by Kate Forsyth
Luckily the little girl had been cushioned by its hard, segmented body and although she clung to Isabeau with both hands, sobbing, she seemed unhurt. Isabeau soothed her, watching apprehensively as the Mesmerd struggled to rise. She knew she should blast it to powder while it lay helpless at her feet, but she could not bring herself to destroy it so heartlessly.
Then Maya came up beside her, looking at the creature curiously. She bent over it and said coolly, ‘Do ye understand me?’
It gazed back expressionlessly. She said, ‘If we release ye from your bonds, will ye promise no’ to try to take my daughter again? We wish ye to take that loathsome toad back to your mistress and give her this message from me. Tell her that stepping on a thistle may sting your foot, but stepping on a sea urchin will cause ye to die in agony. Can ye tell her that?’
Slowly it bowed its head, just once. Maya nodded to Isabeau, but the young witch refused to relinquish her hold on Bronwen to do the Fairge’s bidding. Maya was forced, very reluctantly, to strip the filthy cobwebs from the Mesmerd’s body herself.
‘Ye will find the toad downstairs,’ Maya said, fastidiously wiping her hands on her skirt. ‘Go now, else this witch will blast ye to dust as she blasted your kin. Understand?’
It stared back at her with glittering eyes and flew with some difficulty out the door and down the spiral staircase. Maya turned to Isabeau and held out her hands. ‘Give me my daughter.’
Isabeau cuddled Bronwen closer. ‘Ye canna have her!’ she cried.
At that moment Ishbel started forward, crying, ‘It is ye! Foul witch! Ye’re the one that ensorcelled my beloved.’
She flew at Maya, nails raking. The Fairge stepped back, raising her hands high as if to cast a spell of transformation. Isabeau thrust herself between them, keeping her mother back and shielding her from Maya with her own body.
‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘Mam, it’s all right. She’s changed dai-dein back. He’s a man again. He thinks he’s still a horse but we can teach him again, I know we can.’
‘Khan’gharad? A man?’ Ishbel faltered. Isabeau nodded and her mother turned and flew down the stairs without a word, swift as a snow goose.
Isabeau turned back to Maya, Bronwen still clinging to her, face buried in her neck. ‘Ye canna take your daughter,’ she said firmly. ‘Ye may stay here with me and learn to know her again, but ye canna take her away. This is the only home she knows and I’m the closest thing to a mother she’s ever had. Besides, ye will both die in the snows. Winter is coming and ye do no’ know the ways o’ the mountains or where the hot mineral pools are. So do no’ think ye can steal her and run away by transforming me into some horrible wee animal, for if ye do, both o’ ye will die. Do ye understand?’
Maya smiled at her warmly. ‘O’ course I understand and indeed I canna think o’ anything I want more than to stay with ye and my daughter, and get to know and love ye both again. For we are friends, are we no’?’
‘Nay,’ Isabeau said steadily. ‘Ye are the enemy o’ my people and ye have done more evil than anyone I know. We are no’ friends at all.’
Maya’s smile faded and she looked away wistfully. ‘Still, I canna think o’ anything that would make me happier,’ she said gently. ‘I thank ye. Now, please, may I hold my daughter? I have longed to have her in my arms again.’
Reluctantly Isabeau unclasped Bronwen’s chubby arms from around her neck and gently, with soft reassurances, passed her to Maya. The Fairge cuddled her close, crooning to her, and jealousy struck through Isabeau like a knife. She said abruptly, ‘I must see what I can do for Feld, who is sore hurt, and for my father. Ye may sleep in the room across from mine. Remember what I said. Ye do no’ know the way through the mountain and there are many dangers. Frost giants and woolly bears, avalanches and evil ogres. Ye would both die if ye tried to escape.’
‘But I do no’ want to escape,’ Maya said with a smile in her husky voice. She rested her cheek on Bronwen’s dark, silky head. ‘I have what I came for.’
Khan’gharad tossed back his wild, red hair and scrambled across the room on all fours. Porridge was smeared all over his face and ran in clumps and dribbles down his tangled, red beard. He was barefoot, dressed only in an old robe of Feld’s that had not been buttoned up properly so it gaped in odd places.
Isabeau stood by the table, holding a spoon dripping porridge all down her shirt. At her feet was a broken bowl. Bronwen was bouncing up and down in her chair, throwing her porridge around too, while Ishbel covered her face with her hands, sobbing.
‘It’s no use,’ she cried. ‘He will never learn to be like a man again! Look at him.’
Isabeau ignored her. She said gently but firmly, ‘Come, dai-dein, I shall no’ let ye eat on all fours like an animal. I know ye are hungry but ye must learn to act like a man again. Watch what I do.’
She turned and sat down at the table, just as a globule of porridge from Bronwen’s spoon hit her full in the face. ‘That’s enough, Bronwen!’ she snapped. ‘This is no’ a game. Just because my father does no’ remember his manners does no’ mean that ye can forget yours!’ She wiped her face clean and took a deep breath, trying to control her temper. ‘Now watch, dai-dein.’ Slowly Isabeau ate from her bowl, exaggerating her movements. Her father neighed and tossed back his head and galloped across the room, thrusting his face into the oatmeal spilt on the floor.
‘It’s no use,’ Ishbel said again, her face wet with tears. ‘He has been a horse too long. He shall never—’
‘Yes, he shall,’ Isabeau snapped. She got to her feet again and knelt by Khan’gharad’s side, whickering in reassurance as he shied away from her hand. Gently she pulled him up to a standing position. ‘Try and remember, dai-dein.’
He stood, swaying slightly, his blue eyes so dilated from fear and confusion that the blue was almost blacked out. She encouraged him to take a step and then another, but then his courage failed and he fell onto his knees. Ishbel covered her face again, weeping, and Isabeau turned on her in exasperation. ‘Mam, why will ye no’ come and help me? Come and put your arm under his shoulder and show him how it is done.’
‘I just canna bear to see him like this,’ Ishbel wailed.
‘Greeting will do none o’ us any good!’ Isabeau cried. ‘He has been a horse for so long he does no’ remember how a man should walk. We must teach him again.’
Ishbel dried her face with her napkin and came to Khan’gharad’s side, helping him rise to his feet again. Together they helped him walk across the room, his lip gripped between his teeth, his shoulders hunched.
‘Straight, dai-dein!’ Isabeau seized his shoulders and pulled them back. ‘Remember ye are a Scarred Warrior and walk proud!’
For the first time it seemed her words penetrated the mists of his mind, for he stood tall, shaking back his hair and striding out like a man. Isabeau cried, ‘Good, good!’ and Bronwen clapped her hands. Isabeau guided him to the table and helped him sit, giving him the spoon to hold. It fell from his fingers and she gave it to him again. This time he managed to grasp it, and she passed him her bowl of porridge, by now cold and congealed. Holding his fingers in hers, she tried to scoop up a spoonful but he could not manage it. At last he flung the spoon away from him in frustration and grabbed a handful of food and carried it to his mouth, cramming it in before Isabeau could stop him.
When she tried again to make him use the spoon, her father sprang up in a rage, knocking over his chair, stumbling and falling to his knees. There he crouched, grunting, his shoulders rigid with frustration.
Ishbel knelt by his side, stroking his hair and saying, ‘Never mind, my dearling, never mind.’
Isabeau bent and pulled him up again. ‘Try again, dai-dein!’
‘Canna ye see he canna do it? Leave him in peace.’
‘If I leave him in peace, he’ll be like this forever.’ Isabeau turned on her mother, thoroughly exasperated. ‘Ye may be content to have a husband that thrusts his face into a bowl to eat and walks on all fours like a
beast, but I am no’! I want my father the way he should be.’
Khan’gharad tried to say something but his mouth only contorted in odd shapes, a strangled whinny coming out instead of words. One hand swept out and up, coming back to rest on his breast.
Isabeau stiffened for a moment in surprise, then slowly, with carefully defined gestures, said in the language of the Khan’cohbans, ‘Try, my father, try. I swear we can teach you to be a man again but you must try.’
‘I am!’ he replied with an emphatic gesture.
Isabeau’s eyes lit up, for it had not before occurred to her to try and talk to him in his native language. Castigating herself for a fool, she smiled and held out her hand and he struggled again to his feet.
The morning was well advanced by the time Isabeau had at last managed to coax her father into eating some of the porridge with a spoon clenched awkwardly in his large hand. It reminded her of Bronwen as a babe and she looked over at the little girl with a little smile of reminiscence. Bronwen immediately glanced up from her toys, smiling back. Isabeau bent and ruffled her hair, which hung as straight and glossy as a black silk curtain, with one silvery-white stripe on the left side.
‘Wanna swim,’ the little girl said. ‘When we go swim?’
Isabeau nodded wearily. ‘I know, sweetie. Soon, I promise. I must just tidy up a little, and get my father cleaned up, and make sure the goats have enough fodder. Why do ye no’ pack up what ye want to take to the valley while I finish what I need to do?’
She nodded eagerly and began to pack up her favourite toys while Isabeau did her best to clean up her father’s face and rebutton his robe.
‘Mam, will ye be able to manage? I need to take Bronwen across to the valley now. Bronwen needs to swim and so does Maya …’
‘No, I canna manage!’ Ishbel cried. She had been watching Isabeau and Bronwen jealously and now set her mouth stubbornly. ‘Look at him! He is more horse than man and I have never been one to mess around in the stables. That is what we had grooms for. Ye should stay here where we need ye, no’ go running off to look after that wicked Fairge woman! What am I meant to do wi’ him?’
‘Feed him and wash him and have a care for him,’ Isabeau said gently, smoothing her hand over his great mane of vigorous red hair. ‘He is like a child now that has no’ yet learnt to walk or talk or eat wi’ a spoon. Ye must be like a mother to him.’
‘But I do no’ know how,’ Ishbel cried, gripping Isabeau’s sleeve.
Her daughter disengaged herself, trying hard not to lose her temper. ‘Well, ye should know how,’ she answered sternly. ‘I know ye were only just eighteen when ye gave birth to us and ye’ve been asleep ever since, but you’re a woman grown now. I was younger still when I took on the care o’ Bronwen and I had no-one to guide me or help me but Feld, who knew less than I did.’ Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of the old sorcerer, who had been dead on the stairs by the time she had got back to him. Although seven months had passed since the battle with the Khan’cohban warrior and the marsh-faeries, Isabeau’s grief and sense of guilt was still raw. She dashed her tears away with the back of one hand and went on gruffly, ‘He is your husband and ye say ye love him more than life itself. Well, care for him then and teach him, as ye should have cared for Iseult and me.’
Ishbel’s eyes dropped, colour sweeping up her throat and over her pale cheeks. ‘I know … I’m sorry …’ she tried to say.
Isabeau said, ‘Ye know I shall come back as soon as I can, but Maya and Bronwen need me too.’
It was the wrong thing to say. Ishbel’s mouth thinned and she said angrily, ‘To think my own daughter would shelter and help our greatest enemy, the sorceress who did this to your father and to me! Do ye no’ understand that she and her evil Awl murdered hundreds o’ innocent men and women?’
Now it was Isabeau’s turn to blush and stammer. She could say nothing to explain her strange sense of connection and empathy with the Fairge, so she merely turned away, saying tiredly, ‘I must go, Mam. I said I would be back as soon as I can.’
Maya had been living alone in the tree-house ever since the battle with the Mesmerdean the previous summer. Isabeau had moved her back to the secret valley only a few days after Feld’s death, for neither Ishbel nor Khan’gharad could bear to have Maya anywhere near them. In their eyes the Fairge was their implacable enemy, the one who had taken their lives and smashed them into a thousand irreparable pieces.
Their condemnation hurt Isabeau and she wished she could see some way out of the tangle. She could not abandon the Fairge, much as she sometimes secretly longed to, for she knew Maya could not survive in the mountains. Even though Maya was her enemy, she could not help feeling a stir of sympathy for her. The fact that this empathy was spiced with a fierce jealousy only made it harder. Isabeau may have been able to condemn Maya to a cruel death to save everyone she loved further hardship and heartbreak. To do so because she wanted Bronwen all to herself was truly to become a murderess. Although Isabeau had killed before, she had never done so lightly. It had always been in extreme circumstances, when she had had to choose to kill or be killed. Abandoning Maya to die from the bitter cold or from the fierce mountain animals and faeries was to murder deliberately and Isabeau could not take that final, incontrovertible step.
So she compromised. She left Maya as a prisoner in the hidden valley, opening the secret passage from the kitchen so the Fairge could get in and out as she pleased. Isabeau moved all of Meghan’s books and potions into one of the higher storeys and warded it off so the Fairge could not learn any more of Meghan’s secrets. Then she divided her time between her parents at the Cursed Towers and Maya in the hidden valley, taking Bronwen with her wherever she went.
Isabeau foraged for all their food, cooked their meals, taught Bronwen her letters and numbers, and Khan’gharad how to behave like a man. She took Maya and Bronwen through the caves to the underground loch to swim, spun wool, knitted and wove all their clothes, dug and weeded the vegetable gardens, milked the goats and tended the beehives. She sometimes felt as if she was a mother hen with four helpless chicks, rather than a young woman just turning twenty and rather in need of some mothering herself.
The winter had come and gone, the snow storms making Isabeau’s self-imposed task even more difficult. She had not gone to the Spine of the World as usual, worried about how her charges would manage without her and not trusting anyone else to look after Bronwen now Feld was gone. Ishbel did not have a strong enough nature to deal with the situation well. The daugher of a Blèssem laird, she had been brought up with servants to wait on her hand and foot and was not used to having to cook or clean up after herself, let alone tend to Khan’gharad’s needs. She leant on Isabeau very heavily and resented Maya for taking Isabeau away from the Cursed Valley so much. Even Asrohc was bored with the situation and often failed to come to Isabeau’s call, leaving her stranded and anxious about whomever was waiting for her.
Isabeau left the warmth of the kitchen, huddling her plaid close about her as she went out into the cold to feed and milk the goats. It was a chill, grey day with an ominous sky and a nasty, bitter wind that nipped at her ankles and tugged at her plaid. She leant her head against the nanny-goat’s warm flank and milked her swiftly, her eyes hot and stinging. It was Candlemas, the day of her twentieth birthday, and none had thought to wish her happy birthday. She had had no time or inclination for chanting the rites of spring and so, for the first time in her life, Candlemas had come without Isabeau celebrating the end of winter and the beginning of the season of flowers. She made a silent apology to Eà, did her tasks with a weary step and heavy heart, then turned back to the old Tower.
On a sudden impulse she turned aside and went instead to the scrying pool, which lay in the centre of the gardens. Completely covered over with rose briars and brambles when Isabeau had first found it, the little round gazebo that protected it from the elements was now clear of all shrubbery. With a verdigris dome and arches all carved with the pattern of ros
es and thorns, it was a beautiful little pavilion with views across the garden to the loch. Inside the pool glimmered blackly. A stone bench at each of the points of the compass had legs carved like dragons’ claws, with a ferocious dragon’s head at one end, their wings folded back to form the seat. Isabeau sat on one of the benches, staring into the water which reflected her face back like a dark mirror.
She thought wistfully of her sister. It was Iseult’s birthday too, and it had been some time since Isabeau had last looked to see how her twin fared. It had been such a busy winter, and the weather had been so cold, she would have had to have dug a path through the snow to even reach the scrying pool. Isabeau wondered whether Iseult had managed to march on Arran as she had planned and whether they had found the means to break the curse that held the Rìgh in such an unnatural sleep.
The water’s still surface seemed to darken, then Isabeau saw her sister’s face as clearly as she had seen her own reflection moments before. Only the difference in their clothes and stance showed it was not her own face she was staring at.
Iseult was crouched beside Lachlan, who lay still, barely breathing, on a low pallet, his wings folded beside him. He looked like a statue in a tomb, a white cloth draped over him, his aquiline profile looking as if it had been carved from marble. Iseult was holding his hand, chafing it between both of hers, talking to him in a low voice. Her face was harrowed with grief. Isabeau’s heart was wrung with pity, for she had never seen her sister so distressed, not even when her baby daughter had died.
The Banrìgh was dressed in her leather breeches and breastplate, and her weapons belt was hanging over the chair behind her. As Isabeau watched, she stood up and buckled it round her waist, and came to stand before a mirror on a stand to check it was straight. She looked at herself in the mirror and the twins’ eyes met.
