The Bitterbynde Trilogy (133 page)

Through a gap at the threshold drifted the conversation of those who were sequestered within. Listening with intense concentration, Ashalind could glean most of what they were saying, but it made little sense. Either they discussed matters far removed from her knowledge, or else she was too tired to comprehend. Eventually she succumbed again to sleep.

By the fluctuations in the window-light when the carved doors were open, Ashalind could tell night from day. She remained concealed hungrily in the spider-haunted cell, sipping her water, and the next night Morragan met again with his followers in the chamber.

Scant liquid remained in her leather bottle, and the siedo-pod odour was fading. The Faêran hated spies, and the Raven Prince in particular detested mortals. She began to think that if she were caught there, the manner of her demise at the mercy of unseelie wights might prove more horrible than even the Langothe. But she stayed, and she listened, wishing heartily that there were some way of prompting the gathering to speak of the High King.

On the third night, by strange fortune, they did—but it was not as she had hoped.

The heavy doors stood ajar. A low buzz of conversation had been proceeding for a good while, when Morragan's Faêran voice carried clearly across the corridor, rich, deep, and melodious in contrast to the harsh, throaty tones and raucous squeaks of the wights.

Gooseflesh raked the listener's spine.

‘There has been a restlessness of late,' he said musingly, ‘a breath of finer air, as from the Realm. This dusk, I rode down by the fisherman's cot and heard a maid within, warbling a song I have never heard before. In faith, it moved me not a little, although poorly versed.'

Ashalind held her breath. From the unseen fireplace on the right sparks flew into her field of vision and hung dying in midair.

‘A song of exile,' said Morragan.

‘If it displeased my lord,' murmured Yallery Brown, ‘the cottage shall be razed, and those who have dwelt there for far too long shall be punished.'

The eavesdropper stiffened. She must return as soon as possible to warn the Caidens!

‘A song of exile,' repeated Morragan, ‘reminding me of my own.'

A thicker spray of sparks exploded, as if someone had kicked a burning log.

‘Cursed be Angavar, may his reign end!' said the marvelous Faêran voice. ‘May his knights rot in their hill grave. Cursed be the White Owl and his Keys. Cursed be the moment the Casket snapped shut with the Word. Might I but live those times over again …'

Ashalind, eyes tightly shut, clasped her hands together. Her lips moved soundlessly.

The King, speak again of the High King! Where is this hill beneath which he sleeps amid his noble companions
?

‘Behold, Your Highness, they bring up the steeds,' said the Winter-wind voice of Huon, Prince of Hunters and steward of the stronghold. ‘Tonight we hunt.'

A rush of biting air swung the carved doors open on their hinges. Morragan stood at a window, looking out at the night. The full moon was rising, outlining the statuesque shape of him, the wide shoulders from which his cloak eddied like a piece of darkness.

‘The Realm,' he said.

Then softly he spoke, but the night airs carried his voice back to the ears of the eavesdropper. It was a rhyme. The words were Faêran and she did not know what they meant, but their implication was haunting, lyrical, and strummed her Langothed heart with pain.

A half-shang gust lifted Morragan's cloak and hair like a wave. The inked-in outline of a horse appeared at the window. Then the Prince was gone, and several motley figures followed. Bridles jingled, boots scraped on bluestone, and commands were shouted. Far below, hounds began to yelp. A horn sounded. With a dissonance of shrill whoops and strident shouts the Hunt was away, borne aloft on invisible airstreams through the silver-sprayed vaults of darkness.

Abruptly, the fire went out.

Soon afterward, the spy heard two wightish servants come shuffling out of the chamber. As they came through the carved doors, one hoarsely muttered something.

‘Shut your snout, clotpoll,' the other wheezed, ‘or I'll roll your head in the fire. I'll teach you to speak the low tongue when the Crown Prince is honouring your dunghill with a visit!'

‘So high and mighty are you not?' returned the hoarse one sarcastically. ‘You may have been chosen for his royal household, scumbag, but you do not deserve it and as soon as they see through you, you'll be thrown out on your muleish ear.'

The wights had by now come to a halt in the corridor.

‘You cap of all fools alive!' berated the wheezer. ‘And do you plot to take my place? I was chosen for wit and wisdom far beyond the grasp of your greasy claws, boiled-brains.'

‘Ha!' retorted Hoarse-Throat. ‘The jumped-up feathergoose is even more contemptible when it struts!'

His antagonist could scarcely contain his ire. ‘You know not to whom you speak,' he hissed between gritted teeth. ‘Be wary, parasite, for your folly outweighs your fat head. I'll warrant you do not even have a notion of the Faêran words spoken this night by his Royal Highness!'

The other spluttered incoherently.

‘Anyone with a jot of wit knows the meaning,' said Wheezer triumphantly. ‘Even the merfolk sing it in the Gulf of Namarre. It is a riddle, an easy one, but too hard for the likes of
you
, you foul, undigested hodge-pudding.'

‘You're full of air!'

‘Nay, noisome stench, and I'll prove it!'

The wheezer cleared its throat phlegmily and began to translate, slowly, as if every word was an effort.

‘Nor bound to dust, ye ocean's bird, the word's thy name, the Key's the word
. So? What's the answer, goat-face?'

But before goat-face could reply a voice thundered from further down the corridor: ‘Get along there, you rump-fed idlers, chattering like parrots outside the door! If you utter another word I'll have your lungs!'

With a rattling of spilled trays, the servants fled.

After that there was no more sound, except the wind whining around the Keep and the loud drumming of Ashalind's heart. The riddle was indeed easy. The answer was the elindor, or white bird of freedom, which spent seven years on the wing or water without touching land—her kenning-name. And there was another answer. ‘Elindor' was the Password that opened the Green Casket of the Keys, in the Fair Realm.

Like syrup, silence poured forth from the recently vacated chamber. Surely the room was empty. Pulling the hood of the Faêran cloak over her head and tying it securely, Ashalind crossed the corridor, crept inside, and looked around. Indeed, they were all gone. There was no sign of Morragan's erstwhile presence. She felt, again, bereft. Perversely, she had hoped for some evidence of him—what, she could not say. But fingering the enameled bracelet on her wrist, she exulted. She had discovered a fact of tremendous significance! She now knew the Password! The elindor, the white bird of freedom—how ironic that Morragan should have chosen it as the master-key. The jest was manifold—the bird that lived free of the bonds of Erith's soil, the kenning of she who had freed the children, the Password to free the Keys from the Green Casket. But she must make haste and escape from Huntingtowers Keep—the danger was too great.

Her ears, strained to the limits of hearing, caught scuffling noises approaching along the corridor. It was too late to leave the chamber through the heavy carved doors. What measure of camouflage the cloak offered, she could not guess. Wildly she looked for a place of concealment among the furnishings, but none offered itself. Nor were there any other exits, save the wide, high openings of the windows, which led to a ledge over sheer nothingness, looking out on lands far below and dark horsemen riding the sky, fell shapes etched against crystal. A huge raven that had been watching her from the sill flapped slowly away. At that moment, enraged screaming broke out in the corridor, just beyond the doors. Terrified, Ashalind ran out to the ledge and dropped down over the side.

For a mere instant she hung by her sliding fingers over a void, knowing full well she would inevitably lose her grip. The chamber above was filled with a cacophony of raucous braying, piercing screeches, and the crashes of laden tables being overturned. Her kicking feet found a toehold just as her left hand lost its grip. Leaves brushed her face; thick tendrils of common ivy. It grew thickly, latticed all over the outer wall, great ancient, arthritic stems of it. Grabbing hold, she began to climb down.

Silent sobs of fear shook her body. Terror melted her sinews like wax and drained them of power, so that her fingers, nerveless, could scarcely grip. The half-shang wind buffeted erratically, alternately flattening her against the wall and wrenching her away, outlining each ivy leaf with green-and-gold rime. Claws of dead stems hooked themselves in her garments. There was no time to disengage them, so they tore great rents in the fabric.

Down she scrambled, seeking blindly for footholds and not knowing when her toes might scrabble against naked bluestone. Farther and farther down she maneuvered, sliding one quivering foot after another, one sweat-slicked hand after another, her heart pounding like a pestle in her chest. How far she must descend she did not know for certain, but the central Keep had looked to be hundreds of feet high. From the corners of her eyes, she could see other towers with their watchful blue-gas windows, and glimpse a couple of soaring spans over an abyss. It was like being a beetle clinging to an open wall, so vulnerable, for all eyes to see, for any predator to pick off with ease.

A chair came hurtling down from above, passed her within a hairsbreadth, and went spinning down to shatter far below. Doggedly she continued to descend. They had discovered her presence. It was only a matter of time before they hunted her down.

The water-bottle hampered her. She dropped it.

When her fingers would obey her no longer, she let go of the ivy. After falling a surprisingly short distance, she lay in a crumpled heap, dazedly trying to comprehend that she still lived and had reached the ground safely after all. She tried to stand, but her legs gave way, so she began to crawl, passing by the smashed shards of the fallen chair. Common ivy sprawled all over the ground, covering small bushes and shrubs. Something became hooked on it—her bracelet. Carefully she freed it. The white bird shone in the moonlight, and somehow the sight of this icon gave her strength and courage. Standing up, she broke into a run.

In the rising unstorm, scarlet and silver sparks flew from her iron-shod boots as she fled from island to islet, from bridge to bridge. Shang afterimages pulsed here and there, and the edge of every leaf on every bush was spangled. Up and over the caldera rim she ran, and down the other side, using the iron dagger to slash wildly at small things that sprang, yellow-eyed and malevolent, from the darkness. Away back, the hue and cry gathered momentum. Onward she sped, until she reached the mining grounds, and as she darted in among the heaps she heard the Wild Hunt catching up at her heels. The fire-eyed hounds were baying weirdly now, but there was a jarring note too, a sound that didn't belong. It sounded like a small dog yapping, and its source was up ahead. Rounding a mullock heap, she beheld the white whippet from the cottage of the Caidens. It barked frantically, ran a little distance, then turned to see if she was following. Placing all her faith in the brave little dog, she hastened after it.

The ululation of the pack crescendoed, soon augmented by the deafening blare of horns. She dared not look back, but it seemed as if the Hunt must be almost on her shoulders, when without warning the whippet disappeared into a hole in a hillock. Ashalind followed suit, not a moment too soon, and the horde thundered past overhead.

Gasping for life, the damsel lay with outflung arms in the umbra of a deep cavern whose floor sloped gradually downward. Her throat and chest burned. Somewhere nearby, the little dog whimpered uneasily, and she sensed that it was trying to communicate. Still panting, she crawled in the direction of the sound.

The quietude outside was split by a roar and a concussion that made the ground shake. Handfuls of clay nodules and damp soil showered onto her hair and ragged clothes. After springing up in blind panic, the refugee ran farther into the cave, only to feel the floor drop away beneath her feet. She started to slide. The dagger was still in her hands—swiveling her body like an acrobat, she jammed the blade into the soil to halt her progress. Loose pebbles slipped past and down—she must have stumbled, in her mad rush, over the edge of a shaft. The dagger stayed firmly embedded and she realised she had not fallen far. Her feet dangled over some unguessable depth. She hung from the weapon's hilt. Just above her head the whippet stood, whining. When she looked up she saw its anxious form backlit by gray light from the cave's entrance.

The bellowing roar blared again, and heavy steps caused the ground to vibrate. Something monstrous and massive was approaching, and everything trembled before it. Its weight might cause a cave-in, burying her and the whippet. Doubtless the giant, or whatever it was, intended to do just that. In an agony of effort Ashalind heaved herself up, slid down, tried again, and finally inched herself up over the edge of the shaft. As she crawled up and over, on her elbows, her face level with the dog's muzzle, she saw it wag its tail with delight to see her safe.

‘No!' she mouthed in helpless exhaustion. The animal trotted toward her.

‘No, no!' she tried to scream; but no words came from her wight-whipped throat, and, unchastized, the white whippet licked her face in innocent and loving greeting—the kiss of the Erith-born.

Acknowledgments

Yallery Brown:
The tale of Yallery Brown is inspired by an article in ‘Legends of the Cars', by Mrs Balfour.
Folk-Lore 11
, 1891.

McKeightley and the Antlered One:
Inspired by The Devil at Ightfield', collected in
English Legends
by Henry Bett, Batsford, London, 1952. This traditional tale has many variants.