The Fall of Waterstone

Every Effort to His Cause

Wed they were and the prize was theirs, yet both were spent and their friends struck down. The mortal was grievous wounded, and even Melair’s daughter was at the end of her strength. With no companion save each other, Bjornwulf and Lithielle found the Ice Door; there her despairing song found an echo, and in the realm of the High-helm were the lovers granted refuge.

—Anonymous, from the Paehallen Manuscript

The next morn rose silver-dripping and hushed, for clouds had come to earth. Mist filled the valley’s green bowl, though not nearly so thick and clinging as that of the Elder Roads, and for the first time I did not shudder thinking upon that part of our journey from Dun Rithell.

Arn told me I had awakened in the darkness again, gasping with terror and speaking of orange stars. I did not remember the dream, and though we were both disturbed there was no key to its meaning.

Tiny droplet-jewels decorated both leaf- and roof-edges, the fountains’ singing was hushed, and the Elder voices in the fog might have raised fine hairs all over both of us had we not become accustomed as mortal creatures could to Waterstone’s constant music.

Still, it took some courage to ask an Elder guard at the palace gate where the wolves of Naras could be found. The dark-eyed youth—he could have been as old as Aeredh, or Taeron himself—answered very politely indeed in the Old Tongue, yet looked somewhat surprised when I thanked him at the end of a long recitation of turnings and landmarks, setting off with Arn at my shoulder.

Any volva only needs a single listening to capture a saga in her ears; a shieldmaid hardly needs more. We passed into the vapor creeping between pale houses, gardens both green and varicolored softly blurred. Even with the fog I had little difficulty following the thread of directions, and finally Arn and I heard flurries of clash-chiming metal, low conversation, and laughter.

It sounded so much like the sparring-yard at Dun Rithell—warriors exchanging rough blows of sympathy, celebration, or practice—that I halted before peering around a corner as if I were a child again, fascinated by giants playing at the deadly business of combat.

A square building of stone the color of oatcakes stood proudly, low and rough but somehow welcoming as well, for though its proportions were elegant and its roof damp-darkened slate, it did not seem as remote or impersonal as many an Elder dwelling. Its windows had shutters of cheerfully painted wood, its doorways were full of oak bound with iron; two torches burned on either side of the largest, mortal orange instead of blue-tipped aelflame.

The Northerners were in their black garb, each familiar from our journey. There was stocky, heavy-browed Soren, his sword glinting as ruddy-haired Elak parried with a high shivering slitherclash. But they were both smiling, the former abstractly and the latter beaming with genuine goodwill. Their fight seemed more a dance, blades springing apart as soon as they touched.

Blue-eyed Gelad spun a dagger over his knuckles, giving the hilt a finger-tap as it flashed past, not looking at his handiwork while he spoke to Karas, whose hair was caught as usual in a leather club. Karas also had a knife out, its blade bearing the sweet curve of Elder work, but he was engaged upon whittling a length of dark wood. When he smiled at his fellow Northerner’s words the flash of teeth was very like the wolf who shared his skin, much whiter than many of Laeliquaende’s textures.

Efain was a little apart, as always; he had a stave nearly his own height, a dark-oiled length whirling through complicated forms. It did not look like spear-play, but there are ways to strike even with a length of firewood, and clearly he knew more than a few.

There also lingered the Elder who had accompanied us from Nithraen. Daerith the harpist perched upon the end of a stone trough, deep in conversation with Aeredh and Eol.

The captain of Naras listened as the Crownless made some point, his hands spread and eyebrows rising; Eol shook his dark head and seemed to disagree, a mutter of conversation too far away to pick out more than tone and rhythm. The other Elder were scattered about, watching the practice like Kaecil or engaged upon their own pursuits like Kirilit Two-Sword, who was examining arrows one by one before sliding them into quivers standing ready near his workbench.

Arn leaned close, looking over my shoulder. Her warmth was a comfort, for the mist was chill. The light Elder cloth of Naciel’s gifts was wondrous comfortable, but my fingers were almost numb. I could not tell if it was the weather or what I was about to attempt.

My shieldmaid did not sigh, nor did she speak. But she did bump me with her elbow, either a rough reminder that she was with me or an invitation to get on with affairs.

For now, all at once, we had much to achieve. I set my chin, pushed my shoulders back, and stepped forth to do battle.

Kirilit saw us first, and nodded a greeting. Next was Gelad, who smiled immediately, a fan of wrinkles spreading from the corners of his eyes to match the lines bracketing his mouth. Karas’s hands paused, a curl of wood falling away from his work; Aeredh caught sight of me and halted between one word and the next. Eol turned, following the line of his friend’s gaze. Daerith’s expression, after a quick glance in my direction, turned set and somber as if I were a bad smell.

I did not nervously touch my torc, nor push my sleeves back to show my bands. At another steading or greathall I would not have approached warriors at their work without displaying those, even with Arn at my side; it did not seem necessary in an Elder city.

Eol did not look away, though his brow creased as I approached. The music of swordplay did not diminish, nor did the slight whistle of Efain’s stave as it clove air, married to the slight rough sounds of his footwork.

All else fell silent, though, and ’twas as uncomfortable as delivering a legal summons to an angry warlord.

“Eol of Naras.” I did not perform one of Naciel’s courtesies, for we were both Secondborn. “I would speak with you.”

“Ah.” Eol glanced at Aeredh, who swiftly averted his gaze. Small beads of moisture were caught in the heir of Naras’s hair, and the Elder’s as well. “Yes. Certainly.”

I waited, but he said nothing else. “Privately, as an ally.” Come now, son of Tharos. Surely you will not force me to make my errand public. Of course, if he did I could use the event to my advantage… but it would not be fitting.

Not with the Elder listening. Who knew what they thought of Naciel’s intended husband? I had no reason to think even Aeredh would look upon the matter kindly, for all he seemed to like the company of certain mortals well enough.

“Yes.” Eol straightened, and motioned with one hand toward a deserted corner of the stone-paved courtyard. A great black-barked tree stood there, gnarled roots digging between blocks of dressed rock in a fashion half-planned, half-natural, as many things grow when the Elder are nearby. “Of course.”

“Ai, Lady Minnow!” Gelad hailed my shieldmaid, but softly. “Care for a round?”

“I have no time to dance this morning, son of Aerenil.” Still, she paid him the honor of a nod. “But when I am at leisure I will send you into the dirt again.”

“What of Efain?” Karas’s grin was nearly ear to ear. “He will not spar with us now, says we are too slow.”

“Soon enough.” Arn’s cheeks pinkened, even the left one under her woad. She paused a few paces from the tree and rested her spear’s blunt end upon stone, turning away from the conversation I was about to attempt.

Which left me in the shade of spreading, mist-drenched branches with the heir of Naras. The leaves did not rustle, hanging still and gilded, and I took a deep breath. “I have not seen you for some days.” I sounded anxious even to myself. “You are well?”

“How can I not be?” The Old Tongue, accented sharply; he gave a slight shake of his dark head, as if tossing away an unpleasant thought. “Has Maedroth approached you again, my lady? If so—”

“The Watchful does not trouble me.” I wondered at the immediate question, and the sharp glint in his dark gaze. “Though I will see him at table in the evenings from now on, I am told. Naciel does not let him near us, but that is not what I came to speak of.”

“My apologies.” Eol’s hands hung loose at his sides, though even in this presumed safety he bore his sword. The hilt, its clear jewel unwrapped, did not glitter vengefully today. Perhaps it slept, lulled by the mist. “Speak, then, my lady Question. What would you have of me?”

Very well. Let us see how well I toss my dice.“I would ask the use of your three strongest men.”

“The… use of them?” So often while speaking to me, the heir of Naras looked slightly puzzled. Perhaps my southron was too accented, or my Old Tongue not precise enough.

“We are allies, are we not?” I had to restrain the urge to add more; a warrior must not spend his strength too soon in a match, and neither must a negotiator.

“My three strongest?” Eol’s jaw firmed, and he stiffened slightly. “Escape from here is neither possible nor advisable, and in any case winter still—”

“’Tis not for that, my lord.” Did he think me stupid enough to risk an open attack on the Hidden Passage? It almost stung. “Oh—do they know how to swim, your wolves? I should have asked that first.”

“Swim?” It was the first time I saw Eol of Naras look most entirely baffled, and a sliver of the boy he must have been peered through the expression. “By the Blessed, my lady, what exactly is it you intend? I may ask your purpose, may I not?”

“I suppose so.” It was far too early to tell if I had the battle’s advantage, and my heart beat thinly all through me. “’Tis for Tjorin’s sake; we need rowers, for the boat.”

“Rowers.” He repeated the word as if he did not know what it meant in southron; I wondered if I should use the Old Tongue.

“Yes.” Bjorn would have understood in an instant, Astrid even more quickly. I glanced aside and caught sight of Aeredh watching this conference with a curious expression, blue eyes bright and his mouth drawn down at either corner. “Tjorin means to win the spring race upon Egeril. Arn will call the rhythm, and I will help as well. But we need rowers, and I would not ask any Elder, for both Taeron and Maedroth are against the marriage.”

“By the…” Eol trailed off, and he studied me as if I had begun speaking in a language neither southron, Elder, nor of the fabled lands south-over-sea. “You mean to…”

“Are you unwilling?” I pressed. “There is none other I may ask, Eol of Naras, but should you refuse it will not alter my course.”

“I believe that much, my lady.” The Northern captain paused, examining my expression. A plain dagger hung at his belt, familiar from our journey. “So, Tjorin has earned your aid.”

“Naciel has treated me well, and so has he.” No more explanation was needed, yet I sensed granting a further detail could perhaps aid my case. “They are my friends.”

Eol absorbed the news with no change of expression. His armor, equally familiar, had been mended at the shoulder where the nathlàs’s blade-point had pierced; the repair-work did not look Elder. “And were I to grant this, would I be your friend as well?”

I could not answer for a moment. I was his sworn ally, yet little more than a prize for his Elder companion; why did he feel the need to utter such a question?

“Never mind,” he continued, hastily. “I should not ask such things. If this is your desire, my lady Solveig, I will see it done.”

I had to pause again, for I had expected far more argument. All my carefully arranged points, my appeals to logic and right behavior, proved unnecessary yet still crowded in my throat, wishing to be used. “You will?” I quelled the urge to take a step backward, my skirt whispering as I shifted from one foot to the other.

“You have little reason to trust my word, I know.” A faint stain of bitterness lay upon the words. His right hand tensed slightly, as if he wished to touch the dagger’s hilt. “But I have sworn full truth in our dealings henceforth, and to that I hold. I am merely surprised, for the race is in a nineday.”

Only nine?Well, we had been here for some while already. I wondered why Taeron had not called us to his presence sooner, but the Elder see no delay in mere mortal moonturns. “Time moves strangely amid the Elder indeed,” I murmured.

“I have found it so, yes.” Eol glanced aside again, a quick-shifting movement like the wolf sharing his skin. There was no ripple of its attention passing through him, though, and the sigil upon his shoulder did not howl, merely seeming thoughtful though its jaws stretched wide. “We have heard summat of the race. Efain is our best archer and Gelad knows how to swim, I think; in Dorael he spent much time with the fisherfolk. Aeredh will want to—”

“He is Elder,” I objected, immediately. I did not see what need we had for an archer, but that was a small matter. “And the king’s friend, is he not? I do not think it wise for him to know our purpose.”

“We can hardly hide it from him, if we mean to practice. He will not take it ill, my lady. Trust me.” A shadow passed over Eol’s face. “If you can.”

“Very well.” The thought that I would not willingly trust the Crownless again was not fit to be uttered, so I dammed it in my chest. Now, like a good ally, I had to add what I could to the agreement, in thanks and as a hedge for further negotiation. Or simply because I wished to behave with exceeding correctness, as befit Gwendelint’s eldest daughter. “Eol.” My hand twitched, fell back to my side; had I been about to touch his arm? “I have not forgotten.”

He did not notice the movement, thankfully. “Forgotten?”

“Others have mentioned a curse upon Naras.” I had practiced this speech in my head more than once, and I was lucky or blessed, for it unreeled smoothly. “I thought at first you wished me as weregild in order to deal with it, for a volva is often called upon to break maledictions. Even if you denied me aid in this I would seek to offer all the remedy I may for your trouble. It is only right.”

“You thought… ah. I see.” A flush touched his shaven cheeks, perhaps a reaction to the chill damp. He studied my shoulder as if it were a statue’s offered for study, and the stone in his throat bobbed as he swallowed, hard. “Do not trouble yourself upon that matter, my lady. The curse is of the Enemy’s making, and only death will free me of it.”

Did he think me so incompetent? “For every bad seidhr there is a remedy; it is the nature of the thing.” I could not say his estimation was incorrect; I had been of singularly little use during our entire voyage to this strange place. And yet, it stung. “I am merely a riverside wisewoman, but I might be able to offer some relief. Do not discount me so easily.”

“The Blessed know I do not.” The Old Tongue slipped between his teeth, almost as if drawn by force. “Forgive me. I mean to say, you are no doubt meant for more than that. Put it from your mind, and tell Tjorin he has his rowers. Naras will give every effort to his cause, for our ally’s sake.”

“I thank you upon his account and my own, then.” Perhaps it was the joy of success after such a long string of failures. My heart leapt, and I bounced upon my toes like Astrid preparing to go a-marketing. I was also, I could tell, grinning like a fool—but that was of no consequence. “But do not think I shall forget your troubles, my lord Eol. I would be a poor ally if I did.”

“No need.” The flush mounted, and he looked pained again. Perhaps he disliked being maneuvered into something Aeredh would not approve of. “But none of us have used oars before, my lady.”

“Tomorrow at dawn, Naciel will meet your chosen ones at the northwestron gate and bring you to a place where we may practice. As long as your men listen to Arn’s commands, they will do well enough—and we are riverfolk, Eol. We will not let them come to harm.” My heart beat high and hard within me, for the thought of being upon the water again was unexpectedly comforting. Arn and I hurried away, for Tjorin was in the library poring over maps and accounts of previous races, learning what he could of the river’s tricks.

Finally, finally, there was summat I knew how to do, and I could perhaps redeem a few of my failures.