The Bitterbynde Trilogy (132 page)

The thing sprang away, shrieking falsetto alarm as it fled into the night. Blood dripped into the damsel's eyes and she wiped it away with her sleeve.

‘Cold iron will not serve you far, 'ere,' said a voice like two dry branches rubbing together.

‘It serves me well enough,' she said to the spriggan who stood six paces away.

‘Only foolish mortals trespass in the domain of 'uon, the Prince of 'unters,' the spriggan said, answering her first question before she had asked it. ‘Especially when
he
is on his way. For this, you must die.'

It flinched, blinking as she flicked the dagger to reflect moonlight from the blade into its squinty eyes. This was partly to disguise the fact that her hands were shaking.

‘Ah, but if I die, you will not benefit,' Ashalind said steadily. ‘In return for certain information, I am prepared to pay gold. True gold.'

She rattled the purse.

‘Pah,' sneered the spriggan. ‘What use is that yellow metal to me, eh? I 'ave no need of gold, true or otherwise. It cannot buy me juicy caterpillars or sweet cocoons and spiders' eggs.' The wight pranced around, switching its tail restlessly. ‘What else does the
erithbunden
offer?'

‘Do you like maggots?'

‘Love 'em.'

‘I passed a dead bird not long ago …'

She broke off—the wight had already disappeared in the direction she indicated.

Something bit her knee. Reflexively, she kicked it away. With a sigh of relief and disappointment, she decided to retrace her steps after all, and wait on the lower slopes until morning.

As she turned away a nuggety, grotesque shape detached itself from obscurity. Here was a wight even more sinister and repulsive than a spriggan. Ashalind backed away, clutching the charms at her belt, for she recognised this small, manlike being as a black dwarf—a duergar. Battling a sinking feeling, the damsel hoped the rowan and iron charms had some potency against such a dangerous entity.

‘What else
do
you offer?' the duergar asked casually.

‘I am come to buy information. I offer nothing until I can be sure that you are a trusted henchman of Huon the Hunter, who would have knowledge such as I seek,' she countered. Her hand shivered, gripping the charms. This thing was not to be trifled with—duergars were quick to anger and quicker to strike. She wondered why it had not already torn her head off. Maybe the immutable laws of eldritch forbade it until she showed fear, or else some protective spell of the Lady Nimriel's lingered.

‘For instance,' she continued, trying to trick the wight into revealing the information she was after, ‘do you know the whereabouts of Angavar High King?'

Out of its puddle of inky shadow, the duergar took a step closer.

‘If you want information, I can smuggle you secretly into the Keep of Huon the Horned,' it offered, flexing grimy fingernails and baring long, pointed teeth, ‘on the wains that come tonight. First, give us a little suck of your blood.'

Ashalind recalled stories of benighted travellers found by roadsides in the morning, desiccated husks.

‘No!' Wildly she cast her mind about, desperate for something with which to buy off this manifestation of iniquity. Fumbling at her wrist, she said, ‘A golden bracelet inlaid with a white bird … gold coins … poppyseed biscuits and blackberry cakes …'

‘Ignorant flax-wench! How dare you offer trash!'

‘If you dislike my offerings, then we cannot do business.' She grew still, but was too wise to turn her back and walk away.

Noise ceased while the night condensed under a grinning moon.

‘Cut off your hair and I will get you into the Keep,' said the duergar eventually.

‘The Central Keep? Unharmed and in secret?'

‘Yea.'

‘Then, yes!'

A whip snaked from the wight's powerful hand. Before the damsel could recoil, it had lashed her throat like a tongue of white-hot steel. The duergar emitted a strange mewling noise, which may have been laughter, and muttered, ‘Yea indeed.'

Ignoring the searing pang at her throat, Ashalind unbound the long heavy braid from her head and cut it off close to the scalp. She tossed the rope of hair into the wight's hands just as the sound of horses' hooves and wooden wheels came clopping and rattling out of the darkness.

‘The bird may enter the cage but it will never sing the songs it learns, and when it pops out its head—pigeon pie!' were the black dwarf's last words. The wicked thing rushed away and Ashalind followed as fast as possible, knowing it was bound to keep its promise to her.

Around the caldera's upjutting rim the duergar led her, until they reached the cutting where the road entered from the gentler slopes. Along that road a convoy of wagons was entering the volcanic basin. The vile creature leaped up beside the driver of the lead wain. What it did to him, Ashalind could not be certain, but the wain and those in procession behind it stopped long enough for her to climb swiftly aboard. As the train moved off again, she found a deep, wooden chest half full of some pungent dried pods and concealed herself inside.

She could tell by the numbness now in her throat that the treacherous duergar had stolen her voice, and she knew by the jolting and swaying and the hollow ring and thud of hooves that the wagons were passing over bridges from island to island. When the wain stopped, the chest was unloaded and propelled upward with nauseating speed before being transferred a second time and left alone in utter silence.

Bleakly the smuggled girl pondered over the loss of her voice, the latest setback of so many in her life. If she could only learn the whereabouts of the King and find him, he might provide some Faêran cure.

After a long while she dared to lift the lid. The chest had been abandoned among others in a dim storeroom, but the door of the room stood ajar, admitting a streak of cyanic light. Having ventured out of the redolent container, she nervously peeped around this portal. There was only an empty stone-flagged hallway with other recessed doors leading off to either side. A faint smell of charred meat permeated the air.

Waves of weariness washed over Ashalind. She had walked far that day. Fear had kept her senses sharp, but now, in this tomblike quiet, she was overwhelmed by the need for sleep. After withdrawing into the half-empty storeroom she curled herself in the farthest corner, among a stack of boxes, then pulled the Faêran cloak around her and closed her eyes.

Severing themselves from nightmare, faint echoes woke her. They had sprung from the mutter of distant voices. Feeling in need of sustenance, she took a swig from the water-bottle hanging at her belt and ate the blackberry cakes she had, in desperation, offered the duergar. Refreshed, she emerged from her niche and followed the undercurrent of sound. It led her along the deserted passageways, up spiral stairs, and onto another floor more sumptuously decorated. Tapestries hung along the walls of the galleries, and rushes strewed the floors. Blue lamps glowed. Hearing the
pad-pad
of multiple footsteps approaching, Ashalind pressed herself into a recessed doorway. Her Faêran cloak adopted the dusky hues of bluestone and old oak, and without noticing her, half a dozen assorted creatures went past in the wake of a manlike figure whose cloak billowed at his back.

‘Steenks of siedo-pods up 'ere,' a creaking voice commented as the bevy disappeared around a corner.

Fine droplets beaded the damsel's brow. It dawned on her that siedo-pods' strong odour might well mask the scent of mortal flesh. Following quietly behind the group, she peered around the corner. The mutterings she had been hearing emanated from a doorway farther along, and were accompanied by a clinking of pottery and metal. Beyond that doorway, a grating voice deeper than the tones of spriggans was giving orders to select certain wines and convey them in haste: ‘… and hoof it, you spigot-nosed kerns,' it rasped. ‘His Royal Highness will soon be here.'

At these words tempests of blood beat about the temples of the spy. She could have screamed for sheer delight and terror. Such good fortune, such evil luck! By ‘His Royal Highness', the speaker could mean only Prince Morragan. It seemed the Crown Prince was not, after all, comatose beneath a hill, surrounded by Faêran knights. Doubtless he would know the whereabouts of his brother. Had he remained unsleeping throughout the years? Or had he woken not long since? How dreary, how weary, how slow-dragging and tedious would be a millennium of banishment!

But tragedy must follow, if this royal exile should discover and identify her. Instantly he would guess she had come recently from the Fair Realm. How else might a mortal have survived for a thousand years?

That the Prince must recognise her the moment he set eyes on her she had no doubt. He would not forget the mortal maid who had entered his dominions, answered his challenges, reclaimed his captives, refused his invitations and thwarted his desires. He would be fully aware she had accompanied the Talith in their migration to the Realm before the Closing. All these years, he had supposed her locked away in Faêrie with her family. If she had appeared in Erith, there could be only one explanation. Against all possibility,
somewhere
, a Door had been opened.

Assuredly the unseelie wights of Huntingtowers would torment her until she revealed the secret of the Gateway, and then all would be lost. Morragan would send her back to Faêrie with the Password, and when Easgathair opened the Gates, the Prince would be there waiting to enter the Realm in place of his brother, his rival. Then would Morragan use the remaining unasked boon to exile the High King from the Fair Realm, this time truly forever. He would rule in his brother's place. And it would be her fault.

But no, she would not permit discovery. She would be careful. She would listen, and learn what she could.

‘Get rid of those miserable slaves below,' a voice bellowed. ‘If he finds any cursed mortals here, your heads will roll on the flagstones, after which I shall kick 'em out the windows. And while he visits, utter only the common speech, on pain of disembowelment. I will not have the Fithiach disturbed by your squawkings and squeakings. I will cut out the tongue of the first dung-gobbler that disobeys.'

Bowed figures hurried out of the doorway bearing laden trays, and ascended yet another stair.

Soon after, Ashalind's cloaked form glided after them. She had no idea how long the mantle's special qualities might let her remain undetected, but a relatively quick death was preferable to years spent slowly perishing from the agony of the Langothe, and she must persist in her quest.

Thick rugs carpeted the floors of this upper level. More brightly lit, the walls were hung with arras of richer textiles, and shields emblazoned with wonderful devices. The last of the wightish menials entered a chamber by way of richly carved doors inlaid with bronze. The bellowing voice had spoken of mortal slaves in the lower regions of the Keep. Ashalind wondered whether she might possibly pose as a servitor, and thus move freely with less chance of discovery. But no—it was clear that when the Fithiach visited, all mortals were banished from his sight. Nonetheless, he must endure mortal speech, for according to what she had overheard, he despised the guttural wightish languages but would not permit them to sully the Faêran tongue by employing it. So far, within these walls she had heard only common-speak.

Meanwhile, judging by the sounds in the carved-door chamber, further preparations were being made for the arrival of the Raven Prince.

A small insignificant portal was sunk into a niche almost opposite the carved doors, across the passageway from them. When Ashalind pushed, its hinges obeyed with a groan. Inside nestled another dark storage cubicle—a good enough vantage point for surveillance when the door was left ajar. Dust arose like phantom brides, and a spider dropped on her face. She might have yelped in surprise, had the duergar not stolen her power of speech.

Her narrow field of vision through the carved doors across the corridor showed lofty arched windows looking out from the larger chamber, which was bustling with activity. A tall, manlike figure moved past one window. Its head was crowned by the branching antlers of a stag. A graceful lady was standing with her back to Ashalind, dressed in a lace-edged green velvet gown sewn thickly all over with peridots. Dark hair cascaded down her back. Gold ornaments glittered on her svelte arms. She might have been a damsel of the Faêran, since several ladies of the Fair Realm had been riding among the ill-fated hawking party exiled on the Day of Closing, and others had fled into Erith as the last Call sounded, when the exile of the royal brethren was in no doubt. But when this green-clad belle turned around, the hem of her dress swished aside. The spy flinched. The ‘woman' was neither Faêran nor mortal, but an eldritch wight. How doubly hideous it seemed, that such a fair form should walk upon woolly sheep's hooves.

A glow of firelight to the right illuminated polished furniture and tableware. Nothing else in that room could be observed.

A familiar voice came pummeling like a blow to the stomach:

‘Set those goblets aright, nasty little hoglin, or I shall have you flayed like your sniveling cousin whose hide hangs above the Gate of Horn.'

Never had Ashalind erased from memory the coarse tones of Yallery Brown.

Commotion arose to the left. She could not see what caused it.

‘Get out,' commanded the unseelie rat-wight. ‘His Highness arrives.'

A motley collection of wights hastened from the chamber, disappearing down the corridor. A chill draught followed them, and the clatter of hooves on stone.

‘My liege …' Yallery Brown's tone was fawning. He had broken off as if in fear or awe.

Several tall figures crossed quickly past the doorway. The carved doors were slammed shut—in the instant before they met, Ashalind discerned a stunning profile that could only be Morragan's. He and his retainers must have entered at the arched windows, which were as vast and high as the front gates of a castle.