The Fall of Waterstone

Upon the Threshold

Welcome strangers, but do not trust them. Be courteous and wary; many are the Enemy’s snares, and any gift accepted from that quarter bears steep cost. Even a friend’s face may be seeming; was not even Arnan the great songsmith taken in by Olvrang the Cruel?

—Nethael the Drunk, advisor to Uldfang the Third

There were no other lights, and the turf-and-timber buildings shared the same air of hasty abandonment as previous steadings and settlements—all except the tower, where a perfectly mortal brand glowed despite the wind, shielded by a trick of Elder construction and illuminating a point-arched ironbound door.

I did not like looking upon the tall stone spire, for its shape seemed familiar in the way of dream-seen things. At least there was no yellow gleam at its shattered top, and while the night was still thick with cold and metallic snow-scent no flakes fell from the sky, ashen or otherwise.

A single black-clad figure stood upon stone steps as hoofbeats echoed on packed earth swept clean of all ice. Karas was already opening the stables; dismounting was undertaken with alacrity by every man save Eol.

My Elder slippers had proven amazingly durable, and touched the ground with gratitude. Arneior steadied me. The Jewel did not burn so much, nestling softly inside my ribs, but I sensed its sharp edges could turn in a moment. My mount shook her snow-clotted mane, impatient for shelter, and I peered around her familiar warm bulk.

In Northern cloth, spare and angular, our host bore a great iron-colored mane as well. A greying smallbeard was suffered to remain upon his chin and upper lip, but no beads would find a congenial home there, for it was far too short. A golden torc, its ends plain instead of fancifully cast or carved, lay over his high collar. He wore no sword. Instead, a single dagger with a glowing pearl at its pommel rested at his belt, and his narrow hands were crossed before him as he examined what the wind had borne to his door.

Eol finally dismounted, handing his reins to Efain. The heir of Naras approached the steps, and the Taurain’s snow-choked wind did not keen at the tower’s corners but muffled its tone, whispering conspiratorial.

“Father.” Eol halted, and bowed—but not as to me or Arn, and not as he would to an Elder. Instead, the movement seemed perfunctory, but I did not know Northern customs. “We have passed many an empty steading. I thought to find you gone to Dorael.”

“I said I would stay here until my son’s return.”For such a lean fellow, Tharos had a deep resonant voice with an edge of growl, especially in the Old Tongue. Though the cloth was Northern the pattern of his robe was very close to Elder, and a golden ring with a great dark stone glittered upon his left hand. “Thus, here I stand.”

All in all he was very lordly indeed, though my father might have muttered, A cold one, that man. The shadowmantle’s hem fluttered uneasily, and I would have shivered if I felt the wind’s chill.

I had not for some while now, and I did not think it entirely due to Elder garb.

Soren led my horse away. Arn’s head turned as she studied the space before the tower, the shuttered buildings looming close by, the pattern of paving spreading for a short distance from the stairs. It faded into hard-stamped, frozen earth, melding by degrees as Elder stonework so often does.

I had not immediately seen the wolves of Naras—or the bears of Tavaan, or Uldfang’s men—for what they were. But in Tharos the lord of lost Naras I saw an aging beast with a shaggy iron-colored coat, his lip quivering though not quite raised yet and a warning gleam lost deep in dark, narrowed eyes.

Prickling apprehension spilled down my back. I was no longer truly Eol’s weregild, but my brother had killed this man’s son. A powerful debt, all else aside, and an uncomfortable one.

Had I not been alkuine, would they have taken Bjorn or Dun Rithell’s roof-gilding instead? Or would I have been brought directly to this place upon the plains, spending a year and day under this man’s stony shadow?

“Naras is faithful,” Eol said, the Old Tongue mellifluous as if he quoted a proverb. “So we have ever been, and so we remain.”

“Oh, aye. Even unto those who wrong us.”Tharos glided down a step, another. A ripple passed through his skin—a warning, the wolf shifting inside its bearer. My breath caught, though the movement was subtle and he paid no more attention to me than to the sharpening breeze. “Or those who betray their own kin.”

Had we not been traveling together so long I might not have sensed Eol’s tension. He was taut as Daerith’s bowstring. “I would give you the news privately.”

“And what news would that be?”Another step. Now Tharos loomed over his eldest son.

Aeredh arrived at my left side, and though I had not heard his step I must have somehow sensed him, for I did not flinch. The edge of his warmth touched me, different than the unfelt snow-chill, and his mouth was a thin line. He regarded the two Secondborn narrowly, father and son framed against a closed door, torchlight limning them both.

“Very well.”Eol gazed upward, a statue with shaggy ice-dotted hair. “Arvil has gone West, my father. I lit his pyre myself, the day after winter solstice.”

It is never pleasant to see an old man stagger under ill news. ’Tis even worse when he does so without moving, physical stillness unable to contain or turn aside a sudden shock.

“And you, still breathing,” Tharos murmured.

“I am.” Eol sounded, of all things, bitterly amused. “Despite all efforts to the contrary, including my own.”

A pang jolted me. Maybe it was the Jewel turning afresh, dissatisfied with its new home—or perhaps the thing was interested in this saga-stanza, for it was a scene worthy of one. Eol gazed up at his father, who twitched into movement, descending the last few stairs with stiff grace.

He was not as thoughtlessly, efficiently lithe as the others, but perhaps age—or grief—robbed him of that fluidity.

Tharos’s ringed hand flashed. The blow snapped his son’s head aside, and well it is that those with two skins are more durable than other mortals. For even in his senescence the lord of Naras was strong, and he did not restrain his fist as my father would while disciplining Bjorn.

“You should have tried harder,” the Old Wolf said. He turned with a flicker of black robe and climbed once more; when he reached the ironbound doors he pushed the left half open. More ruddy torchlight spilled from that aperture, and I did not realize I was moving until Arn stepped onto paving at my shoulder.

Eol stayed as Tharos had left him, head turned and chin down, staring at the ground. A muscle flickered in his stubbled cheek, and his black mantle bore small rips and thin spots that could not be seen at a distance. Had I a needle, I could have attended to that as well as Arn’s sleeve.

He did not give me a chance to speak. “Enter, and be welcome.” The southron tongue, crisp and clear with all due politeness, rolled from Eol’s mouth—but he still did not move. “Nothing more need be said, my lady. ’Tis a matter between my father and myself, and you are a guest here.”

Not weregild?The words trembled on my tongue. Others slipped past them instead. “I will explain.” Was the tingling in my hand some seidhr, or did I simply wish to touch his shoulder, his elbow, imparting whatever comfort I could?

But I did not, for I was after all too far away and his tension had not abated.

“Oh, no.” Eol laughed, a single sarcastic bark. “Do not, my lady. If you care for me at all, do not.”

With that, he turned upon his heel and stalked for the stables. Efain was returning, his expression grave and dark eyes burning. The rest of the Northerners were looking elsewhere, either with studied indifference or tactfully busy at other tasks; Daerith was busy examining my mare’s foreleg as if suspecting incipient lameness and Yedras had halted in the middle of the open space, gazing at the blank, snow-pregnant sky.

Did he see the stars past the clouds as well?

“Come.” Aeredh was beside me again, offering his arm. His expression was set, yet I thought a flicker of distaste lurked in his gaze, shadowed the straight line of his mouth. “In the North the guests enter first; the sooner we do, the sooner Eol may.”

But he did not; the elder son of Tharos made for the stables, and there he stayed that night. And I stepped over the tower’s threshold with deep misgiving.

I knew the ways of the North were different and guessed the folk of Naras had taken all they could carry to safety, leaving a bare minimum for their lord’s use. Still, it was an exceeding cold welcome.

Oh, the fare was better than it had been for a long while, certainly. Not only was there a haunch upon a small spit but also ale, cheese that had not been forgotten, and even hard winterbread softened in the ale until it was almost as melting as Elder waybread wrapped in leaves. There was also a cask of winterwine; no house of the Faithful in the North would be without a vintage or two, brought by Elder friends and saved for any later visitor of their kind.

No, the chill radiated entirely from our host, who presided over the feast from a high-backed chair upon a dais, his board a massive black wooden slab with ferocious carving upon its legs. Teeth and eyes glared from the chisel-marks, along with the roughness of wolf-pelt. Aeredh was seated to his right, Daerith and Yedras to his left; I was given the place near Aeredh, with Arn upon my other side.

Eol did not appear. I tried not to stare at the great doorway from the entry-hall, expecting him at any moment.

The rest of our companions made do with a lower table, and they were not merry at all. Their hush was extreme, broken only by sounds of consumption and a fire half as big as it should be in the massive stone hearth. Efain arranged the repast at the high table while the others were made do without bond, thrall, or servant to fetch and carry. There was no singing, no jests provoking laughter, no telling of old tales; when Tharos did speak it was only to Aeredh, and in the Old Tongue as well.

“One of the Blessed’s own ravens, upon the stable-roof. I should think its croak would not reach our ears were it to perch upon the tower.”Tharos gazed into his great wooden cup; there was meat upon his dish, but he ate slow and sparing. The ring upon his hand gleamed, its stone bearing a single bright spot. Some trick of its carving made that pupil dilate or shrink with every small motion. “When it left, it was to the south. No doubt the Cloak-Weaver will hear all tidings. Her husband is kin to Taeron, after all.”

“We came light and fast, but not wingéd.”Aeredh drank steadily, and his gaze lingered upon the shadowed doorway at the hall’s far end as well. I might as well have been invisible for all the attention paid me, and was well content to have it so. “You should ride with us in the morn, my friend. What follows the survivors of Taeron’s folk is unpleasant at best.”

“Let them come. I swore to bide here, and I will.”The lord of Naras did not speak of his younger son, and I was acutely aware of my own embarrassment, nearly sharp as the Jewel’s claws.

The fishgutting Elder thing had returned to burning as well; winterwine did not help, nor did it taste as it had before. There was no mouth-filling, no cascade of memories from the liquid, merely a slight amelioration of the heat and a dozy trickle of strength returning to my limbs. I studied the ceiling-beams, the construction of the hearth, guessed at other rooms in the tower’s bulk—for though it looked slim, the inside was surprisingly roomy. The hints of Elder knowledge and craft in stone and timberwork were plain, yet I could not say if I liked the melding.

Beautiful, durable, and of a certain comfort was Tharos’s lodging, yes, but a damp, nasty tinge lingered within. Later I learned only warriors were allowed in the broken tower unless some attack made it the shelter of last resort, but even so, there was an entire community at its foot to supply any wants. To be left behind, alone of one’s steading… the notion gives even a volva who likes solitary pursuits a shudder.

Tharos did not even have a bondsman or thrall to shake his bedding, yet here he stayed. Leaving a single man to shift for himself in a greathall is a punishment all its own. Nobody to keep the pantry or cellar in order, no weaving in the women’s quarters, no laughter, no cooking, no song—if it sounds ugly, that is because it is. Even the loneliest shepherd ranging upon Tarnarya’s slopes had a community to notice if they did not bring their flock to the green at the appointed times, and kin to visit occasionally as well, bringing news or aid against disaster.

In a saga I might have admired his determination, as iron as his hair and the streaks in his smallbeard… and yet.

“None would stay with you? I find that hard to believe.”Aeredh turned, regarding our host; I was grateful I did not have to attempt conversation. “Naras is Faithful.” The last word carried a great deal of stress upon the penultimate syllable, not merely descriptive but a title of some repute.

“For all the good it does.”A glower was evident in Tharos’s tone; I glanced at Arn, who was not perturbed by language she could not understand. I would repeat the conversation for her later, if there was aught of note within it.

Another small task I could take some comfort in performing, for a volva’s memory is well-trained. I sensed some manner of apology in Aeredh’s attempts at conversation, deep reticence—and anger—in our host’s.

“Do not give in to despair, Tharos. That is the Enemy’s weapon.”How often did Aeredh use this tone with mortals—sorrowing, and gentle? I had heard it more than once, and could not tell whether to dislike or be comforted by its advent.

All the Elder grief in the world would not bring back Tharos’s other son. Yet Arvil’s fellows had suspected him of treachery, which Aeredh was politely refraining to lay before his father. Perhaps he would discuss it with the lord in private, and I did not envy him the task.

I had never met this Arvil, only heard of him from Bjorn and the men of Naras. I could lay aside the matter of him insulting Astrid, for that might not be an act deserving death no matter what touchy menfolk say… and besides, he had died for it, whether worthy of such a fate or not.

One cannot argue with or change what has been, and sometimes not even what lies ahead.

“And what else should I think?” the lord of Naras replied, before taking a long draught. Ale or some other drink glimmered upon his lip when he lowered the cup. “I hear a wyrm lodges where Nithraen once was.”

The Crownless did not stiffen, nor did his expression change. “Did a raven tell you that?”

Tharos’s grin was almost triangular, strong white teeth framed by greying shortbeard. “No. But the North is full of news, my friend, and a good nose may catch it upon the wind.”

They spoke of other things—Faeron-Alith, Galath, Isthanir, Nassan-Daele, of dispositions and relative strengths, of what had passed in these lands while Aeredh journeyed south. Neither mentioned a dead son, which was wise and polite… yet a spirit lingered in that tower’s greathall, colder than new-winter’s freeze.

I was glad when the meal was over.