The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “Worth? Not a fig, of course,” said Bliant, his mouth full of hazelnut cake. “If our aerostats withstand the exigencies of weather and travel, it is not because the druids have subtracted our coins and spoken to the air; ’tis because our vessels are sturdily constructed and skilfully piloted.”

  “Perhaps, at first, we ought to post a guard over Wanderpath,” said Gahariet. “After all, if it is tampered with, we shall find ourselves faced with a long walk home.”

  Rivalen said, “Nay—the Maelstronnar has promised that an air-crew will be sent to find us, if we do not return by the 24th of Tenember, or if they have reason to believe we are in need of rescue.”

  “In that case, we have all the time in the world,” said Bliant with a grin. “Surely it cannot take us three weeks to plunder this wonderful Well! What say you, Arran?”

  “I agree with Gahariet,” said Arran. “However, if you wish, Rivalen, I shall stay here while you reconnoiter.”

  “Ach! You are killing yourself with courtesy, lad!” said Rivalen. “You’ve been chafing at the bit ever since we arrived. Go forth with Bliant and survey the situation!”

  Arran needed no further excuse.

  “Come, Ymberbaillé!” he said, and they were away.

  Downhill through steep groves of juniper and ash they plunged, between stands of leafless linden, bird cherry and hazel, and amongst thickets of aromatic pine, until some five minutes later they emerged from the cover of the trees.

  From the top of a grassy incline dotted with goat willows, they looked down. Still, deep, and profound were the waters of Stryksjø, guarded by battalions of dark pines and goat willows reflected in its steel-blue surface. This natural cistern was so enigmatically fathomless, so unruffled and heavy, it must surely possess power beyond imagining. In the mists that floated over its waters, islands seemed to hover rootless, like mirages. Age-old forests clothing the slopes marched down to drink, in places, at the water’s edge. The valley of the lake cradled a great silence, an immense tranquillity, pierced and threaded only by desultory birdcalls. As the young weathermasters gazed upon the placid water they felt the pace of their hearts slow. Haste, curiosity, and perplexity seemed to drain from them, as snow-melt drained down the slopes to the lake. And all that was left was stillness, peace, and serenity, folded within the muscular arms of the wooded hills.

  Beyond the opposite shore, the vista opened onto sweeping gorges and soaring mountain ranges. The first rays of the rising sun transformed the overcast to a facade of muted pearl. Billows and strands of altocumulus embraced the faces of the mountains, caressed their shoulders, and lingered in their valleys. In Grïmnørsland the clouds and the mountains were in love with each other.

  “There!” said Arran. He jabbed the map he held in his hand, before pointing across the lake. Bliant narrowed his eyes as he traced Arran’s gesture. The source of their interest was a gray-green hump, irregularly shaped, near the lake’s center. It floated between two skies: the real one above, and the slightly rippled mirror-image below.

  “Ragnkull,” murmured Bliant.

  “Now that we’ve got our bearings,” said Arran, “let us make further reconnaissance.”

  Warily they began to make their way around the mossy brink, among the bare-branched goat willows.

  All seemed peaceful, yet there was a sense of watchfulness everywhere. The morning had dawned somber, but the clouds were clearing, and now weak sunlight dripped down through them, making pools of light and shade on the hillsides and the water. The air began to move, disturbed by a tremulous breeze. Nothing remained still. Everything was shifting constantly. The foliage on the trees swaying, boughs nodding and dipping, detached leaves falling like a sparse rain, clouds blowing across the sky, the water’s surface wrinkling and quivering: all was as restless as the ocean, yet anchored by deep roots and plunging stone footings to timelessness and stillness and enduring patience.

  Later that morning, as the sun climbed to burn away the last of the mists, Arran and Bliant finished conducting their surveillance and returned to the campsite.

  “What have you discovered?” asked Gahariet.

  “Very little,” replied Arran. “We scouted along the southern shores but found naught save trees, sedges, and rocks.”

  “When we take our turn we shall scour the northern shores,” said Rivalen.

  “What do you know of this region, Rivalen?” Bliant questioned.

  “Alas, not a thing. I have never visited here before.”

  “Ah, well, it matters not,” Bliant declared optimistically. “We may take our time to explore. There is no great need for haste.”

  “So you keep saying, Master Ymberbaillé,” said Rivalen. “Howbeit, my bones are older than yours, and sleeping on the ground is not to their liking. Fain would I return to my feather bed, before too many decades elapse!”

  After the four explorers had taken some refreshment together, Rivalen and Gahariet went off to reconnoiter while the others remained to watch over the aerostat.

  The two scouts pushed their way through a thicket of speckled alders choked with brakes of stunted hazel and clusters of snow daisies. They had not long been at it when Gahariet gave a shout. “Look, Master Hagelspildar! There is something ahead, showing through the trees!” After hastening toward the half-glimpsed shapes they found themselves at the foot of a broken stone column. Behind this pillar stood another, in worse repair. In his eagerness to find out more, Gahariet stumbled over some partially buried stairs, and fell, striking his knee on a crumbling outcrop of stone. Mumbling curses beneath his breath, he rolled on the ground, clasping his hands around the injured limb and nursing it to his chest.

  “What’s amiss?’ Rivalen’s throaty shout preceded his doughty form, which came crashing through the hazel bushes.

  “ ’Tis naught,” Gahariet said, between gritted teeth. “Give me a moment only, and I will be on my feet again.”

  The older weathermaster looked around. “Methinks these are the ruins of some ancient Oratorium,” he said. “The pedestals of these columns stand on a circular platform. Between them lie blasted heaps of mortar and tile—the remains of a roof that has fallen in long ago. It was never in my knowledge that there was once an Oratorium in these parts.”

  He began to poke about among the lichen-blistered ruins. Gahariet rubbed his knee vigorously and decided to try putting some weight on the injured leg, but as he made to stand up he caught sight of a lick of color amidst the drifts of crushed masonry. Ignoring his discomfort, he brushed away some of the detritus and found, beneath, part of a floor inlaid with mosaic tiles. The mosaic formed a design, and as he cleaned away more of the debris he was able to discern an image that had once decorated the surface of the Oratorium’s platform.

  “What have you found?” Rivalen spoke from behind Gahariet’s shoulder.

  “Only some ceramic embellishment,” answered the journeyman. “Somewhat of the type with which druids are wont to titivate their establishments, in order to impress the populace.”

  Both men regarded the tiled pictures for a few moments. Then, “Up you get,” said Rivalen, helping Gahariet to his feet. “We must move on. There is a lot more to be investigated.”

  At the clearing amongst the junipers, for want of anything better to do Arran and Bliant had removed some gear from their packs for inspection and maintenance. Bliant was polishing a leather brigandine, studded with rivets where iron plates were fastened to the inside. Arran was checking the links of a hauberk.

  “Do you believe such armor as this will be of much use against the arrows of Stryksjø’s wights?” Bliant asked.

  His companion shrugged his shoulders. “Narngalis chain mail is good protection against man-made barbs. Whether it can withstand the eldritch darts of Stryksjø’s hunters remains to be seen.”

  He put away the mail shirt and was about to begin sharpening his knife when a figure that looked like a very small boy came walking out of the trees.

  The two young men held th
emselves utterly still.

  This newcomer was clad in baggy brown leggings, and a short green tunic belted at the middle. His leather slippers were extraordinarily elongated in shape, and tapered at the toes. His hat was brimless, fitting closely around the skull and rising to a point at the crown. In his hands he was holding a wooden tankard. He stopped right in front of the weathermasters and lifted a quaint little face to them. “Please, sirs,” he piped, “gie me a drop o’ ale for me poor old mither what’s feeling poorly.”

  Simultaneously, the young men glanced at each other.

  Bliant raised an eyebrow. “The lad’s a mighty long way from home,” he said under his breath. “There is not a village or hut or any shelter of humankind within a hundred miles of this place.”

  Arran stood up and fetched a half-empty four-gallon firkin from the storage area beside one of the tents. “We shall fill the cup for your mother,” he said to their odd visitor. “Hold it out.” The boy did so, whereupon Arran turned the tap and let the brown ale flow into the tankard.

  It poured and poured.

  A minute later, Bliant said suspiciously, “Isn’t it full yet?” He peered into the vessel. The level of the foaming liquid reached only halfway up the sides. Startled, he exclaimed, “Blow me away!” Arran was as nonplussed as his friend. After another minute the firkin ran empty. Torn between reluctance to surrender a fine brew and the rules of courtesy, Bliant said, “Isn’t a couple of gallons enough for your mother, lad?”

  The little fellow merely stood there, still holding out his tankard. “Ye said ye’d fill it,” he said, directing a reproachful gaze toward Arran.

  “Indeed, I did say that. I shall fetch more.”

  As Arran went to retrieve a second cask, Bliant grabbed him by the sleeve and whispered in his ear, “That is the last one! We brought only two.”

  “No matter,” hissed Arran. “A promise must be kept.”

  The other rolled his eyes and muttered something about “shameful tricks” and “supernatural greediness,” but made no further objection.

  The young Maelstronnar broached the second firkin and the boy, or boysimulacrum, thrust his tankard beneath the tap. A single drop fell in, and at once the vessel was full to the brim.

  A wide grin spread across the visitor’s exotic features, “I’m mighty obliged to ye, sir,” he said. After bowing politely without spilling so much as a fleck of froth, he trotted away.

  “How wondrous strange,” murmured Arran, staring after the retreating figure.

  “Just make sure the tap’s properly turned off,” said his friend. “With only one firkin left we don’t want any spillage.”

  “Did you see that?” cried Arran.

  Bliant looked about, but the visitor had disappeared among the junipers. “See what?”

  “Just before he reached the trees, he seemed to—to shrink.”

  “I should have thought he was small enough to begin with. The top of his cap was barely level with my knee.”

  “He dwindled to the size of my thumb. What’s more, methinks he sprouted a rattish tail.”

  “Must have been using glamour on us,” observed Bliant, “as if it were not enough to make fools of us by presenting a bottomless tankard.” As he helped Arran lug the cask back to the storage area, he added glumly, “We’d best drink the rest of the ale tonight. Who can tell how many more of those little beggars are out there.”

  Evening turned the lake to sheets of solid pewter, the hills to slate, the clouds to ash outlined with shimmer, and the sky to nacre. Twilight was gathering by the time Rivalen and Gahariet returned to the campsite, where Arran and Bliant impatiently awaited them.

  “We found a ruin, built long ago by the druids,” said Rivalen, “but nothing else of consequence.”

  “ ’Tis a pity,” said Arran. Exasperatedly he tossed a small branch into the campfire. “I had hoped for some small clue, at least, to aid us.”

  The four adventurers conversed in low voices while Bliant fed twigs to the flames, which threw themselves into the air like gouts of golden syrup and sent up sparks.

  At length, Arran said, “I am tired of sitting here. So far we have discovered no way to reach the island, and despite what you say, Bliant, we do not have all the time in the world. We will soon be hunting for food if our rations run low, and besides, we are expected at the naming ceremony in Rua at New Year’s.”

  “What’s more,” Bliant added knowledgeably, “you are fretting for the sight of a pair of blue eyes—oof!”

  The breath was forced from his lungs with a whoosh, as he landed on his back. Next moment Arran threw himself at his friend in a headlong tackle, but Bliant rolled aside at the last instant. He was endeavoring to scramble out of reach when Arran pounced a second time, and they rolled over and over down the slope, locked in a bout of wrestling, yelling delightedly, grappling like pups suddenly released from captivity, overflowing with pent-up high spirits.

  “You’ll be drawing the attention of every nocturnal wight for miles around,” Rivalen warned, and subdued by that sobering admonition, the two young men abandoned their mock fight.

  Arran stood up and brushed dead leaves from his clothing. “If any night-loving lurkers dwell in the lake or on the isles, I should like to know what they look like,” he announced. “I am going down to the water’s edge.”

  “I shall accompany you,” said Rivalen. His tone carried such authority that neither Bliant nor Gahariet offered argument.

  The two weathermages shouldered their way through the trees and bushes until they reached the lake’s reedy brink. There they stood side by side in silence, gazing out across the gleaming waters, where evening mists coagulated, coiling like translucent serpents. A loud and melancholy avian braying caused them to look up. A pair of birds was rowing across the darkening cloud ceiling.

  “Strange,” mused Rivalen. “Methinks I have not before seen or heard any sign of ducks hereabouts.”

  “All the ducks have migrated south for the winter, Master Hagelspildar. Those are brown bitterns.”

  No sooner had Arran spoken than a needle erupted from an islet and zoomed straight into the air. A puff of feathers exploded. One of the bitterns tumbled out of the sky, passing a second lethal bolt on the way down. An instant later its mate plummeted, scattering plumes. The stricken fowls fell into the lake, whereupon there was a flurry in the water, a splashing, a reaching arm the color of slime, then nothing but widening ripples.

  “By all that’s wicked!” said Rivalen. “It appears the tales are true. Unseelie marksmen do inhabit the islands—and the waters are perilous. Come away, Arran. Let us go back to the bright fireside!”

  As they turned their backs on Stryksjø they could not help but note, at the corners of vision, the dusk forming itself into shapes that glided through the trees along the shore.

  “Methinks we have attracted some of the Gray Neighbors,” said Rivalen. They quickened their pace, half-running up the slope until they burst into the flame-illumined clearing.

  “Trows are nigh,” Arran said, as he and Rivalen dashed into the circle of light. “Be wary.”

  Gahariet and Bliant leaped to their feet and drew their knives, peering warily into the gloom.

  For a time, nothing happened. Even the faint breeze of evening had stilled. The weathermasters could hear no sound save for the faint grunts and claps of waterfowl at some distant marsh. They sensed, nonetheless, the presence of creatures, and caught glimpses of movement outside the sphere of firelight.

  The night grew older.

  The weathermasters wrapped themselves in their furs and leathers against the bitter cold, but remained outside the tents, so that they could keep watch. None could sleep; the tension, the sense of being surrounded by unseen entities, was too compelling. Eventually, young Gahariet dozed. Around midnight, when the fire was dying down, a small stooped figure, clad in gray draperies, limped into the outer glow of the firelight. Its crumpled face was pitted with two sad, baggy eyes, its long nose dro
oped at the end, and its hands and feet seemed incongruously large for such a small, skinny body.

  “Hae ye got ony sulver?” This was the eternal plea of trows, who loved silver above all things.

  Gahariet awoke with a snort. His eyes widened in astonishment.

  “No,” said Rivalen.

  The trow lingered, but said nothing more.

  Then a trow-wife appeared a few feet away from the first wight, half obscured by darkness, half described by the dim radiance of the flames. Her large head was swathed in a gray shawl, and in her bony arms she was carrying a ragged bundle.

  “Hae ye got ony clean water to bathe the bairn?”

  “There’s an entire lake full of water a stone’s throw from here,” Bliant muttered under his breath.

  Disregarding his friend’s comment, Arran poured some of the crew’s drinking water into a pail and set it down in front of the dwarfish being. Aided by a second trow-wife, she unwrapped the bundle and began to wash the grotesque trow infant, much to Bliant’s disgust and Gahariet’s fascination.

  While the weathermasters watched, Arran became aware of a soft rustling and shuffling amongst the shadows at his back. He spun around and swooped. Two child-sized figures scattered from his assault, their gray garments flapping.

  “Be off with you!” Arran said, shooing them away.

  Rivalen glared at the would-be thieves, who were scurrying off with an awkward, irregular gait. “So, you thought you’d distract us and then go nosing amongst our possessions! Trying to steal silver eh? We told you—we have none!”

  “They did not disturb the aircraft,” Bliant observed, with relief. “The charms kept them at bay. As long as the balloon remains safe, we have a means of escaping should any emergencies arise.”

  Apparently heedless of the commotion, the two trow-wives dried and rewrapped the bairn. Murmuring to each other in their own language, the wights were making as if to depart when Arran called out to them: “How can we cross the water?”