The Bitterbynde Trilogy
Page 45
“Is that thee, Da’?”
There came no reply.
Imrhien raised herself on one elbow.
“So, tha’s awake. Good. I’m goin’ out.” Janet untied her apron. “Tha can mind the house and yon man, and keep the fire a-goin’.”
This damsel would entrust her home and hearth to strangers, thought Imrhien. Is she perceptive, or merely naive?
Janet removed some neatly pressed clothes from a chest.
“Tha canna put yon dirty rags o’ thane on tha back. Take these o’ mine. If anybody raps at door while I’m gane, don’t let ’em in. After sunset, in these parts, tha might hear strange noises. There’s some rum creatures roamin’ these parts—nor rowan nor iron nor tinker-bells can fritten ’em off. Tha might chance to hear a sound like a child cryin’, or some such, but if tha opens the door to help it, a girt black bull or a shadowy goblin dog might rush across the threshold, or worse things. And if tha hears a flappin’ as of wings against the window, do not open the shutters or look out. Wicked creatures can have mickle fair voices. But they canna get in if tha don’t lift the latch to ’em.”
After giving these warnings, she lit a lantern and drew a hooded cloak around her shoulders. “But if anybody raps thrice, that will be me or me da’, so let ’em in. ’E’s been gane too long, me da’—’e went out after ’em bullocks what got loose out o’ stalls today. Busted t’ fence and went a-rovin’, they did, and ’e went after ’em. Ain’t come back. Musta got hisself strayed. I’ll find ’im.”
She picked up the lantern and took hold of a staff that had been leaning behind the door.
“It’ll be cold out. Keep fire stoked and mind what I said—do not open door unless tha hears a three times knockin’. Like wha’ tha did. No wight can cross over threshold uninvited.”
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“I canna hear tha hands, my dove, and by t’ look in thane eyes, I think if I could, I wouldna heed ’em. Fare tha well and lock t’ door now.”
Janet drew back the bolts and with a swish of her cloak was gone, closing the door carefully behind her. Her footsteps hurried away down the path.
Imrhien thrust the iron bolts home on the inside of the door, dressed herself in Janet’s calico gown, and knelt at Diarmid’s bedside to bathe his feverish brow.
When his fretful movements ceased and he had eased into a deeper sleep, she opened the small traveler’s pouch she had carried on a thong about her neck all the way from Gilvaris Tarv. Throughout her arduous journey it had remained intact. The key to the caskets of treasure, the three jewels, and the bracelet of dove-white pearls gleamed in the flame-light. She took out the rope of pearls, placed it in Janet’s clothes-chest, and shut the lid. Then she threw a stick on the fire and seated herself on the stool by the fireplace, stirring the embers with the poker, listening to the song of the rain.
Flames filled her vision. The fleeting shapes within them were castles on crags, twisted forests, shimmering dragons, crowds of ethereal beings. She tried to recall Thorn’s face, but his image floated beyond her grasp.
The night advanced, and Janet had not yet returned. Lulled by the warmth and quietude, Imrhien began to feel sleepy at last. Once or twice she trickled water into the sick man’s mouth when he half woke. He would gaze at her, saying, “Muirne?” and drift back into delirium. Only the plink of raindrops and the soft jinking of the rowan-bells disturbed the night’s peace now.
Imrhien leaned the poker against the chimney corner. She fought the desire to close her eyes. Silken Janet had trusted her to “mind the house,” so she must not betray that trust; must not lie down on the soft bed and succumb to the urgent need for sleep that now oppressed her.
The rain drummed. Diarmid lay helpless and insensible, his mouth ajar. Sweat-beads stood out on his forehead, and his fingers twitched feebly.
There was a knock at the door.
Imrhien jumped.
Three times the blow fell on the painted wood.
The girl did not run to the door straightaway. She could not call out to whoever stood on the doorstep, could not ask them to speak their name. It must be Janet’s father giving the prearranged signal. Or Janet herself—but then Janet would call out, surely. Strange—there had been no sound of footsteps coming down the path.
A sudden thought made her hesitate. By chance, she herself had knocked thrice when she and Diarmid had first arrived.
What if—by chance—some malevolent visitor did the same?
Instinctively she drew her taltry over her head, pulling it forward so that her appalling visage was blotted out under a cowl of shadow.
Again the three blows landed on the door—louder this time—demandingly, insistently. Imrhien came to a decision. This was the signal about which Janet had tutored her so earnestly. She must not fail her hostess. Taking a candle with her, she walked toward the threshold. The iron bolts hammered into their brackets as she drew them back. She opened the door.
A dark-haired man strode in, shaking a glittering spray of water drops from his cloak.
Thorn.
Imrhien dropped the candle. It guttered out.
But no, he was not Thorn—her eyes, made inventive by longing, had deceived her. Here was a man less in stature, a stranger, drenched and dripping. Young and comely he was, with curling hair, and he spoke to her in some foreign tongue. He seemed to be asking to be allowed to warm himself at the fire. This struck a chord in the girl.
Only hours ago it was I who sought shelter, I who could not make myself understood. Janet has shown me such hospitality—should I not do the same for this man, even though this is not my own house?
Bread and milk still stood on the table, but he would eat nothing she offered him. He merely lay down by the fire and fell asleep. She resumed her seat on the stool. The candle and the lamp had both gone out, but Imrhien blew up the fire—quietly, gently, so as not to disturb the sleepers. Its light flared, ruddy and cheerful. She glanced at the stranger.
His appearance was striking, unusual. His hair must be dyed, and freshly so, for the roots were as black as the rest—but the structure of his face did not seem to fit the Feorhkind mold, nor did he seem to come of any other race she had yet seen. By the fire’s brighter illumination she now noticed a sight that paralyzed her. Half-hidden among his dark curls were fine, pointed ears.
So. He—it was a waterhorse.
So.
And it had come by night—doubtless it was one of the nocturnal kind, which could not bear the light of day.
A long, cold shudder rippled through her.
At any moment, this thing might take its horse’s shape and drag her out into some nearby lake or pool to devour her beneath the waters. If only dawn would come, she would be saved—but how far off was sunrise?. She sat as still as ice on the stool by the fire, and that was not an easy thing to do. Diarmid lay silent—for how much longer, she could not guess. Any movement or groan from him might waken the malignant thing. The night grew darker. She remembered that she had left the door unbolted, but it was too late now.
The rain drew away and left her alone. Outside the windows, the eaves dripped monotonously. The rowan-bells gave no sound. Every moment was stretched taut, to its limit. Imrhien had no way of reckoning how many hours remained until dawn. She dared not move a fingertip. If only he would stay asleep until then …
Too soon, a log cracked and flared, and the stranger roused. He sat up and drew from his sleeve a long string of emeralds, which he dangled enticingly before Imrhien. His slim fingers beckoned her. His twilight eyes were fraught with liquid reflections of desire and death: panes staring out from some remote and drowned place. She pushed his hand aside, and he caught her gown. She jerked away, knocking over the poker, which clattered loudly to the hearthstone. At this sound, the little black cock sitting on the rafter woke and crowed. The unseelie thing dashed out the unbolted door. Horse’s hooves trampled the path outside, rushed through the gate, and gal
loped away down the lane to the west.
In the wake of the unseelie being, a sudden, violent wind gusted. The door swung wide on its hinges and banged against the wall. She ran to close it but stopped with her hand on the latch. A glimmer of light was bobbing down the lane from the east. Two figures with a lantern held high were approaching swiftly. In at the garden gate they entered: a woman and, at her side, a tall man striding toward Imrhien in haste.
Lamplight flowed over the broad shoulders of the tall figure and struck ruby glints in the mazy skeins of his midnight hair. Behind Imrhien’s ribs, a storm raged. At the sight of him, a scintillation flared through her flesh, branching out to sear along every nerve, snatching breath.
“Did it harm you, the Glastyn?” asked Thorn, lifting the lantern so that its ruddy glow flooded Imrhien’s face. “We saw it race from here as we came to the gate. Did it harm you?”
She shook her head, could not make any other sign, could only look at him, drinking in the sight as a parched wanderer slakes his thirst at a desert well. She noted every detail over and again: the diamond plane between the jawline and the high cheekbones, the firm set of the mouth, the eyes whose cold fire seemed to penetrate all, the natural grace of his stance, the hand, long and strong, which held the dark-lantern. Indeed it was he.
“Turn around,” he said.
She spun on her heel.
“Yes, you are hale, I see. And the Glastyn runs from you as though horsewhipped. Remarkable. The captain—is he in the house?”
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“Wait indoors.” Without further explanation he was away, rounding the corner of the cottage.
Silken Janet laughed and accompanied Imrhien into the house. She shook out her wet cloak by the fire.
“Close door, me dove, ’e will be back in a trice. ’E’s just gone tae ’elp me da’ put the bullocks tae bed. Found me da’, I did. At any rate, thane ’andsome Dainnan found ’im and then brought us both ’ome, bullocks and all. Dainnan were seekin’ tha. Asked if we ’ad seen tha. Said both o’ thee would be comin’ out o’ mines. Is tha unscathed?”
Imrhien nodded.
“Is tha certain?” Janet peered anxiously at her guest. “Tha might be shock-shaken now. Sit here at table. ’Tis white tha be, white as me pinny. That wicked ’orse-wight might ’ave ’ad tha in another ring o’ the bell. What must tha go openin’ doors for?”
Wearily Imrhien tapped three times on the table. Then she leaned her elbows on her knees, resting her head in her hands.
“There I go, axin’ too many questions,” said Janet. “Never mind, I’ll leave tha be. ’Ow fares me dove?” She bent over Diarmid’s sleeping face. “Nae good, nae good. Janet’s come now. Janet’ll take care o’ thee.”
She threw some sticks on the fire and swung the kettle over it. As she busied herself with preparations for a midnight supper, she kept up a flow of chatter.
“Glastyn were right ’ere, eh? Wicked thing. Is tha carlin, then, tae get rid o’ sich a wight?… Nay? I thought tha carlin. Carlins ’ave tae give summat in return for their powers. I thought tha gived tha voice or tha face. But tha got nothin’ in return, eh? ’Tis a wicked world. ’Ow dreadful—that unseelie thing in me own ’ome. Gives me the shudders. Da’ and me shall ’ave tae choose a better signal than three knocks—folly o’ me, that’s anybody’s!”
Boot-heels crunched down the path. Preceded by a gust of cold wind and a swirl of dying rose-leaves, the two men entered, Thorn ducking his head to clear the low lintel. Janet’s father bolted the door in a practiced manner. Snow-haired, his grim face tanned and creased by windblown sunshine, he yet retained a measure of the good looks he must have possessed in his youth, except that he was a little stooped, as though he had struggled for years to carry a heavy burden on his shoulders. He was clothed in a faded red cap, stout boots, breeches tucked into gaiters, a tartan waistcoat, and a matching worsted jacket. His hair was shorn just below his ears. He held an iron-shod staff, and on his finger gleamed a thick gold signet ring. A lean, restless hound trotted at his side.
This man held out a hand to Imrhien, palm up. She gave him her own, and he bowed over it, speaking with a mixture of the cultured accents of a gentleman and a country burr.
“I bid thee welcome, my lady Imrhien. Sir Thorn has told me of thee. Roland Trenowyn, at tha service.”
Thorn had gone at once to Diarmid’s bedside.
“How can this be? He has the mark of the Beithir on him!”
He placed his hand on the Ertishman’s brow. “He burns. But the fever has turned already, and he has the strength to fight. I judge he will be well by morning. If this is the brand of the lightning serpent, then you took a wrong turning in the mines. I’ll warrant it was not your heart, lady, that led you to the serpent’s lair.”
“Beithir!” exclaimed Janet, kneeling by the Ertishman’s side. “So that’s what struck ’im. Ain’t seen anythin’ like it before. Poor dove.”
“Come, Janet,” said her father, “if Sir Thorn says he will recover, let us not keep our guests waiting for their supper. Pray, do us the honor of joining us at table, sir and my lady. Our fare is humble, but all that we have is at your disposal. Whatever you ask for shall be provided, have we the means.…”
All voices faded. The floor tilted, and the room went black at the edges. Imrhien made a grab for the corner of the table for support, but it swung away. Overwhelmingly, the past few days had come crowding back—the attack of the Beithir, she half carrying Diarmid through the mines, the long nights on hard beds of stone, the narrow escape from the Glastyn, and now meeting again with Thorn.
It was as if a great wave of terror, despair, and joy had been gathering itself together as she sat at the Trenowyns’ table, rising ever higher over her head. All at once this accumulation reached breaking point.
A darkness came roaring in from the perimeters of her skull. The wave came thundering down.
The rooster crowed. Deep in the cobwebs of sleep, Imrhien heard Silken Janet speaking.
“Now, me dove, tha can come out wi’ me tae the ’en’ouse. That’s the place for thee, instead o’ wakin’ folk with thane racket. Come on, tha goosegog, I got a ’andful o’ corn for thee!”
After some squawking and fluttering, quiet resumed. Long, long waves of black slumber came rolling over.
It seemed that not a minute had gone by when Imrhien was woken by a rattle at the window and opened her eyes to see Janet flinging wide the shutters. Long diagonals of sunlight streamed in, and sweet birdsong, and the earthy smell of moist loam and wet leaves. On the eaves above the windows, doves repeated, “Coo-coroo-coo.” Somewhere outside, hens were cackling and something mooed. Imrhien felt refreshed in mind and body. A whiff of baking bread scented the air.
“Good mornin’ to thee” Janet smiled—“and a fair mornin’ it is. Thane captain said so, too, not long since.”
Diarmid pushed aside a curtain in the corner and stepped out, without any sign of favoring his leg. He was freshly scrubbed and shaved, dressed in some of Trenowyn’s clothes—woollen breeches, leathern gaiters, a linen shirt, and a twill jacket, looking quite the country squire, except for the hair that fell past his shoulders, red and brown.
Imrhien jumped up and ran to him.
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He stilled his hands and asked in a low voice, “I have heard that you were in danger last night. How is it that you escaped from the Glasty
n?”
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“’S death!” Diarmid said in astonishment. “Then the raucous bird has repaid its debt in full! Where is it now?”
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Laughter and footsteps came up the garden path. Silken Janet leaned out of the window.
“So, there tha be! Did tha ’ave a comfortable night in ’ayloft?” She unbolted the door. Her father entered. Thorn stood outside on the path with Errantry on his upraised wrist, the fierce talons clutching the leathern armband. The goshawk spread his wings wide to keep balance; the great draft of their movement sent his master’s unbound hair tossing like long grasses underwater.
Janet eyed the bird with some alarm. “Do tha bird fly at rooks, Sir Thorn?”
There was an edge to her voice.
“Not if I forbid it.” The Dainnan looked directly at Janet and smiled. Then he turned his attention to the goshawk. “So-ho, Bold-and-Fearless!” He threw his arm upward to help the bird take off, watching him rise with a whirr and a clatter of wings and fly over the trees. Then he stepped indoors.
The five of them sat down to a hearty breakfast. There being only four seats, Thorn elected to sit on the window ledge. He leaned his back against the frame, one booted foot on the sill, the other swinging. At his back soared a washed blue sky—often he would turn his head to look out at the wind-driven clouds scudding over the treetops, as if to be between walls made him restless.
Janet had set before them ripe blackberries, gooseberry tart, rhubarb and pink quinces in honeyed syrup, bread and butter, scrambled eggs, cream and honey, green cheese flecked with sage, frothing milk, mellow, yellow mead, and dandelion wine. The guests complimented her on her table and did full justice to it. There was so much to eat and so much to tell that the sun had climbed toward its zenith before they were finished.
The travelers had immediately asked for news. Trenowyn reported that the King-Emperor’s Legions had gathered in full strength at Caermelor, while recruits for the army and for the Dainnan were being summoned now to rally at Isenhammer. It was widely held that conflict was imminent, for the gathering forces in Namarre had grown strong in numbers, and while they had not yet mobilized, it seemed certain that they would soon strike south. At these tidings, shadows of concern darkened the faces of both Thorn and Diarmid.