The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘And now you have met an urisk,’ said Tahquil, ‘and what is more, I suspect this urisk is following us. Upon reflection, I believe it has been trailing us ever since we stopped to wash in that pool under the birch-woods.’

  ‘What might it be after?’ asked Viviana nervously.

  ‘That I cannot say.’

  That night, Viviana unhooked her sewing implements from her chatelaine and stitched up a rent in the leg of her breeches. A watch was kept all night, but in the morning her silver thimble was missing.

  ‘I left it here by the fire,’ she exclaimed, ‘and now it is gone! Stolen.’

  ‘Trows,’ said Tahquil darkly. ‘They are silver-thieves.’ Fleetingly, a vision returned to her—a memory of a happier time spent amongst trows and henkies, when eldritch music played. They danced, then, the Dainnan and the girl—so close, so very close but never, ever touching. Neither did a lock of his hair flick her shoulder nor the hem of her dress brush against his boot, that was how precisely they danced. Later, looking back on this night, Imrhien could not clearly recall the slow beauty of the inhuman harmonies or her wonder at the clear eyes that smiled down on her, only the way the wind lifted his long, dark hair like spreading wings.

  ‘Guard well your chatelaine, Viviana,’ she said, thrusting aside the knife that twisted in the wound.

  The courtier checked over the ornate clasp holding together the medley of chatelettes; the scissors, the manicure set, bodkin, spoon, vinaigrette, needle-case, the looking glass and spike-leaf strainer, the faulty timepiece, the workbox, the portrait and tilhals, the anlace, penknife, snuff-box and pencil.

  ‘This motley collection seems sorely out of place in the wilderness,’ she sighed.

  ‘It may yet come in useful,’ Tahquil assured her. She lay back to rest against dulcet grasses, and closed her eyes. Dimly, through sombre veils of yearning, the conversation of her companions drifted into her awareness.

  ‘Do you not long for home and hearth?’ Viviana softly quizzed the little girl.

  ‘I miss my mother,’ admitted Caitri, apparently surprised at the question, ‘but life in Isse Tower was disagreeable—never the life for me. Now I am bound to my lady’s service, and gladly do I follow her. This is the way I was taught. I follow, I serve, I learn. It is enough for me to walk outside the walls of the House of the Stormriders. Being content, I crave no more. And you?’

  Viviana deliberated. ‘I am fearful of these wights that haunt our surrounds,’ she said eventually, ‘and I would wish we might find ourselves safe within walls.’

  ‘Walls may not guarantee safety, necessarily,’ Caitri reminded her.

  ‘Yet they appear secure, which is reassuring.’

  ‘Then, do you wish you might not accompany my lady on this quest?’

  ‘No, I do not wish that, but ’twould make my heart lighter were I convinced that our venture stands a good chance of success. I fear the dangerous regions lying across our path might ensnare us, and drag us to our doom.’

  Next morning they journeyed on.

  The land undulated in folds and banks and wooded shoulders from which toppled the pewter braids of rills. Ever as the travellers approached the thick, dark border of Timbrilfin, leaving at their backs the flowery lea, the outlying trees grew higher and stouter, closer together. For fourteen cool rain-misted days they trudged along, although there were no visible paths. Few words were exchanged between them. Food was scant, and they rationed themselves. Half a month had elapsed since they had left the slopes of the caldera, when they came under the forest fence.

  The sun shone from the northwest, still making its annual zigzag journey to the southern tropic. Away from it fell the heavy shadow of the fence of trees, casting a chill, grey gloom all along the boundary.

  A dim and mysterious place, it certainly felt eldritch.

  There the travellers halted, tilting back their heads to look up. High above, the straight boles of massive autarken trees leaped a hundred and fifty feet up to a distant roof of leaves. In the spaces between these magnificent pillars dusk gathered—a hollow absence of light, a curdling of twilight.

  ‘Timbrilfin, Land of Mighty Trees, uninhabited by mortal men,’ said Tahquil aloud. Instantly she regretted having spoken. Caterpillars seemed to be crawling across her shoulders.

  ‘Something is listening,’ said Caitri, voicing the opinion of them all.

  As one they turned and moved away. When they considered themselves out of earshot of whatever lurked in the darkness beneath the trees, they stopped to talk.

  ‘I had supposed that Timbrilfin would be like the fair Forest of Tiriendor,’ said Tahquil quietly, ‘but I was mistaken. Tiriendor possessed its dangers, but at least it was filled with light and air. Those overshadowed vaults ahead of us give out an ominous look. It may be that in the centuries since my time hosts of unseelie wights have gathered within those sunless arbours. Now horrors unguessed might well dwell therein. We are not Dainnan knights. The three of us, alone, are no match for any truly fell beings. It is unlikely we would pass unscathed through their domain.’

  ‘What is to be done?’ asked Viviana. ‘As you have said, to the west the forest meets the ocean, while to the east the trees stretch mile after mile. Are we to turn back at this barrier, after coming so far? Must we return to Court after all?’

  A note of hope might have chimed in the courtier’s tone.

  Tahquil chewed a stem of grass, squinting thoughtfully at the sky.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I need time to think and we should all rest awhile. That spring we passed not far from here, soaking out of the hillside—let us sojourn there.’

  The spring was not much more than a boggy patch, vivid green, fringed with rushes and iris. Here, dragonflies of metallic emerald-gold or ruby iridescence froze in midair on almost-invisible wings of diaphane. Abruptly they froze in another place, kissing the reeds and the water. Midges droned, frogs creeked in the last of the butter-yellow afternoon light.

  There the companions rested while the sun’s rays lengthened, reaching long warm fingers across the land. The fingers withdrew, clenching into a hot fist which punched out of sight behind the horizon. Further up the slope, the forest stretched taller, blacker, more menacing. Indeed, it seemed to have advanced a few yards down the hill towards them while the travellers were not attending. They fastened their eyes on it.

  Dusk crept over the landscape.

  A sad wind searched over the grass, in and out of the trees. Leaves moved with a soft fluttering sound which possibly included a light footfall.

  Tahquil stood up.

  ‘Wight,’ she said loudly. ‘Urisk.’

  There was no reply. The staccato dragonflies had vanished. All was still.

  ‘Urisk,’ she repeated, ‘show yourself.’

  Viviana and Caitri sat utterly motionless, save that the lips of the former were moving in some kind of chant. Water waited, lurking darkly amongst plaited bog-grasses.

  ‘Obban tesh!’ muttered Tahquil. ‘How may I persuade?’

  Viviana raised her head.

  ‘Urisk,’ she quavered helpfully, ‘pray come forth.’

  An encouraging frou-frou rustled in a nearby clump of parallel, tasselled stems.

  ‘In the name,’ said Tahquil, ‘of the King-Emperor of Erith. In the name of Nimriel of the Lake and Easgathair of the Gates. May it please you, urisk, to appear!’

  They stared at the clump of tasselled reeds. In a moment, Tahquil swung around. At their backs, woven into the gloaming, there existed a small dark-skinned chap with a pointy face which concluded, appropriately, in a goatee. Two stubby horns stood up from a nest of curly brown locks. Thick hair covered rounded haunches tapering to neat, cloven hooves. His waist was strung about with a belt of braided rushes, from which dangled a syrinx.

  His voice hooted tragically, like wind whistling through hollow wood.

  ‘Duck,’ he honked.

  Stones whizzed past their ears from the clump of reeds, followed by shouts
of laughter. The urchens made off, leaving Tahquil daubing a fresh graze on her chin and Caitri massaging a sore elbow.

  The urisk remained.

  Tahquil cleared her throat. She thought, I have summoned a wight. I have invoked an eldritch thing. Such a summoning may be onerous, may become a burden to the summoner. It must be followed through rightly. What do I know of these goat-legged wights? They are seelie. Someone whose very name pierces my heart once told me that urisks crave human company, but their appearance frightens people. Should they be thanked or does thanks drive them away?

  ‘You honour us,’ she stammered. ‘We request your help.’

  ‘But,’ whistled the wight, ‘ye be afeard o’ me.’

  ‘Oh no, not at all,’ Viviana assured him, her eyes like saucers. ‘I am sorry I screamed in the rhododendrons. You took me by surprise, that is all.’

  ‘I’m accustomed tae it by noo,’ mourned the urisk. ‘Your kind want nae part o’ me since my ain hoose fell tae ruin.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Tahquil, ‘now that we have invited you to converse with us, will you help us find a way through Timbrilfin?’

  ‘Och, I’ve nae heard the forest called by that name that this many a lang nicht,’ said the urisk squatting down on his hairy haunches. ‘That is an auld kenning, that is, from the nichts langsyne when the forest was young and Themselves that named it were wont t’ gae on their Rades or a-hunting through its green aisles. Green no mair are the lofty halls o’ Arda Musgarh Dubh, but grey as sowen-pats.’

  ‘Is that its title now?’ asked Tahquil, not attempting to pronounce it. ‘A formidable one!’

  ‘For a formidable wood,’ said the urisk. ‘’Tis the name my folk ken it by, one o’ many names. Bolr Sceadu the bogies call it; the Great Ones say Axis Umbru, while to the swans whose speech is still close to the Faêran, it is Urlarliath. But the Men of the Grey Glass Firth title it Khazathdaur, meaning the Masts of Shadow.’

  ‘Can you show us a safe path through?’

  ‘Och, that be axin somethin’, that be. Safe? There’s nae sich thing as safety for mortals in that kittle foggie roughness yonder. Ye dinna want tae gae in there, ye three lassies. ’Tis a muckle greet tree-tangle, that one. D’ye no’ ken what abides in its glaury lairs?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Wicked things,’ said the urisk. ‘Powerful things. ’Tis ever dark and shadowy on the forest floor. The trees grow high and the leaves block out the sun’s rays, so the light o’ day never reaches doon there. ’Tis always twilight or black nicht, and in the shadows stalk unseelie sorts. Skrikers lurk there, and pixies that mislead travellers.’

  ‘I thought pixies were nice little wights, like fanes, but with wings,’ interposed Caitri.

  ‘Nae lass, not nice at all, pixies. With their wee lanthorns, they’ll lead mortals like ye intae bogs until ye stick fast in the muck and droon. They’ll feign voices and call ye frae up ahead until ye walk over a cliff. They’ll invite and draw ye from your road and lose ye in the wilderness.’

  Tahquil interposed, ‘Skrikers and pixies are dangerous, but if one keeps one’s wits, one may confound these minor wights. Begging your pardon,’ she added, in case she had offended him.

  ‘Bide—I hae not told the worst o’ it. Hae ye no’ heard o’ Grim?’

  ‘Many tales tell of him,’ said Viviana, shuddering. ‘A shape-shifter he, and a stealer of merriment.’

  ‘Aye, a shape-shifter who has taken to haunting the tall timbers o’ Arda Musgarh Dubh. And Black Annis, she dwells there too, the hag o’ cats, the eater of mortal children. And speaking o’ cats, grey malkins hunt through the forest as weel.’

  The travellers glanced at each other. No charm would fend off grey malkins, for those were lorraly beasts—efficient, feline killers.

  ‘And if ye escape Grim and Black Annis with the malkins and the rimfire and the rest, ye may have tae deal with another which visits the dark floors of Arda—the Cearb himself.’

  ‘The Killing One?’ Tahquil asked, her mouth suddenly dry.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then, is there no chance of crossing Khazathdaur safely without Windships or eotaurs?’ she asked.

  ‘Och, there might be a way,’ hooted the wight.

  They looked at him expectantly but he spoke no more. Over his shoulder, the moon was rising, outlining his horned, disquietingly alien silhouette. Yet in the glimmer of night his face was gentle as he gazed at the small mirror on Viviana’s chatelaine, like a miniature moon at her waist.

  ‘I hae moved in the forest,’ he said at last, ‘and in its fringes, since I lost my hame in the braes o’ Ishkiliath, which Men call the Grey Glass Firth. I ken the ways o’ the forest, and I ken its kindreds, and I keep out o’ the way o’ most. But there’s a race o’ folk that lives high in the leaves, far frae the ground, and their paths hang in the air, up where the light sieves through. With their nets and their iron they keep themselves safe frae malkins and all. They might let ye use their roads, if I ax them.’

  ‘If they use iron, then surely these folk are not of eldritch.’

  ‘They be a mortal race but what kind I cannae say. This verra nicht I shall axe them, for ’tis kittle for ye here. There’s sonsy hurchins in them spretty bushes.’

  ‘Kittle?’

  ‘Dangerous.’

  The urisk became part of the environment again.

  ‘Bide awee,’ his voice fluted back. But he was gone.

  ‘Can it be trusted?’ Viviana wanted to know.

  The moon edged twenty-seven degrees higher. The three travellers sat beside the spring, maundering in and out of a light doze. Tahquil dreamed that the touch of the breeze on her cheek was Thorn’s breath. In the gathering dew frogs chanted monotonous lullabies, setting the brain buzzing with broken fragments of thought which subtly changed into incoherent half-dreams.

  A sharp cry jolted Tahquil back to wakefulness. Viviana was on her feet, rummaging in the folds of her cloak, casting about.

  ‘Hens’ bells!’ she cried. ‘Stolen, right off the chain, my timepiece!’

  Near the forest fence a leaden stirring could be detected.

  ‘There they are!’ shouted Viviana triumphantly. Trows—the thieves!’

  She dashed forward before anyone could stop her. As her companions hurried after, a pale glow opened from Tahquil’s finger.

  ‘The ring warns. Something unseelie is near,’ Tahquil said urgently to Caitri. ‘Something worse than trows!’

  They caught up with the courtier right under the overhang of Khazathdaur’s black boughs. Grey faces peered out from between the trunks just inside the forest, their large eyes baggy, their noses long, with rounded, drooping ends. The foremost of these was a small trow-wife wearing the traditional grey headscarf. In her hand she carried the silver timepiece, in its case inlaid with ivory and bronze. From the shadows the trows glared at the mortals. A hundred and forty-three feet above their heads, a leaf became detached and fell, eddying like a flake of soot in the moonlight.

  ‘Give it back, wretched wight,’ demanded Viviana angrily, holding out her palm. ’Tis mine. ’Tis all I have in this horrid wilderness. Give it back.’

  The trow-wife made no reply. Somewhere, a fox barked, harsh and grating, not like a sound from a natural fox’s throat. The ring pulsed with a brighter light, like a warning.

  Then the trows’ bulbous eyeballs bulged. The corners of their malleable mouths turned down in a strange reversed rictus and they all retreated further back into the shadows.

  No!’ Viviana stepped forward. ‘You must not go—’

  With a last grimace, the trows fled into the forest.

  ‘It takes more than the pulling of faces to frighten us,’ Viviana called determinedly after them.

  ‘Odd,’ said Caitri, ‘I could have sworn that they suddenly took fright.’

  ‘Yes, but not because of us—because of something coming behind us,’ said Tahquil, spinning on her heel.

  It was moving—walking or
gliding—tall and straight as a chimney. At first she could not make it out between the tree trunks on the lower slopes. Two triangles flapped—the corners of a long, black coat. Was it a man?

  If it were, something was horribly wrong with his head.

  Tahquil felt her insides turn to water. The ability to move drained from every limb. The head of this approaching man-thing was wrenched over to the left side, lying horizontal on the shoulder. It was twisted back in a position which would have been impossible unless the neck had been wrung. It was the head of a hanged man.

  A mote of moonlight splashed down.

  The skew-polled apparition glided on, reeling itself in unerringly on the thread of the travellers’ paralysis.

  Then, a hooting: ‘’Tis Wryneck! Dinnae just stand there ye ninnies, run for yer lives!’

  At this, the thread snapped. The supernormal energy of panic surged through their sinews. Released from the vice of terror the mortals took to their heels in the direction of the urisk’s call—‘This way, this way!’

  As they ran into Khazathdaur’s submerged glades the autarken trees, like iron towers, closed in at their backs. They blotted out the moon.

  The smell of fear was darkness. In the darkness there was no speed but instead a pressure, as though the hunted mortals ran futilely into a sponge. As if it had sensed a need for camouflage, the ring’s light had dimmed.

  ‘Over here! Over here!’ The urisk’s hooting was fainter now.

  ‘A trick,’ shrieked Viviana. ‘We’re being pixie-led.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Tahquil.

  They swam through shadow paste. It blinded their eyes, stoppered their noses and mouths. It suffocated.

  A horizontal beam of wood slammed against Tahquil’s face.

  ‘Climb!’ It was the reedy voice of the goat-wight.