by Kate Forsyth
But then, in the corner of her eye she saw the flash of a silver knife. All around her were figures clad all in red, chanting out words that had no meaning. The one with the knife reached forward and seized her chin, forcing her head back. The knife slashed down. Olwynne screamed. But there was no sound. She had no throat left to scream with. A moment of redness, of darkness. Then Olwynne was dead.
Lewen woke with a jerk.
He had fallen asleep in his chair, shoved in a corner of his tiny bedroom at the Theurgia. His knife lay on the table before him, amidst a pile of shavings. It was late, and his candle had burnt itself out. He could see clearly, though, for moonlight streamed in through the tall, narrow window.
His heart was slamming in his chest. He could hear its echo in his ears. Dazed, uncertain, Lewen got up and went to stand at the window, staring out at the round moons hanging over the witches’ wood.
‘Rhiannon,’ he whispered.
His hands were trembling. He pressed them together and tried to control his ragged breathing.
Something had happened. He had the confused impression of a nightmare. Darkness, mist rising from a grave, figures grabbing, a woman laughing aloud in glee. Yet it was not the aftermath of the dream which made his heart race and his hands shake.
It was as if he had been crouched in a gilded cage, its bars pressing close about him, and after weeks and weeks of straining every muscle to break the cage asunder, the bars had suddenly cracked and burst open, and he could stand up and stretch and breathe deeply and, if he wanted, run.
‘Rhiannon,’ Lewen whispered again.
It seemed suddenly unbearable that he did not know where Rhiannon was, or whether she was in danger. He thought again about his nightmare. Lord Malvern had been in it, looming over the dream like the shadow of a black scarecrow. He remembered falling. What if it was Rhiannon who had fallen? What if she was hurt or, even worse, dead?
Lewen could not bear it any more. He had to follow her, he had to find her. He had to make sure she was safe, because, he realised at last, a life without Rhiannon would be one without joy, adventure, laughter or passion. It would be a barren field, the soil poisoned, the furrows sown only with thistles.
There was no time for thought, no time to hesitate and lose all on the crux of indecision and utter impossibility. The idea came to him like oil igniting with the touch of a spark. It was an instant conflagration of the brain.
It was an imperative on which he must act.
So Lewen seized his tool belt from his hook and his coat from the chair, and grabbed his knife from the table, and went running out his door and down the stairs, his boot heels clattering on the stone steps and echoing through the cavernous stairwell. Everything was pitch-black. Only long familiarity with the eccentricities of the worn stone prevented him from stumbling or even falling. Through the dark, silent hall he ran, and out through the great double doors, not caring that they banged behind him, as loud as a pistol shot.
It was cold outside, and he was glad he had had the forethought to catch up his coat. He struggled to drag it on as he ran, and thrust his numb hands into his pockets. It seemed impossible that midsummer was only two weeks ago, when the air had been like a warm bath, and he had sweated in his best clothes as he jumped the fire with Olwynne. Olwynne, he thought, and a splinter of dream came back to pierce him, momentarily, with horror. He could not grasp it. A splinter no longer, a mere shred of hallucination, a mere inkling of disaster. It made him catch his breath and shudder, and run on even faster, through silver moonlight and dark lace of shadows.
He came to the massive stable block, where he had kissed Rhiannon goodbye two weeks ago. It had been a stormy night. Lightning had felled an old oak tree. It still lay where it had fallen, no-one having had the time or the energy to remove it. Most of its branches had been sawn away for firewood in this unnatural winter. The hulk of the tree remained, gnarled and ancient and scorched black with lightning.
As Lewen stared at it, momentarily daunted, the tower bell began to strike midnight. On and on it tolled, reminding him of the night Lachlan had been murdered and his three children stolen away, and of how he himself had stopped the bell from ringing the very next dawn, saving Rhiannon from death by hanging.
Lewen’s skill did not lie with words. He could not have explained why the sound of the bell roused him from his sudden vacillation and spurred him on with fresh vigour and courage. He would have shrugged, the tips of his ears turning red, and said uncomfortably, ‘Time’s a-getting away.’
Armed with only the small tools of his whittling kit, Lewen set to carve himself a winged horse from lightning-felled oak. He saw the fabulous beast clearly in his mind’s eye, a stallion as tall and strong as his beloved Argent, with tossing mane and tail, a proudly raised head, crowned with two spiralling horns, a bright, wise eye and sardonically curled lip. From the stallion’s great shoulders sprang two magnificent wings, some of the feathers as long as Lewen was tall.
He worked under the light of a great ball of witch’s light that he conjured from nowhere. Lewen’s powers had never been strong in fire, and he had never been able to maintain such a large source of light for so long. Now he did it without thought, needing it, and so making it.
Armed only with his knife, gouges, chisels, sandpaper, files and rasps, Lewen made sure the stallion’s hide was as smooth as silk, its feathers as finely grained as any finch’s, its wooden mane as liquid and rippling as the mane of a real horse. It took him a long time. The moons sank and the sun rose before he had finished, and his hands were cut all over from working in haste in the darkness. He had smeared his blood and sweat and tears of utter grief and frustration into every inch of the magnificent winged stallion that stood before him, one feathered hoof lifted, its head turned to regard him with a quizzical eye, as if it might at any moment lift those mighty wings and soar away.
Lewen could not bear to look at it. He closed his eyes, stepped forward and laid his hot, filthy cheek against its wooden shoulder, one hand reaching up to caress its hard cheek.
He wished, he hoped, he wanted, with such desperation he thought his heart would simply fail to beat. For a long moment he stood there, in the cold streaky dawn, unable to breathe, tears choking him. Then, unbelievably, he felt a sudden rush of hot breath on his arm. He felt the skin under his hand shiver and twitch and, looking up, gazed straight into a great, dark, living eye.
The stallion bowed his head and nudged him, whickering.
Lewen staggered and almost fell. He could not believe he had done it. To whittle a living horse out of an old hunk of wood – it was too close to being a god. He covered his face with his bloody, filthy hands and muttered, ‘Thank ye, Eà, thank ye! I ken this is your doing. Thank ye!’
The stallion was nudging him, almost pushing him over. Lewen wiped away the tears on his face and then stumbled into the stable, pumping cold water over his hands, drinking deeply, splashing it over his face. The stallion followed him and pushed him aside to drink from the trough. Lewen stroked his shoulder, his flank, ran his hand over the deep curve of his back, marvelling, wondering. Then he turned and hurried into the stable, where the horses snoozed in their stalls, and a stable-boy named Jack was yawning and stretching as he stirred up a brazier of coals to make some dancey.
Lewen knew Jack well. It did not take long to beg and borrow some of what he thought he would be needing for a desperate journey across land and ocean. He borrowed Jack’s all-weather hooded jacket, some saddlebags, a coil of stout rope, a blanket, and a dagger to replace his knife, which was worn and blunt after the hours of whittling. Then he sent Jack running to fetch him his longbow and arrows, while Lewen drank Jack’s cup of hot dancey with true gratitude, and raided the stable-hands’ kitchen for supplies.
By the time Jack returned, most of the stable-hands were awake and standing about the courtyard, staring wide-eyed at the winged horse calmly munching a bucket of warm mash. Lewen poured all the money he had in his pockets into Jack’s hand, an
d then, holding his breath in trepidation, slowly lay the saddlebags upon the stallion’s back. The horse did not even flinch. It seemed, as if by making him, Lewen had also tamed him.
Lewen then took another deep breath and climbed up onto the stallion’s back, using the trough as a mounting block. The stallion turned and looked at him, and flicked away a fly with his tail.
‘A thigearn has no need of bridle and saddle,’ Lewen whispered to himself and, winding both hands in the thick mane, gently urged the stallion forward. Instantly the horse responded, and Lewen’s heart sang at the fluid grace of his movement. Lewen leant forward, clicked his tongue, and said, Fly, my beauty …
At once the stallion spread his wings and soared into the sky. All the stable-hands shouted in excitement and flung their caps into the air. Lewen gasped aloud, and clenched his hands so tightly on the stallion’s mane, the hairs sliced into his already sore and throbbing palms. The ground whirled away. Lewen shut his eyes, raised his face to the wind, and thought, Rhiannon! I’m coming!
Rhiannon sat with her head bowed over the unconscious form of the prionnsa, who lay on his side with his head in her lap, his wings folded along his back.
He had been unconscious for hours. Rhiannon had been unable to sleep much because of the pain in her shoulder, so she had sat vigil over him, every now and again making sure he was still alive by lowering her cheek to just above his mouth, so that she could feel his breath in the darkness like the invisible brush of moth wings.
Now the darkness was fading away, and she could see his pale face and the barest outline of the curve of his wing. She sat quietly, willing him to live, for Lewen, for Fèlice, even for his mother, the angry, avenging Banrìgh who had hunted her down on dragon-back and dragged her back to the city to face her own rough justice. Rhiannon did not know Owein. She cared nothing for him personally, but she had seen too much grief these last few months. She wanted to save Owein for those who loved him, and for her own sense of atonement.
The light grew brighter. She saw his red curls were matted in a nasty gash above his temple. They had left a jug of water and a cup nearby. Rhiannon dampened the hem of her shirt and sponged away the worst of the dried blood, then dribbled a little water over his pale lips. His eyelids flickered, and he swallowed. Rhiannon felt some of the constriction in her chest ease.
I’m sorry, Lewen, she thought. I could not save her.
Tears welled up in her eyes. She was oppressed by the heaviness of her failure, and by her acute anxiety over Blackthorn and her little bluebird, and by her dreadful fear of the future. The weeks chasing after Lord Malvern had done nothing but sharpen her terror of him. Rhiannon knew he would cut her throat without a twitch of compunction or regret, and leave her to slowly drown in the pool of her own blood.
Does he not fear the dark walkers? she wondered. So many people he has tortured and killed, so many ghosts left to haunt his land. How can he sleep at night?
The tears slowly worked their way down her face.
One fell onto Owein’s cheek before she could move her hand to wipe it away. He sighed and murmured, and put up a hand to shade his eyes from the light.
‘Owein?’ she whispered, and then remembered he was a prionnsa. ‘Your Highness?’
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, then gingerly touched his wound, and winced. Then he looked up at her. Blue-grey eyes looked down into dark brown, and shared a broad current of pain.
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ His voice was hoarse.
Rhiannon nodded. ‘I think she must be. It’s been hours since they took her away.’
He closed his eyes. She felt his shoulders shake.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her tears quickening. ‘I tried, I really did, but I just couldna save ye both. There were too many o’ them.’
He did not answer or open his eyes, but his chest rose and fell in a gasp of pain.
They sat quietly for a long time, Rhiannon scrubbing away her tears with a furious hand. She hated to show any weakness, yet what she felt and thought always defeated her. Owein heard her sobbing breath and lifted himself away from her, staring at her incredulously.
‘Ye’re crying.’
‘No, I’m no’!’
‘Aye! Ye are. Ye’re crying.’
Rhiannon did not answer, but dried her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her shirt, refusing to meet his gaze.
‘But why do ye care? I thought ye hated Olwynne.’
‘I do! But I … I promised Lewen. I promised I’d save ye for him. Both o’ ye. Lewen loves ye both. He wanted ye back. Ye and your sister. I said I’d get ye back for him.’ Rhiannon gulped a deep breath.
‘But surely ye were glad Olwynne was taken. I mean–’
‘She ensorcelled him!’ Rhiannon flashed. ‘He was mine and she stole him away. I was going to save her and take her back and make her take off that spell, so that Lewen would be mine again. Now it’ll never be broken. Lewen will never ken …’
She gave a little wail and began to cry harder. She put both hands over her eyes and endeavoured to bring herself back under control.
After a long moment Owein said very coldly, and with distaste evident in his voice, ‘If it is true what ye say, and my sister did cast a love spell on Lewen, which, mind ye, I do no’ believe for a moment, well then, it would have been blood-magic – all dark magic is – and the spell would be broken with her death.’
Rhiannon dropped her hands and stared at him.
‘The spell would be broken?’
‘Aye.’ Owein spoke curtly, and stared over her shoulder at the wall.
‘Thank the dark walkers!’ Rhiannon cried, then at the resentful flash of Owein’s eyes, said, ‘Nay, no’ about the spell – though o’ course I’m glad it’s broken. I’d rather it had been me that had broken it, though. I mean, I wish she’d no’ had to die like this … it’s horrible. No-one should die like that. We should die … rightly.’
Rhiannon was struggling to express what she meant. Language was still a mystery to her, filled with pitfalls and embarrassments. She looked at Owein pleadingly, willing him to understand. He was frowning, angry and stubborn in his grief.
She tried again.
‘No, the reason I’m so glad is that, if the spell has truly been broken, well then, Lewen will be coming! He’ll be on his way! Lewen will save us.’
In the soft misty dawn upon the hill of the Tomb of Ravens, eight figures abruptly materialised from thin air.
Gaunt-faced, filthy and ragged, they all fell to their knees. Some retched convulsively. Others moaned or wept. A great black dog howled. A tiny white owl fell from the sky and clung, trembling, to Isabeau’s shoulder. She was on her hands and knees, gulping great breaths of air, her red curls in wild disorder all about her face and shoulders. She put up one hand to pet Buba, and tried to hoot reassuringly at him, only to find her throat too sore and dry.
Donncan staggered to his feet and plunged his hands into the long, oblong pool, splashing his face with water again and again. Cailean and Ghislaine joined him, dousing their heads and hands, and swallowing great gulps of the icy-cold water. Stormstrider composed himself with an effort, and helped Cloudshadow to her feet, supporting the Stargazer’s fainting steps to the pool so that she too could drink and revive herself with its coolness. He then offered his hand to Thunderlily, who had lost so much weight during their ordeal she looked as delicate as a bellfruit seed spinning on the end of a twig. She took his hand gratefully, and he helped her to the pool and sank his big hand into the water for her to use as a cup.
Isabeau and Dide, helping each other, managed to crawl to the pool and drink also. Neither thought they had slept, though both believed the other had done so. They were white and haggard in the morning light.
‘I had forgotten …’ Dide said, watching the water trickle through his fingers, ‘… what it is like to drink cool water when you are desperately thirsty.’
‘It’s good,’ Isabeau croaked.
‘Very good,’ he r
eplied, and smiled.
It was all he could manage. He could not rise. He lay there on the flagstones, his head on his arms, and said, ‘I think I’ve aged a hundred years. Are ye sure we’re back in our own time, and no’ a hundred years hence?’
‘We just need to get to Rhyssmadill,’ Donncan said. ‘Then we can rest.’
Ghislaine cast one despairing look across the mist-wreathed park to the castle, its spires rising, ethereal and sharp from the mist. ‘It’s too far,’ she cried. ‘I canna walk so far. I ache all over. My joints …’
She was close to tears. All of them were the same. The journey home, which had taken no more than a few seconds, had stretched them to unbearable limits, physically and emotionally. Isabeau had suffered the torture of the rack from Maya’s inquisitors in her youth. She could think of no other experience that came close to the agonising pain of travelling the Old Ways through time. It was all she could do not to weep with utter exhaustion.
Donncan groaned, and moved his shoulders experimentally. Of them all, he was the least affected, being only twenty-four and a strong and athletic young man used to riding hard and camping rough. ‘I will fly to the castle,’ he said. ‘It will no’ take me long. I’ll bring back help. Wait here. Rest.’
As everyone heaved great sighs of relief and gratitude, Isabeau smiled at him, thinking what a great rìgh he would be.
‘Will ye send word to Lucescere?’ she asked.
‘Aye, at once,’ he said. ‘Mama must be beside herself with anxiety.’
‘She’ll be so glad to ken ye are home again, safe and sound,’ Isabeau said, tears starting to her eyes.
He nodded, and shook out his ruffled feathers, and rolled his aching shoulders. ‘Thank Eà!’ he said, and launched himself rather clumsily into the air.
And what about Bronwen, my wife? he thought as he flew towards Rhyssmadill. Will she be glad to have me home too?
