The Cursed Towers (30 page)

Soon they had seen a camp of soldiers outside a village, the MacCuinn stag flying from the pole along with a standard Lilanthe had not recognized. Niall obviously had, though, for he exclaimed in surprise and urged his destrier into a trot. He had exchanged greetings with the lieutenant overseeing the soldiers'

maneuvers and then ridden into town to see their captain, who was now reclining back in his chair, blowing smoke rings and regarding his polished fingernails.

"But what do ye do here, Finlay?" Niall said after taking a deep swallow of the whiskey toddy. "Last I saw ye, ye were riding off to Blairgowrie with His Highness."

"Aye, and a grand fight that was! We tricked the renegades truly, and rode into the heart o' Blairgowrie as blithely as ye please!" Finlay's eyes glowed with excitement. "His Highness was magnificent! I swear half the men there were truly afraid his act o' a sulky young greenhorn was no sham, but he fought like a demon once we had lured the blaygird Red Guards out from behind the walls."

"So the Awl rebellion is nipped in the bud?"

"Nay, unfortunately. Renshaw the Ruthless fled with the babe he named Banrigh. We've had reports he and his supporters are regrouping somewhere near the Aslinn and Blessem border. That is what I do here, actually. I was set to track the Grand-Seeker down, but he's as cunning as a fox. It's been eight months and no hair nor hide o' him have I seen."

Niall frowned. "That is no' good news at all. I had hoped he would be caught quickly and we could get on with the task o' driving out the Bright Soldiers. What luck have ye had so far in tracking his movements?"

"I followed him to about twenty miles west o' here but he's got some hide somewhere and I canna find where. I suspect he fled this way because he has strong support in this part o' the country. The Bright Soldiers have not penetrated this far north yet, concentrating as they are on the highway to Blessem, so the locals do no' look to the Righ for succor. Few are willing to give us any information, Ea damn them. I've had my fill o' rustic stupidity, I can tell ye. All I get when I ask for news are blank stares and dribble. It seems no one kens a thing about Renshaw and his movements, yet I know he came this way!" Lilanthe moved uneasily, her long hair rustling. "I passed through upper Blessem when I came up from Aslinn with Dide the Juggler and Enit Silverthroat," she said shyly. "The Grand-Seeker was hiding out in a town called Glenmorven, only a few days'' ride from the edge o' the forest. A lot o' the men there seemed to be involved in his resistance against the Righ. Happen he fled back there?" Finlay sat up. "Glenmorven, ye say? Ye may have given me the clue I need, my lady o' the forest, and for that I thank ye."

Lilanthe did not smile back. She sensed some trouble beneath his air of gay insouciance and was sorry for it. He rose gracefully to his feet and gave Niall a mocking bow. "Well, we ride for Glenmorven on the morrow and hope we find the ruthless one there! Will ye join us, my auld woolly bear?"

"We have another task," Niall replied gravely, rising so he could grasp Finlay's hand. "Will ye have a care for yourself? The Awl still has much support in the countryside, and there are many Red Guards who have flocked to Renshaw's banner. If ye find a sizable force has gathered at his side, do no' challenge him yourself. Send messengers to His Highness and he will send ye support. Promise me this?" Finlay laughed. "Och, ye are just the same, ye auld fusspot. O' course I shall no'! Run back to Blairgowrie all because o' a few Red Guards? No' I! My men and I are all itching for another chance to run our swords through their tough auld hides. Nay, we shall triumph over Renshaw the Ruthless and his false Banrigh, and take them back to the MacCuinn in chains. Then I shall be His Highness's favorite, ye shall see."

"I hope I do, my lad," Niall replied affably. "Let us hope that it is no' your bloodied corpse I see instead." The young laird said mockingly, "Shall we have a wager on it, my woolly one? Though I canna promise I'll have the gold for ye should ye win. My father swears he has disinherited me for spending all my money on whores and jewelry and may no' honor any note I give ye. We shall just have to hope that I triumph, and then I can rest easy on the gold ye give me. What odds do ye give me, my sweet?"

"Nay, I shall no' toss dice with ye," Niall replied equably. "Ye have the luck o' the young and the foolish, and I have plans for what little gold I have! Just remember Renshaw the Ruthless is a wily auld fox and have a care for yourself, that's all I ask."

Finlay only laughed, and blew another smoke ring.

Snow swirled against the mullioned windows of the Tower of Two Moons, and the wind howled like a banshee. Lachlan shivered and rubbed his hands over his arms. "Ea blast it, I swear the winters are getting worse each year!"

Meghan glanced up from her spinning wheel. "Well, ye canna play all year with the weather patterns and no' expect some consequence," she replied calmly. "The Thistle kept southern Eileanan dry and cloudless all summer and autumn, while Arran stayed hidden behind its veil o' mist. All that had to flow on somehow."

"I just wish this bloody storm would blow over!" Lach-lan said. Iseult glanced at him with a troubled expression. He was finding the enforced inactivity difficult, and every day his restlessness increased until Iseult feared he would do something mad and impulsive just to release his tension. The last few months had been spent in hard fighting and all were tired and a little discouraged. Despite their clever tactics and bold courage, the Righ's army was still vastly outnumbered and undertrained, and they had suffered as many defeats as victories. With winter drawing its cold, dark mantle over the country, Lachlan and his retinue had withdrawn to Lucescere to recoup, leaving most of their troops to hold the land they had won.

"It be a bad night to be trying to use the scrying pool," Jorge said. Meghan glanced at him affectionately. "Aye, all this turbulence will make it hard to connect, that is for sure. Still, the scrying pools were created for just this purpose, and Dughall at least is a powerful sorcerer, he should be able to throw his thoughts this far. I am no' so sure about Anghus, though he promised to ride to the Tower o' Searchers and try. I am eager indeed to hear news o' them and know what support they can lend us."

"What is a scrying pool?" Iseult asked, trying to detach her bright curls from her son's hand. He squealed and tugged harder.

"Ye can come with us if ye like," the old woman said. "A scrying pool was built in every Tower—it was the quickest and easiest way for the witches o' the Coven to communicate with each other, particularly for those who did not know each other."

Meghan glanced up at the clock on the wall. "It is near midnight," she said. "We may as well brave the cold and go down." She struggled to her feet and stood leaning on her staff, the iron-gray plait that hung down to her knees streaked with white. She looked at Jorge again, saying, "Shall ye come with us, auld friend?"

He shook his head, his wrinkled face somber. "Nay, ye ken the veils between the worlds are thinnest at Samhain. I shall do a sighting."

"Have a care then," she warned. "Ye ken the tower is thick still with ghosts." He nodded. "Happen Iseult had best stay with ye and watch over ye," the old sorceress said. Iseult tried not to look disappointed, for she was curious to see the scrying pool.

Jorge of course could sense her emotions and he smiled kindly at her. "Go with Meghan, lassie," he said.

"The League of the Healing Hand shall stay with me and watch over me. It is time those squires o'

Lachlan's did something apart from eat Latifa's good cooking and get into mischief!"

"Very well, I shall call for Dillon then," Meghan said and made her slow way toward the door, Gita poking his black nose out of her pocket before burrowing down again.

Leaving Donncan with Sukey, Iseult and Lachlan followed the old witch down the draughty stairs and through the great hall. It was crowded with students huddling near the fire, warming their hands or playing chess or trictrac at little low tables set between shabby but comfortable couches. Some serving maids had just brought in trays of steaming cider made from apples, honey, whiskey and spices, and many were drinking with enjoyment or eating the little Samhain cakes Latifa had made by the hundreds. Iseult could not help but be struck by the difference a year had made. Last Samhain they had huddled here in this long hall, cold and afraid, Lachlan half mad with grief at the news his brother was dying. They had conjured a storm with the help of
The Book Of Shadows
and had flown through its icy gusts to confront the Ensorcellor. Now the great hall was warm and cheery, noisy with jokes and laughter, the windows steamed over so the cold night outside was forgotten. She glanced at Lachlan and he met her gaze with a little smile of shared remembrance.

After Lachlan's squires had been sent rather reluctantly up to Meghan's room, the small party made its way into a wide inner courtyard, surrounded on four sides by a graceful colonnade. Although a crystal dome had just been erected over the quadrangle, it was still bitterly cold once they stepped out from the shelter of the corridor.

In the very center of the courtyard was a round pool, enclosed within stone walls fretted with entwining lines and knots. At the four points of the compass were low stone benches, their edges carved with moons and stars.

Iseult sank down on one of the benches and looked into the heart of the pool, which glimmered blackly. Meghan sat beside her, while Lachlan prowled restlessly around the perimeter of the pool.

"There is a scrying pool at each of the thirteen Towers. They act as a focus for the will and the mind, just as my crystal ball does, or a bowl o' water, only the pools are designed to magnify the mind-voice one hundred fold," the old sorceress said. "Now, I ken ye have no' been practicing your scrying skills as ye ought . . . Nay, Lachlan, no need to bristle up, I ken ye have been busy fighting a war! I was no' accusing ye."

Lachlan made a face and sat down on the bench opposite. "What do ye want us to do?"

"Try and remember all I taught ye last year about the skill o' scrying. Ye must relax, clear your mind, empty your thoughts. Try and relax every muscle in your body. Watch the pool, let your mind drift free, think about who ye wish to see. Think o' your cousin Dughall, conjure his face in your mind's eye and his voice in your mind's ear."

As the three concentrated, the dark water in the pool slowly stirred, and the indistinct reflections of snow and crystal blurred into the white face and black hair and beard of Dughall MacBrann. Behind him Iseult could just make out the shape of a broken arch and the white of driving snow.

"Greetings, Lachlan," Dughall said. "Delightful night to be alone in a ghost-haunted ruin. I hope ye are as cold and uncomfortable as I am."

Lachlan grinned. "What sort o' manner is that to address your laird and righ with?" he said sternly. "Are ye no' going to call me 'Your Highness' and inquire after my health?"

"I hope ye have a snivelly head-cold and rheumatism o' the joints," Dughall replied. "Which is what I am going to have by the time I get back to a warm fire and a dram o' whiskey! Let us forget the courtesies, I beg ye. It's cold as Gearradh's womb out here, and this bloody pile o' stones simply reeks o' blood and murder. I want to get back to that dram as fast as I can."

"Well, it's glad I am to see ye alive and your usual charming self," Lachlan laughed. "Tell me then, what news?"

Dughall brushed a few icicles from his beard and launched into a terse account of how he had spent the nine months since leaving Lucescere. He had taken Owen MacBrann, one of the boys rescued from the Tower of Mists, as his squire, having learnt they shared a great-grandmother. The two of them had ridden for Ra-venshaw, having a tricky time avoiding being captured by the many battalions of Bright Soldiers occupying the forests.

To their dismay they discovered the great ships of the Tirsoilleirean navy moored in the Firth of Seaforth, which could only mean the Bright Soldiers had coerced or bribed some local fishermen to guide them, for the bay was notoriously dangerous. The Soldiers' white banners were flying from the walls of the port town of Tullimuir, and a camp had been set up on the banks of the river. Dughall and Owen rode on quickly and stealthily through the forest to Ravenscraig, the little castle that had been home to the MacBranns since the castle at Rhyssma-dill had been abandoned. Ravenscraig was blockaded, however, the meadow below the tall crag filled with the Bright Soldiers' white tents and imposing siege towers.

When Dughall finally managed to communicate with his father—the MacBrann was adept at scrying through water or crystal, but he was so absent-minded that it was often difficult to reach him—he discovered that most of the seaside towns had been lost but that the Bright Soldiers had not yet won through to the highlands. However, the Fairgean invaded the firth and river each spring and autumn, so the Bright Soldiers found it difficult to hold the land they had won. The MacBrann was happy to let the Tirsoilleirean fight off the sea-faeries for him while he busied himself in his laboratory and played with his many dogs.

"Och, we can hold them off for a good while yet, son," the MacBrann said comfortably. "In fact, it's glad I am to have them here for I've invented a new sort o' catapult that can throw boulders a good four hundred yards! It's much more fun peppering the blaygird berhtildes than trying to hit a painted target." So Dughall had left his father to his amusements and had ridden off to Tireich. It took him a long time to track down the MacAhern, for the Tireichans were nomads and traveled the wide plains at their whim. In their grass-colored caravans pulled by the huge native dogs called zimbaras, they were as hard to pin down as will-o'-the-wisps. Finally, though, Dughall and Owen had caught up with Kenneth MacAhern, the Prionnsa of Tireich, and had persuaded him to ride to the aid of Lachlan the Winged.

"So the horsemen ride to our aid?" the Righ cried. "Och, well done, Dughall!

"It shall take some time for them to gather an army and provision it for the campaign, but the MacAhern promised he would be with ye some time next year," Dughall said, blowing into his gloved hands. "They'll help drive the blaygird Bright Soldiers out o' Ravenshaw on the way, so happen we'll capture them between us like a flea between our nails."