ALSO BY KATE
FORSYTH
RHIANNON’S RIDE
The Tower of
Ravens
THE WITCHES OF
EILEANAN SERIES
The Witches of
Eileanan
The Pool of Two
Moons
The Cursed
Towers
The Forbidden
Land
The Skull of the
World
The Fathomless
Caves
Glossary
acolytes: students of
witchcraft who have not yet passed their Second Test of Powers; usually aged
between eight and sixteen
ahdayeh: a series of
exercises used as meditation in motion. Derived from the Khan’cohban art of
fighting
apprentice-witch: a student of
witchcraft who has passed the Second Test of Powers, usually undertaken at the
age of sixteen
arak: a small,
monkeylike creature
Arran: southeast land
of Eileanan, ruled by the MacFóghnan clan
Aslinn: deeply
forested land ruled by the MacAislin clan
banprionnsa: princess or
duchess
banrìgh: queen
Beltane: May Day; the
first day of summer
Ben Eyrie: third highest
mountain in Eileanan; part of the Broken Ring of Dubhslain
blaygird: evil, awful
Blèssem: rich farmland
south of Rionnagan, ruled by the MacThanach clan
Blue Guards: the Yeomen of
the Guard, the Rìgh’s own elite company of soldiers. They act as his personal
bodyguard, both on the battlefield and in peacetime
Brann the Raven: one of the
First Coven of Witches. Known for probing the darker mysteries of magic and for
fascination with machinery and technology
Broken Ring of
Dubhslain:
mountains that curve in a crescent around the highlands of Ravenshaw
Bronwen NicCuinn: daughter of
former Rìgh Jaspar MacCuinn and Maya the Ensorcellor; she was named Banrìgh of
Eileanan by her father on his deathbed but ruled for just six hours as a
newborn baby, before Lachlan the Winged wrested the throne from her.
Candlemas: the end of
winter and beginning of spring
Carraig: land of the
sea-witches; the northernmost land of Eileanan, ruled by the MacSeinn clan
Celestines: race of faery
creatures renowned for empathic abilities and knowledge of stars and prophecy
Clachan: the
southernmost land of Eileanan, a province of Rionnagan ruled by the MacCuinn
clan
claymore: a heavy,
two-edged sword, often as tall as a man
cluricaun: a small
woodland faery
Connor: a Yeoman of
the Guard. Was once a beggar boy in Lucescere and member of the League of the
Healing Hand
corrigan: a mountain
faery with the power of assuming the look of a boulder. The most powerful can
cast other illusions
Coven of Witches: the central
ruling body for witches in Eileanan, led by the Keybearer and a council of
twelve other sorcerers and sorceresses called the Circle. The Coven administers
all rites and rituals in the worship of the universal life force witches call
Eà, runs schools and hospitals, and advises the Crown.
Craft: applications
of the One Power through spells, incantations and magical objects
Cripple, The: the leader of
the rebellion against the rule of Jaspar and Maya
Cuinn Lionheart: the leader of
the First Coven of Witches; his descendants are called MacCuinn.
Cunning: applications
of the One Power through will and desire
cunning man: a village wise
man or warlock
cursehags: a wicked faery
race, prone to curses and evil spells. Known for their filthy personal habits
dai-dein: father
Day of Betrayal: the day Jaspar
the Ensorcelled turned on the witches, exiling or executing them and burning
the Witch Towers
Dedrie: a healer at
Fettercairn Castle; was formerly nursemaid to Rory, the young son of Lord
Falkner MacFerris
Dide the Juggler: a jongleur who
was rewarded for his part in Lachlan the Winged’s successful rebellion by being
made Didier Laverock, Earl of Caerlaverock. Is often called the Rìgh’s
minstrel.
Dillon of the
Joyous Sword:
Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard. Was once a beggar boy and Captain of the
League of the Healing Hand
Donncan Feargus
MacCuinn:
eldest son of Lachlan MacCuinn and Iseult NicFaghan. Has wings like a bird and
can fly. Was named for Lachlan’s two brothers, who were transformed into
blackbirds by Maya the Ensorcellor
Dughall MacBrann: the Prionnsa
of Ravenshaw and cousin to the Rìgh
Eà: the Great Life
Spirit, mother and father of all
Eileanan: largest island
in the archipelago called the Far Islands
Elemental Powers: the forces of
air, earth, fire, water, and spirit that together make up the One Power
Enit
Silverthroat:
grandmother of Dide and Nina; died at the Battle of Bonnyblair
equinox: a time when
day and night are of equal length, occurring twice a year
Fairge; Fairgean: faery
creatures who need both sea and land to live
Falkner
MacFerris:
former lord of Fettercairn Castle
Fettercairn
Castle:
a fortress guarding the pass into the highlands of Ravenshaw and the Tower of
Ravens. Owned by the MacFerris clan
Finn the Cat: nickname of
Fionnghal NicRuraich
Fionnghal
NicRuraich:eldest
daughter of Anghus MacRuraich of Rurach; was once a beggar girl in Lucescere
and Lieutenant of the League of the Healing Hand.
First Coven of
Witches:
thirteen witches who fled persecution in their own land, invoking an ancient
spell that folded the fabric of the universe and brought them and all their
followers to Eileanan in a journey called the Great Crossing. The eleven great
clans of Eileanan are all descended from the First Coven, with the MacCuinn
clan being the greatest of the eleven. The thirteen witches were Cuinn
Lionheart, his son Owein of the Longbow, Ahearn Horse-laird, Aislinna the
Dreamer, Berhtilde the Bright Warrior-Maid, Fóghnan the Thistle, Rùraich the
Searcher, Seinneadair the Singer, Sian the Storm-Rider, Tuathanach the Farmer,
Brann the Raven, Faodhagan the Red, and his twin sister Sorcha the Bright (now
called the Murderess).
Gearradh: goddess of
death; of the Three Spinners, Gearradh is she who cuts the thread.
gillie: personal
servant
gillie-coise: bodyguard
Gladrielle the
Blue:
the smaller of the two moons, lavender-blue in color
gravenings: ravenous
creatures that nest and swarm together, steal lambs and chickens from farmers,
and have been known to steal babies and young children. Will eat anything they
can carry away in their claws. Collective noun is “screech.”
Greycloaks: the Rìgh’s
army, so called because of their camouflaging cloaks
Hogmanay: New Year’s Eve;
an important celebration in the culture of Eileanan
Horned Ones: another name
for the satyricorns, a race of fierce horned faeries
Irving: seneschal at
Fettercairn Castle
Isabeau the
Shapechanger:
Keybearer of the Coven; twin sister of the Banrìgh Iseult NicFaghan
Iseult of the
Snows:
twin sister of Isabeau NicFaghan; Banrìgh of Eileanan by marriage to Lachlan
the Winged
Iven Yellowbeard: a jongleur and
courier in the service of Lachlan the Winged; was formerly a Yeoman of the
Guard; married to Nina the Nightingale and father to Roden.
Jaspar MacCuinn: former Rìgh of
Eileanan, often called Jaspar the Ensorcelled. Was married to Maya the
Ensorcellor
Jay the Fiddler: a minstrel in
the service of Lachlan the Winged. Was once a beggar boy in Lucescere and
member of the League of the Healing Hand
Johanna: a healer. Was
once a beggar girl in Lucescere and member of the League of the Healing Hand
jongleur: a traveling
minstrel, juggler, conjurer
journeywitch: a traveling
witch who performs rites for villages that do not have a witch and seeks out
children with magical powers who can be taken on as acolytes
Keybearer: the leader of
the Coven of Witches
Khan’cohbans: a faery race
of warlike, snow-skimming nomads who live on the high mountains of the Spine of
the World
Lachlan the
Winged:
Rìgh of Eileanan
League of the
Healing Hand:
a band of beggar children who were instrumental in helping Lachlan the Winged
win his throne
leannan: sweetheart
Lewen: an
apprentice-witch and squire to Lachlan; son of Lilanthe of the Forest and Niall
the Bear
Lilanthe of the
Forest:
a tree-shifter; married to Niall the Bear, and mother to Lewen and Meriel
loch; lochan
(pl):
lake
Lucescere: ancient city
built on an island above the Shining Waters; the traditional home of the MacCuinns
and the Tower of Two Moons
Mac: son of
MacAhern: one of the
eleven great clans; descendants of Ahearn Horse-laird
MacBrann: one of the
eleven great clans; descendants of Brann the Raven
MacCuinn: one of the
eleven great clans, descendants of Cuinn Lionheart
Magnysson the
Red:
the larger of the two moons, crimson red in color, commonly thought of as a
symbol of war and conflict. Old tales describe him as a thwarted lover, chasing
his lost love, Gladrielle, across the sky.
Malvern
MacFerris:
lord of Fettercairn Castle; brother of former lord Falkner MacFerris
Maya the
Ensorcellor:
former Banrìgh of Eileanan, wife of Jaspar and mother of Bronwen; now known as
Maya the Mute
moonbane: a
hallucinogenic drug distilled from the moonflower plant
necromancy: the forbidden
art of resurrecting the dead
Niall the Bear: formerly a
Yeoman of the Guard; now married to Lilanthe of the Forest, and father to Lewen
and MerielNic : daughter of
Nila: king of the
Fairgean; half brother of Maya the Ensorcellor
Nina the Nightingale: jongleur and
sorceress of the Coven; sister to Didier Laverock, earl of Caerlaverock, and
granddaughter of Enit Silverthroatnisse : a small woodland faery
Olwynne NicCuinn: daughter of
Lachlan MacCuinn and Iseult NicFaghan; twin sister of Owein
One Power: the
life-energy that is contained in all things. Witches draw upon the One Power to
perform their acts of magic. The One Power contains all the elemental forces of
air, earth, water, fire and spirit, and witches are usually more powerful in
one force than others.
Owein MacCuinn: second son of
Lachlan MacCuinn and Iseult NicFaghan; twin brother of Olwynne. Has wings like
a bird
prionnsa;
prionnsachan (pl):
prince, duke.
Ravenscraig: estate of the
MacBrann clan. Once their hunting castle, but they moved their home there after
Rhyssmadill fell into ruin
Ravenshaw: the deeply
forested land west of Rionnagan, ruled by the MacBrann clan, descendants of
Brann, one of the First Coven of Witches
Razor’s Edge: a dangerous
path through the mountains of the Broken Ring of Dubhslain, only used in times
of great needRed Guards : soldiers in service to Maya the Ensorcellor
during her reign as Banrìgh
Rhiannon: a
half-satyricorn; daughter of One-Horn and a captured human
Rhyssmadill: the Rìgh’s
castle by the sea, once owned by the MacBrann clanrìgh; rìghrean (pl):
king
Rionnagan: together with
Clachan and Blèssem, the richest lands in Eileanan. Ruled by MacCuinns,
descendants of Cuinn Lionheart, leader of the First Coven of Witches
Roden: son of Nina
the Nightingale and Iven Yellow-beard; Viscount Laverock of Caerlaverock
Rory: deceased son
of Lord Falkner MacFerris of Fettercairn and Lady Evaline NicKinney
Rurach: wild
mountainous land lying between Tìreich and Siantan, and ruled by the MacRuraich
clan
sabre leopard: a savage
feline with curved fangs that lives in the remote mountain areas
sacred woods: ash, hazel,
oak, rowan, fir, hawthorn, and yew
Samhain: the first day
of winter; festival for the souls of the dead. Best time of year to see the
future
satyricorn: a race of
fierce horned faeries
scrying: to perceive
through crystal gazing or other focus. Most witches can scry if the object to
be perceived is well known to them.
Seekers: a force
created by former Rìgh Jaspar the Ensorcelled to find those with magical
abilities so they could be tried and executed
seelie: a tall, shy
race of faeries known for their physical beauty and magical skills
seneschal: steward
sennachie: the
genealogist and record-keeper of the clan chief’s house
sgian dubh: a small knife
worn in the boot
Siantan: northwest land
of Eileanan, famous for its weather witches. Ruled by the MacSian clan
skeelie: a village
witch or wise woman
Skill: a common
application of magic, such as lighting a candle or dowsing for water
Spinners: goddesses of
fate. Include the spinner Sniomhar, the goddess of birth; the weaver
Breabadair, goddess of life; and she who cuts the thread, Gearradh, goddess of
death
Talent: the
combination of a witch’s strengths in the different forces often manifest as a
particularly powerful Talent; for example, Lewen’s Talent is in working with
wood and Nina’s is in singing.
Test of Elements: once witches
are fully accepted into the Coven at the age of twenty-four, they learn Skills
in the element in which they are strongest, i.e. air, earth, fire, water, or
spirit. The First Test of any element wins them a ring that is worn on the
right hand. If they pass the Third Test in any one element, the witch is called
a sorcerer or sorceress and wears a ring on his or her left hand. It is very
rare for any witch to win a sorceress ring in more than one element.
Test of Powers: a witch is
first tested on his or her eighth birthday, and if any magical powers are
detected, he or she becomes an acolyte. On their sixteenth birthday, witches
undertake the Second Test of Powers, in which they must make a moonstone ring
and witch’s dagger. If they pass, they are permitted to become apprentices. On
their twenty-fourth birthday, witches undertake the Third Test of Powers, in
which they must remake their dagger and cut and polish a staff. If successfully
completed, the apprentice is admitted into the Coven of Witches. Apprentices
wear black robes; witches wear white robes.
Theurgia: a school for
acolytes and apprentice-witches at the Tower of Two Moons in Lucescere
thigearn: horse-lairds
who ride flying horses
Tìreich: land of the
horse-lairds. Most westerly country of Eileanan, ruled by the MacAhern clan
Tìrlethan: land of the
Twins; ruled by the MacFaghan clan
Tìrsoilleir: the Bright
Land or the Forbidden Land. Northeast land of Eileanan, ruled by the MacHilde
clan
Tòmas the Healer: a boy with
healing powers who saved the lives of thousands of soldiers during the Bright
Wars; died saving Lachlan’s life at the Battle of Bonnyblair
The Towers of
the Witches:
thirteen towers built as centers of learning and witchcraft in the twelve lands
of Eileanan. Most are now ruined, but the Tower of Two Moons in Lucescere has
been restored as the home of the Coven of Witches and its school, the Theurgia.
The Coven hope to rebuild the thirteen High Towers but also to encourage towns
and regions to build their own towers.
tree-changer: a woodland
faery that can shift shape from tree to humanlike creature. A half-breed is
called atree-shifter and can sometimes look almost human.
trictrac: a form of
backgammon
uile-bheist;
uile-bheistean (pl):
monster
Yedda: sea-witches
Yeomen of the
Guard:
Also known as the Blue Guards. The Rìgh’s own personal bodyguard, responsible
for his safety
Olwynne sat up in
her bed, choking back a scream. For a moment her nightmare beat around her head
with dark, suffocating wings. Then the dream dissolved away, leaving her with
little more than an impression of overwhelming grief and horror.
The air was cold
on her damp skin, and she pulled her eiderdown up around her, grasping
reluctantly at the tattered remains of the nightmare. Her aunt Isabeau said she
should pay attention to her dreams, for they were often messages sent to warn
or illuminate. All Olwynne could remember, though, was her father falling away
from her into some deep pit, his black wings bent over his face, and then
hundreds of ravens, an unkindness of ravens, plummeting from the sky to peck
out her eyes.
She shuddered
and curled her knees to her chest. The wind was keening around her windows,
rattling the old leaded glass in its frames, and sighing through the trees
outside. It sounded like banshees wailing. Olwynne told herself it was only the
wind, but still all the hairs on her body stood erect and quivering, and her
pulse rate accelerated. Such a feeling of morbid foreboding came over her that
she almost cried out again, but she bit her lip and wrapped her arms about her
knees, her face pressed into her pillow. Still the strange, high wailing went on.
As it grew louder, Olwynne realized that it was not the wind making that
unearthly keening cry but something else. Something living.
Shivering
uncontrollably, Olwynne crept out of bed and went to stand by her window,
pulling the curtain back a crack so she could peer out. It was a clear, starry
night, with both the moons at the full. The sky was full of flying things, a
whirling hurricane of bat-winged creatures that seemed to beat against the
bright coins of the moons like moths against the glass of a lantern. Tall as
the tallest of men, their limbs were like twigs and their tempestuous hair
flowed and swirled like wind made visible. As they hurled themselves through
the night sky, they screamed and sobbed, tearing at their wild manes of hair,
beating themselves on their heads and breasts.
Olwynne stood
transfixed. She had seen the nyx fly before, on nights when the moons were
full, but never before had she seen so many, and never had she heard them sing.
It was a lament of such wild grief that Olwynne felt tears start to her own
eyes and her breath catch in her throat. Though she did not know why the nyx
sorrowed, Olwynne slowly slid down to the floor and wept with them.
By the time the
night had drained away, the grey walls and flying buttresses of the Tower of
Two Moons rising from the darkness, the nyx had all gone. Olwynne released her
clutch on the curtains and stood up stiffly.
She was very
cold. She dressed herself in the long black gown of an apprentice-witch, then
splashed her face vigorously with water. She combed back her sleep-tossed hair
into its usual long, severe plait and wrapped her plaid tightly about her body.
Still she felt cold and stiff and weary, but she had been taught to ignore the
demands of her body. She opened the door to her little cell of a room and
stepped out onto the balcony that ran the length of the building. Everything
was deathly quiet. It was too early for the bell to have sounded to wake up the
students. Only the occasional bird called out.
Olwynne went
swiftly along the balcony and through a doorway into the Theurgia. She
negotiated a number of stairs and corridors, coming at last to the northernmost
tower, the building assigned to the Circle of Sorcerers. A magnificent spiral
staircase wound up the center of the tower, its stonework carved with the
crescent shape of two moons and a single star, set amidst intricate knot-work.
Olwynne climbed the staircase all the way to the top floor, her feet settling
into deep hollows worn in the center of each step. Her aunt Isabeau had her
rooms up here, far away from the noise and bustle of the Theurgia.
Olwynne stood
for a while outside her aunt’s door, listening. Although she was sure Isabeau
would be awake, she hesitated to interrupt her. It was very early. Just as she
raised her hand to knock, the door opened and Isabeau stood in the doorway,
smiling at her.
“Morning,
Olwynne,” she said. “Come in. The kettle is just boiling. Would ye like some
tea?”
Olwynne nodded
and came in shyly. She looked about her with pleasure as Isabeau went and swung
the steaming kettle off the fire. She loved the Keybearer’s room. Shaped like a
crescent moon, it took up half the top floor of the tower. There was a
fireplace at either end, one to warm the bed with its soft white counterpane
and pillows, the other warming Isabeau’s desk and chair where she worked.
Comfortable chairs with deep blue cushions were drawn up before both fires. A
spinning wheel was set up near one, with a little loom pushed up against the
wall. A tapestry was half-woven upon it. Olwynne could see the pointed towers
of Rhyssmadill overlooking a stormy sea and wondered what Isabeau was weaving.
Olwynne knew her aunt loved to spin and weave the old tales and songs, but had
little time for it with all her other duties as Keybearer of the Coven.
At the other end
of the room, where Isabeau was busy making the peppermint tea, her desk was
piled with papers and books. An old globe, so stained with age the lands upon
it could hardly be seen, stood upon a wooden stand nearby. A crystal ball
glowed softly to one side, set upon clawed feet. More books filled the
bookshelves that rose from floor to ceiling all around the curve of the room.
Set at regular intervals between the bookshelves were tall windows that looked
out across the gardens to the golden domes of the palace, gleaming softly
through the morning mist.
The Keybearer
was dressed in her long white gown trimmed with silver, and her hair was neatly
combed and bound away from her face. Once Isabeau’s hair would have been the
same fiery red as Olwynne’s, but its color had faded to a soft strawberry
blond, with grey at the temples. Her eyes were as vivid a blue as ever,
however, and her figure was slim and upright.
Isabeau poured
the tea into two delicate bone china cups and beckoned to Olwynne to sit by the
fire. Olwynne obeyed with alacrity, for she was still cold and shaken. She held
the cup between both her hands and sipped the hot liquid, feeling some of her
tension drain away.
“Ye heard the
nyx fly?” Isabeau said tranquilly.
Olwynne nodded.
“Aye, it was
uncanny, was it no’? I have never heard such a lament. It made all my skin come
up in goose bumps.”
“Me too,”
Olwynne said eagerly. “Auntie Beau . . . what was wrong? Why did they sing like
that?”
“Ceit Anna is
dead,” Isabeau said after a moment, her face shadowing.
Olwynne lowered
her cup. Although she knew of the oldest and most powerful of the nyx, who had
lived in a cave deep under the sewers of the palace, she herself had never seen
the ancient faery. Stories were always told of her, though. Ceit Anna had woven
the cloak of illusions that had kept Olwynne’s father, Lachlan the Winged,
hidden in the shape of a hunchback for so many years. She had woven the cloak
from her own hair, as she had woven a pair of gloves to conceal the magical
hands of Tòmas the Healer, and as she had woven the choker that kept Maya the
Ensorcellor mute and powerless. Ceit Anna appeared in many of the MacCuinn
clan’s stories, and Olwynne knew she would be greatly missed.
“The nyx live
very long lives,” Isabeau said. “I certainly have never heard the death flight
afore, and I ken none who have. I was just reading about it inThe Book o’
Shadows .” She indicated the old and enormously thick book that lay open on
her desk nearby. “The last time one was recorded was during the time o’ Feargus
the Terrible, when Aldus the Dreamy was Keybearer. O’ course, we ken many nyx
died during the Burning, but if the death flight was flown, there was certainly
no one around to record it.”
Olwynne was
silent.
Isabeau looked
at her intently, then bent forward to lay her right hand on Olwynne’s knee. The
other hand, her crippled one, was kept tucked in her lap. “What is troubling ye
so much, my dear? Is it just the funeral song o’ the nyx or is there more?”
Olwynne shrugged
and looked away, embarrassed her aunt could read her so clearly.
“Are ye still
having those nightmares?” Isabeau asked.
Olwynne nodded,
fiddling with her cup. “Last night I was attacked by a flock o’ ravens,
hundreds o’ them, beating all around my head and trying to peck out my eyes.”
“Ravens,”
Isabeau repeated, her brows drawing together.
Olwynne nodded.
“I thought at first, when I saw the nyx flying last night, that it was their
wings I had dreamed, all those black wings against the moon. And it seemed I
had dreamed that too, only . . . it is so hard to remember. For there are other
wings in my dreams. My father’s wings. And Donncan’s too, turning all black
likeDai-dein ’s. A dark shadow falling on him, like the shadow o’ wings
. . . or happen a black cloak . . . or a shroud. Sometimes I’m being suffocated
by feathers. Or maybe I’m buried alive, in a tomb. Or Donncan is—I canna always
tell. It doesna make sense. And I wake with this horrible sense o’ foreboding,
like something awful is going to happen, and happen soon. . . .” Her voice
trailed away.
“Can ye remember
anything else?”
“Dai-deinfalling
into a dark pit . . . just falling . . . though sometimes it is me falling . .
. or Bronwen. I dream o’ Bronwen too.” Olwynne’s voice quickened. “I dreamed o’
her diving off a high cliff and falling too, falling hundreds o’ feet. And she
was crying, I’m sure o’ it. A waterfall o’ tears. And I dream o’ her and
Donncan drowning in a great pool o’ blackness, like ink spreading in water.”
Isabeau’s frown
deepened. “I have dreamed o’ ravens also,” she said at last. “Though I ken o’
disturbing news from Ravenshaw, which could well have fed into my dreams, while
ye have no’. I think your dreams may be prophetic, though I fear what they
foretell.”
“What news from
Ravenshaw?” Olwynne asked. Her voice rose. “News o’ Lewen? Is all well?”
Isabeau smoothed
the snowy folds of her gown over her knee. “Lewen is well. He is on his way
back to Lucescere. I expect him any day now.”
“But he is
connected to your dreams o’ ravens somehow, is he no’?” Olwynne demanded. “What
is wrong?”
Isabeau smiled
ruefully. “Ye have guessed it. Lewen is very much involved in these happenings
in Ravenshaw, and he has been much on my mind as a consequence. I may as well
tell ye. The tattlemongers will have the news soon enough anyway.”
“Tell me what?”
“Lewen was to
travel back to Lucescere with Nina and her caravan, as ye ken. On their journey
they somehow stumbled on a plot to raise the ghost o’ the dead laird o’
Fettercairn, which you may remember is the castle that guards the way to the
Tower o’ Ravens. Some necromancers were using the Heart o’ Stars at the tower
to open a gate between this world and the world o’ spirits, and it seems they
have raised a stronger spirit than they meant to. Nina scryed to me a few days
ago, to tell me when they would be arriving, but although she was able to tell
me most of the story, I am naturally eager to question Lewen and this lass who
actually saw the necromancers—”
“Lass?”
Isabeau glanced
at Olwynne. “Aye, some lass from the Broken Ring o’ Dubhslain. She is named
Rhiannon, I believe, and she rides a black winged horse.”
“More black
wings,” Olwynne said hollowly. “Is it her coming that I foretell?” She pressed
the heels of her hands into her eyes.
“I do no’ ken,”
Isabeau said, sounding troubled. “Olwynne, how long have these nightmares been
haunting ye?”
She shrugged
irritably. “I dinna ken. It feels like forever.”
“Ye first spoke
to me about a dark dream on the night o’ the spring equinox. Was that the first
such dream?”
Olwynne moved
jerkily. “I dinna remember. Happen so.”
“Your floor
mistress tells me ye have woken several times screaming in your sleep since
then. How often do the dreams come, Olwynne?”
“Every night,”
Olwynne answered wearily. “I have tried no’ to sleep, but I’m always too tired
and fall asleep anyway. I’ve tried taking powdered valerian roots and drinking
chamomile tea to help me sleep more deeply, but it doesna work. It just makes
things worse, for I canna wake myself when the dream gets too bad, and when I
finally do wake, I’m groggy and sick.”
“I can close
your third eye for ye,” Isabeau said gently. “At least for a night or two, to
help ye rest. Ye look exhausted, Olwynne, and they tell me your schoolwork is
suffering.”
Olwynne gazed at
her aunt in dumb wonder. She could not believe her aunt knew so much about her
when Isabeau was so busy with the work of the Coven. Olwynne’s own mother did
not know about the nightmares. She thought about what the Keybearer had offered
and, after a moment, reluctantly shook her head. “Ye say such dreams are sent
as warnings, or messages. Should I no’ listen and try to understand?”
Isabeau nodded.
“Aye, under normal circumstances. But ye are still only an apprentice-witch,
Olwynne, and ye have had a month o’ it now. I worry about your health and your
schooling. Ye have been doing so well, I do no’ want ye to fall behind.”
“It comes soon,”
Olwynne said. “Whatever it is will happen soon.”
There was a long
silence. Then Isabeau stood up, her hand going up to grip the Key that hung on
a ribbon around her neck. “Then happen we should try to find out more while we
can,” she said forcefully. “When Ghislaine Dream-Walker returns from Aslinn, I
will ask her to see if she can travel the dream-road with ye. I’m sorry, I
should have thought to check on you weeks ago. It is just we have been so very
busy.”
Olwynne knew
everyone was preoccupied with her older brother Donncan’s upcoming wedding to
their cousin Bronwen, daughter of Maya the Ensorcellor. Olwynne had not thought
she had minded their distraction, but at Isabeau’s words she felt the knot of
tension behind her breastbone loosen. She muttered thanks, hoping Isabeau’s
witch-senses would understand just how grateful she was.
“Now I think ye
should go back to bed for a while. I’ll write a pass for ye, excusing ye from
the morning’s classes. Then a walk in the fresh air and a proper lunch will do
ye the most good, I think. Come, I’ll walk ye back to your room.”
“Och, there’s no
need. I’m fine, really,” Olwynne gabbled, ashamed that she was trespassing on
her aunt’s good nature.
“It’s no
trouble. I wish to walk through the library anyway, and it’s on the way. I’ll
be glad o’ your company.”
Olwynne smiled
shyly and stood up, putting her cup down on the little table. Isabeau went to
her desk and shutThe Book of Shadows reverently, then called to her
familiar, the elf-owl Buba, who slept on the back of the chair with her head
sunk down into her wings.Comehooh with me-hooh? Isabeau said in owl
language. Buba opened her eyes sleepily, stared at Isabeau a moment, then flew
to perch on her shoulder. She was tiny, no bigger than a sparrow, and white as
snow.
Why-hooh
you-hooh frown-hooh?Buba
said, rotating her head around so she could stare unnervingly at Olwynne.
I fear-hooh, but
what-hooh, I know not-hooh,Isabeau answered.
She did look
troubled, Olwynne thought, as she followed Isabeau out of her room and down the
stairs. The Keybearer’s face was pale and strained, and the frown between her
brows had not smoothed away. She kept her right hand cupped around the talisman
she wore at her neck, almost as if drawing strength from it. As they approached
the library, which took up all of the great building between the northern and
eastern towers, her pace quickened noticeably.
They went into
the long, dark room together. The lanterns sprang into life at once, and the
kindling laid ready in the fireplaces at either end blazed up into dancing
warmth. Olwynne glanced at her aunt enviously, wishing she had such a ready
facility with flame. Her strengths were in the elements of water and earth, not
fire, and she had to concentrate hard to light a candle or bring witch-light.
Isabeau had not even flickered an eyelid, let alone waved a finger, all her
attention focused on the glass cabinets lined up against the walls in little
alcoves surrounded by towering bookshelves.
These cabinets
were used to display old relics and artifacts that might interest the students
or help them in their lessons. There were ancient scrolls, fragile as skin, old
maps of other lands and other worlds, suits of armour, famous weapons and
jewels, a clàrsach that was said to have belonged to Seinneadair the Singer,
even the cast-off skin of a harlequin hydra, its scaly coils glittering in the
light, its hundreds of heads pinned up against the wall.
Isabeau strode
straight to a glass cabinet on the far side of the room. She stood there in
silence for a long time. Olwynne stood beside her. As far as she could see, the
cabinet contained nothing but an old stick. It had not been cleaned for a long
time, for the floor of the cabinet was thick with dust.
“What is it?
What’s wrong?” Olwynne asked at last, conscious of the tension in her aunt’s
slim body.
“This cabinet
had your father’s cloak o’ illusions hanging in it,” Isabeau said tersely.
“That is his crutch. When I first met him, he had naught but the cloak and an
auld stick to lean on. no’ a stitch o’ clothing, nor a knife or bowl—nothing. I
gave him my spare pair o’ breeches to wear, and much too tight they were for
him too.”
Olwynne was puzzled.
“So where’s the cloak now?”
“Gone,” Isabeau
said. She waved one hand before the cabinet’s lock, and a symbol of blue fire
flared up for a moment. Olwynne recognized a ward of protection. “No one could
have stolen it, for the lock has not been tampered with.”
“Where’s it gone
then?” Olwynne simply could not understand her aunt’s tension. Although she
knew it had some historical interest, as a relic from the days when her father
had been a rebel fighting to overthrow the Ensorcellor, it was nothing but a
hairy old cloak that probably smelled horrible. Her father had worn it day in,
day out, for years to conceal the wings and claws he had been left with after
being transformed from a blackbird back into a man. He had not been able to
discard it until he had at last won the throne back from the Ensorcellor, and
by that time, Olwynne guessed, he had probably never wanted to see it again.
Isabeau pointed
to the pile of black dust on the cabinet floor. “I imagine that’s the remains
o’ the cloak there.”
“All that dust?
Why, what happened to it?”
“Ceit Anna wove
that cloak for your father, Olwynne, from her own hair,” Isabeau said
impatiently. “It took her seven days and seven nights, and he wore it for seven
long years. It was a weaving o’ great power. All this time it has hung here, so
people could remember the time when one o’ the MacCuinn clan had to hide
himself beneath a cloak o’ illusions to avoid being hunted down and killed. All
this time, and now it is dust. Why? Why now?”
Olwynne
shrugged. “It’s been a long time. It must be twenty-four years or more, forDai-dein
won the throne no’ long before Donncan was born.”
Isabeau turned
and pointed to a tiny pink silk dress and cap in another cabinet nearby. “That
dress belonged to Meghan o’ the Beasts as a child. It is much more than four
hundred years auld. Why has it no’ dissolved too, then?”
Olwynne’s cheeks
heated. “I dinna ken.”
“Olwynne, have
ye forgotten? Ceit Anna died last night. The cloak was hanging there yesterday,
yet now it is gone.”
“What a shame,”
Olwynne said. “I suppose ye’ll have to find something else for the cabinet
now.”
Isabeau clicked
her tongue in exasperation, and Buba swiveled her head to stare at Olwynne out
of her round golden eyes. “Ye have no’ considered, lassie. Think! What else did
Ceit Anna weave for us that we may regret dissolving?”
Olwynne’s eyes
widened in horror. “The Ensorcellor’s ribbon that binds her throat!”
“Aye! If Maya’s
powers are returned to her just now, when Bronwen and Donncan are no’ yet
married, and there is still so much controversy over who truly has the right to
rule . . .”
Olwynne felt a
cold clutch of fear. Although she saw Maya the Ensorcellor nearly every day—a
thin, scarred, middle-aged woman who could communicate only by sign language
and the writing of messages on a little slate—Olwynne did not underestimate the
power of the onetime ruler of the land. She had been told many dreadful stories
of the days of the Burning, when the Coven had been thrown down, its towers
destroyed, and witches hunted mercilessly to death all over the country. She
knew Maya’s powers were so strong and so subtle she had ensorcelled many into
doing her bidding and had been able to sway crowds of thousands to her will.
Maya had only been controlled by the binding of her tongue to silence. Olwynne
could not begin to imagine what might happen if she found that Ensorcellor’s
tongue again.
Olwynne’s
father, Lachlan the Winged, had won the throne from Maya after the death of his
brother, Maya’s husband, Jaspar. The land had been rent by civil war, and
everyone had been relieved to have a strong leader occupying the throne. Those
who had argued that Jaspar’s baby daughter, Bronwen, was by birthright the true
heir to the throne had been pacified by her betrothal a few years later to her
cousin Donncan, Olwynne’s elder brother. If Bronwen had been a meek and
biddable girl, the matter might well have ended there.
However, the
Ensorcellor’s daughter had inherited her mother’s imperious will and mysterious
charm as well as her wild, fey beauty. In the six months since she had turned
twenty-four, the age she would have assumed the throne in her own right,
Bronwen had turned the court upside down with her antics. There had been much
speculation that the betrothal between the two rival heirs to the throne might
fail. Olwynne knew that her parents were angry and concerned, and Donncan
furious and miserable, but the implications were far more serious than mere
unhappiness within the family. There were those who envied the MacCuinn clan’s
power, or hated the witches, or passionately believed that Bronwen was the true
heir. If the cousins failed to marry, there was a strong chance that civil
unrest might again trouble the land. Olwynne could only shudder at the thought
of the turmoil that Maya, unbound and vindictive, could cause.
“We had best go
and see Maya at once,” Isabeau said. “Happen she is still sleeping.”
Olwynne nodded.
She hurried after Isabeau as the Keybearer strode through the library and
across the garth to the servants’ wing. Though the other wings remained
shuttered and quiet, the clanging of pots and pans, the gurgling of water, and
the sound of voices and laughter did not bode well. The witches’ servants were
used to waking early, for many rites took place at dawn and the witches were
always keen for their breakfast afterwards.
Maya had a dark
closet of a room on the second story, tucked in behind the stairwell. Olwynne
felt no pity for her. Her own room in the southern wing was not much bigger,
and she was the Rìgh’s daughter. Many doors along the corridor stood open, as
serving girls bustled in and out with jugs of hot water or stood in the
doorways, gossiping, as they combed back their hair. They all fell silent as
Isabeau came past, dropping curtsies and murmuring respectful greetings. Isabeau
nodded and smiled at them but hurried on, Olwynne trailing close behind. Behind
them rose a hum of curiosity.
Maya’s door was
shut. Isabeau rapped on it smartly. There was a short silence, then the former
Banrìgh opened the door a crack and looked out.
She was dressed,
as usual, in a plain black gown, very like the apprentice’s robe Olwynne wore,
only Maya’s was covered with a long white apron. Her greying hair was pinned
back under a plain white cap. One side of her face was badly scarred, while the
prominent knuckles of the webbed hand holding the door were red and swollen
with hard work. She looked old and tired and sad.
“Maya, I’m glad
ye’re awake,” Isabeau said. “I need to speak with ye. May I come in?”
Maya raised an
eyebrow.
“I wish to
examine your nyx-hair ribbon,” Isabeau said bluntly.
With an eloquent
gesture, Maya lifted one hand towards the black ribbon bound about her throat.
“I do no’ wish
to do it standing in the corridor,” Isabeau said impatiently. “Why will ye no’
let me in?”
Maya shrugged
and stood back, allowing Isabeau and Olwynne to step into her room.
“Perhaps because
she wishes to retain some illusion o’ privacy,” a lilting, musical voice said
very sweetly.
Bronwen was
sitting on the edge of the dressing table, swinging one foot. She was dressed
in a short-sleeved linen gown that exactly matched the soft blue of her eyes.
She had dispensed with the usual collar of lace, the neckline cut square to
show off her white throat and breast. It was not just her flawless skin that
Bronwen was revealing. Long fins curved from elbow to wrist, and gills
fluttered gently just under her jaw on either side of her neck. Her skin
gleamed with subtle silvery scales, as silky as a snake’s throat, and her nose
was long and highly arched, with flexible nostrils that could clamp tightly
shut or flare wide in temper.
Her hair was
secured back from her brow with a comb of silver-edged seashells and hung to
her knees like a glossy black curtain. One white lock of hair sprang from her
brow and wound its way down to the end, startling against the blackness. She
was like a column of ice, so cool and sharp was her beauty, and so adamantine
her composure.
“Bronwen!”
Isabeau exclaimed. “What are ye doing here?”
“Visiting my
mother. Or is that no’ allowed?”
“At the crack o’
dawn?”
“My mother works
from sunup to midnight and is rarely allowed any breaks. When else am I to see
her?”
“Oh, Bronwen,
dinna exaggerate! She is no’ a slave! She has plenty o’ free time, like anyone
else who works in the service o’ the Coven.”
“A few hours a
week. I happen to wish to see my mother more often than that, and preferably
when she is no’ exhausted by her work.”
“Bronwen, ye ken
ye can see your mother whenever ye want,” Isabeau said in exasperation. “I
would’ve thought midday a far more civilized time to come calling. Maya has a
lunch break, just like anyone else does, and ye could have gone into the
gardens and eaten together.”
“Och, aye, the
gardens at lunchtime. Very private, with five hundred squalling brats running
around.”
“I’m sure ye o’
all people would know where to find a quiet corner,” Olwynne said.
Isabeau glanced
at her with a slight frown, and she subsided. Bronwen shot Olwynne a
sharp-edged look, then smiled, as if deciding to accept the remark as a
compliment.
“Maya, I need to
look at your ribbon,” Isabeau said, turning to Bronwen’s mother, who had been
standing silently by the wall, her hands folded together, her face impassive.
“Why?” Bronwen
cried at once. “What has my poor mother done to warrant this . . . this intrusion?”
“Oh, Bronny,
pipe down,” Isabeau said. “I just need to make sure all is well. There’s no
need for these histrionics. It’ll only take a moment.”
Maya inclined
her head, allowing her hands to fall down beside her body. Isabeau led her to
sit in the only chair, flame uncurling from the wick of every candle in the
room. Even the candlelight failed to alleviate all the shadows in the gloomy
little room. With an impatient gesture, Isabeau conjured a ball of light to
hang above the mute woman’s head, casting a strong steady light upon her. Maya
kept her face lowered as Isabeau carefully felt right around the black braid of
ribbon bound about her throat. Isabeau was frowning, and Olwynne felt a sudden
rise in tension. She glanced at Bronwen, who grimaced at her and stretched out
one elegant hand to examine her nails.
Isabeau stood
back. “Maya, did aught untoward happen last night?”
Maya looked up
at her and shrugged. She lifted the little slate that hung from her belt and
rapidly wrote, “Heard nyx fly over” with a piece of chalk she carried in her
apron pocket.
“The sound woke
ye?”
Maya put one
hand behind her ear, then folded both hands and rested her head upon them,
closing her eyes.
“But then ye
went back to sleep?”
Maya nodded.
“Naught else?”
Maya shook her head.
“Very well.
Thank ye. I’m sorry to have intruded upon your privacy.” Isabeau cast a smiling
glance at Bronwen, who gave another expressive grimace and jumped to her feet.
“Let me show ye
out,” she said sweetly.
“Och, thanks,
but I think we can find our way,” Isabeau answered. “Come on, Olwynne, ye’ll be
late to breakfast if ye do no’ hurry. See ye soon,” she said to both Maya and
Bronwen with a nod and a little smile, and led the way out of the narrow,
cheerless room, the witch-light winking out behind her.
The corridor was
empty now, all the other servants gone to their work. Olwynne was able to ask,
“So the ribbon is intact?”
“The ribbon is
very much intact, and I felt a tingle o’ magic, as I should,” Isabeau said
slowly.
“So everything’s
all right? No need to fear?”
“I’m no’ sure,”
Isabeau answered. “Things did no’ feel right. It was a powerful spell Ceit Anna
wrought for us, and nyx magic is strange and unknowable, I had always thought.
Yet . . . the magic I felt seemed simple enough—spells o’ binding and silence.
And though there was magic enough that my fingertips still tingle, somehow . .
.”
“What?”
The Keybearer
shrugged. “I dinna ken. It is a very long time since I last touched the ribbon.
I do no’ remember how it should feel.”
“As long as it’s
still intact, and the magic holds,” Olwynne said.
“Aye,” Isabeau
agreed, her frown deepening. “So long as the magic holds.”
Built on a narrow
tongue of land between two turbulent waterfalls, Lucescere had been named the
Shining City for good reason. Where the two rivers met and fell over the edge
of the cliff, a great haze of spray was flung up and, on a fine day, irradiated
with sunlight so a double rainbow arched over the city. Tall towers topped with
gilded domes and spires soared into the air behind high walls of warm
sandstone. A bridge with many great arches spanned the river, which was lined
on either bank with tall pillars of golden-leaved trees that rustled
continually. Beyond the bridge, the sparkling waters seemed to simply dissolve
into arching prisms of light.
That warm spring
evening, with the sun balancing delicately on the peak of the distant mountains
and flooding the whole landscape with vivid glowing color, Lucescere seemed
like a city out of a faery tale. Rhiannon sat very still on the stallion’s
back, staring, her arms wound tight around Lewen’s waist, her breath caught in
her throat.
Her companions
were exclaiming aloud with wonder and amazement, but Rhiannon could not utter a
sound. She had never seen anything so beautiful.
“The river falls
over the cliff just beyond the bridge,” Lewen said, twisting in the saddle so
he could see her face. “The waterfall is even bigger than the one we passed at
Ravenscraig. It falls more than two hundred feet down into the valley. Ye’re lucky
it is such a bonny day, for ye can see the rainbows the falls are famous for.
It makes the city look quite magical, doesn’t it?”
Rhiannon nodded.
Everywhere she looked were towers and domes and pointed roofs and minarets, all
gleaming with gold or flying with flags or glittering with glass. Up until now,
the biggest town Rhiannon had ever seen was Linlithgorn in Ravenshaw, and that
had had no building taller than three stories and no more than a few hundred
houses. Many of the towers in Lucescere soared seven stories high, and there
were far too many of them to count. Rhiannon could not begin to imagine how
many people lived there.
Lewen clicked
his tongue, and his big grey stallion, Argent, began to make his way down the
hill. Rhiannon settled back with a sigh. Even after all these weeks on the
road, it irked her to have to ride pillion behind Lewen. If only she could ride
her winged mare, Blackthorn! They could have soared above the city, seeing it
as only an eagle could, instead of trudging their way along the dusty road.
Rhiannon looked
back at the forest behind them. She could see Blackthorn, cantering along
through the trees, her long black wings folded along her sides. It was a great
comfort to Rhiannon, knowing her flying horse followed her still. Blackthorn
could easily have disappeared back into the mountains. She was not constrained
by chains, like Rhiannon was, nor even by a bridle and rein. Only love and
loyalty kept her trotting along behind the caravans, for, as Rhiannon had
discovered, these were bonds as strong as any manacle, in their way.
The thought made
her stomach clench with anxiety and fear. Soon they would ride into the Shining
City, and Rhiannon would at last discover her fate. She had been accused of
murdering one of the Rìgh’s most trusted lieutenants and, if found guilty,
would most likely be hanged for her crime. Lewen was sure this would not
happen, assuring her the Rìgh could never execute one so young and fair.
Rhiannon did not trust his judgment, however, for Lewen was her lover as well
as her captor, and she thought his passion for her must surely cloud his
reasoning.
It had certainly
clouded hers, she thought sourly. Lewen had made her give her word of honor
that she would not try to escape, and foolishly Rhiannon had promised. Despite
her word, the Rìgh’s courier Iven had insisted she and Lewen be chained
together, and so a short length of clanking iron chain fettered them, giving
them neither the freedom to be apart nor the freedom to truly grow closer
together.
Six weeks they
had been chained together, night and day, unable to eat or sleep or scratch or
squat without the other one witness to the act. At times the chain had made
their lovemaking more intense, even inflaming their desire. At other times the
enforced intimacy had been unbearable.
Rhiannon
returned her gaze to the Shining City. Somewhere within those glowing walls
lived the Rìgh, Lachlan the Winged, who ruled all of Eileanan and the Far
Islands and had the power of life and death over her. Would she be executed for
murder and treason, or would she be pardoned? If the order of execution was
stayed, as Lewen promised it would be, what other punishment would be devised
for her? Rhiannon had learned enough about the man she had killed to know that
he had been greatly loved by the Rìgh. Surely he would demand retribution?
Rhiannon had
heard tales of a man being branded with a T for “traitor” and condemned to
wander as an outcast, begging for food and mercy. Others had been condemned to
work in the mines, deprived of sunlight and fresh air. This seemed a terrible
punishment to Rhiannon, who had grown up with only the sky as her roof and the
moss as her mattress. She prayed mutely to whatever god might exist that she
would escape such a sentence.
They reached the
Bridge of Sorrows in the early evening, when only the very tallest towers were
still gilded with light. Everything else was sunk into violet dusk, the river
glimmering softly under the shadowy arches. The bridge was crowded with people
hurrying in and out, for the gates would be shut at sunset, at the sound of the
vesper bell.
Nina drew her
gaudily painted caravan up on the side of the road before the bridge, her
husband, Iven, coming to a halt beside her. Although they were dressed in the
bright, shabby clothes of jongleurs, both were more than they seemed. Iven had
once been one of the Rìgh’s own elite force of soldiers, the Blue Guards, until
he had married. Now he was a courier and emissary for the MacCuinn, gathering
and disseminating news as he drove around the countryside, and singing the
songs and telling the tales the Rìgh wanted to be told. Nina was a sorceress
and journeywitch in service to the Coven of Witches. As well as teaching the
lore of the witches as she traveled the roads of Eileanan, it was her task to
find children of magical talent and bring them back to the Theurgia, to be
taught the ways of the witches. She had six young apprentices traveling with
her this time, three boys and three girls, ranging in age from sixteen to
eighteen.
“Well, here we
are, my bairns, at Lucescere at last,” she said to them, as they all drew their
weary horses close around her. “I just want to warn ye to keep close to the
caravans once we are inside. Lucescere is no’ the place to get lost in. It’s a
veritable maze o’ streets and alleys, and it is hard to keep one’s bearings,
for the buildings are so tall ye canna see out once ye are in. So keep close,
and keep a sharp eye out. Though the town watch do their best to keep things in
order, there are many thieves and cutthroats here, as there are in any big
city.”
The apprentices
murmured their understanding.
“Rhiannon, I do
no’ ken what to do with your mare. We canna let her just follow us into
Lucescere. She’ll be spooked, for sure, by all the noise and smells. I’m sorry,
but I’m afraid she shall have to be bridled and put on a lead rein. Can ye call
her for us?”
Rhiannon
scowled, shaking her head instinctively.
Nina leaned
forward persuasively. “If she’s no’ kept on a close lead, she’ll hurt herself.
She may bolt, and then she’ll be lost in the back streets and ye’ll never see
her again. Someone would catch her for sure, and sell her to the highest
bidder, or keep her for their own. Winged horses are highly prized—ye ken
that.”
“Canna I ride
her?” Rhiannon pleaded. “She’ll be much calmer if I’m on her back.”
Iven frowned.
“We canna allow ye to do that, Rhiannon. Ye ken that.”
“But I promised
no’ to escape,” Rhiannon said angrily. “Why do ye no’ trust me? If I was going
to run away, I would’ve done so by now!”
Nina and Iven
exchanged a quick glance. “Very well,” Iven said at last. “But Lewen will have
to lead her, and ye will have to be tied on to her back, to make sure ye do no’
slip off and try to escape in the crowd. I’ll walk beside ye too, just to make
sure.”
“I wouldna leave
Blackthorn,” she protested. “She’s mine!”
“Aye, I ken, but
it is my task to deliver ye safely to the Rìgh’s constables, and that means
taking no chances.”
Rhiannon jerked
her shoulder, her face mutinous. “Blackthorn does no’ like to be bridled,” she
said sulkily.
“And ye do no’
like to be tied up. We ken, we ken. It canna be helped though,” Iven said,
swinging his legs around so he could jump down to the ground, leaving his cart
horse to tear placidly at the grass with his big yellow teeth. “Will ye call
her, Rhiannon, and put the bridle on her?”
Rhiannon obeyed
reluctantly. Blackthorn came cantering up willingly enough but put her ears
back at the sight of the bridle and danced away.
“At least ye
dinna have to wear a chain and manacles like me,” Rhiannon snapped. “Come on,
it’s only for a wee while. That city in there is big and noisy and dangerous,
and we do no’ want someone nabbing ye.”
Blackthorn
snorted and frisked away, shaking her mane, but Rhiannon followed inexorably,
bridle in hand. “Come on, lassie,” she said. “Settle down now.”
The mare’s lip
curled back in distaste as the cold iron of the bit slid into her mouth, then
she flung back her head, rearing in displeasure. Rhiannon clamped her hand over
the fine bone of the mare’s nose, forcing her head down. Blackthorn submitted
with ill grace.
It was hard to
do up the buckles with her hands hampered by the handcuffs and swinging chain,
but Rhiannon managed at last. She then flung her little saddle—no more than a
pad of soft leather and a girth—over the mare’s back and buckled it tightly,
digging the mare in the ribs with her elbow to stop her holding her breath.
Nobody in their right mind would ride a flying horse without making sure the
saddle was secure first.
Rhiannon leaped
lightly up into the saddle and allowed Iven to lash her hands to the pommel.
She kept her chin up, staring straight ahead, aware of the eyes watching her.
The six apprentice-witches found Blackthorn utterly fascinating, even after all
these weeks. There was more than a touch of envy in their gazes, for who had
not dreamed of taming a flying horse?
With an
apologetic glance, Lewen took Blackthorn’s reins and turned Argent’s head
towards the city. Iven flung another rope about the mare’s neck and held on to
it firmly as he walked along beside them, his young son, Roden, picking up the
caravan’s reins and slapping them on the cart horse’s broad back.
It was an odd
procession that clattered over the long bridge and into Lucescere. Certainly it
caused the heads of everyone they passed to turn and stare, and the people of
Lucescere were used to strange sights.
First rode Lewen
on his grey stallion, leading the dainty black winged mare and her defiant
rider, her hands securely bound. Beside them strode a gaily dressed jongleur
with a long fair beard forked into two, with a pair of garishly painted
caravans trundling behind. Riding close about the caravans were six young men
and women, some dressed in rich fabrics of fashionable cut, others in rough
homespuns and clogs.
A little way behind
came two huge, old-fashioned carriages of black enameled wood, bearing a coat
of arms upon their doors and each guarded by four stout outriders. The first
carriage was drawn by four perfectly matched black geldings, and its roof and
back were piled high with luggage. Looking with weary interest out of the
window was an old man, his grey hair cropped short, his thick brows drawn down
towards his eagle nose. A big raven perched on his shoulder. This was Lord
Malvern MacFerris of Fettercairn who, like Rhiannon, had been brought to
Lucescere to face charges of murder and treason. Unlike Rhiannon, he had
brought his groom, his valet, his harper, his piper, his librarian, his
stableboy and his healer with him. The valet traveled with his master. The
others jostled each other to see out the windows of the second coach.
Although Lord
Malvern and his servants and guards had accompanied the jongleurs on the long
journey through Ravenshaw and into Rionnagan, Rhiannon and the others had seen
very little of him. On the rare occasions when no inn or farm-house could be
found in which to sleep, the lord’s servants set up their own camp and the lord
slept at ease in his big, well-cushioned carriage.
Relations
between the jongleurs and Lord Malvern were tense, for the lord and his minions
had tried to kidnap Nina and Iven’s son, Roden, for their own nefarious
purposes. With Rhiannon’s help, Roden had been rescued, and the lord and his
minions had all been placed under arrest, with eight soldiers from the town of
Linlithgorn set to guard them.
It was not just
the kidnapping of six-year-old Roden that had led to Lord Malvern’s arrest. The
lord of Fettercairn was also suspected of being responsible for dozens of
mysterious deaths in the countryside surrounding his castle, as well as for
dabbling in the forbidden art of necromancy.
If it had not
been for Iven’s badge of authority, the reeve of Linlithgorn would most likely
have dismissed all these accusations out of hand, for the MacFerris clan had
ruled in their part of the world for many centuries and were very rich and
powerful. Like Rhiannon, Lord Malvern faced the death penalty if found guilty.
Rhiannon wondered if he felt the same anxiety that she did, now that they were
here at Lucescere at last. She did not think so. No doubt he expected the Rìgh
would think twice before condemning a man of his ancient and noble lineage to
death. Rhiannon could only hope the Rìgh would extend the same courtesy to a
nameless nobody from a wild satyricorn herd.
It was dim
inside the city walls, for the buildings leaned over the street like angry
adults over a child. The air felt damp and cool, and everyone unrolled their
riding cloaks and flung them about their shoulders. Rhiannon was too proud to
ask Iven to do the same for her, but he saw her shiver and wrapped her cloak
about her without a word.
The streets were
lined with shops that opened directly onto the street, their wares spilling out
onto the cobblestones and obstructing the passage of the hundreds of carts and
carriages and riders and pedestrians hurrying along. Copper merchants
brandished kettles and ladles, tanners thrust soft leather gloves and
intricately worked belts under their noses, cobblers bemoaned the poor state of
the travelers’ worn boots and tried to convince them to buy new ones, and
cursehags hissed at them from black-hung stalls. Brilliantly colored silks
billowed in the breeze, and great loops of crimson and blue and yellow wool
hung across the street on poles so they had to duck their heads.
Strong odors
assaulted Rhiannon’s sensitive nose. Some were foul, like rotting fish and
sewage and half-tanned leather and horse manure. Others were delicious, like
hot meat pies, dried herbs and powdered spices, and sweet perfumes from the
scent merchants. The noise battered Rhiannon’s ears too. She had never heard
such a cacophony. One woman was trying to catch a squealing piglet that had
escaped its cage; another harangued a fishmonger; yet another danced on a
street corner in a swirl of orange skirts to the sound of a small boy bashing a
tambourine.
A curtained
litter carried by four enormous corrigans swayed through the streets, a
cluricaun wielding a whip clearing the way before it. A Celestine in a pale
green dress bent to speak with a filthy, ragged cursehag crouched inside a
makeshift tent. Rhiannon had never seen a Celestine before, and craned her neck
to watch. The faery seemed to glimmer with a frosty light like starshine, and
her eyes were as bright and colorless as water. The cursehag cringed away from
her and made some rude gesture, and at once the two men who guarded the
Celestine stepped forward threateningly. The Celestine drew them back, her face
very gentle.
The caravans
made slow progress through the teeming streets, so Rhiannon had plenty of time
to stare and marvel. She was not the only one awestruck and amazed. None of the
six young apprentices had ever been to Lucescere before either, and they
pointed and exclaimed at every sight.
At last they
came to a big square before a tall pair of iron gates. Beyond were lawns and
trees and, in the distance, a great building with many golden domes that
gleamed in the last burnished light. After the rush and bustle of the city, it
was a relief to rest her eyes on the green gardens, and Rhiannon paid little
attention to the conversation between Iven and the guards on the gate. All her
attention was focused on the palace. There lived Lachlan MacCuinn, the winged
Rìgh of Eileanan and the ultimate arbitrator of justice in the land. Although
Rhiannon would be tried before a jury, her fate ultimately rested in his hands.
She wondered again what sort of man he was. Most of the stories told of him
were tales of war and rebellion and great acts of sorcery. They were not
reassuring.
Rhiannon was
roused from her abstraction by a sudden splat of moisture on her cheek. She
looked around, surprised, and realized one of the guards on the gate had spat
at her. She flushed in rage and humiliation, unable to lift her bound hands to
wipe the phlegm away. The guards were staring at her in overt anger and
hostility. At first she was bewildered but then she realized, with a sudden
sinking of her heart, that they all wore the same long blue cloak and
tam-o’-shanter that she did. Rhiannon’s cloak and hat had belonged to Connor
the Just, the soldier she had killed. Rhiannon wore them still because she had
no other clothes to wear, apart from the old shirt and breeches Lewen’s mother
Lilanthe had given her. From the looks on their faces, the guards knew she was
the one who had killed Connor, and hated her for it. Rhiannon lifted her arm to
wipe her face on her sleeve and looked straight ahead, her cheeks burning.
Iven was
frowning as he came back to her side. “Sorry about that,” he said stiffly. “The
soldier responsible will be severely disciplined.”
Rhiannon did not
respond. Iven took her lead rein and nodded to Lewen, who rode on down the
tree-lined avenue, looking tense and unhappy. The caravans rattled after them.
Under normal
circumstances, Rhiannon would have been as excited and fascinated as the apprentices
riding behind her. She could only think about what lay before her, however, and
the winged mare sensed her fear and distrust and danced uneasily, causing Iven
to put one hand upon her bridle.
The road brought
them through a pretty little gatehouse and into a large courtyard. The bulk of
the palace rose beyond another wall, protected by two round turrets topped with
gilded domes. On either side of the courtyard were the stables and the mews and
the kennels, and various tall stone buildings from which came the sound of
hammering and sawing, and the smell of the forge. The courtyard was full of
people. Most were dressed in rough brown breeches and smocks, belted with heavy
leather hung with the tools of their trade. Some, however, were dressed in the blue
cloaks of the palace guard. These men stiffened to attention as the cavalcade
drew up before the gatehouse. Rhiannon was aware of their eyes upon her. She
raised her chin a little higher in the air, fixing her gaze on the stone shield
above the gate. It was carved with the shape of a rearing stag, a crown between
its antlers.
Again Iven
stepped forward to speak with the soldiers. The one in charge nodded and
beckoned to the grooms waiting nearby. They came forward respectfully and
helped down the weary apprentices, then took the reins of their horses and led
them into the stables. The caravans were deftly backed into the carriage house,
and the cart horses unharnessed, while the soldiers guarding the two black
carriages dismounted and waited for their turn to report.
Within minutes,
only Rhiannon was left mounted, with six hard-faced soldiers taking up
positions all around her. She looked at them warily, not liking the way they
stood with their hands on their sword hilts and their eyes fixed upon her. Blackthorn
shied nervously, and Lewen moved quickly to put a calming hand on her bridle.
He glanced up at Rhiannon reassuringly, but she hardly noticed, all her
attention focused on the soldiers.
A sudden bustle
of activity caused her to raise her head sharply. The gate swung open, and a
tall, broad-shouldered man came through. At once all the soldiers jerked
upright, saluting him. He acknowledged them curtly, his frowning gaze fixed on
Rhiannon. She stared back at him, concealing her fear beneath a look of haughty
defiance.
Dillon of the
Joyous Sword, Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard, was a stern-faced man, his
brown hair clipped back severely. At some point his nose had been broken so
badly a chip of bone had been lost at the bridge. A thin white line slashed its
way across his cheek under his left eye, and his mouth was set in a humorless
line. He looked like a man who expected, and got, instant obedience.
He was
immacutely dressed in a white shirt, a blue kilt crisscrossed with white and
black, and a long blue cloak. His breastplate shone bright as a mirror, and his
long black boots had been polished to a glossy sheen. A long, beautifully
crafted sword hung at his waist. He caressed its hilt constantly, a nervy
mannerism so out of keeping with his frowning face and stiff back that it made
Rhiannon tense with trepidation. Blackthorn sensed her fear and at once wheeled
and reared, lashing out at one of the soldiers with her front hooves. Lewen had
trouble bringing her back under control and, bound as she was, it was all
Rhiannon could do to keep her seat.
The thick dark
brows drew even closer together over that strong, crooked nose. He paid no
attention to the soldiers from Linlithgorn and their aristocratic charge. All
his focus was upon Rhiannon and her winged horse.
“Clip the mare’s
wings at once,” the captain commanded. “And bring the prisoner here.”
“No!” Rhiannon
cried in horror. “Ye canna clip her wings!”
The soldier
ignored her. Rhiannon saw a groom come running with a large pair of shears, and
rage welled up in her.
“No, ye shallna
clip her wings. How dare ye!” she cried.
“Subdue the
prisoner,” Captain Dillon ordered.
At once the
soldiers converged upon her, drawing their weapons. Rhiannon leaned her weight
upon her bound hands, swinging her legs up and around and smashing her boots
into the face of one of the soldiers. He fell back with a cry, blood spurting
from his nose. Rhiannon brought one knee up to balance on the saddle pad, using
her other foot to kick away another soldier, then brought her knee back to
balance herself. A mere nudge with her foot, and Blackthorn wheeled and kicked
back her hind hooves, knocking the soldier behind her flying. Lewen was knocked
off his feet, but he would not let go of the rein, bringing Blackthorn’s head
around with a jerk. Rhiannon could hear him yelling at her to stop, and Nina
and Iven too, but she was too busy lashing out with foot and elbow and fist to
listen.
Then a soldier
seized Blackthorn’s bridle, close to the bit. She reared, dragging him off his
feet, then leaped into the air, her wings flashing out. After a moment he let
go with a scream and crashed down onto the cobbles. Lewen tried to hold her
down, but she was too strong for him and he was sent tumbling head over heels.
As the winged mare rose into the air, a flushed and breathless Rhiannon
clinging to her back, the captain strode forward and seized a rope from one of
the grooms. A few quick gestures, and he had tied it into a lasso that he sent
whizzing up around his head. To Rhiannon’s utter consternation, the loop rose
high into the air and dropped over her head, jerking tight about her shoulders.
As he yanked at the rope, she was half dragged off Blackthorn’s back. Only the
bonds tying her to the pommel kept her on, and they hurt her wrists cruelly.
“Seize the
bridle,” the captain ordered his men. “Pull that horse down!”
As they ran to
obey him, Rhiannon reached down with numb, clumsy fingers and wrenched at the
girth strap’s buckle. Once, twice, three times, then at last the buckle slipped
free. She fell to the ground with a crash, and Blackthorn soared away, the
ropes and reins dangling.
Fly! Fly!Rhiannon willed
her.Fly far from here, my love! As she watched the black mare tilt her
wings and obey, a sudden rush of tears confounded her. She had only time to
raise her arm and wipe them away before hard, angry hands seized her and
dragged her to her feet.
“Take the
prisoner to the cells,” the captain ordered. “And make sure she does no’ try to
escape again!”
She heard Lewen
protesting desperately but to no avail. Dazed and sick from her fall, Rhiannon
was marched swiftly away. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw his
agonized face, calling words to her that she could not hear. Then cold shadows
fell over her, as she was forced under the portcullis and into the guardhouse.
Rhiannon’s head
was ringing from the blow to her ear. She staggered and they jerked her upright
again. “Take her to Sorrowgate,” Captain Dillon ordered without even a glance
in Rhiannon’s direction. “Put her in thumbscrews and toss her in the Murderers’
Gallery. That should keep her quiet enough.”
“Aye, sir,” one
of the guards responded smartly. Then they snapped manacles on her wrists and
ankles so quickly she did not even have time to protest. They weighed heavily
on her limbs, clanking every time she moved. She was taken through the building
and out to another small courtyard, where she was put in a cart, her guards
climbing up beside her. Rhiannon strained her head, trying to see past them,
looking for some chance to escape.
The cart jerked
forward and Rhiannon was flung to her knees. No one helped her, and she
struggled up again, determined not to lie in the filthy straw at their feet.
The cart rattled
through the narrow city streets, attracting a lot of attention from the crowd.
A few young boys came running along beside it, hurling apple cores and
laughing. Rhiannon evaded them easily, shooting the boys looks of fury. They
only laughed and ran off.
They passed
under the shadow of a huge gatehouse and into another dank, grimy courtyard.
Rhiannon tried to cover her nose. The smell that rose from the slimy
cobblestones was truly awful. The soldiers jerked on her chain to keep her
hands low. She kept her head raised proudly as she was hustled out of the cart
and into the prison. Inside was a crowded antechamber where Rhiannon’s name was
taken, the charges against her recorded, and where she had to make her mark on
a scroll of paper. Rhiannon had been taught to write her name on her journey
with Nina and the apprentice-witches, but her hand was trembling so much she
barely managed to make the R. The rest was just a squiggle punctuated with
blotches and smears.
As soon as
Rhiannon laid down the quill, she was dragged out of the room, down a sweeping
staircase, and through a maze of long gloomy corridors and halls. Three more
times they descended steps, and each time the staircase was narrower, darker,
and dirtier. The last flight was very steep, and her guards were so rough with
her that Rhiannon slipped and fell. The soldiers hauled her up again, dragging
painfully on the manacles about her wrists. She would have liked to strike out
at them in retaliation, but she resisted the temptation, remembering Lewen’s
oft-repeated advice on controlling her more violent impulses.
At the bottom of
the stairs was a small antechamber with a wall of iron bars, barred and
padlocked on the inside with a thick rusty chain. The only furniture was a
stool on which a burly guard sat, his back resting against the wall. He did not
speak, just grunted, let the legs of his stool drop back to the ground, and got
up to unlock a small gate in the bars for Rhiannon and her escort. It shut
behind them with a hollow groan, and the guard locked it again.
The turn of the
key was like a fetter on her soul. Rhiannon had never been locked up before.
Until she had fled her herd on the back of the black winged horse, she had
never even spent a night within four walls. She hated the feel of being
enclosed in stone. It felt as if she had been buried alive.
Beyond was a
long, low corridor set with heavy iron doors. The walls wept with moisture and
every now and again were stained with green runnels of slime. The only sound
was the tramp of their feet and the harsh rhythm of their breath. The air was
dead and smelled unpleasant, so that Rhiannon’s nostrils wrinkled in distaste.
She tried to count the doors, but there were more than the fingers on both her
hands and she soon lost count.
Every ten paces
a lantern was bolted securely to the wall, its wick turned low so that it cast
only a dim and fitful luminance. Between each circle of light was a well of
darkness, as cold and numbing as black water. Rhiannon was not the only one to
unconsciously quicken her pace as they plunged through these gaps in the light.
At last they
came to a set of iron doors at the very end of the corridor. Two of the guards
lifted the great bolt and hauled the doors open. Within was another small
antechamber where a woman dressed in a grey uniform sat at a counter. She rose
as the guards came in and fixed Rhiannon with a frowning glare. She was a
massive mountain of a woman, at least as tall as Rhiannon and weighing four
times as much. Her fingers were like overstuffed sausages, her hands like red
cushions, her arms like bolsters. Her iron-grey dress was as large as a tent
and threatened to split along every seam. Her face was as round as a white
cheese and about as amiable as a bulldog’s. Her mouth was so thin-lipped it was
almost invisible, while her jowls were huge and heavy and wobbled when she
moved. Around her waist was clasped a leather belt as wide as a horse’s
surcingle, with a hoop laden with huge old keys dangling on one side and a
leather-wrapped cudgel on the other. She looked as if she would take great
pleasure in using it.
“So what do we
have here?” she demanded in a deep, slightly hoarse voice.
“Prisoner for
ye, Mistress Octavia,” the guard said, in the same deferential tone that he had
used for the captain.
“I can see that,
balls-for-brains. Who is she, and why isn’t she on my list?”
“Just come in.
Captain Dillon said to bring her to ye. She’s to be put in the thumbscrews, he
said, for trying to escape.” As the guard spoke, he was unfastening the
manacles about Rhiannon’s wrists and ankles. She winced and rubbed her bruises,
looking about her in apprehension.
Octavia looked
displeased. “I don’t want her,” she grumbled. “Gallery’s full. Cap’n kens that.
Take her away.”
“She’s a hanging
case.”
The tiny eyes
seemed to brighten. “Gallows apples, is she? What for?”
“Murder.”
Octavia looked
Rhiannon up and down, then yawned. “Knifed her lover, did she? Fool. No man’s
worth hanging for.”
“Nay, she killed
a Yeoman. Connor the Just.”
The puffy lids
widened enough to show more than just a glint of eye. “Really?” she drawled.
“Now that’s something I haven’t had afore. Treason, isn’t it? Would she be
hanged, drawn, and quartered for that?”
The guard
shrugged. “Should be. Bitch.” He spat at Rhiannon to show whom he was speaking
of. Rhiannon ignored him, which was not as difficult as it had been earlier.
All her energy was going into hiding just how apprehensive she was. She had
never seen such a grossly obese woman before, nor anyone with such mean little
eyes.
Octavia was
rubbing her fat red hands together. “Goody. I love a hanging. Been a while,
stupid soft-bellied judges. Should hang this one, if it’s true she killed a
Blue Guard. She’ll draw a big crowd too.”
“Aye, and if I
ken ye, Mistress Octavia, ye’ll be conducting tours through the gallery for a
very nice personal profit,” the guard said with a twist of his lips that was
half-amused, half-disgusted. “No’ to mention selling her hands.”
“Nowadays they
give the hanged bodies to the healers’ college, for them to cut up, Eà kens
why. Bet ye the healers cut the hands off and sell them. Ye can get a pretty
penny for a murderer’s hand, if ye ken where to flog them. But these stupid new
laws o’ theirs have cut my profit in half, I reckon, if no’ more. Soft-bellied
and soft-headed, those judges are. If ye don’t hang them, they just keep coming
back, don’t they?”
She winked at
one of the guards, who looked revolted, for the contrast between the coyness of
her voice and the grotesquery of her body was truly macabre. “But if they hang,
draw, and quarter her, well, then I’ll get her hands and any other bits I want,
’cause no one’s going to notice, are they, once the city dogs have torn her to
bits?” Octavia endeavored to push out the leaden weight of her jowls into a
smile. Rhiannon felt the soldiers behind her shift uneasily.
“So, welcome to
Sorrowgate,” she said then to Rhiannon. “Got any money?”
One of the
guards lifted Rhiannon’s pack and dumped it on the table. “It’ll be in here if
she does,” he said. “We havena had time to look through. We’ve only just
apprehended her.”
“No’ your job to
go pawing through a prisoner’s belongings,” Octavia said reprovingly. A sudden
paroxysm seized her. Her jowls shook and her breath wheezed in her throat.
Rhiannon stared at her in alarm. Octavia bent over, placed both fists on what
must have been her knees, hidden under the voluminous dress, and wheezed
heartily. After a moment or two, Rhiannon realized she was laughing. “No’ your
job,” she repeated. “Mine! Ha ha ha!”
The guards
laughed politely.
Octavia dug
through Rhiannon’s pack. Rhiannon must have made some small sound of protest,
for she lifted her gargoyle face and said menacingly, “Ye say something?”
Rhiannon shook
her head. The guards sniggered. Octavia drew out the thin leather pouch in
which Rhiannon kept the few coins she had managed to win gambling on their
journey. The woman felt it disapprovingly, then emptied them out into her palm.
“Well, I can see ye willna be trying to bribe me to help ye escape,” she said
with no attempt to conceal her disappointment. “Ye’ve got enough to eat
tonight, though, and I’ll let ye have a blanket.” She tossed the empty purse
back into the pack and shoved the coins away into a pocket.
“Ye canna just
steal my money!” Rhiannon blurted out furiously.
“I havena stolen
anything!” Octavia yelled. She surged forward, thrusting her face into
Rhiannon’s so that it seemed to fill the entire universe. Her skin had turned a
nasty mottled color, and her eyes were completely lost in the slits of fat.
Rhiannon fixed her attention on the tuft of hairs that stuck out of a wart on
the woman’s chin, willing herself to stand her ground. “How dare ye accuse me,
ye filthy murdering sow! I just told ye that ye had enough money for a meal
tonight and a blanket. How is that stealing?”
“There was
enough money there to pay for two weeks’ lodging!” Rhiannon yelled back.
That terrible
wheezing paroxysm overcame Octavia again. Rhiannon shrank back, unable to help
herself. The soldiers shifted from foot to foot, their boots squeaking.
Octavia managed
to catch her breath. “Two weeks’ lodging,” she repeated, wiping her eyes. “Och,
it’s a clown, this one. Two weeks’ lodging! No’ at the Sorrowgate Inn, my love.
Finest inn in town, we are, and that handful o’ coppers only pays for supper
and a bed for one night. Tomorrow ye’ll be sleeping on the ground and gnawing
dead rats’ bones, if ye canna get me any more coins afore then.”
Rhiannon said
nothing.
The pendulous
jowls slowly stopped their wobbling, and all her flesh thickened and drew down
until her mouth had once again disappeared. Octavia pushed her bulldog’s face
very close to Rhiannon’s. Her breath was foul. “And if ye ever smart-mouth me
again, my girl, I’ll smash your teeth in for ye, do ye understand? Or hang ye
up for the rats to gnaw on.”
Rhiannon nodded,
trying not to lean away.
“Ye say, ‘Aye,
ma’am,’ and ye say it right quickly.”
“Aye, ma’am,”
Rhiannon said, and Octavia at last stepped away. Rhiannon took a deep breath.
To her dismay she realized she was trembling. She hoped no one else had
noticed.
Methodically
Octavia went through the pack, noting all of Rhiannon’s belongings and
laboriously writing them down in a thick ledger attached to her counter with a
chain. When she wrote, she stuck her tongue out one corner of her mouth.
“One longbow;
one quiver; one dozen arrows, green fletched,” she said. “One dagger, silver;
one boot knife, with black hilt. One blowpipe, one bag o’ barbs, standard
Yeoman issue.” Octavia looked up and stared at Rhiannon expressionlessly, then
returned her attention to the ledger, her pale tongue once more protruding.
“One water pouch, one whetting stone, one tinderbox, one large flint. One
embroidered shawl. One gold brooch, running horse design.”
She took out a
little painted box, lifted the lid, and listened for a moment as it tinkled a
pretty tune. “One music box,” she intoned, the quill scratching against the
paper. “One silver goblet, crystal in stem. Mmmm, very nice. One silver badge,
charging stag design. One gold medal . . .” She paused as she turned it in her
hand, then raised her gimlet eyes to stare accusingly at Rhiannon. “. . . with
haloed hand design.”
“The League o’
the Healing Hand!” one guard hissed.
“Dinna tell me
she stole his medal,” another said reproachfully.
“And his Yeoman
badge!”
“Bitch,” said
the one who had spat at her before, and spat again.
Rhiannon said
nothing.
When everything
in her bag had been documented, including “one purse, empty,” Octavia laid down
her ink-stained quill and said brusquely, “Right, then, time to strip.”
Rhiannon just
stared at her.
“Strip off!” she
repeated impatiently, with an expansive gesture.
“Ye mean . . .”
“Och, aye, the
lassie’s shy,” Octavia mocked. “Look at her, blushing and sighing, like a
lassie whose lips are still wet with her mama’s milk.”
The soldiers
guffawed.
“Take it all
off!” Octavia barked. “Now!
Rhiannon set her
jaw and obeyed. Naked and shivering, she passed her clothes over to Octavia,
who duly noted them down in her ledger, then shoved them into the bag, did up
the straps and stowed the bag away in a crowded cupboard that she then locked
with a key. Rhiannon stood with her back ramrod straight, her arms crossed over
her breasts, enduring the guards’ grinning regard. Octavia then stood and
looked her over with the same overt lasciviousness, her arms akimbo, the tip of
her fat tongue protruding. “Bonny lass, isn’t she? Skin like a babe. Mmm-mmm.
Better get your tongues off the floor, lads.”
Rhiannon stared
straight ahead.
“Nice flat arse
too. No’ like mine, hey? Hey?”
The guards did
not dare agree.
Octavia gave her
hoarse wheezy laugh and tossed Rhiannon a coarse linen smock, which she
hurriedly pulled on over her head. It was rough and itchy, and stank. Rhiannon
wrinkled her nose in disgust.
The smell of her
smock was nothing to that which assaulted her sensitive satyricorn senses when
Octavia unlocked and hauled open the other door, however. The air that flowed
over them was so foul that Rhiannon wrenched her wrist free of the guard’s
grasp so she could clamp her hand over her nose and mouth. The guard did not
protest because he wanted to mask his own nose.
Octavia reached
forward and seized Rhiannon’s hands in her own hot, unpleasantly damp hands,
dragging them away from her face. Rhiannon gagged. In that moment of weakness,
Octavia grabbed her thumbs and forced them both into a metal clamp that she
tightened cruelly and then locked. Rhiannon shrieked and jerked her hands away,
but it was too late. Her thumbs throbbed painfully.
“Well, in ye go,
girlie. I hope ye enjoy your stay,” Octavia said, wheezing with pleasure at her
own wit.
Rhiannon did not
move, staring into the room beyond in horror. The room was dim and smoky, lit
only by the sullen glare of a single lantern. Vague hunched shapes moved in the
gloom, staring back at her with eyes that gleamed white and glassy.
Octavia
unhitched her cudgel and slapped it into her palm.
“Get in there,
girl,” she said.
Still Rhiannon
did not move. Her legs felt weak and trembly. One of the soldiers gave her a
shove in the back and she lurched forward. Octavia grabbed her by the neck,
lifted her, and flung her through the door, tossing a blanket and a wooden bowl
after her. As Rhiannon landed on her knees on the filthy, freezing floor, she
heard the door slam shut behind her and the key grate in the rusty lock.
Lewen sighed in
impatience and frustration. Lady Fèlice de Valonis of Stratheden turned and
smiled at him in sympathy. Of all the apprentices who had ridden to Lucescere
from Ravenshaw, she was the one who had grown closest to Rhiannon. A small,
slim girl of sixteen, Fèlice managed to look fresh and pretty even with her
crimson velvet riding habit crushed and travel stained, and her long brown
curls ruffled.
Beside her
Cameron MacHamish rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, needing some
kind of physical outlet for his emotions. Flanking Fèlice on the other side was
Rafferty MacKillop, the brown-haired son of a clockmaker. These two young men
were always vying for Fèlice’s attention, as much now by habit as by
inclination. So when the young lady had declared her intention of accompanying
Lewen to the prison to seek news of Rhiannon, they had both naturally decided
she needed their protection, even though Fèlice said she felt quite safe with
Lewen as her escort, with a laughing glance at his strong, tall figure.
The other
apprentice-witches had gone on to the Theurgia as planned, though it was clear
Landon would have much preferred to accompany Lewen and Fèlice than escort the
other two girls, Lady Edithe NicAven of Avebury and Maisie, the shy, plump
daughter of a village cunning man. Edithe had been most annoyed to have been
abandoned by the other boys, however, and had insisted that Landon at least
stay with her and Maisie. So, looking back over his shoulder wistfully, Landon
had obediently trailed off after the haughty young blonde. Edithe had made no
attempt to wait for Maisie, who was still limping badly after being attacked by
wild dogs on their journey.
It had taken
Lewen some time to find his way to Sorrowgate Prison, for it was not a place he
had ever had to visit before. A great dark hulking building built beside the
gatehouse that guarded the Bridge of Sorrows, it was protected by a tall iron
portcullis with prongs as sharp as spears. Although the portcullis was drawn
up, they had to pass right underneath it, and no one was able to help glancing
up uneasily. It was all too easy to imagine it rattling down at high speed and
impaling them upon its prongs.
Within was a
small dark courtyard, busy with people coming and going. The smell was strong
enough to make Fèlice lift her handkerchief to her nose and for Cameron to make
some lame joke to cover his unease.
Now the four
apprentice-witches stood waiting in a vast chamber, along with a host of other
people, some carrying baskets of food and wine, parcels of clothes, or bundles
of blankets. Some were obviously prisoners, manacled and flanked by guards
dressed in stern grey garb. Most looked resigned. One or two wept, and one man
tried to resist and was belted across the back with a heavy cudgel for his
pains.
At the far end
of the room was an enormous desk, where a man sat half-hidden behind towers of
papers. Every now and again, he looked up and jerked his head. Another person
would rush forward to plead with him to allow them to visit a prisoner or to
give him their parcel and a covert coin, or the guards would drag forward their
captive, who would be efficiently processed, then marched through the huge iron
doors behind the clerk by two big, hard-faced prison guards.
Slowly the queue
inched forward. Lewen and his friends had been waiting now for more than twenty
minutes, and their anxiety for Rhiannon made the wait very hard.
There was a stir
at the great iron doors that led to the outside. Lewen turned to look, as did
most people in the room.
Lord Malvern
entered the room, carrying his raven on his gauntleted wrist. He was dressed in
a black velvet jacket over a grey and black kilt, with a plaid of the same
pattern thrown over his shoulder and secured with a heavy silver badge. Before
him walked a young man with a curiously colorless and impassive face, dressed
all in black and imperiously clearing the way with a long white stick.
Following a few paces behind the lord were his valet, carrying one small carved
box; his librarian, staggering under a great pile of books and scrolls; his harper
and piper, both carrying their musical instruments on their backs; and a
cheery-faced woman dressed in a brown skirt and a white apron, who was carrying
an enormous basket. Behind them came six porters struggling with various trunks
and cases, and two rough-clad men that Lewen knew had been grooms at
Fettercairn Castle. Behind them, looking harassed, were the eight soldiers
appointed by the reeve of Linlithgorn to guard the lord and his retinue. They
looked more like bodyguards set to serve the lord than soldiers set to hold him
prisoner.
Lewen wondered
where the lord of Fettercairn had got his new seneschal. Irving, his last
seneschal, had died at Rhiannon’s hand, throwing himself before an arrow that
had been aimed for Lord Malvern. This new man had the same stiff, white,
unpleasant look about him as Irving had had, only he seemed about twenty years
younger. Lewen wondered if it was Irving’s son, knowing that most of a great
lord’s servants inherited their positions.
The seneschal
ignored the long straggling queue and walked straight up to the desk, prodding
a fat woman with his stick so she moved out of the way. He rapped on the desk
to get the clerk’s attention, then dropped a heavy purse of coins in front of
him.
“My laird, the
MacFerris o’ Fettercairn, has been wrongly accused o’ treason,” the seneschal
said in a bored tone. “He has submitted to the Crown until such a time as the
charges are dismissed. He will require lodgings in Sorrowgate Tower for himself
and his servants. Please ensure the quarters are clean.”
The man at the
desk stared up at him with dropped jaw, then shrugged and took the purse. “Very
well,” he answered and jerked his head. A guard came forward and opened the
doors. The lord of Fettercairn walked forward and into the prison, disappearing
from view. His retinue followed along behind him, all except Dedrie the castle
healer, who paused at the table.
“I must attend
upon his lairdship at once,” she said. “He is sorely tired after his journey. I
will need to organize the delivery o’ some medicines from the College o’
Healers first, however. I will need a pass out to ensure that all is in order
for his lairdship. Will ye please write one for me now, so that his lairdship
does no’ have to wait too long?”
The man frowned,
and at once another plump purse plopped on the table in front of him.
“O’ course,” he
said. He scribbled on a piece of paper and pushed it towards Dedrie.
She thanked him,
then turned and walked back towards the city. As she passed Lewen, their eyes
met. Dedrie smiled sweetly and then stepped out through the doors and out of
sight.
Seeing the lord
of Fettercairn and his poisonous skeelie bribe their way into comfort and
freedom made Lewen grind his teeth in fury. He seethed about it the whole time
he had to wait, and when at last he was able to step up to the desk, said
furiously, “Why did ye let the laird o’ Fettercairn’s skeelie just walk out the
door? She’s been accused o’ murder, ye ken, and necromancy too!”
The man raised
his eyebrows, and said, “Pass outs allowed in time o’ need.”
“What need?”
Lewen demanded.
“A prisoner who
has been granted liberty o’ the tower is permitted to send servants on errands
for him,” the clerk said.
“Even if she
stands accused o’ murder herself?”
“I have no
record o’ such charges.”
“But—”
The clerk tapped
his quill against his ink pot impatiently. “Is there something else I can do
for ye?”
Lewen swallowed
his aggravation. “Aye. I’m here to see Rhiannon o’ Dubhslain. She was brought
in an hour or so ago.”
The clerk
shuffled some papers, then said, “Och, aye. Accused o’ murder. Sorry. No
visitors allowed.”
“But why no’? Ye
let the laird o’ Fettercairn’s skeelie just go wandering off into the city. Why
will ye no’ let me—”
“The girl has
no’ been granted liberty o’ the tower. She’s in the Murderers’ Gallery. No
privileges allowed.”
“But I must see
her! Please, canna I—”
“Sorry. I canna
help ye. Next!”
“But please . .
. canna I just—”
“Move along,
please, sir.” A prison guard suddenly materialized at Lewen’s elbow, and he was
politely but inexorably moved away from the clerk’s desk. Fèlice and the other
boys trailed after him, all looking upset and angry.
“What do we do
now?” Fèlice asked.
“I suppose we
had better just go to the Theurgia, like we’re supposed to,” Cameron said.
“Nina said she was going to seek audience with the Rìgh just as soon as she
could. I guess we leave it up to her.”
“We’d better
tell her about Dedrie,” Lewen said through his teeth.
“I hope Rhiannon
is all right,” Fèlice said, looking about her with a theatrical shudder. “This
is truly a most blaygird place.”
“Did ye see the
laird o’ Fettercairn? It was like a royal progress,” Rafferty said.
“They just let
that auld nursemaid go wandering off,” Fèlice said. “How can that have
happened?”
Cameron rubbed
two fingers together. “Filthy lucre always lubricates the way,” he said.
“Rhiannon has no
money,” Lewen said. “Och, if only I’d thought! I could have given her some.”
“She has some
money,” Cameron said feelingly, “because she kept winning all o’ mine. She’d
bet on a snail race, that girl.”
They pushed
their way through the crowd and out into the fresh air, Fèlice taking great
gulps, her hand pressed dramatically to her chest. “The smell o’ that place!”
She shuddered. “I declare I feel quite ill!”
“I have to see
Rhiannon!” Lewen cried. “I canna bear to think o’ her locked up in there.”
“But how?”
Rafferty asked. “Ye heard that man. No visitors allowed.”
“I must see the
Rìgh,” Lewen said. “I must beg him to grant her liberty o’ the tower, whatever
that is.”
“And ye think ye
can just charge in there and ask him?” Cameron said skeptically.
“Nay, o’ course
no’. Though I am one o’ his squires, ye ken, and he is quite friendly to us,
most o’ the time. I canna just go in and demand audience with him whenever I
want, though. But I ken someone who can!”
“Who?” Fèlice
demanded.
“His daughter,”
Lewen answered.
Olwynne leaned
her head upon her hand, finding it hard to concentrate on the book before her.
She was tired yet she could not rest. She felt unsettled and fidgety, like a
horse in a rising wind. She felt she was waiting for something to happen, even
though she knew all the other students were in class, and the witches busy
about their own concerns.
Suddenly her
door crashed open. Olwynne jerked upright. She had not heard anyone walking
down the corridor. In an instant she saw why. Her twin brother, Owein, hovered
in the doorway. Like her, he was red haired and brown eyed, with the white lock
of the MacCuinn clan curling at his left temple. Unlike her, he was blessed
with a pair of glossy, red-feathered wings as long as he was himself. Ever
since he had first learned to manage his wings, Owein had never walked if he
could fly. He was as restless as a dragonfly, always in motion, always talking
and laughing and fighting.
Olwynne had wondered
once or twice if that was why she was so quiet and self-contained, so absorbed
in her books and her studies. It was the only place where she could outshine
her twin. Owein did not have much interest in studying and only tolerated his
classes at the Theurgia because he knew he had to graduate before he was
permitted to try out for the Yeomen of the Guard. Like many young men his age,
he dreamed of joining that most elite company of soldiers. Few made the grade,
however, and Owein had been told many times that being the son of the Rìgh was
no guarantee of acceptance.
“Olwynne, guess
what!”
“Ye’ve been
kicked out o’ school for missing so many classes,” Olwynne replied promptly,
eyeing her brother’s clothes. Instead of being soberly attired in the black robe
of an apprentice, as she was, he was wearing breeches, shabby boots, and an
old, stained tunic rent from the shoulder.
He grinned and
fluttered down to perch on her bed. “Nay, though I must admit auld Jock
threatened to throw me out if I missed any more o’ his classes. I told him he’d
have to catch me first.”
“Owein!”
“Och, he’s all
right, auld Jock. It’s no’ that I dinna like him; it’s just that agricultural
studies drives me crazy. So boring! And no one can convince me I need to ken
aught about farming to be a Blue Guard.”
Olwynne sighed.
She could have tried but she knew it would be a waste of breath.
“So why are ye
no’ in class now?” she demanded.
Owein pulled a
face. “Alchemy. So boring! Alasdair and I thought we’d go hawking. Much too
nice a day to hang around in class. I ken Cailean wouldna give us away.”
Olwynne frowned.
Hawking, hunting, and other blood sports were forbidden to apprentices, as the
Coven of Witches believed passionately that all living creatures were sacred.
Witches did not eat the flesh of any animal, nor cheese that had been fermented
with the juices of an animal’s digestive system, nor eggs that had been
fertilized. Skipping class would be frowned upon, but doing so in order to go
hawking would be punished by suspension and perhaps even expulsion.
Owein rolled his
eyes at her. “Dinna be such a muffin-faced prig, Olwynne. I’ve been good all
winter. Ye canna expect me to stay at school and work when the weather’s
finally warming up!”
Olwynne wondered
fleetingly how her brother could say he had been good all winter so sincerely
when she knew for a certainty that he had regularly skipped school to go
tobogganing, ice skating, and hunting with his hounds, not to mention he’d
smuggled a greased pig into the dining room one day and released all the
pigeons from the loft another day. She also harbored a very strong suspicion
that it had been her brother who had strung Fat Drusa’s drawers up the flagpole
on Hogmanay. Luckily the very large sorceress was also very good-humored, else
Owein might have found himself expelled.
“Anyway, dinna
ye want to hear my news? Guess what we saw when we were in the mews. Go on,
Olwynne, guess!”
“A falcon,”
Olwynne said sourly.
“Go on, muffin
face! Try, at least. Some witch ye are, if ye canna even read your own
brother’s mind.”
Olwynne looked
at him in exasperation. She knew very well that, despite all Owein’s madcap
tricks and tomfoolery, he had had some of the Craft hammered into his head and
was quite capable of shielding his mind from her.
“Dai-dein?”she said
hopefully. Her father had little patience with Owein’s wildness and would have
sent him back to school with a flea in his ear.
“No! We saw a
winged horse, a black one, and a real beauty. A girl was riding it, a prisoner
o’ some sort. Her hands were bound and she was on a lead rein. They tried to
bring her in and she fought them off. Ye should’ve seen her! She broke Lyndon’s
nose, and her horse kicked Kenneth in the chest and stove all his ribs in. It
was grand! Then the captain threw a rope around her shoulders and brought her
down, and the mare took off up into the sky. Ye should’ve seen it go! What I
wouldna give for a horse like that!”
“A black winged
horse,” Olwynne echoed. A peculiar hollowness in her stomach made her voice
come out too high.
Owein did not
notice.
“Aye, with two
long blue horns. Reynard had his face opened by one o’ them. He was lucky no’
to lose his eye. It was great sport, seeing the Blue Guards routed by a skinny
slip o’ a girl and a horse! Though I tell ye what.” His voice sobered. “Captain
Dillon was no’ at all pleased. I feel sorry for the girl. Lewen says—”
“Lewen?”
“Och, aye, didna
I say? It was Lewen who brought her in.”
“Lewen’s here?”
Olwynne jumped to her feet.
“Aye, he’s in
his room. I’ve just come from there. That’s why I’m here: he wants to see ye.”
“Me?” Olwynne
felt her cheeks heating and put up a distracted hand to her hair, which was
braided back tightly. She gave it a jerk and wished she dared loosen it from
its ribbon. She knew it was her only real beauty, but if she shook it out,
Owein would jeer at her and wonder aloud what she was doing, and she would be
reprimanded by any witch who saw her.
“Aye, he’s in a
real state. Seems he’s fallen head over heels for this girl, and he’s afraid—”
Olwynne spun
around to face her brother. “He’s what?”
“Fallen for this
girl,” Owein said impatiently. “Hard, by the looks o’ it. Poor auld fellow.
Anyway, he needs our help. He wants to appeal toDai-dein , try to have
her freed. The auld man’s got a soft spot for Lewen, ye ken, ’cause o’ hisdai
, but things look pretty black for her. I’m no’ sure if I got the story
straight or no’, but apparently she killed a Yeoman.” Owein’s voice hardened
with indignation. “By all rights she should hang, and by the look o’ the
captain, he intends to make sure she will. Lewen is just sick about it all.”
“We’d better go
and hear what he has to say then,” Olwynne said.
With his legs
still crossed, Owein flung open his wings and shot up into the air. As he
stretched out his long legs, reaching out his hand to open the door, he knocked
over some of her books and sent her papers flying. He did not seem to notice.
In one smooth motion he was soaring out the door and over the balcony rail.
Olwynne picked up her books and papers with a long-suffering sigh and followed
more sedately.
The boys’
dormitories were on the far side of the garth and, in general, were out of
bounds to the girls. However, rules were much more relaxed for the older
apprentices, and as long as everyone was back in their own rooms by lights out,
no one much cared. As Olwynne crossed the garth, she heard the bell ring, then
the sound of several hundred students packing up their books and closing their
desks. She quickened her pace, having no desire to run into any of her friends,
who would want to stop her for a gossip.
Both Owein and
Lewen had recently been promoted to senior students and so their rooms were up
on the top floor. Owein, of course, simply flew up and over the balcony,
calling mockingly over his shoulder, “Come on, slow coach!” Olwynne had to go
up by the stairs.
Lewen’s door
stood ajar, and she knocked on it tentatively before going in. Lewen was lying
on his bed, his arm flung up over his face. As Olwynne came in he dashed his
hand over his eyes and sat up. He was white and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed.
Shocked at the sight of him, Olwynne went swiftly to his side and put her arms
about him. He gave a great sigh and slumped against her.
Lewen MacNiall
of Kingarth was the twins’ greatest friend. He had first come to the Theurgia at
the age of sixteen and, being only a few months younger than they were, had
been put in their class. Owein and Olwynne had been at the Theurgia since the
age of eight and knew everyone and everything. Lewen had never left his
parents’ farm before and had been stricken by acute homesickness, which he had
done his best to hide. At first it was his misery and the gameness with which
he sought to conceal it that touched Olwynne’s tender heart, but soon his skill
at games had won Owein over completely too. The three had been inseparable ever
since, particularly once Lewen was appointed squire to the Rìgh in honor of his
father, who had once been one of Lachlan MacCuinn’s most trusted officers.
“What in Eà’s
name is the matter?” Olwynne asked.
Lewen seized her
hands. “Ye’ve got to help me, Olwynne. The captain’s got Rhiannon locked up in
prison and they willna let me in to see her! I’ve got to see her, Olwynne!”
“But why? Who’s
Rhiannon?”
Lewen got up and
went to the window. After a moment, he said, “She’s from Dubhglais. She’s half
satyricorn. She was raised in the mountains by her mother’s herd, but they
despised her for being so human-looking. When her horns didna grow, she thought
they’d kill her and so she tamed a winged horse and flew it down out of the mountains.
I found her and the poor exhausted mare and took them back to Kingarth. We
thought . . . Mam andDai-dein and I . . . that she had best come back
with me to Lucescere. She has Talent, ye see. Strong Talent.”
“But Owein says
she was a prisoner . . . that she was bound and tied to the horse.”
Lewen nodded,
not turning around.
“But why? What
has she done?”
“She killed
Connor the Just,” Lewen said, very low.
Owein had been
floating up near the ceiling, but at this he exclaimed aloud and dropped down
lightly to his feet. “Connor the Just! No’ our Connor? Johanna’s brother?”
Lewen nodded and
leaned his head against the windowframe.
“Eà’s green
blood!” Owein exclaimed.
Olwynne was
distressed. “But why? How?”
“No wonder the
captain was so grim,” Owein said, marveling. “Damn! He’ll be out for her blood.
AndDai-dein too. Och, she’s gallows apples for sure.”
“Owein!” Olwynne
said softly. Obligingly he shut up and she went over to Lewen, tentatively
putting her hand on his shoulder. “Tell me what happened,” she said.
He would not
look at her. “Connor was captured by the herd, riding through their territory.
Rhiannon helped him escape, but he was captured again by Rhiannon’s mother, who
is First-Horn o’ the herd. He tried to fight free. Rhiannon shot him to save
her mother.”
“Did they no’
ken he rode in the Rìgh’s service?” Owein demanded, scandalized.
“Dubhglais is
deep in the mountains, a million miles from anywhere,” Lewen said wearily. “The
satyricorns are wild there. They ken naught.”
“Ignorance is no
defense,” Owein said. “The satyricorns have signed the Pact o’ Peace. They had
no right to hinder a Yeoman, let alone murder him!”
“I doubt these
satyricorns have even heard o’ the Pact o’ Peace,” Lewen said. He shrugged off
Olwynne’s hand and went to sit on his bed again, his face in his hands.
“Anyway, none o’ it should matter,” he said in a muffled tone. “Rhiannon is
naught but a lass, and she shot him to save her mother’s life. Besides, she’s
shown herself brave and true. She rescued Roden on the way here and saved his
life. That has to count for something.”
“Ye mean Nina’s
little boy?” Olwynne asked. “The heir to Caerlaverock?”
“Aye. He was
kidnapped, and Rhiannon rescued him. Nina and Iven promised they would speak up
for her, tell the Rìgh what happened. And now she’s rotting in some foul
dungeon and Laird Malvern is being waited on hand and foot in one o’ the
tower’s best rooms!”
“Who?” Owein and
Olwynne asked together.
“The laird o’
Fettercairn,” Lewen said impatiently. “He was the one who kidnapped Roden. He’s
a murderer and a traitor and a foul necromancer, and if it wasna for Rhiannon,
we’d all probably be dead!”
Even Olwynne was
beginning to be bewildered by the complexity of Lewen’s tale. “I’m sure it
willna be for long,” she said hesitantly. “Dai-deinwill get to the
bottom o’ it all, I’m sure.”
“But she hates
being confined,” Lewen said miserably. “When I first found her, she’d never
even seen a house afore. It’ll send her half-mad, being locked up in a
dungeon.”
“I’m sure it’s
no’ that bad,” Olwynne said.
“Ye didna see
the captain’s face,” Lewen retorted.
“He was pretty
angry,” Owein agreed.
“I’ve got to get
in to see her!” Lewen cried, lifting his face to look at his friends. “I’ve got
to reassure her. Please, ye’ve got to help me.”
“O’ course we’ll
help ye,” Owein cried. “I’ll bang the guard on the head and we’ll steal his
keys and then—”
“Dinna be such a
gawk!” Olwynne said crossly. “We canna do that.”
“At least I’m
no’ a namby-pamby muffin-faced prig,” Owein retorted, firing up.
“Ye’ll get
yourself and Lewen into dreadful trouble and only make things worse for this
Rhiannon girl,” Olwynne said.
“Aye, happen
we’d be best slipping something into his wine,” Owein said thoughtfully. “Then
he’ll just think he dozed off.”
“And the captain
will order him put to the lash,” Olwynne snapped back. “That hardly seems
fair.”
“Well, got any
better ideas?” her twin jeered.
“Aye, I do, as a
matter o’ fact.”
“O’ course ye
do, Miss Perfect,” Owein muttered.
“Let’s just go
and seeDai ,” Olwynne said. “Surely if we just explain to him how
important it is that Lewen gets in to see her . . .” Her voice faltered. She
could not look at Lewen as she asked, “Justwhy is it so important,
Lewen? I mean,Dai-dein will be in conference. . . .”
Lewen raised his
face from his hands and gazed at Olwynne imploringly. If anyone could intercede
with the Rìgh, it was Olwynne, for Lachlan adored his only daughter and often
declared she was the only one with any sense in the whole family.
“I’m in love
with her,” he said haltingly, a hot rush of color burning his cheeks. “Wait
till ye meet her, Olwynne. There’s never been a girl like her. She can ride
like a thigearn and fight like a man, and she’s clever as a bag full o’ elven
cats. I . . . I want to jump the fire with her. One day, I mean.”
Olwynne looked
away, biting back angry words.
Owein grinned.
“Lewen’s in lo-o-ove,” he sang.
Lewen flushed
again. “Well, I am,” he said doggedly. “And she loves me. And I promised I’d
look out for her and make sure all was well. I canna let her be hanged.”
“But how can ye
stop it? If she’s found guilty, I mean?” Olwynne asked.
Lewen looked
stubborn, an expression Olwynne knew only too well. “I dinna ken how, but I
will if I have to, I swear it. Ye’ve got to help me, Olwynne. Ye’ll love her
too, when ye meet her. I ken ye will.”
Somehow Olwynne
doubted that.
The
Lord of Fettercairn’s Skeelie
Johanna the Mild
sat listlessly in the cushioned window seat of her room. Outside she could hear
the students talking and giggling, and the gruff voice of the sorcerer Jock
Crofter as he ordered them in to their supper. It was growing late and, as head
of the Royal College of Healers, Johanna should have been doing her rounds at
the hospital and preparing for the evening lectures. But today she could not
even find the energy to rise and put on her long green healer’s robe, let alone
face a room full of rowdy students.
Her brother was
dead. She had heard of his death more than a month ago, after Lewen had used
the Scrying Pool at the haunted Tower of Ravens to contact the Rìgh, but the
news that his murderer had been brought to Lucescere to face trial had torn the
wounds wide open again.
Johanna had no
one else. Connor had been her only family. Orphaned when they were very small,
they had spent their childhood begging on the streets of Lucescere, scrounging
through rubbish and stealing whatever they could lay their hands on, just to
stay alive. Then they had met the blind seer Jorge and his apprentice Tòmas the
Healer, a little boy with the miraculous ability to heal any wound or illness
with the mere touch of his hands. Johanna and Connor had helped them escape the
witch-sniffers and had had to flee Lucescere to avoid being captured
themselves. Along with the rest of their gang of street kids, they had formed
the famous League of the Healing Hand, sworn to help and protect Tòmas and to
help bring back the Coven of Witches so all with magical powers would be safe.
Tòmas and Connor
had been only seven years old. Johanna had been sister and mother to them both.
For the next few years, the League of the Healing Hand had worked to help
Lachlan the Winged overthrow Maya and her Anti-Witchcraft League, then beat
back the Bright Soldiers of Tìrsoilleir, then win the war against the Fairgean
so that Eileanan was finally at peace. Along the way, most of the League of the
Healing Hand had lost their lives, including Tòmas himself. He had then been
just twelve years old, and Johanna had been heartbroken with grief. It had
seemed so cruel, so unfair, that the little boy who had saved so many thousands
of lives, including that of the Rìgh, should not live to see the peace he had
helped bring about.
Twenty years of
peace and prosperity had numbed Johanna’s grief. She still thought of Tòmas
often, but her own busy, happy life as the head of the Royal College of Healers
had filled the void his death had left, and she had still had her brother,
tall, handsome, accomplished Connor, who had risen through the ranks of the
Yeomen of the Guard to be one of Lachlan the Winged’s most trusted lieutenants.
But now Connor
was dead.
Her grief was a
barbed and spiky creature with bloody jaws, chewing ravenously away at her
entrails. She did not think she could survive the pain. Nothing helped her.
Even drinking a vial of poppy syrup did nothing except plunge her into
swelteringly hot, garishly colored nightmares where she saw Connor’s grey
decaying body rise up out of filthy foam, holding up beseeching crippled hands,
his beautiful mouth a bloody and empty ruin where that satyricorn had hacked
out his teeth, his eye sockets gaping where fish had fed on his laughing blue
eyes, a crimson and black hole plunging through to his heart. It was better not
to sleep.
Johanna had
forced herself to keep working, filling her days and nights by easing the pain
of others. This at least meant that her body was so weary that when she laid
herself down on her bed at night, sometimes she did manage to sleep, for a few
hours at least.
But today her
brother’s murderer had ridden into the city. Johanna had heard the news almost
straightaway, for Captain Dillon had been the one to form the League of the
Healing Hand so many years ago. He was one of her oldest friends and her
occasional lover, and he had come to tell her the moment the prison doors had
clanged shut behind the satyricorn. Like Johanna, he was filled with a bitter
corrosive hatred of the girl who had snuffed out Connor’s bright life so
heedlessly. All the while Johanna wept, he had stood still, caressing the hilt
of his sword with obsessive tenderness, his eyes fixed on nothing. He had made
no attempt to comfort Johanna. He knew there was no consolation, except perhaps
the justice of seeing the satyricorn hang. That might ease Johanna’s pain.
Johanna pressed
her fingers against her throbbing eyes. She was filled with a heavy lassitude
that weighed down her bones and made every movement an effort. Her head ached.
There was a
knock on the door. Johanna sighed. When it came again, she said wearily, “Yes?”
“May I come in?”
asked an unfamiliar voice.
“Who is it?”
“I’m a visitor here
to the tower, ma’am. I’m interested indeed in herbs and healing and was told ye
were the one who kens more than any other living soul. May I come in and
introduce myself?”
“It is no’ a
good time,” Johanna said with an effort.
“I ken, ma’am. I
ken all about your trouble. I am so sorry. I think perhaps I can help.”
Johanna covered
her eyes with her hand, saying nothing.
“I come from
Ravenshaw,” the voice went on. It was the voice of an older woman, brisk and
warm. “I ken this girl, the one who shot your brother.”
Johanna sat up
as abruptly as if a thorn had been driven in under her fingernails. “What?”
“Aye. I met her
at Fettercairn Castle. I may be able to help ye, ma’am.”
Johanna
hesitated, then stood and went to the door, unlocking it.
The woman on the
other side smiled at her sympathetically. She was at least fifty years of age,
with rosy cheeks all withered like a winter apple and brown eyes. Her figure
was plump and soft, and her eyes and skin glowed with health.
“I am sorry to
disturb ye, ma’am,” she said. “I was told I could find ye here.”
“Who told ye?
What do ye want?” Johanna was too distressed to be polite.
The woman smiled
at her and stepped inside so that Johanna was forced to take a step back.
Putting down her basket on the table, the visitor shut the door behind her and
ushered Johanna back to her chair with one broad hand, saying warmly, “I am so
sorry to intrude upon ye like this. I do feel for ye so much. Please, sit down
again. Ye must be worn to pieces. Let me get ye a cushion. Your poor head must
be aching so much.”
Rather dazed,
Johanna let the stranger put a soft cushion behind her head, which was indeed
aching most unpleasantly. The woman then went to her basket and pulled out a
bottle, dampening her handkerchief with lavender water and bringing it back to
press against Johanna’s brow. Johanna shut her eyes, tears stinging her lids.
“There now,
that’ll help a little. Let me put your feet up. Ye look worn out.”
“Who are ye?”
Johanna asked, even as she submitted to being made comfortable.
The woman
clicked her tongue. “There now, how rude o’ me. I forgot to introduce myself.
My name is Dedrie and I’m the laird o’ Fettercairn’s skeelie.”
Johanna’s eyes
flew open, and she tried to sit up.
Gently Dedrie
pressed her back down again. “I see ye’ve heard o’ my master, and naught good,
I’d warrant. Indeed, that satyricorn girl has done naught but evil, as far as I
can see. She murdered your brother in cold blood, and blackened my poor
master’s name, and had him thrown in prison, and all because he wouldna be
taken in by her tricks. All he did was try to stop her from escaping.”
“Really?”
Johanna gripped her hands together.
Dedrie dabbed at
Johanna’s forehead with the cool, damp cloth. “Aye, indeed. It makes my blood
boil just thinking about her. Och, she’s a wicked one, cold-blooded and cruel.
Just look at the way she murdered your brother! And pulled out all his teeth to
make a necklace for herself, I heard.”
Johanna caught
her breath in a sob.
“Och, I’m so
sorry, I’ve upset ye again. Come now, do no’ weep. Here, let me dampen that
cloth again for ye. It must be hot by now.” Dedrie rose and uncorked the bottle
of lavender water again, bathing Johanna’s temples and then laying the cloth
over her eyes. “Lay your poor head back now; there ye are. Is that better? Now
let me make ye some tea. Chamomile and orange blossoms, I think, and perhaps
some rose hips to give ye strength to bear it all.”
“Ye’ve kent the
laird for long?” Johanna asked, pressing the cloth over her eyes with one hand.
She heard the
rustle of Dedrie’s dress as she went to the fire and swung the kettle back over
the flames.
“Och, aye, I’ve
worked at Fettercairn Castle since I was a lass. At first I was nurserymaid to
the young heir, Laird Malvern’s nephew, but after he died I stayed on at the
castle, nursing his mother and anyone else in the Fetterness Valley who needed
help. I dinna ken much, but I learned what I could from those who still had
skill and managed as best I could. The witch hunts were cruel hard in Ravenshaw
in those days, ye ken, and all the old skeelies and cunning men were burned on
the fires, so there was no one left to teach me.” Her words were punctuated by
the whistle of the kettle and the clink of glass and china.
“Aye, they were
bad times,” Johanna said, her eyes still shut. “Much knowledge was lost.”
“And they were
no’ the days to be seeking after such skills,” Dedrie said, unscrewing a lid.
“I was lucky to be under the protection o’ the laird and no’ accused o’
witchcraft myself, as anyone who grew herbs and plants for healing often were.”
Johanna opened
her eyes, glancing over at Dedrie with warm sympathy. The skeelie was pouring
boiling water into the teapot. “Aye, it was brave o’ ye. The people o’
Fetterness were lucky.”
“Och, nay!
Indeed, I was no’ much o’ a healer at first. Over time, though, I learned more
and I think I helped a wee. I wish I could do more. Which is why I am here, ye
see.” She hesitated, fumbling with the teapot, then turned and straightened up,
squaring her shoulders. “The thing is, ma’am, I’m wishing to be learning more.
The sorceress Nina, the one they call the nightingale, she says ye ken more
about the arts o’ healing than anyone. . . .”
“Och, I dinna
think that is true, though it is kind o’ her to say so. I learned most o’ my
craft from the Keybearer, Isabeau, who learned it from Meghan o’ the Beasts. I
often consult the Keybearer when I am no’ sure o’ the best remedy.”
“But I canna be
going and bothering the Keybearer, an auld skeelie like me!” Dedrie cried.
“Och, I walked the corridor outside your room for close on half an hour afore I
got up the courage to knock, and my knees are trembling still. If I had no’
thought I could help ye . . . if I had no’ thought it was my beholden duty to
tell ye what I ken, well, then . . .”
“What ye ken?” Johanna
said sharply. “Ye ken something about this girl . . . this satyricorn who
killed my brother?”
Dedrie nodded,
pressing her hands together. “Only they willna listen to anything I have to
say. I’m just a poor auld skeelie, and they all believe those dreadful,
dreadful lies that horrible girl told them about my laird. Just because she’s
so young and pretty and looks so guileless. They’ll let her off the hook for
sure, while my poor master—”
“What do ye
ken?”
“Ye only have to
look at her to see she’s as slippery as an eel. Why, I met her at the castle,
and the playacting that lass put on, it puts me to the blush. She pretended to
see ghosts and screamed and threw herself around in fainting fits, which a
healer like ye would have kent straightaway were fake but deceived everyone
else, and then said she had seen murderers and evil sorceries, and all the time
she was trying to deflect attention away from the fact that she was the one who
had murdered in cold blood. Aye, and mutilated the body too, and threw it in
the river to rot.”
Johanna tried to
suppress an involuntary sob, but it burst out of her. She covered her face with
her hands.
“I’m so sorry!”
Dedrie cried, seizing one of Johanna’s hands in her own. “I dinna mean to upset
ye. What was I thinking, coming at a time like this? Please forgive me.”
“I’m sorry,”
Johanna said, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. “I just canna believe it.
Connor . . . everyone loved Connor! He was so bonny and brave and true—a
favorite with the Rìgh and the whole court. The Rìgh leaned on him heavily, ye
ken—he was always sending him out to settle one disagreement or another, or to
take messages o’ grave import to the other prionnsachan. I just canna believe
he’s dead!”
“And in such a
way! It just doesna seem right.” Dedrie swirled the water in the teapot.
Johanna began to
cry again.
“And to let his
murderess off the hook, just because they havena any eyewitnesses. It’s a
crying shame! She should be hung out o’ hand.”
“Do they really
think she will be released?” Johanna said, scrubbing at her eyes. “It just
doesna seem right!”
“That it does
no’!” Dedrie said emphatically, pouring out the tea and stirring honey into the
cup. “But without any witnesses to stand against her . . . They say she has
ensorcelled all those young ladies and gentlemen who traveled with her, and the
witch too. She must be very crafty and cunning indeed.”
Johanna sighed,
her throat thick with grief.
Dedrie brought
the steaming cup over to Johanna and pressed it into her hand. “There ye are.
Get this inside ye.”
Johanna
gratefully took the cup Dedrie passed to her and sipped at it. The tea was
sweet and hot. She felt her muscles relax.
“And all those
dreadful things she’s been saying about my laird,” the skeelie went on,
bustling around and packing away her tins of herbs. “All lies, every one o’
them, but mud sticks, ye ken; mud sticks. My poor laird has to cool his heels
in that blaygird prison now too for months, until his name can be cleared, and
there will always be those that say there’s no smoke without fire, and all
because o’ that sly girl and her lies.”
“But are ye sure
she is lying?”
“Sure as the sky
is blue!” Dedrie cried. She sat down heavily and mopped her eyes with the
corner of her apron. “It just breaks my heart to see my laird so disgraced and
downhearted. And did ye ken she drove my lady to her death? Lady Evaline, who
was the widow o’ my laird’s brother? Lady Evaline believed her dreadful tales
and threw herself out her window.”
“How terrible!”
Johanna cried.
“Aye, it is.
That family has kent such tragedy. And this satyricorn girl out o’ the
mountains cares naught for any o’ that, but only sees how she can turn it to
her own advantage. I just wish there was something I could do.”
“But if ye were
to stand witness,” Johanna cried. “At her trial! If ye were to give testimony
against her.”
“But I’m naught
but a poor auld skeelie and caught up in the slander against my laird, like all
his faithful servants. They willna listen to me.”
“They will! O’
course they will.”
“Happen if I was
here, at the College o’ Healers, attending ye,” Dedrie said thoughtfully.
“Learning what I could o’ the art o’ healing, maybe then they would . . . but
no. As long as they think I am one o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn’s party, they
will never believe me. Her lies have blackened us all.”
Johanna sat
back, deflated. Her headache was gone, but in its place she felt a strange
light-headedness, while all her limbs felt weighed down with stones.
The skeelie came
and poured her more tea and rearranged her cushion more comfortably. Johanna
drank the tea down, allowing herself to be comforted.
“If only there
was someone to stand sponsor for me and give testimony to my character,” Dedrie
said slowly. “Then the judges would believe me. But with that creature’s lies
blackening my good name as well as my laird’s, they’ll think I lie to protect
my laird, o’ course they will, as long as he is my patron.” She sighed heavily.
“What if ye were
here, at the College o’ Healers, under my protection?” Johanna demanded. “Would
they believe ye then?”
Dedrie clasped
her hands together. “O’ course they would! How could they no’ believe me? Och,
that would be wonderful! And I could stay here, at the college, and study with
ye, ma’am? Och, please!”
“I’ll organize a
room for ye now,” Johanna said, looking around for the bell. Dedrie brought it
to her hand, and she rang it emphatically. Johanna’s assistant came, and she
gave orders for a room near hers to be prepared and a letter to be sent to the
prison warden, giving him her assurances on Dedrie’s behalf. The skeelie made a
few shy suggestions as to how the letter could be worded, which the assistant
duly noted before withdrawing.
“I do thank ye,
ma’am,” Dedrie said, her round face pink with pleasure. “All my life I’ve
dreamed o’ doing all I can to help and heal those in need. And to think I can
work to serve ye, and help ye, the head o’ the Royal College o’ Healers. Och,
ye will no’ regret it, I promise ye.”
“It is ye who
helps me,” Johanna said, gazing up at Dedrie with heartfelt gratitude. “It is I
who should thank ye.”
“Och, nay. What
have I done but my duty? It would’ve been very wrong o’ me to let that terrible
murdering creature escape justice without trying at least to make sure someone
stood witness against her. Here, ma’am, let me rub lavender and peppermint oil
into your forehead. It will make ye feel much better.”
“I am in your
debt,” Johanna said, closing her eyes as Dedrie gently massaged her temples.
“No’ at all,”
said the lord of Fettercairn’s skeelie.
Rhiannon lifted her
hot, throbbing hands and pressed them against her face, trying to block out the
foul smell. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she looked about her
anxiously, all her muscles ready for quick and violent action.
The Murderers’
Gallery was a long, low, windowless room, with walls of weeping stone. Rank,
moldy straw was scattered on the rock floor, and a bucket in one corner was
overflowing with excrement. Rhiannon could see a dead rat lying not far from
her knee, the stink of its rotting body adding to the stench.
There were more
than twenty women crowded about the room. Some sat on the ground with their
backs against the wall; others lay on rough stone shelves chipped into it. A
few were confined by manacles or thumbscrews, as Rhiannon was, and one sat with
her head and hands thrust through holes in a large wooden block. Another
prisoner was confined in a cage of wood built under the overhang of rock in the
far corner. All Rhiannon could see of her was her hands, gripping the bars with
white knuckles, and a great mass of hair through which two eyes glared.
Most of the
prisoners looked up at Rhiannon dully, then returned their gaze to the floor
without any sign of interest, but one woman gave a snort of bitter laughter.
“Welcome to Sorrowgate, sweetheart,” she sneered. “Ye’re a pretty one, ye are.
I bet Octavia drooled over ye. Did she stick her hand up your skirt? I bet she
wanted to. I bet she—”
“Leave the lass
alone, Clarice,” someone else said wearily. Rhiannon glanced at her. She was
young and had a shawl huddled about her thin shoulders. “Look at her; she’s
frightened out o’ her wits as it is,” the girl went on, sympathy in her eyes.
Rhiannon wanted
to deny this, but her throat was so dry and rigid with fear she could not force
the words out. She gritted her teeth and tried to slow her uneven pants of
breath.
Clarice got to
her feet and came towards Rhiannon, her thin face twisted into a cruel leer.
“How ye going to make me?” she mocked. “Come on, lassiekin, make me stop.”
She bent over
Rhiannon, grinning, and reached one hand down to stroke her long black hair.
Rhiannon jerked her hands up, smashing her thumbscrews into Clarice’s face. The
woman reeled backwards with a scream, then rushed at Rhiannon with raking
fingernails, blood streaming from her nose. Rhiannon came up off her knees in a
rush, fending the woman off with her confined hands, then kicking her back to
the floor. Clarice shrieked.
“Sssh!” the girl
said urgently. “Ye’ll bring Octavia down on us! Leave her alone, for Eà’s
sake!”
Clarice wiped
away the blood with the back of her hand, staring at Rhiannon with cold, angry
eyes. With her hair tossed back from her face, Rhiannon could see she was
missing one ear, an ugly stump all that remained.
“Leave me alone
and I’ll leave ye alone,” Rhiannon said as threateningly as she could, hoping
no one noticed how her knees threatened to buckle beneath her.
Unexpectedly
Clarice laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound. “Fair enough,” she said and stood
up, dusting off her bottom with one hand. She went over and sat down on an old
sack, wrapping her arms about her legs to keep warm. She kept her cynical gaze
on Rhiannon’s face, her creased and weathered face twisted in a habitual
mocking leer.
Rhiannon looked
about her warily, clutching her blanket to her chest. The blanket smelled even
worse than the smock, but it was thick and warm and acted in some way like a
shield.
The girl who had
defended her made a beckoning motion with her head and shifted over so there
was a gap against the wall. Rhiannon went across to it and sat down, feeling a
telltale prickle in her eyes.I will no’ cry, I will no’ cry , she told
herself fiercely, but the hot tears forced their way through her lids anyway.
Rhiannon gulped a breath and lifted her hands, weighed down with the cruel
thumbscrews, to defiantly wipe them away.
“Dinna greet,
lassie,” the girl beside her whispered. “If ye greet, they’ll just mock ye
more.”
Rhiannon glared
angrily at the girl sitting next to her. She had an anxious, crooked face. It
looked as if her jaw had once been broken and had not healed properly. Although
dressed in the same loose smock as Rhiannon, she wore thick woolen stockings
and boots and had a crocheted shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a red
woolen cap on her head. Her long brown hair was neatly plaited, and she held in
her lap a small basket from which she withdrew a clean white handkerchief. She
offered this to Rhiannon who, after a moment’s hesitation, took it and did her
best to scrub her face dry. Her clamped thumbs were beginning to swell, and the
movement hurt them. The girl saw this and gently took the handkerchief and
dried Rhiannon’s face for her, then matter-of-factly helped her blow her nose,
as if Rhiannon was a small child.
“What’s your
name?” the girl asked, tucking the soiled handkerchief away.
“Rhiannon.”
“No family
name?”
Rhiannon shook
her head.
“I’m Bess
Balfour. What ye in for?”
Rhiannon had to
swallow before she could answer. “Murder.”
“Me too,” Bess
said sympathetically. “Who did ye murder?”
“A soldier,”
Rhiannon said shortly. “He was trying to kill my mother,” she added after a
moment.
“I killed my
father,” Bess said. “He was beating my poor auld ma almost to death, and so I
grabbed the bedpan and whacked him across the head. He fell and hit his head on
the hearthstone. Cracked his skull.”
“And they locked
ye up for that?” Rhiannon said indignantly.
Bess nodded. “I
have a lawyer, though,” she said with quiet pride. “He’s costing my ma every
penny she’s managed to squirrel away over the years but she says he’s worth it.
I just have to wait till the next quarter sessions, when my case will go afore
the magistrates, and then he’ll argue my case for me. My ma and my sisters
bring me food and coins to give Octavia, so she’ll let me have an extra blanket
and my shawl. I’m lucky. If ye havena any family to bring ye money, ye’ll
starve to death in here.”
“I havena anyone
to bring me money,” Rhiannon said somberly.
“What about your
ma? Won’t she help ye out?”
“My ma’s no’
here,” Rhiannon answered curtly. She wondered if this girl would be so friendly
if she knew Rhiannon’s mother was a satyricorn.
“Ye must’ve had
some money since Octavia gave ye a blanket,” Bess said. “Would ye like me to
tuck it around ye? Ye canna do it yourself with the thumbscrews on.”
Rhiannon nodded,
and Bess reached over and took her blanket and tucked it around her. Rhiannon
hung her head, blinking back another rush of tears.
There was a
sudden howl from the woman in the cage, and she rattled the bars, thrusting a
wild-eyed face against them. Rhiannon flinched back.
“Poor mad
thing,” Bess said. “I wonder what they’ll do to her after her trial.”
“What did she
do?”
“Strangled her
nurse,” Bess said with a little shiver. “She was in the madhouse, has been
there all her life, I was told. They always thought her gentle. But one day she
just grabbed her nurse and choked the life out o’ her. They said it took three
men to break her grasp.”
“What about
her?” Rhiannon asked, jerking her head at Clarice, who had finally stopped
staring at her and was digging gunk out from under her toenails with her
fingernails. “Who did she kill?”
“Och, she didna
kill anyone. She’s a thief. She’s already lost an ear, dinna ye see? If ye get
caught again after losing an ear, ye hang for it. Or at least, ye used to. They
do no’ hang so many these days. Sometimes they send ye to work in the mines or
summat like that.”
“I thought this
was the Murderers’ Gallery?”
“It is. I mean,
that’s what they call it, but no’ everyone in here has killed someone. There
are other crimes they’ll hang ye for, like poaching or stealing horses or
hawks.”
“Like me. I’m a
prigger o’ prancers,” the woman on the other side of Rhiannon said, scratching
absentmindedly at her armpit. She was an older woman with a branded face and
scraggy arms marked with vague blue tattoos. At Rhiannon’s blank look she
grinned, showing crooked, discolored teeth. “Horses,” she explained. “Me and my
brother steal horses for a living.”
“What about
her?” Rhiannon asked, looking across at a young woman sitting on the far side
of the room who had been intriguing her for some time. She was rocking a
rolled-up blanket in her arms, swaying back and forth and singing to it under
her breath.
“She drowned her
baby,” Bess said. “Her father’s a rich merchant. He sells cloth, I think. No
one kent she was pregnant. I dinna ken how she managed to hide it. They found
the baby in the privy. She drowned it in her washbasin and tried to throw it
out. I think they’ll hang her for that too, though happen they’ll just send her
to the madhouse. She’s as crazy as a loon, poor thing.”
Rhiannon could
not help shuddering. Bess saw and gave her a sympathetic look.
“What does
hanged, drawn, and quartered mean?” Rhiannon asked suddenly.
“Do ye no’ ken?”
Bess asked in surprise. “Och, it’s what they do for traitors. They hang ye till
ye’re almost dead, then they gut ye while ye’re still alive, and then they cut
ye up into quarters and throw the parts o’ ye to the four corners o’ the city,
for the dogs to fight over. I havena heard o’ it being done for years and
years. No’ since afore I was born, at least.”
Rhiannon pressed
her face down into her knees, within the circle of her imprisoned hands. Bess
touched her arm in quick sympathy, but Rhiannon did not respond. She was afraid
she might weep, or laugh, or throw up, or shriek, if she moved. Hanged, drawn,
and quartered. No one had ever told her that was the fate she might have to
face.
“Are ye all
right?” Bess whispered. “What’s wrong? Do ye feel sick? The smell from that
bucket is enough to make anyone throw up!”
Rhiannon managed
to nod her head.
“Here, hold this
to your nose,” Bess said, taking a little bottle from her basket. “It’s
lavender. It’ll help.”
Rhiannon reached
out to take it but could not manage with her hands locked together with the
thumbscrews. Bess held it to her nose for her.
“Thank ye,”
Rhiannon managed to say.
“Och, that’s
fine,” the girl said awkwardly and put the bottle away.
They were silent
after that, Bess sensing that Rhiannon did not want to talk. The hours crawled
past. Rhiannon found herself getting more and more uncomfortable. The ground
was bitterly cold, damp, and very hard, and no matter how she sat or lay down,
her imprisoned hands tortured her. Her thumbs were now red and swollen and
throbbed incessantly. She was hungry and thirsty too, and tormented by a
constant crawling sensation on her skin, an itch that she could not scratch.
“Lice,” Bess
told her. “The smocks and blankets are full o’ them. That’s what I have the
lavender oil for, to put on the bites.”
Knowing the
cause of the itchiness was no consolation. Rhiannon scratched wherever she
could reach until her fingernails were bloody, but it did no good. The lice
feasted upon her in high good humor.
Clarice the
thief was one of the few prisoners not confined in some way. It did not take
long for her to grow bored of exploring her toenails, and she began to prowl
the room. First she tormented the madwoman in the cage, reaching through the
bars to poke and pinch her. The madwoman began to wail, rocking back and forth,
back and forth, until Rhiannon wanted to screech at her to stop. She was not
the only one. Waves of unease rolled around the room. The woman in the stocks
raised her head to look, but lacked the strength to crane it up for long and
let it loll limply again. One woman hid her face in her hands and began to rock
too, murmuring, “Make her shut up, make her shut up.” Yet another tried to plug
her ears with her fingers. Bess drew her shawl up around her ears and buried
her face in her arms.
Clarice grinned
and reached through the bars to tug at the madwoman’s matted hair. At once she
shrieked like a banshee and leaped up, one hand clawing out through the bars
and raking Clarice’s face. The thief was sent sprawling, her cheek bleeding.
The madwoman laughed and laughed. Her high-pitched, hysterical giggle was
weirdly infectious. Rhiannon had to cram her throbbing hands against her mouth
to stop an answering chortle, and she heard a muffled snicker from somewhere on
the other side of the room.
Clarice heard it
too, and got up, her leathery face twisted with malice and hatred. “Who was
that?” she demanded. “Who just laughed?” She prowled the room, prodding and
kicking the chained women. “Ye think it funny, do ye?”
No one said
anything. Rhiannon herself hardly dared glance that way, in case Clarice turned
her mean eyes upon her. She was in so much pain from her engorged thumbs now
that even shifting her weight sent dizzying waves of pain through her, and she
had no desire to try to fight the thief off again.
The merchant’s
daughter was still rocking her bundle and humming a lullaby. She did not look
up when Clarice stopped in front of her. Rhiannon felt Bess stiffen beside her.
“Look at ye, ye
loon,” Clarice sneered. “Ye should be caged up too. Baby killer.”
The girl did not
look up, though her humming rose a little in pitch and volume.
Clarice bent and
seized the bundled blanket and flung it away across the room. It unrolled and
fell on the filthy floor. The golden-haired girl started to her feet, her hands
flying to her cheeks, and screamed. It went on and on and on. Bess scrambled up
and ran across the room, seeking to comfort her. “It’s all right, it’s all
right, do no’ scream so, I’ll get it back for ye.” Hastily she grabbed the
blanket and rolled it up for her again, trying to thrust the bundle into the
girl’s arms. The scream stopped, but the girl was only gathering breath to
scream again, even higher and louder than before. Desperately Bess tried to
calm her, but to no avail. Rhiannon covered her ears.
Then the door
crashed open. Octavia loomed up in the doorway. Everyone shrank back, all
except the merchant’s daughter, who was sobbing now and tearing at her face
with her nails, and the madwoman in the cage, who rocked back and forth on her
haunches, muttering and giggling.
“What is going
on?” Octavia demanded.
“She took the
girl’s baby.” Clarice pointed at Bess. “I told her to leave the poor mad thing
alone, but she’s a nasty piece, that girl, for all that she looks so sweet.”
Bess pressed
back against the wall, her eyes dilated. “It’s no’ true,” she stammered. “She
did it, no’ me. I was just—”
Octavia stumped
forward, cuffed Bess hard across the ear, seized her by the hair, and dragged
her towards the center of the room, where a thick wooden pole ran from floor to
ceiling. Bess began to scream and plead, dragging back against the grip on her
hair as hard as she could, but Octavia was too strong. Despite all of Bess’s
protestations, she was manacled and hung from a hook halfway up the pole, so
that she could only stand on tiptoe. With tears pouring down her face, Bess
tried once more to explain, but Octavia shrugged her massive shoulders and said
curtly, “Ye interrupted my supper, girl. Ye’ve been here long enough to ken how
much I hate that.” She then shuffled back through the doorway, kicking aside
the dead rat on the way.
Once the door
was locked shut again, Clarice began to dance about, cackling in glee and
singing, “Rat bait, rat bait.”
Rhiannon took a
deep breath and lifted her ironbound hands menacingly, saying in a low hiss,
“Leave her alone, ogre breath, else I’ll smash your face in.”
Clarice stopped
dancing and stared at her. “Octavia’ll come back in,” she taunted.
“Happen so, but
by then ye’ll have no face left. Octavia canna give ye your face back.”
Rhiannon had grown up the runt in a herd of satyricorns. She knew how to look
and sound cruel.
“Happen no’, but
she’ll kill ye for it.”
“Nay, she won’t.
She’s looking forward too much to seeing me being hanged, drawn, and
quartered.”
Clarice thought
about this for a moment, then sneered at Rhiannon, pretending she was not
afraid. She gave one last halfhearted jibe at Bess, then went to sit back down
again, all the while shooting Rhiannon looks of hatred through the strings of
her lank, grey hair.
Rhiannon went
over to Bess. “Ye all right?”
“My arms . . .”
Bess whimpered.
Rhiannon saw
that the strain of her weight was almost pulling the girl’s arms out of their
sockets. She did her best to roll up her blanket, so Bess could step up onto
it. Although it did not relieve the strain entirely, it did help a little and
Bess murmured a miserable thanks.
“I’m sorry,”
Rhiannon said awkwardly. “It all happened so fast.”
“What could ye
have done?” Bess answered. “If ye’d tried to help, we both would be strung up
here. It’s Octavia’s favorite punishment. I should’ve kent better than to
interfere.”
“I suppose so,”
Rhiannon answered, “but still . . .”
“If ye could try
to drive the rats away when they come, that’d help,” Bess said urgently.
“Please?”
“Rats?”
Bess nodded, her
eyes black with fear. She looked up the length of her arms to the top of the
pole. “They come in there.”
Rhiannon
followed her gaze and saw a ragged hole at the top of the pole. Her heart sank.
She returned her gaze to Bess’s pleading eyes and nodded. “Me do what me can,”
she said.
About half an
hour later, Rhiannon was dozing at the foot of the pole, her head resting on
her bent arms, when she was jerked awake by a high-pitched squealing and
rustling. She raised her head and looked around her. There was a general sigh
and groan as all the women chained to the walls shifted unhappily. Those who
could stand struggled to their feet, while those who could not pressed
themselves back against the stone.
“The rats are
coming,” Bess said in terror, straining away from the pole. “They ken it’s
suppertime. Get up, Rhiannon.”
The horse thief
also got to her feet, hauling herself up by her chain. She called to Rhiannon.
“I’d get away from there, lassie. Those rats are savage beasties. They’ll gnaw
off your face if they can.”
Now Rhiannon
could hear the clatter of hundreds of small claws on stone. The squeaking
became louder. Bess gripped her chain and twisted, leaning as far away from the
pole as possible. Her face was drawn back in a grimace of terror and disgust.
Then, like a
stinking torrent of sewer filth, rats poured out the hole and down the pole.
There were hundreds of them, big black brutes with red beady eyes and twitching
noses.
Rhiannon tried
to swipe them away with her manacled hands, but there were too many and they
were too fierce. Bess pressed her face into her shoulder, trying not to shudder
too violently, as they used her head and back as a bridge to the floor.
The rats rustled
through the straw, seizing any crumbs or old bones or cheese rinds they could
find. They swarmed around the feet of the prisoners, who shrieked and kicked
out at them, sending the rats tumbling. The horse thief seized one by the tail
and swung it against the wall, smashing its brains out and tossing it to the
pack to be torn apart.
Still the rats
kept coming, a heaving river of mangy fur and gaudy eyes. One stopped to smell
Bess’s ear, and Rhiannon saw the flesh there had torn where Octavia had cuffed
her. Bess shrieked and writhed, trying to shake it off. Rhiannon tried in vain
to help her, but she was handicapped by the thumbscrews.
“It’s no good.
She shouldna screech and jump around like that,” the horse thief said. She
shook her head in regret, expertly kicking away a rat that ran too close to her
leg. “It’ll bite her—and once they smell blood . . .”
Just then Bess screamed
in agony as the rat sank its filthy fangs into her ear. The rats went into a
frenzy. They all leaped at Bess, tearing at her flesh. Though she tried to
fight them off, there were too many, and soon her face and arms and hands were
streaming with blood.
“We’ve got to do
something. We’ve got to help her!” Rhiannon cried, her face white with horror.
“They’ll only
attack ye too,” the horse thief said. “I’m sorry for the lass but there’s no
helping it. She should never have crossed Octavia.”
Rhiannon could
not bear to watch. She turned her back, tears streaming down her face as Bess’s
screams grew shriller and more desperate.
“A few months
back there was a prisoner who tried to escape,” the horse thief said. “She
grabbed Octavia and tried to choke her with her chains. . . . Octavia tied her
up to that pole and smeared goose fat all over her belly. The rats chewed their
way straight through her entrails. It took a long while for her to die.”
Rhiannon pressed
the back of her hands to her face. She had thought the satyricorns nasty and
brutish, but none she knew of had ever done anything so cruel. Inside her she
felt something shriveling and knew some last remnant of naïveté or hope was
withering away.
One prisoner was
rocking and weeping. “I want to go home. I want to go home.”
“Who doesna?”
the horse thief said.
Just then the
door slammed open. Light streamed in, dazzling their eyes, then abruptly the
massive shape of Octavia blotted out the light. She was carrying a bucket and a
ladle. At once the tide of rats turned and converged on her. She tossed them a
ladle full of slops and they scrabbled over one another to reach it, biting and
snarling.
Everyone pressed
themselves against the wall, wary and silent. She went over to Bess, hanging
limply in her chains, moaning, her face and arms and breast ravaged with rodent
bites. A few rats still huddled about her feet, feeding greedily on the hunks
of her flesh they had torn away.
Octavia regarded
her thoughtfully, then stuck the ladle in the bucket so she could unhook Bess’s
chains with her other hand. The rats lifted their pointy snouts to sniff at the
aroma of soup so close above their heads, then went back to their feast.
Octavia dragged Bess over to the wall and dropped her on a pile of damp, filthy
straw.
“Tsk-tsk,” she
said. “How very dreadful. I must write to the prison governor and let him ken
our rat problem is as bad as ever.”
No one said a
word.
“I do hope she
doesna die o’ her bites,” Octavia said in a voice of mock concern. “The
hangman’s a good friend o’ mine and he’s no’ paid unless they hang. If he’s no’
paid, he has no money to gamble with and that means I lose out too. Oh well.
They probably wouldna have hung her anyway, stupid soft-bellied judges. All
this talk about prison reform and the problem o’ crime, and they never think to
askme . I could tell them, the only way to stop thieving, murdering scum
like ye is to hang ye. No repeat offenders then, is there?’
She gave her
hoarse, wheezing laugh and went around the room, kicking aside any rat brave
enough to sniff at her, ladling soup into each woman’s wooden bowl. Everyone
slurped it down greedily.
Rhiannon’s
thumbs were now so swollen she could barely grip her bowl. She was so hungry,
though, that she endured the thudding pain, holding up the bowl to Octavia
pleadingly. The jailer grunted and splashed some soup into it, and Rhiannon
lowered her face to it. The soup was thin and cold and greasy, and tasted like
old dishwater, but Rhiannon managed to swallow some down.
Octavia dumped
the dregs of the bucket in the straw for the rats to squabble over, turned the
lantern down low, and waddled out, locking the door behind her. Rhiannon’s
heart sank. The mouthful of soup had done nothing to quench her hunger, and she
had hoped the jailer would remove her thumbscrews for the night. Her thumbs
felt like fried sausages, about to burst in a splatter of sizzling fat.
She rested her
throbbing hands upon her knees and laid her head back against the wall,
shutting her eyes. She could hear Bess moaning in the straw. Rhiannon crawled
towards her, one corner of the blanket clenched between her fingers, and tried
as best she could to cover the wounded girl. Her hands were now so painful she
could do no more. Bess was shivering violently, and Rhiannon managed to lie down
beside her, her hands held awkwardly in front of her.
In her cage the
madwoman rocked back and forth, laughing and muttering and occasionally
rattling her bars. The rats scuffled the straw about, squealing in greedy
outrage. The merchant’s daughter rocked her cloth baby, humming a low tuneless
lullaby, while someone else muttered, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.”
Rhiannon closed
her eyes, every now and again pressing her face into her sleeve to blot away
her tears.
The ironbound
door crashed open. Rhiannon startled awake. Octavia stood in the doorway, a
lantern in her hand. She shone it this way and that, irradiating one ghastly,
filthy face after another, their startled eyes wide and staring through the
tangle of their hair. Then the light found Rhiannon’s face and settled there.
Rhiannon shrank
back, lifting her hands in their cruel metal contraption to shield her face.
Her eyes felt gritty, her swollen thumbs pulsated horribly, and her skin was
cold and clammy and crawled with lice. Worse than the hollowness of her empty
stomach was the dreadful fear that the sight of Octavia provoked.
“Got friends in
high places, do we?” the jailer cooed. “Should o’ told me, dear. If I’d had any
idea . . . Hope there’s no hard feelings . . . Come, let’s get ye out o’
those.” She bent and unlocked the clamp, releasing Rhiannon’s thumbs. The
sudden roar of pain was so intense Rhiannon almost fainted. Sick and giddy, she
was lifted from the ground and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Let’s
get ye cleaned up and some hot food in your belly,” Octavia said, in the same
treacle-sweet voice. “There are guards waiting for ye, to take ye to the Tower.
I’ll get ye your things. Come now, can ye walk?”
“Why? What’s
happened?” Rhiannon stammered.
“Ye’ve been
given liberty o’ the tower,” Octavia said. “Seeing as how ye’ve got powerful
friends. And rich too. Rooms in the tower dinna come cheap.”
As she spoke,
she half carried Rhiannon from the Murderers’ Gallery. Rhiannon cast one dazed
look back at Bess’s motionless body before the door slammed shut behind her.
Octavia took her down the hall and into a small stone cell where, amazingly, a
fire cast out warmth and comfort. A big tin hip bath stood before the fire,
with a ewer of water and a hunk of coarse yellow soap. Octavia dumped Rhiannon
in the bath, dragged off the lice-ridden smock, and poured the water over her
head.
“Sit,” Octavia
said and pushed on Rhiannon’s shoulder till her legs buckled and she sat down
with a plop. The water was lukewarm and came only halfway up the bath, so
Rhiannon wrapped her arms about her shivering body and hunched there as Octavia
scrubbed her head and back with the soap and a harsh-bristled brush. Suds
poured down Rhiannon’s face and she shut her eyes, totally dumbfounded by this
sudden change in her situation.
Octavia dropped
the brush in the bath. “Scrub yourself well if ye want to get rid o’ the lice.
I’ll get ye some soup.” She went out of the room and there was a sharp click as
the key was turned in the lock. Although her thumbs were still swollen and
ringed with dark bruises where the clamps had bitten into her skin, Rhiannon
was able to use her fingers quite well and so, gripping the brush with both
hands, she did as she was told, scrubbing herself till her skin was red and
sore.
A thin, rough
towel, a chemise, and a loose grey dress were draped over the chair, and so,
when she was finally clean, Rhiannon rubbed herself dry and dressed herself as
well as she was able, unwilling to have Octavia come back and find her still
naked. There was something unnerving in the fat woman’s lascivious little eyes.
Rhiannon could not manage the buttons with her sore thumbs, so she held her
bodice together with both hands and sat quietly waiting on the chair, her
spirits soaring as she wondered who had paid for her release. Lewen? Nina and
Iven? Much of her despair and misery had been caused by the fear that her
friends had abandoned her. It was heartening to know they had not.
Octavia came in
with a tureen of soup in her ham-sized hands. Amazingly, the soup steamed. She
put it down on the table and looked Rhiannon up and down.
“I canna let ye
go to the tower looking like that,” she cooed, trying her best to smile. “Let
me button ye up and comb your hair for ye, my dear, and then I’ll get ye your
boots and shawl.”
Rhiannon
submitted unwillingly, feeling revolted at the touch of those pudgy fingers at
her bodice and then in her hair. She could not help remembering how Lewen liked
to brush out her hair for her too.
“Eat up your
soup then, dear,” the jailer said tenderly. Rhiannon felt her hand lingering on
the nape of her neck and could not help shuddering.
“Ye’re cold.
I’ll stoke up the fire,” Octavia said and thankfully removed her massive
presence from behind Rhiannon’s chair.
Rhiannon sipped
at the soup. It was still thin and greasy, but hot and with soft lumps of
potato and meat in it—far more palatable than what she had drunk before.
When she had
finished and her long hair had been plaited away from her face, Octavia brought
her pack, still bulging with all her belongings. She would not let Rhiannon
check all was there but unpacked her boots, helping her draw them on, and
wrapped her beautiful embroidered shawl about her, with all sorts of obsequious
comments and attentions that made Rhiannon feel most uncomfortable. Then she
was led out through the dark, dank corridors and given into the care of four
heavily armed soldiers. They spoke not one word to her but did not hurry her
along or push her, like the other guards had done.
She was taken
out through a gate into a courtyard. It was dark, but she could see no stars in
the sky, for the lights from the city reflected a red haze from the vault of
the heavens that obliterated all starlight. The touch of the cold night wind on
her face was wonderful, however, and she lingered for a moment, lifting her
face. The soldiers gave her that moment, then silently urged her on. Cold stone
closed over her again.
Led by a guard
carrying a lantern, they passed through countless cold, cavernous halls and
chambers, Rhiannon huddling her shawl about her. She wondered what time it was.
It felt very late.
They passed
through a large hall and into a room where other guards sat alertly, holding
long, cumbersome weapons that Rhiannon had never seen before. Papers were
checked and stamped with a red wax seal, and a big door was unlocked to allow
Rhiannon and her escort through.
They climbed a
narrow twisting staircase up three floors, and then Rhiannon was ushered into a
small dark cell. She looked around quickly. The bare walls were made from large
blocks of stone, mercifully free from green slime. One wall was taken up by a
heavy iron bed softened by a thin mattress and a clean sheet and pillow. A grey
eiderdown was folded over the end. Under the bed was a chamber pot with a lid.
A small table was set in the corner, with a heavy bench pushed beneath it. All
the furniture was so solidly made Rhiannon would have difficulty shifting it,
let alone throwing it or breaking it to make a weapon.
The guards were
withdrawing, taking the lantern with them. Greedily the shadows swooped down
upon Rhiannon’s head.
“Wait!” She
flung out one hand to halt them. At once the guards stiffened, hands flying to
their weapons.
“Wait! Please,”
Rhiannon said with some difficulty. “Where am I?”
“Sorrowgate
Tower,” one replied tersely, not looking at her.
“What does that
mean? Am I . . . ?” She stopped, unable to frame the question that meant so
much to her. The four guards waited stolidly, and at last she managed to utter
some more words. “Am I still . . . ?”
They did not
answer for a moment. Then the youngest, a broad-shouldered, fresh-faced man of
about twenty, said gruffly, “Ye’ve been granted liberty o’ the tower, which
means ye’re out o’ the public prison and into a room o’ your own, with visitors
allowed, and pen and paper if ye want it, and ye’re allowed to walk in the
warden’s garden. Ye’ll stay here until your trial or until the money dries up,
whatever happens first.”
“But I’m no’
allowed out? Outside the tower, I mean.”
He shook his
head.
“Who’s paying
for it?” she demanded.
They all looked
at each other and shrugged. Rhiannon bit her thumbnail.
As they once
again began to withdraw, Rhiannon called out, “Wait! I’m sorry, I’m just
wondering . . .”
They waited
politely.
“What time is
it?”
“After midnight,
lass,” another soldier said kindly. “I’d get some shut-eye if I were ye.”
Rhiannon
clenched her sore, throbbing hands together. “It’s too dark,” she said, hearing
the ragged edge of hysteria in her voice. “Please, canna ye leave the lantern?”
“Sorry, lass,”
the guard said. “Against the rules.”
“Please. I dinna
like the dark. Please.”
The guard shared
a glance with his companions, then said gruffly, “Each prisoner is allowed one
candle after supper. I guess it willna matter if we let ye have one now. It
only lasts a couple o’ hours, though, I warn ye.”
“Thank ye. Oh,
thank ye,” Rhiannon gabbled.
“Do no’ think o’
trying any tricks with it now,” the guard warned. “It’s hung high so ye canna
reach it, see?”
He demonstrated
to Rhiannon, showing her how he swung down the iron lantern hanging in the
center of the ceiling with a long-handled hook, lit it with a taper from the
lantern he carried, and then deftly hung it up again. It swung slightly,
sending shadows swooping around the room. Rhiannon stared up at it. Even if she
stood on her bed, she would not be able to reach it.
“It’ll no’ burn
long,” the older guard said. “Best get used to the dark, lass. We do no’ get
much sunshine here at Sorrowgate Tower.”
Rhiannon nodded
to show she understood, and the guards withdrew, locking and bolting the door
behind them. Rhiannon sat gingerly upon her bed, looking about her. The single
candle did not shed much light. The corners were full of shadows. After a
while, she lay down, pulling the eiderdown over her. She did not sleep.
Dawn came slowly
and with no fanfare of birds trilling or cocks crowing. As soon as it was light
enough to see, Rhiannon got up and paced her room. It was five paces long and
four paces wide. There was one tiny window, very high up in the wall. Even if
Rhiannon was able to scale the smooth stone wall, the window was too small for
her to do more than thrust her head out of it. The door was made of iron, with
a slit through which an eye regularly appeared to check on her movements. After
an hour or so of her pacing they brought her breakfast.
Rhiannon eyed
the guards speculatively as they brought her tray in, wondering if she could
somehow knock them out and escape that way. Both were tall, strong men, though,
and well-armed. The first came in with his sword drawn and instructed her,
gently but firmly, to sit on the bed while his companion set down the tray. The
second soldier deftly unpacked the tray, then took it away with him, the guard
with the sword backing out and quickly locking and bolting the door behind him.
The whole operation took only a few moments.
Breakfast
consisted of a wooden bowl filled with porridge, a trencher of black bread, a
bruised apple, and a small jug of water. Nothing that Rhiannon could use as a
weapon or tool. So she ate the lukewarm porridge, drank a cup of water, and lay
down to rest on her bed again. She was, in fact, sick with weariness and
misery, and sore and bruised all over. The thudding in her thumbs had settled
down to a persistent ache, and the bruises had spread so that both swollen
digits bloomed in varying hues of purple, blue, red, and yellow like ugly
exotic flowers.
After a while
the guards came and removed the remains of her meal. They left her the apple,
the cup, and the jug of water. Rhiannon had nothing to do but watch a small
tetragon of light move slowly down the wall, stretching longer and thinner as
the morning passed. At some point she shut her eyes to keep back the tears, and
slowly, strangely, she drifted away into sleep.
The sound of the
bolts being dragged back jerked her awake. She swung her legs around to sit up,
all her nerves jangling.
The door swung
open. The guard stood with his sword drawn in the doorway. “Visitor for ye,” he
said, then stood back.
Lewen came in.
He was dressed in a long blue tunic edged with silver braid over white satin
breeches. On his shoulder was embroidered a badge with a golden stag rearing up
on its hind hooves. A ceremonial cape was slung over one shoulder and secured
with a silver badge. On his head was a soft blue cockaded cap, very like the
one worn by the Yeomen. Rhiannon had never seen him so grandly dressed and it
made her shy and awkward. He did not notice, though, coming forward eagerly and
pulling her to her feet so he could embrace her. She cried out in pain, and at
once he stepped back and exclaimed at the sight of her bruised and swollen
thumbs.
She saw over his
shoulder a tall redheaded girl hesitating in the doorway. Her thin red brows
were drawn together in a frown.
“Who that?” Rhiannon
demanded at the same time as the redhead asked in a cool voice, “Are you going
to introduce me, Lewen?”
Lewen looked
from one to the other, a little dismayed.
“Rhiannon, this
is Her Royal Highness, the Banprionnsa Olwynne NicCuinn. If it was not for her,
I would no’ be allowed in to see ye. She . . . her father the Rìgh has granted
ye liberty o’ the tower. Olwynne, this . . . this is Rhiannon.”
Olwynne inclined
her head graciously, but Rhiannon only glared. She did not like the tone that
came into Lewen’s voice when he addressed the Banprionnsa, nor the way Olwynne
looked at her.
She was a tall
young woman, though not as tall as Rhiannon, and very straight-backed with
dark, challenging eyes and a mass of fiery ringlets that hung down her back
from under a forest green silk hood. Her gown was green too, of fluid silk that
shimmered as the Banprionnsa moved and embroidered with tiny jewels at cuff and
neckline. She wore no other jewelry except for a moonstone on her left hand, a
twin to the ring Lewen wore on his left hand. Although Rhiannon knew all
apprentices of the Coven wore moonstone rings, it infuriated her to see this
link between Lewen and Olwynne, symbol of a world they shared and from which
she was excluded.
“Tell her to go
away,” Rhiannon said. “Why is she here?”
Lewen was
mortified. “But she . . . I wanted . . . Rhiannon!”
“I think it is
best I go then,” Olwynne said. She smiled ruefully at Lewen and shook her head
as he apologized and entreated her to stay. As she gathered up the rustling folds
of her skirt and turned to leave, Rhiannon came forward in a rush, saying
fiercely, “Who was that girl?”
“Ye’re no’
jealous, are ye?” Lewen asked incredulously. “O’ Olwynne? Oh, Rhiannon!” He
reached for her, drawing her close. “Don’t be so silly,” he murmured and bent
his head to kiss her. As Rhiannon melted into his embrace, her eyes closing,
the door shut behind Olwynne with a click.
“Oh, Rhiannon,
Rhiannon,” Lewen whispered, raising his head at last. “Oh Eà, I have missed
ye.”
She leaned
against his shoulder. “It’s been only a night,” she said shakily.
He lifted her
face and kissed her again. “Too long,” he said. “Far too long.”
She wrested her
mouth away, saying sulkily, “Long enough for ye to get all prettied up for some
other lass.”
Lewen glanced
down at himself in surprise, then grinned. “I’m in court gear. I had to report
to His Majesty and beg leave to come and see ye. I couldna go to court in all
my dirt!”
He flung aside
the cape and hat and sat on the bed, pulling her down beside him. Eagerly he
kissed her again, one hand sliding under her skirt.
“So why she
come, that Olwynne? Why ye bring her?” she demanded.
“Och, Olwynne!
She’s one o’ my very best friends, she and her twin brother, Owein. The Rìgh is
their father. If it had no’ been for them I might no’ have got in to see ye.”
He sat up, bringing his hand from under her shirt so he could stroke back her
hair. “She’s promised to help me petition the Rìgh on your behalf. I canna
believe ye were locked up like a common criminal! Olwynne begged His Majesty to
grant ye liberty o’ the tower, which means at least ye can walk in the gardens
and have visitors. Nina petitioned him too, and has offered to pay all the
costs, which is good because, believe me, I almost fainted when I heard how
much a dark little cell like this costs!” He looked around him in disgust.
“Still, it’s better than the public galleries.”
“Indeed it is,”
Rhiannon said.
She searched for
words to describe the Murderers’ Gallery, but it seemed so far removed from
Lewen. Everything about him was clean and fine. He washed and changed his linen
every day, and though his clothes were not usually so grand, they were always
clean and brushed. He smelled pleasantly of horses and fresh air and the
rosemary soap he washed with and the mint leaves he chewed after eating, unlike
so many men who smelled rankly of beer and tobacco and unwashed armpits and
decaying teeth. Rhiannon had always appreciated this about him, since her sense
of smell was very acute and easily offended.
And, ever since
Rhiannon had first met Lewen, he had epitomized gentleness, kindness, and
courtesy. He was a horse whisperer who had the ability to soothe just about any
frightened animal or child. He listened to all that was said to him carefully
and did not seek to impress by sneering at others. He had taught her to trust
him, an investment of faith that Rhiannon had never expected to be able to
make. She did not know how to tell him of all that was cruel, dark, pitiless,
and foul. As she searched for words, he began speaking again and it was too
late, the moment had passed.
“We tried to
convince the Rìgh that ye did no’ need to be kept in the tower even,” Lewen was
saying, “but he would no’ agree, saying the charges are too serious. Which, I
suppose, is fair enough. It was just such a shock, seeing them drag ye away
like that.”
He bent his head
and kissed her lovingly, and she lost herself in the sweetness of it for a
while. He had her pressed down onto her back, her bodice unlaced, before she
stopped him again, reluctantly.
“How long?” she
whispered. “How long must I stay here? For I shall go mad, Lewen. I swear I
shall.”
He raised his
head. His eyes were black with passion. “I dinna ken, dearling,” he said
huskily. “I wish . . . och, how I wish . . . I canna bear to think o’ ye locked
up in here.”
“Try being the
one who’s locked up,” she said dryly.
He kissed her
chin, and then the pulse at the base of her throat. “It shouldna be long,
dearling.” He pulled back her bodice so he could kiss the hollow of her
shoulder. His hand had found her breast again, but she gently pushed him away.
“When? When?”
He sighed. “They
hear serious cases, like murder or horse stealing, once every quarter. That
means the end o’ June. I tried to convince the Rìgh that your case should be
heard straightaway, but he said they need that much time to gather their
evidence and hear the witnesses.”
Rhiannon did not
know the names or meanings of months. Her idea of time was much more fluid and
imprecise than that of these humans, who had a word for everything. Lewen
understood her frown and said, sympathy warming his deep voice, “By midsummer,
dearling.”
“Midsummer,” she
said blankly. It was only early spring now. That meant days and days, more days
than Rhiannon could count. Two moons at least.
“They’ll probably
bring it forward a few days,” Lewen said consolingly. “The Rìgh will want it
all over afore the wedding.”
“The wedding?”
“Aye, Donncan
and Bronwen’s wedding. The royal heirs. Ye remember. It’s set for Midsummer’s
Day.”
“How many
moons?” Rhiannon demanded.
He lifted his
shoulders and said reluctantly, “The moon is in its last quarter now. We’ll see
it wax and wane twice afore then.”
“Two moons,”
Rhiannon said flatly.
“More,” he
answered.
She turned her
face away.
He turned it
back to him with both hands, kissing her passionately. “I ken it’s a long
time,” he whispered. “But the Rìgh says I may visit ye. . . .”
“So kind o’
him.”
“And I’ll bring
ye books and paper. . . .”
“If only I could
read.”
“Ye’ll be able
to practice your lessons.”
“What’s the point?”
she said sullenly.
“Dearling, dinna
say that. I canna bear to see ye so unhappy. Banprionnsa Olwynne and I will do
all we can to ease things for ye.”
“That redhead?
Why would she want to help?”
“She’s my
friend. She feels sorry for ye,” Lewen said awkwardly.
“How sweet o’
her,” Rhiannon said acidly.
“She can do
heaps to help. Her father adores her and will listen to her, I ken.”
“Can she help
another too?” Rhiannon demanded. “Lewen, there was a lass in the Murderers’
Gallery. . . . She was sore hurt, Lewen. The warden there is a cruel, mean
woman. She should be the one locked up! Lewen, can ye ask her?”
“Ask Her
Highness? To help some other lass?”
“Aye! She was
strung up for the rats, Lewen. It was awful, just awful! Please, canna ye find
out how she is? Her name is Bess . . . Bess Balfour.”
“I’m no’ sure
how. . . . I can ask someone, though. I canna see how Her Highness can help.
She kens naught about prisons and so on. But I’ll ask one o’ the guards on the
way out.”
“Ye should be
telling your Rìgh about it,” Rhiannon said. “Ye talk about how good and just he
is, and yet he allows such things to happen. It isn’t right!”
Lewen looked
troubled. “I dinna ken who. . . . Happen I’ll ask my mentor. He’ll ken what to
do.”
“What about that
girl? Why ye no’ tell her, if she the Rìgh’s daughter?”
“I do no’ want
to presume,” Lewen said unhappily. “If I can, I will, I promise. But in the
meantime, Rhiannon, ye must be thinking about yourself. I canna help but worry.
. . . I mean, the Yeomen are a close-knit unit, and Connor was well-liked. I’m
afraid. . . .”
“Aye, me too,”
Rhiannon said dully.
Once again he
turned her face to his, kissing her ardently on the mouth. “Oh, Rhiannon, do
no’ be afraid. I swear I will do all I can to get ye free. And I’ll come
whenever I can, I promise.” He bared her breast so he could kiss it, cradling
it in both hands. Despite herself she arched her back. Lewen groaned and slid
his hand under her bottom. She slipped her own hands around to cup his
buttocks, pressing him closer to her.
“Every day,” she
demanded. “Promise me. Every day.”
“Whenever I
can,” he said hoarsely. “I do no’ think I can keep away. Rhiannon, Rhiannon,
what spell have ye cast on me? I swear, I think I shall die with wanting ye.
Please, please, we have so little time. The guards will come back soon. . . .”
“Then why waste
time talking?” she asked.
“Good question,”
he said, and dragged his tunic over his head.
Rhiannon lay and
watched the candle flame slowly splutter out. Then darkness descended like a hood.
Her eyes were stretched wide, but she could see nothing at all. All she could
hear was the rising thunder of blood in her ears.
She took one
deep shaking breath, and then another. Her fingers dug deep into the stiff
linen of her sheets. She longed for her horse with every fiber of her being.
She wished she could reach out her hand and seize Blackthorn’s flowing mane and
swing herself up onto the mare’s back. She wished she could feel the powerful
surge of muscles below her as the mare flung out her wings and sprang into the
air. She wished they were flying free under the stars.
Rhiannon’s
longing was so intense it was like grief or thwarted desire. It wove through
the coldness and darkness pressing against her eyelids until she imagined she
really did feel Blackthorn’s silky mane under her fingers. Rhiannon imagined
the swift easy swing as she vaulted onto the mare’s back, and leaned forward,
urging the mare into a canter. Air rushed through the canals of her ears. She
was dizzy. She clung to Blackthorn’s mane and urged her on. They soared into
the darkness.
Hollowness and
dislocation. A sense of the world falling away. Shapes loomed up out of the
shadows. A long corridor, a room lit dimly by a lantern. Two men playing cards.
As the horse and rider flew silently, invisibly past, the light flickered. One
of the guards glanced up, then rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. Rhiannon
looked back at him. He did not see her.
A wall sprang
towards them. Horse and rider flew through as if stone was water. Rows of beds
with men sleeping. As the shadow-horse passed over them, they stirred and
frowned. One cried out. Another turned and huddled his blankets up around his
ears. Another wall flowed over them, then another. Rhiannon tried to remember
to breathe.
In a dark cell.
A window in the far wall glimmered frostily. A man lay on a narrow bed, moving
his head and limbs restlessly, muttering and sighing. He cried out. Rhiannon
looked down at him as she and the shadow-horse flew over him, towards the
window. It was Lord Malvern. Even in the darkness she knew him at once.
Rhiannon felt a
sudden spur of terror. Something floated above the sleeping man. In the
darkness it was just a pale frosty shimmer, like breath on an icy morning, like
starlight on water, like crumpled chiffon. There was the mere suggestion of a
woman’s shape hovering over the sleeping man. He was shrinking away from the
cold blast of her presence. “No! No!” he cried out.
Rhiannon heard a
low murmur.
“What use are ye
to me, locked up here like a trussed chicken?” the ghost said. “We do no’ have
much time. There is much to be done if we are to have all ready by Midsummer’s
Eve. Do ye no’ want your revenge? Do ye no’ want your dear brother to live
again? We made a pact, ye and I. I expect ye to honor it, else I shall haunt
your every moment, waking and asleep. I will make ye sorry ye ever sought to
cross me.”
“No, no,” he
murmured. “Let me be!”
“Never,” the
ghost hissed. “There is no way to escape me, no’ even through death, for I
stand at the very threshold o’ life and there is no way to sneak past me, I
warn ye. Ye must uphold your promise. Ye must bring me back to life again!”
Her words were
like a torrent of icy water, unrelenting. Rhiannon cowered as much as the man
lying blasted in the ghost’s icy presence.
“But how? What
am I to do?” Lord Malvern asked, and he was awake now, his eyes wide and
terrified, pressing his body back into his pillows, as far as he could get from
the cold diaphanous spirit hovering so close above him.
“Get yourself
out o’ this cell,” she jeered. “What use are ye to me in here? Find the spell,
as I bade ye, and a warm living body, young and strong and filled with power.
Like her! She will do! Bring me the girl who dares spy on me in the darkness!”
To Rhiannon’s
horror the ghost turned her head and pinned her with terrible eyes. Rhiannon
took a breath to shriek, but the air was so bitterly cold, it pierced her
lungs. She felt a rushing, an unraveling. The darkness spun about her. Rhiannon
felt she was spinning in a vast, cold, windy abyss, falling thousands of feet
into space. Then, strangely, she felt herself crash back into her own bed. She
put out her hand and felt between her fingers the stiff linen of her sheets,
pressed her hand against the hard mattress. She was lying on her back. She took
in a great breath of relief and felt cold strike down into her lungs. She could
not shriek. A massive icy weight was pressing her down. Wintry hands dug into
her shoulders. A blast of arctic breath in her face. She struggled to breathe.
Cold lips pressed against her ear. “Ye dare spy on me?” the ghost hissed. “I
ken ye now. Do no’ dare cross me. Ye’ll learn ye canna thwart me without pain!”
Tears started
from Rhiannon’s eyes and at once froze on her cheeks. Her face was numb, her
hands heavy and nerveless as lead. She made a great effort and heaved at the
thing weighing on her chest, throwing it away. She heard a thin wailing, which
could have been laughter or tears, then all was quiet. Rhiannon huddled her
arms about her, shivering with cold, her chest heaving. Slowly her breath
steadied and the humming of the darkness eased. At last she must have slept.
In the morning
they brought her cold porridge and lukewarm tea, and then she was again left by
herself. As the hours crept past, lethargy fell upon her. She sat and watched
the bar of sunlight move across the stone. She felt tired and gloomy. Her eyes
were gritty, and her chest hurt. At noon they brought her dark bread and
cheese. Rhiannon was not hungry, but she forced herself to eat. She needed to
keep her strength up if she was to escape. It was like eating ashes.
When the guards
came to take away her plate, she demanded angrily when they planned to let her
out, to walk in the garden at least. They did not answer or even look her way.
Quickly, efficiently, they gathered up her leftovers and backed away, locking
the door securely behind them. Rhiannon kicked her chair furiously but only
bruised her foot. Silence descended again. The walls were so thick Rhiannon
could not even hear birds twittering. All was quiet and chill and lonely.
The bar of
sunlight reached the far wall and began to climb. The higher it climbed, the
more orange it grew. Despite herself she began to pace again.
When she heard
the bars grating open, she spun round on her heel, her heart thumping. It was
not Lewen that the guard was showing in, however, but Nina the Nightingale. She
was no longer dressed in the bright, shabby clothes of a jongleur, having
changed into flowing white robes edged with silver. Her unruly chestnut hair
had been bound back into a severe plait, and her necklaces of amber and gold
were gone. A silver cord about her waist was hung with the heavy pouch in which
she kept her witch’s paraphernalia. It was the only familiar thing about her.
“Rhiannon, my
dear, how are ye yourself?” the sorceress asked, coming forward with a quick,
light step to kiss her cheek.
Rhiannon’s hands
were balled into fists. She searched for a way to tell Nina about all that had
happened to her, about the Murderers’ Gallery and the rats, and about her dream
that seemed more real than any nightmare could be. But what could she say?I
feel sick and cold with dread, for I saw a ghost last night that says she wants
my body for her own ? She could not say the words. Nina would think her
mad. So she said through stiff lips, “Me? Och, I’m just dandy.”
Nina looked hurt
at the sarcastic tone. “I’m sorry I couldna come afore. We’ve been busy indeed
reporting to the Rìgh and settling ourselves back into our rooms at the palace.
The place is like a hive o’ bees! I dinna ken how Lachlan—I mean, His
Majesty—can stand it.”
Rhiannon did not
reply. She was afraid that if she spoke, she would begin to cry, and that she
could not bear. Rhiannon despised such weak indulgences as tears.
Nina went and
sat down at the table, putting down the basket she carried. “How are they
treating ye, Rhiannon?” she asked anxiously.
“Just dandy,”
Rhiannon said again, with the same heavy intonation of sarcasm. She felt
lumpish and awkward but did not know how else to behave. All the easy
camaraderie that had grown up between her and this silver-tongued sorceress
seemed out of place now. It was one thing to be friends when they traveled the
roads together, eating out of the same stew pot, singing songs around the
campfire at night, their clothes as shabby and dusty as each other’s. It was
quite another story when that scruffy jongleur was transformed into a cool,
white sorceress who called the Rìgh by his first name.
Nina seemed to
understand, for she took no offense at Rhiannon’s gruff tone, saying, “Och,
good, I’m so pleased. I was worried they might treat ye roughly. Are they
feeding ye well?”
“I wouldna say
‘well,’ ” Rhiannon answered, feeling herself relax a little. “A nice haunch o’
roast venison wouldna go astray.”
“Well, I canna
do aught to help ye there, but I have brought ye some food,” Nina said. She
pulled a few jars and muslin bags out of her basket. “Some honey to sweeten
your tea, and some cheese, and a bag o’ dried bellfruit, and a pot o’ quince
jam, and look, a bottle o’ goldensloe wine. I ken how much ye hate being
confined. I thought it might help.”
Tears prickled
Rhiannon’s eyes. She stared at the ground and did not speak for fear her voice
would give her away.
After a moment,
Nina went on cheerfully, “I’ve brought ye some books too, to help while away
the time. There’s an illustrated bestiary I am sure ye will like, and an
alphabet book, and a book o’ rhymes and songs that Roden always loved. I ken ye
canna read it yet, but ye can look at the pictures and I will sing some to ye,
if ye like, and ye can then try and puzzle out the words.”
Rhiannon nodded.
“Thanks,” she said gruffly, knowing she sounded ungracious.
“No’ a problem,”
Nina said, piling the books neatly on the table. She hesitated, then said,
“Rhiannon, we have told the Rìgh the whole story.”
“Did ye tell him
about Roden?” Rhiannon asked.
Nina nodded and
dropped her eyes, looking discomfited. “He was shocked indeed at the tale and
pleased that we were able to wrest Roden back from Laird Malvern.”
“But it’ll make
no difference to me,” Rhiannon said, her heart sinking. “He will no’ pardon me
for saving him.”
Nina shook her
head. “No’ out o’ hand, just like that. He is deeply grieved at the news o’
Connor’s death, as we kent he must be. There . . . there is much anger . . . at
the way Connor died, I mean . . . and I think ye should ken the Rìgh shares it.
He is a just man, though, Rhiannon. He says there must be an inquiry, and a
fair trial.”
“Och, aye, so
ye’ve told me afore,” Rhiannon said.
“It will be fair,
Rhiannon,” Nina said reprovingly. “All will be debated openly, and proof
demanded. It is one thing His Majesty has done well, reforming the law courts.
It is no’ so long ago that the courts were naught but a mockery in this
country, and innocent men and women condemned out o’ hand—”
“What about
accused murderers being allowed to walk out the gates and into the city as they
please?” Rhiannon demanded.
“Pardon?”
“They let Dedrie
out the very first day. She said she needed to go buy some medicines for the
laird. I thought she was meant to be in prison too.”
“So did I,” Nina
said, puzzled. “It seems very odd. Are ye sure?”
“Lewen said he
saw her walk out the gates himself. He says she smiled at him ever so sweetly.”
“There must be
some misunderstanding,” Nina said. “I’ll ask the prison warden.”
“While ye’re
there, ask him what happened to a poor lass by the name o’ Bess Balfour, who
was hung up alive for the rats to feast on, in the Murderers’ Gallery,”
Rhiannon said in a flat, hard voice. She could not help it. Whenever she
thought of what had happened to Bess, she felt sick and helpless and, worst of
all, vulnerable.
“What? What did
ye say happened?”
Rhiannon told
her, her voice cracking once or twice as she fought to suppress her emotions.
Nina was as shocked and horrified as Rhiannon could have hoped for. She
promised to find out how Bess was and then said unhappily, “I had no idea
conditions were still so bad in the prison. I ken His Majesty has launched any
number o’ investigations and was assured things were improving.”
Rhiannon
snorted.
“I will speak to
him,” Nina said.
“Aye, we’ve seen
how much good that can do,” Rhiannon answered.
“I’m sorry,”
Nina said, sounding hurt.
Rhiannon sent
her a heavy-browed look of misery and resentment, then stared down at her
hands. There was a lump in her throat as big as a bite of apple.
Nina got to her
feet. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“A party at the
palace tonight, is there?”
“Actually, yes,”
Nina answered, caught between irritation and compunction. “I am to sing to the
court.”
“Have fun.”
“I’m sorry I
could no’ do more,” Nina said unhappily.
Rhiannon opened
her mouth to say something cutting, and then shut it, remembering that Nina had
paid the gold that had got her the small comfort of this cell. She took a deep
breath and muttered thanks.
Nina nodded.
“It’s the least I could do for the lass who saved my lad. I dinna want to think
o’ ye in there with a lot o’ common murderers.”
Rhiannon thought
of Bess and her imploring eyes. “Thank ye. I am grateful,” she managed to say.
“I just wish . . .”
“Aye. I ken. I’m
sorry.” Nina hesitated, then bent and picked up her basket. “I will come again
when I can,” she said. “It may no’ be for a few days. I have a lot to do.”
Rhiannon tried
to smile.
“I’m sorry, but
they would no’ let Lewen in as well as me,” Nina said. “He came, but they
turned him away.”
Rhiannon
shrugged one shoulder, trying hard not to show how disappointed she was. Nina
came and laid her hand on her shoulder. “Be o’ good heart,” she said. “Ye ken
ye have friends. We will do what we can to set ye free.”
Rhiannon was not
heartened.
The next day
passed as slowly. Rhiannon was weary, for she had had another disturbed and
restless night, and so she rested on her bed, looking through the books Nina
had brought her, and dozing. When she was not lying flat on her bed, she paced
back and forth, tearing at her fingernails with her teeth. The square of light
stretched up to the ceiling and dimmed to a soft orange color, and her pacing
grew more frantic, and the silence unendurable. She missed Lewen with an ache
like a dislocated joint.
The key squealed
in the lock, and she leaped to her feet, looking eagerly towards the door. The
guard looked in, gesturing to her to keep back, his sword at the ready. He was
a tall, gangly young man with blue eyes and very fair skin marred with an angry
outcrop of pimples on his forehead. Rhiannon sat obediently on the bed as he
stepped back, allowing the two people behind him to come in hesitantly.
Landon came in
first. He was a thin boy around sixteen years of age, with lank fair hair and
the beginnings of a scholar’s stoop. Loose black robes hung off his shoulders.
A dog-eared notebook protruded from one pocket, and his fingers were stained
with ink.
Behind him came
Fèlice. Her long dark hair was drawn back from her face and secured with a
clasp set with seashells, the rest of it hanging in a shining sheet down her
back. She was dressed in the same long black robe as Landon, but it had been
altered to fit her slim figure becomingly. She carried a bunch of spring
flowers, which filled the air with their delicate scent. As she passed the
guard, she smiled at him warmly and said, “Thank ye for letting us both come
in. We do appreciate it!”
The guard
blushed and nodded, shutting the door behind her.
“Landon!
Fèlice!” Rhiannon cried. “Ye look so different!”
“We’re students
o’ the Theurgia now,” Fèlice said, swinging around so her gown billowed out.
“Do we no’ look frighteningly stern? I swear, I hardly recognized myself in the
mirror this morning. I look so dreadfully grown up.”
“Your hair is
all different too,” Rhiannon said. The last time she had seen Fèlice, her hair
had hung in thick, unnaturally regular ringlets. She had had to tie her hair up
in hard little knobs every night to make the ringlets but had declared the pain
and discomfort was well worth the result.
Fèlice smoothed
back her glossy brown hair complacently. “Straight hair is all the rage now,”
she said. “The Banprionnsa Bronwen’s hair is straight, ye ken, and black as
night. Edithe is cross as cats, for she’s quite out of fashion now with her
blond curls. Even if she irons it in the morning, it’s all frizzy again by
lunchtime, while look at mine, still dead straight by evensong.”
“How do ye iron
hair?” Rhiannon said, feeling both bemused and amused, which was the effect
Fèlice usually had on her.
“Same as ironing
a skirt,” Fèlice said. “Ye canna do your own, o’ course. I ironed Edithe’s and
she ironed mine this morning. I swear she almost scorched it! All the lassies
in our dorm iron their hair. Unless, o’ course, ye’re a real curly mop like all
the NicCuinn girls. They havena a hope o’ ironing out their curls. Happen
that’s why the Banprionnsa Olwynne wears it back in such a tight plait, to hide
her ringlets.”
“I doubt she
cares,” Landon said dryly.
Fèlice opened
her eyes wide, as if to say how could she not, but she said nothing more for
Landon had turned to Rhiannon and was asking her awkwardly how she was.
Rhiannon wished he had not. She had almost forgotten her prison cell, listening
to Fèlice chatter away, but now her situation rushed back upon her, and she
felt her gloom and fear and frustration with greater force than ever.
“Och, I’m
grand,” she said lightly.
“How’s the
food?” Fèlice asked. “It canna be any worse than the slops they serve us up at
school. I’ve had naught but porridge and stew since I’ve arrived.”
“We must share
the same cook,” Rhiannon responded.
“At least ye get
a room to yourself. I’m sharing a room with six other girls and I swear they
all snore. I havena had a wink o’ sleep.”
Rhiannon stared
at her. She looked fresh enough. “I’m sure ye slept better than me,” Rhiannon
said coolly.
“Better than I,”
Fèlice corrected her.
Rhiannon
scowled.
“That’s the
right way to say it. ‘Better then I,’ no’ ‘better than me.’ ”
“Me, I, me,
I—who cares?”
Fèlice said
defensively, “Ye said ye wanted me to teach ye to speak properly.”
Rhiannon’s scowl
deepened.
Landon said
quickly, “Rafferty and Cameron would’ve come to visit ye too, Rhiannon, but
ye’re really only meant to have one visitor at a time. They’ll come another
day, they said.”
“I’m surprised
no’ to have seen Edithe,” Rhiannon said sarcastically.
Fèlice giggled.
“Edithe has her nose completely out o’ joint. She’s a country clodhopper
compared to all the lairds and ladies all over the place here, no’ to mention
the prionnsachan and banprionnsachan. And after the last few days o’ school,
well, she’s realized she’s not the powerful sorceress she thought she was.”
“But what
happened to her nose?” Rhiannon asked, puzzled. “Did someone punch her?”
Fèlice pealed
with laughter. “Nay, ye gawk! I mean she’s disgruntled.”
“She’s
grunting?” Rhiannon was more puzzled than ever.
“Nay, nay! She’s
peeved. Cross. Miserable. Because no one pays her any attention.”
“But what about
her nose?”
“It’s just an
expression,” Landon said. “It doesn’t mean her nose is really dislocated.”
Rhiannon
frowned. It was a constant struggle for her to decipher the language of these
apprentices. They had so many odd phrases and figures of speech. She wondered
if she would ever come to know them all.
“I wouldn’t be
surprised if someone did end up punching her in the face,” Fèlice continued.
“The airs and graces that girl gives herself! Just because she’s a NicAven o’
Avebury. Just about everyone here has some famous witch in their background,
and half o’ them are related to the Rìgh somehow. And the way she licks the
boots o’ anyone she thinks is important—”
“Does she really
lick their boots or is that just another expression?” Rhiannon demanded.
Fèlice giggled.
“Och, ye are a clown. O’ course she doesna really lick their boots.”
“Then why did ye
say . . . ?” Rhiannon gave up.
“I think it’s
going to be an awful lot o’ fun, being here at the Theurgia. Did ye ken the
students are given passes to go out into the city at night? I’ve never been
allowed to go into town by myself afore. I’ve always had to go with my maid and
groom. And we share classes with the boys! And eat with them! I’ve already had
three very nice-looking lads stop and welcome me to the school, and one has
asked me to go to one o’ the city inns later tonight to hear this new singer
they say is really something special.”
“Ye aren’t
going, are ye?” Landon was scandalized.
Fèlice pouted.
“I do no’ see why no’. I willna go by myself, o’ course. I thought I’d see if
Maisie wants to go, or maybe one o’ the other girls in my dorm. They all seem
awfully nice.” She recollected herself and turned to Rhiannon with all the warm
impulsiveness that was so endearing and yet so exasperating. “I wish ye were in
our dorm too, Rhiannon, and could come with us. I’d feel totally safe if ye
were there.”
“Are ye no’
afraid I’d say something to embarrass ye?” Rhiannon said, trying to speak
lightly but not entirely succeeding.
“O’ course no’,”
Fèlice answered. “I like the things ye say, I think they’re awfully funny. I’m
no’ easily shocked, ye ken.”
Rhiannon said
nothing.
Luckily Fèlice
did not require too much encouragement to keep a conversational ball rolling.
“Besides, I do no’ reckon anyone here would be too badly shocked by ye,” she
went on cheerfully. “They’re all frightfully sophisticated, ye ken. There are
all sorts o’ faeries here, even a Celestine! She’s the daughter o’ the
Stargazer, which makes her a kind o’ banprionnsa too, I suppose. And there are
corrigans and tree-changers and cluricauns everywhere, and someone told me
there’s a company o’ satyricorn soldiers among the Greycloaks, so really ye
would no’ be so odd. And the witches are much less stuck-up than normal people.
Even the Banprionnsa Olwynne is no’ allowed a maid or any ladies-in-waiting
while she’s at the Theurgia; she has to look after herself like we all do.
It’ll take some getting used to, I tell ye what! I keep looking around for
someone to frown at me and tell me to sit up straight and mind my manners and what
degree of curtsy to make, but there’s no one!”
She laughed in
glee. “And I tell you what else! During class everyone seems absolutely deadly
serious. My heart quite sank. We had mathematics, alchemy, history, and basic
spell-work, all on our first day! Ye’d think they’d have given us a chance to
settle in. And everyone with these long serious faces, scribbling down every
word the teachers say. I was quite dismayed. But then, once school was over,
well! We had some fun then. After dinner everyone played games, and there was
an impromptu dance in the hall, and some o’ those lads and lassies can sing! We
had a ball.”
Rhiannon thought
about what she had been doing while Fèlice danced and flirted, and felt rage
rise in her like nausea. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists and said
nothing, though it hurt her badly to think Fèlice could have been so carefree
while she was caged up in Sorrowgate Tower.
Fèlice did not
notice her silence, though Landon regarded her with keen, anxious eyes and a
deepening look of trouble. After a while, he said, “Have ye heard any news,
Rhiannon? About your trial, I mean.”
“No’ much,” she
said just as abruptly. “I have to wait two moons or more afore they even have
it. Two moons, locked up in here!”
“Och, that’s
terrible,” Fèlice said, sobering hurriedly. “Two whole months! I thought it’d
be a day or two, and then ye’d be coming to join us at the Theurgia.”
“Unless I’m
hanged, drawn, and quartered,” Rhiannon said coldly.
“What? I mean,
ye’re joking, aren’t ye?”
Rhiannon shook
her head, feeling an easing of her unhappiness at the obvious shock and horror
on Fèlice’s pretty face.
“That’s the
penalty for treason, I’m told, and apparently killing a Yeoman is treasonous.”
“But it was
self-defense, or something, wasn’t it?”
“No’ exactly,”
Rhiannon answered, then, mindful that Fèlice might well be called as a witness,
said with a show of deep regret, “He was going to kill my mother. If I had no’
shot him, she’d be dead now.”
“Och, well, that
has to mean something, hasn’t it?” Fèlice said, quite innocent of the fact that
Rhiannon had always hated her mother.
“But why do ye
have to wait so long?” Landon said. “Two months is a long time to be kept
locked up without a trial.”
“They do all the
trials together, once every quarter,” Rhiannon said. “The high courts sit only
four times a year.”
“Och, ye poor
thing,” Fèlice said. “Didna Nina tell the Rìgh how ye saved Roden?”
“It made no
difference,” Rhiannon said, and was suddenly overwhelmed by tears. She stopped,
cleared her throat, and went on rather unsteadily, “I do no’ think he cared,
really. He insists the courts have to hear all the evidence and decide what is
to be done with me.”
“I’m sure
they’ll find ye innocent and let ye go,” Fèlice said uneasily.
“Are ye?”
Rhiannon answered.
“I’m writing a
ballad about ye,” Landon said suddenly. “I’m calling it ‘Rhiannon’s Ride.’ I’ll
print it up, and then everyone will ken about how brave ye were.”
Rhiannon did not
know what to say. She had already seen just how little everyone thought of
Landon’s poetry. The girls had laughed about him behind his back, and the other
boys, Rafferty and Cameron, had done so to his face. Even Iven, who loved to
sing and tell jokes and stories, had rolled his eyes at some of Landon’s
efforts. The young poet was looking at her with such earnest and worshipping
eyes, however, that she managed to say some kind of thanks.
“Once they ken
the whole story, everyone will say ye must be freed,” Landon said solemnly.
“I’m sure o’ it.”
“Well, that
would be grand,” Rhiannon said and found herself wishing they would go and
leave her alone again. She felt sick and weary and perilously frail.
Landon
understood her sigh. He stood up, saying unhappily, “We’ve upset ye. I’m sorry.
Fèlice, we should go.”
“But why? I
havena finished cheering Rhiannon up,” Fèlice said indignantly. “I wanted to
tell her all about Maisie and what the healers said about her face, and I ken
she’ll want to hear all the gossip about the Banprionnsa Bronwen—”
“Another day,”
Landon said and rapped on the door.
The young guard
opened it.
Fèlice gave
Rhiannon a warm, sweetly scented hug and kiss, and told her to keep her chin
up, an odd piece of advice that puzzled Rhiannon but was accepted without
comment by everyone else. Fèlice then turned to the guard and asked him, very
sweetly, what his name was.
“Corey, miss . .
. I mean, my lady,” he answered bashfully.
“Well, Corey,
ye’ll take good care o’ my friend here, won’t ye, and no’ let her mope too
much?”
Corey glanced at
Rhiannon and looked away, scarlet mounting his cheeks.
“Sure,” he
answered after a moment.
“Thank ye so
much. I’ll see ye again soon, Rhiannon, dinna ye fear!” And Fèlice went smiling
out of the room, leaving her bunch of flowers on the table to spread its faint
sweetness into the air.
Landon nodded his
head at the guard and went out, looking awkward and unhappy.
The guard
hesitated at the door for a moment, then said curtly, “I have a message for ye.
Lewen MacNiall came to see ye, but the captain wouldna let him in, seeing how
ye had so many visitors already. He . . . Lewen . . . he said he would come
again tomorrow, if he could.”
Rhiannon jerked
her head in response, determined not to let him see how disappointed she was.
The guard
glanced at her shyly. “He was very sorry,” he said, then suddenly flushed, as
if ashamed to have shown her any kindness. He clanged the door shut, and
Rhiannon heard the bolts shot home.
She sat back on
her bed, looking up at the window. Already the light was beginning to sink low.
Rhiannon dreaded the coming of darkness. Even though she told herself they had
only been dreams, the strange hallucinatory flights through the darkness she
had taken each night, she could not forget the terrible icy glow of the ghost’s
eyes, the feeling of freezing hands clutching at her.
She got to her
feet and paced up and down the room, her arms wrapped over her chest. Then she
sat at the table and drew Nina’s books towards her. She opened the biggest. It
was sumptuously illustrated with paintings of beasts and faeries, all
surrounded by margins of leaves and flowers and butterflies, and edged in gilt,
with great swirling letters in crimson followed by neat flowing script in
black. Rhiannon turned the pages, absorbed. Then she came to a page with a
great black horse leaping into an azure sky, its violet-tipped wings unfurling
behind it. Rhiannon’s breath caught. She stared down at it in longing, then was
suddenly overwhelmed with scorching-hot tears. She put her head down on her
arms and sobbed aloud, the sound harsh in the silence. She was still weeping
when the last of the light faded away into darkness.
Lewen leaned his
head on his elbows and tried to concentrate on what his teacher was saying.
Normally he enjoyed Cailean of the Shadowswathe’s class. Like Lewen, the young
sorcerer had a strong affinity with animals and could speak fluently with most
beasts. His most profound connection was with dogs, however, and he had as his
familiar a great shadow-hound named Dobhailen. The dog stood waist high to most
men and moved as silently and sinuously as smoke, his eyes glowing softly
green. Although Cailean was a thin, gentle-mannered man, with Dobhailen by his
side he commanded the unswerving respect and attention of all his students.
But not Lewen.
Not these past few weeks.
Lewen had found
it very hard to adjust to being back at school after his adventures in
Ravenshaw. Nothing had changed at the Tower of Two Moons. Apprentices still
spent the days studying with their various teachers, practising ahdayeh every
morning and meditation every evening, filling in their rare spare time with
games of chess or trictrac or dice if their habits were sedentary, or football,
archery and wrestling if they were of a sporting nature. Lewen still spent most
of his evenings at the palace with the Rìgh’s other squires, running messages,
serving His Majesty at the high table, or cooling his heels and playing cards
as they waited for the MacCuinn in one antechamber or another.
Last year Lewen
had enjoyed his life very much. He had looked forward to another four years of
it, until the day he would graduate from school and join the ranks of the Blue
Guards. Now everything had changed.
It was Rhiannon
who had changed it all. Since the first time he had laid eyes on her, his world
had been tipped topsy-turvy. He had not realized just how much until he was
back here, in the familiar halls and corridors of the Theurgia. In the weeks
since he had arrived back in Lucescere, Lewen had not been able to interest
himself in his lessons nor in any of the silly, childish games the other
students wanted to play. Everyone knew that he had got himself entangled with a
satyricorn girl, and many eyed him askance. He had always been very friendly
with the palace guards, since all knew his father had been one of the Rìgh’s general
staff during the Bright Wars. Now, however, they were cold and distant. No one
joked with him, or asked after his parents, or teased him about his dream to be
a Blue Guard. They stared over his head as he passed them, answered his
greetings with nothing more than a jerk of the head, and if forced to respond
to a direct query, were curt in their answer.
Only his closest
friends treated him the same, and he could tell it was an effort for them.
Connor the Just, the Yeoman Rhiannon had killed, had been a favorite of
everyone’s. He had served the Rìgh from a very young age, rising from his page
to his squire to one of the officers of his general staff, a path Lewen had
hoped to follow. He had been a handsome man, fair haired and blue eyed, and
well liked by the ladies of the court. Known for his fairness and integrity,
Connor the Just had gained a reputation as an excellent arbitrator and had been
sent many times by his Rìgh to settle arguments between lairds or merchants.
His untimely
death had been a shock and, once details of the manner of his death had begun
to circulate, an outrage. The satyricorn girl had shot Connor in the back, it
was said, and then hacked off his finger and wrenched out all his teeth for
trophies. She had stolen all his clothes and weapons and then tossed his naked,
mutilated body into the river.
If Lewen had
been able to deny these rumors angrily, his life would have been much easier.
He knew they were true, however, and he was unable to explain to anyone’s
satisfaction how Rhiannon could do such a thing, nor how he could overcome his
horror and revulsion for her acts and abide by his declared love for her. They
all knew he was in love with her, everyone at the Theurgia and the whole court.
Some thought he must have been ensorcelled into love, like Jaspar, the previous
Rìgh. Others thought it was mere bestial lust and were variously repulsed,
scandalized, or amused.
Certainly lust
for Rhiannon was a driving force in Lewen’s emotions. He found he could think
of little else, day or night. He was tormented by his desire for her, and the
difficulties in acquiring ease and fulfilment. Although he had managed to
snatch the time to go and see her every day, he was not always allowed in, and
when he was, he could never stay for very long. The guards were vigilant too,
and did not give them much time unobserved. Only twice had Lewen and Rhiannon
been able to couple, and the last time had been in desperation, fully clad, up
against the stone wall. It had been over in moments and had done nothing but
fuel his hunger for her.
Sometimes Lewen
feared he had been ensorcelled, so overwhelming were his feelings for her.
Sometimes he wished he could be free of this mad passion and go back to his
pleasant life as a student and squire, the whole of his life mapped out neatly
for him. Mostly, though, he longed for Rhiannon, fretted and feared for her
safety, dreamed of a life entwined with hers, and spent long hours remembering
every detail of every encounter with her and imagining doing it all again.
Lewen shifted in
his hard chair and wondered how long until the bell rang and freed him from the
classroom. He was not on duty at the palace that evening and thought he might
try to bribe the guard to let him stay a little longer with Rhiannon, long
enough perhaps to remove all their clothes and feel her soft skin against his.
He sighed. He had not had time to whittle any arrows or do anything else to
earn any extra coins, and bribing the guards every day had quickly depleted his
earnings as a squire. His pocket was sadly empty.
At last the bell
rang. Chair legs scraped against the floor, and a hum of conversation rose as
the students stood up gladly and stretched, beginning to make their way out.
Lewen gathered up his books and rose too. He knew he should go to the library
and work on the assignment he had due, but writing a paper on theHistoria de
Gentibus Septentrionalibus seemed impossible when the woman he loved was in
prison facing a death sentence.
As he walked
towards the door, Cailean raised his head and beckoned him over. Lewen went to
stand by his desk.
“Lewen, ye ken
that lass ye told me about? The one ye thought had been hurt in prison?”
“Aye. Bess, her
name was, I think. Bess Balfour.”
“There are no
records o’ any girl o’ that name, or any similar name, being admitted to the
prison. I asked him to check again, and he said he had. So then I checked to
see if anyone had been injured. There were a number o’ knifings, and quite a
few cases of jail fever, but no reports o’ any rat bites. I’m sorry, Lewen. I’m
no’ sure what else I can do.”
Lewen was
puzzled, but he thanked Cailean and apologized for wasting his time, and then
went out into the garth, feeling heavyhearted.
Outside the sun
was shining and the sky was blue. The tall spires of the ancient witches’ tower
were etched sharply against its perfection, their symmetry pleasing to the eye.
Black-clad students strolled across the garth or lay in the sunshine, talking.
Lewen stared at them. He felt so dislocated, as if he was looking at them
through a spyglass from another dimension altogether. He could not fit the
ragged edges of his world together, the world in which he loved Rhiannon and
the everyday world of school and books and dormitories.
“Lewen!”
He turned
around.
Fèlice and
Maisie were coming towards him, smiling broadly. As always, Fèlice looked fresh
and pretty. Her black robe fit her perfectly, and she wore a posy of flowers at
her belt. Beside her, Maisie looked chubbier and plainer than ever. Since being
attacked by wild dogs on their journey through Ravenshaw, her round face was
marred by a nasty red scar that ran down from a torn and crooked ear. She tried
unsuccessfully to hide the scar by wearing her hair looped over her ears, a
style that did not suit her. She limped painfully as well, leaning heavily on a
walking stick Lewen had carved for her. The scars upon Maisie’s face always
made him feel guilty and uncomfortable, and he had to resist the urge to avoid
her, even though he knew it was not his fault that she had been so badly
mauled. In fact, if Lewen had not faced the dogs down, talking to them in their
own language, the country girl might not have escaped at all.
“Hey, Lewen!”
Fèlice called. “How are ye yourself?”
Lewen grimaced.
“No news on
Rhiannon?”
“Nay, she’s
still stuck in that blaygird prison. They willna let her out until after her
trial, and the trial is set for midsummer. Naught Nina can say will make the
Rìgh bring it forward. They need time to gather evidence.”
“Poor thing,”
Fèlice said and made a face.
“I went to see
her the other day,” Maisie said. “She seems very low. She hardly said a word. I
dinna ken what to say to her.”
“That was nice
o’ ye. I’m glad ye went. She finds it very hard, being locked up between four
walls like that. She’s used to running free.”
“Aye,” Maisie said
uncertainly.
Lewen could see
she did not like being reminded that Rhiannon was half satyricorn. He changed
the subject. “How are ye finding the Theurgia?”
“It’s grand!”
Fèlice said exuberantly. “I wish we didna have to study so much, but apart from
that, I’m having a marvelous time!”
“They’ve let me
take up extra classes at the Royal College o’ Healers,” Maisie said. “I want to
be a healer, ye ken. They have scholarships I can apply for. They’ve all been
so kind.”
“I’m glad,”
Lewen said. “What about the others? Have they settled in well?”
“Och, sure,”
Fèlice answered. “Cameron’s in heaven, being so close to the palace and all
those Yeomen. He goes to watch their weapons training every morning, and as far
as I can tell the only classes he pays attention to are wrestling and archery.”
“He has to pass
if he wants to get into the Yeomen,” Lewen warned. “Being good at the arts o’
war is no’ enough.”
As they talked,
the three students had been walking across the garth towards the dormitory
wing. At the sound of their names being called out, they paused and turned.
Landon came hurrying towards them, looking like a stork with his long gangly
legs and stooped shoulders.
“Fèlice, have ye
checked the notice board?” he cried as soon as he reached them, out of breath
and flustered.
“No’ yet. I was
just about to. Why?”
“We’ve been
granted a pass out. We can go tonight. Oh, Fèlice, do ye think I should? I
dinna ken. It’s too soon.”
Fèlice clasped
her hands together. “We’ve been given leave? Oh, wonderful! Oh, marvelous! O’
course ye have to do it, Landon! We’ve talked about naught else all week.”
She turned to
Lewen. “Have ye had town leave yet? I went last week and it was so exciting.
I’ve never had such fun. We got all dressed up, a crowd o’ us, and went to the
theater and then on to some inn in the faery quarter. All sorts o’ people were
there: goblins, tree-changers, cursehags. There was even an ogre—can ye believe
it! They had the most amazing food and drink there. I’ve never tasted anything
like it. I danced with a seelie. He was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever
clapped eyes upon. They say seelies can make a woman swoon just by smiling at
them . . .”
“I saw a
Fairge,” Maisie said dreamily. “I’ve always wanted to.”
“I must admit, I
did feel quite giddy after I’d danced with him, but that might have been the
foul stuff I was drinking. They called it bog ale, and indeed, it did taste
like swamp water! I willna touch that stuff tonight, I’ll try something
different. Maybe the fuzzle gin. That looked like fun.”
“I wouldna touch
the fuzzle gin,” Lewen said.
“But it’s so
pretty and pink!”
“Aye, but the
effects are no’ so pretty,” he answered.
“Really? I guess
ye may be right. Katrin, this girl in my dorm, well, she was drinking it and we
had to practically carry her home and then she was sick all over Cameron’s
shoes, and then the next day, she was so sick she had to stay in bed all day
and the healer said she couldna have town leave for a whole month if she was
going to abuse the privilege. Fancy! No town leave for amonth !”
“So will ye come
out with us tonight?” Maisie asked, looking up at Lewen with a shy glow in her
eyes. “Please do!”
He shook his
head. “I canna. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, please?”
Fèlice pleaded, clasping both her hands together. She gave him her most
bewitching smile. “I promise no’ to drink too much fuzzle gin and vomit on ye.”
“There’s an
offer that’s hard to refuse,” another voice cried, laughing.
Lewen turned and
smiled as Owein and Olwynne came up behind him.
Landon, Fèlice,
and Maisie were thrown into confusion. They knew at once who the twins were, of
course, for the younger children of the Rìgh of Eileanan were very striking
with their red-gold hair and tall, slim figures, while Owein’s magnificent red
wings marked him out in the biggest crowd. Fèlice was passionately interested
in everything to do with the royal family and could probably have told Owein a
few things about himself that he thought no one but a few of his closest
friends knew. She had known that Lewen was friends with the royal twins and had
hoped she would get to meet them through him. So, while Maisie blushed and
gaped and tried to think of something to say, Fèlice recovered her composure
quickly and smiled up at the winged Prionnsa.
“Well, ye are
welcome to join us if ye wish, Your Highness,” she said, dimpling. “We have
town leave and are just trying to convince Lewen he should come too. We have
the whole night planned, and it should be such fun!”
“Why, we’d love
to, wouldna we, Olwynne?” Owein responded at once, smiling down at Fèlice with
a great deal of warm admiration in his eyes. “We havena had a chance to go into
town for weeks. It’s all work, work, work for us fourth years.”
“That’s too
bad,” Fèlice said sympathetically. “Surely it canna be good for ye, all work
and no play?”
“A lass after my
own heart,” Owein cried. “I couldna agree more. Lewen and Olwynne, though,
they’re no’ such fun. Always worrying about school and studying. Auld afore
their time, they are.”
“Responsibleis
the word ye are looking for, I feel,” Olwynne said. She looked Fèlice up and
down, and the dark-haired girl blushed, dropped her eyes, and curtsied
gracefully.
“Olwynne, Owein,
this is Lady Fèlice, daughter o’ the Earl o’ Stratheden, and this is Maisie,
granddaughter o’ the cunning man o’ Berkeley, a village near Ravenscraig, and
this is Landon MacPhillip, from Magpie Wood. We call him the poet, for he’s
always scribbling away.”
Owein and
Olwynne both inclined their heads, and Owein glanced again at Fèlice, who was
looking prettier than ever with her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. “Do
we no’ ken your father? Is he no’ one of the MacBrann’s men?”
“Och, aye, I was
raised at court, at Ravenscraig. It is no’ at all like Lucescere, though. The
MacBrann—the auld one, I mean—he was sick for so long, and there were no’ many
parties or balls, and then he died, which was very sad, o’ course, but—”
“But rather
boring for ye, with the whole court in mourning,” Owein said sympathetically.
Fèlice flushed
rosier than ever, and her dimple flashed briefly. “We were all very sorry. The
MacBrann—Malcolm MacBrann—he was our laird for ever so long. I ken my father
misses him very much. But the new laird, he’s a good man and canny too, they
say, and when the mourning period is over, I’m sure the court will be gayer.
But no’ like Lucescere! Never like Lucescere!”
“It sounds like
ye’ve been enjoying our city,” Owein said.
“Och, aye!
Indeed I have. We all have, havena we, Maisie? I canna wait for tonight.
There’s a new play on at the Mandrake Theater that’s meant to be very good. We
were thinking o’ seeing that first, and then going on to the Nisse and Nixie.
We were there last week and had an absolute ball. I danced with a seelie! And
there were ogres there! One got so drunk he tried to dance on a table and it
broke underneath him. It was hilarious!”
“The Nisse and
Nixie is always good value,” Owein said, “though ye should be careful, ye ken.
No’ all faeries are friendly.”
“And I am naught
but a country lass, and no’ at all accustomed to such a place,” Fèlice said
sadly, causing Maisie and Landon to look at her in surprise. “That is why I
need someone aulder, and more sophisticated, to accompany me and make sure I do
nothing harebrained.”
“Like drink
fuzzle gin,” Owein said, smiling.
“Exactly.”
“Well, I really
feel it is my duty to accompany ye young things then,” Owein said. “Since I am
so much aulder and so much more sophisticated.”
“Och, that is so
kind o’ ye,” Fèlice said, flashing him a look from under her eyelashes. “I do
declare, I shall feel much safer with ye there.”
Landon was still
staring at her in bafflement, but Maisie’s expression was half-scandalized,
half-amused, while Olwynne was looking Fèlice over very closely.
“Will ye come
too, Olwynne?” Owein said. “Come on! It’ll be fun. How long is it since ye’ve
seen an ogre trying to dance on a table?”
“Far too long,”
Olwynne said dryly. She glanced at Lewen. “Are ye going, Lewen?”
“I dinna think
so,” he answered. “I’d better no’.”
“Oh, come on!
We’ve hardly seen ye since ye came back from Ravenshaw,” Owein protested. “And
look at ye! Ye’re as wound up as a fob watch. Come on! A night on the town will
do ye good.”
Lewen hesitated.
Olwynne laid her
hand on his arm. “Please? We’ve hardly seen ye.”
“I canna,” he
said. “Really I canna.”
“But ye’re not
on duty tonight, are ye?” Owein asked, puzzled. “I thought Fymbar and Hearne
were.”
“It’s no’ that,”
Lewen said. “It’s just . . . Rhiannon . . .”
“Surely she can
do without you for just one night,” Owein said, exasperated. “I dinna ken how
ye can spend so much time at Sorrowgate. It’s such a blaygird place.”
Fèlice gave a
theatrical shudder. “Horrid, isn’t it?” she asked. “Poor Rhiannon. I’m glad
it’s no’ me shut up in there.”
“That’s why I
really have to go and see her,” Lewen said. “She canna stand being enclosed in
such a small space. She’s no’ used to it, and her spirits have been very low.
She needs me.”
“Well, we need
ye too,” Olwynne said. “Ye’ve been away for months and months, and then when we
finally get ye back again, ye spend all your time at the prison. Did it never
occur to ye that we may want to see your bonny face occasionally too?”
“I’m sorry,”
Lewen said miserably. “I ken I’m no’ much fun at the moment. I canna abandon
her, though. She has no one else. Canna ye see that?”
Owein rolled his
eyes and said with exaggerated emphasis, “I suppose so.”
“Ye do no’ have
to spend all evening with her, though, do ye?” Olwynne asked. “How about ye go
and see her after dinner, and then come out and meet us later? Ye’re in the
city anyway, at Sorrowgate. It’ll only take ye another few minutes, if ye grab
a corrigan cart.”
“Go on!” Fèlice
pleaded. “Ye canna waste a city pass! Besides, this inn we’ve been telling ye
about, the Nisse and Nixie, it’s all the rage now. Anyone can get up and sing a
song, or tell a joke or a story, or perform a trick, and Landon’s going to read
his ballad, ye ken, the one he’s been writing about Rhiannon. Ye canna miss it!
I swear, he’s going to take the town by storm. He read it to me and Maisie and
the boys last night, and it brought tears to my eyes. Ye have to be there for
its first public performance. If the crowd likes it, we’re going to have it
printed up, aren’t we, Landon, and sell it on the streets a penny apiece.”
“I dinna ken,”
Landon said gloomily. “I’m sure it’s no’ any good. I’ll probably get booed and
hissed off the stage.”
“Rubbish! It’s
marvelous. It’ll be a sensation.”
“I dinna think
it’s a good idea to read it in public. No one here seems to like Rhiannon.”
“That’s why it’s
so important that ye set them straight on what really happened,” Fèlice said.
“Tell him, Lewen! His ballad is the best way o’ changing public opinion.
Everyone here believes the sort o’ rubbish Edithe’s been spreading around,
because they havena heard the whole story. We could talk till we were blue in
the face, and it wouldna have anywhere near the effect o’ hearing your ballad.
Besides, it’ll make your name as a poet! Is that no’ what ye dream o’?”
“I’ll probably
get sued for slander,” Landon said, “once the Laird o’ Fettercairn hears what
I’ve written.”
“It’s no’
slander if it’s true,” Fèlice said, “and we can all attest to that. We were
there! Oh, come on, Lewen, ye’ve got to come. Landon’ll never get up on stage
if we are no’ all there, encouraging him.”
“All work and no
play makes Lewen a very dull dog,” Owein said.
“Oh, all right,”
Lewen said. “I must admit a few ales would go down well.”
“That’s the
lad,” Owein said, slapping him on the shoulder.
“Where is this
inn?” Olwynne asked, her eyes still on Fèlice.
“It’s down in
the faery quarter, on the corner o’ Avalon and Cormoran streets,” Landon said
diffidently.
“Och, aye, I
ken,” Owein said. “We’ll meet ye there, what, about nine? We have to be back
afore the palace gates shut at midnight, remember.”
“Remember last
summer, when we all got locked out, because Lewen had to try to stop that
bearbaiting?” Olwynne said.
“Och, aye, and
we snuck in through the secret way, the auld drain? And Lewen got stuck, being
too broad across the shoulders?” Owein said.
“And we thought
we’d be stuck there all night, and expelled for sure, for being out past
curfew?” Olwynne said.
“And ye lot
slathered me all with the stinkiest mud ye could find. . . .” Lewen smiled at
the memory.
“At least we
managed to get ye out eventually. And we were all filthy by the end o’ it,”
Olwynne said.
“No’ to mention
stinky.” Owein grinned.
“There’s a
secret way into the palace grounds?” Fèlice asked.
Owein and
Olwynne exchanged glances. “Sorry! Canna tell. It’s a family secret.”
“But it might
come in useful one night,” Fèlice pleaded. “Go on! Canna ye tell us where? Ye
showed Lewen.”
Owein grinned.
“Aye, but Lewen’s practically family himself. No, no. No use begging. We willna
tell ye, even if ye tied us up and tortured us with feathers.”
“That doesna
sound like torture to me,” Fèlice said with a flirtatious glance at Owein from
under her long lashes.
Owein grinned
and was about to respond in kind, but Olwynne slipped her hand in the crook of
his arm and said, “Well then. The Nisse and Nixie at nine. See ye there! Dinna
fail us, Lewen!”
“I willna,” he
answered and watched as Olwynne drew Owein away, the Prionnsa shooting a quick
rueful smile at Fèlice over his shoulder.
“Ye really are
the most shocking flirt,” Lewen said to Fèlice.
She laughed. “Am
I? Really? Oh well. How much trouble can I get into with ye and Landon and
Maisie all frowning at me every time I open my mouth? And Cameron and Rafferty
will come, no doubt, and Edithe too, I bet, once she hears who else is coming.”
“Do no’ tell
her, please,” Lewen begged. “I willna come if that sourpuss does.”
“Mmmm, hard
choice,” Fèlice said. “Ye or her? Mmmm, what shall I do?”
“Cheeky arak,”
Lewen said. “All right, I’ll meet ye tonight at the Nisse and Nixie. Try no’ to
get into any trouble afore then.”
“I’ll try, but I
canna make any promises,” she said, smiling over her shoulder as she left him,
flanked on either side by Maisie and Landon, both grinning despite themselves.
Lewen was
smiling too as he went back to his room and shed his black robes, which always
irked him with their confining folds. Dressed in his usual breeches, boots, and
soft white shirt, he made his now-familiar way through the gardens, past the
palace, and into the maze of dark, crowded streets that led him to the grim
stone gateposts of the Sorrowgate Tower, so named for all those heads that had
hung upon its lintel.
Lewen knew the
guards in the entry foyer well enough to nod and smile at now. They did not ask
his business, just jerked their heads to indicate he might pass.
He made his way
unerringly through the labyrinthine corridors and up the stairs to Rhiannon’s
room, at the very top of the tower. Corey, the youngest of the prison guards,
was on duty, along with Henry, one of the oldest. They grunted at the sight of
Lewen and laid down their cards. Corey unlocked the door and let him in to
Rhiannon’s room with a sympathetic moue of the mouth to indicate that all was
not well.
Rhiannon was
lying on her bed, her fists clenched under her chin.
As soon as Lewen
came in, she came to her feet in one fluid movement and flew across the room to
fling herself into his arms. Lewen held her close. Her hair smelled sharp, like
an animal’s fur. She drove her head hard into his shoulder, shaking with tears.
He felt stiff and unhappy and woefully ill-equipped to deal with her distress.
“Why ye take so
long?” Rhiannon accused. “Where ye been?”
“At school,” he
answered. “Ye ken I have a late class on Friday. I came as soon as I could.”
“It’s nearly
suppertime,” she said, pointing at the long lozenges of light on the wall, red
and faint. “The guards will bring it soon, and ye’ll have to go.”
“I’m sorry. I
couldna come any earlier. Really, I couldna.”
She put her head
on his shoulder. “The day goes past so slowly. I thought ye were no’ coming.”
He put his hand
up under the midnight fall of her hair. Her nape felt soft and vulnerable. “I
wouldna fail ye,” he said. He felt like he was suffocating. It was an effort to
draw a breath.
Rhiannon dashed
the tears away from her eyes. “No one cares,” she said pitifully.
“I do. Ye ken I
do,” Lewen answered as he had many times before.
She stared at
him with shadow-haunted blue eyes. She had lost a lot of weight since being
imprisoned. Her bones were hard under her skin. Her hands looked frail, and her
eyes were red-rimmed.
“Have ye been
eating?”
She shrugged one
angular shoulder. “The food is horrible.”
“Ye need to keep
your strength up.”
“Why? What’s the
point?”
“Ye canna lose
faith now. I ken it’s hard—”
“Do ye just?”
“Aye—”
“Ever faced
beinghanged ,drawn, andquartered ?” She spoke the words
with a peculiar intensity, as if she had rolled the words over her tongue so
many times they had gained a certain sweetness, a poetic rhythm.
“Nay, but—”
“Ye canna even
begin to ken what it feels like. Do no’ speak to me o’hard .”
“I’m sorry. I
just—”
“Do no’ talk!
Stop talking!”
“What do ye want
me to do?” Lewen raised his hands in helplessness.
“Dinna talk!”
She took his hand and put it to her breast. “Dinna waste time!”
He let her kiss
him, his love for her and his feeling of utter helplessness and failure meeting
each other, like stags locked antler to antler and unable to step either way.
Even allowing his hand to close upon her breast was almost too hard, and for
the first time ever he felt no instant rush of desire. He roused himself with
an effort, kissing her neck, brushing his hand across her nipple, and was
rewarded with a sigh and a rush of tears. He let her draw him down on the bed
and strip away his shirt. She was frantic with need. She could scarce draw
breath, and her face was wet when she pressed it into his bare shoulder. He stared
across her head to the stones of the wall, so damp and grey and drear. He could
smell the chamber pot under the bed. He pressed his face into her bare shoulder
and closed his eyes.
She caught her
breath in a sob. When she kissed him, she tasted of salt and mucus. He could
feel her heart pounding under her ribs, and his heart accelerated to match the
rapid beat of hers, the uneven jerk of her breath arousing him at last. He
would have liked to have taken the time to calm her, and bring her to pleasure
slowly, but he was as aware of the guards outside as Rhiannon was, and kept
listening for the rusty squeal of the grille in the door that meant they were
being watched. So it was another hasty coupling, the prison blanket harsh under
his shoulder blades and Rhiannon’s face above him tense and white with misery.
Although it
eased him physically, Lewen felt an almost unbearable oppression of his spirits
as he sat up and pulled his shirt back on. There was no joy in this loving,
none of the blissful abandonment of self that he had felt in their first few
couplings.
He had found
Rhiannon infinitely desirable from the first time he had seen her, a filthy,
scratched creature who had tied herself to the back of a wild winged horse, so
desperate was she to escape her herd. He had had to tame her as he might an
unbroken foal or a wild bird from the forest. He had coaxed her with gentleness
and kindness, listening to the emotions behind her rough words, her fierce
gestures. He had been rewarded with a gorgeous flowering of her personality, a
spreading of gaily colored wings, a sweet-throated song. Yet all along he had
loved the wildness in her, the fierceness, the refusal to be tamed. To find her
now so humbled by her incarceration troubled and distressed him. It was like
finding a canary mute in its cage when once he had seen it flying free and
singing. He did not know how to help her.
The squeak of
the bolts being pulled back galvanized them both to action. Lewen buttoned
himself up in haste, and Rhiannon dragged her grey prison dress together and
scrubbed her wet face with her hand. By the time the guards came in with a tray
for her, the length of the room was between them and they were each studiously
avoiding each other’s gaze. Although neither had ever articulated it, Lewen
knew they both feared that Rhiannon’s warmness towards him would make her
vulnerable to unwanted attention from her guards. She was so vulnerable, locked
up in this small stone cell with nowhere to flee to and no weapon with which to
defend herself.
“Time to go,”
Henry said, jerking his head towards the door.
Lewen always
hated this moment. Each time he had to go, Rhiannon grew more and more
distressed, and he had not yet had a chance to give her the news about her
friend Bess.
“Just one more
moment. Please?” he asked.
“Make it quick,”
Henry said, dumping the tray on the table. He and Corey withdrew, the younger
guard trying his best to hide his sympathy for the satyricorn girl.
Lewen braced
himself. “Rhiannon, I just wanted to tell ye . . . Cailean made inquiries o’
that friend o’ yours, the one ye say was attacked by rats . . .”
“Aye?” Rhiannon
stared at him with her hands clasped tight together.
“There’s no
record o’ her anywhere. It’s as if she never existed.”
“She did exist!
She real!” There was a raw edge of hysteria in Rhiannon’s voice.
Lewen tried to
speak soothingly. “O’ course she really existed, I’m no’ saying—”
“Ye dinna
believe me! She real!”
“I do believe
ye, Rhiannon, I do. It’s just—”
“What happened
to her? She canna just disappear! What they do to her?”
“I do no’ ken. .
. . I’ll try to find out, I promise.”
“Will I just
disappear too?” Rhiannon spoke wonderingly, staring at Lewen with very wide
eyes.
Lewen felt sick.
“No, no, o’ course no’.”
The door to the
cell opened.
“Time to go,”
the guard said stolidly.
“Don’t go,”
Rhiannon said. “Please, don’t go.”
“I have to,”
Lewen answered. He tried to summon a reassuring smile.
“Please.”
“Ye ken I canna
stay. They willna let me. I’m lucky they let me visit ye as often as I do.”
“Please don’t
go.”
“Rhiannon, I’m
sorry, but I have to go. Ye ken I do.”
“I canna stand
it, Lewen, truly I canna. Ye canna leave me here!” Her voice rose.
“Time’s up,” the
guard said with a note of impatience in his voice.
Rhiannon seized
Lewen’s hands. “The ghost . . . Bess . . . I canna stand it anymore. Please,
Lewen. Please!”
“I’m sorry. I
have to go.” He embraced her awkwardly and kissed her cheek. She would not let
go of his hands. He tried to wrest them away from her, but she clung to them
frantically, tears pouring down her cheeks.
“Lewen, ye canna
leave me here. Lewen!”
He managed to
free his hands and put her away from him, moving swiftly to the door. She threw
herself after him, but the guards caught her and quickly wrestled her back.
“I’m sorry!” he
cried and went out quickly, his eyes smarting, his whole body hot. All the time
she wept and called out to him, her voice rising high into a shriek. Then the
door slammed shut.
Lewen went
quickly down the stairs and through the gloomy corridors until at last he was
out in the fresh air, breathing great gulps to rid his nose of the prison
stink. He was blind and deaf to all around him, seeing only Rhiannon’s pale,
gaunt face, hearing only her pleas to him to stay. His heart was beating so
fast he felt it would choke him.
It felt good to
walk the city streets. He strode out, arms swinging. After a while his
heartbeat steadied, though he still felt an awful hollowness within. He tried
to think of other things, concentrating on the dramas and spectacles of those
around him. It was dark, and the streets were all lit with lanterns strung high
overhead. Light spilled out from doors and windows, and the streets thronged
with people. The inns were all doing good business with the weather fine and
warm. Through the windows he could hear music and see people dancing. His step
slowed, and he glanced in through one door, his mouth lifting at the sight of
the laughing faces and swinging skirts. A young man was sitting in a chair by
the window, a mug of ale on the table before him, a smiling girl sitting on his
lap. She bent her head and kissed him on the mouth, twining her arms about his
neck. Lewen stared at them and felt a shameful hot-ness in his eyes.
After a moment,
he went on again, wishing with all his heart that Rhiannon strolled along
beside him, in a blue dress, with a flower in her hair. He would take her to
the theater. He knew she had never been. He imagined her face all lit up with
wonder and amusement, turning to him to demand an explanation, scowling in
disbelief at his answer. He would buy her a bracelet of blue moonstones at the
markets to match her glowing eyes, and they would share a paper cone of hot
chestnuts as they stood and watched the jongleurs walk on stilts and do one back-flip
after another. They would go on to the inn together, and drink wine and dance
until they were tipsy with laughter. Then he would walk her home, stopping to
kiss in the velvety shadows between the pools of lantern light, perhaps lying
with her in the gardens that encircled the Tower of Two Moons, seeing how the
moonlight through leaves patterned her pale skin.
It was such an
enticing fantasy Lewen felt his eyes grow hot again. He pressed the back of his
hand against his mouth, swallowing his misery.Soon , he promised
himself.When she is free . . .
He came to the
Nisse and Nixie and went inside. The common room was large, with lots of
alcoves hung with gold-fringed green velvet curtains. It was crowded with
people and faeries, all drinking and talking and smoking so that the room was
hazed with blue. Lewen looked around for his friends but saw no sign of them.
He followed the sound of music through to an inner room. This was even darker
and smokier. A lantern was hung right above the door so that he had to pass
under its light to enter the room. It dazzled his eyes for a moment so that he
could not see. He stepped quickly through and paused for his eyes to adjust.
In the center of
the room, couples were dancing to the music of a small band of faery musicians:
a cluricaun with a flute, a corrigan with a double bass, two willow-haired
tree-shifters playing fiddles, and a hobgoblin banging a drum that was bigger
than he was. The room was so crowded the dancers were barely able to do more
than sway in each other’s arms. Lewen jumped back to avoid a lurching pair of
drunken bogfaeries and stepped on the gnarled rootlike foot of an enormous
tree-changer. He shouted an apology and squeezed his way through the crowd to
get himself a mug of ale. The barmaid was a delicate, green-eyed seelie dressed
in a clinging gown cut to look like forest leaves. A massive ogre stood guard
behind her, arms folded on his granite chest. He scowled at Lewen, glaring at
him as if daring him to admire the frail beauty of the seelie too much. Lewen
averted his eyes, paid for the ale, and then gulped down a mouthful. It was
very good.
The song came to
an end, and everyone clapped. Lewen used his shoulder to push his way through
the crowd, looking for the others. There was a stir of interest before the
stage, and he turned to see. A woman had come out from behind the curtains and
was sitting on a tall stool at the front of the stage. She wore a long red
velvet dress, buttoned high to her throat, with clinging sleeves that widened
at her wrist to fall in long points down her sides. Her blue-black hair was
unfashionably short, cut in a straight line above her brows and again level
with her ears. It gave her an exotic air, enhanced by the black silk mask she
wore over her eyes. Lewen stared at her, troubled by a feeling that he had seen
her somewhere before.
He could not
remember where. She was not young. Lewen could see silver glinting in her hair
and deep lines on either side of her thin-lipped mouth. As he racked his
brains, trying to place her, the musicians began to play a slow, melancholy
tune and the woman began to sing.
Her voice was
smoky and deep and quavered with an intensity of feeling that struck Lewen deep
in the heart. He was ashamed to feel the sting of tears in his eyes for the third
time that night. It felt as if she sang only for him, as if she knew his
deepest, innermost longings and gave them voice. The smoky, crowded room faded
away. She seemed to look straight at him, and he looked back, riveted, lost.
The song came to
an end. The room erupted with applause. Lewen came back to himself with a
start. He shook his head and rubbed his hand over his eyes, ashamed of his
tears. He realized he was not the only one in the crowd weeping.
The singer
smiled and inclined her head. “Thank ye,” she said huskily. “I sang to ye then
o’ love. Now I shall sing o’ sorrow.”
She began then
to sing a song Lewen had never heard before. At first he thought it told a
made-up story, a tale from other times or other lands. After a while he
realized, with a growing sense of incredulity, that she was singing of the
death of Jaspar the Ensorcelled. She sang of the Rìgh’s bitter grief that he
must die so soon after the birth of his beloved daughter, Bronwen. She told how
he named his daughter heir before he died, and how she, a mere babe in arms,
was then declared Banrìgh of Eileanan. She sang of how Lachlan the Winged
stormed the palace and wrested the crown away from the baby Banrìgh, and how he
sought to keep Bronwen from bonding with the Lodestar, as was the right of all
those born of MacCuinn blood. An old cook, she sang, who loved the child
dearly, braved his wrath to make sure the Rìgh’s daughter had her chance to lay
her hand upon Aedan’s Inheritance, and the Lodestar had kindled at the touch of
her baby hand.
It was always
said whoever holds the Lodestar shall hold the land, the woman sang, and so
Lachlan’s heart was filled with rage. He had fought the Banrìgh for the singing
sphere, and he was a man and she but a babe. She could not hold it and so she lost:
the throne, the crown, the Lodestar.
“But now she is
a woman grown,” the singer sang, “Bronwen the Bonny they call her. Now she is a
woman grown, the Banrìgh she should be.”
Lewen looked
around him, amazed. He saw the whole crowd was as riveted as he was. A few had
tears in their eyes. It was a most beautiful and sorrowful song. More than
that, it had the ring of utter truth. Lewen had always known Bronwen was the
daughter of Jaspar the Ensorcelled, but it had never occurred to him to wonder
how her uncle Lachlan came to rule after his brother’s death. He saw now how it
had happened, and his heart swelled with anger and sympathy for Bronwen. No
wonder she was so wild and intractable, flaunting her disobedience in Lachlan’s
face. No wonder she submerged herself in frivolous pleasures, having no other
place for herself at court. So many things seemed clear now.
There was the
sound of a group of people coming in. He heard a laugh he recognized and turned
his head. Owein and Olwynne stood together in the doorway, the lantern shining
on their bright curls. Owein’s wings flamed out of the darkness like wildfire.
The royal twins
were recognized at once. A stir and mutter ran over the crowd. Everyone gaped
and fell back, and the twins came forward, smiling, supremely confident,
unaware of any ill will.
Lewen wanted to
stand up, to shout at them and warn them. He glanced back at the stage. The
masked woman was gone as if she had never been. Lewen shook his head, trying to
clear it of the fumes of smoke and ale. He felt dazed. Suddenly he was not so
sure of what he had just heard. Surely no one would dare sing such a song,
right here in Lucescere, the capital of Rionnagan? Surely the twins could not
be in danger?
The crowd eased
back, clearing the way for the twins. Owein smiled around, oblivious to the
tense atmosphere, but Lewen saw Olwynne frown and draw herself up. She glanced
at their bodyguards, who followed close behind. The Khan’cohban warriors both
had their hands close to their weapons belt, their thick brows drawn together
as they scanned the crowd. Tall strong men with long pale hair bound back from
their faces and sharp curving horns, their dark skin was marked with three
slashes on either cheek, showing they were warriors of high distinction. One
wore a cloak of spotted sabre leopard skin, and the other of white snow lion
fur, the snarling heads still intact.
Accompanying the
twins were their usual entourage, chief among them Alasdair and Heloïse
MacFaghan, the younger children of Ishbel the Winged and Khan’gharad the
Scarred Warrior. Having recently turned nineteen, Alasdair and Heloïse were
fifteen months younger than their nephew Owein and niece Olwynne. They had been
born twenty-two years after their famous sisters Isabeau and Iseult, and had
come, like all the other young prionnsachan of Eileanan, to study at the
Theurgia.
As the elder
twin, Heloïse was heir to the throne of Tìrlethan, and so spent much of her
time reluctantly studying politics, history, law, economics, and land
management. Alasdair occupied his time with riding, drinking, flirting, and
getting up to mischief with the other squires. Like Lewen and Owein, Alasdair
was one of the Rìgh’s six squires. He was accompanied by his great friend and
fellow squire, a thin, intense, dark-haired boy called Barney, the youngest son
of the MacRuraich.
Accompanying the
MacFaghan twins were their own bodyguards, also fierce Khan’cohban warriors.
Among the lively party was Cailean of the Shadowswathe, with his enormous
shadow-hound, Dobhailen, and the old and rather portly cluricaun Brun.
Their entrance
caused such a stir that the subtle dissonance created by the masked singer’s
song seemed to evaporate like ale fumes. Lewen was left with nothing more than
a vague sense of disquiet. He stood up and waved at Owein, who grinned at him
and veered his way. A table of corrigans rose and bowed and offered them their
table, and they were all able to squeeze in together, their attendants taking
the table Lewen had vacated. The bodyguards took up positions against the wall,
their eyes moving constantly and suspiciously over the seething crowd, while
Brun found himself a comfortable chair by the fire with an equally stout and
elderly hobgoblin who was evidently an old friend.
“I’ve never been
to an inn yet where Brun didna meet someone he kens,” Owein said, signaling to
the seelie waitress. She came at once, smiling, the ogre looming behind her.
“I havena seen
Brun leave the palace in a while,” Lewen said. “I’ll have some more ale,
thanks.”
“Fuzzle gin for
me,” Heloïse said.
“Are ye sure?”
Owein teased. “I’ve heard it has the most unfortunate effect on young ladies.”
“I may look like
a young lady but I have the stomach o’ a man,” Heloïse replied serenely.
“Fuzzle gin it
is then,” Owein said.
“Make it two,”
Olwynne said.
Lewen raised an
eyebrow at her, for Olwynne rarely drank. She made a face at him and shrugged
one shoulder sharply. She was, he noticed suddenly, looking very pale and
tired.
“If ye two are
drinking fuzzle gin, I’ll be damned if I drink ale,” Owein said. “What else do
ye have?”
“Apart from
ordinary ale, there’s scurvy ale, and plague ale, or whiskey,” the seelie said.
“Or if that’s no’ what ye be wanting, there’s moonflower ruin, or weasel
fizzle, or oak-apple wine, or—”
“What in Eà’s
name is weasel fizzle?”
“The cursehags
like it, and the goblins too.”
“Reason enough
to keep away from it,” Owein said. “What about moonflower ruin?”
“Ye willna be
wanting that, sir,” the ogre said suddenly, startling them. He was a great
hulking creature, with scaly limbs, coarse dark hair, and a tusked and warty
face. His eyes glowed red. “May I suggest blue ruin instead?”
They stared at
him in fascination, ogres still being rare enough, and brute enough, to be
seldom seen in the city.
Owein recovered
first. “What’s that?”
“Gin,” the ogre
answered. His voice sounded like he shouted through a funnel in a vast, windy
canyon. It caused the girls’ hair to fly back from their faces.
“Seems rather
tame,” Owein replied. “What do ogres drink?”
“Ye willna be
wanting that either, sir,” the ogre said firmly. “If ye willna stick to gin or
whiskey or ale, how about clamber skull?”
“Never heard o’
it.”
“It’s green,
it’s evil, and it does the job,” the ogre said. “It’s called clamber skull
because it climbs up into your skull and knocks out any thoughts ye might have
rattling around up there.”
“Sounds good.
Bring it on.”
“Me too,” Lewen
said.
The seelie bowed
and smiled her triangular smile that was half-sweet, half-sly, and moved away,
her hips swaying under the fall of her rich golden hair. Despite himself, Lewen
found himself staring after her, as did every man in the room. He wrenched his
gaze away, recalling how some Lucescere matrons had tried, unsuccessfully, to
convince the Rìgh to sign and seal an act forbidding female seelies from walking
the streets unveiled. Their beauty was simply too intoxicating and their
morality too lax. Seelies believed the act of love to be as natural as
breathing and would lie with anyone who smiled at them, or offered them a
flower, or a bright pebble, or a song. They were said to be careless lovers,
whose own lack of jealousy made them indifferent to another’s agonies. Since
they were forest faeries, who dwelled far from the filth and noise of human
inhabitation, this had never been too much of a problem before. But since the
Pact of Peace, more and more had come to the towns and cities, apparently
driven by curiosity and a desire for the bright, useless things that humans
made. In recent years, they had caused a great deal of trouble.
“So what is Brun
doing here?” Lewen asked, forcing his gaze back to Owein’s face. “It’s no’ like
him to move far from the tower.”
“I dinna ken.
Happen he has friends here,” Owein said. “Look at the place. It’s swarming with
faeries.”
“He said he’s
heard rumors o’ a new singer here who is stirring up all sorts o’ trouble,”
Olwynne said. “He thought he’d come and have a listen.”
“If she’s who I
think she is, ye’ve just missed her,” Lewen replied.
“Really? Any
good?”
“Extraordinary,”
Lewen replied. “And verging on treasonable, I think.”
“Indeed!” Owein
swung round to look at him. “How so?”
Lewen shrugged.
He was already wondering if he had misconstrued or overstated the power and
intent of the song. “A different version o’ history,” he answered.
Owein lost
interest, glancing back at the door. “Boring! I’m glad we missed her. I’d much
rather see those dancing ogres.”
“I’d have liked
to have seen her,” Heloïse said. “The whole school is buzzing with talk o’ her.
Apparently she’s been singing every night the last few weeks and drawing such a
crowd they’ve been turning them away in droves. I hope she comes back on. We
would’ve been here sooner, but Owein insisted on going to see some play at the
Mandrake that I’d already seen, and really had no interest in seeing again.”
“Did ye see the
others there?” Lewen asked.
“Nay,” Owein
answered, rather shortly.
Their drinks
arrived. The girls’ fuzzle gin was pink and frothy, and after only a few sips
Olwynne and Heloïse were both giggling. The boys’ clamber skull was the color
and texture of slime and made their eyes water. After three glasses, swallowed
at first with difficulty, it tasted marvelous and the world seemed a sweeter,
more melodious place.
Alasdair
staggered away after the seelie, his bodyguard moving unobtrusively after him.
Heloïse found someone to dance with. Cailean was deep in conversation with a
tree-changer, while Dobhailen menaced a group of goblins with a stare and
lifted lip. The room grew so crowded it was like a thick bean soup, steaming
and bubbling. The musicians played at a great rate, the tree-shifters tossing
their manes of long hanging twigs about, the hobgoblin tapping one enormous
broad foot.
Lewen drank down
his poison-green drink, his head spinning, and ordered yet another. Owein
matched him drink for drink, growing more morose with every mouthful, his gaze
continually straying towards the door. Suddenly, though, his eyes brightened
and he sat up straighter. Lewen squinted through the smoke.
The young
apprentices who had traveled through Ravenshaw with him crowded in through the
doorway, along with a collection of other young students, all talking and
laughing. Fèlice was at the center of it all and, Lewen hazarded, the cause of
Owein’s sudden attention. She was dressed, he was pleased to see, in a very
pretty and demure dress of dusky pink with a narrow edging of white lace at hem
and sleeve. He had been worried, after her boldness in the garth that
afternoon, that she would try to impress Owein by following the new fashion in
the court of wearing very clingy and revealing gowns. Owein had been raised by
Iseult of the Snows, however, who always dressed with great simplicity, almost
to the point of austerity. Although Lewen had never heard the young Prionnsa
express much opinion on fashion, except to mock it in general, he was sure he
would have thought less of Fèlice if she had dressed, like some of her
companions, in a diaphanous gown with fluttering sleeves sewn to mimic the fins
of the Fairgean.
Fèlice saw them
crammed into their narrow booth and raised a hand to them, but made no move to
come over.
She had no need
to. Owein rose at once and tried to make his way towards her, but found his way
blocked by a line of dancers. Always impatient, the Prionnsa did not wait for
the dance to end, but spread his wings and flew over their heads, causing a
general outcry of amazement and laughter. He landed lightly next to Fèlice, who
smiled and curtsied, her eyelashes lowered.
“So ye’ve come
at last,” Owein said to Fèlice. “I’d almost given ye up.”
She looked up.
“Really? Are we so late?”
“Nay, I s’pose
no’ . . . though I’d thought to see ye at the Mandrake.”
“Och, I heard
the play was no’ so good after all, so we went to see a puppet show at the
Astral. It was most amusing!”
“I wish I had
been there,” Owein said in a voice devoid of any expression.
Fèlice dimpled
at him. “I wish ye had too. If I’d kent ye’d go to the Mandrake, I would’ve
sent ye a message, but indeed, Your Highness, I did no’ expect to see ye
there.”
“Didn’t ye?”
Owein said.
They were
interrupted by Edithe NicAven, dressed in a dashing gown much the same color as
the clamber skull, with fake fins and a plunging neckline. “Your Highness!” she
cried and dipped into a deep curtsy that gave him an excellent view down her
cleavage. Owein took an involuntary step back and saw Fèlice hide a quick smile
that made him shoot her a wry glance.
“I am so very
pleased to meet Your Highness at last,” Edithe cooed. “I have heard so much
about ye from our mutual friend, Lewen o’ Kingarth. We all grew to be very
close, ye ken, on our journey here from Ravenshaw. I do declare, I have hardly
seen him since we arrived here at Lucescere! It’s been such a mad whirl, hasn’t
it, Fèlice? Parties one night, balls another, and then, o’ course, I have been
very busy with my studies—I am taking Advanced Magic, ye ken. My father will beso
pleased! Though I suppose it is no’ surprising considering I am descended from
Aven the Mysterious, who was one o’ Brann’s foremost acolytes.”
She paused to
take a breath. Owein at once bowed and murmured, “I am glad ye are enjoying the
Theurgia, my lady. If ye would excuse me, I must just—”
“Oh, I always
kent I would blossom once I came to the Tower o’ Two Moons,” Edithe went on,
glancing away modestly and so missing Owein’s mute appeal to Fèlice for help.
“It has been my burning ambition to be a sorceress since I was a mere lassiekin
and first began to demonstrate such striking powers. I remember my grandmother
saying that I was a born witch, and she should ken. Her mother had been First
Sorceress at the Tower o’ Ravens for many years, ye see. I was only three when
I first—”
“Ladies and
gentlemen, faeries anduile-bheistean , may I have your attention!” The
ogre’s voice boomed through the crowded, smoky chamber, drowning out even
Edithe’s high-pitched nasal drone. Thankfully Owein turned to the stage.
“Every Friday
evening we present the Song and Dance Night, an opportunity for us to showcase
the talents o’ our patrons. If ye can tell a joke, or juggle, dance a jig, or
walk on your hands, if you can sing a song or tell a story, swallow a sword or
turn a somersault, then this is the place and this is the time for ye! The
prize for the best act is six gold royals!”
A cheer went up
from the crowd, and Owein’s eyes widened. It was a rich prize indeed. No wonder
it was such a popular event.
“Just remember,
it costs three coppers to enter, and no professional singers, dancers, or
jongleurs allowed. The penalty is to be stomped on by me.” To illustrate his
point the ogre raised one enormous boot and slammed it back down on to the
wooden stage. The whole room shook. Dust drifted down from the rafters, making
the air even hazier. There was another roar of laughter, and the ogre grinned,
showing a cavernous mouth filled with crooked, discolored fangs. He then
tramped off the stage, and the show began.
“Come on,
Landon, let’s pay our fee and get ye on the list,” Fèlice said.
Landon hung
back. “I canna do it, Fèlice! Have ye seen how many people there are here?”
“All the better
for getting your point across. Come on, Landon, dinna be shy. This is why we’re
here, remember?”
Landon glanced
up at the stage, where two portly young cluricauns were juggling battered pots
and pans, then around at the swaying crowd. He shook his head and clutched the
sheaf of papers to his breast.
“Och, give them
to me!” Fèlice seized the papers. “I’ll read it for ye, Landon! It’s too good
an opportunity to miss. If anyone is going to be sympathetic towards Rhiannon,
it’s the Nisse and Nixie crowd. Most o’ them are faeries, or faery friends, and
most do no’ have much liking for authority. They willna think it such a crime
that she shot down a Yeoman, when they ken she did it to save her mother!”
She shot Owein a
challenging, defiant glance, then marched off to the side of the stage, where
the ogre was taking down names and accepting money.
The juggling
cluricauns were followed by a hilarious ballet by four hobgoblins, and then a
series of jokes by a nervous young corrigan, which fell rather flat. Then it
was Fèlice’s turn. She was swung up onto the stage by the ogre, and dimpled at
the crowd, saying in her clear, high voice, “ ‘Rhiannon’s Ride,’ or ‘The
Prisoner o’ Sorrowgate Tower,’ a ballad in three parts written by the brilliant
young poet Landon MacPhillip from Magpie Wood.”
There was a
round of applause, and then Fèlice began to read the poem with great gusto. She
was a natural actress with a flair for the dramatic and absolutely no
self-consciousness. At the scary moments, she lowered her voice and made it
toll, her whole body twisting and shrinking in on itself; then the very next
moment, her voice would soar up into a shrill falsetto that made the audience
laugh. With no more than her face and hands and voice, she was able to bring
the various characters alive—the wicked laird of the castle, his mad sister-in-law,
the malevolent chamberlain, the smiling castle seelie with her basket of
poisons, the sad ghost of the little boy who wandered the castle corridors
moaning, “So cold, so cold.” Through it all strode Rhiannon, the only one able
to see clearly.
When at last
Fèlice finished on a ringing note, pleading for mercy for the wrongfully
accused Prisoner of Sorrowgate Tower, there was a resounding storm of applause.
Fèlice tossed out handfuls of broadsheets of the ballad, which Rafferty and
Cameron had printed up on the Theurgia’s printing press, and then told the
crowd that more would be on sale tomorrow, in the streets, a penny apiece. Only
then did she climb down, flushed with her success.
“I do think the
freedom o’ the Theurgia must have gone to her head,” Edithe confided to Owein.
“Would her father no’ be shocked to see her performing like that in a common
inn, afore a crowd o’ rough faeries? Really! I hardly kent where to look.”
But Owein did
not respond, surging forward with the rest of the students to congratulate
Fèlice and Landon, who was speechless with joy at seeing his poem brought so
vividly to life and by its uproarious reception.
“Fèlice, ye were
marvelous!” Maisie cried. “I swear I almost wept!”
“Landon, I take
it all back! That was jolly good,” Cameron said.
“Ye were
wonderful, the best act o’ the night by far!” Rafferty said. “I bet ye win the
purse.”
“Do ye think
we’ve helped Rhiannon at all?” Fèlice asked anxiously. “I mean, I ken they
liked the poem but do they understand that it’s all true?”
Owein, finding
himself jostled and ignored, went back to his table, looking disgruntled.
Lewen had found
the performance of Landon’s poem very affecting. It felt as if he carried a
boulder in his chest, which squeezed his lungs so he could not breathe. Olwynne
had seen his distress and taken both his hands, and that small touch of
sympathy saw words come spilling out of Lewen.
“It’s just that
I dinna ken what to do, how to make things right for her. Sorrowgate Prison is
an absolute hellhole. I should never have persuaded her to come to Lucescere.
She could’ve escaped, but I made her promise no’ to. I told her it’d be all
right, that we’d talk to the Rìgh on her behalf. I never expected she’d be shut
up for months on end without a trial.”
“It’s only a
couple o’ months,” Olwynne said. “Just till midsummer.”
“She’s no’ used
to being confined, Olwynne. Each day is a year to her. She canna eat or sleep.
She says the prison is full o’ ghosts that mock her at night . . .”
“Satyricorns are
very superstitious,” Olwynne said. “I’ve heard about how she mutilates herself
in fear o’ ghosts or demons, or something.”
“Dark walkers,”
Lewen said defensively. “And she’s no’ doing that anymore.”
“Only because
they do no’ let her have a knife or aught else sharp,” Owein said, his eyes on
the crowd of talking, laughing apprentice-witches.
“No, she doesna
believe in dark walkers anymore. Nina and I convinced her they do no’ exist.”
“Yet she still
lies awake imagining ghosts,” Olwynne said.
“She’s no’
imagining them!” Lewen cried. “Sorrowgate Tower has been a prison for close on
a thousand years. Hundreds o’ people must’ve died there, many o’ them horribly.
Why, we’ve all heard the stories o’ all the poor men and women who were
tortured and burned to death there during Maya’s reign, when the witch-sniffers
were in charge. I am no’ near as sensitive as Rhiannon to such things, and the
place makes my flesh creep on my bones, I swear.”
“Is she really
so sensitive?” Owein asked curiously. “I’ve heard it was all an act, to divert
suspicion from herself.”
“Fettercairn
Castle was as blaygird a place as I’ve ever been,” Lewen said. “I was glad to
get out o’ there alive. Ye heard Landon’s ballad. It was indeed just as dark
and grim as he described it.”
“I thought much
o’ it was poetic license,” Olwynne said.
“Nay, it was all
true!” Lewen cried. “And they call Rhiannon a murderer! Laird Malvern is a
murderer a hundred times more foul!” He drained his cup of clamber skull.
“Well, I’m sure
the courts will establish the truth o’ it all,” Owein said, beckoning to their
waitress.
“Aye, but
there’s been so much talk, how can she have a fair trial, really? And despite
the Pact o’ Peace, there’s still a lot o’ bad feeling about her being a
satyricorn.” Lewen was having trouble framing his thoughts. “Everyone thinks
they’re stupid and brutal. . . .”
“O’ course they
do no’,” Olwynne said soothingly, and gulped down her fuzzle gin.
“They do, they
do. And it’s no’ fair. Rhiannon’s no’ like that. She’s the sweetest, dearest .
. .” Lewen felt the tissues of his throat growing thick.
“Evidently,”
Owein muttered, then, at Lewen’s look, put up his hands. “I’m sure she is . . .
apart from being a wee bit too quick to draw back her bow.”
“What do ye
expect? She was raised by satyricorns, bywild satyricorns, satyricorns
who’ve never heard o’ the Pact o’ Peace, satyricorns who had to fight and hunt
to stay alive, satyricorns—”
“He’s getting
rather stuck on the whole satyricorn thing,” Owein said to Olwynne.
Lewen tried not
to mind.
“Do no’ worry so
much,” Olwynne said. “I’m sure the courts will find it was no’ murder with
malice aforethought. They willna hang her then.”
Lewen thought of
seeing Rhiannon with her head in a noose, the executioner drawing it tight, the
horses whipped up to drag the cart away. His whole world seemed to splinter. He
grasped his glass very hard and managed to bring it to his mouth. “Never,” he
pronounced. “I never. I blow up Sorrowgate first. I blow it up. I blow it all
up.”
“I’m sure that’s
no’ necessary,” Olwynne tried to say. It came out, “I ssshaw tha’ na
neshassary.”
Lewen found this
very amusing. “No’ neshassary, no’ neshassary,” he repeated.
He and Olwynne
laughed together, heads bent over their empty glasses.
Impatiently,
Owein signaled again for more clamber skull. The seelie materialized at their
elbows, smiling sweetly upon them, bending close to Lewen to pour out more of
the sickly green alcohol. Lewen was suddenly, violently, aroused. He hid his
face in his glass. More than ever, he longed for Rhiannon, and yet, perversely,
he wished he could just be here, at the Nisse and Nixie, drinking and laughing
with his friends, enjoying himself without guilt or despair.
“I missed ye
lads and lassies,” he managed to say.
“Us too,”
Olwynne said, squeezing his hand.
“I wish I’d
never met her,” Lewen said into his cup.
Olwynne leaned
closer to him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I wish I’d
never met her,” he repeated, and laid his head on Olwynne’s arm, tears suddenly
choking him.
Rhiannon lay on
her bed. There was a mottled stone high on the far wall that, when the light
began to sink at the end of the day, looked a little like the silhouette of a
black flying horse. Rhiannon liked to stare at it, longing for Blackthorn,
imagining herself flying high in the sky, free as a bird.
She had had no
visitors for three days. Rhiannon had walked the length of her room so many
times she thought the stones should be showing the track of her feet. She had
pounded on the door in her frustration and snarled at the guards when they
finally came. She had demanded and then begged them to let her out, then had
sunk into an apathy from which it was hard to rouse herself. It seemed to be
the only way to keep the panic at bay. Whenever Rhiannon thought about the
situation she found herself in, she had to bite her lips bloody to stop herself
from screaming.
At the sound of
the key in the lock, she turned and looked towards the door, her lips clamped
together to hide her misery, her eyes hot.
But it was not
Lewen whom the guard showed in through the heavy oak door. It was a tall woman
dressed all in white.
At first, seeing
the long plait of ruddy hair, Rhiannon thought it was Lewen’s sanctimonious
friend Olwynne and stiffened instinctively. Olwynne had come once, a few days
ago, and had brought her a child’s picture book and a wooden puzzle, as if
Rhiannon were four years old. It had been clear to Rhiannon how much Olwynne
feared and disliked her, and she knew with utter certainty why. Olwynne had
spoken of Lewen as if they spent every minute of every day together, as if they
had been born sharing the same heart, lungs, and stomach, like the freak babies
she and the other apprentices had seen at the fair in Linlithgorn.
After Olwynne
had left, with fake smiles and offers of friendship, Rhiannon had lain awake
for hours torturing herself with imaginings of Olwynne and Lewen studying
together, riding together, dancing together, laughing together. It was a small
step to imagining Olwynne’s arms sliding up around his neck, pulling Lewen’s
head down to hers, pressing her mouth against his. She could easily imagine
Olwynne whispering in his ear, “Ye ken she’s no good for ye. She canna love ye
the way I love ye. I’m the only one who can make ye happy. . . .”
Again and again
Rhiannon had replayed the scene in her mind. Although she sometimes imagined
Lewen flinging Olwynne’s arms away and declaring his love for her, more often
than not she saw him succumb, that skinny red-haired witch driving all thought
of Rhiannon out of his head. After all, why would he want a wild satyricorn
girl when he could have a banprionnsa dressed all in rustling silks?
So she glared at
her visitor with great suspicion and dislike. It was not Olwynne who stood in
the door, however, but a woman entering the middle years of her life. She was
very like Olwynne, with the same red-gold hair and the same tall, slim figure.
She carried a staff with a large crystal set at its head, and a tiny owl was
perched on her shoulder. She came in with great authority, drew her brows
together at the dimness, and waved one hand nonchalantly. At once the lantern
hanging overhead burst into light.
“Who are ye?”
Rhiannon demanded, rolling over and getting to her feet defensively.
The woman raised
one thin, red brow. “I am Isabeau NicFaghan, the Keybearer o’ the Coven. May I
sit down?”
Rhiannon jerked
her head in agreement and watched as the Keybearer sat down at the table,
arranging her silver-edged robes about her feet. Rhiannon’s attention was
caught by the sight of a beautifully wrought dagger hanging at the sorceress’s
waist. Rhiannon glanced away at once. Pretending insouciance, she sat down on
her bed, even as her brain got busy with schemes for wresting the dagger away.
“I would no’
try, Rhiannon,” the Keybearer said. “I ken ye are quick and strong, but no’
quick or strong enough, I’m afraid. And I have no wish to hurt ye.”
Rhiannon
secretly jeered at her words, for was she not twenty years younger and a
satyricorn to boot? She said nothing, however, just pretended incomprehension
and waited for her chance.
“I am sorry I have
no’ come to see ye afore,” Isabeau said. “I have been much tied up with affairs
o’ state. I do hope ye will forgive me. I feel some responsibility for ye,
since Lilanthe sent ye into my care, and so I—”
“Have ye come to
release me?” Rhiannon interrupted.
Isabeau shook
her head. “It is no’ my place to interfere with the workings o’ the court. Even
if ye were a witch and my own apprentice, I could no’ have ye released. Those
o’ the Coven are subject to the laws o’ the land, as is anyone else.”
Rhiannon drooped.
“Then why are ye here?”
“I came to see
if there is aught I can do for ye,” Isabeau said. “I have heard ye are no’ used
to being confined within four walls. I can understand that.”
“Then why will
ye no’ let me out!” Rhiannon cried. “It’s like being buried alive. I hate it, I
hate it, I hate it!”
Isabeau regarded
her gravely. “Ye are allowed to walk in the prison garden.”
“Och, aye,
that’s a treat. It is twelve paces long and six paces wide, and surrounded by
such high walls all I can see is grey stone and a wee patch o’ sky. And they
watch me all the time!”
“O’ course they
do. Ye are a prisoner o’ the Crown, and the captain o’ the guards considers ye
an escape risk. The garden is open to the air. Ye are known to have a winged
horse as a familiar. They dare no’ allow ye any greater freedom in case ye call
your horse and fly away.”
“Blackthorn is
gone,” Rhiannon said in bitter misery.
“I’d be
surprised if that were true,” Isabeau answered. “Familiars are bound tight to
their witches, even after death. My guardian, Meghan, had a little donbeag as
her familiar, and after she died, the donbeag stayed on her grave for three
years before it at last died. Naught we could do would coax it away.”
“I am no witch.”
“Again, I do no’
believe that is true. One does no’ have to be trained in the craft and cunning
o’ the Coven to be a witch. It is clear to us all that ye have Talent in
abundance. I have heard o’ your antics. Ye called a flying horse to ye and
bound it to your will, ye can see and hear ghosts, ye can listen through walls,
ye can pull iron bars out o’ solid rock with naught more than your will, ye can
talk to any horse and, if I am no’ greatly mistaken, ye can bend others to your
will without them even realizing. A forbidden skill, I should add, and one that
ye would have to learn to control if ye were ever to be admitted to the Coven.
Witches believe all people must have the freedom to choose their own path.”
Rhiannon was
startled. She scowled at the Keybearer and said waspishly, “I see ye’ve been
listening to tittle-tattle about me.”
“O’ course,”
Isabeau answered. “I am troubled and intrigued by your case, and so is the
Rìgh. Quite apart from my natural interest in your witch talents, I am most
concerned with the effect ye have had on Lewen, who is the son o’ my dearest
friend. He is no longer permitted to visit ye, Rhiannon. I do no’ believe ye
intended to ensorcell him but—”
“What gives ye
the right?” Rhiannon flared, jumping to her feet. “How dare ye? Ye canna take
him away from me. He’s mine!”
“He is his own
self,” Isabeau said. “People do no’ own each other.”
Rhiannon made an
emphatic gesture of dismissal. “Ye no’ understand. Owning naught to do with it!
He mine, I his. We swore to each other!”
Isabeau shook
her head. “I’m sorry, Rhiannon, but I canna allow him to—”
To Rhiannon’s
utter chagrin, tears were flooding down her face. “Ye canna take him away from
me,” she sobbed. “He’s mine! He’s all I have!”
“I see,” Isabeau
said quietly. “I do no’ think I understood.”
She was silent
for long moments while Rhiannon struggled to bring her face back under control.
Then she said, “Rhiannon, I do no’ wish to hurt ye more than ye have already
been hurt. I can sense deep wounds in ye. I understand that ye love Lewen—”
“And he loves
me!”
“—but I canna
allow ye to see him alone. I do no’ think it is good for either o’ ye when the
future is so uncertain. More important, I am afraid ye may compel him to acts
that he will regret bitterly hereafter. Ye are half satyricorn, Rhiannon, and
ye have been raised by different rules than Lewen. His honor is most important
to him. If ye were to compel him to betray all he holds dear—his family, his
Rìgh, his allegiance to Eà and the Coven—I fear he would never recover.”
Rhiannon stared
at her. “Do ye have some reason to fear he may do so?” she asked at last.
Isabeau regarded
her gravely. “My niece, the Banprionnsa Olwynne, fears so. She says he has been
in great distress, making wild plans to break ye out o’ prison and run away
with ye. It would ruin him—ye must see that. She says he seems quite mad with
despair. I have been to see him, and although I do no’ fear he has lost his
reason, it is quite clear to me that he is acting under strong compulsion.”
Rhiannon was
incapable of hiding her pleasure and triumph. She did her best until Isabeau’s
last words; then her feelings got the better of her. “Ye and your compulsion,”
she said scornfully. “Have ye never been in love, that ye think what Lewen
feels is some sort o’ ensorcellment? He loves me, I tell ye, and I love him!”
There was a long
pause; then Isabeau said, “I am no’ such a stranger to love as you suppose. It
is true it can seem like madness sometimes, to those who watch from beyond.”
She was quiet a
moment longer. Rhiannon forced herself to be silent.
At last the
Keybearer looked up, her eyes very blue and luminous in her pale face. “I do
no’ wish to forbid ye seeing each other altogether. I ken how ardent, how
impatient young love can be. Yet I have a responsibility to Lewen too. His
studies are suffering badly, and his whole life has been turned upside down and
inside out. If he is no’ careful, he will lose all he has worked so hard to
gain. I canna allow that.”
Under the cover
of her heavy prison gown Rhiannon’s foot beat an impatient tattoo. She stared
at the Keybearer defiantly, not allowing her desperate hope to show on her
face.
“I will allow
Lewen to see ye once a week, on his rest day, and then ye must no’ be alone.
Either I or another sorcerer must be with ye at all times. If ye are
accompanied by a sorcerer and guards, ye and Lewen may walk in the witches’
gardens, but ye must no’ call to your horse. If ye do, I shall ken it, I tell
ye now, and this privilege will be revoked.”
“I tell ye,
Blackthorn is gone,” Rhiannon said, her sullenness more of a ruse to hide her
elation than true truculence.
Isabeau and the
owl on her shoulder both regarded her steadily. “A black winged horse has been
seen most days, flying about in the early morn.”
Rhiannon clasped
her hands together. “Blackthorn has been seen? Here?”
“I have given
orders none are to try to catch her and no one at the Tower o’ Two Moons would
dare disobey. I canna speak for the city, though. There is much curiosity about
ye and the horse, and there are many who would be glad to capture her. Ye would
do well to send her news o’ that and warn her to keep away from the city.”
“She’ll be able
to hear me? Even from in here?”
“Maybe, maybe
no’. It is hard to mind-speak over water or through stone, even for
accomplished witches. I would try from the gardens. If I can, I will walk with
ye and Lewen at the week’s end, and afterwards, I will come back here and set
ye some lessons. I understand that ye are bored, cooped up here all day with
naught to do. I feel ye will be happier if ye had something to occupy your
hands and mind.”
“I doubt it,”
Rhiannon muttered, but she could not hide the lifting of spirits she felt at
Isabeau’s words.
“I want ye to
work hard at your lessons, Rhiannon. It is important that ye show your judges
that ye have submitted to the will o’ the court and await their judgment. I
will tell ye now what I told Lewen last night. I do no’ think they will hang ye
for Connor’s death, if you have been telling the truth about why and how it
happened. It is more likely that ye will be asked to make restitution to the
Crown and to Connor’s family through some kind o’ bond o’ service. A lass with
your talents and abilities would be wasted swinging at the end o’ a hangman’s
noose, and Lachlan . . . the Rìgh kens it. If ye wish, at the end o’ your bond
service, ye may come to the Theurgia and we will test ye and see if ye have any
potential as a witch. The Coven needs all the Talent it can find, and so, I
might add, does the Rìgh. However, ye must learn our ways and abide by them. Ye
have rejected your satyricorn past. Now it is time to embrace your future among
those of humankind.”
Isabeau ended on
a ringing note, and Rhiannon found it hard not to be swept up in her
enthusiasm. Only a lingering distrust enabled her to scowl and say gruffly,
“Aye, fine words, but happen I should wait for the verdict afore I make too
many plans for the future.”
Isabeau looked
disappointed, but she nodded and got up, one hand going up absentmindedly to
pet the little owl who had sat so quietly on her shoulder all this time. The
owl hooted softly and Isabeau hooted back.
Rhiannon said in
a rush, surprising herself, “Ye asked if ye could do aught for me . . .”
“Yes?” Isabeau
queried, turning back.
“I want my
things. In my pack.”
Isabeau frowned.
“I’m sorry, Rhiannon, but I canna allow that. They have been submitted for
evidence in your trial.”
“I do no’ want
my daggers,” she said. “I mean, I do, but I can wait for those if I must. And I
ken ye’ll take away my bonny blue cloak—I’ve been told so often enough! It’s
not those I want now. . . .”
“What is it then?”
Isabeau asked gently.
“Lewen whittled
me a wee charm the night we spent at the Tower o’ Ravens,” Rhiannon said. “For
me to wear around my neck. Please, I want it.”
“I will ask the
captain o’ the guards,” Isabeau said after a moment. “I canna see any harm, but
it is no’ my decision to make. And Captain Dillon is suspicious o’ things o’
magic. If Lewen whittled it for ye, it will have some virtue o’ enchantment. It
is impossible for it no’ to. I will ask Dillon this evening and let ye ken
tomorrow.”
She made a move
towards the door but Rhiannon once again detained her with a quick, impulsive
gesture. “Can ye teach me how ye did that, then?” She pointed up at the
lantern. “Lit the lantern, I mean, just like that.”
Again she
suffered under that cool, searching glance. After a moment the Keybearer asked,
“Why?”
Rhiannon could
not meet her gaze. She turned away, mumbling, “They willna leave it on for me.
I canna sleep with it so dark. There’s no light at all. No starlight, no
moonlight . . . and I can hear things . . . hanging over me in the dark . . .”
“Dark walkers?”
Isabeau asked with sudden keen interest.
“Nay . . . maybe
. . . Fèlice said they do no’ exist and indeed, none o’ ye seem to fear them. I
have no’ been able to cut myself since I’ve been here and they have no’ come to
drink my blood so happen it is true and they are no’ real. I do no’ ken. It is
no’ them I fear, anyway, but . . .”
“What?”
“Ghosts,”
Rhiannon whispered. She did not look at Isabeau.
Isabeau did not
laugh. “These cells are auld, and many cruel things have happened here in the
past. If ye are very sensitive, the memories o’ those events will press upon
ye, no doubt o’ that. But ghosts strong enough to disturb your sleep . . .” She
hesitated, then said very slowly, “The ghosts I feel are all very auld and
faint, mere whispers. They are no more than shivers o’ sadness and fear. . . .”
Rhiannon looked
up, startled, meeting Isabeau’s gaze for the first time. “Ye see ghosts too?”
Isabeau nodded.
“Aye, I can. We call it the gift o’ clear-seeing. If there was a ghost haunting
this room, I would expect to be able to feel it too. But all I can feel is
shadows, whispers, unhappiness. . . .”
“Nay! This ghost
is strong! And angry! She mocks me. She is like ice in my blood, like . . .
lightning. She seizes me in her hands and shakes me.”
Isabeau leaned
forward intently. “Is that so? Can ye feel her or hear her now?”
Rhiannon shook
her head vehemently. “Nay! She no’ here. She comes at night. Is gone by day.”
Isabeau put up
her hand and stroked her owl thoughtfully. “Are ye sure she is a ghost?”
“She says she
wants life again. Says she wantsmy life.”
“What else does
she say?”
Rhiannon
hesitated and looked away. “She says to free her.”
Isabeau chewed
her thumbnail, the first sign of indecision Rhiannon had seen in her. “Who is
she, this ghost?” she asked.
Rhiannon shook
her head. “I dinna ken. But I have seen her afore, at the Tower o’ Ravens. The
laird o’ Fettercairn raised her by mistake, and it is him that she haunts.”
“She haunts
another too?”
“The laird o’
Fettercairn. It is him she comes to see, really. She hangs over him and steals
his breath away so he wakes choking and afraid. She tells him he will never be
free o’ her.”
“And ye fear her
too, this ghost?”
Rhiannon
hesitated, for it was difficult for her to ever admit any fear, but when
Isabeau raised one eyebrow, she jerked her head angrily.
The sorceress
sat still for a long moment, her brows drawn together in thought, her hands
folded on her staff. Rhiannon had never met anyone with so much composure. It
made her acutely aware of her own restless hands, which she stilled with an
effort. Isabeau did not seem to notice the silence, which drew out until it was
painful.
At last she
glanced up. “I canna help ye learn to conjure flame. I am sorry. I am sure
Captain Dillon would no’ approve o’ me teaching a prisoner the secrets o’
summoning fire or any other skills that ye may be able to use to help ye
escape.” She smiled a little at Rhiannon’s scowl and went on, “I am concerned
about this ghost, however. The spirits o’ the dead are usually confined to
haunting the place of their death or some other place to which they are tied by
intense emotion. To say ye have seen a ghost at the Tower o’ Ravens and then
again here, so many miles away, that puzzles me. It is no’ unknown for a ghost
to choose to haunt a person, particularly their murderer, but ye say ye do no’
ken her and that she haunts the laird o’ Fettercairn as well. Why does she
haunt him, do ye ken?”
This time it was
Rhiannon’s turn to sit silent, though she twisted her skirt in her fingers and
kicked her foot back and forth until she remembered and stilled her limbs. The
sorceress waited patiently, and at last, with a furtive glance about her,
Rhiannon muttered, “She comes to him at night and reminds him o’ the pact they
made.”
“What pact was
that?”
“She told him
she would show him the spell to bring the dead back to life, but that he must
promise to raise her first.”
“And how do ye
ken this?”
“I was there
when they made the pact, at the Tower o’ Ravens. I was hiding and watching. The
laird has been trying to find out how to raise the dead for years and years.
That is why he murdered all those people, all those little boys. He wants to
raise his brother and his brother’s son. Who were killed, oh, many years ago.
When she . . . when the ghost told him about the spell, he was eager to agree.
He was glad to! But now he’s in prison, and the ghost is angry. He canna raise
her from the dead while he is here. So she comes and torments him. She says,
‘Free me or I’ll haunt your sleep forever.’ ”
“How do ye ken
what she says to him?”
Again Rhiannon
hesitated, twisting her body about, jamming her hands between her knees. “I go
there,” she said at last. “I dinna ken how. I go and I listen. Maybe I
dreaming. But it dinna feel like dreaming.”
“Tell me exactly
what it felt like,” Isabeau said very softly. “Tell me everything.”
Rhiannon took a
deep breath, and then the words came tumbling out. She told the Keybearer as
much as she could remember of the night she had first seen the ghost, here in
Sorrowgate. It was hard to find the words to express so many things outside the
usual realm of her experience, but the Keybearer was quick to understand and
help her.
“So this ghost .
. . she comes to haunt ye often?”
“Aye. She says
she kens me now. She comes every night, to mock me. She tells me to enjoy my
life while I have it. She says it will be over soon enough.”
“And this
feeling o’ being out o’ your body . . . it’s happened more than just this
once?”
Rhiannon’s eyes
flashed up to Isabeau’s face and then dropped again. “Aye,” she admitted.
“Every night since. I imagine I am riding Blackthorn. Sometimes we fly far, far
away, but it is always dark and I start feeling . . . dizzy, as if I’m about to
fall into space. Or I think o’ Lewen, and then I . . . come back.”
“It is a good
thing ye do,” Isabeau said. “I thought at first ye were dream-walking, but it
sounds more as if ye were skimming the stars, which is a very dangerous thing
to do if no’ properly trained. Ye can get lost and no’ be able to find your way
back to your body, and then ye would die.”
She put up one
hand and fondled the little white owl, who gave a long mournful cry. “Have ye
seen this ghost again? Have ye eavesdropped on her again?”
“Eavesdropped?”
Rhiannon asked, puzzled.
“Watched and
listened without her knowing.”
Rhiannon gave a
little, reluctant nod. “I go sometimes, quiet as a wee mouse, trying no’ to let
her ken. I want to ken who she is. I want to kill her! But she’s already dead.”
“There are ways
to rid oneself o’ a ghost, dinna ye worry! But tell me first everything she has
said. I need to ken it all.”
Rhiannon tried
to remember. “She says he must escape, and bring the sacrifice to her grave,
and a healer, for if she was to be brought again to life, they must have . . .
something . . . the anti-something . . .”
“Antidote?”
Rhiannon
shrugged. “Maybe. I dinna ken. They needed it, anyway, to heal her. The laird
was awake; he was sitting up in bed. He said he had a healer. She said the
healer must find the anti-whatever-it-is, and the spell, and bring it to her
grave by . . . I dinna remember when.”
“I wonder where
her grave is?”
Rhiannon
shrugged. “She said he would need a fast ship and fair winds, and he said that
he could manage both o’ those, once he is free.”
“This is getting
stranger and stranger,” Isabeau said. “I must admit I am sorely puzzled. Did
she say anything else?”
“Aye. She said
she wanted the sacrifice to be a young woman, a beautiful young woman, just
coming into her powers. And then . . . and then she said . . .”
“What?”
“She said I
would do perfectly.”
“Ye?”
“Aye. She calls
me the satyricorn girl with the dark hair and the ruthless heart. Only I’m no’,
truly I’m no’.” To Rhiannon’s surprise and chagrin, tears were suddenly burning
her eyes. She rubbed them away angrily.
“So she kens who
ye are.”
“Aye.” Rhiannon
took a few deep breaths, trying to control her tears. Isabeau was frowning.
Rhiannon risked a look at her face, then went on. “She has come nearly every
night since then. I tell her I’ll never submit, but she says it is no’ up to
me. She says she will live again, and if I must die to give her life, so be it.
That is why I want my charm. Lewen whittled it for me, to keep me safe from
ghosts. I . . . I’m afraid o’ the night. I’m afraid to sleep.”
Isabeau twisted
her staff around and around, staring into the crystal embedded at its crown. “A
powerful sorceress, poisoned to death, who longs for life again, who longs for
revenge. Someone whose grave lies a long way away, across the sea. Someone
powerful enough to cling to this world and seek another body to inhabit, a
beautiful dark-haired body, with a ruthless heart—”
“I’m no’
ruthless!” Rhiannon cried, but Isabeau was not listening. She looked sick and
white.
“Surely it canna
be?” she whispered. “I must think on this.”
She got to her
feet abruptly. “I will stay with ye tonight,” she said curtly. “I must see this
ghost for myself. I will go now, and bathe, and change, and make my excuses to
Lachlan and Iseult, and then I will come back.”
Rhiannon gaped
at her, startled out of words.
Isabeau smiled
at her. “Surely having me here is better than leaving the light on all night?”
Rhiannon felt so
pathetically grateful, she scowled more fiercely than ever and said
ungraciously, “I suppose so.”
To her surprise
Isabeau smiled and said, “I’m glad. I will see ye again soon.”
At her
commanding rap on the door, the guards opened it at once and she went out, the
owl swiveling its head to keep its golden eyes on Rhiannon until the very last
moment.
Then the door
shut, the lantern winked out, and Rhiannon was left alone in her dark cell. She
felt oddly exalted. Unable to sit still, she leaped up and paced her room
again. Rhiannon wanted so much to believe in the Keybearer. Firmly she stamped
down upon the little tendril of hope springing up in her mind, grinding it into
the ground. It was a tenacious plant, however, fed and watered by the lightning
charge the Keybearer seemed to emanate. Rhiannon had never met anyone quite
like her. The Keybearer had seemed to fill the damp little cell with life and
warmth and energy. It was as if she was a crucible filled to the brim with
molten metal, blazing with white fire, all impurities dissolved into ash,
leaving behind only power, truth, beauty. She was a newly forged sword, still
smoking. Rhiannon could no more disbelieve her than raise a foolhardy hand
against her. She knew, with absolute certainty, that she would never dare try
to wrest away the Keybearer’s dagger. Understanding that, it was only a small
step towards believing Isabeau might indeed be able to save her.
By the time
Isabeau came back, Rhiannon was weary indeed with all her pacing and thinking
and wondering. It was late, and the Keybearer had a soft white plaid flung
around her shoulders against the night chill. Rhiannon had taken refuge in her
bed and was trying her best to stay awake. She jerked around when the Keybearer
came in, haloed with the light of a single candle. She would have sat up and
spoken, but Isabeau smiled and lifted her finger to her lips.
“Sleep, lass.
I’ll stand watch over ye.”
The owl on her
shoulder hooted softly, as if in agreement. Rhiannon lay down again, facing the
room, watching as Isabeau set down the candle on the table. The Keybearer began
to unpack the basket she had carried over one arm. Even though Rhiannon’s
eyelids felt irresistibly heavy, she fought to keep them open, fascinated by
what she saw. First the Keybearer took out an immensely thick old book covered
in worn red leather, then a bundle of candles, small crystal bottles filled
with various powders and potions, a silver saltshaker, and a squat, dark statue
of a woman with three faces. Then the sorceress looked around and saw Rhiannon
still watching. She came silently to her side.
“Sleep, lass,”
the sorceress said gently and touched her finger to Rhiannon’s brow. She felt
herself sinking away into unconsciousness, as if into a warm dark cocoon of
feathers. She slept.
It was bright
morning when Rhiannon woke again. Light splashed through the grille high in the
wall, casting bright lozenges against the stone. Rhiannon stretched and yawned,
her eyes thick with sleep-sand. She rubbed them clear and saw Isabeau sitting
quietly in the chair, reading a page in the old, red-covered book. She looked
up as Rhiannon moved and smiled.
“Did ye sleep
well, my bairn?”
“Aye. I did.
Have ye been here all night?”
“Indeed I have.
Did I no’ say I would watch over ye?”
“Did . . . did
the ghost come?”
The Keybearer
shook her head and turned the corners of her mouth down ruefully. “No’ a sigh
or a murmur o’ a ghost, I’m pleased to say.”
“The ghost is
real, I swear it!” Rhiannon cried.
The Keybearer
raised her brows. “Did I say I disbelieved ye? I did no’ really expect her to
come while I was here. I fancy it would no’ suit her to have me banish her back
to the realm o’ the dead forever, which is what I planned to do if she came.
Whoever she once was, she sounds like a most unpleasant ghost to have haunting
ye. And I can see only evil coming o’ a spirit that kens the secret o’
necromancy and is willing to trade her knowledge for life. Necromancy is a
forbidden art, ye must ken, one o’ the few the Coven prohibits. One should no’
meddle with Gearradh.”
Rhiannon was
confused. Although she felt she had heard the name before, she did not know
where or to whom it referred.
“She who cuts
the thread,” Isabeau explained. “Our name for the last o’ the Three Spinners.”
Still Rhiannon
did not understand.
“It is the way
we describe birth, life, and death, the inescapable fates o’ all,” Isabeau said
with a tired sigh. “Come, I am weary. I have no wish to discuss metaphysics
with ye now.” She shut the great thick book she had been reading and began
packing away her wand and dagger and the silver cruets of salt and herbs and
powdered dragon’s blood. “I will tell ye tales o’ the Three Spinners another
time, and tell ye o’ Eà, the three-faced goddess we worship, who contains these
powers within her—maiden, matron, crone, as some see it, or child, mother,
father. All ye need worry about now is that your ghost feared me enough no’ to
come, and ye have a good night’s sleep behind ye, which I promise ye will make
the future seem immeasurably brighter. I must go and catch some rest myself
now, for I have a busy day ahead o’ me, but I will send a message to Lewen and tell
him he may come and see ye at the end o’ the week. I willna be able to
chaperone ye myself, I think, but I will send someone else, I promise. Oh, and
by the way, I brought ye your charm.”
She gestured
with her hand to the table, where lay a small talisman whittled from silvery
rowan wood. Rhiannon sat up eagerly, and the Keybearer tossed it to her.
Rhiannon snatched it out of the air and clutched it to her breast.
Isabeau smiled,
one eyebrow raised at the speed of Rhiannon’s response, then rapped sharply on
the door. Once it had been swiftly opened by the guard, the Keybearer nodded
and smiled at Rhiannon and went out, the guard bowing low to her and then
slamming the door shut again. Rhiannon did not mind so much this time. It was
true that the future did seem immeasurably brighter.
Five days later,
a sorcerer came. He came when the lengthening oblong of light on Rhiannon’s
wall was growing dim and red, and Rhiannon had given up hope of seeing anyone
that day. He was a dour, gruff man with a sardonic look to him, dressed in
brown with a tall staff made from an old knobbly stick. His name was Jock.
“Do no’ try and
ensorcell me, lassie,” he said curtly. “I have no liking for those o’ your sex
and will ken if ye try any o’ your pretty tricks.”
Rhiannon lifted
her chin. “I have no tricks.”
“Och, aye, o’
course no’,” he answered mockingly. “No lass o’ your age does. Which is why I
have one o’ my best students mooning about and wasting my time in class instead
o’ listening as he should. He’ll be waiting for ye in the garden, if ye’re
interested.”
“Lewen?”
“Nay, Lachlan
the Winged himself,” he answered sarcastically.
Rhiannon stared
at him, and he snorted. “O’ course Lewen. Who else? The Keybearer tells me ye
two are to have some time together to hang on each other’s necks. Ridiculous
leniency, if ye ask me. The lad should be packed home for his part in this
sorry business, and ye kept locked up until after your trial like any other
prisoner. No wonder Dillon the Bold is fuming. Well, aren’t ye coming?”
Rhiannon took a
deep breath and marched out the door. In the corridor four prison guards waited
with impassive faces. One carried a long bow and quiver of arrows, another a
great sword strapped to his back, another a long-handled double ax, the fourth
a strange-looking weapon bristling with knobs and levers and a long pipe with a
large round mouth. The sorcerer stalked off down the corridor with his staff
tap-tapping loudly, and as Rhiannon followed meekly behind, the guards fell
into formation around her.
The dimly lit
corridor was lined with ironbound doors identical to Rhiannon’s. At the end of
the corridor was a set of stairs that they descended, their bootheels echoing
hollowly. They came out into a big empty hall, then wound their way through to
the back of the building.
Rhiannon looked
around her with keen interest, glad to fill her eyes with something other than
the four walls of her cell. She was led past a busy guardroom filled with men
polishing weapons, cleaning boots, playing cards or trictrac, or crowding
around a table where two men arm-wrestled, panting and laughing. They all
looked up as she walked past the open door, and silence fell. Rhiannon gritted
her jaw and walked on, her heavy skirts swishing around her legs and hampering
her stride.
The sorcerer
glanced over his shoulder. “Remember, no tricks now,” he warned. “Ye may think
yourself very clever, bamboozling the Keybearer into allowing this folly, but
I’m no’ as soft as she is and willna hesitate to strike ye down if ye should
try to escape. Neither, I might add, will your guards, though their weapons are
far more crude than mine.”
But ye have no
weapons,
Rhiannon thought.
The sorcerer
grinned, showing bad teeth. “I am a sorcerer o’ four rings, my dear. I have no
need o’ swords or pistols. I can stop your heart with a thought if I have a
mind to.”
Rhiannon did not
know whether to believe him or not. They walked through the city streets, the
guards keeping close. Rhiannon looked about her greedily, her eyes soaking up
as many details of the bustling streets as she could. The sorcerer strode ahead
of her, scowling at anyone who dared look too closely.
Then they came
to the palace gates, which stood open, guarded by a row of blue-clad soldiers.
They turned to stare at Rhiannon, who clenched her hands in her skirts and
walked on, following the sorcerer through the massive iron gates. Beyond lay a
long drive lined with trees dressed all in the fresh green of springtime. On
either side smooth verdant lawns stretched away, bordered with neat hedges. In
the center of each lawn was a marble fountain splashing with water, white
graceful statues dancing amidst the rainbow spray. Tall yew trees were neatly
clipped into identical cone shapes. The eye was led irresistibly to the palace,
a tall wide building capped with great golden domes that gleamed in the warm
reddish rays of the sun.
Rhiannon was
disappointed. Although the garden was very beautiful, in a stiff, formal way,
it was not what she had been expecting from Lewen’s rhapsodic descriptions. In
silence she followed the sorcerer along the avenue to the palace. He did not go
into the magnificent building but led her and her guards round to the left. A
paved road led around the back of the palace, lined with a tall yew hedge and
pretty formal gardens filled with newly budding roses and starlike narcissus
within low hedges grown in diamonds and circles.
Through an
arched gate, Rhiannon saw a massive kitchen garden, with rows and rows of herbs
and vegetables and trellised vines and espaliered fruit trees. To her surprise
the sorcerer turned to her and said, “All the students o’ the Theurgia must
work in there, ye ken. There are nigh on a thousand mouths to be fed in this
place, and it is backbreaking work keeping them all from going hungry. Lewen is
one o’ my best students; he has a gift with growing things, did ye ken? I shall
be sorry indeed if he does no’ sit his Tests as we all expected. He’s a wood
witch in the making; indeed he is.”
Then the
sorcerer shut his mouth into a hard line, and Rhiannon realized that he was
angry with her. She looked back at the beautifully tended garden and saw
hot-looking students in grubby black robes resting on their spades and hoes to
stare at her until another brown-robed man ordered them peremptorily back to work.
The palace was
now behind them, and Rhiannon’s step faltered as she looked ahead of her with
growing wonder and delight. Beyond spread a green, shady forest broken by long
stretches of velvety lawn and great banks of flowering shrubs. Mossy flagstoned
paths curved away into little dells of spring bulbs or led through into sunlit
gardens where statues or ponds filled with waterlilies or great urns of flowers
stood in just the perfect place to entice the eye. On one side the avenue led
down the side of a great wall, several hundred feet high and smooth as glass.
Beyond, Rhiannon could hear the roar of a turbulent river. The brown-clad
sorcerer led her down this avenue, and Rhiannon followed slowly, her eyes fixed
on the garden rolling away to her right. She longed to explore the many paths
and steps that ran away through arches of blossoms or deep green tunnels of
leaves, but dared not disobey the emphatic tap-tapping of that staff.
Then she saw,
buried deep in the verdant gardens, another small golden dome surrounded by row
upon row of high green hedges. Rhiannon craned her neck to see more, realizing
that this was the maze she had been told grew in the heart of the gardens.
There was a magical pool there, Nina had told her, and an observatory where the
witches watched the movements of the stars and planets.
Rhiannon gazed
back over her shoulder at the dome, wishing she could find her way to it
through the maze, when, unexpectedly, she felt the air grow thin and cold about
her. The sound of battle smote her ears. Shouts, screams of pain, the clang of
metal on metal, the whine of arrows, the howling of a wolf. The peaceful sunlit
garden faded away, and she saw instead a wild tangle of neglected trees and
vines wreathed in dank mist. Men fought everywhere she looked, their faces
twisted with effort. Everywhere men died. Rhiannon cringed back, ducking a
sword swipe. She felt hands seize her shoulders, and she screamed, falling to
her hands and knees. Looking up, she felt every hair on her body stand erect as
an icy shudder of fear swept over her. Ghosts shrieked through the mist,
wielding cold shining swords. Rhiannon cowered down, arms over her head.
“Lass, what is
it? What’s wrong?”
At last the
voice penetrated her brain. She looked up, dazed, and saw the sorcerer in brown
leaning over her. The sun shone warm and red on his head. Beside him the
soldiers had all their weapons drawn, not sure whether to menace her or some
unseen threat in the garden. Rhiannon looked around her, bewildered.
“But . . . there
was a battle . . . Ghosts . . . ghosts o’ dead soldiers . . . and a wolf . . .
It was dark, misty. . . .”
One of the
soldiers made a sharp sound of disbelief and sheathed his sword. The others
lowered their weapons, their faces hardening. One looked at her in open scorn.
“Is this what ye
saw?” the sorcerer asked.
Rhiannon nodded,
rubbing her aching forehead with her hand. She felt like weeping. All she could
do was hang her head and try not to let the soldiers see. The sorcerer put down
one broad, callused hand. After a moment she took it and let him pull her to
her feet. Shamefaced, she busied herself dusting the leaves off her skirt.
“There was a
famous battle here, many years ago. The horn o’ the MacRuraich clan was blown,
calling up the ghosts o’ clansmen past. Tabithas Wolf-Runner fought in that
battle too, in the shape o’ a wolf.”
Rhiannon looked
up. “A black wolf?”
“Aye, a black
wolf.”
Rhiannon nodded.
“And soldiers in red cloaks.”
“Maya the
Ensorcellor’s Red Guards,” the sorcerer concurred. “It was a decisive battle in
Lachlan the Winged’s bid to regain the throne.” He glanced at the soldiers. “I
didna think it happened so long ago that the Blue Guards would’ve forgotten.
Why, your own captain was here that night. He was given his sword Joyeux for
the part he played that Samhain Eve.”
It was the
soldiers’ turn now to look shamefaced. The sorcerer motioned to Rhiannon to
step forward and walk with him, and she obeyed, casting her four guards a
disdainful glance.
“That is a rare
Talent ye have, lass,” the sorcerer said. “Few can see the past so clearly.
Does it come to ye unbidden?”
Rhiannon nodded,
unable to control a shudder that rattled her teeth together.
“Uncomfortable,”
the sorcerer said. “I would brace yourself then, lass, for there are many
ghosts here at the Tower o’ Two Moons. Most o’ the students barely notice them,
for the halls are filled with noise and laughter now, but we sorcerers see them
often. Do no’ be afraid. They are just the memories o’ the stones. They willna
harm ye.”
Rhiannon cast
him a quick look. She did not believe him. He frowned at her, as if sorry for
the moment of connection, then said brusquely, “There’s your mooncalf lover.
Let us hope he finds it easier to listen in class tomorrow after seeing ye, for
he sure as apples could no’ be any worse!”
Rhiannon barely
registered his words. Her gaze had flown up eagerly, seeking Lewen’s tall
familiar shape. He had been sitting under a big oak tree, whittling at a piece
of wood with his knife, but at the sight of her he dropped them both and stood
up, looking awkward and unhappy. Rhiannon’s step faltered too. He was dressed
in the austere black robe of an apprentice, and his unruly brown curls were
swept back and tied severely at the nape of his neck with a black riband. It
made him look very different.
They stood and
looked at each other and said not a word. The sorcerer made a noise of disgust.
“The Keybearer said ye were to walk in the garden, so walk, for Eà’s sake!”
Rhiannon gritted
her teeth together, inclined her head to Lewen, and began to walk along the
lawn. He picked up his knife and sheathed it, dropping the bird he had been
carving into his pocket, then came to walk by her side. Still they said
nothing.
Rhiannon’s heart
was sore. After several more minutes of that painful, unhappy silence, she said
stiffly, “Ye have no’ been to see me.”
“I’m sorry. They
wouldna let me.”
“Ye should’ve
made them.”
“How?”
“I dinna ken!
Begged them. Paid them money. Knocked them down.”
“I tried to
bribe them,” Lewen said unhappily, “but it was that auld guard, Henry. He
willna take bribes. I’ve tried afore. He says I havena enough money to
compensate him for losing his job. Most o’ the other guards will gladly let me
grease their palm for a wee bit more time with ye, but he never does.”
Knowing Lewen
had at least tried to see her made Rhiannon feel a little better. She glanced
sideways at him. He was looking tired.
“She said I
could only see ye once a week,” Rhiannon said. “Canna ye beg her to let ye come
more often? A week is such an awful long time.”
“I canna go
importuning the Keybearer!” Lewen said. “I’m just grateful she hasna vetoed my
visits completely.”
“Why canna ye?”
she demanded.
“Well . . .
she’s the Keybearer,” Lewen tried to explain.
“So?”
“She . . . Ye’re
lucky she’s taken the interest she already has. The Keybearer is the head o’
the whole Coven, and o’ the Theurgia too. . . . She’s very busy.”
Rhiannon brooded
over this for a while. “She like First-Horn?”
Lewen nodded.
“Aye. Ye must treat her with respect.”
“She dangerous?”
“She can
shapechange into a dragon,” Lewen said.
Rhiannon was
impressed indeed. “A dragon! No wonder she told me I was no’ quick enough or
strong enough to grab her dagger.”
“Ye did no’ try
to grab her witch-dagger, did ye?”
Rhiannon was
affronted by the overt horror and dismay in Lewen’s voice. “Nay, I didna, but I
could’ve if I’d wanted to.”
He snorted.
They walked on
in a stiff, angry silence.
The grassy path
led under a tall maple tree. As the shadow of its leaves fell on their faces,
Lewen suddenly turned and seized her hands. “Don’t be angry,” he said. “I
couldna come. I’m sorry, but they forbade me. I got drunk, I suppose I said
some wild things. Olwynne was worried; that’s the only reason she told—”
At the sound of
Olwynne’s name, Rhiannon stiffened.
Lewen noticed and
went on quickly. “I ken how much ye hate that prison. I wish I . . .” He
struggled for words, then took something out of his pocket and thrust it into
her hands. “I made it for ye,” he said. “I hope ye like it.”
It was a small
bird, carved from wood, its wings unfurling for flight.
“It’s a
bluebird,” Lewen said. “A mountain bluebird. I saw many o’ them up in the
highlands o’ Rionnagan. They fly in great flocks, as fast as swifts, and sing
so beautifully. Do ye ken the ones I mean?”
“Och, aye,”
Rhiannon said blankly. If Lewen was to think of her as a bird, she would have
preferred something grand and fierce, like a golden eagle or goshawk. She
turned the bird in her hands and only then saw how graceful was the line of the
turned head and throat, how shapely the long pointed wings. She remembered
lying in the highland meadows as a child, watching the bluebirds soaring and
diving, the sun flashing upon their iridescent wings, and her throat suddenly
closed over. “It’s bonny. Thank ye,” she choked.
“I’m glad ye
like it. . . . I only wish—”
What Lewen
wished for, Rhiannon would never know, for she heard the sudden, unexpected
whinny of a horse, high overhead.
“Blackthorn!”
she screamed.
She ran out from
under the shade of the maple and saw, with a wild leaping of her pulse, the
beautiful familiar shape of her flying horse high in the sky above, wings
spread, forefeet tucked under her breast. Blackthorn whinnied again.
Rhiannon called
her name, and the winged horse began to circle down.
Then Rhiannon
saw the four guards running out into the open, the archer raising high his bow,
arrow cocked. The soldier with the long metal pipe had it lifted to his
shoulder, squinting along the barrel. The other soldiers had their weapons
hefted and ready to use.
“Rhiannon!”
Lewen cried. “Tell her to go! They’ll shoot her!”
Tears surged to
her eyes.Go! she cried soundlessly.Fly free!
The winged horse
spread her wings and hovered, her ringing neigh echoing through the trees.
Go, beloved!Rhiannon
thought.I will call ye when I need ye!
Blackthorn
responded with another defiant call, then beat her great wings, rising high
into the sky once more. They watched the mare disappear into the violet
distance beyond the witches’ tower, and then everyone turned to look at
Rhiannon.
She was distraught,
silent tears flooding down her face. Occasionally her breath caught, but she
repressed her sobs valiantly, her hands clenched by her sides.
Lewen bent and
picked up the little wooden bird, which had fallen into the grass. “I’m so
sorry,” he said helplessly.
She did not
answer.
Lewen bent his
head over the wooden bird cradled in his hands, his throat thick with longing.
Rhiannon took a deep breath, rubbed her hand across her face, and held out her
hand for it mechanically. It was warm from Lewen’s hand. She glanced down at
it, then gasped in surprise.
Azure was
blooming across the satin-smooth wooden sides of the bird. Over its breast,
down the length of its tail, along each feather of the out-flung wings, up its
throat and over its cheeks, to the edge of the sharp little beak that turned as
black as its claws. The head turned. One bright black eye regarded Rhiannon.
Its soft throat swelled. A bubble of music filled the air. Rhiannon could feel
its heart hammering away at her fingers.
“Eà’s green
blood!” Lewen breathed.
“Dark walkers,
hunt me no’,” Rhiannon swore.
They stared at
the bird in silence. It warbled and sang, cocking its head to one side.
The sorcerer
strode up, his face screwed up in an expression of anger. “Lucky that horse o’
yours didna fly closer, else they’d have shot it down out o’ the sky,” he said.
Rhiannon did not
answer. She was staring down at the bird with an expression of wonder.
“What do ye have
there?” the sorcerer demanded.
She held it out
for him mutely.
“A mountain
bluebird. Strange. I’ve never seen one so low at this time o’ year. Normally
they are back in the highlands by spring. It looks tame. I wonder where it can
have come from.”
“Lewen carved it
for me,” Rhiannon said. “And then he brought it to life.”
“What? Rubbish!”
“No’ rubbish.
True.”
“But . . .
Lewen, is this the truth?”
Lewen nodded.
“Heavens! But
that’s high sorcery! I’ve never heard o’ it being done afore. Are ye sure? O’
course ye’re sure. Here, let me feel the bird.”
Rhiannon would
not let him take the bird, which nested happily in her hands still, but allowed
him to feel its soft blue feathers, its rapidly beating heart. As he tried to
run his hand down its back, it turned its head and pecked him, drawing up a
bright bead of blood on his leathery skin.
“Gracious alive!
Lewen, my boy, this is extraordinary. I must tell the Keybearer, show it to the
Circle o’ Sorcerers. I’ve never heard o’ a creature carved o’ wood being given
life afore. Here, girl. Give me the bird. I’ll take it now—”
“Nay,” Rhiannon
said. “Bird is mine.” She clasped it close to her, within the circle of her
hands, and the bird gave a little trill of contentment.
The sorcerer
stared at her for a long time; then he nodded his head once, sharply. “Very
well. Lewen made it for ye; Lewen brought it to life for ye. How, boy? How did
ye do it?”
“I dinna ken,”
he said, the first words he had spoken.
“I’d think on
it, boy. Try to do it again. The Keybearer will want to see. My heavens. Talk
about ye being a wood witch!”
Rhiannon bent
her head and stared at the little bird in amazement. It chirped at her, then,
suddenly, spread its wings and launched itself into the sky. Rhiannon cried
aloud in dismay, and the sorcerer cursed her for a fool. But the bird did not
fly away. It darted through the sky, snapping at insects, then came back to
rest on Rhiannon’s shoulder, rubbing her cheek with its smooth beak. There it
rode, all the way back to Sorrowgate Tower, up the narrow dark stairs and into
Rhiannon’s cell. That night, Rhiannon did not eat alone, staring at the blank
wall. She shared her supper with the bluebird, listening to its liquid song
with a painful swelling in her heart.
“He made ye for
me,” she whispered to it, holding out a seed for it to peck. “Ye’re mine now.”
Olwynne followed
Ghislaine Dream-Walker through the trees, her eyes downcast. Although she had
seen the green-eyed sorceress many times before, she had never spoken to her
and she could not help feeling nervous.
Ghislaine was a
beautiful woman, with hair the color of corn hanging to her feet. Her face was
pale and the skin under her eyes was faintly touched with purple, as if she
slept uneasily. There was a faraway quality to her, as if she was touched only
lightly by the demands of this existence. Olwynne had heard that she took many
lovers, though she was so ethereal it was hard to imagine her feeling any
earthly desires.
Ghislaine was
dressed in a loose white gown fastened at the waist with a cord from which hung
a black-handled silver dagger. Around her neck hung a small silver shield
engraved with the shape of a flowering tree, and she wore three rings on each
hand, green and white and blue. She was a powerful sorceress, descended
directly from Aislinna the Dreamer herself, mother to daughter for a thousand years.
Her cousin, Melisse NicThanach, ruled Blèssem, and her elder sister, Gilliane,
had inherited the throne of Aslinn only a few years earlier. Ghislaine herself
had spent the winter in Aslinn, overlooking the rebuilding of the ruined Tower
of Dreamers, and had returned to Lucescere only the day before. Soon she would
go back to Aslinn, to head the new tower and begin her own school. But for now
she had resumed her usual role at the Tower of Two Moons, teaching the senior
students and walking the dream-road in service of the Coven. No wonder she was
always so pale and bruised under the eyes.
Olwynne was
feeling rather pale and bruised herself. She had hardly slept the last few
weeks. Every night she replayed in her mind’s eye the sight of Lewen holding
his black-haired satyricorn girl in his arms. Olwynne saw again the moment that
Lewen had run his hand down the curve of Rhiannon’s waist, and the way the girl
had flowed into his arms, mouth to mouth, breast to breast, groin to groin. She
tortured herself with imaginings of what had gone on inside the cell. She had
scolded herself silently.They would no’ dare , she told herself.They
would no’ have time. Surely they are only talking. . . .
But Lewen had
come out, flushed and heavy-eyed, his tunic askew, his curls rumpled, a smile
playing on his lips. He had hardly acknowledged Olwynne, lost in his own
thoughts. It was clear to Olwynne that Lewen and the satyricorn were lovers,
and that she had lost any chance of winning him for herself. Every time she
thought of it, Olwynne was scalded with a bewildering mix of scorn, dismay,
jealousy, and humiliation. Here she was, a brilliant scholar, learned and
literate, able to match Lewen word for word in battles of wit, able to read the
old languages, sing and play the clàrsach, quote from the old masters, navigate
a ship by the stars, and work out difficult mathematical equations; a
banprionnsa, descended on both sides from the First Coven of Witches, daughter
to the Rìgh, niece to the Keybearer, and ready and willing to lay all her wit,
wisdom, and worldly goods at the unnoticing feet of Lewen the Whittler, son of
a woodcutter’s son and a tree-shifter.
Every night she
went through the same cycle of emotion. First she would burn with indignation
and anger, declaring her indifference to Lewen, her hope that he would be happy
with his wild girl of the mountains, her utter scorn for men who could be wooed
by a shapely figure and a pair of blue eyes. Then she would sink into a morass
of utter mortification, only able to hope that no one had guessed how much
deeper than friendship were her feelings for Lewen. She had miscalculated, she
had to admit, telling Isabeau about Lewen’s wild ramblings on the night at the
Nisse and Nixie. Not only had Lewen felt hurt and betrayed, and had drawn away
from her, but Olwynne felt sure she had betrayed herself to her aunt. Isabeau
had turned a very keen look on her, and Olwynne had often felt the Keybearer’s
gaze upon her since.
At times Olwynne
hated herself, both for loving a man who did not love her in return and for the
degree of antipathy and spite she felt towards her rival. It shocked her, that
she could hate so intensely. At such times, black misery and despair
overwhelmed her, and Olwynne would turn her face into her hot pillow to blot away
the tears she could not control.
It did not help
that, when she did finally fall asleep, her dreams were still haunted by
black-winged horrors. Night after night, Olwynne jerked awake, unable to
breathe, her heart pounding, oppressed by the utter certainty that evil
crouched around the next corner. Often she lay awake the rest of the night.
Racked with
misery and exhaustion, Olwynne moved through her days like a revenant, trying
hard to retain her usual composure so no one would realize just how overwrought
was her nervous system.
Isabeau must
have guessed something of her state of mind, though, for she called Olwynne to
her the moment Ghislaine returned to Lucescere.
“I want
Ghislaine to walk the dream-road with ye and find the source o’ all these nightmares,”
Isabeau said kindly. “I do no’ like to see ye look so pale and wan.”
Olwynne was not
at all sure she wanted to do this. Her dreams frightened her dreadfully. But
she nodded her head and agreed, obedient and respectful as always.
So now, in the
warm dusk of an early summer day, she followed the Dream-Walker through the
shadowy forest to the sacred glade in the heart of the Tower of Two Moon’s
garden. The glade had been planted a thousand years earlier, by Martha the
Wise. Seven enormous old trees grew in a circle, their branches knotted
together. Ash, hazel, oak, blackthorn, fir, rowan, and yew, the seven trees
sacred to the Coven. Beneath the trees grew soft grass and flowers—clover and
angelica and heartseage —and a spring burbled nearby. The shape of a star
within a circle was scored heavily into the soil.
Ghislaine led
Olwynne into the circle and silently gestured to her to lie down. Olwynne
obeyed, looking up at the intermingling leaves above. The sky was fading from
blue to green. She could see the round uneven shape of the smaller moon through
the leaves, looking almost transparent. It was very quiet and peaceful here in
the glade. Olwynne took a deep breath, feeling some of her tension leave her.
Quietly the
sorceress set tall white candles at the six points of the star and anointed
them with oil from little crystal bottles. Olwynne could smell rosemary,
angelica, hawthorn, and gillyflowers, for healing, consecration, an increase of
psychic powers, and protection against evil. Then she smelled lemon verbena,
which she knew from her studies aided clear-seeing and clear-dreaming. The
aromatic oils worked on her senses, making her feel both more peaceful and more
alert.
Then Ghislaine
drew her knife and traced the shape of the circle and star, chanting:
“I consecrate and conjure thee,
O circle o’
magic, ring o’ power,
Keep us safe
from harm, keep us safe from evil,
Guard us against
treachery, keep us safe in your
eyes,
Eà o’ the moons.
I consecrate and
conjure thee,
O star o’
spirit, pentacle o’ power,
Fill us with
your dark fire, your fiery darkness,
Make o’ us your
vessels, fill us with light,
Eà o’ the starry
skies.”
She sprinkled
the deeply scored lines with water and salt and ashes, each time chanting:
“Keep us safe from harm, keep us safe from evil, open our eyes, open the door,
draw aside the veils, keep our bodies safe, keep our spirits safe, I beg o’ ye,
O Eà o’ the mysteries.”
Ghislaine then
sat down cross-legged at the apex of the star, lifting Olwynne’s head so it was
cradled in her lap. She placed her fingers lightly on Olwynne’s forehead, at
the point between her brows where her third eye was meant to be.
“First we must
sit the Ordeal,” she said. “From sunset to midnight, ye must no’ move or speak.
Have ye fasted today?”
Olwynne nodded.
“Good. Make
yourself as comfortable as ye can. Close your eyes. Listen now to the wind as
it moves among the trees. Let it move through ye. Breathe deeply o’ the good
air, let it fill your body, let your body empty. Feel the earth beneath ye,
feel it spin as it moves about the sun. Feel at one with the earth, feel at one
with the darkness as it slowly falls upon the world, feel at one with the great
trees reaching down deep into the soil, feel at one with the sun as it sinks
away into night, feel at one with the moons as they fill the sky with radiance,
feel at one with the wind, breathe now with the wind, breathe now with the
earth, breathe now with the universe, breathe now . . .”
Olwynne was very
tired. Within moments she felt herself spiraling away from the soft insistent
voice. Meditation was part of Olwynne’s daily routine, but never before had she
felt such a quick or powerful response. She felt like she was falling. Some
time passed, she did not know how long, before she became aware of Ghislaine’s
fingers tracing a spiral shape on her forehead as she began again to chant.
Around and
around the chant went, spiraling with the touch of Ghislaine’s voice. Only her
voice and her touch kept Olwynne anchored. Otherwise she could have been
floating in darkest space, untethered to any world. Then the circular motion
stopped and Ghislaine pressed her fingertip hard against Olwynne’s third eye.
“Ye are standing
afore a door,” she whispered. “Reach out your hand and open the door.”
Olwynne saw with
surprise that she was indeed standing before a door. It was green and had a
knocker in the shape of a gargoyle’s face. She lifted her hand and pushed it
open. Beyond was a wild, desolate landscape. A pale road led away under low
grey skies, through wind-blasted thorn trees. Perched on one of the thorn trees
was a great black raven, as big as a gyrfalcon. Olwynne shrank back at the
sight of it, but she felt someone take her hand reassuringly. Ghislaine stood
there beside her.
“Do no’ be
afraid, Olwynne,” she said. “I am here. I shall walk the road with ye.”
The raven
regarded them with a mocking yellow eye and gave its melancholy cry. Olwynne
shook her head, leaning back against Ghislaine’s hand. She remembered her
dream, when a storm of ravens had whirled about her head, pecking at her eyes
with their sharp beaks. At once she and Ghislaine were engulfed with
frantically beating black wings and the scream of raven voices. Olwynne
shrieked and tried to protect her head with her hands. One hand was held in a
viselike grip. She tried to drag it away, but Ghislaine would not let her go.
“Do no’ let go
o’ my hand,” she said in Olwynne’s ear. “Hold on to me tightly. Remember, ye
walk the dream-road. All this is only a dream.”
Olwynne could
hardly hear her over the raucous screech of the ravens. She felt beaks and
sharp claws slashing at her face and arms, tearing her skin.
“It is only a
dream,” Ghislaine repeated. “Walk with me.”
Her hand was so
insistent that Olwynne had no choice. She stumbled forward a few steps, and the
cloud of black birds rose and swirled away, and she was once again standing on
the chalky road, a cold wind tugging at her hair. She lifted her hand to her
face and was surprised to find herself unscratched. The raven still watched
them with an unblinking eye. Olwynne stared back suspiciously.
“The raven may
be the gatekeeper o’ your door,” Ghislaine said. “If so, it is here to guard
and guide ye. It is a powerful symbol, the raven, the bringer o’ truth.”
Olwynne shook
her head instinctively. She knew the raven meant her ill.
“Ye may speak
here; I shall hear,” Ghislaine said.
Olwynne tried to
speak but her throat was dry and sore. She cleared it and tried again. “The
raven . . . it brings only nightmares.”
Ghislaine
frowned and regarded the raven. It cawed mockingly and rose into the air with
lazy beats of its wings, circling the thorn tree once, twice, thrice, before
soaring away. Ghislaine stood still, holding Olwynne fast when she would have
stepped forward.
“Look about ye,”
she said. “Do no’ let the raven distract ye. Can ye see anything?”
Olwynne glanced
about, seeing nothing but a vast undulating landscape, empty of all life.
Suddenly Ghislaine bent, beckoning to Olwynne to do the same.
“Look, a
spider,” she whispered. “Spinning her web.”
A tiny spider,
no bigger than Olwynne’s smallest fingernail, was busy constructing a delicate
cobweb between thistles.
“Is that my
gatekeeper?” Olwynne asked, disappointed.
“Perhaps,”
Ghislaine answered. “If so, it is a great omen, Olwynne. The web a spider spins
represents the web that holds all worlds and all creatures together. She is a
creature o’ the Three Spinners and thus o’ Eà herself. If she is your guide and
guard, then I feel ye are blessed indeed.”
“Ye said that
about the raven,” Olwynne muttered.
Ghislaine’s face
was stern. “Ye are in the dream world now. No’ all is as it seems.” She
indicated the spider. “Pick her up. Greet her. She is here to help.”
Reluctantly
Olwynne bent and laid her finger across the spider silk, breaking it. The
spider dangled below. Olwynne lifted her hand so the spider hung level with her
eyes. She stared, surprised to find it was a pretty creature, soft and grey.
Not knowing what else to say, she muttered the ritual greeting, “How are ye
yourself?” and felt silly and uncomfortable. The spider hung there a few
seconds longer, then rapidly descended on her fragile line of silk and swung
back into the thistle.
“Let us walk,”
Ghislaine said.
Hand in hand
they walked down the road. “Where are we going?” Olwynne asked. “Where does the
road lead?”
“I dinna ken,”
Ghislaine answered. “This is your dream. Take me where ye will.”
Olwynne dragged
her feet. “I do no’ ken where we go.”
“What do ye wish
to see?” Ghislaine asked. “Or more important, what are ye afraid to see?”
At once another
door stood before them, slightly ajar. It was made of heavy oak and barred with
iron. Olwynne did not want to open it, but Ghislaine raised her hand and
Olwynne’s with it, and pushed the door open.
Lewen stood
inside, Rhiannon in his arms, his mouth on her neck. Rhiannon looked over his
shoulder at Olwynne and smiled triumphantly, gloatingly. Lewen pushed Rhiannon
onto the bed. Olwynne watched, half-repelled, half-fascinated, as he slid his
hand up her bare leg, pushing her dress up around her waist. Olwynne slammed the
door shut. Tears stung her eyes.
“Open the door,
if ye wish to see,” Ghislaine said implacably.
After a moment,
hating her, Olwynne opened the door again. Rhiannon was astride a black winged
horse. It was evening. Lightning flashed and thunder muttered. Lewen clung to
her hand, drawing her down to kiss her. Their mouths fit together, then at last
drew reluctantly away. The horse leaped up and away into the dark stormy sky,
black disappearing into black. Lewen turned away. At the sight of his face,
Olwynne stepped forward, hand outstretched, longing to comfort him. He brushed
past her as if she did not exist. Tears poured down her face, and then the
whole world was awash with rain. It battered Olwynne’s face and body, soaked
her hair and clothes, swirled up around her knees till she could barely stand.
She fell to her knees and wept and wept.
“Walk on,”
Ghislaine’s voice whispered. Olwynne became aware the sorceress kneeled beside
her in the rising water. “Come. Walk on.”
Wiping her face
with her free arm, Olwynne struggled to her feet and took a faltering step
forward. The rain pelting her face softened and warmed. She realized feathers
were now whirling against her, black feathers. They tickled her nose and throat
and made her cough. Faster and faster they whirled against her, like black
snowflakes. She began to fear they would engulf her, suffocate her. She flailed
wildly, coughing.
“Walk on,”
Ghislaine urged. “Walk on.”
“I canna!”
Olwynne cried, choking on feathers. “Which way, which way?”
“Follow the girl,”
Ghislaine whispered. “She may be the key.”
Olwynne looked
up wildly. Somewhere far above her, the moon was breaking out of clouds, and
silhouetted against it was the shape of a black flying horse and rider. Olwynne
leaped to the silvery break, and found herself flying. Olwynne had always
longed to fly, all her life, the only child without wings in her family. She
had always imagined it to be a glorious feeling. It was not. Helter-skelter she
flew through the air, wind dragging at her, endless space yawning about her,
blind and deaf and terrified.
“I am here,”
Ghislaine said in her ear. “Fly on.”
They burst out
of the storm into a deep, calm, silvery place somewhere between the clouds and
the moon. The girl Rhiannon lay sleeping, curled into tendrils of mist as if it
were an eiderdown. Her hair writhed out among the softness like sleepy black
snakes. She opened her eyes and said in a deep, gruff voice, “There are ghosts
gathering close all about. I see them. He must beware.”
“Who?” Olwynne
demanded.
Rhiannon shook
her head and shrugged, bewildered. “Him. The one with the singing staff.” She
pointed away into the darkness. Olwynne turned and saw a man standing with his
back to her, a long way away. He was draped in some long black cloak. She took
a step towards him, then another. Each step seemed to take her leagues across
the sky. Now he was standing just before her. She saw his cloak was made of
feathers. He held a tall staff between his hands. Crowning the staff was a
round white orb. Light twisted in its heart. Faint music of indescribable
beauty lilted and fell.
“Dai?”she whispered.“Dai-dein?”
He turned to her
gravely, looking at her with hollow eyes. Horror crept over her. Olwynne knew
without a doubt that her father was dead. She tried to seize him but Ghislaine
was still there beside her, holding her fast. She struggled to be free, but the
sorceress would not let her go. All she could manage was to reach out one
despairing hand. It brushed through him, touching only icy-cold air.
“No!” she cried.
He seemed to shiver and dissolve like ice crystals before her, leaving only a
plume of snow that trailed away in the wind. Olwynne leaped after him, jerking
Ghislaine after her.
Down they fell,
plummeting through freezing darkness. Ghislaine was clutching her hand so hard
it was numb with pain. Olwynne tumbled head over heels helplessly. She had
never been so afraid. Suddenly she saw, shining faintly in the abyss, a
delicate thread. Again she flung out her free hand. Somehow she caught it.
They swung
gently back and forth in the darkness, buffeted by needle-sharp winds. Distance
howled in their ears. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, they began to rise,
the line of spider silk drawing them ever higher.
“Thank ye, thank
ye,” Olwynne whispered.
They came again
to clouds and water. It was hard to tell if it was rain, or river, or sea.
There was ground beneath their feet, boggy and unstable. Olwynne could hardly
see through the mist or rain or sea spray. She tried to say, “My father,” but
her grief choked her.
“Walk on,”
Ghislaine urged. “We must find out how, when, why. Walk on.”
Olwynne walked
on. She came through a door into the palace banquet hall. Couples danced,
minstrels played their instruments, candles shone among flowers. Olwynne’s
father sat at the high table beside her mother, his black head bent over her
curly red one. They shone with happiness.
Donncan was
dancing with Bronwen, who wore a wreath of flowers on her head. Her dress
belled out around her as she spun, shimmering like moonlight. People jostled
everywhere, drinking, eating, gossiping, all dressed in gorgeous silks and
satins and glittering jewels. Everywhere Olwynne looked she saw laughing faces.
She grew frantic, seeing nothing to help her.
“Walk on,”
Ghislaine whispered.
So Olwynne moved
forward into the crowd. Through the twirling mass of people she saw someone in
the shadows, a woman. Where all else was bright and gay, she was grey and
still, watching. Olwynne walked slowly towards her, dread rising up in her
throat like vomit. She realized mist was swirling up from the floor, dragging
at her feet. She and Ghislaine struggled on, the mist now breast high and
smelling like an open grave.
At last they
came up close to the woman, who stood in shadow. The candlelit banquet hall
seemed very far away, and the sounds came distorted, as if through water. With
a jerk of her heart Olwynne saw two faces, two spirits, one inside the other
like water inside a glass jug. With eyes inside eyes, mouth inside mouth, hand
inside hand, intent inside intent, it was hard to see who she was. Just as
Olwynne felt she almost knew her, the other face pressed out and took over, and
the insight was lost.
She saw the hand
lift to the mouth, saw something dark and fierce fly out, straight across the
dance floor and into Lachlan’s throat. He jerked and slapped at his skin, as if
at a stinging fly. His face grew livid. He stood and swayed and tried to cry
out. Then he fell. The floor beneath him dissolved into darkness, and he fell
away into it, his wings folding up about his face. Away he fell, into the
abyss, and all that was left was one small black feather, floating in an eddy
of air.
Olwynne felt
tears on her face, or rain. The scene slipped away from her, as if she stood on
a boat on a slowly moving river. Mist surrounded her. Her whole body was numb
with cold. The arm that Ghislaine hung on to ached fiercely. She would have
liked to slip her hand free, to be released from that heavy weight, but she was
too tired, too miserable. She began to long to wake up, to leave this dreadful
nightmare behind her.
“No’ yet,”
Ghislaine said. “We may walk each dream-road only once. We must walk on.”
Olwynne shook
her head. Her arms and legs were stiff and heavy as logs.
“Walk on,”
Ghislaine urged.
Olwynne tried,
but her body would not obey her. She wanted to lie down in the boat and let it
take her down the river into sleep.
“Ye must no’
fall asleep in your dreams,” Ghislaine commanded. “Olwynne! Rouse yourself!
Walk on.”
Olwynne tried.
After a moment her foot moved, just a fraction of an inch. Her next step was a
little larger. She felt excruciatingly painful pins and needles creeping up her
muscles, and froze still, pressing her feet hard against the ground.
“Walk on!”
Ghislaine cried, and Olwynne did. She was stumbling through icy mud and water,
matted with reeds, obscured with mist, but she was walking.
“Good lass,”
Ghislaine said, heartfelt relief in her voice. “Just keep on walking.”
“Where to?”
Olwynne asked, hearing the despair in her voice.
Ghislaine
hesitated. “I dinna ken,” she answered at last, very low. “This is a dark road
ye walk, lass. I canna see my way.”
“Which way am I
meant to go?” Olwynne cried out loud. “Help me! Which way?”
“What do ye wish
to see?” Ghislaine asked. Her voice sounded strange, as if she spoke in a windy
ravine. Her hand was icy cold. “Or, more important, what are ye afraid to see?”
At once there
was another door before them. It was the color of blood and had a knocker in
the shape of a skull, with eyes that glowed. Olwynne dared not raise her hand
to push it open. Her limbs were trembling. She looked at Ghislaine, wanting
reassurance. To her horror she did not hold hands with the sorceress anymore
but with a small skeleton dressed in a long white nightgown. The skeleton
turned hollow eye sockets to her, saying in that thin, echoing voice, “So cold.
So cold.”
Olwynne screamed
and tried desperately to wrench her hand away. The skeleton clung on with
unnatural strength. Olwynne felt as if it was crushing all the bones of her
hand. “Help me,” it whispered. “Help me.”
“Ghislaine!”
Olwynne screamed.
At once the
sorceress was beside her, looking at her with startled eyes. “What is it?
What’s wrong?”
“Dead . . . ye
were dead,” Olwynne panted.
“It is only a
dream,” Ghislaine said. “Do no’ fear. I am alive. I guard ye still.”
“Ye were dead!”
“Walk on, lass,”
the sorceress said. “Trust me. Walk on.”
So once again
Olwynne stepped forward, through the red door, the muscles of her legs
screaming in protest. They came out of the mist onto the white chalky road
again. The raven circled in the leaden sky above them, calling, calling.
Olwynne raised her eyes to it.The bringer of truth , she thought.A
harbinger of death. What truth does it seek to bring me?
She followed it
down the road. They came to a crossroad. Ahead the road rolled on through grey
moors, as far as the eye could see. To the left the road led to a dark wood,
and to the right it wound into a valley where water ran. The raven came down to
rest in the fork of a tree.
“Which way?”
Ghislaine asked.
Olwynne
hesitated. She remembered the maze in the palace garden that led to the Pool of
Two Moons. To find one’s way through the maze, one must always turn left. It
was her instinct to turn that way now, but the wood looked forbidding indeed,
thick with thorns and hanging with long veils of grey moss. Ghislaine waited
patiently, and Olwynne took a deep breath and turned towards the wood. The
raven spread its wings and flew ahead of them.
A few steps, and
they were within the wood. Moss brushed their faces, thorns tore their clothes
and skin, tree roots caught their feet, mist swirled up about their waists.
Olwynne began to feel afraid. The mist took on human shapes, flowing around
them, whispering in their ears. “Open the door for us,” they pleaded. “Set us free.”
“What do ye do
here?” Ghislaine said sternly. “Ye must go on. The world o’ the living is no’
for ye anymore.”
The ghosts began
to weep. “The door has been opened for some. Why no’ for us? Why no’ for us?”
“The door must
be closed,” Ghislaine said resolutely. “It is time for ye to go on. Let go o’
this world, go on in your journey. Go!”
A wind rose and
swept away the mist, and the ghosts with it. They saw before them, hunched in
the gloom of the moss-hung trees, a small cottage. The path led through a gate
into a garden where many dark and deadly plants grew—yew and black elder and
deadly nightshade and mandrake and stinging nettles and angel’s-trumpet and
mistletoe and wormwood. They pushed open the gate and a bell tolled, making
Olwynne flinch. Reluctantly they walked up the path, their feet crushing plants
underneath and releasing a foul odour. Olwynne lifted her free hand to cover
her nose and mouth. The raven was perched on the porch roof, watching them
derisively. They passed under its gaze and came to a small door hanging open on
its hinges. They ducked their heads and walked inside, Olwynne dragging back on
Ghislaine’s hand.
Inside the
cottage all was dark. After a moment their eyes adjusted to the gloom. They saw
a small room with many sorts of strange things hanging from the rafters—dead
bats, shriveled lizards, mummified salamanders, bunches of dead flowers and
leaves, great hanks of wool. Cobwebs drooped everywhere. The ground was thick
with dust and dry leaves.
In the center of
the room was a round hearth where a fitful fire glowed. Smoke from the fire
found its way through a hole in the round, peaked roof. Hunched beside the fire
was an old hag, a spinning wheel before her.Whizz, whiz went the
spinning wheel, as it spun around and around, impossibly fast. From it flowed a
long, smooth thread of crimson wool.
Squinting her
eyes against the smoke and the gloom, Olwynne could just make out another old
hag working a loom on the other side of the fire.Clack, clack went the
loom, impossibly fast. A scene grew on the warp and weft of thread, a moving
picture. Olwynne could see dancing figures, minstrels playing, servants
carrying laden platters of food and brimming jugs of wine. She saw a girl in a
silver dress, spinning. Her breath caught.
“Time to cut the
thread?” a wheezy old voice asked. “Now, at last, is it time to cut the
thread?”
Another old and
ugly woman shuffled out of the shadows, dressed all in black, an enormous pair
of silver shears in her hands.Whizz, whiz went the spinning wheel.Clack,
clack went the loom.Click, click went the shears.
“No!” Olwynne
cried. But the thread had been cut. It un-spooled across the floor, red and
liquid as blood.
The old woman
with the shears turned towards her. She grew taller and taller, stretching up
until her face was lost in shadows. Or maybe Olwynne was shrinking—she could
not tell. The whole house seemed to be growing, the death-hung rafters as high
as the night sky, the spinning wheel as huge as a mill wheel.
Then the woman
bent low to look Olwynne in the face. She was no longer a hideous, wizened old
hag, gap toothed and crook nosed, but cold and beautiful and terrible. She wore
a hood white as bone.
“All threads
must be cut,” she said softly. “In the end, all threads must be cut, even
yours. There is naught to be afraid of in that.”
Olwynne huddled
against the floor.
The woman
smiled. “Do not fear. Your time is not yet.”
“My father,”
Olwynne croaked.
“It is not his
time yet either,” she answered. “Not yet. Not yet.”
“But soon,”
Olwynne said.
The Cutter of
Thread nodded. “Yes. Soon. Though I have slid his thread through my scissors
many times before and yet not cut.”
“So he may be
saved?” Olwynne asked desperately.
The woman turned
back to her, lifting one eyebrow. “Perhaps. Though if I do not snip one thread,
I must snip another. My blades must have blood.”
“How? How can I
save him?”
“You ask me?”
she said and laughed as she moved back into the shadows.
Olwynne
stretched out her hand to the Spinner. She was a hag no longer but a beautiful
young woman, with pale hair fine as dandelion seeds. “Please,” Olwynne begged.
“Tell me how I can save my father.”
“Forewarned is
forearmed,” the Spinner said, not looking up from her wheel.
“Please, can ye
no’ help me?”
The Spinner
looked up. “I already have,” she answered. “Walk on.”
Without
volition, Olwynne’s feet dragged her forward. Cottage and garden were lost at
once. She found herself following a billowing rope of red silk, hurrying along
through smoke and mist. Ghislaine hurried beside her, their hands still glued
together.
“Where now?”
Olwynne cried. “Is it time to wake? Can I wake now?”
“Walk on,”
Ghislaine panted. “We will never walk this road again. Walk on as long as ye
can.”
“I canna, I
canna,” Olwynne cried.
“The Spinner
said to walk on,” Ghislaine said. “Ye must do as she said.”
So Olwynne
stumbled on. The silk rope led them through great barriers of thorn and thistle
and strangling snakes of vines and veils of moss. They heard the raven cry and
saw the black of its wings as it soared ahead of them. The fog grew so thick
they could not see their own hands. The silk unraveled and disappeared. Hand in
hand, they fell to their knees in the mud.
“Where now?”
Ghislaine muttered. Her hair was snarled and tousled and filled with burrs. Her
face was scratched and bleeding. “There is no road. We’re lost.”
Olwynne peered
through her damp tangles of hair. Against the formless grey of the mist, with
trunks and branches and vines all looming through, she could see only one
moving thing. “The raven,” she whispered. Then she repeated what Ghislaine had
said to her earlier. “What do ye wish to see? Or, more important, what are ye
afraid to see?”
“The raven,”
Ghislaine said, lifting her face.
Olwynne
struggled to her feet, helping the weary sorceress stand. Fixing their eyes on
the black bird, they followed it helter-skelter through the forest. It led them
out into a vast clearing. An avenue of yew trees led to a dark hulking building
surrounded by tall evergreen trees. A long pool of water stretched out before
it, lined by yews and ghostly white statues. Involuntarily Olwynne and
Ghislaine’s footsteps slowed. Horror and dread weighed down their limbs. They
crept forward, following the raven. It hopped up the wide steps, cocking its
head to look back at them. Then it disappeared inside a yawning black door.
Slowly, clinging together, they followed it.
Inside was a
mausoleum. Tombs lined the walls on either side, each topped with a stone
figure lying with arms crossed on their breast. Iron gates barred the way into
vaults on either side. Carved atop every pillar were stone ravens, only the
white of their marble distinguishing them from the living raven perched on the
breast of a sepulchre lying on a raised platform at the far end of the
mausoleum. Together Olwynne and Ghislaine walked up the long shadowy hall and
paused at the foot of the steps.
The raven
suddenly took flight in an explosion of black wings. Olwynne cried out, all her
nerves jumping.
A man leaned out
from the shadows. He had a strong, ruthless face, and his dark hair and beard
were streaked with grey. He leaned on a tall staff, and his fingers were laden
with rings. Then he came slowly down the stairs, and they saw with shrinking
hearts that he was clad in a trailing white shroud. They could see the stone
steps behind him, as if seen through dark glass, and a dank, horrible smell
swept over them.
“What do ye do
here, dream-walkers? It is no’ in dreams that ye can rouse me. I must have
blood—hot, living blood. Go back and come again in daylight.”
There was such
menace and power in his voice that both Ghislaine and Olwynne shrank back,
their fingers clutching tightly at each other.
“Begone! The
dream world is o’ no use to me, no more use than the world o’ spirits. Come
again in daylight, with a living soul and a knife, and then ye shall see me
walk again. What? Have ye no’ read the spell aright? What ails ye,
dream-walkers?”
Ghislaine tried
to speak, but her voice failed her.
The ghost made
an impatient gesture with his hand. “I say to ye, begone!”
At once they
were seized with a rushing wind. It whirled them away, hair and skirts and
limbs spun around and around them like a corpse’s winding-sheet. They could
only cling together desperately, choking on their own hair, buffeted by
sleet-laden winds. They had no idea which way was up or down; they were lost
once more in a storm, an abyss, a star-whirling darkness.
“Help us!”
Olwynne called. “Please, please, help us.”
Her reaching
hand felt the brush of a sticky silken thread. She managed to seize it between
her forefinger and thumb. Again they swung back and forth for a moment, joints
screaming as gravity sought to rip them apart. Then, spinning more smoothly,
they were brought up out of the pit. Silken threads spun them all around, a
soothing cocoon that swiftly muffled their eyes, their ears, their mouths,
their limbs. For a moment Olwynne was cradled like a child; then, very gently,
she was lowered to the ground.
“Olwynne, wake
up!” a hoarse, insistent voice cried in her ear. “Olwynne, ye must wake. Ye
must no’ sleep in your dreams.”
She ached all
over. Her eyes were sore and gritty. Tentatively Olwynne raised one hand to rub
them. Pain lanced through her temples.
“Olwynne, wake
up!” the voice commanded.
Reluctantly she
opened her eyes. She saw Ghislaine leaning over her. The sorceress’s hair and
clothes were wildly tossed, but there was no sign of any scratches on her face
and arms. She looked white and sick. It was dawn. The dim light hurt Olwynne’s
eyes cruelly. She shut them again, but Ghislaine shook her and called in her ear
until she opened her sticky eyelids again, murmuring fretfully. Suddenly nausea
overwhelmed her. She rolled over and retched into the grass.
“Do no’ sleep
again,” Ghislaine said. “The dream-road is still too close. Let it unravel,
else ye may be drawn back into the dream and never escape. We came close to
death this night, ye and me. I do no’ wish to tempt the Spinners by returning
to their realm.”
Olwynne wiped
her mouth, feeling sick and dazed. Her head ached so fiercely she had to press
both hands to her temples.
“Come,”
Ghislaine said. “Can ye walk? We must go back and tell Isabeau what we saw.
They were terrible visions indeed. And there were crossroads in your dream,
roads we did no’ travel. This does no’ augur well at all. We shall have to
travel together again, when we can, ye and I.”
“I hope no’,”
Olwynne said. “Never again.”
“That would be a
shame,” Ghislaine said. “Ye have talent indeed. I would like to take ye on as
an apprentice, when ye are auld enough. Though I hope no’ all your dreams are so
dangerous.”
“Was it really
all just a dream?” Olwynne felt so dazed and disorientated she could barely
look Ghislaine in the face. “It felt so real.”
“Aye, a dream,”
Ghislaine answered. “And, like all dreams, unknowable.” She sighed and
shuddered. “Indeed, ye have been traveling a dark road,” she said. “Come, can
ye get up? We must try and pin the dream down while we can. It will fade all
too soon. And ye will be sick enough to swoon. Both o’ us will.”
Olwynne rubbed
her aching forehead. Just moments before, the dream had been all too vivid and
real. Already it was dissolving like ink in water.
“What does it
all mean?” she wondered aloud, pain needling her temples. “Eà’s bright eyes,
what does it mean?”
“Dark times
ahead,” Ghislaine said. “That much I can tell ye. Dark times ahead.”
Lewen stepped
forward and poured his Rìgh another cup of the dark, bitter brew called dancey
that Lachlan liked to drink first thing in the morning. He said it sharpened
the mind and gave a warm glow to the day, but Lewen had never been able to
acquire a taste for it himself. Neither had the Banrìgh, Iseult of the Snows,
who was drinking rose-hip tea sweetened with honey.
The Rìgh and
Banrìgh always ate breakfast alone in their private suite. For the rest of the
day they would be mobbed by servants, guards, courtiers, guild masters, foreign
ambassadors, and visitors to the court. Each day was too short for all that
must be done, and often Lachlan and Iseult did not see each other again until
the evening meal, which was usually eaten in the great hall with the rest of
the court. This small time in the morning was therefore precious to them both,
a time to share the intimate conversation of husband and wife.
Usually, the
meal was brought to them in their blue-and-gilt sitting room by a train of
servants, under the stern eye of the palace chamberlain, Roy Steward, whose
family had served the MacCuinns for generations. After the trays had been
unloaded, Roy and the other servants would withdraw, leaving only the royal
couple’s squires to wait on them. This morning Lewen was sharing the duty with
Owein, who was waiting upon his mother. Both boys were neatly attired in their
court livery, Owein’s cut to accommodate his long red-feathered wings.
“Is that a
letter from Donncan I spy beside your plate?” the Rìgh said to his wife,
spreading griddle cakes with bellfruit jam.
Iseult looked up
and smiled. “Aye, it is. I’m almost afraid to open it, in case he says he canna
make it home for Beltane. Twice now he’s postponed his return! I dinna ken what
entertainment Elfrida is putting on for him, but it must be something special,
he has stayed there so long.”
“Hunting, I’d
say,” Lachlan said tolerantly. “He does no’ need to fear his teachers’
displeasure now he’s finished with school, and I hear the sport is good in
Arran in the wintertime.”
Owein rolled his
eyes at Lewen and mouthed silently,Lucky duck!
Lewen shook his
head slightly. Squires were meant to be deaf, dumb, and invisible.
“I’m glad he’s
enjoying himself,” Iseult said, “but I do wish he’d come home. He’s been gone
since Hogmanay! He has a wedding to prepare for.”
“Happen that’s
why he’s reluctant to come home,” Lachlan said.
“But why? I
thought he was eager to be married. The way he looks at Bronwen, I thought he
could hardly wait to jump the fire with her.”
“I think he can
hardly wait to jump into bed with her,” Lachlan said dryly, causing Owein to
grin and wink at Lewen, who stared stolidly ahead, willing himself not to
smile. “Whether he’s as keen to commit himself to a lifetime with her, well,
that I canna tell. He’s only young.”
“Twenty-four
now, and a man grown,” Iseult said tartly. “Ye were his age when we jumped the
fire together.”
“Aye, but things
were different for me. By the time I became a man, I had been exiled from home
and family for years, and lived six o’ them in the shape o’ a blackbird. I had
been ensorcelled, betrayed, and hunted almost to my death. All I dreamed o’ was
a family o’ my own. I longed so much for someone to love. Donncan has had a different
life. He’s been so cosseted and confined, I do no’ wonder he wants to run wild
for a while.”
Lewen could not
help glancing at the Rìgh in surprise. Despite being his squire for four years,
he had never heard him speak so openly about his time as a rebel and outcast.
Lewen had only ever known Lachlan the Winged as the strong Rìgh he was now, a
tall, dark, broad man with burly shoulders and a full beard clawed with white.
White streaked upwards from his left temple too, and wound itself through his
thick, dark curls to the end of his ponytail. Lewen knew this blaze of white in
the Rìgh’s hair was no sign of approaching decrepitude. It was the mark of the
Lodestar, and the sign of a true MacCuinn. It only made him seem more regal.
Hearing his Rìgh reveal such vulnerabilities made Lewen feel suddenly
uncomfortable.
Owein was gazing
at his father with his mouth open, looking dumbfounded. Lewen mimicked his
expression in exaggerated form, then lifted one hand and tapped under his own
chin, closing his mouth. Owein grimaced at him, then stood up straighter, his
mouth shut, his eyes gazing ahead. Lewen did the same.
“Och, aye, I
suppose that’s true,” Iseult was saying. “But it’s been almost three months.
Surely he should come home?”
“I wonder if
he’s heard all the gossip about his wife-to-be,” Lachlan said. “Certainly,
Bronwen seems to have been amusing herself in his absence. Happen he’s heard o’
all her antics and is staying away because he’s hurt or angry.”
“Surely he’s no’
such a fool,” Iseult said impatiently. “What has the lass done, apart from hold
a few noisy parties and dress like a whore? The problem is, the court has
naught to do but gossip. We should send them out to fight a sea serpent or two
or to hunt down renegade ogres. Then they’d ken they’re alive.”
“That’d be
something to see,” Lachlan said mildly. “The Dowager Duchess o’ Rammermuir, out
on an ogre hunt.”
Lewen stifled a
smile. The Dowager Duchess of Rammermuir was a very stout woman with three
immense chins and an equally fat lapdog who smelled horrible and had to be
carried everywhere by her maid. Although she had a pretty estate of her own, in
the lowlands of Rionnagan, the dowager duchess was rarely to be found away from
court, enjoying stirring the ever-boiling broth of scandal and adding various
tasty tidbits of her own imagining. Her son, the Duke of Rammermuir, was one of
Lachlan’s councillors and a very sound adviser, so Lachlan tended to forgive
him his mother and think her gossipmongering amusing. Iseult, however, had no
patience for the ladies of the court and found the Dowager Duchess of
Rammermuir more repulsive than most.
So she did not
smile at Lachlan’s comment. This was not unusual, however. In general, the
Banrìgh was stern and straight-backed, more prone to sharp flashes of temper or
scorn than merriment. Lewen was not alone in finding her intimidating. Her face
was marked on either cheek with long white slashes where she had been scarred
as a young woman in the custom of her people, the Khan’cohbans of the snowy
heights. Her red-gold hair was smoothed back and coiled tightly at the nape of
her neck, and she wore little jewelry, just a ring on either hand and the
brooch that pinned her white tartan plaid around her shoulders.
Since she was in
charge of overseeing the training of the Yeomen, the Banrìgh was often dressed
in leather breeches and boots, with her heavy weapons belt about her trim
waist. Today, though, she was receiving deputations from the Far Isles in the
great hall and so was dressed more conservatively in a simple gown of blue
linen, slashed to show a white under-dress. The skirt had been designed to
allow her freedom of movement, however, and she wore, as always, a sharp dagger
and an eight-pointed, star-shaped weapon called areil hanging from her
embroidered girdle.
“If Donncan is
going to let the stupid fools o’ this court disrupt this wedding, I shall be so
angry,” she said, tearing a soft bread roll to pieces. “He should ken better
than to listen to gossip!”
“Why do ye no’
open the letter and see what he has to say?” Lachlan asked, draining his cup.
Lewen stepped forward and would have poured him more, but the Rìgh waved his
hand and smiled, and he stepped back into his place behind the Rìgh’s chair.
“Och, aye, then
I will,” Iseult said.
She picked up
the letter and Owein at once stepped forward and offered her his knife, hilt
first. She took it with a smile and a nod, and cut open the envelope. There was
silence for a few moments as she read the letter, then the Banrìgh looked up
with a smile.
“He’s on his way
home. He’s written this from Dùn Eidean. Neil’s with him, and so are Iain and
Elfrida. They should be here by the end o’ the month.”
“Excellent!”
Lachlan said, wiping his mouth and laying down his napkin. “I havena seen Iain
in close on a year. I’ll be glad to speak with him and Elfrida about these
reports I’ve been getting from Tìrsoilleir. I’ve written to her three times
already and have had naught but sweet platitudes in response.”
“That’s Elfrida
for ye,” Iseult said caustically. She laid down her knife and fork on her plate
and made a slight motion as if to rise. At once Owein pulled out her chair for
her. She rose, her skirt gathered up in one hand, and smiled at him.
“Nicely done,
dearling. I think we’ll make a courtier out o’ ye after all.”
“Ye dinna see
all the faces he was pulling,” Lachlan said dryly. “And I thought he would
choke on his own tongue when ye said Bronwen dressed like a whore.”
“Well, she
does,” Iseult said. “Though, mind ye, the ladies o’ the court used to say the
same thing about me.”
“Actually I
think they said ye dressed like a stable lad, which is a far more cutting
insult in their minds,” Lachlan said. “O’ course, they are used to your
breeches now, and it is hardly uncommon nowadays for women to wear them riding
or learning to fight. I do no’ think anyone would raise an eyebrow if Bronwen
wore them all day long. I think it’s rather herlack o’ clothing the
ladies o’ the court object to.”
“She’s just
showing off,” Iseult said. “The Fairgean do no’ feel the cold, so she can swan
around all winter in chiffon if she wants without raising a single goose bump.
The rest o’ the court is no’ so lucky. If they could wear silver sandals in the
snow, they would too, no doubt about that!”
Lachlan smiled
and nodded in agreement.
“And o’ course,
all those lamb-brained lassies copy her and just look ridiculous, blue and
shivering with cold, with their bare arms looking like a newly plucked
chicken’s. Thank the White Gods Olwynne is no’ such a fool!”
“Speaking o’
Olwynne, I wonder how she went last night,” Lachlan said, with a frown.
Both Owein and
Lewen looked at him in sudden quick interest, but he had moved across to the
tall window and was staring out at the day.
Iseult looked to
the door, frowning. “We’re about to find out,” she said.
Lachlan turned
at once.
There was a
sharp rap on the door. Lewen went quietly to open it. Roy Steward stood
outside, flanked by the two guards standing sentinel. Behind him stood Isabeau,
looking anxious. Her hair, falling from its rough plait, twisted about her face
like hissing red adders. Her elf-owl was huddled on her shoulder, staring with
huge golden eyes.
Lewen had not
seen the Keybearer since she had called him to her room after the bluebird he
had carved for Rhiannon had come to life. She had been most interested in this
miraculous giving of life, and had questioned him closely about how it had
happened, and asked him to try to do it again. Lewen had tried, carving a
little dormouse, and then a donbeag, and then another bird. They all stayed
obstinately wood, no matter how hard he tried to channel power into them. Lewen
had been both sorry and pleased, for it was a frightening thing to give life to
an inanimate object he had carved from an old bit of wood. It seemed too close
to the realm of Eà. Lewen knew that one must never forget the dark face of the
triple goddess. If Eà could give life, she could also take it away.
Isabeau had not
been surprised by his failure to replicate the miracle of the bluebird. “That
is how it goes,” she sighed. “That is why the great acts o’ sorcery are always
so hard to do. Your desire, your longing, have to be strong indeed. Do no’ try
again, Lewen, and do no’ draw on the One Power for a while. I do no’ want ye
coming down with sorcery sickness, like so many other apprentices who have
overreached themselves. Ye may feel sick and dizzy for a day or two. Stay
quiet, and give your books a miss. We will see how your little bird goes. Who
is to say it will no’ turn back into wood in a day or so?”
But the bluebird
had not returned to wood, and Lewen had not succumbed to sorcery sickness,
though he had indeed felt low and weary ever since. This may have been due to
the after-effects of the clamber skull, though, which had made both him and
Owein feel very sick indeed, or it may have been due to his loneliness and
unhappiness. Lewen had been badly hurt by Olwynne telling her aunt what he had
said about Rhiannon. Even telling himself Olwynne must have been worried indeed
about him did not stop it feeling like a betrayal of his confidence. So Lewen
had kept away from her, a task made easier by the Keybearer’s directive to him
to have a few days away from his books.
Without his
usual companions, Lewen had sought out his younger friends, the
apprentice-witches he had traveled with from Ravenshaw. But they too were busy
and distracted to the point that Lewen felt quite rebuffed. Only Fèlice and
Landon were their normal selves with him, though he could tell it was an
effort. One afternoon, after Cameron and Rafferty had made a lame excuse not to
catch up with him, he had asked Fèlice what was wrong.
She had
hesitated for a moment and then reluctantly said, “Ye ken the boys both want to
be Blue Guards when they graduate?” Lewen had nodded, and she had gone on,
“They’ve both been warned that it’ll no’ do their cause any good by being seen
to be too close to Rhiannon, or to ye.” At the sight of Lewen’s expression, she
hurried on, “It makes no difference, o’ course. We are all still very much your
friend, and Rhiannon’s. It’s just . . . well, Maisie has been told the very
same thing by the head healer Johanna. Maisie wants to be a healer, ye ken. And
although I really have no intention in joining the Coven after I finish at
school, I do no’ want a bad report o’ me being sent home to my father, else he
may call me home again. We’ve all just decided to keep our heads down awhile,
and work hard, and wait for Rhiannon’s trial.”
Lewen had nodded
and tried to smile. He did understand. The apprentice-witches were only sixteen
or seventeen, and in their first year at the Theurgia. They all must feel
unwilling to start off on the wrong foot. It did not help Lewen, however, who
felt even lonelier than ever. If it had not been for Owein and his fellow
squires, all of them staunch in their friendship and loyalty, he would have
felt wretched indeed.
Lewen bowed to
the Keybearer, and she came past him quickly, not even noticing him. It was
clear she was very distressed. She reached out her hands to Iseult, who stepped
forward quickly to meet her. Standing together, face to face, their likeness
was startling, even though one was so contained, and the other disheveled and
upset.
“What’s wrong?”
Iseult demanded. “Olwynne?”
“Ye ken she
walked the dream-road last night with Ghislaine?”
Iseult jerked
her head in acknowledgment.
“They traveled
too far, perhaps . . . or what they saw was too . . . I dinna ken. It’s hit
them hard, though, both o’ them.”
“She’s all
right, though?” Lachlan demanded. “She’s no’—”
“Nay, nay.
She’ll be fine . . . in a week or so. It’s just sorcery sickness. I’ve had it
myself, from doing too much too soon.”
You-hooh
fool-hooh too-hooh,
Buba hooted.
“Ye said she was
ready! Ye said she was strong enough!” Iseult cried.
“I’m sorry. I
thought . . . Ghislaine was walking the dream-road with her, and ye ken how strong
she is . . . but Ghislaine is sick too. I’ve never kent Ghislaine to succumb to
sorcery sickness.”
Iseult moved
towards the door. “I must go to her.”
Isabeau stopped
her with a hand on her arm. “Wait! There’s naught ye can do for her now. . . .
She’s sleeping. She needs to be kept very quiet. Any noise or sudden movement .
. . and I need to tell ye about the dream.”
At the tone in
her voice both Iseult and Lachlan stared at her in sudden alarm. Then Iseult
turned to Owein, who was containing himself only with great difficulty.
“Would ye be so
good as to order us some fresh tea?” she asked with immense composure.
Owein was
distressed. “But Mama! Olwynne! Canna I—”
“Ye heard your
aunt. Olwynne needs to be kept quiet. And your father and I need to hear Isabeau’s
news. We may as well be comfortable. Will ye ask Roy to send for more tea?”
“O’ course. But,
Mam, please, canna I go . . .?”
She shook her
head, though her face softened. “Nay, dearling. No’ without Isabeau’s
clearance. I ken how anxious ye must be about your sister but we canna risk
hurting her by rushing in on her.” She turned back to Isabeau. “Can the lads
stay and hear the news, Beau, or would it be better if they left?”
Isabeau
hesitated. “I’m no’ sure. . . .”
Owein fired up
quickly. “We’re no’ lads anymore! Olwynne’s my twin. I want to ken aught that
concerns her. Please! Dinna send us away like bairns. I want to ken what’s
going on.”
Still Isabeau
hesitated; then she nodded her head, saying, “Very well. It concerns ye both, I
suppose. Ye canna talk about it to anyone else, though. Ye do understand that?”
“O’ course,”
Owein said, insulted.
Lewen nodded.
The muscles under his chest had tightened into such a tight band of fear it was
all he could do to take a breath. He had barely spoken to Olwynne since she had
betrayed his trust; he never would have thought she could be so disloyal. Lewen
knew, though, how very dangerous sorcery sickness could be. At worst, a young
witch could die, or be reduced to a gibbering idiot, or have her powers burned
out and cauterized. The idea of Olwynne in such danger made his hurt and anger
evaporate, leaving only sudden sharp concern.
“Ye ken Olwynne
has been having nightmares? Every night, since the spring equinox?” Isabeau
sank down on one of the gilt couches. “I have been worried indeed about her,
for dreams so vivid, so overpowering . . . well, often they mean naught but ill
for the dreamer.”
Iseult sat down
beside her and put her hands over Isabeau’s. The touch helped calm her. She
took a deep breath and went on more steadily.
“I have been
sleeping badly too. Faces and voices and deeds from the past have come back to
haunt me, long after I thought I had laid those ghosts to rest. I’ve woken
weeping more than once, or woken unable to breathe, as if a dark thing crouched
upon my chest, its hands about my throat. . . . I feared a psychic attack and
cast circles o’ protection about my bed, and the dreams lessened. But still I
have slept badly.”
Gloom-hooh, Buba said
miserably, her ear tufts sinking.
“I have no’ been
sleeping well either,” the Banrìgh said, glancing at her husband, who was still
standing, his hands bunched into fists. “Though I dinna ken why. I canna
remember much about the dreams. I dreamed Lachlan was cursed again, lying in
that unnatural sleep, and I was unable to wake him. That was distressing. And I
dreamed Donncan was lost to me too. I was no’ remembering the time when he was
kidnapped by Margrit o’ Arran . . . at least, I do no’ think so. It was Donncan
as he is now, Donncan as a young man. I thought they were just dreams—” She
stopped and said no more, never comfortable about revealing her innermost
feelings.
Isabeau ran her
hands through her hair, causing her curls to spring out even more wildly. “Aye,
I ken. I should’ve thought to ask if ye were dreaming too. It did no’ occur to
me that . . .” She paused and took a deep breath, looking around with eyes that
were bluer than ever against their reddened rims. “I didna realize the dreams
were more than just dreams. I’ve been so busy . . . so preoccupied . . .”
“Me too,” Iseult
said.
“So what does
all this mean?” Lachlan demanded impatiently. His black wings were raised high
and lifted back, as if ready for flight. Lewen knew that this was a sign of
anxiety or anger in Lachlan, as if those six years trapped in the body of a
blackbird had somehow entered the Rìgh’s blood and given him the instincts of a
bird. Owein stood in the same poised stance, balancing on the balls of his
feet, his firebird wings slightly spread. Despite the difference in stature and
coloring, he looked very like his father. He had forgotten his mother’s
command, all his attention focused on the conversation between his mother and
aunt.
So Lewen moved
softly across to the door and opened it, asking the guard outside to send
someone for more tea and some fresh dancey and to ask Roy to cancel the Rìgh’s
and Banrìgh’s first meeting of the day. He knew the two guards but they barely
acknowledged him, Ferrand the Grey jerking his head and setting off to find
Roy, and Mathias Bright-Eyed, so named because of his vivid blue eyes, staring
straight ahead as if Lewen did not exist. This was not the first time Lewen had
been snubbed by the Rìgh’s bodyguards since he had returned to Ravenshaw, but
it hurt all the more because Mat was generally good-natured and friendly.
When he stepped
back into the sitting room, Isabeau was speaking again.
“I have tried to
walk the dream-road. Ye ken it is no’ my Talent, though I have walked it afore.
But now all the doors stayed closed for me. Ghislaine said this may mean it is
no’ my dream, that I am . . .hearing Olwynne’s dream. Or else someone
has closed the doors against me. I didna think this was possible. Who is there
strong enough?” She spoke with neither false modesty nor arrogance, and both
Iseult and Lachlan nodded, frowning, accepting the truth of her words.
“So I thought it
best if Ghislaine and Olwynne walked the dream-road together. I’m sorry if I
was wrong. . . . I swear it’ll do no harm in the long run. Sorcery sickness is
dangerous—there’s no doubt about that. But I’ve seen witches struck much harder
and recover their wits in the end—”
“What did she
dream?” Iseult’s voice cut through Isabeau’s like a knife. Isabeau stopped,
flushing suddenly and biting her lip.
“Sorry,” she
said. “I just feel terrible about it. What did she dream? I canna tell ye all
o’ it. She was no’ very coherent, and Ghislaine no’ much better. She dreamed o’
a raven again, though—”
“A raven?” Lewen
said sharply, startled out of his role as squire.
Isabeau glanced
at him. “Aye, a raven. A messenger in dreams, no’ always o’ bad news. Olwynne
saw it as a bad omen, though, a portent o’ death.”
Gloom-hooh, the owl said
again, solemnly.
“Something to do
with the laird o’ Fettercairn?” Lewen said, quite forgetting he was addressing
his Rìgh and Banrìgh and the Keybearer of the Coven.
They did not
seem to mind his lack of courtesy.
“Perhaps,”
Isabeau said. “Though Olwynne kens naught about the laird o’ Fettercairn.
Certainly no’ that he carries a tame raven on his shoulder.”
“A raven,” Lachlan
said pensively. “That jogs a memory, a very faint memory.”
“Ye think o’
Jorge and his familiar,” Isabeau said, her expressive mouth twisting in sorrow.
Lachlan shook
his head. “Nay. Something to do with a raven and Fettercairn Castle . . . Nay,
I canna remember.”
“The laird told
us a story about ravens while we were there,” Lewen said. As everyone turned to
look at him, he gulped and rubbed his damp hands down his breeches.
“Go on, lad,”
Lachlan said impatiently. “What story?”
Lewen, trying
not to fidget, went on. “About how his ancestor saved Brann’s raven from being
killed by gravenings, Your Majesty. He drove them away with stones, and Brann
had the stones gathered together into a cairn and ordered a castle to be built
there, to guard the pass up to the Tower o’ Ravens. He said as long as ravens
lived at Fettercairn, the tower would never fall. But it did, o’ course, on the
Day o’ Betrayal.”
“The tower did
no’ fall, just the witches who lived there,” Isabeau said. “O’ all the Thirteen
Towers, it is the one least damaged. If it was no’ so cruelly haunted by the
ghosts o’ all who died there, we would have tried to reestablish it. Nobody
wants to go there, though. The stories are too frightening. So we’ve
concentrated on rebuilding other towers. One day, happen, witches will live
there again.”
Lachlan had
listened to Lewen’s tale with close attention, but now he said decisively, “I
had no’ heard that tale afore. It’s interesting, but it’s no’ what’s teasing my
memory. Go on, Isabeau. Olwynne must’ve dreamed more than a raven for ye to
look so grave.”
Isabeau nodded.
“O’ course.” She took a deep breath. “Olwynne dreamed o’ your death, Lachlan.
She dreamed ye were murdered.”
Iseult jerked
upright, the blood draining from her face. Owein gave an inarticulate cry, and
the owl hooted miserably. Lewen felt as if he had been punched just below his
breastbone.
Lachlan stared
at Isabeau. “I see,” he said. “So am I to believe I’m soon to die?” Isabeau
shrugged, her mouth twisting. Lachlan sat down heavily.
“Isabeau, is it
no’ true that one canna see the future for sure, that it’s only ever future
possibilities that one sees?” Iseult demanded.
Isabeau nodded.
“Aye, Iseult, the future is no’ fixed. The smallest thing can change it.”
As Iseult nodded
and relaxed a little in relief, Isabeau continued, “However, I do no’ think we
can just dismiss this dream out o’ hand. I think Olwynne has a strong Talent,
and dreams o’ foretelling often presage an event that is very hard to avert.”
There was a
moment’s silence.
“So what exactly
did she dream?” Lachlan asked.
Isabeau
hesitated. “I dinna ken. Olwynne fainted soon after her awakening. Ghislaine
has collapsed too. All they managed to tell me was that ye were in danger, that
ye must beware. They said someone wants to kill ye.”
“Who?” Iseult
asked sharply.
Who-hooh?Buba echoed,
swiveling her head around so she could look at each of them in turn.Who-hooh?
“She dinna ken.
A woman. Ghislaine felt she should ken them; she got quite distressed about it.
She said something odd. . . .” Isabeau paused.
“What?” Lachlan
asked impatiently.
“She said it was
two women in one.”
There was a long
pause.
“Twins?” Iseult
said.
“But surely then
it would be two peopleas like as one? Or even one person in two,”
Isabeau answered. “Besides, Ghislaine kens many twins. She can hardly help it,
the way our family keeps popping them out. I dinna think she would describe
them that way.”
“Two people in
one,” Lachlan said thoughtfully. “Maybe . . . a pregnant woman?”
“Maybe,” Isabeau
said. “I canna tell. We must wait for Ghislaine to wake and tell us what she
means. My fear is that she will have forgotten most o’ the dream by then. Ye
all ken how hard it is to remember a dream once ye are awake. Dream-walkers
normally try to record their dreams as soon as they can, to capture as many
details as possible.”
“When do ye
think she will wake?” Lachlan asked.
Isabeau sighed
and shrugged. The owl blinked its eyes sleepily and rotated its head around to
stare at him. Lachlan looked away uneasily, rubbing at his beard.
“But surely, now
that we ken . . . I mean, there must be something we can do!” Iseult’s voice
shook, and she crushed the pristine linen of her skirt between her hands.
Lewen had never
seen the Banrìgh so distressed. He had thought her incapable of strong emotion,
yet here she was with unshed tears glittering in her eyes and her skin blanched
of all color.
“O’ course there
is,” Lachlan said, touching her gently on the arm. “Forewarned is forearmed, is
that no’ so, Isabeau?”
Isabeau clicked
her tongue against her teeth. “Happen so,” she answered. “I must admit I’m
worried, though. I think we must double your guard and do what we can to root
out any insurgents. Lachlan, tell me, have ye any enemies that may be wishing
to assassinate ye?”
Lachlan twisted
his mouth, flinging himself back in his chair. “Any new ones, do ye mean? For
all rìghrean have enemies. Ye ken that. In every court there are those hungry
for power and riches, or those who believe they have some grudge.”
“But any that
hate ye enough to plan your death? For that is a desperate enterprise, the
killing o’ a king.”
Lachlan nodded.
“Aye, that it is. No matter how greedy one may be, regicide is surely the last
resort. The whole country would be plunged into chaos, and happen even civil
war. No one prospers then, except perhaps the undertakers.”
He paused and
rubbed his temples wearily. “Unless, o’ course, it was no’ just me ye wished to
remove but the whole edifice o’ power. It would have to be someone who wished
to knock down all that I have built, happen someone who rues the day the Coven
o’ Witches were returned to power, even though twenty-odd years have passed.
The Coven has its enemies. Ye ken that better than I, Isabeau.”
The Keybearer
nodded, her face somber. She glanced at Iseult, who was struggling to bring
herself back under control.
“I distrust this
new Fealde in Tìrsoilleir,” the Rìgh continued. “My spies tell me she is
preaching a return to the days o’ the Bright Soldiers. . . . Och, no’ overtly.
She would no’ be such a fool! But softly and slyly, and more dangerously
because o’ it. If she had uttered a single word o’ treason I could have her
arrested and put on trial, or at the very least suggest strongly that she be
replaced. But, nay, it is all hints and innuendoes, and I canna arrest her for
those.”
Iseult took a
deep breath and smoothed out her crushed skirt. “Tìrsoilleir is a thorn in our
side,” she said in a voice that shook only slightly. “Their tithes are always
late and too small, and the soldiers they send to join the Greycloaks are
sullen and unwilling.”
“They send us
few acolytes for the Theurgia either,” Isabeau said, frowning, “and
journeywitches there are always reporting difficulties. None has faced anything
worse than curses and insults, and perhaps a few rotten apples, but no one
likes to be chosen to travel there. It does no’ take much for rotten fruit to
become stones.”
“So do ye think
it is the Fealde that wants ye dead,Dai-dein ?” Owein demanded. “Surely
she would no’ dare!”
“We are a long
way from Tìrsoilleir,” Isabeau said, massaging her tired eyes with her fingers.
“Would her arm reach so far?”
“There is
trouble closer to home too,” Iseult said dryly. “That wool-witted bairn o’
yours causes waves wherever she goes. I swear she delights in vexing us and
making Donncan look a fool!”
Isabeau looked
troubled. “Bronwen is no’ as wool-witted as ye seem to think,” she said
defensively. “But I take your point. There must be those who think she would be
easier to sway than ye, Lachlan, particularly if she felt herself beholden to
them for winning her the throne.”
“So ye think she
wants it?” Lachlan said indifferently, toying with the brooch that pinned his
plaid together.
Isabeau was not
deceived. She bit her lip, then said frankly, “I do no’ think so. I hope no’.
For it could only be won with a great deal o’ bloodshed and misery, and to what
avail? She will sit on the throne in time anyway, when she and Donncan wed. Ye
may think her shallow and frivolous, Iseult, and indeed I do no’ blame ye, but
she is no’ malicious or cruel. Why incite civil war to gain a crown she will
wear anyway?”
“Only as
Donncan’s wife, though, no’ as the true heir,” Lachlan said softly. “And she
willna carry the Lodestar.”
“True enough,”
Isabeau admitted. “Do ye think she wants to?”
Lachlan put out
one lazy hand and caressed the glowing white sphere that stood in a special
stand near his chair. At the touch of his fingers, it glowed more brightly and
a delicate strain of music wafted through the room.
“O’ course she
does,” he said, quirking one side of his mouth in a sardonic expression so
characteristic it had driven a line deep into his lean cheek.
True-hooh, the owl said
softly, opening its eyes wide and then shutting them again.
Isabeau sighed.
Made by
Lachlan’s ancestor Aedan Whitelock, the first Rìgh, the Lodestar responded only
to the hand of a MacCuinn, killing anyone else who touched it. It had taken the
current Rìgh many years to master its powers, but in the end he had succeeded,
vanquishing the Fairgean, faeries of the sea, who had sought to drown the land
and all who lived upon it. Lachlan had almost died in the attempt, and the
Lodestar would have been lost if Bronwen had not dived down through the raging
waters and seized it. Together she and Donncan had managed to raise it high,
the two children together calling upon its magical powers.
The cousins had
been betrothed soon after, their proposed wedding sealing the peace treaty
between human and Fairgean. When Lachlan died, they would sit the throne and
rule the land together. Only one could wield the Lodestar, though. Isabeau had
no doubt that Lachlan was right and Bronwen wished it was to be her.
“I canna see
that assassinating ye would secure Bronwen the Lodestar, anyway,” Isabeau said
tartly. “Ye have named Donncan as heir. If someone wanted Bronwen to rule
alone, they would have to kill him too.”
Iseult’s whole
body went rigid. “Do we have cause to fear this?” she said in a very low,
dangerous voice.
“I dinna think
so,” Lachlan reassured her. “They would have to kill Owein and Olwynne too,
surely, if that was their plan. They are next in line to the throne after
Donncan, no’ Bronwen.”
Owein looked
from his father’s face to his mother’s, looking suddenly white and frightened.
Lewen wondered if this was the first time he had ever realized that being a
MacCuinn had its dangers and responsibilities as well as its privileges. The
Rìgh saw his son’s glance and smiled at him reassuringly.
“Unless, o’
course, these mysterious assassins believe that Bronwen is the true heir, being
the daughter o’ your elder brother,” Isabeau argued. “Ever since she turned
twenty-four last September, there have been more reports o’ people recalling
those auld stories, o’ how she was named Banrìgh for just one day—”
“It was no’ a
day,” Lachlan said in exasperation. “A matter o’ hours only. And she was naught
but a newborn babe. How could she have ruled?”
“She could no’
have, o’ course,” Isabeau answered. “But the point is, ye did no’ name her
Banrìgh-in-waiting and appoint yourself as the Regent until she was auld enough
to rule. Ye took the throne for yourself and named your children heirs—”
Lachlan leaped
to his feet, shoving his chair back so hard it crashed over to the floor. “She
was the Ensorcellor’s get!” he roared. “A Fairgean half-breed!”
“She’s only
one-quarter Fairgean,” Isabeau pointed out reasonably. “And the sea faeries are
our friends and allies now, remember.”
“Her mother
cold-bloodedly seduced my brother and married him just so she could break the
back o’ our power,” Lachlan cried, his wings flaring open. “She murdered
hundreds and thousands o’ innocent men, women, and children. Her daughter was
only conceived with the help o’ a Spell o’ Begetting, and even then Maya sought
the most evil time for her conception and birth—”
“Except Bronwen
was premature, thanks to me,” Isabeau said.
“The point is
she’s the Ensorcellor’s daughter!”
“The point is
she’s Jaspar’s daughter,” Isabeau said softly. “Do no’ glare at me like that,
Lachlan. I am simply reminding ye what people are saying. I had no’ heard those
auld tales for many a long year, but since Bronwen has turned twenty-four, I’ve
been hearing them again, from all over the country. Nina and Iven heard them in
Ravenshaw only a few weeks ago. There are some that call ye the Auld Pretender,
I’ve heard.”
“What!”
“Dinna tease
him, Isabeau! Lachlan, ye ken none o’ this is news. Sit down and stop shouting
at Beau. Do ye want the whole court to hear ye?”
Lachlan took a
deep breath. Slowly his wings sank down, and the yellow glare went out of his
eyes. He picked up his chair and sat down, his arms crossed over his burly
chest, his brows knotted. He looked at Isabeau angrily.
“What I’m trying
to say is Bronwen has no need to have ye killed,” Isabeau said gently. “She
will rule in time anyway, hand in hand with Donncan, who adores her. Ye say she
would like to wield the Lodestar. Well, happen that is true. Who is to say that
she and Donncan canna raise the Lodestar together, like they did at the Battle
o’ Bonnyblair? Either way, I do no’ believe Bronwen wishes to inherit a land
soaked in blood.”
“Happen no’,”
Lachlan said heavily. “But what o’ those who seek to find power for themselves
through her? It is hard to challenge an established order. I have been Rìgh now
for twenty-four years; I have proved myself worthy o’ the crown. But if I was
dead, and the court in chaos—well, it would be easier then to challenge the
legitimacy o’ Donncan’s claim and to set Bronwen up as rival.”
“It would have
to be done soon then,” Iseult said. “Afore she and Donncan were married.”
Just then, there
was a knock on the door. Mathias Bright-Eyed opened it with a bow, and Roy
Steward came in, carrying a tray. He bowed to the Rìgh, gave the Banrìgh a
smaller genuflection, inclined his head to the Keybearer, laid the tray down
quietly on the table, and then withdrew.
Lewen went and
poured the twin sisters each a cup of hot rose-hip tea with a swirl of honey.
They accepted it with thanks, and he went back to the table to make the dancey
for the Rìgh. Once it was brewed, he poured the seething black liquid into a
small cup for Lachlan, adding a dash of mare’s milk.
“I’ll have a
drop o’ the water o’ life too, I think,” the Rìgh said with a wry twist of his
mouth. “It’s no’ every day ye hear death’s bells.”
“Aye, my laird,”
Lewen said, and poured in a generous measure of whiskey from the crystal
decanter on the sideboard.
“Give Owein some
as well,” the Rìgh instructed. “It’s been a shock for him too.”
Owein accepted
the cup of whiskey-laced dancey with thanks and tossed it back with a grimace.
Lewen poured him another cup, glad to see some color returning to his friend’s
face.
“Sit down, lad,”
Iseult said, sipping her tea with a grateful sigh. “I think the squiring
lessons are over for the day. Ye too, Lewen. Get yourself a cup o’ something if
ye like.”
Lewen shook his
head shyly and sat down on a chair against the wall, grateful to take his
weight off his feet but uncomfortable to be on such terms of intimacy with the
Rìgh and Banrìgh. Although he knew Lachlan counted his father as a good friend,
Lewen was still very much in awe of the royal couple.
There was a long
moment of frowning silence; then Isabeau said, “Let us no’ get too hung up on
the idea that any assassination threat must be linked to Bronwen. Ye have other
enemies, surely?”
Lachlan shot her
a rueful glance. “Who, me?”
Who, you-hooh?the owl asked.
Isabeau managed
a smile.
“Ye spoke afore
o’ Ravenshaw,” Iseult said. “Could this dream o’ Olwynne’s be linked to the
news Iven and Nina brought us about all the murders there? I mean, Olwynne did
dream o’ ravens.”
Isabeau nodded.
“That thought has been very much in my mind.”
“It surely is no
coincidence that I have two hanging charges on my hands at once,” Lachlan said.
“There is the satyricorn girl who killed Connor, and the laird o’ Fettercairn,
charged with necromancy, o’ all things.”
“Could it be one
o’ them who seeks to kill ye?” Iseult asked. “Perhaps to stop the death penalty
from being passed?”
“Do no’ forget
that Connor was on his way to us with news when he was killed,” Lachlan said.
“He would no’ have tried to cross the Razor’s Edge without sore need. Nina and
Iven have pleaded for clemency on the satyricorn’s behalf, but I canna help but
wonder if she kent the news Connor was carrying and killed him so the news
could no’ reach us.”
Lewen’s cheeks
burned, and he had to bite back a sudden rush of angry words. Isabeau glanced
his way, and he turned his gaze to his boots.
“What news could
he have had?” Iseult wondered.
“Connor was with
my uncle when he died,” Lachlan said. “Malcolm was often called mad, but though
he was certainly eccentric, he was no fool. Perhaps he knew something o’ this
nest o’ necromancers? If what Nina and Iven suspect is true, the laird o’
Fettercairn is responsible for countless kidnappings and murders as well as
grave robbing and the calling up o’ the spirits o’ the dead.”
Lewen could keep
quiet no longer. “It is true,” he said indignantly. “I was there!”
Lachlan looked
at him with interest. “Aye, I ken ye were, lad. But ye did no’ see the
necromancy yourself, did ye?”
“Nay,” Lewen
admitted. “But I saw them try to kill Rhiannon, to stop her talking o’ it. And
I was there when they kidnapped Roden.”
“And ye’ll be
called to testify at Lord Malvern’s trial, no doubt,” Iseult said coolly, “but,
for now, do ye ken aught about the news Connor was carrying from Ravenscraig?”
It was a snub.
Lewen colored hotly and muttered, “Nay, my lady.”
“Well, then,”
Iseult said and turned back to Lachlan, who scratched his beard ruminatively.
“I have to
wonder why, if Malcolm did ken about the necromancy and so on, he did naught
about it? Apparently it’s been going on for years.”
Lewen could have
told them why, but he stared at his boots and said nothing.
“Nina says
everyone who lives in the Fetterness Valley is too afraid and too much in awe
o’ the laird to say a thing,” Isabeau said, as if reading his mind.
“And if that was
the news Connor carried, why would he feel it was o’ such urgency that he
risked coming through the Whitelock Mountains? As far as I ken, the last time
anyone came safely over the Razor’s Edge was when Duncan Ironheart and I fled
the Red Guards in Ravenshaw. That was no’ long afore I first met ye, Isabeau.”
He turned his brooding yellow gaze to Isabeau’s face.
Isabeau nodded.
Her gaze dropped down to her fingers entwined in her lap.
Lewen’s eyes
followed hers involuntarily. She felt his gaze and twisted her hands so that
her left hand, the crippled one, was hidden in a fold of her skirt.
Lewen had heard
the story of Isabeau and Lachlan’s first meeting, although it was not a tale
the jongleurs told in the city inns. As far as he knew, few had heard the whole
tale. Lewen’s mother, Lilanthe, was one of those few.
Lachlan had been
a prisoner of the Anti-Witchcraft League, bound hand and foot, bruised and
bloodied, and naked beneath his filthy cloak of nyx hair. In a moment of
despair he had called out in the language most natural to him, the language of
birds, and, hidden in a tree above the witch-sniffers’ camp, Isabeau had heard
him and determined to rescue him.
Thanks to her
magic she had succeeded, but the next night Lachlan had stolen all her food and
her knife and disappeared. Isabeau had found herself hunted by the
Anti-Witchcraft League. She had been captured and tortured, and the fingers of
one hand had been pulped in a cruel machine called the pilliwinkes.
Although her
remaining two fingers and thumb were now adorned with her three sorceress
rings—a golden dragoneye stone; a glowing emerald that had once belonged to her
guardian, Meghan of the Beasts; and a heavy square-cut ruby—Isabeau still
instinctively hid her crippled hand from view. Her other hand was laden with
rings, five in all, showing that she was a sorceress of eight rings, the most
powerful witch since the time of Morgause the Bright. Isabeau had been heard to
say that it was just as well she had not the power to win another sorceress
ring as she had no more fingers to wear a ring upon.
“Ye ken what’s
interesting,” Lachlan was saying. “Duncan and I and the other Blue Guards—we
crossed the Razor’s Edge to flee the laird o’ Fettercairn. He had legions o’
soldiers scouring the land for us. It was our chance to escape him.”
“Och, aye,”
Lewen said, again forgetting himself in his eagerness. “We heard the tale in
Ravenshaw. Ye’d tricked your way into Fettercairn Castle—”
“That’s right,”
Lachlan said with a sudden grin of amusement. He turned to Iseult and Isabeau.
“It was back in the days when we were all rebels, fighting to undermine Maya
and running around rescuing witches and faeries from the Burning. We sneaked
into Fettercairn Castle to rescue Oonagh the White, who become sorceress o’ Dùn
Gorm—do ye remember her?”
Isabeau nodded.
“She was only a
lass then, and we kent she’d be tortured cruelly afore they killed her. We
couldna take the castle by force—it is far too strong, and there was only a
handful o’ us. So we came in hidden in the dung cart. Foul, but effective.” He
grinned, remembering.
“Anyway, we got
in all right but we couldna get out. They had a witch-sniffer there at the
castle, a strong one, and a great many soldiers. We had a hard fight o’ it but
managed to subdue them in the end, I canna quite remember how. I think some o’
the castle folk helped us. I remember we put the witch-sniffer on trial. It was
something we liked to do back then, I think in some kind o’ protest at the sham
they had made o’ the justice system.”
“Aye, so we
heard, my laird,” Lewen said. “It was one o’ the auld potboys who told us. They
did help ye. They locked all the soldiers up.”
“Good on them,”
Lachlan said. “That certainly would have helped.”
“So what
happened?” Owein asked in lively curiosity. His color had come back and he was
listening with great interest, always enjoying the stories of his parents’ wild
adventures.
“The
witch-sniffer—whose name I forget . . .”
“It’s Laird
Malvern,” Lewen said impatiently. “He’s the one ye have locked up for
necromancy. It’s the same man.”
“Is it now? I
had no’ realized. . . . So how does he come to be laird o’ Fettercairn now?”
“It was his
brother whom ye killed, my laird,” Lewen said. “Malvern inherited the title
after that.”
“Ye killed the
laird o’ Fettercairn’s brother?” Iseult exclaimed. “Surely that’s reason to
want ye dead.”
“Except it was
twenty-four years ago,” Lachlan said. “Surely if he wanted revenge for his
brother’s death, he would have sought it a long time since.”
“He said revenge
was a dish best eaten cold,” Lewen said.
“The laird o’
Fettercairn said that?” Iseult demanded.
“Aye, my lady.”
“But was there
no’ a son?” Lachlan asked. “I’m sure the laird I kent had a son.”
“He died too,”
Lewen said. “The laird hid his wife and the little boy in a secret room, for
safekeeping, ye ken, but then ye killed him, and no one kent where they were
hidden. They were there for days. The lad died o’ hunger and cold, and his
mother was driven mad with grief.”
Isabeau sighed.
“How very sad.”
“And all the
more reason to hate ye, Lachlan,” Iseult said grimly.
Lachlan was
perturbed. “Aye, true indeed. What a tale! I had no idea.”
“Surely ye could
no’ have kent!” Isabeau said, her eyes sparkling with tears. “Ye could never
have left them there to die, surely!”
“We had to flee
for our lives,” Lachlan said defensively. “How was I to ken the laird had
hidden away his wife and son? I never meant to kill him. He attacked me!”
“How in the name
o’ the White Gods did ye manage to kill him?” Iseult said dryly. “If I remember
rightly, ye were no’ much o’ a fighter till I took ye in hand.”
“A lucky
stroke,” Lachlan replied, looking peeved. “Or should I say an unlucky stroke?”
“Very unlucky
for the poor wee lad,” Isabeau said.
“His ghost
haunts the castle,” Lewen said. “Rhiannon saw him, and I think I did too.”
Owein gave a
superstitious shiver.
“We really did
no’ ken that the wife and son were missing,” Lachlan said, half-pleading,
half-angry. “We thought they’d escaped with the witch-sniffer. He’d slipped
away in the fighting—we didna ken how or where. A week or so later he came back
with an army. We had to bolt in the night. The only safe way out o’ Ravenshaw
was over the Razor’s Edge and no’ all o’ us made it, I can tell ye! There are
ogres up there, and hordes o’ goblins—”
“And
satyricorns,” Iseult reminded him, with a glance at Lewen.
“Aye, indeed, as
poor Connor found out,” Lachlan said. He rubbed the Lodestar thoughtfully, and
a low hum of music rose, almost as if the silver orb was purring. Then,
suddenly, the Rìgh exclaimed, “That’s right! I remember now. The raven.”
He looked around
the circle of intently listening faces. “A raven followed us for days. Right
over the Razor’s Edge and into Lucescere. It was soon after that I was caught
by the Awl, which was when you took it into your wool-witted head to rescue me,
Isabeau.”
“More fool me,”
Isabeau said mildly.
He grinned at
her, suddenly looking much younger. “Aye, I’ve always said so.”
“So ye think the
raven that followed ye was Laird Malvern’s raven?” Iseult said. “Spying on ye?”
“Could be,”
Lachlan answered. “What a shame I did no’ have my bonny Stormwing back then. He
would soon have got rid o’ the blaygird birdie for me.” He sighed, his face
darkening as he thought of his beloved gyrfalcon who had died the previous
winter at a very venerable age.
“I wonder if the
raven with Laird Malvern is the same bird,” Owein said. “Surely no’!”
“Familiars can
live unnaturally long,” Isabeau said, putting up one hand to caress the elf-owl
perched on her shoulder. Buba had been asleep, her head sunk down deep into her
snowy feathers, but at the touch of the Keybearer’s hand her round face popped
up and her golden eyes snapped open indignantly.
Who-hooh?
What-hooh?
“Naught, naught,
go back to sleep,” Isabeau crooned affectionately.
“So the laird o’
Fettercairn blames ye for his brother’s death, and his nephew’s too,” Iseult
said. “I think we should keep a close eye on him.”
“He’s safe in
prison and can do me no harm,” Lachlan said reassuringly. “Besides, did Olwynne
no’ dream o’ a woman?”
“Well, all we
can do is keep a sharp watch and try to keep ye safe,” Isabeau said. “I will
set my spies to gathering what information they can, and when Ghislaine is well
enough, I will walk the dream-road with her again. Owein, Lewen, I want ye to
watch and listen too. Nobody notices squires. Happen ye will hear something
that I or your parents would no’.”
Owein and Lewen
both nodded.
Isabeau got to
her feet, gathering up her skirts in one hand. “I will go back now and check on
Olwynne.”
Iseult was
leaning her head on her hand, looking pale and unhappy. She rose with a sigh,
saying, “I’ll come too. I feel so bad that my poor Olwynne has been suffering
these nightmares and I never kent. I’ve been too busy. . . .” Her voice trailed
away, and then she turned suddenly to her husband. “Stay close to the palace,
Lachlan,” she said urgently. “Do no’ go anywhere without your bodyguard, do ye
hear me?”
“Do no’ fear,leannan
,” Lachlan said, putting his arm about her. “I’m a tough auld rooster and hard
to kill.”
“I hope so,” she
whispered, then straightened her back as Lewen opened the door for her,
sweeping out with her face set in its usual stern, proud lines. One by one the
others followed her, all trying to conceal their perturbation at the news
Isabeau had brought.
Outside the door,
Mathias stood rigidly, staring straight ahead. He hoped none of his anger and
resentment could be seen on his face. How dare the Banrìgh say the divine
Bronwen dressed like a whore!
Mathias had
never liked the Banrìgh. She had criticized his swordsmanship in front of the
whole company and then shamed him by knocking him flat on his back with a
single blow. “The job o’ a Yeoman o’ the Guard is to protect his Rìgh, no’
merely to look good on horseback and on the dance floor,” she had said to the
assembled soldiers. “Just because we are at peace does no’ mean we should allow
ourselves to get slack and soft. I would like to see less partying and more
sword and bow practice.”
Just the memory
was enough to make Mathias burn with humiliation. For weeks, it had been
thought a great joke for fellow Yeomen to thrust a finger into his belly as
hard as they could, while shaking their heads and saying, “Aye, soft he is
indeed.” Other jokes had been lewder and more difficult to shrug off with a
laugh. Even his captain had exclaimed once in aggravation, “Are ye as soft in
the head as ye are in the belly, Mat?” much to his companions’ amusement.
It did not help
to tell himself they were just jealous of his popularity among the court ladies
or suspicious of his Fairgean ancestry. Mathias knew the Banrìgh had been right
in her estimation of him. He could swim faster than any other Yeoman, and dance
the galliard with greater grace and agility, and sing love songs as sweetly as
any minstrel. All of these gifts were extremely useful in the true life of the
court and had brought him to the attention of the Banprionnsa Bronwen and her
circle, the most beautiful and fashionable of all the sets at court. They were
not likely to endear him to the Banrìgh, though, for she scorned the more
frivolous of the court’s entertainments.
Mathias had not
been appointed a Yeoman of the Guard for nothing. He was a strong wrestler, an excellent
rider, a skilled sailor, a clever swordsman, and a very pretty shot with the
longbow, the harquebus, and the new matchlock pistol now gaining popularity
among the guards. It was just that there was little need for these arts of war
nowadays, when all was peaceful and prosperous. Most of the work of the Yeomen
was really quite boring, standing about in full ceremonial dress and trying not
to yawn at yet another long-winded speech from some pompous bore. It was far
more pleasant to dance the night away, and show off his swimming and diving
skills to the flocks of fluttering ladies, and ride to hounds, than it was to
slog his way around the practice field with his fellow Yeomen.
So his
swordsmanship had grown a little rusty, and perhaps he was not such a keen shot
as he had been when he had first joined the Yeomen. There was no need for the
Banrìgh to single him out. Unless, of course, she had heard how favored he was
by the divine Bronwen.
Thinking about
Bronwen made Mathias grow hot and uncomfortable. Often he could not sleep at
night for thinking about her, all his sheets getting twisted about his legs and
body as he writhed about, pressing his pillow into his aching groin. There was
no other girl like her—with hair like black silk, and eyes like the sea at
dawn, and a figure of such sinuous grace it could haunt a man. Wherever she
went, heads turned. No one could be indifferent to her. And brave! The Banrìgh
sneered at the way her daughter-in-law-to-be dressed yet did not have the wit
to realize how much courage and pride it took for a girl like Bronwen to reveal
her gills and fins in a court that had not forgotten the last Fairgean War.
Mathias stared
straight ahead, hoping his fellow guard did not notice how hot his cheeks were.
He admired this bravery of the Banprionnsa as much as he admired her beauty. He
himself was the son of a half-Fairgean woman. She had always worn her sleeves
long and her collars high, and had dreaded anyone noticing the strange silvery
shimmer of her skin in certain lights. Mathias had inherited her vivid
sea-colored eyes and her singing voice, but not her gills and fins. He had
spent most of his childhood hoping no one would ever find out about his
mother’s ancestry.
The Banprionnsa
had recognized the strangeness in him at once. Or so Mathias believed. Perhaps
it was just because no one could dance the lavolta as well as he. It was a
bold, lithe dance, the lavolta, with plenty of room for a man to show off his
leaps and twirls. Often when he and the Banprionnsa danced together, other
couples would move to the side of the room to watch and applaud and to murmur
behind their fans.
At first Mathias
had been afraid to dance with the Banprionnsa. She was affianced to the Rìgh’s
son and heir, and was the daughter of Maya the Mute, whose role as a servant at
the Tower of Two Moons in no way detracted from her dangerous aura of barely
contained power. He had been aware of Bronwen watching him once or twice,
however, and had exerted himself to impress her. A smile had curled her lips, but
he had not had the audacity to go up to her. Indeed, to do so would have been
to court the eye of every gossip at the court, for Bronwen was watched closely
and not always kindly.
One evening she
had boldly beckoned him over, asking him sweetly if he found her ugly.
“Nay, my lady,”
he had stammered.
“Ye find me
awkward, then? Ungainly?”
“O’ course no’,
my lady,” he had protested.
“Ye have a
lover? A lady bonnier than me?”
“Nay, my lady,”
he had answered, growing brave enough to look her in the eye.
“And I can see
with my own eyes that it is no’ men ye desire.”
He had been
scandalized. “O’ course no’!”
“Then why do ye
no’ ask me to dance, Mathias o’ the Bright Eyes?”
He had not known
how to reply. After a few awkward phrases, in which he had tried to frame his
respect for her and for her betrothed, she had grown bored and dismissed him
with a wave of her hand. “Well, then, if ye are so easily frightened away, do
no’ worry,” she had said. “I am never short o’ dancing partners.”
Which was all
too true. Bronwen was the most sought-after lady of the court. After a week of
watching her dance with other men, Mathias had found the courage to solicit her
hand, and since then they had often danced, Bronwen laughing and glowing with
pleasure at his skill, and sometimes deigning to flirt with him a little too.
His stomach
clenched at the memory. He could not wait to see the Banprionnsa again that
night. She was holding a private party in her suite, and only a select few were
invited—maybe twenty or thirty, no more. It was an honor indeed to have been
asked. Mathias wondered if she knew that her bridegroom was on his way back to
Lucescere, and if his return would mean the end of these intimate parties. He
hoped not, since this party would be his first.
Mathias knew, of
course, that he was not meant to have heard the news of Donncan’s return, let
alone the Banrìgh’s comment about the way Bronwen dressed. Mathias had
exceptionally good hearing, however, which meant that he often heard things not
meant for his ears. In general, he did not repeat what he had heard, unless he
had had a few too many drinks and it was too tasty a tidbit to keep to himself,
in which case he always exacted a solemn vow of honor that his confidants would
not tell.
In general, he
did not bother listening to the private conversation between the Rìgh and the
Banrìgh. It was only hearing Bronwen’s name that had caught his attention
today. Even then, with his ears straining, he managed to catch only snatches of
the conversation. He had heard enough to feel a bitter resentment against the
Rìgh and Banrìgh, though. He did not know which comment troubled him the most,
the Banrìgh’s spiteful remark about Bronwen, or the Rìgh declaring that she was
nothing but a Fairgean half-breed.
Although Mathias
had done his best to conceal his own Fairgean blood, it made his jaw clench
with anger hearing Lachlan speak that way. For all their assertions of
equality, the Rìgh and Banrìgh were as racist and intolerant as any of the old
Red Guard, Mathias thought. To think Bronwen had to marry into such a family!
No doubt Donncan felt the same way as his parents. Once they were married, he
would frown at her and tell her to cover up her arms and throat, and stop
swimming in public, just like the ladies of the court always did. Bronwen the
Bonny deserved better. He went off into a daydream, imagining the Banprionnsa
turning to him in distress when she heard what her betrothed’s parents really
thought of her. The daydream was so sweet that Mathias tingled all over, and
barely heard a word grey-haired Ferrand said to him. He could not wait for the
party that night!
Hung with
curtains of sea-green gauze that swirled and swayed in the breeze, and painted
with the undulating forms of nixies diving through waterweed, Bronwen’s suite was
unlike anything Mathias had ever seen before. He felt as if he had fallen
through the ocean into another world.
The three long
rooms were filled with the sound of splashing water, for they opened out onto a
narrow terrace that overlooked the fountains in the formal gardens before the
palace. Lit only by the dancing flames of candles, the room was filled with
flickering shadows that played over the pointed faces of the faeries painted on
the walls so that they seemed to smile and wink.
All three rooms,
including the Banprionnsa’s boudoir, were thronged with people, standing and
chatting with glasses in their hands, or sitting on the low couches pushed
against the walls. One daring couple reclined on the bed, which was hung with
curtains of the palest green gauze. Other couples twirled about the sitting
room, while a trio of musicians played out on the terrace. In the center of the
boudoir was a sunken pool filled with water, faintly tinged green with the
mineral salts and seaweed extract the Banprionnsa added to make it as much like
the sea as she could. Flower-shaped candles floated on the water, the bright
reflections of their flames shimmering and dissolving.
Bronwen and her
ladies had once scandalized the court by swimming an aquatic ballet in this
pool during one of her parties. Although the ladies-in-waiting had been dressed
in cunningly designed swimming suits, a lot of bare skin had nonetheless been
seen, and Bronwen had of course transformed into her sea shape, which Mathias
privately thought was the true cause of the scandal. Although everyone knew she
could grow a tail like a fish, no one really wanted to be reminded of it, he
thought.
Tonight the
Banprionnsa looked ravishing in a clinging satin gown the color of
mother-of-pearl, with a low neckline and short cap sleeves that barely skimmed
her shoulders. The fins that curved down her arms were almost the same color as
the dress so that they looked like part of its design. Many of the ladies at
the party had similar frills of silk or organza tied to their arms with
ribbons. To think a Fairge’s fins were now fashionable! Mathias wished his
mother was alive to appreciate the irony.
As Bronwen
danced the dress swirled up around her slim ankles, showing a pair of silver
sandals that were little more than a few glittery straps. Her toenails were
painted silver, and she wore an anklet of silver bells that chimed softly.
Mathias’s blood
quickened at the sight of her, and he was not the only one, he realized. Many
of the men thronging the room were watching her. Mathias grabbed a glass off a
tray carried by a suave manservant dressed all in black, and tossed it back.
The liquor burned its way down into his gullet like acid, and he choked.
“What . . . in
blazes . . . was that?” he cried, trying to catch his breath.
“Seasquill wine,
sir,” the manservant said. “The Fairgean ambassador gave Her Highness a barrel
o’ it, as Her Highness was curious to taste the favored drink o’ the sea
faeries. I fear it is rather strong.”
“That’s an
understatement,” Mathias said but grabbed another glass, conscious of a warm
glow spreading all through his body.
He drank this
more carefully, his eyes resting on Bronwen’s lithe form. She was dancing with
Aindrew MacRuraich, who was trying, with limited success, to draw Bronwen
closer. She was leaning back on his arm, laughing. Mathias tried to repress the
surge of jealousy that rose in him like black bile. He swallowed another
mouthful of the seasquill wine, gasped and coughed, and leaned his shoulder
against the wall, glaring at the heir to the throne of Rurach, who, he decided,
he had never liked.
The Fairgean
ambassador, Alta, an arrogant man with ice-blue eyes, was standing on the far
side of the room, his form draped in a magnificent cloak of white sealskin.
Diamonds flashed on his breast and in his ears, and he wore a small black pearl
suspended at the pulse in his throat. He was a sinuous creature, all lean
muscle and sinew, and his skin gleamed with close-knit, silken scales. Tusks
curved up from either side of his narrow mouth. His eyes, eerily pale, followed
Bronwen as she skipped up the center of the room, through the archway of
up-raised arms.
Beside him stood
another Fairgean lord, named Frey, a glass of seasquill wine in his webbed
hand. The look in his eyes as he watched Bronwen was very close to that of his
superior, a mingling of speculation, amusement, and blatant desire. It made
Mathias want to punch them both to the ground.
There were other
Fairgean among the crowd, all men, as the sea faeries did not allow their
womenfolk the same freedom as humans did. They did not dance but busied
themselves gambling and drinking at various small gilded tables drawn up around
the walls. All of the young prionnsachan currently studying at the Theurgia
were also there, dressed in their best silks and velvets. Hearne MacAhern was
flirting with Heloïse NicFaghan, while her twin brother Alasdair gambled
recklessly with the towheaded Fymbar MacThanach of Blèssem, who was losing
steadily, being unable to wrest his eyes away from Bronwen.
The attendance
of so many of Eileanan’s young nobility was no surprise, Mathias thought
drunkenly. What added so much piquancy to Bronwen’s gatherings was the
unexpected. Bronwen had gathered around her many of the faery kind, some of
whom rarely joined in the royal court’s revelries. Mathias saw a couple of
corrigans, big hulking creatures with only one eye in the center of their
foreheads, and a tree-shifter with sweeping twiggy hair. There was even a
seelie, the rarest and most beautiful of all faery kind, sitting on a chair
with his knees drawn up to his pointed chin, watching the eddying crowd with
slanted green eyes. A nisse was cuddled up under his golden hair, chattering
away in her own shrill language.
Maura, the
little bogfaery who had once been Bronwen’s nursemaid, was busy carrying around
a tray of tasty delicacies and making sure everyone’s glass was full. When she
was satisfied that all were comfortable, she sat down on a low couch against
the wall, where a plump and elderly cluricaun also sat, a snuffbox in one hand,
and gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. The bogfaery and the cluricaun
seemed like old friends, for they spoke together comfortably, neither of their
feet reaching the floor.
Dancing with
Prionnsa Owein was a snow-haired Celestine girl, daughter of the Stargazer
herself, dressed in a superb silken gown of palest shimmering yellow. Mathias
had never spoken a word to her and found her crystalline gaze very hard to
meet. It seemed to him that she saw straight into his heart, and saw all the
fears and resentment and jealousy he hid there. She and Bronwen seemed very
good friends, though, for after the Banprionnsa had extracted herself from
Aindrew MacRuraich’s arms, she went and seized the Celestine by the hand. They
embraced warmly and sat close together on a couch by the wall, holding each
other’s hands and staring intently into each other’s eyes. No matter how hard
Mathias tried, he could hear nothing of what they said to each other. Indeed,
their mouths were not moving. It made Mathias extremely uncomfortable. He
tossed back another glass of seasquill wine and watched covertly, a maggot of
jealousy and spite worming its way into his heart.
My dearest
Thunderlily! I’m so glad ye came. I ken ye’ve been studying hard. No’ long now,
and ye’ll be finished with school and able to come dancing with me every night!
I do no’ think
so,
the Celestine answered.My mother hopes to come and see ye wed at midsummer,
and I know she will say it is time I went home. I have not seen the garden of
my family for three years now.
Bronwen frowned.But
surely your mother willna demand ye go back right away?
I am sure she
will,
Thunderlily answered.I am, as you know, the first of my kind to study side
by side with those of humankind. My mother was happy to allow me to do so, but
I am and shall always be a Celestine, and my place is among those of my own
kind.
But ye will come
and visit us often, won’t ye?
The Celestine
shrugged again.I would like to, you know that, but the Auld Ways are growing
dangerous again, my mother says, and they are restricting passage upon them.
That is why I have not gone home in so long: my mother does not wish me to walk
the ways by myself. This midsummer, they will sing the summerbourne again, and
that will, I hope, drive away the malevolent spirits that haunt the roads, for
a time at least, so that my mother can come to your wedding. It will be safe
for me to walk the ways home, then, with my people.
Bronwen looked
unhappy.I do not wish ye to go. Everything is changing.
That is the
nature of life,
the Celestine answered tranquilly.All must change.
Well, I do no’
want it to!
You are to be
married, sea-child. Surely that is the greatest change of all. You will be a
wife and, in time, a mother. Although I cannot see both ways along the thread
of time, as the dragons do, I am sure this lies ahead for you. Why does this
make you unhappy? It is my fate also, and my fate then to kill my beloved. At
least this is a cruelty you will be spared.
Bronwen moved
restlessly and for the first time dropped her gaze from the Celestine’s
star-bright eyes.
Do you not wish
to marry him? Why, sea-child?
Bronwen tossed
her head, and hunched one shoulder.We are too different. He is a creature o’
the sky and the air, and I am a creature o’ the sea. Ye ken that; ye are the
one to call me sea-child. What do ye call Donncan?
The winged one.
Ye see?
Yet he loves
you, and you, I thought, loved him. Are you not unhappy because he has spent so
much time away this past year?
What do I care?
You know you
cannot lie to a Celestine, Thunderlily said.
Bronwen pleated
her dress with her fingers.
You have never
before tried to hide your feelings from me. I am troubled that you do so now. I
can see that you are restless and unhappy. Will you let me touch you,
sea-child, and see you clear?
Bronwen shook
her head.I canna , she said silently, a touch of pleading in her
mind-voice.Come, be no’ so grave, Thunderlily. We’re at a party!
I do not know
any other way to be,
Thunderlily said.
“I will teach
ye,” Bronwen said aloud. She seized Thunderlily’s hands and pulled her up,
laughing at her. “Come and taste the seasquill wine. I tell ye, it’s wicked
stuff! One glass and ye’ll feel quite giddy, I swear. Then let us dance. I’ll
be the man and show ye the steps. Come on!”
She seized a glass
from the tray and held it to Thunderlily’s lips. The Celestine smiled and took
a sip. Her bright eyes, as clear as water, opened very wide and she made a
hoarse rasping sound deep in her throat.
“Horrid, isn’t
it?” Bronwen laughed. “That’s one custom o’ the Fairgean I think I’ll pass up.
Here, have some goldensloe wine! Much more to your taste, I imagine. Maura!”
The bogfaery got
up and brought the Celestine a glass of the rich, sweet-scented wine, which she
sipped gratefully. Then Bronwen pulled Thunderlily on to the floor, holding
both her hands and swinging her about so that the Celestine’s yellow skirts
billowed about her like a twirling buttercup.
The Yeoman
gulped another glassful of the seasquill wine. He could not understand why
Bronwen wanted to dance with that strange-looking Celestine girl instead of
with him. The Banprionnsa had hardly noticed he was here, tossing him a quick
smile when she had met his brooding gaze but otherwise ignoring him. He propped
his shoulders against the wall, watching the two girls dancing in the center of
the room, smiling at each other warmly. He saw Aindrew MacRuraich was watching
too, looking rather put out, and the Fairgean ambassador was frowning, his lips
pressed firmly together.
The music
changed to a slower promenade, and several of Bronwen’s ladies-in-waiting got
up and came, giggling, to dance, so that the floor was full of swirling skirts,
like a meadow full of flowers. It was not usual for two women to dance
together, but Bronwen always took great pleasure in thwarting convention, and
her ladies-in-waiting enjoyed copying her. After a moment, the dance floor
cleared of other dancers, everyone standing around and watching as the women
danced as close as lovers.
The music
stopped, and the servants circulated with more wine and food. Mathias drained
another glassful, then came forward with a surge, ready to beg Bronwen for the
next dance. He collided with Aindrew MacRuraich, who had leaped forward with
the same intention. By the time they had disentangled themselves, both rigid
with fury, the Fairgean ambassador was bowing over Bronwen’s hand.
“Ye seem heated,
Your Highness,” the Fairgean murmured. “May I suggest we retreat to the terrace
for some fresh air? And perhaps a glass o’ something cool?”
“Thank ye,”
Bronwen replied. “How kind.”
At once the
ambassador straightened and snapped his fingers at Frey, then offered Bronwen
his arm, escorting her out to the terrace, which was strung with garlands of
tiny filigree lanterns. Frey took them out a tray of sea-grape juice in tall
glasses clinking with ice, as well as another pewter decanter of seasquill
wine.
Aindrew
straightened his velvet doublet and went over to talk to Owein and Alasdair,
but Mathias went to stand by the tall glass doors leading out to the terrace.
He told himself he did not trust the ambassador, and he wanted to be nearby in
case the Banprionnsa needed him. As Maura trotted past with a laden tray, he
grabbed another of the tiny glasses of seasquill wine. It was making his head
swim, but it was not an unpleasant sensation.
“Tell me more
about the sea serpents,” Bronwen was saying. “I saw some once, ye ken, when I
was a wee girl. They were so beautiful, and so big. How can ye possibly tame
them?”
The ambassador
spread his hands. “They are raised from the egg to respond only to the secret
words o’ the jaka, who are the most elite o’ all warriors,” he answered. “Wild
sea serpents are very dangerous indeed. There is no point trying to ride one.
They will only plunge under the ocean and drown ye, or crush ye in their
coils.”
“I would so love
to ride a sea serpent one day,” she said. “Perhaps I will come and visit ye in
the Fathomless Caves, so ye could take me out on one.”
She said this in
a voice of gentle raillery and was obviously taken aback when the ambassador
straightened his back and said abruptly, “I’m afraid that would be impossible.
No woman is permitted to ride a sea serpent. They are only for warriors.”
“Oh, but I’m
sure ye could make an exception for me,” she said.
Alta bowed
curtly. “I am sorry, Your Highness. Sea serpents are dangerous creatures. It
would no’ be suitable.”
She sighed. “Ye
ken, sir, ye do no’ encourage me to want to visit ye, as ye are always urging I
do.”
He bent his head
over hers. “Indeed I do urge it, Your Highness. The blood o’ the people o’ Jor
runs in your veins; it is there in the sheen o’ your skin and the frill o’ your
fins. Ye should no’ have grown to womanhood knowing naught o’ your people.
There are many things I wish to show ye. Though ye may no’ ride upon the back
o’ a sea serpent yourself, ye can watch the warriors in their races and jousts,
and it is permitted for women to ride on porpoise-back, which they seem to
enjoy. Then ye could play with the sea otters as they slide down the icebergs
into the ocean, or ye could bathe in the hot pools o’ the Fathomless Caves. The
water there is rich and strong, Your Highness, and fills ye with such strength
and vitality. Then, at night, the sky is filled with a thousand stars and with
curtains o’ colored light we call Ryza’s Veils, after the god o’ dreams and
visions. It is very beautiful.”
Bronwen looked
up at him, fascinated. “I would like to see it,” she sighed.
“Then why do ye
no’ come to the Isle o’ the Gods to see for yourself? I believe those o’
humankind often go on a tour after they are married. Why do ye and your husband
no’ come to see the Fathomless Caves? Your husband should know about your
ancestry as much as ye should.”
“It is so far,”
she stammered, looking down again, discomposed to find him so close. “I dinna
think Donncan—”
“But are ye no’
to be his wife and his Banrìgh? Use those feminine wiles on him, as I have seen
ye use them on every other man whose path ye cross.”
She drew away
from him. “I beg your pardon?”
He smiled down
at her, taking her hand. “Do no’ think I do no’ understand ye, Your Highness.
O’ course ye are bored, incarcerated here so far from the sea. That tiny little
pool is no’ enough for a princess o’ the royal Fairgean family. Ye need to swim
in the fathomless sea, ye need to feel the drag o’ the tides in your blood, ye
need to fight the waves and the icebergs and dive so deep your blood drums in
your ears.”
“Och, aye,” she
whispered. “I do. Ye’re right.”
His voice
dropped so low Mathias could hardly hear it. “Ye need to stand at the lip o’
the Fiery Womb and know the names o’ your own gods, the true gods. Ye are one
o’ those anointed by Jor, and ye do no’ even ken his name or the name o’ his
brothers.”
She stared at
him, shaken and confused. For a moment he loomed over her, his ice-pale eyes
glittering; then he let go of her hand, moving away to pour her a tiny glass of
the pungent seasquill wine. “So ye see, ye really must come to visit your
family home,” he said lightly. “I know King Nila is eager indeed to see ye
again.”
“I will try,”
she said, her voice for once unsure.
“I do hope ye
will no’ take this amiss, Your Highness, when I express my fervent hope that
your very understandable restlessness and boredom does no’ tempt ye to behave
unwisely. Your uncle, my king, is very eager to see relations between the
Fairgean and the humans continue in their current pleasing route. Any
imprudence that may cause a coolness to grow between ye and your betrothed
would be seen with great sadness by both your uncles, I fear.”
She stared at
him, flags of color flying in her cheeks.
“When is your
betrothed due back from his travels?” Alta asked. “Soon, I hope.”
“Very soon, I am
sure,” she answered coolly.
“Excellent,” he
answered. “I am looking forward to your wedding very much, and so, I may assure
ye, are King Nila and Queen Fand, who are already making preparations for the
journey.”
“I look forward
to seeing them here,” she said, looking down into her glass.
“Slàinte mhath,”he said, raising
his glass.
She inclined her
head and sipped at her glass.
Mathias could
hardly hear for the roaring in his ears. He could not have explained why he was
so angry, though he knew the ambassador’s comment about Bronwen’s feminine
wiles had cut him on the raw. He stepped onto the terrace, determined to demand
a dance from the Banprionnsa. She raised her head at the sight of him and
smiled mechanically. He bowed at the ambassador, then bent his head to press a
passionate kiss into her hand. “Your Highness,” he said urgently.
She pulled her
hand away.
Mathias was
mortified. He glared at the Fairgean ambassador, who looked aside, smiling, he
thought, mockingly. Mathias grabbed for a glass of seasquill wine and knocked
it over, spilling the potent liquor onto the tray. He crossly seized another
one and drained it dry, rocking back on his heels.
“I thought ye
wanted to dance,” he said to Bronwen sulkily.
“I think I may
withdraw now,” the ambassador said. “Thank ye for a most amusing evening, Your
Highness.”
She bent her
head, murmuring a polite response.
“Your devoted
servant,” the Fairgean said mockingly to Mathias, with a slight inclination of
his head. He then bowed low over Bronwen’s hand. “And yours, as always, Your
Highness.”
“Good night,
Alta,” Bronwen said, looking troubled. He bowed again and then left with a
dramatic swirl of his sealskin furs.
Mathias scowled.
Bronwen did not notice. She seemed preoccupied.
“I had best go
back in,” she said, looking back through the doors at the party within.
“Nay, do no’ go
in. Please stay out here. Ye look so lovely in the moonlight, Your Highness,”
Mathias said.
“No, I am
growing rather cool,” she replied, putting her glass down on the tray and
gathering up her skirt in her hand.
He sprang
towards her. “Let me keep ye warm, Your Highness!”
As soon as the
words were out of his mouth, he wished he could bite them back, but it was too
late. She turned an affronted face towards him. “I beg your pardon?”
His head
swimming, his whole body aching with longing, he seized her hand. “Ye must ken,
I live for your smile. . . . My days are filled with thoughts o’ ye. . . . Ye
canna be so cruel as to deny me—”
“Ye’re drunk,”
she said incredulously. “How dare ye? Let me go!”
He had seized
her waist, the feel of her skin beneath the sinuous satin inflaming him beyond
all reason. “Please . . . Bronwen . . .” He dragged her against him, bending
his head to kiss her lips.
She fought free.
“Are ye mad? Let me go!”
“Ye canna
pretend the way I feel is a surprise to ye,” he managed to say, though his
tongue felt thick and his brain foggy.
“Just because I
like dancing with ye does no’ mean I want ye to manhandle me,” she retorted,
trying to smooth her crushed dress. “I like dancing with many people!”
“Aye, so I’ve
seen,” Mathias said angrily. “The Banrìgh was right about ye: ye are naught but
a whore!”
“What did ye
say?”
Mathias was
conscious of having spoken unwisely, but the fumes from the seasquill wine were
clouding all thought. He swayed on his feet. “That’s what she said. This
morning. I heard her.”
“The Banrìgh
said I was a whore!”
“That’s why Prionnsa
Donncan willna come home,” he said spitefully.
Bronwen’s cheeks
were scarlet, her breast heaving with angry breaths. “How dare she!”
Mathias took an
unsteady step towards her, reaching out one hand. “Bronwen . . .”
“Do no’ dare
call me by my name,” she hissed. “Get out o’ here now! I never want to see ye
again.”
“But my lady . .
. Your Highness . . .”
“Go now, else
I’ll call my men to throw ye out.”
He tried to
marshal his thoughts, but she had spun on one foot and gone back into the
ballroom. He saw her seek refuge by Thunderlily’s side, the Celestine turning
at once to embrace her, bright eyes flying up to stare through the door and
straight into Mathias’s heart. The wrinkled eyelid of her third eye rolled back
and he saw the dark liquid well of her secret orb stripping him of all
pretences. He shrank back, trembling, aghast.
After a few
moments, he hurried back through the ballroom and out into the corridor,
knocking over a table with his hip. All the way he was conscious of the
Celestine’s terrifying three-eyed gaze.
Olwynne drifted
up from the dark dreamless void of her slumber, slowly becoming aware of
herself again. Outside her window some bird was going crazy with joy at the
prospect of another day. Olwynne wished it would shut up.
Another bird
joined in, and then another. With her eyes still closed, Olwynne wondered idly
if the birds’ dawn chorus was some kind of rite demanded by their religion. Was
the sun a god to them, a deity to be worshipped and placated? Did its sinking
every night herald a time of terror and despair, a period of darkness and
silence stalked by owl and cat and rat? Did they fear, huddling in their flimsy
nests, that the sun would never rise again? This hosanna of rejoicing could be,
then, a desperate plea for the sun not to abandon them as much as a shout of
relief at the first paling of the night. Perhaps the birds believed that if
they failed in their duty to sing the sun to life, it would be dreadful night
forever.
Today was the
first of May. Today the Coven would ring bells and blow whistles to welcome the
dawn, and light a chain of bonfires across the land. All the people would dance
and sing and feast, welcoming the coming of summer and the passing of winter,
celebrating Eà of the green mantle, Eà the mother. There was as much fear as
joy in these celebrations, Olwynne realized for the first time. Did they all
not dread the cold and the darkness, the barren and the bleak? Did not every
living creature—man or woman, beast or bird—did they not all long for love and
happiness and warmth and health?
Olwynne’s eyes
filled with tears. She flung her arm over her eyes and turned her face into the
pillow, castigating herself once again for this dreary misery that dogged her
every waking moment. More than a week had passed since she had walked the
dream-road, yet Olwynne had not been able to throw off the effects of the
sorcery sickness. A blackness lay over her spirits, a blight that drained her
of all will and energy. She could find no desire to get up out of her bed, to
rejoin her classes, to see her friends.What’s the point? she thought to
herself. So she stayed in bed for most of the day, picking listlessly at her
food, waking in the darkest hour of the night in sudden bouts of inexplicable
terror, to pace her floor or stand staring out at the moonlit garden, twisting
her hair in her fingers.
It was not
nightmares that disturbed her repose. Olwynne’s sleep was devoid of any dreams
at all. Isabeau had placed a ward on her third eye. Every time Olwynne fell
asleep, it was into a sensory void, a long period of blankness from which she
woke feeling strangely dislocated. At first it had been a blessed relief, for
Olwynne’s fever had brought all sorts of terrible hallucinations and fancies to
haunt her. But now, after so many days, the emptiness of her sleep was as
ghastly as any of her dreams had ever been. Olwynne felt as if her waking life
had been leached of all color and purpose and marvel. She did not wish to
sleep; she did not wish to be awake. She seemed to hang in a no-man’s-land
between worlds, lacking the desire or the ability to cross back into her own
world or to move forward into the land of dreams.
Isabeau was
worried about her and kept the healers busy making bitter-tasting potions for
her, and nettle tea, and soup rich with herbs and mushrooms. Iseult stroked her
hair back from her brow and told her not to fear for her father’s life, that
she was watching over him as she had always done. Her father suggested a good
meal of roast lamb and mulled ale, a solution Olwynne regarded with horror,
while Owein tried to coax her out to visit the city inns or to attend a ball at
the court. Nothing helped. The rest of Olwynne’s life stretched out before her,
grey and flat and featureless.
Not even to
herself would Olwynne admit that Lewen was the primary cause of her depression.I’m
just tired , she told herself.I’m worried about Dai-dein.I’m
having trouble recovering from the sorcery sickness. The fever has taken it out
o’ me. I’ll feel better soon.
Yet often, as
she lay in her bed, drifting in and out of sleep, her thoughts turned back to
the previous summer, when she and Owein and Lewen had been the best of friends,
and the days had been bright and golden and filled with laughter. They had
ridden out and picnicked in the green woods together, Lewen whittling a lump of
wood into something magical and beautiful while Olwynne made clover chains and
Owein floated on his back, his freckled face turned up to the sun. They had
read books together and argued over the laws of nature and the universe; they
had danced together at balls, attended concerts and plays, and drunk ale
together. If only she had known it was their last summer together. If only she
had realized Lewen would be so stupid as to fall in love with a half-breed
satyricorn girl whose hands reeked of murder. If only, if only, if only . . .
It seemed a
lifetime ago. Now Olwynne hardly saw Lewen. If he was not at school or squiring
at the royal court, he was at the prison, visiting his paramour. When he did
come to see her, he was preoccupied or wanting to ask her advice on lawyers and
court procedure, as if Olwynne knew anything about a murder case. Rhiannon,
Rhiannon, Rhiannon—it was the only word she ever heard him say anymore. She was
heartily sick of hearing it.
Olwynne threw
back her bedclothes and got up, pacing the floor in her bare feet, heedless of
the chill striking up from the stone floor. It was dark still. The birds
singing their desperate chorale had not yet dragged the sun out of its night
shell. She went and looked at her face in the mirror. All she could see was a
pale blob surrounded by a wild riot of hair. Using flint and tinder, as magic
had been forbidden to her since the sorcery sickness, Olwynne lit her candles
and placed them on either side of her mirror. They illuminated her long face,
her skin marred with reddish freckles, her eyes very dark between their red
lashes and hollowed underneath with violet shadows that began in the corner of
her eye like the bruise of a thumbprint. Her nose was long and thin and had an
arch in the center like a crag of stone. Her mouth was nicely shaped—she had to
admit that—but it was pale and bloodless. And her hair! Orange as carrots,
frizzy and wild, dry to the touch. Black, straight hair was all the rage now.
If the satyricorn girl had been at court, she would have been feted for her
beauty, her dreamy blue eyes, her milk-white skin, her night-black hair. No one
would ever call Olwynne the Bonny or the Fair. She was called clever, quick,
bright, and sometimes the Red, like her aunt had been.
Olwynne sighed.
On an impulse she caught up her plaid and wrapped it about her shoulders and
went out barefoot into the dim morning. All was quiet, though soon the witches
would be rousing, ready to begin the Beltane rites. As soon as the sun rose
over the horizon, the bonfire would be lit, and the chosen Green Man would
carry his blazing torch out into the city, to light the hearth fires of the
townsfolk. But for now, the only sound was the ridiculous clamor of the birds.
No one would see Olwynne NicCuinn, daughter of the Rìgh, gathering the May dew
like a common goose girl.
Of course,
Olwynne did not truly believe that washing one’s face in the May dew caused
freckles and other blemishes to fade, or gave one that baffling glow of beauty
that some girls had so effortlessly. Olwynne would have been mortified if
anyone had seen her. Such country superstitions were not the lot of
banprionnsachan. If anyone had suggested she was capable of doing such a thing,
she would have poured scorn on their head. Yet here she was, out dabbling in
the May dew, and all for the love of a man who was in love with another.
Olwynne felt angry, resentful tears in her eyes, but she did not turn back,
slipping under the cover of the trees before bending her hand to sweep it
through the icy, dew-silvered grass.
She rubbed the
dew into her face, half laughing at herself, half-angry. Her skin tingled. She
stood then, lifting her face to the silver sky, watching the stars fade away.
From deeper in the
woods, a woman’s voice rose in song.
“By a bank as I
lay
Myself alone did
muse, Hey ho!
Methinks I ken
that lovely voice,
She sang before
the day.
She sang, the
winter’s past, Hey ho!
Down, derry
down,
Down derry, down
derry,
Down, derry
down, derry down,
Derry down,
down!’
Olwynne turned,
utterly smitten. She had never heard such a gorgeous golden voice, filled with
such joyous abandon. The sound of it raised all the hairs on her arms, and sent
chills down her spine.
“The laird o’
spring’s sweet music,
The timid
nightingale, Hey ho!
Full merrily and
secretly
She sings in the
thicket
Within her
breast a thorn doth prick
To keep her off
from sleep, Hey ho!
Down, derry
down,
Down derry, down
derry,
Down, derry
down, derry down,
Derry down,
down!
Waken therefore,
young men,
All ye that
lovers be, Hey ho!
This month of
May, so fresh, so gay,
So fair by field
and fen,
Hath flowered
over each leafy den;
Great joy it is
to see, Hey ho!
Down, derry
down,
Down derry, down
derry . . .’
Olwynne went
running through the trees, ducking under branches and pulling aside leaves,
eager to see who it was who sang so beautifully. She had heard that song sung
many times before, but never with such warmth and joy. The woman’s voice was
unusually deep and rich, but as she sang the chorus her voice flowed up into
the higher registers with an ease few could ever hope to match. Olwynne came
from a family of singers. Her father had the same golden quality to his voice,
and so did her eldest brother. She herself was counted a very pretty singer,
and certainly music was one of the few indulgences Olwynne allowed herself. She
was overcome by an urgent desire to hear more, and to know the woman who could
sing with such technical purity and yet also with such heartfelt emotion.
Through the dark
tangle of leaves and twigs, she saw a woman dressed all in black sitting on a
fallen log, her face a pale oval lifted to the sky. As Olwynne hurried towards
her, a twig cracked under her foot. At once the singer broke off mid-note,
leaped up, and fled away into the garden. Olwynne hurried after her, but it was
no use, she had disappeared. Olwynne stood alone in the clearing, feeling acute
disappointment. There were no clues as to who the singer had been, no footstep
in the mud, no scrap of black cloth hanging from a stick. She could have been a
figment of Olwynne’s imagination. Yet, as Olwynne slowly turned and retraced
her steps, she was humming “Down, derry down, derry down”under her
breath.
Whistles sounded
shrilly.
Black-clad students
ran through the trees, blasting away the tranquillity of the dawn. A procession
of witches, sorcerers, and faeries followed Isabeau the Keybearer along the
avenue towards the palace, all wearing crowns of leaves and early spring
flowers. The Keybearer carried a bouquet made up of the seven sacred woods in
her hand, her owl blinking sleepily from her shoulder. A flock of nisses flew
about her head, shrieking in excitement, while two tall tree-changers walked at
her shoulders.
Olwynne stood
under the trees and watched them walk past. Whether it was the freshness of the
dew, the pleasure on the faces of the crowd, or an echo of that joyous voice
she had heard singing in the dawn, Olwynne could not tell, but she was filled
with a new sense of hope and happiness. Her lips curved upward in a smile for
the first time in weeks. One of the crowd turned and smiled in response, then
held out a narrow, long-fingered hand to her. Olwynne’s smile deepened. She
stepped forward and took the Celestine’s hand, joining the procession.
You have been
dwelling in a dark place, Thunderlily said.
Aye, Olwynne
answered.
The shadow of it
is still there, behind you.
Olwynne felt her
spirits dip and made an effort to hold on to her newfound gladness.
But there is
light breaking upon your face. That is good. Once you follow a road down into
darkness, it can be difficult to find your way out again.
Thunderlily, do
the Celestines travel the dream-roads?
The Celestine
bowed her snow-white head.We may travel all roads. They are not always safe
though. Darkness overwhelms them. I cannot reach my mother even in dreams. I
have been sorely troubled, for it is not our nature to walk in silence and
darkness, alone. I cannot see what lies ahead of me, and my heart is uneasy.
Mine too, Olwynne
whispered.
I know. Yet when
I saw you there, coming out of the forest, you were gilded with gladness. It
was like an enchantment laid upon you. It made the darkness behind you larger.
My heart troubles me. Who did you see, to cast this spell upon you?
A spell?Olwynne was
surprised.It was no spell. I heard someone singing, that’s all. It was a
lovely song. And such a lovely morning.
It is a lovely
morning,
the Celestine agreed.And beauty is its own spell. Perhaps that is all it
was.
I’m sure it was, Olwynne said,
but she felt troubled. She glanced at the Celestine with something approaching
resentment. The Celestine knew, of course. She returned a look of regret and
apology.
If it was true,
it should not pass so quickly, she said.Who was this singer, that
you saw in the dawn?
I do no’ ken,Olwynne answered
sulkily.She ran off afore I saw her face. It could’ve been a student. She
was dressed all in black.
There are many
here that have magic in their voices, the Celestine agreed.There is so
much magic here, at the Tower of Two Moons, that it clouds my sight and makes
it hard for me to trace its sources. The air itself sings with it, and the
earth thrums.
Olwynne glanced
sideways at the Celestine again. Although Thunderlily had been at the Tower of
Two Moons for almost eight years, she was several years older than Olwynne, and
so they had not often conversed. She was indeed fascinating. Olwynne could
understand how her brother Donncan and her cousin Bronwen could be so enamored
of her. Thunderlily was their great friend, as Lewen was hers and Owein’s. The
Celestine had made a foursome with Donncan and Bronwen and Neil MacFóghnan of
Arran, whom they all called Cuckoo. Olwynne wondered if she missed them, now
the other three had all turned twenty-four and left the Theurgia. Donncan had
been away, traveling with Neil, ever since he graduated five months earlier,
while Bronwen had thrown herself into life at the court since her graduation.
I do indeed miss
my friends,
the Celestine said, a tone of wistfulness in her mind-voice.Soon I too shall
celebrate the anniversary of my twenty-fourth year in this life, and my days at
the Theurgia will come to an end. I must return then to the garden of my
ancestors, deep in the forest, far from the cities and towns of those of humankind.
Then I will see my friends rarely indeed.
I am sorry, Olwynne said
awkwardly.
So it must be, the Celestine
answered.
They had reached
the great square before the palace, and many of the courtiers and servants were
thronging out the doors to join them. Everyone was shouting and cheering,
throwing up handfuls of petals and waving long colored streamers, while the
sound of the whistles was deafening. The Celestine turned her face towards the
palace, her eyes, which seemed so full of light yet also so blind, looking with
a strange, intense expression at the crowded steps.My days here are not yet
finished, though , she said, so softly her voice was little more than a
murmur in Olwynne’s mind,and look, they are all here now. If there is one
thing I have learned from your kind, it is how to live lightly, in the here and
now. . . .
Olwynne gazed at
her curiously, then turned to look where she looked.
Standing on the
steps, smiling around at the roaring crowd, stood Olwynne’s eldest brother,
Donncan Feargus MacCuinn, heir to the throne of Eileanan.
He was a tall,
slim young man, with thick wavy hair the color of ripe corn and great golden
wings that sprang out from his shoulders and brushed the ground behind him.
They seemed to attract the light so that, even in the grey dimness of the
fading night, he seemed haloed in sunshine. He was dressed in the forest-green
kilt of the MacCuinn clan, with a crimson sash across his breast.
Olwynne caught
her breath in surprise, then waved at him enthusiastically. There was no chance
to speak to him. He was separated from her by a thronging crowd, all blowing
whistles and cheering. She saw Bronwen beside him, dressed in a scandalous gown
of silvery-green gauze that clung to her as if it had been dampened, which it
probably had. Neil of Arran stood on her other side, gazing down at her with
admiring eyes. They did not see her wave, but Owein and Lewen did and plunged
through to her side.
“When did Donn
get in?” Owein demanded.
Olwynne
shrugged. “I dinna ken. Listen to the crowd! They’re going mad.”
“They love him,”
Owein said. “He always looks so damn princely!”
Lewen was
carrying a pretty nosegay of spring flowers, the dew still on the petals. He
offered it to her shyly. “I picked these for ye,” he said softly. “I’m glad to
see ye up and about. Are ye feeling better?”
“Och, sure,” she
answered lightly, taking the flowers with a smile but moving away from him, not
wanting him to see her eyes had filled with tears. “I couldna miss May Day!”
The sky had been
growing steadily paler, and light gilded the top of the palace’s golden domes.
Trumpets sounded, and the crowd quietened, turning as one to look at the
Keybearer, who was standing before a massive pyramid of wood, her hands resting
on her staff.
“The sun has
arisen,” she said into the sudden silence. “Let us light the Beltane fires and
celebrate the return o’ summer and the green months. Let us rejoice, for winter
has gone and the time o’ quickening is upon us.”
Sunlight fell
upon the top of the bonfire. Isabeau flung up both hands, her staff standing
upright on its own.
The bonfire
roared with flame. Everyone cheered and the whistles blew again, maddeningly
loud. Olwynne covered her ears, laughing, and saw many in the crowd were doing
the same.
Bells rang out,
peal after peal filling the air. Men and women came and thrust long torches
into the fire, forming a long procession that would wind around the palace
towards the city. Donncan had been seized by a group of laughing girls, all
clad in green, who were trying to tie leafy twigs to his arms and legs.
“All hail the
Green Man!” they cried to the crowd.
Donncan was
protesting, but no one listened, the crowd roaring their approval. One girl had
a wreath of leaves and would have crowned him with it, but Bronwen, laughing,
seized the wreath and put it on his head herself, kissing him on the mouth. The
cheers were deafening. Donncan came down into the crowd, shaking hands with the
men and allowing himself to be kissed by the girls.
Owein applauded
loudly, laughing. Donncan saw them and waved, smiling wryly. Owein put his
hands to his mouth and called, “When did ye get in?” but his brother could not
hear him over the crowd. He smiled, shrugged, and let himself be borne away by
the crowd. Then they heard his warm golden voice raised in song.
“I wonder who
was meant to be Green Man today?” Owein whispered in Olwynne’s ear. She
shrugged.
“I hope whoever
it is doesna mind too much,” she whispered back. She saw one of the palace
guards standing on the steps, dressed all in green, looking disgruntled. She
pointed him out to the others, who both grimaced.
“That’s Mat,”
Lewen said. “He’s one o’ Bronwen’s crowd. He doesna look happy at all, does
he?”
“He’ll get over
it,” Owein said. “Mat’s always getting in a huff over something.”
Donncan’s voice
was receding as he ran at the head of the procession, leaping and twirling, a
flaming torch held high in his hand.
“Come on!” Owein
cried. “Let’s go watch the chain o’ fires being kindled. We’ll get a good view
from the bell tower.”
Olwynne shook
her head. “Nay. I’m rather weary still. I think I’ll go back to bed.”
“Ye’ll come to
the feast tonight, won’t ye?” Lewen asked anxiously. “Ye canna miss the party.”
“Why, ye could
be crowned May Queen,” Owein said teasingly.
“I doubt it,”
Olwynne answered, her voice coming out more bitterly than she had intended. She
tried for a lighter tone. “With Donncan as the Green Man, the May Queen will
have to be Bronwen. There can be no other choice!”
“I’d say she was
always first choice,” Lewen said.
“Aye, that’s why
Mat’s looking so put out,” Owein agreed. “All right, then, I’ll see ye tonight,
will I?”
“Aye, I’ll come
tonight, if only to reassure Auntie Beau that I’m feeling better. I do no’
think I can stand any more o’ her medicines!”
“Fair enough.
See ye tonight then,” Owein said. “Come on, Lewen!”
“Have a good
rest,” Lewen said. “See ye tonight!”
She raised a
hand in farewell.
“I’m glad to see
ye looking so much better,” he called over his shoulder as he ran to join the
others.
Olwynne turned
to walk back to the Tower of Two Moons, bending her head to smell her flowers
to hide the pleasure his concern had given her. The Celestine was still
standing at the edge of the gardens, half-hidden beneath the drooping branches
of a weeping greenberry tree. Their eyes met. With a start, Olwynne realized
that Thunderlily was also trying to conceal some strong emotion that threatened
to crack the composure Olwynne had thought effortless. Recognition leaped
between them. If they had been able to phrase the thought, it would have said:You
too love and are not loved in return?
After that
moment of recognition and empathy, Olwynne and Thunderlily looked away, the
apprentice-witch making her way slowly back down the avenue towards the tower
and the Celestine disappearing into the trees. Neither wished to name her pain.
Olwynne slept
that afternoon, and for the first time in days woke refreshed. She had gone to
her aunt before the midday meal break and asked her to remove the ward Isabeau
had placed on her third eye, to protect her after her attack of sorcery
sickness. After a long, searching glance the Keybearer had done as she asked.
Although she had done no more than touch her lips lightly to Olwynne’s brow, it
had felt like a sharp blow that the Banprionnsa fell back from, reeling. She
had gone back to her room slowly, feeling odd, as if her arms and legs were too
long and loosely jointed. She had been afraid to lie down, afraid of what her
dreams might show her, but although she had dreamed, it had been the usual vague
inconsequence and had left no residue of terror.
Olwynne lay for
a while in the green dimness, looking out into the trees, then she yawned,
stretched, and rose. She stripped off her clothes, heated water on the fire,
and filled a hip bath with jug after jug of warm water. She washed her body and
her hair with rose soap, then anointed herself with precious oils scented with
rose and jasmine and lovage, all of them herbs used in love spells. Drawing
upon the One Power, she dried her hair gently between her hands so it sprang up
in thick, glossy ringlets the color of the Beltane fires.
Naked, Olwynne
looked at herself in the mirror for a long time. She thought of Lewen’s last
look at her, his face lighting up with a smile.He canna want to love that
satyricorn girl , she thought.It’s for his own good.
Lying before the
mirror, casting a delicate fragrance upon the air, was the little nosegay of
flowers Lewen had given her—tiny pink roses, lavender, jasmine, violets, and
lovage, hemmed with bright new leaves from the hazel tree. Olwynne picked it up
and smelled it, then, wincing in anticipation, plucked one long, red, wiry hair
from her head and wound it about the stems.
She went to her
spell-box and drew out two tall pink candles, candleholders made from rose
quartz, a long pink ribbon, and a tiny vial of precious dragon’s blood. When
Olwynne uncorked the vial, the rich, cloying smell almost made her gag. Holding
it away from her, she quickly corked it again; then she set up the candles on
either side of the mirror, anointing them with the aphrodisiacal oils.
Lit only by the
dancing flames of the candles, in the cooling dusk of the day, Olwynne looked
herself in the eyes. She knew what she was doing was forbidden by the Coven. If
anyone found out, she could be expelled from the Theurgia. All her dreams of
being a sorceress would be ashes.
But in the warm
candlelight, she was beautiful. It hurt her that no man would ever get to touch
her skin, to breathe her breath. She had loved Lewen so long and so secretly.
All her dreams of desire were tied up in him, and she felt she could never
recover. It was wrong that he had given himself to some other girl. It was
cruel. Olwynne could not bear that all her sweet imaginings should bear no
seed, no blossom, no fruit. It was unnatural.
So, gazing into
her own eyes, she took the dragon’s blood upon her fingertip and drove it into
the deep, hot, wet absence of her. She felt an immediate dilation, an opening
of the hard closed petals. Her breath came in a quick pant. She pulled her hand
away and, furtively, lifted it to her nose.
Finding it hard
still to catch her breath, Olwynne dipped her fingers again in the
sweet-scented oils and touched, ritualistically, her third eye, her left
breast, her right shoulder, her left shoulder, her right breast and then her
third eye again. As she drew the pentagram of protection, she said in a shaky
voice, “By the powers o’ the five directions, above me, below me, within and
without, may I be protected from all harm.”
She then took
the ribbon and ran it through her warm, oily fingers, chanting softly: “Flowers
and ribbon, make him love me, flowers and ribbon, make him need me, flowers and
ribbon, bind him to me, as long as our hearts should beat.”
Three times she
chanted the spell; then Olwynne bound the ribbon about the flowers five times,
knotting it each time and saying, “By one this spell is done, by two it will
come true, by three so let it be, by four for the good o’ all, by five so shall
love thrive.”
Olwynne was
frightened but also exhilarated. She lifted the nosegay and breathed in the
sweet fragrance deeply, then laid it down and began to dress. It had taken her
a good part of the morning to decide what to wear. She had discarded outfit
after outfit until, at last, she had settled on the dress she had worn to her
first ever ball. She had loved the dress then but had rarely worn it since,
thinking it too pretty for a woman who wished to be a sorceress.
A skirt of white
satin, embroidered all over with tiny flowers, was worn under a kirtle of pale
spring green. The bodice was of the same color and was usually worn with a lace
collar, which Olwynne now discarded. She tucked the nosegay of flowers into her
cleavage, aware that it drew attention to the curve of her pale breasts above
the deep-cut square neckline. She then carefully crowned herself with a wreath
of roses, jasmine, lovage, and violets, woven together with a silken ribbon the
same color as her kirtle. From beneath her wreath, her heavy red-gold curls
hung down her back to her knees. Olwynne looked at herself in the mirror
critically, pinched her cheeks, and smiled. She truly did not think she had
ever looked so well.
The central
garth was filled with excited students, all dressed in their best. The
predominant color was green, as befitted the celebration of the first day of
summer. A few of the music students were playing flutes, fiddles, and guitars,
and couples were dancing. Olwynne walked through the crowd, smiling and nodding
to those she knew. Fèlice was dancing with a tall medical student and waved at
her enthusiastically. Landon was seated on a step, writing in his notebook,
occasionally splattering passersby with ink as he finished a word with a
flourish. Then Olwynne saw Edithe, who called to her and tried to speak to her.
Olwynne deftly sidestepped and went on. She only wanted to see Lewen.
She found him
and Owein together in the square before the palace, drinking Merry May punch
and watching the dancers. They rose to their feet at the sight of her.
“Look at ye,
ye’ve scrubbed up well,” Owein said. “Ye must be feeling better.”
“I feel grand,”
she answered.
“Ye look grand,”
Lewen said quietly, staring as if he had never seen her before.
“Grand as a
goat’s turd stuck with buttercups,” Owein said.
She ignored him,
smiling at Lewen and holding out her hand. “Care to dance?”
“I’m no’ much o’
a dancer—ye ken that,” he said, but took her hand and led her on to the dance
floor.
Olwynne smiled
and let him turn her, his hand on her waist. It was a warm night and the air
smelled of woodsmoke and flowers. Paper lanterns hung from tree to tree in the
garden, and from window to window all along the palace walls. Grey-clad
servants moved unobtrusively here and there, carrying glasses of wine punch and
plates of little honey cakes. In the center of the square, the Beltane bonfire
still glowed, casting a warm light on the gaily dressed couples twirling all
around it. Jongleurs amused the crowd with their stilt walking and fire eating,
and a troupe of cluricauns showed off their tumbling tricks. A maypole had been
erected near the high table, its colored ribbons still hanging loose.
Olwynne and
Lewen did not speak, though it was a slow dance and they should have had breath
enough. Olwynne let herself fall into a sweet trance, her head very close to
Lewen’s shoulder, the feel of his fingers burning through the fabric of her
dress. She felt him heave a breath and glanced up at him.
“I’m glad ye’re
feeling better,” Lewen said. He spoke awkwardly, and his arm on her waist was
stiff.
Olwynne smiled
at him. She felt she knew him better than even his own mother. He did not find
words easy. The slick compliments that other men found so easy to say would
never slide off Lewen’s tongue. He was better with horses and falcons and dogs,
creatures that understood slow, quiet movements and a strong hand. The deep
connection he felt with the creatures of the field and the forest found their
way out through his fingers as he whittled a scrap of wood into something so
beautiful it astounded all who saw it. A shapeless lump of wood became a
running horse, a dancing girl, a charging stag. Arrows flew true, javelins
always found their mark, and his bowls and cups were perfectly balanced, a
pleasure to hold and use. Plants under his care flourished, maltreated animals
grew sleek and tame, and people in general felt comfortable and at ease without
realizing why. All this Lewen did without words, for he spoke seldom and never
without thought, and never ever with the honeyed ease of the courtiers with
their long ringlets, their feathered hats and velvet doublets, their oiled and
perfumed beards.
He did not dance
with their graceful ease either, his back stiff and his brow furrowed as if he
was mentally counting his steps. Olwynne thought, with a little upturn of her
lips, that if he was ever admitted to the ranks of the Yeomen of the Guard, it
would be for his strength and steadiness, his skill with the sword and the bow,
not for his ability to dance a graceful set, like the green-clad guard now
holding Bronwen so close on the other side of the dance floor. She recognized
the guard as the soldier who should have been the Green Man. He was glaring
down at Bronwen as if he wished to strangle her, while she spun and twirled
about him as easily as a flower on a long green stem, her gauzy skirts gleaming
silver in the moonlight.
The sight of
Bronwen dancing stirred a deep unease in Olwynne. A shudder ran over her. She
pressed closer to Lewen, who bent his brown head over hers. “Is all well?” he
asked. “Ye shivered.”
She looked up
into his eyes, which were dark and intent, and for a moment could not breathe.
She nodded dumbly, and his mouth relaxed, his eyes crinkling.
“I’m sorry about
your toes,” he said. “I’m a terrible dancer.”
“Nay, ye’re
fine, really,” she said, and cursed herself for her own inept tongue.
“It must be all
the sword practice,” he answered.
There was a long
moment of silence.
“So do ye like
my dress?” she asked, spreading her skirts and giving a little twirl before
coming back into the curve of his arm.
“Aye, indeed. Ye
look very bonny,” he answered quietly.
The music came
to an end, and he gave a grave bow and said, “Thank ye for the dance.”
“Ye will no’ go
another round with me?” Olwynne said, masking her disappointment with a smile.
He shook his
head. “I do no’ feel much like dancing, I’m sorry. I’m sure ye’ll have no
shortage o’ partners, though, so pretty ye are looking tonight.”
“I’d rather
dance with ye,” she said, moving closer to him.
He smiled,
rather wistfully, and moved away. “It feels all wrong, me being here, dancing
under the stars, when Rhiannon is locked away where she canna even see them.”
Olwynne wanted
to shriek in vexation and jealousy; she wanted to cry,Never say that name to
me again! But she smiled in sympathy and said, “O’ course, I’m sorry, it
was thoughtless o’ me. It’s just that I’m feeling so much better and it is such
a beautiful night . . .”
“It is bonny,”
Lewen replied, looking up at the two moons that wheeled together close to the
soaring spires of the Tower of Two Moons. One moon was red, one moon was blue,
but the light they cast on the intricate mosaic of twigs and leaves was
silver-bright.
“Would ye rather
walk in the gardens?” Olwynne asked.
Lewen looked
back at her in surprise, then nodded. “Aye, I would. . . . But would ye no’
rather dance?”
“The night is
young. I can dance again later,” she said. “Come and tell me how Rhiannon is
doing.”
Eagerly he led
Olwynne away from the dance floor. She stopped one of the lackeys and seized a
decanter of the Merry May punch and two glasses from his tray. Made from
goldensloe wine, strawberries, honey, fermented lime, and woodruff blossoms,
the punch was an intoxicating brew and often blamed for any babies born nine
months after the lighting of the Beltane fires. Olwynne was certainly hoping it
would work its usual magic, but to make sure, she had an extra ingredient to
add.
Shielding the
decanter from view with her body, she hurriedly uncorked a vial she carried in
her reticule and let one, two, three drops slide down its long translucent
throat, dripping down to dissolve into the heady wine punch within. It was the
honey of the golden goddess flower, a powerful aphrodisiac from the fens of
Arran, that she had purchased at great cost on the black market only that
afternoon. They said it could not fail.
Lewen turned and
glanced back at her, and her heart swelled with longing for him. She tried to
keep the intensity of her desire from showing in her face, and she must have
been successful, for Lewen took the decanter and glasses from her with his
usual quiet courtesy and directed her down one of the paths, his fingers just
touching the small of her back.
The paths were
lined with tiny candles in paper hoods, with more paper lanterns hanging in
long chains from tree to tree. They wandered along the paths for some time and
came at last to a small grove where a fountain softly tinkled, and there was a
bench where they could sit and talk. Lewen spread out his cloak for Olwynne to
sit on, so her skirts would not be stained with moss, and then sat beside her,
the scent of the night jasmine climbing the arbor adding to the enchanting
smell of Olwynne’s nosegay.
The splashing of
the fountain, the tiny glow of the candles, and the warm play of the breeze in
Olwynne’s hair was all very pleasing and romantic. Olwynne could only wish
Lewen would not keep worrying about his wild satyricorn girl and talk about
something else instead. As long as she was prepared to listen, he was prepared
to talk, though, and she realized with a pang of guilt that Lewen had been
feeling very alone in his loyal defense of his lover. He was questioning her
now about the procedure of the courts, and Olwynne, who, like all the
prionnsachan and banprionnsachan, had been made to study law at the Courts of
the Inns, did her best to answer him. Whenever she could she refilled their
glasses, until her heart and loins ached with the warm glow of the wine, and
the decanter was empty.
At last Lewen
said, with an effort, “I’m sorry, I must be boring ye to death. Would ye like
me to take ye back to the square now?”
“Nay, I’m fine,”
Olwynne said. “I’m enjoying the peace o’ the gardens. Listen! Can ye hear that
nightingale? It feels like an age since I last heard one.”
“Me too,” Lewen
said, and they listened for a while in silence. The leaves murmured quietly,
and they could hear the distant sound of the fiddles and flutes.
Olwynne sighed
in pure happiness.
“Ye’ve no’ been
well,” Lewen said with contrition, “and I have no’ once asked ye how ye are
feeling. I’m sorry.”
“Hopefully ye
feel no need to ask because ye can see with your own eyes that I am well,”
Olwynne said, wishing she was better practiced at the arts of flirtation.
The candlelight
slanted warmly across his cheekbone, and she saw his cheek curve as he smiled
down at her. “Indeed, ye do look well. I’ve never seen ye look so . . . so
glowing.”
Olwynne felt her
cheeks grow warm with pleasure. She looked up into his intent eyes, then
dropped her gaze at once. She could smell the scent of the flowers, rising
heady and warm from her body, and taste the sweetness of the wine on her
tongue.Kiss me , she begged him silently.Kiss me now. Please . . .
But Lewen turned
his head away and said awkwardly, “Which is why ye should no’ be sitting out
here in the gardens with me, but enjoying yourself at the party. So fine ye are
tonight, ye’d be the belle o’ the ball, if ye just tried.”
“With Bronwen
the Bonny sharing the dance floor? I think no’.” Olwynne was icy in her
disappointment.
“No’ everyone is
drawn to the Banprionnsa Bronwen like a moth to the flame,” Lewen said
impatiently. “I am sure there are many young lairds and courtiers there tonight
who have no wish to be burned by that fire.”
“Happen so, but
I am no’ interested in any o’ those silken fools,” Olwynne said.
“No, I suppose
that’s true,” Lewen said, grinning down at her. “All ye’ve ever wanted is to
learn the Craft, is that no’ right?”
He spoke
affectionately, but the words caught Olwynne on the raw. “That’s no’all
I’ve ever wanted,” she cried. She reached out and seized his hand, meeting his
startled gaze with a fierce intent gaze of her own. She saw the sudden
comprehension in his eyes and felt him instinctively retreat, but she would not
let him go. Holding him fast, she leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.
For a moment he sat still, frozen with surprise, then he wrenched his mouth
away.
“Olwynne!”
She would not
let him speak. She kissed him again and, her heart hammering, fearfully touched
his tongue with hers. At once he leaped back. “Olwynne, what . . . I canna . .
.”
She seized his
hand and slid it within her bodice, crushing the flowers so their scent sprang
up in a heavy, dizzying wave. His other hand, trying to hold her off at the
waist, flexed instinctively but he would not succumb, pushing her away,
wrenching his hand free. The flimsy material tore, and she heard his breath
founder. Her bare breast felt cold at the absence of his hand.
“What do ye do?
Olwynne, ye ken I canna . . . Rhiannon . . .”
She stopped the
hated word with her mouth, almost swooning as emotion flooded through her. Still
he resisted, holding her away with both hands. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his
mouth swollen. Again she bent to kiss him, holding his dear face with both her
hands, her bare breasts pressed against the warm skin of his throat and chest.
“Nay, Olwynne,” he
murmured against her mouth. “I canna . . . really, I canna . . .”
She hung heavy
against him, not allowing him room to breathe or protest. She felt him harden
against her, and put down her hand to touch him, very briefly. “Olwynne,” he
sighed. “Nay . . .”
But his legs
spread involuntarily, and she rubbed her hand against him more boldly so that
he moaned. “Olwynne . . .”
Still she would
not speak, all her will and desire focused on him. He could not retreat far,
the vine-entangled wall of the arbor holding him fast. She kissed his mouth,
his jaw, his throat, the soft skin under his ear. Whenever he tried to murmur a
protest, she stopped his mouth with her own. Meanwhile her hand was busy at his
laces, fumbling and tearing, trying to unknot them. She could feel his body’s
response to her clumsiness, and pressed her own body more closely against him.
“Olwynne, ye
smell . . . ye feel so good,” he murmured. “Oh, but I canna . . . I must no’ .
. .”
“Ye can,” she
whispered. “Ye must. Please. Ye ken she’s no good for ye. She canna love ye the
way I love ye. Please, please. I’ll make ye happy, I promise.”
She lifted her
skirts and mounted him, and he slid his hands up her legs to grasp her bottom.
She was naked beneath her skirt, and his breath caught. “Oh Eà!” he breathed.
His fingers digging into her bare flesh, he lifted her and brought her down
sharply upon him. They both cried out. Tears burst from Olwynne’s eyes. She
bent and hid her face in his shoulder, and he grasped her tighter, pounding up
into her, his breath gasping. Olwynne was laughing and crying together, shaken
and torn and slippery with need. He groaned, and she seized his hair and rode
him harder. Suddenly she felt a rush of blood to her head so fierce her ears
roared. She cried out and froze in surprise, but he was bucking and twisting
beneath her, bruising her hips and buttocks with his hands. Her pelvic bone was
sore, the muscles of her legs screaming. Then Lewen arched his back and cried
out in joy and surprise.
They crouched
together in silence, breathing hard. Slowly Lewen let go of Olwynne’s buttocks
and drew away from her with a soft sucking sound that made Olwynne catch her
breath in a little embarrassed laugh. He did not laugh. He was so grave and
silent she grew worried and drew closer so she could see his face in the soft
erratic glow of the swinging candles. His dark eyes were somber, but there was
a glow in them that made a dark flower of triumph and malice bloom deep in
Olwynne’s heart.
“What have we
done?” he whispered. “I must be mad . . . or drunk. Rhiannon . . . your father
. . . Oh Eà!”
“We’ve made
love,” Olwynne said fiercely. “I wanted ye, ye wanted me. What’s wrong with
that?”
“Rhiannon . . .”
“Eà curse her!”
Olwynne said. “She was never meant for ye. Ye’re mine and have always been
mine. Ye just needed to see that.”
“I must’ve been
blind,” he cried. Then he drew his breath in on a long hiss. “Or ensorcelled!”
Olwynne felt a
bitter jab of shame but thrust it away. Lewen had bent his head to kiss her
hands. Burning tears fell on her skin. She drew him close to her again, and
wiped his eyes with her fingers, and kissed his mouth. “Come back with me to my
room,” she whispered.
He nodded, and
when she drew down to kiss him again, he kissed her back with sore and
desperate need.
Bronwen laughed
and tossed back her hair, spinning away from Neil and then swiftly back. He
caught her in his arm and almost stumbled, so sudden was her weight, but
recovered himself quickly. The music came to an end and she smiled and curtsied,
and he bowed.
“Another?” he
begged.
She gave her
quick flashing smile. “I wish I could, Cuckoo, but I’m already promised to
another. I’m sorry. Happen again later?”
“But I have no’
seen ye in months. Surely that counts for something?”
“Aye, o’ course,
but the thing is, I didna ken ye were coming back in time for the feast, and my
dance card has been full for weeks. I’m sorry!” She smiled brilliantly over her
shoulder as she took the proffered arm of the Earl of Kintallian, a brilliantly
polished young man with a small pointed beard and so many slashes on his sleeve
he looked as if he had barely escaped with his life from some frantic duel.
The music began
again, and she swirled away on his arm. Neil scowled, well aware the earl was a
far more graceful dancer than he could ever be. Moodily he made his way back to
his table, jerking his head to the page for some more Merry May punch and
watching Bronwen as she spun down the center of the dance floor. His scowl only
deepened when the Earl of Kintallian was replaced with Alta, the Fairgean
ambassador, and then with Aindrew MacRuraich.
His mother,
Elfrida NicHilde, the Banprionnsa of Tìrsoilleir, bent closer to ask him a
question, laying her hand caressingly on his arm. He hardly noticed.
Neil had just
decided he would demand the very next dance when he saw a young man with
brilliantly blue eyes under heavy, scowling eyebrows cut in, interrupting the
lavolta. Bronwen seemed at first to protest, but when the young man, dressed
all in green from head to toe, insisted, Aindrew relinquished her with a
graceful bow and away she whirled again. Neil sank back into his chair and
signaled for his glass to be refilled. His mother uttered a gentle
admonishment, which he ignored. Elfrida pursed her lips and began to lecture him,
in the mildest way possible, on the evils of alcohol and fast women.
To Neil’s
chagrin, the green-clad man was the most accomplished dancer he had ever seen.
He leaped like a deer, spun on his toes and then on his knees and, worst of
all, sent Bronwen twirling about with the merest touch and gesture. Together,
they danced so beautifully the floor cleared for them, and an audience
gathered, cheering and clapping.
Neil, tossing
back another cup of honeyed wine, saw Donncan was standing at the edge of the
dance floor, watching with much the same black, sullen, brooding look that Neil
imagined was on his own face. Their eyes met. Donncan’s expression darkened
even further, and Neil felt his throat close over.
“Neil . . .”
Elfrida said.
“Just leave me
alone!” Neil said and lurched to his feet.
Mathias drew
Bronwen close and bent her backwards over his arm as the music came to an end.
He said,
pleadingly, “Ye canna pretend ye do no’ enjoy dancing with me, my lady.”
She straightened
up and took a step away, raising her brows. “Why would I pretend any such
thing? I have always said ye were a very pretty dancer.”
“Is that all I
am to ye?” he demanded.
“But o’ course,”
she answered, drawing up the fragile folds of her silvery-green skirt. “What
else?”
He flushed dark
red, and she gave him a little ironic curtsy and moved away. Mathias caught her
arm.
“Unhand me at
once!” she hissed through her teeth. “Do ye seek to make a scene?”
“I must speak
with ye,” he said unsteadily. “Please, my lady . . . Your Highness. I wish . .
. I wish to apologize . . . to explain . . .”
“Surely no’ here
and now, in the middle o’ the dance floor, with every eye upon us?” the
Banprionnsa answered haughtily.
“Then when?”
She disengaged
her arm and yawned behind her fan of bhanias feathers. “I am sure I shall tire
o’ dancing soon and shall seek to cool myself with an iced bellfruit juice in
the garden, away from the heat o’ the fire. Happen I shall see ye there.
Though, really, there is no need for ye to explain. Ye are no’ the first man to
drink too much seasquill wine and make a fool o’ himself.”
He colored
angrily and bowed with a click of his heels that made her roll her eyes
impatiently as she moved away. The crowd parted to let her through, the men
bowing their heads, the women curtsying gracefully. More than one set of eyes
followed her, both men and women. Bronwen knew the women were eyeing her dress,
and the men the long-limbed, supple body underneath. She had designed her dress
herself for maximum effect. Made of pale green gauze, the gown tied over her
shoulders with nothing more than a narrow satin ribbon, leaving her arms and
shoulders bare. Beneath the gauze, Bronwen wore a tight satin sheath that had
been carefully matched to the hue of her skin so that it looked as if she was
naked beneath. A few sprays of appliquéd beading helped preserve her modesty.
She wore her hair loose, like a young girl, under the crown of flowers that
declared her May Queen, the most beautiful girl at the court.
Bronwen had
moved only three steps when she was accosted by one of her uncle’s squires,
young Fymbar MacThanach of Blèssem, a plump boy with a shock of tow-colored
hair and an unfortunate tendency to blush. Bronwen smiled, waved her fan
languidly, and begged him to find her something to drink. Fymbar turned
scarlet, stammered his willingness to serve her, and went plunging off to find
a waiter. Another few steps, and Aindrew MacRuraich was bowing over her hand
and begging her for the next dance.
“But I have
already danced with ye three times tonight, my laird,” she said, smiling
demurely at him from behind her fan. “Any more and we’ll cause a scandal.”
“I thought ye
delighted in scandalizing the court,” he said with a grin. “And ye ken I am
always willing to assist ye in putting firecrackers under those auld biddies’
tails.”
“Indeed, ye are
a fine companion in any game, but I feel I should, perhaps, play a more sober
and respectable charade tonight,” she said. “Given that my beloved betrothed
has seen fit to return to my side, after these long months o’ absence.”
“And looking
very sour too, I should add,” Aindrew said. “Surely ye do no’ really want to
marry that sobersides?”
Bronwen looked
thoughtfully across the floor at Donncan, who was watching her with a very
unhappy expression on his face. “Donncan does no’ dance,” she said regretfully.
“He finds his wings can be rather a nuisance on a crowded dance floor.”
“But surely he
does no’ forbid ye from dancing?” Aindrew cried. “When ye are the bonniest
dancer in the whole court?”
“Nay,” Bronwen
answered. “He does no’ forbid me.”
“But he doesna
like it, does he?”
Bronwen returned
her gaze to Aindrew’s handsome, laughing countenance. “Would ye?” she answered.
He sobered.
“Nay, I would no’,” he answered.
“So we can
hardly blame him, can we?” she said and, smiling, left him.
Donncan watched
her approach with no lightening of his expression.
“Ye are failing
in your duties as Green Man,” she chided him. “The Green Man is meant to lead
the festivities, drinking and dancing till dawn.”
“Happen your
cavalier would have been a better choice then,” he said stiffly.
“Ye mean Mathias
Bright-Eyed? Well, he certainly is a keen dancer and an even keener drinker.
I’ll warrant he is still here, drinking and dancing at dawn, long after ye’ve
sought your bed.”
He flushed.
“I’ll warrant ye’re right. The question is, where will ye be?”
She drew away
from him. “What kind o’ question is that?”
“A fair enough
one, by all accounts.”
“So ye listen to
the gossipmongers now, do ye?”
“It’s rather
hard no’ to, when there is so much to listen to.”
“It’s all
malicious and untrue,” Bronwen cried, then recollected herself, remembering the
many curious eyes upon them. For a moment she stood still, trying to regain her
composure, and then she said lightly, “Come, Donncan, I have no’ seen ye in
months. Is this the way ye greet me? It is no’ like ye to believe the false
tales o’ those who delight in spite and mischief. Ye ken what the court is like
after the long winter. Everyone is restless and out o’ sorts, me among them. I
ken ye willna dance with me, with the floor so crowded, but can we no’ walk in
the gardens together? I have no’ had a chance to hear a single thing about your
stay in Arran these past months. How was the Tower o’ Mists?”
Donncan frowned.
“Strange,” he answered after a while. “It is very isolated, ye ken, hidden at
the heart o’ the fens as it is, and so often covered in mist. There was no’
much to do there, really. We boated on the lake, and when the marsh was iced
over we had some good hunting. But once the thaw came, it all grew rather flat.
I didna sleep so well while I was there. . . . They say the air is bad, ye ken,
and certainly I had some strange dreams.”
“Really?”
Bronwen asked. “What kind o’ dreams?”
Donncan
shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Just run-o’-the-mill nightmares, I guess.
Darkness, and no’ being able to breathe. A heavy stone on my chest. Wings
beating around my head. Birds, or bats, or something. Naught I could really
remember the next day.”
“So did ye no’
dream about me?” Bronwen asked provocatively as they stepped away from the
glare of the torches and into the soft breathing dark of the gardens.
At once he
turned and seized her wrist, drawing her close to him. “Ye ken I did,” he said
angrily. “I was tormented with dreams o’ ye, as is every man who crosses your
path.”
She was
surprised to find it hard to catch her breath. “Och, I think ye exaggerate.”
“I wish I did,”
he answered and let go of her wrist.
She rubbed it,
torn between feeling flattered and angered. He stood, staring moodily into the
candlelit trees, sipping at his wine. She decided to be flattered.
“I’m glad ye
thought o’ me,” she said softly. “Ye were gone a long time.”
He glanced at
her, surprised into a smile. “Did ye miss me?”
“Maybe just a
little,” she said.
“Well, I’m glad
to hear it. By all accounts, ye were having too much fun to even notice I was
gone.”
“Did ye expect
me to just sit in my rooms and mope?” Bronwen’s voice sharpened.
“Some moping
would have been nice.”
“Moping is just
no’ my style,” Bronwen said with a sweet smile and drank down her punch
recklessly.
“So I heard.”
“Ye seem to have
heard a great deal o’ me while ye were gone. Am I to infer ye had spies
watching my every movement and reporting back to ye?”
“I had no need
o’ spies,” Donncan said. “Every traveling tinker had a new tale to tell o’
Bronwen the Bonny. There’s no’ a village inn in the land where ye are no’ the
favored topic o’ conversation.”
“Wonderful!”
Bronwen retorted. “I’m glad I’ve given so many people something new to talk
about. Their lives are so very drab and boring, it is my pleasure to bring them
some poor form o’ excitement.”
“Well, I canna
say I’m glad,” Donncan said, his voice under tight control. “It gave me no
pleasure at all to hear my wife-to-be has been entertaining other men in her
boudoir by swimming naked in the pool.”
Bronwen bit her
lip. She was rather sorry for that particular escapade, which had been prompted
by Iseult quietly advising her that perhaps she should not make such an
exhibition of her Fairgean ancestry. Bronwen was not fond of her betrothed’s
mother, who always seemed to view her with disfavor. She grew weary of everyone
expecting her to be the model of prudence and discretion, just because she was
a banprionnsa and betrothed to the heir to the throne. A throne that she should
have inherited, she reminded herself. Her uncle might think that he had
sidestepped the issue by promising Bronwen to his own son when they were mere
bairns, but Bronwen had not forgotten she had been named heir by her own
father, and certainly others had not forgotten either. The Rìgh and Banrìgh
liked to think they had her trapped in a silken net, bound to a future not of
her own devising, but Bronwen enjoyed reminding them that she was not entirely
without power, even if the only way she could express her defiance was in
wearing unsuitable gowns and spending her time in expensive frivolities.
Bronwen had no
real desire to escape her fate. She certainly wanted to be Banrìgh one day, and
if she had to marry anyone it might as well be Donncan, who was as handsome as
any man she had ever seen, and kind, courteous, and generally good-natured as
well. She certainly did not want to accept everyone else’s plans for her
meekly, however. As far as she was concerned, it was good for Donncan to worry
occasionally, and as for her uncle Lachlan, she had never forgiven him for
loading her mother with chains and keeping her captive, or for rendering her
mute, a cruel and imaginative punishment that saw the former Banrìgh a mere
servant to the witches she had once persecuted.
Her lips lifted
in a secret smile. “I was no’ entirely naked,” she protested with a little look
of mischief at Donncan. “I had quite a few artfully placed frills, I assure ye.
And it was quite dark. I had Maura snuff a few candles first.”
“I think that
only made it worse,” Donncan said, responding to her roguish smile despite
himself.
She shrugged one
bare shoulder. “I swear the tattlemongers would whisper if all I did was sit in
my boudoir and sew a fine seam. I may as well do something worth gossiping
about.”
Donncan turned
and seized her by the arm, looking down into her eyes. “Bronwen, ye ken I do
no’ care what the court gossips about, as long as there is no truth in it. . .
.”
She looked away.
“Well, my ladies and I did swim in the pool, though we were no’ really naked .
. . no’ entirely.”
“I do no’ care
about ye swimming, naked or no’,” he said impatiently. “It is the other things
they say.”
“What other
things?” she said, although she knew.
He took a deep
breath. “That ye take lover after lover, discarding them when they no longer
amuse ye.”
“And whom am I
meant to have taken as my lover?” she said scornfully. “That poor boy ye
scowled at so fiercely afore? Am I meant to have taken him to my bed?”
“O’ course I do
no’ think ye’ve taken Fymbar o’ Blèssem to bed! He’s little more than a lad,
though it’s clear he’s smitten with ye.”
“Then who? Who
are these so-called lovers o’ mine?”
Donncan’s grip
tightened. “I have heard Alta, the Fairgean ambassador, is often seen in and
out o’ your rooms, and has brought ye many fine gifts.”
“On behalf o’ my
uncle Nila,” she answered furiously. “Except for a barrel o’ seasquill wine and
a platter o’ raw fish which he brought me after I expressed curiosity about the
cuisine o’ my mother’s people.I thought it was very kind o’ him.”
“So he has no’ .
. .” Donncan hesitated, finding it hard to put what he wanted to know into
words.
“Nay, he has
no’,” Bronwen replied icily. “He has three wives and half a dozen concubines o’
his own, and far too much sense to try to seduce his king’s niece. I do enjoy
speaking with him, however. He has told me many fascinating things about the
Fairgean and about my mother’s family.”
“So all ye do is
talk?”
“Aye, all we do
is talk. I would like to gamble with him too, as he is said to be clever at
cards and dice, but he, being very stuffy and proper, does no’ think it would
be seemly.”
Donncan’s breath
came out in a sigh. “What about your cavalier, then?” he asked, in a slightly
mollified tone. “Ye certainly seemed to be enjoying dancing with him earlier.”
“He’s a very
pretty dancer,” Bronwen replied.
Donncan snorted.
“A bit o’ a show-off.”
“That’s all the
rage now,” Bronwen replied, nose in the air. “The young bloods compete with
each other to show the highest kicks and leaps, the fastest spins. If ye had
spent more time at court, ye would ken this.”
“He certainly
seemed to wish to do more thanspeak with ye.”
“Maybe so, but
that does no’ mean I wish the same,” she answered angrily. “When did it become
a crime to enjoy dancing?”
He drew her
close. “Bronwen, can ye no’ understand how I feel? It is less than two months
until we are to be married. Do ye think I like hearing such tales about ye?”
“Do ye think I
like having such tales told about me?” she countered.
“But ye seem to
positively delight in stirring the scandal broth! Look at what ye are wearing!”
She gave a
little twirl. “Do ye no’ like it? I designed it myself.”
“It’s quite
scandalous,” Donncan said. “It looks as if ye wear naught beneath it.”
“That was the
effect I was trying to achieve.”
“But why! No
wonder they . . .” He stopped and took a breath, making a visible effort to
control his tongue.
“Call me a
whore?” Bronwen said pleasantly. “I thought if my own mother-in-law was to name
me such, I may as well look the part.”
Donncan was
taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your mother,”
Bronwen clarified. “Said I looked like a whore. Ye ken how much I wish to
please your mother. I would no’ like the court to think she exaggerated.”
“My mother said
that to ye?”
“No’ to me,”
Bronwen answered, smiling still, though her fingers were clenched hard on the
stem of her glass. “O’ course no’! Nay, she said it behind my back, o’ course.
I have it on the best o’ authorities. I made a special effort today to make
sure I looked the part.”
“I’m sure my
mother said no such thing,” Donncan said angrily.
“She has said as
much, though in slightly more moderate language, to my face,” Bronwen replied.
“Why should I doubt she would say so behind my back? Though I suppose ye are
right. I should no’ believe all I hear, should I?”
“Nay,” Donncan
said. “Perhaps ye should have gone to speak to her, and ask her, no matter how
difficult that might be, as I am here asking ye.”
For the first
time, color rose in Bronwen’s cheeks. She looked up at Donncan, then looked
away. After a moment she said lightly, “I assure ye, I have done naught to
cause ye any shame, my laird.”
His grip on her
wrist relaxed, and he ran his hand up her bare arm. “I’m glad to hear that,” he
said softly. “As I am sorry to hear ye were bored without me. I will do my best
to remedy that.”
He bent his head
and kissed her.
Bronwen’s breath
caught. His kiss deepened, his thumbs tracing small circles on her arms. When
at last he lifted his head to brush a kiss across her temple, she looked up at
him with heavy-lidded eyes. “I would be most grateful,” she murmured. “Ye ken I
am very easily bored.”
He grinned. “Ye
witch,” he said admiringly. “What am I to do with ye?”
She slipped her
arms up about his neck. “Kiss me again?”
He obliged,
sliding his hand up under the heavy fall of hair to find the soft nape of her
neck. Suddenly his fingers stiffened, and he drew away from her.
Bronwen opened
her eyes. “Donncan?”
He was frowning,
his mouth grim. “What is this?” he demanded.
“What?” She
twisted, but could see nothing, for his hand was gripping her by the back of
her hair.
“Ye have cut off
a lock o’ your hair, here at the back, where none can see. Why?”
For a moment her
poise deserted her. “What? My hair?”
“Ye have cut
some off, here at the back. I can feel the tuft where it is shorn. Who did ye
give it to? Some paramour o’ yours?”
She drew away
angrily. “Nay! O’ course no’!”
“Who? Who did ye
give it to?”
“That is none o’
your business,” she retorted, then tried to recover. “Indeed, ye are being
foolish. Ye think I would cut off a lock o’ hair to give as some kind o’ love
token? O’ course I have no’. I had a knot there, that is all, that I was too
impatient to comb out.”
“Ye expect me to
believe that? Ye have a bevy o’ handmaidens who would gladly spend all day
combing out your hair for ye. Ye think I do no’ ken your hair has never afore
been touched by scissors? Ye would no more chop out a knot than ye would hack
off a finger because o’ a hangnail. Nay, ye had some other reason for cutting
off a lock o’ your hair. Who? Who did ye give it to?” He shook her.
Bronwen took a
deep breath and put up her hand to ease the strain of his furious grip on her
hair. “Nay, nay, ye wrong me. I was cross, impatient. I could no’ bear them
tugging at my hair, so I cut it out, that’s all. . . . Please let me go!”
Suddenly someone
came leaping out of the darkness towards them, fist swinging.
“Unhand my
lady!” he cried. “Bronwen, my darling, are ye hurt?”
Instinctively
Donncan spun on his foot, releasing Bronwen’s hair and swinging her behind him.
It all happened so fast Bronwen tripped and almost fell. She grabbed at
Donncan’s arm to save herself, accidentally inhibiting him as he tried to block
the blow that smashed into his jaw. The Prionnsa staggered, his wings flying up
to save him from falling, and then leaped at his attacker furiously.
Bronwen’s hands
flew to her mouth as they crashed over the little table. Donncan’s arm came
back, then punched viciously, his fist connecting with a sickening thump. She
saw a glimpse of green silken breeches and doublet and knew at once who their
attacker was.
“Mat, ye fool,
stop it!” she cried. “Ye canna hit the Prionnsa! Ye’ll be discharged at best.
Donn, stop it! Please!”
They did not
listen. Over they went in a grunting tangle of flying fists and knees. Bronwen
yelled at them again, then seized the jug of Merry May punch and threw it over
them. The shock made them pause for a moment. Mathias was straddling Donncan,
one hand pressing his head into the ground, the other drawn back to strike. He
glanced at Bronwen wildly, his face dripping with wine, soggy woodruff blossoms
snagged in his hair. “Stop!” she cried. “Ye must stop this nonsense!”
But in that
instant of hesitation, Donncan threw Mathias off and got him in a headlock,
grinding his face into the dirt. Mathias heaved wildly until he managed to
throw the Prionnsa off, then he rolled and got to his feet, spitting out grass
and dirt and blood. Donncan came at him again, and Bronwen saw a sudden flash
of silver as the Yeoman drew the little dagger he wore at his waist. It was
only a short knife, used for carving meat off the roast and spearing food to
bring to the mouth, but like all blades worn by a trained soldier, it was
wickedly sharp.
Bronwen
screamed. “Donn! Look out!”
Donncan seized
the swinging knife hand and somersaulted over it, twisting Mathias’s arm. As he
landed, his foot slipped in the sticky puddle of punch, and he staggered. The
knife was wrenched sideways, plunging deep into the Yeoman’s stomach.
Mathias choked
and staggered, then turned a look of such bewilderment upon Bronwen that tears
sprang into her eyes. He dropped to his knees, both hands going to cradle the
knife hilt protruding from his abdomen.
“Nay! Stop! Do
no’ pull it out!” Donncan gasped, reaching out one hand to him.
But it was too
late. Mathias had dragged out the knife. It slid free with a great gush of
blood. Mathias looked down at his bloody hands, his red-soaked shirt, looked up
once more at Bronwen, then pitched forward on to his face. When she and Donncan
together tried to lift him up, it was too late. He was dead.
Lachlan raised an
eyebrow at his page, who came forward and kneeled, pouring more wine punch into
his jewel-encrusted goblet.
“Thank ye,” the
Rìgh said.
His page nodded
and rose, stepping back to his place behind the Rìgh’s chair. “No sign o’ any
trouble yet,” Iseult said softly, leaning her head close to her husband’s.
“Nay, everyone
seems as merry as they should be on May Night. I am glad we didna cancel the
feast, as Dillon thought we should.”
“It would have
caused a lot o’ talk,” Iseult said. “I think ye are right: we have a better
chance o’ discovering any plot to assassinate ye if we do no’ scare the killer
away by showing we suspect anything. If he thinks we ken naught, he will be less
cautious and more likely to show his hand.”
“She,” Lachlan
said.
“Aye, that’s
right. She.”
“It may be
nothing—ye ken that,” Lachlan said very softly. “It is but a dream, and one
that Olwynne can barely remember anyway.”
Iseult sighed.
“I do no’ like this . . . thisfear that has come into our lives, with
this dream o’ Olwynne’s. I do no’ like looking at all our friends and servants
and wondering who it is that seeks to kill ye. Ihate worrying that I
might lose ye!”
“We never ken
the time or means o’ our own death,” Lachlan said somberly. “Ye may die
tomorrow, struck down by lightning, or—”
“Hit by a
runaway carriage—”
“Or ye could
worry yourself to death.”
They looked at
each other and smiled ruefully.
“What long
faces!” a merry voice called. “Who’s died?”
Lachlan’s face
lit up. “Dide!” he cried. “Welcome!”
Didier Laverock,
the Earl of Caerlaverock, came up smiling. He was dressed in old worsted
breeches, rather worn at the knees and seat, and had a battered old guitar
slung over his shoulder. His dark, curly hair was pulled back into a messy
ponytail beneath a rakish crimson cap with a long green feather stuck in the
brim. His long coat was shabby indeed.
Lachlan leaped
to his feet and pulled Dide in for a close embrace, slapping his back in
delight. “When did ye ride in?” he demanded.
“Just now,” Dide
replied. “Forgive me my courtly attire. If I’d taken the time to change, I’d
have missed the feast altogether.”
“Ye’d be welcome
in your nightgown and cap,” Lachlan exclaimed. “Come, have a drink, man, and
join us. Tell us all your news!”
“Gladly,” the
earl replied. He unslung his guitar, propping it against his chair as he sat
down. He looked about him with interest as the Rìgh’s page poured him a cup of
ale. Dide quaffed it and held out his cup for another. “Where’s Beau?” he
asked.
“She’ll be at
the witches’ feast,” Iseult said. “I expect she’ll walk up later to have a cup
o’ wine with us. Nina will be here soon too, to sing to us as usual. What are
ye doing here? I thought ye were in Tìrsoilleir still.”
“I was, but
thought I should come home and report to ye myself. I dinna trust my mail to
come to ye untampered. Quite a few o’ my missives seem to have gone astray, and
I wanted to make sure all was well with ye. I’ve been hearing rumors . . .”
“What?” Lachlan
demanded.
Dide had been
scanning the crowd about them as he spoke. His keen eyes had noted the
blue-clad guards standing at attention behind the high table and patrolling the
perimeters of the square, and he had lifted a hand in greeting to Dillon, who, as
always, wore his cursed sword at his belt.
“It looks as if
ye may have been hearing some o’ them yourself,” Dide said softly. “Prepared
for trouble, are we?”
“Always,” Iseult
said.
Dide smiled at
her. “I ken ye are,” he answered, “but Lachlan is no’ usually so well-guarded
in his own garden. What’s up?”
“Why do ye no’
tell us your news first?” Lachlan suggested. “Yours may have bearing on ours,
though I hope no’.”
“Tìrsoilleir is
in turmoil,” Dide said bluntly. “The new Fealde has the common people all stirred
up with religious fervor, and Elfrida has done naught to rein her in. She has
no’ been to Bride at all this year, staying in Arran the whole time, so it is
as if they do no’ have a ruler at all.”
Iseult raised
her brows. “That is no’ like Elfrida. She does no’ like Arran much, and is
always trying to make Iain stay with her in Bride.”
“While Iain
loves the marshes and is never happy for long away from them,” Lachlan said
ruefully. He was very close to the Prionnsa of Arran, counting him as one of
his closest friends and advisers. Both were glad their sons had grown up to be
such good friends, and had taken turns to foster Donncan and Neil, so that the
centuries-long feud between the MacCuinn and the MacFóghnan clans could finally
be laid to rest.
“Elfrida has
never been a very confident ruler, particularly when it meant standing up to
the Fealde. I guess her early indoctrination by the Bright Soldiers in the
Black Tower was no’ so easily shaken off,” Dide said. “Although she paid lip
service to the Pact o’ Peace and the doctrine o’ free worship, I do no’ think
she ever actually enforced it. This past year, though . . . I have heard o’
persecution o’ witches again, and I myself have listened to the Fealde preach
against us from the pulpit. The Parliament does as it pleases, and all o’ them
now are the Fealde’s men and her puppets.”
“Is that so?”
Lachlan frowned.
“That is no’ the
worst o’ it. The Fealde is hinting at another holy war. She refutes the tale
that ye are the warrior angel as heresy and sacrilege, and exhorts the people
o’ Tìrsoilleir to rise up and overthrow ye.”
“What!” Lachlan
slammed his cup down on the table, spilling his wine. “She dares preach
treason?”
Faces all along
the high table and on the dance floor turned to stare at him, including Elfrida
and Iain, who were seated a little farther along the table, with their son Neil
beside them, picking unhappily at his roast swan. Iain smiled at the sight of
Dide and rose at once to come to greet him. Elfrida rose too, pausing to speak
quietly to her son before following her husband.
Dide lowered his
voice and said quickly, “Ye should ken also that Elfrida has taken one o’ the
Fealde’s closest supporters as her personal spiritual adviser. I believe he
travels with her everywhere.”
Lachlan had time
only to raise his eyebrow and glance at the black-clad man following a few
steps behind Elfrida before Iain was upon them, greeting Dide warmly. In
repose, the Prionnsa of Arran’s face was thoughtful, even melancholy, but when
he was animated, as he was now, deep lines about his mouth and eyes crinkled
charmingly. He had a rueful, self-deprecating way of speaking and a habit of
pausing before he spoke, as if to consider his words carefully.
“We have no’
seen ye in an age,” he was saying now. “Good it is indeed to see ye!”
Elfrida came up
behind him and added her greetings to the jongleur-turned-earl, her eyes
assessing him swiftly even as she smiled and inquired after his health. Elfrida
had once been a pretty, fair woman, but her looks had faded. She was very thin,
so that all her features had sharpened, and there were blue hollows under her
eyes and a deep line between her fair, almost nonexistent brows. As usual, she
was dressed in a heavy gown of some dark stuff, made up high to her chin and
covering her arms to the wrists.
Dide was an
accomplished dissembler, after spending most of his life in the secret service
of the Rìgh, and he gave no hint that he had just that moment been discussing
her affairs. By inquiring after her son, he was soon hearing an eager account
of Neil’s activities and accomplishments.
All the while,
the black-clad pastor stood behind Elfrida’s elbow, his hands folded before him
in a pious attitude. He was all angles, with sharp elbows and knees jutting
against the heavy fabric of his robe, and a chin like a spear point. His nose
was pointed too, and he had oddly long nails for a man, very clean and white
and carefully polished. His hair was pale and cut as close to his scalp as
scissors could reach, while his pointed chin positively gleamed, it had so
recently been shaved.
“And no plans
for matrimony as yet?” Dide asked Elfrida at last. “Or do ye plan to look for a
bride for Neil while here at the royal court? Most o’ the first families will
be here for Donncan and Bronwen’s wedding, I imagine.”
A shadow fell
over Elfrida’s face. “Nay, no plans as yet. Neil is still only young.”
“He’s
twenty-four, a man grown,” Lachlan said, drawing his brows together. Having
married young himself, Lachlan was an enthusiastic advocate for early weddings.
“He’ll be getting into mischief if ye do no’ marry him off soon.”
“Neil does no’
wish to marry,” Elfrida said coolly.
“What, no’ ever?
We canna allow that! He’s the sole heir to both Arran and Tìrsoilleir. Imagine
the trouble there’d be if he doesna breed up at least one heir. Nay, nay, ye
canna allow that, Elfrida! Iain?”
Iain cast a
glance at his wife. “Och, he just hasna met the right girl yet, has he,
dearling?”
Some note of
strain in his voice made Dide look at him more closely, then glance over at Neil.
He had risen and was pacing the dance floor, clearly looking for someone. The
others followed his gaze and there was a moment’s silence; then Iseult said in
her forthright way, “I hope Cuckoo’s no’ still carrying a torch for Bronwen,
Elfrida. That would be very foolish, since she and Donncan will be jumping the
fire together in a matter o’ months.”
“Neil and
Bronwen have always been very close,” Elfrida answered defensively.
“Aye, maybe so,
but yearning after another man’s wife has never brought anything but trouble,”
Iseult answered sternly. “Lachlan is right. He is twenty-four now and it is
high time he was married and thinking o’ setting up a family. We must give some
thought as to a suitable wife for him.”
Elfrida’s lips
shut into a tight line. She did not answer. Behind her the pastor clasped and
unclasped his hands.
“I do no’ think
Neil is ready for marriage just yet,” Iain said placatingly. “These childhood
crushes sometimes take a while to cool. I’m sure, given time . . .”
“There’s no harm
in introducing the lad to a few pretty lasses,” Lachlan said. “Particularly
ones with a pretty dowry and a few strategic connections as well. Ye must
remember the lad will one day have to rule both Arran and Tìrsoilleir. He’ll
need a girl who has been brought up to fill such a position. How old are
Fymbar’s sisters now, Iseult? One o’ the banprionnsachan o’ Blèssem would do
very nicely, since their lands lie so close to Arran—”
“Neil is no’
interested in those towheaded ninnies,” Elfrida said flatly. “We stayed with
them on our way here and he could no’ have been more bored!”
Lachlan raised
his brow. “Busty blondes no’ to his taste? Well, what about that raven-haired
lass from Carraig. What’s her name, Iseult?”
“Nathalie
NicSeinn, do ye mean?”
“Aye, that’s the
one. They say she is quite lovely, as well as clever and accomplished. I wonder
if she plans to come to the wedding? Perhaps a subtle hint to the MacSeinn . .
.”
“Thank ye, but I
do no’ think that will be necessary,” Elfrida said, rising to her feet, two spots
of color burning on her thin cheeks. “If ye will excuse me . . .” And she went
swiftly away towards her son, who had given up searching the dance floor and
was now standing by himself, staring off into the shadowy gardens. She took his
arm and tried to lead him back to their seats, but he shook her off and went
plunging off into the garden. Elfrida stood staring after him, her pastor
behind her like an elongated shadow.
“I’m sorry,”
Iain was saying. “Ye’ve struck a sore spot, I’m afraid. Indeed, we’re very
worried about Neil. It’s true what ye said, Iseult. He is still rather dazzled
by Bronwen and steadfastly refuses to have anything to do with any other girl.
Donncan kens, o’ course. It’s a wonder they are still such good friends. If
Bronwen did no’ keep treating Neil like a favorite younger brother, it would be
a different story. Elfrida finds it upsetting, though. It has made Neil very
unhappy these past few years, and she naturally feels for him. I’m sure once
Bronwen and Donncan actually tie the knot . . .” His voice trailed away.
“Let us hope
so,” Iseult said neutrally. She laid her hand on Lachlan’s arm, for the Rìgh
was scowling and looked as if he might burst into intemperate speech.
Dide was just
stepping in with a smooth question about the past hunting season in Arran when
a sudden disturbance at the far side of the dance floor attracted all their
attention. There were cries of alarm, then a shrill scream that sent waves of
unease through the crowd. The music came to a jangling halt, and all the dancers
stopped mid-step and drew back, whispering and pointing.
“What has
happened?” Lachlan cried and strode forward. Dillon at once leaped up and moved
to stand beside him, his hand on his sword hilt.
Iseult rose
also, her face draining of color as she saw Donncan coming slowly in from the
gardens, his face grey with shock, his hands and clothes heavily stained with
blood. He held a dagger out before him as if it was a hissing snake.
Behind him
stumbled Bronwen. Her gauzy skirt was marked with a dreadful wet black patch in
front, and she walked with both her hands held out before her, staring with
fascination at her bloodstained palms.
“He’s dead,” she
said to the crowd, her eyes blackly dilated. “He’s dead.”
“No’
Neil!” Elfrida screamed. “No’ my Cuckoo?”
Bronwen turned
slowly and stared at her in bafflement. “No,” she said. “No’ Neil.”
Neil came
hurrying out of the garden, throwing an exasperated glance at his mother. “What
is it? What has happened?” he demanded.
Bronwen saw him and
her face crumpled. She ran to him and he enclosed her in his arms. She began to
weep, stammering incoherently.
“What in Eà’s
green blood has happened?” Lachlan demanded also, striding forward, his wings
spreading. Iseult was close behind him, her hand going automatically to thereil
at her belt.
The Blue Guards
had closed ranks about the dance floor, responding to the slightest jerk of
Captain Dillon’s head.
“It was an
accident,” Donncan said. His voice shook slightly. He looked towards his father
with frowning eyes and lifted his bloody hands in what looked like a gesture of
appeal. “Indeed, I didna mean to kill him.”
“Who? Who’s
dead?” Lachlan demanded.
Donncan looked
at Bronwen, shuddered, and looked away. “Mat.”
“Mathias o’ the
guards?” Captain Dillon demanded. “Mathias Bright-Eyed?”
Donncan nodded.
Captain Dillon sent some of the guards off at a run, seizing lanterns from the
poles to light their way, then came to stand before Donncan, searching his face
with hard eyes. “What happened, Your Highness?”
“He attacked
me,” Donncan said, outrage firming his voice. “Without any warning at all. He
just came leaping out o’ the darkness and punched me!” He indicated his bruised
face with one hand.
“Is that so?”
Captain Dillon responded with a quick glance at Bronwen. Even though his voice
was carefully neutral, Donncan flushed vividly.
“Aye, that’s
so,” he said furiously. “I do no’ ken why! He pulled a knife on me!”
“Is that what
happened, Your Highness?” Captain Dillon asked Bronwen.
She gave a great
shudder but nodded.
Iseult had come
flying forward and was examining her son frantically. “Are ye hurt?” she
demanded. “He did no’ stab ye, did he?”
“Nay,” Donncan
said. “He tried, but I used his own arm to swing over and away, like so.”
He demonstrated,
and Iseult nodded. “A good response,” she said approvingly. “What happened
then?”
“I slipped as I
landed. There was wine or something spilled on the grass. He was trying to
recover, maybe to try to stab me again. The knife just twisted when I fell. . .
. It went straight in. I’m sorry! I never meant . . . it all just happened so
fast.”
Neil had drawn
Bronwen to sit down and had wrapped his plaid about her shoulders. He passed
the Banprionnsa a glass of wine, but Bronwen’s hands were shaking so much she
could not take it. Instead, Neil held it to her lips. Bronwen’s chattering
teeth rattled on the rim, but she managed to gulp a mouthful and her shivering
eased a little.
“Can ye tell us
what happened, Bronny?” Neil asked gently.
“It was just as
Donncan said,” she whispered.
“But what
possible reason would Mathias Bright-Eyed have for attacking His Highness?”
Captain Dillon asked coolly.
“He . . . he was
jealous,” Bronwen said, her voice catching. “He thought . . . he wanted . . .”
She could not go on.
Iseult had gone
to Donncan and drawn him to sit down too, giving him a glass of wine to drink
as she quickly looked over his injuries, which consisted primarily of a rapidly
swelling eye, a split lip, grazed knuckles, and a bruised jaw.
“Where is
Johanna?” Iseult asked. “We need a healer here. Donncan is sore hurt. Should
Johanna no’ be here?”
“I must go and
view the body,” Captain Dillon said. “He was one o’ my men. Your Majesty, I beg
o’ ye, retire to your chambers. It is just this sort o’ confusion that an
assassin may seize upon. I will order my men to keep close and will return just
as soon as I have seen for myself that Mathias is dead.”
Donncan looked
up at his father. “We tried to rouse him. It was no good.”
Lachlan looked
around at the shocked and curious crowd, his jaw thrust forward angrily; then
he said, “Come, let us go back to the palace. Ye must change out o’ those
bloodstained clothes and bathe, and let the healers look ye over and make sure
all is well. Dillon, attend me as soon as ye can! Call the Privy Councillors.
We must hear the whole story.”
“It was an
accident,” Donncan said pleadingly. “I never meant to kill him.”
“O’ course no’,”
Lachlan answered. “Come, where are the Banprionnsa Bronwen’s ladies? Roy! Send
a message to the witches’ tower. Tell Isabeau and Gwilym and Nina and bid them
attend me.”
Neil had been
crouched beside Bronwen’s chair, holding her hand between both of his. She was
struggling with tears. He helped her to her feet, and she leaned on his arm,
hiding her face in his shoulder.
Out of the crowd
came Thunderlily, her hand outstretched. Bronwen let go of Neil’s arm and
seized Thunderlily’s, her face crumpling. The Celestine passed her arm around
Bronwen’s waist and helped the drooping figure up the steps and into the
palace. Neil watched them go, then opened his hand, looking down at the blood
smears on his skin. His face was unreadable.
Elfrida was at
once by his side, her face pale, her eyes glittering with something that could
have been excitement, or fear, or distress. This time Neil did not shake her
off but let his mother comfort him and guide him away. Behind them went the
black shadow, his cold eyes raking the crowd with contempt.
Bronwen felt
very odd.
It was not as if
she had never seen men die before. She had been present at the bloodiest
battlefield in living memory, the Battle of Bonnyblair, when the Fairgean had
brought the power of tidal wave and volcano against their human enemies. Bodies
had been tumbled in the surf like flotsam, and afterwards the decks of their
ship had been lined with row after row of the bloody wounded. Her nursemaid had
been cut down before her eyes, and she had seen her mother sing her enemies to
death, including her own father, Bronwen’s grandfather, the dreaded king of the
Fairgean.
All that was a
very long time ago, though. Bronwen could hardly remember it. It was like it
had happened to some other girl, in a tale of long, long ago, far, far away.
Mathias, though,
had died right there before her, staring up at her in unspeakable terror and
bewilderment. She could smell his blood in her nostrils and feel its stickiness
on her skin. Twenty minutes ago, his arm had been about her waist, his breath
had been on her ear. She had mocked him, she had scorned him, and she had
driven him to the reckless act that had seen him die at the hand of her
betrothed. Bronwen could not see how she could wriggle away from self-blame
this time, and by the cold, distant look on Donncan’s face, the way he could
not bear to look at her, she guessed he blamed her too.
Bronwen could
not stop her legs from shaking. They trembled so violently the jeweled heels of
her silver sandals beat out a quick tattoo on the ground. Her knees knocked.
Her hands quivered. She clenched them tightly together, between her knees, and
pressed her heels down hard. She tried not to see the strange, blank look in
Mathias’s eyes as he fell down to the ground. It kept repeating, though, before
her eyes, and she felt hysteria rising like nausea in her throat.
The councillors
talked and argued among themselves. Bronwen, who was normally quite interested
in court politics, could barely understand a word. It seemed some thought
Donncan should stand trial to show that even the Rìgh’s son was not exempt from
the new judicial processes the Rìgh had fought so hard to introduce. Others
argued that there was no need, that it was clearly a dreadful accident, that
Bronwen herself was witness to there being no malice aforethought. They
questioned her again and again, but Bronwen could not answer.
Then Thunderlily
was standing before her, facing the councillors, humming deep in her throat.
They needed no translator. Thunderlily’s meaning was evident in her blazing
eyes. They let Bronwen go, and the Celestine helped her up the stairs to her
boudoir, washed the sticky residue of blood from her body, and held her hand
until she at last began to calm. The last thing Bronwen saw was the strange,
crystalline eyes of the Celestine, bending down close over her, and the last
thing she heard was the low, soft humming, deep in Thunderlily’s throat, as
comforting as a cat purring. Then she slept.
“He was in love
with Bronwen—that’s why he attacked me!” Donncan said, goaded into fury. “Ye
were all there. I saw ye watch as he danced with her and whisper behind your
hands. And ye saw how he tried to hold Bronwen back when she came to me. He
must’ve been half-mad with jealousy, to attack me that way.”
He saw the Lord
Chancellor frown and tried to moderate his tone.
“I’m sorry for
it,” he said. “I wish it had no’ happened.”
“There can be no
blame attached to the Prionnsa,” the Master of Horse said. “Mathias Bright-Eyed
was partial to a dram—we all ken that. He was drinking heavily tonight. I noted
it myself.”
Donncan felt
tired and sore and melancholy. He could still remember feeling the tuft of
shorn hair at the base of Bronwen’s skull. It troubled him greatly that it was
this that haunted him and not the easy way the dagger had slid into Mathias’s
body. He closed his mind to it. He had not told the Privy Council about the
lovelock. He wanted no more talk about Bronwen.
The court would
be seething with gossip, though. He knew that. He shut his eyes and pressed his
fingertips into his aching temples. He heard his mother rise and suggest he be
left in peace, to rest and recover, then the rustle of silken clothes and the
click of jeweled heels on the parquetry floor as the courtiers all departed.
Then he sensed rather than heard her, for Iseult always moved with the silent
grace of a snow lion. She sat down beside him and took his hand.
“Were ye two
quarreling?” she asked.
Donncan moved
his wings restlessly. “We had words,” he admitted.
“What about?”
He made a vague
gesture with his hand. “I’m sure ye can guess.”
“How could ye be
so foolish!” Lachlan exploded. “To fight a duel over your betrothed with one o’
the royal guard! At the May Day feast! How are we meant to smooth this over?”
“I wasna
dueling!” Donncan protested. “Ye think I would fight a duel at a feast in your
garden? With a Yeoman? O’ course I wouldna do such a thing. I’m telling ye, Mat
attacked me. I didna even ken who it was at first. He just came at me out o’
the darkness.”
“With his knife
drawn?” Iseult asked.
Donncan shook
his head. “Nay, he drew that later.”
“He must’ve been
mad!” Lachlan paced restlessly, his hands tucked behind him, under his wings.
“Ye both must have been mad!”
Angrily Donncan
looked up to find his father glaring at him, his golden eyes as fierce as a
gyrfalcon’s.
“It’s a bad
business,” Lachlan said. “So close to your wedding too. It’s bound to cause a
lot o’ talk.” He began to pace again, and Donncan heaved an involuntary sigh of
relief to be free of that raking stare. “If only ye hadna killed him!”
“I didna mean
to!” Donncan protested. “I told ye, it was an accident.”
“Every
gossipmonger at the court will have noted that he and Bronwen were dancing just
afore ye killed him,” Lachlan said angrily. “And the way they danced! Why is
that girl such a hoyden?”
Donncan’s temper
frayed. “That is my wife-to-be who ye are referring to in such terms,” he said
icily. “I’ll thank ye to keep your comments to yourself.”
Lachlan’s
temper, never sweet, flared as quickly. “I’ll speak in whatever way I please,
thank ye very much! I was no’ the one who killed one o’ my very own bodyguards,
in my own garden, in a quarrel over a girl who’s little better than a
strumpet!”
Donncan leaped
to his feet, feeling the giddy rush of anger through his blood as hot and
exciting as a dram of whisky.
“Ye canna deny
that your wife-to-be has behaved in a very reprehensible manner,” Lachlan said,
trying to control his own temper. “She is no witch, to take lovers where and
when she pleases. She is a banprionnsa o’ the royal house, and soon to be wed.
The whole time ye have been away, we have had to watch and say naught as she
caused one scandal after another.”
“Say naught!
When ye call her a strumpet and a whore! Aye, she told me o’ that tonight and
angry and upset she was indeed. . . .”
“I beg your
pardon?”
“I heard how ye
and Mam have called her a whore. What do ye think—”
“What in Eà’s
name are ye talking about?”
“Are ye saying
Mam didna say so? For Bronwen certainly believes she did.”
“I suppose I may
have,” Iseult admitted, casting her mind back. “But only ever in private
conversation, and I didna mean . . . Who told ye I had done so?”
“Bronwen did.
She said she had it on the best o’ authorities.”
“Only Owein and
Lewen were there, serving your father and I. Ye canna mean one o’ them repeated
what I said to Bronwen? I do no’ believe it!”
“Ye should never
have said such a thing,” Donncan said furiously.
“I’m sorry, but
I never meant—”
“It is no’ your
place to tell your mother how she should speak or behave,” Lachlan roared.
“Bronwen deserves every raised eyebrow and every snigger she gets. She is too
much her mother’s daughter. Did ye see what she was wearing tonight? She might
as well have been naked.”
“She only
decided to dress that way after hearing what Mam had said about her,” Donncan
said. “She said if that is what Mam thinks o’ her, she may as well dress the
part.”
Lachlan’s eyes
blazed. “How dare she! She said that to ye?”
“I never meant
to hurt her feelings,” Iseult said, both troubled and defensive. “I canna
remember what I said. I think I was just commenting on the way she likes to
stir up the hornet’s nest. I never intended what I said to be repeated to her.”
“She does dress
like a whore,” Lachlan said angrily. “I was afraid that gown—if ye can call it
a gown—would just slide off her tonight, the way she was dancing. Held up with
little more than a bit o’ string, for Eà’s sake! I’m sorry now that I ever
arranged this marriage!”
All the anger
suddenly drained out of Donncan. “So am I,” he said and turned to sit down,
resting his head on his arms.
Both Lachlan and
Iseult froze. They exchanged a charged look over his bowed head. Then Iseult
came to sit down next to him, laying her hand on his arm. “Are ye saying ye
wish to break the engagement? I thought ye wanted it.”
“It’ll be no
easy task to break it,” Lachlan warned. “It was the key component o’ the Pact
o’ Peace, remember? That sly, sneaky Fairgean ambassador does nothing but
remind me o’ how important this marriage is to King Nila. If ye decide to break
it, it could mean war again.”
“No need to
remind me o’ that,” Donncan said in a muffled voice.
“Ye canna break
it,” Iseult said. “It is too important.”
“But,leannan
, if he doesna love her—”
“Love! He’s been
besotted with that wool-witted lassie since he was no’ much more than a
toddler!”
“Aye, but calf
love is no’ the same as the love a man feels for a woman.”
“It is a good
foundation,” Iseult said. She turned back to her son. “Ye canna break the
engagement now, Donncan. It is too close. The Fairgean are proud. They would
see it as an insult. We canna risk another war with the sea faeries. The last
one cost us too dearly.”
“I ken, I ken.”
“What is wrong?
Did ye two quarrel tonight? Did ye interrupt something between her and this
Yeoman? Is that why ye killed him?”
“I told ye! He
attacked me, out o’ the darkness. Bronwen and I were together . . .” Donncan
sat up and twisted to face his parents. His eyes were red-rimmed.
“Doing what?’
“Talking.” His
voice was sullen.
“Just talking?’
Donncan did not
answer.
“We need to ken
what happened, Donn. The whole court will be afire with speculation. We must
nip it in the bud, and soon.”
“We were just talking,”
Donncan said.
“What was there
in that to cause Mathias to attack ye?”
“We might have
kissed a bit too.”
“Might have? Did
ye or didna ye?”
“We did,”
Donncan answered. “A bit.”
“Well, that
must’ve been oil on the flames,” Lachlan said. “If this soldier thought he had
some claim on Bronwen’s affections.”
Donncan did not
answer. He rested his head in his hand, and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Donn needs to
get to bed,” Iseult said. “It has been an ordeal, this whole evening.”
Lachlan frowned.
“I’m no’ finished yet. I must get to the bottom o’ this sorry affair. We canna
leave it to the morning.”
Donncan made a
sharp movement. “I’ve told ye what happened. Canna I just go, please?”
“Nay, ye may
no’. We must make sure none suspect ye o’ murder. We’ll need to find witnesses,
to prove what ye say is true. People who saw ye leave with Bronwen. People who
can attest to Mathias Bright-Eyed’s state o’ mind. And I must say, we must also
do what we can to scotch rumors o’ any affair between Bronwen and this gallant
o’ hers. From now until the wedding, Bronwen’s behavior must be impeccable.”
Donncan gave a
bitter snort. “Good luck,” he answered.
There was a
short silence. “Are ye saying ye believe there was some relationship between
them?” Iseult demanded. “I had no’ thought so. I watched them together and
thought Bronwen cared no more for him than for any other o’ her admirers. Are
ye saying there was more? Was he her lover?”
“I dinna ken,”
Donncan said in utter misery.
“We canna risk a
barley-child,” Lachlan said. “Any child o’ this marriage must be legitimate,
else we’ll have endless trouble and intrigue. I have worked too hard to bring
peace to this land to see it thrown away by a lamb-brained lassie. We must make
sure there is no doubt o’ Bronwen’s faithfulness, else there is no point to the
wedding at all.”
Donncan felt
unutterably weary. “No point at all,” he echoed.
“It is no small
thing, to kill a man,” Iseult said after a moment. “And there is no denying
that Bronwen brought this tragedy upon us with her coquettishness. If she had
no’ encouraged that soldier, he would never have dared raise a hand against ye.
But what’s done is done. We must salvage what we can from this calamity.
Breaking your engagement now would be very foolish.”
Donncan thrust
out his jaw. “Do I have any say in the matter? What o’ my wishes, my needs?”
“Ye are the
Crown Prionnsa!” Lachlan shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. “Do ye
wish to bring down war upon our heads? Ye have a duty and a responsibility to
your people and to your crown!”
Donncan stood
up. “Aye, o’ course, Your Majesty,” he said coldly and bowed.
Olwynne stirred
in her sleep, and Lewen stretched his arm across her back to soothe her.
Suddenly she sat up, jerking him into full wakefulness.
“My blades must
have blood,” she said. Her voice was very deep and strange.
“What?”
“My blades must
have blood.”
“Go back to
sleep,leannan ,” Lewen soothed her. “All will be well. Go back to
sleep.”
But even as
Olwynne muttered in response and lay back down to fall immediately asleep
again, Lewen knew that he lied. All was not well.
For the first
week after Lewen carved the bird for her, Rhiannon was happy. She did as the
Keybearer had suggested and threw herself into her studies, puzzling over the
books and scrolls she had been brought until the marks on the paper began to
make sense, becoming words, and then sentences, and then stories.
She forced
herself to eat the food they brought her, sharing her bread and fruit with the
bluebird and teaching it to take tidbits from between her lips. She tried to
remember the ahdayeh she had been taught on her travels with the witches,
stretching and strengthening her body, and finding peace in the rhythmic,
repetitive movements. She slept dreamlessly, the rowan charm held between her
hands.
She had no
visitors. As the days passed, each exactly the same as the day before, her
happiness began to seep away and in its place rose a bitter acidic anxiety.
Rhiannon tried to press it down, concentrating on the routine she had built
herself, but it ate away at her composure with slow corrosive inexorable-ness.
She knew there
was to be a May Day feast at the palace that Lewen was expected to attend. She
knew her other friends would also be celebrating the coming of summer and that they
might not find time to come to see her for a few days. They had all explained
and apologized to her in advance, and she had tried not to feel lonely and
neglected. Yet as the day of the feast passed, Rhiannon’s anxiety grew so sharp
she found she could not calm herself. In her hands she jerked and twisted her
linen handkerchief until it tore, and she flung it down in disgust, but then
she had nothing to keep her hands busy but themselves, and soon her nails and
cuticles were torn and bleeding. She tried to sit but rocked back and forth,
back and forth on her chair until she forced herself to stop, then found her
foot beating a rapid tattoo on the floor.
So May Day
passed. Even the little bluebird fled the cell, soaring out through the bars
and away, so that Rhiannon was in despair, thinking it would never return. When
it did at last, in the dim twilight of that endless day, it carried a little
spray of lily of the valley for her. Rhiannon was comforted and put the flowers
in the cup by her bed so she could smell them in the dark, and pretend she was
lying in the meadows and not in a hard prison bed.
Even with
Lewen’s rowan charm clutched between her hands, Rhiannon slept badly that
night. She dreamed of a great wheel spinning before her eyes, light and dark
flashing past her as the spokes whirled around. She dreamed she heard bells
ringing out, filling her ears with doom, and saw she stood on a scaffold, the
black-hooded hangman drawing a sack down over her head. Rhiannon looked out
wildly into the crowd, screaming Lewen’s name with all her strength, but he was
not there and then all her senses were muffled and she knew it was too late,
this was the end. She woke up screaming and opened her eyes into the darkness,
whispering, “Lewen, Lewen, where are ye?” Then her eyes closed again and she
fell back into sleep.
She saw Lewen.
He was asleep. He lay sprawled on his back, his dark curls tousled, a sheet
drawn up to his hips. He shifted in his sleep, turning on his side and curling
around close to the white naked body of another woman. Rhiannon saw the mass of
curls flaming down the woman’s bare back and breast and knew it was her enemy,
the redheaded Banprionnsa. She cried out in agony. Olwynne opened her eyes and
looked at her but did not see her. “My blades must have blood,” she said in a
voice as deep and ringing as a bell. “My blades must have blood.”
Rhiannon watched
Lewen soothe her back to sleep and felt tears spring to her eyes. “No, no,” she
sobbed. She turned and fled, as far and fast as she could. The darkness
streamed past her, and then she felt the cold wind turn sharp in her hand and
realized she was astride Blackthorn once more, the mare’s mane cutting her
palm. She cried aloud in relief and joy, and the mare whinnied in response.
Rhiannon looked back, and saw a delicate silver string winding away behind her.
The farther she flew, the tauter the string grew till it was tuned as tightly
as any harp string, dragging at her heart until she thought it must snap or
pluck her very heart out of her body. Rhiannon leaned into the wind, urging the
mare to go faster, wanting to escape or die in the attempt.
“My blades must
have blood,” she remembered, and saw, or imagined, a scythe slicing down
through her heartstring, severing it. Rhiannon saw, with great clarity, that
she would indeed die then, or be lost. She pulled back on Blackthorn’s mane,
leaning back all her weight, and the winged mare slowed her headlong flight and
hovered there in the starless abyss. “I want to live,” Rhiannon said aloud.
“Dark walkers spare me, I want to live.”
With a great
twang, the silver thread snapped her back into her bed. Rhiannon cried out at
the shock of it. “Blackthorn!” she called. “Blackthorn!”
But all was
quiet.
Rhiannon’s hands
smarted. She opened and shut them, the cuts on her palm throbbing. When she
pressed her hands over her eyes to blot away her tears, the salt water seeped
into the cuts, stinging them.
The next
morning, she could not eat the cold porridge the guards brought her. All the
nervous energy that had driven her to pace her cell was gone. She could barely
find the strength to move from her bed to the chair or to turn the pages of the
bestiary she had come to love so much. The bluebird perched on the edge of the
bowl and pecked at the oatmeal, then flew about singing. Rhiannon watched it
but did not smile.
The morning
plodded on. At noon, the door grated open. Rhiannon turned her eyes that way.
Lewen stood in the doorway. Olwynne stood close behind him, dressed like a
banprionnsa in shimmering yellow silk and gold embroidered brocade. Rhiannon
saw that she had dressed to look her best. Her skin glowed, and her hair was
like rippling lava. Rhiannon was all too aware of her own dull hair and skin,
her shadowed eyes and stinking prison garb.
“Rhiannon . . .”
Lewen faltered over her name.
“Go on,” she
said.
“I am sorry. I
find I am mistaken . . . in my feelings for ye. I should never . . . It was
wrong o’ me . . .” He could not go on. He cast one beseeching glance at her,
then turned his eyes away.
Olwynne stepped
forward. A wave of perfume washed over Rhiannon, making her feel suddenly
dizzy. She clutched at an iron bedpost to steady herself.
“I ken ye and
Lewen are lovers, and that ye consider yourself . . . affianced in some way.
I’m sorry to have to say that Lewen finds himself mistaken in his feelings for
ye. He hopes ye will understand that his feelings have changed, and that there
are no hard feelings.”
Rhiannon looked
past her to Lewen. He would not meet her eyes. She said his name. He glanced at
her but only for a second, shaking his head and backing away.
“I’m sorry,”
Olwynne said again, her voice shaking. “We must go. It’ll only make it worse if
we stay.”
Rhiannon did not
know if Olwynne spoke to her or to Lewen, but she straightened her back and
stared Olwynne in the eye. “He is mine,” she warned. “Do no’ think ye can have
him.”
Her defiance
strengthened the Banprionnsa.
“But I can,” she
said and stepped backwards, not taking her eyes off Rhiannon.
Even so, she was
unprepared for the speed of Rhiannon’s attack. With one leap Rhiannon crashed
them both to the floor. Sitting astride the Banprionnsa, she seized two
handfuls of the red curls and slammed Olwynne’s head hard into the floor,
lifted and slammed again. Olwynne screamed. Rhiannon would have slammed her
head down again, but Lewen and the two guards were on her, dragging her away.
One guard cuffed her hard across the ear, but she ignored the blow, leaping for
Olwynne again, raking her nails down one cheek. Only with great difficulty did
they restrain her, for she kicked and squirmed and fought against their hold.
Olwynne’s dress
was crushed and torn, her face was scored red, and her careful coiffure was in
wild disarray. When she gingerly felt the back of her skull, her fingers came
back blotched with blood. Lewen looked dazed with shock, while both the guards
were grim faced and abjectly apologetic.
“Get every
single one o’ my hairs out o’ her hands,” Olwynne said icily. “I do no’ want
her using them for her sorcery.”
Rhiannon’s
fingers were forced open, and the great tufts of Olwynne’s hair prised free.
Rhiannon was pleased when she saw how much she had torn out of the
Banprionnsa’s head, though she did not understand what Olwynne meant with her
comment about sorcery. She stared at Olwynne with burning hatred as the
Banprionnsa straightened her dress and hair, Lewen supporting her with one arm
about her waist. When he looked at Rhiannon, it was with horror and disgust.
Olwynne was able to say, “See, she is quite wild! I told ye how it would be.”
Rhiannon
struggled once more to be free, her eyes burning with tears she refused to
shed. The guards held her still, and Lewen led Olwynne out the door and away.
Rhiannon was flung back on the bed, then the door was slammed shut and locked
and bolted. She turned over, bringing her knees to her chest, trying hard to
breathe, waves of pain beating through her.
That night, when
the surly bad-tempered guards brought Rhiannon her supper, she could not eat a
bite. The bluebird pecked at the bread, then flew to her shoulder with a
questioning chirrup. She lifted it off and put it on the chair back, already
deeply scored from its sharp claws and beak, and went and lay down on her bed.
The candle flame devoured the time rings scored upon the wax until at last the
flame flickered out and she was left alone in the darkness again. She rolled
over to press her hot, wet face into her pillow, and her fingers found the
rowan charm under the pillow. Rhiannon hurled it away from her.
That night the
ghost came to her again.
She stood at the
foot of Rhiannon’s bed, a white-faced woman dressed all in darkness. “Ye sought
to keep me away,” she said in a low, intense voice, “but ye canna, can ye? I
have penetrated all your defenses.”
Rhiannon, caught
between sleep and wakefulness, sought desperately under her pillow for the
rowan charm but could not find it.
“He has betrayed
ye, your love, hasn’t he? What is there left for ye in life now? Nothing.
Nothing.”
Rhiannon turned
her head back and forth on the pillow, her eyes smarting. Her limbs felt
weighted down with chains.
“Why do ye
suffer this incarceration? Ye might as well be buried alive. Why do ye no’ claw
your way out? I would. I would never let a man use me so.” The ghost’s voice
dropped even lower, growing sweet and persuasive. “If ye escape, if ye find
your way free, I can help ye find power. If ye help me live again, if ye bring
me a sweet young body to sacrifice, I will repay ye, I swear. I will make ye
rich beyond your wildest dreams, I will give ye the power o’ life and death over
your enemies. I will teach ye all I ken o’ the craft and cunning these witches
guard so jealously. Ye want to conjure fire? I can teach ye.”
Suddenly the
room was illuminated so brightly Rhiannon cried out and flung her arm over her
eyes. Imprinted upon her retina was the shape of a grinning skull with gaping
eye hollows, stuck upon a curving stick of bone. Even when she blinked, the
sizzling impression did not fade.
The low whisper
went on as slowly the light in the room faded away. “Aye, I am dead. I am naught
but bones and dust in some grave over the seas. I was no’ even buried in my own
land, the land o’ my clan. I want to live again! We could help each other, we
two. We are o’ a kind.”
Rhiannon forced
her wooden tongue to shape the wordno .
“If ye will no’
help me, then ye are my enemy, and believe me, ye do no’ wish to be that. Come.
I ken ye could escape from here if ye tried. It is no’ in your nature to be so
meek and feeble. Kill these stupid guards o’ yours and get yourself free. I ken
ye are afraid o’ what would happen then, but if ye help me, then ye need no’
fear pursuit or retribution. I would make sure ye grow so strong, so powerful,
that none dare touch ye.”
“How?” Rhiannon
whispered.
“First ye must
help me back to life. Without life, without blood, I am still naught but bones
and spirit. Once I am alive again . . .”
“Ye dead,”
Rhiannon said brutally. “Ye canna live again. Accept it.”
“Never!” the
ghost cried. A wind sprang up from nowhere, blasting Rhiannon’s face with
icy-cold air. Turning her face away, lifting her arm to protect herself,
Rhiannon saw the wind whipping the ghost’s long black hair about her face and
sending the darkness eddying about her like mist.
“Close on twenty
years now I have clung to my powers, when the void o’ death has sought to suck
them away. I canna hold on much longer. I must have life again! And if ye will
no’ help me, I shall take your life, and so I warn ye. Defy me and ye shall
die. Help me, and I shall help ye.”
“Help me to
what?”
“Whatever ye
want,” the ghost said impatiently. “Life, freedom, power, revenge . . .”
“Revenge?”
Rhiannon wondered aloud.
“Aye, on all
those who have betrayed ye and imprisoned ye. We will have our revenge
together. All ye need do is escape, and I will show ye the way forward.”
“Escape,”
Rhiannon repeated and pressed the tears back into her eyes with icy fingers.
The next morning
Fèlice came, laden down with fruit and flowers and wine. Rhiannon knew at once
that she had heard the news. She looked pale and distressed.
“Oh, Rhiannon,
I’m so sorry. I canna believe . . . I never would’ve thought . . .”
“I will throttle
her till she dead.” Rhiannon paced the floor, her hands balled into fists. “I
will chop her up for dog food. How dare she? He mine! Lewen mine! I’ll hang her
up for the rats to chew on, I will, I will!”
“Oh, Rhiannon, I
am so very sorry. I really thought . . . It seems so unlike Lewen!”
“She has
ensorcelled him,” Rhiannon spat. “I’ll flay her alive, the bitch!”
“Oh, surely no’?
She canna have. It’s no’ allowed. The Coven says . . . That’s compulsion, a
spell like that. It’s taking away free will. The Banprionnsa could never do
such a thing.”
“She could and
she has,” Rhiannon said with conviction. “Just wait until I get out o’ here!
I’ll kill the skinny witch and rip her to bits. We’ll see whose quarters are
thrown to the city dogs!”
“Oh, Rhiannon,
ye canna speak so! She’s the daughter o’ the Rìgh! They can hang, draw, and
quarter ye just for speaking so. Ye must be still! Do no’ be so angry.”
“Do no’ be so
angry! What ye want me to do, cry? Weep like a baby? I won’t, I won’t!”
Rhiannon cried, even as the tears poured down her cheeks. She dashed them away
and went on, almost incoherently. “I willna cry, I willna, no! I willna let her
have him. He mine! He mine!”
Then the tears
overwhelmed her and she flung herself down on the bed and sobbed wildly. Fèlice
kneeled beside her and tried to comfort her, but it was no use. Rhiannon wept
and pounded her pillow and tore at it with her teeth until the feathers flew.
All Fèlice could do was try to shield her from the curious eye that appeared at
the peephole in the door.
At last
Rhiannon’s sobs shuddered away. She sat up, thrusting Fèlice’s hand away, and
turned her hot, swollen face towards her with a grimace. “If ye ever tell
anyone that I cried . . .”
“I ken, I ken,
ye’ll grind my bones for bread,” Fèlice said, trying to joke. She got up and
moved away to the table, pouring Rhiannon some water from the jug there and
dampening the facecloth so she could press it to her tear-ravaged eyes. “I am
so sorry, Rhiannon,” she said again, speaking very gently. “I thought . . . I
hoped ye would no’ care so much. I never would’ve thought Lewen could be such a
bastard. Ye’re better off without him.”
To her dismay,
Rhiannon was crying again, swift silent tears that poured down her face. She
licked them from her upper lip and covered her eyes with her hand.
“Nay, he mine,”
she muttered. “We promised. Me no’ give him up.”
Fèlice did not
know what to say. She thought of the Lewen she had seen that morning, his arm
about Olwynne’s waist, their fingers entwined, their eyes fixed upon each
other’s faces. It was as if they could not bear to have even an inch of air
between them. Then there was Donncan and Bronwen, due to be married in six
weeks, standing as stiff and cold and polite as if they were strangers while
all about them swirled rumour and speculation, visible as smoke. Between the
two couples, the gossipmongers were having a field day.
“Ye will no’
have heard the other big news,” Fèlice said, seeking to distract Rhiannon.
“There was a death last night, at the palace. His Highness, Prionnsa Donncan,
accidentally killed one o’ the Blue Guards. We were no’ there, o’ course— we
were at the Theurgia’s party—but we heard all about it this morning. They say the
soldier that was killed was a great admirer o’ Her Highness, Banprionnsa
Bronwen, and was quite mad with jealousy. Ye ken His Highness only returned
from his travels yesterday? He’s been away months apparently, and the
Banprionnsa has been amusing herself in his absence with a dalliance or two.
Prionnsa Owein says she is even more o’ a flirt than I.”
Fèlice giggled,
then recollected herself, recounting the rest of the tale with greater
sobriety. Rhiannon barely listened, so preoccupied was she with her own
problems, until she caught the word “Yeoman” and it dawned on her that the
Crown Prionnsa Donncan had apparently done exactly what she had done—killed one
of the Rìgh’s own guards.
“So why is he
no’ in prison too?” Rhiannon demanded.
Fèlice looked
surprised. “Why . . . because it was self-defense, I suppose. Mathias attackedhim
.”
“The Yeoman I
killed attacked my mother,” Rhiannon reminded her. “He would’ve killed her too.
So why am I in prison for months and months, and this prionnsa o’ yours walks
free?”
Fèlice fidgeted
with her sash. “I dinna ken,” she admitted. “I mean, ye couldna put His
Highness in jail!”
“Why no’? He
killed a man too, a Blue Guard, just like me.”
“Aye, but it was
an accident.”
“How do ye ken?”
“He said so, and
Her Highness the Banprionnsa Bronwen too.”
“How do ye ken
they do no’ lie?”
“He’s the Crown
Prionnsa. He wouldna lie,” Fèlice argued, looking harassed. “We all ken him! He
wouldna murder one o’ his father’s own guards.”
“No’ even if the
guard was trying to steal his lover away?” Rhiannon demanded. “Ye told me the
guard who attacked the Prionnsa was mad with jealousy. How do ye ken the
Prionnsa was no’ the one driven mad? If he thought the Blue Guard was mating
with his woman, he would want to kill him, wouldn’t he? Anyone would. I ken I
would.”
Fèlice looked
troubled. For a moment there was silence, and then she said, “There is to be an
inquiry. The Privy Council has set up a special group to investigate.”
“I’ll bet ye two
gold royals that the Prionnsa does no’ have to wait in prison while they do
it,” Rhiannon said bitterly.
“No,” Fèlice
said. “I don’t want to lose my money.”
The eyes of the
two girls met.
“I have some
good news that might cheer ye up,” Fèlice said with an effort. “Ye ken Landon’s
ballad, the one he wrote about ye? It’s all the rage in the faery quarter.
We’ve been selling bundles o’ it. Ye have a lot o’ supporters among the faeries
now.”
“Wonderful,”
Rhiannon said. “I bet no’ one o’ them is a magistrate sitting on the quarter
sessions.”
“Well, no,”
Fèlice answered. “But at least we’re making your case a cause célèbre. . . .”
“A what?”
“A
much-talked-about event,” Fèlice answered, stroking back the damp hair from
Rhiannon’s face. “If we can just get public opinion going your way, I’m sure
it’ll make a difference. It must!” Her eyes suddenly became thoughtful. “I
wonder . . . surely it canna do any harm to just point out the difference in
the way ye and His Highness are being treated? I wonder if they’d let us print
up another broadsheet on the Theurgia’s printing press?”
Rhiannon was
feeling unutterably weary. She shrugged and put her head back down on her
pillow. The bluebird flew back in through the bars of the window and came to
alight on her knee. It tilted its head and regarded Fèlice with its bright
black eyes, trilling sweetly.
Fèlice stared at
it in amazement. “What a lovely little bird! Have ye tamed it?”
“Lewen made it
for me,” Rhiannon said.
“Hemade
it for ye?”
“Aye. From wood.
He whittled it, then touched it and it came to life.”
Fèlice regarded
Rhiannon with wide brown eyes. “But . . . that’s extraordinary.”
“I ken.”
Fèlice was
silent for a long moment; then she stood up, shaking out her skirts. “Now I
truly do believe he has been ensorcelled! Lewen could not bring a bird to life
for ye one day, and turn around and kiss and canoodle with another lassie the
next.”
Rhiannon lifted
the bird on to her hand so she could sit up and face Fèlice. “Told ye so.”
“Aye. But the
thing is, what to do about it?”
“I can do naught
in here,” Rhiannon said, fire kindling in her eyes again. “But when I get out—”
“Aye, I ken, I
ken. Ye’ll carve her up for mincemeat and end straight back in here.”
“Nay, I’ll win
Lewen back again,” Rhiannon said fiercely. “He mine!”
“Well, it’s
still another month until your trial,” Fèlice said, frowning, “and then it’ll
be bang on time for the wedding. I think I should talk to Lewen, try to talk
sense into him.”
“One whole moon
still! Me want out now!”
“Well, ye
canna,” Fèlice said practically. “As far as I ken, there’s only ever been one
breakout from Sorrowgate Tower, and that was led by Tòmas o’ the Healing Hand.”
“How did he get
out?” Rhiannon demanded.
“A nyx led him
out through the sewers,” Fèlice answered. “But unless ye happen to ken a nyx .
. .”
Rhiannon
scowled.
Fèlice bent and
gave her a quick kiss, startling her. “I am so sorry, Rhiannon. I wish . . .”
“What?”
“I wish there
was more I could do to help,” Fèlice answered.
“Ye could get me
out o’ here.”
Fèlice shook her
head. “I’m sorry,” she said helplessly. “But truly I canna.”
Fèlice tried to
talk to Lewen, but she could never find him alone. Day or night, he and Olwynne
were together, brown head bent over red, brown eyes hooked into brown. Many
times Fèlice tried to draw him apart for private conversation, but the
Banprionnsa was always quick to return to his side or to call for his
attention. Brought up from birth in the etiquette of a royal court, Fèlice
could not interrupt or intrude upon a banprionnsa. She could only curtsy and
withdraw obediently, despite her growing frustration and suspicion.
Then, almost a
week after May Day, Fèlice was in the library studying at one of the little
tables when she saw Lewen come in, arms linked with Owein and Olwynne. They
were laughing. This made Fèlice feel quite cross, when she remembered
Rhiannon’s heart-wrenching grief and despair. She leaned over and whispered to
Edithe, who was frowning over a massive tome at the table next to hers, “Look,
Edithe! It’s Lewen and the royal twins. Would it be presumptuous o’ us to go
and greet them?”
Edithe at once
closed her book and stood up, smoothing down her hair and shaking out her
skirt. “No’ at all,” she whispered back. “Why, after so many weeks in Lewen’s
company? O’ course no’. I’m sure he shall be delighted to see us again.” Then
she picked up her book and, head bent in apparent concentration upon the page,
stepped forward, right into the threesome’s path.
“Oh, my
gracious, I am so sorry,” she cried, starting backwards. “Your Highnesses,
please forgive me. I was so engrossed in my studies I did no’ see ye. Lewen!
Well met! How are ye yourself?”
Lewen and the
twins were forced to stop and return her greeting, and soon, as Fèlice had
expected, Edithe had cornered Owein and Olwynne, requesting their advice on
which teacher of alchemy was considered the best. Owein, of course, had no
interest in this subject and rolled an agonized eye at Fèlice, silently begging
her to rescue him. Olwynne, however, replied gravely and in full, and Fèlice
was able to seize Lewen’s sleeve and draw him aside.
“Lewen, is it
true what I have heard? Have ye and the Banprionnsa Olwynne . . .”
Lewen looked
dazed but happy. “Aye, it’s true indeed.”
“I canna believe
it!” Fèlice cried.
“Neither can I,
really,” Lewen said, smiling. “To think she would want me! I’m the happiest man
alive.”
“But what o’
Rhiannon?” Fèlice demanded, having no time for diplomacy.
Lewen’s
expression darkened. “What o’ her?”
“But she loves
ye, and ye love her,” Fèlice said, her throat closing over in distress.
“It was no’ true
love,” Lewen replied. “She ensorcelled me.”
“Nay, she didna.
She canna have,” Fèlice said softly and urgently, aware of the Banprionnsa’s
dark eyes upon them. “Ye ken she has no knowledge o’ spells and suchlike. She
has had no training in the Craft.”
“Aye, happen so,
but she’s cunning indeed,” Lewen said sharply. “Ye ken Nina believes she has a
strong natural Talent. Why do ye no’ believe she could have laid a compulsion
upon me? It must be so, for I feel naught now.”
“Then how could
ye have fallen out o’ love with her so swiftly, if she had compelled your will
with such strength?” Fèlice argued. “Canna ye see that it is a spell o’ love
upon ye now that has turned your eyes away from her so suddenly?”
She became aware
of Owein turning towards her, frowning, and lowered her voice. “Please, Lewen.
Rhiannon is in such distress. Could ye no’ go and see her?”
“Olwynne thinks
it best if I do no’ hurt her any further,” Lewen said stubbornly, “and I think
she is right. Olwynne says I must be careful she does no’ ensorcell me again,
which she would very likely do, I think, if she thinks I can help her escape
justice. Olwynne says—”
“Olwynne says,
Olwynne says,” Fèlice cried. “What o’ Rhiannon?”
Lewen drew back,
looking angry; then Olwynne was there beside him again, sliding her fingers
through his and turning a cool, haughty look upon Fèlice, who at once bowed her
head and curtsied.
“Good day to ye,
Lady Fèlice,” the Banprionnsa said politely. “I hope ye are well.”
“Very well,
thank ye, Your Highness,” Fèlice replied, and Olwynne nodded, gave a polite
smile, and begged to be excused. Fèlice bent her head again and, arm in arm,
Lewen and Olwynne went away down the library.
Owein disengaged
from Edithe, much to her disappointment, and came up to Fèlice, asking her,
with a look of most unusual gravity, if he could walk her back to the
dormitory. She smiled and thanked him, but kept her spine stiff, knowing full
well that Owein did not wish to flirt with her.
As soon as they
had left the cool of the old building behind them, stepping out into the warmth
of the spring sunshine, Owein began to speak. “What is wrong, Lady Fèlice? Why
are ye angry with Lewen? Is it because o’ the satyricorn?”
Fèlice nodded,
blinking back tears.
“But why? I
mean, I ken Lewen imagined he was in love with her, but it was a dreadful thing
for him, to be enamoured o’ some wild girl from the mountains with no name and
no family, and one accused o’ murder and treason to boot. It would’ve ruined
him—canna ye see that? If she was found guilty and hanged, and he was her
partisan—well, I canna see him being chosen as a Blue Guard, can ye?”
“No, I suppose
no’, Your Highness,” Fèlice said.
“It is much
better for him to have come to his senses now, afore the trial, afore he had to
give testimony on her behalf. Connor the Just was a favorite here at the court,
ye ken. Or maybe ye do no’ ken. Certainly we were all rather surprised to hear
ye performing that ballad about Rhiannon. I mean, I ken ye meant no harm, and
certainly it was a lively story and one the faeries all seemed to enjoy, but still
. . .”
Fèlice was
silent. Owein tried to see her face, but she kept her eyes resolutely fixed on
the ground.
“I dinna mean to
upset ye,” he said.
She said
nothing.
“It was a most
rousing performance ye gave,” he said teasingly. “Ye deserved your bag o’
gold.”
“I gave the
money to Rhiannon,” Fèlice said. “Even prisoners who have been granted liberty
o’ the tower must pay for their food and bedding, Your Highness, and at a price
far greater than they would fork out at the meanest inn!”
“That was nice
o’ ye,” Owein said after a moment. When Fèlice still did not glance at him or
smile, he said tentatively, “Ye are friends with her too, then? I had no’
realized . . .”
“Aye, I am
friends with her,” Fèlice said shortly.
“Is that why
ye’re upset with Lewen? For I heard she didna take his change o’ heart well.”
Fèlice glared at
him. “Why should she? They were lovers, Your Highness! He had sworn to jump the
fire with her!”
“Really? I mean,
I ken he said he wanted to, but I had no’ realized he had made promises . . .
but it can be o’ no account. If she laid a spell o’ love on him, it makes a
difference, doesna it? He canna be held responsible—”
“It is your
sister who has ensorcelled him, no’ Rhiannon,” Fèlice said gruffly. She drew
her handkerchief out of her reticule and discreetly blew her nose.
Owein stopped
short.
“Never!” he
declared. “Olwynne would never do such a thing! She has trained all her life to
be a sorceress. Do ye really think she would just throw it all away? Besides,
why should she need to? She is a NicCuinn! Nay, it was that satyricorn girl who
ensorcelled Lewen. I canna believe ye do no’ see that. Lewen choose a wild girl
from the mountains over Olwynne? That was what I could no’ believe—no’ that
he’s finally come to his senses and seen what was under his nose all the time.”
Fèlice turned to
look up at him. “Your Highness, I traveled with Lewen and Rhiannon for more
than a month. I saw them falling in love. It looked real to me. Indeed it did,
Your Highness.”
“And ye ken so
much about love,” Owein teased.
Normally Fèlice
would have sighed and admitted she knew nothing, that she needed someone to
teach her, but for once she was in earnest and would not be swayed by
dalliance. “Nay, truly, Your Highness,” she said. “I swear Rhiannon kens naught
about any spells o’ love. She is very forthright. It is no’ her way to be
underhanded or secret in her dealings.”
“And ye think
that is my sister’s way?” Owein said, offended.
Fèlice dropped
her eyes. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I do no’ mean to offend ye.” She glanced
up at him under her lashes. “It’s just . . . do ye no’ think it all happened
very fast? One minute he is in despair over Rhiannon, and the next, he has eyes
only for your sister?”
“I daresay the
satyricorn’s spells wore off,” Owein said stiffly. “Lewen and my sister have
always been close. I was no’ alone in wondering if they would make a match o’
it. I was far more surprised to hear he had fallen head over heels for a
satyricorn, especially one who he kent had killed a Yeoman.”
“Rhiannon is
only half a satyricorn,” Fèlice said angrily. “And she killed the Yeoman to
save her mother!”
“So she says,”
Owein said coldly. “We will find out the truth o’ it all at the trial, I
daresay. Here we are at your dormitory. If ye will please excuse me?”
Then, with a
slight bow, the winged Prionnsa turned and strode away, his bronze-red wings
held up stiffly behind him, his hands clenched by his sides. Fèlice watched him
go, feeling miserable; then she fled into her room and buried her face in her
pillow, blotching it with tears that she told herself were for Rhiannon.
Nina sat at her
dressing table, hanging her antique amber pendant about her neck and looking at
herself in the mirror. She looked well enough, in a gown of yellow silk with
trailing sleeves slit to show crimson under-sleeves, and scalloped edging of
the same color at hem and cuff and girdle. The dress suited her tawny coloring
and was a good choice for a midsummer feast. Nina was not happy, however. She
felt stifled in the heavy gown and wished she was barefoot in a forest
somewhere, dabbling her feet in a stream and calling birds down to her hand.
She rose and,
with a rueful twist of her mouth, asked the seamstress’s assistant to help her
disrobe. Nina hated not being able to dress and undress herself. It was one of
the many things that she disliked about court life. A woman should be able to
run and dance and pick up a child, she thought, not mince about in clothes so
tight and heavy they made one faint and weary. Seven weeks they had been back
at Lucescere, and it was seven weeks too long for Nina. She longed to be back
on the road with her husband and son, their big old cart horses Sure and Steady
pulling their caravans, able to go where they wished and do what they wanted.
Yet Nina had
promised to stay in Lucescere for the royal wedding, still three weeks away.
She could have gone to Caerlaverock, her brother’s estate, which was only a few
days’ ride away, and returned in time for the wedding, but Nina felt a strong
responsibility for Rhiannon, incarcerated in her bleak little cell in
Sorrowgate Tower. Rhiannon had saved Nina’s son, Roden, at great risk to
herself, and Nina could never repay that debt. It was a small sacrifice to
make, feeling stifled in the luxury and idleness of the royal court, when
Rhiannon grew thin and sick and pale in the evil air of the prison.
Nina was feeling
very troubled about Rhiannon. She was far too quiet and listless. The half
satyricorn had always been a wild, fearless girl, quick with a blow or a curse,
and ever unwilling to compromise. She would never have submitted to the
restrictions of court dress just because it was fashionable. She would have
scowled and demanded, “Why?”
“Ye ken, I’ve
changed my mind,” Nina said abruptly. “I will no’ wear the dress to the
wedding.”
The seamstress
paused in her task of unhitching the many hooks at the back of the dress. “But,
my lady, ye look so fine in it! And it has taken us weeks to make.”
“I’m sure ye
will find another lady to wear it,” Nina said. “I will wear something a little
. . . lighter.” She had to smile at the aghast expressions on the faces of the
seamstress and all her assistants and said apologetically, “It will be very
hot, ye ken.” She rose and found her purse and pressed a few gold coins into
the woman’s willing hand. “If ye could design something more to my taste?”
“Aye, my lady,
o’ course,” the seamstress said. “Ye would like something more like what the
Banprionnsa Bronwen and her ladies wear. Tight and low cut? In gauze, perhaps?
With artificial fins?”
Nina shook her
head. “Silk,” she answered. “With none o’ these trailing sleeves. They only
dangle in the soup and knock over one’s cup. And no buttons up the back. And no
petticoats.” She took a long, deep breath and added firmly, “And no laces!”
“Ye wish to
start a new fashion?” the seamstress said doubtfully, her look telling Nina
that she was neither young enough nor pretty enough to be a leader of fashion.
“Nay,” Nina
replied, smiling. “I want to be comfortable.”
The seamstress’s
assistants exchanged rolls of the eyes, but Nina felt much more cheerful. She
watched the seamstress and her girls sadly gather up the billowing mass of the
dress and carry it away, and then dressed herself again in one of her favorite
old gowns, shabby but comfortable, and went out into the living room.
Roden was
standing on his head, his boots making dirty marks on the silk-hung walls. His
constant companion, Lulu the arak, stood on her head next to him. They were
sharing an apple, passing it back and forth between them. Nina smiled and bent
her head down so she was face-to-face with her son.
“Ye quite
comfortable there?”
Roden considered
her question. “My head feels like it’s blowing up like a balloon,” he said.
“It’s rather strange. But it’s been more than three minutes now, which is my
best ever record. I’m trying to beat Lulu.”
“Ye’ll never
manage that,” Nina answered. “Ye’re no’ an arak, ye ken.”
“Nay,” Roden
said regretfully. He was turning red in the face.
“Happen ye
should come right way up now,” Nina said.
“All right,”
Roden said and let his boots fall down to the floor with a clunk. He lay there
for a while, breathing hard, then rolled over and took the apple from Lulu, who
was still standing on her head.
“I’m going to
the prison to visit Rhiannon,” Nina said. “I’m worried about her.”
“Canna I come
too?” Roden demanded, sitting up. “I want to see her!”
Nina shook her
head. “Nay, sweetie, I’m sorry. I really do no’ want ye going to the prison. I
ken ye love Rhiannon and want to see her, but it’s truly a most blaygird place,
Roden. Ye willna like it. And I think Rhiannon is unwell. I wouldna want ye to
catch jail fever.”
“What’s that?”
he asked through a mouthful of apple.
“A sickness ye
get from the bad air in prison,” Nina said.
“Why is the air
bad?”
Nina considered her
reply. “It’s shut up all the time,” she said after a moment. “The doors and
windows are always locked up tight, so the fresh air canna get in.”
“Why do they no’
open them up?”
“Because then
the prisoners would escape.”
“Why do they
want to keep them locked up all the time?”
“Because they’ve
done bad things and need to be punished for them.”
“But Rhiannon
hasn’t done anything bad. Why is she locked up?”
Again Nina had
to think about the best way to answer him. “She killed a man, remember,” she
said at last. “It’s wrong to kill people, Roden.”
“But she killed
him because he was trying to kill her mam,” Roden reminded her. “I’d kill
someone if they were trying to kill ye.”
“I’d probably
kill someone too if he was hurting or threatening ye,” Nina admitted.
“And would they
lock ye up for it?”
“I’m afraid so.
At least until the court was satisfied I had only done it to save ye.”
“But would
they—”
Nina shook her
head at him and said, “I’m sorry, honey, I really need to go.”
“Canna I go and
see Uncle Dide? I havena heard all his adventures yet.”
“All right,”
Nina said. “But if he’s busy, I want ye to stay with the nursemaid and no’ go
anywhere. Deal?”
“Deal,” Roden
said, and they spat on their palms and shook hands.
“Come on then,”
Nina said, and Roden got up and held out his hand for Lulu, who rolled forward
and on to her feet, cackling in her shrill voice. Nina took Roden’s hat and
jacket down from their hook behind the door. With her son swinging from her
hand, his boots making a great clatter on the polished floors, they made their
way to Dide’s rooms, where the earl was enjoying a late, leisurely breakfast.
Roden was perfectly happy to eat again, though his uncle protested at having a
gravening come to pick his bones clean.
“That son o’
yours should be as plump as a parson,” he grumbled to Nina, “the way he eats.
Do ye no’ feed him?”
“Altogether too
often,” Nina replied. “Thanks for minding him, Dide. I willna be long. I just
want to look in on Rhiannon. She was looking very peaky yesterday.”
“Ye’re visiting
that prison rather often, aren’t ye?” Dide said. “Need ye go every day?”
“I do no’ go
every day,” Nina answered. “I wish I could! But I’m teaching a few classes at
the Theurgia again, ye ken, and I have my apprentices to keep an eye on, as
well as court duties, Eà blast them! I do find it hard to find the time to go
as much as I should.”
“I ken ye feel
ye owe this Rhiannon a lot,” Dide said slowly, “but . . .”
Nina looked at
her son’s ruddy curls, bent in great concentration over an egg-and-bacon pie.
“I owe her everything,” Nina said simply. “Everything.”
Dide nodded his
understanding. “Feeling is high among the Yeomen,” he said soberly. “They will
no’ like it if she is pardoned or found guilty only o’ manslaughter. Connor was
much liked.”
“As long as they
do no’ . . . execute her,” Nina said softly, trying to keep her voice low
enough that Roden would not hear. “I do no’ ken how I could explain that. . .
.” She indicated Roden with her head.
“I’ll speak to
Lachlan,” Dide said. “Hanging is rare enough these days that he may be able to
issue a lesser sentence without too much o’ an outcry. I ken he will be
sympathetic to your feelings, no matter how angry he is over Connor’s death.”
“Thanks,” Nina
said and rose. “I willna be long. If Roden is too much trouble, take him to the
Theurgia. Fat Drusa will be happy to keep him occupied for a few hours there.”
“Won’t be long
before he’ll be a student there himself,” Dide said. “Look how tall he is. He
must be eight by now, surely?”
Roden looked up
and grinned. “Nay, silly, I’m six. Don’t ye ken aught?”
“Don’t be a
cheeky arak, Roden,” Nina said sternly and took her leave.
She knew the way
to the prison well enough now to walk it with no conscious effort, her mind
busy with many problems. Foremost was her worry over Rhiannon and the
puzzlement caused by Lewen’s sudden change of heart. She would never have
thought of Lewen as fickle or capricious. She had thought him to be as sure and
steady as her cart horses, faithful and unswerving in his loyalties. It
troubled her that she had been so wrong in her reading of his character, and
she was indignant on Rhiannon’s behalf. What troubled her the most was the
effect it had on Rhiannon, who had become bitter and sarcastic, and less likely
to trust anyone than ever. This hurt Nina, who had grown to have a real
affection for the wild satyricorn girl and had welcomed the warmth that had
grown between them. She dreaded the coming trial, for she greatly feared that
those who had not come to know Rhiannon would find it all too easy to misconstrue
her motives and find her guilty.
At Sorrowgate,
the young guard Corey clucked his tongue at the sight of Nina. “It’s no’ good,”
he said. “I think she’s right poorly.”
He opened the
heavy iron door and Nina went swiftly in, drawing in her breath in dismay at
the sight of Rhiannon, who lay restlessly on her pallet, breathing hoarsely.
Her hair was wet with sweat, and hectic color burned in her hollow cheeks.
“How long has
she been like this?” Nina demanded, putting down her basket and going to sit beside
Rhiannon, smoothing back her damp, tangled hair. She was shocked at the heat
radiating from Rhiannon’s skin and the way her eyes worked beneath her
half-closed eyelids. Her lips were dry and cracked, and she moaned as she moved
her head from side to side, seeking a cool spot. Nina looked for some water to
give her but saw that Rhiannon’s cup was empty and cursed under her breath. It
was clear she was very sick.
Hamish, the
other guard on duty, shrugged. “She cried out a lot in her sleep, but then, she
always does. We thought nothing o’ it. It was no’ until we brought her
breakfast that we noticed she seemed sick.”
“Why did ye no’
send word to me?”
He looked sulky.
“No’ paid to run messages.”
Nina drew her
purse out of her belt and flung it at him. “Now ye are,” she said tersely. “Now
get me some fresh water, and be smart about it.”
Hamish picked up
the purse and stowed it away in his uniform and went out, looking shamefaced.
Nina remembered
she had brought a little bottle of goldensloe wine in her basket and went to
fetch it. She had to support Rhiannon’s head with her hand as she brought the
bottle to her lips. Suddenly Rhiannon flayed out with her hand and sent the
bottle flying, spraying the potent liquor everywhere. Nina cursed again and
wiped her face. Rhiannon was crying out, but her voice was so hoarse it was
impossible to hear what she said. Nina remembered the last time she had tried
to give Rhiannon medicine. Unwittingly she had been helping the lord of
Fettercairn’s skeelie to administer Rhiannon poison. No wonder Rhiannon was
wary of accepting any cup offered to her in her fever.
Hamish brought
water, and Nina bathed Rhiannon’s face and neck and hands, and filled her cup
and held it to her lips. To her relief, Rhiannon did swallow a few mouthfuls,
though her head fell back on the pillow, exhausted, afterwards.
“Is there a
healer here at the prison?” she asked the guards, who were watching from the
doorway, their handkerchiefs over their mouths to stop themselves from
breathing the tainted air.
Hamish snorted
in derision.
Nina stood up.
“I’m going back to the Tower o’ Two Moons. I’ll be back as soon as I can with a
healer. Can ye keep her as cool as ye can while I am gone?”
“We’re no’ paid
to be healers,” Hamish said brusquely.
“I gave ye more
money than ye would normally earn in a week,” Nina said angrily.
“No’ enough,”
Hamish said. “Dinna want to catch the fever.”
Nina held out
her hand. “Then give me back my purse.”
Hamish snorted
with laughter.
“I’ll tend her,”
Corey said. He saw Hamish’s look and added quickly, “If I have the time. We’re
right busy today.”
Nina accepted
this with a set jaw, not having time to argue.
“Better bring
back a flock o’ them,” Hamish said. “There’s fever all through the prison.
Comes every summer. They call it the summer scythe, as it clears the decks
right fast.”
Nina nodded and
went out hurriedly.
She went as
quickly through the crowded city streets as she could, breaking into a run
whenever there was a gap in the throng. The heat of the cobblestones struck up
through the thin soles of her shoes, burning her feet, and perspiration
prickled her skin. It was a relief to leave the stink and sweat of the streets
behind her and reach the forest that separated the palace and the tower. For
the first time she realized what a difference the trees made in regulating the
temperature and wondered if the city folk begrudged the witches their cool
green gardens.
Nina hurried to
the eastern tower, where the Royal College of Healers was situated. She had a
stitch in her side, and her breath came harshly, but she did not moderate her
pace as she strode up the stairs, towards the top floor where Johanna had her
quarters.
A door opened
above her, and she heard a murmur of voices. Then someone came out on to the
landing. Nina paused in surprise. It was Elfrida NicHilde, the Banprionnsa of
Tìrsoilleir, followed closely by a tall fair man dressed all in black.
The NicHilde had
turned to give her male companion a heavy pouch that clinked and a sheaf of
papers. “Ye will need to hire a ship too,” she said. “One that is fleet and
strong, for the sea is rough beyond the—”
Just then the
man saw Nina, and reached out a hand to stop Elfrida, indicating the sorceress
with a slight inclination of his head.
Elfrida stopped
short, then turned her head. At the sight of Nina she gave a little start but
recovered herself at once.
“Lady Ninon,”
she said. “How are ye yourself?”
“Well indeed,
Your Grace, and ye?” Nina said.
“Oh, very well,
thank ye.”
“I’m glad to
hear that. Is it Neil, then, who is ill?”
“Neil?” Elfrida
demanded. “No! What do ye mean?”
“I’m sorry. It’s
just . . . ye’ve been to see Johanna, Your Grace. I thought ye must be ill, or
if no’ ye, then happen your son, or Iain . . .”
“Oh.” Elfrida
relaxed. “No, no, we are all well. A little tired, perhaps, with all the bustle
o’ the court. In general we live very quietly, ye ken.”
Nina scrutinized
the Banprionnsa’s face closely. She did not look well. Her skin was pasty, with
a faint sheen of sweat on it, yet she wore her plaid clasped close about her. Her
eyes were too bright and darted about nervously, and she kept licking her dry
lips. Her whole manner was tense and uncomfortable, as if she was in a hurry
and unwilling to admit it. Nina frowned. “Are ye sure it is only tiredness?”
she asked. “There are some bad fevers about at this time o’ year. Are ye sure
ye are no’ coming down with something, Your Grace?”
“Quite sure,”
Elfrida snapped. “I am just no’ sleeping well. The heat . . . I am no’ used to
the heat.”
Nina’s
puzzlement grew. Tìrsoilleir, where Elfrida had grown up, had the warmest
climate of all of Eileanan and in summer was much hotter than Lucescere, which
was built high on an escarpment and cooled by the constant breeze over the
waterfall.
“Is that why ye
came to see Johanna?” she probed. “For something to help ye sleep?”
“Yes, yes,”
Elfrida said. “That’s right.”
“She did no’
check you first, to see that ye are no’ sickening for something? For indeed—”
“I told ye, I am
quite well!” Elfrida cried. As Nina took an involuntary step backwards in
surprise, the Banprionnsa drew herself up. “I do beg your pardon,” she said
formally. “I did no’ mean to shout. I . . . I am rather tired. I think I will
go and rest.”
“Good idea,”
Nina said, trying not to feel affronted.
Elfrida walked
down the stairs past her, nodding her head in farewell. The man in black
followed her, acknowledging Nina with a polite nod. He had a face like an elven
cat’s, with a pointed chin and narrow eyes that gleamed blue.
“I hope whatever
Johanna gave ye helps,” Nina said. The Banprionnsa’s head snapped back around,
her eyes wide and startled, color flaring under her skin. “To sleep,” Nina
said.
“Oh! Oh, yes.
I’m sure it will.” Then Elfrida went scurrying away down the stairs, leaving
Nina feeling troubled.
She stood for a
moment, remembering what Dide had told her about how uneasy Tìrsoilleir seemed
under the righteous sermons of the new Fealde and how angry Lachlan was with
Elfrida for not keeping the country’s religious leader under stricter control.
She remembered the way the tall man in black, who must be one of the Fealde’s
pastors, had stilled the Banprionnsa with a mere gesture of his hand, and
frowned. Their intimacy did not bode well for the freedom of religion clause of
the Pact of Peace, which stated that all must have the right to worship as they
saw fit.
Nina remembered
the Banprionnsa’s edginess, the beads of sweat on her upper lip, her short
temper and the nervous way she had clutched her plaid. She wondered why Elfrida
wanted a ship and why she had given her pastor such a heavy bag of coins.I
smell an intrigue , she thought.I must tell Dide. . . .
She went on up
the stairs, still puzzling over the Banprionnsa of Tìrsoilleir’s behavior. Then
the door opened in answer to her knock, and all thoughts of Elfrida fled.
Dedrie had
answered the door. Nina stared at her in stupefaction. “What . . . what areye
doing here?” she managed to say. For a moment the lord of Fettercairn’s skeelie
looked seriously discomposed. Her mouth gaped, her eyes grew wide, and her
whole body stiffened. Nina saw her hands clench in her skirts, crushing them.
The very next moment, all signs of discomfiture fled.
“My lady!
Please, do come in. Are ye here to see Mistress Johanna? She is just finishing
a letter; she will no’ be a moment. Please, sit down. May I make ye some tea?”
“I do no’ want
tea!” Nina said angrily. “Tell me, what do ye do here? I thought ye were in
prison, awaiting trial with all the rest o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn’s
henchmen.”
“Oh, but I am
no’ a henchman, my lady,” Dedrie protested, opening her brown eyes wide. “I am
a healer, and where else should a healer be but at the Royal College o’
Healers?”
“But ye were
arrested! Brought here to Lucescere to face charges!”
“No charges were
ever laid against me,” Dedrie said in a hurt voice. “I’m naught but a poor auld
skeelie. All I’ve ever done is try to help and heal, as a skeelie should.”
Nina groped for
a chair and sat down. Her head was whirling with so many questions and
accusations she could frame none of them. It seemed impossible that the
weeping, furious woman she had seen manacled and under guard in Fetterness
should be here, plump, rosy, and smiling, in Johanna’s comfortable suite of
rooms in the Tower of Two Moons. Nina’s dazed eyes took in the fact that Dedrie
was dressed in the green robe of a healer, with the usual heavy pouch of
powdered herbs and tools at her waist.
“But how?” she
managed to say.
Dedrie smiled,
and for a moment Nina saw a flash of malicious glee in her eyes. Then the
moment was gone.
“Indeed I do no’
ken why ye are so surprised to see me, my lady,” Dedrie said, bustling about
the room, swinging the kettle over the fire and laying out a tray with clean
cups. “I have been here for more than a month now, helping Mistress Johanna
with her work and attending lectures at the Theurgia.” She laughed. “Och, I ken
I’m auld for it. The bairns must think me a right auld biddy. It is
interesting, though. The things I’m learning! I feel downright humble to be
allowed in.”
As she spoke,
she made tea and brought it to Nina’s hand. Nina took it and raised it to her
lips, then suddenly put her cup down so roughly the tea spilled. She rose to
her feet. “Where is Johanna?” she demanded. “I need to speak with her at once.”
“Och, she’ll be
a while yet. Bide a wee, and drink your tea.”
Nina shook her
head. “Ye think I want to drink aught made by your hand?” she said coldly. “I
am no’ such a fool.”
Dedrie’s face
suddenly turned ugly. She pressed her hands together before her, her chest
rising and falling rapidly. Nina waited for the burst of words, but none came.
Instead, after a moment, the skeelie gave her a pleasant smile, saying
chidingly, “Och, there’s naught in there but rose-hip syrup, chestnut flowers,
and honey, my lady. Ye fear I’d try to poison ye? Here in Mistress Johanna’s
rooms? Why would I do such a thing?”
“Why indeed?”
Nina answered.
“Exactly! I have
no desire to hurt anyone. I’m right happy to be here. Come, my lady, sit down.
Ye seem hot and ruffled. Would ye prefer something cool? I have bellfruit juice
or fresh lemonade—”
“Nay. I want to
see Johanna. I need to see her now!”
“Very well, I’ll
call her.” Dedrie moved towards the inner door, then paused, looking back at
Nina with a sharp, cold look. “Do try no’ to upset her,” she warned. “My poor
mistress has suffered much grief these past few months. She needs kindness and
sympathy in these hard times.”
Nina opened her
mouth to retort angrily, then closed it again, utterly dumbfounded. Dedrie
smiled at her and rapped gently at the door.
“Mistress
Johanna? I’m so sorry to disturb ye, ma’am, but ye have a visitor.”
“Coming!”
Johanna called back.
Nina heard rapid
footsteps and then the door opened and Johanna came out. Nina was surprised at
the sight of her. The last time she had seen Johanna she had been white and
haggard, racked with grief over her brother’s death. Now she looked calm and
content, with a dreamy smile on her face.
“Nina,” she
said, and came forward, smiling. “Good to see ye!”
“And ye,” Nina
replied, allowing herself to be embraced.
Johanna led her
to sit down, asking her how she was, and Roden, and Iven, and Dide.
“Fine, fine,
they’re all fine,” Nina answered distractedly.
Johanna
acknowledged her words with a vague nod, then turned her head and smiled at
Dedrie, saying, “Och, ye dear, ye’ve made us tea already. What would I do
without ye?”
“It’s my
pleasure,” Dedrie answered, bringing Johanna a cup and then bending to arrange
the cushions at her back more comfortably. “Are ye hungry? I have some little
honey cakes here, or I could ring for some soup if ye like.”
“Nay, I’m fine,
thank ye,” Johanna answered, sipping her tea.
Nina regarded
her closely. Was it her imagination or were Johanna’s pupils far too small?
Certainly the healer had a dazed, dreamy expression on her face, as if she had
just woken up. Nina pressed her hands together, a nagging worm of anxiety
wriggling in her stomach.
“Now what can I
do for ye?” Johanna asked, holding up her cup so Dedrie could refill it. “Ye
are looking rather white, Nina. Is all well with ye?”
Nina looked from
her to Dedrie, and back again. “No, it is no’,” she said bluntly. “Johanna, do
ye no’ ken . . . do ye no’ ken who this is? She’s the laird o’ Fettercairn’s
skeelie.”
“Aye, o’ course
I ken,” Johanna said comfortably, smiling at Dedrie. “And a fine skeelie she is
too.”
Nina tried to
choose her words with care. “Ye do ken, do ye no’, that she has been accused o’
murder? And necromancy?”
“Aye, and stuff
and rubbish it is too,” Johanna replied. “As if Dedrie could possibly be guilty
o’ such dreadful deeds! Why, she is the kindest, most thoughtful—”
“Och, please,
ma’am, ye’ll put me to the blush!”
“How I ever
managed without Dedrie is beyond me,” Johanna continued. “I’m so glad she came
to me for help. Why, if it were no’ for her—”
“Now, ma’am,
that’s enough, please,” Dedrie said firmly, bringing the plate of cakes and
offering it to Johanna, who took one and ate it absentmindedly.
Nina was
dismayed to find she was near tears. It had wearied her, rushing through the
crowded city in the heat, only to find someone she thought of as an enemy where
she had expected to get help. She took a deep breath and managed to swallow her
distress.
“Aye, I need
your help,” she said to Johanna, who was gazing at her with a look of mild
inquiry, her head lolling back against a cushion. “I need a healer.”
“Why, what is
wrong?”
Nina took a deep
breath. “There’s fever . . . in the prison. I am no’ a healer, as ye ken. I do
no’ ken the best thing to do. . . .”
“Fever! In the
prison! Och, my poor laird!” Dedrie stood stock-still, her hands clasped before
her breast, then turned to look at Johanna pleadingly. “Oh, ma’am, may I go? My
laird is elderly now and much weakened by his weeks imprisoned. A bout o’ jail
fever would kill him.”
“O’ course ye
must go,” Johanna said. “Take whatever ye need from the simples room. Ask Annie
and Mirabelle to go with ye, to assist ye. And Dedrie, take a plague mask. I do
no’ want ye catching the fever.” She smiled at the skeelie fondly.
Nina swallowed
her distaste. “I do no’ ken if the laird is ill too, or any o’ his men, but it
would be wise to check him,” she said. She found she had difficulty framing her
next words, knowing how Johanna must feel about Rhiannon, her brother’s killer.
She forced herself to speak. “It is Rhiannon o’ Dubhslain who is ill, though,
very ill. May I take one o’ your healers to her? Perhaps this Annie . . . or
Mirabelle?”
Johanna sat bolt
upright, her cup tumbling from her hands to crash and break on the floor. “Ye
dare . . . ye dare ask me . . .” she began, in a high shrill voice. “Ye want me
to succor that . . . murderess . . . that foul . . .” Her voice failed. She
flung up her arm to cover her face, beginning to weep in great heaving breaths.
“Get out!” she rasped. “Get out!”
“But Johanna . .
.”
“Get out!”
“But she is ill,
very ill. . . .”
“I hope she
dies,” Johanna spat, staring at Nina with blazing hatred in her eyes. “I hope
she suffers terribly first.” Then the healer turned and pressed her head into
Dedrie’s lap, the skeelie bending to embrace her.
Dedrie looked
over Johanna’s distraught form at Nina, and this time she made no attempt to
hide the malice in her smile. “I would beg ye to leave now, my lady,” she said
in a treacle-sweet voice. “I do no’ wish ye to upset Mistress Johanna any more.
I mean no disrespect, but it was cruel o’ ye, cruel and thoughtless, to ask her
to do such a thing.”
“Aye! Cruel!”
Johanna cried out, her voice muffled by Dedrie’s embrace.
Nina stood up.
“I’m sorry, I did no’ mean to distress ye,” she said. “But ye are a healer,
sworn to help and heal all those in need. I thought—”
“Get out!”
Johanna screamed.
Nina bowed her
head and left the room.
She stood for a
long moment on the landing outside, staring out the tall windows at the green
branches swaying in the breeze. She had to repress her own misery in order to
think through what had just happened in the healer’s room. Nina had not seen
Johanna in such distress since the death of Tòmas some twenty years earlier.
Johanna was renowned for her composure and strength in times of trouble. All
through war and rebellion and plague, Johanna had alleviated pain and suffering
and fear with her calm good sense and steadfast courage.
Nina tried to
think how she would feel if it had been Dide shot in the back by a wild
satyricorn. Would she have felt such savage hatred towards the archer? Would
she have wished her brother’s murderer dead, even without a trial to establish
the truth of the shooting? Nina would like to think she would not, but in truth
she could not tell. She sighed and went down the stairs, crossing the garth
towards the Royal College of Sorcerers.
She found
Isabeau at last in the library, reading a great heavy book with the titleGhosts
and Ghouls and Ghasts picked out in gold. The Keybearer looked up as she
came in and smiled warmly, putting her book down and coming forward to embrace
her. “Nina! How lovely to see ye. But what is wrong?”
Nina told her
about Rhiannon, and how Johanna had refused to send anyone to tend her.
“I’ll come at
once,” Isabeau said. “I was only just worrying about Rhiannon. See this book I
am reading? I’ve been brushing up on my knowledge o’ ghosts and hauntings, and
very troubling reading it makes too. It’s sorry I am indeed that I have no’
found the time to visit her again. Come, I just need to get my healer’s bag
from my rooms. Walk with me and tell me more. Ye say Johanna was very
distressed?”
Nina told her
everything, including how the lord of Fettercairn’s skeelie had somehow wormed
her way into Johanna’s confidence. She described the healer’s lassitude, her
dreamy expression and her contracted pupils, and wondered aloud if Dedrie had
somehow drugged Johanna, having had a bad experience with the skeelie’s basket
of potions and poisons before. This reminded her of Elfrida and her visit to
the healer, and how edgy and nervous she had seemed. Isabeau listened to all
she had to say with great interest, as she retrieved her healer’s bag from her
suite of rooms at the very top of the tower and sent one of her maids running
to the stables to order horses.
As they made
their way back to the prison, a passage through the crowds cleared for them by
four tall guards, Nina told the Keybearer how troubled she was about the
conditions at Sorrowgate Prison. She told Isabeau about the mysterious
disappearance of Bess Balfour, after she had been strung up for the rats to
gnaw on by the warder of Murderers’ Gallery, and described, with some
exasperation, how much it was costing her to keep Rhiannon in a cell of her
own, with two meals a day and clean sheets and blankets once a week. By the time
they rode under the cruel portcullis, Isabeau was frowning and Nina was feeling
much easier in her heart.
“It must no’ be
allowed,” Isabeau said tersely. “Lachlan must be told! Why have ye no’ told him
yourself?”
“I canna get
near him,” Nina said. “The court is like a hive o’ hornets, all buzzing around.
There’s this new unrest in Tìrsoilleir, and all the scandal over Bronwen and
this Yeoman that Prionnsa Donncan killed. No’ to mention the upcoming wedding!”
“Aye, I must
admit it’s been mad,” Isabeau said. “I have had a lot on my plate too.”
“Aye, I’m sorry.
I didna ken who else to come to.”
“Ye did right,”
Isabeau answered. “Lachlan will see me!”
“Once he
would’ve seen me too, at any time,” Nina said unsteadily. She dashed her hand
across her eyes. “But I am no’ in favor right now, given that I keep
importuning him on Rhiannon’s behalf. ”
“Och, well. He
loved Connor dearly and misses his wise counsel. We all do. He had an uncanny
knack o’ getting to the truth o’ a matter.”
Having left
their horses in the care of Isabeau’s guards, they climbed up the twisting
stairs to Rhiannon’s cell. The satyricorn was gravely ill, Nina could tell at
once. She lay in a tangle of hot, damp sheets, her eyes unseeing, her face
flushed as red as if she had been eating scorch-spice. Isabeau wasted no time
in forcing her to drink a bitter cordial made of powdered willow-bark,
feverfew, wormwood, and borage, easily evading Rhiannon’s wild struggles, then
stripped her and bathed her in cool water. She sent Corey running out into the
city streets to purchase a cup of snow from the icemongers, and squeezed lemon
over it and fed it to Rhiannon with a spoon. Hamish, the other guard, rather
sulkily brought soup that Isabeau sniffed suspiciously and then poured into the
stinking chamber pot.
“Remove this at
once,” the Keybearer said coldly, “and bring us a clean one, then have a
messenger sent to the Tower o’ Two Moons, to Gwilym the Ugly. I want fresh
cooked soup, and nettle tea, and agrimony water, and an infusion of yarrow and
vervain. Tell him I want plenty o’ it, and I want it now. Mistress Rhiannon
will no’ be the only one sick in this foul place. Tell Master Gwilym I want a
team o’ maids too, to scrub out the cells and strew them with fresh herbs. They
had best wear gloves and masks. Oh, and tell him I want another message sent to
the kennels. I want all the cairn terriers brought here and set to catch the
rats. Have him search out some ferrets too, to go where the dogs canna. Is that
understood?”
Hamish gaped at
her.
The Keybearer clicked
her teeth in exasperation and sat down to scribble a hasty note, which she then
gave to Corey to carry, he being the younger and more willing.
“I wish to speak
to the prison warder. Have him attend me here,” she said then to Hamish, who
did not dare deny her, even though it was clear he did not relish carrying that
particular message.
Nina had been
sitting quietly by Rhiannon’s bedside, smoothing back her sweaty hair from her
brow and smiling to see how the guards jumped at the Keybearer’s orders.
Within a few
hours, the whole prison was turned upside down with battalions of chambermaids
armed with scrubbing brushes and pails of hot water working methodically
through the labyrinthine building, flinging open shutters and throwing down
piles of lice-infested bedding to be burned. Little brindled terriers with
shaggy coats and sharply pricked ears rushed about everywhere, barking joyously
and chasing the rats, who poured away from them in a dark, scrabbling flood
that slowly reduced to a trickle. The long sinuous shapes of ferrets writhed
through the drains and the chimneys, dragging out more rats until, by the end
of the day, a tall, black, evil pyramid of dead rats was stacked in the
courtyard.
Nina stayed by
Rhiannon’s side all night, giving her agrimony water to sip every time she
moaned and stirred, and bathing her forehead with lavender water. Through the
window slit she could see the dancing flames of the bonfire burning all the
filth of the prison, and as the smoke rose high into the night sky, Nina felt
her spirits rise also.
Three times
Isabeau came back, to give Rhiannon another dose of the feverfew potion. By
daybreak, Rhiannon knew who she was again, and was wearily allowing Nina to
lift her up so she could sip at a cup of hot vegetable broth, and making faces
over the bitter green nettle tea.
“Drink it up.
It’ll make ye well,” Nina said.
“What has
happened? What is wrong with me?” Rhiannon’s voice was hoarse and faint.
“Just a touch o’
jail fever,” Nina said. “Do no’ worry; ye are over the worst o’ it.”
Rhiannon
wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell? What is burning?”
“That is just
the Keybearer, cleansing this place with fire,” Nina said, laying Rhiannon down
again and tucking her up in a clean, sweet-smelling sheet. “I swear there is
no’ a rat or a louse left anywhere in Sorrowgate.”
“Me glad,”
Rhiannon said and wearily closed her eyes.
None left except
for the laird and his skeelie, Nina thought to herself.And I will
do what I can to sweep them into the dust pile too!
Rhiannon was weak
and listless after her bout of jail fever and often disinclined to leave her
bed. Her only consolations were her growing pile of books, the little bluebird
who delighted her with its song and joyous flight, and the visits of her
friends, who tried to come at least once a week.
Nina and Iven
had hired an attorney to represent Rhiannon at her trial, which was to take
place at the dark of the moon, the day before Midsummer’s Eve. The attorney had
a stern eye, a beak of a nose, and deeply engraved lines between his heavy
black brows. His eyes were black also, but his hair was silver, and he looked
as if he rarely smiled.
He asked
Rhiannon many questions, and all so superciliously that she wanted to grind his
face into the rough stone of her walls. She managed to keep her temper, though,
and was rewarded with a grunt and a muttered, “Very well. Ye’ll do.”
As the date of
her trial came ever closer, he came more often, teaching her about the judicial
system and coaching her in her responses.
Otherwise,
Fèlice continued to be her most faithful visitor, bringing her flowers and wine
and copies of the news broadsheets to read, and enlivening the dull hours with
her chatter about the court and the Theurgia.
One day, a week
before her trial, Rhiannon said rather idly, “What o’ the other prionnsa, the
younger one? I have no’ heard ye speak o’ him for a while.”
A shadow crossed
Fèlice’s face, but she said lightly, “Och, it has all been such a whirl that I
have scarce laid eyes on Prionnsa Owein! He spends most o’ his time with
Lew—with his brother and sister, ye ken, and I do no’ move in such exalted
circles.”
Rhiannon,
realizing only that Fèlice had sidestepped saying Lewen’s name, did not notice
the trace of misery in Fèlice’s voice, being too busy bearing her own pain.
Since Fèlice then went on to discuss the much-remarked upon coolness that had
grown between the Crown Prionnsa and his betrothed, Rhiannon did not pursue the
topic, and all mention of Owein was allowed to lapse.
The Keybearer
came once also, her elf-owl perched sleepily on her shoulder. She questioned
Rhiannon again about the ghost that haunted her sleep and about the night of
the spring equinox when Rhiannon had watched Lord Malvern and his circle of
necromancers. When she had extracted everything Rhiannon could remember, she
sat for a moment, thinking, and then said gently, “Nina told me ye had a
friend, a lass named Bess Balfour, who was injured your first night in
Sorrowgate.”
“Aye, injured,”
Rhiannon said bitterly. “That’s one word for it.”
“I’ve made
inquiries,” Isabeau said.
“Good o’ ye,”
Rhiannon answered. “Let me guess. There is no record o’ a lass named Bess
Balfour.”
“No, there is
no’,” Isabeau answered, “though there is a Mistress Balfour making a nuisance
o’ herself every day at the front desk, demanding to ken what has happened to
her daughter.”
“Bess’s mam?”
Rhiannon sat upright, turning to stare at the Keybearer.
“I would guess
so.”
“So I didna
dream it all,” Rhiannon said.
“Nay, I think
your Bess was real enough, as real as the thumbscrews that gave ye your scars.”
Isabeau indicated the faint bloom of discoloration that still encircled
Rhiannon’s thumbs and looked as if it would never fade.
“So where is
Bess?”
Isabeau put up
her hand to stroke the owl, who hooted softly, almost as if seeking to comfort
or reassure.
“The Royal
College o’ Healers has difficulty in finding enough bodies for their research
and teaching,” she said. “Most people do no’ want their remains to be dissected
once they die, yet the healers and their students need to know as much about
the human body as possible if they are to learn to heal it. So some years ago
the Rìgh passed an act allowing the bodies o’ murderers to be given to the
college instead o’ being buried, as usual.”
“What has this
to do with Bess?”
The Keybearer
continued as if she had not spoken. “The corpses o’ the destitute and homeless
are meant to be buried at the city’s expense, but, sad to say, many sheriffs do
no’ want to bear the cost, which often has to come out o’ their own pocket. So,
sometimes, if someone dies on the street and their body is no’ claimed by their
family, well, the sheriffs give the body to the College o’ Healers.”
Rhiannon waited.
“The body o’ a
young woman was brought in a few days after ye were imprisoned in Sorrowgate
Tower,” Isabeau said. “She fits your description o’ Bess Balfour. I was
particularly struck by what ye said about her crooked face. This girl had at
one time broken her jaw.”
“Or had it
broken for her,” Rhiannon said.
Isabeau nodded.
“The body was
much gnawed by rats. There was some argument among the students as to whether
this happened before or after death. No conclusive agreement was reached.”
“So Bess was
dumped on the street? Alive or dead?”
“Who is to ken?”
Isabeau answered. “No autopsy was performed, just a dissection o’ her major
organs.”
Rhiannon put her
hands up to cover her face.
Isabeau said
gently, “I am sorry. If it is any consolation, all bodies dissected by the
College o’ Healers are given the proper funeral rites afore being cremated.”
“What do I care
for your rites?” Rhiannon said, her voice muffled by her fingers. “It is the
living that matter.”
“Aye,” Isabeau
said. “I do agree. I can only say how very sorry I am. Ye must believe me when
I say those responsible will no’ go unpunished.”
“It was
Octavia.” Rhiannon lifted her face from her hands. “She did it. She strung Bess
up for the rats and then got rid o’ her, afraid o’ who I would tell.”
“Aye, I think
so. Do no’ worry. The city guards have gone already to arrest her.”
This gave
Rhiannon some satisfaction, and she waited eagerly for news. Yet somehow
Octavia escaped the net spread to capture her. When the city guards kicked down
her door in the dingy guesthouse where the warder made her home, it was to find
the room in disarray and Octavia gone. No one knew where. And although both
Nina and Isabeau reassured Rhiannon she would be found and brought to justice,
Rhiannon had little faith that this would be so. Lucescere was a labyrinth of
lanes and alleys and dark, stinking passageways, of chimneys and drains and
sewers, of cellars and caves and secret tunnels. Huge and heavy as Octavia was,
she somehow managed to slip away into Lucescere’s shadowy underworld and
disappear.
The moons began
to wane, and Rhiannon’s anxiety grew sharper the closer her trial came. Her
attorney was not an optimistic man, and all his grunts and exhortations to
prepare herself for the worst preyed heavily on Rhiannon’s peace of mind until
the slightest noise or draft of cold air was enough to make her jump.
Then, the day
before the quarter sessions were to be held, and all the capital cases tried,
Nina came, white and edgy with news.
“The Cat and the
Fiddler are here!” she burst out, as soon as she had stepped into Rhiannon’s
cell.
“Who?” Rhiannon
asked, looking up from her book in surprise.
“The Cat and the
Fiddler. Do ye no’ ken? Finn the Cat and Jay the Fiddler. Finn NicRuraich is
Head Sorceress o’ the Tower o’ Searchers in Rurach, and Jay is her husband. He
is a sorcerer too, though all his music is bound up in his viola. Ye must have
heard tell o’ them.”
Still Rhiannon
looked blank.
“She is one o’
the MacRuraich clan,” Nina said impatiently. “They are Searchers. Their Talent
is to search and find. The Rìgh employs them to find things he needs. He sent
Finn and Jay to Ravenshaw to find what evidence they could against ye and Laird
Malvern. I had hoped, when there was no sign o’ them, that they had been
unsuccessful or that they would no’ be back in time. But I should have kent
better. Finn always finds what she searches for.”
“So what has she
found?” Rhiannon asked anxiously.
“I dinna ken,
no’ yet. We willna ken until the trial, for sure. It’s just . . . I’m afraid .
. .”
“O’ what?”
Rhiannon demanded.
“Finn and Jay
were both good friends o’ Connor’s,” Nina said. “They were all in the League o’
the Healing Hand together.”
Rhiannon’s heart
sank. “So they hate me. They bring bad evidence against me.”
“They have
certainly been very thorough,” Nina admitted. “That is why they have taken so
long. They have brought back witnesses against ye, as well as many statements
and reports about the laird o’ Fettercairn. It was quite a procession!”
Nina and Iven
had gone into the city as soon as they had heard the news that the Cat and the
Fiddler were approaching. Nina knew both Finn and Jay well, but they had had no
chance to greet them, for the city streets had been seething with people.
Thousands had turned out to watch the sorceress ride in with her escort of
Yeomen, followed by a long string of packhorses.
“I do no’ ken if
it is true, but I have heard the packhorses carry many dreadful things that
Finn found at Fettercairn Castle,” Nina said. “Boxes and boxes o’ severed
hands, and mummified heads, and the flayed skins o’ faeries, and the skulls o’
the murdered, and instruments o’ torture stained with blood, and knives and
black candles and all sorts o’ poisons.”
Rhiannon nodded
her head. “They cleaned out his library then,” she said. “I saw all those
things there.”
“Ye will have to
testify to that,” Nina said. “I am so pleased. I want that wicked laird found
guilty, and all his henchmen too! That such evil walked abroad for so long! Ye
ken, I have heard that one o’ those packhorses carried naught but scrolls and
scrolls o’ statements by hundreds o’ witnesses, all signed and sealed, giving
testimony against him. They will have to find the laird guilty now!”
“But what o’
me?” Rhiannon asked.
Nina hesitated,
then said, “There is a lot o’ support for ye, Rhiannon. Many in the city have
taken Landon’s ballad to heart. There have been many fights and scuffles, ye
ken, between those who think ye guilty and those who think ye are no’.”
“Are any o’ them
my judges?” Rhiannon said with heavy sarcasm. “I think no’. So what does it
matter?”
“Public opinion
can sway the Rìgh,” Nina said.
“It is no’ up to
the Rìgh,” Rhiannon said. “He does no’ try my case. It is the judges who will
find me innocent or guilty.”
“Aye, but the
Rìgh can call for a lighter sentence or issue a pardon,” Nina said hopefully.
“Aye, he can,
but he willna, will he? The Rìgh abides by the verdict o’ the judges, and they
judge me on the evidence offered at the trial. That sour-faced lawyer has told
me that over and over again, so that I can say it in my sleep. So tell me, what
evidence has this Cat o’ yours found against me? What witnesses has she
brought?”
“I dinna ken who
they are,” Nina said hesitantly. “There was one, a poor auld bent and scraggy
man, all wild hair and beard. Apparently he has been held captive by the
satyricorns for years.”
Rhiannon could
not believe what she had heard. “Reamon? They brought Reamon here? But why?”
“Who kens? If he
is a friend o’ yours, surely he will testify on your behalf?”
“I suppose so,”
Rhiannon said, though she felt sick in the stomach. Try as she might, she could
not imagine how the Yeomen of the Guard had managed to capture Reamon. She
could not imagine why they would have brought him and could not help feeling
anxious about what he might say.
“At least ye do
no’ have so long to wait now, Rhiannon,” the sorceress said consolingly. “One
day more, and then it’ll all be over.”
“Aye, one day
more,” Rhiannon repeated and heard how the words echoed with grief between
them.
That night
Rhiannon found it hard to sleep. She lay in the darkness for a very long time,
her mind churning over the past few months. Nina’s words ran like a refrain
through her mind.One day more, and then it’ll all be over. One day more, and
then it’ll all be over. When she managed to force her mind away from this
chain of words and what it meant, it was only to hear again another sequence of
words that had haunted her for weeks.Hanged, drawn, and quartered. Hanged,
drawn, and quartered.
She may have
dozed for a while, drifting away into images that seemed to have no connection
one to another. A winged horse carved from wood. Lightning striking down from
the sky. A silver thread unspooling. A black knife slashing. Blood. A cry of
triumph.
Rhiannon woke,
or seemed to wake. She felt the familiar lumpiness of her pillow under her
cheek, the scratchiness of her blanket on her legs. She was cold, but she could
not reach down to drag her blanket higher. She could not move her arms or legs,
or fret her head against her pillow. She felt as if she had been chained down.
Her hair was wrapped tight about her throat, choking her, strangling her.
The ghost
hovered above her, coating her in ice. “It’s time,” she whispered. “Are ye
ready to die?”
Rhiannon
screamed. Her eyes opened into darkness. She lay rigid, listening. All was
quiet. She dragged one icy-cold breath into her lungs, and then another.
Gradually her pulse stopped hammering in her ears, and her clenched fingers
uncurled. Still she listened. Then she heard a furtive scrabbling at her door
and sat up, staring towards it even though she could see nothing but blackness.
Every nerve shrilled.
The door scraped
open. She heard a soft footfall, then another. Rhiannon slipped off her bed and
lay on the floor. Swiftly and silently she rolled underneath her bed. Her head
clunked against the chamber pot. At once the footsteps paused. Rhiannon fought
to soften her fear-quickened breath. She heard another soft step, then heard
someone standing right next to the bed, breathing quietly. They bent and seized
what lay in the bed, but found their arms full of only pillows. A curse was
muttered, and Rhiannon heard the quick scrape, scrape, scrape of flint and saw
the sudden flowering of light. At that very moment she struck out with the
chamber pot. The man beside her bed fell with a thump, and Rhiannon rolled out
and was astride him in a moment, hitting him as hard as she could over the
head.
His lantern had
fallen to the ground and rolled away. Just before the light guttered out,
Rhiannon saw her attacker’s face.
It was Shannley,
the lord of Fettercairn’s groom.
As Rhiannon
stared at him, stupefied, she heard a quick flurry of footsteps and looked up
to see the lord of Fettercairn himself, dressed all in black, and carrying
another lantern. Behind him came his servants, all looking grim and intent in
the flickering light of the candles they carried.
Rhiannon had no
time to wonder how they came to be free of their own cells or opening the door
to hers. She just knew they had come for her, to do the ghost’s will. She
screamed.
Rhiannon had a
good set of lungs, and her scream was driven by an engine of terror. It was so
shrill, so piercing, that the lord of Fettercairn was stopped, involuntarily,
in his tracks.
“Shut her up!”
he hissed. “She’ll have the whole guardroom down upon us.”
As that was
Rhiannon’s intention, she took a good, deep breath and screamed again. The
sound was shut off abruptly by a rush of bodies, but Rhiannon had no intention
of going meekly. She laid about her with the chamber pot, with satisfying
thunks and umphhs, all the while calling, whenever she could draw enough breath,
“Help! Help me!”
There came a cry
and a clatter of boots. Rhiannon screamed again, as loudly as she could with so
little breath left to her, and fought her attackers off fiercely.
“Leave her!”
Lord Malvern cried. “We’ll find ourselves another sacrifice! Let us go while we
can!”
His servants
drew back at once.
“She is the only
one who saw us,” a quavering voice said. Rhiannon recognized the voice of the
lord’s librarian and genealogist, Gerard.
“True,” the lord
said. “Best leave no threads dangling.”
He stepped
forward, his lined face grotesque in the wavering light of his lantern.
Rhiannon saw he had a dagger in his hand and staggered back. He drew back his
lips in a smile more grimace than grin and advanced upon her.
Just then a
massive dark shape appeared in the doorway. “The guards!” a hoarse and all too
familiar voice hissed.
Lord Malvern
took another step towards Rhiannon, the point of his dagger glinting.
“No time!”
Octavia whispered. “They come. Leave her to the hanging judges!”
Lord Malvern
hesitated, then drew back. He turned away, taking the light with him. In the
darkness, pressed hard against the rough stone wall, Rhiannon heard the thud of
their feet as they ran down the stairs. She listened hard for a betraying
breath, or scrape of shoe against the stone, or the whistle of a sharp knife
blade against the air. Nothing, except the distant shout of voices. Then she
heard feet running up the stairs towards her, and, as light once again bloomed
up the stairwell, a harsh clamor of bells.
The prison guards
came thundering into her cell with weapons drawn and lanterns raised high.
Shannley, the lord of Fettercairn’s groom, still lay unconscious on the floor.
Rhiannon sat upon her bed, the chamber pot decorously hidden behind her feet
under the bed, her hands folded on her lap.
“They’ve gone,”
she said. “Ye’ll have to be fast to catch them.”
But of course
they were not fast enough. Lord Malvern and all his men were gone into the
night, and Octavia with them, leaving only Shannley the groom to face the Court
of Star Chamber in the morning.
Lewen woke. He
lay still, leaden with misery, wondering why his chest ached with such grief.
Then he remembered. Today was the day of Rhiannon’s trial. He turned on his
side. He did not want to get up. He would have liked to pull his sheets over
his head and stay in bed all day, pretending it was not happening. But he could
not. With all that had happened between him and Rhiannon, the least he could do
was stand up in court for her, as he had promised, even though the very thought
of seeing her made him squirm with anxiety and dread.
The bed beside
him was hollow with Olwynne’s absence, though if he pressed his face into his
pillow he could still smell her sweet lingering fragrance. It filled his
nostrils and made his groin tighten with longing for her. The scent of roses,
jasmine, and violets, with a hint of something else, something that was
Olwynne’s alone.
Lewen closed his
eyes and groaned. He did not understand this fierce love for Olwynne that had
seized him and shaken him like a terrier shakes a rat. Everyone kept saying how
sudden it had been, yet it did not seem sudden to Lewen. It felt rather as if
he had always loved her, without realizing it, as a man loves his own heart for
beating and his own lungs for breathing, without any knowledge or effort or
need. It hurt and grieved him that he had not understood any earlier. How
Olwynne must have suffered while he stumbled, blindly and stupidly, into
Rhiannon’s sorcerous toils. How bravely Olwynne had borne her secret hurt and
grief, and how nobly she had forgiven him. Lewen just wished he was worthy of
her.
Sometimes, at
night, when Olwynne had slipped from his bed to creep back through the moonlit
corridors to her own room, and Lewen rolled over and deeper into sleep, he
found himself remembering Rhiannon again. Not with his mind but with his skin,
his flesh, his nerves. When he woke the next morning, he would remember, in
flashes, and feel sick with shame that he could betray Olwynne so. But his
banprionnsa never blamed him. She questioned him often about his feelings for
Rhiannon, and reassured him that the satyricorn’s spell had been strong and
subtle and would take time to completely overthrow.
Which was one
reason Lewen dreaded seeing Rhiannon today, the first time he would have seen
her since that last encounter in her cell. What if she worked her magic on him
again? Lewen could not bear the idea that he might weaken and betray Olwynne’s
love, in thought and feeling, if not in deed.
Yet he must go.
Apart from anything else, he was one of the key witnesses in Rhiannon’s
defense. Nina had begged him to stand for her, and Lewen had promised to do his
best, putting aside his own revulsion at what she had done to him. It was not
an easy thing for him to do. For now that Lewen was truly in love, he realized
with fervent intensity what a terrible thing it was to enslave another’s will
and spirit with desire, to make them love where they would have loved not. He
knew now why love spells were forbidden by the Coven, considered as heinous as
necromancy. For where necromancy was a black art aimed at controlling the dead,
eromancy was a black art to control the quick, and so arguably even more
wicked.
Lewen still felt
Rhiannon’s chain upon his soul, no matter how hard he tried to dissolve it with
the scent and flavor and bright goodness of Olwynne. When Olwynne was with him,
it was easier, but too far away from her and he felt the slow drag of
Rhiannon’s hand upon the chain, drawing his thoughts and longings back to her.
So Lewen tried never to be apart from his new love, his true love, and
struggled to unclasp his body and his will from Rhiannon.
He groaned again
in weariness and frustration, flung back his bedclothes, and forced his body to
rise. He bent and splashed his face and body with lukewarm water from his jug,
and flung open his window, leaning out in search of a breath of fresh air. It
was already very hot. The leaves of the oak tree outside his window hung
listlessly.
He dressed
slowly and carefully, in pale wool breeches and a brown linen coat trimmed with
velvet, with a blue sash across his breast to show he worked for the Rìgh. He
forced a comb through his unruly thatch and tied it back neatly, then polished
his shoes and brushed his coat. Inside his pocket, over his heart, he tucked
the withered nosegay of flowers that Olwynne had given him the morning after
their first night together. Lewen wore it in his inner pocket every day, even
though the flowers were all crushed and broken now and a faint whiff of rot
wafted up from their brown petals.
Lewen stared at
himself in the mirror for a moment. He saw the same face he always saw, broad
and brown and smooth-skinned, yet he felt he did not recognize himself. How did
he come to be here? He was about to give witness at the murder trial of a woman
he had thought he had loved as truly and as deeply as it was possible to love,
and when that was done, he planned to jump the fire with another, a girl he had
never even dreamed of loving till a few scant weeks ago. None of it made sense
to him. It was as if he had lost his lodestone, the pull of the true north that
held him steady on his life’s course. It made north south and up down, made
love hate and good evil. All Lewen could do was hold fast to the knowledge of
Olwynne and hope that she could drag him free of this magnetic maelstrom.
There was a soft
tap on his door. Lewen huffed out his breath, squared his shoulders, and went
to open it. Fèlice stood on the other side, her face grave. Lewen’s heart sank
at the sight of her.
“It’s all right,
Lewen, I’m no’ here to reprove ye,” she said. “I just want to make sure all is
well with ye. I mean, for Rhiannon’s trial today. Ye are coming?”
Lewen could only
feel miserable that her opinion of him had sunk so low. “Aye, o’ course I’m
coming.”
Fèlice
hesitated.
“There’s no need
to fear,” Lewen said stiffly. “I would no’ perjure my soul by giving false
witness, no’ even to punish that ensorcellor!”
Fèlice set her
jaw. “She’s no ensorcellor, Lewen. Ye o’ all people should ken that. How could
she have learned to spin a love spell o’ such power, high in the mountains by
Dubhglais?”
“No doubt the
satyricorns have their own magic.”
“I hardly think
love spells are their style,” Fèlice answered angrily. “As far as I can tell, a
satyricorn prefers to use a club!”
“Och, aye,
happen so, but then Rhiannon is no’ your usual run-o’-the-mill satyricorn, is
she?”
“Nay, she is
no’,” Fèlice replied.
Lewen paused and
glanced down at her, troubled, and Fèlice grasped his arm with both hands,
saying in a low, urgent voice, “Oh, Lewen, canna ye see—”
Just then
another voice called his name, a warm musical voice. At once Fèlice dropped her
hands and stepped back, turning to curtsy demurely as Owein and Olwynne came up
the stairs together.
The Banprionnsa
was exquisitely dressed in a simple gown of dark yellow silk. The MacCuinn
plaid was draped over her shoulder and pinned at her slim waist with an emerald
pin. Owein too had made some effort to dress for the occasion, with his bronze-red
curls neatly combed, and his chin freshly shaven. His clothes were neat, even
if put together with very little thought for fashion, and his shoes had been
polished, for a change. He paused a moment at the sight of Fèlice, then
inclined his head politely, asking after her health.
“I am well,
thank ye, Your Highness,” Fèlice replied, just as coolly.
“Have ye come to
escort Lewen to the Court o’ Star Chamber?” Olwynne asked, a note of surprise
in her voice. “How kind o’ ye.”
“I ken how
difficult this day must be for him,” Fèlice replied, lifting her chin a little.
Olwynne raised
her brows. “Aye, indeed,” she replied. “As it is for all o’ us who kent Connor
well. We miss him sorely.”
Fèlice opened
her mouth to retort, then thought better of it, merely bowing her head and
drawing back so Olwynne could pass, her hand tucked into the crook of Lewen’s
arm.
Owein fell in
beside Fèlice as they went back down the stairs. For once he walked like an
ordinary man, his wings folded down his sides. Fèlice did not want to look at
him, but she was very conscious of his long, warm body beside her and the
occasional brush of his wingtip against her skirt.
“I imagine ye
have heard o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn’s dramatic escape, my lady,” Owein said
after a moment.
“Aye, I’ve heard,
Your Highness,” she answered. “Who hasna?”
“It looks as if
he may have had a guilty conscience,” Owein said.
“Aye, it does,
doesna it?”
“They say Finn
the Cat brought back a lot o’ evidence against him, enough to hang him for
sure.”
Fèlice said nothing.
“I wonder why
your satyricorn friend didna escape with him, when she could?”
“Rhiannon is no
friend o’ Laird Malvern’s.”
“Aye, but still
. . .”
“She kens better
than anyone what a dangerous man he is,” Fèlice said. “Happen she thought she
was safer in the hands o’ your father’s court. I hope she was right.”
Owein glanced at
her, troubled. Fèlice did not return his look but kept her gaze fixed on the
ground ahead of her.
“I hope so too,”
he said after a moment. “I ken how much it would grieve ye to see your friend .
. . found guilty. I do no’ want that.”
“Thank ye, Your
Highness,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes.
They walked on
in silence.
The Court of
Star Chamber was crowded with people from all walks of life. Faeries, country
folk in homespuns, lords and ladies in shimmering silks, merchants’ wives with
jeweled wrists and ears, witch-apprentices in their simple black robes,
servants in demure grey, street roughs in rags and bruises. Hundreds had turned
out to see the satyricorn who was accused of murder and treason, and the noise
of their rustling and murmuring echoed through the great vaulted room. It had
been a long time since the court had had to judge such a high-profile case, and
the spectacular escape of the lord of Fettercairn had only focused more
attention on Rhiannon.
Heads craned to
stare at Lewen and Fèlice as they self-consciously went down to the front to
sit with the other witnesses in the first rows. Nina and Iven were already
there, both dressed formally as sorceress and Rìgh’s emissary. They gave Lewen
a tense, unnatural smile, and then turned their gaze away, leaving Lewen with a
bitter residue of sadness and loneliness, even though he knew they did not mean
to hurt him. He had just grown used to warmth and camaraderie from Nina and
Iven, not this awkward coolness. Not for the first time, he cursed the day that
Rhiannon of Dubhslain had flown into his life.
The other
apprentice-witches who had traveled with them from Ravenshaw sat in a row
beside them. Landon looked sick, Rafferty and Cameron were fidgety and
uncomfortable in their suits, Maisie was overawed, and Edithe stared about her
with a look of self-satisfied importance, smoothing down the plush velvet of a
richly trimmed red gown.
Cameron had been
minding a seat for Fèlice and after a moment shifted sullenly along so Lewen
could sit too.
Lewen had not
seen much of the former squire since they had arrived in Lucescere, but once
Cameron had looked up to Lewen and admired him greatly as the son of a former
war hero. It rubbed Lewen on the raw to see Cameron cast him a darkling look
and mutter something to Rafferty, who sat on his far side. When they had first
met, Lewen had been Rhiannon’s champion and Cameron had been her enemy, after
she had publicly repulsed his advances in her usual blunt way. Their journey
together had changed all that. Now Cameron was as quick to defend Rhiannon as
he had previously been to mock her. He was a straightforward lad, with a
traditional and chivalrous attitude to human relationships, and it was clear he
thought less of Lewen for his change of heart towards Rhiannon. Lewen sighed
and glanced back over his shoulder at Olwynne’s bright loving face.
Olwynne and
Owein had caused a great deal of interest by choosing to sit right behind the
witnesses instead of joining the other aristocrats up in the dress circle.
Olwynne was making it as clear as she could that Lewen was the cause of her
intense interest in the case by smiling at him constantly, leaning forward to
lay her hand upon his arm, and ignoring the others totally. Owein looked
uncomfortable with this tactic, casting Nina and Iven apologetic glances and
trying to engage Fèlice in conversation. She had evidently seen the battle
lines drawn up, however, for she was cool and unresponsive, saving her
attention for her fellow apprentices. Owein gave up after several tries and sat
back, looking down at his boots and trying not to fidget too much.
Cailean of the
Shadowswathe came hurrying down the aisle, dressed still in his white
sorcerer’s robe, and sat down beside the twins. His huge black shadow-hound
loomed beside him. The faery dog’s eyes glowed with an uncanny eldritch light,
as green as marsh gas, and it did not need to curl its black lip to keep a wide
circle clear about it. No matter how curious the crowd, no one would risk a
shadow-hound’s ire.
Cailean’s
arrival distracted Olwynne for a moment, giving Lewen a chance to look about
him anxiously. There was no sign of Rhiannon. The imposing wooden rostrum in
the center of the room was empty. Lewen wiped his damp palms on his breeches
and stared about the room, wondering when she would be brought in. The walls
soared high overhead, to a domed ceiling of dark blue glass decorated with
gilded stars. More stars were set at the head of each of the great fluted
columns all around the room, while the familiar shape of two crescent moons
marked the apex of the dome. Great curtains of midnight blue velvet fell from
ceiling to floor at regular intervals, looped back with golden ropes as thick
as Olwynne’s waist. It was stiflingly hot, and livery-clad pages waved fans of
colorful bhanias feathers over the heads of the lords and ladies in the box
seats high above the common rabble on the main floor.
Bellfruit
sellers wandered the aisles, offering cups of iced juice, while cluricauns
bounded everywhere, thrusting paper twists of hot chestnuts or dried fruit
under people’s noses. There was a scuffle at the door between an ogre in
studded leather and an ancient tree-changer with a great white beard sprouting
mushrooms. It was settled so quickly and smoothly Lewen barely had time to
register the combatants. What he did notice was how many soldiers there were,
many dressed in the distinctive blue jacket of the Yeomen. Lewen’s heart sank,
though he could not have explained why. It just seemed to bode ill for
Rhiannon.
Olwynne caressed
his arm, and he turned back to her, just as there was a loud flourish of
trumpets. Everyone stood and bowed as the Rìgh and Banrìgh were escorted in
through one of the doors and led to their thrones high on the dais. Both were
dressed formally for the occasion in long blue velvet robes edged with white
ermine fur. Iseult’s white NicFaghan plaid was pinned over her breast with her
dragon brooch, while Lachlan wore the royal blue-and-green tartan plaid, pinned
with the MacCuinn stag. Lachlan held the Lodestar in his right hand. It glowed
white and cold.
As the six
judges filed in behind the royal couple, a hubbub erupted. Most cheered but
many, to Lewen’s surprise, hissed and booed. He craned his head to see who had
greeted the judges so disrespectfully and saw the street roughs of Lucescere,
on their feet and waving crumpled copies of a broadsheet that he recognized as
being Landon’s ballad, “Rhiannon’s Ride.” Leading them on was the big ogre from
the Nisse and Nixie, the beautiful seelie at his side. There were many other
faeries among them, all chanting, “Rhee-anne-on! Rhee-anne-on!”
A ripple of
shock and excitement ran along the witnesses’ bench. Rafferty elbowed Landon in
the side in obvious glee, while Fèlice leaned forward to grasp his hand,
smiling broadly. Edithe lifted her nose in the air, as if smelling something
foul, while Nina and Iven smiled at each other in astonishment and relief.
Living in the palace as they did, they had been aware only of the strength of
the feeling against Rhiannon.
The raucous
protest of the faeries and the poor of Lucescere roused those who vilified
Rhiannon for what she had done, so that they began to cheer more loudly. “Hang
her!” some shouted, and the call was taken up by many of the courtiers and
soldiers until the room rang with it. “Hang her! Hang her!”
Lewen’s eyes
smarted with hot, unexpected tears. He did not want Rhiannon hanged. No matter
how much he hated and feared her, he did not want her to die like that. In his
heart of hearts, he hoped that she would be banished, sent far away over the
seas to some other land, a punishment that would remove her from his life and
sphere of influence so that he never had to set eyes on her again. For secretly
Lewen feared he would never be able to loosen the fetter she had placed upon
him, not as long as she was anywhere near him.
The noise in the
vast chamber mounted and mounted, until at last one of the court’s officials
came forward and pounded on the floor with a long golden staff topped with the
blindfolded figure of justice. Gradually the noise subsided. The judges sat in
a line at a red-draped table set below the Rìgh and Banrìgh. Their numbers had
been drawn from the aristocracy, the merchant class, the guilds, the crofters,
the army, and the Coven of Witches, but all had laid aside their usual clothes
to wear the elaborate purple robe of the Court of Star Chamber, with its heavy
double-sided mantle. If a death sentence was passed, Lewen knew, the judges
would turn back their hood to show its crimson side, but if the accused was
proven innocent, the white side stayed uppermost.
The judges did
not share the febrile excitement of the crowd. They all looked grave. Lewen
knew two of them by sight: the sorcerer Gwilym the Ugly, who was second in
command of the Coven of Witches, and Aidan the Brave, one of the Yeomen’s
general staff. He was grim-faced indeed.
The heralds blew
their trumpets again. At once the rustling and talking died away, until the
room was almost silent. Everyone leaned forward, looking eagerly at the double
doors at the far end of the room. Lewen stared too, though not with the same
feverish anticipation. Despite the heat of the overcrowded room, he felt cold
and shivery, and his hands were slick with perspiration that he wiped
repeatedly on his crumpled breeches. His gut felt like it was twisted in an
iron vise. He wished the day was over.
The doors flung
open. Rhiannon came in, flanked by four guards. Pale and composed, she was
dressed in a simple grey gown, with her black hair severely braided down her
back, hanging almost to her knees. She had lost so much weight her misty blue
eyes seemed huge, and the strong bones of her face were sharp. She looked young
and vulnerable, and there were sighs and murmurs of pity amidst the hisses and
catcalls.
Lewen’s heart
moved sharply at the sight of her. Their eyes met, and he dropped his at once,
his stomach churning with a weird collection of emotions. He could not have
named them without admitting to regret, and guilt, and shame, and tenderness,
none of them emotions he wished to feel.
The court herald
read out the charges in long, convoluted phrases that, when deciphered, accused
Rhiannon of wilfully murdering and mutilating a servant of the Rìgh while upon
His Majesty’s service, thus endangering the safety of his royal person and that
of the whole country.
The head judge,
the Duke of Ardblair, fixed Rhiannon with a frowning gaze and asked what she
had to say in response to the charges.
Rhiannon said in
a clear, firm voice, “It is true I shot Connor the Just, Your Worship, but I
swear I did no’ ken who or what he was, and I felt no hatred or malice for him
or for His Majesty. He was trying to escape the herd and was struggling with my
mother, who was trying to stop him. He would’ve killed her, my laird, if I had
no’ shot him. I did it only to save her life.”
Such a roar of
voices rose, the Duke of Ardblair had to bang his gavel on the table several
times before the crowd quietened.
“But why was a
Yeoman taken prisoner in the first place?” Aidan the Brave demanded. “That in
itself is a treasonable act!”
She shrank back
a little at the intensity of his voice. “He was a man, sir. Any man who rode
into the herd’s territory would’ve been taken prisoner. There are few males
born to the satyricorns, ye ken, and they are keenly sought as mates.”
The crowd
reacted with sniggers and whispers. Aidan’s face twisted with distaste. “So we
are to add the charges o’ abduction and unlawful imprisonment to your account?
I shudder to think what else!”
“I didna capture
him!” she cried. “I tried to help him escape.”
“Is that so?”
His voice dripped sarcasm.
“Aye,” she said
eagerly. “I undid the straps for him. He would never have got free if I had no’
untied them.”
“Yet ye shot him
in the back only moments later.”
“It wasna only
moments, it was much later,” she said indignantly. “The herd had to hunt him
first, all the way down the river.”
“And ye joined
the hunt?” asked one of the other judges, a rough-spoken man with huge,
work-hardened hands and a thick neck. A farmer by trade, he was called Craig of
Glen Fernie, and he had been chosen by lot from a ledger of justices of the
peace. He was far more used to settling disputes over stolen pigs or tavern
brawls, and was clearly uncomfortable in his heavy robes.
She colored.
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“I had to! If I
didna, they would’ve suspected . . .” She took a deep breath, trying to control
her voice. “If the herd guessed I had helped him, they would’ve killed me,” she
said at last, her voice quivering only a little.
“Is that why yereally
killed him? So your herd would no’ realize ye had helped him escape?” Aidan the
Brave asked.
She went red,
then white. After a moment she replied steadily, “I told ye, he had my
mother—he was going to kill her. He would’ve broken her neck like that!” She
snapped her fingers. “No one could reach her in time, none o’ the herd. I was
up behind them, on the ridge. If I had no’ shot him, he would’ve killed her.”
“So ye say.”
Aidan sat back skeptically.
The crowd
murmured.
“When the body
o’ Connor the Just was found some weeks later, he was found to be cruelly
mutilated. The smallest finger o’ his left hand had been hacked off, and all
his teeth had been wrenched from his head. Were ye responsible for this also?”
the Duke of Ardblair asked in arctic tones.
Rhiannon
hesitated, then nodded unwillingly. “It’s what satyricorns always do,” she said
defensively.
“So you admit
that this is yours?” Aidan the Brave said, catching up a long necklace of teeth
and bones that he brandished in his fist. The court hissed and sighed, and the
duke had to call for order several times before it at last quietened. Rhiannon
said nothing, her face drained of color, but when she was asked the question
again, she nodded.
“Please answer
‘aye’ or ‘nay’ for the court records,” the only woman judge said in a neutral
voice. Named Glenwys, she was the head of the guilds in Lucescere, a clockmaker
by trade. She wore, perched on her nose, a pair of spectacles that made her
eyes look alarmingly large.
“Aye,” Rhiannon
said sullenly.
“Please note the
prisoner answered in the affirmative to the question,” the court herald called.
Aidan shook the
necklace. “And these teeth, thesehuman teeth, hanging on this string,
they are Connor’s teeth? And the bone is his finger bone?”
“Some o’ them,”
Rhiannon muttered.
The Duke of
Ardblair banged his gavel until the court at last quietened.
“I beg your
pardon?” Aidan said over the noise. “Did ye admit these teeth and bones are
his?”
“I said, some o’
them are his. There are goblin teeth there too, and some coney paws. Other
things I’ve killed.” Rhiannon sounded sullen indeed, and Lewen clenched his
fists between his knees. Silently he willed Rhiannon to look up, to speak
respectfully, to be polite.
“Did ye sayother
things ye’ve killed?” Aidan spoke with heavy emphasis.
Rhiannon
flushed. “Aye.”
“I see. So ye
always take trophies o’ the creatures ye kill, to gloat over later?”
“It’s what
satyricorns do,” she protested. “I didna do it to gloat. It made me sick to the
stomach having to do it.”
“Yet still ye
did it, and wore your trophies about your neck, for all to see.”
“Only while I
was with the herd,” she protested hotly. “They would’ve suspected me if I had
no’. They would’ve fought me for blood-right.”
“Blood-right?
And what does that mean?”
“My right to his
things,” she said sulkily, dropping her eyes.
“So, by killing
Connor the Just, ye were able to claim his belongings as your own?” Aidan the
Brave asked silkily.
She nodded,
then, after another prompting from the judges, said, “Aye,” in a very low
voice.
Aidan picked up
one thing after another from the table. “His knife, his blowpipe and barbs, hissgian
dubh , his uniform?” He raised the blue coat and cap reverently. “His
silver brooch with the design o’ the charging stag, ensign o’ the Yeomen o’ the
Guard, given to him by the Rìgh himself and worn by Connor with justifiable
pride? The medal o’ the League o’ the Healing Hand, the rarest o’ all honors?”
As he held up
the small golden medal, with its device of a child’s hand radiating lines of
light, a woman sobbed aloud. Turning his head, Lewen saw it was Johanna the
Mild, sitting up in the witches’ box. Her hands were clasped together and her
face was harrowed with tears. Lewen saw she wore the same golden medal pinned
to her long green robe. Finn the Cat was sitting next to her, looking almost as
distressed, with Dillon, captain of the Yeomen, on her far side, his arm about
Johanna’s shoulders, his face grim. Jay the Fiddler sat next to his wife,
holding her hand. They also wore the golden medal prominently, being the only
other surviving members of the famous band of children who had helped Lachlan
win his throne. Isabeau sat with them, listening intently, occasionally
frowning and biting her lip.
Aidan the Brave
had gone on inexorably. “And those few precious belongings o’ Connor that he
carried with him always, the music box he was given by His Majesty as a reward
for his help, the goblet that belonged to his dear friend Parlan . . .”
As Aidan held up
the silver chalice with the crystal in its stem, Isabeau stifled an exclamation
and leaned forward in interest. Lewen himself had to choke back a flood of
memories evoked by the sight of the cup. Rhiannon, drinking thyme tea from it,
firelight flickering over her bare shoulders. Himself, drinking cold water from
it the next morning, trying to wash away the great lump of horror and misery in
his throat that Rhiannon’s confession of guilt had brought. He clenched his jaw
and looked down at his fists pressed tightly between his knees. He felt
Olwynne’s hand rubbing up and down his arm and had to repress the urge to shake
it off.
“Satyricorns do
no’ have such precious and beautiful things as these, do they? Ye would have
coveted them, and by claiming them as yours, ye would have gained kudos in the
eyes o’ the herd, wouldna ye?”
“I’m sorry, I
dinna understand,” she faltered.
“Is it no’ true
that weapons such as these, forged o’ true steel, are very rare among wild
satyricorns and therefore precious? Is it no’ true that ye had no such weapons
o’ your own?”
Rhiannon did not
speak, and the Duke of Ardblair asked her, not unkindly, to answer the
question.
“The herd had a
few knives,” she answered reluctantly. “No’ many. Most o’ the women made their
own clubs, from stone and wood, or sharpened sticks into spears. I had my bow.
It was my father’s.” There was a trace of defiance in her voice and Lewen drew
his brows together, thinking she would do better to moderate her tone. She
glanced at him, so that he wondered if she heard his unspoken thought. He
looked away.
“Your father was
human?” Glenwys asked.
“Yes, ma’am,”
Rhiannon replied. “I never kent him. He died when I was a bairn. I think they
killed him when he tried to escape.”
“So ye admit ye
had no weapons like this?” Aidan cried, turning the silver dagger so it
glittered in the light.
She turned back
to him. “Nay, sir.”
“But a sharp
dagger like this would’ve been o’ great use to ye, wouldn’t it?” he demanded.
“And it would have greatly raised your standing within the herd.”
She shook her
head sadly. “No’ even a dagger could do that, sir,” she answered. “Without
horns like the other satyricorns, I was considered a nothing, a nobody.”
Clever lass, Lewen thought,
and again she glanced towards him. She was deathly pale.
Aidan tried
again. “But with weapons such as these, sharp, steel weapons, even a nobody
could hold her own with the herd, is that no’ so? With weapons like these, ye’d
be one o’ the best hunters—”
“But I was
already a good hunter with my bow,” she protested. “I had never used a dagger—I
would no’ ken how to hunt with it. And I would never be as fast as the others
without hooves. I’d never get close enough to the prey to kill it with a
dagger.”
For a moment
Aidan seemed stymied, but then he laid down the knife and picked up her bow.
“So ye were a good hunter with this bow?”
“Aye, sir,” she
said, lifting her chin.
“And a good
killer,” he said, and dropped the bow as if it disgusted him.
There was a
short silence. The crowd sighed.
“Perhaps we
should hear from Berget, the First-Horn o’ the Royal Satyricorn Squad,” the
Duke of Ardblair said. “I feel we really need to understand more o’ the
prisoner’s background.”
The First-Horn
got up and strode to the witness stand. She was very tall and wore a short blue
kilt under a leather jerkin. Her thick, muscular legs ended in cloven hooves,
and a tufted tail hung from beneath her kilt. Her face was broad and somehow
bestial, with a squat nose and large mouth. Her head was covered with short,
stubby horns that had been filed to sharpness. Around her neck hung many
necklaces of teeth and bones.
“I see ye wear
bone necklaces,” Glenwys said. “So it is true that this is the usual custom o’
satyricorns?”
Berget jerked
her head. “Aye. True.” Her voice was deep and guttural.
“The necklace is
made from the teeth and bones o’ the creatures ye have killed?”
“Aye.”
“But does it
have human teeth strung upon it?” Aidan cried.
She grinned at
him. “Aye. Many. Enemy soldiers.”
The Blue Guard
frowned and sat back in his chair.
“Why? Why do the
satyricorns make such necklaces?” Gwilym the Ugly asked.
Berget shrugged.
“Warn away dark walkers. Tell them we strong, we brave. Dark walkers no like
noise.” She clattered the bones together.
“And dark
walkers are evil spirits?” Gwilym asked.
The satyricorn
shrugged. “Dark walkers live in shadows. In caves and cracks and in our
footsteps. Want blood every day. Must have blood. Without blood will come to
feed. May come anyway. Wear necklace, show how much blood ye’ve spilt, show how
brave ye are.” She shook her necklace and roared, causing many in the audience
to scream and shrink back.
Listening to
her, Lewen was reminded strongly of how Rhiannon had spoken when he first met
her. There was little left of that curt, guttural accent in her voice now. He
marveled at how quickly she had learned the formalities and intricacies of
their language. Berget had grown up among humans and she still had a very
strong accent. Perhaps it was because the satyricorns kept very much to
themselves, even when at court. There were none at the Theurgia, even though
many others of faery blood were there, and Lewen had only ever seen them in
their ceremonial function as guards at the Rìgh’s table. Towering over all the
men and women, they stood stiffly against the wall, as solid and silent as
statues. After his initial curiosity, when he had first been appointed as a
squire, Lewen had barely noticed them. He wondered now what sort of life they
led, when not away fighting on the Rìgh’s behalf.
“Tell us,
Berget, is it true the satyricorns o’ the prisoner’s herd would’ve killed her
for aiding the Yeoman to escape?” asked Claude, the fat judge of the merchant
class.
The satyricorn
flashed Rhiannon a contemptuous glance. “Kill her anyway.”
Everyone stirred
and whispered, and Aidan sat up and turned his hawklike gaze back to the
witness.
“Ye mean, the
satyricorns would have killed the prisoner anyway? Why on earth?”
“Kill no-horns.”
“Satyricorns
kill those born without horns?”
“All born no
horns. Horns come when woman. No horn come, useless. Kill then.”
“So the prisoner
would’ve been killed by her herd as soon as it was clear she was no’ growing
horns?”
“Aye.”
“But she looks a
woman grown now. Why was she no’ killed?” Aidan ran his eyes over Rhiannon in
such a way that Lewen felt himself grow hot. His nails cut into his palms.
Berget shrugged.
“She escape in time?”
Aidan leaned
forward, his gaze intent. “So if the prisoner had no’ left the herd when she
did, she would most likely have been killed?”
“Aye.”
Aidan turned
back to the other judges. “Surely then, Connor’s things must’ve been o’ import
to her? She must’ve wanted them to aid her escape! His weapons, his clothes,
his saddle and bridle, his horse—”
“The herd ate
his horse,” Rhiannon interrupted angrily. There was a shocked mutter from the
crowd. Aidan shot her a look of intense dislike.
“Please only
speak when ye are asked a direct question,” the Duke of Ardblair said gently.
Rhiannon bowed
her head. “Aye, Your Worship. I’m sorry.” She cast a quick glance at her attorney,
who was sitting behind his table, frowning at her and looking dour.
“It seems clear
to me that the prisoner killed Connor to conceal her part in his escape and to
get hold o’ his belongings, to aid her in her escape from the herd,” Aidan
argued. “She shot him in the back, and then stole his saddlebags—”
“I didna steal
them,” Rhiannon said indignantly. “They were mine, by blood-right.”
Lewen bit his
lip, entreating her silently to be quiet. The duke told her the same, rather
shortly, and again she apologized and bowed her head.
“It seems to me
a question o’ intent,” Gwilym the Ugly said. “If she did indeed shoot Connor in
order to save her mother’s life, without kenning who he was or that he rode on
the Rìgh’s business, well, that is a far different matter to murdering him with
malice aforethought.”
The other judges
nodded thoughtfully, all except Aidan, who cast up his eyes to the
star-embossed ceiling as if unable to understand the sorcerer’s gullibility.
The crowd’s
murmur was rent by a sudden scream from the gallery. Johanna had leaped to her
feet, her face distorted in a howl of grief and rage.
“No! Hang her!”
Johanna screamed. “She killed him—she admits it! She should die too. Hang her,
I say!”
The cry was
taken up by the crowd and, despite the loud banging of the gavel, the whole
room rang with the chant. “Hang her!”
“She killed my
brother—she admits it!” Johanna cried. “Let her swing for it!”
“Order in the
court!” the duke bellowed until at last the room quietened, and all eyes turned
back to Rhiannon, who was looking white and frightened.
Gwilym took a
deep breath.
“Apart from
Connor’s death, we must also consider the question o’ treason,” the sorcerer
went on. “Can it truly be possible that a herd o’ wild satyricorns ken naught
at all o’ the Rìgh o’ Eileanan and the Far Islands? The satyricorns signed the
Pact o’ Peace; they are vassals o’ the Crown and owe allegiance and loyalty to
it. And if they do ken naught o’ the law, does that give them the right to
flaunt it? To waylay and murder one o’ the Rìgh’s own officers, riding in His
Majesty’s service?”
Aidan nodded his
head gravely and looked at Gwilym with new respect, as if he was a man who had
at last spoken sense.
“These are
weighty issues,” Gwilym said. “The penalty for such crimes is death by hanging,
drawing, and quartering, as we all ken.”
“Aye! Hang her!”
someone in the crowd shouted. “Hang, draw, and quarter her!”
Gwilym turned to
look at the rows of upturned faces. “It is a cruel and pitiless punishment,” he
said. “Those so condemned are hung by the neck till near death, then cut down
while still alive so that they can be disemboweled and torn into four. We must
be sure o’ the accused’s guilt afore we inflict such a sentence upon her.”
Lewen swallowed
and pressed his hands together. He could hear Fèlice’s sharp indrawn breath
beside him. He dared not look at Rhiannon.
“I think we
should call upon Lewen MacNiall now,” the Duke of Ardblair said.
Lewen wiped his
sweaty palms down his breeches. His breath was like a sliver of glass in his
throat. “He was the one who had first contact with her. Perhaps he can shed
light upon the extent o’ her ignorance and her true motivations,” the Duke of
Ardblair went on. “I think that is what we must try to grasp the truth o’ here,
what drove this young woman to raise her bow against the Yeoman Connor. Lewen
MacNiall, will ye come to the witness stand?”
Lewen got up. He
felt as if a thousand eyes were staring at him. He went up to the witness stand
and swore by the Creed of the Coven of Witches to speak only what he knew to be
true in his heart. He only wished he could be sure of this himself.
The judges began
by asking him to explain to the court who he was and how he had found Rhiannon,
tied to the back of the black winged horse, both exhausted and hurt, after her
flight from the herd. Lewen responded awkwardly. He did not like to remember
his first meeting with Rhiannon. It tugged too sharply on the chain strung
between them.
After a while,
describing Rhiannon as he had first known her, Lewen grew more fluent. “She had
never even seen a house afore, she’d never slept anywhere but on the ground,”
he said. “We had to teach her how to use a knife and spoon—”
“By all
accounts, she certainly kent how to use a knife,” the Duke of Ardblair
interjected dryly.
Lewen was thrown
off his stride. He heard laughter from the crowd and a few hisses. After a
moment he went on. “She didna even have a name. They all called her ‘No-Horn,’
which is a term o’ contempt. My parents and I named her, for we could no’ go on
calling her ‘lassie’ all the time, which was the only other name she kent. . .
.”
“That’s
something that has puzzled me all along,” Glenwys said. “If this young woman is
indeed born o’ a wild satyricorn herd, how is it she speaks our language so
well? Does she no’ claim to have been brought up in the wilds o’ Ravenshaw far
from any human civilization? The First-Horn o’ the Royal Satyricorn Squad, who
was born and brought up here in Lucescere, does no’ speak so fluently.”
Lewen flushed.
“She was no’ so fluent when we first met her,” he said. “Her language was quite
broken. She’s learned quickly.”
“Amazingly
quickly,” Aidan said pointedly.
“But how was it
she kent any o’ our language at all?” Glenwys persisted, pushing her spectacles
back up the bridge of her nose so she could look at Rhiannon, standing straight
and still at her stand. Lewen could not answer. His cheeks burning, he tried to
think of something to say.
Rhiannon
answered for him. “My father was human, remember,” she said coolly. “Although I
do no’ remember, he must’ve spoken to me as a bairn. And there was another
human there, named Reamon.”
Involuntarily
Rhiannon looked towards the rows of witnesses, and Lewen followed her gaze. He
saw an old man sitting nervously on the edge of his seat, dressed in what was
obviously a borrowed suit. He was all lines and angles like a skinny plucked
chicken, with a halo of straggly grey hair and beard, and great startled eyes.
At the sound of his name he jerked wildly, then hunched down as if dreading the
hundreds of eyes that stared at him.
Rhiannon turned
her gaze back to the judges and went on steadily. “Reamon was the one who
taught me how to use my bow. He always talked to me in his own language. He was
the one who called me ‘lassie.’ It was the only soft word I ever kent.”
The judges
muttered among themselves for a while, then Glenwys directed another question
at Rhiannon.
“And this man,
Reamon, did he never tell ye about the Rìgh, or the Yeomen o’ the Guard?”
Rhiannon dropped
her gaze, fidgeting with her skirt. Then she recollected herself, raising her
head and saying, “Nay, no’ really. I mean, he might o’. He may have mentioned
them but . . . no’ so I understood. It was all . . . like make-believe . . .
and we couldna talk much, ye ken, for they . . . my mother . . . they didna
like it when I acted like a human. I tried hard to be as much like a Horned One
as I could. So when he talked o’ such things, I didna really listen. . . .”
The judges
nodded in understanding, and Lewen breathed a little easier. He looked towards
his seat, wondering if he would be allowed to sit down now. They had not
finished with him yet, however. Gwilym the Ugly bent forward and picked up a
folded sheaf of papers from the table.
“Lewen, do ye
recognize this handwriting?”
Lewen took the
papers held up to him by the court herald. “Aye,” he said in surprise. “ ’Tis
my mother’s.”
“Who is the
letter addressed to?”
“To Auntie Beau
. . . I mean, to Is—to the Keybearer.”
“Your mother is
an auld, dear friend o’ the Keybearer’s, is she no’?”
“Aye,” Lewen
agreed.
“This letter was
found in the pocket o’ the coat the accused was wearing when taken into
custody. She claims your mother gave it to her, to give to Isabeau upon arrival
in Lucescere.”
“Aye,” Lewen
answered, baffled. “Mam said she would write.”
“Would ye read
aloud the marked paragraphs for the court?”
Lewen began to
read aloud. “ ‘I hope I have done the right thing in sending this lass to ye. I
am greatly troubled about her. It seems clear to me she has been mistreated by her
family, for she flinches when one comes too close and looks at everyone with
suspicion. If that was all, I would have no hesitation in sending her to ye,
for I ken ye o’ all people would be gentle and loving with her. I fear there is
more amiss, however. I canna read her at all. She guards her thoughts very
carefully, so carefully her mind is like a locked casket. This may be naught
more than a desire not to betray her feelings to those who are cruel to her,
but I fear she hides a darker secret. She wears the clothes and weapons o’ a
Yeoman and I fear she may have killed him for them. She says she did no’, but I
do no’ trust her to tell the truth. She is quite wild, and as far as I can see
has no understanding o’ the values we hold dear. She almost killed Niall at the
breakfast table, and all because he told her she could no’ keep Connor’s
things! Indeed, I’m afraid I’ve sent ye a lass as wild as a snow lion and quite
as dangerous. I only hope ye can tame her.’ ”
Somehow Lewen
got to the end of the letter and looked up, swallowing hard. The crowd was
murmuring to each other, and the judges looked grave.
“A lass as wild
as a snow lion, and quite as dangerous. One that canna be trusted to tell the
truth. One that draws a knife on her host at the breakfast table,” Aidan said.
“A pretty house-guest indeed.”
Lewen did not
know what to say. He glanced apologetically at Rhiannon, and said, “She didna
ken . . . she didna mean . . .”
“By all
accounts, your mother is a woman o’ great insight with an uncanny ability to
read minds,” Gwilym said gently. “The Keybearer Isabeau has always trusted her
intuitions greatly.”
“Aye, but—”
“Elsewhere in
that same letter, your mother says the accused attacked your father with a
pitchfork. Is that true?”
“Aye.”
“And she bit ye
till she drew blood.”
“Well, aye.”
“And fought so
viciously it took both your father and ye to subdue her.”
“Aye, but—”
“And she
threatened some o’ your mother’s guests with violence, drawing her knife upon
one?”
“She didna mean
aught by it,” Lewen stammered.
“Drew her knife
upon some young lady at the dinner table and meant naught by it?” Aidan asked
sarcastically.
Lewen went red.
“Nay,” he said stubbornly. He did not dare look at Rhiannon.
“I see,” the fat
merchant Claude said. “Very well then. Let us move on. Now, ye were present
when the body o’ Connor the Just was recovered at Barbreck-by-the-Bridge and so
was the accused. Did she admit then that she was the one responsible for his
death?”
Numbly Lewen
shook his head.
“Ye must answer
‘aye’ or ‘nay,’ lad,” the duke said impatiently.
“Nay,” Lewen
muttered.
“Can ye please
answer so the court can hear ye?”
“Nay,” Lewen
shouted, and then blushed hotly.
“Did ye no’
wonder if she had been involved, given that she was wearing the clothes o’ a
Yeoman, clothes that show the passage o’ an arrow through back and breast?”
Glenwys asked.
“Well, aye,” he
admitted.
“Did ye no’ ask
her?’
Lewen gritted
his teeth.
“Please answer
the question. Did ye, or did ye no’, ask the accused whether she had been in
any way involved in the death o’ Connor the Just, whose clothes she wore and
whose weapons she carried?”
“Aye,” Lewen
said stiffly.
“So ye did ask
her?’
“Aye, I asked
her.’
“And what did
she answer?’
Lewen paused for
a long time, then said unwillingly, “She said she had no’.”
“So she lied?”
“I suppose so.”
“This is an
question that can only be answered with an ‘aye’ or a ‘nay.’ Did she lie?”
“Aye,” Lewen
said through stiff, white lips. He felt an insane desire to leap forward, to
declaim on Rhiannon’s behalf, to let his clamoring instincts run away with him.
He fixed his eyes on Olwynne, leaning forward in her seat, and tried to keep
his voice and manner cool and considered.
“So how did ye
come to discover that the accused was, in fact, the one who so callously
murdered our brother-in-arms?” Aidan asked coldly.
Lewen looked at
him angrily, hating the way he spoke. “It wasna like that,” he said.
“Oh, ye were
there, were ye, and saw it all?”
“Nay, I was no’,
and neither were ye!”
Aidan gripped
his lips together and stared at Lewen with such intense dislike he was
dismayed. Aidan was a man Lewen had always admired and dreamed of being like
one day. It hurt him to realize how much of a pariah he now was to the Blue
Guards.
“Please just
answer the question,” the Duke of Ardblair said wearily. “How did ye realize
she had killed Connor, after she told ye she had no’?”
“I found the
necklace,” Lewen said. “It was in her bag. As soon as I saw it, I . . .”
“Ye what?”
“I realized what
she had done.”
“What did ye
do?”
“I . . . I . .
.”
The judges
waited. Lewen made a big effort and said, “I left her . . . I left her alone.”
“Ye did no’ call
for the reeve or take her into custody? Ye did no’ tell anyone?” Aidan’s voice
expressed utter scorn and amazement.
“It was wet,
stormy. We’d taken shelter at the Tower o’ Ravens. It was night. Later, the
next day, I told Nina, through the Scrying Pool. Then I told His Majesty.”
“Also through
the Scrying Pool, I presume?” Gwilym said with a faint smile.
Lewen could not
smile back. He nodded his head, then muttered, “Aye.”
“And where was
the accused then?”
Lewen stared at
the wooden stand before him. “She’d gone.”
“She had tried
to escape?”
“I suppose so.”
“Please answer—”
“Aye,” he cried.
“The men o’
Fettercairn Castle had to ride out and hunt her down, did they no’? Afore she
could be taken into custody.”
“Aye,” Lewen
muttered.
“But ye did no’
ride out with them, did ye?”
“Nay, I . . . I
didna. I—”
“Thank ye, that
will be all, I think,” Aidan said. “Ye may stand down now, sir.”
“But I havena
told ye . . . I need to tell ye—”
“I do no’ think
we have any more questions,” Aidan said coldly. “Ye may stand down now.”
His cheeks hot,
Lewen went to his seat and sat down. He could not look at Rhiannon. He was
acutely conscious of the murmurs of the crowd and was certain every eye was
upon him in mocking judgment. All the things he had planned to say in
Rhiannon’s defense had come to naught. He had failed dismally.
Reamon was then
called to the stand. He did not want to go. He had to be encouraged and then,
when that failed, coerced. He looked frail and pitiful hanging between the two
burly bailiffs, his eyes bulging with terror.
Lewen leaned
forward to stare at him in fascination. He could not imagine what it must be
like to be dragged back to civilization after so many years as the captive of a
wild satyricorn herd. By all accounts, Reamon had been used like a prize
stallion, forced to sire as many young satyricorns as possible on the
childbearing females of the herd. The crowd had evidently heard what his role
had been, by their whispers and sniggers, and Lewen’s cheeks heated in pity for
him as Reamon cringed back in mortification.
Aidan the Brave
spoke gently. “Tell me, Reamon, did ye ken Rhiannon well?”
Reamon squinted
at Rhiannon, standing all alone in her caged stand. Rhiannon gazed back at him
with unhappy eyes. “Aye, I kent her. No’ that she was called that. The Horned
Ones, they called her ‘No-Horn,’ to mock her.”
“How long have
ye kent her?”
He shrugged his
skinny shoulders. “Who kens? A long time. Since she was but a bairn. Ten,
fifteen years? I dinna ken anymore.”
“Are ye the one
who taught her to speak our language?”
“Sure I was.”
“Tell me,
Reamon, what sort o’ lass was the accused? Was she a clever girl, or rather
slow on the uptake?”
“Och, she was a
clever lassie,” Reamon answered fondly, relaxing under Aidan’s gentle,
courteous manner. “Sharp as a tack. Much smarter than the other Horned Ones.
She was the only one to learn how to talk wi’ me, and mostly I only had to tell
her summat once or twice for her to remember.”
“So she was an
eager pupil?”
“Och, aye,
indeed.”
“And what else
did ye teach her?”
“Och, how to
shoot and how to ride. I was a gillie once, ye ken, long ago syne.”
“Did ye talk to
her much about your home?”
“Aye, she loved
to hear my stories. She had no’ kent there was another way o’ life, ye ken,
other than the herd.”
“Did ye tell her
any other stories?”
“Och, aye, all I
could remember.”
“Stories about
the city and the court? About the Rìgh and his men?”
Reamon nodded
his shaggy head, and sighed and smiled, murmuring, “Och, aye,” again. Lewen
felt his whole body tense.
“So the accused
kent about Lachlan the Winged, Rìgh o’ all Eileanan and the Far Islands? She
understood all that ye told her, and kent it to be truth?”
Reamon gazed at
Rhiannon fondly and murmured again, “Sharp as a tack, she was.”
Aidan paused for
a long moment, then continued in the same gentle, cajoling tone. “Tell me about
the day Connor the Just was captured by the herd.”
Reamon sighed.
“A sad day that was, aye. He fought well, the young fellow, but it was no use.
They tied him up tight as a lamb going to slaughter. He begged me for help, the
poor lad, but what could I do? I was a prisoner myself.”
“Did he say
aught else?”
Reamon nodded
earnestly. “He told me he rode on urgent business, with news for the Rìgh. He
said it could mean the Rìgh’s life, if he failed to get through.”
A loud murmur
rose. Lewen felt sick with trepidation. He looked at Rhiannon. She was looking
down at her hands, her face noncommittal. So he looked to the judges. Aidan was
trying hard not to gloat too obviously, Craig of Glen Fernie had his thick
brows drawn together in troubled thought, and Glenwys was staring at Rhiannon
with her huge, magnified eyes filled with disapproval. Gwilym the Ugly looked
merely sad.
“Did ye tell
this to the accused?”
“Aye, o’ course.
I begged her for help, but she wouldna. She said the Rìgh meant naught to her.”
There was
another even louder murmur. Rhiannon bit her lip. She looked pleadingly at
Reamon, as if silently begging him to say no more.
Lewen’s distress
and confusion grew. He no longer knew if he believed in Rhiannon’s innocence or
not. Olwynne rested her hand on his shoulder, sensing his misery, and he leaned
back against her, drawing strength from her.
“I told her it
was treason to waylay him,” Reamon’s reedy voice went on. “I said it meant the
hangman’s noose, to hold a Yeoman against his will.”
“Indeed it
does,” Aidan said with heavy emphasis. “Thank ye, Reamon. Ye can stand down
now.”
Rhiannon looked
appealingly at her attorney, who sighed and shrugged. He was not permitted to
address the witnesses in the court. Only the judges had that power, and unless
one of them decided to interrogate Reamon further, there was nothing he could
do.
Reamon shuffled
back to his seat, with no idea of the damage he had done.
The rest of the
hearing dragged on. Nina and Iven were called to testify and had to describe
how they had seen Connor’s water-bloated and mutilated body soon after it had
been dragged from the river at Barbreck-by-the-Bridge. They were both asked if
they had suspected Rhiannon might be involved in the Yeoman’s death. Their
reluctance to answer was palpable. Nina tried valiantly to tell the court how
Rhiannon had risked her life to fly to Roden’s rescue when he had been
kidnapped by the lord of Fettercairn. Aidan the Brave would not allow her to
continue, however, asking what possible relevance it had to the case against
Rhiannon.
“The laird o’
Fettercairn is no’ on trial here,” he said chillingly. “Whatever is the truth
o’ the accusations against Laird Malvern, that is a separate case entirely.
Here and now, we deal only with the question o’ Connor the Just’s death, and
whether Rhiannon the Satyricorn acted with malice aforethought or no’.” His
voice made it quite clear what he felt about her motivations, and to Lewen’s
dismay, the head judge seemed to agree, dismissing the whole of that wild ride
and Rhiannon’s part of it as beside the point.
The
witch-apprentices who had traveled with them through Ravenshaw were all called
as witnesses, confirming and amplifying what Lewen had said, and, willingly or
unwillingly, adding many more tasty morsels to feed the crowd’s salacious
hunger. The court heard how Rhiannon had repeatedly slashed her own wrists to
draw blood to feed the so-called dark walkers. They heard of fits of hysteria
and fainting, of night terrors and sleepwalking and the constant talk of the
sightings of ghosts. They heard of her pride and her temper and her quickness
to draw her dagger.
Then Dedrie, the
lord of Fettercairn’s skeelie, was called to give evidence. Her appearance
caused a great murmur and outcry among all who had known her at Fettercairn
Castle. Lewen sank his head into his hands, dragging at the roots of his hair
with his fingers and gritting his jaw together to stop himself from leaping to
his feet and shouting at the judges.
Rhiannon was not
so controlled. She cried out furiously, “She’s a murderess, do ye no’ ken! She
tried to poison me! She should be on trial here herself! She does his
will—canna ye see that? Only one night past he tried himself to take me, and
when that failed, he tried to kill me! What does she do here, walking free? She
should be—”
With each
exclamation, the Duke of Ardblair’s gavel came crashing down upon the table.
When that failed to quiet her, he rose to his feet, shouting at Rhiannon to be
quiet. Nina was on her feet too, yelling, trying to draw the judges’ attention
to her, protesting as loudly as Rhiannon herself.
“Why do ye call
Dedrie?” Nina cried. “Ye said yourselves that what happened at Fettercairn
Castle is o’ no relevance! What does the laird o’ Fettercairn’s skeelie ken o’
Connor’s death?”
“She is a
trained healer,” the Duke of Ardblair said sternly, “and she had the
opportunity to examine the accused closely during the period when the accused
was still attempting to mislead those around her to her involvement in Connor
the Just’s death. Skeelie Dedrie believes she can help us understand the
accused’s intentions and motivations more clearly, for which we thank her.”
“But, Your
Honor—”
“Please sit
down, my lady, else we shall have to have ye escorted from the courtroom.”
Reluctantly Nina
sat down, though her cheeks were flushed and her lips were compressed together
in anger. She shot a furious glance up at the Rìgh, who was listening to the
proceedings intently, his brows drawn together in a frown.
“But she kens
naught!” Rhiannon cried. “She works the laird’s will. They want me dead because
I ken too much! Ye canna let her speak. She only seeks to blacken me—”
It did no good.
Dedrie was escorted up to the witness stand, looking comfortable and
sweet-faced in her soft green healer’s robe. In contrast to her, Rhiannon was
wild-eyed and distraught, her voice rising high in appeal. The Duke of Ardblair
gestured impatiently, and the bailiffs mounted the podium and seized her by the
arms, dragging her back. Still Rhiannon called to the judges, begging them not
to listen to the skeelie. Dedrie shook her head in pity.
“If ye do no’
quieten, we shall have ye gagged and bound!” the duke roared, his face purpling
with anger.
Rhiannon dashed
the tears from her face and was silent, though the whole chamber buzzed with
excitement. The Duke of Ardblair sat down, adjusting his robes. “Proceed,” he
said to the skeelie.
Dedrie’s
testimony was damning. She seemed to sense every judge’s private prejudice and
speak straight to it, all the while pricking and poking at Rhiannon until the
satyricorn was driven past reason and cried out against her every comment,
demanding to be heard. By the end of Dedrie’s testimony, Rhiannon seemed, at
best, highly strung to the point of imbalance. If not, she was, it was
inferred, sly, ruthless, and manipulative.
Nina could not
contain herself, leaping to her feet. “This is all wrong!” she cried. “That
woman should be on trial for murder, no’ Rhiannon! How can ye call this
justice?”
Iven sought to
draw her down, but she was beside herself with anger. The Duke of Ardblair made
a gesture, and the bailiffs seized Nina and wrestled her out of the courtroom,
and then Iven too, when he sought to protest and prevent them. Lewen, aghast,
rose to his feet and then, when he felt Olwynne’s hand on his arm, drawing him
down again, shook her off. All the other witch-apprentices were on their feet
too.
“No’ fair!” Fèlice
cried.
“How come she’s
just walking free?” Landon asked. “She was meant to be in prison!”
The Duke of
Ardblair’s gavel banged down again and again. Dedrie, shaking her head
mournfully at what her duty had forced her to do, stepped down from the witness’s
stand. Lewen saw her cast one quick, self-satisfied glance up into the gallery.
Her gaze was met by Johanna, sitting forward on her bench seat, her hand
clutched around her haloed-hand medal.
“Ye will all end
up in prison yourselves if ye are no’ quiet,” the duke shouted, beside himself
with anger. “I tell ye now, be quiet!”
At last the
noise died down. Fèlice hid her face in her arms, and Lewen wished he could do
likewise. He felt sick with trepidation. He raised his eyes to Rhiannon’s but
she refused to meet anyone’s gaze, keeping her face lowered to her interlocked
hands.
The judges
withdrew to consider their verdict. Rhiannon’s attorney was shaking his head
and gathering together his papers. Up in the gallery, Dillon was looking as
pleased as his hard-set face would allow him, while Johanna was weeping in
relief.
The judges were
gone a very long time. The crowd grew restive. Some began to chant again, “Hang
her! Hang her!” while the Nisse and Nixie crowd jeered and shouted Rhiannon’s
name. Soldiers sought to keep the mob calm.
When at last the
doors swung open to let the judges back in, Lewen could not bear to look at
them, so certain was he that they would decide to condemn Rhiannon to death. He
heard a sharp collective intake of breath, then an outbreak of cheering and
clapping, drowned out by hissing and booing. Fèlice sobbed out loud.
Lewen slowly
raised his eyes.
The six judges
stood in a row behind their table, their hands clenched before them. They had
turned their white mantles inside out, to red.
Lewen stood on
the lawn before the palace and watched as the midsummer bonfire was built
higher and higher in the center of the square. It was almost dusk. Soon the
Keybearer would come and chant the midsummer rites, and the bonfire would be
lit. Laughing, dressed in yellow and gold, the revelers would come and thrust
the torches into its great blazing heart and carry them in a noisy procession
through the palace, rekindling the hearths with the balefire.
They would feast
and dance the night away, and many, intoxicated with the sparkling rose-colored
wine, the warmth of the sweet-scented wind, would take their lover’s hand and
leap the fire together, pledging their troth.
For a year and a
day, they could lie together like man and wife, and take their pleasure, and
explore their love. Then, on Midsummer’s Day the next year, if both were still
willing, they could come again to the embers of the fire and leap it again,
their wrists bound together with cord. Once the marriage vows were sworn, and
the wedding rites fulfilled, they would be man and wife, their lives entwined
together forevermore. The thought of it dazzled and frightened him, and filled
him with both joy and terror.
For Lewen and
Olwynne planned to jump the Midsummer’s Eve fire that night. No one else knew.
Olwynne was sure her parents would put a stop to it if they realized, and Lewen
knew she was right. He, the son of a soldier and a tree-shifter, was not at all
the bridegroom the Rìgh and Banrìgh would have planned for their only daughter,
and the shadow of Rhiannon hung over them, disturbing both their sleep with
nightmares.
“Maybe we should
wait,” he had whispered to Olwynne the night before, in the stuffy darkness of
her bed. “I mean . . . Rhiannon . . .”
She had seized
his face in both her hands. “I ken ye are shocked by the verdict, Lewen, and I
ken ye blame yourself. But it was no’ ye who shot Connor through the back, and
no’ ye who lied and gave false testimony! She has brought this evil fate down
upon herself. Forget her! This is for the best, canna ye see?”
He was dismayed
to feel tears stinging his eyes. Unable to answer, he turned from her and
buried his face in his pillow. Olwynne had fitted her body all along his back,
cradling him with her arm. “Trust me,” she had whispered. “The sooner ye forget
her the better. Jump the fire with me, Lewen! Let us tell the world how we feel
for each other!”
He had said
nothing and she had drawn away from him. “Do ye no’ love me?” she demanded. “Do
ye no’ wish to be handfasted?”
He had shifted a
little so he lay on his back, looking for her in the darkness. Her scent
overwhelmed him. “Aye, o’ course I love ye,” he had whispered. “It’s just I—”
“I ken,” she
answered and kissed him on the mouth. “Truly I do. But she is no good for ye,
Lewen. It would have meant ruin for ye. I will be a good wife to ye, though.
I’ll love ye and help ye, and ye’ll have all ye’ve ever wanted. Canna ye see
how much better it is this way?”
He had nodded,
and she had hung close over him so her breasts weighed on his chest. “If ye
love me, jump the fire with me, Lewen. For I need ye to show the whole world
that I’m the one ye love. If ye canna do that, ye canna really love me and I’m
better off without ye.”
The idea of
being without her had plunged him into panic, and so he had promised. He had
lain awake then, all the hot night, trying to banish the image of Rhiannon with
a black hood being drawn down over her lovely face, of her body jerking as the
boards opened beneath her . . .
He knew Olwynne
slept badly too, for she whimpered in her sleep, and cried out, and some time
before dawn got up to sit by the window, staring out into the garden. Lewen
felt in his heart that it was not a good omen, to toss in nightmares the night
before one planned to jump the fire, but he could not bear for Olwynne to doubt
him and so he kept his resolve firm, refusing to think on Rhiannon at all.
Now the shadows
of the cypress trees were lengthening over the pavement, and the golden domes
of the palace were blazing in the last light of the sun. He heard singing and
turned to watch a long procession of witches come along the road from the Tower
of Two Moons, their heads crowned with flowers. His hands were damp with
nervousness. He wiped them on his best handkerchief and straightened his
jacket.
As the sun
slowly sank behind the trees, the Keybearer spoke the midsummer rites; then, as
dusk fell over the garden, she flung up her hands, so the bonfire lit with a
great whoosh of flames.
Lewen stood
quietly and watched as the revelers laughed and danced, and the last light of
the day ebbed away into darkness, the red glowing eye of the bonfire seeming to
burn brighter and brighter even though it too was dying. His whole body ached
with grief. The more he tried not to think of Rhiannon, the more she occupied
his thoughts, and he had to lift his hand and press it to his eyes. The flames
of the fire were blurring and doubling, though Lewen had touched no wine or
ale. He watched as one couple after another joined hands and jumped the fire,
some giggling, some in awe and struck with shyness. For some reason, the sight
affected Lewen powerfully. Grief, or envy, or longing struck him as sharp as a
spear in the side. Blindly he turned aside and went to stumble away.
But Lewen felt a
gentle touch on his hand and turned. Olwynne stood beside him, smiling shyly.
She was dressed all in golden silk, with a circlet of roses and violets on her
fiery hair. It hung unbound down her back like a river of molten lava. Lewen
could not take his eyes off her.I’m doing the right thing , he told
himself.This is the beginning o’ my new life. Olwynne is my true love.
Forget Rhiannon, who tricked and lied to and ensorcelled me. . . .
Olwynne met his
eyes and smiled so radiantly the heavy ache of unshed tears in his breast
suddenly melted away. He smiled back and stepped forward to take her hand.
Then, to the accompaniment of cheers of surprise and encouragement, they ran
hand in hand at the bonfire and leaped high over the glowing embers. Sparks
flew up at their faces like attacking bees, and Lewen’s eyes suddenly stung
with the smoke, so that he had to raise his hand and scrub at his eyes, glad of
the darkness that hid his face from view.
Rhiannon sat on
her hard cot and stared at the brick with the dark blotch shaped like a flying
horse. If mere will and desire could break down walls, the stones before her
would be exploding into dust and she would be on Blackthorn’s back, flying free
into the night. She wished for it with every fiber of her being. But Sorrowgate
Prison had been built to contain stronger and darker spirits than hers; spells
of strength, binding, and containment had been spoken over every stone. The
only thing breaking was Rhiannon’s own heart. It was late. Outside, the sound
of the Midsummer’s Eve feast rose from the square—squeals of laughter, the hum
of conversation, the lilt of fiddle and guitar, the beat of dancing feet.
Inside the royal
suite all was subdued. Lachlan and Iseult were still shocked and dismayed by
the sight of their only daughter leaping the fire with a boy they were not at
all sure they approved. Lewen might well have been the son of one of Lachlan’s
most faithful lieutenants, but he had no money and very little land, and he had
only recently broken free of the toils of a murderous satyricorn. The whole
court was buzzing with the scandal, and the only redeeming factor was the glow
of happiness on Olwynne’s face.
Through the
windows came the flickering orange light of the bonfire. Lachlan stood with his
hand on the window clasp, watching the dancers twirling about the pyre.
“I am troubled,
I must admit,” the Rìgh said. “It goes against the grain to hang one so young
and fair, and one championed by some o’ my auldest and dearest friends. I am
just glad they did no’ find her guilty o’ treason too. I could no’ have
stomached the drawing and quartering.”
“They are
rioting in the city,” Iseult said, sitting very straight on her blue-and-gilt
chair, her red brows drawn together. “The faery quarter is up in arms.
Something about this satyricorn lass has captured their imagination.”
“It is the tale
that lass from Ravenshaw tells,” Brun the cluricaun said. He was sitting
comfortably on a low sofa, a foaming mug of ale resting on his broad paunch. “I
seen her at the Nisse and Nixie—she sure can tell a tale! It fair creeps my
blood when she talks about the dead laddie touching Rhiannon with his icy hand,
and whispering how cold he is all the time. She’s pulling bigger crowds now
than the masked singer I was telling ye about, the one who insists on sitting
all wreathed in smoke and disappears anytime I come near her.”
“Is that the
lass Owein is moping over?” Iseult said sharply. “The pretty one, keeping her
chin in the air?”
“Aye, that’s the
one,” Brun said and drank some of his ale, smacking his lips noisily. “She
should be on the stage, that lass. Wasted as a duke’s daughter.”
“If only Donncan
had no’ gone and killed a Yeoman himself!” Lachlan said gloomily. “O’ course it
looks bad, him being cleared after a mere inquiry, and this Rhiannon girl being
condemned to death.”
“The inquiry was
fair,” Iseult said defensively.
“Was it? Ye
canna tell me that any other young man would have been treated so well. Donncan
was spared the indignity o’ a public trial because he is my son, no other
reason.”
“Ye canna want
Donncan to face a trial!”
“O’ course I do
no’ want him to! Nor do I think he should. It was self-defense, clearly enough.
It is just bad timing, this murder trial happening right on the heels o’ the
young guard’s death. Ye must admit it doesna look good.”
“Nay,” Iseult
agreed slowly, “but what can we do about it?”
“Do ye mean to
pardon Rhiannon?” Isabeau asked. She was sitting in the window seat with Buba
the owl nestled in her hands. Still dressed in her ceremonial robes, she had
pulled off her crown of flowers and it lay on the cushion beside her, the
flowers wilting.
“I dinna ken,”
Lachlan replied slowly. “Dillon and Johanna are howling for her blood, and even
Finn and Jay seem convinced her motives in killing Connor were no’ as pure as
she makes out. They were the ones who found this wild man and brought him in,
and certainly his testimony was damning. Yet . . .”
“Yet she saved
Roden from the laird o’ Fettercairn,” Isabeau said.
“Aye,” Lachlan
agreed.
“Nina says she
could’ve escaped then, if she had wanted to,” Dide said. He was sitting
sideways on a low stool, gently strumming his battered old guitar. “She risked
her life to save him. Nina does no’ ken how she is to explain to Roden that
Rhiannon is to be hung.”
Lachlan winced
and gave a little groan. “No’ a task I’d relish, I must admit,” he said.
“It was a fair
trial and the judges made their decision on the evidence presented,” Iseult
said impatiently. “Ye ken they willna like it if ye go meddling in what is
really none o’ your business.”
Lachlan frowned.
“I am the final arbitrator o’ justice in this land. I have the right to issue a
royal pardon,” he reminded her.
“Aye, but that
doesna mean the Inns o’ Court will like it,” she replied.
Lachlan shrugged
his shoulders irritably.
“She has Talent,”
Isabeau said, returning her gaze again to the garden. “The strongest we’ve
found in a while.”
“So ye think I
should pardon her? Because ye want her for your Theurgia?”
“I do want her,
but I would no’ ask ye to pardon a convicted murderess simply because I think
she has Talent. No, there’s more to it than that. I think the judges made a
mistake.”
“How so?”
Iseult’s voice was not encouraging.
“How many o’ us
can state with utter truth that our motives in this life are always pure and
simple? I ken I canna.”
Iseult’s face
relaxed. She shrugged ruefully, saying, “How true. Ye think perhaps they failed
to understand that? In regards to this satyricorn girl, I mean?”
Isabeau nodded.
Lachlan brought
the Lodestar to rest between his knees, staring down into its swirling white
heart.
“It would be a
bad omen, to have gallows fruit hanging on the gate the day Donncan and Bronwen
finally jump the fire together,” Dide said.
“Yet she admits
she killed Connor,” Lachlan said with a spurt of anger in his voice. “He was
one o’ my best, my most loyal men! I have too few o’ ye, Dide. I canna afford
to have them being shot in the back by a wayward satyricorn lass. If I pardon
her, am I no’ declaring the murder o’ a Yeoman is o’ no account?”
The room was
silent. Dide’s fingers were still on the guitar strings. Lachlan sighed heavily
and rubbed his forehead. “So many o’ them died in my service,” he said.
“Parlan, Artair, Anntoin . . . Tòmas . . .”
They all heard
the dull grief in his voice. It had been a cruel death, that of Tòmas the
Healer, who had spent his strength saving others and then died in the last
moments of that desperate war. The Rìgh still smarted from the injustice of it,
and they knew he felt for Johanna, who had mourned Tòmas so savagely and now
mourned her brother as well.
Brun wiped away
a foam moustache. “I have a riddle for ye,” he said.
“And what may
that be?” Lachlan answered with grave courtesy. He had learned many years
before to listen well to the wise old cluricaun’s riddles and jests.
Brun held up his
hairy paw, the first finger and thumb touching to form a small circle. “What is
no bigger than a plum, yet leads the Rìgh himself from town to town?”
“I canna tell
ye,” Lachlan replied, smiling a little.
“His eye,” Brun
replied and winked.
There was a
short silence as they absorbed the cluricaun’s possible meaning. Brun buried
his mouth back in his ale.
“Aye,” Lachlan
said slowly. “A Rìgh must see clearly. A satyricorn should have the same
justice as a prionnsa. I canna hang this girl and let Donncan walk free.” He
sighed heavily. “I will stay the hanging. She must serve us some other way. I
will go now and explain to Johanna. I fear she will no’ be happy. She has
conceived a hatred for this lass that I must admit has surprised me.” He got
up, frowning. “I shall make the announcement tomorrow, at the wedding banquet.
I shall pardon all the prisoners who have been condemned to hang, so we have no
grief or horror to mar the wedding.”
“Ye had best
tell Dillon and Finn and Jay too,” Iseult said.
Lachlan nodded.
“But no one else. Let us keep it quiet till then.”
“May I tell
Nina?” Dide asked. “She is making herself sick with grief and
self-recrimination.”
“Aye, tell
Nina,” Lachlan said. “We want her in good voice for the wedding.”
As he went
towards the door, Isabeau stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“I’m glad,” she
said. “Thank ye, Lachlan!”
“I do it for
Roden’s sake,” he said. “He is Dide’s only heir.”
Isabeau said
abruptly, “Lachlan, do ye remember the Samhain Night we won ye Owein’s Bow?”
“O’ course,” he
replied in surprise.
“Ye remember
giving the League their choice o’ gifts in the auld relic room? Finn took the
MacRuraich horn and used it to call up the ghosts o’ her clan.”
“And she took
the cloak o’ nyx-hair too, on the sly,” Lachlan said, nodding in remembrance.
“O’ course I remember.”
“What did ye
give the others? Do ye remember?”
“Dillon took the
sword, o’ course. Joyeux. Who could forget that? Jay took the viola d’amore, to
replace his lost fiddle. Johanna took some bauble—a bangle, I think.”
“She wears it
still,” Isabeau said. “It was the wedding bracelet o’ Aedan’s wife, Vernessa.”
“What!”
“Aye. I looked
it up inThe Book o’ Shadows . I was interested in those gifts, ye see.
So many o’ them proved to have power or history o’ some kind.”
“Johanna wears
the wedding bracelet Aedan Whitelock gave his wife?” It was clear Lachlan felt
such an heirloom should have stayed in the clan, and Isabeau had to remind him
gently that he had offered the members of the League of the Healing Hand a gift
of their own choice as a reward for their assistance in gaining the throne.
Giving Johanna the bracelet was not the first action of generosity he had lived
to regret.
“What were the
other gifts, do ye remember?” she urged him.
“The other boys
took swords too, I think.”
“No’ Connor. He
took a music box, didna he?”
“Aye, that’s
right. It was a pretty trinket. It was like carrying an orchestra around in
one’s pocket. It played a hundred different tunes and needed no more than a
turn of its key to wind it. I remember he loved it as a boy.”
“I wonder who it
belonged to, to end up in the relic room,” Isabeau mused. “I have found no
mention o’ it inThe Book o’ Shadows .”
“Why so
interested, Beau?” Dide asked.
“I’m always
interested in things o’ power,” she replied, smiling at him. “Just think on
Dillon’s sword. What a gift to give a small boy! A sword that will fight to the
very death once it is unsheathed, even if the bearer o’ the sword must die
himself o’ exhaustion. A cursed sword, that longs always for blood.”
“I didna ken what
it was when I let him have it,” Lachlan interjected angrily.
“O’ course no’.
My point is ye kent what none o’ it was. Yet they must all have been things o’
power, for Meghan to seal them up like that on the Day o’ Betrayal, hiding them
from the Red Guards.”
“Why ask me
about them now, though?”
Isabeau
hesitated. “Rhiannon had the music box among her things. I saw it in the
courtroom today. Plus a very fine dagger, that Aidan made much o’.”
“Aye, well, that
showed she took all Connor’s things,” Iseult said impatiently. “What is your
point?”
“There was a
silver goblet there too,” Isabeau said. “It strikes a dim chord in my mind. . .
.”
“Parlan chose a
goblet,” Lachlan said. “I remember thinking it was an odd choice for a lad. I
would’ve thought he would take a sword, like the others.”
“What happened
to the gifts ye gave the other Leaguers?” Isabeau asked. “After they died, I
mean?”
Lachlan did not
know. “Meghan had them, I think,” he said vaguely. “She was angry with me for
giving them away. I think she locked them up in her chest. Certainly she took
Joyeux away from Dillon, but he went and took it back, afore he kent what it
was.”
Isabeau nodded.
“That’s what I thought. I wondered . . . I thought perhaps Connor may have been
given their things once they died . . . or taken them.”
“Highly
possible,” Lachlan agreed. “But what does it matter, Isabeau?”
“I just
wondered,” she said. “That goblet . . . it fairly shrieked magic at me when I
saw it. I’d like to know what it is. I think I’ll consultThe Book o’ Shadows
about it.”
“Ye think it may
have bearing upon the case?” Lachlan demanded.
She hesitated.
“If it is what I think it is, well, perhaps it explains some behavior that has
puzzled me.”
“Like what?”
Iseult asked.
“Like why
Rhiannon confessed to Lewen in the first place. Her every instinct is for
survival. Every time she was questioned about Connor’s death, she lied. So why
did she no’ lie again, when Lewen asked her about the necklace o’ teeth?”
“She saw the
game was up?”
“But it wasna,
no’ at all. Lewen was in love with her; he would’ve believed her if she had
made up some story, some excuse. There was no need for her to confess the way
she did. It just does no’ seem to ring true to me.”
“So ye think
this goblet o’ Connor’s is some kind o’ confessing cup? A cup that compels
truth telling?” Iseult asked, turning the idea over in her mind. “I can see how
that would be useful.”
“Me too,”
Isabeau replied.
“Ye seem to be
putting two and two together and getting forty to me,” Lachlan said
dismissively. “So what if the lass confessed? She was in love with Lewen too,
remember. Love makes ye do very stupid things sometimes.” His voice was dour,
and it was clear he was thinking of his daughter.
“True, but then
remember what we all called Connor. Connor the Just, for his ability to find
the truth o’ a matter and sort out a solution. How much easier would his job be
if he had a cup o’ truth? And then think o’ Lewen. He too was driven to confess
the next day, telling first Nina what Rhiannon had said, and then ye, Lachlan.
Lewen is loyal to a fault. He would never have betrayed her confidence so
lightly.”
“I always
thought so too, but Lewen has surprised me a great deal in recent months,”
Lachlan said grimly. “Seducing my daughter, for one! He’s lucky I do no’ havehim
hanged, drawn, and quartered!”
“Well, I have my
theories about that too,” Isabeau said.
Iseult bristled
up at once in defense of her daughter, but Isabeau said, in a flat, hard voice,
“There is something wrong there, Iseult, and do no’ try and tell me ye canna see
it. Why else are ye so upset?”
“It was just so
sudden, so unexpected,” Iseult said.
“Exactly. It
stinks o’ compulsion, this sudden mad passion o’ Lewen’s. Olwynne is too strong
and subtle a witch to reveal much o’ her hand, but I’ll lay ye three gold royals
that she has worked a dark spell or two.”
“Why would
Olwynne do such a thing?” Lachlan cried angrily. “She is a royal banprionnsa,
second in line to the throne. She could have anyone she wanted—”
“No’ if the one
she wanted was in love with someone else.”
“If Lewen is too
blind and stupid to see what she had to offer, she’d be better off without
him.”
“I agree, but
tell that to a lass in love.”
“I will no’
believe my daughter has been casting love spells, like some half-witted village
skeelie. . . .”
“Why no’, when
ye did it yourself?” Iseult said suddenly. “Och, there was no need for ye to do
so, for I loved ye already andye were just too blind and stupid to see
it. But ye must admit ye tried. . . . Ye sang me the song o’ love, remember,
and seduced me in the wood.”
Color rose under
Lachlan’s olive skin. “Aye, happen so, but that was different. . . .”
“Why?” Iseult
asked.
Lachlan
floundered, unable to explain.
“I am very angry
with her,” Isabeau said. “Olwynne has the potential to be a great sorceress. She
shouldna be wasting her time on romance now!”
“No’ everyone
thinks romance is a waste o’ time,” Dide said, and she flashed him a quick look
of apology.
“No,” Lachlan
agreed, “and besides, it is done now. They are handfasted and, if Olwynne is to
have her way, will be married in a year and a day. I canna say I am altogether
sorry. Lewen needed to be taken into hand, after all that folly with this
satyricorn girl. Personally, I feel she is the far more likely candidate for
spinning love spells!”
It was very late
when Isabeau finally got back to the Tower of Two Moons, having wasted a fair
amount of time with her own romance in Dide’s clothes-strewn suite of rooms.
Isabeau was used to managing without much sleep, however, and she was
invigorated by her walk through the sleeping gardens, the two moons little more
than frail slivers of light in the star-laden sky. The tower was quiet, and she
climbed the stairs to her room with a little witch-light bobbing above her head
to illuminate the way.
She laid her hand
upon her doorknob and at once hesitated, sensing a fleeting trace of human
contact there that was not her own. It was too insubstantial for her to
identify the hand that had touched there, but her ward was still intact and so
Isabeau, relieved, unlocked her door and entered her room, lit only by the
faint moonlight filtering through the arched windows.
She stood
silent, her witch-senses alert. It seemed some other presence had ruffled the
atoms of her space, leaving behind a faint, disturbingly familiar suggestion of
their presence, like a trail of scent notes. She could not identify the
intruder, though she felt that she should know it.
Isabeau lit
every candle in the room with a thought, the kindling in her hearth blazing up.
She looked about her. All was as she had left it. Nothing seemed to have been
touched. Isabeau walked slowly over to her desk, feeling a chill on her skin
that made it rise up in goose pimples, smelling a faint metallic tang to the
air like a storm rising over the sea. Magic had been done here, and not so long
ago.
The Book of
Shadowsrested
where it always did. An enormously thick old book bound in red leather and
locked with an iron clasp, it held within it all the collected lore and history
of the Coven of Witches. Each Keybearer recorded within its pages all that he
or she had learned or discovered, so that their knowledge would not be lost to
later generations. It was one of the great treasures of the Coven.
Isabeau rested
her hands upon its worn red leather. She felt edgy, uneasy. Her hands tingled.
She took a deep breath, drew upon the One Power, and opened her third eye.
An image came to
her. A woman leaning over the book, unlocking its clasp, turning the pages,
searching. Her lantern rested on the table, casting a ray of light upon her
green robe but leaving her face in shadow. The hair that hung in a long plait
was brown, with faint gleams of grey. Her search grew more desperate, and she
spoke aloud, a curse, a command. The pages of the book began to riffle over by
themselves, far faster than any hand could turn them. Then suddenly they
stopped. The book rested wide open. The woman bent and read the page displayed.
All this Isabeau
saw in a few scant moments. Then the vision faded, and she saw once again only
her candlelit room, the white curtains swaying in the soft breeze, the red book
under her hands as solid and unyielding as ever.
“Who?” Isabeau
whispered to herself. “And why?”
She knew that it
could only be someone who knew her well, for the key toThe Book of Shadows
was hidden in a secret compartment of a little box Lewen had carved for her
some years before. Isabeau had been raised by Meghan of the Beasts to guard
secrets carefully and so few knew where to find it.
She bit her
thumb, then went softly across to the mantel-piece and took down a little
wooden box that rested there. A rose set among thorns was carved upon its lid.
If one pressed the rose firmly on its ruffled heart, it rose up out of the lid,
revealing a hidden hollow. Within was a heavy iron key, as long as Isabeau’s
little finger.
Isabeau held the
key between her hands, feeling and listening with her witch-sense for any
subtle and elusive trace of personality anyone touching the key would have left
behind. This time she recognized it at once. “Johanna,” she whispered, and felt
a sharp stab of betrayal.
She turned and
looked atThe Book of Shadows , wondering againWhy, why, why?
Isabeau took the
key to the desk and unlockedThe Book of Shadows , laying her hands
firmly upon it and saying, “Show me the last page read.”
As soon as she
lifted her hands away, the book opened with a great thud, lying open at a page
very early on in its history. Isabeau was at once aware of the temperature
dropping fast, as if she had opened a door into a snowstorm. She shivered and
hesitated, feeling an unaccountable dread. She could discover nothing until she
read the page, however, and so, after only a pause of a few heartbeats, Isabeau
bent and looked at the first line of writing.
By the time
Isabeau had read the first four words, she wished to stop but she could not
wrench her gaze away. The spell held her fast, searing through Isabeau’s eyes
and into her brain.
“To Raise the
Dead,” it said, “one needs a living soul, whether willing or unwilling, and a
knife well-sharpened . . .”
The paper was
old and stained, and the letters were written in a faint brown ink that looked
horribly like blood. The handwriting was large and formal, with many
embellishments and flourishes that made it hard to read. Isabeau could no more
prevent her brain from puzzling out the words than she could stop her eyes from
moving along the lines. It was as if a giant hand had reached inside her skull
and seized the ends of her nerve strings, plucking them as it pleased, so that
she danced and bowed at its will. Isabeau had never experienced such a strong
compulsion before. Even worse, as she fought not to read the Spell of
Resurrection and failed, she felt another spell, laid down in every bloody
curlicue of writing, lay its dark compulsion upon her.
“I will live again,”
she whispered, in a deep, rasping voice, “and ye shall be the one to raise me.”
Bronwen lay in
her ocean-green, gauze-hung bed and tried to tell herself that this was the
happiest day of her life.All brides feel anxious on their wedding day ,
she told herself.It’s only wedding jitters. Nerves. That’s all it is.
But Bronwen knew the leaden lump of misery in the pit of her stomach was not
normal. A bride should not lie in her lonely bed on the morning of her wedding
fighting back tears.
Bronwen tried to
think of her husband-to-be objectively. He was heir to the throne of Eileanan,
young, tall, strong, good-looking, and intelligent. Certainly every girl
Bronwen knew would think her lucky indeed.
He would not
dance, which was a major strike against him, and he was a weak swimmer,
hampered as he was by his heavy golden wings. This made him a poor mate for one
of Fairgean ancestry, she thought. Bronwen had to swim in salt water every day,
for the health of both body and spirit.
He loved music
as much as she did, though, and there was no one with whom she would rather
play a duet, or go to the music halls and theater.
He was far too
serious and would not dress up and act in masques or follies, nor would he
write poetry extolling her eyes or her lips. Bronwen had begun to find that one
love poem was much like another love poem, however, and Donncan at least could
make her laugh out loud, which was something few could do.
She thought of
him as one of her best and dearest friends. She had known him all her life. He
was her cousin. They shared the white lock that bonding with the Lodestar had
seared at their brow. It was the visible insignia of their lineage from Cuinn
the Wise, the leader of the First Coven of Witches, who had commanded the
amazing and perilous journey across time and space from the Other World, the
true home of humans, to this world, a land of scattered islands floating in a
boundless ocean.
Cuinn the Wise
had died in the Crossing, but his son had survived to found this ancient city
of Lucescere, and the MacCuinn clan. In time one of his descendants, Aedan
Whitelock, had been crowned Rìgh of all Eileanan. It was Aedan MacCuinn who had
created the Lodestar, using its magic to quell the warfaring faeries of the sea
and bring peace to the human inhabitants of the island, at least. All those
born into the MacCuinn clan were given the Lodestar to hold as a babe, forging
a bond that never corroded. Bronwen could hear the song of the Lodestar in her
dreams. She always knew where it was, even when Lachlan was far away traveling
the land. She remembered how it had responded to the touch of her hand, all
those years ago when she had saved it from being lost in the waves at the
Battle of Bonnyblair. She had never been permitted to touch it since, though
Donncan and the twins had often been given it to play with as children. If it
had been up to Lachlan to decide, she would never have been allowed to bond
with it at all. It was her mother, Maya, who had brought Bronwen to the Lodestar,
not her uncle, who had seized the magical sphere from her and, with it, the
Crown.
This was an old
resentment, though, like having to endure her mother being named the
Ensorcellor, or having to watch her scrub floors at the witches’ tower. It had not
been easy being the Ensorcellor’s daughter. It had not been easy being of
Fairgean descent, either, no matter how many peace treaties were signed.
Hardest of all had been having one’s mother rendered mute during all the years
of one’s growing up, unable to comfort or advise her in times of trouble.
Bronwen’s mother could not sing her a lullaby, or share a joke, or tell her a
story, or say that she loved her.
It had been such
a relief, such a joy, to find the spell broken with the death of the old nyx, Ceit
Anna. The morning after the nyx’s death flight had been the happiest of
Bronwen’s life. She had been woken by the eerie wailing of the nyx’s dirge but
was slipping back towards sleep when she had heard, deep in her mind, her name
called, and then a single exultant word.Come!
Bronwen had not
heard her mother’s voice since she was seven years old but she knew it at once.
She had leaped out of her bed, scrambled into the first dress she could find,
and then crept through the dark sleeping palace, avoiding the guards. It had
been the night of the full moon. Bronwen had made her way through the silver
and black garden with a thumping heart. She had not dared conjure a witch-light
so close to the witches’ tower, knowing they would sense magic being used, and
so she had had to find her way like a blind girl, hands stretched out before
her, feet feeling their way. It had been exhilarating.
At last she had
come to the servants’ quarters at the Tower of Two Moons, heart pounding so
hard she thought it would choke her. Maya had been waiting for her, her door
held open just a crack to show a thin sliver of warm light. She had drawn
Bronwen in without a word, so that her heart had sunk with disappointment. But
then, once the door was shut fast behind them, Maya had embraced her,
whispering hoarsely, “Bronwen, my darling girl!”
Her voice, once
so rich and sweet and warm, had been harsh and cracked after so many years of
disuse, but it was still the most beautiful sound Bronwen had ever heard. She
had wept and hugged her mother hard, and then at once begun to think of ways of
keeping her mother’s secret safe.
For no one must
know that Maya was mute no longer. All of Maya’s considerable power was
contained in her voice—the power to charm, to compel, to sing and seduce and enthrall.
If the Rìgh had known the ribbon Ceit Anna had woven to bind Maya’s voice had
dissolved upon her death, he would have ordered another made at once.
There had not
been much time. Bronwen had known she could not be the only one to wake at the
sound of the nyx’s lament. Already it was growing light. Birds were beginning
to sing. So Bronwen had stepped away from her mother’s embrace and seized her
scissors from the workbasket on the table. She had grasped a hank of her own
hair in her hand and chopped it off, then swiftly twisted and plaited it into a
long black ribbon, whispering as many spells as she could remember as she
wove—spells of binding and containment, dark spells of negativity and silence,
and bright spells to deflect suspicion. Bronwen had barely had time to knot the
ribbon about her mother’s throat before the Keybearer’s imperious knock had
sounded on Maya’s door. While her mother had answered the door, Bronwen had
thrust the scissors back in the basket and the basket under the table. She had
then done her best to pretend all was as usual.
So far the
deception had not failed. No one suspected Maya was no longer mute. She went
about her work as silently and obediently as ever, speaking to Bronwen only
when they were sure no one was listening. Deep in the witches’ wood, at night
or in the dawn when no one was about, Maya sang and shouted and laughed and
declaimed spells as loudly and exultantly as she liked, reacquainting herself
with the range and subtlety of her powers.
She had
disguised herself in a glamourie and walked out into the city as freely as any
other woman, pausing to chat with the fishwives and the flower sellers, to buy
herself a cup of wine at the market and laugh with the crowd at the antics of
the jongleurs. Bronwen knew of these forays and approved, having resented the
bitter silence and loneliness of her mother’s life, cut off forever from normal
human communication.
When she had
heard of a new singer at one of the inns in the faery quarter who was causing a
sensation with her treasonous songs, however, Bronwen had known at once that it
was her mother, and her heart had quailed. She would much have preferred her
mother to keep herself safe. Although Bronwen felt a certain sour melancholy
that she would only ever be Banrìgh in name, as the Rìgh’s consort, she had
grown resigned to that many years earlier. She had no desire to start another
civil war. Bronwen had lived through one, and that was more than enough. She
knew Donncan to be a gentle, loving, courteous man who valued her wit as much
as her beauty. She would have power and influence in plenty, without having to
enforce it with the slash of a sword.
Bronwen had
begged Maya not to go to the Nisse and Nixie anymore. “There are cluricauns in
that crowd, and witches, Mama. Ye ken they can see through any glamourie! They
will recognize ye.”
“If I see a
cluricaun, I’ll slip away, I promise.”
“What about a
witch, or anyone else with the gift o’ clear-seeing?”
“Very well,
then, I’ll wear a mask. That’ll only add to the air o’ intrigue.”
“But why, Mama?
Why draw such attention to yourself? Ye canna really hope to throw Uncle
Lachlan off the throne, can ye? I do no’ want ye to, truly!”
Maya’s mouth had
set into the adamantine line Bronwen knew so well. “Ye would no’ deny me the
pleasure o’ a small revenge, would ye?” she said. “I do no’ want to throw him
off the throne, just to make him uneasy on it. Slip a burr under the saddle, as
it were.”
“But if ye are
discovered . . .”
“I will no’ do
it for long, I promise,” Maya said. “In a few weeks’ time I’ll start singing
somewhere else.”
“But, Mama . .
.”
Maya had smiled
at her and said softly, “It is petty, I ken, but deeply satisfying nonetheless.
And it will no’ do ye any harm, my dear, for the court to remember ye are the
true heir.”
Bronwen knew
this to be true and so did not try to dissuade her, though she remained anxious
in case Maya’s disguise was penetrated. If there had not been so much else for
the court to gossip about that summer, an investigation into the perfidious
singer would probably have been launched, but Maya’s small rebellion had gone
largely unremarked, to her disappointment, and so their secret had remained
safe.
Bronwen’s lip
curled in scorn as she remembered how Donncan had assumed she had cut off a
lock of her hair as some kind of love token, as if she was a frivolous country
miss without sense or morals, and not a daughter fighting to keep her mother
safe. The very next instant, though, tears smarted her eyes, for it hurt
Bronwen that Donncan, her cousin and dear friend, could so underestimate her.
And his suspicion, and her hurt pride, had erected a wall of coldness between
them that Bronwen did not know how to dismantle.
The weeks
between May Day and Midsummer’s Day had only seen the wall grow higher, for an
inquiry had been called into Mathias Bright-Eyed’s death that had seen his
relationship with Bronwen examined exhaustively. Every dance, every
conversation, every flirtation Bronwen had enjoyed over the past year or so was
scrutinized, and many of Bronwen’s friends and servants were called to give
evidence, much to her chagrin. Although the inquiry had eventually found
Donncan innocent of any wrongdoing and established that the relationship
between the guard and the Banprionnsa had been no more than occasional dance
partners, still it had galled Bronwen badly to have her behavior inspected so
closely.
During all this
time Donncan had remained cool and distant, never seeking her out, and when
forced into her company, giving her only the politest of exchanges. His parents,
too, seemed to view her with disfavor, something Bronwen could not entirely
blame them for since the list of her parties, masques, and escapades was long
enough and silly enough to make her squirm with mortification. She could not
explain even to herself why she had embarked on such an expensive and frivolous
way of life after graduating from the Theurgia. It may have had something to do
with the fact that she was not permitted to join the Coven and study to be a
sorceress, despite her obvious Talents. It was always the custom to keep Crown
and Coven independent of one another, and so any of the prionnsachan who wished
to pursue their magical studies must, like Finn the Cat, abdicate any claim to
their country’s throne.
Or perhaps it
was because Donncan, the acknowledged heir to the throne, had been sent away on
a tour of the country he would one day be ruling, to learn what he could of its
people, while Bronwen was kept kicking her heels at court. Perhaps it was just
pique that Donncan was away from her for so long. She could not explain it, and
so she just raised a brow to the inquiry and said languidly, “Well, any
antidote to boredom.”
Donncan had
frowned and turned away from her, and Bronwen had tossed her head and pretended
she did not care. She did, though. She cared very much. She had not been able
to forget the horror of the May Day feast, when Mathias’s dagger had sunk so
inexorably into his own flesh and cut short his bright, careless life. Again
and again Bronwen went over it, wishing she could have the time again. Why had
she not realized how dangerous her lighthearted flirtation had been? She had
not meant to cause any harm.
But harm she had
caused, and now Mathias was dead. He would never again dance the galliard, or
bow over a pretty girl’s hand, or wrestle with his friends.
And Donncan
would never be able to forgive her. She saw that in his face every time he
turned his eyes away from her. All of their lives, he had adored her and
championed her. She could do no wrong in his eyes. But that was all over.
Everything had changed.
Tears seeped out
between Bronwen’s lids and she put up a hand to wipe them away. At her movement
Maura rose from her chair by the door and came trotting over. She was not much
bigger than a child, though her plum-black skin was heavily wrinkled. Her eyes
were huge and sad, and as lustrous as a pool of ink.
“What wrong?”
she whispered. “Ye sad, Miss Bron?”
Bronwen tried to
smile. “Och, nay! I’m grand! And hungry as a horse. Where is my breakfast?”
“I go get,”
Maura said. “Ye stay.”
As the bogfaery
went to call the maids, Bronwen rubbed away her tears ferociously, exhorting
herself not to be a fool. She sat up and eagerly took the cup of hot dancey
that Maura brought her and drank it down in three great gulps, burning her tongue
but feeling at once its buzz in her blood.
“Is it dawn yet?
Have I missed the singing o’ the summerbourne?”
Maura shook her
head. “No sing-sing yet. I no’ let my miss sleep too long. No’ good, on wedding
day, to thumb Rìgh so.”
No, it would not
be wise to thumb her nose at the Rìgh today. It was a long-held tradition that
the MacCuinn and his family all got together and joined the Celestines in
singing the summerbourne to life every midsummer. Lachlan the Winged had
powerful magic in his voice. Once, long ago, he had won the Celestines to his
cause by joining them in this most blessed song, which helped the life-giving
waters of the sacred springs run clear and strong. Nowadays his three children
and his niece always joined him in this ritual, at the Pool of Two Moons in
Lucescere, which had been built upon one of the Celestines’ holy hills.
There were many
of these holy hills all over Eileanan, each with its pool and spring of water,
and each crowned with a ring of stones built long ago by the Celestines. They
were called the Hearts of Stars, and acted as a focal point for the magnetic
forces of the earth and the universe. If one knew the secret, one could step
through the stone doorway and on to the magical roads the Celestines called the
Old Ways, enabling one to move swiftly and invisibly about the countryside.
The faery roads
were dangerous to those who did not fully understand their secrets, however.
One misstep could strand you in another land or another time, or leave you
wandering between worlds, unable to find your way home. Ghosts and evil spirits
were drawn to the energy of the ley lines and could attach themselves to any
traveler or drive them mad with their malevolent hunger. When the Celestines
sang their strange, unearthly song at every equinox and solstice, it cleansed
the ley lines of their negative energies, making the faery roads safe to travel
along again.
Generally
Bronwen enjoyed the singing of the summerbourne. She was fascinated by the
Celestines and loved the chance to weave magic with her voice, something she
was generally discouraged from doing.
But the dawn
ceremony was the first in a long day that would be crammed with the various
midsummer rites and rituals, culminating in the lighting of the bonfire at
sunset. Once torches from the fire had been carried into the palace, lighting
the hearth within, she and Donncan would jump the fire together and be married.
The very thought was enough to make her stomach twist with anxiety. How could
she spend the rest of her life with a man who treated her with cold courtesy?
Bronwen thought she would rather die an old maid. She turned and pulled her
pillow over her head.
Maura’s wrinkled
paw patted her shoulder. “Do no’ be sad, Miss Bron,” she said. “Happy day!”
Bronwen sat up
and smiled gaily. “Aye, o’ course,” she said. “A very happy day.”
But Maura’s
anxious face did not ease.
Dressed in a
simple white robe, a crown of flowers on her black hair, Bronwen went
downstairs to the great hall, where a crowd was already milling around, talking
and laughing.
The Rìgh
acknowledged her entrance with a nod. He looked weary, she noted, and was
surprised. Her uncle so rarely seemed to show any sign of the strain of his
position. She wondered if it was worry over her marriage to Donncan that had
kept him sleepless, or the sudden and rather scandalous liaison between Olwynne
and one of his squires. Everyone had always thought Olwynne would be the one to
join the Coven, but here she was, at the tender age of twenty, handfasted to a
boy from the back of beyond. It was rather surprising. Witches rarely married,
and although they were generally free and easy with their sexual favors,
relationships between apprentices were very much frowned on, as it was thought
to stunt the flowering of magical talent. No wonder the Keybearer was looking
preoccupied, and the Rìgh and Banrìgh so troubled. Bronwen could only be
grateful to Olwynne, though, for deflecting attention away from herself.
She went quietly
up to the family group and nodded a greeting, wishing she did not feel such an
outsider. Lachlan was standing before the fire, warming his hands and talking
with Isabeau, who had dark shadows under her eyes.
“So tell me, did
ye read whatThe Book o’ Shadows had to say about the goblet?” he was
asking in a low voice that no one but Bronwen could have heard.
“Nay,” she
answered shortly.
It was still
dark outside, but a few birds began to trill. At the sound, there was a stir of
anticipation through the crowd. Donncan had been sitting talking to his sister,
but he rose then and came to Bronwen’s side.
“Good morning,”
he said, as grave-faced as his father.
“Good morning,”
she answered and tried to rouse herself to lightheartedness, saying with a
smile, “How are ye yourself, my husband-to-be?”
“Well, I thank
ye,” he said but did not smile.
“Is it no’
unlucky for us to see each other this morn?” she asked with false gaiety.
“Surely we are no’ meant to see each other until we are to be wed?”
“Then I had best
remove myself from your sight,” he said and bowed and walked away.
She felt a surge
of desperation and reached out to seize his sleeve, saying, “Donncan . . .”
But the Rìgh had
moved forward, holding up his hand for silence. Bronwen let her hand fall.
“Let us go to
the Pool o’ Two Moons, to sing the summerbourne with our friends and allies the
Celestines, and to watch the sun rise on Midsummer’s Day,” Lachlan announced in
his deep, ringing voice.
Carrying a
flaming torch in his hand, he led the way out into the dark garden and along
the shadowy paths until they reached the maze that lay at the heart of the
forest separating the palace and the witches’ tower. Bronwen had always enjoyed
this solemn procession through the dark gardens, the rim of the world etched in
flaming red. The maze in particular was a place of rustling mystery at night,
the tall yew hedges so high on either side, like a secret tunnel, and all sense
of direction lost as they turned and turned again. She did not enjoy it today,
though, seeing Donncan’s tall form ahead of her, not once turning to look for
her.
Lachlan knew the
way through the maze well and led them unerringly to the Pool of Two Moons, set
like a dark emerald in its small knot of garden, with the golden dome of the
observatory rising beside it. The only clue to its origin as one of the
Celestines’ holy springs was the huge, ancient stones that surrounded it,
etched with faint shapes and symbols. At some later date, the pillars had been
crowned with stone arches decorated with the symbol of the Tower of Two Moons—a
six-pointed star crowning two crescent moons.
At one end of
the pool was a dais with huge bronze doors that led into the observatory, below
a shield with the tower crest carved upon it. At the other end was a stone
channel where water from the pool trickled out, leading into an aqueduct that
flowed down to disappear under the maze. This had once been the summerbourne, a
naturally flowing spring of crystal-clear water, but now it was all enclosed in
stone.
Their orange
torchlight shimmered on the Pool of Two Moons, making it seem dark and mysterious.
Bronwen stared down at it in fascination. Her mother had escaped Lachlan once
by diving into the pool. It was said to be bottomless. Bronwen could see it had
sunk very low in the heat of the summer, the walls above it showing a brown
stain.
The witches and
courtiers stood back in the garden to watch, but Bronwen mounted the steps with
her uncle and cousins and those witches who manifested their power in their
voices. Thunderlily went with them, her grave expression belying the excitement
and joy she felt at the prospect of seeing her mother for the first time in
three years. Bronwen knew that the young Celestine felt sorrow also, for
Midsummer’s Day was her twenty-fourth birthday and marked the end of her
carefree years at the Theurgia. Her mother, Cloudshadow, was coming to fetch
her home, and Thunderlily would need to begin preparing for her role as the
heir of the Stargazers.
Silently Donncan
held out his hand to Bronwen and she took it, casting him a glance under her
lashes. He was not looking at her but stared straight ahead. His grip was
loose, as if he touched her only reluctantly. Bronwen felt a sudden upsurge of
tears but blinked them back obstinately, holding out her other hand to
Thunderlily, who at once felt her distress and squeezed her fingers gently.
She shut her
eyes and waited, listening. She heard a deep, low hum that resonated up through
her feet, reverberating inside her very bones. The small bones inside her skull
seemed to grind one against the other. Slowly the humming rose, as if the earth
itself was growling, and Bronwen knew the Celestines came. She drew a shaky
breath and began to sing.
It was the
melody that was important, the weaving of sound, rather than the words. Some
time ago Lachlan had written a simple chorus that they all sang in rounds,
welcoming the sun this day. Bronwen knew it well, but even so she had trouble
concentrating on the tune. She felt off-key, off-kilter. It had been drummed
into her from an early age how important it was not to break the melody once it
had begun, and so she wrenched her mind away from the aching hollow of her
heart and tried to focus on the song. It was difficult. None of them were
singing well this day. Lachlan’s voice, normally deep and strong, sounded
weary, and Owein sounded as if he had a cold. Only Olwynne was singing with her
usual verve and beauty, her glorious mezzo-soprano voice soaring high on the
far side of the pool. Listening to her younger cousin sing, hearing the joy and
hope of happiness in her voice, made Bronwen’s throat suddenly close over. Her
voice wavered and broke. Donncan gripped her hand in sudden warning, but she
could not help herself. Her eyes were full of tears, her throat was thick. She
could not sing.
Bronwen’s
failure discomposed all the others. She heard Donncan stop and take a ragged
breath, then he gasped and tried to sing on. Beside her Owein was gamely
keeping time, but there was no conviction in it, and on the far side of the
pool the joyous refrain of Olwynne’s voice had faltered. Bronwen tried to recover,
but the tears were coming fast and she had to wrench her hand out of Donncan’s
to dash it across her eyes. She knew how wrong it was of her to break the
circle but she could not help herself.
The song ground
on to its broken and inconclusive end. Bronwen had her hands over her face, her
pulse juddering. She could not bear to open her eyes or look anyone in the
face, but the silence drew out until it was unbearable, and at last she dropped
her hands and smoothed down her dress with trembling hands, finding the courage
to look up.
The sun had
risen. Six Celestines stood on the dais above the pool, the sun shining on
their white ripples of hair and their pale, stern faces. They were all looking
at her, their distress evident in their faces.
Bronwen looked
down at the pool. Although there was a low bubbling in the center of the murky
pool, it was not enough to raise the water high enough to spill over the lip of
stone. They had failed in their singing. This year the summerbourne would not
run.
Acold shudder
took hold of Isabeau, despite the sultry heat of the morning. The sun glared
through a thin veil of cloud, burning the fair skin of her arms and making her
robes feel almost unbearably heavy. Yet still Isabeau shivered, her skin rising
up in goose pimples all over her body.
It was a very
bad omen for the singing of the summerbourne to falter and break.
The Keybearer
opened her eyes and looked towards the Pool of Two Moons, as did all the other
witches standing in the circle. Bronwen stood with her hands over her face,
obviously fighting back tears. Her uncle and cousins were staring at her.
Standing between
the ancient blocks of stone were six Celestines. Isabeau recognized one as the
Stargazer Cloudshadow, the faery who had healed her after her torture by
amputating the two infected fingers on her left hand. The Stargazer was the
title of the ruler of the Celestines, a role Cloudshadow had inherited at an
unusually early age due to the death of her parents in Maya’s faery hunts. Many,
many Celestines had died during the Ensorcellor’s reign and very few children
were born to them, making Thunderlily, Cloudshadow’s daughter, their great hope
for the future.
Standing beside
the Stargazer was a tall, slender young man, with a long, strong-boned face. Of
all the Celestines, he looked the most shaken by the failure of the
summerbourne to run. His third eye was open, dark as night, and his
long-fingered hands were gripped into fists, a most unusual gesture among the
gentle-natured faeries. Cloudshadow looked grave, but she came down the stairs
with her usual noiseless grace and bowed to the Rìgh.
Lachlan moved
forward to greet the Celestines formally, bending his head so Cloudshadow could
touch her fingers to his brow. They stood in silent communion for some time,
Lachlan holding himself rigid so he did not break their connection. Then
Cloudshadow’s fingers dropped and Lachlan straightened and stood back, bowing
to the other Celestines and touching his fingers to his own brow in the ritual
greeting.
Cloudshadow
turned to greet her daughter, humming softly in her throat. They each touched
each other’s brows and then Cloudshadow turned and indicated the young
Celestine man, who came to bow before Thunderlily. She bowed back, cool and
remote, and then stepped back to stand next to Bronwen, who had been left
alone, everyone drawing away from her as if she had marred the singing of the
summerbourne on purpose. Bronwen shook back her hair and said something to
Thunderlily in a teasing undertone, as if nothing had happened. Thunderlily
smiled and shook her head.
Isabeau could
not help frowning at Bronwen as she walked past her to greet the Celestines,
and Bronwen looked away defiantly, pretending she did not care.
I am so sorry
about the summerbourne, Isabeau said without words.I have never known
the song to falter before. What does this mean for us all?
Already the Old
Ways are too dangerous for us to walk easily,Cloudshadow said.Even I, the
Stargazer, could barely find my way. Now passage between the Hearts of Stars
will be more difficult than ever. I shall take my daughter and I shall return
to my garden, and we will wait for the lines of power to be cleansed and
protected another year, another time.
But why are the
Auld Ways so dangerous?Isabeau asked.We have sung the summerbourne
strongly for years now. I had thought we had cleansed the lines of power and
made them safe.
The Old Ways are
haunted. There is evil brewing.
Haunted? Ye mean
by ghosts?Isabeau
asked, her mind-voice sharpening with interest.
Haunted by the
shades of the dead, those who have refused to let the ethereal substance of
their souls be dissolved into the ethereal substance of the universe. The
immoderate emotions that so trouble you of humankind chain them to this world,
and so they are dragged along with its revolutions of seasons, unable to break
free and move on, or come back and be what they were. They are not one thing or
another, not flesh nor spirit, not quick nor dead. They are all hunger, all
greed, all hatred, all grief, all envy, all pride, all spite. They swarm along
the Old Ways, seeking a door into this world. They press against the doorways.
The fabric between their world and ours bulges with their weight.
Why? What has
drawn them here?
They are always
drawn to the lines of power. They are lines of connection, seams between space,
time, and matter.
But why are
there so many now?
A door has been
opened. It was slammed shut again, but not before at least one spirit of the
dead found its way free. The others hope to find an open doorway too.
Who opened the
door? Where?
Not here. Far
away.
Do you know
where?
Isabeau received
a mind-image of a tall crag of stone rising high above a waterfall. A ruin of a
great stone building crowned the cliff, and ravens wheeled above it. “The Tower
o’ Ravens,” she breathed, even though it was what she had been expecting.
That is not our
name for the holy hill,Cloudshadow said quietly.Once it was a place of
great power, a Heart of Stars where the Celestines gathered to worship and
celebrate the powers of moon and sun and star. Now it is a place of evil. Men
have gathered there, using their dark magic to open the gate, to call up the
shades of the dead. They were not wary. They did not hold the door fast. There
is one, a spirit of great hunger and greed, who felt the opening of the door
and rushed through it. Now she walks the Old Ways as she pleases and draws
other spirits with her, like the sun drawing moisture from the sea. She leaves
a dark trail of malice behind her like the slime trail of a snail. It poisons
the Auld Ways and leaves its residue on all of us who must walk in her
footsteps.
Who is she?
I do not know.
She has not been dead long. Her spirit is strong still and grips to the memory
of life voraciously. She has used this doorway often. She has drawn many, many
ghosts here. They press their bodies against the door and rend it with their
claws. It took much of my strength to close the door behind us when we came
today. Only my determination to see my daughter and bring her home again drove
us through.
Will it hold?
I do not know.
It takes a very sharp knife to rend the fabric of space and time.
Isabeau gave a
little shudder.
What is wrong?
Your soul shrinks away from my gaze.
Nothing is
wrong.
There is a dark
imprint upon your mind, as if burning fingertips have scorched you. May I touch
you?
Isabeau looked
away. There was a long silence and then slowly, reluctantly, she kneeled before
the Stargazer and allowed Cloudshadow to press her finger between her brow.
There was a snapping sound, like a bridge of wood cracking; then Isabeau fell
back, her head swimming.
A finger from
the grave,the
Celestine said softly.But whose?
It was very hot.
The day passed in a whirl. There was a feast laid out in the gardens, the
tables decorated with lavender and roses and vervain. Minstrels wandered the
crowd, serenading the merrymakers with love songs. Gaily painted puppet
theaters were set up on the lawn, entertaining the children with noisy plays,
while bizarrely dressed stilt walkers towered above the flower-crowned heads of
the dancers, stalking along with their stilts hidden beneath immensely long
striped trousers. A troupe of musicians paused in their playing to wipe the
perspiration from their faces, and more than one reveler glanced at the sky and
said, “Looks like a storm’s on its way.”
Bronwen laughed
and danced and gulped down glass after glass of sparkling rose-colored wine.
Although her blue gown was as light as butterfly wings, she was so hot she
thought she might faint. She had not seen Donncan since the dawn meeting at the
Pool of Two Moons. It seemed everyone had heard how she had torn free of his
grasp and broken the circle. Bronwen pretended it was all because of the heat.
She fanned herself frantically and said, “We Fairgean do no’ like the heat, do
we, Alta?”
“No, we do no’,”
the Fairgean ambassador replied and ordered the servants to bring her crushed
ice flavored with lemon. “Though ye would no’ feel the heat so badly if ye did
no’ dance so much.”
“Happen so, but
where’s the fun in that?” she retorted and inclined her head to him in ironic
farewell, leaving his side to find company that did not scold her so much.
Aindrew MacRuraich was happy to oblige, and she whiled away a merry hour with
him, watching a procession of fabulous beasts made of silk and wood and paint,
playing a riotous game of croquet, and dancing a few of the sedate sets that
the Master of Revels considered appropriate for midafternoon.
Aindrew would
have been happy to while away another hour, but Finn the Cat, his elder sister,
strolled over and linked her arm in his, saying affably that she had not seen
him in an age and would he not come and tell her all his news. She was a tall,
handsome woman with heavy chestnut hair that she wore pulled back in a simple
plait in the fashion of the witches. Although born the heir to the throne of
Rurach, Finn had given up her claim to her brother Aindrew so that she could
pursue her dream of being a sorceress. She was rarely at the royal court,
spending a good part of every year back in Rurach overlooking the rebuilding of
the Tower of Searchers, a venture she funded by the lucrative business she ran
with her husband, Jay, of searching for and finding anything or anyone that was
lost, stolen, or otherwise misplaced. As a consequence, she and Jay traveled
all over Eileanan, and Bronwen suspected she was the source of a great deal of
secret information for the Rìgh.
Finn smiled and
nodded at Bronwen agreeably enough as she adroitly maneuvered Aindrew away, but
the tiny black cat that rode on her shoulder hissed and bared its fangs at her.
Bronwen could not help feeling that the elven cat was expressing the
sorceress’s real feelings.
Looking about
her with her usual air of cool arrogance, Bronwen saw that, as she had
suspected, she was the subject of many stares and whispers. She cooled herself
with her fan, accepted another glass of pink sparkling wine, and drank it down
to the last drop with great deliberateness. She then strolled over to join a
group of the youngest and most fashionable ladies, as if that had been her
intention all along. She was received with squeals of delight and much banter,
which she deflected with the lift of an eyebrow and a mocking jest that made
them laugh.
A puppet show
began at a small theater nearby, and they strolled over to watch it, the
servants carrying over chairs for them to sit on and bringing parasols to shade
their faces. The puppet show was a mocking rendition of a royal wedding, with
the bride dashing from one suitor to another, all the while pretending to be
madly in love with the dim-witted prince. The audience screamed with laughter
at one ridiculous scene after another. It was an effort for Bronwen to keep the
smile on her face, but she managed, waving her huge fan of white bhanias
feathers to and fro. The other ladies eyed her fan covetously, for white
bhanias birds were very rare, and Bronwen had ordered a long silver handle
studded with pearls to keep the long tail feathers in place. It was a most
unusual and magnificent fan, and it cast all the other ladies’ fans, no matter
how prettily painted, into the shade.
A large troupe
of apprentice-witches came by in their long black robes, carrying baskets laden
with herbs and flowers from the kitchen garden, for Midsummer’s Day was the
best day to gather herbs for spells and healing.
Bronwen
recognized a few faces among them, particularly the little dark-haired girl
from Ravenshaw who the gossips said Prionnsa Owein was courting. She trudged at
the back of the group beside a plump girl with a limp and a tall blonde with a
most disagreeable expression. The blonde was staring enviously at the party of
court ladies in their flimsy gowns, sitting under the shade of their parasols
and drinking the pink, fizzy wine that had been especially chilled in tubs of snow
brought down from the mountains.
Bronwen could
remember all too well how she used to slog past every midsummer, cursing the
Coven and its philosophies and longing for the days when she would be free to
join in the court festivities. Now she could not help feeling nostalgic for the
days when she too had to get all hot and grubby, with dirt under her nails and
bramble scratches on her cheek. They seemed impossibly carefree and halcyon.
She smiled in sympathy at the apprentices, and the blonde girl whispered to her
companions in excitement, then swept Bronwen a most elegant curtsy. The plump
girl, who was already red in the heat, turned crimson and tried to imitate her,
with clumsy results. The dark-haired girl barely seemed to notice, though, and
Bronwen saw she was sunk in a deep and profound misery. Her eyes were red, as
if she had been weeping, and her shoulders drooped.
Bronwen was just
wondering if it was Owein who had caused her such distress, when a shadow
darkened her eyes. She looked up and saw to her surprise that Elfrida NicHilde
had come to join her. Unlike the other women all dressed in pale blossomy
gowns, she was dressed severely in black, matching the pastor who was her
constant companion. When she sat down, it was with a sigh of relief, as if her
legs were about to give way beneath her. The pastor came to stand behind her
chair, his hands folded before him in a pious attitude. Bronwen gave him a
cold, unwelcoming look.
“I am surprised
to see ye, my dear,” Elfrida said. “I thought ye would be resting, ahead o’ the
ceremony tonight.”
“But how
boring,” Bronwen said, fanning herself languidly. “I see no reason to miss the
masques and games simply because I am to be married tonight. What should I do
all day, sitting by myself in my room?” She took a sip of her wine and cast
Elfrida a bright, challenging look. “Besides, why should I rest? I am no’
weary.”
“ ‘Now it is
high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than when we
believed,’ ” the man in black said in a deep, ringing voice that made the other
ladies fidget and whisper.
Bronwen glanced
at him, raised an eyebrow, then looked away, yawning delicately behind her
feathery fan. Elfrida cast him a pleading look, and he bowed his long, narrow
head, his hands folded one over the other in front of his chest.
What a prig, Bronwen
thought and wished they would go away. She had never much liked Neil’s mother,
who had always seemed to disapprove of her.
“It is my
wedding anniversary today,” Elfrida said, leaning close and speaking softly so
as not to disturb the other ladies. Bronwen noticed her hands were trembling
and felt uncomfortable.
“Really?” She
fixed her eyes on the puppet show, pretending to be enthralled.
“Yes. I married
Iain o’ Arran on Midsummer’s Day, the same day that Lachlan and Iseult were
married. It was the year ye were born, I think. Twenty-four years ago.”
“I wish ye very
happy.”
“We have been
happy, strangely enough. I never saw him until our wedding day. He was a
complete stranger to me.”
“Is that so?”
Bronwen asked, growing interested despite herself.
“Yes. His mother
arranged it.” Elfrida gave a quick shudder but set her teeth together and
forced her shoulders down again.
“It must’ve been
hard, being forced to marry a man ye didna ken.”
“It was very
hard. I would no’ recommend it.”
“No.” Bronwen
spoke slowly, not sure what Elfrida was trying to tell her.
“I was lucky,
very lucky, to find some measure o’ happiness in my marriage,” Elfrida said,
speaking in very low tones so that only Bronwen and the man standing quietly
behind her chair could have heard her. “Marry unwisely, and ye will find
nothing but misery and unhappiness. Trust me in this, my dear. It is no’ too
late for ye to stop this foolishness. Do ye think I do no’ ken when a man and a
woman are in love? Find a man who truly loves ye, afore ye condemn yourself to
a life of emptiness and sorrow—”
Bronwen stood up
so abruptly her chair almost fell over. “I thank ye for your advice, Your
Grace,” she said sweetly. “I am sure we shall be very happy.”
Then, lifting
her parasol so it shaded her face, she went away towards the palace.
She heard
footsteps hurrying up behind her and quickened her pace, but the footsteps
broke into a run and a hand seized her elbow.
“Bronwen!”
“Neil.”
“What did my
mother say to ye?”
“She wished me
well this evening.”
“Really? Is that
all?”
“What else would
she have said?”
“I dinna ken. I
thought perhaps . . .” He hesitated, his eyes searching her face. He saw how
angry she looked and said unevenly, “She did say something. Oh, Bronny, I’m
sorry. . . . My mother has no’ been well lately. She’s got this fancy into her
head. . . . She thinks . . . she thinks . . .”
“She thinks ye
are in love with me?”
“Yes.”
“And are ye?”
“Yes.” He said
the word on a long sigh.
Bronwen tapped
her foot impatiently. “Neil, in about two hours’ time I am jumping the fire
with your best friend. Do ye really think it is wise for ye, or your mother, to
be telling me this?”
“So shedid
say something! What? What did she say?”
“She did no’
mention ye.”
Neil heaved a
sigh. “I thought she had. . . . Ye looked so upset.”
Bronwen looked
down at the pointed toe of her slipper. “She thought fit to tell me that my
husband-to-be does no’ love me.”
“He canna love
ye as much as I do,” Neil said simply. “Oh, Bronny, must ye really marry him?
He doesna understand ye, truly he doesna. He is so angry still about Mat. He
blames ye. ButI ken it’s no’ your fault, Bronny.”
She searched his
face with her eyes. He was much the same height as she was, and he was standing
very close. She could see nothing but sincerity in his face.
“Ye’re alone in
that,” she said bitterly, and looked away.
He caught her
hand in both of his and carried it to his lips, kissing her palm fervently.
She pulled her
hand away but said with mild curiosity, “Ye and Donncan have been the best o’
friends since ye were bairns. Does it no’ trouble ye, flirting with me the very
day o’ our wedding?”
“I am no’
flirting,” Neil said, very low and intense. “I’m in love with ye, Bronwen. I
have loved ye all my life and I will never love another. Ye and Donncan were
betrothed as children. Ye have never been given the chance to ken your own
hearts. It was no’ fair to any o’ us. If ye had been free, do ye no’ think I
would’ve told ye how I felt earlier? And if ye and Donncan were happy, do ye
think I would tell ye now? O’ course I wouldna. But I can see ye are no’
happy.”
Bronwen did not
know what to say. Tears choked her. Neil pressed her fingers in sympathy.
He said, “If ye
do no’ want to marry him, just let me ken. I’ll take ye away. I’ll do whatever
ye want. We can go to Arran, we can go to the Fair Isles, wherever ye want. I
can keep ye safe from the MacCuinns, if ye are afraid they would be angry. I
would love ye and look after ye all our lives, I’d make ye happy, I swear it.
Just let me ken. . . .”
For a moment
Bronwen almost reached towards him, almost begged him to take her away. It was
intoxicating to have a man love her so deeply, so intensely, for her own sake
and not merely for some political gain. But then she took a step away, shaking
her head. “I am a banprionnsa and a NicCuinn,” she said. “If this wedding
fails, so does the Pact o’ Peace. We could have war again. Do ye think I want
that?”
His shoulders
sagged. “No,” he said.
Bronwen held out
her hand to him. “I’m sorry, Neil.”
He took her hand
and bent to kiss it. Over his head Bronwen saw Elfrida watching them and felt
her spine stiffen. She pulled her hand away.
“Time for me to
go and make myself bonny,” she said gaily. “See ye again at sunset.”
Neil’s hand
dropped to his side, his eyes widening in sudden hurt. Bronwen smiled at
Elfrida and made her escape. She went straight to her room. The door had barely
shut behind her before Bronwen had stripped off her hot, damp, clinging gown
and dived naked into her pool. She swam to the far side in three swift strokes
and cursed its smallness, turning and striking out for the edge again. She
would have liked to have swum so far her lungs labored and her arms ached with
exhaustion. She would have liked to have dived so deep that light diminished
around her and strange bulbous eyes began to glow like weird whiskered stars.
She would have liked to fight the waves, surging up their foam-dappled sides
and leaping beyond their sudden slap and hiss and crash. She would have liked to
scream and shout and smack someone very hard—Donncan preferably, for making her
weep in public and show that she cared, when he so clearly did not.
The water in the
pool heaved and splashed as she swam, stroke, stroke, stroke, turn, stroke,
stroke, stroke. At last she lay still, floating facedown, breathing noisily
through her gills and watching hexagonal reflections of light break and
coalesce on the tiled floor of the pool below her. Gradually the tumultuous
water subsided. The hexagons steadied. Still Bronwen floated, arms and legs
spread. The salt of her tears flowed into the salt of the pool, and no one saw
or heard.
Sea-child . . .
Bronwen jerked
upright, her tail slapping the water.
Thunderlily sat
cross-legged on the side of the pool, regarding her with clear eyes. Her long
mane of white hair hung down her back and pooled on the ground around her.
Why do you
grieve?the
Celestine said, in response to Bronwen’s wordless demand.I heard you far
away. I came.
Did ye really
hear me?
Yes.
Were ye
listening for me?
Yes.
Ye shouldna
have. It was private. I wanted no one. . . .
I know, but I
could not help but hear.
Bronwen swam to
the side of the pool and climbed out, water streaming from her. She caught up a
linen towel and wrapped it around herself.
Only because ye
were listening,
she thought crossly.
I am sorry.
Bronwen sighed.
“Is it time already?” she asked aloud.
Yes, Thunderlily
hummed.It is time. The earth is turning, the sun moves towards the horizon,
soon it will be dusk and your people’s midsummer fire will be nothing but
embers.
It is time, Bronwen
repeated, and the thought was both pleasure and pain to her.
I too am to be
mated,
Thunderlily said somberly.His name is Stormstrider.
I saw him at the
Pool of Two Moons,
Bronwen said.Do ye no’ like him?
The Celestine
stared down at her bare feet, very long and elegant.It is not for me to like
or not to like.
But I thought
that ye must love your beloved, if ye must sacrifice him for the Summer Tree.
Does it work if ye do no’ love him?Bronwen fumbled to express her thoughts,
for no matter how fascinated she was by the Celestine’s culture, part of her
was still horrified by the blood sacrifice that was their most sacred ritual.
In time I am
sure I will love him. I must.Thunderlily’s mind-voice was miserable
indeed.
It is your duty,Bronwen said
with ironic seriousness.
Yes. As today is
yours. But you truly do love the winged one, try as you might to deny it,Thunderlily
said.Do you think I do not know?
“Celestines do
not always see truly, believe it or not,” Bronwen said.
I believe not.
“Arrogant
creature,” Bronwen said.
Thunderlily
smiled.
“Have ye brought
me my dress?’
Thunderlily
hummed in pleasure and rose, crossing the room to where a dress hung from the
doorknob. It was made of the silk the Celestines spun from the weaver-worm’s
cocoons, a heavy shimmering fabric of palest silver embroidered with silver
flowers at hem and cuff. It was a dress spun of moon-shine. There was a veil to
match, delicate as cobweb, and a long train embroidered with silver roses, with
tiny pearls stitched along its length.
“Glory be!”
Bronwen whispered. “Well, if Donncan doesna like me in this dress, he isn’t a
man!”
He will like you, Thunderlily
hummed.
“He is a man
after all,” Bronwen agreed. She rubbed herself dry and wrapped her long black
hair up in the towel before slipping the dress on. Made without seam or button,
it flowed along every curve of her body, sensuous as water. Bronwen twirled and
pirouetted, unable to help smiling in delight. “Well, naught like a new dress to
cheer ye up,” she said ruefully. “Thank ye, Thunderlily.”
The Celestine
hummed and bowed her head, hands pressed together.
I will go now
and prepare myself,she
said.I have never been to a human wedding before. I am honored indeed that
you wished me, above all others, to be in attendance upon you. I will not fail
you.
It is an honor
and a blessing that a child of the Stargazers has consented to cast their
radiance upon my wedding,Bronwen replied formally, bowing low.May it augur
well for the future.
May it be so, Thunderlily
answered gravely.
The air was
filled with a strange green light. Thunder rumbled. A hot wind was rising,
pulling at Olwynne’s hair and shaking the leaves of all the trees in the
garden. It caught Bronwen’s veil and dragged it sideways and almost tore the
long rose-embroidered train out of Olwynne’s hands. A few large drops of rain
splattered the stone pathway.
Olwynne looked
up at the low, dark clouds with foreboding. It was considered a very bad omen
for rain to fall on Midsummer’s Day, particularly if the fire that had burned
all night and all day was doused before sunset.
She wondered if
it was also a bad omen to have one’s maid-of-honor fall ill so unexpectedly
just before the wedding. Olwynne had certainly not expected she would have to
carry her cousin’s bridal train today. That honor had been reserved for
Thunderlily, Bronwen’s closest friend. Yet Thunderlily had not come with
Olwynne, Heloïse, and all the other bridesmaids to help Bronwen finish
dressing, to advise the maids on the styling of her hair and the placement of
the wreath, and to exclaim over the magnificent ropes of pearls that had been a
gift from her Uncle Nila.
Bronwen had
looked for Thunderlily and asked for her often, as the maids had dressed her black
hair with pearls and flowers, and attached the long train, and powdered her
cheeks and rouged her lips. Olwynne had even sent one of the pages running to
find the Celestine. He came panting back with a message from the College of
Healers, saying she had been struck down with a sudden bout of sickness and
could not possibly come.
Bronwen had been
startled and upset. For a moment she had balked, so that Olwynne had wondered
if she meant to refuse to go on with the wedding. She had composed herself,
however, and allowed Olwynne and Heloïse to draw the long veil down over her
face, which was so pale and impassive it looked as if she had been carved from
ice.
Now Olwynne did
her best to keep the heavy train from snagging on the thorns of the roses that
bent their heavy heads over the aisle. She could hear the musicians striking up
a stately refrain, and she raised her head, smiling as naturally as she could
when her heart was so heavy in her chest it felt like a stone.
Roden led the
bridal procession up the aisle, his chestnut curls combed back neatly. He was
dressed in a white satin doublet and breeches tied under the knee with silver
cord, and trimmed with seed pearls and knots of silver. It was clear he felt he
looked ridiculous, for his lower lip was pushed out mutinously, and every now
and again he lifted a hand to tug at his cravat. Since he was carrying a silver
bell upon a silken cushion, this caused Olwynne some anxiety as every time he
tugged, the cushion tipped, almost sending the bell crashing to the ground.
Olwynne was sure that would be yet another inauspicious omen.
Behind Olwynne
walked eleven handmaidens, chosen from all of the great families. Among them
were two of Bronwen’s Fairgean cousins, daughters of King Nila and Queen Fand.
They were tall and silent, with pale silvery eyes and hair as black as night.
Beside them, the four giddy daughters of the NicThanach of Blèssem looked plump
and highly colored, though in general they were held to be very pretty girls.
The twelve bridesmaids all carried posies of white moonflowers, roses, and
vervain, matching the wreath on Bronwen’s head.
Donncan was
standing at the far end of the aisle, looking handsome in a coat of green
velvet that must have been uncomfortable on such an oppressively hot day. At
the sound of the trumpets, he turned to look for them. Olwynne saw how his
expression changed when he saw Bronwen, and her heart constricted. She could
only hope with all her might that they would be happy, these cousins who had
been betrothed as children, knowing that their union was the only thing binding
an uneasy peace treaty together.
She hoped
Bronwen would be kind to him. Donncan had loved Bronwen wholeheartedly for
years, and Olwynne knew how he had suffered from not knowing her feelings in
return. No one could ever really be sure of what Bronwen felt. She was always
so cool and enigmatic, so quick to turn away emotion with a clever, mocking
jest. Perhaps she feared betrayal and disappointment and so tried to pretend
she cared for nothing. Or perhaps she truly did not care. Olwynne had days when
she was sure of it.
Certainly she
was very beautiful. As the Ensorcellor’s daughter walked slowly down the
rose-lined path, the silk of her gown sliding over her slender form, there were
little sighs from the courtiers crowding the formal garden. Olwynne tried not
to feel jealous.I am just weary , she thought.
Olwynne was not
sleeping well. Nightmares stalked her heels. She dreamed she was being pursued
by a tall man in black, whose shadow strode ahead of him down a long corridor.
She dreamed she was in a coffin and could not get out. She dreamed she had lost
something very precious to her. She dreamed of weddings and funerals, till one
seemed much like another, and it was no comfort to remind herself that all dreams
go by contraries.
Olwynne had
tried every trick she knew of in her search for sweet dreams, and if not sweet,
then at least not bitter. She had hung her stockings over the end of her bed
with a pin stuck through them and piled cold iron under her pillow, old skeelie
remedies that had not, of course, worked. She had drugged herself with poppy
syrup and valerian, she had tried meditating, she had tried not sleeping at
all.
Nothing helped.
Olwynne knew her
conscience was not easy. She tried very hard not to think of Rhiannon but
instead thought of nothing else. She told herself many times that what she had
done was for the best and listed the many reasons why, but it did not help.
Olwynne was not finding the joy in Lewen that she had expected. Her love was twisted
awry by her jealousy. If Lewen even sighed and looked pensive, she imagined he
was thinking of Rhiannon and was eaten with a canker of pain and longing. Once
or twice she had even wished she had not cast the love spell on Lewen but had
suffered alone in silence. It was too late now, though. She had to make the
best of it. Soon Rhiannon would be dead, and in time Lewen would forget her and
come to love Olwynne truly. She knew it.
The bridal
procession reached the stone-paved circle at the center of the garden. Tall red
candles stood at the four points of the compass, their sweet-scented flames
flickering wildly in the hot, rough wind.
The Keybearer
stood under a flower-hung arbor before a stone altar on which rested a
beautifully carved statue of the god and goddess, naked and embracing. Spread
out under the statue were two more red candles, anointed with rose and jasmine
oil, a silver goblet of dark wine, a plate of new bread, a pot of honey, and a
double-bladed knife with a handle of white bone. There was also a coil of red
ribbon and a thick scroll of parchment from which dangled myriad red seals. The
Pact of Peace.
Isabeau took the
bell from Roden with a grave nod, and he stepped back with some thankfulness to
stand beside his parents, who were gathered with the rest of the guests around
the circle. The Keybearer rang the bell three times, then walked the circle,
ringing the bell at the four cardinal points and calling upon the elemental
powers to bless and protect them all this day.
The Rìgh and
Banrìgh were sitting on tall thrones to one side, smiling with pleasure at the
pretty sight the wedding party made. Seated behind them were Olwynne’s
grandparents, Ishbel and Khan’gharad of Tìrlethan, and her second cousin,
Dughall MacBrann of Ravenshaw, with his adopted heir, Owen. There were many
other friends and relatives too. Olwynne saw Nina and Iven, Finn and Jay,
Gwilym the Ugly and Cailean of the Shadowswathe, Iain of Arran and his wife and
son, and the round figure of Brun the cluricaun, bouncing up and down on his
seat in excitement.
On the other
side of the circle sat Bronwen’s uncle Nila, the king of the Fairgean, and his
wife, Fand. Beside them, dressed in a simple dark blue gown of rich satin, was
Maya the Ensorcellor, with a long rope of exquisite pearls wound thrice about
her throat, then dangling to her waist.
Olwynne could
not help widening her eyes at the sight, for she had never seen Maya dressed in
anything but her drab servant’s gown and a grubby apron. The Ensorcellor was
still a very beautiful woman, Olwynne admitted to herself. The midnight blue of
her dress deepened the blue of her eyes, and emotion had brought color to her
high cheekbones. The pearls wound about her throat hid the stark blackness of
the nyx ribbon that bound her to silence. For the first time Olwynne could see
how it was possible that Maya had once been called the most beautiful—and the
most dangerous—woman in the world.
The Keybearer
again rang the bell three times, then directed Bronwen and Donncan to walk
around the circle from east to south to west to north, and then back to face
the east once again. The sky was spitting with rain, even as the last long rays
of the sun struck out from under the black-bellied clouds. Thunder growled, and
many gathered in the garden looked to the sky, the women lifting their parasols
to shield their hair from the rain.
The Keybearer
looked weary as she intoned the midsummer rites, and Olwynne wondered what it
meant for her, the failure of the summerbourne to run that morning. Normally the
Keybearer seemed to blaze with a white aura of energy and vitality. Today all
that was dimmed. The elongated rays of the blinkered sun haloed her with
darkness so that Olwynne, watching her through a haze of tears that dimmed her
sight, could barely see her, as if she was fading away.
Then Isabeau
spoke the words that she herself had never vowed, so that the betrothed couple
could repeat them after her.
“I, Donncan
Feargus MacCuinn, have come here o’ my own free will, in perfect love and
perfect trust, to commit myself to Bronwen Mathilde NicCuinn, in joy and
adversity, in whole-ness and brokenness, in peace and turmoil, living with her
faithfully all our days.”
Donncan repeated
the vows, stumbling once or twice and having to correct himself; then Bronwen repeated
the words, as sure of herself as ever, her gaze downcast. They were like
sunlight and shadow, Olwynne thought, her brother all warm and open with his
golden eyes and hair and wings, and Bronwen so cool and remote, her black hair
crowned with moonflowers, the long ropes of pearls about her throat hanging
almost to the floor.
Isabeau gave
them the cup of wine to share, and bread smeared with honey, to bless their
union with sweetness. The bride and groom kissed, and the crowd clapped and
smiled and threw rose petals over them. The kiss was brief and formal, and many
in the crowd urged them on to a more passionate embrace. Color rose in
Donncan’s cheeks and he glanced at Bronwen, half shyly. She returned his look
coolly and, although they kissed again, it lasted little longer than the first
time.
The tower bells
rang out, peal after joyous peal, to let the city know the wedding vows had
been sworn. Donncan and Bronwen both had to sign their marriage documents, and
then Lachlan and Nila came up to put their signatures together at the bottom of
the peace agreement. The melting candle was dribbled onto the parchment, and
the royal seals were pressed deep into the wax.
Isabeau then
took up the remainder of the ribbon and bound together Donncan and Bronwen’s wrists
to show that their lives were now tied together for evermore. Then Donncan and
Bronwen walked back together through the crowded garden, towards the palace
square where the remains of the bonfire smoked sullenly in the gloom of the
stormy dusk. A page in royal livery held a great black umbrella over it, trying
to keep the spitting rain away. The court all followed close behind, talking
and laughing, some of the women trying to hold their coiffures in place as the
wind grew stronger. The bells rang the changes.
Together the
newly wed couple ran and leaped over the low, flickering flames. Donncan kept
his wings folded tightly down his sides and released his clasp on Bronwen’s
hand as soon as they had landed on the far side, holding up his wrist for Isabeau
to unwind the ribbon. Glances and raised eyebrows among the guests expressed
their surprise and disappointment at the couple’s lack of enthusiasm, and
Olwynne saw Lachlan and Iseult exchange troubled looks.
Bronwen’s face
was expressionless. She moved away as soon as she was free and went to speak to
her mother, who was waiting close by, alone among the crowd. Maya embraced her
affectionately, and then set her back, looking into her face intensely as if
trying to communicate all she felt with that one glance. Olwynne looked at her
brother. As polite and composed as ever, Donncan was receiving the compliments
of his mother’s parents with a graceful smile. Olwynne thought he looked pale
and unhappy, and sighed.
In a year, Lewen
and I will jump the fire too, but we will laugh and be joyful, Olwynne
thought fiercely.In a year he shall have forgotten her. . . .
The feast began
with a blast of trumpets. The newly married couple led the way to the banquet
hall, bowing to all the well-wishers who crowded about them, throwing grain and
flower petals before them. The rain had blown over, but thunder still rumbled
intermittently and every now and again lightning stalked the horizon.
The musicians
struck up a stately pavane, and together Donncan and Bronwen swept up the hall,
then turned to bow to each other. Both smiled out at the crowd, without meeting
each other’s eyes.
Olwynne made an
effort of her own and smiled as Lewen bowed before her, offering her his hand.
They fell into place behind Owein, who was dancing with the eldest daughter of
the NicThanach. In strict order of precedence, the lords and ladies of the
court followed them, and the swish of the ladies’ silken skirts and the tap of
their high-heeled shoes was like another instrument in the minstrels’ troupe.
The banquet hall
was softly lit by candles on the long tables set up along the sides and in
candelabras on either side of the high table at the far end. Flowers had been
wreathed around the base of the candelabras, adding their heavy scent to the
air.
The high table,
where Lachlan and Iseult presided, was set under a massive shield depicting the
crowned stag of the MacCuinn arms. Tradition demanded that the bride’s mother
should sit at the high table with the groom’s parents, but given the long
enmity between Lachlan and Maya, she had been seated at the table to the right,
with her brother Nila and his wife, Fand, and various other Fairgean nobility.
She sat quietly, listening to her brother speak, and then wrote her response on
the slate she carried at her waist, as always.
The next table,
where the Celestines had been meant to sit with various other forest faeries
and witches, was half-empty, and Olwynne wondered with a sudden stab of anxiety
whether Thunderlily was dangerously ill, as none of her family were here at the
wedding. She hoped not, for Thunderlily was one of only a few Celestines born
since the days of the Burning, and it would truly be a dreadful thing if she
died while under the care of the Coven. She could tell by her aunt’s face that
Isabeau was worried too. Dide was trying to coax her to dance and the Keybearer
was shaking her head, a little frown between her eyes. Brun, who sat next to
her, was patting her hand in comfort.
The minstrels
played in a gallery set high above the doors that led out to the garden. The
gallery ran down both sides of the hall, supported by tall wooden pillars,
beautifully carved at the top with merry faces wreathed with leaves and
flowers. The pillars were all joined into archways by curving fretwork carved
to look like writhing vines. Through each archway was a shadowy recess. Doors
standing open onto the terrace alternated with small curtained chambers where
guests could retreat for a more confidential conversation, or play cards or
dice if they preferred. Each of the private chambers was illuminated by
lanterns of red glass that created a soft, warm glow that shone out through the
fretwork. The whole effect was very pretty, and the Master of Revels looked
about him with a look of great satisfaction before bending over as far as his
tight corsets would let him to straighten a candle an infinitesimal amount.
Once the stately
pavane was over, most of the more elderly guests settled themselves down to eat
and drink and dissect the day, while the younger set enjoyed jigs and reels,
the canary and the galliard. Bronwen unhooked her elaborate train and danced
blithely, laughing and smiling while Donncan looked on. Occasionally he stepped
in to request her hand, and at once her brightness would dim and she would
restrain her natural grace to his more subdued step.
Neil MacFóghnan
did not dance. He brooded over his goblet of wine, lifting it often to drain it
to its dregs and then signal the page for more. Elfrida sat beside him,
drinking little, eating less, her heavy gold fan fluttering back and forth so
fast it was almost a blur. Certainly she must have been hot, for although she
had not worn her customary black in deference to the superstition that it was
an unlucky color to wear to a wedding, her grey silk was as dark as
thunderclouds and made high to the neck and wrists as usual. Only a narrow
edging of lace at her throat and cuffs and a double row of tiny mother-of-pearl
buttons relieved its severity. Olwynne, who was uncomfortably sticky in her
pale silk, wondered why she had not worn something lighter. Then she saw the
black-clad pastor sitting at the Banprionnsa’s right hand, his whole body stiff
with condemnation and distaste at the music and dancing and feasting going on
all around him, and felt sorry for Elfrida. It must have been hard to have been
raised in a society that disapproved of all that was bright and free and
beautiful.
Olwynne danced
with her father, and then with Donncan, and then took her twin’s hand and
promenaded down the length of the hall with him. After that, her duty done, she
could rest, Olwynne told herself, feeling her heart slam in the cage of her
ribs, her temples thudding.I am just tired , she told herself again.It’s
the heat.
Owein was
unusually quiet, and Olwynne was glad of it. They turned and he raised his arm
so she could duck beneath it, then he ducked under hers. Then they stood, arms
held high, as other couples ducked through the long archway, one by one.
When it was time
to promenade again, Owein said abruptly, “Mam saysDai-dein plans to
pardon the satyricorn girl.”
Olwynne
stumbled. Only long years of rigorous training by her dancing master enabled
her to go on. “What?”
“He’ll make the
announcement tonight, when he toasts Donn and Bronwen.”
Olwynne’s heart
beat so hard and fast she could barely hear the music. She could not speak.
“Mam says he has
told Johanna and Dillon the news already. Johanna is no’ here tonight, so she
must be angry indeed. It’s true what they say: ye canna keep everyone happy.”
Olwynne’s eyes
filled with tears. She kept her head high, her face turned away, but her twin
brother knew. “It’s better this way,” he said consolingly. “Lewen would always
have felt bad and guilty about her, but this way she can be sent somewhere far
away, to do service for the Crown somewhere else, in Ravenshaw, perhaps.”
Olwynne nodded
but still could not speak. She wished she could raise her hand to blot away her
tears, but someone would see and comment on it. Olwynne could never bear to be
the subject of gossip.
“Lewen loves ye
truly. Ye ken that,” Owein said awkwardly. “It’ll make no difference to ye, if
she lives. Ye’ll see.”
Lewen loves ye
truly. . . .
Olwynne wished
with all her heart that this was so. But it was all a lie, a sham, a concoction
of blood and ribbon and withered flowers. “I have a headache,” she said.
“Please, Owein, I want to sit down.”
Owein had spent
as many years suffering dancing lessons as Olwynne. He swung her out of the set
without missing a beat and led her to her seat at the high table. Lachlan and
Iseult were smiling at each other over the rims of their jeweled goblets.
Olwynne saw her mother reach out a hand to stroke her father’s cheek. It was
their wedding anniversary, she knew, and felt tears of envy and longing prickle
her eyes.
“I’ll find Lewen
for ye,” Owein said.
Olwynne nodded
and sat, fanning herself rapidly. It was hot and oppressive, and the blazing
candles swam before her eyes. The swirling dresses, the joyous lilt of the
music, the heavy scent of the flowers, none of it gave her any pleasure. She was
finding it hard to breathe.
Lewen had been
talking with the other royal squires, but he came at once to her side, sitting
and holding her hand in both of his. Olwynne clung to his strong, calloused
hand like a drowning man to a spar. She willed herself not to weep.
“What’s wrong?”
Lewen whispered.
She made a
helpless gesture with her hand.
Lewen looked to
the dance floor, where Bronwen was dancing a bold galliard with one of the
Fairgean lords. Donncan had returned to the high table, where he too sat and
nursed his wine cup, as dark-visaged as Lewen had ever seen him.
“Are ye upset
that Prionnsa Donncan seems so unhappy? I would no’ fret, dearling. As long as
I have kent him, he has had no eyes for anyone but the Banprionnsa Bronwen. I
am sure it is just a lovers’ misunderstanding, and all will be well. True love
canna be broken so easily.”
Olwynne said
nothing. She put up one hand and pressed it against her eyes.
The music
twirled, the musicians red in the face as they piped and fiddled and drummed
away, the dancers panting as they paused at the head of the procession. The
flowers were wilting. The mint sorbet was melting in the little silver bowls
even as the lackeys carried it in from the kitchen.
“Do ye wish to
go out for a breath o’ fresh air?” Lewen asked her. “Ye look very pale.”
She nodded.
Together they
rose and made their way through the archway of entwining wooden vines. Lewen
opened the glass doors for her and ushered her out onto the terrace, closing
the door behind him. It was not much cooler, but at least there was less noise
and light.
“I’ll get ye
something to drink,” Lewen said solicitously and left her sitting on a stone
bench on the terrace. Olwynne could not rest. She rose, pacing up and down the
terrace. A new tune began. Olwynne was drawn to the tall glass door. Looking
in, she saw the banquet hall bright with candles. People in vivid silks and
velvets danced or clustered in groups, talking and eating. Donncan had got up
and was nodding curtly to the Fairgean lord as he asked Bronwen for a dance.
She smiled brilliantly and looked up into Donncan’s face as he spun her around
so that her moonlight-silver dress swung out and billowed about her.
Olwynne gasped
aloud. She had seen this before. She had seen it more than once. The wreath of white
flowers on the midnight-dark hair, the silver dress swirling. She looked
desperately for her father. He bent his dark head over her mother’s red one,
then nodded and turned to beckon to the Master of Revels, preparing to stand
up, to make the toast. Olwynne took a step forward, her hands pressed up hard
against the glass. “No!” she cried, but the noise she made was slight, no more
than a croak.
There was
someone in the shadows. A woman in a dark-colored dress. Olwynne felt she
should know her. If the candles were not so bright, the shadow beneath the
pillars so dark, she would recognize her, she knew. The woman moved. Dread
surged up Olwynne’s throat like vomit. She banged her hands on the glass as the
woman glanced quickly from side to side. No one heard her. No one saw her.
Then the woman
lifted one hand to her mouth, as if hiding a cough or spitting a piece of
chewed gristle into her hand. There was a flash of gold. Then something dark
flew out from her cupped hand.
Olwynne watched
it dart across the floor, fast and fierce, straight into Lachlan’s throat.
Tears choked her. She did not even try to cry out. She knew no one would hear
her.
Lachlan jerked
and slapped at his skin, as if at a stinging fly. Color surged up his skin. He
stood, his chair crashing over. Olwynne could see her mother leap to her feet
in dismay and seize his arm. The Rìgh swayed and then he fell.
Olwynne watched
him fall away down behind the table, disappearing from her view, and then she
fell to her knees, her hands over her mouth.“Dai-dein,” she whispered.
“Oh, Eà, no!”
Roden lay on his
bed in his nightgown, moodily attacking the wooden soldier he held in one hand
with the wooden soldier in the other.No’fair , he thought.Why do I
have to come home, just ’cause I’m a laddiekin? I never get to have any fun.
He rolled over and kicked at his headboard with one bare foot. He had spent
much of the past week hanging around the kitchen, watching wide-eyed as the
palace cooks had created one sumptuous, extravagant dish after another. There
was one dish in particular that Roden would like to have seen wheeled into the
banquet hall. The head cook had planned a roast bhanias bird, carefully posed
upon a bed of sugared roses and candied violets, and all its magnificent
feathers reattached so that it looked as though it was still alive. Into the
great bird’s belly he intended to place a roast swan, which would in turn be
carved to reveal a roast pheasant, which held within a roast lark.
Apart from this
subtlety, the menu had included roast venison with the antlered head still
attached and a ripe pomegranate in its mouth, to reflect the honor of the
MacCuinn clan; a salad of rose petals and sugared apricots, to symbolize love
and fertility; a roasted lamb for each of the thirteen tables, as well as a
vast array of roasted vegetables, fruit, and flower dishes for the witches;
poached lobster, eel pie, six types of fish, a whole baked dolphin, and wild
rys from Arran wrapped in parcels of seaweed and dipped in brine for their
Fairgean guests; a castle made from spun toffee and meringue; and best of all,
a great pie from which a young cluricaun was meant to leap and dance a jig
before the wedded couple.
Despite being
heir to the Earl of Caerlaverock and entitled to the lofty title of marquis,
Roden was the son of a witch who had sworn an oath never to eat the flesh of
another living creature. The only time Roden ever got to taste meat was when
his uncle Dide bought him a sausage roll at the fair, or when his new friends
in the kitchen let him sample a bit of burned meat cut off from the end of the
roast. He was very curious indeed to know what dolphin tasted like and had
itched to sample the rosewater-iced cakes, each topped with a sugared violet.
Besides the
expected culinary delights, Roden had been looking forward to the
entertainment. Apart from the usual dancers, jesters, jugglers, acrobats,
minstrels, fire eaters, stilt walkers, and musicians, there was, he had heard,
to be a special performance from a woman who put her head inside the jaws of a
roaring snow lion. Although his mother frowned at such tricks, muttering that
it was a poor use of one’s familiar, Roden had been keen indeed to see them.
But Nina had
sent him home to bed. The wedding feast would go on too late, she said, and he
was too young for it. Roden was very displeased with his mother. It was not as
if he was even tired. Here it was, almost midnight, and it was his nursemaid
who was fast asleep in her chair, snoring gently. She was a skinny thing with
anxious eyes who had made Roden cross by drinking all his milk after he had
refused it, saying with his nose in the air that he was far too old for warm
milk before bedtime. Later, of course, he had wanted it, but it was all gone
and she was asleep, and Roden knew he would be in extra big trouble if he was
caught trying to go down to the kitchen by himself at this time of night. Ever
since he had been kidnapped in the spring, his mother had been very strict
about him not wandering off by himself. Once Roden would have just waited till
the adult set to mind him was distracted and then slipped off, ripe for any
adventure, but his experiences at Fettercairn Castle had frightened him. He was
still quite glad to stay close to his mother, away from the cold, lonely ghosts
of murdered little boys and the clutches of mad old women.
He glanced at
the fire, which was sinking low, sighed, yawned, and wriggled round in his bed,
pulling up his bedclothes.Might as well go to sleep , he thought to
himself, disgruntled.Naught else to do.
A creak from the
door startled him. He sat up, grinning with delight, expecting to see his
mother come to check on him, or perhaps his beloved uncle Dide, with a tray of
goodies to share.
His happy smile
faded, though. A tall man in a heavy traveling cloak stepped inside the door,
shielding a lantern so that only a whisker of light preceded him. Roden had
never seen him before, but something about his smooth, white, expressionless
face frightened him.
“Who are ye?” he
quavered, sinking back down into his bedclothes.
The young man
regarded him with displeasure. “Still awake are ye, brat? Didna ye drink your
milk?” He cast an unfavorable eye at the sleeping nursemaid, grunted, and
closed the door behind him. “Well, she’ll sleep for days, with a double dose,”
he muttered, putting down his lantern and advancing on Roden.
“Who are ye?”
Roden demanded, edging to the far side of his bed. “What do ye want?”
“I’m Irving, the
laird o’ Fettercairn’s seneschal,” the man replied, with an ironic inclination
of his head. “I believe ye were acquainted with my father?”
As Roden
launched himself from his bed, bare feet flying under his long white nightgown,
the seneschal caught him in midair and tucked him under one strong arm, his
other hand clamped over the little boy’s mouth. “And what I want, laddie, is
ye.”
Olwynne rocked
back and forth, her arms crossed over her stomach. “Oh, Eà, no, oh, Eà, no,”
she moaned.
There was a
light footstep behind her and then someone kneeled down beside her.
“Your Highness?
Are ye unwell?”
“Mydai-dein .
. . ” Olwynne managed to say.
“Come, put your
head down between your knees,” the woman said. In the light streaming out
through the window Olwynne saw the green of a healer’s robe. She obeyed and
found it a little easier to breathe.
“Here, drink
this,” the woman said. “It will help.”
Olwynne took the
glass and swallowed a mouthful, almost choking at the taste. “What . . .?” she
tried to ask, but her tongue was thick and would not obey her. Her head swam,
and her vision blurred. She tried to sit up in a sudden panic, but the woman
seized the back of her neck in a viselike grip. Olwynne struggled, but the
woman’s other hand had the cup to her mouth, tilting her head back so the foul
liquid flowed down her throat. Olwynne coughed and spluttered, trying to spit
it out, but the woman had dropped the cup and clamped her hand over Olwynne’s
nose and mouth. Olwynne could not breathe. She choked and instinctively
swallowed. At once the hand over her nose and mouth relaxed, and she was laid
down gently on the stones.
“Good girl,” the
healer said and turned and beckoned.
As two men bent
to seize her, Olwynne looked up past their shadowed forms and into the face of
the healer who had so skillfully and efficiently drugged her. She recognized
the round face with cheeks like withered apples at once. It was the woman who
had given such damning testimony at Rhiannon’s trial. The lord of Fettercairn’s
skeelie.
Owein smiled
mechanically, as the girl he was dancing with giggled immoderately at the lame
witticism he had just uttered. She was an accomplished dancer and knew how to
manage her skirts and her fan most gracefully, but Owein had never felt so
bored in his life. He mustered another smile and looked over the girl’s
shoulder to the doors that stood open onto the terrace.
Fireworks were
shooting up from the garth of the Tower of Two Moons, showering green and
crimson sparks into the sky. Owein gazed towards the tower, wondering what
Fèlice was doing. He doubted she would be enjoying the midsummer festivities
with the other students. Probably she was grieving quietly somewhere for her
friend who she still thought was to be hanged.
She was not in
her room. Owein knew that, for he had gone in search of her, to tell her the
glad news of the royal pardon his father was issuing on Rhiannon’s behalf. He
wished he could have found her and told her, but there had been so little time.
He had to get dressed for the wedding, and sit through all the interminable
rites and rituals, and suffer the boredom of the feast. All the time feeling
sick with anxiety, for he knew how upset Fèlice had been at the judges’
verdict, and how much she had blamed him for not helping. All he had been able
to do was leave her a message, begging her to meet him as soon as possible.
The dance came
to an end. Owein bowed gracefully and led the giggling girl back to her mother.
He would have liked to have made his escape, but the determined mama had no
intention of allowing him to escape easily. He was suffering her very unsubtle
hints about the suitability of her daughter as a possible wife when a servant
approached and bowed formally.
“Excuse me, Your
Highness,” the lackey said.
Owein turned at
once, trying not to show his relief and gratitude.
“Yes?” Owein
asked.
The lackey drew
him a little away. Owein did not recognize his face, but given the extra staff
hired for the wedding, this was not surprising.
“Your Highness,
I am sorry to disturb ye but there is a young lady who requested me to bring a
message to ye,” the servant said in a discreetly lowered voice.
“A young lady?”
“Aye, Your
Highness. Lady Fèlice de Valonis. She says she wishes the honor o’ a word with
ye, sir. In private.” The lackey’s face was impassive.
“Really?”
Owein’s heart gave a little jump.
“Aye, Your
Highness. She is in the rose arbor.”
Owein grinned.
“I’ll go at once,” he said, straightening up. “I do so hate to keep a lady
waiting.”
“Aye, sir.”
Owein strode
down the steps and on to the wide expanse of lawn lit by long oblongs of light
from the banquet hall’s windows. Thunder rumbled far away, and there was a
flicker of lightning across the dark soft underbelly of cloud hanging so close
over the trees. Rain splattered briefly on the leaves.
Bad omen, he thought,having
a storm on Midsummer . . .
“Would ye bring
me a bottle o’ the sparkling honey rose wine?” Owein turned suddenly to the
lackey, who was bowing low as the Prionnsa went past. “Very cold, please. Oh,
and two glasses, properly chilled.”
“Aye, sir. At
once, sir.”
Feeling much
more cheerful, Owein strode out across the lawn, the wind whipping his unruly
curls out of his neat, ribbon-bound ponytail, the cypress trees bending and
creaking so their long shadows on the candlelit grass looked like fingers
shaken in reproof. He spread his wings, just to feel the hot air ruffling his
feathers, and gave a little bound.How like Fèlice , he thought.Clandestine
assignations in the rose arbor at midnight . . .
Behind him, he
heard a sudden cry of alarm, and the music jangled to a halt.
Oh, no, Owein thought.No’
again.
He knew his brother
was holding his temper on a very short leash. Donncan had been hurt, shocked,
and humiliated by the whole terrible affair with Mathias Bright-Eyed. He had
found it hard to forgive Bronwen for flirting with Mathias in the first place,
for exposing him to such a sordid scandal on the very eve of their wedding, and
for her refusal to admit she was in the wrong and apologize to him. All
evening, watching Donncan’s stiff face as Bronwen danced and flirted as much as
ever, Owein had had a very bad feeling. He had not thought it would take much
for Donncan to lose his temper, and by the sounds of distress rising from the
banquet hall, he had done so explosively.
It did not occur
to Owein to turn and see what had happened. All his thoughts were focused on
Fèlice waiting for him in the rose arbor.Let Donncan sort out his own mess
, he thought.
The tall golden
windows fell out of sight behind stiff dark hedges. Owein conjured a little
ball of witch-light so he could see his way. It bobbed and swayed in the
breeze, and almost flickered out, Owein too busy wondering what to say to
Fèlice to concentrate on holding it steady. He came through an archway into the
rose arbor and looked about for her. The scent of the roses was heavy in the
breeze, and crimson petals flew past him, torn free by the wind. All was dark.
Owein walked slowly, feeling his silken sleeve snagged by thorns he could not
see.
He saw a cloaked
shape in the stone-flagged circle at the heart of the garden and smiled.
“Fèlice?” he called.
The figure turned
towards him. Owein intensified his witch-light, stepping forward eagerly. Then
he recoiled in disappointment. It was not Fèlice who stood there but a tall,
thin, stooped man with a sensitive, apologetic face. He had the familiar
hunched shape of a piper, his bagpipes slung over one shoulder.
“I’m sorry,”
Owein said, stepping back and turning to go.
“Nay, Your
Highness, it is I who am sorry,” the man said contritely.
Only then did
Owein become aware of other men closing in from behind, one of them the grey-clad
lackey who had directed him here. Owein felt instinctively for his sword, but
of course he had not worn it to his brother’s wedding. He glanced around
wildly, spread his wings, and sprang into the air, only to be caught in a
tight-meshed net that was thrown over him by the three men.
Owein thrashed
and fought, but they held him down.
“I really am so
sorry,” the lord of Fettercairn’s piper said as he kneeled beside him. He held
a strong-smelling cloth over Owein’s mouth and nose until at last the Prionnsa’s
frantic movements faltered and grew still. Then the piper stood up and gestured
to the other men, who wrapped Owein in the net and heaved him up, carrying the
limp bundle out of the rose arbor and into the darkness of the wind-ruffled
gardens.
Iseult cradled
Lachlan in her arms. The Rìgh thrashed in agony, his face a mottled purple, his
mouth frothing.
“Eà’s blood!”
Iseult wept. “Someone help him!”
“We need a
healer!” Donncan cried. He kneeled beside his parents, white with shock and
distress. “Look, Mam!” He pointed at a black thorn protruding from his father’s
throat.
“Don’t touch
it!” Iseult commanded sharply. “It may make it worse. Isabeau! Where is
Isabeau!”
“I’m here.”
Isabeau pushed her way through the horrified crowd and kneeled beside her brother-in-law.
“What in Eà’s name happened?”
“It’s a bogfaery
dart,” Donncan said.
“Who did this?”
Captain Dillon demanded, his hand on his sword. “Did anyone see anything?
Guards! Search the room! Find the man who did this!”
“It’s a bogfaery
dart,” Donncan said again, more loudly. “Whoever shot it would have a
blowpipe.”
Captain Dillon
spun on his heel. “No Yeoman would do this,” he said icily.
“I ken,” Donncan
said, meeting his gaze steadily. “Bogfaeries and Yeomen are no’ the only ones
to have blowpipes, though. Someone in this crowd has one!”
Captain Dillon
nodded. “Search everyone here,” he commanded. “No one is permitted to leave
this room until we have found that blowpipe!”
The Rìgh cried
out and arched his back. His arms flailed. His protruding eyes stared into
Iseult’s anguished face. He tried to speak, but his lips and throat were rigid.
He could not frame the sound.
“What,leannan
, what?” Iseult cried.
The Rìgh’s
tortured gaze moved slowly from her face to that of his son. He jerked one hand
at him, and they heard him stammer, “Donn . . . Donn . . .”
“I’m here,Dai-dein,
” Donncan said, taking his father’s palsied hand. Lachlan’s lips were blue and
flecked with foam. He jerkily tried to draw Donncan closer, and the winged
Prionnsa bent his head and listened as his father whispered in his ear.
“No, no,Dai-dein,
” Donncan cried. “No, we will make ye well. Auntie Beau! Help him!”
Isabeau had
pulled the thorn out and had her mouth pressed to the tiny scratch, trying to
suck the poison out. Still Lachlan endeavored to speak, and Donncan gripped his
hand and listened, tears glistening in his eyes.
“Aye, sir,” he
said. “O’ course.”
Lachlan’s head
fell back into Iseult’s lap.
Isabeau lifted
her head and spat out a mouthful of blood. “No good,” she panted. “I need . . .
a healer! Someone, get Johanna!”
“I’ll fetch
her!” Donncan cried and scrambled to his feet. “I can fly faster than anyone
could run. Where is she?”
“In her rooms, I
imagine . . . I ken she is angry and upset, but . . . surely she will come. . .
. Tell her . . . need . . . antidote . . . Does she ken . . .?” Isabeau said,
alternating thumping on Lachlan’s chest with both her hands to breathing into
his mouth. “Quick . . . his heart failing . . . Cloudshadow! Find Cloudshadow .
. . She could heal him!”
Isabeau stopped
her rhythmic pounding to breathe into Lachlan’s mouth. Donncan spread his
golden wings and soared high into the air, over everyone’s heads and out the
door of the banquet hall. Never had he flown so fast.
It was beginning
to rain, huge heavy drops that splattered his skin. Donncan flew high over the
gardens, his head down, his arms stretched long to make his passage as swift as
possible. It was hard to breathe. He felt as if a vise had been clamped on his
lungs. Tears burned his eyes, and he bent his arm to roughly wipe his nose.
Take the
Lodestar,
his father had whispered.Rule well . . .
Donncan saw the
dark bulk of the Tower of Two Moons ahead of him. He came down, stumbling,
before the light-strung building and began to run, ignoring the groups of
laughing, wine-flushed students gathered on the steps, who all turned to stare
after him. Once he was inside the great doors of the Royal College of Healers,
he spread his wings again and took flight, soaring up the grand spiral staircase.
It was dark in
the healers’ tower, and quiet. Only the occasional lantern shed its lonely
circle of light. He wondered momentarily where everyone was.
He reached the
top of the stairs and hammered on the head healer’s door. “Johanna! Johanna!”
The door opened.
Johanna looked out. For once she was not dressed in her treasured green
healer’s robe but in a brown woolen traveling dress with sturdy boots and a
waterproof cape. Donncan barely noticed.
Gasping for
breath, he cried, “Johanna! My father . . . the Rìgh . . . he needs ye. . . .”
“Good,” Johanna
said, smiling. “It is done then.”
Donncan fell
back in dismayed confusion.
“But . . . what
do ye mean? . . . Ye canna mean . . .”
Johanna
unsheathed a long, cruelly sharp dagger from a leather scabbard hanging from
her belt. “I do, I’m afraid.”
He stumbled
back. “Ye kent . . . ye kent my father . . .”
“He pardoned
that murdering satyricorn bitch,” Johanna said unevenly. “After all the years
that Connor and I have served him, risking our necks again and again, and yet
when Connor is killed, he doesna care enough even to make sure justice is done.
I would no’ have helped them if he had just let things be, no matter how they
pleaded or argued. . . . He is my Rìgh, after all. But once he told me she
would no’ hang . . .”
Donncan stared
at the dagger, which she held close to her body as she had been taught long ago
by his own mother. He took a step back, and at once the knife darted forward
like an adder, so that he stopped, hands raised.
“What do ye plan
to do?”
“I must be the
one to raise him,” she whispered, looking past Donncan into the shadowy
corridor so that he jerked around to see what she stared at, only to find
nothing but air. “He swore he would live again; he swore he’d outwit Gearradh
in the end. . . .”
“Who?” Donncan
whispered, his skin prickling with horror.
Johanna glanced
back at him and for a moment did not seem to know who he was. Then she stepped
forward and rammed the dagger tip against Donncan’s ribs so that he gasped in
pain and surprise. “Inside,” she said, and he had no choice but to step into
her room, though his heart slammed in sick fear.
Surprise made
him stop short on the threshold, and Johanna jabbed him viciously so that he
stepped forward again, crying, “Thunderlily!”
The young
Celestine was lying on the couch, dressed in her silver bridesmaid’s dress, her
head lolling down onto her chest. Her hands had been bound with heavy rope.
“But why?”
Donncan asked, turning slowly to stare at Johanna.
“The laird o’
Fettercairn wishes ye to die, as his little nephew died so long ago, and I need
a living soul to sacrifice,” she said in the same tone of voice that she might
have used to discuss the weather. “I kent someone would come to get me. I was
hoping it’d be ye or your good-for-naught little brother, seeing as how ye can
fly faster than any lackey could run. Dedrie will be so pleased with me.”
“Who?” Donncan
asked again, edging away from the sharp tip of the dagger and hoping to
distract her.
She moved with
him, keeping her body turned so he could find no opening to strike at her.
“Dedrie, the laird o’ Fettercairn’s skeelie. She has become a great friend to
me, loyal and true. I kenshe shall no’ betray me, as Himself did with
his royal pardon. . . . She stayed here, at great risk to herself, just to make
sure she could testify against that murdering bitch . . . and then Himself goes
and pardons her! It’s true—he cares naught for those who love and serve him.
Look at the way he used up all those poor laddies, Parlan and Artair and
Anntoin and Tòmas, all dead in his service, and now Connor too.”
As she talked,
she forced Donncan forward and bade him sit. He obeyed reluctantly, and she
took up a little bottle from the table and poured herself a cup of some rich
golden liquid with brown dregs in it that she stirred with the tip of her
knife, her hands trembling with eagerness. Keeping her eyes fixed on the
Prionnsa, the knife held ready in her hand, she slowly drank down the wine and
a shudder ran over her. For a moment her eyes closed in ecstasy, and Donncan
lunged to his feet, hoping to take her by surprise. Whatever it was she drank,
it did not dull her senses, though, for her eyes snapped open and the dagger
swung up, so that he halted, hands up, and slowly retreated back to his chair.
“Smart lad,” she
said approvingly. “I would hate to have to kill ye ahead o’ time.”
She drank the
last few drops of the liquid slowly, savoring every golden drop, then hammered
the cork back into the bottle with the hilt of her knife, lovingly wrapped it
in a wad of cloth, and tucked it away in a small backpack on the table. The
backpack was hung with a lantern, a tin kettle, and a coil of rope, and it
bulged with various packages that Donncan eyed in increasing anxiety. Johanna
slung it over her shoulder, then pulled a tam-o’-shanter on over her neatly
coiled brown hair.
“It could be
cold; always best to be prepared,” she said in a conversational tone and
wrapped a woolly plaid about her shoulders. She looked Donncan up and down and
smiled in amusement. He glanced down at himself, remembering he was still
dressed in his wedding finery, a green velvet coat with sleeves slashed with
scarlet and white and a scarlet sash with a gold fringe over the MacCuinn kilt.
He wished he had a dagger at his belt or in his long black boot, but one did
not wear such things to one’s wedding.
“Where are ye
taking us?” he demanded.
She did not
answer, just took a small jar from her pocket and unstoppered it, waving it
under Thunderlily’s nose. The Celestine jerked awake, a shrill buzz of terror
rising from her throat. Johanna held the knife where she could see it, and at
once the drone stopped, the Celestine’s eyes wide with fear.
While Johanna
carefully cut through Thunderlily’s bonds, Donncan surreptitiously undid the
brooch that held his plaid together and dropped it under the table. It was not
much of a clue, but it was all he could manage under the circumstances. As the
rope fell away, the Celestine sobbed aloud in relief and rubbed at her wrists.
Donncan felt a slow burn of anger. Celestines were the most gentle of faeries.
They would never raise a hand to strike an enemy. They were gardeners, healers,
and astronomers, not warriors. They felt a loving kinship with all creatures.
It hurt him to see Thunderlily used so roughly.
Johanna dragged
Thunderlily to her feet and jerked her head at Donncan, indicating he should
rise also. The healer had her knife held to the Celestine’s bare throat.
Donncan, staring at Johanna in amazement and horror, saw how the pupils of her
eyes had shrunk to pinpoints. It made her seem somehow inhuman.
Donncan could do
nothing but obey.
“Walk now,” she
commanded. “I will keep my dagger to the Celestine’s back. If either o’ ye make
a single move or noise I have no’ commanded, I will kill ye both. Do ye
understand?”
Thunderlily sent
Donncan an agonized look. He tried to reassure her, muttering, “Aye,” and
keeping as close to her as he dared.
Johanna forced
them down the stairs and through the building. The healers’ wing was dark and
deathly quiet, as if they all slept, but the Prionnsa could hear drunken
singing and partying coming from the Theurgia as the students celebrated the
end of the midsummer revelries. The garth was full of people dancing and
talking, and someone had set off fireworks in the garden before the students’
wing. Quite a few turned to stare at the little party hurrying past, but
Donncan did not dare give any sign that something was wrong. He kept his eyes
down and his hands still, and hoped that no one would accost him.
“Good even, Your
Highness!” someone called. “Congratulations!”
Donncan smiled
and nodded in response, but hurried on and felt the student’s eyes follow him
curiously.
“The maze,”
Johanna muttered. “Do ye ken the way through the maze?”
“What? Why would
ye want—”
She flicked the
knife his way, scoring him across his back. He stifled a yelp of pain. “Do ye
ken the way through the maze?” she demanded.
“Aye, o’ course
I do,” he replied.
“Excellent,” she
answered, and he exchanged a baffled look with Thunderlily.
Johanna took
them into the long garden where the healers grew many of their medicinal herbs
and trees. There was a whole grove of willows, their long leafy tendrils
tossing wildly in the thundery wind as if they were dancing a bacchanal.
Donncan felt the wind shivering against the skin of his face, like hot eager
hands. He realized he was terribly afraid. He tripped over a tree root and
almost fell, and Johanna dragged him up, warning him in a hiss that she would
cut Thunderlily’s throat if he tried anything stupid.
They stumbled on
through the garden and out through a tall iron gate that swung back and forth
in the wind. Beyond was the witches’ wood, where narrow paths ran through
groves and gardens, and where the maze was hidden within its walls of yew
trees.
Suddenly the
bells began to toll. The sound was very low and somber, for the bells’ clappers
had been fully muffled, something that was only done at the death of a monarch.
Donncan started,
the blood draining away from his face.“Dai-dein!” he cried.
“The Rìgh is
dead. Long live the Rìgh!” Johanna cried, then poked Donncan with her knife.
“But no’ for long!”
She sounded
quite mad.
On and on the
bells tolled.
“Why?” Donncan
demanded, tears roughening his voice. “Why have ye killed my father!”
“I didna kill
him,” she said. “I’ve done naught.” She smiled. “I mean, I may have drugged the
house wine so there’d no’ be a healer or a Celestine awake when they were
needed.” She smiled more widely. “And I may have given Princess Thunderlily a
cup o’ it to drink when I tricked her to coming to my room. But otherwise I’ve
done naught at all.”
“Ye knew someone
was going to kill my father!” Donncan screamed, blood pounding in his head.
“Why? Why?”
“He deserved
it,” Johanna replied bitterly. “After all the years I have served him
faithfully . . . and my brother too . . . and it means naught to him. Naught.”
“Who?” he
demanded. “Who killed him?”
Johanna laughed.
“Ye’ll never guess,” she answered.
She had been
forcing them on through the wild tangle of the witches’ forest, Donncan and
Thunderlily stumbling over root and stone, clinging together, the Celestine
humming high in warning or distress. Then Donncan saw the ornate iron gate of
the maze emerge out of the whispering yew.
“Where are ye
taking us?” he demanded.
“Back,” Johanna
whispered. “Back to the beginning. He has been dead a very long time. He wants
to live again, and I shall be the one to raise him. But we must go back. Naught
left o’ him but grave dust.”
“Back where?”
Donncan demanded, feeling terror mount up to strangle him.
“Why, to the
Tomb o’ Ravens, o’ course,” she answered. “A thousand years ago.”
Rhiannon lay on
her prison bed, her hands clasped on her breast, feeling the rise and fall of
her breath, the subtle pulse of her heartbeat. Each breath, each heartbeat, was
one more moment of life. At the moment that was all she had to hold on to.
She had fought
every step of the way from the courtroom back to her cell. It had taken six men
to subdue her, and she still ached all over from their rough handling.
Rhiannon’s shock and grief had been profound. They had promised her, over and
over again—they had promised her she would be freed—yet the judges had found
her guilty and condemned her to hang. Rhiannon did not know how old she was,
but she knew she was young and greedy for life. There was so much yet to see
and learn, so much loving and adventuring to do. When at last she realized she
could not fight her way free, when the door had been slammed on her and locked
and she found herself once again in the vile little cell she knew so well,
Rhiannon had fallen to her knees and wept. It was too late for shouting and
arguing, too late for screaming and fighting, too late for begging. She could
only weep, her face bent down into her hands, her whole body racked with pain.
Rhiannon could
not cry forever. A time had come when she had no more tears, and she had to get
up, and mop her face, and blow her nose, and drag herself to her bed. She felt
oddly calm, now the force of her grief had spent itself, scoured clean as a
shell by the sea.
She did not know
how much time had passed. It must be at least three hours, for her candle was
guttering in its cage of iron. Any moment it would sputter out, and she would
be alone in the darkness again.
There was a
grating sound as the key was turned in the lock. The door squealed open, and
Corey put his head in the door.
“Game o’ dice?”
he said, rattling his leather cup. Although he did his best to sound normal,
his lugubrious face showed that he knew this was Rhiannon’s last night alive.
Tears stung Rhiannon’s
eyes again. She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Havena ye lost
enough money yet?” she said. Her voice was rough and scratchy.
“Naught else to
do,” he said. “I’m on my own tonight. The rest o’ the lads have got the night
free, to go celebrate midsummer. I got the short straw, as always.”
“Well, I’ve got
naught else to do,” Rhiannon said, trying to achieve an insouciant tone and
almost succeeding. “No’ that I need the coins. Ye heard I willna be enjoying
your kind hospitality anymore?”
“I was at the
courthouse,” Corey said abruptly, not looking at her. She did not need to ask
if he had been booing or cheering. Over the months Rhiannon had been locked up
in Sorrowgate Tower, she had gotten to know her guards well. She had bribed
them for extra candles, and for bags of seed for her little bluebird, and for
the occasional jug of hot water to wash in; and, once they realized she was as
much of an avid gambler as they all were, they had spent many hours playing
cards and dice. Rhiannon was careful not to win too often, for she wanted to
stay on the guards’ good side and still entertained fantasies of being able to
escape or bribe her way free. Corey was the guard she gambled with most, for he
was the closest to her in age and found the long hours cooped up inside stone
walls as boring as she did.
The older night
guard, Henry, disapproved mightily, but he quite liked to put his aching feet
up on the stool and read the latest broadsheet without being bothered by his
fellow guard’s fidgets, so had learned to turn a blind eye. Though he would
never have admitted it, the story of “Rhiannon’s Ride,” which had been
distributed widely that summer, had predisposed him to turning a more lenient
eye to his infamous prisoner, though never to the extent of relaxing his
vigilance.
“Henry gone
a-feasting tonight as well?” Rhiannon asked after she had let Corey win quite a
few of her few remaining coins. “That doesna sound like our Henry.”
“His daughter’s
jumping the fire tonight, just like the Banprionnsa,” Corey said. “He was given
leave to go. Funny. I never kent he had a daughter, and I’ve been working with
him for nigh on two years now.”
Rhiannon threw
her dice, shrugged as once again she lost, and got up. At once Corey tensed,
but Rhiannon waved at him irritably. “Relax, laddie! I just thought ye’d like
some goldensloe wine, for midsummer. Nina brought me some the other day. It’s
just here, under my bed. Throw! What have ye got?”
Corey threw the
dice and groaned. “A three and a two! The Centaur’s beard! My luck’s out
tonight.”
“It certainly
is,” Rhiannon replied and brought the chamber pot crashing down on his head. It
was unfortunately full, and Rhiannon felt a twinge of compassion for the
hapless young guard. It did not stop her from wresting away his bunch of keys,
her nose wrinkling at the smell, nor from locking him up in her cell with his
own keys. Feeling she may as well be hanged for a thief as a murderer, she also
relieved him of his purse and his winnings, spilled across the table. She wiped
the coins on his jerkin first.
With her few
belongings bundled into her pillowcase and the little bluebird riding on her
shoulder, Rhiannon went searching through the dark, quiet halls of the prison.
She found the guards’ storeroom. A lantern stood on the table. By its light,
Rhiannon unlocked the cupboard and found her saddlebags within, neatly packed
with all her belongings. It gave Rhiannon a savage delight to strip off the
ugly prison garb and dress herself once more in the soft white shirt and
breeches that had belonged to Connor. She strapped his silver dagger at her
waist, slung her bow and arrows over one shoulder, and hung the saddlebags over
her arm. The bluebird gave a questioning trill, and she whispered, “It’s back
to the mountains for us, my pretty.”
No one
challenged her as she made her way towards the stairs, and her heart began to
beat a little more steadily. She did not dare make her way to the lower
reaches, where she knew many guards would still be on duty, despite the
midsummer celebrations. Instead she turned upwards, climbing up to the
battlements. She had a fine view up there, of the bonfires in every city square
and stringing their way across the countryside beyond the river. She could hear
shouting and singing, and somewhere someone was setting off firecrackers, which
scared her at first, as she had never heard anything so loud.
When the noise
had died, the boys running away to do mischief elsewhere, Rhiannon took a deep
breath and leaned over the battlement, her eyes drinking in the wide expanse of
starry sky. Behind her the city glared, even at this late hour, but to the east
was only the river and the forest, almost invisible under the heavy swathe of
clouds.
Blackthorn, she called
silently.Dearling! It’s time. Come!
Long minutes
passed.
Blackthorn!
Rhiannon’s heart
was shrinking with bitter disappointment when she heard, faintly, a high shrill
whinny. It rocked her from head to foot.
Blackthorn!
Blackthorn!
Again the whinny
came, and then Rhiannon could hear wingbeats.
Sssh! Softly,
softly . . .
Then out of the
darkness came her winged horse, shaking her head and neighing with frantic joy.
Her hoof knocked the stone coping and sent a piece of paving whizzing down into
the darkness. Rhiannon did not wait for Blackthorn to land but seized her mane
and leaped up on her bare back, flinging the saddlebags over the mare’s
withers.
Blackthorn
wheeled and began to fly away from the city, her wings beating steadily.
Rhiannon allowed herself to lay her cheek down on the silky mane and sob with
grief and relief. Behind her bells began to peal.
What, they have
discovered me gone already?Rhiannon thought.We had best fly far and fast,
dearling, else they’ll have us again!
The bells tolled
out.
Iseult kneeled
on the floor, Lachlan lying slack and lifeless in her arms. “Find the
murderer,” she hissed, low and vicious. “I want him staked out for the White
Gods. I want him hanged, drawn, and quartered, and his entrails fed to the city
dogs. Do ye understand me?”
“Aye, Your
Highness.” Captain Dillon bowed low, his face set in harsh lines. “Do no’ fear.
We will find him, if I have to turn this city inside out.”
As he spoke, his
blue-clad soldiers continued with their thorough search and interrogation of
the wedding guests and servants, taking them one by one to other rooms where
each had to give an account of the evening’s happenings. Their clothes were
patted and flounced, their pockets and bags turned out, their jewelry and
accessories examined. All were shocked, many were offended, quite a few had
hysterics.
Iseult’s and
Isabeau’s mother, Ishbel, had fainted and now floated a few feet off the floor,
cocooned in the floating tendrils of her long pale hair. Their father,
Khan’gharad, submitted angrily to being searched before taking Ishbel back to
their rooms, propelling her through the air with a firm hand on her shoulder.
It was clear he would prefer to have been out helping with the hunt for his
son-in-law’s murderer, but once again Ishbel’s strange malady had confounded
and confined him, and he was forced to tend her while she was lost in her
enchanted sleep.
Meanwhile, King
Nila and Queen Fand and their children were whisked away by the Fairgean
ambassador Alta, all looking grim and worried indeed. The bodyguards of the
other prionnsachan closed around those they protected, weapons at the ready. If
the Rìgh of Eileanan and the Far Islands could be assassinated in his own
banquet hall, then no one was safe.
“Finn, canna ye
do something? Canna ye find this villain for me?” Iseult demanded.
Finn the Cat was
holding the black dart in her hand, her eyes shut. After a long moment, she
opened her eyes and shook her head unhappily. “Whoever it was didna touch the
dart long enough to leave a strong impression. They may have picked it up while
wearing gloves or handled it through a cloth. I’m sorry.”
“There must be
something ye can do!”
“If ye can find
the blowpipe, I’ll be able to tell ye who the murderer is, for they will have
held it to their mouth and blown the air o’ their lungs into it. That will be
enough for me.”
“But canna ye
help find the blowpipe?”
Finn shook her
head reluctantly. “The dart must’ve passed through the pipe in a matter o’
seconds. Whoever did this must’ve been careful no’ to have let it touch any
longer than that. All I get from the dart is an impression o’ darkness and
closeness, like a pocket or a bag. Beyond that, I can tell ye only that it
comes from the swamplands o’ Arran, but ye could guess that for yourselves.”
Iseult switched
her fierce gaze from Finn to Iain. Sick and white with shock, he kneeled beside
Lachlan’s sprawling form. Elfrida stood beside him, gripping her fan tightly.
She put one hand on his shoulder, and he straightened slowly. “Ye ken we
s-s-sell the blowpipes and barbs to the Yeomen,” Iain said, beginning to
stammer as he always did in times of strong emotion. “They . . . they take a
hundred or so every year. And the b-b-bogfaeries sometimes sell them too, on
the black m-m-market. There is no way for me to tell who m-m-may have one. I’m
s-s-sorry.” He hid his face again in his hands.
Iseult bent her
head over Lachlan’s lifeless form, smoothing his hair away from his face.
Isabeau wrapped her arm about her twin and rocked her wordlessly. Iseult’s
chest rose and fell sharply, and her breath shuddered.
Like everyone
else in the crowd, Lewen had been painstakingly searched and questioned by the
soldiers, but he had been allowed to stay in the banquet hall in case his
mistress had need of him. All the other squires had been hustled away by their
respective families, everyone fearful of what might happen next.
Although numb
with shock and grief, Lewen saw that the Banrìgh was in danger of breaking down
completely and so he found a pitcher of wine and brought her a glass of the
rich red liquid, kneeling beside her to proffer it on a tray. Isabeau gave him
a quick glance of commendation and took the glass, holding it to Iseult’s
mouth. She managed to swallow a mouthful.
“I beg your
pardon, Your Highness . . .” Lewen said, his stomach twisting with anxiety.
Iseult looked up
at him blankly.
“Your Highness,
I’m sorry but . . . where are Olwynne and Owein?” Lewen said in a rush. “I
canna see them anywhere.”
Iseult stared at
him for a moment, then got to her feet, looking about her wildly. She was white
to the lips. “Where are they?” she whispered. “They were right here afore . . .
afore . . .” A shudder ran over her.
Isabeau stood up
abruptly. “Owein and Olwynne are missing?”
“No,” Iseult
whispered. “No, no, no.”
“But that’s
ridiculous,” Nina said sharply. “They were here, at the feast. . . .”
“I saw Owein
dancing with one o’ the NicThanach girls just moments afore it all happened,”
Dide said, staring around him, grim-faced.
“But did ye see
him again afterwards?” Isabeau demanded.
“Nay . . . but
there was so much happening. It was all such confusion . . .”
“Aye, exactly,”
Isabeau said grimly. She turned to Lewen. “When did ye last see Olwynne?”
“She was on the
terrace, my lady. . . . I went to get her a cool drink . . . but then His
Majesty . . . I didna see her again,” he managed to say, though his throat was
rigid with fear.
“Did anyone else
see Owein and Olwynne after . . .” Isabeau’s voice faded away.
All the
onlookers shook their heads, a loud murmur of dissent rising.
“Eà’s green
blood,” Iseult said and swayed where she stood.
The wind wailed
a lamentation. Sleet drove against the windows. All the air in the room turned
to ice, so that Lewen could scarcely breathe. White clouds hung before their
mouths. The tear spilling over Iseult’s red eyelid froze into one long,
glittering icicle.
“Iseult! Stop
it!” Isabeau cried. “Do ye think turning the world to snow will make our job
any easier!”
Her sister had
not been named Iseult of the Snows simply because she had been raised in the
icy wastes of the Spine of the World. Always her talent had been with ice and
snow. It had proved useful indeed during the long years of the Bright Wars,
when she had used her powers against their enemies, but it had been a long time
since she had done more than chill her wine by cupping her hand around her
glass. Iseult had never spent long years studying the nature and extent of her
powers, as her twin sister had done, and so her control over her abilities was
variable. Like many untrained witches, her Talent could manifest itself without
volition and could prove very hard to rein back in once it had been unleashed.
Isabeau seized
her shoulders and shook her. She was crying herself, but the look of fierce
determination on her face did not falter.
“Iseult! They
are no’ dead. I can sense them still. They have been stolen away. We must try
to find them! Come, Iseult. Breathe!”
The Dowager
Banrìgh took in one long, shuddering breath, then breathed out again. The
icicle melted and turned again into a teardrop. Lewen found his lungs released
from the vise of cold, and though his breath still puffed white, he was able to
inhale and exhale without pain.
“My bairns,”
Iseult whispered. “Who could’ve taken them? Why?” She began to pace up and down
the hall, snow swirling from her skirts. None of those left in the room could
do anything but watch her. Everyone was gripped with a dreadful feeling of
helplessness.
“I need
something o’ theirs to hold,” Finn said. “A glass they’ve just drunk out o’, or
something they’ve made with their own hands is best. Or a lock o’ hair, or a
scrap o’ fingernail, or some o’ their blood.”
“I do no’ carry
a vial o’ my children’s blood around wi’ me,” Iseult cried.
“No’ a lock o’
baby hair?”
“O’ course,
somewhere!”
“Anyone ken
which glass was Owein’s?” Dide asked. They all glanced at the high table and saw
the servants had been quietly clearing away the refuse of the feast.
Lewen slid his
hand inside his coat and touched the withered nosegay he carried there. It had,
he remembered, some of Olwynne’s hair caught in the binding. He did not want to
show anyone the little token she had given him, but he hesitated only a second,
pulling it out and giving it to Finn.
“This was hers,”
he said quietly, the blood rising in his cheeks.
Finn took it
into her hand, and her eyebrows shot up. She looked at it closely, glanced at
Lewen, and then exchanged a quick look with Isabeau, who was watching intently,
her brows drawn close together.
“Can ye feel
aught?” Iseult demanded.
“Indeed I can,”
Finn said with another considering glance at Lewen, who tried not to squirm with
embarrassment. She held the nosegay close to her breast, breathing in deeply,
her eyes shut.
“No’ far away,”
she muttered. “Underground. Dark. Stinky. Makes her feel sick. Moving fast.
Bumped. Almost dropped. She’s being carried! Water sloshing . . . smells
horrible . . .”
“The sewers!”
Captain Dillon cried.
“Who has her?”
Dide demanded. “Can ye tell, Finn?”
Finn’s face
screwed up in concentration as she cast wide her witch-senses. Then her eyes
snapped open. “The laird o’ Fettercairn!” she hissed. “I ken his smell well,
after all those weeks handling his vile collection. But how? Why?”
“Laird Malvern!”
Nina cried. “Eà, no! Och, Your Highness, ye must find them. He is an evil, evil
man. He means naught but harm to them. I should’ve kent he’d be behind Lachlan’s
murder! He and that poisonous skeelie o’ his. But how?” Suddenly she turned and
flung out her hand to her husband. “Iven!” she cried. “He wouldna . . . he
couldna . . . Roden!”
Iven was at her
side in an instant, his arm about her waist. He looked shaken. Cursing under
his breath, Dide looked at Finn. The sorceress bit her lip and shut her eyes.
When she opened them again, it was to nod her head unhappily.
The blood
drained away from Nina’s face, leaving her a ghastly yellowish white, like old
bone. “Nay,” she whispered; then suddenly her legs gave way and she pitched
forward onto her knees. Iven and Dide were beside her in a moment, lifting her
up, both haggard with shock. Nina was weeping, trying to speak but unable to
get the breath to force the words out.
“No’ Roden, no’
my wee Roden,” Iven cried. “But how? He was . . .” His voice died away.
“Eà’s green
blood!” said Dide. “That villain! That vile snake. When? How?”
“Roden,” Nina
whispered. “My babe . . .”
There was a
tumult among those in the room. Cries and exclamations rang out.
“The laird o’
Fettercairn again!” Gwilym said. “We should’ve lain him by the heels days ago!”
“If it hadn’t
been for the extra soldiers we needed to guard the wedding . . .” Captain
Dillon said.
“How did this
happen?” Isabeau whispered. She had known the little boy from birth and loved
him as dearly as Dide did.
“So was it the
laird o’ Fettercairn who murdered my husband?” Iseult demanded. “How? How could
he have got anywhere near him?”
“He could no’
have,” Captain Dillon said firmly. “My men were watching closely. I had double
the usual guard.”
“Yet someone
murdered Lachlan,” Iseult said. She was shaking as if with a palsy.
Captain Dillon
bowed his head. His hands gripped his sword hilt as if he was trying to prevent
it from leaping out of its sheath and laying waste around him.
“Let us go,”
Finn said, giving the nosegay back to Lewen. “If we are swift enough, we’ll
catch him and then we can be finding out about the how and why. For now, let us
get on his trail!”
“I will send
some men with ye,” Captain Dillon said and beckoned to his lieutenants.
“Make sure they
are fast,” Finn said. “I will need to be able to send them back with messages.
I canna scry in this weather, and I doubt I will have the time to stop anyway.”
As Finn spoke
she had been swiftly stripping off her heavy silk gown, till she was standing
in nothing but her camisole and drawers. “Ye, give me your breeches!” she
demanded of the closest soldier. Blushing hotly, he began to undress and she
dragged on his clothes and his cloak, the grey side turned out. At once her
tiny elven cat, which she had put down on the table for a moment, leaped back
up to her shoulder again, its tufted ears laid back, its fangs bared in a hiss.
The soldier, shivering in his underclothes, gratefully received the cloak of
one of his fellow Yeomen and wrapped it about him.
Finn lifted her
hand in farewell, then broke into a run, throwing open the door into the garden
and passing out into the stormy darkness. Snow blew in through the open door,
sending the candle flames dancing and making the women shiver and rub their
bare arms.
Jay followed as
swiftly after, slinging his viola case over his back. “We’ll find them,” he
said over his shoulder. “Do no’ fear, Your Highness. We will have them soon.”
“Oh, may it
please the White Gods!” Iseult cried, her hands pressed together.
Then they were
gone.
There was a
moment’s silence. Lewen tucked away the nosegay in his pocket, his throat
tight. His bonny Olwynne, in the hands of Lord Malvern! The thought made him
feel ill with anxiety. What could the lord of Fettercairn want with Owein and
Olwynne and Roden? If it was just revenge he desired, he could have killed them
as he had, somehow, killed Lachlan. Lewen remembered how Rhiannon had seen the ghost
of a dead sorceress bargaining with Lord Malvern, promising him the secret of
raising the dead from life in return for his promise to raise her first.
“We have to get
Olwynne back,” he whispered.
Iseult had her
hands pressed against her mouth. Her skin looked grey, with shadows like
bruises under her eyes. “Donncan,” she whispered. “Oh, Eà, if they have taken
him too . . .”
Hailstones as
large as fists smashed into the windows, cracking the glass from side to side
and imploding sharp slivers into the banquet hall. The soldiers standing guard
by the door yelled and flinched away. Through the fissure, shaped like a broken
star, sleet drove in, and a bitter wind that snuffed out the candles.
They were all
plunged into an icy darkness. At once a giant ball of witch-light sprang up in
the center of the room, casting an eerie blue light over them all. Isabeau
leaped to Iseult’s side, supporting her crumpling figure. Dide brought her a
chair, and they lowered her into it and gave her wine to drink. As soon as Iseult’s
hands touched the glass, the liquid within froze solid and the glass cracked
asunder.
“Donncan,”
Iseult whispered.
“Lewen, find
him!” Isabeau commanded, bending to chafe Iseult’s hands between her own.
“Bring him back here. We must ken he is safe!”
“Aye, my lady,”
Lewen said, though he was so racked with cold and fear and horror he felt he
could barely walk. He managed to weave his way towards the glass doors leading
out into the garden, his legs wobbling underneath him as if he had been
drinking clamber skull all night.
“Wait!” Isabeau
cried.
He turned back.
“It is bitterly
cold,” she said. “Guard, give Lewen your cloak! He is no’ dressed for running
through the snow.”
Lewen looked
down at himself. He was dressed for midsummer, not midwinter. Like everyone
else in the hall, he was shivering uncontrollably. The soldier obediently
unfastened his long blue cloak and passed it to Lewen, who wrapped himself up
in it gratefully before pushing open the doors and stepping out into the storm.
Slivers of ice
needled the bare skin of his face, the wind wailing like a banshee. He dragged
the hood of the cloak up over his head and began to run.
The palace and
the witches’ tower were connected by a long avenue bounded on one side by a
towering wall and by the wood on the other. The trees were all bending and
blowing in the wind, and broken twigs and leaves battered against him. Over the
tumult of the storm, the bells’ relentless tone sounded out. Lewen spared a
thought for the bell ringers, hauling on the thick heavy ropes as the muffled
bells clanged out their message of grief and shock and outrage.
The Rìgh is
dead!From
house to house, town to village, hall to croft to peddler’s cart, the news
would be running throughout the land.Murdered in his own banquet hall, as he
drank a toast to his son and new daughter. The Rìgh is dead!
He found that he
was weeping and put up his hand to rub away the snow and the tears together.
He could not
believe his Rìgh was dead. He had to repeat the words to himself over and over
before he could even begin to believe it was true. Lachlan the Winged had
always been such a powerful presence, roaring and stamping through the palace,
his retinue hurrying to keep up with him. It seemed impossible that all that
vibrancy and passion could be snuffed out so easily. Even more shocking was the
manner in which he had died, writhing in agony from the poison of a bogfaery
dart spat at him from the shadows. And then to steal away his children, his
heirs. If Donncan was gone also, the great MacCuinn clan would be broken, its
only offspring a quarter-Fairgean girl who spent her days dancing and flirting
and devising ever more outrageous costumes. It seemed impossible. The MacCuinns
had ruled Eileanan for hundreds of years. Could it all be over so quickly, so
finally?
Lewen was so
numb with shock and bewilderment, his legs felt as if they were made of lead.
He could scarcely force them to keep running.
It took him
close on half an hour to reach the Tower of Two Moons. The students of the
Theurgia were milling around on the front steps, shivering with cold and
apprehension as the low, slow, somber tolling of the bells went on and on. At
the sight of Lewen, they clustered around, demanding news. When they heard of
Lachlan’s murder, many cried aloud in horror. Lewen had no time to comfort them
or give them details, however.
“The Prionnsa
Donncan . . . have ye seen him?” he panted.
“Aye,” one said.
“We saw him and Mistress Johanna go into the witches’ wood, along with the
Celestine princess, just afore the bells began to ring.”
“They were in a
right hurry,” one of his companions chirped up.
“Into the wood?”
Lewen was startled. “Are ye sure?”
“Sure we’re
sure,” they answered.
“Did anyone see
him come out?” Lewen asked. But they all shook their heads.
Lewen turned and
looked at the wood, biting his lip in indecision. It was black and wet and
wild. Try as he might, he could think of no good reason for Donncan to go
within on such a night. He remembered Johanna as he had last seen her,
screaming for Rhiannon to be hanged, and felt a sharp stab of fear and
suspicion.
“We need to find
him,” he said. “Rouse up the Tower! Form search parties! We must find the
Prionnsa.” Sudden realization smote him: “He is Rìgh now,” he said. “We must
find the Rìgh.”
Iseult pressed
her temples with trembling fingers. Hail hammered on the roof. The Rìgh had
been lifted up on to the high table and covered with a tablecloth. The Master
of Revels arranged freshly lit candles all around the Rìgh’s body, pausing
often to mop his eyes and blow his nose. One of the servants noticed the
Lodestar lying where it had fallen from the Rìgh’s hand and bent to pick it up.
“Do no’ touch
it!” Isabeau cried. “It’s death for anyone no’ of MacCuinn blood to touch it.”
The lackey’s
hand flinched back as if the scepter was a venomous snake and not just a softly
glowing white orb set upon a golden rod.
“It’s Donncan’s
now,” Iseult said, and gripped her shaking hands together.
“Why is he no’
here to pick it up?” Nina whispered, and wiped her eyes. “Where can he be?” No
one could answer her, though many exchanged glances and whispers. Where was the
new Rìgh, who had inherited the throne and the Lodestar so brutally and
unexpectedly on his wedding day? Where were his brother and sister? What did it
mean for them all, to have the Inheritance of Aedan lying on the floor amid a
litter of crumbs and fallen flower petals and half-chewed bones?
“I will mind it
for my husband,” Bronwen said coolly. She came forward and bent to pick up the
Lodestar. A white flame sprang up in the Lodestar’s heart at the touch of her
fingers, and those who had the gift of clear-hearing could hear a symphonic
burst of music.
Bronwen herself
was unable to help gasping aloud. Touching the Lodestar was like seizing the
tail of a doom-eel. Electricity surged up the nerve strings of her arm and into
her brain. She was irradiated with white power, a choir of soaring voices
ringing in her ears, a sea of joyous energy pounding through her blood. Her
breath caught. Her pulse thundered. She held the Lodestar in both hands and
fought to keep her face impassive. She knew she failed, feeling her mouth
curving in a fierce grin of triumph and exultation. All she could do was turn
away, taking refuge by her silent mother’s side, trying to pretend nothing had
changed.
Of course there
were those among the court who noticed. The Dowager Duchess of Rammermuir and
her cronies noticed everything. As the chambermaids hurriedly swept out the
banquet hall, many of them wiping their eyes on their aprons, the court gossips
put their heads together and whispered and wondered.
Iseult stared at
Bronwen suspiciously, color surging up into her face, but Isabeau touched her
arm, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. After a moment, Iseult turned away.
She could not sit still but paced the room like a caged lioness, spindrifts of
snow swirling up around her at every step. Every now and again she stopped to
stare out into the storm, but there was nothing to be seen except the bobbing
lights of the soldiers searching the terraces and gardens, and the whirling
whiteness of the snow.
Bronwen sat
quietly, the Lodestar cradled in her hands, her eyes lowered. It was impossible
to tell what she thought or felt from her face, although she was very pale.
Maya wrote something on her slate, and Bronwen shook her head and said
something in a low voice. Maya replied, the screech of chalk on slate setting
everyone’s nerves on edge and causing Iseult to shoot the Ensorcellor an
irritated glance. Suddenly both Maya and Bronwen turned their heads and looked
towards the door. Then the others heard the sound of running footsteps too, and
tensed.
The door swung
open. A grey-clad guard came hurrying in and dropped to his knees before
Iseult.
“Your Highness!
I beg your leave . . .!” He was a thickset man with dark hair and a reddish
beard and rough hands. Isabeau recognized him from the day she had caused the
prison to be scoured from dungeon to tower top.
“What is it?”
Iseult asked, her voice roughened with weeping.
“News from the
prison,” the guard said, his head lowered. “The satyricorn girl has escaped.
The warden thought Her Highness should ken . . .”
Iseult’s eyes
had been blank and unfocused, but at the guard’s words, her gaze at once
sharpened. “Did ye say the satyricorn girl has escaped from Sorrowgate Tower?”
“Aye, Your
Highness.”
Color crept up
Iseult’s face. “The satyricorn girl,” she repeated softly. Then she rapped out,
“How? How did this happen?”
“She hit her
guard over the head with the chamber pot,” he replied unhappily.
“A chamber pot!”
“Aye, Your
Highness.”
“How could he
have been so stupid?”
“She took him by
surprise, my lady.”
“Was it full or
empty?” Dide asked. He could not have said why, but he had to bite down a
hysterical urge to laugh.
The guard went
red. “Full, my laird.”
Dide snorted
with laughter, and tried to turn it into a cough. Iseult glared at him and he
stepped back, straightening his back and composing his face.
“Tell me what
happened,” Iseult demanded.
The guard obeyed
unhappily, and a little murmur arose from all those who listened.
“Did she no’ ken
the Rìgh planned to pardon her?” Nina asked. “Och, the poor lass. I wish he had
told her.”
“And ye say she
took her pack with her, with all inside it?” All Iseult’s attention was focused
on the prison guard.
“Aye, Your
Highness.”
Iseult paced
back and forth, her face looking thin and haunted. “Correct me if I am wrong,
but was there no’ a blowpipe and bag o’ barbs in that pack that had once
belonged to Connor the Just?”
“There was, Your
Highness.”
“Aha!” Iseult cried.
“But Rhiannon
would no’ have murdered His Majesty!” Nina exclaimed. “Ye canna think such a
thing o’ her.”
“I can and I
do,” Iseult answered in a cold voice.
Nina got to her
feet, her hands clasped tightly at her breast. “She wouldna have done it, Your
Highness. Truly, she would no’.”
“Then who did?”
Iseult demanded. “All along we have been wondering who, who, who? Now we ken.”
“But Iseult . .
.” Isabeau said.
Iseult whirled
on her. “Ye think it coincidence she escapes the very night my Lachlan was murdered?
With a blowpipe and barbs in her bag?”
“Coincidences do
happen,” Isabeau said.
“Rarely,” Iseult
answered. “Ye were the one who taught me that.”
“But how could
Rhiannon have done it?” Nina asked, her words tumbling over themselves. “There
were guards everywhere. They would have seen her. All the soldiers know who
Rhiannon was.”
“She would have
disguised herself. She had Connor’s uniform.”
“But how would
she have hidden her hair? It is very long. . . .” Iven said, frowning.
“She’d have cut
it,” Iseult replied curtly.
“But why? Why
would she kill His Majesty?” Nina cried.
“It must’ve been
her plan all along,” Iseult said. “That was why she killed Connor, to stop him
from bringing news o’ the plot to us.”
She began to
pace up and down. “She must be in cahoots with the laird o’ Fettercairn. We ken
he wanted Lachlan dead, in revenge for the death o’ his brother and his
brother’s little boy. The laird o’ Fettercairn has been plotting and planning
for more than twenty years now. We ken how loyal his supporters are. This
Rhiannon girl must be one o’ them. Connor must’ve found out somehow, and she
killed him to keep him quiet. Then she got in with Nina and Iven and was coming
in their train to Lucescere, with them none the wiser. But the discovery o’
Connor’s body made them take the shortcut through the Fetterness Valley. How
Rhiannon must’ve cursed the ill chance that saw his body washed up at
Barbreck-by-the-Bridge just as Nina and Iven rode past! She must’ve decided to
keep her head down, pretend no’ to ken the laird o’ Fettercairn, no’ to like
him even. But then Nina discovered the truth about the laird—”
“It was Rhiannon
who first accused the laird,” Nina broke in.
“That would’ve
been some ploy, to deflect suspicion away from herself.” Iseult swung around to
face the sorceress, her eyes glittering with conviction. “But then the laird
was arrested and brought here too. She would’ve had to keep pretending they
were enemies.”
“Theywere
enemies!” Nina cried.
“So she said.”
“But Rhiannon
was going to stand witness against him. Without her, we would no’ have kent
about the necromancy.”
“She did no’
stand witness against him, though, did she?”
“Only because he
escaped from prison.”
“Yes. Lucky
chance, that one.”
“The laird tried
to break her out o’ prison too, remember, and she would no’ go.”
“Again,
according to her. There were no other witnesses to it.”
“What about the
laird o’ Fettercairn’s skeelie, Your Highness?” Iven said. “She stood witness
against Rhiannon. Why would she do that if they wanted Rhiannon free to kill
Lachlan?”
“I do no’ ken,”
Iseult admitted. “Perhaps to throw dust in our eyes. Perhaps to force the
satyricorn girl to do as they bid. There could be any number o’ reasons.”
“But—” Iven
protested.
“Do no’ argue
with me,” Iseult cried. “I ken ye are fond o’ this girl, despite her crimes.
Yet I canna see how ye can still defend her! She escaped from her prison with a
blowpipe and a bag o’ poisoned barbs the very hour Lachlan was murdered with
the same weapon! She has the uniform o’ a Yeoman in her bag on a night when the
Yeomen were almost as thick on the ground as wedding guests. And . . .” Iseult
paused for effect. “And whoever killed Lachlan had a quick escape route, one
that succeeded in evading all o’ the above Yeomen. What better than a winged horse?”
Both Nina and
Iven hurried into passionate speech, but Iseult raised her hand imperiously and
they both fell silent, though with obvious difficulty.
Iseult turned to
Captain Dillon, who was standing guard over his dead Rìgh, scowling ferociously
as he listened to the prison guard’s report.
“Dillon, we must
find her!” Iseult commanded.
“She’ll be long
gone on that horse o’ hers,” he answered.
“She murdered my
husband!” Iseult hissed. “She helped that blaygird laird steal away my bairns!
I want her found and I want her hanged.”
“It would be my
pleasure, Your Highness,” Dillon replied, “if I had a winged horse at my
disposal to hunt her down. But I do no’. There is naught I can do to catch her.
She would be miles away by now.”
Iseult stood
very still, biting her lip until blood began to run down her chin. “I will hunt
her down myself,” she said, and the air about her turned so cold it seemed she
was surrounded by a nimbus of frost. She lifted her eyes to the shadow-hung
ceiling, raised both her hands, and began to intone in a deep, strange voice,
“Caillec Asrohc Airi . . .”
“Iseult, no!”
Isabeau cried.
Her twin sister
did not respond. Her eyes were rolling up in her head, and she was shaking with
the force of the magical summons she spoke.
“. . . Telloch
Cas,” she finished. “Come to me! Once more I shall ride the dragon’s back!”
The vast wood
that lay between tower and palace had come alive with hundreds of bobbing balls
of witch-light as search parties hurried through the innumerable paths through
the trees. It was the only form of illumination that could withstand the
gale-force winds blowing with snow. Gusts of hail pelted the heads of the
searchers, and lightning cracked like a whip of white fire.
Lewen stamped
his feet in their thin leather shoes and rubbed his icy hands together, wishing
he could take the time to go to his room and change. He dared not, however. His
fear had expanded in his chest until he found it hard to breathe. Fear for his
beloved Olwynne, fear for his dearest friend Owein, fear for his Rìgh. He was
torn by conflicting needs. On the one hand, he wished to stay and search for
the young Rìgh until he was found, yet on the other hand all he wanted to do
was rush back to the palace and find out what had happened to Owein and Olwynne.
His duty must come first, though.
Lewen knew that
Captain Dillon and the Dowager Banrìgh would expect him to have made every
effort to find the young Rìgh and to gather information about what could have
happened to him, so, after he was sure the search parties were being
coordinated properly, he hurried to the healers’ wing to see if he could find
any clue as to where Johanna had been taking Donncan and Thunderlily.
The Royal
College of Healers was eerily quiet. He came into the front hall and found the
porter fast asleep in his chair, his chin on his chest. Lewen tried to rouse
him, but he only fell off his chair and lay snoring on the cold floor. No
matter how Lewen shook him, he could not wake him. Wishing he had a sword,
Lewen drew his little eating dagger and went on into the tower.
Lights blazed
from the dining room, though there was no sound of any life. Lewen pushed open
the double doors but stopped so abruptly on the threshold that the doors hit
him as they swung back into place.
Long tables
lined the hall, laden with platters of roasted vegetables, and stuffed
mushrooms, and little round pies of baked egg and herbs. Half-empty wineglasses
and mugs of flat ale sat by every plate. The hall had been decorated with
garlands of flowers and colored ribbon, and more flowers adorned the heads of
many of the people who lay slumped over the table or fallen onto the floor.
There were at least two hundred of them, men and women, dressed in the green
robes of the healers.
It felt as if an
icy fist had closed about Lewen’s heart. He staggered forward and dropped to
his knees by the closest person, a man who lay fallen from his chair, a puddle
of red wine spreading across the flagstones like blood. Lewen’s fingers fumbled
for a pulse. The man’s skin was cold, but a faint throbbing in his neck showed
he was still alive. Lewen felt faint with relief. He checked another body, and
then another. They all lived, but he could not rouse them.
Lewen got to his
feet, hesitating, and then went blundering out into the hallway again, calling
for help. There was no reply. Lewen went running through the tower, banging on
doors and flinging them open. Most of the rooms were empty, for everyone had
been at the feast. On the top floor of the tower, however, he threw open a door
and found a pale figure collapsed on the floor. He saw the long pale hair and
the simple straight lines of the robe, and his heart smote him. He went down on
his knees beside her and gently turned her over. It was the Stargazer. Her
pulse was so faint he could barely feel it, and when he bent his cheek to her
mouth, he could not feel her breath at all.
Raised by his
mother to revere the Celestines, rulers of the forest faeries, Lewen had to
fight hard to keep panic from overwhelming him. He lifted Cloudshadow, who
weighed no more than a small child despite her height, and laid her on the bed,
covering her with the counterpane. The hearth was brushed clean and empty, for
the weather had been hot until this unnatural winter had been conjured out of
Iseult’s grief. He chafed the Stargazer’s cold hands between his own and looked
for wine to dribble between her lips. He found some on a table near where she
had been lying and had just lifted the glass to bring to her when he remembered
the wine spilled like blood in the dining room. He stared at it in horror and
saw heavy dregs of some undissolved powder still floating in the bottom of the
glass.
Very carefully
Lewen put the glass down again, and then, after making the Stargazer as warm
and comfortable as he could, went slowly and methodically through the rest of
the tower. He found the other Celestines drugged and unconscious also, and was
unable to rouse any of them. Once he had covered them all up warmly, he went to
Johanna’s room, at the top of the tower. There he found signs that someone had
been bound with rope and cut free with a knife. There were faint blood-stains
on the rope, and a scrap of torn silver gauze. He also found Donncan’s brooch,
dropped under the table. He took it up in his hand, hardly able to breathe with
fear. Holding the brooch tightly in his hand, he went running down the stairs
and out into the garth, shouting hoarsely for help.
Outside, the
storm shrieked and wailed with new intensity. He put his arm over his face and
leaned into the wind. Crossing the garth was like trying to cross a glacier. He
could not believe how thick was the snow. He staggered into the main hallway of
the Theurgia, where a command center had been set up to coordinate the search
for the missing Rìgh. Huge fires had been kindled at either end, and Lewen
could smell mulled wine and hot chestnuts. The change in temperature was such a
shock to his system he almost fainted, but he pulled his swimming senses
together and called out to Fat Drusa, the sorceress in charge.
“Lewen!” she
cried and waddled towards him. “What is it? Ye’re white as a sheet. Come, sit
down. Drink some o’ the wine. What have ye found? No’ . . . no’ . . .” Words
failed her and she clasped her plump hands together before her in dismay.
“Healers’
College . . .” Lewen gasped. “They’re all drugged . . . unconscious . . . the
Celestines . . .”
Someone passed
him a cup of hot spiced wine and he gulped it down gratefully. Only then could
he describe what he had found with any degree of coherency.
“We must go and
tend them,” Fat Drusa said. “Katrin, go and find as many blankets as ye can.
Rouse up the chambermaids and bid them help ye. Cameron, we’ll need firewood
and plenty o’ it! Take ye a party and see if there’s any cut. If no’, ye’ll
need to chop us some and right quickly! Edithe, run up to my bedchamber, will
ye, and find my smelling salts. They’re in the cupboard by my bed. Run, girl,
run! Rafferty, do ye ken where Lewen’s room is? Go and get him some warm, dry
clothes, will ye? He’ll catch his death in that thin shirt. Good girl, Fèlice,
well done.”
At the sound of
his friends’ names, Lewen looked up and only then saw that the room was crowded
with young apprentices, all milling around and trying their best to do as Drusa
commanded. It was Fèlice who had given him the cup of mulled wine. She was now
kneeling before him, unlacing his sodden shoes and drawing them off his feet,
which felt like blocks of ice. Gently she rubbed them dry with a warm towel. As
feeling began to return, Lewen winced in pain.
“Fancy running around
in the snow with naught on your feet but a thin pair of court shoes,” Drusa
scolded.
“I canna rest
here,” Lewen cried. “I must go and find His Highness! Give me back my shoes.”
“Ye’ll have
frostbite if ye go out again without a proper pair o’ boots on. Rafferty, go!
Lewen wants some good stout boots, and a muffler and gloves too, if he’s going
out into that snowstorm again.”
“No! Send
someone else,” Lewen cried. “I need Rafferty. He’s the fastest.”
Gladly Rafferty
turned and came back, dropping down on his knees before Lewen. “Ye must take a
message to the Dowager Banrìgh,” Lewen said rapidly. “Tell her there’s been
foul play here as well. Tell her the Rìgh Donncan is missing too, and
Thunderlily the Celestine. They’ve been taken by Mistress Johanna, I do no’ ken
where. Tell her we need soldiers to help us search the witches’ wood—it’s the
last place they were seen. Tell her all the healers have been drugged or
poisoned, I do no’ ken which, and the Stargazer and her retinue too. Can ye
remember all that?”
Rafferty nodded
and rapidly recited the message, counting off the points on his fingers. When
Lewen nodded in commendation, he was up and running out the door.
Fèlice seized
Lewen’s hand. “Ye said ‘Donncan is missing too.’ What did ye mean, Lewen? Who else
is missing?”
Lewen’s heart
sank. He looked down at the pretty, frightened face turned up to his. “Olwynne
and Owein have been taken,” he said. “Roden too.”
Fèlice’s eyes
widened, and her breath caught. “Taken? Taken where? By who?”
“The laird o’ Fettercairn.
We do no’ ken where, or why.”
Tears spilled
down her face. “Oh Eà, oh Eà, oh Eà,” she whispered. “No, no! No’ Owein. He . .
. I . . . I did no’ ken . . . Oh, Lewen! He left me a message—he said he wanted
to see me. I screwed it up and threw it away. Oh, if only I had answered it, if
only I had gone to see him, maybe . . .”
“Their plans
were very well laid,” Lewen said, squeezing her fingers. “I think they would
have found some way to kidnap him even if ye had answered his note. Do no’ feel
bad, Fèlice. It is no’ your fault.”
Fèlice hid her
face in her hands. For a moment Lewen was afraid that she was going to dissolve
into tears, when he had neither the time nor the energy to be comforting her,
but she took a deep, shuddering breath and managed to control herself.
“What can I do
to help?” she asked then, her voice trembling only a little.
“We must rouse
the Celestines,” Lewen said. “If anyone can help us find Rìgh Donncan, it is
them.”
Fèlice nodded.
“I’ll find Maisie,” she said. “All Maisie wants is to be a healer. She’s spent
all her spare time studying and going to extra lectures. She’ll ken the best
way to wake them.”
“Good,” Lewen
said. “Let me ken as soon as they wake. I’ll be out in the woods searching for
His Highness.”
In only a few
minutes, Fèlice, Maisie, and a large group of young female apprentice-witches
were hurrying through the cold, dark halls of the Tower of Two Moons, taking
the long way around to the healers’ hall, rather than get their loads of
blankets, warm cloaks, firewood, tinder, and kindling wet by cutting across the
snowy courtyard. It had been difficult finding enough people to help. Most of
the servants had been given leave to celebrate Midsummer’s Day, and many of the
witches and students had taken advantage of the holiday to go home to their
families. Most of the Circle of Sorcerers had been at the wedding, leaving only
Fat Drusa and Wise Tully behind to oversee the festivities at the witches’
tower. Both were physically incapable of helping much with the desperate search
through the snowy night or with setting up a hospital in the healers’ great
hall, one because of her immense size, the other because of her immense age. So
it was left to those students not too inebriated after the day’s partying to
take on the responsibility.
Lewen was
himself torn. All he wanted was to go sloshing through the sewers searching for
his lost love, but he had been given his task and he was duty-bound and
honor-bound to do as he was ordered. Find Donncan, the Keybearer had commanded,
and so that was what he must do.
He gathered
together a search party of young men, many of whom had spent the last hour
fruitlessly tramping through the storm-tossed darkness and were not that keen
to face the driving snow again.
“It’s useless,”
one said angrily. “Any tracks the Prionnsa may have left have been swept away
by the storm. We’ve been searching for hours and found naught!”
“Everything’s
been covered with snow. All we found were our own tracks, going around and
around in circles,” said another.
“It’s bitterly
cold out there, Lewen,” Cameron said. “Are ye sure . . . ?”
“Our Rìgh is
missing,” Lewen said tiredly. “If we canna find him, there will be no law, no
order, no rule. We must try! Besides, I have an idea. . . .”
Lewen knew that
the woods separating the witches’ tower and the palace were sanctuary to
thousands of faeries of all kinds, from the tiny bright-winged nisses to
tree-changers to corrigans. Most would be sheltering from the storm whatever
way they could, but Lewen hoped that some at least would answer his call and
come to tell him what they knew. Having been raised near an ancient forest by
his tree-shifter mother, Lewen knew most of the languages spoken by the forest
faeries, and it was in these languages that he called.
He was lucky. It
was not long before a nisse came swooping out of the darkness and swung off his
finger, chattering away in high excitement.
“This way the
star-girl went, glimmering and gleaming in her silver dress. I flew fleet
following her and the two big ones of no account. Fast and far I flew,
wondering why and where they went, but then the wind turned to ice, howling and
hollering, and shivering shaking I flew fled back to my own safe snug tree. . .
.”
“It is very
cold,” Lewen said gently. “If ye sheltered here under my scarf, could ye show
me where they went?”
“Comfy and
cozy,” the little faery said approvingly, snuggling up under the soft wool. “I
happy to settle stay here!”
With the arctic
wind blasting him, needling his face with ice and blowing back his hair, Lewen tramped
through the wildly tossing trees, his witch-light flickering above him. The
nisse was not a reliable guide. She chattered away almost nonstop, and it was
difficult to concentrate on her words when he was so very cold and tired and
occupied by such an acute anxiety it felt as if someone was trying to drill
their way out of his stomach.
Eventually,
though, the nisse led Lewen and the search party to the very center of the
forest, where lay the magical maze that protected the Pool of Two Moons. There,
caught on the narrow iron gate that led into the maze, Lewen found the scarlet
sash that Donncan had worn to his wedding.
Puzzled, Lewen
stood, holding the sash in his hand and staring down the dark corridor of yews.
Even with his witch-light bobbing just above his head, he could see only a
short distance into the maze, with the frosty wind howling about his head and
snow blowing into his eyes. He did not know the secret of the maze. It was a
secret known only to those of the MacCuinn clan and the Circle of Sorcerers. It
was impossible for him to go on. Already he was exhausted and so cold his hands
and feet seemed to have disappeared. If he led his search party into the maze,
they could all well die.
“We’ll go back,”
he muttered. “We’ll send a message to the palace. In the morning, perhaps, we
can keep on searching.”
His words were
met with sighs of relief all around. Lewen, however, felt only misery and
despair. If he could have found Donncan, it would have been worth not insisting
on chasing after Olwynne. He would have been free to help in the search for
Owein and Olwynne.
Then his heart
lightened. Perhaps, back at the Tower of Two Moons, good news would be waiting
for him as well as hot spiced wine and a warm bed. They said Finn the Cat
always found what she sought.
Suddenly the
nisse gave a high-pitched shriek and burrowed deep into his neck, drawing the
scarf tight around her. Lewen felt her sharp nails scratching him. Even as he
reached in and sought to drag her out, he heard, high overhead, the unmistakable
trumpeting cry of a dragon.
It tore through
the night like a rush of flame through paper. Lewen threw himself to the
ground, his arms over his head, his face pressed into the snow, so overwhelmed
with terror he felt his bowels loosen involuntarily. Sternly he clenched the
muscles of his sphincter together, curling his knees to his chest. By the
sudden odor, he knew some of his fellow searchers had failed to control their
own bowels. Someone sobbed out loud.
High above their
heads a volley of flame blasted the night sky. Glancing up, Lewen saw the
sinuous shape of the dragon soaring through the darkness, the red glare of its
breath lighting up the massive heavy clouds, the wind-tossed trees, its great
angular wings. For a moment all was white, black, red, like a drawing of ink on
paper; then the dragon passed over.
There was a rush
of bitter-tasting air, then all was quiet and dark again.
Rhiannon lay
against the mare’s warm side, Blackthorn’s wing tucked over her, trying to stop
shivering. The cold struck up from the snow-covered ground, penetrating the
plaid she had wrapped around her and seeming to strike right into the very
marrow of her bones.
Rhiannon had
never seen a storm of such unnatural ferocity. It had seemed like a living
creature with talons of ice, and fangs of lightning, that had harried her all
the way from Sorrowgate Tower, across the river, and to the foothills. Rhiannon
had hoped to fly much farther before resting, but their only hope of survival
had been to land and seek shelter.
They must want
to hang her very badly, Rhiannon thought to herself, to send such a storm after
her. Here it was, midsummer, and icicles hung from all the trees. Drifts of
hailstones lay everywhere. The copse of trees in which they sheltered bent and
blew in the wind, their branches creaking. Rhiannon did not know what time it
was. Surely dawn could not be too far away, but there was no sound of birdsong,
no lightening of the howling darkness. It had been an endless night.
Rhiannon ached
all over from their desperate ride through the hailstorm. Her head throbbed,
and blood trickled down from a cut behind her ear. There was more blood on the
arm she had raised to shield her face, and on Blackthorn’s sweat-scudded hide.
Rhiannon would
have liked to light a fire and melt some snow to make a hot drink, but she did
not dare. She could still hear the faint sound of bells. She had never heard
such a melancholy sound.
Blackthorn
shivered and put back her ears.
Do no’ fear,
they willna catch us,
Rhiannon thought.Nothing can fly as fast as a winged horse. He named us
well, my beauty. Rhiannon, the rider whom none can catch . . .
Something
pierced her heart, cut short her breath, brought a rush of tears to her eyes.
The emotion she felt was far too strong, too fierce, to be called contentment,
or even its brighter cousin, happiness. It was too dark, too sharp, to be
called joy. She had no word in her vocabulary to describe it.I am alive
, she thought, dumbfounded.I am free. All she could do was bend her head
to the ground and rest her forehead there, her eyes shut, feeling the blood
throbbing in her throat and her temples.Alive . . .
Suddenly
Blackthorn scrambled to her feet, neighing in panic. Rhiannon was tumbled
sideways. The bluebird trilled in terror and took wing. Rhiannon drew her
knife, searching desperately for any sign of danger. Blackthorn reared above
her, eyes rolling white.
Out of the
darkness fell a darker shadow, immense and terrifying. A hot blast of wind whipped
Rhiannon’s hair about her face, smelling of fire and ashes. The air roared with
the sound of vast wings. Sudden dread weakened her legs, so that she fell to
her knees in the snow.
A blast of fire
lit up the dark sky from horizon to horizon. The skin on her face was scorched.
She threw up one hand to protect it and felt fire lick her fingers.
A dragon was
hurtling down from the sky, trumpeting with rage. It was flame incarnate.
Blazing eyes as big as suns, dreadful wings as wide as the world, a whipping
tail that sliced the sky open. Rhiannon bent to the ground, her arms over her
head.
Blackthorn took
flight, screaming with terror.No! Rhiannon shrieked silently. She saw
the dragon lash out with one terrible claw, and Blackthorn neighed in pain and
swerved.
Looking up
through the tangle of hair and fingers, Rhiannon saw her beloved winged horse
fly free, eyes white-rimmed, wings straining. Then there was only terror, and
despair, as the great golden beast plummeted down upon her.
Expecting to be
crushed, or incinerated, or torn apart, Rhiannon lay still, waiting, feeling
again the dark rapture she had experienced earlier, in even greater intensity
for knowing it would soon end in agony and death.Alive . . .
But the dragon
landed lightly beside her, in a gush of smoke and cinders, and clamped one
immense talon over her prostrate body. Rhiannon’s breath rushed out of her. She
rested her face on the ground, her mouth and nostrils full of snow. Tears
choked her.
Two boots landed
with a thump near her head. They were long, black, and shiny. They were also
far too small to belong to a man. Rhiannon’s stomach clenched. She craned her
head to see more, but it was no use. It was too dark.
A woman’s voice
said coolly, “Thank ye, Asrohc. Ye can let her go now.”
Delicately the
dragon raised its claw, and Rhiannon was able to lift her face from the snow
and look.
The Banrìgh
stood beside her, dressed in leather gaiters and breastplate, a close-fitting
helmet on her head.
“Ye think ye can
escape justice so easily?” she hissed.
Rhiannon could
only stare at her. Never, in her wildest imaginings, could she have expected
this. The last time she had seen the Banrìgh, it had been at the Court of Star
Chamber, dressed in long ceremonial robes, with a crown on her head. She had
looked grave and remote, her hands folded in her lap. Now she was livid with
rage, her blue eyes blazing. She carried a naked dagger in her hand.
“Get up,” Iseult
said.
Rhiannon
staggered to her feet.
Iseult took a
step closer, her dagger held close and steady to her waist. “Throw down your
weapons.”
Rhiannon dropped
her knife. Iseult searched her, quickly and efficiently, then stepped away and
went through her pack, which lay half-open on the ground. She straightened,
holding in her hand the blowpipe and bag of barbs that Connor had long ago used
to defend himself against the wild satyricorn herd.
“Ye really
thought ye’d get away with it?” she said furiously.
Rhiannon was
puzzled. She did not know how to answer.
“Asrohc, seize
her!” Iseult commanded. “Take us back to Lucescere!”
Swift as a
striking snake, the dragon’s immense claw flashed out and closed about
Rhiannon. She had no time to even flinch. Then the dragon bent its great
sinuous neck so that Iseult could mount up and sit astride it.
With a jerk that
snapped Rhiannon’s neck painfully and made her gasp, the dragon launched off
into the dark sky. Her head whirled. Her vision swam with desperate tears.
She had heard
the stories from Nina, of course. How the Khan’cohban warrior, Khan’gharad, had
saved the baby dragon princess from death and so had been given the dragon’s
name as a reward, to call in time of desperate need. How both Iseult and
Isabeau had inherited that privilege and the right to cross their leg over the
dragon’s back. How the seven sons of the queen dragon had come flaming out of
the sky to help Lachlan MacCuinn win the final battle against the Fairgean at
Bonnyblair. The tales of the dragons were among the favorites of the young
apprentice-witches, and Rhiannon had heard them told many times on their long
journey through Ravenshaw. She had just never, ever expected the dragons to be
called upon to track her down. In all the tales the jongleurs told, it was
emphasized what a rare privilege it was, the right to call the dragon’s name.
All Rhiannon could think, all through the swift, vertiginous journey back to
Lucescere, was that the Rìgh and Banrìgh must have valued Connor the Just very
highly to employ such awe-some means to track her down.
Now Blackthorn
was gone, who knew where, and Rhiannon had no way of knowing how badly she was
hurt by that spiteful swipe of the dragon’s claw. And her little bluebird gone,
fled into the forest. All hope of escape gone too. No matter how quick or
clever or strong Rhiannon was, she had no hope of ever escaping a dragon.
Far below her,
the orange smoky glare of Lucescere swung through the darkness, blurred by
Rhiannon’s hopeless tears. Closer and closer it came, and then Rhiannon could
smell it, the stench of two hundred thousand unwashed people and all their goats
and pigs and chickens and children rising up in a great reek that made her
cough and choke. Then she heard it, the clatter and whine and bang and groan
that filled the city even in the dead of night. She heard the rush of the
waterfall and felt its spray dampen her cheek; then the dragon was swinging low
over the city, giving a little ironic spurt of flame so that Rhiannon could
clearly see the few people in the streets running and cowering, and hear their
shrieks of alarm.
“Asrohc,” the
Banrìgh said reprovingly, and the dragon snorted with what could only be
dragonish laughter.
Then there was
the palace below them, its windows all blazing with lights. The great square
was lined with flaming torches, their smoke torn into rags by the wind raised
by the dragon’s strongly beating wings. Lines of soldiers with raised spears
waited as the dragon came down with impossible lightness and grace and laid
Rhiannon down lightly on the flagstone. It was not until the dragon had
stretched its magnificent huge wings and soared away that the Captain of the
Yeomen came forward and waited on bent knee for the Banrìgh’s orders.
“Take her to the
tower,” Iseult commanded. “I found the evidence in her bag. I want her hanged
at dawn, do ye understand me?”
Dizzy from her
wildly swinging flight, dazed with misery and despair, Rhiannon could barely
grasp her meaning.
“It will be my
pleasure,” Captain Dillon said grimly and jerked his head so the soldiers
stepped forward to seize her.
“But, Iseult . .
.”
Rhiannon turned
her numb face towards the Keybearer, who came hurrying across the square, Dide
close behind her. Isabeau looked white and exhausted.
“I found all the
evidence I need,” Iseult said defensively and brandished the blowpipe. “There’s
a bag o’ barbs here, missing quite a few thorns, and a bottle o’ poison too.”
“But to hang
her, out o’ hand, without even an attempt at a trial. Iseult, it’s wrong!”
“She’s had her
trial and she was found guilty. That’s good enough for me.”
“But that was
for Connor’s death and Lachlan was to pardon her. . . .”
“Lachlan is dead
now and his soft heart with him.”
“But, Iseult, ye
canna be sure.”
“Aye, I can.”
“But—”
“Do no’ argue
with me!” Iseult cried.
There was a long
silence. Iseult drew a ragged breath. When she exhaled, a white frosty plume filled
the air before her mouth. She raised a hand and dashed it across her eyes. “Do
as I say,” she commanded the captain, who bowed his head. He gestured to two of
the soldiers, who seized Rhiannon’s elbows. Two more stood on either side with
their spears at the ready. All were shivering in the cold.
“I will see
justice done,” Iseult said in an unsteady voice. “She is lucky I do no’ have
her strangled with her own intestines.”
Then she turned
and hurried away towards the palace, a gust of snowflakes blowing behind her.
Rhiannon could
only stare.
Isabeau grasped
Captain Dillon’s arm. “She is half-mad with grief,” the Keybearer said in a
low, urgent voice.
“As are we all,”
the captain replied in heavy tones.
“Dillon, I beg
ye, do no’ be hasty.”
“I must obey Her
Highness.”
“There is more
to this than meets the eye. I must have time to find out the truth o’ it.”
“I have my
orders, Keybearer.”
“Give me until
the morning. I will talk with her.”
“The prisoner
will hang at the ringing o’ the dawn bell, unless I hear otherwise,” Captain
Dillon said, his mouth hard.
Isabeau let his
arm go and turned to Rhiannon. “I am very sorry. I will do what I can.”
Rhiannon reached
out a hand to her, then gasped as the soldiers jerked her back painfully. “What
am I meant to have done?” she asked. “This is something new, isn’t it? This is
no’ just because I escaped?”
Isabeau stared
at her. “Ye think my sister would call the dragon’s name simply to chase after
an escaped prisoner? Eà, no! Child, do ye no’ ken? Did ye no’ hear the bells
toll? Rhiannon, the Rìgh was murdered tonight. With a poisoned barb spat
through a blowpipe.”
The night
whirled around her. “They think I killed the Rìgh?”
Isabeau nodded.
“Dark walkers,
spare me,” Rhiannon whispered.
Iseult found it
difficult to keep her feet. She walked slowly, keeping her back straight and
her gait steady only with a great effort of will. For the last few hours she
had been sustained by anger and the fierce hunger for revenge. Now that the
satyricorn girl was captured and thrown back into prison, her death only a few
hours away, Iseult found her savage strength gone. It was all she could do not
to weep as she made her weary way back to the palace.
Lachlan dead;
her youngest children stolen away; her eldest son, her beautiful winged
Donncan, possibly in danger. Iseult could not bear it. In only a few hours, her
whole world had been dismantled and laid in ruins. Iseult had been raised by
the Khan’cohbans, though, raised to be strong and ruthless, to never submit to
weak emotion. No matter how much Iseult wanted to crawl into a dark hole
somewhere and howl her heart out, she could not. Someone had to take the reins
and look after things till Donncan came back.
She heard
hurrying footsteps behind her and turned, recognizing Isabeau’s quick step. Her
twin came stumbling through the snow, her cheeks as white as the ground, her
red hair falling out of its pins to straggle wildly around her face. She looked
fierce and wild and angry and haggard with grief all at the same time, and
Iseult had a sudden insight into how she too must look. She put up a hand to
her own hair and tried to smooth it back.
“Iseult, this is
wrong—ye ken this is wrong,” Isabeau said, gripping her arm. “Even if Rhiannon
is involved with all this mess, ye shouldna be hanging her out o’ hand. We need
information! We need—”
“She killed the
Rìgh,” Iseult said icily. “Ye think I can hesitate over this? If I show the
slightest weakness, anyone who hates the MacCuinns and plots against the Crown
will gather around us like vultures around a corpse. She dies at dawn, and so
too shall any other o’ these vile plotters that we can lay by the heels.”
“But if I can
show ye, if I can prove to ye that she is innocent?”
“How?”
Isabeau
hesitated.
“There is no way
ye can prove so to me,” Iseult said and walked on.
As she climbed
the steps into the banquet hall, the light of the torches her lackeys carried
went with her. Isabeau was left in the icy darkness. Snow drove steadily into
her face. Dide stood beside the Keybearer, holding her close, as she shivered
violently, her teeth chattering.
“What will ye
do?” he asked.
For a long
moment she did not answer; then Isabeau said slowly, “There may be a way. Ye
remember the silver goblet Connor carried with him everywhere?”
“The one ye were
so curious about?”
“Aye. If ye
remember, I think it could be some kind o’ cup o’ truth. What if we gave it to
Rhiannon to drink from?”
“Ye would have
to convince Iseult first,” Dide said dryly. “If she does no’ believe it truly
is a magical cup that forces truth telling, she will just say Rhiannon lies and
naught is changed.”
“Aye, I ken.”
“So how . . .?”
“If it is inThe
Book o’ Shadows , Iseult will have to believe,” Isabeau said.
“Did ye no’ mean
to look it up afore?”
Isabeau nodded.
“Then why . .
.?”
“I’m afraid,”
Isabeau replied, and she shuddered so violently Dide was startled and moved to
grasp her closer.
“Afraid? Afraid
o’ what?”
“Afraid o’ whatThe
Book o’ Shadows will show me,” Isabeau said and looked past him into the
black storm-ridden night.
Inside the
banquet hall, the dead Rìgh lay on his bier, candles surrounding him.
The room was
virtually empty now. The last of the wedding guests had found their beds, and
only a few soldiers still stood guard on the doors. Gathered around the fire at
the far end of the room were the privy councillors, drinking from steaming
goblets, heavy velvet mantles thrown over their midsummer finery. Nina and Iven
sat together, holding each other’s hands. Brun the cluricaun sat beside them,
his tail twisting anxiously behind him. Gwilym the Ugly sat with his wooden leg
elevated, his face creased with pain. The other witches were gathered about the
bier, their heads bent in silent prayer. There was Stormy Briant and his
brother Cailean, his huge shadow-hound lying at his feet; Ghislaine
Dream-Walker, looking very frail; and Jock Crofter, scowling as usual.
On the far side
of the bier, Iain of Arran rested his head in his hands. Elfrida sat beside
him, fiddling with the heavy knobs of her antique fan. Their son, Neil, was
sitting some way away from them, his eyes fixed anxiously on Bronwen’s face.
She had withdrawn from the others, sitting with her mother on one of the
trestles drawn up against the wall, the Lodestar cradled in her lap.
A scullery maid
was on her hands and knees, sweeping up the last of the mess on the floor. She
stopped every now and again to wipe her red eyes on her apron. Otherwise the
only other people left were the Lord Steward and Lord Chamberlain, both sitting
in vigil by the Rìgh.
As Iseult came
in, everyone rose to their feet and bowed. Iseult felt a heavy despondency fall
on her shoulders. She had not been gone long, no more than half an hour, but
that time had been spent in swift, decisive action. She had flown high above
the storm on dragon-back, felt the wind screaming in her face, and had the
fierce satisfaction of seizing the satyricorn and wresting her back to justice.
Here all was the same.
“Any news?” Iseult
demanded, even though she knew there had scarcely been time. Neither Finn nor
Lewen would send a message until they had something to report, and any
messenger would have to bring the news on foot, since Finn was somewhere under
the city in the labyrinthine sewers, while Lewen was at the Tower of Two Moons.
It took at least half an hour to walk from palace to tower on a sunny
afternoon; there was no doubt it would take longer on such an inclement night.
Horses were not kept at the tower, for there were no stables or grazing land
for them. Any sorcerer who desired to ride out into the city would use a mount
from the palace stables, and the students were all expected to use their legs.
She and Isabeau often communicated by scrying when they had not the time or the
inclination to walk the distance, but no one could scry when the heavens were
in such turbulence, except perhaps through Scrying Pools or crystal balls of
great power. So they would have to wait for any messenger from the tower to run
the gamut of the storm. Until then, all they could do was wait in patience.
The chancellor
indicated as much with an expressive gesture of his hands and shoulders. He,
like the rest of Lachlan’s councillors, was at a loss as to the best course of
action. They had been at peace for so many years now, and Lachlan had ruled the
Privy Council with a firm hand. The events of this long, terrible night were
quite outside their provenance.
“Did ye capture
the escaped prisoner?” the chancellor asked.
“O’ course,”
Iseult replied and came to warm her hands at the fire, stripping off her heavy
leather gauntlets first.
“What have ye
done to her?” Nina’s voice rose high with distress.
Iseult found it
hard to meet her gaze. “She’ll hang at dawn.”
Nina sobbed out
loud.
“If dawn ever
comes,” Ghislaine said and pressed her fingers against her eyes. “I feel as if
this night will never end.”
“But why? Why?”
Nina sobbed.
“We found all
the evidence we needed in her saddlebags,” Iseult said coldly.
“What evidence?”
Nina demanded.
“It is late,” Iseult
said. “We have all been up all night. I ken how distressed ye are, Nina.
Perhaps ye and Iven had better retire? Try to get some rest.”
“I will wait for
news,” Nina said defiantly.
“Very well,”
Iseult said and accepted a goblet of wine from the Lord Steward. “Let us hope
it comes soon.”
“Finn will
capture Laird Malvern and all his foul minions, and then ye will realize
Rhiannon is innocent,” Nina said, tears running down her face. “Oh Eà, please,
let her catch up with them soon!”
Just then there
was a knock on the door, and Dide came in, with a boy dressed in the black robe
of an apprentice-witch. He was no more than seventeen, but tall and
brown-skinned. He was blue, and shivering with cold, and panting so hard he
could hardly speak.
“I found this
lad running down the avenue,” Dide said. “His name is Rafferty, he tells me. He
comes from Lewen with news.”
“Your Highness,”
Rafferty said, going down on one knee before Iseult. “I . . . I come from . . .
the Tower o’ Two Moons.”
Bronwen made a
sharp movement, instantly stilled.
“Ye have news o’
my son?” Iseult demanded.
“Aye.” He took a
deep breath, his chest heaving. “It is no’ good news, I’m afraid, Your
Highness.”
Iseult sat
motionless, all the color ebbing from her face.
Bronwen’s hand
clenched tight upon the Lodestar. “What has happened to Donncan?” she demanded
sharply. “Is he . . . is he dead?”
Rafferty turned
to face her. “I dinna ken, Your Highness. I do no’ think so. We are no’ sure. .
. . He has disappeared.”
He held out his
hand and unclenched his fingers. Within was Donncan’s stag brooch.
“Disappeared
too?” Iseult reached out a trembling hand and rested it upon the table. “Nay,
nay, the White Gods could no’ be so cruel!”
“How? What
happened?” Bronwen said fiercely.
Rafferty told
the news as clearly and concisely as he could, but met a barrage of questions
from everyone that he had trouble answering. At last, though, the tale was
told. Bronwen sat down and hid her face in her hands, and Maya bent over her,
comforting her wordlessly.
“Donncan . . .”
Iseult whispered. “Gone too!” Her legs could no longer hold her up. She sat
down and then put her head between her knees, sick with horror.
“I must go to
the tower,” Gwilym cried. “Where is Isabeau? For the Celestines to be struck
down like this when under our care . . . If the Stargazer dies, and her
daughter missing . . .!”
The other
witches were gathering up their belongings with frantic haste. “We need
Isabeau,” Cailean said. “She is the greatest healer o’ us all. She will ken
what to do.”
“Where could she
be?” Ghislaine asked.
“She had some
mad idea o’ proving to me this satyricorn girl’s innocence,” Iseult said,
raising her head.
Dide said
quietly, “She has gone to consultThe Book o’ Shadows. She believes the
goblet Connor carried was a cup o’ truth telling. If she can find it is so, she
plans to ask Iseult to let Rhiannon drink from the cup and tell us the truth o’
all she kens.”
Iseult snorted
in derision, and Nina pressed her hands together and said fervently, “Oh,
Isabeau, thank ye!”
“She has gone to
the Tower o’ Two Moons? We will go and join her there,” Gwilym said and drew up
the hood of his cloak, preparing to go out into the snow, now driving against
the windows harder than ever. “Dide, Nina, will ye come with us?”
“I must wait for
news o’ my son,” Nina said quietly. Iseult hid her face again.
“I didna see the
Keybearer on my way here, sir,” Rafferty said diffidently. “Surely I should’ve
passed her?”
“She would have
flown,” Gwilym said gruffly. “In the shape o’ an owl, I imagine. It is her
favorite form. That is one o’ the many advantages o’ being a shape-changer—one
does no’ need to slog through heavy snow on foot, like we must do. Come, lad,
ye had best come back with us.”
As the witches
prepared to face the storm, the door opened once more, banging against the
wall. Captain Dillon came in amidst a swirl of snow, his face graven with deep,
unhappy lines, his hand on his sword hilt. He went down on one knee before
Iseult.
“What is it?”
she asked faintly.
“Finn couldna
catch them,” Captain Dillon said heavily. “They moved too fast.”
“Finn couldna
catch them?” Iseult repeated his words in absolute disbelief.
“No!” Nina cried
and pressed her hands against her mouth. Iven put his arm about her, and she
sagged against him.
Dillon shook his
head reluctantly. “Whoever it was laid their plans well. They had a guide to
show them the secret way out through the caves. It seems their guide was a
thief who had been condemned to hang but was released by that prison warden who
escaped last week, the one they call Octavia the Obese. The message Finn sent
says she almost caught them in the Thieves’ Way, but they had a boat waiting
for them on Lucescere Loch.”
“What o’ the
Queen o’ the Thieves? Are ye trying to tell me the thieves’ guild collaborated
in my husband’s murder?” Snow rose in an eddy around Iseult’s head.
“The Queen o’
the Thieves swears she kent naught about it, Your Highness.”
“Surely she kens
all that goes on in her tunnels?”
“There had been
a feast. Much wine was drunk. It may have been drugged. Certainly I found them
hard to rouse.”
“More drugged
wine,” Iseult said. “Who is this poisoner?”
“The laird o’
Fettercairn’s skeelie,” Nina said bleakly.
“She was there,”
Captain Dillon said. “Finn was close enough to see them all. She recognized the
skeelie from her appearance in court. She saw the Prionnsa and Banprionnsa,
Your Highness, and young Roden too. They were being carried over the men’s
shoulders. She thinks they were unconscious.”
Nina gasped and
hid her face. “My laddiekin,” she whispered. “Oh, what do they want with him?”
“If she was
close enough to see them, how could she let them escape!” Iseult demanded in
despair.
“Finn says the
laird o’ Fettercairn has some ability with the weather. Despite the storm, he
was able to harness the wind and bring it to fill their sails. Their boat took
off across Lucescere Loch as if dragged by a sea serpent. There was naught she
could do. By the time she found a boat and set off in pursuit, they were long
gone. Finn is on the trail, though. Jay is with her, and some o’ my men. They
will catch them, never ye fear, Your Highness.”
“Oh, please, oh,
please,” Nina said and broke down completely, sobbing in her husband’s arms.
Dide crouched beside her, stroking her disheveled chestnut hair, tears in his
eyes.
“Come, dearling,
let me take ye to bed,” Iven said. “Ye’re exhausted. Let us go and try to get
some rest, and in the morning we may have some good news.”
“Sleep? Sleep?
Ye think I can sleep?” Nina cried, but Iven and Dide helped her to her feet and
together led her away. Brun trotted after them, tears running down his hairy
face.
“What o’
Donncan?” Bronwen demanded as the door shut behind them. “We need to be
searching for him too!”
Iseult got to
her feet wearily. “Captain Dillon, will ye take some men and go to the witches’
tower to search for Donncan yourself? Send me word as soon as ye can.” She
swayed with exhaustion and had to put her hand on the table to steady herself.
“For now, a state o’ emergency must be declared. Gentlemen, will ye come to the
Privy Chamber with me? We must . . .”
Bronwen got
suddenly to her feet. “I thank ye, my lady, but I think it is my place to be
ordering the Privy Council now,” she said, the Lodestar held stiffly in her
hands. Maya stood up too, her pale eyes shining.
Iseult was completely
taken aback.
“Am I no’
Banrìgh now?” Bronwen asked. “Do I no’ hold the Lodestar?”
There was a
long, long moment of silence. Iseult could only gaze at her daughter-in-law in
utter consternation and dismay.
“Am I not a
NicCuinn by blood as well as marriage?” Bronwen went on steadily. “Is it no’ my
right to order the Council and the Yeomen?”
“Ye?” Iseult
said incredulously. “Order the Council? What do ye ken o’ such things?”
“The throne is
no’ yours, my lady,” Bronwen said softly. “Ye do no’ have the right. With
Donncan missing, I am the Banrìgh now.”
Although she
spoke in a low voice and with an expression of great respect, there were
exclamations of surprise from everyone around her, and then a quick murmur of
conversation.
Iseult lost her
temper. “Ye are naught but a lamb-brained lassie who cares more about the cut
o’ her gown than the state o’ the nation,” she said furiously. “How dare ye
think to seize the throne?”
Heat rose in
Bronwen’s cheeks. She bit her lip, clenching the Lodestar tightly.
“Go to your
room,” Iseult said icily. “I will discuss this with ye later. For now, I have
better things to do.”
For a moment it
looked as if Bronwen would obey, though her cheeks were hot with rage and
humiliation.
“Ye are no’ the
Banrìgh anymore!” A woman’s voice rang out strongly, filled with vicious joy.
“Ye are naught but the Dowager now. How does it feel, Iseult?”
Everyone in the
room, from the velvet-clad councillors to the cowering scullery maid with the
scrubbing brush in her hand, turned and stared. Maya was standing close behind
her daughter, her head thrown back, laughing. “Oh, Jor o’ the seas, the
delicious irony o’ it,” she said at last, when she could stop laughing. “How
does it feel,my lady ? Your husband is dead and ye are naught, just a
poor auld dowager, with no power o’ your own.Ye get toyour room,
Iseult, and wait upon the pleasure o’ the new Banrìgh.”
Bronwen took a
faltering step towards her mother, whispering her name.
“Maya,” Iseult
hissed. Sudden color suffused her face. “Ye did this! It was ye!”
Maya shook her
head. “If I had wanted to murder Lachlan, I could have done so any time these
past twenty years.”
“This is the
first time ye’ve set foot in the palace since ye were thrown down,” Iseult said
furiously. “Ye could no’ have got near Lachlan afore now!” She looked about her
wildly. “Dillon! Guards! Seize her!”
“No!” Bronwen
cried.
Captain Dillon
shook his head. “My lady, do ye think I would have allowed the Ensorcellor to
come within spitting distance o’ His Majesty and no’ had her watched? I had
guards placed over her. She did no’ move from her table, no’ once. She was in
clear view the whole time. I ken every mouthful she ate or drank, and every
word that was spoken to her. She herself did no’ speak, though I ken what she
wrote on her slate. I didna ken shecould speak.”
“The nyx
ribbon,” Gwilym cried. “Ceit Anna’s ribbon! It dissolved when she died?”
“Aye, o’
course,” Maya said, smiling. “But I dared no’ let anyone ken. Ye would’ve bound
me again, would ye no’? Twenty years o’ silence and servitude would no’ have
been enough. But my daughter is Banrìgh now! She holds the Lodestar! She willna
let ye bind me again.”
“No, I will
no’!” Bronwen’s voice rang out. She held the Lodestar before her like a sword.
“Ye are right, Mama. I am Banrìgh now.”
“How dare ye!”
Iseult said. “My husband is no’ yet cold—”
“Neither was
mine, when ye seized power from me,” Maya reminded her.
“Is that what
this is about?” Iseult spat.
“This is about
the right to rule,” Bronwen said, her voice and face hard. “I am the Banrìgh,
by blood and by marriage. I hold the Lodestar and I will hold the throne. If I
allow ye to call the Privy Council and order the Yeomen, what would I be?
Naught but a pretty puppet, just like ye and my uncle have always wanted me to
be. Well, I won’t be that puppet! I won’t!”
“Ye expect me to
just stand aside and—”
“While ye stand
here arguing and clinging to your power like a greedy auld witch, my husband is
missing and in all probability is in danger,” Bronwen said passionately. She
shook the Lodestar, and a searing white light sprang up in its heart, dazzling
their eyes. “Must I raise the Lodestar to prove my right?” she cried. “I am the
Banrìgh now! Ye are naught but my mother-in-law and dowager to the dead Rìgh.
Stand aside, my lady.”
“I will no’! How
dare ye?” Iseult cried.
“I think ye
forget who ye are addressing. Have some respect for your Banrìgh,” Maya said.
Her voice rang with vengeful glee.
Iseult stared at
Bronwen in a white, icy rage that shook her from head to foot, but Bronwen stared
back, not quailing. Iseult glanced at the Lord Chancellor, and he bowed very
low, raising his shoulders in an eloquent shrug.
“I am sorry, my
lady, but the law is clear. Whoever holds the Lodestar holds the land.”
“Aye, I suppose
it is,” Iseult said at last. She then bowed her head and said with utter
precision, “If ye will excuse me, then, Your Majesty. I would be alone with my
husband.”
“O’ course,”
Bronwen said and gathered up her silvery skirt in her hand, sweeping towards
the door to the palace.
There was a
moment’s indecision, no one else quite sure what to do. Bronwen turned. “Come,
gentlemen,” she said imperiously. “There is much to discuss.”
Gwilym bowed.
“If ye will excuse me, Your Majesty, I wish to attend upon the Celestines at
once.”
“Aye, please
do,” Bronwen said. “I will need to speak with them as soon as possible.”
Gwilym bowed and
led the witches out towards the garden. Captain Dillon made as if to follow
them.
He was recalled
by Bronwen’s sharp voice. “Captain Dillon, I require ye in the Privy Chamber!
Please attend upon me at once.”
He hesitated,
looking between her and Iseult.
“Go on then,”
Iseult said, arctic blasts of air swirling up from her skin and clothes. “Go!
All o’ ye! I would be alone.”
“But, Your
Highness . . . my lady . . .”
“Go,” she said
coldly and turned away.
One by one,
everyone went out, all bowing to Iseult respectfully. She ignored them, sitting
by the candlelit bier and taking up Lachlan’s limp, grey hand in both of her
own, bending to press her face against it.
There she
stayed, alone, while hail clattered around the doors and windows of the palace,
piling up in frosty swathes across the lawn where yesterday laughing couples
had gathered to watch a procession of fantastical animals made of painted silk.
Isabeau crouched
before the fire in her room. She could not get warm, no matter how many faggots
of wood she threw on the fire or how many cloaks she wrapped about her. The
world slipped in and out of focus. Her pulse thundered.
I will live
again,
a deep insistent voice whispered in her mind,and ye shall be the one to
raise me. Come to me now. I will live again, and ye shall be the one to raise
me. Come to me now. . . .
The voice had
tormented her ever since she had read the words of the spell for raising the
dead. All through the wedding and the feast that followed, all through the
dreadful events that had followed Lachlan’s murder, she had heard the voice in
her mind, commanding her, imposing his will upon hers, sapping her strength and
vitality until she had been giddy on her feet with the effort of withstanding
him. Never had she felt such a strong compulsion. It was like a hunger, a lust
in her, to give in, to submit her will to his and do as he demanded.
Come to me now.
Iwilllive
again, and ye shall be the one to raise me.
She hardly dared
glance atThe Book of Shadows. She was so afraid her pulse hammered in
her ears.I am the Keybearer, she told herself sternly and lifted her
maimed hand to cup the talisman hanging around her neck. Its familiar shape
comforted her and gave her courage.I will no’ be your puppet, she told
the voice.I can withstand ye. I willwithstand ye.
She lifted both
hands and laid them on the worn red leather ofThe Book of Shadows . She
breathed in and out, in and out.
I will live
again, and ye shall be the one to raise me.
“Stop it!” she
cried out loud. “Leave me alone!”
I will live
again, and ye shall be the one to raise me. Come to me now.
Isabeau slammed
her hands down. “I will no’,” she said. “I will no’!”
The blood sang
in her ears. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. In, out.
In, out. In, out.
In her mind, she
pictured the goblet that had been found in Rhiannon’s pack. Plain silver. A
crystal set in its graceful stem. A goblet that made those who drank from it
tell the truth.Tell me , she commandedThe Book of Shadows. What is
this cup?
She opened the
book and, fighting her dread, bent and read the page. In red curlicues, the
title read “The Cup of Confessions.”
“Also called the
Goblet of Truth, this cup was first made by Morgausa the Dark in 422 AC . . .”
Even as Isabeau
absorbed the words, an unfelt breeze sprang up and the pages began to riffle
over.
“No!” Isabeau
cried. She laid her hand on the book, trying to hold her place, but it was too
late, it was gone, and Isabeau was staring at the page she had dreaded. As if
written in fire, words sprang up from the page and seared themselves once more
into her brain.
“To Raise the
Dead, one needs a living soul . . .”
“I will no’!”
Isabeau cried and slammed the book shut. Her whole body shook as if she had an
ague. Sweat sprang upon her skin. She found her legs had folded beneath her.
She was sitting on the floor,The Book of Shadows clutched against her
chest, and the words of the spell pounding out and into her skin like the needle
of some tattooist, emblazoning the compulsion into her blood and bone and
nerves.
I will live
again, and ye shall be the one to raise me.
“Who? Who?” she
cried, pressing the book ever closer. “Where are ye?”
Come to me, at
the Tomb o’ Ravens, on the day o’ my death, one thousand years ago. Bring with
ye a living soul, willing or not, and a very sharp knife . . .
“Who are ye?”
I am Brann, and
I will live again.
Bronwen sat on
the tall throne at the head of the table in the Privy Chamber, clutching the
Lodestar close to her body and trying to listen as everyone talked at once.
“All gone, all
gone!” the Lord Chancellor cried. “What are we to do?”
“I would have
thought that the first course o’ action was obvious,” Bronwen said, a faint
trace of sarcasm darkening her words. “Find my husband!”
Hubbub broke out
again. Bronwen found it hard to concentrate on what was said, for they all
spoke at once at different volumes, and all the time her own tumultuous
emotions surged up and filled her ears with a white roar so that for a moment
she heard nothing at all.
“Eà rest
Lachlan’s poor murdered soul,” Iain of Arran said unhappily. “He was a great
Rìgh.”
“What does this
mean to the Pact o’ Peace?” the Duke of Rammermuir asked.
“Surely it will
stand,” Bronwen said sharply.
“When the line
o’ inheritance is unclear . . .” cried the Master of Horse.
“Aye, but the
Lodestar!” the Lord Chamberlain said.
“Happen we
should look to Tìrsoilleir for our murderer,” said the Lord High Admiral, who
had been born in the Bright Land himself and had reason to be suspicious of the
Fealde and her General Assembly.
“We would have
kent if there was any plot against the Rìgh in Tìrsoilleir,” Neil said angrily
with a quick glance at his mother, who sat quietly, her pastor standing at her
shoulder as usual. The pastor, who was one of the Fealde’s closest advisers,
only grew more stern-faced, his lips thinning in disdain.
“The Fealde may
have philosophical differences with the Coven,” Neil went on a little more
moderately, “but she would no’ stoop to regicide.”
“Ah,
philosophical differences. That’s rich!” jeered the Master of Horse.
“What are we to
do?” moaned the keeper of the privy seal.
“It’s a scandal!
Captain Dillon should be dismissed at the very least,” said the captain of the
general army, who had always been jealous of the influence the Captain of the
Yeomen wielded.
“We need to get
out the dogs and the bailiffs and turn that city inside out. Bloody thieves and
murderers!” cried the Master of the Ordnance.
“It’s a
conspiracy,” the Lord Steward whispered unhappily. “The MacCuinn clan, rooted
out and destroyed in one dreadful night. Who did this! Who?”
Bronwen’s head
snapped round. “No’ all the MacCuinn clan are gone,” she reminded them angrily.
The Lord Steward
had evidently forgotten how acute was the hearing of those of Fairgean blood,
for he flushed and bit his lip in chagrin. He would not back down before
Bronwen, however. “Nay, no’ all,” he said with heavy meaning.
“Are ye
suggesting I had aught to do with this?” Bronwen demanded. “Careful what ye
say, sir!” The Lodestar leaped with sudden cold fire, and the Lord Steward
bowed his head at once, stammering an apology. Bronwen saw that it was
insincere, however, and that others among the councillors silently agreed.
Donncan, Donncan, she thought,
with a rush of grief.
Then, on a note
of rising terror,How did this happen? What do I do now?
Then,I am
Banrìgh! I hold the Lodestar and I will hold the land!
Her mother
turned and smiled at her, her pale eyes shining.
Bronwen took a
deep breath and rapped the table sharply with the end of her scepter. “That is
enough!” she cried.
The tumult died
down and they all turned to stare at her. She found her mouth was dry. She had
to swallow convulsively before she could speak. “Well, gentlemen,” she said, “I
thank ye for your service to my uncle the Rìgh. I know he found ye loyal and
steadfast. We are now in a state o’ the direst emergency. I therefore have no
choice but to dissolve the Privy Council until such a time that peace and
security are returned to our land. I ask that all o’ ye stay at hand should
your services be required again.”
An angry babble
arose.
Bronwen raised
her voice. “Captain Dillon, it has been suggested that ye should be
dishonorably discharged for your failure to protect my uncle. I do no’ believe
now is the rightful place or time to initiate such an inquiry. I trust that
your loyalty and diligence in the next few weeks will make such an inquiry
unnecessary. Will ye please arrange an escort for these noble gentlemen back to
their quarters? And then take your men and search the woods yourself. I want my
husband found!”
“Yes, Your
Majesty,” he said with a low bow. A jerk of his head, and each of the
flabbergasted councillors found a guard behind his chair.
“Lord
Chancellor, will ye stay, and ye too, Master o’ the Ordnance? I will have need
o’ ye. Neil, would ye stay too? I would be grateful for your support.”
A rush of blood
to Neil’s pale face brought him sudden warmth and vitality. He smiled with
pleasure and murmured, “O’ course, Your Majesty.”
Bronwen smiled
at him in gratitude. She became aware of the avid gleam in Elfrida’s eyes as
she watched them, and looked away, her smile fading. Elfrida curtsied as she
went past and murmured, “Good night, Your Majesty.”
“Good night,
Your Grace,” Bronwen said, very properly, and then acknowledged the obeisance
of the pastor coolly.
Taking their
lead from Elfrida, the other lords and councillors made their farewells
formally, many no doubt hoping to ingratiate themselves with her when it came
time for her to form her new government. Although Bronwen was so weary and
heartsick she felt quite faint, she forced her brain to work faster than it
ever had before. If she was to hold the power in the land, she must be seen to
wield it well and wisely.
“Lord Constable,
I bid ye stay also. I shall need your help in tracking down these miscreants.
We must have messages sent posthaste down river, to stop the laird o’
Fettercairn afore he reaches the sea. Let us have the infantry and cavalry on
standby, in case o’ need.”
She saw by her
mother’s glittering eyes that Maya was pleased with her and exerted herself to
greater efforts.
“We must find
out as much as we can about this Laird Malvern. Will the clerks o’ the council
sift through the evidence brought back from Fettercairn and see if we can find
some idea o’ this madman’s plans? Send a page to the MacBrann also, and ask him
to attend on me later in the morn. I would ken what he knows o’ this laird o’
Fettercairn.”
As she spoke,
the councillors were all escorted from the Privy Chamber, and the door shut
smartly behind them. The long room was now eerily quiet. Bronwen took a deep
breath, racking her brains for more orders to give. As long as she seemed to be
in command, Bronwen thought, the more likely it was others would believe her to
be so.
It troubled her
how heavily the Lodestar weighed on her lap. She straightened her back and did
her best to let no one see it. Her head ached, and she put up one hand to find
she still wore her wreath of flowers, now wilted. She dragged it off her head
and flung it on the floor.
“I must have
news o’ the Celestines,” she said. “If anyone can tell me what has happened to
Donncan and Thunderlily, it is the Stargazer. I need to ken whether the healers
have been able to rouse her, and whether she is well enough to attend me here.
Perhaps I should have a carriage sent to the tower for her? It is too far to
walk in this blaygird storm! Neil, will ye arrange it for me? Ye can be my new
Master o’ Horse, to replace that fool Dacey.”
“Aye, Your
Majesty. Thank ye, Your Majesty,” he cried, his cheeks glowing.
As he rose and
beckoned a page to him, Bronwen sighed. It had been a long, exhausting night,
and it was not over yet. She had much to do and a need for a clear head. She
laid both her hands on the Lodestar and felt fresh energy flow up her arms and
into her heart and her brain. It was intoxicating, having all that power
throbbing at her fingertips. It was frightening too.
“Let us all try
to get some rest now,” she said. “It has been a dreadful night, and dawn is no’
far away. We will be no good to anyone with our wits befuddled with exhaustion.
Let us meet again at noon, and hope for better news.”
She rose, and at
once they all rose too, and bowed. Bronwen felt giddy. Who would have thought
yesterday that today she would be the Banrìgh?
As she made her
weary way towards her boudoir, her thoughts turning longingly towards a bath
and her bed, Neil hurried up behind her.
“Bronny . . . I
mean, Your Majesty . . .”
Bronwen was so
tired the ground seemed to move under her feet like the deck of a ship, but she
smiled and dismissed her ladies-in-waiting with a nod. Neil held open the door
of her room for her, and she went in and sat down heavily on the chaise longue
drawn up close to the fire. She had to lay the Lodestar down. It made her arms
ache fiercely. She had never realized how heavy it was. She wished only to put
her head down on her arms and cry, but Neil was waiting, and even though he was
one of her oldest and dearest friends, she still did not wish him to see her
weep.
“Tea, please,”
she said to Maura, who clucked her tongue and went bustling out.
The room was
dark and cold, the curtains drawn against the storm. Bronwen could hear the
wind rustling in the trees. It was a desolate sound.
She turned to
look up at Neil, but her words died on her lips as he flung himself down on his
knees before her. He seized her hand and bent his head over it.
“I am so very
sorry, Bronny,” he said. “What a dreadful, dreadful thing to happen. And on
your wedding day!”
She said
nothing. Her throat muscles moved convulsively.
“Ye were
marvelous, though, Bronny,” he said and raised glowing eyes to her. “What a
Banrìgh!”
“Ye think I did
well?”
“So well! Ye
confounded and baffled them, all those auld goats! They didna ken what hit
them. It was masterly.”
Somehow his
words of praise worked on her as sympathy could not. Involuntary tears flooded
down her face.
“I’m sorry,” she
gasped, drawing her hands away to cover her face.
He sat next to
her and put his arm about her shoulders and, worn out as she was, Bronwen could
not help resting her head on his shoulder and letting her tears flow. She
vaguely heard him as he comforted and reassured her.
“Oh, darling
Bronny,” he said, “I ken, I ken. It’s all right. Everything will be all right.
I’m here, I’ll always be here when ye need me. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
Bronwen could
not stop.
“Ye’ll ruin your
complexion,” he said, and that raised a watery laugh from her. She tried to sit
up but he would not let her, and it was easier just to relax and let him mop up
her face with his handkerchief.
“Still as bonny
as ever,” he said, looking down at her.
She heaved a
great sigh and smiled at him ruefully. “For sure I am,” she said caustically,
“with my eyes all red, and my nose running, and my hair looking like a bird’s
nest.”
“I’d find ye
bonny in sackcloth and ashes,” he said and bent his head and kissed her on the
mouth.
Surprise held
her still; then she leaped away from him, looking at once to make sure no one
had seen.
“Neil,” she said
unsteadily. “What are ye doing? Have ye run mad?”
“I’m sorry,” he
said. “I couldna help myself.”
“Ye must no’ do
it again, no’ ever. I am married now, remember, and to your best friend.”
“Captain Dillon
is right, Bronwen. I think ye should prepare yourself for the worst.”
“Am I to be a
wife for only a few hours, as I was once Banrìgh? No! I refuse to be. Donncan
is no’ dead. I do no’ ken what has happened to him, but I will no’ believe he
is dead until they lay his body afore me. He is my husband, we are sworn one to
each other, and I will stand by that oath, I will!” The words poured from her
in a torrent, as if the tears had washed away some barrier in her.
“But Bronny,
darling . . .”
“Have ye
forgotten that I am your Banrìgh now?” she asked icily. “Ye will speak to me
with respect!”
He looked sad.
“Nay, I have no’ forgotten, Your Majesty. I apologize.”
Bronwen bit her
lip, sorry to have spoken so to someone she had known since they were children
together, someone she knew sincerely cared for her.
She would not
say so. Bronwen had always found it difficult to admit herself at fault.
Instead she seized Neil’s hand and said with as much earnestness as she could
muster, “If I am to hold the land together, Neil, I must be seen as being
strong. I must command respect.”
He nodded, the
misery on his face easing. “Ye can count on me, Your Majesty. I am here to
serve ye.”
“I thank ye for
it. I will need your help in the days to come, Neil. But now ye must go. We
must no’ be alone again. I want no gossip.”
Neil nodded. She
rose, and he rose with her, bowing his head. “Remember, though, what I said,
Your Majesty. Whenever ye need me, I will be here, no matter what comes.”
She nodded her
head and waited by the chaise longue until he had gone. Then she dropped down
upon the velvet seat, her shoulders drooping. The Lodestar glowed softly white.
She cradled it in her hands, staring into its depths.
Donncan, where
are ye?
There was only
silence.
Iain felt like a
very old man. He and Elfrida walked slowly through the empty corridors, not
speaking. A lackey carried a branched candelabra for them, lighting their way.
Although dawn could not be far away, the palace halls were as black as the
inside of a mine.
At the door to
their suite of rooms, the pastor bowed and silently left them. His rooms were
right across the hall, so Elfrida could call him at any time of day or night
for spiritual succor. Iain had given up wondering what so haunted his wife that
she had turned to a minister of the church she had once hated to be her prop
and guide. In recent months, he had been troubled and unhappy too, with his
sleep disturbed by memories he had thought long buried.
The lackey
opened the door for them and bowed as they passed in. Both Iain and Elfrida stopped
short on the threshold, staring in sudden affront.
Soldiers were
searching their room.
At the sound of
the door, a lieutenant of the Blue Guards turned abruptly. It was clear from
his face that he would have preferred not to have had the room’s inhabitants
come back before he had finished his task. He bowed and apologized politely.
“Captain’s orders,” he explained. “If ye would please take a seat, we will soon
be finished.”
Iain lowered
himself stiffly into an armchair by the fire, Elfrida choosing a hard-backed
chair nearby. They watched in silence as the soldiers methodically and
painstakingly turned his quarters inside out. They emptied vases of flowers,
they raked through the coals on the hearth, they slit open pillows and
counterpanes, they felt through every pocket of every article of clothing in
every trunk he and Elfrida had brought with them.
Iain wanted to
protest. He wanted to shout at them angrily, “Do ye no’ ken he was my greatest
friend?” But he said nothing. He knew it was to be expected. After all, until
recently, the countries he and his wife ruled had been Eileanan’s greatest
enemies. His own mother had sworn to destroy the MacCuinn clan, root and
branch. It did not matter that Iain had laid aside the centuries-long feud
between Arran and the MacCuinns, or that his wife had signed the Pact of Peace
and brought Tìrsoilleir, which had once been known as the Forbidden Land, to
join the rest of Eileanan under the Rìgh’s rule.
Lachlan the
Winged had been murdered, and now all friends and allies were suspect.
Iain looked over
at his wife. Her hands were clenched on her fan and reticule. Although her back
was as straight as ever, her feet side by side as she had been taught by her
jailers as a child, she looked sick and weary. There were violet smudges under
her downcast eyes.
“Will ye be much
longer?” Iain asked the guard in a sudden surge of irritation. “We are both
exhausted. We wish to retire.”
“I am sorry, my
laird, it shall no’ be much longer,” the lieutenant said politely. “We must be
thorough, ye ken. It is no’ just ye who we search, but all at the palace.”
Elfrida
moistened her dry lips and gripped her hands more tightly together.
Iain gestured
for some wine to be brought to her, worried she might faint.
Her brows drew
together and she shook her head. Her pastor disapproved of alcohol, and so
Elfrida no longer drank even a glass of wine with her meal. Iain was by no
means a heavy imbiber, but he enjoyed the occasional glass and had no desire to
drink alone. He gestured to the page now, though, and saw his wife frown in
condemnation as he drank some of the rich sweet liquor.
“To keep my
strength up,” he said with a wan attempt at a joke, but she did not smile or
answer, just dropped her eyes.
Iain did not
speak again.
At last the
soldiers abandoned their search and allowed the chambermaids in to straighten
the room. Elfrida did not rise from her chair until the last maid had
withdrawn, and then she moved so stiffly that Iain came to her side in alarm
and took her arm. She allowed him to help her up, and then went to her dressing
table and laid down her fan and reticule. Iain had changed out of his wedding
finery into his nightshirt and dressing gown, but Elfrida was still dressed in
her simple grey gown. She fumbled at the buttons, and Iain came to help her,
saying irritably, “Why did ye dismiss your maid afore ye were changed, my dear?
Ye ken I am all thumbs.”
She did not
answer. He undid the tight, plain cuffs and then laboriously unbuttoned the
back. She stepped out of it, and he saw with distaste that she wore a hair
shirt beneath it. It had rubbed her fine skin red and raw.
“Elfrida . . .”
he protested, but she ignored him. He saw her blue eyes were shining strangely,
as if with excitement or pleasure. She sat down and began to unpin her hair,
which she wore coiled neatly at the base of her head.
Iain stood by
her for a moment, trying to find a way to tell her he disliked her new pastor
and thought him an evil influence upon her. But he could not find the courage.
He turned to leave and accidentally knocked the fan and reticule to the floor.
He bent to pick them up, but Elfrida was before him, stooping with a cry and
snatching them up from the ground.
“Why, that is my
mother’s fan,” Iain said in surprise.
“Is it?” Elfrida
said. “I had no’ realized. Does it matter?”
“No,” he
answered. “I suppose no’.”
“I kent it would
be hot,” Elfrida said, “and I had heard that fans were all the rage again in
Lucescere. This one is very pretty.”
“I wouldna have
thought it was in your style,” Iain said. “It’s so very heavy and ornate.” He
reached and took it from her, turning it over in his hand. It was very large,
with a frame made of thick embossed sticks, and gilded pigskin painted with
stylized purple thistles.
“Oh, ye think
no’?” she said and took it back again. “Well, I shall no’ carry it again then.”
She opened the drawer of her dressing table and dropped the fan within,
shutting it away.
Feeling vaguely
troubled, Iain went to the door that led to his room. He turned to say good
night to his wife but stopped in surprise. Elfrida had quietly locked the
drawer of the dressing table and was hiding the key inside the jet brooch she
used to pin her collar. Iain had not even known the brooch had a concealed
compartment. Elfrida tucked the brooch inside her jewelry case and began to
brush out her long fair hair. She was smiling to herself.
Iain dropped his
hand and went through to his own bedchamber without saying a word.
Lewen sat in his
cupboard of a room in the Theurgia, watching intently as his knife curled one
shaving after another away from the wood he held in his hand. His knife was
growing blunt. He stopped to whet it against his sharpening stone, and then
resumed his whittling. He was not making anything. For once no shape was emerging
from the wood as if it had always been imprisoned inside, waiting for him to
release it. He was just whittling the wood away to nothing.
He did not know
how much time had passed since he had returned from his search through the
snowstorm. It had been at least an hour, maybe more. Lewen had made no attempt
to undress or to sleep. It felt like he was in a kaleidoscope that had been
turned upside down and shaken, all the known pattern of his life jumbled up and
changed into a new and quite terrifying shape.
He heard a sharp
rap on the glass of his window, and then a flurry of wingbeats. The rap came
again. Lewen got up and went to the window. It was still dark outside. He could
see nothing. He unlatched the clasp and opened the window.
A tiny bluebird
flew in, its wings whirring desperately. It flitted about Lewen’s head,
uttering shrill cries of distress. Lewen put up his hand and caught it, and it
lay quiescent in his palm. He could feel its heart pounding away.
“Rhiannon?”
Lewen said. “What has happened to Rhiannon?”
The bird panted,
its beak open. He bent over it, and suddenly, unexpectedly, it pecked him
sharply just under the eye. Lewen jerked back, then put the fingers of his
other hand up to touch the bead of blood welling up from the tiny wound.
“But why?” Lewen
asked aloud.
The bird spread
its iridescent wings and gave a loud cry. Lewen found himself unexpectedly
short of breath, his eyes smarting with grief.
Folding the
fingers of both hands over the bird, he got up and blundered out of his room.
The corridors were mostly dark and empty, with only the occasional knot of
students standing about and discussing all that had happened that night. Lewen
paid them no heed. He went clattering down the stairs with no clear idea of
where he was going or why.
Joggled in his
hands, the bird gave a little cry of distress. Lewen opened his jacket and went
to tuck the bird inside his breast pocket. Olwynne’s nosegay was inside it,
withered and brown and smelling of rot. Lewen pulled it out and let it fall,
tucking the bird inside the pocket instead and drawing the jacket protectively
over it. His pace lengthened. He felt a rush of new energy, as if he had been
climbing a ladder out of a dark hole and at last seen sunlight above him.
Nina,he thought.Nina
will ken what to do. . . .
The sorceress
was not with the other witches, working desperately to rouse the drugged
healers and the Celestines. It was a scene of chaos. Apprentice-witches trudged
up and down the hall with their shoulders under the armpits of drowsy men and
women, forcing them to keep on walking. Many were so lethargic they could not
take a step themselves, and the young exhausted apprentices had to slap their
faces or shake them to keep them awake.
Others held
basins and buckets for those forced to vomit up the drugged wine. More hurried
about with steaming kettles, making restorative teas that had to be held to the
slack mouths of those afflicted, forcing them to sip.
Gwilym came
limping down the hall, scowling ferociously. “Has anyone seen the Keybearer?
Where’s that foolish lad I sent to find her? We need her! The Stargazer is ill
indeed.”
“H-h-h-here I
am, sir,” the boy piped up. “I c-c-canna find her, sir. Her room is all locked
up, sir.”
“Where can she
be? Ghislaine! The healer we’ve managed to wake says boiling the root o’
devil’s bit in wine and honey may help. It’ll bring on the sweats and help
drive out the poison through the skin. Can ye send someone to the simples room
to make us up some as soon as can be? Ye! Lass! I need more o’ that tea!”
The sorcerer saw
Lewen and said sternly, “I thought I told ye to get to bed, Lewen, and get some
rest! The last thing I need is ye coming down with fever.”
“Please, sir,
have ye seen Nina?”
“Nina is still
at the palace,” Gwilym said. “She is utterly distraught. What a dreadful night
this has been.”
He did not pause
to wonder why Lewen was asking for Nina but stumped away, calling for Ghislaine
to come and help him at once. Then suddenly he turned. “Lewen, since ye’re up,
can ye run a message to the palace for me? Tell the Banrìgh the Stargazer is
ill indeed, and she canna be seeing her tonight. There’s a horse outside
waiting.”
“Aye, sir,”
Lewen said gladly and ran out the door and into the bitter dark. It had stopped
snowing, but a black frost had set in, and the wind was cruel. Lewen grabbed
the horse, which was being walked up and down by a shivering, miserable lad,
and unbuckled its blanket. He did not wait for the saddle to be set on its back
but leaped up and urged the horse into a gallop.
It was a mad
ride through the darkness, the road slippery with ice. It was so cold the bones
behind Lewen’s ears ached, and each breath pierced his lungs. The wind was
driving away the clouds, showing a black frosty sky overhead where the stars
were beginning to pale along the eastern horizon.
Lewen passed on
his message to the sentries at the gate, who at once sent a page running for
the Banrìgh’s bedchamber, and then he went in search of Nina. Her door was
opened by a servant who scanned Lewen’s face suspiciously and demanded his
business.
“I need to see
Nina,” Lewen stammered.
“I am sorry,
Lady Ninon is no’ receiving visitors,” the servant replied and went to shut the
door.
“Wait!” Lewen
cried. “She will want to see me, she will!”
“Lewen?” Iven’s
voice called. “Is that Lewen?”
“Aye,” he said
gladly, and pushed past the servant and into the chamber beyond.
The room was dim
and very quiet. Iven was sitting at a table, his fair hair ruffled, his shirt
unbuttoned and crumpled, writing letters by the light of a three-branched candelabra.
He looked up as Lewen came in and greeted him in a low voice, indicating he
could go through to the bedchamber beyond. As Lewen went past, he saw Brun the
cluricaun was sitting disconsolately by the fire, a pot of ale before him. Dide
sat with him, occupying his hands with six golden balls that he rolled over his
knuckles or poured from one hand to another in a glittering stream. He looked
tired and sad, but he made an effort to smile at Lewen, rising to accompany him
into the bedchamber.
Nina was lying
on the bed, dressed in a green satin dressing gown embroidered with huge pink
roses. Her chestnut hair was loose and waved wildly over her shoulders. She
turned at Dide’s gentle touch and sat up, pushing back her disheveled hair with
one hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. At the sight of her Lewen’s
heart swelled with pity. He could not imagine how distressed she must be, to
have her six-year-old son snatched away from her like that.
“I’m so sorry
about Roden,” Lewen said.
Tears welled up
in Nina’s eyes. “I should never have left him, never,” she said. Her voice
trembled. “I kent that evil laird had escaped. I should’ve kent he’d want to
take Roden with him. I heard him say they would find him again when the time
was right. With my own ears I heard him say it. I should’ve kent!”
“Don’t distress
yourself anymore,” Dide said. He cast Lewen a reproachful look. “Please, have
some wine, Nina. It’ll make ye feel better.”
“I don’t want
wine!” Nina said and pushed the glass away so violently it spilt. She did not
notice, sitting up with both hands clasped at her breast, dark eyes fixed
beseechingly on Lewen’s face. “Oh, have ye come with news, Lewen? Any news at
all?”
He shook his
head. “No. I’m sorry,” he managed to say.
She drooped with
disappointment, turning back to lie on her pillow, her hand over her eyes.
“Then why have
ye come?” Dide asked, not unkindly.
“The little bird
. . .” he said and could say no more. From his breast came a soft cheep.
Nina looked up.
“Ye have a bird there? What bird?”
“It’s the bird I
carved Rhiannon,” Lewen said. “It came to me. . . . Something’s wrong.”
Nina sat up and
held out her hand. “Give it to me,” she said.
Gently Lewen
took the bird out of his breast pocket and gave it to Nina. Its heart was not
pounding away quite so violently, but it was still panting and its eye was
dull.
Nina held it
between her hands and whispered something to it. It opened its beak and gave a
high, wild shriek, flapping its wings wildly. She whispered to it again and
smoothed down its bright blue feathers, and the bird calmed.
“Dide, can I
have some honey water for it?” Nina asked. When her brother had dropped some
honey into warm water and brought it to her, she dipped her finger in it and
trickled some drops down the bird’s throat. It drank thirstily.
“The poor wee
thing is terrified,” Nina said. “It must’ve been there when the dragon came for
Rhiannon.”
Lewen had a most
peculiar sensation, as if the world was receding away from him. “A dragon came
for Rhiannon?” he repeated stupidly. “What dragon?”
Nina and Dide
exchanged glances. “That’s right. Ye were no’ there when they brought the
news.”
“What news?”
“Rhiannon
escaped from Sorrowgate Tower,” Nina said.
“Rhiannon
escaped!” Lewen’s heart leaped.
“She hit the
guard over the head with her chamber pot,” Dide said and chuckled.
“Iseult was
infuriated. She called the dragon’s name. She flew after Rhiannon and brought
her back.”
“I saw the
dragon fly over,” Lewen said. “The Banrìgh was riding it? But why? Why would
the Banrìgh call the dragon’s name for such a little thing? What does she care
whether Rhiannon escapes or not?”
“She’s convinced
Rhiannon murdered Lachlan. She has condemned her to hang at dawn, at the
ringing o’ the bell.”
“But . . . but
why?” Lewen suddenly found it hard to breathe.
“Iseult is
utterly distraught,” Dide said. “I have never seen her so angry, so wild. She
walks in a cloud o’ ice and snowflakes and turns the world to winter wherever
she is.”
“She has lost
her husband and all her children,” Nina said softly. “I can understand her
sorrow.” She heaved a great sigh. “But no’ her rage. She is quite mad with it.
Luckily Isabeau thinks so too. She said she would convince Iseult to let
Rhiannon drink from that goblet o’ Connor’s, to prove her innocence. She
should’ve done so by now.”
“When did she
say this?” Lewen demanded, his heart thumping so hard he could barely hear his
own voice. “For no one has seen the Keybearer for hours and hours. They were
calling for her at the healers’ hall. The Celestines were all drugged, we think
by Johanna, and all the healers too. Whatever it was they swallowed hit them
hard. We almost lost the Stargazer. It’s been like a madhouse; they had to give
them something to make them vomit and walk them up and down the corridors for
hours to stop them falling asleep again. Isabeau was no’ there then, and no one
could find her.”
Nina stared at
him, wild-eyed. “Eà’s eyes! Do ye mean to tell me Isabeau is missing too? And
Rhiannon is still to hang? Oh, my goddess!”
She got up in
frantic haste, stripping off her vivid dressing gown. Lewen averted his eyes,
embarrassed. “We must find out what has happened to Isabeau, and we must
convince Iseult to spare Rhiannon. Surely the first madness o’ her grief is
over, and she will see reason? I swear, if she will no’ listen, I will knock
her head against the wall until she does! No, Iven! Do no’ try to stop me.
Dide! Where is Isabeau?”
“She was going
to consultThe Book o’ Shadows, ” Dide said. “She was . . . she was very
afraid. I do no’ ken why. I didna think . . . She is the Keybearer, for Eà’s
sake! Who could harm the Keybearer!”
“We must find
her!” Nina cried. “What time is it? Eà, Eà! It is almost dawn now. We do no’
have much time. Lewen, come with me!”
Lewen nodded. He
took the bluebird back from Nina and tucked it into his inner pocket, as Nina
dragged on a dress and cloak and pulled on her boots. Brun the cluricaun came
and put one wrinkly paw on his arm.
“Remember this,
lad,” Brun said solemnly. “There is a body without a heart that has a tongue
and yet no head. Buried it was afore it was made, and loud it does speak
although it is dead.”
Lewen stared at
him in utter stupefaction.
“Think on it,
laddie,” the cluricaun said, nodding his head. “Still its tongue and it canna
speak.”
“All right,”
Lewen said, though he did not understand. The cluricaun sat back, satisfied.
Lewen only had time to think that perhaps the old cluricaun was losing his wits
with age before Nina imperiously beckoned him from the door. “Come on!” she
cried.
Swept along on
the wave of Nina’s vehemence, Lewen did as he was told, though he was so
topsy-turvy in all his emotions he could not have said why. Too much had
happened in recent days. He had thought he hated Rhiannon and loved Olwynne,
but the sight of the judges’ red mantles had wrung his heart so powerfully that
he had been afraid and pressed as close to Olwynne as he could. He had jumped
the fire with her and promised to be true to her. Then Olwynne had disappeared.
Lewen had been too shocked, and too overwhelmed by events, to know what to
think or feel.
Then, hearing
from Nina that Rhiannon had escaped, Lewen had been shaken by such joy and
longing that he had been ashamed.Olwynne is my true love. I am handfasted to
her. Rhiannon means naught to me , he had told himself, but it was not
true, not true. He had realized this as he held the bluebird in his cupped
hands, feeling its heart beating frantically against his palm, its throat
pulsing with life and breath that Lewen had somehow given it. No matter if it
had been ensorcelled or not, the love he had felt for Rhiannon had been the
truest and deepest thing in his whole life. He could not stand by and let
Rhiannon die.
Yet he did not
know how to save her.
They found
Iseult still sitting her lonely vigil by her husband’s dead body. Though they
pleaded with her, she sat as stiff and cold and white as if dead herself and
said simply, “Why ask me? What power do I have over life and death now? I am
naught but a dead Rìgh’s widow. Ask the Banrìgh.” Her last word was bitter and
scornful.
Nina and Lewen
did not understand her, and she would not explain. They went away, confounded
and upset, only to learn of Bronwen’s seizing of power by a serving girl come
to stoke up the fires in the hall. So they ran to the Privy Chamber, which was
dark and empty, and thence to Bronwen’s chambers.
The
ladies-in-waiting guarding her rooms would not wake the new Banrìgh, no matter
how much Nina and Lewen begged and pleaded. They were proud and contemptuous,
reveling in their newfound power. Neither Nina nor Lewen had any influence with
them. The court was still in such turmoil over the sudden shift in power that
no one was at all willing to stick their neck out for a satyricorn girl found
guilty of murdering a Yeoman, particularly one suspected of being involved in
the Rìgh’s murder. Nina argued until she was hoarse, to no avail.
So Nina and
Lewen galloped together down the avenue to the witches’ tower, Nina’s hair
streaming behind her like a banner. For once Lewen did not spare the horse,
whipping it on with the reins. Breathless, their faces stinging, they ran into
the great hall, demanding from everyone they met whether the Keybearer had been
found. Anxious denials were all they got.
Fèlice was
kneeling before the fire, stirring a great cauldron from which rose a ghastly
bitter smell. She turned and rose to her feet, pushing back her disheveled hair
with one hand.
“Nina! I heard
about Roden. I’m so very, very sorry.” It was clear Fèlice had been crying. Her
nose was red and her eyes were swollen, and she was so pale she looked as if
she might keel over at any moment.
Nina nodded.
“All we can do is pray to Eà that Finn finds them,” she said tersely. “Fèlice!
We need the Keybearer at once. Have ye heard the news? Rhiannon is to hang at
dawn. Iseult has commanded it, and we canna get in to beg the new Banrìgh to
pardon her—they willna let us in. They will let Isabeau in, though. We must
find her!”
“Rhiannon is to
hang? At dawn?” Fèlice put out her hand and grasped Nina’s arm. “No!”
“Aye! Unless we
can stop it.”
“No one’s seen
the Keybearer,” Fèlice said rapidly. “Though someone said they saw an owl fly
in her bedroom window some hours ago . . .”
Nina and Lewen
exchanged a quick glance and then began to run up the stairs, taking two at a
time. Behind them, Fèlice looked out at the paling sky and bit her lip, tears
running down her face. Then she threw down her spoon, and ran out the front
door, calling frantically, “Landon! Cameron! To me!”
Lewen reached
the Keybearer’s door first. He banged his fist upon it, shouting at the top of
his voice. There was no answer. Nina reached his side and added her voice to
his. Again and again they knocked, and called Isabeau’s name, and rattled the
door handle, but there was no answer. Then Lewen heard a faint moan.
They looked at
each other, filled with a dreadful fear; then Nina took a deep breath and began
to sing. Higher and higher her voice soared, until the pitch was so unbearable
Lewen had to press his hands over his ears. The bluebird lying against his
heart shrieked in terror.
There was a
flash of blue fire as the wards on the Keybearer’s door suddenly burst asunder,
leaving a lingering sigil burned upon Lewen’s eyeballs. The door blew off its
hinges, crashing to the floor. Nina stepped in, holding her arm up over her
face to protect herself from the blue sparks hissing all round the frame.
Wordlessly, Lewen followed.
Isabeau was
curled in a fetal position on the floor, her chin pressed down into her chest,
her hands held over her face as if trying to hold off a blow. Every now and
again she jerked, as if stung by a doom-eel.The Book of Shadows lay
facedown on the floor, its pages bent beneath it as if it had been thrown or
dropped. There was an unpleasant smell in the air, like burned leather.
Glancing at the ancient tome, Lewen saw its red cover was scorched with dark,
smudged marks like handprints.
Calling
Isabeau’s name, Nina felt her forehead, and then her pulse. One was clammy and
cold, the other tumultuous. The Keybearer did not respond to the sound of her
name. When Nina tried to pull Isabeau’s hands away, she cried out and cowered
away.
“Isabeau! What
has happened!” Nina cried. “Oh Eà, help me! What could have happened?”
Isabeau’s pale
lips moved. A croaking sound came out. “Gwilym . . . Get Gwilym.”
Nina bent over
her. “But what has happened?” she asked. “Are ye ill?”
“Ensorcelled,”
Isabeau whispered. “Very strong . . . I canna . . . get Gwilym.”
Nina turned to
Lewen, and he rose from his knees, ready to go and fetch the sorcerer as asked.
Just then, the
bluebird stirred inside Lewen’s jacket and began to trill. Outside another bird
answered, and then another.
“It is dawn,”
Nina said heavily. “We are too late. The bell will ring at any moment. Oh, poor
Rhiannon!”
Lewen stared at
her, his breath catching in his throat; then he turned and began to run.
They had left
Rhiannon a candle marked with lines that showed the passing of the hours. She
had not wanted to be alone in the dark. She watched the flame slowly devour the
candle until all that was left was a pale nub crouched in a pool of wax.
It was still
dark when they came for her. They unlocked her chains and manacles and set a
fine breakfast of baked ham and coddled eggs before her, which Rhiannon could
not eat. She asked for the goldensloe wine Nina had brought her for midsummer,
and they stood by and watched as she drank it. It helped ease the trembling of
her hands. No one spoke much, which she thought was kind. Then they brought hot
water and harsh soap for her to wash with, and another shapeless grey gown with
seams that made her itch unbearably.The Keybearer’s fire did not get rid of
all the lice , Rhiannon thought.
She had an
escort of six guards, all heavily armed, with black hoods and black armbands.
They were not her usual guards but strangers to her, which saddened her. She
had grown quite friendly with Corey and Henry, and hoped that the younger of
the two had not been punished for her escape. She wished the chamber pot had
not been full, or that she had been able to find another weapon with which to
knock him out.
The guards
obviously knew she had escaped once before. They snapped the manacles and
chains back on and kept their spears at the ready, prodding her painfully if
she lagged behind or looked about her too closely.
Still Rhiannon
looked for chances to escape. She called to Blackthorn with all her strength,
hoping for some sense that the winged horse was not badly hurt, that she had
escaped the dragon’s claw and would come and save her from the noose. Bound in
iron and stone, she felt nothing.
The escort took
her down through the prison and out onto the snow-covered battlement that
spanned the gate. It was bitterly cold. They hung over the wall with torches in
their hands and prodded her forward with their spears so she could see the row
of skulls hanging above the lintel of the gate. On the far end were two freshly
severed heads. She recognized the short grey hair of Shannley, the lord of
Fettercairn’s groom. He had been hanged the day before, they told her. His face
was almost unrecognizable, for the birds and the rats had been enjoying a
feast. His eyes were gone, and most of his cheek.
The other head
was that of a young and pretty girl with long golden hair, now matted with
blood. Rhiannon recognized her as the girl in the Murderers’ Gallery who had
killed her baby. The sight filled her with rage, though she could not have
explained why. She stepped back, saying nothing, but she would have liked to
strike out at her guards or shout at them. She did not. Somehow, Rhiannon was
still hoping for deliverance.
“We’ll hang your
head there too, when we’re done,” one of the guards said.
“As an example
to others,” another said, grinning.
Rhiannon stared
at them, saying nothing. She imagined her head stuck on a pike, the birds
pecking at her sightless eyes, and felt a shudder rack her body. She tried not
to let the prison guards see.
The sight of the
skull-laden lintel of the gate had induced a jocular mood in her guards. They
talked and joked as they marched her on down the ice-slick stairs and into the
large courtyard below, where the gallows stood. Not many people had been hanged
in Lachlan’s time, they told her. They wondered whether the new Banrìgh would
be more like her mother, Maya the Ensorcellor. In her day, the guards said,
cartloads of people had been brought regularly to the gallows or, if they were
witches or faeries, burned alive on a bonfire.
“No’ that we
want those days back again,” the oldest of the guards said reprovingly and
looked at Rhiannon apologetically.
The courtyard
was lit with flaming torches. The stark shape of the gallows was silhouetted
against their orange glare. Rhiannon stared in fascination. She had never seen
such a contraption before, but it was clear what its function was. Then she
looked to the sky, her pulse beginning to thump, both dreading and longing for
the familiar shape of Blackthorn in the sky. But all she could see was the sky
paling to grey. It was dawn.
A large crowd
had gathered to watch. She was the latest sensation, her guards told her. They
forced her up the steps to the gallows. Rhiannon resisted with all her
strength, but they only laughed, pleased with her for putting on a good show
for the crowd. It was a noisy mob. Some had come armed with old fruit and
vegetables to lob at her, some shouted for her death with a frenzy that alarmed
and sickened her, and others prayed for her with bent heads. Rhiannon scanned
the crowd desperately, but there was no familiar face, no friend there to ease
her last moments or to try one last reckless attempt to rescue her. Her eyes
filled with tears despite herself.Lewen , her soul yearned.Lewen.
But he was not
there.
A big man with a
thick neck and arms was waiting for her by the gallows. His face was obscured
with a black hood. They dragged Rhiannon the last few feet and secured her arms
behind her back. A hood was dropped over her face. She struggled to choke back
her tears, to breathe while she could. She felt the thick rope of the noose
being fitted about her neck.
“At the first
ring o’ the tower bell, I’ll pull this lever here and the boards beneath your
feet will fall,” a deep, wheezy voice said in her ear. “Do no’ fear, lass.
It’ll be quick. Have ye friends in the crowd? They can pull on your feet to
make it quicker if ye like.”
Dumbly Rhiannon
shook her head.No friends , she thought.No friends anywhere . The
thought brought the tears gushing. She took a deep, shaky breath and felt the
big man drop a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Sorry, lass,”
he mumbled.
They waited.
Rhiannon listened intently. She could hear the hisses and catcalls of the
crowd. She could hear the heavy breathing of the hangman. She could hear one of
her guards shuffle his feet impatiently. Beyond the wall, the river rushed
towards the cliff, flinging its great body of water over in a dull roar that
filled the city every minute of every day. Birds were singing as blithely as
ever, caring not a bit that today was the day Rhiannon would die. Somewhere a
cart rattled over cobblestones. A dog barked. A shop sign squeaked in the
freshening breeze. Rhiannon felt it flatten her coarse dress against her body.
Someone called, “Ee-ee-eels, ee-ee-eels, ee-ee-els alive-oh!”
The muffled
darkness pressing so close about Rhiannon’s face began to lighten. The material
had soaked up her tears, and it was damp against her face. Her skin itched.
“Where’s that
bell?” someone muttered.
“It’s dawn. Why
have ye no’ hung her?” someone else called.
“Come on, hang
her!” another voice screamed.
A chant began to
rise from the crowd. “Hang her, hang her!”
“Why hasna that
bell rung?” the hangman asked. “I got to wait for the bell.”
The crowd had
begun to stamp their feet, to clap, to bang wooden staves against the iron
railing. “Hang her, hang her, hang her,” they shrieked.
“It’s a sign,”
someone else called.
Rhiannon’s heart
leaped. She recognized Fèlice’s clear, sweet, aristocratic voice. “It’s a sign
from Eà! Eà has stilled the bell so it canna ring. Spare her!”
“It’s a sign!”
someone else repeated. Rhiannon could not be sure, but she thought it might be
Rafferty. “A sign from Eà!”
“Hang her, hang
her, hang her!”
“The bell has
no’ rung! It’s a sign from Eà!”
“Hang her!”
“I canna hang
her without the ring o’ the bell. That’s the law,” the hangman muttered.
Rhiannon heard him shift his weight anxiously, and the board below her feet
creaked ominously. She could not help but curl her bare toes, dreading the
sudden yawning of space below her feet.
“The Banrìgh
must have pardoned her,” Fèlice called again. “Eà bless the Banrìgh!”
“Hang her, hang
her, hang her!”
“Nay, it’s a sign,
a sign from Eà. Rhiannon is innocent!” Landon called. Rhiannon knew his voice
at once. Her heart warmed within her. She did have friends after all.
“She’s innocent!
Spare her!”
“Hang her, hang
her!”
“The Banrìgh!
The Blessed Banrìgh must’ve pardoned her!”
“Where’s that
bloody bell?” the hangman muttered.
The screams and
calls echoed around the courtyard. The stamping and clapping grew frenzied.
Rhiannon could feel her guards growing restive. She spread her feet on the
boards, tense and ready for action.
“Havers, why
have ye no’ hung her yet?”
“Hang the
bitch!”
“The bell has
no’ rung!” the hangman cried out loud, sounding ruffled and upset. “I canna
hang her without the bloody bell ringing. I canna!”
Now the light
was strong in her eyes. She felt the cloth about her face warming. The dawn
singing of the birds had faded, but the sound of the wakening city was loud.
Then she heard the sweet, high cry of a bluebird, and then the familiar light
weight as her bird landed on her shoulder. Tears choked her.
“Just hang her,
damn it,” one of the guards said crossly. “I’m getting hungry!”
“I canna hang
her without the ring o’ the bell,” the hangman said stubbornly. “That’s what
I’ve been told.”
“Just do it, so
we can get out o’ here,” another guard said.
“Nay, I will
no’,” the hangman said. “What if the Banrìgh has sent a pardon? It’d be my head
then.”
“Flaming dragon
balls, we’ll have a riot soon. Hang her, will ye!”
“I will no’,”
the hangman said. “Ye hang her, if ye’re so anxious to see it done.”
There was a pause,
during which the competing screams of the crowd seemed to grow even louder.
Rhiannon waited for the response with straining ears.
“Better no’,”
the guard muttered at last. “If they wanted her hung, they’d have rung the
bell.”
Rhiannon’s head
swam with utter relief. Her knees almost buckled, but with a great effort she
locked them straight, not wanting to hang herself by fainting now that a
reprieve of sorts had been won.
“Eà bless ye!”
Fèlice called, her voice ringing over the noise of the crowd.
Just then
Rhiannon heard the thunder of hooves approaching. Anxiety gripped her heart
tight. She could barely breathe. She strained her ears to listen. She heard the
rattle of wheels, the snap of a whip being cracked; then she heard Fèlice’s
joyous voice. “Nina!”
Nina’s clear,
strong voice rang out. “A reprieve! I have here a reprieve, signed by the
Banrìgh Bronwen Mathilde NicCuinn. Rhiannon o’ Dubhslain has been pardoned!
Unchain her!”
There was a
great scuffle. Rhiannon swayed on her feet. The hangman put his thick arm about
her. “Hold up there, lassie,” he whispered. “Just a minute more.”
She heard the
raucous crowd being pushed back by soldiers; then someone clattered about
behind her. Her chains fell to the boards with a clunk. Rhiannon ripped her
hood off. The light dazzled her eyes, but she shielded them with her arm,
taking deep, panting breaths of air that suddenly seemed deliciously pure and
clear. Nina sprang up onto the gibbet and embraced her fervently. Her hair was
wild and disheveled, her clothes in disarray, but Rhiannon had never seen Nina
look so beautiful. She hugged her back with all her strength.
Fèlice waved
wildly, her face lit up with jubilation, from the other side of the iron
railings. Cameron, Rafferty, Landon, and Maisie were with her, leaping up and
down, laughing and screaming with excitement. Gwilym the Ugly was trying to
control the rearing, lathered horses threatening to tip the little cart over,
while beyond the line of soldiers the crowd seethed and shouted, some angry and
disappointed, others sure they had seen a real live miracle.
“It was Gwilym
who did it,” Nina said, the words tumbling one over the other. “He’s kent
Bronwen since she was just a lass. Lachlan had told him about the pardon. He
convinced Bronwen that we would never find the true culprits if we hanged ye.
Ye are the only one . . . Ye ken the most o’ anyone . . .” She had to stop to
take a deep, panting breath. “I canna believe we got here in time! I was sure
we’d be too late. Too late!” She laughed wildly and wiped her tears away.
“The bell,”
Rhiannon said. “The bell didna ring.”
“It’s a
miracle!” Fèlice called. “That bloody bell has rung nonstop all night, and yet
it didna ring in the dawn! Eà was with us. Eà was on our side!”
“The bell?” Nina
asked. “They didna hang ye because o’ the bell?”
“Aye,” Rhiannon
said, wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. “The bell didna ring.
I dinna ken why.”
“There is a body
without a heart that has a tongue. . . .” Nina said slowly. “A bell, o’ course!
Still its tongue, and the bell canna speak.”
The old bell
ringer hurried up the dark, cobwebby stairs, tense with anxiety. As long as he
had been tower captain, the bells in the watchtower had rung out just when they
ought to, with clear true voices, to tell the people of the city that all was
well, or not well, within the bounds of their world. Never had he known one to
stay mute when he had called upon it to ring.
He reached the
top of the bell tower. Six bells of varying size hung below him, their sound
bows gleaming faintly in the gloom. He reached out and seized the rim of the
largest of all the bells, the tenor, whose great girth measured more than
forty-five inches across. She was named Aingeal, and around her belly were
inscribed the words, “I to Eà the living call, and to the grave do summon all.”
It was her voice that rang out over the city every dawn, to call the workers to
their tasks, and then again at sunset, to call the curfew, and the shutting of
the city gates, and the downing of tools. As tower captain, he had the honor to
ring her, and it was always her voice that was heard last, after the ringing of
the changes.
The bell ringer
ran his hand over Aingeal’s shining, voluptuous waist, and then seized the
wheel with one hand and the rope with the other, dragging the sound bow upwards
so he could examine the clapper. He himself had removed the double muffler from
the clapper after ringing Aingeal for six hours straight. All had been sound
then. Even if some fool had replaced the leather and horsehair device, the bell
still should have sounded its muted, portentous voice. Only removal of the
clapper, which he knew by experience was no easy task, or complete
immobilization, could prevent Aingeal from singing.
Slowly the bell
swung upwards, till its rim was facing the arched ceiling and the old bell
ringer could peer inside her hollow body.
He cried aloud
in surprise.
A young man was
clinging tightly to the clapper, his legs braced against the sound rim. He was
white and sick-looking, as indeed he should be, having just been swung three
hundred and sixty degrees over and over again. He had tied himself in place
with a crumpled black apprentice-witch’s robe but had evidently hit his head
hard, for blood was trickling down the side of his face.
“Eà’s eyes!” the
bell ringer cried. “No wonder the bell wouldna ring. Ye’re lucky ye didna kill
yourself!”
The young man
stirred, groaning. “Still its tongue,” he muttered. “Do no’ let it speak.”
“Let’s get ye
off there afore ye fall,” the bell ringer said, seizing the young man about the
shoulders and drawing his knife to cut the robe that tied him in place. “Young
fool! What was it? A wager?”
“Is she dead?”
the young man demanded, opening dazed brown eyes. “Did I save her?”
“It’s ye who
should be dead, ye young fool,” the bell ringer said gruffly. “Stopping my bell
that way!”
“I stopped it?”
he asked. “I stilled its tongue?”
“Hertongue,”
the bell ringer said. “A bell is always called ‘she.’ ” He grinned, and said,
as he sawed away at the knot of the twisted material, “Ye ken why? ’Cause they
have big mouths and long tongues.”
“I stopped her,”
the young man said contentedly, then fainted.
The Keybearer lay
in her white bed. Although it was mounded high with eiderdowns and blankets,
still she shivered as if sleeping under snow. In the firelight dancing over the
walls, her eyes looked very big and very black, the pupil so dilated that the
blue of her iris was almost completely swallowed.
“It is a very
strong spell,” she said. Her voice was low and husky. “I have never felt such a
strong compulsion. If I had no’ had such a spell laid on me afore, I do no’
think I would recognize it now for what it is. I do no’ ken how long I can
resist it.”
“But who could
weave such a spell?” Gwilym the Ugly asked. He was sitting beside the bed, his
saturnine face set in a ferocious scowl. Cailean of the Shadowswathe was there
too, and his brother Stormy Briant, and Ghislaine Dream-Walker, and Jock
Crofter, and Fat Drusa, and the wizened old sorceress Wise Tully, who was so
old she rarely left her own quarters anymore. Nina the Nightingale sat on the
far side of the bed with Dide, who was holding Isabeau’s crippled hand in both
of his.
“It was Brann
the Raven,” the Keybearer said and stopped for a moment, trying to control her
breathing. “Do ye no’ remember how he swore he would outwit Gearradh and live
again? It was no’ an idle boast. Somehow he learned the secret o’ raising the
dead and wrote it inThe Book o’ Shadows . Concealed within the words is
another spell, a very strong and subtle spell. Whoever reads the spell is
compelled to go to the Tomb o’ Ravens and resurrect him from his grave. This is
no easy task. . . .”
She stopped
again, and Dide held a glass of water to her lips so she could drink. When she
spoke again, her voice was stronger. “Brann died a thousand years or more ago.
There is naught left o’ him but grave dust. The Spell o’ Resurrection is most
potent when spoken as soon after the corpse’s death as possible. The more that
remains o’ them, the more strongly the spirit lingers in the flesh. To raise
him now would be impossible.”
“Then how . .
.?” Nina asked.
“Brann was
clever, diabolically clever. He kent it might be a long time afore someone was
foolish enough to seek to ken the Spell o’ Resurrection. So the compulsion is a
complex one. It is no’ enough to go to the Tomb o’ Ravens and disinter his
grave. One must go back in time to the day o’ his death first.”
“The Heart o’
Stars!” Ghislaine exclaimed. “That is why Thunderlily and Donncan . . .”
“And Johanna,”
Isabeau said heavily. “Do no’ forget Johanna.”
“Johannaforced
Thunderlily and the Prionnsa?” Fat Drusa asked blankly. “It is hard to
believe.”
“I should have
seen it coming,” Isabeau said. “But I was so caught up in my own concerns . .
.”
“It was Dedrie,”
Nina said, beginning to understand. “She wanted the Spell o’ Resurrection for
the laird o’ Fettercairn, so he could raise his brother and the little dead
boy, the one who looks like Roden.”
“Aye, I think
so,” Isabeau said. “She wriggled her way into Johanna’s confidence . . .”
“Convinced her
to look up the spell inThe Book o’ Shadows . . . ” Nina said.
“Aye, but
Johanna was caught by Brann’s compulsion like a fish on a hook. She wouldna
have had a chance. If I’m not mistaken, the skeelie has been working on her will
for a while. Many o’ those village skeelies have no compunction in using their
magic to bend the will o’ others to their own. It’s forbidden to those o’ the
Coven, o’ course, but . . .” Her voice trailed away wearily, and she shrugged.
“It is a hard temptation to resist, I ken.”
“So if this
skeelie had been molding Johanna to her will for some time . . .” Gwilym said
slowly.
“And drugging
her too, I bet!” Nina interjected. “Dedrie likes drugs and poisons.”
“Then she
would’ve been very susceptible to Brann’s spell o’ compulsion,” Gwilym
finished.
Isabeau nodded.
“Aye. I do no’ think Donncan and Thunderlily’s disappearance had aught to do
with the laird o’ Fettercairn’s plot. I think he just wanted the Spell o’
Resurrection, and then three living souls, willing or unwilling. . . .” She
shuddered.
“Why three?”
Dide asked. “I understand Owein and Roden—one for his brother who died, and one
for the little boy—but why Olwynne?”
“To raise
Margrit o’ Arran,” Isabeau replied.
A gasp of
surprise and horror ran around the room.
“Och, aye,” she
said, nodding. “I’ve suspected Margrit’s hand in this for a while, even from
beyond the grave. She is the one—or at least, it was her ghost—who told the
laird o’ Fettercairn where he could find the Spell o’ Resurrection. It is just
the sort o’ thing she would’ve known o’. It must’ve been unbelievably
frustrating for her, to ken where to find such a spell but to have no hands or
feet or voice to work the spell. Twenty years she has been dead. It is a long
time to cling to one’s life, waiting for a tool to come along.”
“So it was the
ghost o’ Margrit o’ Arran that Laird Malvern and his necromancers raised at the
Tower o’ Ravens?” Nina said, beginning to understand. “But how did Johanna come
to be involved?”
“Margrit may
have told Laird Malvern where to find the Spell o’ Resurrection, but he and his
servants could never have come nearThe Book o’ Shadows by themselves.
They needed to find someone who was close enough to me to know how to get into
my rooms, yet who was willing to betray me.”
“I would never
have thought it o’ Johanna,” Fat Drusa said in distress.
“I imagine they
promised her they would raise Connor from the dead,” Isabeau said. “Even so,
she may no’ have helped them, I think, if Lachlan had no’ decided to pardon
Rhiannon. Else Johanna would’ve looked up the spell afore now, surely. And in
return for her finding them the spell, they killed Lachlan afore he could
announce Rhiannon’s pardon.”
“He always said
revenge was a dish best eaten cold,” Nina said and pressed her hand against her
mouth.
“It was Rhiannon
who made me suspect Margrit o’ Arran was involved,” Isabeau said. “I am so glad
ye were in time to save her, Nina! She is quick and clever, that lass, and has
real power. I am so sorry that it should’ve been Iseult who gave the order for
her to hang, but she is always the same, once her temper gets the better o’
her. She does no’ see clearly.”
“She is half-mad
with grief,” Fat Drusa said pitifully. “It is all so sad!”
“But how can ye
be so sure the ghost is Margrit?” Gwilym demanded. He had once been the
Thistle’s second-in-command and her lover. It was not a memory he was fond of.
“The ghost o’ a
powerful sorceress who had been poisoned to death? Someone whose grave was a
long way away, somewhere across the sea? Someone powerful enough to cling to
this world and seek another body to inhabit, the body o’ a young and beautiful
dark-haired girl, one with power . . .”
“Margrit o’
Arran,” Gwilym said grimly.
“Aye, I fear
so,” Isabeau said and heaved a great sigh. “If only I had realized earlier . .
.” Her fretful fingers plucked at the sheets.
“If ifs and buts
were pots and pans, there’s be no need for tinkers’ hands,” Dide said, quoting
a maxim of her old guardian, Meghan, that made Isabeau laugh and helped clear
the air a little.
“So what are we
to do?” Ghislaine said.
“It’s a sorry
tangle indeed,” Isabeau said, and it was clear it cost her to keep speaking.
Perspiration slicked her skin, and she was very pale. Her arms moved jerkily.
“But Meghan, Eà bless her wise heart, always said a problem is like a tangle o’
thread. If ye can just find the end o’ the thread, ye can pull the tangle
undone.”
“So what is the
end o’ the thread?” Ghislaine asked.
“Two ends,”
Isabeau said. “One is Donncan and Thunderlily. We must go and get them back.
That means traveling the Auld Ways and, perhaps, facing Brann the Raven.”
“No easy task,”
Ghislaine said blankly.
“No,” Isabeau
said.
“We will need a
Celestine to guide us,” Gwilym said. “Cloudshadow would be best.”
“Aye,” Isabeau
said. “She kens the Auld Ways better than anyone.”
“But a thousand
years!” Cailean marveled. “Is it possible?”
“Och, aye, it is
possible.” Isabeau’s voice was husky with exhaustion, and she sounded dreamy
and strange. Dide cast a quick glance at her. She did not meet his glance, her
eyes fixed on the window that overlooked the gardens. Although it was past
midday, it was gloomy outside, for the sky was dark with clouds, and
occasionally sleet drove against the glass.
“If it must be
done, it will be done,” she said in the same low, dreamy voice. “All things are
possible if ye desire it enough.”
Dide frowned.
“We will need to
be very sure o’ our bearings,” Gwilym said. “Do the Celestines no’ navigate the
Auld Ways by means o’ the stars and planets? I will need to go and research the
exact placement o’ the constellations on the night Brann died. . . .”
“I suspect
Johanna will already have done the research,” Cailean said dryly. “Ask the
librarians what books she has looked at recently. I’m sure we will find clues
there.”
“What else will
we need?” Gwilym said. “We had best plan carefully. . . .”
Isabeau looked
away from the window. “No’ ‘we,’ ” she said gently. “Ye must stay, Gwilym.”
There was a
moment’s silence.
She indicated
his wooden leg. “To travel the Auld Ways safely, ye must be able to run. Ye ken
that. Besides, someone must stay here, to lead the Coven, in case I do no’ come
back.”
The witches
stirred in dismay.
“Brann is a very
dangerous man,” Isabeau said, “and the Auld Ways are always perilous to travel.
We must no’ pretend otherwise. Gwilym, ye are my second-in-command—ye must
stay.”
“But, Beau, ye
are ill,” Dide said.
“I am no’ ill,”
she said. “I am fighting the strongest urge . . . a longing . . . a desperate
desire. . . . If I could just give in . . .” She groaned and clenched her hands
on her bedclothes. “Do no’ speak o’ it,” she said harshly.
“But surely, by
going, ye are doing just what Brann’s spell commands?” Dide said. “How can we
be sure that ye’re no’ doing exactly what he wants?”
She flashed him
an angry glance. “I do no’ go to raise him from the dead, I go to make sure he
stays in the grave where he belongs,” she said coldly. “Ye think I want Brann
the Raven to live again? What would that mean for history? Perhaps the world we
now know would no longer even exist. My mind boggles at the thought. And here’s
another for ye. What if he compelled Johanna and Thunderlily to bring him back
to our time?”
There was a long
silence.
“So I will go,
with Cailean and Ghislaine and Cloudshadow,” Isabeau said, sinking back wearily
into her pillows. She turned her face from side to side, as if the texture of
the pillow hurt her. “Dobhailen will be there to guard us. I ken he can run.”
At the sound of
his name the huge shadow-hound at Cailean’s feet lifted its great head and looked
at Isabeau with shining green eyes. Cailean fondled its silky ears, and it lay
its head back down on its paws, growling softly.
“Why no’ me?”
Briant demanded, offended. He was a tall, handsome, swaggering man with a
talent for thunderstorms, as different as could be from his thin, shy, subtle
brother.
“Because ye will
need to go in pursuit o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn,” Isabeau said. Her voice was
reedy and faint. “He’ll be heading towards the Fair Isles. That is where
Margrit o’ Arran died, and where her bones will lie. He is some kind o’ weather
witch, this laird, and will raise a spell-wind to speed his passage. If Finn
canna catch him afore he reaches the port, we will need ye to whistle up a wind
for our ships to overtake him.”
“Aha!” Briant
said, his eyes coming alight. He loved summoning a good storm, and it was
something he was rarely permitted to do.
“Surely Finn
will catch him afore Dùn Gorm?” Fat Drusa cried. Usually happy and optimistic,
she now looked wretched indeed. Clasping her plump hands together between her
enormous bosoms, she glanced appealingly from Isabeau to Dide, whom she
recognized as an unfailing source of information.
“Finn has no’
been able to catch him so far,” Dide said. “The laird has laid his plans well.
They left the boat somewhere near Alloway and went cross-country. Finn says
they had horses waiting. She and Jay are crippled by no’ kenning what he means
to do next. Anyone else would’ve kept on sailing down the river, but Finn felt
him moving off overland and pulled to shore herself. But it took them a couple
o’ hours to find some horses themselves, and by then the trail was growing
cold. She’ll catch him up, though, no fear. There’s no stopping the wolf once
it has its nose to a trail.”
“But if we ken
they’re heading for Dùn Gorm . . .” Briant said.
“But we do no’,”
Dide replied. “They could have a ship waiting for them in any one o’ a thousand
coves on the coast o’ Ravenshaw. If they head far enough west and manage to
slip past the cordon we’ve set up around Dùn Gorm, well . . .”
“Things are no’
made any easier by the damn weather,” Gwilym said. “Iseult should’ve been sent
to the Theurgia long ago, to learn to control her Talent. I canna approve o’
the way the prionnsachan and banprionnsachan are allowed to go on wreaking havoc
however they like without—”
“Ye ken as well
as I do that the Crown needs to keep its autonomy from the Coven,” Isabeau said
tersely. “Iseult is no’ the only one who would’ve benefitted from a few years
at the Theurgia. But she is a banrìgh, no’ a witch. Her control over her powers
is incomplete. When she is grieved or angry, she brings snow, and ice, and
storm. Do no’ be so hasty in judging her. She has lost her husband and all her
bairns this night. Just be glad she has no’ buried us in snow.”
“But o’ all the
Talents, weather working is the most dangerous, the most difficult to control,”
Gwilym argued. “Surely she—”
“She is the
Banrìgh no longer,” Briant cut in eagerly. “Happen she will join the Coven
now?”
There was a long
silence. Everyone looked anxiously to Isabeau, who often found Briant’s
tactlessness exasperating and was sometimes quick to depress his pretensions.
But either Isabeau was too tired, or too sick, or too grieved to take umbrage,
for she merely shrugged and sighed and laid her head back on her pillows,
turning her cheek away from them.
“So is the
weather very bad then?” Wise Tully asked. Everyone turned to her with a little
stir of surprise, for she had been so quiet, with her head sunk on her chest,
that they had thought her sleeping.
“Horrendous,”
Dide answered. “Hailstorms and snowstorms and freak strikes o’ lightning all
across southern Eileanan.”
“The summer
harvest is ruined. Ruined!” Jock Crofter said.
“The city
sorceress of Dùn Gorm says the seas are running so high and wild, no one wants
to set out from the safety o’ the port. Bronwen . . . Her Majesty . . . has
ordered the navy on standby, though, for we must stop Laird Malvern afore he
reaches the Fair Isles. . . .” Nina said, her voice cracking with the strain.
“Which is where
ye come in, Briant,” Cailean said with an affectionate, mocking glance.
Briant did not
see the mockery. “Sounds like fun,” he said eagerly and got up, wanting to go
and battle the stormy seas at once.
“And what o’
me?” Dide asked softly.
Isabeau turned
her great dilated black eyes on him.
“Ye must choose
what ye will,” she said. Her words came slowly, and she paused to fight for
breath. “I thought Nina would want ye to go with her, to save Roden. He is your
blood, your heir, the hope o’ your house. I canna ask ye to come with me, as
much as I want ye to, when I ken he has need o’ ye.”
Dide did not
reply. He was clearly torn.
Nina put her
hand on his arm. “Go with Beau,” she said gently. “She needs ye more than I do.
Her Majesty has pledged us a battalion o’ soldiers to pursue the laird o’
Fettercairn, and a fleet o’ ships if we want them. Finn and Jay are already hot
on his heels, and we leave in the morning with the best boatmen the river can
offer. The laird will never make it to sea, and even if he does I’ll have Iven
there, and Finn and Jay too. . . .”
“And me!” Briant
said gaily.
“And Stormy
Briant as well. I would dearly love your support, but . . .”
“I will go with
Beau,” Dide said, clearly grateful. “Thank ye.”
“We will go
tomorrow, at dawn,” Isabeau said. “It is best to open the doors at the change
in the tide o’ powers. Cailean, Ghislaine, will ye be ready? Try to get some
sleep. The Auld Ways are perilous indeed. Ye will need all your wits about ye.
Gwilym, will ye seek audience with Her Majesty and tell her what we plan? She
will want to ken.”
They nodded and
rose, Cailean helping Wise Tully to her feet with his usual grave courtesy.
Isabeau was too overwrought to do more than murmur her thanks, but Gwilym drew
them aside, issuing a series of directives and commands that the two sorcerers
did their best to absorb.
Gradually the
room emptied. Dide stayed where he was until the very end, but at last rose,
his dark eyes concerned. “Ye look worn out,leannan ,” he said. “I’ll go.
Try to get some sleep.”
Isabeau groaned
and moved her hands fretfully. “I’ll never sleep, Dide. Canna ye see? This
spell . . . this compulsion . . . It’s taking all my strength, all my
concentration to fight it! Please . . .”
“What can I do?”
Dide said at once, seizing one of her restless hands.
“Stay with me,”
she said. “Distract me! Oh, Dide. I feel my own mortality keenly. Help me . . .
I want . . . I wish . . .”
“It’ll be my
pleasure,” Dide said and bent to kiss the pulse beating so frantically in her
throat.
Iain of Arran
stood in his wife’s bedchamber, staring at himself in the dressing table
mirror. He looked thin and old and ineffectual. His hair, never thick, was now
receding so that his face seemed all bony temples and pointy nose. His
shoulders were stooped, and his neck was scrawny. His hands, protruding from
the cuffs of his shirt, trembled slightly. He clenched them together, and then,
reaching a decision, bent and put his finger to the lock of the dressing table
drawer.
There was a
faint click inside as the lock sprang open. Iain’s mouth relaxed a little. He
was, though few people realized it, a powerful sorcerer. Gently he drew the
drawer open. His mother’s fan lay inside, neatly folded.
Iain took the
fan out and turned it over in his hands. His mother had carried it often, for
the marshes of Arran were steamy hot most of the year round, and there was
rarely any breeze to relieve the weight of humidity. He had not seen it since
her death, though. He had no idea where it had been. Most of his mother’s
things had been packed away, for they were far too opulent for his wife’s
austere taste and besides, they carried unhappy memories for Iain, who had been
deathly afraid of his mother.
Margrit of Arran
had been a malevolent swarthyweb spider of a woman. She had plotted and
conspired to help bring down the Coven of Witches, merely so that she would be
the most powerful sorceress in the land. She had helped cast a curse on Lachlan
that had struck him down into a living death, and she had kidnapped children
with magical talent from all over the country to incarcerate them in her
witch-school so that she, and only she, would control all the magic in the
land. It was Margrit who had arranged Iain’s marriage to Elfrida NicHilde of
Tìrsoilleir. Elfrida had spent all of her life as a prisoner of the Fealde,
taught to abhor all of the natural pleasures of the world as frivolous vanities
that led inexorably to hell. She had not been allowed to sing, or dance, or
hear music, or laugh, or talk idly, or play games, or eat sweets, or wear any
color other than black or grey. She had to pray as many as six times a day and
was taught to mortify the flesh to exalt the spirit. Many, many times she was
forced to renounce her dead parents as devil worshippers and heretics, and spit
upon their portraits.
Elfrida’s
childhood had been so bleak and cruel that Iain had been overwhelmed with
sympathy for her. They had shared bitter tales of their upbringing and, in
sharing them, drawn much of the sting out of them. Together they had found the
strength to reject those who sought to use them as pawns in their games of
power, and together had fled Arran and pledged their support to the newly
crowned Rìgh, Lachlan.
That had been
many years ago. Their twenty-four years of marriage had been years of contentment
and tranquillity. Iain loved his wife and son wholeheartedly and had felt
himself blessed indeed.
Yet slowly a
shadow had darkened the small, quiet rhythm of their days. He had found his
sleep haunted by memories of his mother and more than once had woken from sleep
with a cry of fear in his throat, and tears scorching his eyes. He knew his
restlessness disturbed Elfrida, for she too slept badly and woke most mornings
heavy-eyed and listless. Iain had sought to spare his wife his hag-ridden
nights and so had taken to sleeping in a separate room. Elfrida did not seem to
sleep any better, though, and sometimes he was awoken by her crying out in the
night. She complained of headaches and began to spend part of each day locked
away in her room with the curtains drawn.
Once or twice a
year, Iain and his wife went on a procession through Tìrsoilleir, so that
Elfrida could keep in touch with her people and visit Bride, the city where she
had been born. The people of Bride had always been glad to welcome her, and
Iain and Elfrida would spend a few weeks being entertained by the great lords
and merchants, and looking over guild agreements and new laws and the accounts
of the Lord Treasurer.
The last time
they had visited, there had been a noticeable difference in the way they were
entertained. The people of Tìrsoilleir had always been suspicious of any kind
of merrymaking, and so the feast and masques put on for them were always dour
in comparison to those staged in Lucescere. This time, though, there was precious
little entertaining at all. Grizelda, the new Fealde, disapproved of any sign
of merriment, they were told, and sought to bring the people of Tìrsoilleir
back to a godly way of life.
When Iain and
Elfrida came home again to Arran, Father Maurice came with them, an appointment
urged on them by Grizelda. He had been a cold, unpleasant presence ever since,
as constantly behind Elfrida as her shadow. She had given up even such small
pleasures that she had ever allowed herself and taken to wearing grey and black
again. Iain had been sorry for it, but he loved his wife and knew that a
childhood as filled with terrors as hers had been was hard to shake off.
Which was why it
had been so odd to see her carrying a sumptuous gold fan on the night of the
wedding. Elfrida never wore gold, and she had never carried a fan in her life,
not even in the very midst of an oppressive Arran summer. She did not care for
the vagaries of fashion, thinking it all vanity and frivolity. To see his
mother’s fan in Elfrida’s hand had given Iain’s heart a very queer jolt, and he
had been upset and troubled ever since.
He furled and
unfurled the fan a few times, and then sat down on his wife’s stool so he could
examine it more closely. Many of his mother’s things had a trick to them. Rings
that twisted open so poison could be slipped into a guest’s cup, or dresses
made from material that had been soaked in some toxic liquid so that the wearer
died horribly, and mysteriously, far away from the giver. One pair of Margrit’s
shoes had a hidden blade concealed in the heel that could cut a man’s
hamstrings with a backward flick, and the arms of her throne had daggers
concealed within that could be thrown forward with a press of one’s thumb on a
secret button.
It took him only
a few seconds to discover the trick of the fan. He twisted one of the embossed
golden sticks that framed the fan, and the knob came off in his hand. He was
able to draw out a slender golden tube. Very carefully, Iain tipped the tube up
and out fell three of the black barbs the bogfaeries used to kill their
enemies. Handling one with great caution, Iain lifted it to his nose and
sniffed. He could smell the unmistakable odor of the poison the bogfaeries
distilled from one of the marsh plants.
Iain’s pulse
beat rapidly in his throat. He had difficulty swallowing. He carefully put the
barbs back inside the golden tube and slid it back in place within the fan’s
frame. He furled the fan closed and held it there on his lap, his mind a blank.
The door opened,
and Elfrida and Neil came in together.
“I am so glad,
darling!” Elfrida cried. “Well done!”
“It is a very
great honor,” Neil said. “I just hope I do no’ let Her Majesty down.”
“Iain!” Elfrida
called, but then came to a halt just inside the door, her eyes on her husband,
who sat on her stool, the golden fan in his hands. The color drained away from
her cheeks, leaving her a pasty white.
Neil did not
notice. He came on in a great burst of excitement, his cheeks glowing with
color. “Dai-dein! Ye’ll never guess! Bronwen . . . Her Majesty has
appointed me Master o’ Horse. Me! I’m to ride behind her everywhere she goes,
and have quarters in her wing, and everything.”
“That is a very
great honor,” Iain said. His voice came out oddly.
Neil noticed
some of his father’s strain. “I ken it means I will be away from Arran for some
time,” he said and came to stoop over his father and kiss the bald top of his
head. “But I have lived half my life in Lucescere, anyway, and I’ll still come
home to visit . . . though no’ until wintertime!”
Iain tried to
smile.
Neil rambled on.
“I am to wear the Banrìgh’s livery—she has designed it herself. It is to have
the MacCuinn stag quartered with the sea serpent o’ the Fairgean royalty and be
all in blue and white. She says I must find her a white palfrey to ride on. And
Mama says she will stay a while, here in Lucescere, just until all is settled,
to help me and advise me on how to go on, for indeed, it is a great leap from
being a mere squire to one of the three greatest officers o’ the household.
Will ye stay too,Dai-dein ?”
Iain looked at
his wife, then down at the fan in his hand. He carefully laid it back in the
half-open drawer and closed the drawer.
“No,” he said.
“I shall go home to Arran.”
Rhiannon came
quietly in to Lewen’s room, closing the door behind her. It was late afternoon,
but the room was dim for the shutters had been drawn over the windows. Lewen
slept, but the healer had told Rhiannon that he had woken and eaten some soup
at noon and drunk some of the strengthening tea she had brewed him, and she was
satisfied that he would soon recover.
The healer had
spoken with great warmth and kindness to Rhiannon, for the story of how Lewen
had saved her from hanging had already raced all around the Tower of Two Moons.
It was considered a great romance, and Landon was already hard at work writing
another ballad which he hoped would be as enormously popular as “Rhiannon’s
Ride.”
Rhiannon had
spent most of the morning with her friends, celebrating her unexpected
salvation at the Nisse and Nixie with the best meal she had eaten in months,
laid on for her by the ogre proprietor. She had been too shaken to eat much,
though Cameron and Rafferty made up for her abstinence by gorging themselves on
the roasted meats, a luxury denied to them at the Theurgia.
The Nisse and
Nixie had been crowded with friends and well-wishers, with such a hubbub that
Rhiannon had been overwhelmed after her months of solitude. She had sat with a
glass of goldensloe wine in her hand, searching the crowd for any sign of
Lewen, and then, when it was clear he was not there, trying hard not to succumb
to black depression.
Nina and Gwilym
had drunk a glass of wine with her, but then excused themselves, being eager to
get back to Isabeau at the Tower of Two Moons. Of all those present, Nina
seemed to understand best how Rhiannon felt, for she drew her close and kissed
her, saying in a gentle undertone, “He was with me all night, trying to find
some way o’ freeing ye, Rhiannon. He didna abandon ye.”
“Then where is
he now?” Rhiannon said gruffly.
“I will see if I
can find him for ye. He was distraught, Rhiannon, when he heard.”
Rhiannon nodded
and tried to smile, but it seemed to her that if Lewen had cared so much, he
would have been there at the gallows with her other friends, shouting
themselves hoarse in an attempt to save her. Nina kissed her and smoothed back
her hair, saying, “Come to me at the palace, Rhiannon, when ye are ready. Her
Majesty will wish to have audience with ye, so that ye may thank her and hear what
plans she has for ye.”
“Plans? She’ll
have plans?”
Nina nodded.
“Royal pardons are rarely given without some strings attached. The Banrìgh is
only young still and new to this game, so she may no’ think to demand service
from ye, but if so, I would be surprised. She is the Ensorcellor’s daughter,
after all.”
“So I am no’
free,” Rhiannon said in heavy disappointment.
“Ye are alive,”
Nina said, and with that, left her.
So Rhiannon had
picked at her food and drunk her wine and tried to smile, while her friends
grew hilarious with relief and too much free wine, and then she had come back
to the palace in company with Fèlice and Landon and Edithe, the latter being
suddenly very friendly with her and wanting to walk arm in arm with Rhiannon.
“What will ye
wear to see the Banrìgh?” she asked.
Rhiannon
shrugged her off. “I dinna ken,” she said blankly. Edithe laughed, a silvery,
tinkling sound. “Ye canna go in your prison gown, ye silly! Let me lend ye some
clothes. I am considered tall, though o’ course, no’ as tall as ye. I am sure
I’ll have something that will fit. There is no time to have aught made, o’
course. . . .”
“Why ye want to
lend me clothes?” Rhiannon demanded.
“I just want to
help,” Edithe said, offended.
Rhiannon
regarded her suspiciously but had no desire to stay in her rough, itchy,
lice-ridden gown anymore. “Maybe,” she said. “Bath first.”
“She just wants
to get the notice o’ the Banrìgh through ye,” Fèlice whispered later as she
washed Rhiannon’s hair for her. “She thinks the Banrìgh will have a soft spot
for ye, having saved your life, and will most likely take ye into service.
Edithe would very much like to be one o’ the Banrìgh’s ladies-in-waiting too.”
“What do
ladies-in-waiting do?” Rhiannon leaned back against the rim of the hip bath,
luxuriating in the hot soapy water.
“Read to the
Banrìgh, and walk with her, and write her private letters for her, and sit with
her in her chambers and sew,” Fèlice answered.
Rhiannon screwed
up her face. “Sounds boring.”
“A
lady-in-waiting has a lot o’ power at court,” Fèlice answered. “People will
flatter ye, and give ye gifts, and try to persuade ye to speak on their behalf
to Her Majesty, and men who wish to advance at court will woo ye.”
“What woo?”
Fèlice giggled.
“Ye sound like Buba, the Keybearer’s owl! Woo means to court ye.” At Rhiannon’s
look of bafflement, she giggled again. “To seek your hand in marriage.”
“Men at court
will court me,” Rhiannon said, shaking her head in disbelief. “What a stupid
language ye speak!”
“The courtiers
o’ the court will court ye in the courtyard most courteously,” Fèlice said,
laughing out loud.
“Stupid,”
Rhiannon repeated.
When Nina came
to find her, Rhiannon was ready and waiting. Having no desire to become a
lady-in-waiting, she had spurned Edithe’s offer of a gown and was dressed in
the rough brown breeches and white shirt that Lewen’s mother, Lilanthe, had
given her so long ago. In a concession to the formality of the court, she wore
Lilanthe’s beautiful embroidered shawl over the top, with the rowan charm Lewen
had whittled her back in its accustomed spot around her neck.
Nina looked as
if she had been crying again, but she smiled at Rhiannon and kissed her.
“What news o’
Roden?” Rhiannon asked, and Nina sighed and shook her head.
“Laird Malvern’s
slipped the net again. I do no’ ken how. Finn is on his trail, though, and she
never fails to find what she hunts for. I just hope she finds him in time. . .
.” Her voice trailed away, and Rhiannon grimaced. They both knew how ruthless
was the lord of Fettercairn.
“I found Lewen,”
Nina said, and she smiled broadly as she told Rhiannon what Lewen had done.
Once Rhiannon understood, she was transfigured. She would have gone to him at
once, but Nina shook her head, saying that she must not keep the Banrìgh
waiting.
“Lewen is
sleeping. Ye can see him later. Come now, Rhiannon, come and make your curtsy
to the Banrìgh.”
She led Rhiannon
through the crowded palace halls. Rhiannon had never seen so many grandly
dressed people, or such rich and opulent surroundings. Her face turned from side
to side as she endeavored to absorb it all.
They entered a
long hall crowded with people sitting or standing, some looking bored or angry.
Nina explained that these were all the people waiting to have an audience with
the Banrìgh. The men in the rich doublets being mobbed at the far end of the
hall were the gentlemen ushers, and they controlled who was allowed in or not.
This made them very powerful, Nina explained in an undertone, and so they were
much courted by those who wished to secure their favor.
“Courted?”
Rhiannon said blankly. “Ye mean, their hands are sought in marriage?”
“No, no,” Nina
said. “People try to make friends with them, or do them favors.”
“Such a stupid
language,” Rhiannon muttered.
Her entry caused
a minor sensation. Everyone stared and murmured to each other, and a few smiled
and bowed their heads or called out a friendly greeting. Rhiannon gripped her
hands together and jerked her head in response, mindful of what Fèlice had
said. She was grateful when the gentleman usher swung open the double doors at
the end of the hall for her straightaway, as she would not have to sit and wait
with all those eyes on her.
The room beyond
was almost as crowded. Groups of men stood around, some with sheaves of papers
in their hands. The Banrìgh sat in a high-backed chair near the window. To
Rhiannon’s disappointment, she was wearing a dress much like any other woman at
the court. Rhiannon had been expecting something scandalous. Sitting on low
stools or on the floor were a number of women in full-skirted dresses. Some
were sewing, one was reading from a book, and another was playing a clàrsach.
The Banrìgh was frowning over a pile of papers on a table drawn up at her
elbow. A young man with an eager face and straight brown hair that flopped into
his eyes was sitting beside her, conversing with her in a low voice.
The Banrìgh was
only young, but she looked pale and weary. Rhiannon had been very curious to
see her, for she was always the topic of so much conversation. Rhiannon did not
find her beautiful at all. Her mouth turned downwards, like a fish, and
Rhiannon found the shimmering texture of her skin and her green-blue frilly
fins rather repulsive. Her hair was very black and lustrous, though, and when
she looked up and smiled, her whole face warmed, and Rhiannon was able to see
that her eyes were a most striking silvery-blue color and very large.
Nina curtsied
gracefully, and Rhiannon did her awkward best to copy her.
“Ye are Rhiannon
o’ Dubhslain? The lass who rides the winged horse?”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
“And where is
your pretty mare?”
“I dinna ken,
Your Majesty. The dragon scared her away.”
“That’s a
shame.”
“I will call
her, and she will come again.”
“Will she just?”
The Banrìgh’s interest quickened, and she looked Rhiannon over.
“Aye, she will.”
“Well, I hope
so. A lass that rides a winged horse! That is something new indeed. It would’ve
been a shame to lose ye.”
“Aye, Your
Majesty. I mean, thank ye, Your Majesty,” Rhiannon stammered and flushed, then
gritted her jaw, hating to be made to look foolish.
The Banrìgh
said, “I hope ye will stay close, Rhiannon. I can see a thigearn being o’ great
use to me in days to come.”
“Aye, Your
Majesty. It would be an honor to serve ye.” Rhiannon spoke the words Nina had
taught her, even though she did not believe them.
The Banrìgh
regarded her a moment longer, her gaze thoughtful. “Call your horse to ye,” she
said, then abruptly, “and have a message sent to me. I would like to see ye
ride her.”
Rhiannon nodded
and agreed, even though she had no desire to bring Blackthorn anywhere near men
armed with ropes and bows and arrows. As if reading her thoughts, the Banrìgh
said sweetly, “But do be careful no’ to fly too far away just yet, Rhiannon. It
would be a shame to have to fetch ye back again.”
“Aye, Your
Majesty,” Rhiannon said, and then the interview was over. The Banrìgh turned
back to her papers, and Nina led her out of the room.
“Ye had best
call Blackthorn straightaway,” Nina said. “One thing we have learned about our
new Banrìgh is that she is very impatient.”
Rhiannon nodded,
though she seethed with rebelliousness. They were taken out to the stableyards
by the young man with the floppy brown hair, whom Nina called Neil. He was the
new Master of Horse, he told Nina proudly, and it was his job to overlook the work
of the grooms and stablehands and to ride out with the Banrìgh each morning.
There was a big
field behind the stables where a curious crowd gathered as soon as it was
realized Rhiannon meant to call her flying horse. Rhiannon was angry and told
Neil to tell them to all go away. After a moment’s hesitation, he retreated a
little but did not leave.
Rhiannon gripped
her hands into fists and called to Blackthorn silently. She was anxious indeed
about her horse, for the last time she had seen the winged mare, Blackthorn had
been reeling from the spiteful swipe of the dragon’s claw. She had fretted and
worried about her ever since but had had no chance to do more than fling out a
silent plea, or query, and hope that all was well.
Long minutes
passed, and the crowd grew restive. Still Rhiannon called, her eyes searching
the sky. Her eyesight was much keener than everyone else’s. She saw the
far-distant shape of the flying horse long before anyone else, and her
shoulders sagged with relief. Then someone in the crowd spotted the mare, and a
roar went up.
Rhiannon turned
on Neil. “Tell them to shut up,” she hissed, “else they’ll scare her away!”
Neil looked
rather taken aback at her lack of respect but did as she asked, then turned to
a page to send a message to the Banrìgh.
Blackthorn came
circling down, looking as delicate and unearthly as ever, with her great
blue-tipped wings spread wide. She landed daintily on the grass and bowed her
head to nudge Rhiannon on the shoulder before dancing away nervously, her ears
back, her eyes showing a rim of white. There was a long cut on her flank,
crusted with dried blood. Rhiannon examined it anxiously, but thankfully it was
shallow. The dragon had judged its swipe precisely.
Rhiannon soothed
and petted the mare lovingly, reassuring her and bringing her to eat at a
trough Neil had ordered filled with warm oat mash. Blackthorn fed greedily and
drank some water, then allowed Rhiannon to tend the scratch. Then, and only
then, did Rhiannon mount her winged beast and fly around the field, much to the
delight of the watching courtiers. Blackthorn flew easily, not at all troubled
by her sore flank, and Rhiannon felt a warm tide of happiness rise up through
her. She was free, she was alive, Lewen loved her, and the Banrìgh had called her
a thigearn. A thigearn would not be expected to stay at court and sew a fine
seam and listen to gossip. Perhaps the Banrìgh had other, more exciting plans
for her.
Rhiannon’s face
was glowing when she made her way back to the Banrìgh, who was watching intently
from the sidelines.
Bronwen nodded
at the sight of her. “A bonny creature,” she said. “Tell me, how far can she
fly?”
“A long way,”
Rhiannon said. “I do no’ ken how far. When I first captured her, she flew many,
many miles, all the way down from Dubhslain to Lewen’s parents’ farm.”
“Two hundred
miles or more, Your Majesty,” Nina said.
“And how fast
can she fly?” Bronwen asked.
“Very fast,”
Rhiannon replied and added belatedly, at Nina’s frown, “Your Majesty.” Rhiannon
thought it was a stupid thing to call a woman who was only a few years older
than she, but then, many, many things these humans did seemed stupid.
“Excellent,”
Bronwen said. “Let me think on this. I will call ye when I want ye.”
Rhiannon nodded,
and then, as Nina nudged her sharply with her elbow, said woodenly, “Aye, Your
Majesty. It would be an honor to serve ye.”
Bronwen’s face
relaxed into a spontaneous smile, which made Rhiannon understand, for the first
time, why she was considered so beautiful. Then the Banrìgh walked away with a
beautiful liquid movement that Rhiannon found fascinating. Looking around her,
she saw she was not the only one.
Rhiannon spent
another happy half hour with Blackthorn in the stable, grooming her and feeding
her carrots. Then, wiping her slobbery hand on her breeches, she had gone in
search of Lewen.
Now she stood,
watching him sleep. His lashes made two dark crescents on his cheeks, and he
breathed shallowly, occasionally turning his head against the pillow. Once he
muttered her name, and Rhiannon’s pulse leaped.
There was a
warm, painful glow about her heart. Lewen had saved her. He could have died,
everyone said so, and yet he had risked his life and limbs to stop the bell
from ringing. He must love her. No matter what spell that witch Olwynne had
cast upon him, somehow Lewen had remembered her, the girl he had named
Rhiannon.
She took his
hand and pressed it to her cheek. He sighed and stirred and turned his head on
the pillow. She laid down his hand, stripped off her clothes and, naked except
for the wooden charm around her neck, slipped into bed beside him.
At the feel of
her bare skin, he roused sleepily. She pressed every inch of her long body
against him, wrapping her arm about his chest and kissing the side of his neck.
He turned towards her, still half-asleep, and she kissed his ear, and then his
cheek, and then his mouth. The kiss was all sweetness, a long, slow, languorous
kiss that made her shiver with longing and grief.
She lifted her
mouth away and dropped a kiss on his chest, laying down her head so her black
hair flowed over him.
“Rhiannon,” he
whispered.
She could not
look at him. “Aye,” she whispered back.
“What are ye
doing here? Ye should no’ . . .”
She did not want
to hear him, so she burrowed her head under the bedclothes, kissing and licking
and biting her way down his body. There was a great bruise on one side, and she
kissed it gently and eased her weight away from it, tangling his thick dark
pubic hair with her fingers. He moaned. With her mouth and her hand, she
pleasured him, and his response was fierce and immediate. When he was so close
to climax that his back was arching, she mounted him and took him within her,
feeling her own urgent desire flowering. For a few fast, frantic moments, they
coupled, each panting and crying aloud, and then together they subsided, still
glued together.
Lewen ran his
hands down her back to her buttocks, and then up again. “Rhiannon.”
“Aye.”
They were
silent. His hands repeated their slow caress. She felt his chest heave beneath
her. She sighed herself and eased herself away from him, curling up against his
side.
He tangled his
fingers in her hair. “Rhiannon, ye should no’ . . .I should no’ . . .”
“Ye saved me,”
she said fiercely.
“Aye,” he
answered and smoothed her hair down.
“They had the
noose about my neck. They were yelling to him to hang me, but he wouldna, for
the bell had no’ rung. He said he had to wait for the bell to ring. But ye
stopped it, ye stopped it!”
“That’s good,”
he said, and put one hand up to gingerly feel the great bruise marring his
temple.
She bent her
head and kissed his hand. When she glanced up again, there was a long look
between them, charged with emotion that was impossible to read.
“That’s good,”
he said again and sighed.
“Why did ye do
it?” she demanded. “I thought ye hated me.”
“The bluebird
came to me,” he answered, lifting his other hand and letting it fall. “I . . .”
He stopped,
unable to frame the words.
“I could no’ let
ye die,” he said at last, simply.
“I’m glad,” she
said in that same fierce, exultant voice. “Me yours, ye mine.”
He bit his lip
and looked away. “Olwynne . . .”
“That’s all a
lie and a sham,” she said. “She ensorcelled ye! She’s a witch and a cursehag,
and I will never, ever forgive her.”
“She’s been
taken,” he said and felt tears flood into his eyes. “Owein and Roden too. Laird
Malvern has them. He means to kill them—I ken it!”
“I imagine so,”
she agreed.
Lewen could not
speak.
She frowned.
“Ye’re mine,” she reminded him. “No’ hers! Why do ye look so?”
“She was always
my friend, my dearest friend, and Owein too,” he managed to say. “And . . . I
still love her, Rhiannon! We are handfasted!”
She jerked a
shoulder. “So what? Anyone can jump a fire together. It is what’s in here that
matters!” She pounded her heart.
He shut his
eyes. “I ken. I ken. Oh, but Rhiannon . . .”
She lay silently
for a moment. “Ye say ye love her still,” she said at last. “Do ye mean ye do
no’ love me?”
“I dinna ken,”
he said miserably. “I mean, I do, I do, Eà damn it, I do! When ye are with me,
when I think o’ ye being hanged . . .” He shuddered. “But there is something .
. . that ties me still to her. I canna understand it. I never thought this
could happen to me. I’ve always believed, I’ve always thought . . . but . . .
still there is something . . .”
She got up.
“Where are ye going?”
he asked. There was despair in his voice.
“I am going to
get her,” she said.
Whatever Lewen
had been expecting, it was not this. He gaped at her in surprise, then rose up
on one elbow as she began to drag on her clothes.
“Rhiannon! What
do ye mean? Where are ye going?”
“I will call
Blackthorn, and I will go and save her from that blaygird laird,” she said
matter-of-factly. “And Owein and Roden too. I dinna want him to kill Roden.”
“But . . . but .
. . why?” was all Lewen managed to say.
“Ye’re mine,” she
said passionately. “I will go and save her, and then I’ll get her by the neck
and I’ll squeeze and squeeze until she swears to let ye go again. If a spell
can be spun, it can be undone, and she’s the only one who can do it.”
“What if it is
no spell?” Lewen asked.
She looked at
him in surprise and scorn. “O’ course it’s a spell. She’s a witch, isn’t she? A
witch who wanted my man. Well, she’s no’ going to have ye. Ye’re mine! And I’ll
make her admit it if I have to kill her to do it.”
Lewen could not
help but laugh. “Oh, Rhiannon.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he
said awkwardly. “Everything is all such a mess. I dinna ken. . . .”
“I do,” she
said. “Ye saved me. Ye mine and me yours. What else is there to ken?”
He lay back
down, watching with regret as she covered up her nakedness.
“Naught,” he
said. “Naught at all.”
Thunder growled
as deep and menacing as a shadow-hound. Lightning stalked the horizon, and all
the horses in the stable shifted uneasily, their hooves clattering on the
cobblestones.
“Are ye sure ye
wish to do this?” Nina said, clasping her hands together. “It’ll be so
dangerous. Are ye sure, Rhiannon?”
Rhiannon looked
up from the girth she was tightening. “Sure I’m sure.”
“Oh, thank ye,
Rhiannon, thank ye! We will no’ be far behind ye. We’ll be following just as
fast as we can. And Finn and Jay are close on their heels too. Ye will no’ need
to face them alone. Just find them for us, and . . . and . . .” She faltered,
not wanting to sayand save my little boy for me , but meaning it
nonetheless.
Rhiannon nodded
and gathered the reins together, swinging into the soft saddle she used to pad
Blackthorn’s bony back.
“Just send me
the wee bluebird if ye have news,” Nina gabbled. Tears were streaming down her
face, and she wiped them away impatiently. “It’ll ken how to find me. Birds
always do.”
Rhiannon lifted
her hand to the bluebird perched on her shoulder. It trilled gaily in response,
and flitted down to the pommel of the saddle, and then across to Nina’s
shoulder. She caressed it, then handed it back to Rhiannon, who tucked it away
in the breast pocket of her coat. Rain began to pound down into the stableyard,
turning the ground to mud, and Rhiannon drew her cloak more firmly about her.
Once again
Rhiannon was wearing the thick blue cloak and tam-o’-shanter that had once
belonged to Connor, but this time she wore them honorably, with the permission
and blessing of the Banrìgh Bronwen Mathilde NicCuinn. It seemed that she and
Bronwen had had the same idea, for when Rhiannon had gone to the gentlemen
ushers and demanded an audience with the Banrìgh, it was to find a page had
just been sent to summon her.
Apart from the
natural affection with which Bronwen regarded her cousins, it was clear to the
Banrìgh that she must be seen to be making strenuous attempts to rescue them
from the lord of Fettercairn if she was ever going to be free of malicious
gossip concerning their disappearance. She had done everything she could think
of to waylay the evil lord and his minions, but again and again he had somehow
managed to evade capture. It was clear his plans had been extremely well laid,
and he had spent a great deal of money in ensuring nothing could go wrong.
Having escaped
Lucescere by boat, he had ditched the yacht at the first village and had fine
horses ready and waiting. Riding hell-for-leather, they had cut across country
and been met by two light traveling carriages, each pulled by four strong
horses. Bronwen had arranged for the roads to be blockaded, but he had galloped
through the first barricade and disappeared somewhere before the second.
Finn had found
the tracks of the carriages leading into the forest, her latest message had
said. Their own horses were foundering, however, and she thought it would take
some time to find more as every hack in the area had been mysteriously bought
the previous week.
Bronwen was
seriously disturbed by this news. The lord of Fettercairn must be found and
stopped, yet his lead on his pursuers was growing with every hour. It was clear
to her that their best chance of finding Owein and Olwynne and Roden was to
send Rhiannon and Blackthorn after them. It was a perilous mission, to send one
young woman after a gang of desperate kidnappers and murderers who had already
shown their utter ruthlessness, but Bronwen considered Rhiannon’s life hers,
since she had saved her from the gallows at the very last moment, and she was
prepared to say so quite strongly, if Rhiannon was to balk at the job.
Bronwen had been
most pleased then, when, having explained all this to Rhiannon with the utmost
care and tact, Rhiannon had agreed readily, saying, “Och, aye, but o’ course.
That is why I am here. I go now.”
Bronwen had
smiled. “First, let me make it official. If ye ride on my business, ye must be
made one o’ my own guards. I canna call ye a Yeoman—can we say Yeo-woman?”
“I dinna think
so!” Captain Dillon had protested, white-lipped with horror. “Your Majesty, I
must protest!”
“What, at the
word, or the entire concept?” Bronwen’s mouth had hardened.
Captain Dillon
took a deep breath, ready to speak angrily, but she had held up her hand. “No’
now, Captain Dillon! I have no’ the time nor the patience to listen. Our only
concern now must be getting back my cousins. I hereby name thee, Rhiannon o’
Dubhslain, the Banrìgh’s own guard. When ye are safely returned to us, I will
have a new livery made for ye. In white, I think. But for now, ye can wear the
blue o’ the Yeomen. Very well?”
“Aye!” Rhiannon
had cried, filled with fierce gladness. And so she wore the cloak and hat that
had once belonged to Connor, with a white shield hastily tacked on to the
breast, showing Bronwen’s new arms, the MacCuinn stag quartered with a white
sea serpent.
Her saddlebags
hung on Blackthorn’s withers, loaded once again with supplies and weapons, as
well as a signed and sealed contract from Bronwen giving her the freedom to
demand help in the Banrìgh’s name. Bronwen had felt no need to warn Rhiannon
not to abuse this privilege, but Captain Dillon had, in no uncertain terms.
Rhiannon had only smiled.
“I must be off,”
she said now to Nina. “I’ll do my best to get him back for ye.”
“I ken how good
your best is,” Nina said, weeping again. “Thank ye!”
Rhiannon nodded,
gave her an awkward salute, and wheeled Blackthorn about, trotting out of the
stable and into the yard. A stableboy opened the gate for her, and she urged
Blackthorn forward, bending her head against the icy sleet lashing her face.
A dark figure
lurched at her out of the darkness. Blackthorn whinnied and reared in fright.
Rhiannon brought her down with an iron hand on the reins, and drew her dagger,
wheeling the mare about.
Lightning
flashed, frighteningly close. It hit the top of a nearby oak tree with a great
whizz and bang and a sudden leap of silver fire. Blackthorn screamed and reared
again, almost throwing Rhiannon. The dark figure put up a hand and seized
Blackthorn’s bridle and, at the familiar touch of the hand and the familiar
smell and murmur, the winged horse quietened and came back down to earth.
“Lewen!”
Rhiannon cried.
His wet hair was
plastered to his head, and water streamed down his face. “Rhiannon! I could no’
let ye go without—”
His words
faltered. He seized her arm. She bent and they kissed passionately, their skin
wet and cold, the rain pounding on their backs. It was so cold, their breath
blew in white plumes when at last they drew reluctantly apart.
“Rhiannon,
Rhiannon!” he cried. “Have a care for yourself!”
“I will.”
His breath
heaved. “Come back to me,” he managed to say.
“I will.”
He stepped back,
and Rhiannon dug her heels into Blackthorn’s sides. The winged horse sprang up
and away and disappeared into the storm, black into black.
The end.
Twenty-three.