Arran glanced at Jewel. With her shoulders drooping under the burden of weariness and her uncombed hair still in tangles, she looked like a wilting rose. He suspected she could endure no further exertions without refreshment. “We are in a hurry, but yes, we will partake of food and drink.”
Jewel murmured her thanks. It was not food and drink she required so much as tranquillity. In her mind’s eye she still envisioned the frightened face of the dying Gaspar.
They dined in haste and departed from the house of the reeve soon thereafter. As they set off, the first drops of rain from the storm blowing in from the west began to touch the ground like plump fingertips, raising tiny puffs like powdered glass. Soon, the dust would turn to mire.
Pacing their steeds so as not to overtax them, they rode through the night. There was no stopping to rest—Arran wanted to stay as close as possible on the trail of Aonarán, while Jewel was still too dazed from witnessing two brutal deaths to challenge anyone’s ambition.
It was raining hard, but the downpour began to ease off as they left the vicinity of Spire. The sky began to clear, and swathes of stars flung themselves across the heavens like bridal veils exquisitely stitched with white flaxen daisies.
As they jogged onward, Jewel roused from her shocked silence.
“I am grateful that you risked your life to shield me,” she said. “However, you forgot, as you always do, that I am invulnerable. There was no need for it.”
Arran made no reply, and she glanced across at him. He was staring straight ahead, glowering. A hard light flashed in his eyes.
“You have hardly spoken to me,” she said reproachfully. “Are you angry?”
As before, he offered no response.
“Now tell me, prithee,” she persevered, “why you are in a towering rage!”
“Do you not know?”
“The thief Aonarán stole the sorcerer’s draught,” rejoined Jewel, “and his sister murdered a foolish man before our very eyes.” She shuddered. “I, too, am vexed, but one cannot lose what one has never possessed. We were never immortal. Now Aonarán owns that miraculous gift—much ill may it do him. As for the treacherous sister, well, I hope she steps on a Stray Sod and wanders forever, lost amongst the mulberry trees.”
“It is well that you take matters philosophically,” said Arran. “For my part, I cannot.”
“Why not?”
Riding alongside her, he looked her full in the face. When she read his countenance, she flinched. In his expression there was such an intensity of fierce tenderness, she felt shaken.
“I desired the water from the Well of Rain for one reason alone,” said Arran. “I wanted it for you. Only you.”
A clamp was squeezing Jewel’s throat. Unexpectedly, she was lost for words.
“For you,” he said, now directing his gaze away from her and apparently staring at the road ahead, “I broke weathermaster law, by wielding the brí to summon the dust devil, and to invoke the wind that lifted the chute of silk. All for you, all so that you might, if you chose, be the first to become immortal.”
So tight-knotted were her vocal cords that the girl could not emit so much as a squeak. A fine mist of perspiration glistened on her brow. The intensity of passion behind his averment was overwhelming.
“Would you wish for that?” he said softly, but with enough volume that his voice carried over the patter of the last raindrops and the dull drubbing of hooves. “Would you like to live forever?”
Forcing her dry tongue to form the utterance, the damsel said, “Even so.”
“Truly? For it would be no uncomplicated quality to possess. Think on it.”
“I need not think a minute on it. I would like to live forever. I want to know what will happen next, through all the years. Curiosity drives me. I cannot bear the notion of never finding out, of letting the future unfold without me there to observe it.”
“And I cannot bear the notion of a world without you.”
In silence they rode on. At length, the young man added, quietly, “I love you beyond all measure.”
The rain abated, the clouds thinned, and the wind decreased to a light breeze.
For a long time, even since before she had left High Darioneth, Jewel had gradually been becoming aware of his ardency toward her. Nonetheless, unable to interpret her own sensibilities, she had no idea how to respond to his words and therefore she said nothing about his declaration.
Disturbing thoughts hunted one another through Jewel’s mind, and, when she found herself utterly unable to formulate a reply, she experienced a period of confusion, then fell to frantic pondering.
It was clear that Arran truly loved her, but although she liked him very much and was grateful for his help and companionship, she could not return his intense affection. Long ago she had vowed to herself never to entrust her love to anyone again. Two scenarios from her past fixed themselves firmly in her mind’s eye—the first, herself as a child, wandering alone among purple-blossoming buddleias near a ruined watchtower, calling her uncle’s name.
The second, herself a few weeks later at the mill in High Darioneth, lying awake at nights weeping, longing to be cradled in the arms of her parents.
From that time onward, the vow to avoid forming strong attachments had remained with her, encapsulating her heart. She esteemed the Storm Lord, she cared about the welfare of her friends, she enjoyed the company of Arran and—sometimes—of Ryence, but with a stubbornness born of a desperate desire to avoid the repetition of her terrible suffering, she allowed herself to feel no deeper sentiment toward anyone.
Be that as it may, the love of such a man as the son of the Storm Lord was no trifle. His passion was flattering, but more than that, he was kind and generous, brave and enterprising, and she began to wonder whether she had taken his help for granted, had perhaps been too headstrong and selfish in her dealings with him. With her obstinate insistence on examining the sorcerous book in the Tope at the Dome, for example, she might have endangered them both.
Covertly Jewel stole a glance at her companion, but he was staring straight ahead as he rode beside her, and the expression on his handsome face was unreadable. Unexpectedly, an extreme pulse of empathy, or sorrow, or longing, or some other fierce emotion welled within her, and she clenched her jaw, quelling the sensation by force of will.
Arran’s declaration of love was not mentioned further between them. Yet, for a day or two, they were both awkward and shy with each other, as never before.
They traveled fast. Two days later they reached the Khashayar Tunnel, and crossed through without incident, emerging once again in the desert. No longer did the hooves of the horses kick up spatters of mud—now they struck only plumes of dust from the rock-hard roadway. The wayside trees dwindled and were replaced by low shrubs, which in turn diminished and disappeared as they reentered the arid region.
“How is it that you did not detect the presence of Aonarán when he tracked us to Strang?” Jewel asked presently. “If you had evoked breezes from all quarters, they would have brought you the scent of him on their backs. I recall, you did that trick once, when first we met.”
“That breeze-stratagem is seldom effective in unfamiliar territory, or in regions sprinkled with villages. We found you in the remote mountains where creatures of fur and feather dwell amongst tree and stone and water. There it would not have been difficult to scent the wood-smoke of a traveler’s campfire on the winds, or man-sweat, or the smell of tanned leather riding tack.”
“On your way to the Dome you might have looked for sudden flights of birds disturbed by the passage of a stranger.”
“Birds are disturbed by wild beasts as easily as by humankind. Besides, I had no reason to suppose I was being trailed. Methinks you look to find fault with me.”
“Forgive me. That was not my intention.”
They journeyed through the afternoon and the night, scarcely pausing. By the time morning strewed its snapdragon petals across the desert, the riders and their steeds were
close to exhaustion. They had encountered no sign of Aonarán and Sohrab, and the hoofprints in the dust of the road were too muddled and crowded to be of any use. There was no option but to pull off to the verge, where they could rest and sleep amid the frosted sands.
When they awoke all rime had been vaporized, and the sun was suspended overhead like a flaming warrior, ruthlessly hurling down bolts of radiant energy. After watering the horses the travelers crawled deeper into the shade of an acacia clump and dined frugally on their provisions.
Having broken their fast, they continued on until they reached the crossroads where the road to Saadiah met the Desert Road. There they paused once more, unable to guess whether Aonarán had turned northwest toward Grïmnørsland or headed southeast, striking out for Jhallavad. He might even have left the road, or doubled back.
“We can go no further in our pursuit,” Jewel announced. “We must return to the Dome and keep our promise, or part of it, ere we resume our search for the thief. Recall, I vowed, ‘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.’ ”
“Aye, we found the Draught, but we cannot bring it back.”
“Through no fault of our own. Despite losing what we found, we should return and kindle the flame.”
“But we can never fulfill the vow!” Arran exclaimed. “ ’Twould be sleeveless to return to that place without the Draught. Why not simply abandon the quest, and never go back to the Dome?”
“For two reasons,” replied the damsel. “Firstly, the sorcerer’s ancient enchantments might be strong enough to learn that we found the Well of Rain and yet did not return to the Dome. It would appear as if we were forsworn. What if his legacy is powerful enough to find us out and strike us down as punishment for our faithlessness? Secondly, if we go back, maybe we shall get a chance to find out where the other waters of eternal life can be obtained. I hold high hopes that the location of all the other Wells might be revealed to us, whether or not the Draught from the Well of Rain is present in the Tope when the fire is ignited. All that claptrap about passing tests might have been intended to fool us. We ought to go back and light the fire, and wait to find out what unfolds.”
The young man was not convinced. “There is inconsistency in your reasoning, Jewel,” he said, “for if the sorcerer’s lingering enchantments were formidable enough to afflict us for failing to return to the Dome, then they would most certainly be able to punish us for returning to the Dome without the prize. For my part, I deem that his influence, though lasting beyond his death, is not far-reaching. His ancient spells endure within the walls of Strang, and in the blood of his heirs, but I surmise they have no efficacy in the world beyond his domains. Jaravhor was only a man, not an eldritch wight. Be certain: if we fail to return to the Dome, no supernatural punishment will hunt after us, but if we go back without the Draught, we risk becoming targets of his posthumous mischief.”
“Jaravhor would hardly pre-arrange for his spells to harm his own heir when by his own written declaration his chief objective was preserving his lineage,” Jewel countered. “But perhaps you are right about his influence being merely local. Now that I reflect on our experiences at the Dome, I begin to doubt very much whether the old trickster was as mighty as he would have people believe. Other than Castle Strang’s wall-shield, you and I spied no evidence of lingering enchantment, and like you I wonder whether the shield is no spell at all, but some cunning, man-made contrivance. The flame that illuminates the Tope is fueled by commonplace gas, and the pages of the sorcerer’s book unsealed themselves only when I pressed hard enough on the reliquary to budge some lever beneath, operating a hidden mechanism. The more I ponder, the more it seems clear that Jaravhor’s tricks are mostly achieved by means of springs and cogs and other mechanical systems, rather than true magick.”
“Aye,” said Arran. “The man died years ago. What influence a dead sorcerer still possesses, in the form of weird engines and clockworks constructed before his demise, will exist only in his domain. If we never enter the Dome again, the breaking of the vow cannot harm us.”
“But this does not annul my second reason for returning,” said Jewel. “I would fain try to learn the locations of the other Wells.”
“Jewel, the sorcerer dealt in troublemaking. All his works were devised for ill purpose. Even this well-intentioned quest for immortality has ended in misfortune, because the man who has ultimately obtained the gift of deathlessness is plainly unworthy.”
“Only if the Draught is in fact everything it is claimed to be,” Jewel interposed.
“Indeed. If so, then the immortality of a villain such as Aonarán could result in disastrous consequences for humankind. We might have unintentionally wrought some great wrong by heeding the words of the sorcerer’s book and pursuing this absurd dream. I say we should have no further commerce with Castle Strang.”
“Oh, but the Dome is my heritage!”
“You are mistaken. Your heritage is not a pile of moldering stones once built by a wicked man, no matter what secrets might be imprisoned within. All the most precious gifts you have inherited from your forebears I see before me now.”
Jewel felt blood-heat rush to her cheeks. To cover her unwonted confusion she said quickly, “If you will not accompany me to Strang I shall go alone.”
“Do so, if that is your wish,” said Arran, surprising her, “for none of the sorcerer’s tricks can scathe you. I choose another path. There is a man somewhere in the world, an unvirtuous man, whose span of days has been infinitely lengthened because of certain deeds of mine. I am honor-bound to endeavor to avert at least some of the harm he might unleash upon us all. My duty is to capture and imprison Aonarán.”
“But we do not know where he has gone! What is your plan?”
“I shall go to Cathair Rua. Weathermasters often sojourn there on business, which gives me a chance of meeting some of my kindred and hearing news from home. The city is Aonarán’s base, is it not? ’Tis likely he’s heading there now, even as we speak.”
“And from Cathair Rua whither?”
“I know not. Perhaps back to the mountain ring. It depends on how much information I can glean about the man I seek, and who will aid me.”
A frown of indecision creased Jewel’s brow as she turned over Arran’s words in her mind. He was right—there was no knowing what a man like Aonarán might do, given all the days and nights of eternity to work his will. That he had consumed the Draught was beyond a calamity. Simultaneously, it came to Jewel for the first time that an aeons-long experience of forever losing the people he knew, while he himself outlived them, would surely be truly execrable. Immortality could be considered either the greatest gift or the worst possible curse for any mortal-born creature. There was also the question of pain. There was no knowing whether the Draught conferred anesthesia, or whether it entailed the possibility of eternal torment.
To endure decades, centuries, millennia of loss as generation after generation passed away . . . had Arran thoroughly thought the matter through, when he decided to seize deathlessness and present it to Jewel? Perhaps he had, and in saying to her, “All for you, all so that you might, if you chose, be the first to become immortal,” he had left the decision in her hands. His gift was to have been the option of eternal life, rather than the obligation.
It would have been a gift unparalleled.
On the spur of the moment Jewel had told Arran candidly that she would like to live on. Now that she had mulled over the ramifications, she reconsidered. Her doubts led her to wonder whether pursuing the remaining Draughts was truly a commendable course of action. She and Stormbringer had set off on their mission at Jaravhor’s behest from beyond the grave, despite both knowing the sorcerer had been a false and sadistic man with malicious designs. Jaravhor’s posthumous message had intimated that he wished for his descendants to live forever, because since he himself had failed to obtain i
mmortality, the next best arrangement was to secure it for those who were of his blood. Nonetheless, some hidden purpose might have driven Jaravhor to leave the message in the Tope, and if so, in all likelihood it was an ill-purpose.
It made sense to try to collect the remaining Draughts so that the weathermasters could then decide how to dispose of them in the best possible way, but Jewel was torn between distrust of the sorcerer’s intentions and a desire to prevent the precious waters from falling into the wrong hands. . . .
At length she reached a decision. “I will aid you,” she announced.
Arran raised an eyebrow in a querying fashion.
“You argue the right of it,” Jewel admitted. “I have been hearkening to your words and weighing their good sense. We cannot fulfill the vow, so must try to undo the harm that has come of our enterprise.”
The young man’s grin was so warm and so engaging that she could only return it with a smile of her own. No more was said, and with that, they turned east and began to retrace their steps.
The road was long, hot, and wearisome. Scant conversation took place between them, and the sense of excitement with which they had undertaken the outward journey was dissipating along with every trace of cloud vapor in the scalding sky.
It occurred to Jewel, late one evening, that the road no longer lay beneath the feet of their steeds, and in fact, she could not recall having seen a milestone for some long while. Drawing rein, she sat up straight and looked about. The undulations of the slumbering desert lay beneath the brilliant sweep of the night sky, shimmering like a reflection of the star-field, spangled with frozen dew.
“We are lost,” she announced.
Sharply, Stormbringer reined in his horse beside her. “Even so,” he said, scanning the silver-plated but pathless landscape. “Somehow we have wandered from the road.” He scratched his head. “How that came to occur I cannot say.”
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 35
