Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  In Wyverstone Castle the royal family, courtiers and guests from other realms were as glad as the commoners, though perhaps less boisterous. Every evening lavish banquets were conducted at the castle, and every day was filled with sports and divertissements of many kinds for the pleasure of the guests. Although the goblins had outlawed the wearing of animal products, the resourceful weavers and tailors of every land were constantly inventing new fabrics from vegetable sources. The magnificent chambers of the royal residence were alive with mirthful crowds in gorgeous raiment, dusky hues and intense sable contrasting with vivid flashes of jewels, brocade or embroidery, or rich, bright colours crawling with the intricate scrolls of blackwork. The older noblewomen wore lace veils held in place by ornate chaplets of silver wire. Younger ladies adorned their heads with jewelled cauls, their hair hanging down their backs. Fond of tradition, the men hatted their long locks with capuchons of various styles.

  King Warwick’s elite knights, the Companions of the Cup, were present throughout the festivities, clad in tabards of velvet and brocade, lined with linen, and appliquéd with heraldic designs. During this peacetime revelry the knights saw fit to lay aside the arts of war and turn to other, equally honourable pursuits such as poetry, music, rhetoric and the study of history.

  At the feast on the third and final evening Asrăthiel, who was seated at a long dining table with her parents, her grandfather, aunt, uncle and cousins, surveyed that fair assembly in the great hall of Wyverstone Castle. Shahzadeh of Ashqalêth and her consort were amongst the guests, and Queen Saibh with her companion Fedlamid, and King Thorgild Torkilsalven, and Queen Halfrida. Asrăthiel witnessed happy faces and merriment everywhere.

  Prince William in cambric shirt and quilted doublet, his light-brown-gold hair flowing from beneath a velvet cap, gazed blithely upon his pretty new bride-to-be. Lady Meliora, in faux silk and taffeta, returned his gaze with a fetching smile. On beholding William’s obvious contentment, Asrăthiel felt a surge of happiness for him. Her thoughts turned inward, and she visualised herself in her sky-balloon, Icemoon, suspended above the battlements and turrets of the castle. Looking around with her mind’s eye she saw a kingdom recovering slowly but surely from the ravages of war, as time began to ease the suffering of folk who mourned the fallen. To the west, in the Mountain Ring, a new generation of eager prentices was mastering the brí. Joy and healing abounded everywhere, except in her own spirit where a raw wound bled incessantly.

  There is no happiness to be obtained for immortal beings alone in the world of mortalkind, she thought, except for my parents, who have each other. Yet, neither shall the road of deathlessness be entirely easy for those two.

  Jewel and Arran found delight and solace and understanding in each other, but she, Asrăthiel, human born immortal, had no kindred spirit and no hope of any, since all the wells of immortality were now dry. In all events, she had no desire for any partner but one, and he had perished to dust or ash by the rising of the Averil moon; alive in a way, but mindless and powerless.

  Asrăthiel’s young cousin Corisande interrupted her melancholy musings, tugging at the damsel’s sleeve. The girl was giggling, her eyes sparkling with glee. Albiona, holding her daughter by the hand, explained the reason. ‘One of the servants told us there is an old beggar living in a corner of the castle kitchens,’ she said. ‘He’s the one who did some sort of good turn for Narngalis that earned him repute. King Warwick has given him shelter and food for the rest of his days. The servants say he snores day and night in the warmth of the kitchen hearth, only waking to eat, or tell tall stories. His name used to be Cat Soup but, mindful of the ferocious Kobold Watchmen, he has prudently changed it to Fruit Salad.’

  Asrăthiel forced herself to share Albiona’s and Corisande’s laughter.

  ‘I’ve heard his real name is Kevin,’ murmured Sir Torold Tetbury.

  The revellers lacked for naught, and the junketing lasted throughout the night. As was the custom, performers entertained the diners between each course, and dancing in the ballroom followed dinner. King Warwick presided over the ball, viewing the high-spirited display from a stage where he sat in comfort, clad in his heavy gold collar and long gown of quilted cotton damask, dark purple and trimmed with faux ermine. He was flanked by Avalloc Maelstronnar and the father of the bride-to-be, Lord Carisbrooke.

  Towards midnight, supper was served in the crimson drawing room and the blue, but Asrăthiel, her heart unaccountably heavy on this night of celebration, had no desire for food. Neither, apparently, did William’s excited sisters, who clustered around the weathermage, arrayed in embroidered gowns of lace, muslin and cloth-of-silver; demure Lecelina, the eldest; Winona somewhat bossy, the second-born; and Saranna the youngest, vague and fey.

  ‘There are bonfires all over the city,’ Saranna said, companionably hooking her arm through Asrăthiel’s.

  ‘The biggest is in Coppenhall Square,’ said Lecelina.

  ‘Come with us,’ said Winona, ‘and we’ll show you the best vantage point from which to watch the spectacle!’ And they guided their friend, along with Corisande and Cavalon, up a steep and winding stair to a high turret.

  There was indeed a fine view of the city’s festivities to be obtained from this eyrie atop the castle. A large arched window, unglazed, looked out from the turret room. Its sill was low; only two feet above the floor, and as deep as the turret walls, which were two-and-a-half feet thick. Filigrees of living stems, covered in flowers and foliage, clung to the mortar between the stones surrounding the window, framing the starry sky and the midnight cityscape.

  ‘Do not go too near the window!’ Lecelina warned the two children, who had already begun exploring the room. ‘Next thing you’ll be falling out!’

  Gasping from the exertion of the long ascent, Asrăthiel and the princesses seated themselves on three-legged stools. They looked out over the many roofs and battlements of the castle to the metropolis extending in all directions far below, lit by lanterns, flambeau processions, celebratory bonfires and fireworks. The night was still, and the river gleamed with sudden bright reflections.

  Presently, Winona’s attention began to wander. ‘This is a strange room,’ she declared, gazing about. ‘Long ago it was frequented by a carlin called Lenore Frithelstock. See, there is a second door, higher in the wall on the other side. It leads up to a small cloistered roof garden, long abandoned—weeds grow there in the shelter of the walls, for it is a suntrap, but amongst the thistles grow many fragrant herbs and flowers.’

  ‘Some believe this room is haunted,’ said Saranna, ‘but I believe that if anything haunts at all, it must only be the Cailleach Bheur.’

  ‘Why do people think it’s haunted?’ young Cavalon wanted to know.

  ‘There is a strangeness about it,’ said Saranna. ‘Even in the depths of Winter, when most vegetation slumbers, climbing plants somehow grow in the roof garden, and send their tendrils twining about the walls. They always manage to creep through this window. Once inside, the bare stems bloom. Jasmine, clematis, bindweed and all sorts of creepers and climbers burst into flower in this chamber. It is like an indoor-outdoor room, for it is never short of blossoms and leaves, no matter what the season. Our father had a pair of shutters hung on the window, but the shutters could never be completely closed even when workmen nailed them together. Eventually they were removed.’

  ‘It always seems warm in here,’ added Lecelina.

  ‘And pleasant,’ said Corisande.

  ‘Why is it not used as a greenhouse or a sitting room?’ Cavalon asked.

  ‘It is too small and inconvenient. The stair is narrow, slippery and very high, as you have just discovered.’

  They ceased to speak and resumed gazing out across the slates and crenelations of the castle, observing the bonfires of celebration. Dim sounds of cheering and singing wafted up from below, and the blaring of horns, the chiming of bells, and the intermittent crack-crack of exploding fireworks. Strains of music swelled from the castle rooms below
stairs, interwoven with the hum of conversation. A mood of reflective contentment had settled on them all.

  ‘Is it not wonderful,’ Asrăthiel said wistfully, ‘to dwell in a land of peace and plenty.’

  ‘Indeed,’ her friends agreed.

  ‘No more wars,’ said Cavalon happily.

  Corisande piped up. ‘Asrăthiel,’ she said, ‘when I am old enough, will you teach me to wield Fallowblade?’

  ‘Come now!’ said Lecelina. ‘Why should you want to use a great big clunking dangerous weapon like that?’

  ‘In case the goblins come back,’ Corisande said energetically, ‘the wicked, wicked goblins! I will smite them for their wickedness!’

  Seated on her stool the weathermage turned her gaze upon her little cousin, who was standing beside her. Their faces were almost at the same level. Asrăthiel smiled, although the smile did not reach her eyes. ‘If you like I will teach you,’ she said affectionately.

  ‘I too should like to learn it,’ said Cavalon, pushing forward.

  ‘Very well then,’ said Asrăthiel, ‘We shall do that, starting at this—oh.’

  She rose to her feet. Her audience turned around to see why.

  ‘Do not bother,’ said Zaravaz from the doorway.

  14

  WHEN THE NORTH

  WIND BLOWS

  Oh, let me go a-roving, a footloose vagabond,

  To seek outlandish fortune, to find what lies beyond!

  Beyond the airy mountains, beyond the sounding sea,

  Far over known horizons; the traveller’s life for me.

  Pray, let me find adventure on some exotic strand,

  Exciting expeditions, encounters bold and grand.

  Let me discover marvels upon some distant shore,

  And map the lonely islands uncharted heretofore.

  The world beyond these borders holds much I have not seen.

  Let not my life be bound these cramping walls between,

  For there are countless wonders that wait to catch my eye.

  As once I was a fledgling, now I would learn to fly!

  SUNG BY A TRAVELLING MINSTREL

  It was the high doorway leading to the roof garden. He was leaning back against the architrave with his arms folded; a handsome knight with storm-purple eyes and dark lashes. Intensely black was his hair, yet liquid glimmers ran up and down through it, as if a sheen of blue fire glided there. Unearthly currents combed and lifted the long, smooth strands. Burning silver blazed from his coal-coloured garments, and his cloak was a furl of occultation. It was exciting to look upon him.

  Out of the night, three horned eagle owls abruptly fluttered down to perch on the windowsill. The very stars in the sky appeared to grow larger and more luminous as if, like the birds, they were attracted to the goblin king. Seductive was he, and sardonic, and eldritch, and he looked at Asrăthiel with a curious intensity of concentrated passion which went straight to the core of her being.

  The damsel’s spirits soared. Her heart turned over.

  ‘Do not bother,’ he announced again, before leaping down and sauntering into the room. ‘If your kindred learn to live virtuous lives, no goblins shall ever illuminate your dreary days again.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Corisande, agog and cheeky, first to find her voice, ‘but you are a goblin, sir.’

  With a gasp of horror Lecelina seized the child and clasped her in a protective embrace, but the little girl wriggled free.

  Zaravaz gave Corisande an avuncular pat on the head as he went past. ‘Such a merry mischief you are, young lady,’ he said indulgently, and Corisande smiled adoringly up at him.

  ‘So,’ said Asrăthiel, her pulse beating so fast it was nothing but a whirr. ‘You are here.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ said Zaravaz, coming to a standstill in front of her. The sisters, who had stood stunned, picked up the children and made to rush away, but without turning his head to observe them Zaravaz said, ‘The door is locked. So is the smaller portal. But pray do not distress yourselves. I mean you no harm.’ He flicked a finger at the eagle owls, which unfurled their wings and flapped silently away. ‘And I come alone,’ he subjoined.

  The weathermage could not take her eyes from him. Hardly able to credit that he was here with her, she willed him to exist, willed it not to be a dream, a glamour or a fraud. It was he, her eldritch lover, and if the werefire had altered his looks he had only become—if it were possible—more beautiful than ever. But how had the Burning changed him in other ways, ways that could not be seen? When it scoured the unseelieness from him, how had it influenced his character? Patently he was no witless vegetable, nor was he silent like Aonarán or remote like William, but the differences might be subtle. Would she know him at all?

  She was standing with her back to the window. Zaravaz placed one hand on the stones of the frame and leaned upon it, his arm forming a barricade between the damsel and the rest of the room.

  ‘My strength,’ he said softly to her, ‘has returned in full.’

  All those who were present in the room could see at once how matters stood between those two, by the way they looked upon one another. And they were struck with astonishment.

  Then Zaravaz said to the audience at large, ‘I will harm no mortal creature this night. Leave now, for the door is suddenly unlocked. I wish to speak privately with Lady Asrăthiel.’

  It came to Asrăthiel that she had never before heard him speak her name, and the sound of it made her feel as if she had turned to water, so that she must quickly sit down on the wide sill amongst the petals of jasmine. The sky behind her back was like a starry cloth hung upon a wall.

  ‘Go,’ she said to her anxious companions. ‘I will be safe, I assure you.’

  Zaravaz whispered, so that only she could hear, ‘So you suppose.’ Aloud, he said, ‘Wait for us in the chamber you call the blue drawing room.’

  Unwillingly, now, the princesses departed, for they were fascinated and captivated by the beauty of the goblin king, and fain would have lingered near him. When they had gone Zaravaz drew Asrăthiel into his arms and kissed her. How long that kiss lasted she neither knew nor cared, though time without end would not have been long enough.

  When they drew a little apart she began to speak, but he placed a finger on her lips to seal them, saying, ‘I was Crowthistle, your confidant. I know the darkest secrets of your heart. If you want my love, you have it.’

  This was the Zaravaz she knew. Seelie he might or might not be, but nothing else had changed.

  ‘’Tis all I want,’ she said, still struggling to comprehend the enormity of his reappearance.

  While she composed herself he sat on the window ledge close beside her and related the story of his recovery, as Lieutenant Zwist had told it to him.

  Soon after Zauberin’s cohorts expelled the weathermage from the gothic chamber in Sølvetårn where Zaravaz lay insensible, the goblin king had opened his eyes for the first time since being hauled out of the werefire. His breathing deepened. His eyes remained half-open. Sometimes the lids fluttered, or closed for a while, but he said not a word, nor did he move.

  He lay in a half-swoon for long days and nights, for weeks and months. During that time he was healing in body, mind and spirit. It was the immortal tears of Asrăthiel, three drops so rare that their like had never existed in the world, that had brought him back from the brink and restored him.

  When Zaravaz fully awoke it was immediately clear that all wickedness had been scoured from him in the Aingealfyre; burned out and evaporated. Flames of gramarye had purified him of unseelieness, as a blade of steel is tempered in a blast furnace. The influence of the Aingealfyre had actually reached back through time, draining every mote of pain and sorrow he had ever generated, then funnelling it into him, so that while he was writhing in the flames he suffered every last stab of torment he had ever meted out, and every last shred of sorrow he had caused, in place of the victims who had endured that agony and sorrow. He had endured exactly what they had endured, and now it
was as if they had never borne it.

  The effect of the Aingealfyre was retrospective. It changed history.

  Which meant that even though Zaravaz had slain thousands of people he had never inflicted any pain or grief on his victims. To put the seal on his transformation, the cleansing flames had rendered him incapable of violence and cruelty.

  He had become seelie.

  His powers were not diminished in any way, but now he was forced to wield them only in the cause of justice, generosity, freedom, and every other species of righteousness.

  ‘If I was terrible before,’ he said to Asrăthiel, half-jesting, half-serious, ‘I am more terrible now.’

  She looked up at him, imagining that for love of his beauty the stars must have deliberately twined themselves like tinsel into his hair.

  ‘What of your kindred?’ she questioned. ‘How did they respond, when you woke to seelieness?’

  ‘My knights’ loyalty did not falter in the face of this catastrophe, but they are determined to scour the world in search of a cure, as your father did, having vowed to save your mother—and, I have heard, he was successful. The graihyn set a guard of vicious fuathan and other wicked wights around the Aingealfyre, and powerful weavings of gramarye, that no human being might ever again approach the flames to fashion swords of gold, or to fecklessly tumble in and require rescuing. Now the Argenkindë all shout your praises, Weatherwitch, and would welcome you as one of their own, because your miraculous tears saved me. Zauberin is loudest with his eulogies, and calls curses upon himself for having exiled you.’