The Fall of Waterstone

Full of Danger

When one who is wise speaks, ’tis well be mindful,

And when they are silent, beware!

—Southron proverb

Many things I learned in Waterstone over the following moonturns, and only a few of them rested among scrolls and bark-bound volumes—for the crystal-domed library, overwhelming as it was, paled beside the larger one I never had the chance to visit more than passingly.

Oh, of course I absorbed the Elder script, with its flowing curves so different than our falling-runes. Tjorin was a good teacher, though he did not drive a lesson home with braid-tweak or clouts upon an unheeding ear. Instead, he praised my small successes, smiled at any errors, and was so even-tempered I nearly feared some explosion later, like a volcanic peak suddenly deciding to vent its wrath after centuries of quiescence.

Dun Rithell’s mother-mountain had never done so even in the days our settlement bore an Elder name, but we heard stories from travelers. And any fool knows great heat lurks within the earth, breaking free of its sheath like insect-guts when the shell is punctured. In days lost to history we learned the use of saunas from traveling near pools heated by such deep fires; even the Enemy harnesses those forces for his own ends.

With the son of Hrasimir I learned some portion of Elder and Northern lore as well, for he was of a lordly house said to be passing scholarly and had been among the library’s volumes since his arrival besides—a tale in itself, but not one he ever spoke willingly upon. I learned more upon that count from Naciel, who would appear, merry as Astrid on market-day, to draw Arn and me forth for summat more active.

For the daughter of Goldspear was ever barefoot, and danced with every step. More than that, she loved to run, and it was from her I learned the Elder seidhr of fleetfoot, speeding light and near-trackless over almost any surface. To her it was natural, near-effortless, and she could race from dawn to sunset, her hair a golden banner and her joy visible as a playful river-otter’s.

Being mortal, of course, I could only run so far in that fashion. Arn had more success, for it is very akin to a shieldmaid’s tracking-gait used for hunting or pursuit, and though I lagged behind them both I was still more fleet and enduring than Tjorin, who much preferred sparring with the wolves of Naras or hours of study among fragile bark scrolls.

We did not run in the city. Instead, we passed through one gate or another, guards in bright armor studying the princess’s Secondborn pets with much reserve, and once past the city’s shadow the entire valley was ours to roam.

Most Elder lived inside the walls, but others preferred privacy and there were smaller outlying settlements, groups and solitary dwellings. Houses of white stone seemed grown from the earth itself; there were fine vineyards and other crops, though most lay fallow during the season of long nights and it was eerie to see threads of green veining each winter-yellowed leaf or grassblade.

Streams coursed through the soft green bowl, and one great river—perhaps the eldest child of that which had carved the valley—roughly bisected it. Naciel showed me fantastical shapes embedded in ancient sediment hardened to rock, effigies of creatures long since extinct; she took us along waters the Elder named Egeril for their white foam, and Naricie for their speed.

Cascading from tall peaks untainted by the Enemy’s grasp—for these mountains were not part of the Marukhennor, though hard by those terrible, shadow-hung crags—the great river of Laeliquaende’s valley took several hard turns, veered through some stony hills on the periphery of more-arable land, and ran crashing over greater rapids before smoothing and widening as it passed near the city and away, vanishing under a massive shelf of stone in the extreme southwest of Taeron’s domain. The whirlpool there was called the Leap for a pair of lovers who had cast themselves from its height, but those of Waterstone never sang the story of its naming.

At least, not where Secondborn could hear.

Their Naricie-Egeril was nowhere near as mighty as our own river-mother. Still, every child of my folk knows even a puddle might be dangerous, and the rapids were surpassing perilous in more than one place; the vast crashing, sucking drain of the Leap, hard against the wall of mountain stone, one of the more frightening things I have ever seen. Its horror was wholly impersonal instead of evil; anyone who has stood in some high place and thought of falling can understand.

At first I thought the sensation of being watched during those rambles was the Elder king’s guards, making certain we would not attempt some kind of flight. Then I glimpsed flashes of black, like ink splashed upon an oiled plate, and sometimes a familiar winking gleam of swordhilt-gem; then I understood it was the wolves of Naras—they did not follow us every time, but often enough while we ran with the Goldspear’s daughter.

It galled me, for I did not otherwise glimpse our former captors. And why did they bother? So long as winter endured we were surely trapped, as if in another barred cell.

And still I did not dream, falling into that cloud-soft mattress on its stone stead, asleep almost before Arn settled beside me with a sigh. Dark was my rest, but not with terror or pain. It seemed I no sooner closed my eyes than the dawn rose in gentle stages, heralding another day full of lessons.

The Elder say time is a river too, and I say in their vicinity it flows oddly—a threeday might feel like twelve, a year as a sevenday, a moonturn like a single afternoon. Even now I remember only flashes of Laeliquaende during that period. The weariness and fear of our journey faded, bit by bit, held at bay by the wonder of the library and Naciel’s merry laughter.

“’Tis fragile,” Tjorin said, his hands moving with swift efficiency to weight the corners of a large sheet of strange Elder material somewhere between pounded bark and parchment. Small, heavy ingots carved into stylized animal-shapes held the map in place without damaging it. “I have a thought to recopy this, with Naciel’s additions.”

His grasp of southron language, like his lady’s, had improved beyond measure. I could only hope mine of the Old Tongue was likewise. “How do they do this?” My fingertip hovered over the representation of Waterstone in the middle of the valley, then moved to the Egeril and traced its course northward. “The lines are so fine.”

“Brushes, I should think.” A smile lingered on his mouth, and in his tone as well. Though rarely truly merry, he was astonishingly easy-tempered. “Though I would not be surprised if they had quills from some rare bird.”

“Ah.” I bent closer, peering at the words in Elder script. “The Ice Door is not marked.”

“No.” Around us, the crystal-roofed dome was saturated in drowsing hush. He indicated a spot in the mountain-girdle, east-southeast. “’Tis around here, I should think.”

“Yes, she never takes us in that direction.” I straightened, pressing my fists into my lower back as my mother did after a long time spent at her sewing, and realized I sounded bitter when he glanced at me, a line appearing between dark eyebrows.

But he said nothing. Tjorin’s silence was not like my father’s, or Bjorn’s, or any other man’s I ever met. It was more akin to Idra’s, or the quiet regard of some wild creature. He had traveled long in the empty places, hunted by the Enemy’s dire servants, before arriving in Waterstone; even the wolves of Naras did not possess his particular stillness.

Once he even remarked upon seeing the Great Sea itself, but could not be induced to say more.

I bent again, studying the map closely. I could match several symbols to their counterparts outside the city walls, yet my gaze kept returning to the largest river’s curves, then jumping guiltily to the space where our own entry to the valley had to have occurred. Then, a curious set of glyphs over the northwestron mountains drew my attention. “What is there?”

“Raven’s roost, it says. ’Tis very old writing, I had to ask the same question.” Tjorin’s fingertip hovered a breath from the map, circling the glyph and what I could now tell was brushwork denoting the shape of certain crags upon a mountainside. “They say the birds of the Blessed linger there, and may be asked for counsel if any are brave enough to climb. Sometimes they visit Taeron, bringing him news of the outside.”

Ravens were Odynn’s birds, and powerful. If Arneior and I went in that direction, would we be gainsaid? “You speak of the Blessed. Do you mean the Aesyr or the Vanyr? Or both, or all the other spirits?”

“The Elder see no difference. I am told that in the West they walk as men and women; here, they take other shapes or none at all.” He glanced at me, restrained curiosity bright in dark eyes. “Do you know which one spoke through you in Taeron’s throneroom? I have a guess.”

“Do you?” I did not like to brood upon it; as the proverb goes, ’tis as well the memory of pain flees quickly, for otherwise no woman who has borne once would consent to further childbirth. Still, even a faint remembrance will make one cautious, if sharp enough. “I cannot tell; it is Arn’s duty to remember what I say when the fit is upon me. Or when I wake from certain dreams. My teacher often had a steading child for year-and-a-day to perform the same duty, though she did not prophesy much.”

“Fascinating. Eol says you did much the same in Nithraen, and…” Tjorin halted, straightening, and looked somewhat chastened. “Forgive me. It cannot be pleasant to think upon.”

His courtesy was old-fashioned, and almost made me smile. “In Nithraen it was merely some poetry from a passing spirit. Here, ’twas otherwise.” I could not suppress a shiver. “Still, that is part of being a volva. It would be much worse were I not trained for the event; seidhr eats the unwary whole.”

“So may battle-weariness, or the Enemy’s curse.” The jewel in Tjorin’s swordhilt flashed a ruddy gleam as he shifted into relaxation. “Or even a hungry bear in spring.”

“The world is full of danger,” I agreed. Every conversation with him granted me further knowledge, though rarely in the direction I had been hoping. “What forms does it take here?”

“None for you, lady alkuine. I would wager you are safer in Laeliquaende than anywhere else in the world, for all it lies hard by the Black Land.” He paused, a tentative smile fading. “You do not look comforted, nor do you disagree.”

“A wager?” It is ill done to cheat-whisper bone-dice, but if one is held prisoner perhaps it could be permissible? Still, my conscience twinged. It is the greater gods who watch over games of chance, and mayhap I had angered them in some fashion already.

Though I could not tell what I had possibly done to earn this misfortune. Wishing for adventure is no crime, and it is natural for a volva—or any other with the weirding—to be somewhat ambitious. We are born to look beyond the seen, to delve past the expected.

It is what seidhr means, at least in part. And one cannot do such things without the urge to know.

“They say southron folk love such things.” Tjorin moved one of the mapweights, metal carved into a fanciful, leaping fish-shape. “Is it true that a man may wager thralldom upon a toss of the dice, and go into servitude without a murmur if it falls ill?”

The library was full of soft mutters itself, waiting for my answer. I told him and Naciel much of southron ways in those days, and they returned the favor with Northern knowledge. There is a joy in such exchange. It is never ill to learn of one’s neighbors, no matter how far afield they may be.

“Very true, though not often done anymore.” These were modern times—though I was now in the North, faced with ancient dangers. It beggared belief that such things still existed, walking in the same daylight that held our sheep-folds, looms, and riverboats. “More often, ’tis alter-marriages decided in such fashion. Women may play a game with the man they want, and if he loses, she has him for a year-and-day no matter his other ties. Like weregild.”

“Weregild.” He nodded, and in thoughtful repose Tjorin looked almost Elder. Perhaps it was that stillness, or the almost-serenity resting upon his features. “A cruel custom, but better than the alternative—I do not mean to pry,” he added hurriedly, “and it must be distressing for you to think upon.”

A laugh rose in my throat; I clasped my hands amid my skirts. “You have taught me much, it ill becomes a volva to take umbrage at honest questions about my people in return.”

“Once our people were one.”

“Do the Elder say so?” I meant no sarcasm; I might have even asked Aeredh, had our conversations ever turned in that direction. The Crownless had taught me some of his own folk’s seidhr, especially to do with the care of horses during long voyages, and had done so with good grace.

I had not seen him for many days now. Perhaps he feared my temper, or perhaps even an Elder could feel some little shame.

“My father did, and I believe him.” Tjorin returned his gaze to the map, but I doubted he was seeing its markings. He did not often mention his kin. “The Elder do not know everything, my lady Question. Just a little more, by virtue of living longer.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” Again I could not help but laugh. It was easy to see why the princess prized him so, and I found it difficult to brood while in his company. “The light tells me ’tis past noon; I should go to the garden and find Arn. She says the dust in this room makes her nose itch.”

“I know my lady agrees.” As usual, when he mentioned Naciel his mien softened considerably, and he seemed almost as young as Bjorn. “Shall I walk with you?”

“This place is safe, is it not?” I found I did truly not wish company, even the most pleasant, at that particular moment. “And I would wager you do not wish to leave that map, son of Hrasimir.”

“Indeed you are correct. I begin to think you wise indeed, my lady.” He bowed, and I took my leave.

Or, more precisely, my laughter had faded and I was almost to the door before I thought to ask again, for the conversation had flowed so easily I had almost forgotten. “Tjorin? Which of the Blessed do you think spoke through me?”

“The Lord of the Seas,” he said quietly, in the Old Tongue. The phrase was ancient, and strangely sonorous. “Njord himself, Ulimo the Elder name him, the one who knows all deeps. For he spoke to Taeron at least once before, and not long ago as the Elder count it.”

Now there was a piece of news. “You were present?”

“I was.” The son of Hrasimir had paled a few shades, but his gaze was clear enough. He stood near the table, the gem in his swordhilt glittering rubescent, and with the dome’s light upon every surface he once more looked like an Elder—though far less alien, indeed. “The memory is disturbing.”

“Then I ask your pardon for raising it, my lord.” I made him one of Naciel’s pretty courtesies, like a drooping flower though I had not even a fraction of her grace, and left to find Arn.

Halfway there, I was waylaid.