by Kate Forsyth
Built on a narrow tongue of land between two turbulent waterfalls, Lucescere had been named the Shining City for good reason.
Where the two rivers met and fell over the edge of the cliff, a great haze of spray was flung up and, on a fine day, irradiated with sunlight so a double rainbow arched over the city. Tall towers topped with gilded domes and spires soared into the air, behind high walls of warm sandstone. A bridge with many great arches spanned the river, which was lined on either bank with tall pillars of golden-leaved trees that rustled continually. Beyond the bridge, the sparkling waters seemed to simply dissolve into arching prisms of light.
That warm spring evening, with the sun balancing delicately on the peak of the distant mountains and flooding the whole landscape with vivid glowing colour, Lucescere seemed like a city out of a faery tale. Rhiannon sat very still on the stallion’s back, staring, her arms wound tight around Lewen’s waist, her breath caught in her throat. Her companions were exclaiming aloud with wonder and amazement, but Rhiannon could not utter a sound. She had never seen anything so beautiful.
‘The river falls over the cliff just beyond the bridge,’ Lewen said, twisting in the saddle so he could see her face. ‘The waterfall is even bigger than the one we passed at Ravenscraig. It falls more than two hundred feet down into the valley. Ye’re lucky it is such a bonny day, for ye can see the rainbows the falls are famous for. It makes the city look quite magical, doesn’t it?’
Rhiannon nodded. Everywhere she looked were towers and domes and pointed roofs and minarets, all gleaming with gold or flying with flags or glittering with glass. Up until now, the biggest town Rhiannon had ever seen was Linlithgorn in Ravenshaw, and that had had no building taller than three storeys and no more than a few hundred houses. Many of the towers in Lucescere soared seven storeys high, and there were far too many of them to count. Rhiannon could not begin to imagine how many people lived there.
Lewen clicked his tongue, and his big grey stallion, Argent, began to make his way down the hill. Rhiannon settled back with a sigh. Even after all these weeks on the road, it irked her to have to ride pillion behind Lewen. If only she could ride her winged mare, Blackthorn! They could have soared above the city, seeing it as only an eagle could, instead of trudging their way along the dusty road.
Rhiannon looked back at the forest behind them. She could see Blackthorn, cantering along through the trees, her long black wings folded along her sides. It was a great comfort to Rhiannon, knowing her flying horse followed her still. Blackthorn could easily have disappeared back into the mountains. She was not constrained by chains, like Rhiannon was, nor even by a bridle and rein. Only love and loyalty kept her trotting along behind the caravans, for, as Rhiannon had discovered, these were bonds as strong as any manacle, in their way.
The thought made her stomach clench with anxiety and fear. Soon they would ride into the Shining City, and Rhiannon would at last discover her fate. She had been accused of murdering one of the Rìgh’s most trusted lieutenants and, if found guilty, would most likely be hanged for her crime. Lewen was sure this would not happen, assuring her the Rìgh could never execute one so young and fair. Rhiannon did not trust his judgement, however, for Lewen was her lover as well as her captor, and she thought his passion for her must surely cloud his reasoning.
It had certainly clouded hers, she thought sourly. Lewen had made her give her word of honour that she would not try to escape and foolishly Rhiannon had promised. Despite her word, the Rìgh’s courier Iven had insisted she and Lewen be chained together and so a short length of clanking iron chain fettered them, giving them neither the freedom to be apart nor the freedom to truly grow closer together.
Six weeks they had been chained together, night and day, unable to eat or sleep or scratch or squat without the other one witness to the act. At times the chain had made their lovemaking more intense, even inflaming their desire. At other times the enforced intimacy had been unbearable.
Rhiannon returned her gaze to the Shining City. Somewhere within those glowing walls lived the Rìgh, Lachlan the Winged, who ruled all of Eileanan and the Far Islands and had the power of life and death over her. Would she be executed for murder and treason, or would she be pardoned? If the order of execution was stayed, as Lewen promised it would be, what other punishment would be devised for her? Rhiannon had learnt enough about the man she had killed to know that he had been greatly loved by the Rìgh. Surely he would demand retribution?
Rhiannon had heard tales of a man being branded with a T for ‘traitor’ and condemned to wander as an outcast, begging for food and mercy. Others had been condemned to work in the mines, deprived of sunlight and fresh air. This seemed a terrible punishment to Rhiannon, who had grown up with only the sky as her roof and the moss as her mattress. She prayed mutely to whatever god may exist that she would escape such a sentence.
They reached the Bridge of Sorrows in the early evening, when only the very tallest towers were still gilded with light. Everything else was sunk into violet dusk, the river glimmering softly under the shadowy arches. The bridge was crowded with people hurrying in and out, for the gates would be shut at sunset, at the sound of the vesper bell.
Nina drew her gaudily painted caravan up on the side of the road before the bridge, her husband, Iven, coming to a halt beside her. Although they were dressed in the bright, shabby clothes of jongleurs, both were more than they seemed. Iven had once been one of the Rìgh’s own elite force of soldiers, the Blue Guards, until he had married. Now he was a courier and emissary for the MacCuinn, gathering and disseminating news as he drove around the countryside, and singing the songs and telling the tales the Rìgh wanted to be told. Nina was a sorceress and journeywitch in service to the Coven of Witches. As well as teaching the lore of the witches as she travelled the roads of Eileanan, it was her task to find children of magical talent and bring them back to the Theurgia, to be taught the ways of the witches. She had six young apprentices travelling with her this time, three boys and three girls, ranging in age from sixteen to eighteen.
‘Well, here we are, my bairns, at Lucescere at last,’ she said to them, as they all drew their weary horses close around her. ‘I just want to warn ye to keep close to the caravans once we are inside. Lucescere is no’ the place to get lost in. It’s a veritable maze o’ streets and alleys, and it is hard to keep one’s bearings, for the buildings are so tall ye canna see out once ye are in. So keep close, and keep a sharp eye out. Though the town watch do their best to keep things in order, there are many thieves and cut-throats here, as there are in any big city.’
The apprentices murmured their understanding.
‘Rhiannon, I do no’ ken what to do with your mare. We canna let her just follow us into Lucescere. She’ll be spooked, for sure, by all the noise and smells. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid she shall have to be bridled and put on a lead rein. Can ye call her for us?’
Rhiannon scowled, shaking her head instinctively.
Nina leant forward persuasively. ‘If she’s no’ kept on a close lead, she’ll hurt herself. She may bolt, and then she’ll be lost in the back streets and ye’ll never see her again. Someone would catch her for sure, and sell her to the highest bidder, or keep her for their own. Winged horses are highly prized, ye ken that.’
‘Canna I ride her?’ Rhiannon pleaded. ‘She’ll be much calmer if I’m on her back.’
Iven frowned. ‘We canna allow ye to do that, Rhiannon, ye ken that.’
‘But I promised no’ to escape,’ Rhiannon said angrily. ‘Why ye no’ trust me? If I was going to run away, I would’ve done so by now!’
Nina and Iven exchanged a quick glance. ‘Very well,’ Iven said at last. ‘But Lewen will have to lead her, and ye will have to be tied on to her back, to make sure ye do no’ slip off and try to escape in the crowd. I’ll walk beside ye too, just to make sure.’
‘I wouldna leave Blackthorn,’ she protested. ‘She’s mine!’
‘Aye, I ken, but it is my task to deliver
ye safely to the Rìgh’s constables and that means taking no chances.’
Rhiannon jerked her shoulder, her face mutinous. ‘Blackthorn does no’ like to be bridled,’ she said sulkily.
‘And ye do no’ like to be tied up. We ken, we ken. It canna be helped though,’ Iven said, swinging his legs round so he could jump down to the ground, leaving his carthorse to tear placidly at the grass with his big yellow teeth. ‘Will ye call her, Rhiannon, and put the bridle on her?’
Rhiannon obeyed reluctantly. Blackthorn came cantering up willingly enough, but put her ears back at the sight of the bridle and danced away.
‘At least ye dinna have to wear a chain and manacles like me,’ Rhiannon snapped. ‘Come on, it’s only for a wee while. That city in there is big and noisy and dangerous, and we do no’ want someone nabbing ye.’
Blackthorn snorted and frisked away, shaking her mane, but Rhiannon followed inexorably, bridle in hand. ‘Come on, lassie,’ she said. ‘Settle down now.’
The mare’s lip curled back in distaste as the cold iron of the bit slid into her mouth, then she flung back her head, rearing in displeasure. Rhiannon clamped her hand over the fine bone of the mare’s nose, forcing her head down. Blackthorn submitted with ill grace.
It was hard to do up the buckles with her hands hampered by the handcuffs and swinging chain, but Rhiannon managed at last. She then flung her little saddle – no more than a pad of soft leather and a girth – over the mare’s back and buckled it tightly, digging the mare in the ribs with her elbow to stop her holding her breath. Nobody in their right mind would ride a flying horse without making sure the saddle was secure first.
Rhiannon leapt lightly up into the saddle, and allowed Iven to lash her hands to the pommel. She kept her chin up and her eyes staring straight ahead, aware of the eyes watching her. The six apprentice-witches found Blackthorn utterly fascinating, even after all these weeks. There was more than a touch of envy in their gazes, for who had not dreamt of taming a flying horse?
With an apologetic glance, Lewen took Blackthorn’s reins and turned Argent’s head towards the city. Iven flung another rope about the mare’s neck, and held onto it firmly as he walked along beside them, his young son, Roden, picking up the caravan’s reins and slapping them on the carthorse’s broad back.
It was an odd procession that clattered over the long bridge and into Lucescere. Certainly it caused the heads of everyone they passed to turn and stare, and the people of Lucescere were used to strange sights.
First rode Lewen on his grey stallion, leading the dainty black winged mare and her defiant rider, her hands securely bound. Beside them strode a gaily dressed jongleur with a long fair beard forked into two, with a pair of garishly painted caravans trundling behind. Riding close about the caravans were six young men and women, some dressed in rich fabrics of fashionable cut, others in rough homespuns and clogs.
A little way behind came two huge, old-fashioned carriages of black enamelled wood, bearing a coat of arms upon their doors, each guarded by four stout out-riders. The first carriage was drawn by four perfectly matched black geldings, and its roof and back were piled high with luggage. Looking with weary interest out of the window was an old man, his grey hair cropped short, his thick brows drawn down towards his eagle nose. A big raven perched on his shoulder. This was Lord Malvern MacFerris of Fettercairn who, like Rhiannon, had been brought to Lucescere to face charges of murder and treason. Unlike Rhiannon, he had brought his groom, his valet, his harper, his piper, his librarian, his stable-boy and his healer with him. The valet travelled with his master. The others jostled each other to see out the windows of the second coach.
Although Lord Malvern and his servants and guards had accompanied the jongleurs on the long journey through Ravenshaw and into Rionnagan, Rhiannon and the others had seen very little of him. On the rare occasions when no inn or farmhouse could be found in which to sleep, the lord’s servants set up their own camp and the lord slept at ease in his big, well-cushioned carriage.
Relations between the jongleurs and Lord Malvern were tense, for the lord and his minions had tried to kidnap Nina and Iven’s son, Roden, for their own nefarious purposes. With Rhiannon’s help, Roden had been rescued, and the lord and his minions had all been placed under arrest, with eight soldiers from the town of Linlithgorn set to guard them.
It was not just the kidnapping of six-year-old Roden that had led to Lord Malvern’s arrest. The lord of Fettercairn was also suspected of being responsible for dozens of mysterious deaths in the countryside surrounding his castle, as well as for dabbling in the forbidden art of necromancy.
If it had not been for Iven’s badge of authority, the reeve of Linlithgorn would most likely have dismissed all these accusations out of hand, for the MacFerris clan had ruled in their part of the world for many centuries, and were very rich and powerful. Like Rhiannon, Lord Malvern faced the death penalty if found guilty. Rhiannon wondered if he felt the same anxiety that she did, now that they were here at Lucescere at last. She did not think so. No doubt he expected the Rìgh would think twice before condemning a man of his ancient and noble lineage to death. Rhiannon could only hope he would extend the same courtesy to a nameless nobody from a wild satyricorn herd.
It was dim inside the city walls, for the buildings leant over the street like angry adults over a child. The air felt damp and cool, and everyone unrolled their riding cloaks and flung them about their shoulders. Rhiannon was too proud to ask Iven to do the same for her, but he saw her shiver and wrapped her cloak about her without a word.
The streets were lined with shops that opened directly onto the street, their wares spilling out onto the cobblestones and obstructing the passage of the hundreds of carts and carriages and riders and pedestrians hurrying along. Copper merchants brandished kettles and ladles, tanners thrust soft leather gloves and intricately worked belts under their noses, cobblers bemoaned the poor state of the travellers’ worn boots and tried to convince them to buy new ones, and cursehags hissed at them from black-hung stalls. Brilliantly coloured silks billowed in the breeze, and great loops of crimson and blue and yellow wool hung across the street on poles so they had to duck their heads.
Strong odours assaulted Rhiannon’s sensitive nose. Some were foul, like rotting fish and sewage and half-tanned leather and horse manure. Others were delicious, like hot spiced pies, dried herbs and powdered spices, and sweet perfumes from the scent merchants. The noise battered Rhiannon’s ears too. She had never heard such a cacophony. One woman was trying to catch a squealing piglet that had escaped its cage; another harangued a fishmonger; yet another danced on a street corner in a swirl of orange skirts to the sound of a small boy bashing a tambourine.
A curtained litter carried by four enormous corrigans swayed through the streets, a cluricaun wielding a whip clearing the way before it. A Celestine in a pale green dress bent to speak with a filthy, ragged cursehag crouched inside a makeshift tent. Rhiannon had never seen a Celestine before, and craned her neck to watch. The faery seemed to glimmer with a frosty light like starshine, and her eyes were as bright and colourless as water. The cursehag cringed away from her, and made some rude gesture, and at once the two men who guarded the Celestine stepped forward threateningly. The Celestine drew them back, her face very gentle.
The caravans made slow progress through the teeming streets, so Rhiannon had plenty of time to stare and marvel. She was not the only one awestruck and amazed. None of the six young apprentices had ever been to Lucescere before either, and they pointed and exclaimed at every sight.
At last they came to a big square before a tall pair of iron gates. Beyond were lawns and trees and, in the distance, a great building with many golden domes that gleamed in the last burnished light. After the rush and bustle of the city, it was a relief to rest her eyes on the green gardens, and Rhiannon paid little attention to the conversation between Iven and the guards on the gate. All her attention was focused on the palace. There lived Lachlan MacCuinn, the w
inged Rìgh of Eileanan, and the ultimate arbitrator of justice in the land. Although Rhiannon would be tried before a jury, her fate ultimately rested in his hands. She wondered again what sort of man he was. Most of the stories told of him were tales of war and rebellion and great acts of sorcery. They were not reassuring.
Rhiannon was roused from her abstraction by a sudden splat of moisture on her cheek. She looked round, surprised, and realised one of the guards on the gate had spat at her. She flushed in rage and humiliation, unable to lift her bound hands to wipe the phlegm away. The guards were staring at her in overt anger and hostility. At first she was bewildered but then she realised, with a sudden sinking of her heart, that they all wore the same long blue cloak and tam-o’-shanter that she did. Rhiannon’s cloak and hat had belonged to Connor the Just, the soldier she had killed. Rhiannon wore them still because she had no other clothes to wear, apart from the old shirt and breeches Lewen’s mother Lilanthe had given her. From the looks on their faces, the guards knew she was the one who had killed Connor, and hated her for it. Rhiannon lifted her arm to wipe her face on her sleeve and looked straight ahead, her cheeks burning.
Iven was frowning as he came back to her side. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said stiffly. ‘The soldier responsible will be severely disciplined.’
Rhiannon did not respond. Iven took her lead rein and nodded to Lewen, who rode on down the tree-lined avenue, looking tense and unhappy. The caravans rattled after them.
Under normal circumstances, Rhiannon would have been as excited and fascinated as the apprentices riding behind her. She could only think about what lay before her, however, and the winged mare sensed her fear and distrust and danced uneasily, causing Iven to put one hand upon her bridle.
The road brought them through a pretty little gatehouse into a large courtyard. The bulk of the palace rose beyond another wall, protected by two round turrets topped with gilded domes. On either side of the courtyard were the stables and the mews and the kennels, and various tall stone buildings from which came the sound of hammering and sawing, and the smell of the forge. The courtyard was full of people. Most were dressed in rough brown breeches and smocks, belted with heavy leather hung with the tools of their trade. Some, however, were dressed in the blue cloaks of the palace guard. These men stiffened to attention as the cavalcade drew up before the gatehouse. Rhiannon was aware of their eyes fixed upon her. She raised her chin a little higher in the air, fixing her gaze on the stone shield above the gate. It was carved with the shape of a rearing stag, a crown between its antlers.
