Then all became dark and silent.
In that moment a massive electrical current had surged up from the ground. It had blasted the well to fragments and zapped along the seam of ore in the cavern’s roof, ascending through the roots of the alder. Soaring to a temperature of more than forty thousand degrees, it had sizzled up the tree, splitting it apart. The smell of ozone and smoke filled the air and the tree fell apart in two long, burning shards as the current discharged into the thundercloud.
Temporarily blind and deaf, and wracked with the agony of putting forth such phenomenal quantities of the brí in such a quick burst, Arran was unable to regain his feet. He gasped and retched. Every nerve in his body was a white-hot wire screaming its pain. He writhed helplessly on the hail-dusted ice, unaware of the bloody events that were unfolding back on the shore.
While Arran’s companions were awaiting and aiding him at the lakeside, Fionnuala and her band of mercenaries had drawn near their campsite. The weathermasters had left Wanderpath’s envelope folded up in its basket, unguarded, while they performed the weathermastery necessary to keep the lake locked in a freeze.
Fionnuala was an expert hunter and markswoman. Her eyes, although insipid in color, pierced her surroundings keenly. Despite the deep gloom of the cloudy morning, she spied the pale folds of the envelope shimmering through the trees. In such a remote and unpopulated region the weathermasters had not bothered to conceal the aerostat; they had merely ringed it with charms of wight-protection.
The woman held up her hand in a signal for her followers to be alert.
“Dismount,” she said in low tones. “I see something there. It might be their camp. Tie up the horses. We shall take the weathermasters by surprise.”
As matters turned out, it was Fionnuala who was surprised. She and her henchmen moved stealthily amongst the junipers and surrounded the campsite, only to discover it was deserted.
“Go and reconnoiter,” she ordered the men. They slipped away, their stain-blotched clothing blending with bark and leaves and beads of ice. It was hardly necessary for them to move noiselessly. Gusty winds were whipping the branches of the junipers, and random hail-squalls came beating down. The creak of wood, the sigh of blowing leaves, and the patter of hail obliterated any sounds the intruders might have engendered.
After double-checking the surroundings to ensure she was alone, Fionnuala strode into the clearing. She kicked over the wicker basket and began to vigorously tug at the contents. “Here’s their cursed vehicle,” she muttered, hauling out the spidersilk envelope, hand over hand. The silky masses billowed about her. She stood in an ocean of glimmering bubbles and shredded them to pieces. A diamond dagger was one of the rare blades that would cut spidersilk.
Later, her scouts returned.
“Three men stand at the edge of a frozen lake,” they reported. “They are intent on watching something far across the water—so intent they did not note our presence.”
“Take them unawares and slay them,” she said. The ruined envelope lay gleaming like a pool of molten pewter on the ground.
Arran staggered to his feet. His hearing and sight were beginning to return, but he saw the world as if through a smoked glass pane and heard sounds as if from a distance, beyond a high-pitched whine and ringing of ceaseless shrill bells. Severe storms were raging all around him. Thunder trundled its iron-rimmed wheels around the horizon; the white calligraphy of lightning wrote itself upon roiling clouds, dancing on its own reflections in the lake of ice; winds careened here and there like invisible madmen, uprooting trees; hail threshed the landscape.
He staggered back toward the shore, dodging eldritch arrows. One struck him, but harmlessly lodged in the hard leather padding on his shoulder. He had no strength to pluck it out. Noting that the icy surface of the lake was starting to crack and melt, he peered through the storm, endeavoring to see what his friends were at. They no longer stood on the shore. Where they had been, gouts of red gore were splashed across the drifts of hail.
He slipped and toppled over, struggled upright, and walked on, keeping his head down so that he might watch where he stepped, in case the ice should betray him and he should fall through, to be lost beneath the haunted waters.
Next time he looked up, he saw, through swirls of windblown crystals, five men crossing the lake-ice toward him. Flashes of lightning sporadically illuminated their burly forms and grim faces. They were strangers, and they carried blood-stained swords.
Arran perceived at once how it would be. He was virtually alone on the ice, which was rapidly liquefying and breaking up now that the brí no longer constrained local temperatures. He guessed that these strangers had captured or slain his companions. If they had come here, to this remote place, they must know what he had been seeking. They would be certain that either he knew where it was or he had already found it.
Rapidly they drew near. Dazed and exhausted, Arran was barely able to balance on his feet. When they reached him he would be at their mercy, if any mercy moved their hearts. They would seize him, search his clothing, and discover the Draught. In all likelihood they would take it from him and slay him, as they had probably slaughtered his friends. His mind was tormented with anxiety on behalf of those he had left on shore. Yet he had been caught without warning. There was no time to work the brí: nor did he possess the vigor to do so, even if the chance had been given him.
The strangers drew apart, and from their midst stepped a woman, hitherto concealed behind them. She raised her crossbow and pointed it at Arran. He knew who she was: he knew her arrows were toxic.
They were almost upon him. He had no strength to flee, no strength to fight.
He said to the little wight in his pocket, “Attackers are coming. Can you help me?”
“I own only the power of glamour,” moaned the wight, “and me mither’s got a bottomless tankard. I can do naught to help you.” It screwed shut its eyes, curled into a tight ball, and dived to the bottom of the pocket to hide.
“Then I am finished,” said Arran. He sagged to his knees on the rotting, melting ice, bowed his head in defeat, and waited.
Hundreds of leagues to the east, beyond the walls of High Darioneth, four horsemen clad in the royal livery of Slievmordhu were climbing the East Road from Blacksmith’s Corner. Far above their heads, the mountain heights echoed with the clamor of baying hounds, the rattling of heavy chains, and the slamming of gigantic doors. The eldritch frightener was issuing its warning. Watchmen looked out from the ramparts above the inner and outer portals of the East Gate. A horn sounded from a watchtower. Another answered from below, and a third responded from somewhere within the ring of storths.
The stridor of blowing horns reached a chamber in the house of the Maelstronnar, wherein he and several comrades had gathered. They paused in their conversation and hearkened to the coded signal, deciphering its meaning.
“ ’Tis messengers from Cathair Rua,” said the Storm Lord, at length. The light of hope that had newly kindled in his eyes now dimmed, and he sighed.
“Alas; Uabhar’s errand-boys are not the ones we long to see,” said Lynley Ymberbaillé, the mother of Bliant.
“It has been nineteen days since Wanderpath departed in search of this Well,” said Tristian Solorien. “Nineteen days! What can possibly be hindering them? Why do they not return?”
“I would not be overly concerned,” said Avalloc, “were it not for the artificial storms.”
“Ten days ago those storms raged at their height,” said Lynley. “Since then, they have waned and dissipated. The weather begins to regain equilibrium. Still, no word comes out of Grïmnørsland.”
“We wait no longer,” said Avalloc. “This very day, Snowship shall be dispatched. We will send a rescue crew. Baldulf, will you see to it?”
“Without delay!”
“For my part, I must prepare to receive these messengers.”
Under escort, the horsemen from Cathair Rua trotted up the main road from the plateau to Rowan Green. Aft
er receiving refreshment from the hands of a steward, the messenger and his three guards were ushered into Ellenhall for an audience with the Maelstronnar.
The emissary bowed. “Lord, I bring tidings from His Majesty, Uabhar Ó Maoldúin of Slievmordhu.”
“Proceed,” said Avalloc.
“Lord, I say this to you: King Uabhar has broken into the Dome of Strang in Orielthir.”
“Indeed! These are tidings of great moment. Tell on!”
“His Majesty’s servants, taking no harm from any curses that may once have been embedded into the outer architecture, made their way deep inside the Dome’s interior. There being no windows piercing that inner core, they ignited torches, that they might have light to see by. At the precise moment the spark was struck from the tinder, or so it was later guessed, the innermost spaces of the Dome exploded. Men that later followed the advance party found tangles of fused piping amongst the human remains and rubble. The remnants of what must have been a library were found, too, for thousands of pages of books were strewn to the winds, later to wilt and wither in the rain. Investigators from the Sanctorum diagnosed that the Sorcerer of Strang had been tapping underground gases to fuel his lights and machineries. The pipes now being clogged by mortar-dust and broken brickwork, and the roof being burst asunder to let in the fresh air, there is no further danger of a blast.
“Since then, His Majesty’s servants have scoured the bastion from pinnacle to foundations. They discovered no treasure or objects of gramarye, nothing whatsoever of any great value. All that has been brought to light are crumbling stones and rotting bones, worm-eaten wood, melted copper pipes, and rusted iron. This being the case, they have abandoned the site.”
“By what right did they try to pillage it in the first place?” asked the Storm Lord.
“Why, by the right of the Crown of course!” The messenger was taken aback.
Diplomatically, Avalloc did not press the issue of the Dome’s proprietorship. He quizzed the man further, and more information was divulged, after which the visitors retired to lodgings that had been prepared for them. They would depart from High Darioneth on the following day.
Immediately, Avalloc Stormbringer convened an informal meeting of the Council, to which he also summoned Jewel. Even as they hastened to Ellenhall, the councillors glanced across at the launching apron, upon which the balloon Snowship was being inflated. In their hearts they guessed where the aircraft would be bound, and when they gathered together Avalloc readily confirmed their conjectures.
“I am sending a flight to Grïmnørsland,” he said. “Wanderpath has been too long away, and the contrived disturbances of the atmosphere are cause for concern.”
“I am glad of this,” said Cacamwri. “I believe I can speak on behalf of us all when I say, we have grown anxious, of late.”
His colleagues voiced their concordance.
“I should like to accompany this flight,” Jewel said to the Storm Lord. “Sir, will you give permission?”
During the extended wait for Arran’s return the marsh-daughter had scarcely been able to sleep or eat. His long absence caused her an anguish so extreme that it was difficult to endure.
“Indeed I will not!” Avalloc’s eyes flashed. “My dear Jewel, you try me too greatly. How can you ask, when you know full well that skilled hands are needed on missions that might prove dangerous, hmm? You have no skill at ballooning. You would only hamper the crew.”
For an instant Jewel looked as if she might defy him, but she reined her temper.
“Pray forgive me.”
The Storm Lord’s expression softened. Gently he said, “Do not be downcast, dear child, for I have good news for you.” Turning his attention to the assembly of councilors, he declared, “Word has come from Cathair Rua; Uabhar has penetrated and inspected the Dome. It appears the sorcerer’s arcane inventions died with him, for no hurt came to those who invaded his domain, save for those who were killed in a subsequent explosion begot by their own torch-flames. Wealth was not found there, nor mysterious secrets—or so we are told. They are demolishing the compound. I daresay it has been a splinter in Uabhar’s side for long enough.
“This means, of course, that our prisoner, Fionnbar Aonarán, has been rendered powerless to do Jewel mischief. It is no longer necessary for her identity to remain secret from the world. Until this time only a few folk in High Darioneth have known the truth. Now, anyone and everyone may become privy to the knowledge, and no harm done. If she is descended from Strang, what of it? She is heiress to nothing—only a worthless ruin. Aonarán knows the location of the Well of Dew, but when Rivalen and Arran return with the Draught, that information also will be of no value to him.”
“These are excellent tidings!” said Nyneve Longiníme. “The scorpion loses its sting!”
A murmur of agreement rippled amongst the councillors.
“Tidings both good and ill,” said Avalloc. “Notwithstanding the fact that Aonarán is undoubtedly guilty of supplying weapons to Marauders, his detention at the house of Lumenspar contravenes our own laws. As yet, despite our efforts we have gathered no definite evidence against him. His freedom is, therefore, long overdue.”
“Surely you are not suggesting we should release him!” protested Tristian Solorien. “The fellow is a scoundrel, a miscreant without compunction! To set such a rogue on the loose would be ill enough in the usual way of things, but to liberate a man who is not only pitiless but probably immortal to boot—why, ’twould be a felony!”
“His perpetuity has not been proven for certain,” Gvenour Nithulambar reminded the conclave.
“Deathless or not, the man is a criminal and ought to be fettered,” growled Cacamwri Dommalleo. Someone shouted a question, another voiced a variant opinion, and vehement discussion broke out on all sides.
“Hearken!” Avalloc’s peremptory tones thundered through the debate. All ceased their discourse and turned their attention to their leader.
“Gentlefolk, think you that I would recommend the liberty of this man without imposing conditions? Do you, hmm? If we free him, we shall set close watch on him day and night. This shall serve dual purposes—to ensure he does not work mischief, and perchance to lead us to his ring of accomplices and put a stop to his crimes.”
“A sound plan, Maelstronnar,” said Cacamwri.
“Whosoever is in accord with this course of action, raise your hand,” intoned Baldulf Rainbearer. Readily the councillors demonstrated their consensus.
“And you, Jewel? Aonarán has been your bane. Would you have him released?” Avalloc’s tone mellowed when he spoke to the damsel. She had been sitting quietly throughout the latter part of the meeting, obviously curbing her desire to contribute, remaining mute to show respect for the elected Council members.
Now she spoke boldly. “I am in accord, sir. The laws of Ellenhall must not be dealt with lightly. Let Fionnbar Aonarán be set free.”
Avalloc nodded. “It shall be done.”
“This very day, word shall be sent to Lumenspar,” said Baldulf.
“Even so,” Avalloc acknowledged, “but there is more. He who bears this news to our ambassador in Cathair Rua must also deliver a message to Uabhar. The king has invited Jewel to accompany us on our visit to his palace for his second son’s naming ceremony, so that he might meet the heir of the sorcerer. On hearing of her existence, his interest was swiftly kindled. Jewel, you must make a second decision. Will you accept this invitation? Before you say yea or nay, know this: between the walls of Ellenhall it is recognized that Uabhar is false, a treacherous double-dealer. Outside this meeting-place we do not openly discuss such opinions. Uabhar is, however, canny and powerful. It is in our interests, at this time, to ensure a harmonious relationship between Cathair Rua and High Darioneth. With valid reason you might judge that presenting yourself at the court of Slievmordhu would not be without hazard. With valid reason you might consider that Uabhar has some secondary purpose in requesting this introduction. You might well suspect him of
some hidden intention. If this is your doubt, be assured that we share it. Be assured also, dear child, that if you go with us, we promise to ensure your security.”
“Sir, you have pre-empted all my arguments,” said Jewel, bowing to the Storm Lord. A faint smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “Thoroughly do you understand my mind! Thank you for your concern and assurances. I will go with you to Cathair Rua. I will wait upon the king. And I will do so in utmost confidence, being under the protection of High Darioneth.”
After the meeting had concluded and Jewel returned to the mill, she imparted most of the news to her adopted family, who had come crowding around her as soon as she appeared. They were entranced to hear her tidings, especially when she revealed the secret of her identity.
“Your troubles are over, Jewel!” said Elfgifu delightedly. “This disclosure means that now you are free to revisit your friends and family in the marsh!”
“Yes, and how I long to see them. Yet my troubles are not yet over.”
“Why not?”
Jewel turned her face up to the sky. “There is a balloon I wish to see, coming from the east, returning to the Seat of the Weathermasters.”
The household ceased its animated chatter. Following Jewel’s gaze, they tilted their heads. A balloon was flying above the ring of storths, rising into the cloud layer. It was leaving Rowan Green, however, and heading west.
“Aye,” Osweald Miller said thoughtfully. “That is what we all wish to see.”
High Darioneth kept vigil. The crew of the balloon that had flown to Grïmnørsland would send back a carrier pigeon as soon as they arrived at Stryksjø. If there was a black band around the bird’s leg, the news would be grave. A white band would mean good news; while yellow indicated no news at all.
The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 51