The Bitterbynde Trilogy (196 page)

Ashalind's pulse quickened. These landmarks she recognised.

‘We are nearing the place,' she said. ‘We are close!'

Angavar only nodded, but she could perceive by the set of his features how deeply her tidings affected him. They started down the slope, their horses searching for footholds in mossy fissures. Soon they rode amongst the pinnacles of another valley. Ashalind's face grew flushed, her eyes burned as though fevered. ‘Somewhere here! We are on the very threshold!' She cast about intensively, scrutinising each rock formation with utmost deliberation. ‘We must go slowly. If I approach from the wrong angle, I might miss it.'

‘A tall grey rock like a giant hand,' Angavar chanted softly, repeating her earlier words, ‘and a slender obelisk leaning towards it, coloured as the lip of a rose petal. Both monoliths capped by a lintel-stone shaped like a doorstep. Near at hand in a granite hollow, a dark pool of water fed by a spring.'

Fleetingly, Ashalind wondered at the random events or the thread of destiny that had drawn her to this particular place and time over the span of more than a thousand years.

The Faêran riders drew in at either hand. The muted ringing of their bell-hung bridles recalled the unstorms that would never more blow across Erith to waken its past.

Between the pinnacles, a dark smear appeared in the eastern sky. Like a patch of smoke borne on a current in the upper airs it approached rapidly, eventually interpreting itself as a great, wheeling flock of birds. Raising his hand, Angavar came to a halt, and the whole retinue drew rein. The goshawk fell out of the sky, stooping to latch its talons onto the leather band encircling Angavar's wrist. As Angavar drew his hand down, the bird flapped, regaining his balance before folding his wings. He hissed and whistled urgently, his gold-orange eyes as bright as burning coins. Ercildoune and Roxburgh rode up beside their leader, who called out to the Faêran in their own tongue. Many of them pointed to the sky. In grim tones Angavar said, ‘It is he. The Raven cometh.'

And there was a sting in Ashalind's heart, as though the utmost tip of a whip had lashed it.

‘What now?' she breathed.

‘He approaches too near to the Gate. It is essential he is not nigh when it is flung wide, lest in his rage and vengeance he devises a way to slip through ahead of me and close it against us. I will
not
be exiled a second time!'

The birds flew closer now. Their hoarse croaks scarred the wind. Crows, rooks and jays were they, and ravens, their plumage glossy black.

Now that she understood him more intimately, Ashalind glimpsed the tide of raw emotion surging behind the stern set of her lover's features. She surmised that although he was aroused to anger by the sight of the Raven, his brother in altered form, he also desired that sight, for he had loved Morragan, and mourned him, in his own way.

Again Angavar's voice rang forth and again the Faêran hearkened.

‘Let us drive the Raven forth!' cried Roxburgh in fury, standing in his stirrups and shaking his fist towards the skies. ‘Let us hunt him hence!'

The face of Ercildoune grew pinched with alarm. ‘Hunt and capture,' he growled urgently, ‘ere some mighty harm befalls us.'

‘Sooth, yet such a task is beyond the reach of mortals,' said Angavar swiftly. ‘I will do it, with half my knights.' To Ashalind, he added, ‘Goldhair, this hunt is no enterprise for thee. Thomas and Tamlain shall remain at thy side, with the rest of the Faêran and the Dainnan knights. While I am gone, continue to seek the Gate. I will return anon.'

With a sudden, graceful gesture, he flung Errantry into the air. The goshawk soared up.

Horror caught hold of Ashalind. It came to her that should Angavar-Thorn ride away now, she would never see him again.

‘Do not leave me, my lord,' she begged. ‘I pray thee.'

From his saddle, he leaned close to her ear. His breath was warm and sweet against her cheek.

‘Why so doubtful,
eudail?'
he asked softly, wonderingly. ‘Be unafraid. Half the knights of Eagle's Howe shall surround thee, led by the first among my knights, Dorliroen and Naifindil. And yet, what can there be to fear?'

‘It is not for myself, but for thee …'

He laughed. ‘What can hurt me?' Taking her chin in his hand, he kissed her roundly. ‘I must not tarry. Already the flock veers to the south and away. Farewell for but a moment.'

His steed sprang forward with a sound like the rushing wind.

Just like that, he was gone.

Fifty Faêran lords followed him, and Faêran ladies besides. At preternatural velocity their steeds raced among the stacks and towers and soon were lost to view. A gasp arose from the servants of Ashalind's retinue. Shading her eyes with her hand, Ashalind peered at the empty lands where the Faêran had vanished. She thought a second vast company of birds beat their way up from the chimneys, as though startled by the riders, to fly off in pursuit of the Corvidae. Hooked were their beaks; and their wings smote the air with mighty strength. They were birds of prey—hawks, or perhaps eagles.

‘I conjecture my lord is drawn to his brother,' Ashalind said aloud, in troubled tones. ‘Perchance that is why he goes after him, even though the flock has already turned aside. Yet Morragan now lacks his former strength, so why do the crows and rooks follow in his wake? Are they unseelie? Do they mean to work us ill?'

‘They are only true birds, colleen,' replied Maeve One-Eye, who had drawn near, ‘not wights! They are neither threatening us nor helping the Raven, but merely accompanying him. Like others they are drawn to him, but for a different reason: to the birds, he is one of them but with an aura of gramarye such as they have never known, and they are fascinated, compelled.'

‘I mislike this business,' grimly said Thomas of Ercildoune.

‘Pshaw!' snorted Roxburgh. ‘There is naught to mislike about it, Tom, only that I have been thwarted in my desire to hunt the Raven.'

‘Ride on, Ashalind,' cried Alys. ‘We follow.'

As she could find no reason not to go on, Ashalind did so, casting many a backward glance. At her side rode Alys. The Dukes flanked the ladies, while behind them came Sianadh and the two carlins, their wands slung at their backs. Mounted on mettlesome black steeds, four stalwart young riders accompanied them also—the eldest sons of Trenowyn. The Dainnan rode close by, their horses not outpacing those of the Faêran who had remained with the mortals.

The sky of Arcdur took on an ominous look. A dark stain was creeping in at the edges. A hush fell across the land, and as if night had fallen, or a bitter frost, the warblings of birds no longer rang out.

The monoliths that now towered around Ashalind did not seem familiar, but she was experiencing a growing sense of significance that brought with it a certainty that the Bitterbynde Gate was close by.

A rumbling started up beneath their horses' feet. The ground shook.

The horses propped and pranced, snorting their disquiet. Images of the death throes of Tamhania flashed into Ashalind's thoughts.

‘What's amiss?' shrilled Alys.

But the Faêran knights knew.

‘The Cearb comes this way!' cried the Lord Dorliroen, peering into dark valleys between rocks.

Naifindil's horse reared. ‘And with it, the last lords of the Unseelie Attriod!' he shouted.

Their blades glittered, sliding from the sheaths. ‘We are ready,' called the knight-lords of Faêrie, but they were laughing now, flourishing their swords above their heads so that the supernatural metal sang a song of death.

The rocks and the soil shuddered at the coming of the Cearb, the Killing One—he who wore the three-cornered hat and possessed the ability to fling hills, and move the very ground—yet he was not the only unseelie lord that now appeared. The waters of Arcdur welled in their springs as the Prince of Waterhorses approached. Scorpions and vipers scattered at the sight of Gull, largest and swiftest of all spriggans. These three Princes of Unseelie had sworn vengeance against the mortalfolk who had taken up arms against them. And yet they were greatly outnumbered. It appeared certain their onslaught would lead only to their destruction.

‘A madness is with the wicked ones,' Ashalind heard Maeve One-Eye murmur in astonishment.

Indeed a madness seemed to be upon the very fabric of Arcdur. The stones walked.

Or else, they appeared to be walking. As if they had uprooted themselves from their age-old positions they waddled from side to side, impelled by subterranean vibrations. Pebbles bounced and rolled along. Small fissures began to unseam themselves.

‘Fear not, Lady Ashalind!' said Lord Naifindil, riding up to speak with her. ‘We shall prevent these monsters from reaching thee. The Dainnan warriors surround thee, and the two carlins also. They will protect thee while we indulge in the pleasure of defeating those who dare to challenge us. Prithee, ride on in peace, fair mistress! Seek the Gate!'

Ashalind perceived the Faêran were beckoned by the opportunity of a skirmish. ‘Go to it!' she said. The Faêran lord bowed, murmuring a courteous reply, and wheeled his steed about, before cantering away.

The remaining Faêran knights rode forth to meet their foes while the mortal retinue gathered around Ashalind. The standing stones of Arcdur obstructed a clear view. Between the tall, broad-shouldered monoliths, little could be seen of the encounter between eldritch wights and Faêran, save only flakes of smashed granite jetting high in fountains, and sundry flashes of brilliant light. But, even as the mortals watched, these signs of conflict were moving further off.

Ercildoune scowled. ‘Three wights pitted against more than two score Faêran knights!' he said. ‘By rights the clash should be decided in a trice. Yet it appears that instead of engaging, those corrupt plague-sores are deliberately drawing the Faêran away from us. What they hope to achieve by such strategy, I cannot guess. They are mad! We have been made secure from all peril of eldritch origin.'

‘Methinks the appearance of the Raven was also a ruse,' said Alys with suspicion, ‘intended to lure Angavar and his bonny knights from us so that the wicked ones could strike. Have we been so easily gulled?'

‘Is it that Angavar himself has been beguiled?' barked Ercildoune, made short-tempered by frustration. ‘No wiser counsel have I ever known than his!'

‘I suspect his judgement was clouded,' murmured Ashalind.

‘Fain would I join the Fair Knights in battle!' Roxburgh shouted furiously, but he had given his word to remain at Ashalind's side and would not be forsworn. Even as the last words left his lips, a vast crack unclosed in the stony ground right under their horses. Three of the Dainnan riders slipped sideways into it and vanished.

‘We stand upon a delving of the Fridean!' cried Ercildoune. ‘Ride to safety, all!'

Generated by the violent percussions of the Cearb's footsteps, the foundations of Arcdur were disintegrating, collapsing into hungry crevasses. Close beneath the surface the ceilings of Fridean tunnels were caving in, for throughout this region of Arcdur the ground was perforated, honeycombed with wightish caverns and rights-of-way. Ashalind and her companions looked about desperately for some sign of firm footing, but, hemmed in by natural architecture, could not discover which direction led to safety. Everywhere they turned, rock and gravel was dropping away, massive stones were toppling. Riders, undermined, were sliding into abysms. The carlins drove their wands into these cracks. Great grappling roots thrust forth like muscular fingers, driving through the shifting soils to grasp the particles and hold them together. Yet the gramarye of the two Daughters of Grianan was not sufficiently swift or encompassing. Horses and men floundered as the unstable ground subsided beneath them. Ashalind and her companions were rendered helpless against a peril that was not directly of eldritch origin.

Far off, several of Angavar's Faêran knights saw what was about and swerved their horses, veering away from the attack and racing toward the stricken riders. A misty light, like that which clung about the Faêran, now bloomed all around the struggling mortals, enfolding them. They were lifted, so that their horses' hooves no longer slipped and sank into the treacherous ground.

In the confusion, Ashalind was separated from her mortal bodyguard, but two Faêran lords rode up to her and led her steed to solid ground. The mare stood trembling and sweating beneath a tall arkenfir. One of the Faêran knights held the reins.

‘Lady Ashalind, you must stay here while we put an end to the enemy,' he said. ‘The roots of this fir tree go deep and grip hard. They bind the rocks together with strong force. Who bides beneath these boughs stands upon sound foundations. Do not move from this place, no matter what happens. As long as you remain here, you shall remain secure until our return.'

With that warning they left her alone and rode away to join their comrades.

But even as the mortals were being plucked free from the disintegrating foundations of Arcdur, the greater number of Ashalind's Faêran guardians had finally joined battle with two of the lords of Unseelie. Only the Cearb somehow still evaded them.

At this, Ashalind wondered. So many against so few—with such odds, the skirmish would soon be over. The Cearb seemed curiously elusive—conceivably, their delight in the thrill of the chase had caused the Faêran knights to prolong their enterprise longer than was necessary.

Unexpectedly the Cearb himself, a massive figure clad in tricorne and black coat, emerged from behind a cluster of boulders close by. He strode past, producing his curiously shattering effect, and the terrain began to crumble in places that had previously appeared secure.

Falling stones slammed into the ground, throwing thick clouds of dust into the atmosphere which blotted out the scenes of chaos surrounding Ashalind. No matter how hard she stared, she could barely make out the figures of riders moving in the haze, or the receding back of the Cearb as he moved away, apparently without noting her. It was like looking at reflections through breath-misted glass. Only the trunk of the arkenfir, towering close, seemed real. Out of the fog issued the ringing shouts of the Faêran, the shrill war cries of the rook-youths and a stream of bellowed curses in Ertish.