The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Sometimes Rohain and Thorn rode in open country with their entourage and the Hawkmaster and the falconers and the austringers. Then Thorn would fly Audax at ducks and geese and ptarmigan. The eagle was an expert hunter, possessing many strategies. He soared on thermals, so high that he vanished from human sight. Up there he could easily see everything that moved over a huge area. Once he had chosen his prey, he would dart without warning from behind a hill where he had deliberately lost height without being noticed, then fly close to the ground until suddenly appearing only a few yards from his quarry, swooping down over the tops of nearby trees. Or he would start his attack with a long, slow descent up to four miles from his victim, or, most spectacular of all, from hundreds of feet above the ground he would stoop, diving with folded wings like a plummeting stone, flattening out at the last moment, spreading out his wings and tail to decelerate efficiently, pulling his head back and throwing his feet forward with talons outstretched to strike and grasp. The remaining shock of impact would be transferred to the prey.

  He never missed his target.

  Rohain made a discovery.

  It was akin to the memory-dreams of the Three Faces, the Rats, the White Horse. Since her return from Isse and the prematurely terminated journey to Hunting-towers, a verity had been clarifying by degrees in her awareness.

  It was Erith, remembered.

  Erith’s bones had been dredged up out of the waters of forgetfulness, but not much else. None of the history, none of the character—only the formations of the land and the labels of the countries, cities, villages on the map. The bones, and the names of the bones.

  Somehow, the knowledge of three dimensions of the world had seeped through to Rohain. The fourth, which was time, was still lacking. Yet it strode on toward her betrothal day.

  In the glades of Glincuith, the black fretwork of leafless branches formed, by day, a ceiling of sapphire panes; by night, a roof of smoky glass shattered by a gravel of stars. There, Rohain spent pleasant hours learning the courtly dance steps with a partner who moved so lightly and easily over the springy turf that she could swear their feet trod upon nothingness. Here was a lover who was ready, with extraordinary anticipation, to catch her after every pirouette, to whirl her as if she were a child, her skirts billowing like a full-blown camellia; to sustain and guide her, to hold her pressed so close that she thought his heart was beating within her own breast. The scent of pines was snagged like myrrh in his hair. Beneath her left hand, his shoulder was steel, sliding beneath layers of costly fabric. The dim, crimson light of dying suns gleamed through his hair, and his eyes, fixed upon her, were dark-smoldering coals.

  At these times, love’s anguish and precipitancy threatened to overwhelm her. It was a torment with a terrible sweetness to it—addictive, unconsumed, consuming. From him raged an answering force, a torrent dammed, a ferocity chained, a storm scarcely suppressed, eager, impatient.

  The festival of Primrose Amble having passed by, the betrothal was officially announced and celebrated, even while more legions of the Empire were making ready to depart for the north to relieve those that had been stationed there for lengthy periods, or to swell the numbers of the King-Emperor’s army. The Royal Ball took place in jeweled splendor, attended by royalty, nobility, and dignitaries from all over Erith; more than a thousand guests. The bride-to-be shone like a piece torn out from the very core of the sun. He who moved beside her seemed by contrast the glorious incarnation of night.

  The feast was sumptuous. Rohain sat at the high table beneath the canopy, at Thorn’s right hand, sharing with him a cup and plate. At their backs, bright heraldic flags adorned the walls. Before them gleamed a swan-shaped cake covered with three thousand hand-molded Sugarpaste feathers. Below, the Banqueting Hall seethed and glistered.

  As he conversed with Rohain, Thorn glanced down the table at Roxburgh, who looked splendid in a dress uniform of royal scarlet and gold. The Dainnan Commander had just cleared his trencher of a mighty helping of meats, and with a purposeful air he was contemplating the other dishes.

  ‘The Commander is a renowned trencherman,’ said Rohain, noting the object of his gaze.

  ‘Indeed he is!’

  Roxburgh having looked away to speak to his wife, Thorn casually tossed a couple of roasted capons onto his trencher. Roxburgh, turning back and helping himself to pie, looked startled at the sight of his erstwhile empty platter. The King’s Page made a bursting noise and collapsed behind a gonfalon.

  The swan-ship sailed from Waterstair for the occasion, the side of the hill having been knocked out to allow its egress. It was moored over the inner bailey, to the acclamation of the citizens, who could see it from every corner of Caermelor; a giant bird gently lifting in the draughts, bound by iron chains.

  In the lists, the jousting knights gave a brave display, sunlight splintering to shards on their harness as their lances shattered on each other’s breastplates. The thunderous charge of the armoured war-horses and the impact of their meeting shook the ground. The tournament concluded with a night of fireworks.

  Fireworks: traditionally a wizard’s stock-in-trade. A city wizard, Feuleth, was handling the preparations. Rohain, dressing for the evening feast, her head swimming with the intoxication of these giddy days and nights, became conscious, at last, of having overlooked a new wave of apprehension arising in the city.

  ‘Viviana,’ she said, ‘what news?’

  ‘A wizard in Gilvaris Tarv, Korguth the Unfeasible or some such, has been Dismantled and struck from the List. And a pirate named Scallywag has been captured.’

  ‘Scalzo?’

  ‘Yes, that was it, m’lady.’

  Can it be that at last my enemies are all undone?

  But the lady’s maid was still speaking. ‘And strange things have been happening lately—malign creatures have been creeping into Caermelor. They have been seen in the streets after dark. And in the north, things have gone from bad to worse. They say the barbarian wizard-chieftains and warlords are on the move again. There will be full-scale war, for certain. The times of peace are over.’

  ‘As usual you outstrip me with the latest goings-on. How is it that you are aware of these things, Viviana, and I am not?’

  The lady’s maid blushed delicately. ‘Of late, you have been occupying yourself with pursuits other than listening to gossip, m’lady,’ she replied demurely. ‘We have scarcely seen you. You dismiss us when you go out. You are rarely between walls.’

  ‘True enough. What other tidings have been prominent?’

  ‘Only much talk of the forthcoming fireworks!’

  After sunset, flaming cressets splashed carnelian light over the city.

  Upon the lightless and stony heights of the palace the more privileged crowd waited for the fireworks to begin. The less privileged lingered expectantly beyond the walls, in the streets, on the roofs of houses. Feuleth the Torch-Fingered, a youngish wizard, excitedly prowled the inner bailey. He was setting fuses to last-minute rights in tubes packed with white, prismatic saltpeter, yellow spores of sulfur, and other pyrotechnic generators. For added effect, and to indicate his indispensability, he shouted orders and incantations and waved a staff purportedly imbued with grarnarye. Up on the parapets, like a human palisade, the Royal Attriod surrounded two who stood looking out across the starlit city. She leaned back against him, her head resting next to the base of his throat. He folded his arms around her. Their hands clasped. In the torchlight their profiles formed a double cameo on the somber sky.

  With a howl of igniting combustibles, the display commenced. A hundred and eleven coloured fountains leaped: rufescent, iridescent, viridescent. Out of them, fast things shot high into the dome of night, where they destroyed themselves spectacularly, bursting into glittering rain, scintillating arrows, brilliant hail, confetti, baubles, sequins, petals, jewels. On the castle wall, vivid pinwheels began to rotate, spurting sparks and making whizzing noises that could barely be heard over the bangs, hisses, whistles, and roars, and the
keening of air split by rapid flight. Comets sizzled past.

  The assembly cheered wildly.

  ‘Zounds,’ breathed Thomas of Ercildoune on the parapets. ‘Old Feu has really outdone himself this time.’

  Later that night, another vision came to Rohain. Later, she named it the Dream of the Feast.

  A hall, filled with long tables. An assembly of guests, most of them stunningly beauteous, some offensively grotesque—paragons and parodies, all at one extreme or the other. As Rohain walked the length of the hall, alone, they turned, one by one, to stare, and the pressure of those stares was a threat. Their power was as strong as desire, as indiscriminating and as ruthless. Fear drowned Rohain in its troubled waters. Did they not mock and sneer? Did they not feint and leer, patently, gleamingly observing her walking through their midst, their very presence plucking at her every nerve? Was not their very maintenance of distance a menace, like a steel bar that held them from her but which they could crumple at will, laughing?

  At the end of the hall, someone stood waiting, someone whose back was turned. The face could not be discerned. Dreading the sight of it, Rohain yet fastened her gaze upon that one with fascination. At any moment she would see and recognise the face.

  The one turned. And turned, and turned again, repeatedly beginning but never completing the rotation. Always, at the moment the first pale curve of the face came into view, the image would flicker and retreat to its commencement, like a shang tableau, and there would be the back of the head again, starting to turn.

  Rohain knew that in the last instance this someone would be revealed, but even as the face finally swung into view, there was only a great bird with beating wings, black as oblivion.

  She awoke with a mad yammering in her ears, white pain splitting her skull.

  Fell creatures were seen in the city at nights. Not before in this long-hundred of years had they dared to penetrate the walls of Caermelor. A curfew was imposed. The citizens made certain their doors were locked at nights, and their abodes well-decked with wight-deterring objects. Wizards and shysters did a brisker trade in charms than usual. Reports came in from outlying areas: The Wild Hunt was active.

  The day after the Royal Ball, Thorn came to Rohain and said gravely, ‘If the city has become unsafe, it will not be long before the palace itself is challenged by the reeking forces of unseelie. The restlessness of the Wild Hunt concerns me. Theirs is an eternal malignity, a deep-rooted ill-will. A dangerous adversary endeavoured to get to thee, Gold-Hair, and will likely hunt thee again, for these are immortals and able to pursue forever.

  ‘I must leave Caermelor,’ he continued. ‘The north stirs again. This time there is a difference—after many a feint and false rumour, we are certain that the war-chiefs of Namarre are about to push forward at last, and that after all the skirmishes and raids, battle will soon be joined in earnest. More platoons have departed to take up their positions. A group of two hundred and seventy soldiers from the First Cavalry Division is headed from the Ilian army base to Corvath on a merchant Windship. Two more flights are to carry out seven hundred troops early tomorrow, with deployment completed in two or three days. To the killing ground I will not take thee, but here thou must not remain. I will take thee and Edward to the one place thou mightst dwell in safety while I am gone.’

  ‘So we are to be parted …’ Rohain’s blood fused to lead in her veins.

  Thorn drew her closer. The effect was not unexpected, the alchemy turning the lead to molten gold. A clear un-scent carried on his breath, like the ether before a storm.

  ‘Dost think I want to leave thee? I want thee by me all ways, day and night, my Pleasure. Yet I will not lead thee into danger. A battlefield is no place for thee.’

  ‘I care nothing for danger. Take me with you!’

  He placed a finger on her mouth and shook his head.

  ‘No. Until I can be by your side again, Gold-Hair, thou shalt bide in another place.’

  6

  THE ISLAND

  Green Hair, Dark Sea

  On rocky shores there used to stand, windblown,

  A lonely tower built of graying stone.

  O’er dark and restless seas it shone a light,

  And beamed a message through the ageless night,

  As if to reach the land where roses bloom,

  Whose floral kiss abates despair and gloom.

  A VERSE FROM ‘THE ROSE’S KISS’

  Three hundred nautical miles separated Caermelor from that uncertain stretch of water halfway between the Gulf of Mara and the boiling fury of Domjaggar Strait, south of the Cape of Tides and north of the Cape of Winds. Here was a region avoided by Seaship routes, a domain where, no matter how vapid the sky, no matter how placid the sea, mist and cloud gathered their skirts and muffled themselves in their mantles.

  The bosun blew his whistle. Blocks squealed overhead as the main yards were braced round. HIMS King James XVI hove to at the frayed edges of this foggy obscurity. It was as if a smoky twilight hovered beyond the bowsprit and the starboard taffrail, while elsewhere the day gleamed as lustrous as polished crystals. A mellow sea-breeze came cantering out of the west to lift among the sails the Royal Heraldry of the pennoncels and the long ribbons of streamers, the gay banners and the swallow-tailed gittons, laying them straight along its flowing mane.

  Chunks of charcoal imprisoned crimson heat in a brazier suspended on chains from a tripod on the fo’c’sle. Passengers and crew with their taltries thrown back stood watching as a pitch-smeared arrowhead was touched to the coals. Fiery hair sprang forth from that head. In one swift, sudden movement, Thorn fitted the shaft to the string, bent back his longbow—the shaft sliding through his fingers until his right hand almost met the red blossom—and sent it soaring with a twang and a hissing whine, straight into the twilight’s heart.

  Standing with feet braced apart at right angles to the target, in the classic archer’s stance, he watched it fly, high and far.

  It vanished.

  And then there came a thinning of the fog, and deep within the murk a form manifested as if seen through frosted glass. Across the waters, past a wild spume that was the white blood of waves suiciding in the jaws of reefs, a mountain loomed, indistinct, crowned with a pale cloud. An island, floating in the sea.

  ‘Release the bird,’ said Thorn, handing the longbow to his squire. A snowball or a wad of paper scraps was tossed into the air, shaking itself out into the shape of a pigeon. It took wing toward the island. They watched the white chevron disappear, following the red flower. Waves spanked the port side. Ropes creaked, wood complained, and now the faint cries of gulls scratched the wind.

  Presently a spark appeared, a brass button against the dark hem of the land.

  ‘There she be!’ exclaimed several voices. ‘The Beacon!’

  At this signal, the crew swung into action again, hauling on the braces to swing the main yards back into position. The helmsman spun the wheel and brought the ship about. Sails filled, and with the wind directly behind her the vessel began to pick up speed, skimming the crests, scooting toward the isle.

  The mountain towered ever higher.

  Along a narrow channel between the reefs sped HIMS King James XVI, guided by the Light. She ran between two headlands that held between them a span of vituperative currents called the Rip, until, skating free of those arms, with the Light in the Tower alone on its rocky promontory to the port side, she fell, like a gull to its haven into a beautiful harbour, tranquil and still.

  Above the harbour, basalt terraces snaked up the cliffs to the cloud-bearded summit dominating all with its formidable presence. This peak let down its shadow to ink the water, dwarfing the tall ship with the lily sails now furled and lashed into long buds. The vessel became a mote of light on a dark pond. By the shore, red birds of fishing boats clustered at their moorings, all facing west. Some of these fishers, and other vessels shaped like seedpods, were rowed out toward the King James XVI. Crates of snowflake pigeons and a lumpy bag of lett
ers were uploaded. Few other goods were exchanged—this was not a merchant ship, not a trade visit. A crowd lined the shore. Most of the islanders had come down to the harbour to admire the King-Emperor’s renowned ship and to try to catch a glimpse of him in person—it had been long since he was last on the island—as well as to welcome Prince Edward and the Lady Rohain, tidings of whom had preceded them.

  Thorn’s hair swung down to brush Rohain’s cheek as he leaned to her. While the clipper’s longboats were being lowered into the water, the pair took leave of each other, speaking softly, standing on the fo’c’sle while all others kept a respectful distance. But when for the last time their hands unclasped, Rohain felt it was an agony, as though her flesh had grown to his and was now torn.

  ‘Guard her, Thomas,’ Thorn had commanded his Bard. ‘Guard her well.’ But she had thought it was Thorn who needed vigilance and protection, since he was going to war.

  Auspiciously, the wind swung around. A sildron floater took Rohain down the ship’s side. In a swathe of rose brocade encrusted with carnelians, she sat in the bow, facing astern like the rowers. At the tiller, the coxswain called out a command. Hemmed in by red birds and seed-husks, the line of row-boats crawled to shore like oar-legged insects on the sun’s glittering path.