“It appears the Druid Imperius has augured this is an auspicious date, beneficial for the naming of the young prince.”
“Primoris Virosus, eh? We might have guessed,” said Avalloc. His laugh was short and ironic. “No doubt it affords him much pleasure to disrupt the annual festivities of weathermasters.”
“It seems we have attended so many royal festivities of late,” sighed Cacamwri Dommalleo. “Only recently we returned from King’s Winterbourne, and not long before that, Trøndelheim.”
“The royal families of Narngalis, Grïmnørsland, and Ashqalêth will be sending representatives to the occasion,” said Baldulf, “but Uabhar has specifically requested the pleasure of our company.”
“And our generous gifts!” dourly said Gvenour Nithulambar.
“Diplomatically speaking, we can hardly refuse, of course,” said Cacamwri Dommalleo.
“Even so,” agreed Avalloc. “However, it is not necessary for us all to attend. Only a few of us need accept the invitation. There is time for each of us to decide. Now, if we have solved the most pressing issues to the satisfaction of the majority, let me call for Solorien’s report about the dissenting druids of Carrickmore.”
With the discussion of this and other knotty puzzles, the moot wore on throughout the afternoon, finally concluding toward dusk.
At dawn the following day, Arran set off for Grïmnørsland to seek the Well of Dew. With him went Gahariet and Bliant, and Rivalen Hagelspildar, who was familiar with the topography of the western kingdom. The members of the air-crew were warmly dressed, their heads covered by thickly padded hoods.
The final words of Avalloc Maelstronnar to his son at their parting were these: “Yours is a singular quest, Arran. Go subtly. Go with care. You are embarking on a momentous undertaking, and I would entrust it to none but you.”
It was early morning. The mountain atmosphere chimed with cold, like a clear crystal cup. A layer of wispy cloud floated on the plain below the Seat of the Weathermasters. Dollops of white vapor, as billowy as the breath of ice-giants, seethed about the lower summits of the storths, and steamed from valleys. Far above, high-altitude winds could be heard screaming amongst the snow-brilliant crags, but down on Rowan Green the atmospheric currents were playing at being breezes, for a time. The apex of the sky was vibrantly blue, softening to a talcum haze at the horizon.
On the launching apron, prentices unrolled the huge envelope of the sky-balloon Wanderpath, spilling a froth of fabric both strong and light, made from the silk spun for ten or eleven years by a million million spiders. They laid the basket of rattan and willow on its side, and into the mounted cradle they placed the covered sun-crystal.
Before he left, Arran drew Jewel aside and spoke with her. He said, “I will bring back the Draught for you.”
“For me? What of the judgment of the Council on this matter?”
Calmly he replied, “If I bring it back, I will give it to you.”
“Methinks I do not want it,” she said, but she faltered.
“Once you did. Cast your mind back.” After a moment Arran continued, “Next, forecast. The atmosphere churns. Weather erodes. Rock is gnawed away, bitten to gravel, minced to dust. Wind picks up the dust and sifts it over cities. Grain by grain, year by year, layers build up. In a thousand years, those cities will lie sleeping beneath depths of silt and clay, sand and marl. All monuments wrought by humankind will be altered or destroyed. The deeds that consume us, the people and places we consider so important, will be forgotten. What legacy remains with us, from a millennium ago? What names and deeds do we remember?” His voice dropped to a whisper, as if an invisible grip constricted his throat. “In a thousand years, who will recall your name?”
Stillness coalesced about Jewel. She appeared to be the axis of a pool of quiescence. Yet the core of that axis imprisoned a savage turbulence of thought.
“I told myself it did not matter,” she said at length. “It is possible I was mistaken.”
“You must survive,” he said.
“And you?”
“And I.” He leaned close to her. “What would you desire for me?”
In that moment his gaze riveted her, as if she were some feeble fly speared on a pin. There was some virtue of his eyes. She had noted it before—indeed, each time she looked at him—but on this occasion he was so near that she could feel the caress of his breath on her skin, and the potency of this quality overwhelmed her senses. His eyes were two orbs of cool flame, imbued with power; they were long leaves of jade, limpid, yet simmering with vitality.
She whispered, “You, too, must survive.”
“It is time to go!” called Bliant, leaning from the wicker basket.
“Farewell,” said Arran.
“Come back, with the Draught or without it, but come back,” said Jewel.
He had kissed her lightly, on her forehead.
She remembered that kiss. Oh, how she remembered it.
Wanderpath stood upright, tugging on its moorings. Trembling bells jingled, hooked securely to the basket. Controlled energy was pouring upward from the pinnacle of the sun-crystal, into the skirt that bordered the mouth of the envelope. A gigantic, lustrous soap bubble hovered, its crown higher than the Tower of the Winds that loomed above the roof of Ellenhall. Arran stood in the gondola, his hand lightly grasping one of the rigid cane supports that attached the car to the frame of the cradle. The bubble ripened, until it seemed ready to burst. Eventually Arran signaled to the prentices, and they unleashed the mooring cables.
The balloon climbed swiftly and powerfully. It dwindled, becoming a tear in the blue eye of the sky.
Jewel watched it.
“Stare upward for too long,” said Ryence Darglistel, “and you’ll end up with a pain in the neck.” He laughed and strolled past, then returned and beckoned, murmuring, “Come. Let me teach you how to summon fire.”
“No.”
“Ah, now don’t be sulky, just because you’re not going to ride the winds!”
She walked away from him. He seemed now trite and shallow, a buffoon.
That same morning a second aerostat, Snowship, departed from High Darioneth, bound for Cathair Rua. The weathermasters on board bore with them letters for the palace: notice of acceptance of the invitation to the royal naming ceremony, and another, more urgent announcement.
Late in the day Arran’s sky-balloon scudded across the lakes and mountains of Grïmnørsland, three hundred feet above the ground. Sky blended with water; reflected images seemed indistinguishable from reality. Landmarks passed swiftly beneath the wicker car, which was wind-driven at Arran’s governance. Wanderpath traveled at wind-speed, matching the rate of clouds at the same level, and airborne thistledown and, when they passed a village, smoke from hearth-fires. Ahead lay a deep bank of cloud. As the aircraft approached it, the shades and shapes of the countryside below gradually lost differentiation. Details blurred. A haze filmed the land, while overhead the vapors of the cloud layer wrapped themselves around the balloon. Within the cloud all was soft, damp, and muffled. As the aerostat rose above the cumulus, resplendent spears of sunlight rained down, dazzling the eyes of the crew. Billowing cloud-towers, mist-crags, and vapor-crevasses hurled the sun’s glare into the profundities of the firmament.
“,” Arran murmured, his hands performing the flight-commander’s choreography. “.’
After traveling for almost an hour, Wanderpath dived down through the clouds, and the envelope was surrounded by splintery powderings of suspended crystals that glimmered and glittered, before amalgamating with the cool, moist fog in a viscid environment that magnified any noises. Abruptly the frayed colors of the landscape emerged from invisibility. Dropping out through the bottom of the cloud ceiling, the aerostat emerged into the softer light of the atmosphere below.
Arran looked up past the load ring supporting the crystal, through the rigging wires and the panels of the balloon’s heat-scoop. His appraising gaze swept the interior of a gigantic dome, its vaults
symmetrically spaced in regular sections like the sliced rind of some waxy fruit. At the crown, like some spidery chandelier, a web of shroud lines and centralizing lines was attached to the parachute that covered the top opening. The aerostat was flying well, and appeared to be in good order as it approached the region of Stryksjø. As the last petals of carnation sunlight alchemized at day’s end, the glimmering lakes of remote Grïmnørsland flared rose and pale gold, in reflection of the sunset. At the same time, sullen clouds were swiftly drawing in to suffocate this celestial splendor.
Rivalen Hagelspildar stood beside Arran. From their aerial vantage he pointed out various landmarks.
“See, the four great peaks that rise among the southernmost heights of the Nordstüren: Steinfjell, Hoyfjell, Sterkfjell, and Isfjell,” he said. “And behold—the valleys between have been carved by three rivers, the Widflod, the Fiskflod, and the Østflod, leaping to join with each other and flow toward Ensomfjord on the west coast. Ah! Over there—that gleam of silver between the dark silhouettes of the junipers—I’ll warrant ’tis the waters of Stryksjø.”
“We should set our course across the lake!” suggested Gahariet. “Then we might spy the island!”
“Nay,” Arran responded quickly. “If the tales are true, the arrows of wights might pierce the envelope, not to mention the basket, and our very flesh. I would not take the risk.”
“The barbs of wights could hardly reach great heights,” observed Bliant. “What is the greatest distance ever shot by a longbow?”
“Nigh on a land-mile,” Rivalen informed him. “However, that was almost a legendary shot, achieved by a powerful man with a powerful bow.”
“A land-mile!” exclaimed Gahariet. “Why then, we would have to climb to an altitude of more than fifty-two thousand feet to escape harm!”
“In which case we would merely freeze to death,” put in Arran.
“I consider it implausible that minor wights such as are likely to inhabit remote islets would possess great strength,” argued Bliant. “Besides, any marksman shooting his barbs straight up into the air is competing against the pull of gravity. Gravity alone would limit the range.”
“True,” said Arran, “yet how can we be certain some supernatural force does not propel their bolts? Very little is known about these isle-haunting species.”
“Spidersilk is durable enough to resist arrowheads.”
“For all we know it is only strong enough to resist barbs wrought by mortalkind and flung from a bow powered by a man. Who can say what malign forces propel eldritch darts? To risk damage to a balloon—that is too great a chance to take. Furthermore, despite the spidersilk lining on the floor of the car, as passengers we ourselves are not invulnerable.”
“I am in accordance with you, Arran,” said Rivalen. “Let us spy out the lie of this Ragnkull Island, for sure—but let us refrain from flying directly over the water, and instead float above the shores. We can survey the lake just as efficiently from that angle.”
Stormbringer guided the balloon around the perimeter of the lake, holding it at a level of one thousand feet and staying well back from the shoreline. Meanwhile, Rivalen and Bliant consulted the map they had brought with them from the archives of Ellenhall. Many years ago the chart had been drafted by one of the cartographers who worked with the weathermasters, and on it were marked the islands in the lake. The detail was exact; the isles were clearly labeled with the names given them by local Grïmnørslanders.
“We have found our destination,” Rivalen said softly. “See that patch of gray-green at forty-five degrees from the sun’s path?”
The basket tilted to one side as they all peered over the edge. The island was triangular in shape. A small cove indented one end, while the other end tapered to a point.
“In sooth!” said Arran. He added, “ ’Tis formed like a love-heart.”
Behind him, Bliant exchanged glances with Gahariet. They rolled their eyes.
Without turning around, Arran said, “Despite your knowing grimaces, my friends, I am not some love-smitten fool who sees hearts in every silhouette and hears harps playing on the wind. Be assured, you shall pay for your smugness, when next I wrestle you.”
“Ha!” Bliant shouted happily, “ ’Tis you who will suffer when I have thrown you down!”
“Enough of your high jinks, lads!” Rivalen said, although his eyes were twinkling. “Next you’ll be turning the basket upside down!”
The young Maelstronnar tugged on a vent-cord, opening a slit of a window in the canopy’s crown. Smoothly, as if coasting down a snowy slope on runners, the aircraft began to descend. Mindful of warnings about unseelie manifestations haunting the shores, he guided Wanderpath toward a forest glade on a hillside about a furlong from the banks of the lake. As they skimmed over the pointed hats of the juniper trees toward their destination they watched vigilantly for signs of eldritch activity, but observed none. Immediately after landing, Bliant and Gahariet vaulted over the sides of the gondola and ran off into the gloaming to scout the locality at closer range. When the youths returned, reporting that the area appeared clear of peril, the balloonists allowed the envelope to deflate, then meticulously rolled and folded away the compacted spidersilk. They stored it, along with the sun-crystal, inside the charm-protected wicker basket. There all would be safe from eldritch assault.
“Here we must make camp and wait out the night,” said Rivalen.
“Aye,” said Arran, “but I suspect I shall not find rest. It irks me sorely, to wait. I burn to go directly to the lakeshore. We are so close, now.”
“Close,” said Bliant, “but divided from our ultimate goal by stretches of wood and water infested with nightmares.”
“You are mistaken,” said Rivalen dryly. “They are overrun with creatures we wish were merely nightmares.”
“And who is to say this clearing is any less perilous than the rest of this region?” put in Gahariet. He stared warily about at the tall junipers palisading the landing site. Their dense, blue-gray foliage was beginning to merge with the thickening twilight.
“There is no certainty,” said Arran. “We can only keep watch, taste the airs, and trust in our own proficiency.”
After pitching a pair of tents they gathered armfuls of kindling for a camp-fire and employed flint and tinder to light it. The flames shredded against the darkness like torn cloth-of-gold while the weathermasters sat close to the warmth and partook of some food. They spoke infrequently, and in low voices. It was late when three of them lay down to sleep in the relative shelter of the canvas tents, leaving the fourth to take first shift at the Watch.
No moonlight penetrated the vapors curdling in the upper atmosphere. The murk was filled with surreptitious rustlings and sudden silences. Toward midnight a shrieking wind hurled itself against the trees as if a pack of giant, unseen horsemen barreled through the forest. The cacophony awoke the weathermasters, who sprang into the open. Their tents flapped wildly, shaking off frozen sequins that glittered through the air, straining at their moorings as if they would uproot themselves and flee in terror. Behind the roaring and thrashing of the junipers the men caught the spine-harrowing scrape of weird violins, wailing afar off.
As suddenly as it had blown up, the supernatural wind ceased.
There came no further incident that night.
Earlier that afternoon while Arran and his companions were landing their balloon near Stryksjø, Fionnbar Aonarán was striding up and down the length of a well-appointed, strongly guarded chamber at the house of Calogrenant Lumenspar. It was Aonarán’s habit to pace. During his isolated incarceration he had leisure to ponder, as he had not pondered before. Never in his life had he experienced so much idle time, so many vacant moments to fill with speculation. It was becoming apparent to him, during his hours of brooding, that one thing was of paramount importance: the slaying of the young weathermage, Arran Maelstronnar. Aonarán hated Arran with a bitter, irrational loathing. It was his desire to inherit a world in which the son of t
he Storm Lord did not exist.
He reached the far wall, turned, and retraced his steps yet again.
Not far away, at the Royal Palace of Slievmordhu, the dowager queen existed in her parlor. Her sagging form was clad all in shades of yellow: tawny damask, creamy velvet, sulphurous silk. Glinting gold, topazes, and citrines adorned her person. Her fingernails were painted with gilt, or else crescents of gold leaf had been pasted on them. Curled and pinned was her hair, and powdered with gold dust. There was no relief from the sallowness; even her flesh appeared jaundiced, her skin like aged parchment; her eyes were two egg yolks. Wearing slippers of daffodil satin she reclined on her divan, surrounded by brazen birdcages, in which sixteen canaries were imprisoned. They hopped jerkily from perch to perch, and occasionally trilled piercingly. Seven handmaidens wafted about in xanthic robes. From a goblet encrusted with sparkling heliodors the widow of King Maolmórdha sipped wine the color of lemons. Her lips were puckered as though she did indeed taste the sour juice of lemons; but it was only the buttoning-up of old age.
“You look a hag, in yellow,” King Uabhar said to his mother as he walked past.
A trumpet sounded from the parapets. It was the signal that a messenger of some importance had arrived at the palace gates. The king strode from his mother’s parlor, slamming the door behind him.
The dowager queen trembled as she picked a yellow grape from a dish. She pinched the globule between tremulous talons, but did not eat.
A delicate hand pushed the door ajar.
“May I speak with you, madam?” a soft voice inquired.
“Is it you? Make haste and say what you need to say,” the old queen replied peevishly. “I expect Adiuvo to attend me directly, and I desire no delay.”
The young queen, Saibh, entered timorously. “Madam, I am troubled,” she said, twisting her hands into the folds of her richly embroidered gown. “I ask for your support. In my position, there is no one else in whom I might confide.”
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 45