn’t recall.

He should have been enjoying this day more deeply. He hoped that when his own wedding came he would be able to do so.

Gram Rabing put her pipe back into her mouth and nodded to herself, as if confirming her own thoughts or listening to a conversation only she could hear. “You’re doing a good job, boy. Best any of us could do. Just try to keep your wits about you.”

“Thanks, Gram.”

“You’ve got somewhere you need to be, don’t you?” she asked him then. Again, the question was sudden, direct and piercing.

He blinked, and then nodded.

“You’d best be about it then, boy. Don’t let us stop you. Politeness and all be dammed. Go tell your brother goodbye and be gone. He’ll be glad to hear you won’t be hanging around the house tonight, mark me.”

She said this last with a twinkle in her eyes that Brand found slightly disturbing. His old Gram, making jokes about wedding nights! Somehow, it was disconcerting. But with Gram Rabing, nothing was sacred.

He laughed and nodded. He hugged her and she patted his back sharply in return.

And then she left him.

He only paused for a few minutes before heading for the docks, following her advice. On the way, Jak caught up with him, demanding to know his plans.

“I thought I would slip away, now that the ceremony is done,” confessed Brand.

Jak stared at him for a moment, but then nodded, understanding. He said his good-byes and lamented he could not go with him. He had a family to tend to now. Brand urged him to go do so, and then he began the arduous process of loading his roan stallion onto his boat. Just getting the horse across the river to the far banks was a tricky affair every time he did it. He thought that in time he would build a bridge or at least set up a ferry to do the job more easily. He was wealthy now, and needed to think of bigger things to do with his money.

It was Telyn who caught him last. She had Corbin in tow. They both looked at him seriously.

“Who’s going to bring that boat back, once you’ve taken your horse to the shoreline?” Corbin wanted to know.

“That’s not what you are really asking,” said Brand. “And in answer to your real question, I thought I would chase Piskin down alone. I know you two think I need a second to visit the outhouse, but this is only a one-handed Wee One. I’ve bested him before, and I’ll do it again.”

“Not without me, you won’t,” said a voice from inside the boat. A loose sail in the bottom of the boat shifted, and Tomkin poked his nose out.

Brand sighed. “Do you really want to come along, Tomkin? You already took Piskin’s hand, you know. I would have thought your scales were balanced by now.”

Tomkin shook his head. “Piskin is a traitor to my people. He hasn’t given up yet. He still plans to own this Jewel of mine. I’ll have his other hand first.”

Tomkin waggled the amulet with Lavatis in it, and it sparkled, sending blue gleaming shafts of light into the afternoon sky.

“What about you, Telyn? Don’t you have our own wedding to plan? How about I leave you a dozen gold marks to work with?”

She shook her head. “I’d rather keep my future husband in sight.”

“All right,” said Brand. He heaved a breath. “Everyone into the boat. Mind you don’t step on Tomkin.”

He unloaded his roan, not having room for it and everyone else aboard. With a large group and only one horse among them, the boat would carry them faster in any case. He slapped the roan’s rump when he had it back ashore, knowing the stallion would happily trot home for a mouthful of fresh oats in the stable.

* * *

Floating on the Berrywine River, the banks of which had always served as her home, Mari wondered how her life had taken such strange turns. They were heading upriver to Frogmorton, according to Piskin. She had never been there, but heard they were a friendly sort down on the southern border of the Haven. Beyond Frogmorton was nothing but wilderness: Dark brooding mountains, silent forests and still lakes full of merlings.

If Puck were truly down past the southern edge of her known world, what could he be doing? Why hadn’t he come to visit, if he wanted her still? Was he afraid of the Haven now?

Piskin hinted that he was. He suggested that Puck was afraid of “that madman with the axe”, the man she knew to be Brand, the Champion of the River Haven. She had only seen Brand once in Riverton. He indeed did look to be a knight out of legend. He wore a breastplate, the first man she’d ever seen to do so. He looked dashing and serious. And he was armed, too, just as they said he always was. The handle of his frightening axe, a white haft like an animal’s femur bone, stuck up out of the pack. She shuddered to think the axe was alive and could move somewhat on its own. Just looking at it gave her a chill.

But she had found Brand himself entrancing. She, and no doubt every young girl in the Haven, wondered why he had not chosen her as his consort.

She pursed her lips in self-recrimination. Piskin had to be given some credit, he was right about her grossly pregnant state. No man would want her now. Possibly, not even Puck, the sire of her unborn child.

She felt very alone. But she did not give in to tears. She urged herself to tough-mindedness. She had not fallen unaware into her condition. She had made mistakes, and now it was time to pay for them. She did not, however, want her babe to have to pay.

She thought of the crone in the forest. She’d left her with no more than a cooling stove, but word had it that the troll had slain her. The troll had been so sweet, her initial reaction to reject the creature had faded. She had grown fond of the troll, over the last few weeks. He was loyal, and protective, unlike Piskin who seemed to grow more shrill and sarcastic with every passing day. But now, the horrible crone and the troll were both dead. There was only Piskin, and this small boat, and her babe in her belly.

Piskin
, she thought to herself. He was the real danger. Perhaps, somehow, he had arranged the troll’s death. It seemed to her now, reviewing the events in the tannery, that he had done so.

Mari knew something was very, very wrong. She didn’t let her concerns show to Piskin, however. She didn’t trust him anymore. It was the fate of the troll that had convinced her he wasn’t her true friend. That had been entirely unfair, and even if it
was
an accident (and she thought that it must have been, as it was hard for her to believe someone would do something so awful on purpose) he hardly seemed to care. The troll had suffered so long in the crone’s stovepipe, and had died suffering even more. It was so
wrong
, and Piskin had shrugged off the entire affair.