The Witches of Eileanan (13 page)

Jaspar's body jerked upward in instantaneous response, and she shouted the last words of the spell, the binding incantation. Immediately the comet overhead flared brightly and behind it sprung a long tail of fire. Maya closed her eyes, savoring her triumph, sure the spell had worked, as Jaspar clutched her to him, half sobbing, half panting into her neck.

Meghan of the Beasts

Meghan waited for a long time in the shadow of the trees, watching her blind friend and her ward struggle down the snowy slope, the raven flapping lazily overhead. Her gaze lingered on Isabeau's bright head. Knowing the child was soon to be left alone to travel these dangerous roads, Meghan's heart misgave her. Maybe she had been wrong to protect her so much. Maybe she had been wrong to let the child wind herself around her heart.

She sighed and began to climb the mountain, the donbeag cuddling under her plaid. She too had a dangerous and difficult journey ahead of her, and she must make headway while the sun still remained. Meghan feared none of the animals of the forests or hills, but these were wild mountains and there were many magical creatures who cared nothing for the sorceress Meghan. Even she had to sleep sometimes and it was then that the danger was greatest. It was then her body and spirit were unprotected. She must sleep as little as possible.

Even though Meghan's magic allowed her to glide lightly over the snow, it was still a difficult journey. She stumbled now and then; the wind was very sharp, and the higher she climbed the colder it became. Soon she had left the trees behind, and was struggling through ice and snow, her breath sharp in her side. The sun had already set behind the mountains so although the snow on the mountains to the west glowed red and gold and orange, all around her were shadows.

Gitâ gave an exasperated chitter and laid his paw on her shoulder.
You should rest, my beloved,
he said, deep in her mind.

Meghan shook her head.
No, there's so little time,
she answered.
That comet spell last night, I think it means nothing but evil for us.

You are tired. You have not slept for several nights. You must save your strength,
Gitâ scolded.

What is my strength compared to the dragon?
she replied.
The dragon is more powerful than any other creature. Its strength would easily overwhelm mine.

It is power of the spirit you need with the old one,
Gitâ said, patting her earlobe.
Strength of body too, so it does not weary you. It has many tricks, the old one.

Time is o' the essence,
Meghan said.

As are you, my beloved,
the donbeag said.
Sleep awhile and I will watch over you. No harm will come to you when Gitâ watches.

Meghan shook her head. She felt clear-headed and filled with a strange strength. Her witch senses told her the Red Guards were on her trail, and she knew she had to move quickly. Her whole body ached, and reminded her of the many years she carried, the long, wearying life that dragged at her strength. When Gitâ protested again, though, she felt an aching hunger in her belly and remembered the long hours since she had last eaten.
I
will stop for a while, and eat. Find me a holt,
she said, and Gitâ bounded ahead, almost invisible in the darkening air.

He found her a narrow cave in the side of the hill. Meghan sat and chewed some potato bread half-heartedly, thinking about Isabeau. Did she understand what a trust Meghan had placed in her hands? What would happen if she failed? Dread washed through her, and once again she wished she had been harder on the girl, driven her more fiercely, hammered knowledge into that stubborn, wayward head. Still, Isabeau had passed her Test, and as an apprentice witch, it was fitting she traveled her road alone. She was canny and she had power, and the journey in its way was as necessary a test as the Trials themselves.

Thinking this made Meghan rise to her feet again and begin the climb. The path was narrow now, and the fall steep. Although the moons shone brightly, each turn showed a section of path deep in shadow that could hide pits or enemies. She stumbled a little, but kept on walking, the great peak of Dragonclaw looming above her. As she walked, Meghan pondered the meaning of the comet spell, and the mysterious appearance of Ishbel the Winged. She had thought Ishbel dead. For sixteen years she had searched for any trace of her young apprentice, who had disappeared on the Day of Betrayal. She had rescued Ishbel from the Red Guards herself, and had drawn fire so Ishbel could escape. Then the girl had vanished. Meghan had sent out dream messages and carrier pigeons, asked pedlars and skeelies, tried to scry through water and fire—all to no avail. For sixteen years there had been no word or sign of Ishbel; then suddenly she had reappeared at the Test-fire for the night-long Ordeal, naked as the other witches were, hair unbound as theirs was, and as long as a banrìgh's mantle. Her blue eyes had met Meghan's in one charged look before they had closed their eyes as the Ordeal ordained, but the silence between them all the long bitter night rang with questions, accusations, pleadings and a fierce joy. It had been hard for Meghan to empty herself, to become a vessel of quietness and solitude as the Ordeal demanded. She knew it had been even harder for Ishbel for she heard the stifled breath and gasp of her weeping several times during the night.

Meghan's teeth ground in frustration. To have found Ishbel sixteen years after losing her, and be bound to silence and ritual proclamations! To have her disappear again, swept off the cliff like a white feather spinning into the storm! Where had she come from so unexpectedly, and where had she gone? Meghan's mind was busy with calculations, a burning ember of hope in her chest.

Years ago, she had been weighed down by an aching sadness that came from having outlived most of her friends and family. It was then she first wondered why her old body lived on, and began to wish for release. Then a young fair-haired girl from Blèssem had arrived for training at the Tower of Two Moons, as so many nobly born girls did in those days. The Tower of Blessed Fields in Blèssem was more of an agricultural college than an initiator into arcane mysteries, and the other neighboring Towers had either fallen into ruin or were dedicated to a single Talent or school of thought. Only at Two Moons was there training in all different facets of witchcraft, and research into magic's many manifestations. Even those with minor abilities found themselves a place at Two Moons, and there an increasing diversity of Talents was explored and celebrated.

Meghan had first seen Ishbel waiting in the courtyard of the Keybearer's quarters, her bags at her feet, a dove perched on her shoulder. The wood witch had come down to the Tower of Two Moons from her secret valley to visit Tabithas, the newly elected Keybearer, who had once been her apprentice. Such a chill of premonition crept over her when she noticed Ishbel that she had asked to be present when the girl took the First Test of Power which all novices had to pass to be allowed admittance to the Theurgia. Eight-year-old Ishbel had failed the Test, and so rightly should have been turned away. Strangely though, the old nurse who had brought her had wept and insisted Ishbel be taken in. Her father and brother had died in the Second Fairgean Wars, the old nurse told them, and a cousin had inherited the estate.

"We are no' an orphanage," Tabithas had said impatiently. "Surely the lass has some other relatives who will take her in."

The old nurse shook her head. "They all be frightened o' her."

Tabithas and Meghan looked at the nurse in bewilderment. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, the girl was the very epitome of angelic beauty.

"She can fly," the nurse said, and began to weep. "She does it all the time. In the middle o' the summer fair or when the men are bringing in the harvest; when her cousin is trying to judge the cases o' thieves an' murderers or when she is meant to be in bed. She do no' walk anywhere anymore, an' it's just no' guid for the people."

Keybearer Tabithas and her one-time teacher exchanged a meaningful look, and instructed the young girl be brought in again. Sure enough, the child floated a good foot off the ground, her fair hair shining in the light through the window, the dove flapping its white wings beside her. She drifted up and began to examine the paintings on the ceiling with an absorbed expression on her face, and would not come down or answer them. At last the old nurse climbed up on a chair and after a few futile leaps and jumps, managed to grasp Ishbel by the ankle and pull her down. All this time Ishbel had not said a word.

On impulse Meghan decided to stay at Two Moons, taking the child on as her acolyte. She had both taught her what she could and studied her closely for some clue to her magic. Nowhere in the library were there any records of flying witches, except those who somehow conquered or connected with dragons, flying horses or other magical flying beasts. There was one story of a pair of magical boots that enabled the wearer to make great leaps across the ground, covering vast distances in only a few seconds, but nowhere could Meghan find any reference to someone who could fly as easily and effortlessly as Ishbel. She seemed more at home in the air than she did on the ground, and sometimes unnerved Meghan by floating a foot or so off the bed while she slept. The mystery of Ishbel's Talent gave Meghan back a sense of mission in her life. Much as she loved the serene beauty of her secret valley, Meghan had missed the company of other witches and the challenge of exploring a new Talent gave her a new interest in life. For the first time since giving up the Key, Meghan moved back to the Tower, and for the next ten years, had enjoyed its staid routine more than ever before.

The beautiful, fair-haired fledgling witch had changed into a frail woman with such an air of other-worldliness that Meghan had been afraid. Why had she appeared just in time for the Testing of Meghan's apprentice? How had she known she would be needed? All through the long night, Meghan pondered these questions, suspicions she had harbored for years crystallizing into certainty.

Meghan was still stumbling along as the sun began to rise, her body stiff and sore, frantically trying to remember what she could of the language of dragons. She had had to learn all of the higher languages in order to pass her Sorceress Test of Earth, but that had been many, many years before, and she had never had to use it since. The energy which had carried her the long, weary miles had faded away, and Meghan was sorely troubled in mind and spirit by the exertion and events of the past three days. All she could remember of the dragons' language were stray phrases and words, and she began to fear she had made a very bad mistake.

She ate a scanty breakfast, then continued the difficult ascent toward the peak, leaving Gitâ to sleep in the darkness of her pocket. Even in the dimness before dawn, she could now see the narrow line of the Great Stairway cutting across the sheer face of Dragonclaw in an ever-rising zigzag. Soon she was at the wide platform that marked its beginning, and ready to cross under the massive arch, guided on either side by a much-damaged stone dragon, its weathered wings spread wide.

Meghan looked up uneasily, the fang of the peak jagged against the lightening sky, the first rays striking the arch so it sprung out against the dark backdrop. After a moment she sat down under its perfect curve towering far above her head, her back to the great stone dragons. She drank some water and fumbled for a handful of dried fruit. Every joint in her body ached, and she wished she could heat some tea. As sometimes happened to her lately, she slipped off into a light doze. What seemed like only a few moments later she jerked her eyes open, her witch senses warning her of danger. At first she saw nothing, but then with a chill and a sharp lurch of her heart, she realized the dragon perched above her was not another statue, as she had thought in the first confusion of waking, but living flesh.

The dragon was much smaller than Meghan expected, as high as two men but slender and surprisingly lissom. His angular head, silhouetted against the dawn-streaked sky, was crowned with a serrated crest that ran down the rippling length of his neck and back. He was perched on a high crag of rock, his tail wrapped several times around the stone, and he regarded Meghan with narrow eyes of gleaming topaz.

Despite herself, Meghan's heart pounded and her legs trembled. She lowered her eyes and said in the oldest of languages,
Greetings, Great One.

There was a silence, then the dragon slowly moved, rising up on his powerful wings and spreading his great wings with a leathery rustle. With heart-stopping quickness and grace, he flew down to the steps, light scintillating off his shining scales. Sweat broke out on Meghan's face and hands and she had to fight the urge to scramble backward. The dragon spoke in a surprisingly melodious mind-voice.
What brings thee here, foolish human?

I wish to speak with ye and would beg the favor o' an audience,
Meghan said carefully, trying to remember the many complicated courtesies of the dragon language.

The dragon smiled unpleasantly, and settled his wings along his smooth back.
I
have no wish to converse with thee. Humans hold no interest for me, except as a tasty morsel to add variety to my diet.
He yawned.
Tis
been a while since I tasted human flesh, but thou dost not look very tasty to me, all skin and bone and hair. Thou mayst leave.

Meghan did not know what to do.
But I
— she began, and heard a low growl begin in the dragon's throat. His eyes were slitted dangerously, and he was smiling unpleasantly, showing rows of sharp teeth.
Thou mayst leave,
the dragon repeated, whipping his tail back and forth.

Meghan bowed her head.
I
would ask ye a question, my laird dragon.