The Shining City (62 page)

Jay followed as swiftly after, slinging his viola case over his back. “We‟ll find them,” he said over his shoulder. “Do no‟ fear, Your Highness. We will have them soon.”

“Oh, may it please the White Gods!” Iseult cried, her hands pressed together.

Then they were gone.

There was a moment‟s silence. Lewen tucked away the nosegay in his pocket, his throat tight.

His bonny Olwynne, in the hands of Lord Malvern! The thought made him feel ill with anxiety.

What could the lord of Fettercairn want with Owein and Olwynne and Roden? If it was just revenge he desired, he could have killed them as he had, somehow, killed Lachlan. Lewen remembered how Rhiannon had seen the ghost of a dead sorceress bargaining with Lord

Malvern, promising him the secret of raising the dead from life in return for his promise to raise her first.

“We have to get Olwynne back,” he whispered.

Iseult had her hands pressed against her mouth. Her skin looked grey, with shadows like bruises under her eyes. “Donncan,” she whispered. “Oh, Eà, if they have taken him too . . .”

Hailstones as large as fists smashed into the windows, cracking the glass from side to side and imploding sharp slivers into the banquet hall. The soldiers standing guard by the door yelled and flinched away. Through the fissure, shaped like a broken star, sleet drove in, and a bitter wind that snuffed out the candles.

They were all plunged into an icy darkness. At once a giant ball of witch-light sprang up in the center of the room, casting an eerie blue light over them all. Isabeau leaped to Iseult‟s side, supporting her crumpling figure. Dide brought her a chair, and they lowered her into it and gave her wine to drink. As soon as Iseult‟s hands touched the glass, the liquid within froze solid and the glass cracked asunder.

“Donncan,” Iseult whispered.

“Lewen, find him!” Isabeau commanded, bending to chafe Iseult‟s hands between her own.

“Bring him back here. We must ken he is safe!”

“Aye, my lady,” Lewen said, though he was so racked with cold and fear and horror he felt he could barely walk. He managed to weave his way towards the glass doors leading out into the garden, his legs wobbling underneath him as if he had been drinking clamber skull all night.

“Wait!” Isabeau cried.

He turned back.

“It is bitterly cold,” she said. “Guard, give Lewen your cloak! He is no‟ dressed for running through the snow.”

Lewen looked down at himself. He was dressed for midsummer, not midwinter. Like everyone else in the hall, he was shivering uncontrollably. The soldier obediently unfastened his long blue cloak and passed it to Lewen, who wrapped himself up in it gratefully before pushing open the doors and stepping out into the storm.

Slivers of ice needled the bare skin of his face, the wind wailing like a banshee. He dragged the hood of the cloak up over his head and began to run.

The palace and the witches‟ tower were connected by a long avenue bounded on one side by a towering wall and by the wood on the other. The trees were all bending and blowing in the wind, and broken twigs and leaves battered against him. Over the tumult of the storm, the bells‟

relentless tone sounded out. Lewen spared a thought for the bell ringers, hauling on the thick heavy ropes as the muffled bells clanged out their message of grief and shock and outrage.

The Rìgh is dead!
From house to house, town to village, hall to croft to peddler‟s cart, the news would be running throughout the land.
Murdered in his own banquet hall, as he drank a toast to
his son and new daughter. The Rìgh is dead!

He found that he was weeping and put up his hand to rub away the snow and the tears together.

He could not believe his Rìgh was dead. He had to repeat the words to himself over and over before he could even begin to believe it was true. Lachlan the Winged had always been such a powerful presence, roaring and stamping through the palace, his retinue hurrying to keep up with him. It seemed impossible that all that vibrancy and passion could be snuffed out so easily. Even

more shocking was the manner in which he had died, writhing in agony from the poison of a bogfaery dart spat at him from the shadows. And then to steal away his children, his heirs. If Donncan was gone also, the great MacCuinn clan would be broken, its only offspring a quarter-Fairgean girl who spent her days dancing and flirting and devising ever more outrageous costumes. It seemed impossible. The MacCuinns had ruled Eileanan for hundreds of years.

Could it all be over so quickly, so finally?

Lewen was so numb with shock and bewilderment, his legs felt as if they were made of lead. He could scarcely force them to keep running.

It took him close on half an hour to reach the Tower of Two Moons. The students of the Theurgia were milling around on the front steps, shivering with cold and apprehension as the low, slow, somber tolling of the bells went on and on. At the sight of Lewen, they clustered around, demanding news. When they heard of Lachlan‟s murder, many cried aloud in horror.

Lewen had no time to comfort them or give them details, however.

“The Prionnsa Donncan . . . have ye seen him?” he panted.

“Aye,” one said. “We saw him and Mistress Johanna go into the witches‟ wood, along with the Celestine princess, just afore the bells began to ring.”

“They were in a right hurry,” one of his companions chirped up.

“Into the wood?” Lewen was startled. “Are ye sure?”

“Sure we‟re sure,” they answered.

“Did anyone see him come out?” Lewen asked. But they all shook their heads.

Lewen turned and looked at the wood, biting his lip in indecision. It was black and wet and wild.

Try as he might, he could think of no good reason for Donncan to go within on such a night. He remembered Johanna as he had last seen her, screaming for Rhiannon to be hanged, and felt a sharp stab of fear and suspicion.

“We need to find him,” he said. “Rouse up the Tower! Form search parties! We must find the Prionnsa.” Sudden realization smote him: “He is Rìgh now,” he said. “We must find the Rìgh.”

I
seult pressed her temples with trembling fingers. Hail hammered on the roof. The Rìgh had been lifted up on to the high table and covered with a tablecloth. The Master of Revels arranged freshly lit candles all around the Rìgh‟s body, pausing often to mop his eyes and blow his nose.

One of the servants noticed the Lodestar lying where it had fallen from the Rìgh‟s hand and bent to pick it up.

“Do no‟ touch it!” Isabeau cried. “It‟s death for anyone no‟ of MacCuinn blood to touch it.”

The lackey‟s hand flinched back as if the scepter was a venomous snake and not just a softly glowing white orb set upon a golden rod.

“It‟s Donncan‟s now,” Iseult said, and gripped her shaking hands together.

“Why is he no‟ here to pick it up?” Nina whispered, and wiped her eyes. “Where can he be?” No one could answer her, though many exchanged glances and whispers. Where was the new Rìgh, who had inherited the throne and the Lodestar so brutally and unexpectedly on his wedding day?

Where were his brother and sister? What did it mean for them all, to have the Inheritance of Aedan lying on the floor amid a litter of crumbs and fallen flower petals and half-chewed bones?

“I will mind it for my husband,” Bronwen said coolly. She came forward and bent to pick up the Lodestar. A white flame sprang up in the Lodestar‟s heart at the touch of her fingers, and those who had the gift of clear-hearing could hear a symphonic burst of music.

Bronwen herself was unable to help gasping aloud. Touching the Lodestar was like seizing the tail of a doom-eel. Electricity surged up the nerve strings of her arm and into her brain. She was irradiated with white power, a choir of soaring voices ringing in her ears, a sea of joyous energy pounding through her blood. Her breath caught. Her pulse thundered. She held the Lodestar in both hands and fought to keep her face impassive. She knew she failed, feeling her mouth curving in a fierce grin of triumph and exultation. All she could do was turn away, taking refuge by her silent mother‟s side, trying to pretend nothing had changed.

Of course there were those among the court who noticed. The Dowager Duchess of Rammermuir and her cronies noticed everything. As the chambermaids hurriedly swept out the banquet hall, many of them wiping their eyes on their aprons, the court gossips put their heads together and whispered and wondered.

Iseult stared at Bronwen suspiciously, color surging up into her face, but Isabeau touched her arm, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. After a moment, Iseult turned away. She could not sit still but paced the room like a caged lioness, spindrifts of snow swirling up around her at every step. Every now and again she stopped to stare out into the storm, but there was nothing to be seen except the bobbing lights of the soldiers searching the terraces and gardens, and the whirling whiteness of the snow.

Bronwen sat quietly, the Lodestar cradled in her hands, her eyes lowered. It was impossible to tell what she thought or felt from her face, although she was very pale. Maya wrote something on her slate, and Bronwen shook her head and said something in a low voice. Maya replied, the screech of chalk on slate setting everyone‟s nerves on edge and causing Iseult to shoot the Ensorcellor an irritated glance. Suddenly both Maya and Bronwen turned their heads and looked towards the door. Then the others heard the sound of running footsteps too, and tensed.

The door swung open. A grey-clad guard came hurrying in and dropped to his knees before Iseult.

“Your Highness! I beg your leave . . .!” He was a thickset man with dark hair and a reddish beard and rough hands. Isabeau recognized him from the day she had caused the prison to be scoured from dungeon to tower top.

“What is it?” Iseult asked, her voice roughened with weeping.

“News from the prison,” the guard said, his head lowered. “The satyricorn girl has escaped. The warden thought Her Highness should ken . . .”

Iseult‟s eyes had been blank and unfocused, but at the guard‟s words, her gaze at once sharpened. “Did ye say the satyricorn girl has escaped from Sorrowgate Tower?”

“Aye, Your Highness.”

Color crept up Iseult‟s face. “The satyricorn girl,” she repeated softly. Then she rapped out,

“How? How did this happen?”

“She hit her guard over the head with the chamber pot,” he replied unhappily.

“A chamber pot!”

“Aye, Your Highness.”

“How could he have been so stupid?”

“She took him by surprise, my lady.”

“Was it full or empty?” Dide asked. He could not have said why, but he had to bite down a hysterical urge to laugh.

The guard went red. “Full, my laird.”

Dide snorted with laughter, and tried to turn it into a cough. Iseult glared at him and he stepped back, straightening his back and composing his face.

“Tell me what happened,” Iseult demanded.

The guard obeyed unhappily, and a little murmur arose from all those who listened.

“Did she no‟ ken the Rìgh planned to pardon her?” Nina asked. “Och, the poor lass. I wish he had told her.”

“And ye say she took her pack with her, with all inside it?” All Iseult‟s attention was focused on the prison guard.

“Aye, Your Highness.”

Iseult paced back and forth, her face looking thin and haunted. “Correct me if I am wrong, but was there no‟ a blowpipe and bag o‟ barbs in that pack that had once belonged to Connor the Just?”

“There was, Your Highness.”

“Aha!” Iseult cried.

“But Rhiannon would no‟ have murdered His Majesty!” Nina exclaimed. “Ye canna think such a thing o‟ her.”

“I can and I do,” Iseult answered in a cold voice.

Nina got to her feet, her hands clasped tightly at her breast. “She wouldna have done it, Your Highness. Truly, she would no‟.”

“Then who did?” Iseult demanded. “All along we have been wondering who, who, who? Now

we ken.”

“But Iseult . . .” Isabeau said.

Iseult whirled on her. “Ye think it coincidence she escapes the very night my Lachlan was murdered? With a blowpipe and barbs in her bag?”

“Coincidences do happen,” Isabeau said.

“Rarely,” Iseult answered. “Ye were the one who taught me that.”

“But how could Rhiannon have done it?” Nina asked, her words tumbling over themselves.

“There were guards everywhere. They would have seen her. All the soldiers know who Rhiannon was.”

“She would have disguised herself. She had Connor‟s uniform.”

“But how would she have hidden her hair? It is very long. . . .” Iven said, frowning.

“She‟d have cut it,” Iseult replied curtly.

“But why? Why would she kill His Majesty?” Nina cried.

“It must‟ve been her plan all along,” Iseult said. “That was why she killed Connor, to stop him from bringing news o‟ the plot to us.”

She began to pace up and down. “She must be in cahoots with the laird o‟ Fettercairn. We ken he wanted Lachlan dead, in revenge for the death o‟ his brother and his brother‟s little boy. The laird o‟ Fettercairn has been plotting and planning for more than twenty years now. We ken how loyal his supporters are. This Rhiannon girl must be one o‟ them. Connor must‟ve found out somehow, and she killed him to keep him quiet. Then she got in with Nina and Iven and was coming in their train to Lucescere, with them none the wiser. But the discovery o‟ Connor‟s body made them take the shortcut through the Fetterness Valley. How Rhiannon must‟ve cursed the ill chance that saw his body washed up at Barbreck-by-the-Bridge just as Nina and Iven rode past!