Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (47 page)

Ymberbaillé nodded a polite acknowledgement of Thorgild’s words. Yet his head drooped, and his gaze seemed pensive, as if he dwelled on some inner trouble.

Noting his companion’s downcast manner, Thorgild said, “Fear not, my venerable friend. I suspect you have not yet cast off your suspicions regarding Uabhar’s invitation. I tell you, I am convinced of his sincerity. Why should he deceive Rowan Green? The work of the weathermasters is essential to the economic welfare of all kingdoms. Your kindred are loved and respected throughout Tir. And besides, he has personally assured me that no harm will come to you. His family is to unite with mine when Kieran and Solveig are wed—what better guarantee can there be?”

“It is solely because of your
own
guarantee that we have accepted Uabhar’s invitation, Thorgild,” said Ymberbaillé. “Everyone knows your heart is as honest as oak. Had you not pledged your protection, we’d not have come on this journey.”

“Not that you’ll need protection!” Thorgild said genially. “There is no threat from Slievmordhu, other than possible ambush attacks from Marauders. Between the swords of my soldiers and your thunderbolts we would make short work of them, don’t you think?”

He laughed hugely. Buoyed by the king’s cheerfulness, the weathermage smiled.

The highway crossed a water-meadow gilded with a swaying haze of buttercups, then ascended a wooded hillside. Pied flycatchers, tree pipits and nuthatches made the woodlands ring with their eerily sweet lyricism, and through the leaves a honeyed breeze was wafting from the south. Further on
the trees dwindled, giving way to cultivated fields. High hedgerows lined the lanes, blowzy with flowers. The sky opened to immensity, strewn with unkempt clouds against which the wind carelessly tossed handfuls of flying birds. All along the way the cavalcade traveled blithely, with the sunny weather matching their mood. It was not until they had crossed the border of Slievmordhu that matters began to veer strangely slantwise.

They were traveling down a muddy lane hedged with elderberry and overarched by purple-bubbling crab apple, the approach to the village of Keeling Muir, when one of the outriders of their vanguard came galloping back to deliver news. “A troupe of knights and soldiers rides this way, led by the Red Lodge’s Commander-in-Chief, Conall Gearnach.”

Upon encountering one another the northbound cavalcade and the southbound turned off the road, so that they might meet together in a fallow field. It was there, knee-deep in a froth of lacy-headed umbelliferae, mead-owsweet, cow parsley, wild angelica, hogweed, and saxifrage, that Gearnach removed his helm and riding gloves, stowed the helm beneath his arm, bowed low to the king, the princes and the weathermasters, and respectfully conveyed a message from his sovereign.

“King Uabhar sends most veracious greetings to King Thorgild Torkilsalven and the illustrious weathermages of Rowan Green. On the site of the ruined Dome in Orielthir, not far distant from where we now stand, a summer palace is being raised. As is well known, his majesty intends this palace to be a gift for Prince Kieran and his future bride. The first part of the construction has now been completed, and it is my liege’s wish that King Thorgild and the princes of Grïmnørsland will diverge from their course and accompany me there, to view the triumphs that have been achieved so far. Prince Kieran waits in Orielthir to greet you, and Prince Ronin also. A three-day feast has been prepared in expectation of the royal visit, and I myself am to be the host.”

“Conall Gearnach,” said the King of Grïmnørsland, frowrning like a cliff, “surely you have left out some part of your message. Are the weathermasters not invited to this banquet?”

“Not according to my orders, my Liege,” the knight answered steadily, though his look was strained. “The feast for the esteemed mages awaits in the royal city, where King Uabhar looks forward to giving them a magnificent welcome.”

“This seems strange. I know you, Two-Swords,” said Thorgild. “Your demeanor betrays you. It works ill upon you to give me this message.”

“Have no fear, Majesty,” the knight replied, keeping his expression blank,
“for your companions will be safe along the road despite being without your protection. King Uabhar has sent these men of his own household guard to shield them from marauding highwaymen. He has given his word that his soldiers will see them safe to Cathair Rua.”

“Then why have I not been invited to the Red City?”

“Thorgild King, you are invited. This earlier welcoming feast for you is especially on account of the betrothal. My sovereign wishes to bestow the summer palace upon your daughter and her future husband, but you yourself have never yet seen the site. The feast will be held there, in bright pavilions on the grass, so that Princess Solveig’s esteemed father may behold the splendor of what is to belong to her. It is all intended as a pleasant surprise in your honor. The site is not far out of your way, therefore the detour will not take long, and afterwards you may rejoin the weathermasters.”

“I have given my word to accompany them to Cathair Rua,” said the king somberly. “Why has Uabhar sent you? He knows I cannot refuse you.”

“I am acting under the authority of my liege,” replied Gearnach, although a shadow crossed his face and a vein throbbed sharply at his temple. “It is not for a soldier to demand reasons.”

The weathermasters watched this exchange, hearkening in grim silence.

“Conall Gearnach, you invite his majesty to a banquet he cannot spurn,” Thorgild’s lord chancellor interjected angrily, “since he has sworn an oath never to decline your hospitality. You are a man of honor. Are you really pre-pared to do this? To place my sovereign in the position of being torn between two opposing vows?”

For one instant, Gearnach looked unwell. Then he rallied. “I obey my liege’s commands, Lord,” he said, now holding high his chin and meeting the gaze of the courtier. “Such is my bounden duty as a knight of Slievmordhu.” He seemed unflinching, proud and certain as a carved figurehead, but the chancellor noted that the knight’s fist so tightly clutched his mailed riding-gloves that the metal rings bit deeply, bruising the flesh.

Thorgild, his face flushed the color of oxblood, said, “It is a ruinous request you make of me. Conall. Will you not release me from this invitation?”

“I hold you to your pledge,” said Gearnach unfalteringly, the sweat trickling down his brow, “to turn aside, and partake of this feast with me in Orielthir.”

“Then you are a knave.” The shoulders of the king sagged. Weariness and defeat settled on them like two monstrous crows. “Very well. I cannot break my vow, knight, although I hold it against you—and your liege-lord—that you ask this of me at this time. I will go with you.”

Gearnach bowed, averting his face.

Then up spoke Galiene Maelstronnar. “Thorgild King,” she said, “would you rather forsake some revelries, or your friends from Rowan Green who have journeyed this far on your promise alone?”

“I will not betray my friends, Lady Galiene,” said Thorgild, “for I will send my best knights with you. The twenty-four of my Shield Champions who ride beside us, with brave Sir Isleif as their leader, shall guard the weathermasters. Besides, Uabhar himself has pledged safe conduct. In truth I am convinced you will be secure on the last leg of the journey.”

Gearnach’s features tightened as if he were being tortured. It was plain that his mind was in turmoil. “King Uabhar has invited your knights to Orielthir also, Sire,” he said stiffly. “He is most fervent that they attend. I beg you to reconsider and allow them to come with us to the summer palace.”

“I have spoken!” roared Thorgild. “I will not reconsider! You already have your way, knight. Now do not haggle with me like some street vendor.”

Again Gearnach bowed before the monarch. Beneath his short crop of sweat-slicked hair, his skin gleamed as pale as bone, and his aspect seemed haunted.

Sir Isleif leaned from his saddle to speak privately to Thorgild. “Be not dismayed, my Liege,” he said in an undertone. “We shall represent you in the task of guardianship and thereby will your honor be retained unblemished.”

“If I am wrathful I am also sorrowful,” the king softly replied. “I have been made foolish this day, and I will not forget it.”

As Gearnach turned away, he inadvertently cast a look of anguish at Thorgild, which went unobserved.

While the riders remounted and proceeded to take their places in the new configurations, Thorgild’s lord chancellor took aside the Commander-in-Chief of the Red Lodge. The courtier’s elegant visage was dark, his anger clearly simmering. “Conall Gearnach, I would that you had not delivered this message that has confounded the father of Halvdan and Solveig.”

“What would you have me do?” Gearnach demanded harshly. “King Uabhar insisted that I employ the power of Thorgild’s pledge to me; it was not
my
wish! Would you have me forswear my loyalty to king and country? It is not of my own desire that I came here to claim the fulfilment of your sovereign’s obligation. I am sorry for what has happened, but you shall see that no harm can come of it, for both parties shall certainly fare to banquet in security and good fellowship.” He paused, then muttered as if half-choked, “Even so it is an evil charge that has been laid upon me, one that a
man of weaker loyalty might resent. I had harbored no inkling of this separation of Thorgild from the weathermasters. Of all the outcomes of Uabhar’s command, those that grieve me most sorely are the wronging of Halvdan’s father and the probable sundering of my friendship with the prince. I can only hope that Halvdan will forgive me.”

The lord chancellor made no reply, but merely sat astride his steed, brooding. On either side of the two men, bridle and stirrup jingled as horses jostled and negotiated. Uabhar’s soldiers arranged themselves about the weathermasters and the Shield Champions, while Thorgild, with his retinue, prepared to depart eastward with Gearnach and his Knights of the Brand. At last the honorable courtier of Grïmnørsland spoke abruptly, without turning his face towards Gearnach. “Well, Two-Swords, it is an ill day’s work you have done and no mistake, but you in your turn have been caught in a cleft stick by higher powers. I shall advise Prince Halvdan the fault is not yours, for no blame can be attached to a soldier’s obedience.” With no other gesture or word he rode off.

Thorgild and Gearnach with their entourages started along a byway that branched off eastwards, in the direction of Orielthir. The Red Lodge commander led the way, galloping ahead of the rest that they might not look upon his face and read his shame.

The twenty-four knights of Grïmnørsland’s Shield Champions led the southbound procession, their turquoise tabards and peacock feather panaches in sharp contrast to the blood-dyes of Slievmordhu. Behind and beside the weathermasters rode the cavalrymen of Uabhar’s royal horse guards, in scarlet tunics, steel cuirasses and backplates, and white leather breeches. Snowy plumes nodded atop their helmets, and their red cloaks fanned out to cover the haunches of their mounts.

As they began to move off, one amongst the Councilors of Ellenhall, Galiene, murmured to her companions within earshot, “Uabhar is the one responsible for this. We should turn back. Some kind of treachery is afoot.”

But they countered, “To turn back would be to lose face. Besides, we are proficient fighters. What man can stand against us?”

They debated at length, but the majority of the weathermasters were confident in their ability to defend themselves if any threat should arise. Notwithstanding, the Storm Lord’s daughter took no comfort in their assurances, and faced the future with a heavy heart.

On gusting draught’s the clouds rush in,

There comes a prickling of the skin,

As if some turmoil doth begin,

And weathervanes on pivots spin.

The wind abandoned leaves is strewing—

A storm is brewing.

Dire darkness creep’s to veil the sky,

A flash of light explodes on high,

While thunder’s rumbles amplify,

And dogs commence to bark nearby;

They know that something is ensuing—

A storm is brewing.

A sudden raindrop smacks your face,

The wind steps up its steeplechase,

And rapidly you seek a place

To shelter from this maddened race.

Now there can be no misconstruing—

A storm is brewing.

—
A SONG FROM HIGH DARIONETH

Meanwhile Asrathiel Maelstronnar, sojourning at the old mining town of Silverton, had been aiding King Warwick’s officers and officials with their inquiries into the macabre nocturnal slayings.

Silverton lay north of the Harrowgate Fells, on a lush flat in the valley of the river Sillerway. Forests of oak and laurel, holly and maple clothed the slopes of the vale, bordering on fields of flax—blue-flowered in Spring—and rolling sheep-meadows. Falcons and kestrels, with pinions outstretched, hung suspended over the grasslands, or glided on the cool currents. Sturdily built to withstand the bitter north wind, the cottages and smithies, and the moot-hall with its clock-tower, possessed windows that were few and small, walls made of logs chinked with moss. The slate roofs, patinaed with sage-green lichen, were sharply raked to slough snow. Since the heyday of the silver-mines, the village’s population had dwindled. Abandoned cottages had fallen into disrepair, their roof-slates salvaged to repair others, the lumber of their walls used for firewood. Numerous old chimneys, however, still remained standing, like a weird forest of brick trees, their disused fireplaces now merely rectangular hollows gaping on either side of their bases. Some were inhabited by the harmless wights called dunters, whom nobody ever glimpsed, and who inexplicably made repetitive churning noises in the chimneys at nights.