Fallowblade (61 page)

Asr
ă
thiel whispered, ‘Should I be unable to help him, what will happen?’

‘The
Skagnyaile
will have its way. If my lord has ever deliberately slain a helpless creature, he will perish for certain, and there will be no saving him.’

The damsel stared at the comely warriors without seeing them. In other circumstances it would have been moving to see the Argenkindë, who had never bowed to fear, nor been moved by calls to virtue according to human codes of ethics, nor quailed at any deed, nor flinched at the prospect of brutality, now humbled by this stark reminder of the only scythe that could cut them down, whose edge had touched the one they loved best. ‘Well then, there is an end to it,’ she said, ‘for of course he has done so.’

‘I think not,’ said Zaillian. ‘To cut down someone helpless would be beneath his dignity. Our sovereign was too proud to slay a child or an unarmed opponent, or a man whose back was turned. He has only ever killed in combat—partly out of pride, and partly because he enjoyed the thrill of uncertainty. He delighted in the excitement of being matched against an adversary who could fight back. Nevertheless, I cannot be sure what will happen. Only the cursed werefire knows what his doom will be—ash or life. But even if by great fortune he lives, the fire will have changed him utterly. He cannot again be as we have known him.’

‘If his doom is to be withered to ashes, how long will it take?’

‘We can only surmise. He would surely be gone by the first moon of Averil.’

‘Why did he do it?’ Asr
ă
thiel cried passionately. ‘Why did he risk himself?’

‘I daresay,’ Zwist replied calmly, ‘he took the chance because of your love for Wyverstone. Most of my comrades blame you for the downfall of our lord, but we who dared to enter the light to bring him back feel differently.’ He hesitated, then muttered with a tinge of regret, ‘I suspect the cursed flames have somewhat altered the degree of our ability to deal in death.’

His words were wasted, for the damsel was hardly listening. As she knelt beside her fading lover, she thought her heart had been torn out by the roots. She possessed limited knowledge of the arts of healing, but no understanding at all of how to restore health to eldritch beings. There was nothing she could do.

It was as if she had played out this drama before.

Her gaze traced the soft, dark weeping of Zaravaz’s hair. He lay supine, impossibly beautiful, unmarred by scorch or flame, on a carven bier in the fairest of all halls of Sølvetårn, looking as if untouched by harm in any form.

Just like Jewel.

Asr
ă
thiel’s mother slept the slumber of wakelessness, surrounded by roses. The goblin king slept the slumber of the dying, surrounded by silver and jewels, and grieving knights black-cloaked, with arms folded and heads bowed, rank on rank.

The current of gramarye that usually played about Zaravaz, tweaking his hair and garments, was absent. He looked as vulnerable as a sleeping child. The damsel had never imagined she would see him this way, so
defenceless
, adrift on the mere of the deepest possible sleep, on a voyage bound for eternity. He had been imbued with vigour, the essence of liveliness and energy and quick spirits. Beholding him in the grip of lasting torpor made her feel as if all light and gaiety had been stolen from the universe.

‘And in millennia of millennia,’ she murmured, ‘when the sun has exploded and this world is naught but a ball of seared stone, what shall we be then? Shall we be changeless motes suspended forever in frozen darkness?’

Those were Crowthistle’s words. They had branded themselves into Asr
ă
thiel’s memory. At this instant, so distressed was she that she wished only for the last second of time to flicker out.

The spirit of Zaravaz seemed to have drifted far away on some dim flood, out of reach, but Asr
ă
thiel remained at his side, whispering to him. She caressed his brow and ran her fingertips through his calamitous hair, entreating him to turn back the boat in which his spirit voyaged, but he never moved, not so much as an eyelash.

Once, she fancied she detected a long slow rhythm of breathing, which made her recall something else Zaravaz had told her. He had described how, as the urisk Crowthistle at her mother’s graveside, he had sensed the protracted heartbeat that proved Jewel survived. The recollection prompted Asr
ă
thiel to put forth all her brí-senses and for a while she believed she could hear the faint pulse of his life, fading, fading . . .

For a long time she spoke to the goblin king and called his name. He did not respond. It was scarcely conceivable that he could hear her, but she refused to leave his side, talking and singing softly until, worn out and drained, she fell into a trancelike state, part dozing, part dreaming.

Some while later a hand gripped Asr
ă
thiel’s shoulder and shook her to alertness. The sun had set long since, and the butterfly flames of a thousand candles illuminated the circular room. Like a wood of sombre trees the assembled Argenkindë remained standing in their places, watching over their king.

Some of them, however, had grown restless, and intolerant of the human presence.

‘You must go,’ said Lieutenant Zangezur.

‘I will not,’ the damsel answered.

‘If you cannot heal him you are useless to us,’ said one of Zangezur’s comrades. ‘We do not want you here. You belong with otherkind, may their hands be torn and their minds go up in smoke!’

‘This disaster is your fault, human bitch,’ another chimed in.

‘And for that fault,’ Zauberin said in gravely tones, ‘you should be punished. We ought to hang you in chains from the highest peak, alongside the king and the druid, only you would never perish but remain there forever, battered by the winds, until your clothes grew threadbare and dropped in rags from your body; and still you would hang there, while the hair on your head grew down past your feet, and still you would languish Winter and Summer, through snow and rain, staring at sun and stars and moon, and they staring back at you.’

‘Let her be,’ said Zwist, stepping between Asr
ă
thiel and her harassers. Extending a hand, he helped the damsel to her feet. ‘Can you do nothing to save him?’ he beseeched, gazing searchingly into her face.

She shook her head dumbly, overcome by sorrow.

The knight sighed. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘it would be better for you if you were to depart. I cannot guarantee your safety here indefinitely. Besides, your companions await you. Your William lives, after all.’

‘William?’ Asr
ă
thiel looked up. To her shame, she realised that since she set eyes on Zaravaz she had not spared a thought for the prince.

‘Even so. He and his retinue are still close by, though their number is gravely depleted. We set upon them as they emerged from the cave of the flames, and slew many. We would have destroyed them all, but that our lord’s rescue of Wyverstone would have been wasted.’

‘You are hateful death-dealers!’

‘Go to the survivors now, then return to your home. There is naught left for you here, save for peril and ill will.’

‘No. I wish to stay with
him
until the end.’

‘Lady Sioctíne, if you stay your enemies will strive to make good their promise to torment you. Those of us who were burned by the light will strive to prevent them, but it will lead to nothing but anger and strife. The blame for that will be upon you.’

‘By all the powers of the Uile,’ said Asr
ă
thiel despairingly, ‘if immortal human beings could weep tears of water, or even blood, sir, I would do so in this bitter hour.’ She hesitated, sighed and then said, ‘As you say, there is naught left to me. You give me no choice. I will go hence, and leave the cruel Argenkindë to their lamenting—may you all suffer intensely, as you deserve—but the anguish that I carry with me is more than the sorrow of all your brethren combined. From this time forth I will find no happiness in the world, for I love your lord with a passion beyond comprehension.’

‘It is you who have slain him,’ accused Zauberin. ‘You and your folly.’

Disregarding her persecutor Asr
ă
thiel turned her shoulder to him. Addressing Zwist she said, ‘It is in my nature to hope. I beg of you, if your lord survives, send me some sign. I will wait until the first moon in Averil.’

‘You are foolish to hope,’ said Zwist. ‘Who could be more wicked than he? The werefire will work its doom on him for sure.’

‘But a sign! I must have a sign!’

‘Very well. It is easy to make a promise that will require no action. If he lives I will send you a sign.’

‘Beware of turning your back on me, mistress,’ Zauberin said sharply, and Asr
ă
thiel whirled to face him. ‘May your days be fraught with woe,’ said the unseelie lieutenant. ‘Look upon the King of the Argenkindë for the last time, Bane of Zaravaz. We will forsake Sølvetårn, bearing him with us, and you will never see him again.’

Asr
ă
thiel shot a glance of scorn and sadness at Zauberin. ‘You have your wish,’ she said.

Just before she departed she leaned over Zaravaz to kiss him goodbye. Strands of her hair slipped from their jewellery clasps and fell forward, pouring around his face, as his black tresses had showered around hers during their hours of love together.

It was then that a marvel occurred. A tremendous sob shook the damsel’s frame and, impossibly, she wept. Three glistening tears, conceivably bequeathed by her mortal mother, dropped from her blue eyes. The first tear fell on the mouth of Zaravaz, trickling between his lips. The second alighted on his left lid and the third on the right. But before Asr
ă
thiel had a chance to let her lips brush his, Zauberin’s cohorts seized her by the shoulders and roughly hustled her away, expelling her from the chamber of vigil.

In a smudge of speed the weathermage was escorted through the paths of Sølvetårn, and cast forth, and abandoned. She found herself in the open air, on a wide apron of stone amongst a jumbled scattering of boulders. A sheer rock face towered above. Near at hand the narrow mouth of a cave opened into the hillside. Strong gusts of wind buffeted a cluster of carts, a sky-balloon that wrenched at its moorings, some broken and empty baskets that had been used to transport carrier pigeons—and the people who came hurrying to greet her.

Behind the mountains, clouds went up like red fumes and a golden-spoked wheel began to dazzle. The sun was rising.

Besides Aonarán and William, only two men of the expedition had survived the ire of the goblin knights. The crown prince was dressed in a white linen shirt and a plain tunic and trousers, looking as if no ill had befallen him—as if he had never been touched by fire in any form. He strode up and greeted the damsel with delight, embracing her gently. His words were few but his gaze lingered upon her, and he smiled often. She stared at him in wonderment, keenly aware that he had been fully immersed and burned within the legendary flames, yet, through his innocence, had lived. It was difficult to know what to say to him.

Lathallan, too, looked well, though he seemed to have become almost as taciturn as his lord. His hands and face had taken no scar from being touched by the werefire, though had he plunged right in, like his lord, his fate might have been different. In contrast to William and the knight-commander, the immortal Fionnbar Aonarán was greatly transformed. Not even the Aingealfyre could kill him, but his flesh, which had been charred and ulcerated, was now whole. Smooth and unblemished was his skin, and his fingers no longer resembled talons, but healthy human digits. In all ways the erstwhile monster appeared ordinary, save that not a hair sprouted from his head, nor from his lids, nor anywhere on his person, and nobody could persuade him to utter so much as a single word.

Haggard and deeply agitated, Sir Torold Tetbury cried, ‘Lady Asr
ă
thiel, I am overjoyed to see you. One of those unseelie scoundrels bade us wait here for you, and Fates be praised, you have arrived. Let us depart forthwith.’

So they left the Northern Ramparts. William, Lathallan and Sir Torold travelled in the aerostat with Asr
ă
thiel, which could accommodate no more than four passengers, while the prentices accompanied Aonarán down the winding tracks on foot. The weathermage left them with a promise that she would return for them.

As the airship glided through the clouds on the way back to King’s Winterbourne there was much discussion between Sir Torold and the weathermage, punctuated by a few quiet comments from Lathallan. Tetbury told how, after the events at the Inglefire, the Argenkindë set upon the adventurers in fury to take revenge for the burning of Zaravaz. The Narngalishmen fought for their lives, but the goblins overwhelmed them. Only, the unseelie knights would not touch William, nor would they approach Aonarán, and it was not until the fight was over that the bloodstained survivors realised this immunity extended to those who had in some part been immersed in the werefire—Lathallan, who had put his hands in, and Sir Torold Tetbury, who had also touched the flames. Evidently the unseelie warriors were held at bay by some quality these brave men had acquired.

In spite of this, Zauberin’s coterie might have made a second onslaught, but Zwist and his comrades had shielded the survivors from their wrath. ‘Most certainly the ill-wishers would have tried to slaughter us all,’ said Sir Torold, ‘except that others intervened. A number of our benefactors guided us swiftly out of the underworld to the spot where you met us. To them, we owe our lives. Who would have guessed that any of the horde still loitered in the mountains? Ah, but it is fortunate you came seeking us last night, Lady Asr
ă
thiel. We must escort William to King’s Winterbourne as soon as possible. Already the king has been apprised of what has happened, for we sent word by pigeon post.’