The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  They stood around rather awkwardly, not quite sure what to say to this girl with her velvets and furs, so different to the ragged street bairn they had known before. Finn looked uncomfortable too, and said with a toss of her head, ‘Well, I suppose this is goodbye, at least for a while.’

  ‘It could be for years,’ Johanna said mournfully. ‘Ye’re a banprionnsa now and will no’ have time for the likes o’ us.’

  ‘Do no’ be so silly,’ Finn answered awkwardly. ‘O’ course I will.’

  ‘But ye’ll be in Rurach and we’ll be here,’ Jay pointed out, ‘so who kens when we’ll ever see ye again.’

  ‘I’ll make them bring me back,’ she said. ‘After all, this is the only Theurgia in the land now, and I suppose I’ll have to be educated.’ She looked rather miserable at this prospect, but her expression only darkened as Dillon said briskly, ‘Do no’ be a fool, Finn, banprionnsachan do no’ go to school, they have tutors and governesses and stuff.’

  ‘Well, I will no’!’ she cried. ‘It be bad enough that I’m to be dragged off to the depths o’ Rurach, without having to put up with that kind o’ thing.’

  ‘Do ye no’ wish to go?’ Johanna said curiously. ‘I would have thought ye’d love it, being a banprionnsa, getting to wear velvet and jewels and having a maid to brush your hair and a page to carry your hankie …’

  ‘That’s just the sort o’ sappy thing ye would like!’ Finn said rudely. ‘It’d bore me to tears! I’d much rather be learning how to cast spells and shoot a bow, like ye.’

  Dillon’s freckled face grew even sulkier. ‘Except we do no’ learn that sort o’ stuff, they say we’re too young. Ye do no’ get to learn about magic until ye’re sixteen and then only if ye pass some stupid test. We just get taught useless stuff about dirt.’

  ‘Dirt?’ Finn said blankly.

  ‘That’s what this old bore keeps droning on about. Dirt. Would ye believe it?’

  ‘Och, Dillon, it’s no’ just about dirt, it’s all about how to make plants grow,’ Johanna cried. ‘We get taught other stuff too, like history and mathematics,’ she said to Finn. ‘I do no’ like that so much. Ye’re lucky, getting to go off to Rurach and live in a castle.’

  Finn sighed. ‘I’d rather be here where everything is happening.’

  ‘But do ye no’ want to meet your mother and be a family again?’ Johanna was amazed. She and her young brother Connor were orphans, and Johanna’s favourite daydream was discovering there had been some ghastly mistake and her mother and father really were alive and they could all be together again. Since this was exactly what had happened to Finn, she was troubled by the other girl’s attitude.

  Finn coloured slightly and hunched one thin shoulder. ‘O’ course I do,’ she replied. ‘It’s just Rurach is so far away. And I do no’ remember anything.’

  ‘Well, at least ye’ll be living in a castle wi’ servants waiting on ye and as much roast venison as ye like, while we’ll be stuck here, learning stupid stuff like how to make compost,’ Dillon said sullenly.

  ‘Aye, I suppose that’ll be fun,’ Finn said. ‘And my dai-dein says he’ll teach me to hunt, so at least I’ll get to learn how to shoot a bow like Iseult.’

  ‘That’s so unfair!’ Dillon burst out. ‘Ye’re just a stupid lassie, why should ye be taught when they will no’ let me or Anntoin learn just because we’re too young! What use is archery to ye when ye’re just going to marry some fat prionnsa and have lots o’ babes? I’m the one who wants to be a soldier, yet since they stuck us in this daft Theurgia, we havena been allowed anywhere near a bow. They will no’ even let me practise with the sword Lachlan gave me for helping win the rebellion!’

  Both Anntoin and Artair made noises of agreement, the elder saying, ‘’Tis no’ bluidy fair!’

  ‘Flaming dragon balls!’ Finn cried. ‘Why shouldna a lassie learn to shoot? Look at Iseult! She’s a better fighter than any o’ those great soldiers. I’m no’ surprised they’re keeping ye in the Theurgia, so foolish and upstart ye are!’

  They glared at each other, the elven cat in Finn’s arms arching its back and hissing. The MacRuraich came and dropped his hand on Finn’s shoulder. ‘Well, Fionnghal, are ye ready to leave?’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ she replied disdainfully.

  Her father smiled kindly at the others, saying, ‘Well, I know Fionnghal is sorry to leave ye all, but ye know ye’re always welcome at Castle Rurach. I hope one day ye will come and visit.’

  They shuffled their feet and muttered as Finn followed him outside. She did not spare a backward glance for them, her back stiff.

  Jay hesitated, then called after her, ‘If I learn to read, would ye write to me, Finn?’

  She glanced over her shoulder and for a moment her old grin flashed out. ‘If ye can!’ Then she was gone.

  Lachlan and Iseult were walking in the garden, going over their plans one more time, when the tree branches above them suddenly rustled and a small figure dropped down out of the foliage and landed on all fours before them. Iseult immediately crouched into a defensive stance, only to lower her hands as she recognised who it was.

  ‘Dillon!’ Lachlan cried. ‘What are ye doing?’

  The boy scrambled to his feet, oblivious of earth-stained knees and hands, and said; ‘Och, Lachlan, I mean, Your Highness, sorry I am to be startling ye but they would no’ let me see ye.’

  ‘Well, we’ve been rather occupied, strangely enough,’ Lachlan replied dryly. ‘What was so urgent that ye needed to be skulking in the bushes in order to waylay me?’

  Dillon’s freckled face coloured a little, but he said doggedly, ‘Your Highness, will ye please take me wi’ ye when ye ride out in the morn? I wish to serve ye.’

  Lachlan’s face, which had been looking rather stern, relaxed into a smile, though Iseult’s expression remained intent and serious. ‘Well, my lad, I see why they call ye the Bold. I’m sorry, Dillon, but we ride to war, no’ to a tea party. Far better that ye stay here and address yourself to your learning. There’ll be time enough for ye to see war when ye are grown.’

  ‘I be grown,’ the boy replied angrily. ‘Besides, Jorge tells me ye are taking Tòmas, and he be only a laddiekin.’

  ‘But ye know we shall be needing Tòmas,’ Lachlan said, annoyed. ‘We have few enough men to be losing them to injury and infection. Tòmas can heal them and make them strong again.’ He turned to go, saying over his shoulder, ‘Ye should be at your lessons, my lad, no’ climbing trees in the royal garden. Get ye back to your books.’

  Dillon flushed even redder and said respectfully, ‘I be a great lad for my age, Your Highness, and I can be useful, ye ken I can. Why, did I no’ help ye on Samhain Eve?’

  ‘Indeed, ye did,’ Iseult replied, unusual warmth in her voice.

  Dillon said eagerly, ‘Ye will need squires, Your Highness, to run messages for ye, and hold your horse, and clean your armour …’ Ideas failed him for a moment, and then he went on eagerly, ‘And we can carry your standard into battle.’ His eyes glowed and it was clear he was seeing a bold, heroic image of himself striding ahead of the Rìgh into combat, carrying the MacCuinn stag.

  Lachlan would have laughed and told him again to mind his books, but Iseult put her hand on his arm, sympathy in her eyes. ‘It is true ye will need squires, Lachlan,’ she said.

  The Rìgh cast her a look of incredulity, then shrugged. ‘I notice ye say “we”, Dillon. I imagine then ye mean all o’ ye lads o’ the League?’

  ‘Aye, Your Highness.’

  ‘Well, Meghan will no’ be pleased, nor Enit neither. They think that Jay o’ yours has Talent,’ Lachlan said.

  ‘Does that mean we can ride wi’ ye?’ Dillon cried.

  ‘Since I can see it’s the only way to stop ye pestering me, aye,’ Lachlan replied, amusement lighting his face.

  Dillon gave a whoop of excitement and turned a clumsy cartwheel, falling on his back amongst the bulbs. ‘Flaming dragon balls, wait until I tell the lads!’ he cried.

 
As Dillon ran down the corridor, Anntoin, Artair and young Parlan close behind and his shaggy dog Jed almost tripping him up, he could hear the haunting strains of Jay’s viola. Even Dillon, who knew little about music, could hear how his friend’s playing had improved in the few months that he had had the old jongleur as his teacher. Enit Silverthroat had been reluctant to stay within the shelter of the witches’ Tower until she had heard Jay play; then she had smiled and shrugged, saying, ‘Well, I shall stay until my feet grow itchy, and at my age, who kens when that shall be?’

  Since she had taken on Jay as her pupil, Dillon and the other boys had seen him only during the daily lessons all pupils at the Theurgia attended. Otherwise Jay spent all his time in the old jongleur’s rooms, listening to her as she sang or bade her son Morrell play his fiddle. Jay had even refused to join his friends in their evening weapon practice in the Tower’s quadrangle when they would get out the swords made from old wood and bash away at each other, pretending to be Blue Guards. ‘Enit may feel the urge to go travelling again once the spring is here,’ Jay had said, ‘and then what shall I do? She is the only one who knows the songs o’ enchantment.’

  As Dillon hammered on the door, he heard the strains of viola music break off, and then Enit’s soft, melodious voice. Jay, his viola in one hand, opened the door, the bow tucked under his arm. He did not look pleased to have been interrupted.

  Dillon launched excitedly into explanations. He did not notice the expression on Jay’s face until he had run out of words; then he said indignantly, ‘What’s the matter with ye, ye great gowk! Cat got your tongue? Do ye no’ want to come to war wi’ us?’

  ‘It’s no’ that,’ Jay said awkwardly. ‘It’s just that I will no’ be able to learn from Enit if I go. She’s only staying so I can learn from her—she says she canna stand living in a house, the walls close in on her. If I go off wi’ ye and the lads, she’ll get in her caravan and go travelling again.’

  Dillon was incredulous. ‘Ye mean ye’d rather stay here and learn the fiddle than be the Rìgh’s squire and carry his standard into battle?’

  ‘It’s no’ just learning to play the fiddle,’ Jay replied, colour rising in his thin, brown cheeks. He cradled his viola closer. ‘Ye ken this viola d’amore is one o’ the great relics o’ the MacSeinn clan. They think it was made by Gwenevyre NicSeinn herself, and she was the one who remade Seinneadair’s Harp. It’s a privilege for me to even touch it, let alone play it.’

  Dillon glanced at the viola in Jay’s arms. He had never noticed it before, but it was indeed a most unusual fiddle, having nine strings raised over an elaborately carved wooden bridge. Its long neck had been carved into the form and face of a beautiful woman with flowing hair, her eyes blindfolded.

  He knew the Keybearer Meghan had been very angry that Lachlan had given the League of the Healing Hand their choice of heirlooms from the relic room as a reward for their help at Samhain. Dillon had chosen a beautifully crafted sword which apparently had some historical significance. Anntoin had also chosen a sword and Artair a jewelled dagger, Johanna a pretty bracelet, and her brother Connor a cunning music box. Parlan had chosen a silver goblet with a crystal set in its stem, while Finn had taken a hunting horn which had proved to be the MacRuraich war horn, a relic of her own family and one that summoned the ghosts of warriors past. Though they had not known it at the time, she had also taken a cloak of invisibility which had first concealed Lachlan as he confronted his dying brother, then hidden Maya the Ensorcellor as she sneaked through the maze to the Pool of Two Moons. The cloak had disappeared after that and, although Meghan had instigated a thorough search for it, the cloak had not been recovered.

  Meghan had been most perturbed by its disappearance, and had castigated Lachlan severely. She had taken away the swords and dagger, saying sharply that they were far too dangerous for children. Now they were to be the Rìgh’s squires, Dillon had hoped they would be allowed to carry their own weapons, but Meghan had curtly forbidden it, much to the boys’ disgust. Lachlan had taken pity on them, though, and said his squires could have small swords better suited to their age and stature, as long as they submitted to being taught how to use them properly. Since this was exactly what Dillon had dreamt of, he could not understand why Jay would rather learn how to play a viola, no matter how old or how sacred.

  He said in disgust, ‘Well, stay here then and learn how to play your stupid auld fiddle. Ye canna be my lieutenant any more, though. I’ll have to promote Anntoin instead.’

  Jay went scarlet and said in a stifled voice, ‘All right then, if that’s wha’ ye want to do, fine. Though it seems unfair to throw me out of the League just because I do no’ want to be a squire. The Keybearer says I will do more to help the Coven if I learn what I can. She says there are few who have the Talent to learn the songs o’ enchantment and that one day I could be a great sorcerer and enchant people wi’ my music.’

  ‘As if ye could,’ Dillon jeered.

  ‘Well, Meghan thinks I could and she’s the Keybearer, and Enit thinks I could and she’s—’

  ‘Naught but an auld gypsy,’ Dillon retorted, furious to have his lieutenant contradicting him.

  Jay gripped his bow tighter, his lips thinning. Enit called out to him, and he said gruffly, ‘I have to go. I be sorry I canna go wi’ ye, but my place is here. Be careful wi’ yourselves.’

  Rather sorry he had lost his temper, Dillon searched for something to say, but Jay had gone back inside the room and shut the door.

  Lilanthe woke with an acute sense of danger. She stood still, her branches held stiffly, and cast out her senses. Someone was close. Very close. She felt their breath on her bark. Fingers grazed her trunk, groped among her branches. Slowly she let the blood warm in her veins so that she could open her eyes and see. Suddenly agonising pain jolted through her. Lilanthe screamed soundlessly. Again and again the cold fire bit into her wood and she flung up all her branches, almost falling. She felt Isabeau’s plait of hair fall from the bole deep within her weeping branches where she had hidden it. Her attacker dropped the axe and seized the plait, then she heard their running footsteps.

  She managed to effect the last stage of her shifting in time to see a tall figure slipping away into the dimness of the garden. It was no-one she recognised. She bent over, sap-blood pouring from deep cuts in her thigh. She was so dizzy with pain she could barely stand. Wildly she cast out her mind. Brun, she called. Help me …

  Clinging to another tree for support, trying to staunch the sticky green flow, she had to choke back tears of horror and pain. Why had she been attacked so viciously? Who had wanted Isabeau’s plait of hair so badly? Whoever it was had known Lilanthe was to leave the palace the very next day, riding out with a squad of the Rìgh’s soldiers to Aslinn and, hopefully, the Summer Tree.

  Lilanthe had spent the last few weeks arguing with herself. Even if she was able to find any tree-changers in Aslinn, they would probably reject her, hating her for a half-breed, she thought. Even if they accepted her, they would not listen to her. Why would the faeries of the forest trust a representative of the hated humans, who cut down the trees and ploughed the earth, and raped it of its metals and minerals?

  Yet Lilanthe longed to meet those of her mother’s kind and secretly hoped they would embrace her as her father’s people had failed to do. So Lilanthe had come to root herself in the rich soil of the palace gardens one last time, knowing that she may have difficulty shifting into her tree shape while riding through the often hostile countryside. She had hidden the plait deep in her trailing branches, now thick with new leaves, knowing how important it was to keep it safe. Yet now the plait was gone, and Lilanthe was sorely wounded. She pressed her hands into the gash and felt anguish knot up her throat so she could hardly breathe. As the little cluricaun came running to her aid, she thought miserably that the sooner she quit human society, the better. Humans had never brought her anything but grief and pain.

  The Rìgh stood on a dais high above the crowd, his wings sp
read proudly. Iseult stood at his side, dressed in a simple white gown, her hair covered with a linen snood. On either side were the prionnsachan, all dressed in their family tartans, their plaids flung back to show cuirasses of toughened leather. On their backs they carried their great claymores, with daggers at their belts and thrust into their boots. The council of sorcerers was gathered to one side, the wrinkled faces of the witches set in grim lines. Dillon, Anntoin, Artair and Parlan stood proudly on either side, holding up square pennants depicting the white stag of the MacCuinns leaping against a background of forest green, a golden crown in its antlers.

  In the great forecourt were gathered eight thousand men and women drawn up in lines and squares. One thousand carried long halberds or pikes of ash, with barbed metal heads specifically designed for piercing the heavy armour of the Tìrsoilleirean men-at-arms. On either side were lines of archers, some carrying curved bows as tall as themselves, others leaning on crossbows. Towards the back were the swordsmen, each carrying a great claymore strapped to their backs, the double-handled hilts high above their heads. The cavalrymen stood beside their mounts, their wooden lances bristling like a young forest.

  Although the sun overhead shone down from a clear sky, the battalions did not glitter as might have been expected. There was no plate armour or chain mail to gleam in the bright light; no polished helms or metal lances, not even steel bits or buckles in the horses’ saddlery. The great mass of men and women standing to attention before their Rìgh were dressed plainly in their own rough clothes of undyed wool, covered with cloaks the grey of rocks and wild grasses and greygorse, hard to see and easy to hide. Toireasa the Seamstress and her team of weavers had woven spells of concealment and camouflage into every cloak so that, even in the bright light of day, the troops seemed to blend into the grey of the palace stone. It had been Iseult’s idea. She had never been able to understand why the Red Guards wore such bright colours when it made them such easy targets. On the Spine of the World the Scarred Warriors all wore white, even though it meant many wounded were never recovered, lost among the blinding whiteness of the glacier.