The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  The gills at her neck and the little frills of fin that ran from her elbow to wrist were both gone, and her face was free of scarring. Subtly her features and figure had altered so she looked both younger and more human. She nodded her head abruptly and pulled her clothes about her, buttoning her dress again with rapid fingers. The dwarf stared at her with undisguised lust, muttering to himself once again.

  Although she was clearly anxious to be gone from this hot, crimson room, she hesitated before she rose, fingering the handle of her basket. ‘I have heard tell, Wilmot the Wizard, that ye can cast curses as well as spells,’ she said, her voice more conciliatory than it had been since her arrival.

  He laughed and twisted the many rings on his fingers. ‘Ye ken curses are like chickens, my bonny, they come home to roost. If Wilmot the Wizard is to take such a risk, it’s a high price he wants, a high price indeed.’

  ‘Name it,’ she said harshly.

  He giggled. ‘It be ye yourself,’ he answered, raking her with such a lascivious glance there was no mistaking his meaning.

  She drew back, making no attempt to hide her distaste. ‘Ye canna be serious,’ she replied, lip curling.

  The dwarf scowled like a sulky child, and said, ‘Ye think I jest, my bonny? I jest no’. If ye wish me to cast curses for ye, it is more than gold I want. As ye say, what need have I o’ gold? I be one o’ the richest men in Lucescere, with so many whores to buy my spells o’ glamouries and so many fine ladies anxious to ken their futures. It is no’ more gold I want from ye, Maya the Ensorcellor, but your own white body. Ye see, I ken who ye are, my bonny. Ye think me a mere bairn and a bagatelle, but I am the Wizard Wilmot and I see what other blind fools canna see. It will please me mightily to cast my seed into the MacCuinn’s furrow.’

  Maya gave an involuntary jerk, unable to prevent the blanching of her lips and cheeks.

  The wizard chortled with amusement, sliding off the chaise-longue to come and press his squat body against her legs. ‘Aye, indeed. Ye canna tell me the new Rìgh will no’ pay highly to ken where his brother’s wife is hiding—more gold than ye can earn even with your fair face and your songs o’ love. Ye see, I ken more about ye than ye knew, my proud lady o’ the sea. So if ye wish me to keep my knowledge to myself, ye will open your legs to me as ye open them to any young laird with a pouch o’ gold. Aye, and ye will moan and sob for me too and tell me I be the finest lover ye have ever had.’ As he spoke, he scrabbled under her skirt, stroking her legs with his hot little hands.

  Maya was rigid, her face as white as chalk, her eyes downcast. ‘And if I lie with ye, will ye cast this curse for me? A curse that shall no’ fail?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll cast the curse,’ he sniggered. ‘I will need a lock o’ hair or a scale o’ their skin or a paring o’ fingernail, do ye understand? It needs to be part o’ their living flesh for the curse to work.’

  She shook her head involuntarily. ‘I canna get anything like that,’ she replied. ‘Do ye no’ understand, this is my bitterest enemy I wish to curse. I canna come that close to him!’

  ‘Ye shall have to if ye wish me to cast a curse o’ any power,’ he said. ‘If ye canna manage a tuft o’ hair or a turd from his chamberpot, some clothing still warm from his flesh, or dust from his footprints, or even the shape o’ his sleeping form in his bedclothes, is better than naught, though I canna ensure the curse will stick that way. The more ye bring me, the better the curse, understand?’

  She nodded, straining away from him. He squeezed her inner thigh, saying sharply, ‘Ye will moan for me, do ye understand? Ye will be hot and wet and willing, and ye will cry my name.’

  ‘Cast me a curse o’ power that will shrivel their house forever and I’ll do whatever ye wish,’ she replied coldly. ‘Though if I am to pay such a high price, there is one more thing I want.’

  His rosebud mouth pouted and he stepped back. ‘What is it?’ he asked sulkily.

  ‘I wish ye to teach me how ye cast such spells and glamouries,’ Maya said cajolingly, casting a longing look at his fat book of spells.

  He laughed mockingly. ‘So ye can cast the spell o’ illusion yourself, ye mean? No’ likely, my fair lady! I would soon be out o’ business if I revealed my secrets to my clients. Besides, ye need to have the talent to cast such things. The craft is o’ no use if ye do no’ have the cunning.’

  She frowned. ‘I do no’ understand.’

  ‘The spells and incantations are just noise and babble if ye do no’ have the power,’ he said dismissively. ‘They focus the will and name the desire precisely, which is what ye need if such things are to work. Yet without the Talent, they are just words. The Talent must be born in ye.’

  He did not notice the sudden gleam in Maya’s ice-blue eyes as he wrapped the great book up and slid it back into the chest. ‘I see,’ she said and gathered her mud-stained skirts up in her hand.

  He looked up at her, his ungainly head held to one side. ‘Till we meet again, my lady,’ he said. ‘I look forward to it very much.’

  ‘Till we meet again,’ Maya replied meekly.

  It was the darkest hour of the night, several hours before dawn, when Isabeau slipped out of one of the back doors and made her way through the kitchen gardens. She carried the baby banprionnsa on her back and two bulging satchels in her arms. She was dressed for traveling in breeches and boots, with her tam-o’-shanter crammed over her curls.

  Two little dogs, flop-eared and skewbald, came running to her heels, yelping in excitement.

  ‘Sssh, Spot, sssh, Blackie,’ she whispered. ‘Ye canna come with me. Stay here with Latifa.’ They whined and sank down, wriggling after her on their bellies.

  Isabeau said sternly, ‘No. Stay.’ They obeyed, the stumps of their tails sinking. She patted their heads as best she could with her laden arms, then left them, a little ache in her breast.

  She hid the satchels behind the snow-domed beehives, then made her way through the dark park. The light of the two moons shone brightly on the white lawn, the shadows of the yew trees black and impenetrable. She made her way to the small garden where the bare branches of the weeping greenberry tree dangled above the frozen surface of a small pool.

  ‘Lilanthe,’ she whispered. ‘Can ye hear me?’

  There was no response. She knelt before the tree. ‘I’m so sorry, Lilanthe, I never meant to hurt ye,’ she said, as she had said every time she had come. ‘He means naught to me—it was the spiced ale, and being so lonely, and jealous of Iseult, who has everything now. Please forgive me. If I had known …’ Her voice trailed off, then she groped within the pouch at her waist and pulled out a long snake of plaited hair which glinted red even in the colourless light of the moons.

  ‘I have to leave, Lilanthe. I wish ye could come with me but I canna wait for ye to wake in the spring. It’s too dangerous …’ Carefully she hid the long braid within the tree-shifter’s branches. ‘So ye can find me,’ she whispered and gave the smooth bark a soft caress. Then she rose, dusted her knees free of snow, and made her silent way back through the silver and black parkland.

  The mews were dark, and the stable lad on guard in the main stables slept in the straw. Seeing as easily in the darkness as any elven cat, Isabeau made her way to the stall where Lasair was confined. He was hobbled and harnessed so tightly he could barely move, his head hanging listlessly. She gave a low whicker as she approached and his ears pricked forward. She put down the satchels and laid her hand over the velvety bridge of his nose to warn him to keep quiet. He nudged her urgently, almost unbalancing her.

  Within moments she had unbuckled his halter and hobbles. He gave a restless shudder, but followed her quietly out of the stall. One of the other horses gave a questioning hurrumph, but Isabeau quietened it with a soft reassurance, waiting until the stable-lad had sighed and turned in his sleep before going on. She had to heave open the stable door to allow Lasair’s great bulk through, and the sound of the wood grating on the stone woke the boy. She heard him make an exclamation, and she u
rged Lasair outside, crashing the door closed behind him. Rapidly she slid a rake through the handles, locking the stable-lad in, before leading Lasair away as quickly as she could.

  Within moments the stable-hand was banging on the door and calling the alarm. Isabeau muttered a curse and clambered on to Lasair’s back, using a garden seat as a mounting block. The satchels flopped against the stallion’s withers as she urged him into a trot, and she had to hold them with one hand to keep them from sliding off.

  It had been in Isabeau’s mind to slip out through the secret gateway in the back wall of the palace grounds and disappear into the mountains behind, so she urged Lasair deeper into the garden. She had hoped to get away without raising an alarm, however, and so was dismayed when she heard the clamour of bells behind her. It was unlikely the stable-hands had any idea who had slipped into the stalls and stolen a horse, or that the thief carried with her the Banprionnsa Bronwen NicCuinn, but they seemed determined to catch her nonetheless. And since it was a crisp, cold night, and Lasair’s hoofprints were clear behind them, black against the moonlit snow, Isabeau soon had the palace guard close on her trail.

  Lasair broke into a smooth gallop that took him rapidly through the park. Isabeau tried to urge him up the side promenade towards the secret gateway, but he veered deeper into the garden. When she saw soldiers running down the walkways, carrying flaring torches, she thought he was wise and gave him his head. He twisted through a copse of winter-bare trees, leapt over a hedge and cantered through a small parterre garden where his hooves would leave no trail. She saw they were coming near the Tower of Two Moons and clung tighter with her knees, afraid he would have another attack of the jitters at the proximity of the ghost-haunted ruins. He turned, though, and sped along the tall, thorny hedge that marked the boundary of the maze at the heart of the garden. There was a shout, and Isabeau saw horsemen were racing close behind. Some carried bright torches, while others had crossbows already armed and lifted. Fear flashed through her, and she urged Lasair on desperately. He leapt another hedge, spun on his haunches and bounded through the archway that led into the enchanted maze. Isabeau could only cling on desperately.

  The maze of hedges had been planted many years before to conceal and protect the sacred tarn at its centre, the Pool of Two Moons. Isabeau, Iseult and Lachlan had penetrated its labyrinthine heart on Samhain Day to rescue the Lodestar and restore its waning powers in the pool. Isabeau had only been able to crack the secrets of the maze with the help of The Book of Shadows, an ancient and magical book that contained within it all the lore of the witches. Although she had memorised the intricate twists and turns of the hedge-lined paths that day, she doubted she would be able to remember them in the panic of flight and with every landmark masked by the darkness.

  The stallion seemed to know exactly where to go, however. Without slacking his pace, he wove his way between the tall hedges, while their pursuers fell back in bafflement. Occasionally they heard shouting or saw the light of flaming torches through the yew branches, but as they worked their way deeper and deeper into the heart of the maze, the pursuit grew further and further behind.

  At last they trotted out of the tall corridors of yew and into the garden that surrounded the Pool of Two Moons. At one end was the dark, round bulk of the observatory, its dome black against the paling sky.

  ‘The maze will no’ protect us,’ Isabeau whispered, leaning down to stroke the stallion’s damp flank. ‘It has only thrown the soldiers off, but others know its secrets. They will come in search o’ us.’

  Lasair whickered softly in reply, then deep in her mind Isabeau heard him say, Trust me. He moved forward, hooves crunching the snow, then climbed the broad steps, halting just beyond the arched colonnade that circled the pool. He followed the circle round until he came to the north-facing arch, and there he waited, muzzle raised to sniff the wind. Isabeau sat wearily, the weight of the child heavy on her back, her heart still troubled with misgivings. The sky along the horizon was brushed with the first unfurling of colour, while the shapes of trees and hedges were lifting from the amorphous darkness. The stallion waited until the very moment the sun lifted over the horizon, then bent his head and nudged his nose against the ancient, pockmarked stone. Only then did he step through.

  To her amazement Isabeau saw the long neck and proudly raised head of the stallion disappear into a silvery haze that materialised between the pillars. Before she could do more than gasp, the glinting, hazy curtain had passed over her with a tingling chill that sent electric shocks down every nerve fibre. Shot through with fiery green, the silvery haze was all about her. Isabeau could only cling to his back as the stallion cantered into a tunnel of gauzy fire. Although she could see the dim shapes of trees through the glimmer, they seemed to blur with every step the stallion took. She heard a rushing in her ears and her whole body stung and twitched. Only the warmth of the stallion beneath her and the sweet weight on her back stopped her senses from reeling.

  Behind her she heard a strange shrieking and looked over her shoulder to see the shredded shapes of ghosts racing after them. She screamed, and the baby gave a long, wailing cry. The stallion stretched his neck and galloped faster, and the ghosts fell back, faces contorted in utter grief and horror, their plaintive cries lingering in Isabeau’s brain. Dark, hunched shadows fell over their path, but the stallion leapt over them. Something clutched at Isabeau’s ankle with bitter-cold claws, but she kicked it away frantically and heard a harsh cry as the shadowy figure tumbled down. Terror pounded through her blood, but she could do nothing but crouch low against the stallion’s neck as he raced along. Below them, the silvery-green path heaved and palpitated, while the shimmering walls and ceiling shook and rustled as if disturbed by a constant, restless wind. Dimly she saw hills blur into forest, and trees blur into craggy mountains. There was a circle of blazing pillars ahead. She saw a tall, pale figure with a long mane of white hair raise a three-eyed face towards them. Lasair did not slow, however; he galloped through with a ringing neigh, though Isabeau turned and stared back with a name unuttered on her lips.

  The path grew darker, and the hunched, shadowy shapes lurched towards them more often. Only Lasair’s fleetness and nimbleness kept them from being dragged down. Beyond the glimmering curtain of silver fire, Isabeau could see the sharp points of mountains rearing all about them. The pain in her joints and nerve endings grew fiercer; she could barely keep her fingers clenched in the stallion’s mane or her legs gripping his heaving sides.

  There was a sudden, unexpected whoosh of sound, and absolute terror flooded through her, weakening her bowels and sending every muscle into spasm. Overhead a great, golden-scaled creature flew on widespread wings as thin and translucent as stretched silk. Isabeau screamed, and the creature swept down so that the wind of its passing blasted her face. The angular head turned and a golden eye—larger than the stallion itself—stared at them, its pupil like a pit of blackness. Isabeau screamed and kept on screaming. With a lissom twist, the dragon spread its wings and soared back into the sky. Isabeau’s whole body slackened and she would have fallen from the stallion’s back if he had not swerved to follow the arc of her body. Somehow she managed to cling on, then the path was tumbling down and they went with it, green sparks hissing from the stallion’s hooves.

  It wanted only a few hours to midnight and only a few days to the end of winter. Out in the palace gardens the many campfires had winked out as the Rìgh’s army settled down for their night’s rest. Most of the palace was sleeping but lights still blazed from the windows of the top floor. The long conference room was crowded with the Rìgh’s councillors, the blue-kilted general staff of the Yeomen of the Guards, and all the prionnsachan and lairds gathered in Lucescere.

  Anghus MacRuraich was seated close to the Rìgh’s chair, the black wolf that had once been his sister Tabithas lying at his feet, his young daughter leaning against her shaggy side. Next to him sat Linley MacSeinn, the Prionnsa of Carraig, with his son Douglas on a stool at his feet
. Iain and Elfrida sat together on a small couch on the other side, while Dughall MacBrann reclined in a satin-upholstered chair on the Rìgh’s right hand, playing with his silver-embossed wand.

  The thickset figure of Alasdair MacThanach, Prionnsa of Blèssem and Aslinn, stood before the fire, feet planted firmly, square hands thrust through his belt. As usual, his loud voice dominated the room, easily drowning out the speech of the others. ‘When are we going to drive those blaygird Bright Soldiers out o’ the countryside for good?’ he boomed. ‘Every strike we’ve made against them has been successful, but I canna help noticing it is only lower Rionnagan that we have freed so far. What about Blèssem? I’ve been away from my land for nigh on six months now!’

  ‘What about Carraig?’ the MacSeinn cried. ‘Six years I’ve been in exile, MacThanach, and no’ a move have we made to regain my lands!’

  ‘Peace, my lairds!’ Lachlan leant forward, hands outspread. ‘Ye ken we can only fight one battle at a time. We may have driven the Bright Soldiers out o’ Rionnagan but they occupy all o’ Aslinn, Blèssem and Clachan, and control the river and every major road. We are all here tonight to plan the summer campaign, but we canna fight the Tìrsoilleirean if we fight among ourselves.’

  When the prionnsachan had quietened down, maps were flung out across the table, the Rìgh using his sceptre to weigh down one end, the MacThanach moving his great tankard of ale to weigh down the other. ‘As ye can see, we are beset on all sides,’ Lachlan said. ‘Bright Soldiers are still pouring in through Arran and Aslinn, and I have heard another fleet o’ galleons has sailed into the Berhtfane, with near six hundred men on board. We have had no news from Ravenshaw or Tìreich, so do no’ ken whether they have also been attacked from the coast. If they have no’, we may be able to raise support for our armies there, but if they too are under duress, there will be little they can do to help us.’