The Fall of Waterstone, page 5
Liches, mostly of the lesser type—as if it mattered, for even a mere contagion-bred wight is deadly enough. The many-legged weavers of the Mistwood. Pale orukhar, and the twisted, invisibly burning trul. A snow-hag and a nathlàs, one of the Enemy’s seven great captains.
Even worse than knowing the Black Land, that fabled horror of long ago, was alive and sending forth its servants once more was the thought that somehow those terrors would, sooner or later, descend upon Dun Rithell. And what of the thickly clustered settlements to the south, or the greater lands past the Barrowhills?
“Then wise indeed are you, my lady.” Tjorin set the volume upon its shelf with a great deal of care. The swordhilt set with a gem very like Eol’s, save with a reddish cast instead of water-clear, glittered over his shoulder. “I must practice your tongue; forgive me if I speak not aright.”
“Then we may teach each other, as the princess and I have agreed.” I could barely look at him or at the bright-haired Elder woman, my attention straying repeatedly to the cases and spines. Though I had been taken as weregild and suffered in the snows of the Wild, all that could be counted little enough if I could plumb these depths. The thought that I might even have run hence willingly if I knew this place existed could not be voiced, but I do not deny it crept through my head. “Elder script, you say? Is it like our runes? I would wish to study, if time permits—”
“Those of Naras call you Lady Question, and I see the name well-chosen.” Tjorin’s smile, like Naciel’s, held no hint of arrogance or ill-will. “You will find many an answer within these stacks, and I shall help all I am able.”
“Wonderful,” Arn muttered. “Where am I to practice, if you are here for long hours? There is no room.”
“We shall move a table or two,” I offered sweetly. “As long as we replace them when you are finished. Or you may go elsewhere to find warriors to duel. It is no worse than when I am in the stillroom at home, small one.”
Naciel laughed, a sweet silver trill. “Fortunate this is, indeed. Tjorin may stay with the books as he loves to do, while your maiden-of-steel and I find more active amusements.” And though she salted the words with the Old Tongue her accent was improving, even in such a short while.
Arneior did not demur, though a shieldmaid and her charge are rarely apart save when the former judges there to be no danger in separation. Once she satisfied herself that nothing untoward lurked in the environs, she would find summat else to do, but I could not think upon that. I was too busy marveling.
The princess and Northerner guided me through a fraction of the library that morn while their hands occasionally strayed toward each other’s, fingers tangling and separating shyly. They traded lingering looks as well, perhaps when they thought Arn and I would not notice.
That was how I met Naciel Silverfoot and her husband-to-be, and the memory still makes me smile. Yet all was not well, for though he was an honored guest, Tjorin’s affection for the king’s daughter was not welcomed by Waterstone’s ruler.
Capable or Not
No mortal came to Waterstone without escort save one,
And when he arrived all marveled—all save the Watchful,
The son of Alaessia, brimful of deadly temper
For upon the newcomer his fair cousin’s gaze fell
And longing was there plainly writ…
—The Second Saga of Hrasimir’s Son
Even Elder healing takes a heavy toll upon the body. I would have given much to stay in that wondrous crystal-roofed chamber, but after assurances that I could wander thence at will I retreated, with Arn, toward the rooms given to our use. I did not think our withdrawal unwelcome; no doubt Tjorin and the princess treasured every moment spent alone, much as courting couples in Dun Rithell.
During our return journey Arneior repeated the words which had forced their way through me in Taeron Goldspear’s throneroom, imitating even the cadence since sometimes the key to a riddle lies not in what is said, but how.
“I indeed marvel that the Elder king did not order me returned to the cells.” I did not have to lean upon her arm, but a quiver ran through my leg-bones as if I were about to take the ague. “Am I to be spoken through every time I meet such rulers? I would rather not have the honor, then.”
“You did not prophesy for the princess today.” Arn’s brow wrinkled as she shortened her strides to match mine, glancing absently down a hallway opening to our left. She had not been this watchful at Dun Rithell, but the Wild will make even the tamest creature cautious, as the proverb goes, and we had been traveling long indeed.
“Why bother, when I can see how she and the Northerner look at each other?” There were no bars holding us in a confined space, nor anyone to overhear; ’twas luxurious to be walking where we willed, unwatched by Elder or grim Northern men. Had I not been in need of rest, I might have suggested we test the limits of this new freedom.
As it was, I was glad to see an archway carved with trumpet-shaped flowers, which Naciel said was the symbol of the women’s quarters. I wondered if Elder men had to risk pinches, pokes, or thumps with a spindle if they intruded, unless they were under a kinswoman’s skirts.
“Sol.” Arn halted, tapping her spear-butt upon the stone floor—not a sharp crack of irritation or to mark an utterance of portent, but a simple sound of emphasis. “We must discuss something.”
“Here?” I longed to sit down, or lean against something solid.
“I can sense no nearby ear.” Her expression was not quite grave, though her mouth was a thin line. “You?”
“None.” I did not say I doubted I was volva enough to tell. We were far from home in a hidden Elder city, surrounded by creatures of sagas and lore—allies instead of weregild since I had negotiated us free of the latter, yet still far more helpless than I liked. And the corrosive whisper of doubt in my own abilities, despite the inked bands and runes upon my wrists and forearms, was not wholly of a bleak seidhr’s making.
Idra would have made a sharp spitting sound and set me some task or another, not merely to keep me distracted from dire thoughts but also to grant me proof of at least some competence. Confidence is largely built upon victory, no matter how small, and attempting any seidhr with less than complete will is an invitation to disaster.
I was elementalist, true—able to touch all branches of weirding’s great tree, able to call open flame from the very air. I had never questioned whether there were others, since Idra only said she had not trained any and therefore must rely on lore and rede for my teaching. But if there had been only one among the Elder in all this time…
When I thought of it at home, I had always assumed there had to be others of my weirding-kind, perhaps farther south in the more thickly settled regions. After all, my teacher never showed any uncertainty, merely due consideration of how my talents might possibly differ from that of a wise one bound to a single branch.
“We may simply have exchanged a small cage for a larger one.” My shieldmaid glanced over my shoulder, alert as any hunted beast and trusting me to watch for any creeping thing behind her. “Remember Redhill? Tarit’s father was said to have passed time in this place, and was allowed to go forth for some reason. They seemed to consider such departure a signal mark of honor, and Efain remarked that we might not gain like distinction. We may not be allowed to leave.”
“Why would Aeredh bring us hence, then? If he expects me to use some Elder weapon…” It was, I must admit, somewhat of a relief to have something other than my own failures to reflect upon. “I told him the taivvanpallo almost killed me.”
“Yes, at that council you spoke well indeed. Yet you did not truly express to me how badly the thing hurt you.” Her gaze sharpened; it is no comfortable thing to face a shieldmaid’s disappointment. “And you did not tell me of that foul weirding upon you, either.”
“I did not know I was suffering it.” A paltry excuse, to be sure. “Arn…” What if I am not a true volva? What if Idra was wrong? What if…
Arneior’s task was to protect us from physical danger, no matter how dire. All else was my responsibility, whether I felt myself capable or not.
“What else have you not said?” Her knuckles were white, I realized, and her freckles glared because she had turned pale again. The stripe of blue woad upon the left side of her face, carefully applied that morning, gleamed bright. “I know you are weirdling, Solveig, but I am your shieldmaid. I cannot protect you if I do not know such things.”
What else would you have me say? “The Elder cannot mean to keep us here for long, especially if they wish us to wield something against… against their foe.” I could not bring myself to say the Black Land, or even the Enemy.
Not at that moment, with the trembling still in my limbs. A being who could hang such vast darkness upon mountain-peaks, an enemy so old and ancient, once the Allmother’s brightest and most powerful child… perhaps the Elder could fight that manner of creature, but Solveig of Dun Rithell was merely a riverside wisewoman. It was ridiculous to think my mother’s daughter, Eril’s uncanny get, Astrid and Bjorn’s serious, sharp-tongued sister, could match such a foe.
At home I was proud, and powerful. Here, I was… otherwise.
Arneior’s eyebrows rose. “Aeredh’s city is gone, he may as well tarry here. Our lives are shorter than a hound’s to them; they will not care if we spend them trammeled. Do you not long to go home?” She leaned toward me, light upon her toes as if watching a particularly interesting sparring match. “I know you wished for adventure, and knowledge. And yet, if those pale things go conquering southward…”
It was uncomfortably like hearing my own thoughts spoken aloud. “My father has the battle-madness. In any case, Dun Rithell is small. If orukhar and liches wend south they may well miss us entirely.”
“Have you dreamed of home? Of your mother, at least?” Of course, when she was proved to be taken by the Black Wingéd Ones Arneior’s own kin had been severed from her, and once the ceremony tying us together was completed my mother was the closest thing to her own she would ever know.
Gwendelint of Dun Rithell had always prized Arn as much as a child of her own body. I had never wondered before if my small one missed her own upriver steading, a place I had never visited.
“I did dream, and they were safe enough.” The consciousness of not being completely truthful was acute—I had dreamt of them before the shattering vision of our home lying in smoking ruins, yes, and the terrible contaminating seidhr upon me was almost certainly full of lies.
But any creature possessing speech may mislead with not-quite-falsehood, with omission, and with the truth itself as well. I could have been granted a vision of what would happen in the future, not an event already past.
Indeed, ’twas more than possible.
“Perhaps you should try again.” Her generous mouth turned down at the corners. “I… have been unable to dream of home, despite asking the Black-Wingéd for aid.”
Did it cost her to make such a confession? I could not tell. “They have no reason to be displeased with you, Arneior. You have done more than well, and performed mighty feats. I heard the Northerners call your spear Trul-killer, even if you have not named it yet.”
“Ah, well.” She shrugged, but her tense watchfulness did not abate. “We must explore this place, and be ready. This king Taeron does not please me, though I like his daughter well enough. And if this was indeed Aeredh’s goal, he must have some further plan as well.”
When you are ready, summon me. No matter the hour, I will appear. So Aeredh had said, and soon enough I would put it to the test. My legs were unsteady at that moment, though, and perhaps I swayed a little more than was absolutely necessary. Arneior’s hand shot out, closing about my upper arm.
“I need rest.” It irked me to admit it yet again, but what else could I do? “I cannot question him effectively at the moment, but when I can I will make certain he grants some indication of how long they mean to keep us here. And do not forget ’twas my choice to come hither, since we are allied to Naras. Eol does not seem the type to take his ease in an Elder cage for long.”
“Oh, aye. But had you chosen that Dorael-place, what is to say they would not have dragged us here anyway?” She made certain I was steady, then gently tugged me for the doorway. “They are better than those things, Sol. But they may do us ill nevertheless.”
She was right, of course. Inside the chambers given to our use there was no sense of a listening ear either—but my shieldmaid had grown cautious indeed. We gave each other many a significant glance, and her brow was troubled.
So, I suspect, was mine.
Too Often Fearless
Most hold Dorael was the fairest, for there the Cloak-Weaver of the Blessed lingered and the forest was that of Lithielle’s birth. But artful Nithraen, Galath of the willows and blue fields, Tol-Naralin the dreaming, proud Faeron-Alith, shining Laeliquaende, Gaeliquenden of the fragrant gardens, the delicacy of Isdrassil-named-Icemarn, and so many more—who can say which was most beautiful? Only that they are lost…
—Song of the Scattering
The contrast between thin bluish winter daylight and the lack of snow and ice made the whole glittering city into a dream, even the gardens. Trees which would have long shed their robes in the Wild—or upon the slopes of Tarnarya—still bore them, albeit in bright autumn finery. Many were the same kind we had seen in Nithraen and Taeron’s throneroom, but others made their home there too, from silverbark birch to wise gnarled tahami, larch to the ever-dancing shiverleaf and more.
I rarely saw Elder about the work of tending their gardens, and when I did it seemed more a contemplative activity than one with any real urgency. Even Idra had to blast a weed or two with a muttered curse in the small plot just outside her thatched cottage, but in Waterstone the line between copse and field, garden and pasture, blurred easily. Things simply seemed to know where to grow, and how. Perhaps it was the constant singing seidhr drenching the air.
Though at any given moment I would have much rather been in what Naciel called the smaller library, Arn was restless. The discomfort between us was new, and deeply unwelcome. So, the day after being shown a treasure-trove of knowledge, I forewent the pleasure of pillage. Instead, I settled upon a stone bench amid a bank of rustling bluegreen grasses with white feather-heads, listening to a stone fountain half-buried among waving tufts, and watched my shieldmaid use a wide flagstone space for her daily spear-swinging.
Closing my eyes, listening to the faint afternoon breeze, I sought some measure of peace. I did not need my great green mantle, though the wind was cool. The heartsblood wool of my second-best dress sufficed, and I had taken much care with my braids that morn, every scrap of red coral placed at appropriate junctures. My grandmother’s silver bee-end torc rested lightly against my collarbones—women armor ourselves just as warriors do, though in skirts and bright accoutrement—and I laid my hands in my lap, palm-up.
Summon me, Aeredh had said. I will answer.
Well enough. Yet the soft, lying voice of the Marukhennor’s gloom still lingered in my head. I had not dreamt; my sleep was as thick and dark as rivermud, and my bones still remembered the killing cold outside Laeliquaende’s mountain-girdle.
What vast weirding kept winter itself at bay? Would I ever unravel it? What need did the Elder have of any mortal when they could perform such a wonder?
Enough, Solveig. You have chewed that question until it is dry. Find a better one.
Arn’s faint huffs of effort when a spear-strike would meet the flesh of an enemy, the scuff of her boots—sounds so familiar they were almost unheard, like the sough of my own breath. I shut them away.
The soft breeze teasing plumed grass, whispering through branches bearing painted leaves, brushing against stone buildings before it escaped the city to play in the fields beyond; I also shut that away, and it left without trouble, a polite guest aware of welcome overstayed.
It was harder to ignore the fountain’s soothing, everchanging chimes. And yet more difficult was the music of Elder voices, a great tapestry of song rippling as the breeze shifted, rising and falling like the breath of some vast clean-limbed animal.
Yet it faded, and I was left with my own heartbeat. Idra’s training was thorough, and some might say harsh. Discipline, even tempered by love, can be uncomfortable. She ever had little patience with my lack of confidence.
First you were too prideful by half, now you behave as a shamed thrall. Who among them wears the bands you do, Gwendelint’s daughter? You earned them, else I would not have forced the ink under your skin myself.
Was it her voice, or merely what I wish she could tell me? Idra was gone, and though the dead might speak during times of great need and a volva knows how to provoke such an event, it is never wise to disturb an ancestor’s rest.
I did not think it likely my teacher had gone to the halls of Odynn’s feasting, nor to the sybaritic pleasures of Fryja’s innermost halls. Perhaps she would find one of Hel’s mist-shrouded lands more restful, for it was on days the clouds came to earth and the river breathed moisture upward that Idra seemed most content, though the damp oft made her bones ache until her last student could ameliorate the discomfort with a wire of vital warmth run into the marrow.
Brooding upon that was a distraction, and hardest of all to put aside.
My heartbeat slowed. My hands tingled, palms warm as if full of summer sunshine. I thought of Aeredh.
At first he had appeared a youth in Northern black, blue-eyed and smiling as if he knew a delightful secret jest. Singing softly upon the mist-shrouded Elder roads, lifting his cup to Lady Hajithe of the Eastronmost, patient and of good cheer no matter what the weather brought—I had been somewhat proud of myself for noticing he was Elder, though it had been Arn whose vision pierced deeper, uncovering the secret of Naras.
