by Kate Forsyth
Now grubby and hot, Isabeau decided to abandon the maze and head towards the ruined tower. She had heard so much about the Tower of Two Moons from Meghan that it was almost a pilgrimage for her. Ten minutes of swift walking brought her onto the wide lawn before the ruin. She stood looking at the charred rafters, the smoke-stained walls, the broken colonnades. Enough of the existing structure remained to tell of its original beauty, and she found she was weeping.
She wiped her cheeks with her hands and cast a quick glance about her. The massive rampart which reared on either side was closely guarded, and she had to wait until the sentries had passed out of sight before exploring further.
She did not want to see any more of the scorched and broken buildings, so she went straight to the one remaining tower. She walked slowly from one hall to another, marvelling at the carvings and mosaics. It reminded her of the Tower of Dreams, although before its destruction it would have been much bigger and grander than the small witches’ tower in the forests of Aslinn.
She climbed the grand staircase until she was on the top floor, and went out onto a delicately carved balcony with slim columns holding up pointed arches. Staying well within the shelter of the pillars, Isabeau stared down over the garden. As she had expected, there was a clear view of the labyrinth. Grown from yew trees and hedges, the intricate whorls of the maze circled a stretch of green water. Around the pool were tall stone arches and a paved area, with shallow curving steps. At the western end of the pool was a beautiful round building, held up with flying buttresses and roofed in brass-green.
She memorised each turn of the maze until she could conjure its shape on the dark of her eyelids, then hurried back down the stairs. She had been gone longer than she had expected, and she wanted no-one to wonder what she had been doing.
It was quiet in the palace. Latifa nodded to the guards outside the Rìgh’s door, her arms weighted down with a tray, and they opened the gilt-painted panel. She went inside the dim, firelit room, surprisingly noiseless for her great bulk, and put the tray down on one of the tables. The Rìgh slept, watched over by Isabeau who nodded wearily to the old cook from her chair by the fire. In her lap she held the sleeping baby, stroking the soft dark down that covered her head.
‘He sleeps at last,’ Isabeau whispered. ‘I have given him some more poppy syrup, but I worry for him, Latifa, his heart is erratic and his breathing uneven.’
The cook nodded, her brown face crinkled with concern. ‘Stay with him, Red. It is late, I ken, but I do no’ think he should be left alone.’
Isabeau nodded, and Latifa went through the nursery to the Banrìgh’s rooms. All was quiet and the cook wondered again what had happened to her old enemy Sani, who had disappeared the night Bronwen was born. Despite several days of searching, there had been no sign of her anywhere in the hills around the camp, and when they had told Maya, the Banrìgh had half closed her eyes and said simply, ‘Sani must have decided she was needed elsewhere.’
The cook unpacked the tray, refilled the Banrìgh’s water jug and stoked up the fire, panting a little as she bent over the coals. I be getting too fat for all this, she thought, and suddenly glanced over her shoulder.
In the shadows of the great bed she could see the Banrìgh was watching her. Her silvery-blue eyes gleamed a little in the flickering light. She smiled as soon as Latifa turned, and said huskily, ‘Ye are so good to us, Latifa, where would we be without ye to support us and look after us?’
Latifa flushed. ‘Thank ye, Your Highness.’
‘Ye’re always so loyal,’ the Banrìgh said, her voice huskier than ever. ‘Ye love the Rìgh as I do. I am so worried about him, Latifa. These final betrayals have broken his spirit, I fear.’ She moved her head restlessly so her silky dark hair fanned out on the pillow. ‘If only I had no’ failed him so badly …’ Her voice broke.
‘Wha’ do ye mean?’
Maya lifted a hand in a desultory gesture. ‘I failed to give him an heir.’
‘But ye have a bonny little girl—she is only a wee thing, I ken, being born so early, but she is strong and healthy …’
‘But she canna rule,’ Maya replied.
‘O’ course she can,’ Latifa cried. ‘She is only young, I ken, but we’ve had a Rìgh that was only a child when he inherited …’
‘But she’s a lass!’ Maya cried, temper flashing out.
‘That does no’ matter, my lady, wha’ made ye think it would?’
Maya’s face was a study of conflicting emotions. Even in the flickering light, Latifa could see bewilderment, hope, guilt, and something else—almost like triumph. ‘Ye mean girls can inherit the throne?’
‘O’ course. We’ve had many a banrìgh rule, how can ye no’ ken that? Why, Aedan’s daughter Mairead the Fair was the first banrìgh, she ruled after him. And there was Martha the Hot Tempered, and Eleanore the Noble—her daughter Mathilde inherited, although Eleanore had four sons. We have no’ had a woman inherit for six or more generations now, but that is because the MacCuinns are always overblessed with sons—that must be why ye did no’ realise.’
‘No-one ever talked to me about the line o’ inheritance because I was barren so long, I suppose,’ Maya said, and Latifa squeezed her hand in sympathy. The Banrìgh said slowly, ‘So there are cases where a daughter inherited the throne even if there were sons born, or other male heirs to the throne?’ She spoke as if the idea was completely bizarre and alien to her.
Latifa smiled. ‘O’ course.’
The Banrìgh sat up. ‘But she is so young, how can she rule?’
Intent only on comforting the Banrìgh, Latifa said, ‘But the Rìgh will name ye Regent, until Bronwen is auld enough to rule on her own behalf. That is the usual custom.’ The pale cheek curved. Maya sat up straighter, shaking back her glossy hair.
‘O’ course the heir has always needed to be favoured by the Lodestar,’ Latifa continued. ‘The Lodestar responds to the inner character o’ he who holds it. We had civil war once when the youngest son was named as heir by the Lodestar and the eldest son challenged him for the throne. He was a cold, ambitious man, no’ concerned with the welfare o’ the people the way the Rìgh or Banrìgh should be—’
Maya interrupted her. ‘So if Bronwen had the Lodestar, there would be no doubt o’ her right to rule? But if someone else took it, they could challenge her?’
A wary expression crossed Latifa’s face. ‘The Lodestar is lost.’
‘But if the Lodestar was no’ lost …’
‘The Lodestar is lost,’ Latifa said. ‘Besides, there is no-one else to challenge for it …’
As her words trailed away, Maya said softly, ‘What about the Arch-Sorceress Meghan, is she no’ a NicCuinn? If Bronwen can rule, can no’ she? And what about Jaspar’s cousin, Dughall? He is the son o’ a NicCuinn, can he no’ wield the Lodestar?’
‘MacCuinns have always bonded with the Lodestar at birth,’ Latifa replied uneasily. ‘Dughall MacBrann could have been given the Lodestar to hold, but he was no’, since he was raised in the MacBrann clan.’
‘But he could have been?’
‘Och, aye, indeed he could have, having MacCuinn blood. I do no’ ken whether he could bond with the Inheritance now or no’—it has never been done except as a babe.’
Maya was silent for a while, her fingers restless amongst her blankets. ‘How auld are babes when they are first bonded?’ she asked, just as Latifa began to leave the room.
The old cook looked back over her shoulder. ‘A month or so.’
Maya said softly, ‘My babe, Latifa. Does she sleep? May I hold her?’
It was the first time she had asked to see the baby, and Latifa’s heart bounded with joy. ‘O’ course, my lady,’ she replied and went through to the Rìgh’s suite with a light step.
‘The Banrìgh wants her babe,’ she said jubilantly to Isabeau, who immediately frowned and held the sleeping child closer to her.
‘She sleeps.’
‘It will no’ harm her to be held by her
mother for a while, Red. Let me take her through.’
Isabeau rose to her feet, adjusting the babe so she slept within the crook of her arm. ‘Nay, she’ll wake if we hand her around too much. I will take her.’
Latifa followed her back into the Banrìgh’s suite, cooing over the sleeping child. ‘See how thick her lashes are? Jaspar’s were just like them when he was a babe. She is dark as any MacCuinn too, though o’ course there is no white lock …’
Maya was sitting up, looking more vital than Isabeau had yet seen her. She held out her arms for the baby and, feeling oddly reluctant, Isabeau handed her over. Bronwen woke and began to wail, rubbing at her screwed-up eyes with both tiny, crumpled fists. Isabeau stepped forward to take her back and soothe her, but Maya frowned and gestured her away. Rocking slightly, she began to sing a lullaby.
Her voice was low and husky, thrilling with tenderness. Almost at once the baby quietened, staring up at her mother’s face with unfocused blue eyes. Then she smiled, a dreamy baby’s smile that caused a lump to come into Isabeau’s throat. Chuckling a little, Bronwen reached up for her mother’s curve of night-black hair. Maya shook her head so her hair tickled the baby’s face and Bronwen laughed.
Glancing at Latifa’s face, Isabeau saw the cook was entranced by the sweetness of the song. Tears glistened in her black eyes, rolling down her fat cheeks. She clasped her hands at her breast and gave a little sigh as the lilting lullaby came to a close. ‘Come,’ she whispered as Maya tenderly began to sing another tune. ‘Let us leave the Banrìgh wi’ her babe. I think all will be well now.’
The moons drifted amongst clouds, their light falling haphazardly upon the forest. Ahead loomed a lofty, crenellated rampart, black against the sky. Finn was tense with excitement. Her stomach fluttered, and she twisted the hem of her tunic into knots. At her heels scampered the elven cat, so dark and small she was totally invisible in the night. In the satchel on Finn’s back were her climbing gloves and boots, and she was dressed from head to toe in black. Her bleached hair was covered by a dark tam-o’-shanter and her neck was muffled with a thick black scarf that she could draw up to conceal her face.
It had taken them more than a month to travel from the Fang to the western wall of Lucescere, slowed by the difficult terrain and stormy weather. It had been a painstaking and difficult process crossing the Muileach, for the river thundered out of the very mountain itself, carving a deep, sheer-sided gorge through the rock. Finn had had to climb across the cliff face, driving in stakes and tying ropes to them to form a precarious bridge the soldiers could cling to.
Jay had almost fallen, saved only by the safety rope the soldiers had tied to his waist. Tragically he dropped his precious violin. In horrified silence they all watched as the old fiddle was smashed to pieces on the rocks and swirled away in the foam. Jay wept as he was hauled to safety, but no-one badgered him, feeling tears tight in their own throats. Jay’s fiddle-playing had enchanted them all.
The journey through the Whitehart Forest had been fraught with danger. No human had walked its dark avenues for sixteen years, and the forest was thick with wild boar, timber wolves, woolly bears and various unfriendly faeries. The wolves were especially active, howling around the campfire at night and slinking through the undergrowth by day.
One day they disturbed a nest of gravenings, giving them their worst moment. Gravenings were always hungry and had been known to steal babies and young children if they could not find lambs, chickens or coneys to steal. They certainly could have lifted six-year-old Connor in their claws and carried him away if they had been allowed to reach him. The Blue Guards soon beat them off, though, and they screeched away, their filthy hair trailing behind them.
They encountered no soldiers in the Whitehart Forest, for the woods between Lucescere and the mountains were never patrolled. Once there had been a gate that opened in the huge rampart, but this gate could only be unlocked by those of the MacCuinn clan, and so had not been opened in sixteen years. Lachlan thought the Red Guards might not even know it existed.
It was Finn’s task to climb the wall and open the gate for the rebel force camped in the forest outside. Lachlan had given her the MacCuinn crest, which was the only way to open the gate. Although the walls around the ruined witches’ tower were only lightly guarded, it was still a difficult and dangerous task for an eleven year old. Iseult had to remind herself she was only five years older and would have been as impatient with their concerns when she was Finn’s age. Resolutely she thrust her fears away, whispering to Finn, ‘Are ye ready, lassie?’
Finn nodded, gripping her hands together in nervous anticipation. She was confident she could climb the wall, having practised using her clawed gloves and boot frames every day since leaving the corrie. It was the possibility of being captured by the Red Guards and taken for questioning by the Awl that so perturbed her. Finn had been free of the Awl for a year now and had no desire to fall back into their hands.
She picked up the warm, furry body of her kitten and snuggled her close to her chin, finding comfort in the faint purr that thrummed the tiny body. It is a long way, Goblin, are ye sure ye can make it?
The kitten’s purr deepened in response, the soft paws kneading the skin of Finn’s neck. The little girl carefully tied the string around the elven cat’s neck and checked it was securely fastened to a long piece of cord, which was in turn tied to a slender but strong rope. She gave the kitten one final head rub, then put Goblin down. With a barely audible miaow, the kitten leapt for the wall and began to climb, her claws digging into the ancient blocks of stone. Within moments she was invisible, even when one of the moons drifted out from behind the clouds, criss-crossing the ground with squares of silver.
The rope jerked sideways, and they all followed it, knowing the kitten was searching for something to thread the cord through. There would be iron racks for weapons that the slender little cat could easily climb through. They all had to trust that she would choose one out of the direct line of sight of the patrols.
The trailing rope came to a halt and they waited nervously, watching the battlements for any sign of guards. Suddenly the rope flew upwards, making a slight swishing sound as it whipped through the dead leaves of the forest floor. In the forest behind them they heard wolves howling, and they moved restively, hands on their weapons.
‘What’s happening?’ Dillon whispered, but Finn did not know and was too wound up to answer. After a long, anxious wait, she felt a warm, furry body winding around her ankles and with a sob of relief picked up the elven cat, who rubbed her head under Finn’s chin. ‘She’s done it!’ she whispered. ‘Quick, pull the cord and tie the rope!’
‘Let us hope it is well hidden,’ Iseult said grimly as the soldiers hastily fastened the rope to a spike hammered into the base of the wall, threading it through a special hook on Finn’s belt, giving her a taut belay to cling to as she climbed. She had insisted such precautions were unnecessary but Iseult was taking no chances on the little girl falling.
Finn began to climb. It was more difficult than she had imagined. The rampart was angled slightly outwards so she was climbing at a steep angle, and the massive stone blocks were so cleverly fitted that there were no cracks between them. Here and there mosses had loosened the mortar so Finn was able to hammer in a spike to rest her foot or hand upon. Mostly though she had to rely on her clawed hands and feet digging deep into the glossy surface of the rock. The elven cat bounded along beside her, occasionally giving a tiny mew of encouragement.
Finn slipped only once, her hooked hands not gaining enough purchase on the rock. If it had not been for the rope clipped through her belt, she would have tumbled a hundred and fifty feet to the ground below. Instead she swung wildly, trying without success to catch the stone again with her steel claws.
At last the little girl was able to hook one glove into the stone, and then a foot. Finn completed her climb with her heart hammering so loud her ears rang. She clambered over the battlements and sat on the floor, her head
bowed. As she tucked her spiked gloves and boot frames back in her satchel, the elven cat waited on the flagstones, tail curled over her paws.
The rampart ran the entire length and breadth of the city, a broad walkway along the top for the guards to patrol. Every two dozen feet was a watch-tower, which concealed a staircase leading down to the ground. Finn slipped quietly along to the nearest tower, listening carefully before easing the door open.
She descended the dark stairs, the elven cat slipping before her, and came out in a colonnade, slender stone pillars holding up an arched stone ceiling. Beyond was a lawn, and she could see tall hedges and trees.
Lachlan had vividly described the layout of the gardens and tower to her, so Finn knew exactly where to go. The gate had been designed as an escape route and was cleverly concealed in the carvings that decorated the western wall. When Lachlan was a boy, the gate had been used frequently for picnics and horse-rides in the forest. Nonetheless, knowledge of the gate’s whereabouts had been confined to the family and a few trusted servants, so Meghan had been sure the Red Guards would not know of its existence.
Silent as the elven cat at her heels, Finn flitted through the delicately arched cloisters until she came to their end. Before her were shallow stone steps with a wide curving balustrade, decorated with urns thick with thistles and weeds. Beyond was a broad garden, surrounded on three sides by the towering rampart.
