The Tower of Ravens

by Kate Forsyth

  Nina the Nightingale: jongleur and sorceress of the Coven; sister to Didier Laverock, earl of Caerlaverock, and granddaughter of Enit Silverthroat.

  nisse: 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: deeply forested land west of Rionnagan, ruled by the MacBrann clan, descendants of Brann, one of the First Coven of Witches.

  Razor’s Edge: dangerous path through the mountains of the Broken Ring of Dubhslain, only used in times of great need.

  Red 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 clan.

  rìgh; 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 Yellowbeard; 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: savage feline with curved fangs that lives in the remote mountain areas.

  sacred woods: ash, hazel, oak, rowan, fir, hawthorn, and yew.

  Samhain: 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: tall, shy race of faeries known for their physical beauty and magical skills.

  seneschal: steward.

  sennachie: genealogist and record-keeper of the clan chief’s house.

  sgian dubh: small knife worn in the boot.

  Siantan: north-west 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 a witch is 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 which 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 their 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 an apprentice. 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. North-east land of Eileanan, ruled by the MacHilde clan.

  Tòmas the Healer: 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 centres 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: woodland faery that can shift shape from tree to humanlike creature. A half-breed is called a tree-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.

  Extract from The Shining City, Book Two of

  Rhiannon’s Ride

  Olwynne sat bolt upright 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, trying her best to remember the dream. Her aunt Isabeau said she should pay attention to her dreams, that they were often messages sent to warn or teach or illuminate. All Olwynne could remember, though, was her father falling away from her into some dark pit, his black wings bent over his face, and then ravens, thousands of ravens, descending from the sky to peck out her eyes.

  She shuddered and lay back down again, pulling her eiderdown over her head. The wind was keening round her windows, rattling the old leaded glass in its frame, and sighing through the trees outside. It sounded like banshees wailing. Olwynne told herself it was only the wind, but all the hairs on her body stood erect and quivering, and her pulse rate accelerated. Such a feeling of morbid foreboding came over 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, slowly Olwynne realised 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 themselves against the bright coins of the moons like moths against the glass of a lantern. 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 had she seen so many hundreds before, 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 they sorrowed, Olwynne slowly slid down to the floor and wept with them.

  By the time daybreak came, creeping through the trees like smoke, the nyx had all gone. Olwynne released her clutch on her 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. Moving very quietly she opened the door to her little cell of a room, and stepped out into 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 centre of the tower, its stonework carved with the crescent shape of two moons and a single star, set amid intricate knotwork. Olwynne climbed the staircase all the way to the top floor, her feet settling into deep hollows worn in the centre 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 hesitantly 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 bluntly pointed crescent moon, it took up half the top floor of the tower. There was a fireplace at either point of the crescent, one to warm the bed with its soft white counterpane and pillows, the other to warm Isabeau’s desk and chair where she worked. Comfortable chairs upholstered in blue were drawn up before either fire. 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 she 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 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 which rose from floor to ceiling all round the curve of the room. Set at regular intervals between the bookshelves were tall windows which looked out across the gardens to the golden domes of the palace, gleaming softly through the morning mist.

  The windows were open and long white curtains drifted and twirled in the dawn breeze. More curtains draped the four-poster bed, but they were so light they would not cut out the air like most bed-curtains but simply shield the sleeper from night-insects. The bed was still unmade, but 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 her hair would have been the same fiery red as Olwynne’s, but its colour had faded to a soft strawberry blonde, with grey at the temples. Her eyes were as vivid a blue as ever, however, and her figure was still slim and upright.

  Isabeau poured the tea into two delicate bone-china cups and beckoned to Olwynne to come and 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. ‘Aunty Beau … what was wrong? Why did they fly and 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 of all the nyx, who 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 Lachlan MacCuinn, the Rìgh and Olwynne’s father, hidden in the shape of a hunchback for so many years. She had woven it 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 her death would be greatly regretted, for she had been the most powerful and influential of all the nyx.

  ‘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 in the Book o’ Shadows.’ She indicated the old and enormously thick book which lay open on her desk nearby. ‘The last time one was recorded 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 one hand on her knee. ‘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 round my head and trying to peck out my eyes. All I could see was their black wings, and all I could hear was their screeches in my ear.’

  ‘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 dreamt, all those black wings against the moon. And it seemed I had dreamt 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 like dai-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-dein falling into a dark pit … just falling … though sometimes it is me falling … or Bronwen. I dream o’ Bronwen too.’ Olwynne’s voice quickened. ‘I dreamt 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 …’ Her voice trailed away.

  Isabeau’s frown deepened. ‘I have dreamt 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 are truly 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 r
ather ruefully. ‘Ye have guessed it. Lewen is very much involved in these happenings in Ravenshaw, and I must admit he has been much on my mind as a consequence. I may as well tell ye, the tattle-mongers 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. I have no’ got many more details than that, so I am naturally eager to question Lewen and this girl who saw the necromancers …’

  ‘Girl?’

  Isabeau looked at Olwynne sharply. ‘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? For I swear I can see only evil ahead.’

  ‘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 ken. Happen so. I dinna remember.’

  ‘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.’