The Bitterbynde Trilogy (60 page)

“I bid thee welcome, my lady Imrhien. Sir Thorn has told me of thee. Roland Trenowyn, at tha service.”

Thorn had gone at once to Diarmid's bedside.

“How can this be? He has the mark of the Beithir on him!”

He placed his hand on the Ertishman's brow. “He burns. But the fever has turned already, and he has the strength to fight. I judge he will be well by morning. If this is the brand of the lightning serpent, then you took a wrong turning in the mines. I'll warrant it was not
your
heart, lady, that led you to the serpent's lair.”

“Beithir!” exclaimed Janet, kneeling by the Ertishman's side. “So that's what struck 'im. Ain't seen anythin' like it before. Poor dove.”

“Come, Janet,” said her father, “if Sir Thorn says he will recover, let us not keep our guests waiting for their supper. Pray, do us the honor of joining us at table, sir and my lady. Our fare is humble, but all that we have is at your disposal. Whatever you ask for shall be provided, have we the means.…”

All voices faded. The floor tilted, and the room went black at the edges. Imrhien made a grab for the corner of the table for support, but it swung away. Overwhelmingly, the past few days had come crowding back—the attack of the Beithir, she half carrying Diarmid through the mines, the long nights on hard beds of stone, the narrow escape from the Glastyn, and now meeting again with Thorn.

It was as if a great wave of terror, despair, and joy had been gathering itself together as she sat at the Trenowyns' table, rising ever higher over her head. All at once this accumulation reached breaking point.

A darkness came roaring in from the perimeters of her skull. The wave came thundering down.

The rooster crowed. Deep in the cobwebs of sleep, Imrhien heard Silken Janet speaking.

“Now, me dove, tha can come out wi' me tae the 'en'ouse. That's the place for thee, instead o' wakin' folk with thane racket. Come on, tha goosegog, I got a 'andful o' corn for thee!”

After some squawking and fluttering, quiet resumed. Long, long waves of black slumber came rolling over.

It seemed that not a minute had gone by when Imrhien was woken by a rattle at the window and opened her eyes to see Janet flinging wide the shutters. Long diagonals of sunlight streamed in, and sweet birdsong, and the earthy smell of moist loam and wet leaves. On the eaves above the windows, doves repeated, “Coo-coroo-coo.” Somewhere outside, hens were cackling and something mooed. Imrhien felt refreshed in mind and body. A whiff of baking bread scented the air.

“Good mornin' to thee” Janet smiled—“and a fair mornin' it is. Thane captain said so, too, not long since.”

Diarmid pushed aside a curtain in the corner and stepped out, without any sign of favoring his leg. He was freshly scrubbed and shaved, dressed in some of Trenowyn's clothes—woollen breeches, leathern gaiters, a linen shirt, and a twill jacket, looking quite the country squire, except for the hair that fell past his shoulders, red and brown.

Imrhien jumped up and ran to him.

<> Indeed, he did look well. Although the gash on his forehead was still scabrous and puffy, a rosy hue stained his cheeks—not the flush of fever, but the bloom of health.

<>

<> signed Diarmid. <> He bent his knee, kissed the back of her hand, and stood again, palms outstretched. The ruined tissue had been sloughed. Over his palms new skin had already formed, pink and fragile. Only, on each of them, was emblazoned a white mark like forked lightning. <>

He stilled his hands and asked in a low voice, “I have heard that you were in danger last night. How is it that you escaped from the Glastyn?”

<>

“'S death!” Diarmid said in astonishment. “Then the raucous bird has repaid its debt in full! Where is it now?”

<>

Laughter and footsteps came up the garden path. Silken Janet leaned out of the window.

“So, there tha be! Did tha 'ave a comfortable night in 'ayloft?” She unbolted the door. Her father entered. Thorn stood outside on the path with Errantry on his upraised wrist, the fierce talons clutching the leathern armband. The goshawk spread his wings wide to keep balance; the great draft of their movement sent his master's unbound hair tossing like long grasses underwater.

Janet eyed the bird with some alarm. “Do tha bird fly at rooks, Sir Thorn?”

There was an edge to her voice.

“Not if I forbid it.” The Dainnan looked directly at Janet and smiled. Then he turned his attention to the goshawk. “So-ho, Bold-and-Fearless!” He threw his arm upward to help the bird take off, watching him rise with a whirr and a clatter of wings and fly over the trees. Then he stepped indoors.

The five of them sat down to a hearty breakfast. There being only four seats, Thorn elected to sit on the window ledge. He leaned his back against the frame, one booted foot on the sill, the other swinging. At his back soared a washed blue sky—often he would turn his head to look out at the wind-driven clouds scudding over the treetops, as if to be between walls made him restless.

Janet had set before them ripe blackberries, gooseberry tart, rhubarb and pink quinces in honeyed syrup, bread and butter, scrambled eggs, cream and honey, green cheese flecked with sage, frothing milk, mellow, yellow mead, and dandelion wine. The guests complimented her on her table and did full justice to it. There was so much to eat and so much to tell that the sun had climbed toward its zenith before they were finished.

The travelers had immediately asked for news. Trenowyn reported that the King-Emperor's Legions had gathered in full strength at Caermelor, while recruits for the army and for the Dainnan were being summoned now to rally at Isenhammer. It was widely held that conflict was imminent, for the gathering forces in Namarre had grown strong in numbers, and while they had not yet mobilized, it seemed certain that they would soon strike south. At these tidings, shadows of concern darkened the faces of both Thorn and Diarmid.

Upon returning from his mission the Dainnan had searched for Imrhien and the Ertishman—they had remained longer in the mines than he had reckoned, and since the underground ways led to many openings, he had suspected they had taken a wrong turning. While seeking them, he had first encountered Roland Trenowyn, whose beasts had strayed far. He had helped the farmer drive them home, and on their way they had encountered Janet.

Diarmid questioned Thorn about his unexpected errand in answer to the call of the Dainnan horn.

“It was Flint of the Third Thriesniun who sounded that call,” replied the Dainnan. “He and a scouting party found themselves in dire peril, caused indirectly by certain wights who dwell beneath the ground. What do you know of the Fridean?”

“I know plenty,” put in Trenowyn. “Doundelding is as riddled as a worm's nest with underground tunnels and caves. The Fridean delve them, as they are wont to delve beneath many remote regions of Erith. He who stands above Fridean diggings might betimes catch their music rising from beneath his feet. He who unwisely lingers above Fridean diggings when a boulder falls nearby might well find himself undermined. For the Fridean do not delve with accuracy in the manner of eldritch miners. My friends the knockers shore up the walls of their tunnels and secure the ceilings with crossbeams. The Fridean merely dig in straight lines without reference to consequences. When they encounter a hard substance they cannot penetrate, they turn a corner and continue in a straight line in another direction. In this manner they build labyrinths, sometimes close to the surface. Should their tunnels collapse, as often happens, they are never troubled.”

“And should tha go intae the hills and sit upon a bare rock tae tak' a bite, and should tha let fall a morsel or two,” declared Janet, “then t' crumbs will be gone afore tha can say Jack Robinson.”

“Then we have met the Fridean in the mines!” said Diarmid. “And was it those wights who threatened the lives of Sir Flint and the men of his thriesniun?”

“No,” said Thorn, “for they do not harm mortals. But at the dawning of the day, one came nigh whose joy it is to destroy creatures that live, and that was the Cearb, who is called the Killing One. Where the Cearb walks, the ground quakes. The Dainnan were unaware they traveled above a hollow maze the Fridean delved long ago. Great cracks opened beneath their feet, and as they fell, struggling, the Cearb came at them, for it is one of the Lords of Unseelie and has no fear of the sun's rays. Yet it may be outrun by the fleet of foot—lured away by a decoy so that others may escape.”

“Wert tha able to save 'em?” asked Janet, agog.

“Indeed. The call was sounded early, and I was able to reach them at the crucial instant,” Thorn said. Enigmatically he added, “This time.”

He would say no more on the subject.

Thorn and Trenowyn having spoken, it was Diarmid's turn. Having dined with a prodigious appetite, he related the tale of the sacking of Chambord's Caravan, of their meeting with the Dainnan and subsequent wanderings through Mirrinor and Doundelding, and all that he could recall about the mines, prompted by Imrhien's handspeak. Silken Janet sat silent throughout, wide-eyed, too rapt to think of bringing a morsel to her lips. Few travelers ever passed through Rosedale—the words they were prepared to spare were fewer.

“Well!” she exclaimed when the tale was told. “Ain't never 'eard nothin' like it in all me born days! So, tha saw trows beyond Emmyn Vale, did tha? Ain't never been that far afield, but there's lots of trows 'ereabouts, ain't there, Da'?”

“Here? In Rosedale?” asked Diarmid.

“Aye, sir. Once, Da's cousin's family came to stay 'ere unexpectedlike, and there's six o' 'em, with four growed-up lads, and I was in such a tither findin' places for them to bed down and food for table that I clean forgot tae do some o' me tasks. The trows 'ave it that every hearth shall be swept clean on a sevennight, that no one shall be found near it, and above all that plenty o' clean water shall be found in 'ouse. All these things were neglected—I was dossed down near fireplace, 'avin' given me bed away, and when the trows paid their usual visit that night they got mighty enraged and made such a noise that I awoke. The guests were so drunk, they kept on sleepin', and Da' was snorin' away after 'ard day's work.

“Anyway, I wake up and what should I see but two trow-wives seating themselves not far from where I lay, and one with a lovely little baby on 'er knee. The one without t' baby sought for clean water but found none and revenged 'erself by takin' the first liquor she came across, which chanced tae be a keg o' swatts I 'ad a-steepin' in t' corner.

“Now, Sir Captain, tha would know what swatts is, bein' from Finvarna and all, but 'tis not a common drink in Eldaraigne.” Janet turned to Imrhien. “Da' and me, we 'ave a dish called sowens, which we make by steepin' oat-husks in water. When 'tis fermented a little, we boil it to make it ready to eat. But the water that covers sowens is called swatts. The trows poured some o' swatts in a basin and washed their baby in it, and then baby's clothes, and then poured the mess back into keg, sayin', ‘Tak ye dat for no haein' clean water ae da hoose.' They then sat down close by fire, hanging baby's clothes on their big feet, spreadin' their toes out before fire to dry t' garments in that way!”

Even Trenowyn's somber visage lightened at the picture Janet painted. Diarmid smiled and Thorn laughed; at his laughter, Janet's cheeks flushed. She resumed her tale with renewed enthusiasm.

“Now I was watchin' all this, and I knew that if I kept me eyes fixed on them, they could not go away. So I kept starin' and listenin' to their conversation in 'opes o' 'earin' somethin' worth rememberin'. But the trow-wives began tae fidget, bein' desirous o' departing before sunrise, and at last one o' them stuck tongs in fire and made 'em red hot! As soon as tongs became glowing, she seized 'em and, approachin' me, pointed a blade at each eye, grinnin' in the most 'ideous manner, while she brought t' tongs closer to me face. O' course I blinked and screamed, and the trows, takin' advantage of the moment when me eyes were closed, fled. Next mornin' when we all went to take sowens from the keg for breakfast, there was nothin' left but dirty water!”

“The trows are quick to take offense when housework is not done,” commented Janet's father, “but that is the only time such a thing has happened, and 'twas not the fault of my girl.”

“Tha's got to be careful with trows,” continued Janet, “for they'll sometimes carry off animals, or even men, women, or children, and leave in their stead some semblance, a seeming-thing. That 'appened 'ere once. One fine day, me da' got up to see 'ow the sun rose, for by that 'e can tell if 'twill be a fine day for the cartin', and goin' out to the side-gate, 'e saw two gray-clad boys traipsin' along the lane below the 'ouse. 'E thought they were with some travelers come by the mines, but when they came benigh 'ouse they left t' lane and went up to where our brindle cow Daisy was lyin' on grass. They walked up to Daisy's face, then turned away again, running, and cow ran, too, following as far as her tether would stretch. I came to t' gate then, and I swear I saw all three run up the 'ill and right over top. But when we went to look on the grass, Daisy was still there. She died that same day, so 'tis clear the trows took the real one and 'twas but a Seeming that was left to die.”

“Aye,” said her father, “but there was worse than that from the hill-tings, before.” He and his daughter exchanged glances. Janet nodded, shuddering. “One Winter night,” said Trenowyn, “I was away from home on a short journey. When I was returning across the hills in the darkness and had got down close to the outer gate, I met a gang of trows carrying a bundle between them. I had a kind of strange feeling as I looked at that bundle, but I allowed them to pass and hurried on toward the cottage.