Ill-founded secrecy built a barrier that stood between the Faêran King and the girl with the clue to the Gate. His twofold identity was deliberately hidden, while hers had been forgotten—yet they became linked, in those Autumn days as they travelled the Road together, and that linking was a passion forged deep and strong.
In the last week of the year the Royal Wizard Sargoth had stolen by night into the forest near Caermelor. There he stood and called out seven words. Soon, a darkness folded about his eyes and he was rushed through the trees to a place where he was brought before the Spriggan Chieftain, Gull. The wizard had long been involved in dealings with unseelie wights, as a few daring mortalfolk were wont in order to gain the favour of the eldritch and thereby be granted power over their fellow Men. Sometimes this worked, usually it did not. Most mortals lived to regret their commerce with unseelie. Only the arrogant, the ruthless or the foolish ever assayed it.
Sargoth had been acting the spy, reporting the deeds of Angavar to Morragan, for of course Morragan knew the role his brother was playing, and the ire of the Crown Prince had waxed the greater that Faêran Royalty should play at being mortal, concerning himself with human affairs. In return for his efforts Sargoth received from Gull various rewards—the setting of spriggans to ambush his enemies, the lending of trinkets fortified with gramarye to shore up the wizard’s trick-shows, the promise of safe passage to wealthy travellers who bore tilhals ‘spelled’ by the Royal Wizard.
Primed by Gull, the venal wizard had also been on the watch for an unknown Talith damsel. When he heard from Dianella the news concerning the true hair colour of the Court’s latest guest, he came straight to the Spriggan Chieftain.
‘I have found the one your lords seek,’ said Sargoth. ‘But abduct her not from Caermelor, for I want no attention drawn to my part in this. I would be of no further use to you should my doings be discovered. Moreover, I require extra payment for this work.’
‘It shall be so,’ agreed Gull, eager to ensure that there were no mistakes this time. In any event, Caermelor Palace was ringed with subtle, strong wards that had been placed by Angavar to safeguard Edward. From the palace, the Talith girl might not be abducted at all. Dianella, and subsequently Sargoth, had suggested that the yellow-hair should be sent, unknowing, to Isse Tower; there to be seized by the Hunt.
‘Who else knows of the wench?’ asked the Spriggan Chieftain.
‘Only Maeve One-Eye the Carlin, and her errand boy.’
The Royal Wizard returned to Caermelor, but Gull commanded that those of his folk who escorted the wizard on his way back should pinch and thump the man until he was black all over, in payment for his insolence in daring to demand additional remuneration.
The Spriggan Chieftain sent his wights after Maeve. She and Tom Coppins were forced to flee, seeking shelter down a dry well. Unable to reach them, the spriggans lidded the well and imprisoned them therein. Word was sent to Huon at Huntingtowers: ‘Make ready.’
At the pre-arranged hour the Wild Hunt descended on the stronghold of the Seventh House of the Stormriders. Had Huon arrived a day sooner, he would have been successful. Unfortunately for the Antlered One and for Gull, their plans again went awry. By then, the wizard’s treachery had been revealed. Angavar-as-James had all along been aware of Sargoth’s spying, and by supplying worthless information had hitherto used it to advantage. Now he came riding sky in fury, and routed the Hunt.
Thus the quarry eluded the Hunt at Isse Tower. The news travelled swiftly to Morragan: Ashalind had returned to reside at Court. It was then, for a time, that the Raven Prince believed all was lost, for surely the identity of the Talith damsel would be revealed to Angavar. Surely she would relate her strange history and Angavar would be first to find the Gate. But the Raven Prince had not reckoned on the geas of the Gate of Oblivion’s Kiss. Into this tale of disguise and false identity, so complex as to border on farce, there had entered another factor—forgetfulness. And so, while Ashalind believed Angavar to be James, Angavar, in turn, had no reason to suppose Rohain of the Sorrows was otherwise than she claimed. True to his Faêran nature he lived for the moment and scarcely bothered to explore the past. He knew no fear. The past held no terrors for him. Furthermore, his sovereignty over the very elements, his knowledge of the tongues of all creatures, these and other powers made arrogance inevitable in the High King of the Faêran. Omniscience needs not probe and question. Its only flaw lies in not recognising its own provisionality.
Gradually, Morragan came to ascertain the true situation. Understanding, he marvelled at his fortune.
When the King-Emperor voyaged north with his armies, Ashalind was taken to the protection of the Isle of Tamhania. Morragan gathered his strength to himself again, and put it forth, directing it at the island. He triumphed—the gates of the Seelie Isle were breached and Tavaal-Tamhania was drowned. But she who they hunted so desperately had vanished once more.
In the turmoil of aftermath, the Attriod sought Ashalind. Morragan guessed that Angavar would have set some device on his betrothed to keep her from harm, and guessing this he tried the harder, yet she outfoxed her pursuers, slipping from their net a fourth and final time. Instead of choosing a path back to civilised lands as they expected, she turned north. In the wide leagues of the wilderness she became lost to them. They searched for her in vain.
Through the flowery meads, the gloomy forest, Appleton Thorn and the wet fells, Ashalind and her companions were glimpsed only by wights who rarely strayed from their haunts, who were so mild or lawless or solitary as to remain beneath the contempt of Morragan’s Summons; wights who had heard no news from the greater world or cared little for it if they had. Until, in Cinnarine, a ganconer who was making his way eastwards happened upon three likely victims. Originating from populous haunts, Young Vallentyne had not failed to mark that the Unseelie Princes kept watch for a damsel journeying in secret. Having sated, with one of them, the inclination of his species, he sent a message to Annath Gothallamor.
‘And the rest ye ken,’ concluded Tully. Putting the syrinx to his mouth, he resumed piping.
The eldritch music soared like falcons in flight. Evocative, it freed Ashalind from thoughts of her capture, reviving earlier memories. From down on the High Plain, the flourish of a wightish horn came blaring through the library windows. Coarse and brazen though it was, it brought to mind the purer note of another such instrument, a Faêran horn, sounding the last Call to Faêrie on the Day of Closing. At that time, Ashalind had stood beside her father in the Watchtower while, beyond the Gate, Angavar and Morragan clashed in bitter feud …
… many fled the Watchtower; soon a flood of Faêran, wights, birds and animals poured through the Geata Poeg na Déanainn to aid the King’s return. There was scant chance that they would reach him before the Closing—the combatants fought, in fact, more than a mile from the Gate.
Silently, Ashalind battled an agony of indecision. She lifted her gaze once more towards the knights beyond the Window, staring at the melee. And all at once she forgot to breathe. In that instant her spirit fled out of her eyes and into Frith.
In their reckless sparring the melee of knights parted for an instant, revealing a rider who faced the Gate, although his gaze was not directed at it. Noble of bearing, he moved with the power and grace of the sea. So dark was his hair that it seemed fashioned from the night, glimmering with the polish of water seen by starlight. The force and wonder, the sensual beauty of him knocked commonsense out of the watcher’s head like coins from a flung purse.
‘Father, forgive me,’ she cried suddenly, ‘I must try to return …’
Aghast, Leodogran cried, ‘But why?’
‘Only that—’ His daughter struggled to find words. ‘My future lies in Erith, I think. If the High King does not return in time …’
This newly recalled memory came as a revelation to Ashalind. Through the Gate, she had glimpsed a face—the face of Angavar, seen for the first time, and distantly. It dawned on her that the sight of him
, and only this, had demanded her last-moment return, against ridiculous odds, to Erith.
‘Of course. He is Faêran,’ she murmured to herself, ‘and all mortals fall at least half in love with that race as soon as they clap eyes on them. How much more potent must be the attraction of their sovereign? I have been allured, as a moth flies towards the lantern-flame. Yet it pleases me to recall this, that my reason for being here in Erith is Thorn. My love for him is confirmed, albeit not reciprocated. In any case, there would have been no future in such a union.’ And her heart seemed to be suddenly squeezed in a vice.
Into her reverie there broke an interruption.
From the stencilled ceiling high above, a snowflake fluttered down, landing on the lectern. Tully snatched the reed-pipe from his lips. Unfolding the scrap of snow-white parchment Ashalind saw words glimmering there, scribed in ink of argentum which flowed like a living current. Puzzled, she read them aloud:
I have no arms but I reach across the horizon.
My feet for seven years do not walk.
Water is my table, the wind is my bed.
I have no ship but I sail the ocean.
I have no eotaur, though I ride the sky.
The chains of Erith do not bind me.
I, the navigator, overlook them.
A frisson of terror and delight chilled the reader.
‘It is a riddle,’ she concluded, nervously scanning the library, which gave the appearance of being empty save for Caitri and Tully.
‘Gie me a wee moment,’ said the urisk. ‘I shall get the answer o’ it.’
Strong wings beat at the casement. A huge raven alighted on the sill, its claws digging into the wood. Frightened, Caitri ran from her chair and crouched at Ashalind’s feet. The raven’s round eye fixed them with a frigid stare.
‘I s’ll be finding the solution forthwith,’ said Tully briskly. He scratched his curly head.
‘Never mind, Tully,’ said Ashalind, her pulse beating like threshing flails. ‘I know it. The riddle’s answer is a seabird, the elindor.’
‘Thou art overly acute,’ said Prince Morragan regretfully. He stepped from somewhere, or nowhere, and extended his arm. The raven flew through the open window, to perch thereon.
The library brightened. Pellucid light poured down, for the chamber now lay naked to the sky, the ceiling having disappeared without a sound. The nine lamps flared, showing that the tall casements had melted like panes of ice. They left wide interstices through which stars dazzled and the wind careened. Between the empty window-frames the walls remained upright. Stripped of their panelling they revealed themselves as monoliths of solid basalt, capped by stone lintels. Within this primitive and monumental circle the carved furniture and carpeting remained unchanged—incongruous, decadent.
Figures drifted in through the gaps between the monoliths, the courtiers of the Crown Prince mingling with the various wights addicted to the proximity of the Faêran.
Amongst them sauntered the Each Uisge in field armour, a sculpture in metal: the curved ridge of the gardebraces jutted from his shoulders on either side, meeting the rippled shoulder-defences of the pauldrons at a smooth seam. The lamels on both the upper and lower cannons of the vambraces were layered and scalloped like the scales of a fish, adorned by rows of pearly rivet-heads, chased and molded to match the breastplate with its foliate seaweed design.
The couter protecting the left elbow protruded in a great fan-shaped shell of steel, large by contrast with the winged-shell reinforcement on the right elbow. The lamels fitted him closely at the waist. From the body-armour depended shield-shaped tassets ridged and fluted with pointed arches, prolonging the defence of the skirt over cuisses embellished with jagged wave designs which differed on each thigh. Fan-shells glittered on the poleyns, at the outside of the knees. The wave-crests on the greaves arrowed down in reflection of the upreaching peaks on the cuisses. The gauntlets were silver lobsters.
He moved out of view.
Negligently, Morragan stroked Ashalind’s hair, toying with a few tresses.
She burned.
‘Gaze through the window, lhiannan,’ he suggested.
Between two basalt pillars stretched the dew-silvered net of a cobweb. Its strands glittered and thinned, then dissolved. Behind this mesh, a scene was displayed—not the evernight of Darke, but the circadian day of clean-rinsed Arcdur.
Once more the Eye of Gramarye roved through the land of stone and pine. Once more Ashalind could recognise no clue to the whereabouts of the elusive Gate of Oblivion’s Kiss, or if it seemed she was about to do so, some hindrance obfuscated it. Searching, she felt her strength drain away as though the pith was being sucked out of her bones. ‘No more,’ she pleaded, but there was no relenting. The search was long. Her shoulders sagged with weariness. By the time the beautiful voice of Morragan said, ‘Draw back,’ her sinews hurt as though she had been reaping in the fields for three days and three nights.
Just as the scene of Arcdur was fading, another landscape overlaid it for a while—a field of war at sunset. The sky ruptured into long red wounds. Behind a mountain, the merest sliver of a fingernail moon came up in a misty nimbus the colour of spring leaves.
Beneath the bloody light of the dying day Ertish troops confronted Namarran assailants. The troops were organised in battle formation. Each battalion formed themselves an oblong composed of three ranks consisting of heavy cavalry, spearmen, archers and crossbowmen, with light cavalry on the flanks. In the front lines, the spearmen knelt on one knee, holding their shields before them, the lower edges braced upon the ground. Their spears slanted towards the enemy, all at the same angle, like a forest of saplings bowing beneath the powerful vectors of a hurricane. The Finvarnans had rammed their spear-butts into the rocky soil. Behind them, the archers and crossbowmen were arrayed. The archers, also on one bent knee, protected themselves with shields held on the left arm, until the instant they sighted and released an arrow. In the third line waited cavalrymen, shielded by the infantry until the moment was right for a cavalry charge.
The rebels’ horses refused to drive themselves at this bristling hedge of spears. As long as the Ertish infantry remained steadfastly in this formation, they were secure, although without mobility there was small chance of defeating the enemy.
For a long interval the rebel forces subjected the Ertish warriors to an incessant hail of arrows, bolts and javelins. The constant barrage under imposed conditions of impassivity enraged the Erts, to the point that their discipline eventually crumbled. Some of the spearmen sprang to their feet and began to advance. To ensure the integrity of the shield wall, the rest were forced to follow.
As the Finvarnan companies advanced over the rough terrain, their attention fixed on deflecting the onslaught of missiles, they were unable to keep marching in step. Breaches opened in their ranks and into these gaps charged two divisions of the barbarians’ heavy cavalry, javelins levelled. Once in the heart of the fray they fought with sword and mace, hacking, hewing and smiting. Caught in disarray, the Ertish infantry had no chance of withstanding the cavalry charge. They broke ranks and scattered into the waxing darkness. As soon as the barbarian hordes saw their enemy giving ground, they attacked in full force. The Finvarnans were routed.
But this battle had by no means decided the contest. The greater conflict was yet to come.
Between the stone pillars, the image altered.
Early sunlight reached long wands across the Nenian Landbridge, stretching shadows from the long lines of horsemen who rode solemnly, nine abreast, into its oncoming radiance. Beneath their helms, the soldiers of the Legions of Erith narrowed their eyes against the glory of the dawn. Their spears and banners stood up in serried ranks like a glittering forest. Darts of golden light glanced from their armour, visible from miles away. High above, Windships rose and dipped among the clouds, and twelve squadrons of Stormriders passed like flights of great birds of prey. The jangle of stirrup and bridle came ringing faintly on the breeze.
&nb
sp; There rode among the Stormriders Lords Voltasus, Ustorix, Isterium, Valerix and Oscenis. Among the Legions was numbered a soldier entitled Second Lieutenant Diarmid Bruadair of the Emperor’s Regiment, his tabard resplendent with the King’s Lion in regimental colours. Nearby rode a more lissom soldier with hair alight and a long quiver at her back—Corporal Muirne Bruadair of the Royal Company of Archers. A taller archer rode at her side; young Eochaid of Gilvaris Tarv.
Further back marched companies of men in less disciplined array. Their war-gear was flamboyant, one might say reckless, being mainly of hard-boiled leather riveted with iron. Some drove chariots, some rode mettlesome steeds, others strode afoot singing lustily, not in the Common Tongue. Their hair caught and tossed the fire of the new day. A roar of laughter could dimly be heard; an ox of a man sat astride his warhorse, brandishing an axe and shield. Sianadh Kavanagh it was, none other—a warrior singing patriotic songs while following Mabhoneen, Chieftain of the Erts of Finvarna and his rallied squadrons.
The Arysk rode with the Legions also—the Icemen, three Rimanian battalions in war-harness glittering like sunlight on snow. And the stalwart brown-haired men of Severnesse rode, as well as those of Luindorn.
The Dainnan were there in silver-white mail overlaid by long surcoats. Among them was Sir Heath with the knights Tide, Firth, Dale, Flint, Gill, Tor and many more chivalry of their thriesnuns. The Royal Attriod rode with the Dainnan—Tamlain, Duke of Roxburgh, and Thomas, Duke of Ercildoune; Octarus Ogier, Lord High Chieftain of Stormriders; John Drumdunach, Lord High Commander of the Royal Guard; Richard of Esgair Garthen, Lord High Sea Admiral; and Istoren Giltornyr, Lord High Sky Admiral.
And he who rode at the head of these thriesnuns, these battalions, these wizards and fleets and squadrons, he came forth like a lion.
Called James XVI, King-Emperor, he stood out from the rest, mounted on his armoured war-horse Hrimscathr. The sword Arcturus was scabbarded at his side, its damasked quillons deflecting the sun’s rays to blinding shards. He was exactly as Ashalind had once pictured him with thought’s invention, shining in golden field-armour with its slender, elegant lines, cusped borders and shell-like rippling. Damascening glinted on the lames, studded metal roses were connected by riveted laminations to shoulder, elbow and knee, and adorned the breastplate. The Lion of D’Armancourt roared upon his breast. His helm was crested with a great golden lion, a star-tipped crown encircling the war-beast’s shoulders. Beneath the metal nose-guard was a glimpse of the high cheekbones, the strong chin, the eyes as keen as knife blades. He smiled at one of his captains and the lean lines of laughter appeared at each corner of his mouth. The Royal Attriod in their plumed splendour surrounded him, armoured cap-a-pie, light splintering off richly ornamented chausses, vambraces, coudieres, genouilliers, tassets, gauntlets. Flanked by standard-bearers, a trumpeter, the Dainnan, the Legions of Eldaraigne and battalions from the armies of every country in Erith with their banners and gonfalons, the gay pennons unfolding their points along the breeze, this sovereign of a lost realm looked towards the wide lands opening out from the Landbridge and advanced steadily into Namarre.
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 136