The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  Isabeau could not help frowning at Bronwen as she walked past her to greet the Celestines, and Bronwen looked away defiantly, pretending she did not care.

  I am so sorry about the summerbourne, Isabeau said without words. I have never known the song to falter before. What does this mean for us all?

  Already the Old Ways are too dangerous for us to walk easily, Cloudshadow said. Even I, the Stargazer, could barely find my way. Now passage between the Hearts of Stars will be more difficult than ever. I shall take my daughter and I shall return to my garden, and we will wait for the lines of power to be cleansed and protected, another year, another time.

  But why are the Old Ways so dangerous? Isabeau asked. We have sung the summerbourne strongly for years now. I had thought we had cleansed the lines of power and made them safe.

  The Old Ways are haunted. There is evil brewing.

  Haunted? Ye mean by ghosts? Isabeau asked, her mind-voice sharpening with interest.

  Haunted by the shades of the dead, those who have refused to let the ethereal substance of their souls be dissolved into the ethereal substance of the universe. The immoderate emotions that so trouble you of humankind chain them to this world, and so they are dragged along with its revolutions of seasons, unable to break free and move on, or come back and be what they were. They are not one thing or another, not flesh nor spirit, not quick nor dead. They are all hunger, all greed, all hatred, all grief, all envy, all pride, all spite. They swarm along the Old Ways, seeking a door into this world. They press against the doorways. The fabric between their world and ours bulges with their weight.

  Why? What has drawn them here?

  They are always drawn to the lines of power. They are lines of connection, seams between space, time and matter.

  But why are there so many now?

  A door has been opened. It was slammed shut again, but not before at least one spirit of the dead found its way free. The others hope to find an open doorway too.

  Who opened the door? Where?

  Not here. Far away.

  Do you know where?

  Isabeau received a mind-image of a tall crag of stone rising high above a waterfall. A ruin of a great stone building crowned the cliff, and ravens wheeled above it. ‘The Tower of Ravens,’ she breathed, even though it was what she had been expecting.

  That is not our name for the holy hill, Cloudshadow said quietly. Once it was a place of great power, a Heart of Stars where the Celestines gathered to worship and celebrate the powers of moon and sun and star. Now it is a place of evil. Men have gathered there, using their dark magic to open the gate, to call up the shades of the dead. They were not wary. They did not hold the door fast. There is one, a spirit of great hunger and greed, who felt the opening of the door and rushed through it. Now she walks the Old Ways as she pleases, and draws other spirits with her, like the sun drawing moisture from the sea. She leaves a dark trail of malice behind her like the slime-trail of a snail. It poisons the Old Ways and leaves its residue on all of us who must walk in her footsteps.

  Who is she?

  I do not know. She has not been dead long. Her spirit is strong still and grips to the memory of life voraciously. She has used this doorway often. She has drawn many, many ghosts here. They press their bodies against the door, and rent it with their claws. It took much of my strength to close the door behind us when we came today. Only my determination to see my daughter and bring her home again drove us through.

  Will it hold?

  I do not know. It takes a very sharp knife to rent the fabric of space and time.

  Isabeau gave a little shudder.

  What is wrong? Your soul shrinks away from my gaze.

  Nothing is wrong.

  There is a dark imprint upon your mind, as if burning fingertips have scorched you. May I touch you?

  Isabeau looked away. There was a long silence and then slowly, reluctantly, she knelt before the Stargazer and allowed Cloudshadow to press her finger between her brow. There was a snapping sound, like a bridge of wood cracking, then Isabeau fell back, her head swimming.

  A finger from the grave, the Celestine said softly. But whose?

  It was very hot. The day passed in a whirl. There was a feast laid out in the gardens, the tables decorated with lavender and roses and vervain. Minstrels wandered the crowd, serenading the merrymakers with love songs. Gaily painted puppet theatres were set up on the lawn, entertaining the children with noisy plays, while bizarrely dressed stilt-walkers towered above the flower-crowned heads of the dancers, stalking along with their stilts hidden beneath immensely long striped trousers. A troupe of musicians paused in their playing to wipe the perspiration from their faces, and more than one reveller glanced at the sky and said, ‘Looks like a storm’s on its way.’

  Bronwen laughed and danced and gulped down glass after glass of sparkling rose-coloured wine. Although her blue gown was as light as butterfly wings, she was so hot she thought she might faint. She had not seen Donncan since the dawn meeting at the Pool of Two Moons. It seemed everyone had heard how she had torn free of his grasp and broken the circle. Bronwen pretended it was all because of the heat. She fanned herself frantically and said, ‘We Fairgean do no’ like the heat, do we, Alta?’

  ‘No, we do no’,’ the Fairgean ambassador replied, and ordered the servants to bring her crushed ice flavoured with lemon. ‘Though ye would no’ feel the heat so badly if ye did no’ dance so much.’

  ‘Happen so, but where’s the fun in that?’ she retorted and inclined her head to him in ironic farewell, leaving his side to find company that did not scold her so much. Aindrew MacRuraich was happy to oblige, and she whiled away a merry hour with him, watching a procession of fabulous beasts made of silk and wood and paint, playing a riotous game of croquet, and dancing a few of the sedate sets that the Master of Revels considered appropriate for midafternoon.

  Aindrew would have been happy to while away another hour, but Finn the Cat, his elder sister, strolled over and linked her arm in his, saying affably that she had not seen him in an age and would he not come and tell her all his news. She was a tall, handsome woman with heavy chestnut hair that she wore pulled back in a simple plait like the witch she was. Although born the heir to the throne of Rurach, Finn had given up her claim to her brother Aindrew so that she could pursue her dream of being a sorceress. She was rarely at the royal court, spending a good part of every year back in Rurach overlooking the rebuilding of the Tower of Searchers, a venture she funded by the lucrative business she ran with her husband, Jay, of searching for and finding anything or anyone that was lost, stolen or otherwise misplaced. As a consequence, she and Jay travelled all over Eileanan, and Bronwen suspected she was the source of a great deal of secret information for the Rìgh.

  Finn smiled and nodded at Bronwen agreeably enough, as she adroitly maneuvered Aindrew away, but the tiny black cat that rode on her shoulder hissed and bared its fangs at her. Bronwen could not help feeling that the elven cat was expressing the sorceress’s real feelings.

  Looking about her with her usual air of cool arrogance, Bronwen saw that, as she had suspected, she was the subject of many stares and whispers. She cooled herself with her fan, accepted another glass of pink sparkling wine, and drank it down to the last drop with great deliberateness. She then strolled over to join a group of the youngest and most fashionable ladies, as if that had been her intention all along. She was received with squeals of delight and much banter, which she turned off with the lift of an eyebrow and a mocking jest that made them laugh.

  A puppet-show began at a small theatre nearby, and they strolled over to watch it, the servants carrying over chairs for them to sit down, and bringing parasols to shade their faces. The puppet-show was a mocking rendition of a royal wedding, with the bride dashing from one suitor to another, all the while pretending to be madly in love with the dim-witted prince. The audience screamed with laughter at one ridiculous scene after another. It was an effort for Bronwen to keep the smile on h
er face, but she managed, waving her huge fan of white bhanias feathers to and fro. The other ladies eyed her fan covetously, for white bhanias birds were very rare, and Bronwen had ordered a long silver handle studded with pearls to keep the long tail feathers in place. It was a most unusual and magnificent fan, and cast all the other ladies’ fans, no matter how prettily painted, into the shade.

  A large troupe of witch-apprentices came by in their long black robes, carrying baskets laden with herbs and flowers from the kitchen-garden, for Midsummer’s Day was the best day to gather herbs for spells and healing.

  Bronwen recognised a few faces among them, particularly the little dark-haired girl from Ravenshaw who the gossips said Prionnsa Owein was courting. She trudged at the back of the group beside a plump girl with a limp, and a tall blonde with a most disagreeable expression. The blonde was staring enviously at the party of court ladies in their flimsy gowns, sitting under the shade of their parasols and drinking the pink, fizzy wine that had been especially chilled in tubs of snow brought down from the mountains.

  Bronwen could remember all too well how she used to slog past every midsummer, cursing the Coven and its philosophies, and longing for the days when she would be free to join in the court festivities. Now she could not help feeling nostalgic for the days when she too had to get all hot and grubby, with dirt under her nails and bramble scratches on her cheek. They seemed impossibly carefree and halcyon. She smiled in sympathy at the apprentices, and the blonde girl whispered to her companions in excitement, then swept Bronwen a most elegant curtsy. The plump girl, who was already red in the heat, turned crimson and tried to imitate her, with clumsy results. The dark-haired girl barely seemed to notice, though, and Bronwen saw she was sunk in a deep and profound misery. Her eyes were red, as if she had been weeping, and her shoulders drooped.

  Bronwen was just wondering if it was Owein who had caused her such distress, when a shadow darkened her eyes. She looked up, and saw to her surprise that Elfrida NicHilde had come to join her. Unlike the other women, all dressed in pale blossomy gowns, she was dressed severely in black, matching the pastor who was her constant companion. When she sat down, it was with a sigh of relief, as if her legs were about to give way beneath her. The pastor came to stand behind her chair, his hands folded before him in a pious attitude. Bronwen gave him a cold, unwelcoming look.

  ‘I am surprised to see ye, my dear,’ Elfrida said. ‘I thought ye would be resting, ahead o’ the ceremony tonight.’

  ‘But how boring,’ Bronwen said, fanning herself languidly. ‘I see no reason to miss the masques and games simply because I am to be married tonight. What should I do all day, sitting by myself in my room?’ She took a sip of her wine and cast Elfrida a bright, challenging look. ‘Besides, why should I rest? I am no’ weary.’

  ‘Now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than we believed,’ the man in black said in a deep, ringing voice that made the other ladies fidget and whisper.

  Bronwen glanced at him, raised an eyebrow, then looked away, yawning delicately behind her feathery fan. Elfrida cast him a pleading look, and he bowed his long, narrow head, his hands folded one over the other in front of his chest.

  What a prig, Bronwen thought, and wished they would go away. She had never much liked Neil’s mother, who had always seemed to disapprove of her.

  ‘It is my wedding anniversary today,’ Elfrida said, leaning close and speaking softly so as not to disturb the other ladies. Bronwen noticed her hands were trembling, and felt uncomfortable.

  ‘Really?’ She fixed her eyes on the puppet-show, pretending to be enthralled.

  ‘Yes. I married Iain o’ Arran on Midsummer’s Day, the same day that Lachlan and Iseult were married. It was the year ye were born, I think. Twenty-four years ago.’

  ‘I wish ye very happy.’

  ‘We have been happy, strangely enough. I never saw him until our wedding day. He was a complete stranger to me.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Bronwen asked, growing interested despite herself.

  ‘Yes. His mother arranged it.’ Elfrida gave a quick shudder but set her teeth together, and forced her shoulders down again.

  ‘It must’ve been hard, being forced to marry a man ye dinna ken.’

  ‘It was very hard. I would no’ recommend it.’

  ‘No.’ Bronwen spoke slowly, not sure what Elfrida was trying to tell her.

  ‘I was lucky, very lucky, to find some measure o’ happiness in my marriage,’ Elfrida said, speaking very low so that only Bronwen and the man standing quietly behind her chair could have heard her. ‘Marry unwisely, and ye will find nothing but misery and unhappiness. Trust me in this, my dear. It is no’ too late for ye to stop this foolishness. Do ye think I do no’ ken when a man and a woman are in love? Find a man who truly loves ye, afore ye condemn yourself to a life of emptiness and sorrow …’

  Bronwen stood up so abruptly her chair almost fell over. ‘I thank ye for your advice, Your Grace,’ she said sweetly. ‘I am sure we shall be very happy.’

  Then, lifting her parasol so it shaded her face, she went away towards the palace.

  She heard footsteps hurrying up behind her and quickened her pace, but the footsteps broke into a run and a hand seized her elbow.

  ‘Bronwen!’

  ‘Neil.’

  ‘What did my mother say to ye?’

  ‘She wished me well this evening.’

  ‘Really? Is that all?’

  ‘What else would she have said?’

  ‘I dinna ken. I thought perhaps …’ He hesitated, his eyes searching her face. He saw how angry she looked, and said unevenly, ‘She did say something. Oh, Bronny, I’m sorry … my mother has no’ been well lately. She’s got this fancy into her head … she thinks … she thinks …’

  ‘She thinks ye are in love with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And are ye?’

  ‘Yes.’ He said the word on a long sigh.

  Bronwen tapped her foot impatiently. ‘Neil, in about two hours’ time I am jumping the fire with your best friend. Do ye really think it is wise for ye, or your mother, to be telling me this?’

  ‘So she did say something! What? What did she say?’

  ‘She did no’ mention ye.’

  Neil heaved a sigh. ‘I thought she had … ye looked so upset.’

  Bronwen looked down at the pointed toe of her slipper. ‘She thought fit to tell me that my husband-to-be does no’ love me.’

  ‘He canna love ye as much as I do,’ Neil said simply. ‘Oh, Bronny, must ye really marry him? He doesna understand ye, truly he doesna. He is so angry still about Mat. He blames ye. But I ken it’s no’ your fault, Bronny.’

  She searched his face with her eyes. He was much the same height as she was, and he was standing very close. She could see nothing but sincerity in his face.

  ‘Ye’re alone in that,’ she said bitterly, and looked away.

  He caught her hand in both of his, and carried it to his lips, kissing her palm fervently.

  She pulled her hand away, but said with mild curiosity, ‘Ye and Donncan have been the best o’ friends since ye were bairns. Does it no’ trouble ye, flirting with me the very day o’ our wedding?’

  ‘I am no’ flirting,’ Neil said, very low and intense. ‘I’m in love with ye, Bronwen. I have loved ye all my life and I will never love another. Ye and Donncan were betrothed as children. Ye have never been given the chance to ken your own hearts. It was no’ fair on any o’ us. If ye had been free, do ye no’ think I would’ve told ye how I felt earlier? And if ye and Donncan were happy, do ye think I would tell ye now? O’ course I wouldna. But I can see ye are no’ happy.’

  Bronwen did not know what to say. Tears choked her. Neil pressed her fingers in sympathy.

  He said, very low, ‘If ye do no’ want to marry him, just let me ken. I’ll take ye away. I’ll do whatever ye want. We can go to Arran, we can go to the Fair Isles, wherever ye want. I can keep ye safe from
the MacCuinns, if ye are afraid they would be angry. I would love ye and look after ye all our lives, I’d make ye happy, I swear it. Just let me ken …’

  For a moment Bronwen almost reached towards him, almost begged him to take her away. It was intoxicating to have a man love her so deeply, so intensely, for her own sake, and not merely for some political gain. But then she took a step away, shaking her head. ‘I am a banprionnsa and a NicCuinn,’ she said. ‘If this wedding fails, so does the Pact o’ Peace. We could have war again. Do ye think I want that?’

  His shoulders sagged. ‘No,’ he said.

  Bronwen held out her hand to him. ‘I’m sorry, Neil.’

  He took her hand and bent to kiss it. Over his head Bronwen saw Elfrida watching them and felt her spine stiffen. She pulled her hand away.

  ‘Time for me to go and make myself bonny,’ she said gaily. ‘See ye again at sunset.’

  Neil’s hand dropped to his side, his eyes widening in sudden hurt. Bronwen smiled at Elfrida and made her escape. She went straight to her room. The door had barely shut behind her before Bronwen had stripped off her hot, damp, clinging gown and dived naked into her pool. She swam to the far side in three swift strokes and cursed its smallness, turning and striking out for the edge again. She would have liked to have swum so far her lungs laboured and her arms ached with exhaustion. She would have liked to have dived so deep that light diminished round her, and strange bulbous eyes began to glow like weird whiskered stars. She would have liked to fight the waves, surging up their foam-dappled sides and leaping beyond their sudden slap and hiss and crash. She would have liked to scream and shout and smack someone very hard, Donncan preferably, for making her weep in public and show that she cared, when he so clearly did not.

  The water in the pool heaved and splashed as she swam, stroke, stroke, stroke, turn, stroke, stroke, stroke. At last she lay still, floating face down, breathing noisily through her gills and watching hexagonal reflections of light break and coalesce on the tiled floor of the pool below her. Gradually the tumultuous water subsided. The hexagons steadied. Still Bronwen floated, arms and legs spread. The salt of her tears flowed into the salt of the pool, and no-one saw or heard.