The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “Even if such a feat were possible, ’twould take many days of prolonged effort to lower the temperature enough to crystallize such a huge volume of water,” Rivalen pointed out.

  “I have an idea!” said Gahariet excitedly. “ ’Twould take but a single day to glaciate the lake if we were to devise some mechanism to rapidly bring down the sub-freezing air from the stratosphere!”

  “That would have no success,” Bliant contested. “The air would be warmed by adiabatic compression, so the required effect would be lost.”

  “To counteract adiabatic compression we might invoke extremely low surface pressure.”

  “Which would cause a super-storm of devastating magnitude and intensity, destroying every living thing throughout the length and breadth of Grïmnørsland!”

  “Well then, you win,” Gahariet conceded. “I had not considered the wider repercussions. Master Hagelspildar, is this notion of freezing a lake feasible at all?”

  Animated discussion ensued. For an hour they debated, until, ultimately, it was mutually agreed that this wild proposition was in fact practicable. Furthermore, it appeared to be the only method that would enable them to reach the isle of the Well of Dew.

  “Naturally, such an exploit will throw the normal weather into disorder,” said Arran. “What say you, Rivalen? Would the Council condemn us?”

  “It is never any slight matter to disturb the Great Equilibrium,” the older mage said somberly, “yet since we weathermasters are willing to meddle with the atmosphere to save the orchards of Narngalis from ravaging winds, it seems even more appropriate to wield the brí to save the Four Kingdoms from the consequences of misuse of this Draught, in my opinion, and I am certain the other councillors would agree with me. I believe our course will be approved by Ellenhall in this singular case.”

  “Then our scheme has the support of both a senior councillor and the son of the Storm Lord,” said Bliant, beaming triumphantly.

  “And according to law,” Rivalen continued, “in a situation such as this when a decision is required on the spot, and waiting for an exchange of messages with Rowan Green would cause unnecessary delay and keep us longer from our duties, the senior weathermage becomes the spokesperson for the Council.”

  Having settled this matter, they returned to the problem of how to go about freezing Lake Stryksjø.

  Rivalen addressed Arran. “To speed up your suggested method,” he said, “we might ensure that some snow falls during the days, perhaps by summoning part of the deep northerly airflow.”

  “An admirable plan,” responded Arran. “Alternatively, instead of snow it might be easier to invoke enormous hailstorms, which would not cause such severe disruption of the broad-scale atmospheric flow.”

  “Prolific hailstorms would probably be permissible under our laws, but we would have to ensure the hailstones were not large enough to cause extensive damage to Grïmnørsland’s forests.”

  Another hour passed in conference, while they assessed ways of harnessing and guiding various natural forces, and bending them to their will.

  It was 24th Ninember, in the closing days of Autumn. Daylight hours were few, and the weathermasters spent the remainder of the afternoon studying the exact situation of local weather systems, making forecasts, and working out which systems to draw on, in what sequence, and to what measure.

  “Such a prodigious exploit has never been attempted in the history of High Darioneth,” muttered Bliant, not without pride and eager expectation.

  “Another benefit,” said Arran. “Locked beneath ice, any unseelie waterwights shall be unable to assault us.”

  “What of the archers that dwell on the islets?” Gahariet said.

  “I have no remedy for that ill. That there will be risks associated with this undertaking, there is no doubt. The ice might be too thin in places to uphold the weight of a man, or malign island marksmen might pincushion an intruder with arrows, or our brí-powers might not endure for long enough to prevent a sudden thaw—many aspects of the plan may indeed go awry. One of us must go alone to find the Well of Dew while the rest remain ashore working and renewing the weathermastery. There will be peril for he who crosses the lake, and peril also for those who bide on land.”

  “I shall cross the lake,” said Bliant.

  “Nay, let it be me!” contended Gahariet.

  “There is no man amongst us who would not play the hero,” said Rivalen, “but who is best qualified? Can anyone deny that the brí is more potent in the son of the Maelstronnar than in any of us? If he is willing, which I doubt not, it should be he.”

  “I am willing,” said Arran, and the way he said it caused his companions to stare wonderingly at him, for he had spoken those words as if swearing an oath of terrible significance. “I am willing,” he repeated. “I shall assay for the Draught.”

  “They will make songs about this mighty deed,” said Gahariet, grinning and clapping Arran on the back.

  Come twilight, the four men of High Darioneth had completed their preparations and were ready to embark on their unprecedented venture. As the sun began to deliquesce behind the trees in the west, and long shadows extended their arms, a dim sound of singing came wafting from the lake. It sounded like the voices of women, blending in disturbing harmonies.

  “We’d better carry with us extra charms against wights,” Rivalen said.

  Down to the lakeshores they went, the keen air whistling like flutes in their lungs as they passed through the groves of juniper and ash, the stands of barebranched linden, bird cherry, and hazel, and the thickets of sweet-smelling pine.

  As they went, the singing grew louder, a chorus as melodious as it was uncanny. Abruptly, it ceased.

  Above the slope of turf punctuated by a sparse scattering of goat willows, the men paused and looked out across the lake. The sky seemed vast, sweeping wider and deeper than usual. Across it, the last smudges of sunset, orchid and lavender, darkened to indigo. Flocculent clouds corrugated the aerial meadows, but high-altitude winds were thinning them, teasing them out into strands, pulling them away.

  A soft voice, lyrical and feminine, startled them. In the shallows at the foot of the slope, nine damsels were reclining. Some were combing their hair; others laving themselves with the chilly lake water. The gloaming played tricks on the eye, but it seemed to the men that these incarnations were nubile and comely. Their copious tresses, green as watercress, flowed unbound to their lotus-stem waists. Aside from this luxuriant hair, some fragments of verdant lace and ribbons and a few necklaces and bracelets strung with snail-shells, the damsels were devoid of covering. Pale gleamed their shapely limbs, as if sunlight had never touched them.

  One of them turned her bewitching face toward the men and sang erotically:

  “Come down to the water my luscious, my love,

  Come down to the water, my lonely.

  The kiss of cool water refreshes and calms.

  We’ll banish your cares when you’re twined in our arms.

  The kiss of cool lips shall entice and excite—

  ’Tis thrilling to know a libidinous sprite!

  We’ll clasp and enfold you. Your heart-pump is beating,

  The in-and-out rhythm of breathing repeating!

  Sweet courtesan ‘Water’ caresses and fills you.

  She enters your body; she soothes you and stills you.

  Come down to the water, my lusty, my lance.

  Come down to the water, my lively!”

  “Avert your gaze! Stopper your ears!” Rivalen shouted to his companions. “They are drowners!” He rummaged feverishly in a bag, pulled out a box of salt, and scrabbled at the clasp of the lid. His fingers felt thick and heavy; they could get no purchase on the clasp.

  The enchanting damsels clustered closer to the lake’s edge. Each time they moved, the swathes of their green hair parted and closed like curtains, now revealing seductive curves, now hiding them.

  Provocatively, they smiled at the men. Stretching out their arms in invit
ation, together they sang lewdly:

  “Twin buds of white lilies you’ll cup in your hands;

  We’ll bind you and wind you with silken hair-strands.

  And while you find bliss betwixt ivory limbs

  We’ll dive down to seek where the eel-serpent swims.

  You’ll dream of reclining on soft velvet couches,

  And fireworks of pleasure that slide in silk pouches.

  With each sure caress you shall rise like a fire;

  Lascivious nymphs saturate men’s desire.

  We know how to tease you, immerse you, and drench you.

  We know how to please you; we know how to quench you.

  Come down to the water, my lawless, my lark.

  Come down to the water, my lovely!”

  Arran, with his fingers plugging his ears, shook his head to clear his mind of the drowners’ beguilements. From a corner of his eye he spied Gahariet, halfway down the slope, hurrying toward the brink of the lake. With a running tackle, Arran brought him down, pinned him to the sward, and struggled to keep him there. To prevent himself from hearing the singing he bellowed a chant, the first that occurred to him:

  “Hypericum, salt and bread,

  Iron cold and berries red,

  Self-bored stone and daisy bright,

  Save me from unseelie wight.

  “Red verbena, amber, bell,

  Turned-out raiment, ash as well,

  Rooster with your cock-a-doo,

  Banish wights and darkness, too.”

  “Get off! Let me go!” the journeyman shouted furiously, twisting and writhing. Rivalen had opened the box, while Bliant had wrenched the lid off another. They were flinging great handfuls of salt and iron filings at the damsels, while chanting wight-warding rhymes, ringing hand-bells, and uttering piercing whistles to override the song of the drowners.

  The damsels recoiled from this onslaught, throwing up the waxen tapers of their arms in self-protection. Without faltering, Rivalen and Bliant continued their barrage of words, minerals, and noise. Weathermasters were not easy prey for unseelie wights. They strode right to the edge of the water, but no farther. Only a fool or an ignoramus would wade in and cross the threshold of the drowners’ domain. At length, perceiving that the men were stubborn, the wights drew off into deeper waters. Even as they swam lazily away, their voices could be heard from across the lake; now, however, their intent was sinister, derogatory, mocking, and obscene:

  “Lords, when ev’ry part of your body is filled,

  We’ll rock you like babes till the spasms have stilled,

  Till your cries, like women’s in childbed, have passed,

  Till your passionate climax has faded at last

  And you’re floating quiescent down in the long weeds

  Where worms dwell in slime and the stickleback breeds.

  In time you will swell like a mother with child,

  While water soaks in and your flesh is defiled

  By death and decay. As a mother does best,

  You’ll suckle the fishes that nibble your breast.

  Come down to the water, my leery, my luce!

  Come down to the water, my lowly.”

  Five hundred yards from the shore, barely perceptible in the gloaming, they dived. Their disappearance left scarcely a ripple.

  High in the indigo heavens, white flowers blossomed.

  Arran abandoned his capture of Gahariet, who scrambled to his feet. The young journeyman stared wretchedly at the lake, but made no comment; nor did his companions reprove him. It had been a lesson well learned. Gahariet did not cease shuddering until more than an hour had passed.

  The single undulation caused by the departure of the lake-wights had spent itself. On the placid waters of Stryksjø reflections glimmered, flawless, unmarred by the slightest disturbance. Sky above, sky below. The firmament appeared to extend deep beneath the water’s surface. Millions upon millions of stars hung suspended beneath the lake like glinting shoals of minnows. The lake merely meditated, wrapped in its own profound calm, pondering its peaceful eternity.

  Across on the other side of the lake far-off peaks now faded to soft shapes, hazed, as if glimpsed through a silken screen tinted pale blue. Tall streaks of pines on distant ridges let down their perpendicular reflections into the water. Like the lake they were serene and self-contained. Straight-spined, they lifted their slender snouts to the skies as if baying like wolves.

  Reflections of sharp crags dipped in marshmallow tried to plumb the water’s depths, but could not reach. Only the images of the stars plunged to the true foundations of Stryksjø.

  Warily, Rivalen scanned their surroundings. “All seems tranquil enough,” he said in confidential tones. “I daresay we can hope for some peace now, so that we may complete our task without interruption.”

  A layer of mist crept surreptitiously across the water. All was mist, cloud, vapor, water, stone, and wood, illusion, light and darkness. The islands merely existed, aloof, untouchable.

  “Ah, Ragnkull,” murmured Arran, staring out at the gray-green hummock near the lake’s center, “we shall conquer you yet!”

  Then the four companions set to, and began their weatherworking.

  On that same King’s Day, 24th Ninember, Fionnuala Aonarán and her mercenaries were riding through a close and shadowy wood. They were following some narrow trail made, perhaps, by bears or wolves, a trail that meandered in the right direction, for the moment. This band looked the worse for wear. Hard riding, fighting, and cold nights bedded in the frost had cracked their skin, tied cruel knots in their hair, and ingrained their nails and flesh with grime. The whites of their eyes were the only splashes of brightness about them, pallid daubs of albescence in faces charcoaled by wind and cold. Guided by map, compass, and sextant, impelled by obsession, they had reached a point that was fewer than sixty miles—as the wild goose flies—from Lake Stryksjø.

  Slowly but certainly, they were nearing their goal.

  Down by the quiet banks of Stryksjø the men from High Darioneth were working in shifts. It was necessary for them to continuously exert influence on the weather, lest the normal structures should reassert themselves. The world’s troposphere swirled, constantly moving toward equilibrium, yet never able to achieve it. Mighty forces and immutable cycles created complicated systems.

  By means of the virtual thermometers, hygrometers, and barometers inside their skulls, the weathermasters were sensing invisible forces, even as they spoke the vector commands to guide them. That night, while Arran and Bliant slumbered, Rivalen and Gahariet summoned winds to drive away the clouds, leaving the skies clear and bristling with stars. Chill as the land and lake already were, the last few sluggish shreds of energy were departing, rising into the diamond air. The weathermasters reached far and deep into the northerly airflow and altered its passage, preparing for the next morning’s work.

  As sunrise drew nigh they reversed their summons. Small cumulus clouds scampered in and clustered together like flocks of sheep. Arran and Bliant awoke and took over from their exhausted companions. As if they were weather-shepherds, they called more moisture-laden winds, drawing together larger clouds until a thick billow of vapor lidded the lake and surrounds, locking out the sun’s radiation. They could not afford to be too localized with their cooling. It was necessary for the cloud cover to extend several leagues beyond the lake, because if the land close around were to stay at normal temperatures, then horizontal energy exchange processes would work toward overcoming the imbalance. Once the clouds were in place, Arran and Bliant located the cold northerly airflow. Next, they began to invoke hail.

  Supercooled water droplets were circulating within the updraughts of the cumulonimbus clouds. They were passing through regions of dissimilar temperatures and humidity, melting or freezing as they met warmer or colder air, collecting a build-up of alternating layers of clear and opaque ice.

  “Let the stones grow no bigger than a fat wheat grain,” Arran murmured to his friend. He re
turned to chanting a litany of vector commands and performing the directive gestures.

  Soon afterward, Bliant became aware that the hailstones had reached the required size. He and Arran allowed the updraughts within the clouds to become weaker, until eventually they could no longer support the tiny balls of ice. There was a rattling and a pattering, and the weathermasters felt the sting of miniature ice-hammers striking their faces.

  A hailstorm had commenced.

  The storm of ice continued throughout the greater part of the day. By the following day the ground was so cold that the hail did not melt as it lay. Instead, it formed shallow drifts and clung to the boughs of trees.

  Each night, Rivalen and Gahariet cleared the skies. Every day, Arran and Bliant invoked clouds and hail. Never before had the denizens of Grïmnørsland experienced such weird weather. The efforts of the weathermasters caused interruptions to the usual patterns of ridges and troughs in the airflow around the world, through a great depth of the atmosphere. As days passed, the lake grew colder. Plates of ice began to form on the surface. Hailstones ceased to liquefy when they touched the water. The ice layers deepened and strengthened.

  It cost the weathermasters dearly to continue consistently with their effort. Working the brí was never easy, and their reserves of strength were running low. Despite their care, side-effects evolved at the outer rims of their influence. Uncanny balls of lightning made unexpected appearances, and other strange phenomena broke out over Grïmnørsland.

  The weather hampered Fionnuala and her band. Now they must struggle through drifts of hailstones, and daily endure flails of ice.