The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  If the outer character of the land had changed but little, all else was different. Once, the scars and crags and granite stacks of Arcdur had withstood the attacks of wind and water with equanimity, even indifference. They had stood dreaming for millennia, lost in some remote mineral reverie, wreathed, from time to time, by mists, while year by year the ancient lichens flourished and grew on their hides at a pace so slow as to be apparent to no mortal creature.

  Now, it seemed to Ashalind, the stones had awakened, and the trees and the waters also. She sensed a watchfulness, an excitement, everywhere. The air and the ground seemed charged with a kind of eldritch awareness. It was not difficult to guess the cause. Now that Angavar had thrown off his mortal guise and allowed his identity to be known, there was no thing unliving or living, no entity either lorraly or eldritch, that could be near him and not be stirred by the presence of that elemental power. As birds and beasts were attracted by this fair company, so also were the incarnations of eldritch. They, who typically would have fled or vanished in the blink of an eye, now showed themselves openly.

  Large numbers of wights were seen by the mortals of the retinue. Many more were visible to the anointed eyes of Ashalind, and she saw they were diverse: hideous and fair, malign, tricksy and beneficent. She shuddered, and was thankful that she rode in the company of one who might subdue them all, if he chose.

  Lesser wights crowded in rocky crevices or lingered on gravelly shingles by the brinks of winking pools. The waters of those pools would flurry momentarily. Sly eyes squinted from beneath sills. Beside a pebbly beck, the ferns abruptly twitched and nodded, as if something had waited amongst them but was already gone. Seated high on giant boulders, in places impossible for mortals to reach save by mountaineering or the use of sildron, pale damsels serenely combed their hair. At times, faint snatches of music rose from beneath the horses’ hooves. Every shadow, every gnarled trunk, every crag seemed inherently, subtly, to harbour some manifestation. Every well and water sheltered some weird distillation, and if one watched for long enough, the lines of the land might shift to reveal another form. Even when the wind soughed through the pine needles, it sang with voices other than its own.

  Angavar was fully aware of the attention, and permitted it, and did not ask for salutations or other acknowledgments of his sovereignty. That was not the way of the Faêran. That he alone was the ultimate sovereign of gramarye was incontrovertible. It needed no further proof, no validation.

  From horizon to horizon, this country afforded an almost unimpeded view of the sky. The cloudscape arrayed it with awesome spectacle. Purple-grey cumulonimbi were piling up to great heights, crowding in from the west, borne on the back of a keen salt wind. They overtook the sun, blotting it out, haloed in silver by its hidden light. A dim veil of shadow crept across the landscape. Three strands of hair escaped from Ashalind’s headdress and fluttered about her cheeks. A heaviness weighed down the air, a presentiment of rain. Like the quick stab of a pin, a single, miniature water-drop fell on the back of her hand.

  Angavar was riding ahead of her, leading the party, for the country was so rocky they must progress in single file. The goshawk rode on his shoulder. She saw Angavar glance skywards. That was all—he did not gesture with his hands, nor did he call out some incantation. If he murmured any words at all, she was unable to catch them.

  The wind veered. It swung around to the south, and now, overhead, the towering castles of mist were moving with it, as though on wheels. They billowed and altered shape, seeming to slowly explode from within and reinvent themselves in fantastic forms. Ragged holes and rents appeared, letting sunlight fall through in patches. As the rain clouds drew away from the sun’s cool face, a wash of pale gold spilled over the stony heights of Arcdur, rinsing bluish shadows through chinks of rock.

  Ashalind’s servants rode at her heels. She heard them murmur, ‘Behold, he has averted the storm.’ Her maids and all the Dainnan remained in awe of him, of what he had become. Angavar turned in his saddle and smiled at his betrothed, and at the brilliance of that smile her heart was lit, and sped like a hunted thing.

  ‘Do we continue upon the right path?’ he asked.

  She nodded, endeavouring to calm her pulse. ‘I believe so.’

  And indeed, recollection and some inner voice told her that their heading was correct, that somewhere to the north lay the place from which she had stumbled in the rain, long ago, driven from the delights of the Fair Realm of her own volition, gripped by a need to live in the same world as one whose face she had glimpsed through a window, more than a millennium ago.

  Soon she would pass through the Gate at Angavar’s side. Then she would ride into his world, a fantastic world, wild and strange, where dwelled her family, and her friends, and all the Talith who had abandoned Avlantia. She would meet them again, embrace them. And this time, she would stay.

  The path which was not a path widened, and Angavar dropped back beside her. A small rock-goblin jumped squeaking from beneath the hooves of his Faêran steed. Angavar’s laugh was captivating, contagious, and she must laugh with him.

  But the landscape of Arcdur continued to roll monotonously by, offering no familiar sign to Ashalind.

  ‘Is it possible,’ she said anxiously, ‘that the outward appearance of the Gate has changed during the years since I last saw it?’

  ‘Possible,’ Angavar said, ‘but not probable. Wind and weather would not alter the stones much in such a short span, although if the ground has shifted, the angles of the rocks may have subtly altered—some may have fallen.’

  ‘But if a trembling of the ground has moved the foundations of the Gateposts, then the Gate itself may have snapped shut or been thrown wide open!’

  ‘Not so. The gramarye of the traverses is not easily tampered with. No mere quaking of the ground may open or close a Gate between the worlds. Be assured of it.’

  It had taken several days for Ashalind to cross this region of Arcdur on foot, wandering pathless and weak from hunger. This time, the sun set only once upon her journey. That night they rode on for many leagues under the stars until the mortal riders grew weary.

  The sky over Arcdur was filled with a jewelled splendour so brilliant, so vast, it was as though the land was roofed by a dome thickly encrusted with crystals in a multitude of sizes and intensities, prisms which split their own light into every twinkling colour.

  ‘There once was a time,’ said Angavar as they rode on, ‘when the peoples of a world now in ruins dwelt in mighty cities so wreathed about with smoke and fume, nightly so ablaze with light powered by the harnessing of the energies of levin-bolts, that they could but dimly view the stars, if at all. These people of an era long past could not understand why their ancient poets praised the glories of the night, for they saw the stars merely as faded pinpricks in the crown of the firmament. Only by journeying to the highest desert places, furthest from their cities and closest to the sky, were they able to behold their stars as we now behold these of Erith. As for the stars of the Realm—why, those they glimpsed only in dreams.’

  As he spoke, Ashalind watched him. His face glimmered with the sheen of far-off suns; his hair eclipsed them. Wonder and passion exulted her spirits with a force that was almost palpable. And it may be that the Faêran were sensible to such forces.

  After a while, Angavar said, ‘I love thee. How I love thee.’

  He chose to make their bivouac in the shelter of a great stand of arkenfirs, down among the roots where fragrant needles had fallen in layers season after season, building up deep, dry cushions. Bolts of satin were thrown over these cushions, and the softest of beds they made. Lights kindled themselves amongst the boughs, and fuelless fires sprang up, whose flames gave out gentle warmth yet did not blacken the resinous mulch. No silken pavilions blossomed, decked with proud banners to proclaim that this was the stopping place of a king. There was no need for shelter. The rain would not fall upon them, nor would any wind steal into their midst like a thief to pry at their garment
s with fluttering fingers, or slip keen edges between their ribs. It was not necessary to set a watch for danger.

  Beneath the arkenfirs a feast was held. Afterwards the Dainnan found repose, and Ashalind’s servants also, and Ercildoune and Roxburgh.

  ‘Good night,’ whispered Angavar as he left Ashalind’s side.

  But she lay waking among her maids, twisting the leaf-ring about her finger.

  ‘Fear no harm from wights now, betrothed,’ he had told her, ‘nor from any mortal creature. For when I am with thee, thou’rt safe from all harm. When I am not, I shall leave thee in the care of others who can protect thee, or else thou shalt bide in some secure place.’

  Overhead the bristling boughs nodded, black against the pale night sky. She watched the stars moving in slow arcs of monstrous magnitude, uncounted miles away. She was tired, wanting to sleep, but she ached for Angavar’s presence and her lids and ears were held open by the songs of the Faêran, whose forms she glimpsed like pastel glows drifting among the rock formations. For the Fair Ones did not sleep, not on this eve—she wondered whether they ever slept. All through the night they roamed in distant groups, singing songs so deeply moving they made her want to laugh and weep, and when she did find slumber, it was filled with the most poignant of dreams.

  Next morning, the expedition crossed a ridge clothed with conifers. To the west, a glimmer along the horizon betrayed land’s end, the ocean-washed shores. In a shallow valley below the ridge a clear beck chiselled its way through rocks of chalcedony. Their horses splashed through the water, kicking up spray which glittered like crystals threaded on a thousand silver filaments.

  They were climbing then towards the sky, the wind soughing in their ears and pushing against their backs as though to nudge them on their way. Reaching the next hilltop they reined in to survey the land that lay before and below them. Errantry soared up and was lost in the sky’s pearl-blue expanse. Choughs gliding on updraughts darted after winged beetles. The grey pallor of the stacks and chimneys was broken only by patches of pink lichen and a few stands of blue-green arkenfir. Wind chanted through the chinks in the formations. Running water chuckled and chimed. Hundreds of feet high, the stacks of Arcdur resembled dishes cooked in a monumental kitchen—one was formed like loaves of bread; further away, another towered like a pile of giant pancakes.

  Ashalind’s pulse quickened. These landmarks she recognised.

  ‘We are nearing the place,’ she said. ‘We are close!’

  Angavar only nodded, but she could perceive by the set of his features how deeply her tidings affected him. They started down the slope, their horses searching for footholds in mossy fissures. Soon they rode amongst the pinnacles of another valley. Ashalind’s face grew flushed, her eyes burned as though fevered. ‘Somewhere here! We are on the very threshold!’ She cast about intensively, scrutinising each rock formation with utmost deliberation. ‘We must go slowly. If I approach from the wrong angle, I might miss it.’

  ‘A tall grey rock like a giant hand,’ Angavar chanted softly, repeating her earlier words, ‘and a slender obelisk leaning towards it, coloured as the lip of a rose petal. Both monoliths capped by a lintel-stone shaped like a doorstep. Near at hand in a granite hollow, a dark pool of water fed by a spring.’

  Fleetingly, Ashalind wondered at the random events or the thread of destiny that had drawn her to this particular place and time over the span of more than a thousand years.

  The Faêran riders drew in at either hand. The muted ringing of their bell-hung bridles recalled the unstorms that would never more blow across Erith to waken its past.

  Between the pinnacles, a dark smear appeared in the eastern sky. Like a patch of smoke borne on a current in the upper airs it approached rapidly, eventually interpreting itself as a great, wheeling flock of birds. Raising his hand, Angavar came to a halt, and the whole retinue drew rein. The goshawk fell out of the sky, stooping to latch its talons onto the leather band encircling Angavar’s wrist. As Angavar drew his hand down, the bird flapped, regaining his balance before folding his wings. He hissed and whistled urgently, his gold-orange eyes as bright as burning coins. Ercildoune and Roxburgh rode up beside their leader, who called out to the Faêran in their own tongue. Many of them pointed to the sky. In grim tones Angavar said, ‘It is he. The Raven cometh.’

  And there was a sting in Ashalind’s heart, as though the utmost tip of a whip had lashed it.

  ‘What now?’ she breathed.

  ‘He approaches too near to the Gate. It is essential he is not nigh when it is flung wide, lest in his rage and vengeance he devises a way to slip through ahead of me and close it against us. I will not be exiled a second time!’

  The birds flew closer now. Their hoarse croaks scarred the wind. Crows, rooks and jays were they, and ravens, their plumage glossy black.

  Now that she understood him more intimately, Ashalind glimpsed the tide of raw emotion surging behind the stern set of her lover’s features. She surmised that although he was aroused to anger by the sight of the Raven, his brother in altered form, he also desired that sight, for he had loved Morragan, and mourned him, in his own way.

  Again Angavar’s voice rang forth and again the Faêran hearkened.

  ‘Let us drive the Raven forth!’ cried Roxburgh in fury, standing in his stirrups and shaking his fist towards the skies. ‘Let us hunt him hence!’

  The face of Ercildoune grew pinched with alarm. ‘Hunt and capture,’ he growled urgently, ‘ere some mighty harm befalls us.’

  ‘Sooth, yet such a task is beyond the reach of mortals,’ said Angavar swiftly. ‘I will do it, with half my knights.’ To Ashalind, he added, ‘Goldhair, this hunt is no enterprise for thee. Thomas and Tamlain shall remain at thy side, with the rest of the Faêran and the Dainnan knights. While I am gone, continue to seek the Gate. I will return anon.’

  With a sudden, graceful gesture, he flung Errantry into the air. The goshawk soared up.

  Horror caught hold of Ashalind. It came to her that should Angavar-Thorn ride away now, she would never see him again.

  ‘Do not leave me, my lord,’ she begged. ‘I pray thee.’

  From his saddle, he leaned close to her ear. His breath was warm and sweet against her cheek.

  ‘Why so doubtful, eudail?’ he asked softly, wonderingly. ‘Be unafraid. Half the knights of Eagle’s Howe shall surround thee, led by the first among my knights, Dorliroen and Naifindil. And yet, what can there be to fear?’

  ‘It is not for myself, but for thee …’

  He laughed. ‘What can hurt me?’ Taking her chin in his hand, he kissed her roundly. ‘I must not tarry. Already the flock veers to the south and away. Farewell for but a moment.’

  His steed sprang forward with a sound like the rushing wind.

  Just like that, he was gone.

  Fifty Faêran lords followed him, and Faêran ladies besides. At preternatural velocity their steeds raced among the stacks and towers and soon were lost to view. A gasp arose from the servants of Ashalind’s retinue. Shading her eyes with her hand, Ashalind peered at the empty lands where the Faêran had vanished. She thought a second vast company of birds beat their way up from the chimneys, as though startled by the riders, to fly off in pursuit of the Corvidae. Hooked were their beaks; and their wings smote the air with mighty strength. They were birds of prey—hawks, or perhaps eagles.

  ‘I conjecture my lord is drawn to his brother,’ Ashalind said aloud, in troubled tones. ‘Perchance that is why he goes after him, even though the flock has already turned aside. Yet Morragan now lacks his former strength, so why do the crows and rooks follow in his wake? Are they unseelie? Do they mean to work us ill?’

  ‘They are only true birds, colleen,’ replied Maeve One-Eye, who had drawn near, ‘not wights! They are neither threatening us nor helping the Raven, but merely accompanying him. Like others they are drawn to him, but for a different reason: to the birds, he is one of them but with an aura of gramarye such as they have never known, and they are
fascinated, compelled.’

  ‘I mislike this business,’ grimly said Thomas of Ercildoune.

  ‘Pshaw!’ snorted Roxburgh. ‘There is naught to mislike about it, Tom, only that I have been thwarted in my desire to hunt the Raven.’

  ‘Ride on, Ashalind,’ cried Alys. ‘We follow.’

  As she could find no reason not to go on, Ashalind did so, casting many a backward glance. At her side rode Alys. The Dukes flanked the ladies, while behind them came Sianadh and the two carlins, their wands slung at their backs. Mounted on mettlesome black steeds, four stalwart young riders accompanied them also—the eldest sons of Trenowyn. The Dainnan rode close by, their horses not outpacing those of the Faêran who had remained with the mortals.

  The sky of Arcdur took on an ominous look. A dark stain was creeping in at the edges. A hush fell across the land, and as if night had fallen, or a bitter frost, the warblings of birds no longer rang out.

  The monoliths that now towered around Ashalind did not seem familiar, but she was experiencing a growing sense of significance that brought with it a certainty that the Bitterbynde Gate was close by.

  A rumbling started up beneath their horses’ feet. The ground shook.

  The horses propped and pranced, snorting their disquiet. Images of the death throes of Tamhania flashed into Ashalind’s thoughts.