Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK (8 page)

If he was such a heartless person, what else might he be capable of? She knew the Fae creatures were often tricksy. Up until now, she had been willing to overlook his behavior in hopes he would help her see Puck again. She so wished to reunite with her love, and not just because she carried his child.

But she had lost all confidence in Piskin. She had even come to doubt he would take her to Puck at all. She had no idea, really, what he was planning. Why did he have such an interest in her? For some sinister purpose, she now suspected.

If he had arranged one death, might he not have arranged others? The crone, for example. Maybe his single, fine-boned hand and slick, ever-speaking tongue had had a role in that death as well. She liked that idea, because it exonerated her and the troll. But it was a frightening thought too, as it meant he had some special reason for taking her out of Riverton. She knew, in her heart, that this reason couldn’t be one of charity. Piskin was a self-serving creature. Whatever purpose he had for bringing her to Puck, if that was even the goal of this quest, the purpose was a dark, secret one. Something that would benefit him alone.

“Piskin,” she said, keeping her voice neutral, “Speak with me.”

The other’s shoulders hunched in annoyance, but he managed to force his doll’s face into the semblance of a smile. “What is it, my dear?”

“Tell me of Puck. Tell me how he looks these days. I have not seen him for so many weeks. I want you to refresh my memory and pass the time on this dull voyage.”

Piskin’s face contorted. She could tell he wanted to scream at her, but managed with difficulty to quell his rage. He had grown increasingly nervous and irritable with each passing hour as they approached their goal. She wondered what annoyed him so. Was he fearful of Brand and his axe? Did he know they were being stalked in some manner? She hoped it was so.

Piskin relaxed, and his black stone eyes shone brightly again. He began describing Puck, his smooth limbs and gentle face. He went on in detail concerning his lithe body and how he could dance, sing and play the pipes with precise zeal.

At first, Mari was lulled. She envisioned Puck and matched him to Piskin’s soft words. It was enchanting, almost like a spoken spell.

But slowly, certain inaccuracies struck through and ruined the enchantment. She came to understand through his description that some details were simply not right. For example, the true color of Puck’s hair was that of quicksilver, not spun gold as Piskin described it. There were other things, details that rang falsely.

“Are you sure about that?” she asked him, as he described a green pouch Puck supposedly carried on his hip. She had never seen such a thing. “Are you describing some other elf?”

Piskin halted, frowning fiercely. “I’m describing the Puck I know, girl. The Shining Folk often comport themselves differently when in their own Twilight Lands.”

She nodded, but the spell was broken. She had come to realize with cold finality that Piskin lied. Most likely, everything he had ever told her was a lie. It was a frightening thought. Here she was, weak and heavy with child. She was at her most vulnerable, and he was taking her to only the River-knew-where for a possibly dark purpose.

Her breath came now in short, fearful puffs. She dared not meet his doll’s eyes, lest he read the alarm in her face. She had to get away from Piskin, but how?

By the time dusk began to drop over the world, she had devised a plan. She had witnessed her own mother when she was close to birthing her brothers several times. She began to exhibit the symptoms.

First, she sucked in her breath suddenly, and leaned forward from her reclined position in the stern of the boat, gasping. After a few moments, she sagged back.

Piskin eyed her in silent displeasure. She repeated the performance some minutes later.

“What is it now?” he snapped at her.

“I don’t know. I feel—odd,” she said, pretending to be baffled. “Perhaps I’m ill. Maybe we should stop for the night and set up camp.”

Piskin hopped from foot-to-foot in sudden vexation. “We have a schedule to keep. Vomit over the side if you must.”

“A schedule? I’m sick, I think. I’m having a most sudden, terrible pain.”

“A pain?”

“Yes, in my belly. But I think it can’t be anything serious. It comes and it goes.”

Piskin stopped hopping about. In fact, he froze in the prow. He took two bounds, coming close. His one good hand snaked out and touched her swollen belly.

She allowed the touch without remarking upon it. She felt it was critical that he believe her trust in him was complete.

His eyes were wide and his lips curled back from his teeth. When the child kicked, bouncing his fine-fingered hand, he snatched it away as if stung.

“Are you an idiot, girl?” he demanded.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The child comes. Right here on the boat,” he said. He gave a long hiss of vexation. “Too soon. Too damned soon.”

Too soon for what?
Mari thought, but kept the thought inside her head. She now dreaded whatever scheme was in Piskin’s mind.

He bounded up again, as if captivated by a sudden, inexorable decision. He cut the ropes that held fast the sails with slashing motions of his tiny, glittering dagger. Like her father’s razor, the dagger flashed and made silver arcs in the air as he wielded it. Mari cowered down in the stern of the boat, fearing the blade immediately.

The sails sagged down and luffed. Their progress upriver stopped. Forcing the rudder to one side, Piskin guided the craft westward, to the brooding shore of the Deepwood. He tied up the boat and motioned for her to follow him.

All throughout this display of panicked activity, Piskin had ignored her questions. But as he reached for her hand, urging her to exit the craft, she pulled back from him. She wrapped her arms around her belly protectively.

“Where are we going? Why have we stopped here?”

Piskin took several breaths, calming himself. He smiled at her, but it was all teeth, there was no kindness in the expression. “We are going to a place I know nearby. A spot in the woods where you’ll be safe. I’m no midwife, but I know where to find someone who can help us.”

“I don’t want to go into the Deepwood. You can’t make me.” Mari reached up to her ash leaf ward. She found it there, still around her neck. She’d not thought of it until now, not since the fire. She had depended on it for a long time to keep back any unwanted advances by Piskin and his kind.

Piskin laughed at her. She frowned back at him. He hopped closer, then closer still. She reached up and fingered the ash leaf around her neck, trusting to its power. None of the creatures from the Twilight Lands could harm you, as long as you kept a ward handy. She had lived by that rule in their presence for months now.

Piskin leered, then reached up and snatched the ward from her chest, tearing the dry, crumbled leaf to shreds in the process. He cackled, holding up a corner of it.

“Tsk,” said Piskin. “Such a shame! It’s burnt. See this blackened, curled point? You must have all five points of the leaf, you know.”

Mari was horrified. Her best defense was useless. Now she realized that he had just touched her belly. He should not have been able to touch her at all, if the ward had been working.

Piskin held out his tiny, long-fingered hand, again urging her out of the boat. Mari looked at his hand, which waggled at her with impatience. Should she refuse? Should she demand he leave her here in the boat until another came by, perhaps some kindly shepherd taking his flock up to Riverton?

She craned her neck, but saw no one else on the river. She hadn’t seen another boat in the last hour. They were far south now, down in the frontier section of the Haven. Few farms were to be found down in this region, it was mostly wilderness.

She looked back at Piskin. He still had his hand extended toward her. In his black stone eyes there was no pity. He said nothing, letting her decide how things would be.

She thought of the razor-sharp knife on his belt. If she broke the fiction between them now, if she screeched and fought and didn’t get out of the boat, what might he do? Had he not murdered once, and possibly twice, during their short acquaintance?

She climbed out of the boat at last, giving up. She wanted to escape him, not fight with him. She had no choice but to continue their private charade.

As she touched his thin-fingered, leathery hand, she wondered how things might end between the two of them. She thought of terrible things, such as snatching up his dagger and chopping his second hand from him. That would make it hard for him to harm her.

She gave a tiny shudder of revulsion, but covered by grabbing at her belly.

“Here, here, don’t trip, girl,” said Piskin. His small hand had surprising strength in it, she found. It was as if his pencil-thin fingers were made of iron.

The two of them stepped into the gloom of the Deepwood then, and soon were lost from sight.

Chapter Seven

Treating with Old Hob

Oberon had never really liked Old Hob. He had tolerated the overgrown, cowardly creature’s company for years untold, but he’d never enjoyed—not for a second—the experience.

Old Hob had retreated after the first disastrous clash with Brand and the humans in the Dead Kingdoms. He had taken his ill-gotten gain, the Lavender Jewel Osang, and scuttled off with it to his stronghold upon the island of Eire.
Cowardly, treacherous, disgusting.
In Oberon’s mind, all these words described—nay they
defined
Old Hob.

But Oberon had need of allies. As was so often the case in the past, he was forced to call upon the lowest of folk that were considered Fae—distant relatives though the Goblin Folk might be.

Compared to even the Wee Folk, the goblins were a people apart from the Shining Folk. Where one did step with grace and speak with soft beauty, the other did thump upon the ground and snarl with yellow teeth revealed. Oberon could barely credit the concept that his people were related to such oafish buffoons, but there it was, in the history of ancients wiser even than he. The goblins had come from the Twilight Lands originally, as did the elves and the Wee Folk. They possessed the power to travel from world-to-world. And in the moonlight, even Oberon had to admit, their noisome skins did glisten slightly.

So, it had all come down to this. Oberon had fallen in grace and power. Without any Jewel of his own, he had wisdom, he had followers, but others no longer felt terror when they spoke his name. Over the same period, Old Hob had risen in stature. Gaining Osang, the Jewel which hung ever around his neck, embedded in Herla’s ancient hunting horn, had lifted him to stardom.

The worst part of it was Old Hob’s quick mastery of the Osang. Oberon had dared hope it would slay him, or that mastering it would prove too much for the ancient conniving knave, but there hadn’t been such a lucky stroke. Instead, Old Hob now took great pains to demonstrate his mastery.

Old Hob finally came to their appointed meeting spot atop a burial chamber of the long-dead Queen of the Lakes. He arrived disrespectfully late. He arrived with fanfare as well, showing off his powers by flying to the spot invisibly and silently.

Only the slightest hint of a foul breeze alerted Oberon, who sat atop the mound in the half-dark that forever bathed his world. The elf lord sat cross-legged with eyes closed. But he listened, and he heard. Silver grasses waved as Hob circled, but that could have been a breeze. It was his horrible stench that gave him away. This weakness caused Oberon to smirk at the other’s prideful, stealthy approach, even as his nose twitched in horror. Old Hob clearly thought himself undetectable and—as was ever the case with those who bore a tremendous stench—he was unaware of just how badly his mantle of odor offended.

“Are you going to flitter around, or land and talk to me?” asked Oberon, without even bothering to open his eyes.

The breezes that moved the silver grass around his legs halted. A heavy thump sounded, and Old Hob cleared his throat.

Oberon opened his eyes with a languorous lack of concern. Old Hob stood before him, keeping his back as straight as his twisted spine would allow. His long, icicle-nose protruded from beneath his heavy cowl and was held very high indeed.

“I have arrived,” said Old Hob. “Please, state your business, and be quick about it.”

Oberon eyed him and found his stuffy attitude amusing. He produced his pipes and began to play a merry tune. He launched up, causing Old Hob to take an involuntary, distrustful, half-step backward.

Oberon didn’t attack him, however. He had briefly considered it, of course. But he had weighed the usefulness of gaining Osang versus the power of Hob as an ally. He had to weigh too, the possibility of Hob escaping him, and turning into a permanent enemy instead of a possible ally.

In the end, what had decided Oberon was the possible amusement to be gained by mocking Hob. So, instead of trying to wrest the horn from where it hung around the great lumpy neck, he pranced around Hob with blinding speed. He blew upon his pipes a tune of wild levity, and danced with impossible kicks that took him into the air nearly as high as Hob’s upraised nostrils.

Oberon laughed, and the sound was like the final tinkle of broken glass as it hits cobbles.