It made no reply, but directed its gaze away from her. Encouraged by the fact that it remained, she inquired, “Can I help you?”
The look of scorn it turned upon her caused her to wilt. Deliberately, the wight rose from its perch. Jewel guessed that it was about to fade away amongst the trees, and at that moment it occurred to her that an urisk, being a waterhaunting creature, might know something about the marsh.
“Wait!” she cried. “Are you familiar with the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu?”
It was too late. The wight had already become one with the beech-wood.
Crestfallen, Jewel returned to the mill.
She asked Elfgifu, “Are there many urisks around here?”
“None, to my knowledge,” said the miller’s daughter. “It’s brownies this place is jumping with. Brownies, trows, and the siofra. Myself, I should like to see a swan-maiden; I have heard they are quite remarkable.”
Visions of the urisk hovered in the background of Jewel’s private musings. She caught herself watching for subtle movements in the kitchen garden, or in the lane-side hedges during her rambles. This way, she often saw wild creatures such as mice, echidnas, globe-bodied spiders, and small birds. More rarely, she snatched glimpses of tiny, human-like folk scurrying out of view.
News of the greater world never failed to reach High Darioneth swiftly, borne in miniature scrolls tied to the legs of carrier pigeons or brought by travelers, or carried by weathermasters in sky-balloons. From Slievmordhu on the seventeenth of Tenember, three days before Midwinter’s Eve, came word that King Maolmórdha Ó Maoldúin was dead. Prince Uabhar, being of age, was to be duly crowned in the new year, and members of the upper echelons of the weathermasters were invited to attend the coronation, as they had attended the royal wedding the previous Spring. The Crown Prince had lost a father in the same year he had taken a wife.
This change of government in the southern kingdom failed to impress the inhabitants of High Darioneth. Amongst those few who had personally encountered the royal family of Slievmordhu, it was privately held that the son Uabhar was as false as the father had been weak. They rejoiced, as ever, that they were citizens of Narngalis and not subject to the arbitrary rule of the dynasty Ó Maoldúin.
The machinery of politics did not interest Jewel, unless it affected her daily life. She might have taken small note of the royal succession, if not that the demise of the old king reminded her yet again of the reason he would have sought her, had he known she existed.
She alone could unlock the Dome of Strang.
What lay inside that Dome of such importance?
Even more than the notion of enormous might or wealth, the idea of penetrating a mystery attracted her. The thought of closed doors made her itch to fling them wide. The contemplation of hidden secrets made her yearn to discover them. In addition to her desire to obtain the trappings of security, her inquisitiveness was that of an alchemist or philosopher, ever driven to delve deeper into the arcane.
Such was her frustration that all objects of a certain shape seemed a reminder: an enticement and a challenge. In the kitchen she became such a nuisance that the cook banned her from that domain. Without being aware of it, she had slipped into a habit of up-ending mushrooms, stoving in hard-boiled eggs, skewering freshly unmolded puddings with a carving knife. Never would she allow a bowl to be left upside-down, and she even turned hats inside out, when nobody was looking.
Winter stole in silently in white slippers. She had exiled her sister, velvet-clad Autumn of the red hair, and instead broadcast a cloak of frosted satin encrusted with ice-diamonds. Tenember, last month of the old year, was a time of great significance in all Four Kingdoms of Tir, for its twentieth day was Midwinter’s Eve. By that date, Grianan the Winter Sun had diminished, becoming no more than a sullen, tarnished coin in the southern skies, and the strength of the eldritch hag, the Cailleach Bheur, was at its most potent. This was the season for the choosing of new carlins.
All across the kingdoms of Tir festivals were held in celebration of Midwinter’s Eve. At High Darioneth the bells atop Ellenhall carillonned in the morning. Games and contests were held down on the plateau’s Greatlawn Common in the afternoon: archery competitions, prize-fighting, races, hurdling, and football. A ram lamb was roasted on a spit. Then, as the day faded, the plateaudwellers came up the cliff road to join the weathermasters. Bonfires were lit on Rowan Green. There was music and song, wine and conviviality.
In the Great Hall of Long Gables, warmed by log-fueled infernos in gigantic fireplaces and lit by pendant chandeliers on hoops of marigold brass, the traditional wassailing bowl was passed around. It was filled with “lamb’s wool,” a mixture of hot ale, nutmeg, and honey, in which floated roasted crab-apples and fragments of toast. The great bowl itself, an ancient heirloom, was carved from ash-wood, and cheerfully decorated with colored ribbons.
“Here we come a-wassailing amongst the leaves so green; here we come a-wassailing, so fair to be seen,” inventively sang the happy band of wassailers who were taking the bowl around so that all might share.
The weathermasters, old and young, were attired in festive raiment. The men went bare-headed, their hair flowing to the middle of their backs. Their hose were of dark wool, their shoes of soft leather. Over their tunics, which reached to mid-thigh, they wore surcoats of velvet, lined with damask. The surcoats were pleated at the back, gathered in by waist-belts of linked platinum platelets engraved, inlaid, and chased with intricate patterns. The sleeves of several of the elders were long, and trailed to the floor. The women adorned their heads with couvre-chefs of soft silk, held in place with chaplets of delicate filigree. They were simply but elegantly coiffed, some with two long plaits reaching to below their knees, and braided with colored ribbons. Their bell-sleeved over-gowns of stout brocade were ornately stitched with motifs of their families’ coat-of-arms, while the tight-sleeved kirtles showing beneath were of plain, rich satin. When not wearing the traditional gray, weathermasters favored warm tints such as ambers, honeys, crimsons, golds, and browns, contrasted with black. At their necks and wrists, these colors were accented by splashes of ivory, glimpses of bleached cambric shirts and chemises.
The men and youths of the plateau were garbed in long-sleeved cote-hardies of woolen cloth, some with dagged hems, all displaying bands of embroidery at the cuffs and collars. Their leather belts were lush with embossing, and their headgear consisted of a capuchon with liripipe, thrown back in the warmth of the Hall. After the prevailing fashion, the plateau-dwelling women wore their gowns open at the front to reveal the kirtle beneath. These were their best clothes, saved for special occasions. Along the edges of their garments they had worked complicated designs of birds and leaves in colored thread. Elderly women covered their heads with wimples and peplums, the married women preferred the couvre-chef with a simple band, and the damsels entwined their hair with ribbons or let it flow freely down their backs, held clear of their brows by fine chain-fillets.
The revelers stood and sat around the perimeter of the Hall to watch the mumming play. This time-honored branch of theater began with the entrance of a group of men who stood silently in a crescent-formation. The mummers always concealed their identities with elaborate masks, and their garments were thickly sewn with strips of cloth, so that that they resembled furry bears, or scarecrows. To aid in the concealment of their faces they wore splendidly decorated hats.
Led by a man dressed in jester’s costume, called the “letter-in,” the mummers took turns to step forward and deliver a short speech. After that, the rest of their display took place in silent mime.
The pivotal part of the ceremony ensued: the Hero-Combat. The “hero,” whose name this year was “Old King Waldemar,” commenced to do silent battle against a number of enemies attacking him in succession. These assailants bore names such as “The Bold Slasher,” “The Black Prince of Paradine,” and “The Turkey Snipe.” After some lively combat, one of the contenders, not necessarily the miscreant, was
inevitably “slain,” to the consternation of some of the younger children in the audience.
Fortunately, a “druid” never failed to turn up at the right moment. He would proceed to eulogize his own skills in the most improbable terms, and tell implausible tales of his foreign peregrinations, until the audience was bent double, in fits of laughter. The “druid” would then marvelously revive the “dead” man.
When these enactments had concluded, the “druid” waltzed off to change his costume.
“Why are there no druids here at High Darioneth?” asked Jewel, suddenly struck by the dearth.
The miller and his wife exchanged glances.
Mildthrythe cleared her throat. “Not that the Maelstronnar lacks respect for that worthy brotherhood,” she murmured, somewhat awkwardly. “On the contrary! However, he deems their presence here unnecessary. We send yearly tithes to the sanctorum at King’s Winterbourne; in return the druids intercede with the Fates on our behalf.”
“My great-grandmother used to say the druids were nothing but drones,” said Jewel clearly.
Mildthrythe coughed. Her mouth pursed as if she were trying to suppress a smile, and a look of amusement flitted briefly across her husband’s features. “Indeed? Well, ehrm”—delicately she cleared her throat—“such opinions must not be spoken aloud.”
Jewel nodded, returning their smiles.
The wassailing bowl went around again, and as the garnet glow of sunset streamed through the windows, it was time for the longsword dancing. During the performance darkness drew in quickly. Afterward, bagpipers struck up tunes and feasting resumed.
The dancing commenced. Partners lined up for an eightsome reel, and the center of Long Gables exploded into a whirl of movement, a swirl of skirts, an eruption of leaping and galloping. As she skipped through a “strip-the-willow” with Ryence Darglistel, Jewel looked across to the far wall, along which a row of people without partners was seated. She felt a pang of pity for them. On the other side of the room the Maelstronnar’s son Arran Stormbringer stood, framed by an architrave. Jewel had the impression he had been watching her, and when their eyes met she thought he smiled, but she was whisked away in the dance, and could not be certain.
After performing the “Dashing White Sergeant” and “Sir Roger of Coverley,” the musicians paused to retune their instruments and the Master of Ceremonies announced a “Gentlemen’s Choice.” All the men were entitled to choose their own partners, and the lady they chose was not permitted to refuse. In order to prevent a stampede, the men had to form a queue in front of the Master of Ceremonies. This in itself caused a furore of jostling and pushing, to the hilarity of the onlookers, particularly Jewel, who doubled over in a fit of laughter.
Near the front of the queue was Arran Stormbringer. When his turn came, he began to stride across the Hall.
“Many damsels will hope,” murmured Elfgifu at Jewel’s elbow. “I conjecture ’twill be Ettie he seeks.”
At these words, Jewel felt an unexpected twinge of vexation.
Yet it was not toward Ettare Sibilaurë that the Storm Lord’s son was heading. He was moving toward the group with whom Jewel was keeping company.
“By all that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Elfgifu. “He comes this way!” Her face was crimson and her hands fluttered ineffectually at the strands of hair rebeling from beneath her velvet cap. Impatient with her friend’s primping, Jewel stood on tiptoe and craned her neck to peer past the shoulders of those surrounding her. She was wondering how Ryence had tolerated the ignominy of not being first in the queue, and felt unable to resist the delicious notion of taunting him. Ryence’s mother, Astolat, was standing right beside her. She calculated she ought to move a little apart from that well-respected lady before she indulged in teasing her son, despite the fact that Ryence never paid much attention to either of his parents.
The young Stormbringer halted before the group of women and damsels, directly in front of Jewel. To her own surprise and confusion she felt her heartbeat racing, and the blood rising in her face. Arran, however, made a courteous bow to Astolat Darglistel and offered her his hand. The lady took it, with a smile and a curtsey, and they made their way to the center of the floor to await the other couples.
Quickly recovering her poise, Jewel glanced about to see if anyone had noticed her brief lapse of composure. Everyone, even the damsels who had hoped to partner him, was smiling in approval of Arran’s decision to dance with his aunt instead of one of them. Next moment, Jewel’s hand was taken by Bliant Ymberbaillé-Rainbearer, the son of Baldulf, and she was led into the fray.
As Jewel passed amongst the growing assembly of couples, young Darglistel was suddenly at her ear, whispering provokingly, “I avoided being first in line because you would expect me to choose you.” Angrily she spun on her heel to deliver some caustic retort, but he had already disappeared into the crowd with his dance partner.
Bliant was slight of build and dark of hair, with a long face and a wide mouth. He was one of those people whose every thought and feeling was displayed on their countenance, whose expressions flit and change like cloudshadows on a windy day. His motives were laid bare for all to scrutinize, and, like an eldritch wight, he was incapable of lying. All who knew him honored him as a true stalwart and a worthy young man. He was a capable dancer, although no expert. Jewel might have enjoyed his company, had her thoughts not been focused elsewhere.
Between dances, Ettare asked, “Jewel, why were you frowning at everyone so, after Arran took Ryence’s mother to partner?”
“I imagined some people might be dissatisfied with his choice.”
“Fiddlesticks! As far as I am concerned, I’ll not deny I had half hoped, but he made the lady Astolat very happy. As all are aware, her husband, Branor, is quite ill, and unable to attend occasions like these. Arran has not offended anyone—certainly not Ryence, who is an unsolicitous son, and not even the many other damsels vying for his attentions. Besides, I have danced with him many times this night, and doubtless shall do so again!”
She was not mistaken. Later, she and the young Stormbringer embarked on an escapade of ridiculous capers, to the delight of a group of children. Gales of laughter blew across the Hall. Hovering at the edge of her circle of friends, Jewel was watching their antics when a youth stepped close and drew her aside. Not surprisingly, it was Ryence Darglistel. He offered a cup of wine that sparkled like carbuncles in the firelight.
“I refuse to speak with you,” she said childishly, turning her shoulder to him.
“I will teach you to call the rain,” he coaxed.
“I’ve done with all that.”
“When I am made a mage, I will take you in a sky-balloon.”
The temptation was too great, even though she knew his promises were generally hollow.
“Good!” She snatched the wine cup from his hand.
“Put on your cloak. Come outside to see the bonfires.”
Effecting a shrug to display her indifference, she complied.
They walked under the stars. Vaporous ghosts hovered before their mouths as their breath condensed on the air. Rowan Green was illuminated by the bonfires, whose flames roared like the wind.
“Why have you been asking questions about the Dome of Strang?” Darglistel asked, causing Jewel to realize she had not been as discreet with her inquiries as she thought.
“None of your business,” she retorted, whereupon he, simulating outrage at her insolence, grasped her in a firm embrace. She threw herself off balance and they toppled together, rolling in the dew-damp grass, laughing. Naively, she was viewing their high jinks as a child’s game. Then all at once the laughter was gone and she became aware he lay across her, his weight pressing her against the ground. He was trembling between her arms; quivering, but not from the cold. The unexpected awareness of her effect on him rushed through her in a pulse of excitement. Yet it was also, suddenly, alarming.
Pulling away from him, she stood up, brushing grass-blades from her skirts.
> “Now you’ve had your kiss, you must pay for it,” she dared to say, undaunted though uncertain. Still lying on the sward, he leaned on his elbow, his head cocked slightly to one side, waiting, play-acting as if indifferent. “Tell me all you know about the Dome of Strang.”
“That’s easily done,” he said. “I know naught.”
With an exclamation of disbelief and disgust she stamped her foot. He sprang to his feet, but she was already off, running. With him in close pursuit, leaping over tussocks, she was breathless with laughter and exertion, torn between exhilaration and fear that he might catch her.
She doubled back toward the crowd gathered about the bonfire, and he was forced to abandon his pursuit.
For two weeks the weather remained comparatively mild, after which there came a sudden cold snap. Light powderings of snow dusted the ground, and the air cracked like crystal. Indeed, the landscape was so still and quiet that it might well have been entombed in glass. Pools and puddles were frozen solid. Glazes of translucent ice rimmed the duck pond and the mill-pond. The way bright sunbeams refracted dazzlingly through icicles and beads of frost reminded Jewel of the gem from the Iron Tree. She removed it from its storage box to admire it. Its beauty was such that she decided to wear it on its chain about her neck, concealed beneath layers of cold-weather clothing.
The dream of falling returned to trouble Jewel, and after one particularly restless night she woke early, on the cusp of dawn. Welcoming first light as her rescuer from nightmare, the marsh-daughter slipped from her couch without rousing the household. Jittery, unwilling to return to sleep lest she be plagued by monstrous visions, she dressed warmly and stole outdoors.
Gray-green, silver, and white was the world, striped with soft shadows the color of wood-smoke. The ground was alabaster. Frost lay in luxurious swathes across the mill-yard and the surrounding fields. Each sugar-coated blade of grass was fringed with spiky crystals. Each fallen leaf was edged with glassy beads, its veins picked out in lines of silver, its surface a constellation. On the roofs of the outbuildings, where the first rays struck, the frost was already starting to melt. The ends of the eaves glimmered with swift trickles that sang a merry, chortling melody. In the yards, the tops of the stone walls and wooden fences were lavishly slathered with a layer of fragile diamantes.
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 15