The Fall of Waterstone

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THE FALL OF WATERSTONE

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DOOM OF THE ELDER

BLACK LAND’S BANE: BOOK THREE

by

Lilith Saintcrow

Don’t miss the incredible conclusion of Solveig’s journey to save her world from the greatest evil.

The Mere of Melair

In those days the vast shadowed forest of Dorael held an intimation of the world before the First Sunrise; in deeper reaches, with starlike flowers vine-hung upon pillared trees, a mortal could swear Tyr had never shed his skin and ascended to prove his love of our kind. The twilight was a living thing, though it held no fear.

Yet my heart shrank within me as I hobbled along, Arneior and I near clinging to each other. My shieldmaid was pale, her freckles glaring and mere flakes of blue woad clinging to her skin instead of the proud stripe of those taken by the Black-Wingéd. Her spear’s blunt end occasionally touched springy turf.

Normally one of her kind will not use their weapon as a walking-stave. It must have galled her, but perhaps she could blame it upon her charge. There was no shame in needing a brace after escaping the Enemy’s greatest liches, even with aid. ’Tis a feat very few are able to accomplish save temporarily, with much effort or divine aid—but I did not think she would find the observation comforting.

Besides, my breath was short and the alien thing in my chest, pulsing like a second, sharp-fingered heartbeat, had decided to become heavy again. I was wearily surprised my slippers did not sink deep into soft ground, and the streaming of snowmelt and granular ice from our mantles—hers of ragged black Northern cloth, mine otherwise—sank into the forest floor with little ado. Our braids were askew, our steps as hurried as possible, yet the being before us never seemed to vary her pace.

She was taller than my father, Melair the Cloak-Weaver of Dorael; dark hair poured smoothly down her back to her ankles and her raiment was Elder-woven, soft and silken-shadowy. And just as I thought we would be forever staggering in her wake, a pair of graceless mortals led astray by some wood-spirit, she slowed, turning to glance over one slim shoulder.

Her profile was beautiful, too. The loveliness lay not in her features, though those were pleasing enough. The wide dark eyes, the mouth as generous as my Arneior’s, the winged eyebrows and proud nose—all harmonious, all reasonable, but wholly beside the point. Something else shone within her; though her ears came to high points and she looked very much like an Elder, the seidhr in me knew she was not.

It should have frightened me, but the wrack of two Elder cities and pursuit by the Enemy’s thralls through Wild, waste, and winter seemed to have robbed me of lesser fears.

Or perhaps the thing trapped in my ribcage performed that particular theft. I had the dazed, inchoate hope that she would somehow take the curst Elder jewel from me, so I could be relieved of both the weight and its poking, prodding, creeping scorch. To eat a proper meal again, or to lie down beside Arn and sleep…

“Forgive me.” The queen of Dorael’s southron was nearly accentless; perhaps, as certain birds do, she possessed the gift of mimicry. Only Mehem the petty-dverger of Redhill had spoken our tongue with as much facility. “You have borne more than mortals should be asked to. Both of you.”

Arn slowed, so I was forced to as well—gratefully, I might add. My shieldmaid said nothing; whether she considered further speech superfluous or she was leaving converse with a being of such great and powerful seidhr to her volva was an open question.

My throat was parched despite the winterwine pressed upon us. To go from the howling of a storm, a ring of liches and nathlàs, the utter certainty of an excruciating death to this…

It was a wonder neither of us were raving mad. My arm was caught in Arn’s, my free hand locked to her mailed elbow, and perhaps I leaned upon her so hard because I suspected I would otherwise slip my mooring and be carried into insanity with only a faint whimper of gratitude to mark the occasion.

“You are not Elder.” I sounded steady enough, which was surprising. A thin fluting of birdsong nearby underscored the words, much as Laeliquaende’s fountains provided accompaniment to every utterance within their city and most of the valley as well.

All gone, now—burned, broken, violated. What would the Enemy’s ravening thralls do to this quiet, dim peace if the being before us withdrew her protection?

“Yet I am so shaped, live among them, have even wedded one.” A faint smile tilted the corners of her sculpted lips, but she did not otherwise move. The stillness was akin to an Elder’s, only different in degree.

A goat may wed a sheep, but neither is mistaken for the other.A suppressed bray of laughter whipped the back of my throat along with acidic bile, and though uncomfortable the burn was a mortal sensation, and comforting.

I had not felt it in what seemed like ages.

“And had a daughter.” After the soft song of hers, my voice was harsh as a raven’s. Perhaps a large one, flown from the crags of the Spur to land on a roof and croak Beware, the Enemy’s forces approach.

Melair halted, and turned to face us fully. Even sudden sorrow could not make her less lovely, but there was nothing mortal in the expression. Arn stopped, which meant I had to as well.

A quiet, searching look, her dark eyes still as a shadowed pond. No whisper of wind ruffled that surface, but every riverdweller knows the most placid waters may well hide a riptide underneath. And even the mightiest warrior may drown in a puddle, if too sotted or wounded to move.

Of course she realized what I wore; of course she also saw what lurked inside my ribcage, its illumination veiled only by the shadowmantle her daughter had woven. A glance like a knife, they sang of Lithielle, and ’tis very likely she gained that look from her mother.

“Yes,” Melair said, softly. “She came to great grief, did my little dancer. I would spare any mother the pain of such a thing.” A slight, bitter smile, and she beckoned once more. “Come. ’Tis not far now.”

What could we do but follow?

The gloom lightened as we descended a slope so gentle even exhausted mortal legs found its length free of stumbles. The trees did not quite draw apart but separated slightly like friends traveling in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts; the flowered vines were thick among their branches and falling in long swaying strings. At the bottom was a glitter of water.

At first I thought it a stream, flowing fast, and deceptively smooth as Melair’s gaze. As we drew closer, though, it became a large pond with velvety banks, and rising hurriedly from the soft-silvered turf was an Elder woman clad in white. Her unbound hair was gold as my sister Astrid’s or Naciel of Laeliquaende’s, but with a faint moonlit sheen; she smiled as she strode to greet Dorael’s queen, hem and mane both fluttering.

“Ah, it is you.”The Old Tongue held a light lilting accent, somewhat archaic, and her bare arms gleamed as she made a gesture of welcome before looking past the tall dark-haired woman. “And… Oh. I see.”

“This is my very great friend Gaemirwen.” Melair’s smile returned, retrieved as a warrior does a dropped shield, settling it with habitual quickness in preparation for another bout. “She will see to the shieldmaid’s comfort for some short while; Solveig of Dun Rithell and I have other work.”

I looked up at Arn; my small one’s jaw hardened. She did not speak, but then again, she did not need to. The Jewel turned in my chest again, and the hot acidic wad in my throat swelled.

Perhaps our careering flight from Barael-am-Narain or the great wracking seidhr I had performed upon the Taurain had jarred it. Or the thing had simply grown weary of being trapped inside a riverside wisewoman, longing for a more congenial home and expressing it with mute intransigence as any living beast may.

“Go.” A husk of a word, dry and empty, filled my mouth. “This is weirding, and…”

I did not say there is no danger, for the last time I had uttered those words disaster had descended mere hours later. Nor did I say you cannot help, but no doubt she knew.

My shieldmaid’s task was to protect us both physically. My own duties comprised all else, and I had failed time and again.

“Worry not, Secondborn friends.” Gaemirwen folded her hands before her as if asking the gods for some favor; her southron was accented as Melair’s was not. The Old Tongue rubbed through under each consonant, singing through the bars of a cage. “Safety is yours, and rest for your weariness.”

I doubted both most mightily, but there was no choice. I let go of Arn, finding my legs would indeed hold me upright without her steadiness, and watched the white-clad Elder woman lead my shieldmaid away. Arn’s spearblade winked once, a forlorn signal from a high hill, and the copper in her hair did not catch fire in the starlit gloom. She turned once to look back, and in the soft illumination the shadows under her eyes were dark indeed, as well as the gaunt hollows of her cheeks.

She looked tired unto death. I suspect I was not much better.

Melair studied me for a long moment, a look searching as my teacher Idra’s. There was no weirding in it, merely close attention. A being so mighty as to deny the Enemy himself could no doubt overwhelm one tired mortal, even a volva granted access to every branch of seidhr’s great tree. Elementalist, my folk called those so gifted; alkuine was the Elder word, and I had thought us merely rare.

Other Elder had sought to overwhelm me with such scrutiny married to invisible force, to lay bare my intent and subtle selves or simply to dominate. Something foul had attempted the last in a broken tower as well, reaching through an old man driven mad by grief—or by another, darker purpose.

But the Cloak-Weaver of Dorael did none of those things. She simply waited, and ’tis far more effective with one of my temper.

No doubt she knew as much. Between the spirits of field, wood, or animal and the gods themselves there are many intelligences, and had I not driven almost past sanity no doubt I would have been thrilled to be in the presence of one so obviously mighty.

Instead, I was merely, simply afraid.

“What must I do?” How many times had I asked Idra the same thing, knowing some feat or test was required? Since my fourth year, when she formally visited the greathall to see if Eril’s uncanny daughter was one who could truly become Wise, my greatest aspiration had been to make her proud.

Or at least, not to disappoint her, and in doing so also bring shame to my mother, my father, the entire settlement. I had been so certain such ignominy would kill me; now it might not be granted the chance.

Melair’s hand lifted, a graceful motion. Hushsweet birdsong turned expectant; her cupped fingers indicated the pond’s smooth shining. Tiny points of light caught in its mirror reminded me of Taeron’s tower, though the darkness under Dorael’s roof was not nearly so complete as that within the milk-white spire holding Elder treasures.

“This is the Mere.” Still the Cloak-Weaver spoke my mother-language, as if she wished there to be no doubt or mistranslation. “Since the First Song it has been here, waiting. Even the war against the Treacherous One before the waking of the Elder did not disturb its peace; it was here when I arrived, knowing whom I would meet and how I would love him. And what that affection would bring.”

Some of the Elder spoke of knowing the world before the very first dawn. It was no less fascinating than it was chilling to hear this creature speak of even older things, and had not the pain in my chest mounted afresh I would have enjoyed it.

What volva would not? Seidhr encompasses ambition, ’tis the nature of the thing.

But I was so weary, the burning was all through my veins, and the sharp inimical edges of an Elder treasure prod-poked unmercifully. A small, wringing cough struck me, hot coppery slipperiness filling my mouth.

“The time grows short.” Melair glided forward a step, two, and I realized she approached me as a herdsman will a skittish sheep, or a houndmaster an anxious dog not yet trained.

Did she think me likely to flee? I could barely walk. The ridiculousness of the entire affair struck me once more, though I was not a-saddle atop a wildly plunging horse chased by the Enemy’s thralls.

Such great beings, such unrelenting terrors, all concerning themselves with one small, very tired Secondborn. It defied belief.

Melair touched my shoulder. A great cool wash of power spread from the contact, very like Aeredh’s sharing of vital force; my knees softened but she caught me, more-than-mortal strength humming in a tall slim frame as her hands folded about my shoulders.

“Come,” she said, urgently, almost kindly. “I may take you to the brink, but no farther. The final step is yours.”

I know, I wanted to say, but another cough mounted in my throat and the thought of spraying effluvia over her distant, stainless beauty was too embarrassing to be borne.

I set my jaw and reeled downhill, disdaining not her aid but the indignity of my own failing body. A thin hot dribble traced down my chin; I hoped ’twas blood and not an infant’s helpless drool.

Ageless, immortal, she paced beside me. The Cloak-Weaver was as good as her word; to the very edge of the water she was at my side.

The stars upon its surface shimmered. There seemed others caught in the glassy depths, fires burning in defiance of cold quenching, trembling as they sang in high silvery voices. A tearing cramp seized my chest, my slippered toes dug into the soft rim.

I folded double over the agony, and finally, finally the grip of a volva’s will upon the patient beast of flesh loosened. My subtle selves lunged for freedom, or at least cessation of the near-constant humiliations since leaving my home.

And I fell.