by Kate Forsyth
‘It’s all right,’ he said out loud. ‘I shall no’ hurt ye, or tell anyone. I ken they hunt creatures such as ye, and kill ye for being what ye are. Ye need no’ be afraid. I am Dide.’
She said nothing, wondering if she should run. Now he knew, shifting was no escape for he could damage her with fire or axe, and she would be helpless, her roots deep in the soil.
‘I have seen and felt ye watching us,’ he said, and rose carefully to his feet. ‘I do no’ think anyone else has, except probably my granddam and she o’ all people would no’ harm ye. Do no’ be afraid. What is your name?’
She would not answer, and so step by slow step he approached her, as she backed deeper into the underbrush and wondered again why she did not run. Soon he was close enough for her to smell his human, meat-eating stench, and to see how bright his eyes were, like the eyes of a donbeag, liquid and black. ‘Please trust me. I am very glad to find someone like ye, truly I am. I am Dide. I am your friend.’
‘I am Lilanthe.’
He stood still. ‘Good morrow to ye, Lilanthe,’ he said. ‘Are ye hungry?’
She nodded her head, for indeed her human stomach did feel empty and she had had little time to forage the last few days. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a withered apple for her. When Lilanthe would not take it from his hand, he laid it on the ground and stepped back. Quickly Lilanthe snatched it up, and smelt it before tentatively nibbling on its sweet rubbery flesh.
‘Let us talk,’ he said, and slowly crouched on the ground. ‘Quietly, though, for soon the camp will wake and then Nina shall come looking for me.’
The morning talk was the first of many for, despite being discovered, Lilanthe continued to follow the caravans deeper into Aslinn. Twice a day, and sometimes more, Dide slipped away so they could meet. He talked more than her at first, for he was trying to win her trust. He told her about his childhood, travelling the lands of Eileanan in a caravan, performing tricks and acrobatics for thrown pennies or a free night in an inn. He tried to reassure her that her secret was safe with him.
‘No’ all humans agree with the Faery Decree.’ Dide was perched on the end of a log, while Lilanthe sat a good seven steps away, her cheek resting on her knees, her arms wrapped close about her. ‘It’s a travesty o’ the Pact o’ Aedan, killing faery creatures, and the Rìgh should ken it. Since the Lodestar was lost, nothing has gone right in this country. That’s why we have to find the Lodestar again. The Rìgh is dying, everyone kens it. Some dreadful disease is sucking the life out o’ him, and the mind and soul with it. Why, we saw him a few months ago when we played in Rhyssmadill, and he was grey as ashes, with a foolish grin on his face like a bairn. Enit said then he would die within the year, and she is never wrong.’ Enit was Dide’s grandmother and she was never far from his conversation, being Dide’s greatest friend, along with his sister Nina.
‘If the Rìgh dies without an heir, there’ll be civil war again, for sure. That is why the Fairgean are slowly building a position in the north and east, for once Rìgh Jaspar dies, there’ll be no-one to take the crown and, besides, without the Lodestar, we have no true defence against the Fairgean. All the Yedda are gone—’ Seeing the incomprehension on Lilanthe’s face, he regained the track of his conversation. ‘What I’m trying to say is, there’s no need for ye to be afraid o’ me. I dinna agree with the Rìgh’s decree; in fact, I hate it, I’m fighting to stop him …’ He paused again, then said in a rush, ‘I’ll tell ye all about it, for then you’ll see I’m no enemy, but your friend. I love the faery, I canna believe the Rìgh wants to exterminate them, or why. Ye were here long afore the Great Crossing, when we humans came to this land.’
‘Well, I do no’ think I was,’ Lilanthe said cheekily. ‘I’m only eighteen years auld.’
Dide was delighted at the flash of personality. ‘I mean the faery …’
‘I’m half human, ye ken. My father was like ye, it is only my mother who was a tree-changer.’
‘I think most o’ us have a twist o’ faery in us somewhere.’ Dide sounded uncertain.
Lilanthe’s face was sullen again. ‘Most wouldna admit it.’
‘Once they did. Why, they say the MacAislins were more than half nisse and tree-changer, for these forests were once thick with them, and the children o’ Aislinna have lived here for more than a thousand years. The family is mostly gone now, o’ course, but that was why they adopted the Summer Tree as their emblem. That’s why I’m here actually—my master has sent me to make contact with someone at the MacAislins’ Tower, for he has had word the tower is occupied again, and he hopes it’ll be one o’ the family, or maybe one o’ the Dream-Walkers returned.’
The warmth and life had returned to Lilanthe’s face, and she leant forward, her leafy hair streaming over her shoulders. ‘Who are the Dream-Walkers?’
‘Aislinna’s tower is the Tower o’ Dreamers. It was ruined at the Time o’ Betrayal, o’ course, though rumour has had it for years that many o’ the dreamers slipped away in the night and so escaped the massacre. Some can travel the dream road forward, ye see, and so may have had forewarning. Our hope is the story is true, and now that the Tower has been forgotten, one or even more may have returned. My master saw someone, ye see. He went to the Tower o’ Ravens and used the Scrying Pool there, trying to contact each Tower in turn. He surprised someone at the Tower o’ Dreamers, but frightened them away. He was no’ able to make contact again.’
‘How do ye ken all this?’
‘I ken my master well. He lived with us for many years. I can contact him and he can contact me, as long as we each are near water. Each dawn I try and reach him, but lately he has been silent. It troubles my heart.’
‘Who is your master?’
‘Have ye heard o’ the Cripple?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I am surprised. Though ye are a creature o’ the forest, I s’pose, and so happen may no’ have heard o’ him. He is the leader … o’ the rebels. He’s the one who masterminds any move against the evil Banrìgh and her Red Guards; who rescues captured uile-bheistean, or witches, even silly auld skeelies or cunning men who have made too much trouble and are accused o’ witchcraft because o’ it. Slowly we gather strength, slowly our plans mature; soon a new weft shall be threaded.’
‘And then what will happen?’
‘That is the question, indeed. If things go to plan, we shall depose the evil Banrìgh, and go in search o’ the Lodestar. Once that is in our hands, we shall drive the Fairgean away from our shores, and humans and faery can live in harmony again.’
‘But are the Fairgean no’ uile-bheistean too? They were here long afore the Great Crossing, surely, just like the tree-changers and the nisses.’
Dide’s olive skin slowly coloured until even the tips of his ears were red. ‘I suppose that be true. The Fairgean never signed the Pact o’ Aedan, though, did they? And they’ve tried to overthrow us for a thousand years.’
‘But Carraig was their land, was it no’? Originally, I mean. At least, that is what I remember being taught, by both my ma and pa. All that north coast, Siantan too. They need to come to land to give birth and raise their bairns, and those rocky shores were their birthing-place.’
‘They’re brutal, though, Lilanthe. They have never agreed to any pact. They just keep fighting until one or the other o’ us are all dead. We beat them off, and years later they come again, hordes o’ them.’
‘I wonder where they give birth to their babes now?’ Lilanthe mused.
‘On the shores o’ Carraig, no doubt, after killing all the Yedda, and virtually wiping out the entire MacSeinn clan! They say there is only the laird himself left, and his son and a handful of retainers. And did ye never think it was rather suspicious, the way the Rìgh’s Decree Against Witchcraft wiped out the Yedda, which made it so easy for the Fairgean to invade Carraig?’
‘No,’ Lilanthe said.
There was a pause, Dide’s colour high, his black eyes sparkling. Then his temper dro
pped a little, and he said, a little gruffly, ‘Anyway, the point is, there’s a new thread being woven into the tapestry. I am no’ your enemy, I’m your friend. I want to help ye.’
‘How?’
Again Dide was a little disconcerted. ‘I … do no’ ken. I suppose I mean, help all uile-bheistean, free them from the Faery Decree, renew the Pact o’ Aedan.’
‘That’s what Isabeau wanted to do too,’ Lilanthe murmured under her breath.
The effect of her words was electrifying. Dide sat bolt upright, and said, ‘Ye ken Isabeau? Red hair, blue eyes? Always laughing?’
‘Aye! Ye ken her too?’
‘I did many years ago, when we were bairns. I thought I saw her again, recently, in Caeryla. I hope it wasna her.’
‘Isabeau was heading towards Caeryla. She was meant to meet someone there—’
‘Well, I hope it wasna Isabeau! Though when I called her, she looked round …’ Dide’s face was suddenly shadowed.
‘Why? What happened? Is she all right?’
‘Well, if it was Isabeau, she’s no’ all right at all. She was on trial for witchcraft. They were going to feed her to the uile-bheist o’ the loch. We rode out just afore sunset, and all anyone in Caeryla could talk about was the red-headed witch. Her execution was going to be the spectacle o’ the month. Everyone was going!’
Lilanthe scrambled to her feet. ‘Och, no! No! She canna have been caught. Why did ye no’ help her? Why did ye no’ do something?’
‘What could I do?’ Dide asked. ‘There was only me, and she was being escorted by a whole troop o’ soldiers, no’ to mention most o’ the townsfolk o’ Caeryla. I wasna even sure it was her, I just saw the red hair—’
The tree-shifter burst into an agony of crying, and turned and ran into the forest. Rather alarmed, and feeling a little teary himself, Dide ran after her, but Lilanthe had disappeared. That night, he helped pack up the caravan with a heavy heart, and though he cast out his mind anxiously, there was no trace of Lilanthe.
For three days the jongleurs travelled along the green road, following the meandering stream and camping every night by its still pools. Dide was in a quandary. He dared not show his fever of anxiety, for his long absences and abstracted silences were already a cause for teasing from the other jongleurs, and he must always be careful to appear like the others, unless they guess his traitorous secret. The penalty for being involved with the rebels was death, and Dide wanted no suspicion attached to him or his father’s caravan. However, the chance the witch who had been executed in Caeryla might be Isabeau distressed him deeply, for although it had been eight years since they had met, he had always remembered her and wondered if they would meet again.
Every morning he slipped away to go and stare into one of the pools in case his master should be trying to reach him, or in case Lilanthe returned. On the fourth day, he watched the dark waters shimmer into silver with the growing light without any sense of pleasure at its beauty, when he became aware of another, alien consciousness. With a spurt of joy he looked up and there was Lilanthe, her green hair knotted, her face streaked with mud, her eyes almost closed from crying.
‘I want to join ye,’ she said. ‘I want to be a rebel too.’
Thoughts tumbled madly in Dide’s mind. His initial reaction was to tell her not to be silly, but part of Dide’s job was to find his master new recruits, particularly those with magic of their own. He also recognised the depth of Lilanthe’s grief, though he did not fully understand it. ‘Then I’d better take ye to meet my granddam.’ he said. ‘She’ll ken what to do.’
Maya sat in her room, staring out at the sunset, trying to control the little shivers that were running over her body. It was time to contact her father, and the prospect filled her with fear. It was useless to remind herself she was Banrìgh of Eileanan, the most powerful woman in the country. It was useless to tell herself she was far from her father here in Rhyssmadill. The very thought of having to speak to him filled her veins with terror.
Maya’s father was a man to be feared. He came from a race of warriors, proud of strength and contemptuous of weakness, their lives circumscribed by long-held traditions and strict magics. Even though it was many years since Maya had lived with her father, having been handed to the Priestesses of Jor when little more than a toddler, the very thought of him was enough to make her bowels clench. Sani knew this, and brought out the antique mirror with a malicious glint in her tiny pale eyes.
The fish-tail mirror was very old, the metal now green with tarnish, although the oval surface was still bright. Not a single scratch marred its polished face, and when Maya held it between her hands and stared at her own reflection, her face took on a mysterious beauty that seemed somehow alien.
Using the mirror as a focus, as Sani had taught her, Maya stared into her deceptively serene face and called out to her father. His many names and titles fell off her tongue in stilted, musical phrases. On and on she sang, and her reflection sank away beneath cloudy ripples. Still she called to her father and, through the distorting veil, his face approached, dark with fury. He was roaring, his mouth wide open, his tusks gleaming yellow.
‘Why have you not contacted me before?’ His song sounded more like the pound of breakers on an icy shore than the delicate lap-lap of Maya’s voice.
She tried to strengthen the timbre of her melody. ‘It was not safe.’
‘Not safe! Are you not in control there? Are you not Banrìgh?’
‘The palace is full of mutinous lairds and spying servants. I could not risk exposure at this time. The tighter my grip, the more suspicious they become.’
‘Weak and foolish as all women are. When shall I have my way? What is the news?’
‘The Faery Decree is working its will, and faery creatures of all kinds have been surrendered to us. Most are useless, but some … some have proved of use. We have had many rebels and witches revealed to us, for they have pity on the faeries and betray themselves unwittingly. The biggest coup was discovering another rebel stronghold in Rurach, and wiping the entire rats’ nest out. The fools had returned to the Tower, and of course I had kept a watch on it. Blèssem and Aslinn are completely under our control as ye ken, and although Rurach and Tìreich remain a little recalcitrant, it really does not matter, since we prevail on other fronts.’
‘And what of our ancient enemies, the dragons?’
Maya would have liked to look away but she dared not. ‘The dragons have risen.’
Her father threw back his head and roared again, and the mirror was filled with the unsavoury sight of his tongue and tusks. ‘So be it,’ he said at last. ‘Each time we have struggled to regain what is rightfully ours, the dragons have set their will against us. I am displeased, though, daughter.’ He spat the note out with contempt and, indeed, for him to remind her of her lowly status was to insult her. To him and his kind, daughters were mere pawns in the games of power they all played so relentlessly. If times were hard, it was the girl babies who were drowned so there would be more food for the boys. If a female child survived to adulthood, she had no control over her future, being mated to whatever male her father or brother favoured at the time. Manliness was proved by displays of brutality and strength, and the dividing up of food, space and women decided by manliness. Maya had only escaped by a strange twist of fate which had seen her given to the Priestesses of Jor, who recognised power in her and thought to use it for their own ends.
‘You have failed,’ he continued. She did not allow her expression to change or her gaze to falter, but she could not prevent the sweat from springing up on her forehead. ‘You were supposed to flatter the dragons with those glib and slippery words you women use so well. You were meant to send them fine gifts and smooth promises until their guard was relaxed, and then fall upon them with the poisoned spears. What did you do wrong?’
Maya fixed her eyes upon his, and said smoothly, ‘A contingent of Guards, searching out witches in the Whitelock Mountains, panicked when a dragon came down to inve
stigate their presence. They had their poisoned spears with them. I am sure His Highness would be glad to know the dragonbane worked just as he predicted.’
‘Of course, it worked, fool. And do not expect me to believe the Circle of Seven have risen merely because a dragon was killed. Accidents do happen. Such a thing could easily be explained by the men succumbing to dragon-fear, as they so cowardly do. The dragons know they cannot come too close—’
‘The dragon was female, and with child.’
He snorted with disgust and scorn. ‘I suppose that would make their cold blood boil, they have such strange notions. Why did you not send a conciliatory troop to the dragons’ valley? Once they had let your heralds in, you could have fallen on them then.’
‘We did,’ Maya stuttered, ‘but they would not accept our heralds.’
‘Not accept your heralds! Not accept the heralds of the Rìgh of Eileanan? You must have insulted them grievously indeed. No, there is something you are not telling me. What of those other sea-urchin spikes in our flesh? What of the Arch-Sorceress? What of her?’
Despite herself, Maya licked her lips and swallowed. ‘We have reason to believe the Arch-Sorceress Meghan NicCuinn reached the dragons before us and spoke against us. We had tracked her down to her secret hideaway beneath the shadow of Dragonclaw, and there surprised her and some of her Coven in their filthy secret rites. Some of the witches were killed, though they called on the powers of earth and fire. The Arch-Sorceress escaped, though we have caught and executed one we suspect to be her apprentice, a powerful witch. We are now hard on the Arch-Sorceress’ trail, and confident we shall soon have her by the heels.’
‘Oh yes, confident. Confident as you’ve been before. For sixteen years you’ve been confident of destroying her, and I’ve seen nothing but empty words. So she spoke to the dragons against you, and now the dragons are risen. By Jor! That I should be forced to rely on a puny female as my instrument! Pluck out this spur for me, or else, by Jor, I’ll have your blood!’
