The Bitterbynde Trilogy (135 page)

However, the relinquished children began to pine and languish. A profound longing for the Fair Realm had gripped them, a deadly yearning known as the Langothe. The wizards of Avlantia declared that there was no known cure. In desperation, Ashalind called on Easgathair to allow the children to pass back into the Fair Realm, this time with their families, so that the longing would leave them, allowing them to survive. Easgathair granted her request. He also announced that the Gates between the Realm of the Faêran and the lands of mortals would soon close forever.

On the Day of the Closing, the citizens of Hythe Mellyn deserted their homes and rode into the Fair Realm. Just before the Gates swung shut, Ashalind discovered that there was in fact a cure for the Langothe, of which the wizards had been unaware. She decided to return to Erith. Due to a last-minute skirmish between Prince Morragan and his brother Angavar, both members of the Faêran Royal Family were locked out of the Fair Realm along with their respective retinues. They were forever exiled to the world of mortals. However, Ashalind had already slipped into a traverse that was known as the Gate of Oblivion's Kiss because of the condition, or bitterbynde, it imposed on all who entered it.

By the time she-of-many-names emerged, a millennium had elapsed in Erith. Through many trials she managed to make her way to Huntingtowers, where, on the haunted slopes of the caldera, she lost her golden hair, her voice and her memories.

The Gate's bitterbynde had come upon her.

1

KHAZATHDAUR

The Masts of Shadow

Pale rings of smoke come floating through the trees,

Clear voices thread like silver on the breeze,

And as I look towards the west I grieve,

For in my heart, I'm crying out to leave
.

M
ADE BY
L
LEWELL
,
SONGMAKER OF
A
URALONDE

The rain was without beginning and without end. It pattered on incessantly, a drumming of impatient fingers. There was only the sound of the rain and the rasp of breathing while the girl in the cave, mute, amnesiac, shorn, and wasted, crawled away from the brink of the mine-shaft.

She was alone, with no concept of her own identity, no memory of how she had come to this place. In subterranean darkness she moved sightlessly, until, reaching a small opening, she tumbled out among javelins of rain. Over levels of harsh stone and through dripping claws of vegetation she drove herself on limbs emaciated by weeks of the Langothe, days of starvation in the wilderness and lack of appetite for the food of Erith after the sight and fragrance of Faêran fare. Sometimes she slept momentarily, or perhaps lost consciousness.

Pleasantly, even the Langothe had been forgotten, then.

With stiffening limbs she moved slowly through the mud and wet stone of the abandoned mines, oblivious of their beauties or horrors, blind to obstacles that tore at her. Reaching level ground, she rose onto trembling legs and walked, an action her limbs seemed to remember by some instinct of their own.

The little dog was gone. The girl had lain a long time underground after the cave-in, at whiles licking at water droplets that oozed from the rock. Buried alive, she was presumed dead. The Hunt had been abandoned because the hunters had not known who she was, believing her to be merely some foolish spy, some unlucky wanderer or thief, now punished by death beneath the rock fall. Yet, she had survived, whether due to the Lady Nimriel's mysterious gift or some inherent strength, or something else, unfathomable.

The ground had emptied from beneath her feet. She hurtled downward, to be brought up on a spear-point of agony. Her bracelet had snagged on a dead twig. She released the catch and fell into a thicket of
Hedera paradoxis
.

Hours passed.

Later, lying ivy-poisoned by the roadside, the shorn-haired waif in tattered masculine attire had been discovered by a passing carter. He had stolen her Faêran cloak and delivered her into the hands of Grethet.

Much had happened since then …

Now, as memories flooded back like sap rising in Spring, a strange euphoria blossomed within the damsel lying in a semi-trance beneath the night-bound woods near Huntingtowers. The experience of recall imbued her with power. She felt like a winged being looking down on the world from an impossible height, while a light of glory crayoned her pinions in gold. So expanded was she in this virtual form that if she held out her hand she could cup the rain. Clouds brushed her cheek with cold dew, and should she raise her arms she could catch the sun like a golden ball. Mankind moved like beetles around her feet, and nothing could touch her. She had endured it all and been borne through, shining. She was winning.

So far.

Her shoulder hurt. It was being shaken in an iron claw. Her entire body quaked. She thrust off the claw, uttering an inarticulate groan.

‘Rohain! Mistress!' Hazel eyes in a rounded, dimpled face appeared, framed by bobbing yellow curls with brown roots.

Sitting up, the dreamer took a swig from the water-bottle. Like any warrior, she rinsed her mouth and spat, then wiped her lips on her bloodstained sleeve.

‘Via, I told you not to call me that. And cut your fingernails.' She rubbed her shoulder. ‘Are we alive?'

‘Yes, all three. You saved us.'

‘I would like to agree, but I have this ornament on my finger which is responsible for our current state of health.' The speaker's hands wandered up to her face, lightly touching the forehead, the nose, the chin. She examined a strand of dark hair. ‘Am I as I was? Am I ugly or beautiful? Boy or girl?'

Viviana and Caitri exchanged meaningful looks.

‘Your experience at Huntingtowers has unsettled you—er, Tahquil,' said Caitri. ‘Come, let us help you to your feet. We must get away from here. We are still too close to that place.'

As they stood up, the one they called Tahquil swayed, clutching at her heart. Leaning against a linden tree she closed her eyes and grimaced.

‘Zooks, ma'am, what is amiss?' asked Viviana, full of concern.

‘Ah, no, it cannot be. Alas, it has me in its grip again. This, then, is the price.'

‘
What
has you in its grip?'

‘The Langothe. There's no salve for it.' The sufferer gulped down her pain. ‘Let us go on.'

I must endure the unendurable
.

She wondered how long it would take to destroy her.

It was the second of Duileagmis, the Leafmonth, viminal last month of Spring. In the woods, every leaf was a perfect spearblade chipped from lucent emerald, fresh from the bud. As yet the new foliage was unbitten by insect, unparched by wind, untorn by rain.

The travellers walked through a glade striped with slender silver-paper poles marked at spaced intervals with darker notches that accentuated the clean, smooth paleness of the bark. The tops of the poles were lost overhead in a yellow-stippled haze of tenderest green.

The damsel called Tahquil twisted the golden leaf-circle on her finger. Her thoughts fled to he who had bestowed it upon her.
I miss thee. I have come full circle. Here I am once more. And thee, my love, shall I ever see thee again?

The damsel, Tahquil. Her insides ached. Yearning chewed at them.

Thus she thought:
I am more than a thousand years old. I am Ashalind na Pendran, Lady of the Circle. I come from a time before the shang, before Windships and sildron. The kingdom of my birth has crumbled to nothing. One of the most powerful Faêran in Aia pursues me
—
but why? Is it simply because I committed the crime of eavesdropping and survived his vengeance, or does he guess I have found a way back to the Realm? Is he after my life or my knowledge? And all the while the other powerful Faêran, his royal brother, sleeps forever amongst a great company of knights beneath some unmarked hill
.

One Gate to Faêrie remains passable: the Gate of Oblivion's Kiss. Only I may open it, only I might recognise it, if I could recall. But the past has returned imperfectly to me. The most important recollection of all, that of the Gate's location, is still hidden in oblivion's mists
—
mayhap 'tis hidden forever. Indeed, some other events surrounding my time in the Gate passage lack clarity
.

If I could return to the Fair Realm with the Password ‘elindor,' the Keys could be released from the Green Casket. All the Gates might be opened once more. The Faêran would be able to send a discreet messenger to where their High King lies—for surely they could guess where he would be, or find him by means of gramarye
—
to tell him to return in all haste and secrecy to the Realm. Yet, if the Raven Prince discovers that the Gates are open and enters the Fair Realm before his brother, he might use his second boon to close them again and condemn the High King to continuing, everlasting exile
.

Back and forth shuttle my thoughts, my confusion. This is like playing a game of Kings-and-Queens: if this, then thus, but if that, then the other
.

Nonetheless, many matters are now clarified. Now I understand truly who it is that hunts at my heels
—
it is not the Antlered One, after all. Huon is only one of Morragan's minions. Huon's powers are naught by comparison with his master's. Now I understand whose henchman noticed my Talith hair in the marketplace of Gilvaris Tarv, and who lost track of me after the attack on the Road Caravan, and who found me again when Dianella and Sargoth betrayed me. I understand who it was that ordered the Wild Hunt to assail Isse Tower, who sent the Three Crows of War through the Rip of Tamhania. I know who pursues me with destruction wherever I may go: it is the Raven Lord, Morragan, Fithiach of Carnconnor, Crown Prince of Faêrie
.

Sombrely, as she walked through the birch woods, the traveller with the dark-dyed hair and the festoons of thyme-leaves dwelled again on the moment she had first set eyes on that extraordinary individual in the Halls of Carnconnor under Hob's Hill.

With eyes as grey as the cold southern seas, he was the most grave and comely of all the present company. Hair tumbled down in waves to his elbows, and it was the blue-black shade of a raven's wing … he regarded her, but said nothing
.

I dismiss that personage from my contemplation
, she said to herself.
He brings sorrow. The Faêran! I have met with them, spoken with them! Sorrow they bring to mortals but delight also, and they are so joyous and goodly to behold as I would not have believed possible
. Again she caressed the golden ring on her finger, smiling sadly, her eyes misted with reflections.
Indeed, had I not seen with my own eyes Thorn wielding cold iron in his very hand, I would have said he must be of Faêran blood. Beloved heartbreaker! I am fervently glad he is no Faêran
—
but I must banish thoughts of him now
.

When I walked from the Geata Poeg na Déanainn, it was my thought to embark on a quest to restore the Faêran High King to his Realm. I wonder
—
how long had be reigned in the Fair Realm, the High King of all Immortals, bearded with his pride, swollen with power, overripe with glory in his failing years? For how many centuries did he sit upon his hoary throne in Faêrie, toying with the lives of mortals, before he met his own exile? And would it truly matter to me if this ancient King and his dormant warriors were to lie forever entombed under Erith's eroding mountains?

She sighed. She already knew the answer.

Yes, it would matter. Those who sleep might waken, one day
.

In this era, I have heard more tales of the Faêran than I knew in the past. Those tales have illustrated a race that is dazzling, but callous and cruel. Like all mortals I am drawn to them, but now that I recall history, my abhorrence is confirmed. I dislike the Faêran, almost as heartily as the Raven Prince hates mortalkind. I could not endure it if Faêran warriors should awaken and, undying, walk in my Erith. It is the fault of the Fair Ones and their quarrels, and their heartless laws, that I am here now in this perilous place, separated from those whom I love. I am fully aware of the trouble they may wreak, if they rouse from their enchanted sleep
.

She who I once was, Ashalind of my memories
—
she loved them, the Faêran. I, her future incarnation, am wiser. Oh, they are beauteous, fascinating
—
it is impossible not to be attracted by them. But I, Tahquil-Rohain, loathe and fear their alien ways, their weird morality, their immutable laws, their arrogant use of power. 'Tis true that sometimes, when it suits them, they may behave with kindness, but the tales reveal them to be haughty, proud, contemptuous and cruel. They are users and punishers of my race. Rightly do folk name the Faêran ‘the Strangers'. Strange indeed are they; scorching flames of gramarye. They ought to be shut out of our world
.

This is my conclusion: that the Sleepers must awaken and depart. They must go back to where they belong. Every Faêran now in Erith must be repatriated
.

Yes indeed, if I can survive long enough, if the Langothe is not too swift in its deadly work, I shall go back to Arcdur and seek the Gate. Then I shall return through it to the Perilous Realm and use the Password to unlock their Casket of Keys so that the Faêran of the Realm may go forth and find the hill in Erith where their King sleeps. Some shall waken him and his noble company, and take them away. Others shall take away the beautiful Raven Prince who frets and rails so passionately against his exile. When they and all their shadowy, sparkling, fair and terrible kind are gone, then the Gates must truly be locked forever. I shall not rest until that is accomplished
.

This is my predicament and my undertaking
.

Coloured spindles of lupins, as high as a man's knee, marched between the boles of the silver-birches. Each one flaunted a different hue, ranging from salmon, peach and apricot to mauve, maroon and lavender. Clusters of flower-turrets sprang from their own green coronas of frondescence. Now at the height of their blossoming they stood so erect, so tapered and symmetrical, each petal so crisp and painted and perfect, that they seemed artificial. Their petals brushed the garments of the travellers as they passed.