The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “Keep silent.” A woman’s voice, anemic and dim.

  His mind still cloyed by the turgid pastes of his dreams, Aonarán stared up at her without comprehension.

  “Hold still and do not be calling out. I shall cut the ropes that bind you.”

  “Fionnuala!” His whisper was fierce.

  “Aye, and five mercenaries awaiting me in the woods. Yet I find you now in the company of four weathermasters and a couple of warriors. My men would stand no chance in an open fight against them, so I have come to you in secret.”

  “You cannot be freeing me unless you bring some blade that can slice through iron.”

  On perceiving the metal shackles, Fionnuala swore an oath under her breath.

  “You cannot free me yet,” said he, “but there is something of greater urgency you must do. Listen carefully.” The woman leaned closer to her half-brother. He went on, “There is a second Well, in Grïmnørsland. It is on an island called Ragnkull, on Stryksjø Lake. You must get to this well before the weathermasters. Go swiftly. No doubt they shall be flying there by one of their balloons, so you must ride with all speed. Take the Draught before they can reach it, then seek me out and free me. I will be in the city. On the way back to me, first go by my quarters. Get Weaponmonger’s diamond dagger. It is hidden behind a loose brick next to the fireplace. That dagger now belongs to me. It will cut through any steel they put on me. Will you do exactly as I’ve said?”

  “That I will, Finn.”

  “Then go, now, before you rouse the whole lot of them. Get the water of life, and bring it to me. To me, understand!”

  The woman slipped away as noiselessly as she had arrived.

  Drifting out of his doze, Gahariet fancied he saw a wan figure melting into the wood. No doubt it was some wight, although what species he was unable to discern. The sight, although brief, was enough to shock him into alertness, and he returned to vigilance. Behind the wind’s crooning, he thought he heard hoofbeats receding into the distance, but he could not be certain.

  Two hours later Yaadosh relieved him of the watch, but by then, Gahariet had swept these incidents from his thoughts.

  In the afternoon of the following day the riders reached the end of a barely discernible track and turned left onto the Valley Road toward Cathair Rua. As they rode along, a band of horsemen came cantering around the bend in front of them. Their tabards, resplendent with crimson and vermilion, and emblazoned with the emblem of a flaming torch, indicated they were members of King Uabhar’s elite company, the Knights of the Brand. On spying the weathermasters, their leader raised his hand in a signal, and the men reined in their steeds, blocking the road. Likewise, Arran’s party drew to a halt.

  Yaadosh leaned to murmur confidentially in the ear of Aonarán. “Any noise from you and I shall hang you by your toes from the tallest tree in Slievmordhu, and leave you to dangle until the winds blow your beard back inside your chin.”

  Sullen Aonarán bared his teeth in a yellow snarl, and cast down his eyes with a furious air. He seemed to have shrunk into himself, like an emptied husk. Yaadosh maneuvered his horse close to Aonarán’s right flank, while Arran closed in on the left.

  “Good morrow, gentlemen!” The captain of the king’s knights saluted, somewhat languidly.

  “Good morrow, Captain,” returned Solorien. “If your men will move aside we shall make better progress. We are bound for the city.”

  The officer shouted an order and a clear corridor opened down the center of the cavalrymen’s ranks as they guided their mounts to the roadside.

  “May Ádh smile upon you, my lords,” said the captain, as the weathermasters rode past.

  “And you, Captain,” Solorien politely replied.

  Next day Stormbringer and his companions entered the city, bringing their prisoner.

  Lake

  Straight to the house of Calogrenant Lumenspar hastened Stormbringer’s company. The Ambassador for High Darioneth, an old friend of Tristian Solorien, unhesitatingly agreed to provide the arms-dealer with comfortable circumstances in the cellar of his official premises, which were as well guarded as Solorien had indicated. After staying one night at the residence of the Ambassador, they set off for High Darioneth. Leaving Fionnbar Aonarán at the consulate was like the easing of a heavy burden.

  Their progress was steady but unhurried. “We have plenty of time,” said Tristian Solorien. “Lumenspar is prepared to keep Aonarán until we send an order for his release.”

  “Yet, I would not dally,” replied Stormbringer. “The slick-tongued knave has made me aware that until now we have been holding him illegally, according to our own laws.”

  “Not, however, according to the haphazard laws of Slievmordhu,” Bliant reminded him.

  “In sooth. Howbeit, although we travel through Slievmordhu we are men of High Darioneth. It does not rest well with me, to contravene our principles.”

  Unbeknownst to the weathermasters, Fionnuala Aonarán and her hired men had reached the city before them. The woman ordered the mercenaries to track the weathermasters upon their arrival, in order to find out where her brother was being held, and afterward to rendezvous with her at the Crock and Dwarf. Having certified these arrangements, she made her way swiftly and discreetly to her brother’s empty rooms in certain notorious quarters of the city. Being in possession of a key, she entered without trouble. There, hidden in a cavity behind a dislodged brick next to the fireplace, she discovered Weaponmonger’s diamond dagger, just as Fionnbar had described. She found also a bag of gold coins, which she took.

  On meeting with her hirelings she learned of Fionnbar’s incarceration at the consulate.

  “You have done well,” she said to them. “Now there is another task. You must prepare to ride with me to Grïmnørsland, and ride more swiftly than you have ever done. It will be a race against time, a race against the weathermasters. We must win.”

  “What do we seek?” asked the men. “Gold? Jewels? The blood of men?”

  “Ask not,” she said sharply. “You have always been paid on time. You will get your reward. Is it not enough to know that?”

  Five days after their departure from Cathair Rua, Arran, Jewel and their companions reached the Border Hills. Four days later, they passed through the village of Market Deeping. From Market Deeping it was a long, hard ride, turning off at Blacksmith’s Corner and climbing the steep byway through the hills to High Darioneth.

  As they ascended the thickly wooded highland road, the travelers looked through the forest galleries towards the blue-misted walls of the neighboring valleys. Precipitous were the slopes, and hung with the emerald lace of tree-ferns. So steeply did the land drop away from the road’s edge that the midpoints of the tallest trees growing merely a few yards down from the lip of the path were at eye-level and one could look down on the very tops of the trees growing out of the cliff a few yards farther below.

  Boles crowded close together, tall and slender, holding up the sky. They were draped with hanging strips of bark, as damsels might be clad in loose-fitting robes. Sometimes, between the silver-white waists of the trees, one could glimpse the dark blue line of a distant mountain ridge, backed by a ribbon of pure cloud. Untamed rivulets chuckled as they fell down through the rocks of the hillsides into tiny pools brimming with fern-reflections. In the gullies, streams and miniature waterfalls gurgled, and the slopes echoed with birdsong.

  At High Darioneth a joyous welcome awaited the travelers.

  They came in through the East Gate, heralded by the eldritch frightener that resided in the mountain walls. As they made their approach it set up its usual clamor. Thus alerted, the watchmen on the heights noted the travelers through spyglasses. Joyful horns sounded. The gates were hauled open and the riders entered gladly into the embrace of the ring of storths.

  It was the last month of Autumn. Already the alpine temperatures had plummeted. The air was chill, as bitter as a presage of grief.

  Family and friends greeted the incomers effusi
vely. There was scant recrimination for Jewel’s stealthy departure; instead, chiefly gladness upon her return. Why this should be the marsh-daughter could not fathom, until later it came to her that these discerning people recognized she had not intended to hurt anyone, and made allowances for the fact that she was young and impetuous. They understood the flighty, erratic tendencies of youth, and while they did not condone irresponsible or duplicitous behavior, as scrupulous keepers of their own annals they recognized Jewel’s ardent desire to learn about her heritage. Furthermore, they respected her courage and independence in embarking on a quest sustained by no help from anyone, they were relieved that she had returned unharmed, and they perceived, accurately, that she had gained wisdom from her experiences.

  After welcoming the travelers, Avalloc tersely expressed his disapprobation of Jewel’s reckless conduct; that was all. The Millers showered her with endearments and hugs, and she surprised herself by weeping with pleasure at seeing them once more. Her old friend and irritant Ryence Darglistel looked as sleek and cocksure as ever, and as if to confirm the impression he boldly seized and kissed her, then released her and seemed to turn all his attention to Stormbringer, as if Jewel were no longer present. In his turn, Arran appeared to be too busy to afford Ryence any more than a curt nod. Jewel’s vexation lasted an instant only. Subsequently, hearty greetings were exchanged and the new arrivals were quizzed about their adventures, but they were impervious to appeals and would divulge nothing. On first setting foot in Rowan Green, Arran had asked his father to call for a Council moot in Ellenhall. All and sundry were advised that no tidings would be made publicly known until after the moot had concluded.

  That same evening a feast was held in Long Gables under Wychwood Storth, in celebration of their return, and the warmth of the reception was well matched against the cold of the season. Jewel’s eyes shone like two drops of liquid sky as she gazed up and down the tables running the length of the Common Hall. Golden lamplight cast a warm glow on a multitude of familiar and well-loved faces, young and old, families from the Seat of the Weathermasters and from the plateau below. The great chamber hummed with the discourses of cheerful folk; firelight gilded their hair and the rich fabrics of their raiment, and beneath the tables, patient mop-haired dogs waited for scraps.

  Avalloc Maelstronnar presided at the head of the board, as straight and tall as a mountain ash, his hair falling like frosted cobwebs across his shoulders. Somber and gracious was he, with his deep-carved countenance and aquiline nose. His eyes of jade watched from beneath hooded lids. Like the other weathermages he wore magnificent raiment of velvet and watered silk, dyed in many shades of gray, storm-cloud, ash, iron, and slate, and embroidered with the runes for Water, Fire, and Air.

  Jewel recalled the first time she had dined at Long Gables. Five years ago such a large crowd of strangers had seemed overwhelming. She had been allotted a place on a wooden settle, between Elfgifu and Ettare, where she attempted to make herself unnoticeable. This time, by contrast, she conversed easily and laughed much, while sharing in the generous supper and listening to the news of High Darioneth. Yet, often, she caught herself glancing toward Arran Stormbringer, who was seated at his father’s side. Her outlook had altered. High Darioneth now seemed such a cherished and safe place after her travels—it felt more like her home than the marsh, which had receded into dim memory. Furthermore, now that Arran had made his declaration, Ryence seemed the more frivolous and vacuous by comparison, and Jewel wondered how she had ever found him so interesting.

  Yaadosh and Barakiel freely told stories about their homeland, and the former expounded upon his travels, but both were strictly circumspect concerning other, more recent matters. The big man refused to touch a drop of strong drink, declaring that several years earlier he had vowed to remain sober for the rest of his days, because drinking was apt to loosen his tongue and bring him trouble.

  “I’ll not say a word until after your moot,” he declared. “I am honored to be a guest amongst weathermasters, and I’ll not abuse your hospitality, my lords, by flouting your request for discretion!”

  The youth Barakiel, his eyes wide as he stared at his surroundings, was of the same opinion. In this he was aided by being tongue-tied with wonder.

  As was customary at any celebration in High Darioneth, the gathering was regaled with music and song. The first to rise to her feet was Gvenour Nithulambar, weathermage and member of the Council of Ellenhall. Her voice soared, strong and clear, as she sang an old lay known as “The Drouth of Thirty-two”:

  “Bright blazed the sun in cloudless skies above the thirsty land

  As rivers shrank to streams, and streambeds dried to dusty sand,

  And lakes receded from their shores, and channels ceased to flow,

  And farmers ceased to till the soil for crops that would not grow

  Unless the rains began to fall. But showers came there none,

  And all that poured from glaring skies were harsh rays of the sun.

  Leaves parched and withered on the boughs; starved worms could wind no silk;

  In once-green pastures sere and brown, gaunt cows could give no milk.

  All mortal creatures suffered sore beneath the yoke of pain

  With ne’er a hope for better times, unless there should be rain.

  “Where are the mists, the clouds, the storms? Oh, let the sweet rains fall!

  Now may the tears of weeping skies flow down to drench us all!

  Grieve now for Tir, you smiling sky, ’ere naught is left alive.

  Enshroud your face in cloud, and mourn, else we shall not survive.

  “Then westward passed the weathermages, westward to the sea,

  To gather on the shores, where they unleashed the force of brí.

  They stirred the pressure systems, making anti-cyclones form,

  They summoned moisture-laden winds and brewed a thunderstorm.

  “A mighty cold front swelled. Its lightnings flickered like some ghost.

  A line of clouds, ranged north to south, wheeled in toward the coast—

  A towering wall of roiling steam, that with a crashing roar

  Rolled right across the darkling land—and rain began to pour.”

  All those present who knew the words—and that was most—joined in chorus to sing the last verse:

  “Here is the music! Silver droplets striking silver strings!

  Here is the song of dripping leaves that steady rainfall brings.

  Here is the diamond on the twig, the soft, gray overcast,

  The perfume of the drinking garden, calm and slaked at last.”

  Afterward Ryence Darglistel began to sing a different lyric but was told to hush, because his song was inappropriate, being a satire on a powerful institution—the Sanctorum—and ill-composed, to boot. Somewhat later he made a brief sojourn out of doors with a merry group of friends and sang it anyway, beneath the febrile stars.

  Ryence’s coterie laughed and jested, then returned to the warmth of the hall. After the dining and singing, there was dancing. The wooden floors of Long Gables rocked to the pounding of feet; the walls resounded to the music of pipes, fiddles, and drums.

  Jewel found herself making pictures in her mind. What would it be like to dance with the son of the Maelstronnar? To let him hold her closely, until he burned her with his heat, so close that the rhythm of the dance must be transmitted to her senses through his sinews, as his body slid against hers?

  She turned around, and he was standing right beside her, in a casual, coincidental way. Immediately the room disappeared and her very identity shriveled out of existence. She was but dimly aware she was still balancing on her feet, by some automatic prompt. All that remained in focus was him, this tall weather-lord in the splendor of youth, his vigor, his breathtaking, sudden nearness. Only the length of a dagger separated them. He was so close she might have reached out and let her hand rest upon his elbow, allowing her flesh to catch alight with intense excitement, the sparks beginning at the fi
ngers, flying along her arms, drilling through her bones to burst within her brain, violently destroying all longings, all desires, save one.

  She said, “Oh,” and then could not look away. Her eyes traced the contours of his form, caressed and discovered him, his hair, his face.

  Then a different voice said impatiently, “Let’s dance,” and someone seized her by the wrist so that she lost equilibrium and must step away to regain it. Impelled by momentum and the insistent pull of Ryence Darglistel, she was dragged into a circle of revelers. A thrilling harmony of musical notes soared up to the rooftree, and before she had fully regained her wits Jewel was dancing with others, and Arran was lost to view.

  There was never an opportunity, that night, to find out what it was like to partner him.

  She was aware of his love—he had declared it. She believed in it—how could she not? She perceived it every time he looked at her. He was not demonstrative, but his ardor was all the more evident for the reins with which he restrained it, the mask of steel behind which he imprisoned it, his detached demeanor and deliberate gestures that, far from parading a lack of interest, displayed the strength of his self-discipline, that he could so tightly curb the intensity of his passion.

  For her part, she was astounded. Never had she known such fierce and unwavering tenderness. Such resolution was hard for her to comprehend. She was intrigued by his steadfastness, and pleased, and flattered by his attention, but also she feared it. Somehow it seemed too great, too monumental and enduring. She did not know what to make of such a grand and formidable sentiment, and so she did not speak of it, never openly acknowledged its existence. Another marvel: He accepted her silence. He pressed no suit, he asked nothing of her, yet he remained as constant as the volcanic fires in the deeps of Wychwood Storth, with a patience so enduring that at times it seemed to Jewel almost terrible.