The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘How much time, auld mother?’ Iseult cried.

  ‘Till the red comet has risen and sunk again,’ Meghan said, rather heavily. ‘Four years. Jorge said that was when the Fairgean come, with the rising o’ the red comet. So I shall wait till then, to make sure ye are all safe.’

  Again Duncan protested, pleading with her not to sacrifice herself. The old sorceress sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘There is no need for all these dramatics. We all must die.’ She reached out and took Iseult’s hand between her own, holding the Banrìgh’s gaze with her own, black and snapping with vitality between their wrinkled lids. ‘Death comes to us all,’ she repeated gently. ‘It is like birth, a door into another place, another life. It is nothing to be afraid o’. Ye know that, Iseult.’

  The Banrìgh nodded. ‘Yes, auld mother. I know.’

  Isabeau sat in her chair by the fire, her chin in her hand, her eyes on the flames dancing in the hearth. Bronwen played at her feet, while Maya rather sullenly chopped herbs and mushrooms at the table for their evening meal. It was her turn to cook dinner but the Fairge had never grown resigned to helping Isabeau with the daily chores. The apprentice witch was always having to remind Maya that she was no longer her servant and she had to be careful not to respond instinctively to the Fairge’s haughty orders.

  The firelight wavered over the tangle of tree roots, all crowded with jars and tins, and strung with herbs hung up to dry. Isabeau was very weary after her labours of the day and rather dispirited.

  Staring into the flames, she remembered how she had sat here herself as a little girl, helping Meghan spin the winter away, being told stories about the Three Spinners. Meghan had said they gave three gifts at the birth of a child. The spinner Sniomhar, the goddess of birth, gave joy. The weaver Breabadair, goddess of life, gave toil and its contentment. And she who cuts the thread, Gearradh, the goddess of death, gave sorrow. Isabeau gave a slight, wistful smile and told herself she had to strive now for contentment. She had had joy in her brief, happy childhood; she had had sorrow. Now was the time for her to toil and be content.

  Isabeau was roused from her abstraction by the lilting sound of music. She smiled and glanced lovingly down at Bronwen’s dark head, constantly amazed at how beautifully the little girl played her flute. Her eyes widened as she saw the child’s ragdoll dancing about on the floor as if it had come alive. It waltzed and curtsied in perfect time to Bronwen’s playing, spreading its little skirt and bowing its raggedy head as the tune came to an end.

  At the sound of her mother’s in-drawn breath Bronwen glanced up, and the ragdoll collapsed into a heap on the floor. Isabeau looked up too and was shocked at the expression on the Fairge’s face. It was not amazement or even pride at her daughter’s cleverness but rather calculation, almost greed. Isabeau frowned, troubled, as Maya became aware of Isabeau’s scrutiny and smoothed her expression.

  ‘Who’s a canny lass then,’ she said brightly, ‘making your dolly dance to your tune.’

  Bronwen smiled and said, ‘I can make them all dance, Mam, watch!’

  She lifted her flute to her lips again and played another infectious tune and all the toys scattered around the floor began to waltz around. The spinning top whirled faster and faster, the dragon rocked back and forth, the wheeled horse ran round in circles and the two bluebird rattles swooped about, touching wings and then beaks. The ragdoll and little wooden puppets Isabeau had made all pranced about, bobbing up and down and touching hands in a perfect imitation of a waltz. Even the two little drumsticks danced up and down upon the drum, marking the tempo in perfect time.

  Isabeau watched enthralled and clapped her hands as the tune reached its end and all the toys bowed to each other and then sat down with a plop. Even as they both exclaimed over Bronwen’s cleverness, Isabeau was wondering rather uneasily what she was to do with a child who showed such early promise of an extraordinary Talent. She was conscious of a glint in Maya’s eye and reminded herself yet again that the Fairge could not be trusted. Despite all her warm endearments and caressing ways, Isabeau was not convinced that Maya loved Bronwen as deeply and sincerely as she did herself.

  Early the next morning the three of them went to the underground loch so that Maya and Bronwen could swim and transform. Although it was a beautiful spring day and Isabeau would much rather have been out in the sunshine, she refused Maya’s offer to take Bronwen by herself, replying curtly that she did not want them getting lost underground.

  ‘Och, I think I know the way by now,’ Maya replied silkily, which only made Isabeau more determined to stay close to her side.

  The two Fairgean left their clothes on the rocks and dived into the water, changing almost immediately into their seashapes. As always Isabeau was fascinated by this process, so different to all the other magic she had ever studied. She watched closely and rather jealously as they sported together in the icy-cold loch, splashing each other with their tails. Then Maya dived beneath the surface and Bronwen immediately followed, her little tail flipping out cheekily before disappearing from sight.

  Isabeau waited for them to emerge, feeling anxiety tightening her chest muscles as the loch stayed calm and empty. Water dripped, occasionally stirring the mirror-image of the stone waterfall. She began to pace and then to call their names, not knowing whether to fear for their lives or be furious at Maya for attempting to escape. Anger won over anxiety, for she knew Fairgean rarely drowned. She began to search the shores of the loch, stumbling over the slippery rocks. To her consternation she found the little bundle of clothes had disappeared. She hesitated only a moment, then stripped off her own clothes and dived into the water.

  It was bitterly cold but strangely buoyant so that Isabeau had to work hard to swim into its depths. Even with her uncanny eyesight she found it hard to see under the water, it was so dark. She cast out her witch senses, searching, but the water distorted everything so that she could not be sure which way they had gone. She felt the faint flow of a current against her skin, however, and followed it. Strange white shapes loomed up at her and every now and again she scraped her skin against rock. She found the current quickening and swam faster, her chest beginning to hurt with the strain of holding her breath. She sensed the rock overhead lifting and swam to the surface, finding just enough room to put her mouth above water and breathe. The air was dank and stale and cold but it tasted like wine to her air-starved lungs. She took another deep breath and dived again.

  This time she emerged in another cavern, with the river running through its centre. She conjured witch’s light and looked about her. There was no sign of either Maya or Bronwen but she trusted her intuition and swam on.

  The river ran on through low caverns and lofty halls, sometimes so shallow Isabeau scraped her elbows and knees. At last it emerged in a dimly lit cave and Isabeau was elated to see two pairs of webbed footprints in the mud, leading towards the light. She followed hastily, anxiety now completely swallowed by anger. Then she heard Bronwen’s high voice saying, ‘But Mam, why? Where Is’beau? Why canna she come too?’

  Isabeau came up behind them so silently that when she said, ‘But Bronny, o’ course I came too! What an adventure, exploring down the river!’ Maya started and screamed involuntarily.

  Isabeau smiled at her and took Bronwen’s hand, saying, ‘We canna go far though, else we may get lost and we willna be able to find our way back again. That would no’ be such an adventure, would it?’

  ‘But Mam said ye couldna come,’ Bronwen objected.

  ‘Happen she thought I could no’ swim so far, no’ being a quarter Fairgean like ye,’ Isabeau replied, ‘but I was taught to swim by otters and they are wonderful swimmers indeed.’

  They were standing in the mouth of the cave, looking out across the valley below. The underground river poured down the steep slope of the cliff and joined what Isabeau recognised as the Rhyllster below. She looked back at Maya and saw the Fairge’s nostrils flare and her mouth compress until it was a mere thin line. Her fingers twitched and
Isabeau said conversationally, ‘Are ye planning on turning me into an otter? Or maybe a toad? Now would be a good time to do it, for I warn ye, I will no’ let ye take Bronwen and use her against Lachlan and my sister. That is no’ why I took her from Lucescere.’

  The Fairge’s fingers gripped into fists then she laughed, rather artificially. ‘Nay, ye ken I do no’ want to ensorcel ye unless I have to. I meant it when I said I thought o’ ye as a friend. Indeed, ye are the only one to ever offer me the hand o’ friendship and I’d be loath to reply in such a way. Ye make me very angry though. Why did ye follow us? Ye must know I canna stand being shut up in that blaygird wee valley any more. I always feel like all those animals are staring at me and condemning me …’

  ‘They probably are,’ Isabeau replied swiftly and then wished she had held her tongue, for the Fairge’s mouth thinned again and her mobile nostrils flared out like little white wings. ‘Ye said all ye wanted was to stay somewhere where ye and Bronwen can be safe,’ she went on before Maya gave in to the temptation to turn her into something small and slimy, as she so clearly wished to do. ‘I gave ye that sanctuary. Why do ye wish to leave it? Ye ken ye and Bronwen will both be in grave danger if ye return to Rionnagan.’

  The Fairge said nothing, though the little girl said rather fretfully, ‘Wha’ do ye mean? Why are ye fraitchin’?’

  Isabeau smiled at her and stroked the wet hair away from her cheek without replying. Maya scowled and said, ‘Bronwen is the rightful banrìgh! Jaspar named her heir.’

  ‘Only because he did no’ believe Lachlan was truly his brother,’ Isabeau replied swiftly. ‘And ye ken the Lodestar chose Lachlan. It knew Eileanan needed a strong rìgh and warrior. The land is already in chaos, Maya. The people do no’ need more doubt and confusion in their hearts and ye ken Bronwen is too young to rule.’

  ‘She is the rightful heir,’ Maya said obstinately.

  ‘Admit that ye wish to be banrìgh again and have everyone adoring ye and obeying your every command,’ Isabeau said tartly. ‘If ye canna be banrìgh, regent is close enough, is that no’ so? Well, I will no’ let ye sacrifice my sister or the Coven or the people to your selfish ambitions. Ye canna take Bronwen away.’

  ‘I dinna want to go ’way,’ Bronwen said, suddenly beginning to cry. ‘Wanna stay wi’ Is’beau. Wanna stay.’

  ‘It’s all right, my lassie, ye do no’ have to go anywhere ye do no’ wish to go,’ Isabeau said, drawing her close and looking Maya defiantly in the eye. She could only hope that Maya would not want to upset her daughter and change Isabeau into a toad before her very eyes. Seeing the Fairge gather in her will, she tensed, ready to throw up her defences or to try and dive behind the rocks, futile though both actions would probably be. Bronwen was clinging close, though, and Maya hesitated then relaxed, unable to risk losing her daughter’s tenuous affection.

  After a moment she said softly, ‘Will ye give me my daughter and let us leave if I remove the curse from Lachlan?’

  Isabeau stiffened all over. ‘Ye cursed Lachlan? That is why he sleeps so? How?’

  Maya said, ‘Will ye give me Bronwen and no’ follow us or try to stop me? Will ye let us go and no’ follow?’

  Isabeau shook her head, resisting the urge to let her will be submerged beneath Maya’s. ‘No! No, I canna! Meghan would never forgive me.’

  ‘Ye mean she’d rather have Lachlan lying more dead than alive?’ Maya said silkily. ‘What about your sister? He’s no’ much good to her like that.’

  Isabeau’s emotions were in a tumult. She clung to the little girl, saying, ‘Nay! Ye canna take Bronny away from me!’

  ‘She’s no’ your daughter!’ Maya snapped. ‘She’s mine! Ye wonder why I do no’ want to stay with ye when ye act like ye’re her mother and I’m some kind o’ interloper. How can she come to love me with ye always snatching her away from me?’

  ‘Ye do no’ want her because she’s your daughter and ye love her, ye just want her so ye can get the Throne back!’

  ‘She’s my daughter! If ye do no’ let her go, I shall turn ye into a toad, I swear it!’

  ‘I do no’ believe ye really cursed Lachlan!’ Isabeau cried, adroitly distracting the Fairge’s attention. ‘Ye are just saying that to make me agree to let Bronny go.’

  Maya rummaged through the bundle of clothes she had dropped on the ground and unwrapped the wooden chest Isabeau had found beside her on the mountain. Isabeau was filled with consternation. Although small enough to carry, it was still heavy and unwieldy. She wondered how Maya had managed to conceal it from her as they had walked through the valley that morning, and then she realised Maya must have hidden it near the underground loch previously. This then was no impromptu decision—Maya had been planning this escape for some time.

  Maya unlocked the chest and drew out a little black bag made from a square of cloth tied up with black cord. Isabeau stared at it, conscious of its throbbing, malignant power. Using only the tips of her fingers, an expression of distaste on her face, Maya held it out for Isabeau to see. ‘A cursehag cast the curse for me,’ she whispered. ‘It is bound by my own blood. None can break the curse but me.’

  Although there was nothing to see but a black bag, Isabeau believed her. She said in a low voice, ‘But where would ye go? How would ye survive?’

  Maya said, ‘All rivers run to the sea. That is one thing I was taught as a child. All rivers run to the sea, and so shall we.’

  ‘But the Rhyllster is fresh water,’ Isabeau objected. ‘Ye need salt.’

  Maya nodded. ‘I know. We shall have to swim fast. Besides, I brought some salt for emergencies.’ She lifted a small sack out of the chest and Isabeau recognised it with chagrin. She had carefully gathered that salt from the hot mineral pools in the Cursed Valley and stored it for Bronwen. It angered her to see it.

  ‘What shall ye eat?’ she said tightly. ‘Did ye steal provisions too?’

  Maya looked at her, oddly anxious, and nodded. ‘Aye. I hope ye do no’ mind.’

  The incongruity of the statement jarred with Isabeau. She frowned, soothing the anxious, questioning child absent-mindedly and thinking over what Maya had said.

  ‘But where will ye go?’ she asked again. ‘Do ye return to the Fairgean?’

  Maya shook her head emphatically. ‘How can I return there? They will feed me to the sea serpents. Nay, I will try and find somewhere safe at first. Maybe one o’ the islands. I do no’ know what I will do then.’

  ‘But ye are safe here,’ Isabeau objected.

  ‘Ye do no’ understand,’ Maya said. ‘Swimming in that loch is like being buried underground with dead things. I want to swim in the open sea where everything is free and alive. I want Bronwen to know what it is to swim in the sea. She is three years auld and has never seen the sea!’ The tone of Maya’s voice expressed clearly how strange and horrible that was to the Fairge.

  ‘But it will be so dangerous—how can ye take Bronwen into such danger?’ Isabeau drew the little girl closer, her hands shaking. For the last three years she had looked after the banprionnsa as if she were her own child, and the idea that she might be about to lose her opened up the future as a gaping emptiness. Isabeau searched desperately for ways to keep Bronwen with her but the black bag was a palpable presence between them, hot and sinister.

  Isabeau had seen her sister’s distress as the months passed by and Lachlan still did not recover, and she knew how difficult it was for Iseult to try and rule while her husband lay under such an odd affliction. Isabeau knew she had to give Bronwen up if that would lift the curse, but the decision had rushed too suddenly upon her, it was too great for her to make easily.

  ‘I will have a care for her, I promise,’ Maya said gently.

  ‘Only because ye want to regain power through her,’ Isabeau said bitterly, pressing her cheek against Bronwen’s.

  ‘No’ only,’ Maya said rather haughtily. ‘She is my daughter.’

  Bronwen had been following the conversation intently and now she flung herself
on Isabeau, sobbing, ‘No, no, stay wi’ Is’beau, stay wi’ Is’beau!’

  Reluctantly, tears so thick in her throat she could hardly speak, Isabeau held Bronwen away from her. ‘Ye must go with your mam, dearling. I wish I could go with ye but I canna, I must stay here with my mam and my dai-dein. Ye must be good, and mind your mam and remember what I’ve taught ye, and hopefully the Spinners will bring our threads together again very soon.’

  ‘No!’ the little girl wailed. ‘I dinna want to go! Stay wi’ ye!’

  Isabeau crouched down beside her and said, ‘Remember, my Bronny, that I love ye very, very much and that ye can always come back to me if ye need me. But now ye must go with your mam. She loves ye too and it is time for ye to be with her. Do ye understand? Remember what I have told ye—everything in its rightful time and place.’

  The little girl nodded tearfully, though her grip on Isabeau did not lessen. Through her tears Isabeau looked up at Maya, saying, ‘Ye must remove the curse now! And ye must burn it all so ye canna cast such a hex again. Do ye promise?’

  Maya nodded. ‘I do no’ know how to do it, though,’ she said. ‘Shannagh o’ the Swamp cast the actual curse, using my blood. I do no’ know how to break it. I am no’ a witch.’

  Although Isabeau bristled up at the Fairge’s contemptuous tone, she did not protest, toying with the wet straggles of Bronwen’s hair and murmuring, ‘If we only had The Book o’ Shadows! That would tell us how to break the curse.’ She looked back up at Maya and said, ‘Ye must return with me to the valley. I canna break the curse here. I need to read Meghan’s books and find out the right time and method. I need to know the best phase o’ the moon, and to make some candles scented with angelica and St John’s Wort, with clover perhaps, or rosemary. And Meghan has some dragon’s blood, powerful indeed for spell-making …’