by Kate Forsyth
‘Look at ye, as pretty as if we were still in Lucescere and no’ out here at the edge o’ the forest! Do no’ tell me ye brought your valet wi’ ye!’ Niall said jovially.
‘Indeed I did,’ Finlay replied languidly. ‘What would he do if I left him at the Shining City? Spend all his wages on whores and whiskey, I am sure! Nay, far better that he rides with me and earns his keep. Besides, my sweet, surely ye do no’ expect me to polish my own boots or brush my own hair?’
Niall snorted loudly and came to sit beside Finlay, the chair creaking under his weight. Lilanthe stood watching from the doorway, her cloak and hood covered in snow. After a moment she limped in shyly, putting back the hood, the nisse swinging from the bare twigs of her hair. The young soldier looked her over with a lift of his eyebrow. When Brun came bounding in, his eyebrow lifted ever further. ‘What do we have here?’ he said. ‘Ye fraternising with the faeries now, Niall?’
Lilanthe stiffened and the nisse bared her fangs. Niall leant back, stuffing his pipe with tobacco. ‘Aye, His Highness has given me the honour o’ escorting the Lady Lilanthe and the cluricaun Brun into Aslinn. They go in search o’ friends and allies who may well be the weight that swings the war our way. My lady, this mannerless young man is Laird Finlay James MacFinlay, the Marquess of Tullitay and Kirkcudbright, Viscount of Balmorran and Strathraer, and the only son o’ the Duke of Falkglen. We call him Fear-Naught since he has no more sense than a foolhardy lad and is always running his neck into a noose o’ trouble.’
The young marquess rose and gave Lilanthe a courtly bow, sweeping the ground with his fingers. Her freckled face flushed and she nodded gravely, sensing his subtle mockery. It seemed even the Rìgh’s own bodyguard contained those who did not favour creatures of faery blood.
‘Have we no’ met before, my laird?’ she said.
He smiled and said charmingly, ‘No’ that I remember, my lady, and I’m sure I would remember if I had.’
Her colour deepened, unsure whether he was mocking her still. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat, regarding him with puzzled eyes. His thoughts were carefully guarded so she could not read them and that in itself was enough to make her uneasy. He was a soldier, though, and trained into impassivity, so she turned to warm her hands at the fire while Laird Finlay poured her and Niall some hot whiskey toddy.
They had spent the autumn riding slowly from village to town, Lilanthe taking the opportunity to talk to the country folk about the faeries of the forest. Although there were some in the crowd who jeered her, the squad of soldiers standing stern-faced and straight-backed beside her prevented any real belligerence. As autumn passed, she grew more confident, her passion lending her eloquence so that many in the crowds were moved to regret their antipathy towards the faeries. As for Lilanthe, she found that the release of her pent-up emotions brought her some measure of peace and even contentment.
As they had followed the highway out of the lowlands of Rionnagan and into Blèssem, the mood had changed, however. They reached the outskirts of Aslinn with the onset of winter, and took refuge from the early snowstorms in the village of Crossmaglenn at the edge of the forest. Some of Lilanthe’s nervousness returned, for they were only a week’s ride from Glenmorven, the town where she had encountered the Grand-Seeker. The local populace was surly, casting looks of hostility at the faeries and pulling their children out of Lilanthe’s path. Niall the Bear had to assert his authority before the innkeeper would allow them to stay under his roof, and then it was a frigid welcome he gave them. If it had not been for the snowy darkness outside and her tiredness, Lilanthe would have insisted on travelling on, but instead she accepted the food slapped in front of her and went despondently to bed.
In the morning Niall the Bear had greeted her cheerfully and told her they had heard a battalion of the Rìgh’s soldiers had taken over the small village of Strathrowan to the south to use as their winter quarters. The innkeeper had suggested, none too courteously, that they go and join their comrades there. Glad to leave his inhospitable house, they had packed up and ridden on, for once not calling the townsfolk together for Lilanthe to address. It had been a grey cold day, the horses’ hooves crunching snow underfoot, and Lilanthe felt some of her old misery return.
Soon they had seen a camp of soldiers outside a village, the MacCuinn stag flying from the pole along with a standard Lilanthe had not recognised. Niall obviously had, though, for he exclaimed in surprise and urged his destrier into a trot. He had exchanged greetings with the lieutenant overseeing the soldiers’ manoeuvres and then ridden into town to see their captain, who was now reclining back in his chair, blowing smoke rings and regarding his polished fingernails.
‘But what do ye do here, Finlay?’ Niall said after taking a deep swallow of the whiskey toddy. ‘Last I saw ye, ye were riding off to Blairgowrie with His Highness.’
‘Aye, and a grand fight that was! We tricked the renegades truly, and rode into the heart o’ Blairgowrie as blithely as ye please!’ Finlay’s eyes glowed with excitement. ‘His Highness was magnificent! I swear half the men there were truly afraid his act o’ a sulky young greenhorn was no sham, but he fought like a demon once we had lured the blaygird Red Guards out from behind the walls.’
‘So the Awl rebellion is nipped in the bud?’
‘Nay, unfortunately. Renshaw the Ruthless fled with the babe he named Banrìgh. We’ve had reports he and his supporters are regrouping somewhere near the Aslinn and Blèssem border. That is what I do here, actually. I was set to track the Grand-Seeker down, but he’s as cunning as a fox. It’s been eight months and no hair nor hide o’ him have I seen.’
Niall frowned. ‘That is no’ good news at all. I had hoped he would be caught quickly and we could get on with the task o’ driving out the Bright Soldiers. What luck have ye had so far in tracking his movements?’
‘I followed him to about twenty miles west o’ here but he’s got some hide somewhere and I canna find where. I suspect he fled this way because he has strong support in this part o’ the country. The Bright Soldiers have not penetrated this far north yet, concentrating as they are on the highway to Blèssem, so the locals do no’ look to the Rìgh for succour. Few are willing to give us any information, Eà damn them. I’ve had my fill o’ rustic stupidity, I can tell ye. All I get when I ask for news are blank stares and dribble. It seems no-one kens a thing about Renshaw and his movements, yet I know he came this way!’
Lilanthe moved uneasily, her long hair rustling. ‘I passed through upper Blèssem when I came up from Aslinn with Dide the Juggler and Enit Silverthroat,’ she said shyly. ‘The Grand-Seeker was hiding out in a town called Glenmorven, only a few days’ ride from the edge o’ the forest. A lot o’ the men there seemed to be involved in his resistance against the Rìgh. Happen he fled back there?’
Finlay sat up. ‘Glenmorven, ye say? Ye may have given me the clue I need, my lady o’ the forest, and for that I thank ye.’
Lilanthe did not smile back. She sensed some trouble beneath his air of gay insouciance and was sorry for it. He rose gracefully to his feet and gave Niall a mocking bow. ‘Well, we ride for Glenmorven on the morrow and hope we find the ruthless one there! Will ye join us, my auld woolly bear?’
‘We have another task,’ Niall replied gravely, rising so he could grasp Finlay’s hand. ‘Will ye have a care for yourself? The Awl still has much support in the countryside, and there are many Red Guards who have flocked to Renshaw’s banner. If ye find a sizable force has gathered at his side, do no’ challenge him yourself. Send messengers to His Highness and he will send ye support. Promise me this?’
Finlay laughed. ‘Och, ye are just the same, ye auld fusspot. O’ course I shall no’! Run back to Blairgowrie all because o’ a few Red Guards? No’ I! My men and I are all itching for another chance to run our swords through their tough auld hides. Nay, we shall triumph over Renshaw the Ruthless and his false Banrìgh, and take them back to the MacCuinn in chains. Then I shall be His Highness’s favourite, ye s
hall see.’
‘I hope I do, my lad,’ Niall replied affably. ‘Let us hope that it is no’ your bloodied corpse I see instead.’
The young laird said mockingly, ‘Shall we have a wager on it, my woolly one? Though I canna promise I’ll have the gold for ye should ye win. My father swears he has disinherited me for spending all my money on whores and jewellery and may no’ honour any note I give ye. We shall just have to hope that I triumph, and then I can rest easy on the gold ye give me. What odds do ye give me, my sweet?’
‘Nay, I shall no’ toss dice with ye,’ Niall replied equably. ‘Ye have the luck o’ the young and the foolish, and I have plans for what little gold I have! Just remember Renshaw the Ruthless is a wily auld fox and have a care for yourself, that’s all I ask.’
Finlay only laughed, and blew another smoke ring.
Snow swirled against the mullioned windows of the Tower of Two Moons, and the wind howled like a banshee. Lachlan shivered and rubbed his hands over his arms. ‘Eà blast it, I swear the winters are getting worse each year!’
Meghan glanced up from her spinning wheel. ‘Well, ye canna play all year with the weather patterns and no’ expect some consequence,’ she replied calmly. ‘The Thistle kept southern Eileanan dry and cloudless all summer and autumn, while Arran stayed hidden behind its veil o’ mist. All that had to flow on somehow.’
‘I just wish this bloody storm would blow over!’ Lachlan said. Iseult glanced at him with a troubled expression. He was finding the enforced inactivity difficult, and every day his restlessness increased until Iseult feared he would do something mad and impulsive just to release his tension.
The last few months had been spent in hard fighting and all were tired and a little discouraged. Despite their clever tactics and bold courage, the Rìgh’s army was still vastly outnumbered and undertrained, and they had suffered as many defeats as victories. With winter drawing its cold, dark mantle over the country, Lachlan and his retinue had withdrawn to Lucescere to recoup, leaving most of their troops to hold the land they had won.
‘It be a bad night to be trying to use the scrying pool,’ Jorge said.
Meghan glanced at him affectionately. ‘Aye, all this turbulence will make it hard to connect, that is for sure. Still, the scrying pools were created for just this purpose, and Dughall at least is a powerful sorcerer, he should be able to throw his thoughts this far. I am no’ so sure about Anghus, though he promised to ride to the Tower o’ Searchers and try. I am eager indeed to hear news o’ them and know what support they can lend us.’
‘What is a scrying pool?’ Iseult asked, trying to detach her bright curls from her son’s hand. He squealed and tugged harder.
‘Ye can come with us if ye like,’ the old woman said. ‘A scrying pool was built in every Tower—it was the quickest and easiest way for the witches o’ the Coven to communicate with each other, particularly for those who did not know each other.’
Meghan glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘It is near midnight,’ she said. ‘We may as well brave the cold and go down.’ She struggled to her feet and stood leaning on her staff, the iron-grey plait that hung down to her knees streaked with white. She looked at Jorge again, saying, ‘Shall ye come with us, auld friend?’
He shook his head, his wrinkled face sombre. ‘Nay, ye ken the veils between the worlds are thinnest at Samhain. I shall do a sighting.’
‘Have a care then,’ she warned. ‘Ye ken the tower is thick still with ghosts.’ He nodded. ‘Happen Iseult had best stay with ye and watch over ye,’ the old sorceress said. Iseult tried not to look disappointed, for she was curious to see the scrying pool.
Jorge of course could sense her emotions and he smiled kindly at her. ‘Go with Meghan, lassie,’ he said. ‘The League of the Healing Hand shall stay with me and watch over me. It is time those squires o’ Lachlan’s did something apart from eat Latifa’s good cooking and get into mischief!’
‘Very well, I shall call for Dillon then,’ Meghan said and made her slow way towards the door, Gitâ poking his black nose out of her pocket before burrowing down again.
Leaving Donncan with Sukey, Iseult and Lachlan followed the old witch down the draughty stairs and through the great hall. It was crowded with students huddling near the fire, warming their hands or playing chess or trictrac at little low tables set between shabby but comfortable couches. Some serving maids had just brought in trays of steaming cider made from apples, honey, whiskey and spices, and many were drinking with enjoyment or eating the little Samhain cakes Latifa had made by the hundreds.
Iseult could not help but be struck by the difference a year had made. Last Samhain they had huddled here in this long hall, cold and afraid, Lachlan half mad with grief at the news his brother was dying. They had conjured a storm with the help of The Book Of Shadows and had flown through its icy gusts to confront the Ensorcellor. Now the great hall was warm and cheery, noisy, with jokes and laughter, the windows steamed over so the cold night outside was forgotten. She glanced at Lachlan and he met her gaze with a little smile of shared remembrance.
After Lachlan’s squires had been sent rather reluctantly up to Meghan’s room, the small party made its way into a wide inner courtyard, surrounded on four sides by a graceful colonnade. Although a crystal dome had just been erected over the quadrangle, it was still bitterly cold once they stepped out from the shelter of the corridor.
In the very centre of the courtyard was a round pool, enclosed within stone walls fretted with entwining lines and knots. At the four points of the compass were low stone benches, their edges carved with moons and stars.
Iseult sank down on one of the benches and looked into the heart of the pool, which glimmered blackly. Meghan sat beside her, while Lachlan prowled restlessly around the perimeter of the pool.
‘There is a scrying pool at each of the thirteen Towers. They act as a focus for the will and the mind, just as my crystal ball does, or a bowl o’ water, only the pools are designed to magnify the mind-voice one hundred fold,’ the old sorceress said. ‘Now, I ken ye have no’ been practising your scrying skills as ye ought … Nay, Lachlan, no need to bristle up, I ken ye have been busy fighting a war! I was no’ accusing ye.’
Lachlan made a face and sat down on the bench opposite. ‘What do ye want us to do?’
‘Try and remember all I taught ye last year about the skill o’ scrying. Ye must relax, clear your mind, empty your thoughts. Try and relax every muscle in your body. Watch the pool, let your mind drift free, think about who ye wish to see. Think o’ your cousin Dughall, conjure his face in your mind’s eye and his voice in your mind’s ear.’
As the three concentrated, the dark water in the pool slowly stirred, and the indistinct reflections of snow and crystal blurred into the white face and black hair and beard of Dughall MacBrann. Behind him Iseult could just make out the shape of a broken arch and the white of driving snow.
‘Greetings, Lachlan,’ Dughall said. ‘Delightful night to be alone in a ghost-haunted ruin. I hope ye are as cold and uncomfortable as I am.’
Lachlan grinned. ‘What sort o’ manner is that to address your laird and rìgh with?’ he said sternly. ‘Are ye no’ going to call me “Your Highness” and inquire after my health?’
‘I hope ye have a snivelly head-cold and rheumatism o’ the joints,’ Dughall replied. ‘Which is what I am going to have by the time I get back to a warm fire and a dram o’ whiskey! Let us forget the courtesies, I beg ye. It’s cold as Gearradh’s womb out here, and this bloody pile o’ stones simply reeks o’ blood and murder. I want to get back to that dram as fast as I can.’
‘Well, it’s glad I am to see ye alive and your usual charming self,’ Lachlan laughed. ‘Tell me then, what news?’
Dughall brushed a few icicles from his beard and launched into a terse account of how he had spent the nine months since leaving Lucescere. He had taken Owen MacBrann, one of the boys rescued from the Tower of Mists, as his squire, having learnt they shared a great-grandmo
ther. The two of them had ridden for Ravenshaw, having a tricky time avoiding being captured by the many battalions of Bright Soldiers occupying the forests.
To their dismay they discovered the great ships of the Tìrsoilleirean navy moored in the Firth of Seaforth, which could only mean the Bright Soldiers had coerced or bribed some local fishermen to guide them, for the bay was notoriously dangerous. The soldiers’ white banners were flying from the walls of the port town of Tullimuir, and a camp had been set up on the banks of the river.
Dughall and Owen rode on quickly and stealthily through the forest to Ravenscraig, the little castle that had been home to the MacBranns since the castle at Rhyssmadill had been abandoned. Ravenscraig was blockaded, however, the meadow below the tall crag filled with the Bright Soldiers’ white tents and imposing siege towers.
When Dughall finally managed to communicate with his father—the MacBrann was adept at scrying through water or crystal, but he was so absent—minded that it was often difficult to reach him—he discovered that most of the seaside towns had been lost but that the Bright Soldiers had not yet won through to the highlands. However, the Fairgean invaded the firth and river each spring and autumn, so the Bright Soldiers found it difficult to hold the land they had won. The MacBrann was happy to let the Tìrsoilleirean fight off the sea-faeries for him while he busied himself in his laboratory and played with his many dogs.
‘Och, we can hold them off for a good while yet, son,’ the MacBrann said comfortably. ‘In fact, it’s glad I am to have them here for I’ve invented a new sort o’ catapult that can throw boulders a good four hundred yards! It’s much more fun peppering the blaygird berhtildes than trying to hit a painted target.’
So Dughall had left his father to his amusements and had ridden off to Tìreich. It took him a long time to track down the MacAhern, for the Tìreichans were nomads and travelled the wide plains at their whim. In their grass-coloured caravans pulled by the huge native dogs called zimbaras, they were as hard to pin down as will-o’-the-wisps. Finally, though, Dughall and Owen had caught up with Kenneth MacAhern, the Prionnsa of Tìreich, and had persuaded him to ride to the aid of Lachlan the Winged.