Dragonclaw

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Well, let me take a look.’ Meghan pulled her pack towards her, and unknotted the leather straps so she could reach her pouches of herbs.

  ‘Does she have to watch?’ Bacaiche said in a long-suffering tone.

  ‘Happen, Iseult, ye would no’ mind fetching me water? We will spend the heat o’ the day here, and start moving again once it’s dark.’

  Iseult complied willingly, glad to get out of the stuffy cave and away from Bacaiche’s sneer. By the time she returned, the water bags filled to bursting, Meghan had lit a fire and coaxed the smoke to disappear up a tiny vent in the cave’s roof. Bacaiche was sitting up against the wall, bare chested, though his black cloak was still draped over his shoulders, and was wincing and swearing as Meghan probed at the arrow wound with sensitive fingers.

  ‘Something major is afoot, Meghan, I swear it,’ he was saying. ‘All my reports show the Fairgean are rising, and there is nobody to stop them. The sea witches are all wiped out, and apparently their caves are now housing the Fairgean. Is that no’ a horrible irony? And at the height o’ the comet something happened, some spell …’

  ‘Aye, I felt it too.’

  ‘So did the Lodestar.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Jaspar must feel it too. It must be tormenting him, the loss o’ it.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Iseult noted the melancholy note in Meghan’s voice and shifted slightly so she could see the wood witch’s face. Meghan was staring into the fire, her wrinkled lids lowered over her eyes, her hands clenched. Gitâ crept back into her lap, and the sorceress stroked his velvety fur.

  ‘Ye do hear it too, Meghan?’

  Meghan nodded her head, not looking up. Staring from one face to another, Iseult saw a strong resemblance between them, despite the great disparity in age. Both were very dark, with a jutting nose and sharp cheekbones. Both had a white blaze in their hair just above the left brow, and a stern, stubborn mouth. The only difference was in the colour of their eyes. Meghan’s were a brilliant black, Bacaiche’s an odd yellow colour.

  ‘I must free it,’ Bacaiche said restlessly. ‘It calls to me all the time, and it’s fading, it’s getting weaker. It has a pitiful sound, do ye no’ agree? It says the time is coming.’

  ‘Aye,’ Meghan said and sighed. ‘My path is showing clearer afore me all the time. I almost see the way clear … almost.’ Her voice drifted away.

  ‘I canna see that!’ Bacaiche said bitterly. ‘I sent a ship to Carraig to find out what news there is and the ship just disappeared. I sent another ship round to Tìrsoilleir and it disappeared too, even though it had on board one o’ the few remaining Yedda that I’ve been able to find. The seas must be full o’ Fairgean, all round the island. Even the pirates are too afraid to send out their ships, and indeed, what point is there, when the merchant ships are no’ running? There’s naught for the pirates to rob.’

  ‘But what about trade?’ Meghan asked.

  Bacaiche shrugged his hunched shoulders. ‘I also went to the Tower of Ravens, as ye instructed, but it stands empty, almost ruined. I did see ravens, though, and one followed me for many miles. It did no’ make me feel easy.’

  ‘So when did the witch-sniffer pick up your trail?’

  ‘At the Tower of Two Moons,’ Bacaiche said shamefacedly.

  ‘Fool,’ Meghan said coldly. ‘Why did ye return to the Tower o’ Two Moons? Ye must ken it would be watched.’

  ‘The Lodestar was calling me,’ Bacaiche said pleadingly. ‘I came from Ravenshaw through the Whitelock Mountains and it was too close … I could no’ resist it.’

  ‘I told ye to be patient.’ Meghan’s voice was cold and hard. ‘If ye are to win the Lodestar, ye must play the waiting game. How dare ye go to the Tower! She must realise we feel the Lodestar as much as Jaspar does. Ye led the Red Guards straight to me!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bacaiche said, and Iseult could tell apology was difficult for him. ‘It troubled my senses …’

  ‘Destroyed your sense, more like,’ Meghan said, bandaging his shoulder tightly. ‘Bacaiche, ye will stay with me now. Too long I have let ye gallivant around, playing your rebel games and tickling the nose o’ the Banrìgh. But there’s too much at stake here. I do no’ want ye out o’ my sight until the Lodestar is safely in our hands. Do ye understand?’

  Bacaiche nodded sulkily.

  Because Bacaiche could not walk very well, crippled as he was, it took them another four nights to reach the Pass. He limped forward with an odd hop to his gait, leaning on a rough club he had made from a branch, and frowning angrily at Iseult whenever he caught her contemptuous gaze on him. Iseult was happy to leave his nursing to Meghan, though there was little else to do. Normally Iseult would have gone hunting, but Meghan had forbidden it, much to Iseult’s disgust. Instead Meghan asked her to spend some time foraging in the forest for roots and herbs to add to their scanty supplies, but Iseult was not familiar with the plants that grew this low down and, despite Meghan’s lectures, still considered gathering the work of the very old or very young.

  After the first day, when half the plants Iseult brought back were either poisonous, inedible or unripe, Meghan sent Gitâ with her. Although Iseult could not speak the donbeag’s language, the little creature could at least prevent her from pulling up more of the noxious plants, and direct her to hazel-nut bushes or wild carrots. When they returned, Iseult was scowling and Gitâ was chittering exasperatedly, Iseult having apparently spent more time paddling in the stream than looking for food. Meghan had a few stern words with her and, as always, Iseult bowed her head and said nothing, her face carefully expressionless.

  Gitâ chittered again, and ran up Meghan’s long plait so he could pat her earlobe. Meghan smiled and said, more gently, ‘Gitâ says ye played in the water like a baby otter—all squeals and laughter.’

  Iseult kept her eyes lowered, as was proper when speaking to an Auld Mother. ‘I have never immersed my body in water before,’ she said. ‘In my land all is white and cold; any streams which are no’ frozen run too fast and are too cold for immersion. The loch at the Towers o’ Roses and Thorns unfreezes in summer, but the thorns grow too thickly around it and, besides, I am always busy with my studies or looking after the sleeping sorceress.’

  ‘I see,’ Meghan said gently. ‘So ye do no’ ken how to swim?’

  ‘I am no’ sure what that word means,’ Iseult answered politely.

  Meghan sighed. ‘I wish Isabeau was here. She swims like an otter herself, and I am sure she would teach ye.’

  ‘I have no need o’ … swims,’ Iseult answered gruffly.

  She saw the wood witch looking at her in a puzzled way, as she often did, and thought the witch must find her as strange as she found the witch. She suspected the wood witch did not like her, perhaps because she knew how to hunt and kill; Bacaiche also disliked her for his own peculiar reasons, and Iseult was not used to being disliked. She had been a loved and cherished member of the pride, surrounded always by affection, and given great respect because she was the great-granddaughter of the Firemaker and so would one day rule in her place. Bacaiche was the rudest person she had ever met, either ignoring her or treating her with contempt. So Iseult ignored him too, although she found herself stealing glances at him as he limped along, slashing at the heads of thistles with his stick.

  At first she had been on guard around him, because she sensed he was dangerous and unpredictable, and Iseult had decided her role was to protect Meghan, who was very old and frail and had such a strange reluctance to hurt or kill. Soon, however, she decided Bacaiche was more afraid of Meghan than of anything else, and was unlikely to harm her. His antipathy to herself she ignored, knowing he could not hurt her, particularly in his injured state.

  Bacaiche was indeed a puzzle. He spoke with great arrogance, yet in moments of repose there was a look of such brooding unhappiness on his face that Iseult felt an unaccustomed sense of pity. She had realised the day she met him that he was a hunchback, his head set on a short n
eck below a great hump on his shoulders. As he was deformed, Iseult would normally have dismissed him as unimportant or even a bothersome liability. In her country all deformed or crippled babies were left out for the White Gods, and those injured in accident or warfare spent the rest of their lives limping around the Haven and trying not to get in the way. Life on the Spine of the World was not an easy one, and death always only a whisper away. Pity was not an emotion Iseult had ever been taught to revere. It was a sign of weakness. So she was astonished at the strange tenderness Bacaiche sometimes awoke in her, especially since his attitude to her had not improved on discovering she was not the meddlesome Is’a’beau. Occasionally he threw a sardonic comment or exasperated look in her direction, but otherwise they both worked hard at ignoring each other.

  Every morning, after they found a cave or thicket in which to camp, Meghan sat by the newly kindled fire and stared into her sorceress ring, which she took out from the hidden pocket in the seam of her dress. Each time she came out of her trance her face was grim, her eyes hooded. Iseult guessed she was trying to find traces of Isabeau, though sometimes it was clear from later conversations that she had contacted other witches in other parts of the island.

  Every morning, Bacaiche would announce that he too must try and make contact with his friends. One grey, pink-streaked dawn he even got out a bright, metal bowl and poured water into it, saying defiantly, ‘Dide will be frantic. I must tell him I am safe …’

  Meghan took the bowl from him and poured the water into the big kettle that held their soup. ‘Ye were always clumsy and loud when scrying, Bacaiche, why do ye keep thinking ye may have improved? It’s far too dangerous to be calling such attention to ourselves just now. And what if a seeker happened to be focusing in on your staff and knife? They would easily overhear ye, and then where would we be? The Underground can manage without ye a few more days.’

  That night, when Meghan ladled out their evening meal, the soup was even more watery and tasteless than ever. Since they had been travelling in such haste, the soup that was their staple diet consisted largely of water, salt and herbs, which Iseult found extremely dissatisfying. She had even begun to look about her as she walked for plants that might add some substance to their meal, so hungry had she become. Little grew on the moors, however, and so Iseult vented her frustration by flashing angry glances at Bacaiche as she ate, which the hunchback returned in full.

  After dinner, Meghan again took out her ring and Iseult knew how very anxious she must feel, to be risking so many attempts at scrying. While Meghan sat brooding over her ring, the silence between the other two companions grew thick and heavy. They fidgeted and sulked, neither willing to be the first to speak but both finding the silence difficult. Both were used to being comfortable with silence and this tension was alien to them, and awkward.

  After Iseult caught Bacaiche’s yellow eyes three times in quick succession, she began to stare steadily at the wood witch instead, wondering what she was thinking. The great stone glimmered in the firelight, seeming more black than green. Every now and then the witch turned the stone, so that a different facet would catch the light. Watching the stone, Iseult felt her body grow lighter, as if she was lifting and spreading outwards. She almost drew her perceptions back, but the gleam of the ring was somehow mesmerising. Gradually her awareness of the sounds and darkness around them increased, until she could hear every rustle and creak of the night as a separate disturbance.

  Then she saw thoughts, as much a thread of coloured beads as a stream of words ….The countryside is boiling with soldiers … there is a sense o’ unease … strangers are stopped and questioned, sometimes detained for no reason … no-one thought an auld, blind beggar worth more than a few kicks and jeers … I have had dreams o’ broken mirrors … in the taverns all the talk is o’ the Fairgean rising, they say the sea witches are all dead … the whole o’ Carraig is like an abandoned house with only ghosts walking … they say no good will come o’ the dragon killings, they are afraid the dragons will fly and flame again, like in the auld days, the grand auld days, whose houses would be burnt and ruined, no’ the Rìgh’s, oh no, so far away in his blue castle, his pretty young wife who never grows aulder, no’ these gaudy soldier boys, trampling the new crops and seducing our sons and daughters, canna even find a quiet spot for a wee dram …

  Any uile-bheistean?

  As soon as she heard Meghan’s mind-voice, Iseult recognised it and realised that the wood witch was talking to someone through the ring. At once she understood many of the things Meghan and Bacaiche had said earlier, about scrying through fire or water, precious stone or talisman. Inadvertently she had been eavesdropping, but Iseult was anxious to learn what she could of these strange people and what lay ahead of her, so she continued to listen in on the mind-conversation of the two witches. They did not speak, as such, but rather conveyed what they meant by a series of emotions and impressions, stray words and images that followed each other in such quick succession, that Iseult had trouble understanding.

  The other witch had continued: No magical creatures at all, strange when ye think these mountains should be thick with them, all kinds and shapes, why even on my way I saw several nisses, as cheeky and crafty as ever, a tree-changer, and a cluricaun turning tricks in an inn for stray pennies. He had heard o’ the Rìgh’s latest Faery Decree, but could no’ believe it would hurt him, who had lived among humans for so long, I went back there o’ course but he was dead, killed by the soldiers, hung upside down from the village pole by his toes, and the villagers would no’ speak to anyone, no’ even a blind man begging for alms, the winter has been hard, ye ken, and the Rìgh has posted bounties, a large, one for ye, my dear, though ye are no’ the largest, the reward for the Cripple is truly spectacular, enough for a dowry for three daughters, or a small but comfortable house.

  Tell them ye have heard stories o’ a winged man, say he will come bearing the Inheritance o’ Aedan and that radiance shall again flood the land. Say times o’ blood and war are here, but the winged Rìgh shall come with dragons at his shoulder and the Lodestar in his fist.

  Ye seek to start a prophecy …

  Did ye no’ see this, my friend? It may be only half o’ the vision but let us beg the Spinners it is the true half.

  If the tale spreads too far too fast it is me the Red Guards will be hunting.

  The tale must spread far and fast, my friend. If the path becomes too hot for ye, slip deeper into the mountains, search out uile-bheistean for me, and witches too, anyone that can advance our force, for do no’ forget how we almost lost the Second Fairgean War, we must have the uile-bheistean on our side, if they join forces and rise it is between the pincers o’ a crab we will be, find for me if ye can someone who understands the omens o’ the sky, why the Child with the Urn washes the sky while the Fire-Eater is still swallowing, what all these omens mean.

  I will try …

  Clearly as if it was before her, Iseult saw a regretful image of a small but comfortable room in a cave. She heard Meghan laugh and say, Soon ye will be home, auld friend, and then there was silence. The ring turned in the witch’s hand and flashed green fire into Iseult’s eyes, dazzling her, hurting her, she felt herself tumbling back towards the ground at frightening speed, and the witch’s mind-voice thundered in her head, Did I give ye the right to spy on me?

  Colour rushed to Iseult’s cheeks and she cursed her pale skin for showing her emotions so clearly, as she had cursed it nearly every day of her life. She straightened her pose, however, and looked Meghan back in the eye. ‘It was an accident,’ she retorted.

  ‘Have ye never sent out your mind before?’

  ‘Never like that. In the past I have sometimes … been aware o’ where the prey is hiding, and sometimes thought I’ve kent what people were feeling …’

  ‘Well, that is all right then. Ken this, though, your intrusion was clumsy and loud, so loud that if we were no’ all shielded, ye could have drawn the attention o’ those who seek us. Also
ken I could have stopped ye at any time.’

  Iseult felt dizzy and frayed around the edges. The unnatural clarity of her senses had faded, and her heart was pounding. She had only ever felt a similar sensation when skimming; especially on the hunt, when blood-lust and the speed and danger of the chase took her soaring out of her body in just such a way.

  Meghan had turned to Bacaiche and was now berating him. ‘And what about ye? Why were ye no’ listening? This is your land that is being torn apart, why are ye sitting there scowling and fidgeting and thinking lustful thoughts, when ye should be learning what ye can? Ye are the heir!’

  ‘What about ye, Meghan? Is it no’ your inheritance as much as it is mine?’

  ‘Indeed, it is, and like ye, it is as much my curse as my inheritance. But I am auld now, aulder than ye can imagine, and the blood runs slow in my veins. We need a rìgh, no’ an auld woman. We need a rìgh or banrìgh who will unite the land as Aedan once did. Ye are the only one … and ye are young, and if we can keep ye alive long enough, able to breed up heirs.’

  ‘And what if I do no’ want to?’

  ‘It’s no’ a matter o’ want, Bacaiche. The Fairgean are on the rise, the Lodestar is buried, all witches killed or scattered, our land is facing its most difficult time ever. If Jaspar dies without issue—and all my spies tell me he is wasting away—then there is no clear heir to the throne. Ye must remember that!’

  ‘And what if we canna find the Lodestar! Your ward has disappeared with the third part o’ the Key, has she no’? Without her the Inheritance o’ Aedan is lost.’

  ‘We will find Isabeau and we will find the Key,’ Meghan said firmly, and neither of them dared argue with her.

  They travelled swiftly the next few days, pausing for no more than a few hours at a time to eat or sleep. They were on the open moors now, with little to conceal them, but Meghan preferred to take the risk of being sighted than to waste precious days’ travelling time. Luckily a storm had blown in, and the rain fell so heavily that the soldiers would have had to have been very close to have seen them.