Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 01 - The Witches Of Eileanan

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The Witches of Eileanan

KATE FORSYTH

A ROC BOOK

THE FIRST STRAND IS DRAWN

ISABEAU THE FOUNDLING

Isabeau swung her pack over her shoulder and strode down the track, her eyes roaming over the

ground as she searched for the first unfurling of leaf and flower through the muddy snow. It was only

a few days till Candlemas and the beginning of spring, and since it was the first fine day in months,

Isabeau had spent all day digging and cutting, filling her herb bag with roots, leaves and early

flowers.

Although the sun on her neck was warm, snow still glittered on the jagged peaks above her and

lay piled in the shadows below the massive trees. It had been a bitter winter and Isabeau was glad

to be out in the meadows again, breathing deeply of the sweet air and calling the creatures of the

valley to her. Animals of all kinds were stirring as the sap flowed again in the stem, and they

gamboled about her feet or twittered to her from the bushes, tempting her to lay down her spade

and knife and play with them. She smiled and spoke to them in their own language, but did not stop,

knowing she was tired and the light already fading. She must be home before nightfall. Although the

hidden valley was almost impossible to find by chance, these mountains were dangerous, the valley's

teeming life temptation to hungry hunters, whether human, beast or fairy.

The path led down through the trunks of ancient, towering trees. Through the entwined branches

came glimpses of the rocky finger of Dragonclaw, rearing above the lesser mountains around it, its

narrow tip dusted with snow. Isabeau paused at the crest of the hill, stretching her aching back and

enjoying the spectacular view. The loch below her stretched toward the eastern rim of the valley

bowl, coiled over the edge and fell hundreds of feet to the valleys below. Above the far distant hills,

the two moons were rising. Magnysson bronze in the sunset sky, Gladrielle lavender. There was a

faint tang of smoke to the air and Isabeau stepped forward eagerly, realizing her guardian must have

returned while she was out in the meadows. Meghan had been away for several weeks now, and

Isabeau had begun to wonder whether she would return in time for her sixteenth birthday, only two

days away.

Reaching the base of one of the massive trees that stood around the loch, Isabeau tucked her

spade more securely into her belt and began to climb swiftly and easily. Soon she was forty feet off

the ground and reaching out for the gossamer ropes that hung between the branches, almost invisible

in the twilight air. She swung out of the tree's branches and into the next, hands clinging to the ropes

that formed a bridge from trunk to trunk. As always, she cursed her guardian's obsession with

secrecy, which was what made the entry in and out of their home so difficult. "It does no' take long

for paths to appear, Isabeau, ye ken that. We must leave no sign that anyone bides here, for that

could be our undoing." If Isabeau left even a bent twig behind her, she was scolded thoroughly and

made to scrub out the evil-smelling pot in which Meghan made her potions.

With a twist of her body she swung into the branches of the biggest tree in the forest, which grew

on a small rocky outcrop above the loch. Its roots were protected by thorns, starred now with white

buds. Clinging to one of its thick branches, Isabeau paused to look around her. It was almost dark,

and the waters of the loch below were black. In the east, the moons were fully risen, and in their trail

a red comet had appeared, pulsing with life and rising steadily across the sky. Isabeau stared at the

Red Wanderer with mixed awe and anxiety, for the comet had appeared six days earlier and there

had been no one to ask what it meant. She knew there were rites to be performed at the rising of

the comet, but for the life of her she could not remember what they were. It could not be important,

though, for if it had been Meghan would have told her what to do before she left. Meghan would

never forget a date in the witches' calendar, no matter how rarely it occurred.

Balanced precariously some sixty feet off the ground, Isabeau found the secret catch with her

fingers and swung open a door in the huge trunk. She threw her pack in before maneuvering her

own long body through the narrow entrance.

"It's grand for Meghan," she muttered, as she had ever since she had grown to her full height, "but

if I get any fatter, I will no' be able to squeeze through this bloody door anymore."

Isabeau was standing in a small, round room, its rough walls lined with uneven shelves fitted in

wherever the knots of wood allowed. These shelves were filled with jars and bottles, while dried

plants and the shriveled bodies of bats, chameleons and drakes hung from the low ceiling. The room

was so small that Isabeau could touch both walls with her hands. In the center of the floor was a

small hole with a ladder that lead to a lower story. Again Isabeau had to drop her pack through

before squeezing through herself.

Each successive room was slightly larger than the one above and each had a hole in the floor with

a ladder that lead to the next. By the fourth floor, the rooms were hung with tapestried curtains and

their shelves lined with books and curious objects—a crystal ball on clawed feet, a yellow skull, a

globe of the world, a piece of twisted driftwood. The fifth floor was Isabeau's bedroom, and most

of the space was taken up by a narrow bunk hung with blue velvet curtains with golden tassels,

another remnant of her guardian's mysterious past. The sixth floor was Meghan's bedroom; thick

books were piled on all the shelves and on the floor, and a carved wooden chest stood against one

curved wall. Isabeau wondered yet again how her frail guardian had ever managed to get the

massive chest into the tree, not to mention all the other furniture.

As she bent to swing down into the lowest floor, where the kitchen and storerooms were, she

heard a murmur of voices. Instantly she froze; then as silently as she knew how, lay flat on the floor

so she could peer through the hatchway to see who was within.

The ground floor was much larger than the rooms above, since the tree had grown up against a

natural outcrop of stone that held within a small cavern, concealed by the trunk and roots.

Subsequently, living wood providing the northern walls, hand-smoothed rock the rest, with the

fireplace built into a crack which provided a natural chimney. The roots of the tree provided a

tangled ceiling, with every nook and cranny serving as a shelf or hidey-hole. Hidden ingeniously

behind two of the shelved walls were the entrances to secret passages, one leading to a hidden cave

by the loch, the other into the forest.

Craning to see beyond the hanging bunches of herbs and onions, Isabeau saw Meghan sitting in

her curious high-backed chair in front of the fire. In her lap was a blue book, its pages filled with her

thin, spidery writing and drawings, and in one hand she held a jewel that glittered with golden fire.

"So do ye recognize my mystery emblem? I am sure I have seen it before somewhere, but I canna

find it in any o' the books I have here . .." Suddenly she stopped, and drew back her hand, tucking it

under her plaid. "Come down, Isabeau. I've been expecting ye back for an hour or more. Did ye

find any trefoil?"

Relieved to see it was only her guardian, Isabeau swung herself down lightly. "Aye, two lots," she

responded.

"I hope ye did no' pull it out by the roots," the wood witch said irritably, as she closed the book

and tucked it down the side of her chair. A diminutive woman, her iron-gray hair was bound into a

long plait that hung over the edge of the chair, pooling onto the floor below. A white streak began at

her left brow and could be seen twisting through her plait all the way to its end. Her familiar, a

donbeag called Gitâ, perched on the low rafters above her head, nibbling daintily on a nut he held in

his paws.

"O' course no'! Ye taught me better than that," Isabeau replied, dumping her pack on the

handmade wooden table.

"Ye must be hungry. We were just having some tea— pour yourself a cup."

We? Isabeau jerked upright in surprise, and only then saw the other woman sitting in the chair on

the other side of the fire, half obscured by the flickering shadows. It had not occurred to Isabeau

that Meghan had been speaking to anyone but Gitâ, for in all the sixteen years that Isabeau had lived

in this valley, no one had ever visited them before. The valley was far away from any town or village,

and lay right below Dragonclaw, home of the dragons. No one trespassed lightly on land over which

the shadows of dragons passed.

The woman was staring back at her and Isabeau felt uncomfortable under her intent gaze. She

was pale-skinned with black hair and green eyes, and was wearing a brown dress with a wooly

plaid wrapped over her shoulders and across her chest. Her hair was very long and very untidy. It

flowed over her shoulder and hung toward the floor, tied here and there with leather thongs.

"So this is your wee lassie," the woman said. Her voice had a pronounced accent, drawn out and

very thick. "What a scarecrow!"

Isabeau was immediately aware of her stained breeches, the twigs and leaves in her matted hair,

the dirt under her fingernails. She scowled. "I've been out hunting herbs all day. It's hot and dirty

work!"

"That it be," the woman said calmly. "Come here. I want to see ye."

Isabeau did not move, only glared at the stranger suspiciously. Meghan rose stiffly to her feet and

lit the candles on the mantelpiece and table with her finger. Warm light flickered up, and after a

moment Isabeau moved reluctantly closer.

"Come sit here, lassie," the woman said, and Isabeau kneeled on the floor by her feet, frowning a

little but compelled by the serene authority in the strange woman's voice.

At first, because of the blackness of her hair and the smoothness of her face, Isabeau had thought

the woman was young. Now she was not so sure. Although few lines marred the pale skin, there

was an undeniable maturity in her gaze and under her eyes were dark circles. There was a sense of

weariness about her, of long roads traveled and long years endured. It was hard to keep her gaze

steady under those calm, searching eyes, but Isabeau stubbornly refused to look away.

"I am glad indeed to meet ye, Isabeau," the woman said at last. "My name is Seychella and I'm an

auld friend o' your guardian's. I traveled long and hard to get here—it's been a tiring few months."

Isabeau wondered why the woman would make such a journey just to visit their hidden valley.

Although beautiful, there was not much here except trees and rocks, and she would have had to find

her way through the deep ravines and gorges that made the Sithiche Mountains so impenetrable.

Isabeau realized that Meghan's unexpected absence the last few weeks must have been due to the

expected arrival of Seychella. Meghan must have gone to meet the stranger-witch and guide her

back through the labyrinth of caves that was the only entrance to the valley. So why was Seychella

here? One did not undertake such a long and difficult journey to make a social call.

Isabeau's interest quickened, for her birthday was only a couple of days away. In the days when

the Coven was a power in the land, acolytes were Tested on their sixteenth birthdays for

acceptance into the Coven as apprentices. Most acolytes would have spent the previous eight years

at the Theurgia being taught many of the basic principles of magic after undertaking the First Test of

Power at the age of eight. Isabeau knew that acolytes won their first ring and the witch's ceremonial

dagger after the Second Test of Power, to indicate their status as apprentice-witches. Eight years

later, after passing the Third Test of Power, apprentices won their witch's staff as a full member of

the Coven.

Many witches never gained more than their moonstone ring, but if they had power and ambition,

they could go on and try for their rings of elements. If a witch passed the first, second and third

Tests in any one element, they were counted a sorcerer or sorceress, and could wear the

appropriate precious stone on their left hands. Of course, no one dared wear rings of any kind

anymore. Still, Isabeau had often dreamed of winning her moonstone ring and becoming an

apprentice. Could Meghan be meaning to Test Isabeau, even though the Coven was disbanded and

witchcraft outlawed? lsabeau's heart began to race, for her burning ambition was to learn more of

the art of magic.

Although she knew witchcraft was forbidden, and that anyone found practicing it was put to death

or exiled, Isabeau was fascinated by the subject. She loved the feel of drawing on the One Power,

the gradual heightening of all the senses, the feeling of power and grandeur that filled her. Why, their

whole history was spun from magic threads, though this was a history no one would admit to now.

And although Meghan would talk little about the uses and practices of the One Power, Isabeau had

gradually been working through her guardian's hundreds of books. Most of them were fairy stories,

vague prophecies and simple spells, that anyone could do, but in one, a very ancient magical book,

Isabeau had read of witches who could command the weather, make themselves invisible, tell the

future, and even fly.

"The tea," Meghan said, and Isabeau felt herself flush as she stumbled to the fire where the old

clay teapot hung above the flames. It was not like her to lose her composure; she wondered at it,

even as she poured the fragrant brew into the cups and got the honeycakes out of the tin on the

mantelpiece.

"Made with honey from our own bees," Meghan said.

"And where have ye hidden the hives?" Seychella asked with amusement in her voice.

"Now that's a secret," Meghan smiled, drinking the tea and nodding at Isabeau, who was perched

on a stool by the fire, her usual seat taken by the stranger. "Why no' have your bath, Isabeau? Ye're

filthy!"

"But I want to listen," Isabeau protested.

"Ye can still listen," Seychella soothed. "I will talk while ye bathe."

A little shy at the idea of bathing before a stranger, Isabeau nonetheless pulled out the hip-high tub

from the corner beside the fire and poured in hot water from the kettle. She mixed it with cold water

from the barrel on the other side and tested the temperature with her finger. It was only just

lukewarm, so Isabeau stirred the water with her finger and concentrated. Slowly she felt the water

around her finger begin to heat until steam billowed up from the rippling surface. She felt rather than

saw the exchange of glances by the two women, and flushed.

"So the lassie heats her own water," Seychella murmured, and Isabeau clearly heard the

amusement in her voice. "Well, certainly quicker than boiling the kettle over and over!"

Slowly Isabeau unbraided her hair, conscious of the dark-haired woman's gaze. Fiery red and

very curly, Isabeau's hair reached below her knees and, released from its tight braids, stuck out in a

frizzy halo all round her face and body.

"So she has no' cut it like so many lassies do now," Seychella said in satisfaction.

"O' course no'," Meghan responded grumpily. "I'm no' yet that far removed from the Coven!"

"No, ye be an auld-fashioned one, that be for sure!"

Ignoring them, Isabeau tossed a bundle of fragrant rose leaves into the water and a few drops of

oil scented with Starwood, before stripping off her grimy breeches, the woolen jerkin and her

sweat-stained shirt.

"Does she ken ahdayeh?" Seychella asked as the girl stepped into the water, studiously ignoring

the older women's gaze.

"The rudiments," Meghan responded. "Only what I could teach her, and ye ken I canna move

around as much as I once did. She knows all the stances though, and I've been as critical as I

could."

Isabeau concentrated on scrubbing her back with the long-handled brush. She had always been

more interested in swimming in the loch or exploring the valley with her animal friends than in

ahdayeh, the art of fighting. She just could not imagine needing to fight or use a weapon.

"What else can she do?" Seychella asked, rather contemptuously.

"She does have a way with animals," Meghan admitted grudgingly. "She was talking to the birds

when she first toddled, and she can charm any coney, deer or snake."

"I spoke to a saber-leopard one time," Isabeau said, trying very hard to keep her pride out of her

voice. "It was frightening, his words were so fierce, but it was exciting too."

"And what did the saber-leopard say?" Seychella raised an eyebrow.

From Isabeau's mouth came a deep purr that rose into a snarl at the end.

"Sweet sweet the wind rich in smell the step o' horned one the taste the smell the sweet chase the

pound o' blood the chase the dance the smell the taste o' flesh the sound o' muscles tearing oh die

beloved oh die!" Meghan translated, and smiled. Seychella snorted.

Isabeau lathered her hair with rose soap, and winked at Gitâ the donbeag. The soap smelled

delicious. She and Meghan made it every year, some with rose petals for their calming properties,

some with lavender and some with murkwoad and trefoil for their healing properties. The

murk-woad was a luxury, since it was one of the precious essences that Meghan had brought to

their forest home from the outside world.

Although Seychella had promised Isabeau could listen as she and Meghan talked, Isabeau could

hear only snatches of their murmured conversation. What little she did hear only inflamed her

suspicions that somehow Seychella's visit was to do with her.

"So what are ye going to do with the lass?" Seychella said quite clearly as she poured herself some

more tea. Meghan's answer was inaudible, but the black-haired witch then said, "If she really does

have some ability, we must do what we can to help her."

Excitement filled her. Perhaps, at last, Meghan would begin to teach her the secrets of the One

Power. A wood witch, Meghan had always thought it more important for Isabeau to learn how to

heal, and to nurture plants, and speak the languages of the woodland creatures. So that is what

Isabeau had learned, at least until a few years ago when the coming of her menses had brought her a

surge of power that saw her red hair crackle and her blue eyes glow. Isabeau had always been able

to exercise her will in small ways and, simply by watching Meghan, had learned how to start a fire or

move small objects. The week her blood began to flow, she inadvertently started a fire by snapping

her fingers, when all she meant to do was light a candle.

Remembering, Isabeau grinned, and lay back in the bath, looking up at the scorch marks on the

wooden ceiling. "That is no' the thing to do when ye live in a tree," was all Meghan had said when

she came limping down the ladder to find Isabeau, frightened and in tears, desperately trying to put

out the fire. After that, the wood witch had agreed to give Isabeau occasional lessons, for she could

see her ward would keep on trying things in secret and the sooner she learned control, the better.

After her bath, in her soft shirt and leggings, Isabeau sat on the stool, combing her damp hair. She

was longing to ask questions, but knew that if she had something to do with Seychella's mysterious

appearance, she would soon find out. So she helped Meghan serve the thick vegetable stew that

was their normal evening meal and sat back in her corner to eat in silence.

The two witches kept up a light conversation all through the meal, talking of people Isabeau had

never heard of and places she had only seen on the map upstairs. Gitâ came down out of the rafters

and curled up in Meghan's lap, his eyes bright. Isabeau listened in interest, her curiosity about her

guardian's former life growing with every story. For many years she had taken the house in the giant

tree and her life here with Meghan for granted. It was only recently that she had begun to wonder

how they came to live here, and why Meghan took so many pains to keep their life secret. Meghan

rarely answered her questions, only occasionally letting drop a tantalizing scrap of information that

only made Isabeau more curious. Listening now to the women's conversation, she realized with

greater force than ever that Meghan had not always lived in the Sithiche Mountains, collecting herbs

and knitting by the fire. They spoke of journeys on the sea, flirtations in great castles, spells cast and

foundered, and news of other witches, in exile or in hiding.

"I have news o' Arkening," Seychella said in a low voice. Meghan lifted her eyes from her knitting.

"She has been hiding in the Sgailean Mountains, near the Rurach border. I saw her as I came

through the mountains from Siantan."

"I have no' heard from Arkening since the Day o' Betrayal," Meghan said quietly. "I have only

been able to find a few o' the sisters, and then only those who are no' too frightened to answer my

messages."

"I'll no' tell ye a lie, I barely recognized her, she were so auld and ragged. She was begging in a

village square. She would no' talk to me, she be that terrified o' being called a witch; the witch-hunts

in Rurach have been savage the past five years, ye ken."

"Aye, I heard."

"Ye would." Seychella's voice was ironic. "What else have ye heard? It amazes me how ye can

live so deep in these misbegotten mountains and still hear more news than I!"

"Aye, but ye never really mastered the Skill of scrying through water and fire, did ye? Your

abilities lie elsewhere."

Seychella shrugged her shoulders irritably.

Meghan continued knitting placidly, saying, "I have news from Rhyssmadill, at any rate. Our auld

friend Latifa sends me regular dispatches, though I worry for her safety. She says things are getting

worse every day. The Rìgh does no' go out anymore, he does no' even seem interested in eating, let

alone the affairs o' the country. The forests are infested with bandits, and the merchants are bitter

about the standstill o' trade with the other islands—without the songs o' the sea witches, they say the

sea serpents are getting very bold and no ships dare go out, even though the winter tides are

receding. Then there is great dissatisfaction amongst the lairds, especially the MacSeinn clan, who

were driven out o' Carraig by the Fairgean four or five years ago, with the Rìgh doing nothing to

help them regain their land."

"There be dissatisfaction out in the countryside as well," Seychella said. "The peasants in Siantan

have been hiding weapons in the thatch, and there be much talk o' a man they call the Cripple. They

say he rescues witches from the fire and champions the poor. For the first time in many years I have

heard talk against the crown ... and I hear yon Banrìgh grows more careless each day. One day

soon she'll take a stumble, and then who kens what could happen."

"I do no' believe it," Meghan said flatly. "More arrogant, aye, that I'll believe. But Maya is cunning

as a snake; if she seems careless, it'll be because she hopes someone will make a move against her."

"Rebellion be in the air, Meghan, I smell it."

"Maybe so, maybe no'," Meghan responded.

"It's true our attempt at rebellion in Rurach was no' at all successful. I had gathered together many

with Talent, and we made contact with the rebels there, as you directed. It was from them that I first

heard o' the Cripple—the stories they tell! Did ye ken he rescued a whole cartload o' witches from

under the Banrìgh's very nose? The rebels all worship him, though no one kens who he is.

Sometimes I think he's only a myth and all the stories fabrications ... though some o' the orders that

came through for the rebels were nothing short o' brilliant, and they had to come from somewhere.

With our help, the rebels rescued many a skeelie and cunning man from persecution by the Red

Guards, and we even managed to save some Tower witches from the fire, no' that it did us much

good in the end. I do no' ken how she found out about us—I'm sure the local crofters did no' betray

us, for the people o' Rurach have never forgiven the Rìgh for the banishment o' Tabithas, and they

helped us hide Skeelies many a time. I hope it were no' the MacRuraich who lead the Awl to us,

though he certainly hunted us all down afterward. I find it so hard to believe Tabithas' own brother

would betray us. The Banrìgh must have laid a spell on him."

"There are other compulsions." Meghan's voice was sad.

"Ten years I spent building up the resistance in Rurach, and a couple of hours was all it took for

the Red Guards to destroy it all. The MacRuraich hunted each and every one o' us down ..."

"Ye were no' hunted down," Meghan observed.

"I am the only one who escaped. The only one!"

"Still, ye ken the MacRuraich would have found ye if he had so wished. The MacRuraich clan find

anything they search for. That is their Talent."

"Aye, we had no hope once the Banrìgh set Anghus MacRuraich on our trail. I do no' ken what

sort o' spell she could have laid on him, to turn him against us like that. The MacRuraichs have

always been loyal to the Coven."

"I'm no' sure I understand," Isabeau said, unable to keep silent any longer. "Ye speak o' the

Banrìgh as if she is a witch herself, yet how can she be? I thought she was supposed to hate witches

and magic."

"All magic but her own," Seychella growled.

Meghan turned to her charge. "Isabeau, how many times have I tried to teach ye about the Day o'

Betrayal, only to have ye sneak out to go swimming or playing in the meadows as soon as I turned

my back?" Isabeau had the grace to blush. In fact the only lessons she had really concentrated on

were those in magic or woodcraft. "It's important ye understand this, Isabeau. I want ye to listen and

remember what I tell ye now, for the shadow o' the Day o' Betrayal still falls upon us and we're all

fighting to be free o' it. If witchcraft is ever to be a power in the land again, all witches must

understand what it is Maya has done." Isabeau nodded, awed by the tone in her guardian's voice.

"Can ye remember the story o' the Third Fairgean Wars, Beau?"

"Well, I ken the Fairgean invaded us—I do no' ken why ... it was years ago, afore I was born.

They came in stealth, filling up the lochan and rivers so that it was dangerous to even water the herds

. . . The Rìgh called together the first army in centuries . .. since the Second Fairgean Wars. They

drove away the Fairgean ... He died, I think ..." Isabeau's voice faltered.

"Listen to me well, Isabeau, a witch needs to learn as much as she can—only with knowledge and

understanding can she gain the High Magic. Ye are no' a bairn anymore. If the rumors be true, there

may be civil war across the land and that will affect us all, even ye and me in this wee valley o' ours.

Now listen well," Meghan said. "Twenty years ago Parteta the Brave was killed, fighting off the

invasion o' the Fairgean, who had come with the rising tide to try and win back the coast o' Clachan

and Ravenshaw. That same day his eldest son Jaspar was crowned the new Rìgh, kneeling amongst

the blood and fire o' the battlefield, the Lodestar blazing in his fist. Although he was still a boy,

without hair on his chin or chest, Jaspar drove the Fairgean from the shores o' Clachan, and they

fled back into the sea."

Isabeau nodded, though she could not see much difference between what she and Meghan had

said.

"The Rìgh Jaspar returned to Lucescere as a hero, to be greeted there in joy and sorrow by his

mother Lavinya, and his three younger brothers, Feargus, Donncan, and Lachlan. For three years

peace and prosperity reigned, till Lavinya followed her husband into death. Again the castle

mourned, for Lavinya had been both kind and wise, and she would be sorely missed. The Rìgh was

now standing on the threshold o' manhood, strong and bonny like a sapling tree, and all Eileanan had

reason to believe he would be a rìgh as his father had been and his father afore him—just but

merciful, strong but compassionate, brave but wise. However, by his eighteenth birthday, the Rìgh

was filled with a restlessness he did no' understand, and was growing impatient with affairs o' state.

When a bonny stranger came to the castle dressed in red velvet with a hawk on her wrist, the Rìgh

was struck with love for her as if by lightning. They were married that week, with much rejoicing in

the city, and so it was that Maya the Unknown became Banrìgh o' Eileanan." The musical lilt of

Meghan's voice hardened with rage, and Isabeau thought that she spoke the name of the Banrìgh

with hatred.

"Now we come to the events which more closely involve us. No' everyone was pleased with the

marriage o' the Rìgh. There were many who spoke against Maya, those who distrusted her because

she was a stranger, and those who were perturbed by her growing power over the Rìgh. It seemed

as if a spell had been laid upon him: he no longer rode out among the people nor sat in judgings nor

helped plant the summer crops. He spent his days with Maya in her boudoir, and when he emerged,

his eyes were glazed like that o' a man who had drunk o' moonbane. He seemed barely to recognize

his brothers, or his faithful auld servants.

"He began to disdain the Coven o' Witches, who had helped his father govern the land for so

many years and who had studied much o' wisdom and knowledge. Maya used her power to sway

the Rìgh—she said that the magical creatures were uile-bheistean and must be destroyed. So it

became a great feat to kill the dragons and nyx and winged horses and all the other magical

creatures that were once great allies o' the Clan o' MacCuinn. She spoke against the Coven o'

Witches, and infiltrated it with acolytes o' her own that twisted the Creed and made it serve Maya.

Tabithas, who led the Coven, fell from the Rìgh's favor and he would no longer heed her advice.

Eventually he raised the Lodestar against the witches, who had always served him faithfully, and

allowed the Red Guards to storm the Towers. That was, o' course, the Day o' Betrayal. It was then

Tabithas the Keybearer disappeared and the Towers were brought down."

Isabeau listened, but most of this story she had heard before and paid little attention to. "I still do

no' understand," she said. "What about the Banrìgh?"

"It seems she must be a powerful and subtle sorceress, to win the Rìgh's heart so easily and then

to turn him against the Coven so quickly. Jaspar had always loved the Coven and he has Talent

himself—he canna have been made to act so without a very strong compulsion. Then, when the Red

Guards stormed the Tower o' Two Moons, Maya was there, giving the orders and making sure they

were carried out. Tabithas went to confront her, and ye must remember, Tabithas was Keybearer,

the strongest witch in the land."

"So what happened?"

"We do no' ken. Tabithas disappeared. We never saw her again, though I searched everywhere

for her, and called to her with my mind, but to no avail. Later the Rìgh said she had been banished,

but Tabithas was never one to do what others said she should. She was as proud as her wolf, and

as slow to forgive an insult. She would never have accepted such a sentence meekly. Somehow

Maya must have overcome her, though whether it was by craft or cunning, I do no' know."

"She overcame ye, too, did she no'?" Seychella said, with an ironic inflection in her voice.

"Did she? Really?" Isabeau asked.

"We could not withstand so many soldiers," Meghan responded obliquely. "I had to get Ishbel

away, and Maya and that servant o' hers thought to try and stop me. I opened the earth at their feet

and watched them plunge into the abyss, yet only moments later both were at my heels again. That is

no ordinary power."

"And she bends others to her will," Seychella said. "That is her real crime. It's more than just

compulsion, too, for she does it to crowds o' people at a time."

"But why? If she is a witch, why does she want to destroy other witches?"

"And no' just witches," Meghan said. "She is destroying all the magical creatures as well."

"Nobody kens why." Seychella said. "The black-hearted witch seems to ken all our secrets and all

our movements, but we ken nothing about her. She says she was born in Carraig, but all our

questions have not found out where or when, nor who her parents are. She truly is the Unknown."

"And so did she .. . cast a spell on the Righ?" Isabeau asked stumblingly, not sure she understood.

"Whether it is the working o' enchantment or merely the spell o' love, all we ken is the Rìgh grows

daily more weary, and Maya now openly sits in council and judgment, and orders the soldiers,"

Meghan replied. She looked tired, her thin body slumping in the chair.

"And by Eà's green blood, she had something to do with the disappearance o' the three

prionnsachan or I be no witch!" Seychella exclaimed.

Isabeau's eyes rounded. She had been a young girl, around four, when the three young

prionnsachan had disappeared one night, apparently stolen from their beds. She and Meghan had

been traveling through the highlands when they heard the news, selling herbs, healing sicknesses in

return for supplies, and listening to gossip. Once or twice a year they made these journeys to the

villages, always dressed in their roughest clothes. The disappearance of the Rìgh's three brothers

had caused widespread consternation and anxiety. Many rumors had circulated through the

marketplaces and inns, and Meghan, mixing medicines and potions or selling her little wooden boxes

of herbs, heard them all. Most seemed to think they had sailed away to distant lands, seeking

adventure. It was still common practice for young men and women of high courage to set out on a

quest, of which there were many—to look for the fabled gardens of the Celestine where all illnesses

could be cured; to find the black winged horse of Ravenshaw, often seen but never tamed; to find

the Lost Horn of Elayna or the Ring of Serpetra. "But the youngest prionnsa was only twelve years

auld," Meghan had said softly. "Surely too young to be thinking o' quests?" The villagers had shifted

uneasily, one muttering, "Never too young to want adventure, eh?" As the years passed and Isabeau

grew older, they occasionally heard rumors of sightings, but the Lost Prionnsachan of Eileanan never

returned home.

"Maya herself ordered the search, for the Rìgh was beside himself with grief, we heard. But

nowhere was there sound nor sight o' the lost prionnsachan. After the three bairns had disappeared,

feeling rose up against Maya and there were rumors she'd something to do with their going. They

called her a witch herself, and this was, ye ken, only five years after the Day o' Betrayal when an

accused witch still faced death by burning. Maya faced them down, though, cutting off all o' her hair

Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 01 - The Witches Of Eileanan

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