The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  Step by slow step, Isabeau walked down the hall, her heart hammering, her palms sticky, her hair flowing first back, then forward, then back again. The closer she came to the sleeping queen-dragon, the more reluctant her steps grew. She could feel the brooding presence of the male dragons at her back, and once saw the vast shadow of a hooked and clawed wing sweep across the wall before her as one stretched out languorously. The shock of the movement caused every nerve in her body to jolt and tingle, and her legs almost gave way beneath her. Only a stubborn pride kept her upright, though she had to press her hands to her chest to calm the painful banging of her heart.

  At last she came to the foot of the steps and knelt down with her head bent. There was a long, weighty silence, the only sound the sonorous rushing of the queen-dragon’s breath and the occasional rustle of the other dragons. The young princess Asrohc had curled up at the side of the hall and was cleaning her sharp teeth with her claws. Isabeau finally got up the courage to glance upwards.

  The queen-dragon was a dark bronze-green in colour, the texture of her scales much rougher than those of her sons and daughter. Her head was the size of a cottage, her powerful forearms as thick as ancient trees, her claws nearly as long as Isabeau herself.

  As Isabeau gazed at her wonderingly, a thick, wrinkled lid rolled back and she looked directly into the dragon’s eye.

  Again she felt a whirling dislocation, a loss of self. It seemed as if the dragon’s eye held all the secrets of the universe. She saw life begin in a seed of fire which grew and spun like a wheel of flame. She saw time and space woven together in a gauzy sphere that hurtled past in a blur of galaxies and clusters of stars, her own world a tiny mote of dust in the universe’s great eye. Within this fiery darkness, this whirling immensity, she was nothing, tinier and more insignificant than the larvae of mosquitoes clustering in a rain puddle.

  Isabeau tried to cling to her sense of self, her sense of importance, but deep inside her was a lingering feeling of doubt which flowered and grew in the face of the immensity of the universe. A rush of tears came and she sobbed and covered her face, only to be reminded forcibly of her maiming by the feel of her crippled hand against her skin. She clenched her fingers together, three on one hand, five on the other, raking the skin of her face with her nails, shaking her head from side to side. Why, why? Isabeau cried. Through the imperfect shelter of her fingers she again met the queen-dragon’s gaze, her eyes dragged up against her will.

  Isabeau saw a naked baby lying in the cleft of tree roots, half covered in dead leaves, her head covered with a fiery fuzz. She saw a little girl in an inn, pointing her finger so a pair of dice tumbled over one more time. She saw a young woman clamber out of a tree in the dark to unbind a black-winged man. She saw a red horse running along the crest of a green hill.

  Isabeau’s breath tore in her throat as she lived again her capture and torture, and her crippled hand flexed and clenched. She saw herself wandering through the forest, crazy with fever, saw the Celestine heal her under the stars in a broken tower. Faster and faster the scenes came, replaying her life before her eyes. For a few moments the visions came so fast Isabeau was dizzy and could make little sense of what she saw. An owl flying over a snowy landscape, a white lion racing below. Fire and ice devouring each other. Meghan’s wrinkled face wet with tears. A red-tailed comet soaring far above the sea, waves rising to drown a dark forest. Feathers and fire, water and leaves and red-gold hair all swirled together, then suddenly Isabeau saw a woman with a grave face bending her head over the Key of the Coven which she wore at her breast. With a startled jolt, Isabeau recognised the maimed hand cradling the star within the circle and the intense blue eyes so full of sorrow and wisdom.

  At the very moment of recognition the vision faded. Isabeau came back into her body, finding it tense and quivering, the stone beneath her knees hard and cold. It was difficult to tell how much time had passed. The smoky torches still flared, the male dragons still watched with slitted eyes, and Asrohc still groomed herself, her snaky blue tongue lovingly polishing the pale scales of her inner wrist.

  Shakily Isabeau thought, Do ye mean I am to be Keybearer one day?

  The queen-dragon shifted her weight on the mound of treasure, so coins and jewels went skipping away over the floor.

  Do ye mean …? Did I lose my fingers for some purpose? Did all this happen for some reason?

  The queen-dragon half-closed her eyes. Reason? she said, the words so deep and ancient they were like thunder in Isabeau’s mind. Why must thou search for reasons? Thou thinkest of fate as a game played by some faceless master, the whole universe subject to his will. Yet thou chosest thy path freely and travelled it with set will.

  So ye are saying it is my own fault I was tortured and maimed, Isabeau said with cold dismay spreading through her.

  The queen-dragon sighed, the blast of her exhalation blowing Isabeau’s curls away from her tear-stained face. Why must thou look for faults and reasons? Thou chosest thine own path but not thy destination. Fate is woven together of will and the force of circumstances. It is one thread spun of many strands.

  Isabeau nodded. She could see how that was so. Although she may have been impulsive in rescuing Lachlan from the Awl so many months ago, she had not closed the pilliwinkes upon her own hand. That had been Baron Yutta’s choice and he had died as a consequence. She felt something relax within her, some tension she had grown so used to, she had no longer known it was there. She looked down at her scarred hand and said softly, So I will never be healed, will I?

  Thy soul-fabric will slowly heal, the queen-dragon said. It is not like flesh or cloth, once torn, always torn. It is the stuff of the universe, like water or fire, without matter or shape. Thou wilt heal.

  Isabeau bent her head, showing she understood. Her thoughts flew back to the vision of herself cupping the Key of the Coven.

  Perhaps, the queen-dragon answered.

  But the dragons see both ways along the thread o’ time, Isabeau protested.

  All the dragons shifted and murmured and Asrohc laughed, a terrifying sound. Involuntarily Isabeau remembered Jorge crouched beside a fire, the shadows dancing over his blind old face. She had just asked him if he could see the future, and he had answered in his gentle voice: ‘I can see future possibilities. The future is like a tangled skein o’ wool waiting for the first strands to be drawn and spun into a thread.’

  So it is a future possibility that ye see, Isabeau said thoughtfully. That one day I will be Keybearer. Excitement thrilled through her, ambition suddenly kindling in her heart.

  This time all the dragons laughed, and Isabeau crouched down against the flagstones, her pulses hammering.

  Mockingly the queen-dragon sent a vision of Isabeau burning and blistering in a blast of dragon fire, then another of her shot through the heart with an arrow, falling from a castle battlement like a dying swan.

  But …

  The dragons see many things, the queen-dragon said. Why dost thou ask me things thou already knows? I tire of thy impatient curiosity. My son tells me thou hast brought gjfts. Show me!

  Isabeau looked down and saw with dismay that she had dropped the branch of roses she had carried up the mountain so carefully. It lay crushed and broken at her feet. Horror filled her. Im sorry … I didnt …

  The queen-dragon reared up on her claws and sent a gust of fire shooting down the steps. Isabeau screamed and scrambled backwards.

  When she at last raised her face from the shelter of her arms, it was to see the roses all charred into ashes. She stared at the queen-dragon.

  The blooming and dying of a rose is a mere passing of a moment to the dragons, the queen said coldly. Stars blooming and dying are of greater consequence to us.

  But … Isabeau said, again fearful, remembering that vision of herself burnt to cinders.

  It was the bringing of the tithe that was of importance, the dragon said. Dost thou think I care for roses, when I sleep on a bed of jewels?

  Isabeau was s
o confused and afraid she could only stare at the great, dark hulk. After a moment, she scrabbled open her satchel and took out the artifacts with trembling fingers. One by one she lay them on the stone steps and heard the hissing breath of the dragons behind her. The queen-dragon rose and came ponderously down the steps, treasure tumbling in all directions, her tail sweeping aside gold chalices, jewelled brooches, tarnished crowns and sceptres as if they were mere rubbish.

  Delicately she nudged and smelt the gifts, pushing the armband onto the tip of one claw, winding the pearls around another. She tossed the chalice in the air several times, then threw it nonchalantly over her back into the piles of treasure behind her. Then she licked the bloodstained dagger with her long, supple, sky-blue tongue and smiled a dragonish smile.

  Well-chosen gifts indeed, she purred. Carrying the dagger in her mouth, she climbed back up the steps and turned round and round on the mound before again settling down. She lay curled as comfortably as if her bed was of silk and velvets rather than hard and knobbly treasure, and licked the dagger again and again, her eyes slitted with pleasure.

  Isabeau took a deep breath. I come bearing these gifts in homage to the wisdom and clear-sight of the dragons, she said, grateful Feld had made her repeat this speech so many times. She did not think she could have found words otherwise. My clan has always revered the dragons, knowing they are the greatest of all creatures, the most dangerous, the most powerful. I would very much like to seek counsel with ye, Queen o’ the Great Ones, and hope that the centuries of goodwill between our clans will persist for centuries more.

  The queen-dragon inclined her head, pausing in her slow savouring of the dagger for a moment.

  They say I have Talent, Isabeau said in a rush, yet no-one seems to ken what it is. I seem to have many o’ the minor Skills, like the ability o’ summoning flame or moving things around, yet many a skeelie or cunning man can do that. I canna fly, like my mother or Iseult; I canna charm beasts or see the future, or whistle up the wind, or conjure illusions. I canna do anything o’ significance!

  There was a long pause and disappointment filled her. Then the queen-dragon tossed the knife in the air and caught it again. To understand any living thing one must creep within and feel the beating of its heart, she said. To understand the deeper secrets of the universe thou must feel its heart beat too.

  The dragon turned her huge head and regarded Isabeau steadily. Isabeau stared back. The queen’s eye was a fiery sea, her slitted pupil the deepest, most unfathomable space. Isabeau heard the rush of blood through the chambers of her own heart, heard its steady rhythm like the pound of drums. She thought she discerned a deeper echo pounding in her breast, a long, slow beat that shook her with its unstoppable force.

  Thou must know thyself before thou canst know the universe, the queen-dragon said. Thou must always be searching and asking and answering; thou must listen to the heart of the world; thou must listen to thine own heart. Thou must search out thine ancestors and listen to what they may teach thee; thou must know thy history before thou canst know thy future.

  Isabeau nodded.

  Thy womb-sister was raised by thy father’s kin, thou wert raised by thy mother’s. Now thy womb-sister sits at the feet of Meghan of the Beasts and listens to her wisdom. It is time that thou sat at the feet of the Firemaker of the Fire-Dragon Pride. Thy womb-sister spent the white months of the year, the active months, with the Fire-Dragon Pride and the green months of the year, the rest months, with Feld of the Dragons and thy mother, Ishbel the Winged. Thou must do the same.

  Isabeau’s eyes widened. Even though she knew her father’s people inhabited the snowy heights beyond the Cursed Valley, it had never occurred to her to seek them out. Immediately her thoughts flew to Bronwen.

  I canna—she will die, she said incoherently.

  The queen-dragon yawned and rested her head back on her claws. There was a long pause.

  Isabeau said timidly, Ye ken I have the Ensorcellor’s babe? I canna let her die. She needs salt water to swim in, for she is o’ the sea people. I have brought her so far, I must have a care for her. Will ye no’ help me?

  There was no response from the queen-dragon and behind Isabeau the queen’s sons stirred and hissed.

  Isabeau gritted her teeth and thought defiantly: Did ye know my father had been transformed into a horse? Why did ye no’ tell Meghan when she was here? Or Iseult?

  Without opening her eyes, the queen-dragon replied, For what purpose should I have told?

  Isabeau said, more incoherently than ever, But ye must have known that we would have wanted to know … Realising how jumbled her thoughts must sound, she said more carefully, For seventeen years my father has been trapped in the shape o’ a horse, unable to tell anyone, unable to escape. If we had known …

  What wouldst thou have done? There was mild curiosity in the queen-dragon’s voice.

  We could have tried to break the enchantment, Isabeau cried.

  The tip of the queen-dragon’s tail swayed. The enchantment can only be ljfted by she who cast it. Moreover, knowledge of Khan’gharad’s fate may well have changed all of thy fates. To know what may happen is often to assure it does happen. We prefer not to meddle in the fates of foolish, muddling humans.

  There was a note of dismissal in her voice, and the great, crested tail was now swaying quite markedly.

  Isabeau bowed her head. I thank ye for your words and for your mercy. After a long, sticky, heart-hammering moment, she found the courage to say, Tell me, do ye think I did wrong in taking Bronwen away?

  There was no answer.

  Desperately Isabeau cried, I beg ye, tell me where I can find salt so she does no’ die.

  The queen-dragon stirred and sighed, knocking Isabeau over with the force of the escaping air. Thou mayst scrape salt off the rocks in the valley above and take it with thee for the moment. Then if thou lookest at the northern end of the Valley of the Two Towers, thou wilt find salt in the rocks and in a chain of bubbling pools akin to our lake above. Thou mayst let the Fairge child swim in those pools and she shall live.

  Thank ye, thank ye, Isabeau babbled, but the queen-dragon had closed her eyes again, her chin resting on the notched and blackened dagger. As Isabeau rather shakily made her way back down the long, vaulted hall she heard the sonorous roar of the queen-dragon’s snores begin once again.

  Isabeau toiled up the snowy slope, her mittened hands huddled beneath her plaid, her tam-o’-shanter pulled down low over her ears. Behind her the deep, wavering line of her footsteps was the only mark on a pristine landscape, the fresh fall of snow covering everything with a soft drapery.

  The sky overhead was blue but the air was bitterly cold, and Isabeau’s panting breath hung before her face in white puffs like clouds. As far as the eye could see the tall white points of the mountains stretched, while behind her were the forest-filled valleys.

  A wild whooping startled her and she glanced up. Down the slope sped a number of tall, white figures, swooping over the snow as swiftly and gracefully as birds in flight. Isabeau stopped in her tracks, half in fear and half in delight. She watched as first one then another leapt off a mound of snow and somersaulted like an acrobat before swooping on again at the same breakneck speed.

  As they came closer she saw they rode small wooden sleighs, not much longer than their boots. The bottoms of the sleighs were painted with ferocious red dragons breathing fire. As they soared and spun through the air, it was as if the painted dragons took flight, only to be buried again in snow as the riders skidded to the ground again.

  With another loud yell, the leader of the riders came to an abrupt, curving halt before Isabeau, spraying her with snow. He was a tall, lean man with a grim, dark face, all angles and hard planes, heavily hooded eyes, and a long braid of white, coarse hair. On either side of his forehead were two massive, tightly curled horns.

  He inclined his head and gave the ritualistic Khan’-cohban greeting—a sweep of two fingers to the brow, then to the heart, then
out to the view. Hesitantly Isabeau returned the greeting and he frowned.

  She wondered rather anxiously whether she had done something wrong. Feld had tried to teach her as much as he could of the Khan’cohban language, but it was a strange form of communication, as much gesture and intonation as sound. Luckily Isabeau was used to speaking the languages of beasts and birds, which were also composed more of body language than a complex system of vocal noises. She had a flair for languages and had studied hard, so by the time she left the Towers of Roses and Thorns to travel to the Spine of the World, she knew as much as Feld could teach her. She was still nervous of the winter ahead, however, knowing how different the Khan’cohbans’ life was and already missing Bronwen, whom she had left in Feld’s care.

  The Khan’cohban warrior spoke to her then, uttering a few abrupt syllables that sounded more like grunts than words. He said something about the Firemaker, making a broad, sweeping gesture back up the hill. Isabeau nodded and smiled to show she understood, but he only stared at her haughtily.

  The other Khan’cohbans had also swung to a halt around her and she heard them grunt to each other briefly, their hands making odd, brief gestures. Then they set off again in wide, curving swoops over the snow, some yelling with excitement. Their leader did not leave. Instead, he bent down, undid the straps tying the skimmer to his feet and tied it to his back. Without a word he gestured up the hill again and then began to walk swiftly and easily up the slope. Isabeau laboured along behind him, her breath coming in short little gasps, her boots sinking deep into the snow. He turned often and waited for her, and Isabeau tried hard not to resent his calm, stern politeness.

  It was close on sunset when they finally reached the crest of the mountain, and Isabeau’s legs were on fire, her whole body shaking with cold and exhaustion. They had climbed slope after icy slope, leaving the valley floor far behind them. The Khan’cohban had not spoken once and Isabeau was grateful for that, having no breath to spare. Above them a great outcropping of round boulders reared against the glowing sky, the long slopes falling away like the sweep of a white velvet gown. He waited for her just below the grey bulging stone, his dark face impassive. At last she reached his side and stood panting harshly, holding her side with one hand and wiping her streaming nose with the other. He gave her only long enough to catch her breath, then led her round the side of the rock.