by Kate Forsyth
‘But it is the colour ye wore when ye were Banrìgh, more than any other colour,’ Bronwen said, pressing her hands together in distress. ‘Your soldiers wore red cloaks in your honour, and the Seekers o’ the Awl long red robes. It is the colour most associated with the Burning, and the years o’ terror.’
‘Was I no’ in mourning then?’ Maya said, anger sparking in her eyes. ‘Forced by my father to wed the king o’ our bitterest enemy, and woo him into evil and madness? Forced to murder thousands and thousands o’ people to serve my father’s lust for revenge?’
‘I thought ye wore it because it suited ye so well,’ Bronwen had said, trying for lightness.
Maya laughed, lifting her heavy red skirts and giving a small ironic curtsy. ‘Aye, and does it no’?’ she asked. ‘Yet that is no’ why I wore it, Bronwen. Red is the colour o’ Kani, goddess o’ volcanoes and earthquakes, fire and destruction. I was upon Kani’s work and so I chose to wear her colour.’
‘Yet ye are no’ upon Kani’s work now,’ Bronwen said.
‘Nay, but I shallna be a hypocrite and wear the black o’ human mourning for a man whose death I do no’ grieve for.’
‘Please, Mama,’ Bronwen asked. ‘Please. If black means naught to ye, it should no’ matter if ye wear it.’
‘I have worn the black o’ servants’ garb for twenty long years as punishment for my sins,’ Maya replied fiercely. ‘I will never wear it again.’
‘Then grey. Dark grey is perfectly respectable.’
‘I have no desire to be respectable.’
‘But, Mama, red … it will cause such talk, such a scandal. Please …’
‘And who are ye to worry about causing a scandal?’ Maya scoffed. ‘I thought ye delighted in thumbing your nose at polite society.’
‘Aye, but that was afore. I am banrìgh now. I must tread very carefully.’
‘Then tread carefully, my dear. But do no’ expect me to.’
‘I must,’ Bronwen said desperately. ‘Do ye no’ understand, Mama? By allowing ye to remain unbound, by bringing ye here to the palace, I have already courted much disapproval. The crown is no’ yet secure on my head! I may be a NicCuinn by blood and by marriage, but that does no’ mean all will welcome my rule. Rìghrean have been deposed afore. My uncle Dughall MacBrann has MacCuinn blood through his mother; he could challenge my right to rule, being at least fully human. Then there are those that hate the MacCuinns’ power and would welcome a chance to throw down the clan entirely. Please! I need ye to show the world a meek and humble face. Now is no’ the time to flaunt your new-found freedom in the faces o’ those who remember the Burning all too well.’
Maya had gazed at her in silence for a moment, surprised, and then she had nodded, her pale eyes gleaming. ‘Ye are right, my love. I will change. I will no’ wear black, I warn ye now, but I will find something suitable, I promise ye.’
Bronwen could have wished for a darker, more sober grey, but was so relieved her mother had changed at all she said nothing but squeezed her mother’s arm in silent thanks. She could see that many among the court took umbrage at the half-mourning, but she could only hope no-one would make a scene.
Just then she saw the old sorceress, Tully the Wise, tip-tapping her way towards them. A tiny woman, with a face as wrinkled as a prune, the sorceress was dressed from head to toe in black. Bronwen braced herself. Tully could be shockingly outspoken at times, believing herself old enough to have won the right to speak her mind.
‘It’s an outrage,’ Tully muttered, pointing a shaking finger at Maya. ‘The Ensorcellor should be in prison, no’ here at the palace flaunting herself for all to see.’ She looked around at the interested crowd and raised her voice. ‘How dare she show such a lack o’ respect for our poor dead Rìgh? I say it was Maya the Ensorcellor who spat the poisoned barb at our Rìgh!’
Bronwen glanced hurriedly at Neil, who nodded at her in reassurance, and went up to the old sorceress, bending his head over hers. He knew Tully well, having spent most of his childhood at the Theurgia with Donncan and Bronwen. He brought her a cup of hot mulled wine laced with a double shot of whisky, and when she had swallowed that down, smacking her whiskery lips in pleasure, gave her another. It was not long before he was arranging to have her escorted quietly back to the Tower of Two Moons. Bronwen could only smile at him gratefully.
It took a very long time to formally greet the guests, for the palace was still overflowing with those who had come to attend the wedding. Bronwen’s feet were aching and her throat was hoarse by the time the last one had filed past her and into the great hall.
‘Here, Bronny,’ Neil said quietly, and offered her a cup of steaming herbal tea.
‘I’d rather have dancey,’ she said, making a face.
‘Ye’ve been drinking too much dancey,’ Neil said reprovingly. ‘No wonder ye’re having trouble sleeping. The healer Mirabelle has made this brew especially for ye. She says it’s made with angelica and linden blossom, and bee pollen and honey. It’s meant to make ye calm and happy and focused …’
Tears stung her eyes. How can I be happy till Donncan comes home? she thought.
‘And I ken ye will no’ wanting to be drinking the wine, no’ today,’ Neil finished.
It touched her that he realised as well as she did that she could not afford to drink the potent mulled wine when she needed all her wits about her. Later, when all the guests were gone, she could relax and drink some wine. Now she was better off sticking to tea, much as she disliked it.
Bronwen sighed and took a cautious sip, then smiled in surprise. ‘Why, it’s delicious!’
She swallowed another mouthful, and felt it spread through her, warming and relaxing her. Bronwen drank the cup to its dregs and passed it back to Neil with a grateful smile, before moving forward to speak to the Siantan ambassador.
Iseult, the Dowager Banrìgh, had not attended the wake. With eyes blind with the agony of her grief, she had gone straight up the stairs and to her own suite of rooms. Bronwen wished she could do the same. But she knew how important it was for her to move about the room, talking with the prionnsachan and banprionnsachan, who would all leave in the morning to go back to their own countries.
She knew they must all be reassured that the search to recover the lost children of the dead Rìgh was proceeding with all possible speed. There had been no time for the shock over Lachlan’s murder and his heirs’ abduction to wear off; the prionnsachan were all upset and frightened, and Bronwen took the opportunity to allay their concerns as much as possible. It was a tricky tightrope for her to walk. Most of the prionnsachan still thought of her as the flighty daughter of the Ensorcellor. She must treat them all with grave respect and esteem, while still impressing upon them her right to rule over them. She had to try to allay any suspicions that she and her mother had anything at all to do with the plot to murder Lachlan. The absence of the Keybearer did not help. It made everyone feel uneasy and vulnerable, and Bronwen was too young, too beautiful and too controversial to assuage their fears.
In any other company she might have drawn upon just a little of her power to win some warmth and sympathy, and to impress her abilities upon them. The prionnsachan all had their own powers, however, and they were all accompanied by their court sorcerers. Any attempt to compel or manipulate with magic would have been noticed at once, and never forgiven. So Bronwen could only look fragile and yet brave, beautiful and yet sad, and reassure one prionnsa and banprionnsa after another that everything that could be done was being done.
The NicAislin of Aslinn was pale and frightened, tortured by nightmares; the NicThanach of Blèssem was sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, and anxious for her family; the MacFaghan of Tírlethan was wearied and exasperated by the continued sleep of his wife, Isabeau and Iseult’s mother Ishbel, and anxious to return to his land of snows and stony towers; his younger children, Alasdair and Heloise, were white and sick with anxiety for their lost cousins, and chafing at the restrictions of tradition and convention which preve
nted them from racing to their rescue.
The Prionnsa of Arran, Iain MacFóghnan, had not waited for the funeral to be over before leaving for his misty marshlands. Bronwen could only wish his wife, the white-faced, black-clad, glittery-eyed Elfrida had gone with him. Much as Bronwen cared for Neil of Arran, she could not stand his mother.
The MacSeinn of Carraig was inclined to be sentimental, and wept openly at the dirge played by the court piper. He reminisced loudly with anyone who would join about the legendary Battle of Bonnyblair, where Lachlan had finally harnessed the power of the Lodestar and raised it against their enemies. Since that was a famous battle against the Fairgean, King Nila and Queen Fand were understandably stiff and polite, and very wary of any intimation that the death of Lachlan the Winged was part of a Fairgean plot to see their niece Bronwen rule. Bronwen, who longed to know more about her mother’s aloof and mysterious people, was saddened to see how eager her aunt and uncle and their daughters were to leave.
The MacRuraich of Rurach had been content to let his sons and daughter attend the wedding on his behalf. The old wolf was grey now, and crippled with arthritis, Bronwen had heard, and it was thought it would not be many more winters before Aindrew MacRuraich inherited the throne. The young heir to the Rurach throne was often at Bronwen’s elbow, helping her negotiate the perils and pitfalls of the room with his easy manner and winning ways. Bronwen could only be grateful to him, even though she was all too conscious of Elfrida NicHilde’s disapproving frown, and the sly sideways glance of the Duchess of Rammermuir. She could only be grateful that Aindrew and his brother Barney were leaving the next day, to ride home for Rurach.
Brangaine NicSian of Siantan had travelled a very long way to attend the wedding, leaving her elderly gouty husband behind her, but bringing her son and two daughters with her for their first taste of the royal court. They were only children still, and too young to appreciate the sorrowful occasion. It made Bronwen smile to see them hiding under the table, gorging themselves on sugar plums and honey cakes, with the boy, Odell, reaching up a surreptitious hand every now and again to steal the last dregs of a cup of mulled wine. It was the only bright moment in this long, dragging morning of monochromes. It made Bronwen wish she was a child again, and running shrieking through elegant balls with Neil and Donncan racing after her, their hands full of plundered goodies.
The MacAhern of Tìreich accosted her by the long table of funeral meats. He was a tall man, brown-haired and brown-eyed, and dressed in a kilt and plaid in the old style, a long stretch of soft wool pleated about his waist and held in place with a thick belt. The plaid was pinned at his shoulder with a golden brooch in the shape of a rearing horse.
He did not waste time in the usual platitudes, addressing her with a heavy scowl and an abrupt question: ‘So, have ye laid the villains by the heels yet? Who would dare strike down the MacCuinn in his own banquet-hall?’
‘We believe it was a plot hatched by an old enemy o’ his,’ Bronwen answered quietly. ‘Long ago, during the rebellion against the Burning, my uncle was the cause o’ the death o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn and his young son.’ As usual, she found it difficult to speak of this period of history, for it was against her own mother that Lachlan had led the rebellion. Loving her mother as she did, and hating what her mother had done, Bronwen found it easiest to speak in the broadest of historical terms, as if Maya the Ensorcellor, and the terrible deeds done in her name by the Anti-Witchcraft League, was someone far distant to her in time and place, like the Red Queen of fairytales who had executed her own cousin, after keeping her prisoner for decades, simply to make sure she did not dream of challenging her for the throne.
‘The laird’s brother had been a Seeker o’ the Awl,’ she went on. ‘He blamed my uncle, and plotted his revenge for many years. It is he who kidnapped my cousins for his own nefarious purposes. We are certain we will catch up with him soon and drag him back here to face trial.’
‘I have heard, Your Majesty,’ the MacAhern said curtly, ‘that ye have a thigearna flying in your service? A satyricorn girl? I find it hard to believe. The satyricorns hunt the winged horses for food, I had always heard.’
‘She is only half a satyricorn, my laird, and indeed a true thigearn. I have seen her call her winged horse myself, without words or whistle, and seen her ride it. They are like one, my laird, just as I believe a thigearn should be.’
He grunted, frowning. ‘Was the horse bridled and saddled? Did it wear a bit?’
Bronwen was amused. ‘Nay, sir. No bridle, no saddle, no bit. She had saddlebags, and a saddlecloth, but that was it.’
She was aware that the MacAhern’s daughter was listening avidly, and smiled at her, racking her brains to remember her name. The young woman flushed and moved away, pretending disinterest, and Bronwen returned her attention to the prionnsa, who was saying angrily, ‘I have heard many wild tales about her, including that she tamed her horse in just a day and a night. O’ course I dinna believe such a tale. No winged horse could be tamed so easily, and no woman would have the strength to break it. She must have raised the horse from a foal.’
‘I believe no’,’ Bronwen said. ‘I am sorry ye did no’ have a chance to meet her yourself. If things had been different … we had so little time, and I was, o’ course, anxious to use her skills to help track down my cousins. It is no’ often one can take a thigearn into service.’
The MacAhern bowed his head. ‘No. A thigearn is no’ for common hire,’ he answered softly. ‘Nor, for that matter, a thigearna, though I have never before heard o’ a woman taming a flying horse.’ He glanced at his daughter, who was pretending not to listen.
‘I am lucky she was willing to serve me,’ Bronwen said. ‘It will make all the difference having a winged horse in pursuit o’ the villains. Otherwise, I fear, our chances of catching them are slim.’ She felt no need to tell the prionnsa that she had pressed Rhiannon into service as some kind of payment for saving her from the gallows. Let the arrogant old man feel his own lack of fortitude, she thought, rather unkindly.
The MacAhern hesitated. He had, of course, ridden his own flying horse to Lucescere, but both he and his beautiful rainbow-winged stallion were growing elderly now. There was no way that he could have volunteered his services, and he was the only thigearn left in Tìreich – at least he had been until this wild girl had popped up from nowhere. The flying horses had all been cruelly hunted by Maya’s soldiers during the Burning, and were now more rare than ever. Bronwen was sure that the old prionnsa wished one of his sons had managed to tame a flying horse of his own, but it had not happened, and he was too proud to admit he feared the days of the thigearns were over.
‘I would like to see this girl who can tame a flying horse,’ he said abruptly. ‘If she doesna wish to stay in your service, perhaps she will come to visit us, and tell us her tale? I must admit I am curious.’
‘Perhaps ye will see her at the Lammas Congress,’ Bronwen replied. ‘Will ye be there, my laird?’
‘Happen so,’ he answered. ‘There will be much to talk about.’
‘Indeed there will be,’ Bronwen answered. ‘So much has happened in these last few dreadful days, there has scarcely been time to take it all in. But we must adjust. By Lammas, all o’ us will ken better how to go on.’
He nodded, his expression softening. ‘It has been hard on ye,’ he said, his voice much warmer. ‘To lose your husband on your wedding day, and your uncle too, and then to have so much thrust upon your shoulders.’
‘It has been very hard,’ Bronwen replied, swallowing a lump in her throat. ‘But I am a NicCuinn. “Bravely and wisely” is our motto, and so brave and wise I must be. If, Eà forbid, we do no’ succeed in rescuing Donncan, I must just do my best for the people o’ Eileanan.’
The MacAhern pressed her hand sympathetically and pledged her his support, before withdrawing back to his wife, shaking his head and murmuring about the poor, brave girl bearing her troubles so valiantly.
Bronwen, sippi
ng another cup of Mirabelle’s tea, hid a smile.
‘Come, Bronny, ye must eat,’ Neil said in a low voice, holding up a little tray of delicacies for her to try.
Bronwen gave him a quick frowning glance of reprimand, and he grinned. ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty! After twenty-four years o’ calling ye by name, it’s hard to remember. Come on, try the fishcake, it’s your favourite. I asked the cook to make it especially.’
Bronwen smiled and took one, biting into it. As its delicate, salty flavour filled her mouth, she realised she could not remember the last time she had eaten a proper meal. She seemed to have been living on dancey alone.
‘It’s a hard row ye have to hoe,’ Neil said softly as she swallowed the morsel of food and reached for another. ‘Ye must keep your strength up, Bronny.’
Tears stung her eyes. She glanced up at him and nodded in agreement. He was right. If she was faint and giddy from hunger, and jittery from too much dancey, she would make a mistake that could cost her the crown.
‘Thank ye, Neil,’ she answered. ‘For everything.’
‘I am yours to command,’ he answered, his voice husky with deep emotion.
She wanted to tell him, once again, that he must not show his feelings for her so clearly when she became aware of being watched. At once she shifted her gaze, and saw she was being observed closely by her second cousin, Dughall MacBrann, the Prionnsa of Ravenshaw. She felt herself stiffen. Dughall had been her father’s cousin and best friend, and after Jaspar’s death had joined forces with Lachlan to help overthrow Maya and return power to the witches. He had inherited the throne of Ravenshaw only recently on the death of his father Malcolm, usually called the Mad. Since his mother had been a NicCuinn, he was theoretically a contender for the throne, and there were no doubt many who looked on him more favourably than on Bronwen.
Dughall was a slim, suave figure, dressed all in black silk, with a neat, pointed beard. Although his hair and moustache were inky black, his face was lined and there were sagging pouches under his eyes. He leant upon a slender walking stick of ebony, embossed with silver, and wore a diamond drop hanging from one ear. His fingers were laden with witch-rings, for the Prionnsa of Ravenshaw was an accomplished sorcerer, descended from Cuinn the Wise on his mother’s side and Brann the Raven on his father’s.
