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The Lady of Sorrows
By Cecilia Dart - Thornton 1
WHITE DOWN RORY
Mask and Mirror | 
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- 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 blush. Maeve's perceptiveness was disconcerting. "So now you still have three wishes, eh? Isn't that right? That's how it usually goes - yan, tan, tethera. No, there is no need to reply. You wish for a history, a family, and something more - I see it in your eyes. Mark you - remember the old saw, Be careful what you wish for, lest - " "Lest what?" "Lest it comes true." The carlin completed a row of knitting and swapped the needles from hand to hand. "Now listen," she continued. "I do not know who you are or how to get your memories back, but I do ken that this house, since five days ago, is being watched." "Watched? What can you mean?" "I mean, spied upon by spies who do not know they have been spied. And since they began their enterprise not long after you arrived, I deduce that it is you they are after. Nobody gets past my door without my allowing it - the world knows that. Therefore, these observers must be waiting for you to come out. What think you of that, eh? Are they friends of yours, wanting to protect you, or are they enemies?" It was like a sudden dousing in icy water. All that had happened to Imrhien since her arrival at the carlin's house had driven out thoughts of pursuers. Now the recent past caught up with a jarring swiftness. These spies might be henchmen of the wizard, the slandered charlatan Korguth the Jackal - but more likely they were Scalzo's men who had somehow tracked her down. She had been traced right to the carlin's door! If they had come this far, across Eldaraigne in search of her, or if they had sent word of her approach by Relayer to accomplices in Caermelor or even at the Crown and Lyon Inn, then it was obvious they were determined to catch her before she went to the King - Emperor explaining her detailed knowledge of Waterstair's location. Danger threatened. Desperate men might resort to desperate methods to prevent her from reaching the Royal City. The carlin's eye was fixed intently upon her guest. "How do you estimate these watchers? Take care with your reply. A false decision might bring disaster. What comes next depends on what you say now. Your tongue is new to you. Use it wisely." "I think they are evil men," the girl replied slowly. "Men who wish me ill; brigands led by one called Scalzo, from Gilvaris Tarv, who slew my friends. They will try to stop me from reaching the Court." "That may be the case. I am not in a position to judge. If 'tis true, then it is perilous for you to depart from here unprotected. With this in mind I have already asked my patient Whithiue to lend you her feather - cloak so that you might fly out in the guise of a swan and send the cloak back later. She would not hear of it of course but it was worth a try - she and her clan owe me many favors. Yet I have another plan. If those who watch are your enemies, then they will know you chiefly by your hair and by your name. My advice is this - when you set out for the Royal City, go not as Imrhien Goldenhair. Go as another." The needles clattered. A ball of yarn unrolled. The lizard watched it with the look of a beast born to hunt but restrained by overpowering ennui. "Change my name?" "Well, 'tis not your name, is it? 'Tis only a kenning given you. One kenning is as good as another. I'll think of something suitable to replace it, given time. But you cannot go to Court with that hair and not be noticed. By the Coillach, colleen, know you how rarely the Talith are seen? Only one of that kindred resides at Court - Maiwenna, a cousin of the long - defunct Royal Family of Avlantia. In all the lands, there are so few human beings of your coloring that they are always remarked upon. Feohrkind nobles can rinse their tresses in the concoctions of carlins and wizards and dye - mixers as often as they like, but they can never copy Talith gold. Their bleached heads are like clumps of dead grass. No, if you want to mingle unmarked, you must change the color of your hair as well as your kenning. And for good measure, go as a recently bereaved widow and keep that face covered." "You know best," said Imrhien slowly in her whispering tones, "for I know nothing of the ways of the King - Emperor's Court. But who would recognize the face I wear now?" "Folk from your past, haply." "Then that would be wonderful! I should meet my own folk, discover all!" "Not necessarily. Who left you to die in the rain in a patch of Hedera paradoxis? Not folk who were looking after your interests. Safer to remain unknown, at least until you have delivered your messages to the King - Emperor. And if you cannot tell His Majesty himself, why then you would be equally well - off to confide in Tamlain Conmor, the Dainnan Chieftain, or True Thomas Learmont, the Royal Bard. They are his most trusted advisers, and worthy of that trust, more so than any other men of Erith. "If you manage to leave my cottage unmarked and reach the Court, you will likely be richly rewarded, you understand. Gold coins can buy security, or at least a measure of it. When all is done and your work discharged, then you shall have leisure to decide whether to doff the widow's veil and show yourself, and risk all that goes with being Imrhien of the Golden Hair." "There is good sense in what you say," the girl admitted to the carlin. "Of course there is. And if you had your wits about you, you'd have thought of it yourself, but I expect you've lost them in that glass. By the way, are you aware that you speak with a foreign accent?" "Do I? I suppose it is Talith." "No. It is like no dialect I have ever heard." "Am I of the Fa - ran? It is said that they lived forever . . ." The carlin cackled, true to type. "No, you certainly are not one of the Gentry. Not that I have ever set eyes on any of them, but there is naught of the power of gramarye in you. If there were, you would know it. You are as mortal as any bird or beast or lorraly folk. None of the Fair Folk would get themselves into such scrapes as you manage. And yet, your manner of speech is not of any of the kingdoms of Erith. Your accent's unfamiliar." "The Ringstorm that encircles the world's rim - does anything lie beyond it?" "Let me tell you a little of the world. Some say that it is not a half - sphere but an entire orb with the Ringstorm around its waist dividing Erith from the northern half. That is why the world has two names; 'Erith' for the Known Lands, and 'Aia' for the three realms in one, which comprise the Known Lands, the unknown regions on the other side of the Ringstorm, and the Fair Realm. Of those three realms only Erith is open to us. Many folk have forgotten the Fair Realm. Some say it never existed at all. People believe what they can see. Furthermore, it is commonly held that nothing lies beyond the Ringstorm, that it marks the margins of the world, and if we were to pass further than that brink, we would fall into an abyss." "Mayhap there is some path through the Ringstorm." "Mayhap. Many have tried to find one. The shang winds and the world's storms are too much for any sea - craft. The Ringstorm's borders are decorated with broken Seaships." "Mayhap there is a way through to Erith from the other side, from a land on the other side where they speak differently . . ." "Too many 'mayhaps.' Let us to the business in hand." "Yes! Madam Maeve, I am concerned for your safety. Should I depart hence under an assumed persona, the watchers will believe Imrhien Gold - Hair bides yet here, and they may keep watching for a time until they tire of it and assail your house." "A good point." Maeve thoughtfully tapped her ear with a knitting needle. "Ah, but if they think they see Imrhien Goldenhair leaving and they follow her, then find out it was a ruse and rush back here and see no sign of her, they will think she escaped during their absence. In sooth, she will have. An excellent plan - nay, ask no questions, it will all be clear to you soon. Meanwhile, I had better rouse Tom - he has errands to run for me in Caermelor. We shall need money to carry out this scheme. How much have you?" "Madam, please accept my apologies. Your words remind me that I owe you payment for your healing of me, and my board and lodging. What is your fee?" "My fee," said the carlin, shooting a piercing glance from her bright eye, "is whatever those who receive my services are prepared to give." "What you have given me is valuable beyond measure - worth more than all the treasure in the world." "Have I given it, or was it already yours by right? Do not be thankful until you have lived with your changed appearance for a moon - cycle or two. See how you like it then. " "I cannot be otherwise than happy!" "Ha! The measure of happiness is merely the difference between expectations and outcomes. It is not concerned with what one possesses - it is concerned with how content one is with what one possesses." Imrhien had taken out her leather pouch. The pearls she had left in Silken Janet's linen - chest, the ruby she had given to Diarmid and Muirne, but there remained two more jewels and the few gold coins she had saved when she ran from the caravan. In glittering array she spread the stones and metal before the carlin. "This is all I have. Please, take it." Maeve One - Eye threw her head back and laughed. "My dear," she said, "you will never survive out in the wide wicked world if you do this sort of thing. Have you not heard of bargaining? Such an innocent. And how would you fare with no money to spend on your way to the City? This I shall take." She leaned forward and picked up the sapphire. "The mud from Mount Baelfire is costly to obtain. And blue is one of the colors of my fellowship, the Winter shade of high glaciers and cold water under the sky. Leave the emerald out of your purse - it is of greater worth and will fetch a high price. It is necessary to sell it to pay for the purchases Tom shall make in Caermelor on your behalf. But put away the sovereigns and doubloons and the bit of silver. You may need them someday. And be more careful to whom you display your wealth - fortunately, I can be trusted, but not all folk are as honest as Maeve One - Eye!" Her thicket of albino hair bristled untidily, like a rook's nest in a frost - her guest suspected that it was in fact inhabited by some pet animal - and she leaned back in her chair, chuckling. The needles resumed their click - clack. "True to Talith type, you possess the darker eyebrows and eyelashes - those I will not need to alter. What color of hair want you? Black? Brown?" "Red." "A canny choice. Nobody would ever believe that any clearheaded person would choose the Ertish shade, thus they will think that you soothly are of Finvarnan blood. I take it you will not mind being despised as a barbarian in Court circles?" "I have had my fill of contempt! I have been despised enough for twenty lifetimes. Not red, then. What is the fashion for hair at Court?" "Black, or straw yellow - save for the salt - haired Icemen that dwell among them; their locks do not take kindly to dyes, nor do they wish to alter them, being a proud race." "It seems I must choose black. But I will not stay long at Court - only long enough to deliver my news, and then I will be away." And long enough to find someone. "Be not so certain. You may not obtain an audience with the King - Emperor straightaway. He is busy, especially at this time of strange unrest in the north. As an unknown, you will be seen as inconsequential enough to be kept waiting - if necessary, for weeks, despite the fact that I am going to transform you into a lady of means for the mission. If you successfully reach Caermelor and then obtain permission to pass within the palace gates, you may have to wait for a long time. And if you are eventually granted an audience, the next step must be verification of your news. They may ask you to lead them to this treasure." The carlin paused in her handiwork, holding it high for a better view. "Cast off, one plain, one purl," she muttered obliquely. With a thoughtful air, she lowered the needlework to her lap. "So. A name you will need." She hummed a little tune. "I've got it! 'Rohain.' A tad Severnessish - sounding, but it suits you. And you must say that you come from some remote and little - known place, so that there is small chance of meeting any person who hails from there and might betray you. The Sorrow Islands off Severnesse are such a place - melancholy, avoided whenever possible. Tarrenys is an old family name from those parts. Yes - that's it. Ha! Rohain Tarrenys you shall be - say farewell to Imrhien Goldenhair, Lady Rohain of the Sorrows." "Am I to be a lady? I know nothing of the ways of gentlefolk. I shall be discovered." "Methinks you underestimate your own shrewdness. Hearken. Should a peasant wife arrive at the palace with a story of discovering great wealth, that woman risks her life. There are those at Court who are not as scrupulous as the Dukes of Ercildoune and Roxburgh; those who would wish to take the credit to themselves for such a discovery, and to silence the real messenger. It is possible a commonwife would not be given the opportunity to speak with the Dukes before she was bundled off with a few pennies, maybe to be followed, waylaid, and murdered. Howbeit, a gentlewoman must be treated with greater scrupulosity." "Who, at Court, could be so perfidious?" "It will become clear to you," said Maeve briskly. She changed the subject. "Have you a potent tilhal for protection along the way?" "I have a self - bored stone, given me by Ethlinn." "A worthy talisman," said the carlin, examining the stone with a lopsided squint. "You might well have need of it. Many malign things wander abroad these days. Doubtless you have heard - it is said that one of the brigand chieftains of Namarre has grown strong enough to muster wicked wights in his support. There is no denying that some kind of summons, inaudible to mortal ears, is issuing from that northern region. Unseelie wights are moving across the lands, responding to the Call. With an army of lawless barbarians, aided by unseelie hordes, a wizard powerful enough to summon wights would be an opponent to be reckoned with. They say such a force might stand a goodly chance of overthrowing the Empire and seizing power in Erith. If that should come to pass, all the lands would be plunged into chaos. It would mean the end of the long years of peace we have known." A chill tremor tore through the listener. "These are uneasy times," continued the carlin, with a shake of her head. "Even creatures who have not revealed themselves for many lifetimes of men have lately reemerged. It is not long since I heard a rumor that Yallery Brown has been seen again." She returned the stone to its owner. "What is that?" asked the girl, tucking the tilhal beneath her garments. "Yallery Brown? One of the wickedest wights that ever was or is - so wicked that it is dangerous even to befriend him. Have you not heard the old tale of cursed Harry Millbeck, the brother of the great - grandfather of the mayor of Rigspindle?" "I have heard many tales, but not that. Pray tell it!" "He was a farm laborer, was Harry," said Maeve. "On a Summer's evening long ago, he was walking home from work across fields and meadows all scattered with dandelions and daisies when he heard an anguished wailing like the cry of a forsaken child. He cast about for the source and at last discovered that it issued from underneath a large, flat stone, half - submerged under turf and matted weeds. This rock had a name in the district. For as long as anyone could remember, it had been called the Strangers' Stone, and folk used to avoid it. "A terrible fear came over Harry. The wails, however, had dwindled to a pitiful whimpering and being a kindhearted man he could not steel himself to walk on without rendering aid to what might have been a child in distress. With great trouble, he managed to raise up the Strangers' Stone, and there beneath it was a small creature, no bigger than a young child. Yet it was no child - rather it looked to be something old, far older than was natural, for it was all wizened, and its hair and beard were so long that it was all enmeshed in its own locks. Dandelion yellow were the hair and whiskers, and soft as thistle - floss. The face, puckered as lava, was umber - brown, and from the midst of the creases a pair of clever eyes stared out like two black raisins. After its initial amazement at its release, this creature seemed greatly delighted. "'Harry, ye're a good lad,' it chirped. "It knows my name! For certain this thing is a bogle, Harry thought to himself, and he touched his cap civilly, struggling to hide his terror. "'Nay,' said the little thing instantly, 'I'm no bogle, but ye'd best not ask me what I be. Anyway, ye've done me a better service than ye know, and I be well - disposed towards ye.' "Harry shuddered, and his knees knocked when he found the eldritch thing could read his unspoken thoughts, but he mustered his courage. "'And I now will give you a gift,' said the creature. 'What would you like: a strong and bonny wife or a crock full of gold coins?' "'I have little interest in either, your honor,' said Harry as politely as he could. 'But my back and shoulders are always aching. My labor on the farm is too heavy for me, and I'd thank you for help with it.' "'Now hearken you, never thank me,' said the little fellow with an ugly sneer. 'I'll do the work for you and welcome, but if you give me a word of thanks, you'll never get a hand's turn more from me. If you want me, just call "Yallery Brown, from out of the mools come to help me," and I'll be there.' And with that it picked the stalk of a dandelion puff, blew the fluffy seeds into Harry's eyes, and disappeared. "In the morning Harry could no longer believe what he had seen and suspected he'd been dreaming. He walked to the farm as usual, but when he arrived, he found that his work had already been completed, and he had no need to lift so much as a finger. The same happened day after day; no matter how many tasks were set for Harry, Yallery Brown finished them in the blink of an eye. "At first the lad augured his life would be as leisurely as a nobleman's, but after a time he saw that matters might not go so well for him, for although his tasks were done, all the other men's tasks were being undone and destroyed. After a while, some of his fellow laborers happened to spy Yallery Brown darting about the place at night and they accused Harry of summoning the wight. They made his life miserable with their blaming and their complaints to the master. "'I'll put this to rights,' said Harry to himself. 'I'll do the work myself and not be indebted to Yallery Brown.' "But no matter how early he came to work, his tasks were always accomplished before he got there. Furthermore, no tool or implement would remain in his hand; the spade slipped from his grasp, the plough careered out of his reach, and the hoe eluded him. The other men would find Harry trying to do their work for them, but no matter how hard he tried he could not do it, for it would go awry, and they accused him of botching it deliberately. "Finally, the men indicted him so often that the master dismissed him, and Harry plodded away in a high rage, fuming about how Yallery Brown had treated him. Word went around the district that Harry Millbeck was a troublemaker, and no farmer would hire him. Without a means of earning a living, Harry was in sore straits. "'I'll get rid of this wicked wight,' he growled to himself, 'else I shall become a beggar on the streets.' So he went out into the fields and meadows and he called out, 'Yallery Brown, from out of the mools, come to me!' "The words were scarcely out of his mouth when something pinched his leg from behind, and there stood the little thing with its tormentil - yellow hair, its pleated brown face and its cunning raisin eyes. Pointing a finger at it, Harry cried, 'It's an ill turn you've done to me and no benefit. I'll thank you to go away and allow me to work for myself!' "At these words, Yallery Brown shrilled with laughter and piped up: 'Ye've thanked me, ye mortal fool! Ye've thanked me and I warned you not!' "Angrily, Harry burst out, 'I'll have no more to do with ye! Fine sort of help ye give. I'll have no more of it from this day on!' "'And ye'll get none,' said Yallery Brown, 'but if I can't help, I'll hinder.' It flung itself into a whirling, reeling dance around Harry, singing: Work as thou wilt, thou'lt never do well.
Work as thou mayst, thou'lt never gain grist;
For harm and mischance and Yallery Brown
Thou'st let out thyself from under the stone. "As it sang, it pirouetted. Its buttercup tresses and beard spun out all around until it resembled the spherical head of a giant dandelion that has gone to seed. This thistledown orb blew away, disappearing into the air, and Harry never again set eyes on Yallery Brown. "But he was aware of the wight's malevolent presence for the rest of his life; he sensed it opposing him in everything to which he turned his hand. Forever after that, naught went aright for poor Harry Millbeck. No matter how hard he worked he couldn't profit by it, and illfortune was on whatever he touched. Until the day of his death Yallery Brown never stopped troubling him, and in his skull the wight's song went ceaselessly round and round, '. . . for harm and mischance and Yallery Brown thou'st let out thyself from under the stone . . .' " "That's a terrible injustice!" cried the listening girl. "Aye," said Maeve, "That's the way of unseelie wights and that one is among the wickedest."
The carlin gave detailed instructions to Tom Coppins, who went off to Caermelor on a pony and returned three days later laden with parcels. "What took you so long?" Maeve said impatiently. "I was bargaining." "Hmph. I hope you got the better of those rapscallion merchants. How much got you for the emerald?" "Twelve guineas, eight shillings, and eightpence." "And what purchased you with that?" "Shoes, raiment, and trinkets such as you asked, and a hired carriage to be waiting at the appointed place at the appointed time." "Good. Keep half a crown and give the rest to my lady, Rohain of the Sorrows." Tom Coppins was accustomed to unquestioningly accepting curious events. That a yellow - haired monster should have entered the cottage and been transformed was no more strange than many things he had seen while in the service of Maeve. He loved the old carlin with unswerving loyalty - whatever she needed, he would fetch; whatever she asked, he would do, and without question. He was an astute lad and warmhearted. In the time he had been in Maeve's service, he had seen beyond the aspect of a simple old woman, the aspect the world saw. He had been witness to the carlin's true dignity and power made manifest.
That night, Tom washed Imrhien - Rohain's hair with an iron - willow mordant. He rubbed in a thick mud of pounded and soaked iris - roots, then rinsed the hair again with the mordant, as Janet had done to Diarmid's locks in the valley of roses. The black - haired girl shook out her sable tresses in front of the fire. The swanmaiden's eyes gleamed from the shadows. Maeve brought food for the wight - in - woman - form, speaking to her in a low, foreign voice. The next morning, at uhta, the eldritch maiden departed. Before she left, Imrhien - Rohain saw her standing framed in the doorway, her fair face and slender arms gleaming white against the nightshade of her cloak and hair. The lovely wight offered a single black feather to Maeve. Then she slipped behind the doorpost and vanished. A moment later, with a rush and a whirr, dark wings lifted over the house - roof. There came a plaintive, mournful cry that was answered from far off. Maeve stood on the doorstep, her face raised to the sky. "She rejoins her flock at a remote mountain lake," she said at last. "She could not bear to be enclosed any longer within walls. The limb is not yet properly healed but it might be she will return for my ministrations, now and then, until it is whole. They always know where to find me, in my wanderings. And soon I must wander again - I have stayed here long enough and Imbroltide draws nigh." Consideringly she looked at the long black feather, before swathing it in a swatch of linen. "Now it is but sixteen days until the turn of the year, the most significant time of all - Littlesun Day. There is much to be done." She set a fiery eye on her other visitor. "Take this swan's plume with you. The swans of eldritch sometimes give a feather in token of payment. When the feather's holder is in need, the swan is bound to help, but once only. Her calling - name, potent only for the duration of the bitterbynde, is Whithiue. This is a gift of high value." A bitterbynde. Imrhien - Rohain recalled hearing that term when she dwelled in the House of the Stormriders. The betrothal of a daughter of that House, Persefonae, had been pledged on the day she was born. A vow, or geas, laid upon a subject willing or not; a decree that imposed bitter sanctions upon its breaking, and demanded stringent, almost impossible conditions for its removal - that was a bitterbynde. In the swan - girl's case, she was bitterbound to come to the aid of whomsoever grasped the feather and summoned her. "Now," said Maeve earnestly, folding the linen package firmly into the hand of Imrhien - Rohain, "it is your turn to go forth."
So it was that on the fifteenth of Nethilmis, before the early gathering of morning, a cloaked and taltried figure, mounted sidesaddle, rode swiftly from Maeve's door. White stars arrayed a fretwork of black boughs, and the green star of the south was a shining leaf among them. Thin chains of mist fettered the trees. Every leaf and twig seemed carved from stone. The rider, awkward and uncertain, continually glanced from right to left. The long skirts kept tangling with the stirrups, but, as if in haste, the rider urged the pony on. Not far from the house of the carlin, dark figures sprang from among the trees as the steed cantered past. The rider cast a glance backward, then, with surprising alacrity, threw one leg over the pony's back and, giving a shrill cry, surged forward. As the pony's hooves clattered away, other figures ran from the trees bringing up horses with muffled hooves. Soon they were galloping in vigorous pursuit. The pony, although swifter than an ordinary mount of its kind, could not outmatch the long strides of the horses. Yet for a time it seemed the pursuers did not want to catch up, but merely to follow from a distance and mark their quarry, as though biding their time. Suddenly they rounded a bend and were forced to rein in their horses so sharply the steeds reared on their hind legs and screamed their indignation. Right in their path, the pony had halted. It wheeled, then, and faced them. The rider flung back the hood, revealing the face of a dark - eyed lad. His hand dipped beneath his cloak and he flung out a powder that exploded in the faces of the pursuers with a dazzling flash, followed by billowing smoke. When they finally fought free of the thick fog, he was gone. Back, then, they rode like a storm. When they returned to the house of the carlin, the windows and doors stood open, sightless. No smoke wisped from the chimney. The place was empty and all trails were cold.
A quarter - moon danced overhead. The Greayte Southern Star hung like an emerald set in onyx, and falling stars peppered the night sky. Imrhien - Rohain ran along a narrow woodland path leading northwest, clutching her purse of coins to prevent them from clashing together. She had the advantage of a secret start, and carried a potent tilhal of Maeve's as protection against things of the night that dwelt around White Down Rory. A Stray Sod had been let fall behind her at the beginning of the path to mislead any mortal who stepped thereon, and a sudden, temporary thicket of brambles camouflaged the path's entrance. Despite these precautions, terror spurred her pulse as she fled through the black trees. The glimmering footpath seemed enchanted - no root reached across to trip her up, no wight crossed it or started up alongside. Without pause, she hastened on, casting many a backward glance, as if the mysterious riders who had watched the house might spring out of the darkness. At last, lacking breath, she slowed to a swift walk. The money from the emerald had been well - spent. Rohain of the Sorrows, an elegant lady, would become a widow as soon as she unfolded the silk mask across her face to hide her grief, in the fashion of bereaved women. By her ornaments and garments, she would appear a noble widow of considerable means. The silk domino, blue as night, was worked with scarlet. Jet beads sparkled in her long dark hair. Matching needlework, dark red and azure on midnight blue, drenched the full bell - sleeves of her gown, slashed to show contrasting lining, and dripped down the voluminous skirts from below whose picoted hems several petticoats peeped demurely. Her waist was cinched by a crimson leather girdle, housed within silver filigree. A long, fitted fur - lined traveling cloak, frogged down the front, covered the yards of fancy fabric. A furlined velvet taltry topped the outfit. She went forward. Hours passed. A soft noise like the wind in an Autumn wood came rustling. She thought it strange, for there was no wind, and all around, stark boughs plowed black furrows into the fitful moonlight, unmoving. A tall, pale figure glided past; some wight in almost mortal form. It groaned and soon passed out of sight. The susurration of falling leaves went on and on. Suddenly the moon shone out radiantly and the sounds changed to faint murmurs of laughter and ridicule that continued for a while, then faded. Down among the tree roots, tiny lights were moving. The path climbed a final slope and came out on the Caermelor Road as the sky began to pale. Farther down the Road, to the left, squatted a white milestone. It was there that the coach waited, its coach - lamps glowing like two amber flowers. The horses' breath steamed, a silver mist combed to shreds by the sharp and bitter cold. The coachman had received an enticing down payment on the understanding that his services were to be performed with confidentiality - not that the noble lady passenger had held a clandestine tryst in the woods with a bucolic lover, of course. Simply, she desired privacy and no questions. Given his utmost discretion, the pecuniary reward at the end of the journey would exceed even the down payment. He saw a slender, cloaked figure materialize out of the darkness, silent as a moth. Bowing, he murmured, "Your ladyship." Her name was unknown to him. She nodded. He could not see her face behind the decorative blind. Handing her into the carriage, the coachman stepped up into his box - seat and shook the reins. His bellowed "Giddap!" harshly interrupted the night. With a sudden thrust forward, the equipage bowled rapidly along the Road to Caermelor.
Light wooden caskets were waiting in the coach. With a sense of excitement, the passenger opened them. One was filled with sweetmeats and refreshments for the journey, one contained a most risible headdress, another an absurd pair of shoes, and a fourth accommodated an ermine muff and a pair of gloves. With difficulty inside the cramped and jolting compartment, the "widow" added these items to her person. The wide headdress was fashioned from a thick roll of stiffened fabric trimmed with sweeping carmine plumes, beaded, latticed with silver. It possessed a crown rising to a point draped with yards of azure gauze. Altogether, the dainty, fragile shoes, the voluminous sleeves, the stiff, embroidery - crusted fabric of the gowns, the heavy girdle that made it difficult to bend forward, and the wide headdress that made it impossible to approach any wall seemed most onerous and impractical, not only for travel but for everyday living. These garments and accoutrements would impede the simplest of tasks. Could it be that such strange raiment was truly the fashion at Court? Had her benefactress and the lad been mistaken, out of touch? Quickly she dismissed the thought. Nothing escaped the carlin's notice - the costume would be correct. Her heel kicked against a heavy object sitting on the floor - a foot - warmer. Tom Coppins had thought of everything. Housed in its elaborately carved wooden case, the brass container with its pierced lid gave off a welcome warmth from the glowing charcoal in its belly. The passenger propped her feet thereon and sat back against the padded leather upholstery. Yet the new Rohain could not enjoy the comforts of this unaccustomed mode of travel. She fervently hoped that all she had heard about the Court had been exaggerated - the tales of the refined manners, the complicated rules of etiquette, the forms of speech. Between the fear that the carriage would be overtaken by her enemies, the dread of what was to come, and constant battles with the unwieldy headdress that threatened to slide off, she made the journey in great discomfort and alarm. Throughout the Winter's day, the carriage rolled on.
Days were short. At its zenith, the sun had risen only marginally above the horizon, where it glowered from behind a dreary blanket of cloud. Emerging from the woods, the Road ran through farming lands patched with fields, hedge - bordered. Here and there, a house topped with smoking chimneys nestled among its outbuildings. After passing through a couple of outlying villages, the Road began to climb toward the city walls. The buildings of Caermelor clustered on the slopes of a wall - encircled hill that rose four hundred feet out of the sea at the end of its own peninsula. To the south, the sea had taken a deep bite out of the land to form a wide and pleasant bay fringed with white sands. The far side of this bay was cradled in the arm of a mountainous ridge reaching out into the ocean to form a second, more rugged peninsula, its steep sides clothed in forest. Eastward, an expansive, flat - bottomed valley opened out. Through the middle of it ran the river that drained the encircling hills, flowing until it reached the sea to the north of the city - ill. There, salt tide danced to and fro with fresh current. In the estuary, waters ran deep enough for the draft of the great - keeled Seaships. Wharves, piers, docks, and jetties jutted from the northern flank of the city - hill, stalking into the water on thick, encrusted legs. Atop the highest point, the palace overlooked all - the vast sweep of ocean to the west, the curve of the bay with its long lines of lace - edged waves, the blue - folded shoulders of the ridge dropping sharply to the water; north, the ocean stretching to distant mountains; northeast, the river - port teeming with business, forested with tall masts. Eastward, the city spread out over the plain, dwindling to scattered farms and the backdrop of Doundelding's hills on the horizon. But blind ocean was not all that could be seen to the west, for a tall island rose up, perhaps a quarter of a mile offshore, directly opposite the city - hill. At low tide, the waters drained from a causeway that connected it to the mainland. At all other times it was completely cut off by water. Here stood the Old Castle, much like a crag itself, jagged, gray, and gaunt. Of yore it had been the fortress to which citizens had retreated in times of war. Now it stood, stern sentinel, silent guardian, facing the palace on the hill.
Late in the afternoon the coach halted at last before the city gates. There was a knock on the front wall of the compartment. Imrhien - Rohain slid back the little window that opened onto the coachman's box. His eyes appeared, goggling like a fish's. "Where to now, m'lady?" "To the palace." Her new voice had crisped to a clear, ringing tone. "Very well, m'lady." She slid the window shut, like a guillotine chopping off the outside world. Guards lounging under the portals had a word with her coachman. Through the windows they eyed the passenger with curiosity as the vehicle went by. Imrhien - Rohain drew the curtains against their intrusion. Beyond, voices rose and fell, wheels rattled, seagulls mewed. Children yelled. In booming tones a town crier shouted, "Hear ye! Hear ye!" She had come at last to Caermelor. Copyright © 2002 by Cecilia Dart - Thornton
Read from The Ill Made Mute
Read from The Battle of Evernight
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