The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Immediately the Door opened to reveal a long green tunnel of overarching trees beyond which shone the hills of Avlantia in the saffron morning, and the larks were singing, and a merlin hovered in the sky, and the hedges were bare and black along the fallow fields, and blue smoke stenciled the distant skies. And from the city came the sound of bells: ‘Awake! Awake!’

  But Prince Morragan grasped Ashalind by the hair, pulling her head back so that she must look up at him.

  ‘Thou hast won this game,’ he said evenly. ‘Thou canst walk the green way and return to thy home. The children will follow behind you, but only those who have not tasted of our food and drink. To them it will seem as though they have passed but one hour in the Realm. Go now, but if thou turnest back, even once, thou shalt return here and never leave.’ Abruptly he released her.

  Tears pricked her eyes as she took the pony by the halter and stepped through the Door. The rumour of a multitude of footsteps arose from behind, and childish voices.

  Slowly she paced along the vaulted avenue, and soon the first of the children passed her, running down the road, calling to one another in joyful voices. She glanced to the side and saw many whose names she knew, but Rhys was not among them. Had her brother, then, been one of those who had eaten the food of Faêrie?

  ‘Ashalind!’ called the compelling voice of the gray-eyed prince. She stumbled, but plodded on. He called her name a second time and she halted and stood, but only for an instant. Onward she went, and now she was halfway along the arched way. More and more children ran past, like leaves blown by an Autumn gale, and there were hundreds of them, but still she could not find her brother, and she thought of Yallery Brown and his flesh-devouring rats, and her courage almost failed her.

  ‘Ashalind.’

  This time she fell to her knees and could not arise. The children hurried by. To look over her shoulder, to see one who governed gramarye standing there with the whole of the Fair Realm at his back and that world promised to her—it would be so easy. So sweet it would be, to watch him pivot on his heel and walk away, and to follow. Slowly she clambered to her feet. Despite her desire, she neither looked back nor turned around. She pressed on, her feet and legs heavy, as though she waded through honey. Now the end of the avenue was near, and crowds of children streamed down into the valley, and rushing to meet them down the road from Hythe Mellyn to the bridge flew another crowd—the men and wives of Hythe Mellyn come to bring their children home. Forward into the sunlight went Ashalind.

  Then, farther back, she heard the piping tones of her own brother:

  ‘Sister, turn and help me, for I am afraid.’

  At that, with a rush of relief, she almost spun about, but she said, ‘Do not be afraid, Rhys.’ And still she faced toward Erith.

  ‘Sister, turn and help me, for I cannot walk.’ Her heart was wrenched, but she hardened it.

  ‘Then, Rhys, you must crawl, for I may not turn back.’

  His sobs turned to screams—‘Sister, a monster is upon me!’

  For the third time, Ashalind stopped, right under the eaves of the last tree, and her neck ached from the effort of not turning her head, and she cried out:

  ‘No, you are not my brother, for he never addressed me as “Sister”!’

  Then she heard a crash of thunder and the angry scream of Yallery Brown, and wild laughter. A freezing gust of wind tore leaves from the trees. But her brother ran up beside her and she recognised that this time it was he in truth. She set him on the pony’s back and they followed the last of the children down the valley.

  Sitting on a mullock heap beneath a briar-hung cliff, the young woman blinked. It had been a long time since she had done so and her eyes were filmed with mist, gritty. She looked at the bracelet in her hand, her father’s gift. She slipped it on her wrist. Closing, the catch went click.

  And the memories kept flooding back.

  9

  THE LANGOTHE

  The Longing for Leaving the Leaving of Longing

  What is Longing that it never lets go? Would that joy could grip us so!

  Even the strong oak falls at last, having withstood the south wind’s blast.

  What is Longing that it never runs out? Even a well may fail in drought.

  What is Longing that it never ages, like leaves to dust and youths to sages?

  What is Longing that it will not depart and let peace descend on mortal heart?

  MADE BY LLEWELL, SONGMAKER OF AURALONDE

  The tale of the Return of the Children was recounted far and wide in Avlantia. The entire country feted and praised Ashalind na Pendran. A wealth of gifts and the highest honours in the land were bestowed upon her. Bards made songs about the brave maiden who had ventured into the Secret Country, facing not only the Faêran but also the most dangerous of wights, and, against all odds, outwitting them all. The King of Avlantia himself bestowed upon her the title ‘Lady of the Circle’, with the rank of baroness. Glory and honour paved her way, and happiness ought to have followed—but it was not to be. There remained something the people of Hythe Mellyn had not reckoned with.

  ‘Langothe,’ said the wizard Razmath, reading from a lore-book before an Extraordinary Assembly of the citizens of Hythe Mellyn. ‘The Green Book of Flandrys describes it as the Longing, or Yearning, for the Fair Realm. All who have visited Tirnan Alainn—as some of the ancients called it—all who have so much as glimpsed that country, wish to return. They do no good in the mortal world thereafter. They cannot forget it, even for a little while, and continually search for a Way to return. In severe cases they pine away to their deaths, having no interest in meat or drink and no desire for life in Erith.’

  Gravely he raised his eyes to survey the men and women seated before him.

  ‘There is no known cure.’ He closed the book. Stiffly, Leodogran rose to speak. He stood with shoulders bowed.

  ‘Never has there been such joy in this city as on the day our children returned after seven years in the Perilous Realm. On that morn I rose from my couch to find my daughter’s bed empty and forsaken. But there came to my door a messenger from Easgathair, Gatekeeper of the Faêran, saying, “Ring the bells and rouse the city, for your daughter is bringing the children home.”’

  He paused, fighting some inward battle, momentarily unable to speak.

  ‘And on that day we believed all our dreams had come true. The children had indeed been restored to us, but alas, what was lost has never been entirely regained. The Langothe is upon them despite all we have tried. Not love nor gold nor wizardry can bring our children’s hearts back to their native land. Though they love us and were overjoyed to be reunited with us, their thoughts constantly stray far away. Ever they wander, ever they search. We have consulted the histories and books of wisdom to no avail. In truth, there is no cure.

  ‘Some lads and lasses never returned from the Perilous Realm because they had partaken of its food or drink. To add to the city’s grief, their families have mourned long. My ladies, my lords and gentlemen, we lived in sorrow for seven years, and now for seven long weeks we have watched our neighbours grieve afresh while our children languish and fade. What say ye?’

  Then Meganwy, the Carlin of the Herbs, rose to her feet saying, ‘I speak for most of us when I declare, we must put an end to sorrow. We cannot let the children’s wellbeing continue to decline, nor can we bear to be separated from our darlings. Only one path lies open to us. Together we must seek a way to leave Hythe Mellyn, yea, to leave Erith’s dear lands, and journey to dwell in the Realm. How we shall find that place, and whether those that dwell there will admit us, I know not.’

  This proposition was greeted with a great outcry, and fiery debate ensued, which continued throughout the many assemblies that followed.

  Like the other mortal visitors to the Fair Realm, Ashalind had been brushed by the strange pull of the land beyond the stars. As with them, her interest in the meats of Erith had declined, and her flesh waned, losing the soft curve of youth and conforming closer t
o the angles of her bones. She did not speak of her own anguish, of the severity with which the Langothe seared her spirit. However, they guessed, her father and Pryderi. Rhys knew only too well; at whiles she and the ailing child would hold one another in a tight embrace.

  ‘What is to be done, Ashli?’ he would sigh. ‘What is to be done?’

  At a loss, she could only shake her head.

  The snowy lace of blossom was on the hawthorn when overnight, it seemed, there came a sudden increase in eldritch and Faêran activity throughout all the lands of Erith. Wights of all kinds were abroad in unprecedented numbers, and the Fair Folk were glimpsed much more frequently than ever before, in woodlands and meadows, in high places and by water. Rumors seethed. It was said that some great catastrophe loomed, such as war or the end of the world. People whispered that the King-Emperor in Caermelor knew all about it, for he was in the confidence of the Faêran sovereign, and that they both struggled to avert the mysterious calamity. Many stories circulated, but none knew for certain what the truth might be.

  A delegation of wizards, aldermen, and elders of Hythe Mellyn met on many occasions with Branwyddan, King of Avlantia, and his privy council in the palace that crowned the golden city. The seventeen-year-old Lady Ashalind and Pryderi Penrhyn, eight years her senior, were included among them. Hours toiled past in discussion.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Meganwy of the Herbs, ‘in Hythe Mellyn there have been many gatherings of the people, and much ado. The Langothe sorely afflicts our children, and some have died of it. Families yearn vainly for their lost youngsters. Life burdened with this curse is unbearable for many—they wish to leave the city and find a Way into the Fair Realm, there to dwell in peace with their loved ones.’

  ‘How many wish to go?’ the king asked, somber of countenance.

  Razmath the Learned, wizard of Hythe Mellyn, replied, ‘About one third part of the city’s population, Your Majesty—those whose children are most severely affected or who never returned.’

  ‘That is many,’ sighed the king, ‘yet we have looked long upon these silent children and their wan faces. Even the sternest heart could not remain unmoved. I have pondered much on this matter and spoken of it at length with my advisors. Gravely it concerns me, that I cannot furnish contentment for my subjects. Grievously it troubles me that the goodly flower of my people would leave Hythe Mellyn. Yet their sovereign shall not stand in the way of their happiness. So it shall be. If they wish to go, I, Branwyddan, will not gainsay my people, though to lose them will surely be a devastating blow to this land. For many years now the numbers of our race have been dwindling. Sorrow waxes heavy within me—I fear that a Leaving such as this will herald the final days of the Talith.’ He added, ‘Perhaps only a hastening of the inevitable.’

  Leodogran said, ‘Your Majesty is gracious and just, and we thank you for your favour. But sire, we need your help, for we do not know how to discover a way to return. My daughter has lain awake beneath the ymp-tree night after night, yet no Faêran procession rides by, no Doors appear in the hillside. Methinks the Hob’s Hill traverse is now permanently closed to mortalkind. I have scant knowledge of the Ways between the worlds. What say ye, Orlith?’

  The king’s wizard spoke. ‘Oak coppices, rings of mushrooms, the turf-covered sitheans, circles of standing stones, high places, green roads of leaf and fern, certain wells and tarns, stands of thorn or ash or holly—all these and more are sites where a Way may be found. It is said that these Ways into the Secret Realm, all so different, are each guarded by a Gateway configured like a short passage with a Door at either end, one leading to Erith, the other to the Fair Realm. They are not always doors as we recognise them, with posts and hinges, but Faêran portals that may bear many guises. These Gateways cannot be traversed without the aid or permission of the Faêran.’

  Then spoke Gwyneth, Queen of Avlantia.

  ‘William the Wise, King-Emperor in Caermelor, has commerce with the Fair Folk, I believe. It is said that a great friendship exists between them.’

  ‘A messenger shall be dispatched forthwith, asking his help in this matter,’ said Branwyddan, ‘although I vigorously emphasize that it sorely grieves me to think of losing any of our people.’ Sorrow clouded his brow. ‘But hearken also to this of—late, unusual occurrences have disturbed all of Erith, as you are well aware, and they have shaken the very foundations of the Royal City in Eldaraigne. An answer from there may come late or not at all, for we hear that William, King-Emperor, is greatly occupied and hardly sleeps. Caermelor has issued orders to open new dominite mines, so that as much of this stone as possible may be dug out of the ground for two purposes: to line the walls of buildings, and to extract the base metal talium for the making of chain mesh. Furthermore, it is reported that heavily guarded shipments of a new kind of metal are being received at the King-Emperor’s treasure-houses. What this all means, I may not yet say. But I tell you—time is not unlimited and you must not delay in making your move. Now is the hour to act. Speedily find a Way to the Perilous Realm if that is your desire, citizens of Hythe Mellyn, and end the suffering before it is too late.’

  In the soft Spring twilight the air was heavy with honey fragrance. Leodogran remained at the palace in discussion with the wizards Orlith and Razmath, while his daughter walked in the company of Meganwy and Pryderi down the winding streets, through Hythe Mellyn toward the city walls. Ashalind was thinking of her little brother; at the house of na Pendran, the stolen and regained Rhys lay in his bed under Oswyn’s care, dreaming of an enchanted rose garden.

  ‘Pray tell us, Mistress Ashalind,’ said Pryderi, forgetting, as always, her new title of Lady of the Circle. ‘What is the question you asked, to learn which was the Door leading to Erith? For we have all pondered upon it until we are ready to tear out our hair and ’tis most unfair of you to make us suffer so.’

  Meganwy said to him, ‘But Pryderi, if you had studied the lore-books you would have discovered it! For although Ashalind reckoned out the answer herself, the riddle is an ancient one, and has been asked and solved before.’

  ‘Do not chide me with ignorance!’ returned Pryderi good-naturedly. ‘I do not spend my days with my nose buried in books, that is all. There are better things to do. Now, Ashlet, you must relieve me of my misery.’

  ‘Not until you promise not to tease my Meganwy so.’

  ‘Oh, balderdash!’ laughed the carlin, her eyes crinkling with merriment. ‘’Tis merely banter among friends. He only teases those he loves. Besides, I am used to it—after all, I have put up with it since the lad’s knees were as scabby as two tortoises. And that was a full day ago, at the least.’

  Pryderi snorted.

  ‘The question,’ interrupted Ashalind, before he could respond with a clever retort, ‘which was in fact the answer, was, “Would the other guard tell me that this is the door to freedom?”’

  They walked awhile in silence. Presently Pryderi spoke again.

  ‘I see. Well said. Acute, if I may say so. ’Tis fortunate you had perused the same moldy tomes as Meganwy.’

  ‘I had not! It is news to me that this is an old riddle. As Meganwy said, I fathomed it myself!’

  ‘The more credit to you, child,’ said Meganwy gently.

  ‘How strange it is,’ mused Pryderi, ‘that not so long ago we would have given everything we owned if only the children could escape from the Fair Realm. Now we are desperately seeking a Way for them to return. Truly it is said, “misguided are mortals”.’

  A pale, hollow-eyed child leaning from a casement called out to them. There was an ache in her voice.

  ‘My lady, have you found a Way?’

  ‘Nay,’ Ashalind returned, ‘not yet.’

  A gaunt, lethargic youth lounged beneath the wall by the city gates, looking out across the valley. A reed pipe hung from his belt. As though begging for his life he asked Ashalind, ‘Are you bound for Faêrie, my lady? Shall we return now?’

  His name was Llewell, and he was one of the returne
d youths, a brilliant musician and songmaker. He was being driven mad by the Langothe. In his delusion he often believed he was truly one of the Faêran.

  ‘Nay, Llewell,’ Ashalind said again, turning away lest the sight of his forlorn and desolate aspect should crush her heart. ‘Soon, maybe. Meanwhile, make us a song so that we might forget, for a time.’

  So it was, always, with the children. They turned to Ashalind in their blind and urgent need. They clung to hope in the form of her native wit, by which, once, she had achieved the impossible. They wanted to believe she could do it again. And like them, she had been There. She understood how they suffered with the Longing.

  Outside the gates there was a stirring among the trees, a susurration in the leaves. The rumour of things unseen was everywhere; muffled laughter, scamperings, squeakings, shrill whistles, low mutterings and far-off singing. The lands of Erith were alive with the denizens of Faêrie as never before—the Fair Folk themselves, often heard or sighted but rarely seen clearly, eldritch wights trooping and solitary, wights of water and wood, hill and house, cave and field; incarnations both seelie and unseelie.

  ‘Eldritch creatures lurk all about us,’ said Meganwy. ‘Surely there must be one who can take a message to Easgathair. From your account, Ashalind, the Faêran sage seemed to hold you in high regard.’

  ‘Then the misguided are not only mortals,’ said Pryderi, striding ahead.

  Ashalind smiled, as she still sometimes did, despite the dull, sustained pain of unfulfilled yearning. ‘Pryderi loves me!’ she cried after him chaffingly.

  ‘I do!’ he called back over his shoulder.

  Ashalind caught hold of Meganwy’s arm.

  ‘What you say is true, Wise Mother,’ she said. ‘Let us go direct to the orchard. It is said that apple blossom delights all creatures of gramarye, particularly the Faêran.’

  Soft wind, as warm as love, whispered sweet nothings to budding leaves. From far away scraped the raucous hubbub of jackdaws coming home to roost. A skein of swans stitched its way slowly across the mellow west. Passing under the trees and half-hidden by blossom, the urisk was unnoticeable at first, but a flicker of movement caught Meganwy’s eye. Silently the Carlin took Ashalind by the sleeve, indicating with her forefinger. A small, seelie man-thing moved between the trees on hairy, goatlike legs.