The Heart of Stars

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Who never ate his bread in sorrow,

  Who never spent the darksome hours

  Weeping and watching for the morrow

  He knows ye not, ye heavenly powers.’

  JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE,

  Wilhelm Meisters Wander, 1796

  Rhiannon flew into the tumultuous darkness, her face lifted so she could feel the sting of rain against her skin and taste it with her tongue. Wild and sleety, the wind dragged at her hair and clothes, so strong it seemed as if invisible arms were dragging at her, seeking to fling her down into the dizzying space beneath her.

  Rhiannon laughed. She flung wide her arms, embracing the storm. Between her knees she felt the warm, living architecture of her winged mare’s body; the delicate bones, the straining muscles, the labouring heart that worked together to keep the great wings beating. If Blackthorn’s wings should falter, there was nothing between Rhiannon and death but one long scream.

  Rhiannon was not afraid. She was alive. She was free. She was loved. She could have shouted her exultation to the wind, if there was not such a desperate need to be silent.

  It was almost dawn on a bitter cold, storm-wracked midsummer’s night, at a time when all the known order of the universe was wrenched awry. The Rìgh was dead, murdered in his own banqueting-hall. His heirs had disappeared, stolen away by enemies whose purpose could only be evil. Summer was banished, and in its place had come this unnatural winter, the corn and oats rent by wind and hail, the fruit stricken by frost, the lambs perishing in the snow. It was a storm born of a banrìgh’s grief, and until her children were found and restored, and her husband’s murderer found, there seemed little chance of summer returning.

  Although Rhiannon felt a natural sense of awe at the power that could turn the seasons inside out, she otherwise felt little sympathy for Iseult, the Dowager Banrìgh. The Rìgh who had died was not her Rìgh, and if it had been up to his widow, Rhiannon would have swung at the end of a rope for his murder. She had escaped only because of the desperate efforts of her lover, Lewen, who had wrapped himself about the clapper of the giant bell that tolled the change of hours. Iseult had commanded that Rhiannon be hung at the ringing of the dawn bell, but Lewen’s shaken and battered body had rendered the bell mute, giving her friends time to beg for a pardon from the new Banrìgh, and so Rhiannon had been saved.

  Rhiannon smiled. Although many cold, dark hours had passed since they had parted, Lewen’s farewell kiss still warmed her all through. She wondered how long it would be before she could again lie in his arms, feeling the length of his naked body pressed against hers, his fingers clenched in her hair, his groan in her ear. She had to press her knees tighter into Blackthorn’s sides and grip her hands into the wet, bedraggled mane to control her instinctive swoon at the thought of it.

  The faster ye find Roden, and the prionnsa and banprionnsa, the faster ye can go home, she told herself.

  Below her the forest stretched dark and dense. She could see only dimly, despite the sharp eyesight she had inherited from her satyricorn mother. The rain was in her eyes and there was no moon or stars to shed any light. The dark tossing leaves below her were as impenetrable as the clouds above her. Nonetheless, Rhiannon bent over Blackthorn’s shoulder, scanning the forest for any sign of life. They would not have lit a fire in this wild, wet storm, but they might have lanterns to help light their path through the forest, or perhaps she would see the square shape of a carriage or a glint of steel or glass. She could, perhaps, hear the whicker of a horse, or the cry of a small, frightened boy. Rhiannon could only watch and listen and smell the wind, and hope her enemies thought themselves safe.

  An hour passed and there was still no sign of them. Blackthorn’s vitality was flagging. She was not built for flying so far, against such a wind. Rhiannon searched for a gap in the storm-tossed canopy, somewhere where they could land safely. She was conscious of sharp disappointment. Once daylight came, it would be harder for her and Blackthorn to fly the skies without being seen.

  She saw the ragged shape of a large clearing and directed Blackthorn towards it. The mare stumbled as she landed, and although she recovered her footing, her head and wings drooped with weariness. Rhiannon led her into the meagre shelter of the trees and unbuckled her halter and saddlebags so the winged mare could scrape aside the snow and graze. They were both wet to the skin, but with the sleet still lashing down, there was little either of them could do but endure.

  Soon the sky began to lighten, and Rhiannon’s little bluebird popped its head out of her capacious pocket and began to warble. Rhiannon lifted the bird out carefully, and it perched on her finger and ruffled up its vivid feathers against the cold.

  ‘Why are ye complaining, Bluey?’ Rhiannon said. ‘Ye’ve been snug and warm in my pocket all night long!’

  The bluebird chirped in response, shook out its feathers and took to the air, flashing like a blue-fletched arrow into the trees. Rhiannon watched its flight with acute pleasure, for she saw the bird as a living symbol of Lewen’s love for her. He had carved the bird from a piece of wood and somehow, miraculously, brought it to life. Soon after, he had been struck down by the Banprionnsa Olwynne’s love spell and had forgotten his feelings for Rhiannon. Later, when Rhiannon had been about to hang, it was the bluebird who had found Lewen and reminded him, to some degree, of what he and Rhiannon had once shared. Without Bluey, Rhiannon was sure, she would now be dead.

  A thin ray of light struck down through the trees. Rhiannon rubbed her gloved hands together vigorously, then put back the sodden hood of her cloak and looked about her.

  She was sitting on the verge of a rough track through the forest. On one side the forest rose steeply, oak and hemlock towering over thorny sloe-bushes and bracken. Here and there great grey boulders thrust up from the ground. Wisps of clouds hung over the trees, and the sky overhead was heavy with cloud. It was very cold. Rhiannon shivered and wished fervently for dry clothes and a warm fire. When she rose to rummage through her bags for something to eat, her boots squelched. She found oat-cakes spread with bellfruit jam, which she shared with Bluey, and a crisp apple which she shared with Blackthorn, for there was little food here to sustain her animal friends. Rhiannon washed it all down with water, wishing she had the witch-skills to heat it without fire, like her friend Fèlice, to make herself a hot cup of herbal tea.

  Deep ruts in the road were filled with water. As Rhiannon ate, she regarded them thoughtfully. She could not help but hope they were the tracks of her enemy, but it was impossible to tell much more than that a heavy vehicle had passed this way. It was not a logger’s dray, for the hooves of the horses were too small and it was a team of four, not six, that had pulled the load. There were outriders, she could see, and some way up the road a horse had fallen and slid in the mud. Whoever had passed this way had been travelling too fast for caution.

  Rhiannon clicked her tongue at Blackthorn and, when the mare had picked her way daintily through the mud to her side, slung the bags back over her withers. She did not mount, however. The mud was deep and slippery, and Blackthorn was weary. So, walking side by side, they made their slow way up the road, Rhiannon’s boots sinking deep into the mud at every step.

  The bluebird sang half-heartedly as it flew on ahead, but otherwise there was no sound but the rushing of countless streams of water down the sides of the gully. They crested the hill, went down into a grey misty valley and climbed another hill. Rhiannon had to suppress her impatience. They climbed higher. Patches of dirty-looking snow lay beneath the trees. The road crossed a rushing burn, and Rhiannon knelt to examine the wheel ruts, which had cut deep into the mud. Her pulse quickened with excitement. It was clear the carriage had passed along this road only a day or so ago, since the storm had broken. The horses were struggling to pull it in the muddy conditions and were only moving slowly. For the first time Rhiannon began to feel sure she could catch up.

  They came to a clearing and there were signs of horses having been tethered to an iron post dri
ven deep into the ground. There was a muddle of footprints. Rhiannon found a number that could only have been made by a lady’s high-heeled shoe, and felt her pulse quicken. How many fine ladies would be travelling through the highlands of Rionnagan in this weather? It had to be the Banprionnsa Olwynne NicCuinn, who had disappeared the same night her father the Rìgh was murdered.

  Rhiannon had to resist the urge to leap on Blackthorn’s back and soar in pursuit. They were no fools, these enemies of hers, and their stakes were high. They would be watching for any sign of pursuit.

  Slowly, carefully, she went on studying the footprints. Olwynne – if that was who it was – had walked only a few steps, to the verge of the clearing, and then back to the carriage. Rhiannon surmised she had been allowed to relieve herself behind the tree. Rhiannon could see how she had stumbled and dragged her feet. Was she hurt, she wondered, or only overcome by grief and terror?

  There were the footprints of another woman too, one wearing sensible clogs. Rhiannon’s eyes narrowed. That would be Dedrie, the lord of Fettercairn’s skeelie. The skeelie had kindled a fire and sheltered it from the rain with some kind of shelter hung from two sticks. Rhiannon could see the holes that had been driven into the clay. There was a mess of other footprints all made by males wearing boots. They had sat on this fallen log, they had moved about feeding and watering the horses, they had gone down to the burn to fetch water. One had very small feet for a man, but was evidently big and heavy, for his boots pressed deeply into the clay. Then Rhiannon found a great round indentation where he had sat. Or she. The marks could have been made by a very large woman. In which case Rhiannon thought she knew who it was.

  Among all the mess of footprints, Rhiannon could see none that clearly belonged to Owein MacCuinn, Olwynne’s twin brother, or to the little boy Roden, son of Rhiannon’s friend and mentor, Nina the Nightingale. She could only hope that they were here too.

  Then, behind the fallen log, Rhiannon found a mark which made her heart leap. There, quite distinct in the mud, was the shape of a small bare foot. It could only belong to Roden. Rhiannon smiled in relief and pressed her hand to her chest. She had feared greatly for the little boy. It was really for his sake that she had undertaken this perilous hunt through the mountains. She had travelled many miles with young Roden and had had many adventures with him. She could not bear to think of him alone and afraid.

  Rhiannon mounted and urged Blackthorn into a trot. She was sure now that she was hot on the trail of her enemy, the sinister Lord Malvern. Having found his trail only brought her face to face with the dilemma of what to do next. She had no desire to face Lord Malvern, or his poisonous skeelie, or the band of loyal cutthroats who served him. She had no idea how she was to rescue the prionnsa and his sister, or young Roden. She had formed a vague notion of swooping down out of the night sky, snatching up one or the other of them, and flying away to safety. That would do for one of them at least, preferably Roden, but it was a trick that could only be performed once, if at all.

  Mentally she counted the arrows in the quiver that hung on her back. If she had to, could she shoot down the lord and his cronies? Rhiannon had killed a man once before, and the experience had been a disturbing one. It troubled her dreams sometimes, that moment when the arrow had sprung free of her bow and curved inexorably down, slicing apart the air with a singing hiss, and ended its journey deep in a man’s fast-beating heart. She had not known how it could haunt you, the killing of a man. Could she do so again, knowing what she knew now?

  Rhiannon hoped so. They had killed hundreds between them, these men she pursued, many of the deaths cruel ones. If she did not stop them, they would kill Olwynne and Owein and Roden too.

  As she rode, Rhiannon listened intently to the rustle of the forest, her eyes moving constantly over the landscape. She paused often to examine the tracks before her, using every piece of woodcraft she had ever learnt while running wild with her mother’s herd of satyricorns. She saw that one of the horses had begun to lag behind the others. Perhaps it was the one who had slipped and fallen some miles back. It was favouring one leg, and then beginning to limp badly. Rhiannon forced herself to move even more cautiously.

  It started to sleet again. Bluey came back and perched on the pommel, ruffling his damp feathers, then lifted the flap of Rhiannon’s pocket and deftly hopped in. Rhiannon gritted her teeth and clenched and unclenched her numb hands, wriggling her toes in her damp boots. She tried not to think of roaring fires and hot mulled wine and roast venison. She tried to think only of Roden, crying out for his mother.

  She came round a curve in the road and saw before her a dead horse, lying still in the middle of the track. Rhiannon reined Blackthorn in sharply, her heart slamming. No-one else seemed to be about. Rhiannon waited a long moment, listening, looking, then slowly rode up to the fallen horse. Its rider lay dead beside it. Rhiannon did not need to turn her over to see her face. She knew who it was at once. There could only be one woman so grossly fat her splayed arms looked like bolsters and her enormous rump like an overturned sofa. It was Octavia the Obese, the prison warder who had helped Lord Malvern escape. An arrow protruded from her shoulder. Another was embedded in the heart of the dead horse.

  Looking about her at the pattern of hoof prints in the mud, Rhiannon could see clearly what had happened. The valiant horse, forced to carry the gargantuan weight of the prison warder, had begun to fail and grow lame. They fell behind. Another rider had wheeled back and come galloping up. He had shot the horse dead. It had fallen, trapping Octavia beneath it. The rider had come closer and coolly shot dead the obese woman as she struggled to rise. Then he had turned and gone galloping up the road again, leaving horse and woman to die in the mud behind him.

  Rhiannon took a few deep breaths, shaken despite herself. She had hated and feared Octavia as she had never hated and feared anyone before. Rhiannon had spent one night in Octavia’s charge and had seen the prison warder chain up a sweet-natured young woman called Bess for the rats to tear apart. She knew Octavia to be capable of acts of incredible cruelty. Rhiannon had dreaded having to face her again, and should have been pleased and relieved to find her here, dead on the road. Instead, she had to clench her hands together on the reins to stop them from shaking. It was such a ruthless, cold-hearted act, to shoot down horse and rider simply because they were slowing the party down.

  Dusk was falling. On they rode, going quietly. Rhiannon’s heart was thumping. Blackthorn felt her unease and shied a little, ears laid back. Rhiannon soothed her and held her steady.

  The drizzle that had tormented them all afternoon was turning into snow. Rhiannon did not dare pull up the hood of her cloak in case it muffled her ears. She tucked it closer about her throat and rode on. The bluebird was a soft, round mound in her pocket, and occasionally Rhiannon put down her hand to pat it.

  There was a clink of metal ahead of her. Blackthorn froze midstep. Slowly Rhiannon backed her mare deeper into the gloom under the trees, then slid down from her back. Pressing against the mare’s labouring side, she peered through the snow, listening for all she was worth. She heard another clink, and then a low curse.

  Two large travelling carriages were pulled in at the side of the road, under the shelter of some big old trees. The eight exhausted horses that had dragged them up the steep muddy road all day were being untethered by a young man in rough homespuns and leather gaiters. There was still enough light for Rhiannon to recognise the surly, unshaven face of Jem, one of the grooms from Castle Fettercairn. He paused every now and again to gulp from a large, battered hipflask made of silver so tarnished it was almost completely black.

  Jem tethered the horses under the trees and gave them a quick rub-down before scattering a few meagre handfuls of hay before them. Rhiannon pressed her lips together. It angered her to see horses treated so badly.

  Meanwhile, the outriders were stretching their backs and complaining about the cold and the mud and bony spines of their hacks. Jem grunted, and came and took their horses.<
br />
  ‘Give us a wee dram,’ the bodyguard Ballard said. ‘Ye always have a drop o’ something about ye to warm the bones.’

  ‘Get your own,’ Jem snarled.

  ‘Go on! Be a sweetheart now,’ the coachman said. ‘Else we’ll tell the laird about your wee bottle, and then all o’ us will go thirsty.’

  Jem grunted, and took the tarnished hipflask out of his pocket, tossing it to the others. They all took a swig, wiping their mouths with satisfaction and saying, ‘That’s the stuff.’

  ‘No need to drink it all,’ Jem said, and held out his hand for the bottle. They all took another thirsty gulp then passed it back to him. He carefully wiped the lip of the bottle with a handful of snow before tucking it away in his pocket again.

  While Jem groomed and fed the hacks as desultorily as he had the carriage horses, the others lit smoky torches and stuck them all round the campsite. The wind shifted and the weary horses lifted their heads and looked towards the shadows where Rhiannon was crouched. She willed them to be quiet, and after a moment they lowered their heads again.

  One of the men opened the door of the carriage, and a plump, middle-aged woman clambered down, a shawl huddled about her.

  ‘Mercy me!’ she cried. ‘Snowing again? What evil spell have those blaygird witches cast against us? If only I had kent, I would’ve packed my cloak, and some mittens, and a nice warm scarf, instead o’…’

  ‘’Tis cold as a witch’s tit out here,’ Jem said sourly. ‘Canna ye light us a fire and cook us up something hot instead o’ clucking about like an auld hen?’

  ‘Have ye gathered me any firewood?’ she demanded. ‘I canna light a fire with naught but a snap o’ my fingers, Jem, no’ being a witch myself.’

  ‘Fine,’ he snarled and, huddling his hands under his armpits, went crashing into the undergrowth looking for fallen branches and twigs. ‘Come and help me, ye lazy bastards!’ he called to the other men, who reluctantly followed him, muttering under their breath.