The Fall of Waterstone

Taeron’s Tower

No gift will she take, no notice of one

Who haunts her steps. A lament

Turned inward gnaws at the bones

Of any man. Yet can I deny it?

The pain is better than living without…

—The Traitor’s Song

The tower glowed with its own light, even as that day drew toward to swift dusk-shadow. In the silence, a faint unheard hum came from smooth, seamless white stone. Had I not been told what rested there I still would have guessed at some mighty seidhr locked within its embrace, if only by the way the inked bands upon my wrists ached.

Or perhaps all of me hurt, and I was only now noticing. There are some forms of weirding, drawing upon vital inner resources at the root of being, which may cause a mortal or animal to surpass physical limits until the very foundation of their bodies tears itself apart. It is akin to the battle-rage my father Eril had; a berserker will slay his opponents until there is nothing left but piled, broken bodies and only then die of wounds that would have immediately killed one not gifted with its dubious honor.

“Ah.” Arneior tapped her spear-end against the turf again, a heavy, disappointed strike. “So we are indeed merely exchanging a smaller cage for a larger one.”

“All this world is a cage, my lady shieldmaid.” Bitterness filled the words; the Crownless still did not turn. “The Enemy will not look for you in this corner. You are safe, it is enough.”

I was safe at home.But was I, if orukhar and liches spilled south and east? My father and the rest of Dun Rithell’s warriors could deal handily enough with warlords and bandits; when Astrid married her husband would do the same, aided by Bjorn’s strength and thoughtless speed unless my brother wed into a hall far away from home.

Did they know of the approaching danger? Was that what the elders refused to speak of after the Althing? I had been wholly occupied with holding the solstice fire steady all that night. Yet what manner of volva was I, not even dreaming of looming disaster?

“Had I chosen to go to Dorael instead…” I could not finish the question. My left hand blindly sought the healer’s knife, now hanging at my belt. I freed it, sheath and all, with a hard yank.

“I did not think you would,” Aeredh said, softly. “You had declared yourself Eol’s ally, and he trusts my judgment. Besides, my lady Question, you were curious. Elder and Secondborn alike share that trait, at least.”

“Sol?” Why did Arneior sound worried? It was not like her.

My hands were knots, my knuckles bloodless. The twist-lunging of my stomach would not abate.

“There has never been another alkuine, among your kind or mine,” the Crownless continued, soft but pitiless. “The Blessed led us to you for some reason, and I cannot be other than glad. There must be a meaning to it; there has to be. I have done what I must.”

“By bringing me here to rot until I die, and Arn as well.” My tongue was numb; so were my lips. The humming in the white tower filled my ears—suspecting a thing is not the same as enduring it, and I had after all thought better of Aerith’s son than this. Why had the Elder bothered healing me at all? “Tarit’s father was allowed to leave Taeron’s lands, and you were once before as well. So you may eventually take the wolves of Naras and search for other alkuine, if any may be found. What has happened once may happen again.”

“Unlikely.” Aeredh stiffened as if struck—or as if he suspected Arn might unleash her spear upon him again. “You are the first since the Sun rose.”

“The first you have heard of,” I corrected. Yet I was uneasy, for now another secret fear of mine had escaped my head and was given voice in clear air. Idra trained me as best she could, and said elementalists were merely rare. How had she known enough to say it with such certainty?

Or had she simply been guessing, following her own seidhr? The world rocked underneath me, a boat upon choppy rapids.

I dropped the knife; I had not the strength to fling it. The beautiful curve of Elder metalwork and sheath landed near Aeredh’s heels, but he did not move.

“I do not think my soul could stand another,” he murmured in the Old Tongue. “You are angry, and though there is more to tell the day grows late. Shall I accompany you to your quarters, my lady?”

During our journey I had wondered if my father’s battle-rage lurked within my own bones, despite the fact that women are not often prone to such things. At that moment I thought it possible, for the tower’s hum had become a rattling buzz, as of a heavy cart dragged by runaway bullocks shaking itself to pieces upon a stony path.

“No need,” I heard myself say. Strangely, I sounded very much like my mother in that moment, and the likeness was at once a comfort and a deadly, indecent hurt. “Arneior and I had best learn to find our way without Elder aid.”

He did not move, but strangely, the son of Aerith almost seemed to stagger. “I am… sorry, Solveig.”

We are as nightjars to them, Tarit of Redhill said, and we dash ourselves against their rocks. He was right, of course. I had mouthed a pretty sentiment in return, but at that moment all I could do was writhe inwardly at my own blindness. “It does not matter,” I answered, heavily, and turned my head, staring at Arneior’s knees.

I did not wish to watch him walk away.

“I have a spear,” Arn repeated, stubbornly, and smacked the bedroom’s floor with said weapon’s blunt end for emphasis. The sound was heavy, jarring every rediscovered ache. “I should like to see these men set themselves against the Black-Wingéd Ones.”

“I doubt Odynn’s maidens will come riding to our rescue at the moment. They must have far greater concerns.” I leaned against a pillar at the very large balcony-window, for my knees were not steady at all. I also wished she would stop expressing her displeasure with such sharp, staccato taps. My head spun, and each time her spear hit a bolt passed from one temple to the other. I was hard-pressed not to flinch.

Arn swung about, and the high color in her cheeks was akin to a wolf’s growl, or an adder’s warning hiss. She stared at me for a long moment, and for the first time in my life I wished, with sudden, startling vengeance, that I had no seidhr.

Better to succeed as a simple riverlord’s daughter than to fail so miserably at being a volva. At least if I had been born without weirding I could have married well and been blissfully unaware of all this madness. I had been outplayed at every turn, and by men. No doubt Arn was too kind to share her ire at being shackled to a piece of bad bait, but I could very well suspect her true feelings.

If not now, then later. We had years ahead of us in this Elder trap; eventually she would take my stupidity to task. And then…

Then I would be truly, irrevocably alone.

I held her gaze while the breeze through the window stroked my hair. Crisp and cool, it was soft despite the freeze lurking outside this Elder realm. If by some miracle my shieldmaid’s spear overpowered the guards of the Ice Door and Hidden Passage, we still had frost-choked, lich-infested wilderness to traverse.

And—I could not deny it—I was pained to have misjudged Aeredh so thoroughly. I had not thought him capable of… of coldly trammeling a mortal until her death, especially with all his talk of owing debt.

“I know that look,” Arn said, softly, and thankfully did not pound the floor again. “You are discouraged, and need to ramble. Idra would send you out to gather rare herbs or ask the river some question.”

Idra is not here. Wherever she rests, she is no doubt disappointed in her last student as well. “I should have seen. I should have known.” My hands throbbed with the need to do something, but there was nothing to occupy their yearning. Even the sewing packed carefully in my mother’s second-largest trunk held no attraction for me at the moment. “I am… sorry, Arn.”

“For what? Their treachery? Elder.” She all but spat the word. “Sheepshit, I say.”

“Which one?” I could not help but laugh, though the forlorn little sound died halfway through. “The Crownless, or the other?”

“Both. All of them.” Her free hand made a swift, flicking motion, consigning the Allmother’s most graceful, immortal creatures to the midden-heap. “And their lapdogs, too. The House of Naras should be ashamed, lending itself to this.”

“Do not forget Eol lost his brother, even if a mere stone had the deciding toss of the game.” And even if they suspected him of treachery. I rubbed at my arms as if chilled, and was glad of the stone windowframe’s support. A slumbrous dusk enfolded the garden below our quarters, and though I could easily hate the entire city at the moment there was no denying the sound of the fountains was wondrous soothing. “He may not have fully known his Elder friend’s purpose.”

“I should have known you would take his part.” Her nose wrinkled with disdain, but at least she was no longer in the first hot flush of anger and would do nothing… inadvisable.

I did not shrug, though I longed to. “We are allies now.” In other words, she could give me some time to work upon the heir of Naras, as upon a stubborn neighbor at home. Even if Aeredh claimed greater friendship with a Northern lord, I could appeal to Eol’s conscience. He seemed to have one, at least—and I knew some of his men did, as well. “I negotiated that much, and now wish I would have wrung more from them.”

“The lord of Redhill warned us.” It was unlike Arneior to sound so approving of a man, but the son of Hajithe had been of a temper we both understood. For my part I liked him a great deal, especially in retrospect. “Perhaps we should have gone to this Dorael.”

“’Tis another Elder kingdom, safe behind some mighty seidhr-wall. Which means they could hold us there just as well as here.” My sigh was heavy as my mother’s when a quandary with no happy solution presented itself, like a spat between powerful nearby clans with long-held grudges. “It will be spring soon.”

Arn strode across the room, took a post on the other side of the pillar-gap, and peered into swiftly falling darkness. After a few moments, she turned her spear, the blunt end grinding against stone—a quiet, meditative sound. “Spring,” she said. “And us not home to see it.”

So she understood. Attempting escape now would be folly—even if we managed to slip past the Elder guards in one direction, the winter waste could well defeat us. It was much better to wait, learn the dimensions of our captivity, and see what allies of our own could be found.

“There is a summer afterward, and harvest season as well. I was promised for a year-and-day in any case.” Please, Arn. I was not quite pleading with her, though I longed to. I will rack what little brains I possess, and might redeem myself by finding us a way out of this trap.

There was also the library. Who knew what tools lay hidden in its depths?

“You’re angry.” Did she sound surprised? Now Arn stared at me, hazel eyes unwonted wide. “I can feel it. You never get angry.”

While the last was not quite correct—I was frequently irritated with the world, much as Idra used to be—the first was indisputable. A hot, prickling ball had settled in my chest, and it grew as I inhaled.

“I do not have your temper, small one. But I do have one.” I forced the sensation away, for seidhr is doubly dangerous when fueled by rage. “Nevertheless, there is nothing to be done at the moment. We are in an Elder palace; we might as well enjoy its comforts—like that bed. It is a marvel, I must admit.”

“I do not need rest.” Still, Arn’s own fury abated somewhat. The promise of future action salved her temper wonderfully. “You are but newly healed, though. Come along.”

I let her fuss over me—clumsily, it must be said, for that is not a shieldmaid’s preferred duty. Yet we both drew comfort from the ritual. She pulled the covers high, tucking me in much as Albeig or my mother, and even touched my forehead with callused fingertips before straightening swiftly, spear braced in her left hand. “There. I will practice, and think. You must dream.”

“I have been trying.” I could not suppress a sigh. “Arneior…”

“No. You rest.” She glowered, as if threats could induce someone to slumber. “Lying point-eared swine, and their false gifts. Better thrown at their feet, indeed. You did well.”

At least I could be certain she meant it; a shieldmaid will not offer false praise. I could make no reply, so I simply closed my eyes. Tears prickled hotly behind my lids, but I denied them. Better to rage than to weep, and slumber is more useful than either.

I would need all my wits—and patience—in the coming days.