Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  The show was less inspiring, too, for Uabhar’s eldest son Kieran, who had been sojourning in Orielthir with his brother Ronin. Fergus and Cormac had joined them on the way home, and all four princes arrived in the middle of the pageantry. They were hardly able to believe what they saw, for they had left Cathair Rua with no idea that war was imminent. Without pausing to refresh themselves or remove their riding gear, the young men went straight to their father on the battlements for explanation.

  On bended knee the princes kissed their father’s hand. Uabhar, as persuasive as ever, was ready with his carefully constructed web of lies, so often repeated that he was beginning to believe them himself. A domineering father, his lifelong manipulation of his children’s beliefs and feelings had had such a profound and disturbing effect on them that their mother, powerless in the face of Uabhar’s subtle eloquence, doubted in her anguished heart whether the princes would ever be able to penetrate the devious jungles of his influence sufficiently to recognise the abuse, let alone rebel against it. He soon convinced his sons that King Warwick of Narngalis intended to overrun Ashqalêth, claiming that Warwick’s enmity had been exposed when he sent the majority of the weather-masters to Cathair Rua where they wounded Chohrab’s servant, and then, heaping injury upon injury, burned down the Red Lodge with their lightnings. Uabhar concealed the fact that he had ordered the slaying of the weathermasters. His glib tongue could not yet find an excuse for such an atrocity—even for his sons, blind in the filial devotion he had cultivated with every stern look, critical remark, lecture, inconsistent reward and hard knock, beginning in their infancy. The king fabricated a story that he had promptly ordered the weathermasters to be seized and locked into one of the palace towers, where, according to him, they dwelled in comfort as befitted their station. ‘They are still dangerous,’ he added. ‘All visitors are forbidden, even you, my sons.’

  Prince Fergus swore obscenely. ‘They deserve to be flogged for their foul work!’ he cried. ‘They should be punished for the wrongs they have done to us!’

  ‘They hold the power of storms in their hands,’ said Uabhar with a philosophical shrug. ‘Keeping them bound and gagged is punishment enough, is it not? Without speech or movement there are unable to work their magicks. But we have wasted enough breath on the puddle-makers. Our main objective now is to attack Narngalis and teach Wyverstone a lesson, before he and Torkilsalven execute their scheme to invade Ashqalêth.’

  ‘Torkilsalven?’ Prince Kieran said quickly. ‘Is Thorgild part of this scheme?’

  ‘If not already, then likely soon,’ his father replied impatiently. ‘He and Wyverstone have ever been in cahoots.’

  The crown prince felt sickened that his country was likely to come into conflict with Narngalis’s ally Grïmnørsland, the homeland of his bride-to-be, Solveig, and his best friend Prince Halvdan. He kept his feelings of disgust to himself, however, because he was a dutiful son above all, and would not gainsay his father, even in such extreme circumstances.

  Prince Ronin said quietly, ‘Alas that Tir’s peace should be broken.’

  ‘We must fight for justice!’ shouted Prince Cormac. ‘Justice and freedom!’

  ‘Come,’ barked their father. ‘To the armoury! This is no time for chatter. Let us prepare ourselves to do our duty.’

  Away they hastened.

  The southern armies were marching to cause havoc in Narngalis, but already the northern realm was suffering mayhem of another kind.

  Since early in the year, villages in the region of Silverton, in the shadow of the mountains, had been subject to a spate of grisly episodes. People who ventured out of doors after dark suffered a ghastly fate; in the morning their corpses were found, butchered with surgical exactness. There were no survivors, no thefts. Neither was any quarter given—young or old, male or female, crippled or hale, the victims were slain without discrimination. No one had yet caught a glimpse of the perpetrators, but through that region strange mists had begun arising from the ground between sunset and sunrise and, taking into account all evidence, general opinion held that unseelie wights of some uncommon and truly horrifying kind were at work.

  At evening on a Salt’s Day early in Mai, Asrăthiel returned home to the Narngalish royal city of King’s Winterbourne from Silverton, where she and William of Narngalis had been helping the king’s reeves and bailiffs and constables in their endeavours to uncover clues about the mysterious night attacks. Her sky-balloon Lightfast coasted along beneath clouds underlit by the pink glow of sunset. She leaned out over the edge of the wicker basket. Far below, gold and ruby tones highlighted the deepening hues of the landscape. Weather conditions were excellent, the surface winds light, visibility good and the air stable. For a while the excitement of flight, the exhilaration of being at one with the extreme power of the elements, overcame the worries of her daily life. It was a thrill that never dulled.

  The aircraft gently dropped several feet, and a lower altitude current began to push it around to the east, off course. Weathermasters strove to employ natural energies whenever possible, instead of summoning elements that would disrupt the atmosphere’s complicated balance. Asrăthiel allowed heat to escape from the great sun-crystal trussed in its cradle, thereby warming the air inside the envelope and lowering its density. Slowly the aerostat responded to fundamental forces, rising as air pressure and gravity combined to create buoyancy. The pilot let her aircraft ascend to the altitude of a southerly current she had sensed above, and ride with the world’s wind. It was blowing faster, too.

  The balloon, a quicksilver teardrop, glided in the river of the sky.

  Tilting back her head so that her rain hood fell back across her shoulders, the weathermage looked up past the suspended cradle and the skirt of the envelope into the domed interior. It resembled a huge, symmetrical flower, glimmery white. The long gores, extending from the base of the envelope to the crown, served as the petals, striped by the seams of the panels and the shadow of a trailing line, the parachute valve cord. Beyond the flower she could espy floating mid-level layers of rosy altocumulus clouds, flattened globular masses in wavy rows, their base hovering at about twelve thousand feet. This was what people called a ‘buttermilk sky’, though currently it was tinged the delicate colour of orchids. Withdrawing her weathersenses for a single instant, Asrăthiel abandoned herself to exhilaration. Time seemed suspended as the world drifted past tranquilly below. The joy of lighter-than-air flight never tarnished. ‘When once you have tasted flight,’ she quoted aloud, ‘you will forever walk with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.’

  But how much sweeter it would be, she thought fleetingly, to actually swoop and soar with true freedom, on the wings of birds . . .

  The wide green lawns of her home, The Laurels, hove into view beneath the gondola of woven willow. Down there, the miniature figures of the ground crew could be spied waiting; they had been keeping watch for the aerostat ever since the semaphores notified them of their mistress’s imminent arrival. A small knot of other observers waited also; Asrăthiel’s landlady Mrs Draycott Parslow and her household never seemed to tire of the spectacle of balloon launches and landings.

  Asrăthiel worked the cord to let air escape from the parachute valve atop the envelope, thereby decreasing the inner air temperature. As the balloon commenced to sink she manoeuvred deftly, using the brí to call tiny puffs of wind that aligned the aircraft with the landing site. The landing was a little rougher than usual—as she neared the ground her mind kept straying to other matters—but as an experienced pilot she allowed the wicker gondola to bump along the grass a short distance, minimising the impact, and gradually coming to a halt. The ground crew held down the basket as soon as it had stopped, and ensured it was properly anchored. With the swiftness born of much practice they spread out a tarpaulin to protect the aircraft from dirt and damage. Asrăthiel opened the parachute valve to its fullest extent, then gracefully vaulted out of the basket. Warm gases fl
ed out from the apex of the envelope into the atmosphere, whereupon the crew seized hold of a cord fastened to the top of the balloon and hauled the envelope over onto the tarpaulin. Expertly they began to squeeze out the remaining air. They would flatten out the flower of silk-light linen before cramming it into the storage bag.

  After leaving the aircraft the damsel greeted her landlady and household staff with fondness. They followed as she made her way indoors, tugging off her rain hood as she walked, and shaking out her long black tresses. Her companions were accustomed to her striking looks, but a stranger would have marvelled. So blue were her eyes, and so translucent her skin, that her lids seemed brushed with powdered sky, like the two wings of a bluebird.

  Bemusement clouded those remarkable eyes. No explanation for the spate of outlandish butchery at Silverton had been found. The outbreak had spread to the surrounding countryside as far south as the Harrowgate Fells and the outskirts of Paper Mill, then inexplicably ceased. From time to time a few nebulae of preternatural mists had continued to emerge, here and there, still as unaccountable as ever. King Warwick’s wardens remained vigilant, but for now it seemed there was nothing more that Asrăthiel, official weathermage to King’s Winterbourne, could do; she reverted, instead, to her customary duties.

  After dinner the weathermage retired somewhat discontentedly to her favourite haven, the upstairs parlour, where low-burning embers in the grate warmed the room against the cool airs of late Spring. She did not suffer from the cold—indeed she was wearing a light gown of ruched linen—however, the housemaid who tended the fireplaces was ignorant of her invulnerability, or incapable of comprehending it, or a slave to habit. Instead of opening a book Asrăthiel reclined upon a buttoned divan, resting the back of her head on an embroidered cushion and staring pensively at the ceiling, where reflected firelight played amidst the mouldings of beaten copper.

  For a long while all was quiet save for the low murmur of flames. Then, an interruption.

  ‘That prince, so lordly,’ sneered the voice of Asrăthiel’s occasional visitor, the urisk. ‘You would make a good queen for him. No doubt you dream of him this instant, believing you are in love with him.’

  It was remarkable how silently the wight could move, despite his horny hooves. Asrăthiel was by now accustomed to his unheralded appearances and inflammatory statements. Rather than growing indignant at his baiting she replied with studied offhandedness, ‘No doubt.’

  The little ragged wight, resembling a man from the waist upwards, but with goatlike legs, was seated cross-legged, precariously, atop a cabinet of mahogany that stood against a wall. Regarding her with a cynical air he said, ‘I daresay you are consumed by what you believe to be true love. Humankind like best to deceive themselves, and the substances that flow through their brains collude with them in this pastime.’

  ‘Of course our brains conspire,’ Asrăthiel retorted, fully rousing herself from her reverie to engage in the usual verbal sparring. She levered herself to sit upright. ‘Their primary purpose is to ensure we continue to survive and procreate. All the rest of the brain’s contrivances, such as the capacity to enjoy art and music, to fall in love, to philosophise, are born from that single supreme purpose. The bonding of a man and a woman is a tactic that helps guarantee the continuation of our kind. Romantic love arises from the success of that strategy. Do not think I am ignorant.’

  ‘I am overjoyed to learn you harbour no delusions,’ said the wight.

  The damsel allowed the corners of her mouth to twitch in the beginnings of a smile, pleased to have disarmed her opponent, though she guessed it would be only a temporary victory. ‘The truth is obvious, nevertheless love is no less enjoyable for knowing its basis.’

  ‘Would it be less enjoyable were you to be aware of the exact operations of the gelatinous walnut housed within human skulls?’

  She rejoined, ‘Were I to reply “yes” or “no”, would that dissuade you from explanation?’

  The creature ignored the question. ‘There is much that eldritch beings understand about your kind, of which you yourselves are oblivious. The sense of elation accompanying so-called love in its infancy is caused by a mixture of dopamine and phenylethylamine swilling about in the cranium.’

  ‘Your terms are unfamiliar to me,’ Asrăthiel retorted. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  Her visitor barely paused. ‘In new lovers the state of irresistible passion lasts for about two years; the lifespan of neurotrophins in the human system. As lust wanes, the formation of close relationships evolves because of the effect on the brain of oxytocin, which yields a temperate, drifting, affectionate state. Oxytocin is related to opiate-like substances in the brain, which is why the mechanisms of “love” resemble addiction. Humankind never has a good grasp of the truth at the best of times, but people in the thrall of this maelstrom of chemicals are uncommonly dissociated from reality.’

  ‘It would appear,’ said Asrăthiel, ‘you are proposing that romantic love is a type of insanity stimulated by alchemies within the brain.’

  ‘For humankind, that’s all it is. Such an absurd foundation for the organisation of societies.’

  ‘It has served us well enough.’

  ‘Has it indeed? Think again.’

  ‘You are forever cynical.’

  ‘Merely realistic.’

  ‘Pray, leave us some few of the illusions we hold dear!’ the damsel said wryly, smiling.

  ‘Recall, next time you behold your prince,’ said the urisk, ‘that what you call “passions” are not lofty sentiments at all, but chemical survival systems embedded in the very flesh, which have arisen in order to make your kind avoid peril, and desire that which may be of advantage.’

  It appeared to Asrăthiel that the wight believed she had formed a close attachment to William. Furthermore, he seemed scornful of such a relationship, possibly even resentful. Well, let the creature stew. It was his own fault if the idea bothered him—a comeuppance for being so presumptuous as to pry into her personal affairs. Where she chose to bestow her affections was none of his business. It was true that as time passed she had come to regard William with increasing partiality. She could not help but be aware of the depth and constancy of the prince’s fondness for her. It would melt even the hardest heart to be steadfastly loved and held in high regard by anyone, let alone a young man so estimable. Always, she had loved the prince as she would love a brother, but of late she found herself beginning to consider him more as an especially cherished friend. It saddened her that she could not summon stronger sentiments for him, for she felt that he deserved to be loved as ardently as he loved. If it were possible for her to give her heart to any man, she told herself, it would be William.

  All at once the wight’s harping about the good-natured prince seemed petulant and unbearably tiresome. ‘You can be cruel,’ Asrăthiel chided, dropping her façade of light-hearted indifference.

  Uncharacteristically, the wight seemed to repent. He looked away. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is true.’

  After an uncomfortable silence the weathermage said, ‘If you would care to know what I was truly thinking of before you showed yourself, I was musing about something that occurred several days ago.’

  ‘What might that be?’

  ‘There was a most curious stirring in the atmosphere, the like of which is rarely manifested. So strong it was, so antagonistic to natural law . . . ’twas evident that there had been some powerful wielding of the brí, somewhere in the southern regions. Weathermasters were at work in no small way. Yet no messenger brought tidings of anything untoward. It will be long ere the patterns return to normal, yet I have no notion of what caused the disturbance. My grandfather would have sent word, were it of consequence, yet I have heard no ill news from him. It is strange. I feel uneasy.’

  ‘You, with your faculties that grasp the nature of the elements!’ said the urisk. ‘There is much you comprehend that is beyond the reach of commonkind.’ Glancing at the pyre of rubies
in the hearth as if he saw through them to some remote, incomprehensible place or state of being, he added softly, ‘Much, too, that you have no inkling of.’

  ‘Of course there is,’ Asrăthiel said, experiencing a sudden rush of fondness for her intermittent and tetchy but intriguingly unpredictable companion. ‘However, you have taught me things I could never have learned from books or human scholars.’

  During their conversations of the past season, the urisk had told her truths about the world that she had never known, had answered questions she had never dreamed of asking, despite the fact that at Rowan Green she had been well tutored in the lore accumulated by humankind over the centuries.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as stories about the outer rim of the heavens.’ The wight had often spoken of the stars; it seemed he was as attuned to astronomy as brí-wielders were cognisant of weather; linked to the stars by something more than mere observation and study, as if he were, in some way, related by blood to celestial phenomena. ‘You sense the slowing of the world’s spin,’ said Asrăthiel, ‘caused by the drag of the tides. You tell of the five hundred and thirty-two year lunar-solar cycle, the exact orbit of the moon, the existence of black holes in the sky beyond the sky, the births and deaths of stars, the equations governing time; incredibly, you even measure the speed of light.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the eldritch savant, ‘and well might I speak of the stars. For we are all fashioned from star-dust.’

  All fashioned from star-dust. It was an extraordinary assertion, one that he had made before, but which Asrăthiel held like treasure in the storehouse of her mind. She considered the concept strangely comforting; it was as if she too were related by blood to the entire universe. It occurred to her, then, that she had not yet tapped the wight’s store of knowledge for answers to a more recent mystery. ‘Wight, do you know aught of the unseelie killings in the north?’ Before she had finished speaking, a lurid glare abruptly licked up the opposite wall. The leaded panes of the windows flared to a bloody radiance. ‘What’s astir?’ Asrăthiel sprang up, ran to the casements and peered out. Through the windows she perceived a small sun rising on the distant heights. ‘The watchmen have kindled the beacon fires! What can it mean?’