The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘The daughter of the Keeper of the Keys.’

  ‘How clever is my lady, to know all the names of the servants!’

  ‘The yellow-haired lad—what did they say about him?’

  ‘Where he came from and where he has gone are mysteries.’

  ‘What did you find out about Grethet?’

  ‘Why, she died, they told me. That’s all they said.’

  Rohain fell silent. Eventually, she sighed. She must not reveal her grief. Inwardly she was crying, aching for the sake of the old woman who had roughly nurtured her, and who had been the last possible link to her old life.

  ‘’Tis late, my lady,’ said Viviana gently. ‘Oughtn’t you to be abed?’

  ‘I suppose so. You were long away, Via, what else did you hear?’

  ‘Well, the Storyteller, he told a couple of wondrous interesting tales. I could not help listening. He has a way with him; he reels his listeners in like fishes, so to speak.’

  ‘Yes. Maybe that old Grethet had a story too. It will never be told now.’

  The tidings of Grethet’s demise caused Rohain to despair about her future. What course should she choose now? She could not return to Caermelor or Arcune. In the absence of any other plans she resolved to remain at Isse Tower until inspiration or opportunity should present itself.

  They walked in the demesnes: Rohain, Ustorix, Viviana, the captain and first mate of the Harper’s Carp, numerous hangers-on and attendants, and the disconsolate Heligea dressed in black with silver buttons. The solemn shadow of the Tower unrolled itself across the Road and fell into the Harbour. Gulls scourged a cloudridden sky.

  At Rohain’s side, Ustorix raved grandiosely. ‘These are the hattocking-circuits, m’lady of the Sorrows,’ he proclaimed, giving an expansive wave. ‘Smithy and stables are over that way. All that you can see is under my sway. Isse is the keystone of the entire Relay network, and without the network the Kingdom grinds to a halt, the Empire stalls.

  ‘Yeoman Riders, operating at an altitude of three hundred feet, are the younger Sons of the House. They ride for us on miscellaneous errands, or Relay for simple folk with urgent personal messages and enough coin scraped together to pay the fee. The largest squadron, the Regimental, makes its runs at four hundred feet. These are the mercantile wings. They Relay for wealthy merchants, who lavish upon them the appropriate deference and reimbursement, being dependent on our goodwill.’ He turned eagerly to Rohain. ‘Knowledge is power,’ he proclaimed, as though he had invented the phrase. The merchant who learns of enterprises early might send his own ships ahead to catch his rivals’ trade. He who is blessed with first tidings of a shortage might buy up that commodity before prices rise!’

  Absently, Rohain acknowledged his words.

  ‘The Noblesse Squadron, of course,’ he ranted, ‘rides sky for the peers of the realm—their assigned altitude of five hundred feet is second only to the fastest and highest ranked, the Royals, also known as the King’s Emissaries, who are entrusted with state business.’

  Rohain stifled a yawn.

  ‘Would my lady like to see the ornamental gardens?’ suggested Heligea halfheartedly, diverting attention from her brother.

  The visitor’s eyes had meanwhile alighted elsewhere. ‘For what purpose are those long buildings roofed with slate tiles?’

  ‘They are the workshops of our wizard,’ smoothly replied Heligea, ‘Zimmuth, who was introduced to my lady at dinner. Most dull and cluttered are his sheds. Now, the gardens—’

  ‘Let us visit the workshops.’

  The interior of Zimmuth’s main lair was grossly cluttered. Springs, alembics, coils of copper tubing, buckled sheets of metal, gear systems both rack-and-pinion and epicyclic, pendulums, levers, cams, cranks, differentials, bearings, pulleys, assorted tools, and stone jars containing alkahest and corrosive substances crowded every horizontal surface. The well-thumbed pages of a couple of ephemerides flapped weakly, held down by embossed leather bookmarks. Magnetic compasses, theodolites, telescopes, and pocket sundials had been shoved arbitrarily into worn wooden cases with specially shaped satin-lined compartments. Constructions resembling metal innards ticked and whirred. An impossibly configured planetarium dangled from the roof-beams, hitting the heads of all who passed under it. In one corner a clock struck fifteen and fell over with a sproing.

  Men in skullcaps, with stained taltries and disfigured faces, hammered and filed and sawed. Zimmuth waxed enthusiastic, buzzing like an obsessed bee.

  ‘The sildron hoister project is over here,’ he spouted, ‘a new and more efficient lift system. And here is a modern skimmer being built. We had another but it blew asunder in the end. You understand, sildron and andalum will not bind to any other metal—these types of rotors tend to fly apart eventually, like the propellers of Windships. There is inherent instability. And yet I predict that every Tower shall have one someday. And over there, we are developing an improved andalum girth for eotaurs, to make the onhebbing easier.’

  ‘Wizard.’

  Zimmuth broke off his monologue. ‘Er, yes—um?’ Already he had forgotten the visitor’s name.

  Rohain idly flicked a scrap of iron off a bench. It rang dully on the raddled flagstones.

  ‘Fashion a sildron-powered butterchurn,’ she suggested.

  ‘What?’ Uncouthly, the wizard gaped.

  ‘And try your hand at designing a powered spinning-wheel, or better still, a loom.’

  He scratched his matted beard. An earwig dropped out. ‘But what’s the point of it? I mean, that is women-servants’ work.’

  ‘Precisely. Facilitating it would give the women more time.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Other things.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But they do not know how to do other things.’

  ‘Such as building precondemned vehicles out of incompatible materials? Doubtless they could work it out if they had time to try, and the inclination.’

  The wizard had already transferred his attention away from her words. He sucked on his teeth, then jabbed a finger in the air.

  ‘A butterchurn. Yes! It can be done.’ Like a blinkered horse he trotted away, summoning his henchmen.

  ‘My lady sows interesting ideas,’ commented Heligea as the party of gentlefolk moved out of the workshops and toward the gardens. Musingly she twisted her beaded taltry-strings.

  ‘I have heard tell of another, here at Isse, who dabbles in the Arts,’ said Rohain. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘A false rumour,’ interjected Ustorix. ‘No one here is acquainted with wizardry save Zimmuth.’

  ‘That will be Mortier,’ said Heligea deliberately contradicting her brother, to his chagrin. ‘He used to be Master at Swords.’

  ‘No longer?’

  ‘No. You see, m’lady, he used to try to transact with wights, outside the demesnes. He thought they would give him power over the unstorm.’

  ‘Heligea!’ Ustorix rapped.

  ‘One day he was out in the forest’ with some servants who were a-gathering,’ his sister went on blandly, ‘and—’

  ‘We are now come to the gardens,’ pompously interrupted her brother. A footman ran to open the gate and, bowing, stood aside to let them enter.

  ‘And the unstorm came,’ persevered Heligea.

  ‘Be silent, chit, or you will answer to me!’

  ‘My lord Ustorix, pray allow dear Heligea to continue,’ reproved Rohain. In the Stormrider’s neck, the tendons popped.

  ‘Well,’ said Heligea, breaking off a woody stem of poplar and using it to idly thrash its mother tree, ‘our good Master Mortier took fright at being caught by the unstorm in the open. He ran away.’

  The party strolled down a gravel path between uninspiringly leafless hedges. Heligea prodded moodily with her whip-stalk at the groin of a skeletal rosebush, avoiding the furious glare of her brother.

  ‘We sent out searchers, of course,’ she went on, ‘and we finally found him. But it was vile.’

  ‘What had h
appened?’

  ‘We saw his boots first, dangling some way off the ground, swinging slightly. His feet were in them. He was hanging high on a Barren Holly, strung up cruelly on its branches. We cut him down—a wind sprang up as we did so—how the Holly thrashed and hissed!’

  ‘Nay!’ exclaimed Rohain in horror and disbelief.

  ‘He was still alive when we cut him down,’ blithely said young Heligea. ‘He survived, but he could not speak. His throat was ruined, from hanging there. In truth, his mind was deranged too. He could not teach swordsmanship anymore, but when he recovered partially he took to hammering late at nights at some invention he was working on in his chambers. One night as he was working away with only his servant nigh, his rushlight suddenly blew out and the hammer was knocked from his hand. When the servant managed to kindle a light he found Master Mortier pinned to his bench by his own hands. His fingers had to be forced apart to prise him off. After that he lost the use of his hands entirely. Now he has to be fed through a straw. He sits and does nothing. His hair drops out from his scalp until he is smooth and moist. He is no better than a great slug.’

  The skycaptain and the first mate laughed boorishly. ‘A sluggard, no less!’ they joked.

  ‘Cry pity!’ gasped Viviana, grimacing.

  Her mistress shuddered. She felt the hairs rise on her scalp and recalled with misgivings a curse she had once mouthed at the Master at Swords.

  A strung-out note pierced the sky from high above. Prim Heligea craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the incoming Stormrider.

  ‘I must be informed at once if that Relayer brings word from the Royal City,’ said Rohain.

  But from Caermelor there came no tidings.

  Rohain felt uneasy. Like a sticky cobweb, a restless melancholy settled over her. It seemed that all plans, all hopes, had come to a standstill. Sianadh sat alone in a cell, the shadow of a rope falling across his neck. She, Rohain so-called, stood un-alone in a tower, the thorn of hopeless passion piercing her heart, the burden of a friend’s life weighing heavily on her shoulders, while the picture she had so foolishly allowed herself to paint, of life as a baroness at Arcune, was being washed away in the bleak rains of Fuarmis, the Coldmonth.

  Far away in Namarre Thorn was fighting. Perhaps his life was even now in danger. Worse, perhaps he had been slain … That possibility did not bear contemplation and she thrust it from her mind. What weird and malignant enemies might he be facing? And what would happen if the strength of the Empire’s legions should fail and be vanquished? Stormriders would come hurtling back with messages: Escape, flee for your lives. The Empire is overthrown, all is lost …

  Rohain envisioned the network of Relayer runs reaching from point to point across the kingdom like a mightier cobweb, their tension increasing so that they must thrum like overstretched wires. Dianella crouched like a spider in a corner, waiting. Beside that lady lurked a darkness that was not her shadow but another like herself, only more heinous: the wizard Sargoth. At the ganglion of the cobweb loomed the Tower. At a pitch too high for human hearing, the word impasse screamed through Rohain’s head.

  What would this waiting bring?

  ‘I hope the King-Emperor shall return soon to Caermelor,’ said Rohain, in a private moment with her maid. ‘Think you that he will spare Sianadh’s life, Viviana? What kind of man is he, the King-Emperor? A merciful man?’

  Viviana waxed circumspect.

  ‘Wise is how I should describe him, my lady—merciful when mercy is justified, ruthless to warmongers and other evildoers. A shame it is, that he should dwell in widowerhood.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Queen-Empress Katharine met her death in terrible circumstances, that much I know. What exactly happened to her? Nobody will enlighten me. Indeed, it seems forbidden to mention the topic, except in the most cursory way.’

  The girl replied in low tones, ‘It is not spoken of at Court anymore. But we all know. Leastways, we know the main events, but some tell the tale one way, some tell it another. I can tell it the way I heard it but I know not if ’tis correct in every detail.’

  ‘Prithee, say on.’

  ‘It happened by the sea. Their two Imperial Majesties were out riding, late, along the strand, when a mist came down and they were separated from their retinue. For a time they rode on, calling to their guards and courtiers, but they could find none. All of a sudden the Queen’s horse took fright and bolted. His Majesty spurred his horse and rode after her, hearing her screams through the mist, but when he caught up, he saw her horse in its death throes, mangled, and the Queen being dragged into the waves. He sprang off his steed and ran into the water. Something unspeakably unseelie seized him. It was none other than Nuckelavee, the flayed centaur—no doubt my lady has heard of this terrible monster. His Majesty slashed at it with his sword but it would have dragged him under too, only that with the last of his strength he put his hunting horn to his lips and blew a long call. At the sound, his attacker loosened its grip and drew back. When his men found him, King James was half-perished, but still trying to heave himself into the waves. They had to pull him out of the water—he would have plunged in after his lady. She was never seen again, and she not yet five-and-twenty.

  ‘That happened some ten years ago, when the Prince was but a lad. Prince Edward seems older than his years, methinks, but has grown up fine and handsome.’ Viviana clasped her hands, staring into some unguessed distance. ‘His Majesty never took another bride. At that time, all the royal princesses of Erith’s lands were either too young or already wed. Besides, it is said he loved Katharine so much that he could never love another.’

  ‘A tragic tale.’

  ‘Verily. The grief of it changed His Majesty in some ways. He is at once sadder and merrier than before, so they say, although I never knew him aforetimes. I was but a child. They say, too, that sorrow sobered him, for since that time he has thrown all his fervour into ruling well and wisely. The lands of Erith, before this Namarran uprising, have never been so peaceful and prosperous. But then, the House of D’Armancourt has ever been the most powerful dynasty. The historians tell us there has been some special quality, something beyond the ordinary, in all who are born to that line. They say that royal blood is puissant. It sets them apart.’

  Twice the Winter sun opened its shrunken eye. Both days were soused with rain. The next morning dawned clear.

  Enclosed within the Tower, daily confronted by its horribly familiar smells and sights, and their painful associations, Rohain grew restless and irritable. She longed to be free of these environs, but had no notion of where she might go.

  One evening, after dinner, a wild mood seized her. Leaning toward the sulky Heligea, she asked quietly, ‘Do you ride?’

  ‘It is my most favoured pursuit.’

  ‘Do you ride sky?’

  ‘To shoot the blue,’ replied the Daughter of the House, ‘is of all things what I desire most.’

  ‘You are of the Blood.’

  ‘Yet it is forbidden. And will ever be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is simply not done.’

  ‘Not a good enough reason. Ride sky with me on the very morrow.’

  Heligea turned disbelieving eyes on Rohain. ‘Hoy-day! You would never dare!’

  ‘I would. You would too. Wait until your brother is otherwise occupied. The equerries, the grooms, the ostlers—they will not gainsay the daughter of Lord Voltasus.’

  ‘’Sblood! ’Tis impossible!’ Heligea seemed lit up from within, as if a lamp burned behind the porcelain skin of her face.

  Unfolding their mighty wings the next morning, two eotaurs sallied forth from Gate East Three Hundred on the Yeoman Flight level. They circled the demesnes and galloped out across the forest. Beneath flying-helmets, the Riders were masked. They rode astride, demonstrating consummate skill, like Relayers of many years’ experience; yet instead of following a Run they branched off, toured the local terrain, and were back in the Tower before noon.

  Ustorix’s rage was uncont
ainable.

  At first he directed it at his sister, threatening her with death for breaking one of the most ancient and honoured tenets of the Twelve Houses. He scandalized the Tower’s occupants with the vulgar raising of his voice, his fiery displays of temper.

  When he had finished haranguing his sister, Ustorix rushed unexpectedly through the door of Rohain’s suite. His colour burned high, his nostrils flared. His hair had escaped its bonds and now draggled in sweaty tendrils.

  ‘What is the meaning of your bursting so rudely in upon me, Lord Ustorix?’ demanded Rohain, rising from the chair by the fireplace where she had been seated.

  ‘You know it!’ He strode forward, careless in his wrath. ‘Riding sky is not the prerogative of women. Women have not the strength for it. Only noblemen possess the finesse and acuity required to learn the skills of governing eotaurs and the fickle currents of the atmosphere. How will Isse Tower be regarded when word of your folly is spread abroad? It will be said that we of the Seventh House cannot keep our women in their place. It will be said that we are weak, and our women are frolicsome and willful. You have destroyed the reputation of the Seventh House. You have brought ruin upon us all.’

  ‘I hardly think so. Take control of yourself, sir. These emotive scenes are scarcely seemly. We ladies can ride sky as featly as any gentleman. No harm has been done. It is a lesson—’

  ‘Hear me!’ He gripped her by the arm. ‘I’ll be hanged if you don’t need lessoning, and hanged if I’ll not teach you.’

  ‘Unhand me!’

  The young Stormrider glanced down. In his guest’s hand, the point of the anlace, still chained to her girdle, jabbed the hard flesh of his stomach. He released his grip on her arm.

  ‘How dare you!’ Rohain enunciated carefully. Every ounce of hatred and scorn for him that she had ever stored flung its weight behind those words. Suddenly Ustorix dropped to one knee.