“Behold,” said Stormbringer, “the Well of Rain!” Mingled delight and amazement were clearly printed on his features.
Jewel tucked up her desert robes and knelt by the brink.
The Well was no more than an arm’s length in depth. At the very nadir glistened a scoop of clear water—enough to fill a thimble, no more. Kneeling, Jewel coaxed every drop into the tiny, gold-clasped horn and closed the lid. The liquid flowed with a convex surface, like quicksilver, leaving no trace behind. It was as if it wanted to be contained in the sorcerer’s receptacle, and trickled in of its own volition. Now, the silvery basin was dry.
Jewel clasped in her hand a Draught of Immortality. “After all, we have found and collected this remedy,” she said wonderingly.
“Let us not dally,” said Arran purposefully. “The wights might try some other trick. ’Twere better for us to be gone sooner than later. You must descend without delay.”
The chute was only strong enough to carry one person at a time. Arran would follow Jewel, as soon as he had raised the silk to the top.
“In sooth!” Tucking the ivory vessel in her pocket, Jewel stood up. For the first time she noticed the panorama sprawling at the foot of their aerial perch: the other pinnacles, like a city of towers and steeples, the cliff embracing the bowl, the tossing greenery of the mulberry groves, the tiled rooves of Spire jutting like baked cakes in the distance, and, farthest of all, the mountains, seeming to hover in the firmament, as if floating on cloud layers.
Even as Jewel admired the scene, Arran was summoning thermal currents. The silk petals flowered again. Secure in the corded harness, Jewel stepped off the pinnacle’s edge and drifted down.
Her wafting hair radiated upon the airs, while her burnous and riding-trousers fluttered gently, despite being caked with dust. She felt the miniscule weight of the jewel as it swung on its chain at her throat. A few pairs of small red eyes stared sullenly at her from crannies in the tower, but the korred left her in peace.
An extraordinary sense of tranquillity and happiness enfolded her while she hung suspended between clouds and grass. She and Arran had achieved their goal. They would be able to bear the water of life to the Dome of Strang, and realize her full legacy.
The western sky was a sheet of luminous fabric, palely shimmering with peach, gold, and pink tones, softly streaked with gray. In the forefront, lines of leaden cloud were outlined sharply against the shimmer-satin, as if they had been stretched and ripped across the face of it. As before, Jewel landed lightly. This time she took off the rudimentary harness and laid out the fabric, in preparation for Stormbringer’s summoned wind to whisk it to the top of the pinnacle a third time, so that he could descend safely.
A blond stranger in dirty robes was walking toward her, across the floor of the bowl. He must have climbed down the clay cliffs when her attention was elsewhere, while she was admiring the view or lost in her daydreams of inheritance. She and the children watched him. He moved quickly, and as he drew near, fear suddenly skewered through Jewel. There was no time to do more than take two steps backward, before he was upon her, gripping her wrists with a hand of tempered wire, pinning her with a glare from eyes of palest blue, like the last rinsings of milk on the sides of a glass.
“Give it me,” he said. His voice was hoarse, his breath rancid.
“What can you mean?”
She struggled. From high above, Arran’s outraged shout rang forth. Without more ado, the pallid-eyed man ran his free hand over Jewel’s clothing. Upon discovering the hard object in her pocket, he withdrew the precious horn of ivory and scrutinized it.
“I know not for certain, but I can guess,” he murmured, “and no other shall have it.”
It all happened too fast. He flipped back the lid and drank the contents on the spot, then threw down the container, stamping on it, shattering it.
Uttering a scream of dismay and disbelief, Jewel twisted within his powerful grasp, but by then others had appeared from the same part of the cliffs: a hooded woman, followed by three men, two of whom the girl recognized as Scorpion and Lizard. Squealing like frightened starlings, the audience of children scattered. The woman moved behind Jewel, trapping her by the elbows with a rope of twisted silk, so that when the man stepped away the girl was still held captive. Scorpion ran with a crouching stance to collect the broken remnants of the gold-and-ivory horn, which he presumably considered were worth selling, for the metal.
“Was there not a drop left over?” the woman asked the first man.
Brusquely, he shook his head. A brief but ugly scowl puckered the woman’s forehead. Then she turned her attention to Jewel. “I told you the girl has the look of him,” she said out of the side of her mouth. Startled by the tender longing in the voice, Jewel glanced at her captor. She bridled in shock, as it came to her that the raddled face beneath the calico hood was the face of the traveling gypsy fortune-teller she had met at High Darioneth. No longer was the woman dressed like a gypsy. A baldric was strapped diagonally across her torso. A crossbow and a quiver of bolts protruded from behind her bony shoulder.
The pale-eyed man, however, paid no heed to the woman. “What was the nature of that potion?” he demanded of Jewel. “What are its properties?”
Quickly the damsel marshaled her wits. “Lave your face in it and be beauteous forever,” she said. “Drink it and die.”
The man squealed. His hands flew to his throat and he began to gasp.
“A lie,” said the woman, cuffing Jewel across the side of her head. “A man as cunning as Jaravhor would hardly have expended any effort in search of cosmetics. It is just as McGabhann avowed, Finn, though you never believed him when he screeched at us that Jaravhor had located the Wells. The drink is perpetuity.”
Abruptly regaining composure, the man sneered at Jewel. “You are some vile malapert!” He threw back his blond head and yelled up to Arran, who stood helpless on the pinnacle, “Bring my friend up there, Maelstronnar, or else we will slay your hussy.” With a faint snap, a thin switchblade sprang from beneath the cuff of his left sleeve.
Already one of his associates, a thick-set fellow with a short, black beard, was donning the web of silken cords.
“Do not go up there, Cathal,” said the woman who was restraining Jewel. “Finn, it is you who should go.”
She directed the second remark to the pale-eyed man, who uttered a short, barking laugh. “The day Weaponmonger obeys the orders of a woman, that day the sun will turn to ice. Ain’t that so, Knife?”
The crop-haired man grunted, adjusting the cords beneath his armpits.
“The weathermaster is dangerous,” protested the woman.
“D’ye think I cannot handle the pup?” Weaponmonger responded. “How impotent you must think me, Fionnuala.” He swigged deeply from a leathern flask. As he moved, the sounds of ceramic surfaces clinking against glass emanated from his pockets.
“No, it is not that way at all,” she said quickly. “On the contrary—”
“I wish to see what these two weanlings have found that is so precious, that they would pursue it here, all the way from Strang.”
“Aye,” said the pale-eyed man. “That’s what he wants.”
“Do as you please, Cathal,” Fionnuala said tightly.
“At the outer range of audibility, Jewel caught the whispers between Scorpion and Lizard: “Aonarán is too great a lack-guts to fly up there himself. He sends the poxy drunkard. . . .”
Atop the Comet’s Tower, Arran raged helplessly. He was fully aware that these miscreants could not slay Jewel, yet it was conceivable they could do her other harm. He possessed no certain knowledge of the extent of her invulnerability, no idea whether they might be able to torment her in some way. The fair-haired man had addressed him by his name. How could he have known? Who was he?
“I swear,” he said aloud, “you shall pay for using her so.”
Berating himself for allowing peril to threaten Jewel, he mulled rapidly over the possibilities for action
and concluded he could do nothing else, for now, but submit to the scoundrel’s demands. Swiftly he clambered back up to the roof of the overhang.
The brí flared through his body as he executed the sequence of word and sign. The summoned updraught applied its pressure, and the bulky form of the crop-haired man was hoisted skyward. Instantly, the cave-mouths in the rocky pillar snapped open, and a storm of missiles came flying out. Stormbringer took his time lifting the new passenger; the man cursed and roared as the barrage of pebbles hammered into his dangling body and threatened to cause the chute to fold up. As soon as their victim drew level with the top of the tower, the wights darted into their abodes and banged the doors shut. Arran elevated the silken hemisphere a little too high above the pinnacle’s crown, then let it collapse and drop. The man landed heavily, calling down ill-fortune on all and sundry. His sword-hilt dug into his ribs.
“Should you play any of your tricks, Maelstronnar,” Aonarán shouted up from the ground, “the wench will pay the price.”
“Jackanapes, you will regret your cockiness,” Weaponmonger growled, awkwardly getting to his feet. After extricating himself from the cords, he cast them off, then wiped blood from his injured face.
Arran contained his fury.
“Now show me what it is you have found up here,” demanded the crop-haired man. “What treasure trove have you discovered, eh, mooncalf?” A whiff of spirits was borne on his breath as he spoke. “Is there some drink up here? Your wench was carrying a vial. Is there more of that stuff? ’Tis down beneath this shelf you were. In that case, I shall make an inspection. But you must descend ahead of me, pup. I trust you not.”
Keeping an eye on Jewel and leashing his desire for action, Arran climbed down to the well, with Weaponmonger following close behind.
The unwelcome guest peered at the silvery basin. “What’s this? A hole, but ’tis dry. Have you taken it all, eh, and left naught for us?”
With increasing difficulty, Arran restrained his wrath. Ideas and possibilities tumbled through his mind as he sought a way to win through this predicament. The man was looking about now, examining the small area on which they stood, kicking at lumps of soil and stone. A natural breeze played languidly about their ears.
“Nothing else is here,” the knife-merchant said at length. “You have seized all the plunder, whatever it might have been. Unbury this strange metal from its grave and give it me! It might be of some value.”
“Such a feat is impossible,” said Arran. “The stuff is welded there by forces of nature—melted into the living rock.”
“Well, perhaps you speak truth, weathermaster, and perhaps you do not. But if I cannot have it, nobody shall!” With that, the intruder drew from his pocket a small earthenware flask and tipped the contents into the Well of Rain.
An unpleasant, penetrating stench arose. Weaponmonger instantly recoiled, but Arran coughed as acrid fumes burned his eyes and the back of his throat. The Well’s silvery lining began to smoke and sizzle.
“Etching acid,” said Cathal Weaponmonger with a sneer. “That will spoil your eldritch sink for you, whelp of puddle-makers!”
Arran ignored the taunts. Staring past his gloating adversary he fixed his attention on Jewel, constrained by the strangers on the ground below. The blond man had extended his arm toward her. He was fingering the chain around Jewel’s neck, discovering the white gem, which he would steal while she stood helpless. His hands would be touching her skin.
Stormbringer’s thoughts snapped to a conclusion. He flung up his arms, roaring, “!” It seemed he hurled something from his hand, and then, far below, Jewel felt a freezing draught whip past her, and from a myrtle bush right beside Lizard bright flames burst violently, crimson and gold, like a gigantic torch, accompanied by a blast of intense heat. Without pause the weathermaster swung his arm the other way, lending his bodyweight to a backhand blow on the side of Weaponmonger’s face.
Down on the ground the sudden conflagration was causing confusion. Lizard ran off, yelping and shrieking that his trousers were on fire. At the same time, Scorpion threw down his blowpipe and fled toward the shelter of the trees, covering his head with his hands as if he expected the sky to unleash burning rain. Aonarán dropped Jewel’s neckchain. He crouched, cowering and whimpering, while his sister dragged Jewel away from the blaze and shouted at him. Sparks milled chaotically, while smoke rushed upward like escaping ghosts.
Up on the Comet’s Tower, Cathal Weaponmonger aimed a blow at Arran, who blocked it with his forearm. The larger man bellowed his ire and leaped forward to attack, but Arran dodged and spun on his heel, fists clenched, ready to deliver a blow to the ribs. Weaponmonger, however, had miscalculated and thrown himself off balance. The platform was small, and his considerable momentum took him to the brink. There he teetered an instant, flailing his arms.
Then he disappeared.
From the Tower’s foot, Fionnuala saw him fall. As his body crashed to the ground, an agonized cry wrenched itself from her throat, so harsh it must have torn her flesh in passing. After releasing Jewel she ran to where the man lay, spread-eagled and motionless.
Having cast herself on the grass beside him, she raised his head in her hands and kissed him repeatedly, calling out his name. His blood drenched her face and her hands, streaked her gown, clotted wet and glistening like cherry syrup in her hair. No matter how loudly or repeatedly she called, she could not make him respond. At last, in despair, she lifted his head into her lap and cradled him, crooning and wailing, swaying and mourning. Her tears mingled with the final gush of his life’s fluids.
Meanwhile, the conflagration burned itself out.
Jewel shucked the rope from her arms. She saw Arran come plunging down from the pinnacle, hanging on to the cords of the open tulip of silk. Aonarán had already run away, and was nowhere to be seen. Having reduced the bush to a scrawl of blackened twigs, the fire smoldered as incandescent embers.
While still six or seven feet in the air, the young weathermaster let go of the cords, dropped deftly to the ground, and hastened toward Jewel. He took her by the shoulders, holding her at arm’s length and scrutinizing her closely.
In turn, she inspected him. He was quivering with pent-up rage, and twin fires seethed behind his eyes.
“Are you unhurt?” she asked him.
“Of course. And you?”
She nodded.
Protectively, he put his arm about her. She leaned into the embrace, feeling the stampede of his pulse, the outraged tension of his musculature.
“You are angry.”
Curtly he shook his head, dismissing her implied enquiry. They turned their attention to the man’s lifeless body and the woman who held his head in her lap, bending over him, keening. A curtain of her blond hair swung down across his features.
The valedictory brilliance of the setting sun ran a line along the horizon. Dusk stole forth. Fionnuala lifted her tear-ravaged face and glared accusingly at Stormbringer. Her stare was so intense, it was as if she was emblazoning his features on her memory. “It was you who killed him.”
“You are the gypsy who spoke to me in High Darioneth,” cried Jewel now, stepping between the two. “What are you doing here? Who are you? Who are these robbers who accompanied you? Why have you followed us, duped us, and sent your spies with us? What is your purpose?”
“I will tell you naught,” Fionnuala replied chokingly. “Your man has slain Cathal, my only love. He was all that was left to me.”
“There was no slaying. ’Twas an accident. ’Twas plain for all to see.”
But the grieving woman refused to say anything more.
Then Arran went to her. For the moment, pity mastered his wrath and he said, “I will go to Spire. I will send men to come and bear him to the Sanctorum.” To Jewel, he said, “Come,” and together they departed from the melancholy shadow of the Comet’s Tower.
As evening thickened the air, wightish sounds evolved among the pinnacles of Saadiah, small mutterings and giggling
, shrill arguments, eerie violin music, sudden shrieks, and a low, mournful cry. Like pin-pricks, the lights from tiny lanterns began to spangle the edges of the hollow. Arran and Jewel climbed the clay cliffs and struck out for Spire, but as they passed through a small clearing amidst the groves, Jewel spied a slight, fitful movement in the leaves at the perimeter. “One watches us,” she cautioned.
Arran, still dark-faced with unexpressed fury, made no reply, but after a moment he leaped to one side and dived into a shadowy bower of greenery. Furious rustlings and shakings ensued, after which he emerged, pushing Lizard ahead of him. With one hand he crab-gripped the shoulder of the Ashqalêthan near the base of the neck; with the other he twisted the fellow’s arm behind his back. He hauled his prisoner into the clearing, where Jewel waited beside the stump of a deceased mulberry tree.
The captive was pleading for mercy. “Prithee, sir, do not pinch so hard!”
“Why are you spying on us? Who are your cohorts?”
“I pray you, sir, in the name of gracious Lord Fortune, do not hurt me!”
“Answer my questions and you will be spared.”
“Yes! Yes! I will answer them all!”
“Then I shall release you for the moment. But if you try to flee, or cause harm, be assured, fireballs and thunderbolts shall smite you.” Stormbringer dumped Lizard on the ground. “Cast down your weapons!”
Obligingly, and in haste, Lizard unbuckled his scimitar. He also drew a dagger from his sleeve, and untied from his belt a pouch full of blow-darts.
“Where’s the blowpipe?”
“I dropped it,” babbled Lizard, “As I ran—”
“Is that everything?”
“Yes, yes, I swear it!”
“What is your true name?”
“Bahram Gaspar.”
“And Scorpion?”
“Fehroz Sohrab. The other three are from Slievmordhu. The man who fell, his name was Cathal Weaponmonger, but we called him ‘Knife,’ and the others are Fionnbar and Fionnuala Aonarán.”
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 33
