The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  The king commanded that the infected grain stores be scoured by fire. Fresh supplies were freighted to the village, and the storehouses were cleaned, re-roofed, and modified with extra ventilation. As soon as this had been carried out, the voices and visions ceased.

  After the hallucinatory ergot had been wiped out, the villagers regained control of their senses. To avert the animosity of the druids, they apologised to the sanctorum, sending offerings of goods and services, which they could ill afford. In return, the druids proclaimed that Füshgaard had been forgiven and welcomed back into Lord Ádh’s favor, although they refused to acknowledge any truth in the carlin’s findings. The militia dispersed. Throughout the Four Kingdoms it was jitteringly whispered that only the intervention of the king and the destruction of the infected grain stores had averted the razing of Füshgaard.

  With these and other tales and amusements, the Jhallavad Wine and Poetry Festival frolicked on.

  Metropolitan posies of damsels gravitated to the R’shaelan youths, attracted by their vitality, their geniality, and their novelty—and perhaps specifically engaged by Jarred’s matchless looks. Despite the many divertissements on offer in Jhallavad, the lads from R’shael did not neglect their duties, but saw to it that their merchandise was sold at fair prices. They indulged in some judicious spending, buying gifts for their families and friends. Michaiah—who had earned a few extra coins from passersby who appreciated his juggling tricks and “magic” feats—purchased several necklaces and bracelets of glass beads “To give to pretty wenches,” as he said, stowing them in his satchel.

  “You’ll be giving them all away before we leave here,” commented Nasim.

  “No! To the girls of Jhallavad these baubles are commonplace. I am saving them for damsels who will consider them rare and be suitably awed.”

  “You must be dreaming. Nobody in R’shael will be awed. The place is infested with Jhallavad baubles.”

  “You must be dreaming,” retorted Michaiah, “if you think I intend to spend the rest of my life in R’shael!”

  On the final day of the festival, the lads fell in with a crowd of gypsies in moth-eaten finery who told them wonderful stories of other kingdoms, claiming that huge amounts of money were to be made in foreign places, particularly in the north kingdom.

  “Everyone in Narngalis is so rich they can afford to pay their henchmen purses full of silver and gold just for performing the most menial tasks,” the gypsies said. They graciously accepted refills of their wine cups from the R’shaelans, who were eager to learn more.

  Much later, as they rode home along the desert highway, the boys digested the information divulged by the gypsies. Fired up by their recent experiences of the thrill of the big city, they began to discuss the possibility of going to Narngalis to seek their fortunes.

  “I want to see the world!” cried Michaiah.

  “It might not want to see you,” bantered Gamliel.

  “We shall never make much of ourselves by staying put in R’shael,” observed Nasim.

  Yaadosh said, “We’d only have to work in the city of King’s Winterbourne for a week before we could come home and retire in luxury forever!”

  His comrades laughed good-naturedly at his naive optimism.

  “You didn’t believe those gypsy boys did you?” said Tsafrir. “They are purely storytellers.”

  Yaadosh, bewildered, said, “But why would we be talking of going to Narngalis if it was all lies?”

  “For the metheglin, Caracal! For the metheglin!” crowed Michaiah.

  “Lads,” said Gamliel, “even if half of it were lies, even if nine-tenths of it were lies, it’d be worth going to Narngalis just to see those grim castles and the endless forests and rivers everywhere, and lakes that stretch out farther than the very desert. Such marvels as we can only guess at.”

  “What if they are lies too?” Yaadosh demanded.

  “Then we shall find out,” said Jarred.

  Yaadosh pondered. “But I don’t think I shall be able to carry many weeks’ worth of supplies on my horse.”

  “We shall have to purchase supplies on the way, or we can hunt for food.”

  “But I don’t know my grandmother’s recipe for spicy chicken.”

  Yaadosh’s comrades laughed again, and Jarred, who rode at his side, slapped him on the back. “Carac, would you rather remain at home for the rest of your days, eating your grandmother’s spicy chicken, or would you like to go adventuring, seeking your fortune with us?”

  The brow of Yaadosh corrugated.

  “If you have to think about it,” said Tsafrir at length, “then you ought to stay in R’shael.”

  “Of course I shall go with you!” Yaadosh replied with some heat. “I was just wondering whether if I get my grandmother to repeat it a few times I might remember it in my head and tell it to the landlords of the inns along the way.”

  His companions slapped their thighs, helpless with mirth.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Yaadosh asked in injured tones.

  “Recipes for spicy chicken will be the least of our worries along the road,” Nasim choked out.

  Stifling his merriment, Jarred said, more soberly, “Unseelie wights and dangerous Marauders are plentiful in every kingdom. We must sharpen our fighting skills.”

  “We practice our swordsmanship every other day!” cried Gamliel. “And our slingshot skills every other other day. By now we must be the most proficient fighters in Ashqalêth!”

  “There is a difference,” said Tsafrir, “between friendly bouts using wooden scimitars and fights to the death wielding steel blades.”

  “But our Master Behrooz is the most excellent of teachers, having once been a member of the King’s Household Guards,” Gamliel riposted. “I’m up for it!” he added brashly. Yaadosh and Michaiah cheered.

  “The road will be hard. It’s unfamiliar territory,” said Jarred.

  “My brother knows those parts,” said Nasim. He turned to Tsafrir. “Do you not?”

  “I admit to a slight acquaintance with the kingdoms of the west and north,” Tsafrir answered.

  “Well then,” said Jarred, “with you as our guide, Sand Fox, we shall fly to King’s Winterbourne like the south wind!”

  The other youths voiced their approval.

  “But,” said Tsafrir, oldest and wisest, “we will need money if we are to embark on this journey. While we traverse the desert we can hunt for food, and live also on our provisions, but our supplies will have run out by the time we get to Narngalis, and we will be passing through cultivated lands. The herders will not love us if we chase their kine and swine!”

  “We will become merchants,” declared Jarred. “We will carry goods to sell along the way.”

  “What goods?” Tsafrir wanted to know.

  “Pretty beads and baubles!” suggested Nasim. “They say Jhallavad glass is famous in foreign lands. Master Behrooz has a great store of glass ornaments. He used to collect them as a hobby, but he lost interest and now they are gathering dust in one of his sheds. We might persuade him to sell them to us at a low price.”

  “And my conjuring tricks will be worth a coin or two to tavern audiences,” Michaiah chimed in.

  “And if worse comes to worst,” said Gamliel, “we can hire ourselves as laborers for a week or two here and there—as farmhands or ditchdiggers.”

  “I might hire out as a temporary cook,” said Yaadosh.

  His friends glanced at one another, keeping their expressions neutral, and made no response.

  After that, Jarred fell silent. As he rode, he dwelled on the exciting possibilities of venturing into the wide world. Not only would there be new adventures to be experienced—there was also a chance he might find his father.

  In the morning of the fourth day out from Jhallavad, the youths felt a stirring in the atmosphere. The wind had swung around. Handfuls of sand were blowing up in gusts, and small debris whirled through the air. Looking back across the plains, they beheld signs of a great
dust storm on the western horizon. The hem of the sky was corrupt with thunderous clouds of airborne dust, like curtains of darkness drawn across the theater of the world.

  “It looks bad,” said Tsafrir.

  “Bad for Jhallavad,” said Jarred. “A dust storm of that magnitude will wreak havoc.”

  “And after it has finished with the city,” said Michaiah, “it will be bad for us here on the open road.”

  “Indeed, it is racing toward us at a great rate,” Gamliel said grimly.

  They fell silent then, mentally running through the checklists for methods of survival in sandstorms. Desert dwellers were always prepared for such prodigies of climate, but preparation did not necessarily ensure survival, and this particular storm threatened to be violent in the extreme. Besides, it would catch them without shelter. They traveled on, carefully looking out for rock formations large and cavernous enough to provide some cover.

  The wind fretted and skirmished. That afternoon a scatter of aerial snow caught their attention. A flock of white pigeons went by overhead, heading north.

  “It is to be hoped the eagles will allow at least one messenger through,” said Nasim, shading his eyes against the glare of the sky as he watched the birds dwindle and vanish.

  In the evening, as the setting sun wandered like an old bloodstain in the west, the youths felt the wind change. Tilting their heads skyward once more, they watched an enormous balloon float by, no more than three hundred feet above the ground. It seemed to hover a moment, limned like a full moon against the battleground of the skies, before fading into the distance toward Jhallavad.

  “A vessel of the weathermasters!” Tsafrir exclaimed in an undertone.

  In awe they stared at the glowing pinprick in the sky that was the final view of the aerostat. Such a phenomenon was a rare sight. R’shael had never been visited by a sky-balloon of the weathermasters. Continuing along their way, the lads spoke to one another about the lords of fire, water, and air, discussing the mysteries surrounding that kindred.

  “They are born to it, I have heard,” said Michaiah, “born with a power in their blood. It is said they can see the wind as ordinary folk see trees and grass.”

  “I heard they can grasp bolts of lightning,” said Yaadosh, “and hurl them like hammers.”

  “Who told you that?” scoffed Nasim.

  “Well, it might be true—who’s to say?” Yaadosh countered. “The weathermasters stay secluded in their mountain ring, and who knows what secrets they hoard? They choose to live nowhere else but in their high country. Maybe they keep lightning bolts up there, stored in underground caverns.”

  “I have seen weathermages visiting Cathair Rua,” said Tsafrir, “dressed in their lordly raiment.”

  “Then we shall see them there too!”

  “And you might ask them, Caracal,” said Gamliel, “whether they keep levin bolts in their pockets!”

  “It is not inconceivable that a man might keep electricity in his pocket,” said Jarred, noting Yaadosh’s crestfallen look and coming to his defense. “Rub a piece of amber with a scrap of fur and find out what happens! The wide world is filled with marvels of which desert villagers know nought. Is it not our desire to learn more about such marvels that has impelled us to go on this journey?”

  Jarred thought of his father, who must have discovered so much about the world during the years he had been away. He yearned anew to find him. A doughty man traveling the lands searching for answers—surety Jovan must have learned many truths. As he let his mare carry him forward, Jarred pictured a reunion with his father, the two of them seated beneath the shade of a palm tree in his mother’s garden and he putting questions to Jovan, watching his father’s face as he described the wonders of the Four Kingdoms of Tir. Quickly the young man dismissed the image before the familiar poignancy began to twine its tendrils around his heart.

  During the night, the west wind subsided. Next day the storm had blown away.

  Knowing it had been the work of the weathermasters that had averted the disaster, the youths kept watch for the returning sky-balloon as they traveled. They failed to spy it, and supposed it must have returned to High Darioneth by some different route. But after they had abandoned their efforts, the youngest, Gamliel, suddenly jabbed his finger in the air and cried, “There! Afar off!”

  His comrades squinted in the direction he indicated.

  “A pinpoint of light,” said Gamliel. “It has been extinguished now. That was the balloon, I am certain of it.”

  At length Jarred said, using Gamliel’s nickname, “You have the sharpest eyes of us all, Jerboa. We do not doubt your word.”

  Upon their return to R’shael, Jarred and his comrades informed their families and friends of their decision to migrate—temporarily—to Narngalis. This announcement caused a fuss throughout the village. Most of the younger lads were unable to conceal their envy, and three declared their intentions to join the group, while the elders lamented that in this modern era R’shael’s younger generation, even though feckless and lazy compared to themselves at the same age, was forever draining away. Vociferously they wondered what would become of the village when all the young ones had gone, dwelled on the outrageous wickedness of the outside world, and agreed, emphasized by much head nodding, that no one who lived beyond the boundaries of R’shael could be trusted. But would the youths listen to them? Oh no, they’d have to learn the hard way, and the elders wouldn’t be surprised if they all met their doom and were never seen again.

  “Well, I am glad you are going to discover the world,” said Jarred’s mother when he told her the plan, and he could perceive at once that she meant it. Her face was suffused with genuine joy and excitement. “I feared lest you might stay here always and miss out on all that the wider world has to offer. Many folk who have lived their whole lives in this village are crippled in their disposition. Their minds are narrow and closed, their thoughts confined by ignorance. They are like people who have only ever seen shades of gray and never looked upon a rainbow. Traveling to other lands, viewing new sights, learning about the ways of foreigners, all will enrich your life. I am glad, so glad for you!”

  And it came to Jarred afresh that his mother’s love for him transcended all selfishness. Her wish to keep him safe beside her was secondary to her desire to let him become all that he could be. Without regard to personal cost, she thrust aside her own concerns in order that he might prosper. He felt astounded by the intensity of her emotion, deeply moved by her fierce affection, and proud that she held him in highest regard.

  The nubile women of the village moped and mourned. They too were envious, and declared there was no justice in Ashqalêth when boys were allowed to travel about as they pleased while girls were forced to stay at home or go about accompanied by their brothers or fathers. Many of them were especially grieved at the prospect of being deprived of the company of Jarred, whom they held dear, and whom they had declared to be the easiest on the eye of any man in the village.

  “We shall lose our most enjoyable pastime,” they sighed self-pityingly among themselves, “for ‘tis our innocent delight merely to watch him go walking down the street with his easy stride, his hair flying down past his shoulders. ’Tis our joy to watch him kick the football, or play at wrestling with the other boys, or practice shooting at targets with the slingshot—at which he excels above all others—for he moves so gracefully and is so agile and assured. The way he moves,” they embroidered, “could cause a woman to swoon.”

  But the heartbreak of the village girls was to be delayed, for throughout the desert the ants had begun to swarm, sealing off their tall castles of clay with plugs of moistened soil. All of nature’s signs indicated that rain was on the way.

  More than any other tidings, this news caused excitement in R’shael. Rain had not fallen for more than seven years. In Jarred’s lifetime, the Rains had only eventuated twice.

  “You cannot leave yet,” his mother said to him, “because travel is impossible during
and after the Rains.”

  It was true.

  When the Rains arrived, they would pour down in a solid deluge. The desiccated salt lakes would fill to the brim and overflow. The shallow riverbeds, habitually dry, would thunder and roar with cataracts of foaming water, becoming uncrossable. No bridges existed over the desert watercourses; in most years they were not needed, and when the rivers were swollen with the Rains, the current flowed so fast and furiously that any bridge would be swept away. The thin salt crusts of the claypans blanketed mud that was permanently soft. When wet, the claypans became impassable, and creatures trying to traverse them would be bogged. Desert crossings could not be attempted in the Wet.

  In due course, great banks of muttering cumulonimbus rolled in from the west like heavy machinery. The skies lost their hard blue dazzle, tarnishing to purple-black and seeming to become so heavy beneath the weight of their aqueous burden that they sagged toward the ground. The atmosphere was charged with exhilaration. Frayed white wires of lightning flickered along the rim of the darkening plains.

  The buildup was a drama, the release sudden, pure, frightening, and ecstatic.

  It rained. For six days straight, hard torrents streamed down in unbroken curtains of beaten iridium. And when the Rains dwindled to fine darts of quicksilver and passed away to the east, the desert blossomed.

  Only twice before in his life had Jarred seen the dry plains transformed into vistas of breathtaking beauty. Surface water filled the claypans or followed the wide floodplains that terminated at salt lakes. The entire ground was sheeted with the shimmer of flowing liquid. Soon, across the floodplains sprang a new garden rampant with stunning and unexpected bursts of wildflowers, a sight so glorious as to make men weep. Flowers appeared that were only ever seen after the Rains: the scarlet desert pea with its grayish green leaves and a spectacular flaming flower centered by a black eye; the dusky desert rose; the native buttercup; succulent salt-resistant ground covers such as parakeelia, and pigface with its silken sunbursts. Everywhere the desert was alive with movement. The wind, passing across the face of the newly sprung flower meadows, combed its fingers through acres of rippling yellow, rippling white, rippling pink.