The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Her father shook his head.

  ‘You are too sweet-natured, elindor. Be the beast’s mistress!’

  ‘Father, pardon me, for I do not wish to be discourteous, but he shall be my friend, and the friend of Rhys too. His name shall be Pero-Hiblinn: Little White Horse in the “Old Speech”.’

  ‘I see you have studied your lessons, my little bird,’ stated Leodogran kindly. ‘But “Pero-Hiblinn” is a tall name for a short horse.’

  ‘Then he shall be “Peri”.’

  ‘Come, let us take Peri to stable. But do not leave it too long before you ride him!’

  And so it was that some weeks later, in the last days of Autumn, Ashalind na Pendran rode on Peri’s back across the daisy-speckled sward surrounding her father’s house, which stood just outside the city walls. By Leodogran’s side, young Rhys, Ashalind’s brother, clapped his hands, crowing with delight. His sister had crowned him with Autumn daisies and he looked like a merry woodland sprite. As Peri cantered around the field with his tail flying like a white banner, a bird swooped out of the skies like a bolt, close to the pony’s head. Startled, the beast reared up, flailing his front legs. The child was thrown to the ground and the bird flew away. Ashalind lay still, as if in a swoon, but when her father rushed to her side, his heart wrung with concern, he saw her eyelids flutter and knew that she lived.

  A servant rode for the apothecary, who, after he had performed his ministrations, said: ‘Sir, such a fall might have proved more serious. Fortune has favoured your daughter. She is hale in body save for her left leg, which is broken. I have set it. Let her now rest for three days, but when she rises she will not be able to bear her weight on the limb until it is healed.’

  A suitable pair of wooden crutches had been commissioned, but before they were ready the Piper had beckoned, and Ashalind had not been able to follow.

  Now all the laughter was gone. It had fled from Hythe Mellyn and Auralonde and out of Avlantia altogether. The amber city was all silence and stillness.

  From that execrable day when despair had fallen upon Hythe Mellyn, Ashalind was the only child under the age of sixteen dwelling in all the great city, save for the babes who were born thereafter. No jealousy stained the bereaved hearts of the Talith, only love for this child who was the child of them all. A strange and lonely life it was for her, with no playmates of her age and no small brother with whom to frolic—only older youths and maidens, men and wives, graybeards and dowagers with hearts as heavy and eaten-out as old cast-iron cauldrons. Much of her time was spent with the carlin Meganwy, a woman of wisdom who understood the healing arts and taught her many things. Under Meganwy’s guidance, the child grew to be a damsel skilled in herb lore and songs.

  For Ashalind there was something more than the heartache of missing all those loved ones and watching the world turn gray-haired. For she had been touched by the Piper’s call as none of the adults had, and been drawn by it just like the other children. She had been privy, for a moment, to a world beyond the fences of the world. Never could she forget it. In her inner being a longing had awoken, and it smoldered.

  Never again, save once, did Ashalind ride upon Peri—and that was at a time of great need. Her father did not care. He cared little for anything now—except his daughter. Nothing she did could displease him. He took off his Lord Mayor’s chain of office, for he had not the spirit for it anymore, and his young steward Pryderi Penrhyn, who had been eighteen years old when the children were taken, took over the running of his affairs in the city.

  ‘I have failed in my duty,’ said Leodogran. ‘I ought to have spoken for the city and paid the Piper. My silence itself proved to be betrayal.’

  The delving of Hob’s Hill continued at whiles over the years. Graves were raised there also, for those who had pined away and wished to rest at last near their children. The grass grew over the pits and scars and over the graves, but every year on the first day of Autumn, the Talith of Hythe Mellyn laid on the hillside wreaths of late daisies, leaves, and rowan-berries tied with red ribbons.

  The grass grew, long on Hob’s Hill and the slate-gray hair of Ashalind’s father became laced with threads of silver. He withdrew from public life, spending much time in his library—studying, he said, books of lore. But often his daughter would see him there, sitting at the window, staring out into the distance, his eyes clouded like milky opals. His apple orchards, untended, fell into ruin—but his affairs in the city remained well-managed by his trusty steward Pryderi Penrhyn, who did not fail in his duties.

  As soon as her leg had healed, Ashalind took to rambling at every chance with her hound Rufus through the wooded hills surrounding Glisswater Vale. Endlessly she sought Rhys and the children or looked for another way into the Piper’s realm. Love for her father and brother drove her, no more nor less than that fierce white star of Longing kindled by the pipes, now burning within her.

  Rarely were unseelie wights encountered in the eringl forests and Ashalind was not troubled by them in her wanderings, for Avlantia was a domain where evil things seldom strayed. This land was said to be beloved by the Faêran, of whom she had once or twice caught a flicker of a glimpse. Folk who had been visited by them told tales of their strange ways and their beauty.

  Seven years Ashalind spent searching, never relinquishing hope when it should, reasonably, have long given way to despair.

  On her seventeenth birthday, her father gave her a bracelet of gold. Upon it was enameled a white seabird with outstretched wings—the elindor, the bird of freedom, which, after it left the nest, never touched land for seven years but instead hunted and slept while gliding on the wing or floating on the ocean.

  And one evening in late Autumn, just after her birthday, she met a stranger in the woods.

  Pale moths were fluttering. A white owl flew into the gathering gloom. Something glimmered in a clearing. She thought she spied an old gentleman standing there, leaning on a staff and watching her. Approaching without fear, she greeted him courteously.

  ‘Hail to thee, lord.’

  ‘Well met, Ashalind, daughter of Leodogran.’

  His voice was as deep and mellow as dawn.

  At this the damsel hesitated, for she was startled not only by his use of her name but by the piercing eyes that bent their gaze to her from under the shadow of his hood, eyes like those of a wild creature, but in what way, she could not say. The whiteness of his robes was as pure and perfect as a snowscape. The hoarfrost of his long hair and beard was like the silver of bedewed cobwebs, a fantasy in crystal lace, a symmetry in ice and diamonds hung with long prisms. His glance was a frozen sword catching the sunlight and stabbing it with brilliant sparks. Yet beneath the snow lay warmth. Now that she viewed him closely, she could not say why she had thought him very old, other than the reason of his pastel colouring, for very few lines were graven upon his face.

  His strangeness now engendered in Ashalind an uncertainty bordering on fear. Her fingers touched the tilhal at her throat but the whitebeard said:

  ‘I am no unseelie wight, daughter. You have naught to fear. How should I not know who you are, since you are seen wandering our forests day after day, year by year? Such loyalty as yours should not go unrewarded.’

  ‘Sir, I do not know your name but I guess that you are a mighty wizard, such as Razmath the Learned, who fashioned my tilhal.’

  ‘I am called Easgathair.’

  Ashalind seized her opportunity.

  ‘I beg leave to ask of you the same questions I ask of all folk I meet, especially the wise and learned.’

  ‘Ask.’

  Ashalind hesitated again, for there was something thrilling yet almost perilous about this sage, and his presence disquieted her. It came to her, then, that she stood before one of the Faêran. Nonetheless she gathered up her courage, for never yet had she been daunted in her quest, despite that it had forever been fruitless.

  ‘Do the children of Hythe Mellyn still live, and if so, can they be regained?’

  The sun
had now set and the white moths were clustered more thickly in the air. All around, eringl leaves spread rumours among themselves. A night-hunting bird hooted. The old gentleman shifted his staff.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and yes.’

  At this reply, Ashalind caught her breath. Many times she had received this same answer from the learned or the optimistic, but this time the words were declared with more than hope or conviction. They were uttered with knowledge.

  ‘If they have taken any food or drink then the children cannot return to you,’ he continued, ‘but they may not have done so yet, for seven years of Erith seem shorter than one night to them in the Fair Realm, and they are under the enchantment of their games.’

  ‘What is to be done?’

  ‘One alone may go after them and fetch them back. One who has the courage.’

  ‘I have it. But I do not know the road.’

  ‘Hearken. In view of your faithfulness, and because the treachery of your city was no fault of yours, Ashalind na Pendran, I shall tell you how to find the road. Tomorrow night you must couch yourself beneath the ymp-tree in your father’s orchard. Stay awake, and you will find the way. But truly, you are exceeding beauteous and they would keep you, so you must go in disguise. Perhaps they will not expect deception from one so young as you, and may look no deeper. Twine about you sprigs of mint and lavender, so that long-nosed wights may not encounter the fragrance of your skin. Neither speak first, nor give thanks, but show due appreciation. Beware of Yallery Brown and do not reveal your true name.’

  Ashalind fell to her knees, trembling.

  ‘I will do it all. Pray tell me, good sir, when I go there, how should I make them hearken to me?’

  ‘The moon waxes to the full, and these are feast nights in the halls of the Crown Prince, Morragan, the Fithiach of Carnconnor. At such times he looks mercifully upon petitioners, and may grant favours. He will never vouchsafe the unconditional return of those you seek, but he may vouchsafe the chance to win them.’

  The staff in the sage’s hand was a shaft of moonlight. Moths settled along it like snowflakes. An owl sideslipped low overhead with a whoosh and a whirr of predators’ wings. It blurred into the night. The Faêran regarded the damsel with a thoughtful stare.

  ‘Think thrice before you take this chance,’ he said. ‘So far, your path has wended across the ordinary hills and dales of humanity. But if you dare to enter the Realm it will change your life forever. Be careful, be very certain before you choose to step across the boundary.’

  ‘There is no choice to be made. I must bring them back.’

  ‘You are untutored. Beware of the power of gramarye. If on second thought you should decide to continue your normal life, one day perhaps this dream of redemption shall cease to trouble you and you might live in contentment as the years pass by. If you gain entry to the Realm you must pay for it—and the price can be high. No matter which choice you make, you may regret it.’

  ‘Sir, no words shall sway me.’

  ‘Now thrice have you averred this. Go then. I have warned you.’

  With that he turned away and went into the shadows under the trees.

  ‘Lord Easgathair, please wait!’ she called, following. But he moved swiftly for one so old.

  ‘If you get in, neither eat nor drink until you are out,’ were the last words he called over his shoulder, and all she saw was the snow-glimmer of his robes vanishing among the eringls ahead and a few white owl-feathers strewn on the ground among the ferns and mosses.

  On the following day, Ashalind made the housekeeper, Oswyn, repeat a vow of secrecy. Delighted by the thought of adventure, the woman bustled about following her mistress’s instructions, bringing men’s rough garb of tunic and breeches, packing the pockets with fragrant herbs as instructed, dyeing Ashalind’s hair with black ink and rubbing pig’s grease into it until every filament was snarled and tangled. Between them, they pulled the matted locks forward to conceal most of Ashalind’s face and bound the rest in a club at the back. The damsel regarded herself critically in the looking-glass. She practised pulling faces and speaking from the side of her mouth, all the while wondering whether she would have the effrontery to carry this through, and whether she ought to walk with an uneven gait, like a farmer’s lad accustomed to clod-hopping among furrows.

  That night, Leodogran’s daughter stole down to the garden and delved her white hands into the soil, tearing her nails on the stones and smearing her face with cinders and clay. Then she went into her father’s orchard and lay down beneath the ymp-tree, the most ancient tree of all, the grafted apple. The leaves fell down around her, lightly covering her as she lay wrapped in a blanket. Under the light of the moon and the stars she tried to stay awake but at last slept, dreaming strange dreams of laughter and the ringing of bells, and songs of joy and grief that wounded like swords. But she saw no road.

  She awoke damp and cold in the blue light of dawn, her thoughts first straying to her own featherbed in its warm chamber, with her hound lying on the rug, and then to young Rhys, lost and crying in the darkness.

  None of her friends in the city had ever beheld the sage Easgathair, and when she sought him in the woods she found no sign. The next night she dressed in disguise and kept vigil as before, but again, sleep took her and she discovered nothing. On the third night as she lay, she twined briars and thorns about her wrist to keep herself awake with their pricking: a wild, lacerating bracelet in place of the smooth gold band she usually wore. Late after middle-night she was still awake when she heard at last a heart-stopping sound; the crystal chime of a bridle-bell.

  Then it seemed to her that the wind lifted her suddenly and swung her against the night sky.

  The jingling approached like the spangle of sequins, like a woodland of silver bell-flowers rustled by a Summer-silk breeze.

  Seen indistinctly in the star-watered gloaming between the apple orchard’s fretted boughs, a procession of seven score riders was slowly passing by.

  A Faêran Rade.

  Breathtakingly fair were they, with a shining beauty that was not of Erith. All were arrayed in splendid raiment of green and gold, and mounted on magnificently caparisoned steeds whose bridles glittered with tiny bells, like chains of stars. The knights among them wore golden helmets. Clasped about their limbs were finely chased greaves. Some bore in their hands golden spears like shafts of pale sunlight. To see these riders was startling, like a first glimpse of new blossom in Spring—a sudden enchantment glimmering against boughs that lately stretched stark and black.

  To see them was to truly awaken, for the first time.

  A knocking started up under Ashalind’s ribs, for the yearning within her, born of the Piper’s call, had found an answer at last.

  The horses were of a splendid breed, surpassing any she had ever seen in the world—noble, milk-white steeds, moving with the grace of the wind. Each possessed the arched neck, the broad chest, the quivering nostril, and the large eyes of a superb hunter. They seemed made of fire and flame, not of mortal flesh. Each was shod with silver, striking silver sparks with each step, and each bore a jewel on his forehead like a star.

  The fair riders made the orchard ring with their clear laughter and song, but other horsemen surrounded them—mounted bodyguards or companions. In contrast, these outriders were of hideous form and face, and mostly smaller in stature.

  When the last of the procession had passed, Ashalind sprang to her feet and followed. Keeping well back so that they would not spy her, she ran after the riders, out through the orchard gate and down Hedgerow Lane and on across the valley. Although the revelers seemed to ride slowly, Ashalind was hard-pressed to keep up. She dropped farther and farther behind. Not once did any face turn back toward her—neither the achingly fair knights and ladies nor the misshapen riders seemed to notice her at all—and thus she grew bolder and more desperate, until after they crossed the bridge there was no more attempt at concealment and she ran openly, gasping for breath, her left leg throbbing
deep in the bone.

  Ahead loomed Hob’s Hill, but now there was a broad road leading to it that had never been there before, and the side of the hill was open. A great light streamed out of the arched Doors. Without pausing, the procession rode inside. Their pursuer was so far behind that she saw the last of them pass within before she could come near. In great fear lest the entrance should close before she could reach it, she sprinted forward, sobbing with agony and longing. Her heart banged so loudly in her chest that she thought it would burst. As the monumental Doors finally began to swing to, Ashalind had almost reached the threshold. With a last effort she flung herself through the portal and heard, at her back, the sonorous clang of stone clapping against stone.

  All seemed dark at first, but ahead, as if from beyond a corridor or tunnel, shone a pale pink light like the glow of dawn. After recovering her breath, Ashalind hurried toward it. A breeze blew from there, rose-scented, poignant. An extraordinary excitement surged through her, swelled by a sense of yearning and urgency.

  The long hallway ended in a second archway. Its single Door stood open.

  Beyond, she beheld a staggering view. Under a sapphire sky, a fair land of wooded hills stretched away to mountains of terrible height and majesty, their keen peaks piercing rings of cloud. She had heard tales and songs of the Fair Realm, and the Piper’s tune had described it, but the splendor, the seduction, and the fascination of that realm had never yet come home to her. Her heart was possessed, stabbed by enchantment and desire, and she gazed, almost forgetting her mission, at the land beyond dream or invention. She wept, for it was the land of the Piper’s tune, and she had only to walk a few steps to reach it. But those steps were forestalled.

  Out of a side opening she had not noticed before sprang two small black figures dressed in mail, crossing their pikes to bar her way. Their ears were long, upstanding and pointed, their mouths wide and their noses broad. They stood about three feet tall and exuded a strong odour of leaf-mold.