Dragonclaw

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Do they no’ ken ye have been “recruiting” in Tìrsoilleir for years?’

  She frowned, playing with the tassels on her gown. ‘Of course no’. If anyone had seen or heard the Mesmerdean stealing children they would have dismissed them as a trick o’ the eye or the result o’ too much whisky.’

  ‘I thought the Tìrsoilleirean frowned upon intoxicating liquor.’

  ‘Och, they do, Khan’tirell! They are a pious people. I’ve had a terribly boring few months, pretending to be as mealy-mouthed as they are. Ye ken they must pray in the Kirk as many as three times a day? Still, religious fanaticism has its purposes, and they will prove an able army. In the meantime, I will speak with the Mesrnerdean. We canna have them skulking in the marshes. I want fear and distrust in the countryside and I want every bairn with a scrap o’ magical ability here under my eye!’

  The Mesmerdean came slowly and with arrogance, but Lady Margrit was too wise to show anger or impatience. She knew she did not command the Mesmerdean, that their obedience to her will was due only to some purpose of their own that, for this time at least, lay parallel with hers. When they pleased they would melt back into the marshes, and she would lose her most potent weapon.

  Only the elders came, twenty-one of them, dry, shrivelled husks without the unearthly beauty that the Mesmerdean nymphs possessed. Many did not wear the delicate grey robes that Margrit had designed for them, and she smiled as she lay back in her chair, for she saw this as a subtle insult. They rustled their silvery wings together and stared at her from great, shiny eyes that were indeed thousands of eyes, clustered closely together.

  Communicating with the Mesmerdean was difficult. They had no language that another species could learn for they did not speak and the multitonal humming they made by rubbing their wings and claws together was impossible to copy. However, Margrit had lived in the fens of Arran all her life and knew what every twitch of wing, gesture of claw and timbre of hum meant, and she knew they read her energy forces as easily as she read words on a page. One did not talk to the Mesmerdean for they heard no words, and by talking, hidden emotions could be revealed by the fluctuations of one’s emotional energies. So Margrit sat on her throne and the Mesmerdean watched her and she watched them and gradually the rustle of their wings began to roll and vibrate and their eyes gleamed with metallic hues.

  Margrit listened to each quaver and trill, and she frowned and thought of the rich plains of Clachan again seeping with water, a great labyrinth rustling with the sedge grasses of the marsh; and she smiled and thought of the people of Clachan and Blèssem sinking back into the arms of the Mesmerd, eyes closing in bliss; and she frowned and thought of long trails of glistening eggs laid in the mud of the marshes. As she thought and imagined, the quality of the trill deepened and harmonised, until soon there was but one shrill note left. She gazed over the elders and found the one, and his wings were back and erect, his head thrust forward. She bowed her head, and imagined Meghan the Arch-Sorceress crumpling back after a Mesmerd’s kiss and immediately the quality of the song changed, quickening and intensifying. They knew who Meghan was, for Mesmerdean shared their experience as one, linked together by a sense as precise as their eyesight and their emotional radar. When the Mesmerd had died in Meghan’s tree-house in the Sithiche Mountains, each and every Mesmerd had known.

  The Mesmerd she had bowed to bowed in return, and though his wings stayed erect, the quality of his hum become a counterpoint to the others, and they were in harmony. As silently as they had glided in, the Mesmerdean left, and Margrit frowned and bit her thumbnail. She had again won them over, and though one of the families—the family of the nymph who had died in Meghan’s tree-house—would stay in the marshes until the mourning was done, the others would return to their forays into the surrounding countries. And when the mourning was done, the egg-brothers of the dead Mesmerd would go in search of Meghan and kiss her life away.

  Meghan would not take Iseult with her into Caeryla. No matter what she said or how much she stood her ground, Meghan was adamant. ‘No, Iseult, it is too risky. Your face is too much like Isabeau’s, and it seems that, despite my warnings, Isabeau has got her face very well kent in these parts. Ye must stay here and look after Bacaiche.’

  ‘I will no’,’ Iseult said.

  ‘Do no’ be a fool,’ the sorceress said. ‘And do no’ think ye can follow me, for I shall ken, Iseult. Ye swore to do as I said.’

  ‘I will go with ye.’

  ‘Ye shall no’.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Ye shall no’.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘No, Iseult. Ye shall stay here.’

  And somehow, Iseult the Scarred Warrior, for the first time in her life, found herself staying behind in the camp like a child or a cripple. At that thought, her gaze went to Bacaiche, and saw by his face that he had known exactly what she was thinking.

  To relieve her overflowing feelings, Iseult went hunting as soon as Meghan had disappeared over the fold of hill. Bacaiche, barely able to walk because of his deformed feet, crouched in a moody silence by the pool, throwing pebbles into its murky depths. Iseult wondered idly how he could stand being tied to one place so much, then lost herself in the joy of the hunt. When she returned, flushed, sweaty and triumphant, two coneys dangling from her fist, he glowered at her from under his brows, and said, ‘The penalty for poaching in these parts is a whipping.’

  ‘I will no’ be caught,’ Iseult answered serenely as she gathered kindling together.

  ‘I do no think we should have a fire so close to the town …’

  ‘No-one will see my fire,’ Iseult retorted, and indeed, so dry was the kindling she gathered and so cleverly positioned was the fire that only a vague heat shimmer could be seen above the coals.

  Bacaiche snorted in disgust, got to his feet and limped away in the ugly half hop, half step that was his gait. Iseult smiled, skinned and gutted the coneys expertly, and hung them on a spit above the fire. Twilight was drifting through the trees in a violet hush, the sky banded with the last colours of sunset. Iseult stretched, glad to feel her muscles aching, and eyed the pool. In moments she had stripped and was wading into the water, enjoying its cool freshness against her skin. Of all the many new things she had experienced in the last few weeks, this was her favourite. None of the pride would ever dream of immersing their bodies in water, for on the Spine of the World it took only three minutes to die once you were submerged. Here the water had the caress of silk, not the bite of frost, and Iseult had discovered the pleasure of being really clean.

  After washing away the sweat and dirt and coney blood, Iseult floated on her back and looked up at the sky as, one by one, faint stars pricked into being. Her keen hunter’s ears heard Bacaiche’s awkward gait as he stumped through the undergrowth, but she ignored him, revelling in the feel of the water against her nakedness. It was only when his shuffle died away that she stood up, and looked for him, aware that he had been left in her care.

  He stood under one of the trees, staring at her in a way Iseult did not fully understand. His gaze was both angry and yearning, miserable and exultant. For the first time in her life Iseult felt fully conscious of her body. Her arms felt heavy and awkward. Unsure what to do with her hands, she plucked a reed and turned it in her fingers, looking at him still. For a moment she thought he started forward; then, with a curse, he turned and lurched away into the undergrowth. Iseult waded out, dressed herself, and turned the coneys on their spit, all the time wondering about the expression on his face. She had seen desire on the faces of others in her pride, but never directed towards herself. She was considered very ugly, being so pale and freckled. Only her red hair was acceptable, and only then because it was a sign of the Firemaker, and not because it was considered pretty.

  There had been desire on Bacaiche’s face, she decided at length, but it had been mingled with other emotions she found more difficult to understand. When Bacaiche at last came back to the fire, she said nothing, just ha
nded him a coney leg and a roast potato. They ate in silence and went to sleep in silence, and woke the following morning in unbroken silence.

  By now Iseult was beginning to feel concern at Meghan’s long absence. She found a greygorse bush on the edge of the copse of trees, and lay beneath it, staring out at the valley with its misty loch and grey-walled town. Bacaiche prowled restlessly around the camp. He had flung off his cloak in an excess of impatience, and Iseult again noticed that much of his crippled appearance disappeared with the cloak. He stood taller and his beautiful wings sprang out as if released from tight bonds. Again the thick neck and broad shoulders seemed balanced by the spread of black feathers, and it was only his taloned feet that made movement difficult. Iseult felt her curiosity about him grow, but was still unable to overcome her inbred reluctance to ask questions.

  Bacaiche prepared them some food when the sun was high overhead, and they ate together in the shade of the trees. It was now a day and a half since Meghan had gone down to Caeryla, and Iseult had decided to wait until dark before going down in search of her. She had become so used to the silence between them that when Bacaiche spoke, she was quite startled.

  ‘Ye are no’ much like your sister, are ye?’ he said. ‘She had a mouth like a donbeag, chitter chitter chitter all the time.’

  ‘I do no’ ken her,’ Iseult replied. ‘She does no’ sound much like me.’

  Bacaiche hesitated and she realised that he too was consumed by curiosity, but reluctant to trespass on subjects that might be painful to her. She said in a rush, ‘I do no’ much like the sound o’ her, but things are so different here. I do no’ think she would last long on the Spine o’ the World.’ It was the first time she had spoken voluntarily, and she felt Bacaiche turn and look at her. She kept her eyes downturned.

  ‘Life is hard on the Spine o’ the World?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘The Gods o’ White are sometimes cruel and sometimes kind, and rarely can we see the reason behind their choices,’ Iseult replied. ‘But we are free, and the sky is sometimes blue and bright, and the hunting good, and sometimes there is storm or avalanche, and the hunting is bad. Such is life. At least we ken who are our friends and who are our enemies, no’ like here.’

  ‘We too ken who are our friends and who are our enemies.’

  ‘If that is so, why did ye steal from she who had helped ye, and leave her to be hunted in your place?’ Iseult felt that she could ask him a question since he had asked one of her.

  Bacaiche’s face darkened and he looked away sullenly, but eventually he answered, ‘That was wrong o’ me. Sometimes I feel so angry and bitter none are my friends. I forget that other people have pain as well.’

  Iseult knew he did not mean the pain of his deformities, but the pain around his heart, and she nodded. ‘It is easy to be kind when life is good.’

  ‘May I ask ye a question?’

  ‘Ye just did,’ Iseult answered with a smile. It felt strange, as if her face was stiff, and she wondered how long it had been since she last smiled. Certainly not since she came to this hot, bright land. He smiled too, and it transformed his face, which had always seemed rather hard and cold.

  ‘Another then. I wanted to ask about your relationship with my great-aunt. I ken ye and your sister are her wards, but ye say ye have never met your sister. I do no’ understand.’

  Iseult considered the question, then sat up in a single fluid movement. She assumed the storyteller’s position: legs crossed, spine straight, hands upturned in her lap.

  ‘I was found on the slope o’ the Cursed Peaks by the Firemaker, Auld Mother o’ the Pride o’ the Fire-Dragon, at the time o’ the flaming Dragon-Star, which crosses our sky every eight years. Realising I must be the child o’ her son, who had long ago disappeared in the land o’ the sorcerers, she raised me as her heir and granddaughter, until I was eight years auld. At that time I was given in geas to the dragons, and brought to the Towers o’ Roses and Thorns. I was to care for the sleeping sorceress and study in the libraries during the green months, which is traditionally the time o’ rest for the Scarred Warriors. During the white months, I stayed with the pride and hunted and fought, as is the way o’ the Scarred Warriors, whose craft I had chosen. For eight years, my life was thus, then the time o’ the Dragon-Star came, and the prides left for the Gathering, leaving me at the Towers o’ Roses and Thorns with the sorcerer Feld and the sleeping sorceress. I was no’ pleased to be left behind again, and wondered whether I would ever find a mate, for my sixteenth birthday having passed, I should have been jumping the fire with other women o’ my age. The dragons called for me, however, and said an Auld Mother had come in search o’ the sleeping sorceress and I should take her there, and look after her. That was the first time I met the Firemaker Meghan, who is your cousin. It was only then that I did hear I had a sister still living, which is a very bad thing indeed, for who shall inherit the godhead when my grandmother dies?’

  Bacaiche looked a little confused, but he nodded. ‘I see. Too many heirs now, are there? No wonder ye resent the idea o’ a sister.’

  ‘Twins are cursed,’ Iseult answered shortly. ‘The Gods o’ White will be angry that one was no’ given to them.’ There was silence for a moment, then she relaxed her pose and said, ‘Ye have asked o’ me a question, which I did answer fully. Now I request a question o’ ye.’

  Bacaiche frowned, but nodded his head in an abrupt jerk. ‘I suppose that’s fair.’

  ‘I have never seen a man with the wings and claws o’ a bird before. Ye say the Firemaker Meghan is your cousin, yet she has no wings or claws. Were ye born this way?’

  ‘No,’ he answered.

  When she realised that was all he intended to say, anger sparked her blue eyes. ‘On the Spine o’ the World, a question is a request for a story,’ she said coldly. ‘If one decides to answer, one must answer fully, for how else is the question answered?’

  ‘I do no’ come from the Spine o’ the World,’ he answered, and looked away from her.

  She nodded, and got to her feet. ‘That is true.’ Without a backward glance she walked away, and gingerly crawled back under the greygorse bush, scanning the empty valley for any sign of Meghan.

  After pacing the clearing for close on half an hour, Bacaiche came and crouched beside her, ignoring the vicious thorns of the bush. ‘I’m sorry. It is hard for me to speak about it.’ Iseult did not reply. ‘I have killed a man for asking just that question,’ he went on in a troubled voice. ‘Most o’ my life I have been hunted down, pursued, reviled, for something that is no’ my fault.’ Iseult still said nothing.

  He went on, his voice thick with passion. ‘It is the cursed Banrìgh. This is all her fault, all o’ it! Sometimes I long to close my fingers around her throat and squeeze till there is no life left in her! She could beg and plead, and I would no’ care. I would smile at her and kill her with as little mercy as she killed my brothers. The foul witch! She has the whole land ensorcelled!’

  They were silent a very long time. Bacaiche said at last, almost in a whisper, ‘I was no’ born like this. For the first twelve years o’ my life I was a lad much as any other lad is. I had a home, a family who loved me, every toy and luxury I could want. Then I was ensorcelled. What ye see today is the remnants o’ an enchantment so strong and so mysterious that no-one can find the cure. No’ even Meghan.’

  ‘Ye were put under a spell?’

  ‘It was Maya. She could no’ bear for Jaspar to love anyone but her. She smiled at us and spoke sweet words, and he was angry that we did no’ like her, and said we were silly and jealous, and should ken better. One night she came to us, smiling still. I woke from a deep sleep to see her standing over our beds. I was half asleep still, and watched as she turned Feargus and Donncan into blackbirds. Before I even had time to cry out or try and escape, she had transformed me also. It is strange to try and scream, and have only a bird’s squawk come out, or try and run, and find your body does no’ work the way it should. She threw us out the
window o’ our bed chamber, and set her hawk upon us. I saw Feargus caught almost immediately, and I flew as fast as I could, though I had not yet learnt to manage my wings. Behind me I heard Donncan’s cry and knew he had been caught too, and then the hawk was above me. I could hear it and feel its shadow upon me, and I folded my wings and dived into the forest. In the trees, the hawk could not catch me and so I escaped.

  ‘The next few years are all a blur. Slowly my memories, my language, my knowledge o’ who I was, all were lost. I became a bird, fighting for the worm and living my days between heaven and earth. At last I had lived so long in the body o’ a bird that nearly all sense o’ being a man was lost to me. Eventually I was captured and caged, sold to a family as a songbird, to be fed seeds and bits o’ bread and sing for their pleasure. It was there the auld jongleur woman Enit found me and rescued me. Somehow she recognised me, and tried to save me. She has a way with birds, can sing them to her hand; perhaps she saw I was a man trapped in a bird’s body, or perhaps she saw the white lock remained still. Who kens? All I ken is that she brought me to Meghan, and together they tried to break the spell, but could no’. Meghan says she has never encountered a spell like it before. They tried all they knew and more still, and at last brought back my body, though marred as ye see it now. That was eight years ago. I have been this way ever since. I barely remember that—for weeks I was a wild bird, trapped in the body o’ a man. Enit had to teach me to speak again, and to use my hands and legs, and all that time I was kept in a tiny caravan, too afraid to go outside. While Enit tamed me again, Meghan sent the blind prophet Jorge to find me this cloak o’ illusions. Only then was I was at last able to walk in daylight.’

  ‘I see. Do ye wish to be like other men again?’