Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  She mused, too, upon the histories of mortal men and women who had united with eldritch wights. Swanmaidens and lake damsels had been known to marry human men, for example. The men had prospered in their lives before losing their seelie, luck-bringing wives by carelessly violating some eldritch prohibition. Not so fortunate were human beings who transacted with unseelie incarnations—the seductive, deadly youths called ganconers satisfied their lust with unwary maidens then left their pining victims wasting away to their deaths. The baobhansith were sluttish beauties who slew their erstwhile lovers and, conceivably, drank their blood. Whether seelie or unseelie, every such alliance ended in tragedy. There was a saying in the Four Kingdoms of Tir: ‘All love between mortal and immortal is doomed’; but some quoted it as, ‘All love between human being and eldritch wight is doomed.’

  However, there was no love involved in their intrigue, Asrăthiel told herself, and no mortal, either. It was outside the bounds of anything that had been before, and subject to no rule except the natural law that dictated that the flame of desire must eventually flicker out, but might be enjoyed before its inevitable extinguishment.

  At whiles she went out riding with the horde, and they would career across the mountains as if winged, leaping impossible gulfs, springing up to incredible heights, with the breath of chaos howling in their hair, in an ecstasy of exhilaration. Joy was hers, and pure elation. It came to Asrăthiel that she was in fact celebrating life to the fullest, for the very first time—rejoicing in the heart that throbbed with vitality, the pulse that quickened to the exuberance of song, the flight of dance, and the thrill of speed, and power, and lovemaking.

  A verse from one of the urisk’s old ribald ditties ran through her head and would not be got rid of:

  ‘My arms reached upward. I was not to blame.

  For all my heart seemed hungering to feel

  The strange delight that made my senses reel.

  It seemed so strange that pleasure should be pain,

  And yet I fain would suffer once again.’

  Asrăthiel guessed the goblin king understood she was acting against her better judgement, being swayed by ungovernable impulses. Once, as they paused on an icy summit watching stars fall from the night sky, he said, as if commenting on the spectacle, ‘We are all at the mercy of forces beyond our control. The world itself is subject to influences from alien reaches, such as this ceaseless rain of flaming meteors. From epoch to epoch, chunks of interstellar rock or ice the size of planetoids slam directly into the planet’s surface, with far-reaching effects on the environment. The sun’s rays power the atmosphere, nourish life and propel the currents of the oceans. Solar flares influence auroras and the world’s magnetic fields. The moon collaborates with the sun to create tides in the oceans, in the atmosphere and even in solid rock. When a mortal man is shut away from sunlight for a long period, as Toadstone was, the internal clock that tells him when to wake and when to sleep resets, synchronising itself with the tides. Even the world’s pathway around the sun is being gradually changed by the gravitational tug of other planets. Over a one hundred thousand year cycle, the shape of the orbit alters from a circle to an ellipse. What’s more, the pull of other planets modifies the angle of our planet’s axis, giving rise to profound climatic changes; the cycle of the ice ages. The inspiration of stars that died billions of years ago still lives on in ourselves, and in this globe of ore and stone veiled with water. Celestial bodies and otherworldly energies affect life forms and their habitats everywhere. If the very world is subject to unruly persuasions, what chance have such as we to dodge them?’

  Asrăthiel made no reply and Zaravaz said no more on the topic.

  Days and nights passed, throughout which she exchanged more letters with the outside world by way of trow messengers, thereby learning from her grandfather that William had been sending messages she never received. She presumed either the trows had lost them or, more likely, Zaravaz had intercepted and destroyed them. Her indignation had no recourse; if she accused the goblin king he might decide to cut off her every contact with the outside world, and that she would not risk.

  Avalloc’s letters kept her abreast of the principal events unfolding in Tir. Across the four kingdoms the human population was striving to rebuild lives riven by warfare. Many nonhuman populations were also striving to recover, for there had been much slaughter and destruction done by the travelling armies; large numbers of wild birds and beasts had been slain by foragers. The Kobold Watch that the goblins had left behind was assiduous in its duty, zealously keeping an eye out for what they considered to be wrongdoing, and swooping in to chastise.

  At High Darioneth there were few prentices who could wield the brí, but Aoust being a temperate month of long, sunny days and balmy nights, scant weathermastery was called for. Dristan oversaw such matters. Avalloc spent many hours in his library, deep in discussion with two of his oldest friends, who had accepted the Storm Lord’s invitation to live out the rest of their days in the Maelstronnar household.

  Following the goblins’ startling and ominous removal of Primoris Asper Virosus the Sanctorum authorities, eager to undo Virosus’s works and thereby prove themselves unallied with that offender of goblin sensibilities, had released the controversial sage Constantor Clementer from the sink of a cellar beneath a remote rural sanctorum, in which he had languished for years. Somewhat the worse for wear, but with his spirits unbroken and his notes for A Treatise on the Iron Tree: A Narrative Concerning the Tree, the Precious Stone Trapped Therein, and the Consequences of the Stone’s Removal intact, Clementer and his colleague and life-long comrade Almus Agnellus were enjoying Avalloc’s hospitality at Rowan Green. No longer was there any need for Agnellus to spend his days in hiding, travelling incognito, continually moving from place to place to elude discovery, living from hand to mouth. In their twilight years these two venerable gentlemen could take pleasure in bodily comforts, good company, and the leisure to write page after page in undisturbed contentment.

  When not in conference or attending to his duties, Avalloc would compose long letters to Asrăthiel. At nights he left the scrolls, tied up with thin red ribbon, next to his pillow. Come morning they would be gone, sometimes replaced by an epistle from his granddaughter locked away in the halls of the Mountain King. He conjectured that the household brownie delivered the letters by way of a trow courier, but he could never be sure; though he seldom slept, his eyes were not quick enough to spy the doings of wights.

  He told Asrăthiel how there had been general rejoicing at the announcement of her news that Virosus and Ó Maoldúin had perished at the hands of the goblins. The druids of Slievmordhu’s Sanctorum had disowned the actions of their old primoris, he who had aided Uabhar with the slaying of the weathermasters. Some obstinately continued tinkering at their ‘weatherworking’ apparatus, with limited success, while terrified others tried to dismantle the appliances in case they should somehow cause offence to the goblins. Much squabbling went on within the sanctorums.

  The elderly mother of Uabhar died serenely in her sleep. Her ancient minstrel, Luchóg, composed a dirge for her that was widely complimented, to his own amazement. Great songs and ballads were also made to celebrate the name of Conall Gearnach, glorious champion of the Knights of the Brand, who had been slain while performing deeds of valour in battle.

  After the downfall of Gearnach, the people of Slievmordhu turned to Prince Ronin, next in line for the throne now that his elder brother lay in his tomb. They begged him to receive the crown straightaway. There could be no internal dissension if the heir to this long-enduring dynasty assumed the throne—but almost as importantly, Ronin was a popular choice, since he had already proven his bravery and qualities of leadership. He was the one man who had the power to unite all parties in loyalty and obedience. Unhesitatingly, so as to restore order as swiftly as possible, the captains swore an oath of allegiance to him and King Ronin succeeded to the sovereignty of Slievmordhu.

  ‘Let dissent never be con
fused with disloyalty,’ he told his advisors and courtiers in his first address to them as their sovereign. ‘Do not fear to speak your mind to me. To see what is right, and not to do it, shows want of courage.’

  His first act as king was to abolish the Day of Heroes.

  Though Ronin accepted the crown and throne of Slievmordhu, contentment eluded him, for he mourned his brother and father, and sometimes in the dead of night he woke wondering whether he had inherited the Sanctorum’s punishment; whether the house of Ó Maoldúin was still cursed for all time in spite of Virosus’s hasty recantation. But it was said of him by the sages that he was a great leader, for a good leader inspires others with confidence in him, while a great leader inspires them with confidence in themselves.

  The anguish of Queen Saibh at the loss of her son Kieran was as harrowing as only a parent’s grief can be. Fortunately for this meek woman, a dear and long-lost friend returned unexpectedly. It was her servant Fedlamid macDall, he who had been deemed slain while on an errand for his mistress. The reappearance of this loyal man in Cathair Rua brought great joy to the royal household and provided some solace to the grieving queen. He told of being trow-bound in a mountain fastness from which, unaccountably, he had been set free. When he learned that Lady Asrăthiel had been taken to Sølvetårn he became convinced that she had bargained for his freedom.

  It was at this juncture that in the desert kingdom of Ashqalêth a previously unsuspected groundswell became evident—widespread popular support for deceased King Chohrab Shechem’s eldest daughter, Princess Shahzadeh. Jhallavad’s royal advisors and retainers held her in the highest esteem. It had long been whispered in court and throughout the land that she had turned out to be the cleverest and strongest member of the royal family, and for years many had bemoaned the fact she had not been born male.

  In an unprecedented move, Shahzadeh was officially made queen uncrowned, monarch-in-waiting. Never before had a woman ruled Ashqalêth, but Avalloc Storm Lord sent his unqualified blessing, and the Sanctorum followed his lead soon afterwards—convinced, possibly, by the large sums of money the princess shrewdly bestowed upon that institution in token of her considerable respect for the druids. With the sanction of such powerful authorities so evident, the approval of the populace, already considerable, grew even stronger.

  Grïmnørsland was in mourning for Prince Halvdan, and now for his youngest brother also. Thorgild had forgiven Gunnlaug for his tergiversation at Ironstone Keep and received him back into the royal household, but soon afterwards the rowdy prince had died in a brawl outside a tavern. Drunk and unsteady he threw a punch, slipped, and fell on the cobbled roadway, hitting his head. The injury proved lethal. Upon his untimely demise the people of the western realm grieved, but not for long. His untrustworthiness had made him exceedingly unpopular; nobody liked a man who changed direction with the wind. In contrast Halvdan had been well loved, and his death was lamented bitterly.

  Elsewhere in Narngalis, to the shock and amazement of all who knew the history of the Iron Tree and the wells of everlasting life, the immortal Fionnbar Aonarán was found wandering and jabbering, half-witless amongst the abandoned mines at Silverton. Having roundly declared that he regretted his immortality and would continue to seek a way to end his life he had thrown himself off a cliff. This proving unsuccessful, he had leaped into a bonfire, then tried to throttle himself by means of a noose depending from the rafters of a hayshed. His alarming attempts, which all failed, were in danger of becoming farcical, but before he could take them any further a band of constables conducted him to the Asylum for Lunatics at King’s Winterbourne.

  This much Avalloc conveyed in his letters to Asrăthiel, but there were many affairs of which circumstances kept her in ignorance. In his earliest correspondence to her, for example, the Storm Lord had written, ‘Ever since you rode away with the goblin knights, Prince William of Narngalis has hardly been seen to eat or sleep. He spends every waking moment planning your deliverance, and feverishly works towards that goal, aided in every way by Warwick and his household, myself, and throngs of willing supporters throughout the land.’ Though ink had flowed from the nib of the Storm Lord’s pen onto the paper, though he had sealed the letter with red wax, and though the wax had seemed unbroken when Asrăthiel received the billet in her hand, somehow, between the sending and the delivering, those phrases—and other remarks on the same topic—had been lost. Even more strangely no gap, no damage, no mark existed to show that they had ever stained the page.

  There were also subjects upon which Avalloc rarely touched.

  No matter how many other matters claimed his attention, the Storm Lord never failed to keep his customary vigil at the side of his sleeping daughter-in-law, in the rosy cupola atop his house. There, upon chatoyant satins and soft bolsters of crimson velvet, Jewel lay like a marble sculpture of a beautiful, dark-haired woman. Her living skin glowed like peach blossom and powdered carnations; her lids, lightly closed, were blue opal fishes.

  ‘We will fetch her back, my dear Jewel, I promise,’ Avalloc would murmur. ‘They will never keep her.’ Sometimes, dropping his grizzled brow into his hands he whispered to himself, distraught, ‘I cannot lose them all!’

  Then there were events and circumstances about which even the Storm Lord could know nothing.

  In the Eastern Ranges two timid Marauders discovered they now had the run of the caves because most of their kin-swarmsmen had died in battle, so they rolled some great boulders and stopped up the tunnels leading to the lair of the Spawn Mother in case she pounced and devoured them while they were sleeping. There they lived out their lives in contentment.

  In the north of the kingdom, atop the highest peak of Storth Cynros where clouds left pearly kisses on knives of rock, two misshapen bags sometimes flapped, sometimes hung motionless. Spikes had been driven into the rock face, and fetters clamped the flapping objects to the spikes. Clad in perished rags and desiccated hides, two sets of human bones swung and clashed in the wind.

  Hundreds of feet below those blowing skeletons and unaware of them, within the icy mountain fastness of Sølvetårn, Asrăthiel was being schooled in many matters, amongst them the true history of goblinkind.

  She learned that in past millennia when Tir, which they called Calaldor, had been warmer, goblinkind—the Glashtinsluight—had dwelled in a remote land to the northeast. Ellan Vannin, the Land of Mists, was a lush and verdant realm, swathed generously in glimmering vapours, but with the advent of a new ice age the whole world had grown cold, and Ellan Vannin changed. Then differences of opinion arose amongst the Glashtinsluight. Those who proclaimed they wanted to move away immediately in search of more temperate climes were at variance with a group who wished to stay forever, as lords of the approaching ice. Others wanted to emigrate, but preferred to wait a little longer before leaving their ancient homeland. These differences gave rise to no conflict; it was their way to trust their leaders, and ultimately to accept their choices.

  Most of the liannyn, the alluring she-goblins of the Glashtinsluight, favoured the notion of remaining for a while in Ellan Vannin. Of their masculine counterparts, the graihyn, most split into three factions, or clans, and ventured forth—some travelling east, some west, some due south. When they had found a pleasing territory, they declared, they would return to fetch those of the Glashtinsluight who wished to follow them there. Asrăthiel wondered why the liannyn had wished to stay behind—she could only conjecture that perhaps they preferred a settled existence, or wanted a temporary separation from their consorts to spice up the tedium of eternal existence with the anticipation of rendezvous and the excitement of reunion. The workings of eldritch minds were baffling; maybe they could never be comprehended by human beings.

  Notwithstanding their original intentions, as decades went by the three departed clans delayed their return and extended their travels, their attention continually caught by some new adventure. They forgot, temporarily, those they had left behind (what cared they for time, the immortals?
There would be time enough for everything), drawn on by the excitement of exploration and discovery.

  As Ellan Vannin cooled, it became Ellan Istillkutl, the Land of Ice. Once, humid mists had blocked out the sun’s light. Those vapours dried out and vanished but the land remained dim, now overcast by persistent cloud. The graihyn and liannyn who tarried said, ‘We shall stay in our native land and become the Istillkindë, the Ice Goblins, taking this name to ourselves as a token of the choice we have made.’ Glaciers came creeping down from the north pole, and the trees dwindled. Increasing cold transformed the margins of the land into tundra, with permanently frozen subsoil, supporting only low-growing vegetation such as lichens, mosses and stunted shrubs. Ellan Istillkutl’s heart froze over, but the Ice Goblins reigned in ice castles.

  It was an inherent trait of the Glashtinsluight that they attracted clouds, mists, fog and all manner of steams and fumes. They did not relish daylight, although they could endure it if necessary. Overcast or misty days suited them best—and, of course, the night—therefore the clans who ventured forth sought territories where the sun’s rays were weak. Those who became the Fire Goblins, the Ailekindë, went south-east, to dwell in volcanic lands darkened by smokes and ash-clouds and dusky gases. The Dorragskindë, the Midnight Goblins, travelled due south. At length they came upon an ancient forest of mighty pines, deep and vast, whose dense canopy harboured profound shadows, screening out the sun, and it was there they established themselves.