The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘“This is your charge,” said the father. “You have nothing to do but wash him when he wakes, dress him and take him to walk in the garden, then put him to bed when he is tired. I am a lord in this land and I have my own reasons for wishing my boy to know something of human nature.”

  ‘Perdret began her duties and did them well and diligently. She loved the little boy and he appeared to love her, and the time passed away with astonishing swiftness. Strangely, she never thought of her mother—she never thought of her home at all. Dwelling in luxury and happiness, she never reckoned the passing of time.

  ‘But the period for which she had bound herself finally ended, and one day she woke up in her own bed in her mother’s cottage. Everything seemed unfamiliar to her and she appeared unusually abstracted or foreign to all who saw her. She could evince no interest in meat or drink. At nights, instead of sleeping, she would go out under the stars and gaze up at them. Sometimes she would wander all night, barefoot, only to be found exhausted on her bed in the morning, unable to rise. She grew pale and thin and was hardly ever seen to smile. Numerous wise persons were called in to try to cure Perdret’s ailment, and to all she told the same tale, about the Faêran lord, and the beautiful country and the baby. She being known for her fanciful turn of mind, some people said the girl was “gone clean daft” but at last an old carlin came to the cottage where Perdret lay on her bed.

  ‘“Now crook your arm, Perdret,” said the carlin. Perdret sat up and bent her arm, resting her hand on her hip.

  ‘“Now say, ‘I hope my arm may never come uncrooked if I have told ye a word of a lie.”’

  ‘“I hope my arm may never come uncrooked if I have told ye a word of a lie,” repeated Perdret.

  ‘“Uncrook your arm,” said the carlin.

  ‘Perdret stretched out her arm.

  ‘“It is the truth the girl is telling,” said the carlin. “She has been carried away by the Faêran to their country.”

  ‘“Will my daughter ever come right in her mind?” asked the mother.

  ‘“I can do nothing,” said the old woman, shaking her head. “Perhaps she will, in time.”

  The Bard having finished his soliloquy, the Duchess added, ‘Anyway, it is told that Perdret did not get on very well in the world. She married, and never wanted for anything, but she was always discontented and unhappy, and she died young.’

  ‘Verily,’ said the Bard, ‘some said she always pined after the Faêran widower. Others said she pined after the Fair Realm itself. No matter the reason, it was the Langothe that plagued her.’

  ‘And was that the same Faêran lord who had been husband to Eilian?’ Rohain inquired.

  ‘I think not. The first tale happened subsequent to the second. I have told them out of order. Over the course of time, more than one fair mortal maiden has been taken away to the Realm.’

  ‘Did the Faêran steal mortal men as well as maids and wives?’ asked Rohain.

  ‘Most certainly,’ came the Duchess’s quick reply.

  ‘Well,’ declared Rohain, ‘it seems to me that the Strangers were a dangerous race, selfish and arrogant, cruel in many ways, excessively wanton and proud in their immortality.’

  ‘Yet theirs was a conditional immortality,’ observed the Bard sharply.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Age and disease could not slay them, but they could be defeated by violence.’

  ‘Even then,’ amended the Duchess, ‘they could only be diminished, not destroyed.’

  ‘Yet what mortal violence could defeat the gramarye wielded by the Lords of the Fair Realm?’ argued Rohain. After a silence, she added, ‘Is it possible that any folk of their blood remained in Erith—perhaps children of mixed races, both Faêran and mortal, like the child of Eilian?’

  ‘Historically,’ said the Bard, ‘very few Half-Faêran have been born—perhaps a score, that is all. None have walked our world since the Ways were closed. They chose to stay on the other side.’

  ‘What of their progeny? The children of the Half-Faêran?’

  ‘There is no such issue. The Half-Faêran were all barren.’

  ‘Is it possible that one of the Faêran could be stolen by a mortal?’ Rohain asked.

  ‘Indeed!’ responded the Duchess. ‘There were ways, if one knew how. Many a mortal man has been drawn into desperate love after setting eyes on a Faêran damsel. To see the Faêran was to be attracted to them. In truth, some Faêran damsels who desired mortals—I will not say “loved”, for I believe they were all incapable of love as we know it—allowed themselves to be caught as brides.’ She paused, then added, ‘And it was possible for Faêran brides to be taken by men.’

  ‘But surely, never against their will!’ exclaimed Rohain.

  ‘Only once,’ said Thomas, ‘has an abduction like that occurred, and only because, as in the tale of the swanmaiden, foolish chattering wights gave away the secret of how to do it. They revealed the rules to a man of our race who, smitten with the sickness of love, was able to capture a Faêran bride.’ A troubled shadow fleeted in the depths of his eyes. ‘That particular tale is another example of our race stealing from the Faêran—perhaps the most significant example of all. The theft of a Faêran bride by a lowly mortal greatly roused the ire of some of the Fair Realm’s greatest lords. Thereafter, one Faêran prince in particular began to take pleasure in the company of unseelie wights whose delight was to plague and torment mortals.’

  ‘But how could a mortal man steal a Faêran damsel?’, wondered Rohain.

  ‘They could not be stolen in the same way as wightish brides,’ explained Thomas, ‘as, for example, power is gained over merrows by taking their combs, over swanmaidens by stealing their feather-cloaks, over silkies by purloining their skins. But there were certain words and deeds which could force the Faêran to remain in our world, at least for a time.’

  ‘But not for long,’ interjected the Duchess, nodding for emphasis, ‘and after she left him he pined away to, if you’ll excuse the cliché, an early grave. As ever, all love between immortals and mortals was doomed. In the end, all unions between Faêran and humankind ended in tragedy.’

  Groups of peasants stamping in the cold went about Caermelor singing traditional songs on street corners and before the doors of townsfolk, to be rewarded with coins or wrapped cakes and common flagons of mulled ale. Carts rumbled along the streets bearing great logs cut from the forest to supply the Imbroltide fires. Marketplace trade rose to fever pitch. Lanterns burned all night in workshops as tradesmen hurried to meet deadlines on orders for the nobility, the exchange of gifts being one of the most eagerly looked-for customs of Imbrol.

  Coloured lamps had been strung along the streets, vying with glowing garnets of charcoal in the braziers of the hot-chestnut vendors. Under the Greayte Southern Star, Caermelor bustled late into the freezing nights and scarcely slept, despite rowdy winds that knocked the lamps about and blew out the charcoal fires, despite the lightning that danced like green skeletons all across the western skies.

  This was angry weather, uncharacteristic of Imbrol. Some people were blaming it on the gathering of unseelie swarms in Namarre. ‘’Tis their doing,’ they muttered darkly. ‘’Tis but a premonition of the first assault. Wicked wights allied with barbarians! How are such enemies ever to be defeated?’

  Beneath the outward merriment, horror flowed through the thoroughfares of the city.

  New Year’s Eve.

  When the bells tolled the last stroke of midnight, Misrule would reign until dawn on Littlesun Day. The tradition of Misrule entailed the annual turning of the tables that saw lord trade places with footman and lady step into the shoes of chambermaid, so that, for a few hours, the world would be topsy-turvy and Foolery would be the order of the night until cock-crow.

  But hours before all that, there was the Feast.

  Grander and far more expansive than the Royal Dining Hall, the Royal Banqueting Hall boasted eight fireplaces, in each of which burned a massive tree t
runk, the traditional Imbrol Log. Coincidentally, eight Waits stood vigil in their splendor to fanfare the courses. The High Table on its dais was so far removed from the opposite end of the Hall that those who graced it could scarcely be expected to discern the countenances of those seated at the lower trestles, or even the central ones—a state of affairs that, despite the blaze of countless girandoles, lusters, and candelabra, was exacerbated by the soft haze of steam and incense filling the air. Below the high dais lay a second platform, innocent of furniture. Here, some of the entremets would be played out between courses.

  All plate was of gold or the harder, more brilliant silver-gilt. White light dazzled over its myriad surfaces. Not a gleam of silver, copper, brass, or bronze winked forth.

  For ornament there were golden surtouts in the shape of fruiting and blossoming trees. Cakes had been fashioned and frosted to resemble white castles, cities of dough and Sugar, glittering coaches-and-six, peacocks in full display, sprays of lily-of-the-valley, bouquets of roses, the traditional spinning-wheels of Imbrol, snowy ducks and geese. The sideboards struggled to support pyramids of ripe and luscious fruits from the Royal Conservatory, forced to grow out of season, all surrounded by garlands of evergreens and berries. For the occasion, the salt cellars took the shape of ceremonial snow-sleighs, hung about with tiny gold bells and emblazoned with the King-Emperor’s insignia. The linen serviettes were folded in enchanting forms of snowflakes. Superfluous napkin rings, garlands of holly and other Winter leaves individually crafted in gold, lay empty next to every place setting.

  More accustomed now to the dangers of mistaking blade, prong, and scoop, Rohain silently revised the different uses for each piece included in her place setting: the oyster fork nestling in the soup spoon; the marrow scoop; the pairs of knives and forks each dedicated to the fish, the meat, and the poultry; the dessert spoon and fork; the fruit knife; the tiny bonbon tongs. Beyond the boundaries of her place lay the cutlery to be shared: the suckett forks, condiment spoons, Sugar shells, mote spoons, pickle forks, butter picks, nut picks, cheese scoops, horseradish spoons, and various others, not to be confused with the soup ladles, fish slicers, jelly servers, snuff spoons, and wick scissors to be wielded by the servants.

  Most of the courtiers were already drunk when they entered the Royal Banqueting Hall—Rohain among them. They had been junketing all day, insisting that she match them deed for deed, and, loathe to relinquish her new status, she had acceded. Unaccustomed to imbibing liquor, she had succumbed to it more swiftly than they. The Hall swam before her eyes.

  Everyone was standing beside their chairs. The High Table filled last of all—the lords of the Royal Attriod and the chief advisors of the King-Emperor’s Household entered with their wives, preceding by several minutes the young Prince Edward. When the King-Emperor appeared, an awed hush settled on the assembly, yet in observance of good form, none looked at their sovereign directly. His Majesty took his seat in the tall chair overshadowed by its richly decorated canopy, after which everyone else followed suit.

  Now Rohain noted that one of the long tables was occupied entirely by Dainnan warriors in dress uniform: thigh-length doublets overlaid by tabards emblazoned with the Royal Heraldry. She strained to view them. Some were positioned with their backs to her. Of those she could descry, none were Thorn, but her gaze fastened on that table and it was difficult to look away.

  Pages and ewerers came to pour scented water for the handwashing. Rohain looked up. The face of the boy holding the ewer for her seemed familiar.

  ‘You!’ blurted Rohain suddenly, and not particularly distinctly.

  ‘I beg your pardon, m’lady?’

  ‘You! Where have I seen you before?’

  ‘I am sure I do not know,’ stammered the lad, embarrassed.

  ‘I have seen you. Oh yes, I know now—’

  She checked herself as realisation dawned. This was the cabin boy from the merchant ship City of Gilvaris Tarv. He would not recognise her. Joy welled in her heart—he, then, had been saved. What of his shipmates?

  ‘You were once in the employ of a merchant line, the Cresny-Beaulais, were you not?’

  ‘Aye, m’lady, but—’

  ‘Your ship was scuttled by pirates. What happened to the crew?’

  Nonplussed, the boy stammered, ‘Some were slain, m’lady. Others escaped. The captain, he was ransomed. Others were sold as slaves, methinks.’

  His eyes showed his obvious desperation to ask how she knew so much about him, but he was too well-drilled to question a high-born lady.

  ‘And you escaped?’

  ‘Aye, m’lady.’

  Rohain peeled a ruby-encrusted bracelet from her wrist. It matched her outfit—tonight she was clad all in crimson and gold, with a hint of jade. Viviana had braided silk rosebuds into her crimped locks. A vermilion plume within the circlet of a band of cornelians nodded over them. Tiny red roses had been appliquéd in lace all over the watered silk of her houppelande. Her bodice was scalloped, edged with appliquéd rose leaves, her waist was clasped by a scarlet-purple girdle harnessed with gold beads and lattice. The sleeves fell in lacy folds to the floor.

  ‘Take this,’ she said, proffering the bracelet. ‘It pleases me to give it you. Sell it, if you wish. If ever you need help, ask for me. If ever you require a position, ask at the Estate of Arth—Argh—that is, Arcune. I am to be Baroness of it, y’know.’ Unaccountably, her tongue seemed to have thickened. It appeared to be reluctant to shape words.

  ‘By the Powers, my lady! I thank you.’

  ‘’Tis nought. You deserve it.’

  A lad as acute as the erstwhile cabin boy might have been expected to complete his task in haste, in case his benefactress should sober up and reverse her benevolence. Instead he performed the rest of his duties slowly and wonderingly, then bowed and withdrew.

  Servitors ported trays laden with hunches of fluffy white bread up and down the tables, beginning at the top. Each diner was served, with a flourish and a pair of tongs, accompanied by a loud declaration of his title and honour, whereupon he stood up and afterward sat down again. Simultaneously, the Credence and the Assaying took place. Wines were dispensed by footman-bees, filling with nectar the goblet-flowers. Snow floated in the wine jugs.

  ‘’Tis going to be ever such a capital occasion tonight!’ cried a lady in a turquoise surcoat of figured satin and a lavender kirtle with an upstanding collar of stiffened wigan. ‘I adore playacting at Misrule, don’t you? I intend to be an ever so slovenly scullery maid, and make my footman a prince!’

  ‘Don’t take it too far, my dear,’ rejoined another in an embroidered gable headdress and an apricot-coloured gown of shot silk. ‘One never knows what a prince may ask of a scullery maid!’

  ‘Faugh! Jenkin would never overstep the mark with me!’

  ‘Unless you beg him,’ Dianella said sweetly. Her friends shrieked, to High Collar’s thinly disguised discomfiture. Dianella turned to Rohain. ‘Zounds, Dear Heart, quot wroughtst-thou un sa manfant pove? Mi sugen esprait quill overgrand pash-thou es.’ What have you done to that poor lad? I should say he is mightily in love with you.

  ‘Ta ferle-fil?’ That page boy? replied Rohain offhandedly. ‘Quot sugen cheyen-mi al ins?’ What should I care for him?

  She had learned to answer Dianella’s audacity with stoicism.

  That comely doyenne of innuendo, her beautiful head encased in a pointed turban topped with clusters of golden baubles, turned to those seated near her and began to converse in rapid slingua. Shadowy tresses fell loose across her smooth white shoulders to the damask bodice, the heavy diamond necklace.

  The Waits trumpeted fiercely. Far across the room, at the High Table, someone rose up from behind the table-decorations to propose the Toast. Rohain could make out a tall, distinguished figure across the tables. When he spoke, his reverberant voice revealed him to be Thomas of Ercildoune. The Royal Toast and the Loving Cup were attended to in due order, after which Rohain seemed to see many more accoutrements
upon the table in front of her than had been there previously. She knew she had taken too much to drink, but to refuse the traditional pre-dinner draughts would have been uncouth. This insobriety hampered her efforts to discover Thorn among the Dainnan and her ability to converse in a sprightly manner.

  With utmost pageantry, the Soup was revealed and consumed. There followed the first entremet of this Imbrol Feast—a score of dancers in sildron harness, costumed as the cicada-like species of creatures called the Five-Eyed. They had encased their faces in masks with convexities of glass for the large eyes and a triad of jewels for the small. Helmets clasped their heads, bronze cuirasses covered their chests and backs. Wings of gauze and silk like rippled glass, spangled with sequins, expanded from their shoulders in sapphire blue, gold, and emerald green. At their hips they wore factitious tymbals, and their heels were spurred.

  To the rattle of nakers and other percussive paraphernalia, these exotics performed a gliss-dance of prodigious gymnastic skill, floating above the heads of the diners, grasping each other by the arms to change direction or pulling on streamers and crosiers; spinning and gliding, pushing off the walls, somersaulting, flying. At the conclusion the diners applauded enthusiastically and the next course was served: golden carp suspended in coloured gelatins and whole baked dolphins on beds of oysters, complete with pearls. The butlers built pyramids of balancing goblets and poured wine into the topmost ones. The torrent splashed lavishly down from layer to layer in a spectacular cascade of pale gold.

  A display of swordsmanship next entertained the Court. A hefty purse having been promised to the winner, the combatants treated it as no light matter. Three dueling pairs, all accomplished professionals, fought with foils, sabers and épées. In a fine exhibition, they footed it up and down the lower dais in front of the High Table. Through the milky airs, beyond the candle-flames that shifted and jumped, beyond the gleams that glanced off dinnerware and played ocular tricks, Rohain dimly descried figures leaning on their elbows, watching. At the far-off tables that stood nearest the High Table, the only identifiable faces belonged to the comely Lady Rosamonde, eldest daughter of the Duke of Roxburgh, the balding Dowager Marchioness of Netherby-on-the-Fens in her incongruous and outrageously expensive wig of real Talith hair, and the young Talith noblewoman Maiwenna, her good looks framed by naturally acquired gold.