by Kate Forsyth
‘But if ye are discovered …’
‘I will no’ do it for long, I promise,’ Maya said. ‘In a few weeks’ time I’ll start singing somewhere else.’
‘But, Mama …’
Maya had smiled at her and said softly, ‘It is petty, I ken, but deeply satisfying nonetheless. And it will no’ do ye any harm, my dear, for the court to remember ye are the true heir.’
Bronwen knew this to be true and so did not try to dissuade her, though she remained anxious in case Maya’s disguise was penetrated. If there had not been so much else for the court to gossip about that summer, an investigation into the perfidious singer would probably have been launched, but Maya’s small rebellion had gone largely unremarked, to her disappointment, and so their secret had remained safe.
Bronwen’s lip curled in scorn as she remembered how Donncan had assumed she had cut off a lock of her hair as some kind of love token, as if she was a frivolous country miss without sense or morals, and not a daughter fighting to keep her mother safe. The very next instant, though, tears smarted her eyes, for it hurt Bronwen that Donncan, her cousin and dear friend, could so underestimate her. And his suspicion, and her hurt pride, had erected a wall of coldness between them that Bronwen did not know how to dismantle.
The weeks between May Day and Midsummer’s Day had only seen the wall grow higher, for an inquiry had been called into Mathias Bright-Eyed’s death that had seen his relationship with Bronwen examined exhaustively. Every dance, every conversation, every flirtation Bronwen had enjoyed over the past year or so was scrutinised, and many of Bronwen’s friends and servants were called to give evidence, much to her chagrin. Although the inquiry had eventually found Donncan innocent of any wrong-doing and established that the relationship between the guard and the Banprionnsa had been no more than occasional dance partners, still it had galled Bronwen badly to have her behaviour inspected so closely.
During all this time Donncan had remained cool and distant, never seeking her out, and when forced into her company, giving her only the politest of exchanges. His parents, too, seemed to view her with disfavour, something Bronwen could not entirely blame them for since the list of her parties, masques and escapades was long enough and silly enough to make her squirm with mortification. She could not explain even to herself why she had embarked on such an expensive and frivolous way of life after graduating from the Theurgia. It may have had something to do with the fact that she was not permitted to join the Coven and study to be a sorceress, despite her obvious Talents. It was always the custom to keep Crown and Coven independent of one another, and so any of the prionnsachan who wished to pursue their magical studies must, like Finn the Cat, abdicate any claim to their country’s throne.
Or perhaps it was because Donncan, the acknowledged heir to the throne, had been sent away on a tour of the country he would one day be ruling, to learn what he could of its people, while Bronwen was kept kicking her heels at court. Perhaps it was just pique that Donncan was away from her for so long. She could not explain it, and so she just raised a brow to the inquiry and said languidly, ‘Well, any antidote to boredom.’
Donncan had frowned and turned away from her, and Bronwen had tossed her head and pretended she did not care. She did, though. She cared very much. She had not been able to forget the horror of the May Day feast, when Mathias’s dagger had sunk so inexorably into his own flesh and cut short his bright, careless life. Again and again Bronwen went over it, wishing she could have the time again. Why had she not realised how dangerous her light-hearted flirtation had been? She had not meant to cause any harm.
But harm she had caused, and now Mathias was dead. He would never again dance the galliard, or bow over a pretty girl’s hand, or wrestle with his friends.
And Donncan would never be able to forgive her. She saw that in his face every time he turned his eyes away from her. All of their lives, he had adored her and championed her. She could do no wrong in his eyes. But that was all over. Everything had changed.
Tears seeped out between Bronwen’s lids and she put up a hand to wipe them away. At her movement Maura rose from her chair by the door and came trotting over. She was not much bigger than a child, though her plum-black skin was heavily wrinkled. Her eyes were huge and sad, and as lustrous as a pool of ink.
‘What wrong?’ she whispered. ‘Ye sad, Miss Bron?’
Bronwen tried to smile. ‘Och, nay! I’m grand! And hungry as a horse. Where is my breakfast?’
‘I go get,’ Maura said, ‘Ye stay.’
As the bogfaery went to call the maids, Bronwen rubbed away her tears ferociously, exhorting herself not to be a fool. She sat up and eagerly took the cup of hot dancey that Maura brought her and drank it down in three great gulps, burning her tongue, but feeling at once its buzz in her blood.
‘Is it dawn yet? Have I missed the singing o’ the summerbourne?’
Maura shook her head. ‘No sing-sing yet. I no’ let my miss sleep too long. No’ good, on wedding day, to thumb Rìgh so.’
No, it would not be wise to thumb her nose at the Rìgh today. It was a long-held tradition that the MacCuinn and his family all got together and joined the Celestines in singing the summerbourne to life every midsummer. Lachlan the Winged had powerful magic in his voice. Once, long ago, he had won the Celestines to his cause by joining them in this most blessed song, which helped the life-giving waters of the sacred springs run clear and strong. Nowadays his three children and his niece always joined him in this ritual, at the Pool of Two Moons in Lucescere, which had been built upon one of the Celestines’ holy hills.
There were many of these holy hills all over Eileanan, each with its pool and spring of water, and each crowned with a ring of stones built long ago by the Celestines. They were called the Hearts of Stars, and acted as a focal point for the magnetic forces of the earth and the universe. If one knew the secret, one could step through the stone doorway and on to the magical roads the Celestines called the Old Ways, enabling one to move swiftly and invisibly about the countryside.
The faery roads were dangerous to those who did not fully understand their secrets, however. One misstep could strand you in another land or another time, or leave you wandering between worlds, unable to find your way home. Ghosts and evil spirits were drawn to the energy of the ley-lines, and could attach themselves to any traveller, or drive them mad with their malevolent hunger. When the Celestines sang their strange, unearthly song at every equinox and solstice, it cleansed the ley-lines of their negative energies, making the faery roads safe to travel along again.
Generally Bronwen enjoyed the singing of the summerbourne. She was fascinated by the Celestines and loved the chance to weave magic with her voice, something she was generally discouraged from doing.
But the dawn ceremony was the first in a long day that would be crammed with the various midsummer rites and rituals, culminating in the lighting of the bonfire at sunset. Once torches from the fire had been carried into the palace, lighting the hearth within, she and Donncan would jump the fire together, and be married. The very thought was enough to make her stomach twist with anxiety. How could she spend the rest of her life with a man who treated her with cold courtesy? Bronwen thought she would rather die an old maid. She turned and pulled her pillow over her head.
Maura’s wrinkled paw patted her shoulder. ‘Do no’ be sad, Miss Bron,’ she said. ‘Happy day!’
Bronwen sat up and smiled gaily. ‘Aye, o’ course,’ she said. ‘A very happy day.’
But Maura’s anxious face did not ease.
Dressed in a simple white robe, a crown of flowers on her black hair, Bronwen went downstairs to the great hall, where a crowd was already milling around, talking and laughing.
The Rìgh acknowledged her entrance with a nod. He looked weary, she noted, and was surprised. Her uncle so rarely seemed to show any sign of the strain of his position. She wondered if it was worry over her marriage to Donncan which had kept him sleepless, or the sudden and rather scan
dalous liaison between Olwynne and one of his squires. Everyone had always thought Olwynne would be the one to join the Coven, but here she was, at the tender age of twenty, handfasted to a boy from the back of beyond. It was rather surprising. Witches rarely married, and although they were generally free and easy with their sexual favours, relationships between apprentices were very much frowned on, as it was thought to stunt the flowering of magical talent. No wonder the Keybearer was looking preoccupied, and the Rìgh and Banrìgh so troubled. Bronwen could only be grateful to Olwynne, though, for deflecting attention away from herself.
She went quietly up to the family group and nodded a greeting, wishing she did not feel such an outsider. Lachlan was standing before the fire, warming his hands and talking with Isabeau, who had dark shadows under her eyes.
‘So tell me, did ye read what The Book o’ Shadows had to say about the goblet?’ he was asking in a low voice that no-one but Bronwen could have heard.
‘Nay,’ she answered shortly.
It was still dark outside, but a few birds began to trill. At the sound, there was a stir of anticipation through the crowd. Donncan had been sitting talking to his sister, but he rose then and came to Bronwen’s side.
‘Good morning,’ he said, as grave-faced as his father.
‘Good morning,’ she answered, and tried to rouse herself to light-heartedness, saying with a smile, ‘How are ye yourself, my husband-to-be?’
‘Well, I thank ye,’ he said, but did not smile.
‘Is it no’ unlucky for us to see each other this morn?’ she asked with false gaiety. ‘Surely we are no’ meant to see each other until we are to be wed?’
‘Then I had best remove myself from your sight,’ he said and bowed and walked away.
She felt a surge of desperation and reached out to seize his sleeve, saying, ‘Donncan …’
But the Rìgh had moved forward, holding up his hand for silence. Bronwen let her hand fall.
‘Let us go to the Pool o’ Two Moons, to sing the summerbourne with our friends and allies, the Celestines, and to watch the sun rise on Midsummer’s Day,’ Lachlan announced in his deep, ringing voice.
Carrying a flaming torch in his hand, he led the way out into the dark garden and along the shadowy paths until they reached the maze that lay at the heart of the forest separating the palace and the witches’ tower. Bronwen had always enjoyed this solemn procession through the dark gardens, the rim of the world etched in flaming red. The maze in particular was a place of rustling mystery at night, the tall yew hedges so high on either side, like a secret tunnel, and all sense of direction lost as they turned and turned again. She did not enjoy it today, though, seeing Donncan’s tall form ahead of her, not once turning to look for her.
Lachlan knew the way through the maze well, and led them unerringly to the Pool of Two Moons, set like a dark emerald in its small knot of garden, with the golden dome of the observatory rising beside it. The only clue to its origin as one of the Celestines’ holy springs was the huge, ancient stones that surrounded it, etched with faint shapes and symbols. At some later date, the pillars had been crowned with stone arches decorated with the symbol of the Tower of Two Moons – a six-pointed star cresting two crescent moons.
At one end of the pool was a dais with huge bronze doors that led into the observatory, above a shield with the tower crest carved upon it. At the other end was a stone channel where water from the pool trickled out, leading into an aqueduct that flowed down to disappear under the maze. This had once been the summerbourne, a naturally flowing spring of crystal-clear water, but now it was all enclosed in stone.
Their orange torchlight shimmered on the Pool of Two Moons, making it seem dark and mysterious. Bronwen stared down at it in fascination. Her mother had escaped Lachlan once by diving into the pool. It was said to be bottomless. Bronwen could see it had sunk very low in the heat of the summer, the walls above it showing a brown stain.
The witches and courtiers stood back in the garden to watch, but Bronwen mounted the steps with her uncle and cousins, and those witches who manifested their power in their voices. Thunderlily went with them, her grave expression belying the excitement and joy she felt at the prospect of seeing her mother for the first time in three years. Bronwen knew that the young Celestine felt sorrow also, for Midsummer’s Day was her twenty-fourth birthday and marked the end of her carefree years at the Theurgia. Her mother, Cloudshadow, was coming to fetch her home, and Thunderlily would need to begin preparing for her role as the heir of the Stargazers.
Silently Donncan held out his hand to Bronwen and she took it, casting him a glance under her lashes. He was not looking at her, but stared straight ahead. His grip was loose, as if he touched her only reluctantly. Bronwen felt a sudden upsurge of tears, but blinked them back obstinately, holding out her other hand to Thunderlily, who felt at once her distress and squeezed her fingers gently.
She shut her eyes, and waited, listening. She heard a deep, low hum, that resonated up through her feet, reverberating inside her very bones. The small bones inside her skull seemed to grind one against the other. Slowly the humming rose, as if the earth itself was growling, and Bronwen knew the Celestines came. She drew a shaky breath and began to sing.
It was the melody that was important, the weaving of sound, rather than the words. Some time ago Lachlan had written a simple chorus that they all sang in rounds, welcoming the sun this day. Bronwen knew it well, but even so she had trouble concentrating on the tune. She felt off-key, off-kilter. It had been drummed into her from an early age how important it was not to break the melody once it had begun, and so she wrenched her mind away from the aching hollow of her heart and tried to focus on the song. It was difficult. None of them were singing well this day. Lachlan’s voice, normally deep and strong, sounded weary, and Owein sounded as if he had a cold. Only Olwynne was singing with her usual verve and beauty, her glorious mezzo-soprano voice soaring high on the far side of the pool. Listening to her younger cousin sing, hearing the joy and hope of happiness in her voice, made Bronwen’s throat suddenly close over. Her voice wavered and broke. Donncan gripped her hand in sudden warning, but she could not help herself. Her eyes were full of tears, her throat was thick. She could not sing.
Bronwen’s failure discomposed all the others. She heard Donncan stop and take a ragged breath, then he gasped and tried to sing on. Beside her Owein was gamely keeping time, but there was no conviction in it, and on the far side of the pool the joyous refrain of Olwynne’s voice had faltered. Bronwen tried to recover, but the tears were coming fast and she had to wrench her hand out of Donncan’s to dash it across her eyes. She knew how wrong it was of her to break the circle but she could not help herself.
The song ground on to its broken and inconclusive end. Bronwen had her hands over her face, her pulse juddering. She could not bear to open her eyes, or look anyone in the face, but the silence drew out until it was unbearable, and at last she dropped her hands and smoothed down her dress with trembling hands, finding the courage to look up.
The sun had risen. Six Celestines stood on the dais above the pool, the sun shining on their white ripples of hair and their pale, stern faces. They were all looking at her, their distress evident in their faces.
Bronwen looked down at the pool. Although there was a low bubbling in the centre of the murky pool, it was not enough to raise the water high enough to spill over the lip of stone. They had failed in their singing. This year the summerbourne would not run.
A cold shudder took hold of Isabeau, despite the sultry heat of the morning. The sun glared through a thin veil of cloud, burning the fair skin of her arms, and making her robes feel almost unbearably heavy. Yet still Isabeau shivered, her skin rising up in goose-pimples all over her body.
It was a very bad omen, for the singing of the summerbourne to falter and break.
The Keybearer opened her eyes and looked towards the Pool of Two Moons, as did all the other witches standing in the circle. Bronwen stood wit
h her hands over her face, obviously fighting back tears. Her uncle and cousins were staring at her.
Standing between the ancient blocks of stone were six Celestines. Isabeau recognised one as the Stargazer Cloudshadow, the faery who had healed her after her torture by amputating the two infected fingers on her left hand. The Stargazer was the title of the ruler of the Celestines, a role Cloudshadow had inherited at an unusually early age given the death of her parents in Maya’s faery hunts many years earlier. Many, many Celestines had died during the Ensorcellor’s reign and very few children were born to them, making Thunderlily, Cloudshadow’s daughter, their great hope for the future.
Standing beside the Stargazer was a tall, slender young man, with a long, strong-boned face. Of all the Celestines, he looked the most shaken by the failure of the summerbourne to run. His third eye was open, dark as night, and his long-fingered hands were gripped into fists, a most unusual gesture among the gentle-natured faeries. Cloudshadow looked grave, but she came down the stairs with her usual noiseless grace and bowed to the Rìgh.
Lachlan moved forward to greet the Celestines formally, bending his head so Cloudshadow could touch her fingers to his brow. They stood in silent communion for some time, Lachlan holding himself rigid so he did not break their connection. Then Cloudshadow’s fingers dropped and Lachlan straightened and stood back, bowing to the other Celestines and touching his fingers to his own brow in the ritual greeting.
Cloudshadow turned to greet her daughter, humming softly in her throat. They each touched each other’s brows and then Cloudshadow turned and indicated the young Celestine man, who came to bow before Thunderlily. She bowed back, cool and remote, and then stepped back to stand next to Bronwen, who had been left alone, everyone drawing away from her as if she had marred the singing of the summerbourne on purpose. Bronwen shook back her hair and said something to Thunderlily in a teasing undertone, as if nothing had happened. Thunderlily smiled and shook her head.
