The Plain glimmered like a galaxy. Slowly the warrior kings of the unstorm faded.

Murmuring, Morragan spoke in the Faêran language and Angavar replied. Then the Crown Prince made to say something more, but before he could do so, his head fell back. In stark contrast against the coal-black satin of his hair, his beautiful face seemed chiselled of fine-grained marble, pale as paper.

Still and silent he lay, with all of Erith still and silent about him.

Once, long ago in the Realm of Faêrie, a chorused cry had ascended when the Gates were Closing, exiling Angavar and Morragan. The second time Ashalind had heard such a cry was when the Awakened Knights of Eagle’s Howe had appeared to do battle on the High Plain.

Now a third cry issued from myriad throats, and it was hardest of all to bear, and this time not all of the voices were Faêran.

It seemed to come from near and far, from high above and deep below, and in it was an anguish, a sense of loss past compare.

From Angavar’s arms a huge raven flew up on wings of shadow.

Empty-handed, Angavar rose to his feet and watched it fly away. The tranced stars went out in the shape of a cross and blinked once more alight.

Metallic, frosty, gigantic shone the stars. It was as though the sky were a pane of black glass against which unnumbered comets had flung themselves, smashing pinholes from which glistening lines of fracture radiated like the spokes of wheels.

Morragan was gone.

A shouted order rang out from the lowlands, followed by the twang and purr of arrows in the air: a salute from the warriors of Erith. Ten thousand arrows shot straight up against the sky, hung poised at the top of their arc and rained down harmlessly, rattling upon the encampment. Then Ergaiom put a golden horn to his mouth and blew the ‘Ceol na Slán’ — the ‘Song of Farewell’. At that music, even hardened warriors wept.

Those serried ranks of fair and noble knights who knelt on the Plain remained on their knees. They paid homage now to the victor, the High King of the Fair Realm. All wights of eldritch also made obeisance to him, save for the remnants of the Unseelie

Attriod, who were nowhere to be seen, for they had fled far away.

Around the standing sword, where the blood of the Raven Prince had spilled upon the stones, there sprang now a garden of strange poppies with translucent petals like flames of white samite.

‘These flowers will multiply,’ said Angavar in a voice that rang across the landscape, ‘until they cover this stone table. All of Riachadh na Catha will become a garden. But I will banish the siangha from Erith. Never more shall they wander pathless, the winds of gramarye.’

He took Ashalind’s hand, making a sea-storm of her senses.

‘Let us go from here, Goldhair eudail,’ he said. ‘Now thou must needs teach me how mortals grieve.’

Farewell, black bird. Under the stars

On silent wings, begin your flight.

It seems a sudden shadow flees

Across the night.

Fly swift, black bird, on faithful winds,

With rhythm strong, soar straight and free.

Yet something wonderful and rare

Shall leave with thee.

Fly on, black bird, do not look back

At those from whom thou must needs part.

Thy wings thresh airy currents like

A beating heart.

Fly high, black bird — do not look down.

Thy destiny is in no doubt,

But somewhere in the world below

A light goes out.

And didst thou wist so many hearts

Would go with thee?

ERGAIORN’s LAMENT

(Translated from the Faêran)

[An extract from THE BATTLE OF EVERNIGHT, The Bitterbynde Trilogy #3]