The Shining City (67 page)

Isabeau slammed her hands down. “I will no‟,” she said. “I will no‟!”

The blood sang in her ears. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out.

In her mind, she pictured the goblet that had been found in Rhiannon‟s pack. Plain silver. A crystal set in its graceful stem. A goblet that made those who drank from it tell the truth.
Tell me
, she commanded
The Book of Shadows. What is this cup?

She opened the book and, fighting her dread, bent and read the page. In red curlicues, the title read “The Cup of Confessions.”

“Also called the Goblet of Truth, this cup was first made by Morgausa the Dark in 422 AC . . .”

Even as Isabeau absorbed the words, an unfelt breeze sprang up and the pages began to riffle over.

“No!” Isabeau cried. She laid her hand on the book, trying to hold her place, but it was too late, it was gone, and Isabeau was staring at the page she had dreaded. As if written in fire, words sprang up from the page and seared themselves once more into her brain.

“To Raise the Dead, one needs a living soul . . .”

“I will no‟!” Isabeau cried and slammed the book shut. Her whole body shook as if she had an ague. Sweat sprang upon her skin. She found her legs had folded beneath her. She was sitting on the floor,
The Book of Shadows
clutched against her chest, and the words of the spell pounding out and into her skin like the needle of some tattooist, emblazoning the compulsion into her blood and bone and nerves.

I will live again, and ye shall be the one to raise me.

“Who? Who?” she cried, pressing the book ever closer. “Where are ye?”

Come to me, at the Tomb o’ Ravens, on the day o’ my death, one thousand years ago. Bring with
ye a living soul, willing or not, and a very sharp knife . . .

“Who are ye?”

I am Brann, and I will live again.

B
ronwen sat on the tall throne at the head of the table in the Privy Chamber, clutching the Lodestar close to her body and trying to listen as everyone talked at once.

“All gone, all gone!” the Lord Chancellor cried. “What are we to do?”

“I would have thought that the first course o‟ action was obvious,” Bronwen said, a faint trace of sarcasm darkening her words. “Find my husband!”

Hubbub broke out again. Bronwen found it hard to concentrate on what was said, for they all spoke at once at different volumes, and all the time her own tumultuous emotions surged up and filled her ears with a white roar so that for a moment she heard nothing at all.

“Eà rest Lachlan‟s poor murdered soul,” Iain of Arran said unhappily. “He was a great Rìgh.”

“What does this mean to the Pact o‟ Peace?” the Duke of Rammermuir asked.

“Surely it will stand,” Bronwen said sharply.

“When the line o‟ inheritance is unclear . . .” cried the Master of Horse.

“Aye, but the Lodestar!” the Lord Chamberlain said.

“Happen we should look to Tìrsoilleir for our murderer,” said the Lord High Admiral, who had been born in the Bright Land himself and had reason to be suspicious of the Fealde and her General Assembly.

“We would have kent if there was any plot against the Rìgh in Tìrsoilleir,” Neil said angrily with a quick glance at his mother, who sat quietly, her pastor standing at her shoulder as usual. The pastor, who was one of the Fealde‟s closest advisers, only grew more stern-faced, his lips thinning in disdain.

“The Fealde may have philosophical differences with the Coven,” Neil went on a little more moderately, “but she would no‟ stoop to regicide.”

“Ah, philosophical differences. That‟s rich!” jeered the Master of Horse.

“What are we to do?” moaned the keeper of the privy seal.

“It‟s a scandal! Captain Dillon should be dismissed at the very least,” said the captain of the general army, who had always been jealous of the influence the Captain of the Yeomen wielded.

“We need to get out the dogs and the bailiffs and turn that city inside out. Bloody thieves and murderers!” cried the Master of the Ordnance.

“It‟s a conspiracy,” the Lord Steward whispered unhappily. “The MacCuinn clan, rooted out and destroyed in one dreadful night. Who did this! Who?”

Bronwen‟s head snapped round. “No‟ all the MacCuinn clan are gone,” she reminded them

angrily.

The Lord Steward had evidently forgotten how acute was the hearing of those of Fairgean blood, for he flushed and bit his lip in chagrin. He would not back down before Bronwen, however.

“Nay, no‟ all,” he said with heavy meaning.

“Are ye suggesting I had aught to do with this?” Bronwen demanded. “Careful what ye say, sir!”

The Lodestar leaped with sudden cold fire, and the Lord Steward bowed his head at once, stammering an apology. Bronwen saw that it was insincere, however, and that others among the councillors silently agreed.

Donncan, Donncan
, she thought, with a rush of grief.

Then, on a note of rising terror,
How did this happen? What do I do now?

Then,
I am Banrìgh! I hold the Lodestar and I will hold the land!

Her mother turned and smiled at her, her pale eyes shining.

Bronwen took a deep breath and rapped the table sharply with the end of her scepter. “That is enough!” she cried.

The tumult died down and they all turned to stare at her. She found her mouth was dry. She had to swallow convulsively before she could speak. “Well, gentlemen,” she said, “I thank ye for your service to my uncle the Rìgh. I know he found ye loyal and steadfast. We are now in a state o‟ the direst emergency. I therefore have no choice but to dissolve the Privy Council until such a time that peace and security are returned to our land. I ask that all o‟ ye stay at hand should your services be required again.”

An angry babble arose.

Bronwen raised her voice. “Captain Dillon, it has been suggested that ye should be dishonorably discharged for your failure to protect my uncle. I do no‟ believe now is the rightful place or time to initiate such an inquiry. I trust that your loyalty and diligence in the next few weeks will make such an inquiry unnecessary. Will ye please arrange an escort for these noble gentlemen back to their quarters? And then take your men and search the woods yourself. I want my husband found!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said with a low bow. A jerk of his head, and each of the flabbergasted councillors found a guard behind his chair.

“Lord Chancellor, will ye stay, and ye too, Master o‟ the Ordnance? I will have need o‟ ye. Neil, would ye stay too? I would be grateful for your support.”

A rush of blood to Neil‟s pale face brought him sudden warmth and vitality. He smiled with pleasure and murmured, “O‟ course, Your Majesty.”

Bronwen smiled at him in gratitude. She became aware of the avid gleam in Elfrida‟s eyes as she watched them, and looked away, her smile fading. Elfrida curtsied as she went past and murmured, “Good night, Your Majesty.”

“Good night, Your Grace,” Bronwen said, very properly, and then acknowledged the obeisance of the pastor coolly.

Taking their lead from Elfrida, the other lords and councillors made their farewells formally, many no doubt hoping to ingratiate themselves with her when it came time for her to form her new government. Although Bronwen was so weary and heartsick she felt quite faint, she forced her brain to work faster than it ever had before. If she was to hold the power in the land, she must be seen to wield it well and wisely.

“Lord Constable, I bid ye stay also. I shall need your help in tracking down these miscreants. We must have messages sent posthaste down river, to stop the laird o‟ Fettercairn afore he reaches the sea. Let us have the infantry and cavalry on standby, in case o‟ need.”

She saw by her mother‟s glittering eyes that Maya was pleased with her and exerted herself to greater efforts.

“We must find out as much as we can about this Laird Malvern. Will the clerks o‟ the council sift through the evidence brought back from Fettercairn and see if we can find some idea o‟ this madman‟s plans? Send a page to the MacBrann also, and ask him to attend on me later in the morn. I would ken what he knows o‟ this laird o‟ Fettercairn.”

As she spoke, the councillors were all escorted from the Privy Chamber, and the door shut smartly behind them. The long room was now eerily quiet. Bronwen took a deep breath, racking her brains for more orders to give. As long as she seemed to be in command, Bronwen thought, the more likely it was others would believe her to be so.

It troubled her how heavily the Lodestar weighed on her lap. She straightened her back and did her best to let no one see it. Her head ached, and she put up one hand to find she still wore her wreath of flowers, now wilted. She dragged it off her head and flung it on the floor.

“I must have news o‟ the Celestines,” she said. “If anyone can tell me what has happened to Donncan and Thunderlily, it is the Stargazer. I need to ken whether the healers have been able to rouse her, and whether she is well enough to attend me here. Perhaps I should have a carriage sent to the tower for her? It is too far to walk in this blaygird storm! Neil, will ye arrange it for me? Ye can be my new Master o‟ Horse, to replace that fool Dacey.”

“Aye, Your Majesty. Thank ye, Your Majesty,” he cried, his cheeks glowing.

As he rose and beckoned a page to him, Bronwen sighed. It had been a long, exhausting night, and it was not over yet. She had much to do and a need for a clear head. She laid both her hands on the Lodestar and felt fresh energy flow up her arms and into her heart and her brain. It was intoxicating, having all that power throbbing at her fingertips. It was frightening too.

“Let us all try to get some rest now,” she said. “It has been a dreadful night, and dawn is no‟ far away. We will be no good to anyone with our wits befuddled with exhaustion. Let us meet again at noon, and hope for better news.”

She rose, and at once they all rose too, and bowed. Bronwen felt giddy. Who would have thought yesterday that today she would be the Banrìgh?

As she made her weary way towards her boudoir, her thoughts turning longingly towards a bath and her bed, Neil hurried up behind her.

“Bronny . . . I mean, Your Majesty . . .”

Bronwen was so tired the ground seemed to move under her feet like the deck of a ship, but she smiled and dismissed her ladies-in-waiting with a nod. Neil held open the door of her room for her, and she went in and sat down heavily on the chaise longue drawn up close to the fire. She had to lay the Lodestar down. It made her arms ache fiercely. She had never realized how heavy it was. She wished only to put her head down on her arms and cry, but Neil was waiting, and even though he was one of her oldest and dearest friends, she still did not wish him to see her weep.

“Tea, please,” she said to Maura, who clucked her tongue and went bustling out.

The room was dark and cold, the curtains drawn against the storm. Bronwen could hear the wind rustling in the trees. It was a desolate sound.

She turned to look up at Neil, but her words died on her lips as he flung himself down on his knees before her. He seized her hand and bent his head over it.

“I am so very sorry, Bronny,” he said. “What a dreadful, dreadful thing to happen. And on your wedding day!”

She said nothing. Her throat muscles moved convulsively.

“Ye were marvelous, though, Bronny,” he said and raised glowing eyes to her. “What a

Banrìgh!”

“Ye think I did well?”

“So well! Ye confounded and baffled them, all those auld goats! They didna ken what hit them.

It was masterly.”

Somehow his words of praise worked on her as sympathy could not. Involuntary tears flooded down her face.

“I‟m sorry,” she gasped, drawing her hands away to cover her face.

He sat next to her and put his arm about her shoulders and, worn out as she was, Bronwen could not help resting her head on his shoulder and letting her tears flow. She vaguely heard him as he comforted and reassured her.

“Oh, darling Bronny,” he said, “I ken, I ken. It‟s all right. Everything will be all right. I‟m here, I‟ll always be here when ye need me. Don‟t cry. Please don‟t cry.”

Bronwen could not stop.

“Ye‟ll ruin your complexion,” he said, and that raised a watery laugh from her. She tried to sit up but he would not let her, and it was easier just to relax and let him mop up her face with his handkerchief.

“Still as bonny as ever,” he said, looking down at her.

She heaved a great sigh and smiled at him ruefully. “For sure I am,” she said caustically, “with my eyes all red, and my nose running, and my hair looking like a bird‟s nest.”

“I‟d find ye bonny in sackcloth and ashes,” he said and bent his head and kissed her on the mouth.

Surprise held her still; then she leaped away from him, looking at once to make sure no one had seen.

“Neil,” she said unsteadily. “What are ye doing? Have ye run mad?”

“I‟m sorry,” he said. “I couldna help myself.”

“Ye must no‟ do it again, no‟ ever. I am married now, remember, and to your best friend.”

“Captain Dillon is right, Bronwen. I think ye should prepare yourself for the worst.”

“Am I to be a wife for only a few hours, as I was once Banrìgh? No! I refuse to be. Donncan is no‟ dead. I do no‟ ken what has happened to him, but I will no‟ believe he is dead until they lay his body afore me. He is my husband, we are sworn one to each other, and I will stand by that oath, I will!” The words poured from her in a torrent, as if the tears had washed away some barrier in her.

“But Bronny, darling . . .”

“Have ye forgotten that I am your Banrìgh now?” she asked icily. “Ye will speak to me with respect!”

He looked sad. “Nay, I have no‟ forgotten, Your Majesty. I apologize.”

Bronwen bit her lip, sorry to have spoken so to someone she had known since they were children together, someone she knew sincerely cared for her.

She would not say so. Bronwen had always found it difficult to admit herself at fault. Instead she seized Neil‟s hand and said with as much earnestness as she could muster, “If I am to hold the land together, Neil, I must be seen as being strong. I must command respect.”