The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “Yet, by the Time this Knowledge came to me, nought had been seen of these Beasts and Fowl for Five Hundred Years or more, so I concluded that either they had perished, or they had never existed except in the Fancies of Storytellers.

  “Always I believed the Tales to be of no Substance until by chance I stumbled across ancient Tablets inscribed by Philosophers of great Knowledge. While perusing an Account of a captive Deer that was Immortal, I first guessed there might be Truth behind the Legend.

  “I postulated that these Beasts and Fowl that had become no more than Rumors might still exist, and if so, then due to their extraordinary Longevity they might well have accumulated a vast Store of Knowledge. Having grown acute, and wary of Traps, they had avoided Capture and fled where Humankind could no longer find them. This, then, was the reason they could no longer be found.

  “To further my Research I trapped and questioned some of the feebler and more innocuous eldritch Wights. Their inability to tell Untruths proved an estimable Asset and I achieved Success, for after some Persuasion, the Wights informed me they had indeed encountered Beasts that could not die. Alas, despite my close Interrogation the Wights were unable to tell me how those Creatures had attained the State of Deathlessness.

  “For many Years I endeavored to find out the Source of Immortality. By the Time I won the Answer I was old, far older than any common Man may become, and too weak to leave the Dome in person, in order to obtain the Draughts. And I trusted no Other to the Business! What Servant could resist the Temptation to take the Prize himself?

  “This is how the Answer was found: At length I snared yet another Wight of eldritch, and it told me, from its very Mouth, that more than a Millennium ago it had seen an ordinary Hare drink from a certain Well and that Hare became immortal. ‘Does the Well endure yet, and are there any others like it?’ I asked, and the small, chittering Thing answered yea, the Well endured, and there existed more. And I made it describe them to me.

  “Then I wondered why, when the Wells had existed for Centuries, only three Creatures had ever benefited from them. But the Wight divulged that the Cailleach Bheur had spread a Warning amongst the Beasts and Birds and even among the Amphibians and Insects and all manner of Organisms: ‘Do not drink from the Star-Wells!’ The sufferings of the three immortal Beasts became widely known to the Creatures of the Wild, and they shunned the Wells as if the Waters were lethally poisonous. No Human Being had ever discovered the Wells. For me, however, a Man of superior Intellect, perilously close to Death, Time was running out.

  “After that, knowing I had not the Strength to leave my Domains, I remained and studied my Lore-Books, while hastily plotting how I might gain a Draught to cure all my Ills, restore my Youth, and prolong my Existence for Eternity. Now that I knew their Locations, many more Revelations I uncovered about the Wells. If you pass the Tests you will learn all.

  “Alas, my Time is running out and when you read this I will be long gone. Weep for me, Kinsman, for all you have of me now is my Estate, my written Records of Wisdom, the Bones of my Hand, and my Benediction flowing in your Arteries.”

  Arran paused in his monologue. His face was flushed and his eyes had become infused with a yearning sparkle. “ ’Tis all true, then!” he marveled. “I, too, have heard the legends of the three undying beasts. It is beyond belief, that the gift of Immortality might be almost within our grasp! To live forever—that is a prize mankind has sought since time immemorial!” He continued to read:

  “Herewith, the History of the Wells of Life Everlasting:

  “Long ago, at an earlier Dawn, a Star fell from the Sky. It burned as it fell, and broke into Portions that flew widely apart. Their Size, by the Instant they struck the Rocks of Tir, were reduced to less than that of a Sparrow’s Egg. Yet the Speed at which they fell was so great that the Force of Impact was severe. Each of these Portions created a small Crater where it struck, a deep cup-shaped Hollow no bigger than, say, an Eagle’s Nest. On Impact the Pieces of the Missile’s Core—all that was left—melted in a great Heat. The alien Material sprayed out, coating the Sides of each Depression with a Substance not of this World; a curious Metal born in the outer Choirs of the Heavens. Wights call this metal Star’s Heart, and it covers the Interiors of each Crater-Well, as Velvet lines the Husk of a Walnut.

  “After the Metal cooled one of the Wells filled with Water from the Clouds, and the Wights called it the Well of Rain. The Water in the Wells comes from the Skies and Airs and Rocks of Tir, but the extraordinary Power of the Stars takes more than a thousand Years to seep from the Metal into the Water, undergo a Reaction, and accumulate sufficient Concentration to prolong a Man’s Life forever. Because the process takes so long each Well contains only enough Water for one single Draught—a mere Thimbleful. Yet that is sufficient to save the Life of one Mortal Creature.

  “I tell you this, Kinsman, so that you may live forever and my Dynasty endure for all Time. At least in this manner I might attain some Degree of Immortality.

  “Now, Kinsman, if you wish to obtain the Draught from the Well of Rain, you must swear the Oath and turn to the next Page. Then you will learn where to find the Prize.”

  Immediately Arran tried to turn the page. It would not budge, even when his strong fingers scrabbled at the edges, and prised at the corners. “Some sorcery has made this fast,” he concluded somberly.

  “It would seem we must swear this oath, if we are to unseal the book,” Jewel said uncertainly. “Can you deduce any harm coming from such a course?”

  “I think not,” said her companion, after a meditative pause. “I can find no harm in it, no matter which way I judge the matter. For if the oath is sworn, and the oath-swearer departs and does nothing, and returns not to this chamber, the curse will never fall. It is only if the oath-swearer finds this Draught and returns here without it that the bones of the sorcerer will take revenge.”

  Jewel had memorized the oath, and repeated it first without placing her hand on the reliquary. “I can find no catch in it, either,” she said. “Let us try this quest! For if we fail to find it, we shall be no worse off than before, yet if we succeed—oh!” Her shining eyes and exuberant gestures articulated the excitement that rendered her speechless.

  Arran could only share her enthusiasm. The prospect of obtaining the miraculous prize forever sought by humankind filled his young heart with a formidable excitement. In particular, it came to him that by means of such potent waters Jewel’s prosperity might be made secure for all time. For years he had loved her from afar. His love for her was as profound as it was abiding. It saturated his being, pervaded every breath he drew, and companioned his every moment. For her delicate, fine-boned beauty he loved her, and for her unselfconscious charm; for her open-handedness and forthright ways, her vehemence, her courage and audacity, and for qualities that he could not name. Indeed, he even loved her for her occasional conceitedness, for he judged that if people were to be capable of thinking favorably of others, they must first have a high opinion of themselves. The marsh-daughter attracted him like no other. To be sure, there were sweeternatured, meeker girls amongst his acquaintances, but it was only she who, by her very existence, could answer his unspoken questions and fill the empty places of his spirit.

  He recognized that she either was unaware of his passion or wished to appear oblivious of it, furthermore, he was uncertain whether she would reciprocate even if she knew, but none of this diminished his ardency in any respect. He desired only her welfare, her happiness—her company, too, whenever she cared to grant it. His affection was so enduring he could continue to cherish her, steadfastly, without asking acknowledgment, or anything at all, in return.

  “I wonder whether making this pledge will unseal the page and reveal information on how to reach this well, or if it is all just some trick,” he mused.

  The damsel crossed to the alcove opposite the one which contained the lectern and book. Here, upon a marble stand, stood a ceramic urn, painted and adorned with the ubiquitous cros
sed axes.

  “See, Arran!” she proclaimed. “Herein, I daresay, are contained the relics of the sorcerer. I shall swear on his bones, even if it has no effect.”

  Said the Storm Lord’s son, waking from his reverie, “We shall not know, unless we try.” Their gazes interlocked.

  Placing her hand on the domed lid of the urn, Jewel said loudly, “I swear by the Bones of my Ancestor that if I find the Draught from the Well of Rain I will bring it to the Tope of Castle Strang, and light the flame to signify the deed is done.”

  They both looked expectantly at the book.

  Nothing happened.

  Once again, Arran tried to lever the pages apart, to no avail.

  “How vexing!” cried Jewel, stamping her foot. Louder than ever, she called out the oath, as if by sheer force of volume her voice could break the spell. As she did so she pressed down hard on the reliquary, with both hands.

  Two clicks echoed through the Tope.

  The reliquary sank about an inch into its stand, and a clasp on the side of the book flew undone.

  “The page is turning!” Arran exclaimed. She darted to his side.

  Jewel, single-mindedly intent on the book and thoughtlessly jostling close against him so that a wave of sweet heat seared through his body, followed the newly revealed words as he uttered them.

  “In southern Ashqalêth, atop the Comet’s Pinnacle in Saadiah, there you shall find the Well of Rain. Eldritch Wights guard the Pinnacles from Climbers. Local lore tells of a riddle: ‘Who is borne by a Moth’s Cradle, he may reach the Summit.’

  “Take from this Tope the Vessel of Ivory, to carry the Draught. My true Kinsman will possess the Wit to reach the Prize.”

  Arran turned another page, but there was no further prose—only blank parchment. Frenziedly he rifled through the entire book; however, there was no more to be read, and even as he turned back to the inscribed pages the writing appeared to be bleaching and fading.

  Under his breath he mumbled a curse.

  Jewel, on the contrary, was pleased. “Atop one of the pinnacles of Saadiah!” she exclaimed. “I have heard of them. Saadiah is in Ashqalêth, and the famous pinnacles are tall and sheer. Their crowns are indeed far beyond the reach of the common man! Yet how easy it shall be, in a sky-balloon, to attain such a lofty perch.”

  “The statutes of Ellenhall do not permit the use of a sky-balloon for purposes other than weatherworking,” her companion said somberly.

  He sank deep into thought. Jewel paced the length of the chamber, defiantly tossing her hair. “I will not let the lack of a sky-balloon be an obstacle to this quest,” she said eventually. “I have no idea how the pinnacles are to be scaled, but as my grandfather always said, ‘Let us cross that bridge when we come to it, and not before.’ ” She ceased pacing and came to a halt beside the alcove that sheltered the three ornate drinking vessels. “Here is the vessel of ivory,” she said, picking up a tiny, lidded horn no bigger than her thumb, and clasped with gold. “The book says we may take it. And besides, it is mine already, for am I not the heir to all of this?” After loosening the drawstring of Arran Storm-bringer’s pack, she stowed the container within. He made no objection, merely resting his contemplative gaze upon her. Had she not been preoccupied she might have recognized the strength of feeling in that gaze.

  “We shall seek the Well of Rain!” Jewel cried out impulsively.

  Following this bold proclamation they both ceased to breathe for several moments, half expecting some momentous recognition of the words that had been spoken, a burst of light, the boom of a gong, some amazing revelation. Yet there was nothing. The flames continued to hiss softly, like the sigh of escaping steam, but no other sound came to their ears, for Arran had let his summoned breeze die away. They became conscious, all at once, of the labyrinthine halls and empty corridors of Castle Strang spread out around them, as repressive as a net, enclosing them with their tomb-like stillness and with a silence heavy with premonition, conscious, too, of the downstairs courtyard and the wall in which the woman had been incarcerated, where she still waited to be released, and of the tens of thousands of stones that bricked the structure of Castle Strang, each of which might be hiding secrets even more shocking.

  Simultaneously, they wished to depart forthwith.

  “But what if this Well is dry?” said Jewel in a low voice, as they hurried from the Tope and down the stair that coiled like a subcutaneous worm around the skull of the Dome.

  “Then we shall go home,” replied Arran Stormbringer, “and I will answer to my father for vexing him by hieing off on this expedition and neglecting my duties.”

  Along the deserted corridors the pair made haste. They were alternately illuminated with flashes of sunlight and drowned in purple shadow as they passed the windows, scuffing their own recent footprints in the dust. Through cavernous chambers they went, each hall stripped bare of precious ornament yet with its splendor preserved in the soaring arches, pleated columns, and monumental carvings of ebony. In and out of the echoing refectory they sped, past the barren table flanked by its tall-backed chairs, through the double doors, down the grand staircase, along the length of the outer hall, and out the portals whose feet were splashed with the black stains of ancient blood. Without stopping they descended the shallow steps into the courtyard. Desiccated leaves crunched beneath their boots as they crossed the cold flagstones, shadowed by the belltower with its seized-up clock. The gates in the wall still hung open on their hinges, but after the couple made their exit Jewel slammed the portals firmly shut, before locking them with the ornate key.

  Outside the fortress the fresh air seemed pure and invigorating, and the soft caress of Orielthir’s natural breezes was like swimming in silk. Together, the youth and damsel ran down the slope without a backward glance. Toward the southwest they set their faces, as if in unspoken agreement, for to the southwest lay the region called Saadiah, on the far side of Ashqalêth.

  They did not look back at the bleached bones of slaughtered men scattered along the base of the wall, or the brooding Dome rising out of the castle’s center like the carapace of a giant tortoise with a bell upon its back; nor did they review the sparse grove of elms where Jewel had taken shelter the previous night.

  If they had done so, they might have noticed a furtive flicker of movement amongst the rustling trees. A man lurked there, watching them. Beneath the dappled shade his thinning hair glimmered, for an instant, like polished brass.

  A long path lay before Jewel and Arran; the highway called the Valley Road, running from Cathair Rua, past the hills of Bellaghmoon and across the Ashqalêthan border, where it changed its name, becoming the Desert Road. Such a journey would be too extensive and arduous to undertake without the purchase of horses and extra provisions. With this in mind, the travelers made their way to Cathair Rua.

  They entered the city by way of the road that passed through the Fair Field to the eastern gate. At this season the field lay empty; no pushcarts trundled hither and thither; no clowns or jongleurs performed for pennies. The clutter of tents, booths, and stands had given way to a sparse scattering of abandoned rubbish: torn hempen bags, frayed bits of string, bent nails, stones, fragments of pottery, nubs of charcoal, a few gnawed bones. The neighing of horses, the spruiking of vendors, and the laughter of children were no more than memories. Only a random breeze went swooping and complaining over the expanse of littered, stamped-down soil.

  It was late in the month of Jule. Midsummer’s Day was long past, and even Swan Upping would be over by now, in the Great Marsh. The marshfolk would be looking ahead to Rushbearing in Aoust. Meanwhile, the days lay warm and heavy on Slievmordhu, screened with motes of sunlight borne on dust-specks. The skies were unblemished and vividly blue, as if thickly painted with cyanic lacquers.

  Within the city’s walls of rufous sandstone, business continued as usual. Slievmordhuan citizens trafficked with Ashqalêthans garbed ostentatiously in raiment of ocher and apricot, or haggled with tough, vehement s
eafarers from Grïmnørsland, or paid their respects to the grave knights of Narngalis, or tried to ingratiate themselves with minions of the druids of the sanctorum. Above the streets, the alleys, the taverns, squares, hovels, and mansions, the flags of the palace stirred limply in the tepid and lazy airs.

  Evening was drawing in as Jewel and Arran passed through the crowded thoroughfares. “We should avoid the Three Barrels, a lodging-house favored by my kindred,” said the young weathermaster, “and we must endeavor not to draw attention to ourselves. My face is known in some quarters hereabouts. If I were to be recognized, questions would be asked. Who is my fair companion? And where are we going? Lying is distasteful to us both; therefore discretion is the better option.”

  “Verily,” agreed Jewel. Her head swiveled from right to left as she tried to view everything in the populous precincts at once. “Should it be discovered that we journey to fetch the waters of eternal life, the entire population of the four kingdoms must surely descend on our shoulders!”

  “I shall refer to you as some relation of mine,” said Arran. “My wife, or my sister.”

  “Your sister,” said Jewel.

  “My sister,” he repeated, smiling wryly. “Does that please you?”