The Well of Tears: Book Two of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Avalloc’s eyes crinkled at the outer corners. “You have been under the spell of fatherhood,” he said, as if reading his son’s thoughts. “A strong enchantment, I know. While you were immersed in your new role, the Council was not idle. Preparations were begun as soon as the riddle was solved. The quest for the Well of Tears will perhaps become a legend of our generation, and I am as eager for it to commence as any man. Now that Wanderpath has been destroyed, you must take Northmoth. All is in readiness.”

  Arran bowed to his chieftain and sire. “Then I shall depart directly.”

  When he informed Jewel of his decision she reacted with alarm. “I beg you, do not go yet.” It was a warm evening and she was sitting in their bedchamber, upon a chair of carven applewood. With her hand resting on the edge of the crib, she was patiently rocking the infant to sleep.

  “Why not? I am eager to bring you your gift!”

  “A gift maybe not meant for me. The Council has passed no judgment on the fate of the third Draught.”

  “It is meant for you,” he insisted.

  Fridayweed slid down the side of the nearby firescreen, somehow elegant in spite of managing to find no purchase on the polished wood.

  “Wait,” Jewel repeated stubbornly. “The draining of the first two Wells brought grief and disaster. It may be that the third entails a similar doom. Stay with us a while longer! After all, this Well has lain undisturbed for centuries.”

  “Ever, while my companions and I camped on the shores of Stryksjø, we assured each other we had time aplenty to complete our task. Such assumptions proved our undoing. Hearken, love, to the reasons why I should set forth immediately. First, if Fridayweed knows the location, I daresay that information is common knowledge amongst all wights, and therefore available to Aonarán.”

  “Not all,” said Fridayweed, sucking thoughtfully on the end of its paintbrush tail. “Some.”

  “Enough to thwart our plans,” said Arran. He returned his attention to his wife. “Secondly, there is always a chance that those folk we have questioned on this topic might wonder why we seek a hollow mountain with water falling through its heart. Should they delve deeply enough into this issue they might learn the truth and go looking for the Well themselves. If those villainous Aonaráns hear of our enquiries I daresay they will suspect the existence of a third source of immortality.”

  “If, if, if!” said Jewel discontentedly. “Nothing of what you say is certain.” She rocked the cradle harder than she intended, and the child stirred. “Hush! Hush!” soothed Jewel, stroking the wisps of dark hair. “I am sorry, little one.”

  “Another if: drink the waters of life while you suckle our darling, and perchance the gift will be doubled!”

  “Possibly,” began Jewel, “but—”

  “That would be unnecessary, man,” the wight interjected. “Your child is already immortal. It has inherited that from its father.” The creature smugly twirled its tail, while Jewel and Arran stared at each other, dumbfounded.

  She slumbered innocently in her tissue-curtained cradle, the child who was the issue of their love, that small gem who had suddenly become the reason for life, the focus of all happiness. She it was who held her parents hostage to fortune, she who needed no naming when spoken of—to them, there existed only one her and she. That she had received Jewel’s legacy of invulnerability they had already guessed. Not that they would let anything come near that might hurt the cherished one, but it seemed she did not cry as often as other infants, and had not been prey to inexplicable outbreaks of rashes, cradle-cap, or gripes as her peers had. Yet their affection for their child was so overwhelming that they could not help but visualize possible dangers in order that such situations might be avoided, and ask themselves whether there was anything that could ever take her away from them.

  But now, after the impet’s unexpected announcement, the agony that constantly grazed the raw ends of their nerves, and honed the edge of their protective love for her, the mere shadow of the notion that any lethal harm might ever befall her—that suffering need no longer be endured.

  Eldritch wights spoke only truth. Astăriel was immortal. It was all that needed to be known. She was safe—safer than her parents alone could ever have made her, despite their best efforts. No longer did fortune hold such terrible sway; no longer were they utterly vulnerable, as if spread-eagled against a target while Fate hurled darts.

  Ever since their daughter’s birth their sensibilities in general had amplified, simmering close to the surface. Their desire to shield and guard her was so vehement, so savage, that amidst their joy, they felt their hearts were being burned out hollow. Now it was as if cold water had sluiced over that burning, and in the place of the ravaged, tortured heart was a cool, clear shining, like elemental ice, a certainty that the most precious thing in the universe would forever remain inviolate.

  Overwhelmed by that realization, the banks that restrained the heightened emotions of new parenthood broke asunder, and a torrent poured forth. Arran plucked the infant from her bed and together they enfolded her in a cradle of their loving arms, intertwined, leaning their heads over the sleeping baby, their hair cascading across the small, wrapped figure. Sobs wracked their bodies, and they cried with relief and happiness beyond describing.

  Presently, Jewel raised her chin. Her face was wet, her eyes swollen. She smiled through the liquid moonlight of her tears. As ever with these two, he had only to smile in return and all was communicated, with no need for words.

  Gently they laid their daughter down again, and drew a light coverlet over her. Then Jewel touched her fingertip to her husband’s cheek.

  “By my troth!” she said in astonishment. “You weep, yet there are no tears!”

  He nodded. “ ’Tis strange indeed,” he said. “Yet ’tis a fact that ever since I downed the Draught of Everlasting Life, I can no longer shed tears.”

  Jewel’s brow puckered, as if she scoured her mind for a memory. “I recall some such thing said by the sorcerer, in the Dome.” She leaned over the baby who, as flawless as a porcelain doll, slumbered peacefully in the cradle. “And now it comes to me that when she wails she is tearless also. A curious phenomenon.”

  “But of little account,” said Arran. “Of what use are tears? A saline film, sufficient to cleanse and moisten, rinses my eyes. I need no more than that; apparently, neither does she. The absence of tears is a small price to pay. Indeed, I consider it a bounty.”

  Fridayweed, who had been sucking on the end of its tail, spat it out. “In sooth, squeezing water from one’s eyes seems a wasteful activity,” it said knowledgeably.

  Arran rounded on the wight. “But why did you not enlighten us earlier, with this wonderful news about our child’s immortality?”

  The creature shrugged. “You never asked.”

  “Methinks that is one of your favorite phrases,” Jewel commented, sighing with exasperation.

  She and Arran glared at the impet. It came to them that Fridayweed was a valuable source of information and an asset to their household. Like the housebrownie it had lived for countless years, but unlike the domestic wight it had accumulated great store of knowledge, which it was sometimes willing to share. Only they must in future be careful to ask precisely formulated questions. In typical eldritch fashion it answered very literally, sometimes evasively, and frequently not at all if no answer was demanded.

  A sudden concern struck Jewel. “Since our child is born immortal, will she remain forever in infancy? Will she ever reach adulthood?” she demanded.

  “Of course she will grow up,” said the wight. “She will reach her prime, then never age a whit more.”

  “You are a veritable goldmine of news,” Arran stated.

  Fridayweed grinned like a longbow and scampered behind a linen chest.

  “Come back, you vagabond!” Arran chaffed. “You must tell us more. The riddle mentions ‘ropes of sand.’ How might we obtain such items?”

  The wight’s long nose appeared from behin
d the linen chest. “I know not.”

  “Is it possible to make ropes out of sand?” the young man asked, holding his irritation in check and choosing his words painstakingly.

  “I know not.” The wight emerged fully.

  “You are no longer mortal,” Jewel reminded her husband.

  The recollection smote Arran like a fist. After a lifetime of taking mortality for granted, it was curiously easy to forget his altered condition.

  “Of course! I would need no climber’s lines or cables. I could merely leap from the cliff-top—”

  “You wield no gramarye, man,” said Fridayweed, “and therefore you could not fly in the face of it. To state the obvious, you cannot fly at all. It is the wights that dwell under the mountain who imposed the circumstances governing access to the Well. Gramarye will prevent your descending the cliff, because once you were mortal.”

  “Then, if mortalkind and once-were-mortalkind cannot descend the final precipice except on implausible strings,” said Arran, “what if a wight were to climb down the cliff?”

  “I daresay they do it, the Fridean, Blue-caps, Coblynau, Knockers, Buccas, Gathorns, Bockles, and Nuggies,” said Fridayweed, conscientiously naming every subterranean wight that dwelt beneath Whitaker’s Peak and neglecting to foresee where the topic was leading.

  Arran said, “You might climb down on my behalf, and fetch the water.”

  Emitting a squeal of horror, the wight scurried beneath the bed. Its voice wafted indistinctly out of obscurity: “No.”

  The child stirred and whimpered.

  “Hush! Now you’ve disturbed her,” said Jewel, resuming her rocking of the cradle.

  “Why not?” Arran demanded, lying flat on the floor and peering under the bed.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I beg of you!”

  “No. Never, man! Never.”

  “So be it,” said Arran resignedly, getting to his feet and smacking the dust off his knees. “I shall have to find some other way. Ropes or no ropes, without further ado I shall prepare to visit this ironically named Well.”

  “But she is immortal, safe forever,” said Jewel to her husband, “and I am invulnerable. So you see, there is no necessity for you to hasten away. You need not yet go to the Well of Tears. Delay!”

  As Arran fixed his gaze upon his wife, an ache swelled beneath his ribs. Her beauty approached something mythical as she stood next to the gauze-draped crib. Her white gown, folded about her like a seagull’s wing, was blowing in the night breeze from the window. Her hair fell down around her shoulders in a tempest of glossy darkness; her eyes bloomed with that unfathomable shade of cornflowers-in-essence-of sky.

  “You are cruel,” he cried, with unexpected passion, yet not so loudly as to startle the sleeping infant. “What if I am too late to claim the Draught? You say you are invulnerable, but that is not completely true. Death can still claim you. Would you condemn our daughter and me to everlasting years without you?”

  “No!” Two sapphire spoonfuls glittered with tears. “It is only that I am frightened. I fear that something dreadful may befall you.”

  “What can happen? Death has no power over me.”

  “Something. I know not. I cannot name it.”

  After further discussion Jewel begrudgingly acceded to his wishes, yet a silence lingered between them. Morosely Arran strode to the window and stood with his feet braced apart, surveying the starlit roofs of the houses on Rowan Green.

  “Since you are not to be dissuaded,” Jewel said at length, “I might as well be of help to you. A notion has come to me.” She was handling the fine textile that curtained the cradle. Embroidered with intricate stitchery and bordered with snowflakes of lace, the silken tissue had been a wedding present. “Once, when we visited the palace at Cathair Rua,” she mused, “I saw there a tablecloth of extraordinary material, woven for the king, and I asked what it could be. The method by which this fabric was made is somewhat astonishing, for it was fashioned from spun glass. Molten glass was drawn out into threads as fine as gossamer, filaments that lost the brittleness of glass and became pliable enough for close-weaving. Spun-glass cloth is made on special looms in Ashqalêth, and is very expensive, for much labor is involved. The fabric is more ornamental than sturdy, for it has a limited life-span. With wear, the fibers disintegrate and fall apart. Holes begin to appear in places where elbows have leaned, or table corners have jutted. Yet it can be washed and dried and folded and stored, just like bolts of linen or wool. It engraved my mind with its strangeness, for I could not help but compare that soft, wax-smooth stuff with a glass windowpane or goblet—the one so soft and resilient, the other so hard and brittle. That cloth was made of glass. And,” she added, “of what is glass made, but sand?”

  Arran’s features lit up with delight and surprise. “By thunder, there you have it!” he exclaimed, and leaving the window he drew her into his embrace, kissing her vigorously. “You have the solution! Glass is indeed manufactured from sand that has been melted and fused at considerable temperatures. And glass can be formed into fibers! We shall outfox the wights after all, and make ropes of sand!”

  It was, however, a task more easily described than accomplished.

  Next day Arran took Northmoth and a crew, and flew to the glassworks of Ashqalêth. During the ensuing days the weathermasters employed skilled glassmakers to produce fibers that were then twisted together to make ropes, but when tested for strength every rope tore apart under stress, and was not able to uphold more than the slightest of weights.

  Despite this failure the glass-makers were proud to display their skills for the esteemed weatherlords, and the workshop foreman eagerly plied them with information.

  “To make glass, we take a mixture of sand, soda, and lime, then heat it to a very high temperature, until it melts. As it begins to cool, it can be manipulated to form any shape, as of course you are aware, my lords. The colors of glass can be varied. For example, to make green bottle glass we simply use eleven parts of lime, sixty-three parts of sand, and twenty-six parts of soda ash. The latter is obtained from the burning of the saltwort plant, or found crystallized with other salts beneath the ground. For red glass we add red lead and copper oxide; for blue we use cobalt oxide—”

  “Gramercie,” said Arran gravely, raising his palm in a courteous signal. “Enough. Prithee do not reveal all of your trade secrets!”

  The loquacious foreman bowed deeply in acknowledgment, and altered his topic. “Ashqalêthan glass is famed throughout the Four Kingdoms. Its clarity, strength, and beauty are prized everywhere, for windowpanes, mirrors, jewelry, and a multitude of vessels. But for ropes to be made from glass—that is another matter entirely, and I fear ’tis completely impracticable.”

  The weathermaster departed from the manufactories of Ashqalêth without any glass ropes.

  Despite this setback Arran decided to depart for Whitaker’s Sands, taking with him a supply of rock-climbing equipment and the wight Fridayweed, optimistic that the creature might change its mind when they arrived, and prove helpful yet again. If it would not oblige, then he would attempt to conquer the cliff using his own resources. On Salt’s Day 2nd Otember 3472, he and his crew—Bliant Ymberbaillé, Ettare Sibilaurë, and Gauvain Cilsundror—set forth from High Darioneth in the airship Northmoth, bound for the Black Crags, the mountainous region on the northeast marches of the kingdom. The purpose of their mission had been concealed from all except the councillors of Ellenhall. Others at Rowan Green, and any from the plateau who knew of their departure, made the assumption that they journeyed on a routine mission of weathermastery.

  From west to east they crossed Narngalis, passing over the headwaters of the Canterbury Water. In amongst the mountains flew Northmoth, until the weathermages found themselves gliding above rough terrain: steep valleys mantled with forests, and gaunt peaks as barren as bones, or cloaked in virgin snows. The still airs of Autumn had produced an inversion—an atmospheric condition in which the air temperature r
ose with increasing altitude, pressing down the surface air and inhibiting the dispersion of pollutants. In the timbered valleys charcoal burners and lime burners had been busy—the smoke from their fires hung in thick swathes close to the ground, the upper layers reaching no higher than the treetops.

  Whitaker’s Peak loomed ever nearer. The impet poked its head out of Arran’s tunic pocket, yelling and gesticulating as it navigated. “Over there! A little to the right! No, more to the left! Make for that crag shaped like the head of a goat!” Until at last the creature screeched, “There, you see it? That gray rock that juts like an otter leaping. The doorway is on the other side!”

  As the balloon cruised toward its destination the crew drew out their spyglasses and pointed them at the ground, scanning their surroundings.

  “It might be mere fancy, but I believe that for an instant I spied figures moving like swimmers beneath the murk of the inversion,” said Ettare.

  “Where?” Arran was quick to respond.

  “In the valley below, and on the slopes near the place said to be the doorway to the Deep Stair.”

  “Lime burners or shepherds, perhaps. At all events, since we are on important business I shall reverse the inversion, and wrap our aircraft in obscurity.”

  The son of the Maelstronnar commenced to shape the signs and murmur the vector commands, directing complex atmospheric events. As the balloon swept farther into the mountain range, the air stirred. The inversion broke up, and the trapped fumes began to rise, along with various river-mists that had been imprisoned with them. Slowly, the smokes drifted between the aerostat and the sun.

  Northmoth now flew through a world in which the light of day was tinted amber. It was like moving through an antique painting on whose surface the lacquer had yellowed with age, a quaint and charming effect. The dimness and the somber orange overcast painted a picture that was intriguing to Arran, until it occurred to him that those smudged clouds were in fact the ghosts of burned trees in the sky, passing overhead on the currents, flowing to the gray havens of ash, a pall of cremated timber passing eerily across the firmament before his eyes. Above the angular barrenness of the mountain crags, the sun was like a red eye staring through a keyhole at a dying world. Carboniferous air stung eyes and throats.