Authors: Cecilia Dart-Thornton
Evenings passed, and none could tell her where he might be.
After four nights—so quickly! How was it possible?—Asr
ă
thiel received a letter from Avalloc, who told her how he had fallen to his knees and wept with joy upon receiving her communication that she was unharmed and still within Tir, though on the outermost borders.
Albiona found your letter lying on my pillow
, he wrote in the correspondence.
How it came there I cannot tell, but I had not been to my bedchamber that night, for I have found little rest, my dear, since you have been gone. Alighting on it, your aunt screamed louder than you would have believed possible. She would speak to no one, not even Dristan, but dashed through the house at breakneck speed, to the room where I sat alone, despairing, and seized me by the hand, and she was crying. Then everyone else rushed in, thinking that there had been some disastrous accident, and when the situation was made clear the whole house exploded with jubilation. All began jumping and yelling, embracing and kissing, servants and family alike.The news spread swiftly through Rowan Green, and thence across High Darioneth and the length and breadth of Tir, in a wave of euphoria. My dear child, there is dancing in the streets and blowing of horns and ringing of bells as the people celebrate the tidings that their beloved Lady Asr
ă
thiel, wielder of Fallowblade, is hale, and being treated well, and that their worst fears are unfounded—she has not been entombed in some dungeon with no access to the outside world, or insulted, or spirited away to some distant land, never to be heard of again. Since your departure we have experienced the full gamut of emotions—from initial shock, distress and disbelief when you were taken, to this new elation. I can hardly begin to describe how we feel; it is utter relief.The people of Tir, strong though they be, have suffered greatly from war’s legacy of grief and loss. To add to our woes, since the goblin horde departed, kobolds big and small steal across the kingdoms like a blue plague, as enforcers of their masters’ law. They are increasingly seen, especially by night, heralded by a stink of garlic, wielding whips or three-pronged forks. As they travel they inflict severe retribution upon human beings they consider guilty of cruelty and neglect and the confinement of animals. Our trades and craft guilds are in turmoil. What’s more, now that the people are largely deprived of weathermasters’ assistance they are forced to accept that the elements may now destroy their property and crops at whim, that seasons may be too wet or too dry, that flood or fire may overwhelm them, and there is naught to be done about it, for we weatherlords are too few. To discover that their Queen of Swords, Tir’s champion and heroine of the four kingdoms, has not paid some unspeakable price on their behalf has buoyed the spirits of our worthy citizens as nothing else could.
The letter closed with these words:
I wonder what final fate awaits the goblins’ other two captives. It seems from your description that they are being treated as ungently as they have too often treated their fellow men. Our ambassador in Cathair Rua has discovered the secret burial place where Ó Maoldúin laid the bodies of our councillors. The mortal remains of our beloved kindred have been disinterred, and are on their way, in state, to Rowan Green. Here in our cemetery they will be entombed with full honours. May rain fall around and upon them.
The Storm Lord had included letters from Asr
ă
thiel’s friends, begging to know if there was any chance the goblins might change their terms and release her. She responded in writing, informing everyone that she believed it was highly unlikely she would be liberated, at least in the immediate future. Even Avalloc’s house guest Agnellus had penned a note, but to Asr
ă
thiel’s surprise, there had been no message from William.
The letters filled her with delight; nonetheless, after she had sent off her replies and found herself purposeless again, she began to fall once more into a restless despondency. To counter this she filled the hours by continuing her exploration of the fantastic stronghold under the mountains, discovering a myriad wonders. There seemed no end to the labyrinth. Having fallen into the rhythm favoured by the nocturnal inhabitants, she took to sleeping during the day and waking at sunset.
Letters flooded in from the outside world; however, as the populace began to realise that there was no chance of her returning, their rejoicing subsided and the flood dwindled. Most people, especially the denizens of Rowan Green and High Darioneth, vowed they would never give up hope that one day Asr
ă
thiel might be rescued.
Time seemed measureless. Nights elapsed, bringing no sign of Zaravaz, and the hostage languished amid the surreal elegance of the goblin fastness. Every day her handmaidens brought her voguish clothes to wear, delicacies to nibble, and trowish bards to provide entertainment. She dwelled in idle luxury, while her heart was being eaten empty with a hunger such as she had never known.
I would never have believed
, she told herself,
that the yearnings of homesickness could be so overwhelming. What does the future hold for me? Am I to be forever lonely?
One evening, Asr
ă
thiel rose from her couch and put on a new gown that appeared to be fashioned from plum-coloured orchid petals stitched with the delicate green skeletons of leaves. Soon afterwards, Second Lieutenant Zwist arrived at her door, carrying a lighted lantern of silver filigree. ‘Condescend to honour me with your company, Lady Sioctíne,’ he said with charming gallantry, bowing in courtly fashion. ‘Tonight you are to visit the mines of Sølvetårn.’
This knight had always shown himself to be agreeable and ready to engage in conversation. Readily Asr
ă
thiel accompanied him, thirsty for knowledge, yet also wanting to understand how such a courtly gallant could be part of the notorious goblin horde. She recalled the vehemence with which he had swung his sword at her on the Wuthering Moors, and his savage attacks on the soldiers who fought alongside her, mowing his way amongst them, striking left and right, glorying in the slaughter with a ferocity almost as terrible as that of his lord. It was difficult to reconcile these conflicting aspects.
They proceeded along a corridor whose walls were mottled, every inch, with the fossil imprints of dragonflies, sea spiders and horseshoe crabs, faithfully rendered in stone. As they walked, the weathermage quizzed her guide. ‘Lieutenant Zwist, do you hate humanity as passionately as does your lord?’
‘Like all of the Glashtinsluight, I detest your kindred.’
‘It must be difficult for you to be civil to me.’
‘Not at all. You have proved yourself to be different—in contrast to, for example, the Primoris Virosus, who, incidentally, currently decorates a mountain steeple in the skies above our heads. Of all the institutions maintained by humanity the Sanctorum is the worst, for it publishes a fabrication that the Fates decree the human race is entitled to oppress all other races.’
‘Oh, the primoris! Is that what they have done to him?’
‘It is. To the other also.’
‘Then they are dead?’
‘By now, undoubtedly.’
An image flashed before Asr
ă
thiel’s eyes; sickened, she banished it instantly. There had been too many atrocities; first the slaughter of the weathermasters, then the bloodshed on the fields of war, and now this. Since the demise of her kindred she had found it hard to sleep, and the sleep to which exhaustion of spirit eventually drove her was troubled by ill dreams. It was clear she must either exile horror to a remote corner of her mind, or be overwhelmed and succumb to madness. She chose the former.
Knight and damsel passed beneath archways built of limestone embedded with exotic treasures of the underground; graceful whorls of petrified ammonites and nautilus. Asr
ă
thiel began to speak again, hoping to distract herself from the appalling vision conjured by Zwist’s revelation. ‘I am sorrowful, knowing that you hold my people in such low esteem. I wish I could convince you otherwise.’
‘Even your people’s use of language demonstrates their selfishness,’ said the knight. ‘Human beings will say, “Thousands were slain” when they mean that thousands of
human beings
were slain. It’s as if no other species exists. They say, “It was a threat to the world” when they mean something was a threat to the human race. Ironically, a threat to the human race is likely to be a blessing to the rest of the world—bird and beast, leaf and tree, all would be better off without
sheelnaue
.’
Perceiving that nothing she could say would alter his opinion, Asr
ă
thiel let the subject drop. ‘Tell me of these mines,’ she said as they travelled together along passageways whose ceilings were so high they were lost to view, and down vast staircases whose exaggerated dimensions seemed better suited to giants.
Obligingly her escort said, ‘The mines of Sølvetårn are ancient and extensive, a huge network of passages and stopes, caverns, drives and galleries, far below the halls where we dwell. Knockers dug the tunnels and now work them anew; you will soon see them chipping away at the lode. Kobolds toil down there too, but it is the knockers who do the actual digging and delving; that has ever been their trade and obsession, aided by blue-caps, who load ore, shovel gangue, and generally fetch and carry.’
‘I saw no such wights at your banquet.’
‘The miners never attend our junkets, for they will not leave off their digging. They are at it night and day. Mispickels, on the other hand, never miss a feast. They are great beerdrinkers.’
‘So,’ said Asr
ă
thiel, ‘you are taking me to see your kobolds at work! I am glad. They are curious beings. Your lord informed me that goblinkind engineered them so that they might be your slaves.’
‘Even so,’ said Zwist.
‘How did you create such creatures?’ the damsel wondered.
The knight smiled. ‘Mispickels are the spawn of arsenic and cobalt and the gramarye of the Glashtinsluight,’ he expounded. ‘They were begotten in the silver mines, long ago, in the deeps of time. Cobalt often coexists with silver, as vein deposits with silver minerals. Indeed, humankind’s word “cobalt” is derived from an archaic term that ironically meant “goblin”—did you know? When human silver-miners work near cobalt, they are frequently plagued with maladies of the lungs, distempers of the feet and disorders of the brain such as delusions of persecution or grandeur. In days of yore their superstitious panic led them to believe that malicious, unseen wights associated with cobalt brought this mischief on them, and they named their imaginary oppressors “kobolts” or “goblins”.’
‘I do not understand why the miners supposed it was the ore that gave them trouble,’ said Asr
ă
thiel. ‘Cobalt is not toxic. My people use it to make invisible inks, because it changes colour if heated. When paper that is apparently blank is held near a flame, it turns green where messages have been inscribed in cobalt ink.’
‘In sooth, the element itself is not toxic,’ Zwist explained, ‘but by nature it attracts arsenic. The human miners’ madness and sickness were symptoms of arsenic poisoning. Coincidentally, and even more ironically, if kobolds had been skulking nearby, their presence would indeed have been toxic to the miners. Fortunately our rough imps will not affect
you
that way, Lady Sioctíne.’
So they do know I am invulnerable!
They walked away from another stair and along a broad promenade whose walls were curtained with falling water.
‘Kobold blood was spilled on the battlefield,’ said Asr
ă
thiel. ‘It was silver-white.’
‘The colour of arsenic.’
‘I heard they abhor salt.’
‘Salt and iron, both. When in the mines, both varieties must avoid naturally occurring rock salt, iron ore, haematite and iron oxides.’
‘It is commonly known, salt and iron are anathema to many wights.’
‘Of course,’ said the knight, ‘iron is also an element carried in human blood, which can prove troublesome to the mispickels in battle. Their armour must be blood-proof.’
‘It is strange, their battle harness.’
‘The greater kobolds make their red armour from erythrite, also called “cobalt bloom”. It is a crust that coats the surface of skutterudite, a cobalt arsenite.’
Having crossed a wide landing they began to descend yet another spiral stairway hewn into basalt. Damp patches glistened on the walls, which contained fossilised bats and archaeopteryx, exquisitely detailed.
‘Your slaves wear a curious insignia, a cross with arms of equal length,’ Asr
ă
thiel said questioningly.
‘It is their emblem,’ Zwist said, ‘because sometimes arsenic occurs as a mineral called mispickel, or arsenopyrite, and this is often discovered in crystals that form crosslike shapes. When struck with a hammer, mispickel gives off a garlic odour, the characteristic smell of kobolds. Our own term for our slaves is
flaieen
, although at whiles, as you have heard, we call them “mispickels”.’