The Witches of Eileanan (58 page)

Far in the distance she could see great rocky crags thrusting up through the soil to tower above the flat plains around, and it was here the villages and towns were built, far above the threat of the king tide that every winter rushed in and threatened to drown the land again. Although the walls and canals controlled the tide better than any other measure, the tide was still an unpredictable thing, and the people of Clachan had learned the hard lessons of living near the terrible power of the sea. It was on their shores that most of the great battles with the Fairgean had taken place, and here that generation after generation of Clachans had struggled to make a living. It was only since Aedan's Pact and the defeat of the Fairgean that they had succeeded. The people Clachan were hard-working, dour and suspicious, and Isabeau would have to be even more careful.

The road she had been following eventually joined the royal highway, and Isabeau joined the hordes of workers, merchants, mercenaries, beggars and footsore travelers heading toward Dùn Gorm, the blue city. Keeping her tam-o'-shanter pulled low over her hair, Isabeau wished the rain would return to help conceal her as she tried to work out a plan of action. She had to cross the river to get to the palace and this posed a problem, for the ferry would be guarded and the river was too swift and wide for her to attempt a crossing. On a sudden inspiration, Isabeau brewed up an evil-smelling potion and washed her hair in it. The dye, made from elder and bay leaves, did not cover the ruddiness of her hair as well as she had hoped, but the dirty brown that resulted was still far more inconspicuous than her original color.

She then covered Lasair with old sacks and tried to make him walk more like a broken-down workhorse than a proud stallion. Since she had traveled the distance from Aslinn to the Rhyllster in less than half the time it should have taken her, and both she and Lasair were greatly travel stained, this was an easier task than it might otherwise have been. Their dirtiness and their exhaustion made it much easier for them to pass, through one guard scrutinized Isabeau's face carefully, making her heart thump so hard she was sure he would hear it.

The ferry rolled alarmingly as it crossed the rushing river, and Isabeau hid her face against Lasair's shoulder, triumph and gladness welling up in her.

Gently, gently,
she admonished herself.
We're no' there yet.

Then they rounded the curve of the river and there was the Berhtfane, crowded with ship masts like toothpicks in ajar. Only the stretch of water before the palace was clear and the water shone a heavenly blue, the delicate spires of Rhyssmadill rising behind. Built on one of the rocky crags which reared like fingers out of the plain, Rhyssmadill seemed to float in the haze above the waters, its sharp towers shining. Despite herself, joy shot through her and she touched the pouch at her belt.

She removed Ahearn Horse-Tamer's bridle and saddle in the forests behind Rhyssmadill, having to fight the weakness that came over her as soon as she put foot to ground. The moment the saddle was removed, Lasair stumbled to his knees, his eyes glazing with exhaustion. Isabeau rubbed him down with a damp cloth, and brought him armfuls of sweet-smelling grass. He lipped at the grass, too tired even to eat, and she rubbed his ears and promised him oats, tears of remorse stinging her eyes. She was shocked at the effects of their journey and was beginning to understand the effects of the magic saddle. When Isabeau had first met Lasair, he had been a full-chested stallion, glossy and well-fleshed, still in the prime of his life. Now he was so thin his ribs stuck through his rough, bedraggled coat, and his mane was tangled with burrs.

Despite her own weakness, and her fear of being caught, Isabeau risked a journey into Dùn Gorm to steal him oats and strengthening medicine, and these she mixed into a warm mash and fed him by hand till his strength returned.

The saddle and bridle she hid in the trunk of a hollow tree, and with what little strength still remained to her, protected it with a magical ward. For three days she stayed with Lasair, caring for him, whispering endearments, covering him with her plaid and bringing him sweet herbs and water. Then, when he was well enough, she made her way toward Rhyssmadill, leaning on the stallion, the talisman hidden in her clothing.

At the edge of the forest, they parted company, tears wet on Isabeau's cheek. "I'll come soon, to check on ye," she promised. "Be careful. .."

Lasair shook himself, snorting loudly, and she hugged him fiercely before letting him canter away.

He'll be safe in the forests,
she thought.
No one will go so near the sea, and he's too canny to let himself be seen.

Then, taking her courage in both hands, Isabeau went to breach the Rìgh's palace.
Latifa is the name, Latifa.

She approached the slender stone bridge guarded by a full contingent of guards in plumed helmets and with long spears. At first they thought she was a beggar and tried to drive her away, but she whispered Latifa's name and it worked like a charm, winning her a smile and kind instructions toward the kitchen.

Weariness was pressing down on her like a giant hand but she managed slowly to make her way, leaning against the wall for support and stopping every few steps to allow her dizziness to pass. She made her way down a narrow stone walkway between the palace wall and the outer ring, and then she was in a garden, planted with herbs and vegetables, fruit trees espaliered against the walls. A kitchen maid in a blue dress and a mobcap, digging up carrots from the garden, looked at her curiously and tried to shoo her away but, on hearing Latifa's name, smiled and pointed toward the courtyard at the other end. A great arched door stood open, and delicious smells wafted out, along with a babble of laughter and gossip. Cautiously Isabeau looked inside, and there was the kitchen, a huge bright room with four fires burning along its sides. A tiny fat old woman, with twinkling black eyes like currants and a squashed brown face, saw her and came toward her, beaming.

"At last! I'd given up on ye, Is'beau! My sister's grand-bairn, come to stay wi' me at last! Come in, come in. Are ye hungry? Here, have one o' my gingerbread men, they're famous in these parts . .."

Isabeau took it gratefully, warm from the oven and delicious as it was. Latifa fussed about her kindly, exclaiming over the travel-stained sling and the dark shadows under her eyes. "Come up to my room, lassie," she said, and feeling unaccustomedly shy, Isabeau followed her obediently. Halfway up the stairs such a wave of dizziness came over that she almost fell, and the old cook came back, and half carried her up the remaining steps.

Once in the privacy of her room, a remarkable change came over Latifa. The cheerful bustling cook was replaced by a keen-eyed hard-mouthed woman who fired questions at Isabeau while swiftly unravelling the sling with accustomed fingers.

"In Eà's name, where have ye been? Meghan has been fretting herself sick about ye, no' to mention the talisman. Do ye have it?"

Isabeau nodded, and rather reluctantly slipped her hand under her shirt to find the black pouch. Contrary to her expectations, Latifa did not open the bag, but merely felt through its material anxiously. Her face cleared and she smiled, her whole face changing. "Thank Eà! Now we have all three parts, that is if Meghan can travel safely through to meet us wi' the last third! The Banrìgh has put the MacRuraich on her trail, and Eà knows they never give up once they catch the scent. I have been guarding my third wi' great anxiety all these years and very relieved I will be to be free o' it."

"I do no' understand," Isabeau said wearily but just then Latifa undid the last bandage and drew in her breath sharply.

"By the Beard o' the Centaur, what have ye done to yourself?"

"I was tortured," Isabeau said and to her surprise, began to cry. Once the tears began she could not stop, and an intense longing for Meghan rose in her throat, almost suffocating her.

Latifa sat beside her, and put her plump arms around her, murmuring and comforting, but still Isabeau sobbed for her guardian. "Sshh, sshh, my dear, Meghan will be with us soon enough. So ye fell into the hands o' the Awl? Silly silly lass. However did ye escape? No, no, time enough for storytelling later. Let's get ye into bed."

Being the head cook and housekeeper at the palace had its advantages. Within moments Latifa had maids scurrying about, bringing pails of hot water to pour into the hipbath hidden behind a screen, hot strengthening tea for Isabeau to drink, and bottles of ointments and medicine. Isabeau sat in the bath, her eyes closed, as Latifa washed her hair for the first time in three months, the dark stain of the dye dissolving in the warm water. When she was clean, Latifa rubbed sweet-scented ointment into the livid scars and carefully strapped up the crippled hand again. Then Isabeau was tucked up in Latifa's own bed, luxuriantly stretching and turning her cheek into the softness of the pillow. For three months, since the Red Guards had driven them from their tree house, Isabeau had slept on the ground, in hedge-rows and tree-roots, haystacks and ditches. She thought drowsily that she was going to enjoy living at Rhyssmadill, at least for a while.

Sani the Seer

Four stories above Isabeau's head, the old servant Sani stared into the magic mirror, a strange smile tugging the corners of her mouth.

So, Latifa,
she thought,
ye are in league with the Arch-Sorceress. I always thought so, though Maya would never believe me, the foolish bairn. Well, well, so Meghan's own apprentice has joined us. There canna be another with that color hair.

She looked down at the mirror again at the reflection of the sleeping girl, her damp hair spread over the pillow like tongues of flame. She smiled again.
I
wonder. . . what's in that pouch o' nyx hair? What did the girl carry? It has to be strong magic else the nyx magic would no' be needed. Latifa did not dare remove it from concealment. . .

Wrapping the mirror back in its fraying silk, Sani locked it away in its box.
Soon, my liege, soon . . . soon we will hold the land in our fist. The tidal wave o' Jor's wrath is rising, and to sand these rebels shall be ground!

[THE END]