The Fall of Waterstone

Somewhat Late

Thus it was doom came, and the Lady of the Wood greeted its bearer.

—Gaemirwen of Dorael

Under the canopy of ancient, black-bark evergreens lay a starry night. Vines wrapped up the trunks and spread through branches, seven-petaled white flowers gleaming even upon moonless nights and providing enough soft illumination for even mortal eyes. The eresdil—for so the vines were named—did not harm the trees, nourishing them with subtle exchange even as they used the pillars and roof for support. And gazing from the soft ground were small blue sudelma-lithielle, for the plant was native to Dorael though it had spread wherever a certain Elder princess traveled.

The air was soft but crisp. My breath sobbed in great heaving gasps; a glade opened about the riders, trees drawing away as if granting space to an earnest, private conversation. My rescuer drew rein, but I was not in a fit state to recognize him. All I knew was that I had been taken from the battle and the terrors of the North into some new strangeness.

A circle of paving-stones gleamed stainless in the clearing’s center. A stone fountain stood at its heart, and the sound of running water was neither terror nor warning but a sweetness, as in Laeliquaende. The hounds milled; other riders arrived, some dismounting almost before their horses came to full stop and hurrying to tend the few exhausted survivors of our own mounts—only three of the almost-dozen we had left upon remained.

Caelgor swung down in one lithe motion. I could not cling to the saddle and toppled; the hunter caught me with one Elder-strong arm, the jolt wringing a small cry from my throat.

“Sol! Solveig!” Arn’s voice, I could not tell how far away. I was set upon my feet and the hounds pressed close, nosing me while the hunter’s mount turned his head, regarding this display sidelong. No foam clung to him, and his eyes were brightly calm; he had not suffered what our horses had.

“Steady, my lady alkuine.” The blond Elder’s voice was familiar, and I peered up at his face. He kept a hand upon my arm, whether to hold me upright or keep me from ill-advised retreat I could not tell. “The foul things cannot yet pierce the Cloak. All is well.”

A needle-toothed animal had me by the nape, shaking me as small dogs will the rats they are bred to kill. My knees were soft as spring-hollowed drifts, every part of me hurt, I could not draw a proper breath, icemelt dripped from my sadly abused braids, and the thing trapped in my chest throbbed like a cut artery.

My name was cried again, but it was not my shieldmaid who appeared first. The hounds parted, one or two lowering their heads and considering Eol of Naras narrowly as he loped through their press. The water-clear gem in his swordhilt blazed—every scrap of masking leather scorched away by its fury—no less than his dark gaze, and the wolf in him twitch-rippled his human skin, especially when his lip lifted, a gleam of ivory teeth in the dimness.

He grabbed my free elbow, yanking hard, and I was nearly torn from Caelgor’s grasp. Then he held me stiffly at arm’s length, examining me from top to toe. Bright blood painted half his face and his dripping mantle was torn almost to shreds; he glared as if I had somehow brought the liches down upon us.

I did not care. I was too grateful for our continued existence, even one tinted with absolute terror. A reek of grave-dirt and rot clung to us both, though the stench frayed in the clear air of an Elder place.

Hard upon Eol’s heels was Daerith, who let out a soft wondering curse in the Old Tongue, his tone one of profound relief and his great bow hanging loosely from one hand. The Elder’s hair was a wild mess, his left sleeve sodden-flopping and a stripe of lichburn visible through a rent at the shoulder, stark against pale flesh.

And finally, finally Arn reeled into view, her spear bobbing, and I had to look over Eol’s shoulder to find her.

He let go when I leaned away. I retreated, staggering, from men and their bruising-hard hands, and though my feet made no noise in sodden Elder slippers I was amazed my step did not sound like falling boulders, for the Jewel’s heaviness was upon me again.

Arn flung her left arm about my waist. I did not care how the thing in my chest poked and scraped, I hugged her as hard as I could, burying my face at the juncture of her shoulder and neck, breathing in the smell of mortal effort, snowmelt, a fading tang of blood and lich-filth. I made another low hurt sound, almost keening, and she swore into my cold, streaming hair.

Yet even in that extremity I could not weep. The tears simply would not come; only the burning as the Jewel twinged, trapped inside my flesh.

“A raven brought news of Taeron’s fall.”The leader of the Dorael party—Estaelir—was a tall slim Elder who looked younger than Aeredh had at Dun Rithell, save for the shadow of knowledge in his bright blue gaze. He glanced my direction more than once, eyes the color of a cloudless winter sky narrowing as if against snowglare; the accent of his Old Tongue was soft and musical. “A watch has been kept for refugees, and many Secondborn have come. The queen sent us here two days ago to wait, for the storm was building even then.”

“And we decided to lend our aid.” Caelgor’s smile did not alter, but he loomed very close to me indeed, and spoke in much better southron than he had at our previous meeting. Perhaps he had been practicing. “I swore the lady our protection in Nithraen, and am glad to fulfill the vow.”

His dark-haired brother stood aside, his brow growing more thunderous by the moment. Curiaen’s scrutiny also rested upon me, and Arn kept watch in return. Her knuckles were white, the ghost of woad yellow upon her bruised face, and though we were rapidly drying in the clement wonder of an Elder land she did not seem soothed.

“We rode hard from Barael-am-Narain,” Aeredh supplied. “Tharos of Naras has gone to the West, along with all his folk left there.” Though just as draggled as the rest of us, he had the Elder trick of looking elegant despite it. Daerith hovered nearby, Yedras upon the Crownless’s other side; the wolves of Naras and their leader had gathered near the fountain, being attended to by Elder. Every one of them one had suffered some injury.

But not a heartseeker. The nathlàs had not time to use such things, though the scar upon Eol’s shoulder had split angrily during the battle, as such wounds sometimes do.

They heal, yes. But sometimes they recur, even in one blessed with a two-skin’s burning vitality.

Arn refused all aid but mine, and we both had been given full measures of springwine. Dorael’s brand of that vintage was less clear and far more fiery than Laeliquaende’s, though perhaps the latter effect was only because we needed warming so badly.

“We must speak to the Cloak-Weaver,” Aeredh continued. “There is news she must hear, and her counsel is needed.”

Curiaen took a single step forward. “Then hand over what belongs to us, Crownless, and be upon your way to her.”

“This is not your land, son of Faevril, and you do not command aught here.”Estaelir did not look in the Subtle’s direction, but the two Elder warriors flanking him tensed. “The peace of Dorael will not be smirched with kinslaying; do not make us regret offering sanctuary.”

“Soft, my brother.”Caelgor kept his smile, but his blue gaze grew cool. “We are guests here, after all.”

“He is bringing to Aenarian what his father helped steal. Must we be grateful for the aid of thieves?”Curiaen was unmollified. “And as if that is not bad enough, he put it in a Secondborn.” The word for my kind curdled with disgust, the Elder’s lip outright lifting as if he smelled surpassing foulness. “Do they think to hide the Freed Jewel from us?”

Arn did not need to know the Old Tongue; she discerned the tone well enough and glanced down at me. I shook my head slightly. Let the men wrangle; fear still thumped within my scratched, aching heart, and the thing they all could not stop looking at still burned between my lungs.

Yet its prodding was marginally softer, drowned in springwine. There were no liches or orukhar chasing us, no fire or rapine or murder. I was content to stand thus, and listen.

The gods knew I could do little else.

Surprisingly, it was Daerith who spoke, and in southron too. “She did not ask to bear it, son of Faevril. What you see is a miracle of the Blessed; the Freed Jewel chose her.” The words rang clear and loud amid soft birdsong; the hush of this place might have been soothing if it did not seem likely to be broken with fierce argument.

As a lord’s eldest daughter I was more than used to keeping the peace between fractious warriors, but I felt no desire to at the moment. Let them do as they willed—Arneior was alive, the wolves of Naras were being tended with far more skill than one riverside volva could lay claim to, and my own miserable hide had been rescued as well.

All in all I had great good fortune, and was loath to speak lest it somehow vanish.

“Chose a Secondbo—”Curiaen’s wrath boiled over. He laid hand to a jeweled hilt at his belt, and so did Estaelir.

The Subtle’s blond brother made a soft tsk-tsk sound, almost like my mother when keeping peace among her children. “Control yourself, little sibling.” The term was affectionate, but the command in the words unmistakable—very much as I would quell one of Bjorn’s ill-advised moments, were I nearby to do so when it struck. “We have entered this place freely once more; none of us may leave until the Weaver wills it. And in truth the Jewel is not being kept from us. In fact, we might even say the Crownless has returned a great treasure to our keeping, and graciously thank him for his trouble.”

The Subtle fell silent, but he stared at Aeredh—who took a single step sideways, gazing past Estaelir. Which placed him between me and the dark-haired son of Faevril, as if he expected Curiaen to offer some insult or attack.

A soft clear glow showed between the trees, and every Elder in the glade fell silent.

She was tall—moreso than Aeredh, than Eol, than Taeron or my own father—and slim, and wore a great indigo mantle starred with clear white gems. A simple wreath of eresdil vine, heavily flowered, rested upon her dark head, with several small blue blooms of the other type worked into its circlet. Her slippers were indigo as well, and the waterfall of her shadowy hair brushed at her ankles as she walked, unhurried, over velvet sward.

Her eyes were wide and dark, and very still; her ears came to high points like the Elder’s, but I realized with a start that while she might look like one, she was… otherwise, though I could not tell precisely what. A hint of a smile lingered upon her lips, and she was perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen or even imagined. I lost my breath as the Jewel made a delicate wringing sensation inside me, each vein drawn upon for a moment as her gaze met mine.

I know you, that look whispered, freighted with bright cool seidhr. The shock of recognition was intense, and yet I had never seen her before, in waking or in dreaming.

Estaelir and his lieutenants moved aside at her approach, performing the mannerly Northern motions very near a shieldmaid’s salute to a woman she respects—right-hand fingertips to heart, to lips, and to brow as they dropped their heads in reverence, their badges gleaming. Curiaen subsided, and even Caelgor gave a respectful half-bow.

Aeredh let out a sound very much like a relieved sigh. “Hail, Cloak-Weaver,” he said. “I bring tidings, and a gift of the Blessed.”

“I know what you bring.” Birdsong stilled as she spoke, though her voice melded into the call of nightingales and I suddenly knew the feathered singers stayed in this forest because she did. I could not even tell if her southron held an accent, and would have marveled at her handling of my mothertongue, had I the wit in that moment. “And you are somewhat late, son of Aerith, though not through any fault of your own.”

Amazingly, Aeredh laughed. Relief was in the sound, and pain as well. “Better than the alternative, my lady.”

He glided aside, and she bore down upon my shieldmaid and me. I could not tell if Arneior was stunned too. All I could do was stare.

Melair the Cloak-Weaver halted before us. She did not look to the sons of Faevril, nor at the Crownless, nor the wolves. She watched me, and I had not been weighed so thoroughly since my fourth year when Idra the Farsighted of Dun Rithell formally visited the greathall as volva, to see if a lord’s daughter were truly one who could become Wise.

“Solveig daughter of Gwendelint,” she said, softly. “Riversinger, Jewel-bearer, Doom of the Elder upon these shores. And you, Arneior, taken by the Black-Wingéd, bearer of the spear-which-strikes-down-treachery. You have come at last.”

Arneior’s elbow touched my upper arm—not to jostle, nor to remind me of duty. She did not even mean to ask me to speak. No, she merely leaned against me, for faced with this neither of us could do otherwise.

My mouth was numb. “We have not met,” I managed in a dry whisper. “Neither have I dreamt you, my lady. But I know you.”

“Indeed.” A single, graceful nod. “You are weary, and yet there is little time. We must speak, you and I.”

Was there some new terror I would be forced to endure, or seidhr beyond my capabilities to attempt? I did not know, could not even begin to guess. “Yes.” My mouth moved unbidden, and what answered her was not my conscious self. “I know.”

“Come.” One soft pale hand beckoned. She turned, and set off for the forest. No other being moved; I do not think the men even breathed.

Reeling upon colt-shaking legs I followed, and heard Arneior’s step behind me. Into the shadowed peace of Dorael we moved, trailing the being whose immense seidhr kept even the Enemy at bay.

Yet that mighty fence was failing. And the storm from the North raged on…