It was up to Herebeorht to run the business now, aided by Grimbeald. Osweald was able to walk, albeit slowly and painfully, but he could neither ride a horse nor drive a cart nor lug heavy sacks. Parted from the hub of entrepreneurial activity, he became a morose figure, finding joy only in the company of his family.
The younger children especially were glad to have their father with them more often. Osweald was a master storyteller. His store of traditional tales about the exploits of weathermasters, and the goblin wars of ancient times, was apparently inexhaustible.
“Father, tell us about the olden days,” the children would say, gathering at his knee as he sat beside the fire of an evening. Jewel loved these tales, too, and was always to be found in the thick of the audience.
Centuries ago, when the power of the weathermasters had been at its height, one had lived who had been the strongest among them, the greatest warrior-weathermaster of all. Avolundar Stormbringer was a forefather of Avalloc. It was he, leading the weathermasters, who had inspired armies to free the Known Lands of Tir from the scourge of the goblins, with their wicked kobold slaves and their daemon horses, the trollhästen. Many were the accounts of valor that arose in those times.
“Are there any goblins around here?” one of the youngest children asked her father.
“No goblins are hereabouts. None are to be found in the Four Kingdoms anymore. They are all long gone.”
“I heard someone sing a song about them.”
“Those were dark times, now passed out of living memory. More than a century ago goblins made their mark indelibly on history. The memory of those times remains to haunt us in tales, in songs, on headstones. The goblin wars were long and terrible, but in the end mortalkind defeated the wicked wights utterly. Not even a remnant of their once-mighty nation exists. Do not fret—we are safe from goblinkind. But we have enough eldritch creatures of other kinds to trouble us!”
There were stories, too, about sea-wights: the merfolk and seal-kindred, the wave-maidens and the benvarreys. There were tales about the wights that dwelled underground, in old mines, and those that dwelled in abandoned buildings, or submerged in fresh water. There were anecdotes concerning trooping wights and solitaries, shape-shifters and shape-keepers, seelie and unseelie.
“Tell us the strange tale of the Dome of Strang in Orielthir,” Jewel would sometimes murmur.
“Well,” the miller would begin, “it is said that great treasure is hidden there, and uncanny objects that possess supernatural powers. There are precious metals and jewels, and pairs of seven-league boots, and a magickal cauldron that produces limitless food, and a harp that plays all by itself.”
Jewel always paid close attention to these stories. It both thrilled and disquieted her to recall that, unknown to any of the other listeners, this extraordinary fortress was inextricably linked with her own history. She wondered how much of the lore was truth, and how much was fiction prompted by the mystery and unassailability of the place.
“There is a bottomless purse that is always filled with gold coins no matter how often you empty it,” Osweald was fond of repeating, “and a bag of seeds that, when scattered on the ground, instantly spring up as armed warriors. And there are amazing creatures, such as the goose that lays golden eggs. Have I told you the story of that wonderful fowl?”
“Tell us again!”
Osweald willingly obliged. He told these tales and more, with the vivacity and expression of the true storyteller, and during these sessions he could almost ignore the pain of his swollen joints.
Aeronautics
Whenever Summer cast her glowing mantle across the high country, Jewel’s thoughts would turn to the marsh, and she would be beset by longing for her home and her people. The initial sorrow that had harrowed her at the time of her bereavements continued to become more bearable as the seasons revolved. Never was it completely erased, never would it be, but the agony gradually gave way to a sad nostalgia, at times a bitter yearning, and sometimes she dreamed she was falling from a great height. Her fear of being pursued also diminished over time. The mountain ring was a safe stronghold; geographically isolated from other centers of population, far from the royal palace in Cathair Rua, its charter wisely and justly administered by the Storm Lord and the councillors of Ellenhall. Jewel felt certain that even if her identity were somehow discovered and the king’s soldiers tracked her down, the weathermasters and plateau-dwellers would guard her. Her friends would surely refuse to allow her to be taken away against her will. She grew up with the miller’s family, and by the age of sixteen, she finally admitted there was no good reason why she should ever go to King’s Winterbourne. She had made High Darioneth her home.
At that age, Jewel came into the full inheritance of her parents’ beauty. Her eyes, fringed by two fans of luxuriant lashes, were two blue tulips sparkling in the dew of morning. She was lithe and slender, with a waist like a serpent. Her quick smile and the flash of her eyes were a virtual spell, although she was only half-aware of her power to charm. Except as part of her wide circle of friends, she had scant interest in the youths of the plateau or Rowan Green, preferring to ride or climb or trek on endless adventures and explorations, both within the ring of storths and without. Her inquisitiveness seemed insatiable. She wanted to discover everything about her surroundings, and sometimes this led her into danger. Somehow, she always managed to escape unscathed, even when her companions were less fortunate. Notwithstanding, her invulnerability was never noted. Who would think to look for such an obscure and bizarre quality in one who seemed to be conventionally human in every way?
Whenever anyone asked about her past, Jewel repeated the story that she and her uncle had been on their way to King’s Winterbourne to seek employment when they met with disaster.
“What about the other members of your family?” people would ask.
“My parents died in an accident in Cathair Rua. I have no sisters or brothers.”
Perceiving the sad look in Jewel’s azure eyes, the questioners would take pity on her, and leave off their enquiries. Uncomfortable about practicing deception, Jewel made a habit of discouraging information-seekers. Deep down she yearned to share her history with someone, but dared not.
When Elfgifu climbed the steep road to visit the weathermasters at Rowan Green, Jewel was always invited to accompany her. The marsh-daughter enjoyed popularity at the Seat. The weathermasters’ earlier pity for the plight of the lost orphan had turned to affection and even admiration. Jewel was quick-witted and seemed fearless. There was no physical challenge she would not tackle.
For her part, Jewel came to love and trust some who dwelled amongst them—in particular, Avalloc Maelstronnar-Stormbringer. Her confidence in him eventually grew so great, and her desire to confide her true history so pressing, that soon after her sixteenth birthday Jewel arrived at a pivotal decision and requested a private audience with the Storm Lord.
It was in the dining hall of his house that she met with him; a wide, lowceilinged chamber paneled with walnut and comfortably furnished. Jewel’s eyes were drawn to the great sword in its scabbard hanging on the wall above the fireplace. She knew the weapon by reputation, of course; its history was common knowledge. Here was Fallowblade, the golden sword, slayer of goblins, and heirloom of the House of Stormbringer. In High Darioneth many stories were told concerning this marvelous weapon, including a haunting tale from long ago, about a young man named Tierney A’Connacht who had wielded it to effect the rescue of his true-love from the clutches of the Sorcerer of Strang himself. Indeed, the hero A’Connacht had employed this very weapon to cut off one of the villain’s hands! Jewel regarded Fallowblade with admiration. In an odd way, it was connected with her; it had tasted the blood of her infamous ancestor.
Turning her attention to the Storm Lord, the damsel hesitantly informed him she had a secret, and asked if he would guard it.
“That I will, dear child, as long as the guarding does not endanger High Darioneth,” he replied.
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“I think it will not,” she replied, eager to share the burden with this wise and worthy leader.
“Before you begin, know that I might divulge your information to the other councillors of Ellenhall if the need arises. I keep no secrets from them, nor they from me. We are a tightly knit fellowship, bound together by the strongest ethics, and you can be certain we would never betray any confidences beyond our circle, not even to our close kindred.”
“I would be honored if the esteemed councillors were to be made privy to my tale,” Jewel replied without hesitation, curtseying formally. She related her story: how her father had been the scion of the deceased Sorcerer of Strang, and thus invulnerable to all harm except that which was caused by a rare plant and, as far as anyone knew, the ultimately lethal effects of old age; how the gift of immunity had been passed on to his daughter; how the sorcerer’s descendants were the only ones able to open the Dome of Strang, and how King Maolmórdha had hunted her father in order to persuade him to unseal that very fortress. She explained that the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu had been her real birthplace and home. Before fleeing from the wetlands her father and mother had been killed, while she, Jewel, had escaped with her uncle. Should Maolmórdha discover her existence, he would send soldiers to look for her. Jewel could only assume the marshfolk had not been forced to betray her. To prove her story she produced a small drawstring bag from her pocket and opened it, displaying the white jewel from the Iron Tree. It sparkled in the palm of her hand, like a polished shard of starshine.
The miller’s family knew of the jewel, of course. No material thing could be concealed from that large, boisterous lot, who treated all possessions with candor. They knew of it, and merely thought of it as Jewel’s jewel. They assumed it was made of glass. She usually kept it in a small wooden box Herebeorht had made for her, alongside other objects in her collection: the desiccated corpse of a purple butterfly, a green feather, a handful of shiny red seeds, a tawny stone.
“Indeed,” said Avalloc, nodding thoughtfully as he gazed into the dynamic brilliance of the stone, “I cannot help but recognize it at once. That is a renowned mineral. The news of its removal from the Tree caused a sensation in Slievmordhu, and was borne to the corners of the Four Kingdoms. Yet there is no need, Jewel, to provide evidence that you do not lie. I perceive you are being honest with me.”
“I entrust the truth to you, sir,” Jewel concluded humbly, as she tucked away the glittering nub of light, “because I hold you in the highest esteem. My great-grandmother, Eolacha the carlin, once walked among the weathermasters. She was a friend to them in her youth, and they thought well of her.”
“Eolacha of the marsh,” Avalloc Stormbringer said musingly. “That name is well known to me. She was a wise and great carlin, I have heard. I am sorry to learn she lives in Tir no longer. Marsh-daughter, your tale is extraordinary. You have endured much.”
He looked at her gravely from his hooded eyes, and she bowed her head in acknowledgment. “What other legacies have you received from Janus Jaravhor, hmm?” he asked.
“I do not understand you, sir.”
“Jaravhor was a man of skill. Is it possible he passed other talents to his heirs?”
“Not that I am aware of,” Jewel answered truthfully. “In every other way I am like the rest of humankind. I cannot sprout wings and fly, or destroy objects with a glance, or become invisible, or anything of the sort, if that is what you mean.”
“That is indeed what I mean. To me it makes sense that there was only one inheritable virtue. It is no petty feat for a mortal man to conjure a charm of the blood, one that can actually run in the family. No one else has ever achieved such an extraordinary result. I daresay Jaravhor must have striven life-long to succeed. With an enterprise of such magnitude there would have been no leisure for developing any other bequeathable spells.”
“I am disappointed I possess no other powers,” said Jewel. “If I had any, they would be at your service, my lord, and at the service of High Darioneth.” She bowed once more.
The Storm Lord nodded. “I see.” Presently he went on, “Many tidings are relayed to us here at Ellenhall, and many more come to us during our excursions—but amongst them I have never heard that Maolmórdha pursues a marshchild. Nonetheless, would it not put your mind at rest to find out, once and for all, whether Maolmórdha knows of you and seeks you?”
“It would indeed, sir!”
“Well, then, I will send one of my most discreet messengers to Cathair Rua. If anything is hidden, Rivalen Hagelspildar will be the one to uncover it.”
“I thank you, sir! Prithee, is there any way I can send a message to my step-grandfather in the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu?”
“You might write a letter,” he answered. “Next time one of our people travels that way, he or she shall deliver it. But it may be long ere that happens.”
Jewel thanked the Storm Lord for his kindness, and took her leave. Her mind felt unburdened. She wrote to Earnán, her step-grandfather, desperately hoping that he still lived. After giving the missive into Stormbringer’s keeping, she waited impatiently for the opportunity of its delivery.
There was only one matter she had neglected to mention in her interview with the mage—the fact that mistletoe was her bane. That was not of immediate consequence, Jewel decided, and indeed perhaps it was best that no one at all should know about the mistletoe, lest the information eventually find its way to the ears of any who might wish her ill.
A few days later, she was swayed by second thoughts. If anyone could be trusted to keep the matter confidential it was Avalloc Stormbringer. She could conjecture no reason why he should not be told. Next time she saw the Storm Lord she begged leave to take him aside, whereupon she imparted the information to him.
On hearing her words Avalloc raised his bushy eyebrows. “Mistletoe, hmm? How many other secrets are you keeping from us, Jewel?” he asked mildly.
“None at all, sir, I vow.”
“Then be of good cheer, child, for now you have wisely shared your confidences and the truth is in safe hands.”
Thus relieved and light of heart, the damsel directed her contemplations toward other topics of interest.
One of these topics was the wonders that were possibly locked within the Dome of Strang. The unknown had always intrigued Jewel; besides, the acquisition of sorcerous secrets could well provide her with life-long security in the form of prestige, knowledge, or wealth. Any of those three elements could help defend folk against life’s tragedies. If Jewel had been privy to wizardly lore years ago, for example, then when King Maolmórdha’s armed forces came looking for Jarred, she might perhaps have conjured illusory barriers to confound her father’s pursuers, or cast a spell to make them forget their orders. Alternatively, if she had been rich with Strang’s reputed treasures she might have bribed the soldiers, or purchased an impregnable fortress as a haven for her parents, protected by well-paid guards. If she had been famous as a sorceress and held in high regard, she would have been able to call on the aid of the mighty. Were she wizardly, wealthy, and wise, she would also be in a position to aid the powerless: blameless commoners like herself and her father, who were persecuted by those in authority.
Furthermore, the Dome and all its contents were hers by right of legitimate inheritance. The sorcerer’s “gift” had indirectly been the cause of her original misery; by rights his legacy ought to redress that wrong.
Another subject of fascination for Jewel was the power of the weathermasters. When her visits to Rowan Green became regular, she was entranced by glimpses of their weather-handling skills.
“Show me how it’s done,” she would beg her weathermaster friends. “Tell me the words; show me the gestures!”
“According to our law, it is forbidden to reveal our secrets to any who are not studying for weathermagehood.”
So she would ask the younger ones, when their elders were not listening. Most of her friends told her, “What’s the profit in it? Only those with
the brí in their veins can wield weather. You might say the words and make the gestures until you are hoarse and arthritic, but you wouldn’t swing a puff of wind or summon a single drop of rain. The brí is sometimes called the seventh sense, and one is either born with it or devoid of it.”
“If your secrets are useless to such as I,” said Jewel, “why are they forbidden?”
Arran Stormbringer explained, “There are those who are born with the brí who might use it to work wickedness. Therefore, the lessons are taught piecemeal as brí-children grow up. Prentices must pass tests of ethics as well as skill, before progressing to each higher level. They become journeymen; then at the age of twenty-one they are ready to pass the ultimate test and become full-fledged weathermages. Only then is the final secret of weather-wielding given to them. If they are not suitable, then even if the brí is strong in them, they will not be given the final training. We call untrained brí-heirs ‘gift-sundered.’ Some name them ‘the wasten,’ but that is an unkind term.”
“ ’Tis cruel to deny them their birthright,” said Jewel primly.
“Wrongful use of the brí could upset weather systems, even destroy the world.”
“Oh, but I would not tell anyone else the secrets,” she coaxed earnestly. “Trust me!”
The son of the Storm Lord would not be moved by her pleadings.
Conversely, Ryence Darglistel-BlackFrost was always happy to oblige. He was twenty years old now, a swaggerer who enjoyed showing off his skills. “Come with me, wightlet,” he would say to Jewel, elaborately glancing over his shoulders as if to check for eavesdroppers. “I’ll teach you to summon the wind.”
She needed no coaxing. Every time she tried to wield weather, she failed; nonetheless, she lived in constant hope that she might succeed, one day, if she practiced long and hard enough. Ryence did nothing to discourage this conviction. Together, they would stand atop a bluff that stood out into a chasm high on Wychwood Storth, overlooking the plateau. Raising his hands and sketching a subtle character on the air, Ryence would utter words unfathomably strange to the ears of the damsel, the commands of weatherworking gramarye. They sounded like words she recognized, but he said them in such a way, with such inflections and nuances, that they seemed no longer to be words but volant vectors, the sequels to atmospheric phenomena.
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 13
