The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  “You can count on us, my friend!” said Caracal. “We are always ready for fun!”

  Once a plan had been decided upon, events moved swiftly. Word was put about, through the thieves’ dens, the clandestine warrens of racketeers and thugs, the illicit hideaways, the lairs of felons, the blind alleys and hidden crypts of Cathair Rua: Some men with purses full of gold crowns—Ashqalêthans, so it was said—were willing to pay generously for weapons, which they were buying on behalf of undisclosed purchasers. The purchasers, it was hinted, were outlaws. Their agents would, however, only buy from the top man. So keen were they that they offered to pay good money to anyone who would set up a meeting with him.

  Cynical observers held that these merchants were really seeking factual information concerning the whereabouts of Fionnbar Aonarán, and would give a fortune in gold for his capture. Simultaneously, a directive began circulating in the more nefarious quarters of the city: anyone who betrayed their cohorts would wake up to find their heartstrings tied about the city gates.

  There may be honor amongst thieves, but a thief’s purpose is to accumulate wealth for himself. There may be a desire amongst men to survive, but there is always one who believes he can outsmart those who would take vengeance after he has exposed them. It was not long before the lure of gold had attracted a surreptitious informer, at pains to conceal his identity from his questioners, Quoll and Jerboa.

  “Some powerful folk are involved in Aonarán’s dealings,” the whistle-blower muttered from beneath his makeshift mask of dirty rags. “If ’twere known I’d turned false, they’d be after murdering me. I will tell you what you want to know, but I will not tell you my name or show my face.”

  “You will not be paid until we verify your report.”

  “That is unfair, my lords. I have risked my life to bring you the tip-off!”

  “Your advice might be mistaken or outdated. Depend on it, should you be proved right, we shall reward you well. Tell me: If we capture Aonarán, would you testify against him, in front of a judge? Would you bear witness to his role in selling arms to Marauders?”

  “That is a different matter. Not for any amount of gold, good sirs. Not for any amount.”

  From the information gathered, it quickly became apparent that Aonarán had indeed preceded Jewel and Stormbringer to Cathair Rua, and that he currently lurked in some hidden precinct. The confirmation of the fellow’s whereabouts fevered Arran with excitement.

  Calm by contrast, Jewel observed, “If we know where he is, he must surely know where we abide. This city is his hunting-ground. Certainly, his spies will be telling him all our doings. Aonarán will always be one jump ahead of us.”

  “Not necessarily,” Arran said.

  Conceivably, Fionnbar Aonarán had grown overconfident, or else his enemies and competitors in Cathair Rua were craftier than he guessed, or maybe some cunning tactic of his had gone awry. On Love’s Day, 29th Otember, two days before Lantern Eve, in a dingy room in a tawdry quarter of the metropolis, four men sat engrossed in a card-game. That is to say, they seemed engrossed. They might have been waiting for some transaction to begin.

  A voice from the other side of the street door growled, “Gentlemen here to see you, sir.”

  “How many?” the pale-haired player called out, without taking his eyes from his cards.

  “Two.”

  “Let them in.”

  The door opened to admit two men, who walked past the door sentinels and came to a halt at the table. They carried large bundles slung across their shoulders. If they noted two burly fellows lurking in the corners of the room, or the slight figure of a woman sitting near the fireplace, they gave no sign.

  “Show me your merchandise,” said Aonarán, laying his cards face down on the table and turning to the newcomers.

  The bundles rattled as they were thrown to the floor.

  “These are examples of the finest,” said one of the bundle-bearers. “Lifted from the very armory of the Duke of Great Cheverell. Cheap at twice the price.”

  “Open the bags.”

  The strangers made as if to lean forward in order to unwrap their wares, but instead they threw off their hoods and cloaks. Their swords chimed from their scabbards. At the same instant the door burst inward, and six men charged into the chamber. Aonarán and the other card-players leaped to their feet, but before they or their bodyguards had time to unsheathe their weapons the assailants were upon them, wrestling them to the floor and rapidly binding their arms with cords.

  The struggle was brief.

  When Aonarán and his henchmen had been subdued, Arran Stormbringer took a closer look into the gloom of the poorly lit room. A woman crouched beside the hearth. She was bony, and frail of build, and her hair was a streak of phosphorescence. Nearby lay a quiver, from which jutted the feathers of a bundle of crossbow bolts, although no bow was in evidence. Fionnuala had evidently managed to find her own transport from Saadiah to Cathair Rua.

  “You poisonous beldame!” the young weathermaster mouthed with loathing. “You must come with us and be tried for your crimes, as we intend to try your brother, after he has performed one last service for us.”

  Scooping up the quiver, he tossed it into the fire. As he did so, Fionnuala Aonarán flipped open the lid of a small trapdoor. Her narrow body slipped through an aperture in the floor, large enough to admit only a child or a small adult.

  The door slammed shut.

  She had escaped, because it was clear that nobody present was of small enough girth to fit through the trapdoor and there was no knowing how to pursue her.

  In the dingy room, surrounded by his foes, Fionnbar Aonarán said in grating tones, “You cannot hurt me.”

  Arran’s gaze was bleak as he stared at the felon. Aonarán’s appearance had not altered, for all that he had ingested the water of life. The young man had half-expected him to look different, younger, perhaps, or more vital, but he remained exactly as he had been—pale and meager, sullen and prematurely balding. “Yes,” Arran said aloud. “You cannot die, Aonarán; we are aware of that. But even an immortal being may be imprisoned forever.”

  “Without a trial?” the fellow sneered. “I thought justice was a hallmark of the weathermasters.”

  “Oh, you shall have your trial. But not in the corrupt courts of this town.”

  “And do you have witnesses to my so-called misdeeds?”

  “That is enough talk from you. It is time to go. Walk now, or be hauled by the ears.”

  Now that the information leading to Fionnbar Aonarán’s capture had been uncovered, the help of the Bucks Horn Oak liegemen was no longer needed. The men were eager to depart from Cathair Rua, for Quoll and Jerboa would now be late returning to their duties.

  “Mistress Lily,” said Caracal, bestowing on Jewel a troubled gaze, “before we bid you farewell, pray allow us to tell you and the young master our true names. For I speak for all of us when I say you seem to be worthy folk, and we would be glad to number you amongst our most trusted acquaintances.”

  “You do us great honor,” said Jewel. Once again, the yearning to reach out to him welled up in her, but she held back.

  “My name is Yaadosh,” said Caracal, “and Quoll here is my cousin. He is called Michaiah.”

  “I am Gamliel,” said Jerboa.

  Snake said, “And I am Barakiel.”

  Jewel and Arran greeted the revelations with grave attentiveness, bowing formally to each man in turn as he introduced himself.

  “Now we must take our leave of you both,” said Michaiah, “but I hope we might meet again.”

  “If ever you visit High Darioneth,” said the weathermaster, “ask for Arran Maelstronnar, son of the Storm Lord.”

  “Then it seems our journey has been more felicitous than we guessed,” said Michaiah, while the liegemen, in their turn, bent their heads in salutation. “Few have the good fortune to travel in such esteemed company.”

  “Farewell, Master Stormbringer,” Yaadosh said, his voice
husky with emotion. “Farewell, Mistress Lily.”

  Impetuously, Jewel grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. “Sir, I have known you aforetime,” she cried. “My name is Jewel.”

  Solemnly, and for an extended moment, Yaadosh stared at her. His countenance expressed great tenderness and sadness. “I knew it all along,” he said simply. “Your father was our dear friend. When you were a child I cradled you in my arms.”

  Drawing a sudden breath, Jewel flung herself into his embrace, where he held her gently.

  When at length they drew apart, Arran, who had been looking on with compassion, said quietly, “Jewel has chosen to gift you with knowledge of her identity, good sirs, but that is a gift which must never be shared. For if such knowledge should come to the ears of certain powerful personages, it is likely her future would fall in ruins.”

  “On my life,” said Yaadosh vehemently, “I pledge to keep the secret.”

  His comrades vowed likewise.

  “Yet I would fain lend my protection to you, daughter of Jarred Jovansson,” said the big man. “Weathermasters are formidable allies, yet a strong arm can be invaluable when foes are numerous. Prithee, let me go with you, at least for part of your journey. My wife and son will hardly be concerned if my arrival is a few days overdue, for I am often tardy. My son is a stonemason’s apprentice and I daresay he will be so busy earning good wages he will not notice my lateness, while my wife will doubtless be too much occupied gossiping with her sisters and friends. Besides, I welcome some additional respite from wielding forks and shovels. My return to Narngalis is not pressing.”

  His honest, pleading expression touched Jewel. “Three men from High Darioneth are to be our companions,” she said, “but Aonarán has many cohorts who might seek his release, and there is some chance they might attack us on the road. An extra man to guard us would not go amiss. Would you care to recount anecdotes of my father, along the way?”

  “That I would, if ’twould please you!”

  “Then come with us, and welcome!” The damsel glanced toward Arran to gauge his reaction. He nodded, adding, “Be warned, however, that we travel toward peril.”

  “Do not leave me out!” exclaimed Barakiel, pushing his way forward. “I departed from R’shael looking for adventure, and I sense it will be found more readily in the company of weathermasters than with this pack of aging camels.”

  “They would be hardly likely to welcome a mosquito in their midst,” said Quoll.

  “I can ride and fight as well as any son of the desert,” declared the young Ashqalêthan, “and I do not eat as much as some. I carry my own provisions and cost nothing to keep. What say you, Lord Stormbringer and Lady Jewel?”

  His enthusiasm and high spirits won their hearts. “Throw in your lot with us, if you wish,” said Arran. “You have heard me tell of the risks. If you remain undaunted, then you are the man for us. Yet, if you are intent on this enterprise then you must make a vow, a solemn vow, that you shall keep faith with us and never, without my leave, disclose any secrets you might learn.”

  “Willingly!” said Yaadosh and Barakiel together.

  They swore an oath on the seal-ring of the weathermasters, and so it was that Yaadosh and Barakiel became members of Jewel and Arran’s party, while the Bucks Horn Oak liegemen went their separate way at last.

  The return journey to Orielthir took more than two days. During the ride Arran took it upon himself to explain the entire story of the Wells to Yaadosh and Barakiel. They listened with awe, afterward repeating their vows to keep silent on the matter.

  At this time of year the hours of sunlight were fewer, and the meteorological fluctuations caused by the Autumn equinox brought frequent atmospheric disturbances. Sometimes, across the hills, there drifted the eerie howl of eldritch warners predicting thunder and lightning. Although he never spoke of it, Stormbringer felt these equinoctial storms brewing in his veins well before they became apparent to the others. He experienced the charge in his blood, sensing the weather’s instability as if he could reach out in all directions and touch it with his hands. One nightfall when they made camp he staved off a shower of rain, illicitly, to keep Jewel dry, even while reprimanding himself for repeatedly bending weathermaster law. Only for her would he ever have done such a thing. Nothing else in the world but love could have swayed him to defy the doctrine of Ellenhall. In all else he was resolute, fixed. In her presence his resolution melted like ice in a flame, and his convictions crumbled.

  Having purchased some more garments in Cathair Rua, Jewel and Stormbringer were more suitably attired for the cooler climes of Slievmordhu. She wore a women’s riding habit, consisting of an embroidered, long-sleeved waistcoat tailored sleekly to the waist and, below the girdle, a kirtle underneath a front-opening gown. A fur-lined mantle warmed her shoulders. Arran was dressed in a doublet that reached three-quarters of the way down his thighs. It fitted tightly to his figure, as fashion decreed. To this, sections of sleeves were attached by lacings. His fine linen shirt, worn beneath the doublet, showed through the lacings at shoulder and elbow. His boots rose to a little higher than the knee, and his outermost garment was a long cloak.

  Aonarán had been roped to the back of his horse, his hands bound together with leather thongs. The men took turns to guard him. They treated the leader of the racketeers in a civil manner, providing him with plenty of food, a warm cloak, and a comfortable place to sleep at nights. He, too, was well clad, with a bycocket hat clamped over his head and a coat—gathered at the back and worn over a shirt—that reached below his hips. The cuffs of his thick trousers were tucked into sturdy shoes, and his cloak was made of good stout duretty, lined with armazine. His thin shoulder-length hair, the color of watery cream, brushed against his otters’ fur collar

  At the commencement of the journey he kept himself morose and withdrawn, his face like a mask of parchment stretched across a skull. On the second day, he broke his silence.

  “Why are you taking me to Strang?” he barked.

  “Because it is the only available method of bringing the Draught you swallowed to the Dome,” replied Bliant.

  “And why would you need to be doing that?”

  “Aonarán,” said Arran, riding close beside the captive, “your greed and ruthlessness have been the cause of endless suffering and injustice. In order to line your pockets with gold you have traded arms to murderers, who have slaughtered countless innocent families. Do not demand answers of me or my colleagues. Do not demand anything of us. It is only mercifulness and honor that prevent me from hauling you up the highest mountain in Tir and hanging you on an iron hook from the topmost mountain pinnacle where the snows never melt, there to languish throughout eternity.”

  Aonarán collapsed again into sullen taciturnity, but after many hours began his monologue again.

  “ ’Tis fortunate you are,” he said tonelessly to all who rode within earshot, “you with your ladies and your fine clothes and no fear of want or hunger. Would that I had been born with wealth. I have seen much of sickness and death. My mother and father died of the consumption. My great-uncle suffered from various ailments for as long as I can remember. All my boyhood years I was cooped up with him, sick and whining as he was, and no other choice available to me.”

  Aonarán’s guards sat their steeds in stolid silence, endeavoring to ignore the tirade of complaints.

  “Vile and malicious, that he was, my great-uncle. He used me for his own ends, knowing I feared him because he had once dwelled at the Dome.”

  Arran threw him a sharp glance but made no comment.

  “I believed he had learned cruel magicks, while in service to the sorcerous lord.” Jerking his head aside, Aonarán spat on the ground. “But he had learned nothing. He tricked me, deliberately, so that I should cringe from him and do his bidding.”

  He sat up straighter and continued his deprecations. “In the same way the druids trick us, with their claims of long life and robust health if we pay them to intercede with the Fates
. Gold I gave the Sanctorum, and more, and the pockets of the druids went deeper than ocean trenches. After a time I came to perceive in them the same traits exhibited by my great-uncle: lust for power, treachery, greed. I learned from the druids. I learned that if a man wishes to better himself, to save himself, he must do it on his own, for none shall succor him.”

  “And have you bettered yourself?” Bliant inquired.

  Aonarán hunched his head down between his shoulders and divulged no more.

  Through the fence of living pines at the borders of Strang these eight riders passed, across acres of meadowlands and through guarded forests where, down amongst the roots, hedgehogs were busy hunting slugs and snails to fatten themselves in readiness for winter. In the gloaming, nimble-footed wights called grigs could be seen flitting hither and thither, like shrunken people. Sometimes Arran and Jewel raced ahead of the group to allow themselves some private conversation. At one such time Jewel asked the weathermaster to sing the rest of the song “Ropes of Sand,” for she was intrigued as to how it ended.

  “At what point did you hear the last of the song?” he inquired.

  “The schoolteacher was about to set one last task for the ogre. If he could not do it, the wight would be forced to depart.”

  “Oh yes!” Arran laughed.

  “What is the third task?” Jewel asked. “Methinks I can guess, but prithee, sing on!”

  Stormbringer obliged:

  “ ‘Go down along the river slopes, take handfuls of the yellow sands

  And twist them into sturdy ropes,’ the teacher said, ‘with your bare hands.

  Bundle these ropes into a skein and straightway bring them here to show.

  But if you lose a single grain you’ve failed the test. You’ll have to go.’