by Kate Forsyth
‘So what happened?’ Lachlan cried, his dark face alight. ‘Meghan, do ye think it means the faeries have thrown their lot in with us?’
The old sorceress nodded and smiled, as the soldier went on to describe the battle. ‘The Red Guards had the gates shut tight against us, Your Highness, but the trees cracked them open as if they were made o’ matchwood and no’ the stoutest o’ oaks. They all swarmed into the town—there were dogs wi’ flaming green eyes, Your Highness, as did tear out the throats o’ the guards, and faeries wi’ horns that stabbed them and rent them. It was magnificent!’
‘What o’ Renshaw?’ Lachlan demanded. ‘Was he taken?’
The soldier shook his head. ‘Nay, I be sorry, Your Highness. Once it was clear Glenmorven would fall, he and a company o’ his men hacked their way through with axes and flaming torches. The tree-faeries would no’ face the flame, and so he won clear. Most o’ his supporters were killed or taken prisoner, though. We have them under our charge, awaiting your instructions. Lilanthe o’ the Forest said the army o’ tree-faeries would now sweep through all o’ Aslinn and make sure there were no camps o’ Bright Soldiers hidden within.’
‘It would be a wonderful thing if we could plug that hole,’ Duncan Ironfist said with satisfaction. ‘All summer long they’ve been falling on our backs like ravening wolves, and we havena been able to throw them off. If they canna cross the Great Divide and come in through Aslinn, that means we have only to guard against Arran and the sea.’
‘Renshaw fled south, Your Highness, and we fear he has sought sanctuary in Arran.’
They all exclaimed in surprise. Lachlan said, ‘Are ye sure?’ and Meghan asked urgently, ‘What o’ my apprentice Isabeau the Red, any news o’ her or the babe?’
‘Laird Finlay chased the ruthless one all the way to the borders o’ Arran, but turned aside at the edge o’ the marsh. Renshaw had the babe with him, there’s no doubt o’ that, for Laird Finlay saw her wi’ his own eyes. He saw no sign o’ the lady Isabeau though, but that does no’ mean she was no’ with them, for Laird Finlay said Renshaw had gathered together over two hundred supporters and Isabeau the Red could easily be among such a large party without being seen.’
‘I see,’ Lachlan said slowly. ‘Well, thank ye for the news. Ye must have ridden hard indeed to get here so quickly. Will ye have a wee dram with us to celebrate? In the morn ye can tell one o’ the dispatch riders where Laird Finlay is and send to him to come home. It is dangerous indeed so close to the marshes and we need him here.’
The man nodded and saluted. Lachlan gestured to Dillon to pour him some whiskey. They all drank a toast to the victory at Glenmorven and the rising of the forest faeries, then the tired, hungry, dusty dispatch rider went gratefully down to the kitchen to be fed. A buzz of conversation rose as soon as he had left the room.
‘Renshaw gone to Arran?’ Gwilym asked. ‘I do no’ believe it! It must be a trick.’
‘Is it so impossible that he c-c-could have sought sanctuary in the m-m-marshes, taking the babe with him? We know M-M-Maya and my m-m-m-mother were allies o’ a s-s-sort,’ Iain replied.
‘This is laughable!’ Meghan cried. ‘The Grand-Seeker o’ the Awl, in cahoots with one o’ the most powerful sorceresses in the land! Surely he would no’ seek sanctuary in Arran?’
‘Why would he no’?’ Elfrida asked. ‘Is she no’ your bitter enemy?’
‘Well, yes, there has always been bad bluid between the MacFóghnan and MacCuinn clans, ever since the days o’ the First Crossing. But Renshaw is leader o’ the Awl and so sworn to stamp out witchcraft. He hates and fears sorcery; it does no’ make sense that he would go to Arran.’
‘But if they both see ye as their enemy, will that no’ make them allies?’ Elfrida said.
Iseult flashed her a look. ‘Likely enough,’ she agreed, unable to suppress the note of surprise in her voice. ‘There is a Khan’cohban proverb,’ and she spoke a few harsh syllables in the guttural language of her homeland. ‘Your friend, my enemy; your enemy, my friend,’ she translated.
‘Still, they are strange bedfellows,’ Meghan said. ‘Though I thought Maya and Margrit bizarre allies as well. I wonder what game it is the Thistle plays.’
‘Whatever game it is, I wish those blaygird marsh-faeries o’ hers would leave us alone,’ Lachlan said wearily. They had been attacked again only a few weeks earlier, right in the great hall of Dùn Eidean’s castle. This time there had been more than twenty Mesmerdean and they had lost almost thirty soldiers and servants in fighting them off. All of them had had trouble sleeping since, starting at shadows and waking from uneasy dreams with a feeling of suffocation. ‘Will we never be free o’ them and their thirst for revenge?’
‘Or free o’ the Thistle and her machinations?’ Meghan too looked and sounded weary, her old face haggard.
‘I am sure she would be glad to have Bronwen in her hands,’ Iseult said. ‘What a weapon she would be!’
‘Och, I hope the poor wee babe is safe,’ Latifa said piteously, clasping her fat hands together.
‘Margrit would no’ harm the babe,’ Meghan reassured her. ‘She is too valuable alive. It is Isabeau I fear for.’
‘But surely Margrit would have no use for Isabeau?’ Matthew the Lean asked.
‘Isabeau has great Talent,’ Meghan replied sombrely. ‘Margrit has already shown she wants bairns with Talent—why else did she steal away all those children and keep them imprisoned in the Tower o’ Mists? I just pray to Eà that Isabeau is no’ in her hands, for she is a cruel and ruthless woman indeed!’
Maya hurried through the busy streets of Dùn Eidean. It was dusk, and the rattle-watch was making his rounds, chanting: ‘The sun has set, and all is still; time to go home to eat your fill.’
The stonemasons rebuilding the houses were packing up their tools, the merchants were closing the doors to their shops, and already the Inn of the Green Man was doing good business, the crowd spilling out onto the pavement to enjoy the balmy evening air. Maya smiled and nodded to a few of the soldiers she knew. One seized her arm with a ribald remark, but she merely shrugged herself free, smiling and saying lightly, ‘Och, give it a rest, my laddie, even fancy ladies need an evening free sometimes.’
‘Let me buy ye an ale, Morag,’ the soldier pleaded, ‘and happen that’ll put ye in the mood for some fun.’
‘Thanks for the offer, laddie, but I have my plans for tonight.’
He slapped her bottom and let her go, and she hastened her pace, afraid he and his friends may decide to pursue her. She rounded the corner and saw ahead of her the great wall of the castle, built in the very centre of the town on the crown of the hill. Her heartbeat quickened, even though the glamourie spell she wore had grown so comfortable she needed very little effort to maintain it. There was always a chance she may run into one of the witches stationed at the castle, who would be able to see through the disguise with ease, and so she always felt a small quickening of fear when she kept a rendezvous with her spy.
The girl was pacing the courtyard impatiently, wringing her hands together. ‘Ye’re late, I was feared harm had come to ye, Your Highness,’ she gasped.
‘Do no’ call me that, ye fool,’ Maya snapped. ‘I was held up coming through the town. Quickly, tell me your news before someone sees us together. It be dangerous indeed to be meeting here in the castle.’
‘It is so hard for me to get away,’ the girl explained. ‘There is always someone wanting me to do something, and the Keybearer seems to have eyes in the back o’ her head. I thought ye would want to know that they think the Grand-Seeker has fled to Arran, taking the wee banprionnsa wi’ him.’
‘To Arran?’ Maya exclaimed. ‘Are ye sure?’
‘That is what they said. I do no’ ken if it is true.’
‘Renshaw did know I had had dealings with Margrit o’ Arran,’ Maya mused. ‘He acted as my go-between for some years, before I promoted him to Grand-Seeker. I suppose it could be possible.’ She gave a small, triumphant smil
e. The waiting for news had been hard, and sometimes she had grown so impatient it was all she could do not to scream or cry or hit out at someone. Her disappointment at Lachlan’s string of victories had been acute. As the Greycloaks’ fortunes had eddied like the tide, so had her spirits. News of defeat had her gloating, news of victory plunged her back into depression, and all the time she did not know where Renshaw had taken her daughter. So she had stayed at the tail end of the army, despite her frustration, knowing that any news of the Grand-Seeker would immediately be reported to Meghan and Iseult, and so would eventually find its way to her. At last her patience had paid off.
She thanked her spy warmly, taking care to bind the girl even closer to her, then waited in the dark courtyard till all was quiet, making plans. She would set out for Arran the very next day, spending some of her hard-won money on a horse and carriage and some fine clothes. She must not turn up on Margrit of Arran’s doorstep looking like a beggar. It was imperative that the NicFóghnan did not realise just how desperate Maya’s straits really were. They had been allies before, but Maya had never deluded herself that Margrit assisted her out of friendship or a kind heart. The Banprionnsa of Arran had some plan of her own. Maya would have to be very careful indeed, for if her daughter was in Margrit’s hands, the Thistle would be in the position of power and Maya her supplicant. Maya’s nostrils flared in annoyance at the thought, and she began to think what she could offer Margrit in return for her aid.
Deep in thought, she left the courtyard, hurrying down the narrow passage to the lancet gate through which she had come. Unexpectedly she collided with a large, soft form. She staggered back and flinched as a lantern was raised, spilling light full into her face. For a moment she could not see, then terror flashed through her as a well-known voice cried, ‘Maya! It canna be!’
It was Latifa the Cook. Her round; brown face was horrified, her small mouth opened in a perfect O of surprise. Maya had not seen Latifa since Samhain Eve, when she had left her in the garden surrounding the Pool of Two Moons. If she had thought about Latifa at all, Maya would have supposed her to have been executed for treachery. That was what Maya would have done in Lachlan’s place. She certainly did not expect to find Latifa here, in Dùn Eidean.
Before Latifa had time to do more than exclaim, Maya reached into her sleeve and withdrew her sharp dagger. Gritting her teeth, she plunged it into the old cook’s breast. Latifa grasped the knife in both her hands, her eyes round in shock, then she staggered and fell.
Maya ran down the corridor and out into the town, her heart pounding with excitement and dismay. She had always quite liked the fat old cook. She wished it had been someone else who had pierced her glamourie. Meghan of the Beasts, for example. It would not worry Maya to sink a knife into that old witch’s heart. Latifa, though, had been kind to Maya and had cooked her little delicacies of seaweed, rys seeds and raw fish, knowing how she hated the fat-dripping roasts usually served up at the royal table.
As Maya ran past a street lamp, she saw her hand was red with blood and for a moment she was giddy with horror. She clenched her fingers together, and ran on. Nothing could be allowed to stand in her way, not even a fat, kind-hearted old cook.
The spinning wheel whirled steadily, Isabeau’s foot pushing rhythmically on the pedal, her hands guiding the thread through the spindle automatically. Propped up before her was a book which she was reading intently, each leaf turning itself over as she reached the end of the page.
Isabeau was studying a very ancient book called De Occulta Philosophia Libri Tres, one of the many books in the library which the Coven of Witches had brought over from the Other World. Sometimes she frowned as she read, other times she smiled in disbelief, but every now and again she stopped reading to say a line over again and commit it to her memory.
Bronwen was sitting on the floor behind her, singing to the ragdoll Isabeau had made for her. Scattered around her were some of the beautiful and amazing toys that Isabeau had discovered in one of the rooms in the south tower. On the same floor as the main bedroom, it had been furnished beautifully with two little cradles and a rocking seat carved in the shape of a flying dragon. The satin canopy and quilts had been used as nests by mice and were tattered and filthy. The flying dragon rocker was as perfectly balanced as ever, however, rocking back and forth with the slightest motion and painted with amazing realism. It stood behind Bronwen now, its wings stretched wide, its eyes gleaming with gilt paint.
Lying on the floor behind the little girl were a rainbow-painted spinning top, two rattles carved in the shape of bluebirds, a wheeled horse that could be pulled along by a string, a beribboned hoop, a collection of painted building blocks, and a miniature drum and flute.
Despite the beauty of these toys, Bronwen preferred the ragdoll Isabeau had made and took it everywhere with her, crooning to it and pretending to feed it bits of bread and cheese. The flute was her next favourite and the little girl showed an amazing aptitude for the instrument, especially surprising considering neither Feld nor Isabeau had any musical ability with which to guide her.
Suddenly the spinning wheel faltered and the thread snapped and unravelled. Isabeau looked up, her eyes vacant. ‘Latifa?’ she whispered. ‘Oh no, Latifa!’
Meghan had slipped into a doze by the fire, Gitâ curled on her lap, when she suddenly woke, her black eyes snapping open. ‘Latifa?’ she murmured, trying to shake off her stupor. She got to her feet rather stiffly and went to the door. She could hear nothing, but still a sense of unease persisted. She called to one of the guards standing at the end of the corridor. ‘Is all well?’
‘Aye, my lady,’ he answered. ‘All is quiet.’
She hesitated, then, leaning heavily on her flower-carved staff, made her way past the guards and down the stairs. She passed through the great hall and into the maze of narrow corridors that led towards the kitchens. A scullery maid was hurrying up the hall, a bucket of steaming water in one red-chapped hand, a scrubbing brush in the other. Meghan stopped her with one gnarled hand. ‘Elsie?’ The maid nodded, her fair skin reddening. ‘Have ye seen Latifa?’
‘She was just going to get something from the storerooms,’ the little maid answered rather breathlessly.
Meghan thanked her and hurried on, unable to shake her deepening sense that something was wrong. Her breath was sharp in her side, but she ignored the pain. The cavernous kitchen was crowded with servants and she asked for Latifa again. Another of the young scullery maids was directing her out to the storerooms when suddenly there was a hubbub from outside. Meghan put her hand on the table to steady herself. She showed no surprise when a young pot-boy came running inside, his cheeks drained of all colour.
‘Murder!’ he cried. ‘Latifa the Cook, she’s been murdered.’
Snapping out orders, Meghan followed him out into the inner bailey and down a dark side-alley towards the privy yard. Even her old eyes could see the great bulk of the cook lying on the stones. With difficulty the sorceress knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse. Under her fingers was a faint, erratic flutter. ‘Latifa!’ she called. ‘Can ye hear me, auld friend?’
Weakly Latifa’s eyes opened, and she stared up at Meghan’s face without recognition. Very low she said, ‘Maya … the Banrìgh … what does she do here?’ Then her eyes closed, and the pulse died. Tears running down the seams of her face, Meghan tried to pump her heart into life, but there was no response. Latifa was dead.
The murder of the old cook threw the keep into chaos. The chambermaids huddled in corners, weeping; the apprentice cooks spoiled the dinner; the steward sat with his hands hanging, muttering, ‘But who could want to kill Latifa? But why?’
Meghan was shocked to her core. Latifa was one of the few of her friends from the old days to have survived the Burning. She had known her as a plump baby with dark curls and fat hands, and as a cheeky young student who refused to concentrate on her lessons at the Tower of Two Moons, wanting to lie around on the grass and eat gingerbread instead.
Meghan h
ad wanted the young Latifa to take her Tests and be admitted to the Coven as an apprentice witch, but she had gone to work as an apprentice cook in the kitchens instead, following in the footsteps of her mother and grandmother. As a result, she had survived Maya’s Day of Reckoning when so many of her former classmates had not. Maya had never suspected the palace cook was a gifted skeelie, with a Talent for fire magic and close ties with the Coven of Witches. For sixteen years Latifa had spied for the rebels, risking her own life daily to keep Meghan informed of the Banrìgh’s movements and intentions.
Although Latifa had betrayed them at the final moment, Meghan knew it was because Maya’s charm had slowly and insidiously worked upon Latifa’s own fears and uncertainties until she had not known what to think or what to do. The old sorceress knew just how powerful Maya’s compulsion could be. After all, the Fairge had ensorcelled Jaspar into massacring the witches, and Jaspar had been far more powerful than Latifa. So Meghan had pleaded with Lachlan and saved the bewildered old cook from a traitor’s death.
Latifa had spent the two years since working to overcome Lachlan’s suspicions and regain her trusted position in the Coven. To her great pride, she had sat her Tests and been admitted into the Coven as a fully accredited witch, wearing on her plump fingers moonstone and garnet rings to show she had passed her Test of Fire as well as her apprenticeship test. She had worked tirelessly to stretch their scanty supplies far enough to feed thousands, and had begun teaching her kitchen magic to some of the eager acolytes in the theurgia. Meghan did not know how she was to manage without her.
The town guards searched every inn and house in Dùn Eidean but there was no sign of Maya the Ensorcellor. And even though Dùn Eidean’s gates were closed and only those on the Rìgh’s business allowed inside or out for close on a week, still Latifa’s murderer was not found.