Dragonclaw

by Kate Forsyth

  Jesyah flew down, the wind of his passing stirring Jorge’s hair. He gave an exultant caw that spoke of refuse and rubbish. A village was ahead, with a busy marketplace—heaven for a hungry bird. Jorge sighed and hauled himself to his feet. The raven could not understand Jorge’s aversion to begging or rooting through old scraps. He did not understand that Jorge had never grown accustomed to his abrupt change in status. The great seer and sorcerer was now merely a wandering beggar, his only home a draughty cave.

  The warlock heard the market first, a babble of rough voices, gossiping and shouting out wares. Then he smelt it—manure and sweat and blood and the fresh earthy scent of vegetables and the bright smell of corn. Jesyah hopped along in the mud before him, then flew up to a rooftop as Jorge felt his way forward with his staff. He called out his beggar’s wail, rattling his bowl before him, following the sound of kind voices and avoiding the kick or jeer of the unkind while he scanned the crowd with his witch sense. This village was the last before the steep ridge of the Whiteclock Mountains, almost lost in the beginnings of the forest. There should have been many kinds here, but though he saw signs of halfbreeds, he could tell from their smell that they lived in anxiety in case it should be discovered. There were no faeries here, no uile-bheistean. Here and there, though, he caught quicksilver glimpses of something else, something which made his blood quicken in excitement. There was a great Talent here, he was sure of it, the thrum of power like mercury in his nostrils.

  He thrust his shaggy white head forward, stumbling through the crowd, trying to catch the source of the power. By its quickness and mobility, it could have been a will o’wisp or even a nisse. But the magic did not seem like that of any of the lesser faeries. It was distinctly human, although with traces of faery in the mix.

  Just as he thought he had located the source of the magic, it rushed towards him with a scamper of feet and a boy’s giggle, and two boys cannoned into him, knocking him over.

  A young woman scolded the boys and helped him to his feet, brushing the mud off his tattered clothes and beard. ‘I’m so sorry, the boys do make such mischief.’

  The boys scrambled to their feet, laughing and punching at each other. Jorge moved his head helplessly, trying to understand the thwack he heard. The boy with the magic drew himself up and said wonderingly, ‘Mam, he be blind. The poor auld man is blind. Och, should I no’ …?’

  ‘No, no, come away, lad,’ the woman said hastily, and grabbed him by the arm. She apologised to Jorge again, and dragged the boy away. Jorge heard him say, ‘But Mam—’

  Jorge gave himself over to begging for food scraps and coins, of which he received surprisingly many of the first and none of the latter. Generous but poor, he noted, and sidled round the edges, spreading his rumours and muttering his prophecies.

  One young woman bent and whispered in his ear, ‘Hush, auld man, there be soldiers in the village, looking for uile-bheistean. They will think ye a witch.’

  Jorge heeded the warning, for he was keen to seek out the boy again, and if the Red Guards caused trouble, he would have no chance. Once the market was packing up and the air growing chill, Jorge tottered forward, asking the raven if he had noted where the lad had gone, as asked. Unnoticed by the crowd, Jesyah had followed the child and his mother back to a house outside the village, and he took Jorge there now, slipping silently through the grey fields.

  Jorge cast out his mind and caught the panicked thoughts of the mother as she scolded the boy. Ye must no’ talk about such things where anyone can hear ye, ye must no’ think ye should heal everyone who is sick or lame or blind, they will take ye away, they will hurt ye and kill ye if they ken …

  The word heal sprung out of the muddle of thoughts, and Jorge stood still in amazed hope. If the omens and dreams were true, another war was ahead of them, a fiery and bloody war. Of all Talents that would be needed in the dark days ahead, a healer was the best. And it was such a rare Talent—to heal with the laying of hands rather than knowledge of herbs and minerals, medicines and poultices. For how else could a young boy heal? He must have the touch …

  His knees were trembling as he went up to the front door, and he had to lean on his staff as he knocked softly. There was a startled scuffle inside, and then a long pause. Jesyah fluttered down to his shoulder as the front door opened.

  ‘Mercy me, if it is no’ the blind beggar!’ the woman exclaimed, and Jorge felt warmth flow over him as she pushed the door further open. ‘Come inside, then, for it’ll do none o’ us any good if the Red Guards see ye here and come for a look.’

  She took him in, settled him by the fire and fed him soup with Jorge hardly saying a word. She did not seem to notice the raven perched on his shoulder or the filth of his rags. Jorge was touched by her simple generosity. When he had finished eating, he looked up and said softly, ‘I have come about the lad.’ He felt the woman stiffen. ‘I ken he has power, I can see it.’

  ‘Ye are but a blind auld beggar, what can ye see?’ she cried furiously.

  ‘I see what your eyes canna,’ Jorge said gently. ‘Do no’ ask me what I see for then I am compelled to tell ye, and ye may no’ want to hear what I shall say.’

  He heard her sit down heavily, and then felt his hand taken between hers. Her palms were rough and callused. ‘What should I do? What should I do?’ she murmured.

  ‘Ye must leave the lad in my care.’

  She said faintly, ‘But why? I’ve kept him safe enough till now.’

  ‘The Rìgh has sent out seekers to find anyone or anything with magical powers. Your bairn blazes like a torch. If seekers pass through this valley, they will find him, have no doubt about that.’

  She moaned a little, and her fingers moved uneasily over his. ‘What can ye do, though?’

  ‘I can shield him and, if need be, I can protect him.’

  ‘Ye’re a witch.’

  ‘I am what I am, my dear. Rest assured no harm will come to the lad if I can do aught to prevent it. He will be safer with me than here.’

  ‘No, how can ye say so? He should be with his mam. Who can protect him better than me?’

  ‘What will ye do when the Red Guards come? How will ye stop them?’

  ‘This village looks after its own.’

  ‘The village would be burnt to the ground, and any who raised their hands to the Guards hanged.’

  ‘We could hide him.’

  ‘Ye do no’ understand. I am blind, yet I could follow your son’s path as he ran through the market, I could follow ye here. If I can, so can others.’ As he said the words he felt the woman slump and knew he had won. He wondered if it compromised his oath of truth-telling not to mention his second sight was exceptionally clear, and could see many things others could not, even the Seekers of the Awl, few of whom had any profound Talent.

  Just then a door banged open, letting in a blast of cold air. The child ran into the room, his radiance spreading before him. Jorge took a deep breath, and gripped his staff.

  The boy saw him and skidded to a stop. ‘Look, Mam, the auld blind man is here. Has he come for me to touch him?’

  Jorge scrabbled back in sudden alarm as the child advanced towards him, holding his palms out as if to lay them on the old man’s head. To Jorge, the child’s hands seemed to blaze with incandescent power, and he knew that if the child touched him, his eyes would be healed. Jesyah rose screeching into the rafters, and Jorge scrambled away over the bench, knocking over the fire stand so that pokers and brushes crashed into the hearth.

  The woman took his shoulders. ‘It is all right, auld man, it is true. He can heal ye, though how such a thing could be I canna understand.’

  ‘No, no, he must no’ touch me,’ and Jorge bolted away again as the child advanced on him, his hands held out.

  ‘But ye are blind, I can make ye see, truly I can,’ the boy said, trotting after him. His hand caught the edge of Jorge’s plaid, and the seer felt a moment of pure panic. Jesyah dropped down from the rafters like a black lightning bolt, and
the boy screamed, dropping to the ground and covering his head with his arms.

  ‘I’m blind for a purpose,’ Jorge panted, scrambling over the table and knocking his hip painfully.

  Jesyah fluttered back to the rafters, and both the woman and her son regained their feet, though still nervous of the raven. He could sense their doubtful glances, and the boy said, rather sadly, ‘Ye do no’ want to be healed?’

  ‘No, lad. I can see things with my blind eyes that I would miss if my everyday sight returned. I have been blind for far longer than ye have been alive, or even your mother for that matter. I am content to stay blind.’

  The boy sat down on the bench, and said happily, ‘All right then, I will no’ touch ye.’

  ‘Does he try and touch anyone who is sick or maimed?’ Jorge asked.

  The young woman nodded, then realising the seer could not see, answered in a subdued voice, ‘Aye, my laird.’

  ‘I am no laird, just a blind beggar who needs a strong lad to help me find my way.’

  ‘Och, I can! Can I, Mam?’

  ‘Ye want to go away from me?’

  ‘Only for a wee while, Ma. Besides, I told ye. I have had dreams o’ war, and ye ken I shall be needed.’

  Jorge felt his mouth drop open, and sensed the rueful glance the woman sent him. ‘Ye do no’ ken what it is ye want, auld man,’ she said. ‘Tòmas is no ordinary lad. Ye shall have trouble keeping him safe.’

  ‘How auld are ye?’

  ‘I am eight,’ Tòmas said with perfect composure. ‘Well, almost!’

  ‘Would ye fain accompany me on my travels?’

  ‘Will I have to beg?’

  ‘No’ if ye do no’ want to, though I have found it an excellent way o’ gaining vital information. People ignore a beggar, ye see.’

  ‘People never ignore me.’

  ‘Well, we shall have to teach ye how to be ignored, my lad, for attention is the one thing we do no’ want.’

  ‘So ye are really going to take him?’ his mother said, and her voice was an odd mixture of anger, sorrow, regret and relief. ‘Can I no’ come too?’

  Jorge shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but three is a crowd, and it is difficult for a crowd to slip through the lines o’ Red Guards without being noticed.’

  ‘What are ye going to do wi’ him?’

  ‘I am going to take him back to my home in the Whitelock Mountains, and I am going to teach him how to control and conceal his Talent. He shall be my apprentice and my helper. Then, when the time comes, we shall put him to work. For your laddie is right, a war is coming, and the omens are no’ good. We live in dangerous times, my dear, and a healer is a rare and precious commodity. Ye need no’ fear I will let any harm come to him.’

  ‘Are witches going to come back then?’ the boy asked in his high, piping voice.

  ‘If Eà permits,’ the blind seer answered.

  Isabeau woke in a red haze of pain, moaning a little as the dark silence gradually peeled away. She could hear deep, rough voices exclaiming in consternation and fear, and in numb incomprehension, lay and listened to them.

  ‘The Grand-Seeker shall have our heads!’

  ‘Call the castle guards! Tell them the witch has killed the Grand-Questioner.’

  ‘Find someone to carry the body away. Do no’ step in the blood, ye fool!’

  Isabeau whimpered, and turned her head away from the light that was stabbing her eyes with brightness.

  ‘The witch is coming round.’ There was fear in the rough voice. ‘Should I knock her out again?’

  ‘Nay, leave her be; they’ll want her conscious for the trial. Leave her chains on, though.’

  ‘If she could kill the Grand-Questioner chained up like that, why did she no’ escape?’

  ‘Probably heard us coming,’ the other soldier replied, and then exclaimed, ‘O’ course! That’s what we can tell the Grand-Seeker. The foul witch would have escaped if we had no’ heard something suspicious and come to investigate.’

  ‘I dinna hear anything.’

  ‘Fine, ye can tell her that if ye want. I heard a noise, though, and came running, in time to stop the witch from escaping again but too late to save the Grand-Questioner.’

  ‘She must be awfully powerful, to kill Baron Yutta.’ Again there was apprehension in the soldier’s voice.

  His companion spat noisily on the floor. ‘Sooner we feed her to the uile-bheist o’ the loch, the better as far as I’m concerned. Shame, though, she was a bonny lass.’

  ‘No’ so bonny now.’

  ‘Och, I wouldna touch a witch, no matter how bonny. Happen my crown jewels would shrivel up and fall off and then where would I be?’

  Isabeau was passing in and out of darkness, a strange roaring in her ears. The soldiers’ coarse laughter came in undulating waves, sounding bizarre and demonic. She tried to curl up, and found herself unable to move, cold iron at her wrists and ankles.

  ‘She’s moving.’ The light came closer so she moaned and turned her head from side to side. ‘He made a bloody mess o’ her hand. Take a look.’

  ‘Death to all witches,’ the other said piously.

  ‘She’s only a lass. Canna be much aulder than my sister, who’s only fifteen. In Truth, that must hurt! Nasty.’ He released the vice, and as blood rushed through to her mangled fingers, Isabeau screamed and fainted again.

  When she drifted back into consciousness, Isabeau was lying on the floor, a blanket thrown over her. She shifted a little, glad to find she could move, and huddled into the coarse material, bitter cold striking up against her naked flesh. For a moment she could not remember what had happened but then she saw a cloak-shrouded figure on the floor and the memories came flooding back. She wished they had not. When she tried to curl up against the memories, all her body screamed in protest and she gave a faint sob.

  ‘Quiet, witch,’ Blyn’s gruff voice said. ‘Do no’ move or speak, else I shall knock ye unconscious again. Your trial has been brought forward, for ye are far too dangerous to be allowed to live another night.’

  Isabeau was so dazed and in so much pain that she could make little sense of what the hooded guard was saying. All she wanted was to sleep again, and she closed her eyes with a sigh. She heard feet tramping about her, and more voices, then there was silence. She must have slept a little, for next thing she knew she was jerked awake by the acrid stench of smelling-salts under her nose.

  ‘Come, it is time for your trial. Get up.’

  Isabeau opened her eyes and shrank back in fear when she saw the sinister hood of the guard. ‘Do no’ put on the bairn act wi’ me,’ Blyn said. She shook her head, her blue eyes dilated with terror. He gave her something to drink, and it burnt down her throat like fire. Her gaze cleared, and the weakness receded a little. Sick with trepidation, she looked down and felt her stomach convulse. Her left hand was a bloody mess, more like an otter’s flipper than a hand. The fingers and thumb were all smashed near the joint, splinters protruding through the swollen and blackened flesh. Isabeau knew enough about healing to realise she would be crippled, at the very least. At worst, she would lose her hand, especially if it were not treated soon.

  ‘We’ll have to get that strapped up,’ Blyn said. ‘Canna have ye bleeding all over our laird’s castle. Ben, get the leech!’

  Isabeau managed to sit up, leaning against the leg of the rack. She stared with fascination at her hand. After a long wait the leech, a fussy little man with a tasselled cap on his head, came sidling in, looking with distaste at the blood-stained instruments of torture. ‘No need to bleed the witch, since she’s going to be executed tonight anyway. I’ll just get her cleaned up.’

  ‘I am no’ a witch,’ Isabeau said clearly.

  The hooded guard and the leech exchanged disbelieving looks, then she was made to drink some foul-tasting liquid that made her head spin. The leech cleaned her wounds carefully, roughly splinted her fingers, and bound the whole lot up in bandages. ‘That should stop the bleeding for a while,’ he said, packing
up his bag again. ‘Long enough to get her through the trial, anyway. Why they bother I do no’ ken, for it’s clear she be a witch, murdering the Grand-Questioner like that, chained and bound as she was!’

  ‘I dinna kill the Grand-Questioner!’ Isabeau said desperately. ‘It was an accident. The wheel just fell loose.’

  Again they exchanged glances over her head, then the guard said with a ponderous laugh, ‘Tell that one to the judges!’

  Just then the door of the torture cell swung open and a contingent of Red Guards marched in. Blyn immediately stepped back and stood with his arms crossed over his massive chest.

  ‘Can she walk?’ a Guard demanded, and the giant grunted in response.

  They hauled her up, and after a few moments Isabeau was able to stand. ‘I need to wash and tidy myself,’ she said, staring the Red Guard in the eye. After a moment he nodded, and she was taken to the Grand-Questioner’s room, where her pack still lay on the table. It was difficult to wait until he had closed the door behind her, but as soon as they were gone, she flew to it and rummaged through. Heart pounding, her fingers closed over the magic pouch and she grasped it to her breast, giving fervent thanks to Eà.

  The recovery of the talisman gave her fresh life, for only the Grand-Questioner had examined her pack and he was now dead, his knowledge gone with him. If only Isabeau could manage to convince her judges of her innocence, or escape again!

  With renewed hope, she went through her pack and found the little bottle of mithuan she carried there. By clenching the bottle between her knees, she managed to wrench the top off and drank down several mouthfuls, feeling it race through her system, bringing with it new strength and a lessening of the pain. Slowly she washed her face and as much of her body as she could reach, trying to remove the stink of Baron Yutta’s touch and the filth of her night in the cell. She could not wash her hair, but she shook out the straw and lice as well as she could with only one hand, and twisted the long rope into a rough knot at the back of her head. As her wits returned, so did her memories, and she cried as she washed, the tears slow and hot and shamed.