The Cursed Towers (39 page)

I just pray to Ea that Isabeau is no' in her hands, for she is a cruel and ruthless woman indeed!"
THE CUTTING OF THREADS

The Cursehag

Maya hurried through the busy streets of Dun Eidean. It was dusk, and the rattle-watch was making his rounds, chanting: "The sun has set, and all is still; time to go home to eat your fill." The stonemasons rebuilding the houses were packing up their tools, the merchants were closing the doors to their shops, and already the Inn of the Green Man was doing good business, the crowd spilling out onto the pavement to enjoy the balmy evening air. Maya smiled and nodded to a few of the soldiers she knew. One seized her arm with a ribald remark, but she merely shrugged herself free, smiling and saying lightly, "Och, give it a rest, my laddie, even fancy ladies need an evening free sometimes."

"Let me buy ye an ale, Morag," the soldier pleaded, "and happen that'll put ye in the mood for some fun."

"Thanks for the offer, laddie, but I have my plans for tonight." He slapped her bottom and let her go, and she hastened her pace, afraid he and his friends may decide to pursue her. She rounded the corner and saw ahead of her the great wall of the castle, built in the very center of the town on the crown of the hill. Her heartbeat quickened, even though the glamourie spell she wore had grown so comfortable she needed very little effort to maintain it. There was always a chance she may run into one of the witches stationed at the castle, who would be able to see through the disguise with ease, and so she always felt a small quickening of fear when she kept a rendezvous with her spy. The girl was pacing the courtyard impatiently, wringing her hands together. "Ye're late, I was feared harm had come to ye, Your Highness," she gasped.

"Do no' call me that, ye fool," Maya snapped. "I was held up coming through the town. Quickly, tell me your news before someone sees us together. It be dangerous indeed to be meeting here in the castle."

"It is so hard for me to get away," the girl explained. "There is always someone wanting me to do something, and the Keybearer seems to have eyes in the back o' her head. I thought ye would want to know that they think the Grand-Seeker has fled to Arran, taking the wee ban-prionnsa wi' him."

"To Arran?" Maya exclaimed. "Are ye sure?"

"That is what they said. I do no' ken if it is true."

"Renshaw did ken I had had dealings with Margrit o' Arran," Maya mused. "He acted as my go-between for some years, before I promoted him to Grand-Seeker. I suppose it could be possible." She gave a small, triumphant smile. The waiting for news had been hard, and sometimes she had grown so impatient it was all she could do not to scream or cry or hit out at someone. Her disappointment at Lachlan's string of victories had been acute. As the Graycloaks' fortunes had eddied like the tide, so had her spirits. News of defeat had her gloating, news of victory plunged her back into depression, and all the time she did not know where Renshaw had taken her daughter. So she had stayed at the tail end of the army, despite her frustration, knowing that any news of the Grand-Seeker would immediately be reported to Meghan and Iseult, and so would eventually find its way to her. At last her patience had paid off. She thanked her spy warmly, taking care to bind the girl even closer to her, then waited in the dark courtyard till all was quiet, making plans. She would set out for Arran the very next day, spending some of her hard-won money on a horse and carriage and some fine clothes. She must not turn up on Margrit of Arran's doorstep looking like a beggar. It was imperative that the Nic-Foghnan did not realize just how desperate Maya's straits really were. They had been allies before, but Maya had never deluded herself that Margrit assisted her out of friendship or a kind heart. The Banprionnsa of Arran had some plan of her own. Maya would have to be very careful indeed, for if her daughter was in Margrit's hands, the Thistle would be in the position of power and Maya her supplicant. Maya's nostrils flared in annoyance at the thought, and she began to think what she could offer Margrit in return for her aid. Deep in thought, she left the courtyard, hurrying down the narrow passage to the lancet gate through which she had come. Unexpectedly she collided with a large, soft form. She staggered back and flinched as a lantern was raised, spilling light full into her face. For a moment she could not see, then terror flashed through her as a well-known voice cried, "Maya! It canna be!"

It was Latifa the Cook. Her round, brown face was horrified, her small mouth opened in a perfect O of surprise. Maya had not seen Latifa since Samhain Eve, when she had left her in the garden surrounding the Pool of Two Moons. If she had thought about Latifa at all, Maya would have supposed her to have been executed for treachery. That was what Maya would have done in Lachlan's place. She certainly did not expect to find Latifa here, in Dim Eidean.

Before Latifa had time to do more than exclaim, Maya reached into her sleeve and withdrew her sharp dagger. Gritting her teeth, she plunged it into the old cook's breast. Latifa grasped the knife in both her hands, her eyes round in shock, then she staggered and fell.

Maya ran down the corridor and out into the town, her heart pounding with excitement and dismay. She had always quite liked the fat old cook. She wished it had been someone else who pierced her glamourie. Meghan of the Beasts, for example. It would not worry Maya to sink a knife into that old witch's heart. Latifa, though, had been kind to Maya and had cooked her little delicacies of seaweed, rys seeds and raw fish, knowing how she hated the fat-dripping roasts usually served up at the royal table. As Maya ran past a street lamp, she saw her hand was red with blood and for a moment she was giddy with horror. She clenched her fingers together, and ran on. Nothing could be allowed to stand in her way, not even a fat, kind-hearted old cook.

The spinning wheel whirled steadily, Isabeau's foot pushing rhythmically on the pedal, her hands guiding the thread through the spindle automatically. Propped up before her was a book which she was reading intently, each leaf turning itself over as she reached the end of the page. Isabeau was studying a very ancient book called
De Occulta Philosophia Libri Tres,
one of the many books in the library which the Coven of Witches had brought over from the Other World. Sometimes she frowned as she read, other times she smiled in disbelief, but every now and again she stopped reading to say a line over again and commit it to her memory.

Bronwen was sitting on the floor behind her, singing to the ragdoll Isabeau had made for her. Scattered around her were some of the beautiful and amazing toys that Isabeau had discovered in one of the rooms in the south tower. On the same floor as the main bedroom, it had been furnished beautifully with two little cradles and a rocking seat carved in the shape of a flying dragon. The satin canopy and quilts had been used as nests by mice and were tattered and filthy. The flying dragon rocker was as perfectly balanced as ever, however, rocking back and forth with the slightest motion and painted with amazing realism. It stood behind Bronwen now, its wings stretched wide, its eyes gleaming with gilt paint. Lying on the floor behind the little girl were a rainbow-painted spinning top, two rattles carved in the shape of bluebirds, a wheeled horse that could be pulled along by a string, a beribboned hoop, a collection of painted building blocks, and a miniature drum and flute.

Despite the beauty of these toys, Bronwen preferred the ragdoll Isabeau had made and took it everywhere with her, crooning to it and pretending to feed it bits of bread and cheese. The flute was her next favorite and the little girl showed an amazing aptitude for the instrument, especially surprising considering neither Feld nor Isabeau had any musical ability with which to guide her. Suddenly the spinning wheel faltered and the thread snapped and unraveled. Isabeau looked up, her eyes vacant. "Latifa?" she whispered. "Oh no, Latifa!"

Meghan had slipped into a doze by the fire, Gita curled on her lap, when she suddenly woke, her black eyes snapping open. "Latifa?" she murmured, trying to shake off her stupor. She got to her feet rather stiffly and went to the door. She could hear nothing, but still a sense of unease persisted. She called to one of the guards standing at the end of the corridor. "Is all well?"

"Aye, my lady," he answered. "All is quiet."

She hesitated, then leaning heavily on her flower-carved staff, made her way past the guards and down the stairs. She passed through the great hall and into the maze of narrow corridors that led toward the kitchens. A scullery maid was hurrying up the hall, a bucket of steaming water in one red-chapped hand, a scrubbing brush in the other. Meghan stopped her with one gnarled hand. "Elsie?" The maid nodded, her fair skin reddening. "Have ye seen Latifa?"

"She was just going to get something from the storerooms," the little maid answered rather breathlessly. Meghan thanked her and hurried on, unable to shake her deepening sense that something was wrong. Her breath was sharp in her side, but she ignored the pain. The cavernous kitchen was crowded with servants and she asked for Latifa again. Another of the young scullery maids was directing her out to the storerooms when suddenly there was a hubbub from outside. Meghan put her hand on the table to steady herself. She showed no surprise when a young pot-boy came running inside, his cheeks drained of all color.

"Murder!" he cried. "Latifa the Cook, she's been murdered." Snapping out orders, Meghan followed him out into the inner bailey and down a dark side-alley toward the privy yard. Even her old eyes could see the great bulk of the cook lying on the stones. With difficulty the sorceress knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse. Under her fingers was a faint, erratic flutter. "Latifa!" she called. "Can ye hear me, auld friend?"

Weakly Latifa's eyes opened, and she stared up at Meghan's face without recognition. Very low she said, "Maya . . . the Banrigh . . . what does she do here?" Then her eyes closed, and the pulse died. Tears running down the seams of her face, Meghan tried to pump her heart into life, but there was no response. Latifa was dead.

The murder of the old cook threw the keep into chaos. The chambermaids huddled in corners, weeping; the apprentice cooks spoiled the dinner; the steward sat with his hands hanging, muttering, "But who could want to kill Latifa? But why?"

Meghan was shocked to her core. Latifa was one of the few of her friends from the old days to have survived the Burning. She had known her as a plump baby with dark curls and fat hands, and a cheeky young student who refused to concentrate on her lessons at the Tower of Two Moons, wanting to lie around on the grass and eat gingerbread instead.

Meghan had wanted the young Latifa to take her Tests and be admitted to the Coven as an apprentice witch, but she had gone to work as an apprentice cook in the kitchens instead, following in the footsteps of her mother and grandmother. As a result, she had survived Maya's Day of Reckoning when so many of her former class mates had not. Maya had never suspected the palace cook was a gifted skeelie, with a Talent for fire magic and close ties with the Coven of Witches. For sixteen years Latifa had spied for the rebels, risking her own life daily to keep Meghan informed of the Banrigh's movements and intentions. Although Latifa had betrayed them at the final moment, Meghan knew it was because Maya's charm had slowly and insidiously worked upon Latifa's own fears and uncertainties until she had not known what to think or what to do. The old sorceress knew just how powerful Maya's compulsion could be. After all, the Fairge had ensorcelled Jaspar into massacring the witches, and Jaspar had been far more powerful than Latifa. So Meghan had pleaded with Lachlan and saved the bewildered old cook from a traitor's death.

Latifa had spent the two years since working to overcome Lachlan's suspicions and regain her trusted position in the Coven. To her great pride, she had sat her Tests and been admitted into the Coven as a fully accredited witch, wearing on her plump fingers moonstone and garnet rings to show she had passed her Test of Fire as well as her apprenticeship test. She had worked tirelessly to stretch their scanty supplies far enough to feed thousands, and had begun teaching her kitchen magic to some of the eager acolytes in the Theurgia. Meghan did not know how she was to manage without her. The town guards searched every inn and house in Dim Eidean but there was no sign of Maya the Ensorcellor. And even though Dun Eidean's gates were closed and only those on the Righ's business allowed inside or out for close on a week, still Latifa's murderer was not found. The sun beat down on blackened fields, the sky overhead a hard, bright blue. A few trees still raised black, angular branches in stark silhouette. Most had fallen and lay charred in the ashes. A small boy searched through the ruins of a cottage, his sooty face streaked with tears. As the carriage swayed along the road, he raised his face in hope, only to wail thinly in disappointment as the vehicle kept on its way. Maya sat back on the cushioned seat, biting her lip. She remembered these fields as lush and green with clover and barley, with thick copses of trees on the hills and pretty cottages surrounded by flowers in the valleys. She and Jaspar had often driven through these gentle hills to stay with the MacThanach at his country estate. She was shocked by the devastation. On an impulse she put her head out the window and gruffly commanded one of her outriders to turn back and give the little boy one of her gold coins. He took the coin, saluted her and spurred his horse around, and she sat back against her cushions again, wondering at her moment of weakness.

A squad of soldiers, demanding to know her name and destination, stopped them some miles down the road. Their gray cloaks and leather breastplates were torn and stained, their shields badly battered. Maya recognized the uniform with a sinking heart. She had not expected to see any of the Righ's army this far east.

Maya leant from the gilded carriage, smiling at the sergeant and answering his questions in her low, melodious voice. She was dressed in crimson velvet, with a long, narrow skirt edged in gold, and a high collar that was cut away from the base of her throat to the cleft of her breasts.