The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  Slowly the bell swung upwards, till its rim was facing to the arched ceiling and the old bell-ringer could peer inside her hollow body.

  He cried aloud in surprise.

  A young man was clinging tightly to the clapper, his legs braced against the sound rim. He was white and sick-looking, as indeed he should be, having just been swung three hundred and sixty degrees over and over again. He had tied himself in place with a crumpled black apprentice-witch’s robe, but had evidently hit his head hard, for blood was trickling down the side of his face.

  ‘Eà’s eyes!’ the bell-ringer cried. ‘No wonder the bell wouldna ring. Ye’re lucky ye dinna kill yourself!’

  The young man stirred, groaning. ‘Still its tongue,’ he muttered. ‘Do no’ let it speak.’

  ‘Let’s get ye off there afore ye fall,’ the bell-ringer said, seizing the young man about the shoulders and drawing his knife to cut the robe that tied him in place. ‘Young fool! What was it? A wager?’

  ‘Is she dead?’ the young man demanded, opening dazed brown eyes. ‘Did I save her?’

  ‘It’s ye who should be dead, ye young fool,’ the bell-ringer said gruffly. ‘Stopping my bell that way!’

  ‘I stopped it?’ he asked. ‘I stilled its tongue?’

  ‘Her tongue,’ the bell-ringer said. ‘A bell is always called “she”.’ He grinned, and said, as he sawed away at the knot of the twisted material, ‘Ye ken why? ’Cause they have big mouths and long tongues.’

  ‘I stopped her,’ the young man said contentedly, then fainted.

  ‘Our soul has escaped even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler: the snare is broken and we are delivered.’

  Psalm 124, verse 6,

  The Book of Common Prayer

  The Keybearer lay in her white bed. Although it was mounded high with eiderdowns and blankets, still she shivered as if sleeping under snow. In the firelight dancing over the walls, her eyes looked very big and very black, the pupil so dilated that the blue of her iris was almost completely swallowed.

  ‘It is a very strong spell,’ she said. Her voice was low and husky. ‘I have never felt such a strong compulsion. If I had no’ had such a spell laid on me afore, I do no’ think I would recognise it now for what it is. I do no’ ken how long I can resist it.’

  ‘But who could weave such a spell?’ Gwilym the Ugly asked. He was sitting beside the bed, his saturnine face set in a ferocious scowl. Cailean of the Shadowswathe was there too, and his brother Stormy Briant, and Ghislaine Dream-Walker, and Jock Crofter, and Fat Drusa, and the wizened old sorceress Wise Tully, who was so old she rarely left her own quarters anymore. Nina the Nightingale sat on the far side of the bed with Dide, who was holding Isabeau’s crippled hand in both of his.

  ‘It was Brann the Raven,’ the Keybearer said, and stopped for a moment, trying to control her breathing. ‘Do ye no’ remember how he swore he would outwit Gearradh and live again? It was no’ an idle boast. Somehow he learnt the secret o’ raising the dead, and wrote it in The Book o’ Shadows. Concealed within the words is another spell, a very strong and subtle spell. Whoever reads the spell is compelled to go to the Tomb o’ Ravens, and resurrect him from his grave. This is no easy task …’

  She stopped again, and Dide held a glass of water to her lips so she could drink. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger. ‘Brann died a thousand years or more ago. There is naught left o’ him but grave dust. The Spell o’ Resurrection is most potent when spoken as soon after the corpse’s death as possible. The more that remains o’ them, the more strongly the spirit lingers in the flesh. To raise him now would be impossible.’

  ‘Then how …?’ Nina asked.

  ‘Brann was clever, diabolically clever. He kent it may be a long time afore someone was foolish enough to seek to ken the Spell o’ Resurrection. So the compulsion is a complex one. It is no’ enough to go to the Tomb o’ Ravens and disinter his grave. One must go back in time to the day o’ his death first.’

  ‘The Heart o’ Stars!’ Ghislaine exclaimed. ‘That is why Thunderlily and Donncan …’

  ‘And Johanna,’ Isabeau said heavily. ‘Do no’ forget Johanna.’

  ‘Johanna forced Thunderlily and the Prionnsa?’ Fat Drusa asked blankly. ‘It is hard to believe.’

  ‘I should have seen it coming,’ Isabeau said. ‘But I was so caught up in my own concerns …’

  ‘It was Dedrie,’ Nina said, beginning to understand. ‘She wanted the Spell o’ Resurrection for the laird o’ Fettercairn, so he could raise his brother and the little dead boy, the one who looks like Roden.’

  ‘Aye, I think so,’ Isabeau said. ‘She wriggled her way into Johanna’s confidence …’

  ‘Convinced her to look up the spell in The Book o’ Shadows …’ Nina said.

  ‘Aye, but Johanna was caught by Brann’s compulsion like a fish on a hook. She wouldna have had a chance. If I’m not mistaken, the skeelie has been working on her will for a while. Many o’ those village skeelies have no compunction in using their magic to bend the will o’ others to their own. It’s forbidden to those o’ the Coven, o’ course, but …’ Her voice trailed away wearily, and she shrugged. ‘It is a hard temptation to resist, I ken.’

  ‘So if this skeelie had been moulding Johanna to her will for some time …’ Gwilym said slowly.

  ‘And drugging her too, I bet!’ Nina interjected. ‘Dedrie likes drugs and poisons.’

  ‘Then she would’ve been very susceptible to Brann’s spell o’ compulsion,’ Gwilym finished.

  Isabeau nodded. ‘Aye. I do no’ think Donncan and Thunderlily’s disappearance had aught to do with the laird o’ Fettercairn’s plot. I think he just wanted the Spell o’ Resurrection, and then three living souls, willing or unwilling …’ She shuddered.

  ‘Why three?’ Dide asked. ‘I understand Owein and Roden – one for his brother who died, and one for the little boy – but why Olwynne?’

  ‘To raise Margrit o’ Arran,’ Isabeau replied.

  A gasp of surprise and horror ran round the room.

  ‘Och, aye,’ she said, nodding. ‘I’ve suspected Margrit’s hand in this for a while, even from beyond the grave. She is the one – or at least, it was her ghost – who told the laird o’ Fettercairn where he could find the Spell o’ Resurrection. It is just the sort o’ thing she would’ve known o’. It must’ve been unbelievably frustrating for her, to ken where to find such a spell, but to have no hands or feet or voice to work the spell. Twenty years she has been dead. It is a long time to cling to one’s life, waiting for a tool to come along.’

  ‘So it was the ghost o’ Margrit o’ Arran that Laird Malvern and his necromancers raised at the Tower o’ Ravens?’ Nina said, beginning to understand. ‘But how did Johanna come to be involved?’

  ‘Margrit may have told Laird Malvern where to find the Spell o’ Resurrection but he and his servants could never have come near The Book o’ Shadows by themselves. They needed to find someone who was close enough to me to know how to get into my rooms, yet who was willing to betray me.’

  ‘I would never have thought it o’ Johanna,’ Fat Drusa said in distress.

  ‘I imagine they promised her they would raise Connor from the dead,’ Isabeau said. ‘Even so, she may no’ have helped them, I think, if Lachlan had no’ decided to pardon Rhiannon. Else Johanna would’ve looked up the spell afore now, surely. And in return for her finding them the spell, they killed Lachlan afore he could announce Rhiannon’s pardon.’

  ‘He always said revenge was a dish best eaten cold,’ Nina said, and pressed her hand against her mouth.

  ‘It was Rhiannon who made me suspect Margrit o’ Arran was involved,’ Isabeau said. ‘I am so glad ye were in time to save her, Nina! She is quick and clever, that lass, and has real power. I am so sorry that it should’ve been Iseult who gave the order for her to hang, but she is always the same, once her temper gets the better o’ her. She does no’ see clearly.’

  ‘She is half-mad with grief,’ Fat Dru
sa said pitifully. ‘It is all so sad!’

  ‘But how can ye be so sure the ghost is Margrit?’ Gwilym demanded. He had once been the Thistle’s second-in-command, and her lover. It was not a memory he was fond of.

  ‘The ghost o’ a powerful sorceress who had been poisoned to death? Someone whose grave was a long way away, somewhere across the sea? Someone powerful enough to cling to this world and seek another body to inhabit, the body o’ a young and beautiful dark-haired girl, one with power …’

  ‘Margrit o’ Arran,’ Gwilym said grimly.

  ‘Aye, I fear so,’ Isabeau said, and heaved a great sigh. ‘If only I had realised earlier …’ Her fretful fingers plucked at the sheets.

  ‘If ifs and buts were pots and pans, there’s be no need for tinkers’ hands,’ Dide said, quoting a maxim of her old guardian, Meghan, that made Isabeau laugh, and helped clear the air a little.

  ‘So what are we to do?’ Ghislaine said.

  ‘It’s a sorry tangle indeed,’ Isabeau said, and it was clear it cost her to keep speaking. Perspiration slicked her skin, and she was very pale. Her arms moved jerkily. ‘But Meghan, Eà bless her wise heart, always said a problem is like a tangle o’ thread. If ye can just find the end o’ the thread, ye can pull the tangle undone.’

  ‘So what is the end o’ the thread?’ Ghislaine asked.

  ‘Two ends,’ Isabeau said. ‘One is Donncan and Thunderlily. We must go and get them back. That means travelling the Auld Ways and, perhaps, facing Brann the Raven.’

  ‘No easy task,’ Ghislaine said blankly.

  ‘No,’ Isabeau said.

  ‘We will need a Celestine to guide us,’ Gwilym said. ‘Cloudshadow would be best.’

  ‘Aye,’ Isabeau said. ‘She kens the Old Ways better than anyone.’

  ‘But a thousand years!’ Cailean marvelled. ‘Is it possible?”

  ‘Och, aye, it is possible.’ Isabeau’s voice was husky with exhaustion, and she sounded dreamy and strange. Dide cast a quick glance at her. She did not meet his glance, her eyes fixed on the window that overlooked the gardens. Although it was past midday, it was gloomy outside, for the sky was dark with clouds, and occasionally sleet drove against the glass.

  ‘If it must be done, it will be done,’ she said in the same low, dreamy voice. ‘All things are possible if ye desire it enough.’

  Dide frowned.

  ‘We will need to be very sure o’ our bearings,’ Gwilym said. ‘Do the Celestines no’ navigate the Auld Ways by means o’ the stars and planets? I will need to go and research the exact placement o’ the constellations on the night Brann died …’

  ‘I suspect Johanna will already have done the research,’ Cailean said dryly. ‘Ask the librarians what books she has looked at recently. I’m sure we will find clues there.’

  ‘What else will we need?’ Gwilym said. ‘We had best plan carefully …’

  Isabeau looked away from the window. ‘No’ “we”,’ she said gently. ‘Ye must stay, Gwilym.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  She indicated his wooden leg. ‘To travel the Auld Ways safely, ye must be able to run. Ye ken that. Besides, someone must stay here, to lead the Coven, in case I do no’ come back.’

  The witches stirred in dismay.

  ‘Brann is a very dangerous man,’ Isabeau said, ‘and the Auld Ways are always perilous to travel. We must no’ pretend otherwise. Gwilym, ye are my second-in-command – ye must stay.’

  ‘But, Beau, ye are ill,’ Dide said.

  ‘I am no’ ill,’ she said. ‘I am fighting the strongest urge … a longing … a desperate desire … if I could just give in …’ She groaned and clenched her hands on her bedclothes. ‘Do no’ speak o’ it,’ she said harshly.

  ‘But surely, by going, ye are doing just what Brann’s spell commands?’ Dide said. ‘How can we be sure that ye’re no’ doing exactly what he wants?’

  She flashed him an angry glance. ‘I do no’ go to raise him from the dead, I go to make sure he stays in the grave where he belongs,’ she said coldly. ‘Ye think I want Brann the Raven to live again? What would that mean for history? Perhaps the world we now know would no longer even exist. My mind boggles at the thought. And here’s another for ye. What if he compelled Johanna and Thunderlily to bring him back to our time?’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘So I will go, with Cailean and Ghislaine and Cloudshadow,’ Isabeau said, sinking back wearily into her pillows. She turned her face from side to side, as if the texture of the pillow hurt her. ‘Dobhailen will be there to guard us. I ken he can run.’

  At the sound of his name the huge shadow-hound at Cailean’s feet lifted its great head and looked at Isabeau with shining green eyes. Cailean fondled its silky ears, and it lay its head back down on its paws, growling softly.

  ‘Why no’ me?’ Briant demanded, offended. He was a tall, handsome, swaggering man with a talent for thunderstorms, as different as could be from his thin, shy, subtle brother.

  ‘Because ye will need to go in pursuit o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn,’ Isabeau said. Her voice was reedy and faint. ‘He’ll be heading towards the Fair Isles. That is where Margrit o’ Arran died, and where her bones will lie. He is some kind o’ weather witch, this laird, and will raise a spell-wind to speed his passage. If Finn canna catch him afore he reaches the port, we will need ye to whistle up a wind for our ships to overtake him.’

  ‘A-ha!’ Briant said, his eyes coming alight. He loved summoning a good storm, and it was something he was rarely permitted to do.

  ‘Surely Finn will catch him afore Dùn Gorm?’ Fat Drusa cried. Usually happy and optimistic, she now looked wretched indeed. Clasping her plump hands together between her enormous bosoms, she glanced appealingly from Isabeau to Dide, who she recognised as an unfailing source of information.

  ‘Finn has no’ been able to catch him so far,’ Dide said. ‘The laird has laid his plans well. They left the boat somewhere near Alloway, and went cross-country. Finn says they had horses waiting. She and Jay are crippled by no’ kenning what he means to do next. Anyone else would’ve kept on sailing down the river, but Finn felt him moving off overland and pulled to shore herself. But it took them a couple o’ hours to find some horses themselves, and by then the trail was growing cold. She’ll catch him up, though, no fear. There’s no stopping the wolf once it has its nose to a trail.’

  ‘But if we ken they’re heading for Dùn Gorm …’ Briant said.

  ‘But we do no’,’ Dide replied. ‘They could have a ship waiting for them in any one o’ a thousand coves on the coast o’ Ravenshaw. If they head far enough west, and manage to slip past the cordon we’ve set up around Dùn Gorm, well …’

  ‘Things are no’ made any easier by the damn weather,’ Gwilym said. ‘Iseult should’ve been sent to the Theurgia long ago, to learn to control her Talent. I canna approve o’ the way the prionnsachan and banprionnsachan are allowed to go on wreaking havoc however they like, without …’

  ‘Ye ken as well as I do that the crown needs to keep its autonomy from the Coven,’ Isabeau said tersely. ‘Iseult is no’ the only one who would’ve benefited from a few years at the Theurgia. But she is a banrìgh, no’ a witch. Her control over her powers is incomplete. When she is grieved, or angry, she brings snow, and ice, and storm. Do no’ be so hasty in judging her. She has lost her husband and all her bairns this night. Just be glad she has no’ buried us in snow.’

  ‘But o’ all the Talents, weather working is the most dangerous, the most difficult to control,’ Gwilym argued. ‘Surely she …’

  ‘She is the Banrìgh no longer,’ Briant cut in eagerly. ‘Happen she will join the Coven now?’

  There was a long silence. Everyone looked anxiously to Isabeau, who often found Briant’s tactlessness exasperating, and was sometimes quick to depress his pretensions. But either Isabeau was too tired, or too sick, or too grieved to take umbrage, for she merely shrugged and sighed and laid her head back on her pillows, turnin
g her cheek away from them.

  ‘So is the weather very bad then?’ Wise Tully asked. Everyone turned to her with a little stir of surprise, for she had been so quiet, with her head sunk on her chest, that they had thought her sleeping.

  ‘Horrendous,’ Dide answered. ‘Hailstorms and snowstorms and freak strikes o’ lightning all across southern Eileanan.’

  ‘The summer harvest is ruined. Ruined!’ Jack Crofter said.

  ‘The city sorceress of Dùn Gorm says the seas are running so high and wild, no-one wants to set out from the safety o’ the port. Bronwen … Her Majesty … has ordered the navy on standby, though, for we must stop Laird Malvern afore he reaches the Fair Isles …’ Nina said, her voice cracking with the strain.

  ‘Which is where ye come in, Briant,’ Cailean said with an affectionate, mocking glance.

  Briant did not see the mockery. ‘Sounds like fun,’ he said eagerly, and got up, wanting to go and battle the stormy seas at once.

  ‘And what o’ me?’ Dide asked softly.

  Isabeau turned her great dilated black eyes on him.

  ‘Ye must choose what ye will,’ she said. Her words came slowly, and she paused to fight for breath. ‘I thought Nina would want ye to go with her, to save Roden. He is your blood, your heir, the hope o’ your house. I canna ask ye to come with me, as much as I want ye to, when I ken he has need o’ ye.’

  Dide did not reply. He was clearly torn.

  Nina put her hand on his arm. ‘Go with Beau,’ she said gently. ‘She needs ye more than I do. Her Majesty has pledged us a battalion o’ soldiers to pursue the laird o’ Fettercairn, and a fleet o’ ships if we want them. Finn and Jay are already hot on his heels, and we leave in the morning, with the best boatmen the river can offer. The laird will never make it to sea, and even if he does I’ll have Iven there, and Finn and Jay too …’

  ‘And me!’ Briant said gaily.

  ‘And Stormy Briant as well. I would dearly love your support, but …’

  ‘I will go with Beau,’ Dide said, clearly grateful. ‘Thank ye.’