The Bitterbynde Trilogy (187 page)

Upon the back of the Skyhorse Hrimscathr, borne on the tumult of his wings, Ashalind rode with Angavar down to the encampment on the lowlands. For her, theboundaries between wakefulness and sleeping had blurred. In a drowsy suspension of awareness she thought she viewed herself from a vast distance, as though her movements were no more than images printed on a shang parchment while her real self hovered or floated elsewhere. But Angavar's arms encircled her, and that was all that could be desired—sufficient to numb the senses and ward off all painful reflections, for the nonce.

She leaned against him. Beneath the warm folds of the linen shirt his heart beat, slow and strong. Three rings shone on his hands, which rested, empty of reins, along her forearm. Any steed he rode would obey him without the compulsion of harness. Once, the ring-finger of his right hand had carried the heavy gold signet ring of D'Armancourt, but no longer—the Seal of the Fair Realm took its place now, marvellously wrought, set with jade and emerald. On the smallest finger of his right hand, halfway along, he wore the gold leaf-ring which Ashalind had bestowed on Viviana as protection—afterwards restored to Angavar. Twisted into a thin band on the ring-finger of his left hand, three golden hairs glinted.

She looked up. Past the curve of his throat, the sculpted jawline, past the fall of hair the colour of ripest black cherries spilling luxuriantly down over his shoulders, shone the multitudinous stars of Darke. The sky was a sheet of polished silver metal, spattered with ink-drops.

‘My friends,' Ashalind murmured against the susurration of the wind. ‘Viviana and Caitri.'

The Faêran King inclined his head. His breath was warm against her neck, spice scented.

‘Cured of all ills, thy lady's maid waits at the tents to attend thee. Hast thou mislaid the child?'

‘Caitri was spelled into a bird's shape.'

‘Then birds shall send to seek her.'

‘The goshawk Errantry—he would likely kill a wayward fledgling.'

‘Have no fear of that,
ionmhuinn.'

As graceful as a swan, Hrimscathr alighted beside a booth of rippling gold sendal, pitched near the Royal Pavilion. With a sound like the rustling of poplar leaves, the war-horse folded the great arcs of his wings and allowed himself to be led away by an equerry. Angavar and Ashalind, accompanied by a retinue of officers, passed along an avenue lined by Royal Guards standing to attention, and entered the lamplit tent. Within walls glowing like the cupped petals of a great primrose, Ashalind was met by Viviana. Many were the tears of joy they shed as they embraced. They conversed at some length, and at last Ashalind asked, ‘What did you see that made you fall into such a coma in Annath Gothallamor?'

Viviana could not account for it. Possibly the Faêran had tired of her and put the sleep on her, or else some of the wights did it, or some stray gramarye mesmerised her. It remained one of the many mysteries of the stronghold on the High Plain.

Soon, exhausted by travail, Ashalind lay down to sleep on a fur-strewn couch, with her friend seated alongside. Angavar departed with his officers and passed swiftly among the Legions to heal the wounded as only he could heal, with the touch of gramarye.

The interior of the tent was luxurious, furnished with a table and chairs of carven ash, a lectern of rosewood. Light tapestries lined the walls. At one corner, pieces of armour and mail hung on a stand, shining sombrely like dislocated seashells and spiderwebs ravelled. Awake now, Ashalind swallowed the last morsel of the meal she and Viviana had shared.

She ached.

Angavar entered. His courtiers waited outside. With a smile and a nod to Viviana, Angavar both acknowledged her and bade her leave. Wide-eyed, the courtier bobbed a curtsey and backed away, casting many glances towards Ashalind. Her flushed face and flustered movements betrayed her excitation as she darted out through the tent flap.

‘Quietude at last,' said the Faêran King to Ashalind, throwing down his cloak. ‘Now we may compensate for much lost time without converse.'

Lightly she touched his sleeve.

‘I must ask a boon of thee,' she said, in pain.

‘Anything.'

‘The Langothe consumes me—'

‘The Langothe, is it?' He probed no further—merely, his eyebrow flickered. ‘That is easily assuaged. Look to me.'

Her eyes locked with his. Long he looked at her with his Faêran eyes, grave and attentive. Deep and far off, a world spun behind that gaze.

‘Forget,' softly he said at last. ‘Forget desire and delight in the Land Beyond the Stars.'

And the Langothe, that bone-gnawing heart-freezing longing which had become so familiar it seemed part of existence, like breathing, was gone.

Ashalind experienced a boundless sense of freedom, as if her spirit had become a swan.

Angavar said, ‘Long ago, when we parted on the doorstop of White Down Rory, I was nigh to asking thee if ever thou hadst visited the Realm. There was that about thee which hinted of it. Yet I thought it impossible. I did not trust my own senses, did not believe it could be true. Would that I had asked!

‘Soon thou shalt unlock thy memory,' he continued, ‘and next the Gate, that we may return to my kingdom, there to be wed among my kindred. Fain would I hie thence without delay, but my pledge to James binds me yet. Until Edward is crowned, I cannot leave Erith.'

As though she had not heard him, Ashalind remained as motionless as a jewel cached in the heart of a mountain. Like a curtain, the Langothe had been withdrawn from her inner vision.

All was now clear.

Where the longing had ached, a picture opened. Here had lain the source of the pain—birth and death, the exacting portal, the wellspring of Langothe which had beckoned to Ashalind and drawn her relentlessly, calling to the very essence of her being, although she had not known it.

A tall grey rock like a giant hand, and a slender obelisk leaning towards it, coloured as the lip of a rose petal. Both monoliths capped by a lintel-stone shaped like a doorstep. Near at hand in a granite hollow, a dark pool of water fed by a spring.

‘I see the Gate of Oblivion's Kiss,' she murmured, ‘etched upon the air.'

At her side, Angavar abruptly stilled, as utterly as some wild creature sensing hunters on the wind.

At length he said, in a controlled tone, ‘And the way to reach it?'

‘Not that, not yet. But I know the Gate now, I recognise it. And I will find it.'

‘How does it appear, the Way to Faêrie?' His voice was almost casual now.

All she could recall, she told him. She sensed a keen and desperate restlessness in him, a longing so urgent, so terrible she feared it.

‘Methinks thou dost want to make haste,' she said. ‘Shall we take ship straightway for Arcdur? Even if thou mayst not leave Erith yet, we can locate the Gate in readiness. It can be opened, and thy subjects will be able to pass to and fro.'

A shadow darkened his features. He brooded. ‘Nay,' he said. ‘Mayhap, during the days and nights of Arcdur, those three strands of thy hair have blown away or been washed forth or subtracted by beasts of the wilderness.'

‘Is it possible the Gate has closed by itself?'

‘Even so. Yet while naught is confirmed either way, the chance remains that the Realm may be regained at last. For the nonce, I prefer to dwell with that chance, rather than realise bitter disappointment. There is no need for haste. The last day of eternity draws no nearer.'

‘But while we hold back the chance grows fainter—for the rain and wind and the beasts and insects of Arcdur are as busy at their work of displacement as they have ever been.'

‘No, they are not.'

Of course—she had overlooked the extent of his governance. His influence was such that he could arrest the eroding effects of natural forces. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
The west wind is his caress, raindrops his kisses on my mouth
…

Against the dandelion shimmer of the tent walls, her mind's image of Arcdur hung dissolving like a grey stain. Unwarned of, a flapping darkness crossed her vision, fragmenting it. Ashalind shook her head as if to clear it of confusion. Her face sharpened into an expression of wistfulness.

‘The Raven …' she murmured.

‘What of him?' Angavar flung back with a frown.

‘He is gone,' she stammered, bemused, ‘yet remains with us, in a way. Will the Raven fly into Faêrie, when the gate is opened? At the least, he can now no longer demand that second boon of Easgathair White Owl. The Gatekeeper has fulfilled the first—he locked the Gates, as Morragan demanded. It was no fault of his that I was enclosed inside the actual structure of a Gate, hidden neither within the Realm nor without it. Now that Morragan has lost his Faêran shape, surely Easgathair is not beholden to the second pledge—or even if he is, Morragan has no voice to command it. With the Password to unseal the Casket of Keys known to all and sundry, all the Gates may be reopened, never to be locked again. Faêran and mortal may traffick again, as in days of yore!'

‘In Raven form,' sombrely said Angavar, absently twisting a strand of her hair around his finger, ‘most of his powers have indeed been bled away. Not all. Some rudimentary power of speech remains. He is of Royal blood—it is not easy to disable us. Should he meet again with Easgathair White Owl, the Raven yet has a chance to command obedience. I would fain discover him, render him mute, else bind him with gramarye, or by his own word. I would find him, but he is not yet to be caught. Thus, it remains perilous to open any Gates.'

‘Why didst thou let him fly away?'

‘'Twas mercy that stayed my hand. How could I, who showed mercy to the Waelghast, do less for my brother?' The attention of the Faêran King seemed to turn inward, his beautiful countenance tempering to the bleakness of a Winter sky. ‘My brother, in whose downfall I played a significant part.' After a brief pause, he continued, ‘I was uncertain whether he might merely wing away to some remote forest, seldom to be glimpsed again, or whether in the strange reaches of a bird's mental flickerings there existed a desire to regain the Fair Realm. And my qualms tendered him the advantage.'

Wide, her eyes drank him in, noting every detail. He was a fire and she a candle too near. He drew her close. Catching the cinnamon scent of him, she pulled away. He did not smell of sweat and leather, his breath did not reek of onions nor his hair of wood smoke. She could overlook no longer—this was no mortal man.

Perplexed, half angry, he said, ‘Do not withdraw from me!'

She hesitated, unable now to meet his gaze.

‘Thou art of Faêran blood. I am not.'

‘What's thy meaning?'

A cudgel pounded on the inner cage of her chest.

‘How
canst
thou love me?' At the backs of her eyes, tears welled. ‘To thy kind, we must seem as beasts.'

‘Never say that!' he exclaimed in a voice rough with some elusive passion—and then, incredulously, ‘Dost thou
doubt
me?'

‘I am of the imperfect race. By my troth, if I view my kind through Faêran eyes—'

‘So. It seems thou
dost
doubt my love.'

She raised her face to his at last, and what she read thereon threatened to stop her pulse.

‘No.'

He said, ‘Never doubt me, Goldhair. Never.'

Ashalind's throat ached, as though she had swallowed her own heart.

‘Long have we been parted,' she said, ‘yet never hast thou been from my thoughts. Day and night, I have seen thy face before me. In my mind thy voice spoke. Each brush of the wind was a touch from thee, every dream a reinvention of thy form. At this instant thou art before me, and sometimes I am afraid. For I might blink and thou shalt have vanished again. Ah, but every fibre of my being cries out for thee.'

‘And mine for thee, be assured of it.'

From beyond the tent came the rumour of men's conversation, distant singing, a medley of muffled hoofbeats as horses moved about the camp.

Ashalind recalled Morragan and his provoking words to his brother—
Fain would my weapon remain oft in the sheath, it filled the receptacle so well.
Another Faêran way of twisting the truth; using ambiguity to deceive without perjury.

To Angavar she now said, ‘Taunting thee he implied that it was so, but Morragan did not lie with me.'

‘I know it.'

He gathered her into his arms, resting his face against the top of her head. His hair poured down over her and she became lost in the maze of it, each filament a fine chain to bind the heart, a line to lure thought astray.

Among his race, the act of love was commonly regarded as sport and pleasure rather than as a mutual celebration of lasting passion. Tales of the Faêran made this clear. To hold him, feeling the tension through his shoulders so vehement that he trembled, to be kindled by the heat of his heartbeat—to know the effort it cost him, resisting his own nature; this moved Ashalind profoundly. By this, she understood how he esteemed her.

As instinctively, as irresistibly, mortals were attracted to the Faêran. The immortals of the Realm were designed for love and for laughter, as birds are fashioned for flight. In showing equal restraint, Ashalind acted with no less honour than her extraordinary lover.

In denial, affirmation.

‘It is my wish to honour thee,' he whispered. ‘Soon shalt thou be my bride. When we lie together, thou and I, there shall be delight such as mortalkind can only dream of, and rarely do—such joy as might prove unendurable.'

‘Two worlds dost thou rule,' she said. ‘Thou lack'st for naught, some might say. Gold thou mightst have in oceans, and rivers of jewels. I cannot give such treasures. Yet, when we have made our wedding vows, I can only surrender to thee a gift that no one else in either world can bestow, and which can only be given once, by any maiden.'

‘A gift to be enjoyed lifelong.'