The Tower of Ravens

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Rafferty exclaimed in awe.

  ‘It’s witchcraft,’ Cameron said, aggrieved. ‘It shouldna be allowed.’

  ‘I told ye he could shoot round corners,’ Iven grinned.

  ‘It’s part o’ my Talent,’ Lewen said apologetically. ‘Anything I make from wood with my own hands is sort o’ … magicked. I did try to warn ye.’

  ‘Shoot with my bow and arrows then,’ Rhiannon cried. ‘We’ll see how good ye are with a bow and arrows ye havena magicked.’

  ‘Magicked really is no’ a word,’ Fèlice pointed out apologetically, but they were all too excited to listen to her.

  ‘It willna make any difference,’ Iven said. ‘I bet ye a whole gold crown Lewen still beats ye hands down.’

  ‘I’m no’ betting,’ Cameron said sulkily. ‘He’s got an unfair advantage.’

  ‘I’m no’ betting either but only because I havena any gold crowns,’ Rhiannon said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. ‘I’ll back myself against ye, though, Cameron, any day. I bet ye three coppers that I can split your arrow down the centre just like Lewen did mine.’

  ‘All right then,’ Cameron cried, seizing her bow. ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Deal?’

  ‘Deal!’

  Rhiannon spat on her hand and held it out and, his ears crimson, Cameron seized it and shook it angrily.

  He took her bow, fitted an arrow to it and bent the bow, making a visible effort to calm his temper before firing a very neat shot into the centre of the target. Rhiannon applauded him along with the others, but then, with extraordinary swiftness, lifted and fired her bow in a single smooth movement. The arrow Cameron had shot fell apart, split neatly in two.

  ‘Bravo!’ Rafferty shouted. ‘Beautiful shooting.’

  ‘Go, lassie!’ Fèlice cried. ‘Ye show those cocky lads.’

  Edithe said to Nina, who was watching the competition with as much interest as anyone else, ‘Do ye no’ find her forward behaviour very unbecoming? It is so very unladylike, don’t ye agree?’

  Nina cast her an irritated look. ‘No, no’ really. She is a very accomplished archer, why should she no’ take as much pride in that as the lads do? Really, Edithe, witches do no’ much care for archaic social proprieties. If ye wish to be a sorceress, ye must try to put aside such silly prejudices.’

  Edithe flushed crimson and pursed her lips tightly.

  Only Iven did not join in the general praise, standing back, his brows drawn over his eyes in a most uncharacteristic frown. He looked from the arrow, embedded deep in the centre of the target, back at Rhiannon with a sudden hard glare of suspicion.

  ‘Where did ye learn to shoot, Rhiannon?’ he asked. ‘Longbows are no’ usual among your people, are they?’

  Rhiannon’s bright colour faded. ‘The bow was my father’s,’ she answered gruffly.

  ‘And he taught ye to shoot so well?’

  ‘My father dead. Me taught myself.’ As usual in times of emotional stress, her newly acquired language skills deserted her.

  ‘Ye taught yourself very well,’ he said, still staring at her with those hard, angry eyes.

  ‘Thank ye,’ she said, her eyes flashing up to meet his, then dropping again. ‘I did have help, to begin with. There was a man who showed me …’ Her words faltered away.

  ‘I guess the fact ye had to teach yourself shows that I was right, and bows and arrows are no’ common among those o’ your kind?’

  ‘What kind is that?’ Edithe asked Nina, her eyebrows raised. Nina motioned her to silence, looking distressed.

  ‘No, no’ common,’ Rhiannon answered after a moment.

  ‘Any other longbows in your herd apart from yours?’

  ‘Herd?’ Cameron asked derisively.

  Rhiannon shrugged, turning away to gather up her quiver of arrows. ‘A few, I suppose. I’ve never really noticed.’

  Iven clearly did not believe her, but the restive curiosity on the other apprentices’ faces seemed to check any other questions he wished to ask her. He picked up his guitar and went out of the room, and after a moment Nina rose and went after him.

  Everyone left behind felt confused and dismayed, not understanding why Iven had been so curt and angry. Rhiannon finished packing away her arrows, and said to Cameron, ‘Do no’ forget ye owe me three coppers.’

  He scowled and fished in his pocket, saying sharply, ‘So where do ye come from, Rhiannon? What did Iven mean, calling your folk a “herd”?’

  ‘I’m sure he was just speaking metaphorically,’ Edithe said sweetly.

  Rhiannon flashed her an angry look, hearing the barb beneath the honeyed tone even if she did not understand the figure of speech.

  ‘Are ye o’ faery kind, Rhiannon?’ Fèlice asked with lively curiosity. ‘A Khan’cohban or something, like the Banrìgh?’

  ‘My mother was a horned one,’ Rhiannon answered shortly, not looking at anyone.

  There was a surprised murmur.

  ‘A satyricorn, does she mean?’ Cameron demanded.

  Edithe said, ‘Well, that explains a lot!’

  ‘Shouldn’t ye have horns?’ Rafferty asked.

  Cameron thrust his coins back into his pocket, saying angrily, ‘Ye should’ve told us earlier, it was an unfair contest! I’m no’ paying ye anything.’

  Lewen had been quietly packing up his own quiver of arrows, but now he looked up and said, ‘What difference does it make if Rhiannon is half-satyricorn? Iven just told ye a longbow is an unusual weapon among the satyricorns. It takes naught away from Rhiannon’s success to ken her background, in fact, it makes it even more remarkable. Ye owe her those three coppers, Cameron.’

  ‘It wasna a fair contest,’ he said sulkily.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Fèlice said. ‘Ye always kent Rhiannon was tall and strong, Cameron, ye only have to look at her to ken that.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Landon said. ‘It would be dishonourable to refuse to pay.’ He spoke with such clear certainty that Cameron was abashed and thrust his hand into his pocket to retrieve the coins and throw them at her. Rhiannon caught them out of the air, again startling them with the speed of her response. Lewen looked at Landon and gave him his slow, warm smile, which the young poet returned shyly.

  Maisie was looking at Rhiannon with frightened eyes, and Edithe looked as if she had just found something foul on the bottom of her shoe. Rhiannon’s face had settled back into its sulky lines. She did not look at any of them but went out of the room, her back very straight.

  ‘Ye will find folk o’ all kinds at the Theurgia,’ Lewen said in a voice made gruff with anger. ‘Often those born o’ mingled human and faery blood have the most extraordinary powers o’ all. Like the Keybearer and the Banrìgh who, as Fèlice said, are half-Khan’cohban. Or the Banprionnsa Bronwen, whose mother was half-Fairgean. There is a Celestine in my class, and a corrigan, and a girl who is a tree-shifter, like my own mother. Ye will have to get used to seeing faery folk about at the Tower o’ Two Moons.’

  ‘Aye, but a satyricorn,’ Edithe said. ‘No wonder she is so uncouth.’

  ‘Ye would be uncouth too if ye had been raised by satyricorns,’ Lewen said angrily. ‘We canna help our birth or our upbringing, but we can help the kind o’ people we are now.’

  Edithe raised her eyebrows, smiled coldly, and went to sit down by the fire. After a moment or two, Cameron went to join her, saying, ‘Well, no wonder she’s such a lanky longlegs. A satyricorn!’

  ‘I wonder she was allowed to travel with us,’ Edithe said. ‘I hope she is no’ dangerous.’

  ‘She bloody well is,’ Cameron said moodily. ‘Did ye see the way she snatched those coins out o’ the air?’

  Maisie was asking Fèlice much the same thing, and the pretty brunette was saying doubtfully, ‘No, I’m sure Nina and Iven would no’ open us to any real risk. I’m sure she’s a tame satyricorn.’

  Lewen gritted his teeth together, and went in search of Rhiannon. As he expected, she had sought comfort with h
er flying mare. She looked up as he came in, and said sullenly, ‘What ye want?’

  ‘Naught,’ he answered. ‘I thought I’d come and visit Argent. I wish I could take him out for a gallop. It’s always such a bore, being shut up inside four walls.’

  Her expression softened. ‘Aye, I wish too.’

  ‘Happen it’ll clear tomorrow and we can ride out again.’

  ‘Happen so.’

  He had got out his currying brushes and was grooming the grey stallion, which half-shut its great dark eyes in bliss. He said no more, and after a moment Rhiannon got out her grooming kit and began to pet and pamper her mare too, although Blackthorn’s coat already shone like silk. They worked in companionable silence for some time, and Lewen was pleased to see Rhiannon’s face lose its hard, angry lines. By the time they went back into the house for supper, she had regained her composure, though not the bright, open, merry face she had worn during the archery contest, an expression Lewen would very much like to see again.

  As they went towards the hall, they saw Iven was waiting for them in the corridor. Rhiannon’s step slowed. The jongleur stepped forward to meet them, saying, ‘Rhiannon, I just … I need to ken. Was it ye who shot Connor down?’

  She looked straight into his face and said angrily, ‘Nay.’

  ‘Who was it, Rhiannon? Can ye tell me? It was one o’ your herd, wasna it?’

  ‘I do no’ ken who,’ she answered. ‘I was no’ there.’

  ‘But ye have his clothes, his daggers,’ Iven said.

  ‘I won them gambling,’ she said.

  His face relaxed. ‘That’d be right! I should’ve guessed.’

  She jerked her head and went to move past him. He detained her with one hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, I did no’ mean to imply I suspected ye o’ murder. I just … I really did need to ken, Rhiannon.’

  She nodded, removed his hand from her arm and went into the long hall, her head held high, her face set and expressionless.

  Iven looked at Lewen and shrugged, his hands held wide. ‘I had to ask her.’

  Lewen nodded. ‘I did too.’

  ‘I’m glad it was no’ her.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Do ye think she’s offended?’

  ‘Wouldn’t ye be?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Iven said unhappily.

  ‘Never mind,’ Lewen said. ‘It canna be helped. Ye had to ken. Ye could no’ ride with her for weeks suspecting her o’ murder. Better to get it out in the open.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Iven said again. ‘Nina thinks I’m hasty and indiscreet. Happen I am a blabbermouth after all.’ He hesitated. ‘How are the other bairns? Kenning she’s a satyricorn, I mean.’

  ‘It is naught to be ashamed o’,’ Lewen said stiffly. ‘The satyricorns have shown themselves loyal and true to the Crown, just like any other faery.’

  ‘Aye, but …’ Iven halted himself mid-sentence, tugging at his forked beard with both hands. ‘Auld prejudices die hard,’ he said then, half to himself.

  Lewen nodded.

  Iven flung an arm about his shoulder. ‘Let us go and eat,’ he said. ‘At least we’re enjoying some variety to our diet staying here with Ashelma. That man o’ hers is a very good cook.’

  Together they went in to the long hall, where the dining table was back in its usual place and the babble of high, childish voices filled any awkward silences. Roden and Lulu had spent the afternoon with the orphans and seemed to have made lifelong friends with the two eldest boys. One of them had fashioned himself a slingshot and was amusing himself shooting Annis in the bottom with paper pellets, and pretending it was Strixa the owl, much to the other children’s amusement.

  Nina had drawn Rhiannon down to sit with her and was doing her best to banish the stiff wariness of her face. Rhiannon would not be coaxed, however, and ate her meal in unbroken silence, sat through the usual evening games and storytelling in unbroken silence, and went to bed in the same cold unfriendly silence. It was only when Nina brought her another half-dead mouse to sacrifice that her expression relaxed. She took the warm, limp body and said ‘Thank ye.’

  ‘I do no’ like to see small creatures being killed,’ Nina said. ‘It is against everything the Coven believes in. But I ken it is the nature o’ the cat and the owl to hunt and kill, and I ken ye do so, no’ from some kind o’ cruelty, but because ye truly believe ye are keeping yourself safe by doing so.’

  ‘Not just me,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Us all.’

  ‘Then I thank ye,’ Nina said. ‘I hope I can one day teach ye other ways to keep yourself safe from the dark forces o’ this world.’

  Rhiannon gazed at her for a long moment, then suddenly smiled, a swift, small, shy, surprising smile.

  ‘Happen so,’ she answered.

  Overnight the steady thrum of the rain slowed to a mere pitter-patter, and by dawn it had stopped altogether. Nina roused them all early and bade them dress for riding, and come down for a quick hot meal, for she wanted them on the road by first light. By the time it was bright enough to see the road without the need for lanterns, the carthorses were harnessed to the caravans and they were making their goodbyes to Ashelma and Annis, who came out in the cold, sharp wind in their dressing-gowns.

  ‘Have a care for yourselves,’ Ashelma said. ‘I hope ye have a swift, safe journey.’

  ‘So do I,’ Nina replied with her quick smile. ‘Thank ye so much for putting us all up. I’m sorry it was for so long.’

  ‘It was our pleasure, wasn’t it, Annis? We rarely get to enjoy the company o’ other witches. I hope ye will come and visit us again.’

  ‘We’d love to. Until then, goodbye!’

  ‘Goodbye! Thank ye!’ the others all called and then, wincing as their boots sank deep into the mud, mounted up and rode away down the drive, the gates opening and shutting behind them of their own accord.

  The lane from Ashelma’s house was hock-deep in muddy brown water, and one of the caravans was bogged almost immediately. By the time they had heaved it free, they were all wet and filthy and out of temper, and they were not even out of sight of the witch’s tower. They rode on, hunched in their cloaks, more than a little perturbed at the sight of the river, brown and foamy as gushing ale, and carrying along great broken branches at immense speed.

  They came to the crossroads and paused for a moment, looking back along the road to Ardarchy. Warm golden light glowed in the windows, and wood-smoke rose from the chimneys, torn into fragrant rags by the wind. Some children were playing with hoops in the street, and a smell of fresh bread came from the bakery. A wagon was drawn up in front of the inn, with three men rolling big barrels down a ramp and manhandling them in through the huge door. Four old men sat on the bench in front, puffing on their pipes, while further down the street two women stood gossiping, laden baskets on their arms, as a little girl dressed in a red hooded coat jumped gleefully in the puddles, unnoticed.

  They glanced the other way. Only a few feet away the stone humpbacked bridge crossed the Stormness River. A high, stout gate had been fastened across it, locked tight with heavy chains and an enormous padlock. The river flung itself against the bridge angrily, throwing up gouts of brown foam. Beyond was a desolate landscape, grim and drear and empty of all life. The mountains loomed over it, purple-hued and draped with thick cloud. The road wound down away from the river, narrow and rutted and stony, running with water like a stream-bed.

  ‘Could we no’ stay a few more days in Ardarchy?’ Fèlice pleaded. ‘Indeed, it looks like rain again.’

  Nina nodded. ‘Aye, I ken. But we’ve been delayed far too long already. Come on, my bairns. A little rain willna hurt ye. Two more days on the road and we’ll be past the Tower o’ Ravens and back in the lowlands, where the weather is fairer.’

  ‘What about the ghosts?’ Cameron said sullenly.

  ‘Most ghosts are only memories,’ Nina said gently. ‘When a place has seen great sorrow or great joy, often the emotion soaks down into the very stones and leaves a shadow o
f itself behind – and those that have the gift o’ clear-seeing or clear-hearing can pick up fragments o’ those memories. Some people see ghosts everywhere, and must learn to close their mind’s eye to them. The Tower o’ Ravens is built on a place o’ power, like all the witches’ towers, and it has seen much horror and bloodshed. Because o’ where it is built, the memories o’ those killed are magnified and so even those with very little talent can sense or even see the ghosts that remain. It can be awful, I will admit that, particularly if ye are very sensitive to such things. Ye feel as if ye are there, watching the battle again, hearing the shrieks o’ the dying. But it is only a memory.’

  There was a short silence, everyone staring across the river at the barren windswept moors beyond.

  ‘Ye said most ghosts are only memories,’ Fèlice said waveringly. ‘What about the others?’

  Nina hesitated. ‘It is true that sometimes a soul refuses to go on and be reborn, but clings to its life here, for whatever reason – hatred, grief, horror, even a thirst for life that canna be quenched. These ghosts are more than just memories o’ a soul, they are the soul itself. They are trapped between worlds, unable to go on because they canna forget their lives here. That is tragic indeed, for then the circle o’ life and death is broken and all is unbalanced. A trapped soul can be dangerous, I canna deny it. Even those that are no’ malevolent but only racked with grief or horror can cause harm, for they press upon our nerves, they swamp our souls with their own negative energy, and can drive those already prone to melancholy to deep depression or madness.’

  ‘What about the ones that are malevolent?’ Edithe asked, her voice shrill.

  Nina sighed. ‘Few ghosts have the strength to actually harm ye, Edithe. They have no hands to hold a sword, they have no feet to kick or teeth to bite. Sometimes, if their will is strong enough, they can cause objects to move, just as a witch can, but just clinging to this world saps their strength and their will and so it is rare, I promise ye. Their only weapons are fear and horror. If ye do no’ fear them, they canna drive ye to madness or infect ye with their misery. Stay close, stay strong, and naught can happen to harm ye.’