The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  Ghislaine was dressed in a loose white gown, fastened at the waist with a cord from which hung a black-handled silver dagger. Around her neck hung a small silver shield engraved with the shape of a flowering tree, and she wore three rings on each hand, green and white and blue. She was a powerful sorceress, descended directly from Aislinna the Dreamer herself, mother to daughter for a thousand years. Her cousin, Melisse NicThanach, ruled Blèssem, and her elder sister, Gilliane, had inherited the throne of Aslinn only a few years earlier. Ghislaine herself had spent the winter in Aslinn, overlooking the rebuilding of the ruined Tower of Dreamers, and had returned to Lucescere only the day before. Soon she would return to Aslinn, to head the new tower and begin her own school. But for now she had returned to her usual role at the Tower of Two Moons, teaching the senior students and walking the dream-road in service of the Coven. No wonder she was always so pale and bruised under the eyes.

  Olwynne was feeling rather pale and bruised herself. She had hardly slept the last few weeks. Every night she replayed in her mind’s eye the sight of Lewen holding his black-haired satyricorn girl in his arms. Olwynne saw again the moment that Lewen had run his hand down the curve of Rhiannon’s waist, and the way the girl had flowed into his arms, mouth to mouth, breast to breast, groin to groin. She tortured herself with imaginings of what had gone on inside the cell. She had scolded herself silently. They would no’ dare, she told herself. They would no’ have time. Surely they are only talking …

  But Lewen had come out, flushed and heavy-eyed, his tunic askew, his curls rumpled, a smile playing on his lips. He had hardly acknowledged Olwynne, lost in his own thoughts. It was clear to Olwynne that Lewen and the satyricorn were lovers, and that she had lost any chance of winning him for herself. Every time she thought of it Olwynne was scalded with a bewildering mix of scorn, dismay, jealousy and humiliation. Here she was, a brilliant scholar, learned and literate, able to match Lewen word for word in battles of wit, able to read the old languages, sing and play the clàrsach, quote from the old masters, navigate a ship by the stars and work out difficult mathematical equations; a banprionnsa, descended on both sides from the First Coven of Witches, daughter to the Rìgh, niece to the Keybearer, and ready and willing to lay all her wit, wisdom and worldly goods at the unnoticing feet of Lewen the Whittler, son of a woodcutter’s son and a tree-shifter.

  Every night she went through the same cycle of emotion. First she would burn with indignation and anger, declaring her indifference to Lewen, her hope that he would be happy with his wild girl of the mountains, her utter scorn for men who could be wooed by a shapely figure and a pair of blue eyes. Then she would sink into a morass of utter mortification, only able to hope that no-one had guessed how much deeper than friendship were her feelings for Lewen. She had miscalculated, she had to admit, telling Isabeau about Lewen’s wild ramblings on the night at the Nisse and Nixie. Not only had Lewen felt hurt and betrayed, and had drawn away from her, but Olwynne felt sure she had betrayed herself to her aunt. Isabeau had turned a very keen look on her, and Olwynne had often felt the Keybearer’s gaze upon her since.

  At times Olwynne hated herself, both for loving a man who did not love her in return, and also for the degree of antipathy and spite she felt towards her rival. It shocked her, that she could hate so intensely. At such times, black misery and despair overwhelmed her, and Olwynne would turn her face into her hot pillow to blot away the tears she could not control.

  It did not help that, when she did finally fall asleep, her dreams were still haunted by black-winged horrors. Night after night, Olwynne jerked awake, unable to breathe, her heart pounding, oppressed by the utter certainty that evil crouched around the next corner. Often she lay awake the rest of the night.

  Racked with misery and exhaustion, Olwynne moved through her days like a revenant, trying hard to retain her usual composure so no-one would realise just how overwrought was her nervous system.

  Isabeau must have guessed something of her state of mind, though, for she called Olwynne to her the moment Ghislaine returned to Lucescere.

  ‘I want Ghislaine to walk the dream-road with ye, and find the source o’ all these nightmares,’ Isabeau said kindly. ‘I do no’ like to see ye look so pale and wan.’

  Olwynne was not at all sure she wanted to do this. Her dreams frightened her dreadfully. But she nodded her head and agreed, obedient and respectful as always.

  So now, in the warm dusk of an early summer day, she followed the Dream-Walker through the shadowy forest to the sacred glade in the heart of the Tower of Two Moon’s garden. The glade had been planted a thousand years earlier, by Martha the Wise. Seven enormous old trees grew in a circle, their branches knotted together. Ash, hazel, oak, blackthorn, fir, rowan, and yew, the seven trees sacred to the Coven. Beneath the trees grew soft grass and flowers – clover and angelica and heartsease – and a spring burbled nearby. The shape of a star within a circle was scored heavily into the soil.

  Ghislaine led Olwynne into the circle and silently gestured to her to lie down. Olwynne obeyed, looking up at the intermingling leaves above. The sky was fading from blue to green. She could see the round uneven shape of the smaller moon through the leaves, looking almost transparent. It was very quiet and peaceful here in the glade. Olwynne took a deep breath, feeling some of her tension leave her.

  Quietly the sorceress set tall white candles at the six points of the star, and anointed them with oil from little crystal bottles. Olwynne could smell rosemary, angelica, hawthorn and gilly-flowers, for healing, consecration, an increase of psychic powers and protection against evil. Then she smelt lemon verbena, which she knew from her studies aided clear-seeing and clear-dreaming. The aromatic oils worked on her senses, making her feel both more peaceful and more alert.

  Then Ghislaine drew her knife and traced the shape of the circle and star, chanting:

  ‘I consecrate and conjure thee,

  O circle o’ magic, ring o’ power,

  Keep us safe from harm, keep us safe from evil,

  Guard us against treachery, keep us safe in your eyes,

  Eà o’ the moons.

  I consecrate and conjure thee,

  O star o’ spirit, pentacle o’ power,

  Fill us with your dark fire, your fiery darkness,

  Make o’ us your vessels, fill us with light,

  Eà o’ the starry skies.’

  She sprinkled the deeply scored lines with water and salt and ashes, each time chanting: ‘Keep us safe from harm, keep us safe from evil, open our eyes, open the door, draw aside the veils, keep our bodies safe, keep our spirits safe, I beg o’ ye, O Eà o’ the mysteries.’

  Ghislaine then sat down cross-legged at the apex of the star, lifting Olwynne’s head so it was cradled in her lap. She placed her fingers lightly on Olwynne’s forehead, at the point between her brows where her third eye was meant to be.

  ‘First we must sit the Ordeal,’ she said. ‘From sunset to midnight, ye must no’ move or speak. Have ye fasted today?’

  Olwynne nodded.

  ‘Good. Make yourself as comfortable as ye can. Close your eyes. Listen now to the wind as it moves among the trees. Let it move through ye. Breathe deeply o’ the good air, let it fill your body, let your body empty. Feel the earth beneath ye, feel it spin as it moves about the sun. Feel at one with the earth, feel at one with the darkness as it slowly falls upon the world, feel at one with the great trees reaching down deep into the soil, feel at one with the sun as it sinks away into night, feel at one with the moons as they fill the sky with radiance, feel at one with the wind, breathe now with the wind, breathe now with the earth, breathe now with the universe, breathe now …’

  Olwynne was very tired. Within moments she felt herself spiralling away from the soft insistent voice. Meditation was part of Olwynne’s daily routine, but never before had she felt such a quick or powerful response. She felt like she was falling. Some time passed, she did not know how long, before she became aware of Ghislaine’s fingers
tracing a spiral shape on her forehead as she began again to chant.

  Round and round the chant went, spiralling with the touch of Ghislaine’s voice. Only her voice and her touch kept Olwynne anchored. Otherwise she could have been floating in darkest space, untethered to any world. Then the circular motion stopped and Ghislaine pressed her fingertip hard against Olwynne’s third eye.

  ‘Ye are standing afore a door,’ she whispered. ‘Reach out your hand and open the door.’

  Olwynne saw with surprise that she was indeed standing before a door. It was green and had a knocker in the shape of a gargoyle’s face. She lifted her hand and pushed it open. Beyond was a wild, desolate landscape. A pale road led away under low grey skies, through wind-blasted thorn trees. Perched on one of the thorn trees was a great black raven, as big as a gyrfalcon. Olwynne shrank back at the sight of it, but she felt someone take her hand reassuringly. Ghislaine stood there beside her.

  ‘Do no’ be afraid, Olwynne,’ she said. ‘I am here. I shall walk the road with ye.’

  The raven regarded them with a mocking yellow eye and gave its melancholy cry. Olwynne shook her head, leaning back against Ghislaine’s hand. She remembered her dream, when a storm of ravens had whirled about her head, pecking at her eyes with their sharp beaks. At once she and Ghislaine were engulfed with frantically beating black wings and the scream of raven voices. Olwynne shrieked and tried to protect her head with her hands. One hand was held in a vice-like grip. She tried to drag it away, but Ghislaine would not let her go.

  ‘Do no’ let go o’ my hand,’ she said in Olwynne’s ear. ‘Hold on to me tightly. Remember, ye walk the dream-road. All this is only a dream.’

  Olwynne could hardly hear her over the raucous screech of the ravens. She felt beaks and sharp claws slashing at her face and arms, tearing her skin.

  ‘It is only a dream,’ Ghislaine repeated. ‘Walk with me.’

  Her hand was so insistent that Olwynne had no choice. She stumbled forward a few steps, and the cloud of black birds rose and swirled away, and she was once again standing on the chalky road, a cold wind tugging at her hair. She lifted her hand to her face, and was surprised to find herself unscratched. The raven still watched them with an unblinking eye. Olwynne stared back suspiciously.

  ‘The raven may be the gatekeeper o’ your door,’ Ghislaine said. ‘If so, it is here to guard and guide ye. It is a powerful symbol, the raven, the bringer o’ truth.’

  Olwynne shook her head instinctively. She knew the raven meant her ill.

  ‘Ye may speak here, I shall hear,’ Ghislaine said.

  Olwynne tried to speak but her throat was dry and sore. She cleared it and tried again.

  ‘The raven … it brings only nightmares.’

  Ghislaine frowned and regarded the raven. It cawed mockingly and rose into the air with lazy beats of its wings, circling the thorn tree once, twice, thrice, before soaring away. Ghislaine stood still, holding Olwynne fast when she would have stepped forward.

  ‘Look about ye,’ she said. ‘Do no’ let the raven distract ye. Can ye see anything?’

  Olwynne glanced about, seeing nothing but a vast undulating landscape, empty of all life. Suddenly Ghislaine bent, beckoning to Olwynne to do the same.

  ‘Look, a spider,’ she whispered. ‘Spinning her web.’

  A tiny spider, no bigger than Olwynne’s smallest fingernail, was busy constructing a delicate cobweb between thistles.

  ‘Is that my gatekeeper?’ Olwynne asked, disappointed.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ghislaine answered. ‘If so, it is a great omen, Olwynne. The web a spider spins represents the web that holds all worlds and all creatures together. She is a creature o’ the Three Spinners and thus o’ Eà herself. If she is your guide and guard, then I feel ye are blessed indeed.’

  ‘Ye said that about the raven,’ Olwynne muttered.

  Ghislaine’s face was stern. ‘Ye are in the dream world now. No’ all is as it seems.’ She indicated the spider. ‘Pick her up. Greet her. She is here to help.’

  Reluctantly Olwynne bent and laid her finger across the spider silk, breaking it. The spider dangled below. Olwynne lifted her hand so the spider hung level with her eyes. She stared, surprised to find it was a pretty creature, soft and grey. Not knowing what else to say, she muttered the ritual greeting ‘How are ye yourself?’ and felt silly and uncomfortable. The spider hung there a few seconds longer, then rapidly descended on her fragile line of silk and swung back into the thistle.

  ‘Let us walk,’ Ghislaine said.

  Hand in hand they walked down the road. ‘Where are we going?’ Olwynne asked. ‘Where does the road lead?’

  ‘I dinna ken,’ Ghislaine answered. ‘This is your dream. Take me where ye will.’

  Olwynne dragged her feet. ‘I do no’ ken where we go.’

  ‘What do ye wish to see?’ Ghislaine asked. ‘Or more importantly, what are ye afraid to see?’

  At once another door stood before them, slightly ajar. It was made of heavy oak and barred with iron. Olwynne did not want to open it, but Ghislaine raised her hand and Olwynne’s with it, and pushed the door open.

  Lewen stood inside, Rhiannon in his arms, his mouth on her neck. Rhiannon looked over his shoulder at Olwynne and smiled triumphantly, gloatingly. Lewen pushed Rhiannon onto the bed. Olwynne watched, half-repelled, half-fascinated, as he slid his hand up her bare leg, pushing her dress up around her waist. She slammed the door shut. Tears stung her eyes.

  ‘Open the door, if ye wish to see,’ Ghislaine said implacably.

  After a moment, hating her, Olwynne opened the door again. Rhiannon was astride a black winged horse. It was evening. Lightning flashed and thunder muttered. Lewen clung to her hand, drawing her down to kiss her. Their mouths fitted together, then at last drew reluctantly away. The horse leapt up and away into the dark stormy sky, black disappearing into black. Lewen turned away. At the sight of his face, Olwynne stepped forward, hand outstretched, longing to comfort him. He brushed past her as if she did not exist. Tears poured down her face, and then the whole world was awash with rain. It battered Olwynne’s face and body, soaked her hair and clothes, swirled up around her knees till she could barely stand. She fell to her knees and wept and wept.

  ‘Walk on,’ Ghislaine’s voice whispered. Olwynne became aware the sorceress knelt beside her in the rising water. ‘Come. Walk on.’

  Wiping her face with her free arm, Olwynne struggled to her feet and took a faltering step forward. The rain pelting her face softened and warmed. She realised feathers were now whirling against her, black feathers. They tickled her nose and throat, and made her cough. Faster and faster they whirled against her, like black snowflakes. She began to fear they would engulf her, suffocate her. She flailed wildly, coughing.

  ‘Walk on,’ Ghislaine urged. ‘Walk on.’

  ‘I canna!’ Olwynne cried, choking on feathers. ‘Which way, which way?’

  ‘Follow the girl,’ Ghislaine whispered. ‘She may be the key.’

  Olwynne looked up wildly. Somewhere far above her, the moon was breaking out of clouds, and silhouetted against it was the shape of a black flying horse and rider. Olwynne leapt to the silvery break, and found herself flying. Olwynne had always longed to fly, all her life, the only child without wings in her family. She had always imagined it to be a glorious feeling. It was not. Helter-skelter she flew through the air, wind dragging at her, endless space yawning about her, blind and deaf and terrified.

  ‘I am here,’ Ghislaine said in her ear. ‘Fly on.’

  They burst out of the storm into a deep, calm, silvery place somewhere between the clouds and the moon. The girl Rhiannon lay sleeping, curled into tendrils of mist as if it were an eiderdown. Her hair writhed out among the softness like sleepy black snakes. She opened her eyes and said, in a deep, gruff voice, ‘There are ghosts gathering close all about. I see them. He must beware.’

  ‘Who?’ Olwynne demanded.

  Rhiannon shook her head and shrugged, bewildered.
‘Him. The one with the singing staff.’ She pointed away into the darkness. Olwynne turned and saw a man standing with his back to her, a long way away. He was draped in some long black cloak. She took a step towards him, then another. Each step seemed to take her leagues across the sky. Now he was standing just before her. She saw his cloak was made of feathers. He held a tall staff between his hands. Crowning the staff was a round white orb. Light twisted in its heart. Faint music of indescribable beauty lilted and fell.

  ‘Dai?’ she whispered. ‘Dai-dein?’

  He turned to her gravely, looking at her with hollow eyes. Horror crept over her. Olwynne knew without a doubt that her father was dead. She tried to seize him but Ghislaine was still there beside her, holding her fast. She struggled to be free, but the sorceress would not let her go. All she could manage was to reach out one despairing hand. It brushed through him, touching only icy-cold air.

  ‘No!’ she cried. He seemed to shiver and dissolve like ice-crystals before her, leaving only a plume of snow that trailed away in the wind. Olwynne leapt after him, jerking Ghislaine after her.

  Down they fell, plummeting through freezing darkness. Ghislaine was clutching her hand so hard it was numb with pain. Olwynne tumbled head over heels helplessly. She had never been so afraid. Suddenly she saw, shining faintly in the abyss, a delicate thread. Again she flung out her free hand. Somehow she caught it.

  They swung gently back and forth in the darkness, buffeted by needle-sharp winds. Distance howled in their ears. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, they began to rise, the line of spider-silk drawing them ever higher.

  ‘Thank ye, thank ye,’ Olwynne whispered.

  They came again to clouds and water. It was hard to tell if it was rain, or river, or sea. There was ground beneath their feet, boggy and unstable. Olwynne could hardly see through the mist or rain or sea-spray. She tried to say ‘my father’ but her grief choked her.

  ‘Walk on,’ Ghislaine urged. ‘We must find out how, when, why. Walk on.’