The Witches of Eileanan (4 page)

"I've read about a witch who could fly from one end o' the country to another in a week, and who could do somersaults and backflips in the air."

"Ishbel! Well, a Talent like Ishbel's does no' come along too often." Seychella sighed, "I fear we'll no' see a Talent like it again in our lifetime. Damn and blast the Banrìgh! So many witches killed, so much ability lost."

"I've also read about witches who folded the fabric of the universe and sailed across space. Is that true?"

"Where did ye read that! It's forbidden, ye ken, to talk about the Great Crossing. Ye'd be put to the Question if ye were heard! What sort o' book did ye read that in, lassie?"

Meghan cleared her throat. "I've always had a passion for books."

"But that's a story she could only be reading about in the Book of Shadows, which was destroyed by the Banrìgh on the Day o' Betrayal!" Seychella was sitting bolt upright, her cheeks crimson. "She would be burned by the Awl if they heard her saying such things—they deny all stories o' the Great Crossing now, ye must ken that?"

"I wrote down what I could remember, from all the books. So many books were burned, so much knowledge lost. I was afraid it would never be found again if someone did no' try to remember."

Isabeau said nothing, thoughtfully choosing another honeycake from the plate on the unsteady table by the fire. She knew as well as Meghan did that although many of the books piled on every table and shelf were written in Meghan's spidery handwriting, this particular book was an enormous, ancient affair, bound in red leather, with a tarnished silver key as long as Isabeau's longest finger. Each page was filled with handwriting different from the page that had gone before; many were ornately illustrated with brightly colored pictures of dragons and winged horses, or the tracks of stars and moons, or the shape of unfamiliar lands. Like many of Meghan's books, the last page was empty, untouched, yet Isabeau knew by experience that if you should write on that page and turn the leaf, there would be another blank page there waiting for your pen. She was never able to work out how it got there or when, but the magic never failed.

As Isabeau wondered why Meghan had denied the book's existence, Seychella, apparently accepting Meghan's explanation, went on to talk about how difficult it was to get the right ingredients for spells and medicines when the merchants' ships no longer dared face the sea serpents. "I am almost out o' rhinfrew," the witch said testily, "and the Power ken, I havena much murkwoad left either."

"Aye, it may be time for a journey to the ports," Meghan said dreamily.

Isabeau's heart jumped with excitement. They had never ventured further away from the mountains than the highlands of Rionnagan. Isabeau had heard of the dangerous beauty of the sea, but she had never seen any water greater than Tuathan Loch at Caeryla. She hoped Meghan meant what she said. What an adventure! It would take months to reach the sea from their home, and they would have to travel half the country. She might see fairy creatures, or sea serpents, or even visit the Rìgh's palace.

"Bedtime, Isabeau," Meghan said, getting stiffly to her feet and gathering up the dirty dishes.

"But it's only early—"

"Ye've been out on the mountain all day, remember. Ye can hardly keep your eyes open!" her guardian retorted, limping around the room.

"But—"

"No excuses, Beau. Bedtime."

Reluctantly Isabeau bade the two witches goodnight and climbed up the ladder to her room, which was cold and dark. Faint light flickered up the stairs, but she did not bother to light a candle for her night vision was exceptionally good. She was able to see in the dark room almost as easily as she had out in the meadows that afternoon. Meghan had always said she could see like an elven cat.

In her cold little bed, Isabeau slowly stretched her legs, enjoying the chill of the sheets against her skin, and wondering about the unexpected appearance of the stranger-witch. She smiled, imagining how she would impress the supercilious Seychella by passing the Test of Power with ease. She would make the black-haired witch's eyes pop out. She was still planning her triumph when Meghan clambered up the ladder and came and sat on the edge of her bed, as she always did.

"Asleep, Beau?"

"Mmm-mmm. Meghan, did ye mean what ye said about traveling down to the sea?"

"Indeed, I did. Things are afoot, and much as I am loath to leave our wee valley, if things are to go the way I wish, I must take a hand in the weaving. Now, go to sleep, Isabeau. It'll be a long day tomorrow." With that cryptic remark, the old witch bent and kissed Isabeau on the forehead, between the eyes, as she did every night.

When she was gone, Isabeau gave a wriggle of excitement and fell into a reverie of adventures and explorations, palaces and fairies. She had been feeling restless ever since the snow had begun to thaw and life again quickened all around her. She was often bored with their sedate life in the secret valley, where every animal was a friend and there was no one to talk to except Meghan. Every season she looked forward to their forays into the mountains for herbs and semiprecious stones; even greater was her excitement when the two of them journeyed down into the villages to sell their potions and love spells. Isabeau had never been further south than the highland town of Caeryla, which they had visited eight years earlier.

It had been festival time, the time of the red comet, a season of fertility and strong magic. The streets of Caeryla were strung with colored ribbons and flags, pots of flowers decorated every doorstep and the townsfolk were dressed in their finest clothes. Minstrels strummed their guitars and sang of love, and jongleurs juggled colored balls and did backflips, while performing bears nursed their sad heads. Isabeau had never seen anything like the jongleurs, who entertained the crowd with jokes and magic tricks, fire-eating, sword-swallowing and juggling, their bright cloaks covering tattered clothes. One was a young boy, thin and quick, who could turn along the road as quickly as a wheel. Isabeau was openly envious, hanging back against Meghan's hand to watch him. She thought she would like traveling from town to town in the gaudy little caravan, juggling oranges for a living. Meghan's hand was firm, though, and Isabeau was gently pulled away from the square with its bright swinging lamps and the flickering shadows.

It was dangerous for them in the towns. This Isabeau understood. The Red Guards were everywhere, suspicious of strangers, and brutal in their dealings with suspected witches. Isabeau knew she must not play with the One Power or speak of it. She knew she must always be quiet and unobtrusive and never draw attention to them. When they entered a town, Meghan's limp became more noticeable, her body somehow more frail. She draped her plaid about her head so her thick braid was concealed, her face half in shadow. In the towns, Isabeau discarded her breeches and dressed in gray wool, her hair covered by a linen cap— a model girl-child.

Isabeau was only eight, however. She had not yet learned how to melt into a crowd so cannily that afterward no one could be sure whether or not she had been there. And with her unruly red hair and her bright blue eyes, it was not easy for Isabeau to pass unnoticed. But it was not Isabeau's striking coloring which was her downfall. It was her playing with the One Power. She and Meghan were staying at an inn in the center of town. Because it was Candlemas, the streets were full of travelers come to dance the fire with other young people, and visit relatives and trade with the pedlars. Meghan said she was there to try to buy powdered foolsbalm, shepherd's spikenard, black hellebore, and maybe some murkwoad if by some chance a pedlar had some. Isabeau knew, though, that she also came to gather information, whether it be market gossip, the stories the jongleurs and minstrels told, or old books and manuscripts.

The inn was full of people. Meghan was hunched in a chair by the fire, nodding over her knitting as bawdy jokes and tales of sightings of the lost prionnsachan rivaled the mournful tales of the highland crofters. At first Isabeau was tired from the long journey and the heat of the fire made her sleepy. However, after obediently eating a bowl of watery stew and resting her aching legs, Isabeau grew restless. Slowly she eased her body off the bench and began to creep away, only to receive a stern glance from Meghan that proved the witch was not really asleep. Isabeau pretended not to see it, of course, and knew the talk of trouble between the Rìgh and Banrìgh was too riveting for Meghan to leave. However, the glance was enough to keep Isabeau quiet and unobtrusive for a time. She wandered around the common room, listening to the minstrel strum his guitar as he sung of quests and magic swords, watching the maids flirt with the customers.

After a while she slipped out through the big doors into the courtyard behind the inn, where grooms and stable-hands rushed around unloading bags and boxes from coaches and carts, brushing down horses and carrying heavy buckets, water sloshing onto the bricks. In the center of the courtyard a big stallion was causing an uproar, rearing and dancing about, grooms ducking to avoid hooves as big as dinner plates. Black as coal, Isabeau could see the red rims of his eyes and the red roof of his mouth as he whinnied. She was not frightened. She liked horses, and often rode some of the wild horses that lived in the mountains around the secret valley. She had never tamed one, though, since the herds that inhabited the mountains were proud and wary of humans, no matter how well they spoke the language. Isabeau had learned to speak with horses almost as soon as she learned the language of the birds, for as Meghan said, horses often knew as much as their masters, if not more, and were usually happy to chat. This horse was angry, Isabeau could hear that, and also frightened. Her ready sympathy was stirred and she crept forward, looking up at the horse as he reared and plunged about. What she planned to do, she hardly knew, but before she had a chance even to reach up a hand to the horse's snarling muzzle, a strong arm whipped around her waist and she was swung out of the way.

"Stable yards be no place for bonny lasses," a laughing voice said in her ear, and she was thrown up into the air and caught. Isabeau squealed with pleasure. "Here, catch," the man said and threw her over to one of his companions who caught her easily and set her down on the ground.

Rather rumpled and on her dignity, Isabeau turned back to see her rescuer moving forward easily to catch the stallion's halter, seizing one ear in his big hand. He was tall and very dark, and dressed in tight black breeches, a torn crimson shirt, and a leather waistcoat, his long black hair tied back from his face. Isabeau recognized him—he was one of the jongleurs that Meghan had not allowed her to watch earlier in the evening. The stallion had quietened at his first touch, but his eyes were still rolling and his hooves danced across the bricked floor. Stroking the stallion's sweaty neck, the jongleur whispered a few words into the ear that he still held and gradually the stallion calmed.

"He's guid wi' horses, my da," someone said with pride. Looking round, Isabeau saw the boy who could turn cartwheels as easily as she could run. His dark face was dirty and his clothes—a sky-blue embroidered jerkin over a frilly shirt that had once been white—were ragged. His thin legs were like sticks below the short, torn trousers, stuck into boots obviously far too large. Isabeau did not mind his ragged appearance—he had a mischievous face and black eyes that sparkled with interest as he looked at her in her demure gray dress and white cap.

"What did he say to the horse?" Isabeau asked.

The boy's face clouded a little. "Och, just nonsense," he said. "The words do no' mean much—it's the tone o' voice that matters."

Isabeau was about to press the point, when she felt herself caught around the waist and swung up into the air again. She looked down into the jongleur's handsome face and laughed with delight as he tossed her up into the air. "Has your mumma no' told ye wee lassies shouldna try and play with big bad horses?"

"I like horses," Isabeau protested.

"Aye, but maybe no' all horses are nice horses," he said.

"He was a nice horse, he just did no' want to be here," Isabeau explained. "His new master is horrible."

"Is that so, lass?" the jongleur exclaimed. "And how would ye ken that?"

Isabeau immediately flushed with confusion. "'I just ken," she said lamely. "He looked like a nice horse."

For some reason the jongleur found that funny, throwing back his head and laughing. "Well, my bonny lass, next time maybe try no' to play right under a horse's hooves, no matter how nice the horse may be."

He set her down on the ground and from somewhere about his clothes found some colored balls which he juggled smoothly from hand to hand as he talked. "Run back to your mumma, now, lassie, she'll be missing ye. Come on, Dide, ye'd better be runnin' home too. I'm going to find out what entertainment this sleazy inn can offer." The balls disappeared as if by magic, and fie strode off into the inn, followed by his companions.

The two children looked at each other, and with squeals of laughter began to play a scrambling game of chase and hide through the bales of straw and barrels and boxes which lined the courtyard and stables. It was the most fun Isabeau had had since she left the valley two months earlier. In fact, Isabeau felt it was the most fun she had ever had, since she had never had a playmate other than the beasts of the forest. Dide was quick and agile; he could walk on his hands and turn cartwheels without a moment's thought, and he knew so many funny stories that he had Isabeau helpless with laughter. Eventually they were chased out of the stables by the headgroom and, flushed and excited, ran back into the inn.