The Bitterbynde Trilogy (89 page)

‘You say you will not betray me?'

‘La! I am cut to the quick!'

‘What do you want in return?'

‘More and more ungracious! Really! Do you suggest that I want payment? Friends do not buy and sell, but gifts are often passed from one to the other.'

‘Take my entire wardrobe. Take everything I own in the Treasury.'

‘Pshaw! How should it look, if I were to be seen dressed in your hand-me-downs?'

‘Dianella, I need, more than ever now, to retain the influence of my position, if only until the King-Emperor returns. I shall leave Court at first light on the morrow, only to come back one last time for an audience with His Majesty. After that you shall see me nevermore.'

‘A wise decision on your part, Dearest Heart.'

Omitting the courtesies of leave-taking, Dianella sallied from the room with a swish of baudekyn and a clash of implements. Typically, she tossed a parting shot over her shoulder: ‘Have your maid bring me the costumes now. And the keys to your caskets.'

Rohain rang for Viviana.

‘I intend to make an excursion from Court,' she told the courtier, carefully keeping her tone level. ‘Have a letter dispatched to Isse Tower. Inform them, at the Seventh House of the Stormriders, to make ready—the Lady Rohain of Arcune sends greetings. She is coming from Caermelor Palace to sojourn for a time.'

Her heart felt wrung out like a blood-soaked mop. Now that Dianella had exiled her from Court, she had indeed lost Thorn forever.

Night drew in around Caermelor Palace. Rohain sat gazing drearily into a gold-backed looking-glass framed with ivory and mother-of-pearl. She wondered whether strange visions would trouble her this night, and whether she would wake in fear. Once, back in the cottage of Maeve, she had dreamed of three gentle, loving faces: those of a woman, a man, and a boy-child. Later there had been the Dream of the Rats. Both of these fragments had borne the hallmark of truth—she could not doubt that they were memories in disguise. It was only since Maeve had laid hands upon Rohain that her repose had begun to be disturbed by such images. She suspected something else must have happened at that time, when her face and speech had been restored. The restoration, perhaps, had acted as a catalyst for the beginning of a gradual arousing of memory. In Gilvaris Tarv, Ethlinn had once explained,
<>

Rohain whispered to her reflection, ‘My own once-familiar face … when I looked upon you, in the mirror of the one-eyed carlin, the sight sparked off an opening of closed doors.'

That night, through a chink in one of those doors, there issued a third dream—that of the White Horse.

It was under her, running, the horse—the apotheosis of swiftness and freedom. All was speed, all exhilaration. The wind roared in her ears, the ground passed swiftly by below—were the hooves even touching it? She laughed aloud, but a shape fell out of the sky beating its wings, dark against the sun. It dashed in close—too close—and the laughter turned to screams, but the horse itself was screaming and it was a night mare, because the horizon spun through weightlessness that gathered in the pit of her stomach and rose to her gorge, then the hillside came up with a smack and became a spear of white-hot iron that burned through the bone of her leg and she was screaming …

Dreams, memories—perhaps she had been better off without them.

4

THE TOWER

Hunt and Heart's Desire

The twelve mighty Houses from Belfry to Fairlaise
,

From Worthing to Outreme, where thunderstorms breed
,

Command the four winds on the highest of highways
.

The wings of the thoroughbred glory in speed
.

V
ERSE FROM
‘S
ONG OF THE
S
TORMRIDERS
'

Uhta
: the hour before dawn. Tidings arrived by carrier pigeon as the Windclipper
Harper's Carp
was being rigged for takeoff. A Dainnan Windship had captured a black pirate brig lurking in the Lofty Mountains, and seized much booty.

Desperate and bloody had been the struggle. Few of the reivers had been taken alive. Those who fell had been abandoned, to be devoured by the strange mouths of the forest.

Winches rattled. Screws rotated. The wooden fish figurehead seemed to leap. As the crew vigorously onhebbed the andalum hull-plates, the Royal Bard's personal clipper began to rise, leaning her silhouette elegantly into the wind. For those on board there was no feeling of motion forward or upward—rather the impression that the Mooring Mast was leaving the ship and the launch-crew was sinking away below.

Caermelor Palace dwindled. Spreading her canvas wings, the
Harper's Carp
lifted like a long-billed crane through the clouds until she reached cruising altitude. After the first ascent there was no sense of height. The carpet of mist below appeared close and solid, beckoning the passengers to tread upon it. The Windship's shadow skipped along down there, a trick of light-interference painting a coloured halo around the keel.

Like a thimbleful of bubbles in the sky, the
Harper's Carp
sailed north along the coastline. By Windship, this journey was almost nine hundred miles. By Seaship across the mouth of the Gulf of Mara the distance would have been considerably shorter. Ercildoune, however, had insisted that Rohain take his private aircraft instead of buying passage on a merchant Seaship, claiming it would provide greater security from eldritch assailants. For the Bard, who was busy with political matters and frequently closeted for hours in discussion with members of the royal council, she had contrived an excuse for visiting Isse Tower: ‘Court is become so dull of late, and I should like to behold with my own eyes one of the famous outposts of the Stormriders.'

The captain had no qualms about sailing at night, and so they reached their destination in only four days. Late on the fourth day a jagged stalk began to grow from the horizon, enlarging until it became Isse Tower, fantastically tall, crowned with prongs, its dark shape cutting the sky in half.

A brass trumpet blared—the watchman's signal. Two or three Skyhorses circled like flies against the raw wound of the western sky. When the sea-breeze had settled, the winches began their keening. The Windship was onhebbed down to the docking stair on the west side, one hundred and twelve feet above ground level. The crew flung out lines. Slowly she was hauled in to her mooring against the Tower's shelf.

Once, a grotesque servant had fled from here—nameless, mute, destitute, despised. Now she had returned, Imrhien-Rohain, to the only home she could remember.

As she descended the gangplank on the captain's arm, a young man in Stormrider uniform greeted her. Hard-faced was he, with the predatory look of a vulture. His hair was severely plastered against his skull and bound at the nape of his neck, his taltry was brazenly thrown back. Here stood Lord Ustorix, Son of the House, the Chieftain's heir, who had once been one of her tormentors.

Ustorix met the arrivals with a deep bow and a calm formality at odds with his demeanor, for his gestures evinced intense excitement and the tension in his face betrayed a desperate covetousness. At his shoulder crowded numerous other Tower gentlefolk in black and silver, led by Ustorix's sister Heligea, herself wide-eyed at the sight of this urbane newcomer.

To the Tower-dwellers, Rohain appeared the paradigm of courtiers. Prudently, she had kept aside half a dozen costumes when she handed over her wardrobe to Dianella. She was dressed in a fur-lined houppelande tightly fitting to the waist, patterned all over with a stitched motif of artichokes and vine-leaves on a ground of dark blue velvet. Dagged sleeves sweeping the ground were folded back to flaunt undersleeves of gold tisshew on deep red velvet, tight to the wrist. Three aerial feathers sprouted from her fur taltry-turban. Her cloak of ciclatoune was fastened at the shoulder by a gold filigree agraffe. From her jeweled girdle depended a sharp-bladed anlace in a decorated sheath, a gold tilhal in the shape of a rooster, whose eyes were pink rubies, and a fringed aulmoniere containing a certain swan's feather.

Two rows of bowing Tower footmen in mustard-and-silver livery lined the corridor from the gatehall of disembarkation. Servants swarmed deferentially. The honoured visitor from Caermelor and her retinue were guided into a wrought-iron lift-cage. Ustorix stood near enough to his guest that nausea overswept her, caused by the familiar odour of his sweat and its past associations. Fighting her illness, she smiled at him, taking note of the way he trembled and flushed. She thought it an interesting effect, as though she brandished a weapon.

‘Of course, my father, Lord Voltasus, is in the north, fighting at the King-Emperor's side,' he was saying, waving a gloved hand. ‘I am master here during his absence. My lady mother is on a visit to my sister at the Fifth House, in Finvarna. Yet fear not, all has been made ready for Your Ladyship's arrival, although word of your visit arrived but two days since. Pray pardon my boldness if I say that the messenger who delivered it neglected to declare that the visitor would be the fairest flower of the Court. He shall suffer for the omission,' he added, executing a swaggering bow from which his visitor happened to glance away.

‘No doubt,' he continued, ‘Your Ladyship has long desired to admire at first hand the strength of the Seventh House, the magnificence of Isse Tower, forever acclaimed in the accolades of bards.'

‘No doubt.'

Parochial, supercilious man
! she thought.
Do you believe the world has nothing better to do than drone endlessly in praise of Stormriders
?

‘Be assured, Your Ladyship shall not be disappointed.'

‘I am certain of that.'

High expectations are a necessary prerequisite of disappointment
.

The lift-keeper stopped the cage at Floor Thirty-seven, where Ustorix solicitously offered to hand his guest from the cage. Her hands, however, were occupied with lifting the hem of the velvet houppelande. She stepped scrupulously through the door.

‘My lady might wish to rest … shall be conducted to your quarters … obliged if you should sit by my right hand at dinner …' The words tumbled out of Ustorix's mouth like fried onion rings—well-oiled, pungent, and hollow. It appeared the Son of the Seventh House waged an inner battle that pitched his innate arrogance against a desire to present himself in what he considered a flatteringly humble manner. He bestowed a second lavish bow. His sister Heligea curtsied. With a brusque nod—she could not bring herself to make polite obeisance to this kindred—Rohain, accompanied by Viviana and a bevy of upper level servants, left them and entered her designated chambers.

It seemed that the more she scorned Ustorix the more he adored her. Deference would have encouraged his contempt, but ill-usage attracted respect. He, like most bullies, must exist either as a boot-heel to crush, or a doormat to be trodden upon.

At dinner Rohain shone like a peacock among crows—and the crows hung on her every word, copied her every gesture. They presumed that everything she did was the epitome of the latest mode. Of course, they said among themselves, she must be conversant with the latest trends—she had been dwelling at Court. What endeared her to them further was that there was no indecorous laughter from this fashionable courtier, no overt show of emotion to offend their stoicism. A complete model of detachment, she displayed admirable aloofness. Furthermore, she was wealthy, titled, and beautiful into the bargain.

The Greayte Banqueting Hall on Floor Thirty-one seemed small and austere after the glitter of Court. Rohain scrutinized every dish, insisting on learning the name of the cook who was responsible for each. The dishes were numerous, designed to impress. Most she waved aside, barely glancing at them. Beckoning her maid to lean closer, she whispered, ‘I advise you to partake of nothing prepared by the hands of the cook named Rennet Thighbone. I know he never checks the vegetables for snails. He also cleans his filthy fingernails by kneading pastry, and spits into the sauces—and those are not the worst of his habits.'

‘Gramercie, m'lady. With gladness I take this advice.'

‘The masters of this place are unaware of it,' added Rohain.

Ustorix fawned, pouring out blandishments. He began intentionally addressing Rohain with the archaic forms ‘thee' and ‘thou', whose meaning had evolved from olden times to convey the close association of brotherhood, as between high-ranking Stormriders—or an intimacy of affection, such as between lovers.

‘May I tempt thee with a slice of pigeon pie, my lady? The pastry looks interesting—spiced, I fancy, by the spotted look of it. Or perhaps thou wouldst prefer to taste of this dish of cabbage with, I think, rather charming raisins—or baked leveret glazed with quinces and a little of this excellent foaming sauce?'

Rohain said softly to Viviana, ‘Tell Lord Ustorix's page to instantly inform his master that it is hardly appropriate to address me with such familiarity.'

The message having reached its destination, the heir of the House upset his wine in startled mortification, thus adding to his distress. Both he and the page blushed to their ears. Ustorix kicked the lad, sending him sprawling, and bawled a petulant criticism at a passing steward.

The sauce foamed in its pewter boat. Avoiding it, Rohain sipped the fern-green wine, whose flavour had probably been beneficially influenced by the presence of moss-frogs in the cellars.

‘My Lord,' Rohain remarked conversationally, turning the twin weapons of her glance on Ustorix, ‘the fact that Stormriders possess nerves of steel is well-known.'

‘Of course, my lady. As Riders we are born to it. Courage flows in the bloodline of the Twelve Houses. Howbeit,' he added hastily, ‘an infusion of new blood may sometimes be of benefit, should it be particularly pure.'