The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Severing themselves from nightmare, faint echoes woke her. They had sprung from the mutter of distant voices. Feeling in need of sustenance, she took a swig from the water-bottle hanging at her belt and ate the blackberry cakes she had, in desperation, offered the duergar. Refreshed, she emerged from her niche and followed the undercurrent of sound. It led her along the deserted passageways, up spiral stairs, and onto another floor more sumptuously decorated. Tapestries hung along the walls of the galleries, and rushes strewed the floors. Blue lamps glowed. Hearing the pad-pad of multiple footsteps approaching, Ashalind pressed herself into a recessed doorway. Her Faêran cloak adopted the dusky hues of bluestone and old oak, and without noticing her, half a dozen assorted creatures went past in the wake of a manlike figure whose cloak billowed at his back.

  ‘Steenks of siedo-pods up ’ere,’ a creaking voice commented as the bevy disappeared around a corner.

  Fine droplets beaded the damsel’s brow. It dawned on her that siedo-pods’ strong odour might well mask the scent of mortal flesh. Following quietly behind the group, she peered around the corner. The mutterings she had been hearing emanated from a doorway farther along, and were accompanied by a clinking of pottery and metal. Beyond that doorway, a grating voice deeper than the tones of spriggans was giving orders to select certain wines and convey them in haste: ‘… and hoof it, you spigot-nosed kerns,’ it rasped. ‘His Royal Highness will soon be here.’

  At these words tempests of blood beat about the temples of the spy. She could have screamed for sheer delight and terror. Such good fortune, such evil luck! By ‘His Royal Highness’, the speaker could mean only Prince Morragan. It seemed the Crown Prince was not, after all, comatose beneath a hill, surrounded by Faêran knights. Doubtless he would know the whereabouts of his brother. Had he remained unsleeping throughout the years? Or had he woken not long since? How dreary, how weary, how slow-dragging and tedious would be a millennium of banishment!

  But tragedy must follow, if this royal exile should discover and identify her. Instantly he would guess she had come recently from the Fair Realm. How else might a mortal have survived for a thousand years?

  That the Prince must recognise her the moment he set eyes on her she had no doubt. He would not forget the mortal maid who had entered his dominions, answered his challenges, reclaimed his captives, refused his invitations and thwarted his desires. He would be fully aware she had accompanied the Talith in their migration to the Realm before the Closing. All these years, he had supposed her locked away in Faêrie with her family. If she had appeared in Erith, there could be only one explanation. Against all possibility, somewhere, a Door had been opened.

  Assuredly the unseelie wights of Huntingtowers would torment her until she revealed the secret of the Gateway, and then all would be lost. Morragan would send her back to Faêrie with the Password, and when Easgathair opened the Gates, the Prince would be there waiting to enter the Realm in place of his brother, his rival. Then would Morragan use the remaining unasked boon to exile the High King from the Fair Realm, this time truly forever. He would rule in his brother’s place. And it would be her fault.

  But no, she would not permit discovery. She would be careful. She would listen, and learn what she could.

  ‘Get rid of those miserable slaves below,’ a voice bellowed. ‘If he finds any cursed mortals here, your heads will roll on the flagstones, after which I shall kick ’em out the windows. And while he visits, utter only the common speech, on pain of disembowelment. I will not have the Fithiach disturbed by your squawkings and squeakings. I will cut out the tongue of the first dung-gobbler that disobeys.’

  Bowed figures hurried out of the doorway bearing laden trays, and ascended yet another stair.

  Soon after, Ashalind’s cloaked form glided after them. She had no idea how long the mantle’s special qualities might let her remain undetected, but a relatively quick death was preferable to years spent slowly perishing from the agony of the Langothe, and she must persist in her quest.

  Thick rugs carpeted the floors of this upper level. More brightly lit, the walls were hung with arras of richer textiles, and shields emblazoned with wonderful devices. The last of the wightish menials entered a chamber by way of richly carved doors inlaid with bronze. The bellowing voice had spoken of mortal slaves in the lower regions of the Keep. Ashalind wondered whether she might possibly pose as a servitor, and thus move freely with less chance of discovery. But no—it was clear that when the Fithiach visited, all mortals were banished from his sight. Nonetheless, he must endure mortal speech, for according to what she had overheard, he despised the guttural wightish languages but would not permit them to sully the Faêran tongue by employing it. So far, within these walls she had heard only common-speak.

  Meanwhile, judging by the sounds in the carved-door chamber, further preparations were being made for the arrival of the Raven Prince.

  A small insignificant portal was sunk into a niche almost opposite the carved doors, across the passageway from them. When Ashalind pushed, its hinges obeyed with a groan. Inside nestled another dark storage cubicle—a good enough vantage point for surveillance when the door was left ajar. Dust arose like phantom brides, and a spider dropped on her face. She might have yelped in surprise, had the duergar not stolen her power of speech.

  Her narrow field of vision through the carved doors across the corridor showed lofty arched windows looking out from the larger chamber, which was bustling with activity. A tall, manlike figure moved past one window. Its head was crowned by the branching antlers of a stag. A graceful lady was standing with her back to Ashalind, dressed in a lace-edged green velvet gown sewn thickly all over with peridots. Dark hair cascaded down her back. Gold ornaments glittered on her svelte arms. She might have been a damsel of the Faêran, since several ladies of the Fair Realm had been riding among the ill-fated hawking party exiled on the Day of Closing, and others had fled into Erith as the last Call sounded, when the exile of the royal brethren was in no doubt. But when this green-clad belle turned around, the hem of her dress swished aside. The spy flinched. The ‘woman’ was neither Faêran nor mortal, but an eldritch wight. How doubly hideous it seemed, that such a fair form should walk upon woolly sheep’s hooves.

  A glow of firelight to the right illuminated polished furniture and tableware. Nothing else in that room could be observed.

  A familiar voice came pummeling like a blow to the stomach:

  ‘Set those goblets aright, nasty little hoglin, or I shall have you flayed like your sniveling cousin whose hide hangs above the Gate of Horn.’

  Never had Ashalind erased from memory the coarse tones of Yallery Brown.

  Commotion arose to the left. She could not see what caused it.

  ‘Get out,’ commanded the unseelie rat-wight. ‘His Highness arrives.’

  A motley collection of wights hastened from the chamber, disappearing down the corridor. A chill draught followed them, and the clatter of hooves on stone.

  ‘My liege …’ Yallery Brown’s tone was fawning. He had broken off as if in fear or awe.

  Several tall figures crossed quickly past the doorway. The carved doors were slammed shut—in the instant before they met, Ashalind discerned a stunning profile that could only be Morragan’s. He and his retainers must have entered at the arched windows, which were as vast and high as the front gates of a castle.

  Through a gap at the threshold drifted the conversation of those who were sequestered within. Listening with intense concentration, Ashalind could glean most of what they were saying, but it made little sense. Either they discussed matters far removed from her knowledge, or else she was too tired to comprehend. Eventually she succumbed again to sleep.

  By the fluctuations in the window-light when the carved doors were open, Ashalind could tell night from day. She remained concealed hungrily in the spider-haunted cell, sipping her water, and the next night Morragan met again with his followers in the chamber.

  Scant liquid remained in her leat
her bottle, and the siedo-pod odour was fading. The Faêran hated spies, and the Raven Prince in particular detested mortals. She began to think that if she were caught there, the manner of her demise at the mercy of unseelie wights might prove more horrible than even the Langothe. But she stayed, and she listened, wishing heartily that there were some way of prompting the gathering to speak of the High King.

  On the third night, by strange fortune, they did—but it was not as she had hoped.

  The heavy doors stood ajar. A low buzz of conversation had been proceeding for a good while, when Morragan’s Faêran voice carried clearly across the corridor, rich, deep, and melodious in contrast to the harsh, throaty tones and raucous squeaks of the wights.

  Gooseflesh raked the listener’s spine.

  ‘There has been a restlessness of late,’ he said musingly, ‘a breath of finer air, as from the Realm. This dusk, I rode down by the fisherman’s cot and heard a maid within, warbling a song I have never heard before. In faith, it moved me not a little, although poorly versed.’

  Ashalind held her breath. From the unseen fireplace on the right sparks flew into her field of vision and hung dying in midair.

  ‘A song of exile,’ said Morragan.

  ‘If it displeased my lord,’ murmured Yallery Brown, ‘the cottage shall be razed, and those who have dwelt there for far too long shall be punished.’

  The eavesdropper stiffened. She must return as soon as possible to warn the Caidens!

  ‘A song of exile,’ repeated Morragan, ‘reminding me of my own.’

  A thicker spray of sparks exploded, as if someone had kicked a burning log.

  ‘Cursed be Angavar, may his reign end!’ said the marvelous Faêran voice. ‘May his knights rot in their hill grave. Cursed be the White Owl and his Keys. Cursed be the moment the Casket snapped shut with the Word. Might I but live those times over again …’

  Ashalind, eyes tightly shut, clasped her hands together. Her lips moved soundlessly.

  The King, speak again of the High King! Where is this hill beneath which he sleeps amid his noble companions?

  ‘Behold, Your Highness, they bring up the steeds,’ said the Winter-wind voice of Huon, Prince of Hunters and steward of the stronghold. ‘Tonight we hunt.’

  A rush of biting air swung the carved doors open on their hinges. Morragan stood at a window, looking out at the night. The full moon was rising, outlining the statuesque shape of him, the wide shoulders from which his cloak eddied like a piece of darkness.

  ‘The Realm,’ he said.

  Then softly he spoke, but the night airs carried his voice back to the ears of the eavesdropper. It was a rhyme. The words were Faêran and she did not know what they meant, but their implication was haunting, lyrical, and strummed her Langothed heart with pain.

  A half-shang gust lifted Morragan’s cloak and hair like a wave. The inked-in outline of a horse appeared at the window. Then the Prince was gone, and several motley figures followed. Bridles jingled, boots scraped on bluestone, and commands were shouted. Far below, hounds began to yelp. A horn sounded. With a dissonance of shrill whoops and strident shouts the Hunt was away, borne aloft on invisible airstreams through the silver-sprayed vaults of darkness.

  Abruptly, the fire went out.

  Soon afterward, the spy heard two wightish servants come shuffling out of the chamber. As they came through the carved doors, one hoarsely muttered something.

  ‘Shut your snout, clotpoll,’ the other wheezed, ‘or I’ll roll your head in the fire. I’ll teach you to speak the low tongue when the Crown Prince is honouring your dunghill with a visit!’

  ‘So high and mighty are you not?’ returned the hoarse one sarcastically. ‘You may have been chosen for his royal household, scumbag, but you do not deserve it and as soon as they see through you, you’ll be thrown out on your muleish ear.’

  The wights had by now come to a halt in the corridor.

  ‘You cap of all fools alive!’ berated the wheezer. ‘And do you plot to take my place? I was chosen for wit and wisdom far beyond the grasp of your greasy claws, boiled-brains.’

  ‘Ha!’ retorted Hoarse-Throat. ‘The jumped-up feathergoose is even more contemptible when it struts!’

  His antagonist could scarcely contain his ire. ‘You know not to whom you speak,’ he hissed between gritted teeth. ‘Be wary, parasite, for your folly outweighs your fat head. I’ll warrant you do not even have a notion of the Faêran words spoken this night by his Royal Highness!’

  The other spluttered incoherently.

  ‘Anyone with a jot of wit knows the meaning,’ said Wheezer triumphantly. ‘Even the merfolk sing it in the Gulf of Namarre. It is a riddle, an easy one, but too hard for the likes of you, you foul, undigested hodge-pudding.’

  ‘You’re full of air!’

  ‘Nay, noisome stench, and I’ll prove it!’

  The wheezer cleared its throat phlegmily and began to translate, slowly, as if every word was an effort.

  ‘Nor bound to dust, ye ocean’s bird, the word’s thy name, the Key’s the word. So? What’s the answer, goat-face?’

  But before goat-face could reply a voice thundered from further down the corridor: ‘Get along there, you rump-fed idlers, chattering like parrots outside the door! If you utter another word I’ll have your lungs!’

  With a rattling of spilled trays, the servants fled.

  After that there was no more sound, except the wind whining around the Keep and the loud drumming of Ashalind’s heart. The riddle was indeed easy. The answer was the elindor, or white bird of freedom, which spent seven years on the wing or water without touching land—her kenning-name. And there was another answer. ‘Elindor’ was the Password that opened the Green Casket of the Keys, in the Fair Realm.

  Like syrup, silence poured forth from the recently vacated chamber. Surely the room was empty. Pulling the hood of the Faêran cloak over her head and tying it securely, Ashalind crossed the corridor, crept inside, and looked around. Indeed, they were all gone. There was no sign of Morragan’s erstwhile presence. She felt, again, bereft. Perversely, she had hoped for some evidence of him—what, she could not say. But fingering the enameled bracelet on her wrist, she exulted. She had discovered a fact of tremendous significance! She now knew the Password! The elindor, the white bird of freedom—how ironic that Morragan should have chosen it as the master-key. The jest was manifold—the bird that lived free of the bonds of Erith’s soil, the kenning of she who had freed the children, the Password to free the Keys from the Green Casket. But she must make haste and escape from Huntingtowers Keep—the danger was too great.

  Her ears, strained to the limits of hearing, caught scuffling noises approaching along the corridor. It was too late to leave the chamber through the heavy carved doors. What measure of camouflage the cloak offered, she could not guess. Wildly she looked for a place of concealment among the furnishings, but none offered itself. Nor were there any other exits, save the wide, high openings of the windows, which led to a ledge over sheer nothingness, looking out on lands far below and dark horsemen riding the sky, fell shapes etched against crystal. A huge raven that had been watching her from the sill flapped slowly away. At that moment, enraged screaming broke out in the corridor, just beyond the doors. Terrified, Ashalind ran out to the ledge and dropped down over the side.

  For a mere instant she hung by her sliding fingers over a void, knowing full well she would inevitably lose her grip. The chamber above was filled with a cacophony of raucous braying, piercing screeches, and the crashes of laden tables being overturned. Her kicking feet found a toehold just as her left hand lost its grip. Leaves brushed her face; thick tendrils of common ivy. It grew thickly, latticed all over the outer wall, great ancient, arthritic stems of it. Grabbing hold, she began to climb down.

  Silent sobs of fear shook her body. Terror melted her sinews like wax and drained them of power, so that her fingers, nerveless, could scarcely grip. The half-shang wind buffeted erratically, alternately flattening he
r against the wall and wrenching her away, outlining each ivy leaf with green-and-gold rime. Claws of dead stems hooked themselves in her garments. There was no time to disengage them, so they tore great rents in the fabric.

  Down she scrambled, seeking blindly for footholds and not knowing when her toes might scrabble against naked bluestone. Farther and farther down she maneuvered, sliding one quivering foot after another, one sweat-slicked hand after another, her heart pounding like a pestle in her chest. How far she must descend she did not know for certain, but the central Keep had looked to be hundreds of feet high. From the corners of her eyes, she could see other towers with their watchful blue-gas windows, and glimpse a couple of soaring spans over an abyss. It was like being a beetle clinging to an open wall, so vulnerable, for all eyes to see, for any predator to pick off with ease.

  A chair came hurtling down from above, passed her within a hairsbreadth, and went spinning down to shatter far below. Doggedly she continued to descend. They had discovered her presence. It was only a matter of time before they hunted her down.

  The water-bottle hampered her. She dropped it.

  When her fingers would obey her no longer, she let go of the ivy. After falling a surprisingly short distance, she lay in a crumpled heap, dazedly trying to comprehend that she still lived and had reached the ground safely after all. She tried to stand, but her legs gave way, so she began to crawl, passing by the smashed shards of the fallen chair. Common ivy sprawled all over the ground, covering small bushes and shrubs. Something became hooked on it—her bracelet. Carefully she freed it. The white bird shone in the moonlight, and somehow the sight of this icon gave her strength and courage. Standing up, she broke into a run.

  In the rising unstorm, scarlet and silver sparks flew from her iron-shod boots as she fled from island to islet, from bridge to bridge. Shang afterimages pulsed here and there, and the edge of every leaf on every bush was spangled. Up and over the caldera rim she ran, and down the other side, using the iron dagger to slash wildly at small things that sprang, yellow-eyed and malevolent, from the darkness. Away back, the hue and cry gathered momentum. Onward she sped, until she reached the mining grounds, and as she darted in among the heaps she heard the Wild Hunt catching up at her heels. The fire-eyed hounds were baying weirdly now, but there was a jarring note too, a sound that didn’t belong. It sounded like a small dog yapping, and its source was up ahead. Rounding a mullock heap, she beheld the white whippet from the cottage of the Caidens. It barked frantically, ran a little distance, then turned to see if she was following. Placing all her faith in the brave little dog, she hastened after it.