by Kate Forsyth
‘So do ye think she had them murdered? That’s awful!’ Isabeau exclaimed.
‘Who kens? Maya herself ordered the search, for the Rìgh was beside himself with grief, we heard. But nowhere was there sound nor sight o’ the lads. Feeling rose up against Maya then, for there were rumours she’d something to do with their going. They called her a witch herself, and this was, ye ken, only five years after the Day o’ Betrayal when an accused witch still faced death by burning. Maya faced them down, though, cutting off all o’ her hair as proof she was no’ a witch, for even then few witches would let their hair be cut … In the end, she won them all over, as she always did. I fain think she used compulsion on them, though I’ve never heard o’ compulsion being used on more than one or two people at a time, and this was literally thousands!
‘She seems to be a powerful sorceress, Isabeau, and we can only guess at her motives but I personally have seen her order the deaths o’ two hundred witches and apprentices. Once the Coven o’ Witches was a power in this land, its Towers the centre o’ all learning and study, its witches among the finest healers and thinkers. Once witches were respected and feared, now they are hated and reviled. All o’ Eileanan carries Maya’s yoke across its shoulders—she is no’ to be underestimated!’
Meghan’s voice rang out into the shadows of the fire-lit cavern and Gitâ gave a little chirrup of distress and laid his paw on her ear. Isabeau stared at her guardian in surprise. For a moment the wood-witch, as thin and gnarled and brittle as a willow twig, had looked as proud and fierce as any of the drawings of old banrìghrean in books. There was a drawn-out moment of silence, fraught with an intensity of emotion that Isabeau did not understand, then the burning light in the sunken black eyes faded and Meghan sat back and took up her knitting once more and was again the frail, hunched-over old woman that Isabeau had known all her life.
Seychella had been cutting herself a piece of cheese and bread, and spreading it with a generous serve of fig jam. She looked up now, swallowing her mouthful and dusting away the crumbs in her lap.
‘Have ye heard the other big news? Apparently the Redcloaks have been sent into the mountains to hunt out uile-bheistean again. They say the Faery Decree is no’ working fast enough, and that the peasants are just being stubborn.’ The scorn in Seychella’s voice was very clear. ‘I heard in the highland villages that a force was being sent against the dragons, to wipe them out for good.’
‘Maya’s sent a force against the dragons?’ Meghan said incredulously, her brow furrowed deeply. ‘She must be very confident … the dragons do no’ take trespassing lightly, and will no’ hesitate to defend their land … She must have dragonbane,’ Meghan mused, more to herself than to the others. ‘There’s nothing else that’ll fell a dragon, though I wonder where she found it. A very rare plant, and dangerous to distill …’
‘The villagers are all nervous. They say the dragons will come and burn their houses in revenge.’
‘If Maya breaks Aedan’s Pact, that’s exactly what they’ll do.’
‘Well, I heard it was because the dragons had broken the Pact that she sent the Guards against them in the first place.’
‘I do no’ believe that for a moment. Where did ye hear that?’
‘In the Whitelock Mountains, on my way through. The dragons have been raiding the herds; I heard men were taken as well. They certainly killed soldiers, for I saw the bodies on my way, and it could be nothing but dragons with those wounds.’
There was an expression of intense interest on Meghan’s face. ‘Indeed? So the dragons are violating the Pact. That is interesting. I wonder we have no’ seen them.’
‘I thought I saw a dragon the other day,’ Isabeau said, excitement filling her. ‘It was just a shadow passing across the moons. I thought I was imagining.’
‘I have no’ heard o’ dragons raiding herds since Aedan’s Pact, four hundred and more years ago.’ Meghan looked as if she was making swift calculations, and a small smile had sprung up on her face. ‘Maya will find she has bitten off more than she can chew if she challenges the dragons on their own ground. Fancy sending a group o’ Red Guards against Dragonclaw!’
‘There has been talk o’ creatures o’ all kinds. One thing is interesting—they’ve been killing wolves, particularly in Rurach. I heard that from a pedlar in Whitelock too. Apparently the wolves have been attacking regiments o’ the Red Guards, and they’ve suffered heavy losses; also, I heard, the wolves have been raiding the herds o’ the Banrìgh’s supporters, which is interesting.’
‘They’re killing wolves?’ Meghan said slowly. ‘But … surely no’. She canna believe …’
‘I saw the wolves myself. It was when I was on my way, in one o’ those villages near the source o’ the Wulfrum. They had six o’ them, strung up on poles. They were crowing like a bunch o’ farmyard roosters: “Aye, will my lady no’ be happy with us! Aye, will we no’ be heroes when we get back!” It made me sick to my stomach.’
‘But if someone has been rousing the wolves … it could only be Tabithas! I thought she was dead. I have had no word o’ her since she disappeared after the Burning.’
‘No-one has,’ Seychella said softly.
The mention of Tabithas the Wolf-Runner made Isabeau sit upright. Tabithas NicRuraich had been Keybearer of the Coven at the time of the Day of Betrayal. Like many of her clan, she had had a wolf as her familiar, a great grey beast that, like his mistress, had been more comfortable in the forests and mountains of Rurach than in the gardens and courtyards of the Tower of Two Moons. Meghan often smiled when telling how the sight of Tabithas’ wolf lounging near her foot had caused many a recalcitrant prionnsa to blanch and tremble, when moments before they had been proud and cold as a glacier.
‘That’s no’ all o’ it. The villagers be talking about some strange new horror that seems to work in Maya’s favour. It can hardly be seen but it’s grey and has wings and its gaze casts a spell on people so they canna shout or run. It steals bairns from their beds, particularly those with Talented bloodlines, and in Blèssem they say anyone who mutters against the Banrìgh is found dead, a smile o’ ecstasy on their face.’
‘A Mesmerd? Surely no’ …’
‘What is a Mesmerd?’ Seychella spat the syllable out like bitter fruit.
‘The Mesmerdean are creatures o’ mists and mud. They come from the Murkmyre, and are perhaps the most dangerous o’ all the faery, for they do not think or feel as we do. What one sees, all see, and what one hears, all hear, and ye canna lie to them for they do no’ listen to your words but only to the intent behind. They never forget, never, and are utterly ruthless. I have never heard o’ a Mesmerd out o’ Arran before—I wonder if the NicFóghnan is meddling in our affairs again? That clan has always been an enemy o’ the MacCuinns …’
‘They sound most blaygird, though no-one I spoke to had actually seen one, only … found the bodies they left behind.’
‘I wonder …’ Meghan looked as though she was about to say more, but then her eye fell upon Isabeau, noting her shining eyes and eager face, and she stopped herself, picking up her knitting instead.
‘What kind o’ witch are ye?’ Isabeau asked Seychella, gazing intently at the woman whose untidy hair snaked around the seat of her chair and fell to the floor.
‘What makes ye think I am a witch?’ Seychella asked in a voice of deadly calm. Isabeau said nothing. After a moment Seychella laughed. ‘I appear out o’ nowhere, I speak o’ power and Talent; I ken Tabithas. Silly question.’ After another pause, she said quietly, ‘I am a wind witch, Isabeau.’
‘Can ye teach me to fly?’ Isabeau asked eagerly. That had always been her secret desire. Once she had broken her ankle, trying to take flight from the bough of a tree after reading of the antics of Ishbel the Winged, a witch who flew as effortlessly as any bird. Meghan set her ankle and bound it with herbs and mud, and fed her bone-strengthening teas, scolding and mocking all the while. Isabeau had only tossed her red head and ignored her, sure she would
one day crack the secrets of flight, as Ishbel the Winged had done.
The two witches looked at each other, and Seychella curled her lip. ‘The bairn wants to fly! Only the most powerful learn to fly, my dear, I doubt ye have the capacity.’
Isabeau flushed again, and blurted out, ‘Well, do ye? Can ye fly?’ With her red hair falling out of its braids into twists and tangles around her face and her red cheeks, Isabeau looked as though sparks would literally burst from her head.
Meghan had to laugh, murmuring, ‘Ye see why I think she will take to fire!’
The other witch looked quite taken aback, then angry at Isabeau’s question. Then she gave a harsh laugh. ‘No, lassie, I canna. At least, no’ the way ye mean it. I can jump a twelve-foot fence and I’ll never fall out o’ a tree, but I canna fly.’
‘I’ve read about a witch who could fly from one end o’ the country to another in a week, and who could do somersaults and backflips in the air.’
‘Ishbel! Well, a Talent like Ishbel’s does no’ come along too often.’ Seychella sighed. ‘I fear we’ll no’ see a Talent like it again in our lifetime. Damn and blast the Banrìgh! So many witches killed, so much ability lost.’
‘I’ve also read about witches who folded the fabric o’ the universe and sailed across space. Is that true?’
‘Where did ye read that! It’s forbidden, ye ken, to talk about the Great Crossing. Ye’d be put to the Question if ye were heard! What sort o’ book did ye read that in, lassie?’
Meghan cleared her throat. ‘I’ve always had a passion for books.’
‘But that’s a story she could only be reading about in The Book o’ Shadows, which was destroyed by the Banrìgh on the Day o’ Betrayal!’ Seychella was sitting bolt upright, her cheeks crimson. ‘She would be burnt by the Awl if they heard her saying such things—they deny all stories o’ the Great Crossing now, ye must ken that?’
‘I wrote down what I could remember, from all the books. So many books were burnt, so much knowledge lost. I was afraid it would never be found again if someone did no’ try to remember.’
Isabeau said nothing, thoughtfully choosing another honeycake from the plate on the unsteady table by the fire. She knew as well as Meghan did that although many of the scrolls and books piled on every table and shelf were written in Meghan’s spidery handwriting, this particular book was an enormous, ancient affair, bound in red leather, with a tarnished silver key as long as Isabeau’s longest finger. Each page was filled with handwriting different to the page that had gone before; many were ornately illustrated with brightly coloured pictures of dragons and winged horses, or the tracks of stars and moons, or the shape of unfamiliar lands. Like many of Meghan’s books, the last page was empty, untouched, yet Isabeau knew that if you should write on that page and turn the leaf, there would be another blank page there waiting for your pen.
As Isabeau wondered why Meghan had denied the book’s existence, Seychella, apparently accepting Meghan’s explanation, went on to talk about how difficult it was to get the right ingredients for spells and medicines when the merchants’ ships no longer dared face the sea serpents. ‘I am almost out o’ rhinfrew,’ the witch said testily, ‘and the Power ken, I have no’ much murkwoad left either.’
‘Aye, it may be time for a journey to the ports,’ Meghan said dreamily.
Isabeau’s heart jumped with excitement. They had never ventured further away from the mountains than the highlands of Rionnagan. Isabeau had heard of the dangerous beauty of the sea, but she had never seen any water greater than Tuathan Loch at Caeryla. She hoped Meghan meant what she said. What an adventure! It would take months to reach the sea from their home, and they would have to travel half the country. She might see faery creatures, or sea serpents, or even visit the Rìgh’s palace.
‘Bedtime, Isabeau,’ Meghan said, getting stiffly to her feet and gathering up the dirty dishes.
‘But it’s only early—’
‘Ye’ve been out on the mountain all day, remember. Ye can hardly keep your eyes open!’ her guardian retorted, limping around the room.
‘But—’
‘No excuses, Beau. Bedtime.’
Reluctantly Isabeau bade the two witches goodnight and climbed up the ladder to her room, which was cold and dark. Faint light flickered up the stairs, but she did not bother to light a candle for her night vision was exceptionally good. She was able to see in the dark room almost as easily as she had out in the meadows that afternoon. Meghan had always said she could see like an elven cat.
In her cold little bed, Isabeau slowly stretched her legs, enjoying the chill of the sheets against her skin, and wondering about Seychella’s unexpected appearance. Isabeau was certain it meant Meghan intended her to sit her Test of Powers. She would be an apprentice-witch, just as she had always longed to be. She smiled, imagining how she would impress the supercilious Seychella by passing the Test of Power with ease. She would make the black-haired witch’s eyes pop out. She was still planning her triumph when Meghan clambered up the ladder and came and sat on the edge of her bed, as she always did.
‘Asleep, Beau?’
‘Almost. Meghan, did ye mean what ye said about travelling down to the sea?’
‘Indeed, I did. Things are afoot, and much as I am loath to leave our wee valley, if things are to go the way I wish, I must take a hand in the weaving. Now, go to sleep, Isabeau. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.’ With that tantalisingly cryptic remark, the old witch bent and kissed Isabeau on the forehead, between the eyes, as she did every night.
When Meghan was gone, Isabeau gave a wriggle of excitement and fell into a reverie of adventures and explorations, palaces and faeries. She had been feeling restless ever since the snow had begun to thaw and life again quickened all around her. She was often bored with their sedate life in the secret valley, where every animal was a friend and there was no-one to talk to except Meghan. Every season she looked forward to their forays into the mountains for herbs and semiprecious stones; even greater was her excitement when the two of them journeyed down into the villages to sell potions and love spells. Not that they did that very often or travelled very far. Isabeau had never been further south than the highland town of Caeryla, just beyond the Pass out of the mountains, and that had been eight years ago, when Isabeau had been only eight years old.
It had been the time of the comet then as well, for the Red Wanderer swung over Eileanan every eight years. The comet was thought an ill omen and so the Rìgh and Banrìgh had ordered national festivities to show their disdain for such superstitious nonsense. Meghan said, dryly, that their decision was wise, for the red comet always appeared in the days before Candlemas, a time when the people of Eileanan traditionally celebrated the end of winter and the coming of spring. All the decrees against witchcraft had not stopped the common people from observing the key events in the witches’ calendar, and what one cannot stamp out, one should subvert to one’s own ends, the old wood-witch said.
Isabeau had nodded, though she really had no idea what Meghan was talking about. She was far too interested in skipping along the street and looking all about her with wide-eyed interest. The streets of Caeryla were strung with coloured ribbons and flags, pots of flowers decorated every doorstep and the townsfolk were dressed in their finest clothes.
Minstrels strummed their guitars and sang of love, and jongleurs juggled coloured balls and did backflips, while performing bears nursed their sad heads. Isabeau had never seen anything like the jongleurs, who entertained the crowd with jokes and magic tricks, fire-eating, sword-swallowing and juggling, their bright cloaks covering tattered clothes. One was a young boy, thin and quick, who could turn along the road as quickly as a wheel. Isabeau was openly envious, hanging back against Meghan’s hand to watch him. She thought she would like travelling from town to town in the gaudy little caravan, juggling oranges for a living. Meghan’s hand was firm, though, and Isabeau was gently pulled away from the square with its bright swinging lamps and flickering shadows.
It was dangerous for them in the towns. This Isabeau understood. The Red Guards were everywhere, suspicious of strangers, and brutal in their dealings with suspected witches. Isabeau knew she must not play with the One Power or speak of it. She knew she must always be quiet and unobtrusive and never draw attention to them. When they entered a town, Meghan’s limp became more noticeable, her body somehow more frail. She draped her plaid about her head so her long braid was concealed, her face half in shadow. In the towns, Isabeau discarded her breeches and dressed in grey wool, her hair covered by a linen cap—a model girl-child.
Isabeau was only eight, however. She had not yet learnt how to melt into a crowd so cannily that afterwards no-one could be sure whether or not she had been there. And with her unruly red hair and her bright blue eyes, it was not easy for Isabeau to pass unnoticed. But it was not Isabeau’s striking colouring which was her downfall. It was her playing with the One Power. She and Meghan were staying at an inn in the centre of town. Because it was Candlemas, the streets were full of travellers come to dance the fire with other young people, and visit relatives and trade with the pedlars. Meghan said she was there to try and buy powdered foolsbalm, shepherd’s spikenard, black hellebore, and maybe some murkwoad if by some chance a pedlar had some. Isabeau knew, though, that she also came to gather information, whether it be market gossip, the stories the jongleurs and minstrels told, or old books and manuscripts.