Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (31 page)

Asrathiel laid her book on her knees and stared pensively at a stunted sprig of crowthistle that was sprouting in a crevice between flagstones. Even in the cool northern climes, it survived. Apparently the dratted weed grew
everywhere in Tir, undaunted by harsh climate, keen gardeners or any other adversities.

Her companion leaned towards her, his eyes sparkling with merriment. “You with your strange ways,” he said teasingly, “refusing to wear furs and silks, accepting wool purchased only from certain kindly shepherds, forever nibbling herbs and worts, and decrying the noble sport of horse-racing! Race-horses at least are happy, I daresay. Trainers treat them well, so that they will perform well.”

“With respect, sir, you are mistaken!” Asrathiel exclaimed. “When large amounts of money are at stake, men will do anything to make a horse run faster. If the poor beasts are not fleet of foot and the quacks’ compounds fail to work, the owners have the horses slaughtered. Even if the unhappy creatures avoid injury, when they can no longer run fast they are most often sold to the butchers.”

“True enough,” said the prince musingly. “I had never deliberated much about that side of the so-called sport of kings, but now I shall loathe it as much as you do. However, I shall continue to wear boots and belts of leather in good conscience, for leather is merely a by-product of cattle that are going to be slaughtered in any event.”

“On the contrary, the success of slaughterhouses depends on the sale of skins. Wear boots of canvas, and save the lives of innocents!”

“You are as passionate as ever on this topic, Asrathiel! Yet, it is natural for nonhuman animals to consume meat, so why not us?”

“Well, sir, humankind has the ability to eat the flesh of things that have eyes, but for ethical reasons we may instead choose not to do so. In any case, we thrive better on breads, fruits and suchlike.”

“You are convincing. Let us not argue—” William broke off, and they both looked up as the sound of harsh cawing erupted in a grove of firs that stood like a cluster of dark green cones to one side of the glasshouses. A black-and-white bird took off from the topmost branches, leaving the twigs to bounce and swing. The repetitive noise arced across the gardens like a bridge of invisible steps as the bird flew away. “Those magpies make a terrible racket,” said the prince, grimacing.

“Magpies?” repeated Asrathiel. “That was no magpie. It was some bird I have not seen before. Magpies have the most melodious song; many’s the morning I have woken to their glorious warbling.”

“Ah,” her companion answered, “magpies such as he that flew away are a type unique to northern Narngalis. It’s possible there is another species you
call ‘magpies’ at High Darioneth.” In a while he added an afterthought that Asrathiel scarcely noted as they sat there together, but recalled later, at a moment of staggering revelations, as being strikingly pertinent, unknown then to either herself or William: “I have heard my old tutor say that in some cases the same name is applied to entirely different birds in different parts of the country, and thus confusion reigns.” The prince laughed. “Conversely, the same breed of bird, or beast, or fish may be given various names in various regions. We are most of us too stubborn or too lazy to change our habits, and stick to the names we are used to!”

“Such are the eccentricities of human nature,” said Asrathiel, breaking into smiles. “But prithee,” she added, recalling her companion’s original mission, “divulge your message from Slievmordhu.”

The prince’s pleasant countenance became grave. “I am afraid it is not good news. We have heard that rumors are spreading amongst Uabhar’s subjects, kindling flames of discontent against the weathermasters.”

“Against weathermasters!” Asrathiel suddenly sat up. Before she could catch it, the book slid from her lap to the ground, and she was vexed with herself for once again forgetting to safeguard a precious object. “But why? How? ”

William picked up the slim volume and placed it on the bench. “At first the gossips merely leveled unfounded accusations of indolence and avarice. Now they accuse your kindred of stealing items of gramarye from the site of the old Dome of Strang. Tidings of the Sylvan Comb’s discovery have, quite naturally, spread throughout the Four Kingdoms. According to Uabhar, the Dome belongs to the kingdom of Slievmordhu, and the weather-masters have robbed the populace of their rightful property.”

“B’thunder! What can Uabhar be playing at?”

“One may only guess. The man is far more ingenious than most folk comprehend. I confess I am baffled.”

“The Dome belongs to the descendents of the Sorcerer. This fact has been legally established. If Uabhar is claiming he owns it, he has become a law unto himself.”

“He reigns. He
is
the law in Slievmordhu.”

Asrathiel shot a quick glance at the prince. “Of course. As sovereign he may alter his kingdom’s legislation at a whim. And I daresay his whims have led him to employ some quirk of his own legislation to claim the Dome. Having heard of the newly discovered Sylvan Comb, he is jealous of the find.”

“Not all kings are equally capricious,” murmured William.

“Sir, you must never place your own family in the same class as that of Uabhar!” Asrathiel cried, with characteristic bluntness. “The Wyverstone code of honor and fair play can never be questioned! Ó Maoldúin is another dynasty entirely. There have been virtuous kings amongst that lineage in days of yore, but Uabhar’s generation is made of different metal, if I may speak plainly.”

“I would not have you speak otherwise to me. And again, I am of like mind.”

“I do not want this magickal comb in our possession if it is going to precipitate trouble,” said Asrathiel. “Since Uabhar desires it so much, I shall ask my grandfather to give it to him. Then Slievmordhu can have no quarrel with my kindred.”

“If Uabhar desires a quarrel,” said William, “I daresay he shall find one.”

“Anyone would be mad to estrange Rowan Green.”

“I, for one, would be unwilling to vouch for Uabhar’s sanity,” the prince said sardonically.

The two joined in laughter, but a cloud passed across the face of the sun and a cold wind swept across the gardens. All at once the day seemed grey and drear, the sunlight leached out of it. The young man shivered. “It has turned chill out here,” he said. “Let us go indoors.”

Unwilling to remind him that she was impervious to the privations of weather, the damsel rose to her feet, tucked her book beneath her arm and accompanied the prince into the fire-bright halls.

Asrathiel would not allow William to overlook his promise to encounter her in combat; therefore in the afternoon of the next day they met together in the castle’s drill hall, geared up and ready for the contest. The hall had been cleared of its usual assortment of men practicing their fighting maneuvers. Only a select, discreet group of spectators had been invited to watch. William made no effort to conceal the fact that he felt ill at ease pitting his skill against a woman, and he had only agreed to do so at Asrathiel’s insistence.

The Storm Lord’s granddaughter had brought her equipment in the aerostat from High Darioneth. Like her opponent, she was wearing the armor customarily used in longsword training. She and the prince stood face to
face, their feet placed shoulder-width apart, their heels on the ground, knees bent, hips twisted, front foot pointed directly at the adversary.

The swordmaster shouted, “Lay on!” and the combatants began circling. They feinted and pondered, each noting the movements of the other’s feet and the direction of their gaze, as best they could through the visors. They held their swords in guard position, resting on the right shoulder. All of a sudden they rolled their weapons off their shoulders and the wooden practice-blades were flying in a rapid exchange of blows. Like water in motion flowed the actions of these skilled adversaries. Their feet seemed to float in complicated patterns of footwork; small, shuffling yet poised steps diagonally forward, sideways, or in retreat.

The habits of a lifetime die hard. Blows cause pain, as any child soon learns; and to scathe any woman contradicted William’s nature. To begin with he moved diffidently, almost timidly, reluctant to seriously engage. In contrast Asrathiel thrust diagonally forward, using her shoulders, hip and thigh to give impetus to the strike, pushing her body-weight through behind the weapon to deliver it with utmost force. Using the edge of the shield, William blocked the blow. The impact of her blade on his shield jarred right through the bones of his arms and into his frame. He was surprised at her strength, for the wooden swords weighed four pounds, and their fulcrums were forward of the hilt. Without pausing, Asrathiel drove another long thrust towards her opponent. William countered with a crosswise thrust. She feinted, distracted him for an instant, and delivered a hard thwack to his unguarded shoulder on his shield side. Even after that, William was reluctant to do more than defend himself. Shrewdly, Asrathiel kept herself at full range and would not allow him to close in. When he approached she darted quickly aside, fetching a blow to his helm before he had a chance to spin around.

Although he was slightly dazed, it occurred to the prince that her unstinting hits must surely be making him appear foolish in front of the spectators. Since it was clear Asrathiel could take care of herself, he half-heartedly began to attack. The damsel parried his moves skilfully, effortlessly, always blocking his blade with the forte—the lower third—of her own sword, but as close as possible to the tip of his blade. It was an effective trick, because all blades were stronger close to the hilt. If a sword were struck at the tip, it was easy to brush aside. If it were struck at the base it had more of the wielder’s weight and strength behind it, and was harder to deflect or break. As they dueled, William came to understand that he was
indeed confronted by a formidable opponent, and he commenced to engage in earnest.

The aim of the trial was to knock down or disarm the adversary. Asrathiel attacked with a plunging cut and William counterattacked with a shifting cut. They hacked and slashed, whaled and clashed, sweated and panted, occasionally falling back for a few moments to deliberate, wipe the perspiration from their eyes and renew their grips on their weapons before waging battle afresh.

At last William dealt a solid blow to Asrathiel’s shield, pushing her off balance so that she staggered. While she was trying to regain equilibrium, she let down her guard, whereupon he rushed her, pushed her sword out of the way and sent her sprawling on her back.

The victor let his own weapon drop from his fingers, offering his gloved hand to help the vanquished one rise to her feet. She accepted with dignity, stood up, and bowed.

“I salute you, sir.”

They were both breathing like bellows.

“You are nineteen,” he said, “and I am twenty-four. Yet I have not fought such a long battle, except against my own swordmaster, or warriors with twice my experience.”

“Do not congratulate me,” she said softly, her eyes downcast. “William, to cross swords with me is no fair contest.”

At first he did not comprehend her meaning, and then there arose before his mind’s eye a vision of her tresses alight, and where there should have been charred peel, bald rind and weeping raw flesh, there was only her flawless skin and her hair like some wondrous vessel of spun jet filaments, embracing incandescent flames of bronze and gilt and carmine. It could be no fair contest to battle one who was unscathable. Yet he laid aside the mirage, and squeezed Asrathiel’s hand, which he was still holding.

“You fight well,” he murmured. Then a grin quirked the corners of his mouth. “You are a most proficient swordswoman. Indeed, I suspect you held back, because you are a true diplomat who would rather not defeat a member of the royal family.”

“Not at all!” The damsel knew he was joking and smiled as they both stripped off their gloves and helms, and shook out their sopping hair. Footmen bore away their accoutrements. Pages handed them towels with which they might wipe their faces, and cups of cool water to drink.

“Ah, you deny it, Asrathiel, but I shall never be certain. I will not contend
with you again, because I shall always doubt whether you fight fairly.”

“As you wish, sir!” Asrathiel swept him a second bow, grateful he had devised a way to forestall any future encounters. It had been her pride that had motivated her to challenge him in the first place. She had not properly thought the matter through.

Customarily, men had the advantage over women in contests of the longsword. A heavier, taller and stronger swordsman possessed a huge advantage over a slighter adversary. There was also much profit in having a longer reach. In order to best a man, a woman must be faster, better balanced, more thoroughly trained, defter, luckier. She must own greater endurance, and tolerance of pain. She must be more cunning. Asrathiel guessed that if she were to truly acknowledge her native invulnerability, and throw off the shield and armor that slowed her movements; if she were to dare to fight unprotected, shedding the redundant fear of scathe she had taught herself in order to appear unexceptional, she might have a good chance of defeating even an expert and mighty warrior. This she surmised, but would not dare try. Her desire to be accepted as an ordinary citizen, as susceptible to injury as anyone, overrode her hankering for martial triumph.