Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (43 page)

“My dear Asrathiel,

“I have received a message from our friends in Grïmnørsland. King
Thorgild presses us to accept Uabhar’s invitation, in the interests of the unity of Tir. He has spoken with Uabhar and is convinced of his genuine de-sire for friendship. Thorgild gives his pledge to accompany us to Cathair Rua and guarantee our security, should we accept. Uabhar proposes to hold the banquet on Mai Day. Ten days from now the councilors will meet to consider the invitation. If you wish to participate in the meeting please come to us at High Darioneth within that period.”

That allows me scant time,
Asrathiel thought, and the notion did nothing to soothe the sense of panic that had seized her as soon as she read the epistle. Uabhar, for reasons unknown, had developed a patent loathing of the weathermasters. He had also spread false rumors, turning the populace against High Darioneth; seized control of the ruined Dome of Strang; and received the Sylvan Comb as if the givers had handed him a viper. Ominously, he had commissioned his own sky-balloon. The man was not merely a petty schemer, he possessed far more intelligence than he demonstrated. Furthermore she suspected, he was actually
mad
—therefore highly dangerous. There was no knowing what further plans he might be hatching, and to what end.

I must hasten to Rowan Green without delay and persuade my kindred not to go to Cathair Rua. Uabhar Ó Maoldúin’s invitation might be couched in fair a?7d flattering words, but my heart tells me he is false. I feel certain he plans to lure them into some trap.

“Tell the men to make ready
Lightfast,”
she told Linnet. “But this time I will travel alone, for where I am going there will be ground crew to receive me.”

Soon afterwards Asrathiel’s balloon ascended from the lawns of The Laurels. As it rose up the air became cooler, more rarefied, transparent as distilled water. Delicately suspended above a lake, the aerostat serenely drifted, the silver-white globe hanging silently, reflected in the water like a pearl on the throat of the sky. Asrathiel murmured a command, and a sudden gust flurried across the water. The image blurred and the balloon was swept away.

At a height of five hundred feet Asrathiel floated across the landscape of Narngalis. The forests, valleys, rivers, lakes and farmlands looked to be laid out in harmonious design; here slumbering beneath cloud, there basking in sunshine. After the hurly-burly of city life, the tranquillity of the lower atmosphere seemed hypnotic. Up here, there was no counteractive drag, nothing to retard the aerostat’s effortless glide upon the shoulders of the wind.
The balloon’s airspeed matched the pace of every other windborne object; flecks of thistledown, a feather or two, smoke from cottage chimneys, rising vertically until it encountered the upper currents, where it dispersed to become the reflection of nothing.

The weathermage’s airship rose higher. Shadows of topography and vegetation became indistinct, until at last the landscape adopted a hazy, veiled appearance, losing all detail. As the basket gained greater altitude, the vapors of the lowest cloud layers enveloped it. Moments of clammy dimness followed, after which the balloon broke through the ceiling of the layer. Above, the sky was the most profound and flawless blue imaginable. Direct sunlight glared brilliantly, reflecting in sudden lances off the sculpted cloudscape.

The sun-crystal glowed fiercely as Asrathiel commanded it to produce more heat, lifting her higher over the mountainous country. Having reached Rowan Green, the aerostat dived down through the clouds. At first Asrathiel was wrapped in a mist of miniature crystals like a saturation of sequins, glimmering and twinkling. The cloud of crystals merged into a moist, cool brume, a damp shroud that had the effect of augmenting sound. Asrathiel heard her own voice louder in her ears as she muttered the brí commands. She caused the balloon to plunge rapidly, trembling and rotating as it accelerated. Below the basket the blurred tints of the landscape began to coalesce through the murk. Dropping out through the floor of the cloud layer, the balloon emerged into diffused sunlight. The instant the basket kissed the ground, the weathermage tugged on the rip line. A panel opened. The envelope’s once-perfect symmetry became malformed, while the wicker gondola, still slightly airborne, was hauled across the ground. Slowly, as the warm air escaped, the envelope deflated. The basket lost speed and came to a gradual halt on the green landing-place, to be greeted by the ground crew.

As soon as she reached the House of Maelstronnar, Asrathiel ran upstairs to the glass cupola, where her mother lay in a trance. After kissing the marble brow, she murmured, “Mother, I love thee. Yet I cannot stay, for I must speak with Grandfather. I will return to you before I depart.”

Long, clear notes pealed from the belfry atop Ellenhall under Wychwood Storth, and in this gracious building atop the shelf overlooking the plateau, the councilors congregated. The Storm Lord entered, with Asrathiel on his arm. Pouches of flesh sagged beneath Avalloc’s eyes. His beetling eyebrows grew long, upswept like two wings, as if a giant grey-moth crouched upon the bridge of his aristocratic nose. Symmetrical troughs ran down from the inner corners of his eyes, beneath his cheekbones, as if a potter’s thumb had
impressed them in wet clay. Two more grooves began at the outer edges of his nostrils and vanished somewhere in the foggy tendrils of his beard. Three horizontal furrows ploughed his forehead. His troubles had graven their signature into his visage.

Outside, in the watercolor light of day, the grasses were spattered with the lemon-butter spangles of dandelion flowers. Indoors, brass lamps shed their mellow radiance against the paneled walls.

They all gathered; the councilors and more; prentices and journeymen garbed in elegantly decorated raiment of many tints, weathermages clad in traditional costume. Asrathiel’s aunts Galiene and Lysanor came in with their husbands, and Avalloc’s sister Astolat Darglistel entered the hall with Ryence and his siblings; Lynley and Baldulf Ymberbaillé accompanied their son Bliant; also Ettare Sibilaure; Gauvain Cilsundror; Engres Aventaur; the carlin, Lidoine Galenrithar, and many others.

The Moot Hall was crowded.

Long waged the debate of the weathermasters. Strongly suspecting that Uabhar Ó Maoldúin harbored some deep and enigmatic resentment against them, the councilors were puzzled by the king’s sudden rush of cordiality. For most of the day they discussed the topic of whether they should attend Uabhar’s banquet as King Thorgild urged, or whether the risk of treachery was too great. Finally, after all voices had been heard and all votes counted, the Storm Lord summarized his opinion.

“There is no doubt that Thorgild is trustworthy,” said Avalloc. “He is no fool, but his own nature is so artless that he fails to perceive deceitfulness in others. I fear he invests too much faith in Ó Maoldúin. Thorgild is not afraid of conflict, but prefers to solve it with dialogue rather than brute force. Always he has worked towards harmony within Tir, and reparation of political rifts. It is his hope to promote restoration of goodwill and accord.”

“I would not like to disappoint him,” said Engres Aventaur.

But Asrathiel said, “Uabhar is treacherous. I say we should not go.”

Lynley Ymberbaillé supported the Storm Lord’s granddaughter. “By the middle of Averil, Marauders will be well and truly on the move, hungry and eager for spoils after spending the long Winter cave-bound. It will be unsafe to travel by road.”

“But what if Uabhar is in fact making a genuine attempt to demonstrate he holds no grudge against us?” asked Baldulf Ymberbaillé. “If we reject his invitation we shall appear at best ungracious, at worst cowardly and churlish.”

“Baldulf is right. In any event, what have weathermasters to fear from Ó Maoldúin?” responded Ryence Darglistel. “We command forces greater than he can imagine! What’s more, Thorgild’s armed escort will be close beside us at all times. He has sworn to keep us from harm. I can see no reason to refuse. We ought to go.”

A murmur of agreement arose on most sides. Immediately a pang of desolation struck Asrathiel. She felt nauseated with horror. “What of this new eldritch menace near Silverton?” she demanded, grasping at reasons to stymie the expedition. This introduced topic diverted the attention of the gathering.

“I heard,” said Ettare Sibilaure, “that householders have been asking their domestic brownies for explanations, but the wights know nothing. Some folk have tried to interrogate other wights, but of course they are all so elusive. One man captured a trow who, when pressed, would only repeat,
“Sulver sir, sulver. That’s what’s a-calling me.”

“Silver!” exclaimed Baldulf Ymberbaillé. “We all know the Grey Neighbors are attracted to the metal, but this sudden flood of trows like nails to a magnet makes no sense. No new lodes have been discovered in that old region for years. It is practically mined out.”

“Silver,” said Avalloc ponderingly. “Of all metals known to humankind, silver is the one that best conducts heat and electricity. It has occurred to me, on occasion, that perhaps that is its power, somehow, over the trows.”

“They seem to love it simply for its beauty, from all accounts,” said his sister Astolat. “Trows compare silver to moonlight and starlight. We all know how much they dislike the light of the sun.”

“Be that as it may,” Asrathiel said insistently, “some mysterious threat has arisen in Narngalis and we weathermasters must remain at hand, in case we are called upon for support.”

“King Warwick has the situation under control,” reassured Ryence Darglistel. “There have been no reports of fresh attacks at Silverton.”

“Aye, but neither have the attackers been identified,” said Asrathiel. “Nobody yet knows who the culprits are—or
what
they are.”

“I daresay they have been intimidated by the strong presence of soldiers,” said Ryence. “They will have retreated to whatever gloomy lair they emerged from.”

“We cannot be certain.”

“But dear cousin, we need not
all
attend Ó Maoldúin’s party,” Ryence pointed out, returning to the main subject. “Some of us shall remain in
Narngalis, obviously. Cloud and wind roll on—the weather will not excuse us from our duties!”

“I, for one, shall not go,” Asrathiel said stubbornly. “I am needed at my post.”

“As Uabhar must surely understand,” said Tristian Solorien, inclining his hoary head in emphasis.

In an endeavor to sway general opinion, Asrathiel launched into an emphatic and impassioned series of arguments against the plan. The discussion shuttled back and forth until the damsel had exhausted all her objections and could conjure no further method of persuasion.

“It is time to make an end to discussion,” said Avalloc. “Does anyone wish to make any further contribution?” Silence greeted his invitation. “Then, all in favor of this enterprise, raise your hands.”

Hands were thrust into the air like pale flowers in some curious garden. The clerks and scribes muttered as they counted, and their eyes flicked from side to side, as busy as shuttles. They tallied up their scores, compared them and agreed.

“The weathermasters,” announced the chief scribe, “will go to Cathair Rua.”

“The vote has been cast, the decision has been made,” said Avalloc. “The journey to renew the bonds of friendship will be undertaken by the Councilors of Ellenhall and those who choose to accompany us.”

Submerged by a sense of helplessness, Asrathiel wished herself free of the constraints and complaints of the world. As she accompanied her kinsmen on their way from the council chambers she let her brí senses issue forth, deep into the atmosphere, so that she might alleviate the feeling of impending doom and lose herself temporarily in the wild patterns of the elements.

If lilac blooms remain tight-shut fine weather is at hand

But if they open rapidly, soon rain will drench the land.

If lilacs quickly drop and fade next Summer will be hot,

And if they flower late, then Summer rain will be our lot.

 

Another sign that forecasts rain as everybody knows

Is when the trembling poplar tree its silver lining shows.

When weeds in garden, field and roadside large and lofty grow

Next Winter will be bitter cold, and deep will drift the snow.

 

To learn this useful wisdom, look at nature's signs together.

The codes of flower, leaf and tree predict the coming weather.

—
LOCAL WEATHERLORE IN NARNGALIS

Dimly underlit by the red glare of sunset, a cold front was passing from west to east across the kingdoms of Tir. Its undulating pressure gradient formed a line invisible to the eyes of most human beings, although apparent to nonhumankind and weathermasters. The turbulent band of moisture-rich cumulus associated with the leading edge straggled southward from the
vicinity of the Mountain Ring as far as the Border Hills, and further, where it tapered to milky veils of cirrus. Beneath those veils a beggar, staff in hand, was hobbling along the highway in the direction of Cathair Rua. The wind tweaked at his garments and toyed with the rat-ends of his beard.