The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  Fèlice was kneeling before the fire, stirring a great cauldron from which rose a ghastly bitter smell. She turned and rose to her feet, pushing back her dishevelled hair with one hand.

  ‘Nina! I heard about Roden. I’m so very, very sorry.’ It was clear Fèlice had been crying. Her nose was red and her eyes were swollen, and she was so pale she looked as if she might keel over at any moment.

  Nina nodded. ‘All we can do is pray to Eà that Finn finds them,’ she said tersely. ‘Fèlice! We need the Keybearer at once. Have ye heard the news? Rhiannon is to hang at dawn. Iseult has commanded it, and we canna get in to beg the new Banrìgh to pardon her, they willna let us in. They will let Isabeau in, though. We must find her!’

  ‘Rhiannon is to hang? At dawn?’ Fèlice put out her hand and grasped Nina’s arm. ‘No!’

  ‘Aye! Unless we can stop it.’

  ‘No-one’s seen the Keybearer,’ Fèlice said rapidly. ‘Though someone said they saw an owl fly in her bedroom window some hours ago …’

  Nina and Lewen exchanged a quick glance, and then began to run up the stairs, taking two at a time. Behind them, Fèlice looked out at the paling sky and bit her lip, tears running down her face. Then she threw down her spoon, and ran out the front door, calling frantically, ‘Landon! Cameron! To me!’

  Lewen reached the Keybearer’s door first. He banged his fist upon it, shouting at the top of his voice. There was no answer. Nina reached his side, and added her voice to his. Again and again they knocked, and called Isabeau’s name, and rattled the door handle, but there was no answer. Then Lewen heard a faint moan.

  They looked at each other, filled with a dreadful fear, then Nina took a deep breath and began to sing. Higher and higher her voice soared, until the pitch was so unbearable Lewen had to press his hands over his ears. The bluebird lying against his heart shrieked in terror.

  There was a flash of blue fire, as the wards on the Keybearer’s door suddenly burst asunder, leaving a lingering sigil burnt upon Lewen’s eyeballs. The door blew off its hinges, crashing to the floor. Nina stepped in, holding her arm up over her face to protect herself from the blue sparks hissing all round the frame. Wordlessly, Lewen followed.

  Isabeau was curled in a foetal position on the floor, her chin pressed down into her chest, her hands held over her face as if trying to hold off a blow. Every now and again she jerked, as if stung by a doom-eel. The Book of Shadows lay face down on the floor, its pages bent beneath it as if it had been thrown or dropped. There was an unpleasant smell in the air, like burnt leather. Glancing at the ancient tome, Lewen saw its red cover was scorched with dark, smudged marks like handprints.

  Calling Isabeau’s name, Nina felt her forehead, and then her pulse. One was clammy and cold, the other tumultuous. The Keybearer did not respond to the sound of her name. When Nina tried to pull her hands away, she cried out and cowered away.

  ‘Isabeau! What has happened!’ Nina cried. ‘Oh Eà, help me! What could have happened?’

  Isabeau’s pale lips moved. A croaking sound came out. ‘Gwilym … get Gwilym.’

  Nina bent over her. ‘But what has happened?’ she asked. ‘Are ye ill?’

  ‘Ensorcelled,’ Isabeau whispered. ‘Very strong … I canna … get Gwilym.’

  Nina turned to Lewen, and he rose from his knees, ready to go and fetch the sorcerer as asked.

  Just then, the bluebird stirred inside Lewen’s jacket and began to trill. Outside another bird answered, and then another.

  ‘It is dawn,’ Nina said heavily. ‘We are too late. The bell will ring at any moment. Oh, poor Rhiannon!’

  Lewen stared at her, his breath catching in his throat, then he turned and began to run.

  They had left Rhiannon a candle marked with lines that showed the passing of the hours. She had not wanted to be alone in the dark. She watched the flame slowly devour the candle until all that was left was a pale nub crouched in a pool of wax.

  It was still dark when they came for her. They unlocked her chains and manacles and set a fine breakfast of baked ham and coddled eggs before her, which Rhiannon could not eat. She asked for the goldensloe wine Nina had brought her for midsummer, and they stood by and watched as she drank it. It helped ease the trembling of her hands. No-one spoke much, which she thought was kind. Then they brought hot water and harsh soap for her to wash with, and another shapeless grey gown with seams that made her itch unbearably. The Keybearer’s fire did not get rid of all the lice, Rhiannon thought.

  She had an escort of six guards, all heavily armed, with black hoods and black armbands. They were not her usual guards, but strangers to her, which saddened her. She had grown quite friendly with Corey and Henry, and hoped that the younger of the two had not been punished for her escape. She wished the chamber-pot had not been full, or that she had been able to find another weapon with which to knock him out.

  The guards obviously knew she had escaped once before. They snapped the manacles and chains back on, and kept their spears at the ready, prodding her painfully if she lagged behind or looked about her too closely.

  Still Rhiannon looked for chances to escape. She called to Blackthorn with all her strength, hoping for some sense that the winged horse was not badly hurt, that she had escaped the dragon’s claw and would come and save her from the noose. Bound in iron and stone, she felt nothing.

  The escort took her down through the prison and out onto the snow-covered battlement that spanned the gate. It was bitterly cold. They hung over the wall with torches in their hands, and prodded her forward with their spears so she could see the row of skulls hanging above the lintel of the gate. On the far end were two freshly severed heads. She recognised the short grey hair of Shannley, the laird of Fettercairn’s groom. He had been hung the day before, they told her. His face was almost unrecognisable, for the birds and the rats had been enjoying a feast. His eyes were gone, and most of his cheek.

  The other head was that of a young and pretty girl with long golden hair, now matted with blood. Rhiannon recognised her as the girl in the Murderers’ Gallery who had killed her baby. The sight filled her with rage, though she could not have explained why. She stepped back, saying nothing, but she would like to have struck out at her guards, or shouted at them. She did not. Somehow, Rhiannon was still hoping for deliverance.

  ‘We’ll hang your head there too, when we’re done,’ one of the guards said.

  ‘As an example to others,’ another said, grinning.

  Rhiannon stared at them, saying nothing. She imagined her head stuck on a pike, the birds pecking at her sightless eyes, and felt a shudder wrack her body. She tried not to let the prison guards see.

  The sight of the skull-laden lintel of the gate had induced a jocular mood in her guards. They talked and joked as they marched her on down the ice-slick stairs and into the large courtyard below, where the gallows stood. Not many people had been hung in Lachlan’s time, they told her. They wondered whether the new Banrìgh would be more like her mother, Maya the Ensorcellor. In her day, the guards said, cart-loads of people had been brought regularly to the gallows or, if they were witches or faeries, burnt alive on a bonfire.

  ‘No’ that we want those days back again,’ the oldest of the guards said reprovingly, and looked at Rhiannon apologetically.

  The courtyard was lit with flaming torches. The stark shape of the gallows was silhouetted against their orange glare. Rhiannon stared in fascination. She had never seen such a contraption before, but it was clear what its function was. Then she looked to the sky, her pulse beginning to thump, both dreading and longing for the familiar shape of Blackthorn in the sky. But all she could see was the sky paling to grey. It was dawn.

  A large crowd had gathered to watch. She was the latest sensation, her guards told her. They forced her up the steps to the gallows. Rhiannon resisted with all her strength, but they only laughed, pleased with her for putting on a good show for the crowd. It was a noisy mob. Some had come armed with old fruit and vegetables to lob at her
, some shouted for her death with a frenzy that alarmed and sickened her, and others prayed for her with bent heads. Rhiannon scanned the crowd desperately, but there was no familiar face, no friend there to ease her last moments, or to try one last reckless attempt to rescue her. Her eyes filled with tears despite herself. Lewen, her soul yearned. Lewen.

  But he was not there.

  A big man with a thick neck and arms was waiting for her by the gallows. His face was obscured with a black hood. They dragged Rhiannon the last few feet, and secured her arms behind her back. A hood was dropped over her face. She struggled to choke back her tears, to breathe while she could. She felt the thick rope of the noose being fitted about her neck

  ‘At the first ring o’ the tower bell, I’ll pull this lever here and the boards beneath your feet will fall,’ a deep, wheezy voice said in her ear. ‘Do no’ fear, lass. It’ll be quick. Have ye friends in the crowd? They can pull on your feet to make it quicker if ye like.’

  Dumbly Rhiannon shook her head. No friends, she thought. No friends anywhere. The thought brought the tears gushing. She took a deep, shaky breath and felt the big man drop a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, lass,’ he mumbled.

  They waited. Rhiannon listened intently. She could hear the hisses and catcalls of the crowd. She could hear the heavy breathing of the hangman. She could hear one of her guards shuffle his feet impatiently. Beyond the wall, the river rushed towards the cliff, flinging its great body of water over in a dull roar that filled the city every minute of every day. Birds were singing as blithely as ever, caring not a bit that today was the day Rhiannon would die. Somewhere a cart rattled over cobblestones. A dog barked. A shop sign squeaked in the freshening breeze. Rhiannon felt it flatten her coarse dress against her body. Someone called, ‘Ee-ee-eels, ee-ee-eels, ee-ee-els alive-oh!’

  The muffled darkness pressing so close about Rhiannon’s face began to lighten. The material had soaked up her tears, and it was damp against her face. Her skin itched.

  ‘Where’s that bell?’ someone muttered.

  ‘It’s dawn, why have ye no’ hung her?’ someone else called.

  ‘Come on, hang her!’ another voice screamed.

  A chant began to rise from the crowd. ‘Hang her, hang her!’

  ‘Why hasna that bell rung?’ the hangman asked. ‘I got to wait for the bell.’

  The crowd had begun to stamp their feet, to clap, to bang wooden staves against the iron railing. ‘Hang her, hang her, hang her,’ they shrieked.

  ‘It’s a sign,’ someone else called.

  Rhiannon’s heart leapt. She recognised Fèlice’s clear, sweet, aristocratic voice. ‘It’s a sign from Eà! Eà has stilled the bell so it canna ring. Spare her!’

  ‘It’s a sign!’ someone else repeated. Rhiannon could not be sure, but she thought it might be Rafferty. ‘A sign from Eà!’

  ‘Hang her, hang her, hang her!’

  ‘The bell has no’ rung! It’s a sign from Eà!’

  ‘Hang her!’

  ‘I canna hang her without the ring o’ the bell. That’s the law,’ the hangman muttered. Rhiannon heard him shift his weight anxiously, and the board below her feet creaked ominously. She could not help but curl her bare toes, dreading the sudden yawning of space below her feet.

  ‘The Banrìgh must have pardoned her,’ Fèlice called again. ‘Eà bless the Banrìgh!’

  ‘Hang her, hang her, hang her!’

  ‘Nay, it’s a sign, a sign from Eà. Rhiannon is innocent!’ Landon called. Rhiannon knew his voice at once. Her heart warmed within her. She did have friends after all.

  ‘She’s innocent! Spare her!’

  ‘Hang her, hang her!’

  ‘The Banrìgh! The Blessed Banrìgh must’ve pardoned her!’

  ‘Where’s that bloody bell?’ the hangman muttered.

  The screams and calls echoed round the courtyard. The stamping and clapping grew frenzied. Rhiannon could feel her guards growing restive. She spread her feet on the boards, tense and ready for action.

  ‘Havers, why have ye no’ hung her yet?’

  ‘Hang the bitch!’

  ‘The bell has no’ rung!’ the hangman cried out loud, sounding ruffled and upset. ‘I canna hang her without the bloody bell ringing. I canna!’

  Now the light was strong in her eyes. She felt the cloth about her face warming. The dawn singing of the birds had faded, but the sound of the wakening city was loud. Then she heard the sweet, high cry of a bluebird, and then the familiar light weight as her bird landed on her shoulder. Tears choked her.

  ‘Just hang her, damn it,’ one of the guards said crossly. ‘I’m getting hungry!’

  ‘I canna hang her without the ring o’ the bell,’ the hangman said stubbornly. ‘That’s what I’ve been told.’

  ‘Just do it, so we can get out o’ here,’ another guard said.

  ‘Nay, I will no’,’ the hangman said. ‘What if the Banrìgh has sent a pardon? It’d be my head then.’

  ‘Flaming dragon balls, we’ll have a riot soon. Hang her, will ye!’

  ‘I will no’,’ the hangman said. ‘Ye hang her, if ye’re so anxious to see it done.’

  There was a pause, during which the competing screams of the crowd seemed to grow even louder. Rhiannon waited for the response with straining ears.

  ‘Better no’,’ the guard muttered at last. ‘If they wanted her hung, they’d have rung the bell.’

  Rhiannon’s head swam with utter relief. Her knees almost buckled, but with a great effort she locked them straight, not wanting to hang herself by fainting now that a reprieve of sorts had been won.

  ‘Eà bless ye!’ Fèlice called, her voice ringing over the noise of the crowd.

  Just then Rhiannon heard the thunder of hooves approaching. Anxiety gripped her heart tight. She could barely breathe. She strained her ears to listen. She heard the rattle of wheels, the snap of a whip being cracked, then she heard Fèlice’s joyous voice. ‘Nina!’

  Nina’s clear, strong voice rang out. ‘A reprieve! I have here a reprieve, signed by the Banrìgh Bronwen Mathilde NicCuinn. Rhiannon o’ Dubhslain has been pardoned! Unchain her!’

  There was a great scuffle. Rhiannon swayed on her feet. The hangman put his thick arm about her. ‘Hold up there, lassie,’ he whispered. ‘Just a minute more.’

  She heard the raucous crowd being pushed back by soldiers, then someone clattered about behind her. Her chains fell to the boards with a clunk. Rhiannon ripped her hood off. The light dazzled her eyes, but she shielded them with her arm, taking deep, panting breaths of air that suddenly seemed deliciously pure and clear. Nina sprang up onto the gibbet and embraced her fervently. Her hair was wild and dishevelled, her clothes in disarray, but Rhiannon had never seen Nina look so beautiful. She hugged her back with all her strength.

  Fèlice waved wildly, her face lit up with jubilation, from the other side of the iron railings. Cameron, Rafferty, Landon and Maisie were with her, leaping up and down, laughing and screaming with excitement. Gwilym the Ugly was trying to control the rearing, lathered horses threatening to tip the little cart over, while beyond the line of soldiers the crowd seethed and shouted, some angry and disappointed, others sure they had seen a real live miracle.

  ‘It was Gwilym who did it,’ Nina said, the words tumbling one over the other. ‘He’s kent Bronwen since she was just a lass. Lachlan had told him about the pardon. He convinced Bronwen that we would never find the true culprits if we hanged ye. Ye are the only one … ye ken the most o’ anyone …’ She had to stop to take a deep, panting breath. ‘I canna believe we got here in time! I was sure we’d be too late. Too late!’ She laughed wildly, and wiped her tears away.

  ‘The bell,’ Rhiannon said. ‘The bell dinna ring.’

  ‘It’s a miracle!’ Fèlice called. ‘That bloody bell has rung non-stop all night, and yet it dinna ring in the dawn! Eà was with us, Eà was on our side!’

  ‘The bell?’ Nina asked. ‘They dinna hang ye becau
se o’ the bell?’

  ‘Aye,’ Rhiannon said, wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. ‘The bell dinna ring. I dinna ken why.’

  ‘There is a body without a heart that has a tongue …’ Nina said slowly. ‘A bell, o’ course! Still its tongue, and the bell canna speak.’

  The old bell-ringer hurried up the dark, cobwebby stairs, tense with anxiety. As long as he had been tower captain, the bells in the watch-tower had rung out just when they ought to, with clear true voices, to tell the people of the city that all was well, or not well, within the bounds of their world. Never had he known one to stay mute when he had called upon it to ring.

  He reached the top of the bell-tower. Six bells of varying size hung below him, their sound bows gleaming faintly in the gloom. He reached out, and seized the rim of the largest of all the bells, the tenor, whose great girth measured more than forty-five inches across. She was named Aingeal, and around her belly were inscribed the words, ‘I to Eà the living call, and to the grave do summon all.’ It was her voice that rang out over the city every dawn, to call the workers to their tasks, and then again at sunset, to call the curfew, and the shutting of the city gates, and the downing of tools. As tower captain, it was his honour to ring her, and it was always her voice that was heard last, after the ringing of the changes.

  The bell-ringer ran his hand over Aingeal’s shining, voluptuous waist, and then seized the wheel with one hand, and the rope with the other, dragging the sound bow upwards so he could examine the clapper. He himself had removed the double muffler from the clapper after ringing Aingeal for six hours straight. All had been sound then. Even if some fool had replaced the leather and horsehair device, the bell still should have sounded its muted, portentous voice. Only removal of the clapper, which he knew by experience was no easy task, or complete immobilisation, could prevent Aingeal from singing.