‘There be the dancers,’ whispered Tiltager, startling Isabel. She had stopped, too, and her tiny form had been all but hidden in the darkness.
They stood on the edge of a valley ringed with tall, gnarled trees. Lanterns hung from the branches, softly illuminating the revelry underway below. One of the trees was no tree at all, Isabel realised with delight; she was a tree-giant like Sir Guntifer, her trunk firmly planted on one side of the valley and lanterns in her hair as she swayed to the music. Abundant flowers and fragrant foliage ringed the glade — the source, no doubt, of the delicious aromas which teased Isabel’s nose.
In the centre, a clear space served as the dancing-floor for a great many Ayliri couples. The dance they performed resembled a lively cotillion, though the steps were as nothing Isabel had ever seen before. They danced with abandon, laughing and whirling with unabashed enjoyment; Isabel felt an instant, inexplicable but strong desire to join them. Judging from the tightening of Eliza’s hand upon hers, her aunt suffered from a similar compulsion. Even Tiltager was beginning to sway in time to the music.
Isabel gasped, as the piercing notes of a pipe rose above the music. She could not see the Piper, but that must be him. ‘Tiltager!’ she said softly.
The little fae bobbed one of her funny bows to Isabel. ‘Mistress?’
‘That pipe! The one who plays it is the one I seek.’
Tiltager brightened. ‘Oh, Lyrriant! Probably he will not be angry. Wait here.’
Isabel winced inwardly at that probably. She watched as Tiltager trotted away in the direction of the dancers, Tafferty following at her heels.
Eliza sighed softly, and began to sway back and forth. ‘It is very hard, to be obliged to wait.’
Isabel nodded her agreement. Somehow she knew every note of the melody, though she was sure she had never heard the tune before. It hummed through her bones, urging her to abandon caution and her errand both, and join herself with the music at once. She gripped her aunt’s arm, fighting hard to resist the allure of the dance.
Then the elegant, soaring notes of a fiddle reached her ears, emanating from somewhere close by. She jumped, and instinctively stepped backwards and further into the shadows of the trees. A man passed them only a few feet away; Isabel realised with a start that she recognised him. He was tall and broad of shoulder, his skin pallid and his hair even paler. He wore a flamboyant full-sleeved shirt and knee-breeches, with strangely curled shoes. He played haunting notes upon a violin with a slender, pearly bow; the instrument seemed to her wondering eye to be made from spun glass, and mist curled in its depths.
‘The Fiddler,’ she whispered to her aunt. ‘I saw him at the Assembly.’
The Fiddler disappeared into the throng of dancers and musicians. Isabel soon lost sight of him, though she could hear the strains of the music he played. She could not see Tiltager either, nor Tafferty.
‘Aunt, do you think we should—’ she began, but she came to an abrupt halt as the Fiddler appeared directly in front of them. He bowed to them, his bow still drawing a lively melody from the strings of his violin, and smiled graciously upon them both. But his smile held a hint of something far less than congenial, as he said, ‘Tis a rudeness to spectate, and without an invitation! Some might call it spying.’
Isabel curtseyed at once and curtseyed low, her heart pounding. ‘Our apologies, sir! We had no intent to spy. We are here to speak with one of your own — the one who plays the pipe.’
The Fiddler smiled a little wider, his pale eyes glinting with all the warmth of ice. ‘Lyrriant is occupied at present. Perhaps you will permit me to entertain you.’ He turned his head slightly, and at this minor gesture two Aylir gentlemen instantly left the dance and approached. One was as slender and graceful as any woman, his hair tumbling in silver-grey curls around a pale, elegant face. The other was dark of skin, his hair a contrastingly pallid cloud, his black eyes wide-set above high, sharp cheekbones. They were both attired in an approximation of the court dress of England, at least that which had been fashionable in the past century: Silken knee-breeches and stockings, shirts as light as gossamer and as pale as moonlight; their waistcoats patterned with cobwebs and leaves; their coats sewn from mist-grey and twilight velvet, and richly decorated with lace. The two gentlemen bowed to Eliza and Isabel, and each extended a hand.
‘But—’ Isabel tried to say. The rest of the words she had intended to speak would not come, for the Fiddler raised one ice-white eyebrow and played three swift, sharp notes upon the violin. All thought of anything save the music, the dance and her partner left Isabel’s head in an instant. Instead of darting away in search of the Piper, or Tiltager, or Tafferty, she found herself curtseying low to the gentleman with the silvery curls and accepting his proffered hand. Moments later she was deep in the dance, tripping lightly through the steps of the strange cotillion as though she had danced it all her life. She saw Eliza whirling close by, laughing with delight, her eyes bright with merriment and her cheeks pink with exertion.
A stray wisp of thought intruded itself upon Isabel’s happiness: She saw Tiltager in her mind’s eye, and the Piper as he had been at the Alford Assembly, his attention fixed upon her for one brief, intense moment. Her last thought was of the Ferryman, laughing as she taught him to dance.
Then the music engulfed her, and everything else faded.
A short, sharp, piercing pain abruptly jolted Isabel out of her merry reverie some immeasurable time later. She gasped, stumbled and almost fell, for the pain came from her left ankle, and a weight hung there, dragging her off-balance. She blinked, brought suddenly back to her own mind. The cotillion whirled on around her, but she was no longer absorbed by it.
She knew a pang of regret, which she quickly smothered. Looking down, she was not surprised to see Tafferty hanging off her leg, the catterdandy’s jaws clamped tight around her ankle.
‘I thank you,’ she gasped. ‘But I beg you will release me.’
Tafferty relaxed the grip of her sharp teeth, growling in her throat. ‘Thou may’st apologise t’ me later,’ she grumbled. ‘Which part o’ stay there was confusin’ t’ thee?’
‘Oh, we did! But we were observed, I must assume, and the Fiddler came, and somehow I lost my senses.’ Isabel looked wildly around for Eliza, but did not see her.
‘Aye,’ muttered Tafferty. ‘Music went straight t’ thy bubblish head, an’ away thou didst wander. An’ thy aunt, the same! A precious pair ye do make. Make haste. Tiltager ‘as got the Piperish one in speech, an’ she requires thee.’
‘I am coming this moment, only I cannot find my aunt.’
‘I will attend t’ that. Off with thee. Thataway.’ Tafferty pointed her nose off to her left, and then dashed away.
To her dismay, Isabel realised that her bonnet and shawl were lost and her hair had come loose from its bindings. Stranger still, her walking-dress had changed. In place of her staid, practical garments she now wore an airy dress of gossamer silk bedecked with ribbons. The fabric was so light as to be near translucent. In this disreputable state of dress she was obliged to remain, for there could be no hope of restoring herself to respectability.
She began to walk, tentatively, in the direction that Tafferty had indicated. Soon she was able to abandon her care and move with greater speed and confidence, for the dancers around her did not seem to notice her at all, though they moved in such a way as to avoid colliding with her. In a moment, Isabel came upon a dais secreted behind the dancers, and there the Piper — Lyrriant — was seated.
He reclined upon a chair which appeared to have grown from the stump of an old tree. His indigo hair was swept back from his brow, and his pale goldish skin shimmered in the lantern-light. His eyes were fixed upon Tiltager, who stood upon the arm of his chair in a gown made from rose petals. At first her words were impossible to discern amidst the tumult of the music, but as Isabel neared the dais she could hear something of the speech the little fae was making to Lyrriant.
‘…and Miss Isabel, she cries
, I shall not rest until I have freed thee, brave Ferryman, from thy torment! And the Ferryman, he was smitten with her upon the instant, for she is the most beauteous of ladies as well as the truest of heart!’ These astonishing proclamations were accompanied by extravagant gestures and mimes; Tiltager appeared to enjoy a strong talent for the dramatic. ‘Ever since that day, my good and kind mistress has striven to fulfil her promise to the beleaguered Ferryman, and release him from his cruel fate! And now her quest has brought her here, into the heart of the Hollow Hills, for you see she is courage itself, and shrinks at nothing! It is to your court that she has come, seeking aid for one who cannot aid himself.’ Tiltager bowed deeply, her efforts rewarded with hearty applause from Lyrriant.
‘A lively tale!’ he said in a light voice. ‘But I scarcely believe in the heroine of the story! A lady in possession of quite so many merits can hardly be a living creature.’ His eyes flicked to Isabel as he spoke, and his smile widened. ‘This, I perceive, must be the lady. Is it she?’
Tiltager turned to regard Isabel, beaming. ‘It is she! Mistress, I have told to kind Lyrriant every part of the tale, and you see he will not be able to refuse to assist you now that he has heard it all, and seen you for himself!’
Isabel paused to wonder how Tiltager had come by the story at all, though she could find no immediate answer. ‘I fear you have embellished a little, Tiltager, though I thank you for your efforts. The gentleman is perfectly right. I am not nearly so sparkling a creature as you have described. Why, I shrink at many things, and I have no doubt there are ladies far truer of heart, and far more beautiful, than I!’
Lyrriant’s eyes pinned and held her, their expression considering. She quailed a little under such scrutiny, for she felt, oddly, as though every part of her character was laid bare. ‘Beauty she has, though in no extraordinary degree,’ he mused. ‘And she is correct: she shrinks at many things. But there is heart there, and plenty.’
Isabel coloured, and looked down at the ground, unsure how to respond to such frank appraisal. She felt both shamed and flattered, and in such equal degree that she knew not where to look.
Lyrriant’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘Do I not? I have seen you dance before. Though the face has altered, I know the spirit that lies beneath.’
Isabel inclined her head. ‘You played at an assembly in England, some weeks ago. I was also in attendance.’
Lyrriant smiled, his lips quirking in an odd way. ‘I have played at many English assemblies, these past weeks! I remember you, for you caught my eye. But you are not now as you were then.’
‘No, sir. I have undergone changes aplenty since we encountered each other last.’
‘I see that you have.’ Lyrriant watched her with a meditative air, playing idly with the curled pipe he held in his hands. ‘I cannot help you,’ he finally said. ‘If I knew the name, I might consent to share it, for it is an affecting tale. But I do not, and it is unlikely that any here will have the information you seek. A mere Ferryman, and long in Torpor! His will not be a known name.’
Isabel had scarcely been aware of the degree of hope she had nurtured, until these words abruptly extinguished it. She stood speechless, momentarily bereft of ideas. If Lyrriant did not know, nor could he direct them to anyone who could… where could she turn? All that remained was Eliza’s terrifying idea about—
‘The Kostigern,’ said Eliza, speaking loudly and clearly to be heard over the music. ‘Do you know where he came from?
Isabel looked up. Eliza stood a few feet away, Tafferty sitting at her feet. Like Isabel, she had been somehow divested of the simpler dress she had worn earlier in the evening. Instead she wore a gauzy ball gown of sea-foam silk and lace; her abundant hair was swept up in an elaborate arrangement, and secured with jewelled combs. No trace of Mrs. Grey was discernible in any part of her appearance, her posture or her manner. Gone was Isabel’s congenial aunt in all her neat respectability; in her place stood a proud, strong and uncompromising woman, certain of her right to be here in this place that was not England. She looked every inch an Aylir.
Isabel wondered, for a fleeting instant, whether her own appearance was in any way comparable to her aunt’s. In her borrowed wisps of fae-silk and her jewels, her gold-threaded hair wild and loose and her colour high, was she not also a different creature from Miss Ellerby of Ferndeane? For the first time, she began to feel that her transformation was not wholly a lamentable one. She may feel out of place here in the Hollow Hills, but perhaps she was not. And she could be every bit as strong as Eliza. She stood a little straighter, lifted her chin, and awaited Lyrriant’s response with a firmer resolve.
Lyrriant was not so impressed with Eliza as Isabel was. As the word Kostigern left her mouth, he sat up straighter on his curious throne, his brow darkening in a foreboding frown. ‘That name should never be mentioned here, madam.’
‘Then I will not mention it again,’ said Eliza with a smile, and a slight, apologetic inclination of her head. ‘But my question stands.’
Lyrriant stood. At his full height, his was an imposing figure; all the more so given that he stood upon a dais before them. He towered above the two supplicant ladies, and his manner was not conciliatory. ‘And why,’ he said in a dangerously quiet voice, ‘would you ask such a thing?’
Isabel became abruptly aware that the music had stopped. Only the violin continued to play, and that soon petered out, leaving the company in a hushed silence.
Eliza was not cowed. Isabel would not be, either. ‘If anyone is like to remember the Ferryman’s name, it must be his former master and the one who laid the curse,’ she said. ‘We hope to find some record that will give us the information we seek.’
Lyrriant stared down at her, icily cold where he had been congenial enough moments before. ‘You do not know what you ask. I will not help you venture into the heart of that one’s territory. Nor will any of mine. Such things should be left undisturbed, for none can know the consequences of meddling.’
‘Please,’ Isabel said, beginning to feel desperate. ‘It is so small a thing we seek!’
‘Great and terrible consequences may come of the smallest of actions. I will not help you, and you should not have come here.’
The atmosphere in the starlit vale had changed, all merriment vanished in favour of a subtle, but growing, menace. Lyrriant’s displeasure spelled the end of their welcome, such as it had been. The Fiddler appeared upon the dais before them, and made a mocking bow to Isabel and her aunt.
‘Allow me to escort you out,’ he said. His pale eyes glinted with a cruel light, and Isabel knew that the seeming courtesy of his offer disguised an uncompromising intent.
She exchanged a despairing look with her aunt, who had no more idea of how to proceed than Isabel did. They could do nothing but curtsey to Lyrriant, and follow the Fiddler away from the dais. The crowd of dancers parted smoothly to allow him passage, and he strode through without a backward glance, his posture erect with anger and disdain.
Isabel paused only long enough to ensure that Tafferty and Tiltager were safe and following along. The journey from the dais back to the trees from which they had emerged was short, but it felt long indeed. She was conscious every moment of the anger of the Ayliri behind her, and the threat they posed should any of them decide to express their disapprobation by more direct means. She walked with her head high, unwilling to permit them to see how her skin prickled under their hostile gaze — or how her heart quailed in the knowledge of her own helplessness, should such a company of Ayliri choose to be overtly hostile.
No one did, though the heavy silence which attended their departure was terrible enough, contrasted as it was with the lively merriment which had prevailed only moments before. The Fiddler stopped when he reached the knot of trees at the edge of the valley, and stood staring coldly at Isabel and Eliza until they caught up with him. He smiled with all the warmth of a frozen lake and whispered something which Isabel barely heard. ‘Whishawist.’
Isabel was conscious of an abrupt, sickening sensation and dizzying, intolerably rapid movement. Bile rose in her throat and she retched, falling to her hands and knees and then onto the earth. When she opened her eyes some time later, she saw the familiar trees of Tilton Wood swaying peacefully in the breeze above her, and beyond them, a night sky glittering with stars that she knew.
‘Eliza?’ she gasped. ‘Tafferty and Tiltager?’
‘I am here,’ said Eliza, in a voice as strained as Isabel’s own. Tafferty growled and spat, then pressed herself up against Isabel’s side. She was shivering violently, and Isabel tried as best she could to comfort her companion.
‘Tiltager?’ she repeated, when moments passed with no response from the tiny fae.
‘He was not supposed to be angry,’ said Tiltager forlornly. ‘I told him he should not be.’
Isabel sighed, and picked herself up off the ground. Her legs shook, and for a moment she felt a strong desire to be ill for the second time. She gritted her teeth and waited until the feeling passed. ‘It is none of your doing,’ she said to Tiltager, when she was certain she could speak without embarrassing herself. ‘And we are grateful to you for guiding us, however unsatisfactory the result.’
Tiltager peeped miserably by way of reply. Isabel caught but a brief glimpse of her in the moonlight, head bowed, before she faded into the darkness and disappeared.
‘If we hurry,’ said Eliza, ‘We may contrive to arrive at Ferndeane before the sun rises.’
Startled, Isabel glanced at the eastern sky. A pale glow was indeed beginning to glimmer somewhere behind the clouds, and she sighed. ‘Then let us hurry.’
Chapter Seventeen
I’ll admit, I was surprised at Lyrriant. ‘Twasn’t like him t’ be so unhelpful-like, ‘specially to a pair o’ pretty young ladies. But the Kostigern, thas a thorny topic. Gets people mighty worked up.
Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman Page 24