Cecilia Dart-Thornton - The Bitterbynde 02 - The Lady of the Sorrows

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For my friend and muse,

Tanith Lee

Cecilia

Dart-Thornton

CONTENTS

Synopsis

1—White Down Rory: Mask and Mirror

2—Caermelor, Part I: Vogue and Vanity

3—Caermelor, Part II: Story and Sentence

4—The Tower: Hunt and Heart's Desire

5—Caermelor, Part III: Fire and Fleet

6—The Island: Green Hair, Dark Sea

7—The Cauldron: Thyme and Tide

8—Avlantia: Quest and Questions

9—The Langothe: The Longing for Leaving; the Leaving of Longing

10—Downfall

Synopsis

This is the second book in THE BITTERBYNDE trilogy.

Book 1, The Ill-Made Mute, told of a mute, scarred, amnesiac who led a life of drudgery in Isse

Tower, a House of the Stormriders. Stormriders, otherwise known as Relayers, were messengers of high

status. They "rode sky" on winged steeds called eotaurs, and their many towers were strewn across the

empire of Erith, in the world called Aia.

Sildron, the most valuable of metals in this empire, had the property of repelling the ground, thus

providing any object with lift. This material was used to make the shoes of the Skyhorses and in the

building of Windships to sail the skies. Only andalum, another metal, could nullify the effect of sildron.

Erith was randomly visited by a strange phenomenon known as the shang, or the unstorm: a

shadowy, charged wind that brought a dim ringing of bells and a sudden springing of tiny points of

colored light. When this anomaly swept over the land, humans had to cover their heads with their

taltries—hoods lined with a mesh of a third metal, talium. Talium prevented human passions from spilling

out through the skull. At times of the unstorm, this was important, because the shang had the ability to

catch and replay human dramas. Its presence engendered tableaux, which were ghostly impressions of

past moments' intense passions, played over repeatedly until, over centuries, they faded.

The world outside the Tower was populated not only by mortals but also by immortal creatures

called eldritch wights—incarnations wielding the power of gramarye. Some were seelie, benevolent

toward mankind, while others were unseelie and dangerous.

The drudge escaped from Isse Tower and set out to seek a name, a past, and a cure for the facial

deformities. Befriended by an Ertish adventurer named Sianadh, who named her Imrhien, she learned that

her yellow hair indicated she came of the blood of the Talith people, a once-great race that had dwindled

to the brink of extinction. Together, the pair sought and found a treasure trove in a cave under a remote

place called Waterstair. Taking some of the money and valuables with them, they journeyed to the city of

Gilvaris Tarv. There they were sheltered by Sianadh's sister, the carlin Ethlinn, who had three children:

Diarmid, Liam, and Muirne. A city wizard, Korguth, tried unsuccessfully to heal Imrhien's deformities. To

Sianadh's rage, the wizard's incompetent meddling left her worse off than before. Later, in the

marketplace, Imrhien bought freedom for a seelie waterhorse. Her golden hair was accidentally revealed

for an instant, attracting a disturbing glance from a suspicious-looking onlooker.

After Sianadh departed from the city, bent on retrieving more riches from Waterstair, Imrhien and

Muirne were taken prisoner by a band of villains led by a man named Scalzo. Upon their rescue they

learned of the deaths of Liam and Sianadh. Scalzo and his henchmen were to blame.

Imrhien promised Ethlinn she would reveal the location of Waterstair's treasure only to the

King-Emperor. With this intention, she joined Muirne and Diarmid and traveled to distant Caermelor, the

Royal City. Along their way through a wilderness of peril and beauty, Imrhien and Diarmid accidentally

became separated from their fellow travelers, including Muirne. Fortunately they met Thorn, a handsome

ranger of the Dainnan knighthood whose courage and skill were matchless, and Imrhien fell victim to

love.

After many adventures, followed by a sojourn in Rosedale with Silken Janet and her father, these

three wanderers rediscovered Muirne, safe and well. Muirne departed with her brother Diarmid to join

the King-Emperor's armed forces. Recruits were in demand, because rebel barbarians and unseelie

wights were mustering in the northern land of Namarre, and it seemed war was brewing in Erith.

Imrhien's goal was to visit the one-eyed carlin, Maeve, seeking a cure, before continuing on to

Caermelor. At her final parting from Thorn she was distraught. To her amazement, he kissed her at the

last moment.

At last, in the village of White Down Rory, Imrhien's facial disfigurements were healed. With the

cure, she regained the power of speech.

Two of her goals had been achieved. She now had a name and a face, but still, no memory of her

past.

END OF BOOK ONE

WHITE DOWN RORY

Mask and Mirror

Cold day, misty gray, when cloud enshrouds the hill.

Black trees, icy freeze, deep water, dark and still,

Cold sun. Ancient One of middle Wintertide,

Old wight, erudite, season personified

Sunset silhouette, antlers branching wide—

Shy deer eschew fear while walking at her side.

Windblown, blue-faced crone, the wild ones never flee

Strange eyes, eldritch, wise—the Coillach Gairm is she

—SONG OF THE WINTER HAG

It was Nethilmis, the Cloudmonth. Shang storms came and went close on each other's heels, and

then the wild winds of Winter began to close in. They buffeted the landscape with fitful gusts, rattling

drearily among boughs almost bare, snatching the last leaves and hunting them with whimsical savagery.

The girl who sheltered with the carlin at White Down Rory felt reborn. All seemed so new and so

strange now, she had to keep reminding herself over and over that the miraculous healing of her face and

voice had indeed happened; to keep staring into the looking-glass, touching those pristine features whose

skin was still tender, and saying over and over, until her throat rasped: "Speech is mine. Speech is mine."

But she would discover her hands moving, as she spoke.

Surrounding the unfamiliar face, the hair fell thick and heavy, the color of gold. Lamplight struck red

highlights in the silken tresses. As to whether all this was beauty or not, she was unsure; it was all too

much to take in at once. For certain, she was no longer ugly—and that, it seemed for the moment, was all

that mattered. Yet there was no rejoicing, for she lived in fear, every minute, that it would all be taken

away, or that it was some illusion of Maeve's looking-glass—but the same image repeated itself in placid

water and polished bronze, and it was possible, if not to accept the new visage, at least to think of it as a

presentable mask that covered the old, ugly one—her true countenance.

"I kenned you were mute as soon as you fell through my door," said the carlin, Maeve One-Eye.

"Don't underestimate me, colleen. Your hands were struggling to shape some signs—without effect. And

it was obvious what you were after, so I lost no time—no point in dilly-dallying when there's a job to be

done. But 'tis curious that the spell on your voice was lifted off with the sloughed tissue of your face. If I

am not mistaken you were made voiceless by something eldritch, while the paradox poisoning is from a

lorraly plant. Very odd. I must look into it. Meanwhile, do not let sunlight strike your face for a few

days. That new tissue will have to harden up a bit first, 'tis still soft and easily damaged."

"Tom Coppins looks after me, don't you, Tom?"

The quick, cinnamon-haired boy, who was often in and out of the cottage, nodded.

"And he will look after you as well, my colleen. Now, start using your voice bit by bit, not too much,

and when 'tis strong you can tell me everything: past, present, and future. No, the glass is not eldritch.

Come away from it—there is too much sunlight bleeding in through the windowpanes. And there's shang

on the way—the Coillach knows what that would do to your skin!"

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Not a day, not an hour, not a moment passed without thoughts of Thorn. Passion tormented the

transformee. She whispered his name over and over at night as sleep crept upon her, hoping to dream of

him, but hoping in vain. It seemed to her that he was fused with her blood, within her very marrow. Ever

and anon her thought was distracted by images of his countenance, and conjecture as to his whereabouts

and well-being. Longing gnawed relentlessly, like a rat within, but as time passed and she became

accustomed to the pain, its acuteness subsided to a constant dull anguish.

Late in the evening of the third day, the howling airs of Nethilmis stilled. Maeve dozed in her

rocking-chair by the fire with a large plated lizard sleeping on her lap. Imrhien was gazing at her own

reflection by candlelight, twin flames flickering in her eyes. Tom Coppins was curled up in a small heap

on his mattress in a corner. All was still, when came a sound of rushing wind and a whirring of great

wings overhead, and a sad, lonely call.

Quickly, Maeve roused and looked up. She muttered something.

Not long afterward, a soft sound could be heard outside the cottage, like a rustling of plumage.

Maeve lifted the lizard down to the hearthrug and went to open the door. A girl slipped in silently and

remained in the shadows with the carlin. Her face was pale, her gown and the long fall of hair were

jet-black. She wore a cloak of inky feathers, white-scalloped down the front. A long red jewel shone,

bright as fresh blood, on her brow. Maeve spoke with her, in low tones that could not be overheard, then

began to busy herself with preparations, laying out bandages and pots on the table.

The carlin's activities were hidden in the gloom beyond the firelight, but a sudden, whistling, inhuman

cry of pain escaped the newcomer, waking Tom Coppins. Maeve had set straight a broken limb and was

now binding it with splints. When all was finished, the swanmaiden lay quivering in the farthest corner

from the fire, hidden beneath the folds of her feather-cloak.

"Pallets everywhere," muttered Maeve, leaving the dirty pots on the table. "I shall have to take a

bigger cottage next year."

"You heal creatures of eldritch, madam?" Imrhien's voice was still soft, like the hissing of the wind

through heather.

"Hush. Do not speak thus, when such a one is nigh. I heal who I can where and when I am able. It is

a duty of my calling—but by no means the beginning and end of it." Maeve fingered the brooch at her

shoulder; silver, wrought in the shape of an antlered stag.

"Carlins are not merely physicians to humankind. The Coillach Gairm is the protectress of all wild

things, in particular the wild deer. We who receive our knowledge from her, share her intention. Our

principal purpose is the welfare of wild creatures. To protect and heal them is our mandate—care of

humans is a secondary issue. Go to bed."

"I have another affliction. You are powerful—mayhap you can help me. Beyond a year or two ago,

I have no memory of my past."

"Yes, yes, I suspected as much. Do you think I haven't been scratching my head about that? But it's

a doom laid on you by something far stronger than I, and beyond my power to mend. For the Coillach's

sake, come away from the mirror and go to bed. You're wearing out my glass. Don't go near her, that

feathered one—she is afraid of most people, as they all are, with good reason."

The saurian jumped back onto the carlin's lap. She scratched its upstanding dorsal plates as it

circled a couple of times before settling.

"I would have liked something less armored and more furry," she murmured, looking down at it, "but

bird-things would not come near, if I had a cat. Besides, Fig gave me no choice. He chose me."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

It was difficult to sit still inside the house of the carlin, within walls, and to know that Thorn walked

in Caermelor, in the Court of the King-Emperor. Now the renewed damsel was impatient to be off to the

gates of the Royal City. At the least, she might join the ranks of Thorn's admirers, bringing a little

self-respect with her. She might exist near him, simultaneously discharging the mission she had taken upon

herself at Gilvaris Tarv: to reveal to the King-Emperor the existence of the great treasure and—it was to

be hoped—to set into motion a chain of events that would lead to the downfall of those who had slain

Sianadh, Liam, and the other brave men of their expedition.

Maeve, however, was not to be swayed.

"You shall not leave here until the healing is complete. Think you that I want to see good work

ruined? Settle down—you're like a young horse champing at the bit. Even Fig's getting ruffled." The

lizard, dozing fatly by the fire, adeptly hid its agitation. In the shadows the swanmaiden stirred and sighed.

Three days stretched to five, then six. The weather raged again, battering at the walls of the cottage.

At nights a nimble bruney would pop out from somewhere when it thought the entire household

asleep, and do all the housework in the two-roomed cot with amazing speed, quietness, and efficiency.

Under Maeve's instructions the girl feigned sleep if she happened to waken and spy it. Its clothes were

tattered and its little boots worn and scuffed. When it had finished, it drank the milk set out for it, ate the

bit of oatcake, and disappeared again, leaving everything in a state of supernatural perfection.

Tom Coppins, the quiet lad with great dark eyes, was both messenger and student to the carlin,

performing errands that took him from the house, aiding her in preparing concoctions or helping her treat

the ailments and vexations of the folk who beat a path to her door: everything from gangrene and

whooping cough to butter-churns in which the butter wouldn't "come," or a dry cow, or warts. Someone

asked for a love potion and went away empty-handed but with a stinging earful of sharp advice. From

time to time Maeve would go outside to where her staff was planted in the ground and come back

carrying leaves or fruit plucked from it—potent cures. Or she would tramp out into the woods and not

return for hours.

More and more, the carlin allowed Imrhien to wield her voice; it was exhilarating to converse freely;

such a joy, as if the bird of speech had been liberated from an iron cage. Little by little she told her story,

omitting—from a sense of privacy if not shame for having been so readily smitten—her passion for

Thorn.

When the tale had been recounted, the old woman sat back in her chair, rocking and knitting. ("I

like to be busy with my hands," she had said. "And it sets folk at ease to see an old woman harmlessly

knitting. Mind you, my needles are anything but harmless!")

"An interesting tale, even if you have left out part of it," Maeve commented. Her patient felt herself

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[Version2.0—proofreadandformattedbybraven]Formyfriendandmuse,TanithLeeCeciliaDart-ThorntonCONTENTSSynopsis1—WhiteDownRory:MaskandMirror2—Caermelor,PartI:VogueandVanity3—Caermelor,PartII:StoryandSentence4—TheTower:HuntandHeart'sDesire5—Caermelor,PartIII:FireandFleet6—TheIsland:GreenHair,DarkSea7—TheC...

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