The Cursed Towers (14 page)

"So ye ken who I am?" she said softly. "Ye ken who I am and shall no' betray me? Ye ken who I am yet will no' call the guards?"

"I ken who ye are," the chambermaid repeated obediently, "but shall no' betray ye."

"Will ye help me and serve me?" Maya asked, letting the power throb in her husky voice. "Will ye be loyal to me and help me?"

"I shall help ye and serve ye," she replied.

"And tell none that ye have seen me."

"And tell none that I have seen ye."

"And will ye come to me and tell me o' news?"

Again the chambermaid repeated what she had been told, and Maya felt herself relax. She need exert only a little power over this girl, for her will and desire were already aligned to Maya's. She must have been one of the many servants at Rhyssmadill who had been devoted to their Banrigh, saving scraps of soap from her bath and squabbling over who would gain the honor of cleaning her boots. And if there was one among the Righ's servants and followers who loved her still, there would be more. Undermining the young
uile-bheist's
power was going to be much easier than she had expected. Lilanthe opened her eyes and looked about her. Sunlight fell dappled upon her boughs and she felt the first burgeoning of buds beneath the smooth skin of her bark. A bird was singing lustily above her, but the tree-shifter felt only the weight of misery. It took her a long while to remember why, for the heaviness of winter was still upon her. Then she remembered and shut her eyes again, seeking to sink herself again in dormancy. The sun was warm, however, and the earth beneath her stirring with life. Lilanthe could sleep no longer.

Tentatively she stretched, then stirred her roots so the soil fell away, lifting her twigs to the warm wind. She became conscious of the green smell of spring and, despite herself, her sap quickened. She shook her long twiggy mane and took a deep breath, then eased her roots out of the soil. Despite her unhappiness, Lilanthe was very hungry.

As she took her first stiff steps, she felt something slither out of her branches and fall to the ground. Startled, she stepped back and saw a long snake of ruddy hair lying upon the ground. Tentatively she bent and picked it up, realizing at once that it was Isabeau's. In her mind's eye she saw moonlight-silvered snow and heard the whispered apology of the young apprentice witch as she hid the plait in Lilanthe's branches. Tears welled up in her slanted, green eyes. Such a bitter anger was in her that she almost threw the plait away. Lilanthe had loved Isabeau like a sister. Isabeau's warm and generous affection had filled a cold, aching hole in Lilanthe's spirit.

Yet ever since Lilanthe had met Dide the previous spring, the tree-shifter had focused all her longing for romance and passion and tenderness upon the merry-hearted, bright-eyed jongleur. The secrecy and suppression of her feelings only intensified her ardor. Finding Isabeau and Dide in such a close and passionate entanglement had been a double betrayal, in no way alleviated by the fact neither had known of her feelings. Perversely, she blamed Isabeau the most. Isabeau had always had such a ready sympathy and understanding of the tree-shifter's feelings; she should have known, Lilanthe thought rebelliously. She should have guessed.

Her fingers clenched on the plait of ruddy hair and Lilanthe heard again Isabeau's remorseful whisper. Only then did she realize Isabeau had been bidding her farewell. Immediately her misery was submerged beneath a sharper, more immediate anxiety.

"Oh, Isabeau," she whispered. "Where have ye gone? Why?" She paused, at a loss, wondering what to do. Her human stomach made a deep, rumbling noise, and she bent and picked up the green velvet gown she had worn on the night of the Hogmanay celebrations. It was crumpled and badly stained from lying in the gardens for so long, but it was all she had to wear. She pulled it on over her head and tucked the plait out of sight in one of the long, flowing sleeves. The snow had almost melted and overhead the sky was a clear, pale blue. She made her way hesitantly to the kitchens, looking for a face she recognized among the crowds of people striding purposefully about. Although she had often been in the palace kitchens before, it had always been with Isabeau and she felt nervous asking for food from Latifa the Cook without Isabeau by her side. She stood awkwardly by the great doors, frightened by the bustle and noise of the many servants within.

"Lilanthe?" a voice asked tentatively. She looked up shyly and saw Isabeau's pretty maid coming toward her, a friendly smile on her face. She smiled back in relief, having met Sukey several times in the weeks before she had fled into the gardens.

"Ye've come back!" Sukey cried. "Indeed, they've been that worried about ye. Dide the Juggler's been searching for ye everywhere and the Keybearer Meghan was most concerned. Where have ye been?"

"Sleeping," Lilanthe answered and huddled her twig-thin arms about her, for it was cold in the shadow of the great building.

Sukey took off her goat-hair shawl and threw it around the tree-shifter's shoulders. "Come, let me get ye something to eat," she said. "It's been more than a month since ye disappeared, and indeed we were wondering if ye could have gone with Red, it seemed so odd ye should both disappear around the same time. But Red had said ye were in the garden ... Ye ken that she has gone?" Lilanthe nodded and showed Sukey the ruddy braid she carried. "She left me her plait, so I could find her if I needed."

"No one here is best pleased wi' Red at the moment," Sukey whispered, "for she took the baby Bronwen wi' her, and many among the lairds fear it's a plot by the Righ to get the banprionnsa out o' the way. Tis well known His Highness did no' . . . feel warmly toward the wee lassie, given the circumstances." Her voice hesitated only a moment, then she plunged on. "I ken it be no' true, though, for Red loved the wee banprionnsa and would never let harm come to her, that I be sure o'." Lilanthe followed the apple-cheeked maid meekly as she led her to a seat at the long table. Tucking her gnarled feet under the hem of her dress, Lilanthe devoured the vegetable stew Sukey served her, listening intently as the little maid brought her up to date with the happenings at the palace.

"Now that Candlemas be past and the Banrigh's birthday celebrations over, we all be busy getting ready for the army to ride out," she said. "I am to go wi' them, ye ken, for they have made me nursemaid to the wee prionnsa."

Lilanthe exclaimed at this, for she had not known of Donncan's birth or the death of his twin sister. Sukey sighed and shook her head over the sadness of the little stillborn girl, but rejoiced in the strength and beauty of the little boy. "He has wings, ye ken; is it no' marvelous strange? And his eyes are no' blue like a wee babe's should be, but yellow like a bird's."

"Like his father's,' Lilanthe said.

"Aye," Sukey said, a little hesitantly, before plunging on. "They are taking the babe wi' them, is that no'

strange, taking a wee laddie to war? That is why I am going too, to mind the babe and wait on Her Highness." She giggled. "The MacThanach was livid when Her Highness said she was going; he said,

'What kind o' war campaign is this when we load ourselves down with women and babes?' She just looked him in the eye, and said, 'A triumphant one, since I will be there to ensure it is so.' She's an odd one, the new Banrigh, is she no'?"

Lilanthe said, "I do no' really ken, I've only met her a few times." Sukey blushed and twisted her apron in her fingers. "Och, I only mean she's no' like most fine ladies, who sit and gossip and ply their needle all day and never do much worth noting, while Her Highness oversees the training o' the longbowmen, and speaks in the war councils, and orders the Yeomen. It is only the funny way she says things, and her being so serious all the time, that's all I meant." Lilanthe scraped the bowl with her spoon as Sukey continued. "Like when His Highness tried to make her stay here in Lucescere wi' the laddiekin. She fixed him wi' that look o' hers and said, 'But Lachlan, ye ken I canna stay behind while ye ride to war. I be in
geas
to ye, do ye no' remember? I swore never to leave ye.' "

"Wha' does
geas
mean?" Lilanthe asked, and the pretty maid shrugged and giggled, saying, "I do no' ken but the Righ went red and said no more, so I figure it mun be some pact they made, never to part. Is it no' romantic?" And she giggled again.

"Look, lassies, see who's lowered herself to come and visit us mere scrubbers in the kitchen," a loud voice sneered. "If it is no' Sukey the royal nursemaid! I'd have thought she'd be too proud now she be so grand."

Lilanthe looked up, shrinking a little into her chair, for she knew well that tone of voice. Standing before them, her hands on her hips, was a broad-hipped girl with a soiled apron and very red, chapped hands. Clustered behind her were several grinning scullery maids.

Sukey flushed and got to her feet. " 'Tis no' my fault they asked me to tend the wee laddie," she said defensively. "No need for ye to get nasty wi' me, Doreen, for ye ken I never put myself forward or said I was aught but wha' I am."

"Och, nay," the big girl replied contemptuously, "ye wi' your smug, smarmy ways, cozening your way in wi' the new righ and forgetting your auld friends, ye think we dinna see through ye?"

"It only be because I helped Red wi' the wee banpri-onnsa and so they knew I had a way wi' babes . . ."

"Och, sure," Doreen said. "A wee, skinny nippet like ye? I bet ye'd never dandled a babe in your life before. Nay, ye were just having an eye to the main chance."

Sukey started to say something, but one of the other scullery maids said in a high, piping voice, "And surprised I am that ye'd be willing to mind a witch-wean, Sukey. Are ye no' scared?"

"He's only a wee laddie, Elsie, ye shouldna say such things," Sukey said in a weak voice as the other maids glanced around nervously and shushed the girl.

"Button your lip, my lass," Doreen said, "else ye'll have that auld haggis-bag Latifa down on us all." Elsie tossed her white-capped head, blue eyes defiant. "Say what ye like, he be a witch-wean, and
uile-bheist
too, wi' those wings and eyes."

Lilanthe felt blood rise to her cheeks, her feet crossing involuntarily, and saw how the scullery maids looked at her sideways. In her mud-bedraggled gown, her long mane of twiggy hair sprouting with new leaves, she knew she looked an
uile-bheist
indeed. Once again she wished she was safe in the forests, away from those who sneered at and hated those not of human blood.

Sukey must have sensed how she felt, for she said spiritedly, "Ye ken ye should no' talk like that, Elsie; the Righ has passed a decree against it, and ye'd be in trouble indeed if ye were reported."

"Listen to her," Elsie said admiringly, "all for the new order now, baint she? She changes her tune soon enough."

Sukey's round cheeks were red, her eyes bright with tears. "A new broom sweeps clean, my granddam always said," she replied, chin in the air. "And ye lassies would be best to remember it." She gathered her skirts together, and said, "Come, Lilanthe, I ken the Keybearer is wanting to see ye, and I'm sure His Highness is too. Dinna ye mind these jealous, cackling hens, they be just mean-minded and mean-hearted too." She swept past the other girls, and Lilanthe followed quietly, not looking any of them in the eye.

"Obh obh, a little pot's soon hot," Doreen called after them mockingly, but Sukey ignored her, taking Lilanthe swiftly through the corridors of the kitchen wing.

They eventually found Iseult and Lachlan in Meghan's apartments at the Tower of Two Moons. The old sorceress had refused to stay in bed, despite her weakness, insisting she had too much to do to be fussed over and mollycoddled. She was sitting in her high-backed chair, as upright as ever, her narrow black eyes snapping with impatience as she listened to Lachlan's litany of complaints. Iseult was sitting in the window seat, Donncan feeding at her breast, while the little cluricaun Brun sat cross-legged on the hearth, mending a shirt with tiny, competent stitches.

"Well, Lachlan, if wishes were pots and pans, there'd be no need for tinkers," Meghan was saying briskly. "We canna conjure swords or arrowheads from thin air; Ea knows, I wish we could! We shall have to make do with what we have. Ye ken we have manned the iron mines in the Sithiche Mountains with the prisoners o' war and soon shall have more metal for the forge. Until then, your soldiers must make do with what weapons they have."

"But how am I to fight a war with a handful o' untrained, inexperienced, undisciplined and unarmed bairns?" Lachlan cried in exasperation.

"Wisely and boldly," Meghan said sharply. "How else should a MacCuinn fight?" She stilled his bitter response with one hand and smiled at Lilanthe. "So ye have returned to us, my dear. I hope ye are refreshed after your winter sleep."

Wondering if the Keybearer knew why she had fled into the garden so precipitately, Lilanthe nodded, smiling shyly in response. The donbeag curled in Meghan's lap gave a reassuring chirrup, and automatically she chit-tered back.

"We missed your talks on the forest faeries at the Tower, though it did spur me to set some o' our young apprentices to researching tree-changers, nisses and cluri-cauns in the few books we have remaining," Meghan said. "I have found out some interesting things I did no' ken before. Tell me, Lilanthe, do ye ken o' the Summer Tree?"

The donbeag chittered in excitement and bounded up Meghan's long, silver-streaked plait to sit on her shoulder. Lilanthe shrugged. "Nay, my lady."

Meghan sighed. "That's a shame, I was hoping ye'd be able to add to what little I have discovered. Never mind."

The cluricaun laid down his needle, his furry ears pricking forward. Solemnly he chanted:

"Ten thousand bonny bairns I bred

Yet still I live while they are dead.

Fair my daughters bloomed,

Even then their beauty doomed,

Put to death by those who love them best.

Vigorous and strong grow my sons,

Soon to wither till I have none,

I canna tell ye where they rest.

Yet I do not grieve for long