The Bitterbynde Trilogy (192 page)

‘My people title him
unicorn
,' he said.

In Rosedale the briars bloomed out of season, powdering the entire valley with a profusion of pink and white rosettes, dainty as kittens' paws. How different Erith looked, seen from above, as the sun's eye saw it. Forest leaves reached to the source of light, spreading their arms so as to receive its fullest out-pourings. Tender shoots of palest green and gold hid the old and faded bark below.

The swan-girls of Mirrinor gathered around Ashalind and Angavar like dark flowers, as in a boat of glass the couple skimmed the placid lakes or stood balanced on the water before slowly sinking together into the diaphanous world of the asrai.

The laval meres of Tapthartharath scorched them not, and they flew among the black spires, immune to vapours and noxious gases arising from that desert landscape.

Flying itself was a source of hilarity. Far from the eyes of courtiers—indeed, out of range of human vision—the fliers tumbled on aerial currents as pups play on a lawn. Free from gravity's constraint and garbed in the woodland
dusken
of the Dainnan, Ashalind learned how to somersault in the air, how to make loops, dives, steep turns, rolls and other aerobatic manoeuvres. She was a child again. Not since the age of ten, a millennium ago, had she indulged in such foolishness. Never had she been abetted by such an accomplice in frolicsome absurdity, lawless in the streaming air, a dance partner whose beauty made her weak.

Errantry looked on with a frigid eye. To raptors, flight was a livelihood.

‘I would like to remain in levity always,' said Ashalind, floating with Angavar among the outermost leaves of an oak. ‘Gravity is too grave a condition.'

‘Alas, thy race is not designed for constant lightness,' he said. ‘Their bones lose density, their sinews shrink. In idleness, the mortal heart shrivels.'

‘Then I call it a shame!' said Ashalind, swimming in deep-green, scalloped foliage. ‘Yet it matters not, if I may fly with thee sometimes.'

‘Where next?' inquired Angavar.

‘To Tiriendor, now. I would fain see that fair forest in Autumn, as I shall always love it best.'

In Tiriendor, the liquidambars were formed from jewels of light showered from the sunset, and the oaks were hung with balconies of bronze. The air had a dreamlike cast, as if a haze of gold dust floated through the trees. Bright leaves bubbled past, whirling, escaping in sudden outbreaks from the boughs, glimmering and whispering in the sunlight. They lay on the ground, palms upturned and empty, like begging hands. Wild quinces ripened on their boughs like gold-green lanterns, and scarlet-capped toadstools resembling goblins' caps thrust up from the mold.

This time, brambles failed to catch at Ashalind's apparel. Briars and thorns waved themselves aside. Nor did animals and birds flee—on the contrary, they came willingly to Angavar's hand, docile and unafraid. Some, he called to his side; others came seeking him. Timid fawns and wary wolves, gentle doves, falcons, bears, squirrels—all approached him with trust, seeking his caress. Even the white moths of eventide fluttered in circlets above his head, crowning his dark beauty with cold flames flickering palely.

‘Why did the animals not gather thus when first we passed this way?'

‘I bade them stand aloof. Wouldst thou not have suspected a Dainnan with a retinue of wild creatures?'

‘I suspected thee nonetheless!' she answered with a smile.

More flocks of swanmaidens visited them, and the baobhansith in great numbers, and wights of every kind. Few had discovered the true identity of Erith's erstwhile King-Emperor. His Royal glamour had remained too strong, impenetrable. Those few that had learned of it had heard the truth from the Unseelie Attriod, who had been apprised of it by the Fithiach.

Seelie or unseelie meant nothing to the Faêran, who had naught to fear from wights. Whereas a mortal King might have punished them, Angavar had made no reprisal against those of the Unseelie Host who had answered Morragan's Call. According to Faêran Code they had done no wrong. It was neither treasonous for wights to gather at the summons of a Faêran Prince, nor criminal for them to harry mortals and assail them. Customarily, the Faêran did not concern themselves with dealings between wights and mortals.

While fulfilling his pledge to protect the Empire, and when fighting his way through wight-invaded Isse Tower to find Ashalind, Angavar had ridden against the Unseelie Host. Yet the greater part of the wights who had been defeated at the hands of Angavar and his knights bore no malice against their conquerors. Even the Waelghast, once Chieftain of the Unseelie Hosts, had challenged Angavar out of pride only, and a perverse desire for sport, no matter how perilous. They might at times provoke an engagement with the Faêran, for it was in their nature to be battle-hungry, but it was nigh impossible for wights of eldritch to nourish hostility towards them. There were, perhaps, exceptions to this rule amongst the remaining lords of the Unseelie Attriod, but they were now scattered.

Underground they passed, Angavar and Ashalind, with their Faêran retinue. Below the graves and sarcophagi of men, they visited caverns of the Fridean, and the workings and delvings of knockers and eldritch miners. Everywhere, diminutive fellows crowded around, laying down their picks and shovels, bowing low in awe.

‘Is it
hisself? Hisself
indeed!' they twittered amongst themselves, drawn irresistibly by the presence of the Faêran King.

To the land of the fells their Skyhorses flew. The true wolves of Ravenstonedale, beautiful and dignified, approached the Faêran King and his companion with timid grace. They offered no hurt, and even proudly brought their cubs to show to the visitors. It seemed they had complete trust in Faêrankind—faith enough to accept Ashalind's presence with merely a sniff of query.

‘In the manner of their species,' said Angavar, fondling the ears of a playful cub, ‘they are not wont to prey on thy race. Their howls are not the voicing of hunger and blood lust, but a communication between their kindred. The fireside legends humans spin amongst themselves do great injustice to the wolves. They hunt for food, play with their young and dwell in harmony with the forest.' He laughed. ‘As merciless killers, they cannot begin to approach the achievements of humanity!'

Plundered of their Faêran-wrought treasures, the halls under Waterstair stood empty. They echoed to strands of mortal and Faêran laughter that intertwined like chains of field-daisies and stars.

‘Verily,' confirmed Angavar, ‘this treasure was wrought by my people during the Golden Era. Before we went under the hills to lie down in the Pendur Sleep, we hid it away. The writing on the portal—these are the words of the swan-music riddle. If the word “swan” is spoken aloud in the Faêran tongue, the doors will open.'

‘True Thomas was able to translate the riddle for us,' said Ashalind. ‘Do swans indeed sing as they fly? I have been a swan. I did not notice it.'

‘Thou hast not been a true swan, Goldhair. The feathers of true swans possess unusual properties, and make a poignant music as they glide through the air,' said Angavar. ‘But not all ears are able to hear it.'

Above mountains Ashalind floated with her lover, and across sunset seascapes. They drifted over the riven snowscapes of Rimany, the filatures of Severnesse, the crocus fields of Luindorn, the wild shores of Finvarna and Avlantia's ruined and forsaken cities.

In the long, long rays of equinoctial radiance, it seemed forever to be the beginning of a golden day. The sun glided low in the northern sky, mellow and amber, sweet as a honeyed peach, its attenuated beams casting spindly shadows across the land. Low-angled, the light was richly tinted. The season brought not the hard white-gold of Summer hammering straight down from the noon arc, but soft, malleable bars of yellow-gold which speared slantwise through the trees. They changed every leaf into a sliver of stained glass, panes of old gold, blood-garnet and russet, and they painted each tree with translucent gilt on one side, freckled shadow on the other. Eternal morning reigned in that long, low, corn-yellow light—Autumn Evermorn.

As the season's glory deepened, they returned to the bustle of Caermelor.

In the solar of the palace a pile of logs and pine cones burned in the grate of a fireplace luxuriantly carved with the arms and supporters of Eldaraigne. The walls of the solar gleamed with a faint gold tinge emitted by the chromium compound which had been mixed with the plaster. Against this lily sheen the tapestries stood out in startling, brilliant colours.

Two brindled greyhounds lounged on the patterned hearthrug, wearing strong collars of rubies. Near them stood a small inlaid table of oak, with a chess set of jasper and onyx disposed on top of it. On another table squatted a jewel casket with etched and filigreed lock-plates, its matching keys lying carelessly alongside. Forests of candles blazed in chandeliers and atop tall candelabra.

A footman stood to attention, bearing a silken cushion. A musician leaned upon a high stool, dreamily plucking the strings of a great golden harp. Notes rained from it like frozen tears of the sun, for the young sovereign was present in the solar, and he was rarely without music.

Viviana and Caitri sat in the window niche, busy at embroidery and whispers. Edward had consented—with a distracted wave of his hand as though they were may-flies he brushed away—to their remaining seated in his presence. A roseate glow silhouetted the demure profiles of the two girls. Beyond the embrasure, the sky seemed slashed and split like a ripe persimmon. The red light of sunset streamed in, clear shafts; elongated crystals of ruby. The uncrowned King-Emperor, Edward, stood resting an elbow against the mantelpiece. Moodily, he ran the toe of his boot along one of the fire-irons. Beside him stood Ashalind.

‘Prithee look at this, Edward,' she was saying. ‘What is your judgement? Do you think it will be to my lord's taste?'

Edward turned his attention to the small, glittering circle in her upturned palm. He took it between thumb and forefinger. The outer wall of the band was worked cunningly with a pattern of eagles' feathers entwined with seabirds' plumes. On the inner side were engraved the words ‘I love thee'.

‘It is a noble thing,' the young King-Emperor commented, examining it closely. ‘Excellent work. One would expect no less from the Royal Goldsmith.'

‘I gave him my white bird bracelet to be melted down,' explained Ashalind, touching her wrist where the ornament used to encircle it. ‘“This gold is only twelve carats,” said he to me. “When it is purified there will be less metal to work with.” “Enough for a ring?” I asked. “In sooth,” said he.'

‘But your bracelet!' protested the scion of D'Armancourt, handing back the ring. ‘Did you not tell me 'twas your father's gift?'

Ashalind slipped the ring into a small pouch of green velvet, tied with gold ribbon.

‘Yes, but you see, Edward, it was the only article in my possession which my lord has not given me. My father would not think it amiss. To me, the value of the bracelet extends far beyond its material worth. I desired some rare thing to give my betrothed in token of our vow. And the ring possesses a secret. Pressed snugly within an internal conduit are three strands of my hair.'

‘How inventive,' said Edward, scrutinising the flames.

The harp stilled. An unfamiliar silence stalked the solar.

‘Play,' Edward said over his shoulder. Instantly the musician's hands found business.

‘Your birthday approaches so quickly,' said Ashalind, finding cheery words to dispel the discomfort which seemed inexplicably to have arisen. To gain the age of sixteen and to be crowned King-Emperor on the self-same day—what a momentous day for you.'

Good sooth!
she thought.
I myself am not much older. There is no great number of years between us. Or maybe a thousand
…

‘Have you seen your latest gifts?' she continued hastily, hoping to smooth his furrowed brow with lively chatter. ‘There are so many, they have been forced to store some of them in the Upper Wardrobe.'

‘People are generous,' he murmured. ‘As we speak, a gift that I have commissioned for you is being crafted. 'Twill be something else not given you by Angavar.'

‘What is it? Tell me, prithee!'

‘A gift to suit you perfectly. A looking-glass …'

She caught her breath, coughed discreetly behind her hand to cover it. There had been that in his tone, and in the way he lowered his head, darting a quick glance at her, which suggested some hidden meaning. But then he looked away.

‘There he is,' squeaked Viviana, letting her embroidery fall and pointing out the window. Both maids craned forward to look into the grounds below. A captain of the Royal Guard strode past. Glancing up, he saluted briefly, giving a wry smile.

‘Your heart's out the window, Vivi,' said Ashalind. ‘You may follow it if you wish, but use the stair.'

‘May I?'

‘Of course! You too, Cait.'

The two damsels curtsied gracefully and exited the solar. As they did so, a page in Royal livery entered, dropping to one knee in front of Edward.

‘Speak,' the young man said brusquely.

‘Your Imperial Majesty, I bring greetings from Lady Rosamonde of Roxburgh, who awaits in the antechamber.'

‘Gramercie, Griflet. I shall call for her anon.' Edward waved the page away. ‘Anon.'

‘Pray excuse me, Edward,' said Ashalind, clutching the green velvet bag. ‘There are matters to which I must attend.' She curtsied.

‘Queens do not curtsy,' he said. A roughness edged his voice.

The blood rose to her cheeks.

‘I am not yet a queen. You, now, are my King-Emperor, my sovereign.'

He did not reply, but took her hand, kissed it and nodded. As she went out the door, he turned back to the fireplace.

Ashalind descended the spiral stairs and followed a darkening hallway. Her footsteps seemed to echo, which was odd, because rich carpets covered the wooden floors. The echoes slowed, although her pace did not slacken. She stopped in her tracks. Something familiar lurked nearby. She could smell it.