The Fall of Waterstone

Victory and Weariness

Yet the son of Hrasimir heeded the counsel which had spoken to him from the sea, and did not beg for what he already possessed. Nor did he seek aught for himself, instead rendering aid to one who had not asked it. His wife’s father was silent for a long while, the sounds of merrymaking roaring as stormy surf all ’round. And the Crownless turned pale, for alone of his companions he guessed what grief lay ahead…

—Daerith the Younger, Of the Unfinished Council

Ihave ever disliked crowds, finding even riverside fairs difficult to endure for long. Among the celebrating Elder were a sprinkling of children, but none clamoring for a volva’s minor seidhr-tricks; women, but none seeking brewing-blessings or a word upon their sons’ marriage prospects; warriors, but none looking for a legal judgment or approval of a saga-rhyme; girls, but none approaching bright-eyed to ask for a spindle-blessing; youths, but none seeking a prophecy for future greatness or aid in negotiating a good match.

Most Elder paused in their merriment to lift goblet or rhyton in our direction. Others cried aloud at our approach. I was hailed as alkuine, Arn as maiden-of-steel since the Old Tongue does not have a word for shieldmaid. Here comes the Riversinger, they sang, and Minnow-so-sharp—for my seidhr upon the water had been witnessed, and the wolves of Naras named Arneior Lady Minnow, remarking upon the quickness of her spear.

The titles might have delighted both of us in a different setting, for to earn such names even at your own hall—let alone elsewhere—is no small honor. Arn accepted the cheers with a shieldmaid’s polite indifference, inclining her coppery head at intervals. It was my duty to smile graciously, occasionally lifting my hands to display my marks, and my face felt ever more like a mask.

The springwine burned in my limbs, but inwardly I felt only weariness, and longed for quiet.

Taeron Goldspear’s pavilion was vast, fabric the color of evergreens embroidered with pale verticals impersonating a grove of slim young silverbark birch, and I could not examine the ropes holding it aloft or wonder at the secrets of its construction and raising. Elder guards saluted as we passed, and even Floringaeld the golden-haired seemed glad to see us, shepherding Arn and me through heavy-draped flaps serving as the main door.

Once inside the crowd-noise was muffled and sweetness lingered upon the air from smokeless braziers scattered at intervals. The carpets were woven to resemble grass, and laid cunningly so as not to damage earth or plants underneath. Cloth dividers stitched with lifelike forest scenes rippled slightly as the breeze made the entire structure move—not enough to seem dangerous, merely imparting the semblance of life to a stitchery doe raising her shy head, a cloth bird flapping its wings, sewn branches swaying.

I cannot say I was unimpressed. Nor can I say I felt the wonder I once would have at the sight, either.

The king was not alone. On a vast carpet-lawn strewn with tiny blue fabric sudelma-lithielle, pillows like boulders gave shelter. Naciel looked up from her harp and smiled, her happiness so intense a faint blue shimmer rippled about her just as her beautiful hair. Tjorin, looking almost like an Elder save for his ears as rounded as mine or Arn’s, rose and came to greet us, still wearing the laekeri victory-wreath.

Eol stood a little apart, in a fresh set of Northern black cloth; Aeredh had a hand upon his shoulder and was speaking earnestly in low tones. Daerith the harpist raised a silver chalice in our direction, for it seemed we had temporarily earned his approbation.

Floringaeld did not precisely crowd behind us, but he did let down another fall of cloth, further shielding our small gathering from outside noise. He saluted his king; I could not study Taeron’s mood, for Tjorin had reached us.

“Gifts of the Blessed, Aeredh calls you twain.” The son of Hrasimir indicated his own dark head with a swift motion. “By all rights the crown belongs to you instead. I doubted you before the race, though only in my silence. I was wrong and freely admit as much. My House is in your debt, now and hereafter.”

“’Tis no large matter.” This was, I told myself, no worse than the morning after a solstice feast when the thorniest legal cases are brought and a volva must lend her weight to or against certain judgments even if exhausted from merrymaking or other duties. “Arn is one of our finest callers; I did not compete often at home, but any child of Dun Rithell is at home upon the water. The wolves of Naras must be given their due, for they wielded the oars well, and Efain’s shot was a marvel to witness.” I inclined my chin in Eol’s direction, attempting to include Daerith in the motion. “Not to mention the songmaster of Nithraen, who lent his bow.”

“A modest child.” Daerith took a draught of whatever filled his cup, but the phrase in the Old Tongue held grudging approval with no tint of scorn. “It was used well,” he continued in southron, “and has earned its name afresh.”

I was full of springwine, but I longed for some of Albeig’s roast fowl or daybread with river sand in the crumb. Even a rind of hard cheese, bitter greens, or the marrowbones of a feast would have been welcome. Something honest and mortal to chew, and a place to rest without music or voices. Returning to the boat and climbing into its shelter sounded wonderful; I simply could not tell how to free myself of this current obligation in order to do so.

“Come.” Naciel laid her harp aside and rose, fluidly. The gleaming about her would not abate no matter how much I blinked; I was seeing too much after the morning’s vast effort. “Sit beside me, victory does not preclude weariness. Arneior, my strong friend, your spear was touched by no other; that I may swear.”

Arn acknowledged the princess’s care with the salute shieldmaids perform to a woman they respect, and followed me to Naciel’s side. The men drew closer, giving pride of place to Taeron, and I realized this was to be a council instead of interrogation or banquet.

Very well.I settled upon one of the boulder-pillows, grateful it was not oversoft. Arn disdained that comfort, but she did brace her spear upon the carpets and stand at my shoulder. Floringaeld and Eol chose to stand as well, the Captain of the Guard with hand to hilt and the heir of Naras with a set jaw, his palms still pinkish-raw from the bite of oars.

Those with two skins heal swiftly, but even their great strength may be taxed by such a feat. And I wondered about the other marks, covered by his tunic.

Many are the songs of our Althing, like the tales of the Council of Redhill; contrary to most assertions we did not each craft a verse of poetry extolling Laeliquaende or the might of white-maned Naricie while the valley celebrated spring’s return. Instead, the Elder and Northerners spoke largely in southron, perhaps out of new-gained deference to their captives, and Taeron began not by invoking the gods nor by threatening to have Tjorin cast from the Leap for his daring as some would have it.

Instead, the king fixed Aeredh with a steady look. “Say what you will, old friend. I am not so shameless as to be angered when proven wrong.”

“I have never thought you thus.” The Crownless, perched upon a large dark-grey cushion bearing a resemblance both to well-felted wool and hard stone at once, tilted his dark head with a rueful smile.

His ear-tips poked through silken hair, sharp and distinct; I was surprised such things no longer seemed strange. There is no oddity so great that constant sight of it will not induce a manner of normalcy; all who travel outside their own steadings know as much.

“Then you do me great honor.” The High-helm turned his address to me next. “Lady alkuine, you seem to have recovered from your journey hence, and now I would hear how you came to my valley. I have heard Aeredh’s tale, and that of Naras. Yet it is my preference to weigh what every creature would say, not merely those whose words may please. Before you begin, though, allow me to apologize once more for testing your temper upon our second meeting. Many are the snares of the Enemy, yet it is not fitting to do his work by offering insult to guests.”

So Taeron’s restraint had been merely to allow us recovery? And we were guests now. Yet I did not think it likely we could take our leave at will, nor did it seem wise to say, My brother murdered Eol’s, and thus I was taken. I had maneuvered us into allyship instead of the paying of a life-debt, freed of galling over-obedience and answerable to Naras only as a fellow warlord might be.

But I well remembered the hints of treachery before they knew I understood the Old Tongue as well as my own. What guest will comfortably speak of such things? Not to mention the morning’s work, helping to win a boon from a man who did not wish his daughter married to one of my kind.

What, indeed, could I reasonably say?

These considerations and more flashed through my head as I arranged my skirts, as if admiring the weave of Elder cloth. Arn’s silence at my shoulder was a comforting steady glow, like coals deep in a winter night, and had this been a contest of physical strength she might have taken a moment to brace herself as well.

“How came we to your valley?” I said it slowly, as if surprised by the question. “My lord king, we walked.”

My statement was greeted with a long pause. Eol’s mouth twitched; Aeredh gazed at me as if I had said summat faintly obscene. Naciel’s finely sculpted eyebrows rose, and Tjorin glanced at Arn as if she could translate the words.

“You… walked.” Taeron did not sound baffled, merely pleasantly interested. Wise was the king of Waterstone, for I suspect he sensed my dilemma when I paused before speaking, and waited to see how I would surmount it.

“Sometimes we rode,” I amended. I raised my chin, and the seidhr still resonating inside me leapt across the space between us.

He, like Curiaen son of Faevril, had attempted to use that force to discover my intentions. Now I offered what I would not let either of them take, inviting him to peer inside my heart.

Not far, mind you; there are things in anyone, Elder or Secondborn, which should remain private. Yet there is a flavor discerned from such contact between two creatures, each with weirding of their own, and if there is evil intent it smokes with bitterness.

Naciel’s father was much like winterwine, though distilled to clear burning strength instead of the filling almost-solidity of that draught. A giving tension stretched between us like skilled fingers spinning wool into thread, or a mother’s hand guiding her daughter’s first work with a small shuttle.

I was aware of a half-swallowed laugh. “We should name her Lady Answer instead,” Eol muttered, and Aeredh made a stifled sound as well.

But Taeron merely settled further upon his seat. His hands lay upon his thighs, palms upward, and again the fillet at his ageless brow caught more than its fair share of light. I did not quite see his subtle selves, yet for a moment we were only a breath apart, sounding like adjacent strings upon his daughter’s harp.

A burst of music lifted outside, Tjorin’s name clearly audible in a long string of accented Elder words, paired with Naciel’s at the end of the phrase. The king of Laeliquaende nodded in answer, though I had not spoken; I felt the motion in my own flesh.

“I am not what you think,” I said, quietly, as if he were Idra upon a long afternoon spent in her small, snugly thatched cottage, seidhr passing between teacher and student. Some things cannot be taught, they must be felt, sure as Efain’s grasping for a target or Arn’s inward sense of propriety and right action.

“No,” the king agreed. “But you are, in some measure, what I have feared. Do not be alarmed—” His right hand twitched, as if to forestall Daerith’s interjection, which died upon a sharp inhale. “’Tis a mere fact. A pattern is at work here, as Aeredh of Nithraen says.”

“Would that I did not see it.” The Crownless was no longer smiling. “I would give all that remains unto me for the certainty of being wrong.” A shadow of the Old Tongue rode behind the words; what he wished to say could be more perfectly expressed in its syllables, and pressed against the bars of another language. “Never have I heard of a second alkuine, Elder or Secondborn. And to find this one as we did beggars belief.”

Perhaps you did not ride far enough south.I throttled my immediate objection, yet Taeron must have sensed it.

“Nor have the ravens upon the peaks or the waters which whisper through my lands heard tell of another.” He looked to Floringaeld. “What of our borders, my captain?”

Our erstwhile jailor cleared his throat. “The woods outside the Ice Door are cold, and darkness gathers. You would not think it spring, for there is little melt; there is movement, but of what we cannot discern, for it stays just beyond the limit of our sensing. The animals are frightened, and the trees do not speak. It could merely be the end of a hard winter’s quiet… yet my heart misgives me, my lord. The Guard is likewise uneasy, to a man.”

“And you, heir of Naras?” Taeron addressed Eol, whose gaze did not move.

Indeed, he watched the tips of my slippers as if some mystery was to be solved in the stitchery. “Nothing but a trace of mud in a few streams,” Eol said, heavily. “Where the waters enter the valley, and it could simply be the loosening of winter’s belt. But it smells of something ill—though only a whiff. A whisper.”

Naciel studied her hands, lying in her lap. I thought Taeron might ask her summat, but the king merely regarded his daughter for a few moments, then addressed the gathering as a whole.

“So far our fastness remains undiscovered; the Enemy, like many an evil creature, is so busy with subterfuge he does not compass what is in plain sight. Faeron-Alith keeps its ancient watch, as does Galath. Dorael is yet too mighty to fall, though that grace may be of short duration.” The High-helm paused, a shadow dimming his bright gaze, and the tent’s interior turned still. “Aenarian Greycloak is dying.”

Shock printed itself upon every face save mine and, I suspect, Arneior’s—we did not know enough to be surprised, and I was busy absorbing the implications of the watch kept upon the valley’s borders. No wonder Taeron could deal with Arn and me at leisure; why hurry, when one is ageless and there is no chance of prey’s escape?

I had heard of the Greycloak, true, a high king among the Elder; even in the south his name was spoken, though ’twas held he had passed from our lands to the West long ago like all his kind, and collections of sayings or sagas featuring him were ancient indeed. Some even thought him a garbled legend like all things to do with the Black Land or the Children of the Star, a distant truth embroidered over and over until the original pattern is lost.

“You know this of a certainty?” Daerith stiffened, and his shoulders curved inward as if he had been struck. “But… the Cloak-Weaver…”

I had not just studied maps of the valley, of course, but also what I could of the North itself. I had seen the breadth of what they called Dorael, embellished with stylized trees—for it was a vast forest, wrapped in a maze of bewilderment even the Enemy’s servants could not pass through. We had brushed its edges before turning north into the Mistwood’s numbing shrouds upon our journey here, emerging onto the Glass.

“Melair’s love is great, and her grief at losing their daughter just as sharp.” Taeron’s tone was studiously neutral. “Her husband has been bleeding of the wound since ’twas made. The ravens spoke to me in the high places, my friends; it will not be long. And then what of Dorael?”

Naciel’s hand had crept to Tjorin’s. Their fingers interlaced.

“Melair cannot mean to leave their people unprotected, even if Aenarian embarks for the Shadowed Halls.” Daerith shook his head, almost angrily; he had, I thought, some kin in that land. “Surely… surely she…”

“Even grief may kill,” Aeredh murmured, his gaze resting near my knees—clearly not seeing green-and-silver cloth, but merely his own thoughts.

“The secrecy of Laeliquaende does not merely protect our own folk.” Floringaeld, too, spoke as if the Old Tongue wished to pierce the screen of its descendant; he did not look at us, but I sensed it took effort to refrain. “To send forth what was gained with such great cost is a fool’s errand, and if none other will say it I must.”

I could also grasp the implications of that. The Elder weapon in its doorless tower might be carried elsewhere and I along with it, to keep from being used by the Enemy.

Arn and I had won a victory upon the water, yet it was utterly empty. Nothing had changed; we were still to be dragged hither and yon at the pleasure of these men.

Eol of Naras cleared his throat; after the Elder voices, his was much harsher. “Perhaps we should ask Lady Solveig’s counsel, since she is the gift of the Blessed.”

Oh, so now he thought to ask my opinion? Better late than not at all, as the wife of Narjik the Tardy said to their ill-tempered lord. I had little chance to answer, though, for Naciel spoke once more, aiming the words at clear air instead of any particular person.

“And where is my cousin the Watchful? No royal move is made without his counsel, after all.”