The Cursed Towers (68 page)

The alarm was called just before dawn. Iseult woke from uneasy dreams with a start and leapt to her feet, staring out into the misty darkness. Duncan was by her side, his claymore drawn, and they listened in dismay to the sound of marching feet on the road. It sounded as if hundreds of legions were advancing toward them, their hobnailed boots ringing on the stone.

"Can we have light?" Iseult called.

Torches were lit from the embers of the fires, and Gwi-lym summoned witch light at the end of his staff and raised it high. Iain gathered together all his strength to blow away the fog which hung over them still, but to his surprise the mist parted easily. The red light of the torches and the blue blaze of Gwilym's light illuminated the road ahead of them, and sighs and groans of dismay were wrung from the Graycloaks. An army of immense size was marching toward them down the road, weapons glittering in the torchlight, faces under steel helmets grim and determined. As far as the eye could see, the Thistle's army stretched in rows of a dozen men, all armed with long pikes and great, double-handed swords. Many more approached through the marshes on either side, making no attempt to conceal themselves. Duncan began to shout out orders and hurriedly the Graycloaks jumped up from their blankets and gathered together their weapons. Iain frowned and rubbed his hands through his soft, brown hair. "Where could my m-m-mother have got so many m-m-men?" he wondered. "Arran has n-n-no standing army ..." Gwilym too was frowning. "Something does no' smell right to me," he muttered. He turned to Meghan, saying softly, "Keybearer?"

Meghan had been silent and distracted since the pact with the Mesmerdean had been made, but she roused herself now from her deep abstraction to gaze at the approaching army, almost close enough for the archers to begin firing. The mist drifted and wavered over the road, making it hard to see more than the dim shapes of the approaching men. As the archers ran forward to take up position in the first row, arrows set to their bows, she stroked Gita's soft fur thoughtfully then gave an odd little smile.

"The mistress o' illusions weaves her spells," she said softly. Gwilym gave a harsh laugh. "O' course! So cannily she weaves I was no' sure." A master of illusions himself, he gave a negligent wave and suddenly the legions of men disappeared like smoke. The Graycloaks gave a triumphant yell and ran to engage, while Margrit's men— revealed now to be no more than a few hundred— groaned in dismay. They fought savagely, however, knowing it was far better to die here on the road than to run back to the Thistle with the Graycloaks at their heels. League by slow league, the invading army pushed their way down the road, the Mesmerdean patroling the swamps on either side. The sun rose but the mist had descended again, so thick it was like trying to breathe through cotton wool. They heard groans and sighs all around and strange shapes drifted toward them out of the mist—ghosts of horribly maimed warriors, huge slimy monsters with gaping jaws and groping tentacles, wailing banshees, giants with flaming eyes. The soldiers faltered, some crying out in fear and horror, but Dide began to sing a rousing battle song.

"Behold I am a soldier bold,

And only twenty-four years auld,

A braver warrior never was seen,

From Loch Kilchurn to Dun Eidean.

The wind may blow, the cock may crow,

The rain may rain and the snow may snow,

But ye canna shock and ye canna scare me,

For I'm the bravest lad in the whole damn army!"

The soldiers began to sing too, at first rather raggedly, then with great cheer and loudness, swinging their swords in time to the rhythm. With the song ringing in their ears and their eyes on their opponents, they did not see the strange monsters, and so after a while the wails and groans faded away and there was only the clash of arms and the sound of the soldiers' singing.

Then voices began to call out of the mist and many of the soldiers glanced up, glad recognition flaring in their eyes. They saw pretty young women with outstretched hands, old women with pleading faces, children begging to be picked up. Many of the Graycloaks would have stepped off the road and followed the illusions into the marshes if it had not been for the witches, who called out in warning voices or caused the glamourie to dissolve back into mist.

At last they saw a great stretch of water ahead of them, its far shore hidden by mist. The road widened out into a large square, surrounded on three sides by low warehouses, their roofs thatched with sedge. A long jetty thrust out into the loch, with barges and small boats moored alongside. Here, on the shore of the Murkmyre, the tattered remnants of the Thistle's army made one last, desperate stand. There were witches among them, dressed in flowing purple robes, who fought with flame and wind and illusion, but Meghan, Dughall, Gwilym and Iain were easily able to combat their magical powers. One by one they fell, studded with arrows or slashed with gaping wounds, or were seized in the arms of the Mesmerdean and kissed to death.

With the Mesmerdean fighting at the Graycloaks' side, the men and witches of the marsh had little hope of winning, but they defended the last bastion of the fen-lands with their lives. Despite all Iseult's offers of quarter, they fought to the very last man. Even the Banrigh felt rather sick at heart when they had finally hacked down the last man and stood panting on the jetty, leaning on their swords. Only then did the fog begin to drift away, and the Graycloaks saw the pearly spires of the Tower of Mists rising out of the serene water, built on an island in the center of the loch. So still was the water that the towers were reflected in perfect mirror image, stretching almost to their feet. Iseult stood and stared, overawed. The palace was simply the most beautiful and fantastical building she had ever seen, its towers and minarets all painted in dawn pink and ice blue, violet and softest green, scrolled and pointed and domed. Rising as it did from the water, it shone like something spun from rainbows. She heard indrawn breaths all round her and saw Iain's hands clenched, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"It's bonny," she whispered and he nodded, blinking away tears.

"I've been away far too long," he answered quietly. "The marshes get into your blood like a pox. I've missed them indeed."

"Well, let us take ye home then," she replied with a sigh of sympathy as she thought about her own snowbound home, long unseen. She nodded to Duncan, who gave the order to board the punts. As the long, narrow boats were poled across the Murk-myre, Iseult heard a hoarse, drawn-out cry and glanced up. "Look!" she cried.

Flying up into the sky was a carved sleigh pulled along by twelve crimson-winged swans. Crouched in the sleigh, whipping them mercilessly on, was a tall woman dressed all in black. She turned and glared down at them and shook her fist, then the sleigh curved away, the swans' wings beating strongly.

"The NicFoghnan flees," Meghan said, her face losing its look of melancholy for a moment. Gwilym gave a swift order and a drove of Mesmerdean nymphs took flight in pursuit. They did not have the strength or speed of the swans, however, and were left far behind. The swan-carriage soared into the clouds and disappeared.

A ring of tall white candles encircled a fire built on the rock shelf near the curve of the waterfall, where the waters of the loch poured over the edge of a cliff. It was sunset, moonrise, on the night of the spring equinox. One of the key events in the witches' calendar, the vernal equinox marked the death of winter and the birth of summer, the first day of the year when the hours of sunlight lasted as long as the hours of night. An auspicious time for the breaking of a curse.

The smoke of the candles smelt sweet, rising into the dusk like blue, wavering ribbons. Maya sat at the point of the pentagram, naked. The firelight glittered on her scales and made strange shadows of her fins. On either side of her were Isabeau and Bronwen, also naked, while Ishbel and Khan'gharad sat at the opposite points of the star. They found it hard to look at Maya, bending their gaze instead to their clasped hands.

Isabeau said softly, "It is sunset. Time for the Ordeal to begin." Obediently they all closed their eyes. Isabeau breathed deeply of the forest-scented air and tried to find peace. Despite the stillness, serenity eluded her and as the long hours trickled away, she found herself crying. Occasionally she heard a muffled gasp or sob from elsewhere in the sacred circle and knew she was not the only one to weep.

She felt the tide of the seasons turning within her, more clearly than she had ever felt them before. Isabeau opened her eyes and said, with a choke in her voice, "It is midnight and the tides turn. Let us chant the rites."

The husky voice of the Fairge, the sweet, weary stumble of the little girl, Ishbel's light voice and Khan'ghar-ad's deep baritone all chanted with her:

"Darksome night and shining light,

open your secrets to our sight,

find in us the depths and height,

find in us surrender and fight,

find in us jet-black, snow-white,

darksome light and shining night."

The familiar chant soothed her as the long hours of meditation had not, and her voice grew stronger. She said in a low sing-song: "Ever-changing life and death, transform us in your sight, open your secrets, open the door. In ye we shall be free o' slavery. In ye we shall be free o' pain. In ye we shall be free o'

darkness without light, and in ye we shall be free o' light without darkness. For both shadow and radiance are yours, as both life and death are yours. And as all seasons are yours, so shall we dance and feast and have joy, for the tides o' darkness have turned and the green times be upon us, the time for the making o' love and harvest, the time o' nature's transformations, the time to be man and woman, the time to be child and crone, the time o' grace and redemption, the time o' loss and sacrifice . . ." Although tears came again, it was not the hot, stifled, painful weeping of earlier but a flood of cleansing tears which left her feeling pure and empty. Bronwen wept too, from sympathy and tiredness and fear at the coming separation. Isabeau had explained to her that she was to leave with her mother in the morning. At first the little girl had been distraught but all her tears and tantrums had not moved Isabeau to relent and say she did not need to go. So at last the banprionnsa had grown sulky, refusing to speak to Isabeau at all and clinging close to her mother. Her sullen anger had hurt Isabeau far more than her tears, and she had found the previous day one of constant heartache. It was some comfort to her to hear the child's weeping and to know that Bronwen would miss her as much as she would miss the little girl. The chant came to an end and Isabeau let go of Maya and Ishbel's hands, wiping her face and pushing away the unruly curls from her face. "Maya, it is time to break the curse." Slowly the Fairge lifted the black bundle from where it had lain by the fire. In the candlelight her eyes glittered oddly. She took her jeweled eating knife and slowly and deliberately cut the knot that bound the cloth together.

"Darksome night and shining light,

By the power o' the moons so bright,

Words o' grace be spoken,

Power o' the curse be broken," she chanted.

The cloth fell open, revealing the little poppet all bound up in its stained, crumpled ribbon, smelling of evil and poison. A wave of such malevolence passed over Isabeau that she almost gagged, and both Bronwen and Ishbel gave a little cry and shrank back. Khan'gharad's bearded face was stern and sad, and he looked at Maya with cold anger in his eyes.

The Fairge looked rather sick but she picked up the poppet in her fingertips and carefully cut away the ribbon so that the broken feather fell away.

"Darksome night and shining light,

By the power o' the moons so bright,

Words o' grace be spoken

Power o' the curse be broken," she repeated huskily.

Handling the poppet as gingerly as possible, she cut away the scrap of MacCuinn tartan and the lock of dark hair, repeating the chant with a trembling voice.

"In the name o' Ea, mother and father o' us all, shine your light o' white upon Lachlan MacCuinn and shield him from all forces evil, malevolent and baneful," Isabeau chanted, the others all joining in. "Oh divine power o' the moons and stars, the winds and breathing air, the sweet waters and fruitful earth, the life that is in all the universe, the life that is in all o' us, bless Lachlan MacCuinn, encircle his body and soul and bring him peace and protection from harm. Cast away the evil chains that bind him, cast away the darkness that presses upon him, unseal his eyes so he may see, unseal his voice that he may speak, let vigor and warmth flow through him, let life return to him in full. By the power o' the moons so bright, as we say, so let it be!"

Maya cast the poppet and all the scraps of ribbon and cloth and feather on to the fire, crying loudly:

"Fire burn, ashes turn,

Evil spirits disperse

I now remove this curse

By the power o' the moons so bright,

I bless ye, I bless ye, I bless ye!"

The flames leapt up, green and foul smelling, and they watched as the poppet was burnt to cinders. Then Isa-beau threw a handful of dried dragon's blood on the fire so the flames hissed violet and blue and green, then purified the circle again with salt and earth, water and ashes. "So," she said softly. "It is done. In Ea's name let us hope it is enough!"

Iseult leant her head on her hand and watched as the early morning light fingered across the wall and through the bed curtains. Although she was tired, having endured the Ordeal with the other witches, she did not want to leave her husband's side and seek her own cold, lonely bed. In almost a year of sleeping alone, Iseult had not grown used to not having Lachlan beside her. Although she had slept alone the first sixteen years of her life and they had been married only two and a half years before he fell, still her body craved his beside hers, his wings curving over to cup her through her sleep. She lowered her head onto his slack hand and let unaccustomed tears seep through her lashes.

The sunshine crept down onto the pillow and then over the face of the sleeping man. His eyelashes fluttered and he turned his face away from the light. His eyes opened and he looked about him blankly. He was in a strange room, ornately furnished with tapestries and silken cushions. The double doors were carved with the shape of flowering thistles. He felt very light and weak. He looked down and saw Iseult's red-gold head pressed against the coverlet. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his hand in hers and gripped her fingers. She looked up, startled, and he saw her eyes all wet and red-rimmed.