Bram sat shipering within tbe circle of broken boulders known before their destruction as Stonecliff, drying his stockinged feet at the small fire he'd managed at length to start. Bram had never been so cold, nor so far from home before.
He had packed wisely enough for the trip to Wayreth, he thought, bringing flint, tinder, knife, a tightly rolled wool blanket, enough food for three days, and an extra pair of trousers and jerkin. But he hadn't anticipated the cold, driving rain that had dogged him all day as he walked on feet blistered by new boots. Nearly everything in the pack was soaked through, but especially the winter cloak, white jerkin, and brown trousers he wore. Fortunately, the healing herbs he'd brought in small glass vials remained dry.
The young nobleman pulled out a knife that was neither very sharp nor strong, meant more for cutting the tender flesh of vegetables than people. Still, it sliced easily enough through the wrinkled flesh of an autumn apple. He munched the sweet fruit in weary distraction, wondering what the next day would bring.
With any luck he would be aboard a ship headed for distant Wayreth. Kirah had told him Guerrand had gone there first in his quest to become a mage. Though many years had since passed, Bram reasoned that even if Guerrand were no longer at the place where mages regularly gathered, the wizards there would know where he was.
Bram's trip to Thonvil to speak again with Kirah had made him only more determined than ever to find his uncle. Two more people had succumbed to the mysterious disease, their snake limbs heard to magically sigh Guerrand's name. There could be no doubt the wizard was somehow involved with the pestilence. The life of every villager depended on Bram's finding Guerrand. He felt the full weight of a lord's responsibility for them. More selfishly, he'd worked long and hard to bring a spark of life back to Castle DiThon's lands. If the plague wasn't stopped soon, there would be no village left to revive.
At first light, he would thread his way down the cliff, cross the River Durris to Hill fort, and offer himself up as a shiphand in exchange for passage on the first ship headed south. The nobleman wouldn't take no for an answer.
Bram snapped some twigs and tossed them on the fire. He stared, unblinking, into the flames until his eyes teared so that his darkened surroundings wavered and blurred as if he were looking through the steam of a boiling pot. Through the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw movement behind a boulder at the limit of the firelight's range. Bram blinked, then dug his fists into
his eyes to clear them.
When he looked again, a cloud of light snowflakes whirled up and caught the firelight like a thousand tiny prisms. The flurry slowly settled, revealing three beings, as short as young children. Each had enormous blue eyes that glowed like the hottest flame. Three heads of feather-fine hair the color of waxed walnut furniture were covered with colorful, jaunty hats of wool. All manner of pouches hung from their shoulders, as well as waist belts with loopholes for tools and carving knives.
'I've heard of you,' breathed Bram. 'You're brownies, aren't you? I wasn't sure if you really existed.'
All three creatures crossed their small arms stiffly. 'If I'm not mistaken, that name is also used to describe chocolate cake,' said the one wearing a slate-blue cap and mantle. 'It makes us sound like a bit of fluff, not at all serious or worthwhile. We'd as soon you called us 'milk' or 'fruit,' if you insist upon naming us after foodstuffs.'
Bram put up his hands defensively. 'Tell me what you call yourselves, and I will never use that other word again.'
'We call ourselves tuatha dundarael.' The creature saw Bram's eyes open wide. 'If that's too difficult for you, you may use the shortened form, tuatha-pronounced 'too-a-ha.''
'Tuatha,' Bram repeated deliberately, looking relieved. He stood and walked around the three tuatha, peering closely at the small, soft-featured beings. 'Where are your wings?'
The blue-mantled tuatha man gave a slight sigh. 'Those would be pixies. While also faerie folk, they wear silly, curly-toed shoes like court jesters and, as a rule, come out only at night.'
Bram raised his eyebrows and took in the darkened sky. 'You can see why I was confused.'
The tuatha regarded him through one slow, lazy blink. 'Not really.'
Bram coughed self-consciously. 'I'm sorry, 1 didn't catch your names. I'm Bram,' he said, extending a hand.
'Yes.' The blue-capped being ignored Bram's hand and put a tiny palm to his chest. '1 am called Thistledown.'
He gestured to his companion in the snug red hat. 'This is Burdock.' The second diminutive creature bowed his head.
Thistledown waved to the last tuatha, a young female wearing a long yellow wool stocking cap and a decorative gold sash from one shoulder to the opposite hip. Her face was rosy and clean. 'She is Milkweed.' The blush in her cheeks darkened to wine, and she averted her eyes from Bram's.
'Why don't they talk?' the nobleman asked.
'Because I am the speaker in this troop,' explained Thistledown matter-of-factly. 'Burdock is the pathfinder. Milkweed is the nchantmentcrafter. King Weador assigned us three to you when he heard you speaking here.'
'King Weador?' Bram repeated dully. 'I don't understand what you mean, 'assigned you.' '
Thistledown turned to Milkweed, who turned to Burdock, who turned back to Thistledown. Three small sets of shoulders lifted in shrugs. 'It's what we do, we tuatha. We attach ourselves, so to speak, to humans of high moral standards.'
Bram leaned back and crossed his arms. 'I have high moral standards, have I?'
'And a natural earth magical ability,' said Thistledown, as if he hadn't been interrupted.
'I do have a way with plants,' agreed Bram.
Thistledown's eyebrows were drawn down in annoyance. 'Watch that pride, or we'll have to leave,' he threatened, while Milkweed and Burdock settled their shoulders as if preparing to disappear behind their speaker.
'I'm sorry,' Bram said quickly. 'I didn't mean to…' His voice trailed off awkwardly. He dropped back down by the fire and folded large hands around his knees, preparing to listen rather than get further into trouble by speaking.
Thistledown seemed mollified. 'We perform small services in exchange for a mug of milk, a little bread, that sort of thing.'
The nobleman looked at his wet belongings by the fire and said, 'I'd be happy to share my foodstuffs with you.' He fished around in his small pack. 'I've been eating snow for water, but I have plenty of apples, carrots, and peanuts, and a half-loaf of bread-'
'We're not here to eat your food,' interrupted Thistledown. 'We've long partaken of the bounty of your gardens.'
Bram straightened up in surprise. 'You know my fields?'
All three tuatha beamed. 'We tuatha have been working at night to help you return those weed patches into workable plots.'
Bram's face lit with sudden understanding. 'I've wondered some mornings about finding gleaming pitchforks and shovels when I left dirty ones in the garden the night before,' he breathed. Bram leaned back from the fire. 'So how long have you been helping me?'
Thistledown leaned toward Burdock. 'Time has no meaning for us,' he announced at length. 'We have aided you longer ago than yesterday, but less than we will have tomorrow. This is the first time Burdock, Milkweed and I have been sent as a troop to aid you.'
Bram blinked. 'How many tuatha are there?'
Thistledown turned again to his companions before speaking. '1 daresay we tuatha outnumber you humans.'
'I'm surprised, then, that I never saw even one of you before,' observed Bram.
'We did not want you to see us until now,' Thistledown said simply. 'We live in the faerie realm, beyond human sight. In this place where earthly magic once flourished, your thoughts were particularly resonant in our realm. That is why King Weador sent us to give you aid.'
Bram used the toe of a new boot to nudge the un- burned ends of a log into the flames. 'Unless you have a ship and a full crew,' he said, 'I can't see that you can do anything to help me get to Wayreth.'
'You could be there in no time if you took the faerie road,' suggested Thistledown.
