The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles
Page 53
Although they ran as fast as they could, shouting aloud, Jewel and Avalloc and Corbenic were not able to reach the scene in time to prevent this atrocity. Galiene and Lysanor had been several paces behind; Lysanor stumbled on the cobbles and Galiene stopped to help her to her feet.
The attacker fled up the street.
“Seize him!” roared Avalloc, as Corbenic raced after the knife-wielder.
Within these precincts close by the palace few stragglers were abroad. Not many folk had witnessed the drama. Some clustered in gawking groups, keeping at a respectful distance from the weathermasters. Others discreetly departed the scene, in case they should be implicated in some way.
Jewel sank down on the cobbles beside the young man who lay sprawled on the street. The Maelstronnar and his daughters fell to their knees around the motionless figure. With horrified despair they gazed down and saw the handsome face of Arran, outlined against the eagle’s wing of his hair. Frenziedly, in a desperate burst of strength fueled by terror, Jewel ripped strips of fabric from the hem of her petticoats, then rammed the makeshift bandages firmly against his neck and beneath his shoulder blade where the knife had struck. She pressed her fingertips to one of the arteries above his collarbone, as she had seen her great-grandmother do—as Arran himself had once done—but could detect no pulse.
“It is some trick,” gasped Lysanor. “This is a sending, a simulacrum!” She drew back fearfully.
As Jewel swiftly bound the bandages in place, Galiene looked on wide-eyed, wringing her hands in distress. “Oh, but if it is not, then we have lost him a second time, for behold! He is slain.”
Tenderly, Avalloc lifted the young man by the shoulders and laid him across his knees. Jewel stared at the comatose face turned up toward the pyre of the skies, which were streaming crimson and gold between the city’s roofs. He looked vulnerable, as if he were sleeping. Dark lashes rested lightly against the pallor of the skin. Beneath the smears of dirt and dried blood, his extraordinary comeliness was apparent. Lean and taut was the line of his jaw; chiseled were his cheekbones. His features, as striking as those of a beautiful girl, were yet imbued with such masculinity that Jewel felt the force of it as a pang.
“It is truly he,” the Storm Lord murmured hoarsely.
“Turn him on his side,” said Jewel suddenly. “My great-grandmother taught me that if anyone falls unconscious you must lay him on his side, lest he choke on his own tongue.”
Avalloc did as she had bidden.
Pushing back loose strands of her hair, Jewel laid her head close to the mouth of the young man, that she might hear whether he breathed or no. She was weeping as she did so. “Do not leave me,” she whispered hopelessly. “Do not leave me, most cherished love.” Copious tears flowed glistening down her cheeks, dropping lightly upon his lips. A fleck of darkness trickled from the corner of his mouth and blotted into the garments of the Maelstronnar.
Whereupon the young man moved.
Raven lashes fluttered. He licked his lips, and opened a pair of clear eyes as green as cut-glass goblets of absinthe.
“He lives!” The Storm Lord squeezed shut his own eyes, and bent his head, temporarily overcome.
By this time several weathermasters from their party had arrived, having heard rumor of Avalloc’s call as he ran from the palace into the streets. Nyneve Longiníme held a flask to the mouth of the young man, and from it he sipped.
“In truth, is your name Arran?” quizzed Nyneve.
He smiled. “I am Arran Nithulambar Maelstronnar,” he said; and with that, a great sigh went through those who surrounded him. There was no glamour deceiving the eyes of the beholders. Even so, some gramarye seemed to be at work, for Arran was making an exceptionally speedy recovery. He had already been helped to his feet, and was declaring he would walk to the palace. Crowds of onlookers were swelling in the thoroughfare. The weathermasters flocked around Arran as he made his way up the street, and some went ahead to clear the way, so that no member of the public might witness the son of the Maelstronnar, a weathermage, in that state of filth and degradation.
To the palace they all proceeded. The king had heard of the unlooked-for appearance of the Storm Lord’s son, and Queen Saibh herself came to greet him.
“I am glad to welcome you, Arran Maelstronnar,” said that dainty lady, “although I fear you have been in dire straits. Ask for anything you require for your good health. We shall not stint you, fair guest.”
She conducted Arran to the best of apartments, where she left him in the company of his family and friends. All who were present noted that he could not take his eyes from Jewel, nor she from him. At first, his family would not leave him, and urged him to rest.
“I refuse to measure my length upon a couch like an ailing man!” he protested.
“But you were knifed!” exclaimed Lysanor.
“Naught but a scratch. I feel hale—better than I have ever felt before. But tell me, where are Rivalen, Bliant, and Gahariet, my companions from Wander-path?”
“Bliant has returned, but his life is in peril,” they told him. “The others were lost.”
On hearing this news, Arran buried his face in his hands, and for a long while he was unable to speak. At length he bade them all leave him alone except for a single valet, so that he might bathe, and dress himself in clean garments.
He chose from an array of raiment sent to him with the compliments of the queen: an elaborately embroidered linen shirt next to his skin, linen leg-wrappings cross-gartered with leather thongs, a long tunic edged with knot-work, a sword-belt picked out in silver, high boots gilded with subtle designs, and a floor-length cloak lined with marten fur, fastened at the right shoulder by a disc brooch.
After Arran was refreshed, Jewel and the weathermasters sat with him in a private dining-room and he partook of food and drink with them. So handsome did he look that several of Queen Saibh’s ladies-in-waiting made pretense of necessary journeys into that chamber, in order to glimpse him. Amongst the courtiers sighs of love murmured up and down the corridors of the palace like a flood of honeyed wine, and many of them glanced into looking glasses, primping and preening to ensure they looked their seductive best. Arran was oblivious of these reactions. His visage was etched with the grooves of sorrow for his ill-fated friends. He spoke very little, and ate less.
A paneled dado ran about the walls of the Oak Dining-Room. Coverings of patterned velvet interlaced with gold thread surmounted it. The ceiling was decorated with paintings by famous artists, set in gilded plaster frames. Tall windows overlooked the palace grounds. By night, the panes were lush with thick clusters of stars.
Something inside Jewel had broken, a hardness that for years had encapsulated her heart like the shell around a sweet almond kernel. It seemed to the damsel that this opulent chamber was empty save for the son of the Maelstronnar. To her own amazement, she opined she had never truly seen him before. He was a radiance that filled her vision, a flame that branded his image on her senses. It was with a sensation akin to shock that she looked upon him. Whenever his gaze alighted on her person she felt the thrill of a jolt, whereas merely to imagine his touch evoked an ecstasy of terrible delight. It is true, what grandfather Earnán used to say, she thought. One never appreciates what one has, until it is lost. Arran was lost to me; now he is found. I would fain comfort him, for he feels the loss of his comrades keenly.
During that meal extensive conversation took place between Arran and Jewel, none of it in words.
A messenger arrived bringing word that Aonarán had eluded capture. Streetwise and sly, he had escaped the net. For the satisfaction of his weather-master guests, King Uabhar had issued a warrant for Aonarán’s arrest, on charges of attempted murder.
“Arran, we are all marveling!” Galiene declared when the messenger had departed. “You survived a dagger in the back and neck, and now you eat and drink with us as if nothing had happened!”
“Tell how you survived and returned to us!” begged Lysanor.
> Somberly but willingly, Arran related his story, describing the occurrences at Stryksjø that led up to the invocation of the lightning bolt to blast the Well of Dew, before elaborating on subsequent events.
“The destruction of the Well weakened me,” he said. “For a while, I believe, I lost consciousness. When I had regained my wits and mustered sufficient strength, I began to make for land. I was stumbling along in somewhat of confusion when it came to me that I was splashing through water. Ice-melt was sloshing about my boots; the lake was melting rapidly. It could only mean that my companions had ceased to work their weathermastery. Visibility was poor, but I peered through the darkness to the shore, and saw that it was empty. At once I suspected foul play.
“It was then that I became aware of several armed strangers approaching across the ice. Alone and feeble as I was, I knew I stood no chance against them. I guessed that these men had overthrown my companions, and that they must surely be seeking the prize I was carrying. If I battled against them I would be defeated, and my life would be forfeit. They would plunder the Draught from my corpse and use it for their own ends.
“Worse was to come, for in the midst of these raiders there walked the woman Fionnuala Aonarán, and she aimed her crossbow at my heart, and I knew it would be loaded with a poisoned quarrel.
“For the space of a heartbeat or two I believed my doom was inescapable. Yet one path remained to me. In desperation I took the only choice left to me; I pulled the vial from my pocket and swallowed the Draught.”
“You drank it?” Arran’s family and friends echoed his words in astonishment.
“I was forced to do so, in order to stop it from falling into the wrong hands.”
Simultaneously they showered questions upon him, but he lifted his hand in a gesture that requested silence, and courteously they held their peace.
“Indeed I drank it,” he resumed. “However, this was no instant cure for my precarious plight. At the exact moment I gulped, she shot me through the chest. The dart’s venom entered my bloodstream at the same time as the water of life. As both potions swirled through my veins, battling for my death or survival, I fell, half-insensible.
“Fionnuala’s men—or perhaps they were Marauders; I could not tell, for their faces were muffled against the cold—lifted me in their arms. They dragged me to land, and laid me across the back of a horse. The entire party departed from Stryksjø and journeyed through Grïmnørsland. I had passed into delirium while the poison and the water waged their war in my flesh. For days, while I lay across the horse’s crupper and was borne through the cold forests, I remained thus, unable to wield the brí, or even to reason. I was barely aware of my surroundings and what was happening to me. In hindsight I recall my captors reining in their mounts beneath evergreen trees, speaking of a balloon they had seen crossing the skies. They were keeping out of sight.”
“What was their purpose?” asked Avalloc. “Where were they taking you, and why?”
“As the days passed, my mind grew clearer and I learned that they were heading back to Cathair Rua. I heard Fionnuala say she was waiting to see what would become of me. She said that if I lived she would lock me away forever. If I died, so be it. I believe she was in two minds about whether she wanted me to survive or not. Sometimes she wished I would die, because she was convinced I had slain Weaponmonger, a man for whom she cared. At other times she wanted me to live, because to be immortal in her cruel hands would be a worse punishment than death. She was wrathful—sorely wrathful—because I had consumed the Draught. That I had tasted it before her very eyes was insufferable to her, and she often revenged herself, treating me badly.”
The Storm Lord made no comment. His silence was steel.
“Father has already despatched sleuths to track down Fionnuala and her cohorts,” said Lysanor. “When Bliant told his story, we guessed the identity of the culprits. Somehow, in spite of precautions, Fionnbar Aonarán managed to pass details of the Well’s whereabouts to his sister.”
Arran kissed his sister’s brow. “I look forward to seeing valiant Bliant again, and putting myself at his service until he is fully recovered.”
“And he will be overjoyed to see you safe! But pray go on with your tale,” murmured Lysanor.
“The henchmen of my tormentress begged her to ransom me if I lived,” Arran continued, “but she would have none of it, and assured them they would be paid for their work in gold, as soon as we reached the city. As for the desperate war within my body, over time, the beneficial influence of the Draught was beginning to gain the advantage. As I lay head downward over the steed, I would sometimes spit bitter flecks from my lips. I reckoned they were drops of venom, expelled from my blood. Day by day my head cleared, my strength returned, and the blows rained upon me discomfited me less. We traveled for weeks, and during that time my captors gave me scant water to drink, and meager fare. Subject to such ill-usage, mortal man must surely have perished.”
“In that case,” Galiene said softly, clasping his hand in hers, “the efficacy of the Wells must be real. . . .” Her eyes were shining.
“The water defeated the poison, as you can see for yourselves. Instead of revealing my revived health, I feigned worsening illness until I was certain my powers had returned in full. Then, when their attention was focused elsewhere, I made my escape. By that time, the raiding party had almost reached Cathair Rua.”
“Why were you so ill when you entered the city gates?”
“I had traveled for days. I was weary, even though the waters of life sustained me. Moreover, it was not until after I broke free that I was able to wrench the shaft of Fionnuala’s cursed bolt from my ribs! Perhaps some last trace of pollution lingered in my system, causing my stupefaction. I had no thought, save to reach the palace, no idea what day of the year it was. I only knew that the season was Winter, and that soon you would all be gathering for the naming ceremony. At any rate, I was oblivious of my ambusher until he had cast me down.”
“I fancied,” said Jewel, “that he stole something from you.”
Her eyes had turned a fascinating shade of blue, like highlights struck from an angled owl’s feather.
“He stole nothing,” said Arran. “I examined my pockets when I laid aside my ruined clothes. One thing of value I carried with me, and it remains still in my keeping.”
“The empty vial?”
“Nay—a thing more strange; a tiny, harmless wight that aided me on my quest. It sleeps now, on the pillow of the curtained couch in my bedchamber. It is secretive of habit, and eschews large gatherings. I know not if it has a name, but it accompanied me all the way from Stryksjø. If ever a man was in need of friendship it was during that fell journey. As it seemed to me, that curious creature hiding itself in my pocket, half-crushed between me and the horse, was my sole ally. I suppose it would have bitten the hand of Aonarán, if that fellow tried to rob me. A nibble could not much harm a mortal man made immortal, yet it might have discomposed him!”
There was subdued laughter amongst the company, and much talk of their eagerness to see this wight if the creature should ever allow it; the hour, however, was late. Weariness came drifting down upon the lids of the assembly like the falling feathers of doves. They retired to their apartments for the night.
In the morning they bade farewell to their hosts and flew home to the mountain ring.
On their return Luned Longiníme informed them that Bliant’s wounds were healing and his condition had improved. He was recovering. Throughout High Darioneth the sorrow of bereavement now mingled with the joy of friends reunited.
Jewel was invited to dine at the house of the Maelstronnar on the evening following their homecoming. It was an occasion of high jollity. After the meal Arran’s sisters played music on harp and flute, and sang melodiously. Beside the hearth fire Avalloc sat, with his young son, Dristan, at his feet. Dristan’s nurserymaid was amongst the merrymakers, and Avalloc’s sister, Astolat Darglistel, with her five children, including Ryence.
“I can feel yours.”
They danced.
“You move so gracefully, like a swan,” he murmured.
“You with your bird and animal comparisons!” she mocked gently.
“ ’Tis because I love all things that live. Especially you.”
They swayed.
“I have always loved you,” said he.
She said, “I knew not what prize I had until it was taken from me.”
The music played.
“I thought you were gone forever,” she said. “I could not feel your pulse.”
“You would make a sorry carlin, Jewel,” he said. In his smile she glimpsed such profound and fettered passion she felt she toppled from some dizzying height. Excitement heightened her senses. “Feel it now.” He captured her hand and pressed it to the side of his neck. Strong and firm was this muscular column, the skin smooth and warm. Beneath her fingers a tide throbbed, deep and swift; the tide of his life’s blood.
He removed his hand, but she left hers in place, and presently her fingers found his hair, twisted themselves into the bewildering maze of twilight filaments, slid into the river of umber. Next thing she knew, the roughness of his jaw was pressed against her cheek; then blind torrents of sweetness came coursing as the contact between their mouths evolved into a kiss.
That night Arran and Jewel pledged themselves to each other.