Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  His first feelings of apprehension on this matter had been sparked years earlier, and had grown gradually ever since, but he drew strength from harking back to the speech he had given on the inaugural Day of Heroes, which he still recalled word for word: “Loyalty in character means absolute obedience that does not question the results of an officer’s command, nor its reasons, but rather obeys for the sake of obedience itself. . . .”

  If followers were to renounce their masters because they no longer deemed them completely virtuous, there would be no purpose, no glory in oath-taking. Having resolved to do his duty by his country, Gearnach had sworn fealty to Uabhar on the understanding that the king was, by and large, a worthy liege lord. Should it turn out otherwise, the knight would not besmirch the name of Gearnach by tergiversating. If he regretted the oath he would not allow himself to acknowledge it. He was determined to stand by his promise under all circumstances, because a truly honorable man could do no less. In the end, despite his sovereign’s offenses, Gearnach remained unswerving in his loyalty to the crown of Slievmordhu.

  So it happened that the knight departed from Orielthir with his chivalry, riding northeast into the region of the Great Lakes, and beyond. He went precipitately, nonetheless, so that he might return to Cathair Rua as soon as possible.

  The fate of the weathermasters was hidden from public knowledge. In Cathair Rua the ambassador from High Darioneth was arrested on a fabricated charge and imprisoned, his household dismantled. The story was put about that the weatherlords had escaped the fire in the Red Lodge, and made peace with Uabhar. Any mention of conflict was suppressed. To prove their cordial intentions they had accepted his hospitality and were abiding accordantly in private palace apartments until further notice.

  Uabhar concocted semaphore messages and sent them to the Mountain Ring, under the names of Ymberbaillé and Darglistel, declaring that all was well, and informing the Storm Lord that the weathermasters were happy to sojourn at the palace for a week or two before returning to Rowan Green. There was a hasty note about the mage-summoned storms; “All will be made clear in due course” was the only explanation given, and “no need to worry” said the letter.

  Avalloc, still in a state of frailty, had been alarmed by the severe and inexplicable upheavals in the weather systems. On receiving the tidings from Cathair Rua, he grew more troubled. It was out of character for his kindred and comrades to act thus, and he could not help suspecting some form of chicanery. His first thought was to allay his granddaughter’s anxiety about the atmospheric disturbances, which no doubt she had felt, so he sent her a calming message indicating that there was no cause for trepidation. Nevertheless he dispatched a band of riders south to Cathair Rua to uncover the facts, but they were waylaid upon the road by an unknown agency and never seen again.

  The wagon carrying Cat Soup jolted northward amongst a procession of other horse-drawn vehicles. Before them the muddy road unrolled, here and there touching upon towns and villages linked along it like luck-amulets on a bracelet. Slowly the iron cartwheels turned. It would be many days before the convoy reached King’s Winterbourne.

  In Silverton and its neighboring hamlets Asrthiel continued on her mission to throw light on the mystery of the eldritch slayings. Morning had dawned drear and overcast at Elpinstone in the Sillerway Valley, with not a puff of wind. So still was the air that plumes of smoke rose straight up from the cottage chimneys.

  Asrthiel paced the floor of her lodgings. She could not sleep, despite having been awake all night, traipsing across the countryside. Anxieties about the atmospheric disturbances and the unsolved slayings plagued her, and from time to time she was assailed by a desire to consult the absent urisk, who had become her font of eldritch lore. She missed his company—there was no denying it—with a disconcerting intensity; disconcerting because the feeling was unfamiliar, and because somehow it did not seem fitting or proper for any human being, let alone a weathermage, to form a strong attachment to an entity so utterly alien; a creature of gramarye, an incarnation of the very night. An urisk was a being with whom, by rights, she should have no association beyond the ordinary transactions—leaving a bowl of cream and a quarter loaf by the back door every evening by way of thanks for domestic services rendered. There was nothing ordinary about that particular urisk, however; nothing that fitted the mold.

  The door’s bolts squealed as the damsel drew them back. She stepped over the threshold into the open. An oak tree grew by the door, its far-flung boughs throwing a leafy canopy across the yard. Tiny bells hung from those boughs, silent in the stillness, and like the leaves, they were beaded with droplets. Asrthiel stared into the distance. Along the valley great drifts of mists hung, like the sails of a vast fleet of ghostly galleons. The sun was veiled, yet, oddly, there was nothing dismal about the muted daylight and the floating vapors; rather the air was charged with a kind of excitement. The fogs might be concealing anything, Asrthiel thought whimsically, as she began to pace restlessly beneath the oak. Wondrous things might be hidden behind those veils; they emanated from some supernatural source, after all. What might they hide—glimpses into other worlds? Monsters? Faerie castles floating on cloud islands? The weather-mage contemplated the possibilities, but, inevitably, returned to her original concerns.

  Apart from the proliferation of weird mists in the valleys north of the Harrowgate Fells, no tidings of trouble had come her way. During any spare moments she repeatedly perused the communications she had received from Avalloc, as if each new reading might reveal some overlooked word of reassurance. His assurances that to his knowledge her kindred were safe were intended to put her at ease, yet she remained anxious. She could not gauge what had caused the dramatic turbulence in the southern weather-patterns. Her grandfather had relayed to her the contents of the message he had received from Cathair Rua stating that all would be made clear in due course, and with that she had to be content. Knowing that Avalloc would send word if any dire event had occurred, she did not pursue the matter; nonetheless she could not help but be dogged by a sense of dread.

  Uabhar wasted no time. He called for a grand assembly to be held at the palace, and while his closest military advisors and the senior members of his household were ponderously filing into the audience chamber, he paid a visit to King Chohrab.

  Ashqalêth’s ruler was in a bad way, suffering, no doubt, from shock and the effects of prolonged over-indulgence in certain items of pharmacopoeid. He had taken to babbling. His talk was unguarded; he seemed hardly to be aware whether he was in company or not, and his host sometimes feared he would spill every secret. It had been arranged that Chohrab should rest in the palace’s comfortable Clover Suite, attended only by Uabhar’s own hand-picked deaf servants.

  Finding his guest alone in his apartments, the King of Slievmordhu seated himself at his ease on the green velvet cushions of a tall-backed chair carved with intertwining four-leafed clovers, each lobe inlaid with malachite. Chohrab slumped bulkily in a window seat, his lids puffed up like bloated fish.

  “I fear the retribution of the Storm Lord,” the desert ruler muttered. “When he learns the truth, his wrath will be mighty.” Unexpectedly, he surged forward and grabbed the arm of Uabhar’s chair. “I have changed my mind!” he shrieked. “We must not attack Narngalis! ‘Twould compound the other fell deeds we have wrought!” The flesh sagging from the structure of his face looked grey, almost translucent. “If Slievmordhu can assault one kingdom,” he moaned, as if talking to himself, “why not another?”

  Uabhar peeled the clawing grip off the oak and malachite embellishments. “You need have no fear,” he said smoothly. “I am your ally, as you know.”

  Chohrab, however, merely fell back and gaped, his eyes wide but apparently blind to his surroundings, as if he were viewing the events of some older time, in some distant place, and as if the sight filled him with dread.

  His exasperation getting the better of him, Uabhar jumped up. In his turn he seized Chohrab by the shoulders in what might
have been a comradely fashion. “Brother!” he exclaimed, “have I not vowed to always shield you from suspicion? Now, come with me to the audience chamber, for we must present a united front, you and I, when we make our declaration. There is no need to tax your health by making a speech. I shall labor on your behalf. Come!”

  All the grave courtiers and stern bodyguards and other members of Uabhar’s grand assembly wrho had been brought together in the audience chamber were treated that day to the spectacle of two kings enthroned in majesty side by side upon the dais. After they had been sworn to utmost secrecy, Commander Mac Brádaigh fed the concourse with certain secrets and certain lies.

  Conscious of Chohrab’s distress, and fearing he would fail to keep rein of his loose tongue, Uabhar murmured into his fellow ruler’s ear, “Recall, it was your own blade Hesam that did the necessary blood-work yesterday morning, yet in the name of loyalty, I breathe no word of it, nor ever shall.” Adopting his usual volume he proclaimed, “It is a day for triumph and rejoicing! The way is now clear for us to attack Narngalis and teach Wyverstone a lesson, before he and Torkilsalven execute their scheme to invade Ashqalêth!”

  While the audience applauded and cheered, Chohrab said feebly, “How might we be certain of success?”

  “How can you ask, when our armies, well accoutred, together outnumber theirs? Moreover, as you know I own a powerful eldritch weapon, the famous Sylvan Comb.” Uabhar smirked. “I have other aces hidden within my sleeve too, my brother, for I possess allies undreamed of.”

  “What other allies?” Chohrab looked alarmed and bewildered. “There can be no other allies!”

  “My dear comrade, I have ratified a peace agreement with forces that, until now, have been unjustly despised by the general populace. They have pledged to support Slievmordhu.”

  “Of whom do you speak?”

  Uabhar lowered his voice once more. “The Marauders, brother, none other.”

  “You have bargained with Marauders? But they are monsters, not men…. ”

  “Nonetheless, they can fight.”

  Again the southern king appeared to be on the verge of panic. “What have you promised such toads in return for their assistance?”

  “Hush. Be at peace, Chohrab. You need not concern yourself with trifling details. We shall take Narngalis before Wyverstone strikes, and then turn our attention to Grïmnørsland. Rejoice! Ashqalêth will be saved!”

  In front of the entire gathering Uabhar turned to his equerry, roaring, “Make ready my battle-gear—my shield, Ocean; my dagger, Victorious; my spear, Slaughter and my sword, Gorm Glas.”

  Brandishing his first above his head he shouted, “Slievmordhu marches to war!”

  On a lonely hilltop near the tiny village of Yardley Goblin, sixty miles from Silverton, Asrthiel Maelstronnar stood listening to the songs of heat and water and the whispers of the elemental gases of the troposphere, all the while observing their intricate dances, and measuring their speed and direction. The source of the eldritch mists continued to elude her. . . .

  At length, withdrawing her brí-senses, she bowed her head and lost herself in another reverie. During her weather-search she had hearkened as al-ways to the north wind; it had murmured of icy peaks cupping frozen lakes, and limitless leagues that lay beyond those peaks, unmapped. Some-where in those strange lands her father roamed. Would he return one day, with or without that which he had been seeking? Would he come back to his daughter, and to his bride who slept among the roses? Or was he lost forever?

  As the damsel’s mind returned to her immediate surroundings, it came to her that she had been staring at a particular object without seeing it. It was a leafy sprig of crowthistle, growing at her feet. A tuft of purple marked a tightly wrapped bud, destined to blossom into a striking flower whose shape resembled the unfurled wings of a crow.

  The sight of this prickly weed put her in mind of the last occasion she had encountered the urisk, and her thoughts drifted away again. The memory returned to her with such clarity that it was like watching it happen all over again through the lens of time. As so often, he had been standing before an open window, which framed a vista of the night sky. He was positioned exactly in the center of the frame, against a backdrop of brilliantly colored stars that shivered, as if loosely nailed to the rippling fabric of the universe. Within the room, his alien features were illumined by the red light of the hearth-fire, but his expression was unreadable.

  Behind the head of the urisk, the full moon was rising in splendor, floating like a world cast from solid silver. The sphere was so large that the parentheses of his horns could not contain it. Unaccountably it came to Asrthiel, watching, that the moon seemed subject to him, rather than an unconnected body, remote and untouchable. For an instant she had the absurd impression that the wight had commended the moon to remain stationary behind him.

  The orb of silver made him king of the night.

  Before that instant of awe had passed and she had felt like laughing at herself for her fancies, Asrthiel had, on impulse, asked him his name a second time.

  He had laughed then, and cast her an odd glance that made her shiver, but had deigned to reply.

  “I am called,” he said, “Crowthistle.”

  Here ends

  The Crowthistle Chronicles, Book 3: Weatherwitch

  The story commenced in

  The Crowthistle Chronicles, Book 1: The Iron Tree

  and

  The Crowthistle Chronicles, Book 2: The Well of Tears

  It concludes in

  The Crowthistle Chronicles, Book 4: Fallowblade

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MAY DAY RHYMES: “Pear for the fair,

  Hawthorn for the well-born . . .” etc.

  Aside from “hawthorn for the well-born,” these are traditional rhymes repeated to this day during modern May Day ceremonies in Britain. Hawthorn flowers bestowed on one’s threshold were considered to be a general compliment, which is why the extra line has been included.

  The celebration of “May Day,” the welcoming of summer, is rooted in ancient pagan rites. In Celtic Britain the Beltane festival was held on the first of May, and marked by the lighting of huge bonfires on hilltops, perhaps in echo of the sun, or to encourage the sun’s return.

  FESTIVALS: Many of the festivals mentioned in this work are inspired by actual ceremonies and customs that persist to this day in Great Britain.

  THE APPLE TREE WASSAILING CHANT: in Chapter 5 (which I adapted slightly) springs from Cornworthy in Devon, Great Britain. The original was recorded in 1805 and collected in The Stations of the Sun: A History of the Ritual Year in Britain, by Ronald Hutton. Oxford University Press, reprint edition, 1997.

  JEWEL’S SLEEP IN THE GLASS CUPOLA: Jewel’s long slumber in a chamber of glass netted by roses is inspired by two well-known fairy tales; “The Sleeping Beauty” and “Snow White.”

  CAT SOUP’S TALE: Inspired by “The Fairy Miners,” in Popular Romances of the West of England by Robert Hunt. Hotten, London, 1865.

  THE PUPPET SHOW: The story told by the puppeteers is based on “The Salt Box,” Burne and Jackson, in Shropshire Folk-Lore: A Sheaf of Gleanings, London, 1883. Collected by F. G. Jackson, translated by C. S. Burne from “The Saut Box.”

  MISTRESS DRAYCOTT PARSLOW’S GOOD FORTUNE: Inspired by the story “The Old Woman Who Turned Her Shift,” in Popular Romances of the West of England by Robert Hunt. Hotten, London, 1865.

  THE BLACK GHOST AND THE WHITE GHOST: Inspired by “The White Bucca and the Black,” in Traditional and Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall, by William Bottrell, Penzance, 1870.

  JOKES TOLD AT THE BETROTHAL: Inspired by “Enoch and Eli,” in Anecdotes and Tales, Chiefly from the Blacky Country, collected by Roy Palmer, Ms., 1966.

  PERYWYKE IS AN ERBE OF GRENE COLOR: An anonymous herbal poem, apparently dating from about the time of Chaucer.

  GOOD DRUID, I HAVE SENT FOR YOU BECAUSE: An adaptation of an anonymous erotic poem, possibly dating from the nineteenth century
.

  WEATHER LORE: This traditional rhyme was gathered from Collins Eyewitness Guides: Weather.

  “It the oak flowers before the ash,

  We shall have a splash.

  If the ash flowers before the oak,

  We shall have a soak.”

  THE OPPOSING PROHIBITIONS ON KING THORGILD, AND THE BETRAYAL OF THE WEATHERMASTERS: Inspired by part of the story “Deirdre,” an ancient Celtic legend. This tale, also known as “The Exile of the Children of Uisnach,” is often related as a prologue to the oldest prose epic known to Western literature: “The Cattle Raid of Cooley”(Tain Bo Cuailgne). It has existed by word of mouth since the first century A.D. and was written down by Irish scholars during the seventh century A.D. The story has been rewritten many times in the form of books and plays, and remains popular to the present day.

  THE NAMES OF UABHAR’S WEAPONS: King Uabhar’s weapons are named after the weapons of King Conchobar in the legend “Deirdre.” “My shield Ocean, my dart Victorious, my spear Slaughter, and my sword Gorm Glas, the blue-green.”

  WHUPPITY STOURIE: This ancient custom is exclusively observed on 1 March at the Royal Burgh of Lanark in Strathclyde, Scotland.

  THE DAY OF HEROES LOYALTY SPEECH: This is adapted from an actual speech by Rudolph Hess, in 1934, to the National Socialist Party in Germany.

  PLACE NAMES IN NARNGALIS: Many of the place names in Narngalis are derived from locations in the British Isles. And what a delight they are.