“Excellent!” Uabhar beamed. “Solidarity is an ever more precious commodity nowadays. These are vexing times, what with squabbles amongst the druids, and the Marauders escalating their raids. We are forced to raise taxes and as a result some of our more shortsighted and ungrateful subjects wax restless, but what can I do? We must collect revenue to pay the mercenaries.”
“Perhaps you might arm the villagers themselves,” Queen Saibh ventured timidly.
Uabhar rounded on his wife. “What? Give them weapons and encourage them to start a rebellion next time they take it into their heads to dislike some tax or other? By the bones of Míchinniúint, woman!” The king laughed immoderately. Winking at his sons, he said to them, “ ‘Tis little wonder the Fates decree that women must stay by the hearth and eschew the council table. Why, these ladies, they would bring the kingdom to ruin!”
Saibh colored, and stared into her goblet. Of the rest of the family only the youngest, thoughtless Fergus, joined in the king’s laughter. Kieran smiled diffidently, avoiding his mother’s gaze, while Ronin and Cormac frowned.
“Mother,” Ronin murmured, “would you like me to help you to another slice of the fowl? I think it is your favourite.”
The queen declined his offer with a wave of her hand and a grateful smile for his kindness.
Tucking into his meal with gusto, the king forked a gobbet of flesh into his mouth. As he chewed he said loudly, “I suppose you have all heard the claims by the weathermasters that the site of the ruined Dome of Strang belongs to them?”
“That we have, sir,” said Kieran, spooning gravy over a capon. “The claims have been made public, in accordance with the law.”
“Yet my men of law would assert,” said Uabhar, still masticating, “that the site is the property of the Crown. When the sorcerer died, no trace could be found of his heir within seven days. Generally, such assets automatically became possessions of the state.”
Kieran replied, “If the Crown does not deny the claim and fails to assert its own right, then after ninety days the weathermasters’ claim will be validated. Ownership of the site will pass to the granddaughter of the Maelstronnar, she who is the scion of the sorcerer.”
“Hmm,” mumbled the king. He swallowed his mouthful and swigged a draught from his goblet. “Unless, of course, the late sorcerer could be proven to ever have plotted against the Crown. Perforce, one of the penalties for treason is forfeiture of all property, with no rights passing to the heirs.” After sprinkling a pinch of salt over his meat, he continued, “When first it came to light that the weathermasters were making these demands, Mac Brádaigh urged me to assert the Crown’s rights and dispute the claim. Yet I desisted. ‘Let the weathermasters have the land,’ I said. Mac Brádaigh believes I am overly magnanimous.”
“Verily, you are generous, Father,” said Fergus.
“Liberality is as much a part of my nature as candor.”
“But what value has the land, sir?” Ronin asked. “Every grain of soil has been sifted in the search for treasure.”
“As a matter of fact, it is fine country for grazing.”
“Yet the ruins cover a large area, and only weeds grow, and no laborers can be found who dare to remove the stones.”
“Still, it is prime land. But as Fergus asserts, I am generous. Let the weathermasters have it, and much good may it do them!” said the king, his cheeks swollen with food. He appeared to be remarkably convivial that evening.
After the family had concluded their repast and removed themselves into the adjoining parlor, Uabhar, whose particularly buoyant spirits continued unabated, called for a minstrel.
“Let us have melody,” he cried jovially. “I will hear one of my favourites. Strummer, play that jolly ditty my boys were taught in their nursery days. You know the one I mean—the song of filial loyalty. It has a tune fit to set one’s toes tapping.”
Bowing low, the musician let his fingers pluck the strings of his gittern. In his finely controlled tenor voice he sang:
“There is virtue in allegiance to one’s comrades,
And love’s loyalty, all honest folk admire.
But of all the deeds that show if he is worthy,
A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.
The obedience of sons decrees their value,
And throughout their lives it never must expire.
Those who strive against their patriarch are abject.
A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.
All good sons, show gratitude for your begetting—
Never question, quarrel, argue or inquire.
For your father’s word is law. You must defend it!
A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.”
Across the chamber the king’s mother, upon her couch, began clapping her hands raucously. Accustomed to her inappropriate outbursts, most of the family ignored the racket. Handmaidens twittered nervously around their mistress.
“Keep her quiet,” the king said over his shoulder.
Abruptly the dowager cackled, “Is that rain I hear? What will the weather will be like next War’s Day? What will it be like, eh? Will someone tell me that?”
“I told you to keep her quiet,” the king said in a louder voice.
Immediately, Queen Saibh rose to her feet and glided to where the old queen lay. “Be at peace, Majesty,” she said. “We shall find out the forecast for you. Tomorrow morning we shall receive a semaphore message from High Darioneth.”
“Semaphore? What is that?” quacked the black-clad queen, but already she had forgotten what she was asking. “Oh Luchóg, where is Luchóg? Will he not play for me?”
“Get her out,” said her son. “Allot my deaf lackeys to wait on her, those I keep to serve me when I am discussing state secrets. Ha ha, that way no one will be driven mad by her clacking!”
Saibh had no intention of sentencing the old woman to such a fate. “Come, Majesty, it is time for you to retire to your bedchamber,” she said, and she stood by the old woman murmuring soothing words as the maidservants helped her into her litter and four footmen carried her away.
Household Strife
The urisk is a useful wight
Who diligently works all night,
And has a meager appetite.
(He never eats more than a bite.)
With stubby horns and shaggy legs
He sweeps the floors, empties the dregs,
Then scrubs the dishes till they’re bright
And tidies everything in sight,
In shabby clothes, al l threads and rags,
His goat-hooves clicking on the flags.
Sometimes he’ll be the farmer’s friend—
He’ll plough the fields from end to end,
Then sow the seed and reap the corn—
He never stops from dusk till dawn!
A solitary wight, he’s fond
Of sitting, brooding, by a pond,
Yet, craving human company,
He does not mind the drudgery.
The urisk lends a helping hand;
A boon to housewives through the land.
—“THE URISK,” A CHILDREN’S RHYME
Every day, messages passed down the line of twenty-six semaphore stations between Cathair Rua and High Darioneth, giving the regional weather forecast for the following day. Similar arrangements benefited the economies of all four kingdoms of Tir. Farmers and graziers, in particular, relied upon the meteorological predictions to let them know when to sow or reap, when their stock would need shelter, or when to batten down in preparation for storms.
The sun was two fingers’ width above the horizon next morning when, atop the Royal Signal Tower of Cathair Rua, a blackbird that had been perched on the mast took fright and flew off. The two huge arms had begun to rotate. Signalers were hauling on long ropes, moving the booms into various positions that symbolized runes or phrases. The receivers, in their tower-eyrie, had just finished inscribing the information from a recent transmission into the
ir record books, having descried through their spyglasses a signal from the neighboring station. It was the incoming weather report for the following day: ATTENTION: CATHAIR RUA. WARM, SUNNY MORNING. NORTHERLY WIND INCREASING TO GALE FORCE AFTER NOON. COOLER GUSTY SOUTHWEST CHANGE TOWARDS EVENING. SHOWERS AND POSSIBLE THUNDERSTORMS. END. HIGH DARIONETH.
In response, the signalers communicated the following: ATTENTION: HIGH DARIONETH. MESSAGE RECEIVED. IF THUNDERSTORMS SEVERE DO NOT SEND WEATHERMAGE. END. CATHAIR RUA. It was a frequent response. Most often King Uabhar, who was mindful of keeping bullion plentiful in the royal coffers and begrudged admitting any need for help from Rowan Green, would refrain from requesting the services of the weathermasters.
The receivers watched through the round lenses of their telescopes as the neighboring station arced into action. It was passing the information back along the line. Beginning at Cathair Rua, from hilltop to hilltop the message was relayed twenty-six times; past the green and rolling meadows of Orielthir, through the Border Hills, across the valley of the Canterbury Water to the mountain ring. There the receivers at High Darioneth semaphore station took heed, writing it all down in their record books and forwarding a note to Ellenhall. Afterwards they settled back to their watching and waiting.
Amongst the high peaks and alpine valleys the day waxed and waned, and deepened into darkness.
The moon, an eaten-out globe of alabaster, shone down on the House of Maelstronnar as a soft cry issued from the nursery. Young Cavalon, the son of Dristan and Albiona, had woken in the night. Allowing the exhausted nurserymaid to sleep on, his mother shrugged on a dressing gown and tiptoed to his bedside. “Hush,” she whispered. “All is well.”
“But the dream frightened me. I will not be able to fall asleep again!”
“I shall fetch a cup of warm milk. Then you will sleep soundly.” Albiona picked up her lantern and made her way downstairs to the kitchen.
As she passed the door to the scullery, she caught a peculiar noise, and paused. As quietly as possible she dimmed the lantern and tiptoed close to the scullery door, which stood ajar. Peering through the crack, she saw the household brownie standing on a stool in front of two wooden tubs on the sinks, one full of suds and the other containing clear water. He held a brush in his wizened hand, and had obviously been scrubbing pots and pans.
Between the door and the brownie, with his back turned to the spy, stood a familiar goat-legged figure. Albiona compressed her lips in disapproval, but kept silent and listened.
“O despiteful tidings, ‘tis you, you wretched drudge,” the urisk was saying. “Making yourself useful, are you? Hurry along, there’s a good fellow. There’s plenty more to be done before sunup in this nook-shotten crib.”
As the listener bit her lips to prevent herself from blurting her indignation, the brownie nervously scrubbed harder at the pots.
“You have a pretty situation here, haven’t you?” the urisk continued pleasantly, “an agreeable family dwelling in a comfortable house, a delicious morsel of new-baked bread every evening and a stoup of fresh cream—what more could a fellow want by way of pampering?” Casually, the urisk began to stroll around the small room. His hoofs tapped on the flagstones as he peered at various objects, lifting lids, running his fingers along edges, examining small utensils. The brownie’s eyes slid sideways. He watched his persecutor but said nothing.
“And what other feats do you perform in this house, eh?” the urisk said suddenly. “How do you occupy yourself here when all the housework is finished? Do you curl up to sleep in the chimney, or do you prowl and spy? Do you go sneaking about the house in the dark when they cannot see you? Do you listen at the doors to hear their conversations?”
Albiona shifted uncomfortably.
“Do you spy upon them as they dine at table, or sit in the parlor? Do you observe every look, every innuendo, every silence, every act of courtesy that passes between them?”
“Nay sir, wit ye well that is not my way, I do ensure thee,” the brownie piped up stoutly. The mistress of the house, squinting from her vantage point, thought the sprite looked hurt. “No mischief would I perpetrate upon mine own household. All good chivalry do I maintain, sir, as has been my wont since the dawn of days.”
“Well, mind that you continue to be so noble of conduct, for if ever you do not—” The urisk never completed his warning, for his words were drowned out by the crash of a copper kettle slamming into the stone floor. “Alack! Lo, ‘tis all bent,” the urisk said sadly. “They shall probably blame you, my good fellow. You’d better mend it. Cry mercy! There goes another. How clumsy of me.”
A brass colander flew past the door and smashed into the wainscot. The brownie uttered a howl of fright, whereupon Albiona threw open the door and burst in, but already the urisk was nowhere to be found and the brownie, ever secretive, was scuttling away into some hidden niche.
Grimly, Albiona surveyed the damage and collected up the fallen kitchenware. Over the coals of the cooking-fire she heated a concoction of milk and cinnamon. She carried the beverage upstairs and gave it to her son, but although Cavalon was soon a-slumber, his mother was unable to follow suit, and lay awake, seething, until morning.
At breakfast the following day Asrthiel’s aunt confronted her with the story.
“He’s a spiteful knave,” Albiona complained vehemently. “Clearly he despises our dear brownie. Have you yet remonstrated with him?”
Assuming an air of calm self-possession to conceal her sense of guilt, the damsel replied, “Nay, the chance has not yet presented itself. Prithee be assured I shall do so at the earliest opportunity.”
“That is what you always say! If we are not careful, the vagabond will chase away our helper entirely!”
Asrthiel considered her aunt’s fears to be exaggerated, for surely eldritch wights were accustomed to playing mischievous tricks among themselves, not only upon humankind. She was angry with the urisk for bullying the brownie without mercy, and regretted the plight of the domestic helper, yet she believed the skirmish was unlikely to lead to any serious consequences. Nevertheless she tried her utmost, all day, to contact the urisk. In the court-yard she sought him, and in the library, the still-room and the scullery—in every place he had ever been known to appear. Softy she called to him, but there was no reply. By nightfall she had had no success, and went to bed feeling dissatisfied. She did not delude herself, however, with the notion that he had departed from the premises.
Next morning the household woke to discover that, for the first time in memory, not a single domestic task had been accomplished between sunset and sunrise. Straight away the mistress of the house flew into a panic, while Asrthiel stood by uncomfortably, not knowing what to do.
“The brownie’s gone! It’s fled!” Albiona wailed. “It’s been scared away! O ill-dispersing wind of misery!”
The disturbance could not have occurred at a worse time, for next month would bring Asrthiel’s birthday-party and magehood ceremony. Lord Avalloc had invited a vast number of guests, to whom Albiona’s household was to play host for a full week. King Thorgild and his sons would be amongst the visitors, and the princes of Narngalis also, and there was no doubt all royal personages would be accompanied by considerable retinues.
“This is disastrous!” cried Albiona.
“It cannot be such a calamity,” Dristan said comfortingly to his wife. “We have servants aplenty. Besides the butler and the cook, there are the house-maids, the grooms and the coachman.”
“Dearest,” said Albiona despairingly, “I suspect you have no concept of the amount of work it takes to run a household like ours on an ordinary day, let alone leading up to an important occasion. Our zealous brownie performed the work of many servants. It took on the duties of pantryman, laundry-maid, maid-of-all-work, still-room maid and scullery maid, as well as some tasks customarily assigned to a footman and a housemaid. We must find the darling sprite. We must get it back!”
“ ’Twill not be difficult to locate the wight,
” said Dristan, ever-encouraging. “It will be lurking close by, I am certain. After all, it has not been laid by a gift of clothing, so it remains, by the eldritch code, connected to our household.”
“It has vanished! Vanished!” lamented Albiona, refusing to be soothed.
“While we wait for its return we should all help with the domestic tasks,” said Dristan.
Asrthiel quickly agreed. “Most certainly,” she said, spotting an opportunity to redeem herself in her aunt’s opinion. “I, for one, am happy to do my share.”
Albiona recovered her composure and turned her attention to the task in hand. “If these premises are not to go to rack and ruin we shall all have to work hard,” she said sternly. “Today, Dristan, when you fly off to do your weatherworking near Orielthir, I shall send Corrie and Cavalon with you so that they will not be bothering me. Meanwhile, Asrthiel, prithee work all your wonders and try if you might bring back our beloved helper.”
Two days afterwards Avalloc Maelstronnar was seated at the desk in his study, writing a letter. As he dipped the quill in and out of the ink-pot he was oblivious of the strong high-altitude winds at their blustering, the rattle of glass panes in their leaded frames, the scratching of the nib on the paper and the usual creaking of the wall-paneling.
Brisk footsteps grew louder along the hall. The door was flung open without ceremony and Asrthiel stormed in, her beautiful face smudged with dirt, her apron stained and her long black hair tousled. Uttering an oath she collapsed into an armchair.
“Housework is dirty and tedious,” she declared. “I have had my fill of it. Fire and flood! I had no idea how much work the brownie did every night! Albiona has not yet hired a scullery maid or a chambermaid or any other form of maid because Dristan is convinced our helper will return. The servants are simply overwhelmed. Albiona and I have been forced to help dust the chimney-ornaments, take up the hearth-rugs and beat them clean, trim the lamps and sweep the stairs, wash greasy pots and scrub tables. Aside from that there is the mending of linen and lace and the removing of any spots, which is only the beginning of the saga of the laundry. The clothes then have to be washed, starched, dried, pressed and folded. Can you imagine how tiresome such tasks can be? It ought to be mandatory for everyone in the kingdom to wear the same garments for at least a month at a time.”
Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 17
