The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Ye knew someone was going to kill my father!’ Donncan screamed, blood pounding in his head. ‘Why? Why?’

  ‘He deserved it,’ Johanna replied bitterly. ‘After all the years I have served him faithfully … and my brother too … and it means naught to him. Naught.’

  ‘Who?’ he demanded. ‘Who killed him?’

  Johanna laughed. ‘Ye’ll never guess,’ she answered.

  She had been forcing them on through the wild tangle of the witches’ forest, Donncan and Thunderlily stumbling over root and stone, clinging together, the Celestine humming high in warning, or distress. Then Donncan saw the ornate iron gate of the maze emerge out of the whispering yew.

  ‘Where are ye taking us?’ he demanded.

  ‘Back,’ Johanna whispered. ‘Back to the beginning. He has been dead a very long time. He wants to live again, and I shall be the one to raise him. But we must go back. Naught left o’ him but grave dust.’

  ‘Back where?’ Donncan demanded, feeling terror mount up to strangle him.

  ‘Why, to the Tomb o’ Ravens, o’ course,’ she answered. ‘A thousand years ago.’

  Rhiannon lay on her prison bed, her hands clasped on her breast, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, the subtle pulse of her heartbeat. Each breath, each heartbeat, was one more moment of life. At the moment that was all she had to hold on to.

  She had fought every step of the way from the courtroom back to her cell. It had taken six men to subdue her, and she still ached all over from their rough handling. Rhiannon’s shock and grief had been profound. They had promised her, over and over again, they had promised her she would be freed, yet the judges had found her guilty and condemned her to hang. Rhiannon did not know how old she was, but she knew she was young and greedy for life. There was so much yet to see and learn, so much loving and adventuring to do. When at last she realised she could not fight her way free, when the door had been slammed on her and locked, and she found herself once again in the vile little cell she knew so well, Rhiannon had fallen to her knees and wept. It was too late for shouting and arguing, too late for screaming and fighting, too late for begging. She could only weep, her face bent down into her hands, her whole body racked with pain.

  Rhiannon could not cry forever. A time had come when she had no more tears, and she must get up, and mop her face, and blow her nose, and drag herself to her bed. She felt oddly calm, now the force of her grief had spent itself, scoured clean as a shell by the sea.

  She did not know how much time had passed. It must be at least three hours, for her candle was guttering in its cage of iron. Any moment it would putter out, and she would be alone in the darkness again.

  There was a grating sound as the key was turned in the lock. Rhiannon turned her head to look. The door squealed open, and Corey put his head in the door.

  ‘Game o’ dice?’ he said, rattling his leather cup. Although he did his best to sound as normal, his lugubrious face showed that he knew this was Rhiannon’s last night alive.

  Tears stung Rhiannon’s eyes again. She had to clear her throat before she could speak. ‘Havena ye lost enough money yet?’ she said. Her voice was rough and scratchy.

  ‘Naught else to do,’ he said. ‘I’m on my own tonight. The rest o’ the lads have got the night free, to go celebrate midsummer. I got the short straw, as always.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got naught else to do,’ Rhiannon said, trying to achieve an insouciant tone and almost succeeding. ‘No’ that I need the coins. Ye heard I willna be enjoying your kind hospitality anymore?’

  ‘I was at the courthouse,’ Corey said abruptly, not looking at her. She did not need to ask if he had been booing or cheering. Over the months Rhiannon had been locked up in Sorrowgate Tower, she had got to know her guards well. She had bribed them for extra candles, and for bags of seed for her little bluebird, and for the occasional jug of hot water to wash in; and, once they realised she was as much of an avid gambler as they all were, they had spent many hours playing cards and dice. Rhiannon was careful not to win too often, for she wanted to stay on the guards’ good side, and still entertained fantasies of being able to escape or bribe her way free. Corey was the guard she gambled with most, for he was the closest to her in age, and found the long hours cooped up inside stone walls as boring as she did.

  The older night guard, Henry, disapproved mightily, but he quite liked to put his aching feet up on the stool and read the latest broadsheet without being bothered by his fellow guard’s fidgets, so had learned to turn a blind eye. Though he would never have admitted it, the story of ‘Rhiannon’s Ride’, which had been distributed widely that summer, had predisposed him to turning a more lenient eye to his infamous prisoner, though never to the extent of relaxing his vigilance.

  ‘Henry gone a-feasting tonight as well?’ Rhiannon asked, after she had let Corey win quite a few of her few remaining coins. ‘That doesna sound like our Henry.’

  ‘His daughter’s jumping the fire tonight, just like the Banprionnsa,’ Corey said. ‘He was given leave to go. Funny. I never kent he had a daughter, and I’ve been working with him for nigh on two years now.’

  Rhiannon threw her dice, shrugged as once again she lost, and got up. At once Corey tensed, but Rhiannon waved at him irritably. ‘Relax, laddie! I just thought ye’d like some goldensloe wine, for midsummer. Nina brought me some the other day. It’s just here, under my bed. Throw! What have ye got?’

  Corey threw the dice and groaned. ‘A three and a two! The Centaur’s beard! My luck’s out tonight.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Rhiannon replied, and brought the chamber-pot crashing down on his head. It was unfortunately full, and Rhiannon felt a twinge of compassion for the hapless young guard. It did not stop her from wresting away his bunch of keys, her nose wrinkling at the smell, nor from locking him up in her cell with his own keys. Feeling she may as well be hung for a thief as a murderer, she also relieved him of his purse and his winnings, spilt across the table. She wiped the coins on his jerkin first.

  With her few belongings bundled into her pillowcase, and the little bluebird riding on her shoulder, Rhiannon went searching through the dark, quiet halls of the prison. She found the guards’ storeroom. A lantern stood on the table. By its light, Rhiannon unlocked the cupboard and found her saddlebags within, neatly packed with all her belongings. It gave Rhiannon a savage delight to strip off the ugly prison garb and dress herself once more in the soft white shirt and breeches that had belonged to Connor. She strapped his silver dagger at her waist, slung her bow and arrows over one shoulder, and hung the saddlebags over her arm. The bluebird gave a questioning trill, and she whispered, ‘It’s back to the mountains for us, my pretty.’

  No-one challenged her as she made her way towards the stairs, and her heart began to beat a little more steadily. She did not dare make her way to the lower reaches, where she knew many guards would still be on duty, despite the midsummer celebrations. Instead she turned upwards, climbing up to the battlements. She had a fine view up there, of the bonfires in every city square, and stringing their way across the countryside beyond the river. She could hear shouting and singing, and somewhere someone was setting off firecrackers, which scared her at first, as she had never heard anything so loud.

  When the noise had died, the boys running away to do mischief elsewhere, Rhiannon took a deep breath and leant over the battlement, her eyes drinking in the wide expanse of starry sky. Behind her the city glared, even at this late hour, but to the east was only the river and the forest, almost invisible under the heavy swathe of clouds.

  Blackthorn, she called silently. Dearling! It’s time. Come!

  Long minutes passed.

  Blackthorn!

  Rhiannon’s heart was shrinking with bitter disappointment when she heard, faintly, a high shrill whinny. It rocked her from head to foot.

  Blackthorn! Blackthorn!

  Again the whinny came, and then Rhiannon could hear wing beats.

  Sssh! Softly, softly …<
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  Then out of the darkness came her winged horse, shaking her head and neighing with frantic joy. Her hoof knocked the stone coping and sent a piece of paving whizzing down into the darkness. Rhiannon did not wait for Blackthorn to land, but seized her mane and leapt up on her bare back, flinging the saddlebags over the mare’s withers.

  Blackthorn wheeled and began to fly away from the city, her wings beating steadily. Rhiannon allowed herself to lay her cheek down on the silky mane and sob with grief and relief. Behind her bells began to peal.

  What, they have discovered me gone already? Rhiannon thought. We had best fly far and fast, dearling, else they’ll have us again!

  The bells tolled out.

  Iseult knelt on the floor, Lachlan lying slack and lifeless in her arms. ‘Find the murderer,’ she hissed, low and vicious. ‘I want him staked out for the White Gods. I want him hung, drawn and quartered, and his entrails fed to the city dogs. Do ye understand me?’

  ‘Aye, Your Highness.’ Captain Dillon bowed low, his face set in harsh lines. ‘Do no’ fear. We will find him, if I have to turn this city inside out.’

  As he spoke, his blue-clad soldiers continued with their thorough search and interrogation of the wedding guests and servants, taking them one by one to other rooms where each had to give their account of the evening’s happenings. Their clothes were patted and flounced, their pockets and bags turned out, their jewellery and accessories examined. All were shocked, many were offended, quite a few had hysterics.

  Iseult and Isabeau’s mother, Ishbel, had fainted and now floated a few feet off the floor, cocooned in the floating tendrils of her long pale hair. Their father, Khan’gharad, submitted angrily to being searched, before taking Ishbel back to their rooms, propelling her through the air with a firm hand on her shoulder. It was clear he would prefer to have been out helping with the hunt for his son-in-law’s murderer, but once again Ishbel’s strange malady had confounded and confined him, and he was forced to tend her while she was lost in her enchanted sleep.

  Meanwhile, King Nila and Queen Fand and their children were whisked away by the Fairgean ambassador Alta, all looking grim and worried indeed. The bodyguards of the other prionnsachan closed around those they protected, weapons at the ready. If the Rìgh of Eileanan and the Far Islands could be assassinated in his own banquet-hall, then no-one was safe.

  ‘Finn, canna ye do something? Canna ye find this villain for me?’ Iseult demanded.

  Finn the Cat was holding the black dart in her hand, her eyes shut. After a long moment, she opened her eyes and shook her head unhappily. ‘Whoever it was dinna touch the dart long enough to leave a strong impression. They may have picked it up while wearing gloves, or handled it through a cloth. I’m sorry.’

  ‘There must be something ye can do!’

  ‘If ye can find the blowpipe, I’ll be able to tell ye who the murderer is, for they will have held it to their mouth and blown the air o’ their lungs into it. That will be enough for me.’

  ‘But canna ye help find the blowpipe?’

  Finn shook her head reluctantly. ‘The dart must’ve passed through the pipe in a matter o’ seconds. Whoever did this must’ve been careful no’ to have let it touch any longer than that. All I get from the dart is an impression o’ darkness and closeness, like a pocket or a bag. Beyond that, I can tell ye only that it comes from the swamplands o’ Arran, but ye could guess that for yourselves.’

  Iseult switched her fierce gaze from Finn to Iain. Sick and white with shock, he knelt beside Lachlan’s sprawling form. Elfrida stood beside him, gripping her fan tightly. She put one hand on his shoulder, and he straightened slowly. ‘Ye ken we s-s-sell the blowpipes and barbs to the Yeomen,’ Iain said, beginning to stammer as he always did in times of strong emotion. ‘They … they take a hundred or so every year. And the b-b-bogfaeries sometimes sell them too, on the black m-m-market. There is no way for me to tell who m-m-may have one. I’m s-s-sorry.’ He hid his face again in his hands.

  Iseult bent her head over Lachlan’s lifeless form, smoothing his hair away from his face. Isabeau wrapped her arm about her twin, and rocked her wordlessly. Iseult’s chest rose and fell sharply, and her breath shuddered.

  Like everyone else in the crowd, Lewen had been painstakingly searched and questioned by the soldiers, but he had been allowed to stay in the banquet-hall in case his mistress had need of him. All the other squires had been hustled away by their respective families, everyone fearful of what may happen next.

  Although numb with shock and grief, Lewen saw that the Banrìgh was in danger of breaking down completely and so he found a pitcher of wine and brought her a glass of the rich red liquid, kneeling beside her to proffer it on a tray. Isabeau gave him a quick glance of commendation, and took the glass, holding it to Iseult’s mouth. She managed to swallow a mouthful.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Your Highness …’ Lewen said, his stomach twisting with anxiety.

  Iseult looked up at him blankly.

  ‘Your Highness, I’m sorry but … where are Olwynne and Owein?’ Lewen said in a rush. ‘I canna see them anywhere.’

  Iseult stared at him for a moment, then got to her feet, looking about her wildly. She was white to the lips. ‘Where are they?’ she whispered. ‘They were right here afore … afore …’ A shudder ran over her.

  Isabeau stood up abruptly. ‘Owein and Olwynne are missing?’

  ‘No,’ Iseult whispered. ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Nina said sharply. ‘They were here, at the feast …’

  ‘I saw Owein dancing with one o’ the NicThanach girls just moments afore it all happened,’ Dide said, staring around him, grim-faced.

  ‘But did ye see him again afterwards?’ Isabeau demanded.

  ‘Nay … but there was so much happening, it was all such confusion …’

  ‘Aye, exactly,’ Isabeau said grimly. She turned to Lewen. ‘When did ye last see Olwynne?’

  ‘She was on the terrace, my lady … I went to get her a cool drink … but then His Majesty … I dinna see her again,’ he managed to say, though his throat was rigid with fear.

  ‘Did anyone else see Owein and Olwynne after …’ Isabeau’s voice faded away.

  All the onlookers shook their heads, a loud murmur of dissent rising.

  ‘Eà’s green blood,’ Iseult said and swayed where she stood.

  The wind wailed a lamentation. Sleet drove against the windows. All the air in the room turned to ice, so that Lewen could scarcely breathe. White clouds hung before their mouths. The tear spilling over Iseult’s red eyelid froze into one long, glittering icicle.

  ‘Iseult! Stop it!’ Isabeau cried. ‘Do ye think turning the world to snow will make our job any easier!’

  Her sister had not been named Iseult of the Snows simply because she had been raised in the icy wastes of the Spine of the World. Always her talent had been with ice and snow. It had proved useful indeed during the long years of the Bright Wars, when she had used her powers against their enemies, but it had been a long time since she had done more than chill her wine by cupping her hand around her glass. Iseult had never spent long years studying the nature and extent of her powers, as her twin sister had done, and so her control over her abilities was variable. Like many untrained witches, her Talent could manifest itself without volition, and could prove very hard to rein back in once it had been unleashed.

  Isabeau seized her shoulders and shook her. She was crying herself, but the look of fierce determination on her face did not falter.

  ‘Iseult! They are no’ dead. I can sense them still. They have been stolen away. We must try to find them! Come, Iseult. Breathe!’

  The Dowager Banrìgh took in one long, shuddering breath, then breathed out again. The icicle melted and turned again into a teardrop. Lewen found his lungs released from the vice of cold, and though his breath still puffed white, he was able to inhale and exhale without pain.

  ‘My bairns,’ Iseult whispered. ‘Who could’
ve taken them? Why?’ She began to pace up and down the hall, snow swirling from her skirts. None of those left in the room could do anything but watch her. Everyone was gripped with a dreadful feeling of helplessness.

  ‘I need something o’ theirs to hold,’ Finn said. ‘A glass they’ve just drunk out o’, or something they’ve made with their own hands is best. Or a lock o’ hair, or a scrap o’ fingernail, or some o’ their blood.’

  ‘I do no’ carry a vial o’ my children’s blood around wi’ me,’ Iseult cried.

  ‘No’ a lock o’ baby hair?’

  ‘O’ course, somewhere!’

  ‘Anyone ken which glass was Owein’s?’ Dide asked. They all glanced at the high table and saw the servants had been quietly clearing away the refuse of the feast.

  Lewen slid his hand inside his coat and touched the withered nosegay he carried there. It had, he remembered, some of Olwynne’s hair caught in the binding. He did not want to show anyone the little token she had given him, but he hesitated only a second, pulling it out and giving it to Finn.

  ‘This was hers,’ he said quietly, the blood rising in his cheeks.

  Finn took it into her hand, and her eyebrows shot up. She looked at it closely, glanced at Lewen, and then exchanged a quick look with Isabeau, who was watching intently, her brows drawn close together.

  ‘Can ye feel aught?’ Iseult demanded.

  ‘Indeed I can,’ Finn said with another considering glance at Lewen, who tried not to squirm with embarrassment. She held the nosegay close to her breast, breathing in deeply, her eyes shut.

  ‘No’ far away,’ she muttered. ‘Underground. Dark. Stinky. Makes her feel sick. Moving fast. Bumped. Almost dropped. She’s being carried! Water sloshing … smells horrible …’

  ‘The sewers!’ Captain Dillon cried.

  ‘Who has her?’ Dide demanded. ‘Can ye tell, Finn?’

  Finn’s face screwed up in concentration as she cast wide her witch-senses. Then her eyes snapped open. ‘The laird o’ Fettercairn!’ she hissed. ‘I ken his smell well, after all those weeks handling his vile collection. But how? Why?’