by Kate Forsyth
A small walled enclosure lay beyond. There another garden flourished, though in old tubs and buckets rather than beautifully set out in squares and triangles like the kitchen garden. Although herbs were grown here too, the tubs mostly held riotous growths of wild flowers. Isabeau gave a tremulous smile, for here were many of the flowers she knew, the small, fragrant blossoms of the meadows and forests.
‘This be my secret place,’ the old man said rather apologetically. ‘I miss the highlands, and so have taken to buying roots and seeds from the pedlars when they pass. My name is Riordan Bowlegs, while I can see ye canna be anything but the Red.’
‘I be named Isabeau,’ she replied shyly.
In the courtyard was a pump, and he worked it for her so she could wash her face and hands. She unhooked the skirt so she could more easily brush off the mud, sitting on a barrel in her underdress and bodice and pulling off her cap so her shorn head could feel the sun. She had tucked her crippled hand under her apron all the way from the garden; now she carefully concealed it by her side, hoping Riordan Bowlegs had not noticed. If he had, he ignored it, bringing her a cup of water to drink. It was warm and tasted of earth.
‘There be a natural spring o’ water under the rock,’ the old man explained. ‘That be another reason why the MacCuinn moved his court here. They pump up the water from the very depths o’ the rock. In the royal suite ye have the choice o’ seawater or fresh, they say, and ye can even have it warmed for ye, which is too uncanny close to witchcraft for my liking.’
‘Why would ye want to bathe in seawater?’
‘Bloody guid question, lassie, I often ask it myself. They say it be healthful, and an aid to beauty, and indeed ye might believe it, with the Banrìgh so bonny and fresh still. Though if so, our puir MacCuinn should be bathing in it, for he grows thinner and more pinched-looking each day. They say he will no’ though, having a healthy misliking for the sea, as a MacCuinn should.’
Isabeau sipped her water thoughtfully, filing away this odd fact for future reference as the old man chattered on. ‘There was an auld castle built here, o’ course, before the MacCuinn brought the court down from Lucescere. It was the MacBrann’s castle, built in the days when he commanded the harbour. It’s too guid a position, here on this great rock, and surrounded on all sides by the firth, for there no’ to have been a stronghold here. With its own water supply and escape routes out the sea-caves, ’tis near as strong as Lucescere. Indeed, if it had no’ been, I doubt many o’ us auld ones would have come with him from the Shining Waters, for Rhyssmadill is far too close to the sea for our liking. I canna see how the folks o’ Dùn Gorm can stand it, living down there on the bare shores o’ the firth. Ye canna call those puny walls much protection from the Fairgean.’
Riordan Bowlegs paused in his slow weeding and pruning to say thoughtfully, ‘I mean no disrespect, Red, but had ye no’ better be hurrying back to the kitchen? I have known Latifa for a long time syne, and she does no’ like to be kept waiting.’
Isabeau jumped to her feet in a panic, having completely forgotten her mishap in the kitchen. ‘Thank ye,’ she gasped, hooking up her skirt. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered ye.’
‘No bother, lass. Glad to have been o’ service. Here, do no’ forget your cap.’
Isabeau took her muslin bonnet gratefully and, with his help, tied it on again in haste. Riordan said softly, ‘Some advice, Red. Latifa does no’ like to have lassies under her that do no’ own up to misdoing. Face her square, and she’ll no’ be too hard on ye.’
Isabeau found this advice sound, and although she endured a tongue-lashing, it was pithy and to the point. Her punishment was then to be tucked up in bed with a hot herb posset and some final admonishments, and allowed to sleep. For the first time in weeks Isabeau slept soundly and without nightmares, dreaming instead of a golden-eyed man who wrapped her in the soft darkness of love.
A week after Beltane, Iseult and Lachlan came hand in hand through the moss-oaks to find Meghan bowed over, her face hidden in her hands. The discarded crystal ball lay on the grass, pearly white. Gitâ was standing on his hind legs, his paws resting on Meghan’s hands, chittering in distress. Iseult’s pace quickened. ‘Auld mother, what’s wrong?’
Meghan’s sunken cheeks glistened with tears. ‘Isabeau …’
Iseult’s eyes flew up to meet Lachlan’s. ‘What’s happened to Isabeau?’
‘She’s safe, she and the Key … all safe.’ She wiped her cheeks impatiently. ‘I’m sorry. I am just so relieved that Isabeau is safe. She’s been sick indeed with the fever—Latifa was feared she would no’ pull through, but she is young and strong, and the fever has broken.’ She took a few deep breaths. ‘I knew she would succeed. The Key is safe! We have all three parts now, and all we need do is join them again. Somehow I must get back the two parts she holds, but how?’
‘Why is this Key so important, auld mother?’ Iseult got up the courage to ask the question that had been on her mind a long time.
Meghan looked a little surprised. ‘Remember I told ye how I had used the Key to hide something I did no’ want Maya to get her hands on? That was the Lodestar, a magical sphere that responds only to the hand o’ a MacCuinn. I hid it at the Pool o’ Two Moons and locked away the maze that surrounds the pool with the Key. I then broke it and gave one-third to Ishbel and one-third to Latifa. I never imagined it would take me sixteen years to find Ishbel again! For all that time the Lodestar has been lying there in cold and darkness, its powers slowly ebbing away. Until we join the Key, we canna rescue it or use its powers to aid us in our struggle.’
She sat silently, staring into the ashes. ‘There is more news, and it is no’ good. What the dragons told me about the spell cast on the night o’ the comet is true. It was a Spell o’ Begetting, for Latifa tells me the Banrìgh is with babe …’
Lachlan went white. ‘The cursehag is pregnant? I canna believe it! Sixteen years she’s been as barren as a mule! We had banked on there being no heir—I had thought I was the only one. What does this forebode?’
‘A new thread has been strung,’ Meghan replied. ‘What it means for us, only time will tell.’
‘She means to be Regent and rule in the babe’s name!’ he cried. ‘We have to stop her. A Fairge babe to inherit the throne o’ Eileanan—I will no’ allow it!’
‘So ye have information I do no’?’ Meghan asked sarcastically. ‘Ye ken the ancestry of Maya the Unknown, when for sixteen years all our inquiries have come to naught?’
Lachlan’s cheek darkened, but he continued stubbornly, ‘If she is no’ a Fairge, then I am no’ a MacCuinn! Ye have heard her sing, have ye no’? Ye have heard the stories o’ how she sneaks out at night to ride down to the blaygird sea? No Islander would swim in the sea for pleasure, or even walk on its shores, in sight o’ the waves. She must be a Fairge! She ensorcelled her way into Jaspar’s heart using her foul Fairge magic—it is all part o’ a plot to overthrow the MacCuinns and win back the coast for the Fairgean …’
‘Happen that is true, and Maya is a Fairge. How does she stay so long in her land shape? Ye ken the Fairgean die if away from salt water too long. How can she possibly manage with just the occasional swim? And though her beauty is unusual, and her eyes as pale as any Fairge, she looks as human as any lass I’ve ever seen. Even in their land shape, the Fairgean do no’ look human.’
‘It is her magic …’
‘Perhaps. If so, it is a powerful Talent, to hold an illusion for sixteen years, and under such scrutiny. We ken she is a powerful sorceress, for she transformed ye into a blackbird. And she can charm crowds o’ people at a time, and strong witches among them. Yet I have never heard compulsion was a Skill o’ the Fairgean, nor the spinning o’ illusions. Just because she has thrown down the witches does no’ mean she is a Fairge, Lachlan, though I have often wondered if this could be the explanation for her actions. Either way, the babe is a MacCuinn and a soul in its own right, and I do no’ want its blood on your hands.’
‘
But—’
‘Nay, Lachlan, our plans remain the same. We regain the Lodestar and wait on events. Only when Jaspar has died shall I let ye raise the Lodestar, for no’ even for your youthful impatience shall I let the Inheritance o’ Aedan be turned by MacCuinn on MacCuinn. Jaspar may have been ensorcelled by a witch from the sea, but he is still the rightful Rìgh and your brother.’
‘Some brother he’s turned out to be!’
‘How was he to ken, Lachlan? Have pity on Jaspar, for whatever spell she has laid on him is sapping all his vitality and Enit says he shall no’ last the year.’
‘Now she carries his babe, she has no need o’ him,’ he said bitterly. ‘She will kill him as she killed Donncan and Feargus! And I am stuck here in this blaygird forest, with my nose in books like a grubby scribe’s apprentice, when I should be out there, trying to save him!’
‘What could ye do?’ Meghan said. ‘Ye’d burn on the fire as a uile-bheist, and our last hopes with ye. No, no, my lad, this is no’ the time to lose heart. We have all three parts o’ the Key now and are closer than ever to releasing the Lodestar.’
‘Its song is growing very faint.’ Lachlan’s voice was sombre.
‘I think Maya means to make sure we canna release it before its song dies out altogether. If Jaspar dies and names the babe heir, then Maya shall rule in truth and that foretells a dark and desperate future for us all. We must get to the Lodestar before the birth o’ winter! That means we must join the Key, get into the palace at Lucescere—and remember one wing o’ the palace is now the headquarters o’ the Awl—rescue the Lodestar and get it into Lachlan’s hands.’
‘Or yours,’ Meghan’s great-nephew said. The wood witch looked grave and said nothing. ‘Ye can wield the Lodestar, too, Meghan,’ Lachlan said, rather anxiously. ‘I ken it was ye who really drove off the Fairgean at the Battle o’ the Strand.’
‘Jaspar’s hand was on the Lodestar,’ Meghan said gruffly. ‘That is what ye must remember.’
‘Ye told him what to do, though, and lent him your strength.’
‘Lachlan, I may no’ be there to lend ye my strength or my knowledge. Ye must understand that. Ye must unlock its secrets yourself. Why do ye think I have been driving ye and Iseult so hard?’
‘What do ye mean? Why would ye no’ be with me?’
‘We do no’ ken the pattern the weaver is weaving, my lad.’
‘What do ye fear?’ Iseult could hear undercurrents in Meghan’s quiet voice.
The sorceress looked at her with inscrutable black eyes. ‘I told ye Jorge has had dreams o’ a black wolf hunting …’
‘But what does that mean?’
Meghan sighed. ‘Lachlan, can ye answer her question?’
Lachlan said slowly. ‘A black wolf is the crest o’ the MacRuraich clan. They’re known for their Searching and Locating Skills.’
‘Well done, my lad, ye have no’ forgotten all ye were taught as a bairn! Aye, I fear the Banrìgh has set the MacRuraich on my trail, and the black wolf is hard indeed to shake off once he has his nose to the spoor … I shall have word o’ his coming, though, do no’ fear.’
‘He shall no’ find ye. I shall keep ye safe, auld mother.’
‘Thank ye, Iseult,’ the sorceress replied, with the faintest inflection of irony. ‘I hope indeed ye shall. But we must take all possibilities into account, always. Anything may happen between now and Samhain. Which brings me to my next point. I wish to give ye your Tests. It is no coincidence ye and Lachlan each found a moonstone, Iseult. That is always a sign ye are ready to pass your apprenticeship test. It is the tradition o’ the Coven that the real lessons in witchcraft do no’ begin until ye have been accepted as an apprentice. Ye have been angry that I will no’ teach ye more o’ the skills o’ witchcraft and witchcunning but, indeed, such knowledge can be dangerous. Only when ye have passed your Tests can I be sure ye have the discipline needed, and such things are best done in the right time and the right manner.
‘Midsummer’s Eve is a powerful time indeed, ye canna have a better time to take your Tests. That leaves us only a few weeks to polish up your Skills and have ye ready. This past week ye have both been as distracted as any crofter’s lad at your lessons. I ken ye think me a hard taskmaster and wish to spend your days lazing in the sun and making love. Indeed I am glad ye have grown to care for each other and canna deny I had hoped such would happen. But we have no’ got the leisure for courting. We have only a short while for ye to learn everything ye may need as rìgh and banrìgh.’
‘But, auld mother—’
‘Hush, Iseult, and let me finish. I think we should stay in the forest as long as we can—at least until Midsummer’s Eve so Lachlan can sing the summer solstice with the Celestines and ye can jump the fire together—’
Iseult could keep silent no longer. ‘But Meghan, ye ken I canna be marrying Lachlan!’
Lachlan looked up swiftly, his swarthy cheek colouring. ‘What do ye mean?’
‘I am in geas …’
‘But ye lay with me—ye said ye loved me!’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Did ye no’ mean what ye said?’
‘Nay, I did, I just did no’ realise …’
‘But ye came with me into the forest? Did ye no’ realise I meant …? Did ye no’ know I wanted …?’
‘Ye never said anything about marrying.’
‘Ye do no’ wish to marry me?’ His voice was incredulous.
‘But, Lachlan, ye ken I am no’ free to do as I wish, that my life has been given in geas …’
He scrambled to his claws, his eyes blazing yellow with anger. ‘It was all a lie, then, what we said to each other that night? Ye do no’ care for me, is that what ye are trying to tell me?’
Iseult felt anger rise to meet his. ‘Nay, why will ye no’ listen to me? Ye know I am heir to the Firemaker! I canna be betraying my grandmother’s trust …’
‘But ye could be Banrìgh o’ all Eileanan!’ Lachlan gripped her wrist cruelly.
‘What is that to me? I know nothing about your rìghrean and banrìghrean, I just wanted to be with ye …’
‘But do ye no’ see, I want us to be together always! How could ye think it was just for a night or a week? Ye carry my babe—did ye no’ realise I meant for us to be married?’
‘The Firemaker does no’ marry,’ Iseult said arrogantly, tugging her wrist free.
‘Go then! Go back to the snows if that is what ye want! I do no’ need ye!’ Lachlan turned and limped away into the forest, his hands clenched into fists.
‘Can your great-grandmother scry?’ Meghan asked. Wondering how the sorceress knew what she was thinking, Iseult shrugged. ‘I do no’ ken,’ she answered, trying not to show how upset she was. ‘The Khan’cohbans can speak from one mind to another, sometimes over a fair distance, and my grandmother has spoken thus to me several times.’
‘Then ye should be able to reach her if ye try,’ Meghan said practically. ‘Your scrying skills have been growing in leaps and bounds. She is far away, though, and there is a range o’ mountains between ye which may muffle your voice. See if you can reach her.’
The winged prionnsa did not return to the clearing that evening. Her throat muscles unaccountably tight, Iseult tried again and again to reach her grandmother but failed every time. At last she rolled herself in her blankets and slept by the fire, for the first time since Beltane not slipping off into the forest to be with Lachlan.
She dreamt she was on the Spine of the World. All she could see were whirling snowflakes; all she could hear was the howling of timber wolves. Suddenly she could hear the crunch of feet on the snow. She brought fire flickering to life in her palm and held it up so she could see. The red-gold light flowed over the black-tipped white mane and snarling fangs of a snow lion, lifting its muzzle to her breast. Before she could cry out, the ferocious face tilted up further and it was her grandmother, wrapped in her snow lion cloak.
‘Firemaker, I have found you,’ Iseult breathed in the lang
uage of the Khan’cohbans. ‘I have been calling and calling you. Give me your blessing, old mother.’
The face beneath the snow lion’s snarling mask was thin, high-boned and very pale. The hair had once been auburn, but was now so intermingled with grey, only flashes of fire remained. Slowly the Firemaker raised her blue-veined hand and made the mark of the Gods of White on Iseult’s brow. ‘I heard you calling, my great-granddaughter. The restless mountains divide us, though, and I cannot speak with you across their clamour. So I have travelled the dream road to talk with you, feeling that your heart was troubled.’
‘Firemaker, I have a confession to make,’ Iseult said.
‘Make me your confession and I shall judge,’ her great-grandmother responded.
Feeling her knees shake, for the punishment of the Firemaker was always just and always severe, Iseult said in a low voice, ‘I have fallen in love with a man of this land, and lain with him, Firemaker. I am carrying his child.’
The Firemaker’s eyes gleamed cold and blue in her pale-skinned, autocratic face. ‘I know this, my great-granddaughter. I dreamt of the child’s coming and knew the instant it was conceived.’
Iseult waited, but her great-grandmother said no more. She burst out, ‘What am I to do, Firemaker? I have failed you and failed my obligation as the Firemaker’s heir. I have betrayed the Gods o’ White.’ Her voice broke.
‘You ask of me a question, Khan’derin. Do you offer me a story in return?’
Iseult’s heart sank. She had been too long away from the Spine of the World. Reluctantly she lowered her eyes. ‘Yes, Firemaker, no matter the question.’