The Heart of Stars

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘But how is that possible? Brann has been dead over a thousand years.’

  Iseult nodded. ‘Och, I ken. That is why Thunderlily was taken too. Only the Celestines ken the secret o’ using the Auld Ways to travel back in time. Johanna read the spell and fell under its compulsion, and that was why she kidnapped Donncan and Thunderlily, to do Brann’s bidding.’

  ‘It must no’ happen,’ Dughall whispered, his breath quickening, his eyes staring at nothing. ‘Iseult, ye canna ken … none but a MacBrann kens the truth o’ Brann’s evil. He must no’ be allowed to live again, he must no’!’

  ‘Ye think any o’ us want him to?’ she said wearily. ‘Quite apart from wanting to save Donncan and Thunderlily, Isabeau has gone to make sure it does no’ happen.’

  ‘But did she no’ read the spell herself?’ Dughall whispered. ‘She acts under Brann’s compulsion too! Believe me, Iseult, no-one could shake off such a spell easily. If Isabeau has read the spell, she now does Brann’s will, believe me. She willna stop his resurrection, she’ll help it happen!’

  ‘What seest thou else

  in the dark backward and abysm of time?’

  SHAKESPEARE,

  The Tempest, 1611

  How is one to measure time?

  With each heartbeat, with each pulse of blood through an artery, with each breath taken and released, one counts the passing of time.

  As the sun rolls over the sky, the shadow of the pointer moves around the sundial, and flowers turn their faces to its warmth. Sand falls through an hourglass. A melting candle devours the lines scored in its wax. The pendulum swings, and all the little wheels and gears of the clock click-clack through another tiny compartment of time. The moon rises and sets, waxes and wanes, and the tides mark out their hours on the strand. Seasons change and wheel about again, and the child grows into a man and then declines towards death.

  All these things can be felt, seen, measured.

  Yet they are merely shadow pictures of time’s true being. Time is not the measure of the passing of seconds, seasons, centuries. It is not a river which flows smoothly and inexorably forward. It is the warp of the weave of the universe, and so hums at the very heart of all matter.

  Spun like a thread through the eye of the needle, stretched like silk to breaking point, for a moment Isabeau had felt the cross-hatching of space and time in the very fibres of her being. It was only a moment, a pulse beat, a blink of the eye, yet it was unendurable. Then, with a great whoosh, she was spat out the far side, in another time, another world altogether. Or half of her was. The other half was still trailing behind her, somewhere else.

  The only way Isabeau had to describe the sensation was the strange distortion of fever, when your head and your feet seem miles apart, and the membrane of the world shimmers before your eyes, pain whooshing in your ears like the coming and going of the sea in a cave. Every nerve in her body was shrilling, numb and yet tingling fiercely all at once, and her mouth was dry as a desert.

  She stumbled to her knees, one hand gripped in Cloudshadow’s, the other still dragging through an infinite space, on the top of a hill in a world that seemed much greener, much wilder, much vaster, and infinitely more dangerous than her own.

  Suddenly her hand was her own again, and Dide came with it, panting in fear and amazement. With him he dragged the others, one by one, all arriving in a rush and blur of red roaring light, like the fiercest of fires.

  Shivering, sick and dizzy, none of them could move for an instant, even though all were desperately aware of danger. Then Isabeau became conscious of the pool of water right beside them, and managed to twist and half fall into it, drinking deeply, and splashing her face and breast and arms. The water was cold and delicious, and roused her from the strange trancelike inertia which had imprisoned her. As the others too drank and splashed themselves, Isabeau was able to look about her and take stock of where, or rather, when, they were.

  It was sunset on a warm midsummer’s evening. The Fire-Eater was a bright spark in the east, framed between a cleft in the hills. Before them was the Tomb of Ravens, new, white and clean. The pool behind her was now a natural spring, roughly oval in shape, with a little stream that went burbling down the hill in a series of steps and starts. In the warm lambent light, the avenue of freshly planted yew saplings glowed vividly. As far as the eye could see was forest, rolling up to snow-tipped mountains on one hand and rolling down to a thin curve of water through the valley. Isabeau was startled and amazed. In her time, the Rhyllster was a mighty, broad river lined with rich green farmland, and with many crofts, villages and small towns dotting its banks. It was the lifeblood of the land, busy with boats and barges, carrying trade and passengers from the highlands to the lowlands and back again.

  It was a shock to see how much forest there had once been, and how very different in shape and size was the river. It was much rougher, with many patches of turbulent water, and a series of rapids foaming white over piles of fallen trees and storm wrack. There were many signs that the river was often in full flood. In places the mess of fallen trees and branches reached high on either side. Isabeau remembered that the locks and canals that protected the mouth of the Rhyllster would not be built for another few hundred years; it gave her a strange jolt, to realise how different the landscape was from the one she knew.

  She did not have time to do much more than glance about her, though. She could smell tobacco smoke, and hear the low murmur of voices. To one side, in a patch of grass under a big hemlock, a grave had been freshly dug. The gravediggers rested there on the mound of earth, smoking their pipes and taking the occasional swig from a bottle they passed between them. If they turned their heads, they would see the six strangers who had materialised so suddenly out of thin air.

  With a quick whisper, Isabeau hurried her companions away from the pool and into the shelter of some big old trees to one side. They crouched there, hearts hammering, palms tingling with perspiration. It was very warm, and they were still dressed for winter. They dared not remove their cloaks, though, which had been woven with potent spells of concealment and camouflage.

  ‘Any sign o’ Donncan?’ Isabeau whispered, craning her head forward to look.

  ‘Let me run out and see if I can find aught by the pool,’ Dide whispered. ‘Another feather, perhaps?’

  ‘No, it is too dangerous. Buba will fly out and see what he can see.’ The little elf-owl had come down to rest on her shoulder, his feathers all ruffled up about his ear tufts, his eyes very round. At her words he hooted softly and took flight, making no sound.

  ‘I wonder where they are,’ Ghislaine said.

  ‘If we used the same constellations as they did, surely we should have landed on their heels, despite the few days’ difference in the time o’ our leaving?’ Cailean asked with a frown. The huge shadow-hound was pressed close by the sorcerer’s leg, his ears laid back, his muzzle lifted in a silent snarl. He had not enjoyed the journey back in time.

  I cannot feel my daughter, Cloudshadow said. Not here, not now. She has not been here.

  ‘No’ been here!’ Isabeau exclaimed. ‘Ye mean, no’ at all? No’ at any time recently?’

  Cloudshadow shook her head.

  ‘Where can they be?’ Ghislaine said blankly. ‘Have we come to the wrong time?’

  Everyone felt a sick, black anxiety. They looked about frantically. Although the sun had set, the light was still bright, for the gloaming lasted a very long time in midsummer. The gravediggers were still sitting, smoking and drinking on their mound of freshly turned earth. Buba flitted from tree to tree silently, unnoticed. The Tomb of Ravens glimmered whitely. Isabeau could see the scars in the earth near the pool where the sacred stones of the Celestines had stood till only recently. She turned and looked out towards the sea, hoping against hope to see Donncan and Thunderlily, sheltering in the forest perhaps, or foraging for food.

  To her surprise she saw a small grey castle built on the high crag above the firth. In her time, the palace of Rh
yssmadill was a palace of soaring pointed towers, built from dreamy blue stone. This was a much smaller building, built for formidability not beauty. More than anything else she had yet seen, the grim stern castle made Isabeau realise that she had, indeed, gone back to the time of Brann the Raven. He had built Rhyssmadill, and lived there many years, unassailable and proud. After his death, his heirs had abandoned Rhyssmadill and moved their court to Ravenscraig, which had previously been their hunting castle. In time, Jaspar had built a palace on the site of the ruins, for his new wife Maya who longed to live within sight and smell of the sea.

  Staring at the castle, she noticed that the green flags with their device of a raven upon it were all flying at half-mast. Then she saw a heavily armed procession crossing the drawbridge across the ravine. Amidst all the jostling soldiers was a cart, and on the cart was a long wooden box that, she realised with a sharp juddering of her pulse, was a coffin.

  Beside her, Ghislaine frowned. ‘I think we must’ve come to the wrong time,’ she said. ‘For though we are here for a death, it canna be Brann’s.’

  Cailean turned to look where she pointed.

  ‘That is a rude funeral procession for a prionnsa,’ he agreed. ‘Especially such a proud and rich man as Brann the Raven. If it was no’ for all the soldiers, I would say it was a servant o’ some sort they carried out there, feet first. Or a plague victim.’

  ‘Aye. It seems odd,’ Dide said. ‘Surely they would’ve had a piper? A procession? Mourning clothes? It canna be Brann.’

  ‘It is Brann,’ Isabeau said, her voice sounding strange. Dide turned to look at her, and saw how tense and hunched her shoulders were, and how sickly white her skin.

  ‘Are ye all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Nay,’ she said. ‘It is Brann. His spirit is strong. I hear it in my ear.’

  It is time. Raise me!

  Buba came back to rest on Isabeau’s shoulder, and she rubbed the owl’s ear tufts compulsively, seeking comfort. He sank his head down into his wings, and she tried to soften the force of her touch.

  Find-hooh they-hooh? she hooted.

  No-hooh-hooh, he answered sadly.

  Cailean sent Dobhailen slinking out to sniff around, to see if his keen nose could pick up a trace that Buba’s keen eyes had missed. Although the shadow-hound was near as big as a child’s pony, he was silent as smoke and seemed to float from shadow to shadow. Certainly the gravediggers packing away their pipes and tobacco did not see him, not even when one stood and stretched his back before shouldering his shovel. The dog came back to Cailean after a few minutes scouting around, and it was clear from his sunken tail and ears that he had caught no trace of the Rìgh either. Isabeau clenched her jaw and dug her fingernails into her palms.

  ‘What are we to do?’ Ghislaine whispered. ‘Where can Donncan have gone?’

  ‘We must find them, and follow them,’ Isabeau said through her teeth. ‘We must go now!’

  The compulsion to find Brann and resurrect him was like the lash of whip and spur, driving her mad with pain. It was like lust, or anguish, an emotion that could not be assuaged. She could feel him coming nearer and nearer. He was a black force of malice and rage, clinging to his corpse with hooks made of an implacable will. He was not long dead. No more than twelve hours, barely enough time for the meat of his body to begin to rot. Isabeau knew it took three days for a soul to relinquish its body. It was one reason for the long ritual of watching over the corpse, and praying for its soul’s easy passage to the next dimension. Even in the heat of midsummer, it was unusual for someone to be buried so soon after death. The gravediggers must have worked hard all day to have such a deep pit ready and waiting.

  All must have been done in haste and secrecy. There would have been no time to do more than wash and wrap him, and order the coffin to be made and the grave to be dug. No bells were ringing, and no-one was wearing the black of mourning. If Isabeau could not feel for herself, in every sick and shaky nerve and muscle, how dark a soul it was clinging to his empty sack of a body, she would have felt pity and regret, that he should be allowed to be hurried to his grave in this fashion.

  As it was, she felt only overwhelming terror.

  ‘Surely it would be dangerous, to attempt another trip through time so close on the heels o’ the last?’ Dide was saying. ‘We are all worn out. I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spat out by an ogre. We have no’ eaten, or had a chance to rest. Surely we–’

  ‘No,’ Isabeau said. ‘We must go now.’

  ‘But Isabeau …’ Ghislaine protested. She looked sick and haggard. ‘Please!’

  ‘Is it no’ too late?’ Cailean said. ‘Sunset has passed, and with it the shift in the tides o’ power. Should we no’ wait till dawn?’

  ‘I do no’ ken about ye,’ Dide said, ‘but I ache all over, and my legs feel all wobbly.’

  ‘I also,’ Ghislaine said. ‘I feel as if I have been dream-walking all night. I would love a glass o’ wine in a hot bath, and a big bed with freshly laundered sheets.’

  Cailean compressed a smile and looked away. He was absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder, as if it pained him. Stormstrider also looked weary, though he sat as straight-backed as ever, his hands resting protectively on the sack.

  ‘No!’ Isabeau shrieked. At their expressions of shock and hurt, she tried to control her voice. ‘This spell o’ Brann’s … is driving me mad. He speaks in my ear all the time, commanding me, compelling me. He is almost here. He’s getting louder and louder. Please, please, we must … we must get away from here!’ She tried to think rationally, to find an argument to sway them. ‘I fear … for Donncan and Thunderlily. If I … if I canna withstand him … how will Johanna … she will be half crazed with it … I fear what she will do …’

  She could not go on. She stood up and seized her satchel, throwing it over her shoulder. She could barely hear the sound of the others’ protests and questions. Her ears were full of the voice of the spell. I am Brann. It is time. I will live again! I am Brann. It is time! Raise me! Raise me from the dead, for I must live again.

  Thorns snagged in her cloak, and she dragged it free, not caring as the material tore. Buba hooted at her anxiously from a nearby branch, and she did not hear, stalking back towards the pool, her shoulders hunched, her fists curled so tightly her nails cut into her palms. Dide caught up with her and took her arm.

  ‘Beau …’ he said.

  She tore her arm free and walked on. ‘Ye must help me,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Please.’

  ‘Ye’re frightening me, Beau. Is this wise? Should we take such a risk? We’ll be seen!’

  She turned to face him. ‘Do ye no’ understand? It is taking every bit o’ my strength no’ to seize my witch-dagger and slash ye across the throat, right now! He is almost here. He demands blood! Someone must die if he is to live again. I do no’ want it to be ye.’

  Dide took an involuntary step back, his face shocked.

  ‘He is close, Dide. He is very close. The spell is strong. It is … it is like a madness … I can barely …’ Again she stopped, biting her lip, clenching her hands together. ‘I must get away,’ she muttered. ‘Else … else I …’

  ‘We’ll go,’ Dide said.

  She nodded, and strode out through the trees and towards the Tomb of Ravens glowing in the very last rays of the sun.

  She was too late. The cart with its roughly made wooden coffin was drawn up near the graveyard, and the soldiers were manoeuvring it down and onto their shoulders. The voice in Isabeau’s ears rose to a shriek.

  Now! Now! Now is the time! Raise me!

  Isabeau fell to her knees, her hands beating at the side of her head, her eyes screwed tight. ‘Stop, stop it, stop it,’ she was muttering under her breath. Cailean and Dide ran to her side and tried to help her up. She broke away from them violently, bending over as if about to retch, her hands clamped over her ears.

  ‘Here, let us get her out o’ sight, afore they see us,’ Dide whispered. He bent and put his hand under her
armpit.

  ‘Take … away … my … dagger,’ she panted. ‘Dide, please!’

  He nodded and skilfully flipped her dagger out of its sheath and tossed it to Ghislaine, who caught it white-faced and backed away, holding it as if it was a viper. Then Dide and Cailean together lifted Isabeau and half carried her back into the shelter of the trees. Quick as they were, they were nearly spotted, for there were soldiers on guard about the cart, weapons drawn and eyes flicking about everywhere.

  ‘We canna use the Auld Way to escape while they are still here,’ Dide whispered. ‘We must wait. Beau, can ye stand it?’

  He was bending to lower her gently to the grass. Her answer was to reach out one hand and seize the slim, black-handled dagger he wore always in his boot. Dide sprang away as she slashed the dagger towards him. ‘Brann will live again,’ she hissed.

  ‘Beau!’ Dide cried. ‘What do ye do?’ His face showed his utter shock and horror.

  Isabeau looked down at the dagger in her hand. Her eyes opened wide and she dropped it from suddenly nerveless fingers. Dide very slowly bent and retrieved it, then stood there staring at her with it hanging from his hand. She raised her eyes and looked back at him, tears suddenly burning her eyes. ‘I canna … I canna help it,’ she said. ‘It is … so strong … He is so strong … Dide, forgive me … help me, please …’

  He could not speak.

  ‘What should we do?’ Ghislaine whispered. She looked fiercely at Cloudshadow and Stormstrider, who stood watching from the shadows of the trees, their third eye wide open and black as night. ‘Canna ye heal her?’ she demanded.

  Cloudshadow slowly shook her head. She is suffering an injury of the soul, not an injury of the body, she said silently. This is a magic of your kind, not of ours. I can tell you, though, that the stain that has been laid upon her is spreading fast. It is black, like the scorch marks of fire upon wood. She is full of darkness.

  ‘What should we do, what should we do?’ Ghislaine moaned, pressing her hands together.