The circle of gnomes stumbled back from the light and fire of Ambros momentarily, making sounds like showers of pebbles. But now, seeing their beloved ring broken and burning, they lost whatever minds they might have possessed. They rushed him blindly, stumbling into one another, falling and scratching their way over one another in their eagerness to get to him. He, the defiler, the meat-man who had dared to burn their holy place. They were desperate to reach him, to crush him with their fantastically heavy bodies.

  And Brand, for his part, surged to meet them. He slew the nearest with a crashing blow of the axe. The smoky, earthen ruin of its body sagged down. Before it had ceased flopping about, Brand leapt up upon its back and lay about him with the axe. Stone limbs and blank obsidian eyes were chopped and hacked and burst asunder like boulders cracked by a sledge. Brand used both hands to wield the axe, the better to strike harder and with more fury.

  With each alien life it took, the axe flashed. Rocky fists hammered his feet and his thighs but made it no further before they were struck off to lie thumping about on the dark ground. Spittle flew from Brand’s lips with the impact of cleaving thick stone, each shock running up his arms to jar his clenched teeth. His eyes started from his head as if they might pop out, and the axe kept flashing until there were no more charging rockmen, until no creature of stone that faced him was whole.

  He sucked in great gasps of air. The glade slowly dimmed as the axe, sated for the first time in long months, rested. Parts of a dozen rockmen squirmed in a great circle around him and he stood upon their stacked bodies. His legs were bruised. His smashed toes bled inside his boots.

  A thought struck him then. Where was Telyn?

  “Telyn?” he asked the gnomes, but they did not reply. Only a few still writhed and had not yet passed on to whatever hell rightfully awaited them.

  Brand, knew a moment of panic. He checked the blades of the axe for blood, but saw none. He did not think he had cut down his lady, but he could not be sure. He climbed down from the mound of stone corpses and shoved them aside, straining to look beneath. He commanded the axe to shine, and it did, but the glare did not help, only managing to deepen the pooling shadows beneath the gnomes.

  Finally, he had an idea. He allowed Ambros to dim to nothing. Telyn had been carrying a light. If she were down there, he should be able to—

  There! An unearthly gleam, somehow still pure in this place of foulness. He lifted a massive stone leg, roaring like a man possessed. Beneath it, he found Telyn. Her body bled in several spots, but she breathed yet. He draped himself over her, and gently cradled her, kissing her closed eyes gently.

  To himself, with great relief, he chanted one thing over and over.

  “I did not kill her.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Crone’s Chimney

  Piskin finally found Oberon in the Great Erm, a tremendous forest which existed only in the twilight lands, and only for those who could survive long enough to find it. The Erm was quite literally the last place he had looked. Oberon had not been at any of his usual haunts. The mounds were empty, with no sign of the elf lord and his court of dancers. His palace in the cliff face, the entrance to which often vanished for days at a time, was deserted, devoid of feasting elves. A dozen other places he searched: the underwater grottos, the icy mountaintop plateaus and even the enchanted woods where every tree had a delightful wood nymph residing within.

  As a last resort, Piskin had journeyed to the Great Erm. It was an imposing place, with trees as thick as barges and as high as small mountains. Everything there was out of scale, fantastically larger than it should be. An apple was the size of a boulder. A mouse was bigger than any horse that had ever lived. For a manling such as Piskin, the smallest of folk, it was the last place he wanted to go. But, trusting to his stealth and speed to keep him alive, he traveled there and he searched.

  Finding a thread that led up a tree, he followed it, fully expecting a spider to be up in the green gloom above, tugging excitedly upon the far end. But there was no monster up there, waiting to make a meal of him. Instead, he found another, thicker cord. It was almost enough to be called a thin rope. He followed that, his curiosity growing. The cord led to a true rope woven of silver fibers that shone in his hands like strings of moonlight. Finally, when he was tired and his one good hand could hardly grasp firmly enough to keep himself from falling, Piskin reached the end of the rope.

  He had found a pavilion, high up in the sky, sitting atop the tallest tree of the Great Erm. He stood gasping, looking down and all around. Most of the Wee Folk have lived long, and they have all seen wondrous things. They were not a people easily impressed. But this view, this panoramic beauty, was enough to take away even the jaded thoughts of one such as Piskin.

  Oberon sat at the other end of the pavilion. He said nothing to his visitor at first.

  Piskin, still admiring the view, took stock of the elf lord’s mood. It was not good. His face sat cradled in both his hands. His legs, crossed tightly, did not dance. His musical pipes were nowhere to be seen and were apparently forgotten.

  Piskin cleared his throat. Oberon glanced at him disinterestedly. His eyes slid away again after the briefest of appraisals.

  “Sirrah,” Piskin began, striking a formal pose. He put his severed hand behind his back and tipped his hat with his good one. “Might I inquire—”

  “No,” said Oberon, “you may not. Now scuttle back down yon rope and bother me no further, broken changeling.”

  Piskin ears burned to hear the elf’s scornful words. He clamped his teeth to prevent the exit of many insults. When he had controlled himself, he put on an easy smile. “Might I inquire as to the cause for your sulking? Why have you put away your pipes, lord? Why do you deny even the wood nymphs your attentions?”

  Oberon snorted. “As if you don’t know.”

  “Ah, because of the robbery, I suspect. And the treacheries, almost too numerous to count.”

  “Treacheries?”

  “Why yes. Let me detail your tale of woe. First, you make a fine gift of Sang the bloodhound, the very embodiment of the Red Jewel, to Herla the human king. Does he appreciate this gift? No, he does not!”

  “It’s true, he did not appreciate the gift,” said Oberon with a smirk. He was clearly proud of his most famous trick, which he had played upon the greatest of human kings, turning him into an undead wraith nine centuries ago.

  “You gave that lowly human the one thing his kind seek above all else,” said Piskin, his voice rising. “You gave that ungrateful spratling infinite existence, and he turned vengeful and defied your wishes, you who made him the creature he was.”

  Oberon said nothing, but his eyes were fixed upon the manling now. Piskin swelled like a puffing rooster and began to strut upon the pavilion. He only had one hand, but he held it high aloft with a single finger upraised. “That would be the first treachery by my counting,” he said.

  Oberon made an easy gesture of dismissal. “You speak of events in the distant past.”

  “Oh, but this story of woe is far from finished, milord. Next, your son Myrrdin discovers the Green Jewel Vaul, and what does he do with it? Does he present it to his worthy lord as a gift? Does he demonstrate gratitude to his adopted sire, the one who raised him from a pup to a mumbling half-human oaf?”

  A second thin, very long finger shot up into the air from Piskin’s hand.

  “Oh no, he does not. Instead, he sides with the humans and forms some nonsense of a pact, threatening the very life of his beloved sire in the bargain. What next, you ask? Many more treacheries. They abound in your life, sirrah. You are to be pitied more than any earth-bound creature.”

  Oberon snorted and crossed his arms. But he listened.

  Piskin held up a third slim finger. “Herla’s story is not yet done. When he found Osang, the Lavender Jewel, did he gift that to the one who had gifted him the Red? Oh no. Instead, he used it to make his coursers fly. He assaulted your people and mine.”

  A fourth finger sprouted.

  “This last chapter, I’m sad to say, involved one of your subjects, one of my own people, I might shamefully add. Dando stole Lavatis from you. Two Jewels of the nine have been wrongfully removed from your possession, and two more not gifted when they were due, and my tale is not half done!”

  Piskin’s thumb joined the rest of his fingers overhead, but Oberon raised his own hand to stop him.

  “Enough,” he said, “I know why my heart is heavy. I know the wrongs done, and the rights forgotten. Tell me what your purpose is in coming here, tiny buffoon, or I shall toss you tumbling to the forest floor.”

  Piskin nodded and let his hand drop. “Very well. I only wanted to point out that you and I, both and together, have been wronged. In many cases, the people who have mistreated you have also abused me.” He proceeded to list his own litany of complaints. He included the sly behavior of Dando that cost him his nursemaid and ended with the rebuffing by Brand, and finally Tomkin’s severing of his hand. He moved closer to Oberon as he talked, who watched him with pursed lips and slitted eyes.

  “And what do you want to do about all these... injustices?” the elf lord asked.

  “I want to strike a bargain, milord.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  Piskin sidled closer still.

  “I see two of the Jewels as being the easiest to grasp. The low-hanging fruit, if you will. They are the Red, which has no master at the moment and is lost, and the Blue.”

  “Tomkin of your own people wields the Blue.”

  “That Jewel is properly yours, milord.”

  “Since when are the Wee Folk interested in justice?”

  Piskin laughed. “Never. But we are interested in vengeance.” He lifted his stump, bandaged crudely at the wrist. “Tomkin took this from me. I would have my revenge.”

  “What of the Red then?”

  “I want the Red. I wish to use it to repair my lost hand.”

  Oberon smirked. “You could never control the Red.”

  Piskin shrugged. “Perhaps. I was hoping you might tell me how I could coax it into my possession.”

  Oberon frowned now. “The Red is lost.”

  “Not to me. I know where it hides.”

  For the first time, Oberon leaned forward in rapt interest. “Explain your deal clearly, and have a care, for you speak to a lord who is in a foul temper.”

  “Of course, sirrah! Tell me how to coax the Red and help me attune it, so that I may be whole again. Then I will gain for you the Blue, and gift it to you.”

  Oberon leaned back with a silver laugh. “That will not be easy, but I admire your spirit. To coax the Red you need blood.”

  “I’ve tried that.”

  “Not the blood of a bullfrog or a quail, manling. You must use human blood, or Fae. In fact, the very best is the mixed blood of both from a half-breed creature. That will make the perfect draught for the hound.”

  Piskin tapped his four surviving fingers on his chin thoughtfully. It would not be easy. He nodded. “Do you know where such a source of fresh half-fae blood might be handy?”

  “Perhaps. There is one of my children—he has displeased me with his careless ways.”

  “Who?”

  “Seek out Puck. Ask him what mistakes he may have made lately.”

  Piskin nodded, he had heard of the elf named Puck. “And if I succeed in coaxing the Red, do we have a bargain?”

  Oberon paused, and for perhaps the first time in the memory of even the very long-lived creatures that dwelt in this place, he looked troubled. Piskin knew that his words of treachery and injustice worked like venom in the elf lord’s mind. The very wise could rarely be moved with fine words. But foul words, words that rang true, but were one-sided and deceitful, such words were as magic even among the eldest and most jaded persons. Piskin had learned this many centuries ago. He waited patiently for his venom to run its course through Oberon’s thoughts.

  Resolve formed upon Oberon’s face. Piskin wanted to smile, but he controlled the urge. Glee and gloating would have to wait for another, more private time.

  “We have a bargain, changeling. Come back when you have finished your foul deeds.”

  Piskin nodded. He sprang without a further moment wasted to slide down the very long rope of fine silver threads. He slid past leaves as broad as wheat fields and branches wider than highways. As he neared the ground, he allowed himself to grin.

  His grin was very broad indeed.

  * * *

  Mari worked hard to clean the old woman’s shack, but the task seemed impossible. The floor was hard-frozen dirt. Her mother had taught her how to clean such a floor, even though her family was rich enough to own a wood-frame house with a thatch roof. Many poor homes were built of sod, or worse, were little more than dug-outs in the banks of the river. Mari had learned about dirt floors in the outbuildings such as their woodshed, smokehouse and the barn. When cleaning such a floor, it was best to scrape away the top layer, which was the worst of the oily dreck, then spread fresh soil on top.

  Each morning the crone would wander off into the woods seeking roots and tubers for her potions and salves. Thinking to surprise and please the old bag of bones who was now her host, Mari tried to scrape away the top layer of the hut’s floor. It was frozen hard in places and the parts that weren’t frozen were worse still, a vile layer of the worst sort of filth. When she had scratched her way down to the colder, harder earth below, she gasped at what she found. A layer of bones, thick as a thatch roof, wove together to form the foundation of the place. They looked like bird-bones for the most part, but there were strange ones there, twisted bones that did not bear thinking about. It was as if she had tossed down every tiny ribcage and femur she’d ever gnawed upon for many long years, then simply trodden upon them all to form a dense mat of gray-white bone. Shuddering, Mari gave up on her task and simply sprinkled fresh earth over the worst parts and smoothed it all flat.

  When she came back from her gathering mission, Mari met the crone with a forced smile. The crone eyed her warily in return.

  “What do you want?” the old woman asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, I was just hoping you were pleased.”

  “Pleased about what, maid?”

  Mari blinked at this, she had never been called a maid before. But she supposed the term fit, as he was no longer a maiden. “The floor, madam,” she said, gesturing.

  “What of it?” asked the old woman, looking about as if she expected some kind of assault upon her feet. She sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

  “Fresh earth, milady.”

  “Humph. I thought I smelled something. Very well then, I see you have been busy. That’s good. Let me tell you now deary what your duties are here.”

  Mari nodded.

  “You must feed me and clean the house. Each Saturday, should you still be in my charge, you must bathe my feet. It’s very hard for me to reach them, you see, and they are always sore.”

  Mari tried not to look horrified.

  “One more thing. One thing you must remember.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never, never, let the fire in the stove go out. And worse, upon peril of your life, never should you look up the chimney.”

  Mari blinked at this, but nodded. The warning was a strange one, but she could see in the crone’s one, shining eye that she meant it. A chill ran through her.

  And so days passed, and each day the old woman left her, and each day Mari looked at the tiny hearth, stove and chimney.

  She thought of cleaning it—perhaps just putting the crone’s broom up there to sweep down the soot. That would certainly not require looking up the chimney. She resisted these ideas, however. She chided herself for such idle foolishness.

  But what could possibly be up there that was so important, anyway? Anything living would have long since died. Every day, a tiny fire burned there and smoke rose. Nothing could survive—never mind the tiny sounds she'd heard. Whatever it was, it must be an object of some kind. Suddenly, she felt she had the answer. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became.

  The old woman stashed her purse up there. All the silver she took from the people who wandered into her camp day and night buying her salves and cures. They gave her money and the old woman was anything but trusting. She didn’t know Mari as she knew herself. She was a good young lady, brought up honestly and properly, despite her current state of being. She was no thief.

  Satisfied that she had answered the riddle, she stayed content for two full days. They were long days, full of sweeping and cooking. When people brought chickens as payment, she plucked and dressed the birds. When the old woman worked on a potion that took a particularly long time to brew, she was left to stir the pot for hours.

  It was on the third day that she went to find the crone and saw her pulling upon a rope that ran up a tree. She paused, not calling out. The woman was a bit hard of hearing, and with only one dim eye would never notice that she was being watched. So, watch she did.

  The woman pulled a leather sack down from the trees where it was cleverly hidden. She dropped silver into it, and then hauled upon the rope again, sending the sack back up to hide in the thick needles of a sugar pine tree. Mari stepped quickly around the hut out of sight as she finished the task. She did not want to be seen.

  She chewed at her lip. Her hand went to her swelling belly and sat there. The baby kicked her hand, almost as if it knew precisely where its mother’s hand rested. Perhaps it did.

  If the old woman kept her silver in a tree, what then, was up the chimney?

  Mari waited until the morning of the third day to investigate. With habits now familiar, the crone climbed out of bed and awakened Mari with a hard buffet.

  “Lazy girl,” she said, just as she did at dawn every morning. Then she sipped some broth and headed out into the forest to do her gathering of bark and mosses.

  At first, Mari played at sweeping up. With each stroke, her feet and her broom led her ever nearer the chimney.