Floral confections adorned the houses and halls in the precincts of Rowan Green. Garlands of vestal hawthorn decorated front doors; nosegays of gentians and primula nestled on window-ledges; crisp bouquets of daisies burst from stone jars placed upon the copings of wells.
The first caress of the newborn sun gilded the walls of the nine imposing half-timbered houses built of granite blocks and roofed with slate. They were arranged around the boundaries of an expansive village-green, wherein almond-blossom drifts of geese and ducks congregated at a pond. Atop the roof of one of the houses sat a glass cupola, wreathed with a fine basketry of intertwining stems. The stems were black, hazed with the pale green of new buds. Between the houses grand rowan trees, far taller than the rowans of the lowlands, put forth their boughs.
Taller even than the rowans was the semaphore tower. Almost a decade had passed since the semaphore line system had been invented—in modern times a network of relay leagues, or hilltop signal towers within sight of one another, ranged across Tir, augmenting, rather than replacing, the old arrangement of carrier pigeons and post-riders. With the building of enormous signal-arms and the use of spyglasses, stations could be positioned as much as twenty miles apart. This was a considerable advantage in rough and mountainous terrain, where the construction and maintenance of post-roads was costly. The speed of the lines varied with visibility, which was affected by the weather, but a typical message could take a mere half an hour to travel one hundred and twenty miles, passing through fifteen forwarding stations. The capital cities, and several of the major towns, all commanded their own towers.
Pigeon-post was not redundant, however, especially over shorter distances. Some of these birds now orbited overhead, abruptly raining down like scraps of bleached muslin to alight in lofts atop the stables, set apart from the dwellings. Their smooth cooing honeyed the air from high on the crag overlooking Rowan Green, the waterfall draped its silken threads down jagged precipices. Glittering, it bypassed the apron on which the houses stood, hurtling straight down to the flat lands at the foot of the cliff, where it ran, burbling, away amongst the orchards.
In the middle of the green, abutting an octagonal tower, stood Ellenhall, a long building constructed of the same materials as the houses. A slender belfry-turret topped the gable. The larger shape of the common hall, Long Gables, was set at right angles to the first, and somewhat apart. At one end stood three elegant chimneys with translucent hair of blue smoke.
It was here at the Seat of the Weathermasters that Asrthiel Heronswood Maelstronnar abided, in the house of Avalloc Maelstronnar, her grandfather. She also shared that rambling, cupola-topped dwelling with her uncle, Dristan—who was currently away on a weathermastery mission—and his wife and children.
On this fine Mai morning Asrthiel, garbed in robes of linen russet, entered the Maelstronnar dining hall: a wide, low-ceilinged chamber paneled with walnut, and comfortably furnished with solid oak settles and tables. Peach-topaz daylight slanted in at the windows. As ever, her eyes were drawn to the familiar spectacle of the impressive sword in its scabbard hanging on the wall above the mantelpiece. Everyone knew the weapon by reputation, of course; it was renowned far and wide. Here was Fallowblade, called Lannóir of yore: the golden sword, slayer of goblins, and heirloom of the House of Stormbringer.
As a small child, Asrthiel had asked her grandfather, “Why is it called ‘Fallowblade’? I thought that ‘fallow’ meant ‘resting,’ like the fields farmers leave lying uncropped throughout the year, to let the loam regain its goodness.”
He had answered, “The word has two other meanings besides. It describes the color of pale reddish-gold, such as the shade of poplar leaves in Autumn, and the hide of small deer, and the stubble left behind in a meadow after the hay-making.”
“Then it means Goldenblade!” Asrthiel cried. “What else?”
“Have you ever heard a ploughman speak of ‘fallowing a field’? No? To fallow the land means to break up the hard soil. During the wars, Fallow-blade was a superior breaker of hard things, such as goblins’ heads.”
“Why do ploughmen break up the soil?” the child wanted to know.
“For the same reason Dristan turns over the garden beds with his spade and fork—to make it ready for sowing seeds, and to destroy weeds.”
“Fallowblade destroyed all the goblin weeds,” Asrthiel had responded with glee. “That is a fitting name!”
From beyond the casements came the musical notes of small songbirds twittering, and the soft cries of children playing on Rowan Green. The mountain wind, ever unquiet, sighed and murmured as it prowled the eaves and ruffled the rowan-twigs with cool fingers. For a long moment Asrthiel stood motionless, looking at Fallowblade.
It was the song she had heard on Mai Day that sparked her memories about the famous weapon, inspiring her to go and look at it again this day. Her underlying restlessness also played a part—Fallowblade, with all its accompanying accounts of magickal forging in hidden were-fires, and unguessable properties, and heroic deeds, symbolized adventure. Adventure, exploration, travel in search of the unknown—that was what she craved.
Avalloc Maelstronnar had always adamantly affirmed that Fallowblade would eventually be bequeathed to his eldest son, Arran. Upon the Storm Lord’s death the famous weapon was to be held in trust by Asrthiel until her father, Arran, should claim it, if ever he returned—which, as everyone knew, was a thin hope. If Arran never came back, the weapon was to pass into the keeping of his only child.
Long had Asrthiel wished to obtain the training necessary for employing this unique weapon. No man-in-the-street could wield it without coming to harm. The sword itself could destroy anyone who was not strong of limb, a blood-heir to the bri, and drilled in mastering its peculiar features. Except once, it had not been used for centuries, not since the goblin wars; merely brought forth now and then to be admired and polished and handled with extraordinary wariness before being restored to the sheath above the mantelpiece.
The sole exception to Fallowblade’s long disuse had happened more than a hundred years earlier. Aglaval Maelstronnar, the Storm Lord who led the weathermasters at that time, had lent the blade to Tierney A’Connacht, another of Asrthiel’s distant forebears. A detailed written account of this adventure was stored in the Maelstronnar library. Knowing the weapon’s fearsome reputation, Tierney’s two brothers had refused to use the sword, but had eventually perished. Tierney, the youngest—no weathermaster, but a man of great courage—had been willing to risk wielding Fallowblade for the sake of the woman he loved. He had lopped off the hand of the sorcerer Janus Jaravhor and successfully rescued his sweetheart from the Dome of Strang.
Storytellers had fallen out of the habit of explaining that the two brothers had elected to use their own weapons instead of Fallowblade simply because they had been afraid to touch the golden sword. The brothers understood its properties very well. It was blindingly swift and lethal, but because of the manner of its forging, Fallowblade would hurt anyone who seized hold of it, had that person ever deliberately caused injury to any living creature. No mortal man was innocent in that respect, though some claimed to be, and when they assayed to pick up the sword their flesh was burnt, or they underwent agonies to varying degrees of excruciation. Tierney A’Connacht was not immune, but he hung on to the sword despite the torment, and thereby overcame the sorcerer’s might. Ever afterwards he was crippled in his sword arm; however, that fact was not made common knowledge.
Only the influence of the bri, the potent talent possessed by weathermasters, could begin to tame the moral peculiarities of Fallowblade. Those in whose blood the brí flowed had a better chance of being able to handle the legendary blade. Only family members were permitted to touch the weapon at all, and only a fully trained swordsman who truly understood its qualities might properly wield it. To do otherwise was likely to bring great harm upon the user. In the rosy days before the dart of mistletoe had almost slain Asrthiel’s mother, her father had been wont to speak o
f his desire to someday employ the golden sword according to his birthright.
“Not that High Darioneth is in any danger of being attacked,” Arran had added with a laugh, “but in memory of he who wrought the sword, my ancestor Alfardne, I would like to use Fallowrblade as he is meant to be used, rather than relegate him to the permanent status of wall-decoration.” Albeit, before he had fulfilled his wish, tragedy had struck and he had quit the Four Kingdoms.
In the Maelstronnar dining hall, Asrthiel carried a three-legged stool to the hearthstone and set it down. After hitching up her skirts she clambered onto the seat, placing one foot on the mantelshelf for balance. Leaning forward she reached up with both hands and lifted the heavy weapon off the wall, then carefully, awkwardly, climbed down. When she stood again upon the floor she drew the great blade from its sheath. A pang sizzled up her arms; she quieted the effect with a coolly muttered word.
What is it about polished gold that so fascinates the eye? It holds the luster of mellow Summer days; of brandy-wine in a glass, struck through by a spear of sunshine; of candlelight gleaming on brassware; of amber firelight; sparkles glinting in the hair of a girl; richness; the fruitfulness of ripe corn; the lubricious sweetness of syrup. Gold’s warmly shining beauty promises wealth and contentment. It invites caresses, attracts the touch of hands, fills the mind with wonder.
The fluted tongue of Fallowblade was a slender pillar of flame. Gripping the hilt firmly, Asrthiel held it vertically in front of her body, the point turned upward. White-gold spangles ran up and down its glimmering length. The atmosphere seemed to sing with arcane voices, as if the exquisitely sharp edges of Fallowblade severed the very air, particle from particle. Gently Asrthiel hefted the sword in her hands, swishing it slightly, almost imperceptibly, from side to side, her gaze never shifting from the blaze of aureate loveliness. She was careful to limit the sword’s range of motion, and refrained from performing any battle-moves such as feinting, thrusting or sweeping.
Fallowblade was fashioned of gold, platinum and indium—that much Asrthiel knew. During its forging the metals had been enlaced with the power of the bri, imbuing them with qualities they could never possess naturally. She was aware also that the sword had hewn off the head of many a goblin; that its like had never been seen before and never would be seen again in the four kingdoms of Tir. But what more was there to learn about this beautiful, shimmering, lethal thing?
While Asrthiel stood, as transfixed by admiration of the weapon as if it had impaled her, Avalloc entered the room.
A timeless quality clung around Asrthiel’s grandfather, as around most weathermages. His eyes were the color of jade, and hooded by deep lids; his nose hooked, like the beak of a bird of prey. Straight-spined and frost-haired in his grey robes, he seemed as enduring as an oak-tree. His face, molded and engraved by the kneading fingers of age, bore the stamps of patience and wisdom. Since the day, nine years ago, when his eldest son had packed his rucksack and disappeared into the desert wilderness of the remote north, the Storm Lord had borne his accumulating birthdays as if they were as wreighty as tombstones.
Avalloc’s family name, Maelstronnar, meant Stormbringer, and he had been freely elected Storm Lord of Ellenhall and High Darioneth. He was the most authoritative, and until recently the most powerful of all weather-masters. His eyes darkened to thoughtful olive-green as he looked at his grandchild standing before him, holding the sword. Here was one who, he suspected, had the potential to command the power of weathermastery—even beyond his own capabilities. He had lost his son and his beloved daughter-in-law, but the dark, empty place that gaped in his psyche was illuminated by his joy in their child.
“Good morrow to thee, Grandfather.”
“And to thee, dear child. Fallowblade shines as bright as ever on this day.”
“Indeed, sir, and fain would I put him to the test.” Lambent radiance, reflected from the blade, skittered around the walls and across the features of Avalloc. He squinted to avoid the glare. Asrthiel did not notice—the sight of the golden sword still held her in thrall. It seemed to gather brilliance to itself; to string nets of sticky light about its axis, like golden cobwebs. “Fain would I,” she continued, “learn how to wield him suitably. I believe that now I am ready.” Turning to face her grandfather she added, “Therefore I am asking for your permission.”
The Storm Lord regarded Asrthiel with grave intent. He said, calmly and deliberately, “That is no insignificant request.”
“Of that I am aware, and I do not undertake to ask it lightly.”
“I know that you are one of the few, Asrthiel, who have the potential to wield the golden blade in combat, yet you must understand that you are entreating my approval for one I hold most dear to indulge in a dangerous enterprise. You ask a great deal from me.”
“How dangerous can the sword be to me?” The damsel did not add, I am immortal and invulnerable, but they both knew what she meant.
“Who knows? Fallowblade’s capabilities have never been fully catalogued. Conceivably they are measureless.”
At the end of a few moments’ pondering, Astriel said, “Well, if there is a risk, I am willing to take it. What say you, Grandfather? Will you give your consent?”
She looked so proud and zealous, standing before him with the extraordinary weapon in her hands, as if she had broken off a piece of the sun, that Avalloc’s manner softened. He had long guessed that one day she would petition him for the use of Fallowblade and, having thought it over, had decided to grant her wish. Graciously he inclined his head. “You have my permission.” A faint smile flickered across his mouth. “Under one condition,” he added, “and that is, you must promise not to engage in combat rehearsal until your sword-master judges your ability to be outstanding in every way. You will need more than common competence if you are to handle this perilous blade.”
The damsel’s face lit up with pleasure. “I promise! Gramercie! Well, Fallowblade,” she said, beginning to slide the sword back into its sheath, “you and I shall soon have some dancing to do.”
When she drove home the hilt, the chamber seemed to grow dim. Together, Asrthiel and Avalloc replaced sword and scabbard in their usual position above the fireplace.
“You must break the news tactfully to your aunt,” the Storm Lord advised. “She will not be happy; you know how she feels about your inheriting the blade.”
“Of course I shall be gentle with her!”
“Fallowblade has other names,” Avalloc informed his granddaughter as they finished the task and stepped back from the fireplace. “He is called also ‘Frostfire,’ because he burns like both ice and flame, and his color is of the sun. In the speech of the Gwragged Annwn, ‘Frostfire’ is translated as ‘Síoctine,’ which men were wont to render as Shockteen.”
“A curious name. And what a curious song it is, Grandfather,” said Asrthiel, “the song about Fallowblade. All my life I have listened to it, from time to time, and yet there is much about it I do not understand.”
“Ask me. It will be an excellent commencement to your further training.”
“Everyone knows,” Asrthiel began, “that our famous forefather Alfardene was a master-smith. Everyone knows that hundreds of years ago he forged the blade in the famous Inglefire, which burns to this very day beneath one of the mountains in the Northern Ramparts. But what is the Inglefire? Where exactly does it lie? What makes it extraordinary?”
Avalloc offered Asrthiel his arm and they sat down together on the seat by the open window, surveying the sunlit panorama of glistening snowy peaks as they conversed. “The Inglefire,” said the Storm Lord, “is no common conflagration, but a ‘werefire,’ an ancient, everlasting blaze of gramarye that burns deep beneath a certain mountain, in the far north. It is called ‘Inglefire,’ but that name is a corruption of the old word, ‘Aingealfyre.’ Aingeal, you see, means ‘light.’ As the song tells, it is there that the sword Fallowblade was forged. That fire is anathema to unseelie things, therefore after Fallow-blade was
made the goblins posted guards around the werefire so that no more swords like him could ever be created. The goblins themselves could not abide the fire; could not even go near it. It is said that the Inglefire burns out wickedness. That is why the sword is pure, and smote goblins so well.”
“Did the goblin guards not suffer from the fire’s proximity?”
“The goblins themselves did not guard it. They set their kobold slaves to the task.”
“But they dispersed and fled into hiding when the goblins were defeated. What guards it now?”
“Unseelie wights of other varieties, so it is told. Nobody has sought the Inglefire for many a year. There is no need. These days we have neither living master-smiths as great as our grandsire Alfardene, nor any real need to fashion more swords like Fallowblade. Unseelie wights are kept at bay by repellents such as bells and iron and rowan, or by the use of the bri; or chiefly by educating mortalkind to beware of the haunts of wicked entities, and shun them.”
“Well, it is a shame there will be no more swords like Fallowblade, for he is beautiful.”
“Aye, that he is, and perilous also.”
“Such a strange heritage is mine,” mused the damsel, leaning her elbow on the windowsill and resting her chin in her hand. “A golden sword, the power of the bri, eternity, a ruined fortress . . .” For a while she was silent, while the two of them watched the clouds roll by. Then she sat up straight. “The Dome,” she said. “The ruined Dome of the sorcerer Jaravhor—it is mine by law, is it not?”
“By the laws of Slievmordhu and Narngalis, it belongs to you and your mother, dear child. You and Jewel are apparently the sorcerer’s only living descendents.”
“Yet King Uabhar, without permission from the rightful owners, had it dismantled and ransacked,” Asrthiel said discontentedly. “In the process it was destroyed. All that remains are heaps of broken bricks and stones, swarming with crowthistle and other weeds. The once-great Dome of Strang is now just a pile of rubble.”
Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 8