The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  Margrit’s smile deepened, dimples flashing in her cheeks. ‘Your reconnaissance staff are efficient indeed, my dear. Ye must tell me how ye found such capable servants. Foolishly I had thought what went on within the mists o’ Arran was impenetrable to those o’ the outside world. I see I am no’ so well protected as I thought.’

  Maya found fear was creeping down her spine like a trickle of icy water. Margrit’s smile was as frightening as her Fairgean father’s angriest bellow. She drew herself up, staring at the banprionnsa haughtily. ‘I am sorry if ye think my interest invasive,’ she said coolly. ‘The safety and wellbeing o’ my daughter, the Banrìgh o’ all o’ Eileanan and the Far Islands, is naturally my greatest concern.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Margrit replied silkily, once again tapping her long fingernails slowly against the gilded wood of her throne. ‘And naturally ye will wish to see her.’ She rose and descended from the throne, her black velvet skirts trailing behind her. ‘Come, my dear. I know ye must be longing to be reunited with the wee lassie, so many months it has been since ye last embraced her.’

  There was such subtle mockery in her tone that Maya flushed and clenched her fingers together. She followed the banprionnsa out of the throne-room and up the stairs, Margrit suavely describing the history of many of the treasures displayed on the walls.

  Maya murmured politely in response and then nodded at the chamberlain preceding them up the stairs. ‘Tell me, my lady, how is it that ye have one o’ the horned mountains faeries as your servant? Are they no’ a wild, independent people? What is one doing here in the depths o’ the marshes?’

  Margrit frowned in pleasurable remembrance. ‘I saved his life and under the Khan’cohbans’ strict code o’ honour that means he is in debt to me and must serve me as I demand, for as long as I demand. It was quite a few years ago, but I refuse to release him from his geas for indeed he is one o’ the best servants I have ever had, fearless, intelligent and utterly faithful.’

  ‘But how did ye come to save his life?’

  ‘I was travelling to Tìrsoilleir in my swan-carriage when we were caught in a freakish hurricane. The swans could not fly against such a strong wind and so I managed to surround us with the calm eye o’ the storm. Storm-magic is no’ my strength though, so we had to travel with the wind. We were carried high into the mountains and thrown at last onto a high field o’ snow. My swans were exhausted and some were injured and I myself was worn out with controlling such a tremendous, elemental force.

  ‘We rested there until our strength returned, and I became aware of birds o’ prey circling a high plateau o’ rock. With nothing better to do while I waited for my swans to recover, I climbed the ridge and found Khan’tirell there, naked and staked out to die. He had killed someone in a fit o’ jealousy over some lover and they had condemned him to death. That is how they execute their criminals on the Spine o’ the World. Barbaric, is it no’? Somehow he had survived the bitter cold, though I think the wildness o’ the storm must have kept the wolves and snow lions away long enough for me to find him. I knew o’ the fighting skills o’ the mountain faeries because o’ that savage young warrior that was at the Tower o’ Two Moons for a while, do ye remember?’

  Maya nodded and the banprionnsa continued, ‘So I freed him and bound him to me with his ridiculous code o’ honour and he has served me ever since. He has been useful indeed and has told me much about the lost land o’ Tìrlethan that had been forgotten.’

  At last they reached the nursery wing of the palace, and Maya could hear a child’s soft babbling. She tensed in anticipation, wondering how her daughter had changed since she had last seen her. She knew there was no chance Bronwen would recognise her, for the little girl had been only a month old when Maya had fled the Pool of Two Moons, and she was now almost two years old.

  Margrit opened the door and ushered Maya through. Within was a long room furnished with a cot all hung with cream and gold satin, delicate gilded cupboards and chests, and a tall rocking horse with wild eyes and a luxurious mane and tail. Sitting on the floor playing with a china doll was a little girl with dark ringlets hanging to her neck. A white curl at the front was tied back with a pink bow that matched her flounced dress.

  She looked up as the door opened, and her chubby face puckered up at the sight of Margrit’s black dress. She began to wail and Margrit smiled. The little bogfaery sitting nearby leapt up and hurried to soothe the little girl, her wrinkled face anxious. The child was inconsolable, however, and Margrit’s dimples deepened. ‘If ye canna control the lassie, I may have to find another nursemaid,’ she said gently, and the bogfaery whimpered a little, rocking the little girl in her furry arms.

  Maya came forward and bent to take the little girl from the bogfaery’s arms. The nursemaid clutched the baby closer, and Maya smiled and said reassuringly, ‘Come, I mean the lassie no harm. She is my daughter and cruel circumstances have kept us apart for many long months.’

  Reluctantly the bogfaery allowed her to lift the little girl up. Maya cuddled the child close, crooning a lullaby so she quietened. Maya sat down in one of the dainty gilded chairs and held the little girl on her lap so she could examine her. The full bottom lip still trembled but the blue eyes stared back at her with interest. Maya frowned and lifted the curls from the baby’s neck. Her frown deepened, her nostrils flaring in barely controlled rage. ‘What trickery is this!’ she cried. ‘This is no’ my daughter!’

  Margrit’s whole body stiffened. ‘What did ye say?’

  ‘This is no’ my daughter!’ Maya cried in bitter disappointment. ‘Ye think to deceive me? What have ye done with Bronwen?’

  Margrit came swiftly across the room. ‘Ye think to cheat me?’ she hissed. ‘Do no’ forget ye are in the heart o’ the Murkmyre. Many enter the marshes o’ Arran and never leave again. Who will ken if ye are one o’ them?’

  ‘Ye threaten me?’ Maya cried imperiously, rising to her feet and holding the child out at arm’s length. ‘Do ye forget who I am! The winged uile-bheist may have seized the throne for now, but I am still Regent and ruler o’ this land till my daughter comes o’ age.’

  ‘No’ in Arran,’ Margrit smiled. ‘We have never recognised the right o’ the MacCuinn to rule, and certainly do no’ recognise ye or your daughter. We gave sanctuary to your Grand-Seeker only because it served our purposes to have the so-called NicCuinn under our hand. Ye are all here at my forbearance and I shall no’ suffer any double-dealing.’

  ‘If there is any double-dealing here, it is no’ me that is doing it!’ Maya cried. ‘What have ye done with my daughter?’

  Margrit stared at her consideringly. ‘Are ye telling the truth when ye say this is no’ your daughter? I hope so, for your sake, for I will no’ forgive such a falsehood easily.’

  ‘Do ye think I do no’ ken my own daughter?’

  ‘Well, ye have no’ seen her for nigh on two years and children change a great deal in that time. How can ye be sure she is no’ yours? She has the white lock, as she should if she were a true NicCuinn.’

  Maya laughed. ‘Bring me a tub o’ salt water and I shall prove it to ye.’

  Margrit stared at her, speculation in her eyes, then nodded brusquely. She snapped her fingers and the bogfaery went scurrying from the room. ‘Also, tell our other guest to attend us here,’ she called after the little faery. ‘If there is deceit and double-dealing here, I think it must be Renshaw who has dealt it.’

  In the long minutes it took for the bogfaeries to return with a hipbath, a bag of sea salt and jugs of water, neither woman spoke. Maya had dropped the little girl back on to the floor, and she sat clutching her doll and sucking her thumb, the long white curl dangling down the left side of her face. Margrit sat and regarded her rings, smiling equably, and Maya endeavoured to match her poise, even though her pulse was racing.

  Once the bath was set up and filled with warm, salty water, Maya nodded to the bogfaery. Hurriedly the nursemaid undressed the little girl and lowered her into the bath. She laughe
d and kicked her chubby legs, splashing water across the floor.

  ‘Well?’ Margrit said. ‘What does this prove?’

  ‘I have heard ye called the mistress o’ illusions,’ Maya replied. ‘Surely your eyes have pierced my glamourie and seen me for what I am?’

  Margrit frowned in pleasure. ‘True,’ she admitted. ‘Ye never deceived me, though your first spell o’ illusion was powerful indeed. This glamourie ye wear now is naught but a frail disguise, so much so that I wondered why ye bothered to wear it.’

  Trying not to show her chagrin, Maya let the illusion drop away from her. ‘Force o’ habit,’ she replied, shrugging her shoulders. ‘It does no’ suit my purpose to let all know I am descended from the Fairgean king.’

  Margrit tapped her teeth with one long, purple nail. ‘So the rumours are true,’ she said. ‘Ye are a Fairge. I wondered when I saw the webs between your fingers, which ye so feebly tried to hide from my eyes. I could no’ be sure though. They say many o’ those born in Carraig have webbed fingers and toes like a frog, and ye seemed human otherwise.’

  Maya undid the high collar of her dress so that Margrit could see her gills.

  The banprionnsa’s eyes widened slightly, and a small frown flitted across her face. ‘So all your witch-hunts and faery persecutions were on behalf o’ the Fairgean. I often wondered what was behind them, though I assumed ye and I shared a lust for power.’ Her frown of enjoyment deepened. ‘A most subtle and devious plan, though surprised I am indeed to find ye a mere pawn in your father’s schemes.’

  ‘I act on my own behalf,’ Maya said coldly.

  ‘O’ course,’ Margrit replied urbanely. ‘Do we no’ all? But tell me, how is it ye managed to disguise your true self for so long? I never heard that casting an illusion was one o’ the Fairgean’s Talents? And even with my clear-seeing I could no’ be sure. Ye still look very human to me.’

  ‘My mother was human, and I inherited much from her,’ she explained. ‘I look more human than Fairgean, as does my daughter. She is still one quarter Fairgean, though. She was born with fins and gills like any Fairgean babe, and should have transformed into her seashape as soon as she was lowered into the water. I have seen my daughter do it and know she has the gift. This human babe is no daughter o’ mine.’

  Margrit smiled unpleasantly. ‘So I have been tricked and lied to,’ she murmured. ‘No doubt your former Grand-Seeker hoped to win the throne with his fake NicCuinn and rule the land through her. He should no’ have lied to me, though, or hidden his purpose. I dislike cheats.’

  She gestured to the bogfaery, who hastily dried and dressed the little girl and took her away. Maya wondered briefly what would happen to the child. From the deep curve of Margrit’s mouth, she did not think it would be a kind fate.

  The door opened and Renshaw swept in, his face gaunt and pale above the crimson gown. His step faltered when he saw Maya, and his skin turned the unwholesome colour of a dead fish. He had never seen her without the mask of illusion and it was clear her appearance was a shock to him.

  ‘Your Highness! What an unexpected pleasure,’ he said and bowed deeply. When he stood upright again, his eyes were hooded so it was hard to know what he felt, but Maya could see his fingers were rigid.

  ‘The Dowager Banrìgh has come to visit me and has brought some very interesting news,’ Margrit said affably. ‘Very interesting indeed.’

  Renshaw assumed an expression of interest.

  ‘She tells me the young bairn ye brought me is no’ her daughter, as ye claim, but an imposter. Both she and I would be very curious to know who the lassie is and where the real Bronwen NicCuinn is. We both have some interest in the matter, as I am sure you can imagine.’

  Renshaw was silent for a moment. Although his face and hands were still, Maya had the impression he was thinking fast. ‘Ye shock me, Your Highness,’ he said at last. ‘Surely ye can see the young lassie is your daughter. Why, she has the white lock and your blue eyes.’

  ‘Any fool can bleach in a white lock.’ Margrit’s dimples flashed across her cheek.

  ‘True, Your Grace, if they had the knowledge. Dressing hair is hardly my area o’ expertise, though. How can Her Highness be certain? She has no’ seen her daughter for nigh on two years, surely?’

  ‘Do ye think I do no’ know my own daughter?’ Maya replied silkily, lifting one webbed hand to play with the wedge of hair that fell onto her neck. Renshaw stared at her, a faint sheen of sweat springing up on his high brow as he saw the gills that fluttered gently just below her ear.

  ‘But, my lady …’ Renshaw stammered, his fingers working nervously at the buttons of his crimson gown. ‘How can this be? I had no idea …’

  ‘Ye lie,’ Margrit said sweetly. ‘Do ye think ye can deceive the Thistle?’ Her smile was like the grin of a snake, full of malice. The Grand-Seeker fell silent, licking his dry lips, eyes darting from face to face.

  ‘Ye have been false with me, Renshaw, and that is something I do no’ forgive lightly,’ Margrit said affectionately. ‘Ye came to me, seeking sanctuary and offering me a chance to strike a blow at the MacCuinn clan that they would no’ recover from easily. I took ye, fed ye and sheltered ye, and gave ye servants to wait on your every whim. I made plans that gave me much pleasure in the contemplation, and find now all my schemes are hollow. What would ye have done if we did overthrow the young pretender and your imposter had been given the Lodestar to hold? It would have killed her, and ye would have been exposed as the charlatan ye are.’

  ‘I never expected ye to let the child live that long,’ Renshaw admitted. ‘The enmity ye hold towards the MacCuinns is legendary.’

  She laughed. ‘True,’ she admitted. ‘True on all counts.’

  ‘Ye have brought me here on a wild sardine chase,’ Maya hissed. ‘I have been searching for Bronwen for months, and ye laid a false trail that led me here! Where is my daughter?’

  ‘I have no idea, Your Highness,’ Renshaw replied. ‘This was a mere crofter’s daughter who had a close resemblance to your daughter. I knew the country folk would flock to my standard if I said I had the true banrìgh under my hand. With her disappearance, many would have supported the winged monster simply because he was all they had to look to. They might have suspected him o’ murder and regicide, but who was to prove it? With the country plunged into war, they had to look to someone to save them, and the tales they were telling o’ ye, Your Highness, were far worse than what they may have suspected o’ him.’ His pronunciation of her former title was made with such a sarcastic intonation that Maya drew herself upright, her mobile nostrils flaring in anger. Margrit was also angry but for a far different reason.

  ‘Ye brought a peasant’s daughter to my palace and told me she was the NicCuinn?’ she said sweetly. ‘That was a very bad mistake, Renshaw, a very bad mistake indeed.’ Her smile deepened, and she held out her ring-laden hand, pointing two fingers at him.

  The Grand-Seeker’s hands flew to his throat. Gasping for air, he fell to his knees, his distorted face turning a strange purplish colour. Maya looked on, repelled and fascinated, as he fell forward onto the floor, writhing and choking as his own hands throttled the breath from his body. His heels drummed against the floor, and spittle flew from his purple lips. He turned desperate, bulging eyes her way, then fell back limply. Renshaw lay where he had fallen, his engorged tongue protruding from his mouth, his hands still locked around his throat.

  Margrit called to the terrified bogfaery. ‘Call the guards to remove the garbage and throw it to the golden goddess,’ she instructed. Then she turned and smiled at Maya, who found herself quite unable to move or speak. ‘One does not touch the Thistle without pain,’ the Banprionnsa of Arran said sweetly. ‘Ye would be advised to remember it.’

  The cursehag stank so foully that Maya almost gagged. Margrit gave her an apple studded with cloves to hold to her nose, and Maya took it gratefully, drawing herself away. The cursehag chuckled evilly, staring at her through the matted rat’s nest of grey ha
ir that fell over her wrinkled, grimy face. She was a thin, bent creature, dressed in a strange collection of rags so filthy it was impossible to tell their original colour or texture. Her hands, tipped with black, broken nails, scrabbled in the sack she carried over her hunched shoulder as she muttered nonsense to herself.

  Maya glanced at Margrit doubtfully, and the banprionnsa frowned reassuringly. ‘Do no’ worry, my lady, Shannagh o’ the Swamp can cast the most potent o’ curses. She has lived in Arran since I was but a bairn, and did much work on behalf o’ my mother.’

  The cursehag giggled and gave Maya a look of surprising intelligence as she laid various twisted roots and branches on the table. ‘Indeed, the NicFóghnans have always found auld Shannagh o’ use, no’ wanting to dirty their own fine hands with curses and calamities. Shannagh knows what plants to gather to make the vilest poisons and what time o’ the moon it is best to pick them. It was Shannagh that made the dragonbane for ye when ye were Banrìgh. It was Shannagh that concocted that bold brew, and I ken ye found it o’ use.’

  ‘Enough, auld woman!’ Margrit cried.

  Maya could tell she was angry that the cursehag had revealed where the banprionnsa had got the dragonbane Maya had used in her attack on the dragons in the spring of the red comet. Maya had paid dearly for that poison and was interested indeed to know who had had the courage to distil it.

  The three women were locked in a room at the height of Margrit’s own tower. It was Samhain, night of the dead, and outside an eerie wind moaned. On Samhain the veils between the world of the quick and the dead were at their thinnest, and Margrit had chosen this night as the most auspicious for casting a potent curse against Lachlan MacCuinn. The room was all hung with black curtains painted with strange symbols in silver and crimson paint. Tables were crowded with peculiar instruments and there was a strange odour to the room, like old blood. Maya resisted the temptation to huddle her cloak about her, standing tall and proud in one corner of the room.