The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Winches rattled. Screws rotated. The wooden fish figurehead seemed to leap. As the crew vigorously onhebbed the andalum hull-plates, the Royal Bard’s personal clipper began to rise, leaning her silhouette elegantly into the wind. For those on board there was no feeling of motion forward or upward—rather the impression that the Mooring Mast was leaving the ship and the launch-crew was sinking away below.

  Caermelor Palace dwindled. Spreading her canvas wings, the Harper’s Carp lifted like a long-billed crane through the clouds until she reached cruising altitude. After the first ascent there was no sense of height. The carpet of mist below appeared close and solid, beckoning the passengers to tread upon it. The Windship’s shadow skipped along down there, a trick of light-interference painting a coloured halo around the keel.

  Like a thimbleful of bubbles in the sky, the Harper’s Carp sailed north along the coastline. By Windship, this journey was almost nine hundred miles. By Seaship across the mouth of the Gulf of Mara the distance would have been considerably shorter. Ercildoune, however, had insisted that Rohain take his private aircraft instead of buying passage on a merchant Seaship, claiming it would provide greater security from eldritch assailants. For the Bard, who was busy with political matters and frequently closeted for hours in discussion with members of the royal council, she had contrived an excuse for visiting Isse Tower: ‘Court is become so dull of late, and I should like to behold with my own eyes one of the famous outposts of the Stormriders.’

  The captain had no qualms about sailing at night, and so they reached their destination in only four days. Late on the fourth day a jagged stalk began to grow from the horizon, enlarging until it became Isse Tower, fantastically tall, crowned with prongs, its dark shape cutting the sky in half.

  A brass trumpet blared—the watchman’s signal. Two or three Skyhorses circled like flies against the raw wound of the western sky. When the sea-breeze had settled, the winches began their keening. The Windship was onhebbed down to the docking stair on the west side, one hundred and twelve feet above ground level. The crew flung out lines. Slowly she was hauled in to her mooring against the Tower’s shelf.

  Once, a grotesque servant had fled from here—nameless, mute, destitute, despised. Now she had returned, Imrhien-Rohain, to the only home she could remember.

  As she descended the gangplank on the captain’s arm, a young man in Stormrider uniform greeted her. Hard-faced was he, with the predatory look of a vulture. His hair was severely plastered against his skull and bound at the nape of his neck, his taltry was brazenly thrown back. Here stood Lord Ustorix, Son of the House, the Chieftain’s heir, who had once been one of her tormentors.

  Ustorix met the arrivals with a deep bow and a calm formality at odds with his demeanor, for his gestures evinced intense excitement and the tension in his face betrayed a desperate covetousness. At his shoulder crowded numerous other Tower gentlefolk in black and silver, led by Ustorix’s sister Heligea, herself wide-eyed at the sight of this urbane newcomer.

  To the Tower-dwellers, Rohain appeared the paradigm of courtiers. Prudently, she had kept aside half a dozen costumes when she handed over her wardrobe to Dianella. She was dressed in a fur-lined houppelande tightly fitting to the waist, patterned all over with a stitched motif of artichokes and vine-leaves on a ground of dark blue velvet. Dagged sleeves sweeping the ground were folded back to flaunt undersleeves of gold tisshew on deep red velvet, tight to the wrist. Three aerial feathers sprouted from her fur taltry-turban. Her cloak of ciclatoune was fastened at the shoulder by a gold filigree agraffe. From her jeweled girdle depended a sharp-bladed anlace in a decorated sheath, a gold tilhal in the shape of a rooster, whose eyes were pink rubies, and a fringed aulmoniere containing a certain swan’s feather.

  Two rows of bowing Tower footmen in mustard-and-silver livery lined the corridor from the gatehall of disembarkation. Servants swarmed deferentially. The honoured visitor from Caermelor and her retinue were guided into a wrought-iron lift-cage. Ustorix stood near enough to his guest that nausea overswept her, caused by the familiar odour of his sweat and its past associations. Fighting her illness, she smiled at him, taking note of the way he trembled and flushed. She thought it an interesting effect, as though she brandished a weapon.

  ‘Of course, my father, Lord Voltasus, is in the north, fighting at the King-Emperor’s side,’ he was saying, waving a gloved hand. ‘I am master here during his absence. My lady mother is on a visit to my sister at the Fifth House, in Finvarna. Yet fear not, all has been made ready for Your Ladyship’s arrival, although word of your visit arrived but two days since. Pray pardon my boldness if I say that the messenger who delivered it neglected to declare that the visitor would be the fairest flower of the Court. He shall suffer for the omission,’ he added, executing a swaggering bow from which his visitor happened to glance away.

  ‘No doubt,’ he continued, ‘Your Ladyship has long desired to admire at first hand the strength of the Seventh House, the magnificence of Isse Tower, forever acclaimed in the accolades of bards.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Parochial, supercilious man! she thought. Do you believe the world has nothing better to do than drone endlessly in praise of Stormriders?

  ‘Be assured, Your Ladyship shall not be disappointed.’

  ‘I am certain of that.’

  High expectations are a necessary prerequisite of disappointment.

  The lift-keeper stopped the cage at Floor Thirty-seven, where Ustorix solicitously offered to hand his guest from the cage. Her hands, however, were occupied with lifting the hem of the velvet houppelande. She stepped scrupulously through the door.

  ‘My lady might wish to rest … shall be conducted to your quarters … obliged if you should sit by my right hand at dinner …’ The words tumbled out of Ustorix’s mouth like fried onion rings—well-oiled, pungent, and hollow. It appeared the Son of the Seventh House waged an inner battle that pitched his innate arrogance against a desire to present himself in what he considered a flatteringly humble manner. He bestowed a second lavish bow. His sister Heligea curtsied. With a brusque nod—she could not bring herself to make polite obeisance to this kindred—Rohain, accompanied by Viviana and a bevy of upper level servants, left them and entered her designated chambers.

  It seemed that the more she scorned Ustorix the more he adored her. Deference would have encouraged his contempt, but ill-usage attracted respect. He, like most bullies, must exist either as a boot-heel to crush, or a doormat to be trodden upon.

  At dinner Rohain shone like a peacock among crows—and the crows hung on her every word, copied her every gesture. They presumed that everything she did was the epitome of the latest mode. Of course, they said among themselves, she must be conversant with the latest trends—she had been dwelling at Court. What endeared her to them further was that there was no indecorous laughter from this fashionable courtier, no overt show of emotion to offend their stoicism. A complete model of detachment, she displayed admirable aloofness. Furthermore, she was wealthy, titled, and beautiful into the bargain.

  The Greayte Banqueting Hall on Floor Thirty-one seemed small and austere after the glitter of Court. Rohain scrutinized every dish, insisting on learning the name of the cook who was responsible for each. The dishes were numerous, designed to impress. Most she waved aside, barely glancing at them. Beckoning her maid to lean closer, she whispered, ‘I advise you to partake of nothing prepared by the hands of the cook named Rennet Thighbone. I know he never checks the vegetables for snails. He also cleans his filthy fingernails by kneading pastry, and spits into the sauces—and those are not the worst of his habits.’

  ‘Gramercie, m’lady. With gladness I take this advice.’

  ‘The masters of this place are unaware of it,’ added Rohain.

  Ustorix fawned, pouring out blandishments. He began intentionally addressing Rohain with the archaic forms ‘thee’ and ‘thou’, whose meaning had evolved from olden times to convey the close association of brotherhood, as between
high-ranking Stormriders—or an intimacy of affection, such as between lovers.

  ‘May I tempt thee with a slice of pigeon pie, my lady? The pastry looks interesting—spiced, I fancy, by the spotted look of it. Or perhaps thou wouldst prefer to taste of this dish of cabbage with, I think, rather charming raisins—or baked leveret glazed with quinces and a little of this excellent foaming sauce?’

  Rohain said softly to Viviana, ‘Tell Lord Ustorix’s page to instantly inform his master that it is hardly appropriate to address me with such familiarity.’

  The message having reached its destination, the heir of the House upset his wine in startled mortification, thus adding to his distress. Both he and the page blushed to their ears. Ustorix kicked the lad, sending him sprawling, and bawled a petulant criticism at a passing steward.

  The sauce foamed in its pewter boat. Avoiding it, Rohain sipped the fern-green wine, whose flavour had probably been beneficially influenced by the presence of moss-frogs in the cellars.

  ‘My Lord,’ Rohain remarked conversationally, turning the twin weapons of her glance on Ustorix, ‘the fact that Stormriders possess nerves of steel is well-known.’

  ‘Of course, my lady. As Riders we are born to it. Courage flows in the bloodline of the Twelve Houses. Howbeit,’ he added hastily, ‘an infusion of new blood may sometimes be of benefit, should it be particularly pure.’

  ‘As I was saying, the Stormriders’ unrivaled reputation for performing death-defying acts has achieved its pinnacle, methinks, with this latest rumour from Isse Tower which has at last reached the Court.’

  ‘The tale of my brave ride to Ilian during the storms of Imbrol?’ The vulture puffed out its chest. ‘True, many attempting such a hazardous undertaking would have perished, but I—’

  ‘No. The tale of the Stormriders who stood balanced on sildron, four hundred feet above the ground, wearing no flying-harness or safety ropes.’

  Ustorix afforded no reply.

  ‘Zounds, what a feat,’ expounded Rohain, warming to her topic. ‘We all asked ourselves, what manner of men are these? There is naught so charming as a man of heroism and bravery, one who can perform acts of great daring and remain icy cool. Do you not agree, my lady Heligea?’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied that lady, who until now had exhibited only bored sullenness.

  ‘One must indeed respect such a man,’ persisted Rohain. ‘One must adore him. Pray, leave me not in suspense—who were the perpetrators of this rumoured exploit?’

  ‘A couple of the servants,’ drawled Heligea insouciantly, before her brother could reply. ‘Grod Sheepshorn and Tren Spatchwort.’

  The knuckles of Ustorix whitened, like a range of snowy peaks. Gimlet-eyed, he shot a glance of pure hatred at Heligea.

  ‘Servants!’ Rohain smiled. ‘Well, if the servants are so remarkable, the masters by rights must be doubly so. I suppose ’tis quite a common feat among Stormriders. No doubt you practice it every day. Dearly would I love to witness such a valorous act!’

  Am I becoming another Dianella? Oh, but the vulture deserves this, and more.

  ‘May I watch you at this trick, my lord?’ Rohain asked sweetly. ‘It would be something to tell them, at Court.’

  Ustorix’s face had grayed. He cleared his throat, attempting a thin smile. The object of his adoration gazed at him expectantly.

  ‘Assuredly …’

  ‘Delightful,’ she said, raising her wineglass in salute. ‘I look forward to it. By the by, where are these dauntless servants to be found, this Tron Cocksfoot and Garth Sheepsgate?’

  ‘One of them enlisted. The other—well, I am told he joined the crew of a Windship,’ advised Heligea, who seemed to keep herself informed about all events both Below the dock and Above.

  ‘Was there not talk of some other servant,’ Rohain continued airily, inwardly remarking on her new persona’s ability to dissimulate. ‘A deformed lad with yellow hair?’

  ‘It is surprising how much talk of Isse Tower’s servants reaches the Court,’ purred Heligea. ‘One wonders how, since Relayers would hardly bother. Yes, there was once one such as Your Ladyship describes. I know not whence he came, nor where he went. Nobody knows.’

  ‘Unfortunately, there may be no time for the sildron demonstration,’ grittily interjected Ustorix. ‘I had planned to throw the Tower and demesnes open to my lady for a tour of inspection tomorrow, should my lady so condescend.’

  ‘Such an undertaking must prove diverting, but do not deny me, my lord, I pray you! I am certain there will be enough time for other amusements. It is not necessary for me to leave here until I receive word of the King-Emperor’s return to Caermelor.’

  And so it was arranged. Before her visit came to an end, the Lady Rohain would be granted the entertainment she desired.

  Keeping company with Isse Tower’s masters soon palled. After dinner, Rohain pleaded travel fatigue and retired to her rooms. There she instructed Viviana to go discreetly among the Tower servants.

  ‘Find an old drudge-woman called Grethet. She works on Floor Five, around the furnaces. There must be no fuss—concoct some story that I’ve heard she’s skilled at healing and wish to ask her advice, or some such explanation. And discover all you can about another servant who once worked here—a lad, yellow-haired, misshapen.’

  Shang harbingers prickled Rohain’s scalp as she stood in the doorway watching Viviana, gray-cloaked, flit like a thought to the lift-well. There, the lady’s maid rang the bell and waited. From the deeps, the cage could be heard clunking upward on its rails. The wrought-iron gates slid apart and Dolvach Trenchwhistle burst forth beefily, followed by a quartet of chambermaids bearing laden trays. On beholding Rohain, the Head Housekeeper came to a sudden halt.

  ‘Oh, er, my lady,’ she stammered with a curtsy, ‘I was just comin’ ter see if there’d be anything Your Ladyship might be wantin’.’

  ‘No. Only peace.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady. Very good, m’lady.’

  Dolvach Trenchwhistle turned back toward the lift.

  ‘Trenchwhistle!’

  ‘Yes, m’lady?’

  ‘Carry that tray for that little chambermaid. It is too heavy for her. I am surprised at you. At Court, we hear everything. I had been told that the Head Housekeeper treated her underlings as she would nurture the finest roses. Do not disappoint me.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady. Forgive me, m’lady.’

  Flustered, the Head Housekeeper blundered into a tray, knocking it against the wall. Half the contents spilled. She muttered imprecations. As the lift-gates closed, she crooned aggressively to Viviana, ‘And what might you be wantin’ downstairs my dear?’

  Rohain’s skin tautened. The air smacked of lightning. Her dark-dyed hair, relieved of the fur turban, lifted of its own accord. She was alone in her chambers in the Tower.

  Her door opened onto a wide passage, at one end of which stood a pair of high and narrow portals. She walked to them, pushed them apart. They gave onto a balcony with a dominite balustrade. Spoutings sprouted winged gargoyles, their tongues protruding. The cool night wind shouldered its way past, bringing a whiff of the sea that knocked at memory’s gates. Down below at the dock, the Harper’s Carp bobbed, waiting to return to Caermelor with the afternoon breeze, since it could not be spared from duty. The Greayte Southern Star winked like an emerald beacon gemming the horizon. It being the middle of the month, the moon was full. A silver note sounded from somewhere in the crenellations overhead. An impossible silhouette flew across the moon’s face—a Stormrider coming in from a Run.

  The unstorm travelled close in his wake. Rohain watched it cover the forest, far below, with tiny firefly glows, here and there shining brighter where a tableau pulsed. Isse Harbour was transformed into a carpet of gaudy fish-scales, green and gold. A real Seaship lay at anchor there. A ghostly galleon foundered off the headland, like the Seaship in a song Sianadh had once sung about a vessel caught in the Ringstorm:

  ‘If ye go forth into the north ye’ll see her evermor
e—

  The ship and crew so brave and true, do perish o’er and o’er.

  Outlin’d in gold from top to hold, each clew and spar and cleat—

  She founders ever and again in terrible repeat.’

  ‘From whence come I?’ Rohain said softly. ‘From beyond the Ringstorm? Could it be that I sailed from unknown lands beyond the girdle of outrageous winds, and survived?’

  The unstorm’s terrible splendor rolled by. She walked back toward her chambers but had not yet reached the tall doors when a disquieting occurrence took place, a jarring note in the paean of her triumphant return to Isse Tower.

  Almost soundlessly, out of the moonshadows, something limped rapidly across the passageway.

  ‘Stop!’ she reprimanded.

  It checked, for the space of a heartbeat, then backed away.

  ‘Pod—it is Pod, isn’t it?’

  A hoarse sob broke from a throat.

  ‘You! You back again! I told you to leave me alone,’ Pod gasped. ‘Go away. Go from here. You might bring doom on this place.’

  ‘You know me?’ She was incredulous. ‘But how—’

  ‘Yes, I know you. You used to live here. Now you have come back. Come back to bring ruin on us all.’

  ‘No, I have not—’ but she knew herself to be at his mercy. Pod alone knew her, instantly, when in her altered persona she had scarcely known herself. It lent him a certain power.

  ‘Grethet,’ she said. ‘Tell her to come to me. Prithee.’

  ‘Cannot do that.’

  ‘Why not? I shall pay you.’

  ‘I do not want your tainted gold. Anyway, the crone’s dead—Grethet’s cold in her grave.’

  With that, Pod limped to some hitherto unnoticed slot in a wall and sidled into it. Rohain called into the darkness after him but he did not reappear. Perhaps he was lying …

  Clouds ate up the moon and a rapid wind slammed the doors shut.

  ‘A rum and gloomy lot they are, m’lady,’ announced Viviana, ‘the servants here. All save three of them—the old codger they call the Storyteller, he’s all right, and there is a rather strapping strapper among them, by the name of Pennyrigg. He knows how to laugh, at least, not like the rest. And one little girl—she seems ever so nice—name of Caitri Lendoon.’