The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “Even so.” She returned his smile with guileful innocence, but genuine affection.

  It was suppertime. Savory scents drifted from the vicinity of a curbside tavern whose signboard advertised it as the “Ace and Cup,” and the travelers decided to spend the night therein.

  “I have never before set foot in this place,” said Arran. “With luck, no one here will know my face.”

  “I have some coin,” said Jewel.

  “Keep your money. I carry a full purse.”

  “It troubles me to accept charity.”

  “Is it charity, or selfishness, that I enjoy your company? We are traveling together, and I am not short of currency. If you wish, I can sleep in feather beds while you slumber in barns. If you prefer, I can drink wine and eat plum puddings by the fire while you pluck blackberries and drink from puddles. But I would rather it were otherwise.”

  “Very well, if it pleases you so much,” said Jewel. “I will let you spend your money on me, but only as a favor to you. Remember—you now owe me a favor.”

  Well-furnished with trestles, stools, and benches, the Ace and Cup remained one of the better-appointed taverns of Cathair Rua. Mellow evening light lingered, streaming in through its mullioned casements, but already the oil lamps swinging from hooks in the low-beamed ceiling had been set aflame. Their butter-yellow radiance washed over drinkers seated around several tables, men casting dice at another, card-players gaming at another, and a group in a corner gambling at knucklebones. Near the bar, some off-duty guardsmen were betting on the progress of a couple of cockroaches scuttling up the wall.

  In his peasant garb of leggings, wide-sleeved shirt, thigh-length tunic belted at the middle, homespun cap, and stout walking-boots, Arran blended well with the throng. Neither was Jewel obtrusive, save for the unique beauty of her countenance. Her kirtle and capuchon were as weather-beaten and discolored as the raiment of any long-distance pedestrian. Over one shoulder she carried the fur-lined cloak of waterproof oilcloth, rolled tightly and tied with string.

  The common-room was crowded—“Usually a reliable sign of decent fare,” Arran commented as they maneuvered their way through the press. Indeed, he augured rightly, for the meal served to them on wooden platters was ample and delicious. The patrons proved to be as merry as they were many, and it was not long before someone, encouraged by his friends, clambered up onto one of the benches and began to sing:

  “Hairy little knobblin’, hobblin’ goblins,

  Horrid little goblins at my door.

  Grab ’em by the shinbone, thinbone, skinbone,

  Tie ’em to a broomstick, and mop the floor!

  “Nasty little knobblin’, hobblin’ goblins,

  Ugly little heads like oak-tree roots.

  Pick ’em up and slay them, splay them, flay them,

  Tan their stringy hides to make my boots!

  “Stupid little knobblin’, hobblin’ goblins

  Make a jolly game when they get caught.

  Roll ’em up and tie them, dry them, fly them,

  Kick ’em in the air, let’s have some sport!

  “Dirty little knobblin’, hobblin’ goblins,

  Trap ’em in their caves and make ’em squirm!

  Clean ’em out and brush them, flush them, rush them,

  Chuck ’em in the Inglefire and watch them burn!”

  “Oh,” said Jewel, grimacing at Arran over her platter of dumplings, “what an obnoxious song. I almost feel sorry for unseelie wights.”

  Someone shouted at the singer, who began a second rendition, quite different from the first, slower, more lilting, and pitched in a minor key. It was a love song:

  “Lady, break the spell on me, I beseech thee, set me free!

  For I’ve borne this bitter curse such a long time.

  Lady, take my misery, turn it into ecstasy!

  It’s been growing so much worse for a long time.

  Weep and sigh, pass me by, let me live, make me die,

  Lofty peak, deep abyss, just a kiss.

  “In the past I might have done wicked deeds beneath the sun,

  Or by starlight, or by moon, or in darkness.

  Is this penance for my crime? Surely I have served my time!

  Love is cruel. Release me soon from this darkness.

  Weep and sigh, pass me by, let me live, make me die,

  Lofty peak, deep abyss, just a kiss.

  “Prithee, drive away the pain and unlock this heavy chain,

  For your kiss is now the key to my freedom.

  Thy sweet kiss. Is it so strange that you have the pow’r to change

  This enchanted thing I be? Grant me freedom!

  Weep and sigh, pass me by, let me live, make me die,

  Lofty peak, deep abyss, just a kiss.”

  Arran used a crust of bread to wipe the last of the gravy from his platter. “Do you prefer that song, then?” he asked.

  “ ’Tis an improvement.” Jewel licked her fingertips. In an undertone, she added, “Although, I am not over-fond of trite love ditties.”

  “Scorpion knows a deal of good songs,” called out a small fellow seated on the other side of the long trestle table, who had not caught the girl’s murmured codicil. He grinned like a pumpkin lantern at Arran and Jewel, and they recognized him as the most encouraging among the singer’s friends.

  “What’s that you say, Lizard?” The singer himself elbowed his way toward the table. A lean fellow, he looked as leathery as old saddles, and his shoulders sagged in a habitual stoop. His head was capped by a red fez with a tassel of blue silk.

  “The pretty lady likes your singing,” said Lizard.

  “She shows good taste,” observed Scorpion. “Speaking of which, I could do with a taste of ale. Me throat’s drier than the Fyrflaume after all that yodelling. Hey, landlord, bring a round of your finest for the whole table!”

  Lizard clapped Scorpion on the shoulder. “Never was a more generous man,” he chuckled. “May Ádh continue to look kindly upon him!”

  Jewel and Arran suddenly found themselves part of a convivial group whose core members—and those who spent most freely on drinks for their acquaintances—were Scorpion and Lizard. Theirs was pleasant company. They expounded numerous jokes and humorous anecdotes and Scorpion, in particular, was adept at mimicking a wide range of sounds, the cleverest and most accurate of which was the auditory effect made by boots progressing through squelchy mire. Both hailed from Ashqalêth, it was clear, by the way they dressed and spoke.

  When asked for his name, Arran said, “They call me Salt.”

  And Jewel said, “I am named Lily.”

  “By my troth!” exclaimed Lizard, “With such eyes, lady, they should have named you ‘Hyacinth’!”

  “Pray pardon my comrade for his boldness,” Scorpion interjected quickly, as a look of displeasure crossed Jewel’s countenance. “He makes too free and forgets courtesy. Curb your tongue, Lizard, my friend! Speak politely to your betters!” He slapped his friend lightly across the back of the head.

  In return, Lizard flicked Scorpion’s fez off his head. The two Ashqalêthans jumped up and a mock boxing match ensued, both participants moving away from the tables as they battled. Every time he swung his fist at Lizard, who expertly evaded the assault, Scorpion imitated the sound of two cabbages smacking together. A space opened around them, and the onlookers cheered as the combatants performed such a pantomime of high jinks and slapstick that the entire tavern rocked with laughter. Eventually, Scorpion said, “Schrrrriiiiiiinnnnng!” and drew a nonexistent sword, with which he “decapitated” Lizard. Picking up the invisible head, Scorpion pretended to bounce it around the floor while Lizard chased after him, yelling, “Give back my poll, you thief!”

  Arran and Jewel shared the general hilarity. “A mirthful pair of rogues, there’s no doubt,” the young man said appreciatively.

  “Salt?” she inquired teasingly.

  “ ’Twas all that came to mind on the spur of the moment,” he admitted.
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  “I hope I can remember to call you that, in their hearing. Do you know, I suspect I have seen Scorpion somewhere before, but I cannot recall where.”

  Later, Arran and Jewel bade their acquaintances good night and made to leave the common-room. The two Ashqalêthans were sitting companionably side by side, their feet resting on a vacant bench, their “quarrel” forgotten. The red fez with the blue silk tassel was back on Scorpion’s head, somewhat the worse for wear.

  “Good night, friends!” said Scorpion jovially. “May Ádh bring you pleasant dreams and may you waken refreshed. Whither are you bound, on the morrow?”

  Jewel glanced at Arran, who parried, “South.”

  “South, eh? Going far?”

  “Mayhap,” said the young man guardedly. He had been careful not to drink enough ale to blunt his wits. “Why do you ask?”

  “Only because if you are going far you might be looking to purchase worthy steeds. And if you are, I know the honest horse dealers hereabouts. You want a nag that won’t break down two miles from the city?”

  Despite himself, Arran was interested. He nodded.

  “Meet me here tomorrow at dawn,” said Scorpion, tapping the side of his nose and winking waggishly. “I shall take you to a dealer who will make you a better bargain than you can dream of!”

  “Very well,” Arran replied, but doubt pooled in his eyes. To Jewel he murmured, “If they believe me to be a poor judge of horse-flesh they are mistaken. I shall soon know if he and his dealer crony are in the business of duping out-of-towners.”

  “I, too,” said Jewel with dignity, “am a good judge of horse-flesh.”

  Arran raised an eyebrow, but made no reply.

  At first light Jewel and Arran made their rendezvous with Scorpion and his friend, as promised. They spent the morning examining and haggling, and before noon they had purchased two horses in good fettle.

  “You know a great deal about horses, young sir, I can see that,” said Scorpion cheerfully. “And because you are perceptive, I daresay you perceive also that I am an honest man who only wishes good fortune to other fellows.”

  “It is true,” said Arran, “that these steeds are young and in fine health. The price we paid was less than I had expected. You have done us a good turn and for that we give you thanks. Regrettably, now we must bid you both farewell, for there are other matters to which we must attend before we set off.”

  “You will be going on a long journey, if you require mounts,” said Scorpion.

  “Not so long,” said Arran.

  “Down the Valley Road?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Lizard and me are going that way ourselves,” said the Ashqalêthan. “Around town ’tis said that during the last few seven-nights it has been a dangerous path. Marauders have been plaguing lonely wayfarers. We are well armed, and experienced at skirmishes, and we have mettlesome steeds of our own, housed in the tavern stables. We shall soon depart. Join us!”

  Arran deliberated.

  “Why not?” asked Lizard, spreading his fingers, palms upward, in a gesture of open welcome.

  “For the present we must leave our newly purchased horses with your friend the dealer while we make further arrangements,” the young man said after some thought. “Early tomorrow morning we will exit the city by the southern gate. If you and Lizard are waiting for us when we leave, we might fall in with you, for a time.”

  “So be it!” shouted Scorpion over his shoulder as he and Lizard loped away down a cobbled alley. “ ’Twill be a merry meeting and a merrier journey!” He was whistling lightheartedly as the two Ashqalêthans rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

  At a second-hand clothing stall Jewel and Arran purchased extra garments, voluminous and breezy, suitable for travel in the desert. A local milliner provided them with broad-brimmed hats. Afterward they visited a sausage-seller, a bakery, a saddler, and a stock-feed merchant. As they made their way about the urban streets they discussed Scorpion’s offer.

  “I am undecided. I’m grateful for their help in obtaining good horses at a good price,” stated Arran.

  “And I am mindful,” said Jewel, “that they are men of Ashqalêth, who might be of help in the extreme conditions of the desert, if they should travel that far with us. I have visited the southern dry-lands before, as a child, but I have no notion of how to survive there if some catastrophe should occur.”

  “But do you trust them, Jewel?”

  “Not entirely. But then, I am distrustful by nature,” she said candidly. “I have been deceived and undeceived by too many illusions.”

  “But these are not wights, wielding glamour. They are men.”

  “All the more reason to be wary,” she said.

  “Yet,” said the young man, “they have indeed aided us. The horses are excellent, and the price was fair. Should there be any hint of treachery—well, I sleep lightly, and at need, I can waken to full alertness. Like all my people, I am trained in martial skills . . .”

  “. . . and you have the brí at your fingertips . . .”

  “. . . a power I should not wield except in a life-threatening situation. But, should they try to take us unawares and rob us, they will find they are no match for a weathermaster.”

  “And an invulnerable marsh-daughter,” subjoined Jewel.

  “Then, are we agreed? Shall we travel in their company?”

  “Even so, Salt my dearest brother. We are agreed!”

  High amongst the towers of the city, the dawn bell rang. Like doves of gold metal its round notes flew out over the sleeping roofs. Jewel and Arran led their saddled horses from the stables of the Ace and Cup, and along the twisting, narrow paths of the city. Soft blue-gray was the pre-dawn light, the color of veins showing beneath translucent skin. Yolk-yellow radiance glowed from a few windows here and there, behind which a few folk were stirring, stumbling from their beds and rubbing their eyes. The hooves of the horses clapped hollowly on the flagstones of the pavement, like ironic applause. A rat scuttled frantically along a gutter.

  Their route took them past the high walls at the rear of the sanctorum compound. Through the insipid gloom, the red walls gleamed ash-gray. Marble cockatrices glared balefully from sandstone blocks and piers. The travelers could hear the crunch of the sentries’ boots as they patrolled along the wall-walks above.

  Here in the wealthier quarters tall houses of gray granite stood to attention on either side of the streets. A long drain, covered over with a grating, ran down the center of every cobbled road. The leafy branches of orange and lemon trees swayed and dipped over courtyard walls, and the music of falling waters played within those private cloisters. In the gardens of the affluent, blackbirds began to twitter a greeting to the morning sun.

  Jewel and Arran led their horses past some of the more highly esteemed Guild-Houses, such as the Jewelers, the Perfumers, the Tailors, the Silk Merchants, and the Distillers. Above the slate roofs, red as lobster carapaces, the sky paled. After a time the travelers drew near an Oratorium, a high, colonnaded, beehive-roofed structure reached by flights of stone stairs, and walled only by spaced columns. At this early hour no King’s Druids’ Scribes’ Hand held forth from the hallowed platform of the Oratorium. The edifice stood as desolate as the Fairfield.

  “Thanks be, we are not to be plagued with superstitious rantings this fine morning,” muttered Arran as he and his companion passed by.

  Through the middle-income districts they went, curiously eyeing the abundance of tavern signboards brightly painted with images symbolizing names such as the “Hat and Feather,” the “Boot and Last,” the “Leaping Gnome.” Doors and windows were festooned with devices to repel unseelie entities—iron horseshoes, sprigs of rowan-wood or hypericum, bells, carved roosters, the usual assortment.

  Nearer the South Gate, wooden hovels were squeezed together shoulder to shoulder, as if space were an unaffordable luxury. Sludge trickled down open drains in the beaten dirt streets, and the travelers held muslin scarves to their
noses.

  “No sign of our friends, yet,” said Arran in a muffled voice.

  But no sooner had they bypassed the yawning sentries and made their exit from the city walls than they spied two men waiting outside the gate: Scorpion and Lizard. Their horses were loaded with packs, and the grins that stretched across their jaws were as broad as bridges.

  “Hail and well remet!” shouted Scorpion. At the sight of his beaming face beneath the red fez, Jewel and Arran could not help but smile and respond in kind. Having mounted their steeds, the four travelers rode off together into the waxing morning. Their shadows walked beside them, spindle-legged and attenuated, stretching torturously across the dust of the road.

  At this time of year the winds along the Valley Road lay down to rest for a while, and the air was still. It was only the currents stirred by their travel that tweaked at the hems of Arran’s striped surcoat and rippled in the long folds of Jewel’s hooded desert-cloak, the garment the Ashqalêthans called a burnous. As the travelers trotted along the shallow vale between the low green hills to the west and the jagged heights simmering in a haze on the eastern horizon, Jewel’s thoughts strayed to the marsh, lying on the other side of Bellaghmoon. She longed to make a detour and visit her people there, but common sense told her there would be no profit in doing so, and maybe some harm.

  Scorpion and Lizard had plenty of money to spend, and Arran did not lack coin either. The four travelers were able to buy good food and shelter at the villages scattered along the Valley Road. Thus, it was rare for them to spend a night camped by the wayside. The journey became a jaunt, a merry progression through lands that appeared strange to Jewel, for she had been quite young when she passed that way with her parents, and had forgotten much about that family excursion to R’shael. For her, this was an adventure enjoyed without deprivation, riding alongside one reserved but agreeable companion and two overtly jocular ones. They proceeded swiftly, with few halts, yet it was eighteen days before they crossed the Ashqalêthan border, just north of the farthest outpost of a line of hills. Here the northwest extremities of the mountainous arm called the Broken Scarps began to diminish and deflate, fusing with the dusty, waterless inner plain of Ashqalêth. The lands hereabouts were riven and jagged, but the Desert Road clove them resolutely.