The Witches of Eileanan (39 page)

"Och, ye've decided to wake up, have ye? About bloody time! I've just about broken my back heaving ye along!"

He dropped Iseult to the ground, but her legs gave way beneath her and she hit the earth with a thud. She felt sick and dazed, and her whole body ached, particularly her throbbing hand. She examined it carefully but it looked the same as ever and all her fingers opened and shut as usual.

Meghan came and helped her to her feet, shooting her cousin a furious glance. "How do ye feel?" she asked. "Can ye walk?"

"Aye," Iseult said, though she was not at all sure that she could. Tears welled to her eyes, and she lowered her head so none would see. After a few deep breaths they subsided, and with an effort of will, Iseult climbed to her feet.

"Here, drink some o' this. It'll make ye feel much better," the old witch said, and gave Iseult some of her healing
mithuan,
which Iseult gulped down gladly.

"Let me lean on something," she said faintly, and Meghan passed over her tall staff, carved intricately with the shapes of vines and flowers. Soon the dizziness subsided and Iseult was able to walk more easily, though occasionally she looked down at her hand and flexed her fingers as if surprised to find them still there.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Iseult stumbled and fell again, a wave of blackness crashing over her. When she at last regained consciousness, she was unable to stop the tears that flowed down her cheeks. "What's wrong? What is happening to me?"

"I think you are experiencing whatever has happened to Isabeau," Meghan said, stroking the damp red-gold curls off her forehead. "Come, lie still for a moment. Tell me, have ye ever before experienced pain or dizziness that had no cause that ye could see?"

"A few years ago, I felt sharp pain in my ankle that kept me limping around for a day or two, although I had no' injured myself in any way." Iseult lay still, enjoying the comfort of the old witch's hand on her brow.

"Isabeau broke her ankle a few years ago, jumping off a branch trying to fly," Meghan said thoughtfully. She frowned, and searched the swiftly encroaching darkness as if willing it to reveal to her what was happening to Iseult's twin. "Isabeau is in dreadful trouble," she murmured. "I can feel it. Iseult, I'm sorry, but we must go on. Can ye manage?"

"I am a Scarred Warrior," Iseult replied coldly. "0' course I can go on."

Although they had rested little in the past few days, the old witch set a pace that both Iseult and Bacaiche had trouble matching. All night they marched on through the darkness, and as Iseult stumbled forward in a daze, she glanced at Meghan's tiny upright figure and marveled at the old woman. For days she had thought her just a frail old woman, so gnarled and bent she looked as if a touch must crumble her to dust. She had been affronted by her, puzzled by her weeping over dead animals, made uneasy by her talk of twins and power and prophecies. As each day passed, though, she had discovered hidden strengths in the old woman. She was surprised to find the ceremonial respect a wise old woman should be accorded give way to a more sincere affection. She was not an Auld Mother like the ones Iseult knew, but more like her own grandmother, mysterious and powerful, commanding by strength of will rather than strength of body. Iseult decided Meghan was another Firemaker, and therefore rare and precious. She needed to be protected and served, and Iseult was the only one capable of doing so. Such was the duty and privilege of a Scarred Warrior.

Jorge the Blind Seer

Jorge lay back in the rough hay and made plans. He had abandoned his discreet course and had instead headed toward the villages and towns. The thick forests that skirted the Sithiche Mountains had given way to long, falling vistas of green hills, gleaming here and there with thin threads of water. To the west the Whitelock Mountains reared snow-tipped needles of stone against the sky, the two ranges meeting at a tall, perfectly symmetrical mountain called the Fang, the highest mountain on Eileanan. Its point was wreathed in clouds most days, but there were many stories of how the Fang sometimes spat fire and smoke into the heavens.

The road Jorge was following wound between lush orchards and meadows where black-faced sheep and shaggy goats grazed. The fruit trees were all in blossom and, although Jorge could not see their ethereal colors, the air smelled delicious and he breathed deeply of the good air as he walked, giving thanks to Eà for the new season. He took his time, stopping to chat with the shepherd boys in the meadows and the crofters tending their patches of tilled soil, and begging for food at nearly every farmhouse he passed. To everyone he met, he muttered his rumors and prophecies, and was surprised at the reaction he received.

It seemed the story of the Winged Man was well known in these parts, the stories brought by pedlars, jongleurs and boatmen from the south. Tales of his exploits had spread: the Winged Man was the real leader of the infamous underground movement, the Cripple just his lieutenant. His band was composed of both fairy and human, including many witches who had escaped the persecutions; the Winged Man was himself a witch, and could perform great acts of magic.

The people of Rionnagan were not like the stodgy crofters of Blèssem or the Berhtildes, the grim maiden warriors of Tirsoilleir with their mutilations and sacrifices. Magic was bred in their bones and steeped in their blood. Rionnagan was home to the great MacCuinn clan and the ancient headquarters for the Keybearer, and so Rionnagans had never adjusted easily to the destruction of the Towers. Tales of a winged warrior gladdened their hearts, and they had happily fed and housed the old man who came bearing more tales of the hero's exploits.

Jesyah flew down, the wind of his passing stirring Jorge's hair. He gave an exultant caw that spoke of refuse and rubbish. A village was ahead, with a busy marketplace— heaven for a hungry bird. Jorge sighed and hauled himself to his feet. The raven could not understand Jorge's aversion to begging or rooting through old scraps. He did not understand that Jorge had never grown accustomed to his abrupt change in status. The great seer and sorcerer was now merely a wandering beggar, his only home a drafty cave.

The warlock heard the market first, a babble of rough voices, gossiping and shouting out wares. Then he smelled it—manure and sweat and blood and the fresh earthy scent of vegetables and the bright smell of corn. Jesyah hopped along in the mud before him, then flew up to a rooftop as Jorge felt his way forward with his staff. He called out his beggar's wail, rattling his bowl before him, following the sound of kind voices and avoiding the kick or jeer of the unkind while he scanned the crowd with his witch sense. This village was the last before the steep ridge of the White-lock Mountains, almost lost in the beginnings of the forest. There should have been many kinds here, but though he saw signs of half-breeds, he could tell from their smell that they lived in anxiety in case it should be discovered. There were no fairies here, no
uile-bheistean.
Here and there, though, he caught quicksilver glimpses of something else, something which made his blood quicken in excitement. There was a great Talent here, he was sure of it, the thrum of power like mercury in his nostrils.

He thrust his shaggy white head forward, stumbling through the crowd, trying to catch the source of the power. By its quickness and mobility, it could have been a will o'wisp or even a nisse. But the magic did not seem like that of any of the lesser fairies. It was distinctly human, although with traces of fairy in the mix.

Just as he thought he had located the source of the magic, it rushed toward him with a scamper of feet and a boy's giggle, and two boys cannoned into him, knocking him over.

A young woman scolded the boys and helped him to his feet, brushing the mud off his tattered clothes and beard. "I be sorry, the boys do make such mischief."

The boys scrambled to their feet, laughing and punching at each other. Jorge moved his head helplessly, trying to understand the thwack he heard. The boy with the magic drew himself up and said wonderingly, "Mam, he be blind. The puir auld man is blind. Och, should I no'. .. ?"

"No, no, come away, lad," the woman said hastily, and grabbed him by the arm. She apologized to Jorge again, and dragged the boy away. Jorge heard him say, "But Mam—"

Jorge gave himself over to begging for food scraps and coins, of which he received surprisingly many of the first and none of the latter. Generous but poor, he noted, and sidled round the edges, spreading his rumors and muttering his prophecies.

One young woman bent and whispered in his ear, "Hush, auld man, there be soldiers in the village, looking for
uile-bheistean.
They will think ye a witch."

Jorge heeded the warning, for he was keen to seek out the young boy again, and if the Red Guards caused trouble, he would have no chance. Once the market was packing up and the air growing chill, Jorge tottered forward, asking the raven if he had noted where the lad had gone, as asked. Unnoticed by the crowd, Jesyah had followed the child and his mother back to a house outside the village, and he took Jorge there now, slipping silently through the gray fields.

Jorge cast out his mind and caught the panicked thoughts of the mother as she scolded the boy.
Ye mun no' talk about such things where anyone can hear ye, ye mun no' think ye should heal everyone who is sick or lame or blind, they will take ye away, they will hurt ye and kill ye if they ken . . .

The word
heal
sprang out of the muddle of thoughts, and Jorge stood still in amazed hope. If the omens and dreams were true, another war was ahead of them, a fiery and bloody war. Of all Talents that would be needed in the dark days ahead, a healer was the best. And it was such a rare Talent—to heal with the laying of hands rather than knowledge of herbs and minerals, medicines and poultices. For how else could a young boy heal? He must have the touch...

His knees were trembling as he went up to the front door, and he had to lean on his staff as he knocked softly. There was a startled scuffle inside, and then a long pause. Jesyah fluttered down to his shoulder as the front door opened.

"Mercy me, if it is no' the blind beggar!" the woman exclaimed, and Jorge felt warmth flow over him as she pushed the door further open. "Come inside, then, for it'll do none o' us any good if the Red Guards see ye here and come for a look."

She took him in, settled him by the fire and fed him soup with Jorge hardly saying a word. She did not seem to notice the raven perched on his shoulder or the filth of his rags. Jorge was touched by her simple generosity. When he had finished eating, he looked up and said softly, "I have come about the lad." He felt the woman stiffen. "I ken he has power, I can see it."

"Ye are but a blind auld beggar, what can ye see?" she cried furiously.

"I see what your eyes canna," Jorge said gently. "Do no' ask me what I see for then I am compelled to tell ye, and ye may no' want to hear what I shall say."

He heard her sit down heavily, and then felt his hand taken between hers. Her palms were rough and callused. "What should I do? What should I do?" she murmured.

"Ye must leave the lad in my care."

She said faintly, "But why? I've kept him safe enough till now."

"The Rìgh has sent out seekers to find anyone or anything with magical powers. Your bairn blazes like a torch. If seekers pass through this valley, they will find him, have no doubt about that."

She moaned a little, and her fingers moved uneasily over his. "What can
ye
do, though?"

"I can shield him and, if need be, I can protect him."

"Ye be a witch."

"I am what I am, my dear. Rest assured no harm will come to the lad if I can do anything to prevent it. He will be safer with me than here."

"No, how can ye say so? He should be with his mam. Who can protect him better than me?"

"What will ye do when the Red Guards come? How will ye stop them?"

"This village looks after its own."

"The village would be burned to the ground, and any who raised their hands to the Guards hanged."

"We could hide him."

"Ye do no' understand. I am blind, yet I could follow your son's path as he ran through the market, I could follow ye here. If I can, so can others." As he said the words he felt the woman slump and knew he had won. He wondered if it compromised his oath of truth-telling not to mention his second sight was exceptionally clear, and could see many things others could not, even the Seekers of the Awl, few of whom had any profound Talent.

Just then a door banged open, letting in a blast of cold air. The child ran into the room, his radiance spreading before him. Jorge took a deep breath, and gripped his staff.

The boy saw him and skidded to a stop. "Look, Mam, the auld blind man is here. Has he come for me to touch him?"

Jorge scrabbled back in sudden alarm as the child advanced toward him, holding his palms out as if to lay them on the old man's head. To Jorge, the child's hands seemed to blaze with incandescent power, and he knew that if the child touched him, his eyes would be healed. Jesyah rose screeching into the rafters, and Jorge scrambled away over the bench, knocking over the fire stand so that pokers and brushes crashed into the hearth.

The woman took his shoulders. "It is all right, auld man, it is true. He can heal ye, though how such a thing could be I canna understand."

"No, no, he must no' touch me," and Jorge bolted away again as the child advanced on him, his hands held out.

"But ye are blind, I can make ye see, truly I can," the boy said, trotting after him. His hand caught the edge of Jorge's plaid, and the seer felt a moment of pure panic. Jesyah dropped down from the rafters like a black lightning bolt, and the boy screamed, dropping to the ground and covering his head with his arms.

"I be blind for a purpose," Jorge panted, scrambling over the table and knocking his hip painfully.

Jesyah fluttered back to the rafters, and both the woman and her son regained their feet, though still nervous of the raven. He could sense their doubtful glances, and the boy said, rather sadly, "Ye do no' want to be healed?"

"No, lad. I can see things with my blind eyes that I would miss if my everyday sight returned. I have been blind for far longer than ye have been alive, or even your mother for that matter. I am content to stay blind."

The boy sat down on the bench, and said happily, "All right then, I will no' touch ye."

"Does he try and touch anyone who is sick or maimed?" Jorge asked.

The young woman nodded, then realizing the seer could not see, answered in a subdued voice, "Aye, my laird."

"I am no laird, just a blind beggar who needs a strong lad to help me find my way."

"Och, I can! Can I, Mam?"

"Ye want to go away from me?"

"Only for a wee while, Ma. Besides, I told ye. I have had dreams o' war, and ye ken I shall be needed."

Jorge felt his mouth drop open, and sensed the rueful glance the woman sent him. "Ye do no' ken what it is ye want, old man," she said. "Tomas is no ordinary lad. Ye shall have trouble keeping him safe."

"How auld are ye?"

"I am eight," Tomas said with perfect composure. "Well, almost!"

"Would ye fain accompany me on my travels?"

"Will I have to beg?"

"No' if ye do no' want to, though I have found it an excellent way o' gaining vital information. People ignore a beggar, ye see."

"People never ignore me."

"Well, we shall have to teach ye how to be ignored, my lad, for attention is the one thing we do no' want."

"So ye are really going to take him?" his mother said, and her voice was an odd mixture of anger, sorrow, regret and relief. "Can I no' come too?"

Jorge shook his head. "I be sorry, but three is a crowd, and it is difficult for a crowd to slip through the lines o' Red Guards without being noticed."

"Wha' are ye going to do with him?"

"I am going to take him back to my home in the White-lock Mountains, and I am going to teach him how to control and conceal his Talent. He shall be my apprentice and my helper. Then, when the time comes, we shall put him to work. For your laddie is right, a war is coming, and the omens are no' good. We live in dangerous times, my dear, and a healer is a rare and precious commodity. Ye need no' fear I will let any harm come to him."

"Are witches going to come back then?" the boy asked in his high, piping voice.