The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “,” commanded the young weathermaster.

  And an artful zephyr would come silking out of the west, picking up the sable tresses of Jewel’s hair and causing them to dance gently about her face, before passing away like a sigh.

  “Blaw, Sefir, ye west wynde,” said Jewel, imitating his gestures, “two hundred and sixty, force two.”

  No breeze arose.

  The more these failures angered Jewel, the more Ryence would laugh at her. Stubbornly, she mastered her indignation and said, “While I am learning to govern the wind, Prince Braggart, you might as well teach me the rest of your weathermaster lore.”

  “Unlike weathermastery, knowledge of the lore is not forbidden to ordinary folk,” said the young man. “Therefore, ’twill not be so amusing.”

  “I,” said Jewel with dignity, “am not ordinary. Teach me.”

  This she learned: that weathermages could govern three of the four elements. Air they could command, and Fire and Water, but not Tir, the rock and soil of the land. Over quakes, avalanches, and crystals they had no mastery. However, their ability to wield Air, Fire, and Water more than compensated for their lack of influence on Tir. Air pressure, fronts, winds, tornadoes, and hurricanes could be guided and altered at their will. Lightning, fireballs, fire itself, thermal springs, ambient temperatures, rays of the sun, and even volcanoes were subject to the influence of the brí.

  Of all the elements, the most important was Water.

  “Water,” instructed Ryence, “makes Life possible. Life can exist anywhere there is Water, even in the absence of Air or the warmth of the sun’s Fire. The bodies of mortal beings are made mostly of Water. Even trees are half composed of the stuff.”

  Rain, fog, mist, steam, rivers, waterfalls, ice, snow, frost, rime, dew, sleet, lakes, clouds, hail, humidity, tides, and the great flood-waves of the oceans could all be chastened by the weathermages. Waterweaving was the third and last of the skills taught to the students, after they became journeymen. Airmastery was the first, and Fireworking was learned in the middle years of their studenthood. It was within the compass of weathermasters to swiftly direct local elements, such as small puffs of wind, and tiny fires, but to regulate more extensive forces such as regional weather systems took time and patience and not a little skill and strength.

  Ryence Darglistel liked Jewel; she was well aware of that by now. For her part, she would sometimes allow him to kiss her in return for information. He annoyed her, teased her. In return she deliberately tried to vex him. She half liked him, half hated him; he aroused her to fervors of varying sorts, and he was never dull. He was like a spark, bright, exciting, hurtful, quick to disappear, causing damage, yet kindling flame. When she paid attention to his face and form Jewel knew he was good to look at, strong and well made, comely of feature, his hair the color of hazelnuts, his eyes bright with mischief and mockery. Nonetheless, in the certainty that his attraction to her was due more to his liking of her looks than a desire for companionable conversation, she thought of him sometimes as a plaything, sometimes as a tormentor, rarely as a friend.

  “Byrn, ye beorht brond!” Jewel would cry, bouncing the knuckles of her right hand off the upturned palm of her left, while wiggling her fingers.

  “” the deeper voice of the journeyman weathermaster would ring out, and after a dextrous flourish his left hand was holding a tiny flame that danced between his fingers and never blackened or scorched them. Nettled, Jewel comforted herself with the secret knowledge that although she could not hold fire within her hand, she could hold her hand within fire.

  Notwithstanding, she could not resist blowing out Ryence’s flame.

  After four weeks away, the Storm Lord’s messenger Rivalen Hagelspildar returned from his journeys in the lands beyond the storths. He brought tidings that there was no hunt for Jewel. No watch was kept for her. Four years earlier, King Maolmórdha’s cavalrymen of the Royal Horse Guards had witnessed with their own eyes that Jarred was dead, and the marsh people had vowed that he had no child. The search for a scion of the sorcerer had been abandoned long ago.

  The last fetters of anxiety loosened themselves from Jewel. Finally, she felt she was at liberty. With freedom came thoughts of returning to the friends and family she had left behind in the marsh—Earnán, her grandfather; Cuiva and Odhrán Rushford and their children, Oisín, Ciara, and Ochlán; Neasán Willowfoil, the Tolpuddles, and even the Alderfens.

  A prentice on a southbound journey had borne Jewel’s letter with him. He returned, saying he’d given it into the hands of a Marsh Watchman. Jewel’s hopes soared. As weeks passed, however, her excitement faded. No answering letter appeared.

  She told herself it was difficult to find honest travelers who would deliver letters. She told herself that in all likelihood a letter had been sent from the marsh, but the bearer had been waylaid by Marauders or unseelie wights. Excuse after excuse vaporized. Eventually there remained no other explanation; tragedy had overtaken her people in the marsh. Her grandfather must be dead.

  Then a letter arrived, carried into High Darioneth along East Road, in the dusty packs of a band of traveling hawkers. When Jewel unfolded the papyrus and saw it had been written by Earnán she flew into a mad dance, then eagerly sat down to decipher his old-fashioned spelling.

  Beloved Gariníon [he wrote], my Heart is breaking. It hath been a hard Task to put Pen to Paper synce your News arryved. I am sorely grieved to hear of my Son’s fate. May he rest in Peace. He was a fyne Lad. One of the fynest. I can wryte no more on thys Subject for now, lest my tears smudge thys Letter.

  We are all hale and we myffe you. After you departed we had to selle your Pony but we founde hym a goode Home. We have a new Upyall, fatter than the last, which lyved to a good age, Tralee is old but in found Health, and Eoin’s Retryver Sally is dwellynge comfortably wyth the Tolpuddles in Eoin’s old House which is styll flotynge, wyth the Weathercock atop. The Green Laydye haunts the Caufewaye stylle, but she is a seelye Wyte lyke all Gruagachs, and the Tolpuddles have growne ufed to her. Keelyn Styllwater is now marryed and so alfo her Brother. Floods have shyfted the high ground behynde the houfe and now our apple tree grows from the opposyte bank. There are no more Felle-cats in the Marsh. We thynke the Tiddy Mun hath dryven them out.

  The Weathermafters are worthy Folk and you wryte that you are well treated. But do not return to the Marshe. It would be too perylous. Here, we never speak of Matters furroundynge the Purfuite of your Father by a Certaine Authorytye. Your Return may well styrre up all that old Trouble. There is Nobody here who wysheth you Harme, but Harme might come in unlooked-for Ways. By Myftake or Ignorance. We yearn to see you again, but it is better that you remain in Safetye. My Bones are gettynge old and there is always Worke to be done. One Day, perhaps, Cyrcumftances myte allow me to vysyt you. But it is a long Way. For now I am glad you are safe and well. An old Man’s Heart is lyter, for redynge your Sentiments.

  After perusing his letter several times, dwelling on every word, Jewel was forced to acknowledge the logic in her grandfather’s reasoning. She showed the papyrus to the Storm Lord and he agreed.

  “That does not signify you will never see your family and friends again,” he added, gently. “Time brings changes. The future is never clear, no matter what the druids may claim.”

  The discontent of the marsh-daughter was scarcely quelled by the good news from the marsh. When she had received the tidings that she was not looked for by King Maolmórdha, restless longings recommenced to seethe and ferment in her brain, as though floodgates had been shattered. The desire to uncover the secrets of Strang’s enigmatic Dome returned with redoubled force. Now, if she wished, she might journey to the mysterious region of Orielthir without fear of recognition and pursuit!

  Yet the stories about the Dome told that it had remained heavily guarded for years. Old King Maolmórdha, taking no chances that a rival might try to crack the seal and steal the contents from under his nose, had set a permanent watch on the building. Jewel dreamed of leavi
ng High Darioneth and journeying to Orielthir, but the prospect of being captured by Maolmórdha’s guards was not one she relished; thus she was forced to dwell in tolerance of her unrequited desires, a situation she found vexing in the extreme.

  The year that she turned sixteen was notable to Jewel’s mind chiefly because of the new and fearless future that had broadened before her, and for two occurrences—one joyous, the other strange.

  On an evening, hoop-backed Osweald Miller was making his way slowly along the willow-festooned banks of the millstream when he heard a thin weeping and wailing that seemed to come out of the ground. To his ears, it sounded like the cry of a sorrowing child. His heart was moved to pity, but when he looked around he could see nobody. Limping on with his head bowed down in its customary position, he came across the two broken halves of a child’s shovel lying in the grass. It was a tool such as his own children were wont to use, digging in the vegetable patch or delving little water-channels from the mill-race, on which to float their toy boats. Painfully he leaned and picked up the two halves, turning them over in his hands. I reckon I could mend this, he thought, and he took the pieces back to the mill workshop.

  There he sawed the splintered ends to form two neat parts of a joint, then bolted them together and wrapped them with a good length of thick twine soaked in strong glue. It hurt his aching body to perform these tasks, but the memory of the child’s voice crying for its toy sustained him in his labors. Next morning he went out along the banks of the stream, and left the mended shovel where he had found it. The lamenting was still going on, but it had decreased to desultory sobs, interspersed with sniffing.

  As he was about to hobble away, the miller noticed he was standing near a green hillock his children called “The Pixy Mound.” Well, he said to himself with a wry grin, perhaps I have been of help to some wight. As he departed he called out, “There’s your shovel—no need to cry anymore.”

  Instantly, the sobbing ceased.

  On the following day, his curiosity aroused, the crippled miller returned to the hillock. The mended shovel was gone, and in its place was a new-baked cake, golden-brown, still warm and steaming. Osweald buckled his distorted joints enough to lean over and pick it up. He wrapped the cake in his kerchief and took it home.

  “Go to the carlin at Rowan Green,” he instructed his eldest daughter, “and ask her what I should do with this delicacy. I believe it is a wight-gift, but it is said to be unwise to eat their food.”

  Elfgifu dutifully rode to the Seat, and when she came back she said, “Father, Carlin Longiníme advised that since this is a gift in return for an act of kindness, it will not harm you and might, in fact, bestow some benefit. She warned that no one else should touch so much as a crumb.”

  Her father unwrapped the cake and scrutinized it. “It looks tasty,” he said, and took a bite.

  An expression of bliss transformed his face, and as he swallowed, the transformation appeared to spread from his face throughout his entire body. He straightened and stood up tall, threw back his head, and flung out his arms. “Ha!” he shouted. “I am cured!” With that he bolted down the rest of the cake for good measure and, with his mouth still full, grabbed his astonished wife by the waist and lifted her high in the air. “I’m more hale than ever I was!” he shouted. “Herebeorht, fetch the keys to the cellar. Tonight we’ll all celebrate!”

  The strange event of Jewel’s year happened several weeks after the joyous occasion of the miller’s recovery.

  Autumn had rolled around again, the fifth Autumn she had seen at High Darioneth. The season was particularly bountiful. The boughs of the orchard trees bent to the ground with the weight of their fruit, and the colors of the turning leaves shimmered in the clear light of high altitudes, ruffled by fresh breezes.

  Sevember had passed, and the occasion of the annual High Darioneth Horn Dance with its antler-headed entertainers had come and gone, as always with much merriment. It was now Lantern Eve, the last day of Otember, and nearing the hour at which the eldritch Winter Hag would begin walking the wild places of Tir, smiting the land to suspend propagation and invoke bitter weather. In the fire-bright kitchens of the mill the last of the cooking was taking place, in preparation for the evening’s festivities. Clad in aprons and daubs of honey, with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, Jewel, Elfgifu, and Hilde were helping the cook to bake nut-bread. On such occasions, the Miller sisters were wont to sing lustily, “to make the task lighter,” as Elfgifu put it. A tuneless old nursery chant was well under way:

  “Nut-bread, nut-bread, we’re a-baking nut-bread.

  ‘How does one make that bread?’ the milk-maid said.

  Four eggs, crack them up, fresh honey half a cup,

  Mix the eggs and honey till they’re syrupy and runny.

  Two cups of grinded nuts, another half for Greedy-Guts,

  Mix the eggs and nut-flour; use a bit of elbow power,

  Quarter cup of melted butter, blend it in to make the batter.

  Soda next, half a teaspoon, pinch of salt, just to season.

  Bake it till it’s golden-brown. Nicest bread in Hatfield Town.”

  “Why Hatfield Town?” Hilde asked, sloppily stirring a mixture in a bowl she held in the crook of her elbow.

  “Because it fits with the rhythm,” replied her elder sister.

  “Watch that batter, Mistress Hilde!” scolded the cook. “ ’Tis spattering everywhere on the floor.”

  “I’ve eaten nicer bread than dry old nut-bread,” said Hilde, still beating vigorously with her wooden spoon. “I prefer the wheaten loaves they make in King’s Winterbourne, and most of the lowland villages. They’re so soft and spongy.”

  “What a pity for you,” said Elfgifu airily. “You won’t get too many of those hereabouts, not unless you marry a son of the weathermasters and go to live at Rowan Green.”

  Hilde glanced slyly at Jewel, who was measuring out walnut meal with small attempt at accuracy, her attention apparently wandering from her task. “When Jewel is living up there she’ll invite us to visit every day, won’t you, Jewel?”

  “What?” said Jewel. Oblivious of their chattering, she had been staring out the window. Above the dulcet gurglings of the millstream, faint wight-sounds of lamentation and eldritch revelry floated in from the surrounding orchards. Close by, a barn-owl hooted. The first star had not yet appeared in the darkening skies, but behind the distant storths the moon was already rising, hanging low on the horizon like a faded image of the sun, full, copper-mellow, and luminescent.

  Something had gone by, out past the water-pump and through the kitchen garden toward the duck pond. Initially, Jewel had assumed it was one of the children, but on second thought she was not so sure.

  “When you’re living at the Seat you’ll ask us to visit you every day, won’t you?” repeated Hilde.

  “Yes,” said Jewel absently. She turned away from the window, holding an overflowing cup of nut-meal in her hand. “What? What are you talking about?”

  Hilde and Elfgifu chuckled.

  “Now then, misses, stop your mischief and take heed of your work,” reprimanded the long-suffering cook. “You are supposed to be helping me, not scattering food all over my kitchen. Mistress Jewel, you are dispersing nut-flour like a farmer sowing seed.”

  Energetically, Hilde roared, “Nut-bread, nut-bread, we’re a-baking nut-bread. ‘How does one make that bread?’ the milk-maid said.”

  Jewel forgot the apparition in the kitchen garden, dismissing it as a fancy.

  Then, three days after Lantern Eve she took a basket and went mushrooming on her own, partly to absent herself from the general hurly-burly of the mill and find some solitude, partly to thwart Ryence Darglistel, who had told her he would be riding down past the mill that day and might call in. Jewel loved company, but she also enjoyed teasing Ryence with unpredictable behavior, trying to throw him off balance, as he so often did to her. Besides, only when she was alone could she ponder her past, examine her memories, review t
he recollections that were fading day by day. She did not want her history to become lost to her. The marsh had been a happy home, and she thought of it wistfully, wishing there was someone with whom she might share her reminiscences.

  Carrying the basket on her arm, she roamed the paths of the plateau until she had wandered far from the cultivated regions, down by a wild stream that ran through a patch of beech-wood. Here she had found mushrooms before, and here she found them again, popping up their creamy buttons between the roots of the trees. Her basket was half-full when she straightened, to ease her back. Not far away a small, man-like creature was sitting on a fallen tree-trunk, with its knees drawn up to its chest.

  It was watching her.

  She almost dropped the basket. Recovering her composure, she returned the creature’s inspection, peering at it sidelong, lest she offend it by making eye contact. From the waist up it appeared like an ugly little man with pointed, tufty ears, a turned-up nose, and eyes that slanted up to the outer corners in the usual manner of wights. Its head was covered with a thicket of curly brown hair, from which protruded two stubby horns. It wore a threadbare jacket, frayed at the cuffs, and a tattered waistcoat of indeterminate color. Ragged breeches covered its shaggy goats’ legs.

  That this was an urisk Jewel knew from stories her mother had told her. She could not remember ever having seen one of these seelie wights. The one that had been attached to her mother’s household had disappeared when Jewel was three years old.

  Should she move? Should she speak? If she did, would it vanish? Her curiosity overcame her, and she said courteously, “Good morrow, sir.”