The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘I must find him.’

  But she had not been quite alone.

  One single fluke of fortune had at that very moment chosen to strike a man whom Fortune appeared to have cast aside. He was a vagabond, a cowled wanderer who lived each day, each year of his life on the borders of lunacy, tormented by fear. Hunted by minor eldritch wights that were held at bay only by his desperate trickery, he was also banished from the haunts of humankind. subject to a king’s warrant that he be arrested on sight. Once he had lorded it at the Court of the King-Emperor, wielding power with an uncompromising hand. Now he stooped, creeping like a shabby and demented beggar through the remote places of Eldaraigne. It was he at last who stumbled accidentally upon good luck. Finally, at the exact time and place that would best realise his vengeful dreams, he was there.

  This outcast was observing Ashalind from another shadow, spying from a distance, carefully noting her every move. He watched until she was out of sight. Furtively, he glanced over his shoulder, as if he expected pursuit. It seemed his expectations were well founded. Not far from where he stood, the stones—or the umbras of the stones—seemed to be alive. They were swarming towards him with a fluid movement, humping and lumping. Once they paused, lifting their heads as though to taste the air.

  The watcher glided swiftly to the place from which Ashalind had departed.

  The Gate stood open—wide enough that a gaunt man might enter easily, if he turned sideways.

  Which he did.

  As the tattered hem of his cloak disappeared, several of the bobbing, crouching rock-shadows flowed in after him.

  For a while, the rest of the spriggans snuffed about where his trail had ended. Then they too vanished, dissolving into the landscape.

  Ashalind stepped around the shore of the new lake that had formed during the unguessed span of time she had lain inside the Gate—formed, perhaps, within one of the subsidences caused by the quakes. How long had it taken for such a wide depression to fill with rainwater? And why were the rocky margins melted, as though from the heat of a volcano? She had no idea, nor did she care to ponder. One purpose only possessed and drove her—to find Angavar again.

  In the lee of a scaffold-sized boulder stood a stained rag of a tent and the blackened remnants of a campfire, unexpected and somehow grotesque against the clean lines of the landscape. It appeared deserted. The abandoned campsite of some mortal hermit could offer no succour, no evidence of her lover’s whereabouts, so she passed it by.

  For three nights and three days she wandered through Arcdur, drinking from its clear springs and streamlets, finding nothing of substance to sustain her, as once before. The land was broken and jagged. The split faces of the rocks were pristine—no moss or lichen had taken root, and for this sign she wept with thankfulness. Perhaps she had not been gone for too long after the quake, after all. Slowly she wended over miles, until her feet were bleeding, her knees bruised from many tumbles. Yet she met no living thing, no bird, no insect, not even a solitary Wight. Once, while she slept, there came a strange dream of fleeting beauty, and she thought she must have dreamed of the Faêran Rade at Hob’s Hill.

  At sunset on the third day, she glimpsed upon a distant hill a tower not built by upheaval nor shaped by wind and water. It looked to be a man-made edifice, yet its height was less than the towers usually built in Erith, not tall enough to be either a watchtower or mooring turret. If men had raised it, perhaps they dwelled there still. The sight gave her new strength and she hastened up the slope.

  Yet when she came at last under the shadow of the tower, she encountered neither mortal nor immortal—only silence and stillness. There was no sign of human activity, save for a few crumbs of mortar and clean chips of stone lying about the outskirts.

  The tower’s base was constructed on tall, open arches facing four directions. Grilles of iron covered them over. Peering into the gloom beyond the diamond-shaped perforations of these lattices, Ashalind made out a pale form lying stretched out on a raised table of stone. It lay quite still, as though unalive. The sun’s last rays slanted lower, piercing the dimness. They described a statue: a figure asleep on its back, the hands crossed over the breast. Roses of white marble were piled like ice crystals at its head and feet. Yet this was no sleeper—this was an effigy of the dead, recumbent upon a catafalque. The tower, then, was a monument, a mausoleum.

  Ashalind slumped against the iron trellis and as she did so, it swung ajar. She stumbled into the chamber of the statue. The gate squeaked once and fell silent again, resting on its hinges.

  There is something about the statue of a human form which draws the eye. The girl glided towards the catafalque and stood looking down at the tranquil face. For a moment or two she remained thus, before the significance of what she beheld penetrated her weary mind. Then she simply sank to the floor next to the plinth. Hours later, when darkness had long since covered Arcdur in velvet, she remained slumped there, beside the stone effigy, the perfect image of herself.

  The night wasted away. In the morning, the silence was broken by the clatter of hooves, the tinkling of bridle bells and the lilt of men’s voices. Two riders leading a packhorse climbed the hill. The men dismounted and entered the mausoleum. Soon they backed out rapidly, ran partway down the hill and halted, staring at each other in fear and disbelief, before drawing their blades and cautiously approaching the tower a second time.

  As they entered the open lattice they whistled and rang bells. They jingled their iron harness and muttered a few rhymes.

  ‘Sure and it’s the lady, no other,’ they said in hushed tones.

  Ashalind opened her eyes and asked for food, which they gave willingly after they had satisfied themselves that she was neither wight nor illusion. Yet they were still half afraid of her.

  ‘How came you here, lady?’ they inquired.

  ‘I came through a Gate,’ she said, as bewildered as they. The shock of discovering her own tomb had rendered her numb, light-headed, detached and uncomprehending. She must have wept during the night, for her face felt stiff as a mask of plaster, her eyes stung raw with salt.

  ‘What gate? This iron one?’

  ‘No. A Faêran Gate.’

  The two men exchanged another significant glance.

  ‘His Majesty must hear of this,’ said one. ‘Send off the pigeons, Robin.’

  Robin fetched a cage that had been fastened to his saddle bow. Painstakingly he wrote the same message three times on three tiny scraps of parchment. He tied them to the legs of a trio of pigeons and freed the birds.

  ‘Where is Angavar?’ she asked.

  Their grim faces closed, as though they had drawn shutters across them.

  ‘Lady, we shall take you to His Imperial Majesty, King Edward,’ they said guardedly, ‘but as regards all else, we will say naught.’

  ‘I do not understand!’

  ‘We think it unwise, m’lady. Our knowledge is limited; unintentionally, we might convey false impressions. It will be best if all the answers to your questions are given to ye from His Majesty’s own lips. We are merely servants sent to tend your—the lady’s tomb.’

  ‘Just let me know one thing only,’ she begged. ‘How long have I been gone?’

  ‘Seven years it is since the lady was last seen,’ they reluctantly divulged, still doubting their own eyes. Then they would answer her no more, despite that she pleaded piteously.

  The men gave Ashalind a cloak with a deep hood attached. They set her upon the best of the three horses, then led her through pathless Arcdur to the coast. A Seaship came to meet them and as they waited for the rowboat to pick them up from the beach. Ashalind’s rescuers bade her pull the hood up over her head and face.

  ‘If we are to keep ye safe,’ they warned, ‘your discovery must be known only to us. There be too many persons of doubtful character who might be interested in news of the whereabouts of a lady such as ye. We do not know who can be trusted among the crew; therefore, we trust none. Hide yourself.’

  Sh
e did not quarrel with them. It seemed, after all, a familiar thing to do.

  In fair weather, with a stiff nor’-easterly following, the ship set sail for the south. It had not long departed from the Arcdur coast when something happened which set the teeth of the crew on edge and started their spines crawling, and made them look askance at the hooded passenger. Some muttered that she had brought ill luck; others suggested she was some simulacrum, and ought to be cast overboard.

  What happened was this: the seas rolled calm and flat and the skies were clear, when suddenly there arose all around a sound like the sighing of many voices and a rustling as of yard upon yard of clean silk. With that sigh came a rush of air, and all those on board felt as if a throng passed close by, lightly brushing them with soft fabrics. The sun’s light mellowed to the colour of a rose in amber, tinting the sky and sea from horizon to horizon. The curve of every wavelet became a camellia petal. At the same time a fragrance drifted down the breeze, a scent of wildflowers so sweet and evocative it was nothing less than heartbreaking, and many of those who breathed it fell to their knees on the deck, sobbing. The ship surged forward on the crest of a wave and then the sigh passed with the strange light, away across the sea, leaving behind the creaking of the rigging and the slap of water on the hull.

  It was as though a lamp had gone out.

  After many hours, the flower scent faded.

  None could guess what it might mean, but all were certain of one thing: that after this, the world could never be the same. Neither did any man speak of the phenomenon, despite that it had touched all of them deeply, or because of it. But they suspected the passenger. To her good fortune, not all on board were common sailors—some were King’s men and Dainnan knights. They had pledged protection to the passenger and she was let alone.

  The ship sailed without further event to Caermelor, where it was met by mounted guards. From the harbour they carried the hooded girl in a closed litter, ever cautioning her not to show her face. The guards rode close around, but she peeped through the curtains of watered satin. The city had changed during those seven years. Gone were the Mooring Masts and the great Tower of the Stormriders. No Windships bobbed high at anchor.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ cried Ashalind, but no man would look around or give reply.

  ‘Keep within, my lady,’ Robin nervously admonished, tying the curtains shut.

  With all speed she was brought, hooded, before Edward. She found him in the solar of the palace, his knights and musicians and servants having been dismissed from his presence. Only a page boy loitered half asleep and overlooked in a corner, awaiting his liege’s instructions.

  Where a young prince had stood, now stood a grown man of three and twenty years. Edward’s glance was grave and thoughtful, weighty with significance. On beholding him, Ashalind threw back her hood. They looked upon one another and neither found word to speak.

  Edward reached out his hand. His fingers were trembling.

  ‘Sit by me,’ he said hoarsely.

  Side by side they sat at the tall window. Its arches framed grey clouds rolling in from the west, bringing rain. Dusk was drawing in. An owl wheeled past on wings as silent as thought.

  ‘Do you know how long I have waited for you?’ asked Edward.

  She nodded. Dread was an imminent flood, barely dammed by fortitude. ‘Seven years, methinks. And Angavar? What of Angavar?’

  ‘He is gone.’

  ‘Gone? No!’

  ‘Aye, Angavar and the Faêran are gone. We shall never see them more.’

  ‘I cannot credit it!’ cried Ashalind, in distress. ‘How can this be?’

  His eyes never left her face. He looked upon her wonderingly, as though for the first time. Gently, he took her other hand. ‘Do not fret, Ash,’ he soothed. ‘All shall become clear in due course. By the Powers, you are alive—you who I thought never to see again. How came this miracle?’

  ‘I was with Angavar. The Raven came and he followed it. I found the Geata Poeg na Déanainn. Fear drove me inside and I shut the Gate behind me. Time runs out of kilter in those marches, and when I stepped forth moments later, seven years had passed by. Prithee, tell me now of Angavar, for I cannot bear to wait another moment to hear tidings of him.’

  He told her this—

  Seven years ago, in Arcdur, the unseelie things assailing the knights of Eagle’s Howe had been defeated and the Raven had again been driven away. It was concluded, in hindsight, that Morragan’s presence in Arcdur—even in raven form—had exercised a pull on the unseelie lords, and with them had come other wicked wights such as duergars, and Nuckelavee. By ill fortune, Ashalind had become separated from her companions. When she had vanished, so it was thought, no trace of her had been left behind; nor was there any evidence of a Gate. For, when closed seamlessly, such Gates never betrayed themselves.

  Since the most powerful of the Faêran could not detect her living presence underground, above it, in water or in air, it came to be believed that Ashalind must be dead and her body devoured. Neither Faêran nor wight could discover any shred of her flesh or clothing. Her disappearance caused such an imbroglio of grief and dismay that the possibility of her having found and entered the Gate was not even imagined.

  The Gate itself was never found. A searcher might look for a tall grey rock like a giant hand with a slender obelisk leaning towards it, coloured as the lip of a rose petal, both joined by a capstone shaped like a doorstep. However, seeking a sight that has been described in words is very different from seeking that which one has seen with one’s own eyes, and in Arcdur, the land of stone and pine, such an edifice could by no means be unique. Among thousands of millions of obelisks and monoliths, menhirs and dolmens, their shades varying between granite grey, moss green and lichened pink, one more configuration becomes unremarkable.

  Nuckelavee had been found wandering near the place Ashalind had last been seen, and Angavar, fevered with searching, was certain the wight had slain and devoured his beloved. He asked no questions. In his rage he blasted Nuckelavee with such violence that a crater was blown in the rock upon which the unseelie creature stood. In later years, this cauldron filled to become a lake which some named King’s Revenge, a place shunned by bird and beast. Legends grew up that Nuckelavee lurked still in its depths, even though that was impossible.

  Angavar had told her that if she stayed where she was, she would be protected. He had presumed he would in most cases be with her, to save her from harm, and that if he were not, her bodyguards would shield her, else she would be in a safe place. Yet, as it eventuated, events had not unfolded that way.

  Possessed by terrible grief and bitterness Angavar cursed his exile in Erith, for he had lost both his lover and his Realm. He gave vent to his passion in several ways, one of which was by unmaking the power of sildron—the power which once had been his gift to Erith. All across the Empire, the towers and Mooring Masts, which had depended on sildron for their construction, now toppled. All the Windships came to rest like wounded doves upon the ground. Relayers no longer rode sky, and the Twelve Houses of the Stormriders were ruined.

  So severely hurt was the Faêran King that he went back to Eagle’s Howe and re-entered the Pendur Sleep, saying, ‘I love not this land any more. I will not wake in Erith.’ With him went Ercildoune and Roxburgh, and the family of Roxburgh, except their daughter Rosamonde.

  But Edward had a monument raised in Arcdur and it was inspected now and then by his servants, so that no stain should mar its snowy marble, and no weed should take root, or vine climb the walls.

  ‘And now you have come back,’ said Edward, ending his tale. ‘And I will tear down that bitter memorial that I may unremember the last seven years and be blithe.’

  Something was tapping or flapping at the window.

  She said, ‘But can it be that Angavar sleeps forever? The Gate is open again—I left it propped ajar. Where is the Coirnéad? It must be sounded at once, to waken the dreamers. All is not lost! The Realm can be regained a
nd I shall ride with Angavar to see my own family!’

  Edward looked long at Ashalind. After a time he said, ‘But do you not love me?’

  Startled, she said, ‘Of course I love you, Edward. You are as dear to me as my own brother.’

  A swift shadow of pale wings crossed the chamber.

  Unexpectedly, Edward leaned forward and kissed Ashalind’s mouth.

  As he withdrew his lips from hers, she remained as waxen and still as a doll.

  He smiled. She showed no reaction.

  ‘What is my name?’ he murmured.

  She hesitated, perplexed, then shook her head. His smile did not fade. ‘It is Edward,’ he said clearly, as though speaking to a small child, ‘and you are Ash, my beloved, my betrothed.’

  Behind the windowpanes, a white owl flew away.

  ‘Am I?’ she said. Her eyes were wide and innocent and empty as a new babe’s.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  For seven years the people of Erith had struggled to find ways to repair their way of life, which had collapsed now that the traditional lines of communication and trade had been severed. For the unmaking of sildron had affected everyone—peasant and lord, merchant and thief, baker and armourer, carlin and wizard, aristocrat and prince, child, woman and man. It was as though the bones supporting the nations had been taken away, leaving only the struggling flesh.

  After the Namarran wight-wars, followed by seven years of hard work and suffering, the people were eager to hear good tidings.

  Bells pealed joyfully across Caermelor. The King-Emperor was to take a bride, at last. Yet this bride was not to be the one they had expected—it had been deemed by one and all that the popular Lady Rosamonde of Roxburgh would become their Queen. Instead, Edward had chosen the Lady of the Sorrows.

  The known lands were rife with talk of Ashalind’s return. Famed for her beauty, she had survived seven years lost in the wilderness. The lady had endured her share of misery, they said, as befitted her name. It was a sorrow for her that he to whom she had first been handfasted (whose name must be spoken in whispers) had disappeared out of all knowledge. And ’twas a further shame the lady had endured such trials in the wilderness, for although she had returned alive, she was no longer hale. So fragile was she, she must be kept in isolation, tended by the King’s best wizards and dyn-cynnils. Until her strength returned, she was to receive no visitors nor step outside the walls of Caermelor Palace. But her beauty had not faded, so it was rumoured, and the young King-Emperor was greatly enamoured of her, to the dismay of the Lady Rosamonde, who, it was said, had loved him unswervingly since the days of their childhood.