The Bitterbynde Trilogy by Cecilia Dart-Thornton Read Free Book Online Page A

cook, snarled, “Fie, wenches!” and blew his nose on his sleeve. Old Brinkworth stretched his arms until they cracked and downed a draft of medlure, but he was not to be left in peace.
    â€œTell us more tales of the King-Emperor in Caermelor, and of his wizard, Sargoth the Cowled!”
    â€œNo, tell us a story of the Greayte Cities in the glorious days of old.”
    â€œTonight,” intoned Brand, unruffled, unswayed, “I will tell one more tale—the tale of the beautiful maiden who slept for a hundred years under an enchantment, until she was woken by a prince’s kiss.”
    â€œBeauty, always beauty,” whined a peevish skivvy.
    â€œBy cock and pie! Nobody wishes to hear a tale about an ugly maiden,” her companion retorted.
    â€œThat’s why they’ve never made a story about you,” another added. He was thanked with a shove.
    The Storyteller wove the words and embroidered the tale’s fabric according to his way, casting his own wizardly enchantment over his audience. And when the story was finished it made a mantle that covered them all and held them together for a time. The Keeper of the Keys sawed mournfully on her fiddle, and her daughter, Caitri, sang an old song of Eldaraigne, a ballad from days of yore when the Icemen used to sail from Rimany to raid the southern villages of the Feorhkind and the great wizard Lammath had overthrown the enemy at Saralainn Vale:
    Oh, the fountains were frozen in Saralainn Vale
    And the mountains of Sarn were on fire,
    And the leaves blew like streaks down the dusty old streets
    And the wind in the valley rose higher,
    When down to the glen came four hundred men
    While the rest of the village was sleeping,
    And the light from their blades glittered bright through the glades
    And the cruel kiss of ice was their greeting.
    Behold the grim Icemen so pale and so bold!
    Beware of their frostblades that glitter with cold!
    But I saw them come and right swift did I run
    Till I came to where Lammath was lying
    â€œThe Icemen are here!” I cried out in fear,
    â€œAnd the folk of the village are dying!”
    Then Lammath he rose and he put on his clothes
    And he kindled a torch from the embers,
    Saying, “I have a plan that I learned from a man
    With such wisdom as no one remembers.”
    Behind him I strode as through darkness he rode,
    And the Icemen he met in the dawning
    As the sun’s first flare turned to gold in their hair.
    I cried out to Lammath in warning,
    But the torch he held high drew the light from the sky
    Flaring out with a terrible power,
    And it turned them to stone and to ash and cold bone
    All in that cold morning hour,
    As the morning sun started to flower,
    All around Saralainn Tower.
    â€œOh, Lammath,” I said, “what price have you paid
    For the power of light against shadow?”
    But he smiled with his eyes and they held no surprise
    As he walked with me down to the meadow.
    And I thought it might seem it had all been a dream,
    Except for the ice on the fountains,
    And the leaves in the street and the dust on my feet,
    And the fires that burned on the mountains.
    Singing along drowsily, the servants fell asleep, and a disharmony of snores jarred the kitchen.
    There would be other nights, other songs and tales.…
    The lad was intrigued: What powered the Tower’s lifts? How was water pumped up hundreds of feet of internal conduits to make possible life in the tall fortress? How could eotaurs lift themselves into the skies? Indeed, they were fine-boned horses, lean and sharp as swords, but surely even such powerful wings would not suffice to raise them. More puzzling yet—what was it that elevated the huge bulk of Windships?
    Eventually he discovered the truth.
    Their reputations among their peers being neither trifling nor illustrious, the newcomer ought to have guessed that the serving-lads Spatchwort and Sheepshorn would gift him with trouble—and perhaps he did, but