Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Fionnuala Aonarán hated Arran. She knew she could no longer harm the weathermaster, so decided to do harm to the one he loved best. Having learned the secret of Jewel’s bane, she wounded her. Jewel, however, was the mother of an immortal child; therefore she did not die, but instead fell into a deep and lasting sleep that resembled death. The beauteous sleeper was placed on a silken couch on the glass cupola atop the Stormbringer house. Wild roses entwined their stems about the cupola, framing the eight panes with leaves and their five-petaled rosettes.

  Declaring he would scour the unknown lands until he discovered a way to waken his bride, Arran abandoned his child, his home and his inheritance, including the golden sword Fallowblade, leaving them all with his father, Avalloc.

  By then, Jewels young daughter Astriel had encountered the very same urisk that used to be attached to her grandmother’s cottage in the Marsh. Towards the end of The Well of Tears the girl and the wight sat companionably together in a high place, looking out at the distant lands.

  The story closed with these words:

  The child . . . had lately come from the glass chamber where her mother lay like a porcelain doll among the flowers, and thoughts of the loss of both her parents had cast her into a doleful, yearning mood. A broken line of birds passed swiftly and noiselessly overhead, the last swallows migrating south . . . Yet Astriel’s father had set out in the opposite direction, and as she gazed northwards, a terrible wistfulness seized her heart. She longed to take wing, to fly from her perch out across the vaporous lands to the northern mountains and beyond.

  “Your sorrowfulness is irksome” commented the urisk.

  She replied, “If you do not like it, you need not stay.”

  “Be of good cheer.”

  “I will not”

  They reverted to silence and sat beneath the pink-streaked sky, watching the sun melt in a glorious pyre behind the mountains. Soon it would give way to the solemn majesty of the stars.

  “If you choose melancholy” said the urisk, “then, the more fool you.”

  She said, “It is easy for you to say those words, ignorant immortal creature. You cannot know what it is to forever lose someone you love.”

  The wight, a being that was unable to lie, who had existed for many lives of men and accumulated more knowledge in those lifetimes than could ever be measured, said pityingly, “It is you, not I, who is ignorant. You fail to understand. Loss may be reversed. Even death is not the story’s end.”

  Weatherwitch

  Prologue

  In the darkness deep beneath the icy mountains of the north, something alive was delving, as it had been delving for years; digging through caverns and tunnels, scraping and scrabbling at small openings, making them large enough to push through so that it could continue on its journey. Its hands were torn from constant clawing at jagged rock. They had bled many times and half-healed, only to be wounded over and over. Repeatedly thwarted and aborted, the mending of the tissue had begun to go awry. The fingers, hard and blackened, now resembled talons.

  To make its progress easier, the thing that dug sometimes made use of the traffic-ways of mining wights and other dwellers in the cold deeps: subterranean roads, ramps, bridges and stairs both ancient and new, by which those small immortal creatures traveled through the hollows of the underground. Yet the wights themselves were shy of this burrower, and seldom allowed themselves to be glimpsed. Generally they tolerated no commerce with foreigners, and if an accidental encounter occurred they swiftly hurried on their way. They were busy enough with their own tasks. The rumor of their industry echoed through shadowy labyrinths of stone; hammerings, scrapings, hangings, the clatter of a bucket drawn up by a windlass, a babble of outlandish jabbering and jarring, shrill laughter. It would appear to any onlooker as if the eldritch wights were hard at work.

  With the hubbub of mining echoing behind and ahead, the burrower approached a cavern in which three knockers were assiduously occupied. Members of this species of mining wight were truly dedicated laborers. Gap-toothed and straggle-bearded, the dwarfish ore-getters customarily clad themselves in moleskin trousers held up by braces strapped over their shirts. Some wore red and white spotted kerchiefs tied akimbo on their heads, lending them a piratical air. Large feet were thrust into capacious boots. Their torsos were strong and nuggetty, their limbs as wiry as the roots that grasped the loam and stones far above their heads. Ragged fringes of hair bristled from beneath their conical caps; tousled, shaggy locks, roughly chopped as if shorn haphazardly with knives. Ceaseless was their toil, yet they did not labor under some ancient curse, nor did they need to earn a livelihood, for they were not subject to death. Mining was what they did; it was their eternal obsession, and they were as incapable of abstaining from it as ordinary human beings were incapable of living without sustenance.

  The knockers had the faces of hearty old diggers, and their shirtsleeves were rolled up to their elbows. One was hacking at a rock-face with his pickax, another was shoveling mineral fragments into a bucket, and a third was sharpening his tools. Before the black-handed burrower passed by, the wary trio had, not unexpectedly, disappeared.

  Sometimes, from dim underworld lakes and rivers, naked female forms of waiflike delicacy would arise; lovely, despite their unhumanness—the chins perhaps a little too narrow, the jawbones a fraction too delicate and piscean, the bone structure of the lower half of the face conceivably thrust a little too far forward, as if about to extend further and metamorphose into a muzzle . . . yet lovely, somehow; graceful as reeds, with long, swaying backs and plenteous, shining hair that draped, dripping, down over their marble-white shoulders and arms into the flood. Unspeaking in the gloom, these wild water-wights would stare at the passing burrower with large and luminous eyes before sinking down once more into their habitat.

  While the water-girls gazed and the knockers delved, many other kinds of wights lingered down there in the eternal darkness. The creatures known as “the Fridean” were so elusive as to be almost indescribable. A grinning leer from a crevice in the rocks, the sudden wink of a knowing eye deep in the shadows, a knobbly-fingered hand reaching around a stone—that was about all that could ever be seen of them, but it was said they snatched crumbs dropped by picnickers on the sunlit upper surface, and at times their eerie bagpipe music drifted up to the ears of the burrower from beneath the floors, or wafted in spine-chilling wails from far-off halls and cavities.

  Haunted were the northern mountains, and honeycombed with the workings and dwelling places of eldritch incarnations.

  Yet, amongst the activity of strange diminutive beings, the black-handed burrower moved differently. Here was an entity that worked almost as ceaselessly as the little tin-miners, but in solitude. Always alone, for it was not of their kind. It was much larger than the wights, and could not fit its frame through all their doorways and gates. Sometimes its progress was swift, but often it went slowly, meandering in three dimensions; upwards, downwards, sideways. No matter what obstacles it encountered, it never gave up. It was forever moving, except when it slept; yet its slumber was never long. It moved relentlessly, as if mechanical. It was, however, no engine of steel, but a man.

  More accurately, it had once been a man. . . .

  Comrades and Foes

  Do ye know Tom Steele with his cap dark green

  And his long-range bow and his blades honed keen?

  Soft through the leaves he goes creeping unseen,

  Hunting deer in the glades of an evening.

  —TRADITIONAL HUNTING SONG

  The world, a sphere of metal and rock scarfed in water, turned.

  Above the churning vapors of the troposphere, stars appeared to glide across the heavens from east to west; from High Darioneth, across the Snowy River to the western shores of Tir. There, in Grïmnørsland, a hunting lodge perched on a stark crag, looking out over the ocean. Surf pounded the cliffs and a blood-biting wind howled in from the sea, smacking of brine. Around this building the landscape ramped into t
he stormy distance; gaunt and wild, rugged, roaring with cataracts, roofed by racing clouds in full sail, battered by salt winds, lapped by mists. This was a realm of black rock, grey sky, and silver water, where dark green conifers, rank on rank, stalked up mountainsides to pierce steaming skies.

  The hunting lodge belonged to the King of Grïmnørsland, Thorgild Torkilsalven. From here, on the twenty-first of Mai, five princes set out: Halvdan and Gunnlaug, the second and third-born sons of Thorgild; Kieran and Ronin Ó Maoldúin, the eldest sons of Uabhar of Slievmordhu, and Walter Wyverstone, younger brother to Crown Prince William of Narngalis. Thorgild had invited the royal scions of his neighboring kingdoms to be his guests in Grïmnørsland, where they might participate in games and divertissements, celebrating the season and reconfirming the bonds of solidarity between the realms. The monarch himself remained with his queen, their eldest son Hrosskel and their daughter Solveig at Trøndelheim, attending to matters of state, while the rest diverted themselves with blood-sports.

  Low in the sky rode the evening sun, drifting on a band of persimmon cloud. The five princes, accompanied by their retainers, moved on foot through harsh terrain, clambering up the sides of dim vales and following narrow tracks through forests of spruce, pine, birch, and larch that soared out of shadow. The topmost tapered tips caught the last bright gleams of sunlight so that they glistened like miniature trees dusted with gold. Against the glimmer of sunset the black silhouettes of wind-gnarled branches wove elegant patterns. Falcons with outstretched wings hovered over sharp-toothed crags; Steinfjell, Isfjell and Galdh0piggen, Sterkfjell and Skagastolstindane; heights with towering, majestic names.

  “It is a fact,” Prince Gunnlaug Torkilsalven was instructing Walter of Narngalis, “that some archers conceal themselves in thickets to ambush whitetail deer, or crouch behind woven blinds near lakes and streams to waylay roe deer as they come down to drink. The second approach is never successful after rain. Game will not visit watering places when there are small puddles to drink from. Therefore, the truly versatile huntsman must perfect the art of stalking on foot.”

  Walter nodded brusquely, his lips compressed in a thin line. He found it insulting to be lectured on a topic he understood well, but was too courteous to protest.

  “Hounds would have been useful, of course,” continued Gunnlaug, “yet a man must learn to hunt without hounds, in case he ever finds himself alone in the wilderness.”

  Gunnlaug of Grïmnørsland was a brawny youth, somewhat shorter in stature than his elder brother Halvdan, who walked ahead. His features were coarse, his pockmarked skin reddened and roughened by much exposure to wind and sun. Like his sibling he was flaxen-haired and hazel-eyed. As he and the other huntsmen made their way in single file along a precipitous goat track he was sweating copiously, and to Walter’s joy, after some time he began to lag behind.

  “There’s a big-antlered beauty up there in Hoyfjell’s crags, thinking he’s too clever for me,” Gunnlaug called out, wheezing slightly. “But I shall nail him. He shall be no match for Gunnlaug Torkilsalven. I’ll put him down for good and get a fine trophy this evening.”

  “Make speed, Gunnlaug,” his brother Halvdan called back over his shoulder.

  “There is no need to scuttle forward like a frightened pig,” panted Gunnlaug. “We have plenty of time. The sun is yet a thumb’s breadth from the horizon.”

  “If you had not swallowed so much beer last night you might find it easier to keep up,” said Halvdan, but he said it in an undertone. His younger brother was easily provoked to wrath, and his inevitable outburst of rage would spoil the atmosphere of comradeship. Gunnlaug, perhaps guessing Halvdan’s thoughts, turned his head and spat upon the ground in a gesture that might have been either a cleansing of the palate or contempt. He flicked sweat-drenched strands of blond hair from his eyes.

  The huntsmen leapt from rock to rock and scrambled down scree slopes.

  “We have timed our excursion well,” said Conall Gearnach, mentor to the princes of Slievmordhu. “If we keep the sun behind us we can use the low light to our advantage. It will dazzle the eyes of our prey.” Gearnach, a doughty warrior who had weathered about forty Winters, was commander-in-chief of Slievmordhu’s crack corps, the Knights of the Brand. Having earned himself a formidable reputation as a fighting man, he had risen to the position of one of King Uabhar’s most highly respected knights. His nickname was “Two-Swords Gearnach,” for he was as well able to use his left hand as his right, and he had taught himself to wield two blades simultaneously, making him an opponent to be reckoned with.

  Although Conall Gearnach was liegeman to the King of Slievmordhu, and performed the duties of guide and counselor to his sons, he was well acquainted with the princes of Grïmnørsland also. King Uabhar’s eldest son Kieran had spent two years of his boyhood dwelling in the household of King Thorgild. The young prince had been under the auspices of Gearnach, who in those days held the second highest office of the Knights of the Brand: that of captain-general. During that period Kieran had formed a fast friendship with Halvdan, second son of Thorgild. By chance, the two had been born on the same day, and they were like-minded in a great many ways: both enjoyed shooting at targets, and wrestling, and balladeering, and fishing in the deep fjords of the west coast. Both were young men of fearless honesty, who loved duty and honor as much as they loved good fellowship. Kieran Ó Maoldúin, a youth of considerable height, possessed a mane of dark brown hair that flowed down upon powerful shoulders. In looks he took after his mother; his nose was straight and thin, and his oval countenance sharp-lined with the clean contours of late adolescence. Tall and blond was Halvdan Torkilsalven, with a muscular torso; a physical match for Kieran. When the two wrestled, the outcome could never be predicted.

  “Continue to keep watch for unseelie wights,” Gearnach reminded the equipment-laden retainers as the party crossed the vacillating suspension bridge over the gorge of the great river Fiskflød. Far below, the torrent was gushing rapidly; droplets sprayed up like fans of threaded sequins as the water smashed against rocks in midstream and swirled around snags, gurgling and rumbling. Clinging onto the hand-ropes to keep their balance, the huntsmen eventually reached the other side of the chasm. There, on the grassy flank of an outflung spur of Hoyfjell, grew the stands of ancient spruce trees for which they had set their course. For a few moments the party halted beneath the needlelike foliage and swigged a draught from their water-bottles. The bearers and equerries handed to three of the huntsmen their arrow-packed quivers and tautly strung hunting-bows. Princes Halvdan and Kieran had carried their own gear, as had Gearnach.

  Having outfitted themselves, the party moved quietly in amongst the rough-barked boles. They were wearing close-fitting garments dyed with greens and browns, to blend in with their surroundings. Soft-soled boots shod their feet, and they sought to avoid stepping on twigs or dry leaves, looking for mats of fallen spruce-needles, or short turf on which to walk. A steady breeze rustled the fragrant foliage, creating a continuous whisper of silvery sound against which the hunters’ slight noise of passage might pass unmarked. Branches dipped and swished as a couple of squirrels scampered by.

  As they neared the high clearings where wild deer grazed, the huntsmen continually monitored the direction of the air currents, that they might approach the animals from downwind. “The evening breeze generally blows downhill,” Conall Gearnach murmured to Prince Ronin of Slievmordhu, who clambered close behind him. “We are still climbing. All is well, so far.”

  Ronin—second in line to the throne of Slievmordhu—was of middle height, and, like his father, had a somewhat square face. His nose was wide, with flared nostrils, and jutted above a downy upper lip. “I wish I were not downwind of Gunnlaug,” he commented with a wry grimace. “He stinks of stale sweat and beer.”

  Gearnach chuckled quietly. As they climbed the spur, with the wind in their faces and the sun peering over their left shoulders, the knight hitched his baldric to a more secure position on his should
er. He put on an extra burst of speed and pulled ahead of the group. Instinct warned him it would be wise to scout in advance.

  His intuition proved well-founded. From the corner of his eye he spotted movements that seemed out of place, above them on the slope and to the left. Instantly he extended his hand in a prearranged signal. The gamekeepers and other attendants, always alert to Gearnach’s commands, took heed and relayed the message through the party: Possible danger ahead. Take cover.

  The huntsmen made themselves inconspicuous behind boles and fallen branches, and crouched, watching. If Gearnach had signalled “peril,” it was likely that unseelie wights lurked nearby.

  From the northwest, a line of stooping figures came loping swiftly and quietly through the woodland. They were moving across the spur, keeping to the south side, just below the crest of the ridge and parallel to it. It was an old huntsman’s trick, staying out of sight beneath a ridgetop to avoid being outlined against the horizon. Gearnach counted twenty of them.

  Yet, these were not wights.

  They were men: gigantic men, slow and strong as oxen; uglier than diseased toadstools. It was also said they were as stupid as cabbages, but never to their faces, for they were utterly without compassion. The recognition startled the watchers. It was not often that Marauders were spied at such great distances from the eastern ranges of Slievmordhu. The Grïmnørslanders amongst the party knew also that on the other side of the spur the land dropped quickly into a valley, where the village of Ødegaard nestled in a bend of the river, and it was toward that isolated hamlet that the Marauders were making. There was no doubt they intended to despoil the village; it was ever their way.

  “My heart yearns to pin those freaks with my sword,” muttered Gunnlaug. “This will prove a better day’s sport than I had hoped.”