by Kate Forsyth
‘If we’re lucky we may cause a rebellion as well,’ Meghan said, and she was laughing. ‘Well done, Iseult, that plan worked like a dream!’
Resting a few miles on, sheltered behind a great clump of greygorse, Meghan and Bacaiche argued long and hard about what to do with the uniforms. The horses had been let go on the other side of the Pass, as Meghan had promised the stallion of the herd. They would make their way back that night, under the cover of darkness. The saddles and bridles were thrown into the ravine, disappearing under the foaming waters of the Rhyllster. Bacaiche thought they should stay in disguise, arguing that the local peasants would be in much greater awe of them, and so more likely to replenish their supplies and not give them trouble. Meghan disagreed. She thought it would not take long before the Grand-Seeker heard of their trick, and so would know Meghan and Bacaiche were within reach of her. Both were considered such great enemies of the Banrìgh that she would be itching to bring them in. There was also the danger of running into another legion of Red Guards, and their seanalair may not be as easily tricked as MacGrannd. She thought they should try and keep quiet as possible, staying under cover and slowly heading towards Tulachna Celeste.
While they argued Iseult said nothing, just polished her weapons and strapped them lovingly to her belt again. Meghan turned to her. ‘What do ye think, Iseult?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Never use the same trick twice.’
Meghan stared at her wonderingly, then nodded. ‘True,’ she said. ‘What do ye suggest?’
‘Dispose o’ the uniforms. If we are caught with them, it will be proof o’ wrong-doing. I can always find more if we need them. Travel at night. If we need supplies and canna find our own, only one o’ us should go into a village at a time, for they will be looking for a group o’ three now. Stay on high ground, and keep an escape route in mind. Without knowing the lay o’ the land, I canna suggest any more.’
‘What are ye, some kind o’ Berhtilde?’ Bacaiche sneered. Iseult did not understand what he meant, but stared back at him expressionlessly till he looked away.
‘She certainly seems to ken warfare,’ Meghan said, and her voice was both admiring and concerned.
‘I am a Scarred Warrior,’ Iseult said proudly.
In comparison to the mountains, the highlands of Rionnagan were easy to traverse, with their wide, empty moors that stretched away under starry skies. Their supplies were down to nothing after the hard journeying through the mountains, and so Meghan decided to find a village where she could trade for oats, flour, curds, fresh vegetables and other essentials. Wanting to avoid the larger villages she followed the high crest of the hill away from the river, so they were heading as much east as south, towards the rising sun.
Soon the air was filled with the fresh scent of the green-grey grasses and the trill of birdsong, and the moors around them were so empty they decided to push on into the daylight. Bacaiche lifted up his voice and sang with the birds, and Iseult listened entranced. On the Spine of the World, birds were rare and those that survived the snow blizzards and the bitter cold had only rough cawing voices, which sounded desolate and cruel. The melodious lilting of Bacaiche’s voice brought a most unaccustomed lump into her throat.
Soon they saw the dark smear of smoke against the dawn and their pace unconsciously quickened. Iseult looked at Meghan and saw the donbeag now rode on her shoulder, clinging to the witch’s long plait with one paw, and patting her cheek with the other. ‘Ye and Bacaiche had better find a holt, my dear, and I’ll go down and see what I can find,’ the witch said, and tension was evident in her voice.
‘I shall go with ye,’ Iseult said. ‘It may be dangerous.’
‘All the more reason for ye to stay.’
‘I am the Scarred Warrior. I shall guard ye.’
‘I would rather ye stayed and guarded Bacaiche.’
‘I do no’ need some slip o’ a lass to guard me!’ Bacaiche retorted angrily.
Iseult looked at Meghan and said, ‘I shall come with ye.’
Meghan hesitated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well, but ye must keep quiet and do exactly what I tell ye.’
‘Aye, auld mother,’ Iseult replied meekly.
Together they walked down the long green slope and towards the village, Iseult keeping several paces behind the sorceress. It did not take them long to realise the plume of black smoke came from the burntout remains of a cottage nestled in a copse of trees some distance away from the village. A crowd of villagers was gathered outside the cottage, looking mournfully at the smoking ruins. A pedlar in a rickety old cart had drawn up at the fringe of the crowd, and the locals were explaining the situation to him vociferously.
‘She did be the best skeelie in these here parts,’ said one thin old woman with grey braids wrapped around her head. ‘Eà damn those red-coated soldiers! Why could they no’ hang some other village’s skeelie?’ When the other villagers shushed her rather nervously, she shook her round grey head and muttered bitterly, ‘Wha’ is the island coming to?’
Taller than most of the crowd, Iseult was able to see over their heads to the dangling body of an old woman who had been hanged from the lintel of her own gate. As small as she was, it took some careful manoeuvring on Meghan’s part before she found a good vantage position. As soon as she saw the dead woman, an expression of sorrow crossed her face, puzzling Iseult yet again.
‘So wha’ brought the Red Guards to this Truth-forsaken corner o’ the world?’ the pedlar asked, and a chorus of voices answered him.
‘They were after a horse thief as stole the Grand-Seeker’s own horse!’
‘Some red-haired lassie …’
‘They did say she be a witch,’ a worn-faced woman said, her hand to her swollen belly.
‘Och, aye, I heard about that!’ the pedlar exclaimed.
‘The Grand-Seeker was frothing at the mouth with rage! Swore she’d track the witch down hersel’!’
‘She had no need to murder our skeelie,’ the woman with the grey braids said.
‘They said Skeelie Manissia helped the witch escape the soldiers,’ one man said with uneasy authority, fingering the chain of office around his neck. ‘That is why they hanged her.’
‘They had no call to hang our skeelie who has bided in these parts for all o’ her life, and her ma and granddam too. Wha’ shall we do without a skeelie? Manissia was one o’ the best, and now we have no-one to serve us.’
The village mayor looked uneasy. ‘The Grand-Seeker said Manissia had employed witchcraft to help the red-haired witch escape. The penalty for witchcraft is death, as ye all ken.’
‘And wha’ if Manissia had a few witch tricks up her sleeve!’ the woman retorted, her cheeks red with fury. ‘She served us and our village faithfully all her life. Why, she even brought ye into the world, Jock MacCharles, for all the good that did her!’
The exchange had been so heated no-one had noticed Meghan and Iseult at the fringe of the crowd. However, at the woman’s scathing words the mayor looked about uneasily, and his gaze fell upon Iseult’s head of short, red-gold curls, just beginning to peek out from beneath her tam o’shanter.
‘There she is!’ he cried. ‘It’s the red-haired witch, returned to the scene o’ her crimes! Catch her!’
Everyone turned and stared, and Iseult dropped automatically into her fighting crouch, her hand flying to her weapons’ belt. Meghan was quicker, however. In a cracked, querulous voice she cried out, ‘Och, no, good sir, that’s my granddaughter. There must be some mistake.’
‘It is the same lass,’ one of the middle-aged women cried. ‘Though she has cut off all her hair.’
‘No, indeed, it canna be the same lassie,’ the pedlar interrupted. ‘For as I drove out this morning I heard the red-haired witch had been caught riding into Caeryla. Can ye believe it? Rides the Grand-Seeker’s own horse into Caeryla, bold as brass. I did hear she was to be put to trial by Lady Glynelda hersel’.’
‘They must have caught the wrong lass!�
� the mayor exclaimed. ‘For this is the lassie that stayed with Manissia. I saw her ride through Quotil myself.’
‘It must be an uncanny likeness,’ Meghan frowned. ‘For Mari has been by my side for the past six weeks and we have never been in Quotil afore.’
The crowd dissolved into argument, the mayor shouting at some of the crofters to grab Iseult, but Meghan standing her ground and swaying the crowd by pure force of character.
‘She’s my granddaughter,’ she said in her cracked voice.
‘She’s her granddaughter,’ someone in the crowd repeated obediently.
‘She is no’ the witch ye seek.’
‘She is no’ the witch we seek.’
‘The witch ye seek has been captured.’
‘The witch we seek has been captured.’ By now the whole crowd, including the mayor with his fat red face, was repeating Meghan’s words with glazed expressions on their faces.
‘Ye shall let us pass now.’
The crowd parted without a murmur and, vastly impressed, Iseult trotted along behind the sorceress’ small figure. Casting a quick glance back at the crowd, she saw the eyes of the pedlar in his rickety cart lingered on them, and she hastened her step, anxious to be out of sight. As soon as they had rounded the curve of the hill, Meghan lost her querulous voice and bent figure, and strode along upright once more.
‘That crowd is used to coercion,’ she mused. ‘I would say Skeelie Manissia, Eà guard her soul, has had that village wrapped around her finger for years. If she had tried that trick on the Grand-Seeker, though, I am no’ surprised she was hanged. Such bonny tricks will no’ deceive a seeker.’
They reached the camp where Bacaiche lay hidden soon before sunset, but Meghan did not give them a chance to eat or sleep. ‘Isabeau has been here,’ she told Bacaiche curtly. ‘A skeelie helped her escape, but was hanged by the Awl for her trouble. That is her cottage burning. The villagers say nothing o’ ye, which makes me think your capture was no’ public knowledge. All they said was a red-haired witch had stolen the Grand-Seeker’s horse. I canna believe Isabeau was so stupid!’
Bacaiche opened his mouth to say something but Meghan rounded on him. ‘Ye should be grateful to Isabeau! If she had no’ rescued ye, it would be on the way to the Banrìgh that you’d be. Now she is captured and in trouble, and she has no’ your experience. She’s rarely been out o’ the valley. I am so angry with ye, Bacaiche; ye ken she had put herself in danger for ye, and ye abandoned her to the Awl!’
‘I dinna want to be saddled with a pesky lass! I dinna ken who she was!’
‘What will they do to her if they catch her? Beat and torture her, rape her, most like, for she’s a bonny lass! Then it’ll be a hanging like that poor auld skeelie back there, or worse, the fire. Fine way to treat the lass who rescued ye!’
Bacaiche said nothing, just looked as stubborn and sullen as Iseult had ever seen him. Meghan was not finished, though. She pinned him with her eyes and said contemptuously, ‘Ye say ye want to win the Lodestar, Bacaiche. When the time comes ye must be ready and able to wield it. The Lodestar requires greatness o’ heart and spirit. Do ye really think ye could wield it now?’
Bacaiche swallowed his words, turned on his heel and marched on.
They were eating as they walked, Meghan too riven with anxiety to let them stop, when Iseult suddenly screamed and fell to the ground. She cried out again, as Meghan hurriedly dropped to her side. ‘What is it? Are you in pain?’
‘My arms, my legs, I feel like I’m being torn apart!’ Iseult cried and rubbed at her shoulders and hips.
‘By the Centaur, what’s wrong with the lass? She’ll bring the soldiers down on us if she screams like that,’ Bacaiche said uneasily.
Meghan pulled a tub of ointment from her pack and began rubbing it vigorously into Iseult’s joints. ‘I do no’ ken. Rheumatism o’ some kind? There does no’ seem to be much inflammation …’
Suddenly Iseult sat bolt upright, moaning with pain, clutching her left hand in her right. ‘Oh, gods!’ she cried. ‘My hand!’ She rocked back and forth in pain, then suddenly fell sideways into a faint.
White-cheeked, Meghan chafed her hands between her fingers, calling her name. ‘It must be Isabeau!’ she cried. ‘Iseult must be linked with her somehow. I canna think what else could be wrong, and indeed I’ve been feeling most unsettled in my mind about her. Quickly, Bacaiche, we must be going. Can ye carry Iseult? Oh, Eà, please, let Isabeau be safe.’
When Iseult finally came to her senses, Bacaiche was staggering along under her weight, swearing viciously. ‘Put me down,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘Och, ye’ve decided to wake up, have ye? About bloody time! I’ve just about broken my back heaving ye along!’
He dropped Iseult to the ground, but her legs gave way beneath her and she hit the earth with a thud. She felt sick and dazed, and her whole body ached, particularly her throbbing hand. She examined it carefully but it looked the same as ever and all her fingers opened and shut as usual.
Meghan came and helped her to her feet, shooting her great-nephew a furious glance. ‘How do ye feel?’ she asked. ‘Can ye walk?’
‘Aye,’ Iseult said, though she was not at all sure that she could. Tears welled to her eyes, and she lowered her head so none would see. After a few deep breaths they subsided, and with an effort of will, Iseult climbed to her feet.
‘Here, drink some o’ this. It’ll make ye feel much better,’ the old witch said, and gave Iseult some of her healing mithuan, which Iseult gulped down gladly.
‘Let me lean on something,’ she said faintly, and Meghan passed over her tall staff, carved intricately with the shapes of vines and flowers. Soon the dizziness subsided and Iseult was able to walk more easily, though occasionally she looked down at her hand and flexed her fingers as if surprised to find them still there.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Iseult stumbled and fell again, a wave of blackness crashing over her. When she at last regained consciousness, she was unable to stop the tears that flowed down her cheeks. ‘What’s wrong? What is happening to me?’
‘I think you are experiencing whatever has happened to Isabeau,’ Meghan said, stroking the damp red-gold curls off her forehead. ‘Come, lie still for a moment. Tell me, have ye ever before experienced pain or dizziness that had no cause that ye could see?’
‘A few years ago, I felt sharp pain in my ankle that kept me limping around for a day or two, although I had no’ injured myself in any way.’ Iseult lay still, enjoying the comfort of the old witch’s hand on her brow.
‘Isabeau broke her ankle a few years ago, jumping off a branch trying to fly,’ Meghan said thoughtfully. She frowned, and searched the swiftly encroaching darkness as if willing it to reveal to her what was happening to Iseult’s twin. ‘Isabeau is in dreadful trouble,’ she murmured. ‘I can feel it. Iseult, I’m sorry, but we must go on. Can ye manage?’
‘I am a Scarred Warrior,’ Iseult replied coldly. ‘O’ course I can go on.’
Although they had rested little in the past few days, the old witch set a pace that both Iseult and Bacaiche had trouble matching. All night they marched on through the darkness, and as Iseult stumbled forward in a daze, she glanced at Meghan’s tiny upright figure and marvelled at the old woman. For days she had thought her just a frail old woman, so gnarled and bent she looked as if a touch must crumble her to dust. She had been affronted by her gruffness, puzzled by her weeping over dead animals, made uneasy by her talk of twins and power and prophecies. As each day passed, though, she had discovered hidden strengths in the old woman. She was surprised to find the ceremonial respect a wise old woman should be accorded give way to a more sincere affection. She was not an Auld Mother like the ones Iseult knew, but more like her own grandmother, mysterious and powerful, commanding by strength of will rather than strength of body. Iseult decided Meghan was another Firemaker, and therefore rare and precious. She needed to be protected and served, and Iseult was the only one capable of doing
so. Such was the duty and privilege of a Scarred Warrior.
Jorge lay back in the rough hay and made plans. He had abandoned his discreet course and had instead headed towards the villages and towns. The thick forests that skirted the Sithiche Mountains had given way to long, falling vistas of green hills, gleaming here and there with thin threads of water. To the west the Whitelock Mountains reared snow-tipped needles of stone against the sky, the two ranges meeting at a tall, perfectly symmetrical mountain called the Fang, the highest mountain on Eileanan. Its point was wreathed in clouds most days, but there were many stories of how the Fang sometimes spat fire and smoke into the heavens.
The road Jorge was following wound between lush orchards and meadows where black-faced sheep and shaggy goats grazed. The fruit trees were all in blossom and, although Jorge could not see their ethereal colours, the air smelt delicious and he breathed deeply of the good air as he walked, giving thanks to Eà for the new season. He took his time, stopping to chat with the shepherd boys in the meadows and the crofters tending their patches of tilled soil, and begging for food at nearly every farmhouse he passed. To everyone he met, he muttered his rumours and prophecies, and was surprised at the reaction he received.
It seemed the story of the Winged Man was well known in these parts, the stories brought by pedlars, jongleurs and boatmen from the south. Tales of his exploits had spread: the Winged Man was the real leader of the infamous underground movement, the Cripple just his lieutenant. His band was composed of both faery and human, including many witches who had escaped the persecutions; the Winged Man was himself a witch, and could perform great acts of magic.
The people of Rionnagan were not like the stodgy crofters of Blèssem or the Berhtildes, the grim maiden warriors of Tìrsoilleir with their mutilations and sacrifices. Magic was bred in their bones and steeped in their blood. Rionnagan was home to the great MacCuinn clan and the ancient headquarters for the Keybearer, and so Rionnagans had never adjusted easily to the destruction of the Towers. Tales of a winged warrior gladdened their hearts, and they had happily fed and housed the old man who came bearing more tales of the hero’s exploits.
