She cupped her hands around her mouth.
“A plague on you, tricksy wight!” she screamed into the somber, saturated landscape, which appeared empty of anything but grass and stones and distant blurs.
Indignation heated her blood. She started down the incline toward the line of trees, hoping they were real.
As it turned out, the trees were chestnuts, not shape-shifting wights. Down amongst their honest roots the child slept the night away. If not for her great-grandfather’s legacy, she must surely have perished of cold.
Come morning, the storm had fled.
The sky had been wiped away, and in its place an all-encompassing wad of teased wool battened over the land from horizon to horizon. The sun had vanished, and in the mists of morning so had any landmarks. Jewel continued on her way, but down in the valleys it was easy to lose one’s sense of direction. Whenever she emerged on the ridge-tops and stared searchingly through the haze, she imagined the mountains were marching across her path. Moreover, the land was rising as she traveled. Had she strayed too far west? In her studies, she had never paid much attention to maps of Tir. North was where Eoin had said they must go, so she kept to that heading, as well as she was able.
Yet, eventually there could be no doubt—she was moving ever higher into the foothills of the mountain ring in western Narngalis. She was assailed by vivid fancies about the wicked gwyllion and other unseelie mountain wights, and recollected old tales of goblin hordes surging down from the heights, augmented by grotesque kobolds, and the weird horse-beasts called trollhästen. Despite these notions, which imbued her with terror, she doggedly persisted on her way north, now bearing east. Sheer rock faces echoed the crack of loose stones, when her feet dislodged them. Tall crags reared against a featureless sky. No food was to be found, but there was plenty of water, and crisp, invigorating air.
With only elusive birds for company, however, and loud cascades tumbling rapidly down cliffs, and mocking echoes, and elusive hints of unwholesome presences, the mountains seemed vacant, aloof, and utterly desolate. Higher she climbed, seeking a way through, and found herself among steep alpine fields spangled with silver-leafed snow daisies. It was as if a welter of molten silver flowed around the boulders that strewed the ground, tossing up sprays of glittering, flower-shaped sparks. Little pools of water, cupped in the hollows, danced and sparkled as if alive. Always when she looked up, there they were—the heads of the mountains; untouchable, ancient, dreaming in their purple haze, dozing behemoths of soil and rock, of fire and water, of hollows, and deep, secret places; white-haired, cloud-tressed giants clothed in viridian velvet.
Jewel had been following a thin track that meandered uphill through a stand of eucalypts when a soft air current came ruffling, and the clouds cleared, and the sun shone. The breeze rippled through the trees, tipping each leaf so that handful by handful they spilled their burdens. It was like a second rain-shower, sparser and slower than the first; drops fell without haste, glittering as they caught the light, each vertical trajectory on exactly the same angle, like harp-strings threaded with crystals. Amid the slow fall of scintillants, gold flies glided, cupping sunrays in their wings.
Following the track around an outcrop, the child entered a grassy dingle. On every side, the wet flanks of the granite walls glistened, capturing the light. After the darkness of the previous days, the dingle seemed a vase of luminescence. A pool nestled in this hollow, but it was unlike any other pool Jewel had ever seen. Its shores were rocky and barren of greenery, and neither reed nor rush sprouted at its margins. The surface was alive with thousands of wisps of steam, dancing like white flames ignited on a spillage of perse liqueur.
Fascinated, she ran to kneel at the brink. A sigh of tepid air enveloped her. She dipped her fingertips in the water and warmth enfolded them, spreading luxuriously through her hand. Such pleasure was tempting. It would be agreeable to immerse in this temperate bath, but far too hazardous in such wight-ridden countryside.
And kneeling there, she was getting no closer to King’s Winterbourne.
King’s Winterbourne—the chief city of Narngalis, the mightiest center of population, commerce, and culture in the north. Uncle Eoin had spoken of starting a new life there. The place hovered in her imagination like some castle in the air, or crock of gold at the end of a rainbow. If she ever reached it, what would she discover? Nothing could ever replace all she had lost. Would there ever again be happiness for the bereft daughter of Lilith and Jarred?
She did not linger long. Soon she was wending her way uphill once more, gasping with the effort of conquering the steep trail.
After another hour’s climbing, she arrived at a slim defile. Looking ahead, she perceived that the trail ended at a wall of corrugations and jagged projections. It simply ran straight up to the foot of the wall and ceased, as if the buttresses of the mountain had fallen across it and chopped it in twain. Studded liberally with overhangs, the precipice was too difficult and too high to climb.
Two thoughts occurred to her at once: first, that this might be some enchanted path leading to a spellbound door in the mountainside and therefore dangerous; second, even if the path were not enchanted, it plainly came to a dead end and there was no profit in pursuing it.
Wondering for the first time what agency had actually created the abruptly terminated path, Jewel turned back. She was starting downhill when she began to hear the sounds, echoes of a rattling clatter overlaid with a modulated murmur of voices. Whatever was causing the hubbub was coming nearer. She started to run, but slipped on the wet ground and fell, twisting her knee. It did not hurt, but the unexpectedness of the accident and the awkwardness of her fall discomfited her. As she dragged herself upright she was aware of how the noises had gained on her; they seemed to be emanating from the very cliff at her side. Loud laughter erupted, seemingly just beneath her ear, and without thinking she threw herself into the closest rocky niche, amid an overflow of saprophytic creepers, and attempted to press herself and her pack into the unyielding fabric of the mountainside. As an afterthought she quickly unfastened the chain about her neck and stowed the white jewel in a hidden pocket of her clothes for safekeeping.
The laughter and voices burst forth. There was a swish and a rustle, a chiming of metal, and a din like pebbles being shaken in a jar, or horn striking stone. The ruckus originated higher up; impossibly, from the direction of the dead end.
Human-seeming figures were filing down the narrow trail, leading horses on reins. The first three, conversing merrily, were not looking in Jewel’s direction, and clearly did not notice her as they passed by. She squeezed herself more tightly into the narrow gap, desiring fervently that she should escape attention, and that they would proceed on their way without discovering her.
The fourth, however, turned his head. His gaze alighted on her, and he drew to a halt. Behind him, others of the company stopped also, because he was blocking their path; and those in the fore looked back to see what had occurred.
He who was staring at Jewel had the form of a youth aged about eighteen Winters. Like the youths and damsels accompanying him, he was dressed in richly dyed raiment, of excellent fabric and elegantly tailored. At the shoulders and in other places, their clothes were embroidered with bands of swirling patterns. Their belts and baldrics were fastened with ornate buckles, fashioned from some lustrous, bluish-white metal. With their gleaming rings and bracelets, their garments of costly fabric and their long, well-dressed hair, they looked to be heirs of wealth.
If they were indeed human.
Surely it was impossible that they could be members of her own race, out here, so far from the towns and villages of humankind? They were certainly too normal in appearance to be Marauders, yet they could not be traveling peddlers, for they had no wagons and were not following a main road—this was merely an aimless trail among the mountains. Could they be woodcutters, or charcoal burners, or other such craftspersons who dwelled in the wilderness? Jewel thought not. These folk had the appea
rance of nobles rather than poor artisans. They must, after all, be eldritch wights of some unknown species: heroic trooping types, or else tiny, self-important siofra, hugely magnified and disguised by the illusions of glamour. It was best to avoid wights, even when they were not known to be unseelie: their habits and moods were infamously unpredictable. Jewel neither moved nor spoke. Irrationally, it flashed into her thoughts: If I close my eyes, perhaps they won’t be able to see me. . . .
“Well,” said the youth who had first spied Jewel, “what have we here on this fine Ninember morning? A little trow-daughter—but too pretty! What are you doing here, wightlet? Are you landbound? Did the sunrise surprise you before you reached Trowland, forcing you now to wander aboveground until sunset?” Without waiting for a reply, he went on, “Sponge away the glamour and let us see you as you really are!” He turned to his companions, saying, “Does anyone carry a four-leafed clover, or any other charm that gives True Sight? I would fain behold this eldritch thing in its native shape.”
Jewel had no words to utter. The youth’s words indicated that he was human, yet wights could use language to prevaricate and mislead with a skill stemming from centuries of practice. She could only keep hoping, against reason, that these unwelcome visitors would all go away. She tried to blend in with the creepers, to give the impression of insignificance. This did not avail her, because it appeared the youth, human or not, was in pursuit of diversion, delighted to stumble across potential entertainment. His companions crowded around him, craning to see what he had found. Someone had handed him a small stone with a hole in the middle. He held it up to his eye.
“By rain and thunder, there’s no glamour!” Jewel’s harasser cried in astonishment. He passed the stone across to one of his fellows, to verify his verdict. “What are you?” he said, half-teasingly, to Jewel. “One of the baobhansith, with your temptress’s eyes? By fire and flood, if you are, ’tis a novel manner to seduce men—blackened with dirt, dressed in rags, your hair as rumpled as an overused besom. And so young!” He frowned. “You are human, are you not?”
Tight-lipped, she made no answering sign. This might be some trick.
“Out with it—speak!” he insisted. “Who are you? Why do you come prying around the inner places of the mountains? Where are the rest of your kin? How many of them are there?”
His accusing tone frightened her. Dumbstruck, she merely gaped.
“Ryence, leave her be!” some of the damsels protested ineffectually. “You are entirely alarming!”
Ryence stepped toward Jewel. She felt cornered. In sudden terror she darted out and tried to knock him aside, but he was too quick. A manacle of steel closed around her forearm. He had her in his grip. Struggling, she kicked him in the shins, but he merely laughed.
Then another youth came forward. “Let her go, Darglistel,” he said. “She’s only a child.”
Ryence, or Darglistel, dropped Jewel’s arm. The young men and girls with their horses surrounded her; there was nowhere to run. She froze.
The second youth released the reins of his steed. Then he deliberately hunkered down to crouch on his heels, so that he had to tilt his chin and look up at Jewel from grave eyes of jade. He said, “My name is Arran. I suspect you fear that we are not as we seem, but I assure you that I am human and so are my companions. We will not harm you. That is my promise. Would you like something to eat?” He unwrapped a small parcel and held out a cake. It was made of some crumbly substance, like lotus-corm meal, with dried berries baked through. It looks delicious, thought Jewel, her mouth watering. She was relieved at the revelation that her inquisitors were not eldritch, although human beings might equally mistreat her or betray her to her enemies. She had no desire to fraternize with anyone at all, and therefore shook her head. Go away.
“Are you lost?” asked the youth with the cake.
No reply.
“If you are, we can offer you food and shelter, and help you find your kindred.”
Silence.
“Will you at least accompany us on our picnic?”
A demurring shake of the dark head.
“Very well.” With a nod, Arran stood up and withdrew. To his companions, he said, “Let us move on.” They made no protest, obeying him as if he were their leader. “Giddap!” they murmured to their mounts, and soon they were filing past again, wide-eyed and inquisitive, studying this surprising apparition in the creepers.
The child’s mind conjured the terrible loneliness and fear haunting the mountains. She no longer had a home, or the protection of strong, loving parents—she did not even know, exactly, where she was. There was no comfort for her between these soaring walls of stone, no warmth upon the hard cold ground, no murmur of affection from the heartless wind. In the eyes of the youth called Arran she had divined concern and kindness. Suspicion warred with desperation. Her heart fluttered like a pinned butterfly.
“Wait,” she cried, then added uncertainly, “Are you truly human?”
The richly clad company laughed, and averred yes, they were.
“Then I will come with you. But only for a while.”
“It talks!” commented Ryence, but it was plain his banter was not ill-meant. Jewel joined the procession in its march. Once past the narrow section of the trail, they mounted their horses. “Ride up here with me!” one of the girls called, reaching her hand to Jewel. Vehemently, the child shook her head a second time. She trusted no one. They might ride, but she would walk. Ever on the alert, she would follow these folk with caution. For a while it would be refreshing to dine in company. For a while—that was all. When their picnic was over, she would take her leave.
Jewel counted fifteen young folk, all of whom made the newcomer welcome. As they proceeded along the mountain trail they slowed their steeds to keep pace with her. They leaned from their saddles and gave her tidbits of food. Amongst themselves they joked blithely and kept up multiple conversations. At the same time, however, the child noted the way many of them were looking into the sky, as if scanning for something, and some positioned their hands near the decorated hilts of their daggers. Most peculiarly, a rogue wind sprang up. As well as she could discern, there in the shelter of the mountain, it veered rapidly from the north through west and south, then from the east and back to its starting place, performing a complete revolution. It was the strangest wind she had ever experienced, but the riders, instead of sharing her bemusement, sat upright and appeared to be sniffing the air, like hounds on a hunt.
Jewel did not ask why. Deeply suspicious, she spoke very little to these strangers. Her father had said, at their parting, “Tell no one of your invulnerability.” She would tell them nothing at all about her background. As she walked, she invented lies in her head, in case she should be questioned.
Their route took the cavalcade back down to the bright dingle with its thermal waters. After throwing off their outer garments, the party swam and sported in the balmy pool as if it were harmless, and free of drowners. Jewel supposed it must be; there were no sudden vanishings. Notwithstanding, she seated herself somewhat apart from the rest and watched, eating some more of their fare and listening to their songs. It was impossible, however, not to relax a little, surrounded by this convivial consortium, and by scrutinizing them carefully she even began to trust them to some degree.
The dingle became steeped in late afternoon shadows. At the conclusion of their sojourn the party was packing up to depart when two of the older girls came over to Jewel and sat down beside her. One was tall and graceful; the other was of medium height, with hazel eyes, a pointy nose, and frizzy hair.
“I am Elfgifu Miller,” said the latter, “and this is my friend Ettare Sibilaurë. You seem to have strayed, or been abandoned. Will you return with us to our home?”
All around, the young riders were tightening the saddle-girths and ensuring the panniers were secure. In easy camaraderie they called to one another, still as blithe as ever. Some of the youths were indulging in horseplay at the water’s edge, and a couple
of the damsels had collapsed in hilarity at their antics. Others were flicking spangled droplets from their nut-brown hair.
A pang of homesickness and loss swept through the marsh-daughter. How could she leave this mirthful company and go on again in solitude, braving the unknown dangers of the wild? What if Maolmórdha had discovered her identity and issued a reward for her capture, or posted spies throughout the kingdoms to watch for her? She had no idea how far it was to King’s Winterbourne, and the cold season was drawing in. Already it was Ninember. Despite her invulnerablility, she might be captured by trows, or lost forever, wandering alone and in misery. Still, she must try to fulfill Eoin’s goal. . . .
She drew breath to say no to Elfgifu’s invitation. It was then that she perceived the expression of motherly concern on the faces of the older girls. A hardness inside her crumbled and gave way. It was a struggle to save it from deliquescing to tears.
“Even so,” she said at last, “I am lost. I will go with you.”
“What is your name?”
She told them.
Instantly she regretted her carelessness. In her fraught state of mind, distracted by woe and anxiety, she had imprudently blurted the truth before she could stop herself. It was now too late to repair the mistake.
All was rejoicing when Elfgifu’s friend Ettare imparted the news to her comrades. Ryence, called Darglistel, lifted Jewel as if she weighed no more than a daisy-petal, and set her on his horse behind him, saying, “Hold fast, wightlet!” This sudden close contact with a stranger disconcerted and affronted Jewel, but there was no opportunity to complain, nor did she deem it wise. She closed her mouth tightly and gripped the steed with her knees, for there was no side-saddle riding for the ladies amongst this mettlesome group. Then the company ascended the mountain trail at a fast trot, until they came near the place where she had first encountered them.
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 8
