The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  Isabeau sighed. It seemed her only choice was to brave the dragons. She knew her sister had served the great magical beasts for eight years and had often flown on the back of the youngest of the dragons. Many years before, her father had saved the life of the baby dragon and had won the creatures’ friendship as a result. Just because her father and sister were accepted by the dragons did not mean she would be, though. The thought of facing them was enough to make Isabeau feel rather sick.

  She glanced down at the baby girl, who stared up at her intently, her pale eyes shining oddly in the firelight. Bronwen’s face lit up with a wide smile. A pang of tenderness shot through Isabeau, and she knew she must make the journey to the dragons’ valley. She only hoped she would be welcome.

  ‘Make way for the Rìgh’s soldiers!’ a stentorian voice shouted. ‘Make way!’

  Lilanthe parted the curtains of the window and peered out. On either side of the carriage were twelve straight-backed riders clad all in grey, their claymores strapped to their backs. Niall the Bear rode ahead, carrying the Rìgh’s standard, his blue plaid and jacket showing he was one of Lachlan the Winged’s Yeomen of the Guard. His great war-charger pranced as if enjoying the unusual warmth of the evening, and wide-eyed children stood and stared, their fingers in their mouths.

  Ahead the village of Gilliebride was nestled in the dip of the valley, a small, prosperous-looking town that lay close to the borders of Aslinn. The road wound down the centre of the wide strath, with golden barley fields stretching out on either side. A windmill turned lazily near the river, and to the west Lilanthe could see the blue waters of Loch Gillieslain lying at the foot of Tumbledown Ben. Forest grew thickly all round the stony feet of the hills, which rose steeply to the north. Lilanthe stared at the green trees with mixed feelings. In one way she longed to be under the thick canopy of leaves again, sinking her roots in the soil in peace and searching for her own kind without fear. But in another way she felt regret and a sense of failure, for Lilanthe had desperately wanted to be accepted by human society. She had hoped the victory of the Coven of Witches would enable that to happen, but it seemed the people of Eileanan were not yet ready to embrace faery kind again.

  The cluricaun pushed his furry face out of the other carriage window so he could enjoy the evening breeze. She pulled him back, saying, ‘Best lie low, Brun, we do no’ want anyone to see us.’

  His ears swivelled anxiously, and he said, ‘Why do they hate us, Lilanthe? We do no’ hate them.’

  ‘Sometimes I do,’ she replied.

  The carriage rattled into Gilliebride’s large main square. Keeping her hood close about her leafy hair, Lilanthe gazed out rather wistfully at the stalls, bright with vegetables and pots of jam and marmalade. Gilliebride was high enough in the hills to have escaped assault from the Bright Soldiers, and so the marketplace was a peaceful scene. Women in rough plaids and wooden sabots stood gossiping in the warm dusk, their bare-legged children squatting on the cobblestones, tossing sheeps’ knuckles. A wagon loaded with barrels stood outside a white-painted inn, the driver leaning down to talk to the innkeeper, a pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth. Above the town, the bare crown of Tumbledown Ben was fuzzed with golden light.

  The party came to a halt before the inn, which had barley sheaves painted on its sign. Ostlers ran out to unhitch the horses and offer the outriders a dram of whiskey, and they dismounted thankfully, stretching and laughing.

  Niall the Bear rapped on the door. ‘We had best stop here, lass,’ he said in his gruff, kind voice. ‘It is growing close to sundown and we need to make the Rìgh’s proclamations and see the town council. Besides, the Barley Inn is famous for its whiskey, and my men are thirsty indeed after the dust o’ the road.’

  ‘Ye do no’ think there are too many people about? Wha’ if they decide to try and stone us, like they did in Glenmorven?’

  ‘Och, ye are in the highlands now, and highlanders were ever more comfortable wi’ the faery than those stodgy Blèssem folk,’ he replied comfortingly. ‘Besides, the people o’ Gilliebride have always been faithful to the MacCuinns and will no’ want to start a rebellion over a tree-shifter and a wee cluricaun. Why, last time I was here they had a cluricaun turning tricks in the inn for pennies and the occasional wee dram.’

  ‘How many years ago was that, though, Niall?’ Lilanthe asked wearily. ‘I’ll wager ye there is no cluricaun here now.’

  ‘Happen ye’re right, but there’s a new broom sweeping clean now, and these folks will ken it. So do no’ trouble yourself, we’ll keep ye safe, lassie.’ Niall smiled at her kindly, his teeth flashing white through his beard. He was a tall, strongly built man with a great mane of dark brown hair grizzled with grey, and broad shoulders that threatened to split the cloth of his blue jacket. Unlike most men of his stature, he walked very lightly, with the grace of a swordsman.

  Lilanthe smiled and thanked him. Wrapping her new green cloak tight about her, she let him open the door of the carriage so she could step out. Brun hopped out after her, pulling his own hood up to cover his furry ears. The soldiers formed a tight barrier around them and marched them into the inn, the tree-shifter walking with a halting step.

  The innkeeper came placidly to greet them, showing no curiosity at the shrouded figures standing within the circle of grey-clad soldiers. He greeted them warmly, then called to his daughter to take them up to their rooms and bring them warm water and towels. Lilanthe’s room was small but very clean, with a view over the town square. She sat there and watched the dusk deepen as the rattle-watch made his rounds and lanterns were kindled outside the inn. She felt uneasy. Although the scene was the very essence of rustic serenity, she felt an undercurrent of terror and pain. The smiling women, the children screeching with excitement as they played together by the pond in the village green, all hid some intense emotion which the tree-shifter’s acute perceptions could sense.

  She leant forward, scanning the crowd with both her eyesight and her more subtle senses. Her whole body tensed as she saw a rabble of children poking sticks at a cage hung from a willow tree. The cage swung wildly, and inside a little nisse huddled miserably, trying to protect herself from the sharp ends of the children’s sticks.

  Lilanthe struggled to her feet and limped as fast as she could out through the door, in her anger forgetting to catch up her new cloak. Niall heard her limping step and looked out his door. When he saw her hurrying down the stairs, he called after her, but Lilanthe ignored him, leaning on the balustrade and descending as fast as her crippled leg would let her.

  Niall called to his men and followed her hastily, catching up his huge, double-edged sword. The little cluricaun heard the commotion and ran after, his tail waving excitedly.

  There were eleven children in the group, ranging in age from four to thirteen. Barefoot and sunburnt, they were large, healthy children, armed with sticks and switches. As Lilanthe limped across the crowded square, calling to them to stop, they turned and faced her, lifting their sticks. For once she did not falter, coming straight up to them.

  ‘Wha’ do ye think ye are doing?’ she cried. ‘Why do ye torment the puir wee nisse so? She does ye no harm. Look at her! It is cruel to keep her locked up in a wee cage like that and poke her with sticks and call her names.’

  The cage was so small the little faery was pressed in by wicker on all sides, unable to move more than a few inches. No larger than Lilanthe’s hand, the nisse’s triangular face was scarred with cuts and bruises. Only one bright eye peered through the tangle of filthy hair, the other glued shut with her sticky, greenish blood. Her water-bright wings were bent back by the walls of the cage, the iridescent gauze of one torn and lacerated. As Lilanthe spoke, the nisse screeched and threw herself desperately against the open weave of the cage.

  The eldest of the children, a stocky, freckle-faced girl, jeered loudly. ‘Look, it be a tree faery! Look at its hair, all leafy like the willow tree. Where’s my father’s axe? There’s enough firewood there to feed our fires all win
ter!’

  It was a familiar jeer, but for once it failed to send terror beating through Lilanthe’s sap. She drew herself up. ‘How can someone so young be so mean?’ she said. ‘It is true I am a tree faery, but I am no less than ye for that. Beware what ye say, lassie, for one day ye shall be walking in the forests and ye shall find the trees whose shade ye seek are no friends o’ yours. Ye shall see the trees walking, and ye shall hear their terrible song and wish that ye had had more respect for those no’ o’ your kind. For the creatures o’ the forest were here long before ye humankind came to our shores wi’ your axes and your evil fires, and we shall be here long after your bones are food for our roots.’

  Silence had fallen over the busy square, and all faces were turned Lilanthe’s way. The children looked afraid, and one or two were snivelling, their sticks fallen forgotten from their hands.

  The tree-shifter shook back her mane of leaves defiantly and made her way through the silent children to break open the wicker cage. The nisse darted into her hand and quivered there, its broken wing trailing. Lilanthe cradled the faery tenderly. ‘Look at this puir wee thing!’ she cried. ‘Look wha’ ye have done to her! She should be flying free through the forest wi’ her kin, sipping nectar from the flowers and teasing the squirrels.’

  ‘She be naught but a wicked faery who steals grain from the sacks and snatches bread from our hands,’ one of the women cried.

  ‘I ken the nisses are cheeky wee things,’ Lilanthe replied, ‘but is this kind, to stuff her in a cage and let the children beat her wi’ their sticks? All this land was once forest, rich wi’ nuts and seeds for her to eat. Now it is all fields and there is no forest left for those who lived here first. She would starve if she did no’ eat your grain and bread! Is that the way to thank those who are your hosts, who let ye take their land and believed ye when ye offered the hand o’ friendship? Do ye think any o’ us faeries would have let ye live if we had known what ye would do to us and ours? Once we were many and ye were but a few, and hungry. We thought the fruits o’ the forest were plentiful and made ye welcome to take what ye needed. Instead ye cut down our homes and raped the land wi’ your ploughs and axes, and infected us wi’ your wasting sicknesses, and brought those greedy rats that fight the creatures o’ the forest for what is rightfully theirs! And even that was no’ enough; ye had to make it a sport to hunt us down and ye watched us burn on your fires for amusement! Ye wonder why we hate ye!’

  Lilanthe stopped, panting, her cheeks burning. Niall the Bear and his men stood behind her, hands on their swords, but no-one in the town square looked belligerent. They stood silently, their eyes downcast in shame. A few were resentful, but all had heard the town crier read out the new rìgh’s decrees and had heard the penalties for those who defied them. Lilanthe stared around her, the anger draining out of her and leaving her perilously close to tears. Seeing nothing but rejection on the faces of the crowd, she turned and hurried back to the inn, the little faery safely cupped in her hands. The nisse pushed her tiny head out through Lilanthe’s fingers and jeered mockingly at the villagers in her high, shrill voice.

  Lilanthe did not have Isabeau’s healing skills, but she bound up the torn wing as best she could and gave the faery water to drink and bread to chew on. The tree-shifter’s cheeks were wet with tears wept for the pain the little faery had suffered and for her own loneliness and sorrow. She knew the nisse could never fly again with the fragile fabric of her wing so damaged, and so she crooned to her gently, in pity.

  The nisse was exultant, however, and chattered nonstop in her own shrill language. Let us sting stab those warm-blooded giants, let us piss in their waters and hurl poison berries into their food, let us goad them weeping and wailing into the sea!

  ‘Nay,’ Lilanthe said wearily. ‘We canna do that. The humans are here to stay. They have been here a thousand years now and have sunk their roots as deep into this soil as your kin or mine. And no’ all are evil or ignorant. I have friends who are human.’

  The nisse squealed in disapproval.

  Lilanthe said, ‘Better that we teach them to love and respect us, than let them taint us with their evil ways. Tree-changers are peace-loving creatures. All we wish for is to roam the land as we please, tasting the soil and celebrating the passing o’ the seasons.’

  The nisse grinned wickedly, showing needle-sharp fangs. Lilanthe smiled despite herself. ‘I hope ye can forgive those foolish bairns, for indeed they did no’ understand what they did. Happen they will think a wee now, and no’ be so cruel next time.’

  The nisse was crouched on the table, licking her delicate little hands with a long, forked tongue and wiping her face clean. She trilled in derision.

  ‘That is my task,’ Lilanthe explained softly. ‘I travel on behalf o’ the Coven o’ Witches, to win the faeries and humans to peace and understanding. I go in search o’ the Summer Tree, hoping I can win the forest faeries to our cause and convince them the Coven means them only good.’

  The nisse cocked her head and looked up at Lilanthe speculatively. Her eye was as bright as a green flame. Lilanthe broke off a few more crumbs for her, and she snatched one up, cramming it into her mouth. I know where the Summer Tree blooms blossoms. The juice of its flower will heal my wing so I can fly fleet once more.

  ‘Will ye take me there?’ Lilanthe cried, her freckled face lighting up in hope.

  Broken-winged I cannot soar swoop so far. So I will take you, as you shall take me. We must fly fleet, though, for the Summer Tree flowers only once, when the Celestines sing hum the sun to life. Only once a year the Summer Tree blossoms and blooms, and then its flowers wither wane on the branch and I must wait weep another year.

  Lilanthe nodded. ‘Very well, we shall ride out tomorrow. Fear no’, we shall find the Summer Tree now that we have ye to show us the way. It may take us a while, but in the end we shall find it.’

  ‘See how the eagle uses the movement o’ the wind to fly? See, he barely moves his wings, yet he soars hundreds o’ feet above the earth. He understands the forces o’ air and uses them. That is what ye must do if ye are to fly,’ Ishbel said.

  She and Isabeau were sitting on a rocky ledge, watching an eagle soar through the air. Far below them the green meadows of the Cursed Valley undulated, cut in two by the blue snake of the river that wound away from the loch. On all sides the sharp pointed peaks rose, stretching as far as the eye could see. The snowy glacier swept away to the north, so bright in the sunshine it hurt the eye to gaze at it. With envious eyes Isabeau watched the eagle hover, wondering what it felt like to drift so effortlessly above the world. Suddenly the bird folded his wings and plummeted to earth. Moments later he rose with great strokes of his wings, a coney in his claws.

  ‘How am I to learn to understand the wind, though?’ Isabeau asked, watching longingly as her mother floated a foot off the ground, her legs tucked beneath her. Isabeau held Bronwen in her lap, the child tugging at her bright red-gold hair which hung in a plait over one shoulder. In the meadow behind them, Lasair cropped at the lush grass, while Feld lay in the shelter of a tree, reading a book.

  ‘I do no’ know,’ Ishbel replied. ‘It is partly instinct, I suppose, and partly experience. Ye must watch the wind, and listen to it, and feel it with your skin.’

  ‘How am I meant to watch the wind?’ Isabeau asked in some exasperation. ‘Air is invisible. It is no’ like the earth, which ye can touch and smell and taste.’ She crumbled a sod of soil between her fingers, lifting it to her nose to inhale its rich, peaty odour. Bronwen reached out her grubby little hand, grabbing a clump of dirt and trying to eat it. Isabeau smiled and cuddled her closer.

  ‘Ye can touch and smell and taste the wind too,’ Ishbel replied. ‘Can ye no’ feel it against your skin?’

  Isabeau sat still for a moment, trying to understand what her mother meant. ‘I suppose so,’ she said slowly. ‘Though it’s so still today, I canna feel much.’

  ‘That is one thing,’ Ishbel replied. ‘It is still and warm
, yet still the eagle finds currents o’ air to fly with. Where is the wind coming from?’

  Isabeau noticed how the stems of the dandelions bent and swayed in the meadow below them, how the leaves of the trees turned up their silver undersides. She felt a faint movement in the hairs on her bare arm. ‘From the south,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘Maybe the southeast.’

  ‘Good,’ Ishbel said. ‘Now look at the clouds. Look at their shape, their dimensions, their height, colour and texture. Clouds are water carried by air. They will tell ye how the wind blows too. See how small and low the clouds are? It shall no’ rain today. Now smell the wind. What does it smell of?’

  ‘Grass,’ Isabeau said after a moment. ‘Warm grass.’ She remembered her lessons with Latifa the Cook, and how she had made her identify foods from smell and taste alone. She shut her eyes and concentrated. ‘Hemlock leaves, from the tree down there,’ she said after a while. ‘Clover, and dandelions, and harebells too, I think. Soil, rich soil, filled with rotting vegetation. Water. Still water, though, no’ rain.’

  ‘Very good,’ Ishbel said. ‘Breathe it deeply into your lungs. Taste it. Get to know every variation o’ taste and texture. Ye will soon know if the wind blows steady and strong, or if it is a capricious breeze, and hard to fly with.’

  ‘This reminds me of what Seychella told me about whistling the wind,’ Isabeau said. ‘She told me I needed to understand how the wind blows to be able to work the weather.’

  ‘I remember Seychella Wind-Whistler,’ Ishbel said rather dreamily. ‘She was Tabithas’s apprentice when I was Meghan’s. They thought she could one day be a great weather witch, like in the auld days. Whatever happened to her?’

  ‘She was killed by a Mesmerd,’ Isabeau said grimly. ‘Do ye no’ remember? She was one o’ the witches at my Testing. She was killed when the Red Guards attacked. Ye flew away. I thought ye must die, the way ye stepped off the cliff, but ye just floated away, as easy as the seeds o’ those dandelions.’