The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  A surly-faced crofter with huge, hard hands and lank, greasy hair gave a contemptuous shrug. ‘I heard she be born o’ Faodhagan the Red’s line, though indeed we had all thought that clan had long ago died out. Then someone said the foul, flying sorceress Ishbel the Winged was her mother, and one o’ the horned snow-faeries her father, but surely that canna be true, the Rìgh would no’ be marrying a blaygird halfbreed, witch-lover though he may be.’

  ‘I heard she was brought up as a foundling babe by the horned snow-faeries, no’ that she was one o’ them,’ another crofter said.

  ‘Nay, she was Meghan o’ the Beasts’ foster child, do ye no’ remember? That was wha’ the peddler said,’ a young man in a shabby kilt cut in.

  ‘Either way, she be a witch-lover and faery-friend,’ an old man with cropped grey hair said with disapproval cold in his voice.

  Dide gave a light laugh that sounded artificial to Lilanthe’s ears. ‘Och, they say the Rìgh is returning us to the auld days,’ he said. ‘They say anyone who raises a hand against the faeries shall be punished severely.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a long time syne we’ve seen any o’ those demon spawn in Glenmorven,’ the innkeeper said fervently, ‘and let’s hope it’s a long time until we do.’

  Lilanthe felt the blood rise to her face. Dide noticed her behind him and flashed her a warning glance. He could see through Gwilym’s glamourie, having the gift of clear-seeing which could penetrate a spell of illusion, unless it was very cunningly cast.

  ‘If the Grand-Seeker has his way, we shall no’ have to endure the rule o’ the witch-lovers for long,’ the surly faced crofter said with a sidelong look at the jongleur. ‘They say he is gathering together a force to put Jaspar’s wee daughter back on the throne and restore the Awl.’

  ‘The Grand-Seeker?’ Dide said casually, trying not to show that mention of the Anti-Witchcraft League had caught his interest. ‘I thought he had perished in the taking o’ Lucescere Palace or had been taken captive wi’ the others.’

  ‘Och, Grand-Seeker Renshaw be as wily as a fox,’ the man said, raking Lilanthe over with a glance that made her fidget. ‘No way he was going to be caught by a handful o’ rebellious ruffians.’

  ‘Do no’ let anyone hear ye speak o’ the new rìgh in such terms,’ Dide said in a lowered voice, covering his anger with a friendly face. ‘He be a MacCuinn, ye ken, and one with witch powers too. It’s a new order now, and my granddam always said a new broom sweeps clean.’

  ‘Aye, Jock, ye should keep a still tongue in your head,’ the old man said with a wary glance around.

  The man spat loudly. ‘To think we need suffer a witch-lover on the throne again! It’s enough to make a Truth-fearing man’s bluid boil!’

  ‘Careful, my man,’ the other said in an undertone, so Dide had to strain his ears to catch the words. ‘Ye ken all loyal men were told to keep mumchance till we heard the word.’

  ‘Och, no need to fraitch, I’ll keep my tongue between my teeth, dinna ye fear,’ Jock replied, swallowing his ale and pulling his tam-o’-shanter back on over his greasy hair. As he turned to go, he tripped over one of Lilanthe’s spreading feet. He glanced down in surprise but saw nothing that could have caused him to stumble, since the tree-shifter’s feet, so like gnarled tree roots, were hidden by the illusion of wooden sabots. Jock scowled in puzzlement and muttered something under his breath.

  Lilanthe moved away, her feet crossing over each other involuntarily, colour rising in her cheeks. She tried to maintain an expression of unconcern but could not help her breath coming unevenly as the crofter’s glance deepened to uneasy suspicion. He looked her over with a bleary gaze, shrugged and went out into the snowy night. Lilanthe breathed more easily, and followed Dide as he tossed off a light-hearted jest, juggled the copper coins till they disappeared one by one, then made his way through the crowd again. His face was sombre and rather pale, and his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his crimson cap.

  ‘Things will never change, will they?’ Lilanthe whispered to him. ‘They still hate the faeries and think them uile-bheistean.’

  ‘It takes time to change, ye canna expect them to throw off sixteen years o’ hatred overnight,’ Dide answered bleakly. ‘In the meantime, ye mun be more careful, Lilanthe!’

  ‘Do ye think it was Isabeau they were speaking o’?’ the tree-shifter asked, excitement warming her voice. ‘They say hair as red as flame, and Meghan’s apprentice. Surely it mun be Isabeau? Would that no’ be wonderful, Isabeau the new Banrìgh?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Dide responded blankly.

  She cast him a doubtful glance but before she could say anything she was called upon to perform. Taking a deep breath, she began to mimic the sounds of the forest birds, warbling as sweetly as any woodlark. For some reason her mimicry was always immensely popular, though often she was asked to imitate the sound of a rooster or duck, something she always found hard to understand. These crofters could listen to their farmyard fowls any time they wished; why they found it so amusing to hear a young woman make the same sounds was beyond her.

  Suddenly her voice faltered as terror seized her throat muscles. Standing in the doorway was a very tall, very thin man dressed in a long robe of rich crimson. His face was gaunt and extremely pale, as if he was ill, and he was staring straight at her with the intense hatred of a fanatic. Behind him was the crofter Jock, a gloating expression on his face. The shoulders and head of both men were covered in snow, and a bitter wind was swirling through the open door into the smoke-filled room. Already people were turning to look in irritation, though their expressions turned quickly to fearful respect when they caught sight of the seeker. Many moved out of his way as he stepped forward and pointed his thin fingers at Lilanthe, intoning, ‘Your foul arts canna deceive me, uile-bheist! I see ye for what ye are—monster and demon-spawn!’

  Lilanthe gave a strangled moan, and stepped back, looking for a way out. Her knees felt weak, her heart was pounding so loudly she thought it must boom like a drum. The seeker turned to the crowd and cried, ‘Ye shall no’ suffer an uile-bheist to live! She is no lassie but a blaygird tree-faery. Seize her!’

  The crowd glanced from the seeker to Lilanthe, some in disbelief, others in horror and fear. Then the group of crofters that had talked of the Grand-Seeker sprang into action, charging the open area where the jongleurs had been performing. Immediately Morrell swallowed his burning brand and spat out a long plume of fire that had them scrambling backwards to avoid being scorched. Before the crowd had time to react, Dide’s long daggers were out of his belt and flashing dangerously through the air. Those nearest to the young jongleur ducked back with cries of alarm. Dide grasped Lilanthe’s hand and dragged her back towards the inn’s kitchens, calling to his sister, ‘Get the others, Nina, we mun get out o’ here fast!’

  Quick as a squirrel, the little girl somersaulted over the table and darted up the stairs, while Morrell again spat out fire that sent the crofters diving for cover. Enit hit out with her walking sticks, breaking one over the back of an attacker. Douglas MacSeinn, the eldest of the children rescued from the Tower of Mists, threw a chair that knocked over another two men advancing from the side. Confusion reigned on all sides as belligerent farmers and townsfolk tried to seize the jongleurs but were forced back by Morrell’s blasts of fire or Dide’s wicked knives. Then someone threw a chair which hit the fire-eater in the back. He staggered and fell. Someone leapt onto his back and pinned him to the ground, but the jongleur threw him off and leapt to his feet. With a sweep of his palm he conjured a handful of fire and threw it at the attacking crowd.

  Fire blossomed in the curtains, and the screams intensified as people began to struggle towards the door. The push of those trying to escape slowed down the advance of the seeker’s followers long enough for the youngest of the children to escape to the kitchen. Morrell caught up his mother and carried her out of the common room at a run, Enit still brandishing her walking stick. Dide and Lilanthe were close behind, the tree
-shifter weeping with shock and fear.

  Out in the courtyard Gwilym and two of the older children were frantically harnessing the horses to the caravans. Iain had seized a pitchfork and was keeping off two burly crofters while his wife tried to heave her bulk into the wagon. She was dressed only in her shift, with a plaid thrown over her shoulders, and she shivered violently in the freezing air. Gilliane was sobbing with fear as she tried to help her, while the other children were throwing buckets and pots at the advancing mob. Nina was kicking and screaming in the brutal grasp of one man, while Douglas was only just managing to fend off two burly men wielding clubs. A lurid red light from the burning inn hung over the scene, giving the faces of the shouting men a demonic look.

  Dide dropped Lilanthe’s wrist and threw one of his daggers straight through the breast of the man holding his sister. The attacker dropped like a stone, and Nina scrambled onto the step of the caravan as Morrell threw his mother up into the driving seat. Enit seized the reins, and her brown mare, rearing in terror at the smell of smoke, plunged forward, knocking several crofters to the ground. One man reached up and grasped the little girl, trying to drag her back, but the caravan door flew open and a small, furry arm wielding a frying pan flashed out and smashed him over the head. He stumbled back with a groan, and the cluricaun pulled Nina into the safety of the caravan’s interior.

  As Enit’s caravan raced out of the courtyard, Morrell came to Douglas’s rescue, knocking one of his attackers to the ground with a well-aimed punch and kicking the other in the groin. The boy was able to scramble into the driver’s seat of the wagon just as Gilliane whipped the old carthorse forward. With the other children battering at the many hands gripping the side of the wagon, the carthorse broke into a ponderous gallop. There were screams of anguish as men fell beneath his great hooves.

  Behind them the Grand-Seeker was standing stiff and tall, his red robes vivid in the blazing firelight, his face distorted as he screamed to his followers to stop them. Gwilym turned and pointed two fingers directly at him, and the Grand-Seeker stumbled back, shouting in alarm as snakes hissed and writhed up his arms. The next instant the illusion was gone, but the distraction had been enough to allow Morrell’s and Gwilym’s caravans to escape the courtyard as well. The crowd surged along behind them, throwing stones and shouting invective, but they were unable to keep up with the galloping mares and soon the town of Glenmorven was left far behind in the snowy darkness.

  During the night the jongleurs, anxious to avoid any further pursuit, left the highway and turned into the maze of back lanes that wound through the countryside. For the next few weeks they rarely stopped to rest, walking when they could to lighten the horses’ load and steering clear of the villages. Dide was sombre and quiet, barely speaking to Lilanthe at all. The tree-shifter tried to show she was sorry for talking Gwilym into casting the spell of illusion, but the young jongleur only nodded and said tersely, ‘Och, well, it canna be helped. Least said, soonest mended.’

  It was another month before the calvacade at last saw the domes and spires of Lucescere rising out of the bleak hills. A lone ray of sunlight broke through the heavy clouds and fell upon the minarets so they gleamed bronze-gold. Lilanthe gazed in amazement—she had never seen such a great city, piled high upon an island between two rivers which together poured over the edge of a cliff. A cloud of spray hung about the curve of the waterfall so it looked as though the glowing city floated on mist, while behind the city brooded snow-draped mountains.

  ‘Look, the Shining City,’ Dide cried, walking along beside the caravan. ‘Even in the midst o’ the winter gloom, it shines like a star.’

  The road was crowded with travellers; caravans jostled on all sides. Lilanthe pulled her plaid closer about her head, for many carried vicious-looking pitchforks or scythes, as well as expressions of fierce determination.

  ‘Lachlan the Winged is gathering himself an army.’ A twisted smile lifted Gwilym’s lean, pockmarked cheek. ‘I wonder how he plans to feed and house them all?’

  By the time the cavalcade reached the end of the long bridge that arched over the river, it was well past sunset. The stream of refugees stretched for miles behind them, and harassed-looking guards directed groups of people in one direction or another. Enit leant down from her driving bench and spoke to the sentinel before the city portal. He directed the jongleurs straight up the wide road that led towards the palace, but it was so crowded it was another few hours before they at last came out into the great square before the palace gates.

  The gates stood wide open, a steady flow of people hurrying in and out, their credentials checked by rows of hard-faced soldiers wrapped in thick, blue cloaks. There were gaudily dressed lairds with swords at their hips, artisans carrying the tools of their trades, a boy with a herd of lean pigs, women carrying massive loops of wool, wagons piled high with sacks of meal and cages of anxiously squawking chickens. With a sigh and a grimace, Enit urged her mare to the end of the line, the other caravans falling into place behind her.

  When at last the jongleurs’ cavalcade reached the line of guards, there was a joyous reunion. Dide clapped the captain on the back, and Gwilym reached down and gripped hands with those of the soldiers he knew. Jokes and anecdotes of the Samhain uprising flew back and forth, as did grim news of the state of affairs in Eileanan.

  ‘Meghan has been most anxious about ye,’ the huge, ham-fisted captain said. ‘She’s been ailing wi’ the cold and the effects o’ her wound and worried indeed that ye may have had trouble in the countryside.’

  ‘Aye, it’s been a slow journey,’ Enit replied, her voice sweet and melodious as ever. ‘I thought we would have been here long ago, but as ye can see, we have unexpected company.’ With a sweep of her hand she indicated the children hanging wide-eyed over the side of the wagon.

  It was close on midnight before they were finally trundling up the long drive to the palace, their way lit with flaming torches. Beneath the bare branches of the trees on either side were hundreds of tents and makeshift shelters, campfires twinkling before them. Light flurries of snow were falling, and Lilanthe shivered, huddling deeper into her plaid.

  Despite the late hour, the palace was a hive of activity. Lights flared from every window, and hammering and shouting could be heard beyond the courtyard wall. Grooms rushed out from the stables to help the jongleurs unharness their horses and unpack their belongings. There was no room in the stables for their horses or carts, but the exhausted mares were rapidly rubbed down, covered in horse blankets and led into a yard where hay was scattered on the snow for them.

  An eager-faced lad was sent to show the party the way, and he marched before them, casting curious glances at them from under his sandy thatch of hair. Morrell swung the crippled Enit into his strong arms and carried her easily, a mere bundle of shawls, amber jewellery and dark, liquid eyes.

  The palace corridors were as crowded as the streets and square had been. Everyone hurried about his or her business with purposeful faces. Dide’s face lit up as he gazed about him. One long hall had been converted into a military training ground, and young men and women sparred together with wooden swords, a blue-kilted soldier shouting orders from what had once been a musicians’ platform.

  Through another set of doors sleeping forms huddled in blankets covered the floor. One man leant on his elbow to cough harshly, and a girl knelt by his side and gave him something to drink from a beaker. Another hall had been turned into an indoor garden, seedlings growing in pots covered by sheets of glass. Growing from dark, rich soil were the feathery tops of carrots, the writhing vines of pumpkins, the spindly stems of oats and barley, all flourishing despite the snow whirling against the steamed-up windows. Another young woman was spraying the plants with water, her face flushed, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows.

  The boy led the jongleurs through into the main wing of the palace where another blue-clad soldier relieved him of his task. Servants hurried past, arms full of scrolls, while men in furred cloaks and velv
et doublets conferred in low voices at the foot of the wide, marble stairs. They were taken up to the top floor, Morrell panting as he carried his mother’s frail form up the many flights of steps.

  Dide was tense now, his fingers clenching the strap of his guitar. Overwhelmed by the grandeur of the palace and the crowds of richly dressed people, Lilanthe hung close to the young jongleur’s shoulder, Gwilym stumping behind, while the children chattered in nervous excitement. Only Iain, Douglas and the NicAislin sisters seemed at ease—they had grown up in castles as grand as this and were used to the magnificence of the furnishings.

  The party was shown into a long hall hung with blue and silver brocade, the ceiling lavishly painted with clouds, rainbows and the lissom shapes of dancing nisses. Pacing the floor at one end was a tall, powerfully built man with black curly hair and an aquiline nose. He was scowling ferociously, one hand clenched around a sceptre in which a large round orb of glowing white was set in claws of silver. He was dressed in a dark green kilt and plaid and fidgeting behind him were a pair of long, glossy black wings.

  ‘Even if we get the recruits trained up by the spring thaw, we still have no’ got enough weapons or horses to arm even a third o’ them!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Lachlan, ye ken we have every forge in Rionnagan fired up night and day! I shall no’ let ye start melting down plough-shares and shovels to make swords—come the spring, we shall need to be planting the crops and preparing for the harvest. Too many people are starving already.’ The speaker was a small, thin woman, her grey hair streaked with white, her face heavily lined. She was sitting bolt upright on a cushioned chair, a donbeag curled on her lap.

  The room was lined with an odd selection of people. There were courtiers in velvet doublets, soldiers in the blue kilts and mail-shirts of the Rìgh’s own bodyguard, a bow-legged old man in the leather gaiters of a groom. A frail old man in a blue robe sat near the throne, a raven on his shoulder. His eyes were milky white, his snowy beard reaching to his knees. On the other side of the throne sat a shaggy wolf leaning against the knee of a tall man in a black kilt. By the fireplace a woman with cropped red-gold curls was sitting, cushions at her back, the folds of her white tunic failing to conceal the great mound of her abdomen. She looked to be only a few days away from giving birth.