by Kate Forsyth
A raven called weirdly. Rhiannon spun on her heel, her heart pounding. A big black bird was perched on a branch nearby, observing her. It cried again, mockingly. Rhiannon bent and scooped up a hunk of snow and flung it. Her aim was good. The snow broke against the bird and almost knocked it off its perch. It spread its wings and flew away, uttering its harsh, mournful call a third time.
‘One for sorrow,’ a voice said behind her.
Rhiannon turned to face Jay, huddling her hands into the sleeves of her coat.
‘It is a saying we have. One for sorrow; two for mirth; three for a death; four for a birth; five for silver; six for gold; seven for a secret, no’ to be told; eight for heaven; nine for hell; and ten for the devil’s own self.’
The fiddler spoke beautifully. His words sent a shiver across Rhiannon’s skin and reminded her of the sorceress Nina the Nightingale, whose magic was all contained in her voice. If the tales were true, then this slight, gentle man had magic in his fingers, in the sound he could coax from the strings of his viola. There was magic in his voice too, Rhiannon thought, though perhaps it was only the terror implicit in his words which struck such a chord with her.
‘Any raven within twenty leagues o’ Laird Malvern is trouble,’ she said sourly, sitting down on the log and warming her hands at the embers.
‘Ye think that was his raven?’ Jay asked, turning to stare after the bird.
‘Could be,’ she replied, and thrust her numb feet into her boots. Bluey was perched on her tent rail, looking very cold and miserable, and she held out her hand to it. It flew across to her, and she lifted it to her shoulder, liking the feel of its slight weight there.
One of the soldiers, red-nosed and morose, threw some more logs on the fire and began to make some mess out of oats and water that these humans called breakfast. Rhiannon whickered a satirical comment to Blackthorn, who whickered back. I’ll have it, if you do not want it, the mare said.
Rhiannon’s eyes brightened when another of the soldiers came in with a brace of coneys which he began to skin by the fire. Finn was still lying in her bedroll, but she suddenly rolled over, crawled out the end, and retched, noisily and publicly, under a bush. When she had finished, she looked positively green. Without a word or a look to anyone, she crept back into her little tent and dragged her cloak over her face. Her little cat, who had pranced away most indignantly, returned to pat her with one inquisitive paw. Finn did not look up.
Jay took her a cup of tea.
At the smell of roast rabbit, Roden at last woke up and poked his tousled head out of the tent, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He had been kidnapped from his bed, in the middle of summer, and so, dressed in a loose white nightgown, was woefully unprepared for this evil winter. They managed to find him a heavy woollen jerkin to wear over the top of his nightgown, and some socks that acted like knitted hosen. Wrapped in a blanket, with a scarf muffling him to his eyes, he was a comical figure, and evidently felt it. His lip stuck out sulkily, and his feet were turned inwards, and every now and again he jerked at his clothes, as if trying to drag them to a different shape and style.
He wanted his mother and father.
‘Brice will take ye back home,’ Finn said gently, indicating one of the soldiers who bent down to smile reassuringly at Roden. ‘It’s a day or two on the road, I’m afraid, but–’
‘I want to go home now,’ Roden said, his voice quavering despite himself. ‘Please, I want my mam.’
‘I ken, sweetie, and we’ll get ye there just as soon as we can. Brice is very quick, he can ride like the wind, that’s why he was sent with us. He’ll get ye to your mam and dai just as quick as he can.’
‘I want my mam now!’ Roden cried, and suddenly broke into sobs. ‘Please, please, I want Mam now!’
‘I’ll take ye back,’ Rhiannon said, putting her arms about the little boy. ‘Ye ken how fast Blackthorn can fly. If ye eat up your breakfast real fast, we’ll be on our way and I shall have ye to your mam afore sunset.’
‘Really?’ Roden asked, perking up at once.
‘Really.’ Rhiannon felt Finn’s curious gaze upon her, and said rather defensively, ‘He wants his mam. I’ll be back afore ye ken it. It’s better this way anyway. They’ll be looking for me in the skies now, and I have no desire to be shot down by one o’ their arrows. Once I have Roden safe and sound, I’ll fly after them again, and see if I canna get ahead o’ them and ambush them somehow.’
Finn nodded. ‘Very well. Let me scry to Nina and tell her the glad news that Roden is safe, and I’ll find out for ye where she is. Indeed, she’ll be glad to have Roden back again so quickly.’
As Roden happily chewed on a rabbit leg and inundated the soldiers with endless questions about battles they had fought, Rhiannon watched with intense curiosity as Finn drew out a small silver bowl from her pack and filled it with water. She set it on the ground before her and bent over it, as if gazing at her own reflection. There was a long silence. Rhiannon was puzzled. She had heard of scrying before, of course, and had watched the witch-apprentices attempt it a number of times. She had always thought the face of the person being spoken to appeared in the bowl, speaking as clear as if they were right next to you. But Finn’s eyes were blank and the water in the bowl was still, reflecting only the pale wintry sky.
At length the sorceress’s eyes lost their vacant, unfocused look and she shook herself and glanced at Jay.
‘That was hard, harder than I’m used to,’ she said ruefully.
‘Ye must no’ try to do too much,’ Jay said admonishingly.
‘Oh, fiddle! I’ll be fine.’ Finn stretched her back and then poured the water into the kettle over the fire. She turned to Rhiannon and Roden, who was teasing the elven cat with a length of wool he had pulled out from his rumpled socks. ‘Your mam is absolutely overjoyed to hear that ye are safe, Roden, as ye can imagine. She and your Dai-dein are at a wee village called Alloway, on the Rhyllster. It is where this road begins, so ye should have no trouble finding it, Rhiannon. It is where Laird Malvern abandoned his boat and took to the forest.’
‘How do ye ken all this?’ Rhiannon said suspiciously. ‘Ye saw it all in the bowl?’
‘Aye. Witches can talk to one another through water or fire or gemstone, if they are well known to each other, and no’ separated by a large body o’ water or high mountains. It helps if one is waiting for the contact. Nina and I had agreed to scry each dawn and sunset.’
‘But ye did no’ talk,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Ye were still and quiet.’
‘We talked mind to mind, as ye call your horse,’ Finn replied. ‘I have kent Nina since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I couldna talk so to a stranger.’
‘Knee-high to a grasshopper?’ Rhiannon asked in complete puzzlement, making a gesture with one hand as if trying to measure the knee height of a small hopping insect.
‘Aye. Very, very small,’ Finn answered, giving a little wry smile. ‘No’ as small as young Roden here, who’s knee-high to an ant …’
‘I am no’!’ Roden protested, even as Rhiannon realised it was yet another of the endless meaningless phrases that humans were so prone to use. She smiled mechanically, and filed it away in her brain for future reference. It had not taken her long to realise that people were much more likely to accept you as one of them if you spoke the same cant as they did.
By the time the eastern rim of the valley was brightening and the birds were singing, Rhiannon was astride Blackthorn once more, feeling the mare’s muscles bunch in her shoulders in anticipation of flight. Roden sat before her, wrapped up warmly in a blanket with a muffler up around his ears.
‘We will see ye again soon,’ Finn said. ‘Give our love to Nina and Iven.’
‘Look after yourself, Roden,’ Jay said, and put his hand up to pat the boy’s knee.
Roden nodded, looking very solemn.
Then Rhiannon wheeled Blackthorn about and urged her into a canter. She went away down the road like a black streak, and then lifted her legs high up und
er her belly, spread out her magnificent wings and soared up into the sky.
‘Whoo-hoo!’ Roden shouted.
Olwynne moaned. Her head thumped sickeningly and all her limbs felt weighted down. The mad phantasmagoria of her dreams still gibbered away behind her eyelids. She had dreamt she was on trial in a giant courtroom, the judges all leaning down and shouting at her, shaking their immense bony fingers, accusing her with their gimlet eyes. I did it for love, she had explained weakly, but they had shaken their heads in reprobation and, with great ceremony, turned their mantles inside out to red. Blood. Fire. Hissing red adders. Chains of her own hair binding her down. A rivulet of blood slashing across her throat like a crimson ribbon.
She had woken then, struggling up from the depths of her drugged sleep, but there was no sanctuary in wakefulness. The coach rocked and rattled and bounced and swayed and slid and skidded, and at times seemed to almost overturn. She and Owein were tumbled helplessly from one side to another, and tossed off the seat onto the floor till they were bruised and aching in every limb. The air was so cold their breath hung before their faces in little clouds of frost, and their limbs shuddered uncontrollably. They would have huddled together for warmth, but after Olwynne had half bitten her tongue off after cracking her head on Owein’s jaw, and they had landed one on top of the other half-a-dozen times, they concentrated on trying to keep their seats, bearing the cold as best they might.
They could hear the shouting of the coachman and the crack of his whip, and the creaking and clatter of the carriage, the occasional high-pitched whinny of a horse and the shout of the men riding alongside. Owein braced his legs against the side of the carriage and did his best to protect Olwynne with his arm and wing. Despite the cold, his curls were damp with sweat and his breath came in harsh pants. Both had already been sick till there was nothing left in their stomachs, but still nausea racked them.
All night they had driven through the forest, the men lighting the road with pitch torches. Drugged with poppy and valerian, both Olwynne and Owein had slept most of the time, although uneasily. However, once it became light enough to see, the horses had been whipped into this mad, headlong rush as the road began to plunge downhill. They could hear the screech of the brake being applied, and someone shouting. Then the carriage swerved, swayed violently from side to side, skidded sideways and then toppled over onto its side. Olwynne screamed as she was flung head over heels, knocking her head violently on the ceiling. She landed in a heap with Owein on top of her, his feathers smothering her.
She put her hand to her head and winced. Her fingers came away bloody. Groaning, Owein managed to lever himself off her. He supported one arm with his hand.
‘How are ye yourself?’ he whispered. ‘Olwynne? Are ye hurt?’
She was so dazed with shock and the drugged potion Dedrie kept force-feeding her that she could not frame an answer. He helped her up, and she staggered and lost her balance, falling again. The coach was lying at a peculiar angle, so that the left-hand door was buried in an embankment, and the right-hand door was above their heads, framing a patch of sky.
The carriage door was wrenched open, and the surly, unshaven face of Jem the groom glared down at them. ‘They’re alive,’ he shouted to someone. ‘Blood everywhere though.’
‘I told my laird we’d be over if we kept travelling at such a pace,’ someone else said. ‘Here, get them out. Can ye reach them?’
‘Toss me a rope,’ Jem answered.
It was a bit of a struggle to get them out of the carriage, both Owein and Olwynne being so shaken and bemused that they were incapable of helping much. It was a scene of chaos on the road. Lord Malvern’s carriage was mired in the mud where a small burn crossed the road, at the bottom of a valley. No matter how hard they whipped the horses, the poor exhausted creatures could not manage to drag it free. Lord Malvern himself was standing knee-deep in the muck, hissing at his coachman in a low, vicious voice, two white dents driven deep from his nose to the sides of his mouth.
Owein and Olwynne’s carriage had tried to stop before crashing into the first carriage, and had overturned. Half of the horses were lying in the mud, and two at least were clearly badly injured. One was screaming with pain, until Jem impatiently slashed its throat with his knife. He killed the other one too, without taking the time to examine the injury, and then unhitched the other horses and whipped them till they struggled to their feet.
Olwynne had entered a strange light-headed state that was almost euphoric. She could not keep her feet. Her legs just folded underneath her, as if made of old spinach stalks, and she found herself sitting in the mud again, her silver bridesmaid dress crumpled up all around her.
There was an angry exchange of shouts and accusations, which Lord Malvern’s voice cut through like a sword. ‘We’ve already lost one o’ the sacrifices due to your stupidity,’ he said icily. ‘And the Blue Guards are hot on our trail. We do no’ have time for this. Take only what we can carry with us. Ballard, ye are the strongest, ye take the prionnsa. Bind him well. Piers, ye take the banprionnsa. Dedrie, ye will have to go up behind Irving. Jem, ride ahead and make sure there is no ambush waiting for us. Now, to horse, all o’ ye!’
Olwynne found herself being passed up to a tall, thin man with grey eyes who murmured apologetically as he settled her in the saddle before him. Olwynne’s wrists were bound tightly before her, and although the man who held her kept asking her pardon, he held her with a grip like iron. Olwynne could only be grateful she had not been put up before Jem, who had a hot lascivious stare, or Irving Steward, who looked like he hung puppies for pleasure.
There were twelve in the lord’s party, with Dedrie the only woman. Three of the men were old, bent, grey and decrepit, and found it very hard to drive their horses on at the pace Lord Malvern demanded. Even when he whipped their horses himself with his long riding crop, and once, in frustration, whipped the old librarian Gerard who would not stop moaning, still their pace flagged. So Lord Malvern ordered them tied to their horses, and the reins taken by the younger, more vigorous members of the company. The poor old men were as jerked and jostled as badly as Owein and Olwynne, and their moans and cries of pain were a constant counterpoint to the uneven melody of the horses’ hooves on the stony road.
Olwynne was a fine horsewoman and did her best to keep her seat, but with her hands bound, her movement hampered by her flowing skirts, and the pommel of the saddle jammed up hard against her pelvic bone, she was badly jolted. Many times she would have fallen if it had not been for the strong arms of the man behind her. At first she sat bolt upright, flinching every time her back brushed against his chest, but soon she was glad to lean her weight against him.
By dusk the horses were all foundering and Olwynne was weeping with exhaustion. She did her best to hide it from the others, but she could not conceal it from the man who held her. He felt every shudder and choke, and kept whispering to her, ‘I’m so sorry, Your Highness. No’ much further now. Chin up now.’
Olwynne could only mop her face on her arm and try to catch her breath.
The road had been going downhill for most of the day now, and gradually the landscape had changed from towering grey mountains with their roots in stands of dark fir and pine, to steep stony ravines and gorges that led down into rolling hills of green forest. As the light began to fail, Dedrie looked about for a campsite. The horses were so weary they could only plod along with hanging heads, despite the lash of whip and prick of spur. Olwynne kept feeling herself falling, and would jerk awake with a cry and a convulsive clutch at the arms about her waist.
‘Easy now, Your Highness,’ the man whispered. ‘We’ll stop any moment now, and ye can rest a wee.’
‘When?’ she cried peevishly. ‘When can we stop?’
‘When my laird gives the order,’ he said.
Olwynne choked back a sob.
Jem came trotting back along the road, his horse all in a lather, blood running down its flanks from where he had dug in his spurs.
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br /> ‘There are charcoal-burners ahead, my laird. With a dray and six horses.’
‘Excellent,’ Lord Malvern said. ‘Let us relieve them o’ it.’
He ordered the riders to draw up on the side of the road, and Olwynne was allowed to dismount, if sliding off the horse in a clumsy rush to collapse in the mud could be called dismounting. Owein was tossed down to the ground too, and Olwynne saw her twin had fared worse than she. He was unconscious, his freckles standing out orange against his white skin. Dried blood obscured half his face, and his bound wrists were a red, raw mess. She crawled to him with a miserable cry, and brought his head into her lap. She could do no more.
The old men were lifted down from their mounts and given water to sip. They were greyer and more decrepit than ever. Olwynne saw the man who had ridden with her lift one of the old men in his arms and lay him on the soft grass at the road’s verge, wrapped in a cloak. The old man opened his eyes and smiled wanly, whispering, ‘Thank ye, Piers.’
‘Can ye manage any more, Dai-dein?’ Piers said gently. ‘I wish ye had never come … I wish …’
‘Far too late for wishing,’ the old man whispered and closed his eyes with a sigh.
Piers gave his father something to drink out of a silver engraved flask. He swallowed gratefully, and some of the blueness around his mouth receded. Then Piers brought the flask to Olwynne and she wiped the lip fastidiously with the least filthy part of her skirt she could find, and sipped cautiously. It was whisky, and it burnt a path like acid down to her gullet. Once she had finished coughing and choking, she felt an amazing return of strength and warmth and vigour. She lifted Owein’s head and poured a few drops into his mouth. It roused him at once, and he took the flask from her with his bound, bloodied hands and swigged a good dram.
