Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (51 page)

“Such a course is not to be undertaken lightly,” said Baldulf. “I urge you all to use caution. We must be certain there is a threat before we act.”

“For myself,” said Ryence, his gaze flicking over the spilled chess-pieces, “I am certain.”

“I too,” said Galiene. “But it is slow work we have before us. Let us commence without delay!”

Through a forest of maples in the Sillerway Valley Asrathiel wended her way, returning to her lodgings after a fruitless expedition. When she
glimpsed furtive movement among the trees, some little way off the trail, she glided noiselessly towards it, hoping to spy some entity that would give her the information she sought. Her hopes dwindled when she saw that the small, stooped figures trudging through the forest were merely three straggling trows, probably amongst the last of their kind to journey northwards.

In desperation she bade them halt, which they did, peering at her with mournful eyes from beneath their ragged scarves and lank fringes of hair. Silver hoops dangled from their ears; silver rings glinted on their long, skinny fingers.

“Chile o’ the Wind Laird’s son, what with us?” they said.

“I beg you to tell me who is killing the villagers, and why, and how they can be defeated.”

“Cannae tell what we dinnae ken,” they said, beginning to move off.

“Stay! Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Sulver, madam, bonny sulver,” they said. “Sulver’s a callin.”

“Where is all this silver?”

“North,” they said.

Asrathiel would have asked the wights to be more precise in their description of their destination but at that moment her brí senses, which were extended far out into the night in every direction, picked up a trembling like the vibration of a cold, thin wire. Far away, something unusual was happening in the air. . . .

Refocusing on the task at hand, the damsel looked around for the trows, but only darkness lingered there with her beneath the trees.

An emaciated layer of vapor passed over the canopy of stars. Its dilute shadow flitted across the roofs of the Red Lodge, over the numerous houses and streets of Cathair Rua, and up another hillside, like a fleeing ghost. For an instant the cloudlet blotted the stars from the window of Uabhar’s brightly lit salon, where he abided in the company of King Chohrab II and a bevy of courtiers whose customary languor was beginning to desert them. Whispers were circulating. The sovereign’s attendants detected an undercurrent of sup-pressed violence, and their usual sense of wary tension was escalating.

“Prithee, dear brother, enjoy some more of my best wine,” said Slievmordhu’s king. With his own hands he decanted ruby liquor into a crystal chalice for his guest.

“My knights have successfully contained the weathermasters and there will be no mischief from
them
this night,” Chohrab murmured indistinctly, his elbows sagging upon the arms of his chair. Propping his head on the heel of his hand, he yawned. “The hour is late.”

“On the contrary, the night is but a pup,” said Uabhar with energy. He lounged back against the cushions of his seat. “Allow me to call upon my favorite jongleurs to entertain you. I implore you not to deprive me of your cordial company so early in the evening.” Slievmordhu’s sovereign appeared to be afire with some kind of inner excitement, but his visitor was too overcome with weariness or doctored wine, or too unobservant to notice.

Chohrab raised a beringed hand in protest. “No more entertainment,” he began, but his mumbled objections were interrupted by a disturbance out-side the door.

“A plague upon’t! Discover the cause of that annoyance,” Uabhar barked at his gentlemen-in-waiting.

As a courtier opened the door, a figure came stumbling in. The man was clutching bloodied hands to his face. Glistening scarlet streams flowed between his fingers, down his arms and onto his swarthy clothing. Behind his shoulder a second visitor entered the room.

“Ádh! Ádh!!” howled the injured fellow. “They have blinded me!”

The court roused entirely from its fretting listlessness.

“Hold your noise in the royal presence, churl!” the king’s secretary hissed into the ear of the injured man.

“What has happened, Balor?” barked Uabhar. He leaned forward eagerly, while the unwounded visitor, his own servant, answered the question, and the other sobbed and moaned restrainedly.

“One of the weathermasters threw something at him, and put out his eye.”

A strange look passed fleetingly across the visage of Uabhar. Only his lackey, Balor, was in a position to witness it. The expression was at odds with the king’s words; otherwise the servant might have construed it as a leer of triumph.

Uabhar leaped up, his eyes blazing. Flinging back his head he uttered a yell of wild laughter. “Hearken!” he cried. “At last the facts are revealed. It is apparent that the weathermasters have journeyed here not for the purpose of mending rifts, but in order to incite insurrection. See, they have seriously injured Ashqalêth’s messenger, and no doubt they would have harmed my own man if given the chance. By this act the weathermasters have shown they intend to harm my country. King Chohrab, will you stand side by side with Slievmordhu?”

“Even so!” the inebriated monarch shouted virtuously, swaying in his chair and brandishing his chalice on high. Wine slopped over the rim and spattered his clothing.

“In that case,” cried Uabhar, “let the soldiers of both countries encircle the troublemakers in the Red Lodge! I will command them myself!” He exited the chamber in a swirl of velvet and the furry husks of slain animals, shouting over his shoulder, “Follow me, brother Chohrab!”

Outside the palace, the north wind began to rise.

Orders were relayed to the captains of the Desert Paladins and Uabhar’s men-at-arms. Eager were the men, and avid for action. Their blood fired with potent liquor and malicious gossip about the weathermasters, they threw aside their wineskins, grabbing hold of weapons and flaming torches. Following their two sovereigns, they rushed en masse up the hill towards the Red Lodge. As they ran they uttered savage yells and shrill war-whoops, brandishing halberds and swords that threw off sudden glints of firelight.

Inside the building Sir Isleif ordered his knights to draw their swords and take up positions of defense at the front door and every other weak point in the fortress. The Councilors of Ellenhall paused in their gesturing and expression of vector commands. They stood quietly, their hands at their sides, listening to the crescendo of approaching noise. After the din reached a cacophony, it subsided, tamed by the harsh shouts of the captains. The weatherlords did not require access to a window in order to know that a mighty crowd of men stood tightly pressed all around the walls of the Red Lodge, hemming them in with a forest of bright blades and incandescent brands.

Taking Sir Isleif’s place atop the table, Ryence raised his head towards the narrow window and cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting loudly into the taut hush, “Who is it that confronts us in hostile fashion?”

“It is I, Slievmordhu,” came Uabhar’s reply. “My warriors surround you. Come out and surrender yourselves, and we will wreak no harm upon you.”

“We have done nothing to merit such threats,” roared the weathermage. “Of what offense do you accuse us?”

“You conspire with Warwick Wyverstone to overthrow the kingdoms of the south and the east.”

As one, the weathermasters gasped. They gaped in amazement at each other, outraged at this accusation. “How dare Uabhar lay such perfidious
charges against us!” they burst out. “Conspiracy? Schemes to throw down Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth? Either the man defames us for hidden reasons, or he is insane!”

“We deny your allegations,” Ryence shouted in fury. “We deny them utterly.”

“It is too late for protestations of innocence,” came the king’s reply. “We have proof of your guilt. You have betrayed your own schemes by assailing King Chohrab’s loyal subject. Yield now and become my prisoners. I will treat you well, after you vow not to employ your powers in support of Narngalis.”

Baldulf urged his companions, “For the sake of our lives, we must give ourselves up!”

“Nay!” hissed Galiene. “Uabhar is ruthless. He would not settle for vows, even if we were prepared to make them. If he takes us captive there is no doubt he will fetter or cripple us to render us incapable of weather-wielding.”

“You think too highly of him,” said Engres. “He is mad. I daresay he would not hesitate to put us to the sword. I vote that we shall not surrender.”

The other weathermages nodded and murmured in reluctant agreement.

“Your charges are unfounded,” Ryence shouted to the slit window. “We will not yield you our freedom.” To his companions he said aside, “Resume your labor! There is no time to be lost!” They took up their weather-working gestures and whispered commands from where they had left off.

“If that be the case,” bellowed the king’s voice from the other side of the walls, “you have condemned yourselves to death.”

For a second time the weatherlords stood dumbfounded, transfixed by their dawning realization that they had been duped all along, and frozen by the sudden, chilling prospect of the fate that lay in store for them.

At length, standing tall upon the wooden boards of the table, his feet braced apart and the veins of his neck knotted like ropes, Ryence cried, “Uabhar Ó Maoldúin, you invited us to shelter beneath your roof as your guests. Will you violate the code of hospitality?”

The answer returned, “The roof of the Red Lodge is not mine. It belongs to my knights. Moreover, the code is not applicable when the visitor is no guest but an informer and agitator.”

Understanding that the king’s mind was set against them and no words would sway him, Ryence leaped down from his perch. To his people he said in a low voice, “Our only hope is to continue summoning wild weather as swiftly as possible.”

Outside the Red Lodge a contingent of druids elbowed its way through the crowd of soldiers, who fell back on either side like waves before the prow of some relentlessly ploughing vessel. “Make way for Primoris Virosus!” a secundus sang out. “Make way for the Tongue of the Fates!”

In a billow of white robes, the wizened sage stepped through the midst of his bodyguard and confronted King Uabhar. “To death?” he barked, his gimlet eyes snapping fire. “You declare that the weathermasters have condemned themselves to death? What are you playing at?”