The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

‘That be what I say. Far as I can tell, ’tis your only hope. I cannot call ye Rohain, or Lady Muck or anything. Find out your real name, eh?’

  ‘I could not go away, leaving you here.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I’ve been worse off. The fare down there in the dungeons be plain but plenty. I be gettin’ plenty o’ rest and flay me for boots if I’ve had much of that these past years. From what I ken, the King-Emperor will not be rushing back to pardon me for trying unsuccessfully to steal some of his treasure until after we win this war. Take a Windship to Isse. Ye’re wealthy—ye can afford it. Ye will not be gone for long and ye might find out summat.’

  ‘No,’ she repeated, ‘I could not leave you.’

  But the dormant questions had reawakened.

  ‘Begging your pardon, m’lady, but I am surprised that you have not been Cut,’ said Viviana with concern. ‘There is all this talk of you having family connections with that hairy felon. M’lady, he’s Ertish and an outlaw! Dianella and all of them must think it such a quiz and yet they have not Cut you yet.’

  ‘Dianella is saying she thinks it an amusing novelty and she wants a condemned man of her own to keep on a chain.’

  ‘Beg pardon, m’lady, but I would not trust her, truly I wouldn’t. For all her peacock’s plumage, she is nothing but a gray-malkin that tears apart birds and helpless creatures merely for sport. M’lady, until you came here she was generally thought to be the fairest in the land and now she’s jilted from her high horse. She does not like it, and that’s a fact. But she has not let them Cut you and she worms her way into your affections for her own purposes. She’s a cold-hearted one and that’s for certain. Her own uncle is unwell, having returned from an excursion black with bruises from a spriggan attack, yet she troubles herself not at all on his behalf.’

  ‘You speak truly. Howbeit, I cannot trouble myself with Dianella’s meretriciousness.’

  The meetings with Sianadh brought mixed pleasure and sadness, for the Ertishman could not bring himself to meet Rohain’s eyes very often, and when he did he would hastily avert his gaze. There was none of the easy comradeship of old times. That was all gone, and in its place stood an uncomfortable awareness, as if she were a porcelain figurine on a shelf and he too afraid to touch it lest it break or be sullied by his rough hands. And once or twice she caught him looking at her from the corners of his eyes with an expression of awe, as if he witnessed a vision in which he could not fully have faith.

  She desired no reverence, only the banter of good fellowship. Was this gulf between them, and the covert duels in the gardens, and the spurious friendship of Dianella part of the real price to be paid for the unwearing of her mask of ugliness?

  Maeve had said,

  ‘Do not be thankful until you have lived with your changed appearance for a moon-cycle or two. See how you like it then.’

  Despite the awkwardness, Rohain looked forward to the company of her friend and used their hours together to discover his recent history.

  ‘The Gailledu saved me,’ said Sianadh, ‘as I lay below Waterstair wounded to the bone and almost breathing my last. A life for a life, he repaid me—gathered me up in his arms as if I were no more than a lad. Great strength has he, belied by his looks. It was because of that flower, ye ken, the blue one that Ethlinn preserved in an egg of resin and gave to me. It meant summat.

  ‘He took me to some place in the forest and healed me. When I was well, I returned to Tarv and sheltered with Ethlinn and Roisin. They told me you had set out for Caermelor but that the roads were bad. By then all roads to the west had been declared impassable, wightstruck. My thought was how to swiftly get word to the King-Emperor at Caermelor to inform him of the treasure, so that it could be quickly wrested from Scalzo’s cowardly uraguhnes, and ye and me could be heroes and Liam, tambalai lad, would be avenged. For I had little hope then that ye would get through, the reports being so bad and so many caravans being lost. So I scraped together all the money I could beg or borrow and went to the Stormriders.

  ‘I get sent to a scribe of theirs and I tell him a message to write down, to send to the King-Emperor. Not wanting the world to know about it, like, I don’t say exactly what ’tis about, but I give hints. Only one who knew aught could have pieced it together. Anyway, this scribe looks at me kind of strange, and he reminds me of another I saw somewhere, blast his eyes, but I couldn’t recall where. I took exception to him from the start. And with good reason, as it turns out later. For when I returned to Tarv Tower with Eochaid at my side, to ask whether the message had been successfully sent for all me trouble and money, we were set upon by ruffians outside the Tower, and hunted through the streets. And in the process, I got separated from Eochaid but the heat was still on me.

  ‘Now, I always had a plan for if something like this should happen—’tis wise to keep a couple of escape plans handy for emergencies, mark you, Imrhien. I have a friend with a boat at Tarv docks. Down there I run, for the lick of me life, but when I get there, the boat is gone. Must’ve gone out fishing. At this point I remember where I have seen the pox-faced Scribe before—he be one of Scalzo’s accomplices. Tarv be full of them—or it was. Anyway, these sons of dogs being hot on me heels, I jump into the nearest boat and head off. This shakes them off me tail because there’s a storm brewing which only a silkie or a mad Ertishman would take to the seas in. Being possessed of wondrous seamanship, I sail all the way to Caermelor, and many’s the unlorraly tale I could tell about events along the way. But when I finally get here, strike me lucky if the entire population doesn’t already know that there’s a treasure at Waterstair because some ladyship’s found out about it and squawked. It’s sleeveless me sayin’ aught about what the world already knows and expectin’ a reward for it, so there’s nothing left for it but to join the army.

  ‘Now, if a lad’s going to join the army he wants to make the most of the last of his freedom first. So I makes meself known at the nearest malt-house, where I meet a couple of blokes I used to knock around with in the old days, good mates. We’ve had a few sessions. Priz—that be his kenning and I wist no other, he was in the lock-up once—he be a fellow always dressed so clean and neat, careful with his clobber, like. Dogga, he don’t fuss so much about what’s on his back—’tis who’s on the end of his fist that counts with him.

  ‘So me and Priz and Dogga be sitting down to dine and Priz tells the story about how in that same malt-house last year there was a fight and the floor was rotten and eight big blokes crashed through the planking into the cellar below, which hadn’t been used for fifteen years and was full of slime up to their middles and Priz nearly laughed his well-tailored breeches off at the sight. Then I be telling the story about when old Cauliflower died at the table playing cards, and his hand still on the table, and his mates looked under his hand and there were three aces so they shoved the money in his pockets before they carried him out, ’cos he’d won.

  ‘As I be telling this, in comes Lusco Barrowclough, as loudmouthed a bullying drunkard and want-wit as ever cheated in a hurling match or got thrown out of a Severnesse tavern. I had not had the misfortune to set eyes on the whoreson villain for a year or two—not long enough. Barrowclough’s already well-oiled, and it’s not long before he starts miscalling the malter and his nice little tarty servant-wenches. I up and tells this gentleman that if I want a disturbance while I be eating, I only have to go and eat at me grandmother’s place. He looks down his Feohrkind nose at me, and me wearin’ a Finvarnan kilt—and he says with a sneer, “Nice legs.” “Would ye like one of ’em up yer backside?” I offers. He starts mouthing off a bit, then Priz says, “Pipe down while we’re trying to eat,” and then Dogga looks up and puts in, “I’ve had a gutful of ye.”

  ‘So then Barrowclough, the uraguhne, says, “Well, I’ve had a gutful of ye,” and adds, “I’ll break yer bleedin’ neck.” Dogga politely responds, “Ye couldn’t break wind let alone break anyone’s neck,” and in less time than it takes to fling a curse across a tavern,
the fisticuffs is on. I flatten Barrowclough with much joy and return to my seat. He runs out the door and I politely say “pass the salt” and salubriously resume dining with my two mates. Before we have quite finished our meals, we look up to see our shera sethge gentleman walk back in the door. Behind him, another the same. Behind him, another. They keep walking in, until in addition to Barrowclough, there be nine. None of them are comely, I can tell ye—all bull-girthed, solid, bald, scarred, toothless, ugly skeerdas to a man, and ropeable as wounded steers. The malter and the servants went pale, and so did all the other patrons.

  ‘Not to be taken by surprise, I punched out one of Barrowclough’s cronies with no preamble. As foreseen, a fight began. There were stools being broken across blokes’ backs, tables being overturned, crockery smashing, blokes flying through the air, round and round the malt-house for a goodly while. A bloke could have had another square meal and a tankard in the time it took for that fight.

  ‘While this is going on, another two malt-house customers who have been watching with interest see that although ’tis three against ten, the three appear to be winning, so they join in on the winning side. That makes it five against ten, and pretty soon Barrowclough and his nine are being helped out the door by the malter and his brothers. We three now being five, we returned to our tables and sopped up the last bits of gravy, which had been preserved from ruin more by our own effort than by some stroke of good fortune.

  ‘As we are eating I take time to look at the condition of my mates. Priz, always so immaculate, be missing a boot. The remaining boot be split. One of his sleeves be ripped off at the shoulder, his shirt and every other article on him be torn. Dogga and I be in a similar condition. Heedless of small inconveniences, we are partaking of the last mouthfuls of our meal when a couple of fellows put their heads around the door and survey the scene. They turn out to be a sheriff and a constable.

  ‘“Has there been a fight here?” says they.

  ‘We look around in surprise. The malt-house looks a mite untidy.

  ‘“Fight? I ain’t seen no fight,” says we. The malter says the same as we—so do the serving-wenches.

  ‘The sheriff and the constable look us over once more, while we’re licking the gravy off our trenchers and complimenting the malter’s cook on the meal. They warn us against disturbing the peace, we assure them that we shudder to think of the idea ever entering our heads, then they slouch out and leave us be.

  ‘Well, news spread around and the malt-house began to fill up until we found ourselves with a jovial company of drinkers around us. Everyone likes a winner. The night went on and someone brought in a yard of ale, which was a bit of sport, and then more ale all round, and I got to talking about Finvarna and friends I left behind, and then about other friends and relations lost to me—for I thought ye’d been devoured on the Caermelor Road—and then on to what might have been, and the riches I nearly had. I may have said things I wotted not what of. Somehow, the truth got all twisted and next thing the sheriff and his constable be back, with about fifty others, putting the strong-arm on me and dragging me outside and me throwing punches while the drink robs me of my strength and then the revels are over. That be how I ended up here.’

  Not seven days after Rohain’s return to Court, Dianella again sought a private audience with her. Dressed in a cotehardie of red velvet edged with fur, a kirtle of rich baudekyn, a cloak of blue-green velvet worked with a design in gold and lined with ermine, a reticulated headdress ornamented with goldsmith’s work and jewels, and a hip-belt of square brooches and jewels from which depended an aulmoniere with a baselard thrust through it, alongside a hand-mirror and a pair of pincers, Dianella looked fair in the most splendid degree, although, by the frown on her brow, she was clearly unsettled.

  In her glorious plumage, she paced up and down for a while, pursing her lips and continuing to frown until Rohain said, ‘Unburden yourself, pray.’

  ‘Alas! It is not that simple, Dear Heart. What I have to say distresses me deeply.’

  ‘Thorn—he has not fallen in battle?’

  ‘I know not. But it is not of your Dainnan that I would speak. It is of yourself. You are discovered.’

  ‘What is your meaning?’ A seed of apprehension sprouted in Rohain’s mind.

  ‘Ah, what is yours, Dear Heart, whoever you may be? For you are not Rohain of the Sorrows, that has become evident.’

  A chill sensation ran through Rohain to her fingertips. Her blood seemed to have frozen in her veins. Dianella smiled with only her mouth, not her eyes.

  ‘I perceive my words have an effect upon you. Good. You see, you have been found to be an impostor. Inquiries have been made, in Severnesse, in the Sorrow Isles. The family Tarrenys is an old one, granted, yet it has all but died out. Only a few members are left, all accounted for. Of them you are not one. Do you deny it?’

  After a while, Rohain said, ‘I do not.’

  ‘Well, then!’

  Triumph lit Dianella’s mien. Rohain itched to slap her face. If it had not been for the courtier’s knowledge of Thorn, Rohain would have thrust her from the room. Beneath the anger and the fear, a deep sense of shame spread out, taking root in her very bones. Through clenched teeth she said, ‘What now?’

  ‘What now? Dear Heart, there is only one course open to you. You will not, of course, claim the peerage of Arcune—instead you must leave at once.’

  It was Rohain’s turn to pace now.

  ‘Leave, I say,’ continued Dianella. ‘This is not the place for you. You are above your station. For now, the knowledge of your deception rests with only myself and my uncle, and I swear to you as a true friend that neither of us shall expose you if you depart now. But should the word spread despite our best efforts to keep it secret, there is no knowing what steps might be taken to punish you for your wanton guile. For your own safety, go this day, this very hour.’

  ‘You say you will not betray me?’

  ‘La! I am cut to the quick!’

  ‘What do you want in return?’

  ‘More and more ungracious! Really! Do you suggest that I want payment? Friends do not buy and sell, but gifts are often passed from one to the other.’

  ‘Take my entire wardrobe. Take everything I own in the Treasury.’

  ‘Pshaw! How should it look, if I were to be seen dressed in your hand-me-downs?’

  ‘Dianella, I need, more than ever now, to retain the influence of my position, if only until the King-Emperor returns. I shall leave Court at first light on the morrow, only to come back one last time for an audience with His Majesty. After that you shall see me nevermore.’

  ‘A wise decision on your part, Dearest Heart.’

  Omitting the courtesies of leave-taking, Dianella sallied from the room with a swish of baudekyn and a clash of implements. Typically, she tossed a parting shot over her shoulder: ‘Have your maid bring me the costumes now. And the keys to your caskets.’

  Rohain rang for Viviana.

  ‘I intend to make an excursion from Court,’ she told the courtier, carefully keeping her tone level. ‘Have a letter dispatched to Isse Tower. Inform them, at the Seventh House of the Stormriders, to make ready—the Lady Rohain of Arcune sends greetings. She is coming from Caermelor Palace to sojourn for a time.’

  Her heart felt wrung out like a blood-soaked mop. Now that Dianella had exiled her from Court, she had indeed lost Thorn forever.

  Night drew in around Caermelor Palace. Rohain sat gazing drearily into a gold-backed looking-glass framed with ivory and mother-of-pearl. She wondered whether strange visions would trouble her this night, and whether she would wake in fear. Once, back in the cottage of Maeve, she had dreamed of three gentle, loving faces: those of a woman, a man, and a boy-child. Later there had been the Dream of the Rats. Both of these fragments had borne the hallmark of truth—she could not doubt that they were memories in disguise. It was only since Maeve had laid hands upon Rohain that her repose had begun to be disturbed by such images. She suspected some
thing else must have happened at that time, when her face and speech had been restored. The restoration, perhaps, had acted as a catalyst for the beginning of a gradual arousing of memory. In Gilvaris Tarv, Ethlinn had once explained, <>

  Rohain whispered to her reflection, ‘My own once-familiar face … when I looked upon you, in the mirror of the one-eyed carlin, the sight sparked off an opening of closed doors.’

  That night, through a chink in one of those doors, there issued a third dream—that of the White Horse.

  It was under her, running, the horse—the apotheosis of swiftness and freedom. All was speed, all exhilaration. The wind roared in her ears, the ground passed swiftly by below—were the hooves even touching it? She laughed aloud, but a shape fell out of the sky beating its wings, dark against the sun. It dashed in close—too close—and the laughter turned to screams, but the horse itself was screaming and it was a night mare, because the horizon spun through weightlessness that gathered in the pit of her stomach and rose to her gorge, then the hillside came up with a smack and became a spear of white-hot iron that burned through the bone of her leg and she was screaming …

  Dreams, memories—perhaps she had been better off without them.

  4

  THE TOWER

  Hunt and Heart’s Desire

  The twelve mighty Houses from Belfry to Fairlaise,

  From Worthing to Outreme, where thunderstorms breed,

  Command the four winds on the highest of highways.

  The wings of the thoroughbred glory in speed.

  VERSE FROM ‘SONG OF THE STORMRIDERS’

  Uhta: the hour before dawn. Tidings arrived by carrier pigeon as the Windclipper Harper’s Carp was being rigged for takeoff. A Dainnan Windship had captured a black pirate brig lurking in the Lofty Mountains, and seized much booty.

  Desperate and bloody had been the struggle. Few of the reivers had been taken alive. Those who fell had been abandoned, to be devoured by the strange mouths of the forest.