The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  The soldiers waited warily, their weapons at the ready, while those who had been stung by the poisoned darts slowly twitched into silence.

  ‘Relax, lads,’ Gwilym said, leaning on his staff. ‘They’re bogfaeries and would never do anything Iain did no’ want them to do. They’d never have attacked us if they had known Iain was with us.’

  Iain looked up, smiling. ‘They tell me my m-m-mother has set up an ambush n-n-no’ far from here. They will show us another w-w-way through the m-m-marsh. Some m-m-more good news. My m-m-mother’s blaygird chamberlain, the one I was so w-w-worried about, M-M-Maya turned him into a toad! A f-f-fitting end, do ye no’ agree, Gwilym?’

  The warlock smiled grimly. ‘One I would have devised myself. Who would’ve guessed the Ensorcellor was capable o’ so much insight?’

  By sunset they were deep in the marsh. Although there had been many minor clashes with both soldiers and marsh-faeries, the major confrontation was between the forces of weather. Margrit of Arran fought to keep the air currents warm, moist and still so fog would hang above the swamp. Iseult and the witches had bent all their skills to bring a cold wind to blow away the mist and harden the earth. For a while they succeeded, and the Mesmerdean flew no more, hating the cold and retreating to warmer waters. The deeper they penetrated into the marsh, however, the more difficult it was for the witches to hold back the mist. This was Margrit’s terrain and her greatest skill, and she had a team of trained witches to help her.

  As the sun went down the breeze died away and the stifling atmosphere of the swamp rose up all around them. The smell made Iseult feel sick and apprehensive and she could not rest, staring out into the gloom with a frown etched between her brows. She was so tired she had gone beyond sleep, feeling as finely drawn as a thread of silk. Meghan brought her a cup of valerian tea and ordered her to drink it.

  ‘Do ye think we will be able to find the way to break the curse here in this blaygird bog?’ Iseult said, sipping the fragrant tea obediently.

  ‘I hope so,’ Meghan said. ‘I have tried to break it but it is tightly bound, and I canna trace its source. I feel Margrit o’ Arran is behind it somehow, though it was no’ her who cast it, that I’m sure ’o. Margrit has a subtle, devious mind, and though this curse has a cunning twist, it does no’ have the stamp o’ Tower training. It is more like a cursehag’s work, or maybe a skeelie with strong powers. Whoever cast it had something o’ Lachlan’s, though, something heavily soaked with his life force.’

  ‘Finlay again?’ Iseult asked heavily.

  ‘He swore he knew nothing about the curse and that he never gave Maya anything o’ Lachlan’s that may have helped her cast it. Strange as it may seem, I think he is an honourable man and would no’ lie …’

  ‘Honourable as a swamp rat,’ Iseult said harshly. ‘He is so under Maya’s spell, he would lie through his teeth, the green-bellied snake.’

  ‘Ye’re mixing your metaphors,’ Meghan replied with a smile. ‘Come, try to sleep, Iseult. It’ll be another hard day tomorrow. Ye’ll need your strength.’

  Iseult leant her head on her hand. ‘Let me be, Meghan. I’m too tired to sleep.’

  Meghan leant over and touched her between the brows. Iseult’s eyelids fluttered and closed, and her head fell onto her knees. Meghan very gently laid her down, then took the plaid from her own shoulders and tucked it around the Banrìgh. ‘Sleep, dearling,’ she said softly.

  Sunrise the next morning brought with it a horde of freshly emerged Mesmerdean nymphs. Still damp and glistening, their wings curled at the end, they hung all round the clearing where the soldiers had made camp, humming softly. Mist hung low over the swamp but the sky was clear so their great clusters of eyes shimmered with iridescent green and their translucent wings shone. The soldiers simply stood and stared, overcome with fear and awe. Iseult and Meghan stood with them, unable to believe how many of them there were.

  ‘M-m-my m-m-mother has s-s-somehow h-h-hastened the h-h-hatching,’ Iain said. As always, when talking about his mother, his stutter became much more pronounced. ‘This is n-n-no’ n-n-natural, this early e-mer-mer-mergence.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Iseult said bleakly. ‘We canna fight off so many, no’ here. There is no marsh gas to ignite and no room to manouevre. We shall be slaughtered.’

  ‘Enough is e-n-n-nough!’ Iain cried. ‘I think it is time. I shall go and t-t-talk with them.’

  ‘Nay, it is too dangerous!’ Iseult cried.

  He smiled at her. ‘I’ve been talking to M-M-Mesmerdean since I was n-n-naught but a laddiekin,’ he answered. ‘Do no’ fear for me.’

  He gestured the soldiers back with his hands and walked over to the first phalanx of the winged creatures. He held out his hands, palm outwards, and stood silently. The Mesmerdean stared back, and the humming of their wings died away into silence as they simply hung there, hovering, watching him with their great clusters of eyes.

  ‘What is he doing?’ Duncan whispered after a long period of silence. ‘I thought he said he was going to talk to them.’

  ‘He is,’ Gwilym said, watching closely, his hands clenched on his staff. ‘Mesmerdean have no spoken language. They have no ears and no tongue.’

  ‘But Iain said he would talk to them—and he’s just standing there, staring at them.’

  ‘They read his thoughts, or perhaps it would be more exact to say they read his energy fluctuations. Iain knows that the Mesmerdean elders will be watching and listening too. It is they he wishes to communicate with. These newly emerged nymphs are still immature and canna make decisions about affiliations or actions. It is the elders that will decide whether to continue to uphold Margrit, to withdraw their support, or even to aid us.’

  ‘But are the Mesmerdean no’ servants o’ the Thistle?’

  ‘The Mesmerdean are servants to no-one,’ Gwilym said in exasperation. ‘They are free and powerful, and give their service to Margrit only because o’ centuries-auld treaties between their people and the MacFóghnan clan. Many times they have withdrawn their support and Margrit works hard to keep them happy.’

  ‘If they canna talk, how can Iain know what they intend?’

  ‘They will tell him,’ Gwilym replied, clearly still exasperated. ‘Just because they do no’ speak our language does no’ mean they canna communicate. If they wish to woo a female or warn another male away from their territory, they rub their wings and claws together, and that is how they communicate with us too, though contemptuously. They think humans very crude and unsophisticated.’

  Suddenly the humming began to rise again, and the Mesmerdean moved, some rearing back with their claws extended, others lowering their heads and dropping their wings. Some of the buzzing was so shrill the Greycloaks they had to cover their ears.

  ‘No’ good,’ Gwilym said. ‘Some refuse to give up their vendetta.’

  Iain continued to stand still, facing them, and the humming quavered, grew in intensity. Long minutes passed, and then the Mesmerdean melted back into the mist. The prionnsa came back to them slowly, his face thoughtful and rather grim. He sat down and called to one of the soldiers to bring him some food.

  ‘So what happened?’ Iseult demanded impatiently. ‘Why have they gone?’

  ‘We have an amnesty o’ sorts,’ Iain replied. ‘I simply sat and thought about my m-m-mother and how tricky and t-t-treacherous she can be. This impressed upon them forcibly. Then I thought about who was truly the p-p-power in the land, able to decide on b-b-borders and territory. Ye ken my m-m-mother has been promising them for ages that once she had the reins o’ p-p-power in her hands she would make sure the m-m-marshlands spread out across the land again. I made it clear that only the M-M-MacCuinn had the power to do that. I said that we have already spoken with the NicThanach and that she agreed to give up the l-l-land the MacThanach clan reclaimed for farmlands and allow the s-s-swamps to spread once m-m-more.’

  ‘I hope ye made them realise how many concessions we had to make to the NicThanach before she would a
gree,’ Iseult said with an expressive snort. ‘Who would have guessed such a milksop could bargain so shrewdly?’

  Meghan smiled. ‘The MacThanachs are always shrewd when it comes to protecting their own interests. They are a practical clan indeed.’

  ‘Still, we are p-p-paying highly for land that has never been very fruitful,’ Iain said. ‘The s-s-soil was always sour and is even m-m-more so now that the bulwark has been b-b-broken down and the tide runs as it wills. The NicThanach w-w-would have had a hard time making it fertile enough for crops anyway. This way, she gets rich t-t-trade concessions with Arran as well as Rionnagan and Clachan.’

  ‘No’ to mention rich dowries for her five sisters,’ Meghan said with a little laugh. ‘Indeed, she is a canny bargainer, that lassie. I have hopes she will make a fine NicThanach.’

  ‘So what did the Mesmerdean say? Did they agree to give us their assistance in return for no’ rebuilding the bulwark and letting the water seep back? It is a significant concession.’

  Iain shook his head wearily. ‘They are interested but n-n-no’ convinced. After all, my m-m-m-mother has promised them the s-s-same result and they at least kn-kn-know and respect her. Ye are strangers in their l-l-land and they resent that. The only f-f-factor in our favour is that they are angry with my m-m-mother for waking them early. M-M-Mesmerdean dislike the cold and all this ice ye’ve been conjuring m-m-makes them very irritable.’

  ‘So what do we have to do to convince them? We have little hope o’ victory without their help.’ Iseult tried hard to keep the despair out of her voice. She had hoped against all odds that they would be able to bargain for the Mesmerdeans’ neutrality, at the very least. Iain had explained that the marsh-faeries only supported his mother because she had promised to restore the lands the MacThanach clan had drained back to swampland. It seemed the Mesmerdeans’ loyalties to the Thistle ran deeper, however.

  ‘They will n-n-no’ give up their q-q-quest for revenge so easily,’ Iain said grimly. ‘They have ye and L-L-Lachlan marked as kin-killers, no’ to mention M-M-Meghan, Gwilym and Isabeau …’

  ‘Isabeau?’

  ‘Aye, I think that is who they meant. It is hard to understand every subtle nuance o’ their humming, but they certainly indicated one who was kin unto ye, and Isabeau was all I could think o’.’

  ‘But how could Isabeau have killed a Mesmerd up on the Spine o’ the World?’ Iseult said without thinking, immediately attracting Meghan’s fierce gaze. The sorceress made no comment, however, twisting the rings on her gnarled fingers thoughtfully.

  ‘If we w-w-want their help,’ Iain said, ‘they w-w-want the lives o’ those who have killed M-M-Mesmerdean. I said that was n-n-no’ possible. They l-l-leave us to think about it. If we do n-n-no’ agree they shall return when the sun is high and t-t-take all o’ our lives.’

  ‘But why?’ Iseult cried. ‘They attacked us, we were all merely defending ourselves. Does that count for nothing?’

  Iain was silent for a moment. ‘I’ll try and explain,’ he said at last. ‘The Mesmerdean do no’ have the same respect for life as we do. They live only a few years anyway and most o’ their existence is ruled by the copulation wheel.’ He blushed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. Not looking at Iseult or Meghan he went on rather rapidly, ‘This no’ only means the actual act o’ copulation, called the wheel for the shape they make, but for the whole cycle o’ birth, life, and death. Only the nymphs have the freedom to travel far from their territory. Once they are fully mature, the Mesmerdean elders live very close to the swamp and their own patch o’ water, where they breed and lay the eggs and watch over the naiads. So the elders live through the nymphs. They see what they see and experience what they experience. Nymphs can travel quite widely and have many adventures.’

  Iain paused, trying to find words. ‘It is hard to explain but Mesmerdean are rather like … spiritual leeches. When they kiss someone to death they swallow their life essence, all their memories and knowledge. Mesmerdean do no’ kill for food or even sport. It is a sort o’ intellectual hunger. What they learn from those whose lives they take is transmitted to all Mesmerdean. What one Mesmerdean sees, all Mesmerdean see. When a Mesmerd dies, however, that transmission is lost and all that they have learnt is lost too, unless they have had a chance to procreate. A Mesmerd’s memories are passed down to its children and so preserved generation after generation. If a Mesmerd dies before it procreates, however, all that they have learnt is lost to the entire race—which o’ course is what happens if they die while still nymphs. Do ye understand?’

  ‘The auld ones get bored, live through the young ones; if a young one dies, they lose the connection, get bored again and want revenge for the knowledge they’ve lost,’ Iseult said swiftly. ‘Is that right?’

  Gwilym laughed harshly. ‘Bang on the nail, Your Highness.’

  Iain smiled reluctantly. ‘Ye see, the Mesmerdean elders are fascinated by what ye know and have done. They want that … life knowledge. The Mesmerdean nymphs ye killed had travelled far and wide and learnt a great deal about life beyond the swamp. The elders were angry to lose that knowledge; having had it once, they want it back. Add this to the very strong kinship they feel for their own kind … Well, the fact is, they will only accept your lives in return for the lives o’ their dead kin.’ He hesitated then turned to Meghan. ‘Ye in particular. They are greedy for your life. It has been very long and very interesting. They will no’ give up the chance to taste it. Besides, ye have been responsible for the deaths o’ many nymphs. They hate ye and are fascinated by ye, and that is a potent combination. I do no’ think the offer o’ swampland is enough.’

  ‘I see,’ the sorceress said, getting to her feet. ‘I suppose I should think o’ it as a compliment. Are they merely trying to bargain for more concessions or are they adamant?’

  Iain shrugged. ‘Who can tell? They are enigmatic creatures. And very dangerous. Mesmerdean never forgive and never forget. I have known o’ vendettas that have been carried on for centuries.’

  ‘I see,’ Meghan said again. ‘Well, let me think on it. I think I have a solution but it is one that needs careful thought.’ She began to pace the clearing, her forehead furrowed, her mouth grim. The little donbeag nestled under her ear, chittering in agitation. Meghan stroked him in reassurance, though her expression only became bleaker.

  The others watched her unhappily, Iseult frowning. ‘What does she mean to do?’ she asked Gwilym uneasily.

  He shrugged. ‘I can think o’ no solution,’ he said harshly. ‘The Mesmerdean are vengeful creatures and care little for things that may sway men, like land or gold or beautiful women. I canna think what she means to offer them.’

  Meghan beckoned to Iain and he went over to her, his face troubled. Iseult watched him shake his head, watched Meghan speak low and compellingly, saw the prionnsa shake his head again. Meghan grasped his doublet in both her hands and spoke to him earnestly. Again Iain shook his head, his face miserable. At last he gave a gesture of resignation and nodded his head. She pointed her finger at him forcefully and he lowered his eyes and nodded again.

  ‘What does she mean to do?’ Iseult asked again, feeling her heart sink in her breast. Gwilym said nothing, though she saw by his face that he feared as she did. Iseult clenched her hands, feeling rather sick. She ran to Meghan’s side, grasping her by the arm. Even through her agitation, Iseult was shocked by how thin the old sorceress’s arm was.

  ‘Auld mother!’ she cried. ‘What is it that ye mean to do? Ye canna mean to …’ Her voice faltered.

  Meghan covered Iseult’s hand with her own, gnarled, liver-spotted and knotted with veins. She nodded.

  ‘Yes, o’ course I do,’ she answered. ‘Can ye think o’ any other way? We have no’ fought so hard for so long to die here in this swamp. I am very auld and I am tired. Ye are young and your lives stretch before ye.’

  Iseult was astonished to find she was weeping. Scarred Warriors never wept. She said fiercely, ‘No!’


  ‘I am four hundred and thirty years auld,’ the sorceress said gently. ‘I should have died long ago. If I had no’ tasted o’ the waters o’ the Pool o’ Two Moons when my father wrought the Lodestar, so many years ago, I would be dead. We all must die some time. I am luckier than most because I can choose the time and manner o’ my dying. They say to die in the Mesmerd’s arms is to die in bliss.’

  ‘No,’ Iseult wept. ‘Ye canna! We can fight them, we can kill them all. If there are no Mesmerdean left, there will be none to carry on this stupid vendetta. We will wipe them off the face o’ the earth!’

  ‘Annihilate a whole race to save one auld witch?’ Meghan’s voice was gently mocking. ‘A witch who should’ve died long ago? Nay, Iseult, this is the best solution. Besides, I do no’ mean to let them have me now. There are still a few things I need to do. Iain says the Mesmerdean are patient. They can wait a while.’

  Iseult shook her head, too choked with tears to speak. Meghan smiled and stroked her wet face with one finger. ‘Glad I am to see ye weeping, dearling. I thought ye must have been born without tear ducts. Come, ye o’ all people must understand. Death is as much a part o’ our existence as birth or life. There is nothing to fear in death.’

  Iseult could only stare at her. Meghan put her hand up and stroked Gitâ’s soft, brown fur. The donbeag was almost strangling her, he had crept so close about her neck, quivering and keening in distress. ‘We all must die,’ Meghan repeated, a touch of impatience in her voice. She glanced at Gwilym and Duncan, who had come up behind Iseult, their faces full of distress.

  ‘Did my beloved Jorge no’ sacrifice his life to save his loved ones? Why should I do any less? If I can save ye, well then, I shall go gladly into the Mesmerd’s embrace.’

  They protested, Duncan reaching out his huge hand to seize her arm. She wrenched her arm free, snapping, ‘There is no need to weep and wring your hands. Why should we all die if one o’ us shall suffice? Iain admits that they have said they will willingly pledge us their support and release ye all from their vendetta if they may have me. Well, let them have me! All I have asked for is time. Time for Iseult and Isabeau to reach their full potential, time for me to teach Lachlan to use the Lodestar, time for me to make sure the Coven is restored to all its strength and wisdom.’