The Fall of Waterstone

Know, Not Tell

Those with the curse are vital well into old age and often marry late. The mark often does not show itself until near adulthood, though one with a strong beast may give sign as a child, and should be fostered with the Elder to learn control.

—Kelaas of Uld, Concerning the Houses of the Gasping

Not a word of any weregild, hm?” Arn scratched under her hornbraids, fingertips scrubbing hard. No doubt she longed for a sauna as much as I did, though steambreath might make the Jewel even more uncomfortable.

I could not tell, and I did not think the Elder would be able to dispel that particular mystery. Not that I would mention such a thing to any of their kind.

“’Tis not proper feast-time conversation.” I settled upon the pallet, glad to be both stationary and free of male attention. Perhaps this narrow room was a servant’s closet, but it was large enough for us, a single candle in an enclosed holder resting upon a shelf by the door, a low heavy bedstead to comfortably hold both shieldmaid and volva, and a small, strangely designed fireplace as well as enough wood harvested from ravine-bottoms and the fringing fingers of Dorael’s great forest to keep us warm for the night.

Luxuriously, wonderfully warm. I almost did not mind the prospect of the water-room down a dark, damp stone hall; morning ablutions would be a slap-shock.

“I did not think I would ever say this.” Arn settled her spear against the wall and began stretching, ridding herself of stiffness from spending all day a-horseback. “But I like your father better.”

“I did not think to ever hear you say such a thing, either.” I grimaced, and for once my face did not feel masklike. Lingering unease had to fight with the languor of heat not provided by some Elder artifice or draught, and could not truly win the battle. I was almost pathetically grateful for the orange-and-yellow fire, no touch of blue aelflame in its fingers. “For my part, I like even Yedras better. And he called me a witch. Twice.”

“Hm.” She bent double, supple even in her armor—though it had to be uncomfortable, she clearly did not intend to sleep without its protection even in this haven. “He fights well enough.”

High praise from a shieldmaid, especially for another spear-wielder. Yedras was skilled in the art of trul-hunting, Soren said; I had seen as much in the woods after Nithraen. Such a feat is best done in trios, two warriors with spears to hold the thing at bay, one with sword or axe to inflict a killing blow.

“They all do.” We would hardly be alive otherwise, I thought. “But ’tis strange. This Northern lord welcomes his elder son with a blow, grieves the younger’s absence, but also seems…”

“As flint,” she supplied. “Resists until it shatters, into shards fit to cut a throat.”

I gave a slight nod, for it was true, and thankfully the Jewel did not poke me. Yet it was not exactly what I meant to say. “Unsurprised,” I added—not disagreeing, merely adding a refinement. “Perhaps he dreamt of his son’s misfortune.”

She made a noise halfway between a grunt and a murmur, neither assent nor its opposite. I watched the fireplace; soon it might be stifling in this tiny space, but no sweat prickled under my arms, or indeed in any crease. The shadowmantle should have been far too heavy for such a warm room.

Elder cloth was wondrous indeed. I could not decide if the mantle’s camouflage under any gloom, and its pale grey appearance in the snow-wastes, was a trick of weaving or of seidhr.

Or both.

There was no room for spear-practice and little enough for stretching, so Arn soon bedded down. I settled near the fireplace, watching the flames as if they would grant me a vision. My shieldmaid’s silence was almost comfortable as my own, and I could tell by her breathing that she was not asleep despite fatigue and the comfort of temporary safety.

“You are still not sleeping,” she said finally.

“I wonder that you can, in your armor.” My hands arranged themselves in my lap, the cupped position Idra said was best for scrying while seated. “I am weary, yes. But it never grows worse, nor better.”

“And you do not eat.”

“Perhaps the thing fills my stomach.” I did not like the thought of my innards disarranged, and tried not to wonder if they would eventually return to their proper places once the Jewel was dislodged—whenever that happy event could occur. “I do not feel hungry; sometimes even the smell of meat sickens me. This is a heavy weirding; I will be glad to be free of it.”

Arn shifted, tucking a stiff bolster more securely under her head. “And when will that be, do you think?”

I am so glad to have you, my small one.“I once thought it was intended to be used as a weapon, but it does not seem possible. I wonder if Aeredh is disappointed.”

“Pff.” A short, dismissive sound. Her eyelids drooped heavily, but the gleams under them were fierce. “If he had left us in peace, he would not be so.”

“The Enemy knew of an alkuine before I reached the Eastronmost, he said.” All I felt was a dim, weary wonder that I could utter such words calmly, without shaking in terror. “I begin to believe him and Taeron, that perhaps there might not be another in the world.”

Arn was silent for a moment, pulling her knees up and settling more comfortably. “But Idra…”

“I know. I have been wondering if she merely assumed there must be a few, and trained me accordingly.”’Twas a relief to finally give the thought some voice outside my own head. “Or if she… if she knew, but for some reason did not tell.”

“Know, but not tell?” My shieldmaid snorted softly. “How entirely like a volva.”

A soft laugh bubbled in my throat, and the Jewel did not scrape inside my ribs when it slipped free. “If I told you all my thoughts you would be bored to tears. Some things are best left locked up.”

“Oh, aye, including that egg you’re brooding.” She sobered, her eyes closing completely. “But if not a weapon, what in Odynn’s name do they expect you do to with it?”

“I do not know.” My fingers tightened a fraction; it was an effort to loosen them, to take as deep a breath as the weight would permit. “What truly unsettles me is that Aeredh might not either.” Nor his Elder friends.

“Well, he is a man.” Her tone was not unkind; it is regrettable, she meant, yet such creatures are only as they have been made.

Oddly, my cheeks warmed, and the strong slow ageless thrum of his pulse echoed in my memory. I cannot regret my hope, or our meeting. “I had not noticed.”

“Oh, no.” Amusement filled the words. “Your eyes turn in a different direction, indeed.”

There was no possible answer. I listened while her breathing shifted; she fell into sleep’s dim country without further ado.

I envied her that boon, and watched the flames as they consumed their own feast. Was I feeling what wood does under that bright kiss? The Jewel might be a creeping fire of the type that slips underground with blackcoal, burning in the earth’s very veins.

Would I eventually become ash, like that drifting over the Gasping?

There was no answer.

Moving slowly, I snuffed the candle inside its enclosure, settled a little more fuel upon the coals—the fireplace was so strange and simple it did not need much tending, long husbanding even a few sticks—and was about to sink cross-legged on the floor again. The silence was profound; in this room, we could not even hear the Taurain’s constant singing.

Perhaps the subtle brush of a footstep reached my inner senses, or perhaps I had expected a visit. In any case, a soft mannerly tap upon the door was loud as a thunderclap in that hush.

Arn was awake in an instant, lunging up from the bed. Her hand shot out, closing around the spear’s haft, and my shieldmaid was ready for battle.

“Soft,” I mouthed, and would have moved to answer the knock.

She glared me into immobility, and glided in that direction. Bootless, her hornbraids rumpled, she was still a forbidding sight, and when she flung the door open, the golden glow of a thoroughly normal, mortal handlamp held by an iron hoop at its top cast sharp-edged shadows in every direction.

“I apologize for disturbing your slumber.” Lord Tharos tilted his head slightly, and in that moment he looked much like his eldest son, when Eol searched the horizon for pursuit or some other manner of threat. His southron was highly accented, though courteous enough. “Yet there are words I must pass with your mistress, maiden-of-steel, and I would not have other ears catch them.”