Having dismounted, they led their horses along the narrow section and through the slim defile, but Jewel hung back, wary of the dangers of enchanted paths.
“What’s amiss?” her companions asked.
“This path leads nowhere!”
“Come with us and see,” they said, smiling, and they took her right up to the dead end. Now Jewel was able to perceive that this was no blind alley after all, but an optical illusion. She was greatly taken aback and, after her initial incredulity had dissipated, she wondered, not without alarm, how many other seemingly undistinguished places she had passed on her travels, unaware they concealed some secret.
The trail did not finish; instead, it circumnavigated a massive granite boulder and, passing behind it, entered a tall, narrow opening in the mountainside. This opening, shielded by one monolith among many so similar, was invisible to anyone standing at the lower end of the defile. Nevertheless, some members of the company were observing to each other, “The path is becoming much too obvious. ’Tis time we camouflaged it again.” A minor argument broke out. “It was your turn to strew leaves . . .”
The opening gave on to a rocky passage driven right into the flanks of the mountains. Fine strings of water trickled along the sloping floor, and the sides leaned in like the walls of a tent. Soon the floor became a stairway, its treads wide but steep, winding up through the living rock. Cheerfully, the company led their horses up the steps, making a clatter that echoed like a spilling of rattles in that confined space. Jewel followed, not without trepidation. She had never before seen anything like this underground ascent, dank and rough-hewn, whistling with cool air. Here and there, light entered through thin overhead shafts.
“We have entered through what we call the Southeast Door,” said Elfgifu, climbing at her side near the rear of the procession. “It is a secret way, known only to our folk, but because you have been lost, you would not know how to find it again. Therefore we can trust you with the secret.”
For the first time, Jewel comprehended they were almost as suspicious of her as she was of them. The notion was mollifying.
At length the lofty stairs came to an end. Ahead of Jewel, the company made its exit, and then it was her turn. Orchid-pink light streamed in from outside, and the rocky walls opened onto a vista so spectacular that the child stood stock-still, trying to assimilate what she saw.
She found herself on a wide ledge above an immense wooded plateau, many miles in diameter, encircled by saw-toothed mountain peaks. Over the western ranges the sun was setting, casting peach-colored luminescence across orchards and fields. The fading light caught the glimmer of a lake, and smoke was rising from the chimney of a distant cottage.
The ledge was not much higher than the tops of the nearest trees. When she glanced to the right, Jewel saw a much loftier platform jutting from an escarpment about half a mile away, like a gigantic shelf, overlooked by a cloud-mantled crag. It was greater in all dimensions, so wide that large buildings had been erected all over it. A fence of stone ran along the platform’s outer edge.
“Behold!” cried Elfgifu, her extravagant flourish indicating the entire tableland. “High Darioneth!” Awed, Jewel merely gaped, absorbing the dramatic loveliness of the scene.
“And,” Ettare added, nudging the child’s shoulder and pointing to the cluster of buildings on the cliff-top, “Rowan Green, the Seat of the Weathermasters, where stands Ellenhall.”
Weathermasters!
Jewel wondered how she could have become so slow-witted. Of course! These folk were children of the weathermasters, that mighty kindred who made their home in the mountain ring of Narngalis. She had seen men of their number before, at market-fairs in Cathair Rua, striding along the aisles between the booths, grave and self-possessed in their storm-gray cloaks, their belts buckled with sun-forged platinum, a trio of three curious hieroglyphs blazoned on their shoulders.
Weathermasters were well respected by all of humankind, for, of all mortals, only they were born with puissance of the blood called the brí—a talent very different from the power of eldritch wights. Their far-reaching faculties could sense and predict the dynamics of pressure systems and temperature inversions, of wind currents, of the interfaces between air masses of different temperatures or densities, and most other meteorological phenomena. A strong people were they, and prosperous. Their weather-modifying abilities were in great demand throughout the Four Kingdoms of Tir.
Once, Jewel had heard her beloved Eolacha say, “In days of yore I was well acquainted with several of the weathermasters, but no longer.” She had been speaking of her youth, when she was wont to make excursions from the marsh.
If Eolacha had invested faith in them, it was likely they could be trusted. Eolacha Kingfisher Arrowgrass, Eoin’s grandmother, was a carlin, a wise-woman who had been chosen to receive a Staff of gramarye from the eldritch hag of Winter, the Cailleach Bheur. The old woman, now deceased, had been compassionate and erudite, the embodiment of sound judgment. Jewel had admired and loved her profoundly.
Down a winding path she made her way with the children of the weathermasters, until they reached the plateau floor. At the foot of the incline they remounted, and once again Ryence took her upon his horse. Away they cantered, along a cart-track through groves of trees burgeoning with walnuts and chestnuts. Along the way they were hailed by a farmer driving a cart, and later by three fellows in light mail, who Jewel supposed were watchmen. After passing through the orchards and alongside a meadow the road climbed steeply up the side of the great platform jutting from the mountainside. More than three hundred feet above the floor of the plateau the road leveled out. It passed though an open gate and into the precincts of Rowan Green.
The final caress of the dying sun gilded the walls of nine imposing half-timbered houses. Most of the lower stories were built of granite, while a great many of the upper stories, which often projected out over the ground floors, were constructed of dark oaken frames filled in with brick and whitewashed plaster. Clusters of chimneystacks protruded from among the slate tiles of the steeply gabled roofs, each column fluted, twisted, and decorated with checkerboard or herringbone patterns of variously colored bricks. Solid blocks of granite surrounded the heavy oak doors, ornamented with their ironmongery of hinges and studs. Stone mullions encased diamond-paned leaded-glass windows, whose flattened arches were capped by simple squared-off moldings. Some of the manors boasted impressive oriels; jutting, multi-sided windows cantilevered out from the upper floor, and supported on a corbel from beneath.
These stately homes were arranged around the outer perimeter of the shelf, centering on a spacious village green carpeted with short turf, wherein a snow-drift of geese and ducks congregated at a pond. Between the houses majestic rowan-trees, far taller than the rowans of the lowlands, put forth their boughs. White birds orbited overhead, and fled down like sudden gusts of leaves to alight in the loft built above the stables, set apart from the dwellings. The air was mellifluous with their cooing. From high on the mighty crag overlooking Rowan Green a waterfall draped its silken threads down the precipices. Glittering, it bypassed the horizontal apron on which the houses stood, hurtling straight down to the flat lands at the foot of the cliff, where it flowed, burbling, away amongst the orchards.
In the middle of the green, abutting an octagonal tower, stood a long building constructed of the same materials as the houses. A slender belfry-turret topped the gable. A larger, longer edifice was set at right angles to the first, and somewhat apart. At one end, veils of smoke plumed from three chimneys. Primrose lamplight was exuding from the windows, and much activity was evident within. On catching sight of the incoming cavalcade, a group of small children shouted greetings and scampered to surround the riders.
“Who’s that with Ryence?” they demanded, skipping alongside the horses. “What’s her name?”
“Be patient,” said Arran, holding up his palm. “All will be told over supper.”
“I won’t tell you anything over
supper,” Ryence informed the children. “My business will be dining.”
Savory fragrances floated from the vicinity of the long hall. After the riders had dismounted, Ettare said in Jewel’s ear, “Come with us.” Still flinging badinage at one another, the erstwhile picknickers split into groups, each group leading their horses to the salubrious community stables, where they unsaddled them before heading to their dwellings. Elfgifu, Ettare, and Ettare’s three sisters took Jewel to the house at the farthest end of the Green.
“Will you bide here in the Sibilaurë house tonight?” Ettare asked the child. “Elfgifu will be staying with us until the morrow.”
“Aye,” said Jewel, glad of the invitation from the amiable Ettare and her sisters.
The interior of the Sibilaurë family’s house humbled her with its size and astonished her with its grandeur. To the marsh-daughter, accustomed to small wooden cottages hoisted on stilts and thatched with reeds, this grand abode of many rooms seemed like a palace. The walls were lined with paneling made from dark, fine-grained wood. A sweeping staircase led up to a second story. The wide, low-ceilinged chambers were disposed with intricately carved furniture fashioned from the same dark wood, glowing warmly with the layers of beeswax that had been applied over the years. The windows, instead of being unglazed, were filled in with the kind of diamond-paned lattices Jewel had seen in Cathair Rua, and draped with sumptuous folds of curtains. There were carpets on the floor, rather than rushes. Lamps seemed to be everywhere, and candles of pure beeswax also, in contrast to the tallow-dipped rushlights common in the marsh. Their long stems were upheld by candelabra made of a silver-white metal, not baked ceramic.
In wonder and delight, Jewel gazed at her surroundings. She was introduced to Ettare’s family—a confusion of names and faces. In a tiled room, water came pouring from a spigot, steaming hot. She washed her face and tried ineffectually to drag her comb through her tangled hair, before being escorted to the long building on the Green.
“This is the Common Hall,” said Elfgifu, her guide, “also named ‘Long Gables.’ ’Tis where we have banqueting and dancing. The other large building, that one in the middle with the tower and belfry, that is our Moot Hall, where our Council meets. We call it ‘Ellenhall under Wychwood Storth.’ Tonight all the families of Rowan Green, and some from the plateau below, are feasting together in honor of the birthday of the Maelstronnar. My friends and I managed to evade the preparations by escaping on our jaunt to the Hot Pool. Our excuse was that we needed fresh air, after being cooped indoors during the rainy days.”
Venturing a comment, Jewel said, “But you are weathermasters. You might have commanded the rain to cease, if it inconvenienced you.”
“I am like you—not a scion of a weathermaster family,” replied Elfgifu, “unlike most of my friends. But, even if I were, I would not stop the rain of Tir’s-law from falling merely for the sake of convenience, and neither would they.”
Instantly, Jewel understood. She recalled the philosophies of her carlin great-grandmother, who had always taught that the upsetting of natural balances and the bending of the world’s laws was not to be undertaken lightly. “It is the responsibility of the powerful to maintain the equilibrium,” Eolacha used to say, when Jewel asked her why she did not wield her eldritch-bestowed abilities more extravagantly and indiscriminately. As a small child, Jewel had considered this a tiresome ethic. Where was the joy in possessing power, if one could not use it as one pleased? These days, with her freedom threatened by a monarch whose political powers were unbridled in his own realm, she had revised that opinion. She was convinced, however, that if she ever had the good fortune to become powerful, she would wield her influence with far greater justice and mercy than a spineless king such as Maolmórdha.
Nonetheless, she could not help thinking that to own the talent to make the wind blow and not be permitted to raise gales at whim must be as vexatious as being heir to a fortress full of secrets, with no opportunity to reach and breach it, as irksome as loathing one’s ancestor for causing catastrophe in one’s life and being incapable of wreaking some form of belated revenge. It was conceivably almost as devastating as having one’s loved ones stolen away and being unable to grasp any security in this fickle world. . . . At this point Jewel realized she was allowing her sensibilities to escalate out of proportion. Stubbornly, she thrust aside her grief before it welled afresh and overpowered her.
An elongated table ran down the center of Long Gables. The spacious interior was packed with well-dressed people, firelight, lamplight, and shaggy-haired dogs the color of bleached yarn. To find oneself amongst such a large crowd of strangers was quite daunting. Jewel gathered her courage and tried to make sense of all that was happening. After telling the tale of her discovery, her newfound friends fended off undue attention and, as soon as the concourse turned its attention to social matters, the stranger was apparently overlooked. She was given a seat on a wooden settle, between Elfgifu and Ettare, where, overwhelmed by a sense of awe, she gaped at her magnificent surroundings while endeavoring to shrink into obscurity. From there, as the evening progressed and a lavish supper was merrily consumed, she was able to observe and learn much.
At the head of the table sat Avalloc Maelstronnar, the Storm Lord of Ellen-hall. He, whose family name meant Stormbringer was the leader and most powerful of all weathermasters. The jade eyes of the Storm Lord were hooded by deep lids; his nose was hooked like the beak of an eagle. Straight-backed and snow-haired in his ash-colored robes, he seemed as sturdy and enduring as an antique oak tree. Jewel had no way of knowing it, but the Storm Lord had inherited the striking looks of his grandsires. His immediate family was seated near him, along with his closest comrades amongst the weathermages and councillors of Ellenhall. They were surrounded by the various branches of the Maelstronnar family and the stewards of his household also.
The benches up and down the table were occupied by descendants of other lineages, young and old; brí-child, prentice, journeyman, and weathermage.
“The chiefest among the weathermaster familes,” Ettare instructed the guest, “are those of Maelstronnar, Darglistel, Sibilaurë, Longiníme, Ymberbaillé, Dommalleo, Cilsundror, Heaharním, and Nithulambar, but each family has its branches, and those branches bear sundry other names.”
Jewel promptly forgot these foreign-sounding cognomens. She reckoned there must be more than a hundred folk occupying the hall, every one of goodly bearing and appearance. Some were dressed in richly patterned raiment of various colors, like those she had first met. The elder weathermasters, however, no matter were they man or woman, were invested with splendid raiment in many shades of gray; storm-cloud, ash, iron, and slate. These were the weathermages. Their garments of voluptuous velvet and copiously embroidered satin were emblazoned with the emblem of their calling: the runes for Water, Fire, and Air: ¥, ψ, and §.
One of their number rose to his feet and, as a hush fell, he began to sing:
“A wondrous sword was Fallowblade, the finest weapon ever seen,
Forged in the far-famed Inglefire, wrought by the hand of Alfardēne,
Famed master-smith and weathermage. Of gold and platinum ’twas made:
Iridium for reinforcement, gold to coat the shining blade,
Delved from the streams of Windlestone, bright gold for slaying wicked wights,
Fell goblins, bane of mortalkind, that roamed and ruled the mountain heights
Upon a dark time long ago.
“To forge the mighty Fallowblade upon the peak of bitter snows
The Storm Lord labored long and hard. The heights rang with his hammer blows,
Hot sparks flew up like meteors. A lord of fire was Alfardēne;
With power terrible he filled the sword. And all along the keen
And dreadful blade he wrote the words in flowing script for all to find:
Mé maraigh bo diabhlaíocht—‘I am the Bane of Goblinkind.’
Upon a dark time long ago.
“When we
atherlords to battle fared, the glinting of the yellow blade
Was spied from far off. Wild and strange the melody, the blood-song played
By winds against the leading edge. The wielder of the golden sword
Smote wightish heads, hewed pathways of destruction through the goblin horde.
Their smoking blood flowed on the ground. Unseelie wights were vanquished. Then,
‘To victory!’ sang Fallowblade. ‘Sweet victory for mortal men!’
Upon a dark time long ago.”
The audience applauded heartily. Food and drink were plentiful. Conversations were lively and manifold; songs were chorused with enthusiasm. Have these people an endless appetite for roistering? thought Jewel, yawning. I am not weary, she told herself. I do not expect to be weary.
Then she fell asleep, her head cradled on her arms, which rested on the table.
When she opened her eyes in the morning, Jewel was lying in a soft, canopied bed. She was sharing it with Elfgifu, who was still asleep, her face framed by the frilly nightcap of white lawn covering her fountain of flyaway hair. Elfgifu was clad in a matching night-dress. Jewel was wearing a clean linen shift, which her hosts had lent her to replace her travel-stained rags. She grimaced, noticing that her grimy clothes were piled in a corner on the floor beside a heap of laundered ones, and left the bed. After checking that her father’s white gem was still hidden in her pocket, she tiptoed to the window.
Out across the stable roofs she looked, and through the foliage of a rowan-tree, and past the parapet bordering the cliff edge. To the left, the fertile plateau of High Darioneth stretched away toward the far side of the mountain ring. To the right, towering steeps soared up like a colossal palisade. The lofty waterfall was making music. Dark double bows of bird-shapes were circling in a sky that seemed impossibly huge; pale blue and depthless. When they flew closer, Jewel could see that they were pigeons, glistening white as blowing blossoms against the shadowed trees and roofs. Behind the cloud-wrapped peak of Wychwood Storth, the sun was rising. Attenuated shadows, stains of etiolated blue, lay peacefully across fields and orchards hazed by morning mist.
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 9
