The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘You know best,’ said Imrhien slowly in her whispering tones, ‘for I know nothing of the ways of the King-Emperor’s Court. But who would recognise the face I wear now?’

  ‘Folk from your past, haply.’

  ‘Then that would be wonderful! I should meet my own folk, discover all!’

  ‘Not necessarily. Who left you to die in the rain in a patch of Hedera paradoxis? Not folk who were looking after your interests. Safer to remain unknown, at least until you have delivered your messages to the King-Emperor. And if you cannot tell His Majesty himself, why then you would be equally well-off to confide in Tamlain Conmor, the Dainnan Chieftain, or True Thomas Learmont, the Royal Bard. They are his most trusted advisors, and worthy of that trust, more so than any other men of Erith.

  ‘If you manage to leave my cottage unmarked and reach the Court, you will likely be richly rewarded, you understand. Gold coins can buy security, or at least a measure of it. When all is done and your work discharged, then you shall have leisure to decide whether to doff the widow’s veil and show yourself, and risk all that goes with being Imrhien of the Golden Hair.’

  ‘There is good sense in what you say,’ the girl admitted to the carlin.

  ‘Of course there is. And if you had your wits about you, you’d have thought of it yourself, but I expect you’ve lost them in that glass. By the way, are you aware that you speak with a foreign accent?’

  ‘Do I? I suppose it is Talith.’

  ‘No. It is like no dialect I have ever heard.’

  ‘Am I of the Faêran? It is said that they lived forever …’

  The carlin cackled, true to type. ‘No, you certainly are not one of the Gentry. Not that I have ever set eyes on any of them, but there is naught of the power of gramarye in you. If there were, you would know it. You are as mortal as any bird or beast or lorraly folk. None of the Fair Folk would get themselves into such scrapes as you manage. And yet, your manner of speech is not of any of the kingdoms of Erith. Your accent’s unfamiliar.’

  ‘The Ringstorm that encircles the world’s rim—does anything lie beyond it?’

  ‘Let me tell you a little of the world. Some say that it is not a half-sphere but an entire orb with the Ringstorm around its waist dividing Erith from the northern half. That is why the world has two names; “Erith” for the Known Lands, and “Aia” for the three realms in one, which comprise the Known Lands, the unknown regions on the other side of the Ringstorm, and the Fair Realm. Of those three realms only Erith is open to us. Many folk have forgotten the Fair Realm. Some say it never existed at all. People believe what they can see. Furthermore, it is commonly held that nothing lies beyond the Ringstorm, that it marks the margins of the world, and if we were to pass further than that brink, we would fall into an abyss.’

  ‘Mayhap there is some path through the Ringstorm.’

  ‘Mayhap. Many have tried to find one. The shang winds and the world’s storms are too much for any sea-craft. The Ringstorm’s borders are decorated with broken Seaships.’

  ‘Mayhap there is a way through to Erith from the other side, from a land on the other side where they speak differently …’

  ‘Too many “mayhaps”. Let us to the business in hand.’

  ‘Yes! Madam Maeve, I am concerned for your safety. Should I depart hence under an assumed persona, the watchers will believe Imrhien Goldhair bides yet here, and they may keep watching for a time until they tire of it and assail your house.’

  ‘A good point.’ Maeve thoughtfully tapped her ear with a knitting needle. ‘Ah, but if they think they see Imrhien Goldenhair leaving and they follow her, then find out it was a ruse and rush back here and see no sign of her, they will think she escaped during their absence. In sooth, she will have. An excellent plan—nay, ask no questions, it will all be clear to you soon. Meanwhile, I had better rouse Tom—he has errands to run for me in Caermelor. We shall need money to carry out this scheme. How much have you?’

  ‘Madam, please accept my apologies. Your words remind me that I owe you payment for your healing of me, and my board and lodging. What is your fee?’

  ‘My fee,’ said the carlin, shooting a piercing glance from her bright eye, ‘is whatever those who receive my services are prepared to give.’

  ‘What you have given me is valuable beyond measure—worth more than all the treasure in the world.’

  ‘Have I given it, or was it already yours by right? Do not be thankful until you have lived with your changed appearance for a moon-cycle or two. See how you like it then.’

  ‘I cannot be otherwise than happy!’

  ‘Ha! The measure of happiness is merely the difference between expectations and outcomes. It is not concerned with what one possesses—it is concerned with how content one is with what one possesses.’

  Imrhien had taken out her leather pouch. The pearls she had left in Silken Janet’s linen-chest, the ruby she had given to Diarmid and Muirne, but there remained two more jewels and the few gold coins she had saved when she ran from the caravan. In glittering array she spread the stones and metal before the carlin.

  ‘This is all I have. Please, take it.’

  Maeve One-Eye threw her head back and laughed.

  ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘you will never survive out in the wide wicked world if you do this sort of thing. Have you not heard of bargaining? Such an innocent. And how would you fare with no money to spend on your way to the City? This I shall take.’ She leaned forward and picked up the sapphire. ‘The mud from Mount Baelfire is costly to obtain. And blue is one of the colours of my fellowship, the Winter shade of high glaciers and cold water under the sky. Leave the emerald out of your purse—it is of greater worth and will fetch a high price. It is necessary to sell it to pay for the purchases Tom shall make in Caermelor on your behalf. But put away the sovereigns and doubloons and the bit of silver. You may need them someday. And be more careful to whom you display your wealth—fortunately, I can be trusted, but not all folk are as honest as Maeve One-Eye!’

  Her thicket of albino hair bristled untidily, like a rook’s nest in a frost—her guest suspected that it was in fact inhabited by some pet animal—and she leaned back in her chair, chuckling. The needles resumed their click-clack.

  ‘True to Talith type, you possess the darker eyebrows and eyelashes—those I will not need to alter. What colour of hair want you? Black? Brown?’

  ‘Red.’

  ‘A canny choice. Nobody would ever believe that any clearheaded person would choose the Ertish shade, thus they will think that you soothly are of Finvarnan blood. I take it you will not mind being despised as a barbarian in Court circles?’

  ‘I have had my fill of contempt! I have been despised enough for twenty lifetimes. Not red, then. What is the fashion for hair at Court?’

  ‘Black, or straw yellow—save for the salt-haired Icemen that dwell among them; their locks do not take kindly to dyes, nor do they wish to alter them, being a proud race.’

  ‘It seems I must choose black. But I will not stay long at Court—only long enough to deliver my news, and then I will be away.’

  And long enough to find someone.

  ‘Be not so certain. You may not obtain an audience with the King-Emperor straight away. He is busy, especially at this time of strange unrest in the north. As an unknown, you will be seen as inconsequential enough to be kept waiting—if necessary, for weeks, despite the fact that I am going to transform you into a lady of means for the mission. If you successfully reach Caermelor and then obtain permission to pass within the palace gates, you may have to wait for a long time. And if you are eventually granted an audience, the next step must be verification of your news. They may ask you to lead them to this treasure.’

  The carlin paused in her handiwork, holding it high for a better view. ‘Cast off, one plain, one purl,’ she muttered obliquely. With a thoughtful air, she lowered the needlework to her lap. ‘So. A name you will need.’ She hummed a little tune. ‘I’ve got it! “Rohain”. A tad Sev
ernessish-sounding, but it suits you. And you must say that you come from some remote and little-known place, so that there is small chance of meeting any person who hails from there and might betray you. The Sorrow Islands off Severnesse are such a place—melancholy, avoided whenever possible. Tarrenys is an old family name from those parts. Yes—that’s it. Ha! Rohain Tarrenys you shall be—say farewell to Imrhien Goldenhair, Lady Rohain of the Sorrows.’

  ‘Am I to be a lady? I know nothing of the ways of gentlefolk. I shall be discovered.’

  ‘Methinks you underestimate your own shrewdness. Hearken. Should a peasant wife arrive at the palace with a story of discovering great wealth, that woman risks her life. There are those at Court who are not as scrupulous as the Dukes of Ercildoune and Roxburgh; those who would wish to take the credit to themselves for such a discovery, and to silence the real messenger. It is possible a commonwife would not be given the opportunity to speak with the Dukes before she was bundled off with a few pennies, maybe to be followed, waylaid, and murdered. Howbeit, a gentlewoman must be treated with greater scrupulosity.’

  ‘Who, at Court, could be so perfidious?’

  ‘It will become clear to you,’ said Maeve briskly. She changed the subject. ‘Have you a potent tilhal for protection along the way?’

  ‘I have a self-bored stone, given me by Ethlinn.’

  ‘A worthy talisman,’ said the carlin, examining the stone with a lopsided squint. ‘You might well have need of it. Many malign things wander abroad these days. Doubtless you have heard—it is said that one of the brigand chieftains of Namarre has grown strong enough to muster wicked wights in his support. There is no denying that some kind of summons, inaudible to mortal ears, is issuing from that northern region. Unseelie wights are moving across the lands, responding to the Call. With an army of lawless barbarians, aided by unseelie hordes, a wizard powerful enough to summon wights would be an opponent to be reckoned with. They say such a force might stand a goodly chance of overthrowing the Empire and seizing power in Erith. If that should come to pass, all the lands would be plunged into chaos. It would mean the end of the long years of peace we have known.’

  A chill tremor tore through the listener.

  ‘These are uneasy times,’ continued the carlin with a shake of her head. ‘Even creatures which have not revealed themselves for many lifetimes of men have lately re-emerged. It is not long since I heard a rumour that Yallery Brown has been seen again.’

  She returned the stone to its owner.

  ‘What is that?’ asked the girl, tucking the tilhal beneath her garments.

  ‘Yallery Brown? One of the wickedest wights that ever was or is—so wicked that it is dangerous even to befriend him. Have you not heard the old tale of cursed Harry Millbeck, the brother of the great-grandfather of the mayor of Rigspindle?’

  ‘I have heard many tales, but not that. Pray tell it!’

  ‘He was a farm labourer, was Harry,’ said Maeve. ‘On a Summer’s evening long ago, he was walking home from work across fields and meadows all scattered with dandelions and daisies, when he heard an anguished wailing like the cry of a forsaken child. He cast about for the source and at last discovered that it issued from underneath a large, flat stone, half-submerged under turf and matted weeds. This rock had a name in the district. For as long as anyone could remember, it had been called “The Strangers’ Stone”, and folk used to avoid it.

  ‘A terrible fear came over Harry. The wails, however, had dwindled to a pitiful whimpering, and being a kind-hearted man he could not steel himself to walk on without rendering aid to what might have been a child in distress. With great trouble, he managed to raise up the Strangers’ Stone, and there beneath it was a small creature, no bigger than a young child. Yet it was no child—rather it looked to be something old, far older than was natural, for it was all wizened, and its hair and beard were so long that it was all enmeshed in its own locks. Dandelion-yellow were the hair and whiskers, and soft as thistle-floss. The face, puckered as lava, was umber-brown, and from the midst of the creases a pair of clever eyes stared out like two black raisins. After its initial amazement at its release, the creature seemed greatly delighted.

  ‘“Harry, ye’re a good lad,” it chirped.

  ‘It knows my name! For certain this thing is a bogle, Harry thought to himself, and he touched his cap civilly, struggling to hide his terror.

  ‘“Nay,” said the little thing instantly, “I’m no bogie, but ye’d best not ask me what I be. Anyway, ye’ve done me a better service than ye know, and I be well-disposed toward ye.”

  ‘Harry shuddered, and his knees knocked when he found the eldritch thing could read his unspoken thoughts, but he mustered his courage.

  ‘“And I now will give ye a gift,” said the creature. “What would ye like—a strong and bonny wife or a crock full of gold coins?”

  ‘“I have little interest in either, your honour,” said Harry as politely as he could, “but my back and shoulders are always aching. My labour on the farm is too heavy for me and I’d thank you for help with it.”

  ‘“Now hearken ye, never thank me,” said the little fellow with an ugly sneer. “I’ll do the work for ye and welcome, but if ye give me a word of thanks ye’ll never get a hand’s turn more from me. If ye want me, just call ‘Yallery Brown, from out of the mools come to help me,’ and I’ll be there.” And with that it picked the stalk of a dandelion puff, blew the fluffy seeds into Harry’s eyes and disappeared.

  ‘In the morning Harry could no longer believe what he had seen and suspected he’d been dreaming. He walked to the farm as usual, but when he arrived, he found that his work had already been completed, and he had no need to lift so much as a finger. The same happened day after day; no matter how many tasks were set for Harry, Yallery Brown finished them in the blink of an eye.

  ‘At first the lad augured his life would be as leisurely as a nobleman’s, but after a time he saw that matters might not go so well for him, for although his tasks were done, all the other men’s tasks were being undone and destroyed. After a while, some of his fellow labourers happened to spy Yallery Brown darting about the place at night and they accused Harry of summoning the wight. They made his life miserable with their blaming and their complaints to the master.

  ‘“I’ll put this to rights,” said Harry to himself. ‘“I’ll do the work myself, and not be indebted to Yallery Brown.”

  ‘But no matter how early he came to work, his tasks were always accomplished before he got there. Furthermore, no tool or implement would remain in his hand; the spade slipped from his grasp, the plough careered out of his reach and the hoe eluded him. The other men would find Harry trying to do their work for them, but no matter how hard he tried he could not do it, for it would go awry, and they accused him of botching it deliberately.

  ‘Finally, the men indicted him so often that the master dismissed him, and Harry plodded away in a high rage, fuming about how Yallery Brown had treated him. Word went around the district that Harry Millbeck was a troublemaker, and no farmer would hire him. Without a means of earning a living, Harry was in sore straits.

  ‘“I’ll get rid of this wicked wight,” he growled to himself, “else I shall become a beggar on the streets.” So he went out into the fields and meadows and he called out, “Yallery Brown, from out of the mools, come to me!”

  ‘The words were scarcely out of his mouth when something pinched his leg from behind, and there stood the little thing with its tormentil-yellow hair, its pleated brown face and its cunning raisin eyes. Pointing a finger at it, Harry cried, “It’s an ill turn you’ve done to me and no benefit. I’ll thank you to go away and allow me to work for myself!”

  ‘At these words, Yallery Brown shrilled with laughter and piped up: “Ye’ve thanked me, ye mortal fool! Ye’ve thanked me and I warned you not!”

  ‘Angrily, Harry burst out, “I’ll have no more to do with you! Fine sort of help you give. I’ll have no more of it from this day on!”


  ‘“And ye’ll get none,” said Yallery Brown, “but if I can’t help I’ll hinder.” It flung itself into a whirling, reeling dance around Harry, singing—

  ‘“Work as thou wilt, thou’lt never do well.

  Work as thou mayst, thou’lt never gain grist;

  For harm and mischance and Yallery Brown

  Thou’st let out thyself from under the stone.”

  ‘As it sang, it pirouetted. Its buttercup tresses and beard spun out all around until it resembled the spherical head of a giant dandelion that has gone to seed. This thistledown orb blew away, disappearing into the air, and Harry never again set eyes on Yallery Brown.

  ‘But he was aware of the wight’s malevolent presence for the rest of his life; he sensed it opposing him in everything to which he turned his hand. Forever after that, naught went aright for poor Harry Millbeck. No matter how hard he worked he could not profit by it, and ill-fortune was on whatever he touched. Until the day of his death Yallery Brown never stopped troubling him, and in his skull the wight’s song went ceaselessly round and round, “… for harm and mischance and Yallery Brown thou’st let out thyself from under the stone …”’

  ‘That’s a terrible injustice!’ cried the listening girl. ‘Aye,’ said Maeve. ‘That’s the way of unseelie wights and that one is among the wickedest.’