“An ogre?” Myrrdin asked aloud. His voice sounded strange, even to him. His words were more like the croaking of a swamp frog than the light, melodious speech of the half-elven. This thought made him hate the elves all the more for what they’d done to him.

  Hearing the wizard’s voice, the ogre looked around in surprise. Myrrdin found the expression almost comical. The creature clearly had no idea what had happened to the village and was probably a half-wit. It had most likely been asleep when Myrrdin’s rampage had begun.

  Ogres were very tough; so strong and thick of body they were difficult to kill. Even the fantastic weight of a walking tree had not done the deed.

  Myrrdin knew as he watched the dumb creature push away the rubble of the hut there was precious little revenge to be had here. Killing this monstrosity would be a kindness. He was not in the mood to show mercy of any variety, so he set his great tree into motion again wheeling away and turning toward the deep forests. He steered the oak like a man jerking a carthorse’s reins.

  The tree obediently lurched into ungainly motion. With thumping, crashing sounds, it left the devastated elf village.

  “Mother?” asked the ogre aloud.

  Myrrdin paused. Was it possible this warped half-beast was addressing him? He wheeled the tree again and stooped slightly to regard it.

  The ogre now stood atop the ruins that had once been an elven home. It looked around in confusion, furrowing and unfurrowing its brow in turns.

  “Mother?” it called again.

  Finally, Myrrdin began to understand. His lips thinned and curved, forming a tiny smile. He’d forgotten the origins of all ogres: they were half-elven, half-human hybrids. Among all the possible creatures that may issue from elf-human mating, ogres weren’t the worst, but they certainly weren’t the best, either. All ogres were males, and if they did mate with another being they were likely to spawn even more vile things than themselves—nothing as simple and natural as another ogre.

  Myrrdin thought it very likely that this ogre was a young beast, only recently whelped by a female in this very village. It did him some good to think that he’d probably killed the ogre’s mother. She was not fit to live if she created such an abomination.

  Still, he was curious about the ogre. Why was it living here amongst the elves? Why was it so young—suggesting that the act of procreation had been performed recently?

  “Ogre,” he said, trying to force his voice to sound normal. “What is your name?”

  “I’m Ivor.”

  “And what variety of creature is your mother?”

  The ogre appeared startled. He looked around as if suspecting the heaps of broken mushroom huts themselves had spoken to him.

  “You know of my mother?” he asked.

  “No, you fool, I do not. That’s I’m asking you about her.”

  “Where is my mother?” asked the ogre again, stepping toward the tree.

  Ivor had determined that the oak was the source of the voice, and he did not seem surprised by the fact that a giant mobile oak tree had addressed him. Myrrdin could understand that. Any youngster who had been raised in the Great Erm must become accustomed to any number of strange occurrences.

  “I’m not sure where she is,” Myrrdin said. “But if you describe her to me, I might be able to find her.”

  “Mother is small,” he said.

  Myrrdin rolled his one eye impatiently. “Yes, of course. But is she elf or is she human?”

  “She’s elf.”

  Myrrdin smiled. He knew then what had likely been the fate of this elf-witch who’d dared to gestate such a horror. She was probably under the fallen walls of another of these huts—Myrrdin himself had probably killed her with his vast, flopping roots. The thought brought him pleasure.

  “An elf, you say?” Myrrdin said. “That’s very interesting. Do you recall her name?”

  “Tegan.”

  “Of course—one of Oberon’s youngest daughters. Do you know what you are, Ivor?”

  The ogre hunched its shoulders and looked sullen. Doubtlessly, he’d been abused and teased all his short life about being an ogre. The more Myrrdin studied him, the more he thought the disgusting beast might be helpful.

  “I’m an ogre,” Ivor said at last.

  “Yes, but you’re more than that. You sir, are my nephew! My blood kin. Isn’t that surprising?”

  Ivor indeed looked surprised. “Cousin? You’re a tree.”

  “No, not cousin, you fool! I’m your uncle. And yes, I’m a tree. I don’t look like an elf, but then, neither do you. Oberon is my sire. I’m a half-elf, and Tegan was—um, is my half-sister. And that makes you my nephew. Do you understand? We’re family, you and I.”

  “Okay…” said Ivor doubtfully. “So, where’s my mother?”

  “I think she needs us,” Myrrdin said in a tone that denoted certainty. “We have to find her and help her. In fact, I think we can help each other. Will you help me, Ivor? Will you follow your uncle and do as he says? If you do, I’m sure we can find your mother for you.”

  Ivor looked at him doubtfully. He kicked at the rubble of the hut he’d escaped. “Promise?” he asked.

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “Okay then, Uncle,” Ivor said at last. “I will follow you.”

  Myrrdin’s lips thinned and the corners of his mouth upturned. The lips parted to reveal yellow teeth. He was grinning now. Grinning broadly.

  * * *

  In the Haven, time ran differently than it did in the Twilight Lands. In most cases, it ran faster in the lands of humanity than it did in lands of the Faerie. And so it was that even while Myrrdin spent a long while in his underground prison in the Great Erm, an even greater time had passed in the Haven. By the time he’d freed himself and destroyed an elf village, the short lives of humanity had trundled eleven years onward.

  Trev was a half-elf with silver locks, quick feet, quick eyes and quick hands. He had grown up in the Haven and as was often the case with his folk, his body matured faster than did his mind. He now stood six inches taller than his mother and only six inches shorter than Brand himself. But people still considered him a foolish youth.

  He had been a restless boy throughout his short life. By the time he was seventeen years old, he’d explored every inch of the Haven, from the Haven Wood to the Deepwood, from North End to the Border Downs. He knew the marshes, the shores of Glasswater Lake, and had even reached the foot of the Black Mountains to the west. But he’d never completely left the lands of his birth—not yet.

  His mother, Mari, was still young and strong. But her face had become careworn with the passing of the years and she often traced each line on her fair skin while she scolded Trev.

  “See this one?” she demanded with one finger on her brow. “That’s the one that came to me the night you went up to the cemetery alone to play with the Dead things.”

  “I didn’t play with them, mother,” insisted Trev. “I would rather say that they tried to play with me.”

  She waved away his words. “Don’t try to change the subject. I’ve got a new wrinkle just today. A fresh one under my chin. I hate these—see it as I look down? It’s deepened now into a permanent crease.”

  Trev peered at her, but for his life he couldn’t see a difference. “You look the same to me as the hour before I left.”

  She scowled at him. Somehow, this response hadn’t pleased her. Trev had been under the impression that telling women they looked young was a compliment, but he’d often been wrong in trying to predict their reactions.

  “You’ve been gone a week without so much as sending word. Tell me now, and don’t lie, where have you been, Trev?”

  “I never lie, mother.”

  “Well, don’t twist the truth, then. Just tell me.”

  Trev’s eyes traveled around the cottage. There was nothing much here to rescue him. There was a row of old leather hats over the door. The firewood pile stacked near the stove was small, but adequate for cooking in springtime. The creaking floorboards were uneven, but meticulously dusted.

  His eyes fell at last upon the butter-churn near the cooking hearth. It stood forgotten where Mari had left it when Trev had come through the door, returning abruptly and unannounced.

  Trev stepped to the churn. Cream had trickled down the sides of the hickory device and puddled on the floor. With a half-smile, he took hold of the broom handle-like stick that thrust up from the churn and began working it vigorously. It was a chore he’d hated all his life. He didn’t care much for butter even when it was finished. But now he went to work on the plunger, which made sloshing sounds as his efforts drove it up and down.

  “What’s this then?” Mari asked. “No answer, just a few chores done? Do you know that’s what your father would do when he went away and wandered back a month later? He’d mend the roof, or carve a bowl for me.”

  Trev kept churning. He turned a smile to his mother. “Do you miss him?”

  “Of course I do! What kind of question is that? Are you trying to change the subject now as well?”

  “No…” Trev said. “I just wondered about missing him. I mean, I wonder how it really works to feel pain at the absence of another. He’s still in my head and my heart, you know. Part of me still thinks father will return one day. That this disappearance of his is just another unusually long visit to his other life in the Twilight Lands.”

  Trev’s eyes wandered back to Mari, and he stopped churning. She was crying.

  “Stop that, mother. You know I hate it so. Do you still grieve?”

  “I’ll grieve until the day I die, child. Then you can grieve us both, and you can keep your secrets forever after.”

  Trev watched his mother cry in consternation.

  “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll tell you where I’ve been. But you won’t like it. You’ll wish you’d never asked.”

  Mari looked at him with fresh concern. Her eyes narrowed and she stopped crying. Her hands slipped down from her face, folded into fists, and came to rest on her hips.

  “Just tell me.”

  And so, reluctantly, Trev told his tale.

  * * *

  Several days earlier Trev had been wandering in the Haven Wood, as he often did in springtime. Caught up in the excitement of chasing a hare under the canopy of leaves until it finally escaped down a burrow, he looked up and saw something rare and astoundingly close: a rainbow.

  Rainbows were a fearful sight for any thinking person from the Haven. Rainbows were lovely to behold, of course, but they were dangerous. The Blue Jewel Lavatis was capable of causing the rainbow to march against the winds and rains. Natural rainbows stayed still, but they were not safe anyway. They had two ends to them; at one end was always a great boon—but at the other was a hidden danger.

  Everyone knew that, and everyone knew enough to hide from the glow of a rainbow in the sky.

  But Trev was not like the Riverfolk he’d grown up with. Although Trev was only half elf, he took after his father’s side more than he did his mother’s. That was the nature of all half-elves: by definition, they took after their elven side more than they did their human side. Half-breeds that didn’t follow the pattern of elves became foul things almost without exception. They became trolls, ogres, beastmen—or worse.

  So when he saw the rainbow, his heart did not pound with fear, but rather swelled with excitement. Here was something his kind understood better than anyone he’d grown up with.

  Trev knew that in olden times, men had been braver in these lands. They’d traveled leagues as quickly as they could to find the foot of any rainbow they chanced to see. Often, the rainbow would vanish before the treasure seeker could reach the foot of it. Most accounted that a good thing. But sometimes, a man would manage to reach the spot, usually atop a mountain of bald stone or glimmering in the burnt bowels of a lightning-blasted tree. There were stories of pots of gold that were found on these rare occasions, or magical gifts, or smiling, accommodating maidens.

  But there were other stories as well. Stories of strife and terror. The trouble was that there were two ends to every rainbow. One of them glimmered and shifted over a beautiful bounty—but the other invariably bathed a horror of some kind with its eldritch light.

  When following a rainbow to its foot, there was no way to know in advance what you might find when you reached it: beauty or horror, pleasure or pain.

  Trev stood staring up into the sky, transfixed. The sun was shining, but rainclouds rumbled to the North. He could tell the rainbow was quite close—perhaps within the reach of someone who was swift of foot.

  Something took hold of his mind then. He hadn’t planned to make the attempt, but when he saw the curve of it and guessed the western end was closer than the eastern…he could not stop himself. He sprang into a loping run and vanished under the treetops.

  Every hundred paces, he glanced up into the sky to see if it was still there. Sometimes, his view was blocked and he despaired, but after another hundred paces, he found it again, corrected his bounding course, and set off with renewed vigor.

  As he ran, he accounted his chances as very good of reaching the foot of it. The apparition seemed fresh, and the light rain and sun continued unabated. Conditions were perfect, and among all the boys of the Haven, he was quite possibly the fleetest of foot.

  And so he ran and ran carelessly, grinning and full of life. It was a challenge to him, that was all. An adventure. A story to be told later and a good time to be had now. He never concerned himself with what he would find; the fun was in the seeking. He’d never much wanted gold or to see something frightening. What he wanted was to do something today which no man of the River Haven had had the courage to do for long centuries.

  He came to a stream and skipped over it, stone-by-stone, never letting his toes get wet. This stream was the border between the Haven Wood and the Deepwood. As such, it marked a passing point from an area of relative safety to a darker, denser forest that was known to harbor dangerous creatures.

  After a few more minutes of running, he found himself in a thicket of fir trees. They scratched at him with claw-like branches. Breaking free of the firs, he rounded a great pine trunk to find it had a fallen twin. He bounded over the log in a single tremendous leap. He was grinning broadly, but his expression faded when he next gazed up and saw the sky was darkening overhead, turning to an iron gray.

  “No!” he shouted, knowing this could be the end of his adventure. Rainbows required light and rain together. If either the sunshine or the storm clouds won the contest completely, the rainbow would be snuffed out and vanish forever.

  Trev had only one recourse: he ran faster. The wind roared in his ears and his silver locks flashed and bounced on his shoulders. He all but flew now, taking huge strides that would require any normal man three steps to make. He didn’t bother pausing periodically to look up for the rainbow. It was either there, or it wasn’t. To shift his concentration away from his running while moving at top speed might mean disaster. He had to twist, turn and duck around each tree trunk like an eagle soaring between branches. He knew he had to be close to the foot of it, and figured that he’d soon know the truth of the matter.

  His first inkling came when the land around him turned a deep lavender. A moment later it became blue, then a blinding green. He staggered and stopped, looking around. He’d found it. This was the terminus, the end of the rainbow. All around him, the earth and trees were painted with the deepest, purest colors he’d ever seen.

  His sides heaved and he rested his palms upon his kneecaps. He was winded, he realized in surprise. But although his breath came in whistling gasps, he grinned broadly. He’d done something no man had managed in a century or more.

  “Who are you?” asked a voice.

  Trev straightened and spun around on his left heel, seeking the source of the voice. It sounded female, and came from close by.

  There! He spotted her, a figure dressed in shimmering clothes. She stepped closer as he watched. Had she been hidden behind the trunk of that fallen pine? Possibly.

  “I’m Trev, a boy of the Haven,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. I’m sorry if I startled you. Did you come here to seek the foot of the rainbow as well?”

  She laughed softly and stepped closer. Trev frowned as she continued her approach. She did not seem afraid. Quite the opposite. If anything, she had the attitude of a stalking forest lion.

  He saw now that she wore a robe of what must be white cloth. The robe seemed to scintillate in the light of the rainbow. A round oval stone that shone like fire clasped the robe to her neck. The stone was beautiful, but then he suspected that a bed sheet would be lovely to behold here in this enchanted place.

  “I didn’t think anyone could run so fast,” she said. “Are all boys of the Haven like you?”

  “No,” he said. “Not exactly. I’m faster than any of them.”

  “I believe it. But even still, you almost didn’t make it, child.”

  Trev looked around, losing interest in the woman. He wanted to see something unusual. After all, that’s why he’d come.

  “I think the rainbow is about to die,” he said. “Is there anything else here?”

  “Like gold or jewels?”

  “I suppose. Anything unusual? I was hoping to see something new.”

  “You don’t want to find a treasure and take it home with you?”

  “No,” said Trev. “I would like to see it, though.”

  The woman stood nearby now and she cocked her head as she gazed at him. She frowned.

  “You aren’t what I expected to meet. There’s Fae blood in your veins.”

  Trev didn’t answer her. He walked around her in widening circles, looking at the landscape. Already, he could see the red portion of the rainbow was coming apart, forming bright and dark spots like puddles of blood on the floor of the forest.