by Kate Forsyth
The sorcerer glanced over his shoulder. ‘Remember, no tricks now,’ he warned. ‘Ye may think yourself very clever, bamboozling the Keybearer into allowing this folly, but I’m no’ as soft as she is, and willna hesitate to strike ye down if ye should try to escape. Neither, I might add, will your guards, though their weapons are far more crude than mine.’
But ye have no weapons, Rhiannon thought.
The sorcerer grinned, showing bad teeth. ‘I am a sorcerer o’ four rings, my dear, I have no need o’ swords or pistols. I can stop your heart with a thought if I have a mind to.’
Rhiannon did not know whether to believe him or not. They walked through the city streets, the guards keeping close. Rhiannon looked about her greedily, her eyes soaking up as many details of the bustling streets as she could. The sorcerer strode ahead of her, scowling at anyone who dared look too closely.
Then they came to the palace gates, which stood open, guarded by a row of blue-clad soldiers. They turned to stare at Rhiannon, who clenched her hands in her skirts and walked on, following the sorcerer through the massive iron gates. Beyond lay a long drive, lined with trees dressed all in the fresh green of springtime. On either side smooth verdant lawns stretched away, bordered with neat hedges. In the centre of each lawn was a marble fountain splashing with water, white graceful statues dancing amidst the rainbow spray. Tall yew trees were neatly clipped into identical cone shapes. The eye was led irresistibly to the palace, a tall wide building capped with great golden domes that gleamed in the warm reddish rays of the sun.
Rhiannon was disappointed. Although the garden was very beautiful, in a stiff, formal way, it was not what she had been expecting from Lewen’s rhapsodic descriptions. In silence she followed the sorcerer along the avenue to the palace. He did not go into the magnificent building, but led her and her guards round to the left. A paved road led round the back of the palace, lined with a tall yew hedge and pretty formal gardens filled with newly budding roses and star-like narcissus within low hedges grown in diamonds and circles.
Through an arched gate, Rhiannon saw a massive kitchen garden, with rows and rows of herbs and vegetables and trellised vines and espaliered fruit trees. To her surprise the sorcerer turned to her, and said, ‘All the students o’ the Theurgia must work in there, ye ken. There are nigh on a thousand mouths to be fed in this place, and it is back-breaking work keeping them all from going hungry. Lewen is one o’ my best students, he has a gift with growing things, did ye ken? I shall be sorry indeed if he does no’ sit his Tests as we all expected. He’s a wood witch in the making, indeed he is.’
Then the sorcerer shut his mouth into a hard line, and Rhiannon saw that he was angry with her. She looked back at the beautifully tended garden, and saw hot-looking students in grubby black robes resting on their spades and hoes to stare at her, until another brown-robed man ordered them peremptorily back to work.
The palace was now behind them, and Rhiannon’s step faltered as she looked ahead of her with growing wonder and delight. Beyond spread a green, shady forest, broken by long stretches of velvety lawn and great banks of flowering shrubs. Mossy flagstoned paths curved away into little dells of spring bulbs, or led through into sunlit gardens where statues or ponds filled with waterlilies or great urns of flowers stood in just the perfect place to entice the eye. On one side the avenue led down the side of a great wall, several hundred feet high and smooth as glass. Beyond, Rhiannon could hear the roar of a turbulent river. The brown-clad sorcerer led her down this avenue, and Rhiannon followed slowly, her eyes fixed on the garden rolling away to her right. She longed to explore the many paths and steps that ran away through arches of blossoms, or deep green tunnels of leaves, but dared not disobey the emphatic tap-tapping of that staff.
Then she saw, buried deep in the verdant gardens, another small golden dome, surrounded by row upon row of high green hedges. Rhiannon craned her neck to see more, realising that this was the maze she had been told grew in the heart of the gardens. There was a magical pool there, Nina had told her, and an observatory where the witches watched the movements of the stars and planets.
Rhiannon gazed back over her shoulder at the dome, wishing she could find her way to it through the maze, when, unexpectedly, she felt the air grow thin and cold about her. The sound of battle smote her ears. Shouts, screams of pain, the clang of metal on metal, the whine of arrows, the howling of a wolf. The peaceful sunlit garden faded away, and she saw instead a wild tangle of neglected trees and vines wreathed in dank mist. Men fought everywhere she looked, their faces twisted with effort. Everywhere men died. Rhiannon cringed back, ducking a sword swipe. She felt hands seize her shoulders, and screamed, falling to her hands and knees. Looking up, she felt every hair on her body stand erect, as an icy shudder of fear swept over her. Ghosts shrieked through the mist, wielding cold shining swords. Rhiannon cowered down, arms over her head.
‘Lass, what is it? What’s wrong?’
At last the voice penetrated her brain. She looked up, dazed, and saw the sorcerer in brown leaning over her. The sun shone warm and red on his head. Beside him the soldiers had all their weapons drawn, not sure whether to menace her or some unseen threat in the garden. Rhiannon looked around her, bewildered.
‘But … there was a battle … ghosts … ghosts o’ dead soldiers … and a wolf … it was dark, misty …’
One of the soldiers made a sharp sound of disbelief, and sheathed his sword. The others lowered their weapons, their faces hardening. One looked at her in open scorn.
‘Is this what ye saw?’ the sorcerer asked.
Rhiannon nodded, rubbing her aching forehead with her hand. She felt like weeping. All she could do was hang her head and try not to let the soldiers see. The sorcerer put down one broad, calloused hand. After a moment she took it and let him pull her to her feet. Shamefaced, she busied herself dusting the leaves off her skirt.
‘There was a famous battle here, many years ago. The horn o’ the MacRuraich clan was blown, calling up the ghosts o’ clansmen past. Tabithas Wolf-Runner fought in that battle too, in the shape o’ a wolf.’
Rhiannon looked up. ‘A black wolf?’
‘Aye, a black wolf.’
Rhiannon nodded. ‘And soldiers in red cloaks.’
‘Maya the Ensorcellor’s Red Guards,’ the sorcerer concurred. ‘It was a decisive battle in Lachlan the Winged’s bid to regain the throne.’ He glanced at the soldiers. ‘I dinna think it happened so long ago that the Blue Guards would’ve forgotten. Why, your own captain was here that night. He was given his sword Joyeux for the part he played that Samhain Eve.’
It was the soldiers’ turn now to look shamefaced. The sorcerer motioned to Rhiannon to step forward and walk with him, and she obeyed, casting her four guards a disdainful glance.
‘That is a rare Talent ye have, lass,’ the sorcerer said. ‘Few can see the past so clearly. Does it come to ye unbidden?’
Rhiannon nodded, unable to control a shudder that rattled her teeth together.
‘Uncomfortable,’ the sorcerer said. ‘I would brace yourself then, lass, for there are many ghosts here at the Tower o’ Two Moons. Most o’ the students barely notice them, for the halls are filled with noise and laughter now, but we sorcerers see them often. Do no’ be afraid. They are just the memories o’ the stones. They willna harm ye.’
Rhiannon cast him a quick look. She did not believe him. He frowned at her, as if sorry for the moment of connection, then said brusquely, ‘There’s your mooncalf lover. Let us hope he finds it easier to listen in class tomorrow after seeing ye, for he sure as apples could no’ be any worse!’
Rhiannon barely registered his words. Her gaze had flown up eagerly, seeking Lewen’s tall familiar shape. He had been sitting under a big oak tree, whittling at a piece of wood with his knife, but at the sight of her he dropped them both and stood up, looking awkward and unhappy. Rhiannon’s step faltered too. He was dressed in the austere black robe of an apprentice, and his unruly brown curls were s
wept back and tied severely at the nape of his neck with a black riband. It made him look very different.
They stood and looked at each other, and said not a word. The sorcerer made a noise of disgust. ‘The Keybearer said ye were to walk in the garden, so walk, for Eà’s sake!’
Rhiannon gritted her teeth together, inclined her head to Lewen and began to walk along the lawn. He picked up his knife and sheathed it, dropping the bird he had been carving into his pocket, then came to walk by her side. Still they said nothing.
Rhiannon’s heart was sore. After several more minutes of that painful, unhappy silence, she said stiffly, ‘Ye have no’ been to see me.’
‘I’m sorry. They wouldna let me.’
‘Ye should’ve made them.’
‘How?’
‘I dinna ken! Begged them. Paid them money. Knocked them down.’
‘I tried to bribe them,’ Lewen said unhappily, ‘but it was that auld guard, Henry. He willna take bribes, I’ve tried afore. He says I havena enough money to compensate him for losing his job. Most o’ the other guards will gladly let me grease their palm for a wee bit more time with ye, but he never does.’
Knowing Lewen had at least tried to see her made Rhiannon feel a little better. She glanced sideways at him. He was looking tired.
‘She said I could only see ye once a week,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Canna ye beg her to let ye come more often? A week is such an awful long time.’
‘I canna go importuning the Keybearer!’ Lewen said. ‘I’m just grateful she hasna vetoed my visits completely.’
‘Why canna ye?’ she demanded.
‘Well … she’s the Keybearer,’ Lewen tried to explain.
‘So?’
‘She … ye’re lucky she’s taken the interest she already has. The Keybearer is the head o’ the whole Coven, and o’ the Theurgia too … she’s very busy.’
Rhiannon brooded over this for a while. ‘She like First-Horn?’
Lewen nodded. ‘Aye. Ye must treat her with respect.’
‘She dangerous?’
‘She can shapechange into a dragon,’ Lewen said.
Rhiannon was impressed indeed. ‘A dragon! No wonder she told me I was no’ quick enough or strong enough to grab her dagger.’
‘Ye did no’ try to grab her witch-dagger, did ye?’
Rhiannon was affronted by the overt horror and dismay in Lewen’s voice. ‘Nay, I dinna, but I could’ve if I’d wanted to.’
He snorted.
They walked on in a stiff, angry silence.
The grassy path led under a tall maple tree. As the shadow of its leaves fell on their faces, Lewen suddenly turned and seized her hands. ‘Don’t be angry,’ he said. ‘I couldna come. I’m sorry, but they forbade me. I got drunk, I suppose I said some wild things. Olwynne was worried, that’s the only reason she told …’
At the sound of Olwynne’s name, Rhiannon stiffened.
Lewen noticed, and went on quickly. ‘I ken how much ye hate that prison. I wish I …’ He struggled for words, then took something out of his pocket and thrust it into her hands. ‘I made it for ye,’ he said. ‘I hope ye like it.’
It was a small bird, carved from wood, its wings unfurling for flight.
‘It’s a bluebird,’ Lewen said. ‘A mountain bluebird. I saw many o’ them up in the highlands o’ Rionnagan. They fly in great flocks, as fast as swifts, and sing so beautifully. Do ye ken the ones I mean?’
‘Och, aye,’ Rhiannon said blankly. If Lewen was to think of her as a bird, she would have preferred something grand and fierce, like a golden eagle or goshawk. She turned the bird in her hands, and only then saw how graceful was the line of the turned head and throat, how shapely the long pointed wings. She remembered lying in the highland meadows as a child, watching the bluebirds soaring and diving, the sun flashing upon their iridescent wings, and her throat suddenly closed over. ‘It’s bonny, thank ye,’ she choked.
‘I’m glad ye like it … I only wish …’
What Lewen wished for, Rhiannon would never know, for she heard the sudden, unexpected whinny of a horse, high overhead.
‘Blackthorn!’ she screamed.
She ran out from under the shade of the maple, and saw, with a wild leaping of her pulse, the beautiful familiar shape of her flying horse high in the sky above, wings spread, forefeet tucked under her breast. Blackthorn whinnied again.
Rhiannon called her name, and the winged horse began to circle down.
Then Rhiannon saw the four guards running out into the open, the archer raising high his bow, arrow cocked. The soldier with the long metal pipe had it lifted to his shoulder, squinting along the barrel, the other soldiers had their weapons hefted and ready to use.
‘Rhiannon!’ Lewen cried. ‘Tell her to go! They’ll shoot her!’
Tears surged to her eyes. Go! she cried soundlessly. Fly free!
The winged horse spread her wings and hovered, her ringing neigh echoing through the trees.
Go, beloved! Rhiannon thought. I will call ye when I need ye!
Blackthorn responded with another defiant call, then beat her great wings, rising high into the sky once more. They watched the mare disappear into the violet distance beyond the witches’ tower, and then everyone turned to look at Rhiannon.
She was distraught, silent tears flooding down her face. Occasionally her breath caught, but she repressed her sobs valiantly, her hands clenched by her sides.
Lewen bent and picked up the little wooden bird, which had fallen into the grass. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said helplessly.
She did not answer.
Lewen bent his head over the wooden bird cradled in his hands, his throat thick with longing. Rhiannon took a deep breath, rubbed her hand across her face, and held out her hand for it mechanically. It was warm from Lewen’s hand. She glanced down at it, then gasped in surprise.
Azure was blooming across the satin-smooth wooden sides of the bird. Over its breast, down the length of its tail, along each feather of the out-flung wings, up its throat and over its cheeks, to the edge of the sharp little beak which turned as black as its claws. The head turned. One bright black eye regarded Rhiannon. Its soft throat swelled. A bubble of music filled the air. Rhiannon could feel its heart hammering away at her fingers.
‘Eà’s green blood!’ Lewen breathed.
‘Dark walkers, hunt me no’,’ Rhiannon swore.
They stared at the bird in silence. It warbled and sang, cocking its head to one side.
The sorcerer strode up, his face screwed up in an expression of anger. ‘Lucky that horse o’ yours dinna fly closer, else they’d have shot it down out o’ the sky,’ he said.
Rhiannon did not answer. She was staring down at the bird with an expression of wonder.
‘What do ye have there?’ the sorcerer demanded.
She held it out for him mutely.
‘A mountain bluebird. Strange. I’ve never seen one so low at this time o’ year. Normally they are back in the highlands by spring. It looks tame. I wonder where it can have come from.’
‘Lewen carved it for me,’ Rhiannon said. ‘And then he brought it to life.’
‘What? Rubbish!’
‘No’ rubbish. True.’
‘But … Lewen, is this the truth?’
Lewen nodded.
‘Heavens! But that’s high sorcery! I’ve never heard o’ it being done afore. Are ye sure? O’ course ye’re sure. Here, let me feel the bird.’
Rhiannon would not let him take the bird, which nested happily in her hands still, but allowed him to feel its soft blue feathers, its rapidly beating heart. As he tried to run his hand down its back, it turned its head and pecked him, drawing up a bright bead of blood on his leathery skin.
‘Gracious alive! Lewen, my boy, this is extraordinary. I must tell the Keybearer, show it to the Circle o’ Sorcerers. I’ve never heard o’ a creature carved o’ wood being given life afore. Here, girl. Give me the bird. I’ll take it now …’
‘Nay,’
Rhiannon said. ‘Bird is mine.’ She clasped it close to her, within the circle of her hands, and the bird gave a little trill of contentment.
The sorcerer stared at her for a long time, then he nodded his head, once, sharply. ‘Very well. Lewen made it for ye, Lewen brought it to life for ye. How, boy? How did ye do it?’
‘I dinna ken,’ he said, the first words he had spoken.
‘I’d think on it, boy. Try to do it again. The Keybearer will want to see. My heavens. Talk about ye being a wood witch!’
Rhiannon bent her head and stared at the little bird in amazement. It chirped at her then, suddenly, spread its wings and launched itself into the sky. Rhiannon cried aloud in dismay, and the sorcerer cursed her for a fool. But the bird did not fly away. It darted through the sky, snapping at insects, then came back to rest on Rhiannon’s shoulder, rubbing her cheek with its smooth beak. There it rode, all the way back to Sorrowgate Tower, up the narrow dark stairs and into Rhiannon’s cell. That night, Rhiannon did not eat alone, staring at the blank wall. She shared her supper with the bluebird, listening to its liquid song with a painful swelling in her heart.
‘He made ye for me,’ she whispered to it, holding out a seed for it to peck. ‘Ye mine now.’
‘’Tis now the very witching time of night.’
SHAKESPEARE,
Hamlet, Act III, scene 2 (1601)
Olwynne followed Ghislaine Dream-Walker through the trees, her eyes downcast. Although she had seen the green-eyed sorceress many times before, she had never spoken to her and she could not help feeling nervous.
Ghislaine was a beautiful woman, with hair the colour of corn hanging to her feet. Her face was pale and the skin under her eyes was faintly touched with purple, as if she slept uneasily. There was a faraway quality to her, as if she was touched only lightly by the demands of this existence. Olwynne had heard that she took many lovers, though she was so ethereal it was hard to imagine her feeling any earthly desires.
