Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (11 page)

As ever, Asrathiel turned to face the north. The crags of Wychwood Storth loomed, as implacable as ever, a sentinel against what lay beyond. Stars winked out, then materialized again as some other winged thing flew across the night sky. Beyond those crags, into the unknown lands her father had passed, striding away on his long legs with a bundle on his back and purpose in his heart. Would any news of him ever come back? What would it be like to follow after him, to seek him out—impossible in those vast, unmapped tracts—and to join him in the search? What unimaginable adventures waited beyond the Northern Ramparts, the loftiest and loneliest mountains in the Four Kingdoms of Tir?

In a melancholy mood the watcher murmured to herself as she leaned yearningly across the sill, “Upon a dark time long ago . . .”

She dreams in lonely splendor, while the seasons of the year Ornately alchemize the hues of mountain, wood and mere, And daylight flits through walls of glass like yellow butterflies, Or grey moths, when the wind draws ragged clouds across the skies.

 

By night the silver moon and stars reflect from crystal panes That shelter this fair sleeper from the bitter winds and rains. She slumbers in tranquillity, untouched by time’s decay, A figurine of porcelain, though warmer than the clay.

 

Her lids, two azure petals, rest upon her raindrop face. Her hair, nocturnal filigree, entwines like silken lace. And round about her bedchamber a wondrous web-work grows, Of thorns and blooms and twining stems—the gorgeous briar rose.

 

The briar rose; a living cage, a leafy, fragrant bower Each blossom tinct alizarin, each bud and full-blown flower Aglow with vibrant reds, a fitting canopy for one Who dreams in lonely splendor ‘neath the pathways of the sun.
The secret of how she may be awakened, no one knows So she sleeps on, amid the tangles of the briar rose.

—“
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE BRIARS,” A POEM BY ALEYN CILSUNDROR-SKYCLEAVER, BARD OF THE WEATHERMASTERS

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 Asrathiel 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 Asrathiel, 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, Asrathiel 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!” Asrathiel 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,” Asrathiel 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 Asrathiel 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 Asrathiel 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 Asrathiel 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 Asrathiel’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 Asrathiel’s mother, her father had been wont to speak of 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 Alfard
ne, 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, Asrathiel 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, Asrathiel 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 Asrathiel 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.