A Muddle of Magic. Alexandra Rushe

      Prologue

      Bedtime for the Mablet

      A blizzard raged outside the thatched cottage, rattling the shutters like an angry frost giant, but the boy was unafraid. His mother was strong and fierce, and mighty in magic. She would keep him safe. Sitting at the table eating his supper, he watched her throw another log on the fire. Sparks shot up the chimney and fire imps danced in the flames.

      “Finish your milk, boy,” she said in her gruff voice. “Bed time.”

      “I’m not sleepy. I want a story.”

      “There are more stories than hairs on your head. Which do you want?”

      “You know, Mor. Finn and the Troll.”

      “Again?” She sighed. “I should think you’d weary of that one.”

      The boy shook his head. “It’s my favorite.”

      “Very well.” She heaved her bulk into a sturdy chair by the fire. “Come here.”

      The boy jumped down from the bench and climbed onto her lap.

      Settling him in the crook of her arm, she said, “Finn and the troll, having bested the god Trowyn in a contest of wits, were given the task of—”

      The boy wrapped his small fingers around one of his mother’s tusks. “No, Mor. From the beginning. I want the whole story. Starting with Magog and Xan.”

      “Cheeky cub.” The troll tickled his ribs until he squealed. “As you know, the gods of Tandara once numbered ten.”

      The boy sat up in her lap. “I can name the gods. Brefreton taught me a poem about them.”

      “Did he? I’d like to hear it.”

      He regarded her from beneath lowered brows. “If I tell you, I still get a story?”

      “You drive a hard bargain, but the answer is yes.”

      The boy nodded. Taking a deep breath, he recited,

      Once upon a time, ere the world was changed,

      The gods numbered ten and these are their names:

      Kron the Smith, god of forge and flame,

      Seth, Lord of Darkness, turmoil, and change.

      Reba the Bountiful, goddess of dawn,

      Bringer of light and things that are grown.

      Gar, fierce Hunter, god of rivers and rain,

      Esma the Healer and easer of pain.

      Valdar the Merry of poem and wine,

      The sweetest nectar born of the vine,

      Tam is the goddess of sea, hearth, and lore,

      Trowyn the Bear—

      The boy broke off. “Trowyn’s my favorite, ʼcause he can turn into a bear,” he confided, curling his fingers like claws. “But Finn bested him, all the same.”

      “Yes, he did. Go on.”

      The boy nodded, and continued:

      Trowyn the Bear god wields his Hammer of War,

      Last come Magog and his twin brother Xan,

      They loved one another, then Magog raised his hand.

      Magog the Comely—

      The boy wrinkled his nose. “Comely makes him sound like a girl, and Magog is a boy god.”

      “Take it up with the poet. I didn’t write it.”

      “Bree says Magog was handsome. Handsomer than Xan.”

      “Aye, Magog was beautiful to look upon.” The troll tugged one of her long ears. “By human standards, at any rate.”

      “Until he ripped his face off.”

      “Such a vicious cub,” his mother said, chucking him under the chin with a hairy knuckle. “Magog did not rip his face off, and you know it. Finish the poem.”

      The boy sighed, and said,

      Magog the Comely, out of jealousy and spite,

      Struck his brother and took his life.

      Xan the Beloved, god of music and air,

      Fell to the earth, to the world’s despair.

      Magog howled his grief as Xan’s life waned,

      Plucked out his eye and went insane.

      Nine gods there are now, where once there were ten,

      One for the monsters, and eight for men.

      Eight gods a-sitting on their thrones,

      The last, Magog, grieves forever alone.

      “It’s not a very good poem, is it?” the boy said.

      “The fellow who wrote it was Tannish, I believe,” the troll said with an apologetic cough. “The Tans are farmers, not bards. Still, I’d keep your opinion to yourself. Bree might take offense.”

      “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.” The boy nestled himself in her hairy arms. “I’d like my story now, please.”

      “Certainly. The tale begins, as you pointed out, with the murder of the god Xantheus.”

      The boy gazed at the troll’s shaggy head. “Why did Magog kill his brother, Mor?”

      “Jealousy and spite, like the poem says.”

      “But why was he jealous of Xan?”

      “Who can know the mind of a god?” the troll said, shrugging her massive shoulders. “ʼTwas a long time ago, but this much I know. As gods went, Xan was easy to love. The same could never be said for Magog.”

      “Brefreton says Magog drinks the blood of his people.”

      “That’s true, in a manner of speaking. Magog’s priests sacrifice humans to their god, but I suspect that is as much Glonoff’s doing as Magog’s.”

      “Bree says the Dark Wizard is a bad man. Bree says Glonoff hates you.”

      “Bree talks too much.”

      The boy regarded her with a worried frown.