A Cloak and a Casket
Then did Lithielle give both treasures to the king, for even the bliss of the West palled against her grief. “Do not thank me,” said she. “These things are a burden, shifted to your back. For that I am sorry.”
Thus did Taeron reply, “I and my house shall bear it uncomplaining, daughter of Melair. Rest, for you have performed great deeds.”
Like gems were the tears of Aenarian’s child. “There is no rest for me. For my love is gone to mortal death, and I cannot follow…”
—Saga of the Great Quest
What did I expect? Stairs, certainly, winding around the tower’s interior, and at the summit something unspeakable.
Instead, the darkness in the archway parted like a curtain, and I stepped onto flat black stone. The interior was curiously spacious, but breathlessly still. The curved inner wall was black too, and highly polished. What light there was came from tiny blue pinpricks like stars caught in the glossy depths of stone both underfoot and sheathing the tower’s inside; for a single vertiginous moment it seemed I had been cast into a void sprinkled with weak candleflames. I swayed, my Elder-woven skirts whispering, and almost went to my knees.
It was utterly quiet, the silence thick as cold butter. No bell-clamor, no running feet, no cries.
The void over my head bore dim dry star-glimmers as well, but I could not tell if they were upon a roof or if the interior walls simply met at some point high overhead. I wondered how any air could enter this place.
A shadow in the round room’s exact center was a gloss-glassy pedestal, thankfully not full of wavering light-dots. Atop it rested an indeterminate shape. To the side was a clothing-stand of the type I had seen in our palace quarters, and upon its spread wooden arms rested a living darkness, distinct in shade and composition from the rest.
The thing upon the stand was a hooded cloak of Elder design, I decided, and approached with caution. If I focused on the shapes lacking starry glitters, I could move without nausea. I even dared to touch the garment, and it felt just like ordinary Elder cloth—if anything that folk made could ever be called ordinary.
This close, I could also see what the pedestal held. A coffer, two of its sides slightly too long for the whole to be called a square. It appeared to be constructed of dark iron, with intricate designs deep-carven upon each side. The top was sealed, but there were intimations it could slide free; so much I saw, bending close enough my breath touched metal and stone.
’Twas not very large—at its longest, it measured roughly from the tip of my longest finger to the meat of my forearm, avoiding the hollow of my elbow. Was this what the Enemy sought, what the Elder prized enough to hide so thoroughly? My seidhr-senses swept the tower’s interior as Idra had taught me, but whatever was in the iron box was silent and the cloak merely whispered, its hem ruffling.
What if Taeron hid the thing elsewhere? A grand jest that would be.I tried not to think upon what was happening outside. My hands shook like pale leaves as I brushed the cloak with reverent fingertips. Aeredh had asked me to bring out what was here, but…
Perhaps this was a test of some kind? I looked to the doorway, a blank black slice in the starry night just as opaque from this side as without. The silence was stifling. Had he closed the door?
We had escaped the wrack of Nithraen through tunnels much darker than this, but the men of Naras had an Elder lantern to keep the underground night at bay. My breath came short; I had never been afflicted like Albeig with the fear of close spaces before the wrack of that city.
Now all I could think of was the door sealing. Of being left alone in here, starving in the dark. Or I might die of suffocation before then, saving both Enemy and Elder all the trouble a lone mortal alkuine represented.
There could be more elementalists, I told myself. But I did not believe it, and my own arrogance was the deadliest trap of all.
I gathered the cloak in my arms. My hair was still damp from the bath, caught in coral-starred braids that suddenly felt far too tight. My hand closed upon the coffer; I paused, expecting something to happen.
Nothing. The quiet, star-ridden night inside Taeron’s white tower did not change.
The iron casket was cool but not cold, and whatever was inside it slept. Yet a faint tremor passed through my bones, like a small animal nestling seidhr-struck upon a volva’s cupped palm, and I sucked in a harsh breath.
Outside a valley was under attack, a city waiting for siege, an Elder man standing guard. My shieldmaid was somewhere without me, and so were any friends I had in this place. All those things were terrifying.
But that slight feathery quiver was far worse, simply because I recognized it, though I had never felt its like before. It was as natural as the weirding in me, as intimate as my own pulse.
The casket did not weigh much. I picked it up, again expecting some noise or disturbance as it left polished stone. How many mortal years had it sat here? Did the thing inside it wait, or was it insensate?
There was no dust in this place, I realized, and that fact unnerved me more than any Elder weirding.
I turned, trying not to look at the starry walls, and hurried for the deep black void that meant escape.
I was afraid I would simply run into blank stone, that Aeredh had sealed the tower and left me behind. Instead, I plunged into a cool spring evening, and the scent of smoke was now much stronger—or I was now noticing it afresh after being granted brief respite. The reek of burning fair slapped me as I gasped, my arms full of soft dark cloth, and whatever was inside the coffer vibrated uneasily.
“Solveig?” Aeredh steadied me with one hand, holding his blade well down and away. “Thank the Blessed, I was half afraid…”
“There were no stairs.” After the tower’s dimness the garden seemed almost bright as noon, and the sound of distant bells nigh unbearable. For all I disliked what the Crownless had done, I was also deeply, cringingly grateful he had not closed the door. The two feelings fought for me, and I heartily wished they would find other prey. “Only this—a cloak of some kind, and a casket. Take it.”
I pushed the iron box in his direction; Aeredh sheathed his sword with a sudden graceful movement, denying the gift. “Lithielle’s Shroud,” he said, softly. “Woven of shadow itself.” He cleared his throat, and shifted to southron. “Here. Let me.”
In a trice he subtracted the fall of material from my trembling arms, shook it—no dust flew from its folds, either, but a ghostly sweet scent billowed free, cleansing the burgeoning burn-stench—and cast it about my shoulders. I found the sleeves; it was cut very much to complement an Elder gown underneath its flow.
A mantle then, not a cloak.
“There,” he continued. “No gaze may pierce this veil, said she, and the night itself agreed.” The phrase held an odd rhythm, as of saga or song, and he fastened the mantle’s laces swiftly while he intoned it.
“I do not—” Again I tried to push the iron box into his hands, but he avoided its bestowal once more, stepping gracefully away like a granary feline disdaining a bit of tripe. “Aeredh, take this thing. I do not like how it feels.”
“Lithielle’s Jewel, and the first thing you can think of is to give it away?” Wry humor tinted his southron, and he let out a sharp breath. I had oft heard my brother make the same noise, bracing himself for a task requiring both strength and attention. “Come, alkuine. Now we must escape.”
“Arneior.” The shadowy mantle dragged upon the ground, having been made for one much taller—of course, I had not even Astrid’s height—and I still held the iron box awkwardly at arm’s length, as if afraid it would spring to life and bite like Lokji’s serpent-dagger. “I cannot leave without her.”
“I would not expect you to.” He might have said more, but his chin lifted and he whirled. His sword reappeared, whispering free of its home; the blade’s soft glow was eerie, for it cast no shadow as even faint starlight will.
“Solveig?” a different voice whisper-called, fierce for all its restraint, and a great flood of scalding relief filled me from toes to braids. “Sol, are you here?”
’Twas my shieldmaid, and to this day I owe Naciel Silverfoot much indeed, for she had found my Arn amid confusion and shepherded a mortal shieldmaid through the crush at the city gates just before they closed.
The first orukhar riders had reached Laeliquaende’s walls.