The Witches of Eileanan (12 page)

Isabeau's heart sank. She could not imagine a land so large it took months to cross it.

"Maybe less." Meghan smiled at the look on her face. "The idea is to get there safely, no' quickly. The closer ye get to the palace, the safer ye'll be, strangely enough. The larger cities are used to strangers passing through and the people are less observant than the country folk. Keep the talisman in its bag; that'll muffle its force. Do no' use the Power where anyone can see ye or hear ye or smell ye ... Aye, remember, a trained witch can smell the One Power, will be able to hear ye and smell ye using it! Take flint with ye and get in the habit o' using it. Even wee actions, like repairing your hem, can be detected if another witch is nearby."

Real apprehension stole over Isabeau. She used the One Power as naturally as breathing, in a hundred little ways, always discovering more. How was she to stop using the One Power when she was in the habit of using it so often and so usefully?

"It will do ye good," Meghan said. "Ye do no' understand what it is that ye do. Ye have real potential, Beau; I've only ken one other apprentice to learn so quickly when they're so undisciplined and noisy."

"Who was that?" Isabeau asked with interest.

"Never mind who. Just remember, if ye are to progress beyond childish tricks and common spell-making, ye must learn control and judgment and insight. That is one reason why I am sending ye to Latifa. She is a very auld witch, very wise, though sharp-tongued. She will no' stand impudence from ye like I do."

"When am I impudent?" Isabeau exclaimed indignantly. "As if you'd ever let me . . ." Seeing her guardian's black eyes twinkle, she sat back rather ashamed.

"Latifa knows more than any other witch what is happening in the castle. And she can play tricks with fire that ye could no' imagine."

Isabeau's eyes gleamed blue with excitement. She liked the Element of Fire, it was the most challenging, sometimes arching into her hand like an affectionate cat, other times burning her with a spiteful whiplash of sparks. Earth was obdurate, Air rather frightening and Water pleasant, if rather difficult. Only with the Element of Spirit did Isabeau have no experience. She had no real conception of what it meant.

She knew it was the Element of Spirit that made great acts of magic possible, like the spell enacted by the witches' ancestors when they made the Great Crossing from their world to this one. According to the Book of Shadows, the First Coven had pooled their considerable powers and folded the fabric of the universe so they could sail their ship across the vast distances between the worlds. Meghan had often demonstrated the principle to Isabeau by pinching the cloth of her skirt between the fingers of each hand and bringing the folds together. Isabeau had always been very impressed with that story, thinking what a strange and marvelous spell it must be, to cross the universe like that.

"Will she teach me?"

"If she likes ye. Either way ye will work with her, learning what she does, and listening to all the news in the castle. I will send messengers to ye at regular intervals and ye must tell them all ye have heard. Isabeau, nothing will be too small or unimportant to tell me, I canna stress this enough. Anything which seems odd, anything at all. If the portents be true, the affairs o' Eileanan are at last coming to a head."

"How will I ken your messengers?"

"I will send an animal of some kind. Beware hawks. If ye are good and study hard, ye might even be able to scry me, though not until Latifa allows ye. It is very dangerous to scry when a seeker may be watching."

"What is Latifa's work? What shall I be learning?"

"Latifa is Maya's cook," Meghan replied.

"Cook!" Isabeau cried. "I hate cooking!"

Meghan raised her eyebrows in disapproval and continued, "Cloudshadow will do her best to deliver ye safely into Latifa's hands. Ye may trust them both. Stay in Rhyssmadill till I send word. Latifa shall take good care o' ye, and teach ye much that I cannot. She is a fine witch and a loyal member o' the Coven."

"Meghan, how could ye no' tell me who ye were?"

"Who I am? I am who I have always been," the sorceress snapped. "And ye have just grown out o' childhood, Isabeau, in dangerous times. Discretion has never been your greatest strength. So I am Keybearer o' the Coven now Tabithas is gone. How would ye have profited by knowing that? Would ye have listened more to my teachings? I doubt that. I wish ye did no' ken now, since it may slip ye anytime and the last thing I want is Maya's attention. Ye must be prepared to look after yourself. Jorge canna travel with ye either for he must go to warn the rest o' the witches in the Whitelock Mountains. We can mind-talk to the ones we ken, but that is often too risky."

"What about Seychella?" Isabeau asked.

Meghan's old face twitched a little, but she said, "If they take her down to the city for trial, we should be able to help her, or she will escape herself. She is a very strong witch. If they have killed her, there is nothing we can do."

Isabeau tried to swallow the tight knot in her throat, and wondered at the wood witch's lack of grief. Surely she must be sorry? But the thin, wrinkled face was set hard with determination and the black eyes were fierce.

"Isabeau, I have taught ye as much as I can, now ye must learn by yourself. Wherever ye go, listen and watch, for ye must find many o' your teachers yourself. The journey itself will be your first lesson. Just remember, the penalty for witchery is exile or death, and the power o' Maya grows ever stronger."

"Where are ye going?" Isabeau asked petulantly, not so sure now she wanted to leave the serenity of the mountain loch, with its flowery meadows, massive trees and the sharp fang of Dragonclaw always rearing above.

Meghan looked behind them, where the peak loomed. "I go in search o' the dragon," she said.

THE SPINNING WHEEL TURNS

Maya the Unknown

Maya rode through the woods, her shirt damp and sticky, her short hair dripping water down her neck. Despite the warm sun, the singing birds, and a general sense of health and well-being engendered by her swim, the Banrìgh was frowning. She wished she did not have to return to the castle, its corridors filled with spying servants, suspicious courtiers and zealous acolytes, her pallid husband waiting in the royal suite. For a moment her mouth curved, and she thought about her husband. He could not bear her to be away from his side for more than twenty minutes, and he would be fretting now.

He's addicted to me,
she thought,
like any fool to moon-bane.
Even that thought had its sting, though, for her hold over him had weakened again with the first smudge of red on the night horizon. She thought of the comet with a feeling oddly akin to fear. For sixteen years her hold on the Rìgh had been without question, so much so that she had let him drift away a little these past five years. She had known she could reel him back anytime, and she had been busy cementing her rule over the country, searching out and eradicating those thrice-cursed witches and fighting the resistance movement that had inexplicably begun to erode her power. Slowly, her enemies had been nibbling away at her security, undermining her strength.

Maybe it had been a mistake to confront them that manic day so long ago. It had seemed too good an opportunity to be missed: Jaspar in the first rage of his love, her unsure of its lasting power, and the witches unsuspecting and arrogant. The Day of Reckoning had taught her much about the range and subtlety of her own power, and had set them all on the path she had chosen.
It
was
the worth the risk,
she decided,
though my path is tangled now.

Far overhead, a hawk flew through the sky, bright ribbons dangling from its talons. As its shadow passed over her, Maya shivered. The trees were thinning and she could see the gleam of water. Soon the high blue towers of Rhyssmadill would appear through the branches, built on a great spur of rock that thrust out into the loch so the castle was surrounded on three sides by water. In a way Rhyssmadill was a symbol both of Maya's triumph on the Day of Reckoning, and of her failure. She had convinced the Rìgh to build her a new palace, far away from the old castle and its Tower, with its ghosts and magics, its mysteries and secrets. For the first time in more than a thousand years the Clan of MacCuinn had moved its court from Lucescere. That was her victory and a sign to the whole land that a new order had been ushered in.

However, Maya had wanted the palace to be built on the shores of the sea, in constant sight and hearing of the waves, with the sun rising on their faces. Instead, Rhyssmadill was built on the shores of the Berhtfane, where the salt of the sea was already thinned by the rush of the Rhyllster. That was the only time the Rìgh's will did not bend to hers, for he was superstitious of the sea, like many of his people. Only the sea witches of Carraig had truly understood the sea, and they were all gone now.

Maya smiled again, and raised her gauntleted wrist for the hawk, which dropped silently and with deadly grace. It was heavy on her wrist but she carried it with customary ease. It turned its head to regard Maya through the slits in the leather of its hood, and gave a dry hiss of displeasure. With its beak it tugged sharply at a strand of her dripping hair, hurting her.

Maya pulled her head away, and stared straight ahead, her mouth sulky. As she rode over the rise of a hill, she saw Rhyssmadill ahead, its towers more ethereal than ever in the twilight. Behind the highest tower she saw the red throb of the comet, and her frown deepened. After a moment, she threw the hawk in the air so that she could scrub at her hair with the linen towel she carried in her saddlebag. She then wiped her face free of salt, and tucked the towel out sight. The hawk gave a loud shriek and dived toward her, its claws raking through her wildly tossed locks before it again rose. With a grimace, Maya slicked back her hair with her fingers, trying not to show her irritation.

Work in shadows,
she reminded herself.
Have patience.
Her hair decorously tucked behind her ears, the hawk perched on her wrist again, she cantered up the hill by the lake. She crossed the narrow stone bridge, nodding and smiling at the guards who stiffened at her approach, their chins raised high. She passed through the great gates and, rather than crossing the formal gardens to the massive front doorway, turned down the narrow pathway that lead to the kitchens and stables. A boy ran out to take her horse, and she dismounted gracefully, stroking her mare's nose in thanks, and giving the hawk into the care of the falcon master.

As soon as Maya had reached the gardens and courtyards near the kitchen, a small, fat woman appeared in front of her with a quick curtsy.

"The Rìgh be asking for ye, m'lady. He's a wee . . . restless."

"Thank ye, Latifa," Maya said and smiled at her. "Should I wash up first, or would it be best to see him straight away?"

"A wee wash and brush wouldna hurt, m'lady," the old woman said, and trotted away, the keys at her waist jangling loudly.

Maya sighed. She was sure the old cook knew where she went when she went walking in the woods. Those shrewd old eyes did not miss much. The question was, did she share the Rìgh's superstitious fear of the sea? What would she think of Maya's love of swimming? So far the old cook had said nothing that could raise Maya's suspicions but she decided to keep a close eye on the old woman anyway. Having climbed the many stairs to her rooms, Maya stripped off then dived into the long green pool in the center of her bedroom. Her servant Sani knelt stiffly by the pool's edge and, pouring scented oils into the water, washed her mistress' short hair thoroughly. Maya was tempted to linger, the water was so cool and sweet, but she knew how dangerous the temptation was. Sani dressed her in the Rìgh's favorite gown—a red velvet similar in style to the one she had been wearing when they first meet—and combed her hair sleek against her head.

"It is almost time," the old woman murmured, her strange pale eyes bright. "Ye must no' fail tonight, lassie, this be our last chance."

Maya nodded, and slipped through the door into her husband's suite. The Rìgh was sitting listlessly on the padded seat of the eastern bower, staring out at the comet. She smiled and sat next to him, slipping her arm about his emaciated form.

Jaspar turned his head, only then noticing her. His face lit up. "Och, my darling, ye've come back. Ye've been gone so long, I was worried. Where've ye been?"

Maya laid her head on his shoulder. "Hunting, darling. It was such a fine, crisp day."

"Aye . . ." he said, and frowned, his eyes vacant. Then his face brightened. "Hunting? I remember once—"

"Och, do no' tease me anymore about that!" Maya interjected quickly. "Ye ken it's not usual for me to be such a wet goose! I have no' fallen off a horse in years!" Jaspar laughed dutifully, but his eyes were vacant again. Maya sighed gratefully—it was not always so easy to deflect him from some memory of the past, a past that did not include her. So many of his memories were dangerous to her that she tried hard to keep him from remembering at all.

That night they ate alone in the Rìgh's quarters, served only by her own servant, Sani. The old woman said nothing the whole time, slipping silently away after the last course was served. The Rìgh was quiet during the meal, his eyes often straying to the eastern window where the casements had been left open. The comet was rising through the sky, red as life's blood, and unsettling to look at. Maya let her husband be, getting her clarsach and strumming softly so that music drifted through the gloomy room, filling the corners with melancholy. The Rìgh leaned his head on his hand, and listened. When she had finished, he said fretfully, "Sit with me," and so she came and sat next to him, idly running her fingers over the clarsach's strings. "Maya, are ye sure?"

"What, darling?"

"Are ye sure the Lodestar's gone?"

"Jaspar, it's been twenty years, surely ye still canna be mourning the loss o' that. . . stone?"

"Maya, I can hear it. ..."

"Jaspar, ye ken the witches destroyed it. It was part o' their treachery to take the Inheritance and demolish it. I'm sorry, I wish I could bring it back to ye but it's gone."

The Rìgh sighed and rubbed at his forehead irritably. "But I can hear it."

"It's only a memory." Maya began to play again, a more lively tune this time, one that made the feet want to skip. The expression on her husband's face lightened a little, and she began to sing, a bawdy song normally heard in the lowest of taverns, not in the Rìgh's palace. That made Jaspar laugh, and soon he had forgotten the Lodestar, though occasionally a vague expression of disquiet crossed his face.

Maya sliced a bellfruit for him and poured him more wine, and as he ate, she dragged back the curtains and opened all the casements so the fresh sea breeze flowed through the room. A few of the candles blew out and the fire leaped higher, but the Rìgh hardly noticed, staring into the ruby depths of his wine. Maya gathered the silken cushions off the hard-backed couch and heaped them on the floor just below the door out onto the balcony. Casting a quick glance out at the night sky, she saw by the position of the stars that it still wanted a few hours to midnight.

Jaspar startled her by speaking. "I still canna believe that she would take the Lodestar from me like that. She must've known I would no' hurt her. It was all those other witches, they were the traitors, they were the ones who worked against me."

"All witches' loyalty goes first to the Coven," Maya said, filling his goblet with wine again. "Ye ken that."

"But she was my cousin!" Jaspar cried, and there were tears in his voice. "Everyone turned against me—the Coven, Meghan, even my brothers—they all turned against me! Everyone!"

"No' me, darling," Maya said, and kissed the side of his neck. He reached for her at once, greedily, but she slipped out of his arms, kissing the crown of his head in passing.

"No, no' ye, my darling. Ye have never betrayed me," the Rìgh said, and caught at her skirts, kissing her hand.

She had trouble freeing herself, but managed it with a smile, crossing the room to sit on the pile of cushions in the moonlight. As she expected, Jaspar followed her at once, grasping her waist and kissing her throat. She played a soft, gentle melody on her clarsach. "Talk to me some more, my Rìgh. It's been a long time syne ye have spoken like this."

"How can I be Rìgh without the Lodestar? It's a mockery!"

"Ye are Rìgh, by birthright," Maya said. "The Lodestar does no' matter. Already the people are forgetting . . ." Jaspar sighed, and began to talk of his childhood, while the comet rose steadily overhead and the light of the two moons crept further into the room. Maya played her clarsach and watched and listened, filling her husband's glass as it grew steadily emptier. Inevitably his talk came back to the Lodestar, as it so often did, but this time Maya did not distract him, just played her instrument and kept an eye on the time.

"It sings to me still. Happen it is true what they say, that it changes your blood, enters your soul ... Its greetin', I can hear it... I remember Dada used to let us play with it when we were bairns. He said the more we handled it, the closer the bond; it was always our right and our burden, he said, it could never harm or be harmed by us . . ." A thought seemed to cross his mind. "Maya, how could she have destroyed it? She's a NicCuinn, she could never have destroyed it."

Maya's fingers moved more nimbly over the strings. He sighed, and listened for a moment, sipping his wine. "I remember one time Lachlan dropped the Lodestar over the battlements. It came back to his hand when he called it, though he was only a babe." Tears flowed down his face, and Maya gritted her teeth. She could not bear the way his face clouded whenever a memory of one of his brothers came to him. It was twelve years since that fateful day, yet still he grieved. He should think only of her, dream only of her, love no one but her.

Again her hand quickened on the strings and she began to sing to him, a crooning lullaby that soon deepened into a more insistent beat. The Rìgh's breath came more quickly, and he caressed her breast through the velvet. Maya slipped away from his grasp and sat on the floor at his feet, playing faster and faster. He tried to kiss her, and she got to her feet, and began to dance as she played, the heavy skirts swaying about her pale legs. Faster and faster she danced, the skirts whirling higher and higher. The Rìgh lay back on his cushions and stared at her over the top of his goblet, his breath uneven. At last the song reached its final wild crescendo and she threw the clarsach from her, dancing without music, her fingers unlacing her bodice. The mad tempo her feet was stamping out slowed, the skirt dropped away from her, and she was on the cushions beside him, his hands caressing her greedily.

As they kissed and stroked each other, Jaspar groaning in pleasure, Maya began to chant, very softly under her breath, an ancient spell. The rhythm of the words seemed to mingle with the rhythm of their bodies, quickening together, and then the tower bells were striking the hour. Triumph and gladness filled her, and she rolled on top of him so his breath caught and his back arched. As the twelfth bell sounded, she ran her tongue inside his ear and whispered, "I love ye."