The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  The waiting was agony.

  Next day a single pigeon winged in over the plateau, flying straight toward the lofts on Rowan Green. The loftmaster caught it and pulled the tag from its leg. The band was black.

  Grief overwhelmed the weathermasters and denizens of the plateau. They knew not for certain what this sign could mean, and all wondered what had passed.

  On the day after the pigeon’s arrival, at sunfall, Snowship returned. All those who spied it wind-driven across the skies began lamenting, because it came home unaccompanied, and they could see there were no extra passengers on board—at least, none who were standing. The aerostat alighted on Rowan Green in the center of a throng of weathermasters who were standing by to meet it. Folk of the plateau hastened up the road to the launch apron, anxious to find out what had happened. By the time Jewel reached the apron, the word had spread; Wanderpath had been found, dismantled and shredded. Blood had been spilled at the lakeshore where the ground was churned to mud by a struggle.

  One crew-member alone had been discovered.

  The rescuers had brought Bliant with them, prone on the floor of Snowship’s gondola. He was seriously wounded, barely clinging to existence. There had been no sign of his companions on the banks of Stryksjø or in the surrounding forests. Bliant remembered seeing Rivalen fall, mortally hurt, and Gahariet fighting hard against impossible odds. Of subsequent events he had no recollection. He had fainted from loss of blood. The attackers, whoever they were, had left him for dead. Only the chill of the ice on which he lay had stemmed the flow, thus saving his life.

  Incredulous, angry, and appalled, High Darioneth grieved for the crew of Wanderpath.

  It was the 13th Tenember. At this season, High Darioneth would usually be preparing for the Midwinter celebrations. This year all festivities were canceled. Sorrow ruled both plateau and Seat.

  Snowship flew a second time to Stryksjø. Deep within a rift in the ground, created when the storm winds uprooted a huge pine, they found the bodies of Rivalen and Gahariet lying where they had been dumped. Across the lake, Ragnkull Island had been torn apart, ravaged by a direct hit from a mighty lightning bolt. Of Arran there was no evidence. Perhaps the lake waters might have told his sad story, if they had possessed voices other than the whisperings and lappings of tiny wavelets.

  The people of the plateau, the councillors of Ellenhall, and the entire population of the Seat of the Weathermasters went into mourning. They clad themselves in dismal colors and silently went about their business, red-eyed and wretched. As for the Storm Lord, he was beside himself with grief, and seldom spoke or remembered to partake of nourishment; he seemed to have aged ten years in the space of a day.

  It came to Jewel that a void had opened in the world. More than a void: it was as if most of the world had been chopped away, and the little that remained was shriveled and juiceless. There was an absence, a negative space, a lack that could not be endured. She comprehended, eventually, that her longing for Arran was the consequence of love. Without her knowledge her resolve to steel her heart against deep sentiment had given way. She loved Arran, there was no denying it, and desired only to flee from High Darioneth so that that she might scour the Four Kingdoms, searching for him. It was not possible that he could be gone. Surely he must still exist somewhere. She would leave no corner unexplored, no leaf unturned, no shadow unilluminated. She would seek until she had found him, or until the final breath left her body.

  Since the news of the loss of Wanderpath, she spent much time in the company of Mildthrythe Miller, to whom she revealed her plan.

  “No, Jewel, you must not go to Grïmnørsland,” said Mildthrythe. “The crew of Snowship has sought Arran twice, using the full extent of their powers, and all in vain. I have no doubt; were he living or dead in Grïmnørsland, they would have located him. Since skilled weathermasters have uncovered naught, what chance have you?”

  “Against your advice I have gone away once before.”

  “Go then, if you wish. High Darioneth is no prison. But think twice before you act.”

  Jewel thought twice, then thrice. And as she deliberated, her disbelief turned to rage. The tentacles of wrath reached out to entangle her, wringing her heart and mind.

  “There is no justice!” she ranted to Mildthrythe. “Why should he be taken from us? I hate whoever has done this deed. When we find the murderers we must make them suffer endless torment! Death is too good for the likes of them. It will be Aonarán’s doing, somehow, I’ll warrant. Let him be captured and forever locked away in the deepest dungeon.”

  “Aonarán was a prisoner when it happened,” said Mildthrythe patiently. Her features were engraved with the furrows of profound sorrow.

  “His recreant sister, then,” Jewel shouted, through tears. “It will be her doing. Let us hunt her down and punish her! Cast her in a deep and sunless cavern, and there let her languish until her bones are dust!”

  “Hush Jewel. Do not exert yourself.”

  “But it is my fault, do you not see? Arran journeyed to Stryksjø for my sake. If not for me he would be safe at home!”

  “That is nonsense, and you know it. It was the will of Ellenhall that the Well should be sought, and Arran made his own decision to go. You were one who tried to dissuade him.”

  Jewel ceased her ranting. She met the gaze of the older woman. So grave were Mildthrythe’s eyes, so brimming with desolate compassion, the damsel thought her heart swelled and burst. Throwing herself into Mildthrythe’s arms, she pressed her face against her breast and sobbed wildly. Later, when Jewel had grown calmer, she realized that the teardrops scintillating on her hair and sleeves did not all belong to her.

  Despite their mourning, the members of the Council of Ellenhall were determined to attend the naming ceremony of Uabhar’s second son. To refuse would have been undiplomatic. Furthermore, as the Storm Lord had declared, “We are not being coerced into attending this ceremony. We promised to be present, and we keep our word.” To the people of High Darioneth he said, “Do not publish news of the tragedy at Stryksjø as yet. I am loath to mar with ill tidings the name-day of the infant prince. Besides, all that is our own business, and the final outcome is not yet known—the fate of Arran, the fate of Bliant. I would not have these matters made the subject of speculation and gossip throughout the Four Kingdoms.”

  Taking Jewel with them, the weathermasters departed for Cathair Rua.

  The streets of the city were gaily decorated with holly, and festooned with evergreen boughs. Most thoroughfares were crowded with folk celebrating the new year. Few revelers were abroad in the wealthier quarters hard by the palace, because Uabhar had decreed that no noisy or unseemly throngs should congregate near the royal precincts during the naming ceremony and New Year’s festivities. The by-ways farther from the palace, however, were teeming with dancers, singers, musicians, vendors roasting hot chestnuts on charcoal braziers, pudding-sellers, bonfires, drinkers, wassailers, pranksters, people in disguise, and merrymakers of all descriptions.

  The ceremonial naming of the infant prince, Ronin Ó Maoldúin, took place at the private Oratorium in the palace gardens. Afterward, in the evening, the feast was held at the Hall of Kings. No detail was omitted, no expense was spared, in ensuring the occasion was a sumptuous and intemperate affair. Yet, of all the marvels wrought in cuisine, music, and fashion, the one that most astonished the court was the late arrival of the dowager queen.

  It was not that she was tardy—this was a common enough occurrence—but she appeared amongst them arrayed in three different hues.

  The colors were red, gold, and black. Crimson was her gown, stitched all over with golden trefoils, and edged with sable. Her girdle and tiara were adorned with triangular jewels: rubies, topazes, and chips of jet. Looking pleased and triumphant, she smiled benignly upon the gathering as she dined on pyramidal redcurrant jellies, creamy triple-layered junkets and triangles of sweet liquorice. Three bracelets jingled on each wasted wrist, three rings encircled each finger,
and three ladies-in-waiting hovered behind her chair.

  The court of Slievmordhu was impressed, yet Jewel and the weathermasters sat stony-faced throughout the meal and the entertainments. Sorrow weighed heavily on them and they were unable to shake off their gloom. They hardly touched the rich fare or the sweet wines. It was urgent in their minds to complete the visit as soon as was politic, and return speedily to High Darioneth, where their people lamented, and where Bliant lay on the doorstep of death, closely tended by the carlin Luned Longiníme.

  On being presented with the sorcerer’s heir, Uabhar had stared hard at Jewel, but barely spared her a word. He seemed preoccupied with the ceremonies at hand, yet Avalloc was not deceived. He knew full well that the king had marked Jewel, noting her appearance in detail, as a portrait painter would examine his subject.

  To his distaste, Avalloc Stormbringer found himself seated next to the Druid Imperius. Primoris Virosus commenced a brittle conversation, first unctuously inquiring about the welfare of Arran, as if he suspected something was amiss. To divert the druid from the harrowing subject, Avalloc asked after the whereabouts of the amiable Secundus Adiuvo Constanto Clementer.

  “Clementer has left the Sanctorum, in company with his assistant, Agnellus.”

  “Good gracious me. Then, has he renounced the druidry?”

  “Not at all! I am surprised you even contemplate such a possibility! Naturally, Clementer remains faithful. He now devotes his time to research into the rarer meanings of life, by means of study and travel. ’Tis all done at his own expense, however. The Sanctorum cannot afford to indulge the whims of these would-be philosophers. Having experienced the privations of a peripatetic life, he will eventually return to the Sanctorum, I expect.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the twang of lute-strings. At Uabhar’s command, his minstrels began to sing:

  “There is virtue in allegiance to one’s comrades,

  And love’s loyalty, all honest folk admire.

  But of all the deeds that show if he is worthy,

  A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.

  “The obedience of sons decrees their value,

  And throughout their lives it never must expire.

  Those who strive against their patriarch are abject.

  A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.

  “All good sons, show gratitude for your begetting—

  Never question, quarrel, argue, or inquire.

  For your father’s word is law. You must defend it!

  A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.”

  Later during the course of the festivities, Uabhar quizzed Jewel closely—but with utmost courtesy—as to whether she possessed any special powers that might be to anyone’s advantage, and whether she would like to sojourn for a while at the court of Slievmordhu, to keep his queen company. On both counts the marsh-daughter disappointed the monarch who, after failing to entrap her with cunning questions, became convinced of her uselessness, and left her to her own devices.

  After all the pains she had taken to conceal her identity this seemed somewhat of an anticlimax, yet, inevitably, relief washed through her.

  While Jewel and the weathermasters endured the discourse of courtiers and druids in the candle-lit Hall of Kings, down in the dark streets outside the palace a shadow was lurking. Fionnbar Aonarán had been released from the custody of Lumenspar a fortnight earlier. He had gone back to his old haunts and discovered the diamond dagger was missing, but had not rallied his former cohorts, or recommenced his commerce in weapons, because he was aware that he was being watched by agents of the weathermasters.

  In any event, seizing control of his erstwhile trade was not uppermost in his mind, for he owned plenty of wealth stashed away in secret hiding places. His single obsession was to slay the son of the Maelstronnar. Certain rumors spoke of the death of Arran and such of his companions as had accompanied him on some secret mission to the wilds of Grïmnørsland—no doubt, the quest for the Well of Dew. Hearsay, however, might prove incorrect.

  Since his liberation Fionnbar had heard nothing from Fionnuala, despite having sought news of her by way of clandestine channels. No doubt she had gone hunting after the Draught, just as he had instructed—not necessarily in order to do him a favor, more likely to dedicate the Draught to her own benefit. Nonetheless, it had been worth giving her the directions to the Well of Dew, simply in order that she might prevent the weathermasters from laying their hands on the precious liquid. As far as he could guess from the unconfirmed reports, the weathermasters had failed to find it, but whether his sister had succeeded he knew not.

  Other word was on the streets; the scion of Strang’s sorcerer was coming to the city, to be presented to the king. Aonarán’s choice was clear; he would loiter close to Jewel, so that if the young weathermage came nigh her, he might have the chance to smite him and, with luck, have time afterward to rifle his belongings in search of any valuables.

  Aided by his knowledge of the by-ways and alleys of Cathair Rua, Aonarán was able to elude his watchers and skulk near the palace, with no clear plan other than to wait for some opportunity.

  After all, what else was there to inspire, with endless years yawning before him?

  Avalloc’s desire to make a prompt departure from Cathair Rua was being thwarted. Uabhar had made it widely known that he would consider it an insult to his family if any of the guests took their leave from the protracted celebrations before moonrise on Moon’s Day the 4th Jenever, at the earliest.

  Late in the afternoon on that day, Jewel lingered in the company of the Storm Lord and his daughters, Galiene and Lysanor, on a west-facing balcony overlooking an upper courtyard and the top tiers of the palace gardens. They were blind to the flamboyant colors of the sunset, deaf to the fragrant music that wafted like expensive perfume from the palace’s interior.

  By now Galiene and Lysanor had become party to the secret of the wells—the secret that had stolen their brother from them. Moreover, the Maelstronnar family had known all along about Arran’s love for Jewel, through they had never spoken of it. Since discovering that she returned his affections, Jewel had become aware of their knowledge and aware, too, that almost before she understood it herself they perceived she loved him. What’s more, the family had welcomed the revelation.

  “I was angry,” mused Jewel, leaning on the marble balustrade. “Now my anger has melted, to be replaced by numbness.”

  “I have no appetite, no interest in anything,” said Lysanor. “Sometimes I become aware I have been staring for hours at a wall, or some object, staring but unseeing.”

  Galiene said, “Sleep comes reluctantly to me at nights, yet during the days I wish only to sleep, that I might be free, for a while, of anguish. The pain that seeded in my heart has spread to take root throughout my person.”

  “It is the same for me,” said Jewel. “ ’Tis a terrible, physical pain. When shall it go away?”

  “It never really goes,” said Galiene, “but it fades. I felt this way when our mother died. It was like standing on the brink of an abyss of horror, and watching the ground crumble beneath my feet. It was as if the world had altered fundamentally, had become disjointed in a way that was inexpressibly wrong, and could never be the same again.”

  “Yet we lived on,” said Lysanor, “and after a year or two we discovered that the hurt had decreased to a background ache. Now, when I think of her—which is often—the wound stings but does not bleed.”

  “Come moonrise we will fly from here,” muttered Avalloc. “Fain would I rest at my own hearthside.”

  “And fain would I be beside the healing-couch of Bliant,” said Galiene.

  “You might have stayed with him,” said Avalloc.

  “I might—but what could I do? I have not the skills of a carlin. I can do more good by being at your side, Father.”

  “Look!” Lysanor flung out her arm, indicating the entrance to the yard below. A man was running in. “Is that not one of our agent
s, Corbenic, son of Brennus?”

  Her father scrutinized the courtyard. “Indeed it is! Corbenic is one who has been tracking Aonarán. He comes swiftly, as if bearing urgent tidings. Let us go down to meet him!”

  The newcomer was sweating and panting, as if he had sprinted in a race. As soon as he set eyes on the Storm Lord he dropped to one knee, saying, “Sir, the most peculiar tidings have I!”

  “Say on, Corbenic!”

  “Just now I have seen a young man enter the city and walk slowly through the streets toward the palace. This man had the very look of Arran, if not his bearing.”

  Suddenly agitated, the Storm Lord gripped the agent by his shoulder. “What can you mean?” he demanded from bloodless lips.

  “Sir, his face was the face of your son, but he stooped as he shambled, and when hailed he spoke no word nor showed any sign of recognition.”

  “I must see this man for myself! Where is he?”

  “He will almost be here by now, if he has not halted or been hindered.”

  Avalloc called for any companions within hearing; then, with no further ado, he and Jewel and his daughters leaped downstairs. They sped from a postern, through the gardens, and out of the palace gates, sparing no explanation for the sentries.

  Peering down a cobbled street that ran between tall buildings, they spied a weary wayfarer stumbling toward them. His back was bent as if he were exhausted. Grime covered him all over, and his clothes were ragged and stained black with old blood. He swayed as if he were about to lose balance. As soon as he set eyes on this apparition, Avalloc uttered a cry of pain and joy, for he recognized his own son, miraculously returned.

  Even as the Storm Lord uttered this cry, a wiry form sprang out of the dense shadows between the buildings, pulled at the traveler, and threw him to the ground. A long sliver of a blade glittered. The assailant stabbed his victim in the back and neck, then took an instant to rifle his clothing, before making off with his fist clenched.