The Fall of Waterstone

CapableNot

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.