Between Cathair Rua and Ashqalêth, the islands and causeways of the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu floated on their own misty waters like some enchanted land, dreaming their way through the cooler season.
On the morning of New Year’s Day in Narngalis, pale, wintry light seeped from a sky dry-brushed with swirls of feathery clouds. By noon, tarpaulins were spread upon the grass in the gardens of Wyverstone Castle, that people might seat themselves on the ground without spoiling their clothes. A sweeping lawn, hedged in by ancient holly trees in full berry, was the place of assembly for invited members of the public, and New Year’s Day was a time for leisure and further celebration.
The afternoon turned crystal-bright. Snow glistened on the Northern Ramparts, and bird calls went ringing through the limpid air. In accordance with tradition, aristocrats and members of the royal family mingled with commoners. Everyone was clad warmly against the cold. Noblewomen had dressed themselves in gowns of best quality Ashqalêthan camlet, wrapping themselves in cloaks of otter-fur and chinchilla. Their menfolk wore large, well-insulated hats with upturned brims, decorated by pheasant plumes. Long-sleeved and fur-lined, their ankle-length greatcoats were trimmed with russet fox-pelts at cuffs, lapels and collars. Beneath the greatcoats they wore calf-length tunics, thick leggings and black knee-boots with the tops turned back to reveal the yellow lining.
Visiting farmers and craftsmen had dressed themselves in belted tunics of soft leather, with cross-gartered chausses on their legs and clogs on their feet. Their hats were bycockets, or capuchons with liripipes worn like scarves around the neck. Some wore sheepskin jerkins, and their cloaks were made of thick, warm frieze. Their wives and daughters were similarly garbed, except that kirtles and gowns replaced tunics and jerkins, and their heads were swathed in woolen couvre-chefs fixed on with bands of plaited yarn. In addition to this cold-weather paraphernalia, the older folk and some of the children were wearing shapeless bliauts of weatherproof canvas on top of all their other garments.
Pet hounds frolicked amongst the crowds, and several young men were playing football at one end of the lawn. The main event of the day was “tilting at rings.” In this competition, horsemen vied with each other to obtain any of three bracelets decorated with ribbons, dangling from a horizontal yardarm on embroidery-threads. One of the armlets was made of bronze, one of silver and one of pure gold. While galloping past the post at full speed, riders must try to pierce a bracelet with the tip of their lance, thus breaking the thread and carrying off the prize. Contestants were each allowed three attempts. Custom decreed that the winners bestow their prizes on a favored lady. It was considered a great triumph to win any of the trophies; therefore many horsemen entered the contest. The competition was fierce but good-natured, and the convivial celebration of the new year was enjoyed by all.
After New Year’s Day, the urisk seldom appeared at The Laurels. On the occasions when he did manifest himself, he would say very little, and was not to be drawn. He seemed distracted. It was as if something had stirred him profoundly. Asrthiel was unable to decipher his emotions, for he was such an alien thing; and she found his behavior even more inexplicable than usual.
The people of Narngalis drank much cider to celebrate Wassailing the Apple Trees on the sixth of Jenever. They sang the traditional Apple Tree Wassailing chant:
“Huzza, huzza, in our good town
The bread shall be white, and the liquor be brown
So here my old fellow I drink to thee
And the health of every other apple tree.
Well may ye grow, well may ye bear,
Blossom and fruit, both apple and pear,
So that every bough and every twig
May bend with a burden both fair and big.
May ye bear us and yield us fruit in such store
That the bags and chambers and house run o’er!”
On the following morning, semaphore messages arrived in King’s Winterbourne from Slievmordhu, reporting that King Uabhar had taken delivery of a sky-balloon of his own, which had been manufactured in secret. Such aerostats did exist outside Rowan Green, but they were small and, being non-dirigible, used only by the wealthy for recreational flights. Because balloons without weathermaster pilots were at the mercy of the wind, their final destination could not be predicted. Ground-crew had to try to follow the aircraft across the countryside so that they could fetch them back from wherever they alighted. This enterprise was time-consuming, difficult and dangerous.
The king had exerted his considerable influence to gather craftsmen with the skill to make a large sky-balloon capable of carrying relatively heavy loads. In the past he had never bothered with “glee-flights,” as he called them, wherefore he concealed the balloon’s manufacture so as to avoid arousing the suspicion of the weathermasters. When at last he revealed the completed project, it was the cause of much public astonishment. “Soon we shall all have our own private sky-balloons!” cried some of the more optimistic and ignorant citizens.
At High Darioneth the weathermasters shook their heads, wondering how such aerial transport was to be steered without pilots who could master the winds. Could it be that Uabhar had discovered some new gramarye? Or was it possible that an unknown child out in the wide world had, unaccountably, been born with a talent for the brí and independently learned to use it? Their uncertainty, combined with the certainty of Uabhar’s ill intentions, made them apprehensive.
Asrthiel sojourned one War’s Day in Feverier at Wyverstone Castle. Throughout the morning she practiced swordplay in the drill hall. The afternoon was dreary with rain, and she spent it playing cards with Prince William and two of his sisters.
“Incidentally,” said the prince as they sat around the card table, “a message arrived for you today from High Darioneth. Has anyone passed it on to you?”
“Not yet.”
“A plague upon lazy clerks! Then I shall tell you myself, here and now, for it was not marked ‘private.’ The Storm Lord informs you he lately received word from Cathair Rua. King Uabhar contends he has suddenly become aware that an inexplicable rift has appeared in the relationship between Slievmordhu and Rowan Green. He says that although the cause of the disunion is beyond his knowledge—”
“Beyond his knowledge!” Asrthiel interrupted indignantly. “Pardon my discourtesy, Will, but I cannot stay silent! What glibness, what effrontery, for Uabhar to deny this knowledge when we are certain it is he who pays for the gossip to be spread!”
“He is hardly likely to admit to it,” William said mildly. “Shall I continue?”
“Yes. Please do. I apologize for my outburst.”
“He says that although the cause of the disunion is beyond his knowledge, he wishes to make amends by publicly demonstrating concord, and he has invited all the weathermasters to a grand banquet at his palace, in official token of renewed friendship.”
“What? Does Uabhar really believe my grandfather is naive enough to trust in him? No doubt this is some further scheme.”
“Avalloc harbors the same suspicions as do you. He declined the invitation as politely as possible.”
“Which will doubtlessly cause affront to Uabhar.”
“Maybe the King of Slievmordhu is looking for an excuse to declare hostilities against Rowan Green,” mused Lecelina. Paying no heed to the conversation, Winona squinted ferociously at the fan of cards she held in her hand.
“He is far too cunning for such a rash move,” Asrthiel said. “His armies, though formidable, are hardly likely to prevail against the might of my kindred and our allies.”
“In sooth,” said William, nodding in agreement. “Yet I ponder on his subtle purpose.”
The days of Feverier opened and closed their eyes in the lead-up to another traditional annual ritual, Whuppity Stourie, which took place on the first of Mars, the very beginning of Spring. King Uabhar Ó Maoldúin, accompanied by his vast retinue, made the long journey to Grïmnørsland to celebrate the end of Winter with King Thorgild, to all appeara
nces further cementing their relationship. In spite of the plethora of jolly occasions at this festive season, the usual popular merriment across Tir was somewhat marred. By now it was common knowledge throughout the Four Kingdoms that Uabhar of Slievmordhu was mobilizing his armies in readiness to defend his realm against unknown numbers of Marauders when the comswarms became active again. Furthermore, several battalions of Ashqalêthan soldiers were on the march, bound for Slievmordhu, as reinforcements. Uabhar’s spokesmen trumpeted the tidings that King Chohrab IPs armies were going to help drive the swarmsmen from their lairs and wipe them out. The weathermasters, still the target of malign speculation in Slievmordhu despite Uabhar’s elaborate protestations and ostensible efforts to placate the masses, suspected both the southern rulers of clandestine designs, and remained vigilant.
Late at night, on the day after Whuppity Stourie, a rainstorm swept across Fung’s Winterbourne. Asrthiel was asleep in her canopied bed when above the splash and roar of the deluge there came a clatter of hoofs on the gravel driveway in front of the house. A horseman swerved to a stop. Immediately he leaped from the saddle and began hammering on the front door. A messenger arriving so precipitately at this time of night, showering blows on the main portal as if he would break it down, must certainly be bearing tidings of great importance. The weathermage sprang from her bed and threw a cloak over her shoulders. By the time she had raced downstairs Giles had already admitted the rider, who was standing in the downstairs parlor, breathing heavily and shaking sprays of droplets from his garments. The entire household had roused themselves and begun to gather around.
The newcomer’s royal livery proclaimed him to be a messenger from Wyverstone Castle.
“What news?” Asrthiel asked peremptorily. As she descended the last few stairs and approached him, she was unaware of how beautiful she appeared. Her plumate cloud of midnight hair tumbled loose about her shoulders, framing her fine-boned face, and she stared at her guest with a gaze like twin beams of intense sapphire.
Endeavoring to hide his wonderment, the bedazzled messenger swept the drenched hat from his head and bowed low. “Your Ladyship, I bring greetings from his majesty King Warwick, who sent me to deliver this information to you. This night our sovereign received a disturbing report from Silverton.”
“Silverton? That village under the mountains?” Asrthiel had expected that any peril would threaten from the south, not the north.
“The very one, my lady. It is usually a quiet hamlet, but these past weeks the villagers have lived in a state of terror, alleging they are ‘under siege from the night.’ His majesty sent troops to investigate, and they have now verified the claims. In Silverton, swift and violent death strikes during the dark hours.”
“Marauders!”
“Nay, my lady, not Marauders; something new.”
“Militant zealots? Feuding villagers?”
“On no account. Rather, something eldritch that has not been encountered before. Something purposeful and truly deadly.”
Asrthiel knew of Silverton, the village built in the shadow of the Northern Ramparts. It had been named thus because silver ore had been smelted there in olden days, when the mines of the north had operated in full swing, and the precious metal was excavated in great quantities from beneath the mountains. One of the smelters was still working, even though the lode had dwindled over recent decades, and most of the mines were closed.
“What action has been taken?”
“The king’s household cavalry has been dispatched to investigate further and to provide security. Semaphore messages have been relayed to High Darioneth. His majesty wishes to alert my lady’s weathermaster kindred to the possibility that some new scourge has arisen in our lands. My lady, as we speak his majesty holds an extraordinary council at the castle. He requests your presence.”
Asrthiel wasted no time. After instructing Giles to order her chair and to ensure the messenger received refreshments, she sped upstairs, calling for Linnet. Soon she was dressed and coiffed, seated in the covered sedan chair and on her way through the pouring rain to Wyverstone Castle. Her stoic bearers splashed through the mud without complaint.
At King Warwick’s midnight meeting with his knights and councilors the young weathermage learned more about the recent alarming events. Over the past fortnight a number of gruesome murders had taken place in and around the village of Silverton, yet none could say who or what had perpetrated the atrocities. On separate occasions, cottagers who chanced to be out of doors between sunset and sunrise, coming home late from the tavern or from visiting friends, had been murdered in the road. Yet the slayings evidenced no hallmarks of Marauder-work, and indeed no swarmsmen had been glimpsed in the vicinity for years. Aghast at the idea that some mysterious nightmare had descended on their hamlet, the villagers were too frightened to venture abroad after dark. They huddled in their houses, barring the windows and doors. Four nights previously, a party of fifteen armed villagers had gone out to hunt for the ill-doers. In the morning their corpses were found; pierced through with surgical exactness, prostrate by the roadside.
In each case the murderers—for judging by the numbers who had been killed within a short period, there must be more than one—had struck swiftly and silently, leaving no trail, no evidence of their presence. They slew using bladed weapons, cleanly and efficiently, and with such lethal speed that the victims had no opportunity even to cry out. Nobody in the village had heard any disturbance. And every cadaver lay unpillaged, with budget and other belongings intact. Not so much as a copper coin or a belt-buckle had been stolen.
“I have never heard the like,” said King Warwick. Grim furrows had carved themselves deeply into his visage. The king’s chair was the most ornate at the circular table, its high back carved with emblems of Narngalis. He leaned against the upholstery, balancing his elbows on the armrests. His voluminous outer sleeves, lavishly lined with ermine, fell back to reveal the patterned brocade of the inner garment. Only the restless tapping of his fingers betrayed the sovereign’s agitation. “Marauders do not operate in such ways. Their methods are more brutal, and less precise. They kill or maim, and always rob their prey. Often they hack their victims apart.” Warwick paused, inhaling deeply. “Nor does this suggest the work of militant Sanctorum offshoots, or neighbors bearing grudges. It seems to me that no human being could execute such appallingly precise handiwork as we have seen these weeks. After long years of relative peace in Tir, it appears certain we are confronted with some new menace. I believe these killings are, in fact, the handiwork of unseelie wights of an unknown cast. What say you, Lady Maelstronnar?”
Asrthiel spread her hands, palms upward, in a gesture of bafflement. “Such deeds are as much of a mystery to me as to anyone, my liege,” she said, “and therefore I can suggest no cure in this hour. However, I must agree with you—they would appear to be the work of malevolent forces not of mortal ilk.”
Warwick nodded gravely. The lord chamberlain was positioned at the king’s right hand, wearing robes embroidered with stags and swans and geometric patterns. He ceased staring ruminatively into the fireplace and said, “Fortunately the villagers keep potent wards nailed above their doors and windows. For now, at least, although the terrors of the night besiege them, they can be considered safe in their houses.”
“True enough, Hallingbury,” said the lord privy seal, Sir Torold Tetbury, who was flawlessly garbed in raiment of muted hues. “Yet who knows whether or not this menace, if left unchecked, will spread?”
“Or whether its power might grow strong enough to overcome the protection of iron and rowan!” said King Warwick’s lieutenant-general, Sir Gilead Torrington.
Asrthiel gazed about at the well-dressed officials, as exquisite in appearance as wild cats glimpsed through dappled sunlight, or resplendent flocks of birds.
Prince William, still sleepy-eyed after being wrested from repose, said, “I am in accord with my father. There is no doubt some unket eldritch agency has wrought this ill work;
for what purpose and to what end cannot be guessed. One final piece of strange news may help towards solving the puzzle. Since early this new year, trows have been seen more frequently. The Grey Neighbors appear to be moving northwards across Narngalis. Some-thing has provoked them. I venture to propose this has something to do with the slayings in Silverton.”
“Let me remind you, Your Royal Highness, trows do not commit slaughter upon humankind,” said lord chamberlain Hallingbury. “They are not truly unseelie.”
“Maybe they have changed. That’s not impossible,” said the lord steward.
“Not impossible but improbable, to my way of thinking,” said William. “ ’Tis likely they are attracted to potent eldritch activities, in the same way they are attracted to silver.”
“Of old,” said the king, “trows used to dwell in great numbers in the Silverton area, but that was because of the mines. When the mines closed they drifted away.”
“What can be afoot?” the king’s private secretary wondered aloud, voicing everyone’s thoughts. Nobody could provide an answer.
“Your Majesty,” said Asrthiel, “how can I be of assistance?”
The king turned his troubled gaze upon the weathermage. “You are erudite, Asrthiel, and I had hoped you might be able to shed light on this circumstance; however I now perceive that it proves beyond even your knowledge. At this time there is naught for you to do. We must be vigilant, search through the lore books for clues, and guard the villagers; that is all. A large cavalry contingent, led by selected officers, has been sent to investigate and provide protection. They will report anon. My knights, the Companions of the Cup, stand ready—” Warwick nodded acknowledgment towards his Commander-in-Chief “—and my troops are preparing for possible action.” He inclined his head in the direction of the High Commander of the Narngalish Armed Forces. “The semaphore stations are on high alert. At the first sign of any significant escalation of these attacks, the beacon fires will be kindled on the heights across Narngalis.”
Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 30