Fallowblade (66 page)

S
o it happened that as the returning sun warmed the Four Kingdoms of Tir and Spring embellished the countryside with a froth of gleaming blossom, there began a season of unparalleled joy at the House of Stormbringer.

Avalloc was ecstatic, now that his heir had returned and his daughter-in-law had been restored. He called for the election of a new Storm Lord, and began preparing to resign from his office. ‘I have captained the Council of Ellenhall for long enough,’ he said. ‘Since the betrayal and slaughter of my dear kindred, my heart is no longer in the task. It is time for a new leader to take over.’

Albiona and Dristan could not be more delighted at Arran’s homecoming and Jewel’s recovery. Their children Cavalon and Corisande were likewise elated, and even the household brownie seemed more cheerful on the rare occasions it was glimpsed. Possibly it enjoyed the congenial and unthreatening company of Fridayweed, Arran’s impet.

As for Asr
ă
thiel, she was wildly happy, yet her heart was heavily burdened. Somehow, between two opposite poles of emotion, she existed. Back in the loving arms of her family she dwelled almost in a state of satisfaction, but when the north wind blew she became restless and discontented, as of old. Hardest of all to bear were the haunting memories. Her heart ached for her eldritch lover. Daily life insulated her from the shock and pain of losing him as wrappings of silk stuff and thistledown might muffle a stone. The anguish could be temporarily ignored, but it was always present, cold and hard and remorseless, at the centre of all. And she knew that eventually, when Averil’s first moon rose, if there came no sign, no message from Zwist, then Zaravaz would have succumbed to the burning. She would never see him again.

Jewel’s health was delicate after her long sleep. She was weak and easily exhausted, lacking appetite and vigour. At length, when she had recovered—much quicker than the carlin had expected—the reunited family assembled in the dining hall one evening, for a celebratory meal.

Tall vases stood about the room against the walnut panelled walls, overflowing with the sumptuous blooms of late Spring. A clear, bright blaze danced on the hearth, its flames like a flurry of spun-sugar Autumn leaves. Firelight glinted off diamond windowpanes, brass candlesticks and silver tableware, polished oaken settles. Over the mantelpiece Fallowblade rested in its decorative scabbard like any ordinary sword, giving no hint of its strange history, its marvellous qualities. Avalloc sat at the head of the table surveying, with great satisfaction, the shining faces around him; his sons with their wives, his three grandchildren, and his two venerable house guests Clementer and Agnellus. The diners laughed and conversed, exclaiming over each new dish as it was brought to the table, drinking deeply of the cellar’s best wines and generally making the rafters ring with the sound of their happiness—except, perhaps, for Asr
ă
thiel, who—the Storm Lord had noted—still seemed more subdued than of yore, as if she were haunted by some sort of indefinable shadow ever since her imprisonment under Silver Mountain.

During Jewel’s convalescence the family had taken care not to pester her with questions, plying her instead with delicacies to tempt her and joining her for measured strolls in the garden, all the while making light-hearted small-talk and attempting to shield her from the worst impact of the events that had transpired while she slumbered. Patients who were burdened with oppressive sorrow took longer to recover, it was common knowledge. Though the family could not—would not—conceal the massacre of the weathermasters, or the war that had ravaged the four kingdoms, they had painted as palatable a picture as possible. Their efforts had been fruitful. Jewel had grown to become the very picture of robustness. No one had any more qualms about quizzing her as to what—if anything—she recalled about the period when she slept. She remembered, nonetheless, very little—no more than some vague though not unpleasant dreams.

Now it was Jewel’s turn to probe for answers. Late that night after the banquet was over and the sounds of rattling crockery issued from the scullery, indicating that the zealous brownie was already at work, the human members of the household were preparing for sleep. Jewel entered Asr
ă
thiel’s bedchamber carrying a lighted lamp, which she placed on the dressing table. Asr
ă
thiel was seated in front of the looking-glass, gazing at her image in the mirror, lost in thought. She had been removing the jewelled pins from her hair but had lapsed into this reverie, her coiffure still half completed. Jewel commenced to untangle the last strands and pluck the remaining fastenings from the storm cloud of tresses showering down her daughter’s back. Asr
ă
thiel smiled at her mother’s reflection in the mirror, recalling the numerous times Jewel had performed this loving service for her throughout her childhood.

‘What is ailing you,
a mhuirnín
?’ Jewel murmured presently, as her fingers combed searchingly through the soft skeins of hair. ‘You seem lost in daydreams these days. Has the North Wind, your new namesake, stolen your peace of mind?’ This was closer to the truth than Asr
ă
thiel dared to admit. Your father and I are worried,’ Jewel went on, ‘because you are not as happy as you used to be. There seems to be a deep melancholy behind your contentment which, I deem, you have been at pains to mask. Perhaps you are deeply troubled by the suffering you witnessed during the wars. Or are you unable to shake off the memories of your ordeal under the mountain? Or both?’

Asr
ă
thiel did not try to dissemble. Jewel knew her as only a parent could. ‘You are right,’ the damsel said with reluctance, ‘I am assailed by some shadow—sorrow, longing, regret, call it what you will. I do not even have a name for it. But Mother, I beg you and Father to refrain from pressing me for the cause, as I feel that to reveal it would be inappropriate, and besides, I’ll warrant that the passage of time will eventually heal the wound and I will be merry again soon enough.’

With tactful understanding Jewel respected her daughter’s wishes and did not pursue her inquiries, but Asr
ă
thiel could tell that her mother suspected she was suffering from a broken heart as a consequence of a tragic love affair. Perhaps her parents conjectured that she had fallen for some lord in King’s Winterbourne or some captain in the Grïmnørsland army, and that a quarrel had severed the union.

Had they learned who was the real focus of her heartbreak, they would, Asr
ă
thiel thought, have been shocked, disbelieving and outraged. She had renamed herself ‘North Wind’ in memory of a lost loved one. Her parents could not know that now she wore the appellation for the sake of another.

She could not stop thinking about Zaravaz, and whenever she found herself alone she dwelled on him exclusively. Would he live or fade? If he faded, could she bear it? If he
lived
, could she bear it? Would the highs and lows of passion be scorched from him, as had happened to William? Would he be transformed into a silent dreamer like Aonarán? Or would he be no more than an empty, mindless shell—walking and breathing, but with all character burned out of him?

Unanswerable questions were driving her to distraction. Had the Argenkindë already departed from Sølvetårn, bearing their king with them, or did they tarry still, awaiting the outcome of his silent battle with eternity?

The first moon of Averil came and went, but no sign attended it.

Asr
ă
thiel wanted to be certain there was no misunderstanding, as had occurred last time the goblins had linked their plans with the moon’s fickle drift through the heavens; therefore at nights she waited in the kitchen for the household brownie, and when the furtive creature appeared she calmly greeted him, asking him if there was any news from any other eldritch wights concerning the Silver Goblins. The brownie had heard nothing. Every night for weeks, the damsel waited in the dark, and put her enquiry. At last, one night, the brownie told her that he had spoken with some passing trows. The wights stated unequivocally that the Argenkindë had abandoned their fastness and gone forth into the northern wastes. The goblins had gone. There was no mistake.

It was all over.

That night the damsel could not sleep. At dawn some strange birds down on the plateau uttered calls like cries of terrible despair, as if bewailing the horrors inflicted by man upon all other living creatures, heart-rending cries of anguish and despair and piercing sorrow.

Now that all hope was gone it seemed to Asr
ă
thiel that the very light of the sun had paled from yellow-gold to dishwater, and the songs of birds were but a faint and scratchy echo of their old melodies. Days seemed long and dreary; so dreary that it seemed difficult to rise from bed in the mornings. Even the colours of the world had faded; the vibrant greens of Summer foliage had greyed to celadon, the intense white of snow on the highest summits dimmed and lost their lustre; the blue periwinkles in rocky crevices beside the streams were nothing but blotches of corroded ink. It was as if a kind of dirty miasma veiled everything. She told herself, desperately,
I must not succumb to this mad misery! I have everything I have ever longed for, now that my parents are both at my side. If I succumb to this despondency I will be failing my family!

The damsel tried to find peace in the beauty of her mountain home, and in the pleasant childhood memories triggered by every tree and pool, every house and face. Sometimes, at the end of a joyful day spent in the company of her family, she would make her way to some high place, where she could watch the sun go down over the western ranges, casting its peach-coloured luminescence across orchards and fields. Far below her feet, the immense wooded plateau stretched for miles, encircled by saw-toothed mountain peaks. The fading light would catch the glimmer of a lake, or a shred of smoke rising from the chimney of a distant cottage.

Other times she might descend the steep cliff path from Rowan Green and walk along the cart tracks of the plateau, through groves of budding walnut and chestnut trees, along leafy lanes and byways that crossed brawling streams.

Her mountain home was beautiful, there was no doubting it, but for all its beauty it could not content her any longer. Her spirit soared beyond the storths, beyond the snowy roofs of Sølvetårn’s silver halls, into infinity, especially when the north wind came wailing its song of ice.

The amazing news of Jewel’s reawakening spread throughout the four kingdoms. It reached the ears of certain men in the employ of the Duke of Bucks Horn Oak: Tsafrir, Yaadosh, Michaiah and Nasim, now more than sixty winters old. Under the command of their lord they had been helping in the fight to defend Narngalis. Now, with his blessing, they travelled to High Darioneth to pay their respects to the Storm Lord’s daughter-in-law, the child of their old friend Jarred. The household of Maelstronnar made these grizzled, honest men most welcome. Mingling with them and listening to their stories of her father set Jewel to pondering about her old home in the Great Marsh of Slievmordhu. She and Arran decided to revisit places in Tir they had known, to reacquaint themselves with people they had loved long ago.

A message arrived from King’s Winterbourne, inviting the weathermasters to a three-day celebration honouring a momentous royal event: Prince William’s betrothal to Lady Meliora Morley, eldest daughter of Lord Carisbrooke. Jewel and Arran arranged to visit the Marsh before proceeding to the royal city.

As soon as the merry men of Bucks Horn Oak had departed from Rowan Green, Asr
ă
thiel and her parents set off in a sky-balloon, following the Mountain Road, across the Canterbury Water and the Border Hills, passing far to the west of Cathair Rua, until they arrived at Jewel’s birthplace. As they travelled, Jewel enthusiastically entertained her husband and daughter with tales of the Marsh they had heard before, but of which they never tired. Particularly, they were fascinated by stories about the secretive eldritch inhabitants of the Marsh; dangerous waterhorses that dwelled in the depths; the miniature damsels called the asrai, clad only in their flowing green hair; the gruagachs of the islets; the will-o’-the-wisps that floated upon the Marsh at night.

The Great Marsh of Slievmordhu had altered little since Jewel’s childhood days. Its rich and widespread complexity of marshes, streams, ravelled woods and reed-edged lagoons lay peacefully in that low-lying, lush region, fed by pure rivulets from the surrounding mountains. The Marsh’s waters were as sweet as ever, being constantly refreshed by gentle currents that barely disturbed the surfaces of the mirrored meres, the black tarns, the secret overhung channels, and the tranquil shores of more than three thousand islets.

Marsh Town, too, looked much the same, its reed-thatched houses perched on stilts driven deep beneath the mud, some built on the tiny eyots, others suspended above their own glimmering reflections in the water or floating on rafts. The wooden bridges, boardwalks and network of hidden causeways that connected all buildings were kept in excellent repair, as were the footpaths, duckboard trails, stepping stones and catwalks webbing the entire Marsh system. In open astonishment the Marsh dwellers stared at the newcomers dressed in their flowing raiment of blue-grey linen, until some folk recognised Jewel, whereupon they waved and shouted greetings across the water.

As the visitors voyaged in the boats of the Marsh watchmen, Jewel caught sight of three small children walking across a pond on the buoyant discs of giant lily pads. ‘Just as I used to do!’ she exclaimed. The boat glided beneath overhanging alders and willows, sunlight glimmering through their foliage. Delightedly the Marsh daughter gazed at the familiar proliferation of bulrushes and reeds spearing up from banks of sphagnum moss and sedge. Sticklebacks glided amongst the waterweeds; frogs uttered notes like bells and drums, and dragonflies twinkled as if they were iridescent lights. Birds darted and splashed everywhere; bright kingfishers, grey herons stalking on their long stilts of legs, ducks paddling and diving in the reed beds.