by Kate Forsyth
‘How did ye do that?’ Isabeau demanded, but the witch only amused herself by calling the wind so it whipped Isabeau’s long hair around her face and into her mouth.
The water of the loch was, as always, icy cold. Seychella floated on her back, staring up Dragonclaw, her hair floating out behind her like a mass of weeds. ‘Meghan really has found herself a magic valley, has she no’?’
Isabeau was not quite sure what the witch meant, but she nodded. ‘It is bonny.’
The witch looked over at her, and idly turned and swam a few strokes. ‘And ye were born here, were ye no’?’
‘I think so,’ Isabeau replied uncertainly. ‘I ken I was found here. I was only a few weeks auld, so I suppose I must have been born here.’
‘Some shepherd’s babe, I ken. There be no-one else crazy enough to spend much time on these slopes, bonny though they be.’
Isabeau said nothing. She supposed it was true that her parents must have been shepherds or herders, yet she preferred her own highly coloured imaginings. Her red hair was so unusual, and the mystery of her birth so intriguing, Isabeau had woven several complicated tales to explain her abandonment. Her favourite was that she was heiress to a great estate, abandoned by a wicked uncle who wished to inherit in her stead. It explained everything quite satisfactorily, and completely discounted the possibility that her parents may not have wanted her.
‘Can ye show me some more o’ your magic?’ she asked. ‘Something really amazing.’
Seychella lay back dreamily, moving her hands lightly in the chilly water. She said nothing, but Isabeau felt the temperature drop as the witch drew upon the One Power. At first the placid surface of the loch began to quiver, the reflection of the mountains breaking apart and dissolving. Cats’ paws of wind rippled towards them and the branches of trees began to sway. Faster and faster the wind rose, until clouds were scudding madly overhead and the branches thrashed wildly. Petals swirled from the flowered bushes, scattering in the wind like snowflakes. It became colder and colder, and Isabeau shivered and sank lower in the water. Suddenly a giant thunderclap sounded, and lightning flashed down, splitting one of the ancient giants in the forest so it fell with a roar, dragging other trees down and making the ground shake. Isabeau was overawed. She had never seen such a powerful display of magic. All the tricks and games she played with the One Power were nothing in comparison to this. Even Meghan’s occasional demonstrations were insignificant compared to those of Seychella.
‘Teach me,’ Isabeau begged. ‘How do ye do that?’
‘Playing with the weather is dangerous,’ Seychella said wearily. ‘No’ for lassies.’
Indignation filled Isabeau. ‘I’m no’ a bairn any more!’
‘Ye need to understand how the weather works,’ Seychella said. ‘Bringing a storm is particularly hard—ye have to reach deep into the winds o’ the world and change their shape and direction. Making lightning be the hardest o’ all, particularly for a woman, for it involves the Power o’ Fire as well, and fire is more a male force. I find it quite exhausting. Can ye listen to the wind?’
Isabeau swam closer. ‘I dinna ken … I’m no’ sure …’
‘Do ye ken when it’s going to snow?’ Seychella asked.
Isabeau nodded. Sixteen years in the Sithiche Mountains was enough to teach anyone the weather’s signs. She could tell when rain or snow were coming, or when the wind was rising.
‘Good. That’s the start. Once ye can listen to the wind it’s only a few wee steps from there. Ye must exert your will on the wind. Tell it when to come and when to go. Ride it in your mind. Ye’ll begin to see how it flows.’
Isabeau was beside herself with excitement. Meghan never told her things like this. She only ever said ‘listen’ and ‘watch’ as if those words held all the mysteries of magic.
‘Ye may no’ be able to do it, though,’ Seychella said dismissively. ‘Few witches ever do. Ye must ken that each individual’s Talent is different. I can do things no other witch I ken can do, while Meghan … well, all witches must find their own limitations. Often ye find things out by accident. I knew air to be my element, since I always learnt those things faster and more easily than any other, back when the Theurgia still existed. I did no’ realise I could whistle up the wind though, till I was much aulder than ye. I was in a boat on a loch when a big storm blew up. We all would’ve died if I hadna told the wind to go away.’
Isabeau, listening raptly, was suddenly aware of Meghan’s bent figure waiting on the shoreline. Her guardian’s face was grim and angry. Isabeau swam for shore, wondering anxiously what she had done wrong this time. It was not her, though, but Seychella that Meghan glared at.
‘Seychella, did ye summon up that lightning?’ she asked.
Isabeau was surprised at the wind witch’s chagrined look. ‘Aye, Meghan,’ she responded. ‘I was just demonstrating a wee power—’
‘Seychella, ye were the one who told me the mountains are filled with Red Guards. How could ye take such a risk? That lightning would have been seen many miles away … lightning out o’ a blue sky! Any Red Guard worth his shillings would come and investigate that.’
‘Do no’ fraitch, Meghan, ye ken there’s only the one pass into this valley and that’s so well concealed ye’d have to ken where it is to find it. Besides, these mountains are a complete maze! Any Red Guard trying to find us would spend months backtracking out o’ all the deadend valleys. And the lightning could have struck anywhere, how are they meant t’ken?’
Meghan pointed to the jagged spire of Dragonclaw cutting into the sky. ‘All they need to ken is that it occurred near Dragonclaw,’ she said wryly. ‘No matter where they are that bloody mountain will lead them straight to us!’
Seychella was not abashed for long. Isabeau spent most of the day with her, listening to her stories of the grand days of the Coven, when witches helped rule the land and were respected by lairds and courtiers. Seychella talked a lot about the Theurgia at the Tower of Two Moons. Isabeau would have been sent there as a child, Seychella said, as soon as she had demonstrated any power. She would have learnt the basic laws of desire and will, and been taught many useful Skills.
‘I would have had lessons in magic?’
‘Ye would have been taught mathematics, history, alchemy, and the auld languages,’ Seychella replied coolly. ‘Also astronomy and anatomy.’
Isabeau began to think the Theurgia would not have been much fun after all. ‘But what about magic?’
‘Ye need to understand the laws o’ nature and the universe before ye can start comprehending the One Power,’ the witch answered sternly, before smiling with unexpected charm. ‘Do no’ look so downcast, my bairn. Ye would have learnt to call on your Power and been taught various different ways o’ using it, but indeed, I feel ye’ve learnt as much, if no’ more, from Meghan anyway. We o’ the Coven believe in a long apprenticeship—it is no’ until after the Second Test of Power and acceptance as an apprentice that the real lessons in witchcraft begin.’
It was true that Isabeau had learnt many Skills from just watching Meghan. The One Power was not easy to master. Meghan said many people lived all their life without realising they had any power at all, while sometimes a Skill remained undiscovered, merely because no-one had ever thought of applying the One Power in such a way.
All day Isabeau tried to call the wind, but could not even manage to lift a leaf off the ground or flutter the anemones on their long stalks. At last she gave up in anger and frustration, vowing to ask Seychella to call up the wind again so she could divine the trick of it. In the meantime, she let Seychella instruct her in the art of ahdayeh, and found the black-haired witch a much more exacting teacher than Meghan.
Later that day Isabeau was digging for roots and vegetables for their evening meal when she suddenly became aware that she was being watched. Again she was filthy and covered in sweat, since Meghan would never allow her to plant the seeds in a neat, orderly row like other gardens Isabeau had seen. All of their f
ood was grown scattered through the forest so that no sign of cultivation would indicate to any stray intruder that people lived nearby. Isabeau had therefore been scrounging around in the forest undergrowth for the better part of an hour, trying to remember where she had planted the potatoes.
The feeling began as an irritable prickling on the back of her neck. Isabeau rubbed at it with her grubby hand, and continued digging with her small wooden spade. The sensation intensified, and Isabeau suddenly swung round. An old man sat on a log behind her. A stray beam of sunlight fell through the branches and he sat in its light, so at first he was almost invisible in its dazzle. Everything about him was old and frail. His face was a mass of wrinkles; his pale scalp showed clearly through the thin, white hair, and the hand holding a carved staff was gnarled as a bird’s claw. His straggly beard was so long it flowed over his knees, trailing in the leaves of the forest floor. In the trees above him a raven sat, regarding Isabeau with bright eyes.
‘So this is the bairn Meghan discovered on the mountain,’ the old man said. Isabeau wanted badly to protest her maturity, but something held her silent. She was glad a moment later when the man continued in his faded voice, ‘A bairn no longer, it seems. How auld are ye, lassie?’
‘Sixteen tomorrow,’ Isabeau replied gravely.
‘Time then to take your Test,’ the old man said.
Isabeau’s heart leapt, but still she said nothing, sitting back on her heels and gazing at the old man as he gazed at her. With a shock, Isabeau realised the old man was blind, his eyes glazed over with a white film.
‘I am Jorge the Seer,’ the old man said. ‘I have come a long way for ye, Isabeau the Foundling. Come kneel afore me.’
Isabeau’s surprise and wonder were so great she could not say a word. Obediently she crossed the clearing and knelt in the dust before the white-haired man. She felt bony fingers on her hair, then Jorge was holding her head, his thumbs together in the middle of Isabeau’s forehead. She felt a strange burring in her mind, and shook it off irritably.
‘Odd …’ Jorge murmured.
‘What can unlock a dream o’ a thousand years?’ It was Meghan’s voice. Isabeau could not turn to look at her guardian because the old man still held her head firmly in his bony hands, but she heard her cross the clearing.
‘Ah,’ the old man said, and leant forward to kiss Isabeau on the forehead, between her eyes. At once Isabeau’s head was filled with a thrumming and drumming like the sound of horses’ hooves on hard ground. His knobbly fingers dug into the skin of her temples and she had to resist the impulse to pull her head away.
‘It is true, ye do have power,’ the old warlock said at last, sitting back and resting his hands on his staff once more. ‘Ye are ignorant, though, ignorant and arrogant. How can ye be so ignorant after living all your life with Meghan o’ the Beasts?’
‘She was always a wilful bairn,’ Meghan said softly. ‘It is glad I am to see you, Jorge. I could only hope that ye would come. I was afraid …’
‘I have been away a long time,’ Jorge said. ‘It must be seven years or more. There are omens in the sky, Meghan, I can feel them tugging me.’
‘Aye, the Red Wanderer is here again. I wish I knew what it meant for us. Ye have heard the tales o’ witch-hunts and executions?’
‘Aye. It was very hard for me to come here—passage through the land is growing daily more difficult.’
‘Ye had no trouble finding the way?’
The old warlock chuckled. ‘Dragonclaw was easy enough to find with Jesyah to show me the way. Finding the entrance was a lot harder. Jesyah must have flown into hundreds o’ cave mouths on that bloody mountainside. Thank ye for your mind-message yesterday. Are all the witches gathered?’
‘Ye are only the second, Jorge. I have hopes, though. I’ve been expecting the lad for weeks now, and I sent out messages to all the witches I ken, and still I scry for more.’
‘Aye, but we are so few now and we are all afraid. I have made myself a wee snug home in the Sithiche Mountains so I did no’ have to cross the land to get here, or come through the Pass, which is guarded.’
‘What news, Jorge?’
‘Only bad, Meghan. The seas are full o’ Fairgean—happen they smell the Rìgh’s weakness. I have heard they have penetrated the Wulfrum River as high as the third loch.’
‘That is fearful news indeed.’ Meghan got stiffly to her feet. ‘Come back to the house, Jorge, ye must be weary.’
The old warlock got to his feet, the raven fluttering down to sit on his bony shoulder. Jorge stroked the black glossy feathers and said, ‘Will Gitâ mind a visitor?’
‘He willna like it,’ Meghan laughed, ‘but he’ll be hospitable.’ They began to walk back through the forest, Isabeau trailing close behind, consumed with curiosity.
‘Meghan, I did a sighting afore I came. It was very odd. The vision kept changing, though I tried to hold it steady. I feel we are at a junction o’ events. The Spinners are weaving new colours into the cloth and what this will mean for us only time can tell.’
‘What did ye see, Jorge?’
‘I saw a babe being born that straddled the world with its feet—one foot upon the land, the other upon the oceans. It carried the Lodestar in its hand. I tried to see deeper into the vision, but it changed and I saw two faces that were the same, as if in a mirror, yet different. Everything I see in my dreams is in pairs, it seems—the double-fruited pomegranate, cherries, a coney with two kittens, two moons that reach out to each other, sometimes to kiss, sometimes to bite. There was one dream which brought me to tears and so woke me. I dreamt I was in Lucescere again. I ran into the auld throne-room, gladness in my heart, and saw there on the throne a winged man who had the Lodestar shining in his hand. Such a strange and bonny sight! And then the dream turned, and again I was running into the throne-room, and all I could hear was the wailing o’ a clarsach. And there, on the throne, I saw a woman, with the Lodestar blazing in her fist. At first I am glad, and I see she has the white lock, all the way to her feet as only a true NicCuinn can have. But, Meghan, here is the worst o’ it. I come closer, and she is Fairge! No doubt about it, I see her scales shining, and her fins and tail, and her mouth is no mouth o’ a woman!’
‘That is a strange sighting indeed,’ Meghan said slowly.
‘Indeed, by my beard and the beard o’ the Centaur. There is something else … I ken it means something important but yet I canna tell what. Every night I dream o’ Magnysson and Gladrielle. I see them in my dreams, rising and setting, and I see one being consumed by the other … Magnysson takes Gladrielle in his arms, as the auld tales always told, but he swallows her, Meghan! He eats her! I think this can only mean war is coming, war as we have no’ seen for many centuries.’
‘When Magnysson shall at last hold Gladrielle in his arms, all will be healed or broken, saved or surrendered,’ Meghan murmured.
‘What is that?’ the blind seer asked, leaning closer. ‘What did ye say?’
‘Just an auld saying I remember from my childhood. I have no’ thought o’ it for many years … Aye, this year is the year for us, I ken it. I wish the Stargazers were still alive. I would give much to ken if my readings o’ the skies be correct.’
‘First let us Test this young witch and see if all that promise o’ power is to be fulfilled,’ Jorge said. ‘What is your Talent, lassie?’
‘I do no’ ken,’ Isabeau said, confused. This was a secret source of sorrow to her, although Meghan reassured her by saying witches were often quite old before they found their special vocation.
Jorge now did the same. ‘Och well, never mind. I was over forty when I found I had the gift o’ seeing into the future, and I had to lose my everyday sight first.’ He then turned to Meghan and said, ‘We need the right spot, ye ken, one near water, earth, air and fire.’
‘I have been making ready,’ Meghan said. ‘Tonight is Candlemas, the end o’ winter and the beginning o’ the season o’ flowers. We’ll begin the Ordeal at sunset, and perfor
m the Candlemas rites at dawn. Let us hope the circle will be complete.’
Isabeau crouched beneath a thorny bush, trying to warm herself by rubbing her bare arms and shoulders with her hands. It was just before dawn on the first day of spring, and bitterly cold. She was tired, having not slept all night, and hungry, not having eaten. As Meghan had directed, she had tried to empty herself, tried to become part of the dark, silent night, the great trees soaring into starry distances, the mingled light of the two moons shining on the snowy peaks. But all she had felt was cold and afraid.
Soon the mountaintops could be seen silhouetted against a pale green sky. Isabeau scrambled to her feet and began to lope down the hillside, her arms crossed over her naked chest. Gradually she began to warm up, and she ran faster, for she was stiff after the long Ordeal, and she thought she might need every advantage in the upcoming Test. Somehow she knew it was important that she do her best this morning, that it would help define her future. Isabeau had no intention of living her life quietly among the trees and the mountains, gathering herbs and making medicines to sell each year at the village festivals. Isabeau wanted adventure.
Through the trees she could see the loch shining faintly in the dawn light. The loch filled most of the bottom of the valley, trickling over the eastern rim to pour in thin ribbons to the plains far below. By the waterfall, a small fire had been lit and Isabeau headed that way.
As she ran, she repeated to herself the rhyme she had been taught as a child:
‘If Candlemas be fair and bright,
Winter will have another flight.
If Candlemas be shower and rain,
Winter is gone and shall no’ come again.’
Unless it rains afore nightfall, it looks as though winter shall have another flight, Isabeau thought, and remembered how many birthdays had dawned fine, only to have her birthday picnic ruined by storm. Weather in the Sithiche Mountains was dangerously changeable.