Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (23 page)

The evening after the departure of the primoris’s emissary, Queen Saibh was seated in the royal family’s dining room. She was embroidering a cambric pillowcase for her husband while waiting for him to arrive so that dinner might be served. The room was gorgeously decorated; rosewood paneling lined the walls, glistening with dark polish. So delicate were the queen’s features that they resembled a shell cameo sculpted against the background of carved furniture, tapestry hangings and heavy draperies of red velvet.

A nightingale huddled in a gilded cage suspended from a hook, perhaps dreaming of freedom in leafy woodlands he had never known. Upon a long couch near the fireplace lay the old queen, the mother of Uabhar, clothed all in black. At the age of seventy-five she was completely insane, and stared vacantly at the flames bouncing in the hearth.

Recently Uabhar had ordered new weapons and a shield struck for his personal use, and these were displayed prominently on the end wall, in pride of place. No expense or effort had been spared in the forging of the arms. “Behold the symbols of the power of Slievmordhu,” Uabhar had told his sons upon exhibiting them for the first time. “They are the best in Tir, the finest ever made. You shall learn their names.” Holding them up one by one, he pronounced, “My shield, Ocean; my knife, Victorious; my spear Slaughter, and my sword Gorm Glas, the blue-green.” His sons had hearkened respectfully to their father’s words, as they had been taught all their lives.

The four princes of Slievmordhu, having recently returned from their
travels, gathered for the evening meal. First came Kieran, the eldest, crown prince. His thicket of dark brown hair, unkempt and straggling past his shoulders, was worn loose; only the tresses at the front had been caught up and tied in a knot at the back of his head to keep them out of the way. Ronin—second in birth order—was also the second to appear. After Ronin, Cormac entered, and after Cormac the youngest, Fergus. After entering the dining room they greeted their mother, kneeling before her and kissing her hand. They went next to their wizened, bejeweled grandmother and made their obeisance to her, although she had no idea who they were or what they were doing.

In the dining room, the family waiting for King Uabhar conversed in subdued tones. Kieran, Ronin and Cormac stood apart from their mother and younger brother. Their discussion centered around their country’s penal system and taxation laws. To question these policies at all implied criticism of their father, so the princes kept an eye on young Fergus, for if he overhead such a conference he would trumpet the news to Uabhar without a qualm, and it was their ardent wish to avoid their father’s disapproval.

“Increased levies and harsh penalties are essential if this realm is ever to be free of raiders and felons,” Cormac argued in support of his father’s government. “Mercenaries must be hired to guard the villages. Would-be seditionists must be discouraged. You
know
this.”

“Yet the common people are hard put to feed their children,” murmured Ronin, “without added tax burdens. And as for our harsh sentences—for convicted men to be flayed alive, why, only the most baneful of unseelie wights would mete out such a punishment!”

“I comprehend your arguments, Ronin,” said Kieran said, “for I too have wrestled with uncertainty.”

“Fie upon your doubts!” Cormac admonished. “Think on the Day of Heroes speech. There you will find strength!” Their father had made them learn the speech by rote.

“It is the exhortations of that speech that have troubled me most,” answered Kieran, “for I have always struggled with the idea that ‘obedience is an expression of heroic character when following the order leads to personal disadvantage or seems even to contradict one’s personal convictions.’ ”

“Sometimes I, too, find it hard to accept,” said Ronin.

“Our father would not make these edicts, were it not fitting and appropriate,” Cormac said reproachfully. “I, for one, cannot wonder at them. No loyal son could.”

“I wish I still owned the faith that was mine as a lad,” Ronin said, “for it is a sore trial to me, this new sense of uncertainty.”

Kieran nodded. “For one’s head and one’s heart to be at war—it is like some sickness. I shall strive to be more worthy.”

Cormac chided, “He is our sovereign and sire. It is our duty to support him without question.”

“You are right,” said Ronin, shaking his head as if trying to rid his mind of the detritus of folly. “Of course you are right. Our father is king among kings; his leadership is an example to us all. And yet—”

When her husband suddenly strode through the open door Saibh jumped, unintentionally pricking her finger with her sewing needle. She suppressed a gasp, and was soon seen to be smiling as she welcomed Uabhar. Seating themselves around the table, the royal family took their meal; venison soup, roast kid, baked heron with ginger mustard sauce, capons dressed with a green garlic seasoning, veal in pepper gravy, rabbit in wine with almond milk sauce, and currant custard tarts. The old queen’s personal handmaidens served their mistress with a variety of dishes as she reclined on her couch, but as usual she took only a pinch here, a peck there.

“I trust, sir,” Kieran said courteously to his father, “that the meetings with King Chohrab proved to be both pleasant and fruitful?”

“Chohrab is a sly fellow,” said Uabhar, heaving a sigh. “Sadly, I am beginning to suspect him of belligerence. Lord Ádh knows, I am fond of my fellow monarchs despite the games they play, for I overlook faults in others, being as I am of a generous nature.”

“King Thorgild, at least, seems honest and upright,” said Ronin. “He is loud in his praise of you, sir.”

“Indeed and I think highly of Grïmnørsland in return,” said Uabhar, “as demonstrated by my promotion of your brother’s connection with Thorgild’s daughter. Nevertheless, Ronin, recall that you are yet youthful and have much to learn. When you are older, you will come to penetrate the subtle arts of deception practiced by most men who wield power. Rare indeed is the man of royal blood who adheres to high principles. My own family is among the virtuous exceptions.”

“Halvdan Torkilsalven is a man of high principles,” stated Ronin, almost, but not quite, challenging his father’s words.

“Of course!” the king replied lightly. A sunny smile played around his lips. “By all accounts Halvdan is a good son who honors his sire, and that is most commendable of him indeed. A man shall be judged on his loyalty to
his country and to his father. Yet I daresay there is no family in Tir as fair and upright as my own. I have taught the principles of filial duty to all of you. You have been raised to be as straightforward as I am myself.”

“Always we strive to be our best for you, sir,” said Kieran, sincerely.

“Excellent!” Uabhar beamed. “Solidarity is an ever more precious commodity nowadays. These are vexing times, what with squabbles amongst the druids, and the Marauders escalating their raids. We are forced to raise taxes and as a result some of our more shortsighted and ungrateful subjects wax restless, but what can I do? We must collect revenue to pay the mercenaries.”

“Perhaps you might arm the villagers themselves,” Queen Saibh ventured timidly.

Uabhar rounded on his wife. “What? Give them weapons and encourage them to start a rebellion next time they take it into their heads to dislike some tax or other? By the bones of Míchinniúint, woman!” The king laughed immoderately. Winking at his sons, he said to them, “ ‘Tis little wonder the Fates decree that women must stay by the hearth and eschew the council table. Why, these ladies, they would bring the kingdom to ruin!”

Saibh colored, and stared into her goblet. Of the rest of the family only the youngest, thoughtless Fergus, joined in the king’s laughter. Kieran smiled diffidently, avoiding his mother’s gaze, while Ronin and Cormac frowned.

“Mother,” Ronin murmured, “would you like me to help you to another slice of the fowl? I think it is your favourite.”

The queen declined his offer with a wave of her hand and a grateful smile for his kindness.

Tucking into his meal with gusto, the king forked a gobbet of flesh into his mouth. As he chewed he said loudly, “I suppose you have all heard the claims by the weathermasters that the site of the ruined Dome of Strang belongs to them?”

“That we have, sir,” said Kieran, spooning gravy over a capon. “The claims have been made public, in accordance with the law.”

“Yet my men of law would assert,” said Uabhar, still masticating, “that the site is the property of the Crown. When the sorcerer died, no trace could be found of his heir within seven days. Generally, such assets automatically became possessions of the state.”

Kieran replied, “If the Crown does not deny the claim and fails to assert its own right, then after ninety days the weathermasters’ claim will be validated.
Ownership of the site will pass to the granddaughter of the Maelstronnar, she who is the scion of the sorcerer.”

“Hmm,” mumbled the king. He swallowed his mouthful and swigged a draught from his goblet. “Unless, of course, the late sorcerer could be proven to ever have plotted against the Crown. Perforce, one of the penalties for treason is forfeiture of all property, with no rights passing to the heirs.” After sprinkling a pinch of salt over his meat, he continued, “When first it came to light that the weathermasters were making these demands, Mac Brádaigh urged me to assert the Crown’s rights and dispute the claim. Yet I desisted. ‘Let the weathermasters have the land,’ I said. Mac Brádaigh believes I am overly magnanimous.”

“Verily, you are generous, Father,” said Fergus.

“Liberality is as much a part of my nature as candor.”

“But what value has the land, sir?” Ronin asked. “Every grain of soil has been sifted in the search for treasure.”

“As a matter of fact, it is fine country for grazing.”

“Yet the ruins cover a large area, and only weeds grow, and no laborers can be found who dare to remove the stones.”

“Still, it is prime land. But as Fergus asserts, I am generous. Let the weathermasters have it, and much good may it do them!” said the king, his cheeks swollen with food. He appeared to be remarkably convivial that evening.

After the family had concluded their repast and removed themselves into the adjoining parlor, Uabhar, whose particularly buoyant spirits continued unabated, called for a minstrel.

“Let us have melody,” he cried jovially. “I will hear one of my favourites. Strummer, play that jolly ditty my boys were taught in their nursery days. You know the one I mean—the song of filial loyalty. It has a tune fit to set one’s toes tapping.”

Bowing low, the musician let his fingers pluck the strings of his gittern. In his finely controlled tenor voice he sang:

“There is virtue in allegiance to one’s comrades,

And love’s loyalty, all honest folk admire.

But of all the deeds that show if he is worthy,

A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.

 

The obedience of sons decrees their value,

And throughout their lives it never must expire.

Those who strive against their patriarch are abject.

A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.

 

All good sons, show gratitude for your begetting—

Never question, quarrel, argue or inquire.

For your father’s word is law. You must defend it!

A man’s honor lies in duty to his sire.”

Across the chamber the king’s mother, upon her couch, began clapping her hands raucously. Accustomed to her inappropriate outbursts, most of the family ignored the racket. Handmaidens twittered nervously around their mistress.

“Keep her quiet,” the king said over his shoulder.

Abruptly the dowager cackled, “Is that rain I hear? What will the weather will be like next War’s Day? What will it be like, eh? Will someone tell me that?”

“I told you to keep her quiet,” the king said in a louder voice.

Immediately, Queen Saibh rose to her feet and glided to where the old queen lay. “Be at peace, Majesty,” she said. “We shall find out the forecast for you. Tomorrow morning we shall receive a semaphore message from High Darioneth.”

“Semaphore? What is that?” quacked the black-clad queen, but already she had forgotten what she was asking. “Oh Luchóg, where is Luchóg? Will he not play for me?”

“Get her out,” said her son. “Allot my deaf lackeys to wait on her, those I keep to serve me when I am discussing state secrets. Ha ha, that way no one will be driven mad by her clacking!”

Saibh had no intention of sentencing the old woman to such a fate. “Come, Majesty, it is time for you to retire to your bedchamber,” she said, and she stood by the old woman murmuring soothing words as the maidservants helped her into her litter and four footmen carried her away.

The urisk is a useful wight

Who diligently works all night,

And has a meager appetite.

(He never eats more than a bite.)

With stubby horns and shaggy legs

He sweeps the floors, empties the dregs,

Then scrubs the dishes till they’re bright

And tidies everything in sight,

In shabby clothes, al l threads and rags,

His goat-hooves clicking on the flags.

Sometimes he’ll be the farmer’s friend—

He’ll plough the fields from end to end,

Then sow the seed and reap the corn—

He never stops from dusk till dawn!

A solitary wight, he’s fond

Of sitting, brooding, by a pond,

Yet, craving human company,

He does not mind the drudgery.

The urisk lends a helping hand;

A boon to housewives through the land.

—“
THE URISK,” A CHILDREN’S RHYME