The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  Maya was silent. When she did not answer, Isabeau busied herself clearing away their dirty bowls. The water barrel was empty so she wiped the dishes out with a cloth, adding filling the barrel to her list of things to do in the morning. She was very tired and her head was full of all that she had been told. She needed time to sort through her emotions and reactions. She turned back to the other woman and said, ‘We should rest. It is growing late. In the morning I’ll take ye back to the loch and ye can swim again.’

  Maya nodded wearily and put her hand to her head. Isabeau unhitched the ladder from its hooks and put it up to the trapdoor in the roof. She climbed up and passed her hand over the lock, searching for wards. As she had expected, the trapdoor was guarded and it took her some time to work out the sequence of enchantments. She was familiar with Meghan’s system of warding, however, and so eventually was able to make a series of complicated signs with her fingers. A symbol of green fire flared up for a moment and then disappeared. With her arms full of the fire-warmed quilts, Isabeau led the way to the room above, which was much smaller and quite round in shape.

  A narrow bunk hung with green velvet curtains was set into one curved wall, and a carved wooden chest stood on the other side. There was barely room to stand between the two pieces of furniture, particularly since books were piled everywhere and the ladder came up through the middle of the floor. Maya had to press her back against the curve of the wall to make room while Isabeau set up the ladder to the next floor.

  ‘Ye can sleep upstairs,’ Isabeau said brusquely, not wanting to put the Fairge in Meghan’s own bed. She knew there was nothing in her old room that Maya should not see, but this room was filled with Meghan’s books and artifacts and Isabeau did not want to risk the Fairge fingering through them. ‘Do no’ try and reach the floor above for the trapdoor will be guarded and ye could lose a few fingers, if no’ your life. I will wake ye in the morning. There are some clothes in the chest there that may fit ye. Throw down those wet rags when ye are ready.’

  Maya nodded and clambered up the ladder, her arms filled with quilts. Isabeau climbed into the little bunk, surprised at how hard and narrow it felt, and winked out her candle with a thought.

  For the next few days she and Maya feinted and bluffed, each seeking to trap or beguile the other into revealing what they knew. Isabeau found it hard not to succumb to the Fairge’s charm for Maya had a winning way about her and stirred the young witch’s sympathies. She kept her maimed hand always before her, though, finding the sight of the ugly scars enough to keep her resolve strong.

  She could not help feeling an increasing sense of uneasiness about Bronwen and she hoped the little girl was not teasing the old sorcerer too much. She knew Feld would not be overly concerned about her absence since Isabeau often went on foraging trips into the mountains, though usually she gave some notice. Bronwen always missed her badly, though, and tended to mope until Isabeau returned.

  One afternoon, as they walked down through the towering trees, Maya again begged Isabeau to take her to her daughter. ‘Ye canna know how much I’ve missed her and longed to find her,’ she said pitifully.

  Isabeau snapped, ‘I canna see why, when ye wouldna hold her or suckle her when she was naught but a wee babe. Ye havena seen her since she was six weeks auld and she’s now almost three!’

  At once she regretted her words but Maya turned to her imploringly. ‘I ken ye took her, Red, and I ken ye have no’ been living here all this time. She must be nearby, though, for we saw yon mountain in the scrying pool, though with another just like it. Why will ye no’ let me just see her?’

  Isabeau said, ‘Ye saw Dragonclaw? Who did? In what scrying pool?’

  The Fairge lifted her hands and let them fall. ‘I had some spies in the winged uile-bheist’s retinue,’ she said. ‘They told me how ye had taken Bronwen and disappeared, and none knew where ye had gone. One stole a braid o’ your hair and I took it with me to Arran. I went there to seek help for I knew the NicFóghnan was as much an enemy o’ the winged uile-bheist as I.’

  ‘Someone stole my hair?’ Isabeau whispered. ‘What about Lilanthe? Did they hurt her?’

  Maya shrugged. ‘I do no’ know. He did no’ tell me.’

  ‘Ye used my braid to track me down?’ Angrily Isabeau wished she had burnt the plait when she had the chance.

  Maya nodded. ‘Margrit o’ Arran used it to spy ye out through her scrying pool. Her chamberlain, a Khan’cohban warrior, recognised the shape o’ the mountains as the Cursed Peaks. I knew ye had taken my wee Bronwen and so the NicFóghnan promised to help me track ye down. She lent me her swan-carriage and the Khan’cohban to guide me and we flew all the way. I should’ve known she meant me only ill, though! I was wary and canny all the way, but without being able to bathe very often I was giddy and light-headed. The blaygird Khan’cohban waited until I had dozed off and so couldna transform him, then he threw me from the swan-carriage as we came up the side o’ the mountain. If ye had no’ found me I would’ve died for sure.’

  ‘I thought ye said your powers were broken with the mirror!’ Isabeau instantly picked up on the word ‘transform’, her suspicions flaring into life once more. She had wondered over this question ever since she had found the Fairge unconscious on the mountainside, but had not dared ask her directly. She had seen no sign of any power and in reality it seemed impossible that this thin, pale, scarred-faced woman could be guilty of half the atrocities ascribed to her.

  Maya lowered her eyes. ‘I did no’ want Margrit to know I had lost my power for I would truly have been at her mercy then and she’s a cruel, cunning woman who wishes me and my babe only ill. So I let her think I could turn her into a swamp rat or a frog as easy as clicking my fingers, and she was careful never to rouse my anger.’

  Isabeau was thinking carefully about what Maya had said when they reached the tree-house. She took the blindfold from her pocket and bound up the other woman’s eyes, despite her exasperated protest, and led her down the passage to the kitchen. Once the secret door was safely hidden behind the shelving again, she untied the blindfold and let Maya sit.

  ‘Meghan always said the craft is o’ no use if ye do no’ have the cunning,’ she said conversationally as she lit the fire and put the kettle on.

  Maya stiffened. ‘I do no’ understand.’

  ‘Witchcraft is the use o’ the One Power through spells, incantations and magical objects like your mirror. Witchcunning is the use o’ the One Power through will and desire. The spells and magical objects act as conduits for the witch’s own power. The more ye use them, the more magical they become, so that in time they can greatly enhance and focus the witch’s inherent powers, and indeed they can become magical in themselves. But if ye have no powers o’ your own, they canna work. O’ course, all people have some Talent, most just never tap into it. This means anyone can get some use out o’ objects that are deeply saturated with magic. If their Talent is only minor, however, their use will only be minor.’

  Isabeau made the tea and poured it out into the cups and sat down opposite the Fairge. ‘So ye see, no matter how potent the enchanted mirror was, ye could no’ have used it if ye did no’ have Talent o’ your own, and for it to have worked so well, you must have a lot o’ power. Transforming people into animals is no minor Talent, nor is maintaining for so long a glamourie which is so real that even powerful sorceresses like Meghan o’ the Beasts canna see through it.’

  ‘I was always careful to stay away from Meghan and Tabithas,’ Maya admitted, ‘and to keep my hands and neck well covered.’

  Isabeau sipped her tea, refusing to be sidetracked. ‘Margrit would have known this even better than I. O’ course, if ye are used to working magic through a particular object, ye may find it difficult to draw upon the One Power without that crutch and it may take ye time before ye are as strong in it again. Meghan always used to say ye should learn to work magic without any crutches at all, but most witches use something, from circles o’ power to crystals to their wi
tch rings.’ She looked down at her own rings, pale moonstone and bright dragoneye, then regarded Maya again with steady blue eyes. ‘So ye see, ye canna have lost all your powers when the mirror was broken and I think ye ken that.’

  Maya shook her head, her mouth trembling a little. ‘Nay, I told ye …’

  Isabeau’s gaze did not falter, though her mouth compressed a little. ‘It has been nigh on three years since the Samhain rebellion and ye have moved at will through the land in all that time without being discovered? I think no’. Nay, ye must have found some way to cast a glamourie without the mirror.’

  Maya suddenly smiled, a rather cruel smile, and passed her hand over her face, which changed to the pleasant, rather worn features of a middle-aged woman. Isabeau scrutinised her carefully. The glamourie was not perfect. There was a vague wrongness about it. As the light flickered over her face Maya’s own features seemed to press out of the shadows and then sink back again. Then the Fairge swept her hand over her face again. This time the glamourie was much stronger.

  Isabeau knew the face well. It was the face that had been celebrated as the greatest beauty in the land, the face of Isabeau’s seashore friend Morag and of the Banrìgh Maya the Blessed. Although she did not know it, it was also the face of the whore Majasma the Mysterious. The opalescent shimmer of the scales was merely soft white skin, the lipless mouth merely thin, the flaring nostrils a mark of pride and temper. The scars were gone and the grey that had wrinkled through the glossy black hair. Because these features were much closer to Maya’s own, and because she had worn the face for so long, it was almost impossible to tell that it was a mask and not the real thing.

  Isabeau could not help being impressed. ‘A mistress o’ illusions indeed,’ she said rather tartly.

  ‘It took me some while to get used to doing it at will,’ Maya admitted. ‘I had to use a spell for quite a time and then I managed one day to cast the glamourie without chanting the words and after that it became easier and easier.’

  ‘And what about the spell o’ transformation?’ Isabeau asked, every nerve in her body coiling tight.

  Maya hesitated. ‘If I could have, I would have used it,’ she admitted. ‘There have been a few people I would have loved to have turned into frogs or spiders, Margrit o’ Arran among them, but I do no’ know how. I have always used the mirror …’

  Isabeau started to say something then changed her mind. Already there was a look of calculation on Maya’s face and Isabeau was afraid that once she realised she still had the power locked away inside her, she would decide to practise on Isabeau herself. The young witch’s thoughts had been on her father, still trapped within the shape of a horse, and her longing to release him. Having Maya in full control of her powers could well be dangerous, though, and so Isabeau bit her thumbnail and thought back over all that Maya had told her.

  ‘Why did Margrit o’ Arran help ye then, if there was so much ill feeling between ye?’ she asked curiously. ‘By all accounts, she has no’ got a sympathetic bone in her body.’

  Maya shrugged. ‘I went to Arran because I thought she had Bronwen there but it turned out to be a trick o’ Renshaw’s. He fled there seeking sanctuary and she took him in because she thought it would be useful to have Bronwen in her power. She was angry indeed when she found out Renshaw had deceived her.’ She described the Grand-Seeker’s macabre death and Isabeau exclaimed in horror.

  ‘And ye say she sent a Khan’cohban warrior with ye?’ Isabeau was puzzled. She could not think what a Khan’cohban was doing in Arran or why he was in service to the NicFóghnan. Khan’cohban warriors would never serve another unless they were in geas to them or unless that person was higher in the social hierarchy. Only the First Warrior and the Firemaker were of higher status than a fully scarred warrior. ‘O’ how many scars?’

  ‘Six,’ Maya answered with curiosity in her voice. ‘Why?’

  ‘And ye say he recognised the Cursed Peaks?’ Alarm suddenly ran through her. ‘So ye think the NicFóghnan wants Bronwen for her own ends? Did the Khan’cohban throw ye out o’ the swan-carriage so that ye could no’ stop him from seizing her?’

  Maya nodded. ‘Aye, I think so. But Bronwen is no’ here with ye and I have the plait o’ hair still, so I canna see how he could find ye, or her for that matter …’

  ‘But did ye no’ say he recognised the mountains in the scrying pool as the Cursed Peaks?’ Maya nodded and Isabeau went on, her voice rising in alarm, ‘And if he comes from the Spine o’ the World, he will know about the Cursed Towers.’ Unconsciously she used the Khan’cohban term for the Towers of Roses and Thorns. She got to her feet and began to pace in her agitation. ‘He threw ye out because he did no’ need ye or the plait o’ bluidy hair to locate her. He knew where he was going!’

  Maya stiffened in response. ‘Ye mean he knows where Bronwen is?’

  Isabeau nodded and wrung her hands. ‘It’s been almost a week since I found ye—could he fly the swan-carriage over the peaks? Do swans fly so high?’

  Maya shook her head. ‘The plan was to alight some way up the mountain and send the carriage back to Margrit. Apparently they canna fly over the highest peaks.’ She looked at Isabeau with speculation in her eyes. ‘So ye have got Bronwen hidden away somewhere nearby?’

  Isabeau said, ‘He must know some other way to cross the mountains for he would no’ dare go through the dragons’ valley, that I am sure o’. The dragons would know that he is in Margrit’s employ and that she was the one who provided the Red Guards with dragonbane and commanded the Mesmerd that was here in the spring o’ the red comet.’

  She paused in her ruminations then said, ‘Meghan always thought that was odd. Why did Margrit help ye then and why did she send the Mesmerd here?’

  ‘I do no’ know,’ Maya replied. ‘She sent me an emissary saying that if I wanted to strike at the dragons and get rid o’ them forever, then she had the means to do so. She’s always full o’ smooth plausibility, that witch. The Mesmerd was to help and guide the Red Guards to the dragons’ peak—’

  ‘But the Mesmerdean are creatures o’ the marshes, they would no’ ken the way through the mountains any better than anyone else,’ Isabeau replied. ‘She must have had some other reason …’

  She paced back and forth, chewing her thumbnail. ‘The Cursed Towers … I wonder … She would’ve known they still stand, for the Khan’cohban would’ve told her … and Iain said she asked for the books from the Tower o’ Warriors as part o’ Elfrida’s dowry … She must have wondered if any o’ the auld books and artifacts from Tìrlethan still existed, for the Towers o’ Roses and Thorns were famed for their library …’

  Maya grew impatient with Isabeau’s musings. ‘Are ye trying to tell me Bronwen may be in danger?’ she snapped. ‘I do no’ want that wicked witch getting her hands on my daughter, do ye hear?’

  ‘No’ just Bronwen,’ Isabeau replied. ‘I very much fear they’re all in danger! Oh, Eà! If only ye had told me all this at first! We’ve been wasting our days here while all the time that blaygird Khan’cohban has been getting closer and closer to the Cursed Valley.’

  ‘What are all these cursed places?’ Maya cried. ‘Ye have taken my daughter somewhere cursed?’

  Isabeau did not bother answering her. She caught up her plaid and tam-o’-shanter and said sharply, ‘Stay here! Do no’ try to follow me.’ Then she hurried down the secret passage, for the first time not bothering to conceal the entrance. It was growing dark outside and cold, and the red moon hung huge and swollen above the far horizon. She went swiftly through the trees to the shelf of rock on the far side of the loch, where the water poured away over the lip of the bluff. She stood and faced Dragonclaw, dark and sharp against the red-streaked sky.

  ‘Caillec Asrohc Airi Telloch Cas,’ she called. ‘Come to me, I beg! Caillec Asrohc Airi Telloch Cas.’

  The words rolled out into the evening with all the force and solemnity of the roar of the ocean. She waited anxiously and then whispered, Please, Asrohc, I need
ye truly …

  Over the past three summers she had called the dragon princess whenever she felt the urge to escape her usual round of duties at the Cursed Towers and fly the dragon’s back. At first she had done so hesitantly and with a sick flutter in her stomach. By her third year she had called confidently, and together she and Asrohc had flown over much of Tìrlethan and even up to the Spine of the World where the glacier stayed white even in the middle of summer.

  Isabeau had known when Meghan had called the dragons to aid her at the Battle of Ardencaple. She had heard the queen-dragon’s name in every hollow of her body, booming until she was near to fainting with the resonance. She had seen the seven sons of the queen-dragon fly gladly and triumphantly out of the heart of the Cursed Peaks, at last set loose to wreak their revenge for the death of their kin. Asrohc had been consumed with jealousy, longing to soar and flame and slay too, but constrained because she was the last young female in the land and the responsibility of breeding up many new dragons was hers. Isabeau had heard all about the victory at Ardencaple and the many who had died in the flames, until finally she was sick of it.

  That week had been one of great pain and sorrow for her. She had felt her twin’s injury as keenly as if an arrowhead had plunged into her own breast and then felt the terrible pain and grief of her miscarriage. If Asrohc had come to her call then, she would have left the Cursed Towers and flown to her twin’s aid, but the dragon princess was too excited by Meghan’s summons and would not come. By the time the dragon princess could be bothered to answer Isabeau’s call, the young witch had felt the faint agonised echo of Jorge’s death, and then the reverberations of the battle at Ardencaple.

  Isabeau had felt the whole gamut of Iseult’s anger, grief and fear and she had been nearly frantic with her need to know what was happening. So she and Feld had hurried down to the scrying pool, which Isabeau had only discovered under the brambles and weeds a few months earlier. She had cleared it out and unblocked the pipes so that water could again fill the round, shallow pond. Isabeau and the old sorcerer had watched the final stages of the battle through the far-seeing lens of the scrying pool, and Isabeau had thrown all her will and desire behind her twin to help with the conjuring of the snow storm.