the evil eye has done its work;

Oh, Mordreaux was very glad he had the excuse to exit the cabin when the lad’s thoughts turned pleasant at being ordered around. He didn’t need the temptation of leading along another lost lamb, not his current attention was on that firebird, caught in a cage of her own making. That, and Llyr had already promised to watch over the youth, and would likely stand in the way if Mord attempted to play with him. Always noble, his little prince, even in death.

The door creaked horribly as he shut it behind him, resting the spine of the open book against his forearm as he calmly turned the pages, filled with spells of the earth, of good harvest, of woven workers meant to ease a farmer’s weary toil. His fingers stroked the old ink drawings of pleasant wicker men cutting wheat in the fields, marked by a spell between them that clamored on his tongue.

He glanced up over the book, seeing those wickermen coming closer, lost servants of whoever used to own this book. Is that what they craved, hunted for? A pied piper to give them purpose again? He smiled. Well, if Llyr wouldn’t let him touch one lost soul eager for guidance, surely he could help here.

He let the words flow, a conduit for their magic, and watched in delight as it worked over the clearing, his voice strong and unwavering.

“We reap the seeds from barren heath,
And toil for our winter’s stores,
Rejoice and bind the harvest wreath
And may Fortune’s wealth be yours.”

Nothing particularly clever, but it worked a charm. They stopped their burdened march, lowered their branching arms meant to rend and tear, and waited for new commands, as waveringly docile as wheat in a field.

He tilted his chin up, contemplating them all with a twinkle of delight in his eye. How many were there, hiding in this corner of the woods alone? How long had their spells kept them aimless, bereft of a master?

“Go and find a field to toil in,” He commanded them with a smile. “I’m sure someone could use the assistance to bring the harvest in.”

They rose to the call, heeded him, and turned almost in unison towards the west, ignoring brush and bramble before disappearing out of sight. Mordreaux laughed to himself before tucking the book under his arm. Whichever field they hurried towards, he was sure the owner would be thankful.