The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  As for finishing a story—for me that is the hardest part. Finishing means losing the potential for change, forgoing the possibility of striving for perfection. This is when I have to discipline my natural inclination to go on forever, by reminding myself that a story is not written until the last word is down on paper.

  And even then—as you will see in the next title of the Bitterbynde series, the Special Edition of The Battle of Evernight—sometimes it just keeps going …

  Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Part of the original, handwritten manuscript of The Bitterbynde.

  Some original Bitterbynde notes and calculations, written on the back of yet more notes.

  THE STORY SO FAR

  This is the second book in The Bitterbynde Trilogy.

  Book 1, The Ill-Made Mute, told of a mute, scarred amnesiac who led a life of drudgery in Isse Tower, a House of the Stormriders. Stormriders, otherwise known as Relayers, are messengers of high status. They ‘ride sky’ on winged steeds called eotaurs, and their many towers are strewn across the empire of Erith, in the world called Aia.

  Sildron, the most valuable of metals in this empire, has the property of repelling the ground, thus providing any object with lift. This material is used to make the shoes of the Skyhorses and in the building of Windships to sail the skies. Only andalum, another metal, can nullify the effect of sildron.

  Erith is randomly visited by a strange phenomenon known as ‘the shang’, or ‘the unstorm’; a shadowy, charged wind that brings a dim ringing of bells and a sudden springing of tiny points of coloured light. When this anomaly sweeps over the land, humans have to cover their heads with their taltries—hoods lined with a mesh of a third metal, talium. Talium prevents human passions from spilling out through the skull. At times of the unstorm, this is important, because the shang has the ability to catch and replay human dramas. Its presence engenders ‘tableaux’, which are ghostly impressions of past moments of intense passion, played over repeatedly until, over centuries, they fade.

  The world outside Isse Tower is populated not only by mortals but also by immortal creatures called eldritch wights—incarnations wielding the power of gramarye. Some are seelie, benevolent towards mankind, while others are unseelie and dangerous.

  The drudge escaped from the Tower and set out to seek a name, a past and a cure for the facial deformities. Befriended by an Ertish adventurer named Sianadh, who named her ‘Imrhien’, she learned that her yellow hair indicated she came of the blood of the Talith people, a once-great race that had dwindled to the brink of extinction. Together, the pair sought and found a treasure trove in a cave under a remote place called ‘Waterstair’. Taking some of the money and valuables with them, they journeyed to the city of Gilvaris Tarv. There they were sheltered by Sianadh’s sister, the carlin Ethlinn, who had three children; Diarmid, Liam and Muirne. A city wizard, Korguth, tried unsuccessfully to heal Imrhien’s deformities. To Sianadh’s rage, the wizard’s incompetent meddling left her worse off than before. Later, in the marketplace, Imrhien bought freedom for a seelie waterhorse. Her golden hair was accidentally revealed for an instant, attracting a disturbing glance from a suspicious-looking passer-by.

  After Sianadh departed from the city, bent on retrieving more riches from Waterstair, Imrhien and Muirne were taken prisoner by a band of villains led by a man named Scalzo. Upon their rescue they learned of the deaths of Liam and Sianadh. Scalzo and his henchmen were to blame.

  Imrhien promised Ethlinn she would reveal the location of Waterstair’s treasure only to the King-Emperor. With this intention, she joined Muirne and Diarmid, and travelled to distant Caermelor, the royal city. Along their way through a wilderness of peril and beauty, Imrhien and Diarmid accidentally became separated from their fellow travellers, and also Muirne. Fortunately they met Thorn, a handsome ranger of the Dainnan knighthood whose courage and skill were matchless, and Imrhien fell victim to love.

  After many adventures, followed by a sojourn in Rosedale with Silken Janet and her father, these three wanderers rediscovered Muirne, safe and well. Muirne departed with her brother Diarmid to join the King-Emperor’s armed forces. Recruits were in demand, because rebel barbarians and unseelie wights were mustering in the northern land of Namarre, and it seemed that war was brewing in Erith.

  Imrhien’s goal was to visit the one-eyed carlin, Maeve, to seek a cure, before continuing on to Caermelor. At her final parting from Thom she was distraught. To her amazement, he kissed her at the last moment.

  At last, in the village of White Down Rory, Imrhien’s facial disfigurements were healed. With the cure, she regained the power of speech.

  Two of her goals had been achieved. She now had a name and a face, but still, no memory of her past.

  1

  WHITE DOWN RORY

  Mask and Mirror

  Cold day, misty gray, when cloud enshrouds the hill.

  Black trees, icy freeze, deep water, dark and still,

  Cold sun. Ancient One of middle Wintertide,

  Old wight, erudite, season personified.

  Sunset silhouette; antlers branching wide—

  Shy deer eschew fear while walking at her side.

  Windblown, blue-faced crone, the wild ones never flee.

  Strange eyes, eldritch, wise—the Coillach Gairm is she.

  SONG OF THE WINTER HAG

  It was Nethilmis, the Cloudmonth. Shang storms came and went close on each other’s heels, and then the wild winds of Winter began to close in.

  They buffeted the landscape with fitful gusts, rattling drearily among boughs almost bare, snatching the last leaves and hunting them with whimsical savagery.

  The girl who sheltered with the carlin at White Down Rory felt reborn. All seemed so new and so strange now, she had to keep reminding herself over and over that the miraculous healing of her face and voice had indeed happened; to keep staring into the looking-glass, touching those pristine features whose skin was still tender, and saying over and over, until her throat rasped:

  ‘Speech is mine. Speech is mine.’

  But she would discover her hands moving as she spoke.

  Surrounding the unfamiliar face, the hair fell thick and heavy, the colour of gold. Lamplight struck red highlights in the silken tresses. As to whether all this was beauty or not, she was unsure; it was all too much to take in at once. For certain, she was no longer ugly—and that, it seemed for the moment, was all that mattered. Yet there was no rejoicing, for she lived in fear, every minute, that it would all be taken away, or that it was some illusion of Maeve’s looking-glass—but the same image repeated itself in placid water and polished bronze, and it was possible, if not to accept the new visage, at least to think of it as a presentable mask that covered the old, ugly one—her true countenance.

  ‘I kenned you were mute as soon as you fell through my door,’ said the carlin, Maeve One-Eye. ‘Don’t underestimate me, colleen. Your hands were struggling to shape some signs—without effect. And it was obvious what you were after, so I lost no time—no point in dilly-dallying when there’s a job to be done. But ’tis curious that the spell on your voice was lifted off with the sloughed tissue of your face. If I am not mistaken you were made voiceless by something eldritch, while the paradox poisoning is from a lorraly plant. Very odd. I must look into it. Meanwhile, do not let sunlight strike your face for a few days. That new tissue will have to harden up a bit first, ’tis still soft and easily damaged. Tom Coppins looks after me, don’t you, Tom?’

  The quick, cinnamon-haired boy, who was often in and out of the cottage, nodded.

  ‘And he will look after you as well, my colleen. Now, start using your voice bit by bit, not too much, and when ’tis strong you can tell me everything; past, present, and future. No, the glass is not eldritch. Come away from it—there is too much sunlight bleeding in through the windowpanes. And there’s shang on the way—the Coillach knows what that would do to your skin!’

  Not a day, not an hour, not a moment passed without t
houghts of Thorn. Passion tormented the transformee. She whispered his name over and over at night as sleep crept upon her, hoping to dream of him, but hoping in vain. It seemed to her that he was fused with her blood, within her very marrow. Ever and anon her thought was distracted by images of his countenance, and conjecture as to his whereabouts and wellbeing. Longing gnawed relentlessly, like a rat within, but as time passed and she became accustomed to the pain, its acuteness subsided to a constant, dull anguish.

  Late in the evening of the third day, the howling airs of Nethilmis stilled. Maeve dozed in her rocking-chair by the fire with a large, armour-plated lizard sleeping on her lap. Imrhien was gazing at her own reflection by candlelight, twin flames flickering in her eyes. Tom Coppins lay curled up in a small heap on his mattress in a corner. All was still, when came a sound of rushing wind and a whirring of great wings overhead, and a sad, lonely call.

  Quickly, Maeve roused and looked up. She muttered something.

  Not long afterward, a soft sound could be heard outside the cottage, like a rustling of plumage. Maeve lifted the lizard down to the hearthrug and went to open the door. A girl slipped in silently and remained in the shadows with the carlin. Her face glimmered pale, her gown and the long fall of hair were jet black. She wore a cloak of inky feathers, white-scalloped down the front. A long red jewel shone, bright as fresh blood, on her brow. Maeve spoke with her, in low tones that could not be overheard, then began to busy herself with preparations, laying out bandages and pots on the table.

  The carlin’s activities were hidden in the gloom beyond the firelight, but a sudden, whistling, inhuman cry of pain escaped the newcomer, waking Tom Coppins. Maeve had set straight a broken limb and was now binding it with splints. When all was finished, the swanmaiden lay quivering in the farthest corner from the fire, hidden beneath the folds of her feather-cloak.

  ‘Pallets everywhere,’ muttered Maeve, leaving the dirty pots on the table. ‘I shall have to take a bigger cottage next year.’

  ‘You heal creatures of eldritch, madam?’ Imrhien’s voice was still soft, like the hissing of the wind through heather.

  ‘Hush. Do not speak thus, when such a one is nigh. I heal who I can where and when I am able. It is a duty of my calling—but by no means the beginning and end of it.’ Maeve fingered the brooch at her shoulder; silver, wrought in the shape of an antlered stag. ‘Carlin are not merely physicians to humankind. The Coillach Gairm is the protectress of all wild things, in particular the wild deer. We who receive our knowledge from her, share her intention. Our principal purpose is the welfare of wild creatures. To protect and heal them is our mandate—care of humans is a secondary issue. Go to bed.’

  ‘I have another affliction. You are powerful—mayhap you can help me. Beyond a year or two ago, I have no memory of my past.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I suspected as much. Do you think I haven’t been scratching my head about that? But it’s a doom laid on you by something far stronger than I, and beyond my power to mend. For the Coillach’s sake, come away from the mirror and go to bed. You’re wearing out my glass. Don’t go near her, that feathered one—she is afraid of most people, as they all are, with good reason.’

  The saurian jumped back onto the carlin’s lap. She scratched its upstanding dorsal plates as it circled a couple of times before settling.

  ‘I would have liked something less armoured and more furry,’ she murmured, looking down at it, ‘but bird-things would not come near, if I had a cat. Besides, Fig gave me no choice. He chose me.’

  It was difficult to sit still inside the house of the Carlin, within walls, and to know that Thorn walked in Caermelor, in the Court of the King-Emperor. Now the renewed damsel was impatient to be off to the gates of the Royal City. At the least, she might join the ranks of Thorn’s admirers, bringing a little self-respect with her. She might exist near him, simultaneously discharging the mission she had taken upon herself at Gilvaris Tarv: to reveal to the King-Emperor the existence of the great treasure and—it was to be hoped—to set into motion a chain of events that would lead to the downfall of those who had slain Sianadh, Liam, and the other brave men of their expedition.

  Maeve, however, was not to be swayed.

  ‘You shall not leave here until the healing is complete. Think you that I want to see good work ruined? Settle down. You’re like a young horse champing at the bit. Even Fig’s getting ruffled.’

  The lizard, dozing fatly by the fire, adeptly hid its agitation. In the shadows the swanmaiden stirred and sighed.

  Three days stretched to five, then six. The weather raged again, battering at the walls of the cottage.

  At nights a nimble bruney would pop out from somewhere when it thought the entire household asleep, and do all the housework in the two-roomed cot with amazing speed, quietness, and efficiency. Under Maeve’s instructions the girl feigned sleep if she happened to waken and spy it. Its clothes were tattered and its little boots worn and scuffed. When it had finished, it drank the milk set out for it, ate the bit of oatcake, and disappeared again, leaving everything in a state of supernatural perfection.

  Tom Coppins, the quiet lad with great dark eyes, was both messenger and student to the carlin, performing errands that took him from the house, aiding her in preparing concoctions or helping her treat the ailments and vexations of the folk who beat a path to her door; everything from gangrene and whooping cough to butterchurns in which the butter wouldn’t ‘come’, or a dry cow, or warts. Someone asked for a love potion and went away empty-handed but with a stinging earful of sharp advice. From time to time Maeve would go outside to where her staff was planted in the ground and come back carrying leaves or fruit plucked from it—potent cures. Or she would tramp out into the woods and not return for hours.

  More and more, the carlin allowed Imrhien to wield her voice; it was exhilarating to converse freely; such a joy, as if the bird of speech had been liberated from an iron cage. Little by little she told her story, omitting—from a sense of privacy if not shame for having been so readily smitten—her passion for Thorn.

  When the tale had been recounted, the old woman sat back in her chair, rocking and knitting. (‘I like to be busy with my hands,’ she had said. ‘And it sets folk at ease to see an old woman harmlessly knitting. Mind you, my needles are anything but harmless!’)

  ‘An interesting tale, even if you have left out part of it,’ Maeve commented. Her patient felt herself blush. Maeve’s perceptiveness was disconcerting. ‘So now you still have three wishes, eh? Isn’t that right? That’s how it usually goes—yan, tan, tethera. No, there is no need to reply. You wish for a history, a family, and something more—I see it in your eyes. Mark you—remember the old saw, Be careful what you wish for, lest—’

  ‘Lest what?’

  ‘Lest it comes true.’

  The carlin completed a row of knitting and swapped the needles from hand to hand.

  ‘Now listen,’ she continued. ‘I do not know who you are or how to get your memories back, but I do ken that this house, since five days ago, is being watched.’

  ‘Watched? What can you mean?’

  ‘I mean, spied upon by spies who do not know they have been spied. And since they began their enterprise not long after you arrived, I deduce that it is you they are after. Nobody gets past my door without my allowing it—the world knows that. Therefore, these observers must be waiting for you to come out. What think you of that, eh? Are they friends of yours, wanting to protect you, or are they enemies?’

  It was like a sudden dousing in icy water. All that had happened to Imrhien since her arrival at the carlin’s house had driven out thoughts of pursuers. Now the recent past caught up with a jarring swiftness. These spies might be henchmen of the wizard, the slandered charlatan Korguth the Jackal—but more likely they were Scalzo’s men who had somehow tracked her down. She had been traced right to the carlin’s door! If they had come this far, across Eldaraigne in search of her, or if they had sent word of her approach by Relayer to accomplic
es in Caermelor or even at the Crown and Lyon Inn, then it was obvious they were determined to catch her before she went to the King-Emperor explaining her detailed knowledge of Waterstair’s location. Danger threatened. Desperate men might resort to desperate methods to prevent her from reaching the Royal City.

  The carlin’s eye was fixed intently upon her guest.

  ‘How do you estimate these watchers? Take care with your reply. A false decision might bring disaster. What comes next depends on what you say now. Your tongue is new to you. Use it wisely.’

  ‘I think they are evil men,’ the girl replied slowly, ‘men who wish me ill; brigands led by one called Scalzo, from Gilvaris Tarv, who slew my friends. They will try to stop me from reaching the Court.’

  ‘That may be the case. I am not in a position to judge. If ’tis true, then it is perilous for you to depart from here unprotected. With this in mind I have already asked my patient Whithiue to lend you her feather-cloak so that you might fly out in the guise of a swan and send the cloak back later. She would not hear of it of course, but it was worth a try—she and her clan owe me many favours. Yet I have another plan. If those who watch are your enemies, then they will know you chiefly by your hair and by your name. My advice is this—when you set out for the Royal City, go not as Imrhien Goldenhair. Go as another.’

  The needles clattered. A ball of yarn unrolled. The lizard watched it with the look of a beast born to hunt but restrained by overpowering ennui.

  ‘Change my name?’

  ‘Well, ’tis not your name, is it? ’Tis only a kenning given you. One kenning is as good as another. I’ll think of something suitable to replace it, given time. But you cannot go to Court with that hair and not be noticed. By the Coillach, colleen, know you how rarely the Talith are seen? Only one of that kindred resides at Court—Maiwenna, a cousin of the long-defunct Royal Family of Avlantia. In all the lands, there are so few human beings of your colouring that they are always remarked upon. Feohrkind nobles can rinse their tresses in the concoctions of carlins and wizards and dye-mixers as often as they like, but they can never copy Talith gold. Their bleached heads are like clumps of dead grass. No, if you want to mingle unmarked, you must change the colour of your hair as well as your kenning. And for good measure, go as a recently bereaved widow and keep that face covered.’