The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

Overview

Jarred is a young boy who has grown up among his mother's peaceful desert people. While Jarred loves his mother, he longs to know the history of his father, a journeyman who left years earlier, promising to return for his wife and infant son. A broken promise but a token left behind--an amulet for Jarred that he has worn always. Some say it brings more than a bit of good luck his way, for no harm has ever befallen the boy.

When Jarred comes to manhood, he decides to journey into the world to seek his fortune and perhaps along the way find news of his father. In his travels he will come to a place so unlike his own as to boggle his mind--a place of immense tracts of waterways and marshes, where the very air seems to teem with magic and a people surrounded by creatures fey and not, with enough strange customs and superstitions to make his head swirl.

And to the beautiful Lilith, a woman who will haunt his dreams and ultimately steal his heart...who perhaps can provide a key to his heritage.



At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781429911160
Publisher:	Tor Publishing Group
Publication date:	02/07/2006
Series:	The Crowthistle Chronicles , #1
Sold by:	Macmillan
Format:	eBook
Pages:	400
File size:	1 MB

About the Author

Cecilia Dart-Thornton's interests include playing music, oil painting, graphic design, photography, and clay sculpture. She lives in Australia.

Cecilia Dart-Thornton's interests include playing music, oil painting, graphic design, photography, and clay sculpture. She is the author of The Crowthistle Chronicles, including The Iron Tree, The Well of Tears, and Weatherwitch. She lives in Australia.

Read an Excerpt

IFlowersThe sun was rolling westward on a hot and heavy afternoon. Beyond the village’s cradle of rocky hills, acres of arid wilderness stretched in every direction, and the land was shimmering in the heat-haze, compressed beneath a hard and dazzling sky. A distant smudge—perhaps smoke from the glass furnaces of Jhallavad—hung on the horizon.In the village, the irritable clacking of foraging hens and the yelling of youths overrode the quiet percussions of desert insects and the sighing of the wind across the dunes. Everything in the place had been either bleached or toasted by the scorching skies. It was a bread-dough village, cooked by the sun and sprinkled with baker’s flour. The cream-colored adobe shells of the buildings were windowless and very thick, the inner walls pierced only by arched portals draped with woven hangings that served as doorways. Hanging above all, the afternoon sky was a lustrous haze of mauve gauze, as if a cheap purple scarf had faded in the sunlight.Few people were on the streets. Twelve barefoot lads occupied the main thoroughfare, refusing to surrender their youthful exuberance and let it melt in the furnace of the desert heat. They were playing a game, kicking a missile up and down the street. The object was a football made from scraps of uncured goat hide stitched together in a roughly spherical shape and stuffed with fibrous material. Roaming fowls, as well as the occasional dust devil or dry tangle of tumbling pigweed, hampered the players’ efforts.Without prelude, every dog in the village began to bark. The boys paused in their game, letting the much-buffeted ball lumber down a short incline until it came to rest in a pothole. Intrigued, they scanned their surroundings but could see nothing amiss. The streets, the low roofs, the spindly windmills on their long legs, the vegetation, showed no evidence of anything untoward. Yet the dogs had been known to raise such alarms before, and a sense of foreboding surged like a fever in the veins of those who heard.A thunderous roaring arose from the cores of the hills and echoed from the firmament. The houses began to shake. Drystone walls that ran along the borders of the cultivated fields undulated like serpents. A deep, smoking crack unseamed itself along the main street, rapidly zigzagging between the boys as they ran in panic or stood frozen in their playing positions. The village was abruptly riven in two, marooning the boys on either side of a newborn gulf. The largest of the youths teetered on the crevice’s very brink, off balance, flailing his arms in desperation, staring aghast at a prospect in which he had no future but death.The village shuddered. There came crashing thuds, as if some gigantic, weighty monster were charging at high speed through some hitherto undiscovered vault under the street. The land trembled. Tiles flew from roofs. People rushed out of their palsied abodes. Babies wailed, onagers brayed, and horses squealed. The boy at the ravine’s edge lost his battle for equipoise and began to fall just as the crack mercifully, preposterously, snapped shut. Suddenly he was safe, sprawling in the dirt.Then the shuddering, which had come out of the south, ran away. It passed north, into the Wight Hills. After the noise galloped over the horizon, the landscape stood still.Dust billowed. The street smoked as if smoldering in an unseen fire.


Relieved, the youths whooped and laughed, sprinting up and down the street to release pent-up energy. As the land quivered with aftershocks, all the villagers had gathered at the central crossroads, inquiring anxiously after each other’s health. They embraced one another, shrieking in amazement that the world should split in half right along the main street of their hamlet and then seal itself up as if nothing had occurred. Minor quakes were not unusual in these parts, but the startling effects of this one were unprecedented. Fortunately, no one had been injured. The tremor had shaken the village of R’shael, in the kingdom of Ashqalêth, without causing damage any more serious than the breakage of a few earthenware amphorae and the toppling of a water-pumping windmill. Groups of children counted aloud, making a game of timing the aftershocks.The mother of one of the ballplayers appeared at her son’s side, gazing searchingly into his face. The youth was dark eyed and handsome, tall and strong. His long back, perfectly symmetrical, tapered to a taut waist. His limbs were as firm as polished walnut, every line of his musculature cleanly defined. He was apprenticed to the village blacksmith, and the work was physically demanding. It was the second trade he had learned during his boyhood and youth; the first had been carpentry. Wood, however, was scarce in the desert, and besides, the master carpenter had since departed from R’shael.“Are you hale, Jarred?” his mother questioned anxiously, breathlessly.The young man nodded and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Of course! And you? And Aunt Shahla?”“Both of us unscathed.”“You know it is never necessary to worry on my account,” said Jarred. He tugged at a thin leather band he wore around his neck. A disk, attached to the band, emerged from beneath his clothing, and he held it up so that his mother might inspect it. “You see? I still wear the talisman. You should not vex yourself. I promised.”“That you did, but I cannot help it. I am concerned always with your safety.”“Foolish mother,” he scolded gently, leaning down to kiss the top of her head with utmost tenderness. His love for this careworn, fragile woman swelled suddenly in his heart as he looked at her. She was wearing the traditional draperies of the desert women, dyed with hues of saffron and ochre. Her long gown, embroidered with colored silks, was belted with a wide sash at the waist. Brass rings glinted, bright yellow, at her fingers and ears. Dark, mild eyes were set in a fine-boned countenance, and her hair, like that of her son, was the color of cardamom.“I cannot help it,” she repeated. “It is a mother’s lot, to be forever concerned about the welfare of her children. I would give anything to ensure your security.”“But I am secure,” said Jarred, giving her a smile of reassurance and tucking the talisman away beneath his raiment.Sudden disturbances of the land were common occurrences in that region of the desert. Perhaps once in every cycle of the moon there would come a vibration so slight it would engender merely a few ripples in a bowl of kumiss. Perhaps three or four times in a year, a stronger tremor would rattle the crockery on the shelves. Once or twice a year, a more violent quake would convulse through the hills and plains, causing the fences to undulate, the house walls to crack, and crazy crevices to zigzag across the ground. Such evidence of the unimaginable forces of nature could not fail to produce temporary unease and some fear in the villagers; however, they were never amazed at such commonplace events, for familiarity had bred equanimity. Village life soon settled down to normal.


When the shadows lengthened at sunset, Jarred, his mother, and his mother’s sister sat cross-legged on the mat in their breezy house, sharing a cumin-flavored stew of barley, gourds, and beans. The chamber they occupied was sparsely furnished with a low table and a few shelves. A lyre hung from two nails on one whitewashed wall, while a crossbow and a sheathed scimitar were pegged to the wall opposite. Curtained doorways led off to the sleeping quarters. A second, smaller edifice built close to the dwelling housed the small kitchen that was Shahla’s domain, and the pottery workshop of Jarred’s mother. Beyond the buildings lay the chicken coop, a small stable for the onager and Jarred’s mare, Bathsheva, the coal cellar, and a vegetable plot. The plot was kept moist by one of the village’s many irrigation channels. These flumes carried water pumped from subterranean cooling cisterns. If not for the intermediary tanks, the underground water would kill the vegetation, for it emerged from deep bores at a temperature near boiling.If the desert days were dusty and hot, nights were dusty and bitterly cold. Huddled around a brazier of glowing coals, Jarred and his family concluded their meal with a dessert of figs stewed in sweet sorghum syrup.“How astonishing, that the street should crack in half today,” mused Jarred’s aunt, Shahla, not for the first time that evening. “Yaadosh almost fell down into the nethers of the world. He seesawed on the very brink! I thought I would faint at the sight.” She licked honey from her fingers. “And then that crack snapped shut like some monstrous unseelie mouth. If anyone had fallen in, they would have been instantly crushed. Not you, of course, Jarred,” she said, turning to her nephew. “You have the talisman.” As a sudden thought struck her, her brow furrowed. “But what would happen to you? You would be imprisoned in the ground beneath the street forever, until we shoveled you out—but how dreadful!”Jarred’s mother laid calm fingers upon the arm of her sister. “Shah, pray do not extrapolate further. Your words distress me.”In consternation, Shahla clapped her hand to her mouth. “Forgive me Sayareh!” she said contritely, hanging her head. “I did not intend to cause distress.”“I do have the talisman,” affirmed Jarred. Optimistically he added, “And I am certain it could somehow save me from imprisonment beneath the ground.” Once more he dragged the amulet from its hiding place beneath his shirt. A simple disk of bone engraved with two interlocking runes lay upon his open palm. For a few moments, the young man gazed at it speculatively. “I can never understand how this thing works. It is no less efficacious in its protective qualities whether I wear it against my skin or over the top of many layers of clothing. At times I have even kept it in my pocket, or the pouch at my belt, yet steadfastly it guards me from harm. Maybe some invisible aura emanates from it.”“Who can hope to guess the ways and means of gramarye?” said his aunt, giving a shrug. “As long as it keeps you safe, Jarred, I for one shall never question its methods. Be glad of it and do not wonder why.”He smiled at her. “Gramercie. I am glad of the talisman, Aunt Shahla, but somehow its existence seems like a barrier between me and my comrades. Ever since I was old enough to understand its properties, both of you have impressed upon me the need for keeping them secret. I have obeyed you. Your advice is wise, for if the true potency of this rare object were to be revealed, trouble would surely descend upon us. Every mortal being wishes to be safe from harm. Everyone wants to protect their loved ones. The talisman would inevitably arouse jealousy, resentment, and envy. Throughout history, people have committed terrible crimes for the sake of lesser treasures than this. I have no desire to bring about strife and suffering; therefore I am happy to keep the amulet’s qualities hidden. But while hiding it, I am inclined to consider myself a fraud, for dishonesty does not come naturally to me. And sometimes I see myself as a coward, crouching behind gramarye’s shield.”“A promise has been made,” his mother said simply. “You must continue to wear the talisman. It is up to you whether you allow your impressions of dissimilarity and cowardice to rule your sentiments. There is no need for you to feel that way. You are no craven, no imposter.”“I know. These fancies that plague me are foolish, yet not easily dismissed.” Absentmindedly, Jarred traced the edge of the amulet with his fingertip. “I often wonder where my father got this thing.”“Where did he get it?” Shahla directed the question to her sister.“He always told me he picked it up somewhere, during his travels,” Jarred’s mother replied. “He could not recall where.”Her son continued to gaze reflectively at the charm. “I remember so very little about my father. I cannot even recall what he looked like, but when I think about him I feel echoes of a sense of security mixed with anticipation. I picture him setting off for market, and me pleading to go with him. It was always exciting, to go anywhere with him.”He paused, leaving his train of thought unvoiced so as not to upset his mother. One day the floors had fallen out of the world, leaving a horrifying pit and he vertiginous on the lip of the precipice. When he was ten years old, his father had gone away and never returned. The loss was a wound that would not heal.He used to ask his mother, “What did he look like?”“Like you,” she would reply.“Where did he go?”“Across the Fire Mountains to the wastelands.”“Why?”Sometimes his mother would reply, “Jo sought profit for his family, prospecting for precious metals.” Other times she would say softly, as if speaking to herself, “Perhaps he was still running away … .”Jarred only knew that his father had, as a youth, fled from his parents. More than that, his father had refused to divulge. He had always been a restless man and was clearly troubled by secret concerns.“Will he ever come back?” he pestered his mother.“I do not know.”“Your parents were born here in R’shael and lived here all their lives. Where did my father’s family come from?”“He would never speak of them. All I know of Jo’s kindred is that he fell out with his own sire. He ran away from home and traveled the Four Kingdoms, seeking some remote place in which to dwell, where he would not be easily found. Eventually he found his way here. For twelve years he stayed. In the end, his old restlessness took hold of him and he departed, but he said he intended to come back. Maybe he will, someday. We can only wait and hope.”


A football competition was to take place in three days’ time. Jarred and his comrades, who were to play against a team of lads from the other side of the village, had decided to hone their tactics and practice their maneuvers in some private spot where the opposing players would be unable to observe them. On the afternoon following the quake, when fine wisps of cirrus were evaporating on the western horizon and the boys’ tasks were over for the day, they executed their plan. One by one they mounted their sinewy desert horses and headed off in different directions—in order to trick any potential spies—before doubling back and meeting together in a remote area among the hills.This area, a shallow depression fenced by stony ridges, was known as the Hen’s Nest, and it boasted a tiny seasonal spring where the sportsmen might water their horses. Between the Hen’s Nest and the village lay a dry gulch, a slash in the face of the desert about two miles in length but no more than a hundred feet across at the widest point. Its sides were vertical and its depth unplumbed. This cleft plunged so far into the ground that light could not penetrate to its fundament. The narrowest span was right in the center where the gap was only fifteen feet, and it was there that a wooden suspension bridge had been thrown across, anchored at each end by stout posts driven into the ground. The bridge had once been kept in good repair, because crossing the gulch meant cutting several miles off the route to the neighboring village, fifty miles away. Six months earlier, however, the bridge had been abandoned by human traffic.Some travelers had been waylaid by a nameless unseelie incarnation as they attempted to cross. That, in any event, was the general opinion. None knew the truth of what had happened at the bridge. There had been no witnesses to the event; only the aftermath gave mute evidence.The travelers had been expected to arrive in R’shael at a certain hour, and when they failed to appear a party of five men had ridden out to look for them. All that the searchers discovered were some fresh footprints in the sand, leading to the bridge. As the detectives scouted around for further evidence, one of them, who had strayed farthest from the gulch, became aware that an uncanny silence was pressing heavily all around and he could no longer hear the voices of his companions. Seized with inexplicable terror, he stared wildly about, calling their names, but they had vanished without a sound, without leaving any trace, and their horses had disappeared also. He saw only the bridge over the gulch, swaying slightly as if someone or something had recently trodden upon it. The man found himself entirely alone, yet he guessed, with a sickening lurch of his guts, that he was not. Jabbering with fright, he began to run, and he did not stop until he had reached the village.The villagers had placed marked stones across the turnoff to the ravine as a warning to approaching travelers. Since that time, no human being had ventured near that haunted place.Avoiding the bridge, Jarred and his comrades detoured around the head of the gulch. As the lads rode across a tract of spinifex, a sand fox appeared right in front of the hooves of their steeds. It ran away for a short distance, then turned and watched them from its amber eyes. The boys traveled on, whereupon the creature ran toward them again and darted away as before.“He is trying to distract us from our path,” said Nasim. “I’ll warrant his lair is nearby. This is the season for cubs. There will be a litter in there.”When the riders approached a rocky outcrop, a second fox appeared. Her ruff bristled and she bared her teeth menacingly.“There’s his wife,” said Jarred’s friend Yaadosh. He was two years older than Jarred, deep chested and coarse featured, with massive shoulders.Someone yelled, “Ho, Jarred, hit it with your slingshot!” but the youth paid him no heed. Three of the lads began to whoop and wave their arms. The two sand foxes crouched, ready to spring, ears flattened to their delicate heads. It was clear they were mortally afraid yet driven by desperation as they glanced rapidly from side to side in an effort to calculate which of their tormentors would attack first. One boy jumped down from the saddle, scooped up a handful of stones, and began to throw them at the vixen. She lunged at him, and he swung rapidly back onto his mount.“I’ll fix you!” muttered the stone-thrower, pulling a hand catapult out of his saddlebag.“Leave off!” Jarred shouted. “Let them be!”Next moment he had ridden swiftly past the stone-throwing youth and cuffed him across the side of the head before galloping away. Indignantly, the thrower clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks and charged off in pursuit. The others followed.After they arrived at the Hen’s Nest and jumped off their horses’ backs, there was a brief scuffle between Jarred and the stone-thrower; then the matter was quickly forgotten.“We shall take turns to keep watch for spies,” proclaimed Tsafrir, a thickset fellow. The senior member of the group, older by ten years than Jarred, he had seen almost thirty cycles of the sun. His looks belied his age, and people thought of him as “one of the youths.” “Quoll,” he said, addressing Michaiah, the cousin of Yaadosh, by his nickname, “take the old miser’s spyglass and climb that tussocky ridge. From such a height you will be able to see if anyone is coming this way from the village.”Reverently Michaiah grasped the spyglass in his hands. It was the only instrument of its kind in R’shael, and it belonged to formidable old Saeed, the headman. Saeed was extremely careful with his valuable treasure and would entrust it only to the care of a chosen few. The village youths were not among those few; therefore, they had covertly “borrowed” the item from its owner, with the intention of returning it before he noticed its absence.In the western skies, the sun was liquefying in rivers of iridescent pink and gold, the usual splendor of a desert sunset, by the time the boys finished devising and practicing their tactics for winning the football game. Wishing to be home before the creatures of the night emerged from their lairs, the boys flung themselves into their saddles and galloped homeward, their horses’ hooves kicking up puffs of dust from the bare and sun-baked ground.It was not until they had almost reached the village that Tsafrir shouted, “Halt!” and they reined in, wheeling to form a circle around their unofficial leader. Tsafrir was the eldest and had once traveled beyond the borders of Ashqalêth; this, combined with his native good sense, lent him authority.“Who has the spyglass?” he demanded.“Caracal used it last,” cried Gamliel.“I did not!” shouted Yaadosh. “’Twas Gecko!”Tsafrir’s brother Nasim, nicknamed “Gecko,” denied the accusation, and a vociferous argument ensued. At length, Tsafrir signaled for silence, calling out, “Hold your noise!”The youths glared soberly at one another. They were only too aware that the wrath of Saeed, which would most certainly descend on them should any harm come to the precious spyglass, would be fearsome indeed. Dire punishments would be inflicted. Already, dusk was drawing her mourning veils across the desert, and soon the hour would arrive when nocturnal creatures would begin to roam. Of these oddities it was best not to think.The lads faced a dilemma. Should they return to the village without the spyglass, to endure the ire of Saeed and all the elders, or should they go back to retrieve the instrument and risk the perils of the night?“It’s clear the spyglass has been left behind,” declared Tsafrir. “We shall draw straws. He who loses the draw shall go back to fetch it.” He dismounted, unsheathed his dagger, and cut off a few strands of spinifex from a tussock that straggled near his feet.The lads shifted uneasily in their saddles. Terror was rising in their throats. It would be impossible to refuse to go back into the desert, should that lot fall to any one of them. To exhibit cowardice was to be dishonored for a lifetime. As Tsafrir arranged the grass stems in his hand, the youths avoided one another’s gaze, swallowed copiously, and swiped at the sudden beads of sweat that started from their foreheads. No one spoke.Tsafrir proffered the stalks to the nearest lad, but as he did so, Jarred said, “Tarry! I will go.”The young man considered himself under an obligation to undertake perilous tasks in place of his friends. After all, he was the only one with immunity. Why should he let his comrades risk their lives on a venture that could do him no harm? What’s more, by facing dangerous situations, he was able, for a short while, to quiet the worm of self-doubt that gnawed at his viscera: it was a fact that he was no coward, but being unassailable, he could never truly prove it.Without waiting for a response, he wheeled his horse around and galloped away in the direction of the Hen’s Nest. Taken by surprise, his comrades sat staring after him, gaping. The strands of grass dropped from Tsafrir’s fingers. Among the nearby thornbushes, small birds chimed like wind-struck shards of glass. Far away, a sand fox barked.“In the darkness, he will not be able to find anything,” said Gamliel uneasily.“The moon will be almost full tonight,” replied Michaiah, “and it will rise early.”“Should we wait here?” questioned Nasim as the skies darkened and the sunset’s glory began to fade from the west.Tsafrir shook his head. “If we delay, our families will become anxious. Let us return home and playact as if nought untoward has occurred. Gecko, when we arrive at the village you must tell Jarred’s mother he has accompanied me to my house and will be returning late. This is purely a matter of courtesy,” he subjoined, mindful of masculine dignity. “It’s not as if grown men should be required to explain their whereabouts to their mothers. You must reassure her that he will come home soon.”Now the lads met one another’s eyes. They read there: He may never come home.All save for big Yaadosh, who proclaimed loudly, “I daresay the Fates have taken Jarred into their protection. For some reason he always escapes harm.”But no one took much notice of his words as they trailed homeward with many a backward glance.


Away across the dunes and the baked red slabs of rock galloped Jarred. Wings of sand spurted from the hooves of his horse, which kicked aside rolling basketries of dry pigweed. They flew over tussocks of spinifex and stunted bushes. The sheer pale blue of the sky had deepened to sumptuous indigo, buttoned all over with silver stars.A light was moving along the flank of a dune, beside Jarred, yet nobody accompanied it. The light stopped for a while beside the dune’s highest point, then went on again, moving at unnatural speed. Jarred’s heart pounded as he raced on.The desert teemed with eldritch manifestations. Thick smoke was arising from a circular sand hill. The fume went straight up like a pillar before spreading out like a mushroom at the top. Momentarily the cloud thinned, revealing two rows of white birds lined up on each side of the mound. They had the shoulders and heads of dogs. A great rattling noise arose; then a voice growled, “Get ye hence!” and the birds flew off.Grim-faced, the young man held fast to the back of his swift-moving mare. How many of the curious sights and sounds were glamour’s illusion and how many were real, he could not tell. The confusion disoriented him. Nausea roiled in his stomach.Away in the shadowy distance, a bonfire suddenly flared, leaping some thirty feet into the air. When Jarred looked again, there was nothing to be seen but vertiginous blackness and afterimages reversed against the eye’s memory. Sweat was coursing in rivers down Jarred’s body, and his breath beat in shallow, rapid gasps.On reaching the Hen’s Nest, Jarred slid from his mare’s back and let the reins dangle: Bathsheva was loyal and would not stray. She trotted nervously to the tiny spring-fed pool, dipped her long nose, and drank hastily, continually swiveling her ears and lifting her head to glance about. Meanwhile, efficiently and deliberately, the youth quartered the slope of the ridge and the barren ground on which he and his comrades had practiced their game. Thrusting aside apprehension, he conjured in his mind’s eye a grid pattern along which to search so that he might leave no patch unexamined.The night wind turned chilly and whined peevishly through chinks in the crouching rock formations. The cold knifed through the thin fabric of Jarred’s tunic so that he shivered. Strands of his spice-colored hair escaped from the black ribbon at the nape of his neck and blew across his eyes. The horse stamped nervously and shied at the shadows of passing owls. The moon’s rim budded from the horizon like the lip of a lotus petal, and for an instant it seemed to Jarred, as he scanned back and forth, that the ghost of a star flared dimly beneath a thornbush. Moonlight was reflecting from the convex ribbings of a brass tube. Unhesitatingly he swooped to pick it up. After storing it in his saddlebag, he vaulted astride his skittish steed and set off for home.But the hour was late, dangerously late, and he was well aware of the fact. The retrieval of the spyglass had taken longer than he had expected. If he did not arrive home soon, his mother and aunt would note his unwonted absence and be driven to distraction. His comrades would be worried; conceivably the whole village would be alerted and a search party hastily convened. Worst of all, vindictive Saeed would be apprised of the reason for Jarred’s delay. If the sly removal of the instrument were to be discovered, the lads would find themselves in no end of strife. Jarred was determined to get home before he was missed, before the alarm was raised. He made up his mind on the spot. He must go quickly, and the quickest route was by way of the abandoned road—the track that crossed the haunted bridge.As he tugged on the reins, his mare swerved to a halt in a spray of sand. The young man shrugged off his tunic, turned it inside out, and pulled it on again. Wearing one’s clothes reversed was a well-known ward against unseelie wights. It would not provide much of a shield against any truly powerful entity, yet Jarred felt a need to employ every form of protection he could muster. Briefly he touched a fingertip to the hard disk resting against his collarbone beneath the fabric of his clothes. Would the talisman be enough? There was not time to ponder.He turned his horse’s head toward the bridge. The moon, having opened like a lotus blossom on a slim stem of constellations, softly poured its radiance over the treeless landscape. Silver light, sable shadows. Had the moon possessed eyes—as some said was plausible—those eyes might have gazed upon the vast acreage of the desert as if it were a tabletop across which a horse and rider moved like clockwork figurines.An inky slash in the ground marked the dry gulch. As Jarred approached the bridge, he began to whistle loudly and tunefully, for whistling was another famous ward against eldritch wights. He slowed his mare to a walking pace. She had crossed the bridge before, in safer days, but any motion upon the wide ribbon of wooden slats set the bridge to shaking and swaying. The horse must be allowed to find her own balance, to gauge the timing of her own footfalls. Fiercely hoping that the talisman would protect them both, Jarred urged her gradually forward.At once, disaster blasted in their faces. As soon as the horse set foot on the bridge, an unearthly laugh issued from underneath the span, and suddenly an ice-cold arm was wrapped around the young man’s middle and he knew that something was riding pillion behind him. In a frenzy of panic, the horse dashed across the bridge. When she reached the other side, she flew across the desert as she had never flown before, until they reached the cultivated fields on the outskirts of the village. Jarred’s efforts to guide the mare into the streets were useless, and without slowing down she sped on past the houses and yards. The youth heard another laugh, this time right behind his ear. Turning for the first time, he saw, at his shoulder, a fleshless skull with eyeless sockets and gleaming teeth. He felt the pressure of the arm tighten around him. Summoning his strength and courage, he dropped his hand to thrust off the arm and discovered it was the ulna of a skeleton.The bony arm locked about his waist as tightly as a wire noose, and the mare would not slacken her pace. Although he struggled hard, Jarred was unable to break free. He and his grisly passenger rode on past the village and out again into the desert, until at last the mare stumbled and Jarred was thrown violently off.He lay sprawled on his back in the dust, stunned and gasping for breath, half-blinded by sweat and grime. Presently one of his comrades came riding up and leapt off his horse. “I was watching for you. You went past like the wind,” said Yaadosh. “By the beards of the druids, man! ’Twas as if some nightmare was hunting at your back. Can you get up?”Jarred nodded and made as if to speak, but he could only utter a croak. Yaadosh hauled him to his feet.“Are you broken?” the big youth asked.Jarred shook his head. Another would be scratched, bruised, and bleeding after such a cruel tumble, but, as usual after collisions and other misadventures, he remained unscathed and felt no pain. “Where is Bathsheva?” he said huskily.“Over there. I’ll fetch her for you.”Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Jarred stared about, alert to every shadow. Sand eddies whispered. Grasses dipped and nodded in the night wind. After Yaadosh returned leading the mare, Jarred examined her swiftly, expertly, scanning her with hands and eyes.“Remarkably, she is unhurt, poor thing, but she’s exhausted. I’ll lead her home. Caracal, did you see nothing riding pillion behind me?”“Not a thing. You were going so fast I saw only a blur.”“Have you seen anything lurking out here? Anything strange?”“Only you taking a nap on the ground as if you were out of your wits, with your pate pillowed on a thornbush. Nothing more.”“That is well.” Jarred checked the saddlebag. Fortunately, the brass cylinder remained safely tucked in. “I brought the spyglass. Has it been missed yet?”“No.”“Fortune and victory sit on thy helm, Carac! Then, let us return home with all speed!”Both lads vaulted up onto Yaadosh’s horse. As they led the mare home, Yaadosh asked, “Why did you gallop so fast past the village, without stopping?” and Jarred explained what had happened.“My friend, over the years some of us have suspected you were protected by something powerful,” said Yaadosh after he had heard the tale of the pillion wight. “Never during our boyhood together have we seen you with a scabby knee or a grazed shin. You’ve collected your fair share of dirt, like the rest of us, but never of blood. ’Tis due to that talisman, am I right?”“You are right,” said Jarred. “Are you saying the others have guessed it too?”“Of course! How can you keep such a thing secret from your childhood playmates? You have worn it ever since I can remember.”“They put it on me when I was an infant. I would not wear it, only my father made me promise.”“Why would you not wear it?”“’Tis a coward’s way.”“A man’s honor rests with keeping his word,” said Yaadosh, “especially to his father or mother,” he added, exuding a righteous air. “Besides, do you truly believe any sane man would not take advantage of such a charm if by rights he could?”“I suppose you are right,” said Jarred, “yet it does not sit well with me to be shielded by gramarye like some weakling who is too feeble to defend himself.”As the two youths made their way back, Jarred dwelled thoughtfully on Yaadosh’s revelation. Of course, he, Jarred, ought to have expected that his friends would eventually guess his secret. They were a close-knit group, sharing their daily lives, their games and interests. Yet it was clear that even after discovering his secret they accounted him no less a man. Perhaps it was that very bond of fellowship that preserved their esteem. As for jealousy, there had been no sign of it. Jarred’s friends knew he had promised to wear the talisman, a gift from his father, and in the desert village the keeping of promises was held in high regard. To dishonor one’s parents was considered execrable.Would any of his comrades be impelled to steal the talisman or betray its secret? Loving parents and siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts and uncles surrounded all of them. There was not one among his friends who did not have reason to desire an object of gramarye with the ability to save the lives of their kith and kin. Perhaps they had been tempted at times. It was an indication of their solidarity and integrity that honesty had prevailed.When the two youths reached Jarred’s mother’s house they parted. Jarred brushed aside the door curtain and strode inside. She was waiting for him, her visage taut and as pale as chalk dust, brushed with gray shadows beneath her eyes and cheekbones. As soon as she saw him, her features collapsed in relief. A series of expressions flitted across her face; her son deciphered relief, joy, perplexity, a desire to pepper him with questions, and finally restraint.She assumed a nonchalant mien and said only, “I am glad you are back. The meal is ready.”Still wrestling with the distress caused by his encounter with the unseelie wight, Jarred was grateful for her considerate compassion. When Jarred had been a young child she used to fling her arms around him and shower him with kisses whenever he returned home from some jaunt. He guessed what it must cost her to refrain from doing so now that he was grown to manhood. Her constant concern for his security irked him, even while he loved her for it. Sometimes he used to wonder—if he’d had siblings, would her care for him, being spread further, have diminished? As he grew up, continually witnessing the tenderness with which his mother treated young children in the village, he understood otherwise. Her protective, nurturing nature was inexhaustible; she was driven to care for vulnerable living creatures even at her own expense. In a way it was as if she were bearing a burden of crushing weight.She reached up and touched the leather thong about his neck.“Yes, I still wear the talisman,” he said, smiling at her. “I keep my promise.”“That strap is too thin and weak. I shall buy a chain of metal.”As Jarred and his family took their meal together, cross-legged on the floor, he recounted his adventures of the day, omitting mention of the illicitly obtained spyglass and the crossing of the haunted bridge. Visions of the skeletal specter haunted him, but now that he was secure in a familiar environment his distress had decreased. His spirits began to rise to their customary heights.“On the way to the practice place, we passed a pair of sand foxes. I daresay there had been a litter of cubs born recently. The vixen, in particular, was ferociously guarding their lair.”“A mother protecting her offspring is no thing to be taken lightly,” said his own mother, smiling ruefully.“I have heard,” contributed Shahla, sprinkling salt on a dish of vegetables, “that she-wolves and she-bears, sows and vixens, have been known to attack even when hopelessly outnumbered. They would willingly lay down their lives to save their progeny, taking extraordinary risks. In situations when they would usually turn and flee, they stand their ground if they have a family to protect, and they will fight to the death even against overwhelming odds.”“I suppose we are all bound to ensure the survival of our own kind,” said Jarred’s mother.“Not Yaadosh and I,” said Jarred, “for we plan to annihilate the opposition when we play against them on Salt’s Day morning.”But even as he jested, the truth of his mother’s words came home to him, and as much as he loved his mother he wished he had a father in his life.


The football match turned out to be protracted and suspenseful. Ultimately Jarred’s team triumphed, but by a very narrow margin, and possibly only because Jarred seemed unafraid to risk injury; he never hesitated to confront charging packs of opposition players. Neither the fastest nor the most skillful was he, but after the game his teammates clapped him on the back and called him Fearless, an appellation that he threw back in their faces with surprising vehemence, declaring, “I possess no greater courage than the next man.”Fiercely, just then, he wished the talisman had never existed. The advantage it afforded him was unfair; surely his friends were aware of that. The knowledge that he could never compete with them on an equal footing was hurtful. How could he ever prove himself a worthy teammate and comrade under such circumstances? Briefly, but not unusually, the slight weight of the amulet against his chest was hateful to him.That afternoon, when the searing wind called the Fyrflaume began blowing from the hot Stone Deserts in the south, players from both sides gathered to celebrate with friends and relations. Such festivities were intended to iron out any animosity that might have built up between the teams. Men and women of the village mingled freely beneath the shady trees, those who were unwed darting sly looks at one another or finding excuses to remove themselves to deserted crannies in which they might steal a kiss and an embrace. Five ardent damsels crowded about Jarred, inventing reasons to touch his hair with their soft, flowerlike hands, or pass food to him, or brush against his shoulder. Unabashed, he laughed and joked with them all equally. Food was plentiful, good humor abundant. Bowls of kumiss were passed around. The revelers drank the fermented camels’ milk, pulling wry faces at the acrid flavor and lauding the virtues of beverages from other regions. As the celebrations progressed, Jarred and some of his teammates, flushed with victory and made reckless by inebriation, made a pact to fulfil a long-cherished desire.“We must go to Jhallavad for the annual Wine and Poetry Festival!” proclaimed Tsafrir, holding aloft a half-full bowl of kumiss. “Never yet have I attended the Festival, yet everyone speaks highly of it. It is hardly appropriate for men of the world, such as we, to be unacquainted with one of the most prestigious events in the whole of Tir!”“Yes! Yes!” Michaiah enthusiastically agreed, thumping his hand on his thigh. “With every birthday that passes, I long to go to the Festival. You have been there, haven’t you, Master Saeed?”“Naturally,” growled the headman, displeased at being so familiarly addressed by a drunken youth. “Mind your manners, you pup.”Michaiah rose unsteadily to his feet and bowed. “I’m minding my manners, your lordship,” he burbled, “but I’d mind them even better if I were at the Wine and Pottery Fesserval. What say you, my friends?” he cried, gesturing at his comrades with such enthusiasm he almost overbalanced. “Shall we all embark on this empterprize?The lads raised their voices in an exuberant cheer.“I’ll drink to that!” shouted Yaadosh.“Come morning they’ll have forgotten all about it,” Saeed muttered rancidly as the youths passed around the skins to refill their bowls.But come morning, Jarred and his comrades had not forgotten. Despite their headaches, they fell to planning, for all were agreed that they would depart the following week for the Wine and Poetry Festival at Jhallavad.During the next few days, they made their preparations. A trip to the capital city, or to any destination in the drylands, for that matter, could not be lightly undertaken. The desert was harsh and did not tolerate fools. For villagers as impecunious as those of R’shael, attempts must be made to derive some profit from the enterprise; therefore, the lads loaded their saddlebags with locally produced merchandise.The inhabitants of R’shael scraped a living from the desert. Each day, goatherds took their charges to graze on the sparse, tenacious grasses of the hills. Salt collectors shovelled sackfuls of the sticky crystals from the blinding snowlike surfaces of the salt lakes scattered throughout the region. The settlement itself was built over three profound wells, abundant with seemingly endless supplies of artesian water. Crops of dates, figs, pumpkins, peanuts, millet, melons, sorghum, barley, and beans thrived on the irrigated land. Several acres were devoted to the growing of the spice cumin; once a year, the fields of cumin turned into carpets of diminutive pinkish white flowers, strumming with bees. Later in the season, the fragrance of their seedlike fruits would perfume the atmosphere.The artisans of the village worked to produce exportable items. Potters produced clay crockery, small terra-cotta plaques and figurines. Sculptors carved dramatic geometric forms in gypsum alabaster. The local blacksmith chiefly produced tools for the villagers themselves, but the smiths who worked with bronze and brass created elegantly crafted objects such as daggers, vases, belt buckles, and decorative items to be sold at market in Jhallavad. It was such items as these that Jarred and his comrades packed in their saddlebags.A journey anywhere at all in the Four Kingdoms of Tir was subject to the added perils of Marauders and unseelie wights, and every precaution must be taken to guard against their predations. The youths assembled a variety of defenses, including small bells, knives of steel, staffs of ash and rowan wood, sprays of dried hypericum leaves tied with red ribbon, and talismans of amber. These items would probably prove sufficient to deter any minor unseelie wights encountered along the way, but as for the more powerful species, the travelers would have to trust to luck. Bearing the fickleness of fortune in mind, some of them visited the druids’ agent allotted to the village: an ancient, desiccated vulture of a man who lived alone and apparently spent his days in silent communion with the Fates, or—as his lowly station decreed—with the minions of the Fates. To uninformed observers it would usually seem as if he were dozing. The youths gave coins to the druids’ agent, asking him to intercede on their behalf with Lord Ádh and the other Fates to ensure a safe journey.“Go safely,” Jarred’s mother said as he took his leave from her. Her gaze absorbed him like a sponge, as if she wished to imprint her mind with the sight of him in case it was the last. With the insight born of love, Jarred could tell she was trying not to say the things she always said when they were about to part. She tried, but at the last, her resolution failed. “Go safely,” she whispered, and her hands fluttered around him, stroking his hair, patting his shoulder, as if she longed to take hold of him and keep him close by, in the way she had when he was an infant. Her warnings spilled forth. “Beware of Marauders! Make certain one of your number keeps watch at nights. Come straight back home if anything goes wrong! Send me a message if you need anything.” As she spoke, he could read the anguish behind her entreaties. “Do not take off the talisman,” was her last plea.All he could do was smile brightly, reassuringly. “I will be all right,” he said, and after printing one last kiss on her cheek, he was off.The highway to Jhallavad was bordered by a series of upstanding milestones three feet tall. Here and there the surface itself was paved; in other stretches, the sand and clay were rammed hard. The mercurial sands of the desert, which continually covered and uncovered other man-made landmarks, unaccountably refrained from obliterating the road. It was popularly conjectured that the highway was shielded by some antique spell, or else it surely would have been congested and interred centuries earlier. Along this rigorous way rode the wine-seeking youths of R’shael, garbed in hues of saffron and ochre, their desert horses accoutred with sage green bridles and saddles dyed with dark vermilion. They covered their faces with scarves of muslin to keep out the dust blown by the scorching afternoon breezes of the Fyrflaume and topped their skulls with turbans or hats to block the white-hot girders of the sun. Occasionally they passed convoys of dromedaries belonging to glass merchants or silk vendors on their way to far-flung, exotic lands. Shouted acknowledgments and salutations would pass between them.By night the travelers were audience to the furtive scurryings of nocturnal creatures such as bilbies and scorpions, and the sudden eerie lights and sounds of eldritch wights: species that differed from those that haunted the R’shael region. The desert nights were sparklingly lucid. There was scant moisture to haze the air, and no cloud cover, so the stars refracted, sharp and scintillating, as if the sky were a pane of crystal smashed all over by sharp silver hammers.Whether the archaic druids’ agent of R’shael was held in high esteem by the Fates due to the enduring and faithful nature of his discourse with them, or for some other reason, luck favored Jarred and his comrades. Their twelve-day journey took place without injurious incident. As they approached the city, the first sign of its existence was a soft scarf of smoke tracking across the sky. The chimneys of the glass-furnaces were spewing forth their pollution in long streamers that trailed away to the north, borne on the prevailing winds. Closer to the settlement, the arid landscape transmuted, becoming lush and well watered. Clumps of low trees were scattered here and there: groves of olives, figs, and date palms. Countless steel-vaned windmills were spinning atop their gawky towers, pumping water from Jhallavad’s aquifers and artesian wells. The surrounding fields were striped with grapevines and furrowed crops, among which glinted the thin metallic threads of irrigation channels. Goats, onagers, and dromedaries wandered in fenced paddocks. Some of the farmhouses were perched on stilts so that the breezes blowing beneath might keep them cool.The city itself, surrounded by walls of stone and adobe, had been built in and upon a great hill of sandstone perforated with profoundly excavated hollows and passages that remained frigid despite the outside temperature. The shanties of the indigent were fashioned of sun-baked clay and camel dung, while the mansions of the well-off, set in their walled gardens, vaunted roofs of celadon slate and walls of pastel stone. The sanctorum of Jhallavad incorporated a columned palace and a ziggurat. Constructed of mud brick, the stepped temple tower rose in stages to a small haven at the peak, wherein the druids conducted secret ceremonies of communication with the Fates. Its external walls were adorned with magnificent reliefs carved in gypsum alabaster, and authoritative chronicles of the druids’ superiority narrated in horizontal bands with cuneiform texts, to astound the populace. Gigantic guardian sculptures stood at the sanctorum gates.Jarred and his comrades arrived in Jhallavad in time for the opening of the three-day festival. Upon entering the civil precincts, they gazed about with an amazement that never diminished, no matter how many times they visited this teeming metropolis. In their tiny village there was nothing to match the silk bazaars, the wine shops, the crowds of people in colorful raiment, jingling with ornaments of brass, glittering with rainbows of glass beads.The most impressive building of all was the king’s palace, whose garnishes and sculptures had been carved from fluorspar, a stone that glowed eerily fluorescent when illuminated by the blue light of morning. Mined from beneath the desert, the native fluor was rich in shades of muted green and soft yellow. The palace’s topmost turret had been fashioned exclusively from luteous jasper, and the courtyards were famous for their statues of jadeite and nephrite. This gorgeous edifice was almost a century old and had been constructed by the current king’s great-grandfather, who, it was cautiously whispered, had been the last truly lucid monarch of the Shechem dynasty.The festival was perennially popular; visitors flocked to the city from surrounding districts and foreign lands, bringing their brews and distillations. Out of Grïmnørsland came various beers, ales, stouts, lagers, ryes, and whiskies, while from Slievmordhu came beverages concocted from roots and herbs, the spirit known as White Lightning, made from solanum tubers, wines made from dandelions, elderberries, or cowslips, sloe gin, and juniper gin. Ashqalêth contributed its kumiss and kefir; the rare prickly pear cactus mead; and a fusion called basilisk, reputed to have blown out the brains of many drinkers. Of all the realms, Narngalis was most prolific in liquors. The rainfall-rich, fertile hills of the north produced flavorsome mead and melomel, pyment and cyser, metheglin, hippocras, braggot, malmsey, and sack, as well as brandy, pear blossom wine, applejack, scrumpy, and cellarsful of numerous other intoxicating liquids.As the celebrations progressed, poetry was recited, plays enacted, songs sung. News from far-flung places was relayed. There was some discussion about the extravagant revelries the previous year in Cathair Rua, held in honor of the second birthday of the eldest son of King Maolmórdha Ó Maoldúin. Travelers said the entire city had been decked out in flowers and bunting, music and dancing had filled the streets, and the palace had provided a feast for all and sundry.“And ’tis said that the lavishness of the festivities this year will outdo all that went before,” some festivalgoers rumored enthusiastically. “We will be off to Cathair Rua then, you may be sure!”Tales were also told concerning the village of Füshgaard in Grïmnørsland. During the previous Winter, the inhabitants—every man, woman, and child—began to perceive wondrous visions and to hear messages from disembodied voices. At first this was presumed to spring from the activities of eldritch wights, but this proved untrue. Subsequently, popular opinion held that it was a haunting of wraiths, but this also turned out to be false. The druids in the sanctorum at Trøndelheim solved the mystery by declaring this phenomenon to be a benevolent miracle sent by the Fates. Later, the news spread to outlying regions and folk began making pilgrimages to hear the words of the visionaries and marvel thereat. The visitors gave offerings of money and goods to the people of Füshgaard, whereupon the druids proclaimed they had erred in their judgment—been led astray, perhaps, by malign forces. The voices and visions were not the instruments of the Fates, but malicious facsimiles, simulacra, fakes, fallacies, and abominations. The sanctorum branded the citizens of Füshgaard “vessels contaminated by the enemies of the Fates” and demanded that such profaners be cast down. The king, however, refused to imprison or otherwise penalize the bedazzled families of the village. Instead, he appointed a number of scholars and carlins to examine the mystery.Meanwhile, spurred on by the covert urgings of the druids, who whispered to their subscribers that excellent fortune would be attracted to those who defended Lord Ádh with their arms and lives, bands of militiamen advanced upon Füshgaard. The king sent soldiers to protect the village. A standoff developed, during which one of the carlins, who had been investigating the grain stores of Füshgaard, announced that the villagers were victims of an outbreak of rye fungus. That year the harvest had been poor, and the villagers were using up last season’s rye, which had been stored for many months under damp conditions. Bread baked from the affected grain induced delusions in those who consumed it.The king commanded that the infected grain stores be scoured by fire. Fresh supplies were freighted to the village, and the storehouses were cleaned, re-roofed, and modified with extra ventilation. As soon as this had been carried out, the voices and visions ceased.After the hallucinatory ergot had been wiped out, the villagers regained control of their senses. To avert the animosity of the druids, they apologised to the sanctorum, sending offerings of goods and services, which they could ill afford. In return, the druids proclaimed that Füshgaard had been forgiven and welcomed back into Lord Ádh’s favor, although they refused to acknowledge any truth in the carlin’s findings. The militia dispersed. Throughout the Four Kingdoms it was jitteringly whispered that only the intervention of the king and the destruction of the infected grain stores had averted the razing of Füshgaard.With these and other tales and amusements, the Jhallavad Wine and Poetry Festival frolicked on.Metropolitan posies of damsels gravitated to the R‘shaelan youths, attracted by their vitality, their geniality, and their novelty—and perhaps specifically engaged by Jarred’s matchless looks. Despite the many divertissements on offer in Jhallavad, the lads from R’shael did not neglect their duties, but saw to it that their merchandise was sold at fair prices. They indulged in some judicious spending, buying gifts for their families and friends. Michaiah—who had earned a few extra coins from passersby who appreciated his juggling tricks and “magic” feats—purchased several necklaces and bracelets of glass beads “To give to pretty wenches,” as he said, stowing them in his satchel.“You’ll be giving them all away before we leave here,” commented Nasim.“No! To the girls of Jhallavad these baubles are commonplace. I am saving them for damsels who will consider them rare and be suitably awed.”“You must be dreaming. Nobody in R’shael will be awed. The place is infested with Jhallavad baubles.”“You must be dreaming,” retorted Michaiah, “if you think I intend to spend the rest of my life in R’shael!”


On the final day of the festival, the lads fell in with a crowd of gypsies in moth-eaten finery who told them wonderful stories of other kingdoms, claiming that huge amounts of money were to be made in foreign places, particularly in the north kingdom.“Everyone in Narngalis is so rich they can afford to pay their henchmen purses full of silver and gold just for performing the most menial tasks,” the gypsies said. They graciously accepted refills of their wine cups from the R’shaelans, who were eager to learn more.Much later, as they rode home along the desert highway, the boys digested the information divulged by the gypsies. Fired up by their recent experiences of the thrill of the big city, they began to discuss the possibility of going to Narngalis to seek their fortunes.“I want to see the world!” cried Michaiah.“It might not want to see you,” bantered Gamliel.“We shall never make much of ourselves by staying put in R’shael,” observed Nasim.Yaadosh said, “We’d only have to work in the city of King’s Winterbourne for a week before we could come home and retire in luxury forever!”His comrades laughed good-naturedly at his naive optimism.“You didn’t believe those gypsy boys did you?” said Tsafrir. “They are purely storytellers.”Yaadosh, bewildered, said, “But why would we be talking of going to Narngalis if it was all lies?”“For the metheglin, Caracal! For the metheglin!” crowed Michaiah.“Lads,” said Gamliel, “even if half of it were lies, even if nine-tenths of it were lies, it’d be worth going to Narngalis just to see those grim castles and the endless forests and rivers everywhere, and lakes that stretch out farther than the very desert. Such marvels as we can only guess at.”“What if they are lies too?” Yaadosh demanded.“Then we shall find out,” said Jarred.Yaadosh pondered. “But I don’t think I shall be able to carry many weeks’ worth of supplies on my horse.”“We shall have to purchase supplies on the way, or we can hunt for food.”“But I don’t know my grandmother’s recipe for spicy chicken.”Yaadosh’s comrades laughed again, and Jarred, who rode at his side, slapped him on the back. “Carac, would you rather remain at home for the rest of your days, eating your grandmother’s spicy chicken, or would you like to go adventuring, seeking your fortune with us?”The brow of Yaadosh corrugated.“If you have to think about it,” said Tsafrir at length, “then you ought to stay in R’shael.”“Of course I shall go with you!” Yaadosh replied with some heat. “I was just wondering whether if I get my grandmother to repeat it a few times I might remember it in my head and tell it to the landlords of the inns along the way.”His companions slapped their thighs, helpless with mirth.“What’s wrong with that?” Yaadosh asked in injured tones.“Recipes for spicy chicken will be the least of our worries along the road,” Nasim choked out.Stifling his merriment, Jarred said, more soberly, “Unseelie wights and dangerous Marauders are plentiful in every kingdom. We must sharpen our fighting skills.”“We practice our swordsmanship every other day!” cried Gamliel. “And our slingshot skills every other other day. By now we must be the most proficient fighters in Ashqalêth!”“There is a difference,” said Tsafrir, “between friendly bouts using wooden scimitars and fights to the death wielding steel blades.”“But our Master Behrooz is the most excellent of teachers, having once been a member of the King’s Household Guards,” Gamliel riposted. “I’m up for it!” he added brashly. Yaadosh and Michaiah cheered.“The road will be hard. It’s unfamiliar territory,” said Jarred.“My brother knows those parts,” said Nasim. He turned to Tsafrir. “Do you not?”“I admit to a slight acquaintance with the kingdoms of the west and north,” Tsafrir answered.“Well then,” said Jarred, “with you as our guide, Sand Fox, we shall fly to King’s Winterbourne like the south wind!”The other youths voiced their approval.“But,” said Tsafrir, oldest and wisest, “we will need money if we are to embark on this journey. While we traverse the desert we can hunt for food, and live also on our provisions, but our supplies will have run out by the time we get to Narngalis, and we will be passing through cultivated lands. The herders will not love us if we chase their kine and swine!”“We will become merchants,” declared Jarred. “We will carry goods to sell along the way.”“What goods?” Tsafrir wanted to know.“Pretty beads and baubles!” suggested Nasim. “They say Jhallavad glass is famous in foreign lands. Master Behrooz has a great store of glass ornaments. He used to collect them as a hobby, but he lost interest and now they are gathering dust in one of his sheds. We might persuade him to sell them to us at a low price.”“And my conjuring tricks will be worth a coin or two to tavern audiences,” Michaiah chimed in.“And if worse comes to worst,” said Gamliel, “we can hire ourselves as laborers for a week or two here and there—as farmhands or ditchdiggers.”“I might hire out as a temporary cook,” said Yaadosh.His friends glanced at one another, keeping their expressions neutral, and made no response.After that, Jarred fell silent. As he rode, he dwelled on the exciting possibilities of venturing into the wide world. Not only would there be new adventures to be experienced—there was also a chance he might find his father.


In the morning of the fourth day out from Jhallavad, the youths felt a stirring in the atmosphere. The wind had swung around. Handfuls of sand were blowing up in gusts, and small debris whirled through the air. Looking back across the plains, they beheld signs of a great dust storm on the western horizon. The hem of the sky was corrupt with thunderous clouds of airborne dust, like curtains of darkness drawn across the theater of the world.“It looks bad,” said Tsafrir.“Bad for Jhallavad,” said Jarred. “A dust storm of that magnitude will wreak havoc.”“And after it has finished with the city,” said Michaiah, “it will be bad for us here on the open road.”“Indeed, it is racing toward us at a great rate,” Gamliel said grimly.They fell silent then, mentally running through the checklists for methods of survival in sandstorms. Desert dwellers were always prepared for such prodigies of climate, but preparation did not necessarily ensure survival, and this particular storm threatened to be violent in the extreme. Besides, it would catch them without shelter. They traveled on, carefully looking out for rock formations large and cavernous enough to provide some cover.The wind fretted and skirmished. That afternoon a scatter of aerial snow caught their attention. A flock of white pigeons went by overhead, heading north.“It is to be hoped the eagles will allow at least one messenger through,” said Nasim, shading his eyes against the glare of the sky as he watched the birds dwindle and vanish.In the evening, as the setting sun wandered like an old bloodstain in the west, the youths felt the wind change. Tilting their heads skyward once more, they watched an enormous balloon float by, no more than three hundred feet above the ground. It seemed to hover a moment, limned like a full moon against the battleground of the skies, before fading into the distance toward Jhallavad.“A vessel of the weathermasters!” Tsafrir exclaimed in an undertone.In awe they stared at the glowing pinprick in the sky that was the final view of the aerostat. Such a phenomenon was a rare sight. R’shael had never been visited by a sky-balloon of the weathermasters. Continuing along their way, the lads spoke to one another about the lords of fire, water, and air, discussing the mysteries surrounding that kindred.“They are born to it, I have heard,” said Michaiah, “born with a power in their blood. It is said they can see the wind as ordinary folk see trees and grass.”“I heard they can grasp bolts of lightning,” said Yaadosh, “and hurl them like hammers.”“Who told you that?” scoffed Nasim.“Well, it might be true—who’s to say?” Yaadosh countered. “The weathermasters stay secluded in their mountain ring, and who knows what secrets they hoard? They choose to live nowhere else but in their high country. Maybe they keep lightning bolts up there, stored in underground caverns.”“I have seen weathermages visiting Cathair Rua,” said Tsafrir, “dressed in their lordly raiment.”“Then we shall see them there too!”“And you might ask them, Caracal,” said Gamliel, “whether they keep levin bolts in their pockets!”“It is not inconceivable that a man might keep electricity in his pocket,” said Jarred, noting Yaadosh’s crestfallen look and coming to his defense. “Rub a piece of amber with a scrap of fur and find out what happens! The wide world is filled with marvels of which desert villagers know nought. Is it not our desire to learn more about such marvels that has impelled us to go on this journey?”Jarred thought of his father, who must have discovered so much about the world during the years he had been away. He yearned anew to find him. A doughty man traveling the lands searching for answers—surety Jovan must have learned many truths. As he let his mare carry him forward, Jarred pictured a reunion with his father, the two of them seated beneath the shade of a palm tree in his mother’s garden and he putting questions to Jovan, watching his father’s face as he described the wonders of the Four Kingdoms of Tir. Quickly the young man dismissed the image before the familiar poignancy began to twine its tendrils around his heart.During the night, the west wind subsided. Next day the storm had blown away.Knowing it had been the work of the weathermasters that had averted the disaster, the youths kept watch for the returning sky-balloon as they traveled. They failed to spy it, and supposed it must have returned to High Darioneth by some different route. But after they had abandoned their efforts, the youngest, Gamliel, suddenly jabbed his finger in the air and cried, “There! Afar off!”His comrades squinted in the direction he indicated.“A pinpoint of light,” said Gamliel. “It has been extinguished now. That was the balloon, I am certain of it.”At length Jarred said, using Gamliel’s nickname, “You have the sharpest eyes of us all, Jerboa. We do not doubt your word.”Upon their return to R‘shael, Jarred and his comrades informed their families and friends of their decision to migrate—temporarily—to Narngalis. This announcement caused a fuss throughout the village. Most of the younger lads were unable to conceal their envy, and three declared their intentions to join the group, while the elders lamented that in this modern era R’shael’s younger generation, even though feckless and lazy compared to themselves at the same age, was forever draining away. Vociferously they wondered what would become of the village when all the young ones had gone, dwelled on the outrageous wickedness of the outside world, and agreed, emphasized by much head nodding, that no one who lived beyond the boundaries of R’shael could be trusted. But would the youths listen to them? Oh no, they’d have to learn the hard way, and the elders wouldn’t be surprised if they all met their doom and were never seen again.“Well, I am glad you are going to discover the world,” said Jarred’s mother when he told her the plan, and he could perceive at once that she meant it. Her face was suffused with genuine joy and excitement. “I feared lest you might stay here always and miss out on all that the wider world has to offer. Many folk who have lived their whole lives in this village are crippled in their disposition. Their minds are narrow and closed, their thoughts confined by ignorance. They are like people who have only ever seen shades of gray and never looked upon a rainbow. Traveling to other lands, viewing new sights, learning about the ways of foreigners, all will enrich your life. I am glad, so glad for you!”And it came to Jarred afresh that his mother’s love for him transcended all selfishness. Her wish to keep him safe beside her was secondary to her desire to let him become all that he could be. Without regard to personal cost, she thrust aside her own concerns in order that he might prosper. He felt astounded by the intensity of her emotion, deeply moved by her fierce affection, and proud that she held him in highest regard.The nubile women of the village moped and mourned. They too were envious, and declared there was no justice in Ashqalêth when boys were allowed to travel about as they pleased while girls were forced to stay at home or go about accompanied by their brothers or fathers. Many of them were especially grieved at the prospect of being deprived of the company of Jarred, whom they held dear, and whom they had declared to be the easiest on the eye of any man in the village.“We shall lose our most enjoyable pastime,” they sighed self-pityingly among themselves, “for ‘tis our innocent delight merely to watch him go walking down the street with his easy stride, his hair flying down past his shoulders. ’Tis our joy to watch him kick the football, or play at wrestling with the other boys, or practice shooting at targets with the slingshot—at which he excels above all others—for he moves so gracefully and is so agile and assured. The way he moves,” they embroidered, “could cause a woman to swoon.”But the heartbreak of the village girls was to be delayed, for throughout the desert the ants had begun to swarm, sealing off their tall castles of clay with plugs of moistened soil. All of nature’s signs indicated that rain was on the way.More than any other tidings, this news caused excitement in R’shael. Rain had not fallen for more than seven years. In Jarred’s lifetime, the Rains had only eventuated twice.“You cannot leave yet,” his mother said to him, “because travel is impossible during and after the Rains.”It was true.When the Rains arrived, they would pour down in a solid deluge. The desiccated salt lakes would fill to the brim and overflow. The shallow riverbeds, habitually dry, would thunder and roar with cataracts of foaming water, becoming uncrossable. No bridges existed over the desert watercourses; in most years they were not needed, and when the rivers were swollen with the Rains, the current flowed so fast and furiously that any bridge would be swept away. The thin salt crusts of the claypans blanketed mud that was permanently soft. When wet, the claypans became impassable, and creatures trying to traverse them would be bogged. Desert crossings could not be attempted in the Wet.In due course, great banks of muttering cumulonimbus rolled in from the west like heavy machinery. The skies lost their hard blue dazzle, tarnishing to purple-black and seeming to become so heavy beneath the weight of their aqueous burden that they sagged toward the ground. The atmosphere was charged with exhilaration. Frayed white wires of lightning flickered along the rim of the darkening plains.The buildup was a drama, the release sudden, pure, frightening, and ecstatic.It rained. For six days straight, hard torrents streamed down in unbroken curtains of beaten iridium. And when the Rains dwindled to fine darts of quicksilver and passed away to the east, the desert blossomed.Only twice before in his life had Jarred seen the dry plains transformed into vistas of breathtaking beauty. Surface water filled the claypans or followed the wide floodplains that terminated at salt lakes. The entire ground was sheeted with the shimmer of flowing liquid. Soon, across the floodplains sprang a new garden rampant with stunning and unexpected bursts of wildflowers, a sight so glorious as to make men weep. Flowers appeared that were only ever seen after the Rains: the scarlet desert pea with its grayish green leaves and a spectacular flaming flower centered by a black eye; the dusky desert rose; the native buttercup; succulent salt-resistant ground covers such as parakeelia, and pigface with its silken sunbursts. Everywhere the desert was alive with movement. The wind, passing across the face of the newly sprung flower meadows, combed its fingers through acres of rippling yellow, rippling white, rippling pink.Some animals, like the bizarre shield-shrimp, could only breed in these wet conditions. These creatures, which looked as if they belonged at the dawn of time, spent most of their lives as encysted eggs waiting for the Rains. When the claypans and puddles filled with floodwater runoff, the eggs hatched. The animals reached adulthood and laid more eggs, all in a few rapidly passing months before the water vanished again.After the Rains dwindled, when ephemeral plants thrived in swift bursts of color, a myriad insect eggs and cocoons exploded. Fully grown locusts, wasps, moths, ants, and beetles were set free from their cradles. The lives of these insects too were short; they had to breed and lay their eggs before the floodwaters evaporated and they expired from lack of moisture. Birds appeared in their millions, feasting in this bounteous natural larder: kites, eagles, parrots, budgerigars, bustards, grass wrens, zebra finches, and waterfowl. Thickets of canegrass bustled with white-winged fairy wrens, and the air was turbulent with the movement of countless wings.Lost in wonderment, Jarred studied the miraculous panorama. “Nothing at all grows without water,” he said to his mother, “not even the ancient desert shrubs and grasses that endure throughout the long Dry. But the people of other kingdoms have never seen the desert after the Rains. They have never seen this sudden outbreak of incredible beauty and perhaps could not understand it as we do. We are fortunate.”His mother smiled. “Nature’s ingenuity never ceases to astonish me,” she said. “In particular I am always astounded by the ephemerals, the plants that cannot survive through droughts. Their life cycle is triggered after prolonged, heavy rains. The seeds are covered in a substance that stops them from germinating. When the Rains fall, washing away that coating, the dormant seeds are revived. Once they grow, they bloom for a short time only before they wither and perish. During their flowering period, they produce seeds, which are picked up by the breezes and blown away. The wind broadcasts them far and wide, that the new generations might stand the best possible chance of survival. To me, the ephemerals are the most beautiful and astonishing plants of all. Their life cycle is swift, short, and glorious; their purpose, to ensure the survival of their seed and therefore the continuation of their species.”After the Rains passed and the skies cleared, it was weeks before the roads were passable again, but in time the weather patterns of stable descending air and high pressure reasserted themselves, bringing back the unbroken sunshine. The desert steamed. Lakes shrank. Puddles evanesced.“You cannot leave yet,” said Jarred’s mother. “It will soon be time for the Midsummer celebrations.”The young man thought he perceived a hint of wistfulness in her demeanor and guessed that she waged an inner struggle; on the one hand she wanted him to be free, on the other, she desired his absolute security. He surmised it would be easier for her after he had gone.“There will always be a reason why I cannot leave yet,” he answered, not without compassion. “Against all reasons, I will go.”In spite of the rapid drying of the desert, the last of the short-lived wildflowers were still blooming by the time the roads were pronounced passable and Jarred and his comrades announced their departure was imminent. After much debate among the village families, it had been decided that nine would go. The inhabitants of R’shael required only the slightest of excuses to throw a party. To mark the momentous journey to foreign climes of nine of its youths, they organized a revel. Blooms from the remaining wildflowers were gathered by the armful, brilliant splashes of color. They were strewn upon the tables, made into bouquets, placed in jars of water, and woven into circlets and crowns for the head or plaited into the hair.Each household contributed a dish to the feast. Fresh fruits, bean salads, spicy chicken, fig gelatine, creamy cinnamon custards, and more crammed the tables set in the open air beneath the palm trees. The guests of honor uncorked the few precious glass bottles of liquor they had brought from Jhallavad—barely enough to go around—and everyone was given a mouthful to taste. Then there was kumiss and dancing, juggling and sleight-of-hand performed by Michaiah, much jollity, and a smattering of drunken brawling. All made the most of the revelries.The village girls resumed their chafing and grumbling at the concept of Jarred’s departure. Each had hoped he might wed her, but in the deepest crannies of their hearts they had known he would depart someday.“I will come back,” he assured them, “just as soon as I have made my fortune.”“Oh yes, for sure you will,” they said, cuttingly tossing their heads. “For sure you will remember to come back when you’re among your princesses and ladies of the north. We’ll wager sixpence you’ll forget us.”“I will not.”“Or, if you do return, it won’t be for a hundred years, when we’ll all be toothless, bald old crones.”“I am pleased to hear that in a hundred years you will have altered so little,” said Jarred.They pelted him with wildflowers, a shower of blossoms, a soft, colorful silk-and-satin snowstorm of petals that fell fragrantly and covered him like floral kisses.


Before the sun rose the following morning, the voyagers had packed their portable belongings and were ready to leave. Aunt Shahla was still sleeping: Jarred had bidden her farewell on the previous evening. In the lamplit dimness of his home, Jarred, dressed in traveling garb, took leave of his mother. The parting was arduous.“Do not grieve,” he said. “Prithee, do not grieve for me.”His mother gazed up at him. “You must be careful,” she said abruptly. “You will be careful, won’t you?”“I will. That is my promise.”“You must.” She bowed her head. “Maternal love,” she said in a low voice, “is awesome and terrible in its power. It is stronger by far than any other human emotion. The affection of lovers is as naught by comparison. Lovers come and go, they quarrel, they are inconstant, but the love of a mother for her child is a lifelong bond. It overrides the instinct for personal survival. It binds, it wounds, it closes us in its grip with a more formidable bite than any mere steel-jawed trap.”“You make it sound like some eternal torment.” Jarred pulled undone the band that held back his long hair and combed stray strands into place with his fingers.“It can be that,” his mother affirmed, “yet nature in her perversity inflicts the torment upon us in such a way that we rejoice beyond all measure in our children, who cause it.”“I shall never understand you,” said Jarred as his mother re-bound his hair into a club at the back of his neck and firmly tied the thin black ribbon. In his heart, however, he somehow knew that his departure would in truth be liberating to this woman who had ceaselessly cared for him and worried about his welfare all his life. No longer would she be chained to her sense of responsibility for every breath he took. She might now cast aside her anxiety, trusting in the wide world to look after him, as it looked after so many of its children. She might at last live in tranquillity and contentment, having no other choice but to place her faith in the universe.He had presented his mother with most of his savings, so that she and his aunt might live in comfort during his absence. At first she had refused to accept any coinage from him, but, against his own principles of truthfulness, he deliberately misled her, implying he had made a quantity of money in Jhallavad, selling her pottery and other wares.“You have given me more than enough. Now I have some gifts for you,” said his mother. She took from her finger a ring of brass, cunningly inlaid with designs in copper wire. “I have no use for jewelry anymore. It would please me if you would take this.”Executing a bow of acceptance, Jarred slid the ring onto the smallest finger of his left hand.“And this also,” she said, handing him a silver chain. “String the talisman upon it.”Jarred thanked her hesitantly, reluctant to spoil her pleasure with ingratitude. Irresolutely he slid the disk of bone from its leather thong, placed it on the gleaming new chain, and let her fasten it about his neck.“Mother, there is no need for you to be concerned for my safety,” he murmured. “Even if I lose the talisman, I will be secure. I am young and strong. I am enterprising and capable, and my comrades will be at my side.” He fell silent and brooded, as if holding some inner debate.“What troubles you?” she asked.“I confess I am ashamed to be wearing this thing,” he answered, “as if I am some weakling who requires a bodyguard. It vexes me to have it strung about my person, and now that I am going away and you will be without my protection, I want you to have it.”He made as if to remove the charm, but his mother placed her cool fingers on his hand to prevent the action. “No,” she said.“I would rather you wore it,” he insisted.“No,” she repeated. “You understand full well why you must wear it. You yourself made a promise to your father, before he left, that you would always be the talisman’s wearer and keeper.”“I was but a child!”“Promises must be kept. If you give it to me, I shall toss it down the Eastern Bore; this I swear.”He saw she was speaking from her heart and conceded defeat. “In that case,” he said, with a shrug of self-deprecation, “I shall wear it and be the trembling flower under glass.”“That you will never be,” she said. “You will be the soldier who remains unscathed after battle, so that you may rescue and tend your wounded comrades.”Slowly he smiled. “Very well then,” he said. “You have won. You always had a way with words.” He kissed her lightly on her forehead. “Farewell, mother. All health to thee!”“May good fortune go with thee,” she said.And as the nine youths rode away from the village, she stood at the forefront of the assembly of well-wishers and watched them troop down the road between fine gossamer draperies of dust, beneath a blue-lacquered sky, until they were out of sight.As they waved good-bye, some of the village girls were singing a parting song.
“The desert rose like wildfire grows upon the wetted dune;
For fleeting days a stunning blaze that withers all too soon;
A gorgeous flood as rich as blood, blooming in rare beauty
For days too few; alas, doomed to ephemerality.

“Survivor tough, you’re strong enough to live where others die.
Your patient seed, no common weed, slumbers throughout the Dry.
Your hardy line, time after time, outwaits adversity
Until the rain pours down again, and desert turns to sea.

“Put on your gowns, your shining crowns, your silks with jewels pinned.
Sheer elegance! Curtsey and dance, partnered by sighing wind.
Drink of the dew the heavens strew, ’tis sweeter far than wine.
Mantle the land with colors grand, dusk pink and almandine.

“Although you’ll fade like morning shade, your memory lives on.
All shall recall the Floral Ball long after you have gone.
Your secret seed, a special breed, bides indestructible.
Like you it waits to greet the spates: dormant, invincible.

“Heed we the rose, who wisely knows good times will favor all.
No land’s so sere, so parched and drear, that rain shall never fall.”
Copyright © 2005 by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

Interviews

Explorations Interview with Cecilia Dart-Thornton

Paul Goat Allen: Cecilia, because of the international popularity you've had with your Bitterbynde trilogy, was the experience of writing The Iron Tree made any easier? Or did the success of your previous saga actually increase the pressure to put out a comparable product?

Cecilia Dart-Thornton: I wrote The Bitterbynde purely as a form of recreation, simply for the love of pouring out ideas on paper. I had finished all three volumes before I showed so much as a single word to anyone. During the writing process I had no other reader in mind besides myself. Being so immersed in the work, I had lost objectivity, and could not tell whether anyone else would love my stories as much as I loved them. Whether the books would ever end up being published, I had no idea. I never dreamed my work would be "discovered" on the Internet and that I would become an internationally published author... It was easier to write The Bitterbynde in that I only had myself to please; but harder, too, because I was still teaching myself writing methods along the way. For example, I started with no plot and had to work one out as the story progressed, which I found very challenging. When working on the Crowthistle Chronicles I could not help feeling a new sense of readers looking over my shoulder. This self-consciousness affected the way I wrote. Initially, it was more difficult for me to let my ideas flow freely. The disadvantage was balanced by the fact that I planned the whole series right from the start, mapping out a rough plot to guide me through the intricacies of three volumes in a single story arc.

PGA: When we last talked a few years ago, you spoke of your love of books as a child and your fascination with "immersing yourself" in alternate realities -- Tolkien's Middle-earth, Lewis's Narnia, etc. What do you want readers to experience when they immerse themselves in the Four Kingdoms of Tir?

CDT: People tell me that my books help them dissociate from the so-called real world -- which is one of the many reasons we all read books and listen to stories or music. Apparently, it's something to do with activating the creative right hemisphere of the brain, giving oneself a refreshing and stimulating "mental vacation"! I'm delighted that others are able to lose themselves in my alternative worlds as much as I do. In the virtual realms between the pages of a book we can become other people, do the impossible, fall in and out of love, fight, fly, be heroes or evil overlords, and all without leaving the comfort of an armchair...

In addition to the element of escapism (which we all need like water), I want readers to be thrilled by the seductive beings, the gorgeous landscapes, the passions, the mysteries, and the occasional light powderings of science fiction. I want them to want to "live" in the worlds they read about, and to feel as if they have walked beneath an alien sky.

PGA: Why do you think so many people of all ages gravitate toward stories powered by folklore and mythology?

CDT: There are good reasons why the motifs of folklore have endured for hundreds of years, passed down through the generations by oral tradition; good reasons, also, why they are so interculturally widespread. Deep in the human psyche there seems to be a need for explanations of natural phenomena; and explanations, too, of some of the more intricate philosophical problems of life. Where does lightning come from? Can people be brought back from the dead? Is there a land where people never grow old? Why do some people fade away and become emaciated, no matter how much they eat? Why do children sometimes disappear when they stray too close to lakes and rivers? What are nightmares made of? Folklore and mythology provide their own inventive answers to these questions, which are asked by human beings of all ages, everywhere.

PGA: You must be aware by now of your nickname in the States as "Australia's Answer to Tolkien." Have you ever thought about how your novels will be perceived, say, a century from now? What would you hope your literary legacy would be?

CDT: Really? That's my nickname in the States? I couldn't think of a more complimentary one, although in my opinion Tolkien has no match and never will, being the one and only Lord High Sovereign of Fantasy Literature, the greatest of them all. There are countless novels that, at the time of publication have been hailed as landmarks or classics only to disappear into oblivion later on. For example, of the thousands of prizewinning books that were written early in the 20th century -- how many do we remember? The only real test of a novel's strength is, of course, time itself. Fashions come and go, but great writing is immortal. For my work to still be read and enjoyed in the year 2105 would be, for me, an amazing achievement, a huge compliment -- the fulfillment of a dream. I would hope that by then, inventors have come up with a way to inform deceased authors of their continuing success!

PGA: Can you give your fans a little teaser as to what transpires in the second volume of the Crowthistle Chronicles, The Well of Tears?

CDT: The story continues from where it finished in The Iron Tree. We follow Jarred's daughter, Jewel, as she journeys through the beautiful and surprising lands of Tir, fleeing from danger into the unknown. She meets some extraordinary people, and of course encounters many of the seelie and unseelie wights that populate my worlds; the creatures drawn from actual Celtic and British folklore. This story eventually takes us on the search for the marvelous Well of Tears. The only clue to the Well's whereabouts is a riddle, which contains an anagram: "My hair is white, my bones are old. Steadfast I rest, for ages cold And still. So silent, lacking breath, That men think I've been touched by death. But, deep within my chilly breast My living heart can find no rest. What falls and never breaks, but would Be broken if it ever should Stop falling? What is darkness? And Can mortalkind make ropes of sand?" There is an answer to this riddle and the anagram contained therein, but to find it out, fans will have to read The Well of Tears! (Which is scheduled to be released February 2006 in the States.)

Editorial Reviews

The Barnes & Noble Review
With The Iron Tree, Cecilia Dart-Thornton (Australia's answer to J.R.R. Tolkien) begins an ambitious new fantasy saga set in a richly described realm steeped in myth and folklore and featuring ill-fated lovers, Jarred and Lilith, who begin a quest to understand their mysterious heritages -- and a curse that has doomed their love.

Growing up in a remote desert village, Jarred has had an idyllic childhood; but now that he's of age, he wants to travel and see the wonders of the Four Kingdoms of Tir. He also wants to uncover answers about his mysterious father, who left when Jarred was only ten years old and never returned. Early on in Jarred's journey, however, while he is passing through a marshland town, he meets a young woman named Lilith and falls madly in love. But because of a curse on her family, Lilith ultimately refuses to wed Jarred. To marry him would be to kill him. When they begin a quest to unravel the ancient hex, the truth they find is just as devastating as the curse…

Fans of Dart-Thornton's previous saga, the Bitterbynde trilogy (The Ill-Made Mute, The Lady of the Sorrows, and The Battle of Evernight), will absolutely devour her newest offering. As with the Bitterbynde novels, Dart-Thornton masterfully blends a wide array of mythology and folklore -- Celtic, Norse, etc.-- to create a world practically emanating enchantment. Comparable to works by Patricia A. McKillip and Juliet Marillier, The Iron Tree is a timeless fairy tale that will appeal to fantasy fans of all ages. As lyrical as it is haunting, this epic story of star-crossed lovers is, simply put, destined to become a fantasy classic. Paul Goat Allen

bn.com

Endowing her characters with courtly yet bucolic diction, almost Elizabethan, and casting her narrative in clean yet poetic prose, Dart-Thornton conjures up her world of Tir and its rituals and beliefs in the luminous yet hard-edged manner of Jack Vance or Mary Gentle. Her plot is expansive enough to include forays among the various non-human inhabitants of the marshlands, as well as among the city-dwellers in the nearby town of Cathair Rua. Pleasing patterns of predestination weave more and more tightly about the characters, resulting in a narrative that resonates with sagas from a more robust and vital era of our own world.
— The Washington Post

Paul Di Filippo

Cecilia Dart Thornton exhibits strong and authentic evidence of having visited some of the more exotic corners of Faerie...crucially for readers, she proves she’s able to bring the unicorn back alive, netted in golden prose...A sweet surprise.”—Washington Post Book World on The Ill-Made Mute

“Cecilia Dart-Thornton gives new life to fantasy and folklore.”—Locus on The Lady of Sorrows

From the Publisher

"With scenes as vivid as any Technicolor extravaganza, The Iron Tree will capture readers' imaginations."

Starlog

"...Dart-Thornton has crafted an impressive start to an epic journey down the corridors of myth and legend."

Romantic Times BookClub Magazine

"Dart-Thornton conjures up her world of Tir...in the luminous yet hard-edged manner of Jack Vance or Mary Gentle."

The Washington Post