The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  The Banprionnsa was exquisitely dressed in a simple gown of dark yellow silk. The MacCuinn plaid was draped over her shoulder and pinned at her slim waist with an emerald pin. Owein too had made some effort to dress for the occasion, with his bronze-red curls neatly combed, and his chin freshly shaven. His clothes were neat, even if put together with very little thought for fashion, and his shoes had been polished, for a change. He paused a moment at the sight of Fèlice, then inclined his head politely, asking after her health.

  ‘I am well, thank ye, Your Highness,’ Fèlice replied, just as coolly.

  ‘Have ye come to escort Lewen to the Court o’ Star Chamber?’ Olwynne asked, a note of surprise in her voice. ‘How kind o’ ye.’

  ‘I ken how difficult this day must be for him,’ Fèlice replied, lifting her chin a little.

  Olwynne raised her brows. ‘Aye, indeed,’ she replied. ‘As it is for all o’ us who kent Connor well. We miss him sorely.’

  Fèlice opened her mouth to retort, then thought better of it, merely bowing her head and drawing back so Olwynne could pass, her hand tucked into the crook of Lewen’s arm.

  Owein fell in beside Fèlice as they went back down the stairs. For once he walked like an ordinary man, his wings folded down his sides. Fèlice did not want to look at him, but she was very conscious of his long, warm body beside her and the occasional brush of his wingtip against her skirt.

  ‘I imagine ye have heard o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn’s dramatic escape, my lady,’ Owein said after a moment.

  ‘Aye, I’ve heard, Your Highness,’ she answered. ‘Who hasna?’

  ‘It looks as if he may have had a guilty conscience,’ Owein said.

  ‘Aye, it does, doesna it?’

  ‘They say Finn the Cat brought back a lot o’ evidence against him, enough to hang him for sure.’

  Fèlice said nothing.

  ‘I wonder why your satyricorn friend dinna escape with him, when she could?’

  ‘Rhiannon is no friend o’ Laird Malvern’s.’

  ‘Aye, but still …’

  ‘She kens better than anyone what a dangerous man he is,’ Fèlice said. ‘Happen she thought she was safer in the hands o’ your father’s court. I hope she was right.’

  Owein glanced at her, troubled. Fèlice did not return his look, but kept her gaze fixed on the ground ahead of her.

  ‘I hope so too,’ he said after a moment. ‘I ken how much it would grieve ye to see your friend … found guilty. I do no’ want that.’

  ‘Thank ye, Your Highness,’ she whispered, tears stinging her eyes.

  They walked on in silence.

  The Court of Star Chamber was crowded with people from all walks of life. Faeries, country folk in homespuns, lords and ladies in shimmering silks, merchants’ wives with jewelled wrists and ears, witch-apprentices in their simple black robes, servants in demure grey, street roughs in rags and bruises. Hundreds had turned out to see the satyricorn who was accused of murder and treason, and the noise of their rustling and murmuring echoed through the great vaulted room. It had been a long time since the court had had to judge such a high-profile case, and the spectacular escape of the lord of Fettercairn had only focused more attention on Rhiannon.

  Heads craned to stare at Lewen and Fèlice as they self-consciously went down the front to sit with the other witnesses in the first rows. Nina and Iven were already there, both dressed formally as sorceress and Rìgh’s emissary. They gave Lewen a tense, unnatural smile, and then turned their gaze away, leaving Lewen with a bitter residue of sadness and loneliness, even though he knew they did not mean to hurt him. He had just grown used to warmth and camaraderie from Nina and Iven, not this awkward coolness. Not for the first time, he cursed the day that Rhiannon of Dubhslain had flown into his life.

  The other apprentice-witches who had travelled with them from Ravenshaw sat in a row beside them. Landon looked sick, Rafferty and Cameron were fidgety and uncomfortable in their suits, Maisie was overawed, and Edithe stared about her with a look of self-satisfied importance, smoothing down the plush velvet of a richly trimmed red gown.

  Cameron had been minding a seat for Fèlice, and after a moment shifted sullenly along so Lewen could sit too. Lewen had not seen much of the former squire since they had arrived in Lucescere, but once Cameron had looked up to Lewen and admired him greatly as the son of a former war hero. It rubbed Lewen on the raw to see Cameron cast him a darkling look and mutter something to Rafferty, who sat on his far side. When they had first met, Lewen had been Rhiannon’s champion and Cameron had been her enemy, after she had publicly repulsed his advances in her usual blunt way. Their journey together had changed all that. Now Cameron was as quick to defend Rhiannon as he had previously been to mock her. He was a straightforward lad, with a traditional and chivalrous attitude to human relationships, and it was clear he thought less of Lewen for his change of heart towards Rhiannon. Lewen sighed, and glanced back over his shoulder at Olwynne’s bright loving face.

  Olwynne and Owein had caused a great deal of interest by choosing to sit right behind the witnesses, instead of joining the other aristocrats up in the dress circle. Olwynne was making it as clear as she could that Lewen was the cause of her intense interest in the case, by smiling at him constantly, leaning forward to lay her hand upon his arm, and ignoring the others totally. Owein looked uncomfortable with this tactic, casting Nina and Iven apologetic glances, and trying to engage Fèlice in conversation. She had evidently seen the battle-lines drawn up, however, for she was cool and unresponsive, saving her attention for her fellow apprentices. Owein gave up after several tries, and sat back, looking down at his boots, and trying not to fidget too much.

  Cailean of the Shadowswathe came hurrying down the aisle, dressed still in his white sorcerer’s robe, and sat down beside the twins. His huge black shadow-hound loomed beside him. The faery dog’s eyes glowed with an uncanny eldritch light, as green as marsh gas, and it did not need to curl its black lip to keep a wide circle clear about it. No matter how curious the crowd, no-one would risk a shadow-hound’s ire.

  Cailean’s arrival distracted Olwynne for a moment, giving Lewen a chance to look about him anxiously. There was no sign of Rhiannon. The imposing wooden rostrum in the centre of the room was empty. Lewen wiped his damp palms on his breeches, and stared about the room, wondering when she would be brought in. The walls soared high overhead, to a domed ceiling of dark blue glass decorated with gilded stars. More stars were set at the head of each of the great fluted columns all round the room, while the familiar shape of two crescent moons marked the apex of the dome. Great curtains of midnight blue velvet fell from ceiling to floor at regular intervals, looped back with golden ropes as thick as Olwynne’s waist. It was stifling hot, and livery-clad pages waved fans of colourful bhanias feathers over the heads of the lords and ladies in the box-seats high above the common rabble on the main floor.

  Bellfruit sellers wandered the aisles, offering cups of iced juice, while cluricauns bounded everywhere, thrusting paper twists of hot chestnuts or dried fruit under people’s noses. There was a scuffle at the door between an ogre in studded leather and an ancient tree-changer with a great white beard sprouting mushrooms. It was settled so quickly and smoothly Lewen barely had time to register the combatants. What he did notice was how many soldiers there were, many dressed in the distinctive blue jacket of the Yeomen. Lewen’s heart sank, though he could not have explained why. It just seemed to bode ill for Rhiannon.

  Olwynne caressed his arm, and he turned back to her, just as there was a loud flourish of trumpets. Everyone stood and bowed, as the Rìgh and Banrìgh were escorted in through one of the doors and led to their thrones high on the dais. Both were dressed formally for the occasion in long blue velvet robes, edged with white ermine fur. Iseult’s white NicFaghan plaid was pinned over her breast with her dragon brooch, while Lachlan wore the royal blue and green tartan plaid, pinned with the MacCuinn stag. Lachlan held the Lodestar in his right hand. It glowe
d white and cold.

  As the six judges filed in behind the royal couple, a hubbub erupted. Most cheered but many, to Lewen’s surprise, hissed and booed. He craned his head to see who had greeted the judges so disrespectfully and saw the street roughs of Lucescere, on their feet and waving crumpled copies of a broadsheet which he recognised as being Landon’s ballad, ‘Rhiannon’s Ride’. Leading them on was the big ogre from the Nisse and Nixie, the beautiful seelie at his side. There were many other faeries among them, all chanting ‘Rhee-anne-on! Rhee-anne-on!’

  A ripple of shock and excitement ran along the witnesses’ bench. Rafferty elbowed Landon in the side, in obvious glee, while Fèlice leant forward to grasp his hand, smiling broadly. Edithe lifted her nose in the air, as if smelling something foul, while Nina and Iven smiled at each other in astonishment and relief. Living in the palace as they did, they had only been aware of the strength of the feeling against Rhiannon.

  The raucous protest of the faeries and the poor of Lucescere roused those that vilified Rhiannon for what she had done, so that they began to cheer more loudly. ‘Hang her!’ some shouted, and the call was taken up by many of the courtiers and soldiers until the room rang with it. ‘Hang her! Hang her!’

  Lewen’s eyes smarted with hot unexpected tears. He did not want Rhiannon hanged. No matter how much he hated and feared her, he did not want her to die like that. In his heart of hearts, he hoped that she would be banished, sent far away over the seas to some other land, a punishment that would remove her from his life and sphere of influence so that he never had to set eyes on her again. For secretly Lewen feared he would never be able to loosen the fetter she had placed upon him, not as long as she was anywhere near him.

  The noise in the vast chamber mounted and mounted, until at last one of the court’s officials came forward and pounded on the floor with a long golden staff topped with the blindfolded figure of justice. Gradually the noise subsided. The judges sat in a line at a red-draped table set below the Rìgh and Banrìgh. Their numbers had been drawn from the aristocracy, the merchant-class, the guilds, the crofters, the army and the Coven of Witches, but all had laid aside their usual clothes to wear the elaborate purple robe of the Court of Star Chamber, with its heavy double-sided mantle. If a death sentence was passed, Lewen knew, the judges would turn back their hood to show its crimson side, but if the accused was proven innocent, the white side stayed uppermost.

  The judges did not share the febrile excitement of the crowd. They all looked grave. Lewen knew two of them by sight: the sorcerer Gwilym the Ugly, who was second-in-command of the Coven of Witches, and Aidan the Brave, one of the Yeomen’s general staff. He was grim-faced indeed.

  The heralds blew their trumpets again. At once the rustling and talking died away, until the room was almost silent. Everyone leant forward, looking eagerly at the double doors at the far end of the room. Lewen stared too, though not with the same feverish anticipation. Despite the heat of the overcrowded room, he felt cold and shivery, and his hands were slick with perspiration that he wiped repeatedly on his crumpled breeches. His gut felt like it was twisted in an iron vice. He wished the day was over.

  The doors flung open.

  Rhiannon came in, flanked by four guards. Pale and composed, she was dressed in a simple grey gown, with her black hair severely braided down her back, hanging almost to her knees. She had lost so much weight her misty blue eyes seemed huge, and the strong bones of her face were sharp. She looked young and vulnerable, and there were sighs and murmurs of pity amidst the hisses and catcalls.

  Lewen’s heart moved sharply at the sight of her. Their eyes met, and he dropped his at once, his stomach churning with a weird collection of emotions. He could not have named them, without admitting to regret, and guilt, and shame, and tenderness, none of them emotions he wished to feel.

  The court herald read out the charges in long, convoluted phrases that, when deciphered, accused Rhiannon of wilfully murdering and mutilating a servant of the Rìgh whilst upon His Majesty’s service, thus endangering the safety of his royal person and that of the whole country.

  The head judge, the Duke of Ardblair, fixed Rhiannon with a frowning gaze and asked what she had to say in response to the charges.

  Rhiannon said in a clear, firm voice, ‘It is true I shot Connor the Just, Your Worship, but I swear I did no’ ken who or what he was, and I felt no hatred or malice for him, or for His Majesty. He was trying to escape the herd, and was struggling with my mother, who was trying to stop him. He would’ve killed her, my laird, if I had no’ shot him. I did it only to save her life.’

  Such a roar of voices rose, the Duke of Ardblair had to bang his gavel on the table several times before the crowd quietened.

  ‘But why was a Yeoman taken prisoner in the first place?’ Aidan the Brave demanded. ‘That in itself is a treasonable act!’

  She shrank back a little at the intensity of his voice. ‘He was a man, sir. Any man who rode into the herd’s territory would’ve been taken prisoner. There are few males born to the satyricorns, ye ken, and they are keenly sought as mates.’

  The crowd reacted with sniggers and whispers. Aidan’s face twisted with distaste. ‘So we are to add the charges o’ abduction and unlawful imprisonment to your account? I shudder to think what else!’

  ‘I dinna capture him!’ she cried. ‘I tried to help him escape.’

  ‘Is that so?’ His voice dripped sarcasm.

  ‘Aye,’ she said eagerly. ‘I undid the straps for him. He would never have got free if I had no’ untied them.’

  ‘Yet ye shot him in the back only moments later.’

  ‘It wasna only moments, it was much later,’ she said indignantly. ‘The herd had to hunt him first, all the way down the river.’

  ‘And ye joined the hunt?’ asked one of the other judges, a rough-spoken man with huge, work-hardened hands and a thick neck. A farmer by trade, he was called Craig of Glen Fernie, and he had been chosen by lot from a ledger of justices of the peace. He was far more used to settling disputes over stolen pigs, or tavern brawls, and was clearly uncomfortable in his heavy robes.

  She coloured. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had to! If I dinna, they would’ve suspected …’ She took a deep breath, trying to control her voice. ‘If the herd guessed I had helped him, they would’ve killed me,’ she said at last, her voice quivering only a little.

  ‘Is that why ye really killed him? So your herd would no’ realise ye had helped him escape?’ Aidan the Brave asked.

  She went red, then white. After a moment she replied steadily, ‘I told ye, he had my mother, he was going to kill her. He would’ve broken her neck like that!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘No-one could reach her in time, none o’ the herd. I was up behind them, on the ridge. If I had no’ shot him, he would’ve killed her.’

  ‘So ye say.’ Aidan sat back sceptically.

  The crowd murmured.

  ‘When the body o’ Connor the Just was found some weeks later, he was found to be cruelly mutilated. The smallest finger o’ his left hand had been hacked off, and all his teeth had been wrenched from his head. Were ye responsible for this also?’ the Duke of Ardblair asked in arctic tones.

  Rhiannon hesitated, then nodded unwillingly. ‘It’s what satyricorns always do,’ she said defensively.

  ‘So you admit that this is yours?’ Aidan the Brave said, catching up a long necklace of teeth and bones which he brandished in his fist. The court hissed and sighed, and the Duke had to call for order several times before it at last quietened. Rhiannon said nothing, her face drained of colour, but when she was asked the question again, she nodded.

  ‘Please answer “aye” or “nay” for the court records,’ the only woman judge said in a neutral voice. Named Glenwys, she was the head of the guilds in Lucescere, a clock-maker by trade. She wore, perched on her nose, a pair of spectacles which made her eyes look alarmingly large.

  ‘Aye,’ Rhiannon said sullenly.

&
nbsp; ‘Please note the prisoner answered in the affirmative to the question,’ the court herald called.

  Aidan shook the necklace. ‘And these teeth, these human teeth, hanging on this string, they are Connor’s teeth? And the bone is his finger-bone?’

  ‘Some o’ them,’ Rhiannon muttered.

  The Duke of Ardblair banged his gavel until the court at last quietened.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Aidan said, over the noise. ‘Did ye admit these teeth and bones are his?’

  ‘I said, some o’ them are his. There are goblin teeth there too, and some coney paws. Other things I’ve killed.’ Rhiannon sounded sullen indeed, and Lewen clenched his fists between his knees. Silently he willed Rhiannon to look up, to speak respectfully, to be polite.

  ‘Did ye say other things ye’ve killed?’ Aidan spoke with heavy emphasis.

  Rhiannon flushed. ‘Aye.’

  ‘I see. So ye always take trophies o’ the creatures ye kill, to gloat over later?’

  ‘It’s what satyricorns do,’ she protested. ‘I dinna do it to gloat. It made me sick to the stomach having to do it.’

  ‘Yet still ye did it, and wore your trophies about your neck, for all to see.’

  ‘Only while I was with the herd,’ she protested hotly. ‘They would’ve suspected me if I had no’. They would’ve fought me for blood-right.’

  ‘Blood-right? And what does that mean?’

  ‘My right to his things,’ she said sulkily, dropping her eyes.

  ‘So, by killing Connor the Just, ye were able to claim his belongings as your own?’ Aidan the Brave asked silkily.

  She nodded, then after another prompting from the judges, said ‘Aye’ in a very low voice.

  Aidan picked up one thing after another from the table. ‘His knife, his blowpipe and barbs, his sgian dubh, his uniform?’ He raised the blue coat and cap reverently. ‘His silver brooch with the design o’ the charging stag, ensign o’ the Yeomen o’ the Guard, given to him by the Rìgh himself and worn by Connor with justifiable pride? The medal o’ the League o’ the Healing Hand, the rarest o’ all honours?’