by Kate Forsyth
One by one, their exuberance gone, the children followed him, casting scared glances up at the bridge of stone. There was a narrow gap between an outcrop of boulders and the cliff face. Slipping between, they found themselves scrambling up a narrow staircase naturally formed by rock and water. In places they had to climb, digging their fingers into tiny crevices and trying not to look down.
Of them all, Finn found the climb the easiest, having often been forced to break into castles by climbing their outer walls. She darted about like a wild goat herself, the elven cat, whom she called Goblin, bounding along at her heels.
When they at last reached the top, they all flopped onto their bellies on the slanted ridge, their heads hanging over one edge, their feet over another. On either side the ground dived away, nothing between them and the valley floor but dizzying distance. ‘I’m scared,’ Johanna whimpered, clinging to the ridge with both hands.
‘I’m scaaaared,’ Finn mimicked.
‘Stop being such a scaredy-cat!’ Dillon commanded.
‘Soldiers!’ Jorge said suddenly. ‘Get down, bairns, keep your heads low!’
All nine children lay closer to the ridge, their faces pressed against the rough stone, their hearts pounding. Dillon raised one eye above the edge and peered down at the company of soldiers riding through the valley below.
Finding the valley came to what seemed an abrupt dead end, the captain ordered his men to retrace their steps, and the soldiers moved out, not noticing the natural stairway which led to the bridge of stone above. Although they were too far away to hear a word the soldiers said, Dillon noted the lackadaisical attitude of the soldiers and smiled to himself. This was a routine manoeuvre—the soldiers did not know they were there.
‘We’d better be lying still a wee while longer,’ Dillon said. ‘Else they’ll be seeing us when we cross the ridge.’
‘How low is the sun?’ Jorge asked. ‘It makes no difference to me, o’ course, night and day are the same. Ye may find it difficult to cross after dark, though.’
Johanna gave a little cry of distress and hugged her brother closer. Even Finn looked a little concerned, and they all turned and scanned the western horizon. The shadow of the needle-tipped ranges fell dark across the valleys. ‘Maybe an hour or two left,’ Dillon calculated.
‘Plenty of time,’ Jorge beamed as the raven flew lazily towards them, his wings black against the bright sky.
Jorge’s prediction proved sanguine. By the time the sun had set he had crossed the ridge with ease, but most of the children were still strung out along its narrow length. At last the entire League was safely on the other side, and so exhausted that they camped where they dropped. The dawn breaking over the mountains woke them, and they sat together on the edge of the great expanse of rock, overawed at the vastness of the world spread out before them.
‘We can see three countries from here,’ Johanna said. ‘Can ye see? That wee silver thread down there is the Wulfrum River, and all that dark forest on the other side is Rurach.’
‘Rurach,’ Finn said slowly. She crept closer to the western edge so she could see down to the thickly forested slopes below. Behind them the conical peak of the Fang reared against the brightening sky, its tip wreathed with clouds. ‘It looks wild,’ she said softly, ‘wild and lonely.’
‘They say the forests o’ Rurach still be filled with many strange creatures that are all but gone here in Rionnagan.’ Johanna gave a little shudder. ‘It’s dangerous indeed, they say.’
‘It sounds like a place ye’d have adventures in,’ Finn said softly.
They kept on moving after a scanty breakfast and by noon had descended from the heights into another valley. Each hour they travelled, Jorge grew more excited, his limping step longer and faster. They came at last to a tumbling brook and followed its course up a steep slope, thorny with greygorse and goldensloe. Above them towered great walls of rock, one section much broken, as if there had once been a landslide there. The stream bubbled through the rocks behind them, forming a shallow pool where they could wash their hot faces and drink deeply of its cold refreshment. Only then did they look about them and wonder if the Master had not somehow been led astray, for they could see no valley entrance, only massive tumbled boulders.
‘This way.’ Feeling the rock face with his fingers, Jorge walked round the biggest boulder of them all and disappeared.
The children followed quickly, the boulder concealing a narrow, twisting pathway through the cliffs. Once the stream would have gushed freely through the chasm, but the landslide had all but blocked its passageway, and the children had to squeeze through gaps in the fallen rocks to make their way through.
At last they reached the far end, coming out into a broad, long valley surrounded on all sides by a great red cliff like a wave of bloody water turned to stone. At the far end was a small loch, fed by long waterfalls that poured over the edge of the cliffs from the white glacier towering above.
‘Jesyah tells me there are many caves in the walls, but the one I have turned into my home is over in this direction.’ Jorge set off along the corrie’s edge, bringing them at last to the far edge of the valley. The loch glimmered a dark green in the overhang of the cliff, the waterfalls frothing into white at their base. Dark openings here and there indicated many small caves. Jorge led the way into one, lighting a witch light at the end of his staff so they could see how cosy it was.
Books, scrolls and bottles were crowded on wooden shelves attached precariously to the overarching walls. Dried herbs hung from a badly made rack, and a deep nest of furs and blankets covered the floor. A deeply scarred wooden rod overhead showed where the raven roosted.
‘Now out, all o’ ye! There is no’ enough room in here for all ye lumbering bairns. Ye’ll have to find yourselves caves in which to sleep, for this wee crevice is barely large enough for Jesyah and me!’
Excitedly the children raced outside. For the next few hours their cries rang all round the corrie. They discovered caves bigger than any merchant’s house, and as ornately decorated, though with pillars and arches of stone rather than cushions and tapestries. They raced through thickets and copses of trees, startling a flock of tree-swallows from their massive nests high in the boughs. They squabbled over the caves, Finn and Johanna at last triumphantly securing the best of them—small but deep, with a spring near the entrance and a smoke-stained crack at the back that showed fires had been lit there in the past.
The boys settled on a cave across the valley from Jorge’s. It was much larger than the girls’ and had a soft, sandy floor and a high, intricate ceiling. Although there was no natural chimney to lead the smoke from their fire out of the cave, there was a pool of icy-cold water at the very back, and passages that led to other caves, giving them all separate bedrooms if they wished. They began cutting bracken to make mattresses, and Johanna decided to cook them all a feast to celebrate the end of their journeying. The valley was filled with plants and animals, and Dillon was sure he could catch a fish in the loch.
It was near sunset when they sent Connor across the valley floor to fetch Jorge for the feast. When he returned, the little boy was quiet with awe, for the old man striding along behind him was no longer the dirty, shabby beggar they all knew. He had bathed in the loch, and his snowy white hair and beard flowed down over a long, finely woven robe of pale blue. Gilt thread glittered in an intricate border around the hem and collar and sleeves, and a dark-blue plaid was pinned at his breast with a jewelled brooch. He seemed taller, and carried himself proudly, barely leaning on his staff at all.
They greeted him with unusual deference, and seated him by the campfire. He smiled at them gravely, and said, ‘I have spoken with Meghan at last and she has made a suggestion which pleases me greatly. She wishes me to establish a Theurgia here, the first such school in sixteen years. Ye can all stay here with me and learn whatever I can teach ye.’
‘I never heard o’ a Theurgia afore,’ Dillon said carefully, not at all sure he liked the sound o
f it.
‘It is a school, bairns. A school for fledgling witches. Do no’ feel so dismayed! I can sense your consternation from here. Would ye rather be living hand to mouth in the slums o’ Lucescere or here in this safe valley with me and Tòmas?’ Obediently the children murmured that they would much rather be here, of course. ‘All o’ the Towers had schools, and bairns would be sent from one to another according to their Talents. If ye had no clear Talent, or if your mentor felt a wider, more general education was necessary, ye would have gone to the Theurgia at the Tower o’ Two Moons. It was the biggest o’ the schools and the most highly regarded, since acolytes were taught many different Skills there.’
As he talked, the warlock ate hungrily, though the children’s ardent appetite seemed to have diminished. As Jorge described to them all the things they would learn, they gradually stopped eating altogether, looking at each other in dismay.
Then, as an afterthought, the old warlock said, ‘Some other news that may interest ye. Meghan asked me to find out from Jesyah as much as I could about the geography o’ this valley. When I described to her what he saw, she said she may send us company. It seems she is searching for a place to set up the rebel encampment …’
Immediately the boys leapt to their feet, cheering with excitement. ‘The rebels are coming here? They’ll be stationed here, in this valley?’ Dillon shouted. ‘They’ll teach us to fight with swords, maybe? And happen the Cripple will come. Is he no’ the leader o’ all the rebels in the land? Hurrah! Things’ll start happening then!’ The children danced an impromptu jig around the fire, all thoughts of the Theurgia vanished in their excitement.
It was dark and stifling within the filthy folds of sacking. Sweat stung his eyes, and he twisted against his bonds although he knew there was no escape. He had tested the strength of the ropes for days now, and all he had done was chafe his wrists till they bled. Whoever had caught him had made sure he could not escape.
Douglas MacSeinn was not sure how many days it had been since he had been kidnapped from the forests surrounding Rhyssmadill. It seemed like an eternity. He had been riding through the forest when his mare had suddenly reared, neighing in alarm. Something had darted out of the trees directly towards him. He had an impression of fluttering grey, and a strange, dank smell like that of an open grave. Then a great winged ghost was looming over him, its glittering eyes holding his gaze. The world tilted and slowed; the earth rushed past in a blur, then darkness swallowed him.
He had woken much later, bound in ropes and sacking, his head aching, his senses confused. Occasionally the sacking was pulled aside so he could drink water or force down spoonfuls of cold, gluey porridge. Even more rarely, his bonds were untied so he could stumble to a bush to relieve himself. He saw very little at those times, his eyes dazzled, but he heard a deep droning noise. The alien nature of the sound, along with his captors’ clawlike grasp, convinced him he had not been kidnapped by humans. But by what? By whom?
Douglas shuddered with fear at the idea he was the captive of some demon-spawned uile-bheist, and he racked his brains trying to figure out why. Although he was the only living child and heir of the Prionnsa of Carraig, Linley MacSeinn, their country had been lost to the Fairgean five years earlier. Once one of the richest and proudest of the prionnsachan, the MacSeinns were now refugees from their land, dependent upon the Rìgh for their survival. Kidnapping Douglas in hope of a ransom was futile, for his father, the MacSeinn, simply could not afford to pay.
The rippling sound of water was all about him, and he smelt swamp through the musty odour of the sacking. Where can I be? he thought, pushing down the panic rising in his throat.
He was swung into the air and carried forward, the ropes biting deep into his stomach, then dropped without warning onto a very hard, very cold floor. He was unable to help crying out in pain, and he heard a woman’s autocratic voice say, ‘I told ye he was no’ to be harmed! Bring him into the throne room!’
Someone dragged him along the floor, and he curled around his ropes, fear freezing his blood. He was tossed in a heap, then the ropes were mercifully cut free. Douglas was able to struggle free of the sacking, gulping great mouthfuls of clean air and rubbing the grime from his caked eyelashes. With an effort he got to his feet and stared at his captors with mingled dismay and horror. They were tall, winged creatures with huge clusters of eyes, out-thrusting proboscis, and three pairs of multijointed, clawed arms.
‘So, another pupil for our Theurgia,’ a female voice said. ‘And a Talented one at that!’
Douglas spun round, staggered and almost fell. With his jaw clenched, he stared defiantly at the woman reclining on a great throne before him. She wore a heather-purple plaid over a black silk gown, with a silver brooch in the shape of a flowering thistle at her breast.
‘Who are ye?’ Douglas demanded, his voice cracking. ‘How dare ye bring me here against my will. Ye have no right!’
She laughed, a sweet, silvery sound that brought ice trickling through his veins. ‘I am the Banprionnsa o’ Arran, and I can do whatever I like, my young cockerel. Ye are in the Tower o’ Mists now, surrounded on all sides by the Murkmyre Marshes. Ye can no’ escape.’
‘How dare ye kidnap me! My father will be angry indeed. I am the Prionnsa Douglas MacSeinn, and ye have no right bringing me here against my will. Take me home at once!’
‘To Carraig, my loud young laird? I have no desire to lose yet another bright Talent to the wicked, murdering Fairgean. Nay, nay, ye’ll be safer here than in Carraig.’
‘I want to go back to my father!’ Douglas shouted, his fists clenched.
‘Come, Douglas,’ the banprionnsa smiled, ‘where are your manners? Do ye no’ realise ye are come to the last Theurgia in the land? Here ye will be taught to use all that Talent I sense in ye. Indeed, ye are o’ the best and noblest o’ blood and should have a rare potential for witchcraft and witchcunning. I have the best teachers in the land, and my library is incomparable. Ye shall be a great warlock and learn to wield the One Power—’
‘No,’ Douglas cried. ‘I canna stay here, my father needs me.’
‘Ye have made dangerous enemies for one so young,’ Margrit smiled, causing Douglas’s heart to sink. With a chill he remembered his hasty words at the Rìgh’s high table. Was that what the Banprionnsa of Arran meant? He had criticised the Rìgh’s Decree Against Witchcraft which had led to the death of so many witches, among them the Sea Witches of Carraig. Many of the sea witches had had the ability to bewitch the Fairgean with song, and their death had meant the most potent weapon against the sea people was lost. He knew his ill-considered words had caused a minor scandal, for the whispers had raced around the great hall faster than a bumblebee could fly. His own father had berated him later, reminding him they were being housed and fed by the Rìgh and it was rude as well as stupid to castigate him while living under his roof. Douglas had blushed and apologised and thought no more about it, but now he began to wonder.
‘Ye must take me home, my poor father will be frantic! I do no’ want to join your Theurgia. I demand to be taken back to Rhyssmadill!’
The Banprionnsa of Arran threw back her head and laughed, sending icicles creeping down his spine. A young man standing irresolutely against the wall made frantic silencing motions with his hands. Douglas stared at him angrily. He was shabbily dressed, with ink stains on his fingers, so that Douglas thought he must be some sort of scribe. He put his finger to his lips again, gazing at him so pleadingly that Douglas swallowed the indignant words he had been about to shout.
‘Ye will learn, my foolish lad, no’ to make demands o’ Margrit o’ Arran,’ the banprionnsa said kindly. ‘Khan’tirell! Take the lad away and give him a good whipping for his insolence. Then lock him up with naught but a heel o’ bread and a flagon o’ water until I see fit to release him.’
Douglas tried to escape, of course. Over the next few days he twice evaded the relentless observation of the banprionnsa’s servants and was dragged in from the marsh
es by a Mesmerd, muddy, cold and, although he would never have admitted it, frightened. The first time Margrit showed him three small skeletons hanging from the lintel of the Theurgia’s tower. They had been executed by the banprionnsa’s chamberlain after staging a rebellion.
‘Bright as your Talent is, I shall no’ suffer any defiance,’ she said, smiling kindly. ‘Do no’ try and escape again.’
Perhaps it was the smile that had deceived him. Douglas tried again as soon as he was allowed out of solitary confinement. That time Margrit left him for a day and a night in her oubliette, a lightless hole sunk twenty feet below the ground. Before he was lowered into that dank, terrifying closeness, she had nodded to Khan’tirell. The horned man had drawn his dagger and with easy economy slit the throat of one of the other students, a sturdy little crofter’s daughter. She had been the one with the least Talent.
‘Defy me again and another child shall die,’ Margrit said. ‘Ye see, I sense power in ye, lad, and will no’ lightly let ye slip my fingers.’
Douglas was not deceived by the smile that accompanied her words this time. When he was at last drawn up out of his cramped, dark prison, his face was set as if carved out of white marble. Both hands were crabbed all over with black trickles of blood from where he had dug in his nails. Yet Khan’tirell drew his angular brows together and said to the banprionnsa, ‘He is still only a youth, fifteen o’ the long darkness, if that. He either had help through the night or is a dangerous youth indeed. Older and stronger men have been broken by the pit.’
Margrit grasped Douglas by his thick black hair and pulled his head back until he was on his knees, back arched, eyes upturned to hers. She stared deep into his sea-green eyes and saw pain enough to please her. She drew her thin brows together, quirked her mouth and let him go. ‘He is a MacSeinn,’ she shrugged. ‘I would have expected inner reserves. His apprenticeship has begun. Feed him, wash him and let him lie in quietness for a while. When he wakes, remind him the Mesmerdean fly the marshes, the bogfaeries guard the fens, the golden goddess blooms in glorious death, and my eyes are everywhere. He shall submit to my will.’