Heart of Stars (4 page)

‘I must tend my mare,’ Rhiannon said.

Jay the Fiddler and the woman – who could only be the sorceress they called Finn the Cat – exchanged a quick glance. ‘Ye are the girl who flies the winged mare, are ye no’?’ Finn asked. As Rhiannon nodded, she continued, ‘The one who killed Connor?’

Rhiannon nodded again, warily.

‘My men will tend the mare. Ye will stay here.’

‘My mare will no’ allow these soldiers to approach her,’ Rhiannon said, raising her chin. ‘Besides, ye have no right to tell me to stay or go. I fly on the Banrìgh’s business.’

‘Do ye just?’ Jay said quietly, and again there was that quick flick of a glance between him and the sorceress. On his face there was only a gentle consideration, a sort of open watchfulness, as if he was waiting for some sign from her, some sudden movement. Finn’s face was more guarded.

‘Aye, I do,’ Rhiannon said angrily. ‘She sent me to rescue Roden, and that I have done.’

‘She sent
ye
? When she knew I was on the trail?’ Finn sounded affronted.

‘Aye, she did. Blackthorn and me, we are fast. We fly high above the world while ye must slog around down below. She kent I would save him, and I have.’ Rhiannon was aware that it may have been wise to moderate her tone, but she was cold and weary and she did not like having swords poked at her when she had just done a brave and clever thing.

Rhiannon knew that the sorceress had good cause to dislike her. After all, the man she had killed had been a dear childhood friend of Finn and Jay’s. They had both sat through her trial for his murder with their hands clenched about the gold medals they wore, symbol of their membership of the League of the Healing Hand, a gang of beggar children who had banded together to help Lachlan the Winged gain his throne. There were only four members of that original gang left – Jay and Finn, now married and working in service of the Coven; Captain Dillon of the Rìgh’s own guard; and Johanna, who had been head of the healers until betraying the Rìgh to his death and abducting his son and heir, Donncan. Johanna had wanted Rhiannon to hang for Connor’s death. It was the news that Lachlan had planned to pardon Rhiannon that had driven her to help his murderers.

Finn and Jay must hate her too. They must have wanted her to hang. Rhiannon did not want to be near them. Every muscle in her body was rigid with nervous tension. If it had not been for the need to bring Roden to shelter as soon as possible, she would never have come near them. She wished she had not had to kill their friend. She was sorry Connor’s death had caused so much grief.
But that was the nature of life. People were born, people died. Sometimes they died out of time. He had been a soldier in the Rìgh’s service and must have known the risks of riding into the wilds. She ran the same risk now, chasing after the lord of Fettercairn.

Finn was scowling, her hands on her hips. Rhiannon glared back at her. The tiny black cat on Finn’s shoulder hissed furiously. Rhiannon hissed back.

Unexpectedly Finn’s face relaxed, and she put up one hand to soothe the elven cat. ‘So Her Majesty has pressed ye into service, has she? Have ye papers to prove this?’

‘In my saddlebag,’ Rhiannon answered. ‘Back with my mare.’

‘Handy.’

‘Where else would I keep them?’ Rhiannon asked. ‘I had to carry Roden, I couldna be groping around in my bags in the pitch-black looking for a bit o’ paper. If ye like, I will show ye when Blackthorn is here.’

‘How do I ken ye willna just fly off into the night again?’ Finn demanded.

‘Why would I do that?’ Rhiannon asked. ‘Ye have fire here, and blankets, and hot soup. I’m cold and hungry and tired. Besides, what would it matter to ye if I did? I’m no’ your prisoner. Ye have no right to tell me whether I can go or stay.’

‘I have no reason to trust ye,’ Finn said coldly.

Rhiannon gritted her teeth. ‘I’m the one who rescued Roden from the mad laird, remember?’

‘So ye got him away from Laird Malvern?’ The sorceress’s voice was full of suspicion. ‘How?’

‘I will tell ye all when I have seen to my horse.’ Rhiannon was inflexible.

There was a moment’s pause, and Finn looked to her husband. Jay nodded. The soldiers lowered their swords.

‘It’s as black as pitch out there, and blowing a gale. Let me walk with ye, to make sure ye do no’ get lost in the storm,’ Jay said.

‘No need,’ Rhiannon said tersely. ‘Blackthorn will come to me. As long as your soldiers stand back and keep their weapons low. She doesna like soldiers.’ It was clear from her tone that she shared her horse’s sentiments.

Jay nodded and made a swift gesture to the soldiers, who all drew back. Rhiannon called her mare’s name, silently, with no more than a slight abstraction in her expression to show what she was doing. Within moments the black winged horse was hovering above them in the darkness, her powerful wings beating up a flurry of snow. Her ears were laid back, and her sharp horns were lowered. She pawed the air and neighed a challenge.

Rhiannon reassured her silently, and the mare dropped down to the ground, pressing close to Rhiannon’s side and looking sideways at the soldiers with a white-rimmed eye and curled lip. Rhiannon stroked her damp neck. Blackthorn’s back was frosty where her sweat had frozen, and she was trembling. Rhiannon was gripped with guilt. Blackthorn had flown far that day. She should never have left her to stand in that nasty wind, all sweaty and weary as she was. Rhiannon hurried to cover her with her own cloak and, teeth chattering and extremities numb, began to rub her down with a brush she snatched out of her bag. Jay brought her some heavy blankets that she threw over the mare’s back, and one of the soldiers made up some warm mash for her.

Only when Blackthorn was as warm and comfortable as it was possible to be when camped on the side of a road in the middle of the snow did Rhiannon turn her attention back to the others at the campsite. She saw Roden had been put to bed in a little tent made from
some kind of oilcloth slung over a stick. He was rolled in blankets and had a skin of hot wine at his feet, and another at his back. He was still fast asleep.

The soldiers had either gone back to guard duty or were preparing themselves to sleep. One was stoking up the fire for the night, and another was making some hot mulled wine for Finn and Jay and Rhiannon. She accepted it gratefully, warming her numb hands on the tin mug and enjoying the aroma of spices. Then they brought her more soup, and some hard black bread that she could only eat after sopping it in her bowl. She broke off a piece and crumbled it in her hand, and then coaxed a sleepy Bluey out of her pocket to eat. At the sight of the bluebird, the elven cat leapt down from Finn’s lap and crept forward, low to the ground, one paw raised. Alarmed, Rhiannon tucked the bluebird away again, and kept a close eye on the elven cat as it prowled towards her, its turquoise eyes slitted, its tail lashing.

‘No, Goblin,’ Finn said. ‘Leave it alone.’

Goblin only hissed in response, then sat by the fire, its eyes fixed on Rhiannon’s pocket.

Finn and Jay were silent as Rhiannon ate and drank ravenously. When at last she had finished, and the soldier had taken her bowl away to wash in a saucepan of melted snow, Rhiannon sat back and returned the gaze of the two who had been examining her with such curiosity while she ate. She had spared them little more than a glance at the trial. All her attention had been on the witnesses brought against her, and the judges who had condemned her.

Now she looked them over with open curiosity. Finn was tall and lithe, with messy brown hair that caught the red of the firelight. The elven cat had stalked into her lap and was now kneading its claws in and out of Finn’s leg.
Finn stroked it absentmindedly, her head bent down to rest on her other hand. She looked tired.

Jay was not much taller than Finn, and slender, with dark hair and eyes and olive skin. Although, like most witches, his hair was long, it was neatly bound back in a queue and his beard was clipped. This may have been because it was rather sparse, or it may have been to prevent attackers from seizing it and using it against him. Both Finn and Jay were dressed in the clothes of a soldier – a padded leather breastplate and gaiters and a thick grey cloak. Rhiannon saw that their cloaks, like hers, were blue on the inside, and wondered that these witches wore the uniform of the Yeoman of the Guard, the personal bodyguard of the monarch.

‘So tell me, Rhiannon,’ Jay said. ‘Last time I heard your name ye were a prisoner o’ Sorrowgate Tower. What do ye do here in the Whitelock Mountains?’

‘The Banrìgh sent me to get back Roden, and the prionnsa and banprionnsa,’ Rhiannon said.

‘Iseult sent ye?’ Jay began, but Rhiannon interrupted.

‘No’ the auld one. The Banrìgh Bronwen. I have her paper.’

When Jay spoke, she could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Poor Iseult! She is no’ so auld. Only forty or so. But I suppose to a young one like ye
…
so it was Bronwen who sent ye?’

‘Aye.’

‘I imagine the Banrìgh could see the advantages o’ having a thigearn on the trail o’ the laird o’ Fettercairn. Certainly we’ve failed to lay them by the heels. Their plans were well laid.’

‘Aye,’ Rhiannon repeated. She still felt on guard with the fiddler, but his gentle voice and manner were doing much to calm her.

‘We’re on their trail,’ Finn said defensively. ‘We’re getting closer all the time.’

‘So tell us how ye came to wrest Roden from them?’ Jay asked.

Rhiannon gave him a brief explanation. By the time she had finished, she was having difficulty hiding her yawns, and she saw Finn was also yawning so wide her jaw cracked.

‘It will no’ be so easy next time,’ Jay said.

‘No,’ Rhiannon agreed. ‘They will be watching the sky now.’

‘Did they say where they were going?’ Finn said.

‘Something about a ship,’ Rhiannon answered. ‘Naught more.’

‘That is no use,’ Finn said restlessly. ‘We’ve guessed already they head for the coast. What I want to ken is where on the coast they plan to embark. I hate trailing behind them like this, trying to guess their next move.’

‘Well, we ken they head to the Pirate Isles, to the grave o’ Margrit o’ Arran,’ Jay said. ‘Or at least we think we ken that is where they are going. Isabeau is convinced that is why they have abducted Olwynne, to sacrifice her to raise Margrit o’ Arran from the dead.’

Rhiannon nodded. ‘She wanted me. But they couldna take me. So they took the banprionnsa instead. Happen they realised she is the one who truly has the ruthless heart.’ She spoke with bitterness. Jay regarded her with a little frown, not understanding her final words but sensing the real hurt behind them.

‘We will just keep following them and do our best to catch up,’ Finn said. ‘We need to get Roden home to safety first. Happen ye had best take him, Rhiannon.’

Rhiannon regarded her suspiciously. On the one hand, she wanted nothing more than to take Roden back to his
parents and see the smiles breaking across their faces. On the other hand, she wondered whether Finn was trying to shoulder her out of the main chase. Owein and Olwynne were still held captive. She wanted to save them and have done with it. She calculated swiftly how long it would take her to fly back to where Nina and Iven followed with more of the Banrìgh’s soldiers.

Reluctantly she shook her head.

‘Take too long,’ she said. ‘They reach the sea soon. Olwynne is the first sacrifice. I promised Lewen I’d save her.’

There was a long pause.

Finn said slowly, almost reluctantly, ‘Ye ken Lewen and the banprionnsa have jumped the fire together? They are pledged one to the other, as man and wife, for a year and a day.’

‘I ken,’ Rhiannon said.

‘These are no’ vows to be taken lightly,’ Finn said. ‘Olwynne is a banprionnsa o’ the royal MacCuinn clan.’

‘Ye think I do no’ realise that?’ Rhiannon said in exasperation.

Again Finn seemed to struggle with herself before speaking. ‘The tie between Lewen and Olwynne is strong, Rhiannon, no’ easily overturned. Do ye ken what ye are doing?’

‘Do ye mean, do I understand that Olwynne has ensorcelled my man?’ Rhiannon demanded fiercely. ‘Aye, I ken. Why else do ye think I promised to save her? She has cast a spell on him that no-one but she can break. So, I find her, bring her back, and if she doesna release my man, well, then I’ll break her neck, aye, I will.’

Finn stared at her for a moment longer, and then, unexpectedly, her face relaxed into laughter. ‘Well then, as long as ye ken.’

‘Och, aye, I ken,’ Rhiannon rejoined. ‘And there’s another thing I ken – if she does no’ undo her spell quick smart, she’ll be wishing I never saved her!’

‘So, how do ye plan to rescue her?’ Finn said when she had composed her face again.

Rhiannon shrugged. ‘Now that I do no’ ken,’ she answered. ‘Yet.’

At the heart of the witches’ garden was a maze built of ancient yew trees, planted more than eight hundred years ago. Designed as a series of concentric circles that spiralled in to the sacred Pool of Two Moons, it was a puzzle designed to lead the unwary in ever tighter turns of bafflement.

Once within the maze, its narrow gloomy corridors all looked the same, leading to one dead end after another. The ground was paved so that one could not draw a line with one’s foot to show where one had already been, and there were no pebbles to mark one’s progress. In some dead ends lay the bones of those who had dared to try to solve the puzzle and failed, new students at the Theurgia were always told.

Certainly students were discouraged from wandering the maze, except once a year at midsummer when the tall iron gate was unlocked and the maze thrown open for the amusement of the apprentices. Those who managed to find their way through were rewarded with sparkling
rose-coloured wine and honey cakes, and the privilege of looking through the observatory and seeing the secret compartment above the sacred pool where the Lodestar was hidden for so many years. At dusk the witches went through with torches and found the many hot, tired and frustrated apprentices still wandering the pathways, and took them back to the Theurgia for thin soup and weak ale. Making it through the maze was considered a rite of initiation for those who wished to join the Coven, and those who solved the puzzle never gave away its secret.

Isabeau, the Keybearer of the Coven, had learnt its secret more than twenty years before and she walked its spiralling path at least twice a week, to watch the stars and moons through the far-seeing glass and to study the maps of the universe kept at the observatory. Even in the dark, and numb and stumbling with exhaustion after a week with very little sleep, she felt no hesitation when it came to choosing which direction to go at each intersection. She simply kept her hand on the left-hand wall as she walked. A big globe of blue witch-light hung above her head, casting an eerie light on the close-clipped walls of yew that towered over her head, and making those that followed after her look more unearthly than ever.

Directly behind Isabeau came Cloudshadow, the Stargazer of the Celestines, leaning on a tall gnarled staff. She was followed by one of her party, a young man named Stormstrider, who had insisted on his right to join the company as he was, nominally at least, betrothed to Thunderlily.

He was a tall, lithe man, unusually broad in the shoulder and chest for a Celestine, with a proud, aloof face most remarkable for its high-bridged nose and angular cheekbones. Isabeau thought privately that he looked more like one of her kin, the Khan’cohbans of the Spine of the
World, than one of the gentle forest faeries. Like Cloudshadow, he had taken off his usual long pale robe, and was dressed in sensible travelling clothes, like the rest of them – breeches, boots, a warm woollen jerkin over a soft shirt, and a waterproofed coat with a hood and deep pockets. It made him look a lot more approachable. Over his shoulder he carried a large sack that bulged with something large and round.

Behind him came Ghislaine Dream-Walker, a tall fair-haired sorceress with the ensign of the Summer Tree hanging about her neck. She was not yet thirty and considered a great beauty despite her general air of fragility, enhanced by the shadows under her eyes.

Cailean of the Shadowswathe followed her, his huge shadow-hound padding silently at his heels. He was a thin, serious-looking young sorcerer, with a quizzical expression and a habit of ruining his clothes by stuffing his pockets with books. All dogs loved him, and he was often to be found with a large pack trotting along behind him, composed of everything from mangy mongrels to high-bred hunting hounds and fluffy button-eyed pets that were normally carried in some noble lady’s sleeve.

Bringing up the rear was Dide, two long daggers at his belt and a tiny one tucked in his boot. As well as the light pack of tools and supplies that everyone else carried, he wore a guitar slung on his back, its battered case painted with entwining tendrils of flowers and birds, much faded with time. Dide never travelled without his guitar and a pocketful of juggling balls.

Each of the three witches carried their sorcerer’s staff, as usual, and Isabeau wore the familiar weight of the Key of the Coven about her neck. Her familiar, the little elf-owl Buba, flew silently ahead, white as a snowflake blown in the wind.

Isabeau was racked with impatience. She kept having to stop and wait for Cloudshadow, who walked as slowly and wearily as an old woman, her body still weak from the poison she had drunk. It was all Isabeau could do not to shriek, ‘Hurry! Hurry!’

She knew she was driven to the limits of endurance by the spell of compulsion that Brann the Raven had laid down in curlicues of his own blood, a thousand years earlier, in the Book of Shadows. The spell had been hidden behind another spell, the one that told the secret of resurrecting the dead, and so first Johanna and then Isabeau had unwittingly read the spell and were now subject to his implacable will. Johanna had kidnapped Donncan and Thunderlily, and forced them to travel back in time to the time of Brann’s death, compelled to try to raise him from the grave. Isabeau could only reassure herself that, by chasing after Johanna, and her two royal hostages, she too was not compelled by Brann’s hunger to live again.

They came at last to the circular garden at the very centre of the maze, stepping out of the confined corridor with relief and taking a deep breath of frosty air. Mist drifted along the ground and wreathed about the cypress trees, but it was growing light enough for them to see the domed roof of the observatory.

In silence they climbed the steps till they reached the immense blocks of stones that surrounded the Pool of Two Moons. The stones were ancient, far older than the garden or the maze, and Isabeau knew that they were all carved with mysterious symbols, the stylised shape of stars and moons and planets and trees and rocks. These runes were called the tree-language by the Celestines, and despite a lifetime of study Isabeau still understood only the barest fraction. The symbols had all been carved so
long ago they were barely visible even in brightest sunlight, yet one could feel them clearly with one’s hand in the darkness. It was by touching these symbols, in certain formal sequences, that one was able to choose one’s destination when travelling the Old Ways. Isabeau knew the symbol for the pool above her parents’ home, at the Cursed Towers in Tírlethan. It was shaped like a crooked letter ‘M’, to represent the twin crags of the mountains above the lake there. Similarly, the sign for the Pool of Two Moons was like a ‘V’, representing the two rivers that came together to make the Shining Falls.

There were many thousands of runes in the Celestines’ tree-language, however, and some were very similar. This was just one of the many reasons why it was so dangerous for someone who did not know the whole tree-alphabet to try to travel the Old Ways. It was all too easy to put the wrong rune in the wrong place and end up in a quite different place or time than one had intended.

The circle of stones had been built about the sacred tarn by the Celestines many thousands of years before humans had come to Eileanan. It had been discovered by the witches who had settled Rionnagan and built Lucescere, and they had at once sensed the latent power in the water and stones and sought to harness it for their own. The maze about the pool had been built by Martha the Wise, the great-granddaughter of Cuinn Lionheart, the sorcerer who had led the witches across time and space to this new world. It was her father, Lachlan the Astronomer, who first noticed that at dawn on the summer solstice light struck like an arrow of gold through a hole the size of a fist on one great menhir, illuminating a symbol shaped like a sun, or a face, on the stone opposite. Later he was to notice that certain lines drawn here and there marked the rise of key constellations, and that
if one put one’s eye to another great hole in a menhir at the time of the winter solstice, one could watch the red moon rise and fill its dimensions exactly. It was Lachlan the Astronomer who had built the observatory at the Pool of Two Moons, and he devoted his life to unravelling the mysteries of the great stones.

In time, the Tower of Two Moons was built nearby and this began a pattern that was repeated all over the country. Nearly all of the witches’ towers were built on or around a stone-ringed pool of the Celestines, wittingly or unwittingly driving away the peaceful forest faeries and banishing them from their most sacred sites. Many of the circles of stones fell into disrepair or were damaged. The Pool of Two Moons was entirely encased in stones, and the great menhirs topped with arches to create a graceful colonnade that, pretty as it was, obscured many of the celestial events the circle of stones had been built to record.

What Lachlan the Astronomer and his fellow witches failed to understand was that the circles of stones were more than just some giant calendar that marked the cycles of suns and moons. They were Hearts of Stars, places charged with magnetic energy that radiated invisible lines of power which connected one to each other across the entire planet. Reflecting the ellipses of moons, stars and planets across the land, these lines were like magical roads that could be travelled, enabling the Celestines to move about the land invisibly and at great speed. They were seams in the matter of the universe, connecting space and time in a way that Isabeau could still only dimly grasp. All she knew was that the Hearts of Stars, the sacred pools in their circle of stones, focused power like a magnifying glass concentrated light until it could burn a hole in paper.

The secret of the Old Ways was one of the most closely guarded mysteries of the Celestines. Isabeau had been taught a little, because her guardian Meghan of the Beasts had been a great friend and champion of the forest faeries. She was not permitted to reveal what she had been taught, however, and so none of the others knew why it was Cloudshadow stood before the doors, tracing one shape after another with her long, four-jointed fingers.

‘What does she do?’ Dide whispered.

‘She seeks to find the mark for the Tomb o’ Ravens,’ Isabeau whispered back. ‘We must travel there first, in this time, afore we can attempt to go back in time. One canna do both at the same time.’

Dide shifted his pack to the other shoulder. Somewhere a bird trilled. ‘It is almost dawn,’ he said and sighed.

‘Aye, it is time,’ Isabeau agreed, and was glad that he too seemed to share her anxiety to be on their way. Three days had passed since Donncan and Thunderlily had been abducted. It was no consolation at all to know that they would all be travelling back to the exact same point in time, so it made no difference if it had been days or even weeks that had passed. Apart from the sick urgency the spell of compulsion had tattooed upon her brain, Isabeau was driven by anxiety about the young rìgh and what exactly Johanna intended to do with him.

Take hands
, Cloudshadow said.
Remember, do not falter, do not look back, do not step off the path. Fix your eyes upon those that run before you, and do not listen to the ghosts. Run swiftly.

They all nodded. Dobhailen, the shadow-hound, growled deep in his throat, and Cailean laid his hand upon his neck.

The sun rose above the horizon and struck at the great
pillar of stone. It was three days past the summer solstice, and so they could see the great ball of fire through the hole punched in the menhir, although the miracle of the arrow of gold did not occur. Cloudshadow gently pressed one of the symbols on the pillar facing due south and then stepped through the archway. She disappeared, only the hand that held onto Stormstrider’s still showing. He followed her, drawing Isabeau after him. She took a deep breath and ducked her head instinctively as she stepped into the glimmering, silvery haze that filled the archway. She knew to expect the shock that shot through every nerve, but it did not make the pain any easier to bear. Pulling Dide behind her, she broke into an awkward, stumbling run, keeping her eyes fixed on Stormstrider’s flowing white hair. It seemed to shimmer in the strange greenish light, lifting and swirling in the lightning-charged wind that buffeted her face.

It was like trying to run through cold, rough surf. Her feet were almost swept away from under her, and she could hear the eerie wailing and sobbing of many, many ghosts, and could feel the icy clutch of their fingers. Some were bold enough to wreathe about her head, shrieking in her ear, pounding at her chest and throat, seeking to insinuate themselves into her nose and mouth. She choked, unable to breathe, and shook her head violently, throwing them aside.
Give us life
, one whispered in her ear.
Ye have the secret. Give us life again!

‘Begone, foul spirit!’ she cried. ‘Your life is long gone!’

Behind her she could hear Dide shouting and cursing too, and Ghislaine was chanting an ancient prayer against harm. Isabeau took up the words as well, and heard Cailean and then Dide join in.

‘In the name o’ Eà, our mother, our father, our child, thee who is Spinner and Weaver and Cutter o’ the Thread;
thee who sows the seed, nurtures the crop, and reaps the harvest; by the virtue o’ the four elements, wind, stone, flame and rain; by virtue o’ clear skies and storm, rainbows and hailstones, protect us this day from all harm, O Eà, mother, father, child, spinner, weaver, cutter, maiden, mother, crone
…
’

Ahead of her the Celestines were humming deep in their throats, and behind Dobhailen growled and snarled, a strangely harmonic counterpoint. The words and the humming formed a rhythm that they could march by. Isabeau felt her stride lengthen and quicken, and her breath come more evenly. The ghosts seemed to shred away, until they were mere mist and shadows and a cold snaky wind about her ears.

All about them, above and below them, were sheets of silvery-green fire that leapt and roared and hissed. She could see vague shapes through the green fire, a forest of trees, a white rushing river, mountains behind. With each step the picture blurred and rushed past, however, and she never had the chance to recognise any landmark or realise where they were.