Young Bran, just twelve years since he was found at Arden’s edge, had just finished his chores for the day. Tomorrow being Beltaine, he’d have all day to himself, as Wade Sorley, his adopted father and owner of The Raging Boar Inn, would be taking the rest of the family to Amber City for the festivities there. Annag, his mother is a stern but caring woman, so she had been an easy mark when he had asked to remain here to watch over the stables. They’d leave with Lucius and Susannah early in the day and he’d be able to spend a whole day exploring the wood. Nothing would happen to the stables, as of the two horses that would be remaining, one was just a pony, unlikely to cause too much trouble, and the other it’s mother, who’d watch over it all day. Besides, Rumplejack the dryad had promised to meet him tomorrow in the small clearing just inside the woods’ edge.

The fae of the wood had woven some of the most wonderful tales for Bran. Long epic conquests of Sir Bran the Ranger. Once Arden’s finest Ranger and now a knight of the realm, Sir Bran bore the sacred weapons of Arden into combat against the Dark Fae and their Dark Lord, his undying enemy. There was the Collar of Oak, a small green leaf of unknown origin hanging from a necklace which became his impervious armor, worked in the fashion of his father, Sir Jack Verdigris. To vanquish the Dark Fae, Sir Bran relied on his rowan sword, LightStriker, which burned with elemental fire when it encountered Darkness. The dryads and gwyllion seemed to draw strength from young Bran’s imaginative stories of the boy grown, fighting against the enemies of Amber and the sidhe. When Bran ran through the edges of Arden Forest, it seemed as if the gnarled stick he carried took on the attributes of a magical sword. It would appear longer and seemed to carry a razor’s edge, but Bran was never sure if that was an effect of his own over-active imagination, or just a trick of the fairy glamour. His necklace never seemed to change as drastically, but even Susannah had mentioned how it seemed to look much more like a leaf than it had when he first found it by the stream’s edge.

Susannah! How could he have forgotten? Conol Garrettson had promised Susannah a blue ribbon from the fair for her hair. Over the last few months he had begun to notice that his sister was developing into an attractive young woman. Were she really his sister, the feelings he was beginning to have would’ve been worse than improper, but Lucian had a habit of reminding Bran that he was nothing more than an orphan, not even properly adopted. Not having the money to go buying ribbons for her, Bran had decided the best gift he could find her would be a wreath of flowers for her hair. He knew where the best forget-me-nots grew wild in the wood, and Nedra, one of the sprites, had promised to weave them into a crown to outshine any ribbon. He only needed a bit of cheese to trade in exchange.

As he ran from the stable back to the inn, he saw his mother pass the open window carrying a tray laden with bread and meat. That would be for a guest’s supper or perhaps some of Lord Julian’s Rangers, who frequented The Boar, the best inn found in Caer Thorne. One of the few two story structures in the small thorp, his father’s inn housed many travelers passing through Lord Julian’s preserve to other kingdoms on trade or diplomatic journeys. It also served as one of their favorite after-patrol watering holes. Much closer and more convenient than trying to get back to the city, and a better class of clientele than most of the dives near the docks. Bran hadn’t seen any of the Rangers approach, but not many did. Near the wood, they still seemed to be part of it, and could be overlooked quite easily. Now was the perfect moment to find Nedra’s cheese. Bran slipped quietly through the back door, imagining himself a noble Ranger stealing into the enemy’s storehouse, to provide food for his starving troops. Seeing no one in the room, he quickly crossed to the pantry and tried to locate the new round of cheese his father had purchased from the last traveler to Begma. Knowing that it had been cut last evening for guests, Bran figured that his guardians would never notice the difference if he took just a small piece for Nedra. No larger than a swallow, she couldn’t eat much, Bran figured. He was on his way out the back door, when his mother entered the room.

"Bran what have you there?" she asked, her head cocked to see the package in his hands.

"Nothing mother, just a bit for the fair folk," he answered as he turned to face her, his hands staying behind his back.

"You stole some of your father’s good cheese, didn’t you?" she scolded looking down her nose at him, grey wisps of hair framing her face, a smile on her lips. A handsome woman, even then, she had trouble staying angry with Bran, as his smile was infectious and he reminded her of a younger brother, lost in a war.

"Just a bit for the leaving," Bran began, but Annag stopped him with a smile.

"Well, did you eat yet? Take some for yourself and a bit of the bread that just came out of the oven." She pushed him toward the pantry. "Hurry now before your father catches you."

Bran grabbed another hunk of the cheese wheel and a large heel off the fresh bread, still warm. Now he really could leave a bit for the fair folk and still have some for Nedra. With a kiss for his mother, he was out the door with his provisions and off to find the young sprite. He made sure to leave some of the cheese for Tumblebrutus, the gwyllion, near the back stoop, and soon he was under the forest’s cool canopy, headed for what he liked to call "his clearing". Nothing more than a few yards where the sun regularly made it through the canopy for some lush sweetgrasses and flowers to grow, it was his special place. Many a time it was here that he had run after a fight with his father, or worse yet, his brother Lucian. Nedra was nowhere to be found. Cursing himself for forgetting her, Bran began picking the small blue flowers that he and the sprite would need to create the wreath. He knew she would return, but as whimsical as her moods were, it could be she was just hiding, or more likely she had run off, chasing after some wind and would return only when she saw something that reminded her of Bran and their appointment.

Finding some of the longer grasses and a few supple, newly fallen branches to create a frame, Bran set his mind to the task at hand, having learned that worrying about faeries is a useless pastime. His hands were not adept at the task, and he made several half-attempts that didn't seem to please him, before finding the right pattern. Becoming completely enthralled with the weave of the flowers, they seemed to lengthen and almost weave themselves in his hands as he realized he must follow their own shapes, their own rhythms. Before Bran knew it the shadows had grown long and dusk has fallen over the clearing.

Father will box my ears when he catches me! he thought as he began the run back to the inn. The darkness fell swiftly and as Bran stumbled toward the forest’s edge he could hear music, probably from The Boar. "Oh, Nedra, this is all your fault!" he cried as he tripped over a twisted root, this time falling onto his face, losing Susannah’s wreath. As he looked up, he found himself laying in a circle of light that wasn’t there moments before, a fire blazing in front of him and figures moving around him.

"Pardon me?" asked a cultured voice from behind him. Rising slowly to his knees, Bran turned to see a tall dark man, resplendent in fine dark green clothes of an expensive cut. From his shoulders hung a long cloak made of leaves, shining with the fresh green of spring at his shoulders and the rich colors of autumn at the tops of his boots. His eyes sparkled with delight as Bran’s eyes found the great stag antlers that grew from his brow. "Would you speak so of one of my courtiers, young mortal?"

Bran slowly pulled himself to his feet, wiping the blood from the heel of his lacerated right hand on his shirt. "No, Lord," he replied, not sure who this man could be, nor how he could’ve missed the light of their fire. "I was only speaking of a friend who I missed earlier today. Not a member of any court." Realization came to Bran even as he answered. This must be a noble of the sidhe! Today is Beltaine, a night of faerie dancing. I must’ve stumbled into a faerie ring!

"You call a sprite, friend? Mean and spiteful to a one, they care nothing for mortals. How would you’ve even purchased her calling name? Are you a sorcerer, young mortal?" the stag-man asked, great hounds gathering at his heel.

Bran could feel the eyes of many spirits upon him as he began to answer, "I’ve… "

"This is the wee bairn, which leaves the feasts at The Boar, for myself and the sprite. He’s never forgotten us, milord, well not totally yet." answered Tumblebrutus, from the other side of the fire before Bran could continue. "He’s just on his way home, and should we keep him, there’ll be no leaving for us at least twice seven days. The mortals which took him in would look unkindly on us."

"Which took him in?" the noble asked. "So he’s an orphan, no ties to these humans?" he inquired with a smile.

Like a streaking arrow, a glow of light passed Bran’s ear, stopping in mid-air before the stag-man. "He was found by the woods’ edge as a babe. Mortal he may not be. His blood is marked, of that I’m sure." Nedra flitted to the ground and retrieved the forgotten wreath. "See, Hunter, how the plants answer his whispers."

Taking the wreath from her, Hunter turned back toward Bran. "A token of affection young one? For the fairing tomorrow? We’ll trade then my child, a riddle for your wreath. Answer me correctly and you’ll win back your gift and you may leave my dance." A hush fell over the dancers as Hunter spun the wreath on his finger.

"He’s but a bairn!" Tumblebrutus called before a silver dagger flew from Hunter’s hand, just missing the gwyllion’s eye.

"And he’s interrupted my dance!" Hunter cried back, rage dancing in his eyes. "He will either be my… guest and dance the night, or he will riddle his way home." Bran could see that there was no other way. "So, young one, you may choose who will begin."

Bran drew himself up in front of Hunter, trying not to show any of the fear he was feeling. "It would honor me if you would begin, sir." he muttered. Remember, Lord Julian or Sir Jack would never waver in a riddle contest, he thought to himself. But, seven years dancing with the fae, or such, were the tales.

"Fine, fine." Hunter answered with a smile. "I’ll even take it easy on you, for my courtiers seem to like you." Seating himself on a toadstool, he began, "White as milk, yet milk I’m not. Green as grass, but grass I’m not. Red as blood, but blood I’m not. Black as night, but night I’m not."

Bran’s brow furrowed in concentration, his mind wandered. White, green, red, black. From white to black. Green and red. Apples are green and then red, but never white, perhaps the blossoms? And black when they rot? No. But ripening from green to red, that seemed right. Ripening from white to green? Only berries do that. White to green to red to… "Blackberries!" he yelled.

"Very good young one. And now yours?"

Bran’s voice squeaked a bit, but he called out loud enough for all the dancers to hear, "A bannock of bread and a sheet full of crumbs."

Hunter turned his eyes skyward, as he laughed. "Fitting for a scullery boy to bring riddles from an inn. Would you be this evening’s sky with a fine moon and stars as far as the eye can see?"

The look of defeat was heavy in Bran’s eyes as he acknowledged Hunter’s answer with a simple, "Yes."

"As I walk the forest paths, my foul stench brings tears to eyes, yet when I’m dead my odor brings smiles to faces." Hunter offered as the contest continued.

Bran could not think of anything else, save getting home. He was sure that he had missed dinner and mother had been preparing a fine roast of pork. Coming back to the present he mulled over Hunter’s riddle. Of course! "The wild pig, has a odor of offal, yet roasted would bring a smile to my lips right now."

"Good. Well riddled." Hunter encouraged.

Bran thought for a moment before turning to face Hunter again. What had that minstrel said last winter? Oh, yes. "A steel pig crossing a bone bridge, with a brass man driving it."

"What was that?" Hunter asked. Bran repeated himself as Hunter muttered under his breath. "A steel pig? Brass man?" With a frustrated look to his assembled courtiers, he turned back to Bran and answered, "The funeral coach that carries mortals to their graveyards?"

Bran jumped for joy, not being able to contain himself. "No, sir, but my mother having to sew my ripped shirt with her needle, her own fingers, and her thimble."

Tumblebrutus ran forward and placed himself between Hunter and Bran. "There Stag, he’s won you’re game. Now give him the wreath and I’ll see him on his way."

Hunter reached within his coat and produced a bottle of the most exquisite blue coloring. Unstopping it and offering it toward Bran, he answered, "He’s won more than that, here’s a drink for him." The liquid within a deep red, like burgundy, Hunter held it out for Bran. The swift light again made its presence known, as Nedra knocked the bottle to the forest’s floor, it’s contents spilling across the forest floor. "He knows better Hunter. He’s won the night. Return what’s his by your own weird."

Hunter’s eyes sparkled once again as he tossed the wreath toward Bran, who caught it just before the fire. "Yes, he’s won the night. This night." With that he spun around, his mantle of leaves seeming to grow larger and larger, blotting out even the fire. Bringing darkness to Bran until he suddenly found himself at the edge of the wood, no more than a few minutes from the inn.

"This night. Yes, I won." Bran then began running to the inn, not daring to look at the woods behind him.