Fallowblade (72 page)

As the air warmed,
Icemoon
began to inflate. Greater it grew, like a swelling bud, until at last it lifted from the ground, still anchored. Then the gondola was set upright and the copilot climbed inside. The crystal rayed forth more energy and the envelope dilated like a bubble. Slung beneath, the basket strained at its moorings. Watching this scene Jewel was reminded of her first balloon launch, years ago, when young Arran Maelstronnar had been the flight-commander. She smiled at the recollection, and linked arms with her husband, who stood at her side, though privately she was filled with anguish at the prospect of losing her daughter so soon after regaining her.

The sky glimmered like a reflection of fire on water, and clouds blew away from the back of Wychwood Storth. Just as Asr
ă
thiel was about to board the aerostat, Corisande called out to her, ‘What about Fallowblade? Who will teach me to wield him?’

Asr
ă
thiel kissed her cousin lightly on the brow and replied, ‘Let him alone. May he rest in his scabbard for a thousand years and more.’ With that, she leaped into the gondola and gave a signal for the moorings to be cast off. The gondola skated a few feet sideways, before
Icemoon
rose straight up.

Clad in weathermaster garments, the damsel stood with feet braced apart, her black hair streaming down her back, murmuring soft words that unleashed potency with every syllable. Her hands moved in a swift, intricate design while she commanded a rising wind to blow nor’-nor’-east. As she watched the land drop away the line of her body was taut, as if her spine were a metal rod, receptive to every nuance of atmosphere; the changing masses of air, electrified particles, fluctuations in temperature and humidity, and subtleties beyond imagining. The waving crowd below dwindled to a scatter of tiny upturned faces, like daisies in a field. When she had ensured the wind vectors were under her control Asr
ă
thiel waved back, until her family and friends dwindled to specks and vanished from sight.

To the Northern Ramparts they flew, the weathermage and her copilot; to Sølvetårn, high amongst the gables of icy Storth Cynros. In the evening they looked upon the citadel of the Silver Goblins, all spires and starlight, eyries and soaring halls, glittering with jewels delved from beneath ancient fog-cowled mountains, its gorgeous walls hewn from sparkling basalt. The turrets were wrapped in mists, the roofs spangled with snow. Legend had named it Minith Ariannath, the Silver Mountain. Once its halls had teemed with immortal beings, but now they echoed only to the sounds of falling water and cracking ice.

He was waiting there impatiently, Zaravaz, accompanied by two daemon horses with manes and tails of emerald fume, with the wind revelling in his hair. What passed between the damsel and her lover when they met again is only for them to know, for it shall not be disclosed here. Seated on the back of Tangwystil, Asr
ă
thiel watched her sky-balloon ascend, beginning its return voyage to the south, and kept her eyes on it until it had faded into the clouds. Then she rode away into the mountains with the goblin king, and the full moon was rising before them in glimmering splendour, soaking everything with liquid silver, so vast it took up half the sky, like some beautiful alien world suspended in space and time.

O
ne year later, Ronin of Slievmordhu wed Solveig of Grïmnørsland. She became his queen and deliverer; the only one who, over time, was able to convince him that he was not to blame for his father’s demise, that there was no curse on the House of Ó Maoldúin, and that more than enough happiness to cure old sorrows could be found in everyday events.

Three had entered the Aingealfyre, and three emerged from it. One was mortal, one immortal, and the third was something other. What of that man born mortal, become immortal, Fionnbar Aonarán—he who could conceivably be called the third Brother of the Flame?

‘For your kind the most wonderful gift of all is life,’ Zaravaz had once said, in reference to this poor creature, ‘and it should be enjoyed to the fullest. Having received life, the most wonderful gift is the promise of death at the end.’

Fionnbar, after drinking the draught of deathlessness from the Well of Rain, had come to understand that immortality on its own could not give happiness. Unable to find contentment, he had tried many times to destroy himself. After each attempt he came forth alive but with his mind in worse torment. His life had become an endless search for death—an ironic and perhaps fitting punishment for whatever transgressions he might have committed in his folly.

The coward Fionnbar had brought much grief to the Four Kingdoms of Tir, and especially to the family of Jewel Heronswood Maelstronnnar—yet in the end his misdemeanours had sprung from desire for immortality, cowardice, deception, and a craving for freedom from confinement.

Ultimately, the flames of the werefire had consumed his inner hungers. They had devoured most of his needs and wants, even depriving him of the requirement for sleep. He existed in a kind of vacuous tranquillity, sitting alone in contemplation for hours on end, seldom roused to activity.

For years he remained in the Asylum for Lunatics, every Lantern Eve patiently requesting that he might be released and given some useful employment. When at last Warwick of Narngalis reached the end of his own long span of years, the old king decided to grant him this wish.

After the Argenkindë had departed, Warwick had caused a series of fortified watchtowers and beacons to be constructed along the peaks of the northern ranges. Their purpose was to provide stations from which sentries could ceaselessly look towards the north, in case the goblin horde ever returned.

Manning the towers was a dangerous undertaking; only the brave volunteered, only the hardy survived. Unseelie gwillion and fuathan haunted the mountains, seeking human beings to slaughter. The winds raged at high speed, the cold chewed into the bones of mortal things, and a terrible sense of loneliness stalked the peaks and chasms like some unseen hunter.

The Companions of the Cup took turns at the task of keeping watch, but even they, the pick of mortal knights, could endure the solitude, the icy weather and the constant peril for no more than three months at a stretch.

The most remote and desolate watchtower of all sprouted like a jagged stump from the bitter heights of Storth Cynros. King Warwick decreed that Fionnbar Aonarán should be stationed there, alone, where no mortal man could last. He named Aonarán ‘The Watchman on the Northern Ramparts’, whose task was to keep a sleepless vigil, scanning the horizon for all dangers. If the sentry spied approaching peril, he must light the beacon fire. Grateful for being give a useful role Aonarán swore fealty and obedience, and after his immersion in the werefire, no one could doubt his honesty. He feared neither gwillion not fuathan; nor did he fear the eternal cold. Compliantly he took up his post in the loneliest watchtower of all. There he remained while the years rolled by, and the weather eroded the mountains, and the world grew older. Forever he kept vigil, staring out across the bleak, uncharted lands.

Thanks to the following people:

For valuable information about swordsmanship, Elizabeth Bear, Mike Dumas, Elizabeth Glover, Steve KS Perry, and Nancy Proctor.

For help with research into snow trolls and tömtes, my Swedish friend Therese Kennedy.

Thanks also to the inimitable Kevin Morgan for sharing with me his limitless knowledge of geology, much of which was unable to be incorporated, but which provided me with fascinating insights. If there are any inaccuracies in my reportage of mines and mining, it is I who has included them during the weaving of this tale.

Gold as a ward against evil:
In the folklore of the Philippines it was commonly believed that demons were afraid of metal objects (a belief echoing the tenet of British folklore that faêries could not abide the touch of cold iron). Particularly, metals with the colours of fire and light, such as gold, copper and brass, were believed to be most efficacious against demons. Tanith Lee explores this association between gold and demons in her wonderful ‘Flat Earth’ series.

In western mythology silver is used as a charm against vampires, who can be slain with a silver bullet. Gold, however, seems a more logical choice as the anathema of evil, since silver tarnishes but gold does not; also silver is the colour of the moon and stars, lights that can only be seen during the hours of darkness, which traditionally belong to wicked creatures. The peoples of ancient Peru associated gold with the sun and silver with the moon.

In British and Celtic folklore lesser faêries are not driven off by gold; many, in fact, are known to handle it, for example faêrie spinning-hags who spin straw into gold, and leprechauns who own pots of the stuff. Much supernatural gold, however, is only an illusion. When the glamour wears off, ‘gold coins’ regain their true shape: withered leaves.

Terminology:
I have avoided the anachronistic use of the verb ‘to fire’ when describing the action of bows and arrows, catapults and other pre-gunpowder ballistic weapons. The term in this context only came into usage with the first ‘firearms’, whose explosions were actually set off by a flame. Even in association with flaming arrows, I am not aware of the command ‘Fire!’ being employed by genuine battlefield archers before gunpowder was employed in weaponry.

Goblin music:
It was well after I had written the passages referring to goblin music that I became aware of the band Apocalyptica, who play heavy metal music on cellos. After viewing some of their energetic performances I was struck by how close they came to my vision of unseelie warriors playing wild, raw, stirring melodies on stringed instruments. Apocalyptica’s rendition of Metallica’s ‘Unforgiven’ might almost have been written as the dance track for Chapter 6.

Other music that seems to augment the story:
For me, the perfect theme for Asr
ă
thiel and her lover is Metallica’s ‘Nothing Else Matters’. The poignant ‘Pearlin’ Peggie’s Bonnie’ as played by Chris Duncan on the album
The Red House
:
The heritage of the Scottish fiddle
represents, for me, the feelings experienced by Asr
ă
thiel when she believes Zaravaz has perished. When listening to it, it is easy to imagine her grieving, but remembering—as she wanders amongst the forests, lakes and hills of a beautiful, wild landscape under a stormy sky—the wonderful times with him, and their moments of terrible, tender intimacy.