by Kate Forsyth
The sun beat down on blackened fields, the sky overhead a hard, bright blue. A few trees still raised black, angular branches in stark silhouette. Most had fallen and lay charred in the ashes. A small boy searched through the ruins of a cottage, his sooty face streaked with tears. As the carriage swayed along the road, he raised his face in hope, only to wail thinly in disappointment as the vehicle kept on its way.
Maya sat back on the cushioned seat, biting her lip. She remembered these fields as lush and green with clover and barley, with thick copses of trees on the hills and pretty cottages surrounded by flowers in the valleys. She and Jaspar had often driven through these gentle hills to stay with the MacThanach at his country estate. She was shocked by the devastation. On an impulse she put her head out the window and gruffly commanded one of her outriders to turn back and give the little boy one of her gold coins. He took the coin, saluted her and spurred his horse around, and she sat back against her cushions again, wondering at her moment of weakness.
A squad of soldiers, demanding to know her name and destination, stopped them some miles down the road. Their grey cloaks and leather breastplates were torn and stained, their shields badly battered. Maya recognised the uniform with a sinking heart. She had not expected to see any of the Rìgh’s army this far east.
Maya leant from the gilded carriage, smiling at the sergeant and answering his questions in her low, melodious voice. She was dressed in crimson velvet, with a long, narrow skirt edged in gold, and a high collar that was cut away from the base of her throat to the cleft of her breasts.
‘I travel to my country home in eastern Blèssem,’ she said. ‘My husband went there some weeks ago following reports the wicked Tìrsoilleirean had marched through that part o’ the land. We were worried about our servants and crofters, and about the house. I have had no word from him and I was so overcome with anxiety that I decided I must come down and see for myself what is happening.’
‘Ye would be best staying and waiting for word, madam,’ the sergeant said gruffly. ‘All the land beyond that hill is held by the Bright Soldiers, and by all accounts they have little respect for person or property.’
‘I thank ye for the warning,’ Maya replied, ‘and I am glad I hired so many guards. My house is no’ so very far from here. I am sure I will have no trouble and if I do, I shall send one o’ my men to find ye, such a strong, sturdy man that ye are.’ She smiled at him winningly and he blushed.
‘I think ye had best have a word to my captain, madam,’ he said.
She gritted her teeth. Her voice huskier then ever, laying the gentlest stress of compulsion on her words, she said, ‘My house is no’ so far. I am sure I shall be safe. I shall drive on.’
His fair skin reddening, he said stubbornly, ‘I think ye had best have a word to my captain.’
Again she repeated her words, the stress stronger this time, but although he felt uncomfortable, he did not waver, opening the carriage door for her and holding up his hand to assist her out. She knew a stubborn, inflexible nature when she saw one and gave in gracefully.
The captain of the company was in his tent. The sergeant lifted the flap for her respectfully but inexorably, and she ducked her head and went in. At once her heart lifted. She recognised the captain, a young, handsome man with a discontented expression. He had been one of her customers at the House of Wanton Delights, a young laird who had given her every coin he had to spend a whole night with her. He had grown obsessed with her, visiting her many times before riding out with the Young Pretender’s army. Much of Maya’s hoard of gold had been seduced from his pocket.
The captain looked up as she entered and was immediately transfixed. She smiled at him and gave him her hand.
‘Well met,’ she said huskily. He said nothing, just brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it passionately.
Maya fanned herself and rested her head on her hand. It was hot and stuffy within the confines of the carriage and the road here was rough, so that she had been badly jarred as the carriage rattled and shook its way forward.
It had been a long and wearying journey through the soldier-occupied fields of southern Blèssem. Once she had travelled beyond the battlefront she had at least seen green fields and blossoming orchards again, for the Bright Soldiers only burnt the land when it was lost. She was grateful for that, for the sight of the charred and ruined meadows had made her sick at heart.
Maya had been stopped several times by squads of Bright Soldiers but had simply told them she was the Dowager Banrìgh on her way to see her ally, Margrit of Arran, and they had waved her on her way. Their instant deference had pleased her. She knew it was Margrit’s reputation that caused them to bow and speak humbly, but it had been so long since she had commanded such respect that she had almost forgotten how it felt.
Maya leant forward and looked out the window, hoping to feel some breath of air on her face. Beyond the road stretched rough, uncultivated land, with only occasional clumps of low, thorny shrubs relieving the grey-brown monotony. Here and there stretched shallow lochs, glimmering a brilliant blue under the burning sky. Overhead the sun beat down, hot and unrelenting, as if it were still summer and not the last month of autumn. Then she saw a glimpse of the sea, half hidden behind the sand dunes. She felt a rush of longing so intense she had to grip the carriage windowsill to stop herself from calling out to the driver. She sprayed her face and wrists with salted water instead, and urged him to hurry.
At last they came over a low hill and saw, far down the road, a wavering wall of mist, drifting like thick streamers over the swamp. Maya smiled, though her neck was stiff with tension. She felt the carriage falter as the driver unconsciously tightened his grip on the reins. She leant out of the window and urged him on again.
The road disappeared into the mist as if into a tunnel of white. The horses hesitated, and the driver had to crack the whip over them before they went on, shaking their heads nervously. The outriders all drew close about the carriage and Maya herself was unable to help a shiver of apprehension.
Suddenly the horses neighed and reared in terror. The driver shouted and cracked his whip, and the outriders wrenched at their horses’ reins. Maya tried to see out the window but she could see nothing but writhing tendrils of mist. Then tall, grey shapes loomed up out of the gloom, their huge eyes glittering oddly, their multijointed, clawed arms reaching out as if to grasp. The horses plunged and screamed and Maya was flung to the floor as the carriage pitched. She heard a high-pitched humming then a sharp rap on her carriage door.
She cried out, biting her lip immediately afterwards in chagrin. The door was opened and a man with a long grey beard and a crooked nose looked in. ‘If it is no’ the Dowager Banrìgh herself,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Arran, my lady. May I assist ye off the floor?’
After swinging himself uninvited into Maya’s carriage, he introduced himself as Campbell the Ironic, a warlock in the service of Margrit of Arran. He was a tall, lean man with a sarcastic twist to his mouth. His stringy grey hair hung halfway down his back, tied back with a leather thong, and he wore a long, rather grubby purple robe inscribed with mystical symbols around the hem and sleeves. Leaning out the window, he tersely ordered the Mesmerdean to retreat back into the mist, for the horses were shying nervously at their dank, swampy smell. Maya reseated herself, smoothing her crimson velvet and staring down her nose at the warlock, who had rather a swampy smell himself. He was not at all discomposed by her haughty look, rapping on the wall to order the coachman to drive on, then turning to rake her with black eyes almost hidden under shaggy grey eyebrows.
‘This is unprecedented, indeed,’ he said. ‘So many visitors to Arran at once. And witch-haters and witch-hunters at that. What do ye do here, Maya?’
‘That is a matter for me to discuss with your mistress,’ Maya replied icily. ‘And who gave ye leave to call me by my name, sirrah? Ye shall address me as “my lady”, if ye address me at all.’
‘Obh obh!’ Campbell replied. ‘Anyone would th
ink ye were still the Banrìgh, with your haughty looks and manner. No’ that that means anything here in Arran. We never recognised the MacCuinn as Rìgh and I canna say we ever will.’
‘Is that so?’ Maya looked out the window, though all she could see were dripping tree branches. ‘Is that why Iain o’ Arran fights at Lachlan the Pretender’s command and does his bidding like any o’ his other squires?’
Campbell scowled and folded his arms. Maya smiled thinly and continued to stare outside. The road wound through the swamp, the mist occasionally clearing enough for her to see banks of flowering sedge and the straight arrows of bulrushes. Once she saw several pairs of pale, bulbous eyes floating just above the surface of the mud and she recoiled involuntarily.
‘Mudsprites,’ the warlock said with morbid satisfaction. ‘They’ll pull ye under if ye set foot in the marsh.’
‘As I have no intention o’ walking through the marsh, they are unlikely to concern me,’ Maya replied coldly, pulling her furred cape around her shoulders. She was beginning to think she had made a major mistake in coming to Arran.
At last they came to a great stretch of water, glimmering grey beneath the drifting mist. The horses came to a jittery halt, sweating under their harness despite the coolness of the air. Maya could see her driver and outriders were looking decidedly edgy, and she frowned at them even though she could understand their unease. Gliding smoothly across the loch was a long pinnace, its prow curved high into the shape of a swan. The boat was empty, and the sail was furled tightly, yet it moved as swiftly as if its oars were manned.
Maya allowed Campbell the Ironic to assist her out of the carriage and looked about her calmly. Built on the shore of the loch were several low buildings, their roofs thatched with flowering sedge. From the doorways peered several bogfaeries, their black, wrinkled faces expressing an anxious curiosity, their huge lustrous eyes as bright as jewels. Several other small boats were moored to the jetty, most of them rough dinghies without the grace of the swan-carved pinnace. There was one large, flat-bottomed barge, piled high with sacks of rys seeds and jars of honey. As Maya watched, a crew of bogfaeries slowly and laboriously poled the barge away from the jetty, heading north up the river.
‘My lady,’ Campbell said, indicating Maya should climb into the pinnace.
She regarded him haughtily, and said, ‘Ye will have a care for my men and my horses?’
‘Indeed, they shall be cared for,’ he replied, with a sneer that did not make her feel comfortable. She thanked him calmly, however, and watched the little, black-skinned faeries as they apprehensively helped unhitch the carriage, being too small to reach the harnesses of the horses. Her driver, a large, placid man, nodded at her reassuringly and said, ‘Never ye mind us, my lady, we’ll wait here for your orders.’
Maya smiled and thanked him, passing him a small bag of coins, then climbed into the pinnace, allowing none of her perturbation to show on her face. Campbell climbed in after her, and she faced away from him, staring across the loch. The swan-boat glided away from the jetty, its wake stretching behind as straight as a plough furrow.
The mist above the loch was thin and drifted away from the boat, revealing huge water-oaks crowding down the shore, their leaves beginning to colour at the edges. Ahead of her was an island crowned with tall, sharp-pointed towers, each carved in spiralling forms and painted in pale, opalescent colours so they shimmered like hazy rainbows. Despite herself, Maya was overawed by her first sight of the Tower of Mists. She had thought Rhyssmadill beautiful, but this was like a palace out of a faery story: graceful, extravagant, magical.
‘Tùr de Ceò,’ Campbell said reverently, and she frowned to hear the old language, the tongue of witches, outlawed seventeen years ago. He glanced at her sardonically and said a long phrase, lilting and beautiful, which she did not understand. ‘Oh, the Tower o’ Mists, mysterious beauty, beauteous mystery,’ he translated for her. ‘How does it feel to see it, my lady? The one Tower ye could no’ topple?’
Maya gritted her teeth. Indeed it was ironic to be coming to the Lady of Arran for help when for many long years she had sent her Red Guards into the marshes in a vain attempt to destroy the NicFóghnan’s magical power. Many a company of Maya’s soldiers had been lost in the marshes, and the Tower of Mists was the only witches’ Tower not to have been burnt to ruins. It made her feel very odd and off-balance to be approaching one of the most powerful sorceresses in the land with her hand extended in friendship.
Smoothly the swan-boat came to a halt at a wide marble platform. Maya gathered her crimson skirts together and climbed out as gracefully as she could. Standing to one side of the broad steps was a tall, strong-looking man dressed sombrely in grey. His mane of coarse white hair was bound back from his brow with leather, so that the two heavy horns curling down on either side of his forehead were emphasised. Across each angular cheekbone were three thin white scars.
Maya stared at him in some surprise. She recognised him at once as a Khan’cohban, having met one of the mountain faeries at the Tower of Two Moons many years before. She knew they were a fierce warlike race, much like her own people, though they lived in the inhospitable snowy wastes at the top of the world. She wondered what he was doing here, in the soft airs of the coast, and knew him to be dangerous. The six scars on his face proclaimed him as a skilled warrior, and she remembered the one she had known. He had tried to kill her and had almost succeeded. Only her transformative magic had saved her, for she had turned him into a horse and broken him to her whip and spur. She knew how much it would have galled him to be a beast of burden, for the Khan’cohbans were fiercely independent. Breaking him to her will had given her intense satisfaction, for she had seen it as a symbol of her supremacy over all the peoples of Eileanan and the Far Islands. Idly she wondered what had happened to the ensorcelled horse, and thought he must have died years ago.
The Khan’cohban bowed and greeted her courteously. He escorted her up the stairs, passing two Mesmerdean nymphs standing guard outside the great arched door. Maya stared at them in fascination and they stared back with greenish, multifaceted eyes, their beautiful inhuman faces showing no expression. Engraved on either side of the double door was the badge of the MacFóghnan clan—a flowering thistle with the clan motto curling above it. Touch not the thistle, Maya read, flaring her nostrils in disdain.
She was led through a grand hall hung with bright tapestries and decorated with marble statues, ancient shields and weapons, and silver bowls and pitchers. On the floor were rugs of exquisite workmanship, crimson and blue and grey, and a magnificent staircase swept down from the upper gallery, a streak of red carpet falling down the centre like a river of blood. Servants hurried to take her cape and feathered hat, and to offer her mulled wine to warm her after the chilly journey. Maya sipped at it and was astonished at its honeyed tang. Its warmth raced through her, flushing her skin and bringing with it a slight giddiness. She drank no more, remembering that Arran was famous for wine sweetened with the honey of the golden goddess flower, a most intoxicating and heady brew.
The Khan’cohban flung open the massive doors into the throne-room and announced Maya in ringing tones; Campbell the Ironic bowed so deeply his beard brushed the floor. Maya held her head high, refusing to be daunted by all this servitude.
At the far end of the room was a dais with an ornately carved throne piled with purple velvet cushions. Reclining upon it was a dark-haired woman dressed in black velvet, a silver brooch in the shape of a thistle upon her breast. Her skin was very fine and pale, her mouth coloured a dark purple. As Maya slowly approached down the length of the room, she noticed the woman’s long, curving fingernails were coloured the same damson purple. Slowly and rhythmically they tapped against the dark wood of the throne, as long and sharp as scimitars.
Maya reached the area below the dais and inclined her head. ‘It is a pleasure indeed to meet ye again,’ she said. ‘I trust ye have kept well?’
‘Indeed I have,’ Margrit replied. ‘Both w
ell and amused. It has been an interesting few years since we last met.’
‘Interesting is no’ quite the word I would have chosen,’ Maya replied, only the flaring of her nostrils betraying her anger. ‘It is true a great deal has happened.’
‘Aye, who would have thought the rebels would have triumphed and the Coven o’ Witches be restored?’ the banprionnsa said suavely. ‘Your husband dead, your daughter dispossessed and ye an outlaw and fugitive.’
‘Hardly,’ Maya replied. ‘There are many who resent the heel o’ the Pretender and wish to restore my rule. It is only a matter o’ time.’
‘The young MacCuinn has shown himself more able than one would have suspected,’ Margrit said. ‘The victories o’ Blairgowrie and Dùn Eidean were cleverly done and my reconnaissance staff tell me supporters have flocked to his flag ever since.’
‘Fair-weather friends,’ Maya said lightly. ‘They will go wherever they think their best interests lie. Once my daughter wins back her throne, they will pledge their support to us once again.’
Margrit regarded her rings. ‘Happen that is true,’ she replied. ‘But are they the sort o’ friends one would wish to have?’
‘Och, there are many whose support o’ me and my daughter has no’ wavered.’ Maya grew tired of standing before Margrit’s throne and sat gracefully on one of the chairs set against the wall. ‘But I am sure your spies have told ye that as well.’
‘Spies is a harsh word,’ Margrit replied, smiling.
Maya felt herself tensing, and smiled sweetly in response. ‘My pardon. Your reconnaissance staff.’
For a moment their gazes locked, then Margrit glanced away, saying affably, ‘But I forget my manners. Ye must be weary indeed after your journey. Let me offer ye some refreshment and a room in which ye may rest, and then perhaps ye shall tell me why ye have done me the honour o’ this unexpected—but most delightful—visit.’
‘Why, I have come to be with my daughter, o’ course,’ Maya replied urbanely. ‘I knew she would no’ be o’ much use to ye without my endorsement and support, and so once my reconnaissance staff informed me she had come under your protection, I naturally came to join her. I have no need to enquire after her health, I am sure, knowing what a caring and nurturing mother ye are yourself.’