The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘Where is Viviana?’

  ‘She lies below.’

  ‘Is she hale?’

  ‘No—yes. That is to say, she lives and all eldritch longings have left her, but she sleeps in a kind of trance from which I cannot waken her.’

  ‘Thanks be to mercy that I should find you both unharmed! Are we safe here? Can we whisper undetected?’

  ‘Let us withdraw to the curtained alcove of the books lest something should look in on us.’

  When they had concealed themselves behind velvet draperies, questions began to tumble from Tahquil’s lips. By degrees, Caitri’s story unfurled.

  ‘When the Hunt took us, I believed we should be slain,’ she said, ‘but the creatures, the terrible things, brought us here and we were taken before him.’

  ‘Whom?’

  ‘Why, none other than Morragan, Crown Prince of the Fair Realm,’ said Caitri, and a certain nervous reverence breathed through her pronunciation of that name. ‘The Raven Prince, he of whom you spoke after we came near Huntingtowers and your memory returned.’

  A millstone thumped against the back of Tahquil’s chest.

  ‘And how did he deal with you?’

  ‘We were questioned—not by the Prince, but in his presence. I think he did not speak to us directly but I, for one, could scarcely bear to glance in his direction or to look away either, so I know not where my eyes rested or what I was saying. Never in my life have I felt thus. I was drawn by him, yet terrified all the while, for there is that about him which is truly perilous.’

  ‘But you were not harmed?’

  ‘Oh, no. But, Viviana was in such a state, “mewling and fretting” as one of the attending Faêran lords described it, that something was done to her. Whether it was by a slight gesture of the Prince’s hand or some other means, I know not, but suddenly she quieted and straightened, then curtsied and stood as poised as the trained courtier I first knew her to be. All trouble left her. Glad was I, on beholding this change. She gave answer to each of their questions, and I suppose I did likewise. When he was satisfied, the Prince dismissed us. We were escorted out of that saloon and simply abandoned.’

  ‘Explain further!’

  Our escort deserted us, and we were left to wander the lofty galleries and passageways and stairs alone.’

  ‘With no direction? No limitation?’

  ‘No—yes,’ Caitri repeated. ‘No wights harassed us, although frequently we glimpsed them passing along the ends of corridors, bent on their own business—disappearing around corners or up and down stairs. Yet, jailers of a sort imprisoned us—barriers we could not see, which prevented us from entering certain quarters, or from gaining access to Outside. Aimlessly we wandered, probing, seeking exit. Whenever we spoke of hunger or thirst, we would enter the next chamber to discover wine laid on a table. When we spoke of weariness, we would come upon divans piled with cushions. We talked of laving ourselves and sunken baths would be filled with pleasant waters. Noble raiment was provided, as you see.’

  ‘And when you spoke of leaving?’

  ‘When we spoke of leaving—nothing. After some days, or weeks—I have no idea of time’s passing—we began to confine ourselves to this tower—the Crossing Tower. It seems the most stable. Elsewhere in the fortress, there is a constant queer shifting of wall, doors, rooms. One can never be certain of finding one’s way around—’tis too easy to become confused. In that way, Viviana became lost. When at last I found her, she lay asleep on the floor. I could not waken her. Some wightish servants came and carried her away. I followed. They laid her on a plinth in the Great Hall at the foot of the Crossing Tower. She sleeps there yet, with hands folded on her breast, but she breathes, and pink roses bloom on her cheeks, and her lips curve, perhaps, as though she smiles at her dreams. I feared lest the same fate should overtake me, but, thank the powers, now you have arrived!’

  ‘Alas! Poor Via! And you—how do you spend your days, if days they can be called in this place of endless night?’

  ‘Aimlessly. In changeless solitude. I walk the Tower Stairs, I stand beside Viviana and perhaps adjust a sleeve of her dress, or comb her hair. It grows right quickly, spilling over the plinth’s edges to the floor. Sometimes I trim it with a little pearly knife. All the straw-yellow was rinsed from it in the cleansing waters of the baths—her locks have returned to the pretty colour of chestnuts. At whiles, I retreat to this room, to look at the magnificent pictures in the books. Or I stare out of the windows at Evernight and remain in thought for hours. But I have desperately longed for companionship. Will you take some more wine?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  ‘We get no food here, only this strange and delicious wine. It is a beverage that sustains like food and drink combined, and whilst living on it, one has no need to perform certain,’ she coughed delicately, ‘functions of the body. These functions being a trait of mortal creatures, and unnecessary to the Faêran, there are none of the usual facilities in this fortress. Whether wights need to—er—execute the same processes as lorraly beings—’

  ‘I understand, pray continue,’ prompted Tahquil.

  ‘Yes, whether they need to do that, I am uncertain, but if so, they take themselves far from the walls of Annath Gothallamor, lest they offend the Faêran. It is never cold here, nor hot. One may dress lightly or warmly, as one chooses. Often enough I have seen the fireplaces filled with flames which leap hugely, but are heatless. The fuel is curious, and never consumed or altered by the fire’s rage. I have seen banks of flowers heaped in the grates, or jewels, or burning skulls. Vast and strange is this castle, like a foreign country.’

  ‘And he—Prince Morragan—do you see him in your wanderings?’

  ‘Never since the first meeting have I set eyes upon him, or upon any Faêran lord or lady. But now and then I hear the strains of music echoing through the high halls, and snatches of laughter or conversation. Such music—it moves me deeply. When I hearken, I feel that something surpassing fair, something rare and fine that I almost held in my hands, has slipped from my grasp and its like will never more be seen. Every note plucks at my heartstrings with hurt and longing.’

  Caitri laid her head against the feather-cloak and closed her eyes.

  ‘Caitri, my joy, my sister,’ said Tahquil, ‘be not sorrowful. I am come to rescue you.’ The little girl’s brow creased momentarily, then smoothed. Tahquil continued, ‘How close to an exit may you approach before these barriers of gramarye forbid further passage?’

  The child answered eagerly. ‘Downstairs, in the Great Hall where Viviana lies, the walls are clothed in richly broidered hangings. Along one wall hangs a series of four tapestries, each one depicting a season of the year. Behind that of Winter, a cleft opens between the stones of the wall. Once I noticed the hem of the Winter arras was twitching by itself, as though a sly draught toyed with it. Lifting one edge, I saw behind it an opening some ten or twelve feet high, perhaps four feet wide. I felt no unseen wall of prohibition pressing against me; nothing forbade me to enter therein. But cold was the breath that issued from that cleft, and I had no mind to venture into its darkness all alone. Perhaps it led Outside, perhaps not—but I could swear the icy draught had a tang on it of forest leaves. Lingering near Winter, I have fancied, on occasion, that I heard deep within the wall dim shouts, or a ringing of bells.’

  ‘This I must see for myself.’

  ‘But how, my lady, shall you rescue us?’

  ‘As we speak, our three eldritch companions make haste towards Annath Gothallamor. It is a fact, they might well be already here. They will enter easily, unchallenged, and will search for me, for us, throughout the windings of this castle.

  ‘But how shall they find us?’

  ‘You have already recognised the cloak of feathers I wear upon my shoulders. Whithiue has been gracious, but she will never rest until she regains it. No doubt, even among these currents of gramarye, she will be attracted by the cloak. Then Tighnacomaire shall carry us away on his long back, if we
can but find a way past the invisible screens you describe, which imprison mortals. The gap in the walls behind the Winter tapestry sounds promising.’

  Caitri nodded, pondering. ‘This is good rede. I only hope it can be done.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘Your hair is gold at the roots, m’lady. By this, and by your face and your scent, they who catch sight of you must surely know you.’

  ‘The feather-cloak muffles the latter, and I can use it to mask my face in the hope that I might be mistaken for a swan-maiden. But will you darken my hair for me before we depart this chamber? I see an ink pot on the writing desk. Its contents will do the trick. None must recognise me, here. The cloak’s bird stench baffles wightish noses but yellow hair stems would betray me, for sure.’

  And so it was done—the hair was dyed again, this time with black ink. As she shook it dry by an open window, Tahquil looked out and saw, far below, a horse and rider pass beneath the outer walls of the fortress, with a runner close behind.

  ‘I pray that there go Tighnacomaire and Whithiue,’ said Tahquil fervently, ‘and I may be mistaken, but I fancied a figure of slighter stature ran behind them, on two legs, which might be loyal Tully. Come, little sister, lead me to the Great Hall prithee, lest discovery prohibits completion of this enterprise.’

  Like the upturned skeleton of a mighty ship, the enormous hammerbeam ceiling of the Great Hall rose one hundred and twenty feet above the floor. At the meetings of their angles, the mighty oaken brackets beneath each rib sported carvings of winged lords and ladies who seemed about to fly across the gulfs of the interior. Slender columns, grouped in clusters, rose from the piers to the springing of the vaulted ceiling, whose load-bearing ribs delineated the support lines of the roof. In the upper vaults, great pendants of stone dangled, suspended from the transverse arches. Beneath long friezes of leaves and grapes, hangings graced the walls. A carved, tri-part screen stood at one end of the Hall. Underfoot, tiles of coloured clay inlaid with terracotta stretched across the plain of the floor, depicting deer, wolves, birds, flowery patterns, and musicians.

  Viviana lay like an icon, as Caitri had described, upon a marble plinth most gorgeous with sculptural decoration. Her hair swept back from the pristine flower of her face, swirling to the floor in weighty skeins of dark, honeyed silk. Her dark blue houppelande, bordered with brocade and cloth-of-silver and stitched with stars, was clasped by a girdle of ivory and bone. She was shod with slippers the colour of polished quartz.

  ‘Fair Viviana,’ breathed Tahquil, kissing her brow, which was warm and living. Tahquil watched for a sign, a flutter of the eyelashes upon that apple-blossom cheek, but there came none. For a time she clasped the courtier’s hand, until Caitri recalled her with a whisper.

  ‘It is perilous to remain in the open!’

  They ran together to the Winter tapestry. As they reached it, a corner of the sturdy fabric was pushed off the wall by a sudden draught. Bitter cold jumped out and smacked them. Tahquil forced back the heavy fold, revealing a rectangular portal delved into the wall behind. A tongue of whistling air whipped out and sucked the tapestry back hard against the portal’s maw with a violence that almost pinned Tahquil to the stones.

  ‘Ware!’ Caitri hissed, and they shrank against the wall as a group of stooped grey shapes limped past a doorway at the other end of the Hall.

  ‘There is no cover here,’ said Tahquil as soon as the trows had passed. ‘Let us return upstairs to the chamber of the rose window.’

  They were not halfway across the floor when a clatter from beyond a nearby archway startled them again into flight. Pressing themselves inadequately into the angles of a cluster of colonnettes they ceased, momentarily, to breathe. The noises, as of horn striking ceramic, paused then resumed. An unhuman shape loomed monstrously through the archway. High in its skull, two lamps burned. Clack clock, the horse’s hooves rattled on the tiles.

  Next moment Tauquil breathed a sigh of relief, for it was the friendly nygel Tighnacomaire who emerged from the shadows of the arch, with Whithiue walking at his side.

  Uttering a low cry, the swanmaiden ran towards Tahquil. ‘Safe! Safe!’ she whistled.

  ‘Take it!’ Under no delusion that the swanmaiden was concerned for much more than the cloak’s security, Tahquil thrust it at its owner, grateful to be released from the obligation of its care, yet panic-stricken at the relinquishment of her protective disguise. An instant she hesitated, before releasing her grip on the cloak. What glamours might be at work in Annath Gothallamor?

  ‘Are you called Whithiue?’ she demanded.

  ‘Sooth, swan is so styled.’

  ‘Then the cloak is yours,’ said Tahquil, her apprehension invalidated. ‘Tig, you must carry us on your back, this very instant. Discovery is surely imminent. Yet Viviana cannot be wakened—what shall we do?’

  But the urisk had also arrived. With no preliminaries he stood already at the head of the plinth, murmuring his simple remedies of home and hearth—the same incantations and deft hand movements which had revived Tahquil after her dousing.

  Viviana lifted her elbow. She rolled sideways, but Tully was there to catch her in wiry arms and save her from falling. The courtier smiled dreamily.

  ‘Have I slept?’

  ‘There is no time for explanations,’ said Tahquil, joyfully, suppressing a desire to laugh and dance. ‘Make haste, Viviana—climb on the horse’s back. Caitri shall ride up behind you, and I last of all, as his back lengthens. Tig my friend—if you can find no other exit for mortals, a secret way opens behind that tapestry.’

  Echoes chimed softly off the walls. Somewhere in the vicinity, voices had started up. Approaching footsteps rang on tiles and stone.

  ‘Why, ’tis Tiggy,’ said Viviana, wide-eyed and as yet oblivious of danger. ‘Greetings, friend.’

  The waterhorse extended one foreleg and bowed low before her. ‘How charming!’ began the courtier, stroking his mane. ‘Such courtesy—oh!’

  Tully’s strong arms tossed her across the back of Tighnacomaire. The sounds of approach grew louder and the nygel began prancing in fright at this sign of impending discovery.

  ‘An they catch us, spriggans shall make us pay hard farr helping ye!’ he warned, rolling the whites of his eyes. ‘Get an! Get app!’

  Viviana, now comprehending their peril, reached down towards Caitri. Their hands locked together.

  ‘Jump as I lift you,’ cried Viviana. But as the little girl sprang, a scream raged through the corridors of the fortress, a scream so terrible it could only have been spawned by nightmare. The cacophony came barrelling into the hall of the tapestries like a tornado, buffeting the walls, shaking the furnishings, stabbing through eardrums, boiling with the quintessence of fury, vengefulness and triumph.

  Tighnacomaire shied. It was a small movement—his haunches jerked away an inch or so—but it was enough that Caitri slipped and Viviana lost her grasp. In that instant, a flood of mischief, wickedness and madness came pouring into the hall on hooves and talons, on batty wings and large, flat feet.

  ‘Begone, Tiggy, begone!’ Tahquil shouted desperately.

  Hooves clattered, wings whirred. The swan flew up among the high and draughty places of the hammer-beam ceiling. A great rectangle of stiff and heavy fabric lifted off the wall. Into the cold blast that drove forth dashed the terrified waterhorse. Down the hidden way he vanished, bearing Viviana who was stuck to his back. Caitri picked herself up off the floor and looked about.

  She and Tahquil stood beside Tully in the centre of a circle. Surrounding them was a crawling net of shadow, a seething assemblage of unseelie manifestations, their eyes burning wells of malevolence. One stood a little apart from the rest, and when she noted him, worms of visceral disquiet began to wriggle in Caitri’s belly. Small in stature was he, and stringy as a dried-out stalk of a weed. He wore garments of mustard-brown and dandelion—indeed, the dagged hems imitated the deep scalloping of dandelion leaves. Small, furred rodents wriggled in his sleeves. Coins of yellow flowe
rs were sprouting from the strings of his lank locks and in the goatee which dribbled from his chin like some fungous growth. His thin and raddled face, the colour of old parchment, was stamped with malice and as remorseless as disease. A look of triumph flickered over it and Caitri felt the blood drain from her head. Here was the source of the blood-curdling scream.

  The fellow’s pale lips twisted. From between them emanated a corrosive voice.

  ‘Ill met by Evernight, erithbunden,’ he grated.

  A rat scuttled up his arm.

  ‘Yallery Brown,’ acknowledged Tahquil, dully.

  ‘The very same, erithbunden, the very same. Long the chase, and sweet the ending. Spy, listener at the doors, stealer of secrets—you who know the Way Back—now you shall tell all and tell it willingly. Yet, willing or no, the penance for your false deeds shall be exacted.’

  There was no escape. That fact had to be accepted.

  ‘If so be your will,’ replied Tahquil evenly. ‘But release my companions. They have done you no wrong.’

  ‘The bait, Young Vallentyne’s erstwhile doxy, has been allowed to ride away—but that is not to be her fate,’ the wight said, levelling a skinny finger at Caitri, ‘or yours, either. As for the urisk, he’s nothing more than a horsefly to be swatted, and matters not.’

  Then, clear and commanding, a voice spoke out across the echoing interior. Immediately the crowd of wights dispersed—except for Yallery Brown—fleeing away into side passages and hidden galleries.

  Three Faêran lords stood in the hall.

  Light regaled them, emanating from their breath-taking comeliness. Their hair, crowned with chaplets of silver, seemed immune to gravity. It drifted up and out along invisible spates of air, or of gramarye, as though an unseen lake rose above the heads of these exiled denizens of the Realm. The same force billowed under their dark cloaks, spreading the fabric like fragments torn from stormy skies.