The Bitterbynde Trilogy (125 page)

‘Never have all the Gates been locked,' said Cierndanel. ‘It is feared that when the Day of Closing comes, a weaving might be torn; a balance might be shifted. The imbalance may well let loose wild winds of gramarye. Strong forces surround the places where our two countries intersect, and they will be thrown into confusion, striving one against the other. It is possible that uncanny currents will be sent howling around Erith forever, without guide or purpose. Untamed winds of gramarye can create shape and image from the thoughts of Men. Only talium can block them out.'

‘On the Day of Closing,' said Easgathair with a sigh, ‘Midwinter's Day in Erith, three warning calls will be sounded throughout both worlds. On the last call, the Gates shall swing shut, and remain so, seamlessly and forever.'

‘Unless Prince Morragan should later reconsider and open the Green Casket of Keys using the Password,' said Meganwy, ‘and return the Keys to you, sir.'

‘He has vowed never to change his decision once he is sealed within the Realm. What's more, he would have no reason to do so. He is a denizen of the Realm and believes all his happiness can be found therein, throughout eternity. Indeed, he is not mistaken. The delights and adventures of Faêrie are limitless. I can assure you, never shall Morragan change his mind.'

‘But might you not divine or guess the Password?'

‘There exist words and words, in a multitude of tongues. In the Realm, time is infinite. But should the wrong Password be spoken to the Casket three times, its Lock will melt and fuse so that nothing may ever open it, alas.'

‘And alas for the Langothe,' said Ashalind resentfully, ‘for dearly do I love the good soil of Erith. Had I not heard your tune, Piper, and glimpsed that place, I had rather eat of a fresh-baked brown cob than all the sweet fruits of the Fair Realm. I had rather walk in the briar-tangled woods than the ever-blooming rose gardens, and wear the good linen and coarse wool than dress in Faêran gossamer and moonlight. But now I have no choice, for my blood is changed.'

‘Hush, Ashalind,' warned Meganwy; but the Piper laughed.

‘We take no insult that a damsel should declare her love for her native land.'

‘The Lady Rithindel reached down and caressed the ears of the restless fox. She looked out across the land below, its valleys now drowned in mist. The skies were bleaching in the east. A frigid blue light waxed all around.

‘The cock crows soon,' she said, ‘and we must away.'

‘In the morning of Midwinter's Day,' said Easgathair to Ashalind, ‘gather together all those who wish to dwell forever in the Realm. Take the way leading west from the city. When you come to the crossroads, take the Green Road.'

‘I know of no Green Road,' said Pryderi.

‘On that day, those who seek it shall find it. Follow that path to the land of your desire. For now, return to your homes. Farewell.'

Ashalind and her friends took their leave. As they passed beyond the ring of stones they turned back for one last glance, but the Circle was empty. A sense of desolation and abandonment overtook them, as if the last light had faded from the world. They shivered; something more penetrating than chill puncturing their bones. A cock crowed in the distance and the sun peeped over the rim of the world, lighting the dew on the mossy stones and the grass, making jewellery of it.

Thus began the Leaving of Hythe Mellyn, the exodus that no war, plague, or pestilence had brought about. Instead, this migration was initiated by the Langothe; that yearning for a place which all mortals strive to find, in their own way, whether consciously or not; an estate sought either within the known world or beyond.

Throughout Erith in the weeks that remained before the closing of the Gates there was unprecedented mingling of Faêran, mortal, and wight. The Talith families who had resolved to depart set their arrangements in order, and packed the belongings they wished to take with them. As the day drew nearer, more and more of their friends and relations, unable to bear the thought of parting forever, decided to join them.

Thus it happened that early in the morning of Midwinter's Day an immense procession left the golden city by the Western Gate and proceeded down the road, their shadows lying long before them. Of the entire population, only a handful remained behind.

Piled high with boxes and chests, the horses and carriages and wains trundled along. Hounds ran alongside, or rode in the wains with the children. Some folk were mounted, others went on foot. All were singing. Every voice lifted in the clear morning air, and the song they sang was the love for the green hills, the sun-warmed stone, and the red trees of the homeland they were leaving behind. ‘Farewell to Erith,' they sang, ‘land of our birth. No more shall we tread your wandering paths or look out across the fields to the sea.'

They smiled as they wept, and hardly knew whether it was gladness or sorrow that they felt; indeed pain and joy seemed, on that journey, to be one and the same.

Behind the procession the city stood almost empty on the hill. Blank windows stared out over deserted courtyards and the streets lay silent, but the amber mellil stone glowed as ever in the sunlight.

At the crossroads where usually roads radiated in four directions, there was now a fifth. A winding Green Road, smooth and unmarked by wheel ruts, stretched out, disappearing over the hills. Bordered with ferns, it was paved not with stone but with pliant turf. Down this path the convoy turned. Those folk who remained standing at the city gates with the Avlantian royal family and their retainers saw them dwindle into the distance, their singing still carried faintly on the breeze. The watchers strained their eyes until they could see their kinsmen no more, but some said later that they had seen a bright light burning white on the horizon and that the procession had passed right into the centre of it.

The King moved his Court from Hythe Mellyn to Filori, in the land called Ysteris of the Flowers. The abandoned city rang hollow, like a great bell. With the Leaving of Hythe Mellyn, the spirit had gone out of the people. As the years passed, fewer children were born to the Talith. Their race dwindled, the last of the royal family died without heirs and the Talith civilization passed into legend. No Feohrkind or Erts or Icemen came from the southern lands to Avlantia, to settle in the abandoned Talith Kingdom—or if they came, they did not remain. Therefore the cities lay dreaming in their crumbling splendor, visited only by the tawny lions and the dragon-lizards that basked in the sun. In later days it was said that a plague or pestilence or unseelie gramarye had emptied the cities of Avlantia. The real reason was forgotten.

Ashalind, riding side-saddle on the black mare Satin—a gift from the city—lagged behind even the most reluctant travellers on the Green Road, despite the urgings of her friends. Only Rufus trotted beside her, alert, reveling in the myriad scents only a hound's nose could trace. Ahead, Rhys rode with their father on the big roan gelding, with Peri following on a rope, bearing light packs. Leodogran was gladdened to see how vitality was returning to his young son as they traversed farther along the Road, and colour bloomed in the boy's cheeks.

Pryderi's spirited horse pranced forward eagerly, fighting restraint.

‘Don't dally, Ashalind,' the young man called merrily over his shoulder. ‘You have made your choice like the rest of us. Lingering only protracts regret. Look forward—we shall be happy when we arrive!'

Leodogran's daughter would not listen, heeding no one. Tugging gently on Satin's reins, she looked up and thought she spied, out toward the coast, a white bird flying.

‘I am torn,' she said to herself, ‘between the land of my heart and the realm that's infiltrated my blood.'

And she glanced back at the lonely city on the hill.

But her family and friends were advancing down the Road, and so she flicked the reins and rode on. Her hood fell back from her fair head and the edges of her traveling cloak opened like flower petals to reveal her riding-habit, a long-sleeved gown of blond and turquoise saye, worn beneath a short, fitted jacket of ratteen. About her throat was wound a white cambric neckcloth. Nostalgically, she had garlanded her wrists with eringl leaves in place of briars. Beneath the leaves her bracelet glowed on her left arm, like a flame reflected in the rim of a goblet of golden glass.

As they travelled, the road began, imperceptibly, to alter. It became a sunken lane of deep banks, and thick, overhanging hedges. Bright flowers flecked its grassy borders, yet they were not the blooms of Erith.

To either side of the Road, stands of eringls gave way to thick forests, simultaneously bearing fruit and blossom. Rufus ran ahead to join the other hounds frisking and tumbling on the green verge. When Ashalind looked back at the city again, it was gone. Hythe Mellyn, the trees with their leaves of somber crimson and bronze, the hills—all had vanished. Landscapes fair and foreign unrolled behind the travellers on all sides, and they were not the hills of home.

The terrible heartache of the Langothe fell away like a discarded mantle, whereupon a form of delirium overswept the mortals. They ran and rode on as though nothing could touch them. Their mood was euphoric, as if they had become invulnerable giants who strode at the top of the world and perceived, through vast gulfs of air, the immensity of a mountain range suspending its ancient blocks from horizon to horizon, each peak stamped on the sky so clearly that they could step out and tread them all.

Now that she had entered the Fair Realm with all of her loved ones and the Langothe was assuaged, it almost seemed to Ashalind that there was naught she could ever lack again. Happiness surrounded her, within her reach, only waiting until she took a sip or sup of Faêran food, when she would possess that happiness and be possessed by it completely. Only the
memory
of the Langothe remained, a fading knowledge that it had once existed. But there was also, still, the memory of Erith, which must be relinquished, wiped out by the act of consuming a part of this new land, in order to be consumed, to gain the utter peace that stems from utter lack of yearning.

A memory too precious?

Afterward, she could never clearly recall those hours in Faêrie when, for a brief efflux, time ran synchronously with time in Erith.

She and her people had come into a marvelous countryside. Here the trees were taller, their foliage denser; the valleys were sharper, the mountains steeper, the shadows more mysterious, thrilling, and menacing. All colours were of greater intensity and brilliance, yet at the same time softer and more various. Through everything ran a promise of excitement that profoundly stirred the psyche.

Avenues of towering trees like rows of pencils led to glimpsed castles of marble and adamant, flecked rose-gold by an
alien
sun. Exuberant brooks flowed through meadows, and on the lower slopes of the hills deer grazed beneath great bowery trees in pastures of flowery sward. Orchards, where fruit hung like lanterns, were yet snowed with full blossom. In the boughs, songbirds trilled melodies to shatter the heart with their poignancy.

Even as the Talith pushed deeper into the Realm, the rosember light paled to the glimmering blue of evening.

The newcomers perceived that a feast was laid out on the starlit lawns, beneath spreading boughs heavy with scalloped leaves. There were pies and puddings, flans and flummeries, saffron seed-cakes, cloudy white bread and soft yellow butter, raspberries, pears, strawberries and honeyed figs, creamy curd, truffles, and crystal goblets encircling dark wine. The children who had eaten Faêran food and remained in the Fair Realm now came running forth. Ecstatic families were reunited. Beasts of burden, unhitched from rein and shaft, ran free. Bundles, chests, and boxes were left piled beside still-laden wains, all abandoned, all
unnecessary
now.

Entranced by the music of fiddle and harp, the yellow-haired people of Hythe Mellyn danced and feasted in the mellow evening. Their cares had been discarded with their belongings on the flower-starred lawns. Caught in the ecstasy of the moment, Ashalind cast off her traveling cloak and prepared to join in. Yet at the last, she did not.

The mortals were being watched. Faêran forms moved among the trees.

When she glimpsed them, something within Ashalind lurched and turned over.

At her elbow, handsome Cierndanel said, ‘Thou art honoured, Lady of Erith. The most noble and exalted Lady of the Realm has sent for thee. Come.' He flashed his mercurial grin.

It seemed then to Ashalind that she followed him, or else was transported by some unfathomed means, to another location. In this new place there reclined a Faêran lady; surely a queen among her race. And as Ashalind beheld her she was given to know her name also: Nimriel of the Lake.

Nimriel's tranquillity was that of the calmness of a vast loch at dawn. Her mystery was that of a solitary black tarn in the forest, where, like a breath of steam, a creature of legend comes to drink, its single diamond spire dipping to send swift rings expanding out across the surface. Her beauty bewitched like moonlit reflections of swans moving on water. She was mistress of all the wisdom hidden in deep places; in drowned valleys and starlit lagoons; beneath mountain meres where salmon cruised in the dim, peaty fathoms.

Ashalind looked into a pair of wells, dark and clear.

It was said among mortals that if you stand at the bottom of a deep shaft and look up, then even on a sunny noon you will see the stars shining against pure shadow. That is what it was like to meet the gaze of the Lady of the Lake.

As Ashalind made her duty on bended knee, a dark-haired maiden, lissom as a stemmed orchid, stepped forward: the Lady Rithindel. She offered a two-handled cup.

‘Thou art welcome among us, Ashalind na Pendran! My lady Nimriel invites thee to drink.'

Ashalind's hands reached out to take the cup. The red eringl leaves encircling her wrists brushed against it, rustling. Releasing the cup, she drew back with a sigh.