The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘Evernight,’ repeated Tahquil. ‘A haven for nocturnal wights.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the urisk. ‘A pleasant land. If Men dwelled here in their snug cottages, fain would I stay and tend their hearths. But Darke is as much shunned by your kind as is Tapthartharath. Many things haunt here but few are mortal.’

  ‘Few?’

  ‘Ainly captured mortals. They dinnae suffer it for lang,’ added Tully uncomfortably. ‘Ye shouldnae have come here, Mistress Mellyn. There’s still time tae turn back noo, gin ye come tae your senses. The horse can carry ye back tae the lands o’ Men, fleet as flight.’

  ‘I cannot. I must seek my friends.’

  ‘Och, but there’s hobgoblins hereabouts, lurking in the stones, and other things even more unket. Darke is sair kittle for ye, ’tis perilous.’

  ‘I doubt it not. But I must face the risks. Where is the fortress?’

  ‘Atop Black Crag it stands, on the round, high plain, some seven leagues to the northeast. Long ago Prince Morragan had it built, as a retreat where he might take his leisure from time to time. Annath Gothallamor that stronghold is called—the Great Castle of Night, the Dark Fortress.’

  Annath Gothallamor. It was a thundering name, like the chord from the bass tubes of some eldritch bellows instrument. A name charged with portent.

  ‘Has it occurred to ye,’ said Tully, ‘that ye might be walking intae a baited trap?’

  ‘It has. But now, let us go.’

  Tahquil stood, swayed and collapsed. She rubbed her wrist across her forehead.

  ‘I have not much strength. Do you carry food?’

  ‘Nay,’ Tully hooted. ‘Water I carried, but here we’ll not need it—springs rise everywhere. Fire I brought from Tapthar—see?’ He uncovered a cone-shaped hollow stone. Within, a lump of rock glowed with inner fires. ‘Heat-bearing rock—cridhe-teth. Hot-Heart, men call it. Warmth and light we have, but no food.’

  ‘It matters little,’ said Tahquil, levering herself to her feet again. She could not recall when she had last desired food. A greater hunger had her firmly in its grip. Her limbs weighed like congealed metal, her joints had rusted. Tighnacomaire raised his head and peered at her questioningly. His eyes were two gold coins in the night. Silently, she nodded and he trotted over to her. Soon she had mounted and they were on their way once more.

  Tahquil sat slightly hunched, a tangle-haired, unkempt rider on a pretty pony. Quietly now went her steed, with the cunning of his kind, his horny feet making no sound, scarcely dislodging a leaf of the grey sedges or strange grisaille grasses. A bubbling spring made a chitinous chinking as of glass goblets. The air stirred, wafting in soft fans against Tahquil’s face. Balmy, it was fragrant with a glistening of secretive leaves—shy, shady leaves nodding in dusky forests, washed clean by starlight.

  Beneath the canopy of eternal night they passed over marshy ground where pale lights bobbed, wandering—soft, acid green, soft lightning blue, their flickerings mirrored dimly in sheets of water. Through the waving sedges Tighnacomaire’s sure steps found the ways between hidden bogs and sudden pools.

  ‘I have seen a light like those,’ the girl murmured, ‘long ago. It almost led a good man to his doom.’

  ‘Hobby-Lanthorns,’ said Tighnacomaire. ‘Will o’ the Wisps. They love the wetlands, the boggy places.’

  ‘As do your own kind.’

  ‘Aye!’ he nichered. ‘I’d have a mind tae dance with them were ye nat riding.’

  ‘I am flattered you care.’

  ‘There’s Joan-the-Wad and Jacky Lantern—I ken them all.’

  Enticingly, a green luminance tinted a sheaf of ferns, a blue lambency highlighted a rocky prominence.

  ‘Are they not death omens?’ asked Tahquil.

  ‘Ainly the spunkies and the corpse-candles are warners. As farr the rest av them, some are cruel as bogles. They’ll lure marrtals intae sticky mires and drown them, orr lead them over the brinks av cliffs. But others are ainly seeking a laugh, same as tricksy boggarts—just seeking tae make a goose out av some drunken farmer weaving his way hame over the fens at night.’

  ‘Few such farmers weave hereabouts. As for foolish mortals, this is a desert, for I am the only one. Why do they linger here, these marsh-lights?’

  ‘’Tis the Call. The Call is strong here. It broadcasts from Annath Gothallamor.’

  ‘It is long since that summons first went forth,’ replied Tahquil, remembering she had originally learned of the phenomenon in Gilvaris Tarv, while staying at the house of Ethlinn Bruadair.

  With a faint rustle and a splash the three travellers left the marshes and cantered on under the stars, through a black and silver land, onward and upward, ever higher.

  No rain fell in Darke, but every so often, mists rose from the streams and marshes, or rolled in from the sea, muffling the landscape in their thick wool. When they dissipated, they left glassy beads quivering on every leaf and twig, on every blade and web, and the damp loam seeping with moisture, the tree-roots digging deeper, the dark-green frogs gleaming as though oiled, the springs and soaks brimming, the flower cups filled with quicksilver, to spill again.

  By degrees, Tahquil-Ashalind’s vision adapted to the ambient illumination of Darke, subtle and changeless. Her perception was perhaps also enhanced by her contact with an eldritch creation. Bent figures she saw, limping amongst hummocks; grey trow-folk, lovers of silver. Swart grotesqueries she glimpsed, sneaking and cavorting in the black forests; hobgoblins, those wights more unseelie than bruneys, more seelie than bogles—pranksters whose tricks might be kind or cruel, or both together. In a forest clearing danced a circle of the vampiric baobhansith, like maidens clad in the colours of sunfall, with poisonous flowers plaited through the smoke of their hair.

  From the nygel’s back Tahquil watched the prowlings of these entities. Darke was alive with them. She felt secure, protected by Tighnacomaire’s speed and skill, guarded by Tully’s watchfulness, yet security was tinctured with a certainty that they approached something awful and momentous, and that there was no escape. Somehow, through her link with these eldritch companions, she was beginning to sense the Call.

  There was, of course, one who stood at the centre of the Call—its source, its Supreme Commander.

  Morragan.

  Consideration of that grey-eyed Faêran prince induced panic and shock. It also invoked visions of the Realm. The Langothe sprouted claws and tore at her equilibrium. Weakened by starvation and care, crippled by the devastation of love beyond reach, Tahquil teetered on the brink of insanity. She fell forward on the nygel’s neck and slept without awareness of the transition to oblivion.

  A change in the lullaby rhythms of travel woke her. Tighnacomaire was slowing to a halt. Through the tendrils of his weed-twined mane, constellations dazzled. Feeling his hide release her, Tahquil dismounted. The waterhorse cantered off to a silken mere where the images of stars floated like petals. He entered. One circular ripple glided out.

  ‘He was gettin’ dry,’ tooted the ever-present urisk. He raised a wiry arm, pointing. ‘See there.’

  To the north, a rocky butte thrust up suddenly from the land—a plateau wide and high. Thongs of water threaded the draperies of its precipitous sides. From its centre jutted a hill, crowned with an architecture of many towers.

  ‘We’re gettin’ close now,’ said Tully. ‘Up there on the tabletop they call the High Plain, Black Crag looms. And atop the Crag, the Castle.’

  Tahquil’s heart fluttered.

  ‘The story repeated,’ she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘Another dark fortress. Another Tower Terrible, and he in it, and the Hunt as well. If anyone were to be standing at the edge of that tabletop, he might look out over the whole of southern Darke. Were such a watcher in possession of keen nocturnal vision he might see us, as specks moving through these stands of slim trees.’

  ‘I’ll warrant,’ said the urisk, ‘that all o’ Darke is subject tae scrutiny, not ainly from the High Plain, but from the skies and
aiblens from ither vantage points or scopes ainly available tae those who hold great power in their hands. Yet, they watch for warriors and for mortal spies unaccompanied by wights. For ’tis not usual—nay, ’tis unheard of, for eldritch and lorraly to form such a league as we four. Many times I have thought it strange mysel’, that I should be hurryin’ from my ancient haunts and traipsin’ across the countryside wi’ a wee lass. And for the horse tae bear ye as he does, and for the swan tae even speak tae ye—’tis a marvel.’

  ‘Why do you come with me?’

  The wight scratched his sparse triangle of a beard. ‘I dinnae ken, rightly.’

  ‘Good taste, no doubt,’ she managed.

  His pixie mouth stretched into a grin. ‘Nae doubt!’

  Palely glimmering, tree boles stretched up to a star-perforated lattice of leaves. Long tree-roots wound along the edges of a brook. Here, Tahquil lay, drinking. The water cupped in her hands was clear and invigorating, laced with a welter of scintillants dancing like disturbed glitter-dust, a swimming echo of the sky.

  Tahquil looked up again, across the rising slopes to the high, black loom of the butte, overhung with its silver canopy.

  ‘Let’s away,’ she said. ‘I’ll ride on.’

  Even as she spoke, a black cross intervened between water and sky. It swooped down into a grove.

  ‘An eoincaileag!’ exclaimed Tully. After a moment, the swanmaiden emerged. Nothing about her disclosed the nature of the tidings she brought—whether they were good or evil. Tahquil stood up, clutching a tree-stem for support.

  ‘Say on,’ she said quickly, and without preliminaries.

  ‘Heihoo! Valiant human friend is wise, wending to Fell Fortress from southern side, from slopes of fire and fume. On far side, further from the Fortress, hosts forgather, summoned. Hordes seethe and swarm on the High Flat.’

  ‘Dwell not on the manoeuvres of Morragan’s armies! What tidings of James, King-Emperor?’

  Tahquil looked into the lovely face of Whithiue. A curious anger was printed there. The swanmaiden would not say more, at first. When she began to speak again she informed her listeners that while she was seeking news of the King-Emperor, other tidings had come to her knowledge. The reason for it was not clear, but it was widely broadcast among wights all across Erith, that Prince Morragan was not the only Faêran lord to seek the yellow-haired maiden. Now the High King of the Faêran himself commanded that whosoever should find her must bring her to him.

  ‘So, King Angavar too has woken at last,’ Tahquil said, awed, ‘and has heard of my story.’

  Again she wondered why she should be hunted—whether her pursuers had guessed, or somehow discovered who she was, and that she had come from the Fair Realm by some secret way.

  Whithiue said, ‘Fain would swan serve Angavar and heartily follow his will. He is sovereign. The world’s fairly sworn to submit. Swan’s fealty, homage and sentiment are his.’

  ‘Pray do not betray me, Whithiue! I would not be a pawn in the games of the Faêran. You do not know why Angavar and Morragan seek me.’ And I shall not tell you! For, if they knew that I could open the Gates to the Realm, my eldritch friends would have me brought to these Faêran lords in a moment. I judge this High King would straightway force me to the Gate, if he got me in his power. Then, to take revenge on his brother, he would return to Faêrie with his retinue, leaving Morragan to give vent to his wrath by allowing unseelie wights to punish Erith until time’s end. I want none of that. I want the Faêran all gone, every last bewitching, ruthless one of them. Aloud, she said, ‘These Faêran monarchs and princes would have no care for the fates of my stolen friends. In the conflict of lord against lord, insignificant mortals perish. Keep my secret, I pray you! Do not betray me!’

  ‘I’ll no’ play ye false, lass,’ said Tully, ‘and neither will the horse. But dinnae luik sae unkindly on the Faêran. Ye would be well advised not tae speak ill o’ them. And certain, they can be merciful and just.’

  ‘Just arrogant!’ cried Tahquil.

  ‘Had swan secured summons from Faêran sovereign’s very hand, swan would hasten to fetch human to his feet,’ said the eldritch girl, tossing back her dark hair.

  ‘Doubtless,’ rejoined Tully. ‘But ye’ve heard the King’s edict from some witless sparrows or sullen trows. Can ye break faith wi’ the lass for the sake o’ their rumour?’

  ‘Hearth-wight wheedles well. Swan’s in sore straits,’ said Whithiue undecidedly.

  ‘Do nat be wildered,’ said Tighnacomaire. ‘Yarr bound tae the mistress by the feather.’

  The swanmaiden bowed her long neck; a gesture of concurrence.

  ‘When friend has viewed fate of sisters, swan shall fulfill vow of fealty to High Sovereign and specify her whereabouts.’

  Tahquil, now temporarily safe, repeated impatiently, ‘What tidings of James, King-Emperor?’

  Whithiue replied, ‘Sixteenth sovereign so-styled has fallen.’

  A white-hot stone knocked in the throat of Tahquil. ‘Say on,’ she said, very, very softly.

  ‘He failed to survive,’ said the swanmaiden. ‘Some heinous wight slew him. Swan speaks with fidelity. Seagulls voiced story, which wave-wights verified, who viewed his final hour.’

  Thorn was dead.

  With eyes like empty shells, the mortal girl stared at the immortal—she who was of the kind that could never lie. A heavy door slammed shut with utmost finality, leaving her desolate.

  Night birds twittered and grieved.

  A descant flute began to play somewhere in Darke’s silver-grey coppices—breathy, burring notes. Others started up. The threads of their separate melodies entwined like tinsel streamers, creating harmonies to break the heart. The breeze was purple with the scent of violets.

  ‘No,’ said Tahquil-Ashalind. ‘No.’

  Reason left her then.

  She could not hold back. Over and over the sounds burst from her, like water from a dam whose walls had been breached; a wordless, mindless keening, a long-drawn lament of anguish and desolation more bitter than she had ever known.

  The high lamps of Darke shone steadily down on the dim meres and marshes, the groves and glades, the hills and hummocks. Their rays caught the satin sheen on the flanks of an eldritch horse racing up a steep shoulder of the plateau, with a rider on its back. They glanced from the horns of a short figure leaping in the horse’s wake. They caressed the glossy feathers of a long-necked bird sailing the rising airs that flowed to the uplands.

  High up, near the edge of the plateau, a shelf jutted. Barren and rocky, it was cut in under a cliff. On this shelf the horse stopped. The rider fell off. Seven hundred feet below the shelf, the twilight hills and lowlands of Darke spread out, the sumptuous velvet and brocade of the shadowy forests decorated with sequins and threads of water.

  Tully sat cross-legged beside Tahquil, who lay as she had fallen.

  ‘Wauken, miss,’ he said, and he murmured a spell of home and hearth, one such minor working as urisks are capable of. She roused, bewildered, blank-faced, and peered around. The wind elevating from below lifted her brown-dyed hair up and back, spreading it out along the currents like ribbons of kelp.

  Down a stairway incised into the cliff face drifted Whithiue in maiden-shape, comely as the evening star. She opened her feather cloak. Out tumbled fruity spheres as soft as teased wool, in hues of peach, apricot and melon. One rolled to the feet of Tighnacomaire. He sniffed at it, then, absently, ate it.

  ‘Ye great lunk,’ said Tully, smacking the nygel on the nose. ‘Go and eat some eel-grass, or grass-eels. These are for the mistress.’

  Tighnacomaire rolled his eyes guiltily and laid his ears flat.

  Sorrow had gathered to Tahquil-Rohain from all its hiding places in the woods of Darke: from empty nests and buds untimely shrivelled; from a twig upon which a tiny owl sang a lament for his lost mate; from a mighty oak that had fallen on its side, whose last dry leaves, bunches of hands cut out of brown paper, clapped like a death rattle; from wind that
grieved among the tree boles, whispering farewell.

  The grey raiment of despair was drawn to her, and when she was clothed, the dullness of the garments flowed outwards like the rays of an un-sun, spreading smoky un-light and wrapping even the wild things of Darke in its ragged webs.

  But stone and ashes do not weep.

  I am sere. I am stone. Desperate, desolate stone, deeply etched with the acid of agony. Let stone turn to ashes, as the stones of Tamhania were burned away. I am nothing, a husk. I will walk on, but the flame has consumed me, then died.

  For herself, Tahquil had little care now. She touched some Fairbread to her mouth, moving like one of the clockwork toys from Tana’s gorgeous salons—but she might have been carved from milk-quartz.

  If he lives no longer, I must still go on. I will honour my inner promise to rid the world of the Faêran, if I can, and see my friends safe home, if it is possible. After that I will care naught about what happens to me.

  ‘Far have we come,’ said Tully, after the damsel had broken her fast with three small bites. ‘Gin ye clamber up that stair in the rock, ye shall rise above the rim of the High Plain. Then ye shall see Annath Gothallamor.’

  She climbed the stair. The steps were cracked. Mosses and tiny plants grew from the fissures, veiled with nodding white flowers. Near the top she paused, standing on tiptoe. Craning her head, she raised her eyes two inches above the level of the plateau’s brink.

  The Plain rolled away like a floor flagged with jet and obsidian. Yet it was not devoid of vegetation. Short grasses sprouted, and in places, bushes squatted in round-shouldered clumps. On their immense black backdrop, the spiky stars glittered more sharply now, huge and close. Against them, climbing up the sky and obliterating the celestial radiance with its bulk, a sudden, massive bulwark rose like the topmost peak of a mountain. And from the culmination of this crag thrust a fortress topped with clusters of spired towers, belfries, conical turret roofs, toothed battlements and flying buttresses, its grim walls pierced by narrow slots with pointed arches. These slots, which seemed miniature by comparison with the great mass of stonework, shone with an inner glow tinted with the dilute blue of uhta, like the lingering colour of the sky on a Summer’s eve, just after the sun has set, like the cold blue of glacial shadows, like moonlight through wood smoke. Menace was implicit in these hundreds of gimlet eyes.