The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Yet she had almost been charmed.

  The arrogant windbag sees only himself, and the adoration of these gullible sycophants, she thought. But I cannot let that matter to me. He can give me what I want, and I must endure.

  “Above all, you will not complain or make screams and moans. Do you understand?”

  He winced slightly, as though the very thought of such uncouthness pained his ears.

  She nodded.

  Then there was a drink, cold and blue like death, killing rational thought with a hard tide of paralysis. Paralysis, yet only partial numbness. They laid her on the cold stone slab, in her gray robe, and then it began: the pain, the blades, the hot needles, the searing acids of the pastes, turning each nerve to a severe metal filament that conducted along its path a charge of agony most exquisite.

  It went on and on. Imrhien would have cried out, many times, if she had possessed a voice. Agony sang with a piercing, high voice of its own: a paean to pain. The whole length of her body quivered, arching in torment. Through a miasma of fire, the rich voice said smoothly, “It is necessary for it to become worse before it can get better.” But it just worsened, until a time when there had been no suffering was unimaginable and all there had ever been were needles and burning. Just before the blackness came, the voice said, far off, “Tell the red uncle to come back tomorrow.”

  There was blood on the pillow, fresh blood and black ichor, but it was difficult to see. Her face was an inferno. With numbed fingers, the patient reached up to touch it, meeting only bandages. Somewhere, a fig-cake said contemptuously:

  “It is your own fault. I’ll warrant you cried out in the night, after the procedure was completed. I had expected better return of you. Now the treatment will not be effective.”

  Later she was lifted and carried along. A bellowing burst through numb silence, like a red blister rupturing.

  “What have ye done to her?”

  Uproar exploded all around, after which there came enclosure within a carriage. Hoofbeats dropped like long lines of clay cups, and the swaying of the upholstery sent scarlet veins of lightning through a thickness that choked.

  When the cool, green relief washed over her and put out the fire, she lay and soaked in it until it turned to tears.

  “’Tis your eyes,” said the voice of Muirne. “Mother says your sight be in danger. We must keep your face covered for seven days. I will be bathing the skin and changing the dressings twice daily. You be scarred now beyond repair. Why did ye go to this wizard? My uncle rages like a wounded bull. He went back to the wizard’s palace and demanded to see him, but the sentries would not let him in. He has threatened to ruin the mage’s reputation and to kill him.” Angrily she added, “They have told my uncle that if he says a word against this charlatan, he and his kindred will be hunted down!” She paused. “This man is powerful. I guess that even if we should keep silent, he means to revenge himself on us for this threat and to prevent us from ever speaking out against him. I think he means us ill. I have observed strangers watching this house. You have brought trouble on us.”

  What she says is true, thought Imrhien, lying desolate in her cage of darkness. It is true, and I must leave this house as soon as possible lest I bring further harm. I have been a fool. In seeking public acceptance, I have lost many things far more precious.

  At night, Muirne’s weight pushed down the other side of the bed as she slid in with barely a rustle and never a word. In the dark hours Imrhien would lie awake, listening to the slight scuffling sounds of the domestic bruney busy at its surreptitious housework below-stairs. By day the sparrow sometimes cheeped and scuttered, pecking the crumbs Muirne left for it on the washstand, and there were the sounds of comings and goings in the room below, and voices floated up the stairs—often the voices of unfamiliar folk who were gone in the evenings. Then the family would converse.

  Liam’s voice: “Aye, Mother, I ken that Eochaid would be the best lad for the job, but he cannot come with us. His father lies ill, and he must stay to keep his stepmother and young brothers. But I tell ye, the lads we have chosen be strong and skilled enough to provide defense in time of need. Uncle, Mother says she feels we are going into deadly peril with this treasure-seeking, and although she trusts the Sulibhain brothers, she mislikes the three east-side lads we be taking along.”

  “Hush, boyo, not so loud when ye talk of treasure. And ye should not be so freely a-spending of it in the city as ye are, gifting to your friends, buying drinks for all and sundry—the wrong folk might be getting the idea that ye have stumbled upon a good thing. I like the look of those riversiders right enough, but I trust your mother’s judgment. Let us choose three others.”

  “But—there be no others. I mean, if we do not take those three, there will be trouble.”

  “Why would there be trouble?”

  “Well, ye see, they be right fond of hunting, and I promised them good pay. I had to promise that, else they would not even have considered coming here to meet ye and Mother. They be stalwart, and good fighters. I thought they would be just right—I could find no fault with them.”

  “I can find fault to begin with—that they threaten trouble if they do not get what they want!”

  “We have no choice now, Uncle.”

  “Obban tesh! Of course we have a choice! We tell them the departure has been delayed, then we leave earlier than planned, and in secret, taking only the three worthy Sulibhains. Danger there might be, but those Sulibhains be renowned for their prowess, and they b’ain’t no milksops.”

  “Aye, but what will the eastsiders do when they learn we have given them the slip?”

  “Ach, a crew of patches like those can do naught. They’d have trouble enough just pulling on their breeches. Still, I b’ain’t leaving here until those wrappings come off her face for good and I see if she be all right.”

  When the bandages came off for the last time, the patient’s sight was intact, if blurred. The puffy flesh of her face was too sore to touch. She avoided reflective surfaces. Ethlinn, bathing the wounds with a herbal wash, advised that the skin must be left open to the air, to dry out.

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  Dully, Imrhien nodded.

  All travel preparations were complete. It had been arranged that Imrhien, in her own coach-and-four with a driver, a personal maid, and two footmen—all of whom were to start no sooner than at the beginning of the journey—was to join with a road-caravan that was at that time forming up to drive west along the Caermelor Road. Serrure’s Caravan promised to be an extensive column; as well as the usual small merchants who cooperated with each other in such journeys for the sake of the protection afforded by numbers, its ranks were being swelled by farmhands, apprentices, and town gallants who were fired up to join the Royal Legions or the Dainnan. For the armies of Eldaraigne were now mobilizing, in the face of the slowly growing threat from Namarre, and they were making preparations for battle. Playing soldiers was all the rage now in Gilvaris Tarv, and in the town squares youths practiced their fighting skills on one another, to the entertainment of the onlookers. “For D’Armancourt!” was the cry, and, “For Eldaraigne!”

  Storms of both kinds hammered on the anvil of the city’s roofs from time to time; these phenomena, combined with thrilling tidings of forces gathering in the northeast and the restlessness of the inhabitants, forged a sense of change in the air, as though a signpost had been passed that could not be revisited.

  Diarmid blew in breathless, one dark glittering shang morning, to announce that he was wasting no more time—he
was also going to accompany Serrure’s Caravan on its journey westward.

  “I shall hire on as a guard—an outrider. I have learned all that I can, here. If I do not go now, all the best places will be taken.”

  Sianadh clapped a hand on the shoulder of his tall nephew. “’Tis good news, Diarmid my young cockerel. By good fortune, Imrhien is to travel with Serrure’s Caravan, too—ye can keep her company and watch over her.”

  Diarmid stiffened almost imperceptibly.

  “With all my heart I wish to do so,” he said. “But meaning no disrespect to the lady, I shall be riding as a paid guard and thus shall not be able to leave my duties.”

  “Ah, codswallop,” Sianadh snorted. He was interrupted by Muirne, who had come running in when she heard the news.

  “Oh, take me with ye, Diarmid! The Royal Company of Archers would have need of a good markswoman, would they not?”

  Her brother shook his cinnamon head. “I’ll not take my young sister into battle. Besides, Mother needs you here.”

  “‘I, said the sparrow, with my bow and arrow,”’ sang Sianadh. “And a doch good shot ye be, too, Birdie—ye won that gold brooch off me with your marksmanship, not that I wasn’t going to give it to ye anyway—but a little lass like ye in the King’s army—it just wouldna be right!”

  “That is not fair!” chided his niece. “I would do better at court than those farm churls from hereabouts who are going to the Royal City. Why, they would not even know how to behave at the dinner table. I have heard about all the manners of gentlefolk. I know.”

  “Eating be eating, b’ain’t it, Birdie?”

  “Nay, Uncle Bear. In Caermelor, at the Royal Court, they be so—oh, so much more advanced than anywhere else. ’Tis not done to wipe your fingers on your hair or the tablecloth, or belch, or speak with your mouth full of food, or scratch, or pick your teeth at table. Ye have to use little forks to pick up the food. Ye be not allowed to pour wine for your betters or for yourself, but to wait for them to deign to pour it for ye, if they be feeling generous. And the carving of the meats must be done a certain way, and as for the toasts—it would take ye a whole day just to learn the complications.”

  “Takes the fun out of eating,” observed Sianadh. Turning to Diarmid: “I be glad ye be going to Caermelor, soldier, and not me!”

  “And I would rather be going, too,” Muirne said bitterly.

  Ethlinn signed to her eldest son, <>

  Her eyes told more than her hands.

  Imrhien’s sight gradually cleared. The pain decreased to a throbbing ache. The looking-glass revealed scars and tattered flesh, a disfigurement far worse than before the treatment at the wizard’s hands. She withdrew under her taltry, a snail into its shell.

  A carriage arrived at the end of Bergamot Street—Roisin Tuillimh had come to visit Ethlinn. She was a tall, spare woman with a long face and bright eyes watching out from above jutting cheekbones. Her faded hair, once the shade of ruby wine, was coiffed in simple fashion. Her garb was well tailored without being ostentatious, its style unashamedly Ertish. She cared little for beauty of countenance and much for beauty of spirit. Her mode of speech was rhythmic and unusual.

  “Now, lass,” she said to Imrhien, “you scarce have seen the city’s sights. Since first you came here, it’s indoors you’ve chiefly bided. Yon Bear leaves upon the morrow, but today is the first of Uvailmis and I invite your company on a jaunt—to Uvailmis Market-Fair we go—perchance you’ll see something you wish to purchase, some useful item for your forthcoming journey, or what you will.”

  Reluctantly Imrhien allowed herself to be persuaded to accompany the three women to market.

  Roisin’s carriage rattled to a halt in a wide square choked with a confetti of stalls and crowds. She and Ethlinn stepped out, followed closely by Muirne and Imrhien. They walked among the canvas booths and awnings, examining, haggling, purchasing. Imrhien stared at the wares spread out so enticingly.

  “Do not let anyone get a good eyeful of ye,” Muirne reminded her with a nudge.

  Keeping her face in the shadow of her taltry, Imrhien toured the nearest booths. A commotion drew their attention; bystanders began to gather around as a man, touting at full volume, led a small horse into the square.

  “No finer steed in Erith! A waterhorse of eldritch, tethered securely by a rope around its pretty neck! Ladies and gentlemen, this fine beast will run like the wind for you, work like a slave for you, carry and draw weights that would kill an ordinary hack. What price am I offered?”

  Some among the bystanders now recognized the horseseller as the proprietor of the Picktree Mill, a man known for his ability to drive a hard bargain. The miller received a mixed reaction to his offer—some drew away, muttering that it was ill luck to meddle with unlorraly beasts. Others surged forward—it was a rarity, the capture of something eldritch, and many folk were curious just to look. The little gray waterhorse was indeed a pretty steed, and in fine fettle. Its legs were long and sculptured, like those of a racehorse. The hooves were delicate, the neck proudly arched. Strangely, the tail curled up over its back like a half-wheel. Fluted water-leaves like thin, green ribbons twined in that glossy tail and in the mane. But the eyes rolled with indignant fear, and the nostrils flared like two wild roses, for it had no choice except to succumb meekly to whatever the holder of the rope laid upon it. It neighed its rage and sprang back as if burned when the miller shook a pair of iron stirrups near its face.

  “What am I offered! The finest beast in Erith! Immortal! Tame as a pup!”

  The crowd murmured warily. Few of them had ever set eyes on any wight at all, for it was unwise to look in on domestic bruneys, the wights that most commonly inhabited certain fortunate houses in the cities of men. “Is it really a waterhorse? What kind is it?” they asked among themselves. They had all heard of the Each Uisge and wanted no part of anything with a reputation for such savagery and mercilessness.

  Someone knowledgeable spoke up. “Judging by the tail, ’tis only a nuggle—I mean, a nygel,” he said. “Not one of the killing-horses. ’Tis harmless.”

  “There must be some trickery, miller,” said one of the bystanders. “How could you catch so slippery a beast?”

  “Do you doubt my veracity sir? Fie! No trickery—no, indeed! The wretch has plagued me this many a night, for it is fascinated by water mills, and if the mill was working during the hours of darkness, it grabbed the wheel and halted it. The only way I could drive it off was to ram a flaming torch or a long iron blade through the vent-shaft of the mill. Its other prank was to dawdle along the millstream and lure people to mount it, whereupon it would dash away into the millpond or the sea and give the unwary rider a sore ducking, half drowning him. This trickster deserved to be taught a lesson, and that’s just what I have done.”

  “Did it ever eat anyone?” asked a nervous man.

  “Never! My wightish friend here did not, like the You-Know-What, the Prince of Waterhorses, tear its victims to pieces—after it rid itself of its burden, it used to set up a great nicker and a laugh and next be seen galloping and plunging off into the distance.”

  “That does not explain how you come by it,” another objected.

  The miller had been waiting for an opportunity to describe his clever feat.

  “I was but a-walking down by Millbeck Tarn, searching for my chestnut mare. This creature came up to me all friendlylike, so pretending I did not know what it was, I got on it
s back, but I held on with only one hand. When it galloped off with me for a joyride, I slipped my free hand in my pocket and took out the rope halter I’d been keeping for my mare and slipped it around its neck. Then it was mine! Leave the rope on, ladies and gentlemen, and the thing will do as you bid forever!”

  Various offers began to be shouted.

  “Two sovereigns!”

  “Three!”

  Excitement surged through the throng like wind through a cornfield. The waterhorse, far from its natural surroundings, shuddered, looking desperately for escape, bound inexorably by the lorraly fibers of the hempen rope encircling its neck.

  As they bid, the faces of the onlookers were stamped with the smug superiority of those who beheld a symbol of their fear brought to its knees. All creatures of eldritch were baffling to them, alien and therefore frightening. They presented a constant threat against which most mortals felt impotent. Imrhien saw the cruelty in the faces and the trembling of the waterhorse, which was only a nygel after all, a practical joker by nature, but not a monster. The creature was guiltless, having merely been obeying its own fun-seeking instincts. Through its own naiveté it was now enslaved and reviled. Imrhien understood its situation perfectly.

  The bidding rose to six sovereigns, then seven guineas. There it halted.

  <> Imrhien signed.

  “Oh, no,” Muirne protested diffidently.

  “She signs too quickly. What wishes she to know, Muirne?” inquired Roisin. On being told, she threw Imrhien a measuring glance. “Be ye certain?”

  A nod.

  “A pony for the pony!” called Roisin.

  There was general laughter, but the miller who held the rope said, “Is that a genuine offer?”

  “It is.”

  Imrhien began rummaging in her purse.

  “What? Be ye turning scothy?” hissed Muirne.