A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1)
Read A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1) Online
Authors: Freda Warrington
Copyright © 1986, 1992, 2004, 2008, 2015 Freda Warrington
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover design by Freda Warrington
Bloodwine Books 2015
is lovingly dedicated to my Mum and Dad, Keren and Storm… who believed.
About the Blackbird Series
There are five novels so far in this weird and wonderful sword-and-sorcery epic, now available for the first time in Kindle. To be read in the following order:
Book One: A Blackbird in Silver
Book Two: A Blackbird in Darkness
Book Three: A Blackbird in Amber
Book Four: A Blackbird in Twilight
Book Five: Darker than the Storm
Books One and Two form a pair that tell a complete story, while Books Three and Four, also a pair, comprise the sequel. Darker than the Storm is a separate but connected novel about Prince Ashurek that takes place between Books Two and Three, so it could be read in the middle if you prefer. Further information in the Author’s Note at the end.
Some reviews of Freda Warrington’s work
Freda Warrington is the author of twenty-one novels of fantasy, alternative history, gothic vampire romance, and the supernatural. Elfland won the Romantic Times Award for Best Fantasy Novel (2009), Dracula the Undead won the Dracula Society’s Award for Best Gothic Novel (1997), and Midsummer Night was among the American Library Association’s Top Ten Fantasy Novels of 2010. Here are some reactions to her various books:
“By far the best mainstream fantasy I’ve read this year.” – Waterstone’s Magazine
“She writes expertly and her characterisation is complex and convincing.” – Starburst
“A glittering treasure trove and a stunning read.” – Tanith Lee
“Storytelling that takes you where you don’t expect to go, and that exquisite sense of wonder that makes the heart of this old reader sing.” – Charles de Lint
“The plot is complex, often shifting unexpectedly, and leaves you wondering what’ll happen next. That you also worry about the characters is a mark of Warrington’s fine writing.” – SFX
IF YOU ENJOY THIS BOOK, PLEASE WRITE A REVIEW!
More books, news and author information:
Sample Chapter of A Blackbird in Darkness
About The Court of the Midnight King: A Dream of Richard III
In a different universe from this there is a spherical world through which circle three flat planes. The world is quite unlike ours; not so much in the nature of the two vast continents that lie on its crust, nor in the great slate-blue oceans that foam ceaselessly around their edges, nor in the two white moons that arc like twin, perfect opals across the night sky; but in the existence of the three strange planes. Each is flat and infinite, existing in its own dimension but circling round and through the Earth on its silent, mystical orbit. The White Plane Hrannekh Ol, the Black Plane Hrunnesh, the Blue Plane H’tebhmella. They are an intrinsic part of Earth and yet apart from it; they can only be reached through Entrance Points, invisible gates to other dimensions. But as the Planes circle, so do the Entrance Points shift and change. They are elusive, almost impossible to track and find. At the same time, as they move on their blind impassive course, they may swallow creatures unawares, trapping them in the arid White Plane or lightless Hrunnesh, with no chance of finding an equally elusive Exit Point back to Earth.
But most know little of the Planes, and nor do they care. Only the occasional traveller might glance at sun-silvered clouds blowing tattered across a crystal-blue sky, and thrill with a vague longing to find an Entrance Point to the exquisite Blue Plane H’tebhmella. Part of the Earth, untouchable as the sky. The traveller sighs and goes on.
And should our traveller choose not to wend his way home, but to skim at speed above the Earth’s surface, he would see spread below him the great western continent of Tearn. There landscapes of hills and rivers, forests and cities lie in rich profusion, a chaotic tapestry of brown, green and silver. The countries there are anarchic and disunited, containing a great diversity of people and many wonders of nature.
Leaving Tearn and speeding across the Western Ocean, the traveller glimpses isolated green islands to the North: Forluin, Maerna and Ohn, inhabited by a gentle, fair race. But the isles are small and insignificant, quickly forgotten as the coast of the eastern continent approaches. Its name is Vardrav, though it is more usually called the Gorethrian Empire. It is a vast, exotic land of purple mountains fringed by lush emerald jungles; deserts of burning gold and torrential white rivers; vistas of black volcanoes edged with red fire. Many races live there, proud, fierce and warlike yet all unable to break free from subjugation by one powerful nation. This terrible country on the western coast of Vardrav is Gorethria, shimmering like a black opal under torn violet and orange skies.
Turning north, the traveller arcs towards the frozen ocean on the roof of the world. The North Pole is a merciless domain of snowfields, glaciers, biting storms and avalanches. Yet unexpected forests spring up there, unexpected creatures erupt from the ground, crawl on the snow for a while, and burrow again. Weird fires and lights hover on the horizon. Few venture there. That anything inhabits the North Pole is only a myth, our traveller knows; but still nothing would induce him to pause and verify what he may have glimpsed. Faster than ever he continues his swift circuit of the Earth towards the South Pole.
The tiny Antarctic continent is mountainous and barren, a cold, harsh land where the dull terrain is streaked with snow and darkness falls for six months at a time. The traveller would not guess that anyone lives in this unwelcoming land, still less that they receive a steady trickle of visitors from all parts of the world throughout the year. But at the Pole a small valley drops unexpectedly between brown bluffs of rock with granite buttresses leaping up from them into massive hills. A spring runs from a rock near the top of the concealed valley, becoming a flat silver stream that bubbles into little cataracts of white foam where it hits a rock here, an inlet there. Some hardy trees fringe the water, their bronzes and browns melting into a faint mist around the stream and the dark rocks. And on the bank a shadowy shape can be seen, something so old that it seems to have fused with the rocks, or even grown out of them. Cupped in the valley, at the very South Pole, stands an ancient house. It is built of stone and is square and unadorned, with two storeys, a sloping slate roof and many windows. In the light season, people sit around its door and on the stream’s bank, while others come and go on foot or on horseback. In the dark season, its windows flicker eternally with yellow firelight, welcoming guests from the icy hills. If our imaginary traveller could choose to stay here, he would.
It is a house where the weary come for rest, where the wise come to argue philosophy and science, where the uncertain come for advice, and where champions come to find companions in their causes. Its keeper is reputedly the oldest man on Earth; his name is Eldor.
He has never given his house a name, but it has come to be called the House of Rede.
On the night on which the Quest of the Serpent was begun, the light season was drawing to its close. A greyish twilight lay on the hills, turning the snow patches to splashes of luminous white, while the valley deepened to shades of slate, agate, dark silver and black. The square shadow that was the House melted back into the bluffs, but its windows shone as squares of gold. A solitary horseman cloaked in black heard the clatter of a mounted party echoing on the hills behind him and spurred his horse to a canter to avoid riding with company.
He rode down a narrow pass between steep rock walls, until at length he was crossing the valley floor. Reaching the stone bulk of the House he dismounted, tethering his horse where the groom would find and attend to it. At the heavy oak door he paused, fingering a chain of fine steel that hung round his neck. He drew the black hood of his cloak over his strangely-fashioned helm, placed one long-fingered dark hand on his sword hilt, and entered.
Within the large stone porch, a woman greeted him. She was silver-haired but unbowed by age, her tall form clad in a long grey robe with a sleeveless tabard of white wool over it. She was Dritha, Eldor’s wife.
‘Welcome to our house. It is cold on the hills, but you will find it warm in the hall. May I take your cloak?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you,’ the man replied. He looked around the porch at the torches flickering on the walls, drawing a soft glow from the dull grey stone. ‘I shall not be staying long.’
‘But you have travelled such a long way,’ said Dritha, her keen, ancient eyes giving the feeling that she knew everything about him. He was tall and thin, but his face was hidden by the hood.
‘Aye, a very long way,’ he said grimly. ‘Is Eldor here? Can I see him?’
‘He is at table, but if you go in, he will come to you as soon as he sees you.’ The thin warrior did not reply, but continued to stare at her. ‘If you would prefer to wait in private –’ she began, but at that moment the mounted party rode talking and laughing past the door.
‘No. It doesn’t matter,’ he said, making for the great wooden door of the hall. The riders were nothing to do with him and he wanted no contact with them. Turning abruptly away from Dritha he entered the hall where he could become anonymous among the other guests.
With a bitter smile he reflected that anonymity was something he had forfeited long ago. That was a price paid for being feared and loathed the world over.
The dining hall was a large room, brightly lit by two great fires and many torches and candles. Its centre was dominated by a long table at which a chaotic meal was taking place. About thirty people were seated along the benches, though there was room for many more. The warrior did not join them but seated himself in a dark corner next to one of the great fireplaces. From there he studied the assembled guests.
At the head of the table sat Eldor himself, discussing metaphysical matters with four sages gathered around him. There were always scholars of some description at the House of Rede. Then there were fifteen or so seafarers, big, pale men typical of Morrenland in Southern Tearn, their blue leggings, tunics and short cloaks bleached almost white by salt. They were jovial and rowdy, calling out for more bread, beer and wine. Two women and a young man were waiting at table, their long robes showing that they were members of Eldor’s household.
Further down the table, to the warrior’s surprise, were five Forluinish people, three men and two women. He had never seen anyone from Forluin before – they were reputed to leave their land very rarely – but even by word of mouth they were unmistakable. They had an aura, an extreme beauty and a gentle grace of movement that set them apart. They spoke little but sat close together, as if they were one person, not five.
At the very end of the table, nearest to the warrior himself, was a woman sitting alone. She was white-faced and black-haired, her small and slender form clad in travel-worn grey riding clothes. An air of isolation and misery hung about her. Her expression was grim.
A servant came by and offered the warrior a goblet of wine. So far no one else seemed to have noticed him. He sat quietly, twisting the goblet between his fingers. It was of a curious design. The stem was the body of a serpent carved in silver, with a gaping mouth; and in its fangs it held the cup, which was in the form of a human head with the face twisted into such fearful agony that it was impossible to tell whether it was male or female. A serpent swallowing a human head. Very pleasant, thought the warrior, and drained the wine at one gulp.
He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of coming into the hall, and wished he had waited in private as Dritha had suggested. He was exhausted, world-weary. Why had he come here at all? He watched as one of the Forluinish, a silver-fair girl, leaned forward and addressed a few words to the solitary black-haired woman. Her attempt at friendliness was ignored. The warrior’s depression deepened. The Forluinish had a reputation as the gentlest, most joyful and laughter-loving race on Earth, but there was an air of despondency about them that cloaked the whole room. They disturbed him; the woman disturbed him. He began to think that the best idea was to return to the hired ship that had brought him here, and set sail at once.
Then Eldor noticed him, and gave a nod and a small sign of greeting. Still he made no move to come over to the warrior; a loud discussion broke out among the Morrenish sailors and this commanded his attention.
‘–so, Master Eldor, we tacked about and came straight here,’ one of the sailors was saying, raising his voice above the argument of the others.
‘It was a stupid impulse. The Captain panicked. These things happen,’ said another sourly.
‘These things do not just happen! Ships do not just vanish!’ the first exclaimed, but Eldor stood up and raised a hand to quiet them. He was a tall and solidly-built man, the contours of his massive frame softened by a long, shapeless white robe tied in with a cord at the waist. His old face, with its high forehead and broad nose had a weather-beaten, dauntless look like a sky that remains untroubled by any number of storms. It was framed by dishevelled white hair and a beard, and his grey eyes had the same shrewd and kindly expression as his wife’s. When he spoke, everyone listened.
‘So, you say that you were accompanying a merchant ship around the coast of Morrenland – and that ship vanished before your eyes, and could not have sunk?’
‘It might have sunk. It was a long way ahead of our vessel,’ said the second sailor morosely.
‘It did not sink!’ insisted the first.
‘All the same, I say it was a complete waste of time coming to the House of Rede–’ the argument began again, but Eldor silenced them.
‘Please. You are both right; these things do happen, and ships may be lost without sinking. What happened is that the ship encountered an Entrance Point, and passed through to one of the Planes. It is a tragedy, but there is absolutely nothing you or I can do about it; that is all I can tell you. So, perhaps you have wasted your time in coming here.’
‘Not at all. Your hospitality has made the journey well worth it,’ one of the other sailors put in, and the rest laughed.
‘Is that all you can say, Master Eldor?’ the first persisted. ‘I still say there’s more to it. Everyone insists that the Serpent M’gulfn does not exist, but in Morrenland we have a different tradition.’
‘Oh, shut up, can’t you. Have some more wine,’ muttered one of the other sailors, but the man continued determinedly.
‘We know it does exist, thanks to a monarch of several hundred years ago who had the arrogance to try and slay it. There’s a nautical belief that the Serpent causes adverse weather conditions. It’s treated more as a joke in these days; but I think there’s truth behind it. Couldn’t the Serpent have had something to do with that ship’s disappearance?’
The warrior sat forward, eagerly awaiting the answer. One of the Forluinishmen had put his head in his hands, and the silver-haired woman was doing her best to comfort him. But Eldor hesitated, looked apologetic, and said lamely, ‘On that I cannot comment. It’s very unlikely – most unlikely.’
The warrior sat back, angered. Was this all the great, wise Eldor had to offer? Disgusted, he cast the empty goblet aside and made his way to the door.
Immediately Eldor pushed back his chair and strode past the long table to intercept him.
‘Prince Ashurek,’ said the sage, staying his hand from the latch. ‘Forgive that unfortunate interruption. Please do not leave until we have had a chance to talk.’
The warrior stared at him. ‘Is my identity so obvious?’
‘I have been expecting you. Won’t you come and sit down again?’
Sighing, Ashurek returned to his place near the hearth, and Eldor sat beside him. Noticing that they were now receiving uneasy glances from the other guests, the warrior said, ‘Listen, if you would rather I did not stay, I will leave at once. I was told to come here for advice, but it does not matter; I do not want there to be any trouble.’