The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  It seemed then to Ashalind that she followed him, or else was transported by some unfathomed means, to another location. In this new place there reclined a Faêran lady; surely a queen among her race. And as Ashalind beheld her she was given to know her name also: Nimriel of the Lake.

  Nimriel’s tranquillity was that of the calmness of a vast loch at dawn. Her mystery was that of a solitary black tarn in the forest, where, like a breath of steam, a creature of legend comes to drink, its single diamond spire dipping to send swift rings expanding out across the surface. Her beauty bewitched like moonlit reflections of swans moving on water. She was mistress of all the wisdom hidden in deep places; in drowned valleys and starlit lagoons; beneath mountain meres where salmon cruised in the dim, peaty fathoms.

  Ashalind looked into a pair of wells, dark and clear.

  It was said among mortals that if you stand at the bottom of a deep shaft and look up, then even on a sunny noon you will see the stars shining against pure shadow. That is what it was like to meet the gaze of the Lady of the Lake.

  As Ashalind made her duty on bended knee, a dark-haired maiden, lissom as a stemmed orchid, stepped forward: the Lady Rithindel. She offered a two-handled cup.

  ‘Thou art welcome among us, Ashalind na Pendran! My lady Nimriel invites thee to drink.’

  Ashalind’s hands reached out to take the cup. The red eringl leaves encircling her wrists brushed against it, rustling. Releasing the cup, she drew back with a sigh.

  ‘The Lady Nimriel is generous, but I have promised myself that I shall neither eat nor drink until the last Gate is closed and all links between our two worlds are severed forever.’

  On an inland sea the weather might change suddenly. Blinding fogs might form without warning, a wind might come gusting from nowhere to whip up white-capped waves.

  The Lady Nimriel spoke, soft and low.

  ‘Many fear me, Ashalind na Pendran.’

  ‘Ought I to be among them, my lady?’

  ‘Thou hast refused my cup. I do not lightly brook refusal of my hospitality. Nevertheless, because thou speakest from thine heart, thou hast no cause to be afraid.’

  Ashalind bowed in acknowledgment.

  ‘My custom is to gift newcomers. If thou wilt not accept food or drink, perhaps thou wilt accept other gifts. On thy journeyings, thou may’st need to cheat the moon.’ Briefly the lake-queen leaned forward and brushed her fingertips across Ashalind’s dagger-slender waist.

  ‘My lady speaks of journeys,’ exclaimed the damsel. ‘I believed mine to be over.’

  ‘Thy voyage is only just beginning, daughter of Erith. This I see, although as yet I know not the reason. Thou need’st not much in the way of gifts. Thou dost possess many of thine own. Yet mine is bestowed now.’

  Confused, at a loss for words. Ashalind stammered a reply. She could not understand what it was the lady had given her.

  The two reservoirs of lucency regarded her gravely, as though from a distance.

  ‘Know this, daughter of Erith. The Faêran are in great strife and turmoil at this very hour. Our eyes, from all over the Realm, are turned now toward your country. The time of Closing draweth near, but all is not as it should be. Part of the plan goes awry. Go now to Easgathair and thou shalt view, from the Windows of the Watchtower, what the eyes of all who dwell here can see without aid. Farewell.’

  Cierndanel escorted Ashalind to the Watchtower. Again, they travelled by some esoteric, indescribable method.

  Light as if filtered through geranium-tinted glass washed over a stone building. It was a tower, intricately carved all over, whose slender flying buttresses soared to pointed arches and singing spires. Glossy-leaved ivy climbed there among the rosettes and gargoyles and pinnacles.

  Inside the tower, stairs led upward to a chamber where the Gatekeeper stood amid a gathering of the Faêran. Leodogran and Rhys were among them. Eight tall windows reached from floor to ceiling, each facing a different direction. Their crystal panes did not hinder the birds flying in and out. At times these windows would cloud over like breath-misted mirrors. When they cleared, different landscapes would lie beyond them.

  Between these fenestrations soared slender golden pillars twined with living ivy leaves and carved ones of peridot, jade, and emerald. The golden ceiling too was festooned with these leaves, and with clusters of jeweled fruit and flowers. In the centre of the room stood a raised plinth draped with mossy velvet, gilt-embroidered. Thereon rested a large gold-clasped green casket with a high-arched lid. The lid was closed.

  Easgathair greeted Ashalind, saying grimly, ‘I would that I could welcome you here in a happier hour.’ His glacial hair and the voluminous folds of his white robes fanned out as he swung around to glance at the Northwest Window, then settled around him again.

  ‘I too, my lord,’ replied Ashalind, but her father said gladly:

  ‘Sir, there could be no happier hour.’

  Rhys, laughing, chased birds around the hall.

  ‘The Windows may look onto any right-of-way according to my command,’ said the Gatekeeper. ‘See, the South Window shows the Gate at Carnconnor, that thou call’st the Hob’s Hill.’

  A curious thought struck Ashalind.

  ‘Does it show the passage which divides the outer Door in the side of Hob’s Hill from the inner Door to the Fair Realm? Does that passage lie in Erith or in Faêrie?’

  Distracted, Easgathair glanced over his shoulder. ‘I must return to the Northwest Window.’

  ‘Allow me to explain.’ The fetching Cierndanel, who seemed to be everywhere at once, took the Gatekeeper’s place. ‘Every Gateway comprises two Doors, an inner and an outer, with a short passageway between. Time flows at different speeds in Erith and the Realm. A Gate-passage is needed to adjust the flow when something passes from one stream to the other. It operates like a lock in a canal.’

  ‘Suppose someone was trapped in there!’ said the damsel, thinking of the Gatehouse at the palace in High Mellyn, with its fortified barbican and its ceiling pierced by murder-holes for the destruction of invaders.

  ‘There exists a safeguard to prevent such an accident. When they are locked, the Gates at each end will still open outwards only, permitting traffic to flow out of the Gate-passage in either direction.’

  ‘Like eel traps backwards,’ put in Rhys, intrigued. Recognizing the Piper, drawn by him, he had ceased his vain attempts to capture a bird in his hands.

  ‘Just so, perspicacious lad. But from this hour, such engines are of use no longer. Already has each Key been turned in each Lock. All Keys, great and small, have been remitted to Easgathair White Owl—from the emerald Key of Geata Duilach, the Leaf Gate, with its intricate wards, to the silver-barreled crystal Key of the Moon Gate; the shell and jade of Geata Cuan’s Key and the great basalt Key of Geata Ard. They lie, indestructible but untouchable, in the Green Casket, which is even now sealed by the Password of the Fithiach.’ He gestured toward the casket on the plinth. ‘Every bond on every Door has been set to lock and link, and now it only remains to join them at the appointed and immutable hour of the Closing. Listen! Do you not hear? The winds of gramarye are awakening at this outrage, the winds of Ang. They flare from the Ringstorm at Erith’s rim. Soon they might prowl the lands of thy world, dyed by the imprints of men’s designs.’

  The smile that usually played about his lips had left him. A shadow crossed his attractive face.

  ‘But something’s amiss. Thou seest how the crowds cluster about the Northwest Window, with White Owl at their fore. They look upon a Gate we call the Geata Poeg na Déanainn, awaiting Angavar High King and Prince Morragan, who still ride within Erith’s boundaries. The royal brothers dare to ride late, as the Closing draws nigh. The first Call is about to sound!’

  ‘Why do they tarry?’ asked Ashalind, craning her neck for a better view of the Northwest Window.

  ‘The Fithiach and his followers were returning from a last Rade in Erith, hawking I was informed—but the King and his knights have ridden o
ut to detain them, blocking their path.’

  In the Northwest Window a scene revealed itself with startling detail and clarity. A hush fell on the assembly in the Watchtower. Beyond the Window the skies of Erith sheeted storm gray and a strong wind drove the clouds at a cracking pace. Thunderheads boiled over darkly.

  Two companies of riders faced each other, one led by Prince Morragan, whose sculpted face could clearly be seen framed by the long dark hair and cloak billowing out behind him. His followers, about a hundred tall Faêran knights, sat motionless upon their horses. Harsh-faced, they gazed upon the King’s retinue, which was massed between them and the traverse called the Geata Poeg na Déanainn. The Faêran King’s voice could clearly be heard, by the enchantment of the Watchtower Window.

  ‘Brother, renounce thy boon of the Gatekeeper. Shall I drive thee forth before the Gates close and shalt thou be exiled forever from the Realm?’

  The watchers cried out in shock and dismay, but the Crown Prince betrayed no sign of disquiet. Calmly, he replied,

  ‘Dost think me a fool? ’Tis a game of bluff.’

  ‘Nay,’ replied the King, ‘there is no more time for games.’

  For an instant, anger flashed from the Crown Prince’s eyes, then he smiled and lifted a hand in a signal to his knights. They split into two groups and sprang away, one to the right, the other to the left. Immediately the King’s knights spread out to block them, but some broke through and were harried and pursued, and wrestled from their steeds. Faêran-wrought metal flashed up silver against the purple stormwrack of the furious skies. Desperately, the followers of the Fithiach raced to elude their hunters, to reach the portal between the worlds, the Geata Poeg na Déanainn. Among all these knights, two stood out—the High King and his brother. These two, so noble of bearing, strove hardest each against the other. The wind was howling, running before the storm.

  Suddenly, cutting across the milling confusion, the sound of a horn rang out, dulcet and virginal, piercing both worlds. Faêran, mortal, and wight alike paused and lifted their eyes.

  ‘The First Call to Faerie,’ cried Easgathair White Owl. ‘The appointed hour approaches. Hasten home!’

  Some among the Faêran assembled in the Watchtower exclaimed to one another in consternation, ‘They must hurry! ’Tis too odious a fate they are hazarding!’

  Cierndanel said to Ashalind, ‘The Sundering of Aia will wreak great changes in Erith, many of which cannot be foretold. The very Gates themselves might become distorted or dislocated beyond recognition. As the instant of Closing draws upon us, Time, habitually unsynchronized, begins to run awry. The King and the Prince risk misjudging the moment of their return.’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Ashalind, whose thoughts were far away. ‘How I crave to return to my home. I cannot bear that this should be my final view of it. Yet, should I return, I would pine away swiftly. The Langothe, incurable, would destroy me.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Cierndanel in surprise, wresting his gaze from the Window, ‘for there is a cure for the Langothe.’ At his throat the eyes of the slender serpent glared, twin peridots, coldly insulted by humanity.

  ‘A cure!’ Ashalind whirled to confront him. ‘Lord Easgathair never told us!’

  ‘You did not ask for the cure, my lady, but instead for entry into the Realm, which was granted.’

  ‘A cure!’ Oppression unchained Ashalind’s spirit and she laughed weakly, too stunned at this revelation to be vexed at Faêran literalness. ‘Where is this cure? How can I obtain it?’

  ‘Perhaps it is not commonly known among mortals, but the High King of the Realm has the power to take away the Langothe. He is the only one who can do so. Simply by saying the words, “Forget desire and delight in the Land Beyond the Stars,” he can annul the Longing.’

  ‘Then I must go now to him before it is too late! Alas, would that I had known before! Would that this fact had been noted in the books of lore, for pity’s sake!’ she exclaimed passionately.

  ‘It is already too late. There is no time. The Closing is imminent. Besides,’ said Cierndanel, ‘he does not lightly grant the cure.’

  Beyond the Northwest Window, a red-haired rider called to the High King.

  ‘Turn back, sir! Turn back now for home.’

  The King’s company drew together and swerved, but as they rode toward the Geata Poeg na Déanainn, the riders of Morragan the Fithiach galloped close at their heels. At a shout from the High King, his company wheeled and urged their horses against those who followed, driving them back. Directly over their heads now, lightning struck repeatedly. Hundreds of bolts flashed within the space of a few heartbeats, scalding the sky to white brilliance. A distant pine tree exploded into a living torch.

  ‘Renounce thy boon!’ the High King roared to his brother, his voice strong above battle and thunder. His demand was answered by Morragan’s mocking laugh.

  ‘The Fithiach knows that the King in desperation tries to trick him,’ whispered Cierndanel on breath of lavender. ‘I too believe our sovereign is bluffing. He never would banish his brother from the Realm—he is not as ruthless as that—and if his words be examined closely, it will be found that he has not in fact said that he would do so. But what is this madness that overtakes them? They must all make greater haste now!’

  From beyond the Window echoed deep-throated yells of anger, the clash of battle, the shrill neighing of Faêran horses. The two sides were evenly matched. They fought magnificently, not to wound or kill, but to prevent progress, and in so doing each impeded the other. Their fighting was a dance of strength and skill, like the clashing of stags in a forest glade, or two thunderstorms meeting to tear open the sky. Conceivably, it was their Faêran rage that now disturbed Erith’s elements.

  Presently the Call came for the second time, its haunting echoes lifting high overhead—the long, pure notes of the horn, a two-note hook on which to suspend the moment.

  ‘Turn back—the hour is upon us!’ cried the High King’s captains.

  As one, the Faêran lords swung around and began a race, but as before they would not leave off harrying and hunting one another until, nearing the right-of-way, the High King’s entourage turned in fury again to assail and drive off their rivals.

  ‘Leave well alone!’ shouted Easgathair. About him, the gathering parted as he strode closer to the Window, his white hair flying like shredded gossamer. He seemed taller, and fierce as a hunting owl.

  ‘Can those beyond the traverse see and hear us?’ wondered Rhys, at his sister’s side.

  ‘They could do so if they wished,’ answered Cierndanel, hovering nearby, ‘for there is little beyond the power of such mighty ones. But in the heat of this moment it seems they have eyes only for the conflict at hand.’

  ‘We must make the choice now!’ said many of the Faêran who watched. ‘If Angavar High King does not return in time, we choose exile with him.’ In the next blink they were gone.

  Others protested that it was unthinkable that the royal brothers and their knights would not return in time. Nevertheless many fled the Watchtower; soon a flood of Faêran, wights, birds, and animals poured through the Geata Poeg na Déanainn to aid the King’s return. There was scant chance that they would reach him before the Closing—the combatants fought, in fact, more than a mile from the Gate.

  Silently, Ashalind battled an agony of indecision. She lifted her gaze once more toward the knights beyond the Window, staring at the melee. And all at once she forgot to breathe. In that instant her spirit fled out of her eyes and into Erith.

  ‘Father, forgive me,’ she cried suddenly, ‘I must try to return …’

  Aghast, Leodogran cried, ‘But why?’

  ‘Only that—’ His daughter struggled to find words. ‘My future lies in Erith, I think. If the High King does not return in time, I will beg him to cure my Langothe, for he has the power to do so.’

  ‘My Elindor, my dearling—would you be parted from us forever?’

  ‘Oh, I do not want that, but it must
happen, for just now I have learned where my heart lies, or else my heart has been torn from my body, for I feel a rupture there, as if it were no longer here with me.’

  His face was stricken. ‘Why do you decide now, at the terminal stroke, to leave forever all the people you love, all you have worked for, in the hour of your triumph? What strange perversity has overtaken you?’

  ‘Father—’ She struggled for words, her feet of their own accord stepping away from him as she spoke. ‘I do not want to hurt you. This bird must fly the nest, dear Father, or else it will never fly at all. Forgive me. You shall be happy, you and the others I love. Mayhap you shall forget me, here in this land of bliss. My duty is over now. My path is my own. Furthermore, and more importantly—’

  ‘I forbid it!’

  Father and daughter opposed one another, the only motionless figures among the swirling multitude.

  ‘Have I not done enough?’ Ashalind begged. My ears strain to hear that last Call. Let it not be now!

  Slowly, Leodogran bowed his head. After a pause he took a pouch, a horn-handled knife, and a dagger from his belt and handed them to his daughter. His movements were stiff, his voice was roughened with grief. ‘These heirlooms and this gold, which I bethought in my naivety we would need in this place, I give to you with my benison. They are of no use here. They may do you some good, if you go. But I hope you will not. There must be more to this, more than you have told. I do not understand you.’

  He kissed her and quickly turned away.

  ‘Father, when Rhys came back from Faérie I vowed that I should never weep again, unless it were for happiness. I shed no tears now, but I will carry your loving words with me.’

  She leaned to embrace Rhys, whispering comfort in his ear. Rufus had somehow eagerly pushed his way in and she bent down to pet him. Excitement and sadness flooded through her. Her words rose strongly, eagerly.

  ‘Tell Pryderi, Meganwy, and Oswyn I hold them always dear in my heart. And Satin, who is free here—whisper the same in her ear. Cierndanel! If the High King does not turn back in time, I would return to Erith through the Geata Poeg na Déanainn.’