—A SONG FROM HIGH DARIONETH
Meanwhile Asrthiel Maelstronnar, sojourning at the old mining town of Silverton, had been aiding King Warwick’s officers and officials with their inquiries into the macabre nocturnal slayings.
Silverton lay north of the Harrowgate Fells, on a lush flat in the valley of the river Sillerway. Forests of oak and laurel, holly and maple clothed the slopes of the vale, bordering on fields of flax—blue-flowered in Spring—and rolling sheep-meadows. Falcons and kestrels, with pinions outstretched, hung suspended over the grasslands, or glided on the cool currents. Sturdily built to withstand the bitter north wind, the cottages and smithies, and the moot-hall with its clock-tower, possessed windows that were few and small, walls made of logs chinked with moss. The slate roofs, patinaed with sage-green lichen, were sharply raked to slough snow. Since the heyday of the silver-mines, the village’s population had dwindled. Abandoned cottages had fallen into disrepair, their roof-slates salvaged to repair others, the lumber of their walls used for firewood. Numerous old chimneys, however, still remained standing, like a weird forest of brick trees, their disused fireplaces now merely rectangular hollows gaping on either side of their bases. Some were inhabited by the harmless wights called dunters, whom nobody ever glimpsed, and who inexplicably made repetitive churning noises in the chimneys at nights.
Behind the buildings the mountains towered, row on row stepping up against blusterous skies. Their peaks, unimaginably lofty like unmoored islands in the clouds, dwarfed the houses with their snow-mantled grandeur. About a mile from the village green, downwind of the prevailing breezes, loomed the hulk of the last operating silver-smelter, its black funnel a land-mark for miles around. No smokes and sparks now gushed from that honking vent; the furnace had been banked, and the fires smoldered low.
Few workers were left to attend to the coals. Most people feared to venture outdoors at all. These days they either stayed at home, with doors locked and windows barred, or they piled their belongings on wagons and left the village in a hurry, during daylight hours, heading south. The normally tranquil hamlet was besieged by the terror that stalked the hours of darkness.
The weathermage had heard the tales from frightened villagers, had viewed the bodies—packed in snow and ice in the cellar of a derelict granary until their funerals—of the victims. Their deaths had been extraordinarily swift and violent. Sickeningly, the executioners had possessed the skill of expert surgeons. Heads had been severed with machinelike precision, throats cut with mathematical accuracy, vital organs removed with clinical exactness and left neatly arranged about the corpses like appalling jewelry.
“Something unseelie did this,” the living continued to declare. “Something fell.”
Of themselves, the killers left no trace.
Locked in their homes and tormented by apprehension, the remaining villagers could not help speculating as to whether the attackers would ever grow strong enough to overcome the warding influence of the charms nailed above their doors and windows. If that happened, Silverton’s entire population would be doomed. The conjectures of the king’s captains and reeves took a further step; would the scourge, they wondered, spread wider? Already half-a-dozen isolated reports of similar atrocities in the region had come in from the sparsely inhabited mining centers of Silver End, Cold Ash and Trow Green.
Across this landscape, largely deserted by humankind except for bands of Narngalish soldiers on patrol, multitudes of furtive trows continued to pass during the evenings. Anyone brave enough to peer through a crack between the shutters might glimpse the ragged wights moving through the valley in the gloaming, like ghostly grey waves, making for the mountains—trowmen galumphing with an uneven stride, trow-wives in headscarves, with their swaddled babies on their backs, trow-boys and girls skipping awkwardly. Some halted in the vicinity of the village, but to the relief of the inhabitants they generally moved on, usually as quiet as the wind, but occasionally accompanied by the clinking of earrings and nose-rings and bracelets and all manner of silver ornaments. “The Grey Neighbors do not murder humankind,” the villagers reminded their own children, “but some-times they steal us away. Do not venture outside.”
“Where do they come from?” the children wanted to know.
“Who can say? Of yore they dwelled around here in large numbers, but when the mines were shut down they emigrated.”
“Why have they come back?”
“Who can say?”
Far south of Silverton the company of weathermasters, escorted by the twenty-four Shield Champions and the contingent of Uabhar’s household cavalry, spent the night at Keeling Muir. Early next morning they rose and saddled their horses, then traveled all day.
As they jogged along, Ryence Darglistel began to denounce King Uabhar to those of his kindred who rode near him. “O Maoldúin is a sly demon, for all his proclamations of openness and honesty,” he declared. “No doubt he deliberately placed Thorgild Torkilsalven in that embarrassing position.”
Baldulf. Ymberbaillé said, “Aye, we must call him to account for that when we reach the city. A curious gambit indeed. I cannot fathom it.”
“Ó Maoldúin is treacherous and slippery,” said Ryence. “’Tis a great shame that men such as he should have empery over others. No compunction exists within the cauldron of his skull. We’ve all heard tales of his ruthlessness. There is no fondness in him. Why, his madness for power even extends to his own family. He requires his wife to bear him progeny only that he might command their absolute obedience.”
“Hush!” exclaimed Galiene Maelstronnar, glancing back at Uabhar’s household cavalry.
“I will not hush. Many a time you yourself have heard that song he repeatedly makes his songsters parrot at the court of Slievmordhu!” Mimicking the affected pronunciation of Uabhar’s royal minstrels, Ryence warbled,
“Loyal 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.”
“The ditty gives me nausea,” he went on. “If it is sung during our sojourn at the palace this time, I’ll be sure to lose my temper and hurl some handy object at the singer.”
Galiene murmured, “Keep your voice down. Soldiers are eavesdropping.”
“Let them hear! Let them go running to Ó Maoldúin with tattletales if they wish to behave like obedient little sycophants. If they’ve any brains they’ll be agreeing with me, and not telling him. Besides, Ó Maoldúin is likely to behead the bearer of any tidings that don’t suit him.”
“I’d rather not go to the city,” said Galiene. “Let us turn back.”
“We cannot now turn back,” said Ryence, “for to do so would be a sign of cowardice. Recall, there is general agreement amongst us on this matter. We must exhibit no such weakness, or we will lose face and our kindred will become subject to general derision.”
“It is true we must continue,” Baldulf Ymberbaillé agreed grimly. “We have come too far to withdraw. To retreat would bring dishonor upon Ellenhall.”
At sunset they entered the gates of Cathair Rua. In the street they were met by a group of Uabhar’s stewards, who saluted them courteously and gave them greetings.
“My lords and ladies of Rowan Green, I bring unfortunate tidings,” said the head steward. “You must not proceed to the palace, but instead take the route to the Hall of the Knights. This night you must abide at the Red Lodge, because the palace is currently occupied by the vast entourage of King Chohrab II, and there is no room.”
The weathermasters were taken aback. “I am astonished,” Baldulf Ymberbaillé replied with severity. “We are accustomed to being housed at the palace when the king invites us to Cathair Rua.”
The steward evinced regretful obsequiousness. “I have been commanded to inform you that his majesty King Uabhar did not expect the weatherlords to arrive so early. When a messenger brought news that the wa
tchmen had spied a cavalcade approaching the city, his majesty was caught by surprise. Every chamber of the palace accommodates guests this night. However the Red Lodge is well-provisioned. His majesty grants that, as the Knights of the Brand are away from home, the weathermasters may have the lodge to themselves. Butlers and pages and servants of all varieties will attend you and make the lodge comfortable, my lords.” The steward stared at the Grïmnørsland cavalry. “How now, I see we are endowed with some unexpected guests. Welcome, Sir Isleif. Silken pavilions shall be raised close at hand, to house the Shield Champions.”
“That they shall not,” replied Sir Isleif. “I am charged with the care of the Councilors of Ellenhall and I will not abandon them. They and I will shelter beneath the same roof.”
“The weatherlords have no need of your protection,” protested the steward. “As his majesty’s guests they are under the protection of his vow of hospitality. Besides, the red fortress is a guarantee of security.”
“The Shield Champions will abide with us,” said Baldulf Ymberbaillé. “Where we take our rest, so shall they.”
The head steward’s mien became grim, and his gaze as hard as flint. “So be it,” he said presently, performing a gracious bow. “My sovereign will be offended by your want of trust in him, but it is not my place to argue with my betters.”
At the mention of the Red Lodge the weathermasters and their chivalrous escort had raised their heads and stared upwards. High atop the third hill of Cathair Rua perched the residence of the Knights of the Brand, its western walls painted magnolia-gold by the lingering rays of the sinking sun. Behind its angular roofs great clouds towered, like snow-covered glaciers cracked open by upwelling streams of liquid platinum.
“Tell us, fellow, where are Uabhar’s elite fighting men?” Sir Isleif enquired roughly. “Why is the Red Lodge untenanted?”
“They are engaged in training, away out in the countryside, my Lord, save for those few who have accompanied the Commander-in-Chief to Orielthir.”
“Are we truly to be conducted to an empty hostelry at journey’s end?” asked Ryence. “Is that the way Uabhar honors the weatherlords?”
“My king will come to you as soon as he is able to absent himself from his obligations to Ashqalêth. He offers deepest apologies. If it were possible he would have sent his sons to greet you instead of my humble self, but alas, the princes are all from home at the present. Cormac and Fergus were expected to return yesterday, in good time for the feast, but we have received word that they have been delayed.”
Then schooling his expression to neutrality, Sir Isleif shrugged and turned aside. Ryence scowled. For his part, Baldulf Ymberbaillé looked displeased, but squared his shoulders. “So be it,” he said to the head steward. “Escort us to the Red Lodge.”
As they followed Uabhar’s retainers up the steep streets, Galiene said to Ryence and Baldulf, “Even more, now, am I certain some treachery is afoot. No monarch of Tir would harm guests beneath his own roof, at his own table. But we have been sent to the hostelry of the Knights of the Brand, and no guest-protection awaits us there, I’ll warrant.”
Her companions could find no reply, but suspicion was marked clearly on their faces.
The Red Lodge appeared to grow vertically from the summit of the hill, its facades perforated by thin windows and capped by crenelations. Of massive oaken logs was it constructed, and the walls were double-thickness. Before entering, Ryence stood on the threshold and looked out across the city. To the west a jumble of roofs and streets sprawled across the two other hills. The lodge was built at the extreme eastern edge of Cathair Rua, and the city ramparts passed close under it, right at the foot of the incline. Eastwards, outside the walls of the metropolis, rose a fourth hill, lower, uninhabited and bracken-covered. Beyond it gentle, treeless slopes fell away into a shallow valley, now steeped in the deep gloom of evening.
As they entered the building Sir Isleif took careful note of the architecture. After his Shield Champions had explored the accommodations, the knight said to the weathermasters, “To allay any fears that might trouble you, let me tell you that this place is stoutly built and well fortified, and anyone who was besieged herein could easily defend himself. It is built of sturdy oak, dense-grained. Neither barb nor blade can penetrate. Furthermore, as you will have noted, the entrance door opens into corridors too narrow to allow more than one or two intruders at a time, and if that intruder should be armed, he shall have no leeway to swing his weapons.”
“Speaking of weapons,” said Ryence, “there is not one in this house, despite that it is a dwelling-place for soldiers. Not a spear or sword; not so much as a knife, except a few blunt blades in the kitchens, perhaps tools for slicing butter.”
“Strange,” murmured Galiene. “One would have expected a few old notched swords about the place; a mended spear or two, perhaps.”
“Now I too am growing suspicious,” said Baldulf Ymberbaillé. “I, for one, will not sleep tonight.”
They took their supper in the main hall. The walls were decorated with scarred battle-shields and stuffed stags’ heads whose glass eyes stared with blind horror into an eternity they would never know. Uabhar’s liveried servants waited on them; a staff of elderly butlers and aged footmen who, one might almost suppose, had been selected on the basis of their limited life expectancy. Galiene could summon no more than a meager appetite. King Thorgild’s knights stayed quiet and vigilant, but many of the weathermasters grumbled about the insults heaped upon them by the King of Slievmordhu. Ryence Darglistel was amongst the most vociferous. By the time the meal was over he had invented a parody of the king’s favorite song, which, without regard to proprieties, he began to sing.
“Even if it means forswearing other issues
Or denying what you selfishly desire,
You must never contravene your father’s wishes
A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.
Though you’re forced to be unfaithful to your sweetheart,
Or required to cast your kinsman in the fire
Be assured your reputation stays untarnished
A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire!”
Some of his companions laughed, but their laughter was uneasy.
Beyond the oaken walls of the Red Lodge the sun incinerated itself, burning the sky to embers and ashes.
That same night, near Silverton, Asrthiel was walking along a leafy lane in the broad valley of the river Sillerway. All her senses were a-tingle; beneath a clear sky that rinsed the meadows with the cool radiance of stars, she was looking for something wicked.
Wights, by their nature, must always tell the truth, but so far even they had not been able to explain the spate of unusual murders. King Warwick’s officials had encouraged the people of the region to discover and question seelie entities—household brownies, hobgoblins of the hearth, lake-maidens, buttery spirits, siofra, and so forth—but to no avail. By various ingenious methods some folk had managed to detain and interview a few of these incarnations but, even when the wights’ prevarications were unravelled, it appeared they genuinely had no notion of the agencies behind the killings . . . although one could never be entirely sure when supernatural beings were concerned.
Seelie wights had proved uninformative. Asrthiel, however, being invulnerable, could seek unseelie wights, on condition she remained wary, and as long as she avoided the most dangerous. If she were seized by a carnivorous waterhorse, for example, and carried away to some underwater lair, immunity to hurt and death would not save her. Only her ability to summon the forces of nature could extricate her from such a predicament.
It was notoriously difficult to locate creatures of eldritch at one’s own behest; they were secretive and elusive, intent on their own affairs. The unseelie kind were not only unwilling to aid humankind, they were actively hostile. Hoping to catch one by surprise and avoid being caught, the damsel, therefore, was moving as silently as possible, given that it was hard to see in the dark, and she must rely
on her brí senses for guidance.
Night was a perilous time for mortalkind to leave the safety of threshold and hearth. Over in a meadow to the left, weird strings of tiny lights appeared without warning, and Asrthiel saw a substantial feast laid out on the grass, attended by pint-sized revellers. When she stumbled on a stone, which rolled away under her foot with a clatter, the entire scene vanished. Surly, inquisitive, or baleful eyes peered at the weathermage from the tangle of shrubs and briars bordering the lane; sulphur-yellow, acid-green, and cyanide-blue; some slitted, like cats’ eyes, others round like the orbits of fishes. Her ears were assailed by bursts of monstrous laughter, screams, weeping, giggling, and snatches of wild music. As soon as she stopped and reached out her hand, or called softly to the hedge-denizens, the eyes would be snuffed out like lamps and silence would abruptly fall.
Though they refused to cooperate, the wights had no hesitation in assailing the human traveler. Hands reached out from amongst roots and grabbed at her ankles; she kicked them away. Grinning hobyahs swung down out of overhanging trees and pulled her hair; she slapped them, sometimes muttering rhymes to drive them off. The difficulty lay in keeping unwanted attentions at bay while simultaneously inviting discourse; an exasperating conundrum. As a matter of course she carried wight-warding effects on her person, in addition to a covered basket for the purpose of temporarily confining intractable wights if the occasion arose.
The weathermage was approaching a bridge spanning the river Sillerway when all of a sudden a thin, stunted fellow wearing yellow breeches, a green jacket, and a pointed red hat sprang into the lane. He loped ahead of her, jumping and frolicking in the direction of the water, wrhich could be heard gushing through the darkness beyond. Greatly surprised, Asrthiel hesitated, wondering whether she ought to press on or retreat, given that the entity was clearly a pixie and therefore likely to be intent on leading her astray. People who were pixy-led might wander lost for hours, even in familiar territory—often until dawn, when cock-crow put an end to the spell. Resolved to carry out her important mission, however, and having faith in her own abilities and talismans, the damsel decided to walk on. As an added precaution she whisked her cloak from her shoulders and re-donned it inside out, since reversal of one’s clothing was said to be an efficacious ward against being pixy-led.
Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 35
