“Not at all!” Jewel exclaimed dismissively. “Prithee, oblige me just this once!” she begged. “ ’Twould not be going very much out of our way. I might never have a chance to see the Dome again. Prithee!”
He averted his face, that she might not perceive how much her pleading moved him. And move him it did, to be sure. Every mote of him yearned to please her, to make her face light up with that luminous smile, visions of which were branded as if with hot iron onto his awareness. His mind revolved in turmoil as duty strove against desire, reason against sentiment, a lifetime of disciplined learning against a moment of spontaneous folly.
Unaware of his inner battle, Jewel interpreted his silence as refusal, and beyond his view, her brow darkened. Then he surprised her by saying quietly, “Very well. I shall do as you ask.”
It was hard for her to conceal her glee. “Gramercie,” she murmured, smiling up at the handsome weathermaster. Through charcoal streaks of her ungovernable hair, her eyes glowed gentian-blue.
The fortress of Strang.
First glimpsed as a dark smudge in the distance, it expanded.
Arran Stormbringer announced coolly to his passengers, “We appear to have deviated somewhat from our course. If you look to starboard you will behold a famous landmark.”
As the balloon approached the building, those on board could make out a single massive dome rising out of the center like the humped back of a giant tortoise. Greenish-bronze in color, it was crowned with a matching bell-roofed cupola. Arched windows pierced the white walls beneath. Topped with similar mamelons, innumerable turrets, towers, and lesser halls crowded closely around the main hemisphere. The overall impression was of a clutter of round pillars and rectangular stacks upon which an assortment of upturned bowls had been arranged, all wrought from the same glaucous alloy.
“By all the Fates!” breathed Journeyman Engres. “The edifice does justice to the legends!”
No one else said a word while Windweapon cruised past the fortress. They could see a few tents pitched around the boundaries, and a solitary guard moving across the encampment. The watchers were close enough to note that he did not look up. He did not guess that he was spied upon.
Jewel caught herself wondering about the ineffable personage who had caused this stronghold to be raised: her own forefather, Janus Jaravhor, Lord of Strang. Some histories or legends concerning this mage had found their way even to the remote fastnesses of High Darioneth, where they had been passed around the school-ground of Fortune-in-the-Fields. The anecdotes described a man so saturated with hubris he had held himself to be superior to the world, so devoid of moral integrity he had violated every principle of rectitude with no evidence of remorse, so lacking in sentiment he had seemed more like some unseelie monster or remorseless machine than the child of a human mother. Gifted with razor-sharp acuity, he had devoted his long life to the study of sorcerous arts, becoming more powerful in this regard than any mortal man before or since. Long had he existed, but ultimately, even his most cunning stratagems could not defeat the internal clock of the vital organism, and he had died. Only the sealed fortress remained, as his memorial.
When they had left the Dome far behind, the purser broke the silence. “That was worth the extra time taken on our return journey.” He eyed Arran dubiously. “Strange. I have never known you to be thrown off course before, young master.”
Apparently busy directing air currents, Arran offered no response. Away scudded the balloon, into the broadening day.
Their arrival at High Darioneth was safe and uneventful. Back at the mill, Jewel recounted her experiences to the family, who were avid to hear of the flight. Hilde was so thrilled with Jewel’s description that she forgave her for not obtaining an invitation to join the adventure.
The marsh-daughter had imagined that a glimpse of the Dome of Strang would set her restless mind at ease. She had assumed it would assuage her curiosity and annul her longing to find out what lay within. In fact, the sighting of the sorcerer’s fortress had had the opposite effect. Though she tried to dismiss it from her mind, her thoughts frequently, inadvertently, returned there.
He who had raised it, her ancestor, had been a hateful tyrant. In sudden dread, Jewel searched within her own character for evidence of any base inherited traits. It was true that she thought wistfully of power; however, whereas Jaravhor had used force solely for his own personal benefit, she genuinely wished to help not only herself but others as well. She had once wandered bereft and lonely, and therefore was drawn in sympathy to others who were destitute. Understanding the heartache of the forsaken, she yearned to heal it. No—she was utterly different from her detestable forefather, and refused to consider him further, banishing him from her mind. The Dome, on the other hand—it was such a wondrous mystery; built by sorcery, craved by kings, brimming with marvels, utterly closed and inscrutable to the entire world.
Almost the entire world.
She seethed with frustration, feeling that so much was within her grasp, yet ungraspable. Everyday life at High Darioneth went on, and she must endeavor to subsume her desires.
Unexpectedly, she met the urisk again. She was walking, unaccompanied, to the house of the cobbler when she spied it. The road she traveled narrowed, and ran downhill through a dark grove of overhanging walnut trees. Among the gloomy boles, the wight was seated on the moldering coping of an abandoned well.
Jewel came to a halt.
“Greetings to you, sir,” she said hesitantly, always uncertain of this unpredictable creature.
It stared at her, and might have nodded.
After a time she said, “Why won’t you let other people see you?”
The wight’s lip curled. “I have no love for weathermasters and their hangerson. In any case, are you not aware that urisks are solitaries?”
“I believed urisks craved human company, yet you will not come to live at the mill.”
“Many of your beliefs are mistaken, apparently. Why do you want me to live with you? I attract no good luck, or so the marshfolk always said.”
“I like you,” she dared. “You bring back memories of my childhood. I know my mother liked you, too.”
The wight made no reply.
“Why did you give the jewel back to me?” she asked presently.
“I never took it away in the first place. Merely, I examined it.”
Jewel could think of nothing to say.
“I will not accept it,” said the wight, standing up on its cloven hooves. “What use would an urisk have for such a bauble?”
“I am sorry if I have offended you.”
“You have not offended me.” Was it mere fancy or did the wight’s lip curl in sardonic amusement, as if to be offended by a mortal damsel was beneath its contempt?
“Well, I am glad.”
The urisk hovered ephemerally in the shadows.
“Farewell,” it said abruptly.
Unaccountably, it came to Jewel that it was saying goodbye for the last time, and she panicked.
“Don’t leave. . . .”
But it had already gone. Her instinct proved correct, for she never saw the shaggy little goat-legged figure again.
That Winter in Cathair Rua, Uabhar Ó Maoldúin was crowned King of Slievmordhu, after which a naming-day celebration was held for Kieran, his firstborn son. The naming ceremony was a magnificent affair. The royal families and aristocrats of the four kingdoms attended the festivities, along with the Council of Ellenhall and numerous druids from the upper echelons of the sanctorum. In Cathair Rua, a holiday was proclaimed in honor of the new prince. The merrymaking continued until it mingled with the celebrations for the new year, and in Slievmordhu it was said that 3470 had commenced auspiciously.
At High Darioneth the frosts set in. Rime picked out the bare twigs and boughs of the orchards in winking diadems. The health of Branor BlackFrost, Ryence’s father, deteriorated drastically. Neither the carlin’s skills nor the methods of a druid brought in from King’s Winterbourne coul
d prevent his slide toward the gates of death. He lay in his bed, more feeble and gaunt with every passing day, and all despaired of his recovery.
Throughout the deepening and changing of the season, Jewel could not rid herself of the haunting image of the Dome and its fabled treasures. The month of Mars brought her seventeenth birthday, but no decrease in her underlying discontent.
Occasionally she and Ryence Darglistel spent time together. It was clear to all who knew Ryence that he was profoundly affected by his father’s impending death. He behaved as if he were trying to distract himself from sorrow; as if he were making a frenzied attempt to immerse himself so thoroughly in lighthearted frolicsomeness that sadness could not reach him. The prospect of having to endure grief terrified Ryence more than any mortal peril. His mad escapades were frequently fun for Jewel. He courted her in an offhand way, while courting others at the same time; she never could tell if he were trying to make her jealous or if his feelings for her were so shallow after all; and although she felt sorry for him she could not trust him enough to allow herself to invest in him anything more virtuous than friendship, fascination, and dislike, in constantly varying proportions.
Briefly, she wondered what truelove meant. Her parents had loved each other, there was nothing so certain; but it was a mystery to Jewel how any average person could sustain such incomprehensible depths of devotion. It was different for her parents—they had obviously been born for each other. In her opinion they were above the rest, an extraordinary couple she held in an affection that was close to reverence. Normal people could hardly be expected to form such a profound romantic alliance. Of course, Jewel had adored her whole family, and would have done anything for them, and she felt great fondness for the Millers and all her friends, but the other kind of love was a mystery. She considered it fortunate that she had long since vowed to grief-proof herself by never giving her heart to anyone. Otherwise she might have been disappointed that she could not seem to find it within herself to form an attachment to any of the young bucks about High Darioneth. As long as the companionship of Ryence remained enjoyable, perhaps her lack of high-principled sentiment for him did not matter. In any case, her greatest esteem was reserved for the Maelstronnar and his son.
Come Averil, the tree-clothed slopes of the storths still shone brilliantly with snow-glare, but the first mild southerlies were beginning to penetrate to High Darioneth. Daphne blossoms soaked these breezes with perfume, brave daffodils speared up through the cold soil, and the wattle trees in the wild woodlands of the lower elevations were alight with the play of sunshine on their golden blooms. The Oswaldtwistle Traveling Players came to the high plateau, as was their custom in early Spring. They entered by the East Road, heralded by the warner’s cry. The watchmen spied their wagons, after which tidings of their arrival traveled swiftly. By the time the Players entered High Darioneth, passing through the gap between the mountain walls, crowds of children and dogs were running to greet them.
The usual gypsy peddlers trailed in the wake of the theatrical group, their wooden-walled carts gaily painted and adorned with simple carvings. These traders sold luxury items brought from distant regions: soaps, attars, and talcum powders; nougats, spices, and peppercorns; waxed oranges, truffles and rich liqueurs, embroidered clothing, combs of tortoiseshell and ivory, painted tableware of fine ceramic. The peddlers were welcomed by those inhabitants of the high plateau who rarely, if ever, journeyed beyond the ring of storths. This was a time for choosing special items to store away in readiness for future giftgiving.
Greatlawn Common was a twenty-five-acre meadow of frost-hardy grasses lying near the foot of the precipice below Rowan Green. It being a Salt’s Day holiday, the Players set up their wooden stage there, and performed their virtual magick. They enthralled their audiences with the gaudiness of their costumes, the audacity of their wit, the astonishing credibility of their scenes of high drama. After the show, people strolled amongst the carts of the peddlers, examining the wares on display.
Scintillatingly clear was the alpine air, the sky feathered with clouds. On the slopes above, snow-covered stands of shining gum, alpine ash, satinwood, and mountain pepper reared like trees from some enchanted dream, pristine white, sparkling with tiny prisms.
Intercepting Jewel as she walked toward the peddlers’ wagons, Ryence Darglistel said, “Are you afraid of cemeteries?”
“I am not. Why should I be?”
“Some folk believe the shades of the dead rise up from their graves and wander in such places.”
“That is ridiculous,” she retorted.
“The cemetery of our plateau is fair to look upon,” he said. “Have you seen it?”
“No.”
His mouth twitched, as if he repressed a smile, and his eyes expressed a deeper meaning. “Come with me.”
From Ellenhall atop the cliff the bell sounded, four descending notes. Against her own better judgment, Jewel followed Ryence to the cemetery.
It was a pleasant spot. Some graves were fenced by knee-high wrought-iron railings; others were bordered by low walls of rock. All were marked by head-stones of assorted shapes and sizes, decorated with various carvings, engraved with names and poetry. Flowers grew on the graves: alpine orchids, and frost-hardy boronia. The smooth trunks of satinwood and myrtle beech rose like pillars between the headstones, stretching out their boughs like a living ceiling over the resting-places of the dead. Leaves swayed and dipped. Birds chirruped, between sudden gaps of wind-sighing quietude, and an erratic butterfly dashed madly between patches of sunlight.
“Do you like it?” asked Ryence. “Rarely do folk come here. ’Tis peaceful, is it not?”
Jewel made no reply, for she had discovered she stood between him and a sun-warmed wall of stone. He moved toward her; she stepped back and felt the planed stones jammed hard against her shoulder blades. The young weathermaster leaned his hand against the wall right beside her, his face no more than six inches from her own.
He kissed her, and she considered it pleasant. Then he kissed her again, more ardently, closing in and crushing her against the wall, and all at once she felt stifled, and uncertain whether this was still pleasure or not.
Turning away her face, she said, “What if someone should come by and see us?”
“Do not think about others,” he murmured.
“But I would speak of matters—”
“No,” he said. “Do not speak. You do not need to speak. If you do, we shall only argue. Think your thoughts and keep them to yourself. I want no conversation from you. Talk would spoil what we have.”
“But—”
Placing his hand over her mouth, he smiled tenderly. “Can you not be satisfied that I anticipate your every whim, and you need utter no word?”
After whisking away his hand he quickly kissed her a third time, and his mouth tasted sweet. With delight she again savored their embrace, spontaneously enjoying the moment, not beset by any desire for forethought or questioning, until a hubbub of chirruping and chattering came to their ears. Their privacy invaded, they drew apart as a flock of girls went gliding in the direction of the gypsy fair like colorful birds, all conversing simultaneously, at the tops of their voices. Ryence left off his amatory pursuit and disappeared around a corner of the wall.
Jewel spied Hilde and Elfgifu amongst the passing crowd and joined them as they headed for the gypsy encampment. She was in high spirits as she toured the wagons with her friends, and soon dismissed the encounter with Darglistel from her thoughts. It had, after all, been only one of several that had occurred recently, amusing but trifling. Such dalliances were no more than harmless frivolity.
Having bought several items, she was about to put away her purse when she noticed a gypsy woman staring at her. The woman, perched on the front seat of a wagon, was leathery-skinned, with the furrows of care graven deeply into her face. Her hair, pale gold like wattle-blossom at twilight, was swathed in a dark red head-scarf.
Discomfited by the woman’s fixed
gaze, Jewel turned to leave, but as she did so the gypsy called out, “Blue-eyes! I sense there is something special about you. Come hither!”
In a quandary, the marshgirl stood still. She was astounded that anyone would call out to her in that manner, but deeply shocked that the woman seemed—against reason—to know secrets about her that she did not wish to be disclosed. If she ran away, would the woman shout betraying comments after her? How much did the gypsy know, and how could she know anything at all?
“What is she talking about?” Hilde hissed in Jewel’s ear.
“Likely, she says the same thing to many folk,” surmised Elfgifu. “It’s a way of bringing people to her wagon so that she can sell more wares.”
“I will tell your fortune, Blue-eyes!” the woman called.
In the end, curiosity won the marsh-daughter’s inner battle.
“Wait for me,” Jewel advised her companions. “I will tell you all about it when I return.”
Slowly, she walked to the wagon. The pale-haired woman smilingly helped her up the step, invited her inside, and let down a curtain behind them, screening them from passers-by.
The wagon’s interior was dim, and incense-scented. The gypsy seated herself on a rug and motioned for Jewel to follow suit.
“So,” said the woman, “you want your fortune told, eh?” Her pale eyes never left Jewel’s face. She studied the damsel intently, searchingly.
“How much does it cost?” asked her client, warily.
“Only one copper penny.”
Jewel nodded. She thought it a reasonable price—quite cheap, in fact. That is, unless the woman was a fraud. Inwardly Jewel laughed at herself, not truly believing that any mortal creature had the ability to foretell events that had not yet come to pass. As she hesitated, the gypsy said, “I perceive you are invulnerable.”
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 21
