by Kate Forsyth
In the interim, she lay on her bundle of furs on the floor, staring at the cluricaun’s home, and wondering at the beauty of the architecture. He had taken over one corner of a great room with a vaulted ceiling so high Isabeau could barely see its rafters. Skins and furs scattered the stone floor and provided partitions that made the corner around the huge fireplace quite cosy, despite the draughts that whistled through the broken walls. At the other end of the room, the ceiling had fallen and only blackened rafters remained, showing a cloud-streaked sky. Odd faces grinned at her from the stonework, while over the massive fireplace was a complicated stone shield, surrounded by stars and with faint traces of words emblazoned underneath.
The little cluricaun stayed close to her during that time, anticipating her every need. If she felt a pang of thirst, he was there with a beaker of water before she had even acknowledged her need. If she was cold, he would stoke up the fire, and when the pain in her hand grew so fierce that she wept, he brought her pain-numbing herbs. A strange, merry creature, prone to capering around the flagstones and laughing at his own jokes, he sidled up to her one day, his hands behind his back. ‘Guess what I have found for ye, Is’beau.’
‘What?’ Isabeau sighed.
‘It has marble walls as white as milk, lined with skin as soft as silk, within a fountain crystal clear, a golden apple does appear.’
Isabeau shrugged her shoulder impatiently. ‘I do no’ ken, Brun. What?’
‘Walls as white as milk,’ he prompted. ‘A golden apple within.’
‘Havers, Brun, I do no’ ken. A pebble?’
‘Nay, Is’beau.’ A ludicrous expression of disappointment crossed his hairy face. ‘I found ye an egg. A beautiful white egg, full o’ goodness, to make ye better.’
He showed her the gleaming egg, cradled in his palm. ‘See, walls as white as milk.’
‘That’s lovely, thank ye, Brun,’ Isabeau said, and rested her head on the pillow again.
A crestfallen expression crossed Brun’s triangular face, and his tail twisted anxiously behind him, but Isabeau was too weak and nervy to make the effort to soothe him.
Once Isabeau was strong enough to walk a few steps, Brun helped her through the pointed doorway and across the ruined garden, all broken stones and overgrown berry bushes. With several stops to regain her strength, Isabeau was finally able to sink down to the ground, wrapped in rough-woven blankets, in the warm, sheltered spot Brun had chosen for her, with stone at her back and feet, and a clear view into the valley. Then she saw clearly enough that she was in Aslinn, for as far as the eye could see the massive boles of mountain ash trees rose, towering hundreds of feet above her.
The ruined castle where Brun had made his home was built on a high, green hill and from her vantage point, Isabeau looked down over a small burn shining between tree trunks. To the north she could see the distant blue peaks of the Sithiche Mountains, and to the west the high cliffs of the Great Divide, streaked with ribbons of waterfalls. Isabeau could not believe it. Somehow she had travelled far to the east, leaving the open hills of Rionnagan behind her.
‘I must have been wandering in fever for days,’ she murmured aloud.
Just then there was a shrill neigh and, to her joy and amazement, she saw Lasair galloping through the trees towards her, his mane and tail blazing in the sunlight. He cantered up the slope of the hill, and danced to a halt before her, neighing and shaking his bright mane and butting against her breast with his nose. ‘How …? Where …? What …?’ she stammered, and the cluricaun looked at her in astonishment.
‘When first I see ye, ye had two heads, six feet, one each side and four beneath, and one tail blazing.’
‘But … I left Lasair in Caeryla …’
‘So ye did come from Caeryla? Well, when I saw ye, ye were galloping like the wind, and ye were clinging to his mane, and he came to drink at the burn and ye fell from his back and lay on the grass as if ye were dead. I did come to ye, and found ye burning with fever and bleeding from your head and hand, and so at last I did take ye back to my home and tend ye there. Your horse has been fretting and fuming ever since, running back an’ forth in front o’ the Tower and wailing like a banshee.’
‘I remember dreaming o’ Lasair …’
‘Wha’ a fever it mun have been,’ Brun chuckled. ‘Fall asleep in Rionnagan, awake in Aslinn.’ He performed a faultless forward roll, then looked at her from between his legs, his face even odder when upside down.
‘What am I to do?’ Isabeau was in despair. She had failed Meghan, failed her miserably. It was surely too late to retrace her steps to meet Meghan’s friend at Tulachna Celeste. By the look of the night sky, several months had passed since she had set out from the secret valley. Perhaps it would be best to strike out towards Blèssem, and so to Rhysmadill that way. Now she had Lasair again …
‘Eat and rest for now,’ the cluricaun’s voice was almost serious. ‘When ye are a wee bit better I will take ye up into the Tower. She will ken what to do.’
‘The Tower o’ Dreamers?’
‘Indeed, what other Tower would I be talking about? The Tower o’ Warriors?’ The cluricaun was vastly amused at his own joke, clutching his stomach with laughter. Isabeau was not amused, for no-one from the western lands had been near the Tower of Warriors since the warrior-maids had closed their borders four hundred years earlier. Tìrsoilleir had been a land of mystery ever since.
‘Who is she?’
Immediately the cluricaun sobered, sitting up with straw sticking in his hair. ‘She is my friend. She will ken what to do.’
After the cluricaun had trotted off to gather berries and nuts for their evening meal, Isabeau carefully began to unwind the makeshift bandages which Brun had wrapped around her injured hand, biting her lip against the pain. When she saw her swollen, infected fingers, roughly splinted, tears filled her eyes. Isabeau knew her healing. There was little chance she would regain much use of the broken hand—the bones had been crushed close to the joint and the weeks that passed between the torture and the cluricaun’s rough treatment had seen infection set in. If she did not get expert help soon, she would lose her hand altogether. Isabeau did what she could to clean the wounds; the pain was excruciating but at last she bound the hand up again, and made herself a tight sling that would cradle it against her body.
Brun took Isabeau into the Tower of Dreamers the next night. They waited until it was fully dark before wrapping up well against the chilly night air and sneaking round the outside of the Tower to its great entrance in the western wall. Brun insisted on absolute quiet. ‘No’ want the Horned Ones to ken,’ he said, his triangular face anxious.
When Isabeau asked him who or what the Horned Ones were, Brun only made a frightened face, and ran around the clearing with two fingers poking up through his curly mop like horns. He finished with a forward tumble, grinning at her with his sharp little fangs shining.
It was a beautiful night, and Isabeau was happy to be away from the cluricaun’s quarters. The massive trees soared up into starry distances, and overhead the two moons leant against each other, the smudges of darkness, like hand prints on Magnysson’s flank, easily seen.
Isabeau had no clothes left but her torn and muddied dress and plaid, but Brun had cleaned them for her and stitched up the worst of the tears, so she at least was dressed again. The talisman was in its pouch and hung on the inside of her skirt, with her rings tucked inside as well. It had taken her a long time to get her rings back from the cluricaun, who thought them pretty and had ‘borrowed’ them. She had teased and cajoled him without effect, only getting her rings back when she recognised them on his chain and grew angry.
Lasair trotted along behind her, and she wondered again how he could have found her. The thought frightened her a little, for if he could track her down, so could others. She must have left a hefty trail. She pondered how he could have got free, but all Lasair did was toss his head and give a few jittery bucks when she asked him. She hoped with all her heart the Gra
nd-Seeker Glynelda was not hot on his trail as she had been the last time. Isabeau did not think she would survive another encounter with the Grand-Seeker.
Isabeau had been told stories of the Towers since she was a babe in arms and had always longed to see one. As they walked slowly beside the walls, drenched in moonlight, her excitement grew. The Towers were said to be the most beautiful and mysterious of places, built by the greatest witch architects at locations of magical significance. She was bitterly disappointed when they came round the corner and saw the great entrance to the Tower of Dreamers broken and blackened. Overlooking the small loch, where two burns flowed together, the Tower was made of white stone. Once it would have been topped with delicate spires and a crystal dome. Now only two spires remained, and the entire west wall was tumbled down, littering the hill with blocks of marble. In the silence and darkness of the forest, it looked an eerie place, seemingly filled with ghosts. Both Isabeau and Brun came naturally to a halt, and she turned to him to ask him a question.
He put his thick, hairy finger against his mouth. ‘We mun be quiet,’ he whispered. ‘We do no’ want the Horned Ones to hear us.’
‘What are the Horned Ones?’ Isabeau whispered back, bending over so her mouth was closer to the cluricaun’s ear.
‘I do no’ ken where they bided afore, but the forests here are thick with them now, and we do no’ want to meet them.’
As Isabeau was about to ask again, he put his tiny, rough hand on her arm. Across the clearing was movement. A woman was bounding forward, heading down to the stream. That is if she was a woman, for Isabeau had never seen anything like her. At least seven feet tall, with muscular legs and arms, her head was crowned with seven goatlike horns. Isabeau opened her mouth to ask another question, but Brun shook his head at her furiously and laid his finger over his mouth again.
‘They have ears like a deer. Ye mun be quiet. If they catch us they kill us,’ he said, long moments later when all sounds of the horned woman had gone.
‘Why?’
‘They are the Horned Ones. They fain hunt.’
Isabeau was obediently silent. They waited in the shelter of the wall for what seemed like hours before Brun finally put his hands to his mouth and hooted like a horned owl. Three times he called, then was silent, then called three times again. Faintly on the evening breeze the reply came—three long hoots, silence, then the sound again.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘It be safe, we can go inside.’
Like thieves they flitted from shadow to shadow, at last slipping inside the great arched doorway. Once there would have been a massive oaken door here, with strong bolts and hinges. Now there was only the space where it had been. Inside the Tower was a long hall with a staircase winding up at the other end. The walls were painted with figures of people and faeries, only just visible in the gloom and giving Isabeau a little scare when she first made them out. Cobwebs hung in great loops from the vaulted ceiling, and there was broken furniture lying here and there. She began to feel afraid, and even looked at the cluricaun askance, wondering why he had lured her here. Again he knew just what she was thinking, and slipped his hairy hand into hers.
They climbed the stairs to the very top level, Isabeau peering anxiously down the four corridors that branched off from each landing. She was a little reassured that the talisman did not burn and tingle as it had done previously each time she’d been in danger, but she was still unnerved by the ruined beauty all about her. Enough of the original grandeur remained to move her—delicate columns holding up arched ceilings, walls carved in intricate patterns, with here and there the design of a flowering tree. The staircase was wide enough for seven men to walk up it abreast, and the ceiling so far away the apprentice witch felt dwarfed. Beside her, the cluricaun seemed more like a toy than a living being, a wood and cloth doll she might have owned in her childhood.
The top floor was all one great room, which once would have been roofed with crystal, perhaps stained with brilliant colours. She could see the jagged edges of what was now a gaping hole, revealing the entire night sky. The spiral staircase had come out in the middle of the floor, and she was standing directly under the centre of the glowing disc, the stars spread out in brilliant patterns above her. Isabeau stared entranced.
There was a movement, and a figure came towards her from one corner of the round room. She was tall and very slender, and dressed all in white. Her eyes were hidden by the darkness, but when she turned slightly and the faint moonlight struck the edge of her eye, Isabeau saw it was translucent, like a bubble. Her forehead was heavily corrugated, the moonlight falling upon the lines and casting them into deep shadow that seemed to gather in the centre, while her hair fell in vigorous pale waves down her back.
Isabeau NicFaghan, greetings.
Greetings, Isabeau responded, wondering at the name the stranger had called her, and feeling a sense of fear and wonder mingled. What this creature was she had no idea, except that it was by no means human. Do ye ken me?
Indeed. I have been watching you for a very long time. As she spoke, the shimmery figure moved closer and Isabeau backed away nervously. There is no need to be afraid. I mean you no harm.
I’m sorry, but I do no’ ken who ye are. I mean, what are ye doing here? Do ye live here? Are ye one o’ the Dream-Walkers?
The Dream-Walkers are all lost or gone, Isabeau. Can you not guess what I am?
Isabeau shook her head. The tall, faintly shimmering figure before her bowed her narrow head, the long pale hair swaying, and from deep in her throat came a strange humming sound that swelled and broke like the sound of the wind in pine trees. Only then did Isabeau realise that all their conversation had been in mind-speech and this deep hum was the first sound the stranger had uttered.
Do ye understand?
Again Isabeau shook her head, and like a fresh spring breeze came the word Celestine in her mind. Isabeau felt a certain awe. The Celestines were the original inhabitants of these forests and mountains, thought to have disappeared many years ago. A peaceful people who studied the movements of stars and seasons, they had been swamped by the quickly growing population of humans who cut down the forests for farmland and quarried the mountains for stone for their cities and towers. Meghan had a profound reverence for the Celestines, who loved the beasts of field and forest as she did. Whenever she spoke of them, which was often, her voice grew hushed and sometimes her eyes filled with tears. Meghan had always loved the hunted creature, the small and weak and defenceless.
All Isabeau’s fear and distrust melted away. She started forward with a cry, saying, Celestine! But ye canna be … they’re gone. I have always heard …
The Celestines, as your people decided to call us, are indeed gone, the Celestine spoke in her stilted, sorrowful mind-accent. Here and there one still sits in the ruins of what we knew and grieves, but soon they too shall pass, and then there shall be none.
But why? Can ye no’ save them? Is there nothing ye can do? My guardian weeps sometimes when she thinks the Celestines are no more.
Meghan of the Beasts is indeed our friend.
Ye ken her?
I remember her as a lass. I have not seen her for many years, not since Aedan Whitelock died. I have often observed her, though, and you.
And me? How?
I see many things …
Are ye a seer?
In a way. I cannot see the future, the way the dragons and some among your kind do. I can see what is invisible or concealed. 1 can see what is in the heart. I can see you have been hurt, and that you are unused to pain. I can see you have a fierce spirit that shall grow fiercer yet. I can also see that lying comes naturally to you.
Isabeau was taken aback, her first impulse to refute the accusation heatedly. Then she blushed, for it was true.
Isabeau, I know you are tired and your body still weak. Why do we not sit down and look at the stars together and talk? I can see questions taut in your mouth, and I can see that you fear me. You are wise, Isabeau Apprentice-Wit
ch. We of this land are not like you. Even Aedan made this mistake. He thought we were alike under the skin. This is not true.
She lead the way to a stone-carved bench against the stairwell balustrade, and sat there, leaving most of the bench for Isabeau. She stared up at the stars and said, When Magnysson shall at last hold Gladrielle in his arms, all will be healed or broken, saved or surrendered …
I’ve heard that somewhere before, Isabeau thought dreamily, resting her head back and nestling her throbbing hand against her side.
There is to be a conjunction of forces at Samhain, night of the dead, that has not been seen since Aedan Whitelock first wrought the Lodestar, four hundred and eighteen years ago. The power in the Lodestar is dying—it needs to be touched and held, its power nurtured and used, not to lie in darkness and hollowness.
The Lodestar … is that no’ the Inheritance o’ Aedan? It was destroyed, in the battle between the witches and the Red Guards.
It was not destroyed. Destroy the Lodestar so easily? No, it was hidden. This I know. It may soon flicker out, though, if it is not found and given to the hand of a MacCuinn. And if it is found and used at Samhain, then indeed all shall be saved or surrendered … I know you have part of the Key with you.
Pardon?
The bag of nyx hair you have hidden it in cannot hide it from my eyes …
Involuntarily Isabeau touched her hand to the pouch at her waist. Fear sent cold tendrils twisting through her stomach. The talisman was cool though, and still.
It is possible you do not know what you carry. It does not matter. The Key must be united. I know this was the task Meghan of the Beasts set you, and I know you must fulfil it. The year is creeping away and there are many threads yet to be spun.
