by Kate Forsyth
‘Yet she still lies awake imagining ghosts,’ Olwynne said.
‘She’s no’ imagining them!’ Lewen cried. ‘Sorrowgate Tower has been a prison for close on a thousand years. Hundreds o’ people must’ve died there, many o’ them horribly. Why, we’ve all heard the stories o’ all the poor men and women who were tortured and burnt to death there during Maya’s reign, when the witch-sniffers were in charge. I am no’ near as sensitive as Rhiannon to such things, and the place makes my flesh creep on my bones, I swear.’
‘Is she really so sensitive?’ Owein asked curiously. ‘I’ve heard it was all an act, to divert suspicion from herself.’
‘Fettercairn Castle was as blaygird a place as I’ve ever been,’ Lewen said. ‘I was glad to get out o’ there alive. Ye heard Landon’s ballad. It was indeed just as dark and grim as he described it.’
‘I thought much o’ it was poetic licence,’ Olwynne said.
‘Nay, it was all true!’ Lewen cried. ‘And they call Rhiannon a murderer! Laird Malvern is a murderer a hundred times more foul!’ He drained his cup of clamber-skull.
‘Well, I’m sure the courts will establish the truth o’ it all,’ Owein said, beckoning to their waitress.
‘Aye, but there’s been so much talk, how can she have a fair trial, really? And despite the Pact o’ Peace, there’s still a lot o’ bad feeling about her being a satyricorn.’ Lewen was having trouble framing his thoughts. ‘Everyone thinks they’re stupid and brutal …’
‘O’ course they do no’,’ Olwynne said soothingly, and gulped down her fuzzle-gin.
‘They do, they do. And it’s no’ fair, Rhiannon’s no’ like that, she’s the sweetest, dearest …’ Lewen felt the tissues of his throat growing thick.
‘Evidently,’ Owein muttered, then, at Lewen’s look, put up his hands. ‘I’m sure she is … apart from being a wee bit too quick to draw back her bow.’
‘What do ye expect? She was raised by satyricorns, by wild satyricorns, satyricorns who’ve never heard o’ the Pact o’ Peace, satyricorns who had to fight and hunt to stay alive, satyricorns –’
‘He’s getting rather stuck on the whole satyricorn thing,’ Owein said to Olwynne.
Lewen tried not to mind.
‘Do no’ worry so much,’ Olwynne said. ‘I’m sure the courts will find it was no’ murder with malice aforethought. They willna hang her then.’
Lewen thought of seeing Rhiannon with her head in a noose, the executioner drawing it tight, the horses whipped up to drag the cart away. His whole world seemed to splinter. He grasped his glass very hard and managed to bring it to his mouth. ‘Never,’ he pronounced. ‘I never. I blow up Sorrowgate first. I blow it up. I blow it all up.’
‘I’m sure that’s no’ necessary,’ Olwynne tried to say. It came out, ‘I ssshaw tha’ na neshassary.’
Lewen found this very amusing. ‘No’ neshassary, no’ neshassary,’ he repeated.
He and Olwynne laughed together, heads bent over their empty glasses.
Impatiently, Owein signalled again for more clamber-skull. The seelie materialised at their elbows, smiling sweetly upon them, bending close to Lewen to pour out more of the sickly green alcohol. Lewen was suddenly, violently, aroused. He hid his face in his glass. More than ever, he longed for Rhiannon, and yet, perversely, he wished he could just be here, at the Nisse and Nixie, drinking and laughing with his friends, enjoying himself without guilt or despair.
‘I missed ye lads and lassies,’ he managed to say.
‘Us too,’ Olwynne said, squeezing his hand.
‘I wish I’d never met her,’ Lewen said into his cup.
Olwynne leant closer to him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I wish I’d never met her,’ he repeated, and laid his head on Olwynne’s arm, tears suddenly choking him.
Rhiannon lay on her bed. There was a mottled stone high on the far wall that, when the light began to sink at the end of the day, looked a little like the silhouette of a black flying horse. Rhiannon liked to stare at it, longing for Blackthorn, imagining herself flying high in the sky, free as a bird.
She had had no visitors for three days. Rhiannon had walked the length of her room so many times she thought the stones should be showing the track of her feet. She had pounded on the door in her frustration, and snarled at the guards when they finally came. She had demanded and then begged them to let her out, then had sunk into an apathy from which it was hard to rouse herself. It seemed to be the only way to keep the panic at bay. Whenever Rhiannon thought about the situation she found herself in, she had to bite her lips bloody to stop herself from screaming.
At the sound of the key in the lock, she turned and looked towards the door, her lips clamped together to hide her misery, her eyes hot.
But it was not Lewen who the guard showed in through the heavy oak door. It was a tall woman dressed all in white.
At first, seeing the long plait of ruddy hair, Rhiannon thought it was Lewen’s sanctimonious friend Olwynne and stiffened instinctively. Olwynne had come once, a few days ago, and had brought her a child’s picture book and a wooden puzzle, as if Rhiannon were four years old. It had been clear to Rhiannon how much Olwynne feared and disliked her, and she knew with utter certainty why. Olwynne had spoken of Lewen as if they spent every minute of every day together, as if they had been born sharing the same heart, lungs and stomach, like the freak babies she and the other apprentices had seen at the fair in Linlithgorn.
After Olwynne had left, with fake smiles and offers of friendship, Rhiannon had lain awake for hours torturing herself with imaginings of Olwynne and Lewen studying together, riding together, dancing together, laughing together. It was a small step to imagining Olwynne’s arms sliding up around his neck, pulling Lewen’s head down to hers, pressing her mouth against his. She could easily imagine Olwynne whispering in his ear, ‘Ye ken she’s no good for ye, she canna love ye the way I love ye, I’m the only one who can make ye happy …’
Again and again Rhiannon had replayed the scene in her mind. Although she sometimes imagined Lewen flinging Olwynne’s arms away and declaring his love for her, more often than not she saw him succumb, that skinny red-haired witch driving all thought of Rhiannon out of his head. After all, why would he want a wild satyricorn girl when he could have a banprionnsa dressed all in rustling silks?
So she glared at her visitor with great suspicion and dislike. It was not Olwynne who stood in the door, however, but a woman entering the middle years of her life. She was very like Olwynne, with the same red-gold hair, and the same tall, slim figure. She carried a staff with a large crystal set at its head, and a tiny owl was perched on her shoulder. She came in with great authority, drew her brows together at the dimness, and waved one hand nonchalantly. At once the lantern hanging overhead burst into light.
‘Who are ye?’ Rhiannon demanded, rolling over and getting to her feet defensively.
The woman raised one thin, red brow. ‘I am Isabeau NicFaghan, the Keybearer o’ the Coven. May I sit down?’
Rhiannon jerked her head in agreement and watched as the Keybearer sat down at the table, arranging her silver-edged robes about her feet. Rhiannon’s attention was caught by the sight of a beautifully wrought dagger hanging at the sorceress’s waist. Rhiannon glanced away at once. Pretending insouciance, she sat down on her bed, even as her brain got busy with schemes for wresting the dagger away.
‘I would no’ try, Rhiannon,’ the Keybearer said. ‘I ken ye are quick and strong, but no’ quick or strong enough, I’m afraid. And I have no wish to hurt ye.’
Rhiannon secretly jeered at her words, for was she not twenty years younger and a satyricorn to boot? She said nothing, however, just pretended incomprehension and waited for her chance.
‘I am sorry I have no’ come to see ye afore,’ Isabeau said. ‘I have been much tied up with affairs o’ state. I do hope ye will forgive me. I feel some responsibility for ye, since Lilanthe sent ye into my care, and so I –’
�
�Have ye come to release me?’ Rhiannon interrupted.
Isabeau shook her head. ‘It is no’ my place to interfere with the workings o’ the court. Even if ye were a witch and my own apprentice, I could no’ have ye released. Those o’ the Coven are subject to the laws o’ the land, as is anyone else.’
Rhiannon drooped. ‘Then why are ye here?’
‘I came to see if there is aught I can do for ye,’ Isabeau said. ‘I have heard ye are no’ used to being confined within four walls. I can understand that.’
‘Then why will ye no’ let me out!’ Rhiannon cried. ‘It’s like being buried alive. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!’
Isabeau regarded her gravely. ‘Ye are allowed to walk in the prison garden.’
‘Och, aye, that’s a treat. It is twelve paces long and six paces wide, and surrounded by such high walls all I can see is grey stone and a wee patch o’ sky. And they watch me, all the time!’
‘O’ course they do. Ye are a prisoner o’ the crown, and the Captain o’ the Guards considers ye an escape risk. The garden is open to the air. Ye are known to have a winged horse as a familiar. They dare no’ allow ye any greater freedom in case ye call your horse and fly away.’
‘Blackthorn is gone,’ Rhiannon said in bitter misery.
‘I’d be surprised if that were true,’ Isabeau answered. ‘Familiars are bound tight to their witches, even after death. My guardian, Meghan, had a little donbeag as her familiar, and after she died, the donbeag stayed on her grave for three years before it at last died. Naught we could do would coax it away.’
‘I am no witch.’
‘Again, I do no’ believe that is true. One does no’ have to be trained in the craft and cunning o’ the Coven to be a witch. It is clear to us all that ye have Talent in abundance. I have heard o’ your antics. Ye called a flying horse to ye, and bound it to your will, ye can see and hear ghosts, ye can listen through walls, ye can pull iron bars out o’ solid rock with naught more than your will, ye can talk to any horse and, if I am no’ greatly mistaken, ye can bend others to your will without them even realising. A forbidden skill, I should add, and one that ye would have to learn to control if ye were ever to be admitted to the Coven. Witches believe all people must have the freedom to choose their own path.’
Rhiannon was startled. She scowled at the Keybearer and said waspishly, ‘I see ye’ve been listening to tittle-tattle about me.’
‘O’ course,’ Isabeau answered. ‘I am troubled and intrigued by your case, and so is the Rìgh. Quite apart from my natural interest in your witch-talents, I am most concerned with the effect ye have had on Lewen, who is the son o’ my dearest friend. He is no longer permitted to visit ye, Rhiannon. I do no’ believe ye intended to ensorcel him but –’
‘What gives ye the right?’ Rhiannon flared, jumping to her feet. ‘How dare ye? Ye canna take him away from me, he’s mine!’
‘He is his own self,’ Isabeau said. ‘People do no’ own each other.’
Rhiannon made an emphatic gesture of dismissal. ‘Ye no’ understand. Owning naught to do with it! He mine, I his. We swore to each other!’
Isabeau shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Rhiannon, but I canna allow him to …’
To Rhiannon’s utter chagrin, tears were flooding down her face. ‘Ye canna take him away from me,’ she sobbed. ‘He’s mine! He’s all I have!’
‘I see,’ Isabeau said quietly. ‘I do no’ think I understood.’
She was silent for long moments while Rhiannon struggled to bring her face back under control. Then she said, ‘Rhiannon, I do no’ wish to hurt ye more than ye have already been hurt. I can sense deep wounds in ye. I understand that ye love Lewen …’
‘And he loves me!’
‘… but I canna allow ye to see him alone. I do no’ think it is good for either o’ ye when the future is so uncertain. More importantly, I am afraid ye may compel him to acts which he will regret bitterly hereafter. Ye are half-satyricorn, Rhiannon, and ye have been raised by different rules than Lewen. His honour is most important to him. If ye were to compel him to betray all he holds dear, his family, his Rìgh, his allegiance to Eà and the Coven, I fear he would never recover.’
Rhiannon stared at her. ‘Do ye have some reason to fear he may do so?’ she asked at last.
Isabeau regarded her gravely. ‘My niece, the Banprionnsa Olwynne, fears so. She says he has been in great distress, making wild plans to break ye out o’ prison and run away with ye. It would ruin him, ye must see that. She says he seems quite mad with despair. I have been to see him and, although I do no’ fear he has lost his reason, it is quite clear to me that he is acting under strong compulsion.’
Rhiannon was incapable of hiding her pleasure and triumph. She did her best, until Isabeau’s last words, then her feelings got the better of her. ‘Ye and your compulsion,’ she said scornfully. ‘Have ye never been in love, that ye think what Lewen feels is some sort o’ ensorcelment? He loves me, I tell ye, and I love him!’
There was a long pause, then Isabeau said, ‘I am no’ such a stranger to love as you suppose. It is true it can seem like madness sometimes, to those who watch from beyond.’
She was quiet a moment longer. Rhiannon forced herself to be silent.
At last the Keybearer looked up, her eyes very blue and luminous in her pale face. ‘I do no’ wish to forbid ye seeing each other altogether. I ken how ardent, how impatient, young love can be. Yet I have a responsibility to Lewen too. His studies are suffering badly, and his whole life has been turned upside down and inside out. If he is no’ careful, he will lose all he has worked so hard to gain. I canna allow that.’
Under the cover of her heavy prison gown Rhiannon’s foot beat an impatient tattoo. She stared at the Keybearer defiantly, not allowing her desperate hope to show on her face.
‘I will allow Lewen to see ye once a week, on his rest-day, and then ye must no’ be alone. Either I or another sorcerer must be with ye at all times. If ye are accompanied by a sorcerer and guards, ye and Lewen may walk in the witches’ gardens, but ye must no’ call to your horse. If ye do, I shall ken it, I tell ye now, and this privilege will be revoked.’
‘I tell ye, Blackthorn is gone,’ Rhiannon said, her sullenness more of a ruse to hide her elation than true truculence.
Isabeau and the owl on her shoulder both regarded her steadily. ‘A black winged horse has been seen most days, flying about in the early morn.’
Rhiannon clasped her hands together. ‘Blackthorn has been seen? Here?’
‘I have given orders none are to try to catch her and no-one at the Tower o’ Two Moons would dare disobey. I canna speak for the city, though. There is much curiosity about ye and the horse, and there are many who would be glad to capture her. Ye would do well to send her news o’ that and warn her to keep away from the city.’
‘She’ll be able to hear me? Even from in here?’
‘Maybe, maybe no’. It is hard to mind-speak over water or through stone, even for accomplished witches. I would try from the gardens. If I can, I will walk with ye and Lewen at the week’s end, and afterwards, I will come back here and set ye some lessons. I understand that ye are bored, cooped up here all day with naught to do. I feel ye will be happier if ye had something to occupy your hands and mind.’
‘I doubt it,’ Rhiannon muttered, but she could not hide the lifting of spirits she felt at Isabeau’s words.
‘I want ye to work hard at your lessons, Rhiannon. It is important that ye show your judges that ye have submitted to the will o’ the court and await their judgement. I will tell ye now what I told Lewen last night. I do no’ think they will hang ye for Connor’s death, if you have been telling the truth about why and how it happened. It is more likely that ye will be asked to make restitution to the Crown and to Connor’s family through some kind o’ bond o’ service. A lass with your talents and abilities would be wasted swinging at the end o’ a hangman’s noose and Lachlan … the Rìgh kens it. If ye wish, at the end o’ you
r bond-service, ye may come to the Theurgia and we will test ye and see if ye have any potential as a witch. The Coven needs all the Talent it can find, and so, I might add, does the Rìgh. However, ye must learn our ways and abide by them. Ye have rejected your satyricorn past. Now it is time to embrace your future among those of humankind.’
Isabeau ended on a ringing note, and Rhiannon found it hard not to be swept up in her enthusiasm. Only a lingering distrust enabled her to scowl and say gruffly, ‘Aye, fine words, but happen I should wait for the verdict afore I make too many plans for the future.’
Isabeau looked disappointed, but she nodded and got up, one hand going up absent-mindedly to pet the little owl who had sat so quietly on her shoulder all this time. The owl hooted softly and Isabeau hooted back.
Rhiannon said in a rush, surprising herself, ‘Ye asked if ye could do aught for me …’
‘Yes?’ Isabeau queried, turning back.
‘I want my things. In my pack.’
Isabeau frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Rhiannon, but I canna allow that. They have been submitted for evidence in your trial.’
‘I do no’ want my daggers,’ she said in a rush. ‘I mean, I do, but I can wait for those if I must. And I ken ye’ll take away my bonny blue cloak, I’ve been told so often enough! It’s not those I want now …’
‘What is it then?’ Isabeau asked gently.
‘Lewen whittled me a wee charm, the night we spent at the Tower o’ Ravens,’ Rhiannon said. ‘For me to wear around my neck. Please, I want it.’
‘I will ask the Captain o’ the Guards,’ Isabeau said after a moment. ‘I canna see any harm, but it is no’ my decision to make. And Captain Dillon is suspicious o’ things o’ magic. If Lewen whittled it for ye, it will have some virtue o’ enchantment, it is impossible for it no’ to. I will ask Dillon this evening and let ye ken tomorrow.’
She made a move towards the door but Rhiannon once again detained her with a quick, impulsive gesture. ‘Can ye teach me how ye did that, then?’ She pointed up at the lantern. ‘Lit the lantern, I mean, just like that.’