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Overview
To save her loved ones from catastrophe, the Lady of the Sorrows urgently seeks to uncover the secrets of her past. Yet those mysteries, once revealed, will be more extraordinary and harrowing than she could have imagined. The lady journeys to the terrible fortress of the Raven Prince in Evernight, despite the Bitterbynde curse that is distorting her memories and the onset of a debilitating malady for which a cure may never be found. As a battle for the destiny of the world begins, the lady must make a fateful decision. If she reveals what she knows, she will liberate 2 worlds—or incite the downfall of everything she loves.
The stunning conclusion to her acclaimed Bitterbynde Trilogy, The Battle of Evernight is the crowning literary achievement of author Cecilia Dart-Thornton, who has been praised as Australia’s J. R. R. Tolkien. Lyrical and breathtaking, a bold and bittersweet fantasy born from ancient legends and folklore passed down through the ages, it is a magnificent contribution to the canon of Western fantasy literature.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504019057 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 08/25/2015 |
| Series: | Bitterbynde Trilogy Series , #3 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 534 |
| Sales rank: | 959,499 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
Cecilia Dart-Thornton is the author of numerous bestselling fantasy novels, notably the Bitterbynde Trilogy, which includes The Ill-Made Mute, The Lady of the Sorrows, and The Battle of Evernight. The daughter of an architect and an academic, Dart-Thornton holds a bachelor of arts degree and a post-graduate diploma of education from Monash University. Having started out as a schoolteacher, she became a full-time writer in 2000, after her work was “discovered” on the Internet and brought to print by a New York publishing house. She is a strong supporter of animal rights and her interests include music, the fine arts—particularly Pre-Raphaelite paintings—and edible gardening. Visit her online at www.dartthornton.com and www.leavesofgoldpress.com.
Read an Excerpt
The Battle of Evernight
Book Three of the Bitterbynde Trilogy
By Cecilia Dart-Thornton
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2013 Cecilia Dart-ThorntonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1905-7
CHAPTER 1
KHAZATHDAUR
The Masts of Shadow
Pale rings of smoke come floating through the trees,
Clear voices thread like silver on the breeze,
And as I look towards the west I grieve,
For in my heart, I'm crying out to leave.
Made by Llewell, Songmaker of Auralonde
The rain was without beginning and without end. It pattered on incessantly, a drumming of impatient fingers. There was only the sound of the rain and the rasp of breathing while the girl in the cave, mute, amnesiac, shorn, and wasted, crawled away from the brink of the mine-shaft.
She was alone, with no concept of her own identity, no memory of how she had come to this place. In subterranean darkness she moved sightlessly, until, reaching a small opening, she tumbled out among javelins of rain. Over levels of harsh stone and through dripping claws of vegetation she drove herself on limbs emaciated by weeks of the Langothe, days of starvation in the wilderness and lack of appetite for the food of Erith after the sight and fragrance of Faêran fare. Sometimes she slept momentarily, or perhaps lost consciousness.
Pleasantly, even the Langothe had been forgotten, then.
With stiffening limbs she moved slowly through the mud and wet stone of the abandoned mines, oblivious of their beauties or horrors, blind to obstacles that tore at her. Reaching level ground, she rose onto trembling legs and walked, an action her limbs seemed to remember by some instinct of their own.
The little dog was gone. The girl had lain a long time underground after the cave-in, at whiles licking at water droplets that oozed from the rock. Buried alive, she was presumed dead. The Hunt had been abandoned because the hunters had not known who she was, believing her to be merely some foolish spy, some unlucky wanderer or thief, now punished by death beneath the rock fall. Yet, she had survived, whether due to the Lady Nimriel's mysterious gift or some inherent strength, or something else, unfathomable.
The ground had emptied from beneath her feet. She hurtled downward, to be brought up on a spear-point of agony. Her bracelet had snagged on a dead twig. She released the catch and fell into a thicket of Hedera paradoxis.
Hours passed.
Later, lying ivy-poisoned by the roadside, the shorn-haired waif in tattered masculine attire had been discovered by a passing carter. He had stolen her Faêran cloak and delivered her into the hands of Grethet.
Much had happened since then ...
Now, as memories flooded back like sap rising in Spring, a strange euphoria blossomed within the damsel lying in a semi-trance beneath the night-bound woods near Huntingtowers. The experience of recall imbued her with power. She felt like a winged being looking down on the world from an impossible height, while a light of glory crayoned her pinions in gold. So expanded was she in this virtual form that if she held out her hand she could cup the rain. Clouds brushed her cheek with cold dew, and should she raise her arms she could catch the sun like a golden ball. Mankind moved like beetles around her feet, and nothing could touch her. She had endured it all and been borne through, shining. She was winning.
So far.
Her shoulder hurt. It was being shaken in an iron claw. Her entire body quaked. She thrust off the claw, uttering an inarticulate groan.
'Rohain! Mistress!' Hazel eyes in a rounded, dimpled face appeared, framed by bobbing yellow curls with brown roots.
Sitting up, the dreamer took a swig from the water-bottle. Like any warrior, she rinsed her mouth and spat, then wiped her lips on her bloodstained sleeve.
'Via, I told you not to call me that. And cut your fingernails.' She rubbed her shoulder. 'Are we alive?'
'Yes, all three. You saved us.'
'I would like to agree, but I have this ornament on my finger which is responsible for our current state of health.' The speaker's hands wandered up to her face, lightly touching the forehead, the nose, the chin. She examined a strand of dark hair. 'Am I as I was? Am I ugly or beautiful? Boy or girl?'
Viviana and Caitri exchanged meaningful looks.
'Your experience at Huntingtowers has unsettled you — er, Tahquil,' said Caitri. 'Come, let us help you to your feet. We must get away from here. We are still too close to that place.'
As they stood up, the one they called Tahquil swayed, clutching at her heart. Leaning against a linden tree she closed her eyes and grimaced.
'Zooks, ma'am, what is amiss?' asked Viviana, full of concern.
'Ah, no, it cannot be. Alas, it has me in its grip again. This, then, is the price.'
'What has you in its grip?'
'The Langothe. There's no salve for it.' The sufferer gulped down her pain. 'Let us go on.'
I must endure the unendurable.
She wondered how long it would take to destroy her.
It was the second of Duileagmis, the Leafmonth, viminal last month of Spring. In the woods, every leaf was a perfect spearblade chipped from lucent emerald, fresh from the bud. As yet the new foliage was unbitten by insect, unparched by wind, untorn by rain.
The travellers walked through a glade striped with slender silver-paper poles marked at spaced intervals with darker notches that accentuated the clean, smooth paleness of the bark. The tops of the poles were lost overhead in a yellow-stippled haze of tenderest green.
The damsel called Tahquil twisted the golden leaf-circle on her finger. Her thoughts fled to he who had bestowed it upon her. I miss thee. I have come full circle. Here I am once more. And thee, my love, shall I ever see thee again?
The damsel, Tahquil. Her insides ached. Yearning chewed at them.
Thus she thought: I am more than a thousand years old. I am Ashalind na Pendran, Lady of the Circle. I come from a time before the shang, before Windships and sildron. The kingdom of my birth has crumbled to nothing. One of the most powerful Faêran in Aia pursues me — but why? Is it simply because I committed the crime of eavesdropping and survived his vengeance, or does he guess I have found a way back to the Realm? Is he after my life or my knowledge? And all the while the other powerful Faêran, his royal brother, sleeps forever amongst a great company of knights beneath some unmarked hill.
One Gate to Faêrie remains passable: the Gate of Oblivion's Kiss. Only I may open it, only I might recognise it, if I could recall. But the past has returned imperfectly to me. The most important recollection of all, that of the Gate's location, is still hidden in oblivion's mists — mayhap 'tis hidden forever. Indeed, some other events surrounding my time in the Gate passage lack clarity.
If I could return to the Fair Realm with the Password 'elindor,' the Keys could be released from the Green Casket. All the Gates might be opened once more. The Faêran would be able to send a discreet messenger to where their High King lies — for surely they could guess where he would be, or find him by means of gramarye — to tell him to return in all haste and secrecy to the Realm. Yet, if the Raven Prince discovers that the Gates are open and enters the Fair Realm before his brother, he might use his second boon to close them again and condemn the High King to continuing, everlasting exile.
Back and forth shuttle my thoughts, my confusion. This is like playing a game of Kings-and-Queens: if this, then thus, but if that, then the other.
Nonetheless, many matters are now clarified. Now I understand truly who it is that hunts at my heels — it is not the Antlered One, after all. Huon is only one of Morragan's minions. Huon's powers are naught by comparison with his master's. Now I understand whose henchman noticed my Talith hair in the marketplace of Gilvaris Tarv, and who lost track of me after the attack on the Road Caravan, and who found me again when Dianella and Sargoth betrayed me. I understand who it was that ordered the Wild Hunt to assail Isse Tower, who sent the Three Crows of War through the Rip of Tamhania. I know who pursues me with destruction wherever I may go: it is the Raven Lord, Morragan, Fithiach of Carnconnor, Crown Prince of Faêrie.
Sombrely, as she walked through the birch woods, the traveller with the dark-dyed hair and the festoons of thyme-leaves dwelled again on the moment she had first set eyes on that extraordinary individual in the Halls of Carnconnor under Hob's Hill.
With eyes as grey as the cold southern seas, he was the most grave and comely of all the present company. Hair tumbled down in waves to his elbows, and it was the blue-black shade of a raven's wing ... he regarded her, but said nothing.
I dismiss that personage from my contemplation, she said to herself. He brings sorrow. The Faêran! I have met with them, spoken with them! Sorrow they bring to mortals but delight also, and they are so joyous and goodly to behold as I would not have believed possible. Again she caressed the golden ring on her finger, smiling sadly, her eyes misted with reflections. Indeed, had I not seen with my own eyes Thorn wielding cold iron in his very hand, I would have said he must be of Faêran blood. Beloved heartbreaker! I am fervently glad he is no Faêran — but I must banish thoughts of him now.
When I walked from the Geata Poeg na Déanainn, it was my thought to embark on a quest to restore the Faêran High King to his Realm. I wonder — how long had be reigned in the Fair Realm, the High King of all Immortals, bearded with his pride, swollen with power, overripe with glory in his failing years? For how many centuries did he sit upon his hoary throne in Faêrie, toying with the lives of mortals, before he met his own exile? And would it truly matter to me if this ancient King and his dormant warriors were to lie forever entombed under Erith's eroding mountains?
She sighed. She already knew the answer.
Yes, it would matter. Those who sleep might waken, one day.
In this era, I have heard more tales of the Faêran than I knew in the past. Those tales have illustrated a race that is dazzling, but callous and cruel. Like all mortals I am drawn to them, but now that I recall history, my abhorrence is confirmed. I dislike the Faêran, almost as heartily as the Raven Prince hates mortalkind. I could not endure it if Faêran warriors should awaken and, undying, walk in my Erith. It is the fault of the Fair Ones and their quarrels, and their heartless laws, that I am here now in this perilous place, separated from those whom I love. I am fully aware of the trouble they may wreak, if they rouse from their enchanted sleep.
She who I once was, Ashalind of my memories — she loved them, the Faêran. I, her future incarnation, am wiser. Oh, they are beauteous, fascinating — it is impossible not to be attracted by them. But I, Tahquil-Rohain, loathe and fear their alien ways, their weird morality, their immutable laws, their arrogant use of power. 'Tis true that sometimes, when it suits them, they may behave with kindness, but the tales reveal them to be haughty, proud, contemptuous and cruel. They are users and punishers of my race. Rightly do folk name the Faêran 'the Strangers'. Strange indeed are they; scorching flames of gramarye. They ought to be shut out of our world.
This is my conclusion: that the Sleepers must awaken and depart. They must go back to where they belong. Every Faêran now in Erith must be repatriated.
Yes indeed, if I can survive long enough, if the Langothe is not too swift in its deadly work, I shall go back to Arcdur and seek the Gate. Then I shall return through it to the Perilous Realm and use the Password to unlock their Casket of Keys so that the Faêran of the Realm may go forth and find the hill in Erith where their King sleeps. Some shall waken him and his noble company, and take them away. Others shall take away the beautiful Raven Prince who frets and rails so passionately against his exile. When they and all their shadowy, sparkling, fair and terrible kind are gone, then the Gates must truly be locked forever. I shall not rest until that is accomplished.
This is my predicament and my undertaking.
Coloured spindles of lupins, as high as a man's knee, marched between the boles of the silver-birches. Each one flaunted a different hue, ranging from salmon, peach and apricot to mauve, maroon and lavender. Clusters of flower-turrets sprang from their own green coronas of frondescence. Now at the height of their blossoming they stood so erect, so tapered and symmetrical, each petal so crisp and painted and perfect, that they seemed artificial. Their petals brushed the garments of the travellers as they passed.
'Where are we going?' asked Caitri, not unreasonably.
'Northeast. Then north.' Nearer to Thorn, in fact. Yet never shall I seek thee my beloved, never shall I bring my hunters upon thee.
'Did you find what you wanted at Huntingtowers?'
'I did. Tonight, if we find a safe place to rest, I shall tell you everything.'
'Tonight you shall sleep,' admonished Viviana in a motherly manner, 'since you did not do so last night. We thought you were in a trance. We believed you were bewitched.'
'Why are we heading north?' young Caitri wanted to know.
'The region called Arcdur lies to the north. I must find something there — a Gate. The first time we see Stormriders overhead, you must wave them down and go with them, feigning that you have not seen me. You two have suffered enough. This new quest of mine is not for courtiers.'
'Your words insult us,' retorted Viviana.
'I am sorry, but it is true.'
In silence they walked on.
'We will not see Relayers,' said Caitri, wise in the ways of Stormriders. 'We are travelling far from the lands over which the Skyroads run, which are their usual routes. Besides, they have searched this coast already. They shall believe us lost, and they will not return.'
'Is there any road to Arcdur from here?' Viviana queried.
'Not that I know of,' replied the young girl. 'The King's High Way used to go there, but it has long since been swallowed by the forest, or fallen into the sea. I know only that Arcdur's western shores lie along the north-west coast of Eldaraigne.'
'Then we ought to keep to the sea's margins,' Viviana said. 'If we keep the ocean to our left we will be sure to come to Arcdur eventually.'
'It would be impossible,' said Tahquil-Ashalind, once Rohain. 'The cliffs along here are rugged, pierced by deep inlets thrusting far back into the land. Without a boat we cannot go that way.'
Viviana stopped beside some low tree ferns. She plucked out some whorls of fiddle-heads, tightly coiled, like pale green clockwork springs. Other greenery and assorted vegetation hung on lengths of twine from her waist, her shoulders and her elbows, obscuring the articles swinging and clanking from her chatelaine.
'You have not eaten anything since the day before yesterday, auradonna,' the courtier reminded Tahquil from behind her matted, bleached curls. "Tis little wonder your belly pains you.'
The euphoria dissipated. Tahquil looked at the dead and wilting leaves she herself carried, and the dirty, worm-eaten tubers. A forgotten tendril of something akin to hunger stirred within her. One could not live on memories.
The three companions sat beneath the lissom poles of the birches and kindled a fire. Viviana unbound bunches of edible roots, seedpods and herbage.
'Via has become adept at finding food,' explained Caitri with a touch of reproach, 'especially since you went off on your own. She's remembered all you've taught us. She has an eye for it.'
'Even courtiers can learn,' said Viviana haughtily, 'to be useful.'
'Then let me teach you how to cook,' offered Tahquil. It would be a distraction from the hurt within.
These wooded, gently undulating hills were named the Great Western Forest, but, more innocuous than a forest, they were actually one vast woodland of beech, budding birch, oak and rustling, new-leafed poplars, hung with leafy creepers. The trees were interspersed with brakes of hazel and wild currant bushes veiled with a diaphanous lace of blossoms. Rivulets chuckled through leafy dells. Bluebells sprang in a lapis lazuli haze, attractive and perilous.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Battle of Evernight by Cecilia Dart-Thornton. Copyright © 2013 Cecilia Dart-Thornton. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Interviews
An Interview with Cecilia Dart-Thornton
Australia's answer to Tolkien herself, Cecilia Dart-Thornton, answered a few questions exclusively for B&N.com about getting discovered, the power of the Internet to writers, and the new wave of Australian science fiction and fantasy.
Paul Goat Allen: The story of how you got discovered is an inspiration to struggling writers all over the world. After The Ill-Made Mute won an award on a writing workshop web site, Warner Books proceeded to publish your entire Bitterbynde trilogy in hardcover -- a feat practically unheard of for a first-time author. Two questions: What effect do you think the Internet will have on the quality and quantity of new science fiction/fantasy in the coming years and if you could give would-be writers just one piece of advice, what would it be?
Cecilia Dart-Thornton: Online writing workshops are an excellent new tool for unpublished writers. Instantaneous feedback from a wide range of readers is not only valuable, it also provides quite an electrifying buzz! In the world of publishing it usually takes a long time for a written piece to be read and reviewed by several people. The Internet short-circuits this. Fast feedback is motivational. It is an effect that can only, in my opinion, improve the quality of new science fiction/fantasy (and other genres).
Certainly, the Internet as a research tool has made quantity easier for me. Instead of having to spend hours trawling around libraries for the esoteric snippets of information I use in my books, I can usually "google" what I'm looking for in about half a minute.
If I could give would-be writers just one piece of advice, what would it be? Answer: Just write. Amplified answer: Let the ideas flow from your brain through your shoulder, down your arm to the pen or keyboard and out onto the paper or screen. Do not, at first, pay conscious attention to spelling, grammar, coherency, or vocabulary. The prettifying can happen afterward. The ideas are the important raw material that can later be molded. Just write down what's going through your head. Ignore what you think market trends want. Ignore what you think editors want. You're probably wrong. What the market and editors really want are your unique ideas, uninfluenced by what you think other people expect: creations of the mind that spring from the heart.
PGA: I've read that when you were a child, your parents were instrumental in instilling in you a love of books.What were some of the most influential books of your childhood, and why?
CDT: Reading Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings at the age of nine made a huge impact on my life. To this day, it remains my favorite story of all time and is one of the three reasons I am irresistibly drawn to write in the fantasy/sword-and-sorcery genre. I was, and am, drawn to it by its detailed credibility, its sense of nobility, and the bittersweet nostalgia it never fails to evoke on every reading.
Nicholas Stuart Gray's books were a source of immense delight to me throughout my childhood and have affected my writing. I especially loved Grimbold's Other World, The Stone Cage, and The Seventh Swan. Why? I suppose it is because he is a writer who really writes from the soul, and his passion pierced the heart of the child that I was. Besides, his stories are among the most entertaining I've ever read. I can't believe these books are not among the classics in every bookstore!
Of course, as a child I loved C. S. Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia. I read the Narnia books before I read The Lord of the Rings, so before I started mentally living in Middle-earth I was mentally living in Narnia. Once again, the detail of the alternative reality intrigued me: the sense of history, or geography, of teeming mysteries, enchantment, adventure, beauty, and peril.
The prolific E. Nesbit was another much-loved author of my childhood. And then there was George MacDonald. In my early years I loved his illustrated volumes, The Princess and Curdie and The Princess and the Goblin. Probably the superb colored illustrations in the two hardcovers given to me as a birthday present played a large part in my love of these stories. I pored over the pictures by Charles Folkard, which remain, to this day, enthralling.
Discovering Tanith Lee in my teens was like finding buried treasure. Her adult and young adult fantasy is rich and evocative. In her use of language she is extraordinarily gifted; I am in awe of her talents. Some of my favorite Lee books include Biting the Sun, the Birthgrave trilogy, The Silver Metal Lover, and her anthology Forests of the Night.
PGA: In the last decade, it seems like exceptionally high quality science fiction and fantasy novels by Australian writers are popping up everywhere in the United States markets: Sara Douglass, Greg Egan, Kate Forsyth…the list goes on and on. What do you attribute the success of this new wave of Australian writers to?
CDT: I have no idea! It really is quite fascinating, this wave. People often ask me the same question. I have come to formulate a response: Does a piece of plankton know why it's been caught up in an ocean swell? Having no answer myself, I ask others what they think. Usually they say it's because publishers are at last taking fantasy and science fiction seriously, having woken up to their popularity. Maybe this is correct -- from a plankton point of view, I can't be sure.
PGA: I visited your web site (www.dartthornton.com) and was surprised to find out that aside from being a talented fantasy author, you're a gifted composer with an absolutely beautiful voice. Have you ever considered releasing a novel with a companion CD or some other kind of mixed-media project?
CDT: Yes. I'd love to do that, and the idea has been raised several times by my publishers. I think eventually something like that will happen, although there are no concrete plans right now. (And thank you for the compliment!)
PGA: After writing such an epic undertaking like the Bitterbynde trilogy, what's your next writing project?
CDT: Foolishly, another epic undertaking. A second trilogy is underway at the moment. It is set in the same universe as the Bitterbynde trilogy but on a different world. The same eldritch wights are infesting this world, but they are plaguing different human characters. I find it very difficult to write a story in less than about 100,000 words. Recently, I was asked to write a short story for an anthology, and after much pain and suffering, eventually produced one. It will be published on St. Patrick's Day, 2004, in Tor's anthology Fantastic Ireland. I do, however, love writing. I cannot imagine stopping. It's in my blood; it's my joy and obsession. Be prepared for more to come!