The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘Good.’ He handed the weapon back to his squire. ‘See that the new scabbard is maintained as bravely. Who’s that at my door? Enter.’

  A footman opened the sitting-room door. A messenger ran in, went down on one knee before the warrior and bowed, offering a silver salver on which a leaf of parchment flapped. Roxburgh read the note, scratching his bluff chin.

  ‘Very well.’ He sighed. ‘Conduct this lady to the Chamber of Ancient Armour. She may await me there. My wife is at her bower, you say?’ Crumpling the parchment into a ball, he threw it at John, who ducked too late. The messenger bobbed his head in answer and ran out.

  As the sun dipped, the clouds in the west parted, allowing a gleam of bronze to lance the lofty windows of the Chamber of Ancient Armour. The room overlooked a walled courtyard of fountains and statues. Across the tapestries on its walls, scenes from history and legend spread themselves, all with a bellicose theme. Here, two cavalry brigades charged at one another, pennants streaming, helmet plumes, manes, and tails flying, to clash in a tangled mass of armoured brawn and rearing, screaming war-horses. There, Dainnan archers in disciplined rows fired a deadly rain of darts, the back line standing with legs astride, braced to shoot, while the front, having spent its arrows, reloaded. On another wall, Warships locked each other in combat among a ferment of storm clouds above a city. Farther on, the infantry of the Royal Legion raged about a trampled field. Their enemies lay thick on the ground and the colours of Eldaraigne fluttered high above.

  Antique armours stood against the walls. Dark wooden shelves housed outmoded hauberks-of-mail, habergeons, camails, coudieres, padded and quilted armour of fabric and boiled leather, mail coifs, brigandines, conical helms extruding long nasals, prick spurs, knee-cops and aillettes of leather, rerebraces, vambraces, gauntlets, baldrics, helms winged and fanged and halberds from times long past, dull and sheenless, mostly dented, torn or cloven. The high gabled lids of arming chests hinted at more.

  Afternoon light spilled like brandy across an acorn-patterned carpet at the daintily shod feet of the visitor who sat waiting in a chair heaped with brocade cushions. A page boy in the livery of Roxburgh, gold and gray, stood stiffly at her shoulder.

  Filigree brass lamps hung on chains from the ceiling and jutted in curled brackets from the walls. A servant scurried about, kindling them to amber glows. Disappointed, the last of the sunrays withdrew. As they did so, a white-wigged footman entered, wearing black pumps and an iron-gray tail-coat with gold trimmings. He bowed.

  ‘Your Ladyship, His Grace will see you now.’

  He held the door open. The dark-haired, masked widow passed through and was guided deferentially to a larger chamber; the Duke of Roxburgh’s audience-room. In a loud voice the footman announced, ‘Lady Rohain Tarrenys of the Sorrow Islands.’

  The visitor was ushered in.

  A hearthful of flames flung warmth into this room, cheerily bouncing their glow off polished walnut furniture and silver-gilt. A pair of cast bronze andirons with eagle motifs supported a burning giant of the forest. They matched the decorated fender, the pokers, the tongs. Crossed swords, broad-bladed hunting knives with deer’s foot handles and other trophies of arms enlivened the walls alongside a mounted boar’s head with formidable tusks and the masks of other game.

  The fire’s light was supplemented by three hanging lusters and, atop a table, a bronze urisk holding a massive bouquet of bell-flowers whose cupped petals were candle-sockets. Two more goat-legged wights in marble supported the mantelpiece, which in turn bore a set of equestrian statuettes in malachite and agate. On a bearskin rug before the hearth lay a pair of lean hounds.

  Conmor, Duke of Roxburgh, stood by the window. He was still in the field-dress he had worn that day: loose-sleeved shirt, leather doublet slit to the hips, belted loosely at the waist, embossed baldric slung across the shoulder, suede leggings, and knee-boots. Firelight burnished his shoulder-length, unbound locks to dark mahogany.

  At her first sight of the Dainnan Commander, a muffled gasp escaped from beneath the visitor’s veil.

  Thorn!

  But no. Of course not—it was just that she had not been expecting to see a tall figure wearing the subdued Dainnan uniform here in the palace suites, where braided liveries stalked alongside jeweled splendors. This man with brown hair tumbling to his shoulders was not Thorn, although he came close to him in height, and if she had not first seen Thorn, she would have thought the Commander exceedingly comely. He was older, thicker in girth, more solidly built, his arms scarred, his thighs knotted with sinew. At the temples his hair was threaded with silver. Proud of demeanor he was, and stern of brow, but dashing in the extreme.

  The warrior leader’s hazel eyes, which had widened slightly at the sight of the visitor, now narrowed. Somewhere in remote regions of the palace, something loose banged peevishly in the rising wind.

  ‘Go and see to that shutter, will you, lad?’

  The momentary distraction allowed Rohain-Imrhien to recover her poise. She curtsied and awaited tacit permission to speak.

  ‘Rohain of the Sorrows,’ repeated Roxburgh, ‘pray be seated and remove your widow’s veil. Here in the palace we are joyed to look upon the countenance of those with whom we hold converse.’

  His guest inclined her head.

  ‘As Your Grace’s servants have many times assured me, sir. But I am uncomfortable without it. I have made a vow—’

  ‘I insist,’ he broke in; a man used to having his demands met and impatient with those who would not cooperate. There seemed to be no choice.

  She unhooked the mask and drew it aside.

  Her eyes never left his face. She read all that passed across it—the look of surprise, the turning away, then the avoidance of her eyes. What could it mean? This was the first test in the outside world of this new face she wore. Was it then so strange?

  ‘Wear the veil if you must,’ the Dainnan Commander said briskly, throwing his shoulders back as though regaining control of himself after a lapse. ‘Wilfred, have refreshments brought for Her Ladyship and myself.’

  Murmuring compliance, Wilfred withdrew.

  ‘For you must be weary, m’lady,’ continued Roxburgh, ‘after your journey. The message I received from the Doorkeeper indicated that you have travelled to Caermelor on an errand of importance, with news that you will entrust only to the King-Emperor.’

  Rohain-Imrhien fastened the mask back in place.

  ‘That is so, Your Grace.’

  She perched on the edge of a velvet-covered chair. Roxburgh remained standing, occasionally striding up and down in front of the hearth.

  ‘Have you any idea,’ he said, ‘how many folk come knocking upon the King-Emperor’s doors with the same message as you? Petitioners, beggars, would-be courtiers, social climbers—most of them do not get as far as an audience with me. You have been fortunate, so far, due to your apparent station. I have many calls upon my time. His Imperial Majesty the King-Emperor will not hold audience with you. It is a busy time for all—meaning no discourtesy, my lady, but His Majesty has no spare time these days. Our sovereign’s waking hours are devoted to the urgent business at hand. As one of His Majesty’s ministers I am empowered to speak for him and take messages on his behalf. Now, what are your tidings of import?’

  A page in gray-and-gold livery came in bearing a laden tray. He set it down on a table with legs carved like sword irises and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, then bowed to his lord and to the lady.

  ‘Thank you—’

  Rohain’s host glanced sharply at her. Obviously she had made a mistake by thanking the lad. It appeared that those born to be served by others did not consider it necessary to show gratitude to the servants here in the palace. She must avoid such errors. To survive here among the denizens of the Royal Court, one must do what all newcomers must do in a strange country—copy the behaviour of the inhabitants. If she observed them closely, if she followed their customs and manners, then she might pass undiscovered.

 
‘My tidings are for the ears of the King-Emperor,’ she repeated.

  The Dainnan Chieftain frowned. He seated himself opposite her, leaning back in his chair. ‘Well, My Lady of the Sorrows, it seems we can discover no common ground. Pray, partake of wine and cakes before you depart. I am sorry there can be no commerce between us.’

  Ethlinn and Maeve had said that Roxburgh could be trusted, but it would be better to see the King-Emperor himself. She must try for it.

  ‘I must speak with the King-Emperor.’

  ‘And I have told you that it is impossible.’

  He handed her a goblet, silver-gilt, enameled in mulberry.

  ‘To your health.’

  ‘And to Your Grace’s.’

  She raised the vessel, lifted the veil, and drank. The liquor was the essence of peaches, on fire.

  ‘’Tis a pity to travel so far only to leave with your mission unrequited,’ remarked the Duke conversationally, lifting one mightily thewed shank akimbo and resting a boot on his knee.

  ‘Yes, a pity.’

  ‘How do they speak of us, in the far Isles of Sorrow?’

  ‘Highly, sir. But no words I have heard spoken do justice to the wonder and wealth of the Royal City. The name of Conmor, Duke of Roxburgh, is also famous in far-flung places, of course.’

  ‘And no doubt many a story is attached to it.’

  ‘All are gestes of valor.’

  ‘And honour?’

  ‘Most assuredly!’

  ‘If Conmor of Roxburgh is spoken of, perhaps you are aware that he has little time for secret messages, being more concerned with the safety of the Empire. It is no secret that war is gathering on the borders. Our spies reported large movements of armed barbarians in northern Namarre last month near the Nenian Landbridge. Yesterday the Royal Legions began deploying five hundred troops to the north as part of the King-Emperor’s moves to guard against possible military action by Namarre. I am needed there. I sally forth on the morrow.’

  ‘I know nothing of such matters, sir, but perhaps a show of strength may be all that is required to make these rebels think again.’

  ‘Precisely. Otherwise, they shall know the fury of the King-Emperor’s Legions.’

  ‘It is said that they are allied with immortals—unseelie wights of eldritch who are moving northward in answer to some kind of Call; formidable foes.’

  ‘In sooth, but so-called immortals only live forever unless they choose to die or are slain.’

  ‘I have heard that if they are wounded so sorely that their bodies become incapable of sustaining existence, they are able to transmute and thus live on in another shape, is it not so?’

  ‘Some possess that power, yea, but they must take a weaker form, threatless.’

  Conversation petered out.

  The Dainnan Commander quaffed the remaining contents of his goblet. Rohain-Imrhien sipped her own, replaced it on the inlaid table, and stood up. Roxburgh also rose to his feet.

  ‘You are leaving so soon?’

  ‘I will not squander more of your time, sir—Your Grace is a busy man, I know. Thank you for sparing me a moment.’

  ‘But your tidings …’

  ‘Will Your Grace take me to the King-Emperor?’

  ‘Before you stands his sworn representative. Is that not enough?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  She curtsied. Beyond the palace walls, out in the gulf of night, the wind raged, hammering at the windows.

  ‘Good speed,’ said Roxburgh, smiling slightly.

  Rohain-Imrhien guessed he would not truly let her leave without divining her purpose.

  She paused by the door, where two footmen of matching height stood poised to escort her. Then she turned and looked over her shoulder. The war-leader stood with his feet apart, arms folded. He nodded curtly. She walked back into the chamber.

  Her bluff had not worked.

  His had.

  ‘I will tell you, sir,’ she said, since there was no option.

  The wind sucked along corridors. It sang weird harmonies, flinging doors open and shut with sudden violence and setting every hound in the Royal Kennels to howling.

  A sleepy young footman went around the Duke of Roxburgh’s audience-chamber, lowering the gleaming lamps on their chains and trimming the wicks, lighting a score of candles slender and white like young damsels, now yellow-haired. In the tall hearth, the flames had simmered down to a wary glow, enlivened now and then by a sudden gust down the chimney. The hounds by the fire twitched, dreaming perhaps of past hunts.

  Rohain fell silent, her story told. Long before this night, before she had become Rohain, she had held an inner debate on what she would say, should she ever reach Court. To reveal the existence and whereabouts of the hidden treasure was her purpose, and to uncover the corrupt Scalzo and his adherents so as to be avenged. But to disclose her own identity—insofar as she knew it—was not her intention. In truth, she was nothing but a homeless waif who had forgotten a past that possibly was best left forgotten. She was a foundling, an ex—floor-scrubber, a serf, a stowaway, a misfit, and an outcast. Now a chance to begin afresh had fallen like a ripe plum into her lap. The lowly part of her life could be swept away and hidden. With a new face and a new name, she who had first been nameless and then been Imrhien might indeed become Rohain of high degree.

  To begin living a lie did not sit comfortably with her, but so many reasons made it the choicest path. A noblewoman could wield so much more influence than a servant. That power might be used to help her friends. With influence, she had also some chance of finding Thorn again, of at least seeing him, from a distance, one more time. Thirdly, having once tasted dignity and luxury, it would be hard to relinquish them.

  And so she had told her story to Roxburgh not as it was, but as she wished it to be heard. He had listened closely throughout, and when she had finished had asked several pertinent questions. He was no fool; she guessed that he perceived some flaws in the web she had woven, but, perhaps out of tact, he chose to overlook them.

  The story went that she had left the Sorrow Islands and begun a journey across Eldaraigne in a small, private Windship. A storm had wrecked the craft over the Lofty Mountains. She and a crew member had been the only survivors of the disaster. Wandering destitute and in danger through the wight-ridden forests, they had come accidentally upon a treasure hoard of unsurpassed magnificence, at a place they named Waterstair.

  ‘A treasure hoard? You say that it contains much sildron?’

  ‘Vast quantities, sir.’

  ‘Did you bring any with you?’

  This might be a trick question.

  ‘Knowing that all newly discovered sildron is the property of the King-Emperor, I did not take any from this trove—nor did my companion. But those who discover such wealth are entitled to a share of it in reward, or so I am told. We took jewels and coin, to help us, should we find our way out of the wilderness and regain the lands of men, for we were destitute, as I have recounted.’

  ‘May I see these valuables?’

  ‘All is spent.’ She added hastily, ‘We took so very little—we could not carry much.’

  ‘Spent? Where?’

  ‘In Gilvaris Tarv, when we reached it. Of course, my first thought was to send a message by Stormriders to the King-Emperor, to inform him of this find. However, I held back at the last moment. I was reluctant to let such precious knowledge pass out of my hands—not that I do not trust our most worthy Stormriders, but accidents may happen. I decided, then, to journey to Caermelor, in person, with the news. As I was preparing for the journey, disaster struck. My unwonted spending, and that of the aeronaut who had helped me survive in the forests, had not gone unnoticed. He was abducted, with a number of his friends, by a gang of perfidious knaves. They forced him to lead them to the trove, and there he was betrayed, slaughtered before the very doors of the vault. One of his companions escaped to tell the tale, but later perished. I barely escaped with my own life. Through adventure and misadventure I made
my way across Eldaraigne until I came here, to Court. Even as we speak, those black-hearted murderers, Scalzo’s men, may be raiding the King-Emperor’s treasure at Waterstair—not for the first time—while the bones of brave fellows lie rotting in the grass.’

  ‘The name of this aeronaut?’

  ‘Oh—the Bear, he was called,’ she stammered, fearing she might somehow betray Sianadh by revealing his true name.

  ‘The Bear, indeed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the haunts of these brigands?’

  ‘Gilvaris Tarv, near the river. On the east side. I know no more.’

  The Dainnan Chieftain called for more wine. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  ‘But if all is as you say, my lady, then this is a very serious matter. We are talking of treason.’

  She made no reply.

  ‘Treason, perpetrated by those who have concealed and appropriated the property of the Crown. The punishment for that is severe.’

  ‘As I imagined.’

  ‘You will understand, my lady, that you must remain, as it were, under royal protection until your story can be verified. This is for your own safety as well as for reasons of security.’

  ‘Of course.’

  This had been half-expected. Besides, where else would she go? It had been in her mind to ask her coachman—by now no doubt comfortably ensconced in some downstairs pantry with a tankard in his hand, waiting for her—to take her to the nearest reputable inn for the night. Beyond that, she had formed no plan.

  ‘You must bide here, at the palace, until transportation to the Lofties can be arranged. Since you know the way, you must lead us there. Your reward shall be substantial—more than a few jewels and coins easily spent.’

  Untruthfully, she said, ‘Sir, knowing that I serve my sovereign is reward enough. Nevertheless I accept your offer with gratitude. I hope for every success in tracking down the treasoners.’

  He laughed humorlessly. ‘So, ’tis retribution you are after!’

  Truthfully, she said, ‘Yes, but that was not my primary goal. I came here to fulfil a promise to a friend, and that I have done.’