Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (57 page)

Uabhar wasted no time. He called for a grand assembly to be held at the palace, and while his closest military advisors and the senior members of his household were ponderously filing into the audience chamber, he paid a visit to King Chohrab.

Ashqalêth’s ruler was in a bad way, suffering, no doubt, from shock and the effects of prolonged over-indulgence in certain items of pharmacopoeid. He had taken to babbling. His talk was unguarded; he seemed hardly to be aware whether he was in company or not, and his host sometimes feared he would spill every secret. It had been arranged that Chohrab should rest in the palace’s comfortable Clover Suite, attended only by Uabhar’s own hand-picked deaf servants.

Finding his guest alone in his apartments, the King of Slievmordhu seated himself at his ease on the green velvet cushions of a tall-backed chair carved with intertwining four-leafed clovers, each lobe inlaid with malachite. Chohrab slumped bulkily in a window seat, his lids puffed up like bloated fish.

“I fear the retribution of the Storm Lord,” the desert ruler muttered. “When he learns the truth, his wrath will be mighty.” Unexpectedly, he surged forward and grabbed the arm of Uabhar’s chair. “I have changed my mind!” he shrieked. “We must not attack Narngalis! ‘Twould compound the other fell deeds we have wrought!” The flesh sagging from the structure of his face looked grey, almost translucent. “If Slievmordhu can assault one kingdom,” he moaned, as if talking to himself, “why not another?”

Uabhar peeled the clawing grip off the oak and malachite embellishments. “You need have no fear,” he said smoothly. “I am your ally, as you know.”

Chohrab, however, merely fell back and gaped, his eyes wide but apparently blind to his surroundings, as if he were viewing the events of some older time, in some distant place, and as if the sight filled him with dread.

His exasperation getting the better of him, Uabhar jumped up. In his turn he seized Chohrab by the shoulders in what might have been a comradely fashion. “Brother!” he exclaimed, “have I not vowed to always shield you from suspicion? Now, come with me to the audience chamber, for we must present a united front, you and I, when we make our declaration. There is no need to tax your health by making a speech. I shall labor on your behalf. Come!”

All the grave courtiers and stern bodyguards and other members of Uabhar’s
grand assembly wrho had been brought together in the audience chamber were treated that day to the spectacle of two kings enthroned in majesty side by side upon the dais. After they had been sworn to utmost secrecy, Commander Mac Brádaigh fed the concourse with certain secrets and certain lies.

Conscious of Chohrab’s distress, and fearing he would fail to keep rein of his loose tongue, Uabhar murmured into his fellow ruler’s ear, “Recall, it was your own blade Hesam that did the necessary blood-work yesterday morning, yet in the name of loyalty, I breathe no word of it, nor ever shall.” Adopting his usual volume he proclaimed, “It is a day for triumph and rejoicing! The way is now clear for us to attack Narngalis and teach Wyverstone a lesson, before he and Torkilsalven execute their scheme to invade Ashqalêth!”

While the audience applauded and cheered, Chohrab said feebly, “How might we be certain of success?”

“How can you ask, when our armies, well accoutred, together outnumber theirs? Moreover, as you know I own a powerful eldritch weapon, the famous Sylvan Comb.” Uabhar smirked. “I have other aces hidden within my sleeve too, my brother, for I possess allies undreamed of.”

“What other allies?” Chohrab looked alarmed and bewildered. “There can be no other allies!”

“My dear comrade, I have ratified a peace agreement with forces that, until now, have been unjustly despised by the general populace. They have pledged to support Slievmordhu.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

Uabhar lowered his voice once more. “The Marauders, brother, none other.”

“You have bargained with
Marauders
? But they are monsters, not men…. ”

“Nonetheless, they can fight.”

Again the southern king appeared to be on the verge of panic. “What have you promised such toads in return for their assistance?”

“Hush. Be at peace, Chohrab. You need not concern yourself with trifling details. We shall take Narngalis before Wyverstone strikes, and then turn our attention to Grïmnørsland. Rejoice! Ashqalêth will be saved!”

In front of the entire gathering Uabhar turned to his equerry, roaring, “Make ready my battle-gear—my shield, Ocean; my dagger, Victorious; my spear, Slaughter and my sword, Gorm Glas.”

Brandishing his first above his head he shouted, “Slievmordhu marches to war!”

On a lonely hilltop near the tiny village of Yardley Goblin, sixty miles from Silverton, Asrathiel Maelstronnar stood listening to the songs of heat and water and the whispers of the elemental gases of the troposphere, all the while observing their intricate dances, and measuring their speed and direction. The source of the eldritch mists continued to elude her. . . .

At length, withdrawing her brí-senses, she bowed her head and lost herself in another reverie. During her weather-search she had hearkened as al-ways to the north wind; it had murmured of icy peaks cupping frozen lakes, and limitless leagues that lay beyond those peaks, unmapped. Some-where in those strange lands her father roamed. Would he return one day, with or without that which he had been seeking? Would he come back to his daughter, and to his bride who slept among the roses? Or was he lost forever?

As the damsel’s mind returned to her immediate surroundings, it came to her that she had been staring at a particular object without seeing it. It was a leafy sprig of crowthistle, growing at her feet. A tuft of purple marked a tightly wrapped bud, destined to blossom into a striking flower whose shape resembled the unfurled wings of a crow.

The sight of this prickly weed put her in mind of the last occasion she had encountered the urisk, and her thoughts drifted away again. The memory returned to her with such clarity that it was like watching it happen all over again through the lens of time. As so often, he had been standing before an open window, which framed a vista of the night sky. He was positioned exactly in the center of the frame, against a backdrop of brilliantly colored stars that shivered, as if loosely nailed to the rippling fabric of the universe. Within the room, his alien features were illumined by the red light of the hearth-fire, but his expression was unreadable.

Behind the head of the urisk, the full moon was rising in splendor, floating like a world cast from solid silver. The sphere was so large that the parentheses of his horns could not contain it. Unaccountably it came to Asrathiel, watching, that the moon seemed subject to him, rather than an unconnected body, remote and untouchable. For an instant she had the absurd impression that the wight had commended the moon to remain stationary behind him.

The orb of silver made him king of the night.

Before that instant of awe had passed and she had felt like laughing at herself for her fancies, Asrathiel had, on impulse, asked him his name a second time.

He had laughed then, and cast her an odd glance that made her shiver, but had deigned to reply.

“I am called,” he said, “Crowthistle.”

Here ends

The Crowthistle Chronicles, Book 3: Weatherwitch

The story commenced in

The Crowthistle Chronicles, Book 1: The Iron Tree

and

The Crowthistle Chronicles, Book 2: The Well of Tears

It concludes in

The Crowthistle Chronicles, Book 4: Fallowblade

M
AY
D
AY RHYMES:
“Pear for the fair,

Hawthorn for the well-born . . .” etc.

Aside from “hawthorn for the well-born,” these are traditional rhymes repeated to this day during modern May Day ceremonies in Britain. Hawthorn flowers bestowed on one’s threshold were considered to be a general compliment, which is why the extra line has been included.

The celebration of “May Day,” the welcoming of summer, is rooted in ancient pagan rites. In Celtic Britain the Beltane festival was held on the first of May, and marked by the lighting of huge bonfires on hilltops, perhaps in echo of the sun, or to encourage the sun’s return.

F
ESTIVALS:
Many of the festivals mentioned in this work are inspired by actual ceremonies and customs that persist to this day in Great Britain.

T
HE APPLE TREE WASSAILING CHANT:
in
Chapter 5
(which I adapted slightly) springs from Cornworthy in Devon, Great Britain. The original was recorded in 1805 and collected in
The Stations of the Sun: A History of the Ritual Year in Britain,
by Ronald Hutton. Oxford University Press, reprint edition, 1997.

J
EWEL’S SLEEP IN THE GLASS CUPOLA:
Jewel’s long slumber in a chamber of glass netted by roses is inspired by two well-known fairy tales; “The Sleeping Beauty” and “Snow White.”

C
AT
S
OUP’S TALE:
Inspired by “The Fairy Miners,” in
Popular Romances of the West of England
by Robert Hunt. Hotten, London, 1865.

T
HE PUPPET SHOW:
The story told by the puppeteers is based on “The Salt Box,” Burne and Jackson, in
Shropshire Folk-Lore: A Sheaf of Gleanings,
London, 1883. Collected by F. G. Jackson, translated by C. S. Burne from “The Saut Box.”

M
ISTRESS
D
RAYCOTT
P
ARSLOW’S GOOD FORTUNE:
Inspired by the story “The Old Woman Who Turned Her Shift,” in
Popular Romances of the West of England
by Robert Hunt. Hotten, London, 1865.

T
HE BLACK GHOST AND THE WHITE GHOST:
Inspired by “The White Bucca and the Black,” in
Traditional and Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall,
by William Bottrell, Penzance, 1870.

J
OKES TOLD AT THE BETROTHAL:
Inspired by “Enoch and Eli,”
in Anecdotes and Tales, Chiefly from the Blacky Country,
collected by Roy Palmer, Ms., 1966.

P
ERYWYKE IS AN ERBE OF GRENE COLOR:
An anonymous herbal poem, apparently dating from about the time of Chaucer.

G
OOD DRUID
, I
HAVE SENT FOR YOU BECAUSE:
An adaptation of an anonymous erotic poem, possibly dating from the nineteenth century.

W
EATHER LORE:
This traditional rhyme was gathered from
Collins Eyewitness Guides: Weather.

“It the oak flowers before the ash,

We shall have a splash.

If the ash flowers before the oak,

We shall have a soak.”

T
HE OPPOSING PROHIBITIONS ON KING THORGILD, AND THE BETRAYAL OF THE WEATHERMASTERS:
Inspired by part of the story “Deirdre,” an ancient Celtic legend. This tale, also known as “The Exile of the Children of Uisnach,” is often related as a prologue to the oldest prose epic known to Western literature: “The Cattle Raid of Cooley”
(Tain Bo Cuailgne).
It has existed by word of mouth since the first century A.D. and was written down by Irish scholars during the seventh century A.D. The story has been rewritten many times in the form of books and plays, and remains popular to the present day.

T
HE NAMES OF UABHAR’S WEAPONS:
King Uabhar’s weapons are named after the weapons of King Conchobar in the legend “Deirdre.” “My shield Ocean, my dart Victorious, my spear Slaughter, and my sword Gorm Glas, the blue-green.”

W
HUPPITY
S
TOURIE:
This ancient custom is exclusively observed on 1 March at the Royal Burgh of Lanark in Strathclyde, Scotland.

T
HE
D
AY OF
H
EROES LOYALTY SPEECH:
This is adapted from an actual speech by Rudolph Hess, in 1934, to the National Socialist Party in Germany.

P
LACE NAMES IN
N
ARNGALIS:
Many of the place names in Narngalis are derived from locations in the British Isles. And what a delight they are.

T
HE INTELLIGENCE OF FISH:
For fascinating information on the intelligent minds of fish, dogs, sheep, primates and other creatures, I recommend
New Scientist
magazine # 2451, 12 June 2004, pages 41 to 53.

A
NIMAL RIGHTS:
P.E.T.A., “People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals,” have kindly permitted me to draw on information from their newsletter and from their Web site, which can be found at
http://www.peta.org
.

Thanks to Garth Nix, one of my favorite authors, for our discussion about character names. Thanks to the following writers for valuable information about swordsmanship: Elizabeth Bear, Mike Dumas, Elizabeth Glover, Steve K. S. Perry, Nancy Proctor.

A graduate of Monash University with a degree in sociology, CECILIA DART-THORNTON is the author of the internationally acclaimed Bitterbynde Trilogy and the Crowthistle Chronicles. Her interests include animal rights, wilderness conservation, and digital media. She lives with her family in Australia.