Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Within the palace two men sat at their ease around a table of polished mahog, any in a splendid chamber overlooking the grounds. Soaring stained-glass windows depicted one of the former kings of Slievmordhu kneeling at the feet of Ádh, Lord Luck, the Starred One, who rested his benevolent hand on the king’s bowed head. The star bound to the brow of the Fate was a glittering topaz set into the leadwork. Beyond these intricate panes, the city was laid out beneath the clear evening sky, a jumble of red rooves and towers.

  Magnificently furnished, the chamber was lightly cluttered with objects. Sideboards gleamed with polish, their shelves covered in small ornaments, candlesticks, tapers, candle-snuffers, wick-trimming scissors, writing equipment, jars of sweet-smelling dried petals and other bric-a-brac. The largest adornments were marble statues of the four Fates: comely Ádh with his winning smile; stalwart Míchinniúint, Lord Doom, hefting his twibill; the sly siren Mi-Ádh, Lady Misfortune, accompanied by her malicious feline companion; and the scowling crone Cinniuint, Lady Destiny wielding her spinning-wheel and shears, ready to snip the life-threads of men.

  Uabhar brusquely dismissed the attendants in red livery who had been serving wine and pastries. The majority backed out of the chamber, bowing effusively yet barely noted, leaving a solitary butler who stood to attention by a sideboard occupied by goblets and decanters. With hands clasped behind his back, he stared blankly at the wall-paneling as if seeing nothing, hearing nothing. His manner was impeccable.

  The king of Slievmordhu was gorgeously attired in habiliments lavishly trimmed with fur, and his dark brown hair was immaculately coiffed. He wore it in the fashion of his youth, combed off his face and tied at the back of the neck with a thin band of velvet. A jeweled cap topped his head.

  “My dear friend,” he was saying to his confabulator, “as you know, I am as famous for justice and impartiality as I am for open and honest dealings with my neighbors. If there is one species of man I cannot endure, it is a liar and a cheat. Like you, I am a straight-talker. In fact, you and I are so similar in this respect we might be brothers.”

  Uabhar’s demeanor was authoritative and self-assured, but as he spoke he avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. He picked at a loose thread on his raiment, apparently fascinated by it.

  “Yes indeed,” agreed the recipient of his wisdom. Chohrab Shechem II, King of Ashqalêth, was one year older than his interlocutor; however he had the air of being the more naive. His chin, sprouting a few straggling hairs, receded into a drooping throat that segued with his neck. Narrow and hunched were his shoulders; his cheeks and belly swollen with excess fat. Like his fellow ruler he was clothed in magnificent garments, but his chosen colors were the shades of a sunburnt land; brown and copper, contrasting with oranges and yellows.

  “And, as your brother, Chohrab,” continued Uabhar, peering at a blemish on the back of his own hand, “I wax wrathful, on your behalf, when my spies constantly inform me of Narngalis’s secret plans to annex your kingdom. I can scarcely sleep at night. How dare Warwick contemplate such an atrocity!”

  “How dare he indeed,” repeated the Ashqalêthan king. After a moment’s reflection he subjoined, “But though you are certain of his duplicity I have yet to be convinced of it.”

  “Alas, a good man is only too ready to believe the best of others. Like you, I could not credit it at first.” Uabhar gestured emphatically. “You, my friend, are a paragon amongst men. For fidelity and sincerity there is none as pure, unless it be myself.”

  “Yes.”

  “And, as so often, Warwick of Narngalis takes advantage of your openness, reviling you behind your back, accusing you of being weak, and easily led! Oh how my heart ached to hear of such vile and patently false accusations.”

  “What insolence, to make such claims! But surely your spies must have been mistaken. Perhaps he spoke in jest.”

  “I wish ‘twere so. My gravest fear is that Warwick tries to turn the tide of opinion against you, so that the machinery of his plans to overrun Ashqalêth may be oiled.”

  “May the Fates forbid it!” cried Chohrab, and he took a long swig from his goblet as if his life depended on the draught. His companion eyed this behavior with a certain curious satisfaction.

  “Warwick preys on the weak, and if anyone is weak it is Thorgild,” said Uabhar, leaning closer to his guest while simultaneously signaling for the butler to top up the contents of Chohrab’s cup.

  “Thorgild of Grïmnørsland?” After his swallow of wine, Chohrab seemed, for an instant, confused.

  “The very man. Lo! Here is an example of your sagacity, for you have instantly penetrated my meaning. Aye, Thorgild of Grïmnørsland, who plays games of his own, and who foolishly hearkens to the poisoned words of Narngalis.”

  “But I thought your own sons were firm in friendship with the sons of Thorgild!”

  “Thorgild has his own reasons, I doubt not, for endeavoring to cultivate the good favor of my sons,” said Uabhar, nodding sagaciously. “It begins to dawn on me that perhaps he too is a schemer. Fortunately you and I possess enough acuity to ultimately penetrate any stratagems he might concoct—but his wit is no match for the ingenuity of cunning Narngalis. Why, it is possible that Thorgild is this very moment being won over to the north-king’s side. Chances are they are making a pact of alliance even as we speak!”

  “By Axe and Bell, I hope it is not so!” Dismayed, Chohrab II stared at the ruler of Slievmordhu, his eyes round and vacuous.

  Uabhar sipped his own wine, which, unnoticed by Chohrab, had been poured from a different decanter. “Pray do not stint yourself,” he said, waving an expansive hand. His guest gulped another mouthful. “But tell me,” said Uabhar conversationally, as he set his goblet on the table, “for I value your advice—what can be done to defeat their reprehensible schemes?”

  “I know not. Maybe we could parley with them. . . .” Chohrab floundered. He seemed bewildered again. A drop of wine, red as blood, trickled from the corner of his pudgy mouth into his beard. Suddenly he put a bloated hand to his forehead and said thickly, “I am fatigued. I must retire at once.”

  Uabhar’s discomfit was obvious, though only for an instant. “But brother, the hour is yet early!”

  “No, no. I must lie down. Parvaneh waits for me. . . .” Unsteadily, Chohrab heaved himself to his feet. Perceiving his guest was not to be dissuaded, Uabhar sent for Chohrab’s attendants, for the King of Ashqalêth liked to be carried about in a litter, as befitted his status and his varicose veins. Courteously Uabhar bade goodnight to his guest and watched him closely as he departed.

  Next evening they were back in the same chamber attended by the same butler, this time accompanied at the table by two additional dignitaries. These supplements were listening intently to the conversation, but like the servant they seemed to be paying attention to the window, the walls, the statues; anything within view except Uabhar and Chohrab. One was the druid known as “The Tongue of the Fates,” Primoris Asper Virosus, Druid Imperius of Sanctorum in Tir. A short, slight figure, with a caved-in chest, pinched features and eyes like augers, he was clad in robes of pristine white armazine interwoven with gold thread. At the age of seventy-six he had lost all the hair on his head, but having lately revealed to the public that the all-powerful Lord Ádh of the Fates required druids to be tonsured, he did not seem as bald as before. His exposed skull housed faculties of artful subtlety. The fourth man at the table was both younger than the druid and larger in all dimensions, a military officer of supreme rank, the High Commander of the Slievmordhuan armed forces. His name was Risteárd Mac Brádaigh.

  The sociability between the kings was continuing from where it had left off the previous evening. Similarly, the drinking; Chohrab had declared himself very keen to taste more of his host’s astonishingly excellent liquor. He seemed extraordinarily thirsty.

  “Indeed the Starred One favors you, neighbor, with your obedient queen and beautiful daughters,” Uabhar was gushing. “I do hope they are comfortable in their apartment
s here. How favored I am, also, having fathered such loyal sons. When I think how stupid and hotheaded one’s own kin can be, I consider myself doubly fortunate!” he exclaimed with feeling. “Take, for ex-ample, my dear departed brothers—Gearóid the violent and impetuous, who was, after me, next in line for the throne, and Paid, the weaker of the two, but perhaps the more subtle. From their boyhood days, intense hatred existed between them. ‘Tis scarcely to be wondered at that during later life they met with tragedy.”

  “Páid poisoned your youngest brother, did he not?” Chohrab mumbled.

  “Aye, with tardigrade toxins. Gearóid, discovering the scheme too late, murdered Paid by stabbing him to the heart, before the poison took hold and brought about his own demise. A double tragedy. Ah, my poor mother.”

  “I daresay it was that sad event,” Chohrab said, making an attempt to appear solicitous, “which ultimately tipped the dowager queen over the brink.”

  “Oh yes, she’s completely insane, the old crow. Broods incessantly, as if each day is a funeral for the day before.” Uabhar sighed. “Nonetheless, one must cheerfully bear the burden of one’s relatives.” A short silence ensued, which he curtailed by saying, “But now to the urgent business of the danger Ashqalêth faces. Last night, Chohrab, you suggested negotiation, but alas, judging by the latest reports from my spies, Warwick and Thorgild are by now past all reasoning. I’ll answer for it that the schemers are hot for action, not words. ‘Tis feasible they are already building up their armies, setting events in train for the invasion of your fair realm. I ask again, what can be done to defeat their reprehensible plans? When one’s enemies take up arms to fight against one, what can one do?” He screwed up his face in an expression of puzzlement and chewed his fingernails.

  “We must build up the defenses of my country. . . .” The Ashqalêthan king’s declaration died away as his burst of impulse lapsed into irresolution. He stared perplexedly at his cup. “How I dislike being presented with these conundrums. It reminds me of the schoolroom. I always detested the schoolroom when I was a lad. Butler, fill my cup! Do you know, Uabhar, I always feel so much better after taking this drop of yours. I believe it has medicinal qualities. You must allow me to bear a quantity of it back to Jhallavad with me when I return home. Never in my life have I tasted such fine liquor. It is as if the cares of the world lift away from me with every sip. Perhaps there is some pharmacopeia in it, yes?”

  “Dear brother!” Uabhar said hastily, “I could not so much as think of adulterating good wine. Naturally it would make me the happiest of men to gift you with the best my cellars have to offer, but I hope you remain much longer beneath my roof, for your companionship is dear to me.”

  Chrohrab looked gratified.

  “You speak of building up Ashqalêth’s defenses,” Uabhar went on briskly, “but for how long would fortifications and suchlike keep Narngalis and Grïmnørsland at bay?” He stood up and began pacing the floor, apparently deep in thought. The silk linings of his embroidered robes rustled as he walked, and his boots scuffed the sweet rushes strewed upon the parquetry. The instant he left his seat, Mac Brádaigh rose also, and stood to attention beside his chair as befitted his station. The druid primoris might be permitted special dispensation due to his age, frailty, and authority, but the only others in the kingdom who were allowed to remain seated while Uabhar was standing were members of royal families.

  “Not long I suppose . . .” bleated Chohrab.

  “I understand your point,” Uabhar said. “You are saying defense is not enough, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “That your methods of repelling invasion must be more vigorous and effective than mere fortification, yes?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Of course, you are right, my brother. But by the Axe-Lord, what method can be more vigorous and effective than defense?” Uabhar halted in his tracks and scratched his head, evidently stymied.

  Risteárd Mac Brádaigh bowed deferentially. “My Liege, may I put in a word?” he petitioned his sovereign.

  “You have my permission.”

  “Many are the historical battles I have studied,” said the soldier, directing his carefully chosen words to Chohrab Shechem with the most respectful of demeanors. “I have long desired to make known to you, Majesty, how impressed I was to read of the military triumphs of your forefathers in Ashqalêth; in particular King Firouz IV who, upon learning his enemies were about to fall upon him, sent forth his armies to assault them before they could make the first move. An eminently successful tactic.”

  “Yes, yes,” Uabhar said dismissively. “You are well-intentioned, Mac Brádaigh, but this is hardly the time to be expounding upon your favorite reading material. The king has more important matters to ponder.”

  “But wait!” cried Chohrab, his watery eyes gleaming in his wide and doughy face. “I have a notion.”

  Uabhar seemed to freeze. He turned an inquiring eye upon his royal guest and nodded encouragingly. “Prithee, good neighbor, speak your mind.”

  “You ask what method can be more effective than defense,” Chohrab said excitedly, like a child who has discovered a long-lost toy. “I propose we should attack Narngalis before Warwick has the opportunity to invade Ashqalêth!”

  The expression on the visage of Uabhar was one of sheer astonishment. He thumped the table with his fist. “Ádh’s name, Chohrab, you are right!” he shouted. Throwing himself once more into his chair he planted his hands on the tabletop and pronounced with energy, “As ever, I bow to your superior judgment! It would indeed be in the best interests of your subjects to overthrow Narngalis and Grïmnørsland!”

  Looking delighted, the king of Ashqalêth gazed around at the approving smiles of his three companions. Then a thought seemed to strike through his pleasant reverie. “Overthrow Grïmnørsland?” he began; but his sentence was cut short by the enthusing of his host.

  “Chohrab, my brother in all save blood, your family and mine have been the closest of friends for years. My sons greatly admire your six lovely daughters and, I daresay, would make them all queens, if ‘twere possible. Many’s the gift Slievmordhu has been honored to be able to bestow upon Ashqalêth, simply to indicate our respect and admiration. We shall do all we can to aid your plan. Together, you and I shall vanquish the enemies of peace and justice! Now let us drink a toast to our alliance.” Uabhar picked up a handbell and swung it furiously, so that it clanged like a thunderstruck arsenal. Chohrab flinched at the cacophony. “More wine!” Uabhar roared.

  Two butlers and a ewerer hurried in bringing additional supplies of liquor, while the druid and the soldier—now seated again—congratulated Chohrab Shechem on his astute reasoning. The king of Ashqalêth found himself raising his goblet and drinking to the glory of a war he was beginning to be persuaded he had suggested.

  After many toasts had been performed and several inspirational speeches orated, most of the menials were banished once more, and the four conspirators resumed their conniving. They agreed amongst themselves that the need for absolute secrecy was paramount at this stage. Only the most trust-worthy and high-ranking members of their households and armed forces would be allowed to knowr the truth for fear that word would get back to Warwick of Narngalis and Thorgild of Grïmnørsland. Enormous advantage was to be gained in taking the enemy by surprise. Meanwhile, the armies and knights of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth, under the guise of stepping up their drill for the purpose of defense against a possible concerted attack by Marauders, would in truth be gearing for war. After that decision had been taken, Chorhab Shechem took to his suite, complaining of sudden overpowering fatigue.

  Alone in the council chamber the king, the druid and the soldier continued to converse in muted voices. “Chohrab seems most keen to go to war,” the Druid Imperius said, ostensibly without sarcasm. When he spoke his thin lips revealed wedge-shaped teeth the color of aged amber.

  “Ah yes. He does indeed,” said Uabhar, smirking. “And of course we are ever jubilant at being given th
e chance to aid a friend.”

  “What of Chohrab’s brother-in-law, Duke Rahim, he who has ever appeared distrustful of Slievmordhu? Has he yet been lulled?”

  “I believe so,” the king replied, absentmindedly cleaning his fingernails with an ivory toothpick. “Chohrab seems to know little about his own agents, but from all reports our operatives have been successful in feeding false information to Ashqalêth’s spies in Narngalis. After much effort, the canny duke is being duped at last. Our operatives have proved to be most diligent and steadfast—I daresay they remain mindful of the rewards promised for success, and the penalties to be dealt to their close kindred if they disappoint me. They are resourceful spies, those men you selected, Mac Brádaigh. ‘Tis pity they must be dispatched after their tasks are completed, but the risk of secrets slipping out must at all times be avoided.” The soldier responded to the compliment with a bow. “Gearnach’s Knights of the Brand are in fine fettle,” the king continued, by way of deflating the soldier’s conceit and infusing him with a dose of jealousy. “What of the warriors under your authority, eh Mac Brádaigh? Is Slievmordhu’s army equipped for action at short notice?”

  “Thanks be to the Fates, my Liege, our troops have never been feater or more ready for the field.” Smug in the knowledge that he himself had been priming Slievmordhu’s military host for several months, the High Commander ignored the reference to Gearnach, whom he considered to be one of his greatest rivals for the king’s favorable regard.

  Uabhar nodded approvingly, then turned to address the primoris. “Let us hope Ashqalêth’s military forces are as well prepared to prove themselves my allies as your operatives at the Jhallavad Sanctorum would have us believe, Virosus.”