by Kate Forsyth
‘He be strong,’ the little boy said, slumped over, his shoulders still heaving. ‘He will recover, though I had to take much o’ his vitality for the healing.’
‘And too much o’ your own,’ Johanna scolded. ‘Ye will kill yourself in trying to save others. Ye must have a care for yourself.’
Tòmas stared round at all the torn and bloodied bodies and said with a break in his voice, ‘I can feel their pain, I can feel it!’
Suddenly a flock of nisses swooped down, buzzing around the healers’ heads like hornets, scolding them in their high-pitched voices. Most had never seen a nisse before and they stared at the rainbow-winged little faeries in wonder, half afraid. Then Lilanthe emerged from the trees, her green dress torn and blood-stained, her narrow face smeared with dirt. The healers stared at her, drawing back a little, but Johanna knew her and started forward with a cry.
‘What has happened?’ she begged. ‘Was the Rìgh ambushed? How did they ken where the Greycloaks rode?’
Lilanthe said sombrely, ‘The Rìgh was betrayed. Come, Tòmas, the Keybearer will be glad indeed to see ye, I know. The Rìgh is sorely hurt. He needs your powers desperately.’
Johanna exclaimed in consternation and seized the little boy by the hand as he struggled to touch another of the thousands of bodies littered through the trees. ‘Come, laddiekin, ye canna touch them all. We shall do what we can for them and once we ken who are quick and who are dead, we shall bring ye back, I promise.’
Tòmas was too weak to walk and so Dillon carried him on his back, leaving Parlan and Anntoin to watch over Duncan. They followed Lilanthe up the road, unable to control their cries of shock and dismay as they saw the extent of the carnage. They found Meghan stooping over the still form of Lachlan. Her face was ravaged, her eyes red-rimmed. The donbeag was huddled into her neck, crooning miserably, but for once the old witch paid him no heed. She was trying to staunch the wound in the Rìgh’s breast, but there was little she could do. She saw Tòmas and her black eyes lit up with hope.
‘Thank Eà!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Tòmas, my lad, can ye save him? His back and wing is broken, and his head. He is close to death indeed.’
Dillon set the little boy down. Tòmas could not stand unaided, his sticklike legs folding beneath him. He drew a trembling breath and looked up at Meghan. ‘I do no’ ken,’ he said, ‘but I will try.’
He leant over and placed his hands on the Rìgh’s forehead. For a long moment nothing happened and then the lips of the bloody wound at Lachlan’s breast began to knit together. The little boy frowned and made a grunting noise, and his hands began to shake. The broken arc of the wing slowly wove back together; the bruising on Lachlan’s temple sank and faded, the jagged cut in its heart slowly congealing. Tòmas breathed harshly, swaying. Suddenly he went limp and fell sideways.
‘Is he dead?’ Dillon cried as Johanna screamed and scrambled to the little boy’s side. Jed whined and nudged him anxiously.
‘Nay,’ she said, tears pouring down her cheeks. ‘No’ quite. He breathes—just.’
Meghan dropped her face into her hands. ‘No, no,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘It is too much! Both Iseult and Lachlan—and now Tòmas.’
Johanna cradled the little boy in her arms. ‘Is Iseult hurt too?’ she said in dismay.
Meghan raised her harrowed face. ‘She was with babe. She was sorely wounded and when we found Lachlan like this, it was all too much. She lost the babes.’
Johanna laid Tòmas’s head in Dillon’s lap and rose to her feet, her face grim. ‘Where is she? I will go to her.’
Meghan pointed to one side. Through the uncertain light of the dusk, they saw Iseult lying wrapped in cloaks under the trees, Iain kneeling beside her. Johanna hurried to her, a ghostly white figure in the twilight.
Gwilym bent and seized a branch from the ground, lighting it with a thought and setting it in the ground so Johanna could see her patient. ‘Night comes,’ he said, his voice hollow.
The Banrìgh lay still, her knees to her chest, dry-eyed and grieving. Nothing Johanna said would make her look up or respond, and so at last the healer made her drink some poppy syrup and Iseult fell asleep, hunched over still.
Lilanthe had gone beyond exhaustion to a strange, floating state. She stood, hands hanging limply, tears hot in her chest. Vainly she tried to rouse herself to go on helping the injured, but it seemed she could bear no more of the smell and sight of death.
The nisses flew all around her head, trilling loudly. Elala caught hold of one of her flowering tresses and swung, both diamond-bright wings fluttering madly. Lilanthe wiped her eyes and tried to swallow her grief. She cupped the little faery in her hand and looked into her green-flame eyes. What is it? she asked.
Time for the eating devouring of the bloom blossom? Time for the healing unharming?
Lilanthe stared at the nisse in complete stupefaction, her tired mind refusing to work. Then suddenly her hand flew to the pouch at her belt where she had hidden the flower of the Summer Tree. In the confusion of the battle she had never given it a thought.
‘Ye want me to eat the flower?’ she whispered.
The nisse hissed and bared her sharp fangs. Bloom blossom belongs to the Stargazers. It is their lifeblood bloodlife that is spilled to bless the tree, it is the child’s loved beloved who dies.
Lilanthe stared at the tiny faery. It took a while for her to understand, then her breath caught. I see, she said and went over to where Tòmas lay. She knelt by his side and withdrew the great flower from her pouch.
Although they were brown and crumpled, a fragrant odour still clung to the petals. Lilanthe held it under Tòmas’s nose and the rich, spicy perfume roused him, faint colour coming again to his cheeks. He opened his eyes and gazed blankly at Lilanthe.
‘Ye must eat this,’ the tree-shifter said.
Tòmas looked at it, puzzled, then obediently he took it from her hand and began to eat the wilted petals. He asked no questions nor showed any revulsion. For a moment he lay still, then hectic colour washed over him and he began to shudder, clasping his thin arms about his body. He cried out as if in pain and his pupils dilated until his eyes were black, not blue. He cast one wild glance at Lilanthe then he rolled over, kicking his legs, shaking his head uncontrollably, all his limbs twitching.
‘Wha’ is wrong? Wha’ have ye done?’ Johanna cried and sprang to hold him, her eyes accusing.
Lilanthe could not reply, watching Tòmas’s convulsions with horrified eyes. She heard Meghan come hurrying, barking out orders and questions, then watched as they held Tòmas down, putting a stick between his teeth to prevent him biting off his tongue.
Meghan turned to Lilanthe and said harshly, ‘What did ye give him? I saw ye feed him something.’
‘It was a flower o’ the Summer Tree. Cloudshadow gave it to me.’
‘Did she tell ye to feed it to Tòmas?’ Meghan snapped.
‘No, it was the nisses,’ Lilanthe replied, terrified.
They turned and stared at the little faeries, hovering nearby. In the flickering light of the newly lit torches, their triangular faces looked oddly malevolent. Johanna made the sign of Eà’s blessing, beginning to weep.
‘He is o’ Stargazer blood,’ Lilanthe cried. ‘Can ye no’ feel it?’
Meghan turned sharply and stared at Tòmas. He lay still, panting harshly. The old witch nodded. ‘Happen ye are right,’ she answered.
After a long time of stillness and silence, the little boy sat up, his cheeks still crimson, his eyes unnaturally bright. ‘Bring me the wounded,’ he said in a mere croak of a voice. No-one moved and he cried, ‘Bring me the wounded!’
The first person he touched was Lachlan but although all the Rìgh’s wounds healed over till there was not even a scar to mar his smooth, olive skin, he did not wake. ‘There is something more than mere physical hurt,’ Tòmas frowned, running his hands all over Lachlan’s face and body. ‘He is bound down by black threads o’ hatred that I canna cut through. He struggles to be fre
e but he canna escape. He has been cursed, I think.’
‘Cursed?’ Dide cried.
‘Cursed and betrayed,’ Meghan whispered. ‘If I find out who has done such a thing, I shall cast a curse the like o’ which has never been seen in this land!’
‘How can we break the curse?’ Lilanthe cried, and Meghan shook her straggly white head.
‘We canna,’ she replied. ‘If it is a curse o’ any potency, only they who cast the curse can break it.’
‘Then we must find out who it was that cast it,’ Dide cried, seizing Lachlan’s hand in his and kissing it. ‘Och, master, who would do such a thing?’
‘I wager if we ride on Arran we’ll find our answer,’ Meghan replied, looking off into the darkness, her face set like stone.
They spent the night working to save the few who still lived and dragging the dead into grim piles between the trees. The tree-changers and other faeries helped, the horse-eel dragging litters through the undergrowth, the corrigans carrying the wounded on their broad backs. Tòmas walked among the injured, bringing miraculous strength and wellness back into their damaged bodies. Those he touched were able to stand and help carry others, and by the time dawn came, all who still lived were as if they had never been harmed.
In the morning light they made the terrible tally. Of the two thousand men who had followed Lachlan through the forest, only a scant few hundred still lived. Barnard the Eagle, Murdoch of the Axe and Bald Deaglan were among the dead, and Finlay Fear-Naught was missing, bringing Lachlan’s staff of officers down to a mere four. They all feared Finlay had been taken prisoner, having been betrayed into some foolhardy action by his impetuosity.
Matthew the Lean too had disappeared, one of the wounded reporting he had seen the witch being dragged away after he had been struck down from behind.
‘Please, Eà, let them no’ be taken to the fire,’ Meghan prayed, rocking back and forth in despair. Some time during the night her hair had turned as white as snow and it hung down around her body in leaf-matted knots and straggles. ‘Please, let us reach them in time!’
Their only hope was that the other divisions of the Rìgh’s army had won through to Ardencaple and had prevented the Bright Soldiers from taking their captives back into the shelter of the town’s walls. Duncan Ironfist organised the remaining men into columns and made sure all were armed and provisioned. Then they lost no time in marching on through the woods, Lachlan and Iseult huddled together on a litter drawn by the horse-eel, swollen to his largest size. The great, white falcon perched near the Rìgh’s head, occasionally nudging him with his curved beak.
It was a glorious day, all green and gold and fresh and singing. Lilanthe found herself so oppressed by the beauty of the forest that she could hardly see for her tears. Why should the sun shine or the birds carol when there was so much evil in the world?
They had reached the forest’s outskirts when Meghan suddenly screamed. She flung up her hands and fell to her knees, the terrible, echoing cries going on and on. ‘Jorge!’ she shouted. ‘Oh, no, Jorge! Matthew!’
Tòmas too was shrieking and writhing, beating at himself as if to stamp out invisible flames. For a moment all was confusion, Johanna flinging herself on Tòmas and trying to hold his hands still, Lilanthe trying desperately to comfort the old sorceress, although she herself was almost overwhelmed by the emotions that assaulted her.
Meghan would not be comforted. On and on she screamed, tears pouring down the furrows of her wrinkled face. Lilanthe dashed the tears from her own cheeks and went to the litter where Iseult still lay, her arm across her husband’s back and under his wing. Her eyes were open but without any sign that she saw or heard a thing.
‘Your Highness,’ Lilanthe called, shaking her arm a little. ‘Please, the Keybearer needs ye. Please.’ She shook her a little harder and Iseult turned and looked at her with a hard, flat, angry stare. ‘Meghan needs you,’ the tree-shifter said.
Only then did Iseult seem to hear Meghan’s cries. ‘What?’ she whispered, then an odd expression flashed briefly across her face. ‘I see. The auld blind man dies.’
She rose a little gingerly, seemingly surprised to find that her body moved without pain, and crossed the clearing to where Meghan crouched, rocking and wailing. Iseult knelt by her side and, for the first time since meeting the old witch three years earlier, freely and willingly touched her in affection. She put her arms around Meghan’s shaking form and pulled her wild, white head into her shoulder, crooning to her as if she were a child. ‘There, there, Meghan, dearling, do no’ greet, do no’ greet.’
Meghan rocked back and forth, keening. ‘Why, Eà, why?’ she pleaded. ‘Why such a death? He was a good man, a dear, sweet, kind, loving man. Why should he die such a horrible death? And Matthew too, who never harmed a flea?’
She raised herself upon her staff and lifted her contorted face to the summer sky. ‘Ye who have betrayed us so, I lay this curse upon ye! Let the good earth refuse ye her fruits and the river his cool waters, let the winds deny ye their breath and flame deny ye warmth and comfort, let the moons turn their dark faces upon ye. May ye wander outcast and impoverished, and haunt the doors o’ others, and beg for food with trembling mouth, and be turned away with kicks and curses. May neither your body nor your mind be free from querulous pain; may night be to ye more grievous than day, and day sore grievous indeed. May ye be forever piteous but have none pity ye; may ye long for death but have death elude ye! By the power o’ the dark moons, I curse thee, I curse thee, I curse thee!’
All were greatly affected by the old sorceress’s sorrow. Many found themselves so choked with sobs they could hardly breathe. Parlan, Anntoin, Johanna and Dillon were wracked with grief, tears flowing down their faces.
‘He saw what was to come,’ Dillon choked, ‘yet still he smiled at us as we left him. How could we? How could we?’
At last Meghan composed herself, her hand creeping up to cup the little donbeag who cuddled under her chin. ‘What is done is done,’ she said harshly. ‘Let us ride on and teach those Bright Soldiers a lesson they shall never forget!’
So they marched on into the fields, not caring that their boots were trampling fresh, green crops into the ground. Behind them surged the faeries, so that it seemed as if the forest itself marched at their command.
Ahead, Ardencaple rose from the plain. Built on a small hill circled on three sides by the river Arden, it was a pretty town with pointed roofs and round turrets set at regular intervals about the outer wall. The white pennants of the Tìrsoilleirean army fluttered from the towers and the Greycloaks set their jaws and gripped their hands into fists at the sight.
A column of dark smoke rose from the centre of the town straight into the still air, and as they marched, the Rìgh’s army fixed their eyes upon it in a sort of horrified fascination. All were unable to think of anything but the old man who had died in that fire, and all hoped that the few people unaccounted for among the dead had not been lashed in with him.
As they came nearer to Ardencaple they saw with dismay that the rest of their army had been lured into a trap too and was slowly being obliterated. The Bright Soldiers had lined up their cannons along the outer wall and, with the day so still and warm, were having no trouble in lighting their fuses. Again and again the attacking Greycloaks were bombarded with cannonballs, men and horses falling screaming at every shot. It was clear the Tìrsoilleirean had been fully prepared for their attack and had lured the Duke of Killiegarrie within firing range by leaving their gates open and their men hidden. Although the Duke was trying to call the retreat, the bridge behind them had been blown up and the Greycloaks were trapped between the town and the river.
Meghan and her party came to a halt at the crest of a slight hill which gave a view across the battlefield. Beside them the Arden River flowed through willows and alder trees, shading them from the hot sun.
Iseult bit her lip thoughtfully, examining the lie of the land and the extent of the Tìrsoilleirean defences. Although sh
e felt as if her body was a cup overbrimming with rage and pain, she had herself under tight control. She fixed Iain and Gwilym with her grave stare and said shortly, ‘Any chance o’ calling up rain to dampen those fuses? We canna hope to win the day if we do no’ disable those blaygird cannons o’ theirs!’
They glanced at each other and then at Meghan. ‘If we all work together, happen we could,’ Gwilym said hesitantly. ‘This still, warm air will work against us though.’
‘We are c-c-close to Arran,’ Iain said. ‘I f-f-feel my m-m-m-mother’s hand behind this hot weather. We are n-n-near the coast and should be f-f-feeling a sea wind.’
‘Very well. Call the other witches. Do we have enough to make a circle o’ power with Jorge and Matthew gone?’
Again Gwilym glanced at Meghan. The old sorceress was staring up at the sky, her face crumpled and worn with grief. With her white hair and haggard face, she looked every one of her four hundred and thirty years.
‘I do no’ ken if Meghan is up to much works o’ power,’ Gwilym said in a low voice.
Even though she was some distance away, Meghan turned at that and limped towards them, saying harshly, ‘Worry about your own powers, Ugly! I have more power in my little finger than ye have in your whole body, never forget that!’
He gave a wry grin, saying, ‘How could I possibly?’
‘I shall stay with ye and lend ye my powers, then ride to join the men when we are done,’ Iseult said. ‘Indeed, my will and my desire are strong today. I long to strike at those foul, loathsome, slimy maggots that call themselves men. Bright Soldiers! Better that they should be called filthy, black-hearted, mud-dwelling, blood-sucking scum!’
She paused, getting control of her temper again while the others stared at her in some amazement, never having heard Iseult raise her voice or utter anything but the most well-considered words. They saw the muscles in her jaw clench, then she said calmly, ‘Wait while I talk with Duncan and work out the best approach, then I shall be with ye.’