by Kate Forsyth
No-one paid them any attention as they went through the town, being too busy among their own concerns. Ballard made a show of pretending to be assisting a drunk friend, and Jem showed a mouth full of bad teeth in what he thought was a smile. Olwynne kept her head down, and her hood over her distinctive red hair. Owein was well muffled up in a cloak too, so that not one red curl or red feather could be seen.
Beyond the town was a steep cobbled road that climbed up the hill to the fort on the top of the cliff. It was dark away from the light of the town, and Ballard had to stop often, to shift Owein’s dead weight on his shoulder, and to share another draught of whisky with Jem. Irving drank once or twice too, but Piers did not, and his hand under Olwynne’s elbow did not slacken.
By the time they reached the top of the road, both Jem and Ballard were swaying and stumbling. Piers was remonstrating with them under his breath, and then let go of Olwynne to go to Ballard’s assistance as the big man suddenly dropped to his knees. Owein slid over his shoulder to the ground, and lay quietly as Piers and Jem together tried to rouse Ballard, who dropped onto his face and began to snore very loudly.
Jem was giggling helplessly, much to Piers’s anger, then suddenly keeled over onto his face as well. Olwynne slowly backed away, until she was beside Owein and was able to surreptitiously help him up. Step by slow step they edged away into the blackness, being careful to keep close to the inside edge of the hill so they did not slip over the cliff in their blindness.
Suddenly they heard shouts and the harsh cry of a raven. Seizing each other’s hands they began to run, forcing their stiff, trembling legs forward, their breath already catching in their sides.
Then a great bluish sphere of light illuminated the whole road. Owein and Olwynne glanced back over their shoulders and saw Piers and Irving both bounding down the road after them. Irving had a dagger in his hand. At the top of the hill Lord Malvern stood, one hand raised high, a huge witch’s light illuminating the hill all around. His raven was swooping towards them, calling raucously.
Owein and Olwynne could only stumble forward as fast as they could. They heard the pound of running feet behind them and expected, every moment, to feel heavy hands on their shoulders.
Then, out of the darkness, came a new sound. The beat of great wings. Olwynne glanced up, terrified, and saw Blackthorn dropping down from the sky, Rhiannon on her back. Desperate hope leapt in her heart. Rhiannon reached down a hand to her. Their eyes met. There was a moment of complete knowledge between them, smouldering with anger and shame and bitter hatred. Then Olwynne reached up her hand, and Rhiannon caught it and swung her up. Desperately, her legs hampered by her heavy skirts, Olwynne managed to lie across Blackthorn’s withers, the bulge of the saddle-pad digging painfully into her stomach.
‘Why?’ she managed to gasp.
‘Lewen wanted me to,’ Rhiannon answered, then she was leaning forward, shouting at Owein, ‘Fly! I canna carry ye both! Can ye fly!’
Owein at once spread his wings and leapt up into the air. Olwynne realised with a start of tears to her eyes that her brother could probably have escaped any time during the last hour, since they had not bothered to bind his wings to his body as they had done for so many days.
Rhiannon dug her knees into Blackthorn’s side, and the winged mare wheeled about, making for the cliff’s edge. Just then, something sharp and icy-cold pierced Rhiannon deep in her left shoulder. She jerked and cried aloud. A roar of pain filled her ears and eyes. The ice became a fire, a conflagration. Her head whirled. She realised she was falling. A scream tore at her vocal chords. She flailed out her arm, grasping for something to steady her. Her hand met something soft. Her fingers closed. The next moment, between the horror of falling that was every thigearn’s greatest fear, and the pain and shock of the dagger driven deep into her shoulder, Rhiannon realised she was dragging Olwynne down with her. There was no time to think. Rhiannon let go, and fell.
Strong arms seized her. Rhiannon was pressed close to a linen-clad chest, and heard all about her the beating of strong wings. Intense pain stabbed through her, and for a moment she blacked out.
Then another jolt of agony dragged her halfway back to consciousness. Vaguely she heard screaming and shouting, and bluish light flashed in her eyes. Something hard knocked into her, and then she felt again the dreadful, heart-stopping sensation of falling.
All went dark.
Rhiannon slowly swam back into consciousness. Her first sensations were the feel of a hard cold floor beneath her and the smell of dank stone and sour, unwashed hair. The smell was so familiar it brought a wave of panic crashing through her. Her heart accelerated, her breath hitched, and she thought, incoherently, Oh no, no’ again! No’ Sorrowgate Tower …
Trying to catch her breath, she opened her eyes and struggled to sit up. Pain lanced through her shoulder. She gasped out loud, and froze, one hand going up tentatively to touch the source of the pain. She felt as if a red-hot rod had been drilled through her shoulder and she was hanging upon it, pinned like a still-fluttering butterfly.
‘Rhiannon, are ye all right? Owein, she’s awoken!’
At the sound of the banprionnsa’s voice, Rhiannon lifted her bleary gaze. She saw Olwynne sitting opposite her, leaning forward in concern. Her red hair was a bird’s nest, rising up around her face in a wild frizz stuck with old leaves and burrs. They were in a dark cell or dungeon, with nothing but mouldy old straw on the floor to soften the damp stones. Above them in the wall was a narrow slit of a window, through which light filtered. Beside the banprionnsa sat her twin brother. Although Rhiannon had never met him before, there was no mistaking his identity. Like Olwynne, his hair was red and curly, his eyes were brown, and he had the magnificent long wings of his father, though coloured as flame-red as his hair, not nightblack like Lachlan’s had been. He was watching her with the same intent concern as Olwynne.
‘What happened?’ Rhiannon said faintly.
‘Irving threw his dagger and got ye through the shoulder. Ye fainted and fell. I tried to catch ye, but Olwynne fell too. I couldna hold ye both, though I tried. We all fell, all three o’ us. Luckily we hit the road, else we’d all be dead, I think. Your horse tried to save us, but there were too many o’ them.’
‘They got her?’ Rhiannon gasped in horror.
‘Nay. She escaped, but only just. There was no hope for us. They dragged us up the road and threw us in this place. That was about three or four hours ago.’
Rhiannon’s eyes stung with tears. She dropped her face into her arms, refusing to let them see her weep.
‘Ye tried,’ Olwynne said, her voice trembling. ‘Ye did your best.’
‘How did ye get here?’ Owein asked eagerly. ‘Did ye come with the Yeomen? Are they here somewhere too? Maybe they’ll–’
‘No Yeomen,’ Rhiannon answered curtly. ‘I flew after your ship on Blackthorn. It was very hard. We almost dinna make it. The storm … I have never seen aught like it. The waves were tall as mountains.’
‘No wonder we were so sick,’ Olwynne said to Owein.
‘And Dedrie and all the others too.’
‘Ahead was always fair skies,’ Rhiannon said, ‘but behind ye, blackness and storm like I’ve never seen afore. The lightning and the thunder, the wind … it was like frost-giants making war. So I … we flew ahead. It was too hard to just follow. We would never have made it. But once we got ahead o’ ye, we had an easier time o’ it. We came to this island last night, and made camp up in the auld ruin. Then we waited for ye.’
She had to concentrate hard to form the words and make sure they came out right. She felt sick and dizzy and utterly shocked and miserable. The pain in her shoulder was intense. Gingerly she reached over her shoulder and felt the point at which the dagger had pierced her. Someone had bound it with some kind of cloth, but it fell away when she moved, dropping to the floor like a mangled crimson flower. Beneath her fingers the wound was wet and pulpy and hurt like hell. Her fingers came away bloody.
‘I could no’ do any better,’ Olwynne said apologetically. ‘We managed to tear up Owein’s shirt, but ye were bleeding so much. Most o’ it got ruined.’ She made a gesture with one hand and Rhiannon saw a pile of bloodstained rags tossed in one corner. ‘Ye’ve lost a lot of blood,’ she went on unhappily. ‘But I do no’ think anything important got nicked. No’ your heart or your lungs, or anything.’
‘That’s good,’ Rhiannon responded, feeling rather blank and strange. She wanted to get up, and rip the room apart searching for a way out, or a weapon, or tool. But she simply did not have the strength. She could not imagine even trying to stand.
‘So ye do no’ ken if the Yeomen are on our trail or no’?’ Owein asked. She could hear from his voice that he was trying to hide his bitter disappointment. She looked at him with an effort, and managed to shrug one shoulder.
‘I sent them a message. I told them where the ship was going. But I do no’ ken if they even got it. And if they did, they are days behind. Maybe more, for they were sailing into that storm.’
Despite herself her voice dragged with a sense of utter hopelessness. Rhiannon could not see how anyone could possibly survive the black storm Lord Malvern had conjured up. They were on their own.
Iseult clung to the railing.
‘I will no’ turn back!’ she screamed.
‘My lady, if we do no’ heave-to we’ll all drown!’ Captain Tobias yelled back. As well as being the captain of The Royal Stag, the great war galleon whose wheel he was now clinging to in an effort to keep the ship from foundering, he was the Lord High Admiral of the royal fleet. Twenty ships spread out behind The Royal Stag, endeavouring to make their way through the heavy seas to the Pirate Isles.
They had to shout at one another for there was no other way to be heard above the howling of the wind, the crash of the waves over the stern, the crack and whistle of the tormented sails, and the thunder which rattled about the heavens like a river of cannonballs tumbling down a grand staircase. Rain lashed their faces. The Royal Stag climbed a great black swell of water, looking as frail as a stormy petrel. Seawater streamed away down the deck, knocking sailors off their feet and dragging anything not tied down away in a wild welter of foam and spray. Higher and higher the ship climbed. It seemed the crest of the wave must break over them and smash them all to pieces. But then the ship broke through, and teetered for an instant. The sails filled. The ship tipped over and began the descent down into the black abyss, high walls of ocean swelling on either side. The sailors fought to keep their footing as water sloshed back down the other way.
‘We canna sail through this storm,’ Captain Tobias shouted.
‘We have to!’ Iseult shouted back. ‘My children are out there somewhere. We have to find them, we have to catch up with that ship!’
‘It’s madness!’
‘Maybe so, but we’re doing it anyway! All I ask o’ ye is ye hold the ship on course until we can get this wind back under control.’
He barked a harsh laugh. ‘Control this wind? Ye’re fools as well as madmen!’
‘Do no’ forget who ye speak to,’ Iseult said, her eyes narrowing. The captain shivered in the breath of arctic air that suddenly swirled at him from the folds of her cloak. Icicles hung from her hood, and the deck about her feet turned white and slick.
‘I have no’ forgotten, my lady,’ the captain cried, ‘but ye canna expect me to take my fleet and all my men to the bottom o’ the ocean without at least trying to make ye see reason.’
She laughed. It was a wild, almost exultant sound. ‘Trust me, Captain! We’re no’ beaten yet.’
He glanced out at the huge rolling seas and shuddered. ‘If ye could just keep the wind at our backs …’ he said rather hopelessly.
‘We can do that, at least,’ Iseult answered. ‘It’s just a matter o’ holding it steady.’
Lightning ripped open the underbelly of the vast black cloud. Thunder roared. Captain Tobias made the sign of Eà’s blessing, then shouted himself hoarse as sailors slipped and slithered about, doing his bidding.
The upper sails all came tumbling down, and were swiftly wrapped and stowed.
One little storm sail was hoisted aloft at the stern to help the captain retain control of the steering, while another was hoisted on the mizzenmast. The ship bucked and danced as the wind and the seas together wrenched it awry. The captain called for help to hold the tiller steady, and everyone grabbed at the rail as another grey beast of water came snarling and foaming over the rail and down the decks.
Iseult scanned the turbulent seas anxiously, then, as the ship laboured up out of the trough again, took a deep breath and hurried back to her companions on the forecastle.
Stormy Briant was standing before the foremast with his hands gripping the rail, his dark hair blowing about his face and his eyes exultant. He loved a good storm. On either side of him were the two weather-witches who had trained as his apprentices. The elder, named Cristina, had been accepted into the Coven some four years earlier and was working towards her first sorceress ring. A tall attractive woman with grey eyes and brown hair, she was, it was rumoured, more to Briant than just his assistant. The younger witch had only recently sat his Third Test of Power, and looked rather frightened to be facing such a wild storm so soon after being accepted as a witch. Named Fredric, he was in general called Freddy by his mentors, much to his disgust.
Finn the Cat was crouched in the shelter of a canvas lean-to, looking very ill. She was not, Iseult thought, a good sailor. Jay sat beside her, one arm about her back, the other holding a bucket which he passed to her as needed. Nina the Nightingale sat on her other side, helping brace her against the pitching of the ship. Roden was with his father up on the poop deck, begging the captain to let him spin the wheel. The captain merely shook his head, and bade him go below deck and stop getting in everyone’s way. Rafferty and Cameron were both doing what they could to make themselves useful, although neither had ever been on a ship before and had absolutely no idea what to do.
Captain Dillon was ordering his men to lash the cannons in place, and to make sure the barrels of gunpowder were well secured and not being ruined by water. He glanced at Iseult as she went by, and she nodded her head briefly to indicate that their course was to remain steady. He nodded, and ordered all the soldiers to make sure they wore a rope about their waists, tying them to the ship. He did not want to lose a man overboard if the seas were to grow any rougher, which he imagined they would.
‘Finn, are ye well enough to try and raise the circle o’ power again?’ Iseult asked, bending over the prostrate sorceress. ‘We must try and calm this storm!’
Finn nodded and tried to get up, her hand pressed hard over her mouth. Her legs were wobbly, though, and Nina and Jay together needed to help her. The other witches turned from the rail, coming to join hands in a circle, with Stormy Briant in the centre.
‘What a magnificent storm!’ he cried. ‘This laird has power, no doubt o’ that!’
‘Have we enough power to leash what he has unleashed?’ Iseult asked.
Briant grinned and shrugged. ‘It is far easier to raise a storm than it is to control one. He conjured the wind to drive his ship, however, and we merely follow in his wake. If we had a full circle o’ sorcerers, I’d say, easy! If we had even a half-circle o’ weather-witches, I’d say not too difficult. A half-circle o’ witches, half o’ whom have no Talent with weather whatsoever, well, let’s say it’ll be a challenge.’ His eyes shone with excitement.
‘Well, let us try again,’ Iseult said. ‘Nina, will ye sing the chant for us?’
Nina nodded. Her power all lay in her voice, and so, with her eyes closed and her energy focused, she began to sing, drawing upon the One Power until the air all about grew so chill it was hard for the sailors and soldiers working nearby to breathe. Icicles began to form on the halyards. The rain turned to sleet.
The other witches chanted with her then, as the song reached its penultimate crescendo, flung their hands high in
the air, directing all their power to Briant. He took it, and wove it into a noose to seize the wind and bring it back under control.
It was like trying to lasso and ride a herd of wild flying horses. The wind was so strong and so turbulent, it would not be tamed so easily. Briant staggered and almost fell, almost as green as Finn, who was doing her best to control the urge to vomit until Nina had opened the circle again. Cristina ran to support Briant, who leant his hands on his knees, his head hanging, dragging in deep lungfuls of the sleety, salty air.
The ship keeled and almost capsized, and everyone seized the closest mast or rail as water poured all over the decks. Briant was knocked off his feet and dragged sideways. If it had not been for Cristina clinging to him desperately, he may well have gone overboard. For a moment it seemed as if the ship could not possibly right itself. Screams and cries of horror could be heard all over the ship. Then the galleon somehow steadied and ploughed on, and everyone struggled to their feet again, coughing and spluttering, and wiping the salt water from their eyes. The wind bit through their wet clothes and dragged at their wet hair, and the witches were not the only ones to hurriedly make the sign of Eà’s blessing with their fingers.
‘May the Spinners spare us,’ one young sailor groaned.
‘It’s madness to go on,’ another cried.
Iseult looked at Briant, who clutched the rail, Cristina hugging her arm about his waist. He shrugged. ‘I almost had it,’ he said. ‘Och, but it’s a wild one, this storm. If Cailean was here, to lend me his strength, I’d be riding it now, I swear. But we just havena the power.’
‘If only I dinna feel so sick,’ Finn murmured. Jay pressed her closer, smoothing back her wet, bedraggled hair. She was fighting tears.