The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Then the first Firemaker was born, and all places were turned upside down. She could conjure fire so the firekeepers’ sacred duty was no longer of such vital importance. She could speak across distances and see into the hearts of those around her, so that the soul-sages were jealous and suspicious. She could turn aside the thrust of a reil or a dagger, or sense where game was hiding, so that the scarred warriors were made to seem small and stupid. All were angry, and wondered why the Gods of White had brought the red one to live among them.

  ‘The Soul-Sage of the Fire Dragon Pride cast the bones and listened to the words of the gods, who told her that the red one was a gift to the people of the Spine of the World, in reward for their long exile. She was given to bring warmth and light to the howling night, and to protect the people of the prides from their enemies. She was not their master but their servant. So the old mothers and scarred warriors, soul-sages and storytellers came together and set laws and limits for the Firemaker which she must swear to uphold. This is why each pride still has its firekeeper, who carries the coals and keeps them safe, and only if the firekeeper fails may the Firemaker conjure fire for that pride and they must pay the price.’

  Isabeau bowed her head at these words, for at last she understood the consternation at her conjuring of fire. The Firemaker nodded and made a sweeping gesture with her thin, gnarled hand.

  ‘There were some among the Firemakers who could skim the stars or foresee the future, however, and most can speak across distances or command the birds and beasts. So the soul-sages, who were once the wisdom of the pride, brood still about their lost power and glance askance at those of the Firemaker’s get. This is the story of the Soul-Sage.’

  The Firemaker’s hands dropped back into her lap and she met Isabeau’s gaze for a moment before making the gesture of dismissal. Isabeau bowed her head, thanked her, then rose to obey her orders.

  She rolled her blankets under her arm and went and knelt near the Soul-Sage’s fire, her eyes downcast. She knew better than to make any gesture or word of greeting. She knelt in this way for close on ten minutes before the Soul-Sage lifted her eyes and brought her hand to her brow, her heart and then out. Isabeau crossed her hands over her breast and bowed her head. The Soul-Sage then indicated that Isabeau may sit, and she unrolled her blankets and sat down cross-legged once more.

  The Soul-Sage was a woman of middle years, dark of skin with a long, narrow face and even more prominent facial structure than usual among her race. Her eyes were so heavily hooded, nothing could be seen of them but the occasional cold gleam. She was painfully thin, her arms and legs as spindly as the limbs of a bird. Hanging around her neck on a cord was a bird’s talon, and in a bag of skin tied to her waist she carried her bones, an odd collection of animal knuckles, broken skeletons, claws and fossilised stones.

  The Soul-Sage was a woman of long silences, but there was power in her every movement. Like the storytellers, she had a fable or proverb for every occasion. Since she was Isabeau’s teacher, Isabeau was permitted to ask questions and request stories whenever she pleased. This meant, however, that she had to answer any question the Soul-Sage asked and some of these were deeply personal.

  Isabeau had already learnt she must not fidget or prevaricate, but many of the Soul-Sage’s questions caused scorching colour to sweep over her face as she did her best to answer wholly and truthfully.

  Her first question was whether Isabeau had preserved her virginity. This was rather puzzling because the Khan’cohbans had a very straightforward and candid attitude to their sexuality. Since all lived in the same small area, there was almost no privacy and Isabeau had been rather shocked to discover Khan’cohbans were rarely monogamous, often sharing a different bed every night, with the only taboo being between children and parents or between siblings. Isabeau knew that the witches of the Coven rarely married, but those who did enter into relationships usually did so on a long-term basis and promiscuity was unusual.

  After answering as best she could, feeling rather glad now that Lilanthe had interrupted her and Dide when she had, Isabeau asked the Soul-Sage why her virginity was of such importance.

  ‘You are still a child in our eyes and nameless,’ the woman replied, ‘but more importantly, the profoundest secrets of the gods are not revealed to those who too early distract themselves with thoughts of the flesh. Later, such things can lead to deeper levels of understanding, but at this stage one must think only of what is beyond one’s body, not within. For now, learn and keep silence.’

  Isabeau nodded in understanding. She remembered Meghan once saying something similar to her about Ishbel the Winged, before Isabeau had known the fabled flying sorceress was her own mother. Meghan had said how disappointed she had been that Ishbel had fallen in love so early, for she might have been a great sorceress had she waited for her powers to flower fully.

  Many of the Soul-Sage’s lessons were similar to Meghan’s, particularly the meditation and scrying exercises. Isabeau had always found it hard to sit still for prolonged periods and even harder to empty her mind of thoughts. Even if she had been able to subdue her natural restless energy, her mind would race on, filled with ideas, daydreams, random thoughts, stray memories and trivial worries. Meghan had always insisted on a short period of meditation each dawn and Isabeau had sat the night-long Ordeal many times; but since parting ways with her guardian, Isabeau had fallen out of the habit of regular meditation.

  She found the Soul-Sage a much harder taskmaster than Meghan had ever been. The Khan’cohban woman could sit still for hours at a time without fidgeting, sighing or altering the slow steady rhythm of her breathing. Since all her food was gathered and prepared for her, all her clothes woven, and all her tools and eating implements made for her, she had the leisure to spend her days in silent meditation.

  Isabeau, however, was used to an active, busy life and at first she found it very difficult. The Soul-Sage kept a thin switch in her hand, however, and after being slashed every time she shifted her weight, moaned or peeked out through her eyelashes, Isabeau soon was able to sustain at least the semblance of immobility while her thoughts leapt and played.

  One day the Soul-Sage brought out a little drum decorated with feathers and smears of ash and ochre. ‘As I beat, breathe,’ she ordered.

  Obediently Isabeau sat, back straight, hands upturned on her thighs. Eyes shut, she heard the Soul-Sage slowly and rhythmically pound the drum with one hand. At first Isabeau found it difficult to regulate her breathing to the drumbeat. It was too slow, so that she was gasping for air by the time the sound came again. After a long while she caught the rhythm, inhaling very slowly, holding her breath for several strained moments when it felt as if every vein and capillary was swollen with oxygen, then slowly, quivering, exhaling until she was slack as a deflated bagpipe. When at last the drumbeat stopped, it took Isabeau a while to notice, so absorbed had she become in her own breathing. Then she felt rather light-headed and the cave around her seemed bright and noisy, when always before its gloom and silence had oppressed her.

  ‘A beginning,’ the Soul-Sage said and put the drum away.

  It was now the dark, cold depths of winter and the sun shone for only a few hours each day. Those few hours of dismal light were spent with the Khan’cohban who had guided her to the Haven, learning the treacherous nature of snow. To Isabeau’s amazement, the otherwise taciturn Khan’cohbans had more then thirty words for frozen water. Words like snowflake, snowdrift, snowstorm, snowball, icicle, frost, sleet, slush, hail, blizzard and avalanche came nowhere near expressing the many subtleties of snow.

  The Khan’cohban warrior taught her to know when it was only a few inches thick or many feet deep, when rocks were hidden beneath a deceptively soft slope, or when a mere breath of wind would be enough to cause an avalanche. Isabeau learnt to recognise the tracks of deer; coneys, marmots, foxes, squirrels, hoarweasels, native lynx, snow lions, bears and wolves—all of which looked quite different in snow than upon the bare earth. She learn
t when a snowstorm was brewing and how to stay alive if caught in one.

  She bruised herself black and blue trying to learn to stand on a skimmer. The first time she whizzed effortlessly down a slope was the most exhilarating experience of her life. For the first time she thought she knew how it felt to fly. That day was the first time Isabeau saw the Scarred Warrior smile, and it greatly lightened the grim darkness of his face. He punched his right fist into his left, a sign of triumph, and then sternly criticised her on her lack of grace and style. Isabeau only grinned in response and from that moment on practised her skimming skills at every opportunity, despite the bruises and aching muscles.

  It gradually occurred to Isabeau that her teacher was the only Scarred Warrior never to leave the Haven. The others spent much of their time out hunting meat for the pride, returning triumphantly with slaughtered deer, coneys, birds and the wide-antlered geal’teas. On their return the fires were built high, there were dances of jubilation, and everyone but Isabeau feasted with great enjoyment.

  One day, as she and her Scarred Warrior teacher walked through the snowy forest, Isabeau asked tentatively, ‘Teacher, I would ask of you a question.’

  For a moment she thought he would refuse, then he made a curt gesture of assent.

  ‘Teacher, why is it that you stay here in the Haven when all the other Scarred Warriors are away hunting most of the time?’

  There was silence for a moment, then he indicated she sit, unstrapping his skimmer from his back and sitting on it, cross-legged.

  ‘Although I long to be out in the snowy fields, skimming with my comrades and feeling the hot lust of hunting and killing, I am under a geas to your kin, the Firemaker. This is how she has commanded me to fulfill my debt of honour. Long ago my daughter was lost in a white storm of lightning and ice. I was far away, fighting against the Pride of the Woolly Bear. The Firemaker stilled the storm and my daughter, who is dear to my heart, was found. The effort exhausted the Firemaker and for a long time we thought her spirit was lost. Only the Soul-Sage was able to find her and heal her and bring her spirit back to the pride. The Firemaker was willing to surrender her life for my daughter and so a geas was laid upon me. So though it irks me greatly to stay behind like a mere child and lose a winter of fighting and hunting and thus a chance to win another scar, I stay in the Haven and teach you and guide you as the Firemaker has commanded.’

  Silence fell. He brought his hands back to lie still on his thighs and said, ‘I have answered your question in fullness and truth, now shall you answer mine.’

  Isabeau made the gesture of affirmation, though with some trepidation. She had learnt the questions of Khan’cohbans were usually disconcerting and often embarrassing.

  ‘Why do you scorn the White Gods’ gift of blood and flesh? I have seen you grow sick and pale as we feast, and press your hand against your mouth and turn away into the shadows. You eat only seeds and wild grains like a sword-billed flutterwing. To eat flesh is to grow strong and fierce and hot-blooded. To eat seeds is to be weak and thin and defenceless.’

  Isabeau smiled rather ruefully. Indeed she had trouble finding enough to eat here in these snowy heights. Most of the pride’s gathering of grains, fruits and nuts was done in the summer and stored in huge, stone jars in the Haven. Isabeau could not ask that she be given more than her fair share of this jealously guarded hoard, particularly since she had not shared in its gathering. She was often hungry, therefore, and had grown adept at finding fallen nuts and edible barks beneath the snow to give her the protein she needed.

  Rhythmically, choosing her words and hand gestures carefully, she replied, ‘My first teacher, wise as the Soul-Sage, powerful as the Firemaker, taught me to revere all life as sacred. Each bird, each seed, each stone, is filled with life force, the soul, both unique and universal. To destroy that life force is to diminish the universe itself.’

  ‘But by eating a plant, does that not destroy it?’ The Scarred Warrior struggled to understand.

  Isabeau shook her head. ‘We eat only of its fruit and leaves, allowing the plant itself to grow and flourish. We never strip the plant completely or uproot it, so it may spread its seeds and continue the life cycle uninterrupted. We do not kill an animal for its skins but gather its wool for spinning. We do not cut down a tree for firewood but gather its discarded branches. We drink the milk of our goats and sheep but do not drain them dry so their young must thirst. I wear these skins only because I know the animal they belong to no longer has use for them, having died in its natural time, and if I did not accept its gift, I myself should die. I give thanks to Eà, our mother and our father, that this is so.’

  The Khan’cohban shook his head in puzzlement. ‘It is very odd,’ he said. ‘You shall never win your scars as a hunter and warrior with such philosophies.’

  Isabeau smiled at him. ‘I know.’

  He stood up and stretched down his many-jointed fingers to help her up. ‘You already wear the seventh scar of the Soul-Sage at your brow and I have observed the Soul-Sage often wilfully starves herself before casting the bones or skimming the stars. As a Soul-Sage you shall not need to hunt or kill, so perhaps the Gods of White do not take offence at your strange beliefs, knowing you do not scorn them or their gifts.’

  ‘Indeed I hope so,’ Isabeau replied with a little shiver. Already she knew how cruel these mountains could be.

  ‘You shall still need to know the art of the Scarred Warrior if you are to survive your initiation journey,’ the Khan’cohban said, leading the way on through the deep snow. ‘Soon the long darkness shall be here. When the ice storm blows without pause and the Gods of White roam the world, then I shall begin to teach you.’

  It was not very many more days until the brief hours of sunlight were swallowed into an incessant storm of ice and darkness that heaped the snow so high that the mouth of the cave was almost closed. Icicles hung down like transparent fangs, and the fires were guarded jealously. Isabeau’s days were divided between the still meditations of the Soul-Sage and the moving meditations of the Scarred Warrior. In both, she was taught to control her every breath, to narrow down her consciousness to a single point of flame.

  Isabeau found to her amazement that the slow, flowing movements of the Scarred Warrior were called ahdayeh, just like the fighting exercises she had been taught as a young girl. Each of the thirty-three stances or movements had the same title, named for the mountains’ creatures of prey, the snow lions, sabre leopards, lynxes, bears, wolves, and dragons. She wondered how it was the witches of the Coven had learnt ahdayeh, when humans and Khan’cohbans had lived so far apart for so many years. Then she remembered her own father had travelled down out of the mountains to the Towers of Roses and Thorns, years before she was born, and wondered if he had taught this art to the Coven.

  Contrary to Isabeau’s expectations, the art of the Scarred Warrior was not about pitting one’s strength against one’s adversary and trying to overcome them. It was instead a matter of stepping aside or back, tempting one’s opponent to overreach and lose their balance. It was about maintaining one’s own balance and own inner harmony, and confronting the other with their own chaos.

  ‘Be as snow,’ the Scarred Warrior told her. ‘Snow is gentle, snow is silent, snow is inexorable. Fight hard against snow and it shall always smother you with its softness and silence. Submit to snow and it shall melt away before you.’

  So as the long darkness passed, Isabeau was as snow: quiet, gentle, inexorable, and cold.

  ‘Rise up, bonny lassies, in your gowns o’ green,

  For summer is a-coming in today,

  Ye’re as fair a lady as any I’ve seen,

  In the merry morn o’ May.’

  Through the dim streets of Blairgowrie danced a long procession of men and women carrying torches. On their heads were crowns made of leaves and spring flowers. Dide the Juggler danced at the head of the cavalcade, leaf twigs tied to every limb, a thick garland of leaves on his head. As he spun and leapt he sang in his cle
ar, strong voice:

  ‘Rise up, rowdy laddies, we wish ye well and fine,

  For summer is a-coming in today,

  Ye’ve a shilling in your pocket and I wish it were in mine,

  In the merry morn o’ May.’

  Lachlan and Iseult watched the procession from the wall of the great keep, smiling and waving to the crowd below. The young prionnsa Donncan sat on the Banrìgh’s hip, laughing in delight as the passing men and women bowed and curtseyed before dancing on. Meghan and Jorge sat close behind, smiling as they watched the May Day procession winding through the town. It had been a long time since the Beltane fires had been lit on every hill at the rising of the sun, creating a chain of fire as far as the eye could see. Although the hills of Blèssem and Clachan would remain dark this morn, every hill in Rionnagan was to be lit, and that made the Keybearer of the Coven a very proud and happy old woman.

  ‘Be brave, my laddies, be canny and bold,

  For summer is a-coming in today,

  Let us build a mighty ship and gild her all wi’ gold,

  In the merry morn o’ May.’

  Iseult leant closer to her husband and whispered: ‘The problem is we have the Bright Soldiers coming in from the east through Arran, through the north from Aslinn, and sailing up the coast and into the Berhtfane. No matter what we do, our forces are being split. If we could only find a way to plug one o’ those approaches!’

  ‘Eà curse it, the forests o’ Aslinn are so thick and there are so few roads, we could spend years crashing around in there and then pass within a mile o’ one o’ their encampments and never know it,’ Lachlan replied, his smile growing strained. ‘The fenlands are even worse, even if we do have Iain and Gwilym to show us the paths. And I’m no’ sure we are strong enough to face Margrit and her blaygird Grey Ghosts yet. As long as the Mesmerdean guard the marshes, the potential cost is too great to even attempt an attack.’