by Kate Forsyth
‘Are ye sure the witch is dead?’ Maya whispered, and in a louder voice Sani repeated her question.
‘Och, aye, my lady. I watched over her execution myself. She was bound hand and foot and thrown in the loch, and the uile-bheist was already waiting, scenting his food.’ As she spoke of the loch’s serpent, her mouth screwed up as if she had tasted something nasty. ‘She would have been devoured before she could even have drowned.’
‘Was the witch auld, very auld, and wee? With black eyes?’ Maya asked, and again Sani repeated her question.
‘No, my lady, she was young, only a lass still, and red. That was how I spied her out—I found one o’ her hairs at the camp site after we discovered the prisoner was missing. I was able to follow her, using the hair, and then prove she was the one we sought. Red hair is no’ as rare in the mountains as it is on the coast, my lady, but it is still rare enough.’
‘So have ye found any signs o’ the Arch-Sorceress Meghan, she who talks with animals and commands the earth?’ Sani asked, at Maya’s prompting. ‘My Banrìgh is still very anxious that the Rìgh’s renegade cousin be found. If she is alive, the Rìgh still has hopes o’ bringing her to the Truth; and if she is dead, well, then we shall bury her with all due pomp.’
Glynelda hesitated, then said softly, ‘My lady, the Seeker Thoth sent me a message some weeks ago. He said that he had stumbled across a conclave o’ witches, performing their foul rites at the height o’ the comet’s passing, and did storm their stronghold with the help o’ the Grey One. One witch at least was killed, maybe two, although the second body was no’ found. By use o’ their perilous talents the other witches escaped, but he has promised me they will be found. He said then that one o’ the witches caused the earth to open beneath their feet, and all the beasts o’ the field and forest came to her call and fought at her direction.’
‘Meghan!’ Maya breathed. ‘It must be her!’
‘Why, Grand-Seeker, did ye no’ contact us with this news? Ye ken how anxious the Rìgh is for news o’ his cousin.’
‘My apologies, my lady, it is just I hoped to contact ye with better and more concrete news. Always we hear o’ sightings o’ the auld witch but always they are just stories. I wanted to be sure afore I reported.’
‘And why have several weeks gone past without any o’ these witches being captured? How many did escape?’
‘I suspect the witch we captured last night was one o’ those witches, for we tracked her down through the lower range o’ the Sithiche Mountains and through the Pass to Rionnagan, and that was the way some o’ the witches did seem to escape. Thoth followed the one we feared was the Arch-Sorceress, both because he knew she was important and because she was heading towards the Dragon Stair, and he feared her intentions.’
‘So, Meghan, your fine fingers were meddling in my affairs again!’ Maya hissed.
‘And what news o’ the dragons, my dear?’ Sani asked sweetly.
‘My messengers have no’ yet returned, but I will soon have news, and am confident that we will hear all the cursed dragons have been wiped out,’ the Grand-Seeker said complacently.
Sani leaned forward so her mouth was only inches away from the enchanted mirror. ‘Ye are wrong, Glynelda. And ye will suffer for your mistakes! Ye said the dragons would no’ attack our forces, that they would respect the ancient pact made with Aedan Whitelock and we could destroy them all. Ye were mistaken, and the Banrìgh does no’ like mistakes!’
Even in the dim, rippling surface of the mirror, they could see the Grand-Seeker’s face become ashen, her eyes black with fear. ‘What … why? What has happened?’
‘The dragons struck at the legions and wiped them out. As we speak they lick their chops as our troops lie in pools o’ their own blood. The dragons have the taste o’ human flesh now. Can ye tell me they will no’ like it?’
‘How could this have happened? That fool Thoth! He must have grown overconfident—’
‘And who gave us all reason for confidence?’ Sani asked softly. ‘Who assured us all that the dragons would wait afore retaliating, that their honour would mean they would no’ break the Pact o’ Aedan Whitelock until it was too late?’
The Grand-Seeker had shown her fear for only a moment. Though still pale, she said confidently, ‘Ye asked me to tell ye all I kent o’ dragons, my lady, and that is what I did. But I am no’ a dragon-laird. I canna tell the minds o’ so awful and alien a creature. All the books on dragons were burnt with the ill-fated Towers and the cursed witches. When ye did ask me I told ye what I ken—that the dragons do be slow to move but terrible in their movement; that they do honour the Rìgh’s mighty ancestor and, unlike humans, will honour its spirit and no’ just its word; that females are rare and breeding difficult. How am I to blame?’
‘Ye should have overseen the slaying o’ the dragons yourself!’
‘But yc did instruct me to find the winged uile-bheist and bring him to ye,’ the Grand-Seeker said. ‘I did but follow your orders.’
Sani was growing tired of the Grand-Seeker and she allowed it to show on her face. ‘Beware, Glynelda, that ye do no’ displease me,’ she whispered. ‘Ye are Grand-Seeker. I elevated ye above all others because I believed ye capable. I fain no’ be proved wrong.’
‘No, my lady.’ The Grand-Seeker licked her lips.
Sani waved her hand across the surface of the mirror and they both watched as the surface grew bright and clear again. Afterwards they sat in silence, until at last Maya said, ‘Meghan is a sea-urchin spike in my side. We must hunt her down.’
‘Ye think she had something to do with the unexpected attack o’ the dragons?’
‘Och, aye, Meghan’s fingerprints are all over this one!’
‘We have been hunting her for sixteen years, Maya, and she keeps slipping through our fingers.’
‘She went underground. That is why we have no’ heard o’ her for so long. By Jor, I had hoped she had died!’
Sani said nothing about the curse, just stared into the mirror again. ‘Do ye wish me to see what I can scry out?’
Maya nodded. ‘Try for Meghan again. She may have let her shield slip in the excitement o’ the moment.’
‘And then we must contact your father,’ Sani said maliciously.
Maya felt her cheeks whiten, but refused to give Sani the satisfaction of seeing her beg for more time. ‘Contact the other seekers first, and set them on the trail o’ both the Cripple and the Arch-Sorceress. No! Better still! Call in the MacRuraich, it is time he worked for us again,’ she commanded. ‘And then let me speak to my father myself.’
Lilanthe stood at the edge of a great escarpment, looking down at the plain undulating away three hundred feet below. She recognised the precipice from Isabeau’s geography lessons as being the Great Divide, a narrow, steep wall of stone which formed an effective barrier between the forbidden land of Tìrsoilleir and the western lands of Eileanan. Sadly she wondered what the blue-eyed witch was doing now. She hoped her quest was going well, and treasured her promise that when Isabeau returned she would seek Lilanthe out again. As Isabeau said, who knew what pattern the Weaver was designing? Perhaps their threads would cross again sooner than that.
Lilanthe had lost faith in the Spinners long ago. She could not lose faith in Eà, for it was in her flesh that Lilanthe dug her roots each night and from Eà that she drew her nourishment. But the Spinners, it was easy to disavow them when all their spinning and weaving had brought her only pain and heartbreak. Nonetheless, she hoped Isabeau was right and that their paths would cross again. In the meantime, however, Lilanthe was finding it difficult to recapture her mood of happy, aimless travelling. She was restless and lonely, and filled with admiration at what she saw as Isabeau’s strength of purpose. She had followed the ridge of the escarpment out, wondering idly what Tìrsoilleir looked like, but the pale hills and fields looked much like Rionnagan, only flatter. There was no sign of any warrior-maids, though she could see a few tall spires in the distance, marking the lo
cation of their kirks. Although the massive Alainn Falls were as spectacular as people said—wide sheets of white water crashing three hundred feet down into a loch of turbulent foam—she grew quickly tired of them, and began to wonder what she should do next.
The Sithiche Mountains curved in the shape of an upside-down smile around the gently falling hills of Rionnagan, with Dragonclaw a sharp tooth protruding from its upper lip. To the east, it crunched into the Great Divide, whose steep cliffs few could climb. If she followed the edge of the clifftop back round for some days, then turned back to the south, she should be able to find a way down into the forests of Aslinn, where Isabeau thought she might be safe. That way she could leave the Sithiche Mountains, now swarming with legions of soldiers, without having to negotiate the Pass. That way also, Lilanthe reasoned, she would be curving back round to the east, where Isabeau had gone.
She gave one more wondering glance at the dizzying drop before her, listening to the distant roar of the Alainn Falls across the curve of the horseshoe-shaped cliffs. Then she began her journey again, loping easily along the rocky edge of the plateau, the stones hard on her bare feet.
For several days she followed the curve of the ridge, angling eastwards and then south. Here the sharp pointed Sithiche Mountains eased down into softer hills, their feet shrouded by the thick forests of Aslinn. Lilanthe found herself looking forward to being surrounded by trees again, and began to dream of a clearing with a loch, a view of the mountains and thick, rich soil.
First, however, she had to find a way down the cliff-face, for there was no other way to reach the forest floor. At last she found a spot that looked promising, where a narrow waterfall had once carved a path down the steep walls. A landslide had diverted its course, leaving behind mossy rocks and the occasional patch of herbs, for the water had brought with it soil that had clung to cracks and crevices. Lilanthe knew she could send out tendrils of roots from her hands and feet to cling to the soil, and so slowly lowered herself over the side.
The cliff-face was almost three hundred feet high, and where it was not perfectly perpendicular it leant out over the valley, so that Lilanthe’s descent was fraught with danger. Several times her questing rootlet could find no crack to insinuate itself into, and once she found herself clinging in terror to the wall, unable to find any way to continue. She had to slowly shape-shift until she was more tree than girl; then slowly, slowly stretch out all her branches and roots until at last she found a handhold and could swing her flesh-wood body over, an exercise in control rare for the tree-shifter. At last, though, she reached the ground, and stood thigh-deep in the pool beneath the waterfall, washing away the sweat and terror of her descent and cooling her overheated sap.
Aslinn was as beautiful as Isabeau had promised. Great mountain ash trees towered above the floor of the valleys, with crystal waterfalls splashing down from the mountains to form meandering streams and pools below. Song birds darted through the clear air, trilling madly, and once Lilanthe saw a bhanais bird flying through the canopy, trailing its crimson and gold tail which was more than three feet long. She travelled more slowly, but could not find her perfect clearing. Small lochan abounded, and on a clear day the backdrop of snow-tipped mountains and green hills was as beautiful as any daydream. The soil was rich with leaf mould and tasted wonderful. The problem lay with Lilanthe. Her fits of loneliness and self-pity came more often now, and she had fallen into the habit of brooding, ignoring the beauty around her as the old Lilanthe would never have done.
One morning when she woke and began to twitch her roots in preparation for rising, she cast out her mind as she always did and was surprised to find that she was no longer alone. Only a few hours away she caught traces of consciousness—a group of people and animals, their mind-thoughts quite loud and brash. As always fascinated by any other intelligent life, Lilanthe found herself slipping through the forest towards the thoughts.
It was a camp of travelling jongleurs and minstrels, making their way east from Rionnagan. The camp was just stirring, small children scampering about naked, heedless of the cool mountain air, women lighting fires or washing their faces, men scattering seed for chickens in hutches or lighting up their pipes as they gossiped over the fire. Lilanthe crouched in the bushes at the edge of the clearing and watched in fascination. Soon the smell of cooking food wafted towards her, and her mouth watered. Even though Lilanthe drew much of her nourishment from the soil in which she dug her roots, she still had a stomach, much like humans, and she definitely had taste buds. Lilanthe had not eaten a hot meal since she and Isabeau had parted company, having a natural fear of fire and no inclination to try lighting one.
The jongleurs ate their meal at leisure, talking and laughing and smoking all at the same time. One of the small children turned somersaults all round the adults, finally tumbling to a heap just at the very edge of the hot coals. Cries of alarm rang out, and the child was rescued and dusted off, before being slapped hard across the legs and tossed overhead to its mother. The sun was climbing high before they had packed up and harnessed the stocky horses to the caravans again. They headed east, and Lilanthe followed them.
By the third day she had identified the relationships between most of them. There were six caravans, most filled to the bursting with at least three generations of family—one with four—ranging from a toothless old crone to the child whose mishap Lilanthe had witnessed the first day. The caravans were rarely entered, containing instead the few possessions of the jongleurs: their props and instruments, their bright, ragged clothes, battered cooking implements, and sacks and barrels of stores, including one of whisky, which had been called firewater in Lilanthe’s home village. One night they tapped the barrel freely, and there was dancing around the fire, and much storytelling and laughter. Lilanthe crept right up to the group that night, hiding beneath one of the caravans, huddled into the sleeping blankets of the family who would later bed down beneath the scant protection of the caravan’s wooden floor.
Her favourite jongleur was young, with bright black eyes and a tangle of dark hair. His beard and moustache were just beginning to grow in straggles, giving him a rather raggedly look that went well with his patched sky-blue jerkin and dirty crimson trousers. He captured Lilanthe’s interest primarily because of his juggling skills. The way the golden balls spun out of his hand in ever more complex patterns intrigued her, and she often followed him when he slipped away from the camp to practise in private. He juggled all the time—pots and pans when he was meant to be washing up, stones and pebbles that he carried around in his pocket, daggers and swords when he practised routines with his sister. She was a slender child, with eyes as bright and black as his, though her hair was browner, with red glints. Both of them were trained acrobats as well, and watching their somersaults and tumbling runs sometimes astounded Lilanthe, who had never seen such agility in human creatures before. They were more like cluricauns than children, particularly when they played among the tree branches, swinging and somersaulting from limb to limb.
Their father, a heavy man with blood-shot eyes, frightened Lilanthe and she often slipped away when he was in sight. He was a fire-eater and watching someone swallowing a gust of flame was more than the tree-shifter could bear. It was he who told the loudest stories, and played the fiddle in the danciest tunes, and often squeezed the bottoms of the other women in the party, hitting their men on the shoulder in a comradely way. He had no wife of his own, and did not seem to notice his pinching ways irritated the other men. His mother travelled with them, though, and she was the only one that could control his bluster, especially when the firewater ran through his veins. Unlike everyone else in the party, his mother did not sleep on the ground under the caravans, but inside, only coming out when the fires were lit and the tea made.
Lilanthe did not know why the jongleurs exerted such fascination over her, except perhaps they eased her loneliness a little. She found their antics often made her laugh, so that she had to bury her face in her hands so no sound w
ould escape and betray her. When she was in tree form, it was easier, for her laughter expressed itself in a little shiver of her dangling branches, which could easily have been the wind. Sometimes she thought she saw the young man looking in her direction, but each time his eyes seemed to drift past her and she would let out her breath, sure he had not noticed her.
One day he slipped out of the camp early, before anyone else was awake, and Lilanthe transformed herself into her human shape to follow him. He went some distance, leaving the green road the jongleurs were following, until he found a clearing with a still pool. He leant above the water, and Lilanthe felt his mind cast out, searching. She brought her mind in very small and still, like a hunted coney frozen in the grasses. He was searching a very long way away, though, and she thought he may not have noticed her. She should have been shielding herself. It never occurred to her that one of these simple travelling entertainers could have such range or power. He must hide himself very well for her not to have recognised it straightaway. She remembered Isabeau and how completely she had been shielded, and thought she must remember humans could hide their minds as well.
She felt the young man bring his mind back into his body, and she let her bare feet press deeper into the earth. The delicious shiver that was shifting rippled over her skin and she opened her pores to the sun and the air. She was almost changed, her eyesight and hearing dimming, a mass of other perceptions taking over, more sensitive than any of her human senses, when she felt him sit back and look at her. Deep in her mind he said, Shall we introduce ourselves?
The shock alone slowed Lilanthe’s shift, and only a few panicked thoughts tumbled over each other before she reversed the change. Her feet stirred and flexed, her arms thickened and swelled back into warm flesh, and then she was looking at him with her eyes wide open in fear.