Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (49 page)

That same night, near Silverton, Asrathiel was walking along a leafy lane in the broad valley of the river Sillerway. All her senses were a-tingle; beneath a clear sky that rinsed the meadows with the cool radiance of stars, she was looking for something wicked.

Wights, by their nature, must always tell the truth, but so far even they had not been able to explain the spate of unusual murders. King Warwick’s officials had encouraged the people of the region to discover and question seelie entities—household brownies, hobgoblins of the hearth, lake-maidens, buttery spirits, siofra, and so forth—but to no avail. By various ingenious methods some folk had managed to detain and interview a few of these incarnations but, even when the wights’ prevarications were unravelled, it appeared they genuinely had no notion of the agencies behind the killings . . . although one could never be entirely sure when supernatural beings were concerned.

Seelie wights had proved uninformative. Asrathiel, however, being invulnerable, could seek
unseelie
wights, on condition she remained wary, and as long as she avoided the most dangerous. If she were seized by a carnivorous waterhorse, for example, and carried away to some underwater lair, immunity to hurt and death would not save her. Only her ability to summon the forces of nature could extricate her from such a predicament.

It was notoriously difficult to locate creatures of eldritch at one’s own behest; they were secretive and elusive, intent on their own affairs. The unseelie kind were not only unwilling to aid humankind, they were actively hostile. Hoping to catch one by surprise and avoid being caught, the damsel, therefore, was moving as silently as possible, given that it was hard to see in the dark, and she must rely on her brí senses for guidance.

Night was a perilous time for mortalkind to leave the safety of threshold and hearth. Over in a meadow to the left, weird strings of tiny lights appeared without warning, and Asrathiel saw a substantial feast laid out on the grass, attended by pint-sized revellers. When she stumbled on a stone, which rolled away under her foot with a clatter, the entire scene vanished. Surly, inquisitive, or baleful eyes peered at the weathermage from the tangle of shrubs and briars bordering the lane; sulphur-yellow, acid-green, and
cyanide-blue; some slitted, like cats’ eyes, others round like the orbits of fishes. Her ears were assailed by bursts of monstrous laughter, screams, weeping, giggling, and snatches of wild music. As soon as she stopped and reached out her hand, or called softly to the hedge-denizens, the eyes would be snuffed out like lamps and silence would abruptly fall.

Though they refused to cooperate, the wights had no hesitation in assailing the human traveler. Hands reached out from amongst roots and grabbed at her ankles; she kicked them away. Grinning hobyahs swung down out of overhanging trees and pulled her hair; she slapped them, sometimes muttering rhymes to drive them off. The difficulty lay in keeping unwanted attentions at bay while simultaneously inviting discourse; an exasperating conundrum. As a matter of course she carried wight-warding effects on her person, in addition to a covered basket for the purpose of temporarily confining intractable wights if the occasion arose.

The weathermage was approaching a bridge spanning the river Sillerway when all of a sudden a thin, stunted fellow wearing yellow breeches, a green jacket, and a pointed red hat sprang into the lane. He loped ahead of her, jumping and frolicking in the direction of the water, wrhich could be heard gushing through the darkness beyond. Greatly surprised, Asrathiel hesitated, wondering whether she ought to press on or retreat, given that the entity was clearly a pixie and therefore likely to be intent on leading her astray. People who were pixy-led might wander lost for hours, even in familiar territory—often until dawn, when cock-crow put an end to the spell. Resolved to carry out her important mission, however, and having faith in her own abilities and talismans, the damsel decided to walk on. As an added precaution she whisked her cloak from her shoulders and re-donned it inside out, since reversal of one’s clothing was said to be an efficacious ward against being pixy-led.

Boldly she continued on her way, the pixie always a few steps ahead. Having arrived at the river, the mannikin tarried at the bridge’s entrance, where he was bounding back and forth and cutting ludicrous capers as if barring Asrathiel’s way. The weathermage, however, was not to be discouraged and she marched resolutely toward the wight, who never let up his nimble clowning. As she set foot on the bridge the pixie darted toward her, whereupon she swiftly leaned down, scooped him up with both hands dropped him into her basket. Quickly she secured the cover, delighted to have avoided the danger of being pixy-led while simultaneously obtaining a source of information.

Though capacious, the container was not big enough to allow the wight
to move around, and he was obliged to sit without stirring. He was motionless, but not quiet, for as soon as the lid shut he began jabbering away in some outlandish tongue. The weathermage set down the basket, seated herself beside it, and attempted to ask questions through the wicker-work, but no matter how she cajoled she could get nothing out of her captive save for his continuous stream of babble, which she was unable to understand. At length the pixy’s flow of gibberish petered out and Asrathiel conjectured he had exhausted his speeches or withdrawn in sullen protest, or possibly nodded off. The mysterious silence was intriguing, and she could not help wanting to know what the wight was up to, so to satisfy her curiosity she carefully lifted the lid a fraction, and peered inside.

The basket held nothing.

She could only smile ruefully and acknowledge that she had somehow been gulled. How the dwarfish personage had extricated himself was a puzzle; perhaps he was a shape-shifter who could make himself small enough to thread his way through the woven canes. The damsel looked up at the clear sky and allowed the immensity of its glittering, sable dome to saturate her consciousness; then, with a sigh she rose to her feet, picked up her basket and continued on her mission.

The final ray of daylight twinkled through a flaw in the glass of one of the palace windows. Within a large and ornate chamber, portly King Chohrab II was reclining on a couch, surrounded by his courtiers. He was clad in robes colored tangerine and yolk-yellow, his curly brown hair caught in a jeweled turban, his fat fingers carapaced with rings of brass and red-gold. The Ashqalêthan emblem of the wheel patterned the rich fabric of his tunic. A goblet stood on a small table near his elbow, and an attentive butler waited nearby, carafe in hand. For the entertainment of Ashqalêth’s ruler, dancers were flinging themselves about the floor.

Chohrab’s interlude was interrupted by the precipitous entrance of his host. Startled, he hoisted himself to his slippered feet. “What’s amiss?”

The musicians and dancers ceased their efforts.

“I bear news, my brother,” said Uabhar, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. Turning to his lord chancellor, who followed close at his heels, he said, “Dismiss these clowns.”

The lord chancellor snapped his fingers, shouting, “Begone,” and the performers
scattered in retreat, bowing and scraping, hastily retrieving the silk flowers that had fallen from their costumes as they whirled.

“The Councilors of Ellenhall have lately arrived,” Uabhar told Chohrab, “and reliable sources inform me that they intend to do us mischief.”

The southern king gasped, clasping his hands in consternation. “Ill news indeed!”

“With Conall Gearnach and my Knights of the Brand away, I am poorly defended,” Uabhar continued, running his index finger around the inside of his heavy golden collar. “I ask you, brother, to allow your matchless Desert Paladins to make camp around the Red Lodge wherein the weathermasters are installed.”

“What? Are they in the Red Lodge?”

“Yes, yes. They demanded a well-fortified hostelry. The request seems strange to me, but as a good host I am prepared to go out of my way to indulge my guests, even when they plot against me. My only wish is to make everyone comfortable, but alas, I am so often rewarded with ingratitude and disloyalty. Well, friend and ally, will you deploy your knights around the Red Lodge?”

“Of course,” Chohrab said quickly. “It is the least I can do.”

“Keep your worthy knights well plied with liquor, at my expense. My coffers are open to you.”

“Do you think it wise,” Chohrab said nervously, “to let the Paladins get drunk? Matchless they are indeed, in battle, but they can be—“ he hesitated “—they can be somewhat
unruly
when in their cups. Overexcitable, one might say.”

“If your men’s wrath grows, fed by rumor of the weathermasters’ foul deeds and fouler purpose, there is nought I can do about it. I would be offended if you were to refuse my generosity.”

“Even so. Then, let it be!” Despite his acquiescence, the desert king continued to wrinkle his brow in perplexity.

Uabhar noted this. “You were right, brother-in-arms,” he said, sighing. “I ought to have hearkened to your advice in the first instance.” Distractedly he scratched his ear.

Chohrab’s eyebrows collided.

“Do you not recall? You advised me the weathermasters were becoming too dangerous,” Uabhar explained. “And you were not mistaken. It occurs to me they must be stopped.”

Between astonishment, righteous anger, excitement and dismay, Chohrab
was lost for a verbal response. Instead, jowls quivering, he took a large swallow from his goblet.

Unseen behind a free-hanging arras stood Queen Saibh, thirty-five winters old, though her loveliness was barely tarnished by years and sorrow. A slender, glimmering shadow, she had entered the room alone, moments before, in her customary unobtrusive way. Her presence had not been marked. Now she paused, listening, her hand pressed tightly to her mouth. After hearing this exchange she glided away on silent feet, as quietly as she had arrived, in search of her most trusted courtier.

Fedlamid macDall was a brave man, named after the harper of a legendary king. He was of an age with her; indeed, she had known him since childhood. It was he whom she dispatched straightway into the starlit city, across the vale and up to the slopes of the third hill, whereon stood the knights’ hall. Before midnight macDall returned with his report, presenting himself before his liege lady in her private rooms where she sat weeping, attended only by two of her youngest handmaidens. Bowing on bended knee at her feet, the queen’s confidant kissed her hand and told her, “The knights of King Chohrab are in-deed setting up tents around the Red Lodge, and wineskins are passing freely amongst them, supplied by stewards of Slievmordhu.”

Saibh appeared slight and frail as she leaned upon the arm of a massive chair heavily carved with foliage and grotesqueries. Her arms were two pale wands, and her tears glistened like pearls swinging from fine silver chains.

“It was impossible for me to convey your message to the weatherlords,” her servant continued. His tone was gentle, and he looked upon the distraught woman with grave compassion. “Forgive me. I would never be able to pass unmarked through the pickets, for I am known as a member of your ladyship’s household, not of Uabhar’s, and I do not know the passwords. Be-sides, the lodge itself is sealed.”

“You
need never ask me for forgiveness,” whispered the queen, and her countenance expressed more than words could convey. She handed macDall an envelope, fastened with her own seal imprinted in red wax. “My heart aches, Fedlamid,” she said softly, “when I speculate upon what wickedness the king might be plotting this very night. Without delay you must ride to Thorgild at the site of the Summer palace in Orielthir. I will send no message by the semaphore, else Uabhar will discover me. Take my best horse. Ride hard, dearest of all friends,” she said. “Ride swift.”

MacDall bowed his blond head and kissed her hand again, most tenderly. “At your service, my lady,” he said as he tucked the envelope inside his doublet.
“The wind shall not outstrip me.” His eyes reflected two bright flames of candlelight as he gazed upon his queen while taking his leave.

There was scant sleep to be had in the palace that night. Even as Saibh was bidding farewell to her messenger, her husband, far off in another suite, was in private conference with Primoris Asper Virosus.

“It is as I projected,” declared the king. “The Councilors of Ellenhall have arrived, and are established in the Red Lodge. I have them locked in my very fist.”

“The two best of them are not in your fist,” said the druid, “the Maelstronnar and his granddaughter. They are still at large. What will you do about them, eh?”

“Avalloc is old, and diseased now, too, from all accounts. He’s grown feeble. As for the chit, why, she’s only a woman, Virosus! If the day ever dawns when a woman stands between the likes of us and the greater glory of the Fates, that will be the day men’s brains turn into tweeting birds and take wing out of their skulls.”

The primoris merely grunted.

“By morning,” Uabhar progressed, “we shall have trumped up a charge against the weather-meddlers. Most importantly it must be publicly
seen
and
understood
that they deserve the fate of criminals. Soon they shall abide in my dungeons, unable to interfere in the affairs of Sanctorum and State, leaving the way clear for us to make our next move.”