The Cursed Towers (61 page)

She paused in her ruminations then said, "Meghan always thought that was odd. Why did Margrit help ye then and why did she send the Mesmerd here?"

"I do no' know," Maya replied. "She sent me an emissary saying that if I wanted to strike at the dragons and get rid o' them forever, then she had the means to do so. She's always full o' smooth plausibility, that witch. The Mesmerd was to help and guide the Red Guards to the dragons' peak—"

"But the Mesmerdean are creatures o' the marshes, they would no' ken the way through the mountains any better than anyone else," Isabeau replied. "She must have had some other reason . . ." She paced back and forth, chewing her thumbnail. "The Cursed Towers ... I wonder . . . She would've known they still stand, for the Khan'cohban would've told her . . . and Iain said she asked for the books from the Tower o' Warriors as part o' Elfrida's dowry . . . She must have wondered if any o' the auld books and artifacts from Tirlethan still existed, for the Towers o' Roses and Thorns were famed for their library ..."

Maya grew impatient with Isabeau's musings. "Are ye trying to tell me Bronwen may be in danger?" she snapped. "I do no' want that wicked witch getting her hands on my daughter, do ye hear?"

"No' just Bronwen," Isabeau replied. "I very much fear they're all in danger! Oh, Ea! If only ye had told me all this at first! We've been wasting our days here while all the time that blaygird Khan'cohban has been getting closer and closer to the Cursed Valley."

"What are all these cursed places?" Maya cried. "Ye have taken my daughter somewhere cursed?" Isabeau did not bother answering her. She caught up her plaid and tam-o'-shanter and said sharply, "Stay here! Do no' try to follow me." Then she hurried down the secret passage, for the first time not bothering to conceal the entrance. It was growing dark outside and cold, and the red moon hung huge and swollen above the far horizon. She went swiftly through the trees to the shelf of rock on the far side of the loch, where the water poured away over the lip of the bluff. She stood and faced Dragonclaw, dark and sharp against the red-streaked sky.

"Caillec Asrohc Airi Telloch Cas," she called. "Come to me, I beg! Caillec Asrohc Airi Telloch Cas." The words rolled out into the evening with all the force and solemnity of the roar of the ocean. She waited anxiously and then whispered,
Please, Asrohc, I need ye truly . . .
Over the past three summers she had called the dragon-princess whenever she felt the urge to escape her usual round of duties at the Cursed Towers and fly the dragon's back. At first she had done so hesitantly and with a sick flutter in her stomach. By her third year she had called confidently, and together she and Asrohc had flown over much of Tirlethan and even up to the Spine of the World where the glacier stayed white even in the middle of summer.

Isabeau had known when Meghan had called the dragons to aid her at the Battle of Ardencaple. She had heard the queen-dragon's name in every hollow of her body, booming until she was near to fainting with the resonance. She had seen the seven sons of the queen-dragon fly gladly and triumphantly out of the heart of the Cursed Peaks, at last set loose to wreak their revenge for the death of their kin. Asrohc had been consumed with jealousy, longing to soar and flame and slay too, but constrained because she was the last young female in the land and the responsibility of breeding up many new dragons was hers. Isabeau had heard all about the victory at Ardencaple and the many who had died in the flames, until finally she was sick of it.

That week had been one of great pain and sorrow for her. She had felt her twin's injury as keenly as if an arrowhead had plunged into her own breast and then felt the terrible pain and grief of her miscarriage. If Asrohc had come to her call then, she would have left the Cursed Towers and flown to her twin's aid, but the dragon-princess was too excited by Meghan's summons and would not come. By the time the dragon-princess could be bothered to answer Isabeau's call, the young witch had felt the faint agonized echo of Jorge's death, and then the reverberations of the battle at Ardencaple. Isabeau had felt the whole gamut of Iseult's anger, grief and fear and she had been nearly frantic with her need to know what was happening. So she and Feld had hurried down to the Scrying Pool, which Isabeau had only discovered under the brambles and weeds a few months earlier. She had cleared it out and unblocked the pipes so that water could again fill the round, shallow pond. Isabeau and the old sorcerer had watched the final stages of the battle through the far-seeing lens of the scrying pool, and Isabeau had thrown all her will and desire behind her twin to help with the conjuring of the snow storm. So Isabeau knew about the strange fit which kept Lachlan in a state closer to death than life and she knew that Iseult had shouldered the command of the army and was planning a winter invasion of Arran. Several times in the past few months she had slipped down to the scrying pool to watch Iseult and make sure she was well, for Isabeau missed both her twin and Meghan sorely. She was distressed to see how old and drawn the Key-bearer was now, and how sad her face. If Isabeau had not made a commitment both to Bronwen and the Fire-maker, she would have risked the long and arduous journey back down into the lowlands or tried to persuade Lasair to travel the Old Way again. Once more Isabeau called the dragon's name, despair filling her. If Asrohc did not come, the only way Isabeau could get back to the Cursed Towers was to climb the stairway up Dragonclaw and beg permission to cross the dragons' valley. That was a journey of at least a week, if not more. She wondered again how the Khan'cohban planned to cross the mountain, thinking with a sinking of her heart that he probably had a skimmer. With the little sleigh the Khan'cohban would be able to travel extremely swiftly once he was on a downward slope.

Suddenly she heard a great whoosh and a hooked, clawed wing crossed the round orange of the moon. Her heart leapt and she gazed up joyously as Asrohc swooped down out of the green-lavender sky, the wind as she passed almost knocking Isabeau over. "Ye've come, thank ye, thank ye!" The dragon snorted bad-temperedly and landed lightly on the rock, her tail splashing into the water.
Thou hadst best be properly grateful, human, for I was just enjoying a nice haunch of venison
when thou called and my brother will have eaten it all by the time I return.
The dragon's mind-voice was cold.

Isabeau knelt and made the Kharf cohban gesture of deep, humble gratitude.
I
beg your forbearance
and hope that ye will forgive me my temerity in asking, but I need ye badly! Please, Asrohc, ye
must fly Maya and me to the Cursed Towers.

The dragon lashed her tail, so that the surface of the loch was whipped into waves.
Thy red-robed witch
shall never cross her leg over my back!

Then could ye no' carry her in your claws as ye would a goat or a deer?
Isabeau asked desperately.
Ye see, they are all in danger at the tower. An enemy stalks them. I must get there quickly and
warn them. He is a Khan'cohban warrior o' six scars, a formidable enemy indeed. Maya must
come so she can transform my father back into a man. He is the only one that can fight such a
warrior. I have no' been found worthy o' even one scar and Feld is auld. Please, Asrohc! Do ye no'

wish to help the man who saved your life when ye were a babe? The Khan 'cohban will kill him if
he stands in his way and ye ken Lasair, I mean Khan'gharad, shall if Ishbel or Feld is threatened.
The dragon's tail swayed back and forth but it was a thoughtful movement, not one of rage.
Very well,
she said at last,
but only because I grow bored with all thy words and know I shall hear many more
unless I take thee.

Thank ye!
Isabeau cried, and bade the dragon wait until she went to get Maya and a few things she would need. The dragon yawned and twitched her tail, examining her claws with slitted eyes. Isabeau ran back to the tree-house and curtly told Maya that she had decided to take her to see her daughter on the condition she transform her father back from a horse to a man. "Ye must submit to being carried in the dragon's claws though," she warned. "It is the only way so do no' argue with me. Hurry now, for I have such a feeling o' foreboding."

She ignored Maya's questions and protestations, gathering together the books she had been studying, some of Meghan's potions and medicines, and some pots and pans and a griddle—the Cursed Towers were not well equipped with cooking utensils and Isabeau had no other way of getting any. With the bulging sack over her shoulder, Isabeau urged Maya down the secret passageway, unable to help feeling an odd frisson as she remembered the last time she had left the tree-house in a mad scramble.

"What do ye mean I must change your father back into a man?" Maya cried, as Isabeau hurried her through the forest. "Ye canna mean that the Khan'cohban I changed into a horse still lives—and that he is your father!"

"Indeed that is what I mean!" Isabeau snapped. "Ish-bel the Winged is my mother, and Iseult's too, and Khan'gharad the Scarred Warrior is our father. He is the only one who will be able to fight off a warrior o' six scars for he has seven scars and is famous among the prides for his fighting skills. Ye must gather your will and transform him back, for he is our only hope o' defeating Magrit's Khan'cohban."

"But I canna!"

"Ye must!" Isabeau cried as they reached the edge of the loch where Asrohc sprawled, gleaming like polished jade in the light of the setting sun. The dragon whipped round and fixed the Fairge with her dangerous, cold gaze and the Fairge stared back, hypnotized with terror. Isabeau clambered onto the dragon's back, and with a mocking cry, Asrohc rose into the air, catching up Maya in her claws as she swept by.

As they flew through the sky, the mountains below them spread out in an amazing panorama of sunset-colored peaks and shadowy valleys, with the occasional glint of ice turned to fire dazzling Isabeau's eyes. The wind was bitterly cold and she huddled her mittened hands under her plaid and wondered how Maya felt with that great, terrible distance below her and only the untrustworthy cradle of the dragon's claws preventing her from falling. There was no sound from her and Isabeau could only hope Asrohc had not misjudged the tightness of her hold.

Then they were over the ridge of sharply pointed mountains and soaring over the Cursed Valley. Isabeau could see the tall spires of the Towers rising from the forest, the loch lying dark and mysterious before them.

Asrohc landed lightly at the edge of the trees, dropping Maya roughly on the ground. Isabeau leapt off her back and made a hasty but heartfelt genuflection. Reluctantly the dragon lifted her claws from the Fairge, who lay still though her eyes were wide open. Her dress was torn and bloodstained from deep scratches where the dragon's claws had scored her flesh.

Asrohc turned her angular head toward the Towers and gave a dragonish grin.
Lifeblood spills,
she said. Isabeau dropped her sack and ran down the avenue she had cut through the brambles. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed between giant hands.
No' Bronwen,
she thought desperately, then,
no' my mam,
please.

The avenue led her straight up to the great stone door of the Tower, which stood ajar. It was dark under the arching branches but light spilled out from the doorway, illuminating the steps. Isabeau could hear the shrill screams of the stallion and the pound of his hooves, and she leapt up the stairs two at a time. Within was a long hall with tall pillars holding up a vaulted ceiling. The walls were exquisitely painted with trees and flowers and faeries, while the ceiling above was painted with gilded suns and moons and comets, which glimmered in the light of the torches flaring the length of the hall. When Isabeau had first come to the Cursed Towers, this hall had been filthy with cobwebs and owl guano, but she had spent weeks scrubbing it out and now it was clean and empty.

At the far end of the hall was a broad spiral staircase, intricately carved with a fretwork of roses and thorns. Feld lay at the first curve of the stairs, blood spilling from a deep gash in his abdomen. He was feebly trying to keep off a tall, gray, winged creature with his staff while clutching the wound with his free hand. The stallion was rearing and plunging at the base of the stairs, his frantic whinnies echoing around the cavernous hall. Ducking his flailing hooves with contemptuous ease was a tall, horned man dressed all in gray, his brown cheeks clearly showing six thin scars. He held a long dagger in one hand and slashed at the stallion with it, while in the other he gripped a handful of long, fair hair which fell down the side of the stairs like a banner.

Isabeau's eyes flew upward. Ishbel was struggling desperately to fly up the stairs, screaming with pain as slowly but inexorably she was dragged back down by her hair. Bronwen was clutched under her arm, sobbing with terror.

The Khan'cohban lunged forward, his dagger flashing toward the stallion's breast. With a cry Isabeau threw up her hand and the dagger twisted in his hand and fell to the ground with a clatter. He ducked, the stallion's hooves missing his head by mere inches, and Ishbel screamed as the movement almost tore the hair from her head. She gripped onto the carved fretwork with one hand, but her fingers were pulled free and she fell back.

Without even thinking, Isabeau lifted both hands and clenched them before her breast. Her face contorting with the effort, she sent out a thin, hissing ray of blue fire which cut through Ishbel's hair like a knife. Released like an arrow from a bow, Ishbel shot up the stairs and out of sight as Isabeau's ray of light cut on through the stone of the stairwell, sending a large block of marble tumbling down to the hall below.

The Khan'cohban only just managed to fling himself out of the way, the block shattering into myriad pieces on the floor. In great dexterity he rolled one way then another, narrowly escaping Lasair's hooves, then bounded to his feet. In one swift motion he unhooked a bright star-shaped weapon from his belt and flung it at Isabeau. Instinctively she ducked, but without pausing it swung round and flew back to the Khan'cohban's hand. He threw the
reil
at her again, at the same time seizing a sharp skewer from his belt and hurling that at her as well. Isabeau jumped up in the air, bringing her knees to her chest. Both weapons sliced through the air just inches away from her body, the skewer clattering to the ground, the
reil
returning to the warrior's hand and then flying out again in a smooth arc so swift it could only be seen as a glittering blur. Only Isabeau's magic saved her. She deflected it with a scream, scrambling backward as the Khan'cohban leapt forward into a somersault that took him well clear of the stallion's savage attack.