The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Looks like more than a touch, if those clouds close in,’ one of the other weaver women said, coughing hoarsely. ‘Och, it’s been a hard winter this year!’

  ‘Happen the spring’ll bring better weather and better news,’ another said. ‘They say the highland lairds have pledged the Rìgh their support, which should bring the army another thousand men at least.’

  ‘Aye, but they say the blaygird Bright Soldiers have twelve thousand camped through Blèssem, and still more marching through the fenlands. ‘Tis twice as many as the Rìgh’s been able to muster, by all accounts,’ her friend said with a sigh.

  ‘Obh obh, woman!’ the driver of the wagon behind said impatiently. ‘Do we have to wait all morn while ye wag your tongue about wha’ ye ken naught!’

  The weaver woman cast him a disdainful glance but moved on through the palace gates, her companions following close behind, their arms filled with bolts of grey cloth, their plaids over their heads against the chilly breeze. They nwalked with confidence down the long, tree-lined avenue, calling out greetings to the squads of soldiers practising their manoeuvres alongside. The weaver women were regular visitors to the palace, undertaking much labour on behalf of Toireasa the Seamstress. The grey cloth they carried had been spun and woven in the weavers’ hall in Lucescere and was to be made into kilts and cloaks for the soldiers. Joking and laughing, they bypassed the great entrance hall of the palace, heading instead across the quadrangle to the east wing, which had been converted into the army’s headquarters.

  None noticed as one fell back, her plaid clutched close about her face. The bolts of cloth she carried were held high so all that could be seen of her were two silvery-blue eyes. As the weaver women disappeared through the door into the crowded hall beyond, the lone figure darted across the yard and in through a side door.

  Maya’s heart was beating so fast she thought it would leap from her breast, but she kept her face low and the bolts of cloth high. If anyone challenged her, she would simply pretend to be lost and let them redirect her to the eastern wing. She was ready to croon the challenger to forgetfulness if they recognised her for she had not lost her ability to charm and compel with the breaking of the Mirror of Lela. Those of strong will or clear-hearing could withstand her charm, however, and so she carried a slim dagger in her sleeve on the off-chance her magic would not work, though she hoped rather desperately she would not have to use it. Maya had never murdered anyone with her own two hands, though she had ordered the deaths of many. She had an uneasy feeling that her mask of cold indifference would not be so easy to sustain if she had to strike the blow herself.

  Maya made her way through the busy corridors of the palace without incident, though several times she recognised some of her former servants and counsellors and had to lift the bolts of cloth to cover her face. She wished she knew the spell of glamourie so that she could have disguised herself. She had not dared visit the dwarf again, for she was all too aware of his malicious nature and love of power. He could well decide to betray her in a moment of pique, and Maya did not want to give him any opportunity until after the curse against the MacCuinn had been cast.

  The sight of Duncan Ironfist coming down the stairs threw her into a panic, and she ducked into an antechamber until she was sure he had passed. It took some time before her racing pulse slowed, for she had no doubt a trial and public humiliation would be hers if she was caught, followed inevitably by death. If she were lucky, it would be the quick death of beheading; if not, death by fire, as she had inflicted upon so many thousands of witches.

  Her skin grew cold and clammy at the thought, and she had to steady herself with one hand on a table. She did not hesitate, though, checking the corridor beyond was clear and then hurrying on her way. A powerful impulse had driven her this far and she refused to allow fear to weaken her will.

  Maya had escaped the Samhain assault with nothing but the clothes she had been standing in. By some ghastly misfortune she had even been forced to leave her daughter in the hands of her enemy. Diving into the heart of the Pool of Two Moons, she had expected the little girl to swim after her, as all Fairge babies did by instinct. Yet Isabeau the Red had seized Bronwen, and so Maya had lost her daughter and with her any chance of regaining power. Without Bronwen, Maya was merely the Dowager Banrìgh, hated by her brother-in-law and an outlaw in the land that had once loved and feted her.

  She had been sucked through the underground channels by the force of the retreating water, then spat out, bruised, cold and barely conscious, at the mouth of one of the great sewers. An old streetwalker, whose lost youth and beauty meant she was unable to find protection in any of the many brothels of Lucescere, had found her there. Molly Pockface had once been a highly paid whore, but age and syphilis had taken their toll, and she was severely wasted, with many sores and lesions disfiguring her face, lips and hands. Years of living on the streets, exchanging sexual favours for a crust of bread or copper coin, had not brutalised her kind heart, however, and Maya had found it easy to charm her. Overcome with pity, Molly Pockface had dragged Maya to her huddle of filthy blankets and cared for her until some sense and strength returned to her. Molly never thought to question her overwhelming desire to help and protect the Fairge, even though she came close to starvation as a result.

  Maya’s face had been badly gashed by the shattering of the enchanted mirror, but to her surprise she found the spider web of cuts on her face had miraculously healed, leaving only a faint tangle of scars. The illusion of human beauty she had created with the mirror was still gone, though, and the face that looked back at her from the whore’s fragment of looking glass was clearly the face of a Fairge. Maya had been very afraid, for she knew a high price would be placed on her head and there were many in Lucescere only too glad to win the reward. She had no clothes, no money and no friends, and it was a bitter winter. The former banrìgh had had little choice but to take Molly Pockface’s advice and seek shelter in a brothel. It was Molly who had taken her to the dwarf and paid for the first glamourie he cast with her own hard won pennies, and Molly who had introduced her to Black Donagh.

  All winter Maya had swallowed her pride and her revulsion, and sold her body for gold. After all, she had told herself bitterly, what else had she been doing for the last sixteen years? She had seduced Jaspar MacCuinn when he was little more than a boy and had kept him tied to her all those years with the beauty of her body and the skill of her lovemaking. Not for gold, of course, though the MacCuinns were wealthy and she had wanted for nothing as his wife. For power and for her father’s revenge, she had seduced and married him, ensorcelled him and drained his life force. For power and the greatness of the Fairgean.

  Yet those sixteen years of plotting and seducing were all for nothing. Jaspar was dead, as planned, but she did not rule in his place, and the hated Coven of Witches was somehow reunited and reinstalled as the power in the land. Maya had failed, and because of that she dared not return to her own people. The King of the Fairgean never forgave failure. The best she could hope for was again to be a pawn in her father’s power games, a sexual plaything for whatever male was then in the king’s favour. At worst, he would feed her to his sea serpent, taking his time over the task. Maya had ground her teeth at the thought of such a bleak future and hoarded her gold pieces, waiting for an opportunity to win back her daughter, and with her a chance at regaining power.

  Although the palace corridors were crowded that icy morning, Maya was lucky enough to find her way to the laundries without incident. She filched a clean apron and cap from the neat piles on the shelves, leaving the bolts of cloth shoved behind a basket of dirty linen. Her pulse quickened as she made her way back into the main part of the palace, for she felt exposed indeed now she could no longer hide behind the reams of cloth. She knew that the nobility rarely spared a glance for the servants, however, and was confident she could easily penetrate the upper floors without being challenged. The only danger was that one of the stewards would see her and realise she was
not one of the usual chambermaids. Seeing a bucket of soapy water and a mop left in one corner, she grabbed them, carrying the mop so its shaggy head concealed her face.

  Maya had just taken a shirt from the wardrobe when she heard the door behind her open. She dropped to her knees and pretended to be polishing the floor as quick, light footsteps crossed the room behind her.

  ‘Wha’ are ye doing, cleaning the Rìgh’s rooms now?’ a young woman’s voice scolded. ‘Do ye no’ ken he’ll be returning from the parade ground any minute now? This should have been done hours ago!’

  Maya mumbled something in return, keeping her face down. It was all too clear to her that the rooms had already been cleaned thoroughly, for there was not a speck of dust under the bed, let alone a tuft of hair or a discarded crescent of fingernail. She had hoped to find his the Rìgh’s bed still unmade, or dirty clothes on the floor, but there was nothing. However, she was desperate to find something she could take to Wee Willie, so even though the shirts in the wardrobe were clean, she could tell from the long slits in the back that they belonged to Lachlan and had purloined one in the hope it would still retain something of his living essence.

  The footsteps came up behind her, and a small, rough hand descended on her shoulder. ‘Get ye gone, lassie! The Rìgh’ll be angry indeed to find ye here, ye ken he’s in no gentle mood these days!’

  Maya nodded and said, ‘Och, aye, I’ll just finish this then.’

  She was hauled to her feet by a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Did I no’ say ye had to be gone from here!’ the voice cried. Then suddenly the hand dropped and there was a gasp of surprise. To Maya’s amazement and delight, the chambermaid cried, ‘Your Highness! Wha’ do ye do here! Do ye no’ ken they will kill ye if ye are discovered?’

  Maya looked down into a pair of worshipful blue eyes and felt pleasure and satisfaction well through her. It seemed not all of Lachlan the Winged’s servants welcomed his rule. She had spent much of the sixteen years of her rule charming all those who came in contact with her, subtly casting spells of compulsion upon them so that they did as she willed without question. The Priestesses of Jor called such mind-power leda, and Maya had found it very useful in the past, most recently in the overwhelming of Latifa the Cook, who had showed her the way through the maze to the Pool of Two Moons.

  ‘So ye ken who I am?’ she said softly. ‘Ye ken who I am and shall no’ betray me? Ye ken who I am yet will no’ call the guards?’

  ‘I ken who ye are,’ the chambermaid repeated obediently, ‘but shall no’ betray ye.’

  ‘Will ye help me and serve me?’ Maya asked, letting the power throb in her husky voice. ‘Will ye be loyal to me and help me?’

  ‘I shall help ye and serve ye,’ she replied.

  ‘And tell none that ye have seen me.’

  ‘And tell none that I have seen ye.’

  ‘And will ye come to me and tell me o’ news?’

  Again the chambermaid repeated what she had been told, and Maya felt herself relax. She need exert only a little power over this girl, for her will and desire were already aligned to Maya’s. She must have been one of the many servants at Rhyssmadill who had been devoted to their Banrìgh, saving scraps of soap from her bath and squabbling over who would gain the honour of cleaning her boots. And if there was one among the Rìgh’s servants and followers who loved her still, there would be more. Undermining the young uile-bheist’s power was going to be much easier than she had expected.

  Lilanthe opened her eyes and looked about her. Sunlight fell dappled upon her boughs and she felt the first burgeoning of buds beneath the smooth skin of her bark. A bird was singing lustily above her, but the tree-shifter felt only the weight of misery. It took her a long while to remember why, for the heaviness of winter was still upon her. Then she remembered and shut her eyes again, seeking to sink herself again in dormancy. The sun was warm, however, and the earth beneath her stirring with life. Lilanthe could sleep no longer.

  Tentatively she stretched, then stirred her roots so the soil fell away, lifting her twigs to the warm wind. She became conscious of the green smell of spring and, despite herself, her sap quickened. She shook her long twiggy mane and took a deep breath, then eased her roots out of the soil. Despite her unhappiness, Lilanthe was very hungry.

  As she took her first stiff steps, she felt something slither out of her branches and fall to the ground. Startled, she stepped back and saw a long snake of ruddy hair lying upon the ground. Tentatively she bent and picked it up, realising at once that it was Isabeau’s. In her mind’s eye she saw moonlight-silvered snow and heard the whispered apology of the young apprentice witch as she hid the plait in Lilanthe’s branches. Tears welled up in her slanted, green eyes. Such a bitter anger was in her that she almost threw the plait away. Lilanthe had loved Isabeau like a sister. Isabeau’s warm and generous affection had filled a cold, aching hole in Lilanthe’s spirit.

  Yet ever since Lilanthe had met Dide the previous spring, the tree-shifter had focused all her longing for romance and passion and tenderness upon the merry-hearted, bright-eyed jongleur.

  The secrecy and suppression of her feelings only intensified her ardour. Finding Isabeau and Dide in such a close and passionate entanglement had been a double betrayal, in no way alleviated by the fact neither had known of her feelings. Perversely, she blamed Isabeau the most. Isabeau had always had such a ready sympathy and understanding of the tree-shifter’s feelings; she should have known, Lilanthe thought rebelliously. She should have guessed.

  Her fingers clenched on the plait of ruddy hair and Lilanthe heard again Isabeau’s remorseful whisper. Only then did she realise Isabeau had been bidding her farewell. Immediately her misery was submerged beneath a sharper, more immediate anxiety.

  ‘Oh, Isabeau,’ she whispered. ‘Where have ye gone? Why?’

  She paused, at a loss, wondering what to do. Her human stomach made a deep, rumbling noise, and she bent and picked up the green velvet gown she had worn on the night of the Hogmanay celebrations. It was crumpled and badly stained from lying in the gardens for so long, but it was all she had to wear. She pulled it on over her head and tucked the plait out of sight in one of the long, flowing sleeves.

  The snow had almost melted and overhead the sky was a clear, pale blue. She made her way hesitantly to the kitchens, looking for a face she recognised among the crowds of people striding purposefully about. Although she had often been in the palace kitchens before, it had always been with Isabeau and she felt nervous asking for food from Latifa the Cook without Isabeau by her side. She stood awkwardly by the great doors, frightened by the bustle and noise of the many servants within.

  ‘Lilanthe?’ a voice asked tentatively. She looked up shyly and saw Isabeau’s pretty maid coming towards her, a friendly smile on her face. She smiled back in relief, having met Sukey several times in the weeks before she had fled into the gardens.

  ‘Ye’ve come back!’ Sukey cried. ‘Indeed, they’ve been that worried about ye. Dide the Juggler’s been searching for ye everywhere and the Keybearer Meghan was most concerned. Where have ye been?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ Lilanthe answered and huddled her twig-thin arms about her, for it was cold in the shadow of the great building.

  Sukey took off her goat-hair shawl and threw it around the tree-shifter’s shoulders. ‘Come, let me get ye something to eat,’ she said. ‘It’s been more than a month since ye disappeared, and indeed we were wondering if ye could have gone with Red, it seemed so odd ye should both disappear around the same time. But Red had said ye were in the garden … Ye ken that she has gone?’

  Lilanthe nodded and showed Sukey the ruddy braid she carried. ‘She left me her plait, so I could find her if I needed.’

  ‘No-one here is best pleased wi’ Red at the moment,’ Sukey whispered, ‘for she took the baby Bronwen wi’ her, and many among the lairds fear it’s a plot by the Rìgh to get the banprionnsa out o’ the way. ’Tis well known His Highness did no’ … feel warmly towards the w
ee lassie, given the circumstances.’ Her voice hesitated only a moment, then she plunged on. ‘I ken it be no’ true, though, for Red loved the wee banprionnsa and would never let harm come to her, that I be sure o’.’

  Lilanthe followed the apple-cheeked maid meekly as she led her to a seat at the long table. Tucking her gnarled feet under the hem of her dress, Lilanthe devoured the vegetable stew Sukey served her, listening intently as the little maid brought her up to date with the happenings at the palace.

  ‘Now that Candlemas be past and the Banrìgh’s birthday celebrations over, we be all busy getting ready for the army to ride out,’ she said. ‘I am to go with them, ye ken, for they have made me nursemaid to the wee prionnsa.’

  Lilanthe exclaimed at this, for she had not known of Donncan’s birth or the death of his twin sister. Sukey sighed and shook her head over the sadness of the little stillborn girl, but rejoiced in the strength and beauty of the little boy. ‘He has wings, ye ken; is it no’ marvellous strange? And his eyes are no’ blue like a wee babe’s should be, but yellow like a bird’s.’

  ‘Like his father’s,’ Lilanthe said.

  ‘Aye,’ Sukey said, a little hesitantly, before plunging on. ‘They are taking the babe wi’ them, is that no’ strange, taking a wee laddie to war? That is why I am going too, to mind the babe and wait on Her Highness.’ She giggled. ‘The MacThanach was livid when Her Highness said she was going; he said, “What kind o’ war campaign is this when we load ourselves down with women and babes?” She just looked him in the eye, and said, “A triumphant one, since I will be there to ensure it is so.” She’s an odd one, the new Banrìgh, is she no’?’

  Lilanthe said, ‘I do no’ really ken, I’ve only met her a few times.’

  Sukey blushed and twisted her apron in her fingers. ‘Och, I only mean she’s no’ like most fine ladies, who sit and gossip and ply their needle all day and never do much worth noting, while Her Highness oversees the training o’ the longbowmen, and speaks in the war councils, and orders the Yeomen. It is only the funny way she says things, and her being so serious all the time, that’s all I meant.’