The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Every day a Relayer of the Noblesse Squadron rode in with dispatches from Caermelor—communications about the fighting in the north and, often, snippets of Court doings in a note from Ercildoune.

  ‘I need to stay informed,’ said Alys. She looked daily for tidings of her husband. With equal impatience, Rohain awaited the incoming reports.

  The messenger would be seen coming out of the southeast like some strange bird, his cloak flying, to alight on top of the spindly Mooring Mast whose structure of pointed arches was etched against the sky. Soon after, the sildron-powered lift would begin to descend, carrying both the Relayer and the eotaur with its hoof-crescents unclipped and flying-girth neutralised by andalum. The ostler of Arcune would then hasten to take the steed’s bridle and lead it to the stables, while the Stormrider, pulling off his riding gloves and winged helmet, strode into the house, a butler or footman hastening before him to open doors and bow profusely.

  True Thomas of Ercildoune corresponded regularly, reporting on humorous Court incidents as well as graver matters from the strife-torn north, including descriptions of battle tactics, which Alys read over and over. The Bard wrote:

  The mounted archers of Namarre are exceeding swift, and they use this to great advantage. Their preferred tactic is encirclement. Even when we outnumber them, they are often speedy enough to surround our troops or outflank us. Aware of this, our commanders try where possible to elect narrow-fronted battlegrounds, protected by natural features of the landscape such as rivers and rocky hills. As additional protection, they keep ready a reserve force in case of cavalry attacks from the rear.

  Some days since, the first pitched battle was fought in northwestern Eldaraigne, not far from the Nenian Landbridge. The Luindorn Battalions were marching west in two parallel columns, about four miles apart, when as the first column entered the open fields it was assailed by vast numbers of rebels. In order to provide a secure base from which battle could be waged, the commander ordered his men to set up camp. However, the sorties and continual harassment of the barbarians hampered their efforts, so he sent out the cavalry to stave off the enemy, enabling the infantry to begin establishing an encampment.

  However the Luindorn Drusilliers were unable to engage the rebels in battle and were repeatedly forced to withdraw to avoid being cut off. The barbarian rebels successfully encircled the Imperial troops. Furthermore, our infantry were unable to hold off their lightning strikes and sallies without the Drusilliers beside them, so the Drusilliers gradually fell back until all our troops of the first column were close-packed in a dense and milling confusion, surrounded on all fronts by fast-galloping archers on horseback. Their position was grim. Defeat seemed inevitable, until at last, with a great blowing of horns and clashing of swords on shields, the second column appeared over the horizon behind the rebel forces. It was not long before a Luindorn cavalry charge shattered the Namarrans, scattering them to the four winds.

  ‘The Namarran scouts must have been careless,’ commented the Duchess, folding the letter and handing it to a footman. ‘On this occasion, luck was with the first column. It seems these rebels are not to be swiftly defeated.’

  ‘I remain puzzled as to their purpose,’ said Rohain.

  ‘They are rebelling against the Empire,’ explained the Duchess. ‘The Namarran population comprises generations of cut-throats and thieves who have been banished to the north as punishment for their crimes. They hate the judicial system that cast them out, and wish to take revenge upon the whole Empire. Theirs is an unstable society in which violence rules. Habitually they quarrel and make war on one another, until the cruellest and most merciless butcher among them claws his way to chieftaincy. But such victories are short-lived. As soon as any flaw appears in the dictator’s defences he is attacked, and the conflict begins all over again.

  ‘Plagued by so much strife, the Namarrans cannot prosper. They have come to believe that the answer to their poverty lies in expropriating the wealth of the Empire.

  ‘In the past they have never stopped squabbling for long enough to mount a concerted assault against us. For some unknown reason, they have finally joined forces, it seems.’

  ‘And still there is no mention of the role of unseelie wights in this conflict,’ said Rohain in troubled tones. ‘It seems as if the barbarian commander is keeping them aside, waiting for some significant moment to strike with full force. But why? And what hold could any mortal man, even a great wizard, have over immortal beings so antipathetic to the human race?’

  The Duchess shook her head. ‘Weighty questions,’ she replied, ‘and ones that we all ask ourselves often. As yet, no answers have been found.’

  Some three weeks after they had begun their sojourn at Arcune, there came, in the usual letter from Thomas Rhymer, a paragraph that the Duchess’s daughter Rosamonde read aloud.

  Unto The Most Noble the Duchess of Roxburgh, Marchioness of Carterhaugh, Countess of Miles Cross, Baroness Oakington-Hawbridge, also to the Lady Rohain of the Sorrows, Mistress of Arcune, I, Your Most Humble Servant Thomas, Duke of Ercildoune, send thee Greetings.

  Madam and My Lady,

  I send greeting and earnest desires that this missive should find you both hale. Be it known that following the discovery of the wealth amassed at a secret location in the Lofty Mountains and the apprehension of the culprits responsible for its treasonable looting, further questioning has revealed that members of a rival conclave were still at large. One of these, an Ertishman, ‘Sianadh Kavanagh of County Lochair’, also known as ‘the Bear’, was arrested yesterday in Caermelor. The felon has been consigned to the palace dungeons to await His Majesty’s pleasure, which may well be execution for treason …’

  ‘What?’ shouted Rohain. ‘No! It cannot be!’

  She rushed to snatch the parchment from Rosamonde’s hand but could make nothing of the runes and threw up her hands in despair.

  ‘Alys, I must leave at this instant. Via, pack my chattels, have my horse saddled—nay, the sky would be faster. Is the Relayer still here, he who brought this message? Does he yet take refreshment in the front parlor? I shall ride up behind him.’

  The Duchess asked no questions.

  ‘You shall have the use of Kirtle Green. Dobben, run and tell the captain to make ready to sail in haste.’

  ‘I thank you, but it will take some time to get her under way—I shall ride behind the Relayer!’ cried Rohain again, in agitation.

  ‘Their rules forbid it. Only Stormriders or the chosen of the King-Emperor may ride the skies. No need to wring your hands—the Windship shall be ready as soon as you are.’

  The palace dungeons were no worse than the cellars at Isse Tower. In many ways, they were better, not so damp and slimy. The passageways had been hewn of clean stone. They were well-lit and well-ventilated. Still, they were dungeons, and cheerless. Down here, all was stone and iron, fire and shadow, with little change. The slow decay of time was signposted by the various laments of prisoners who came and went. With keys clanking, the Head Jailer led the way, lurching, down the stairs and along a corridor.

  ‘Hurry, hurry!’ urged Rohain.

  ‘Rats,’ whispered Viviana despairingly at her back. ‘I heard them.’

  Rohain halted, aghast. ‘Rats? By the Powers, I detest them more than all the unseelie wights in Erith!’ She stared desperately after the jailer’s retreating back. ‘The guards will chase them off,’ she blurted. They ran on and caught up with the jailer. ‘Hasten, man!’

  ‘Beg pardon, m’lady, I’ve a crook knee. I’m goin’ as hasty as I can.’

  Fume and fret she might, but no more speed could be got out of him. The clatter of his bunches of keys preceded them, while the boot-crunches of the two escorting guards brought up the rear, ricocheting off cold stone.

  ‘Obban tesh!’ said a voice farther down the passageway. ‘Can a bloke not get some sleep in here without being woken by yer racket, ye doch fly-blown daruhshie of a turnkey? Come in here and I’ll give ye a right knee to match y
er left, ye sgorrama samrin.’

  ‘Sianadh!’

  Rohain rushed forward, shoving the jailer aside. With both hands, she grasped the iron bars of the cell, gazing inside. There stood a man, bootless, in a ragged tunic of bergamot belted at the waist. His hose were riddled with holes and his cloak of coarse woollen kersey was threadbare. On his head was a taltry, worn beneath a filthy chaperon that ended in an outrageously long liripipe wound under his chin and over the top. From beneath this headgear bristled a red hedge in need of pruning, for it had overgrown to cover the jaw. Scorpions, crudely drawn and almost obliterated by dirt, crawled across the hairy feet.

  It was indeed he.

  Rohain’s tears mingled with laughter. Sianadh stared, his blue eyes bursting from their sockets. For once, he was dumbfounded.

  ‘My lady,’ said Viviana, ‘I shall fetch some salts—’

  ‘No.’ Weakly, Rohain leaned on her maid’s shoulder.

  ‘A handkerchief, please. That is all.’ She wiped her face. The tears disappeared, the smile remained.

  ‘What have ye brought me, jailer?’ Sianadh had found his tongue at last, but it rattled hoarsely against his palate. ‘One of the baobansith? A siren to tempt and strangle me? Has hanging gone out of fashion?’

  ‘Go,’ said Rohain, turning to the jailer and the two guards. ‘I shall be safe here. Wait in the guardroom. I would hold converse with this prisoner.’

  Baffled, the yeomen warders bowed and obeyed.

  ‘You also, Viviana. Wait around the corner. I have words for this man’s ears alone.’

  As Viviana departed, Sianadh took a step forward. His eyes squinted, as though he tried to look at something so bright it was too painful to be directly observed.

  ‘What d’ye want of me?’

  ‘Ah, Sianadh! That is the second time I have ever spoken your name and yet it feels not unfamiliar on my lips—I’ve thought of you so often. I’ve mourned you. How came you here? I thought you slain—I thought you dead at the foot of Waterstair by the hands of Scalzo. You live! Yes, it is true! If you were some incarnation and not a real man they would have found it out by now.’

  ‘Who be you?’ His voice was rough with wonder and suspicion.

  ‘I am—Imrhien.’

  Sianadh’s jaw dropped. Then he turned on his heel. ‘Trickery,’ he growled, walking to the far wall of his austere cell.

  Her words tumbled out.

  ‘Not trickery. Ask me anything! What happened to the wormskin belt that you won at Crowns-and-Anchors in Luindorn? You unbuckled it so that you could fall out of the sky after we jumped off the pirate brig—now it floats somewhere above Erith. How did we escape the Direath? You fought it until cock-crow. What did you call yourself in Fincastle’s Mill? “My Own Self”. What colour were the gowns you ordered for me in Gilvaris Tarv?’

  ‘Enough! Enough! My pate addles. If ’tis in fact Imrhien before me, then by the smoking bones of the Chieftains, her face is somewhat altered and her tongue is making up for lost time.’ Approaching, the prisoner peered through the bars.

  ‘She was kind o’ spindly, like ye be. She looked as if she’d snap in twain, with naught but a pin to hold her two halves together. But she was a straw-head.’

  ‘I have dyed my hair, mo scothy gaidair.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is a long story …’

  The Ertishman stood with folded arms, shaking his head.

  ‘Nay. It cannot be. I cannot believe what ye say, ye a fine lady and all. Don’t be taunting a condemned man.’

  Rohain seized the bars again and shook them with all her force.

  ‘Listen to me, you stupid, pigheaded Ertishman. Question me about anything!’

  He eyed her doubtfully.

  ‘What is the name of my niece?’

  ‘Muirne.’

  ‘Ach, ye could have found that out. I have it! What did I, in the Ancient City when the unstorm came?’

  ‘You doffed your taltry. You stood by some stone dragons with your hands upraised and said, “I be My Own Self, and I be here, so look ye, I have gilfed this town with my mark.”’

  Bright-eyed and flushed with expectation, she looked at him. He returned her gaze with a strange one of his own, as if seeing her for the first time. His facial muscles worked in spasms. Very softly, he said,

  ‘Your face?’

  ‘Healed by the one-eyed carlin.’

  ‘Your voice?’

  ‘That also.’

  She held her breath.

  Beginning deep in his chest, a roar erupted. Sianadh collided with the cell bars at a run. Hurrying up the passageway, Viviana beheld her mistress embracing the prisoner through the grating, the latter still bellowing wordlessly. At the disturbance, other prisoners began to shout.

  ‘Chehrna, chehrna, chehrna!’ bawled Sianadh.

  Tearing himself away, he danced around the cell. Guards appeared.

  ‘Silence! You there!’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ commanded Rohain. Unmoved by the presence of his captors, the Ertishman continued to sing, dance, and leap into the air, which caused his liripipe to unwind and tangle around his legs.

  ‘Let this man out. Unlock this door.’

  ‘M’lady, we are forbidden to do that without a release signed by His Imperial Majesty. This man is a treasoner. He is to be hanged.’

  Sianadh stood quietly now.

  ‘’Tis greeting and farewell, ain’t it, chehrna,’ he said.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘My dear friend, you are as innocent as I. I am going to try to have you pardoned. I must go now but I shall soon return.’

  ‘Wait! Muirne and Diarmid—do they live?’

  ‘Yes. They thrive at Isenhammer.’

  ‘Ceileinh’s arms! Take them a message for me, will ye?’

  ‘And have them know you live, condemned? And let them lose you twice?’

  ‘Ach, nay. ’Twill be time enough for to clap eyes on ’em when I be out of this doch cage. No use getting ’em worrit. Get me out quicklike, chehrna—my throat craves a drenching with a good tavern draught. I’d rather not save ’em the cost of a hangin’ by dyin’ of thirst.’

  ‘I shall get you out, I swear it. Meanwhile, remember—there are two days you ought never to worry about.’

  The two young women left him grinning. As she moved off, Rohain said to the jailer, ‘Treat him well. If you do, you shall be rewarded. If you do not, you shall answer to the Duke of Ercildoune and the Duchess of Roxburgh!’

  ‘He must be pardoned. He must not hang.’

  Rohain stood before the Royal Bard, in a courtyard of Caermelor Palace.

  ‘And why? And why not?’ demanded Ercildoune.

  ‘He is a good man, a friend—he saved my honour, my life.’

  ‘He is a treasoner.’

  ‘As much a treasoner as I!’

  ‘Never say that, Rohain. I forbid it.’

  ‘’Tis true. At Waterstair—’

  ‘You took booty to aid you on your return—you confessed it from the first. It has been recognised as no crime. Say no more on’t!’

  ‘With what crime is he charged?’

  ‘The thieves we apprehended upon your advice, the men you call Scalzo’s—although we did not find one by that name amongst them—they indicted him. It seems that unlike yourself, he returned to Waterstair to pilfer from it. This advice was confirmed by the man’s own drunken boasting, overheard in a tavern. ’Tis not the first time a man has hanged himself with a tankard of ale.’

  ‘His boasts are empty. The thieves lied.’

  ‘You are determined to remain his ally. Yet I have seen this man. I cannot fancy him to be your sweetheart.’

  ‘He is not. He is—brother or uncle. Family.’

  ‘Since you and no other ask it, I will grant stay of execution. But only His Majesty can grant pardon for such as this.’

  ‘Then I must have audience with His Majesty.’

  ‘Impossible. He is at the fields of war, as you know.
’

  ‘And why should I not journey north?’

  ‘My flower, my very bird—you upon the battle-plain? Await His Majesty’s return. Until then, your friend, my fellow Ert, may live.’

  By the grace of the Duke of Ercildoune, Sianadh was allowed, chained and under guard, to ascend daily to one of the parlors. Rohain would converse with him there for hours, regaling him with food and drink to his heart’s content.

  She told him news of his family, after which, having sworn him to secrecy, she revealed all of her remembered past that her muteness had kept hidden from him. She had disclosed this history to nobody, ever, not even Maeve. He learned of the cruel ivy, Hedera paradoxis, and the callous denizens of Isse Tower, and her life as a servant. It was as if a weight had been lifted from her heart, to share such a burden of knowledge.

  For his part, Sianadh was tickled to find himself enjoying the hospitality of the King-Emperor’s palace, if only conditionally.

  ‘’Tis the life,’ he said cheerily, sprawled on a wolf-skin rug before the fire. ‘If I could get these doch manacles off I’d be the happiest man. Fortune’s smiled on ye, chehrna. But ye haven’t your past returned to ye, yet.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ye ought to try. It be important to know history. Kings come and go and some remain. To survive, a bloke must know what comes before and after. Things be not what they seem at a given moment. They be the sum of their past and the hope of their future. The smiling stranger may offer ye wine but has he just come from the house of sickness?’

  ‘How am I to find out my history?’

  ‘When ye lose summat, ye must retrace your steps to find it.’

  ‘Do you say that I should return to Isse Tower?’