The Bard nodded and went on to describe other maneuvers performed by the rebels in their constant harassment of northern Eldaraigne by land and sea. Of the unseelie wights being drawn to Namarre by a Summons undetectable to mortalkind, little was discussed. By this omission, Rohain guessed the true depth of the men’s unease. The ways of eldritch wights were alien, often incomprehensible. Who could guess what horrors might come of such an unprecedented mustering?
Thus in conversation the evening passed, until it was time for the passengers to retire to their cabins.
The role of bard was one of the most important and highly regarded functions in society. Historian, record-keeper, song-maker, entertainer; a bard was an exalted figure and a good bard a treasured auxiliary to any person of high birth. ‘Second only to jesters in consequence,’ Thomas of Ercildoune himself had drily proclaimed.
He being probably the most learned man in the five kingdoms, later in the voyage Rohain tapped him for information about the Talith: how many were known to dwell in Erith, where they were located, whether any Talith maidens had been reported lost or taken by wights during the past year or so. He gave her many details about the yellow-haired people, yet although he spoke at length, nothing he revealed gave any clue as to her origins.
But he was merry company, and the Dainnan captains, if sterner and more watchful, were also quick to smile and exchange banter. In song, story, and discussion of the foibles and quirks of courtiers, the voyage passed swiftly.
An unstorm rolled across land and sky, casting its crepuscular veil and lighting the dusky forests with jewels of multihued fires. By night, the Peregrine wandered through a cloudscape of long white ridges and blue-gray valleys, smooth snowfields like bleached velvet, frosted mountains, blue abysses and hoary cliffs occupied only by silent towers of ivory and flocks of teased-wool sheep. The rising sun crayoned bright gold edges on them all.
Before dawn on the eighteenth of Nethilmis, the Windship reached the snow-tipped Lofties and was onhebbed to a lower, more perilous altitude so that Rohain could view the dark landscape. The sky, pure violet in the zenith, shaded to pale gray in the south. Northeastward, the low red rim of the sun burned, rayless. The snowy peaks glistened brilliantly in appliqué against the dull sky.
When at last they drifted over the shadowy pine forest wherein she and Sianadh had been lured by the malignant waterhorse, Rohain was able to get her bearings. Rugged Bell-steeple reared its glistening head in the north. Below it, the line of the distant escarpment was dimly visible across the terrain. Westward, wild, wide cuinocco grasslands stretched as far as the eye could see. There was the gleaming slash of the river-gorge, gouged by the Cuinocco Road on its route to the Rysingspill in the south.
On board the Windship, all attention was directed toward Rohain.
‘This is the waterway we called “Cuinocco’s Way”, which springs from Bellsteeple. Where the land begins to rise,’ she stretched out an arm and pointed, ‘that is the Waterstair.’
Now the vessel flew up the river, directly above it, the hull’s sildron repelling the shallow riverbed but unable to affect the water. In such narrow confines, Captain Tide ordered all sail to be furled. The Peregrine ran only on her quiet, well-oiled sildron engines. Progress was slow but inexorable. Below, jacarandas reached crooked fingers skyward, their cyanic glory now vanished. The firmament unrolled overhead like a sheet of beaten pewter.
Every memory of Sianadh threatened to overwhelm Rohain. She saw the river redgum trees lining the western shores where the walls of the gorge subsided; at this season the river, deprived of its lifeblood by ice’s iron grip in the higher altitudes, ran at a low mark. Farther along, the tree-bridge still lay across the channel. There she and Sianadh had fled to safety and she had brought him water in a boot. Her mood grew melancholy.
In silence and despondence the refugee from Isse Tower came, for the second time, to Waterstair.
‘Before daylight grows,’ said Sir Tide, ‘we shall onheb down to fifty feet and bring her in behind the trees. If any keep watch on this Waterstair, this ship shall not be seen by them.’
The wind dropped. Light as ash keys, those winged, wind-dispersed fruits of ash trees, the Peregrine settled down amid tall firs. The port and starboard anchors were tossed out noiselessly in the brittle air. The crew let down landing-pods on unrolling ropes, and Sir Heath led his thriesniun forth. Like shadows they melted into the greenwood.
The sun stepped a little higher, but no rays bristled forth to pierce the greenery of a thousand shades in the cold, leafy galleries where the Peregrine bobbed, camouflaged by her mottled hull.
A Dainnan knight materialized silently below, the sage green of his raiment scarcely visible against the vegetation. After climbing a rope ladder as easily as another man might run up a stair, he presented himself to the Bard and, addressing him by his honorary Dainnan kenning, delivered a message.
‘My Lord Ash, the place is found. Prisoners have been taken. Lookouts have been posted through the forest. The way is clear.’
Now the other passengers descended and made their way alongside the river.
The water’s loquacious tongues muttered softly. Bushes and grasses beside Cuinocco’s Way lay trampled and crushed. Vines lay shriveled at the cliff’s foot. Rohain searched there for any signs of Sianadh—a fragment of clothing, perhaps; a belt buckle or an earring. She found nothing. Scavengers would have dragged away any carcass left aboveground to rot. His bones would lie scattered somewhere. She had heard it said that hair was an enduring thing, that in graves opened centuries after their occupation and sealing, even the bones had crumbled to dust but the hair yet remained undecayed. Would ruby filaments hang upon twigs here and there, blowing in the wind, all that remained—besides memories—of a true and steadfast friend?
She learned from Captain Heath all that had taken place on the ground while she and the Bard had been waiting in the Windship. Scalzo had left perhaps a dozen of his men to guard the doors of Waterstair. Their lookouts had not perceived the approach of the Dainnan, who moved as quietly as wild creatures. Some of the eastside men had been stationed around the skirts of the rocky pool into which the cascade poured—Sianadh’s ‘porridge pot’. There they had lolled unwarily. The Dainnan warriors had crept up unnoticed under the cover of the waterfall’s noise and taken them without trouble.
However, beneath the water curtain it was a different story. Several of the guards had managed to seal themselves inside the cavern, having slipped through the doors when the surprise attack was launched. They had pulled the doors shut behind them.
The massive, decorative portals would not budge. The Dainnan, having discovered the stone game pieces atop the cliff, had as yet embarked upon no course of action. Twelve of their knights stood ringed around the wet stone platform in the cavern facing those impossibly tall doors, which glimmered green-gold under the gaze of the carved eagle. The ever-descending torrent at their backs cast its illusions on the eyes of those who watched them. As they stood braced for action, the knights seemed to be moving upward.
An indication of his calm faith in Dainnan prowess was given by Captain Heath, who allowed the lady passenger to accompany the Bard beneath the falls. Now Thomas of Ercildoune stood before the doors of Waterstair. His eyes, squinting with intense concentration from beneath his embroidered taltry, moved across the motifs of twining leaves to the runes. Abruptly, the solemnity of his mien was broken by a flashing smile. He nodded at Sir Heath, who signaled his men. The Bard’s chest expanded. He shouted out a single word, which rose above the cataract’s thunder. Smoothly, as they had been designed to do, the doors swung open.
Instantly the Dainnan were inside. The tussle was brief; Scalzo’s mercenaries had no chance of matching the King’s warriors. The Dainnan overpowered the armed guards without drawing their own weapons, in a spontaneous display of speed, strength, and force. In a short time, all were disarmed and restrained.
The treasure at last lay revealed.
&nbs
p; So mighty was the mass of the hoard that although it had been despoiled, it seemed to Rohain there was no change in its magnitude. There lay the jeweled caskets, the candelabra, the weapons and armour, the cups and chalices, the gold plate, the coffers and chests overflowing with coins, the spidersilk garments. Over everything burned the cold, crystal flame of the swan-ship. Certainly no change had been wrought in the beauty and wholesomeness of any of the artifacts. So much beauty—and so much blood had been spilled for it.
Laying eyes on the preternatural ship, Captain Tide said, ‘Now I have seen the fairest ship in Aia.’ He wandered long on her decks and vowed that one day he would take her into the sky.
‘All this is of Faêran make,’ said Ercildoune in amazement. ‘I trow it’s lain here for many lives of kings—since the Fair Ones went under the hills. The door runes have kept their secret for a long time.’
‘How did you open the doors?’ asked Heath.
‘The password was plain to discover, for those who have studied the Faêran tongue, as I have. Written on these walls is a riddle. Loosely translated, it reads:
“In my silent raiment I tread the ground, but if my dwelling is disturbed,
At whiles I rise up over the houses of heroes; my trappings lift me high,
And then far and wide on the strength of the skies my ornaments carry me over kingdoms,
Resounding loudly and singing melodiously; bright song.
Wayfaring spirit, when I am not resting on water or ground.”
‘The answer? A swan—eunalainn, as the Faêran would say. That word is the key.’
Now that her work had been completed by guiding the King-Emperor’s men to the hidden cache, Rohain was able to withdraw to the sidelines. In the bitter chill of the morning, the captured eastsiders were led in chains to the hold of the Windship. Sir Heath and his Dainnan took over with energetic efficiency, thoroughly exploring Waterstair’s cavities and cliffs, leaving nothing undisturbed, loading objects onto the Windship under the direction of the Bard, with the use of sildron hoisters and floating transport platforms.
‘Behold,’ Ercildoune pointed out to Rohain, ‘no war-harness exists here. All these most wondrous armours are intended for ceremonial purposes only. The Faêran had no need of bodily protection in battle. They loved it for decoration but their fighting skills precluded the need for body-shields. Also, while the Faêran could be diminished, they could never be destroyed.’
Among the booty was a set of thronelike chairs, each adorned with carvings of flowers; marigolds of topaz and crocodilite, roses of pink quartz, hyacinths of lapis lazuli, their leaves cut from chrysoprase, olivine, jade. With a spasm of pain, Rohain watched the poppy and lily chairs being loaded aboard. Visions from memory sprang to mind.
Settling himself back in the poppy throne, Sianadh took up a brimming cup, sampled it with a satisfied air, and watched the girl over the rim of it. She repeated every sign, almost to perfection.
‘Ye left the fat out of the pig part.’
Having corrected this he went to check on the helm of fruit juice, which, optimistically, he was trying to coax to ferment into something stronger. The girl idly flipped gold coins in the sunlight; they winked light and dark as they spun.
‘This brow ought never to be plowed with sorrow,’ quoted Ercildoune as he drew Rohain aside, leaving Viviana alone to admire each new piece being hoisted on deck. They stood beneath the lichened arches of a melancholy willow that wept green tears at the water’s edge.
‘I grieve for departed friends,’ said Rohain, to explain her frown.
‘Who does not? Yet such grief is merely selfishness. Hearken, Lady of the Sorrows, and be no longer of them. What we have uncovered here is as you promised, and more. This is a wealth of vast import. It might have been whittled away at the edges, pilfered by petty thieves over time, but you have rescued the greater part of it for its rightful owner. You have done the King-Emperor a great service and therefore you shall be appropriately rewarded. An it please the King-Emperor, you shall receive honours. I myself shall nominate you for a peerage in your own right. Lands and more shall be bestowed upon you, I’ll warrant.’
‘I have only done my duty.’
‘Do not underestimate your deed. By nightfall, this lusty little bird of a frigate shall be loaded to her ailerons and ready to lumber through the sky like an overfed duck. Then we shall to Caermelor go in haste, leaving a goodly company of Dainnan behind to protect the King’s interests. We shall arrive in triumph and in good time to make ready for the New Year’s celebrations! Now, if that does not make your smile blossom, then you are not the sweet-tempered wench I took you for!’
His jollity being infectious, she smiled.
‘Ha!’ The Bard laughed, flinging his cap in the air. ‘All is well! I feel a song coming on!’
3
CAERMELOR, PART II
Story and Sentence
As warmer seasons wear away and nights begin to lengthen,
The power of the eldritch ones shall waken, wax, and strengthen.
Blithe heat and honest, artless light from all the lands shall wane,
Shadows shall veil what once was clear. Unpleasant things shall reign,
And mortal folk should all beware, who brave the longest night,
Of wickedness and trickedness—of fell, unseelie wight.
FOLK-CHANT
The Dainnan patrol frigate returned to Caermelor with its cargo on the evening of the twenty-first Nethilmis, having waited twenty-four hours in the mountains for a favourable wind and then been blown off course by its fickleness.
News from the north greeted them at the Royal City. Roxburgh had returned already. Tension at the Namarran border had recently eased somewhat. It seemed that for the time being, at least, activity in Namarre had ground to a standstill. Insurrectionary lightning-raids had ceased and no spies had been seen for some time. An impasse had been reached; a breathing space in which the seditionists halted their mustering and proceeded to work only on fortifying their groundworks. As for the Imperial Legions, with most of the heavy equipment already in place, troops were kept busy performing military exercises.
This interlude, however, did not apply to unseelie manifestations, which continued to be drawn, by degrees, to the north. What mortal man or eldritch entity possessed the power to summon them could only be guessed, but it boded ill for the peace and stability of the Empire. A mood of suppressed fear insinuated itself throughout Caermelor, although the practical citizens endeavoured to go about their daily lives as usual.
New Year’s Eve drew nigh. This being the Midwinter festival, Imbrol, and the most important annual feast-time in Erith, the populace spared no effort to realise every traditional custom for the decoration of their surroundings and the entertainment, gratification, and nourishment of themselves. Here was a good reason to set aside their apprehension for a time and immerse themselves in jollity. All over Erith, in hovels and bothies, in cottages and crofts, in cottages, marketplaces, smithies, and workshops, in barracks, taverns, malt-houses, and inns, in manor houses, stately homes, and Relayer Towers, in halls and keeps, castles and palaces, they set holly garlands on rooftrees, ivy festoons around inglenooks, sprays of mistletoe above the doors and strobiled wreaths of pine and fir and spruce on every available projection. They chopped dried fruits, mixed them with suet, honey, and flour, wrapped this stodge in calico and boiled it for hours, then hung the lumpy puddings like traitors’ heads, high in their butteries and spences. These and numerous other things the folk of Erith busied themselves with in preparation for the Winter Solstice and the birth of the New Year, 1091.
This was the season when young lasses, whose hearts were stirred by something beyond the walls of the mortal world, dwelled upon the frightening and attractive possibility of going out into the wilderness during the long, enigmatic nights of Dorchamis in case the Coillach Gairm, the blue crone as ancient as Winter, as terrible and as miraculous, should choose to come silently, unannounced, and offe
r to them a coveted staff of power in exchange for whatever mortal asset she might wish to take for herself.
But that way was not for Lady Rohain of the Sorrows. She had no desire to wield eldritch powers through the Wand and would rather retain any human powers of which she found herself in possession. Having lived without several, she now valued them all too highly to risk forfeiture. That was for others to choose. Those who would be carlins generally carried that ambition from childhood.
Although Rohain knew where her future did not lie, she was uncertain as to where it did. In the city, festive splendor was the order of the day. Amid the bustle and business of the preliminaries to Imbrol, Rohain learned that Ercildoune’s nomination for her recognition by a peerage had indeed been sanctioned by the King-Emperor. Creation of a new peerage was a long-drawn and tedious affair; first the Letters Patent must be prepared, after which the new title would be posted and proclaimed. The appointment would be complete when she received the accolade personally from His Majesty. The scribes of the Lord High Chancellor were also arranging the handing over of titles to a modest but choice Crown Estate in Arcune, with a return of two hundred and seventy guineas per year, which was to be bestowed at her investiture. Meanwhile she, as treasure-revealer, had already been gifted with eighty golden guineas (most of which lay locked in the Royal Treasury for safekeeping, but some of which already weighed down the purses of city tradesfolk), and a casket of personal jewellery from Waterstair: rings, bracelets, fillets, torques, gorgets, pins, girdles, the value of which could only be guessed. The amnesiac lackey from the House of the Stormriders had become wealthy beyond all expectation, exalted beyond all hope.
The days leading up to Imbrol took on an insubstantial quality. It was all too much to absorb at once. Later, Rohain could not have explained what her feelings were at that time. She was conscious of performing all actions automatically, of being swept along by a tide of events she herself had set in motion, with visits to the tailor’s, the milliner’s, the shoemaker’s, with Viviana fussing and exclaiming, dramatising and exaggerating everything in her joy at knowing that at last she was free of the threat of being relegated to the service of the dreaded Dowager Marchioness of Netherby-on-the-Fens, and as if paying for this sense of relief by means of exerting her imagination, sculpting her mistress’s hair into ever more fantastic designs and decorating it in ever more novel ways. She was well-intentioned and good-natured, this lady’s maid; a lass who had lived a sheltered life, whose most feared hardship was a scolding, whose thoughts skimmed like swallows over the shallows, yet every so often dived deep and shrewdly; whose hands and chattering tongue were always fretting to be busy.
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 59