Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (42 page)

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?”

Asrathiel 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.

Asrathiel 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 Asrathiel, “how can I be of assistance?”

The king turned his troubled gaze upon the weathermage. “You are erudite, Asrathiel, 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.”

“Then every precaution has been taken,” said Asrathiel, bowing courteously.

The crown equerry said, “Furthermore, messages have been sent throughout the cities and countryside. From this night forward, at the king’s command, the people of Narngalis must stay behind locked doors at nights, and invite no stranger across the threshold.”

After the meeting had adjourned, Asrathiel joined the royal family in one of the breakfast-rooms. The chamber was awash with the golden light of many candles and lamps, as if by sheer intensity of radiance the castle’s occupants might drive off the unknown foes that haunted the dark.

“Well,” the damsel said to William as they wandered companionably up and down the room, watching the servants hastening to serve victuals and beverages at such an unusually early hour, “am I to go home tonight? The king commands us all to refrain from venturing outdoors.”

“You must abide here in the castle,” said William. “You know I should be partial to that.” He stood so close to Asrathiel that she felt engulfed by his presence. Flis shirt, lace-edged, was faintly scented with lavender.

“After all the excitement it is hardly probable I shall sleep a wink in any case,” said Asrathiel.

“Then stay with me here in the breakfast-room, and together we shall await the dawn.”

They reached the far end of the room, turned around, and began to stroll back.

From King’s Winterbourne the river ran southwest, through a gap in the mountain range, and into Grïmnørsland, where it flowed, growing mightier all the time, to the coast. Along the way it passed Trøndelheim, where King Thorgild was hosting a feast for Uabhar of Slievmordhu, in honor of the forthcoming wedding of Kieran and Solveig.

Close to four hundred guests occupied the hall of the western monarch. The notables of the realm were present, and every guest partook of his fill of food and drink, until all were mirthful and blithe. At Thorgild’s command,
his bards performed songs and recited sagas accompanied by musicians playing horns or striking the tuned percussion instruments peculiar to that realm.

At the climax of the celebration Uabhar rose to his feet and began to speak. His ringing tones carried above the joyful buzz of conversation, so that a hush immediately fell upon the concourse. “Two royal families shall be joined as one!” proclaimed Uabhar, raising his glass in an impromptu toast. “Here’s health to Grirnn0rslancl and Slievmordhu!” After the cheers had died away, Uabhar continued his speech. “I am grateful to our host Thorgild,” he said, “for his limitless hospitality. In Grïmnørsland I have not only a staunch ally but also a beautiful bride for my son. Can anyone think of anything that is lacking to complete my happiness?”

The assembled guests answered, no they could not.

“Surely, my friend, your happiness is complete!” said Thorgild, his rubicund cheeks shining in the lamplight.

“Yet there is one great lack,” said Uabhar, and at this unexpected announcement the crowd fell silent, some in wonder, some in dread, most un-comprehending. “It pains me,” continued the visiting king, “that some of my own people in Slievmordhu have unaccountably waxed bitter against the weathermasters.”

A look of discomposure creased Prince Hrosskel’s brow. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but his father shot him a warning glance.

“I maintain,” said Uabhar, “that it is unfitting that the luminaries of Rowan Green be not held in highest esteem by all men. They have proved themselves worthy friends in the past, providing valuable service in stormy weather, averting the catastrophes that would have wreaked destruction upon our lands. In these dark days of increased aggression from Marauders it would be better if the weathermasters were fully united with my kingdom so that we may defend ourselves with utmost strength.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled up and down the hall.

“It is time,” Uabhar expounded, “to extend the hand of fellowship. I have requested that the Councilors of Ellenhall come to my table, there to enjoy my hospitality. Such a gathering would surely prove to everyone, once and for all, that the relationship is cordial. But alas, such an earnest invitation has been misinterpreted, having been transmitted by semaphore. Communication by carrier pigeon or courier is no better. Only the word of a man of eminence and honor is powerful enough to convey the earnestness of my invitation. Yet I fear that I myself would hardly be welcomed into High Darioneth at this time.”

With all the attention of the assembly fixed upon him, Uabhar turned to King Thorgild. “I ask you, Thorgild my dear friend, to plead on my behalf for this reunion, which can only bring strength and joy to the Four Kingdoms.”

And so it happened, as easily as that. In front of the applauding gathering, King Thorgild realized, somewhat to his own surprise, that he was agreeing to do his best to convince the weathermasters to attend Uabhar’s reconciliation banquet in Cathair Rua, and to journey halfway across Tir to ensure this purpose was fulfilled.

Later, in private, Uabhar said to him, “Let us not waste a moment in notifying the weathermasters of your intended visit. Let us send a semaphore to Rowan Green at first light!”

And Thorgild, being a man who kept his word, granted consent.

Dawn stole across Grïmnørsland. The glossy needles of the conifer forests glistened like tinsel when struck by the low-angled rays of the sun. Their softly bustling foliage came alive with fingers of light. A cirrus sky stretched all the way from the inland borders of the kingdom to King’s Winterbourne, many miles to the northeast. The clouds were wispy plumes, like goose-down strewn across the firmament.

Having passed the night at Wyverstone Castle, Asrathiel returned in the morning to The Laurels. She slept for a few hours, and when she awoke her maid brought a letter on a silver tray.

“This arrived by post-rider just now,” said Linnet. “It was dispatched from Rowan Green nine days ago. The rider was delayed.”

Asrathiel slit the envelope with a penknife and unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a message from her grandfather.

“Unto The Lady Weathermage Asrathiel Heronswood Maelstronnar, at The Laurels, Lime Grove, King’s Winterbourne, I, Storm Lord Avalloc Nithulambar Maelstronnar of Rowan Green in High Darioneth, do send thee Greetings.