by Kate Forsyth
Bronwen pressed her shaking hands together. ‘I must go myself,’ she said. ‘There is no other way to make sure Donncan is kept safe. I’ll swim. If I change into my seashape I’ll get down the river faster than any boat. Mama, ye must help me.’
‘How?’ Maya asked.
‘Ye escaped Lucescere once. Tell me how ye did it.’
Maya nodded. ‘All right. We do no’ have much time. Mirabelle must no’ realise that ye are all alone. I sent that pageboy o’ yours off on a wild-goose chase, but he’ll soon realise and be back. Let us think o’ the best way o’ doing this. And let us do it quickly!’
‘And thus the whirligig of time brings
in his revenges.’
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
Twelfth Night, 1601
It was growing cool as the sun dipped down towards the trees.
Bronwen looked back at her mother and smiled. She lay in Bronwen’s bed, pale-cheeked, her long black hair spread out over the pillow, wearing Bronwen’s face and one of her nightgowns.
Bronwen could not believe how effective was Maya’s glamourie. It was like looking at herself in the mirror. Except Bronwen no longer looked like herself. She looked like an old bogfaery, with a wrinkled black-skinned face, shining eyes like black beads, and a hunched back under her simple grey gown and apron. She carried a basket over one arm, with a cloth hanging over the top. Inside the basket was hidden a large waterproof bag that belonged to her mother and had been hurriedly packed with some clothes and food. It would take two or more days of hard swimming for Bronwen to reach Rhyssmadill, and she would need to stop and rest and eat at some point.
She opened the door, and almost fell over Joey, who was sitting right outside. He looked shiny-eyed and red-nosed, and she wondered if he had been reprimanded for leaving her alone in the gardens for so long.
‘What ye do, boy, underfoot all the time?’ Bronwen grumbled in what she hoped was a fair copy of Maura’s voice and manner.
‘Naught, ma’am. Just waiting to see if Her Majesty needs me.’
‘Her Majesty is going to sleep now, so dinna ye go on disturbing her,’ Bronwen scolded as she shut the door firmly behind her. She went out into the corridor, past two guards she had never seen before in her life. She nodded to them, as she imagined Maura would, and went away down the hall as quickly as she could without arousing suspicion. The glamourie would not last long, Maya had warned her. She could not linger.
It was hard to remember to walk with little steps, as if she was only three feet high, and to moan and sigh and shuffle as Maura usually did. A glamourie was only an illusion. Bronwen had not been turned into a bogfaery, only made to look like one. If she walked under a low-hanging branch she would still hit her head, even though it looked like she had inches to spare. If she walked like a young, long-legged woman, so would her semblance. Maya had warned her that many glamouries were unmasked by a failure to act as one looked.
The guards had barely glanced at her, and Bronwen breathed a little easier. But then she began the descent down the stairs, and came full upon Mirabelle, in urgent consultation with two palace guards.
‘What do ye mean, ye canna find her! She must be here somewhere. Ask around, find out who saw her last.’
‘Aye, ma’am,’ the guards said and hurried away.
Bronwen could hardly breathe for terror. If Mirabelle had the gift of clear-seeing, as many witches did, she would see straight through the glamourie and Bronwen would be unmasked. She decided she must act just as usual, and so she came stiffly down the stairs, sighing with every step, with one hand on her hip as if it ached, nodded to Mirabelle and said gruffly, ‘Evening, Mistress Mirabelle,’ and went on past her.
The healer barely noticed her. She jerked her head in response and stood staring off into space, her hands clenched together. She was still there when Bronwen went round the corner and down the next flight of stairs, fighting the urge to run.
It would have taken Bronwen hours to get to the loch if she had gone the usual way – down the avenue, out the palace gates, past the scrutiny of the soldiers, through the bustling city streets to the gate, hurrying to get there before the sunset curfew, past another set of guards, over the bridge and down the long, winding road to the jetties and warehouses on the loch shore. Lucescere was built on an island between two rivers that poured down into the loch over a two hundred foot cliff, and so it was not an easy city to slip out of unnoticed.
Instead, Bronwen made her way, disregarded by any of the guards and servants, out through the front hall and into the garden. It was true, she realised, what Maura had said. No-one noticed a little old maidservant.
The garden was filled with warm evening light. It struck through the frost-blighted trees and storm-stripped branches like a benediction. Clutching her basket, she went through the witches’ wood to the maze at the heart of the garden, and found her way easily through its twists and turns till she was at the Pool of Two Moons. Here she shed her servants’ garb, tucking it in behind a hedge even though she did not expect anyone to look for her here. As far as she was aware, the only people who knew that Maya had once escaped out through this pool were Lachlan, who was dead, Isabeau, who was far away, and herself.
The pool was brimming over, filled with all the rain and sleet and snow of the last fortnight’s wild weather. Bronwen took her mother’s waterproof bag out of the basket, slung it on her back, and then dived, naked, into the pool.
The water was icy, but Bronwen hardly noticed. The Fairgean were used to swimming in seas filled with icebergs. She dived down, transforming by instinct into her seashape, her nostrils clamping shut, her gills fluttering. There was no bottom to the Pool of Two Moons, she discovered. It narrowed down into a vertical tunnel through which she dived, rock scraping her shoulders. Down, down, she dived, and slid through into some kind of underground stream that took her, undulating at high speed, racing through deep channels until at last she was spat out into the Ban-Bharrach River.
Storm-swollen, the river swept her along, head bobbing up and down. She had no time to catch a breath. If it had not been for her gills, she would have drowned, she was sure. She saw the great frill of sun-struck spray ahead of her, where the river dived over the edge of the cliff and fell down, down, down. The setting sun had turned it into a shimmering rainbow. Bronwen managed a deep breath, brought her arms over her head and did a swan dive over the edge.
Two hundred feet she fell. If she had not known her mother had taken this fall and survived, she might have crumpled, sure her end was near. But she kept her body poised, did not try to breathe through her lungs, and rode the waterfall all its great length down to the loch below.
It took her deep below the surface. Bronwen waited till the pressure eased, and then struck up for the surface, swimming diagonally to gain as much distance as possible from the turmoil where the falls hit the loch. She could stay underwater at least three minutes, and she used every second of it, swimming out far into the loch. Then she broke the surface, gasping for breath. Once her pulse had steadied, she began to swim, using the swift undulating long-distance stroke of the Fairgean.
Bronwen swam most of the night, taking advantage of the darkness and the emptiness of the river to put as much distance between her and Lucescere as possible.
Several times she stopped to rest, hanging onto the anchor rope of one of the river barges bobbing up and down near the shore. Once she crawled ashore and lay panting on the ground, her chest hurting, her limbs trembling. It was hard to slip back into the water and go on, when all she wanted to do was slip there into sleep, naked and cold, on the stones. Only her desperate fear for Donncan drove her on.
By the time it was light enough for Bronwen to see, she was a long way up the river. Moving very quietly, she climbed up the ladder at the stern of one of the river barges and concealed herself among the sacks and barrels stored on its broad deck. From the waterproof satchel she had carried on her back, she pulled out one of her mother’s old dresses and dr
agged it on over her wet, shivering body, then ate ravenously. She had packed the food they had brought for her dinner – cold roast pheasant, soft white bread and cheese, a fish pie, and a selection of small fruit pies. Eaten at dawn, on the back of a stinking old barge, surrounded by boxes and barrels, after a long night’s swimming, it was the most delicious meal Bronwen had ever eaten. She hoped her mother had not gone too hungry.
By the time she had finished eating, and wrapped herself in an old shawl to sleep, the bargemen had roused and were stumping about the boat, their pipes lit, and big mugs of strong black tea in their hands. Bronwen lay tense, fearing discovery, but the men did not think to examine their wares. Before long the barge was being poled smoothly along the river and Bronwen was lulled into sleep.
She woke midafternoon, stiff and sore and most uncomfortable. She eased her cramped muscles as well as she could in her stuffy little nest, and peeked out through the boxes.
The bargemen were still poling the boat along, working together at a steady, comfortable rhythm. The river was busy with all sorts of craft, and the air rang with shouts and cries, the rattle of chains, the slap of rope and sail, and the subtle lapping of the water under the hull. White birds hovered overhead, screeching raucously as they dived for the fish heads being tossed overboard from another craft. There was a slight tang of salt to the air. By raising her head slightly over the edge of the boxes, Bronwen was able to see that the river had widened out into a loch of considerable size. Her pulse quickened with excitement. The bargemen had made good time. They were on Lochbane, the last of the Jewels of Rionnagan.
The bargemen dropped anchor at sunset, and fried themselves up a mess of onions, bacon, sausages and potatoes that tortured Bronwen with its appetising aroma. She was just wishing that she had saved herself more to eat than the remnant of cheese and bread, now quite hard, when a huge, brown, callused hand suddenly appeared over the top of her nest, holding a sizzling, heavily loaded plate.
‘Figured ye must be hungry,’ a rough voice said.
Startled, Bronwen looked up and saw a square, leathery face with a grizzled chin and mild brown eyes with heavy pouches underneath.
‘Ye’re welcome to clamber out and eat with us, if ye wish to stretch your legs,’ the voice went on. ‘Ye must be all cramped up in there.’
‘I am indeed. Thank ye.’ Bronwen recovered her composure in an instant, and let the old bargeman help her out of her hiding place. She could only hobble over to the bench seat where the other old bargeman sat, sucking on his pipe and eyeing her curiously, but after a few minutes the blood began to circulate freely through her veins again, and she was able to tuck into her dinner with great gusto.
The bargemen did not ask her any questions, though they must have wondered what she was doing hiding on their boat. Considering she was dressed in a servant’s gown, Bronwen thought they must think she was an indentured apprentice fleeing a cruel master. That was the story she intended to tell if they asked. They did not speak, though, apart from a few comments about the weather, and whether she had enjoyed her meal.
‘I did indeed,’ Bronwen replied, wiping the plate clean with a hunk of dark bread.
‘If ye want to bunk down for the night, we can offer ye a bit more space over there,’ one said, pointing at a stretch of deck with his pipe.
‘No, thank ye,’ Bronwen said. ‘I’m very grateful for your kindness, but I’ll be moving along once it’s dark.’
They raised their eyebrows, glanced at the river gleaming under a twilight sky, and then shrugged. The shore was a considerable distance away. Bronwen wondered if they guessed she was part-Fairgean. In her mother’s shabby old dress, high-necked and long-sleeved, her gills and fins were well hidden.
They made her a mug of tea, which she enjoyed as much as she had their fried sausages, and then, once it was fully dark, Bronwen thanked them again and said her farewells.
‘If ye wouldna mind just shutting your eyes for a bit?’ she asked.
They looked at each other, shrugged again and covered their eyes with their huge, horny hands. Not confident that they would not peek, Bronwen retreated behind the barrels, stripped off her dress and shawl, and thrust them back into the waterproof bag, pulling its strings tight. Then, naked once more, Bronwen dived into the river, leaving hardly a ripple behind her.
She found her second night of swimming much easier than the first. The day of rest and two solid meals had helped her regain much of her strength, and she had had time to get over the horror of Elfrida’s attempt to murder her. As she swam, her thoughts were focused on Donncan. Where had he been all this time, and what had happened to him? Would he be pleased to see her? What if he did not believe her? What if he chose to trust in Neil rather than her? What if she was too late?
Within two hours, Bronwen had come to the Berhtfane and was having to swim more slowly, being careful to avoid the many boats, barges and ships moored all along the wharves and jetties. The harbour glittered with the lights of the city. Dùn Gorm was a great port town, taking up nearly all of the eastern shore of the bay. To the west, all was dark, except for the castle which was alive with lights. Bronwen fixed her gaze upon it, hoping desperately that she was in time. She had swum faster than any boat could travel. Surely, surely, she had beaten the party from Lucescere?
There were many pleasure boats out on the harbour that night, filled with people laughing and talking, listening to musicians, and even, on some of the larger boats, dancing. Bronwen had to take great care not to be seen. She dived deep and swam underwater, heading straight across the harbour towards the castle. When she finally surfaced, everything was much quieter and darker. The castle on its tall rock loomed overhead. She was in its shadow.
A boat was being rowed across the harbour towards her, lights hanging on its bow and stern. She heard the low rumble of voices. Bronwen tried to steady her breathing, her gills fluttering madly in her throat. Then she dived again, not daring to make even the tiniest splash, and surfaced right beside the boat, seizing a small metal bar at the back and hanging onto it gratefully. She could hear the voices of the passengers clearly.
‘No’ long now,’ Gwilym the Ugly said. ‘We made excellent time. I must admit, I will no’ be able to truly relax and rejoice until I see the Rìgh with my own eyes.’
‘Should we be calling him the Rìgh, when it is his lovely wife who wields the Lodestar?’ Father Francis said. Bronwen gritted her teeth. If she had had her mother’s powers, she would have no compunction transforming him into something slimy and horrible. A snake or a toad.
‘But o’ course,’ Gwilym said, surprised, ‘they will share the Lodestar and the throne together, surely?’
‘Can the Lodestar be shared?’
‘I dinna ken,’ Gwilym said, sounding troubled. ‘They raised it together as children, to defeat the Fairgean king. Surely they shall do so again. They are both o’ MacCuinn blood.’
‘What one is prepared to do as a boy is far different from what one will tolerate as a man,’ Father Francis said.
‘True,’ Neil said. ‘I canna expect Donn will be happy about it. I mean, it was meant to be his.’
I couldna leave it lying there on the floor amidst all the rubbish, Bronwen thought to herself, and put her free hand up to touch the bag hanging over her shoulder. She had brought the Lodestar with her, of course.
‘Well, they will sort it out,’ Gwilym said. ‘The Banrìgh has carried herself well these past two weeks, in very difficult conditions. I ken her husband the Rìgh will be grateful.’
Floating in the dark, chilly water just a few feet below the one-legged sorcerer, Bronwen smiled and thought, I hope ye are right, Gwilym.
There was a broad landing platform at the base of the steep cliff, with a massive iron door set into the rock. Lanterns cast a bright orange light out onto the water. Bronwen stayed in the shadows, as much from modesty as a desire not to reveal herself too soon, as the boat grated against the platform and the crew leapt out to secure it.
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A plank was shoved across, and the party of men from Lucescere all stepped ashore. Apart from Gwilym, Neil and Father Francis, there was the Lord Chancellor, a very frail old man with shaky hands and a shiny bald head surrounded by a halo of white hair, and his secretary, Lord Morgan, an old friend of Neil’s from the Theurgia.
‘Why, Father, I see ye have a new ring,’ Lord Morgan suddenly said. ‘Is that no’ Lady Elfrida’s?’
There was a pause, and then the pastor said smoothly, ‘Ah, yes. Her Grace gave it to me afore we left, as a token o’ her appreciation. I believe it is very auld.’
‘Why, that’s the thistle ring,’ Neil said in surprise. ‘It’s a family heirloom.’
‘Is it?’ the pastor replied. ‘I dinna realise it had any value. Your mother said your father dinna care for it, and I may as well have it, as a reminder o’ Arran. I am leaving your mother’s service, ye see, my laird, and returning to Tirsoilleir just as soon as our task here is finished.’
‘I see,’ Neil said. ‘Well, it is true my father does no’ care for the ring. It was his mother’s. I’d have a care, Father Francis. My grandmother’s things often tend to contain a nasty surprise.’
His voice sounded odd. Without being able to see his face, Bronwen found it hard to tell what he was thinking. She thought there was chagrin and anger in his voice, yet also relief at the idea the pastor was leaving his mother’s service.
