At the meeting place of the borders of the Four Kingdoms, the sky was overcast. A lofty obelisk loomed to stab the low-hovering clouds. It stood alone, with no other man-made edifice apparent nearby. Relief sculptures jutted from each of its four smooth sides, near the peak. The top of each sculpture featured a crown of chiseled stone. Below the crown, on the northern facet, a sword had been carved. On the western facet, the emblem was a square-sailed longboat. The east flank displayed a flaming torch, while the south depicted a cart-wheel.
Six riders congregated at the base of this monument. Their cloaks were weather-stained, their horses flecked with foam, slippery with sweat. Fionnuala Aonarán and her mercenaries had momentarily paused in their journey. The woman was swigging from a water flask. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, stoppered the flask, and stowed it in her saddlebags.
“We have reached the border,” she said. “Now onward! Onward into Grïmnørsland!”
At the prod of her spurs, her horse leaped forward. The other riders followed, and soon they had left the monolith far behind.
The day after the feast at High Darioneth the moot was convened. By favorable chance, the senior weathermages were free of their usual multitude of tasks, and none traveled abroad, so it was unnecessary to wait for their return. On Sun’s Day, 21st Ninember, the Council of Weathermasters gathered in Ellenhall.
It was a day of brilliant, glassy light; such radiance as is peculiar to mountainous regions where the air is pure and distilled. Lemon-bright beams came flooding in through the tall windows, whose shutters had been thrown back. They illuminated the elegant interior of the Moot Hall, the wood paneling, the clean-swept floor, the steeply pointed arches of the vaults that sprang from narrow bays along the walls, soaring to the timbered ceiling. Hanging lamps softened any lingering shadows. Furniture gleamed: a cabinet on a stand, painted with mythical characters on a patterned background, long tables of oak, chairs and settles, massive copper candelabra, the burnished firedogs in the great fireplace, where no flame burned. In one corner, beneath a window, a notary sat on a stool before a lectern. He was industriously making records in a book, dipping the nib of his goose-quill pen in and out of an inkwell, scratching at the paper, blotting his work with handfuls of fine, dry sand.
The assembly included representatives of the nine chief families. Jewel and Arran sat with their traveling companions and the Council members, along the tables. At the meeting’s outset Arran recounted all that had happened since Averil, when he had departed from High Darioneth, tracking Jewel. He had gone no further than describing the breaching of the Dome of Strang and the subsequent reading of the sorcerer’s book with its account of the Waters of Eternal Life when the murmurs and exclamations of amazement among the councillors caused him to suspend his narrative.
“Wait,” said Baldulf Ymberbaillé-Rainbearer. “Can this be true? Can it be possible to prolong a life-span eternally?”
“Conceivably it is not true,” said Arran. “It may be that this notion of Wells and Stars and marvelous waters is naught but a ruse on the part of Jaravhor, a final trick, so that he might go to his grave knowing he had the last laugh. On the other hand, he might have believed it to be true, yet been mistaken or deceived.”
Avalloc spoke, and all those present fell silent, turning their attention upon him. “Long ago,” the Storm Lord said, “I heard of the immortal beasts. Yet never, even in the oldest tales, have I heard of such prodigies as these Wells. Of all the marvels known to humankind, surely these would be amongst the most extraordinary.” He shook his head in wonderment. “These are tidings of singular consequence. Great deeds are afoot, if the secret to eternal life has indeed been uncovered. What this might mean for the world I cannot say, as yet; but there is no doubt the world must be altered by it. It is possible that changes have begun already.” Briefly he glanced toward the open window. “But continue with the story, my dear boy, for we are eager to hear all.”
His son needed no further urging. He told of the discovery of the Well of Rain, Fionnbar Aonarán’s quaffing of the Draught, the accidental death of Cathal Weaponmonger and the murder of Bahram Gaspar by the poisoned bolt of Fionnuala Aonarán, the return to Strang, the awakening of the sorcerer, and subsequent events culminating in Aonarán’s imprisonment in Cathair Rua.
“How can the alleged qualities of these waters be proven, save by trying to slay Aonarán?” pondered Nyneve Longiníme.
Baldulf replied, “There is no other method.”
“I don’t deny, such a test is not unattractive to me,” said Arran wryly. “But we cannot know the answer, for such an ill-trial is not our way.”
“Is it likely the sorcerer was leading you on? Is it likely he was mistaken or deceived?”
“I think not.”
“Then we must assume, for the moment, that it is true.”
Through the ensuing silence the dim echoes of birdcalls could be heard, ringing in the distant valleys of the mountains, and the scratching of the notary’s nib as he scrawled hurriedly.
“To conclude,” said the young Maelstronnar, “I would ask that the Council deliberate on the following questions: Should we claim the last two remaining Draughts of Immortality? If so, should we leave the Wells intact, their virtues seeping slowly into the water until they create another dose for whosoever should stumble upon them in a thousand years’ time? If we take the Draughts from the Well of Dew and the Well of Tears, to whom should we offer them?”
“There is also the matter of the two Aonaráns,” said Tristian Solorien. “He is an arms-smuggler, she a slaughterer, yet it might prove difficult to muster witnesses to testify against the former, while the latter roams at large throughout the Four Kingdoms.”
“Honored gentlefolk, may I put forward my opinion?” Jewel asked abruptly. Somewhat overawed at having been accorded the privilege of attending a conference of the weathermasters, she had held her peace since the moot commenced.
Avalloc Stormbringer inclined his head. “Say on, Jewel.”
From the moment Jewel had made her decision to aid Arran in tracking down Aonarán instead of returning from Saadiah to the Dome, the conundrum of the sorcerer’s legacy had never been far from her thoughts. Her hopes of obtaining security against the caprices of an unjust world had been dashed. There had been no treasure of gold and jewels in the fortress of Strang after all, no library of lore, and no evidence of any objects with supernatural properties. The clues leading to the three Wells had been the only items of value. Jewel had reflected on the virtues and drawbacks of immortality, wondered whether hunting the remaining Draughts was a wise course of action, and ruminated on Jaravhor’s maleficent and devious nature.
Moreover, she was still haunted by visions of the skeleton in the walls of Castle Strang, and she could hardly dismiss the matter of Jaravhor’s curse on her dear mother, not to mention the rest of his multifarious offenses. Evidently, all his deeds were tainted by the stench of ultimate decay. Jewel repeatedly returned to the conclusion that any thing coveted by her morally corrupt ancestor must necessarily be odious, and any action arising from his works must lead to ruin. She wanted to excise him from her future; him and everything associated with him. It occurred to her, however, that even if she turned her back on his legacy, some of it would continue to run through her veins; after all, she was virtually indestructible. Did this mean she could never be free of his malign influence?
No! she argued to herself. People are forever presuming that some ancestor or other determines their character, and it never does them any good. Many peaceable young men are taught that because their grandsires were great warriors they are obliged to follow in their footsteps and go to war. Many other youths and damsels, when informed of their ancestors’ grand achievements in music, or oration, or some such discipline, are made to feel constrained to emulate them. The children are generally destined for disappointment, for their talents often lie in other directions and in the end they can rarely measure up to the benchmarks of t
heir forefathers, which so often are historically exaggerated, in any case.
No, we are not merely replicas of our ancestors! Each of us is a new person entirely, a unique individual with our own qualities. I cast off Jaravhor and all his works. Let my friends eschew him also, for their own good.
“The quest for the Draught from the Well of Rain went amiss and ended in tragedy,” she said aloud to the councillors of Ellenhall. “It seems to me that all matters pertaining to the Sorcerer of Strang smack of depravity. Let there be no further meddling in the affairs of Janus Jaravhor. Let his memory die, and his legacy fade into the bones of Orielthir.”
“Do you advise we should refrain from seeking the waters of life?” asked the Storm Lord.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Your views are noted,” Avalloc said noncommittally. In the sunlit corner, the notary at his lectern scribbled industriously, the quill pen dancing a mad jig. With that, Jewel had to be content.
The councillors, after lengthy debate voted on the issue, eventually deciding, to Jewel’s chagrin, to claim the Draughts and destroy the Wells.
“The vote has gone against you, dear child,” said the Storm Lord.
“So it has, sir,” she replied. “The Council has spoken. I cannot feign approval, but none are wiser than the weathermasters of Ellenhall. It might be demonstrated that my judgment was at fault, after all.”
“Weathermasters are of humankind,” Avalloc said, “therefore not infallible.” He turned to the whole assembly and declared, “As for the question of who should receive the waters of life, my response is this: Let him offer himself to deathlessness who has studied the ramifications of such a choice in all possible ways, and who is fully aware of the consequences. If after such study any volunteers remain, then shall a lottery decide the final outcome. Any man or woman who opposes my view, let them speak now.”
The Council members murmured their acceptance. Consideration was next directed to the subject of Fionnbar and Fionnuala Aonarán.
Nyneve Longiníme clasped her slim fingers on the table’s polished surface. “About the poisoner there seems little we can do save watch and wait,” she said. “Where she wanders in the Four Kingdoms is anybody’s guess.”
“And I daresay she has access to rich funds,” said Rivalen Hagelspildar. “She is her brother’s accomplice, is she not? A partner in the arms-trade?”
“Even so,” Arran averred gravely. “Doubtless the two of them have made their fortune. Pockets full of gold may command regiments of mercenaries. I daresay she has many hired men at her beck and call.”
“On the other hand,” Baldulf Ymberbaillé pointed out, “this Fionnbar Aonarán is currently our prisoner.”
“Father, according to our laws, how long can we hold him without pressing a charge?” asked Bliant.
“Our system of justice forbids us to imprison any person unless we charge them with some crime,” said Baldulf.
“Might he be charged without evidence?”
“The mountain-bandits are not selective about their prey,” interjected Gvenour Nithulambar, her dark eyes flashing. “By assisting them, Aonarán has been injuring every good citizen of Tir! Let him not be spared!”
“Aye, said Baldulf, “trafficking with Marauders is against the laws of all four kingdoms. Based on reliable hearsay we could accuse him of racketeering, but the charges must be dropped after fourteen days if no evidence is presented.”
“Aonarán is being held in Slievmordhu, where the administration of justice is no more than a token,” said Tristian. “Indeed, I deem their judiciary a farce. Were we not honorable men and women we might make as if we are abiding by the laws of that kingdom, the most widespread of which is ‘he prevails who is most powerful.’ ”
“Yet we are honorable men and women,” said Avalloc Maelstronnar, “and must ensure that justice is done.”
“Supposing we can find witnesses to testify against him, where would the trial be held?” asked Cacamwri Dommalleo. He rubbed his jaw, his usual habit when deep in thought. “The accused is a citizen of Slievmordhu who has committed crimes against the populace of the Four Kingdoms, and is likely to be charged under the laws of High Darioneth. An authentic trial could only take place in Grïmnørsland, Narngalis, or here—and how can we know which are the locations where the offense of trafficking was committed?”
“Let us jump that stile when we come to it,” said Nyneve Longiníme.
“For now, the most pressing dilemmas are these,” said the Maelstronnar. “Shall we hold Aonarán or must we set him free? For if we set him free he can wreak worse transgressions in at least two ways. He might raid the Well of Dew, and he can make Jewel’s identity public, thus exposing her to possible harm.”
“The first is easily solved,” said Arran. “I shall waste no further time. With your blessing, gentlemen and gentlewomen, as soon as this meeting is over I shall travel by sky-balloon to Grïmnørsland, that I may claim the Draught of the Well of Dew for High Darioneth.”
The councillors surrounding the table indicated their unanimous consent to his proposal.
“What of the last Draught?” asked Rivalen Hagelspildar. “That which lies in the Well of Tears?”
“Aonarán has no inkling of its location,” Arran said. “The clue to that is written on a scrap of paper in Jewel’s possession.”
“May we see it, Jewel?” asked Avalloc.
Promptly the damsel drew the yellowing fragment from a pocket in her gown, and handed it to the Storm Lord. He unfolded it, smoothing out the creases, and read aloud to the gathering:
“‘My hair is white, my bones are old.
Steadfast I rest, for ages cold
And still. So silent, lacking breath,
That men think I’ve been touched by death.
But deep within my chilly breast
My living heart can find no rest.
What falls and never breaks, but would
Be broken if it ever should
Stop falling? What is darkness? And
Can mortalkind make ropes of sand?’ ”
“The Riddle of the Well of Tears. A riddle indeed,” said the Maelstronnar. “An enigma of considerable magnitude. Are you certain Aonarán has not heard or read it?”
“We are certain.”
“Then, there is no hurry to decipher the meaning,” declared Lynley Ymberbaillé, the wife of Baldulf. “Unless I am misinformed, no one else in the world knows aught of this riddle save we who have heard it on this day. Furthermore, there exists no other clue to the whereabouts of the last Well—is that so, Arran?”
“As far as I am aware, it is so,” he confirmed.
Avalloc offered to return the paper to Jewel, but instead of accepting it she shook her head. “Pray keep it, sir, or destroy it if you wish.”
“We shall keep it.” The Storm Lord handed the leaf to Baldulf Rainbearer, who folded it within a vellum pamphlet.
Nyneve Longiníme leaned forward in her chair. As she spoke, she looked earnestly about, to ensure she met the gazes of all those present. “Jewel’s identity as the heir of the Sorcerer of Strang can only cause harm to her if she is revealed to be the sole person who can unclose the Dome. You say, Arran”—she focused her attention on the young man—“you say that you and Jewel left the Dome unsealed, the gates flung wide and dangling loose upon their hinges. If the Dome is already unlocked, Jewel may no longer be in jeopardy!”
Arran pondered. “Perhaps you are right,” he said at length. “Nevertheless, taking her safety for granted is a risk I would fain avoid.”
“That may be so, Nyneve,” said Cacamwri Dommalleo. “Time will tell. Again, we must watch and wait.”
“There is too much talk of waiting, and not enough action!” said Bliant. “Let us consider sending a message to Cathair Rua, advising Uabhar that it has come to our knowledge the Dome is his for the taking. Thereby we might hasten the process.”
“If we merely inform him that the Dome has been opened he will know at onc
e that an heir of Jaravhor is at large,” the carlin warned. “He might instantly send forth search parties to track down this heir. Purely out of interest, and to find out if the heir possesses any unusual talents he might employ for his own gain, he would want to find her.”
The councillors inquired whether she had a solution.
“We must inform Uabhar that the heir, Jewel, is under the auspices of Ellen-hall,” she replied. “He will know, then, that the heir and her whereabouts have been identified, but that she is out of his reach. Naturally he will assume that he might interview her at some later date, if it pleases the Council to allow it.”
“An excellent notion!” approved Arran. “What say you, Father?”
“I say, let it be done straightway, if Jewel is willing.” Murmurs of assent accompanied the Maelstronnar’s words, and Jewel nodded her agreement. Shortly thereafter, the topic was closed and the Storm Lord called for a recess.
Refreshments were taken, the notary refreshed his inkwell, and then the meeting recommenced.
“Speaking of Cathair Rua,” said Baldulf Ymberbaillé-Rainbearer, “this very morning a message arrived from the palace. We, the councillors, have been invited to attend the naming ceremony of King Uabhar’s second-born son. The ritual is to take place on New Year’s Eve.”
“New Year’s?” Avalloc’s frown indicated his displeasure. “Are we to be summoned from our own celebrations at the whims of Uabhar Ó Maoldúin, hmm?”
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 44
