The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “I meant no mischief, weatherlord!” Aonarán ducked his head in an obsequious bow, and scrambled away to the rim of the firelight.

  Stormbringer sat down beside Jewel, crossing his arms on his knees. “I am not troubled by Aonarán,” said Jewel. “He may harp as he pleases—I shall close my ears to him.” She turned her cerulean eyes upon the weathermaster. “But the mage of Strang,” she said, “he troubles me. How strange and callous he was: He never asked our names; he never appeared pleased to meet his so-called heir. He could dwell on no thing beyond himself. I shudder to think I am sprung from such a horror as he.”

  “He was your great-grandfather, only one-eighth part of your ancestry. That is not a very close relationship.”

  Jewel stretched out her hand and let her fingers enter the amber film of the fire. Spontaneously, Arran knocked her arm aside. “Jewel, what are you at?”

  “It has come to me that I cannot feel pain. I never truly realized it before. Not ever having known pain, how could I know what the word described? Pain is a warning. When no warning is needed, there’s no pain.”

  “Well,” replied her companion,” at least the old vulture’s existence gave rise to one commendable outcome.”

  Her fingers closed about her sleeve, where Arran had touched her.

  Next morning, as the last stars were fading and waterlily light was beginning to glow in the east, they scattered the ashes of their fire, broke camp, and rode on. Translucent morning mists were rising from the meadows and long valleys like smoke, screening the landscape with muted shades of softest grays and blues. Against these swathes of pearly vapor, belts of leafless trees stood out starkly, every branch and twig distinct, interlocking in a pattern like black lace. A few late flowers stippled the meadows, the daisy-like blooms of mayweed, blue splashes of germander speedwell, and clusters of white deadnettle, thrumming with bees.

  They rode along a narrow path through the oak wood, which eventually emerged onto grassy slopes engraved with disused sheep-tracks. In the distance shimmered the foliage of a sycamore coppice, burnished with autumnal gold.

  Stormbringer was riding past Aonarán when the pale-haired man addressed him. “Weatherlord, may it please you to tell me what is your plan for me?” His manner was deferential. When not surrounded by his own henchmen, he feared the weathermaster. He kept his head down and would not meet Arran’s eye.

  “It is not yet decided. Perhaps we shall take you to High Darioneth, that you may stand trial.”

  “What wrong have I done?”

  Arran glanced sharply at his questioner. “You deal illegally in weapons, selling them to Marauders and other felons who are the enemies of peace-loving travelers and law-abiding folk.”

  “With all respect, what proofs have you, good sir?” Aonarán’s tone remained obeisant. “You’ll not be finding a single witness to testify against me. What’s the charge? ’Twould be unlawful to detain me without a charge. And yourself, honorable gentleman, would surely not be about breaking the law!” He shrank into himself, as if expecting a blow. “Or perhaps I err in my judgment—my hands are bound, and you have already detained me without excuse.”

  “You stole the Draught. There are witnesses.”

  “Forgive me for differing, sir, that was no theft. The Draught belonged to no one. The statutes of salvage allow possession to the first person who seizes the prize.”

  “You were the one who swallowed it, but not the first to seize it! It was Jewel who collected the Draught. In any event, Aonarán, there may not be a single person in Slievmordhu to testify against you, but at the trial, the testament of weathermasters will oppose your false assertions.”

  “The testament of weathermasters? But sir, what exactly have you and your people seen me at? Have you seen me after trading in arms, as you allege? And if you have not, I am certain such noble folk will not commit perjury in order to have me convicted!” His words were jarring, at odds with his fawning conduct.

  “You threatened Jewel with a knife. That, at least, counts against you.”

  Aonarán said, “I understood full well she was invulnerable, like her father. There was no real threat. A lawyer could use that as argument on my behalf. I am by way of knowing something of your laws, weatherlord. I could press charges against you, for illegal detainment and abduction, if you do not return me to Cathair Rua.”

  For a long while, Arran brooded in silence. Then he swung his steed away from Aonarán’s and joined the other riders to discuss the matter.

  They passed the ruins of a wooden fence. Chestnut trees, layered with toothedged leaves of antique bronze, leaned over the moldering timbers. Prickly green-husked fruit clustered thickly on their boughs and lay scattered about their roots, bursting open to reveal the glossy brown nuts within.

  Aonarán’s horse was being led at the end of a long rope so that the rider might remain out of earshot. The young weathermage said to his companions, “As all know, the most secure place in Tir is High Darioneth, and it is there I first thought to take Aonarán. Yet in my heart I do not want him nesting at the core of my home, like a maggot in an apple.”

  “Aonarán has been privy to dangerous secrets,” said Bliant. “It is possible he might try to bribe his way to freedom by divulging them—by disclosing Jewel’s identity, and maybe also the whereabouts of the second Well.”

  “We must choose those who guard him with care,” said Solorien. “They must be tight-lipped, and loyal to the Maelstronnar. They must be of the utmost probity.”

  “Methinks we are all agreed on that,” said Yaadosh. The others murmured their concurrence.

  “What then should we do with this worm?” asked Bliant.

  “Gentlemen, we must deliver the arms-smuggler into the hands of the authorities in Cathair Rua and press charges against him,” said Barakiel. “At the very least, he will be incarcerated for long enough that you, Master Stormbringer, with the other weathermasters, may reach the Well of Dew before he is able to start, if that is his plan. Moreover, while he is confined, others will have opportunity to collect evidence to convict him. Yaadosh has many contacts in Cathair Rua.”

  “You have much to learn, my friend,” Yaadosh replied, smilingly. “In R’shael, everyone is privy to everyone else’s business. ’Tis a small village. Wrongdoers are quickly caught. Not so in the metropolis. You speak of ‘the authorities in Cathair Rua,’ but King Uabhar employs no city guard, no civil constabulary. If there are disturbances of the peace, his household guards or the druids’ henchmen from the Sanctorum might decide to quell them, should they become a nuisance. Wealthy merchants employ mercenaries for security.”

  “There is no state-run law enforcement in Slievmordhu, unlike in Narngalis and Grïmnørsland,” said Solorien.

  “Nor in Ashqalêth, save in Saadiah,” said Bliant. “The Lord of Saadiah employs a constabulary to maintain order in the town of Spire, in addition to his own household guards.”

  “Considering the arbitrary nature of Uabhar’s laws,” Solorien said, “I see the lack of regulation as beneficial. However, to answer your question, Barakiel, we trust no authority in Cathair Rua.”

  Arran said, “And it seems the arms-runner might escape justice after all, if we can find no evidence against him.”

  “But we shall find evidence,” Bliant Ymberbaillé asserted with confidence.

  “All witnesses to his arms-trading will have mysteriously disappeared, no doubt,” said Arran. “And, I daresay, all clues to boot.”

  “Yet we cannot set him free!” Yaadosh exclaimed feelingly. “He is a dangerous and slippery piece of work. What’s more, he probably heard the sorcerer speak of the location of this other Well, and I suspect he would take the first opportunity to try to obtain that Draught. Who knows what he might do with it—give it to that witch he keeps company with, or some other vile rogue.”

  “Aye, he knows far too much,” said Solorien.

  “How shall we proceed?” asked the journeyman Gahariet.

  “We sh
ould take him,” said Solorien, “to Calogrenant Lumenspar, the Ambassador for High Darioneth in Cathair Rua. He dwells in a fortified consulate, well guarded. It were well to lock up Aonarán there, at least for a while, so that we may have time to somehow render harmless the two pieces of information he could wield against us once he is set free—Jewel’s identity and the location of the Well of Dew.”

  They all agreed it was the best plan and, accordingly, changed their course. They had been heading southwest across the trackless meadows, making for the Valley Road where it meandered in amongst the Border Hills. Now they veered farther southwest.

  As they traveled, the discussion continued. Arran said, “In order to render useless Aonarán’s knowledge of that Well, I would fain obtain the Draught. In fact, I would fain obtain both Draughts of which the sorcerer spoke.”

  “For whom?”

  “For whosoever deserves the honor of immortality. That is a question the Council of Ellenhall shall decide.”

  “One must be for the Maelstronnar,” proclaimed the weathermage Tristian, without hesitation. The others nodded to indicate their assent.

  “I am glad you suggested him,” said Arran. “I would have done so myself, had I not been hesitant to put forward my own kinsman. Gladly would I see him lead High Darioneth forever, and never would I envy him such a challenging task.”

  “If anyone is to live forever, it should be he,” agreed Jewel. “In the Four Kingdoms of Tir, no alderman is so well loved.”

  “Aye,” said Bliant Ymberbaillé-Rainbearer, “Stormbringer, these many years your father has guided High Darioneth with wisdom and justice—which is not to say you would not do the same, were you elected to the position, but I know you well enough to suppose you would not be entirely happy with the duties of a chieftain. You would rather live a life of adventure and freedom.”

  A grin flashed across Arran’s face. “You understand me too well.”

  “ I am in accord,” interjected Jewel. “But tell me—if we can find the third Draught, the drop from the Well of Tears, to whom would it be offered?”

  Turning in his saddle, the young Maelstronnar conferred upon her a gaze of such tenderness she felt herself catch alight, like a beacon. “Well, Jewel,” he said softly, “that remains to be seen.”

  Once again, quite unexpectedly, she found herself quite unable to reply or, indeed, to speak at all.

  Far ahead, a dark line marched across the hills: the row of pines that marked the borders of Strang’s domains. No definable track ran before the riders, but they continued across the acres of meadowlands and forests on a southwesterly heading. Through the great palisade of black conifers they passed and, having descended the hillside into a sheltered vale, they splashed across a fast-flowing brook.

  As they trotted along, Arran asked Solorien, “What do you know of this Ragnkull Island in Grïmnørsland?”

  “It broods in the midst of a perilous lake called Stryksjø,” answered the elder weathermage, “whose waters are uncrossable by any vessel. The drowners and fuaths inhabiting the waters rip apart all boats. It is said a waterhorse dwells in the deeps there also.”

  “I suppose it would be foolish to hope for a bridge,” said Arran.

  “ ’Twould indeed! No bridge can stride the distance from shore to island, because ’tis too great a span, and besides, the water-wights might well destroy bridge-pylons.”

  “Is there any chance Stryksjø might be crossed by sky-balloon?”

  “I doubt it. The many tiny islets on the lake are infested with unseelie marksmen whose habit is to shoot at mortal beings and their vehicles, with flinty barbs of ælf-shot, and wicked bolts. Their flights of cunning arrows would surely pierce the envelope and cause an aerostat to fall into the waters.”

  “Has any man ever set foot on Ragnkull Island?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  Gahariet said boldly, “Men shall shortly set foot on it. We shall depart on this new quest as soon as we have seen the rogue Aonarán safely behind bars.”

  Arran nodded to the journeyman. “Aye,” he said. “You and Bliant, and others amongst my comrades who are swift and strong and seeking adventure.”

  “For my part,” said Jewel, “I would fain have naught to do with the sorcerer and his projects ever again. I want nothing to do with aught that is connected with him, including the Draughts. The getting of the first Draught led to deplorable events. The rest would be better left alone.”

  Ever since they had left the Dome, Jewel had been unable to rid her mind’s eye of the image of her great-grandmother bricked into the walls. She had been brooding about Jaravhor’s fatal curse on her dear mother, and about his abduction of Álainna Machnamh, his slaying of the two A’Connacht brothers, and the widespread tales of his various felonies. It seemed that everything he touched turned to tears. All that Jaravhor had ever wrought led immutably to catastrophe.

  Arran murmured, “Jewel, I believed you craved immortality.”

  “I did. But now I discover that the asking price is too high.”

  “If we do not seize it,” said Arran, “then some day someone else will do so, and the waters of life might then be imbibed by someone as spiteful as Aonarán, or worse.”

  “Yet, if you subtract these Draughts the empty Wells shall remain, and in a thousand years’ time they will have refilled with potent liquid. Some new scoundrel might drink.”

  “No. After I take the Draughts I shall destroy the Wells.”

  “I want naught to do with it,” she repeated, “and my rede to you all is thus: do not pursue this quest. I augur that only trouble shall come of it.”

  The young weathermage replied, “Jewel, you cannot sway my judgment in this matter. Furthermore, I would fain be certain of your safety while I go in search of the Draught. I do not wish to be distracted from my purpose. High Darioneth is where you must bide.”

  “Gladly.”

  “Arran, we might make our journey in a sky-balloon,” suggested Bliant. “Then we should be surpassingly speedy.”

  “Nay. No longer will I break the laws of High Darioneth. It is forbidden to use aerostats for purposes other than pursuing our calling. Moreover, the waters of this lake, Stryksjø, are grievously dangerous and cannot be traversed by aircraft. With a good horse under me, I shall be able to make excellent time to Grïmnørsland. If I cannot win this prize without exploiting the privileges of a weathermage, I am not my father’s son.”

  “What of the well-known tale of your own forefather, Aglaval Stormbringer, who employed a sky-balloon when Álainna Machnamh vanished and Tierney A’Connacht asked him to seek her!”

  “That occurred in another era, long ago. The circumstances were different.” The young Maelstronnar shook his head. Struck by his calm and assured aspect, Bliant broke off, ceasing his lobbying. Arran’s demeanor was that of a rocky cliff that would not be broken by any tempestuous assault of the ocean.

  Taken aback, Solorien asked, “What laws have you breached, Arran?”

  “I have taken the liberty of working weather when such deeds were not necessary to protect life and property. Such actions are dishonorable.”

  Said the older weathermage, “An arguable point. Notwithstanding, I judge that the notion of traveling to Grïmnørsland by balloon is meritorious. I am inclined to believe the Council would have no objection to a sky-balloon being used for the purpose we propose—to prevent immortal villains from arising in the Four Kingdoms. Take the sky-route. None will deem this action unworthy.”

  “If I am to deserve any esteem,” said Stormbringer, “I cannot employ an aerostat.”

  The older weathermage said, “For the sake of proving your worth, would you jeopardize the chance to obtain this miraculous Draught?”

  Arran offered no reply.

  After a moment, Solorien nodded curtly. “Let this matter rest, for now, while we make our journey to the city. Once we are rid of this pallid, cringing wretch, we shall strike out for High Darioneth, and when we reach it, we sh
all ask the councillors of Ellenhall for their judgments.”

  Above the sweeping pastures and woodlands of Orielthir, swallows trekked their way across the skies. Brambles sprawled, thick with ripening blackberries, and leaves rained down to carpet the foundations of hanging oak woods. On the willowy shores of streams wild deer grazed, lost in banks of flowering water-cress. Far away, long ridges and valleys stretched themselves out, veiled in Autumn haze. Dawn frosts made the air ring as sharp and clear as silver bells. At sunrise magpies would warble their heartbreakingly strange and beautiful melodies, music reputedly taught to them by elfin wights; or perhaps the legend had it topsy-turvy, and the birds had lessoned the immortals.

  On a night when the travelers slept beneath the stars and the red embers of their fire glowed like bloodied garnets in the ashes, Gahariet Heaharním-HighCloud, seated with his back against the bole of a great oak, was keeping watch for wights and other perils. Wards and charms against unseelie incarnations had been set in many places throughout the camp, hanging about the necks of the travelers, plaited into the manes and tails of the horses, wound about their packs. Aonarán slept at the outskirts of their group—none wished to lie near him. His ankles were shackled with iron, but his captors had covered him with blankets and made him as reposeful as possible. A west wind arose out of the hills and combed through the woods. The journeyman was nodding with weariness. Not long after midnight, the sound of his gentle snores, rendered almost inaudible by the sighing of the wind, indicated he had succumbed to sleep.

  It was then that a whitish shape slipped from the shadows and folded itself over Aonarán’s prone form. The fair-haired man woke in fright, but already a handful of cloth was clapped firmly across his mouth, muffling his noise.