The Heart of Stars

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Thank Eà for the water o’ life,’ he gasped. ‘Slàinte mhath!’

  ‘Slàinte mhath,’ she repeated ironically.

  While Olwynne had been sitting with Owein’s head in her lap, Jem and Irving and Kennard the coachman and Ballard the bodyguard had gone on down the road with grim expressions on their faces. No-one seemed to worry much about the poor unsuspecting charcoal-burners ahead. Olwynne could only hope they would not fight to save their dray and carthorses.

  Lord Malvern was sitting on a rock, his furred cloak slung about his shoulders, his valet on his knees before him, massaging his stockinged feet. Dedrie brought him whisky, and some bread and cold meat, apologising for the roughness of the fare. She ignored Owein and Olwynne.

  Olwynne had not eaten since midday, when they had been given some dry bread to gnaw on as they rode, and a mouthful of water. Her mouth was so dry her tongue felt like a lizard in her mouth.

  ‘We need water and some food,’ she said loudly. ‘Do ye want us to die afore ye can sacrifice us?’

  Lord Malvern made a bored gesture, and Dedrie brought them the water-skin and tossed them some bread. It was so dry and old there was no way Olwynne could eat it, even by dribbling water onto it. She satisfied herself with drinking deeply, and helping Owein to drink also. Piers offered them more whisky, with an unhappy twist of his mouth, and Olwynne accepted, even though she had never liked it. It was better than bread, bolder and hotter, and filled her with a courage she knew to be wholly spurious.

  By the time Jem returned, it was twilight. Olwynne and Owein were forced to stumble down the road, the horses being too weary to carry their double load any more. Their humiliation was complete when Lord Malvern ordered ropes to be looped about their necks. Every time they staggered or tripped, they would be dragged up, the rope burning about their necks. So this is what it would feel like to be hung, Olwynne thought and was filled with a remorse so bitter it scalded her.

  In darkness they came into a clearing. Olwynne could only be glad of the lack of light. Her captors had slaughtered the peaceable charcoal-burners who laboured here, and tossed their bodies to one side. In the flickering light of the great bonfire Olwynne could see their slack bodies, like a pile of discarded clothes. It made her feel strange and cold and sick. She could not stop looking at them.

  Jem and Irving and Kennard and Ballard were drinking out of Jem’s tarnished hipflask with great gusto. A goat was turning on a spit over the fire, filling the air with the aroma of roast meat. It made Olwynne retch and weep.

  Owein looked very grave. ‘These are evil men indeed,’ he whispered to Olwynne. ‘Keep close to me. I can only hope they wish to keep us unharmed until we get to wherever we are going. Try no’ to attract any notice.’

  ‘What do they want with us?’ Olwynne whispered in anguish. ‘Why do they call us “the sacrifices”?’

  ‘I do no’ ken,’ Owein said after a moment. ‘I am afraid to even try and guess.’

  Olwynne shuddered. Piers noticed and brought them both some rough old blankets that, by the smell of sweat and wood smoke, had once belonged to the charcoal-burners. Olwynne huddled one about her gratefully. She was dressed for a midsummer wedding, not a trek through a wintry forest.

  ‘Do ye think she will come again, for us?’ Owein whispered some time later, when the men were busy about their meal and could not hear. He looked up at the night sky, studded with a thousand stars. The red moon was rising, gibbous as a mouldy orange.

  Olwynne felt tears sting her eyes. She could think of no reason why Rhiannon would risk her life or the life of her horse to come and rescue her, when Olwynne had stolen away the man she loved. Rhiannon would rejoice to know the humiliation and pain she was now suffering. Olwynne could not bear to quench the hope in her twin brother’s voice, however.

  ‘I’m sure she will come,’ she lied.

  Rhiannon was many miles away, sitting by the warmth of a fire in a small, rather rough village inn, with a mug of ale in her hands and a warm feeling about her heart as she observed Roden snuggled up in his mother’s arms.

  They had found Alloway without any trouble at all, simply following the thin line of the road back down through the forest to the river’s edge. Nina had been waiting for them, leaning on a fence, her hand raised to shield her face from the sun. At the sight of Blackthorn, she had begun to wave and call, and Roden had almost fallen to his death as he leant over Blackthorn’s side, waving madly back. Rhiannon had to hold his wriggling, squirming little body in a firm grip until the winged mare could land in the meadow and she could drop Roden to the ground. He had run across the snow, shouting, and leapt into his mother’s arms, while his father Iven had come running out from the inn to join them in one happy muddle of tears and hugs and kisses.

  The sight of them had affected Rhiannon deeply. She had found her chest heaving with sobs that she was quite at a loss to explain, and quite fiercely ashamed about. She had taken her time removing her saddlebags from Blackthorn’s back, and rubbing her down thoroughly, and leading her to drink at the trough. By the time Nina thought to turn and embrace her, Rhiannon’s face had been scrubbed dry and she could be sure of her voice again.

  Both Blackthorn and Rhiannon were very tired after the last few days, and so they had been easily persuaded to stay the night. Winged horses were not used to flying long distances. It was more natural to them to stay in their own territory, wandering along as they grazed. Their wings were usually only used to escape danger, or in the yearly migration from the summer breeding grounds high in the mountains to the winter meadows lower down the mountains, and back again. Rhiannon did not want to exhaust Blackthorn by keeping her in the air too much, particularly if they had a long flight over the sea ahead of them, as seemed likely. So she had stabled the winged mare for the night with some warm mash and a bale of hay, and a deep bed of straw, and taken the opportunity to enjoy her friends’ happiness.

  Iven Yellowbeard, a tall fair man with a long forked beard, was chatting companionably to the locals, hearing all their talk about the terrible weather and their distress over the murder of the Rìgh, and doing his best to allay their alarms. The hairy brown arak Lulu was sitting at Nina’s feet, her arms wrapped about the sorceress’s legs, her wizened old face pressed against Roden. The little boy lay with his head nestled on Nina’s shoulder, his eyes shut, his cheeks rosy from the heat of the fire. Nina was rocking him gently, her hand patting his back.

  ‘Poor wee laddie, he’s worn out,’ she whispered. ‘What an adventure! Oh, Rhiannon, I canna thank ye enough for saving him. These last few days have been the most horrible nightmare. I am so glad to have him back again it hurts me, really hurts me, like I’ve been punched in the heart.’ She laid one hand on her breast, tears running down her face. ‘I shall never let him out of my sight again, not even for a moment.’ She took a deep, ragged breath and then took Rhiannon’s hand. ‘If I can ever do aught for ye, Rhiannon, anything at all …’

  ‘Thanks,’ Rhiannon said gruffly. ‘But there’s naught.’

  Nina hesitated, then said softly, ‘Rhiannon, when this is all over and ye are released from the Banrìgh’s service … if ye find ye do no’ wish to keep on serving her … and do no’ wish to go to study at the Theurgia, as I ken Isabeau would like … will ye come to me? Wherever we are, ye would always be welcome.’

  ‘I ken Iven would very much like to add a flying horse to his show,’ Rhiannon said with a laugh. Nina and Iven were jongleurs, who travelled about the land singing and performing in the villages and towns, and secretly gathering information for the Coven and the Crown, respectively. From the moment he had seen Rhiannon and her winged mare, Iven had imagined the crowds they would pull if she was to join their small troupe. Both knew Rhiannon had neither the talent nor the inclination to be a jongleur, but it had become a running joke between them in the weeks they had travelled together through Ravenshaw.

  Nina laughed. ‘Indeed he would, but ye ken that is no’ why I ask ye.’


  ‘Aye, aye, I ken,’ Rhiannon replied. ‘Thanks, Nina. I’ll keep it in mind.’

  ‘I will never be able to repay ye,’ Nina said. ‘Never.’

  ‘I’m just glad I could save him,’ Rhiannon said, remembering the sight of the little boy in his white nightgown, barefoot in the snow, dodging the big men with their out-stretched hands and grim, brutish faces, all lit up from below with the red light of the fire. She shivered, and Bluey rubbed her cheek with its curved beak.

  ‘So am I,’ Nina said, smiling through her tears. ‘Now, I’ll just go and lay my lad in his bed, and then we’ll have some supper. I must admit I’m hungry tonight for the first time since all this happened.’

  ‘I’m hungry too,’ Rhiannon said.

  Nina smiled over Roden’s curly head as she carried him towards the stairwell, Lulu at her heels. ‘Are ye ever no’?’ she teased.

  At the Tower of Two Moons, Lewen leant on the stone balustrade and stared out across the witches’ wood. It was cold. His nose and ears stung, and his feet in their heavy boots were numb. It made no sense that he would stand here, when inside the great hall of the Theurgia a fire was roaring on the hearth and the lackeys were doling out big bowls of hearty vegetable soup.

  Yet he stood, watching the sun set like a giant red ball behind the tall dark columns of the yew trees, with his head and his heart in a tangle he had no hope of unravelling. Whom did he love? The wild girl, Rhiannon, so quick to kiss or strike, so clear-sighted it frightened him? Or the Banprionnsa Olwynne, his dear friend who had seduced him and jumped the fire with him, and whom he had promised to love forever.

  Lewen did not know. He loved them both, had betrayed them both, feared for them both and wanted them both. Now he had lost them both. Somewhere out there, in the cold dark, his two loves faced the most terrible danger, and he could do nothing but watch and wait, and suffer the discomfort of cold feet.

  ‘Lewen?’

  At the sound of Fèlice’s soft voice, Lewen turned his head and tried to smile.

  A pretty, slender, dark-haired girl, Fèlice was one of the caravan of apprentice-witches who had travelled through Ravenshaw with Lewen, and had sought shelter from a terrible storm at Fettercairn Castle, thus finding themselves catapulted into an adventure of kidnappers and necromancers, ghosts and mad old ladies, that had ended with Rhiannon on trial for murder. Fèlice was not very tall. She barely reached Lewen’s shoulder. But she had so much charm and animation that she was usually the focus of any room, particularly one filled with young men.

  ‘How are ye yourself?’ she asked, gripping the balustrade with her small, gloved hands.

  He shook his head. ‘No’ good.’

  ‘Me either.’

  They stared out at the smouldering horizon. A bright star showed over the mountains.

  ‘Will she be able to save them?’ Fèlice asked in a small voice.

  ‘I dinna ken,’ Lewen said, too raw for false comfort. ‘I hope so. But …’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘I think it’s more likely she’ll be killed trying, and Owein and Olwynne too.’

  Fèlice caught her breath in a sob, gamely suppressed.

  ‘The world has turned topsy-turvy,’ Lewen said harshly. ‘Naught is in its right place. I do no’ ken what is right or wrong, true or false, real or unreal.’

  Fèlice laid her hand over his. ‘Aye, ye do,’ she said softly. ‘Ye ken it as well as I do.’

  He shook his head, unable to speak.

  ‘It’s just because your heart is all in a tangle that ye feel that way,’ Fèlice said. ‘Once ye sort out the muddle ye’re in, all will be well again, I promise.’

  ‘I do no’ ken who I love!’ he burst out. ‘I feel torn in half. One minute I am sure it is Rhiannon, that she’s my one true love – but then I think o’ Olwynne in danger and it makes me sick with fear. And I’ve promised to marry her! We jumped the fire together!’ He stopped and pressed his lips together, then said with obvious difficulty, ‘I never thought love would be like this, I thought ye met the one ye are meant to be with, fell in love, and then everything was simple.’

  ‘It is simple,’ Fèlice said with the absolute certainty in the affairs of the heart that her sixteen years had given her. ‘It does no’ matter who ye loved first, or who ye have promised to marry. What matters is who ye love the most.’

  He heaved a great sigh.

  She patted his hand reassuringly. ‘Do no’ worry so. It’ll all come right in the end, I promise.’

  ‘And how can ye be so sure?’ Lewen demanded, and fixed his gaze on the far horizon, where darkness was rapidly swallowing the last of the sun.

  At dusk, the witches and the Celestines were once again standing hand in hand by a pool of darkly glimmering water. The sun was setting in the west, and in the east the red moon was just lifting itself free of its cage of tree branches.

  Isabeau glanced towards the far distant horizon, looking to see the bright star of the west, the planet they called the Fire-Eater. It usually appeared just as the sun was setting, particularly in summer. It was this bright red spark that was to be their guide on their mad, perilous rush back in time.

  The day had passed slowly. Although all were weary, they were too cold, anxious and uncomfortable to sleep. The crypt of an evil sorcerer was not a restful place to spend the day, particularly when one knew that the sorcerer had sworn to outwit Gearradh, the Cutter of Thread, and live again, no matter whose lifeblood was spilled to raise him.

  ‘Hot blood, he wanted,’ Ghislaine muttered at one point. ‘And he a sorcerer o’ ten rings.’

  ‘How are we to do it?’ Dide asked as the shadows had begun to lengthen and the time of their stupidity grew nearer. ‘How are we meant to travel back to the time o’ Brann the Raven?’

  Isabeau hesitated for a long moment. Dide had his frowning dark eyes fixed on her face, and she saw how both Ghislaine and Cailean leaned forward to listen intently.

  ‘The Celestines follow a lunar calendar,’ she said in a low voice. ‘They navigate by calculating the position and shape o’ the two moons against that o’ the stars.’

  Isabeau knew she was breaking a taboo by revealing the secrets of the Celestines, but could not think it mattered when in a few hours they could all be dead, or lost and wandering between worlds. She saw Cloudshadow raise her white, ravaged face and look at her, but the Stargazer did not protest and so Isabeau went on. ‘Apart from being gateways to the Auld Ways, the Hearts o’ Stars help the Celestines to predict the positions o’ stars and planets and comets in years to come, and also calculate where they were in years gone by.’

  You have listened well, Cloudshadow said.

  Dide and the witches were leaning forward in interest. ‘But how can they possibly ken where the moons and the stars were a thousand years ago?’ Cailean asked. ‘I mean, it’s no’ even exactly a thousand years. What is it? One thousand, one hundred and sixteen years, we worked out, since Brann died.’

  ‘The Celestines do no’ judge time as we do,’ Isabeau said, trying her best to explain something she did not fully understand herself. ‘Their year is a lunar year; they mark the passage from new moon to new moon. To follow such a system one must, in some sense, release oneself from the idea of seasons – the sowing o’ seeds in spring, the harvesting o’ crops in autumn. The Celestines do no’ sow and reap; they do no’ celebrate the changing o’ seasons as we do.’

  ‘But … surely such a system is flawed?’ Cailean said. ‘The moons and the sun do no’ move in perfect time together; they are out o’ step. A year o’ twelve lunar months is shorter than a year o’ twelve solar months. One is but twenty-eight days long, the other thirty or thirty-one. Each month they lose a few days; over time they would lose a whole month in the cycle o’ the seasons. How do they make their calendars work?’

  ‘I am no’ sure,’ Isabeau said. She glanced at Cloudshadow, who sat straight-backed, staring at the light striking in through the open tomb door. The Stargazer made no sign that sh
e listened to the murmured conversation behind her. ‘I do ken they have seasonal points on the horizon to mark the arcs o’ sunrise and sunset. When the sun rises behind a particular rock, for example, it is the shortest day o’ the year, and when it has swung all the way over to that cleft in the mountains, it is the longest day. That sort o’ thing.’

  Cailean taught alchemy, astronomy and mathematics at the Theurgia. He was pained and puzzled by this.

  ‘But …’ he began, and Isabeau could tell by his voice that he was doubting the Celestines’ ability to navigate through time. The Keybearer wanted no insecurity.

  ‘It is no’ just the moon they track, but the stars as well,’ she said. ‘Thunderlily has shown me. A star rises four minutes earlier every night. When it rises during the day, it canna be seen, o’ course, but once it matches its rhythms to that o’ the night, then it can be seen and tracked. The first day a certain star can be seen rising is most significant. The Celestines keep a record o’ these. Moonrise, star-rise, landmark, it is very precise, over thousands o’ years.’

  The others were baffled and sceptical.

  ‘Space and time are linked for the Celestines,’ Isabeau tried to explain. ‘It is a calendar based on landmarks, a horizon calendar. I ken it seems strange to us, but ye must remember the Celestines are intimately linked to their landscape. They ken each rock, each tree, each pool o’ water.’

  ‘Rocks can crumble, trees can fall, springs o’ water can run dry,’ Ghislaine said heavily.

  ‘Aye, that is true,’ Isabeau admitted. ‘And we have seen how even the circles o’ stones the Celestines built have been destroyed.’ She made a vague gesture out the doorway, to the formal pool that lay in the forecourt. ‘Yet the memory o’ the Celestines is very long; they teach the remembered lore to their children. Cloudshadow … the Stargazer says their calculations are very precise and we must believe her.’