Heart of Stars (5 page)

Then suddenly there was a great hiss of green sparks and Isabeau felt herself falling. She cried out and tried to wrench her hand free to save herself, but neither Dide not Stormstrider would let her go. She fell painfully to her knees, with a great ringing in her ears, blind with vertigo. When her vision cleared, she looked about her and realised she was slumped on the ground in a cool, grey dawn many miles away from the Pool of Two Moons.

Crouched in the morning mist, on the crest of a small hill, was a great grey mausoleum, guarded by brooding stone ravens. A long avenue of yew trees led up to it, gaunt and dark in the dawn. In the forecourt before the
mausoleum was a long, oblong pool surrounded by formal urns and statues. It reflected the dome of the tomb in its still, black waters.

We are here
, Cloudshadow said wearily.

‘I dinna realise this was a Heart o’ Stars!’ Isabeau exclaimed. ‘How extraordinary! When ye said we would travel to the Tomb o’ Ravens, I thought ye meant we would walk the Auld Way as close as we could get, and then go cross-country. Is this truly a Heart o’ Stars? Where is the circle o’ stones, the summerbourne?’

All gone
, the Celestine answered.

‘But
…
why? When? Was it Brann the Raven who had the circle levelled? Did he no’ ken?’

Of evil mind was the man who built this grave, and of evil intent. He knew this was a place of power and sought to use its magic for his own ends
, Stormstrider said. His mind-voice was deep and grave, and had the same stern arrogance of his face.

‘I never kent,’ Isabeau said slowly and looked about her with a troubled face. Now she knew, she saw the three elements that always composed the sacred sites of the Celestines – the hill, the pool, and the erection of stones – but its shape and composition, its essence, were all wrong. The natural spring of water had been trapped and forced into this stiff, formal, stone-bound shape, and the pillars constructed did not celebrate life and the passing of seasons, but death and one man’s vanity.

Buba came down to rest on Isabeau’s shoulder, and she put up one hand and petted him, comforted.

The others were all stretching and moving about, murmuring the occasional comment to each other. Dobhailen did not like the look of the crypt, and he curled back his lip and growled, his green eyes glowing like marsh-candles. Cailean fondled his ears, and the shadow-hound,
stiff-legged, crept forward and sniffed at the broad steps. Suddenly he raised his muzzle and bayed aloud, the call of a hunting dog that has caught a scent. It was a deep, loud, savage sound that echoed off the walls and made them all jump and cry out in alarm. Dobhailen lunged up the stairs and bayed again at the door. Cailean followed him, and so did the others, hurrying.

The dog led them in through the massive doors and into the shadowy chill of the crypt. Within was a long hall, lined on either side with small vaults protected by heavy iron grilles. Above were elegant arches, the ornate pillars topped with carvings of sharp-beaked ravens amid fronds of acanthus and oak. In every dark vault were sarcophagi, thick with dust and cobwebs, their stone faces crumbling in the damp. The air smelt old and musty, and Ghislaine cupped her hand over her mouth and nose. She was deathly pale.

As they made their slow way down the hall, their boots echoed on the flagstones. Unconsciously they all drew together, Cailean’s hand gripping his dog’s ruff and holding him back. Isabeau had conjured light to illuminate their way. Witch’s light was a cold, eerie light to explore a crypt with, casting thick shadows behind every pillar and grave, and tricking the eye so it seemed the sarcophagi breathed.

At the far end of the hall was a large ornate tomb with another statue laid out upon it, arms crossed over its mailed chest, a sorcerer’s staff clasped between the huge ringed hands. The tomb was carved with ravens, sleeping, eating, flying, nesting. One rested beneath the sorcerer’s feet, beak curled into its chest.

‘I have been here afore,’ Ghislaine said in a high, shrill voice, breaking the echoing silence. ‘When I walked the dream-road with Olwynne. We were led here, to this place,
by a raven. We saw the dead sorcerer, trailing his shroud. He told us …’ Her voice faltered.

‘What did he tell ye?’ Isabeau asked intently. Although Ghislaine had reported as much as she could remember of the dream-road she had walked with the missing banprionnsa, details of dreams were always vague afterwards and both Ghislaine and Olwynne had been struck down with sorcery sickness afterwards, making their account even more strange and wild than usual. Isabeau knew any details to be recalled could be of the utmost importance.

‘He said
…
he said the dream world is o’ no use to him, no more use than the world o’ spirits. He said to come again in daylight, with a living soul and a knife, and then we should see him walk again.’ Ghislaine looked with dread at the statue lying on the tomb and repressed a shudder.

Isabeau nodded. ‘Indeed he is a greedy soul, and strong, to be reaching out to touch my niece in her dreams.’

She bent her head and counted the rings upon the sorcerer’s hands. There were ten. Isabeau felt a little giddy. A sorcerer of ten rings! She herself had only eight. For the first time she felt a miserable shrinking of her confidence. How was she meant to defeat a sorcerer of ten rings, one who had clung to life for a thousand years? Cailean and Ghislaine had been counting too, and she saw their faces blanch and their breath catch.

Dobhailen had been straining to break free of Cailean’s grip and, at the involuntary relaxation of his master’s hand, leapt forward and sniffed eagerly at the base of the tomb where the shadows were thickest. He raised his head and gave that great baying cry, and at once Cailean came forward and knelt, seeking to see what had excited the dog’s interest. He cried aloud and picked something up.

‘Look! It is His Highness’s
…
His Majesty’s
…
’

In his hand he held a long golden feather.

‘He must have plucked it from his wing and hidden it there,’ Isabeau said, taking it from Cailean and turning it in her hand. ‘So we’d ken we are on the right track.’

‘How many days ago were they here, though, and then where did they go?’ Dide asked.

Cloudshadow glanced at the feather, then continued walking slowly around the circumference of the tomb. Isabeau knew she was searching for some sign that her daughter too was alive and well.

Suddenly she hummed loudly and urgently and dropped to her knees. Isabeau came swiftly to join her. Laid down on the ground was a little collection of leaves, twigs and a white pebble. Isabeau brought the globe of witch’s light down to her hand so they could see the pattern clearly.

She was here, my daughter was here
, Cloudshadow said.
They arrived at dawn the day after Midsummer’s Day, and left again at dusk. They went back. Back to the beginning, she says.

‘Back to the beginning?’ Isabeau asked. ‘Does she mean back to the beginning o’ this building? To the time when the Tomb o’ Ravens was built?’

The Celestine hummed a negative, a sound of bafflement and indecision.

Isabeau was trying to decipher the message written with twig and pebble. ‘What is this?’ she asked, pointing to a little stick that had been broken and arranged in a jagged line like lightning. There was a long silence, and then Isabeau saw a drop of water darken the pale stone. She looked up in surprise and saw the Celestine was weeping.

It means goodbye
, Stormstrider said.

No-one slept well that night. It was too cold. Even with the fire roaring away in its circle of stones, and their thick cloaks and plaids wrapped well around them, the cold bit up from the ground and tortured them. It was not a night to spend on the road.

Rhiannon crawled out of her tent at dawn. The stick which formed the ridgepole of the tent was caked with ice, and snow rose in hillocks and hummocks all about, white and unblemished. The sky had a pale silvery radiance to it, which meant a fair day ahead. Rhiannon wondered whether the Dowager Banrìgh’s grief had at last worn itself out. She hoped so. All had been turned summerset, and that alarmed Rhiannon. When the world was broken asunder, it left cracks through which dark walkers could crawl. Rhiannon had not left her satyricorn past so far behind that this was a notion that did not terrify her.

A raven called weirdly. Rhiannon spun on her heel, her heart pounding. A big black bird was perched on a branch nearby, observing her. It cried again, mockingly.
Rhiannon bent and scooped up a hunk of snow and flung it. Her aim was good. The snow broke against the bird and almost knocked it off its perch. It spread its wings and flew away, uttering its harsh, mournful call a third time.

‘One for sorrow,’ a voice said behind her.

Rhiannon turned to face Jay, huddling her hands into the sleeves of her coat.

‘It is a saying we have. One for sorrow; two for mirth; three for a death; four for a birth; five for silver; six for gold; seven for a secret, no’ to be told; eight for heaven; nine for hell; and ten for the devil’s own self.’

The fiddler spoke beautifully. His words sent a shiver across Rhiannon’s skin and reminded her of the sorceress Nina the Nightingale, whose magic was all contained in her voice. If the tales were true, then this slight, gentle man had magic in his fingers, in the sound he could coax from the strings of his viola. There was magic in his voice too, Rhiannon thought, though perhaps it was only the terror implicit in his words which struck such a chord with her.

‘Any raven within twenty leagues o’ Laird Malvern is trouble,’ she said sourly, sitting down on the log and warming her hands at the embers.

‘Ye think that was his raven?’ Jay asked, turning to stare after the bird.

‘Could be,’ she replied, and thrust her numb feet into her boots. Bluey was perched on her tent rail, looking very cold and miserable, and she held out her hand to it. It flew across to her, and she lifted it to her shoulder, liking the feel of its slight weight there.

One of the soldiers, red-nosed and morose, threw some more logs on the fire and began to make some mess out of oats and water that these humans called breakfast.
Rhiannon whickered a satirical comment to Blackthorn, who whickered back.
I’ll have it, if you do not want it
, the mare said.

Rhiannon’s eyes brightened when another of the soldiers came in with a brace of coneys which he began to skin by the fire. Finn was still lying in her bedroll, but she suddenly rolled over, crawled out the end, and retched, noisily and publicly, under a bush. When she had finished, she looked positively green. Without a word or a look to anyone, she crept back into her little tent and dragged her cloak over her face. Her little cat, who had pranced away most indignantly, returned to pat her with one inquisitive paw. Finn did not look up.

Jay took her a cup of tea.

At the smell of roast rabbit, Roden at last woke up and poked his tousled head out of the tent, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He had been kidnapped from his bed, in the middle of summer, and so, dressed in a loose white nightgown, was woefully unprepared for this evil winter. They managed to find him a heavy woollen jerkin to wear over the top of his nightgown, and some socks that acted like knitted hosen. Wrapped in a blanket, with a scarf muffling him to his eyes, he was a comical figure, and evidently felt it. His lip stuck out sulkily, and his feet were turned inwards, and every now and again he jerked at his clothes, as if trying to drag them to a different shape and style.

He wanted his mother and father.

‘Brice will take ye back home,’ Finn said gently, indicating one of the soldiers who bent down to smile reassuringly at Roden. ‘It’s a day or two on the road, I’m afraid, but–’

‘I want to go home now,’ Roden said, his voice quavering despite himself. ‘Please, I want my mam.’

‘I ken, sweetie, and we’ll get ye there just as soon as we
can. Brice is very quick, he can ride like the wind, that’s why he was sent with us. He’ll get ye to your mam and dai just as quick as he can.’

‘I want my mam
now
!’ Roden cried, and suddenly broke into sobs. ‘Please, please, I want Mam now!’

‘I’ll take ye back,’ Rhiannon said, putting her arms about the little boy. ‘Ye ken how fast Blackthorn can fly. If ye eat up your breakfast real fast, we’ll be on our way and I shall have ye to your mam afore sunset.’

‘Really?’ Roden asked, perking up at once.

‘Really.’ Rhiannon felt Finn’s curious gaze upon her, and said rather defensively, ‘He wants his mam. I’ll be back afore ye ken it. It’s better this way anyway. They’ll be looking for me in the skies now, and I have no desire to be shot down by one o’ their arrows. Once I have Roden safe and sound, I’ll fly after them again, and see if I canna get ahead o’ them and ambush them somehow.’

Finn nodded. ‘Very well. Let me scry to Nina and tell her the glad news that Roden is safe, and I’ll find out for ye where she is. Indeed, she’ll be glad to have Roden back again so quickly.’

As Roden happily chewed on a rabbit leg and inundated the soldiers with endless questions about battles they had fought, Rhiannon watched with intense curiosity as Finn drew out a small silver bowl from her pack and filled it with water. She set it on the ground before her and bent over it, as if gazing at her own reflection. There was a long silence. Rhiannon was puzzled. She had heard of scrying before, of course, and had watched the witch-apprentices attempt it a number of times. She had always thought the face of the person being spoken to appeared in the bowl, speaking as clear as if they were right next to you. But Finn’s eyes were blank and the water in the bowl was still, reflecting only the pale wintry sky.

At length the sorceress’s eyes lost their vacant, unfocused look and she shook herself and glanced at Jay.

‘That was hard, harder than I’m used to,’ she said ruefully.

‘Ye must no’ try to do too much,’ Jay said admonishingly.

‘Oh, fiddle! I’ll be fine.’ Finn stretched her back and then poured the water into the kettle over the fire. She turned to Rhiannon and Roden, who was teasing the elven cat with a length of wool he had pulled out from his rumpled socks. ‘Your mam is absolutely overjoyed to hear that ye are safe, Roden, as ye can imagine. She and your
Dai-dein
are at a wee village called Alloway, on the Rhyllster. It is where this road begins, so ye should have no trouble finding it, Rhiannon. It is where Laird Malvern abandoned his boat and took to the forest.’

‘How do ye ken all this?’ Rhiannon said suspiciously. ‘Ye saw it all in the bowl?’

‘Aye. Witches can talk to one another through water or fire or gemstone, if they are well known to each other, and no’ separated by a large body o’ water or high mountains. It helps if one is waiting for the contact. Nina and I had agreed to scry each dawn and sunset.’

‘But ye did no’ talk,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Ye were still and quiet.’

‘We talked mind to mind, as ye call your horse,’ Finn replied. ‘I have kent Nina since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I couldna talk so to a stranger.’

‘Knee-high to a grasshopper?’ Rhiannon asked in complete puzzlement, making a gesture with one hand as if trying to measure the knee height of a small hopping insect.

‘Aye. Very, very small,’ Finn answered, giving a little wry smile. ‘No’ as small as young Roden here, who’s knee-high to an ant
…
’

‘I am no’!’ Roden protested, even as Rhiannon realised it was yet another of the endless meaningless phrases that humans were so prone to use. She smiled mechanically, and filed it away in her brain for future reference. It had not taken her long to realise that people were much more likely to accept you as one of them if you spoke the same cant as they did.

By the time the eastern rim of the valley was brightening and the birds were singing, Rhiannon was astride Blackthorn once more, feeling the mare’s muscles bunch in her shoulders in anticipation of flight. Roden sat before her, wrapped up warmly in a blanket with a muffler up around his ears.

‘We will see ye again soon,’ Finn said. ‘Give our love to Nina and Iven.’

‘Look after yourself, Roden,’ Jay said, and put his hand up to pat the boy’s knee.

Roden nodded, looking very solemn.

Then Rhiannon wheeled Blackthorn about and urged her into a canter. She went away down the road like a black streak, and then lifted her legs high up under her belly, spread out her magnificent wings and soared up into the sky.

‘Whoo-hoo!’ Roden shouted.

Olwynne moaned. Her head thumped sickeningly and all her limbs felt weighted down. The mad phantasmagoria of her dreams still gibbered away behind her eyelids. She had dreamt she was on trial in a giant courtroom, the judges all leaning down and shouting at her, shaking their immense bony fingers, accusing her with their gimlet eyes.
I did it for love
, she had explained weakly, but they had shaken their heads in reprobation and, with great ceremony, turned
their mantles inside out to red. Blood. Fire. Hissing red adders. Chains of her own hair binding her down. A rivulet of blood slashing across her throat like a crimson ribbon.

She had woken then, struggling up from the depths of her drugged sleep, but there was no sanctuary in wakefulness. The coach rocked and rattled and bounced and swayed and slid and skidded, and at times seemed to almost overturn. She and Owein were tumbled helplessly from one side to another, and tossed off the seat onto the floor till they were bruised and aching in every limb. The air was so cold their breath hung before their faces in little clouds of frost, and their limbs shuddered uncontrollably. They would have huddled together for warmth, but after Olwynne had half bitten her tongue off after cracking her head on Owein’s jaw, and they had landed one on top of the other half-a-dozen times, they concentrated on trying to keep their seats, bearing the cold as best they might.

They could hear the shouting of the coachman and the crack of his whip, and the creaking and clatter of the carriage, the occasional high-pitched whinny of a horse and the shout of the men riding alongside. Owein braced his legs against the side of the carriage and did his best to protect Olwynne with his arm and wing. Despite the cold, his curls were damp with sweat and his breath came in harsh pants. Both had already been sick till there was nothing left in their stomachs, but still nausea racked them.

All night they had driven through the forest, the men lighting the road with pitch torches. Drugged with poppy and valerian, both Olwynne and Owein had slept most of the time, although uneasily. However, once it became light enough to see, the horses had been whipped into this
mad, headlong rush as the road began to plunge downhill. They could hear the screech of the brake being applied, and someone shouting. Then the carriage swerved, swayed violently from side to side, skidded sideways and then toppled over onto its side. Olwynne screamed as she was flung head over heels, knocking her head violently on the ceiling. She landed in a heap with Owein on top of her, his feathers smothering her.

She put her hand to her head and winced. Her fingers came away bloody. Groaning, Owein managed to lever himself off her. He supported one arm with his hand.

‘How are ye yourself?’ he whispered. ‘Olwynne? Are ye hurt?’

She was so dazed with shock and the drugged potion Dedrie kept force-feeding her that she could not frame an answer. He helped her up, and she staggered and lost her balance, falling again. The coach was lying at a peculiar angle, so that the left-hand door was buried in an embankment, and the right-hand door was above their heads, framing a patch of sky.

The carriage door was wrenched open, and the surly, unshaven face of Jem the groom glared down at them. ‘They’re alive,’ he shouted to someone. ‘Blood everywhere though.’

‘I told my laird we’d be over if we kept travelling at such a pace,’ someone else said. ‘Here, get them out. Can ye reach them?’

‘Toss me a rope,’ Jem answered.

It was a bit of a struggle to get them out of the carriage, both Owein and Olwynne being so shaken and bemused that they were incapable of helping much. It was a scene of chaos on the road. Lord Malvern’s carriage was mired in the mud where a small burn crossed the road, at the bottom of a valley. No matter how hard they whipped
the horses, the poor exhausted creatures could not manage to drag it free. Lord Malvern himself was standing knee-deep in the muck, hissing at his coachman in a low, vicious voice, two white dents driven deep from his nose to the sides of his mouth.

Owein and Olwynne’s carriage had tried to stop before crashing into the first carriage, and had overturned. Half of the horses were lying in the mud, and two at least were clearly badly injured. One was screaming with pain, until Jem impatiently slashed its throat with his knife. He killed the other one too, without taking the time to examine the injury, and then unhitched the other horses and whipped them till they struggled to their feet.

Olwynne had entered a strange light-headed state that was almost euphoric. She could not keep her feet. Her legs just folded underneath her, as if made of old spinach stalks, and she found herself sitting in the mud again, her silver bridesmaid dress crumpled up all around her.

There was an angry exchange of shouts and accusations, which Lord Malvern’s voice cut through like a sword. ‘We’ve already lost one o’ the sacrifices due to your stupidity,’ he said icily. ‘And the Blue Guards are hot on our trail. We do no’ have time for this. Take only what we can carry with us. Ballard, ye are the strongest, ye take the prionnsa. Bind him well. Piers, ye take the banprionnsa. Dedrie, ye will have to go up behind Irving. Jem, ride ahead and make sure there is no ambush waiting for us. Now, to horse, all o’ ye!’