The Tower of Ravens

by Kate Forsyth

  Blackthorn was weary and the wall was high, so Rhiannon took the ascent slowly. They flew along the wall, away from the gatehouse, gradually gaining height, until at last they breached it near the end. All was quiet. Too quiet. Rhiannon could not see a single soldier or servant. The castle could have been deserted.

  Rhiannon directed Blackthorn towards the northern tower. Roden would have been taken to Lady Evaline, she guessed, who had her quarters in that wing. Rhiannon was not entirely sure she understood the madness behind Roden’s kidnap, but she felt sure Lord Malvern had done it for his sister-in-law. He had called Lady Evaline old and mad, but Rhiannon felt that it was the lord who was truly the mad one, the one obsessed with bringing his brother and his son back to life, and expiating the guilt he felt at their deaths.

  Blackthorn was beginning to tire, and Rhiannon brought her in close to the tower. The castle had been built for defence and so the only windows were high up under the roof, and heavily barred. The length of the tower was broken regularly with narrow arrow-slits, however. Blackthorn hovered as close to one of these as she could get, while Rhiannon lifted Lulu and thrust her towards the tiny aperture.

  ‘Find Roden, Lulu,’ she whispered. ‘And be quick!’

  Lulu nodded, whimpering a little with fear, and leapt across to the arrow-slit. She crept through the gap and disappeared from view. Blackthorn then flew up and landed gratefully on the roof of the tower. This was steeply peaked, but there was a little flat edge just before the battlements where Blackthorn was able to stand, and Rhiannon could stretch out in the warm sunshine and rest.

  She shut her eyes, feeling very tired after the long, hard ride. She almost fell asleep there, resting in the sun, the pain in her arm dying down to a dull throbbing. But then Blackthorn nudged her with her nose, blowing on her and nibbling at her shoulder. Rhiannon sat up rather groggily.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  Blackthorn looked towards the battlements curiously. Rhiannon looked too, and saw to her horror a small brown wrinkled hand reaching over the stone. She thought of all the dead severed hands she had seen in the lord’s library and a cold shudder went down her spine. It was all she could do not to scream. Surely the lord could not animate those embalmed hands and send them creeping down corridors and climbing tall towers, hunting down his enemies and strangling them to death?

  Another hand reached up and grasped the stone, then Lulu’s anxious face, so like an old, old woman’s, suddenly appeared. Rhiannon’s relief was so profound she almost fainted.

  The arak crept over the battlement and leapt to Rhiannon’s side, seizing her hand urgently. She gibbered, dancing up and down.

  ‘Roden? Ye’ve found Roden?’

  The arak dragged her to the side and pointed down. Rhiannon leant over the battlements, clinging tight to the stone with her uninjured hand. The tower fell away to the courtyard so far below, the vast drop making her feel dizzy. Lulu gibbered again, pointing, then swung herself down. Rhiannon watched in amazement as she clambered down the sheer drop, clinging to the stones with hands and feet and tail-tip. She came to a deep window embrasure and hung above it, looking up at Rhiannon.

  Rhiannon nodded her head and climbed up onto the battlements so that she could more readily reach Blackthorn’s back. Her arm throbbed painfully and her head swam, but she ignored it and managed to slide her leg across the mare’s back. Blackthorn leapt out into the air, Rhiannon shutting her eyes against the sudden spin of space. She wondered how long it took most thigearns to get over the involuntary spurt of terror that came from flying on a winged horse’s back.

  Blackthorn flew down so that she was hovering just below the window where Lulu hung upside down. Rhiannon could hear the sound of low, murmuring voices. She felt sure one of them was Lord Malvern. Her pulse quickened and she signalled to Blackthorn to fly closer.

  She could just make out the words.

  ‘Do ye no’ care what I’ve been through to bring him back to ye?’ Lord Malvern was shouting. ‘Irving is dead and Durward too, and I was slashed across the face by that great horned beast. Look, I bleed! Does the spilling o’ my blood mean naught to ye?’

  ‘There has been too much spilling o’ blood,’ Lady Evaline answered in a wavering voice.

  ‘But ye said ye wanted him! I’ve risked much to get him for ye, no’ to mention losing two o’ my most faithful men. It would’ve been much better to have let them ride away, suspecting nothing, and then to have stolen him later, when I had the spell in my hands and was ready to resurrect Rory’s soul. Now we have to hide him and keep him safe from prying eyes for weeks, months even, until I find the spell. Why on earth did ye weep and wring your hands at the thought o’ losing him if ye did no’ want me to take him for ye?’

  ‘Ye do such mad, strange things,’ the old woman said in a broken voice. ‘I canna understand ye sometimes, Malvern. Och, I ken ye felt for me in my grief when I lost both Falkner and Rory so cruelly, I ken ye felt ye were to blame. But so much time has passed, and I grow auld. Such fury o’ emotion seems odd to me now.’

  ‘But ye wept!’ Lord Malvern was furious.

  ‘Aye, I wept, aye, I was sorry the laddie had to go, aye, I wished he could stay here with me and brighten my days,’ Lady Evaline said just as angrily. ‘I did no’ mean for ye to go and steal him! Why do ye do these things? So many boys! Ye’ve stolen so many boys for me and in the end killed them all, for ye could no’ stand the way they wept for their mothers, or shrank away from ye, frightened. This lad is no’ Rory, he can never be Rory, canna ye see that?’

  ‘Oh yes, he will,’ Lord Malvern said in a cold, malevolent voice. ‘We will kill him and Rory will take over his body, and then ye will thank me.’

  ‘But will it really be Rory?’ Lady Evaline asked unhappily. ‘His body rotted away long ago, and Falkner’s too. We have their bones, it’s true, but we ken we canna reanimate them, we have tried and tried.’

  ‘The body is but a sack to keep the spirit in,’ Lord Malvern said impatiently. ‘It is the soul that matters, and we have tied their souls here to us. All we need do is find appropriate vessels to pour their souls back into. And ye canna tell me ye do no’ think this lad a good vessel for Rory. I have seen the way ye look at him and long to caress him. Soon, soon, ye shall have him again, your own darling son, back in a living, breathing body, as ye have longed for so long.’

  ‘I just wish we dinna have to hurt this lad,’ Lady Evaline murmured.

  ‘We shallna hurt him. We do no’ want Rory to wake to pain or a marred body. We will kill him very gently, I promise ye.’

  Lady Evaline sighed. ‘Sometimes ye make my flesh creep on my bones, Malvern, even after all these years.’

  ‘Do no’ dare stand there and stare at me with those wide, innocent eyes, Evaline,’ he hissed. ‘Ye may no’ have wielded the knife yourself but ye have been complicit in each and every death! Ye think me mad? Ye think me evil? Everyone I have killed was killed to make ye happy!’

  There was a cry from Lady Evaline. ‘Look, he wakes! Sssh! Do no’ frighten him.’

  Then Rhiannon heard a high, treble voice, wavering with tears. ‘Where am I? Where’s my mam? I want my mam!’

  ‘I am to be your mama now,’ Lady Evaline said. ‘Do no’ cry, my love.’

  ‘Ye’re no’ my mam! Ye’re auld! I want my own mam!’

  ‘I am your mama, Rory.’

  ‘My name’s no’ Rory! I’m Roden. Go away!’

  ‘Rory, do no’ speak to your mother like that,’ Lord Malvern said in a chilling voice.

  ‘She’s no’ my mam! My mam is young and bonny. She’s a witch, and she’ll turn ye into a slug for this. And my da’s a soldier and he’ll step on ye and squash ye flat. They’ll be coming for me, just ye wait and see!’ The little boy’s voice wavered and broke.

  ‘No-one will come for ye, Rory. No-one kens where ye are. Ye would be best to keep a quiet tongue in your head, and be loving and respectful to your new mama else I’ll squash ye as flat as a
slug. Do ye understand me?’

  There was a short, fraught silence and then Roden began to wail, ‘I want my mam, I want my mam. Mam! Mam!’

  ‘Shhh, no, sweetling, do no’ cry. Ye will forget her soon, and we’ll be so happy together. Come, will ye no’ sit here on my lap and I shall read ye a story? Come, come, my darling, do no’ weep. Uncle Malvern will go now and leave ye here with me, and we’ll have a lovely cuddle and I’ll play with ye. Malvern, go and leave me with my son.’

  Rhiannon heard the faint sound of a door shutting, and then there was no sound except for Roden’s sobbing and the anxious attempts of Lady Evaline to soothe him. As she kept telling him that he would soon forget his real mama and she would forget him, all she managed to do was drive Roden deeper into despair.

  Rhiannon shifted her weight, wondering what she could do to rescue Roden. There seemed to be no way in to the little tower room except through the window above her head, which was heavily barred. Blackthorn was tiring quickly, her wings not built for hovering. Whatever Rhiannon was to do had to be done quickly.

  Lulu turned her small, wizened face to Rhiannon anxiously, gestured broadly, and then swung herself down and into the windowsill. For a moment the arak clung to the bars, then she put her hand through and tapped gently on the glass. A moment later, Roden’s chubby face appeared at the window. He saw the winged horse and rider, and shouted with excitement, jumping up and down and waving. Then he unlatched the window and flung it open. Lulu squeezed through the bars and flung herself upon him, dancing up and down on his shoulder with joy.

  Rhiannon stared at the bars in consternation. She flew closer and reached out one hand to test them. They were stout and strong. Roden reached through the deep aperture and grasped her fingers. Behind him there was sudden movement.

  Rhiannon took a deep breath. She had nothing on her that could wrench the bars from the stone. No rope. No chain. All she had was her desperate desire to free Roden, and her will. Rhiannon had listened to the apprentices at their lessons often enough to know the keystones to witchcraft were will and desire. Both of hers were strong. She grasped the bars with both hands, focused her mind with all the fierce determination she was capable of, and jerked them hard. To her surprise and wild joy, the bars wrenched free. They flew out of the window-frame at great speed, almost whacking her over the head, and tumbled down to smash into the courtyard below. Rhiannon almost followed them, jerked off balance. Only Blackthorn’s speedy manoeuvre kept her on the mare’s back.

  Roden did not hesitate. In a second he was scrambling up onto the windowsill, then he climbed through the window. Rhiannon grasped his wrists and swung him onto Blackthorn’s back, behind her. The little boy whooped with joy and excitement. The next second Lulu was leaping after him, landing on the winged horse’s mane. Blackthorn wheeled and soared away.

  A despairing scream came from the window behind him. ‘Rory, no!’

  Rhiannon looked back. Lady Evaline leant out of the window, her arms outstretched. ‘My son! Ye’re stealing my son!’ the old lady cried, tears streaming down her face. Suddenly she climbed up onto the sill and launched herself after them, calling Rory’s name. Rhiannon and Roden could only watch in numb horror as she fell over and over, tumbling down the great length of the tower to the ground. She hit the paving-stones and bounced once, then sprawled still like a broken doll. Slowly a tide of red crept out from her skull.

  Roden hid his face. Tears started to Rhiannon’s eyes. She wiped them away, then bent to stroke Blackthorn’s sweat-lathered neck.

  ‘Take us away from here,’ she whispered. ‘Find Lewen for me.’

  Blackthorn wheeled and flew to the south.

  Rhiannon lay in Lewen’s arms, feeling warm and comfortable and at peace, despite the iron chain that weighed down her wrist and rattled whenever she moved.

  Firelight flickered over the trees, which seemed to lean over the camp like protective guardians. Nina sat on the far side of the flames, Roden leaning against her, her arms about him as she whispered silly jokes in his ear to make him giggle. Lulu was curled against him, one paw nestled in his hand. Both looked as if they never wanted to let him go again. At the sound of Roden’s laughter, Iven looked up from the guitar he was gently strumming and smiled.

  The other apprentices were playing cards by the light of a lantern propped on a box. All except Edithe. She sat by herself, reading a spell-book and looking very sour. She felt the arrest of the lord of Fettercairn to be a slur on her perception, and was adamant that it was all a dreadful mistake and the lord would be cleared as soon as they reached the royal court.

  More than a week had passed since Rhiannon had snatched Roden from Fettercairn Castle. She had managed to stay on Blackthorn’s back long enough to see Nina clasp her son in her arms. Then she had fallen.

  The next seven days were nothing but a hideous blur. Strange nightmarish visions stalked her imagination. She was first burning with fire, then tossed in an icy waterfall, then dried out with merciless heat like a lizard on a rock. Her limbs seemed to grow like tentacles, reaching for miles across the countryside, and then she was very tiny, a pale crustacean pried from her shell and held dangling above an open mouth. Dark walkers haunted her dreams and bent over her waking hours, pinned to the heels of those who tended her.

  They had tried to put her to bed at the Linlithgorn inn but she had fought so viciously against being taken inside stone walls that Nina had had to care for her in the open, with no more shelter than the leaves of the trees and a canopy of oilskins strung up with rope. In her rare moments of lucidity, Rhiannon was able to stare up at the shifting green pattern of sunshine through the leaves, or the great vault of the night sky starred with familiar constellations. Gradually, her soaring temperature cooled, the crippling headache faded, and the dark walkers stepped back into the shadows, leaving Rhiannon weak and useless as a newborn kitten but aware of who she was and where she was.

  Nina said she had suffered from sorcery sickness, a very dangerous illness that could overcome anyone who drew too deeply upon the One Power. It was a wonder, she said, that Rhiannon had survived it. Many wild Talents, who had not been taught how to use their powers properly, died after such a display of magical strength, or at the least were left broken in mind and body. Rhiannon must have great inner reserves of strength, Nina said, for she had wielded powerful magic by wresting the iron bars out of the stone. Rhiannon had already been weakened by the poison Dedrie the nursemaid had forced down her throat, and worn out by the desperate chase after Roden, and the loss of blood from her injured arm. ‘Indeed I think Eà was watching out for ye, my dear,’ Nina had said, ‘and I am so glad. I could no’ have forgiven myself if ye had died rescuing my laddie, after all ye’ve been through this past week.’

  Nina had insisted that the whole company wait until Rhiannon was strong enough to ride again before they left Linlithgorn, and she had not allowed anyone to talk to her about what had happened at Fettercairn Castle. At first Rhiannon had been grateful for this, for her dreams were still disturbed with visions of creeping hands, pickled babies, bloody puddles, the unhappy ghosts of murdered children and the dreadful scream of an old lady as she fell to her death. She was content to spend a few days sitting in the leafy glade, enjoying the tender ministrations of Nina, who could not do enough for the rescuer of her son, and watching the sorceress as she called birds and small animals to her hands, and sang quiet songs of peace and healing over Rhiannon’s head.

  Once Rhiannon had been strong enough to walk about the clearing, or to ask after the others, her peaceful time was over, though. Iven had come with the chain and shackles in his hands, and a most apologetic look, to fetter her limbs again. Nina had protested angrily, and Iven had said, ‘I’m sorry, my dearling, I’m sorry, Rhiannon, but naught has changed. I still must take ye to Lucescere to face the Rìgh’s justice. Ye ken I wish I could just leave ye be, and pretend I do no’ ken ye were the one who killed Connor, but I do ken and so does the Rìgh. I canna take the r
isk that ye will decide to fly off once more.’

  ‘But Iven!’ Nina cried, almost in tears. ‘If it were no’ for Rhiannon, we would no’ have our own boy back again. We are in her debt!’

  ‘I ken, dearling, and believe me I shall make sure the Rìgh kens it. He is a fair man, and fond o’ ye and Roden. I am sure he willna let the courts hang Rhiannon when he understands –’

  Nina was aghast. ‘Iven! Surely there can be no question o’ … Iven, ye canna allow …’

  Iven’s face was troubled and unhappy, but still he clasped the shackles around Rhiannon’s wrists and fastened the chain to the tree. ‘I’m sorry. Believe me when I say I will do all in my power to make sure the courts deal fairly with ye, my dear. Your help in rescuing Roden and your testimony against the laird o’ Fettercairn – these will no’ mean naught, I promise ye.’

  Rhiannon had not fought him, or protested in any way, but she had felt a heavy mantle settle over her shoulders, a sort of weariness and fatalism she had not previously felt. Nina was worried about her, she could tell, and had tried to argue that they must stay a few more days until Rhiannon was stronger. Iven had shook his head, though. ‘We must ride on, my love, ye ken that. We have been delayed far too long already.’

  So Lewen and the other witch-apprentices had at last been allowed to join them, and the obvious affection in the faces of most of them had bolstered Rhiannon’s spirits, and made it easier to bear the heavy chain that rattled every time she moved. Lewen had brought Blackthorn with the other horses, and the sight of the mare had given her fresh strength and courage.

  The apprentices had spent the afternoon fussing over her, giving her little gifts of flowers and honeyed cakes, and telling her how brave and clever she was. This had been sweet. Sweeter still was the sight of Lewen’s steadfast brown eyes and the warmth and strength of his hands, which he found impossible to keep away from her. She was able to lean against his broad shoulder, and rest her head on his chest, and feel his fingers entwined in hers, and felt a warm glow of happiness she would have thought impossible earlier that day. Lewen had, without the need to speak, unshackled the chain from the tree and clasped it round his own wrist and Rhiannon had understood this gesture as it was meant – he would stand by her, and support her, and help her bear her fate.