The Fall of Waterstone

Small Trinkets

For many long years the Enemy searched, and could not find. What dark joy must have been his when news of the traitor was brought; what foul glee must have filled the ironbound heart! He refrained from movement for some short while, for little gives evil greater pleasure than brooding upon the ruin of its victims.

—Gaeran the Vine-singer, Lament

Ido not know how long I stood, numbly gripping a cold metal balustrade. Orange pinpricks raced along, flame passed from hand to hand—while darkness fell and the Elder celebrated, attackers had infiltrated, veining the valley’s margin with unlit torches. Outlying halls, cottages, wineries, and other structures fell swiftly and were set alight.

Even the ravens upon the peaks, bringing Taeron word of the outside world, had not seen the Black Land’s forces. Tucked so close to that dread place was a certain safety, yes—the Spur, as Laeliquaende’s mountains were called, came from the Marukhennor both high and broad, fading into a long chain of hills running between Nithraen and Dorael—but only so long as the Enemy did not know precisely where to strike.

The deep blue of twilight gave way to a shadow stretching from the north, blotting out weak, wavering stars. It was not merely physical, that darkness; an ill seidhr wove through as it unfurled. It followed the torchlit companies as they ran, the vanguard full of hardy orukhar chosen for size and speed, their pale hides now safe from the assault of sunshine and their heavy swords with triangular flags at the tips whistling. Kwiseirh the Elder called that sound, deeper and far more terrible than a grappling-arrow’s song.

Moving swiftly between marching columns as they fanned across the valley floor came smaller ashen-skinned fighters smeared with crimson paint, straddling noisome mounts bred in vast kennels under Agramar. The scale-covered things were vaguely doglike in shape, ferociously clawed and fanged, selected for viciousness and speed, trained for war, and encouraged to consume the flesh of fallen foes.

The bells were a welter of confusion, sounds of flight and havoc mounting. Yet I was in a small space of silent stunned calm, a floodborne branch temporarily wedged between rocks. I could not move, watching the approaching disaster and unable to guess at its true dimensions.

More cries, now drawing closer. The music was gone, shivered into fragments, and the sound of the river could not surmount this chaos. I might have stayed there mired in horror longer yet, if not for movement at the edge of my vision, a shadow suddenly looming.

My heart leapt into my throat, and perhaps I made some sound as I was spun, hands clasping my upper arms bruising-hard. A stray reflection showed a face, blue eyes near incandescent and stark fear leaping in my chest like a spark to dry tinder.

Aeredh held me pinioned for a moment, his gaze searching, and his lips moved slightly. I did not know what he said, but his expression was terrible even as it turned to relief scarcely less intense than previous fury. The breath left me in a rush, and the Crownless did a strange thing.

His grip changed; he pulled me forward, off-balance. A brief, clamp-grip hug, the sudden warmth of his body underscoring how the wind from the water had turned cold by degrees—I had not noticed, for gradual changes creep upon one slowly as a hunting granary cat.

Aeredh let go, but only to seize my hand. “Come.” He had to shout over fresh tumult; those a little farther from the city were now attempting to reach its safety. “Come with me.”

I could not have gainsaid him, and indeed never thought of it. He near lifted me off my feet and drew me between two tents, their fabric sides trembling as the breeze rose.

We plunged into a stream of hurrying Elder. In such a crush one may be thrown down and turned to paste, people turned to senseless beasts by terror. But the Elder held fast to one another, the taller bearing up the slighter and shorter, so we were carried along much as the boat had ridden riverspray that morn.

The road’s shining pavers were lost under a crowd. A young dark-haired child sobbed, standing at the wayside, until a passing guard scooped her into armored arms and vanished with more-than-mortal speed, his boots flickering. Aeredh aimed us between groups of running Elder, seeming to know when and how they would separate. Small glittering ornaments fell from hair or wrist, neck or finger, many breaking against the stone; a tent collapsed, its lines snapping with high sweet sounds.

I was breathless, shaken, and surprised the slippers were not torn from my feet. But they hardly touched the ground; such was the son of Aerith’s effort that the high narrow northwestron gate of Laeliquaende swallowed us well before the vast vineyards of Tahn Emael were set ablaze.

The bells echoed through every stone-paved valley between buildings. Elder were hurrying to the armories, rushing to the walls. Some attempted to impose a measure of order upon the throngs streaming through the gates, and were nearly drowned out or buffeted from their feet. But Aeredh carried me along, and a dizzying succession of houses, workshops, repositories, arcades, and other structures blurred by upon either side until finally the palace loomed above us. Such was its size that when we raced through a postern—a guard with a set expression under his tight-buckled helm recognizing us both, a naked blade in his grasp full of faint blue steelglow—the clamor was muted somewhat.

I finally gained some breath and a measure of wit. “Arn,” I said, and sought to arrest our wild career. “Arneior!” I might as well have attempted to halt a landslide with a single piece of firewood.

Aeredh glanced down at me, a single flash of blue. “Naciel,” he said, and it was one of the few times I ever heard him breathless. “Or Eol. They will care for her.”

No, I am her charge, and she will be looking for me.I attempted again to stop, but he took little notice, like a mother with a resisting youngling. “Stop! Aeredh—”

“Soft, gift-of-the-Blessed. I will let no harm come to thee.”Our speed diminished, a garden’s cool dimness enfolded us. The bells still pealed, and the city trembled, but as we finally slowed a fountain could be heard and a green hill, silvered by twilight, rose underfoot.

At its crown, bone-white, a doorless tower reared.

My skirts swung heavily as he set me down, and I staggered. Aeredh moved to steady me, but I struck his hand away, an instinctive recoiling. His arm fell to his side, and in the shadow I could barely see his face. Just those eyes, like blue gems.

“Solveig.” How did he sound so gentle, even as his ribs heaved? He recovered far more swiftly than a mortal would. “The Enemy has found this place, by what means I know not. It is no longer safe.”

Orange stars.I shuddered. Seidhr had indeed warned me of this—but not with enough clarity. “Yet you dragged me here.”

“Carried, I would say.” He glanced over my shoulder, a flicker of motion. His hair was a dark mass. “It will take time for them to breach the city, and even more to break into the palace. But we should hurry.”

“Should we not flee?” I backed away—a single step—and froze when his hand twitched as if he would restrain me, the small movement visible even in the gloaming. “I must find Arn; Eol will be looking for you. Why are we here?” I wanted to add, of all places, or something even less mannerly.

Was he planning on ridding the world of an alkuine to keep her from his Enemy’s forces? The thought would not leave me, and I took another cautious rearward step.

“I know you do not trust me. But listen, please.” He did not move; the swordhilt rising over his shoulder was familiar from our journey, though he sometimes had not carried it in the palace.

Had he suspected this might happen? I could not remember if he had worn it to the council in the great tent, and that bothered me.

It is not like a volva to forget such a detail.

I sought to order my thoughts, control my ragged breathing. “The tower has no windows, no doors. Only the king knows the secret of its opening.” My voice shook. “I can do nothing here; we must flee. And quickly.”

“Taeron is not the only one who knows the secret, now.” Aeredh still did not move, but I sensed readiness quivering in him, a serpent-spring coiled tight, waiting for release. “You and your shieldmaid aided Tjorin son of Hrasimir, and he asked a boon of the High-helm. You were not present during the event.”

Waterstone’s bells rang frantically, no longer in complete unison. The clamor, though distant, still pressed against ear and throat, constricting my lungs. “He wanted to marry Naciel,” I whispered.

“I thought he would ask for that too.” An easy shrug, as if Aeredh did not after all care about a union between one of his kind and my own. “But the princess informed her father she was already wed, whether he willed it or not, and Tjorin asked for summat else.”

“No. I wanted to help him, not you.” The truth bolted from my mouth like a panicked horse, and the Crownless outright flinched.

The ageless, immortal Elder who had driven away a lich upon the road to Nithraen, who had carried me through the killing cold, stiffened and shrank slightly. As if I had struck him.

When he spoke his tone was measured, though urgency burned behind each word. “I did not ask Hrasimir’s son for this manner of aid, though I suspect you will not believe me. I assumed Naciel would tell you after the celebration was over, we did not think—please, Solveig, I beg of you, we have no time. I know how to gain entrance to Taeron’s tower, and inside it you will find one of Faevril’s masterworks. I ask that you bring it forth, so we may take it—and you—to a place of greater safety.”

“Oh, is that your plan? To move me from one Elder prison to the next, along with this weapon you wish me to wield? I cannot, Aeredh. I will not.” I turned, though there was little hope of fleeing him—and if I did, where would I go? I had to find Arneior.

We might yet be able to run, swift as Naciel had taught us, for the Hidden Passage and the Ice Door beyond. The guards there might not gainsay us under these conditions. Perhaps they would even be glad to see our backs.

“Solveig.” Aeredh lunged, and his hand closed around my right arm. He did not squeeze, but the strength in Elder fingers is such that he could easily snap a bone if I attempted to break free. “’Tis not for myself I ask. The Enemy cannot wield what he has taken, for even when he had all the Jewels—harken to me, I know not what the things are capable of, for Faevril never said and before they were stolen…” His grip was iron, though it did not bruise, and I sought frantically to pull away. “Stop, Solveig. Listen. The Enemy does not merely wish to reclaim Lithielle’s prize. He will want you as well, and if you think me cruel it is nothing to what he will do if his servitors acquire you.”

I leaned away from him, uselessly, with no more chance of escape than a rabbit deep in a wolf’s jaws. “Acquire me?” Like a thrall, a sheep traded between halls—

“He does not send the Seven to fetch small trinkets, my lady, and we were hunted by more than one of those riders all through Mistwood and the Glass.” Aeredh set me gently upon my feet again, and the only thing more frightening than the strength in his grasp was the care he must have taken not to mark my mortal flesh. “The Enemy knew of you well before we reached Redhill, probably before we reached the Eastronmost. I suspect that was why he attacked Nithraen after many hundred years of waiting, and why he has not yet moved against Dorael or Faeron’s lands.” He looked up again, scanning our environs; the garden was deadly quiet. Once more I was in a bubble of hush while the world outside disintegrated into chaos. “It is not for myself I ask, Solveig of Dun Rithell. It is to save your people as well, for if we are defeated the Enemy will reach out his hand to the South and beyond. Would you like me to beg? I will, upon my knees or even my face. Please, alkuine.” He had never sounded thus before—pleading, desperate—in all our journeying. “Help me. Help us, and your own mortal kind.”

“You could have simply asked me to travel hence,” I whispered. “To take up this thing. You could have explained.” Still, would I have believed him in Dun Rithell? Or even at Redhill? At Nithraen?

“Could I?” The inquiry was sharp, almost as a shieldmaid prodding her charge to proper behavior. “Our errand to the south was urgent and secret enough, for we knew the Enemy was stirring. Once we found you… I do not know if whispers of your existence had already reached him by then, for his spies are everywhere. And once we arrived here I thought it best to give you what peace could be found, for your grief and weariness were plain.” His shoulders softened, and so did his tone. “I thought we had more time.”

The bellsong changed once more—no less strident, but a pattern asserted itself. “What is that?” My lips were numb. The rest of me, limbs and central pillar, could not decide whether it was warm or cold, trembling or still.

“Closing the city gates, I think.” At least he had some certainty, some idea of what was transpiring. It was an unexpected comfort. “We must be swift. Please, Solveig. Will you enter the tower?”

Once more upon that terrible day an Elder and I resonated like twin strings, and such was the Crownless’s desperation that he was laid open to my seidhr.

His despair was real enough, a creeping dark flame eating at bone and vitals alike. He was not like Taeron, winterwine refined to clear stinging strength. The cold blue glow of Elder suffused the son of Aerith, subtle selves burning with inhuman vitality, and though he ever kept his counsel close at that moment he was almost transparent to me.

I do not know what it cost him, for baring yourself to that degree is never comfortable. But I found that he believed what he said to be true, and furthermore, that he regretted what he had done to me. That remorse lay cheek-by-jowl with another feeling, one so strange and alien-powerful I retreated from it with all the speed my own seidhr granted, lunging away.

It was a purely internal movement, for my physical self could not stir a single step.

His hand fell to his side. “Please,” he repeated, and behind the word in my tongue lay the older form in his, vibrating low and broken. “I beg of thee, my lady. The Enemy’s forces approach. You are the only hope.”

I would have looked to Arneior to see what I should do, but she was elsewhere—and now I had only one hope as well, that she was not outside the city searching for me amid a tide of fell creatures. The sheer number of orange flame-pricks and streaks flowing downhill into the valley defied belief.

I had seen what just a few orukhar could do. What if there were trul as well? Liches, whether of the Seven or the lesser kind? What else would the Enemy send?

“If I take this thing, we will find Arn? And flee?” I sounded very small, even to myself.

“Naras will care for your shieldmaid; they do not leave their own behind.” He said it with such certainty the strange sense of comfort returned, though it vied with sharp ale-bubbling fear. “Naciel is no doubt with her now. Take heart, my lady.”

My gaze was drawn to the glowing, secretive tower. I had to turn in order to regard it, and Aeredh must have taken the movement for agreement, for he passed me, and climbed the gentle hill.

I had little choice but to follow.

Of the word the Crownless spoke to open Taeron’s tower all the sagas are silent, and I must be as well for ’tis not mine to say. When it was uttered the hush became thick for a moment, almost cloying, but the silvery cries of Laeliquaende’s bells pierced through in many places until, threadbare, the dread quiet drained away. All that remained was an open archway at the tower’s base, black as the sides and spire glowed milky.

Aeredh moved aside, and I stared at the entrance. The darkness seemed almost a living thing, and it occurred to me that perhaps he could seal me inside and leave, escape the city; if the building could not be reopened, the Enemy would find both Elder trinket and mortal alkuine beyond his grasp.

As if he heard my thoughts, Aeredh drew. His sword’s blade, dappled Elder steel, gave the same faint blue radiance the palace guard’s had; I had seen it before, albeit much brighter, when the Crownless did battle with a lich.

I froze, staring at him.

“It might be treachery,” he said, softly, and the Old Tongue made the blade scintillate. “If so, my lady, whoever betrayed Laeliquaende might think to come here—and if not, one or more of the Enemy’s servants may yet appear. I will guard the door for you.” He paused. “But I would ask you to be swift as you may.”

Still, I hesitated. The bells rang, and rang.

He said nothing else. Perhaps he sensed my struggle; there was no shieldmaid to look to, nothing but the confusion in my own heart.

I mistrusted him, yes, even despite the seidhr-granted glimpse of his regret. The far greater difficulty was myself.

After all, I had been inwardly, secretly pleased at the chance of adventure, though I never truly wished to leave the comfort of home. And I had chosen his hidden destination instead of Dorael, telling myself it was for my hard-won allyship to Naras instead of my buried desire to see what few other mortals had. Not only that, though. Who but myself had gained Tjorin’s victory upon the river, for Arn would not have stirred a single step to grant aid if not for my decision?

And Eol of Naras might not have lent his back—and the backs of his men—had I not pressured them.

Now a tower none but an Elder king had entered was opened, and even if Faevril’s taivvanpallo had threatened to consume me, what was inside this place could only be used by an alkuine and they told me there was no other.

Oh, the son of Aerith had hidden his purpose, and Eol had aided him with surpassing loyalty. But my own striving for glory had done far more than either man, and blinded me to much greater degree. I could not blame them for what I was about to do. All my show of unwillingness was simply that, a pretense to salve my own wounded pride.

I did not fear the thing in the tower, nor did I quail at the thought of being the only alkuine in the world. I longed to test myself against the Elder thing even as I dreaded the event, for my fear lay elsewhere.

It was not the gem that frightened me, but the specter of yet another failure.

You wish to be great, my teacher Idra had oft chided, and I heard her again upon that hill, before that darkened door. Ambition is good, for those with the weirding must ever strive. Yet it is also poison—a little may be healthful, too much and you will rot as your seidhr twists within you.

My hands were fists. The bells kept ringing, and though they were muffled they filled my skull to brimming. I could not think clearly, and fear clawed at my throat.

Aeredh gazed past me, his blade glowing in the dark, and—terribly, with faultless Elder politeness—he left me to make the only possible choice I could.