The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  The storyteller’s intonation changed, his hand gestures quickened. The child had grown up quick and fiery and proud, and was beaten often for his impetuosity and defiance. Though he was not as tall or as strong as others his age, he grew adept at the art of the Scarred Warrior. Only his proud temper held him back from true skill, for anger is often the flaw of the warrior that is beaten. His thirteenth long darkness came and it was debated whether he was ready to face his naming quest. The child leapt to his feet and swore angrily that he was ready, more than ready. He would come back with a strong name and a powerful totem, the strongest and most powerful of them all. He was mocked and the Firemaker frowned and said he was too young and undisciplined. Defying her, the child caught up his skimmer and weapons and went out into the night.

  It was a bitter winter that year, the storyteller said, a winter of ice storms and the white wind, cruellest of them all. Hungry, the frost giants had raged across the meadows, every step precipitating avalanches. Hungry, the timber wolves had hunted in howling packs, and the sabre leopards had snarled and savaged their mates over the corpses of birds that had fallen, frozen, out of the sky. It was a bitter winter that year, the Second said, his long fingers bent like claws.

  The long darkness passed and some of the other children returned, wearing the furs of bear or wolf or hoarweasel to show their totem and their name. Proudly they told the tale of their name quest and with pride their parents scarred them. The kin of the Firemaker did not return, and her grief was deep and bitter.

  The white wind had died away and the snow was softening when the people of the pride one day heard the bugling of a dragon. In terror and anger they seized their weapons and rushed out to protect their herds from the dreaded dragon, who could devastate the pride with one blast of his fiery breath. They saw a great golden queen-dragon circle down out of the sky. On her back rode the Firemaker’s kin, his face alight with triumph. He sprang down from the dragon’s back and she bowed to him and spoke to him in her own, terrible language. On the child’s back was no animal skin to show his totem but in his hand he carried a handful of golden jewels, the rarest and most precious of jewels, the dragoneye stone. Turning to the pride he told then the tale of how he had found the queen-dragon’s young daughter injured and helpless on the rocks, having been caught in the white whirlwind and flung to the ground. He could have killed her then, for she was young and sorely hurt, but instead he tended her wounds and shielded her from the ravening beasts that would have devoured her living flesh. There, on the Skull of the World, the Gods of White had spoken to the child and for once their words were not of slaughter and conquest, but of mercy. Child no longer, the Gods of White had named him Khan’gharad, Dragon-Rider.

  A long sigh issued from the crowd and some turned and glanced at Isabeau, who they knew was the dragon-rider’s daughter. Isabeau herself was entranced. She wondered what they would say if they knew this great hero had been ensorcelled, transformed into a beast of burden and ridden cruelly with whip and spur. She was glad she had never told them and wished desperately that she could find some way to bring back her father, warrior of legends, the dragon-rider.

  So wild were the storms that the Scarred Warriors were also confined to the cavern and, restless and dissatisfied, many fights broke out. Although the First Warrior organised daily fighting matches to relieve their energy and keep their skills well honed, it was difficult with so many people crowded into the Haven to keep tempers under control. When blood was drawn one day after a tall, beautiful weaver moved her furs from the fire of one warrior to another, the First came to the fire of the Soul-Sage, asking her to cast the bones and tell them when the storm would end and his Scarred Warriors could go out and hunt again.

  The Soul-Sage nodded and indicated that the First could sit with her by her fire. Wrapped up well in his spotted furs, he sat, giving no acknowledgement of Isabeau who was crouched on the other side of the flames. Isabeau was careful to show no interest in him or the Soul-Sage, though she was curious indeed.

  The Soul-Sage brought the bulging bag out from her clothing and spread the precious hoard out on the ground. Isabeau covertly studied them, for she had been longing to watch the Soul-Sage cast the bones and learn the art herself.

  There were thirteen of them, a rough lump of amethyst, gleaming black obsidian, pure white quartz crystal, a fiery garnet, a dark blue stone with gold flecks, a finger bone, a lump of petrified wood, moss agate with a fossilised leaf sketched on its smooth surface, another fossil of some ancient fishlike creature with sharp teeth, the huge yellow knuckle of some long-dead monster, a sabre leopard’s fang, a stone glittering with fool’s gold, and a bird’s withered claw.

  The Soul-Sage took a stick from the fire and drew a large circle in the earth, quartering it with two swift strokes. Isabeau’s eyes widened, for the quartered circle was a sacred symbol of the Coven and she found it interesting that two such alien cultures used similar shapes and concepts.

  The Khan’cohban woman cradled the stones and bones in her hands, her eyes closed, rocking back and forth and murmuring, then she flung them into the circle without opening her eyes. For a moment she sat still, while the First Warrior scanned the circle anxiously, then she opened her eyes and looked.

  Most of the stones and bones had fallen in the upper half of the circle, the amethyst the highest, almost on the charred line. The fool’s gold was in the bottom left hand corner close to the curved fang of the sabre leopard and the finger bone. The quartz crystal and the gold-flecked blue stone were also high, lying side by side and touching.

  The Soul-Sage turned to the First Warrior and smiled. ‘The storm shall pass soon. Still weather shall come and the hunting shall be good. Be careful, though, for other hunters seek your prey and they are hungry and clever. Be quiet in your hunting, for the peaks are laden with snow ready to fall. Too loud and hasty and your warriors shall be swallowed in avalanche. Be quiet and wary.’

  The First Warrior made the gesture of heartfelt gratitude, his grim face almost smiling. He rose and bowed and went back to the central fire.

  The Soul-Sage swept the stones together in her hand and carefully, one by one, passed them through the smoke of her fire before tucking them back in her bag of animal skin. She looked up at Isabeau and said sternly, ‘No, you may not touch them. No hand but mine can touch them else they lose their power. If the Gods of White decide to honour you with the talent of future-seeing, you will in time find your own bones.’

  ‘Will you not explain to me what they all mean, though?’ Isabeau pleaded.

  The Soul-Sage indicated the circle. ‘The universe, the soul, the life.’ She pointed to the left half of the circle, tracing its shape with her multijointed finger. ‘The night, darkness, the unconscious, the unknown, the life of dreams and desires, birth and death.’ She indicated the right side. ‘Daylight, brightness, the known, the real, the achieved, everyday life, the family.’

  Then she drew the shape of the upper half of the circle with her finger. ‘Spirit, wisdom, the stars. The future.’ She traced the lower semicircle. ‘The flesh, the earth. The past.’ With a sweep of her palm she wiped the circle away.

  ‘What about the stones? What do they mean?’ Isabeau asked eagerly.

  The Soul-Sage’s eyes flashed beneath their heavy hoods. ‘Stones mean many things. It is where they lie in the circle, where they lie in relation to each other, what the question is—these decide what they mean.’

  Isabeau nodded, a little disappointed. The Soul-Sage clicked her tongue, then slowly put her hand into the pouch and withdrew the lump of amethyst. ‘Healing. Spiritual growth, wisdom. Creativity. A good stone, peaceful, strong.’ Again without looking she put her hand into the pouch, this time withdrawing the gold-flecked blue stone. Again she flashed Isabeau a glance, this time of surprise and interest. ‘Skystone. Very powerful indeed. Healing, clear-sight, future-sight. Very sensitive, changes the meaning of everything it touches.’

  Next she pulled out the lump of white
quartz crystal. ‘Vitality, luck, magic, power. Strong healing stone, clear-seeing, future-seeing. Another powerful stone. After the skystone, this means great spiritual growth and wisdom.’ She pondered for a long moment, then thrust her hand into the pouch again.

  The fourth stone she withdrew was the bird’s withered claw. ‘Flying. Wind and change. Can mean death, can mean wisdom. Interesting.’ She looked Isabeau over with an intense, raking gaze. ‘Maybe the scar speaks truly and you indeed have been marked by the Gods of White as a soul-sage. Maybe.’

  The next stone was the red garnet and she said quickly, ‘Passion, love, power, jealousy, deep emotion. Good news, happiness. Or bad news, grief. A strong stone but changeable.’

  One more time she put her hand in the pouch and this time she withdrew the fossilised leaf. She turned down the corners of her mouth, swayed her head from side to side. ‘Peace, growth, opportunity. Healing again. Compassion and mercy. Not a strong stone, not a bold stone. Can mean change, not always for the better. Can mean lying, to yourself or to others. Interesting with skystone and bird’s claw, interesting indeed.’

  Isabeau was fascinated and waited eagerly for her to go on but the Soul-Sage gathered the stones together and let them trickle through her hand back into the pouch.

  ‘What about the others? What do they mean?’

  ‘Stones mean many different things. I just read for you. They mean different things for somebody else. One day you will find your own bones and then you will understand.’

  Isabeau nodded and bowed her head in understanding. The Soul-Sage reached out her long, four-jointed finger and placed it on the scar at Isabeau’s brow. ‘You have travelled a long, dark road and it stretches still before you. There is light at the end, though, and healing, for you and for others. You have been given powerful gifts, the bones have said so. Indeed I think you may be a great soul-sage if you listen in silence and learn.’

  Tears sprung up in Isabeau’s eyes and she made the gesture of heartfelt gratitude. The Soul-Sage accepted it and then settled into her familiar cross-legged position.

  Two days later the wind dropped and the sky cleared, and the Scarred Warriors were able to dig their way out of the cave and take to the slopes again. They returned triumphantly a week later with several deer, and the bloody carcass of a timber wolf which one of the young warriors had killed, saving his comrades. He was able to throw off his furs of arctic fox and wear the shaggy grey pelt with pride, and with great ceremony his cheek was slashed with a knife, to show he had won another scar. There was feasting and the storytellers told tales of heroes and great hunts, some of the only stories with happy endings that they had.

  Only Isabeau’s teacher was grim and silent, regretting yet another winter away from the joy of skimming and hunting. He continued to teach her the art of the Scarred Warrior with great patience, nonetheless. Isabeau found her mind and body were being trained into a precise coordination. As she thought so she moved, no pause or hesitation between one or the other. She had gone beyond mere exercises now to being taught how the thirty-three basic stances and movements could be combined into defensive and offensive manoeuvres. She had watched the First and Second display their skills with thrilling pyrotechnics of leaps, kicks, somersaults and throws, and knew she would never be able to attain such heights of skill. She had grown to enjoy her lessons, though, and loved the morning ritual of ahdayeh which allowed her to face her busy day with a tranquil mind and a loose, limber body.

  One dawn, the Soul-Sage wrapped herself up in her furs and gestured to her to follow. Isabeau caught up her thick hood and cloak with some wonderment, for she had never before seen the Soul-Sage leave her fire. They walked out into the snowy silence and climbed up to the crown of the hill above the Haven.

  It was still dark in the valleys but the sky was a clear blue and the sun was shining in glorious colours of rose and gold on the snowy peaks that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. They faced the west and far, far away, Isabeau saw the great pointed peak of the Fang, the mountain the Khan’cohbans called the Skull of the World. Up there, the sun rising on their backs, Isabeau and the Soul-Sage performed their ahdayeh together.

  The wind swept over Isabeau’s face and body, blowing back her hood so her hair billowed behind her. Tears sprang to her eyes, brought by the chill of the wind and the beauty and grandeur of the panorama before her. She became aware of some force of power surging and heaving around her, a great tide of power that poured over her, through her, past her. It was like the beat of a great heart, pounding in rhythm with her own heart and breath, or the beat of a god’s hand upon a giant drum. Sometimes, while meditating in stillness with the Soul-Sage or meditating in movement with the Scarred Warrior, Isabeau had felt as if she was floating in some great, still darkness. Now she had the sensation again, but it was a sea of light, a sea of joy, its deep song resounding in the inner chambers of her heart.

  The movements of the ahdayeh became a dance, and she was dancing and the sheer, inexpressible joy of being alive. When at last they had finished their last run and somersault, the Dragon Dives for the Kill, Isabeau landed lightly and easily on her feet then flung wide her arms, embracing the wind, the billowing current of energy, the whole world. She turned and laughed at the Soul-Sage, who smiled back at her and bowed. Isabeau bowed back and they sat, facing each other, while the sun flooded the mountains with light.

  It was the winter solstice, Isabeau realised. This was the turn of the tides that she felt. She looked up at the sky and let herself be filled with the thrumming of power.

  ‘Shut your eyes,’ the Soul-Sage said. Isabeau obeyed and she heard the Khan’cohban woman begin, very lightly, to tap on her drum with her fingers. Slowly the drumming increased in intensity until it seemed the beating of her heart, the thrumming of her soul, the beating of the drum, the thunder of the wind, the inhalation and exhalation of her breath were all one, were all the same.

  Isabeau had a sensation of rising, floating. She could not feel the rock below her, or any part of her body at all. It was as if she had flown free of the prison of her bones and was drifting as she pleased. She felt a tremendous lightness and freedom of being. Although her eyes were shut she could see, as if through a silvery veil. Glancing down she saw herself cross-legged, eyes shut. A thin silver cord wound between her physical and spiritual bodies, and it throbbed and shimmered with power.

  Gradually the drumbeat quickened and she felt her heart began to pound again and her breath inflate her lungs. She slipped back down into her body and had a moment of giddiness, as if the rock spun and tilted.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ the Soul-Sage said gently and Isabeau obeyed. The sky was very bright and she felt very disorientated, with a sick feeling of vertigo. ‘The first step,’ the Soul-Sage said. ‘Come, eat and rest and you will feel better soon.’ She had to help Isabeau down the rocks and into the cave, and Isabeau sank down, still feeling very sick and giddy. When she woke many hours later she was still dazed, and failed to hear when she was spoken too.

  As the winter passed, Isabeau was taught to leave her body at will. At first she could not travel far, and found herself very distracted by the whistle of her own breathing and the thunder of her own heart, which kept drawing her back. Then, as she was able to drag her consciousness away from herself, she was fascinated by the sight of other people’s spiritual beings hovering just above their sleeping bodies or quivering, imprisoned, inside their bag of bones and skin.

  On more than one occasion Isabeau followed the Soul-Sage as, insubstantial as a nisse’s wing, she flew effortlessly out into the snowy darkness. Above the heavy clouds they soared, up into the celestial sphere where stars and planets wheeled, and curtains of fire crackled. This was called skimming the stars, and was as addictive as moonbane. Once Isabeau grew too confident and flew so far she was unable to find her way back, the silver cord so stretched and tangled she could not find where it led. That time the Soul-Sage had to come and find her, and Isabeau was no
t allowed to skim the stars until she had learnt to keep her cord properly smooth and straight.

  Isabeau would have spent all her days and nights skimming the stars if the Soul-Sage had let her, and for the first time she understood why it was the Khan’cohban woman spent so much time in a trance. The wise woman would not let her, though, saying, ‘Patience, Khan. One step only at a time. Better to learn too slowly than too fast. Listen in silence and learn.’

  The little prionnsa shrieked with excitement.

  ‘Donncan, come down here now!’ Sukey cried. He grinned at her and did a swift somersault, his golden wings fluttering madly. Then he patted the faces of the dancing nisses painted on the ornate ceiling. ‘Please, Donncan, come down,’ his nursemaid begged. ‘Your mam will be here soon and ye ken ye should be in bed.’

  Swift as a swallow, the little boy swooped down and caught at Sukey’s cap. Trying to hold the linen cap on with one hand, she caught at his arm with the other, but he evaded her nimbly and soared to the mantelpiece where he perched, babbling excitedly. ‘Where mam? When she come? One minute? Six minute? Where dai-dein? I dinna want to go bed. Canna I go ’n listen?’

  A small figure dressed all in white with a nightcap on his head appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. ‘What be going on?’ Neil asked sleepily. Two years old, he looked more like his mother Elfrida than his father, Iain, with fair hair, grey eyes and a rather frail little body.

  ‘Neil, get ye back to bed!’ Sukey cried. ‘Look, Donncan, ye’ve gone and woken Neil. Ye’re a wicked, wicked bairn!’

  She climbed onto a stool and pulled Donncan down from the high mantelpiece. Although he tried to grab her cap again, he did not fly away and she clambered down again, scolding him all the while. With the heir to the throne tucked under one arm, she turned Neil around with the other and directed him back to his own room. Just then the door opened and Iseult walked in, her pale face strained.