The Cursed Towers
Page 34
Maya had been loath to reveal the feather and lock of hair to the Thistle and had kept them hidden for some weeks while she tried to decide on her best course of action. The discovery that the little girl was not her daughter had left the Fairge in Margrit of Arran’s hands without a card to play. She had desperately needed the sorceress’s help in locating Bronwen but was aware that Margrit wished her daughter only ill.
For three weeks the women had been charmingly polite to each other, all the while an undercurrent of menace and threat keeping Maya tense and wary. She had told Margrit about her spies in the very heart of Lachlan’s camp and that had intrigued the sorceress sufficiently to prevent her from ordering Maya thrown to the golden goddess. Margrit had quickly seen how such spies could be of use to her and they had hastened to set up lines of communication so that Maya could easily contact her spies.
Next Maya had brought out the thick braid of red hair, using all her wit and wiles to convince Margrit to help her track down Isabeau the Red and the lost banprionnsa. Margrit had clearly seen how much better it was to have Maya’s daughter under her own hand rather than out in the countryside, a wild card that could be used against her at any time. So she had used her own powerful magic to locate Isabeau through her scrying pool. She had seen the young woman in a shining world of snow that could only be found on the Spine of the World. There was no sign of Bronwen but Margrit’s Khan’cohban chamberlain had been able to recognise the shape of the peaks towering behind the red-haired apprentice witch. ‘They are the Cursed Peaks,’ he had said in his harshly accented voice. ‘She is in the Cursed Valley.’
Margrit’s interest had quickened visibly. ‘Indeed?’ she had purred. She turned to Maya with a sweet, dangerous smile, saying, ‘But o’ course I shall help ye find this lass! Why, as soon as the winter storms have subsided I shall give ye my swan-carriage and ye can fly up the mountains as swiftly as the snow geese. And I shall send Khan’tirell to guide ye! He knows those mountains like his own scarred face. Ye would never find the way through without him. He and all my servants shall be at your disposal.’
Wondering what double game Margrit was playing, Maya had thanked her effusively and promised to return to Margrit’s protection with the little banprionnsa, a lie she had no compunction in uttering. Only then, when her path had become clearer, had she brought out the feather and lock of hair. Margrit had been pleased indeed. Her whole body had quivered with eagerness, her face set in a scowl of joy.
‘At last!’ she had cried, reaching out for them. ‘With these we’ll be able to cast a curse o’ such power! The MacCuinns shall truly rue the day they scorned the Thistle.’
Maya had held on tight to them, saying warily, ‘I give these to ye only on the condition that ye do as ye promised and help me find Bronwen. If ye betray me, it is ye who shall rue the day!’
‘O’ course, o’ course,’ Margrit had smiled. ‘It shall be your blood that seals the curse. I shall be merely your humble instrument.’
The cursehag grinned, singing to herself as she sewed a little doll out of cloth. With a stick of charcoal she drew features uncannily like Lachlan’s upon its face, then stuffed it with wilted rue leaves, deadly nightshade berries and water-hemlock. As her gnarled fingers worked quickly and expertly, she explained to Maya what she was doing and the Fairge watched in fascination.
Shannagh sewed the doll closed with black thread, then wrapped it in a scrap of green plaid torn from the kilt of the young rìgh. She sewed to its head the tangle of dark hair Maya’s spy had stolen from his comb.
‘What sort o’ curse do ye wish me to cast?’ she asked. ‘Do ye want him to be hurt or maimed, or merely ruined? Do ye wish him to lose his wits or his strength, or do ye wish to bind his mouth and silence him forever? Do ye want him to die, and if so, straightaway or a slow, lingering death? Do ye wish me to curse his blood, and all that are born o’ it? What is your desire?’
‘I want him to be ruined, as he ruined me,’ Maya replied slowly. ‘I want him to lose all he has gained, and know defeat and weakness and cold, as I have. I want him to be cruelly hurt, to suffer and slowly die in pain and misery, his power returned to me.’
Shannagh nodded her matted grey head. ‘Ye had best pay me well for such a curse, or I shall make sure it is the Clan o’ the Thistle that suffers so,’ she warned. Margrit smiled contemptuously and tossed the old faery a large bag of coins. She counted it obsessively, at last revealing her broken stumps of teeth in a smile and stowing the money away in her sack.
The cursehag then pulled out thick black candles that smelt strongly of belladonna and rue and set them into a squat iron holder. A snap of her fingers and flame burst into life at the ends of the wicks. The smoke smelt strange, and shadows danced over the room with their own fey life.
In her stained cauldron the cursehag mixed together urine from a black cat, a few pinches of dried dragon’s blood, a handful of grave dirt, yew leaves and berries, and a few globules of sap from the elder tree. With her pestle and mortar she ground a mandrake root to dust and added that, then she took Maya’s finger and pierced it with a slender dagger, squeezing until three drops of her blood dropped into the cauldron. The cursehag then stirred the foul concoction with the dagger, muttering under her breath:
‘By the power o’ the dark moons
I make potent this brew,
Fill it wi’ coldness
Fill it wi’ darkness
Fill it wi’ hurt and sharpness.
By the power o’ the dark moons
I make potent this brew,
Fill it wi’ nastiness
Fill it wi’ ugliness
Fill it wi’ shame and sadness.
By the power o’ the dark moons,
I make potent this brew.’
Maya watched, both repelled and fascinated, as Shannagh drew the long, sable feather plucked from Lachlan’s wing through the dark, sticky fluid until it was wet and bedraggled. Then the cursehag passed it to her, telling her to snap it in two and repeat after her:
‘I curse thee, Lachlan MacCuinn,
By the power o’ the dark moons,
And wish ye the harm ye have done me;
I curse thee, Lachlan MacCuinn,
By the power o’ the dark moons,
And wish ye the harm ye have done me;
I curse thee, Lachlan MacCuinn,
By the power o’ the dark moons,
And wish ye the harm ye have done me;
By the power o’ the dark moons,
I curse thee, I curse thee, I curse thee.’
Maya did as the cursehag said, bringing all her anger and hatred to the fore as she did so. The feather snapped with a sound like cracking bone, and she passed it back to the old hag with a peculiar sensation in her stomach. Shannagh had been soaking a length of black ribbon in the cauldron. She bound the broken feather to the poppet’s body with it, winding the ribbon round nine times as she repeated the final line of the rhyme. Obediently Maya chanted it with her. ‘I curse thee, I curse thee, I curse thee.’
Shannagh then wrapped the poppet in black cloth, tying it securely into a knot. From Maya’s finger she squeezed another three drops of blood onto the knot, and the Fairge said, her voice quavering despite herself, ‘Bound to me are ye by blood, none may free ye from this spell but me.’ Then she snuffed out the candles so the room sank into darkness.
‘That will make sure none but ye can break the curse, no matter how powerful they be,’ the cursehag whispered. ‘Ye must keep the poppet wi’ ye, for ye are bound tightly to the MacCuinn now, your fates entwined. Be careful though. Curies are like chickens—they come home to roost. Ye must guard yourself carefully against negative forces. Know also that the MacCuinn may be able to resist the curse if he is strong enough, and if he keeps his spirits positive. Though by all accounts he is a man o’ dark moods and quick temper—that will make it easier.’
Maya nodded, stowing away the poppet in its black bag. She was conscious of a shadow on her spirits, an
d a strange smell to the air. The cursehag removed the black candles, lighting an incense brazier and waving it in all four corners of the room, and kindling fresh white candles that smelt sweetly of angelica. She washed out her cauldron and dagger and carefully packed away the jars of dragon’s blood, mandrake root, cat’s urine and grave-dirt. Once the room was purified, Maya was able to breathe more easily, though she still felt oddly afraid. The poppet seemed like a tangible presence, hot and breathing in her pocket as if it were alive.
‘Well, ’tis done,’ Margrit said with satisfaction. ‘I look forward to the day when I see the MacCuinn clan broken forever. A thousand years they have sought to rule over Arran and make us subject to their will. It was Fóghnan who was the daughter o’ kings in the Other World, no’ Cuinn. He was naught but an enterprising alchemist who taught Fóghnan and her sisters in the palace and was paid a tutor’s pittance by her father. Yet it was Cuinn that called himself the master o’ the First Coven, and Owein MacCuinn that sought to lead once his father lay dead, broken by the magic they had wrought to cross the universe. A mere lad, and no more royally born than any o’ the Thistle’s servants, yet he tried to subject her to his will. Well, many a MacCuinn has rued the day they sought to order the Thistle, and now they shall truly suffer.’
Clouds hung heavy over the valley, shrouding the hills and the sky and casting a grey gloom over the river. Muddy snow lay under the trees and thin rushes grew from beds of ice. Through this bleak landscape moved a company of cavalry in tight formation. Behind them trudged the infantry, their grey cloaks wrapped tightly about them against the cold, while the baggage carts and supply herds were kept under close guard at the rear. Last of all came the great destriers, for each of the cavaliers needed at least three horses, all specially trained to fight at their master’s command. Far overhead a great falcon soared, its white wings almost invisible against the snow-laden clouds.
Lachlan reined in his horse. ‘Stormwing says the Bright Soldiers are camped just over the hill, near the banks o’ the river. Are we to feint with them again, or shall we slip past?’
Iseult smiled coldly. ‘Is the plan no’ to keep them guessing? Let us send the horses in to cause chaos and confusion while our men cross the river again. Then the cavalry can retreat back into the countryside and rejoin us further down the river.’
Lachlan grinned. ‘Why do we no’ call the birds to our aid once more, leannan? They sent the Bright Soldiers scurrying in terror last night, and soon we shall have them ducking whenever a bird flies overhead, ally or no’.’
Iseult nodded, then wheeled her horse around to trot back to the head of the infantry. As she issued crisp orders, Lachlan lifted his wrist for the gyrfalcon. Stormwing dropped from the leaden sky like a bolt of white lightning and perched on the young rìgh’s wrist, turning its fierce eyes to meet Lachlan’s gaze.
The Rìgh had spent all his few moments of leisure over the autumn taming and training the young gyrfalcon and had found the bird’s keen eyesight and swift wings invaluable.
The long-winged bird had been a gift from Anghus MacRurach, sent in his stead to the last Lammas Conference. It was a kingly gift indeed and had to some extent alleviated Lachlan’s disappointment that the Prionnsa of Rurach was still unable to join the army.
While Lachlan had tamed his gyrfalcon, the Greycloaks had spent the autumn months consolidating their position in Blèssem, rebuilding Dùn Eidean and planting the fields about with wheat, oats, barley and rye so that they would have crops to harvest in the spring. With the Fairgean swimming down the coast with the autumn tides, both the Greycloaks and the Bright Soldiers had been careful to stay away from the firths and rivers. Lachlan and Iseult had been free to concentrate their forces on keeping the Tìrsoilleirean back and rebuilding their strength after the hard fighting of the summer.
Traditionally winter was a time for rest, and the Bright Soldiers had certainly not expected Lachlan to launch another initiative against them. It was now more than two years since the Lammas invasion, however, and Lachlan knew that Rhyssmadill had only been provisioned for two years. The besieged palace garrison would be close to starvation, and Lachlan was eager to have the wealth of its treasury in his hands. He knew the palace would fall if it was not assisted soon, for the garrison had no loyalty to his rule, having been appointed by his brother Jaspar. If it was a choice between starvation and being prisoners-of-war, he had no doubt what choice the defendants would make.
So the Greycloaks had only waited for the Fairgean to swim north again before striking west. They had continued their highly mobile tactics, riding circles around the enemy, engaging in feigned retreats and luring the Bright Soldiers into traps and ambushes. As the Tìrsoilleirean were driven back towards the Rhyllster, the fighting grew fiercer for the river was still the lifeblood of the land. Barges loaded with produce were poled down from the highlands to feed Lachlan’s army, and fresh troops trained in the safety of Lucescere crossed the river to march down into Blèssem. The Bright Soldiers had been smarting over the loss of Dunwallen for almost two years. They were determined not to lose their grip on the river south of Lochbane, the eighth loch in the chain of lochan called the Jewels of Rionnagan.
Lachlan’s army had confounded the Bright Soldiers only that week by crossing the river just south of Dunwallen and striking at their troops on the western bank of the river. Since the Rhyllster flowed swiftly even in the dead of winter and there were no bridges until well past Lochbane, the Tìrsoilleirean army had certainly not been prepared for an attack from that direction. By the time they had gathered their wits and their weapons, the Greycloaks had disappeared again, retreating back across the river.
The berhtilde in charge of the beleaguered battalion had pursued them to the very banks of the river, but had had to rein her horse in sharply to avoid being pitched into the icy waters. Clearly she could see the hoofprints of a large company of riders disappearing into the river then emerging again on the far side, yet she knew that to enter the roiling water was to risk death. Nonetheless she ordered some of her men to spur their horses on, and watched them being dragged under and drowned.
Iseult smiled thinly as she remembered, dismounting so she could stand on the bank of the river. Closing her eyes and holding out her hands, she concentrated on the void, as Meghan had taught her. This was the second half of the challenge of the flame and the void, the skill of lighting a flame and winking it out with merely the power of the mind. When Iseult had first been asked to try it, she had not known how to snuff out the flame, for on the Spine of the World the fire was never allowed to go out. At last she had brought a cold so intense the sacred fire had turned to ashes and the water in the scrying bowl had frozen over. It had occurred to Iseult that the ability to conjure ice would be useful in this winter campaign, so she had practised the skill until she had perfect control over the element.
Slowly the ice at the edge of the river thickened and spread. She clenched her fists and brought all the strength of her will to bear on the rapidly moving river. The ice spread further, rose in delicate arches, spun itself into a fragile and gleaming bridge. Iseult slumped back, exhausted, managing to lift one hand to wave the soldiers on. The infantrymen, who had been watching with awe, marched quickly across, all holding their breath in case the ice should crack and throw them into the treacherous water. The baggage carts trundled after, the drivers whipping the carthorses on in fear, and then the herds of goats and sheep were urged across, the herdsmen saluting Iseult as they passed.
The Banrìgh struggled to her feet, clinging to her horse’s bridle, her legs shaking. She wondered briefly how Meghan managed to work such acts of magic every day without killing herself from exhaustion, then she mounted again with the help of one of the Blue Guards.
The cavaliers came over the hill in a galloping charge, whooping and shouting, clanging their lances against their shields. Activity broke out in the Bright Soldiers’ camp as they scrambled to defend themselves. The horsemen rode through, knocking
down tents, scattering campfires, striking left and right. As they wheeled to charge once more, a flock of birds suddenly descended from the sky, screeching and tearing with their claws and beaks. There were birds of all shapes, sizes and colours, from sharp-beaked hawks and ravens to curlews and swallows. There was even a great golden eagle who had heard Lachlan’s call and flown down from his lonely eyrie in the Whitelock Mountains.
The Bright Soldiers cursed and ducked, dropping their swords to lift their cross-emblazoned shields above their heads. Again the Blue Guards charged through, one of the enemy toppling at every stroke. The berhtilde screamed orders, and Lachlan raised his bow and shot an arrow straight through where her left breast had once been. She fell, and the Bright Soldiers cried aloud in consternation. They fought back desperately, and Finlay Fear-Naught’s horse was dragged down. Duncan Ironfist wheeled round his great destrier and pulled the young laird to safety. Lachlan called the retreat and they galloped away, catching up burning brands from the fires and throwing them into the tangle of canvas and ropes that had been the Bright Soldiers’ pavilions. Iseult summoned the last of her strength and sent fireballs shooting into those tents missed by the cavaliers, so that flame blossomed all around them.
The majority of the horsemen retreated back into the countryside, while Lachlan, Iseult and the Yeomen of the Guard galloped back to the river. Despite the chaos of the camp, thirty or more of the Bright Soldiers pursued the Blue Guards and tried to follow them across the bridge of ice. Iseult, safe on the other side, raised her hand and thought of the warmth of summer, the warmth of a roaring fire. Water began to drip from the arches. Before the Bright Soldiers were more than halfway over, the bridge of ice sagged and collapsed into the raging torrent beneath. Iseult saw only a few despairing faces swirling past, the weight of their armour sucking them down, their horses struggling to keep their heads above the choppy surface. A few horses made it to shore and were lashed in with the other mounts at the end of the train. Most drowned with their riders.