Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “Yet,” said Galiene, who was idly throwing a small apple from hand to hand, “he is a fiery-tempered fellow, for all that, and subject to bursts of insane wrath. I have heard it said there is some switch in his brain that can transform him suddenly from chivalrous knight to madman, when triggered by some event that angers him. At such moments he is capable of doing deeds he later regrets so profoundly that he goes to the Sanctorum and makes liberal offerings, begging the Fates for forgiveness, heaping coals of mortification upon his own head. Have you heard what happened to a horse he owned?”

  “Pray tell,” said Dristan, setting down his wine cup and wiping his mouth on a serviette.

  “He used to have a couple of fine racing-steeds. One was undoubtedly the best in the Four Kingdoms, while the other was nearly as good. He entered them both in the Slievmordhu Cup. Everyone was certain Gearnach’s best horse would triumph, and the knight himself wagered a great deal of money on the outcome. During the race, however, the second-best steed accidentally bumped against the best, costing it the win. After the race, as the riders were trotting off the track, Gearnach, in a fit of rage, seized the bridle of his second-best horse and slew it, in revenge for what the beast had done. He had lost money and credibility, and in that black hour he believed, irrationally, that the horse had betrayed him.”

  “That man will never be a friend of mine,” remarked Asrthiel. She pushed some cake around her platter with the tip of her knife.

  “Oh, he waxed repentant enough after the deed,” said her aunt, Galiene. “He was devastated, in fact, and mourned grievously for the horse, and censured himself for his rashness. He is his own harshest judge. His temper gets the better of him sometimes, which I daresay is useful for a soldier in battle; but I fear it might some day cause even greater misery.”

  “King Thorgild holds the Red Lodge’s Commander-in-Chief in the highest esteem,” said Dristan. “Last time he was in Grïmnørsland Gearnach saved the life of Prince Halvdan when their hunting party was embroiled in a melee with a band of Marauders. In gratitude, Thorgild swore an oath never to refuse Gearnach’s hospitality.”

  “It is a weighty matter for a king to make such a pledge to a warrior,” said Ryence. “I confess, I am greatly impressed to hear this.”

  “Weighty indeed!” agreed Galiene. “A supreme honor for a duke, let alone a knight.”

  “There exists a strong bond of friendship between Gearnach and the royal family of Grïmnørsland,” said Dristan. He mopped up some gravy with a crust of bread and began to chew on it.

  “I consider it a strange vow,” said Asrthiel. “Why is it deemed a sign of gratitude, to promise to sit at another man’s table and eat his meat?”

  “In the traditions of Grïmnørsland,” explained her uncle, “if a man swears never to refuse another’s hospitality it signifies he trusts him as a close friend. To refuse an invitation to dine with someone can be construed as a sign of mistrust or dislike.”

  “They maintain sundry such prohibitions in the western land,” said Galiene. “They are great ones for binding themselves with oaths.” After shaking crumbs from her fingers, she gestured to a waiting ewerer, indicating that he should refill her cup.

  A scuffle at a side door of the hall drew the attention of the merrymakers. From the vicinity of the High Table, Prince Kieran’s tones cut through the barrage of raised voices. “What is going on? Is someone trying to enter? Why is his way being barred?”

  The guests ceased their chatter, and instead turned to stare inquisitively at the side entrance. A man-at-arms in the uniform of Uabhar’s household guard stepped through the portal and bowed towards the Crown Prince. Into the hush he said, “Your Royal Highness, here is a beggar demanding provender from the High Table. He claims it by right of the ancient Slievmordhuan tradition that twelve paupers are entitled to victuals from the table at any royal handfasting.”

  Kieran frowned, hesitating. The assembly waited for his pronouncement.

  “Is that so?” Princess Solveig softly asked him. “Is that in fact a tradition in your realm?”

  “It is,” Kieran responded, “however, my father has expressly forbidden it. He put an end to the practice soon after his coronation, but it appears that some of the common people are still unaware of the change. Or else they deliberately flout it, but who could blame them?”

  “ ’Twould be feat to maintain such a generous custom,” Solveig said, while in the background Queen Saibh whispered into the ear of one of her courtiers, who shortly quit the hall. Lowering his voice so that his betrothed alone could hear him, Kieran said, “Fain would I uphold the old tradition, my love, for nobility is characterized by generosity. I will resurrect it when I accede to the throne, yet for now I must honor my father’s wishes.”

  Solveig favored her future husband with a look both reproachful and tender. “But it is our feast, not his!” she said, mildly piqued.

  Gently but resolutely the prince replied, “A worthy son must obey his father. Dearest, pray let us not quarrel!” He kissed her hand. Turning to his manservant he said, “Send the claimant away.” His order was presently followed by another scuffle at the side door, after which the disturbance subsided and the diners returned to their previous pleasant occupations.

  Meanwhile, King Uabhar and Duke Rahim returned to the high table from their impromptu conference. The king leaned back in his seat, beaming benevolently at his happy guests, while the duke ran his fingers through his beard, chewed his knuckles and stared dismally into his wine-cup. He seemed to shrink into himself, but most of the other guests were too preoccupied with revelry to take note.

  “Prince Halvdan makes merry tonight,” said Asrthiel, as the prince’s laughter rose above the renewed hum of conversation. “I deem he is one of the happiest of men. Not only is he delighted that his closest friend is to wed his sister, but it is rumored in King Warwick’s court that there will soon be an announcement; Halvdan himself is to be betrothed to one of Kieran’s fair cousins, a daughter of the queen’s sister. Thorgild is not the kind of man who would force his son into a loveless alliance.”

  “Kieran too is a dutiful son,” said her uncle Dristan, “and I daresay he would have married for the sake of politics rather than for love, if his father asked it of him.”

  “After which, no doubt, he would try to love his wife as best he could,” said Asrthiel.

  “Fortunately the young man is not in such an unenviable position,” said Albiona. “His affection for Solveig is obvious.”

  “And his brothers’ approval of the bride-to-be is also clear,” said Galiene. “Ronin, for one, is all gallantry towards her.”

  “Enough of this women’s talk about love!” grumbled Ryence Darglistel. “Who can trust all these alliances of power? Who knows what goes on behind the closed doors of palaces? I want to know why columns of soldiers are marching east from Ashqalêth. I want to know why Uabhar’s battalions are simulating military operations all over the countryside. I do not give tuppence for their official explanations—’gearing up to wage battle against Marauders in the Spring,’ indeed! Do they think we are still wet behind the ears? Some conspiracy is afoot.”

  “Recall whose roof shelters us, and be discreet,” warned Galiene.

  Ryence said abruptly, “As soon as we can be assured of some privacy I shall ask Thorgild what he knows of the situation.”

  A flurry of loud guffaws from the high table interrupted their conversation, and then a troupe of musicians and performers tumbled into the center of the hall to provide entertainment.

  “By the rains of Averil,” muttered Ryence, “I hope they will not sing that tedious ditty that the king seems to dote on.”

  “What song is that?” enquired Galiene.

  A musician strummed a chord and opened his mouth.

  “There is virtue in allegiance to one’s comrades,

  And love’s loyalty, all honest folk admire.

  But of all the deeds that prove him to be worthy,

  A man�
�s honor lies in duty to his sire. . . .”

  Ryence groaned, and stuffed bread in his ears.

  Towards the close of the feast, the Maelstronnars publicly handed over the Sylvan Comb to Uabhar as a surprise gift, along with a newly fashioned book containing a single leaf, on which was inscribed the Word that controlled the magical device. The book, whose silver-gilt covers were splendidly embossed, could be fastened shut with a lock and key of gold. To their astonishment, the presents were not received with the joy they had expected. On the contrary, the look on the face of the King of Slievmordhu was infused with as much choked-back sourness as his words of thanks dripped with syrup.

  “There is some grievous undercurrent here,” Dristan muttered, “some hidden intention. Uabhar is plainly displeased. I intend to get to the bottom of his games. My father has friends in this kingdom who might ferret out the truth.”

  A druid tertius of the Sanctorum, one of several who had been commissioned to make note of all that passed at the banquet, left his seat and immediately reported the king’s reaction to Primoris Asper Virosus, who was finishing his solitary repast in secluded apartments. The news evidently tickled the primoris. Had the snitching tertius possessed supernaturally acute powers of hearing he might have caught the words of his superior who, after the informant had left the stuffy dining room, could not resist muttering behind his yellowed paper-kite of a hand. He was heard only by the personal attendant waiting at his elbow, an illiterate but well-favored lad who lacked the power of speech and thus made a good repository for confidences that must never be revealed. In his declining years the primoris insulated himself so frequently from society that he had fallen into a habit of talking to himself.

  “I find it amusing that Ó Maoldúin considers the Dome of Strang to be his possession,” rasped the venerable druid. “He only decided this after the weathermasters showed interest in it. He never cared about the place before that.” He chortled—a sound resembling a dry pea stuck in a hen’s throat. “What a nasty surprise it was for him, when this Comb was found! He never guessed his henchmen had overlooked anything of value! Our honorable sovereign is intrigued by the object, and jealous, and has convinced himself it is rightfully his. Sprinkle nutmeg.” The dumb page obeyed with alacrity, while the druid, his lips elongating in the grimace that was his version of a grin, continued to savor evidence of Uabhar’s barely disguised rage. “It is a liability of confidence tricksters,” the sage gloated, “that in order to convince others they must first convince themselves. Ha ha! The king is discomfited by a snare of his own device!” He tossed a half-picked hare’s leg—bone on the floor. “More nightingales’ tongues, Lack-Tongue, and be quick about it.”

  After supper that evening, just outside a postern near the palace kitchens, a flaxen-haired man in the queen’s livery was distributing foodstuffs to a group of ragged men and women. Having received their bounty from the servant’s capacious basket, the recipients trudged off, toting bulging packages. The last of the beggars carefully tied a knot in his bundle and hoisted it onto his skinny shoulder with a “May the Fates reward you for your kindness, Fedlamid macDall, and your mistress also,” as he stepped away.

  “Good night, Cat Soup,” the manservant said with a smile, and he closed the small gate.

  Later that night, when most folk were abed, yet another secret meeting took place in the palace.

  In addition to a raft of courtiers, a team of body-servants, a legion of domestic staff and a host of other lackeys, King Uabhar employed certain assistants who did not officially exist. These included a conspiracy of spies, a den of counterspies, a gaggle of scandalmongers and a murder of assassins.

  Most of these men had evolved to become nameless, except for sobriquets given them by the king. One of these servants, “Gobetween,” a highborn member of the Slievmordhuan court who led a double life and was called Lord Genan of Áth Midbine in the other, regularly rendezvoused with his master after midnight, in the king’s private apartments where no one could eavesdrop. If any of the household guards noticed the masked, cloaked and hooded figure of Gobetween glide past, they swore, even to their mothers, even when in their cups, even in their dreams, that they had seen nothing.

  After receiving instructions—and sometimes, clinking purses—directly from the king, Gobetween would glide forth. An hour or so afterwards, still masked but now clad in the clothes of a peasant, he colluded with a second agent; “the Scandalmaster.” The Scandalmaster’s job was to relay the instructions—and sometimes a few of the purses—to the scandalmongers; a flock of assorted scoundrels, actors, tricksters, accomplished tattlers and desperate aristocrats with huge gambling debts, whom he always interviewed one by one, so that none might learn the identity of the rest.

  If Gobetween’s nights were spent gliding and masked, his days were spent unmasked but disguised as a commoner, for he frequented taverns and cockpits and marketplaces; he loitered about city gates and other public gathering places, listening and encouraging people to speak, generously buying drinks for strangers, asking discreet questions. In his nobleman’s persona he attended aristocratic parties and did his listening there; indeed, he could find very little time to sleep, but he enjoyed much wealth in his coffers, much prestige as the scrupulous Lord Genan of Áth Midbine, and much perverse satisfaction.

  When Gobetween’s enquiries had assured him that a particular propagator of lies had successfully inculcated his message in the desired quarter, he would direct the Scandalmaster to give a purse to the tattler. On past occasions some quarreling and resentment had bubbled up from the gossips when payment was withheld. But no longer; those who quibbled were soon found in gutters with their throats slashed, or were never seen again. After the Scandalmaster notified the others of the reason for the killings, they discovered in themselves a strong sense of diplomacy when dealing with him, and became earnest proponents of the virtues of cooperation.

  Thus in shadows and darkness Uabhar’s assistant Gobetween glided on his clandestine missions.

  On the morning after the betrothal party, Asrthiel and Ryence hastened to attend an audience with King Thorgild. The ruler of Grïmnørsland, accompanied by Crown Prince Hrosskel, heartily welcomed the son and granddaughter of his good friend Avalloc to his sumptuous lodgings in the west wing of Uabhar’s palace. Bright sunshine streamed through the windows of the drawing room, a lofty chamber overlooking the grounds; the light glanced off multitiered chandeliers, gilt picture-frames, polished mahogany furniture and tall mirrors. A portrait of Uabhar, twice the height of a man, loomed like some prying disciplinarian on the wall above the mantelshelf.

  Thorgild, with his broad face coarsened by salt winds, his bushy eyebrows, sea-waves of coppery hair and luxuriant beard, was like some manifestation that had arisen from the russet kelp-forests of the ocean; some chieftain of the mer-folk. His eldest son, Hrosskel, was the very image of him, matching him in height, but with close-trimmed beard and mustache, and golden streaks through his auburn locks, like his two brothers. Both were attired in costumes of rich fabrics dyed aquamarine, turquoise and the blue-green of verdigris. Embroidered peacock-feathers adorned the prince’s tunic, and the king’s splendid surcoat was stitched with the ancient emblem of Grïmnørsland—a square-sailed longboat.

  The weathermasters, less striking in their grey robes, cordially greeted father and son, after which all four seated themselves around a low table laden with refreshments. Thorgild dismissed his attendants. Following the initial exchange of pleasantries Ryence enquired what the Torkilsalvens thought about the Ashqalêthan military columns heading east, and the Slievmordhuan army’s sudden flurry of regimental reviews and training exercises.

  “The troops of Chohrab and Uabhar,” said Thorgild, deep-voiced, “are making ready to trounce the comswarms when they crawl out of their caves at the end of Winter. What else could they be at?”

  Ryence, though inclined to be rash where matters of the heart were concerned, was more circumspect about political affairs. Unwil
ling to cast aspersions without evidence, he merely shrugged. “I have never heard of governments going to such great lengths to repel bandits. Perhaps Uabhar and Chohrab have decided to wipe them out once and for all.”

  “I myself would have contributed troops to the cause, had it been requested, however I have been assured there is no need,” said the monarch.

  “Then you have set my mind at rest, sir.”

  Asrthiel said, “My lord, may I ask your advice on another matter?”

  Thorgild inclined his shaggy head, stately and dignified.

  “It is a fact,” said the damsel, “Ellenhall and Rowan Green are being vilified by rumor in this city.”

  “Truly?” The monarch was taken aback.

  Prince Hrosskel turned towards his father. “It is so, unfortunately,” he affirmed. “I myself have heard the whispers.”

  “I have never heard any ill spoken of the weathermasters,” said Thorgild, speculatively stroking his chin with a heavily beringed hand. “I believed Rowan Green had no enemies.”

  “We believed so too,” said Asrthiel, “but someone has kindled these rumors, and the fire continues to be stoked. Your Highness—” addressing Hrosskel “—d o you know aught about the source of this hearsay?”

  “Nothing at all, Lady Maelstronnar, but I will tell you this, in strictest confidence—I cannot be at ease about . . .” the prince hesitated, and then said with an expression of significance, “about our host.”

  “Hrosskel has never taken to Uabhar,” boomed Thorgild, less guarded.

  The prince glanced involuntarily at the portrait over the mantelpiece. “His behaviour is increasingly inexplicable,” he said.

  “You overstate. Uabhar is not a man I would have chosen for a friend,” said Thorgild. “He can be cruel, and I do not hold with his practices, but he is my neighbor, and a powerful one at that. I, too, sometimes feel uncertain about what he is at, for rumors are legion, yet I have no proof of any under-hand designs on his part, it is all unsubstantiated, all hearsay, and I know of no evidence that he wishes to denigrate Rowan Green or any reason why he should do so.”