The Bitterbynde Trilogy (127 page)

Silently, Ashalind battled an agony of indecision. She lifted her gaze once more toward the knights beyond the Window, staring at the melee. And all at once she forgot to breathe. In that instant her spirit fled out of her eyes and into Erith.

‘Father, forgive me,' she cried suddenly, ‘I must try to return …'

Aghast, Leodogran cried, ‘But why?'

‘Only that—' His daughter struggled to find words. ‘My future lies in Erith, I think. If the High King does not return in time, I will beg him to cure my Langothe, for he has the power to do so.'

‘My Elindor, my dearling—would you be parted from us forever?'

‘Oh, I do not want that, but it must happen, for just now I have learned where my heart lies, or else my heart has been torn from my body, for I feel a rupture there, as if it were no longer here with me.'

His face was stricken. ‘Why do you decide now, at the terminal stroke, to leave forever all the people you love, all you have worked for, in the hour of your triumph? What strange perversity has overtaken you?'

‘Father—' She struggled for words, her feet of their own accord stepping away from him as she spoke. ‘I do not want to hurt you. This bird must fly the nest, dear Father, or else it will never fly at all. Forgive me. You shall be happy, you and the others I love. Mayhap you shall forget me, here in this land of bliss. My duty is over now. My path is my own. Furthermore, and more importantly—'

‘I forbid it!'

Father and daughter opposed one another, the only motionless figures among the swirling multitude.

‘Have I not done enough?' Ashalind begged.
My ears strain to hear that last Call. Let it not be now
!

Slowly, Leodogran bowed his head. After a pause he took a pouch, a horn-handled knife, and a dagger from his belt and handed them to his daughter. His movements were stiff, his voice was roughened with grief. ‘These heirlooms and this gold, which I bethought in my naivety we would need in this place, I give to you with my benison. They are of no use here. They may do you some good, if you go. But I hope you will not. There must be more to this, more than you have told. I do not understand you.'

He kissed her and quickly turned away.

‘Father, when Rhys came back from Faérie I vowed that I should never weep again, unless it were for happiness. I shed no tears now, but I will carry your loving words with me.'

She leaned to embrace Rhys, whispering comfort in his ear. Rufus had somehow eagerly pushed his way in and she bent down to pet him. Excitement and sadness flooded through her. Her words rose strongly, eagerly.

‘Tell Pryderi, Meganwy, and Oswyn I hold them always dear in my heart. And Satin, who is free here—whisper the same in her ear. Cierndanel! If the High King does not turn back in time, I would return to Erith through the Geata Poeg na Déanainn.'

The Faêran Piper looked at her wonderingly, yet knowingly.

Woe the while
! thought Ashalind, in an agony of impatience.
The Faêran Herald puts the clarion to his lips
.

‘In truth?' said the Piper. ‘But the King shall return, he
must
return. The Iolaire is the very quintessence of the Fair Realm. Without him its virtue would be greatly diminished. And those that accompany him right now are the flower of Faêran knighthood, who, if they do not reach the Gateway soon, would be banished until the end of time. But thou, fair damsel, thou mayst not leave, for hast thou not eaten our food and drunk our wine?'

‘I have not.'

His comely face sharpened. She caught a spark of anger in his eyes.

‘Stay here,' he said.

‘As you love me, Cierndanel, benefactor and malefactor of my people, aid me now!'

He paused, as if considering. Then he smiled.

‘Very well. Follow me to the right-of-way if you wish, but I think you will never pass through it.'

As the Piper grasped Ashalind's hand, she saw, through the milling crowd, Pryderi. Flailing desperately like a drowning swimmer, he was pushing his way toward her. His jaw knotted, his eyes aghast and fixed, he gasped and lunged forward, but then was gone in what seemed the blink of an eye, and the Watchtower, the assembly vanished with him.

Cierndanel led the girl to an avenue of trees in blossom, whose boughs arched to intertwine overhead. At the far end of this tunnel, two stone columns capped with a sarsen lintel framed a scene. Thunderstorms raged in the skies of Erith, and the maelstrom of Faêran knights did battle. Behind them, distant peaks reared their heads to the racing clouds. Ice-crystals clung to the grainy surface of the Erith Door, but the perfumed trees of the Realm Door swayed gently. Ashalind and Cierndanel found themselves surrounded by a crowd of Faêran and wights, who paid them no heed, being engrossed in staring through the Gateway toward Erith.

‘Thou seest, every traverse has two Doors,' said Cierndanel, speaking quickly, ‘and a passage which lies between. Before thee lies the Geata Poeg na Déanainn. In the common speech of Erith, that means the “Gate of Oblivion's Kiss”.

‘Mark thee, it bears this name for a reason,' he added. ‘Over the centuries, several mortal visitors have departed the Realm through this right-of-way and all have been given the same warning. The Gate of Oblivion's Kiss imposes one condition on all those who use it. After passing through into Erith, if thou shouldst ever be kissed by one who is Erith-born, thou shalt lose all memory of what has gone before. The kiss of the
erithbunden
would bring oblivion upon thee, so beware, for then there is no saying whether the bitterbyndings of such a covenant may ever crumble, whether memory ever would return. I think it would not.'

She nodded, trembling. ‘I heed.'

‘Furthermore,' he insisted, ‘the Geata Poeg na Déanainn is a Wandering Gate with no fixed threshold in Erith. When open, it behaves like any other traverse and remains fixed in its location. But when the Gate is shut it shifts at random, as a butterfly flits erratically from blossom to blossom. Therefore, one is never able to predict its next position. Chiefly it is wont to give onto the country of Eldaraigne, in the north, somewhere in that region known as Arcdur. Always, that was a land uninhabited by your people, but perhaps no longer. Knowing these truths, dost thou still desire to pass through this perilous portal?'

‘I do.'

Unexpectedly, the Faêran Piper folded around Ashalind's shoulders a long, hooded cloak the colour of new leaves. He whispered closely in her ear, his words carried on a fragrance of musk roses:

‘Fear not, brave daughter of Erith. The Gates are perilous only in the rules by which they exist. If you abide by these, not so much as a hair of your head shall be harmed.'

Ashalind closed her eyes to the strange beauties and perils of the Fair Realm, reaching for the scent of wet soil, the tang of pine, the chill of a storm wind, the cry of elindors on the wing. Her head spun and her mouth was parched taut with a terrible thirst. Easgathair's voice roared from nowhere in the mortal world:

‘Return instantly, ye knights, for the time is nigh! The Gates are Closing!'

Ashalind looked through the Gate-passage. At the Erith Gate, one or two of the knights from both sides broke away and rode hard, sparks zapping from their horses' hooves.

‘Forget this quarrel!' Easgathair's caveat boomed from somewhere indeterminate. ‘Set aside your pride and ride for the Realm!' But the High King and the Crown Prince, intent on their purpose, continued to ignore his warning.

Then red lightning smote from the High King's upraised hand, splitting the sky, and all who looked on heard him shout, ‘By the Powers, I will not again petition thee, Crow-Lord. Now thou hast truly stirred my wrath. Consequently, I swear I
shall
exile thee.'

‘No!' Hoarse and harsh came Morragan's vehement denial, and for the first time there seemed to be a note of alarm in his tone. He flung a zigzag bolt of blue energy from his palm. Confronted with his brother's fury, he gave ground, but even as they battled, the long, clear warning sounded for the third time, rising like a ribbon of bronze over the treetops.

‘'Tis too late!' thundered the Gatekeeper.

Now at last the High King and the Raven Prince were riding together, flying for the Gateway at breakneck speed with their knights flanking them, and nothing stood in the path of their headlong rush; they spoke not, nor looked to left or right, and all quarrels were abandoned as the threat of permanent expatriation became imminent. Dread fell on the hearts of the assembled audience. A crash like the world's end shook the floor of the Watchtower, the horizon shuddered, and a shadowy veil drew across the vault above. There arose a loud keening and clamor of voices fair and harsh from near and far, and as the beautiful riders almost gained the Gate, a cataclysmic tumult filled the sky and seemed to burst it asunder. The voices, of the Faêran joined in a lament like a freezing wind that blights the Spring, for the Gates were swinging shut, and those they loved most would be exiled for eternity.

A sudden terrible gust slammed through the Gate of Oblivion's Kiss with a mighty concussion, snatching mortal breath. It was all over. The Faêran royalty and their companions were forever excluded from the Realm. The Watchtower Windows shattered and fell out in shards, leaving shadowy apertures that stared sorrowfully across the long lawns where the Talith dancers stood poised as if in a frozen tableau.

But with a pang of regret for the land of desire and delight, which spoke of the Langothe already reawakening to haul on its chains, Ashalind had slipped into the Gate of Oblivion's Kiss.

10

DOWNFALL

There's a place that I can tell of, for I've glimpsed it once or twice
,

As I've wandered by a misty woodland dell
.

I believe I almost saw it on the green and ferny road
,

Or beside the trees that shadow the old well
.

And I've never dared to whisper, and I've never dared to shout
,

Even though it always comes as a swprise
,

For I fear that by my movement or the sounding of my voice

I might make it disappear before my eyes
.

'Tis a place of great enchantment and wild gramarye; a fair
,

Everlasting haunt of timeless mystery
,

You'll find danger there, and beauty; strange adventure curs'd and bless'd
,

That will seem to wake a longing memory
.

But I've heard that if you go there you might stay for far too long
,

And you may forget the road by which you came
.

Some folk never learn the way. If you should find it then beware
,

For if you return, you'll never be the same
.

F
OLK SONG OF
E
RITH

For immeasurable moments, all was confusion. Something fluttered and battered softly about her head in the colourless half-light.

Ashalind could not comprehend her status. Had she fallen off Peri's back, or perhaps Satin's? Her leg ached. Should it not heal, she would not be able to follow the Piper—oh, the anguish of hearing that call and not being able to respond! She would drag herself through the dust … Such a hard bed to lie on, this, and why was everything so hushed and still?

Stung by sudden recollection she sat bolt upright. She looked around for the stony land she had seen at the end of the Gate-passage, and the Faêran knights embattled there. But there was no open sky above her head, no Erith, no tall riders, only a dim, distorted passageway, an arched and twisted tunnel sealed by a Door at either end. The vaulted ceiling was cracked. In places it sagged down like a bag of water. The Gate-passage had been biased, damaged by the unprecedented sundering of the worlds between which it lay. Yet its structure remained viable.

For how long?

In each half of the chamber the walls were different. As they approached one Door they resembled living trees growing closely together, their boughs meeting to interweave as a ceiling. Toward the other portal they merged into rough-hewn rock.

This, then, was the Gate-passage between the Other Country and Erith.

The Lords of Faêrie had been trapped in Erith after all. In her native land, they lingered. She fancied she could hear, at the other end of the Gate-passage, beyond the silver Realm Door with its golden hinges, the sound of sweet, sad singing.

The distraction beat her around the head again, with soft wings. It was a hummingbird. She recalled it rushing by her as she had leapt through the Realm Gate. Now in agitation the tiny creature darted about, seeking escape.

‘Which Door shall I open for you?'

But the bird flew up to the wracked ceiling and perched in a niche there.

‘Little bird, which Door shall I open for myself? I still have a choice—how odd. I may go out from here to either place, but once out, I may never come back, for when the Doors Close for the last time they are Locked forever.'

She empathized with mailed crustaceans entering a wicker trap; a one-way entrance with no return.

Prince Morragan's edict had been intended to ensure that the Gate of Oblivion's Kiss would let no one pass through it, after its Key had been turned in its Lock and it had Closed for the final time: ‘…
barring the passage of Faêran, eldritch wights both seelie and unseelie, unspeaking creatures and all mortal men
…' Yet she fitted none of those descriptions! Ashalind laughed, as it came to her that the Raven Prince had overlooked mortal women—overlooked and underestimated. Doubtless Meganwy would have said,
A common trait among males
.

Enchantments must always be carefully worded. The Raven Prince had not been careful enough. The thought of this made the smile linger on Ashalind's lips, and she recalled the remnant of some old tale she had heard during childhood, the story of a man who had outwitted a Lord of Unseelie by hiding in the walls of his home. She thought:
Here in the walls where I now dwell, I am neither within the Realm nor without it … Indeed, borders are mysterious, indeterminate places
.