The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Stormbringer called for a private dining-room and it was not long before all five were seated around a table beside a fireplace, with foaming tankards set before them, and a serving-man’s promise that the cook would immediately prepare a substantial meal for their enjoyment. Cold raindrops began to patter against the windows and gusts shook the shutters, but indoors all was cozy and warm.

  Then was many a tale recounted.

  First, Arran demanded news of family and friends. “Not a word of our own ventures will pass our lips,” he insisted, “until you have informed us how they are faring.”

  “I assure you that all is as well as can be hoped,” said the weathermage, a flinty, middle-aged man named Tristian Solorien. “Sadly, Branor Darglistel has passed out of life. A welcome release for him, I would judge.” All bowed their heads gravely, and there was a moment’s respectful silence, before Solorien resumed: “The Maelstronnar does not often speak of his absent son, but I tell you this; he is not displeased with you. He trusts his son’s good judgment in all undertakings, although he is saddened by the lack of your company.”

  “Aye, your father misses you sorely,” said Bliant, “as do we all.” He proceeded to outline details about the doings of Arran’s siblings, Galiene, Lysanor, and Dristan, and his aunt Astolat, and his cousins, including young Ryence Darglistel.

  “Darglistel is breaking the hearts of damsels all across the plateau,” said Solorien, somewhat dismissively. “He acts like a bee crazed by fermenting honey.”

  Jewel laughed with the others, but could not prevent a twinge of annoyance that her admirer showed no signs of missing her, and instead was paying court to all and sundry. She noticed Arran’s eyes upon her but he immediately looked away as if he had been unaware of her glance, which led her to wonder, in that moment, whether the Storm Lord’s son had been jealous of her friendship with Ryence all along.

  “Is Ettare Sibilaurë in sound health?” Arran asked Solorien.

  “That she is, and happy as ever.”

  “What about the Miller family?” Jewel inquired.

  “Prosperous, as far as I know.”

  “Does Blostma’s baby still get the croup? How is Mildthrythe’s arthritis?”

  Solorien gave a shrug. “If you want news of aches and infants, ask a carlin.” He took another pull at his tankard of ale.

  Jewel said, “Beyond these walls, wind and rain beleaguer the city. Have you come here to tame them?”

  “We will not disturb ourselves on account of anything less than a force nine strong gale,” said Bliant. “That which blows outside is merely a force seven.”

  “By your clothes and your accommodation alone I deduced as much,” said Arran. “But why have you come to the city?”

  “We have just returned from a visit to a far-flung town in the northeast of Slievmordhu, called Carrickmore,” Bliant replied. “Reports of civil disturbance there had come to the notice of the Maelstronnar, and he dispatched us to investigate.”

  “What disturbance?”

  The weathermasters explained that a group of druids in the remote Carrickmore Sanctorum appeared to be forming a breakaway sect, claiming that Míchinniúint, Lord Doom, was the rightful Chieftain of the Fates. The druids were declaring that folk who continued to believe Ádh was Chieftain ought to be penalized, and they were talking of organizing “enlightenment parties” to patrol the town demanding that people state their allegiance to Míchinniúint. Most of the townsfolk were afraid that if they betrayed their allegiance to Ádh, they would lose the good favor of Lord Luck. He might then punish them by withdrawing his protection and allowing them to be harmed by Mí-Ádh, Lady Misfortune, and the hag Cinniúint, Lady Destiny.

  Wearily, Arran sighed. “Therefore,” he said, “the common-folk are pinched, as it were, in a forked stick, afraid to speak lest they offend one Fate or another.”

  “The entire town is ruled by fear,” Solorien stated sourly, brooding as he stared into his half-empty tankard.

  “Strange are the ways of humankind,” mused Bliant. “There exist rain and wind and fire, and interdependent systems of organisms, and the myriad other elements that sustain Life. Instead of esteeming these elements we personify abstractions, that we may avoid responsibility for our own destinies and lay the blame elsewhere.”

  “All here present are agreed on that point,” pointed out Solorien.

  “And even if there were beings with as much power as the so-called Fates are claimed to wield,” extrapolated Jewel, always keen to air her opinion, “such omnipotents would scarcely require to be constantly worshiped and fawned upon as if they were mortal kings. The truly great need no affirmation of their greatness.”

  “The faith of the druids is no more than unquestioning submission to the preposterous,” muttered Bliant.

  “This group in Carrickmore, the ‘Sandals of Doom,’ is saying that people who do not believe the Fates exist should be slain,” Solorien said.

  “The ‘Sandals of Doom’?”

  “They attest that their task is to disseminate the words of Lord Doom and be trodden beneath his feet.”

  Two serving-lads brought in platters and bowls of food to set upon the board. After the servants had departed and Bliant checked to ensure the door was firmly shut, the company fell to dining. Stories continued to be told throughout the repast.

  The attention of the journeyman Gahariet Heaharním-HighCloud had obviously been wandering during the discussion. After the meal was over he begged leave to go hence to the inn’s common-room, where he wished to renew his friendship with some old acquaintances lately spied there.

  “And one of these acquaintances would have a pretty face, no doubt,” said Solorien loudly. “And that one would be the buttery maid, no doubt. Be off with you, then, Gahariet. Go where your thoughts have already strayed. You’ve been propped up next to me like an empty vessel this last half hour.”

  When Heaharním had made his exit, Arran courteously informed the weathermasters that he wished to consult with Jewel in a private corner of the room. He took her aside and they conversed in murmurs, while Solorien and Ymberbaillé kept up a noisier conversation at the table.

  “Jewel, the time has come to disclose your identity to Bliant,” Arran said. “I recognize the look in his eye—he detects there is much left unsaid between the members of this group, senses he is an outsider, guesses there are secrets afoot but is too discreet to make enquiries. I value his counsel. He is my closest friend. Methinks we shall need his help, and for this purpose he must be made aware of your history. Solorien, as one of the councillors of Ellenhall, is, of course, already privy to the truth. Bliant Ymberbaillé-Rainbearer, as the son of a councillor and as my life-long comrade, is a man to be trusted. Besides, the habit of taciturnity is ingrained with weathermasters, who have to keep the secrets of weatherworking from an early age. For friendship’s sake and also because I hold his advice in high esteem, let me tell Bliant who you are.”

  Jewel hesitated, then nodded in agreement. “You are right. Let him know.”

  They returned to the table. After eliciting a vow of secrecy from Bliant, they spoke of Jewel’s heritage and narrated their recent adventures, keeping their voices low all the while, for as Stormbringer said, “A private chamber this may be, but gossipmongers have scant respect for privacy when there’s a chance of discovering secrets. It is wise to forever assume, in public houses, that some Jack In The Wall is wagging his ears nearby. Our business is confidential.”

  Their tale riveted the attention of the listeners—Bliant was astonished at the revelations—and the hours passed quickly. It was very late by the time they had concluded their account; Solorien’s head was nodding with exhaustion.

  “We ought also to keep the existence of these other Wells secret,” said Arran. “Make no mention to anyone—save, of course, for my father. If word got about that draughts of everlasting life are hidden somewhere in the Four Kingdoms, can you imagine the hordes that would stampede in search of them, inve
nting false rumors, following spurious trails, double-crossing and quarreling, cutting down all opposition in their desperation to cheat death? And if tyrants such as King Uabhar should seize this prize of everlasting life, why, Tir would never be rid of their predations!”

  “It should be for the wisest of the wise, the Council at Ellenhall, to decide the future of such precious potions,” said Solorien.

  All present declared their concordance.

  “Immortality, eh?” said Bliant. “I, for one, could never desire such a so-called gift.”

  “Why not?” Jewel wanted to know.

  Ymberbaillé had ever been an honest young man, and it was obvious he spoke from the heart. “To me, it would be no gift, but a burden.”

  “To whom would you give the gift?” Jewel asked of Bliant.

  “To whosoever could demonstrate they were both worthy of it and able to endure it.”

  “For example?”

  “The Storm Lord.”

  “I, too, wished to offer one of the cups of life to my father,” said Arran regretfully. Without glancing at Jewel, he added, “Had I successfully obtained the Draught from the Well of Rain for another.”

  Meanwhile the older weathermage unclosed his jaw in a gaping yawn and said, “We have traveled far this day. For myself, I would fain rest my head upon a pillow.” He bade the company good night. After he had departed, Bliant fell to earnest discussion with Jewel and Arran.

  The evening grew older, and more drinks were called for. Talk turned to the subject of arms-smugglers, with Bliant saying, “It has been lately evident some racketeering has been going on. Marauders all across the countryside are more brazen and successful in their attacks, now that they possess superior weapons.”

  “We have good reason to suspect that the leader of the operation is Fionnbar Aonarán,” said Arran, “the self-same rogue who stole the Draught and has now—may the world be shielded from hideous folly—become immortal.”

  “Or so we must believe,” said Bliant, “if the words written in the sorcerous book can be trusted.”

  “Alas,” said Arran, “that such a potent potion should have found its final abode in the veins of a villain such as he!”

  “And now we cannot fulfill the pledge we made at the Dome,” said Jewel disconsolately. “For we vowed to bring back the Draught.”

  Outside, wind and rain battered on the whitewashed walls of the hostelry until they shuddered.

  “Be not so certain,” said Bliant, leaning back in his chair and worrying at his incisors with a toothpick. “On the contrary, it still remains possible to discharge the oath. This Aonarán quaffed the water. Bring Aonarán to Strang, and you bring the Draught.”

  Enlightenment struck his listeners simultaneously. Arran pounded the table with his fist, causing the dishes to jump, and Jewel laughed jubilantly.

  “I like the idea this very instant!” Arran crowed.

  “I offer you my help,” said Bliant. “If we can capture the leader, then there is a good chance of breaking up the arms trade at the same time.”

  “Your offer is most welcome,” said Stormbringer, “yet for a task as formidable as we propose, it might not be enough.”

  “I’ll warrant my two companions will volunteer, when they hear of it!”

  “Indeed. Gahariet Heaharním will also have to be told of Jewel’s ancestry.”

  Jewel shot a glance of dismay at the Storm Lord’s son. “But,” she said, “it seems the whole world is to learn who I am! The more people who know, the more precarious my existence becomes!”

  “I vouch for Gahariet’s ability to keep his lips sealed,” said Arran. “It is for your security that the truth must be revealed. You are safer with weathermasters knowing than not.”

  The marsh-daughter sighed. “Very well,” she said reluctantly. “I accept your advice, on condition that he, too, must be sworn to secrecy before we commence the tale. We must warn him that I would be in danger if word leaked out to Uabhar that Jaravhor’s heir walks the Four Kingdoms of Tir.”

  “In sooth!”

  “Hoorah, good Gahariet shall join us!” Bliant said with glee.

  This prospect led Arran to expand on the notion. “And I know of some men in the city who might also be inclined to aid us!”

  “Who might they be? And are they worthy of our confidence?” Jewel asked.

  “Most are liegemen to the Duke of Bucks Horn Oak, in Narngalis. Having traveled in their company, I deem they are creditworthy.”

  “Bucks Horn Oak?” repeated Bliant. “An honorable house! I know that Solorien has been a friend of that noble family for many a long year. The duke is said to be a wise and generous master, much-loved by his household, for he allows his retainers to take leave every year in order to visit their kindred.”

  “These liegemen were in our company when Marauders assailed us on the road. They aided us. I’ll guarantee they would enjoy taking part in the downfall of the arms-traders.”

  “But can they be trusted with other secrets?”

  “What is your meaning?”

  “The confidential matter of Jewel’s ancestry, for one. Furthermore, Aonarán has become immortal, if the sorcerer’s book is to be believed. Anyone who deals with the rogue will be sure to discover his extraordinary condition, eventually. If the men of whom you speak learn about the remaining Wells, what will they do? Will they seek to betray us, in order to seize the Draughts for themselves?”

  “I doubt it,” replied Arran, “but who can read the minds of others? We can only hope, and have faith in our own good judgment.”

  “I, for one, am convinced the liegemen are of integrity beyond reproach,” stated Jewel.

  Over the next few hours the three of them put their heads together and devised stratagems, while in the clay saucers the tallow candles slouched into dwarfish, deformed shapes as they burned low. At length the conspirators became too tired to think coherently and sought their couches, eager to succumb to sleep.

  Jewel lay in her narrow bed in an upstairs chamber of the inn, sensing the sweet abandonment of drowsiness steal over her. A furtive sound of brushing in the corridor roused her, drawing her to creep from her bed and peek through a crack in the door. A domestic brownie in ragged clothes was sweeping the floors with a birch besom, executing its self-imposed household duties during the hours of darkness. Reassured by the presence of the benevolent wight, she returned to her couch. The sound of voices drifted up from the common room below. They were singing the song “Ropes of Sand,” the same ditty she had heard from the minstrels on the road. Striving to stay awake, she hearkened especially to the portion she had wanted to learn, the verses concerning the betting between the schoolmaster and the unseelie wight:

  “ ‘The wager’s on!’ the goblin howled. ‘And I shall win! I’ll guarantee!

  Set me three tasks,’ he shrieked and growled. ‘I will perform them. You shall see.’

  “The teacher said, ‘A blackthorn fence doth run from here to Coran’s Edge.

  Rain lately fell theron. Go hence and count the droplets on that hedge!’

  The wight was gone and back again more swiftly than a fox can cough.

  ‘I shook the hedge with might and main, and all but thirteen tumbled off!

  Just thirteen raindrops—that’s the sum,’ he sneered. ‘Perhaps you’ll think to ask

  A harder question when you come to formulate the second task!’

  “His jibes could not intimidate the hardy dean, who would not yield,

  But bravely said, ‘Enumerate the ears of corn in Tithepig’s field!’

  Once more the sprite employed his tricks—vanished and back all in a blink.

  ‘Three million and twenty-six!’ he crowed, with a triumphant wink.

  “The schoolmaster waxed still as death. A shadow passed across his brow.

  The scholars paled. They held their breath and shuddered. What would happen now?

  But, misinterpreting the hush that fell upon the harrowed throng,
/>   The ogre bellowed in a rush, ‘If you believe I’ve got it wrong

  Count them yourself, you mutton-head!’ There were no means, the tutor knew,

  To check the answer. So he said, ‘I trust you, sir. Now you must do

  One final task. Thus we’ve agreed. The first and second, you have done.

  If at the third you don’t succeed, you will have lost; I will have won.

  And if I win, you must depart, ne’er to return. You’ve sworn you will.’

  The other snarled, ‘You won’t outsmart me. Nothing is beyond my skill.

  Say on! Say on, you foolish knave. Delay no more! You make me peeved.

  I’ll put you in an early grave when this last task I have achieved.’ ”

  The rest of the song was lost to Jewel. She had fallen asleep.

  Next day, Bliant Ymberbaillé announced to his two companions that he would not be returning with them to High Darioneth, but would instead join Arran Stormbringer in a hunt for the leader of the racketeers. Enthused at the prospect of injuring the arms-trade, Solorien and Heaharním immediately tendered their services. Arran accepted with thanks, adding as an afterthought, “Tristian, I have written a letter to my father and I had hoped to entrust it to you, to take to High Darioneth.”

  “Your father would rather I brought you home, than a message, young Maelstronnar,” said Solorien grudgingly. “Still, if we can do some good here, our time will not be ill-spent.”

  Arran made his way swiftly through the streets to the Ace and Cup, where he had no difficulty recruiting the Bucks Horn Oak liegemen. “Our need for you is desperate,” he said. “As weathermasters, my comrades and I will be too easily recognized by potential informants. I do not intend to keep you long from your employment and families—only long enough to help capture Aonarán and put an end to the arms-trade. If you can help us obtain the knowledge we seek, we shall take care of the rest.”