The Bitterbynde Trilogy (103 page)

The assembly cheered wildly.

‘Zounds,' breathed Thomas of Ercildoune on the parapets. ‘Old Feu has really outdone himself this time.'

Later that night, another vision came to Rohain. Later, she named it the Dream of the Feast.

A hall, filled with long tables. An assembly of guests, most of them stunningly beauteous, some offensively grotesque—paragons and parodies, all at one extreme or the other. As Rohain walked the length of the hall, alone, they turned, one by one, to stare, and the pressure of those stares was a threat. Their power was as strong as desire, as indiscriminating and as ruthless. Fear drowned Rohain in its troubled waters. Did they not mock and sneer? Did they not feint and leer, patently, gleamingly observing her walking through their midst, their very presence plucking at her every nerve? Was not their very maintenance of distance a menace, like a steel bar that held them from her but which they could crumple at will, laughing?

At the end of the hall, someone stood waiting, someone whose back was turned. The face could not be discerned. Dreading the sight of it, Rohain yet fastened her gaze upon that one with fascination. At any moment she would see and recognise the face.

The one turned. And turned, and turned again, repeatedly beginning but never completing the rotation. Always, at the moment the first pale curve of the face came into view, the image would flicker and retreat to its commencement, like a shang tableau, and there would be the back of the head again, starting to turn.

Rohain knew that in the last instance this someone would be revealed, but even as the face finally swung into view, there was only a great bird with beating wings, black as oblivion.

She awoke with a mad yammering in her ears, white pain splitting her skull.

Fell creatures were seen in the city at nights. Not before in this long-hundred of years had they dared to penetrate the walls of Caermelor. A curfew was imposed. The citizens made certain their doors were locked at nights, and their abodes well-decked with wight-deterring objects. Wizards and shysters did a brisker trade in charms than usual. Reports came in from outlying areas: The Wild Hunt was active.

The day after the Royal Ball, Thorn came to Rohain and said gravely, ‘If the city has become unsafe, it will not be long before the palace itself is challenged by the reeking forces of unseelie. The restlessness of the Wild Hunt concerns me. Theirs is an eternal malignity, a deep-rooted ill-will. A dangerous adversary endeavoured to get to thee, Gold-Hair, and will likely hunt thee again, for these are immortals and able to pursue forever.

‘I must leave Caermelor,' he continued. ‘The north stirs again. This time there is a difference—after many a feint and false rumour, we are certain that the war-chiefs of Namarre are about to push forward at last, and that after all the skirmishes and raids, battle will soon be joined in earnest. More platoons have departed to take up their positions. A group of two hundred and seventy soldiers from the First Cavalry Division is headed from the Ilian army base to Corvath on a merchant Windship. Two more flights are to carry out seven hundred troops early tomorrow, with deployment completed in two or three days. To the killing ground I will not take thee, but here thou must not remain. I will take thee and Edward to the one place thou mightst dwell in safety while I am gone.'

‘So we are to be parted …' Rohain's blood fused to lead in her veins.

Thorn drew her closer. The effect was not unexpected, the alchemy turning the lead to molten gold. A clear un-scent carried on his breath, like the ether before a storm.

‘Dost think I want to leave thee? I want thee by me all ways, day and night, my Pleasure. Yet I will not lead thee into danger. A battlefield is no place for thee.'

‘I care nothing for danger. Take me with you!'

He placed a finger on her mouth and shook his head.

‘No. Until I can be by your side again, Gold-Hair, thou shalt bide in another place.'

6

THE ISLAND

Green Hair, Dark Sea

On rocky shores there used to stand, windblown
,

A lonely tower built of graying stone
.

O'er dark and restless seas it shone a light
,

And beamed a message through the ageless night
,

As if to reach the land where roses bloom
,

Whose floral kiss abates despair and gloom
.

A
VERSE FROM
‘
THE
R
OSE
'
S
K
ISS
'

Three hundred nautical miles separated Caermelor from that uncertain stretch of water halfway between the Gulf of Mara and the boiling fury of Domjaggar Strait, south of the Cape of Tides and north of the Cape of Winds. Here was a region avoided by Seaship routes, a domain where, no matter how vapid the sky, no matter how placid the sea, mist and cloud gathered their skirts and muffled themselves in their mantles.

The bosun blew his whistle. Blocks squealed overhead as the main yards were braced round. HIMS
King James XVI
hove to at the frayed edges of this foggy obscurity. It was as if a smoky twilight hovered beyond the bowsprit and the starboard taffrail, while elsewhere the day gleamed as lustrous as polished crystals. A mellow sea-breeze came cantering out of the west to lift among the sails the Royal Heraldry of the pennoncels and the long ribbons of streamers, the gay banners and the swallow-tailed gittons, laying them straight along its flowing mane.

Chunks of charcoal imprisoned crimson heat in a brazier suspended on chains from a tripod on the fo'c'sle. Passengers and crew with their taltries thrown back stood watching as a pitch-smeared arrowhead was touched to the coals. Fiery hair sprang forth from that head. In one swift, sudden movement, Thorn fitted the shaft to the string, bent back his longbow—the shaft sliding through his fingers until his right hand almost met the red blossom—and sent it soaring with a twang and a hissing whine, straight into the twilight's heart.

Standing with feet braced apart at right angles to the target, in the classic archer's stance, he watched it fly, high and far.

It vanished.

And then there came a thinning of the fog, and deep within the murk a form manifested as if seen through frosted glass. Across the waters, past a wild spume that was the white blood of waves suiciding in the jaws of reefs, a mountain loomed, indistinct, crowned with a pale cloud. An island, floating in the sea.

‘Release the bird,' said Thorn, handing the longbow to his squire. A snowball or a wad of paper scraps was tossed into the air, shaking itself out into the shape of a pigeon. It took wing toward the island. They watched the white chevron disappear, following the red flower. Waves spanked the port side. Ropes creaked, wood complained, and now the faint cries of gulls scratched the wind.

Presently a spark appeared, a brass button against the dark hem of the land.

‘There she be!' exclaimed several voices. ‘The Beacon!'

At this signal, the crew swung into action again, hauling on the braces to swing the main yards back into position. The helmsman spun the wheel and brought the ship about. Sails filled, and with the wind directly behind her the vessel began to pick up speed, skimming the crests, scooting toward the isle.

The mountain towered ever higher.

Along a narrow channel between the reefs sped HIMS
King James XVI
, guided by the Light. She ran between two headlands that held between them a span of vituperative currents called the Rip, until, skating free of those arms, with the Light in the Tower alone on its rocky promontory to the port side, she fell, like a gull to its haven into a beautiful harbour, tranquil and still.

Above the harbour, basalt terraces snaked up the cliffs to the cloud-bearded summit dominating all with its formidable presence. This peak let down its shadow to ink the water, dwarfing the tall ship with the lily sails now furled and lashed into long buds. The vessel became a mote of light on a dark pond. By the shore, red birds of fishing boats clustered at their moorings, all facing west. Some of these fishers, and other vessels shaped like seedpods, were rowed out toward the
King James XVI
. Crates of snowflake pigeons and a lumpy bag of letters were uploaded. Few other goods were exchanged—this was not a merchant ship, not a trade visit. A crowd lined the shore. Most of the islanders had come down to the harbour to admire the King-Emperor's renowned ship and to try to catch a glimpse of him in person—it had been long since he was last on the island—as well as to welcome Prince Edward and the Lady Rohain, tidings of whom had preceded them.

Thorn's hair swung down to brush Rohain's cheek as he leaned to her. While the clipper's longboats were being lowered into the water, the pair took leave of each other, speaking softly, standing on the fo'c'sle while all others kept a respectful distance. But when for the last time their hands unclasped, Rohain felt it was an agony, as though her flesh had grown to his and was now torn.

‘Guard her, Thomas,' Thorn had commanded his Bard. ‘Guard her well.' But she had thought it was Thorn who needed vigilance and protection, since he was going to war.

Auspiciously, the wind swung around. A sildron floater took Rohain down the ship's side. In a swathe of rose brocade encrusted with carnelians, she sat in the bow, facing astern like the rowers. At the tiller, the coxswain called out a command. Hemmed in by red birds and seed-husks, the line of row-boats crawled to shore like oar-legged insects on the sun's glittering path.

The fisher families greeted the Crown Prince, the Lady Betrothed, the Duke of Ercildoune, and the Duchess of Roxburgh and her brood with songs, jonquils, and strings of coloured lanterns. They presented them with trinkets and buckles inlaid with mother-of-pearl, all fashioned from carved coral; with tusks of walrus, skulls of seals, or teeth of whales. They gave also shell-work bouquets (each shell carefully chosen for its colour and shape to replicate a petal of a particular variety of flower), shell-work trinket boxes and glove boxes. The handful of wealthier islanders presented gifts of pearl necklaces, bracelets and girdles studded with garnets, peridots, and zeolite crystals, and containers covered in shagreen. To these they added amber and agate snuff-boxes, nautilus shell cups with pewter rims and feet, porphyry bowls, and a pristine prismatic bowl imprisoning three live leafy sea-dragons; delicate, innocent creatures that Rohain would later discreetly return to their habitat.

The village mayor made a speech.

The rumbling strains of a shanty drifted from the royal ship, out over the water. On the foredeck the men toiled around the capstan, straining against the bars. The anchor broke the water like some queer fish, flukes streaming. With a rattle and a clang it locked into place. Lengths of canvas dropped from the yardarms and fattened like the bells and scoops of pale pink shells. A phosphorescent wake awoke. Cream curled at the prow.

For as long as possible, Rohain held on to the memory of Thorn in
dusken
, handsome beyond reckoning, resting his elbows on the taffrail, not waving, merely watching her steadily, until distance thinned the bond of that mutual gaze and eventually severed it. Like the tide, terrible grief and longing then rose in her, and she could not speak, made mute again by loss. All the light and laughter in the world was draining out through the Rip, sailing away, far away.

This, then, was the secret island, Tamhania, sometimes called Tavaal. For hundreds of years it had been the private retreat of the kings of the House of D'Armancourt. Some sea-enchantment rendered it safe from all things unseelie. Furthermore, it was hidden from view by mists engendered, it was said, by virtue of a herb that grew extensively over its slopes:
duilleag neoil
, the cloud-leaf, whose effects were complemented by steam from numerous hot springs. If the isle was struck by a red-hot arrow fired from beyond its shores it would become visible for a short time, but no vessel could find the channel through the reefs without the guidance of the Beacon, and the Light would only be kindled in that gray Tower after the reception of a sealed order from the King-Emperor, or a secret rune, carried in by messenger birds.

Rohain had taken leave of Sianadh at Caermelor, where he had boarded a merchant Seaship bound for Finvarna. It had been a parting both sorrowful and joyous.

‘No tears,
chehrna
!' he had said, tears standing in his own blue eyes. ‘'Tis not good-bye, in any event! We I shall meet again! When the war is over the Queen-Empress must tour the countries of her Empire. Start with the best—the land of the giant elk, and the long rugged shores, and the taverns filled with music and good cheer. Don't ye forget, now!'

He saluted her and swaggered up the gangplank with a jaunty air, waving his cap. That had been the last she had seen of him.

A procession of coaches and riders wound its way upward along the rutted cliff road from the fishing village on the harbour. Over many an arched bridge of basalt they passed, crossing the rills that tumbled down the hillsides, by trees twisted into poetic shapes by salt winds, to the Royal Estate, Tana. High on the mountainside, Tana's castle overlooked the slate roofs of the village, and the cove where flying fish, leapt in clear green water.

There the Seneschal of Tana, Roland Avenel, greeted them.

This entire island belonged to the Crown. Of those few Feohrkind folk who had been granted the right to dwell there, some were ancient families, the descendants of generations of islanders: fisher-folk, farmers, and orchardists who for centuries had paid their tithes in services and goods or in gems pried from the gravels and crannies of fissures in the mountain walls. Some had been born on the isle and lived out their span of years on it; others left its cloudy shores when they were full-grown, and never returned. Sometimes, folk came to live on Tamhania who had never set foot there before—men and wives who had sought permission from the official authorities representing the Crown, and been deemed worthy; probably they had some skill or talent to offer the community, Perhaps they themselves longed for peace and seclusion.