“And they say that lightning never strikes twice,” declared Bliant, brushing dirt off his hands.
“Claw your way out of that, you death-dealer,” young Gauvain yelled at the settling material of the slope.
Pale-faced, Arran murmured, “A gruesome end to a gruesome career.”
Soon afterward the aerostat lifted into the sky and carried the weathermasters away.
Mistmoor returned to High Darioneth on War’s Day 16th Ninember with all crew on board, as hale as ever.
“Success we have achieved, yet it has been half-baked,” Arran announced discontentedly, “for we have dealt with only one of the two offenders.” He related the tale of how they had easily tracked down his hated foe, Fionnbar Aonarán, and incarcerated him in a cave deep below the northern mountains of Narngalis. “I seem to have become a dealer in lightning. With a well-placed strike I caused an avalanche of rocks to seal the sole exit, entombing the miscreant.”
“A fate terrible beyond imagining,” said Jewel when she heard this, and a look of horror crossed her features.
“Well deserved,” her husband said bitterly.
The crew’s encounter with Fionnbar had been almost immediate. Finding his half-sister, Fionnuala, however, had proved impossible and had wasted five of their six weeks of absence.
Later, when the heat of Arran’s desire for vengeance had somewhat cooled and he was alone with Jewel, he said, “Somehow I cannot help feel the weight of my guilt at imprisoning the vile fellow. At the time I believed it to be a just and fitting penalty, but maybe I was too angry for rational thought. In hindsight I wonder if ’tis not over-severe. Yea, for Aonarán is, in some warped manner, my brother—the only other man in the Four Kingdoms who is no longer mortal. In inflicting this penance on him I am, in some strange way I cannot fathom, reflecting the harm upon myself. I am setting a precedent. If he can be treated this way, then so can I.”
“Be at peace,” said Jewel. “If your deed troubles you, then you must return to those mountains and dig him out. Set him free, or else devise some other way of dealing with him.”
“Perhaps. I shall ponder the matter further.”
The old year rolled away, and the new entered triumphantly through the portal of the seasons, welcomed by bonfires and festivities across the Four Kingdoms. Meanwhile, at private meetings in certain guarded rooms amidst the bountiful lands of Tir, subtle maneuverings were taking place. Changes were afoot.
At the palace of King Chohrab II in Ashqalêth yet another convoy arrived from Cathair Rua, bringing costly gifts from Uabhar Ó Maoldúin of Slievmordhu. Ever since his accession to the throne, Uabhar had been cultivating a cordial amity with Ashqalêth’s sovereign. In addition to donations of presents, Uabhar would exalt his neighbor during occasions of state in Slievmordhu, and invite him to be present with his household at informal jollifications, where he was always offered the best of everything.
Chohrab II was much pleased by the flattery. He received this latest bounty with his customary sense of satisfaction, delighted that the sovereign of a neighboring realm should be so very particular in cultivating his goodwill. It seemed plain that Uabhar held him in high esteem. Ever watchful for enemies and rivals, Chohrab had perceived no threat from beyond his northeastern borders; it appeared that Slievmordhu’s monarch wished only to strengthen the alliance of the two southernmost realms, not to undermine or overwhelm Chohrab’s governance.
The King of Ashqalêth had daughters of an age to be wedded to any of the sons of Uabhar when they grew to manhood; therefore, he had at first reasoned that Uabhar might be hoping to inveigle a foothold in his kingdom by way of marriage ties. The King of Slievmordhu assured Chohrab II, however, that, to his regret, Queen Saibh—who sadly lacked foresight—had persuaded Uabhar to pledge his sons at an early age to young ladies from certain wealthy Slievmordhuan families “and Thorgild’s daughter, I forget her name.” That seemed to preclude any nefarious scheming for the throne of Ashqalêth. After some deliberation, Chohrab came to be of the opinion that Uabhar’s friendship was genuine, and he could be trusted.
Besides, it was evident to the desert king that Uabhar trusted him, for he took him into his confidence. The two monarchs held many a discussion, guarded by their most loyal ministers, behind the closed doors of their private apartments. It had been Uabhar who had been honest enough with Chohrab to reveal to him the true stances of the monarchs of Narngalis and Grïmnørsland.
“I will not deny you the facts, my friend,” he had said hesitantly, as if at pains to protect Chohrab’s sensibilities. “Regrettably, Warwick and Thorgild have been heard to say they consider you to be obtuse, weak, and irresolute of character. It galls me more than I can endure, that such misrepresentations should be made of you.”
Yet, when Chohrab in his indignation vowed to confront his detractors with their spurious remarks, demanding their withdrawal, along with recompense to demonstrate suitable penitence, Uabhar cautioned him.
“Patience, my dear friend. There are perhaps better ways to ensure that these scornful and deluded rulers open their eyes and see you in your true colors. I am sure you will be of one mind with me when I say that by rights they ought to be made to rue their insulting behavior. Patience, my virtual brother.”
Uabhar spoke forthrightly when he revealed the opinion of those who walked other corridors of power. He failed to mention that he himself shared that disdainful view of Chohrab II, or that it was also judged in high places that the King of Slievmordhu was a cunning and clever man, intolerant of weakness in any form. Just why the monarchs of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth should hold close conclave was a subject of speculation amongst courtiers and ministers across the lands, for a contriver like Uabhar would hardly heed the advice of Chohrab, nor would he joyfully endure the tedium of imparting his own counsel to one so unlikely to comprehend it.
In Narngalis, and more particularly in High Darioneth, tidings of reinforced political alliances between the southern and eastern realms were treated with watchful wariness. In a way, political events outside the mountain ring were like ocean waves battering themselves to pieces against stubborn cliffs. They seemed to have little influence on life on the plateau, or at the Seat of the Weathermasters. Nonetheless Avalloc and the councillors were fully aware that even a force as barely perceptible as the vibrations of the pounding seas can eventually erode the foundations of a precipice.
As the seasons took turns to splash the meadows, the woodlands, and the skies with their signature colors, and years glided by, Arran Maelstronnar sank into a gentle melancholy, brought on by his perceived failure to ensure Jewel’s eternal life, his inability to locate Fionnuala, and his guilt at imprisoning Aonarán, who now could no longer be found. Belatedly taking Jewel’s advice, the son of the Storm Lord had journeyed to the slopes where he had buried his foe alive. New entrances were excavated, but when the caverns were explored, no sign of the pale-haired man could be found. He was gone. There was no way out to the sunlit surface; he could only have descended to the nether regions and been lost in the labyrinth of tunnels far below fathoms of rock and soil. After their search the weathermasters resealed the openings they had created. Arran was adamant on one detail: if Aonarán were ever to emerge, Ellenhall must be informed of it.
What of Fionnbar’s sister Fionnuala?
Hers was a curious and twisted tale.
So far, the weathermasters had been unable to discover her, even with the help of Fridayweed—“Man, I am not omnipotent! I am only a wee thing with a single glamour-guise.” The Storm Lord’s son vowed he would never rest until the markswoman had been captured, but for the time being, weathermastery missions demanded his urgent attention.
Aware that the lords of High Darioneth searched for her, Fionnuala assumed a series of false identities, a sequence of disguises. For years she roamed the byways of the Four Kingdoms of Tir, living off supplies bought with stored profits from the now-defunct illegal weapons-trade, an ignorant, ignominious, and tragic figure
, puppetted by petty concerns. At night she could scarcely find repose, being tormented by dreams of voices taunting her in unintelligible languages. By day she was single-minded of purpose, yet ineffective, disorganized, and incompetent.
Relentlessly she sought a way to severely hurt Arran Maelstronnar. In her judgment the Storm Lord’s son had caused the death of Cathal Weaponmonger, who, she believed delusively, would have one day asked her to be his wife. Before meeting Weaponmonger she had loved only one man: Jarred Jaravhor. Yet Jewel’s father had rejected her, preferring Jewel’s mother, and now, from all accounts, he was dead. Fionnuala Aonarán’s hatred for Arran Maelstronnar was compounded when she learned he had imprisoned her half-brother in an inescapable tomb. Fionnbar had always been cruel to her. She had never truly cared for him; in fact, she feared and despised him; however, in her life of ephemerae, where people never stayed long and no place was home, his familiarity made him pivotal.
The knowledge that the Storm Lord’s son was dwelling in wedded bliss was like salt excoriating her wounded psyche, inasmuch as her own existence had brought her nothing but misery. Jealousy fed her obsession. With Fionnbar gone and no other purpose driving her, Fionnuala acquired enough impetus to survive from day to day by blaming one man for all her woes.
But Arran was now indestructible.
Monomaniacally she pursued her goal: to find some method of exacting retribution.
“He loves the girl more than his own life,” she would mutter to herself, “as I loved Jarred. As Cathal loved me.” Her memory played tricks, for Weaponmonger had never held her in his affections, and her much-aggrandized “love” for Jarred had in fact been an empty fatuity.
The child Astăriel learned to walk and speak. She was taught her letters and numbers, she practiced the flute, and—when she was tall enough to sit a horse by herself and govern it—she rode through long grasses to the mill, in the company of her mother, to visit their friends. After that single ride Astăriel vowed never again to make a burden of herself to any beast, for she felt sorry that the innocent horse had been forced to carry her so far, when it might have been cantering free in the meadows amongst its own kind.
She groomed her pouring tresses, her total eclipse of black locks, with the brush and comb from a silver dressing-table set her Grandfather Avalloc had given her on her eighth birthday. A brí-child, she learned the basic principles of weathermastery from her father. She developed an ability to deflect and reflect the teasing mockeries of Ryence Darglistel, who played the role of honorary uncle (and who had declared his intention to remain a bachelor on the grounds that his marriage would deprive the flower of womanhood of their greatest source of joy). Timeless Summer days were spent roaming the countryside with friends of her own age. During long Winter’s nights she explored the libraries of Rowan Green, or pestered Fridayweed with questions until it made itself scarce behind the wainscot.
At the age of nine, Astăriel went camping with her friends on Midsummer’s Eve. It was an exciting treat for the children to pitch their tents beneath the stars, to tell stories around the campfire and try to remain awake until dawn. Her silver-backed brush and silver comb were the only instruments of coiffure that could untangle Astăriel’s thick skeins of hair. She treasured them, and therefore took them with her on the outing.
It was after midnight by the time the children and the supervising adults finished celebrating the culmination of the sun’s journey with songs, high jinks, and feasting. Exhausted, they had collapsed beside their fires, whereupon Astăriel began dressing her hair. Starlight laved the polished back of the brush, which was engraved with her initials: A.J.H.M., Astăriel Jewel Heronswood Maelstronnar. When she held up the device in front of her eyes, there appeared to be a hint of shape to the reflections on the gleaming surface and as she gazed, it seemed to her she could make out an image. It looked like a face but, curiously, not hers.
The reflection shifted.
Hastily, Astăriel turned around to glance over her shoulder. No one lurked behind her. Yet she felt as though someone had stood at her shoulder, moments before. At first stunned, then inwardly amused by her own unpredictable powers of invention, she turned back for a second look at the brush’s mirror-like carapace.
The reflection remained.
She stared, spellbound, as it slowly began to fade.
Framed by hair blacker than wickedness, the face was male, wonderfully handsome, but radiating an air of extreme danger and maleficence. It was a countenance elemental, consummate, extreme, patently eldritch and not human. The flash of the eyes was violet lightning transformed to ice, and the lashes were outlined with black, as if the lids were penciled with kohl. Long strands of hair floated across that countenance in a sinuous dance, as if eddying in a river, or blown by a slow wind. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his glance seemed altogether knowing, ironic, intelligent, and arcane.
A moment later, the image was gone.
It had been as brief as the life of a flame in a snowstorm, that vision, but it stamped the damsel’s memory with a vivid impression; those eyes, shards of dark amethyst, had been lit from within by sparks that might have signified viciousness or vengefulness, mockery or mischief, cruelty or callousness, amusement, antipathy, contempt, or cleverness, or all at once, fueled from the same source. And there was that alien quality . . . he was too eldritch, too impossibly beautiful to be any mortal man, there could be no doubt.
For Astăriel, it was as if she had been a pane of glass, smashed into a million splinters that flew apart, spinning and glittering. She could explain neither the phenomenon nor her reaction, could not define what had happened; therefore she made mention of the event to no one. Thus, it transpired she could not know that her mother had once seen the same image in a water-pool, while hoping that such a face could not exist.
Astăriel, perversely, found herself hoping that it could.
Jewel was particular about maintaining contact with old friends and relatives. Over the years she enjoyed many more visits to Great Marsh of Slievmordhu, often in the company of her husband and daughter.
If there was contentment and reassurance to be gained from renewing friendships in the marsh, sometimes there was also disquieting news. It was not until near the end of a visit in the Autumn of 3481 that Jewel’s grandfather took her aside and spoke to her gravely, confidentially.
“Last Spring a stranger came prying about in the marsh,” said Earnán. “A strange kettle of fish indeed. He was asking questions about Jarred. We told him nought. You understand how it is—we marshfolk protect our own. The stranger went away, but returned later that same year, still asking questions. At length, so that he would depart satisfied and trouble us no longer, Cuiva Rushford composed a false tale and recounted it to him.
“It now occurs to me,” Earnán continued, “that the man who came prying must surely have been an agent of this Fionnuala Aonarán, she who has declared herself an enemy of your husband. She is aware that Arran cannot be slain. I daresay she had sent some mercenary to probe for ways to destroy the daughter of Jarred. You must guard yourself, dear one. Guard yourself painstakingly. Never underestimate the deceitfulness and cunning of your foes.”
“I doubt if the she-fox would be able to push me over a mistletoed cliff,” said Jewel. “I spend most of my days at High Darioneth. Mistletoe does not grow on the cold heights of the mountain ring. And when I visit here, I am surrounded by friends.”
“Nevertheless, guard yourself,” said Earnán.
“Arran will guard me, a seanáthair,” said Jewel. “I have never known such love.”
On learning of Fionnuala’s search for a way to harm his wife, Arran was charged with anger so explosive, so consuming, he seemed like a thunderstorm clothed in the likeness of a man.
“You will be guarded,” he said to her, “night and day, wherever you go.”
She replied, “I am invulnerable! Almost.”
Motherhood had mellowed her. She soothed him with words
: “ ’Tis impossible for Fionnuala Aonarán ever to discover how my father died. The people of the marsh are the only ones who know the truth—and they will never tell.”
“What if her aged relative, the servant of Strang, was privy to the secret and passed it on to her? Say what you will, I will remain forever vigilant on your behalf.”
“Be so if you wish, dear love, but do not let this vex you and prey on your mind. ’Tis a strange fact: if we seek to avoid something we dwell on it all the time, and thus we have already succumbed to it, in a way.”
Her peculiar methods of reasoning led her to wax philosophical, and she looked to her future with equanimity, though in her heart she said fatalistically to herself, I am vulnerable only to one thing—mistletoe. Therefore, it is not unlikely that my bane will seek me out, in the end.
Being herself a liar and a deceiver, Fionnuala Aonarán was readily able to recognize falsity in others. She knew full well the White Carlin of the Marsh had tried to mislead her; therefore, Fionnuala employed her street-honed cunning and her purses filled with blood-bought gold.
In Cathair Rua it was common knowledge that soldiers of King Maolmórdha had raided the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu in the Autumn of the year 3465. They had been hunting for a man who had, without scathe, taken the white jewel from amongst the cruel thorns of the Iron Tree. He was, so said the gossips, a marshman.
Fionnuala Aonarán knew exactly who he was, for it had been she who had tricked Jarred into retrieving the jewel from its sixty-year-old resting place. He was the scion of a mortal ancestor who had mastered several sorcerous arts and made his descendants impossible to injure. After the soldiers had returned to Cathair Rua the news had filtered through the usual channels to her ears: the jewel-thief was dead.
But how had he died?
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 61
