The Battle of Evernight (The Bitterbynde Trilogy Book 3) by Dart-Thornton Cecilia

Author:Dart-Thornton, Cecilia [Dart-Thornton, Cecilia]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781504019057
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2015-08-24T16:00:00+00:00

9

ANNATH GOTHALLAMOR

Part II: The Eagle and the Raven

In your dark eyes translucent moonbeams glimmer

And, running swiftly, silver horses shimmer.

But dawn’s whey-pallored light shows you are leaving.

Of pleasure and contentment you’re bereaving

Me. Here I wait, shrouded by midnight’s curtain.

I wait. This sunless place is so uncertain

I cannot know if ’tis a dream I’m seeing,

And even shadows from themselves are fleeing.

LOVE-SONG OF TAVISCOT

In the rose-window library of Annath Gothallamor Tully perched cross-legged on a carpet, a meadow of ripe hay-gold and cornflower-blue. He was playing his syrinx. In a chair by a leaded casement as tall as a spear, its panes standing open to the night, Caitri was seated. She sang:

‘And where shall ye belong if not at home?

Devoid of native heath and doom’d to roam?

The rover’s footsteps quicken as he turns

Towards the hearthstone, where the home fire burns.

Mere shelter may be varied frequently,

But home is where the heart knows it to be.

A wanderer may roam throughout his days

In pathless lands or winding roads and ways,

But in his secret thought, will always yearn

Towards the home to which he would return.’

‘Ah, Caitri,’ sighed Ashalind presently. ‘Pray do not sing those verses. The Langothe is ever present and those words arouse it in me as a bellows awakens coals to flame. Only by delving into these antique books have I been able to divert my thoughts from sorrow and yearning. Poring over their pages is the single activity that can sometimes distract me from our present plight. Even sleep troubles me with heinous dreams.’

She twisted the enamelled bracelet on her wrist. It was beginning to look worn and barbaric, especially compared to the sumptuous exquisiteness of the Faêran jewellery dripping from every garment.

On their solid gold pedestals the nine lamps threw their light up to the ceiling, causing the stone tracery and heavy bosses to flicker indecisively. Lamplight spun in stripes off the gilt spines of the books stacked on the octagonal table. On the lectern, another book lay spread-eagled. Ashalind, seated in the X-framed chair, perused it.

‘Here,’ she said, indicating, ‘I see an illumination depicting a man with a smiling face and another with a weeping face. Between them lies a single red rose, which they are both observing. How may two people look at the same object and react so variously? What can it mean?’

Her companions were as baffled as she. In silence, she read on.

‘With what confidence,’ asked Caitri of the air, ‘might we trust the words of the swanmaiden, or of the Prince? No doubt both are truthspeakers—they have no option. But skilled are they in prevarication. They speak in questions and riddles. They palter and evade. Centuries of practice have made them experts.’

‘True,’ nodded the urisk, who by dint of keeping company with mortals had by now largely lost his habitual manner of speech.

‘And what of the moving pictures shown in the pool?’ Caitri continued. ‘I do not give much credence to the ones purportedly showing the demise of the King-Emperor and his Queen. I know for a fact that they were riding horses along the strand when the dreadful Nuckelavee came upon them.

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