Heart of Stars (18 page)

‘How far to sail there?’ she asked, wondering if the map was to scale and guessing it was not, considering the size of the sea-serpent.

‘Three days with a fair wind,’ Martin said with a shrug. ‘It’s rare for the wind hereabout to be fair, though.’

Rhiannon tried to calculate in her head how long it would take for Blackthorn to fly the same distance, but it was impossible for her to know. She had never learnt to count any higher than twenty, the number of her fingers and toes, and the books she had been brought to read in Sorrowgate Prison had all been storybooks and histories, not mathematical textbooks. Lewen would have been able to estimate the distance and time in a flash, she thought to herself unhappily, and wished once again that he was here, to lend her his strength and wit and common sense.

She saw another village marked on the map, about the length of her first knuckle away from Islay-on-the-Cliff. When asked, Martin told her it took about half a day’s walking to get there, which Rhiannon thought she could probably fly in a few hours. So, using her forefinger to measure, she plotted out a rough course for herself on the map, jumping from rock to island to reef. Martin was invaluable. He knew every mark on the map and was able to tell her their names and properties.

‘Och, aye,’ he said, ‘we call those the Demon’s Teeth. They’re only uncovered at low tide, and even then they’re dangerous indeed, the waves break over them pretty steadily. It’s high summer, though, and the tides are at their lowest. Ye couldna take a boat into them, though.’

‘What about this one?’ Rhiannon asked.

‘Aye, that’s a fair rock, we go there in summer to gather the kelp and hunt sea-otters. It’s a fair stretch from here, a day in one o’ our wee boats. We stay there overnight, there’s a spring o’ fresh water, and plenty o’ redfruit and other things to eat.’

‘What’s this over here?’

‘They call that Sailors’ Ruin,’ Martin answered. ‘The number o’ ships that run aground on that auld rock! It’s low, ye see, especially in autumn when the tides run high, and if ye are no’ looking out for it, it’s easy to miss. But why do ye need to ken all this, lassie
…
I mean
…
ma’am? If ye’re wishing to chase after those pirates, surely ye’ll be taking the quickest sea route, no’ exploring all these auld rocks?’

‘I like to ken what lies ahead,’ Rhiannon said.

‘Aye,’ he said, nodding his head wisely. ‘Well, then, this wee island here may interest ye. It’s small but it’s high, and it’s got fresh water on it, which is rare enough. We call it Muckle Roe, Eà ken why.’

Rhiannon measured the distance with her eye, tried to fix its position in her mind, and thanked Martin for his help. She had been tormented during their conversation by the rich smell of fish stew wafting from the kitchens. So she ordered a bowl of it, and a mug of weak ale, and asked Martin for some pen and paper. Very laboriously she wrote: ‘Ship gone Fair Iyell. Magic wind. I fly after. Rhiannon.’ She always liked writing her name. It looked like a horse in full gallop, mane and tail flying. It was the only word she could write with full confidence, and she liked to give it a little flourish at the end.

She folded the slip of paper over, sealed it with wax and the seal-ring she had been given by the Banrìgh, and gave it to Martin with a coin, asking him to make sure it
got to the garrison at Rhyssmadill. Then she ate up her stew with great enjoyment, swallowed down her ale, shouldered her saddlebags and left Islay-on-the-Cliff behind her, having done all she could to make her task easier.

Blackthorn was grazing in the forest, the bluebird swooping about her, catching the insects she stirred up from the grass. The winged mare raised her head at the sight of Rhiannon and whickered in greeting. Rhiannon had bought a small sack of oats for her, and gave her half of them, having no desire to carry any extra weight on their journey over the sea. She then repacked her saddlebags so the weight was equally distributed, and led Blackthorn to the stream to drink her fill. After that, she could think of no other reason to linger, and so mounted up and rode Blackthorn to the top of the cliff. It had stopped raining, but the sea was rough and wild. The wind dragged at her hair and at Blackthorn’s mane. The little bluebird, finding it too strong, came down to rest on Rhiannon’s shoulder. She tucked the little bird inside her pocket, with a cob of corn to peck at, and fastened the flap securely. She did not want to risk Bluey.

Then Rhiannon took a deep breath. Far off, she could see the tiny white sails of the lord of Fettercairn’s ship. Otherwise, the ocean stretched as far as she could see, limitless, fathomless, wild.

‘Let’s fly,’ she muttered, and urged Blackthorn into a gallop, straight at the cliff’s edge.

Iseult lay in her bed, her eyes shut, tears oozing under her red, swollen lids. Although it was morning, her room was dim, for the curtains were pulled tight across the windows. The air smelt of rotting flowers.

Iseult’s grief was like a giant boulder that lay on her chest, pinning her down. All her energy was taken in just breathing. She did not want to thrust the boulder away, because to do so would be to lose all that she had left of Lachlan. Instead she hugged the boulder to her, allowing it to press her down, crushing her ribs, her lungs and heart, her stomach. It hurt even to roll over, to find a dry spot on her pillow in which to press her aching eyes. So she lay as still as she could, and let the hours and the days slip past in a daze that was not quite sleeping, not quite swooning, not quite living.

She heard someone rap on the door to her sitting room, and then heard the low murmur of voices as her lady-in-waiting answered. Iseult did not open her eyes. She had given strict instructions that she was not to be disturbed, not by anyone.

‘Resting?’ a familiar voice roared. ‘What do ye mean she’s resting? Wake her up.’

Iseult pressed her hands over her eyes.
Go away, Father
, she thought.

There was the soft murmur of her lady-in-waiting’s protest, and then the door slammed open. Light flooded into the bedchamber. Iseult moaned and covered her eyes with her hands.

With a few quick strides, her father was standing by her bed. He was a tall, strong man, with red-grey hair tied back with a leather thong, and two thick curling horns that marked him as a Khan’cohban, one of the Children of the Gods of White. His dark, aquiline face was slashed on both cheeks and forehead with seven white lines that matched the two thin scars on Iseult’s cheeks.

‘Iseult, get up!’ he commanded.

‘Leave me be,’ she moaned, and turned her face away.

‘I will no’! Iseult, ye must get up.’

‘Why?’ she wept. ‘Why must I?’

He sat down beside her and took her hands in his. ‘Iseult, do ye want to lie sleeping for sixteen years, like your mother did? Lie sleeping, and leave your children to suffer and struggle and shift for themselves, as ye and Beau had to?’

‘My children are gone!’ she spat. ‘Have ye no’ heard. Gone!’

‘Then why are ye no’ out searching for them?’ he demanded.

She turned to glance at him. ‘What’s the use?’ she whispered. ‘Lachlan is dead, my babies have all been stolen away, they mean to kill them too. What’s the use in anything?’

‘Ye may be able to stop them,’ Khan’gharad said.

She raised one hand and let it drop. ‘How? I have no power, no authority. I’m no’ the Banrìgh any more. Maya’s daughter has seized that title with the throne. I am no’ a witch, or a warrior, or anything any more.’

‘Ye’re still a Scarred Warrior,’ he said, tracing the scar on either cheek. ‘No-one can take that away from ye.’

‘I’m forty-two years auld,’ Iseult said. ‘If I lived on the Spine o’ the World, I’d be thought an old woman. Too auld for hunting, too auld for fighting.’

He nodded and sat down beside her. ‘Aye, but this is no’ the Spine o’ the World. They revere their auld here. They think them wise. So it may be time for ye to start being wise, Iseult. And locking yourself away in your room is no’ wise.’

She turned her face away.

‘Your mother lies in her bed, sleeping too,’ Khan’gharad said, frustration strong in his voice. ‘I canna wake her. Whenever something terrible happens, whenever she canna deal with what is happening, Ishbel falls
asleep. I love your mother, ye ken that, Iseult, but I could strangle her with her own hair! How much o’ her life has she wasted sleeping? Decades! Most o’ your childhood. Do no’ end up like her, Iseult, sleeping your life away!’

‘I’m no’!’ Iseult cried.

‘Aye, ye are,’ he said. ‘I ken how much ye are grieving! I ken how terrible these last weeks have been. But lying here in bed with the curtains drawn, refusing to eat, is no’ helping your bairns! Get up! Do something! Try and save them.’

‘How?’ she asked again. ‘I have done everything wrong! It is my fault that all this has happened.’

‘Well, start doing something right,’ he answered. ‘Get up, wash your face, get dressed and eat something, for the White Gods’ sake. And then think what can be done! I do no’ want to lose my grandchildren, as well as my son-in-law and my wife.’

Iseult heaved a big sigh, and then tremulously sat up. ‘All right,’ she said, and tried to smile.

‘That’s my girl,’ he said, and bent and kissed her brow.

Black did not suit her, Bronwen decided, staring at herself in the mirror. It made her look pale and weary and old. It made her
feel
pale and weary and old. She sighed and turned away from the mirror, smoothing down her sombre gown with both hands.

It was time for her morning briefing with the Privy Council. Bronwen would very much like to have started her morning more pleasantly – curling up in bed with a cup of dancey and the broadsheets, for example. She knew how important these meetings were, however. Their perceived failure to catch Lachlan’s murderer or to rescue his kidnapped children was causing a great deal of talk and speculation. There were many who did not trust the Ensorcellor’s daughter and who privately believed she and her mother had plotted together to overthrow Lachlan and his family and win back power for themselves. No-one dared say so to Bronwen’s face, of course, but everywhere she went she heard whispers hurriedly shushed.

Bronwen actually preferred that brand of gossip to the rumours that Donncan had not been kidnapped at all but had fled his cold, arranged marriage to be with his true love, the Celestine princess Thunderlily. Whenever Bronwen heard even the faintest whisper of such talk, she felt herself turn rigid, blood draining from her face. ‘It’s absolute hogwash,’ she had snapped at Neil when he had first brought her the tale. ‘I’ve never heard such a ridiculous story. Donncan would never
…
and besides, Thunderlily does no’
…
’

To her horror, words had failed her. Tears bit at the back of her throat. She turned away from Neil, breathing in deeply through her nose. He came up beside her, touching her shyly on the shoulder. ‘I ken that, and ye ken that, but these tattle-mongers, they’ll say and believe anything,’ he said gently.

‘It’s absolute rubbish!’ she cried.

‘I ken,’ he replied, ‘but I thought ye ought to ken what they were saying.’

She took another deep breath and said, ‘Aye. Thank ye.’

‘I’ll do what I can to scotch the rumour,’ Neil said. ‘Everyone kens how honour-bound the Celestines are. Thunderlily kens she must marry as her family decrees.’

‘Aye,’ Bronwen said blankly, and bit her lip.

The rumours had persisted, though, as the days had stretched out past a week and still there was no news, nor any sign of the missing couple. Everyone knew that Isabeau and her companions travelled the Old Ways in their search for Donncan and Thunderlily; everyone also knew that only the Celestines knew the secret of the magical roads. What kidnapper could possibly know the secret?

It seemed obvious that it was Thunderlily who had chosen the escape route, and guided Donncan and Johanna along it, and no-one truly believed the Celestine
princess was party to any kidnapping attempt. It was a love story, then, many among the court and city decided, and their sympathies were definitely with the persecuted couple, not with Bronwen who had wasted no time in seizing control. Johanna had known the prionnsa since he was a baby, and with her talents in healing magic, Thunderlily had spent much time studying with the head of the Healers’ Guild. Obviously Johanna had been aware of Donncan and Thunderlily’s secret love and had sympathised with it to the extent that she was prepared to assist an elopement.

Knowing the truth, these stories made Bronwen grind her teeth and clench her hands into fists. She could not blurt out the truth, however. Firstly, it was such a fantastic tale that surely no-one would believe her; and secondly, Isabeau wanted no-one to know about the spell of resurrection and the possible raising of Brann the Raven from the grave. The lord of Fettercairn was not the only madman in the world who dreamt of bringing back a loved one to life. And knowing Johanna sought to raise Brann could only cause fear and consternation, and possibly even panic. There was enough anxiety in the land already, without releasing the true story of Donncan and Thunderlily’s disappearance.

Bronwen stopped outside the door of the Privy Chamber and took a few long, slow breaths, smoothing down her dress and making sure the little coronet she wore was straight. Then she nodded to her new page, Joey, who had been a gift of sorts from Neil, who thought she needed someone to fetch and carry for her, and run messages, and carry her mantle and gloves. A dark-haired, eager-faced boy who had grown up at the Tower of Mists in Arran, Joey had been Neil’s page, like his brother before him. His brother Brant was Neil’s squire,
and Bronwen knew him quite well as he always rode behind Neil and served him at meals. Joey was thrilled to be serving the new Banrìgh and was very quick and willing to serve.

At Bronwen’s nod, he sprang forward to open the door for her, bowing low as she passed. Bronwen walked into a babble of noise, as the privy councillors argued angrily among themselves. The noise died away at her appearance, and everyone rose and bowed.

Bronwen nodded and allowed Joey to pull out her chair for her. As she seated herself, spreading out the dull black silk of her skirts, she looked around the room, carefully noting every expression and posture.

The Banrìgh had only chosen her privy councillors after a great deal of nail-biting and floor-pacing. She had to have councillors about her that she could trust, yet she knew how important it was to pacify the more powerful nobles. Most importantly, Bronwen realised she needed wise and canny heads about her. There was much she did not understand about the management of the government, despite all her lessons in economics, politics, history and law. She was ashamed to think how she had wasted her years at the Theurgia, yawning through her classes and scribbling frivolous notes to her friends.

It had been important to her to reward those that she perceived as supporting her, while punishing those that muttered about her and her mother behind her back. Yet Bronwen was clear-sighted enough to realise that many of the courtiers who clustered about her whispering honeyed words were mere sycophants, while some of those that questioned and challenged her the most publicly were in fact the cleverest and wisest men in the land.

In the end, she had kept many of her uncle’s advisors, replacing only those she truly disliked or distrusted. Neil
had already been appointed as her new master of horse, a role which made him the third most powerful officer in her household. On Neil’s advice, she appointed herself a new secretary, a young but vigilant minor lord named Maddock MacNair, who had studied at the Theurgia with her, and excelled in all the subjects she found most boring. It did not bother her that Maddock had always disapproved of her. It showed, she thought, great sense, and she at least could trust him not to toady to her, which so many of her old school friends were prone to do.

She had not forgotten that the Lord Steward had spoken against her, the night of Lachlan’s murder, when she had seized control of the Privy Council. Bronwen took pleasure in dismissing him and promoting a man who had always been kind and respectful to her, a lord named Hargreaves, whom Neil knew well since he had served his father for years. His elevation caused a lot of discussion, but in his first week of office he had served well and efficiently, and Bronwen was pleased.

She would have liked to dismiss the Lord Chancellor too, for he was an elderly man and completely overcome by dismay and grief. He had spent much of the week wringing his hands and asking, over and over again, ‘What should we do? What should we do?’ The Lord Chancellor had served her father before he had served Lachlan, however, and she could not bring herself to humiliate him. So she appointed a keen-eyed, firm-mouthed lord to act as his secretary, and replaced the Keeper of the Privy Seal, who had also spoken against her, with a younger, more vigorous man, one also highly recommended to her by Neil.

None of these were easy decisions to make, and Bronwen received so much conflicting advice from those around her that she found herself unable to please one
without offending another. Many warned her against showing too much favour to the Fairgean, while Alta, the Fairgean ambassador, had at once begun pressing her for further trade concessions. There were lords who had lost all their lands in the rebellion and wanted some restitution now that Maya had been publicly pardoned and released from her subjugation; while the lords who had risen to wealth and power by fighting on Lachlan’s side had no intention of relinquishing any of what they had won. There were those who were jealous of the Coven’s power and believed Bronwen should take the opportunity of the Keybearer’s absence to pass laws to curb their influence. Others feared her intentions, and made veiled threats that any attempt to undermine the witches would result in arms being taken up.

Some wanted taxes to be lowered; others wanted old debts to be paid immediately. The Prionnsa of Carraig wanted the controls on the production of saltpetre to be lifted, hinting that Bronwen may find a need for gunpowder in the near future. The Guild of Ancient Firework Magicians agreed; others argued against it vociferously.

The Banprionnsa of Blèssem was eager for Bronwen to use her friendship with Neil to encourage more roads to be opened up through the marshes of Arran, facilitating trade with the north-west; while those who distrusted Arran and Tirsoilleir muttered about Neil’s quick advancement.

Much talk had been caused by Iain of Arran’s decision to ride home to the marshes while his wife stayed behind at the royal court, her pastor and spiritual advisor her constant companion. If they had not both been so stern and virtuous, most would have assumed Iain a cuckold and the pale-haired pastor Elfrida’s lover. But it was impossible to imagine, and so they assumed the Banprionnsa of
Tirsoilleir saw her son’s friendship with the new Banrìgh as a means to advancing the cause of her country and religion.

So many people warned Bronwen against the two that she lost her temper one afternoon and snapped, ‘Ye need have no fear for me, my lairds! Their sour faces make me want to rip off my blacks and dance about the hall half-naked!’

She regretted her comment immediately, but to her surprise it caused a little stir of amusement, and she found a new warmth towards her from some of the courtiers who had, she realised, begun to fear her new-found gravity and sobriety were an indication of sympathy with the stern religion of Tirsoilleir.

Not everyone was amused, however. The nobles of Eileanan feared another war with the Bright Soldiers almost as much as they feared war against the Fairgean, she knew, and so Bronwen found herself walking a tightrope between offending one race or religion, or another.

All seemed to hope to gain what they wanted in these first few days of uncertainty, as if expecting Bronwen to succumb to their flattery and their threats as if she was nothing but a wool-headed lass with more interest in the cut of her sleeve than the state of the nation. Bronwen had to remind herself grimly she had no-one but herself to blame.

In all this rush and turmoil, the only peace she found was in her daily ride with Neil. He had found her a very dainty white mare and had insisted on her riding every day so that the mare would grow used to her. Bronwen knew he realised how tiring she found all the business of the government, and was grateful. Often they rode on alone, the other lords and ladies falling behind, so she could talk over problems with him and ease herself with
frank and often humorous portrayals of all the different supplicants wearing out a path on the carpet that led to her rooms. It was a relief not having to watch what she said with him, and he surprised her sometimes with his knowledge of the political intricacies of the land.

Neil was, she reminded herself, heir to two of the great countries, and had been raised with full knowledge of what his role would one day be. She found his advice invaluable, and knew she could trust him in a way she could trust no other at the court.

She began asking him to attend her in the evening so he could go over the day’s events with her, explain anything she did not understand and give her his advice. She made sure his mother was always present, as well as a number of other sober, respectable ladies and gentlemen, so no breath of scandal would be attached to these meetings. It was all so very grim and boring Bronwen could hardly bear it, and she longed to call for musicians and jugglers and singers, and lose herself in pleasure for a few hours. She resisted the temptation, however, and knew those who thought her too giddy and flighty to rule the land were surprised and some even pleased.

This morning, Neil was waiting for her in the Privy Chamber with all the other lords and councillors, his squire standing behind his chair as usual. He smiled at her, and suggested quietly that Joey pour her out a cup of her special angelica tea, which the squire did at once with a blush and an apology.

Bronwen smiled and thanked him, and drank a mouthful of the invigorating brew before drawing her papers towards her.

‘What news, my lairds?’ she asked.

‘No news yet from the Keybearer, I’m sorry, Your Majesty,’ Gwilym said. ‘I have been keeping watch in the
Scrying Pool, just in case I should be able to see where they are, and what is happening, but I have seen nothing, nothing at all.’

There was a stir of unease. Bronwen tried to hide her disappointment, but she felt the Lodestar warm under her hands and heard its crooning melody lift, as if it sought to comfort her.

‘Eà grant them success in their mission,’ she said softly, and the lords all murmured in response.

‘What o’ my other cousins?’ she asked. ‘Surely we must have some more news by now?’

Captain Dillon of the Yeomen gave her a succinct review of the difficulties Finn and Jay and their accompanying soldiers had suffered. Bronwen’s brows drew together as she heard of the broken-down barricade, the injured men, the slaughtered horses and grooms, the foul weather, and the continued evasion of authorities by Lord Malvern and his men.

‘We have some good news, though, Your Majesty,’ Captain Dillon said. ‘Two o’ Laird Malvern’s men have been laid by the heels and are being brought back to Lucescere as we speak. One, at least, we should have no trouble condemning to hang. He was found with a bloody knife in his hand, right by the bodies o’ the two lads he slaughtered. He is sullen and recalcitrant, and has tried several times to escape, but we have him well under control.’