The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  The idea was too shocking to contemplate.

  A long pull from her water bottle and a few bites of bread helped her recover from the fright and rally her common sense. Of course she was free of the curse; that was evident. She was invulnerable. The sorcerer’s malediction no longer plagued her family. Looking about, she noted a small, arched door set into an inner wall. It was one she had not yet opened, and like the other doors it was furnished with a key. After unlocking the portal she climbed a narrow stair that coiled around in a fashion that led her to suspect she was moving up inside the ceiling of the main dome. Such a stair could only lead to the small vaulted chamber that crowned the main dome, the hand-bell on the back of the tortoise, which she had spied from the sky-balloon.

  After much climbing she reached the utmost door and passed through to behold an interior even more extraordinary than those she had already visited.

  The chamber was circular, the ceiling high and shaped—inevitably—like an inverted basin. Around the walls pilasters of white jasper, embellished with illustrious carvings, stood at intervals between tall, arched alcoves. Central to this apartment was a flat-topped plinth, rectangular in dimensions, about two yards long and one yard wide. It had been chiseled from rock-crystal shot through with a pale suspension of mist and swarms of miniature bubbles, locked in stasis. Its edges were beveled, and each of its sides displayed a relief sculpture of twin axes, their handles crossed. Nothing rested on this base block, which looked somehow destitute, as if it were intended to uphold some object no longer present—a statue, perhaps, or a coffer filled with wealth. Either way, whatever had once rested there had been removed or stolen. Most disturbing of all, the chamber’s interior was lit by a strange fire whose flames flickered sapphire and heliotrope, rinsing the pallor of the stonework with lambent color, like a wash of dilute gentian-violet. Outside, the wind moaned. Inside, the numinous fire flickered with barely a sound—only the faintest hiss.

  Who could have kindled the flames? Was someone here? There was no other sign of any presence, no footprints in the dust; therefore the fire must be of sorcerous manufacture. How puissant indeed was the Master of Strang, to produce a magickal flame that could exist throughout the decades!

  It was worth exploring, this eyrie.

  On the far side of the chamber, an alcove facing the door sheltered a dais upon which squatted a chair of snowy marble. It was above this throne that the strange fire blazed from a sconce. Jewel crossed the floor to examine the source of illumination. The sconce cupped a small bowl of white marble, but it was no oil lamp. In place of a wick of twisted fibers, a thin pipe came out of the wall and threaded through a hole in the center of the bowl. The flame clung to its tip. The mysterious hissing was emanating from this source, and there was a faint odor of putrefied cabbage. It reminded the marsh-daughter of the weird lights that glowed among the gases rising from the wetlands. She suspected that this was some kind of gas-flame, perhaps with an inexhaustible supply of fuel flowing up through the pipe. If that were true, no agent would have been required to tend it over the years since the Dome had been abandoned and sealed. The flame might have been lit decades ago, and abandoned to burn all by itself throughout the years. It was no sorcerous thing after all, but the product of artifice.

  The alcove to the left contained three miniature drinking horns, no bigger than thimbles, elaborately mounted in precious metals. Other shelves and wall-niches harbored a collection of small jugs and drinking vessels, a cluster of candles, a bouquet of waxen tapers, brittle and flaking. A tall, stoneware oil jar occupied a stand in one corner of the room; near its base jutted a spigot with a wooden handle.

  A lectern was housed in the alcove to the right of the flame-sconce, lapped by lavender tongues of radiance, which conjured illusions at the corners of the eyes. The damsel observed that the lectern supported an open tome of large proportions, which was chained to its stand. The pages were covered with lines of script, and as she bent her head to decipher the words Jewel experienced another surge of excitement. It was possible this was some volume of arcane lore. If so, these parchment leaves might well hold the key to unimaginable powers.

  At that instant, there came a slight noise from behind her. It was the sound of footsteps, plain as daylight; there was no doubting it. She had heard them as clearly as she heard her own involuntary cry of terror. Dreading her family’s madness, she whirled about to face that which hunted after her.

  Quest

  Long-limbed, striking, and possessed of effortless grace, the young man stood in the doorway. A canvas rucksack was strapped to his shoulders, and on his finger gleamed a signet ring of heavy gold. His garments were plain, like those of any peasant, his dark umber hair was tied back in a horse-tail, and he watched Jewel from eyes the color of limes.

  “Desist,” he warned. “Do not read the words.”

  “By all that’s marvelous,” the damsel breathed, unable to credit her own eyesight, “how came you here?” On reconsidering, she added, “Stay back! You are nought but illusion.”

  “No illusion,” said Arran Stormbringer. “I followed you here, all the way from High Darioneth. Did you truly believe I would let you brave the dangers of travel on your own?”

  “I cannot depend on you,” said Jewel, shaking her head. “This is a place of cruelty and deception. You are some simulacrum.”

  The young Maelstronnar heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Jewel,” he said, “ask any question. Interrogate me in any way you desire, in order to quell your doubts and satisfy yourself that I am indeed Arran Stormbringer.”

  If he were an eldritch wight he could never have uttered those words, for wights could only speak the truth. This calmed Jewel’s qualms somewhat, but she would not be content until she had bombarded him with queries, the answers to which only the Storm Lord’s heir would know.

  At length, she was persuaded.

  “Well,” she said, folding her arms resolutely, “this is a wonder, and no mistake. Your father said that if I chose to depart, High Darioneth would spare me no succor. I suppose he changed his mind.”

  “Not really. He did not command me to pursue you. He told me that even as he dispensed that message he guessed, in his heart, that I would follow you. Had I not done so, I daresay he would have relented and sent someone after you, to keep you from harm. I know him too well to suppose otherwise. Yet he was greatly displeased with you, and with me also, for turning my back on my duties of weathermastery to indulge you in your escapade.”

  “How did he guess you would come after me?”

  “You hardly seem grateful for my company,” observed Arran mildly, deflecting her course.

  “Why did you follow me in secret?” she persisted, so impatient to voice her questions that she did not wait to listen to the replies. “Why not openly?”

  “In the hope you would turn back of your own accord, when danger threatened and you found yourself without a bodyguard.”

  “And danger I did meet. But not once did I see you or suspect your endeavor.”

  “Yet, I was watching, the while. I was nearby when you drove off one of the unseelie mountain hags. I was close at hand when you encountered the eldritch pack of white dogs, visited a market-fair of the faynes, and knelt beside the grave of your kinsman at Saxlingham Netherby. I was not far away when you joined the wagoners, and I was your shadow as you passed through Orielthir.”

  “I am ashamed, knowing how easily you tracked me without my knowledge.”

  “Do not be. Only a weathermaster or a highly proficient woodsman could have succeeded. It was not easy.”

  “How did you slip inside the castle domains without meeting destruction?”

  “As you advanced, you left all the gates and doors open, not bothering to close them in your haste or carelessness. I merely walked in your wake, touching nothing with my flesh, and remained unscathed.”

  “I must admire your skill at progressing without detection,” said Jewel.

  “I know which way the w
ind blows,” said the young man, allowing himself a somewhat enigmatic smile. “I have at my disposal methods unavailable to the greater population. For example, today’s breeze I invoked, that its effect might cover the sound of my footfalls through these blighted halls.”

  “Footfalls!” exclaimed Jewel. “Alas!” She broke into a laugh. “I opined they were maddening hallucinations! Of all the terrors I encountered on my travels, the sound of footsteps affrighted me most!”

  “Then I am sorry for it,” Arran said. “Come, let us leave this vile place. It is over-ripe with the stench of sorcery.”

  “No. Behold, here lies an ancient book of lore! I wish to read it, and ascertain whether its wisdom might be of use. Or, if there is no wisdom herein, perhaps it contains clues to some vast store of treasure, or eldritch artefacts!”

  “An ancient book of lore or clues it may be, but it belonged to a baneful owner. Who can say what malign erudition it might expound? ’Tis best left alone. To examine such a document in such an unlikely library might well prove folly. Come away! Surely you have seen enough. I watched you prise open the wall of a tower wherein a woman had been buried alive. Those who wrought such a shameful deed were malicious, to say the least. Old tales tell of murder and abduction at the Dome. There can be no good here. Depart with me now!”

  “Exhort me not!” protested Jewel. “I have come this far and I shall stay to do my will.” She was determined to track down and acquire whatever valuable items she could find in the Dome of Strang—whether wealth, or knowledge, or books of healing, or objects possessing supernatural virtues. It was her way of striving for some measure of security in an unpredictable world; furthermore, plundering Jaravhor’s fortress was a method of retaliating against the malicious villain who had cursed her family.

  Turning his face away from Jewel, Arran Stormbringer remained silent for a moment. Then he said evenly, “Very well. I cannot prevent you.”

  By his tone, she knew he was angry. This troubled her, but his warnings could not dissuade her from her purpose. She renewed her study of the massive tome. Creamy were the leaves of parchment, and unstained by the mildews of age. Between wide margins there flowed lines of text, penned in black ink. The outsized initial letter on each page was illuminated, wreathed with curling traceries of leafy vines, painted green and red, highlighted with gold leaf. Between each paragraph ran an illustrated motif shaped like two long, slender firedrakes, confronting each other in attitudes of aggression.

  Without turning the pages or touching the book—for that at least was a concession to Arran’s cautions—Jewel began to read aloud.

  “Flesh of my Flesh, Bone of my Bone, Blood of my Blood, I, Janus Jaravhor, bid you welcome! Through these Pages I speak unto you. When my Scion deserted the Ways of Weird I could only hope that his Issue or the Offspring of his Issue would find a Way back to this my Stronghold in Orielthir. Those whose Veins are quick with my Blood may unlock my Wards and remain unscathed.”

  “You who have returned, you seek, no doubt, the legendary Treasures of Castle Strang.”

  “Unless some trickster has been at work, it seems these words have been authored by the Sorcerer of Strang himself!” Jewel exclaimed. Eagerly, she read on:

  “Indubitably, you believe those Treasures to comprise Gold and Jewels. Such Wealth was once stored here indeed, well hidden and guarded by Enchantment. Yet it is spent, and a greater Wealth awaits.

  “Throughout my Life I sought a Terrible Secret, one that has eluded Mankind throughout History. Near the End, I discovered that Secret—but too late. My Strength had failed, and I was fading swiftly.”

  At this point the prose gave way to rhyme:

  “Some Men build Monuments to stab the Sky,

  By these to be remembered when they die.

  Some seek to raise and publicize their Name,

  That they might be immortalized by Fame.

  But Ballads age, and Fashions change, anon.

  Pray, who will read your Story when you’re gone?

  Proud Monuments are felled by Wind and Rain.

  Change governs. Nought can ever stay the same.

  At Life’s end all Ambition shall be thwarted,

  Hope shall abandoned be, Beauty distorted.

  We’re Tenants, Borrowers with Names unlisted

  And, unrecalled, might never have existed.

  Men strive for worldly Power or vast Treasure,

  Revenge, Love, Wisdom, Glory, Joy, or Pleasure.

  Yet one Goal cheats the Nets they’re vainly casting—

  The greatest of them all—Life Everlasting.”

  “There is a line appended,” breathed Jewel. She read:

  “Nonetheless, I, your Lord and Forefather, in my Wisdom and Foresight, have left clues and messages informing you how you may win that very Prize, that my Lineage shall continue forever.”

  Her voice petered out. Brushing her hand across her brow, she murmured, “To win the prize of immortality! Can that be possible?”

  “Read on!” said Arran Stormbringer, now intensely interested. No cataclysm had occurred as a result of their perusal of the tome and, infected by Jewel’s excitement, he was inclined to provisionally dispense with caution. Looking over her shoulder, he began to scrutinize the flowing script while she deciphered it aloud.

  “Through Diligence and Scholarship I have discovered the Secret of true Life Everlasting, combined with eternal Youth and good Health. This Gift may be found in the Water from certain Wells, the which are not situated nigh unto one another but are located in several far-flung Countries of Tir.

  “You will discover how to find all the Immortal Draughts. Howsoever: First you must pass two Tests. For the first, you must speak a bitterbynding Oath upon my Relics, the Bones of my right Hand, vowing that you will follow my Will in this Matter. That Hand hath wrought the most puissant Sorcery ever known in Tir and now, alas, is embalmed within a Reliquary in this very Chamber, this exalted Shrine, this Tope. Placing your living Palm upon the Reliquary, you must say aloud these very words: ‘I swear by the Bones of my Ancestor that if I find the Draught from the Well of Rain I will bring it to the Tope of Castle Strang, and light the flame to signify the deed is done.’

  “That is the first Test. The second is to fulfill the vow. Should you prove worthy by obtaining the Draught from the Well of Rain, the Locations of all other Wells shall be revealed to you.

  “The Flame that must be lighted is thus: you must pour oil into the narrow Gutter that circumscribes the lowest portion of the Platform central to this Chamber, then take up one of the waxen Tapers you see nearby, light it from the weird-fire, and hold the Flame to the oil.

  “After you have proved successful and performed these Tasks you will discover how to find the other Draughts. If you do not do as I have instructed, you will win only the First. If you obey my Commands and honor your Word—which indeed you must!—you shall win more.

  “Do not deceive yourself into believing that one Draught would be as good as many, for there is contained only enough of the miraculous Water in each Well to bestow the greatest Gift of all upon one solitary Mortal Creature.

  “Let your Mind’s Invention conjure the Loneliness endured by the one and only Immortal Human Being, solitary throughout countless Centuries, finding Companionship only to lose it again and again, each Time forever. And when the full Horror of this Nightmare has become plain to you, then you will understand the Wisdom in obtaining all Draughts for distribution amongst those you love best.

  “Furthermore, and not least, if you swear upon the Remains of my right Hand and then break that bitterbound Vow, Ill-Fortune and Catastrophe shall dog you faithfully unto the End of your Days, whether they be few or infinite in Number, and neither Druid nor Carlin nor Eldritch Wight shall save you.”

  Having used up its allotted space on the page, the writing ceased. As Jewel was speaking, a sense of dread had been creeping over her. For the first time since she had entered the fortress, she felt truly afraid of what
might have been disturbed, here in these long-abandoned vaults.

  The flames in the white bowl hissed, as if serpents whispered secrets together. Their radiance flowed across the leaves of the book like the palest liquor of grapes, smiting gleams from the gold leaf on the illuminated letters. For several minutes neither Jewel nor Arran said a word, while they pondered the antique message, the sorcerer’s legacy.

  “Threats and promises,” muttered Stormbringer, at last. “What to make of them, I wonder?”

  “I daresay there will be more information on the next page,” said Jewel. Without further ado she flipped the page over, before Arran could intervene. Somehow the spread-eagled leaves now appeared perilous, drowning in the hyacinthine glow of a flickering ocean.

  The young man said firmly, “Since you are so eager to know, I will take my turn and read now.” Jewel acquiesced, stepping back to give him her position in front of the lectern, and he resumed:

  “Now Follows the History of my Discovery.

  “Long ago I traveled extensively throughout the four kingdoms, and during my Travels I was privy to many a Story and Fable. Amongst them were Tales of immortal Beasts—a Hare, a white Deer, a Dove. It was told that such Creatures had long ago been trapped and held in Captivity by Humankind. For Decades, yea, for Centuries, they remained caged and displayed in Menageries, where Audiences were diverted and amused by their unique and mystifying Undyingness, until in the end the unfortunate Creatures were set free by Those who pitied them, or by Enemies of their Captors.