The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  The fisher families greeted the Crown Prince, the Lady Betrothed, the Duke of Ercildoune, and the Duchess of Roxburgh and her brood with songs, jonquils, and strings of coloured lanterns. They presented them with trinkets and buckles inlaid with mother-of-pearl, all fashioned from carved coral; with tusks of walrus, skulls of seals, or teeth of whales. They gave also shell-work bouquets (each shell carefully chosen for its colour and shape to replicate a petal of a particular variety of flower), shell-work trinket boxes and glove boxes. The handful of wealthier islanders presented gifts of pearl necklaces, bracelets and girdles studded with garnets, peridots, and zeolite crystals, and containers covered in shagreen. To these they added amber and agate snuff-boxes, nautilus shell cups with pewter rims and feet, porphyry bowls, and a pristine prismatic bowl imprisoning three live leafy sea-dragons; delicate, innocent creatures that Rohain would later discreetly return to their habitat.

  The village mayor made a speech.

  The rumbling strains of a shanty drifted from the royal ship, out over the water. On the foredeck the men toiled around the capstan, straining against the bars. The anchor broke the water like some queer fish, flukes streaming. With a rattle and a clang it locked into place. Lengths of canvas dropped from the yardarms and fattened like the bells and scoops of pale pink shells. A phosphorescent wake awoke. Cream curled at the prow.

  For as long as possible, Rohain held on to the memory of Thorn in dusken, handsome beyond reckoning, resting his elbows on the taffrail, not waving, merely watching her steadily, until distance thinned the bond of that mutual gaze and eventually severed it. Like the tide, terrible grief and longing then rose in her, and she could not speak, made mute again by loss. All the light and laughter in the world was draining out through the Rip, sailing away, far away.

  This, then, was the secret island, Tamhania, sometimes called Tavaal. For hundreds of years it had been the private retreat of the kings of the House of D’Armancourt. Some sea-enchantment rendered it safe from all things unseelie. Furthermore, it was hidden from view by mists engendered, it was said, by virtue of a herb that grew extensively over its slopes: duilleag neoil, the cloud-leaf, whose effects were complemented by steam from numerous hot springs. If the isle was struck by a red-hot arrow fired from beyond its shores it would become visible for a short time, but no vessel could find the channel through the reefs without the guidance of the Beacon, and the Light would only be kindled in that gray Tower after the reception of a sealed order from the King-Emperor, or a secret rune, carried in by messenger birds.

  Rohain had taken leave of Sianadh at Caermelor, where he had boarded a merchant Seaship bound for Finvarna. It had been a parting both sorrowful and joyous.

  ‘No tears, chehrna!’ he had said, tears standing in his own blue eyes. ‘’Tis not good-bye, in any event! We I shall meet again! When the war is over the Queen-Empress must tour the countries of her Empire. Start with the best—the land of the giant elk, and the long rugged shores, and the taverns filled with music and good cheer. Don’t ye forget, now!’

  He saluted her and swaggered up the gangplank with a jaunty air, waving his cap. That had been the last she had seen of him.

  A procession of coaches and riders wound its way upward along the rutted cliff road from the fishing village on the harbour. Over many an arched bridge of basalt they passed, crossing the rills that tumbled down the hillsides, by trees twisted into poetic shapes by salt winds, to the Royal Estate, Tana. High on the mountainside, Tana’s castle overlooked the slate roofs of the village, and the cove where flying fish, leapt in clear green water.

  There the Seneschal of Tana, Roland Avenel, greeted them.

  This entire island belonged to the Crown. Of those few Feohrkind folk who had been granted the right to dwell there, some were ancient families, the descendants of generations of islanders: fisher-folk, farmers, and orchardists who for centuries had paid their tithes in services and goods or in gems pried from the gravels and crannies of fissures in the mountain walls. Some had been born on the isle and lived out their span of years on it; others left its cloudy shores when they were full-grown, and never returned. Sometimes, folk came to live on Tamhania who had never set foot there before—men and wives who had sought permission from the official authorities representing the Crown, and been deemed worthy; probably they had some skill or talent to offer the community, Perhaps they themselves longed for peace and seclusion.

  The Hall of Tana, the royal residence, was more ethereal by far than the buttressed blocks of Caermelor Palace—a chastel out of legend. Its tapering turrets and great ranks of windows rose tier after tier from an ivy-clad plinth that was itself as high as a house—the remains of an old fortress upon which the Hall was founded. Extraordinary masonry adorned the outer walls; pilasters imprisoned in banded stonework, their capitals scrolled or sprouting stone acanthus leaves. Arched niches, ceiled by carvings of giant scallop shells, sheltered statues of mermaids, mermen, porpoises, dolphins, and whales. Over the massive front door loomed the royal coat of arms. Above every ground-floor window, in petrified splendor, the devices of old and noble families were displayed. Swallows darted among the crenellations.

  Built upon one of the few level areas on the island, the grounds were parklike. Lawns swept around leafy walks and plantations of ancient, wind-contorted trees that cast their reflections into still ponds, the whole scene overlooking the ocean on the one hand, overlooked by the mountain on the other.

  Within, apartments abounded. Huge vaulted cellars with tiled cisterns built into living rock occupied the founding platform. A wide stair led up to the grand salon with its painted wallpaper, heavy-framed portraits, and gilt furniture upholstered in velvet, figured silk, and embroidery. The library was located on this level, as was the dining room, dominated by the marble minstrel’s gallery. Higher up, one could find the smaller salons and studies, the bedchambers each with their own sea-theme, and the Hall of the Guards, a gallery one hundred feet long and so wide that ten men could ride abreast through it. Its walls were ornamented with motifs and arabesques in light blues and reds and earthy browns. Throughout the chastel, the open-beam ceilings were set with hundreds of paintings of mythic scenes all finished with the highest precision.

  In this sumptuous island retreat, the days fled by.

  Rohain began to accustom herself to her new environs. It was not like living—it was more like waiting. So she waited, with Prince Edward—as vigorous as Thorn and yet as different from him as father from son—with red-haired Thomas of Ercildoune, and the Duchess Alys, and with Viviana, Caitri, and Georgiana Griffin, who had been dismissed by her invidious mistress and joined Rohain’s ever-increasing collection of attendants. Jolly Dain Pennyrigg was with them also, the lad from Isse Tower. He seemed to have become Rohain’s equerry by default, even though gray Firinn had not been transported to Tamhania, the steep slopes being unsuitable for thoroughbred riding-horses.

  The climate was mild beneath the cloud-blanket, snugged in tepid seas. Turtles the hue of malachite flew under clear waves of jade. Ladybirds crawled or flew everywhere, like tiny buttons, in livery checkered cadmium and black, spotted charcoal and madder.

  White vapours trailed from warm springs on the lower slopes. The Hall of Tana had been built over such pools which now, tamed and shaped by azure-glazed ceramic tiles, were used for bathing. Cloud-leaf grew sharp like dark green fox’s ears in basalt clefts, almost the only living things to cling to the sheer rock-faces of the northern slopes. The clouds captured by the eldritch herb seemed to possess the property of allowing one-way vision, so that from the island, the ocean and sky could be seen as far as the horizon—only their edges were softened a little as through a single layer of muslin.

  Fisher-folk plied their nets mainly in the calm band of water betwixt shore and reef, for, once past the reef there was no return, not without the kindling of the Light. Without the Light, all vessels foundered, victims of the rocks. That was part of the island’s sea-enchantment. When a fleet was
to venture out beyond that barrier, the leader would memorize the day’s Pass-Sign and take with him a caged pigeon from the lofts in the Light-Tower. When it came time to return, the rune was daubed minutely on a smidgin of papyrus and fastened to the leg of the patient bird. So that the avian aviator could see its way home, a fiery arrow was shot, to make the island visible. Whosoever forgot the sign, or lost the pigeon or the arrows or the fire, could not return; a boat must be sent out to give them aid. It seemed a troublesome affair, but the islanders had grown accustomed to it, and besides, some arcane property of the Light always ensured calm waters in the channel. Once it was lit, safety was assured, even in the most mettlesome storm.

  Time passed, but the hours never hung heavily for the bride-in-waiting. Thomas the Bard taught her how to string a lute and make it sing a little, and how to recognise the runes of writing, beginning with the Thorn Rune, þ, and how to name the stars. She did not know if she had been able to read and write before she lost her memory, but penmanship and deciphering came easily to her. When personal messages arrived from Thorn at the battlefields she allowed no one else to read them, and painstakingly composed replies.

  From the fisher-folk she learned how to sail the little boats they called geolas—‘What language is this you islanders speak in snatches?’ she asked. ‘A version of the Olden Speech. His Majesty is fluent at it,’ they told her.

  But as well as voyaging and making music, it was time to learn to do harm.

  Rohain summoned the Seneschal of Tana, Roland Avenel, a silver-maned, doughty ex-legionary of some fifty Winters. She said, ‘It has come to me that knowledge and the wit to use it are the most powerful weapons. The greatest warrior would fail in the wilderness, did he not understand the seasons and the secret ways to find sustenance and the lore of fire-making. Yet a swift and certain sword-arm would stand anyone in good stead. Will you teach me to fight with weapons?’

  So the Seneschal tutored her in wielding a light blade and a skian.

  When not fencing, strumming, sailing, or shooting arrows at straw bull’s-eyes, Rohain would ride with Edward and their companions. They cantered along dark beaches fringed with black pebbles and rocks twisted like slag, Splendid taltries flapped at their backs. The horses’ hooves kicked up black sand flecked with glitter, like dominite. Ferny weeds and strings of succulent beads filled rockpools so clear one would not have guessed there was water in them, save for a shimmer and a blur. The sun cast a golden fretwork on the waves—a limpid mesh over living glass, the wave-rims like the veil-flowers of clematis. On the dunes silvery saltbush clung, and kitten-tail grass, and scented tea-tree with its waxy flowers. After sunset, white wings of spray blew back off the rolling breakers, gleaming phosphorescent in the afterglow.

  The sea-wind murmured like Thorn’s voice in Rohain’s ears.

  ‘While thou dost remain here,’ he had said, ‘I will never be far from thee.’

  Could it be that intense, unremitting longing was powerful enough to bridge distance? Rohain imagined he touched her with every caress of the breeze that occasionally tore the mist into strips, and ruffled her skirts, and played with her tresses. She fancied the soft, warm raindrops on her upturned face might be his kisses. At nights, half waking, she heard the susurration of waves breaking on the boulders below the chastel, as the breathing of one who lay in slumber beside her, and she would reach out her hand, but there was only the substance of moonlight where he might have been, and shadow for his hair.

  Still, she felt embraced by a sense of his nearness. She tried to believe it was not all pretense and, convincing herself, found a kind of contentment.

  As for the Antlered One and his Hunt, they were far away, on the other side of the island’s enchanted barriers, where they could pose no threat. With each day that elapsed they shrank further back in time, until eventually Rohain abandoned all thought of them.

  A secret island, Tamhania-Tavaal was an island of secrets, some of which Rohain came to imperfectly recognise, as days linked together in chains of weeks. Riding or walking along the strand, she and her ladies would often find the fisherfolk’s children playing among the seaweed-fringed rockpools—catching crabs, making coronets of sea-grasses, splashing and laughing. There was one little girl among them who always wore a necklace of perfect pearls that shimmered palest pastel green. Luminous were they, and worthy of a princess. Rohain thought it curious that the child of one of the poor fishers should wear such a valuable treasure about her neck as carelessly as if it were no more than a string of common shells.

  It was the first of several curious matters, she discovered.

  Once, rising early after another restless night, she rode out with her retainers before sunrise. Walking their horses along the shore, they spied a woman sitting on a rock at high-tide mark. She did not notice them, for she was staring out across the sea. As the first glimmer of dawn grayed the waters, a big seal came swimming toward the rock. When he came within a pebble’s throw, he raised his head and spoke to the woman.

  She replied.

  Then he walked up out of the sea with the water sliding off him like moon-drops. He cast off his sealskin as he approached, and met her in the form of a man.

  The riders turned their horses and hastened away, leaving the couple alone together on the shore bathed by the glance and glimmer of morning light on the waves.

  When Rohain told Roland Avenel about this encounter he nodded and said, ‘Ah, yes. I too have seen Ursilla once or twice, at early morning, waiting on the rocks. But prithee, bid your attendants to refrain from speaking to anyone about what you and they have witnessed.’

  ‘That I shall, if you say discretion is desirable. But who is she, this Ursilla?’

  ‘She is the wife of a farmer here on the isle, a proud, well-favoured woman who manages her household, her farm, and her husband well. To all outward appearances she possesses everything she could desire. Yet beneath the surface, I fear, she is not happy.’

  ‘So I have guessed for myself,’ acknowledged Rohain.

  Avenel paused and scratched his chin thoughtfully, as though searching for words. ‘All three of Ursilla’s children,’ he went on, ‘have webbed hands and webbed feet. The membranes of skin between their fingers and toes are so delicate and thin that the light shows through. A horny epidermis grows on the backs of their hands. Every one of them has soft silken hair, the colour of the water in the first light of dawn.’

  ‘And her lover is one of the island’s secrets,’ concluded Rohain softly. She recalled, then, the little girl with the pearl necklace. ‘Pray tell me, Master Avenel, why the fishermen’s children wear such wonderful jewels when they play. I had imagined them to be poor folk.’

  ‘I’ll warrant you have spied young Sally,’ said Avenel with a laugh. ‘Only one other among the fishers owns such wealth. But nobody envies her, or would try to take the thing from her. Oh, no.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, because of the way she came by it. ’Tis said that last Summer, Sally was playing with her doll down by the rockpools and when she turned away a mermaid’s child stole the toy. Young Sally fled, weeping. On the following day when she returned to look for the doll, the mermaid’s child rose from the sea at the edge of the rocks where the spume flies highest.’

  ‘A mermaid’s child!’ interjected Rohain, fascinated. ‘Have you seen the merfolk, sir? What are they like?’

  Avenel smiled and drew breath. The Seneschal of Tana was a fair wordsmith; Rohain loved hearing him speak. Now, as he held forth, he led her to imagine entities resembling young women, with waves of hair like sea-leaves, and half their bodies a graceful, sweeping mosaic of verdigrised copper coins. Their skin was the cream of sea-foam and they had long eyes of cucumber green. Avenel related how the merchild came, and in her shell-white hand she held out the pearl necklace, which she gave to Sally in atonement for the theft. In words of alien accent, she told the mortal child that her mother had bade her do so. Then she looked at Sally with her green eyes be
fore flipping away with a flicker of iridescent scales, to plunge beneath the breakers.

  ‘That has been the most recent sighting of the merfolk,’ said the Seneschal, ‘but that one was only a stripling, not yet a harbinger and bringer of storms—at least, not of disastrous ones.’

  ‘Are they often glimpsed?’

  ‘Not at all, m’lady. To see a mermaid is rare. In all my years on Tavaal, I have never once set eyes on one, nor, in truth, do I wish to do so. Other sea-wights are seen from time to time, but these sightings too are rarities. None easily let themselves be spied by our kind.’

  ‘Who else among the fishers owns a jewel given by sea-folk?’

  ‘The mayor of our village below! In his youth, some thirty years ago, his father was out fishing when one of his comrades caught a wave-maiden on a hook. She promised, if the men let her go, to give them good fortune. The skipper thereupon dropped her over the gunwale and as she swam to her home she sang:

  “Muckle gude I wid you gie and mair I wid you wish;

  There’s muckle evil in the sea, scoom weel your fish.”

  ‘Then the six fishermen thought they had been cheated. Only the lad who was later to be our mayor’s father took any notice of the sea-maiden’s injunction. He scoomed his fish very well indeed, and found a splendid pearl among the scooming, which was kept in the family from that day forth!’

  ‘Oh, fair fortune!’ declared Rohain, pleased with his stories. She added, ‘I thank you for sharing your knowledge with me, Master Avenel, and while you are doing so, I beg you to solve just one more mystery that has us all intrigued. Last week we rode out to Benvarrey’s Bay. There we saw an ancient apple tree on the cliff, leaning right out over the water. Ripe fruit aplenty hung on its boughs but no one gathered them. When the wind shook the tree, several apples dropped into the sea. It seemed a waste. Why do the poor fisher-folk not harvest the fruit of this tree?’

  ‘There is a story attached to that tree,’ replied Avenel. ‘Years ago, the Sayles were a large fishing family on Tavaal, with a well-tended croft to supplement their living. They prospered. Old Sayle had a great liking for apples, and when they were in season he always took a pile of them with him in the boat. But when he became too old to go fishing, the family’s fortunes began to decline. One by one the sons left the island until only the youngest remained to look after his parents and the farm. His name was Evan.