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

listened to it, from time to time, and yet there is much about it I do not understand.”
    “Ask me. It will be an excellent commencement to your further training.”
    “Everyone knows,” Asrathiel began, “that our famous forefather Alfardene was a master-smith. Everyone knows that hundreds of years ago he forged the blade in the famous Inglefire, which burns to this very day beneath one of the mountains in the Northern Ramparts. But what
is
the Inglefire? Where exactly does it lie? What makes it extraordinary?”
    Avalloc offered Asrathiel his arm and they sat down together on the seat by the open window, surveying the sunlit panorama of glistening snowy peaks as they conversed. “The Inglefire,” said the Storm Lord, “is no common conflagration, but a ‘werefire,’ an ancient, everlasting blaze of gramarye that burns deep beneath a certain mountain, in the far north. It is called ‘Inglefire,’ but that name is a corruption of the old word, ‘Aingealfyre.’ Aingeal, you see, means ‘light.’ As the song tells, it is there that the sword Fallowblade was forged. That fire is anathema to unseelie things, therefore after Fallow-blade was made the goblins posted guards around the werefire so that no more swords like him could ever be created. The goblins themselves could not abide the fire; could not even go near it. It is said that the Inglefire burns out wickedness. That is why the sword is pure, and smote goblins so well.”
    “Did the goblin guards not suffer from the fire’s proximity?”
    “The goblins themselves did not guard it. They set their kobold slaves to the task.”
    “But they dispersed and fled into hiding when the goblins were defeated. What guards it now?”
    “Unseelie wights of other varieties, so it is told. Nobody has sought the Inglefire for many a year. There is no need. These days we have neither living master-smiths as great as our grandsire Alfardene, nor any real need to fashion more swords like Fallowblade. Unseelie wights are kept at bay by repellents such as bells and iron and rowan, or by the use of the bri; or chiefly by educating mortalkind to beware of the haunts of wicked entities, and shun them.”
    “Well, it is a shame there will be no more swords like Fallowblade, for he is beautiful.”
    “Aye, that he is, and perilous also.”
    “Such a strange heritage is mine,” mused the damsel, leaning her elbowon the windowsill and resting her chin in her hand. “A golden sword, the power of the bri, eternity, a ruined fortress . . .” For a while she was silent, while the two of them watched the clouds roll by. Then she sat up straight. “The Dome,” she said. “The ruined Dome of the sorcerer Jaravhor—it is mine by law, is it not?”
    “By the laws of Slievmordhu and Narngalis, it belongs to you and your mother, dear child. You and Jewel are apparently the sorcerer’s only living descendents.”
    “Yet King Uabhar, without permission from the rightful owners, had it dismantled and ransacked,” Asrathiel said discontentedly. “In the process it was destroyed. All that remains are heaps of broken bricks and stones, swarming with crowthistle and other weeds. The once-great Dome of Strang is now just a pile of rubble.”
    “Even the stones might have been removed by now,” said Avalloc.
    “People do not go there to steal building materials, because they are afraid that the blocks might have malign spells on them, some lingering curse,” said the damsel.
    “You have never published your claim to the estate, my dear. Then again, why would you wish to do so, hmm? As you say, it is worthless.” The Maelstronnar appended, “Your mother ended up hating the place. There were all those skeletons and what-have-you concealed in the walls.” He waved a hand airily.
    “But Grandfather, who knows? There might still be some precious secrets hidden at the site, perhaps buried underground.”
    “Uabhar’s servants dug and pried for years, until the cellars and