Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 03 - The Cursed Towers

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The Cursed Towers

Book Three of The Witches of Eileanan

Kate Forsyth

A ROC BOOK

For my Nonnie, Joy Mackenzie-Wood

"Thou shall not suffer a sorceress to live."

Exodus 22:18

"If any person or persons shall . . . consult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed or reward any

evil or wicked spirit for any intent or purpose, or take up any dead man, woman or child out of

their grave or any other place where the dead body resteth, to be employed or used in any manner

of witchcraft, sorcery, charm or enchantment whereby any person shall be killed, destroyed,

wasted, consumed, pined or lamed in his or her body, every such offender . . . shall suffer death."

"An Act Against Conjuration, Witchcraft, and

Dealing with Evil and Wicked Spirits"

—A Statute Made in the First Year of the

Reign of King James the First (1603)

The Cursed Towers

The Shining City

Snow drifted down from the darkening sky, mantling the horses' manes. Lilanthe huddled into the rough

blanket. She hated winter. Ordinarily she would have found a sheltered valley some weeks ago, with rich,

dark soil in which to dig her roots. There she would have dreamed the winter away, her sap quiescent,

the winter storms shaking her boughs but barely penetrating her slumbering senses. Only when the snow

had melted and her sap quickened, new buds swelling along her twigs, would she have stirred and

stretched and opened her long eyes, smelling the sharp spring wind. Only then would she have shaken the

earth from her roots and taken her first trembling steps after the long winter rest.

Instead the tree-shifter was perched on the hard wooden bench of Gwilym the Ugly's caravan, trying to

keep her balance as the cart lurched over the ruts of the dirt road. Her twiggy hair was hidden beneath a

plaid, and her broad, gnarled feet were wrapped in sheepskins. Lilanthe was taking no risks despite the

success of the Samhain rebellion which had restored the Coven of Witches. Already they had

encountered trouble along the road, her uncanny green eyes arousing suspicion among crofters whose

hatred of faeries had been encouraged for sixteen long years.

Enit Silverthroat's brightly painted caravan swayed ahead of them, while behind rattled her son Morrell

the Fire-Eater's caravan and an old canvas-covered wagon driven by a slim young man with a crimson

velvet cap and very bright, black eyes. Lilanthe turned to gaze back at him, clenching her jaw a little

when she saw the pretty blonde girl who sat beside him, laughing at one of his jokes. Lilanthe would

much rather have been sitting beside Dide the Juggler, singing and laughing, than beside the taciturn

Gwilym. Somehow Gilliane NicAislin always managed to get there first, however, and Lilanthe was too

shy to insist on having her turn.

Huddled under the meager shelter of the canvas were a cluster of children, the youngest only nine, and a

young, fair-haired woman in the final months of pregnancy. She was whey-faced and her eyes were

closed, her hand gripping the side of the wagon as she tried to brace herself against its lurch and sway.

One of the young men walking beside the wagon turned often to glance up at her, his face creased with

anxiety, and once he reached up to touch her in reassurance. Iain MacFoghnan and Elfrida NicHilde had

not been married very long and, although theirs had been a marriage of convenience, it had soon

blossomed into love.

Lilanthe clung to the side board as the mare's hooves slipped on a patch of ice, causing the caravan to

slide sideways. Gwilym the Ugly gripped the reins tighter, urging the mare on. Ahead, Enit's caravan was

almost invisible in the snowy dusk, and Gwilym said anxiously, "We had best find somewhere to camp

soon, for it'll be another bitter night by the looks o' it."

The old jongleur did not pull her caravan over, however, not even when they passed a field with running

water and a tall stand of trees where they might have sheltered. They began to see the occasional

cottage, orange warmth glinting through the shutters, then lights pricked the gloom ahead. Gently Gwilym

shook Lilanthe, who had dozed off to sleep. She woke with a start, straightening hurriedly and rubbing

her eyes with one hand.

"There's a town ahead, thank Ea!" Gwilym said. "Hot stew and soft beds for us tonight! Keep your plaid

over your head, there's a good lass. We dinna want to be chased out o' town again, that be for sure!"

Lilanthe gave a shudder and rubbed the bruise on her cheekbone where she had been a hit by a stone at

a village a few days earlier. She pulled the plaid close about her face as they drove over the bridge and

into the town square, the wheels of the caravans rattling loudly against the cobblestones. Dide handed the

reins of the great carthorse to Iain and leapt down from the wagon, his guitar in his hand. He began to

strum it melodiously, while his father shouted:

"Come watch the jongleurs sing for ye and play;

Let us chase the winter miseries away.

We'll sing for ye tunes both wistful and gay,

Amuse ye, enthrall ye and lead ye astray!"

The doors of the Glenmorven Inn swung open, and curious faces peered out. Children tumbled out of the

cottages, followed by their bright-eyed mothers, while the few merchants still packing up their stalls

glanced up in interest. The innkeeper beckoned the jongleurs in with a broad grin splitting his bearded

face. His tavern would be packed to the rafters tonight with such a large troupe!

Iain helped Elfrida down from the wagon and supported her as she took faltering steps into the inn.

Neither was used to the rough life of the jongleurs, and so both were glad that custom dictated the inn

offer free food and lodgings for the itinerant performers. With only four months until her babe was due,

Elfrida was particularly grateful for the chance to spend a night indoors. Morrell lifted Enit down from her

driving seat and carried her into the inn's common room, Dide playing a well-known folk song as he

sauntered behind.

Gwilym the Ugly, unable to perform because of his wooden leg and harsh voice, busied himself stabling

the horses, leaving the wagon and caravans drawn up in the courtyard outside the inn's barn. Lilanthe

helped him, unwilling to leave the sheltering darkness. The cluricaun Brun stayed within the safety of Enit's

caravan, unwilling even to poke his furry face out the door in case he should be seen. Both faeries were

very nervous of being discovered, even though the first action of the new righ had been to overturn his

brother's decrees against witchcraft and the faeries. Lilanthe and Brun had suffered too much in the past

to trust easily to the good nature of the countryfolk, despite the strict new laws that forbade any violence

to those of faery blood.

The traveling troupe had first heard of the rebels' victory as they traveled out of Aslinn and into the wide

valleys of upper Blessem. A peddler had been holding court among a rapt crowd, his cart piled high with

pots and saucepans, rolls of bright material, rakes, spades and wooden sabots. Voice shrill with

excitement, arms gesticulating wildly, he had described how the rebels had stormed Lucescere Palace

after the death of the former righ, Jaspar MacCuinn. The rebel army had been led by a winged warrior

who—the peddler had paused theatrically—was none other than Lachlan Owein MacCuinn, the

youngest son of Parteta the Brave and Jaspar's long-lost brother.

Ripples of excitement, bewilderment and dismay had run over the crowd. Rumors of the winged prionnsa

had been burning like wildfire all over the country for almost a year, but the countryfolk had always been

loyal to the Crown and many had loved the former Banrigh and could not believe the tales now told of

her. Maya the Blessed, born of the dreaded Fairgean, the fierce sea-dwelling faeries who had terrorized

the coastline for centuries? Maya the Blessed an evil sorceress who had transformed the lost

prionnsachan into blackbirds and then cruelly hunted them down? It was too strange and horrible for the

people to believe, and there was much muttering among the throng.

The jongleurs and their companions had been thrilled at the news. Since rescuing Gilliane and the other

children kidnapped by Margrit of Arran, the jongleurs had been hurrying to join Lachlan and give him

their support. Until they had purchased the wagon, the children had had to walk and so their progress

had been painfully slow. The delay had frustrated them all, but particularly Dide, who longed to be with

Lachlan in the center of the action.

Dide and his grandmother Enit had worked closely with the young prionnsa, coordinating the rebellion

and undermining the Banrigh's powers. They had given him shelter for five long years as he struggled to

adapt to life as a man again after so many years trapped in the body of a blackbird. Now Dide was

impatient to reach Lu-cescere and greet his friend, the new Righ of all Eilea-nan. The young jongleur had

urged the convoy on at a dangerous pace, pushing on well into the snowy nights and waking them before

the dawn to hitch up the horses again.

On their journey to Rionnagan, the jongleurs had heard many different rumors. There was talk of the

Fair-gean rising, invasions of Bright Soldiers from beyond the Great Divide, regicide and civil war. Some

of the villages had been attacked by bands of soldiers, some from Tirsoilleir and some the former

Banrigh's own guards fleeing the new order. Sometimes on the horizon they saw pillars of smoke rising as

another town fell to the invaders. It had been a time of great anxiety for the jongleurs, and Enit had dared

not use her witch skills to seek news of their friends with the countryside in such turmoil. Although every

town had pinned to the door of its meeting hall a copy of the Righ's new decrees announcing the

restoration of the Coven of Witches, it would take some time before those with faery blood felt safe to

openly walk the streets or enter a village tavern.

It was cold out in the courtyard tonight, however, and from the inn came the sound of music and laughter.

Li-lanthe stared longingly at the brightly lit windows and wondered how long it would be before one of

the children remembered she and Gwilym were out here and brought them some food. Despite the

shelter it gave her, she hated being left out in the darkness while the others were free to relax and enjoy

themselves inside by the fire. She wondered whether Dide had even noticed her absence.

Gwilym was busy cleaning the horses' tack and checking their hooves for stones, balancing himself with a

club under one arm to compensate for his wooden leg. After a while the tree-shifter looked at him rather

shyly and said, "Happen they may want me to perform tonight?"

"Ye'd be better staying out here," Gwilym said tersely. "The jongleurs dinna need ye. They have plenty o'

support from the bairns, and besides, ye ken it be dangerous."

Lilanthe said nothing for a while, then replied rather sulkily, "The last village we were at liked my

mimicry."

"And the village before that chased us out o' town with stones and rotten fruit," Gwilym said, scowling at

her. He was a thickset man with pockmarked skin, a hooked nose and a sardonic mouth, and Lilanthe

was secretly rather afraid of him.

"Ye could cast a spell o' glamourie over me," she suggested after a moment. "It'll be dim in there, and it is

no' likely that there'll be anyone with enough Talent to see through the illusion."

Gwilym refused gruffly, but she looked at him so pleadingly he eventually relented with a shrug and a

mutter. Glancing around the courtyard to make sure they were unobserved, he pointed two fingers at her

and intoned the spell, smoothing and flattening Lilanthe's features so she looked much like any other

country lass. Her twiggy hair, bare now of any leaves and flowers, he transformed into flowing brown

locks that Lilanthe wished fervently were really hers.

"Ye had better hope there's none around who can sense the working o' witchcraft," the sorcerer said

gruffly. "It's a cruel night to be chased out o' town."

She thanked him fervently and left him alone in the snowy night. Inside the inn the townsfolk were

listening with rapture to Dide as he sang.

"Och if my love was a bonny red rose,

Growing upon some barren wall,

And I myself a drop o' dew,

Down into that red rose I would fall."

Then Enit and Nina joined in to sing the refrain, their voices so sweet that Lilanthe felt tears prickle her

eyes.

"Och my love's bonny, bonny, bonny, my love's bonny and fair to see."

"Och if my love was a coffer o' gold

And I the keeper o' the key,

Then I would open it when I lost

And into that coffer I would be."

Those of the children who could not sing so sweetly were accompanying the jongleurs on hand-made

drums and tambourines tied up with brightly colored ribbons. Mor-rell was playing the fiddle, and Gilliane

was accompanying him on a wooden flute the cluricaun had made for her. As the jongleurs sang the

chorus, many among the audience joined in enthusiastically, so the words rang: "Och my love's bonny,

bonny, bonny, my love's bonny and fair to see."

When the song ended, Morrell began to display his tricks with fire as Dide circulated through the crowd

with his feathered cap, listening carefully to the talk of the townsfolk and giving them what news he had of

the court. Lilanthe made her way to his side, her pace hastening when she saw his expression darken.

"They say the new Righ has already set his seed in her belly, which at least shows he is more o' a man

than his brother. Sixteen years it took Jaspar the Ensorcelled to get his wife wi' babe, and they say now it

were naught but a spell that did it at all."

"But this is news indeed!" Dide cried, catching the coins being flung in his cap. "Ye say the new Banrigh is

a warrior maid wi' hair as red as fire? Who is she? Wha' is her name?"

A surly-faced crofter with huge, hard hands and lank, greasy hair gave a contemptuous shrug. "I heard

she be born o' Faodhagan the Red's line, though indeed we had all thought that clan had long ago died

out. Then someone said the foul, flying sorceress Ishbel the Winged was her mother, and one o' the

horned snow-faeries her father, but surely that canna be true, the Righ would no' be marrying a blaygird

halfbreed, witch-lover though he may be."

"I heard she was brought up as a foundling babe by the horned snow-faeries, no' that she was one o'

them," another crofter said.

"Nay, she was Meghan o' the Beasts' foster child, do ye no' remember? That was wha' the peddler said,"

a young man in a shabby kilt cut in.

"Either way, she be a witch-lover and faery-friend," an old man with cropped gray hair said with

disapproval cold in his voice.

Dide gave a light laugh that sounded artificial to Li-anthe's ears. "Och, they say the Rlgh is returning us to

the auld days," he said. "They say anyone who raises a hand against the faeries shall be punished

severely."

"Well, it's been a long time syne we've seen any o' those demon spawn in Glenmorven," the innkeeper

said fervently, "and let's hope it's a long time until we do."

Lilanthe felt the blood rise to her face. Dide noticed her behind him and flashed her a warning glance. He

could see through Gwilym's glamourie, having the gift of clear-seeing which could penetrate a spell of

illusion, unless it was very cunningly cast.

"If the Grand-Seeker has his way, we shall no' have to endure the rule o' the witch-lovers for long," the

surly-faced crofter said with a sidelong look at the jongleur. "They say he is gathering together a force to

put Jaspar's wee daughter back on the throne and restore the Awl."

"The Grand-Seeker?" Dide said casually, trying not to show that mention of the Anti-Witchcraft League

had caught his interest. "I thought he had perished in the taking o' Lucescere Palace or had been taken

captive wi' the others."

"Och, Grand-Seeker Renshaw be as wily as a fox," the man said, raking Lilanthe over with a glance that

made her fidget. "No way he was going to be caught by a handful o' rebellious ruffians."

"Do no' let anyone hear ye speak o' the new righ in such terms," Dide said in a lowered voice, covering

his anger with a friendly face. "He be a MacCuinn, ye ken, and one with witch powers too. It's a new

order now, and my granddam always said a new broom sweeps clean."

"Aye, Jock, ye should keep a still tongue in your head," the old man said with a wary glance around.

The man spat loudly. "To think we need suffer a witch-lover on the throne again! It's enough to make a

Truth-fearing man's bluid boil!"

"Careful, my man," the other said in an undertone, so Dide had to strain his ears to catch the words. "Ye

ken all loyal men were told to keep mumchance till we heard the word."

"Och, no need to fraitch, I'll keep my tongue between my teeth, dinna ye fear," Jock replied, swallowing

his ale and pulling his tam-o'-shanter back on over his greasy hair. As he turned to go, he tripped over

one of Li-lanthe's spreading feet. He glanced down in surprise but saw nothing that could have caused

him to stumble, since the tree-shifter's feet, so like gnarled tree roots, were hidden by the illusion of

wooden sabots. Jock scowled in puzzlement and muttered something under his breath.

Lilanthe moved away, her feet crossing over each other involuntarily, color rising in her cheeks. She tried

to maintain an expression of unconcern but could not help her breath coming unevenly as the crofter's

glance deepened to uneasy suspicion. He looked her over with a bleary gaze, shrugged and went out into

the snowy night. Lilanthe breathed more easily, and followed Dide as he tossed off a light-hearted jest,

juggled the copper coins till they disappeared one by one, then made his way through the crowd again.

His face was somber and rather pale, and his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his crimson cap.

"Things will never change, will they?" Lilanthe whispered to him. "They still hate the faeries and think

them uile-bheistean."

"It takes time to change, ye canna expect them to throw off sixteen years o' hatred overnight," Dide

answered bleakly. "In the meantime, ye mun be more careful, Lilanthe!"

"Do ye think it was Isabeau they were speaking o'?" the tree-shifter asked, excitement warming her

voice. "They say hair as red as flame, and Meghan's apprentice. Surely it mun be Isabeau? Would that

no' be wonderful, Isabeau the new Banrigh?"

"Wonderful," Dide responded blankly.

She cast him a doubtful glance but before she could say anything she was called upon to perform. Taking

a deep breath, she began to mimic the sounds of the forest birds, warbling as sweetly as any woodlark.

For some reason her mimicry was always immensely popular, though often she was asked to imitate the

sound of a rooster or duck, something she always found hard to understand. These crofters could listen

to their farmyard fowls any time they wished; why they found it so amusing to hear a young woman make

the same sounds was beyond her.

Suddenly her voice faltered as terror seized her throat muscles. Standing in the doorway was a very tall,

very thin man dressed in a long robe of rich crimson. His face was gaunt and extremely pale, as if he was

ill, and he was staring straight at her with the intense hatred of a fanatic. Behind him was the crofter Jock,

a gloating expression on his face. The shoulders and heads of both men were covered in snow, and a

bitter wind was swirling through the open door into the smoke-filled room. Already people were turning

to look in irritation, though their expressions turned quickly to fearful respect when they caught sight of

the seeker. Many moved out of his way as he stepped forward and pointed his thin fingers at Lilanthe,

intoning, "Your foul arts canna deceive me, uile-bheist! I see ye for what ye are—monster and

demon-spawn!''

Lilanthe gave a strangled moan, and stepped back, looking for a way out. Her knees felt weak, her heart

was pounding so loudly she thought it must boom like a drum. The seeker turned to the crowd, and

cried, "Ye shall no' suffer an uile-bheist to live! She is no lassie but a blaygird tree-faery. Seize her!"

The crowd glanced from the seeker to Lilanthe, some in disbelief, others in horror and fear. Then the

group of crofters that had talked of the Grand-Seeker sprang into action, charging the open area where

the jongleurs had been performing. Immediately Morrell swallowed his burning brand and spat out a long

plume of fire that had them scrambling backward to avoid being scorched. Before the crowd had time to

react, Dide's long daggers were out of his belt and flashing dangerously through the air. Those nearest to

the young jongleur ducked back with cries of alarm. Dide grasped Lilanthe's hand and dragged her back

toward the inn's kitchens, calling to his sister, "Get the others, Nina, we mun get out o' here fast!"

Quick as a squirrel, the little girl somersaulted over the table and darted up the stairs, while Morrell again

spat out fire that sent the crofters diving for cover. Enit hit out with her walking sticks, breaking one over

the back of an attacker. Douglas MacSeinn, the eldest of the children rescued from the Tower of Mists,

threw a chair that knocked over another two men advancing from the side. Confusion reigned on all sides

as belligerent farmers and townsfolk tried to seize the jongleurs but were forced back by Morrell's blasts

of fire or Dide's wicked knives. Then someone threw a chair which hit the fire-eater in the back. He

staggered and fell. Someone leapt onto his back and pinned him to the ground, but the jongleur threw him

off and leapt to his feet. With a sweep of his palm he conjured a handful of fire, and threw it at the

attacking crowd.

Fire blossomed in the curtains, and the screams intensified as people began to struggle toward the door.

The push of those trying to escape slowed down the advance of the seeker's followers long enough for

the youngest of the children to escape to the kitchen. Morrell caught up his mother and carried her out of

the common room at a run, Enit still brandishing her walking stick. Dide and Lilanthe were close behind,

the tree-shifter weeping with shock and fear.

Out in the courtyard Gwilym and two of the older children were frantically harnessing the horses to the

caravans. Iain had seized a pitchfork and was keeping off two burly crofters while his wife tried to heave

her bulk into the wagon. She was dressed only in her shift, with a plaid thrown over her shoulders, and

she shivered violently in the freezing air. Gilliane was sobbing with fear as she tried to help her, while the

other children were throwing buckets and pots at the advancing mob. Nina was kicking and screaming in

the brutal grasp of one man, while Douglas was only just managing to fend off two burly men wielding

clubs. A lurid red light from the burning inn hung over the scene, giving the faces of the shouting men a

demonic look.

Dide dropped Lilanthe's wrist and threw one of his daggers straight through the breast of the man holding

his sister. The attacker dropped like a stone, and Nina scrambled onto the step of the caravan as Morrell

threw his mother up into the driving seat. Enit seized the reins, and her brown mare, rearing in terror at

the smell of smoke, plunged forward, knocking several crofters to the ground. One man reached up and

grasped the little girl, trying to drag her back, but the caravan door flew open and a small, furry arm

wielding a frying pan flashed out and smashed him over the head. He stumbled back with a groan, and

the cluricaun pulled Nina into the safety of the caravan's interior.

As Enit's caravan raced out of the courtyard, Morrell came to Douglas's rescue, knocking one of his

attackers to the ground with a well-aimed punch and kicking the other in the groin. The boy was able to

scramble into the driver's seat of the wagon just as Gilliane whipped the old carthorse forward. With the

other children battering at the many hands gripping the side of the wagon, the carthorse broke into a

ponderous gallop. There were screams of anguish as men fell beneath his great hooves.

Behind them the Grand-Seeker was standing stiff and tall, his red robes vivid in the blazing firelight, his

face distorted as he screamed to his followers to stop them. Gwilym turned and pointed two fingers

directly at him, and the Grand-Seeker stumbled back, shouting in alarm as snakes hissed and writhed up

his arms. The next instant the illusion was gone, but the distraction had been enough to allow Morrell's

and Gwilym's caravans to escape the courtyard as well. The crowd surged along behind them, throwing

stones and shouting invective, but they were unable to keep up with the galloping mares and soon the

town of Glenmorven was left far behind in the snowy darkness.

During the night the jongleurs, anxious to avoid any further pursuit, left the highway and turned into the

maze of back lanes that wound through the countryside. For the next few weeks they rarely stopped to

rest, walking when they could to lighten the horses' load and steering clear of the villages. Dide was

somber and quiet, barely speaking to Lilanthe at all. The tree-shifter tried to show she was sorry for

talking Gwilym into casting the spell of illusion, but the young jongleur only nodded and said tersely,

"Och, well, it canna be helped. Least said, soonest mended."

It was another month before the cavalcade at last saw the domes and spires of Lucescere rising out of

the bleak hills. A lone ray of sunlight broke through the heavy clouds and fell upon the minarets so they

gleamed bronze-gold. Lilanthe gazed in amazement—she had never seen such a great city, piled high

upon an island between two rivers which together poured over the edge of a cliff. A cloud of spray hung

about the curve of the waterfall so it looked as though the glowing city floated on mist, while behind the

city brooded snow-draped mountains.

"Look, the Shining City," Dide cried, walking alongside the caravan. "Even in the midst o' the winter

gloom, it shines like a star."

The road was crowded with travelers; caravans jostled on all sides. Lilanthe pulled her plaid closer about

her head, for many carried vicious-looking pitchforks or scythes, as well as expressions of fierce

determination.

"Lachlan the Winged is gathering himself an army." A twisted smile lifted Gwilym's lean, pock-marked

cheek. "I wonder how he plans to feed and house them all."

By the time the cavalcade reached the end of the long bridge that arched over the river, it was well past

sunset. The stream of refugees stretched for miles behind them, and harassed-looking guards directed

groups of people in one direction or another. Enit leant down from her driving-bench and spoke to the

sentinel before the city portal. He directed the jongleurs straight up the wide road that led toward the

palace, but it was so crowded it was another few hours before they at last came out into the great square

before the palace gates.

The gates stood wide open, a steady flow of people hurrying in and out, their credentials checked by

rows of hard-faced soldiers wrapped in thick, blue cloaks. There were gaudily dressed lairds with

swords at their hips, artisans carrying the tools of their trades, a boy with a herd of lean pigs, women

carrying massive loops of wool, wagons piled high with sacks of meal and cages of anxiously squawking

chickens. With a sigh and a grimace, Enit urged her mare to the end of the line, the other caravans falling

into place behind her.

When at last the jongleurs' cavalcade reached the line of guards, there was a joyous reunion. Dide

clapped the captain on the back, and Gwilym reached down and gripped hands with those of the soldiers

he knew. Jokes and anecdotes of the Samhain uprising flew back and forth, as did grim news of the state

of affairs in Eileanan.

"Meghan has been most anxious about ye," the huge, ham-fisted captain said. "She's been ailing wi' the

cold and the effects o' her wound and worried indeed that ye may have had trouble in the countryside."

"Aye, it's been a slow journey," Enit replied, her voice sweet and melodious as ever. "I thought we would

have been here long ago, but as ye can see, we have unexpected company." With a sweep of her hand

she indicated the children hanging wide-eyed over the side of the wagon.

It was close on midnight before they were finally trundling up the long drive to the palace, their way lit

with flaming torches. Beneath the bare branches of the trees on either side were hundreds of tents and

makeshift shelters, campfires twinkling before them. Light flurries of snow were falling, and Lilanthe

shivered, huddling deeper into her plaid.

Despite the late hour, the palace was a hive of activity. Lights flared from every window, and hammering

and shouting could be heard beyond the courtyard wall. Grooms rushed out from the stables to help the

jongleurs unharness their horses and unpack their belongings. There was no room in the stables for their

horses or carts, but the exhausted mares were rapidly rubbed down, covered in horse blankets and led

into a yard where hay was scattered on the snow for them.

An eager-faced lad was sent to show the party the way, and he marched before them, casting curious

glances at them from under his sandy thatch of hair. Morrell swung the crippled Enit into his strong arms

and carried her easily, a mere bundle of shawls, amber jewelry and dark, liquid eyes.

The palace corridors were as crowded as the streets and square had been. Everyone hurried about his or

her business with purposeful faces. Dide's face lit up as he gazed about him. One long hall had been

converted into a military training ground, and young men and women sparred together with wooden

swords, a blue-kilted soldier shouting orders from what had once been a musicians' platform.

Through another set of doors sleeping forms huddled in blankets covered the floor. One man leant on his

elbow to cough harshly, and a girl knelt by his side and gave him something to drink from a beaker.

Another hall had been turned into an indoor garden, seedlings growing in pots covered by sheets of glass.

Growing from dark, rich soil were the feathery tops of carrots, the writhing vines of pumpkins, the spindly

stems of oats and barley, all flourishing despite the snow whirling against the steamed-up windows.

Another young woman was spraying the plants with water, her face flushed, her sleeves rolled up past

her elbow.

The boy led the jongleurs through into the main wing of the palace where another blue-clad soldier

relieved him of his task. Servants hurried past, arms full of scrolls, while men in furred cloaks and velvet

doublets conferred in low voices at the foot of the wide, marble stairs. They were taken up to the top

floor, Morrell panting as he carried his mother's frail form up the many flights of steps.

Dide was tense now, his fingers clenching the strap of his guitar. Overwhelmed by the grandeur of the

palace and the crowds of richly dressed people, Lilanthe hung close to the young jongleur's shoulder,

Gwilym stumping behind, while the children chattered in nervous excitement. Only Iain, Douglas and the

NicAislin sisters seemed at ease—they had grown up in castles as grand as this and were used to the

magnificence of the furnishings.

The party was shown into a long hall hung with blue and silver brocade, the ceiling lavishly painted with

clouds, rainbows and the lissom shapes of dancing nisses. Pacing the floor at one end was a tall,

powerfully built man with black curly hair and an aquiline nose. He was scowling ferociously, one hand

clenched around a scepter in which a large round orb of glowing white was set in claws of silver. He was

dressed in a dark green kilt and plaid and fidgeting behind him were a pair of long, glossy black wings.

"Even if we get the recruits trained by the spring thaw, we still have no' got enough weapons or horses to

arm even a third o' them!" he exclaimed.

"Lachlan, ye ken we have every forge in Rionnagan fired up night and day! I shall no' let ye start melting

down plough-shares and shovels to make swords—come the spring, we shall need to be planting the

crops and preparing for the harvest. Too many people are starving already." The speaker was a small,

thin woman, her gray hair streaked with white, her face heavily lined. She was sitting bolt upright on a

cushioned chair, a donbeag curled on her lap.

The room was lined with an odd selection of people. There were courtiers in velvet doublets, soldiers in

the blue kilts and mail-shirts of the Righ's own bodyguard, a bow-legged old man in the leather gaiters of

a groom. A frail old man in a blue robe sat near the throne, a raven on his shoulder. His eyes were milky

white, his snowy beard reaching to his knees. On the other side of the throne sat a shaggy wolf leaning

against the knee of a tall man in a black kilt. By the fireplace a woman with cropped red-gold curls was

sitting, cushions at her back, the folds of her white tunic failing to conceal the great mound of her

abdomen. She looked to be only a few days away from giving birth.

"Isabeau," Lilanthe whispered in delight and nudged Dide, standing stiff-backed before her. He nodded

once, brusquely.

Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 03 - The Cursed Towers

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