The Tower of Ravens (7 page)

As he clambered over great, writhing roots, ducked under tangled vines, and slid down a slippery slope with the satchel bouncing on his back, Lewen’s thoughts returned to the journey ahead of him. He had spent the last four years studying at the Theurgia and he loved it, but he did find the noise and crowds burdensome, and his duties as one of the Rìgh’s squires took up a great deal of his spare time. He was so eager to be chosen as one of the Rìgh’s personal bodyguards that he took his court duties very seriously, and by the end of the last term had been exhausted in both body and mind. The Keybearer of the Coven had noticed, even if the Rìgh had not. So she had sent him home for the winter holidays. He had not been home to Kingarth since his sixteenth birthday, when he had sat the Second Test of Powers and had been accepted into the Theurgia as an apprentice-witch. Four long years spent in the midst of two hundred other apprentices, all jostling for attention, all noisy and opinionated, all hungry to prove their powers. No wonder he had been exhausted.

In the morning, the journeywitch Nina the Nightingale would be coming by the farm, so that Lewen could join her caravan of new apprentices on its way to the Theurgia. Journey-witches were a specially chosen band of witches who spent their days travelling around Eileanan looking for children with magical powers, and persuading their parents to send them to the Theurgia to be properly trained. They also performed rites for any village they passed that did not have a witch of its own.

Lewen could have easily ridden down to Ravenscraig, the castle of the ruling MacBrann clan, to meet Nina and her cavalcade, but the journeywitch was an old and dear friend of Lilanthe’s and did not want to miss the chance to see her and Niall. So she and her band of apprentice-witches were all riding from Ravenscraig to Kingarth, even though the round trip would add a week to their journey.

Kingarth was the last croft before the wild mountains known as the Broken Ring of Dubhslain, which curved in a perfect crescent around the highlands of Ravenshaw. There were only two known paths through the great grim peaks. One path led west, over the exposed, wind-scoured flank of Bald Ben, to the rolling plains of Tireich where the horse-lairds lived. The other climbed high past Dubhglais, “the black lake,” and up the steep, bare ridge of Ben Eyrie, the third highest mountain in Eileanan. Dragons were said to fly over Ben Eyrie, and ogres dwelled in the caves hidden within its cliffs. Although this road was by far the swiftest route to the east, it was considered so perilous that it was only used in times of great danger and need. It was called the Razor’s Edge.

Under the shadow of Ben Eyrie was the loch known as Dubhglais, where the Findhorn River had its source. The river wound its way down to a tall waterfall called Hoarfrost’s Beard that fell into the valley where Kingarth was built. It then tumbled and fell in swift rapids down the length of the highlands till it came to another steep cliff where it once again fell in a roaring mass of white water called the Findhorn Falls. Ravenscraig was built above these falls, and so for centuries it had been the stronghold of the MacBrann clan, secure against attack. Originally it had been the prionnsa’s winter castle, but the family had taken up permanent residence there when their summer castle Rhyssmadill had proven too close to the dangerous and unpredictable sea.

Lewen had been to Ravenscraig many times, and in fact had only recently returned from a trip there with his family. The only thing it had in common with the great city of Lucescere in Rionnagan was that it was built above a waterfall too high for the Fairgean to leap. It was rather a small castle, damp and draughty and filled with dogs. Lucescere, on the other hand, was a vast warren of a place, filled with sorcerers, nobles, merchants, thieves and faeries. The Rìgh had his palace there, protected on either side by two deep, fast rivers. In the grounds of the palace was the Tower of Two Moons, where the Keybearer of the Coven of Witches had her headquarters, and where the most famous school in the land was based.

Although Lewen wanted desperately to be a Yeoman of the Guard, like his father had been, he had ambivalent feelings about Lucescere. He knew his mother had been unhappy there, shunned and mocked because of her faery blood. It was in the gardens of Lucescere that she had been attacked with an axe while sleeping in her tree-shape. Twenty years later she still walked with a limp, and the deep ugly scar still marred her smooth bark.

Although Lewen had not inherited the ability to shapechange into a tree, as his sister had done, he was certainly unhappy if he spent too much time away from the forest. If it had not been for the palace’s famous gardens, Lewen would have left the Theurgia as soon as he got there. Although the gardens were very old and very beautiful, they were tamed and controlled, quite unlike the wild woods of northern Ravenshaw.

When Lewen had first gone to the Theurgia, at the age of sixteen, he had braced himself for the same sort of mockery and disdain his mother had faced, but to his relief his tree-changer ancestry had never been a problem. Either things had changed since Lachlan the Winged had won the throne, or else, as his father had laughingly said, he was simply too big for any of the other students to dare challenge him. Certainly Lewen had inherited his father’s build, being a head above six foot tall, and broad across the shoulders. He had been taught to fight too, with fists and feet, dagger and claymore, and to shoot the longbow with uncanny accuracy. The longbowmen of Ravenshaw were famous, and Niall the Bear the most famous of them all. It was said only the Rìgh could bend a longer bow, or shoot as far or as truly, and Lachlan the Winged carried Owein’s Bow, an ancient and magical weapon.

The cool, delicate touch of spray across his face roused him from his abstraction. Lewen glanced up, surprised, to see a wide curtain of white water tumbling down a high cliff. It fell sheer and foaming as a curtain of white muslin, the stone behind it dark and glistening. Here and there sunlight struck through the encircling trees and lit the spray as bright as diamonds, but most of the cliff-face and the pool below were in shadow and so the effect was curiously smooth and silent.

Lewen grinned and stretched and swung his satchel off his back. He felt a pleasant euphoric tiredness after his long walk, his exasperation at Kalea’s antics having faded away. He pulled out the jar of ale first, uncorked it with his teeth, and took a long swig. After an hour in his rucksack it was not as cool as he would have liked and so he went down to the pool to set it in the icy water while he ate his bread and cheese. He knelt on the damp mossy stones and was just setting the jar securely between two rocks when he heard something that brought him swiftly to his feet.

In the dark underhang of rock by the cliff a horse was lying, its head drooping. Its breath was harsh and laboured, rasping in its throat. Its coat was so black it was hard to make out its shape in the gloom of the deep little dell, but Lewen was able to see at once that someone was draped over its withers. He scrambled over the rocks, his concern growing as he noticed first the yellowish scum that streaked the horse’s damp hide, the trembling of its limbs and the twitching of its hide, signs that it had been driven to exhaustion. Then Lewen was close enough to see and recognize the blue jacket and cockaded hat of a Yeoman of the Guard, and he broke into a run. The movement spooked the horse. It shook its head, eyes rolling white in terror, and tried to rise but was too weary, collapsing back to the ground. The attempt to rise had shown Lewen two more, very strange things. The horse had wings, magnificent black feathered wings, each as long as he himself was tall. And the body slumped so heavily over the horse’s back had been tied on with rope.

Lewen went forward slowly, holding out one hand, whickering softly under his breath. The horse’s ears twitched and it rolled an eye towards him.

“Gently now,” he said. “Gently.”

Slowly, step by step, Lewen came closer. Again the horse tried to rise and shy away but Lewen reached forward and caught it by the bridle, steadying it. He smoothed one hot, damp shoulder, distressed to see the slobber round the horse’s mouth was stained with blood. Gently he eased the bit out of the horse’s torn mouth, keeping a firm hand on the bridle as the horse tried to drag its head away, whinnying in distress.

Once he had calmed the horse again, Lewen turned his attention to the unconscious soldier. There was a nasty gash on one temple, with blood drying thick on one pale cheek, and the leather reins had cut deeply into the flesh at the wrists. Although Lewen had his witch’s knife sheathed at his belt, he was reluctant to cut the bonds here in the gloom of the spray-misted basin, so far from home. He did not think he could carry the wounded soldier all the way home as well as lead the weary horse, and he knew his parents were the best people to tend both man and horse.

Gently Lewen urged the black mare to rise. He knew it was dangerous to let the horse lie still after such exertion. So he dragged on the cheek-band and pushed at the horse’s flank until at last she summoned the energy to stand. He encouraged her to walk the few steps down the slope to the pool. Then, without letting go of the bridle, he reached down to the pool and cupped water in his hand, letting the horse drink from his palm. The poor beast drank thirstily, and would have drunk more if Lewen had not restrained her, knowing too much water could be dangerous in her overheated and weakened state.

Keeping all his movements slow and steady, he rubbed the mare down with a handful of grass, then covered the horse and its unconscious rider as well as he could with the warm woollen cloak tied before the pommel. Then, regretting his jar of ale growing nicely cold in the pool, he began the long, wearisome walk home.

It was fully dark by the time he and the exhausted horse plodded out of the forest and into the orchard by the lake. Both the moons were half-full, and their mingled radiance cast a cool, colourless light across the garden. The trees were all very black, the loch was a strange glimmery silver, and warm orange light streamed from Kingarth across the dark lawn. Lewen lifted his gaze to the light, finding new energy in the closeness of home. He was bone-weary himself. Many times it had only been the strength of his hand on the bridle and his shoulder against the horse’s flank that had prevented the mare from foundering. The forest at night was a frightening place, besides, for it rustled and whimpered with mysterious sounds, and occasionally was rent by the howl of the hunter and the death-wail of the hunted. He was glad to have left the nerve-wracking darkness of the forest behind.

Suddenly a huge shape loomed up out of the darkness beside him and he smelt the strong stench of bear. The horse did too, and reared and whinnied in terror, almost wrenching his arm out of its socket.

“Ursa! Back!” he cried.

“Ursa, down,” his father said gently. “Go back.”

The bear gave a sad-sounding snuffle and lumbered away towards the house.

“What is it, laddie?” Niall said in his deep, soft voice. “Ye’re home so late, your mam was worried.” He came up out of the shadows, moving quietly for so tall a man. He saw at once the stumbling horse with its heavy burden and his son, trudging wearily at its bridle. “What is this ye’ve found? A horse?”

“A winged horse,” Lewen said.

“Winged? With a thigearn astride?”

“He wears the coat o‘ a Yeoman.”

“Indeed?” Niall’s voice rose in interest.

“He’s been tied on cruelly tight. I dared not cut him loose; the bonds were too tight and the light too bad. I am afraid though…”

“Ye did well, my lad. Bring them to the stables. I’ll call Lilanthe. She’ll ken what to do.”

Lewen knew his mother had learnt her healing arts from Isabeau the Red, who was now Keybearer of the Coven. Lilanthe’s knowledge was so deep, she was often called away to help at a difficult birthing, or to splint a shattered bone. His family’s trip to Ravenscraig a few weeks earlier had been to help ease the last painful days of the old MacBrann, who had died slowly and with ever-increasing madness.

The final few yards to the stables seemed to take forever, with the horse barely able to put one hoof after another, and Lewen’s boots seeming very hot and heavy. At last they were within the dim, hay-smelling vastness, and Niall was kindling lanterns and exclaiming aloud at the sight of the winged mare in the golden fullness of their light.

She was a magnificent beast, even as worn and tired as she was, with great black wings shading through blue to violet at the tips, and long scrolled horns with the iridescence of dark mother-of-pearl. Every curve was beautiful and proud. She was delicately made for such a long-limbed animal, with a luxuriant mane and tail, and feathered hocks. She was so very weary she hardly flinched as Niall drew his dagger and carefully sawed away at the ropes that bound the rider to the beast. At last the ropes frayed and fell away, and they were able to lift the rider down and lay him in the straw and lift the lantern to examine him.

There was a long silence.

“She’s a girl,” Lewen breathed at last.

“And no‘ so very auld,” Niall said. “What is she doing in the uniform o’ a Yeoman?”

“And tied on to the back o‘ a winged horse?”

“Eà kens! Come, let us leave her for your mam and look to the horse. She’s a noble beast and cruelly used. Look at her bleeding mouth.”

Niall had been a cavalier for many years and knew just what to do for the exhausted beast. He kept Lewen busy mixing warm mash, applying poultices and anointing the horse’s many cuts and abrasions but, despite his fascination with the winged horse, Lewen could not help casting many a glance at the girl lying in the straw. She was so dirty and bloody it was hard to see much of her face, especially with all that black, matted hair straggling all over it, but her figure was tall and lithe with a deep curve from breast to hip, and her mouth had as sweet a shape as any he had seen on a girl. She was beginning to stir as Lilanthe gently bathed her swollen, lacerated wrists, and Lewen stopped to look again as her eyes slowly opened.

They were not black, as he might have expected with all that raven hair, but a clear blue-grey colour, and fringed with very long, dark lashes. For a moment she stared up at Lilanthe blankly, and then she glanced round the dimly lit stable, seeing the winged horse tethered in its stall, and the man and boy cleaning the tack nearby.