The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘Down the stone stairs beneath the lake he went with the rest of the departing crowd. Halfway along the passage he felt in his pocket, but the rosebud was no longer there. At this, terrible fear gripped him, for he guessed that the Faêran had ways of knowing about transgressions like his. He hastened to the Door in the cliff face, and passed through it, and all the jovial crowd with him. As the last guest made his exit from the right-of-way, a voice cried, “Woe to ye, that ye should repay our hospitality with theft.” Then the Door slammed shut and, as usual, not a crack remained to show where it had been.

  ‘But from that day forth, the island never reappeared on Whiteflower’s Day, nor was there ever again any sign of the Door in the cliff face. The Faêran of the Isle never forgave mortals for that theft. They withdrew their annual invitation and closed that Gateway forever. Thus was one of the traverses to the Fair Realm sealed, never to be reopened, but it was only the first. Later, at the time of the Closing, all the rights-of-way were barred forever.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Rohain.

  ‘Mortals have done worse than steal flowers from the Fair Realm. Some of the Faêran were greatly angered by the deeds of our kind. They wished to have no more commerce with us.’

  ‘And you say that these traverses were barred forever? Can they not be reopened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps it is for the best,’ suggested Rohain. Alys nodded.

  ‘Never say so!’ cried the Bard, now heated. ‘Aia has lost its link with a world of wonder such as mortals can only dream of. The Fair Realm was and remains a perilous land, aye, and in it were snares for the unwatchful and prison towers for the foolhardy, but it was far-reaching and unfathomed and lofty and filled with many things: all kinds of birds and beasts, shoreless oceans and stars beyond measure, beauty that is spellbinding and dangerous, gramarye both rich and strange, joyousness and sorrow as piercing as any Dainnan blade. In that Realm a man may have considered himself lucky to have roamed.’

  A lonely thread of music arose from outside in the night. Somewhere, someone was playing a reed flute. The thin piping in the key of E-flat minor jarred with Toby’s recommenced strumming in some major key. Eventually the swooping notes and trills trailed off into silence.

  The Bard said loudly, ‘Where’s that piment?’

  Two pages came hurrying in, one with a tray of goblets, the other with a steaming jug and a towel. The fragrant brew was poured. The trio at the fireside drank a toast to the King-Emperor, after which Ercildoune commenced his next tale.

  ‘If you wish to understand more about the Faêran,’ he said, ‘you must hear the tale of Eilian.’

  Rohain inclined her head.

  ‘Back in those olden times when the ways were still open, an old couple came to Caermelor from the village of White Down Rory, to get a maidservant at the Winter Hiring Fair. They saw a comely lass with yellow hair standing a little apart from all the others and they spoke to her.’

  ‘A Talith maiden?’ murmured Rohain.

  ‘Aye, a Talith maiden, brought low by circumstance. She told them her name was Eilian, and she hired herself to the couple and accompanied them to their dwelling. In the villages thereabouts it was customary for the womenfolk to while away the long Winter nights by spinning after supper. The new maidservant used to take herself out to the meadow to spin by moonlight, and some passersby said they saw the Faêran gathering around her, singing and dancing. Springtime came. As the days grew longer and the hedgerows budded and the cuckoo came back to the greenwood, Eilian ran away with the Faêran and was not seen again. To this day, the meadow where she was last seen is known as Eilian’s Meadow, although folk have long forgotten the reason why.

  ‘The old woman who had been Eilian’s mistress was a midwife, and her reputation was such that she was in great demand all over the countryside, but she did not get any wealthier, because those she tended were as poor as herself. About a year after Eilian’s flight, on a cold, misty night with a drizzle of rain and a full moon, someone knocked at the old couple’s door. The crone opened it and looked up to see a tall gentleman, wrapped in a cloak, holding by the bridle a gray horse.

  ‘“I am come to fetch you to my wife,” said he.

  ‘Suspicious of the gentleman’s exceptionally comely countenance and not altogether pleased by his haughty tone, the midwife was about to refuse, but a strange compulsion came over her. Despite herself, she gathered her gear and, getting up behind the stranger on his horse, rode with him until they came to Roscourt Moor. If you have ever been to Roscourt Moor you will have seen the rath they call Bryn Ithibion, the great green hill rising in the centre of the moor. Bryn Ithibion resembles a ruined fort or stronghold, crowned by standing stones, with a large rocky cairn on the north slope. When the midwife and the stranger reached it, they dismounted and he led her through the side of the rath into a large cave. Behind a screen of donkey’s skins at the farther end, on a rude bed of rushes and withered bracken, lay the wife. A smoky wood fire smoldered in a small brazier, hardly taking the dismal chill off the place.

  ‘When the old woman had helped the wife to give birth, she sat on a rough wooden stool by the fire to dress the baby. The wife asked her to stay in the cave a fortnight, to which she agreed; her old heart pitied the wife, you see, for the birthgiving had grievously worn and pained her, and her surroundings were shoddy. Every day the tall stranger, the husband, brought them food and other requirements, and every day the child and the mother grew more healthy and robust.

  ‘One day, the husband came to the old woman with a curiously carved little box of green-hued ointment, telling her to put some on the baby’s eyelids but forbidding her to touch her own eyes with it. She did as he bade, but after she had put the box away, the old woman’s left eye began to itch and she rubbed it with the same finger she had used on the baby’s eyes.

  ‘Instantly she beheld a wonderful sight. The cave had disappeared, and in its place was a marvelous paneled chamber, decorated in green and gold, fit for royalty. Instead of being seated on a wooden stool before a guttering fire in a brazier, she found herself in a high-backed, carved chair near an open hearth, from which a glorious warmth was blazing. Deep-piled rugs covered the polished floor, gorgeous tapestries adorned every wall, and a gold-framed mirror spanned the mantelpiece. Stifling her gasps of amazement, she crept across to where the lady lay asleep, no longer upon rushes, but on a featherbed endowed with sheets of ivory silk, the most luxurious pillows, and the richest of embroidered counterpanes. None other than the lovely yellow-haired Eilian lay sleeping there! The baby, too, who had before seemed a very ordinary little chap, was the comeliest child the midwife had ever nursed.

  ‘Even more extraordinary was the fact that the old woman could only see all these marvels with her left eye. When she closed that eye and looked with her right, she saw everything as it had first appeared: the rough stone walls, the humble couch of rushes, the crude, unplaned furniture, and the floor of beaten dirt.

  ‘Prudently, she did not mention her acquired faculty of vision, but while she dwelled in the cave she kept her left eye open during her waking hours, although it was sometimes confusing, and she must repeatedly wink with the right—and in this fashion she came to acquire much information about the Faêran.

  ‘At length it came time for the midwife to go home. The tall stranger took her on horseback to her door, and once there he pushed into her hands a purse bulging with coins. Before she could thank him he was up on his horse and galloping away. Hurrying indoors she poured the money out on the kitchen table. A hill of gold gleamed before her eyes, and in great excitement she counted it. Soon she realised she had enough gold to keep herself and her husband in ease for the rest of their lives.

  ‘What with her wealth and her power of seeing through Faêran glamour, the old woman considered herself fortunate indeed. Wise enough to know that having the Sight and the gold would put her neighbours in awe of her and cultivate jealousy among them, she said nothing about it to anyone. Be
sides, it was well-known that the Faêran would be vexed if any kindness of theirs was revealed to all and sundry. She even concealed her faculty and her fortune from her husband, in case he should inadvertently betray the secrets.

  ‘Sometimes in Spring she would see the Faêran lords and ladies in the orchards, walking among the apple-blossom, or in Summer dancing within grassy rings under the night sky, and once she beheld a procession of lords and ladies on a Rade.’

  ‘A Rade?’ interjected Rohain.

  ‘That is the term for a cavalcade of the Faêran, on their way to some entertainment, or else taking horse merely for the pleasure of the jaunt. The old woman would see them riding through the fields at dusk, with a gleam of light dancing over them more beautiful than sidereal radiance. Their long hair seemed threaded with the glint of stars and their steeds were the finest ever seen, with long sweeping tails and manes hung about with bells that the wind played on. A high hedge of hawthorn would have kept them from going through the cornfield, but they leaped over it like birds and galloped into a green hill beyond. In the morning she would go to look at the treaded corn, but never a hoof-mark was imprinted, nor a blade broken.

  ‘One day she happened to go earlier than usual to market, and as she went about her business amongst the booths and stalls she rounded a corner and came face-to-face with the tall stranger who had knocked at her door on that misty evening. Trying to cover her surprise, she put on a bold front and said, “Good morrow, sir. How fare Eilian and the bonny young boy?”

  ‘The stranger politely replied, with favourable tidings of his wife and child. Then he asked conversationally, “But with which eye do you see me?”

  ‘“With this one,” said the old woman, pointing to the left.

  ‘At that he laughed. Producing a bulrush, he put out her eye and was gone at once. She never saw any of the Faêran again.’

  ‘Fie!’ exclaimed Rohain, sitting bolt upright. ‘Another severe and brutal punishment for a small fault. After all, the woman meant no harm—she merely rubbed her own eye, and that without forethought or malice! Why should she be blinded so painfully?’

  ‘Terrible was the revenge of the Faêran angered,’ said Ercildoune. He swallowed a draught from his goblet.

  ‘The tale only serves to illustrate my point,’ said the Duchess of Roxburgh.

  Ercildoune laughed. ‘Alys views the Faêran race as through a black crystal,’ he said. ‘To each his own thought. Mine is the opposite view.’

  ‘Ercildoune would discover benevolence in the Each Uisge himself,’ rejoined the Duchess drily.

  ‘The girl Eilian must have thought well of the Faêran,’ said Rohain.

  ‘That is likely,’ replied the Duchess. ‘In the end, nonetheless, she was exiled from the Fair Realm for some minor transgression, and pined away to a miserable end.’

  ‘A harsh fate,’ said Rohain presently.

  ‘But you must not judge without knowing all,’ said the Bard. ‘That pining was not put on Eilian by the husband, or indeed by any of the Faêran—it was the inevitable effect of the Fair Realm on all mortals who entered it. No mortal could dwell for more than a short period within the Fair Realm and return to Aia without languishing thereafter, yearning ceaselessly to return, being filled with unutterable longing. The longer the stay, the fiercer the craving. This affliction was called the Langothe. Wilfred, bring more piment. Another story will illustrate.’

  The lynx on the cushion stood up, yawned, disemboweled its bed, and settled again. Its master began another tale.

  ‘Perdret Olvath was a very pretty girl who lived in Luindorn. Being from a poor family, she made her living in service. It is said that she was a girl who liked to indulge in flights of fancy, or romance, as some would call it. Conscious of her own comeliness, she was also rather vain. Pretty women have a right to vanity, in this gentleman’s humble opinion, but others would not agree. Perdret would take great care to dress herself as well as possible, in colourful, flattering clothes; she twined wildflowers in her hair and attracted the attention of all the young men, to the envy of the other lasses. She was also highly susceptible to flattery, and, being unsophisticated and without education, was unable to conceal this fact. If anyone praised her looks, her eyes would light up with pleasure.

  ‘Perdret having been without a situation for some time, her mother was anxious to see her employed. No positions were available in the local area, so she told her daughter that she must look further afield. The girl did not want to leave her village, but there was no choice. She packed her few meager possessions and set off.

  ‘She walked a long way, and everything seemed to be going well until she came to the crossroads on the downs, when she discovered that she knew not which road to take. She looked first one way and then another, until she felt mightily bewildered; should she choose some path at random or return home or stay where she was? Unable to decide, she sat down on a granite boulder and began in dreaming idleness to break off the fronds of ferns which grew in profusion all around. She had not sat long on this stone when, hearing a voice near her, she turned around and saw a handsome young man wearing a green silken coat covered with ornaments of gold.

  ‘“Good morrow, young maiden,” said he. “And what are you doing here?”

  ‘“I am looking for work,” said she.

  ‘“And what kind of work seek you, my pretty damsel?” said he with a charming smile.

  ‘“Any kind of work,” said she, quite dazzled. “I can turn my hand to many things.”

  ‘“Do you think you could look after a widower with one little boy?” asked the young man.

  ‘“I dote on children,” said Perdret. “And I am used to taking care of them.”

  ‘“I will hire you,” he said, “for a year and a day. But first, Perdret Olvath”—Perdret gaped in wonderment when she discovered the stranger knew her name, but he laughed. “Oh, I see, you thought I didn’t know you, but do you think a young widower could pass through your village and not notice such a pretty lass? Besides,” he said, “I watched you one day combing your hair and gazing at your reflection in one of my ponds. You stole some of my perfumed violets to put in your lovely hair.”

  ‘Seduced by his winning ways, the girl was more than half inclined to accept his offer, but her mother had trained her to be careful. “Where do you live?” she asked.

  ‘“Not far from here,” said the young stranger. “Will you accept the place and come with me?”

  ‘“First, I would ask about wages.”

  ‘He told her that she could ask her own wages, whereupon visions of wealth and luxury rose before Perdret’s eyes.

  ‘“But only if you come with me at once, without returning home,” he added. “I will send word to your mother.”

  ‘“But my clothes …” said Perdret.

  ‘“The clothes you have are all that will be necessary, and I’ll put you in much finer raiment soon.”

  “Well then,” Perdret said, “we are agreed!”

  ‘“Not yet,” said the stranger. “I have a way of my own, and you must swear my oath.”

  ‘A look of alarm spread across Perdret’s face.

  ‘“You need not be afraid,” said the stranger very kindly. “I only ask that you kiss that fernleaf which you have in your hand and say, ‘For a year and a day I promise to stay.’”

  ‘“Is that all?” said Perdret, and she did so.

  ‘Without another word he turned and began to walk along the road leading eastward. Perdret followed him, but she thought it strange that her new master went in silence all the way. They walked on for a long time until Perdret grew weary and her feet began to ache. It seemed that she had been walking forever, and not a word spoken. The poor girl felt so exhausted and so dispirited that at last she began to cry. At the sound of her sobs, her new master turned around.

  ‘“Are you tired, Perdret? Sit down,” he said. Taking her by the hand, he led her to a mossy bank. Overwhelmed by this display of kindness, she burst out weepin
g. He allowed her to cry for a few minutes before he said, “Now I shall dry your eyes.”

  ‘Taking a sprig of leaves from the bank, he passed it swiftly across one of her eyes, then the other. Instantly her tears and all weariness vanished. Perdret realised she was walking again, but could not remember having left the bank.

  ‘Now, the way began to slope downwards. Green banks rose up on either side and the road passed swiftly underground. The girl was not a little apprehensive, but she had struck a bargain and was more frightened of going back than forward. After a time, her new master halted.

  ‘“We are almost there, Perdret,” he said. “But I see a tear glittering on your eyelid. No mortal tears may enter here.”

  ‘As before, he brushed her eyes with the leaves. They stepped forward and the tunnel opened out.

  ‘Before them spread a country such as Perdret had never before seen. Flowers of every hue covered the hills and valleys; the region appeared like a rich tapestry sewn with gems which glittered in a light as clear as that of the Summer sun, yet as mellow as moonlight. Rivers flowed, more lucid than any water she had ever seen on the granite hills. Waterfalls bounded down the hillsides, fountains danced in rainbows of brilliant droplets. Tall trees in belts and thickets bore both fruit and blossom at once. Ladies and gentlemen dressed in green and gold walked or sported, or reposed on banks of flowers, singing songs or telling stories. Indeed, it was a world more beautiful and exciting than words could describe.

  ‘Perdret’s master took her to a stately mansion in which all the furniture was of pearl or ivory, inlaid with gold and silver and studded with emeralds. After passing through many rooms they came to one which was hung all over with snow-white lace, as fine as the finest cobweb, most beautifully worked with flowers. In the middle of this room stood a little cot made out of some beautiful seashell, which reflected so many colours that Perdret could scarcely bear to look at it. Sleeping in the cot was the sweetest little boy she had ever seen.