The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Abruptly, all argument ceased, for the two masters of land and sky and sea and fire had drawn apart. Throwing off their armour by means of gramarye, they stood challenge now in shirtsleeves and full-length breeches. For a time they stood, gasping, flinging back their long hair which was wet with the sweet sweat of their exertion yet fragrant as pine. It was a respite from their mighty striving, mutually admitted. Appraisingly they regarded one another, readiness to retaliate against sudden attack written in the tense lines of their stance. Morragan spoke fleeringly to Angavar in the language of the Strangers. Angavar replied in kind.

  Apparently by chance, Angavar had positioned himself facing Ashalind, to whom Morragan must necessarily turn his back in order to keep up his guard. In full view of Angavar, Ashalind’s hands gestured silently.

  Catching her eye, he nodded, almost invisibly.

  Many of those who looked on realised that some communication had passed between the two, but what it had conveyed they could not fathom.

  ‘False bitch!’ squalled Yallery Brown springing at Ashalind, but Lord Iltarien repulsed the wight. Before Morragan could glance back over his shoulder Angavar had lunged at him, uttering a wordless cry from deep in his throat, and with an answering roar from Morragan, the duel began anew.

  ‘What hast thou done, erithbunden?’ Iltarien cried, but Ashalind, her tongue paralysed by the gramarye of Morragan, could only shake her head.

  Then, penetrating the profound rumblings of thunder by virtue of contrast, there came a tintinnabulation as of sequins falling gently upon bells of glass. It had been approaching for some while before the playful breeze started up, darting between the storm gusts generated by the Faêran combat to snatch at cloaks and hems, to snip at hair, to stir the manes and tails of horses.

  The High Plain darkened further, and broke out in sudden, pricking lights.

  Pincushion stars glowed incandescent, fanned by the bellows of the unexpected shang wind, and Riachadh na Catha, the ancient Battlefield of Kings, awoke.

  Pale monarchs stood up once more to fight, their antique crowns and armour alive with a preternatural sheen. Once before, in recent time, the shang wind had swept its random tides across the High Plain. Then, Ashalind had walked out from Annath Gothallamor steeped in grief and taltryless, etching her image wherever she went—a ghost among ghostly warriors, a spectre to keep faith for her in unvarying repetition should the shang rise again.

  And risen it had, just now, at Angavar’s command.

  Sure enough, at this moment Ashalind now looked upon that ghost, the image of herself-who-was, walking away across the plain, lifting her skirts to step lightly over the stones. The simulacrum halted and looked back. Ashalind saw herself as others saw her, and was amazed. Her hair, shining like moonlight on bronze, swept past her waist. Ropes of pearl and sapphire were loosely braided through those tresses. Edged with miniver, her layered gown of lavender samite was richly netted in gold braid and seed pearls, the full sarcenet sleeves foaming with delicate white lace. And the face—an oval of flawless symmetry, of darling enchantment. A mask to hide sorrow.

  At that moment, Angavar glanced towards this evocation and cried out. Stunned by the passion of that cry, Ashalind felt three heartbeats pass before she comprehended he had called her name.

  Morragan, however, had responded instantly. He turned his head, looked straight at the shang image and faltered. It was only a blink of distraction, before he realised the vision was a sham—a hesitation so brief it took less time than a moth’s wing incinerating in a candle flame, yet it was enough. So evenly matched were these adversaries that one of them needed merely the slightest opportunity to slip past the other’s guard and drive the advantage home.

  A tongue for telling lies had not, after all, been necessary.

  Sianadh’s tale of Callanan, the hero who tricked the warrior woman Ceileinh with a similar ruse, had remained with Ashalind; had inspired her.

  <> she had signed to Angavar in the silent language she had once taught him in the forest of Tiriendor. <>

  A momentary suspension of commonsense had been sufficient to distract Morragan. Beginning to tire, concentrating solely on the tactics of swordplay, it had taken him the space of a fleeting thought to comprehend the truth of what passed before his eyes.

  Prince Morragan regained his judgement too late—by then Angavar’s blade had pierced his side. Blood trickled from the wound—not black in the moonlight like the blood of Men, but crimson, tinged with Royal blue. He staggered, yet did not fall. Angavar drew back, lowering his weapon.

  The Lord Iltarien uttered a shout. Seizing her chance, Ashalind fled from him, but scarcely had she darted forward when Yallery Brown had leaped up to drive his rat’s teeth and venomous talons into the flesh of her shoulder, biting to the bone, clinging to her like a steel trap. In agony she screamed, once, then Morragan was at her side. He threw off the wight, who rolled over the stones of the Plain. With an assured, cruel movement and supreme effort, Morragan brought his sword down and fulfilled his oath to Yallery Brown.

  A blackness fizzed and dissipated on the stones. A leprous cockroach crawled under one of them and Morragan set his boot-heel on it.

  With his right arm, Angavar gathered Ashalind to him. His touch went through her like a javelin, healing her instantly and obliterating all physical pain.

  But Morragan’s effort had cost him dearly. The violence of his exertion had torn apart the wound in his side. The blow of Angavar’s sword alone had not been ruinous, but the effort expended in smiting Yallery Brown severely exacerbated the injury. The blood that had been a trickle now gushed, and a look of wonderment crossed the Prince’s face; he, the immune made vulnerable, the immortal glimpsing the void at last, as fate came to meet him.

  He fell to one knee. His fingers opened and the sword Durandel clattered to the ground.

  ‘Farewell, lhiannan,’ he said to Ashalind, with the slightest and most haunting of smiles, which did not reach his grey eyes.

  The numbness lifted from her tongue.

  ‘Nay sir, pray do not leave us …’ she blurted. Words petered out in futility and hot tears.

  ‘Weep,’ he whispered, swaying, ‘for me.’

  The sword Arcturus stood up, shivering, where Angavar had cast it aside. Its point was stuck fast into the rock of the Plain. The Lords Iltarien and Ergaiorn, the Prince’s cup-bearer and all the chivalry of Raven’s Howe gathered around the Prince on their knees, their heads bent, silent. They had taken off their helms. The Eagle knights and the Royal Attriod dismounted also, and all the kindreds of beings upon that Plain bowed down. The upper sleeve of the Faêran King was slit open—a long red-purple scratch showed through the fine linen. Now he knelt by his brother. Morragan sank down further, until he lay stretched upon the ground with his head and shoulders cradled in the arms of Angavar.

  Softly, compassionately, the Faêran King spoke to the Raven Prince.

  ‘I cannot heal this wound,’ he said, ‘or any wound begat by my own hand. The blow was not lethal, yet by thy subsequent actions thou hast made it so. O, ionmhuinn brathair, mi cairdean, mi fithiach de cumhachd, laidir a briagha—dost thou recall the Fields of Lys? We fought and sported there, but never was the sport so hard as this. Alas, how pride has cheated us. Do not depart, I pray thee. Not before thou hast walked again with me upon the sward of home—’ His beautiful voice cracked. He bowed his head and spoke no more.

  The Plain glimmered like a galaxy. Slowly the warrior kings of the unstorm faded.

  Murmuring, Morragan spoke in the Faêran language and Angavar replied. Then the Crown Prince made to say something more, but before he could do so, his head fell back. In stark contrast against the coal-black satin of his hair, his beautiful face seemed chiselled of fine-grained marble, pale as paper. Still and silent he lay, with all of Erith still and silent about him.

  Once, long ago in the Realm of Faêrie, a chorused cry had ascended when the Gates were Closing, exil
ing Angavar and Morragan. The second time Ashalind had heard such a cry was when the Awakened Knights of Eagle’s Howe had appeared to do battle on the High Plain.

  Now a third cry issued from myriad throats, and it was hardest of all to bear, and this time not all of the voices were Faêran. It seemed to come from near and far, from high above and deep below, and in it was an anguish, a sense of loss past compare.

  From Angavar’s arms a huge raven flew up on wings of shadow.

  Empty-handed, Angavar rose to his feet and watched it fly away. The tranced stars went out in the shape of a cross and blinked once more alight.

  Metallic, frosty, gigantic shone the stars. It was as though the sky were a pane of black glass against which unnumbered comets had flung themselves, smashing pinholes from which glistening lines of fracture radiated like the spokes of wheels.

  Morragan was gone.

  A shouted order rang out from the lowlands, followed by the twang and purr of arrows in the air: a salute from the warriors of Erith. Ten thousand arrows shot straight up against the sky, hung poised at the top of their arc and rained down harmlessly, rattling upon the encampment. Then Ergaiom put a golden horn to his mouth and blew the ‘Ceol na Slán’—the ‘Song of Farewell’. At that music, even hardened warriors wept.

  Those serried ranks of fair and noble knights who knelt on the Plain remained on their knees. They paid homage now to the victor, the High King of the Fair Realm. All wights of eldritch also made obeisance to him, save for the remnants of the Unseelie Attriod, who were nowhere to be seen, for they had fled far away.

  Around the standing sword, where the blood of the Raven Prince had spilled upon the stones, there sprang now a garden of strange poppies with translucent petals like flames of white samite.

  ‘These flowers will multiply,’ said Angavar in a voice that rang across the landscape, ‘until they cover this stone table. All of Riachadh na Catha will become a garden. But I will banish the siangha from Erith. Never more shall they wander pathless, the winds of gramarye.’

  He took Ashalind’s hand, making a sea-storm of her senses.

  ‘Let us go from here, Goldhair eudail,’ he said. ‘Now thou must needs teach me how mortals grieve.’

  Farewell, black bird. Under the stars

  On silent wings, begin your flight.

  It seems a sudden shadow flees

  Across the night.

  Fly swift, black bird, on faithful winds,

  With rhythm strong, soar straight and free.

  Yet something wonderful and rare

  Shall leave with thee.

  Fly on, black bird, do not look back

  At those from whom thou must needs part.

  Thy wings thresh airy currents like

  A beating heart.

  Fly high, black bird—do not look down.

  Thy destiny is in no doubt,

  But somewhere in the world below

  A light goes out.

  And didst thou wist so many hearts

  Would go with thee?

  ERGAIORN’S LAMENT

  (Translated from the Faêran)

  11

  THE BITTERBYNDE

  Part I

  Faêrie, have my bones. Forever may I live,

  But of deathless years I vow that I would give

  All, to walk once more beneath thy singing trees,

  Else to glimpse again the jewels of thy seas,

  Or to breathe once more the wind that scours thy sky.

  Faêrie, have my bones, and peaceful shall I lie.

  A SONG OF THE EXILES

  Upon the back of the Skyhorse Hrimscathr, borne on the tumult of his wings, Ashalind rode with Angavar down to the encampment on the lowlands. For her, theboundaries between wakefulness and sleeping had blurred. In a drowsy suspension of awareness she thought she viewed herself from a vast distance, as though her movements were no more than images printed on a shang parchment while her real self hovered or floated elsewhere. But Angavar’s arms encircled her, and that was all that could be desired—sufficient to numb the senses and ward off all painful reflections, for the nonce.

  She leaned against him. Beneath the warm folds of the linen shirt his heart beat, slow and strong. Three rings shone on his hands, which rested, empty of reins, along her forearm. Any steed he rode would obey him without the compulsion of harness. Once, the ring-finger of his right hand had carried the heavy gold signet ring of D’Armancourt, but no longer—the Seal of the Fair Realm took its place now, marvellously wrought, set with jade and emerald. On the smallest finger of his right hand, halfway along, he wore the gold leaf-ring which Ashalind had bestowed on Viviana as protection—afterwards restored to Angavar. Twisted into a thin band on the ring-finger of his left hand, three golden hairs glinted.

  She looked up. Past the curve of his throat, the sculpted jawline, past the fall of hair the colour of ripest black cherries spilling luxuriantly down over his shoulders, shone the multitudinous stars of Darke. The sky was a sheet of polished silver metal, spattered with ink-drops.

  ‘My friends,’ Ashalind murmured against the susurration of the wind. ‘Viviana and Caitri.’

  The Faêran King inclined his head. His breath was warm against her neck, spice scented.

  ‘Cured of all ills, thy lady’s maid waits at the tents to attend thee. Hast thou mislaid the child?’

  ‘Caitri was spelled into a bird’s shape.’

  ‘Then birds shall send to seek her.’

  ‘The goshawk Errantry—he would likely kill a wayward fledgling.’

  ‘Have no fear of that, ionmhuinn.’

  As graceful as a swan, Hrimscathr alighted beside a booth of rippling gold sendal, pitched near the Royal Pavilion. With a sound like the rustling of poplar leaves, the war-horse folded the great arcs of his wings and allowed himself to be led away by an equerry. Angavar and Ashalind, accompanied by a retinue of officers, passed along an avenue lined by Royal Guards standing to attention, and entered the lamplit tent. Within walls glowing like the cupped petals of a great primrose, Ashalind was met by Viviana. Many were the tears of joy they shed as they embraced. They conversed at some length, and at last Ashalind asked, ‘What did you see that made you fall into such a coma in Annath Gothallamor?’

  Viviana could not account for it. Possibly the Faêran had tired of her and put the sleep on her, or else some of the wights did it, or some stray gramarye mesmerised her. It remained one of the many mysteries of the stronghold on the High Plain.

  Soon, exhausted by travail, Ashalind lay down to sleep on a fur-strewn couch, with her friend seated alongside. Angavar departed with his officers and passed swiftly among the Legions to heal the wounded as only he could heal, with the touch of gramarye.

  The interior of the tent was luxurious, furnished with a table and chairs of carven ash, a lectern of rosewood. Light tapestries lined the walls. At one corner, pieces of armour and mail hung on a stand, shining sombrely like dislocated seashells and spiderwebs ravelled. Awake now, Ashalind swallowed the last morsel of the meal she and Viviana had shared.

  She ached.

  Angavar entered. His courtiers waited outside. With a smile and a nod to Viviana, Angavar both acknowledged her and bade her leave. Wide-eyed, the courtier bobbed a curtsey and backed away, casting many glances towards Ashalind. Her flushed face and flustered movements betrayed her excitation as she darted out through the tent flap.

  ‘Quietude at last,’ said the Faêran King to Ashalind, throwing down his cloak. ‘Now we may compensate for much lost time without converse.’

  Lightly she touched his sleeve.

  ‘I must ask a boon of thee,’ she said, in pain.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘The Langothe consumes me—’

  ‘The Langothe, is it?’ He probed no further—merely, his eyebrow flickered. ‘That is easily assuaged. Look to me.’

  Her eyes locked with his. Long he looked at her with his Faêran eyes, grave and attentive. Deep and far off, a world spun behind th
at gaze.

  ‘Forget,’ softly he said at last. ‘Forget desire and delight in the Land Beyond the Stars.’

  And the Langothe, that bone-gnawing heart-freezing longing which had become so familiar it seemed part of existence, like breathing, was gone.

  Ashalind experienced a boundless sense of freedom, as if her spirit had become a swan.

  Angavar said, ‘Long ago, when we parted on the doorstop of White Down Rory, I was nigh to asking thee if ever thou hadst visited the Realm. There was that about thee which hinted of it. Yet I thought it impossible. I did not trust my own senses, did not believe it could be true. Would that I had asked!

  ‘Soon thou shalt unlock thy memory,’ he continued, ‘and next the Gate, that we may return to my kingdom, there to be wed among my kindred. Fain would I hie thence without delay, but my pledge to James binds me yet. Until Edward is crowned, I cannot leave Erith.’

  As though she had not heard him, Ashalind remained as motionless as a jewel cached in the heart of a mountain. Like a curtain, the Langothe had been withdrawn from her inner vision.

  All was now clear.

  Where the longing had ached, a picture opened. Here had lain the source of the pain—birth and death, the exacting portal, the wellspring of Langothe which had beckoned to Ashalind and drawn her relentlessly, calling to the very essence of her being, although she had not known it.

  A tall grey rock like a giant hand, and a slender obelisk leaning towards it, coloured as the lip of a rose petal. Both monoliths capped by a lintel-stone shaped like a doorstep. Near at hand in a granite hollow, a dark pool of water fed by a spring.

  ‘I see the Gate of Oblivion’s Kiss,’ she murmured, ‘etched upon the air.’

  At her side, Angavar abruptly stilled, as utterly as some wild creature sensing hunters on the wind.

  At length he said, in a controlled tone, ‘And the way to reach it?’