She did not take them all, just a handful. It would be more than enough.

  She almost left then, but thought the better of it. She hauled the long leather bag up into the tree again and tied it off. With luck, the hag wouldn’t notice the theft for a long time, if ever.

  As she made ready to leave for good, Mari had a chilling thought. She recalled the day she had looked into the chimney. The crone had known. She had known, and she had been there in an instant, gazing over her shoulder. She understood as she thought about that moment the old Fob woman was much more than a strange old woman in the forest, she was a witch. Only a witch would do these things. Only a true witch would live as a beggared hermit while a fortune sat up in her bag in the treetops.

  Witches had ways of finding things, of finding people. The crone would hunt her down, and finish her and her child in the forest, or she would send something to do it for her. She would never give up, not after she realized she had been robbed.

  Mari looked about the place, wondering what she could do to give herself more time. She could fire the hut, but that would just signal the witch to return sooner.

  Then she thought of the thing in the chimney, and she shuddered anew. She had a new, dark thought. It was a much darker idea, one that was the worst idea she’d ever had in her life.

  She decided to do it. There was no other way to be sure the crone was delayed.

  She took the pot of water she’d used to wash the crone’s feet and dashed it into the stove, extinguishing the fire that had burned there for so many years.

  Then she ran into the woods.

  Behind her in the hut, inside the belly of the cooling, ticking stove, a skeletal foot waggled.

  * * *

  Piskin had had words with Puck. He had talked to him of injustice, of unfairness and greed. Puck had lamented with him, because he was upset and had been cast out of Oberon’s presence. He had been mistreated, and ever it was with such folk in such a state of mind, that creatures like Piskin found them weak and easy to move.

  And so Puck had told Piskin of the maiden he met in the Haven wood, and how he had turned her from a maiden into a maid one autumn afternoon. He explained how the girl had tempted him, had teased him, had driven him wild with lust. Was this not a normal reaction for any male, especially an elven male? Had not Oberon himself reportedly done the same a millennium before, producing as a result that character known as Myrrdin? Who was Oberon, lord of the elves, but a sod who had managed to lose the Blue Jewel twice to a pack of Wee Folk? Who was such a lord to cast out Puck for a single minor trespass?

  Piskin lamented long and loud with his new friend. Oberon had indeed wronged him most harshly. Ever it was that the low were trodden upon for their mistakes, while the lords did the same in even grander fashion and never felt the burden of it. Nothing could be more unfair!

  And what was the name of that maid again?

  Why? Just to know, as she might be about to birth a new lord among the River Folk. A new famous personage. Oh yes, Piskin really thought such a thing was more than possible. It was likely.

  Mari of the Bowen clan, Puck had told him. Piskin had tsked and tutted and provided his very best sympathies. As soon as possible, he had bounded away, explaining he had an urgent mission. That much, of all he had said that day to Puck, was the only thing that bore truth.

  And so Piskin headed to the River Haven, to the eastern banks of the Berrywine and the edge of the Havenwood. He found Mari’s home, but she was not there. Of course, he could not question the River Folk directly. This would only raise suspicion. Among their kind, at least, they knew enough to be distrustful of any and all of his sort. Elves, in their arrogance, disregarded the Wee Folk as fools. Runabouts and charlatans, petty thieves at best, the lot of them. That disregard was Piskin’s cover amongst the Shining Folk. But with humans, he had to proceed more delicately.

  He haunted every window at the Bowen house, that night, listening closely. As a changeling, he had a great deal of experience with this sort of thing, of course. He had been a whisper beneath a thousand such windows in his life, biding his time and listening for his opportunity to snatch a new child.

  It had only taken a single night to get the story. The daughter had been taken away, the mother at first would not tell the husband where, or why, but it all came out in time. River Folk could not really help themselves. They needed to talk about things, especially big things. An argument had erupted, naturally. The father was angry with the mother for taking away his daughter without even telling him about her state or letting him have a say in the matter.

  There were tears, and shouts. Shames and lamentations. Piskin sighed and rolled his eyes up at the frosty moon. When were they going to get to the point of exactly where the girl had been taken? It was a long while, but the facts finally came out. Piskin had a road to follow. And he had to hurry, as the father, that very next dawn, planned to set out to retrieve his daughter. Not much time remained before this venture became more complicated.

  And so it was that Piskin’s quick feet carried him to the crone’s hut faster than Mari’s father could ever hope to travel there. When he arrived, it was late morning.

  He halted at the edge of the clearing to listen. It was snowing hard by that time, which dampened down all sound. The place was deathly quiet, but he could hear something, something furtive, moving in the hut. The pointed ears of the Wee Folk, when properly employed, were as sensitive as those of a fox.

  Piskin narrowed his eyes. The sounds were not those of a River girl. Nor were they the shufflings and grunts of an old woman.

  He dared to creep into the open, advancing upon the hut from an angle which bore no windows. This was not difficult, as the hut only had one crudely cut door and one crudely cut window on the opposite side from the door. As he drew closer, and the sounds grew more audible, he was alarmed. Something was in the hut. Something bad.

  Daring wait no longer, he bounded up into the window of the hut and gazed inside. There upon the floor lay what had to be the fallen figure of the crone. The corpse was already laid over with snow. There was blood, plenty of it, but it had frozen hard and dark in a pool.

  Atop the body sat a troll. A small, young one, by the looks of it. Piskin winced to see it as it turned a wicked yellow eye to him. It was black-furred and had long white claws. The tip of every claw and fang was red with the crone’s blood.

  Piskin looked around the place but saw no sign of the maid Mari. He hissed through clenched teeth. The snow was falling hard and had filled in any tracks she might have left behind.

  “Where is the maid?”

  The troll chuckled. “I use her as a seat,” said the foul thing.

  “Nay, not that one,” said Piskin in disgust. “I mean the younger one.”

  “She who released me? What business is that of yours?” asked the troll. His yellow eyes drew to slits. “You are a changeling. You wish to steal the child she bears.”

  Piskin leaned on his one hand. “That’s none of your affair. Tell me of the girl, help me find her and I will give you a great boon.”

  The troll snorted. “A boon? A trickster with one hand can’t be very good at his job.”

  Piskin eyed him closely. He glanced at the stove which had iced over now with the water Mari had tossed over it. “I notice you have been mistreated. You have been harshly burned, haven’t you?”

  The troll shifted around, crouching in a new spot upon the crone’s stiffening belly.

  “What of it?”

  Piskin clucked his tongue in sympathy. “I’ve seen it before in your kind. Your hair is toasted black. You’ll never grow to full size now. You’ve been damaged.”

  The troll looked uncomfortable. It shrugged. “What can be done? I’ve had my vengeance.”

  “Yes,” said Piskin, “yes, sirrah, but let me tell you of something better. Something sweeter. Would you not like to be whole again? Would you not like to be healed?”

  He had the troll’s attention. Piskin explained that he was upon a quest. That he had his own injury to repair, and that he knew how it could be done. He needed to find the maid, however.

  The troll stared at him. “I can follow her scent.”

  Piskin nodded and smiled very broadly indeed. “I know you can.”

  And it was not long after that the two headed off into the Haven wood together in pursuit of the maid Mari. Piskin followed the troll, who gamboled through the snow with a rolling gait. He was nowhere near as fast-moving a creature as Piskin, but he was unerring. He tracked Mari’s scent even through the deep snows.

  And Piskin followed him as any hunter follows his hound.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Breakthrough

  When Brand and Telyn finally reached the ruby tunnel, they were tired, dirty, slightly burnt and wary of every shadow. They traveled along the tunnel, hoping it was the right one. Occasionally, they took a wrong turn and came to a dead end. Each time the tunnel forked, they left a black lava rock they had gathered from the magma chambers on the floor to mark the spot. Brand still feared they would become hopelessly lost.

  After what seemed like hours of travel, they halted. Up ahead lights flickered upon the upon tunnel walls far ahead. They extinguished their own lanterns and crept forward not knowing what new kind of horror they might have stumbled upon.

  “It might be them,” whispered Telyn in his ear. Normally, Brand would have tried to kiss her when she got so close. But today—or was it tonight? Time meant little down in the Everdark. Today, he only watched the flickering lights and their corresponding shadows playing on the walls of the tunnel with unblinking intensity.

  Could it be the Kindred? Possibly, but just as likely it was any number of worse things, some of which had mastered fire and aped human tribesmen. Brand recalled the gnomes as well. Somewhere down in this sunless hell they made their ale and grew their black glowing mushrooms. He was sure they would have heard about the fate of their cousins back in the Deepwood. Ever it was with such folk that news traveled fast.

  They crept closer still, on their bellies now, and listened. They thought to hear the hushed voices of the Kindred, and over that sound, a clinking sound. It was a sound that could only be the beat of a miner’s pick. Could the Kindred still be digging out gemstones?

  Brand and Telyn had seen many rubies on their trip through the tunnel. They had picked up a handful of the gleaming red stones. Brand figured he could buy himself a new house on Rabing Isle when he was home again, should he have the desire.

  “That sound,” whispered Telyn, “it must be the miners.”

  Brand reached over to her and pushed her head down. Likewise, he ducked his own head. Something whistled over them and cracked against the stone walls.

  “Hold!” cried Brand, “Modi, we are sent by Gudrin!”

  There was silence for a minute or two. Even the tapping pick stopped.

  “Who goes?” came a gruff voice that Brand knew all too well.

  “Brand, Champion of the Haven.”

  “Brand? Truly? If this be some goblin voice-trick, know I’m in a foul mood.”

  Eventually, Brand and Telyn managed to talk their way into the distrustful camp of the Kindred. Everyone gathered around and greeted them, but as a group they were tense. Brand’s eye ran over the crew. Each miner looked more tired and haunted than the next. Every bleary eye was surrounded by a dark circle. Thick fingers rubbed at the handles of their mining picks, never putting them aside, as if they expected to be attacked at any moment.

  “What’s your situation?”

  “Perfect, now that you’re here,” said Modi. Brand wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

  “We’ve got Kobolds in front, fire behind and devils below,” said one gaunt miner. Modi shot her a dark glance but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Brand,” said Modi, “explain yourself. Where is the company of Kindred I expected? Do they come from the slower route? Yes, that’s it isn’t it? I should have expected it. You couldn’t wait and came down the shafts directly.”

  Brand shrugged. “Gamal made it up with your request for aid.”

  “Obviously,” grunted Modi.

  “So, Gudrin thought we could do the best for you, and called upon us to come down and help. I heeded her call, and took the fastest route down I could find.”

  “You came down the shafts from the Earthlight? Alone?”

  “No, we had Gamal with us. We were separated, he had to go back up.”

  “Just Gamal?”

  Brand shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but have no concerns, no Kobold was ever born that could live through a single stroke of my axe.”

  There were some scattered cheers among them at his brave words. Modi, however, frowned. Brand tried to change the subject to the supplies they had brought, not wanting to discuss Hallr’s decision to ignore Modi’s call for help. Things were bad enough down here without the group’s leader flying into a rage.

  Telyn busied herself distributing the supplies that had survived the beetles. There were some smiles at the sight of hard tack bread and salted pork. Water was plentiful in these caverns, there were many spots you could set down a canteen beneath a dripping stone and have it full an hour later. But food had become scarce.

  Modi put a hand on Brand’s shoulder. The axe twitched on his back, but Brand ignored it. He looked at Modi who gestured for him to follow.

  Brand reluctantly followed Modi to a great pit in the floor. The stone there had a different texture and tone to it. The pit looked burnt and glinted metallically in spots.

  He put his hands on his hips. “This must be the spot you’ve been digging. We could hear it out in the tunnel.”

  “Do you know what this is?” Modi asked him, tapping the pick on the blackened spot.

  Brand looked at it speculatively. “Some kind of ore?”

  “It’s a plug. Meant to keep a section of the Everdark forever sealed off.”

  “What’s beneath it?”

  Modi smiled, and it was not a healthy smile. “It’s a secret. We don’t know what it is. Mysteries like this, that’s why I’m down here, Brand. This is exactly the kind of spot I came into the Everdark to find.”

  Brand looked baffled.

  “We, the Kindred, have lost our way. We’ve lost our will to go out and conquer and explore.”

  “Is that because you have no King?”

  Modi shot him a look, and slowly nodded. “Yes. I think so. You see, I’m hoping to discover something wonderful. Something fantastic. The Kindred need something to fire their imaginations. To get them moving again.”

  “A fine goal. But how do we get out of here, Modi?”

  “I’ll tell you. But first, tell me something: where are the Kindred my father sent?”

  Brand looked uncomfortable. He sighed, seeing no way out of telling him. “There are none. Gudrin sent for us, because Hallr refused to send anyone.”

  Modi nodded, his lips a tight line. “I see. I should have expected nothing else. Now that you have been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. We have three routes. We could fight through the Kobolds, and have half of us die in their traps, for your axe can slay any foe, but these creatures will not stand and die. They will retreat forever before us, killing one of us whenever they can.

  “Or, we could climb out of the magma chambers. Most would make it, but we would have to leave behind our riches, and Kindred minds have been broken over smaller things. They will not do it, preferring to die.”

  “What have we left then?” asked Brand in alarm. “We can’t go forward or back? Have I come for nothing?”

  “Not at all,” said Modi, hefting his pick. That unhealthy smile was back on his face and bigger than ever. “We will chop our way through this plug, and we will find another exit unknown to us there.”

  “But what if none exists?”

  “Then we die trying.”

  As he spoke these last words, he slammed the pick down into the plug with great force. Brand felt the sting of hard stone chips pelting his cheek.

  * * *

  Sigrid chided herself for staying here so long with her brood. It had been a gambit from the start, and she had almost succeeded in hatching them, but not quite. Just a year or two longer and they would have awakened her by hatching and crawling over her with hungry cries. Soon, they would have eaten everything that lived in this part of the Everdark.

  Alas, that happy day might never come. She should have dug a tunnel out of this small warren of tunnels, but had decided that an exit served enemies as an entrance. By sealing in her brood, the Kindred had done her a service. She could slumber in this lair, forgotten, while her eggs matured.

  That plan had failed. Now, since she had not dug an exit, there was none. She was trapped and she could not move her brood to safety. She would have to fight to the death, and for that she needed her flaming breath. Unfortunately, centuries of sleep had affected Sigrid’s internal fire. Like an ember that burnt down to gray ash over a winter’s night, her body had not been able to keep a flame going for so very long.

  In order to breathe fire again, she would have normally consumed ash, saltpeter, copper salts and magnesium for brilliance. She quickly decided to forget about the copper salts, as they were only needed to produce her trademark blue-green color. In a time of danger, this wasn’t required.

  She had carefully judged the tapping on the great plug, and it had been slow. Nervously, she left her brood of three leathery eggs to rekindle her flame. Without that, she would have nothing but claws and fangs to face the Kindred. She figured that if they were brave enough to come back here, even after their previous defeats, it must be in such strength of numbers that they had little fear of her.

  She hurried off into the side tunnels to find the ingredients she needed to burn them all down to dust and bone.