Kate Forsyth - Rhiannon's Ride - 01 - The Tower of Ravens

Tower of Ravens

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If I could only catch one. If I could only tame one. Then I could escape.

They would never be able to stop me if I flew

away on the back of a creature like thatâ€¦

Bestselling author Kate Forsyth returns to the landscape of her popular

Witches

of Eileanan series with this Celtic fantasy about a young girl condemned for

being differentâ€”and determined to tame a wild winged horse to help her

escapeâ€¦

One-Hornâ€™s daughter is not like the others of her kind. Born of a human

father,

she lacks the horns so prized by her people and is scorned even by her own

mother. Her only chance for escape is to capture one of the legendary flying

horses and ride it to freedomâ€” if she can stay on its back long enough.

And so this strange, feral girl begins a dangerous journey of love, death,

and

betrayal that will earn her a new nameâ€”Rhiannon, the rider no one can catch.

Found wounded, she is rescued and taken to the home of Lewen, a young man

just

beginning to understand his own magical potential as an apprentice-witch.

Rhiannon soon becomes fascinated with the human worldâ€¦and Lewen. Together

they

travel through a land where the dead walk and ghosts haunt the living, a

place

where Rhiannon encounters dark forces that endanger all of Eileanan. But to

save

the land, she must convince Lewen and the other apprentice-witches to trust

the

word of a wild half-human girlâ€¦

PRAISE FOR THE WITCHES OF EILEANAN SERIES

â€œSurprisingly original, well-developed, and a lot of fun.â€• â€”Locus

â€œA rich tapestry of settings, creatures, and people.â€• â€”Australian SF

Online

Also by Kate Forsyth

The Witches of Eileanan series

The Witches of Eileanan

The Pool of Two Moons

The Cursed Towers

The Forbidden Land

The Skull of the World

The Fathomless Caves

A ROC BOOK

Contents

A HORSE OF AIR

Barbreck-by-the-Bridge

The Black Mare

A THING OF BEAUTY

Kingarth

The Wild Girl

Her Naming

The Jongleurs

The Apprentice Witches

Blackthorn

Barbreck-by-the-Bridge

Ardarchy

The Witchâ€™s Tower

Crossing the Stormness

A PALE HORSE

Forest of the Dead

Fetterness Valley

Fettercairn Castle

The Nursemaid

The Great Hall

The Dream

Cold Comfort

The Haunted Room

The Tower of Ravens

The Scrying Pool

TO THROW A PRINCE

Tales of the Past

In the Night

Storming the Castle

The Chain Between Them

GLOSSARY

To my three beautiful children,

Benjamin, Timothy, and Eleanor

â€œ[Necromancy] has its name because it works

on the bodies of the dead, and gives answers

by the ghosts and apparitions of the dead, and

subterraneous spirits, alluring them into the

carcasses of the dead by certain hellish charms,

and infernal invocations, and by deadly

sacrifices and wicked oblations.â€•

Francis Barrett,

The Magus, 1801

â€œThrough the Necromancerâ€™s magic words,

the dust in the decayed coffin takes shape

again and rises from a long forgotten past.â€•

Emile Grillot de Givry,

Witchcraft, Magic and Alchemy, 1931

A HORSE OF AIR

â€œWith a heart of furious fancies

whereof I am commander

With a burning spear

And a horse of air

To the wilderness I wander.â€•

Tom oâ€˜ Bedlam,

traditional folksong

Barbreck-by-the-Bridge

The girl crouched on the stone ledge, hugging her cloak of furs and skins

close

against the bite of the night. Far to the east, where the towering peaks of

the

mountains broke and fell away, the moons were rising. First the little moon,

blue as a bruise, then the big blood-moon, glowing as orange as the leaping

flames on the far side of the lake behind her.

She could hear the distant sound of voices and laughter across the ice as the

wind shifted, carrying with it a shower of bright sparks. The pale circle of

her

face sank a little deeper into the dark huddle of her skins. She set her gaze

resolutely to the east, where the snow-swollen river ran headlong towards the

unknown future, towards freedom and the sea.

Tonight the inexpressible yearning was fierce in her. She could smell the

bitter

green coming of spring in the air, hear it in the clink of ice upon stone as

the

lake began to flex and test itself against the chains of winter, feel it all

around her in the surge of sap and blood. These first few weeks of the green

months were the cruellest of all, for they sang of joy to someone who had no

understanding of the word. She could only sense it, like a deaf child hearing

bells ringing all around her as a thrum of air against her skin. She did not

know what she yearned for. She did not know why she sat here in the dark

loneliness with a hot ache in her throat. She only knew that she could not

bear

to be with the herd tonight as they gloated over the spoils of their latest

hunt, swaggering and boasting and wrestling about the fire while their new

captive sat bound and bloodied, trying not to show his fear.

The girl was not driven away from her herdâ€™s carousing by any sense of

compassion for the prisoner. She had no time to feel or wonder for anyone

else.

All her pity and terror were saved for herself. She sat on the ledge of stone

and set her face to the east, wondering only if she should take the chance to

creep away tonight, while the herd was busy carousing. If she ran all night,

hiding her scent in the tumult of white water, running on stones so she would

leave no footprints, if she ran till her heart was bursting, could she win

her

way free? The desire to escape was so fierce in her that she could only keep

herself still by clenching her fingers so hard she cut purple crescents into

her

tough, calloused palms. For no matter how fast she ran, no matter how well

she

hid her tracks, the herd would find her in the end, and they would kill her

for

wanting to be free.

Below her, something moved. She tensed and looked down at once, for there

were

many wild and dangerous creatures in these mountains. At first she saw only

darkness, but as her eyes adjusted from the brightness of the luminous moons,

she began to see a dark shape emerging from the shadows. There was a round

rump,

the deep curve of a back, the long line of a graceful neck lowered to drink

from

the river. Beyond she saw the vague shape of more horses, a whole herd of

them,

moving slowly along the stony bank of the river.

Behind her there was a burst of raucous laughter. The horses flung up their

heads. One whickered. Moonlight glinted on the two long, scrolled horns that

sprang from each forehead. She caught her breath in surprise. These were no

wild

ponies, but creatures out of myth and folklore. Whether it was the sound of

her

gasp, or a sudden shift in the wind that took her scent to the horsesâ€™

quivering

nostrils, she could not know, but suddenly the herd all flung out great

shadowy

wings and, with a rattle of hooves and a soft defiant whinny, took flight. For

a

moment she saw their soaring shapes outlined sharply against the red moon,

the

sound of their wings filling her ears. Then the herd of winged horses was

gone,

lost in the darkness.

The girl was on her feet, filled with exultation as sharp as thorns. If I

could

only catch one, she thought. If I could only tame one. Then I could escape.

They

would never be able to stop me if I flew away on the back of a creature like

that.

She would not even admit the impossibility of such a plan. That she should

see

the fabled black winged horses on the very night that her need to escape had

grown so urgent could hardly be coincidence. Those of her kind were ruled by

superstition and omen. They did not believe in coincidences. The girlâ€™s

brain

boiled with ideas. Maybe if she tracked the winged horses to their lair,

tried

to tame one, make friends with it. She had tamed many a mountain pony that

way.

Winged horses were notoriously wild, however, and she knew she did not have

much

time. The herd was growing tired of waiting for her horns to bud. Many

younger

girls had the buds of their horns swelling strongly, and had been bleeding at

the rise of the full moons for months. Her first blood had come only that

day,

filling her with sick fear. She had scrubbed away the stain on her clothes

with

stones and icy water, and stuffed herself with a wad of crushed pine needles

and

sap so they could not smell her womb-blood and guess her secret.

She did not know how long she could hide the coming of her womanhood.

Certainly

no longer than a month. Today they had all been distracted by the man who had

ridden into their territory and had given them such a splendid chase. Next

month

she may not be so lucky. The herd had always viewed her with suspicion and

disdain, for she had feet instead of hooves, and only two breasts instead of

six. If she had grown a proud, strong horn like her mother, or even ten

short,

stubby ones like her cousin, the other deformities could have been ignored. A

satyricorn without a horn was a freak, though, an embarrassment to the entire

herd. They would scorn her and challenge her and, in the end, kill her for

her

lack. Four times already she had seen a hornless one hunted to their death.

She

knew there would be no mercy.

The girl put her hands up to her head and felt her smooth forehead, running

her

fingertips back into her hair. Not even the faintest suggestion of a horn.

She

gave an involuntary sigh, and turned reluctantly to head back to the camp.

She

had been away too long already. Soon someone would notice she was gone, and

snuff the air for her scent. She wanted no-one to notice her tonight, with

her

skirts still damp from their scrubbing and the womb-blood seeping its way

past

the plug of pine needles.

She made her way silently round the lake, taking care to leap from stone to

stone so as to leave no print in the mud, and then emerged casually from the

bushes as if she had just visited the latrine and was now seeking her bed

again.

The herdâ€™s camp was set in a wide clearing on the shore of the lake,

sheltered

to the west by a tall bluff. In the centre of the clearing the bonfire gnawed

sullenly at the great log cast down across its ashes. A charred carcass was

impaled upon a spit above it, its equine shape still recognisable despite the

havoc the herdâ€™s knives had made upon its flesh. The sight grieved her. She

had

always loved horses and often used to leap onto the back of one of the wild

mountain ponies, galloping it over the high meadows until at last it stopped

trying to throw her off and submitted to her will. When she was twelve she

had

taught one of the shaggy little ponies to come to her whistle. On its broad

back, she had explored all the hills around. It had been her one great

pleasure,

galloping along the sweeping green meadows, as swift as the wind, leaping

over

fallen logs and brooks, swimming with it in the lake. In those days she had

not

yet dreamt of escape. She had ridden the horse only for pleasure and for the

satisfaction of at last being faster than the other girls in the herd.

One-Horn

had not approved, however. The herd had hunted down her friendly, shaggy

pony,

killed it and eaten it. She had never forgiven them.

Now, most of the herd was sleeping, worn out from the chase and too much

tia-tio, the dark pungent ale they brewed from ; pine cones and honey. They

lay

where they had fallen, some still clutching their curved cups of bone.

Lying close to the fire, snoring loudly, were four horned men. Their hairy

paunches were huge, and they had a sleek, well-fed air about them that the

lean,

muscular women did not share. Their brows were blunt and heavy, their noses

flat

and wide with flaring nostrils. Most had only two small curved horns, I just

peeking through their matted curls. One, though, had two much longer horns

that

curved up and out of his head in a perfect crescent. He was also the largest,

with burly shoulders, a thick neck and heavy features. As First-Male, he was

richly dressed, wearing a brown woollen kilt, a filthy jerkin, and many

necklaces of bone and semi-precious stones. A golden brooch in the shape of a

running horse was pinned to the jerkin. The girl knew the clothes and brooch

had

once belonged to her father, a human who had been captured by the herd many

years ago. He had died in captivity when she had been only five.

In a stony corner, surrounded on two sides by the high walls of the bluff,

lay

two men without horns. One was dressed in a rough loincloth and cloak of

hide,

with very long, grey, matted hair and a straggly beard. He was so thin his

ribs

stood out against the wrinkled brown skin. He was tied to a stake with a long

leash, his ankles hobbled for the night.

The other prisoner was young and fair, with thick curly hair the colour of

summer grass. He was dressed in a dishevelled blue jacket over a white shirt

and

breeches, all much stained with mud and blood. His head slumped forward onto

his

chest, and congealing blood obscured most of one side of his face. His hands

were tied tightly behind his back, and leather straps wrapped his arms and

body

from shoulder to waist.

Stepping quietly through the sleeping bodies, the girl saw his belongings

scattered across the ground. There were the long, black boots, thrown away in

disgust when no-one was able to make them fit over their hooves. The pretty

painted box that magically played music when opened lay in the ashes, still

tinkling away, while the silver goblet with the crystal set in its stem had

fallen from One-Hornâ€™s hand as she snored by the fired. The blue cockaded

hat

was still on the head of Seven-Horns, though she slept with her face pressed

into the dirt. Hanging around the neck of First-Male was the little golden

medal

with its intriguing design of a hand radiating rays of light like the sun,

while

pinned to the fur cloak of Three-Horns was the silver badge cunningly forged

in

the shape of a charging stag.

The girl noticed all this with perturbation, for it showed who had won the

squabbles. It was not a good sign that One-Horn had lost the hat and the

brooch,

for such spoils of war were marks of power and prestige. Since One-Horn was

her

mother and had offered her some protection from the scorn of the other women,

it

was just one more sign to the girl that she must make her escape quickly if

she

was to survive. Battles for supremacy were to the death, and One-Horn was

beginning to lose her speed and aggression. There were many other women eager

to

take her place as leader of the herd.

The girlâ€™s sleeping furs were close to the prisoners, for she was nearly as

low

in prestige as they were, and not permitted to sleep near the fire. As she

stepped past them to reach her bed, she was dismayed when a thin hand

suddenly

reached out and seized her ankle. She did not make any sound, but she paused

and

bent as if to pull a thorn from her foot.

â€œLassie, this man theyâ€™ve caught, heâ€™s a Yeoman oâ€˜ the Guard,â€• a

reedy voice

said urgently. â€œItâ€™s treason to waylay him so. Any that lays a hand on

the

RÃ¬ghâ€™s own bodyguard will feel the tug oâ€™ the hangmanâ€™s noose. Ye must

let him

go!â€•

â€œMe no fool,â€• the girl said softly and pulled her ankle out of his grasp,

beginning to straighten up. She met the prisonerâ€™s eyes. He had lifted his

head

and was staring at her pleadingly. His eyes were the colour of the lake in

summer. He opened his swollen, blood-caked lips and managed to croak,

â€œPlease!â€•

She looked away, shaking her head infinitesimally.

â€œBut heâ€™s the RÃ¬ghâ€™s own guard! He says he has news he must take to

the

courtâ€”the RÃ¬gh is in dreadful danger.â€•

â€œSo? What that to me?â€•

â€œPlease!â€•

She shrugged a shoulder as if shaking away a mosquito and moved on to her

bed,

curling up with her back to the prisoners, pretending an indifference she did

not feel. She could only hope no-one had heard Reamon speaking to her. Few of

the herd had ever bothered to learn to speak his strange, lilting language,

but

One-Hornâ€™s daughter had always been an oddity with her soft feet and mobile

toes, and her smooth torso. Because she looked so much like a human child,

Reamon had looked to her first and sought to make her understand him. It was

he

who had taught her about the world outside and, once she began to dream of

escape, she had learnt hungrily.

â€œLassie!â€•

One-Hornâ€™s daughter heard his anguished whisper but drew her smelly furs

closer

about her, curling up like some small animal, instinctively trying to protect

the deep, hidden parts of her body that had betrayed her so bitterly.

She slept badly. Her dreams were stained with blood and shadowed with dark

wings. Her mind kept trying to come up with ways to capture a winged horse

even

while her exhausted body craved unconsciousness. Nets, she kept thinking.

Ropes.

Though I must not injure itâ€¦ they were so beautiful, so freeâ€¦

She came awake at some point in the hours before dawn, suddenly thinking of

the

saddle and bridle the herd had torn off the horse before cutting its throat.

Surely if the prisoner had used such devices to ride his steed, they would

help

in retaining control of a winged horse? If she could just hide them before

anyone woke, the herd might never realise they were gone. The satyricorn were

in

general rather self-absorbed, and paid little attention to anything outside

their immediate concerns of hunting, eating, sleeping and fighting.

At once the girl rolled out of her skins and looked about her. All was quiet

and

dark. Mist hung across the steep, green hills. It was light enough for her to

see the shape of her hands but dark enough that none were stirring.

Cautiously

she stood up. She saw the saddle lying in the dust to one side of the

clearing,

near the limp, discarded boots, but there was no sign of the bridle.

Swiftly she bent and picked the saddle up, settling it on her arm. It had a

long, dangling girth and two small saddlebags hanging on either side. Many of

the prisonerâ€™s belongings lay spilled out from the bags, as the herd had

only

taken those things they perceived to be of value. She stuffed everything back

into the saddlebags, managing to work out how to fasten the buckles so they

would not spill out again. There was a blue saddlecloth nearby, embroidered

with

gold. She picked that up as well, and then seized the boots on impulse. She

knew

well how much harder it was for her to run with her soft-fleshed feet. The

boots

could be of use.

As she hurried into the shelter of the forest, she cast a quick glance behind

to

make sure no-one was watching. The sight of the prisonerâ€™s intent blue gaze

was

like a lash across her nerves. It drove her forward, stumbling, hoping she

was

not betraying herself to danger.

She hid the saddle and boots in a fallen log she knew, and hurried back to

the

clearing, her pulse hammering with fear. Still no-one stirred, all satiated

by

the feast of horse meat and pine-cone ale the night before. Only the prisoner

was awake, and he was busy sawing the leather that bound his hands against a

sharp-edged rock he had somehow managed to prop upright behind him. She

watched

him for a while from the shelter of the trees. There was quiet desperation in

every move he made. She wondered how he thought he could possibly escape,

with

his horse rounding the bellies of the herd, and blood still leaking from the

wound on his temple. He would be better, she knew, to accept his fate and

make

the best of it, as Reamon had done ten years earlier. Yet she could not help

a

stirring of empathy. She too was desperate to escape.

Slowly the mist melted away and the sky grew lighter, while she stood there

and

hesitated, wondering if she should call the alarm. Then she realised the

leather

straps wrapping his arms were the reins of his bridle. He could never cut

himself free in time, yet he could damage the reins given long enough and she

did not want that to happen. The bridle could be of use to her.

Quickly she came up behind him. He heard her step and went quiet, every

muscle

tense. She bent over him, quickly unknotting the leather and unwinding his

arms,

whispering fiercely, â€œQuiet, else I cut your throat.â€•

Once he understood that she was freeing him, he said hoarsely, â€œThe RÃ¬gh

will be

grateful, heâ€™ll reward yeâ€¦â€•

â€œWhat use he to me?â€• she asked.

â€œIâ€™ll tell him what ye didâ€¦â€•

â€œIf ye noâ€˜ get catched again.â€•

â€œThey will noâ€˜ catch me!â€•

â€œTheyâ€™d better noâ€˜,â€• she said and stood back from him, holding the

metal bits of

the bridle so they would not betray her by jangling. She did not dare take

the

time to hide the bridle in the hollow log, thrusting it instead in the bushes

and covering it with old leaves. Then she returned hurriedly to her skins,

covering her head and trying to control the pounding of her heart. If anyone

had

seen, or if they guessed! She knew the prisoner had run stumbling towards the

lake and had begun to make his faltering way across the thin, uneven ice. She

was disappointed in him, if relieved. A drowned man could tell no tales. She

heard the crack of ice and a splash a few minutes later and was surprised at

how

sorry she was.

The sound must have penetrated the drunken mists of some of those that

slumbered

nearby, for she heard a slow stirring and groaning, and a bad-tempered

grumble

as someone rolled over and tried to get comfortable again. Under the shelter

of

her skins the girl held her breath and waited for the sounds to die away.

Instead, she heard someone get up and begin to lurch towards the latrine. For

a

minute or two there was silence and then came the inevitable cry of alarm.

Immediately the camp was in uproar. No matter how bad the hangover, a

satyricorn

would never allow a handsome young man to escape. Boys were rarely born to

satyricorns and so were very highly prized. Once their horns grew, showing

they

were old enough to mate, their favours had to be shared among the many women

of

the herd, which led to many quarrels. It also, in time, led to the birth of

weak

and deformed babies. The satyricorns were therefore always eager to mate with

males not of blood-kin.

Once, when there had been many herds of satyricorns in the mountains and

forests, boy children had been exchanged between the herds. With few

satyricorns

left now, the males of the species were more respected and esteemed than

ever.

There were only a few of them, though, and the herd needed to raise children

that were not too closely related to each other if they were to survive.

Consequently, the women were always looking for men of other races with which

to

mate. There were few contenders for this honour. Ogres sufficed at times,

though

they were so ugly there was no pleasure to be had in the act, and the

birthing

of a half-ogre child was always painful and difficult due to their enormous

size. Occasionally a seelie or Celestine was seized in a raid into the

forest,

but they never thrived in captivity. The herd would be lucky if they sired a

child or two before they wasted away.

Most sought after of all were the horned men of the snowy heights, for they

were

lusty and strong and their children rarely failed to grow horns as they

reached

maturity. But the Children of the White Gods were fierce warriors, and it was

very difficult to capture them or to keep them once they were caught, and so

the

satyricorn women would only seek to seize one in desperate circumstances.

A human male, however, was considered a fine prize. They often lived in

captivity for many years and fathered many children, and usually they brought

forged metal weapons and tools with them which the herd found very useful.

Kate Forsyth - Rhiannon's Ride - 01 - The Tower of Ravens

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