The Shining City (20 page)

She shot Owein a challenging, defiant glance, then marched off to the side of the stage, where the ogre was taking down names and accepting money.

The juggling cluricauns were followed by a hilarious ballet by four hobgoblins, and then a series of jokes by a nervous young corrigan, which fell rather flat. Then it was Fèlice‟s turn. She was swung up onto the stage by the ogre, and dimpled at the crowd, saying in her clear, high voice, “

„Rhiannon‟s Ride,‟ or „The Prisoner o‟ Sorrowgate Tower,‟ a ballad in three parts written by the brilliant young poet Landon MacPhillip from Magpie Wood.”

There was a round of applause, and then Fèlice began to read the poem with great gusto. She was a natural actress with a flair for the dramatic and absolutely no self-consciousness. At the scary moments, she lowered her voice and made it toll, her whole body twisting and shrinking in on itself; then the very next moment, her voice would soar up into a shrill falsetto that made the audience laugh. With no more than her face and hands and voice, she was able to bring the various characters alive—the wicked laird of the castle, his mad sister-in-law, the malevolent chamberlain, the smiling castle seelie with her basket of poisons, the sad ghost of the little boy who wandered the castle corridors moaning, “So cold, so cold.” Through it all strode Rhiannon, the only one able to see clearly.

When at last Fèlice finished on a ringing note, pleading for mercy for the wrongfully accused Prisoner of Sorrowgate Tower, there was a resounding storm of applause. Fèlice tossed out handfuls of broadsheets of the ballad, which Rafferty and Cameron had printed up on the Theurgia‟s printing press, and then told the crowd that more would be on sale tomorrow, in the streets, a penny apiece. Only then did she climb down, flushed with her success.

“I do think the freedom o‟ the Theurgia must have gone to her head,” Edithe confided to Owein.

“Would her father no‟ be shocked to see her performing like that in a common inn, afore a crowd o‟ rough faeries? Really! I hardly kent where to look.”

But Owein did not respond, surging forward with the rest of the students to congratulate Fèlice and Landon, who was speechless with joy at seeing his poem brought so vividly to life and by its uproarious reception.

“Fèlice, ye were marvelous!” Maisie cried. “I swear I almost wept!”

“Landon, I take it all back! That was jolly good,” Cameron said.

“Ye were wonderful, the best act o‟ the night by far!” Rafferty said. “I bet ye win the purse.”

“Do ye think we‟ve helped Rhiannon at all?” Fèlice asked anxiously. “I mean, I ken they liked the poem but do they understand that it‟s all true?”

Owein, finding himself jostled and ignored, went back to his table, looking disgruntled.

Lewen had found the performance of Landon‟s poem very affecting. It felt as if he carried a boulder in his chest, which squeezed his lungs so he could not breathe. Olwynne had seen his distress and taken both his hands, and that small touch of sympathy saw words come spilling out of Lewen.

“It‟s just that I dinna ken what to do, how to make things right for her. Sorrowgate Prison is an absolute hellhole. I should never have persuaded her to come to Lucescere. She could‟ve escaped, but I made her promise no‟ to. I told her it‟d be all right, that we‟d talk to the Rìgh on her behalf. I never expected she‟d be shut up for months on end without a trial.”

“It‟s only a couple o‟ months,” Olwynne said. “Just till midsummer.”

“She‟s no‟ used to being confined, Olwynne. Each day is a year to her. She canna eat or sleep.

She says the prison is full o‟ ghosts that mock her at night . . .”

“Satyricorns are very superstitious,” Olwynne said. “I‟ve heard about how she mutilates herself in fear o‟ ghosts or demons, or something.”

“Dark walkers,” Lewen said defensively. “And she‟s no‟ doing that anymore.”

“Only because they do no‟ let her have a knife or aught else sharp,” Owein said, his eyes on the crowd of talking, laughing apprentice-witches.

“No, she doesna believe in dark walkers anymore. Nina and I convinced her they do no‟ exist.”

“Yet she still lies awake imagining ghosts,” Olwynne said.

“She‟s no‟ imagining them!” Lewen cried. “Sorrowgate Tower has been a prison for close on a thousand years. Hundreds o‟ people must‟ve died there, many o‟ them horribly. Why, we‟ve all heard the stories o‟ all the poor men and women who were tortured and burned to death there during Maya‟s reign, when the witch-sniffers were in charge. I am no‟ near as sensitive as Rhiannon to such things, and the place makes my flesh creep on my bones, I swear.”

“Is she really so sensitive?” Owein asked curiously. “I‟ve heard it was all an act, to divert suspicion from herself.”

“Fettercairn Castle was as blaygird a place as I‟ve ever been,” Lewen said. “I was glad to get out o‟ there alive. Ye heard Landon‟s ballad. It was indeed just as dark and grim as he described it.”

“I thought much o‟ it was poetic license,” Olwynne said.

“Nay, it was all true!” Lewen cried. “And they call Rhiannon a murderer! Laird Malvern is a murderer a hundred times more foul!” He drained his cup of clamber skull.

“Well, I‟m sure the courts will establish the truth o‟ it all,” Owein said, beckoning to their waitress.

“Aye, but there‟s been so much talk, how can she have a fair trial, really? And despite the Pact o‟

Peace, there‟s still a lot o‟ bad feeling about her being a satyricorn.” Lewen was having trouble framing his thoughts. “Everyone thinks they‟re stupid and brutal. . . .”

“O‟ course they do no‟,” Olwynne said soothingly, and gulped down her fuzzle gin.

“They do, they do. And it‟s no‟ fair. Rhiannon‟s no‟ like that. She‟s the sweetest, dearest . . .”

Lewen felt the tissues of his throat growing thick.

“Evidently,” Owein muttered, then, at Lewen‟s look, put up his hands. “I‟m sure she is . . . apart from being a wee bit too quick to draw back her bow.”

“What do ye expect? She was raised by satyricorns, by
wild
satyricorns, satyricorns who‟ve never heard o‟ the Pact o‟ Peace, satyricorns who had to fight and hunt to stay alive, satyricorns—”

“He‟s getting rather stuck on the whole satyricorn thing,” Owein said to Olwynne.

Lewen tried not to mind.

“Do no‟ worry so much,” Olwynne said. “I‟m sure the courts will find it was no‟ murder with malice aforethought. They willna hang her then.”

Lewen thought of seeing Rhiannon with her head in a noose, the executioner drawing it tight, the horses whipped up to drag the cart away. His whole world seemed to splinter. He grasped his glass very hard and managed to bring it to his mouth. “Never,” he pronounced. “I never. I blow up Sorrowgate first. I blow it up. I blow it all up.”

“I‟m sure that‟s no‟ necessary,” Olwynne tried to say. It came out, “I ssshaw tha‟ na neshassary.”

Lewen found this very amusing. “No‟ neshassary, no‟ neshassary,” he repeated.

He and Olwynne laughed together, heads bent over their empty glasses.

Impatiently, Owein signaled again for more clamber skull. The seelie materialized at their elbows, smiling sweetly upon them, bending close to Lewen to pour out more of the sickly green alcohol. Lewen was suddenly, violently, aroused. He hid his face in his glass. More than ever, he longed for Rhiannon, and yet, perversely, he wished he could just be here, at the Nisse and Nixie, drinking and laughing with his friends, enjoying himself without guilt or despair.

“I missed ye lads and lassies,” he managed to say.

“Us too,” Olwynne said, squeezing his hand.

“I wish I‟d never met her,” Lewen said into his cup.

Olwynne leaned closer to him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I wish I‟d never met her,” he repeated, and laid his head on Olwynne‟s arm, tears suddenly choking him.

R
hiannon lay on her bed. There was a mottled stone high on the far wall that, when the light began to sink at the end of the day, looked a little like the silhouette of a black flying horse.

Rhiannon liked to stare at it, longing for Blackthorn, imagining herself flying high in the sky, free as a bird.

She had had no visitors for three days. Rhiannon had walked the length of her room so many times she thought the stones should be showing the track of her feet. She had pounded on the door in her frustration and snarled at the guards when they finally came. She had demanded and then begged them to let her out, then had sunk into an apathy from which it was hard to rouse herself. It seemed to be the only way to keep the panic at bay. Whenever Rhiannon thought about the situation she found herself in, she had to bite her lips bloody to stop herself from screaming.

At the sound of the key in the lock, she turned and looked towards the door, her lips clamped together to hide her misery, her eyes hot.

But it was not Lewen whom the guard showed in through the heavy oak door. It was a tall woman dressed all in white.

At first, seeing the long plait of ruddy hair, Rhiannon thought it was Lewen‟s sanctimonious friend Olwynne and stiffened instinctively. Olwynne had come once, a few days ago, and had brought her a child‟s picture book and a wooden puzzle, as if Rhiannon were four years old. It had been clear to Rhiannon how much Olwynne feared and disliked her, and she knew with utter certainty why. Olwynne had spoken of Lewen as if they spent every minute of every day

together, as if they had been born sharing the same heart, lungs, and stomach, like the freak babies she and the other apprentices had seen at the fair in Linlithgorn.

After Olwynne had left, with fake smiles and offers of friendship, Rhiannon had lain awake for hours torturing herself with imaginings of Olwynne and Lewen studying together, riding together, dancing together, laughing together. It was a small step to imagining Olwynne‟s arms sliding up around his neck, pulling Lewen‟s head down to hers, pressing her mouth against his.

She could easily imagine Olwynne whispering in his ear, “Ye ken she‟s no good for ye. She canna love ye the way I love ye. I‟m the only one who can make ye happy. . . .”

Again and again Rhiannon had replayed the scene in her mind. Although she sometimes

imagined Lewen flinging Olwynne‟s arms away and declaring his love for her, more often than not she saw him succumb, that skinny red-haired witch driving all thought of Rhiannon out of his head. After all, why would he want a wild satyricorn girl when he could have a banprionnsa dressed all in rustling silks?

So she glared at her visitor with great suspicion and dislike. It was not Olwynne who stood in the door, however, but a woman entering the middle years of her life. She was very like Olwynne, with the same red-gold hair and the same tall, slim figure. She carried a staff with a large crystal set at its head, and a tiny owl was perched on her shoulder. She came in with great authority, drew her brows together at the dimness, and waved one hand nonchalantly. At once the lantern hanging overhead burst into light.

“Who are ye?” Rhiannon demanded, rolling over and getting to her feet defensively.

The woman raised one thin, red brow. “I am Isabeau NicFaghan, the Keybearer o‟ the Coven.

May I sit down?”

Rhiannon jerked her head in agreement and watched as the Keybearer sat down at the table, arranging her silver-edged robes about her feet. Rhiannon‟s attention was caught by the sight of a beautifully wrought dagger hanging at the sorceress‟s waist. Rhiannon glanced away at once.

Pretending insouciance, she sat down on her bed, even as her brain got busy with schemes for wresting the dagger away.

“I would no‟ try, Rhiannon,” the Keybearer said. “I ken ye are quick and strong, but no‟ quick or strong enough, I‟m afraid. And I have no wish to hurt ye.”

Rhiannon secretly jeered at her words, for was she not twenty years younger and a satyricorn to boot? She said nothing, however, just pretended incomprehension and waited for her chance.

“I am sorry I have no‟ come to see ye afore,” Isabeau said. “I have been much tied up with affairs o‟ state. I do hope ye will forgive me. I feel some responsibility for ye, since Lilanthe sent ye into my care, and so I—”

“Have ye come to release me?” Rhiannon interrupted.

Isabeau shook her head. “It is no‟ my place to interfere with the workings o‟ the court. Even if ye were a witch and my own apprentice, I could no‟ have ye released. Those o‟ the Coven are subject to the laws o‟ the land, as is anyone else.”

Rhiannon drooped. “Then why are ye here?”

“I came to see if there is aught I can do for ye,” Isabeau said. “I have heard ye are no‟ used to being confined within four walls. I can understand that.”

“Then why will ye no‟ let me out!” Rhiannon cried. “It‟s like being buried alive. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!”

Isabeau regarded her gravely. “Ye are allowed to walk in the prison garden.”

“Och, aye, that‟s a treat. It is twelve paces long and six paces wide, and surrounded by such high walls all I can see is grey stone and a wee patch o‟ sky. And they watch me all the time!”

“O‟ course they do. Ye are a prisoner o‟ the Crown, and the captain o‟ the guards considers ye an escape risk. The garden is open to the air. Ye are known to have a winged horse as a familiar.