The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘Forgive me. Forgive me,’ he gasped over and over. ‘I was not myself. I did not mean—’

  ‘Depart!’

  ‘Rohain, I am in …’ He squirmed in anguish, groping for words of apology and excuse.

  ‘Avaunt! Get out!’ At the sight of his groveling, Rohain felt only revulsion.

  He went.

  She wished that she had never thought of riding an eotaur, joyful as the experience had been. She scrubbed her arm raw where he had touched it.

  At dinner, Ustorix was all scrupulous politeness. He said, ‘Tonight I will demonstrate the balancing feat.’

  ‘It is not necessary,’ said Rohain.

  ‘It will be done,’ he stated tightly.

  Gate South Five Hundred gaped, the cusps of its portcullis pointing like daggers. Far below the overhanging threshold, miniature outbuildings were pricked by tiny lights shining from their windows. A light tracery of vapor sculled past, upon a thermal layer, about a hundred feet below. All was black and silver: the forest, as dark as Dianella’s hair; the ocean, as silver as a trow’s desire; the sky, as colourless as cellar slugs.

  Heligea was present, with Ustorix and Rohain and a young Relayer displaying three stars on his epaulettes.

  ‘Lord Ustorix,’ said Rohain formally, sincerely regretting her taunting, ‘I beg you not to attempt this.’

  Now this pompous ass was going to lose his life because she had craved vengeance. It had seemed a good idea at the dinner table, considering her past sufferings, but now that the time had come she wished she had held back her words. She would not relish witnessing anyone’s life being snuffed out. Revenge was supposed to be sweet. This tasted sour.

  Her anxiety only served to fuel Ustorix’s intent.

  ‘Stand aside,’ he commanded heroically.

  A refractory wind, which had been pummeling the Tower, tapered off. The Stormrider carefully placed the sildron ingots. They hovered. He ran and jumped. Agile and strong from riding sky, he found his footing and, as the momentum transferred to the metal bars, caught his balance. Like an acrobat he stood poised, slowing.

  ‘Well done, sir!’ breathed the three-starred Relayer. ‘The deed is done,’ Ustorix called back over his shoulder. His helper tossed him a rope to haul him in.

  He glided back like a tremulous skater, until, without warning, the quiescent wind reawoke. With a gust forceful enough to shake the Tower walls, it pushed him sideways.

  He fell.

  Heligea screamed. Rohain squeezed her eyes shut.

  ‘My lord!’ The three-starred Relayer peered over the edge. ‘Are you hale?’ he shouted, rather redundantly. The rope hung slack in his hand. The sildron ingots had shot away into the night and were nowhere to be seen.

  Ustorix’s hand appeared in midair. He had been floating, unharmed.

  ‘The rope.’ His voice was cracked and strained.

  The aide reeled him in. As he clambered onto the salient doorsill, Ustorix pulled off his jacket and began unfastening the buckles of the sildron harness he had worn beneath to provide him with complete safety.

  Heligea’s laugh was cut short by her brother’s virulent scowl.

  ‘I shall do it again,’ he grated.

  ‘No, Ustor, you are safe now. It does not matter that you cheated,’ cried Heligea.

  Ustorix flung down the harness. ‘Give me the spare ingots, Callidus.’

  ‘Ustorix, you must not!’ beseeched Heligea. Gallant Callidus dragged her away.

  For the second time that night, the heir of the House threw sildron into the outer airs. He took a deep breath and walked toward the edge. The whole of Eldaraigne yawned below, an expanse so vast and distant that it seemed to suck the very marrow out of his bones.

  He collapsed on the floor in a faint.

  When a pair of footmen had carried away the young lord, Rohain remained, for a time, alone in the gatehall. The wind was rising. From the core of this thirty-second story, the sound of horses came to her ears. They moved in their stalls, scuffling their hooves. She walked past the alcoves and vestibules leading off to either side, and continued down the wide straw-strewn corridors that circumnavigated the fortress’s walls. Eotaurs leaned over their demi-doors to blow their warm breath on her hands, allowing her to scratch their ears and stroke their forelocks.

  From the corner of her eye she viewed a small shape edging furtively past.

  ‘Pod.’

  It shrieked.

  ‘Pod, do not go away. I will depart from here if you tell me something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where did Grethet find me? How came I here?’

  The lad mumbled.

  ‘I do not understand what you are saying. Prithee, Pod, I returned here to find this out—for that reason only.’

  ‘Carters brought you in. Road-caravan.’

  ‘Did the carters say anything about me?’

  ‘Said they found you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the old mines—near the accursed place.’

  ‘What accursed place?’

  ‘Carter-captain had on a fine cloak, he did. A very fine cloak.’

  ‘What accursed place?’ she repeated insistently.

  ‘Got to go now.’

  ‘Pod! You are my one chance. If there is any kindness left in you, have pity!’

  ‘You had no pity. You made me go on the ship.’

  Rohain seized Pod’s wrist. ‘Is force the only thing you heed?’

  He wriggled. She released him and he scrambled away.

  ‘I shall tell them you hide in the goat-caves,’ she called.

  ‘No!’ wailed the lad, already out of sight. His voice floated back: ‘Don’t tell them where I hide. Huntingtowers. It was at Huntingtowers they found you.’

  Huntingtowers. Rarely had that place been mentioned by the servants when the yellow-haired lad had lived among them. Like the Fair Realm, like the Unseelie Attriod, it was considered to be a subject that, if discussed openly, attracted ill-fortune in the guise of the wrath of some unspecified agency; yet, like children with an itchy scab, the lowly denizens of the Tower could not leave it quite alone, and sometimes they hinted at it in whispers. It was the name of the haunted crater-lake lying northwest of Isse Tower.

  Huntingtowers had another name, but what it was, none of the servants knew, or if they did they would not say. It lay some two days’ ride away, toward the Cape of Tides, and it was said to be most evilly infested with unseelie wights—a hub of all things eldritch that irrevocably hated mortal men. A hill rose from the land there, but it had no tall and rounded peak. Instead, its centre was sunken and hollow, resembling a giant cauldron. Within this crucible of soil and stone lay a black lake whose level almost reached to the barren rim. Many cone-shaped islands were scattered across this forbidding water, some large, many small. On the central islet, the largest, a strange building had existed for as long as anyone could remember. It was a grim tower surrounded by eight others in a circle, each joined to its two neighbours and the central edifice by the stone arches of several flying bridges. From this fortress, the place had received its kenning, for it was said that an eldritch Hunt dwelt therein, the most terrible Hunt of all, so cruel and merciless that for miles around this black cauldron no mortal folk dared to dwell and even lorraly birds and beasts shunned the region. Folk who dwelled on the fringes would speak of their horror as, huddled in their cottages at night, they listened to sounds from high above: the baying of unnatural hounds, the weird and hideous screams of the Hunter, the rush of wind as eldritch steeds careened through the skies.

  On nights of a full moon the Wild Hunt would debouch from its stronghold. Indeed, it had sometimes been seen through the spyglasses of the watchmen on the parapets of Isse Tower. So far the unseelie hunters had ignored the heavily fortified House of the Stormriders, but whosoever witnessed the Wild Hunt trembled at the certainty that come morning some road-caravan, or remote-dwelling charcoal-burner or cotter, or someone straying late abroad, would b
e gone, never to be seen again; or else would be found, far from home, lying torn to pieces in a pool of blood.

  Viviana found out from the servants that lately the region of Huntingtowers had fallen into an unusual quietude. The Wild Hunt had not been sighted for many months and it was thought that the dwellers in the black caldera had removed to the north, responding to the mysterious Call; but of that there was no certainty, for no one dared venture there to see.

  The moon was just past the full. If from Huntingtowers she had come, reasoned Rohain, then to Huntingtowers she must return. There existed no other clue to her past. From the high windows of the strange edifice in the centre of the crater-lake, any aerial approach would doubtless be spied. The only chance for her to reconnoiter undetected in its environs lay in getting there by the deserted and therefore less scrutinized land-routes.

  ‘Viviana.’

  The lady’s maid looked up at her mistress. She had been sewing by candlelight, cocking her head and holding the work at arm’s length, peering with utmost concentration as she stitched loose beadwork more securely onto the fringed aulmoniere. Her softly rounded face looked younger in the candle’s dandelion glow. Her large and limpid eyes reflected the flame. She held the needle poised for the next stitch.

  ‘Yes, m’lady?’

  Rohain seated herself beside the girl.

  ‘I wish to tell you something in the strictest confidence. Viviana, you have been a good servant to me, and a kind friend.’

  The hand holding the sliver of silver abruptly dropped to its owner’s lap.

  ‘Some events have taken place,’ said Rohain, ‘which make it impossible for me to keep you on.’

  ‘Oh no, my lady, prithee do not say that!’ Viviana stuck the needle through the purse and put it aside. ‘I do not want to leave your service.’

  ‘I have with me enough items of value to pay the wages you are owed, and a little extra for a gift, in thanks,’ said Rohain. ‘After that I shall not be able to afford a maid.’

  ‘But you are a lady! Your estate, your jewels—’

  ‘Are no longer mine. And I am not a gentlewoman—not by birth, I think. I am just like you.’

  ‘I cannot believe it!’

  ‘It is true. Furthermore, I am about to embark upon a perilous journey to a perilous place. You cannot come on this path with me, Viviana, and so I am going to send for a Windship to take you back to Caermelor.’

  ‘My lady, you could not say anything that would make me more miserable,’ Viviana said quickly and tremulously. ‘Send me back? Never. I shall not go.’

  ‘There is no choice. You belong at Court, not here.’

  ‘I shall be sent back to the Marchioness! Ugh! I’d rather be a scullery maid. No—I shall stay with you.’

  ‘But I cannot pay your wages, after this day, and how should you make a living?’

  ‘In the same way as you, I expect,’ said Viviana, spreading her hands palms upward. ‘Whatever that may be.’

  ‘As for that, I suppose I shall go into service again if I return alive.’

  Viviana pondered. ‘Go you into some kind of adventure?’

  ‘Yes—no. It may be a tedious mission or it may be tremendously dangerous and life-threatening.’

  ‘Well then, that’s not much different from life at Court, m’lady.’

  Rohain laughed. ‘It is not necessary to hail me by a courtesy title now.’

  ‘I cannot help it, m’lady. Prithee, let me accompany you.’

  ‘After what I have told you, do you still wish to come?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d rather be here than there, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘Would you?’ It was Rohain who pondered now. ‘I like you,’ she said at last, ‘which is why I’d rather not put you at risk.’

  ‘Seeing as how you’re not paying my wages anymore, you have no say in the matter,’ said Viviana primly, picking up the aulmoniere and resuming her sewing. ‘And now you had better tell me the whole story, m’lady.’

  So Rohain launched into the tale of her service at Isse Tower, her escape and the finding of the treasure that had allowed her to purchase a cure for her deformity, some fine clothing, and a new identity. She told also of her quest for the past, but, suffering from an ache that throbbed in her heart, she could not bear to mention Thorn—not yet. To her words, Viviana listened with equanimity. At the conclusion she said, ‘I declare, m’lady, you have been through more adventures than the Dowager Marchioness’s crook-tailed tomcat. Yet I have no doubt you are of noble birth, judging by your bearing, and this history you tell has not changed my opinion of you in the slightest. To me, you remain the Lady Rohain.’

  Rohain shook her head with a nonplussed smile, taken aback at her friend’s stubbornness and heartily grateful for it.

  No breath of wind ruffled the day. In Isse Harbour, the sea lay satin-smooth, barely moving. Hanging in seaweed valleys far below, countless jellyfish pulsed like glacial moons, blue-white, see-through, finely fimbriated. The Seaship that Rohain had spied from the gargoyled balcony lay becalmed. Its departure had been delayed. This was not the stillness of tranquillity; rather the deadly motionlessness of a predator poised to attack.

  Rohain had spun a fabrication to her hosts, made of half-truths, improvisations, and prevarications. She told them that all she had heard about Huntingtowers had piqued her curiosity; that the vogue among the jaded courtiers of Caermelor was to journey in search of novelty and exciting adventure; that the moon was just past the full and therefore this was the best time to explore, or at least to view from the caldera’s rim the infamous abode of the Hunt, thus obtaining a delicious thrill of horror. It was a fabrication as full of holes as lace, but it was the best she could concoct on short notice. So bedazzled were they by this living jewel in their midst that her hosts accepted it.

  How easily the lies roll out, she thought again, ashamed. I am no better than Dianella.

  As a groom helped her mount a landhorse Rohain fought a stifling sense of dread. Once in the saddle, she looked around at the other riders. Ustorix in light armour, Viviana, the wizard Zimmuth and one of his scarred henchmen, Dain Pennyrigg, Keat Featherstone from the stables, and Lord Callidus had all wanted to accompany her. Sensing doom, she wished them out of her retinue. If catastrophe struck, their blood would be on her hands.

  ‘Now is your final chance to turn back,’ she said, ‘one and all. If I choose to ride into danger, merely for the purpose of satisfying my curiosity concerning this ill-famed place, it is not your responsibility. You have the right to withdraw.’

  The wizard’s henchman made as if to dismount and was stayed by a gesture from Ustorix. Nobody spoke.

  Like the ship in the harbour, the party’s departure had also been delayed. They had set out earlier that morning, but after they had ridden a few miles the wizard’s horse had cast a shoe and he had insisted upon them returning to have it reshod. Most of the morning had worn away by the time they started once more.

  Ustorix raised his visor. ‘We shall have to set a good pace now,’ he said, ‘if we are to reach the Hill of Rowans by nightfall.’

  Heligea stood plucking at her brother’s cloak.

  ‘Please, Ustor. Take me with you.’

  ‘No.’ He pushed her away with his boot. ‘Forward,’ he added over his shoulder.

  The twelve landhorses, four of them carrying only packs, moved off. Heligea stood watching them leave, her hands planted defiantly on her hips.

  ‘I hate you, Ustorix!’ she shouted, kicking one of the grooms in the shins.

  The party passed through the heavily fortified front gate of the demesnes, turned right, and disappeared from view.

  The Tower stared out to sea. Behind it, in the servants’ graveyard, no wind ruffled the wreath of leaves and berries placed by Rohain beneath the wooden stick marking Grethet’s last resting place.

  The riders hastened along the beaten dirt of the road. Trees burned black by wintry ga
les locked fingers overhead, forming a dark tunnel. Every portable precaution against wights accompanied the travellers: bells on bridles, salt, bread, ash keys, the ground-ivy athair luss, sprays of dried hypericum tied with red ribbons to rowan staves, tilhals and other charms, self-bored stones, and amber. Every fabric garment was worn inside out, save for the taltries tied closely around their heads. Lords Ustorix and Callidus, flanking Rohain on strong war-horses, had encased themselves in armour of plate and chain. Thus iron-clad, they must surely be invulnerable. The wizard carried a tall, whirring contraption that resembled a windmill, which he said was a modern wight-deterrent and which he cast aside after a couple of miles because it was too heavy for him or his henchman to carry for long.

  Their plan was to halt for the night at a hill crowned with rowans, where the serving-men would set up pavilions. Zimmuth was to weave a tight wall of spells about the encampment to keep it safe during the long hours of darkness, the most dangerous time.

  After noon the sky darkened with unusual rapidity. The sun became obscured behind a wall of somber gray clouds; its location could only be guessed. Judging by the deepening dusk, it must have been starting to slide toward the horizon when the road began to twist back on itself, climbing steeply.

  ‘We have reached Longbarrow Ridge,’ announced Callidus, pushing back his talium-lined visor. ‘On a clear day, the Hill of Rowans can be seen from the summit. Once we have crossed the ridge, we shall be less than an hour’s ride from the hill. I’ll warrant we’ll be there by nightfall.’

  As he spoke, a heartbeat awoke out of the southeast.

  It was an urgent, syncopated throbbing, deep and dire, the supple-wristed thudding of polished wood against goat-hide stretched over a resounding concavity. The voice of Isse Tower was broadcasting a warning.

  ‘The drums!’ exclaimed Ustorix echoingly from within his helm. ‘The drums of alarum!’

  The riders urged forward their horses, hearkening to the compelling rhythm, their pulses rousing to its thrill. Around them, the trees thinned and gave way to stunted vegetation. Emerging at the top of a bald ridge, the riders were able to command an unobstructed view. Under clear skies, they might have been able to see the landscape for miles around.