The Fall of Waterstone

Stay Where Unwanted

Colder than lichburn is the suspicion cast among friends. Is this the Enemy’s true victory? For he has oft been content to let our division do the work, while he takes his ease behind Agramar’s iron walls.

—Collected Sayings of Aenarian Greycloak

Soft violet dusk enfolded Waterstone; the Elder could keep winter at bay but for all their might and craft, they still must wait as mortals do for the days to lengthen. A hasty scrubbing-away of rivermud still tingled in my skin as Arn and I, shepherded by a smiling blond Elder youth with bright sky-colored eyes, approached the throneroom once more.

It was just the same—a vast polished stone floor holding our shimmering reflections but turning by imperceptible degrees to earth under tree-roots, the huge, living grey bark-pillars stretching in every direction, the rustle of leaves overhead. Yet it did not seem so dangerous or malformed as it had the first time I walked here, and instead of the music from Elder throat or instrument, birdsong filled the gloaming.

Small blue lights bobbed among the branches, reflected in the floor almost like Fryja’s veils in the northern sky, save these illuminations were shaped into rounds instead of shimmering cascades. A brighter light bloomed about the gentle rise holding Taeron’s bench-throne, but the ruler of this place was not seated to receive his humble visitors.

Instead, he stood at the hill’s foot, hands clasped behind his back, his dark hair shining as it fell past his shoulders. The silver upon his brow glowed as if bathed in sunshine, and when he turned at our approach, his blue eyes were bright holes in the twilight.

A murmur in the Old Tongue and our guide glided away, soundless amid the gleams reflected in polished stone. Arn’s spear did not tap the floor, and her step was soft as well. She looked about with interest, but had not chosen to wear the gifted Elder armor. Instead, it was her second-best hauberk and breeches, fit for travel; in silent accord, I wore none of Naciel’s gifts but my green festival dress.

It was of the finest Dun Rithell could offer, along with the silver bee-torc of my father’s mother resting against my collarbones. Well might a haughty Elder king consider us uncivilized, yet appearing in borrowed finery would be worse.

We Secondborn, even of small river-steadings, have our own pride. Mine was that of my mother Gwendelint, for though I have seen many a powerful woman since, none have ever seemed more regal. Perhaps every daughter views her mother thus… yet I do not know, for some of the sagas speak of what may happen when that bond curdles.

Silence stitched with liquid, lilting notes brushed against us. The birds had to be hiding in the trees; who would not sing, in such a place?

I half expected another terrible, deep-wringing voice to bubble up through me, and was grateful the only seidhr seemed to be in the heavy glance of the Elder king. Arn could no doubt see well enough in this gloom, and a volva’s eyes are sharp—but the Children of the Star roamed over hill and valley before the Sun rose, and midnight is hardly less bright than noon to them.

Taeron wore a long tunic-robe of indigo velvet in the fashion of Laeliquaende, and boots of highly tooled leather, likewise dyed and vanishing into the dimness. He bore no weapon and why would he need to, faced with two mortal women? He took two steps, three, approaching almost as if wishing to see us more clearly—yet slowly, as if he felt some caution at being so near unto presumably wild creatures.

No guards lingered to hear any converse save the pair at the thronehall’s great doors. We were alone with a being who had lived both our lifespans several times over, yet he seemed younger than my father, albeit passing grave in that moment, studying me from slipper-sole to coral-studded braids.

“Mere children,” he said, finally, in the Old Tongue. His accent was ancient and inexpressibly pure, though softened by the lilting flow of his people’s dialect. “Yet marked, I see.”

I made no reply, though Arn tensed beside me and the feather-brushing of the Wingéd Ones’ attention ran in a soft stream under bird-music. For some short while the High-helm watched us, and I felt the strength moving in his gaze. Like and unlike my mother’s own scrutiny it was, and he might have succeeded with gentleness where Curiaen the Subtle of now-vanished Nithraen had tried overwhelming force.

Weirding may be used to pierce the secrets of another’s heart, and perhaps the Elder king thought I would be easy to read as the scrolls in his libraries. The bands upon my wrists ached, only a little at first, then intensifying as if the needle were moving, ink forced below bleeding skin afresh.

That pain must be borne in silence. After a short while it turns into another sensation, indescribable but well known to one who may call upon even a single branch of seidhr’s great tree. In Nithraen I had used a sharp single clawing stroke to sting an arrogant Elder’s nose; amid these shadowed trees the needle-sensation was a shield—frail and flimsy, naturally, since Taeron’s kind may fight with weirding and physical weapon both, without loss of vigor or the twisting a mortal suffers from the attempt.

And yet, I bore the buckler as a warrior might use a half-broken wooden round in final defense, willing to trust even that imperfect shelter in order to gain a few more moments of breathing.

For while one yet breathes, any battle’s favor may yet be turned.

I did not stagger, nor did I sway. A slight quiver went through my skirts, and that only. He did not bring the immensity of his will to bear, though I sensed it like thunder behind Tarnarya in late summer, before the autumn storms race over our mother-mountain’s shoulder to sweep southward.

To turn those storms aside is impossible. But bending under them, protecting the fields from lashing, encouraging the lightning to strike away from greathall and steading—that is well within a volva’s skill, and Idra had taught me as much.

When he spoke again, it was in southron. Perhaps he had been listening to his daughter, or perhaps the ravens who brought news from outside allowed him to practice our tongue.

“Do you have more messages for me, alkuine? Or did the Crownless teach you to deliver the one you uttered before?”

Sharp was his tone, and his eyes paled. He was not quite the picture of a not-so-petty warlord well aware of his own power and smarting at former defeats… yet it was very close, and the similarity gave me courage enough in answering.

“I say what I must when the gods require, Taeron Goldspear.” More crowded my tongue, but any man who will accuse a volva of lying does not deserve the honor of extended reply.

Another silence, not so long as the first, nor so uncomfortable. A certain relief loosened my shoulders, and my breath came more easily. I had expected the ruler of so much beauty, an ageless Elder of immeasurable wisdom, to be… well, less petulant.

They are given much, the firstborn of the Allmother’s mortal creation, yet many of those I had met so far spoke with unbecoming arrogance. Aeredh might have lied to bring us to this place, but at least he had the grace to seem somewhat ashamed of the fact.

Not only I was far in the North, witnessing legends and saga-creatures, but also in a position to compare multiple Elder temperaments. It fair boggled the mind; had he been mortal, the urge to take this haughty warrior to task might have provoked me to sharp words indeed.

Had I not pulled Tjorin from the river that afternoon I might have been fearful instead, and covered it with anger. But seidhr responded to me; I had the greatest possible proof of being volva still. Small that might be counted by this proud Elder, and yet it meant I could not be impolite. Nor could I act in any craven fashion.

I might have been captive, but I was neither defeated nor thrall.

“The Secondborn used to come as friends.” Taeron turned slightly, aiming the words just slightly past me. Even in this shadow the resemblance to his sister’s son was striking, and I almost heard the echo of the Watchful in his tone. “Now one comes to steal my daughter, and another arrives for Lithielle’s Jewel.”

Arneior inhaled sharply.

I lifted my right arm, as if to bar her from striding forward to strike one who would accuse a volva of thievery as well as falseness. “I have no desire for your Elder bauble, my lord. I was carried here with a lie, and would return to my home if you would but let me.” Though Aeredh would argue against it, and I cannot see you making cause with me against one of your own kind.

His reply was instant. “Were you allowed to leave, you would spread news of my people’s refuge to our Enemy.”

“A Secondborn left before, and did not do so.” I could thank our sojourn in Redhill for granting me such knowledge, and was more than willing to use it. “He did not even tell his son Tarit, who called you a fair king and a just one. I am saddened to find the report so untrue.”

If he would insult me so thoroughly, I did not think my own reply entirely undeserved.

“Now you malign me.” Taeron’s tone shifted to bitter amusement. “I could have you and your spear-child there thrown from the Leap.”

Spear-child?I was confused for a moment, a shock as if I had been slapped. Arneior did start forward then—and with a muttered oath as well, for that is nothing to call a shieldmaid.

“Peace.” I caught at her left arm, my fingers hard against metal scales sewn onto tough leather. “He does not mean that, Arn, ’tis a lack of understanding.”

“A king should not speak so.” Her arm was iron under mail, leather, and padded tunic-sleeve, but she did not shake away my fragile tether. “The Wingéd Ones witness this.” And, to provide emphasis, her spear’s blunt end struck the floor. The sound cracked against birdsong; all liquid leafrustle and wingmurmur stilled.

“He does not use our language well.” My hand ached, and so did my bands. I would rather believe an Elder did not know how to speak our tongue than dignify such an affront by acting as if ’twas truly meant. “Do not, Arneior. It would dishonor your weapon.”

The High-helm observed this in the sudden hush, his eyes a paired, scorching gleam and the rest of him blurring into shadow. Had he called us here merely to offer insult in darkness?

It took some pressure upon her arm, but my shieldmaid finally, resentfully subsided. The soft feather-brushing around her had turned edged, almost metallic in its ringing, and had I needed it the sound—striking just behind my ear instead of arriving through its aperture in the usual way—would have warned me to consider my own speech carefully as well.

The Black-Wingéd select worthy fallen upon the battlefield, ’tis true. They also have a darker duty. It is they who pursue malefactors—oathbreakers, blasphemers, kinslayers, violators of innocence or hospitality, those who are utterly beyond the application of mortal vengeance. They drag those who have misused sacred things to the very depths, a country even Hel does not visit though she rules it as she does every afterworld save the few belonging to her fellow gods.

That is why their attention rests ever and anon upon the shieldmaids they take, not only to fill them with holy purpose but also to watch how those selected use their many gifts.

A few moments’ worth of restraining my shieldmaid’s anger also gave me time to think. If an Elder king wished to act thus without others witnessing the event—it was not even a proper flyting, for he did not speak in verse—he must have some deeper purpose.

I decided a neutral tone would be best. “The proper word is shieldmaid, my lord.” I said it slowly, enunciating each syllable as if teaching Naciel the finer points of southron pronunciation. “Have you aught else to ask your captives? We would not stay where we are unwanted.”

The silence trembled. Even the trees dared not whisper.

“I begin to think you almost half of what Aeredh claims.” Now Taeron Goldspear did me the honor of direct address, instead of aiming his words just past my skirts. “Tell me, alkuine, if I gave you safe passage from my lands, would you take the son of Hrasimir with you and never return?”

Is that his goal? “I doubt Tjorin would leave, my lord.” I sensed the true shape of his intent looming behind the words, but could not quite see its dimensions. It could not be so simple, could it?

But fathers are alike the world over. I could only imagine my own sire’s reaction, did Astrid seem enamored of one Eril the Battle-Mad considered deeply unworthy; naturally, if I were home I might even agree, and do my best to dissuade such a match.

“If you were to persuade him?” The Elder’s tone turned soft, cajoling. I could hardly believe it the same voice so insultingly misnaming my shieldmaid. “Surely it is within your capabilities.”

The metal-scratching noise mounted, soft and irresistible. I had never felt this during a negotiation before, for all I had been at my mother’s knee while she dispensed judgments and heard legal cases before I could speak.

“You wish us to buy our freedom by ridding you of a daughter’s suitor.” My voice spiraled high into disbelief, and I must have looked like Astrid after a child-simple riddle had been overexplained.

An Elder king, a fabled creature of power and wisdom, the author of all Laeliquaende’s beauty—impersonating a jealous father in a comic saga? The killing ice, the terror of liches and snow-hag, the destruction of an Elder city, the Mistwood with its pale, horrifying, long-legged weavers—and this king sounded like Erlik the Sheeplord at home, anxiously offering yearling ewes or a fraction of the flock’s shearing to a volva in order to turn aside a distasteful marriage prospect or bring about a better one.

A giggle rose in my throat, and I could not contain it. For the second time that day I laughed without restraint; I nearly bent double as after running with Naciel, my breath stolen and my heart thundering. Perhaps Lokji was passing by, for in his shadow much of import seems ridiculous and trivial matters assume large significance. He ever reads the secret desires of men and often grants them—but always with a twist.

Perhaps he had discerned my buried longing for adventure while going about busy days in Dun Rithell, and gifted me a terrifying realization of the desire.

I laughed until I wheezed, and Arneior’s silence beside me became far less cold. Invisible birds in rustling branches began to sing again, and the darkness did not seem nearly so deep. In fact, the gently bobbing blue lights brightened, at first imperceptibly but with gathering strength, and hot tears filled my eyes. One trickled down my cheek, a tiny flame-trail.

The fit passed in a series of gasping chuckles; I could barely draw enough air for words. “You…” I coughed, waved one hand helplessly like Albeig our housekeeper when overwhelmed by a barrage of useless tasks. “My lord…” Another spate passed through me, though of much diminished strength, and I was conscious of perhaps affronting this Elder king beyond any hope of repair.

And yet I could not care. “My lord,” I began again, wiping at my cheek, “you may cast me from the Leap if you think you have warriors enough to lose accomplishing the task, or you may return my shieldmaid and I to your barred cells. But I will not betray Tjorin son of Hrasimir in any wise, for he has been far more a friend to me than you. And when your daughter weds him I shall raise a toast at the feasting.”

And now I had to help a mortal win a boon and wed his Elder princess, for this king’s behavior provided me with more than just cause. I did not think he would see things in quite that light, but my mother raised me to know what the gods consider proper, and that is good enough.

Taeron Goldspear stood, a statue like many decorating his palace’s halls, and observed my merriment finishing its course. His expression did not change, but his eyes were no more than ordinary piercing blue once more and the silver at his brow did not flame. The throneroom’s gloom lightened considerably as he nodded, a short, thoughtful movement, and let the echoes of my words die before speaking again.

“Well enough,” said he. “Forgive my behavior, my lady alkuine; and you, shieldmaid of the Blessèd. I wished to discern your true natures, and such a thing is not done with empty politeness.”

“A test?” Arn was audibly underimpressed, but she did not strike her spear again. “You could have simply asked.”

“We live in the shadow of the Black Land, young one.” The sense of breathless menace had drained completely. Now the king of Waterstone was merely an Elder man in indigo cloth, his hands loose at his sides and his true age hidden behind their ever-seeming youth. For all that, a few fine lines were graven upon his face, almost shocking when one was so used to the amusement of his subjects—or even Aeredh’s light humor. “Nothing from beyond our walls is as it seems; all must be thoroughly examined. The son of Aerith vouches for you both, my Naciel has found you fit companions, and even my sister-son praises a Secondborn alkuine’s thoughtfulness. But ’tis with me the heavy burden of ensuring safety lies. I trust you will see the necessity, and grant me the chance to make amends.”

I had to half-turn; my gaze met Arn’s. Her eyebrows were drawn together, a thundercloud upon her brow, and her woad-stripe was dark in the halflight. For all that, her grip upon the spear was not white-knuckle with rage, and her mouth, while tight, was not entirely grimacing.

“If ’tis amends he seeks to make, I do not object,” she said, finally. “But I still say a king should choose his words with more care.”

“I shall seek to learn your language better then, shieldmaid.” He pronounced the title slowly, even mimicking the riverdwellers’ accent upon each syllable. “Will you do me the honor of a short walk, and share my evening table for the rest of your sojourn in Laeliquaende?”

The invitation was highly prized even among Elder, for it is not everyone who may attend a king’s daily banquets. I gave a somewhat neutral assent, still uncertain, but Taeron smiled as broadly as his daughter, and with such evident goodwill I could hardly believe him the same man.

That night we passed through evening gardens accompanied by birdsong, and the ruler of Waterstone exerted himself to be charming indeed. Of history he spoke, and of Elder ways, and sometimes of the properties of certain herbs or flowers as they nodded under a slackening breeze. With Arneior he discussed spear-play, and complimented the tales of her skill reaching him through her Elder sparring-partners. She did not quite thaw, for it is no small slander to call even a thrall what he had, let alone a shieldmaid.

For my part, I did not speak upon anything of import, nor did I inquire at the possible end of our captivity. If the Elder king hid a subtler test in his sudden politesse, I would not fail it. I did not mention the son of Hrasimir again.

Nor did he.

Guards in armor observed a polite distance, and other Elder strolled along the paths as well, sometimes singing, other times silent. The sky was dark, for clouds covered the stars, and when Taeron finally bid us good night my eyelids were heavy.

I did not know quite what to think, but at least he did not insult us again. And afterward the sense of being watched whenever we set foot outside our quarters was much diminished.

Which suited me well, for I had other matters needing attending.