Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  William had been knocked senseless by the blow to his head. In an act demanding astounding potency of body and will Zaravaz had picked up the prince’s burning form and hurled him out of the pit, but the effort, while he himself was alight, cost him all his strength. Debilitated and agonised he could not climb out, and so sank into the flames. Had the Narngalishmen not dragged him out, he would have been slowly consumed.

  As the men gazed, dumbfounded, at the eldritch being sprawled upon the cavern floor, Zwist, Zaillian and several other goblin knights rushed from their shielded positions. Heedless of their own anguish under the wickedness-scouring radiance of the werefire they seized their stricken king and bore him away.

  ‘My lord spent only a few moments in the flames,’ Zwist said to Asrăthiel. ‘It was not long enough to destroy him, but long enough to work him great harm. Now he lies here, comatose, and there is naught we can do. He clings to the last vestiges of life in this form, but with every passing instant the final traces of his vitality are ebbing. When you found us we were riding out to fetch you here, for we are desperately in need of aid. If there is any way to bring him back, we know it not. The remedy for such an affliction is beyond our knowledge, beyond the scope of our healing. Maybe the weathermasters know a cure.’ More softly, he added, ‘If ever you felt any love for him, Sioctíne, you must help him now.’

  Asrăthiel whispered, ‘Should I be unable to help him, what will happen?’

  ‘The Skagnyaile will have its way. If my lord has ever deliberately slain a helpless creature, he will perish for certain, and there will be no saving him.’

  The damsel stared at the comely warriors without seeing them. In other circumstances it would have been moving to see the Argenkindë, who had never bowed to fear, nor been moved by calls to virtue according to human codes of ethics, nor quailed at any deed, nor flinched at the prospect of brutality, now humbled by this stark reminder of the only scythe that could cut them down, whose edge had touched the one they loved best. ‘Well then, there is an end to it,’ she said, ‘for of course he has done so.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Zaillian. ‘To cut down someone helpless would be beneath his dignity. Our sovereign was too proud to slay a child or an unarmed opponent, or a man whose back was turned. He has only ever killed in combat—partly out of pride, and partly because he enjoyed the thrill of uncertainty. He delighted in the excitement of being matched against an adversary who could fight back. Nevertheless, I cannot be sure what will happen. Only the cursed werefire knows what his doom will be—ash or life. But even if by great fortune he lives, the fire will have changed him utterly. He cannot again be as we have known him.’

  ‘If his doom is to be withered to ashes, how long will it take?’

  ‘We can only surmise. He would surely be gone by the first moon of Averil.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’ Asrăthiel cried passionately. ‘Why did he risk himself?’

  ‘I daresay,’ Zwist replied calmly, ‘he took the chance because of your love for Wyverstone. Most of my comrades blame you for the downfall of our lord, but we who dared to enter the light to bring him back feel differently.’ He hesitated, then muttered with a tinge of regret, ‘I suspect the cursed flames have somewhat altered the degree of our ability to deal in death.’

  His words were wasted, for the damsel was hardly listening. As she knelt beside her fading lover, she thought her heart had been torn out by the roots. She possessed limited knowledge of the arts of healing, but no understanding at all of how to restore health to eldritch beings. There was nothing she could do.

  It was as if she had played out this drama before.

  Her gaze traced the soft, dark weeping of Zaravaz’s hair. He lay supine, impossibly beautiful, unmarred by scorch or flame, on a carven bier in the fairest of all halls of Sølvetårn, looking as if untouched by harm in any form.

  Just like Jewel.

  Asrăthiel’s mother slept the slumber of wakelessness, surrounded by roses. The goblin king slept the slumber of the dying, surrounded by silver and jewels, and grieving knights black-cloaked, with arms folded and heads bowed, rank on rank.

  The current of gramarye that usually played about Zaravaz, tweaking his hair and garments, was absent. He looked as vulnerable as a sleeping child. The damsel had never imagined she would see him this way, so defenceless, adrift on the mere of the deepest possible sleep, on a voyage bound for eternity. He had been imbued with vigour, the essence of liveliness and energy and quick spirits. Beholding him in the grip of lasting torpor made her feel as if all light and gaiety had been stolen from the universe.

  ‘And in millennia of millennia,’ she murmured, ‘when the sun has exploded and this world is naught but a ball of seared stone, what shall we be then? Shall we be changeless motes suspended forever in frozen darkness?’

  Those were Crowthistle’s words. They had branded themselves into Asrăthiel’s memory. At this instant, so distressed was she that she wished only for the last second of time to flicker out.

  The spirit of Zaravaz seemed to have drifted far away on some dim flood, out of reach, but Asrăthiel remained at his side, whispering to him. She caressed his brow and ran her fingertips through his calamitous hair, entreating him to turn back the boat in which his spirit voyaged, but he never moved, not so much as an eyelash.

  Once, she fancied she detected a long slow rhythm of breathing, which made her recall something else Zaravaz had told her. He had described how, as the urisk Crowthistle at her mother’s graveside, he had sensed the protracted heartbeat that proved Jewel survived. The recollection prompted Asrăthiel to put forth all her brí-senses and for a while she believed she could hear the faint pulse of his life, fading, fading . . .

  For a long time she spoke to the goblin king and called his name. He did not respond. It was scarcely conceivable that he could hear her, but she refused to leave his side, talking and singing softly until, worn out and drained, she fell into a trancelike state, part dozing, part dreaming.

  Some while later a hand gripped Asrăthiel’s shoulder and shook her to alertness. The sun had set long since, and the butterfly flames of a thousand candles illuminated the circular room. Like a wood of sombre trees the assembled Argenkindë remained standing in their places, watching over their king.

  Some of them, however, had grown restless, and intolerant of the human presence.

  ‘You must go,’ said Lieutenant Zangezur.

  ‘I will not,’ the damsel answered.

  ‘If you cannot heal him you are useless to us,’ said one of Zangezur’s comrades. ‘We do not want you here. You belong with otherkind, may their hands be torn and their minds go up in smoke!’

  ‘This disaster is your fault, human bitch,’ another chimed in.

  ‘And for that fault,’ Zauberin said in gravely tones, ‘you should be punished. We ought to hang you in chains from the highest peak, alongside the king and the druid, only you would never perish but remain there forever, battered by the winds, until your clothes grew threadbare and dropped in rags from your body; and still you would hang there, while the hair on your head grew down past your feet, and still you would languish Winter and Summer, through snow and rain, staring at sun and stars and moon, and they staring back at you.’

  ‘Let her be,’ said Zwist, stepping between Asrăthiel and her harassers. Extending a hand, he helped the damsel to her feet. ‘Can you do nothing to save him?’ he beseeched, gazing searchingly into her face.

  She shook her head dumbly, overcome by sorrow.

  The knight sighed. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘it would be better for you if you were to depart. I cannot guarantee your safety here indefinitely. Besides, your companions await you. Your William lives, after all.’

  ‘William?’ Asrăthiel looked up. To her shame, she realised that since she set eyes on Zaravaz she had not spared a thought for the prince.

  ‘Even so. He and his retinue are still close by, though their number is gravely depleted. We set upon them as they emerg
ed from the cave of the flames, and slew many. We would have destroyed them all, but that our lord’s rescue of Wyverstone would have been wasted.’

  ‘You are hateful death-dealers!’

  ‘Go to the survivors now, then return to your home. There is naught left for you here, save for peril and ill will.’

  ‘No. I wish to stay with him until the end.’

  ‘Lady Sioctíne, if you stay your enemies will strive to make good their promise to torment you. Those of us who were burned by the light will strive to prevent them, but it will lead to nothing but anger and strife. The blame for that will be upon you.’

  ‘By all the powers of the Uile,’ said Asrăthiel despairingly, ‘if immortal human beings could weep tears of water, or even blood, sir, I would do so in this bitter hour.’ She hesitated, sighed and then said, ‘As you say, there is naught left to me. You give me no choice. I will go hence, and leave the cruel Argenkindë to their lamenting—may you all suffer intensely, as you deserve—but the anguish that I carry with me is more than the sorrow of all your brethren combined. From this time forth I will find no happiness in the world, for I love your lord with a passion beyond comprehension.’

  ‘It is you who have slain him,’ accused Zauberin. ‘You and your folly.’

  Disregarding her persecutor Asrăthiel turned her shoulder to him. Addressing Zwist she said, ‘It is in my nature to hope. I beg of you, if your lord survives, send me some sign. I will wait until the first moon in Averil.’

  ‘You are foolish to hope,’ said Zwist. ‘Who could be more wicked than he? The werefire will work its doom on him for sure.’

  ‘But a sign! I must have a sign!’

  ‘Very well. It is easy to make a promise that will require no action. If he lives I will send you a sign.’

  ‘Beware of turning your back on me, mistress,’ Zauberin said sharply, and Asrăthiel whirled to face him. ‘May your days be fraught with woe,’ said the unseelie lieutenant. ‘Look upon the King of the Argenkindë for the last time, Bane of Zaravaz. We will forsake Sølvetårn, bearing him with us, and you will never see him again.’

  Asrăthiel shot a glance of scorn and sadness at Zauberin. ‘You have your wish,’ she said.

  Just before she departed she leaned over Zaravaz to kiss him goodbye. Strands of her hair slipped from their jewellery clasps and fell forward, pouring around his face, as his black tresses had showered around hers during their hours of love together.

  It was then that a marvel occurred. A tremendous sob shook the damsel’s frame and, impossibly, she wept. Three glistening tears, conceivably bequeathed by her mortal mother, dropped from her blue eyes. The first tear fell on the mouth of Zaravaz, trickling between his lips. The second alighted on his left lid and the third on the right. But before Asrăthiel had a chance to let her lips brush his, Zauberin’s cohorts seized her by the shoulders and roughly hustled her away, expelling her from the chamber of vigil.

  In a smudge of speed the weathermage was escorted through the paths of Sølvetårn, and cast forth, and abandoned. She found herself in the open air, on a wide apron of stone amongst a jumbled scattering of boulders. A sheer rock face towered above. Near at hand the narrow mouth of a cave opened into the hillside. Strong gusts of wind buffeted a cluster of carts, a sky-balloon that wrenched at its moorings, some broken and empty baskets that had been used to transport carrier pigeons—and the people who came hurrying to greet her.

  Behind the mountains, clouds went up like red fumes and a golden-spoked wheel began to dazzle. The sun was rising.

  Besides Aonarán and William, only two men of the expedition had survived the ire of the goblin knights. The crown prince was dressed in a white linen shirt and a plain tunic and trousers, looking as if no ill had befallen him—as if he had never been touched by fire in any form. He strode up and greeted the damsel with delight, embracing her gently. His words were few but his gaze lingered upon her, and he smiled often. She stared at him in wonderment, keenly aware that he had been fully immersed and burned within the legendary flames, yet, through his innocence, had lived. It was difficult to know what to say to him.

  Lathallan, too, looked well, though he seemed to have become almost as taciturn as his lord. His hands and face had taken no scar from being touched by the werefire, though had he plunged right in, like his lord, his fate might have been different. In contrast to William and the knight-commander, the immortal Fionnbar Aonarán was greatly transformed. Not even the Aingealfyre could kill him, but his flesh, which had been charred and ulcerated, was now whole. Smooth and unblemished was his skin, and his fingers no longer resembled talons, but healthy human digits. In all ways the erstwhile monster appeared ordinary, save that not a hair sprouted from his head, nor from his lids, nor anywhere on his person, and nobody could persuade him to utter so much as a single word.

  Haggard and deeply agitated, Sir Torold Tetbury cried, ‘Lady Asrăthiel, I am overjoyed to see you. One of those unseelie scoundrels bade us wait here for you, and Fates be praised, you have arrived. Let us depart forthwith.’

  So they left the Northern Ramparts. William, Lathallan and Sir Torold travelled in the aerostat with Asrăthiel, which could accommodate no more than four passengers, while the prentices accompanied Aonarán down the winding tracks on foot. The weathermage left them with a promise that she would return for them.

  As the airship glided through the clouds on the way back to King’s Winterbourne there was much discussion between Sir Torold and the weathermage, punctuated by a few quiet comments from Lathallan. Tetbury told how, after the events at the Inglefire, the Argenkindë set upon the adventurers in fury to take revenge for the burning of Zaravaz. The Narngalishmen fought for their lives, but the goblins overwhelmed them. Only, the unseelie knights would not touch William, nor would they approach Aonarán, and it was not until the fight was over that the bloodstained survivors realised this immunity extended to those who had in some part been immersed in the werefire—Lathallan, who had put his hands in, and Sir Torold Tetbury, who had also touched the flames. Evidently the unseelie warriors were held at bay by some quality these brave men had acquired.

  In spite of this, Zauberin’s coterie might have made a second onslaught, but Zwist and his comrades had shielded the survivors from their wrath. ‘Most certainly the ill-wishers would have tried to slaughter us all,’ said Sir Torold, ‘except that others intervened. A number of our benefactors guided us swiftly out of the underworld to the spot where you met us. To them, we owe our lives. Who would have guessed that any of the horde still loitered in the mountains? Ah, but it is fortunate you came seeking us last night, Lady Asrăthiel. We must escort William to King’s Winterbourne as soon as possible. Already the king has been apprised of what has happened, for we sent word by pigeon post.’

  As they murmured together the prince stood quietly staring out at the passing scenery. He looked unscathed after his ordeal, but seemed almost radiant, and otherworldly. It was as if he had been made privy to the ineffable secrets of the universe; vast wisdom and tranquillity seemed to rest on his brow, and an aura of peace and virtue emanated therefrom.

  ‘William is altered, now, as you see,’ whispered Sir Torold. ‘I do not know whether the change will wear off or not. He is like some hermit who has spent years pondering on transcendental matters and has finally reached an ecstatic point of essential understanding. It is curious, but his mere presence soothes our agitation.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Asrăthiel. ‘He is not as he once was. Almost, he has become a stranger. What of Fionnbar Aonarán who caused it all, and who was also seared in the Inglefire? I saw him but briefly before we rose in flight. He, too, appeared unharmed but changed in his manner.’

  ‘He is as calm as a meditating priest, or an apothecary dazed by his own smoke-dreams.’ After a pause Sir Torold added, ‘May I tell you something that struck me as odd?’

  ‘Say on.’

  ‘Aonarán’s only word, before he jumped into the Inglefire, was an exclamation of sur
prise and delight, as if he greeted someone and leaped forward to embrace them: “A máthair”.’

  ‘A máthair,’ Asrăthiel repeated abstractedly. ‘It means “Mother”.’ Although she conversed, her thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘Alas that so many good men have died,’ Sir Torold mused. ‘Fates be thanked that William lives. He was barely rescued in time. No mortal being could have done such a deed. Only a powerful eldritch wight could possess sufficient mastery of time to pull him from the fire before he perished. One of the goblins saved him, did you know? It is a conundrum. Why should they aid us when they hate us so?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ the weathermage said sadly. ‘The world is a seethe of mysteries.’

  After delivering her three passengers to Wyverstone Castle and picking up three officers of the household guard, Asrăthiel flew back to collect her prentices from their plodding southward journey. She refused to take Aonarán in her aircraft, bidding the guards bring him back by road.

  When her tasks were done, so distraught was she, so wounded by the loss of Zaravaz, that instead of resuming her residency at The Laurels she returned to Avalloc in High Darioneth, retreating to her childhood home and the comfort of her family. Her world had changed; now she, too, was fundamentally altered. She revealed to no one the reason for her low spirits, for it was a secret that could not be shared. It was too much to hope that any human being might forgive her for falling for the ultimate foe. The burden of lonely grief, however, was too much to bear. She was inconsolable, sick throughout her spirit, and unable to bring herself to perform weathermastery any more. Since she would not wield the brí, she formally gave up her position as weathermage to Narngalis and secluded herself at Rowan Green. Neither friends nor family could lift her from her despondency; she lost all interest in pleasurable pastimes.