I’ve sworn to fight for Silver Hill, though death should be my fee.’
His troops thus stayed upon the mount, aware there was no chance,
And when the sun began to fall they sharpened sword and lance.
“As darkness came a-creeping, goblins overthrew them all,
Hewed off the head of Bellaghmoon and of his captains tall,
Hoisting the severed polls on pikes. Unto their eldritch halls
They bore their dreadful prizes, for to nail them on the walls.
“Above the gates of goblin-realm they hung their grisly plunder.
The mourning winds keened through the vales, the mountains rang with thunder.”
At this point the minstrel strummed a few intervening chords while he scoured his brain for the final lines. Those penned by the original composer had been a lament for the fair flower of knighthood that had fallen at Silver Hill. Recently, however, these sentiments had been excised and replaced with a piece of doggerel designed to curry royal favor.
“But proud Sir Seán who fought so well, he did not die in vain.
Ye bards and minstrels, sing his praise and eulogize his name.
For hard against all odds he would not let his sovereign down
And through harshest adversity stayed loyal to the crown.”
As the final words faded from the ears of the audience, a footman entered the chamber. He bowed low to the seneschal and spoke into his ear, then edged backward with many a courteous stoop in the direction of the royal family. Positioning himself rigidly against a splendid arras, he awaited further instructions.
The seneschal dropped to his knee before his monarch. “Your Majesty, a messenger has brought interesting news,” he said.
“Speak,” intoned King Maolmórdha.
“The jewel has been taken from the Iron Tree.”
Prince Uabhar’s head jerked around in the direction of the speaker.
“Taken, you say?” said the king bewilderedly. “What can you mean?”
The attention of the prince was now focused completely on the seneschal, who answered his liege lord, “Sir, a man has been seen removing it.”
“Ah,” said the sovereign. “The Iron Tree. The jewel. Now I recall. Is it valuable?”
“It is believed to be so, Your Majesty.”
“Then it must be retrieved, for surely it belongs to the Crown.”
“Valuable!” Uabhar exclaimed. He strode to the king’s side and stood looking down on him. “My lord, ‘tis not so much the value of the jewel which is in question!” he declared emphatically. “The ornament, recall, was placed there by the sorcerer of Orielthir. It was always believed that when the sorcerer perished he left no heirs. But if ’tis true the jewel has been taken, he who has subtracted it must be of the sorcerer’s blood!”
The king smiled weakly.
“Even so,” he agreed.
“A scion of the sorcerer may well have emerged unlooked-for from obscurity. Surely my sagacious father understands what this signifies.” The young prince’s tone of voice resounded with conviction. Raising his forefinger, he traced the outline of a carving on the monarch’s chair.
A vague frown hovered between Maolmórdha’s eyebrows. Over the years it had come to him that he did not love his eldest son’s manner, but he lacked the wit to reason exactly how the youth irked him and the assertiveness to put a stop to it.
“Of course,” he said.
Uabhar exhaled a snort, which might have indicated derision but was probably a throat-clearing exercise. Leaning close to his father’s face, he said with certainty, “If there is such a man, he will possess the ability to unseal the Dome of Strang.”
He waited a few moments for the enormity of his words to sink in.
“The Dome,” said King Maolmórdha, and then louder, as revelation dawned, “ah, the Dome!”
“The Dome, with all its untold treasures—made legend over the decades,” said Uabhar, now pacing the luxurious chamber. “The Dome, impregnable, inviolable. Perhaps no longer.”
“Treasures!” The king savored the word. On her couch, the queen bit into a cucumber. Her angelica fellcat dozed on the floor.
“This jewel thief must be found instantly,” Uabhar said. “Seized and brought to the palace unharmed.”
Uncharacteristically, he had overstepped the mark. Youth can be impetuous.
But Uabhar was quick to learn.
“It is for the king to decide who shall or shall not be seized,” barked the monarch in injured tones. “Put my shoes on!” This order was addressed to the gentleman-in-waiting who still knelt before him.
With the gorgeous shoes hastily jammed on his oily feet and the gold chains precipitantly attached to his knees, King Maolmórdha made his exit, saying commandingly, as he swept out of the chamber, “I will be found in the sanctorum. Attend me, senescha.” The seneschal, five gentlemen-in-waiting, two pages, and three footmen, including the messenger, followed in his wake.
Marble statues of the four Fates—known in Slievmordhu as Cinniúint, Míchinniúint, Ádh, and Mí-Ádh—presided over the audience chamber of the sanctorum of Cathair Rua. Ádh and Míchinniúint were, by tradition, allotted masculine personae. The former, a comely youth wearing an asterisk on his brow, smiled beatifically and showered good fortune from his extended palms. The latter, Lord Doom, was portrayed as a noble and authoritative warrior, his mightily thewed arms folded sternly across his mailed chest and his double-headed axe gripped in his fist.
Mí-Ádh was the feminine antithesis of Ádh: Lady Misfortune, depicted as a maliciously smiling and voluptuous siren, carrying her black cat, Hex, upon her shoulder. Cinniúint was represented as an ugly, callous hag, remote and inflexible: Destiny inexorable with her wheel and spindle, winding the threads of human lives.
Why the two least attractive personifications had been assigned to women was an ancient secret known only to the druids.
Beneath the mineral gaze of the Fates, King Maolmórdha Ó Maoldúin consulted with Primoris Asper Virosus, the Druid Imperius of Slievmordhu, Tongue of the Fates, otherwise known as the Chief Druid. “What shall be done?” the king asked after his messenger and seneschal had imparted the tidings of the jewel’s abstraction from the Iron Tree.
The Druid Imperius was clad in robes of purest white baudekin, appliquéd with costly samite. Diminutive in stature, scrawny and hollow-chested, Primoris Asper Virosus did not at first glance appear to be a powerful figure. Only those who looked into his gimlet eyes could be apprised of the truth. In their depths coiled an intelligence of indescribable cunning.
“Describe this jewel-plunderer’s appearance,” Primoris Asper instructed the messenger who had brought the tidings.
“My lord, I did not see him myself,” the messenger said nervously, “but I was given to understand he was of lofty stature, brown haired, garbed in the manner of the marshfolk.”
“You know nothing. Bring here the one who saw this man with his own eyes.”
The informant was duly fetched. A street beggar and petty thief, he had been sent to wait in an antechamber of the palace, where he ogled the statuary and indulged his fancy by estimating the size of the reward for his report.
“I have seen the robber before, at times of Fair, Your Graces,” he told his exalted audience, his words tripping over each other in their eagerness to roll off his tongue. “His garments are coarse and vulgar, nothing special, but he is noticeable, being exceptionally well favored for a churl. The women look at him. I’d vouch he stands more than six feet tall, and his hair is brown. I have heard him speak, aforetimes—his accent is like a southerner’s—like a man of Ashqalêth.”
“How old?”
“I’d guess little more than thirty Winters.”
“What clothing?”
“Ordinary garb, my lord, like any commoner. No wait—around his neck there was a green kerchief.”
“His name?” enquired the Primoris.
“Lord, I fear the knowledge of that is n
ot at me.” The informer doubled over in a clumsy attempt at a bow.
“You are given leave to depart,” the Primoris said.
Astonishment dragged agape the informer’s eyes and mouth.
“But I thought … I thought—”
As the Druid Imperius turned away, a sanctorum guard moved smoothly between his master and the petty thief. “You thought what?” the guard murmured silkily. “Perhaps to be rewarded on this fine Thunder’s Day morning?”
The informer took in the breadth of the guard’s shoulders, the length of his sword, and the latent brutality in his eye.
He swallowed. Suddenly he recollected unsubstantiated stories of newsbringers whose tongues had been cut out to prevent them from further spreading their tidings. There were other tales, too, of men who had entered the sanctorum and never reappeared. His mouth dried like a corpse in the desert sun. His tongue wilted. Words were no longer possible.
He almost ran from the audience chamber. All but the guard ignored his exit.
“As I recollect,” said the sharp-witted druid to the king, “one who answered to a similar description was in this city a dozen years ago. At that time there was a story circulating that someone took the jewel out of the tree and subsequently put it back. No one credited such a tale of folly, but perhaps it was authentic. If all is true, then it is of paramount importance to have that jewel-taker apprehended at once.”
“I heard the sorcerer’s son perished, childless.”
“This robber will be some by-blow of the son’s, no doubt, and he may well be the key that unlocks the Dome.”
“My thoughts precisely,” agreed the king.
“Additionally, according to the laws of the Fates, all sorcerous jewels are sanctorum property, as Your Majesty is already well aware.”
“Of course.”
“It must not be made common knowledge that this man carries the item, lest it put him in the way of other thieves before the jewel reaches its rightful proprietors.”
“Ah, but news of the absence of the thing has already spread over half the city …”
“Yet only a few men know who took it. Most of them stand within this chamber. We must ensure the silence of those who are less circumspect than we. Including that beggar, who by now will have been detained by my guard in the outer vestibule, where his protestations will not pain our hearing.”
“And he whom we seek?”
“’Twould be best if he were to come willingly, but unwillingly if necessary. We shall make it clear he is not to be punished for taking the jewel. The king wishes to speak with him, nothing more. He is not to fear harm.” He added, with an enigmatic smile, “As long as he remains obedient.”
“Even so,” concurred the king. He summoned his gentlemen-in-waiting. “Have this fellow found!” he commanded. “Circulate the description. Have him brought at once to me, unscathed!”
Men were sent forth to scour the city in the rain.
VIII
Betrayal
Meanwhile, Eoin was comfortably installed in a tavern common room. Crowded with trestles, benches, and patrons, the air hazy with the smoke from the fireplace and the flickering oil lamps swinging from hooks in the low-beamed ceiling, the Ace and Cup was one of the more salubrious taverns about town. Its outer walls were pierced by mullioned casements through which bruised stormlight drizzled drearily through the rain, contrasting with the tangerine glow of the fire and the lemon lamplight. The Ace and Cup had a reputation as a popular spot for gaming. If a man was after a turn at dice, a round of playing cards, a session of knucklebones, a spin at two-up, sport with cockfighting or most other forms of gambling, the Ace and Cup was the place to be. Those who congregated there were such keen speculators they would bet on the progress of two cockroaches crawling up the wall, were there nothing else on offer.
In one corner a rowdy ale-swilling contest was under way. In another, a man was carefully balancing an ever-growing stack of copper coins on his head. “One and twenty!” shouted an erudite baker, who could count past a dozen. “Two and twenty!” A few sprightly lads pulled faces and capered around the balancer, endeavoring to distract him.
It was late in the morning, but the patrons appeared to have little better to do with their time than drink and dice. The tavern’s common room had been continuously occupied since the previous evening; several all-night card games were still in full swing. Most participants remained. Some reposed beneath the tables, with only their legs protruding, producing reverberating snores. Others, fortified with large breakfasts and topped up with ale, played on.
Eoin had just won a horse.
From all appearances, Lord Ádh had been raining good luck on the eel-fisher all the previous night. He had accumulated appreciable winnings. Conversely, one of the Grïmnørsland traders, who had been part of the all-night crew and who appeared to possess the drinking capacity of a whale, must have attracted the malignant attention of the siren of bad luck, Lady Mí-Ádh. His possessions had been reduced to his last copper ha’penny, the clothes on his back, and his horse, housed in the tavern stables. In an effort to recoup his losses, he had wagered the beast and lost. Eoin was pleased; it had saved him the trouble of bargaining with the knavish city horse traders, who, it was said, knew enough sly tricks to make a twenty-year-old nag look and kick like a colt.
“I might as well be taking a look at this new donkey of mine,” said Eoin festively, though somewhat blearily. He had accepted the wager of the horse without examining it first, on the premise that if the animal had achieved the journey from Grïmnørsland to Cathair Rua and was expected to return, it must enjoy a certain amount of health and vigor. He got up unsteadily, slightly unbalanced by the weight of the money purse he had slipped down the front of his shirt.
“For sure,” said some of his fellow players, who had dropped out of the game hours ago but stayed on, drinking and watching, swapping jokes. Having already sold their meagre stock of wares, they were glad to be free, even for a short while, from the grind of toil. They were determined not to waste an instant of their freedom by catching so much as a blink of sleep.
“For certain,” they said again. “Let us go and get an eyeful of your winnings, Mosswell.”
As Eoin stumbled toward the door, close to tripping over the legs of a snorting figure under a table, the befuddled brain of the unlucky Grïmnørslander reached the conclusion of a convoluted train of thought he had been following since Eoin mentioned the word “donkey.” Fridleif Squüdfitcher was embittered by his steady run of ill fortune all night. He had lost the earnings from his market stall. To lose his cherished steed was the hardest blow of all.
“Donkey!” he shouted with a suddenness that made the other players jump. “Thet’s no donkey! Thet’s the finest gray gildung iver sired by Pride of the Sea. No men calls my horse a donkey!”
“Well, ’tis no longer your horse, is it,” said a smirking bystander, “so we can call it what we like.” But the Grïmnørslander had already launched his revenge, in the form of himself, through the air, and he came crashing down on the shoulders of the smirking man. At the sound, Eoin—who had used the term “donkey” casually, without intent to cause insult—turned around. Seeing one of his drinking-mates spread-eagled on the floor, he rushed to his aid, whereupon a second Grïmnørslander joined in to balance the odds. One punch led to another, and soon the whole tavern was in uproar.
Tankards went whizzing past ears. Sinewy limbs thwacked solidly against flesh in a cacophony of grunts, growls, and hoarse bellowing. Benches somersaulted. A couple of the under-table sleepers bravely continued in their stupor, but most regained sufficient awareness to scramble out of peril’s way.
Just as the brawl reached its zenith, the main door exploded inward, rotating rapidly on its hinges to slam against the wall. A moment later in the common room there seemed scarcely space to breathe. It appeared to be filled from wall to wall with dripping guardsmen wearing the colors of the palace. At the sight of such quantities of gleaming
chain mail and offensive ironmongery, the brawlers ceased their affray. In the relative stillness, a tankard rolled off the edge of a table and hit the ale-soaked floor with a clunk, like a muted bell.
The sergeant of the guards, identifiable by the tall, bedraggled plume on his helm, stepped forward. With narrowed eyes he scanned the common room, the faces of the men present, their mode of dress. Then he raised his arm and jabbed his forefinger toward Eoin. “Seize him!”
The weariness of a sleepless night, mingled with the dazedness produced by imbibing fair quantities of ale, had conspired to cloud Eoin’s thinking. Nevertheless, when he viewed a pair of burly guardsmen making toward him, this haziness miraculously evaporated. He made a dash for the side door, but too many injured patrons could not shift themselves from his path rapidly enough, and before he could make good his escape the guardsmen had him pinioned by the arms.
“What are you doing?” yelled Eoin as they brought him back, struggling, to face the sergeant. “I’ve thrown a few punches, that is all. It has been a fair fight, all fists, no weapons.”
Guiltily, Fridleif Squüdfitcher whipped his hand behind his back. In it he was gripping a tankard, with which he had been about to clout the head of the smirker.
“The Bellaghmoon Foot Guards of the King’s Household Division scarcely trouble ourselves about tavern brawls,” the sergeant said coldly. “We are seeking a certain man, a visitor to Cathair Rua. And you, sir, are a likely suspect. Brown-haired, clad in commoner’s garb with a green kerchief, aged around thirty Winters—you, fellow, fit the description of a man seen last night in the vicinity of Fountain Square.”
“Last night, is it?” cried Eoin. “But I have been here all night! And my companions will vouch for it!”
A croaking chorus of assents rose like ravens from the tavern throng.
“He has been here all night,” embellished the smirker. “I’ll swear to that.”
The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 44