The Shining City (5 page)

Rhiannon scowled, shaking her head instinctively.

Nina leaned forward persuasively. “If she‟s no‟ kept on a close lead, she‟ll hurt herself. She may bolt, and then she‟ll be lost in the back streets and ye‟ll never see her again. Someone would catch her for sure, and sell her to the highest bidder, or keep her for their own. Winged horses are highly prized—ye ken that.”

“Canna I ride her?” Rhiannon pleaded. “She‟ll be much calmer if I‟m on her back.”

Iven frowned. “We canna allow ye to do that, Rhiannon. Ye ken that.”

“But I promised no‟ to escape,” Rhiannon said angrily. “Why do ye no‟ trust me? If I was going to run away, I would‟ve done so by now!”

Nina and Iven exchanged a quick glance. “Very well,” Iven said at last. “But Lewen will have to lead her, and ye will have to be tied on to her back, to make sure ye do no‟ slip off and try to escape in the crowd. I‟ll walk beside ye too, just to make sure.”

“I wouldna leave Blackthorn,” she protested. “She‟s mine!”

“Aye, I ken, but it is my task to deliver ye safely to the Rìgh‟s constables, and that means taking no chances.”

Rhiannon jerked her shoulder, her face mutinous. “Blackthorn does no‟ like to be bridled,” she said sulkily.

“And ye do no‟ like to be tied up. We ken, we ken. It canna be helped though,” Iven said, swinging his legs around so he could jump down to the ground, leaving his cart horse to tear placidly at the grass with his big yellow teeth. “Will ye call her, Rhiannon, and put the bridle on her?”

Rhiannon obeyed reluctantly. Blackthorn came cantering up willingly enough but put her ears back at the sight of the bridle and danced away.

“At least ye dinna have to wear a chain and manacles like me,” Rhiannon snapped. “Come on, it‟s only for a wee while. That city in there is big and noisy and dangerous, and we do no‟ want someone nabbing ye.”

Blackthorn snorted and frisked away, shaking her mane, but Rhiannon followed inexorably, bridle in hand. “Come on, lassie,” she said. “Settle down now.”

The mare‟s lip curled back in distaste as the cold iron of the bit slid into her mouth, then she flung back her head, rearing in displeasure. Rhiannon clamped her hand over the fine bone of the mare‟s nose, forcing her head down. Blackthorn submitted with ill grace.

It was hard to do up the buckles with her hands hampered by the handcuffs and swinging chain, but Rhiannon managed at last. She then flung her little saddle—no more than a pad of soft leather and a girth—over the mare‟s back and buckled it tightly, digging the mare in the ribs with her elbow to stop her holding her breath. Nobody in their right mind would ride a flying horse without making sure the saddle was secure first.

Rhiannon leaped lightly up into the saddle and allowed Iven to lash her hands to the pommel.

She kept her chin up, staring straight ahead, aware of the eyes watching her. The six apprentice-witches found Blackthorn utterly fascinating, even after all these weeks. There was more than a touch of envy in their gazes, for who had not dreamed of taming a flying horse?

With an apologetic glance, Lewen took Blackthorn‟s reins and turned Argent‟s head towards the city. Iven flung another rope about the mare‟s neck and held on to it firmly as he walked along beside them, his young son, Roden, picking up the caravan‟s reins and slapping them on the cart horse‟s broad back.

It was an odd procession that clattered over the long bridge and into Lucescere. Certainly it caused the heads of everyone they passed to turn and stare, and the people of Lucescere were used to strange sights.

First rode Lewen on his grey stallion, leading the dainty black winged mare and her defiant rider, her hands securely bound. Beside them strode a gaily dressed jongleur with a long fair beard forked into two, with a pair of garishly painted caravans trundling behind. Riding close about the caravans were six young men and women, some dressed in rich fabrics of fashionable cut, others in rough homespuns and clogs.

A little way behind came two huge, old-fashioned carriages of black enameled wood, bearing a coat of arms upon their doors and each guarded by four stout outriders. The first carriage was drawn by four perfectly matched black geldings, and its roof and back were piled high with luggage. Looking with weary interest out of the window was an old man, his grey hair cropped short, his thick brows drawn down towards his eagle nose. A big raven perched on his shoulder.

This was Lord Malvern MacFerris of Fettercairn who, like Rhiannon, had been brought to Lucescere to face charges of murder and treason. Unlike Rhiannon, he had brought his groom, his valet, his harper, his piper, his librarian, his stableboy and his healer with him. The valet traveled with his master. The others jostled each other to see out the windows of the second coach.

Although Lord Malvern and his servants and guards had accompanied the jongleurs on the long journey through Ravenshaw and into Rionnagan, Rhiannon and the others had seen very little of him. On the rare occasions when no inn or farm-house could be found in which to sleep, the lord‟s servants set up their own camp and the lord slept at ease in his big, well-cushioned carriage.

Relations between the jongleurs and Lord Malvern were tense, for the lord and his minions had tried to kidnap Nina and Iven‟s son, Roden, for their own nefarious purposes. With Rhiannon‟s help, Roden had been rescued, and the lord and his minions had all been placed under arrest, with eight soldiers from the town of Linlithgorn set to guard them.

It was not just the kidnapping of six-year-old Roden that had led to Lord Malvern‟s arrest. The lord of Fettercairn was also suspected of being responsible for dozens of mysterious deaths in the countryside surrounding his castle, as well as for dabbling in the forbidden art of necromancy.

If it had not been for Iven‟s badge of authority, the reeve of Linlithgorn would most likely have dismissed all these accusations out of hand, for the MacFerris clan had ruled in their part of the world for many centuries and were very rich and powerful. Like Rhiannon, Lord Malvern faced the death penalty if found guilty. Rhiannon wondered if he felt the same anxiety that she did, now that they were here at Lucescere at last. She did not think so. No doubt he expected the Rìgh would think twice before condemning a man of his ancient and noble lineage to death. Rhiannon could only hope the Rìgh would extend the same courtesy to a nameless nobody from a wild satyricorn herd.

It was dim inside the city walls, for the buildings leaned over the street like angry adults over a child. The air felt damp and cool, and everyone unrolled their riding cloaks and flung them about their shoulders. Rhiannon was too proud to ask Iven to do the same for her, but he saw her shiver and wrapped her cloak about her without a word.

The streets were lined with shops that opened directly onto the street, their wares spilling out onto the cobblestones and obstructing the passage of the hundreds of carts and carriages and riders and pedestrians hurrying along. Copper merchants brandished kettles and ladles, tanners thrust soft leather gloves and intricately worked belts under their noses, cobblers bemoaned the poor state of the travelers‟ worn boots and tried to convince them to buy new ones, and cursehags hissed at them from black-hung stalls. Brilliantly colored silks billowed in the breeze, and great loops of crimson and blue and yellow wool hung across the street on poles so they had to duck their heads.

Strong odors assaulted Rhiannon‟s sensitive nose. Some were foul, like rotting fish and sewage and half-tanned leather and horse manure. Others were delicious, like hot meat pies, dried herbs and powdered spices, and sweet perfumes from the scent merchants. The noise battered

Rhiannon‟s ears too. She had never heard such a cacophony. One woman was trying to catch a squealing piglet that had escaped its cage; another harangued a fishmonger; yet another danced on a street corner in a swirl of orange skirts to the sound of a small boy bashing a tambourine.

A curtained litter carried by four enormous corrigans swayed through the streets, a cluricaun wielding a whip clearing the way before it. A Celestine in a pale green dress bent to speak with a filthy, ragged cursehag crouched inside a makeshift tent. Rhiannon had never seen a Celestine before, and craned her neck to watch. The faery seemed to glimmer with a frosty light like starshine, and her eyes were as bright and colorless as water. The cursehag cringed away from her and made some rude gesture, and at once the two men who guarded the Celestine stepped forward threateningly. The Celestine drew them back, her face very gentle.

The caravans made slow progress through the teeming streets, so Rhiannon had plenty of time to stare and marvel. She was not the only one awestruck and amazed. None of the six young apprentices had ever been to Lucescere before either, and they pointed and exclaimed at every sight.

At last they came to a big square before a tall pair of iron gates. Beyond were lawns and trees and, in the distance, a great building with many golden domes that gleamed in the last burnished light. After the rush and bustle of the city, it was a relief to rest her eyes on the green gardens, and Rhiannon paid little attention to the conversation between Iven and the guards on the gate.

All her attention was focused on the palace. There lived Lachlan MacCuinn, the winged Rìgh of Eileanan and the ultimate arbitrator of justice in the land. Although Rhiannon would be tried before a jury, her fate ultimately rested in his hands. She wondered again what sort of man he was. Most of the stories told of him were tales of war and rebellion and great acts of sorcery.

They were not reassuring.

Rhiannon was roused from her abstraction by a sudden splat of moisture on her cheek. She looked around, surprised, and realized one of the guards on the gate had spat at her. She flushed in rage and humiliation, unable to lift her bound hands to wipe the phlegm away. The guards were staring at her in overt anger and hostility. At first she was bewildered but then she realized, with a sudden sinking of her heart, that they all wore the same long blue cloak and tam-o‟-

shanter that she did. Rhiannon‟s cloak and hat had belonged to Connor the Just, the soldier she had killed. Rhiannon wore them still because she had no other clothes to wear, apart from the old shirt and breeches Lewen‟s mother Lilanthe had given her. From the looks on their faces, the guards knew she was the one who had killed Connor, and hated her for it. Rhiannon lifted her arm to wipe her face on her sleeve and looked straight ahead, her cheeks burning.

Iven was frowning as he came back to her side. “Sorry about that,” he said stiffly. “The soldier responsible will be severely disciplined.”

Rhiannon did not respond. Iven took her lead rein and nodded to Lewen, who rode on down the tree-lined avenue, looking tense and unhappy. The caravans rattled after them.

Under normal circumstances, Rhiannon would have been as excited and fascinated as the

apprentices riding behind her. She could only think about what lay before her, however, and the winged mare sensed her fear and distrust and danced uneasily, causing Iven to put one hand upon her bridle.

The road brought them through a pretty little gatehouse and into a large courtyard. The bulk of the palace rose beyond another wall, protected by two round turrets topped with gilded domes.

On either side of the courtyard were the stables and the mews and the kennels, and various tall stone buildings from which came the sound of hammering and sawing, and the smell of the forge. The courtyard was full of people. Most were dressed in rough brown breeches and smocks, belted with heavy leather hung with the tools of their trade. Some, however, were dressed in the blue cloaks of the palace guard. These men stiffened to attention as the cavalcade drew up before the gatehouse. Rhiannon was aware of their eyes upon her. She raised her chin a little higher in the air, fixing her gaze on the stone shield above the gate. It was carved with the shape of a rearing stag, a crown between its antlers.

Again Iven stepped forward to speak with the soldiers. The one in charge nodded and beckoned to the grooms waiting nearby. They came forward respectfully and helped down the weary apprentices, then took the reins of their horses and led them into the stables. The caravans were deftly backed into the carriage house, and the cart horses unharnessed, while the soldiers guarding the two black carriages dismounted and waited for their turn to report.

Within minutes, only Rhiannon was left mounted, with six hard-faced soldiers taking up positions all around her. She looked at them warily, not liking the way they stood with their hands on their sword hilts and their eyes fixed upon her. Blackthorn shied nervously, and Lewen moved quickly to put a calming hand on her bridle. He glanced up at Rhiannon reassuringly, but she hardly noticed, all her attention focused on the soldiers.

A sudden bustle of activity caused her to raise her head sharply. The gate swung open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man came through. At once all the soldiers jerked upright, saluting him. He acknowledged them curtly, his frowning gaze fixed on Rhiannon. She stared back at him, concealing her fear beneath a look of haughty defiance.

Dillon of the Joyous Sword, Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard, was a stern-faced man, his brown hair clipped back severely. At some point his nose had been broken so badly a chip of bone had been lost at the bridge. A thin white line slashed its way across his cheek under his left eye, and his mouth was set in a humorless line. He looked like a man who expected, and got, instant obedience.

He was immacutely dressed in a white shirt, a blue kilt crisscrossed with white and black, and a long blue cloak. His breastplate shone bright as a mirror, and his long black boots had been polished to a glossy sheen. A long, beautifully crafted sword hung at his waist. He caressed its hilt constantly, a nervy mannerism so out of keeping with his frowning face and stiff back that it made Rhiannon tense with trepidation. Blackthorn sensed her fear and at once wheeled and reared, lashing out at one of the soldiers with her front hooves. Lewen had trouble bringing her back under control and, bound as she was, it was all Rhiannon could do to keep her seat.