The Bitterbynde Trilogy (39 page)

“Takes the fun out of eating,” observed Sianadh. Turning to Diarmid: “I be glad ye be going to Caermelor, soldier, and not me!”

“And I would rather be going, too,” Muirne said bitterly.

Ethlinn signed to her eldest son, <>

Her eyes told more than her hands.

Imrhien's sight gradually cleared. The pain decreased to a throbbing ache. The looking-glass revealed scars and tattered flesh, a disfigurement far worse than before the treatment at the wizard's hands. She withdrew under her taltry, a snail into its shell.

A carriage arrived at the end of Bergamot Street—Roisin Tuillimh had come to visit Ethlinn. She was a tall, spare woman with a long face and bright eyes watching out from above jutting cheekbones. Her faded hair, once the shade of ruby wine, was coiffed in simple fashion. Her garb was well tailored without being ostentatious, its style unashamedly Ertish. She cared little for beauty of countenance and much for beauty of spirit. Her mode of speech was rhythmic and unusual.

“Now, lass,” she said to Imrhien, “you scarce have seen the city's sights. Since first you came here, it's indoors you've chiefly bided. Yon Bear leaves upon the morrow, but today is the first of Uvailmis and I invite your company on a jaunt—to Uvailmis Market-Fair we go—perchance you'll see something you wish to purchase, some useful item for your forthcoming journey, or what you will.”

Reluctantly Imrhien allowed herself to be persuaded to accompany the three women to market.

Roisin's carriage rattled to a halt in a wide square choked with a confetti of stalls and crowds. She and Ethlinn stepped out, followed closely by Muirne and Imrhien. They walked among the canvas booths and awnings, examining, haggling, purchasing. Imrhien stared at the wares spread out so enticingly.

“Do not let anyone get a good eyeful of ye,” Muirne reminded her with a nudge.

Keeping her face in the shadow of her taltry, Imrhien toured the nearest booths. A commotion drew their attention; bystanders began to gather around as a man, touting at full volume, led a small horse into the square.

“No finer steed in Erith! A waterhorse of eldritch, tethered securely by a rope around its pretty neck! Ladies and gentlemen, this fine beast will run like the wind for you, work like a slave for you, carry and draw weights that would kill an ordinary hack. What price am I offered?”

Some among the bystanders now recognized the horseseller as the proprietor of the Picktree Mill, a man known for his ability to drive a hard bargain. The miller received a mixed reaction to his offer—some drew away, muttering that it was ill luck to meddle with un
lorraly
beasts. Others surged forward—it was a rarity, the capture of something eldritch, and many folk were curious just to look. The little gray waterhorse was indeed a pretty steed, and in fine fettle. Its legs were long and sculptured, like those of a racehorse. The hooves were delicate, the neck proudly arched. Strangely, the tail curled up over its back like a half-wheel. Fluted water-leaves like thin, green ribbons twined in that glossy tail and in the mane. But the eyes rolled with indignant fear, and the nostrils flared like two wild roses, for it had no choice except to succumb meekly to whatever the holder of the rope laid upon it. It neighed its rage and sprang back as if burned when the miller shook a pair of iron stirrups near its face.

“What am I offered! The finest beast in Erith! Immortal! Tame as a pup!”

The crowd murmured warily. Few of them had ever set eyes on any wight at all, for it was unwise to look in on domestic bruneys, the wights that most commonly inhabited certain fortunate houses in the cities of men. “Is it really a waterhorse? What kind is it?” they asked among themselves. They had all heard of the Each Uisge and wanted no part of anything with a reputation for such savagery and mercilessness.

Someone knowledgeable spoke up. “Judging by the tail, 'tis only a nuggle—I mean, a nygel,” he said. “Not one of the killing-horses. 'Tis harmless.”

“There must be some trickery, miller,” said one of the bystanders. “How could you catch so slippery a beast?”

“Do you doubt my veracity sir? Fie! No trickery—no, indeed! The wretch has plagued me this many a night, for it is fascinated by water mills, and if the mill was working during the hours of darkness, it grabbed the wheel and halted it. The only way I could drive it off was to ram a flaming torch or a long iron blade through the vent-shaft of the mill. Its other prank was to dawdle along the millstream and lure people to mount it, whereupon it would dash away into the millpond or the sea and give the unwary rider a sore ducking, half drowning him. This trickster deserved to be taught a lesson, and that's just what I have done.”

“Did it ever eat anyone?” asked a nervous man.

“Never! My wightish friend here did not, like the You-Know-What, the Prince of Waterhorses, tear its victims to pieces—after it rid itself of its burden, it used to set up a great nicker and a laugh and next be seen galloping and plunging off into the distance.”

“That does not explain how you come by it,” another objected.

The miller had been waiting for an opportunity to describe his clever feat.

“I was but a-walking down by Millbeck Tarn, searching for my chestnut mare. This creature came up to me all friendlylike, so pretending I did not know what it was, I got on its back, but I held on with only one hand. When it galloped off with me for a joyride, I slipped my free hand in my pocket and took out the rope halter I'd been keeping for my mare and slipped it around its neck. Then it was mine! Leave the rope on, ladies and gentlemen, and the thing will do as you bid forever!”

Various offers began to be shouted.

“Two sovereigns!”

“Three!”

Excitement surged through the throng like wind through a cornfield. The waterhorse, far from its natural surroundings, shuddered, looking desperately for escape, bound inexorably by the
lorraly
fibers of the hempen rope encircling its neck.

As they bid, the faces of the onlookers were stamped with the smug superiority of those who beheld a symbol of their fear brought to its knees. All creatures of eldritch were baffling to them, alien and therefore frightening. They presented a constant threat against which most mortals felt impotent. Imrhien saw the cruelty in the faces and the trembling of the waterhorse, which was only a nygel after all, a practical joker by nature, but not a monster. The creature was guiltless, having merely been obeying its own fun-seeking instincts. Through its own naiveté it was now enslaved and reviled. Imrhien understood its situation perfectly.

The bidding rose to six sovereigns, then seven guineas. There it halted.

<> Imrhien signed.

“Oh, no,” Muirne protested diffidently.

“She signs too quickly. What wishes she to know, Muirne?” inquired Roisin. On being told, she threw Imrhien a measuring glance. “Be ye certain?”

A nod.

“A pony for the pony!” called Roisin.

There was general laughter, but the miller who held the rope said, “Is that a genuine offer?”

“It is.”

Imrhien began rummaging in her purse.

“What? Be ye turning
scothy?
” hissed Muirne.

<>

Nobody outdid the offer. People stepped back, gawping in amazement—few had ever seen a coin of as high value as an angel, otherwise known as a pony. The Picktree miller made sure they didn't get much of a look at it. As soon as he had bitten the heavy golden disk to test its authenticity, he pocketed it, handed the rope halter to Roisin, and disappeared swiftly into the crowd, doubtless afraid he might have become a target for cut-purses or less subtle robbers.

The transaction completed, the bystanders now focused their attention on the new owners, calling out advice and questions. Imrhien stepped up to the terrified wight and slipped off the rope. Instantly the crowd scattered. The little waterhorse reared up on its hind legs, whinnied and dashed away, mane and tail streaming, bursting through the multitude, causing it to split and roar and curse like some many-headed monster.

“What have you done?” cried Muirne.

<>

As the nygel galloped off, a movement overhead caught Imrhien's attention. A Windship passed high above, departing from Tarv Tower under full sail, coursing through the cloudless skies like a lean greyhound. Imrhien felt her taltry fall back as she tilted her head for a quick glance. Swiftly she pulled up the hood once more and turned back to the carriage. As she put her foot up on the step, she paused, sensing someone watching her. She glimpsed a short figure, with squinting eyes gleaming from the shadows of its own cowl. An odd face—very odd; disturbing.

Ethlinn followed the direction of her gaze. <>

Hurriedly the four of them reembarked, Muirne fuming about folk who not only throw away good money, but also insist on making a show of themselves for all the world to see. The carriage rattled off out of the marketplace. Ethlinn, whose eyes had been fastened to the rear window, signed, <>

“My driver knows the hidden ways and the devious,” said Roisin, and she called instructions to the man. The passengers were jerked violently to one side as the carriage slewed around a corner on two wheels and bounced down a side-street. In the next instant they were thrown to the other side. Passersby scattered. Buildings flashed past.

“Be not affrighted—we will not overturn,” Roisin shouted over the racket of the wheels, “Brinnegar knows well what he is at.”

<>

Roisin shouted to the coachman. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Ethlinn was out of the door with a movement surprisingly swift and lithe for her age. Leaning from the window, Imrhien saw her draw out her carlin's Wand, planting it firmly in a muddy crack between the cobbles, in the middle of the street. Then the carlin's hands moved in an unfamiliar gesture. It seemed to Imrhien that the living stave began to sprout with unnerving swiftness—that toothed briars, sharp nettles, and gorses budded and whipped out from its rind, tangling tentacles, weaving in and out betwixt walls and street, growing higher until within a few blinks of the eye they had formed a shadowy trellis of thorns. When the carlin snatched up the Wand, it broke away and the barrier remained in place. She hurried back to the carriage. As the team pulled away, a group of figures rounded the corner and ran full-tilt into the black ensnarlment. Some fell back—others became hooked and began writhing among the dim briars. The coachman's whip cracked, the horses leaped forward. Soon the stymied pursuers were out of sight.

Safely back at Ethlinn's house, Imrhien could not rid herself of the memory of the odd face in the marketplace. It seemed branded on the inner surface of her lids; every time she closed her eyes it sprang vividly before her. The mouth had stretched wide, the nostrils had been broadly flared. The hood rested on the head in a peculiar fashion, tucked up into points just above the ears. From beneath that hood, the slanting eyes had stared directly at her, with a look that seemed to come from somewhere dark and wild, somewhere alien. And the stranger had stood no more than four feet high. There was no doubt in her mind that this curious onlooker was eldritch and, furthermore, that it was malevolent.

<> signed Ethlinn, <

<>

Elated, her daughter began to pack immediately.

Before dawn the next day, at the threshold of the house in Bergamot Street, Sianadh and Liam said their farewells. Three laden landhorses waited, held by Sheamais, one of the trusted Sulibhain brothers. The other two members of the small company were to meet them at a prearranged rendezvous outside the city.

An ache of grief churned inside Imrhien's chest.

“I do not know when we may meet again,” the Ertishman said to her awkwardly. “By the time I return ye will be well away on the Caermelor Road, with Serrure's Caravan.” He gave her a rakish grin. “We went through it together, did we not,
chehrna?
We went through it and ye opened the doors for me and I gave ye a name. There be an old saying in Finvarna,
‘Inna shai tithen elion
—We have lived the days.”

She nodded, swallowing the tightness in her throat.

“Good speed to ye, and all luck. I hope ye may find what ye seek.”

<> his sister urged. <>

Sianadh kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Never worry, Eth. Doom has waited for me before. It can keep on waiting. The Bear will prevail.”

He kissed Muirne on the back of her hand. Imrhien, he embraced clumsily, thumping her on the back like a drinking partner.