Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  She departed swiftly, quietly closing the door after her.

  The library appeared to be empty. Only starlight glittered at the window, and a few motes of dust shifted on the floor, eddying in a draught that stole in under the door.

  Strategies

  Commoners are as worthy of life, joy and liberty

  As men who are kings by right of birth.

  Non-humans are as worthy of life, joy and liberty

  As creatures who are human by right of birth.

  —ASRTHIEL’S MOTTO

  Summer had at last truly arrived in the highlands, and crowds of bees were thriving in the blossoming nut orchards. In the House of Maelstronnar, Dristan’s wife, armed with a notebook, was seated at the kitchen table consulting with the cook, while the butler stood to attention close at hand. “Pea soup,” proclaimed Albiona, enumerating dishes for the evening meal and crossing them off her list with a crayon, “followed by boiled hare garnished with small vegetable marrows, bacon and beans. For dessert, black-currant pudding with custard. Of course Lady Asrthiel will not be having the meat, so ensure there is nut bread on the table, the butterless variety.”

  As her name was pronounced, Asrthiel, in search of viands, happened to wander through the kitchen on her way to the larder. Her cheeks were still flushed, she having spent the morning in the vigorous practice of swordplay, and her eyes shone a clear blue, like burning gas.

  The mistress of the house interrupted her task of annotation and looked up. “Asra!” she cried, “I am glad to see you. Pray, let me take a moment of your time.” The cook curtseyed to Asrthiel, while the butler politely tugged his forelock. Dristan’s wife, clearly troubled about some weighty issue and determined to speak her mind, bade the servants leave the room temporarily so that she might engage in private discussion with her niece.

  “Sit down with me at the table!” Albiona invited, and when Asrthiel had obliged, the mistress of the house commenced to explain the cause of her dissatisfaction. “How ever did that urisk get into this house?” she demanded.

  This question took Asrthiel unawares. “Urisk?”

  “The creature does not help around the place. In fact one might say it hinders, because it frightened Cook out of her wits when it appeared unexpectedly by the inglenook one evening, and she spoiled the dinner.”

  “ ‘Tis seelie. ‘Twill not hurt any of us.”

  “That’s as may be, but seelie domestic wights are supposed to help with household chores, and it does nothing of the kind.”

  “It does no harm, either.”

  “That is a matter for debate. But ’twill do harm if it disturbs our friendly brownie, he that scrubs the kitchen floor and sweeps the hearth every night, and sets the fires ready for the morning and works all through the sunless hours to make this house spick and span. If your urisk goes upsetting the brownie there’ll be trouble all around.”

  “Why do you call him my urisk, Albi? I have no governance over him, or any other eldritch wight.”

  “He is yours, is he not? He was associated with your mother, so I understood.”

  “Well then, in a manner of speaking I suppose he could be called mine. He was attached to the house of my maternal forebears. He’s a kind of heir-loom, one might say, like the fishmail shirt and the gem, and even the sword that hangs above the fireplace.”

  At the mention of Fallowblade, sparks snapped in the eyes of Albiona. Asrthiel immediately wished she had not referred to the sword. Albiona wanted it bequeathed to Arran’s brother Dristan, later to be passed on to their son Cavalon. Dristan, however, was content to lack inheritance of the sword. He was a good weathermage but far more interested in gardening than fighting, or even than weathermastery. As for young Cavalon he admired the golden blade, like everyone who set eyes on it, but he showed no inclination to wield it.

  “Should I spy the urisk,” Asrthiel said, with an awkward attempt to be conciliatory, “I shall remind him to be courteous to the brownie.” She added, determined to ensure that Albiona was aware of her competence, “As I have done already, in the past. For now, Aunt, I must distract you no longer from your tasks.”

  The damsel left the table and visited the adjacent larder, from which she subtracted a platter of raisin tarts and a flagon of elderflower wine before departing.

  She carried the refreshments to the dining hall, where, after sparing a keen glance for Fallowblade suspended in its usual position above the mantel, she set them on a table. The room was bright, the air perfumed with the scent of blossom. Outside, swallows were twittering. Through the open casements she could see, in the far distance, the snowy cones of cloud-wrapped mountains upholding the sky. The alpine wind, ever unquiet, keened and caroled as it swung upon the green boughs of the rowans, which were bedecked with their corymbs of white flowers. The damsel fetched two wooden goblets from the sideboard and filled them with clear, golden wine.

  Soon her grandfather entered the chamber. Old man and young woman seated themselves near the window, within arm’s reach of the sweetmeats. Fresh breezes eddied in, plucking at their hair and sleeves.

  “Dear me, it seems not so long since I first interviewed your mother in this very room,” the weathermaster said pensively. “At the time she was close to the same age you are now. I have a vivid memory of her standing over there, looking up at Fallowblade. She had requested an audience with me. It was then that she let me in on the secret of her invulnerability.”

  “Not so invulnerable after all,” said Asrthiel sadly.

  “Never lose hope, dear child,” said her grandfather. He took a draught of elderflower wine and replaced his drinking vessel on the table. “Now, let us to the matter at hand. It is to be your nineteenth birthday in a few weeks’ time, as no doubt is uppermost in your mind.”

  Gravely, the damsel inclined her head. They had met here to discuss her future, and she had expected preliminaries of this nature. She too sipped from her goblet.

  “It is unusual for a journeyman to become a weathermage before the age of twenty-one; however you are an unusual child, in many ways. You were not only born with the bri, you were born with your father’s other gift; that old age will not wither you, nor be the agent of your demise. As far as anyone can guess—for of course you are the first human being ever to be born immortal, and we cannot yet know—once you reach the full flowering of maturity the aging process will cease. And you have proved outstanding at your lessons. As you progressed from bri-child to prentice and thence to journeyman, you passed every test of ethics and skill with ease. Indisputably you are ready to face the ultimate test, to become a full-fledged weathermage and be awarded the final and most puissant secrets of weather-wielding.”

  Asrthiel fastened her eyes on her wine-cup. Her grandfather was merely confirming what she had already guessed.

  “You will wield enormous power, Asrthiel,” said the Storm Lord.

  So rarely did he call her by her name that it came as a surprise. She met and held his gaze.

  “And that you merit,” he said, nodding to emphasize the point. “That, you merit.”

  “Gramercie, sir.”

  “What will you do with it, hmm?”

  “I have not altered my intention. I should still like to diagnose the pur-pose of the universe, and learn the manner of its birth, and what we are made of, and how to banish wickedness.”

  Avalloc slapped his knee and uttered a short laugh. “And I still say, that is very right-minded of you!” he said. “But what of weather-working?”

  “That will always be my duty and my delight,” she said, flashing a brilliant and loving smile, “and I am looking forward to piloting my own flights, you may be sure—but Grandfather, you of all people know I would fain explore faraway places, particularly towards the north. When I am a mage, I would like to break with the tacit tradition of using Rowan Green as my base. Our people have ever been loath to leave the mountains—perhaps it is some unguessed quality of the brí that anchors us here, but for some reason, maybe becaus
e I am—” she hesitated, “different, I do not feel that same tug.”

  Avalloc said, “Granted, ‘tis possible your immortality is the wellspring of your desire to spread your wings; we have no way of knowing. You have for-ever been a restless one, like a bird in a cage.”

  “Restless forever, but not yearning to be away forever. Wherever I go in the Four Kingdoms, I will return often to spend time with you, and you must also call on me.”

  “Of course!”

  Asrthiel added wistfully, “And bring the rest of the family with you. Perhaps matters would be better between Albiona and myself if the two of us did not dwell beneath the same roof. She can never be easy about the inheritance of the sword, and my ideologies concerning rights for nonhumans, and the urisk nuisance….”

  “Perhaps you are right, dear child. Now, listen well. Bearing in mind your oft-declared desire to move northwards, I am about to make certain arrangements. If the proposal pleases you, then after you achieve the rank of weathermage you shall become High Darioneth’s new representative at King’s Winterbourne.”

  “The proposal pleases me indeed!” exclaimed Asrthiel, sitting bolt upright. “It is an excellent idea! King’s Winterbourne is the fairest and most commendable of cities.”

  “And since you would be residing there, you might as well take the official title of resident weathermaster, weathermage to the King.”

  “Resident weathermaster! There have been few who ever held such office in any city. The last was many decades ago, as I recall.”

  “You recall rightly, my dear. It has been as long as that since any mage could be coaxed to dwell away from Rowan Green.”

  “I love my home too, but I am not bound to it. I should very much like to take up this position.”

  “I had an inkling you would agree. Capital. We will notify the appropriate officials forthwith. The king will be overjoyed, and our own council will be glad to have a representative in the capital.”

  Asrthiel clasped her hands tightly, as if all her poise was contained between her palms and she must protect it from her exuberance, which threatened to break it asunder. “And while I dwell at King’s Winterbourne,” she began, “I might take advantage of the numerous private libraries—”

  She broke off as a small, nondescript figure shot into the room, sprang onto the table and jumped out the window. It vanished from sight, leaving only a thin shriek bleeding along the wind.

  “Great heavens!” said Avalloc, rising to his feet and peering over the sill in an effort to spy the escaper. “Was that not our brownie?”

  “It was,” said Asrthiel, equally astonished. She joined him at the window. They could find no sign of the wight on the lawns outside. “ ‘Tis most unusual for it to be abroad in daylight.”

  “I have never known it to act thus,” said Avalloc, stroking his beard musingly. “I wonder what’s amiss. What was that word it shouted?”

  “I am not certain,” replied the damsel. “It sounded like ’crowthistle,’ but why should the wight screech the name of a weed? I see no crowthistle growing in our lawns, to prickle its soles!”

  The sound of running feet drew their attention to the door, and presently Albiona burst in, her face pinched with anger. “Asrthiel, your urisk has been oppressing the brownie,” she cried without preamble. “Just now I opened the door to the still-room and there was our poor wight cringing in a corner. I asked what ailed it, but it gave a terrified yell, sprang past me, and fled away like a streak. When I turned around, there behind me stood the urisk, leaning against the doorframe, as nonchalant as you please. He startled me so much I was lost for words, but before I could find my tongue he had turned the corner and vanished from my sight. I am certain it was that useless creature who caused the brownie’s distress.”

  Asrthiel opened her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I am sorry for our faithful helper, but what can I do?” she asked. “I have no power over the urisk.”

  “It was you who let him enter in the first place, was it not?”

  “I suppose so, but I did not intend . . . it was not my fault. . . .”

  “You must do what you can to make amends. The wretched creature only ever speaks to you. Persuade him to let the brownie alone, or preferably, to leave this house.”

  I doubt whether anyone could persuade the urisk in any way whatsoever, Asrthiel thought to herself. Aloud she meekly said, “I will try.” Even though she had not intentionally invited the surly urisk to cross the Maelstronnar threshold, she felt culpable, and somehow responsible for his deeds. It irritated her, this attachment to the annoying wight; for it was attachment she felt, in spite of his troublesomeness; no doubt of it. “I shall endeavor to rectify the matter,” the damsel reaffirmed, in an attempt to placate her incensed aunt.

  “Thank you,” said Albiona stiffly. She bowed to Avalloc, adding. “Pray pardon me, sir, for interrupting your meeting.”

  The Storm Lord nodded. “You are pardoned, my dear,” he replied mildly. “As mistress of the house it is your duty to see to the servants, whether human or eldritch. It is understandable you are concerned for the welfare of our industrious sprite.” Albiona departed, leaving Asrthiel and Avalloc to resume their discussion.

  During the following days Asrthiel found herself caught up in her studies and in preparations for her birthday celebration and the conferral of weathermagehood. She was so often occupied with urgent business that the matter of the urisk and the brownie slipped her mind. From time to time Albiona would bring it up, and the damsel intended to act on the matter, but the urisk was being elusive; she seldom spied him, and when she did, he failed to remain in view for long, and would not speak to her.

  She could not help being troubled about Albiona’s blaming her for the brownie’s plight. It was bad enough that Asrthiel’s aunt failed to see eye to eye with her about the inheritance of Fallowblade, or her stance on equal rights for all animals, without another grievous fault being added to the catalogue. Furthermore she was indeed sorry for the poor bullied brownie, for she empathized with all things that lived; and she tried to think of some way to aid the wight.

  Pollen and petals from the last of the roses that bloomed around the cupola on the house of Maelstronnar were dislodged by the wind and blown away. The petals landed on Dristan’s neatly scythed, weed-free lawns. Three tiny jots of gold whirled through the eastern gate of High Darioneth and across the tops of the alpine forests, until they drifted over the junction of the byway and the highway: Blacksmith’s Corner. There, one minuscule mote alighted upon the helm of a passing knight, while the others floated on.

  The warrior was Conall Gearnach, commander-in-chief of Slievmordhu’s Knights of the Brand. He led a company of chivalry from the Red Lodge, King Uabhar’s fiercest and most loyal fighting men. They were traveling northwards, on their way to practice martial maneuvers amidst the harsh and frigid steeps on the marches of Narngalis. Most rode on horseback, their mounts champing on the steel bits that ruled them by way of their sensitive mouths. The emblem of the burning brand illustrated the scarlet tabards of the knights, and their uniforms were resplendent with crimson, vermilion, and madder. Yellow bronze damascened their helms of steel. Beneath their tabards they wore the breast and back plates of cuirasses. From their shoulders flowed carmine cloaks that covered both the rider and the haunches of the horse. War-chariots and supply-wagons were hauled by sweating draught-horses whose hides bore cross-hatchings of whiplash scars.

  After they had passed Blacksmith’s Corner, where the side road branched off to High Darioneth, they rounded a bend and encountered a group of horsemen coming from the other direction. No sudden panic overcame them; only a sharpening of wariness. The Knights of the Brand, heavily armed and honed in the skills of fighting, were fearless.

  In any case, those who approached appeared harmless; a band of men who, by their salt-white hair and beards, all looked old enough to be grand-sires. They were clad in civilian garb, and would doubtless move aside and give up the road to
the military cavalcade.

  As they came near, Gearnach hailed the civilians. “Ho, men of Narngalis!” He raised his hand in a signal to his troops. Both parties reined in their horses.

  “I am Conall Gearnach of the Red Lodge,” said the knight. “What news of Narngalis, good citizens?”

  “Conall Gearnach! Hail! Your fame precedes you, sir,” one of the travelers answered courteously. “The commander-in-chief of the Knights of the Brand is widely renowned. My name is Tsafrir. I was once Captain of the Guard to the Duke of Bucks Horn Oak, and I remain in service to his household. We are the duke’s liegemen.” The look in his eye clearly showed him to be honored that Two-Swords Gearnach would speak to a band of humble retainers.

  Recognizing a fellow soldier in this grizzled cavalier, Gearnach gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “Well met, Tsafrir.”

  “You ask for tidings, sir, but I must tell you there are few. Narngalis is a peaceful land.” As he said this, bold Tsafrir deliberately let his gaze wander over the shining steel of chariot and helm.

  “And shall remain so,” said Gearnach, noting the direction of the man’s gaze. “King Warwick grants us leave to practice the arts of battle amongst the steeps of Ironstone Pass, the better to accustom ourselves to harsh conditions. What news of Marauders along the road ahead?”

  “None, sir. We were not harassed.”

  “That is well. But look to your weapons and your watch if you intend to cross into Slievmordhu. Marauder raids have become frequent throughout our realm. King Uabhar sends out his troops in ever-increasing numbers, to keep the savages in check. Slievmordhu’s eastern borders are vigilantly patrolled. Despite these measures—” the knight’s voice roughened “—despite these measures they continue to wreak havoc. Three days ago we happened upon a small settlement under attack.” Beneath his helm, the eyes in the soldier’s weather-beaten face hardened like splinters of flint, and abruptly he fell silent. Clearly, what he had witnessed caused him distress.