On other days the shang came, dimming sunlight, frosting the land and sea with strange lights, but there were no tableaux here in this far-flung outpost.
‘Why do you live alone?’ Ashalind asked her benefactress as they mended nets down by the harbour. ‘Is it not perilous?’
‘We have no choice,’ replied Madelinn. ‘No other folk will live so close to the place of dread. Unseelie things roam near here. Men who venture to the caldera never return, or if they do, they come back raving mad and perish soon after. Sometimes when the moon is full, dark skyriders come to Huntingtowers from the northeast and after that a ghastly Hunt issues from that place. Its leader is Huon, the unseelie prince from whose skull grows a set of antlers like those of a stag, and he is called the Hunter.’
‘I have heard the name,’ murmured Ashalind. ‘Who has not?’
‘When the Hunt is abroad, we lock ourselves inside the house, barring all the doors and windows, but the bars do not keep out the horrible baying of black hounds with fiery eyes, and the beating of hooves. It’s enough to make your blood curdle.’
‘Why then do you live here?’
‘Because it is our own.’ Madelinn spoke with quiet dignity. ‘Eight years ago, when the children were small, we sailed here, from Gilvaris Tarv on the east coast. Tavron and I were raised among fisher-folk, but poverty had forced us to seek employment in that city. It was a terrible life.’ She shook her head, frowning. ‘Bad conditions; cruelty. Never enough pay to feed the family properly. The children were forever hungry. My uncle lived in this cottage on the cliffs. He died and I inherited it. Here we came, and here we rule ourselves and seldom go hungry, even if it is sometimes fish day after day. We have learned to live in the shadow of Huntingtowers.’
‘Will you tell me of that place?’
Madelinn stretched her arm out in a wide gesture to the sea. A tall cone-shaped island reared its peak not far from the shore, southwest of the little harbour. Farther west another thrust up, and beyond it several more in a great sweeping curve dwindling around to the northwest.
‘That’s what we call the Chain of Chimneys,’ she said, ‘a line of fire-mountains, ages old, that once lifted themselves out of the sea.’
‘I have heard of them by repute,’ said Ashalind, ‘called by the old Feorhkind name of Eotenfor, the Giant’s Stepping-Stones.’
‘Aye,’ said Madelinn. ‘One of these fire-heads pushed up under the land instead of the sea, and became Huntingtowers Hill. In its top is a vast cauldron more than a mile wide, and inside it crouch a dozen or so small hills. Ash cones they were. Now they are islands in a lake, for the crater has filled with water. The biggest island sits right smack in the middle of it all, but spans and causeways have been built everywhere, it is said, so that the eldritch creatures may cross over. On this central hill stands a keep of stone, surrounded by eight other towers all linked by flying bridges.’
Madelinn paused thoughtfully and pushed a stray strand of hair back from her face.
‘Well,’ she continued, ‘I suppose some folk must have gone there to see it all and returned with some wit left, else we wouldn’t know what the place looked like, would we? Don’t say as how I’d recommend a sightseeing tour, though. The lesser unseelie wights there can be put off with charms, but them things that go a-hunting—they are full wicked.’
But Ashalind was only half listening. Her mind was on Huntingtowers Hill.
If some of the exiled Faêran dwelt there, they must surely know the whereabouts of King Angavar. But by what Madelinn had said it seemed that they shunned mortals, and would be hardly likely to welcome her in, answer her questions, and wave good-bye. She must approach with caution and try to glean information using stealth. What if they were not Faêran? Wights such as the Each Uisge were able to take on a form resembling Men or Faêran, duping those who did not look too closely. Nonetheless, they could never make the transformation complete and always bore some inconspicuous but betraying sign such as webbed fingers or animal’s feet, and when in man-shape they moved like Men, not with Faêran grace.
Prince Morragan had mingled with unseelie wights at Carnconnor. Perhaps it was he who was master at Hunting-towers. At this notion a surge of something akin to shock or exhilaration coursed through Ashalihd.
Beside her, the fisherwoman sighed. ‘One day we might leave this place. We grow no richer here. The merchants of the road-caravans are miserly in their bartering for dried fish and only come by once a year. And it is not right for the children to be raised in the shadow of fear. One day … I don’t know where we’d go.’
There came an evening when the moon was almost full. The wind screamed at the gray-green sea and whipped the white-horse crests out beyond the harbour. Inside the cottage, ruby light flickered from the fire, casting deceptive shadows on rough walls.
Ashalind placed the purse of gold sovereigns on the table and loosened the drawstring of its mouth. Coins spilled out, gleaming softly across scored wood. The fisher-folk stared, struck dumb by the sight of so much wealth.
‘This is for you,’ their guest explained, ‘save only for seven pieces, which I may need on my journey. If I do not return within three days, take all of it and leave this place, for my efforts might inadvertently arouse the wrath of unseelie wights, and you might find yourselves in peril. If my quest is successful I may not return. If unsuccessful I will ask you to carry me in your boat to Caermelor. I go now to Huntingtowers to seek the High King of the Fair Folk.’
The silence was broken by Tavron clearing his throat.
‘We shall not take your gold,’ he said gruffly. ‘Return it to the pouch. Our hospitality asks no fee.’
‘I do not mean to insult you,’ stammered Ashalind. ‘Only, if I do not return I shall not need it. With this you might buy land elsewhere and start a new life.’
Sensing her distress, the white whippet jumped into her lap. Fondly, she caressed it, thinking of her faithful Rufus.
‘If you must go, I shall accompany you as your guard,’ said Tavron. ‘Charms are not enough to ward off such wickedness as lurks there.’
‘Would you leave your family unprotected?’ asked Ashalind.
‘There will be no going to the place of dread, especially now,’ interrupted Madelinn. ‘Have you not heeded our warnings? The moon will be full tomorrow night, and it is then the Wild Hunt goes forth to scour the surrounding lands. All mortals who love life ought to stay safe behind rowan and iron.’
‘I have heeded your words,’ replied Ashalind, ‘but I am driven. A certain longing burns in me and daily eats me away—longing that can only be appeased when I have found the one I seek. It is the Langothe, and those who have never felt it cannot understand. Nothing you can say will alter my course. I have no choice.’
‘You must fight it,’ pleaded Tansy. ‘Stay with us. Teach us more songs.’
‘I must go.’
The next morning, covered by the Faêran mantle, which had subtly altered its hues to match the surroundings, Ashalind left the cottage. She took her father’s iron dagger, a wallet of food, some charms, and a leather water-bottle that was a gift from Tavron. The ragged riding-habit lay folded in a wooden chest inside the cottage; in place of it she wore worsted galligaskins, a pair of boys’ buskins, and a tunic of brown bergamot, all gifts from the Caidens.
‘These garments are old, but fit for traveling,’ Tavron Caiden said. ‘Unfortunately we have no taltry for you. If an unstorm should come, you must become still, eschew passion—otherwise your image will be painted on the airs for all passersby to see.’
‘It may be that the curious cloak you wear has the power to protect from the shang,’ suggested Madelinn. ‘Cover your head with the hood. It might work.’
At the cottage door the fisher wife made one last appeal.
‘Do not go, Ashalind,’ she said, looking the damsel squarely in the eyes. ‘My mother was a carlin and I possess some of her foresight. I tell you that if you go to Huntingtowers you go to your doom. I tell you t
hat you will be defeated there, and that it will be the end of you as we know you now. You will die or, at best, you will be altered in some terrible, inexplicable way.’
Her entreaties were in vain.
With embraces but no kisses, the family bade her farewell. They turned their harrowed faces aside to hide their horror at this obvious suicide.
The damsel set out in a westerly direction toward the tip of the Cape of Tides. She climbed the slope behind the cottage, breathing hard from the exertion. Shreds of morning mist were dissolving in tatters. At the top of the cliff she halted, surveying the satin expanse of the sea. The waters were striped with shades of blue from milky to intense, under a cornflower sky. The perfect cones of the Chimneys stood like guardians, waves creaming on their beaches. A shag perched on a rock, transfixed and cruciform, drying its wings. As yet, Ashalind had seen no elindors in this new era. This morning only shearwaters and petrels rode the sky.
The whippet had followed her. Stoically, she sent it back with a harsh word. The cottage looked tiny, far below. In a few steps it was lost to view.
Low tea-tree scrub grew on the cliff top, spiking the air with the tang of eucalyptus. In the distance, a disused Mooring Mast stood dark against the skyline. Rain had fallen the night before, and puddles made mirrors on the ground.
Despite a growing feeling of trepidation, the traveller made swift progress along the cliffs and past the overgrown mullock heaps of the abandoned mines. Toward nightfall she reached the foot of the long-dead volcano. Its heath-covered flanks rose in a long slow sweep to a brooding summit that appeared flat from her vantage point. Hairs prickled on her arms and neck. The prescience of danger pressed down like the weight of a mountain. Dark clouds clustered over the sun’s face and the air stilled. No birds sang, here.
Stopping in the shelter of a scrubby brake, Ashalind took a draft of water. Her stomach roiled with trepidation; she could not eat a bite. After tugging the Faêran hood more firmly around her face, she began to ascend as noiselessly and unobtrusively as possible.
As she climbed the hillside, she sensed she was being watched. Bushes rustled furtively, and twin points of viridescent light gleamed out from many an enigmatic shadow. Close by, a shout of loud laughter made her jump. Sweating with more than effort, she labored on, eyes darting from side to side, trying to make sense out of the odd shapes in the gathering darkness. What a fool she had been, she realised too late, to challenge a domain of wights at night. Most of these creatures were nocturnal, and she had placed herself at a grave disadvantage. She ought to have found a sheltered place to sleep and await the dawn. Had she lost her wits already, in her eagerness to be rid of the wearisome Langothe? But there would be no turning back now that she had come so far, and she toiled on until she reached the lip of the caldera.
The waxing moon, risen early, extruded ghostlike shafts through a gash in the cumulus. Its crepuscular light reflected back from the expansive lake that lay stretched out far below Ashalind’s feet, strewn with the dark humps of islets like solemn tortoises. The top of the central island rose up level with the caldera’s rim, and from it soared, attenuated, the fantastic structure Madelinn Caiden had described, with its towers and flying bridges. From within these towers bluish light pierced the slit windows at many levels. The slits glowed eerily, like cobalt gas; weird optics watching the night. To the right, a road sliced through a cutting in the rim and crossed several bridges to reach the towers.
From somewhere to the left a crow harshly said ‘cark-cark’. Surely it was unusual for diurnal birds to be calling out at this time of night … The intruder took a deep breath and started to move quietly down the inside wall toward the first bridge.
Her fall was caused by the white hare that ran under her feet. In the next instant, something small but with the strength of a coiled spring landed heavily on top of her, gouging, beating, pummeling, until her hand found the iron dagger’s hilt and she wrenched it from its sheath.
The thing sprang away, shrieking falsetto alarm as it fled into the night. Blood dripped into the damsel’s eyes and she wiped it away with her sleeve.
‘Cold iron will not serve you far, ’ere,’ said a voice like two dry branches rubbing together.
‘It serves me well enough,’ she said to the spriggan who stood six paces away.
‘Only foolish mortals trespass in the domain of ’uon, the Prince of ’unters,’ the spriggan said, answering her first question before she had asked it. ‘Especially when he is on his way. For this, you must die.’
It flinched, blinking as she flicked the dagger to reflect moonlight from the blade into its squinty eyes. This was partly to disguise the fact that her hands were shaking.
‘Ah, but if I die, you will not benefit,’ Ashalind said steadily. ‘In return for certain information, I am prepared to pay gold. True gold.’
She rattled the purse.
‘Pah,’ sneered the spriggan. ‘What use is that yellow metal to me, eh? I ’ave no need of gold, true or otherwise. It cannot buy me juicy caterpillars or sweet cocoons and spiders’ eggs.’ The wight pranced around, switching its tail restlessly. ‘What else does the erithbunden offer?’
‘Do you like maggots?’
‘Love ’em.’
‘I passed a dead bird not long ago …’
She broke off—the wight had already disappeared in the direction she indicated.
Something bit her knee. Reflexively, she kicked it away. With a sigh of relief and disappointment, she decided to retrace her steps after all, and wait on the lower slopes until morning.
As she turned away a nuggety, grotesque shape detached itself from obscurity. Here was a wight even more sinister and repulsive than a spriggan. Ashalind backed away, clutching the charms at her belt, for she recognised this small, manlike being as a black dwarf—a duergar. Battling a sinking feeling, the damsel hoped the rowan and iron charms had some potency against such a dangerous entity.
‘What else do you offer?’ the duergar asked casually.
‘I am come to buy information. I offer nothing until I can be sure that you are a trusted henchman of Huon the Hunter, who would have knowledge such as I seek,’ she countered. Her hand shivered, gripping the charms. This thing was not to be trifled with—duergars were quick to anger and quicker to strike. She wondered why it had not already torn her head off. Maybe the immutable laws of eldritch forbade it until she showed fear, or else some protective spell of the Lady Nimriel’s lingered.
‘For instance,’ she continued, trying to trick the wight into revealing the information she was after, ‘do you know the whereabouts of Angavar High King?’
Out of its puddle of inky shadow, the duergar took a step closer.
‘If you want information, I can smuggle you secretly into the Keep of Huon the Horned,’ it offered, flexing grimy fingernails and baring long, pointed teeth, ‘on the wains that come tonight. First, give us a little suck of your blood.’
Ashalind recalled stories of benighted travellers found by roadsides in the morning, desiccated husks.
‘No!’ Wildly she cast her mind about, desperate for something with which to buy off this manifestation of iniquity. Fumbling at her wrist, she said, ‘A golden bracelet inlaid with a white bird … gold coins … poppyseed biscuits and blackberry cakes …’
‘Ignorant flax-wench! How dare you offer trash!’
‘If you dislike my offerings, then we cannot do business.’ She grew still, but was too wise to turn her back and walk away.
Noise ceased while the night condensed under a grinning moon.
‘Cut off your hair and I will get you into the Keep,’ said the duergar eventually.
‘The Central Keep? Unharmed and in secret?’
‘Yea.’
‘Then, yes!’
A whip snaked from the wight’s powerful hand. Before the damsel could recoil, it had lashed her throat like a tongue of white-hot steel. The duergar emitted a strange mewling noise, which may have been laughter, and muttered, �
��Yea indeed.’
Ignoring the searing pang at her throat, Ashalind unbound the long heavy braid from her head and cut it off close to the scalp. She tossed the rope of hair into the wight’s hands just as the sound of horses’ hooves and wooden wheels came clopping and rattling out of the darkness.
‘The bird may enter the cage but it will never sing the songs it learns, and when it pops out its head—pigeon pie!’ were the black dwarf’s last words. The wicked thing rushed away and Ashalind followed as fast as possible, knowing it was bound to keep its promise to her.
Around the caldera’s upjutting rim the duergar led her, until they reached the cutting where the road entered from the gentler slopes. Along that road a convoy of wagons was entering the volcanic basin. The vile creature leaped up beside the driver of the lead wain. What it did to him, Ashalind could not be certain, but the wain and those in procession behind it stopped long enough for her to climb swiftly aboard. As the train moved off again, she found a deep, wooden chest half full of some pungent dried pods and concealed herself inside.
She could tell by the numbness now in her throat that the treacherous duergar had stolen her voice, and she knew by the jolting and swaying and the hollow ring and thud of hooves that the wagons were passing over bridges from island to island. When the wain stopped, the chest was unloaded and propelled upward with nauseating speed before being transferred a second time and left alone in utter silence.
Bleakly the smuggled girl pondered over the loss of her voice, the latest setback of so many in her life. If she could only learn the whereabouts of the King and find him, he might provide some Faêran cure.
After a long while she dared to lift the lid. The chest had been abandoned among others in a dim storeroom, but the door of the room stood ajar, admitting a streak of cyanic light. Having ventured out of the redolent container, she nervously peeped around this portal. There was only an empty stone-flagged hallway with other recessed doors leading off to either side. A faint smell of charred meat permeated the air.
Waves of weariness washed over Ashalind. She had walked far that day. Fear had kept her senses sharp, but now, in this tomblike quiet, she was overwhelmed by the need for sleep. After withdrawing into the half-empty storeroom she curled herself in the farthest corner, among a stack of boxes, then pulled the Faêran cloak around her and closed her eyes.
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 100
