by Kate Forsyth
What is it? Isabeau asked, and clutched the pouch through the material of her dress.
It is the third part of the Key of the Coven of Witches. Meghan locked the Inheritance o’ Aedan away with the Key and it cannot be freed without it. Have you not felt its magic? It is a powerful talisman.
I think so, Isabeau said, remembering how, when she had been thrown into the loch, her bonds had broken with a great surge of power that she had never experienced before.
You have an interesting history, Isabeau. As much faery as human, if the people of the Spine of the World are included in your classifications. Your face is wrapped in a veil, and it is not a veil of your making. I hope soon you will be free of it, for indeed your other eye could be of use to you in these times. It is shaking loose, though, that blow to your head has freed it … Do not look so puzzled, Isabeau, just listen to what I say and what you cannot understand now, remember later. I have a gift for you.
Really? Thank ye … What is it?
Brun had been most uncharacteristically silent since they had arrived in the observatory, sitting at the Celestine’s feet while she ran her fingers through his curly mop. At her words, he jumped to his feet and went to rummage in one corner of the room. When he returned he was staggering under the weight of a saddle and bridle, the tack jingling with every step.
What is it? Isabeau asked, although she could see it quite clearly in the mingled light of the two moons.
It is the saddle of Ahearn Horse Tamer. He made it himself and rode it all his life. His magic has soaked in deep, and it is a good magic. I see you have a horse.
He’s no’ exactly mine.
I think you will find he is more yours than you expect. Besides, he has chosen to be with you, and that is his right. You know he threw and killed the woman who said she was his owner?
The Grand-Seeker? Lady Glynelda?
A woman with a cruel face and a red dress. The day after you were given to the loch serpent, she took him out onto the moors and rode him cruelly with whip and spur. He fought her, and she spurred him on until at last he threw her as she tried to make him jump a burn. She fell and hit her head, and drowned in the water, and the stallion bolted. Although her companions chased him, he was fleet of foot and they could not catch him. How he found you I do not know, though I see a strong link between you. He was clever enough to find the Old Way and so brought you straight to me. I want you to have the saddle.
But why? If it is really Ahearn’s, does it no’ belong to someone now? His descendants?
Yes, it does, and they miss it sorely. But now is not the time. I found it green and decaying in a disused carriage house many miles from here, and though it is heavy and not a relic of my people’s, I brought it here for you.
Why?
You are not safe here. These forests are infested with Horned Ones and the Fairge queen still casts her eye here at times to see the Tower remains in ruin. While you carry the Key you cannot be safe enough. You should not have the Key. You do not understand its power and it is not your right. The saddle will help you make it to the blue palace safely.
How? A saddle would be welcome, I agree, Lasair’s spine is bony, but—
Things of magic are always unpredictable. Ahearn rode it, and he rode as if he were the horse’s own flesh. I think you will find it will help you, for the journey from here to Dùn Gorm is still a long one, and the road is dangerous.
But I must return to Tulachna Celeste! Meghan told me 1 must wait there for a friend of hers …
I am that friend, Isabeau. Had you not guessed? I watched and waited for you, knowing Meghan had sent you to me. I saw you had wandered astray and so I walked the Old Way to find you. The Celestines may not walk the forests and hills freely any more, as you know, so I had to take a great chance … Shadows darken the Old Way, as they have always done, and I am weak without my kin and afraid …
What is your name?
Again the Celestine made the low humming noise in her throat, and Isabeau saw in her mind’s eyes the shadows of clouds racing over fields of wild wheat.
Cloudshadow …
Yes, ye can call me that, since you cannot speak our language. That is what Meghan always called me … Take the saddle, Isabeau NicFaghan, and ride for Dùn Gorm.
Then thank ye, I will guard it well, Isabeau replied formally, and received into her arms the saddle and bridle from the cluricaun, who had been staggering comically under its weight as he waited.
If you make it safely to Rhyssmadill, send Meghan this message. Cloudshadow of the Celestines sends greetings and warnings. Tell her to remember the dark constellations, for it is they that bear the message she seeks in the skies. Tell her Samhain, the first day of winter, is the time, and she must make ready.
Isabeau nodded.
You are tired and your injuries pain you. I will see if I can heal you. At the stroke of midnight, it shall be the beginning of the spring equinox, when day at last reaches the same length as night. It is a time when the energies run strongly, and I will try and tap them to find the strength I will need. The infection has dug its claws in deep, I am afraid. It will not be an easy healing.
Turning to the Celestine, Isabeau felt a shudder go through her as she suddenly realised the strange folds of skin in the centre of her forehead had rolled back and a bright eye was glaring at her from between the wrinkled lids. Isabeau was transfixed, unable to look away. The Celestine regarded her with her third eye for a long time, then slowly the folds of skin closed and the eye was gone.
Isabeau, your injuries worsen. I see great pain washing around you. Come let me touch you, Isabeau. It is midnight, and the tide of the seasons is turning.
For some reason, Isabeau was reluctant, perhaps because the Celestine’s third eye was so unnerving. Cloudshadow held out her long-fingered hands and slowly Isabeau moved forward until she was only a foot away. The Celestine smiled and the clear eyes regarded her kindly. Do not be afraid. If I do not heal you, you shall die, Isabeau. I do not wish that to happen. It shall hurt, but better a clean hurt now than the slow agony of that poisoned blood. Trust me.
Isabeau nodded slowly, and felt the Celestine reach out and lay her hands on her forehead. There were several sharp flashes of agony, a strange roaring noise that filled her ears, then slowly, a sweet pain that filled her blood, rose like a flood, then gently receded. Then all pain was gone, although she was left light-headed and her hand felt strange.
I could do nothing else, the Celestine said, in her usual cryptic way. I am not a powerful healer and you have a long journey ahead. I had to remove the infection …
Isabeau nodded, wishing she could lie down for a while. Her body felt odd, too light and too thin, though the consistent, throbbing pain in her hand was gone, replaced by an odd sense of nothingness.
Fare you well, Isabeau NicFaghan, was all the Celestine said then, but she touched her palm gently to Isabeau’s cheek and smiled in her grave way.
Isabeau nodded, and repeated the words. Fare ye well, Cloudshadow.
The Celestine then rose and glided down the staircase, the room growing darker as she left. Isabeau rose to follow, trying to heft the saddle without jarring her hand. She found carrying the saddle with only one hand very difficult, and though the cluricaun attempted to help her, he was so excited and boisterous that he hurt her quite badly in the attempt. He had been so silent and still during the entire episode with the Celestine that Isabeau had almost forgotten he was there. Now her restraining presence was lifted, he chortled and capered about, the chain of bright objects around his neck jangling loudly. He lead Isabeau back to her bed of cushions and carpets in the old kitchen, gave her water and nut bread with soft cheese to eat, and left her there to sleep. Isabeau thought the many mysteries she had been given to ponder would keep her awake, but so exhausted was she that she slipped into sleep as soon as her body relaxed into the bed.
When Isabeau woke, in the dim greyness that comes just before dawn, she peeled back the blood-stained ban
dages to examine her hand and only then did she understand the Celestine’s last cryptic words. With sorrow she saw she had lost two fingers of her left hand, the fingers which had been most badly infected. She had only two fingers and a thumb remaining, and these were stiff and crooked, and badly scarred. Although the scars were fully healed, they were an angry red and very itchy. She stared at her ruined hand for a long time, then slipped it back inside her sling.
Feeling only a cold shakiness, she gathered her things together, then pulled the saddle towards her so she could examine it more closely. Of simple make, with no decorations or embroidery, the saddle was a shabby, worn affair. Apart from crimson-dyed reins, the bridle was unprepossessing, and quite unlike the magnificent harness Isabeau had expected. On reflection, however, she thought this was probably for the better. It was going to be difficult enough not to draw attention to herself riding a stallion like Lasair through the fields of Blèssem. A kingly saddle and bridle would have drawn eyes, and aroused suspicions. And the saddle was finely made and surprisingly light given its bulk.
During the night Brun had packed her up a bundle in one of his coarse-woven blankets. Investigating, Isabeau found cotton pouches filled with salt, oats, flour and tea, potatoes, a rather mouldy hank of corn, and a great wedge of hard cheese. Neatly folded on the floor was a pile of rough clothing and, turning it over in her hands, Isabeau realised Brun must have sat up all night unpicking some of his own clothes for her. There was a pair of brown knee-length breeches, a pair of leather gaiters, a boy’s coarse linen shirt, a little small, and a leather jerkin. Isabeau had been rather concerned about having to ride in her dress and was sick of its confining layers, so she seized upon the clothes with relish, though dressing was very difficult with only one hand.
As soon as she felt herself ready, Brun was there and Isabeau wondered again if he could really read minds as easily as he seemed to. He carried the saddle and bridle outside for her, grunting with the exertion and staggering exaggeratedly under the weight.
The stallion’s reaction to the saddle and bridle was Isabeau’s first indication of the magic in Ahearn’s saddle. At first sight, Lasair’s eyes rolled back and he danced away, telling Isabeau clearly he wanted no more of these instruments of control. She held out the bridle to him and let him sniff it, and immediately his ears pricked forward and he nuzzled her arm. When she slipped the straps over his nose, he took the bit between his teeth with no head-tossing or jibing, and he stood patiently for her when she heaved the saddle onto his back.
Isabeau had never saddled a horse before and she thought it would take her some time to work out what straps went where. However, in moments it was done and with a sense of achievement she tied her bundle behind it and lead Lasair to a tree stump so she could mount.
At first the saddle felt odd beneath her and strangely precarious, and she had no idea what to do with the reins. In the end she settled for holding them in her one good hand and twining the fingers of the same hand in Lasair’s mane, as she was used to.
The goodbyes were said awkwardly, and she was touched when Brun held her foot in the stirrup, and said, ‘I have a riddle for ye, Is’beau … There are two splendid horses, one as black as pitch, t’other o’ shining crystal. Each runs ahead o’ t’other but they never catch each other. Wha’ are they?’
Isabeau had begun to work out some of the cluricaun’s strange riddles, and hesitantly, after several minutes thought, she answered, ‘Night and day?’
Brun was delighted that she had at last consented to play with him, and he danced a high-stepping jig, before clinging to her boot again. ‘Ride as fast as they, Is’beau! Ride fast and canny!’ As she began to move he ran with her, holding onto her boot, shouting instructions and directions that Isabeau did her best to remember. Soon he fell behind, and Lasair broke into a smooth canter.
Isabeau was still easily tired from her fever and she expected to need many breaks and rests, at least in the first day’s journey. To her surprise, she felt quite fresh by the time the sun was directly overhead and Lasair was only slightly damp beneath the saddle. She decided to push on as long as she could before stopping to rest and eat, but by late afternoon was still feeling only slightly fatigued. She must have been hardened up by the riding before Caeryla, she decided, pulling Lasair to a halt.
However, when she dismounted, a wave of giddiness overcame her and she had to sit in the shade of a tree a while before she could gain the energy to open her pack and eat. She had intended to remove the saddle and bridle so Lasair could crop the grass in comfort, but so great was her exhaustion, she decided to leave it on until they stopped for the night. She ate and drank, and was just deciding to sleep for a while in the comfort of the sweet-scented turf, when the talisman began to burn and tingle against her side. At once Isabeau was tense and looked about, but the clearing seemed deserted. There was a rustle of leaves and a crack of a stick, and immediately Isabeau got to her feet and shoved everything back into her bundle before strapping it behind the saddle.
Just as she put her foot in the stirrup to heave herself into the saddle, there was a rush of motion and a pack of horned women ran from the shelter of the trees towards her. Naked, their muscular bodies gleamed with sweat and she saw that a spine of stiff hair ran down their backbones, finishing in a short tail with a tuft of hair at the end. The horns of each were different. There was one with a single horn, long as Isabeau’s arm and rapier-sharp. Another had the spreading antlers of a geal’teas; another, four short stumpy horns like a goat’s. Each had a wild, gloating expression on her face and as they ran they yelled and shouted in blood-curdling tones.
Isabeau was in the saddle and her heels hard in Lasair’s sides in a flash. Lasair bolted gladly, his ears flat against his skull, his powerful hindquarters heaving beneath her. The Horned Ones were close behind, however, running swiftly as deer. The one with the rapier horn came close enough to graze Lasair’s rump, bringing blood swelling; and another grasped Isabeau’s stirrup so she had to smash her face with her boot to shake her. As the five-horned woman tumbled down, Isabeau urged Lasair towards a gap in the trees, leaning as close to his neck as she could. The stallion lengthened his stride and soared through the gap, so that the Horned One waiting in the tree branches misjudged her leap. Instead of knocking Isabeau from the saddle, she slammed into her, unbalancing her but falling backwards herself so she landed heavily on the ground. Isabeau clung to the saddle and wondered how she had ever managed to stay on.
It was only when they left the shelter of the forests and struck across open ground that the horned women fell back, and by that time Lasair was badly winded and flecked with grey foam. It was sunset, and the rolling fields were lit with a glorious light, vivid against a backdrop of storm clouds. Lasair slowed into an easy canter, and a fresh, green-scented breeze cooled their sweaty faces. Isabeau felt a great sense of freedom and salvation pour over her. Already she was free of the mysterious forests of Aslinn and into Blèssem—she could not believe how far they had travelled in just one day.
It was fully dark before they at last stopped and rested. Lasair buried his face contentedly into a field of fresh, young oats, and Isabeau made herself a cheese and herb omelette from some eggs she found in a nest in the hedge. She built the fire in the shelter of a stone wall so the flames could not be seen, and banked it low after she had cooked her meal. Already there were clear signs of the crofters of Blèssem. A red road ran decorously between stone walls, a patchwork of lush pastures spreading out on either side. Here and there small crofts broke the uniformity of hill and field, lamplight sparkling from the windows. Overhead a canopy of stars spread, and Isabeau, lying on her back in sweet meadow grass, pondered their mysteries, wondering what Cloudshadow had meant by the dark constellations.
Isabeau slept for only a few hours before rising and again saddling and mounting the stallion, an awkward job with only one hand. She had decided Blèssem was too populated for her to risk riding much by day, and she knew the crofters had
a reputation for mistrusting strangers, especially strangers with an air of witchery about them. When the Rìgh had first passed the proclamation against uile-bheistean in the months before the Day of Betrayal, the people of Blèssem had rejoiced and had been the most assiduous in enforcing it. They had been a little troubled by the secret raids on the Towers and the Decree Against Witches which followed, but since they had never trusted the magic powers of the witches, they muttered it was probably for the best. In the sixteen years since the overthrow of the witches, the people of Blèssem had easily come to believe they had always thought magic and witchcraft evil, and were proud that their country was clean of any sorcery. It would definitely be far safer for Isabeau to travel at night and spend the days resting.
It rained before dawn, and Isabeau had trouble finding a safe place to stop. Here the land had been cultivated for centuries, and there were few woods in which to conceal herself and the horse. It was fully light and she had already seen the silhouette of workers trudging along the horizon before she at last found a copse of trees thick enough to hide in. Even so, children playing hide and seek woke her a few hours later, and she had to hide in a tree, her heart thumping. She found she was terrified of meeting anyone, and thought grimly that her experience at the hands of the Grand-Questioner had given her a legacy of nightmares and starting at shadows, as well as a ruined hand.
The beauty of the cornfields under moonlight soothed her, so she rode without thinking about very much at all. She found she and the stallion had grown so attuned to each other she barely had a thought before the stallion reacted. Many times she was so tired she barely realised they had stopped until she looked up and saw the safety of overhanging branches around them and knew Lasair had chosen them a place to rest. Other times vague anxieties troubled her and the horse would lengthen his stride so the moment of unease was left far behind. Soon the clear weather broke, and day after day of chilly rain followed. Isabeau was hungry, for her supplies had soon run out, and so the need to forage slowed her down. Several times she crept into some crofter’s cottage and stole bread or a pie left cooling on the table, or pulled vegetables from a neat little garden. She had lost all guilt over her thieving ways, knowing only that she had to survive, to make it to Rhyssmadill.
