At the very edge of the courtyard, where no wall marked the boundary between solid stone and insubstantiality, stood Prince Morragan. He looked out upon the High Plain. At his back, his Faêran equerry waited beside the head of a war-horse some nineteen hands high, and black as the moon’s eclipse. Harnessed with caparisons of silver was this destrier, this noble charger. He shone with the richness of myriad jewels, although the horses of Faêrie needed no trappings and were thus decorated only for the sake of the Faêran passion for loveliness.
The Prince’s squire slid a short-sword into a scabbard at the pommel. Morragan turned towards Ashalind and a wind roused, gusting across the battlements. It pushed Ashalind off balance, for despite the invigorating nature of the black wine, she was greatly weakened by the Langothe. Steadying herself against a wall, she regained equilibrium.
‘Know this,’ said the Prince. ‘As long as thou dost believe in thy love for my brother, thou shalt search in vain for the Gate. When the veil lifts from thy cognisance, when thou dost perceive that this purported love is no more than an image in a glass, when thou dost eschew the strutting eagle and take flight with the raven, then it may be that thy memory shall become translated.’
In her heart she said, You prevaricate. If I did not love Thorn, I should still search in vain, for the last remains of the Gate’s covenant still bind me, and will not yield the final memory.
When she made no reply, he said, ‘Now fare I to Arcdur. Meanwhile, the freedom of the fortress and of the High Plain is thine. Use thy time well. Reconsider. If I return unrewarded, thou shalt endeavour to compensate me.’
The Prince swung himself up onto the war-horse with a movement so fluid it seemed never to have occurred. Grasping the reins in one hand he lifted the other, signalling to his knights. With one last glance down at Ashalind he urged his horse forward, leaping over the roof’s brink with a swift ringing of silver metal, to race away into the sky at the head of his cavalry.
But not before his last words had echoed off stone—‘I will not be denied.’
Ashalind stood at a window, dressed in a layered gown of lavender samite whose intricate lace hems trailed upon the flagstones. Her heart was eaten out like a worm-raddled apple. As ever, she directed her gaze away towards the west. In the chamber behind her, Caitri rested languidly on an opulent couch, one arm crooked behind her head. ‘Why has the Prince left the fortress at this time, with the King-Emperor’s troops not a league away?’ she wondered aloud.
‘Perhaps he has no real care for the battle’s outcome,’ said Ashalind. She mused awhile, then said quietly, ‘Once, in Caermelor, in the days when I rode with glory and fame in the company of great ones, and all the land seemed to lie spread out at my feet, and my hands were heavy with riches and the sun shone daily, you said to me this: “Mistress, I would wish you fortune, but ’twould be in vain, since you lack for naught—neither wealth, nor beauty, nor happiness nor love.” And I gave you this answer: “Caitri, no one may possess every thing unless they hold also a guarantee that all their fortune shall forever remain immutable. Wealth, beauty, happiness, love—all are constantly in jeopardy and may be snatched away in an instant.” Knowing this, the wise woman lives for the moment. The foolish woman dwells in apprehension. Both wise and foolish are we.’
Caitri answered, ‘Be like the smiling man in the riddle of the rose, or like the thirsty optimist who sees a cup filled to midway with wine and rejoices that it is half full, whereas the pessimist, perceiving the same vessel, laments that it is half empty.’
‘Is it not the so-called optimist,’ argued Ashalind by way of diversion, ‘who is truly the pessimist? For had he not expected the cup to be completely empty, he would not rejoice at its being half full. The so-called pessimist, on the other hand, is disappointed, since his expectation was for a measure overbrimming—thus he is in truth the optimist.’
‘Well then,’ Caitri responded merrily, ‘you have outfoxed me with words!’
‘That’s as may be,’ countered Ashalind, glancing over her shoulder at her friend. ‘Words of wit have ever been my allies and my downfall. I have no great strength or swordsmanship, no gramarye at my fingertips. Only may I avail myself of wit and wisdom and knowledge for help in this our time of need. And craft.’
She turned back to gaze through the casement.
‘Behold, all the wights have gone. The Plain is empty. Only armies of stones marshal themselves there, and their shadows are ordered to march at the whim and the wheel of the stars. Yet methinks I spy some movement—indeed, I believe a horse wanders there. Could it be Tighnacomaire? But no—my eyes deceive me. ’Twas naught but a trick of the starlight.’
The slow, dark breeze of Evemight, as sharp as rock and jagged silver, slid in at the embrasure and blew Ashalind’s long hair across her face. Between thumb and forefinger, she took up a strand of the dark tresses. ‘See here, Cait—where drops of the Faêran wine spattered in my hair, its original colour is restored. The ink is bleached out. Flecked am I with pale yellow, like the spotted cats of Avlantia.’
‘Ah yes,’ acknowledged Caitri absently.
‘You are uninspired. But invention strays into my thought. A bowl stands on the table there, beside a ewer filled with wine—will you wash my hair for me now, prithee?’
Ashalind shook the last droplets from the brightness of her new-washed Talith locks. Long necklaces of jewellery spilled from a casket on the table, and some of these she lifted, letting them slither in glittering festoons between her fingers.
‘Your hair is beautiful. Will you let me dress it?’ Caitri asked.
An unstorm was on the way, pricking through Ashalind’s bones, lacing her blood, unlacing her cleanrinsed hair, stirring it with the premonition of its coming. Fine strands of brilliance lifted and floated about her face, the golden fire of the sun an aureole framing a pale and flawless oval from which her wide eyes stared—jewels of eyes, windows looking upon a distant place.
‘The Prince is not here to forbid uncombers,’ stated Caitri. Having attended to Ashalind’s coiffure, she picked up the bowl and tossed the washing-wine out of the window, then leaned out and looked down. ‘And so, I see one comes this way now. I wonder, what spectres will the shang wind disturb, here on such a high and lonely plain? What human events might ever have taken place here, where wights and Faêran have ruled for so long?’
‘I can guess what memories it may arouse,’ replied Ashalind, walking towards the door to the stairway.
‘Where are you going?’ Dropping the bowl, which broke, Caitri sprang to accompany her friend, a note of urgency and dismay lifting her tone. Ashalind paused.
‘He said we are permitted out upon the High Plain, but no further. His words and wards permit no escape past its borders. Out there I intend to venture, now that wights have deserted its stony wastes and moved closer to the front line.’
Caitri, horrified, protested: ‘Are you to simply stroll about down there in that pitted desert of rocks and take the airs as though it were some garden park of Caermelor? Why?’
‘Because I grieve for what is lost, and am half killed by the Langothe. Because I long to escape these un-walls. Because the shang storm approaches.’
Caitri laid her hand on her mistress’s embroidered sleeve.
‘Do not go out …’ she faltered. ‘I am afraid to follow you there.’
‘Stay here,’ said Ashalind with a wan smile. ‘Neither be afraid nor follow. Wait for me.’
She kissed Caitri’s brow, and in a moment was gone.
The unstorm came up over Black Crag to the Plain. It blew across the fortress, lighting the pinnacles with tiny brilliants which outlined every ridge, every crocket and gargoyle, in shimmering pulses of bluish-green, like strings of diamantes. Annath Gothallamor rang and sang, chimed in its interstices and recesses like a mighty carillon, vibrated to the resonances of power in eerie currents of the unnatural wind. Within the castle’s chambers furniture wavered, seemingly transmuted to burning crystal. Walls
melted to translucency; the great pendant lamps caught fire and flowers of flame rained from them, vanishing as they touched the ground. Bats with emerald eyes flew in and out. The flagstone floor turned as black as a sink, appearing to subside away altogether. Caitri climbed onto a winged statue upon a pedestal and clung there, hiding her face amongst its stone feathers. Things flew and darted about her ears, rustling like Autumn leaves in a mighty forest, glittering like untold treasure-troves, and a weird singing arose all around. When she dared to open her eyes all fear fled from her and she was filled with wild, unreasoning exhilaration, so that she jumped from her perch onto the midnight floor which after all remained there to catch her, and danced in the wind and was even borne up by it a little, her feet hovering a hand’s breadth from the ground in their satin slippers.
Later, after the shang had passed, when the walls of Annath Gothallamor had resumed their usual grim appearance and shifting habits, Caitri searched for Ashalind. Through cavernous halls webbed with fine tapestries she ran, but could not find her, and she sobbed with terror that she might never see her again. Some dismal trows followed her for a time, then trailed off into subterranean ways.
An arched doorway, high as a man on horseback, opened onto a stair leading down to a courtyard. Its architraves were thickly carved with wreaths of oak leaves and acorns. Here Caitri loitered alone. She sat with her back resting against the wall. Presently she dozed. A small sound awoke her—a light footfall, merely. Ashalind was not there, and then she was.
‘Are you mortal and loyal to the Empire?’ Caitri demanded reflexively, ever distrustful of appearances.
‘I am Ashalind. And you?’ warily responded the other.
‘Your own dear friend Caitri!’ With relief, the two damsels flung their arms about each other’s shoulders. ‘And have you walked through the storm on the High Plain?’
‘I have. First I rode, for I found Tighnacomaire lurking there, and he bore me on his back. To ride through the shang on the back of a waterhorse—oh, that is a wondrous ride indeed, a dream! But not for too long, lest it steal one’s sanity. After that, I walked. Tiggy yet lingers beyond these un-walls, not daring to enter but not wishing to desert us entirely. He has found some darkling pool or puddle to content him for now, although he is forced to share it with one or two other manifestations less seelie than him. I believe he cares not a jot. Now let us to the rose library, if the way makes itself available to us. There on the lectern lies an ivory-handled quill-trimming knife with a sharp blade. I want you to take it Caitri, and cut off my hair.’
Caitri, disbelieving, demanded, ‘Are you mad? Has the unstorm addled your wits?’
‘My wits were addled long before this,’ said Ashalind dryly. ‘Since the Day of Closing, I believe, when I looked through a Faêran window, past a Faeran Gate, upon a Faeran face … Come, if you will not help me, I must do this thing by myself.’
To the rose-window library they went, the two mortal damsels. There, Ashalind seated herself in the X-framed chair while Caitri gathered heavy handfuls of her bullion hair and sliced them off close to the scalp. When it was done, Caitri stepped back and surveyed her shorn mistress, whose tresses lay in swathes at her feet, like a golden tide.
‘Now,’ said Ashalind, ‘he will not like me any more. He has no use for ugly mortals and will put me from him. We shall be made free.’
She lifted her hand to her head and felt the short stubble there. For an impossible instant it seemed she was back in Isse Tower with Grethet. Shrugging off the memory, she smiled.
Caitri said, shaking her head, ‘It is no use, of course. It makes no difference. You remain beautiful, still.’
‘Well,’ said Ashalind, ‘I have another reason for wanting him to think of me as the Shorn One, a mere simulacrum of my former self. I hope he might come to consider that the real Ashalind has slipped from his grasp and been replaced by another, plainer, less adequate copy. He might then be shocked if he should ever glimpse me as I was.’
‘A vain hope.’
Ashalind seemed not to hear.
‘Let us burn this harvest,’ she said, plucking a lighted candle from its filigree bracket.
Hours beat by like blind crows. A tapping started up in the walls; knockings and hammerings reminiscent of the tunnels of Doundelding. Sudden lights flared in high windows. A grinding noise emanated from below a hearthstone in the rose library, as though someone were churning underneath the floor, and an ill-favoured hobgoblin was seen in the corridors and byways, prowling about on its splayed feet. Once, darting through a doorway to hide from this creature, the mortal prisoners came upon an unfamiliar stair. On climbing it they discovered a candlelit turret room, small and round, wherein sat a bevy of—ostensibly—little old women, industriously working at whirring wooden wheels. The scene recalled the spinners in the mines of Rosedale. Entering the room, Ashalind slammed the door behind them. One of the wizened hags looked up from her work. Her long nose was hooked, and her chin turned up to almost meet it in front of her mouth.
‘Come in, come in,’ she croaked belatedly, without missing a beat of her hobnailed boot upon the treadle. ‘Sit ye down.’
‘There’s a hobgoblin on the stairs …’
‘And he’ll not bodder ye here,’ replied the goodwife comfortably.
‘Aye, he’ll not bodder ye,’ chorused the rest of the spinners.
‘But we are mortal,’ Ashalind pointed out. ‘Do you not mind if we stay and watch you?’
‘Tisk task,’ chuckled the goodwife. ‘Dere’s more to ye dan mortal by now, daughters. Do ye not ken it?’
Reassured by the clucking and nodding of the seelie wights, the damsels seated themselves on three-legged stools to watch the spinning and await the departure of the lurking hobgoblin. Beside each wheel lay bundles of straw, which the little women were spinning into gold thread. Beyond marvelling, the girls made no comment but merely sat listening, alert for hobgoblin sounds outside the door.
‘And we’re spinning dis tread to be weaved into cloth o’ gold,’ explained the goodwife. ‘Maybe ’twill be used to line a cloak for hisself.’
‘Aye, for hisself,’ nodded the rest, as their wheels whirred and clacked and the spindles grew fatter, like golden cocoons, and the straw never ran out.
The rhythm of the machines was a lullaby, and the fragrance of the straw was warm and friendly, the rich, amber aroma of a haystack on a Summer afternoon. The visitors were in no hurry to leave, and as an added incentive, the spinners began to tell stories amongst themselves. Mostly, their tales concerned Prince Morragan—sagas of adventure or famous hunts, descriptions of his prowess at games and sport and love, of his generosity, of his vengeance upon mortals who breached Faêran rules or otherwise displeased him.
‘It were hisself as bade Nuckelavee assail da mortal Queen-Empress and her man,’ the spinners mentioned in passing. ‘He itched to make mischief on mortals.’
‘Itched and itches,’ rejoined one, sagely.
‘And some say he did it to make her man sound de Coirnéad and waken Angavar King,’ rejoined the good-wife. ‘Hisself was bored in his exile and craved comp’ny of da Fair and Royal kind.’
Ashalind could contain herself no longer. ‘Wicked is the Prince!’ she exclaimed, outraged. ‘Wicked and hateful, to order such a terrible execution!’
With a clap all the candle flames went out. As the eyes of the mortal damsels readjusted, starlight revealed to the visitors all that remained in the room—some aged candle stubs and a few heaps of moldy straw strewn about the floor.
‘Well,’ commented Caitri thoughtfully, ‘the Prince may not have intended for Nuckelavee to slay the Royal couple. He might have supposed that King James would blow the Coirnéad immediately, so that Angavar would have time to save their lives …’
‘Are you too under his spell?’ cried Ashalind scornfully. Heedless of hobgoblins she flung open the door of the turret room and strode downstairs. Fortunately, the prowler was nowhere to be seen.
An
uncanny wind swept through the fortress. The building, if such it was, trembled on its foundations. Thunder boomed from one quarter, then another. From the distance, a fanfare threaded, liquid notes strung on the starry airs of Evernight like chains of water.
Minor wights went shrieking through the halls of Annath Gothallamor.
‘What is happening?’ Caitri wondered, clutching Ashalind’s hand. The two friends stood within a remote and barren ventricle of the fortress, peering through a slot in the wall that faced west.
‘I do not know.’
Soon, they learned.
With a patter of small hooves, Tully came running in.
‘Where have you been?’ they exclaimed.
‘Luikin’ out for ye, lasses,’ he panted, ‘gleaning tidings. Morragan returns from Arcdur. He approaches now.’
Ashalind’s heartstrings twisted like snarled cordage. All at once she felt ill. Her fingers flew to touch her shorn scalp. A desire to hide came over her, absurd because there was nowhere to hide. Caitri’s face greyed to the colour of wet chalk.
‘What shall we do?’ she moaned.
‘What else can we do,’ answered Ashalind, ‘but wait? Our fate is not in our hands, not yet.’
‘What do you mean?’ Caitri plucked at her sleeve. But there was no time for explanations. The thunder roared again, closer, and mixed in it, the ringing of silver caparisons on Faêran horses whose hooves pounded against the great pressure patterns that were the roads of the sky. A magnificent host galloped out of the west; black-maned horses, dark-cloaked riders, flashing with metal and jewels like flocks of splendid birds. They barrelled in amongst the roofs of the fortress, which shook under the force of their landing as though it must surely topple. Shouts and cries of command pierced the thunder.
As the last outriders circled before landing, Tully said quietly, ‘Well noo. It seems the Fithiach is back.’
A thread of steel tautened across Annath Gothallamor.
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 138
