by Kate Forsyth
‘Sssh! He’s asleep. Do no’ wake him.’
He could see the white shape of the boy in her arms. ‘No’ the Viscount o’ Laverock!’ he cried.
‘Aye,’ said Rhiannon irritably. She was very tired and cold, and her legs did not seem to be working properly.
At once the guard’s manner changed. He put his arm about her and supported her towards the fire, calling for help. More men came running. Rhiannon was drawn in to the warmth of the flames, and then a tall woman with a long, untidy plait was kneeling before her in the snow, tenderly taking Roden from her. Rhiannon let him be taken.
‘Look at him, the poor wee lad, he’s blue with cold,’ the woman said, and seized a warm blanket to wrap him in. Another blanket was wrapped around Rhiannon, and then a cup of hot soup was thrust into her hands. Numbly she sipped, watching as the woman rubbed Roden’s bare hands and feet, and called for hot bottles to be brought and laid against him.
For a while Rhiannon was content to sit and drink her soup, watching as the sleeping child was expertly cared for, but as soon as her cup was empty she remembered Blackthorn. It was in her mind to slip away and tend her mare in private, but the moment she pushed aside her blanket and stood up, three swords hissed out of their scabbards and were brought to bear upon her.
‘I bid ye stay,’ the woman said, ‘and tell us what ye ken.’
Her voice was calm, even conversational, but the look in her hazel-green eyes was whetted sharp as the blades at Rhiannon’s breast. On her shoulder was perched a tiny black cat with long tufted ears and turquoise-coloured eyes. It hissed, showing very sharp pointed teeth.
‘I must tend my mare,’ Rhiannon said.
Jay the Fiddler and the woman – who could only be the sorceress they called Finn the Cat – exchanged a quick glance. ‘Ye are the girl who flies the winged mare, are ye no’?’ Finn asked. As Rhiannon nodded, she continued, ‘The one who killed Connor?’
Rhiannon nodded again, warily.
‘My men will tend the mare. Ye will stay here.’
‘My mare will no’ allow these soldiers to approach her,’ Rhiannon said, raising her chin. ‘Besides, ye have no right to tell me to stay or go. I fly on the Banrìgh’s business.’
‘Do ye just?’ Jay said quietly, and again there was that quick flick of a glance between him and the sorceress. On his face there was only a gentle consideration, a sort of open watchfulness, as if he was waiting for some sign from her, some sudden movement. Finn’s face was more guarded.
‘Aye, I do,’ Rhiannon said angrily. ‘She sent me to rescue Roden, and that I have done.’
‘She sent ye? When she knew I was on the trail?’ Finn sounded affronted.
‘Aye, she did. Blackthorn and me, we are fast. We fly high above the world while ye must slog around down below. She kent I would save him, and I have.’ Rhiannon was aware that it may have been wise to moderate her tone, but she was cold and weary and she did not like having swords poked at her when she had just done a brave and clever thing.
Rhiannon knew that the sorceress had good cause to dislike her. After all, the man she had killed had been a dear childhood friend of Finn and Jay’s. They had both sat through her trial for his murder with their hands clenched about the gold medals they wore, symbol of their membership of the League of the Healing Hand, a gang of beggar children who had banded together to help Lachlan the Winged gain his throne. There were only four members of that original gang left – Jay and Finn, now married and working in service of the Coven; Captain Dillon of the Rìgh’s own guard; and Johanna, who had been head of the healers until betraying the Rìgh to his death and abducting his son and heir, Donncan. Johanna had wanted Rhiannon to hang for Connor’s death. It was the news that Lachlan had planned to pardon Rhiannon that had driven her to help his murderers.
Finn and Jay must hate her too. They must have wanted her to hang. Rhiannon did not want to be near them. Every muscle in her body was rigid with nervous tension. If it had not been for the need to bring Roden to shelter as soon as possible, she would never have come near them. She wished she had not had to kill their friend. She was sorry Connor’s death had caused so much grief. But that was the nature of life. People were born, people died. Sometimes they died out of time. He had been a soldier in the Rìgh’s service and must have known the risks of riding into the wilds. She ran the same risk now, chasing after the lord of Fettercairn.
Finn was scowling, her hands on her hips. Rhiannon glared back at her. The tiny black cat on Finn’s shoulder hissed furiously. Rhiannon hissed back.
Unexpectedly Finn’s face relaxed, and she put up one hand to soothe the elven cat. ‘So Her Majesty has pressed ye into service, has she? Have ye papers to prove this?’
‘In my saddlebag,’ Rhiannon answered. ‘Back with my mare.’
‘Handy.’
‘Where else would I keep them?’ Rhiannon asked. ‘I had to carry Roden, I couldna be groping around in my bags in the pitch-black looking for a bit o’ paper. If ye like, I will show ye when Blackthorn is here.’
‘How do I ken ye willna just fly off into the night again?’ Finn demanded.
‘Why would I do that?’ Rhiannon asked. ‘Ye have fire here, and blankets, and hot soup. I’m cold and hungry and tired. Besides, what would it matter to ye if I did? I’m no’ your prisoner. Ye have no right to tell me whether I can go or stay.’
‘I have no reason to trust ye,’ Finn said coldly.
Rhiannon gritted her teeth. ‘I’m the one who rescued Roden from the mad laird, remember?’
‘So ye got him away from Laird Malvern?’ The sorceress’s voice was full of suspicion. ‘How?’
‘I will tell ye all when I have seen to my horse.’ Rhiannon was inflexible.
There was a moment’s pause, and Finn looked to her husband. Jay nodded. The soldiers lowered their swords.
‘It’s as black as pitch out there, and blowing a gale. Let me walk with ye, to make sure ye do no’ get lost in the storm,’ Jay said.
‘No need,’ Rhiannon said tersely. ‘Blackthorn will come to me. As long as your soldiers stand back and keep their weapons low. She doesna like soldiers.’ It was clear from her tone that she shared her horse’s sentiments.
Jay nodded and made a swift gesture to the soldiers, who all drew back. Rhiannon called her mare’s name, silently, with no more than a slight abstraction in her expression to show what she was doing. Within moments the black winged horse was hovering above them in the darkness, her powerful wings beating up a flurry of snow. Her ears were laid back, and her sharp horns were lowered. She pawed the air and neighed a challenge.
Rhiannon reassured her silently, and the mare dropped down to the ground, pressing close to Rhiannon’s side and looking sideways at the soldiers with a white-rimmed eye and curled lip. Rhiannon stroked her damp neck. Blackthorn’s back was frosty where her sweat had frozen, and she was trembling. Rhiannon was gripped with guilt. Blackthorn had flown far that day. She should never have left her to stand in that nasty wind, all sweaty and weary as she was. Rhiannon hurried to cover her with her own cloak and, teeth chattering and extremities numb, began to rub her down with a brush she snatched out of her bag. Jay brought her some heavy blankets that she threw over the mare’s back, and one of the soldiers made up some warm mash for her.
Only when Blackthorn was as warm and comfortable as it was possible to be when camped on the side of a road in the middle of the snow did Rhiannon turn her attention back to the others at the campsite. She saw Roden had been put to bed in a little tent made from some kind of oilcloth slung over a stick. He was rolled in blankets and had a skin of hot wine at his feet, and another at his back. He was still fast asleep.
The soldiers had either gone back to guard duty or were preparing themselves to sleep. One was stoking up the fire for the night, and another was making some hot mulled wine for Finn and Jay and Rhiannon. She accepted it gratefully, warming her numb hands on the tin mug and enjoying the aroma of spices. Then they brought her
more soup, and some hard black bread that she could only eat after sopping it in her bowl. She broke off a piece and crumbled it in her hand, and then coaxed a sleepy Bluey out of her pocket to eat. At the sight of the bluebird, the elven cat leapt down from Finn’s lap and crept forward, low to the ground, one paw raised. Alarmed, Rhiannon tucked the bluebird away again, and kept a close eye on the elven cat as it prowled towards her, its turquoise eyes slitted, its tail lashing.
‘No, Goblin,’ Finn said. ‘Leave it alone.’
Goblin only hissed in response, then sat by the fire, its eyes fixed on Rhiannon’s pocket.
Finn and Jay were silent as Rhiannon ate and drank ravenously. When at last she had finished, and the soldier had taken her bowl away to wash in a saucepan of melted snow, Rhiannon sat back and returned the gaze of the two who had been examining her with such curiosity while she ate. She had spared them little more than a glance at the trial. All her attention had been on the witnesses brought against her, and the judges who had condemned her.
Now she looked them over with open curiosity. Finn was tall and lithe, with messy brown hair that caught the red of the firelight. The elven cat had stalked into her lap and was now kneading its claws in and out of Finn’s leg. Finn stroked it absentmindedly, her head bent down to rest on her other hand. She looked tired.
Jay was not much taller than Finn, and slender, with dark hair and eyes and olive skin. Although, like most witches, his hair was long, it was neatly bound back in a queue and his beard was clipped. This may have been because it was rather sparse, or it may have been to prevent attackers from seizing it and using it against him. Both Finn and Jay were dressed in the clothes of a soldier – a padded leather breastplate and gaiters and a thick grey cloak. Rhiannon saw that their cloaks, like hers, were blue on the inside, and wondered that these witches wore the uniform of the Yeoman of the Guard, the personal bodyguard of the monarch.
‘So tell me, Rhiannon,’ Jay said. ‘Last time I heard your name ye were a prisoner o’ Sorrowgate Tower. What do ye do here in the Whitelock Mountains?’
‘The Banrìgh sent me to get back Roden, and the prionnsa and banprionnsa,’ Rhiannon said.
‘Iseult sent ye?’ Jay began, but Rhiannon interrupted.
‘No’ the auld one. The Banrìgh Bronwen. I have her paper.’
When Jay spoke, she could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Poor Iseult! She is no’ so auld. Only forty or so. But I suppose to a young one like ye … so it was Bronwen who sent ye?’
‘Aye.’
‘I imagine the Banrìgh could see the advantages o’ having a thigearn on the trail o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn. Certainly we’ve failed to lay them by the heels. Their plans were well laid.’
‘Aye,’ Rhiannon repeated. She still felt on guard with the fiddler, but his gentle voice and manner were doing much to calm her.
‘We’re on their trail,’ Finn said defensively. ‘We’re getting closer all the time.’
‘So tell us how ye came to wrest Roden from them?’ Jay asked.
Rhiannon gave him a brief explanation. By the time she had finished, she was having difficulty hiding her yawns, and she saw Finn was also yawning so wide her jaw cracked.
‘It will no’ be so easy next time,’ Jay said.
‘No,’ Rhiannon agreed. ‘They will be watching the sky now.’
‘Did they say where they were going?’ Finn said.
‘Something about a ship,’ Rhiannon answered. ‘Naught more.’
‘That is no use,’ Finn said restlessly. ‘We’ve guessed already they head for the coast. What I want to ken is where on the coast they plan to embark. I hate trailing behind them like this, trying to guess their next move.’
‘Well, we ken they head to the Pirate Isles, to the grave o’ Margrit o’ Arran,’ Jay said. ‘Or at least we think we ken that is where they are going. Isabeau is convinced that is why they have abducted Olwynne, to sacrifice her to raise Margrit o’ Arran from the dead.’
Rhiannon nodded. ‘She wanted me. But they couldna take me. So they took the banprionnsa instead. Happen they realised she is the one who truly has the ruthless heart.’ She spoke with bitterness. Jay regarded her with a little frown, not understanding her final words but sensing the real hurt behind them.
‘We will just keep following them and do our best to catch up,’ Finn said. ‘We need to get Roden home to safety first. Happen ye had best take him, Rhiannon.’
Rhiannon regarded her suspiciously. On the one hand, she wanted nothing more than to take Roden back to his parents and see the smiles breaking across their faces. On the other hand, she wondered whether Finn was trying to shoulder her out of the main chase. Owein and Olwynne were still held captive. She wanted to save them and have done with it. She calculated swiftly how long it would take her to fly back to where Nina and Iven followed with more of the Banrìgh’s soldiers.
Reluctantly she shook her head.
‘Take too long,’ she said. ‘They reach the sea soon. Olwynne is the first sacrifice. I promised Lewen I’d save her.’
There was a long pause.
Finn said slowly, almost reluctantly, ‘Ye ken Lewen and the banprionnsa have jumped the fire together? They are pledged one to the other, as man and wife, for a year and a day.’
‘I ken,’ Rhiannon said.
‘These are no’ vows to be taken lightly,’ Finn said. ‘Olwynne is a banprionnsa o’ the royal MacCuinn clan.’
‘Ye think I do no’ realise that?’ Rhiannon said in exasperation.
Again Finn seemed to struggle with herself before speaking. ‘The tie between Lewen and Olwynne is strong, Rhiannon, no’ easily overturned. Do ye ken what ye are doing?’
‘Do ye mean, do I understand that Olwynne has ensorcelled my man?’ Rhiannon demanded fiercely. ‘Aye, I ken. Why else do ye think I promised to save her? She has cast a spell on him that no-one but she can break. So, I find her, bring her back, and if she doesna release my man, well, then I’ll break her neck, aye, I will.’
Finn stared at her for a moment longer, and then, unexpectedly, her face relaxed into laughter. ‘Well then, as long as ye ken.’
‘Och, aye, I ken,’ Rhiannon rejoined. ‘And there’s another thing I ken – if she does no’ undo her spell quick smart, she’ll be wishing I never saved her!’
‘So, how do ye plan to rescue her?’ Finn said when she had composed her face again.
Rhiannon shrugged. ‘Now that I do no’ ken,’ she answered. ‘Yet.’
At the heart of the witches’ garden was a maze built of ancient yew trees, planted more than eight hundred years ago. Designed as a series of concentric circles that spiralled in to the sacred Pool of Two Moons, it was a puzzle designed to lead the unwary in ever tighter turns of bafflement.
Once within the maze, its narrow gloomy corridors all looked the same, leading to one dead end after another. The ground was paved so that one could not draw a line with one’s foot to show where one had already been, and there were no pebbles to mark one’s progress. In some dead ends lay the bones of those who had dared to try to solve the puzzle and failed, new students at the Theurgia were always told.
Certainly students were discouraged from wandering the maze, except once a year at midsummer when the tall iron gate was unlocked and the maze thrown open for the amusement of the apprentices. Those who managed to find their way through were rewarded with sparkling rose-coloured wine and honey cakes, and the privilege of looking through the observatory and seeing the secret compartment above the sacred pool where the Lodestar was hidden for so many years. At dusk the witches went through with torches and found the many hot, tired and frustrated apprentices still wandering the pathways, and took them back to the Theurgia for thin soup and weak ale. Making it through the maze was considered a rite of initiation for those who wished to join the Coven, and those who solved the puzzle never gave away its secret.
Isabeau, the Keybearer of the Coven, had learnt its secret more than twenty years before and she walked i
ts spiralling path at least twice a week, to watch the stars and moons through the far-seeing glass and to study the maps of the universe kept at the observatory. Even in the dark, and numb and stumbling with exhaustion after a week with very little sleep, she felt no hesitation when it came to choosing which direction to go at each intersection. She simply kept her hand on the left-hand wall as she walked. A big globe of blue witch-light hung above her head, casting an eerie light on the close-clipped walls of yew that towered over her head, and making those that followed after her look more unearthly than ever.
Directly behind Isabeau came Cloudshadow, the Stargazer of the Celestines, leaning on a tall gnarled staff. She was followed by one of her party, a young man named Stormstrider, who had insisted on his right to join the company as he was, nominally at least, betrothed to Thunderlily.
He was a tall, lithe man, unusually broad in the shoulder and chest for a Celestine, with a proud, aloof face most remarkable for its high-bridged nose and angular cheekbones. Isabeau thought privately that he looked more like one of her kin, the Khan’cohbans of the Spine of the World, than one of the gentle forest faeries. Like Cloudshadow, he had taken off his usual long pale robe, and was dressed in sensible travelling clothes, like the rest of them – breeches, boots, a warm woollen jerkin over a soft shirt, and a waterproofed coat with a hood and deep pockets. It made him look a lot more approachable. Over his shoulder he carried a large sack that bulged with something large and round.
Behind him came Ghislaine Dream-Walker, a tall fair-haired sorceress with the ensign of the Summer Tree hanging about her neck. She was not yet thirty and considered a great beauty despite her general air of fragility, enhanced by the shadows under her eyes.
Cailean of the Shadowswathe followed her, his huge shadow-hound padding silently at his heels. He was a thin, serious-looking young sorcerer, with a quizzical expression and a habit of ruining his clothes by stuffing his pockets with books. All dogs loved him, and he was often to be found with a large pack trotting along behind him, composed of everything from mangy mongrels to high-bred hunting hounds and fluffy button-eyed pets that were normally carried in some noble lady’s sleeve.