The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  Sea-child …

  Bronwen jerked upright, her tail slapping the water.

  Thunderlily sat cross-legged on the side of the pool, regarding her with clear eyes. Her long mane of white hair hung down her back and pooled on the ground around her.

  Why do you grieve? The Celestine said, in response to Bronwen’s wordless demand. I heard you far away. I came.

  Did ye really hear me?

  Yes.

  Were ye listening for me?

  Yes.

  Ye shouldna have. It was private. I wanted no-one …

  I know, but I could not help but hear.

  Bronwen swam to the side of the pool and climbed out, water streaming from her. She caught up a linen towel and wrapped it around herself.

  Only because ye were listening, she thought crossly.

  I am sorry.

  Bronwen sighed. ‘Is it time already?’ she asked aloud.

  Yes, Thunderlily hummed. It is time. The earth is turning, the sun moves towards the horizon, soon it will be dusk and your people’s midsummer fire will be nothing but embers.

  It is time, Bronwen repeated, and the thought was both pleasure and pain to her.

  I too am to be mated, Thunderlily said sombrely. His name is Stormstrider.

  I saw him at the Pool of Two Moons, Bronwen said. Do ye no’ like him?

  The Celestine stared down at her bare feet, very long and elegant. It is not for me to like or not to like.

  But I thought that ye must love your beloved, if ye must sacrifice him for the Summer Tree. Does it work if ye do no’ love him? Bronwen fumbled to express her thoughts, for no matter how fascinated she was by the Celestine’s culture, part of her was still horrified by the blood sacrifice that was their most sacred ritual.

  In time I am sure I will love him. I must. Thunderlily’s mind-voice was miserable indeed.

  It is your duty, Bronwen said with ironic seriousness.

  Yes.

  As today is mine.

  But you truly do love the winged one, try as you might to deny it, Thunderlily said. Do you think I do not know?

  ‘Celestines do not always see truly, believe it or not,’ Bronwen said.

  I believe not.

  ‘Arrogant creature,’ Bronwen said.

  Thunderlily smiled.

  ‘Have ye brought me my dress?’

  Thunderlily hummed in pleasure, and rose, crossing the room to where a dress hung from the doorknob. It was made of the silk the Celestines spun from the weaver-worm’s cocoons, a heavy shimmering fabric of palest silver embroidered with silver flowers at hem and cuff. It was a dress spun of moonshine. There was a veil to match, delicate as cobweb, and a long train embroidered with silver roses, with tiny pearls stitched along its length.

  ‘Glory be!’ Bronwen whispered. ‘Well, if Donncan doesna like me in this dress, he isn’t a man!’

  He will like you, Thunderlily hummed.

  ‘He is a man after all,’ Bronwen agreed. She rubbed herself dry, and wrapped her long black hair up in the towel before slipping the dress on. Made without seam or button, it flowed along every curve of her body, sensuous as water. Bronwen twirled and pirouetted, unable to help smiling in delight. ‘Well, naught like a new dress to cheer ye up,’ she said ruefully. ‘Thank ye, Thunderlily.’

  The Celestine hummed and bowed her head, hands pressed together.

  I will go now and prepare myself, she said. I have never been to a human wedding before. I am honoured indeed that you wished me, above all others, to be in attendance upon you. I will not fail you.

  It is an honour and a blessing that a child of the Stargazers has consented to cast their radiance upon my wedding, Bronwen replied formally, bowing low. May it augur well for the future.

  May it be so, Thunderlily answered gravely.

  The air was filled with a strange green light. Thunder rumbled.

  A hot wind was rising, pulling at Olwynne’s hair and shaking the leaves of all the trees in the garden. It caught Bronwen’s veil and dragged it sideways, and almost tore the long rose-embroidered train out of Olwynne’s hands. A few large drops of rain splattered the stone pathway.

  Olwynne looked up at the low, dark clouds with foreboding. It was considered a very bad omen for rain to fall on Midsummer’s Day, particularly if the fire that had burnt all night and all day was doused before sunset.

  She wondered if it was also a bad omen to have one’s maid-of-honour fall ill so unexpectedly just before the wedding. Olwynne had certainly not expected she would have to carry her cousin’s bridal train today. That honour had been reserved for Thunderlily, Bronwen’s closest friend. Yet Thunderlily had not come with Olwynne, Heloïse and all the other bridesmaids to help Bronwen finish dressing, to advise the maids on the styling of her hair and the placement of the wreath, and to exclaim over the magnificent ropes of pearls which had been a gift from her Uncle Nila.

  Bronwen had looked for Thunderlily, and asked for her often, as the maids had dressed her black hair with pearls and flowers, and attached the long train, and powdered her cheeks and rouged her lips. Olwynne had even sent one of the pages running to find the Celestine. He came panting back with a message from the College of Healers, saying she had been struck down with a sudden bout of sickness, and could not possibly come.

  Bronwen had been startled and upset. For a moment she had baulked, so that Olwynne had wondered if she meant to refuse to go on with the wedding. She had composed herself, however, and allowed Olwynne and Heloïse to draw the long veil down over her face, which was so pale and impassive it looked as if she had been carved from ice.

  Now Olwynne did her best to keep the heavy train from snagging on the thorns of the roses that bent their heavy heads over the aisle. She could hear the musicians striking up a stately refrain, and raised her head, smiling as naturally as she could when her heart was so heavy in her chest it felt like a stone.

  Roden led the bridal procession up the aisle, his chestnut curls combed back neatly. He was dressed in a white satin doublet and breeches, tied under the knee with silver cord, and trimmed with seed pearls and knots of silver. It was clear he felt he looked ridiculous, for his lower lip was pushed out mutinously, and every now and again he lifted a hand to tug at his cravat. Since he was carrying a silver bell upon a silken cushion, this caused Olwynne some anxiety as every time he tugged, the cushion tipped, almost sending the bell crashing to the ground. Olwynne was sure that would be yet another inauspicious omen.

  Behind Olwynne walked eleven handmaidens, chosen from all of the great families. Among them were two of Bronwen’s Fairgean cousins, daughters of King Nila and Queen Fand. They were tall and silent, with pale silvery eyes and hair as black as night. Beside them, the four giddy daughters of the NicThanach of Blèssem looked plump and highly coloured, though in general they were held to be very pretty girls. The twelve bridesmaids all carried posies of white moonflowers, roses and vervain, matching the wreath on Bronwen’s head.

  Donncan was standing at the far end of the aisle, looking handsome in a coat of green velvet that must have been uncomfortable on such an oppressively hot day. At the sound of the trumpets, he turned to look for them. Olwynne saw how his expression changed when he saw Bronwen, and her heart constricted. She could only hope with all her might that they would be happy, these cousins who had been betrothed as children, knowing that their union was the only thing binding an uneasy peace treaty together.

  She hoped Bronwen would be kind to him. Donncan had loved Bronwen whole-heartedly for years, and Olwynne knew how he had suffered from not knowing her feelings in return. No-one could ever really be sure of what Bronwen felt. She was always so cool and enigmatic, so quick to turn away emotion with a clever, mocking jest. Perhaps she feared betrayal and disappointment, and so tried to pretend she cared for nothing. Or perhaps she truly did not care. Olwynne had days when she was sure of it.

  Certainly she was very beautiful. As the Ensorcellor’s daughter walked slowly down the rose-lined path
, the silk of her gown sliding over her slender form, there were little sighs from the courtiers crowding the formal garden. Olwynne tried not to feel jealous. I am just weary, she thought.

  Olwynne was not sleeping well. Nightmares stalked her heels. She dreamt she was being pursued by a tall man in black, whose shadow strode ahead of him down a long corridor. She dreamt she was in a coffin and could not get out. She dreamt she had lost something very precious to her. She dreamt of weddings and funerals, till one seemed much like another, and it was no comfort to remind herself that all dreams go by contraries.

  Olwynne had tried every trick she knew of in her search for sweet dreams, and if not sweet, then at least not bitter. She had hung her stockings over the end of her bed with a pin stuck through them, and piled cold iron under her pillow, old skeelie remedies which had not, of course, worked. She had drugged herself with poppy syrup and valerian, she had tried meditating, she had tried not sleeping at all.

  Nothing helped.

  Olwynne knew her conscience was not easy. She tried very hard not to think of Rhiannon, but instead thought of nothing else. She told herself many times that what she had done was for the best, and listed the many reasons why, but it did not help. Olwynne was not finding the joy in Lewen that she had expected. Her love was twisted awry by her jealousy. If Lewen even sighed and looked pensive, she imagined he was thinking of Rhiannon and was eaten with a canker of pain and longing. Once or twice she had even wished she had not cast the love spell on Lewen, but suffered alone in silence, rather than know that his love for her had been ensorcelled. It was too late now, though. She had to make the best of it. Soon Rhiannon would be dead, and in time Lewen would forget her and come to love Olwynne truly. She knew it.

  The bridal procession reached the stone-paved circle at the centre of the garden. Tall red candles stood at the four points of the compass, their sweet-scented flames flickering wildly in the hot, rough wind.

  The Keybearer stood under a flower-hung arbour, before a stone altar on which rested a beautifully carved statue of the god and goddess, naked and embracing. Spread out under the statue were two more red candles, anointed with rose and jasmine oil, a silver goblet of dark wine, a plate of new bread, a pot of honey and a double-bladed knife with a handle of white bone. There was also a coil of red ribbon, and a thick scroll of parchment, from which dangled myriad red seals. The Pact of Peace.

  Isabeau took the bell from Roden with a grave nod, and he stepped back with some thankfulness to stand beside his parents, who were gathered with the rest of the guests around the circle. The Keybearer rang the bell three times, then walked the circle, ringing the bell at the four cardinal points and calling upon the elemental powers to bless and protect them all this day.

  The Rìgh and Banrìgh were sitting on tall thrones to one side, smiling with pleasure at the pretty sight the wedding party made. Seated behind them were Olwynne’s grandparents, Ishbel and Khan’gharad of Tìrlethan, and her second cousin, Dughall MacBrann of Ravenshaw, with his adopted heir, Owen. There were many other friends and relatives too. Olwynne saw Nina and Iven, Finn and Jay, Gwilym the Ugly and Cailean of the Shadowswathe, Iain of Arran and his wife and son, and the round figure of Brun the cluricaun, bouncing up and down on his seat in excitement.

  On the other side of the circle sat Bronwen’s uncle Nila, the king of the Fairgean, and his wife Fand. Beside them, dressed in a simple dark blue gown of rich satin, was Maya the Ensorcellor, with a long rope of exquisite pearls wound thrice about her throat, then dangling to her waist.

  Olwynne could not help widening her eyes at the sight, for she had never seen Maya dressed in anything but her drab servant’s gown and a grubby apron. The Ensorcellor was still a very beautiful woman, Olwynne admitted to herself. The midnight-blue of her dress deepened the colour of her eyes, and emotion had brought colour to her high cheekbones. The pearls wound about her throat hid the stark blackness of the nyx ribbon which bound her to silence. For the first time Olwynne could see how it was possible that Maya had once been called the most beautiful – and the most dangerous – woman in the world.

  The Keybearer again rang the bell three times, then directed Bronwen and Donncan to walk around the circle from east to south to west to north, and then back to face the direction of the rising sun once again. It was spitting with rain, even as the last long rays of the sun struck out from under the black-bellied clouds. Thunder growled, and many gathered in the garden looked to the sky, the women lifting their parasols to shield their hair from the rain.

  The Keybearer looked weary as she intoned the midsummer rites, and Olwynne wondered what it meant for her, the failure of the summerbourne to run that morning. Normally the Keybearer seemed to blaze with a white aura of energy and vitality. Today all that was dimmed. The elongated rays of the blinkered sun haloed her with darkness so that Olwynne, watching her through a haze of tears that dimmed her sight, could barely see her, as if she was fading away.

  Then Isabeau spoke the words that she herself had never vowed, so that the betrothed couples could repeat them after her.

  ‘I, Donncan Feargus MacCuinn, have come here o’ my own free will, in perfect love and perfect trust, to commit myself to Bronwen Mathilde NicCuinn, in joy and adversity, in wholeness and brokenness, in peace and turmoil, living with her faithfully all our days.’

  Donncan repeated the vows, stumbling once or twice, and having to correct himself, then Bronwen repeated the words, as sure of herself as ever, her gaze downcast. They were like sunlight and shadow, Olwynne thought, her brother all warm and open with his golden eyes and hair and wings, and Bronwen so cool and remote, her black hair crowned with moonflowers, the long ropes of pearls about her throat hanging almost to the floor.

  Isabeau gave them the cup of wine to share, and bread smeared with honey, to bless their union with sweetness. The bride and groom kissed, and the crowd clapped and smiled and threw rose petals over them. The kiss was brief and formal, and many in the crowd urged them on to a more passionate embrace. Colour rose in Donncan’s cheeks and he glanced at Bronwen, half-shyly. She returned his look coolly and, although they kissed again, it lasted little longer than the first time.

  The tower bells rang out, peal after joyous peal, to let the city know the wedding vows had been sworn. Donncan and Bronwen both had to sign their marriage documents, and then Lachlan and Nila came up to put their signatures together at the bottom of the peace agreement. The melting candle was dribbled onto the parchment, and the royal seals were pressed deep into the wax.

  Isabeau then took up the remainder of the ribbon, and bound together Donncan and Bronwen’s wrists to show that their lives were now tied together for evermore. Then Donncan and Bronwen walked back together through the crowded garden, towards the palace square where the remains of the bonfire smoked sullenly in the gloom of the stormy dusk. A page in royal livery held a great black umbrella over it, trying to keep the spitting rain away. The court all followed close behind, talking and laughing, some of the women trying to hold their coiffures in place as the wind grew stronger. The bells rang the changes.

  Together the newly wed couple ran and leapt over the low, flickering flames. Donncan kept his wings folded tightly down his sides, and released his clasp on Bronwen’s hand as soon as they had landed on the far side, holding up his wrist for Isabeau to unwind the ribbon. Glances and raised eyebrows among the guests expressed their surprise and disappointment at the couple’s lack of enthusiasm, and Olwynne saw Lachlan and Iseult exchange troubled looks.

  Bronwen’s face was expressionless. She moved away as soon as she was free, and went to speak to her mother, who was waiting close by, alone among the crowd. Maya embraced her closely, and then set her back, looking into her face intensely as if trying to communicate all she felt with that one glance. Olwynne looked at her brother. As polite and composed as ever, Donncan was receiving the compliments of his mother’s parents with a graceful smile. Olwynne thought he looked pale and unhappy, and sighed.


  In a year and a day, Lewen and I will jump the fire too, but we will laugh and be joyful, Olwynne thought fiercely. In a year and a day he shall have forgotten her …

  The feast began with a blast of trumpets. The newly married couple led the way to the banquet-hall, bowing to all the well-wishers who crowded about them, throwing grain and flower petals before them. The rain had blown over, but thunder still rumbled intermittently and every now and again lightning stalked the horizon.

  The musicians struck up a stately pavane, and together Donncan and Bronwen swept up the hall, then turned to bow to each other. Both smiled out at the crowd, without meeting each other’s eyes.

  Olwynne made an effort of her own, and smiled as Lewen bowed before her, offering her his hand. They fell into place behind Owein, who was dancing with the eldest daughter of the NicThanach. In strict order of precedence, the lords and ladies of the court followed them, and the swish of the ladies’ silken skirts and the tap of their high-heeled shoes was like another instrument in the minstrels’ troupe.

  The banquet-hall was softly lit by candles on the long tables set up along the sides, and in candelabras on either side of the high table at the far end. Flowers had been wreathed around the base of the candelabras, adding their heavy scent to the air.

  The high table, where Lachlan and Iseult presided, was set under a massive shield depicting the crowned stag of the MacCuinn arms. Tradition demanded that the bride’s mother should sit at the high table with the groom’s parents, but given the long enmity between Lachlan and Maya, she had been seated at the table to the right, with her brother Nila and his wife Fand, and various other Fairgean nobility. She sat quietly, listening to her brother speak, and then wrote her response on the slate she carried at her waist, as always.

  The next table, where the Celestines had been meant to sit with various other forest faeries and witches, was half-empty, and Olwynne wondered with a sudden stab of anxiety whether Thunderlily was dangerously ill, that none of her family were here at the wedding. She hoped not, for Thunderlily was one of only a few Celestines born since the days of the Burning, and it would truly be a dreadful thing if she died while under the care of the Coven. She could tell by her aunt’s face that Isabeau was worried too. Dide was trying to coax her to dance and the Keybearer was shaking her head, a little frown between her eyes. Brun, who sat next to her, was patting her hand in comfort.