The Fall of Waterstone

Careful Use

Three from Nithraen, mighty lords and fell,

Six from Naras, the wolves proud and strong,

A pair rode together, maiden-of-steel and mighty spear,

And in their midst…

—Anonymous fragment, The Flight to Dorael

The fire burned for a long while on very little fuel, as aelflame will. In the dead reaches of the night a wolf’s voice rose in the distance, answered by another in the opposite direction. Low, lonely songs, and I almost understood their modulations like sagas in another accent—mountainfolks’ speech, instead of our riverside softening of vowels and elision of certain consonants.

I moved from the bough-bed so quietly Arn was not disturbed, and in any case I did not go far. Just to the fireside, where a downed trunk had been dried by its heat, providing a handy seat.

There was no sign of the Elder, but I did not think them far away. Yet ’twas not Aeredh who appeared from deep shadow between ghostly snow-covered firs, nor his friends from Nithraen.

Eol approached, silent as the shaggy shape of his other self. He eyed me sidelong for a moment, then reached as if to free his ragged black mantle. A plain silver pin held it gathered on his shoulder.

I shook my head. “I’m not cold.” The Old Tongue poked and prodded behind the words.

“Ah.” He settled on the trunk beside me, stretching his legs out and thrusting his boots almost into the fire; their soles steamed. After a few moments he drew them back with a soft hiss, and I could not help but smile. “Go ahead, laugh. It still feels good.”

It was something Bjorn might have said; a chuckle caught in my throat. The Jewel settled, no longer a spiked misery. For the first time since the morning’s seidhr I could take a deep breath, and I did so with gratitude.

And much caution, ready for the pain to return.

He still watched me, but not directly. His gaze settled upon my hands in my shadow-clad lap, cupped as if I still held the glittering thing one Elder princess had worn and another sealed in iron. “You should rest,” he said, finally.

“I cannot sleep.” It won’t let me. And indeed, the weariness was neither better nor worse than it had been that morning. Perhaps slumber would be denied me while I carried this—but to what end?

He nodded as if he understood, a slight silent motion. The light reflected blue highlights in his tousled, hack-chopped hair; he had clearly trimmed the burnt parts with a knife, because of course he would. The swordhilt at his shoulder did not glitter through its wrapping, but the gem still sang its own half-heard melody.

Another howl lifted in the distance. “Soren.” Eol’s tone was thoughtful, nothing more. “We watch through the night, though not… as men. Daerith and Yedras are ahead, scouting tomorrow’s route. Aeredh is with Efain upon our backtrail; if pursuit draws close they will harry, and warn.” He paused. “You have never been unguarded, my lady. Not even in Laeliquaende, by day or by night.”

“Save that first night upon the hillside.” I almost shuddered, thinking upon the fog and the grelmalk, the sweating, terrified horse, and the cold. Suppressed the movement just in time, for I suspected it would make my chest hurt. “And the last, at the riverside. But that is not your fault.”

“We would have searched until we found you. Both times.”

“I know.” And strangely enough, I did. The knowledge settled in me as a sending from far away might, another of the Wise reaching across long distances to warn or comfort a fellow bearer of the weirding. I could not tell precisely when it had arrived; once such things are noticed, it seems they have always been with one.

The fire mouthed its fuel. Fallen wood was stacked to one side, but there was no need of it just yet.

“The heartseeker.” Eol continued watching my hands, as if he thought they might do something untoward. “I never truly thanked you.”

There had not been time, and in Laeliquaende we had spoken of other things.

“There is no need. And I could not have done it without Aeredh’s help.” That was strict truth; I could not accept any talk of debt unless it were for his help upon the Egeril, risking both himself and his men. “A volva aids her allies thus. After the battle your work is done, mine just beginning.” Thankfully, it did not hurt to turn my head and study his own callused fingers, resting against armored, black-clad thighs. “On the river, the rope struck you.” Had it only been yesterday? Or were we past the night’s center now? So much had happened, and I could not keep my balance atop galloping events.

He nodded, a single brief motion. “That it did.”

“Does it hurt?” Could I offer any seidhr to ease the wound, with the thing burning inside my ribs? ’Twas uncomfortable not to know.

“We heal quickly. Of most things, at least.” His mouth turned down at the corners. “’Tis one blessing in the curse, I suppose.”

“I see.” Now that was odd. Did he consider being two-skinned a malediction requiring seidhr to lift? “There were other marks.”

He did not shift with embarrassment, though something told me he perhaps wanted to. The fire sang an entire saga-stanza before he spoke again. “My father oft tried to beat the curse out of me. Since I am eldest, and my brother… Arvil did not carry it.”

His brother, slain by mine. “We know of the two-skinned in the south.” I chose my words carefully indeed. “Our sagas say such strength is prized, for with it a warrior may hold back bandits. Or accidents.”

“’Tis a gambit of the Enemy’s, making men into beasts.” His tone was flat and distant, though courteous enough.

If the gift sprang from that source, why did southron sagas speak so highly of it? Certainly one must hold a two-skinned’s strength in caution, even as one pays proper deference to those with seidhr. “Or a gift from the gods, deserving careful use.”

Power, physical or otherwise, demands prudent handling. It was why my father gave Bjorn many a clout about the ear, why those with seidhr are trained from childhood—and why every young warrior practices with blunted weapons first.

A steel edge is power of a different sort.

“It did not show until the Day of Ash, when Naras fell. Tavaan and Uld too, and Jormgaard—those settlements in what is now the Gasping, you see. They once kept watch upon the Cold Gate. Those near Faeron-Alith were struck as well, and their warriors slew their own kin in the confusion of the first change.” Eol’s right hand twitched, fingers curling slowly into a fist. “I should not mention such things in darkness. Forgive me.” He moved as if to rise.

“Don’t.” I could not say it very loudly, but the word arrested him. “The thing—the Elder gem. It hurts.”

His broad shoulders hunched, as if the rope-end had struck again. Yet he stayed, motionless as a wolf eyeing a sheep-fold, waiting for a single moment of shepherd’s inattention—or still as the shepherd’s dog, alert to danger from its wilder cousins.

Eol did not move when I shifted, cautiously. The burning abated, and I laid my head against his armored, mantle-clad shoulder. It took some doing, for the coral in my hair was just as uncomfortable as mail or ring. I do not think he even breathed, or if he did it was imperceptible.

The heaviness did not vanish entirely, and neither did the Jewel’s ceaseless, aching flame. Yet it eased, and I could draw full breaths around the discomfort. I could even let my eyes half-close, and though I could not sleep some rest was found.

Aelflamewhispered softly. Another howl lifted, a lonely sound amid dark forest, and the clouds were at last soft with moonlight.

So passed the first night I bore the burden. It seemed to last forever, and not long enough. Before dawn we were a-saddle again, for dark things had boiled forth from fallen Laeliquaende, not to mention other places in the Marukhennor’s wall.

The Enemy’s thralls were on the hunt.