Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (12 page)

Fallowblade was fashioned of gold, platinum and indium—that much Asrathiel knew. During its forging the metals had been enlaced with the power of the bri, imbuing them with qualities they could never possess naturally. She was aware also that the sword had hewn off the head of many a goblin; that its like had never been seen before and never would be seen again in the four kingdoms of Tir. But what more was there to learn about this beautiful, shimmering, lethal thing?

While Asrathiel stood, as transfixed by admiration of the weapon as if it had impaled her, Avalloc entered the room.

A timeless quality clung around Asrathiel’s grandfather, as around most weathermages. His eyes were the color of jade, and hooded by deep lids; his nose hooked, like the beak of a bird of prey. Straight-spined and frost-haired in his grey robes, he seemed as enduring as an oak-tree. His face, molded and engraved by the kneading fingers of age, bore the stamps of patience and wisdom. Since the day, nine years ago, when his eldest son had packed his rucksack and disappeared into the desert wilderness of the remote north, the Storm Lord had borne his accumulating birthdays as if they were as wreighty as tombstones.

Avalloc’s family name,
Maelstronnar,
meant Stormbringer, and he had been freely elected Storm Lord of Ellenhall and High Darioneth. He was the most authoritative, and until recently the most powerful of all weather-masters. His eyes darkened to thoughtful olive-green as he looked at his grandchild standing before him, holding the sword. Here was one who, he suspected, had the potential to command the power of weathermastery—even beyond his own capabilities. He had lost his son and his beloved daughter-in-law, but the dark, empty place that gaped in his psyche was illuminated by his joy in their child.

“Good morrow to thee, Grandfather.”

“And to thee, dear child. Fallowblade shines as bright as ever on this day.”

“Indeed, sir, and fain would I put him to the test.” Lambent radiance, reflected from the blade, skittered around the walls and across the features of Avalloc. He squinted to avoid the glare. Asrathiel did not notice—the sight of the golden sword still held her in thrall. It seemed to gather brilliance to itself; to string nets of sticky light about its axis, like golden cobwebs. “Fain would I,” she continued, “learn how to wield him suitably. I believe that now
I am ready.” Turning to face her grandfather she added, “Therefore I am asking for your permission.”

The Storm Lord regarded Asrathiel with grave intent. He said, calmly and deliberately, “That is no insignificant request.”

“Of that I am aware, and I do not undertake to ask it lightly.”

“I know that you are one of the few, Asrathiel, who have the potential to wield the golden blade in combat, yet you must understand that you are entreating my approval for one I hold most dear to indulge in a dangerous enterprise. You ask a great deal from me.”

“How dangerous can the sword be to me?” The damsel did not add,
I am immortal and invulnerable,
but they both knew what she meant.

“Who knows? Fallowblade’s capabilities have never been fully catalogued. Conceivably they are measureless.”

At the end of a few moments’ pondering, Ast
riel said, “Well, if there is a risk, I am willing to take it. What say you, Grandfather? Will you give your consent?”

She looked so proud and zealous, standing before him with the extraordinary weapon in her hands, as if she had broken off a piece of the sun, that Avalloc’s manner softened. He had long guessed that one day she would petition him for the use of Fallowblade and, having thought it over, had decided to grant her wish. Graciously he inclined his head. “You have my permission.” A faint smile flickered across his mouth. “Under one condition,” he added, “and that is, you must promise not to engage in combat rehearsal until your sword-master judges your ability to be outstanding in every way. You will need more than common competence if you are to handle this perilous blade.”

The damsel’s face lit up with pleasure. “I promise! Gramercie! Well, Fallowblade,” she said, beginning to slide the sword back into its sheath, “you and I shall soon have some dancing to do.”

When she drove home the hilt, the chamber seemed to grow dim. Together, Asrathiel and Avalloc replaced sword and scabbard in their usual position above the fireplace.

“You must break the news tactfully to your aunt,” the Storm Lord advised. “She will not be happy; you know how she feels about your inheriting the blade.”

“Of course I shall be gentle with her!”

“Fallowblade has other names,” Avalloc informed his granddaughter as they finished the task and stepped back from the fireplace. “He is called also ‘Frostfire,’ because he burns like both ice and flame, and his color is of the
sun. In the speech of the Gwragged Annwn, ‘Frostfire’ is translated as ‘Síoctine,’ which men were wont to render as
Shockteen.”

“A curious name. And what a curious song it is, Grandfather,” said Asrathiel, “the song about Fallowblade. All my life I have listened to it, from time to time, and yet there is much about it I do not understand.”

“Ask me. It will be an excellent commencement to your further training.”

“Everyone knows,” Asrathiel began, “that our famous forefather Alfardene was a master-smith. Everyone knows that hundreds of years ago he forged the blade in the famous Inglefire, which burns to this very day beneath one of the mountains in the Northern Ramparts. But what
is
the Inglefire? Where exactly does it lie? What makes it extraordinary?”

Avalloc offered Asrathiel his arm and they sat down together on the seat by the open window, surveying the sunlit panorama of glistening snowy peaks as they conversed. “The Inglefire,” said the Storm Lord, “is no common conflagration, but a ‘werefire,’ an ancient, everlasting blaze of gramarye that burns deep beneath a certain mountain, in the far north. It is called ‘Inglefire,’ but that name is a corruption of the old word, ‘Aingealfyre.’ Aingeal, you see, means ‘light.’ As the song tells, it is there that the sword Fallowblade was forged. That fire is anathema to unseelie things, therefore after Fallow-blade was made the goblins posted guards around the werefire so that no more swords like him could ever be created. The goblins themselves could not abide the fire; could not even go near it. It is said that the Inglefire burns out wickedness. That is why the sword is pure, and smote goblins so well.”

“Did the goblin guards not suffer from the fire’s proximity?”

“The goblins themselves did not guard it. They set their kobold slaves to the task.”

“But they dispersed and fled into hiding when the goblins were defeated. What guards it now?”

“Unseelie wights of other varieties, so it is told. Nobody has sought the Inglefire for many a year. There is no need. These days we have neither living master-smiths as great as our grandsire Alfardene, nor any real need to fashion more swords like Fallowblade. Unseelie wights are kept at bay by repellents such as bells and iron and rowan, or by the use of the bri; or chiefly by educating mortalkind to beware of the haunts of wicked entities, and shun them.”

“Well, it is a shame there will be no more swords like Fallowblade, for he is beautiful.”

“Aye, that he is, and perilous also.”

“Such a strange heritage is mine,” mused the damsel, leaning her elbow
on the windowsill and resting her chin in her hand. “A golden sword, the power of the bri, eternity, a ruined fortress . . .” For a while she was silent, while the two of them watched the clouds roll by. Then she sat up straight. “The Dome,” she said. “The ruined Dome of the sorcerer Jaravhor—it is mine by law, is it not?”

“By the laws of Slievmordhu and Narngalis, it belongs to you and your mother, dear child. You and Jewel are apparently the sorcerer’s only living descendents.”

“Yet King Uabhar, without permission from the rightful owners, had it dismantled and ransacked,” Asrathiel said discontentedly. “In the process it was destroyed. All that remains are heaps of broken bricks and stones, swarming with crowthistle and other weeds. The once-great Dome of Strang is now just a pile of rubble.”

“Even the stones might have been removed by now,” said Avalloc.

“People do not go there to steal building materials, because they are afraid that the blocks might have malign spells on them, some lingering curse,” said the damsel.

“You have never published your claim to the estate, my dear. Then again, why would you wish to do so, hmm? As you say, it is worthless.” The Maelstronnar appended, “Your mother ended up hating the place. There were all those skeletons and what-have-you concealed in the walls.” He waved a hand airily.

“But Grandfather, who knows? There might still be some precious secrets hidden at the site, perhaps buried underground.”

“Uabhar’s servants dug and pried for years, until the cellars and foundations resembled a rabbit warren. They were meticulous in their search, but they found nothing of value, which is why they abandoned it to the weeds.”

“The king’s servants are stupid. Besides, they don’t have the brí flowing in their blood. If secrets are hidden there, it will be weathermasters who find them, not Uabhar’s henchmen. I shall publicly claim the ruins of the Dome as my own, by the laws of inheritance.”

The light of good humor disappeared from Avalloc’s eyes. “I do not understand your attraction to that place,” he said sternly. “It was the same with your mother. She seemed drawn to it, yet in the end, it gave her only pain and trouble.”

“The Dome was the key to my father’s immortality,” said Asrathiel.

“Aye, but he never asked for that. And was it boon or bane to him, my dear, hmm? ”

A shadow flitted across the damsel’s face. Meditatively she looked down at her hands, resting in her lap. What was boon or bane for her father also applied to her. She did not like to contemplate her immortality; it set her apart. At times the natural desire to
belong
made her agonize over being thus isolated, in a state neither eldritch nor fully human, but somewhere between.

Her unique condition was kept secret from the wider world. The Councillors of Ellenhall were privy to it, of course, and the carlin; also some members of the royal family at King’s Winterbourne, whose discretion could be depended upon. Were the public to be apprised of it they might respond with any combination of fear, jealousy, awe or resentment. Almost certainly they would not greet the revelations with liking or acceptance. The mere
mention
of her situation—no matter how obliquely, no matter that she was in the company of a trusted confidant—made Asrathiel feel uneasy. Were it to become common knowledge that she could not die, some madman might conceivably take it into his head to put her invulnerability to the test, making her the target of assassination attempts. Even though such attempts must fail, they could endanger those who surrounded her, and cause untold havoc in her life. Conversely, if she ever found herself in some extremity, deliverance might depend upon her deathlessness being unrecognized by the enemy. Keeping it secret was like concealing an ace in her sleeve while playing at the card-game of life.

“I do not know,” Asrathiel replied to her grandfather’s question in soft tones. Looking up, she continued impulsively, “All the same, the Dome is mine and my mother’s, and I intend to make public our claim. Nobody else wants it, after all.”

“And what shall you do with it?”

“Explore!”

“When will you have time to do so?”

“Even if I am too busy with my studies and my work, I am certain some of the prentices and journeyman will be ardent to see what they can find. I shall let them make their excavations, if they so desire.”

“Are you bent on this enterprise?”

“I am.”

“Then I suppose you had better do it,” the weathermage said mildly, “for I know full well I will not be able to dissuade you.”

“What harm can come of it?”

“Who knows?”

“I have no fear of any lingering spells left by the dead Sorcerer of Strang,”
said Asrathiel. “Throughout the whole of his infamous lifetime he managed to execute only two momentous deeds—the laying of the curse on the descendants of Tierney A’Connacht, and the benison of invulnerability on his own blood-heirs. Most of his other so-called spells were mere trickery.”

“He had also managed to keep himself alive far beyond the normal span of years.”

“True, yet in the end that feat brought him no reward. He was really not as powerful as he would have had people believe—even his apparently everburning flames were fueled by gas piped from underground, which eventually caused an explosion.” Before Avalloc could make reply, a movement from outside the window caught Asrathiel’s eye. “Look, Grandfather! The arms are moving!”

Within the semaphore station, signalmen had descried changes in the angles of the movable wooden limbs on a distant tower. Pulling on a couple of handles, they were sending the “message received” symbol.

Avalloc shaded his eyes against the sun. “I believe you are right, dear child. I wonder whether our sharp-eyed lads have received notification about the approach of sky-balloons. Perhaps Dristan is returning with his fleet!”