The Fall of Waterstone

A Change, at Least

Great choking fumes rose from torn earth where the eldest son of the Allmother ended his flight, and shrouded his new home in shadow. His servants fear the great eye of day no less than their dread lord and perhaps it is their misery which provides fuel for the brooding dark; the Black Land is vast, but in the end no more than a prison cell.

—Faeron One-hand, The Nature of the Black Land

Floringaeld was not merely a captain, but the head of Waterstone’s royal guard. With a spiked helm tucked under his arm, his fine green cloak draped over bright silvergold armor, and his long golden hair, he would have been accounted more than handsome enough in Dun Rithell even though he bore no beard. It was strange that the Northerners and Elder did not grow such a crop upon their cheeks and chin; one would have thought that the cold would induce them to the measure in self-defense.

He halted at the other side of the bars, and he was not alone. Of course, even while exchanging pleasantries through our cage-door he was usually accompanied by at least two other Elder—as if my shieldmaid and I were mighty enough hostages to need such caution—but this time, his companions were familiar figures.

Aeredh son of Aerith no longer wore the black garb Secondborn lords in the North preferred. Instead, the Crownless of Nithraen appeared in clothing of Elder make and style, with the particular grace of Laeliquaende. Soft is their fabric, and wondrous light even when woven for warmth; trews and a long velvet tunic more closely resembling a robe, both near a young birch’s bark in hue, suited him rather well.

His blondness was paler than Floringaeld’s, though the pointed tips of their ears were of like kind and rose through their hair. Aeredh’s eyes were a richer blue, and seeing them together one would be hard pressed to say which man was younger, though the son of Aerith was slighter in build. A silver fillet rested upon his brow, and he smiled upon seeing us.

Behind him, slightly taller and dressed in unrelieved black, Eol of Naras glanced at the bars of our cage. His mouth was a straight line, his dark eyes cool and distant, and the glitter riding his shoulder was the colorless gem in a swordhilt. Since we were not journeying in the wilds, he had not wrapped it with leather to deny pursuers its gleam.

They had taken all our group’s weapons save Arn’s spear. It seemed rather important that Eol wore his blade openly, but the scalding passing through me was not for that reason. He was walking about, whole and well. Naturally the Elder here would have healed the wound in his shoulder; I had only managed to draw out a shard of the great lich’s blade. A poor volva I proved to be, unable to fully stanch the bleeding, and even the burning vitality of one who had a second form had not been able to close the flesh properly.

I had glimpsed the wolf in him more than once. It peered through his coal-dark eyes for a moment again, but I closed my own lids, stricken with relief that my incompetence had not killed him.

When I did so the image of my home, blackened and burnt, rose before me once more in pitiless detail. I could not dispel nor had I spoken of it to my shieldmaid, though she was the one to record a volva’s oracular utterances from dream or vision before they fled waking memory. I had been hoping it would retreat as any normal nightmare, since I could not discern if it were truth or mere fearful imagining.

“Well.” Arneior addressed an invisible point above Aeredh’s golden head. “I thought we had been forgotten.”

“We would rather forget ourselves first, my lady shieldmaid.” The Elder’s smile was instant, and warm; at Dun Rithell we had mistaken him for a mere youth. Of course his kind have means of appearing near-mortal when they walk among us, and did so more often than one might suppose even as we southroners forgot the menace beyond the Marukhennor.

Perhaps the Northerners’ appeal to the Althing might have met with some manner of firm reply instead of silence had they been openly accompanied by such a fabled creature; perhaps my brother Bjorn might not have struck an Elder’s companion with one large fist, knocking the other young man down to meet his end upon a loose, skull-cracking rock.

Wondering upon what might have been can drive even the most sensible person mad.

Would we have believed what was before us, had Aeredh shown his ears to the Althing? Safe on familiar banks, protected both by our river-mother and Tarnarya’s white-hooded bulk, we had known the age of wonders long past, the Elder all departed, and the Black Land merely a tale to frighten unruly children with.

I wished Arn and I were still there, cradled in that blessed ignorance. Even if it meant we might be unaware of impending disaster as the Enemy stirred.

“The king of this place is an old friend,” Aeredh continued, and though he spoke to my shieldmaid his gaze rested upon me. The seidhr in it was a heaviness, but did not meet with my own. I merely sat upon the shelf-bed, my comb loosely clasped in both hands, and sought to appear interested instead of almost too exhausted to stand. “He wishes to meet one whom the valkyrja have blessed, and my lady alkuine. The entire valley is most curious about you both.”

Arneior half-turned, glancing over her shoulder. Her seidhr-cleaned ring-and-scale was bright as Floringaeld’s armor, and her spearblade glistered almost angrily. She clearly expected me to do my duty in this situation, since there was nothing for her to fight—or kill.

I had to say something, yes, but what? My throat ached dryly, no matter how many Elder draughts I drained from gem-crusted goblets. “No doubt you have not seen your friend for some time, Lord Aeredh.” Each word was a husk of itself, as if I were shaking free of a winter illness. “Your reunion must have been joyous.”

“Blame me.” Eol of Naras’s gaze had a weight to it as well, though he possessed no weirding save a second skin and that is not properly seidhr but another wonder entirely. He took a single step closer to the bars, and his expression was strange, almost as if he were the one trapped in a cage instead of breathing free air. “I lay near death for some while, and could not be called upon to give counsel.”

Was I supposed to believe a Secondborn would sway an Elder king’s mind? All I had seen of Aeredh’s people so far was much pride, and no little disdain for those of us who suffer mortal death and disease.

Although that was not quite fair, for they were mighty allies. Daerith the harpist had fended off the great lich upon the Glass; the others of our band had fought with skill and bravery against orukhar and worse while shepherding not just Arn and me but the wolves of Naras through the killing freeze.

Yet we would not have left Dun Rithell at all save for a lie. I could not tell how to properly weigh each individual event since setting forth from home—one more sign I was not a true volva at all, despite the inked bands circling my wrists and the runes between them speaking of each test I had passed.

“Step back some little, my lady shieldmaid.” Floringaeld pronounced the word for Arn’s kind cautiously, handling the southron dialect with care. He had grown far more facile with its use over the past few days, though only exchanging commonplaces. Still, Elder love all manner of language, from their own and past ours into the speech of birds, the long slow sighcreak of trees. ’Tis said they woke and conversed with many things long before the very first sunrise, while the sky was a great river of Vardhra’s star-lamps and the Enemy merely laying his plans in a forgotten corner.

The captain also produced a ring of keys, jangling musically as he moved. Arn retreated a few paces, but her knuckles were white upon her spear.

“I believe they mean to free us, small one, and to show us in their Hidden City much as prize livestock during a riverfair.” I lay aside my comb and rose, though my knees were none too steady. “It will be a change, at least.”

I meant it as a jest, however bleak. Aeredh’s smile fell away, and Eol looked pained. But the stiffness in Arn’s shoulders eased, and when I reached her side to lay my fingertips carefully upon her left arm a warm humming sense of breathing life filled me, pushing back the persistent chill.

I was still volva enough for that, at least.

The bars slid aside, grooves at floor and ceiling letting them move with only a faint metallic ringing, sweet as the keys’ jangling chorus. “You are guests of Taeron Goldspear the High-helm, king of Laeliquaende,” Floringaeld intoned. “The son of Aerith has pledged to your good behavior, and you may tread where you will save for private houses. Our safety here depends on secrecy; should you attempt to leave this valley no mercy shall be shown.”

How often does he give this speech?I could not tell, and to ask would be insulting. Yet I was sorely tempted.

Instead, I kept my hand upon Arneior’s arm. “Considering there is nothing but leagues of lich- and orukhar-infested wilderness in every direction, my lord Floringaeld, we might think it wise to tarry even without such warning. We thank you for your care during our captivity.”

A somewhat stiff half-bow was all I received for my restraint. Arneior exited our cell with her head high and her spear ready; I followed slowly, my joints creaking as Idra sometimes complained hers did near the end of her life.

Of course the air held no appreciable difference outside the cage, yet I breathed a little easier.

Only a little.