Dragonclaw (47 page)

In confusion Scruffy nodded and bowed, and after they'd all toasted the King of the Thieves and the Lad with the Healing Hands with gulps of raw spirits, they were kindly but firmly escorted through the warren of caves to a small aperture which lead out onto the dark hillside. Scruffy was unusually silent, but when one of the beggar boys made a cheeky remark, a flash of his old spirit returned. ‘That be enough from ye, Artair, else ye'll be thrown out o' the gang, no mercy! And do no' be callin' me Scruffy no more, Dillon the Bold I am now!'

Far to the south, in the misty fens of Arran, a boat pushed its way between rushes and slid quietly into the still waters of the Murkmyre. Sitting in the prow of the long, narrow dinghy was a still-faced woman, her back stiff, her hands folded calmly in her lap. She wore a black dress with a dark plaid pinned at her breast by a silver brooch in the shape of a thistle.

Thick mist coiled around the boat, obscuring the surface of the loch and caressing her face with damp fingers. Margrit NicFóghnan, Banprionnsa of Arran, lifted her face to its touch, frowning in pleasure. The boat slipped noiselessly around a marshy headland and the delicate spires of Tùr de Ceò drifted into view. Margrit's frown deepened. She loved the first view of the Tower of Mists after the long, wearisome journey through the marshes; its sharp-pointed, scrolled towers rose out of the bank of mist like a palace out of a faery tale, a reminder to her of her royal heritage and proud ancestry, never to be forgotten.

With a slight sound the boat slid into position at the jetty and, without hurry, Margrit of Arran rose and disembarked, pulling the plaid closer around her shoulders. Servants and retainers lined the steps in silence, bowing and curtsying as she slowly walked up the steps towards the great arched door of the Tower. Standing on either side of the door were two Mesmerdean, their beautiful inhuman faces impassive, each with its four arms folded over its chest. More than seven feet high, they seemed strangely insubstantial, as if there was nothing below the loose grey robes that drifted and swirled about them in an unfelt breeze. Their multifaceted eyes stared at Margrit and she stared back without fear. They did not bow.

Engraved on each half of the door was the thistle device and the motto of the Clan of MacFóghnan:
Touch not the thistle
. Margrit frowned as she passed through the doors, and her fingers lifted to briefly touch the thistle brooch at her throat.

The great hall within was luxuriously appointed with rich carpets from Lucescere in crimson and blue and grey, and statues carved from the white marble of Rurach. The walls were hung with vast tapestries depicting great scenes in the history of the MacFóghnans. There were many of Fóghnan herself, one scene depicting the great ship of Cuinn sailing the magical storm that bent the fabric of the universe and brought the First Coven to the Far Islands. Fóghnan was depicted with a falling star above her head, symbolising her great prophecy which had led them to this world. Another showed her leaving the wrecked ship upon arrival, her face stern and proud, while Owein MacCuinn wept like a child over the dead body of his father and shook his fist after her as she refused to bend to his authority. In the background a tidal wave was begining to gather, looming over the crowd of frightened migrants—the great tide that would kill so many of those that had braved the Crossing. All of those who went with Fóghnan survived, and thereafter no-one dared doubt the truth of her prophecies.

Other tapestries showed the magical summoning of Tùr de Ceò on an island in Murkmyre, deep within the shifting maze of the fenlands, and Fóghnan's death at the hands of Owein MacCuinn's youngest son, Balfour. Margrit smiled as she glanced up at the tapestry on her way through to her throne-room. The blood ran bitter between MacFóghnan and MacCuinn, who had learnt one did not touch the thistle without pain. Balfour too had died soon after, of a mysterious ailment that saw him frothing at the month, his body arching backwards in agony, his drumming heels tearing the earth up in great clods. Fóghnan's twelve-year-old daughter, named Margrit as many NicFóghnans would be, had taken up her mother's staff and knife and assumed the duties of the Tower. Many years later, when Aedan MacCuinn had united the warring lands and peoples of Eileanan under the rule of the Lodestar, only Arran, Tìrsoilleir and the Fairgean had refused to accept his authority. Years of war had followed, but not even the Lodestar could pierce the mysteries of Murkmyre and the ever-hungry marshes had swallowed up the armies sent against her. The Clan of MacFóghnan had survived, as it always would.

The anger provoked by the memory of Fóghnan the Thistle's death brought Margrit into the great throne-room smiling. At the sight of her dimples, her son paled, standing up hurriedly. Aged in his early twenties, he seemed younger because of his awkwardness and lanky height. At the sight of him Margrit's smile deepened, and Iain began to look for a route of escape.

‘Och, ye're back, M-M-Mother!'

‘I see your powers o' observation are improving, at least.' Margrit crossed the room with a slow, stately glide and arranged herself on the throne of ornately carved wood piled with purple velvet cushions.

‘H-H-How was your journey?'

She considered his question, straightening one of the massive rings on her fingers. ‘As I expected. The seeds o' dissension I sowed these last few years shall yield us a profitable crop.'

He nodded, and began to back towards the door. She watched him through lowered eyelids, and then as he laid his hand on the panel, said, ‘And how have things progressed here, my son?'

‘Och, well, well … K-K-Khan't-t-tirell will no doubt have m-m-much to tell ye … Shall I send for … h-h-h-him?'

‘Och, no. I would prefer my son, heir to the Tower, to tell me. Have a seat, Iain.'

Iain sank into one of the upright wooden chairs lining the hall and looked at her in trepidation. He told her all he could remember but, as always happened when he had to speak to his mother, his wits fled and so it was a garbled tale that emerged, all dragons rising and Mesmerdean dying and rebellion here and rebellion there. When he had stammered and stumbled into silence, she smiled at him, then laughed. Her laugh was particularly sweet and musical. ‘Go and call K-K-Khan'-t-t-t-tirell,' she mocked. ‘At the very least I ken he will make sense.'

Iain shot out of his chair and was almost at the door again when she said softly, ‘Why, o' all my lovers, was it your father that finally managed to impregnate me? True, he had the face o' an angel, but the wits o' a fool, and now his addled seed has grown into a halfwit! If I could bear another babe, I would drown ye in the marshes, as I should have done when ye were born. Since ye are my only offspring and the future o' the Tower would drown with ye, ye will be glad to ken I have arranged a marriage for ye. She is strong and canny and has magic, and is willing to suffer your caresses in order to be the first lady o' Arran. Do no' fear she will be disappointed when she meets ye, for I have told her all about ye.'

Iain went scarlet and tried to speak, but his stammer defeated him. Margrit watched his strangled attempts with a smile on her face, and said smoothly, ‘I am glad ye are so transported with delight, my dear. She is a NicHilde and so o' the best blood, even though the Tìrsoilleirean no longer acknowledge the existence o' magic or the lineage o' the descendants o' the First Coven. She is arranging her affairs now, and will be with us soon. Ye have one duty only, and that is to get her with babe. Now get out o' my sight!'

Once her son had scuttled out of the room, Margrit sank back into the cushions and, still smiling, toyed with the silver tassels that hung from her black velvet gown. Soon her chamberlain slid into the room, a tall, lean man with a long mane of white hair tied back with leather. The architecture of his dark, fierce face was sharp and angular with prominent cheekbones, his eyes so heavily hooded that their colour could not be seen. On either cheek, three thin white scars stood out clearly against his olive skin. His looks would have been enough to have aroused suspicion of faery-blood, without the heavy, tightly curled horns on either side of his forehead.

‘My lady requested my presence?' He spoke with a thick, halting accent, though his sweeping bow was the very model of courtly grace.

‘Khan'tirell, indeed I am glad to see ye, for my halfwit son has been babbling away and I need someone to make sense o' it for me. He said the dragons have risen.'

‘Indeed, Your Grace, matters did no' unfold as we wished in the Sithiche Mountains.'

‘Why no'?' Her voice was mild.

Khan'tirell told the story efficiently and well. The Mesmerd she had chosen had accompanied Seeker Thoth deep into the Sithiche Mountains to assist him in his move against the dragons. That the Mesmerd had had a mission of his own had not of course been revealed to the seeker, as the Lady Margrit had suggested. The Mesmerd had become aware of a significant amount of magic being expended and so had directed the Red Guards in that general direction. They had come across a party of witches practising their Candlemas rites in a well-hidden valley that had, of course, been easily penetrated by the Mesmerd. The witches had escaped, all but one.

‘Why only one?'

‘The Arch-Sorceress Meghan NicCuinn was there, my lady.'

‘Ah, I see. Go on.'

The chamberlain shifted his shoulders slightly as a small smile marred the smoothness of Margrit's face. ‘The Mesmerd was killed by a magical ward the Arch-Sorceress had set to guard her residence.'

‘How? Why did the Mesmerd no' sense the ward?'

‘I do no' ken, my lady, having only heard the report from Seeker Thoth. I imagine, though, that she hid the more powerful ward below a simple device and so tricked the Mesmerd.'

‘Then it deserved to die,' Margrit said indifferently.

When she learnt that Meghan had reached the dragons before the Red Guards and had somehow convinced them to attack the legion, Margrit laughed. ‘She's wee, but she's feisty,' she said appreciatively. ‘So Thoth is dead? Damn it! I spent time cultivating him. Still, he was never the only arrow in my quiver. The rising o' the dragons is a different matter. That I am concerned about. Even angry about. Meghan should no' be meddling in my affairs. I had hoped she was dead, the doddering auld thing. I am pleased to hear she is still alive, for that will give me the pleasure o' arranging her death.' Margrit paused and stroked her cheek with one finger. ‘The dragons are slow to rouse, but once roused, they are terrible,' she mused softly. ‘Have they flown over any o' Rionnagan or Siantan? That would at least be some consolation.'

‘No, Your Grace. After killing the Red Guards, the dragons returned to their palace and flew no more.'

‘Strange. Very strange.'

Khan'tirell told her then that the Mesmerdean were very distressed at the death of their comrade. Mesmerdean did not die easily, and they had spent the month since in the strange rituals of their mourning. All the Mesmerdean travelling in other lands had returned and they refused to leave the marshes again. As if that were not trouble enough, the children in the Theurgia chose this moment to stage a rebellion, locking themselves in their wing and throwing stones and hard bread at all who came near. Khan'tirell had eventually overpowered them, of course, and severely whipped the ringleaders, and killed the most recalcitrant, who unfortunately had also been the most Talented. He had been confident that she would like him to teach them a lesson, however.

‘Ye did exactly right. How dare a gaggle o' snotty-nosed farm kids stage a rebellion on my land?'

‘Ye forget, my lady, that a number o' them were stolen from the families o' lairds and rich merchants, and quite a few are direct descendants o' the First Coven.'

‘Poor and dispossessed now, however,' Margrit smiled. Khan'tirell bowed his head. ‘What did they want?' she asked curiously.

‘To return home, my lady.'

‘Fools! Do they no' ken my Theurgia is the only one left on the entire island? They'll get no training elsewhere. Make sure their rations are all cut.'

‘It has already been done, my lady.'

‘Now, let me tell ye what transpired from my journey to Tìrsoilleir. It is as I hoped. The Fealde o' Bride was pleased, no, anxious to receive me—she is even prepared to overlook my suspected use o' enchantments, uneasy as such suspicions make her. They are tired o' marching up and down the streets o' Bride, shouting ‘Deus Vult!' and dreaming o' great victories. Four hundred and score years is more than enough time for them to forget the last time they challenged the might o' the MacCuinns. Now that the Rìgh wanders in a dream land, and the Inheritance o' Aedan is destroyed and the land divided, the Tìrsoilleirean grow ambitious. The Fealde wants to strike at something, and what better than the earth-worshipping infidels? I made her bargain hard, though, for my permission to march her armies through Arran.'

‘What has she offered?'

‘Gold, o' course, and jewels. The continued independence o' Arran, plus a fair proportion o' Aslinn and Blessem as well as the Strand, since o' course they do no' wish to defend the coast. A NicHilde to mate with my idiot son, plus all the forbidden works locked away in the Tower of Warriors. They say they have a fine collection o' works from the Other World, as well as many texts on the mysteries. Also permission to recruit in Tìrsoilleir for my Theurgia.'

‘Do they no' ken ye have been “recruiting” in Tìrsoilleir for years?'

She frowned, playing with the tassels on her gown. ‘Of course no'. If anyone had seen or heard the Mesmerdean stealing children they would have dismissed them as a trick o' the eye or the result o' too much whisky.'

‘I thought the Tìrsoilleirean frowned upon intoxicating liquor.'

‘Och, they do, Khan'tirell! They are a pious people. I've had a terribly boring few months, pretending to be as mealy-mouthed as they are. Ye ken they must pray in the Kirk as many as three times a day? Still, religious fanaticism has its purposes, and they will prove an able army. In the meantime, I will speak with the Mesrnerdean. We canna have them skulking in the marshes. I want fear and distrust in the countryside and I want every bairn with a scrap o' magical ability here under my eye!'

The Mesmerdean came slowly and with arrogance, but Lady Margrit was too wise to show anger or impatience. She knew she did not command the Mesmerdean, that their obedience to her will was due only to some purpose of their own that, for this time at least, lay parallel with hers. When they pleased they would melt back into the marshes, and she would lose her most potent weapon.