The girl’s fingers clenched. She felt stunned. Her ears seemed numb, as if they had been dealt a ringing blow. As serenely as she could manage, she said, “I will give you a silver threepence if you promise to tell no one else anything about what you see in me, or in my future.”
“Of course, my dear!” exclaimed the woman. “All that passes within my wagon is confidential.”
Jewel swallowed, trying to pacify her thumping heart.
“Give me your hand,” the gypsy said. She bent her head over Jewel’s extended palm, examining it closely. “I see sickness,” she said. “Someone in your life is ill.”
In response to her questioning look, Jewel nodded somberly. “Yes. You are right.” Branor Blackfrost lay on his deathbed. Blostma’s baby had the croup. Mildthrythe Miller was troubled with arthritis.
“And what is this?” the woman continued, conning Jewel’s palm once more. “I see a certain shape—is it half an egg, perhaps? Or a bubble sitting on a flat surface?”
Her client squirmed. The woman’s accuracy was unnerving. “Are you mortal, ma’am?”
“I am.” The gypsy uttered a low, throaty laugh. “However, I am gifted with powers no ordinary mortal possesses. And now I see ’tis no bubble, but the domed roof of a fortress or castle. Indeed, if I am not mistaken, ’tis the Dome of Strang itself!”
Dumbfounded by amazement and trepidation, Jewel could only nod again.
“How strange, that I should see such a place so clearly, written upon your hand,” the gypsy said musingly, “for ’tis an abode steeped in legend. Queer things happened there in ages past, so they say. But for the present, wondrous riches lie within, expertly crafted objects of great beauty, and coffers of jewels.”
“Guarded by sorcery, so I have heard,” said Jewel, faintly, “and by the king’s men.”
“No longer do Royal Guardsmen keep vigil at the Dome,” the gypsy replied. “Have you not heard? King Uabhar has declared it a waste of manpower, since death awaits all who try to unlock it. I see adventure written in these lines upon your hand, and love—”
But Jewel had pulled her hand away. “You say the Dome is no longer guarded?” she exclaimed, endeavoring to conceal her excitement.
“Why yes, child. Have those tidings not yet arrived in this mountain fastness? You appear perturbed—”
“No.” Hastily, Jewel returned her hand to the woman’s gentle grasp. “I am not perturbed. Why should I be?”
“Perhaps you pictured the treasures of the Dome, and long for them, as many folk do.”
“Not I,” said Jewel, surprising herself by realizing her denial was close to the truth. “I do not long for wealth. All the fortune I require is right here in my home: friendship, merriment, and good food upon the table.” To herself she acknowledged, It is a fact, I have no desire to acquire wealth in the way most folk envisage it—the accumulation of gold and jewels for their own sake. What I long for is the means to safeguard the life I now live and the people who have shown me kindness, and the wherewithal to rescue others from such persecution and misery as I have endured.
“Your values are meritorious,” said the woman. “I am of one mind with you, although I confess I long to uncover the rare vellum-bound volumes of lore secreted within the Dome, the volumes of healing secrets that might benefit all mortalkind.”
She returned to the topic of future romance, but Jewel heard nothing of her words. The notion of the books of healing lore had seized Jewel’s awareness, imbuing her with inspiration. When the fortune-telling session was over she paid the woman the silver threepenny coin and departed in a state of disquiet.
After Jewel had gone, a curtain partitioning the rear of the wagon stirred, and was thrust aside. A man stepped out. His beard was the color of sun-bleached straw, and his features bore some resemblance to the woman’s. He appeared to be about forty Winters old, but may have been younger than his looks indicated. Spare and gaunt was his frame, testament to a hard life.
“She believed all,” the woman said to him. “I am certain of it.”
“Perhaps,” answered the man.
“I played the part well, did I not?”
“Perhaps,” the man repeated. His pastel eyes were unfocused, as though he saw through the woman, as if she were some wraith.
“She resembles her father,” his half-sister said wistfully. “Are you certain she can come to no harm from this venture?”
“You said yourself, she is invulnerable.”
“To everything save for the weapon that slew him,” murmured Fionnuala, “whatever it was. What now?”
“We watch, as ever. We wait and watch,” averred Fionnbar Aonarán.
The Oswaldtwistle Traveling Players and the peddlers had set up their encampment along one border of Greatlawn Common; over in the center, a football game was beginning. Rivalen Hagelspildar played the bagpipes while the ball, a large water-filled leather bag, was carried out to a step-ladder set up in the middle of the meadow. Bliant Ymberbaillé climbed up with the ball, then threw it off the top of the ladder, and the battle commenced. It was a catch-as-catch-can roughhouse, played according to very few rules by two teams of unrestricted size. These teams were known as the Upp’ards and the Down’ards and their object was simply to get the ball through the goals at either end of Greatlawn Common, almost half a mile apart. Up and down the pitch the players surged, with the ball moving by means of a succession of fiercely contested shoving matches. The event would finish at sunset, when Avalloc Stormbringer would award the ball, as a trophy, to the team with the most goals.
Jewel searched for the Storm Lord and found him amongst the spectators who traveled up and down on the sidelines, watching the game and cheering for the players.
“Sir, may I speak with you a moment?” she asked.
He walked with her away from the rowdy scene, and they halted beneath the eaves of some leafless oaks. The weathermaster turned his attention to the girl, who, as succinctly as possible, told him the tale of the sorcerer’s curse and her family’s hereditary madness, as related to her by Earnán. “But all is well now,” she concluded, “because the curse is nullified.”
Avalloc nodded, studying the damsel closely from beneath his beetling brows. “I see. Yours is an interesting history, to say the least. But there is something else you wish to tell me,” he stated.
After taking a deep breath, Jewel launched into her rehearsed speech. “Indeed there is, sir. I ask your approval for an expedition I propose to make. Recently it has been made known to me that the old fortress built by the Sorcerer of Strang, sealed up for several score of years, is no longer under guard. The fortress is said to contain, in addition to precious treasure, many books of healing and other lore. As the sorcerer’s sole living descendant, I am the only one who can retrieve them. Should I do so, ’twould benefit not only our people here, but all of mortalkind. I wish to journey to the Dome of Strang as soon as possible.”
The Storm Lord did not reply straightaway. Contemplatively, he rubbed his hooked nose.
Then, somewhat acerbically he said, “Dear me. How do you intend to travel, this time, hmm?”
“With a well-provisioned company on horseback. If nobody can be spared from High Darioneth, I shall ask the Millers for the loan of a steed, and go alone.”
“My dear child, are you fully aware of the perils that exist in the lands between here and Orielthir?”
“In every respect, sir. All regions may harbor unseelie wights or Marauders, or both. Yet my companions would be armed with steel and weathermastery, and I myself am well protected, don’t you agree?”
“No, Jewel,” he said sharply, “I do not.”
Her eyes blazed with indignation, but she governed her temper, saying querulously, “What can you mean?”
“I mean, you may be invulnerable to fire and water, to rope and edge and all similar scourges of mortalkind, but you are not immune to captivity. Is that not why, in the past, you have desisted from trying this very course?”
“Indeed, but that is a risk no longer. As I have told you, the king’s soldiers have given up watching the Dome!” Reading the displeasure on Stormbringer’s face, Jewel regretted her disrespectful tone.
“Take care, my dear,” he warned, “or your reckless ways might bring you grief. I know full well that the Dome is no longer guarded. The news came to our ears at Ellenhall some while ago.”
Hanging her head, Jewel said, “Forgive my presumption. But,” she subjoined, tilting up her chin again, “I must go. And I hope for your approval.”
“That I can never give,” Avalloc replied. “I never shall dispatch my people on a foolhardy journey to an unworthy destination. Nothing but wickedness is associated with that place. What do you really know of the supposed secrets of the Dome, hmm? All this talk of treasure and books of lore is only hearsay. The place may well be empty.”
“But the sorcerer would not have sealed it if there were nothing inside,” she insisted.
“How might you know how the mind of an unscrupulous madman works?” chided Stormbringer. “Come to your senses, dear girl. Instead of longing for that which is out of reach, look around you. Breathe deeply, and cherish the day.”
“I will go,” she said angrily, “whether you approve or not.”
His wrath was ferocious but contained, like fire deep within the core of a mountain. “I advise against it,” he said abruptly. With that he strode away, returning to the football game.
When his back was turned, Jewel kicked at the oak-roots that gripped the icy ground. “You cannot forbid me,” she muttered. “You have no right to govern me; you are not my father.”
Certain of the efficacy of the protective wards set on her, Jewel made up her mind to follow her desire. That same Salt’s Day evening she paid a visit to Herebeorht and Blostma Miller in their apartments, as they sat by the cradle of their infant son, endeavoring to rock him to sleep. The child’s frequent coughs were loud and hollow, more like the booming of some marsh-bird than a human utterance. Blostma had set bowls of steaming water near the cradle, to humidify the air.
After Jewel had inquired as to the baby’s progress, she told them of her plan, as she had outlined it to the Storm Lord. Entrusting the secret of her identity to the Maelstronnar family had emboldened her, making her more inclined to yield it to others in whom she invested confidence; therefore she laid out her entire history, candidly, before the astonished couple.
“And so,” she concluded, “I must ask if you would mind lending me a pony—perhaps Cloverleaf, for he is old and not much use about the place these days.”
The infant wailed. Blostma lifted him from the cradle and began walking up and down the room, holding him on her shoulder and crooning softly.
Herebeorht shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “Jewel,” he said, without meeting her gaze, “you know there is very little that Blostma and I would not do for you. We love you dearly, and you have done us a service we can never fully repay. However, the Maelstronnar spoke to me and my father at the football game this afternoon. He advised us not to lend you any form of transportation, if you should happen to ask.”
Jewel fumed, biting back comments about unfair and heavy-handed intervention.
“Also,” said Herebeorht awkwardly, “he told us to inform you that if you go alone despite his advice, it will be your own choice and you must face the consequences. He said, ‘Tell her she is not our prisoner here. If she leaves, I will not order pursuit, neither will we rescue her from folly.’ ”
Rising to his feet, he gently took from his wife the bundle of blankets within which the ailing child was wrapped. Blostma sat down to rest, while in her place her husband began pacing up and down holding the babe in his arms, humming tunelessly.
The young mother wiped a strand of damp hair from her forehead. Her face was strained and haggard. It was apparent to Jewel that being wedded inflicted this enervating effect on people. In general she did not think highly of marriage, and once had fleetingly wished that Ryence Darglistel would ask for her vow, so that she might refuse him.
Yet, what kind of future did High Darioneth hold in store for her? Trying to guess what the years ahead might bring if she remained there, she visualized only the mill and the orchards, hard work and times of high merriment, perhaps, after all, marriage and children, housekeeping, the passing of decades that would blend into one another, and, in the end, all seem the same. The concept of such a fate sent a frisson of dismay snaking down her spine. She was seized by a sudden urgency to use the days of her life in some mightily consequential manner, instead of frittering them away wastefully in mundane endeavors.
Earnestly, Blostma said to Jewel, “You say it was one of the gypsies who told you the Dome is now unguarded. I wish you would not give custom to those folk. Myself, I have no love for them. If their old overworked nags fall down in the road between the wagon-shafts, too exhausted to go on, the gypsies think nothing of digging a hole and lighting a fire beneath the poor beasts to force them to rise. I have seen it.”
Jewel exclaimed in revulsion. “I will not visit the gypsies again, you may be certain!” she said vehemently.
Then, as if to console her visitor for conjuring such images of cruelty, Blostma said gently, “It is well that you are not going away. We are all looking forward to the forthcoming festivals of Spring—Mai Day will be upon us soon, with bonfires and heggin-cake and Bringing in the May. Moreover, with the change in the season, I am certain this dreadful croup will leave our darling. We shall all have jolly times together.”
The young woman’s innocent earnestness was moving. Jewel loved the Miller family and was unreservedly thankful to them for succoring her. Her desire to please them warred with her compelling hunger to venture forth in search of her inheritance. Irretrievably, her contentment at High Darioneth had been lost in any case; she knew that this restlessness would never allow her a moment’s peace, if she did not set forth on this venture. Contrition threatened to swamp Jewel’s eyes with tears—the words of her friends could not change her mind, but she felt ashamed that she was about to deceive them.
She spent the following week making preparations for her journey, in secret so as to postpone worrying the Millers and avoid their trying to dissuade her. The secrecy added to her moral discomfort, but did not sway her from her purpose.
Next War’s Day night she departed under cover of darkness, leaving behind a note of explanation, gratitude, apology, and farewell. She left High Darioneth as she had first arrived—through the hidden passage of the Southeast Door.
The Dome
With her, Jewel took her old pack—which was well provisioned with necessities, including a map—and a well-worn cloak of waterproof oilcloth, lined with marten-pelts, which could be used as a blanket. At the worst, she knew she could go without food and survive, sustained by air and sunlight, like plants—perhaps nourished by the light of moon and stars as well, and even, perhaps, by rock and soil, although she did not care to try eating them.
The mountain nights were bitingly cold, although she hardly noticed. The warm layers of her clothing were fashioned from fabrics of high quality; trousers of dimity, cross-gartered up to the knee, a woolen petticoat, and a kirtle of frieze—both hemmed at mid-calf rather than at the ankle, to allow greater freedom of movement. Despite the original high quality of the fabrics, age and wear had stained them. They were patched, and ragged as dandelion leaves at the edges. To travel alone dressed in finery invited robbery. To go clad as a beggar would be safer. A capuchon like a confection of overlapping textiles adorned her head, while her feet were shod with stout, laced boots that reached up over the ankle. On a chain beneath her garments the white jewel dangled at her collarbone.
Through the defile she flitted, past the Hot Pool and down steep, meandering trails that were almost invisible, but more familiar to her now because she had sometimes passed that way with her friends, on jaunts and picnics. The air was sharp with a hint of ozone. Far off, thunder growled. As the night thi
ckened, she descended the mountainside, her footsteps guided by a flickering torch in her hand. Its topaz brilliance threw up gigantic shadows on every wall of gneiss, every slope of mossy granite, every outcrop of stacked slates, and illuminated the crowds of tall, straight eucalyptus trees that towered up until lost from view. Darkness hemmed the torch’s solitary globe of radiance.
That such a yellow glare flowering in the night must attract attention Jewel understood well. However, she needed the light, for no celestial glimmer penetrated the heavy canopy of cloud on this thunder-brewing night, and the going was not easy. She must tread carefully on the rocky slopes with their thin green skin of dew-beaded mosses, stepping over fallen boughs, avoiding squelchy sphagnum bogs, endeavoring not to slip on the ever-wet rocks, the dripping vegetation, the moist carpets of bark and old leaves. The possibility that she might mis-step and turn her ankle caused her to keep alight the flame. Lameness would heal swiftly, but if she tumbled down some smooth-sided slot or ravine she might remain alone at its nadir for days or weeks before any passer-by heard her calls and came to her rescue. Here on the steep southeastern flanks passers-by were few. The only mortal folk likely to come this way were weathermasters and other inhabitants of High Darioneth. Jewel doubted whether even Marauders would scour these slopes. There was nothing for them here. They could hardly hope to assail High Darioneth successfully, even if they could get in without being seen.
Nonetheless, the scarcity of humankind did not mean a lack of immortalkind. The lone traveler was aware that the outer walls of the mountain ring teemed with eldritch wights. Bogies, trows, and hillmen lurked aboveground, especially during the hours of darkness. The huldre—wights who looked like beauteous damsels except for their long tails, which they endeavored to conceal—played their pipes and tended the water-cattle grazing on the mountain pastures. Underground, various mining wights knocked and rattled in the lodes, while in other caverns spinners whirred their wheels. The mountain tarns were home to lake maidens, or the unseelie fuathan, or waterhorses, or elf-bulls. And there were other things, too grisly to be cataloging in one’s head in the middle of the night, alone in the mountains.
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 22