The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  It was a brisk afternoon in Jenever when a lad from Rowan Green arrived at the mill to announce that the sky-balloon Windweapon would be leaving from the launching place early the very next morning and the Maelstronnar’s wishes were that Jewel of the mill should be aboard. A frenzy of activity followed this news. Somehow, amidst the running up and down stairs, the packing, unpacking, and repacking, and the loud offerings of conflicting advice, Jewel made ready for the excursion.

  While continuing to conceal the fact that she was the heir of the Sorcerer of Strang, she had informed the Millers that she was going to visit her ageing grandfather in Cathair Rua. The fewer who knew the truth of her identity, the better—not that she did not trust the Millers, but she knew that an innocent slip of the tongue might cost her her freedom.

  “My grandfather Earnán is my only living relative,” she had told the family, which was true, as far as she knew, for she had no idea whether Jarred’s father, Jovan, was still alive, “and I yearn to see him again. The Storm Lord said I may ride in a sky-balloon, but only if there is room, and only if an aerostat is making the voyage anyway, regardless of my request.”

  Her friends enviously jested that they ought to invent long lost relatives so that they, too, might ride in a sky-balloon. “You have charmed even the Storm Lord, Jewel,” they bantered. “You have put some Slievmordhuan spell on him! It is rare that he gives permission for mere passengers to be transported, rarer still for him to allow anyone who is not a weathermaster to flit through the clouds in one of those aircraft.”

  Many among Jewel’s circle began badgering her with demands, entreating her to use any influence she might have with the Maelstronnar to cajole him into letting them, too, travel in sky-balloons. At first, she responded politely, explaining that she held no sway over Avalloc and she was just as surprised as they that he had allowed her this jaunt, but the more she declined the more they pestered her, and the more exasperated she became, until she began snapping at anyone who asked. Hilde Miller, the last person to put the request to her, received the full brunt of Jewel’s accumulated vexation.

  “Hardly anyone from the plateau has ever been in a sky-balloon,” Hilde said enviously. “Try to inveigle a place for me on some flight, won’t you, Jewel? To anywhere—I don’t care.”

  “Inveigle it yourself,” Jewel cried impatiently, throwing up her hands. “I tell you, I exercise no authority over the Storm Lord!” As soon as she had uttered the words she rued her hotheadedness and wished she could better rein her temper.

  Hilde glared. “A fine friend you are,” she said, and refused to converse further with the marsh-daughter, even after she had apologized.

  At dawn, Jewel rode up the cliff road to Rowan Green in a wain driven by Herebeorht Miller, accompanied by Elfgifu, Blostma, and the unspeaking Hilde. Already, the niveous dome of the inflating envelope could be seen rising tremulously over the steep slate roofs of the Seat houses, glimmering palely against the darkness like a simulacrum of the moon.

  On arrival at the launching place, Jewel and her companions were greeted by the sight of a crowd thronging about the wicker gondola suspended beneath the balloon. Light luggage was being loaded on board. Galiene, the eldest daughter of the Storm Lord, hailed Jewel.

  “Are you wearing your warmest clothes? ’Tis bitter chill up there,” Galiene said, indicating the lightening sky. Around the rim of High Darioneth the mountaintops had disappeared into a layer of vapor. Giant cloud formations billowed and surged overhead, mist-edged for the most part, their borders hard-stenciled with silver-gilt when they churned across the face of the Winter sun.

  Jewel, clad in wool and furs, assured her friend she had brought adequate costume. Staring in astonishment at the assembly gathered on the paved apron edged with small-leaved creeping mint, she said, “How many people will be going on this journey?”

  “Six of us,” said Galiene. “Customarily, only four are dispatched on weather missions, but since you are to take passage, I am to accompany you.”

  Jewel whooped with joy, and the two girls embraced. Herebeorht stood by with cap in hand, looking sheepishly pleased, while Blostma leaned on his arm and Hilde pouted.

  “But why so many onlookers?” Jewel asked Galiene, as Bliant Ymberbaillé courteously took her pack from her and placed it in the basket.

  “Since he became a weathermage, this is the first time he has commanded a mission flight. Many are here to wish him well.”

  “Wish who well?”

  “My brother Arran, of course!” It was Galiene’s turn to express astonishment. “Having come of age and succeeded in all trials, he is named weathermage.”

  “Tut!” interjected Elfgifu. “Jewel, has the eternal squeaking of the mill machinery made you deaf to the tidings buzzing throughout High Darioneth?”

  “Now that you mention it, I do recall,” said Jewel, with as much conviction as she could muster.

  “Come!” Galiene grasped her by the arm and guided her around Bliant Ymberbaillé, who stood gazing at Windweapon. The young man, his honest face beaming in excitement, exchanged affable nods with the girls as they went by.

  Galiene said, “Jewel, you must be introduced to the purser who will be traveling with us. You already know our two crewmen, journeymen Gauvain Cilsundror-SkyCleaver and Engres Aventaur-FluteWind. Looking after sky-balloons is part of the training of prentices and journeymen, as I know only too well!”

  Almost fully buoyant, the aerostat was anchored to the ground by four thick cables. Tiny bells, attached along the rim of the basket, tinkled with every subtle vibration that passed through the framework. Their function was to guard against unseelie wights. The enormous satiny envelope shivered and swayed high above, its multiple gores rippling as the interior temperature increased. The source of the heat was a huge sun-crystal, mounted in a cradle directly beneath the balloon’s mouth. Cut like an eight-sided pyramid, its triangular facets gleamed and winked like water in moonlight, but in its heart dazzling whitegold rays bristled like a miniature star, and none could look directly into those depths without being blinded, for some quality of the sun was trapped therein.

  Before dawn, the aircraft had been brought out of its shed. The gondola had been laid on its side, the envelope spread out on the ground. Once set in place, the crystal was uncovered. Over several weeks of prolonged exposure to sunlight, the mineral had absorbed and stored an extraordinary amount of energy. The flight-commander, in this case Arran Maelstronnar-Stormbringer, caused the heat to be gradually released, flowing out from the crystal’s peak. Meanwhile, balloon-stewards held open the sprung steel band at the lower edge of the fireproof skirt clipped to the mouth of the balloon, so that all heat was directed inside the silken envelope.

  As the air warmed, Windweapon began to inflate. Greater it grew, like a swelling bud, until at last it lifted from the ground, still anchored. Then, with a jingling of bells, the gondola was set upright and the flight-commander climbed inside. The crystal rayed forth more energy and the envelope dilated like a bubble. Slung beneath, the basket strained at its moorings. The spectators were charged with excitement and expectation.

  Ryence Darglistel was not amongst the audience, but it was not long before Jewel noticed him striding across Rowan Green, toward the launching place. As he passed the floral window-box of one of the houses he performed an agile leap. With one swoop of his hand he plucked a Winter rose. This he offered to Jewel, when he found her.

  “Hmph, I saw you steal that flower,” she sniffed, but she accepted it anyway.

  “All aboard!” yelled the journeyman Gauvain Cilsundror, as the eastern sky glimmered like a reflection of fire on water, and the sun began to climb the back of Wychwood Storth. Jewel said her last farewells to her friends; then unexpectedly, Ryence scooped her up and lifted her into the gondola. Arran Maelstronnar gave a signal and the moorings were cast off.

  The gondola skated a few feet sideways, before Windweapon rose straight up.

  Jewel watched the land drop away
. There was little sensation of lift. It was almost as if the gondola remained static in space, while the perspective of its environment drastically altered. The waving crowd below dwindled to a scatter of tiny upturned faces, like clover in a field. To the left, waterfalls splashed down Wychwood Storth from eyries so lofty they were still high above the balloon.

  The damsel’s fingers traced the rough texture of the willow basketwork, the swell and dip of the woven canes. The wight-repellent bells were silent, only chiming when the passengers moved about in the cramped gondola. Arran was standing with feet braced apart, hatless even in the frigid upper airs, his hair streaming down his back. He was murmuring soft words that unleashed potency with every syllable. His hands moved in a swift, intricate design as he commanded a rising wind to blow at a certain altitude, in a certain direction. As he scanned the horizon the line of his body was taut, as if his spine were a metal rod, receptive to every nuance of atmosphere. In common with his sister and the crewmen he was wearing garments of weathermaster gray, embellished with the triangular three-runes insignia at the shoulder. Glancing at his profile against the sweeping vista of clouds, the marshgirl was unexpectedly struck by his beauty. It had never before dawned on her how exceedingly handsome was the son of the Maelstronnar. Tall and lithe was he, with dark brown hair that rained across his shoulders and down his back. His eyes were as green as leaves.

  In the next instant she forgot her discovery, overtaken by the sheer delight of floating through the welkin.

  “How high do we fly?” she said breathlessly to Engres Aventaur, one of the journeyman weathermasters.

  “About five hundred feet above Rowan Green, I estimate,” was the reply.

  Jewel leaned out over the side of the wicker car. Windweapon was lifting farther above the clusters of weathermaster houses, the rowans, the pond in the middle of the green, and Wychwood Waterfall; indeed, they had already been left behind. She could barely make out the house of Maelstronnar with its characteristic cupola on the roof. Cloud-shadows raced across the ground. The plateau was spread out like a tablecloth, knotted with orchards like knubbled yarn, and dusted with snow. Buildings scattered thereon resembled odd-shaped salt-cellars and spice pots. Winding roads, lanes, and streams lay as haphazardly as discarded scraps of braid.

  The walls of the storths loomed lofty and sheer to either hand, as the sky-balloon glided toward the sharp alpine valley between Wychwood Storth and Wolf’s Castle Storth. In the lucent mountain air, every detail stood forth with remarkable clarity: glistening mantles of snow, scree on the lower slopes, and jagged outcrops of rock gorgeously embellished with a patina of hardy lichens, pale aquamarine, green, and tea-rose pink. A spear of sunlight stabbed through a hole in the clouds, and snow-dazzle leaped out to gouge the eye-pits of watchers. It struck glints off the valley stream, and the thin cataracts trailing like metal shavings from the mountainsides.

  Windweapon’s shadow slid across the terrain below, its outline continually changing as it passed, like some eldritch shape-shifting wight. Arran spoke, moving his strong and graceful hands, and the sun-crystal’s eerie fires died down to a smolder. The sky-balloon leveled out at a constant altitude, while the summoned wind strengthened, picking up speed.

  Soon the mountain ring was barreling past at an exhilarating rate. Jewel clutched the edge of the gondola and could have shouted aloud for delight, had she not been mindful of propriety in such illustrious company.

  “How swiftly we move!” she exclaimed to Galiene.

  “There is ever need for haste when a request for our services arrives,” replied her friend, drawing her fur-lined cloak closer about her person. “The world’s weather changes rapidly, and consequences might be grave if weathermasters are tardy.”

  A mountain lake winked like a star. Its depths were saturated with cloudimages.

  “Up here, one could be uncommonly joyous,” said Jewel, “if the future were not disturbing. I am concerned lest the balloon’s approach to Cathair Rua be noted by the watchmen on the parapets. As soon as we touch land, folk must come running to behold such a spectacle, and then they shall see me, and ask who I am. If they pry too deep they might learn something of my heritage. This enterprise must not attract attention.”

  Galiene patted her arm reassuringly. “Do you truly think my father has not foreseen and forestalled that possibility? It has been arranged that my brother will set us down at the city’s outskirts, in some hidden place. Then he and the crew will take off again, proceeding to the palace grounds in the customary manner, while you and I go on foot. I am not well recognized in Rua. In all honesty, it is not one of my favored destinations. King’s Winterbourne is far more to my taste. You and I shall walk to the Fair Field as two ladies on a jaunt to view the wares of the stallholders.”

  Her eyes sparkling, Jewel said, “ ’Twill be a treat!”

  “Mind you, I was put to much inconvenience, in my efforts to dissuade my brother from escorting us,” continued the weatherlord’s daughter. “With my father, Arran has visited the city often, and his identity is widely known. Anyone accompanying him would certainly become a topic of popular discussion. I had to remind him that I have my weathermastery to arm and shield me, while I understand that you, Jewel, are not without wards of your own.”

  Jewel smiled, but made no other reply to the damsel’s comment. They leaned their elbows on the padded edge of the basket and resumed watching the lands of Tir stream by, far below.

  “If truth be known,” Galiene continued confidentially, “you are traveling by air only because my brother put in a good word for you. When my father mentioned you wished to journey south, Arran asked him to let you make the trip by sky-balloon.”

  “Oh!” The marsh-daughter glanced in surprise toward the young man in question, but he was preoccupied with adjusting the vent-lines.

  “Be not mistaken,” her companion added. “I am glad you are with us. It never crossed my mind to ask my father to grant such a petition, and even if I had thought of it, I would not have done so, because I would never have believed he would consent. But here you are! One cannot always predict how my father will choose to act.”

  The damsels fell silent, both gazing at the clouds.

  Later that morning they crossed the gleaming curves of the Canterbury Water. Jewel could see the stone bridge with its toll-house. The sight brought back memories of crossing the river with her uncle, and a pang of loss went through her.

  “Well,” said the young Maelstronnar, at Jewel’s side, “how do you like flying?”

  “Very much.” Unaccountably, she felt awkward that he should be standing so close. This was the same Arran she had known for four years, but in his presence an unfamiliar shyness had come over her. Impatient with her own wayward sensibilities, she said loudly, without taking her eyes from the view of land and sky, “Yet I would prefer to fly as a bird does.”

  “Why?”

  “There would be greater freedom. One would not require a sky-balloon, with all its paraphernalia.”

  “Weathermasters do not require sky-balloons.”

  “In sooth?” Disbelieving, she swung to face him. From such close quarters, the sight of the cleanly contoured structure of his face and the acute, almost savage vitality in his demeanor had the effect of a blow. A single pain knocked hard in her chest. She excused it as merely a symptom of altitude sickness.

  “It is possible for tornadoes to provide transportation,” Arran said, resting his hand on the edge of the gondola, next to her own.

  “How is that possible?” she demanded. “From all the stories I have ever heard, such terrible winds can only destroy.”

  “Aye, they can slay and destroy if uncontrolled. With the right master, they can serve. Doubtless you have heard other stories—tales of fish, or frogs, or other small creatures raining inexplicably from the skies, over villages or farmland.”

  “That I have!”

  “Those strange showers were engendered by natural tornadoes,” said Arran, “unf
ettered by the bonds of the brí. However, the violence of the spinning winds can be concentrated into narrow paths, and—with proficiency and knowledge—directed. They are able to lift up a man and put him down again, miles away, completely unharmed.”

  “Unharmed but richly entertained!” said Jewel gleefully. “Such a voyage through the air sounds wonderfully stirring. Would that I might travel by tornado!”

  “ ’Tis stirring, but not without peril,” said Arran.

  “Peril means nothing to me,” replied Jewel.

  Arran glanced sharply at her. “Of course. The fact had slipped my mind. My father told us all about you.”

  For a while they stood without speaking. Avalloc’s son was somewhat of a mystery to Jewel, and she wondered, fleetingly, what he thought of the revelation about her sorcerous ancestry. Soon the excitement of being borne aloft swept other thoughts from her mind. The snow-sprinkled landscape flowed past beneath their feet, while all around gray-white ash towers of cloud exploded in slow motion. At their backs, Jewel could hear Galiene chatting to the purser, a hollow-cheeked, middle-aged man with a grizzled beard. The basket rocked slightly as someone shifted position.

  Birds darted and soared, in pairs or alone, or in great flocks. The heart of any watcher must have been moved, to behold these flocks; their innocence, their grace and beauty, the miracle of synchronized flight, the matchless aerobatics and extraordinary feats of navigation. Motes of thistledown swam past, pirouetting like toy spinning-tops. Jewel tried to pretend they were dancers, finger-high.

  “I wonder whether wights can fly,” she mused aloud. “I have never heard tell of any that possess wings.”

  Having caught this comment, Galiene and the purser joined their conversation. The Maelstronnar’s daughter said, “Neither have I, but they can fly!”

  “If eldritch wights take to the air,” elucidated the purser, “they are obliged to use transport, just as we ourselves must do. They employ gramarye to transform twigs, or bundles of grass, or sticks of wood, or even broom-handles. After seating themselves on these strange aircraft they command them to rise into the air, by means of some word or phrase of power.”