by Kate Forsyth
Candlemas came to break the routine, and with it Isabeau’s seventeenth birthday. It was a cold, rainy day, the loch hidden in thick mist. Staring out the leaded window, her plaid wrapped close about her, Isabeau chanted:
‘If Candlemas be fair and bright,
Winter will have another flight.
If Candlemas be shower and rain,
Winter is gone and shall no’ come again.’
She gave a wry smile, repeating softly, ‘Winter is gone and shall no’ come again.’ The words filled her with melancholy, her eyes with tears. So much had happened in the year since her last birthday. She had carried the Key of the Coven through the land, lost the two fingers of her left hand in the torture-chambers of the Awl, and spied for the rebels in Maya the Ensorcellor’s own palace. She had guided Iseult and Lachlan through the maze to the Pool of Two Moons and seen the moons being eaten. She had watched as the Lodestar was restored in the pool’s enchanted waters, and had swum in it herself as she tried to save the baby banprionnsa from drowning. She had discovered she was a banprionnsa herself, heir to the Towers of Roses and Thorns, and she had found her lost mother and father.
Pain, thin and cold as a needle of ice, pierced her. Her mother had not even spared her a glance. Isabeau had longed to be reunited with her mother ever since she had found out she still lived, but Ishbel only had eyes for the red stallion. And what a Pyrrhic victory that was, finding her father. Finding him trapped in the shape of a horse was almost worse than not knowing whether he was alive or dead. He had been a stallion for so long, Isabeau was very afraid that there was not much left of the man at all. She knew Lachlan had had great difficulty in adjusting to life as a human again, and he had spent only four years in the shape of a blackbird. What must it be like for Khan’gharad, who had been a horse for seventeen years?
Isabeau tried to shake off her gloomy thoughts as she and Feld celebrated the Candlemas rites together. When they had finished, the old sorcerer patted her shoulder kindly, wished her a happy birthday and went back to his huge, dark library which was lined with books a thousand years old, somehow preserved in the cold, dry air of the mountains.
Isabeau spent the rest of the day alone, wandering from one dusty, cobwebbed room to another, the baby sleeping in her sling on Isabeau’s back. Unlike the other Towers Isabeau had seen, it was not fire that had destroyed the ancient beauty of the buildings, but centuries of neglect. Many of the rooms were furnished still, the tapestries on the walls so rotten a touch would dissolve them, the wood eaten out by burrowing insects so it was brittle as eggshells. Rats and mice had made their home in the cushions, and white owl guano covered everything.
Often the silent swoop of wings overhead would startle Isabeau so much that she would have to stifle a shriek. There were many owls roosting in the Towers—the huge white blizzard owls, large enough to seize Bronwen and swallow her whole; snowy horned owls that kept the rats and mice under control, and tiny elf owls that fed on moths and spiders. Their strange, haunting cries filled the Towers at night as they flew through the dark halls in search of prey. During the day most slept in the rafters, pale hunched shapes, heads tucked under their wings. Isabeau had to be careful not to step in the many owl pellets that littered the floor, those regurgitated by the blizzard owls larger than her fist.
She wandered down the sweeping spiral staircase to the lowest floor and went into the great throne-room. Brambles grew so thickly over the windows that a greenish gloom hung over everything, making it almost as dark as if it were night. Only Isabeau’s acute eyesight made it possible for her to see. Filthy loops of cobwebs hung down from the vaulted ceiling, and she had to brush them away with her arm, though they clung to her sleeve stickily. She stood below the two tall thrones, staring at the shield carved into the stone above, with its device of roses and thorns entwining beneath the stylised shape of a dragon, wings and claws raised. Below this device was a banner with the motto of the MacFaghan clan inscribed in Latin. Although Isabeau could not yet read the ancient language, she knew what it meant, for Feld had translated it for her.
‘“Those who would gather roses must brave the thorns”,’ she quoted and looked about her sombrely. For a moment it was as if she could see the hall as it once must have been—full of people talking, laughing and dancing. Minstrels played lively music; the tapestries were rich and bright, and a young man was juggling bellfruit from a bowl on the sideboard. On the right-hand throne an old man sat, throwing back his shaggy red-grey head to laugh before reaching out to move a knight on the red and white chessboard. The faery he played against shook back her white mane and shrugged, admitting defeat, then he bent and kissed her long, multijointed fingers.
Then Isabeau heard screaming and saw people running. She saw an old woman with long, wild, red-grey hair come striding through the room with a dagger in her hand, saw the dagger rise and fall, rise and fall. Then blood slid down the carved wood of the throne, pooling in the carvings and spilling out over the stones.
The next instant the vision had gone. Isabeau blinked and looked about her, seeing only shadowy arches, tattered tapestries and the heavy, dirty loops of cobwebs. She shivered, huddling her arms about her, and turned to go. Something near the foot of the thrones caught her eye and she bent and picked it up, dusting it off on her skirt. It was a chess piece, a horse’s head cunningly carved from carnelian, with rubies for eyes.
Scratching around in the filth, Isabeau found a marble queen and a carnelian castle, and then her foot nudged the chessboard, broken in two at the foot of the throne steps. She fitted the pieces together wonderingly and for an instant heard again the sound of screaming. With a superstitious shudder, she tucked the chess pieces into her pocket and hurried away from the ghost-ridden throne-room.
Yet it seemed every room and hall in the old Towers had a story of sorrow and madness to tell, and as the long, dreary hours passed, Isabeau’s depression deepened, until she found herself weeping. This was her royal heritage, this ruined, cobwebby castle abandoned hundreds of years ago. This was her proud ancestry.
She sat on a step, looking about her at the decayed grandeur, and wondered what had happened to the bright future she had imagined. She was crippled, alone, in self-imposed exile from her friends, with no future except that of a nursemaid and drudge for a child who was not even her own.
Bronwen began to cry thinly, and Isabeau rose to her feet, trying to shake off her black mood. Both of them were cold and hungry, and she thought rather drearily of their bare larder. No birthday feast for her this year. She imagined the celebrations that must be occurring for Iseult in Lucescere and felt a shock of jealousy. Ye could have stayed and shared in the feast, she told herself, and tried to stifle the thought that came hard on its heels: Though it would have been for Iseult the Banrìgh, no’ for me.
Suddenly anger filled her. Isabeau thought of her mother, floating asleep in her nest of hair. Seventeen years ago Ishbel had given birth to her twin daughters, with only dragons to assist her through her agony and fear. It had been in the week after the Day of Betrayal, and Ishbel had fled the burning of the Tower of Two Moons, flying halfway across the country, to seek her lover’s people. Wracked by labour pains while flying across the mountains, she would have fallen to her death if the dragons had not caught her and taken her to safety. Ishbel had fallen into her uncanny sleep after the birth of her twins, and had slept for seventeen long years.
Anger hot in her veins, Isabeau marched up the great spiral staircase and threw open the door of her mother’s room. Ishbel floated before her, all white, even her lips without colour. For a moment Isabeau’s courage failed her, then she reached through the cocoon of pale hair and shook her mother vigorously. At last Ishbel’s eyes slowly opened and she looked about her dazedly.
‘It’s time to wake!’ Isabeau cried. ‘Ye have slept long enough.’
Ishbel looked at her and yawned, her arms stretching above her head. Her eyes, as intensely blue as Isabeau’s, began to close again. Isabeau
shook her even harder. ‘Ye must wake up!’
Slowly a look of recognition dawned. ‘Iseult?’
Isabeau almost wept with frustration. ‘No, it is me, Isabeau! Can ye no’ tell us apart, your own daughters? Meghan can, and she is no’ even our mother. Ye should no’ have slept so long.’
‘Isabeau,’ Ishbel said softly and yawned again. ‘What do ye do here?’ She looked about her at the stone walls and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I dreamt I found your father, but he was horribly changed … horribly changed.’ Her soft mouth trembled, and she cried, ‘Khan’gharad, why do ye no’ answer me?’
Isabeau opened her mouth to say dryly, ‘Because he’s a horse,’ but shut it, unable to speak the words. She stared at the thin, white face and said gently, ‘Mam, it is time for ye to wake. It has been seventeen years. Ye must face the reality o’ what has happened. We, your daughters, need ye. Please do no’ sleep any more.’
Ishbel rubbed at her wet eyes with her fists, saying pitifully, ‘Ye do no’ understand …’
‘Yes, I do, really I do. I know you loved our father and grieve for him still. He is here but he is no’ as ye knew him, and I do no’ think he ever will be again. Maya ensorcelled him and he is still under her enchantment.’
‘So it was no’ a dream,’ Ishbel replied, shuddering. ‘Nay, I canna bear it! He canna be a horse. It is too awful! No’ my Khan’gharad!’
‘I think Maya would have thought it funny,’ Isabeau said wryly.
Ishbel shuddered again and covered her eyes with her hands. ‘No, no,’ she murmured.
Isabeau seized her shoulders again and shook her. ‘Do no’ dare fall asleep again!’ she warned. ‘I shall never forgive ye if ye fall asleep for another seventeen years. Will ye no’ wake and let me get ye something to eat? Ye are so thin and cold.’
‘I must see Khan’gharad, I must see if it is true,’ Ishbel murmured. ‘Where is he?’
So Ishbel had woken. Although every morning Isabeau feared to find her bound in her enchanted sleep again, every morning her mother woke, ate the food Isabeau prepared for her, then walked by the loch with the red stallion, trying to reach him. Often Isabeau found her mother leaning against his chestnut flank, weeping, or staring into his large, dark eye as if trying to communicate mind to mind. Sometimes Khan’gharad responded with a few mind-spoken words; more often he merely shook his mane and whickered. It seemed only impending danger could reach the man trapped within and rouse him.
As the weeks passed, Ishbel seemed to accept her husband’s enchantment. Although she spent nearly all the daylight hours with the stallion, the evenings were spent with Feld and Isabeau and the young apprentice witch was at last able to begin building a relationship with her mother.
So, as the days lengthened and summer approached Isabeau found some measure of peace. Her days were so busy foraging for food and caring for Bronwen that she almost forgot Eileanan was at war. Feld had a small herd of goats which were staked out in the overgrown garden, so they had plenty of milk and cheese, and every few weeks the Khan’cohbans left a pile of roots, grains and vegetables at the edge of the valley as a sort of tithe. Feld said they had done so since he had first come to the Towers of Roses and Thorns to care for Ishbel. He never remembered to eat much himself; he said Iseult had hunted for them and prepared their meals when she had been with them. Once or twice a day he had tried to make Ishbel eat the thin porridge he made from the wild grains that the Khan’cohbans left him but mostly she only swallowed a few mouthfuls before turning her sleeping face away.
Now Ishbel was awake, she was regaining her appetite, and Isabeau took pleasure in cooking for them all. Luckily it was spring and the valley was rich with all sorts of herbs, mushrooms, roots, early berries and leafage. The apprentice witch had found a beehive and she managed to coax the bees to swarm to a new hive she had made for them in the garden. Many of the herbs and vegetables she found she transplanted into that part of the garden she had reclaimed from the weeds and rose briars, and she stripped seeds from many of the valley plants to sow later, when the earth was well warmed by the sun.
Isabeau’s major problem was finding salt to add to Bronwen’s bath water. The Fairgean were sea-dwelling creatures and died if away from salt water for too long. At Lucescere there had been no shortage of salt. It was one of Clachan’s principal exports, used to cure fish, pickle vegetables, preserve hides and make glass and enamelled jewellery. It had even become fashionable for fine ladies to add sea salt to their baths in imitation of Maya, and so it had been sold at the markets in little canvas bags, with rose petals or sweet herbs mixed through. There were no saltpans in Tìrlethan, however, and the sea was hundreds of miles away. Isabeau had packed a sack of salt, but that was almost all gone, and she worried about what she would do once it was empty. She had wondered whether the loch at the foot of the Towers was, like many in the mountain region, rich in salt and minerals, but she now knew it was as pure and sweet as the loch in the secret valley.
Isabeau frowned, paddling her feet in the loch and smashing the serene reflection of red and white roses. She lifted her eyes from Ishbel and Lasair, still wandering together on the far shore, and gazed at the twin peaks of Dragonclaw.
A dragon soared far above the sharp-pointed mountains, gleaming as brightly as newly polished bronze in the sunshine. Instinctively, Isabeau’s stomach muscles clenched and her heartbeat quickened. She lifted her numb feet out of the icy water and dried them on the edge of her plaid.
As she walked back to the Towers, Isabeau pondered her problem. If she did not find a source of salt soon, Bronwen would sicken and die. The only solution Isabeau could think of was to take Bronwen back to the secret valley. Deep beneath the mountain was an underground loch. Stalagmites and stalactites grew there in writhing columns, and the water was bitter. Hopefully bathing in its mineral-rich waters would help Bronwen avoid dehydration and fever. If it did not, Isabeau would have no choice but to head back towards the coast as fast as she could; she had not rescued Bronwen from danger in Lucescere only to place her in a far more life-threatening situation.
Isabeau was not sure how she was going to make the long and difficult journey back to the secret valley. From what Meghan had told her, it seemed the only road was the Great Stairway which led directly through the dragons’ valley. She still felt a shiver of fear at the memory of the dragon she had seen while galloping the Old Way. Isabeau had not realised how huge or how fearsome the great, fire-breathing creatures were. Even though she had lived most of her life beneath Dragonclaw, she had only seen dragons twice, and even then they had been mere shadows passing over the moons. She knew Meghan had climbed the Great Stairway to seek counsel from the queen-dragon, but she was quite sure she did not have the courage to climb the stairs herself.
Isabeau washed the rosehips and put them on to boil with honey, then strained the syrup and laid it aside to cool. She then made her way through the cold, dark corridors to the library on the sixth floor where she was certain to find the old sorcerer.
It was a huge room with a fireplace at each end and two cunning spiral staircases made of iron lace which led to the upper galleries. Three storeys high, the walls were lined with shelves which ran from the floor up to the ornately painted ceiling and were crammed with books, scrolls, letters and ledgers. The windows and fireplaces were bordered with the design of single-petalled roses and thorns, while above the mantelpieces were the stylised shapes of dragons, wings raised and tails writhing. Feld sat at a huge desk at one end of the room, dying coals in the grate behind him, a candle casting uncertain light over the page of the book he was reading. He peered through a pair of glasses, took them off, rubbed his eyes and peered again.
Isabeau waved her hand so the candelabra on the mantelpiece and the coals on the hearth leapt into life. ‘I made you a fresh batch o’ candles especially so ye would no’ strain your eyes, yet ye never think to light them,’ she scolded. ‘I might as well no’ have bothered.’
‘Sorry, my dear,
I’m afraid I always forget they are there,’ Feld replied absently. He was wearing a long velvet bed-gown, moth-eaten around the sleeves and hem, over a woollen jacket and breeches, with his stringy grey beard tucked through the gown’s sash to stop it from hanging over the page. A badly knitted scarf was wrapped around his neck and dangled down his back, and he wore a mitten on one hand. On his feet were shabby slippers with holes in the soles. Bronwen lay on the floor beside him, kicking her legs vigorously in the air, her hands waving aimlessly.
Isabeau put the cup of tea she had made him by his elbow and perched on the side of the table. ‘Feld, do ye know o’ any salt lakes or pools nearby, or any deposit o’ rock salt?’
‘The hot springs in the dragons’ valley are salty,’ the sorcerer replied, putting his finger in the book so he would not lose his place. ‘I have seen salt encrusted on the rocks nearby, and many times have gathered some for use in ritual or to add to my porridge. Porridge is so tasteless without salt, do ye no’ agree?’
Isabeau agreed rather defensively, having not used any of her or Feld’s salt to add flavour to food since leaving Lucescere. She had saved it all for Bronwen. ‘Is that the only place, at the dragons’ valley?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘One can sometimes find deposits o’ sodium chloride in volcanic regions like this, but it is no’ common. I am sure there must be some rock salt somewhere in the mountains, but I have never seen it. My needs are simple, I rarely have much call for salt.’