The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘In the name of Easgathair,’ Ashalind called out urgently, ‘I bid you tarry.’

  With a rustle, the wight jumped away into the trees and was seen no more.

  That evening after supper, Ashalind personally set out the pail of clean water and the dish of cream for the household bruney, a task usually carried out by Oswyn. The dark hours came creeping. She sat in the kitchen’s inglenook, waiting, waking, and at midnight the bruney came stealing. Its face was ugly and rough, with a stubbly gray beard and wide mouth; its hands were outsized. A conical cap of soft brown deer’s hide covered its head; its other clothing consisted of a threadbare coat, patched knee breeches, coarse woollen hose, and large boots. The damsel watched the wight begin its chores, sweeping and scrubbing, scouring the pans to mirror-brightness with preternatural speed and efficiency.

  ‘Bruney’,’ she said softly into the shadows, never taking her eyes from it, never meeting its gaze.

  The little manlike thing ceased its industry.

  ‘What are ye doin’ sae late awake, Mistress Ashalind?’

  ‘I seek your help, hearth-wight of my home.’

  ‘I seen ye grow up from a bairn no bigger ’n meself, and yer father before ye and his father before that. Have I ever failed this house?’

  ‘No, you’ve never failed this house. You’ve been good to us—never a dollop of sour cream, never a drop of unclean water. In return, we’ve looked after you. Bruney, I seek audience with the Lord Easgathair of the Faêran. Can you bring me before him?’

  ‘I have ways to send messages to the Faêran, Mistress Ashalind, but I wist the Lord Easgathair will nae heed me at this time, if ever, for ill deeds and evil tidings have come upon us all.’

  ‘Of what do you speak?’

  ‘Fell doings and ill fortune,’ said the bruney obscurely, ‘but there be nocht that such as I can do to change things. Alack that I should see such times as these. Alack for the folly of the great and noble. The world shall be mightily changed and what’s tae come of it I know not.’

  ‘But you will try this for me?’

  ‘Aye, that I will, hearth-daughter. Now get ye abed as is proper and leave me to my doings. They’s my hours now, not yourn.’ He shook his little besom broom at her.

  ‘Good night,’ she said, lifting the hems of her skirts as she flitted upstairs.

  Toward morning, just before cock-crow, Rufus woke up and began to bark frantically at the bedroom door. Leaping half-awake from her bed, in her linen nightgown, Ashalind collared him.

  ‘Hush, sir. Stay.’

  The bruney’s head appeared around the door’s edge and spoke. ‘’Tis only me, Rufus. What are ye groazling and bloostering about, ye great lummox?’ Lowering his ears sheepishly, the dog wagged his tail. ‘Mistress Ashalind,’ the bruney went on, ‘I hae a message for ye.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Next middle-night ye mun gae to Cragh Tor.’

  The head disappeared.

  Steep, thickly wooded hills rose close on every side, dark against the star-salted dome of night. Streamlets splashed like threads of spun moonlight down their shoulders. A path wound its way up Cragh Tor, overhung by a cliff on one hand, dropping away precipitously on the other. As the party of three walkers climbed higher, they saw, looking back through a gap in the hills, a scattering of yellow lights shining like fireflies in a dusky dell: the lamplit windows of the city.

  Finding the hilltop deserted, they sat down on mossy stones to wait, uneasily. Cragh Tor’s summit was flat. No trees grew there; instead it was crowned by a half-circle of granite monoliths, thirty feet high, a ruined cromlech whose other half had collapsed in centuries past. Of the stones that stood, three were still connected by lintels while the others leaned lazily, painted with lichens in rouge, celadon, and fawn. Grass grew over the fallen monoliths, which lay partially buried. Usually this place was dismal and unwelcoming, and this night was no exception. An unquiet breathing of the night soughed and grieved its way in eddies around the angles and edges of the rocks. From somewhere below the ground came the gushing hum of running water. Glowing eyes peered out from shadows near ground level, but no voice answered the inquiries of the incongruous mortals. No Faêran lord or lady appeared.

  Ashalind and her companions felt the presence of wights massing thickly all around. The night was full of their mutterings, their lascivious snickerings, sudden wild laughter and unnerving yells. A sneering bogle jumped out, then leapt, spry as a toad, over the rim of the hill. Gray-faced trow-wives peered from shadows and tall tussocks, whispering and pointing, their eyes protruding like onion-bulbs, their oversized heads bound in dun shawls. One of them was clutching a ragged baby. The slight weight of the tilhals at the throats of the mortals felt reassuring, yet inadequate. The trows melted away as slowly the hours of darkness stretched on. The mortals huddled drowsily into their cloaks for warmth.

  It was about an hour before dawn when soft music came stealing out of the darkness, subtle but permeating, like jasmine’s fragrance. Simultaneously, a rose-petal glow bathed Cragh Tor Circle, like the dawn but untimely. A fox ran across the grass. The monoliths were shining with an inner radiance, like crystal with a heart of fire, and now strange flowers sprang in the turf. Two people of the Faêran were seated upon a fallen monolith while a third stood, one foot braced upon a stone, strumming a small golden harp.

  He was like a sudden bird of the night, this harpist; an orchid of many colours, a tonal melody. Twined about his neck was a live snake, slender as grass, yellow-green as unripe lemons. Blinking away the blur of weariness, Ashalind started up, biting off a low cry before it had left her lips.

  The harpist was also the Piper.

  She turned away, wisely concealing her anger and indignation.

  The musician laid down the instrument and spoke softly to his companions. Then the whitebeard with the staff spoke.

  ‘Hail and well met, fair company,’ said Easgathair, greeting by name each of the three who now stood before him. He looked indefinably older and more careworn than before, and at this, Ashalind wondered, for the Faêran were said to be immortal, and unaffected by the passage of time.

  The three petitioners bowed.

  ‘At your service, Lord Easgathair,’ Ashalind said.

  ‘We know your names.’ She who uttered these words was seated at Easgathair’s right hand—the Faêran lady with the calm and lovely face Ashalind had seen in the halls of the Fithiach of Carnconnor, she whose dark hair reached to her ankles. Green gems now winked like cats’ eyes on her hair and girdle. The fox that had run across the grass sat elegantly beside her, looking out from narrow slits of amber. ‘But you do not know ours,’ she went on. ‘I am called Rithindel of Brimairgen.’

  ‘My lady, you gave me courage when I needed it most,’ said Ashalind with a curtsey.

  ‘That which is already possessed need not be given.’

  ‘I Cierndanel, the Royal Bard, greet you, mortals,’ said the slender young harpist-Piper, bowing with a white smile that seemed, to Ashalind, mocking.

  ‘The musicianship of Cierndanel is renowned amongst our people,’ Easgathair said.

  While Meganwy and Pryderi saluted the musician, Ashalind faltered, filled with conflicting desires for vengeance and courtesy. Here before her stood the one who had originated all her troubles, with his irresistible pipe-tunes.

  The Faêran bard turned an inquiring eye upon the young woman. Like a nail, it transfixed her.

  ‘Have I offended thee, comeliest of mortals?’ (A voice like rain on leaves.) ‘Say how, that I might ask forgiveness. A frown blights thy loveliness like late frost upon the early sprouts of Spring.’

  ‘Can you not guess, sir? Yet, offended, I have no wish to offend. I will say no more.’

  ‘Tell on. Our discourse cannot progress until I am satisfied.’

  ‘Well, then.’ Ashalind took a deep breath and blurted out, ‘You, sir, are the perpetrator of the most heinous thievery of all. You are the Piper. You stole the children. That�
��s your offense.’

  ‘I am all astonishment,’ said Cierndanel.

  At Ashalind’s tidings, Pryderi took an impetuous step forward, raising his fists. Meganwy’s eyes snapped fire.

  Before they could take issue, Easgathair held up his hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Cierndanel, thou know’st not the ways of mortals as I do. In their eyes, your accomplishment was not a meting out of justice but a misdeed. Understand, mortals, that Cierndanel was acting on behalf of the justice of the Realm when he led away the children with the music of the Pipes Leantainn. ’Twas not done for revenge or spite, ’twas a lessoning and an upholding of what is just; a fair treatment and due punishment in accordance with equity.’

  ‘Faêran equity,’ said Pryderi tightly.

  Meganwy said, ‘We can hardly applaud the Piper’s actions, but let us not quarrel. I have studied somewhat of Faêran customs and mores, and while I cannot approve, I acknowledge. Our moral code is not yours.’

  ‘You all seem to forget,’ pursued Cierndanel, the bardic snake sliding around his neck like a pouring of liquid jade and topaz, ‘that I piped away your plague of rodents also.’

  ‘But did not Yallery Brown send the rats to begin with?’ cried Ashalind.

  ‘The wight Yallery Brown has nought to do with me, sweet daughter. He, like many of his kind, mingles freely with those of our people who tolerate such types, but what mischief they may choose to make outside the Fair Realm is no concern of ours. The crime, the betrayal of promise, was the city’s,’ he added, stroking the seashell curve of his harp with a long and elegant hand. ‘Why hold a grudge against me for being the instrument, so to speak, of retribution?’

  The corners of his mouth quirked. A smile tugged at them, as ever.

  Said Easgathair, ‘Condemned mortals ever rail against the executioner, though ’tis only his given task, and had there been no transgression, there would be no punishment.’

  ‘It seems immortals shall never understand why,’ said Pryderi bitterly.

  ‘Immortals we be, yes,’ returned Easgathair, ‘but filled with passion; swift to laugh and love, swift to anger, slow to weep. We can, like you, be bowed by grief.’

  ‘No, never like us,’ replied Pryderi. There was a harsh edge to his tone. ‘Never like us, since you cannot know death.’

  ‘An immeasurable gulf,’ acknowledged the Lady Rithindel, after a pause, ‘sunders our races, one from the other.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ said Meganwy, ‘we must let grudges shrivel and be blown away like the leaves of past seasons, for now we are come to ask for your help. Knowing the Fair Ones to be an equitable and just people, we are certain you will not deny us.’

  ‘Indeed, we will not deny that we are equitable and just!’ said Easgathair. ‘Seat yourselves before us now. We wait to hear what you shall say, although perhaps we have guessed already.’

  ‘We wish to speak of the Langothe,’ said Ashalind, guardedly taking a seat beside Pryderi on a mossy stone.

  Easgathair nodded.

  ‘We cannot abide with it,’ she continued, ‘and we beg you to let the children return to the Fair Realm with their families, there to remain. We ask that they may receive protection against unseelie wights such as mingle with the retinue of the Fithiach of Carnconnor, and that they should dwell far from his halls.’

  ‘Far and near do not mean the same in the Realm as they do here,’ said Cierndanel lightly. ‘Thou mightst cross from one end of Faêrie to the other and still be close to the place from whence thou proceeded. Indeed, there are no ends or beginnings as thou know’st them.’

  The Lady Rithindel said, ‘Angavar our High King has always welcomed the gold-haired Talith whenever they have entered our country. You people of the gold have often been a source of delight, aye, and help to us, and this occasion, I wot, would be no exception—despite that he is grievously burdened at this time.’

  Ashalind saw Easgathair’s fist clench as he gripped his staff. Raising his silver-white head, he directed a calm gaze at the mortals.

  ‘Ashalind,’ he said, ‘for seven years thou didst wander in the hills and those eringl woodlands where the Faêran take delight in riding and hunting. Thy kindness and loyalty of spirit were marked by those who saw thee pass and that is why I helped thee when thou first asked. For that same reason I will help thee a second time, for it is the way of my people to reward goodness. Also, there are some among us who would perhaps opine that at this time we need, more than ever, a quota of humankind to abide among us. As Gatekeeper to the Realm, I will grant your request. You and your friends and families shall have your admittance, as well as protection against wights. Against Prince Morragan I cannot shield you, but I think he will not harm you.’

  The mortal folk jumped up and embraced each other, smiling, bowing deeply to the three Faêran. ‘Lord Easgathair, Lady Rithindel, Lord Cierndanel—we greet your generous words with joy!’ they cried, mindful, even in the midst of their exultation, to refrain from thanking them, as custom decreed.

  A meteor arced down the glistering sky, scoring a trail as fine as diamond-dust. Chaste breezes raced across open spaces, lifting the white silk strands of the Gatekeeper’s hair. His proud face, with the erudition of eternity engraved into it, hardened to an uncharacteristic severity.

  ‘It delights us to behold your happiness,’ he said, ‘but many things you must now learn—for a dire event has come to pass in Aia, and a more disastrous one shall yet befall. Sit yourselves down once more. I must relate to you now a history of Three Contests.’

  Perplexed and intrigued, Ashalind and her friends did as he had bid. When they were comfortably settled, the sage began. ‘Know first that I, Easgathair White Owl, am the Gatekeeper, the overseer of all the Ways between the Realm and Erith. Some while ago—time runs out of kilter in your country, but it was about the season when Angavar High King traded places with one of your kings for a year and a day, and the two of them became friends—some while ago, I was challenged to a game of Kings-and-Queens, or Battle Royal, as it is sometimes known. The Talith entitle the game “chess”. My challenger was the younger brother of the High King—Prince Morragan, the Raven Prince, who is called the Fithiach. Morragan has long been my friend, and such a challenge was not unprecedented. We often vied with one another in amiable gaming.’

  ‘Indeed,’ interjected Cierndanel as the whitebeard paused, ‘and the prince’s bard Ergaiorn follows his lead, for it was then that he won from me in a wager the Pipes Leantainn, the Follow Pipes as mortals might name them, and the very instruments with which thou wouldst have quarrel, sweet maid.’

  ‘Then sir, I would venture to say that you are well rid of them,’ rejoined Ashalind with feeling. ‘But prithee, Lord Easgathair, do not halt the tale.’

  ‘Alas,’ continued the Gatekeeper grimly, ‘I did not see then the dark current that ran deep, far below the surface of the charm and wit and mirthfulness of Prince Morragan. I did not suspect the iron acrimony that had become lodged in his once-blithe heart, hardening it over the years, feeding the fires of his pride and arrogance.

  ‘He gifted me with a beautiful Kings-and-Queens set made of gold and jewels, beautifully wrought by Liriel, jewelsmith of Faêrie, and challenged me to find anywhere in the Realm a fairer or cleverer assemblage of pieces for the board. We played the game and, as was our wont, we bet on the outcome.

  ‘Lately the Fithiach had been lamenting the fact that always I must abide near to my post in the Watchtower, from which I can oversee all the rights-of-way, and if I step into Erith I must not stray too far lest I am needed. Until he spoke of this, I had not resented my duties, but when he conjured these ideas I became persuaded that perhaps they were, at whiles, a trifle irksome, and I would fain enjoy a brief respite, if only for a change.

  ‘“If thou shouldst win the contest,” said Morragan, “I shall take thy place in the Watchtower for a space of a year and a day, while thou sojourn’st as thou wishest.”

  ‘“But sir,” said I, “what stake may I off
er thee? Thou dost already possess all thou couldst desire.”

  ‘“Wilt thou grant me a boon?” said he, and I made answer—“Provided it is within my scope.”

  ‘Eventually we settled that if I should lose I would grant him a boon as yet unasked; that I would pay him whatever he should desire, were it within my power. We played and I defeated him. He assumed my role at the Watchtower for a year and a day.

  ‘Some time later, I in my turn gifted the prince with an equipage of Kings-and-Queens, the pieces being the size of siofra, those diminutive wights who love to mimic our forms and customs.

  ‘“Skilfully is this wrought, I’ll allow, my friend,” said he, “and ’tis larger than the Golden Set I bestowed on thee, yet ’tis no prettier or more artful.”

  ‘Then I showed him how at the touch of a golden wand the pieces moved by themselves, by internal clockworks, and walked to their positions as bid.

  ‘Thus, with the Mechanical Set a second game was played. On this occasion we both wagered the same stake: “The loser shall pay whatever the winner desires,” and Prince Morragan ended up the victor.

  ‘“One victory to each of us! This time I have defeated thee, Easgathair,” he said, laughing, “but I must beg for time to consider before I ask for what I desire.”

  ‘“Sir, thou mightst enjoy as much time as thou wishest,” I boasted. “And whilst thou art at it, thou mayst take time also to search high and low for a cleverer or more beautiful set than this, which I’ll warrant thou shalt never find in the Realm.”

  At that the brother of the High King smiled and agreed, but added, “Yet, I will bring thee a more marvelous collection and there shall be a third trial. Two out of three. This shall decide the champion.”

  ‘Fool that I was to play for unspecified boons,’ said Easgathair bitterly. ‘And yet how could I suspect? I believed him free of jealous thought. One day, not long—in our reckoning—after thou, Ashalind, hadst taken away the children, he brought me to a glade wherein was raised a platform. It was inlaid with squares of ivory and ebony and upon it stood sixteen dwarrows in mail, armed, and twelve lords and ladies of Erith including four mounted knights, also a quartet of stone-trolls, all enchanted, all alive. At the player’s spoken command they obeyed!’