The Well of Tears by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

Author:Cecilia Dart-Thornton [Dart-Thornton, Cecilia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-03-31T23:00:00+00:00

Atop the Comet’s Tower, Arran raged helplessly. He was fully aware that these miscreants could not slay Jewel, yet it was conceivable they could do her other harm. He possessed no certain knowledge of the extent of her invulnerability, no idea whether they might be able to torment her in some way. The fair-haired man had addressed him by his name. How could he have known? Who was he?

“I swear,” he said aloud, “you shall pay for using her so.”

Berating himself for allowing peril to threaten Jewel, he mulled rapidly over the possibilities for action and concluded he could do nothing else, for now, but submit to the scoundrel’s demands. Swiftly he clambered back up to the roof of the overhang.

The brí flared through his body as he executed the sequence of word and sign. The summoned updraught applied its pressure, and the bulky form of the crop-haired man was hoisted skyward. Instantly, the cave-mouths in the rocky pillar snapped open, and a storm of missiles came flying out. Stormbringer took his time lifting the new passenger; the man cursed and roared as the barrage of pebbles hammered into his dangling body and threatened to cause the chute to fold up. As soon as their victim drew level with the top of the tower, the wights darted into their abodes and banged the doors shut. Arran elevated the silken hemisphere a little too high above the pinnacle’s crown, then let it collapse and drop. The man landed heavily, calling down ill-fortune on all and sundry. His sword-hilt dug into his ribs.

“Should you play any of your tricks, Maelstronnar,” Aonarán shouted up from the ground, “the wench will pay the price.”

“Jackanapes, you will regret your cockiness,” Weaponmonger growled, awkwardly getting to his feet. After extricating himself from the cords, he cast them off, then wiped blood from his injured face.

Arran contained his fury.

“Now show me what it is you have found up here,” demanded the crop-haired man. “What treasure trove have you discovered, eh, mooncalf?” A whiff of spirits was borne on his breath as he spoke. “Is there some drink up here? Your wench was carrying a vial. Is there more of that stuff? ’Tis down beneath this shelf you were. In that case, I shall make an inspection. But you must descend ahead of me, pup. I trust you not.”

Keeping an eye on Jewel and leashing his desire for action, Arran climbed down to the well, with Weaponmonger following close behind.

The unwelcome guest peered at the silvery basin. “What’s this? A hole, but ’tis dry. Have you taken it all, eh, and left naught for us?”

With increasing difficulty, Arran restrained his wrath. Ideas and possibilities tumbled through his mind as he sought a way to win through this predicament. The man was looking about now, examining the small area on which they stood, kicking at lumps of soil and stone. A natural breeze played languidly about their ears.

“Nothing else is here,” the knife-merchant said at length. “You have seized all the plunder, whatever it might have been.

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