Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

tombstones.
    Avalloc’s family name,
Maelstronnar,
meant Stormbringer, and he had been freely elected Storm Lord of Ellenhall and High Darioneth. He was the most authoritative, and until recently the most powerful of all weather-masters. His eyes darkened to thoughtful olive-green as he looked at his grandchild standing before him, holding the sword. Here was one who, he suspected, had the potential to command the power of weathermastery—even beyond his own capabilities. He had lost his son and his beloved daughter-in-law, but the dark, empty place that gaped in his psyche was illuminated by his joy in their child.
    “Good morrow to thee, Grandfather.”
    “And to thee, dear child. Fallowblade shines as bright as ever on this day.”
    “Indeed, sir, and fain would I put him to the test.” Lambent radiance, reflected from the blade, skittered around the walls and across the features of Avalloc. He squinted to avoid the glare. Asrathiel did not notice—the sight of the golden sword still held her in thrall. It seemed to gather brilliance to itself; to string nets of sticky light about its axis, like golden cobwebs. “Fain would I,” she continued, “learn how to wield him suitably. I believe that nowI am ready.” Turning to face her grandfather she added, “Therefore I am asking for your permission.”
    The Storm Lord regarded Asrathiel with grave intent. He said, calmly and deliberately, “That is no insignificant request.”
    “Of that I am aware, and I do not undertake to ask it lightly.”
    “I know that you are one of the few, Asrathiel, who have the potential to wield the golden blade in combat, yet you must understand that you are entreating my approval for one I hold most dear to indulge in a dangerous enterprise. You ask a great deal from me.”
    “How dangerous can the sword be to me?” The damsel did not add,
I am immortal and invulnerable,
but they both knew what she meant.
    “Who knows? Fallowblade’s capabilities have never been fully catalogued. Conceivably they are measureless.”
    At the end of a few moments’ pondering, Astriel said, “Well, if there is a risk, I am willing to take it. What say you, Grandfather? Will you give your consent?”
    She looked so proud and zealous, standing before him with the extraordinary weapon in her hands, as if she had broken off a piece of the sun, that Avalloc’s manner softened. He had long guessed that one day she would petition him for the use of Fallowblade and, having thought it over, had decided to grant her wish. Graciously he inclined his head. “You have my permission.” A faint smile flickered across his mouth. “Under one condition,” he added, “and that is, you must promise not to engage in combat rehearsal until your sword-master judges your ability to be outstanding in every way. You will need more than common competence if you are to handle this perilous blade.”
    The damsel’s face lit up with pleasure. “I promise! Gramercie! Well, Fallowblade,” she said, beginning to slide the sword back into its sheath, “you and I shall soon have some dancing to do.”
    When she drove home the hilt, the chamber seemed to grow dim. Together, Asrathiel and Avalloc replaced sword and scabbard in their usual position above the fireplace.
    “You must break the news tactfully to your aunt,” the Storm Lord advised. “She will not be happy; you know how she feels about your inheriting the blade.”
    “Of course I shall be gentle with her!”
    “Fallowblade has other names,” Avalloc informed his granddaughter as they finished the task and stepped back from the fireplace. “He is called also ‘Frostfire,’ because he burns like both ice and flame, and his color is of thesun. In the speech of the Gwragged Annwn, ‘Frostfire’ is translated as ‘Síoctine,’ which men were wont to render as
Shockteen.”
    “A curious name. And what a curious song it is, Grandfather,” said Asrathiel, “the song about Fallowblade. All my life I have