Lady of Magick (35 page)

They blinked at
one another in the sudden silence: Sophie and Mór at either end of the dining-room table, Lucia and Joanna and Gwendolen crowded along one side.

Lucia rested her forearms on the table and brought her face so close to the map that her nose nearly brushed the pins. “Brìghde's tears,” she breathed. When she straightened up again, her expression was grim; she turned to Mór and said flatly, “Explain.”

Joanna meanwhile had put her arm about Sophie's shoulders and drawn out another chair from the table. “Come and sit down,” she said gently, guiding Sophie into it.

Sophie went without protest, for after the effort of sustaining the spell so long, following upon a period of enforced inactivity, her limbs were trembling despite the infusion of Lucia MacNeill's magick. She folded her arms upon the table and rested her chin upon them, staring uncomprehendingly at the map.

Joanna stood behind her sister's chair; she said nothing, but her hands on Sophie's shoulders, gripping just short of actual discomfort, conveyed her opinion more clearly than any words. Lucia MacNeill took a seat facing Mór across the table, both looking rather shaken.
Sophie could not see where Gwendolen had gone, but suspected her of lurking out of sight behind Joanna.

“Mór,” Sophie said. “Mór, that was—was that—”

“Gray was hidden from us when last we sought him,” said Mór, perhaps taking pity on her inarticulate anxiety, “and I confess I doubted whether Rory's scheme were worth the effort all of us put into it, but it seems he was quite right.”

Sophie raised her head in desperate hope; before she could speak, however, Mór turned to her and said, “Your spell . . . I am somewhat at a loss to describe what I saw, for it is quite out of my experience. But I saw your magick, Sophie, wound all about with Lucia MacNeill's; and just now, at the end, I saw . . . I
believe
I saw Gray's magick echoing back, as I have seen your magicks do before—but faint and weak and distant. It did not look quite as it usually does—just as yours, at present, does not—but I do not believe I could mistake it for any other's. And the echo came—”

She drew her forefinger along the line of violet silk, west-northwest from Din Edin to a point along the coastline of one of the great islands.

As she did so, the quivering owl-feather—until now nudging up against the second pin, as though unable to bear being parted from that spot—abruptly stilled, then quietly heeled over.

Sophie clapped one hand across her mouth to stifle a cry of alarm. Her face was hot, her heart battering wildly against her ribs. “What does that mean?” she demanded. “What has happened?”

Her voice emerged as a sort of breathless shriek. From either side they gazed at her, measuring, assessing, till she longed to disappear, to divert their attention elsewhere; she held herself in check, and did not.

“It means that we were right to seize our moment,” said Mór, grave and thoughtful. “Whatever has been blocking the finding-spell was temporarily in abeyance—perhaps he was behind a ward, and was briefly outside it?—but that reprieve is now concluded” (she waved a hand at the upended owl-feather) “and we do not know when there may be another.”

If at all
, she did not say, but Sophie heard it nevertheless.

“But we do not need another,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. “
I have it
, you said; you know where to look for Gray—on”—she leant forward to peer at the map—“on Mull.”

The map, she saw, recorded not only the names of places—towns and fortifications, rivers and lochs and firths—but also the names of people:
Lindsay. Bruce. MacDuff.

No; not the names of people, but the names of clans.
And what clan name is written along the coast of Mull, that makes Lucia MacNeill look so grim?

She levered herself upright and peered down the table, trying to see what Lucia MacNeill had seen.
MacLean . . . MacQuarie . . .

MacAlpine.

The name was familiar, why? She had seen it printed, not in the Gaelic manner (as on the map) but in plain Latin—she had heard it spoken, too, and where?

The others were staring at her; she adjured herself not to care. Lucia knew something—perhaps Mór, also—was it the same something which Sophie (perhaps, possibly) knew?

“Clan MacAlpine,” she muttered experimentally, and squeezed her eyes shut and tugged at a loose curl of hair. The words tickled at the edges of her memory; she spoke them again; then, “But Clan MacAlpine do not rule Alba now.”

Sophie stood bolt upright, her eyes open wide, but seeing nothing of her own surroundings.
Arthur's Seat. Gray and Rory and Catriona MacCrimmon, sitting over the remains of a picnic hamper.
The memories tumbled through her mind, almost too quickly to be caught hold of. Rory's voice:
A crossroads of Ailpín Drostan's spell-net.
Catriona's, reproving. It had been legend to him—idle talk for an idle moment—but not to her. And Gray, afire with curiosity:
No one mage has ever had such power, or such a range. A group of mages, then . . . I should like to know how it was done . . .

And then . . . and then Catriona had smiled at Gray in that odd, acquisitive way.

Later, a supper-party here in Quarry Close: Sophie had been
curious about the opening of the storehouses, and though the other Albans present had been ready—even eager—to exchange the latest news from their own clan-lands, Catriona had again turned the conversation—and not for the first time. Even Rory had sent Sophie away with a book about Alba's past when she attempted to discuss its present circumstances. Though it had been an enlightening volume, and she was grateful to him for the loan of it, hindsight clearly showed it to have been an evasion.

A parade of memories of Catriona MacCrimmon presented themselves to Sophie's mind, each in some way entirely out of character with the last. Here she cast arch, flirtatious glances at Gray; there sat at Sophie's elbow in a lecture theatre, patiently translating from Gaelic into Latin. In January she had asked Sophie, in a tone of distant reproach, what manner of friendship she imagined might subsist between two such unequal parties as their two kingdoms; in March, insisted upon trundling her all round Din Edin, from warehouse to dressmaker to milliner's shop—

“Oh,” Sophie said, and sat down hard. She had come home that very afternoon, very late, to find her house chill and empty, and Gray not in it. “Oh, surely not.”

*   *   *

Sophie collapsed backwards into her chair as abruptly as though her strings had all been cut.

“Sophie!” cried Joanna in sudden alarm. She quickly folded herself into the next chair to Sophie's, pulling it as close as the shape of the table permitted.

“Lucia,” said Sophie urgently, ignoring her sister altogether, “Mór, that place on Mull, where you put in the second pin—where Gray is, if Rory's spell does not mistake—what is at that spot?”

Lucia MacNeill and Mór MacRury exchanged a guarded look.

“Castle MacAlpine,” Lucia MacNeill said grimly, after a long moment. “Birthplace of the last MacAlpine to hold the chieftain's seat of Alba, and of none since, for his descendants abandoned it after his death—there are MacAlpines everywhere in Alba, for they
ruled for hundreds of years, and they have many a more convenient seat. It has lately been rumoured to be haunted; now I suppose we know why.”

Sophie's fingers traced the long curve of the Ross of Mull, wrought in faded green ink upon the parchment of the sea.

“You shall tell your father?” she said, looking up at Lucia MacNeill.

The heiress of Alba grimaced. “As soon as ever I can,” she said.

“You did not say that you were here on your father's behalf!” cried Mór MacRury, turning to her eagerly.

“I did not, because I am not,” said Lucia MacNeill. “He will deplore my act of deception in coming here, but my father is not a man to neglect a promising avenue only because its origin annoys him. And of course the discovery is Sophie's and not mine, and will be the more welcome therefore, in the circumstances.”

Joanna eyed her sidelong, attempting—unsuccessfully—to determine whether this remark indicated resentment.

“There is no need to peer at me in that manner, Sophie,” Lucia MacNeill said tartly—frowning at Sophie, who must evidently have succumbed to the same impulse.

Sophie turned to look her in the eye. “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “This . . . this business of fathers and daughters is quite outside my experience. I hope I am not to blame for—”

Lucia MacNeill threw up an imperious hand, suddenly every inch the heiress of Alba. “There is a wealth of blame to be shared out in connexion with this mess,” she said. “None of it is yours. Let us have no more apologising.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Sophie. “There is another point—I had almost rather not—but what if Gray should not be their last victim? I am very much afraid, Lucia, that Rory MacCrimmon's sister Catriona—”

A sharp indrawn breath from Mór MacRury; glancing in her direction, Joanna saw shock and surmise and sorrow chase one another across her face. “Oh, my poor Rory,” she said, rubbing her brow as though her head ached.

“I am sorry for it,” said Lucia MacNeill, “and I honour your
scruples, Sophie, but if I am to tell my father anything of this—and I must—then I must tell him all.”

Sophie nodded glumly.

Joanna heard, as though from very far away, the arrhythmic
clop-clop
of carriage-horses in the street, and was vaguely surprised when, instead of fading into the general hum of sound as the carriage passed along Quarry Close, it halted abruptly and was succeeded by a jingle of harness, and then by a sharp rap at her own front door.

“Whoever can that be?” she said, jumping up to peer around the window-curtain.

Lucia MacNeill ran to the window and peered likewise, then turned away again and groaned.

“Who is it?” said Sophie, as Gwendolen ran to open the front door.

“The compliments of Donald MacNeill, Chieftain of the Clans,” came a measured, resonant voice from the entry, speaking in a formal and strongly accented Latin, “and will Lucia MacNeill be pleased to take her seat in her father's carriage at once.” The voice rose a little in volume: “At once.”

“M-my duty to Donald MacNeill,” stammered Gwendolen, “and . . . er . . .”

Lucia MacNeill grimaced, muttered something uncomplimentary beneath her breath, and turned to Sophie and Joanna. “I am discovered, evidently,” she said. “I shall send to you with news, as soon as I may.”

She hesitated, biting her lip; then, darting forward, she clasped Sophie's hands and whispered fiercely, “Do not despair.”

Then, giving Sophie no opportunity of reply, she straightened, threw back her head, and assumed an imperious expression—putting on the heiress of Alba, exactly as Sophie herself might have put on the Princess Royal—and paced very deliberately towards the front door.

*   *   *

The tug of Sophie's magick faded over the course of the return journey—to which Gray was blind and nearly deaf, for his wings were pinioned and his small feathered body tucked (not very gently)
under someone's elbow—and at last vanished altogether. Not for the first time, Gray wished desperately for some hint to the situation of Castle MacAlpine. How far was he at this moment from Din Edin, from Sophie? The distance must be less than he had supposed, if her spell could reach him, even so faintly as this. Why had they never tested her limits systematically, like the scholars they purported to be? Had he been certain of her range, he might now have calculated his own distance from her, and thus determined . . .

What?

By the position of the sun as it sank below the horizon, just before the mad brangle in the clearing, he could at least be certain that the pull of Sophie's spell had been towards the southeast: he was north and west of Din Edin, then. Though he could hardly have been east of it without falling into the sea, it was something to know that they had travelled north and not south or due west.

The scrape of heavy oak on rough-dressed stone signalled the opening of a door. Abruptly Gray found himself unwrapped and flung carelessly onto the straw pallet in the corner of his cell; the impact, though greatly lessened by his presently weighing less than half a stone, set his shoulder and knee ringing with pain. His bedraggled garments were tossed in after him and the door pulled to with a dull
thunk
.

If the sensation of escaping the interdiction was akin to a wellspring bubbling up through newly thawing earth, returning to it in this form was like being violently turned inside out. Gray's human shape reasserted itself with nauseating suddenness, and quite without volition; every part of him ached and itched at once; sprawled on the stinking straw-tick, he was swallowed by waves of nausea, and retched helplessly, though—perhaps fortunately—there was nothing in his stomach to bring up.

At long last—it might have been a quarter-hour that passed in this manner, or several days, for all that Gray could tell—the sick fitful darkness rolled over him again.

My dear Jo,
Joanna read, in Jenny's clear, elegant hand,

Please write very soon, and tell me that you and Sophie and Gwendolen are safe and well, as it seems that my brother has not after all outgrown his tendency to attract trouble. My lord had a letter from Din Edin this morning, by the diplomatic express, whose contents I expect you can very easily imagine—indeed, I should not wonder if the hand that enciphered them was your own—and you may therefore imagine, too, my state of mind at present . . .

Joanna sighed. Lord de Courcy could not, of course, reasonably have kept the MacAlpine débacle from his masters. She had hoped, however, that Kergabet might for the time being refrain from terrifying Jenny with its details.

My dear Jenny,
she wrote,

I am very sorry that you should have learnt of the circumstances here in such a way. I had hoped to delay in
telling you of it, until I should be able to tell you also of Gray's safe return; but that, I suppose, was a foolish hope. I may at least assure you that both Gwen and I are perfectly well, and very far from any sort of excitement. I regret to say that Sophie is not so well as I should wish, though at any rate her health seems not to be growing worse at present.

I shall not sport with your patience by simply repeating facts with which I must suppose you are already acquainted, through Courcy's letter to Kergabet—it was not I who enciphered it, and in fact I did not read it at all, but its contents are not difficult to deduce. You may, however, be interested in a second angle of view upon those facts.

She read this over, chewing thoughtfully on the end of her pen—a bad habit of her childhood, which she had taken up again under the strain of this visit.

So, then: Sophie and some of her mage friends have located Gray, through some combination of spells which I do not at all understand, in the general vicinity of an abandoned castle on the island of Mull, off the eastern coast, which was once the seat of Clan MacAlpine. Circumstances suggest that where Gray is, we shall also find the several other foreign mages who have gone missing whilst visiting or residing in Alba, in the course of the past twelvemonth.

An acquaintance of Gray and Sophie's may be somehow involved in the business, which is a great consternation to Sophie, particularly because it was her brother who secured them the invitation to the University. She could not be questioned, having left Din Edin shortly after Gray did, allegedly on a visit to her parents; but the brother remains here, and has admitted quite openly that though he had been previously in correspondence with Gray, and thought the invitation an excellent notion, it was his sister who first suggested it. I do not believe he himself stands accused of
any wrongdoing, but he has been put under guard, lest he attempt to communicate with his sister. I am sorry for it, but I cannot fault the decision. The absent sister was also responsible for engaging Sophie's daily woman, who as a result is now also under suspicion—though erroneously, in my view, for she seems quite devoted to Sophie.

Sophie believes—and it appears that Lucia MacNeill finds her theory plausible, though I confess I cannot entirely fathom it—that there is some connexion with an old legend from the time of the MacAlpine kings, of a “spell-net” which is attributed to Ailpín Drostan, called the father of Alba, but which must have been the work of an entire cohort of mages, not just one.

Donald MacNeill having once been convinced of the accuracy of Sophie's information—

And what a conversation that must have been! Lucia MacNeill's exasperation had risen like steam from her explanatory note to Sophie, which had arrived by one of her father's pages on the following afternoon.

—called for the muster of the company of what we should call royal troops which are quartered at Oban, and sent his serjeant-at-arms (a cousin of some sort, in whom he reposes great trust) to take command of them and to lead an expedition to Mull (which lies within sight of the town) to investigate the recent rumours that the old Castle MacAlpine is haunted, and if possible to rescue the prisoners. Most unfortunately however, the serjeant-at-arms was badly injured in the course of the journey—he will recover, we are told, though I fear the same cannot be said for his poor horse—and the company commander, it appears, received his instructions, disregarded them almost entire, and turned a quiet investigative sortie into a full-scale assault.

If you were to suppose that His Majesty sent a troop of
the Palace Guard against, say, the Duke of Kernow, without warning or parley and upon no evidence but the claim of one of his sons, that some foreign mage had seen something through a finding-spell, you should begin to have some idea of the result. Only you must understand that the man so attacked is one of two claimants to the chieftainship of a clan which once ruled all of Alba, and not only that, but a direct descendant of the kingdom's founder; and that the politics and sensibilities (and, it appears, the magicks) of our own factions at home are as nothing beside those of Alba's clans and clan-lands.

It was, in short, a disaster—not only was there no rescuing of prisoners, but I should not have been at all surprised, if it had ended in civil war—the only redeeming feature of which was, that in the course of it two of D.MacN.'s guardsmen, sent as scouts, did in fact (or so they say) find evidence of prisoners' being held there. I am confident, therefore, that this is indeed a case of kidnap and not murder, and that I shall soon have the best of news to send you.

Joanna chewed her pen once more as she considered this last. It was not untrue, so far as it went, but she could certainly not tell anyone what, in fact, she meant to do next.

*   *   *

The council of war, so called, which followed the disastrous raid upon Castle MacAlpine was, as Joanna had expected, entirely unsatisfactory. Joanna was included in it—or, rather, her presence was tolerated—only at Lucia MacNeill's insistence; and her gratitude for that favour, and for Lucia MacNeill's earnest, if bizarrely expressed, desire to help Sophie, allowed her to keep her countenance, and her silence, in the face of what proved very strong provocation.

Donald MacNeill's serjeant-at-arms was in no condition to travel, or to answer questions; his ill-fated second-in-command had taken to
the boats, and though he had sent in letters—a series of letters, each, or so said Lucia MacNeill, more defensive and self-serving than the last—remained at sea, in the firth between Mull and the mainland, with his troops. The recriminations now flying about Donald MacNeill's council chamber, therefore, were balked of their proper object, and thus accomplished even less than such post hoc strategic argumentation ordinarily does.

Donald MacNeill had dispatched a courier to the encampment to question the two guardsmen whose scouting report appeared to confirm the presence of prisoners at Castle MacAlpine, and the courier had this morning returned with his report.

“‘While observing from the cover of the wood abutting the castle to the northwest, at a height of some ten feet, we saw a man in shackles,'” Lucia MacNeill read, her voice as clear and precise as though the words affected her not at all, “‘and two men dragging him between them towards the castle walls, as though he could not walk. He was a small man, and his hair apparently dark. We could see nothing else of him but that he was dressed in rags.'”

Not Gray, then, but very possibly one of the other missing mages. Joanna glanced up from the handkerchief she was worrying in her hands, for lack of any useful task to turn them to, and found Lord de Courcy and his secretary exchanging a look which told her quite clearly that they had made the same connexion.

“‘We followed them at a little distance. They entered through a postern-gate in the castle's northern wall. It was too small for more than one man to pass through at a time, and reached by means of a walled staircase, yet it was guarded by two armed men, and the staircase itself by two more. We therefore set a watch upon this gate for some time, in hopes of learning what lay beyond it, and of overhearing some watchword or countersign which might be used to gain entry.

“‘Approximately a quarter-hour later, the same two men again passed out through the postern-gate, again escorting a shackled prisoner who stumbled badly. They spoke to the guardsmen, but we could not hear what they said. The prisoner did not appear to be the same as before, but we cannot be certain, as the night was very dark.
They entered the wood, but did not come out again while we watched there.'”

The assembled company waited for Lucia MacNeill to continue, but she only said, “There is no more.”

Donald MacNeill bent his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Joanna remained long enough to conclude both that Lord de Courcy could be relied upon to take the matter seriously, and that Donald MacNeill would not or could not act so quickly as she considered needful. Then, with a glance at Lucia MacNeill, she seized the chance of a particularly loud and vitriolic dispute between two of the Albans—both cousins of Donald MacNeill, if she read the insignia on their various accoutrements correctly—to leave her seat at the periphery of the room and slip silently out of the door.

*   *   *

“If you have been plotting to go haring off without me, you had best think again,” said Gwendolen, folding her arms across her breast.

She had quietly dogged Joanna's steps almost since the moment of her return to Quarry Close, and now was standing firmly in the doorway of Sophie's tiny guest bedroom, blocking her way. Of course Joanna had not supposed that she should succeed in evading her; but she had hoped for a little more time to collect her thoughts.

“I take it that you mean to cross half of Alba all alone,” Gwendolen continued, “and hire passage to the isle of Mull, and take Castle MacAlpine by storm?”

“Of course not!” said Joanna, stung into speech by her friend's mocking tone—which over the months of their acquaintance she had grown used to hearing directed at almost everyone but herself. “Storming Castle MacAlpine was an idiotic idea when Angus Ferguson did it, and I should be the queen of all fools to try it a second time, even if I had the men to do it with.” His Majesty's guardsmen, indeed, were much more likely to pack her off back to London than to follow her orders. “And I am not such a fool, Gwendolen Pryce, and nor are you.”

“What, then?” said Gwendolen, still sceptical.

“Obviously,” said Joanna, “I intend to infiltrate by stealth.”

Gwendolen frowned at this for a moment before translating, “Sneak in, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“You”—looking her up and down—“dressed like that.”

“Well—”

“And when you have done your stealthy infiltrating, what then?”

Joanna scowled. “Well, I cannot know what to do next until I have seen the lay of the land, can I?” she said. “There is a postern-gate in the north wall—away from the sea—with two guards. The prisoners are brought in and out that way.”

Gwendolen's eyes widened. “Please, Jo,” she said, “tell me that your grand plan does not rely upon being taken prisoner yourself.”

“I did think of that, at first,” Joanna conceded, “but it will not answer; they are kidnapping powerful mages—for their great spell-thing, if Sophie is not mistaken—and I cannot even call light.”

“Then you had much better let me do it,” said Sophie.

*   *   *

The ensuing dispute quickly became a shouting-match, which Gwendolen (aided by her superior height) interrupted by taking Joanna by one shoulder and Sophie by the other, dragging them apart, and bellowing over their combined protests, “You shall neither of you do anything of the sort, if I have to lock both of you up in that wardrobe to stop you.”

The three of them retreated to separate corners of the tiny room—so close together, still, that any of them might have reached out and touched the others—and glared, breathing hard.

“How can you think of doing such a thing, Sophie?” Joanna demanded, not for the first time. “You have scarcely left your bed since—”

“Have you forgot already how Donald MacNeill came by the intelligence that sent all those men out to the Ross of Mull to begin
with?” Sophie retorted. “If done once, it can be done again—and besides, the nearer I am to Gray, the better I shall recover.”

This last, at any rate, was true enough that Joanna could not at once find words to refute it.

“Wardrobe,” said Gwendolen darkly. “Locked. I have three brothers and three sisters who will tell you whether or not I mean what I say.”

Sophie glowered.

Joanna took several deep breaths, marshalling her thoughts, and at last said, “I cannot be content to wait for Donald MacNeill to put his house in order. Something must be done, as soon as may be, and we are the ones to do it.” She turned to Sophie. “I had hoped to keep you safely out of it. That was always a vain hope, I suppose.”

“We are neither of us renowned for keeping safe at home,” Sophie muttered; Joanna pretended not to hear her.

“I am—I am willing that you should be of the party, if Lucia MacNeill will consent to share her magick with you. Otherwise you should be a danger to all of us, rather than a help. I am sorry to say it,” she added, in response to Sophie's poorly concealed flinch, “but so it is.”

It was not an entirely safe promise to make; still, Donald MacNeill's reaction to the first such undertaking had been such as, in Joanna's estimation, made it unlikely that he should countenance a repeat performance.

Relief and terror and hope chased one another across Sophie's face before a careful blankness took their place. “I shall go and write to Lucia, then.”