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PART TWO
NITHRAEN
Morn in Nithraen
Before Faevril was born, his queenly mother Mieris went to the northernmost shore of Valhalle, to the cave where the Three Kind Sisters weave. Much was her joy upon hearing that her firstborn would be a flame bright enough to light the world, but deep also was her unease, for that was not all the Njorn said…
—The Annals of Valraëne
To wake upon a bedstead carved from grey stone is strange enough, even when its mattress is soft as a cloud and the linens smell of summer freshness. To see the bed’s curtains hanging from a loop of more carved stone overhead, the ring depending from a rough mass of almost-triangular rock, is even stranger. There was a small stand next to the bed, a pillared dish growing from its surface like a twisted tree-trunk and bearing a single, heatless, glowing golden globe. The light it shed was clear and forgiving, brightening when I yawned and scrubbed at my poor head. My braids were in a sorry state, coral beads digging unmercifully amid the tangle, and as I sat up, pushing unfamiliar, finespun blankets aside, I also dislodged Arn’s arm from my middle.
She muttered a curse, turned over, and returned to the deep shadowy land of sleep with little ado. Her spear was propped within easy reach of the carven bed; I realized, staring in wonder, that the entireroom had been hollowed from grey stone. A columned opening along one wall let in a dappled glow of shifting leafshadow, accompanied by the sound of voices lifted in song and laughter.
There was a stone table too, but the chairs were—thankfully—made of wood, and in the usual fashion besides, though highly carved. A stone wardrobe with varnished, likewise sculpted wooden doors stood sentinel in one corner, and before it was my mother’s trunk, still securely fastened. Myseidhr-bag, with Astrid’s beautiful stitchery making runes of health and protection upon its sides and flap, was tangled in the bed’s blankets near my shieldmaid’s knee. Arn’s mantle and mine hung upon wooden holders set nearby, dry and clean, looking very companionable indeed. The walls were alive with stonework of climbing vines and leaves, a screen-trellis with stone flowers shielding a small sitting room. I peered through the holes, running a tentative fingertip along hard petals.
It was a representation of no plant I knew, but the rock remembered tiny whispers ofseidhr-shaping. If I listened deeply enough, I could perhaps untangle the words used to make stone behave so.
The artisans of this place were skilled indeed, for even small hairs along the flower stems had been rendered. The rooms were wide and airy, holding a faint indefinable floral fragrance and the faintest breath of stone-smell, as of a mountain’s slope upon a sunny summer day. On the other side of the sitting room—it held low wooden couches upholstered with velvet, clearly this was a hall much greater than Dun Rithell or the Eastronmost—was a door I felt no need to examine just yet, being too busy freeing my braids.
My scalp tingled with relief, and the prickling slid down my back. I found the colonnade along the bedroom’s wall looked over a tree-lined street, quiet and deserted; the voices came from elsewhere, rising and falling in lapping waves. The trees drove their roots into, over, and past stone containers that had held them as saplings, their branches stretched upward under a shimmering radiance from a great golden thing hanging far above.
It was not the sun, and my fingers froze in my hair. I retreated once more, working coral beads free and whispering a smallseidhragainst enchantment and ill will with each one. I did not think suchcaution precisely necessary, but the disturbing feeling under my breastbone would not go away.
Another archway led to a small grotto with water sliding down a stone cliff-face subtly shaped into spiraling designs; it was close and half as warm as a sauna, tiny vines and moss festooning its walls. The light was an indirect golden glow, from whence I could not tell. There was a smaller stone column, too, somehow feeding bubbling cold water into a basin. An entire family could have lived in these rooms and had plenty of space to share with bondsman, thrall, servant, and free retainers alike.
The wardrobe’s shelves and cubbies were empty, and sweetly redolent of resinous wood. I decided against trying to heft the trunk into its embrace, for there was no telling if this was our final destination or how long we would stay.
Finally, clean and warm—and is that not a joy after any voyage, no matter how short?—I took my carved-horn comb to the balcony over the street, setting to work upon my damp hair. The voices had not stopped, merely shifted like river-chuckles running over a stony bed. I studied the bright golden ball hanging high above, realizing it was akin to a great gem. The stars scattered about it were other jewels set in the roof of a vast cavern, but if they were constellations I could not tell, being none I had ever seen.
Under hill, under stone they live; Where singing echoes deep and bold.An ancient saga, telling of the waking of the dverger in the first ordering of the world; I shivered at its unbidden appearance in my head. My second-best dress, of very dark heartsblood wool, was more than fine enough for visiting other halls.
Was it enough for an Elder city? It did notsmellunderground here; there was no cave-reek. On the far side of the river from Dun Rithell there was a noisome cavern Idra swore had once held an evil hulking stonehide thing finally killed by a distant ancestor of Gwenlara my own mother’s progenitrix; there was no breath of anything so foul here.
The pillared balcony had a pretty carven balustrade; I studied the trees and smoothly cobbled street below. Had they found these caverns and enlarged them, or did an Elder lord look upon a hill agesago and decide to carve within it? Or perhaps others had made these halls? There were stories of thethrayndverger, short squat people whose hands know the secret of every earthly crafting and who lived in halls of stone; they were held to have departed the world when the Elder did after the Black Land’s fall, but by burrowing inward instead of taking ship to the far, glorious West.
But apparently the Black Land was risen again. And now I wondered what else lurked in the far reaches of the North, how much would I see before returning to Dun Rithell. I could not think beyond seeing Mother again, and Astrid and Bjorn. Even Father’s bluff, uneasy greeting would be a relief and a joy.
While the cold North might hold wonders like this place it also held things like sheep-monsters in hidden ways, andorukhar. Not to mention the lich we had so narrowly escaped, and that was a terrible memory. I shuddered, drawing the comb through my hair, and sensed more than saw movement below. I peered over the balustrade, narrowing my eyes. A blurring shape slipped through liquid treeshade, moving between patches of deeper shadow.
My fingers cramped upon the comb. I sucked in a soft breath, and he must have heard me, for Eol paused and looked up, peering between heavy-laden branches. He had put aside his blackened armor, but his new garb was sober-dark as ever, leggings and a long tunic of some soft material I learned later was Elder-woven. His eyes gleamed, his face patched and seamed with moving shadows, and the gem upon his swordhilt, now unwrapped, glittered savagely.
“And there, in her tower, the daughter of a king; Looks upon me, and her gaze is as a knife.” He murmured in the Old Tongue, some manner of song or riddle, for the accents were pleasingly arranged. Then he shifted to the southron speech, raising his voice as if he thought my ears were stoppered instead of sharp as avolva’s. “Be untroubled, Gwendelint’s daughter. You are safe in Nithraen, where Caelgor and Curiaen now rule.”
That means nothing to me, son of Tharos.But excitement rose behind my heartbeat, largely dispelling unease. “This is an Elder place, then?” I had to lean over the balustrade, my damp, unbound hair swinging, and pitch my own words loudly enough for dull hearing.
Although his ears were perhaps as sharp as Arn’s, considering what lived in his skin.
“Of a certainty.” He stepped out of lacework shadow, his eyes bright and whatever golden thing burned overhead wringing a hard dart of light from the gem in his swordhilt. “The great city of Nithraen, in a thousand caves beneath the hills of Nithlas-en-Ar. Do you ask him, Aeredh will tell you stories of its building. May I come up, Gwendelint’s daughter, or will you come down?”
Arn was still asleep, and I loath to wake her. “Am I called, then?” For a weregild must attend where they are bid, and we were not traveling at the moment.
“Only if it pleases you.” Was it chagrin, crossing his face? I could not quite tell. “Aeredh is hard upon my heels; we thought to be your doorguards. There is much curiosity about analkuine.”
So I am to be an amusement.I was not quite hard-pressed to find a polite reply, but it was close. “I have much curiosity about the Elder, so we are well-matched.”
“I begin to think you fearless.” He did not move; a breeze ruffled branches and sent dappled light cascading over him. How vast was this cavern, if the air moved so? “Grant us leave to linger at your door, Gwendelint’s daughter, and emerge when it pleases thee.”
So you can speak with some politeness, when you choose to.I heard stirring behind me—so Arn was awake, after all. “It will not be long,” I promised, and retreated, working at my hair.
