The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘Not that, not yet. But I know the Gate now, I recognise it. And I will find it.’

  ‘How does it appear, the Way to Faêrie?’ His voice was almost casual now.

  All she could recall, she told him. She sensed a keen and desperate restlessness in him, a longing so urgent, so terrible she feared it.

  ‘Methinks thou dost want to make haste,’ she said. ‘Shall we take ship straightway for Arcdur? Even if thou mayst not leave Erith yet, we can locate the Gate in readiness. It can be opened, and thy subjects will be able to pass to and fro.’

  A shadow darkened his features. He brooded. ‘Nay,’ he said. ‘Mayhap, during the days and nights of Arcdur, those three strands of thy hair have blown away or been washed forth or subtracted by beasts of the wilderness.’

  ‘Is it possible the Gate has closed by itself?’

  ‘Even so. Yet while naught is confirmed either way, the chance remains that the Realm may be regained at last. For the nonce, I prefer to dwell with that chance, rather than realise bitter disappointment. There is no need for haste. The last day of eternity draws no nearer.’

  ‘But while we hold back the chance grows fainter—for the rain and wind and the beasts and insects of Arcdur are as busy at their work of displacement as they have ever been.’

  ‘No, they are not.’

  Of course—she had overlooked the extent of his governance. His influence was such that he could arrest the eroding effects of natural forces. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. The west wind is his caress, raindrops his kisses on my mouth …

  Against the dandelion shimmer of the tent walls, her mind’s image of Arcdur hung dissolving like a grey stain. Unwarned of, a flapping darkness crossed her vision, fragmenting it. Ashalind shook her head as if to clear it of confusion. Her face sharpened into an expression of wistfulness.

  ‘The Raven …’ she murmured.

  ‘What of him?’ Angavar flung back with a frown.

  ‘He is gone,’ she stammered, bemused, ‘yet remains with us, in a way. Will the Raven fly into Faêrie, when the gate is opened? At the least, he can now no longer demand that second boon of Easgathair White Owl. The Gatekeeper has fulfilled the first—he locked the Gates, as Morragan demanded. It was no fault of his that I was enclosed inside the actual structure of a Gate, hidden neither within the Realm nor without it. Now that Morragan has lost his Faêran shape, surely Easgathair is not beholden to the second pledge—or even if he is, Morragan has no voice to command it. With the Password to unseal the Casket of Keys known to all and sundry, all the Gates may be reopened, never to be locked again. Faêran and mortal may traffick again, as in days of yore!’

  ‘In Raven form,’ sombrely said Angavar, absently twisting a strand of her hair around his finger, ‘most of his powers have indeed been bled away. Not all. Some rudimentary power of speech remains. He is of Royal blood—it is not easy to disable us. Should he meet again with Easgathair White Owl, the Raven yet has a chance to command obedience. I would fain discover him, render him mute, else bind him with gramarye, or by his own word. I would find him, but he is not yet to be caught. Thus, it remains perilous to open any Gates.’

  ‘Why didst thou let him fly away?’

  ‘’Twas mercy that stayed my hand. How could I, who showed mercy to the Waelghast, do less for my brother?’ The attention of the Faêran King seemed to turn inward, his beautiful countenance tempering to the bleakness of a Winter sky. ‘My brother, in whose downfall I played a significant part.’ After a brief pause, he continued, ‘I was uncertain whether he might merely wing away to some remote forest, seldom to be glimpsed again, or whether in the strange reaches of a bird’s mental flickerings there existed a desire to regain the Fair Realm. And my qualms tendered him the advantage.’

  Wide, her eyes drank him in, noting every detail. He was a fire and she a candle too near. He drew her close. Catching the cinnamon scent of him, she pulled away. He did not smell of sweat and leather, his breath did not reek of onions nor his hair of wood smoke. She could overlook no longer—this was no mortal man.

  Perplexed, half angry, he said, ‘Do not withdraw from me!’

  She hesitated, unable now to meet his gaze.

  ‘Thou art of Faêran blood. I am not.’

  ‘What’s thy meaning?’

  A cudgel pounded on the inner cage of her chest.

  ‘How canst thou love me?’ At the backs of her eyes, tears welled. ‘To thy kind, we must seem as beasts.’

  ‘Never say that!’ he exclaimed in a voice rough with some elusive passion—and then, incredulously, ‘Dost thou doubt me?’

  ‘I am of the imperfect race. By my troth, if I view my kind through Faêran eyes—’

  ‘So. It seems thou dost doubt my love.’

  She raised her face to his at last, and what she read thereon threatened to stop her pulse.

  ‘No.’

  He said, ‘Never doubt me, Goldhair. Never.’

  Ashalind’s throat ached, as though she had swallowed her own heart.

  ‘Long have we been parted,’ she said, ‘yet never hast thou been from my thoughts. Day and night, I have seen thy face before me. In my mind thy voice spoke. Each brush of the wind was a touch from thee, every dream a reinvention of thy form. At this instant thou art before me, and sometimes I am afraid. For I might blink and thou shalt have vanished again. Ah, but every fibre of my being cries out for thee.’

  ‘And mine for thee, be assured of it.’

  From beyond the tent came the rumour of men’s conversation, distant singing, a medley of muffled hoofbeats as horses moved about the camp.

  Ashalind recalled Morragan and his provoking words to his brother—Fain would my weapon remain oft in the sheath, it filled the receptacle so well. Another Faêran way of twisting the truth; using ambiguity to deceive without perjury.

  To Angavar she now said, ‘Taunting thee he implied that it was so, but Morragan did not lie with me.’

  ‘I know it.’

  He gathered her into his arms, resting his face against the top of her head. His hair poured down over her and she became lost in the maze of it, each filament a fine chain to bind the heart, a line to lure thought astray.

  Among his race, the act of love was commonly regarded as sport and pleasure rather than as a mutual celebration of lasting passion. Tales of the Faêran made this clear. To hold him, feeling the tension through his shoulders so vehement that he trembled, to be kindled by the heat of his heartbeat—to know the effort it cost him, resisting his own nature; this moved Ashalind profoundly. By this, she understood how he esteemed her.

  As instinctively, as irresistibly, mortals were attracted to the Faêran. The immortals of the Realm were designed for love and for laughter, as birds are fashioned for flight. In showing equal restraint, Ashalind acted with no less honour than her extraordinary lover.

  In denial, affirmation.

  ‘It is my wish to honour thee,’ he whispered. ‘Soon shalt thou be my bride. When we lie together, thou and I, there shall be delight such as mortalkind can only dream of, and rarely do—such joy as might prove unendurable.’

  ‘Two worlds dost thou rule,’ she said. ‘Thou lack’st for naught, some might say. Gold thou mightst have in oceans, and rivers of jewels. I cannot give such treasures. Yet, when we have made our wedding vows, I can only surrender to thee a gift that no one else in either world can bestow, and which can only be given once, by any maiden.’

  ‘A gift to be enjoyed lifelong.’

  It suddenly struck Ashalind that her lifespan and his would be unevenly matched. Mortal years could be prolonged in the Fair Realm, but humankind could not become immortal. He might continue to walk the green hills of Erith for many lives of kings, long after she rested beneath them. She dismissed the thought, vexed that she had allowed it to mar happiness.

  A soft breeze stirred the tent’s fabric, causing shadows to waver as though underwater. The wind carried the sounds of the bivouacked armies more clearly through the thi
n sendal partitions—songs of victory, laughter, the jingle of harness. Flaring campfires threw the shadows of armed men on the rippling walls. Sentries marched along their circuits, messengers went to and fro.

  ‘Long have I searched for thee,’ Angavar said gently, ‘sending birds and beasts and eldritch wights to the task. All that time, every road and byway was watched. Every city and village in the populous regions was under the surveillance of my servants. Thou didst confound them with both thy fragrant disguise and the unexpected path thou didst pursue. Of recent days, thy bodyservant has told me much concerning thy travels. Would that I had known then what I know now. Time after time my searchers returned, having failed to gain so much as a hint of thy whereabouts, and tumult would surge again within my heart. It seemed thou hadst vanished out of all knowledge. Fain would I have sought thee myself, yet I could not be spared from the effort of the Legions. What makes thee so clever at concealing thyself from me? Few could achieve such artfulness! I have dominion over the sea, the sky and all the corners of the land. The Royal Raven may hide from me, for the nonce, but no mortal could do it—save thee. And twice thou hast done so!’

  Ashalind shook her head. ‘I know not why, unless due to luck, or ill luck, or fate. Alas, would that thou hadst been able to save Tamhania from destruction!’

  ‘I knew naught of the isle’s danger until too late. No one at Tana heeded the warning signs, therefore they sent no early plea for help. When at last the ill tidings came to my ears I sped there forthwith, but by the time my Skyhorse reached the latitude of the Royal Isle, all was in ruins.

  ‘After the island was drowned, didst thou not presume I had perished during its fall?’

  ‘The denizens of the sea reported thou wert not numbered among the dead. Yet then, for a time, I did think thy life had ended, for my servants had scoured Erith and thy absence appeared to indicate thy total destruction. Shouldst thou have been slain, and thy body rendered unrecognisable then they would never have discovered thee.’

  ‘Unrecognisable? In what manner?’

  ‘Crushed, dissolved, incinerated, eaten. But let us speak no more of hateful matters. I have found thee, Goldhair. That compensates for all.’

  ‘Now at last we may enjoy the company of one another,’ she whispered, somewhat shyly.

  ‘Even so!’ he replied. ‘And share our full histories as previously we could not and did not!’

  In a corner of the Royal Pavilion, Errantry roosted on a tall stand. At the centre stood a table carved of walnut and oak, inlaid with hawthorn wood. Ashalind found Thomas of Ercildoune and Tamlain of Roxburgh seated at this table with Richard of Esgair Garthen and Istoren Giltornyr, battle-weary yet unwounded—or if they had been wounded there was now no sign of it.

  ‘It is a joy to meet again with the Royal Attriod,’ said she.

  They bowed, murmuring their greetings. True Thomas kissed her hand.

  ‘Valiantly you fought,’ she said to them.

  Roxburgh’s face was grim. ‘Aye, lady, but our success was not timely enough.’

  He fell silent.

  ‘Drumdunach and Ogier are sorely missed,’ said Ashalind, seating herself at the table.

  ‘Those who slew them have paid the price,’ answered Roxburgh heavily. ‘Now at last peace has returned to Erith—’ He glanced at Ashalind and she saw in his look that same hunger she knew so well. ‘And there is a way back …’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. There is a way. I shall find it again.’

  A page poured wine, but the goblets stood untouched.

  ‘They say you have discovered our secret, my lady,’ softly said Ercildoune, ‘as we have discovered yours. For if you are a thousand years old, we are older. Our exploits of yore are the stuff of legend.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Ashalind replied. ‘I recall, when I was a child in Avlantia my nurse used to tell me tales of the Bard who dwelled half in the Fair Realm and half in Erith. Even then it was thought to be naught but moonshine, a fabrication of the Storytellers to while away long Winter nights. But what of you, sir?’ she said to Tamlain Conmor. ‘I surmise that you also were once in that place, but I cannot fathom how it came to pass.’

  ‘A distraction from our present grief would be welcome,’ said the Bard, before Roxburgh could reply. ‘Allow me to regale you with that story.’ She nodded, and he proceeded.

  ‘There is on Roxburgh land a green vale called Carterhaugh,’ he began. ‘In that vale lies a secret bower, filled with wild roses in Springtime. Long ago, before the Closing, strange things began happening at Carterhaugh. It came to pass that roses bloomed there all year round, even through the snows of Winter, and they were double roses, gorgeous blooms with richly coloured petals like flounced silk underskirts, the like of which had never before been seen in Erith. The fragrance alone, it was said, was enough to intoxicate anyone who went near.

  ‘Few dared approach them, for this unseasonable burgeoning was a sure sign of supernatural activity in the area. Indeed, parents forbade their children to travel to Carterhaugh, lest some harm overtake them. But the attraction proved too strong for some, especially for young maidens who wished to pluck these extraordinary roses for their sweetness, in order to strew the petals amongst their linen or wear the flowers twined in their hair.

  ‘After a time a rumour began to fly about. It was whispered that any mortal maiden who strayed in Carterhaugh would be captured by a young knight who appeared as the guardian of the roses. He would not let her go free until she gave him a token, and that token was either her cloak or her maidenhead. Knowing that if they returned home without their mantles they would incur their parents’ wrath and inquisition, and perceiving this strange knight so well made and bonny, many a maiden came home with her mantle still upon her shoulders and nobody the wiser.

  ‘Yet truth has a way of revealing itself.

  ‘Soon the infamy of the unknown knight of Carterhaugh became widely known. It was said that he was one of the Faêran, and now with even greater urgency and direr threats, fathers forbade their daughters to go anywhere near that enchanted rosy grove. But one headstrong—and some would say foolish—maid, the daughter of a nobleman, decided to venture there despite the warnings, or because of them, for she wanted to see this comely knight for herself. This was somewhat of a contrary wench. She was wont to wear green and flaunt it, just to show her indomitable spirit. Without breathing a word to anyone, she went to Carterhaugh alone.

  ‘When she arrived at the bower of roses, the scent of them filled her with a joyous languor. She looked about amongst the nodding stems, which bowed almost to the ground beneath the weight of those heady blooms, but no sign could she see of any living thing.

  ‘Greatly daring, she began to gather the roses. She had not plucked more than two when the young knight stood before her.

  ‘“Lady, gather no more,” said he. “Why come you to Carterhaugh without permission from me?”

  ‘Boldly this saucy maiden planted her hands on her hips and looked him in the eye. “I’ll come and go,” she replied, “and ask no leave of you!”

  ‘She returned to her father’s hall that night with her mantle still wrapped about her, but her gown was crumpled and there were small rents in it as though it had caught on some briars. Nobody thought anything of it, for this maiden was not one to care overmuch for the daintiness of her garments. But she went often to Carterhaugh after that, and no one suspected.

  ‘Then one day her father summoned her. He was a kindly gentleman and he loved his daughter well—perhaps too well, for that was why she had been able to get her own way for so long.

  ‘“Alas, daughter,” said he, not angry but mild and meek, “By the signs, I fear you are with child. Name the father and if he be one of my knights you shall have him to wed.”

  ‘“Well, if I am with child,” she made reply, “myself shall bear the blame, for there’s not a knight about your hall, father, who shall give his name to the baby. I’ll not exchange my own true love for any knight you have.”
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br />   ‘“Then who is your love?” her father appealed.

  ‘“Alas!” cried the daughter in her turn. “He is not of Erith, but a knight of the Fair Realm. The steed he rides is lighter than the wind. Its forehooves are shod with silver and the hindhooves with gold.”

  ‘Then the father bowed his head in sorrow, for there was naught he could do.

  ‘As soon as she could, this young gentlewoman combed her hair, put on her golden snood and hastened back to Carterhaugh. There she saw the young knight’s steed grazing alone, but there was no sign of its rider until she had plucked a rose or two, and then he stood before her, and he was full bonny, there was no denying.

  ‘“Lady, gather no more!” said he. “Why do you come here breaking roses? For to lie with me might kill the bonny babe we made between us.”

  ‘She was not afraid.

  ‘“Tell me, my love,” she begged, “were you ever a knight of Erith? Are you a mortal man?”

  ‘“Aye,” said he. “I was out hunting in the greenwood, and I rode swifter than the rest and outstripped them. I was alone, and eventide had fallen, when I spied a strange and splendid procession riding at leisure through the trees. At its centre was a green silk canopy borne on four spears by four mounted knights, gloriously accoutred. Under the canopy rode a Queen of the Fair Ones, on a white palfrey. At once all sense of peril deserted me and it seemed that I must catch up with her. Spurring my horse, I rode furiously, but no matter how fast I galloped, I could not catch the slow-trotting pageant.

  ‘When at last I came near my heart’s appetence, my horse stumbled and I fell from its back. I might have died from the fall, but that she caught me—a Queen among the Faêran, Leilieln of the Yellow-Flowered Broom. She took me to the Fair Realm to bide with her, for she saw I was comely of face and strong and lithe, and there I have stayed for nigh on seven years. Pleasant it is to dwell there, but now I have reason to wish to leave, and that reason stands before me now.

  ‘“A right-of-way opens from the Fair Realm into Carterhaugh,” he said. “I am permitted to pass through it and linger awhile, here in the world of mortals. But I must not stray too far, for my task is to guard the roses of Leilieln, exacting a pledge from thieves. But tonight is Jack o’ Lantern Eve,” the knight continued, “the night when the Faêran Court ride at the murk-and-midnight hour. Those who would win their true love must go to the well at the crossroads, and bide there.”