Dragonclaw

by Kate Forsyth

  Unable to keep herself dry, fever often swelled up and overtook her, so that her journey was broken by periods of inertia when she lay in someone’s barn and stared out at the rain, unable to find the energy to search for food. On one such night she had taken shelter in a stable, hiding Lasair in a back stall and feeding him handfuls of the farmer’s good grain. Hunger and exhaustion warred against each other in her body so that she drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of feasts with tables groaning with food. Suddenly she woke with a jerk and huddled deeper into the scratchy straw as a shadow passed in front of the stable door.

  Feeling uneasy and vulnerable, Isabeau wrapped her filthy plaid about her and cautiously knelt and peered out into the yard. Across the cobblestones crouched the old farmhouse, light spilling from the kitchen door. She saw a shape flitter against the light. Nerves jangled everywhere in her body. She had seen a shape like that before.

  Shaking with trepidation but drawn forward by an irresistible curiosity, Isabeau climbed up into the loft so that she could see across the stable yard. Through the kitchen window she saw two small children playing with sheep’s knuckles while their mother stirred a pot on the fire. From a chair that had its back to the window she saw two long legs protruding, a pink toe peeping out from a hole in a woolly sock. The mother turned to say something but, instead, her mouth fell open and she screamed. Isabeau could see her eyes protruding and her mouth as wide as a mine shaft, but could hear nothing. As the father leapt out of the chair, a piece of wood he was whittling falling out of his lap and rolling across the floor, Isabeau saw the shadow detach itself from the door and step smoothly inside.

  Isabeau felt like screaming herself. Seven feet tall and a ghostly grey, the creature had wings like a dragonfly’s—stiff and iridescent grey—and a calm, beautiful face. Remembering all too well the last time she had seen a Mesmerd, Isabeau wanted to cry out and warn the crofters, but it was too late, both mother and father were gazing at the winged ghost with a fascinated smile, and the Mesmerd had bent and scooped up both children, one in each pair of arms. Smoothly and silently the Mesmerd turned and left the cottage, with the parents still standing in the middle of the floor, idiotic smiles fixed to their faces, and the children equally as still and hypnotised in the faery’s arms.

  As the Mesmerd crossed the stable yard, it turned and looked up at the opening into the loft straight at Isabeau, who immediately ducked her head down, trembling. For five agonising minutes she lay as still as a stone, waiting for the moment when the Mesmerd’s clawlike hand would touch her. At last she realised it was gone, and sat up, seeing the farmer and his wife still standing in the same positions. As she watched, the farmer stirred and the smile faded from his face, to be replaced by horror and fear. She watched him slap his wife across the cheek to rouse her, and then the wailing and crying began. Quickly as possible, Isabeau gathered together her things and saddled Lasair, knowing a search would be mounted. She had to be gone.

  That night, as she rode through the endlessly driving rain, fearful questions hammered at her. Why had the Mesmerd stolen the children? Why had it not killed the parents as it had so lovingly killed Seychella? Most of all, why had she been spared? She was sure the Mesmerd had been aware of her presence—why else had it turned and stared up at her as she crouched in the straw? Was it waiting for her out in the wild night, the howling storm? In a panic, she kicked Lasair in the ribs and he shot forward, racing over the fields, careless of stones or coney holes or ditches.

  After seeing the Mesmerd, Isabeau again began to fear pursuit, and her nightmares returned with frightening force. She took to riding through most of the day as well as the night, hidden behind veils of rain, her plaid drawn up to cover her face. Small villages huddled in every fold of the land, and it was now rare to ride more than a few miles without passing a croft or farmhouse, smoke rising from their chimneys into the damp air.

  Most of the time she existed in a daze, clinging to Lasair’s saddle as he cantered through the streaming rain. They barely stopped, either to sleep or eat, for the magic of the saddle meant both felt reasonably fresh while riding, but pulverised with exhaustion once they stopped. As soon as she lifted the saddle off Lasair’s back, he would begin to tremble with exhaustion, and soon she never removed it at all, riding day and night, sleeping in the saddle and only dismounting to search for food or to find a bush to squat behind.

  One night they cantered up a steep incline to find a blaze of light and movement on the other side. A procession of torches was winding its way along the road towards her and, in a panic, Isabeau urged Lasair off the road and behind a wall, admonishing him to be quiet. In the darkness she crouched, sure the procession was angry villagers or soldiers come to capture her again. Then the cavalcade came closer and she heard laughter and jesting, and saw men and women dancing together and holding hands, crowned with leaves and flowers.

  Beltane, she thought with a pang. It is Beltane already, the first of May. She had been riding for over a month.

  At the head of the parade danced a tall, thin man, dressed in leafy branches from head to toe. Isabeau peered over the wall in delight. The Green Man … I have always wanted to see the Green Man …

  She would have liked to follow the laughing, dancing figures and seen the end of the May Day celebrations, but with a sigh she mounted as soon as they had passed, and set her face to the south again. Later that night she saw another village in the distance and could not resist sidling close to the village square to watch the bonfire and the dancing. They had just crowned the May Queen and were tying up the maypole in honour of her. A feast was spread out on tables in the square and, overcome by a temptation she could not resist, Isabeau crept from tree to tree until the tables were tantalisingly close. She waited until all attention was on the acrobatics being performed in the centre, then dived under the cover of the white cloth. There she lay all night, putting out a dirty hand and pulling whatever her fingers encountered back into her shelter. For the first time in weeks she was able to eat to her heart’s satisfaction, watching the show from under her cover and wishing she could dance and laugh like the other girls, but feeling a chasm between them like the Great Divide.

  Isabeau watched until the flames were beginning to die down, then slipped away again to resume her silent journey. This time though her pack was crammed with remnants of bread and roasted vegetables and baked cheese and mushroom pies, and waves of dizziness no longer washed over her.

  Two days later Isabeau and Lasair came within sight of the river, winding down the valley in silver loops that once almost met itself before twisting away again. To the south lay the flatlands of Clachan, which had once been flooded with the winter tides every year. The Clachans had built retaining walls and causeways and canals with locks to control the wildly swinging tides, and nurtured the soil with seaweed and manure until it was almost as rich as the fields of Blèssem.

  Far in the distance she could see great rocky crags thrusting up through the soil to tower above the flat plains around, and it was here the villages and towns were built, far above the threat of the king tide that every spring rushed in and threatened to drown the land again. Although the walls and canals controlled the tide better than any other measure, the tide was still an unpredictable thing, and the people of Clachan had learnt the hard lessons of living near the terrible power of the sea. It was on their shores that most of the great battles with the Fairgean had taken place, and here that generation after generation of Clachans had struggled to make a living. It was only since Aedan’s Pact and the defeat of the Fairgean that they had succeeded. The people of Clachan were hard-working, dour and suspicious, and Isabeau would have to be even more careful.

  The road she had been following eventually joined the royal highway, and Isabeau joined the hordes of workers, merchants, mercenaries, beggars and footsore travellers heading towards Dùn Gorm, the blue city. Keeping her tam o’shanter pulled low over her hair, Isabeau wished the rain would return to help conceal her as she t
ried to work out a plan of action. She had to cross the river to get to the palace and this posed a problem, for the ferry would be guarded and the river was too swift and wide for her to attempt a crossing. On a sudden inspiration, Isabeau brewed up an evil-smelling potion and washed her hair in it. The dye, made from elder and bay leaves, did not cover the ruddiness of her hair as well as she had hoped, but the dirty brown that resulted was still far more inconspicuous than her original colour.

  She then covered Lasair with old sacks and tried to make him walk more like a broken-down workhorse than a proud stallion. Since she had travelled the distance from Aslinn to the Rhyllster in less than half the time it should have taken her, and both she and Lasair were greatly travel stained, this was an easier task than it might otherwise have been. Their dirtiness and their exhaustion made it much easier for them to pass, though one guard scrutinised Isabeau’s face carefully, making her heart thump so hard she was sure he would hear it.

  The ferry rolled alarmingly as it crossed the rushing river, and Isabeau hid her face against Lasair’s shoulder, triumph and gladness welling up in her.

  Gently, gently, she admonished herself. We’re no’ there yet.

  Then they rounded the curve of the river and there was the Berhtfane, crowded with ship masts like toothpicks in a jar. Only the stretch of water before the palace was clear and the water shone a heavenly blue, the delicate spires of Rhyssmadill rising behind. Built on one of the rocky crags which reared like fingers out of the plain, Rhyssmadill seemed to float in the haze above the waters, its sharp towers shining. Despite herself, joy shot through her and she touched the pouch at her belt.

  She removed Ahearn Horse Tamer’s bridle and saddle in the forests behind Rhyssmadill, having to fight the weakness that came over her as soon as she put foot to ground. The moment the saddle was removed, Lasair stumbled to his knees, his eyes glazing with exhaustion. Isabeau rubbed him down with a damp cloth, and brought him armfuls of sweet-smelling grass. He lipped at the grass, too tired even to eat, and she rubbed his ears and promised him oats, tears of remorse stinging her eyes. She was shocked at the effects of their journey and was beginning to understand the effects of the magic saddle. When Isabeau had first met Lasair, he had been a full-chested stallion, glossy and well-fleshed, still in the prime of his life. Now he was so thin his ribs stuck through his rough, bedraggled coat, and his mane was tangled with burrs.

  Despite her own weakness, and her fear of being caught, Isabeau risked a journey into Dùn Gorm to steal him oats and strengthening medicine, and these she mixed into a warm mash and fed him by hand till his strength returned.

  The saddle and bridle she hid in the trunk of a hollow tree, and with what little strength still remained to her, protected it with a magical ward. For three days she stayed with Lasair, caring for him, whispering endearments, covering him with her plaid and bringing him sweet herbs and water. Then, when he was well enough, she made her way towards Rhyssmadill, leaning on the stallion, the talisman hidden in her clothing.

  At the edge of the forest, they parted company, tears wet on Isabeau’s cheek. ‘I’ll come soon, to check on ye,’ she promised. ‘Be careful …’

  Lasair shook himself, snorting loudly, and she hugged him fiercely before letting him canter away.

  He’ll be safe in the forests, she thought. No-one will go so near the sea, and he’s too canny to let himself be seen. Then, taking her courage in both hands, Isabeau went to breach the Righ’s palace. Latifa is the name, Latifa.

  She approached the slender stone bridge lined by a full contingent of Guards in plumed helmets and carrying long spears. At first they thought she was a beggar and tried to drive her away, but she whispered Latifa’s name and it worked like a charm, winning her a smile and kind instructions towards the kitchen.

  Weariness was pressing down on her like a giant hand but she managed slowly to make her way, leaning against the wall for support and stopping every few steps to allow her dizziness to pass. She made her way down a stone walkway between the palace wall and the outer ring, and then she was in a garden, planted with herbs and vegetables, and fruit trees espaliered against the walls. A kitchen maid in a grey dress and a mobcap, digging up carrots from the garden, looked at her curiously and tried to shoo her away but, on hearing Latifa’s name, smiled and pointed towards the courtyard at the other end. A great arched door stood open, and delicious smells wafted out, along with a babble of laughter and gossip. Cautiously Isabeau looked inside, and there was the kitchen, a huge bright room with four fires burning along its sides. A tiny fat old woman, with twinkling black eyes like currants and a squashed brown face, saw her and came towards her, beaming.

  ‘At last! I’d given up on ye, Is’beau! My sister’s grandbairn, come to stay with me at last! Come in, come in. Are ye hungry? Here, have one o’ my gingerbread men, they’re famous in these parts …’

  Isabeau took it gratefully, warm from the oven and delicious. Latifa fussed about her kindly, exclaiming over the travel-stained sling and the dark shadows under her eyes. ‘Come up to my room, lassie,’ she said, and feeling unaccustomedly shy, Isabeau followed her obediently. Halfway up the stairs such a wave of dizziness came over her that she almost fell, and the old cook came back, and half carried her up the remaining steps.

  Once in the privacy of her room, a remarkable change came over Latifa. The cheerful bustling cook was replaced by a keen-eyed hard-mouthed woman who fired questions at Isabeau while swiftly unravelling the sling with accustomed fingers.

  ‘In Eà’s name, where have ye been? Meghan has been fretting herself sick about ye, no’ to mention the talisman. Do ye have it?’

  Isabeau nodded, and rather reluctantly slipped her hand under her shirt to find the black pouch. Contrary to her expectations, Latifa did not open the bag, but merely felt through its material anxiously. Her face cleared and she smiled, her whole face changing. ‘Thank Eà! Now we have all three parts, that is if Meghan can travel safely through to meet us wi’ the last third! The Banrìgh has put the MacRuraich on her trail, and Eà knows they never give up once they catch the scent. I have been guarding my third with great anxiety all these years and very relieved I will be to be free o’ it.’

  ‘I do no’ understand,’ Isabeau said wearily but just then Latifa undid the last bandage and drew in her breath sharply.

  ‘By the Beard o’ the Centaur, what have ye done to yourself?’

  ‘I was tortured,’ Isabeau said and to her surprise, began to cry. Once the tears began she could not stop, and an intense longing for Meghan rose in her throat, almost suffocating her.

  Latifa sat beside her, and put her plump arms around her, murmuring and comforting, but still Isabeau sobbed for her guardian. ‘Sshh, sshh, my dear, Meghan will be with us soon enough. So ye fell into the hands o’ the Awl? Silly silly lass. However did ye escape? No, no, time enough for storytelling later. Let’s get ye into bed.’

  Being the head cook and housekeeper at the palace had its advantages. Within moments Latifa had maids scurrying about, bringing pails of hot water to pour into the hipbath hidden behind a screen, hot strengthening tea for Isabeau to drink, and bottles of ointments and medicine. Isabeau sat in the bath, her eyes closed, as Latifa washed her hair for the first time in three months, the dark stain of the dye dissolving in the warm water. When she was clean, Latifa rubbed sweet-scented ointment into the livid scars and carefully strapped up the crippled hand again. Then Isabeau was tucked up in Latifa’s own bed, luxuriantly stretching and turning her cheek into the softness of the pillow. For three months, since the Red Guards had driven them from their tree-house, Isabeau had slept on the ground, in hedge-rows and tree-roots, haystacks and ditches. She thought drowsily that she was going to enjoy living at Rhyssmadill, at least for a while.

  Four storeys above Isabeau’s head, the old servant Sani stared into the magic mirror, a strange smile tugging the corners of her mouth.

  So, Latifa, she thought, ye are in league with the Arch-Sorceress.
I always thought so, though Maya would never believe me, the foolish bairn. Well, well, so Meghan’s own apprentice has joined us. There canna be another with that colour hair.

  She looked down at the mirror again at the reflection of the sleeping girl, her damp hair spread over the pillow like tongues of flame. She smiled again. I wonder … what’s in that pouch o’ nyx hair? What did the girl carry? It has to be strong magic else the nyx magic would no’ be needed. Latifa did not dare remove it from concealment …

  Wrapping the mirror back in its fraying silk, Sani locked it away in its box. Soon, my liege, soon … soon we will hold the land in our fist. The tidal wave o’ Jor’s wrath is rising, and to sand these rebels shall be ground!

  Aedan MacCuinn: the first Rìgh, High Lord of Eileanan. Called Aedan Whitelock, he was directly descended from Cuinn Lionheart (see First Coven). In 710 he united the warring lands of Eileanan into one country, all except for Tìrsoilleir and Arran.

  Aedan’s Pact: Aedan MacCuinn drew up a pact between all inhabitants of the island, agreeing to live in harmony and not to interfere in each other’s culture, but to work together for peace and prosperity. The Fairgean refused to sign and so were cast out, causing the Second Fairgean Wars.

  ahdayeh: the art of fighting.

  Alba: the ‘mythical’ homeland, the land from which the First Coven escaped.

  Anghus MacRuraich: Prionnsa of Rurach.

  Arran: southeast land of Eileanan, owned by Nic-Foghnan clan.

  Aslinn: deeply forested land owned by the MacAislins.