The Cursed Towers (13 page)

"I shall need ye, though, Anghus, so be sure to put your affairs in order and return to me," he said.

"Blair-gowrie is only the first o' our objectives. It shall be a long and bloody war, never forget that, and I need all the prionnsachan behind me."

"I shall return as soon as I am able," Anghus replied. "And I shall bring an army with me, Your Highness, that I promise."

Lachlan nodded in thanks, though his face was drawn with worry. He had never had to plan a war before, for the years of rebellion had mostly been spent in small engagements and minor conflicts. For all their shrewdness, Meghan and Enit did not have the tactical or logistical knowledge to help him, and most of his brother's military advisers had fled to join Renshaw's forces. Iseult was well trained in the art of the Scarred Warrior, but her experience involved close hand-to-hand fighting and not the arming and deploying of almost six thousand soldiers.

With his small staff of officers, Lachlan not only had to command the army troops but also to organize efficient service corps, with farriers to tend the horses, carpenters to build siege machines, and engineers to plan and build fortifications. He also had to try and set up secure lines of communications between the various battalions, as well as organize supply trains with herds of sheep and goats to feed them all. Worst of all, he had to try and raise the funds to pay for it all. Most of the royal treasury had been left behind in the hurried escape from Rhyssmadill, and with the palace still under siege from the Tirsoilleirean army, Lachlan had to find alternative sources of money.

Luckily Lucescere was a rich city, with over fifty different guilds ranging from silk weavers to clock-makers to potters. In return for promises of significant grants in the future, the young righ had managed to secure sufficient funds for the immediate future, but he knew all too well how much the merchants' support depended on quick success in the countryside.

His major problem remained the feeding of the soldiers, for he was determined not to simply take what he needed from the farmers and crofters, as the Red Guards had done. Rionnagan, Clachan and Blessem were rich in grain and fruit and meat, but the Bright Soldiers had descended on the countryside like locusts, stripping what they needed and destroying the rest. Those parts of southern Eileanan that had not fallen to the invaders had already been plundered to feed the thousands of refugees who had fled to Lucescere and upper Rionnagan. Lach-lan knew it was imperative that the spring planting went ahead if they were to have food for the winter, and so he had to deploy some of his troops to help the farmers and protect the crops.

With a frown etched deep into his brow, Lachlan wondered whether he would have gone ahead with the rebellion had he known exactly how much responsibility being the righ entailed. It was too late to balk now, though; he was the MacCuinn, Righ of all Eileanan and the Far Islands, bearer of the Lodestar, and the future of the land weighed on his shoulders. He sighed and turned back to the maps.

"It be a cold, raw morn," the weaver woman said with a shiver, holding the shawl close about her head with a bluish hand. Her feet on the icy cobblestones were bare, and she shifted from foot to foot in a vain attempt to keep warm. In her arms she carried long bolts of rough-woven gray cloth.

"Aye, that it is," the guard at the palace gate replied with a grin, "but I'd be happy to warm it for ye."

"Och, ye're a cheeky lad," she said. "Wha' would my man be saying if he heard ye?"

"He'd give him a mouthful o' knuckles, if I know Jimmy Cobbler," the other guard said, blowing on his hands. He glanced up at the sky, a dull gray behind the rooftops of the city. "Looks like we'll have a touch o' rain before too long."

"Looks like more than a touch, if those clouds close in," one of the other weaver women said, coughing hoarsely. "Och, it's been a hard winter this year!"

"Happen the spring'll bring better weather and better news," another said. "They say the highland lairds have pledged the Righ their support, which should bring the army another thousand men at least."

"Aye, but they say the blaygird Bright Soldiers have twelve thousand camped through Blessem, and still more marching through the fenlands. 'Tis twice as many as the Righ's been able to muster, by all accounts," her friend said with a sigh.

"Obh obh, woman!" the driver of the wagon behind said impatiently. "Do we have to wait all morn while ye wag your tongue about wha' ye ken naught!"

The weaver woman cast him a disdainful glance but moved on through the palace gates, her companions following close behind, their arms filled with bolts of gray cloth, their plaids over their heads against the chilly breeze. They walked with confidence down the long, tree-lined avenue, calling out greetings to the squads of soldiers practicing their maneuvers alongside. The weaver women were regular visitors to the palace, undertaking much labor on behalf of Toireasa Seamstress. The gray cloth they carried had been spun and woven in the weavers' hall in Lucescere and was to be made into kilts and cloaks for the soldiers. Joking and laughing, they bypassed the great entrance hall of the palace, heading instead across the quadrangle to the east wing, which had been converted into the army's headquarters. None noticed as one fell back, her plaid clutched close about her face. The bolts of cloth she carried were held high so all that could be seen of her were two silvery-blue eyes. As the weaver women disappeared through the door into the crowded hall beyond, the lone figure darted across the yard and in through a side door.

Maya's heart was beating so fast she thought it would leap from her breast, but she kept her face low and the bolts of cloth high. If anyone challenged her, she would simply pretend to be lost and let them redirect her to the eastern wing. She was ready to croon the challenger to forgetfulness if they recognized her for she had not lost her ability to charm and compel with the breaking of the Mirror of Lela. Those of strong will or clear-hearing could withstand her charm, however, and so she carried a slim dagger in her sleeve on the off-chance her magic would not work, though she hoped rather desperately she would not have to use it. Maya had never murdered anyone with her own two hands, though she had ordered the deaths of many. She had an uneasy feeling that her mask of cold indifference would not be so easy to sustain if she had to strike the blow herself.

Maya made her way through the busy corridors of the palace without incident, though several times she recognized some of her former servants and counsellors and had to lift the bolts of cloth to cover her face. She wished she knew the spell of glamourie so that she could have disguised herself. She had not dared visit the dwarf again, for she was all too aware of his malicious nature and love of power. He could well decide to betray her in a moment of pique, and Maya did not want to give him any opportunity until after the curse against the MacCu-inn had been cast.

The sight of Duncan Ironfist coming down the stairs threw her into a panic, and she ducked into an antechamber until she was sure he had passed. It took some time before her racing pulse slowed, for she had no doubt a trial and public humiliation would be hers if she was caught, followed inevitably by death. If she were lucky, it would be the quick death of beheading; if not, death by fire, as she had inflicted upon so many thousands of witches.

Her skin grew cold and clammy at the thought, and she had to steady herself with one hand on a table. She did not hesitate, though, checking the corridor beyond was clear and then hurrying on her way. A powerful impulse had driven her this far and she refused to allow fear to weaken her will. Maya had escaped the Samhain assault with nothing but the clothes she had been standing in. By some ghastly misfortune she had even been forced to leave her daughter in the hands of her enemy. Diving into the heart of the Pool of Two Moons, she had expected the little girl to swim after her, as all Fairge babies did by instinct. Yet Isabeau the Red had seized Bronwen, and so Maya had lost her daughter and with her any chance of regaining power. Without Bronwen, Maya was merely the Dowager Banrigh, hated by her brother-in-law and an outlaw in the land that had once loved and feted her. She had been sucked through the underground channels by the force of the retreating water, then spat out, bruised, cold and barely conscious, at the mouth of one of the great sewers. An old streetwalker, whose lost youth and beauty meant she was unable to find protection in any of the many brothels of Lucescere, had found her there. Molly Pockface had once been a highly paid whore, but age and syphilis had taken their toll, and she was severely wasted, with many sores and lesions disfiguring her face, lips and hands. Years of living on the streets, exchanging sexual favors for a crust of bread or copper coin, had not brutalized her kind heart, however, and Maya had found it easy to charm her. Overcome with pity, Molly Pockface had dragged Maya to her huddle of filthy blankets and cared for her until some sense and strength returned to her. Molly never thought to question her overwhelming desire to help and protect the Fairge, even though she came close to starvation as a result. Maya's face had been badly gashed by the shattering of the enchanted mirror, but to her surprise she found the spider web of cuts on her face had miraculously healed, leaving only a faint tangle of scars. The illusion of human beauty she had created with the mirror was still gone, though, and the face that looked back at her from the whore's fragment of looking glass was clearly the face of a Fairge. Maya had been very afraid, for she knew a high price would be placed on her head and there were many in Lucescere only too glad to win the reward. She had no clothes, no money and no friends, and it was a bitter winter. The former banrigh had had little choice but to take Molly Pockface's advice and seek shelter in a brothel. It was Molly who had taken her to the dwarf and paid for the first glamourie he cast with her own hard won pennies, and Molly who had introduced her to Black Donagh.

All winter Maya had swallowed her pride and her revulsion, and sold her body for gold. After all, she had told herself bitterly, what else had she been doing for the last sixteen years? She had seduced Jaspar MacCuinn when he was little more than a boy and had kept him tied to her all those years with the beauty of her body and skill of her lovemaking. Not for gold, of course, though the MacCuinns were wealthy and she had wanted for nothing as his wife. For power and for her father's revenge, she had seduced and married him, ensorcelled him and drained his life force. For power and the greatness of the Fairgean.

Yet those sixteen years of plotting and seducing were all for nothing. Jaspar was dead, as planned, but she did not rule in his place, and the hated Coven of Witches was somehow reunited and reinstalled as the power in the land. Maya had failed, and because of that she dared not return to her own people. The King of the Fairgean never forgave failure. The best she could hope for was again to be a pawn in her father's power games, a sexual plaything for whatever male was then in the king's favor. At worst, he would feed her to his sea serpent, taking his time over the task. Maya had ground her teeth at the thought of such a bleak future and hoarded her gold pieces, waiting for an opportunity to win back her daughter, and with her a chance at regaining power.

Although the palace corridors were crowded that icy morning, Maya was lucky enough to find her way to the laundries without incident. She filched a clean apron and cap from the neat piles on the shelves, leaving the bolts of cloth shoved behind a basket of dirty linen. Her pulse quickened as she made her way back into the main part of the palace, for she felt exposed indeed now she could no longer hide behind the reams of cloth. She knew that the nobility rarely spared a glance for the servants, however, and was confident she could easily penetrate the upper floors without being challenged. The only danger was that one of the stewards would see her and realize she was not one of the usual chambermaids. Seeing a bucket of soapy water and a mop left in one corner, she grabbed them, carrying the mop so its shaggy head concealed her face.

Maya had just taken a shirt from the wardrobe when she heard the door behind her open. She dropped to her knees and pretended to be polishing the floor as quick, light footsteps crossed the room behind her.

"Wha' are ye doing, cleaning the Righ's rooms now?" a young woman's voice scolded. "Do ye no' ken he'll be returning from the parade ground any minute now? This should have been done hours ago!" Maya mumbled something in return, keeping her face down. It was all too clear to her that the rooms had already been cleaned thoroughly, for there was not a speck of dust under the bed, let alone a tuft of hair or a discarded crescent of fingernail. She had hoped to find the Righ's bed still unmade, or dirty clothes on the floor, but there was nothing. However, she was desperate to find something she could take to Wee Willie, so even though the shirts in the wardrobe were clean, she could tell from the long slits in the back that they belonged to Lachlan and had purloined one in the hope it would still retain something of his living essence.

The footsteps came up behind her, and a small, rough hand descended on her shoulder. "Get ye gone, lassie! The Righ'll be angry indeed to find ye here, ye ken he's in no gentle mood these days!" Maya nodded and said, "Och, aye, I'll just finish this then."

She was hauled to her feet by a surprisingly strong grip. "Did I no' say ye had to be gone from here!" the voice cried. Then suddenly the hand dropped and there was a gasp of surprise. To Maya's amazement and delight, the chambermaid cried, "Your Highness! Wha' do ye do here! Do ye no' ken they will kill ye if ye are discovered?"

Maya looked down into a pair of worshipful blue eyes and felt pleasure and satisfaction well through her. It seemed not all of Lachlan the Winged's servants welcomed his rule. She had spent much of the sixteen years of her rule charming all those who came in contact with her, subtly casting spells of compulsion upon them so that they did as she willed without question. The Priestesses of Jor called such mindpower
leda,
and Maya had found it very useful in the past, most recently in the overwhelming of Latifa the Cook, who had showed her the way through the maze to the Pool of Two Moons.