However, Maya had wanted the palace to be built on the shores of the sea, in constant sight and hearing of the waves, with the sun rising on their faces. Instead, Rhyssmadill was built on the shores of the Berhtfane, where the salt of the sea was already thinned by the rush of the Rhyllster. That was the only time the Rìgh’s will did not bend to hers, for he was superstitious of the sea, like many of his people. Only the sea witches of Carraig had truly understood the sea, and they were all gone now.
Maya smiled again, and raised her gauntleted wrist for the hawk, which dropped silently and with deadly grace. It was heavy on her wrist but she carried it with customary ease. It turned its head to regard Maya through the slits in the leather of its hood, and gave a dry hiss of displeasure. With its beak it tugged sharply at a strand of her dripping hair, hurting her.
Maya pulled her head away, and stared straight ahead, her mouth sulky. As she rode over the rise of a hill, she saw Rhyssmadill ahead, its towers more ethereal than ever in the twilight. Behind the highest tower she saw the red throb of the comet, and her frown deepened. After a moment, she threw the hawk in the air so that she could scrub at her hair with the linen towel she carried in her saddle-bag. She then wiped her face free of salt, and tucked the towel out of sight. The hawk gave a loud shriek and dived towards her, its claws raking through her wildly tossed locks before it again rose. With a grimace, Maya slicked back her hair with her fingers, trying not to show her irritation.
Work in shadows, she reminded herself. Have patience.
Her hair decorously tucked behind her ears, the hawk perched on her wrist again, she cantered up the hill by the lake. She crossed the narrow stone bridge, nodding and smiling at the guards who stiffened at her approach, their chins raised high. She passed through the great gates and, rather than crossing the formal gardens to the massive front doorway, turned down the narrow pathway that led to the kitchens and stables. A boy ran out to take her horse, and she dismounted gracefully, stroking her mare’s nose in thanks. With the hawk heavy on her wrist, she made her way towards the palace.
As soon as Maya had reached the front steps, a small, fat woman appeared in front of her with a quick curtsy.
‘The Rìgh be asking for ye, m’lady. He’s a wee … restless.’
‘Thank ye, Latifa,’ Maya said and smiled at her. ‘Should I wash up first, or would it be best to see him straight away?’
‘A wee wash and brush wouldna hurt, m’lady,’ the old woman said, and trotted away, the keys at her waist jangling loudly.
Maya sighed. She was sure the old cook knew where she went when she went walking in the woods. The question was, did she share the Rìgh’s superstitious fear of the sea? What would she think of Maya’s love of swimming? So far the old cook had said nothing that could raise Maya’s suspicions but she decided to keep a close eye on the woman anyway.
Having climbed the many stairs to her rooms, Maya set her hawk on its stand, removing its hood and fetlers. The hawk shook out its feathers irritably, then flew down to the ground with a harsh cry. Maya took out a beautiful old hand-mirror from its place of concealment, staring into it intently. She tilted it until she could see the cruel curved beak and golden eye of the hawk, glaring at her impatiently. Maya smiled slowly and made a graceful gesture with one hand.
‘Took your time,’ her servant Sani snapped, stepping up to her briskly and thrusting a towel into her hands. ‘And what do you mean by coming back to the castle with your hair all damp and sandy? You grow careless. Your father will not be pleased.’
‘My father is never pleased,’ Maya replied, frowning. She stripped off her clammy clothes impatiently, then dived into the long green pool in the centre of her bedroom. Sani knelt stiffly by the pool’s edge and, pouring scented oils into the water, washed her mistress’ short hair thoroughly. Maya was tempted to linger, the water was so cool and sweet, but she knew how dangerous the temptation was. Sani dressed her in the Rìgh’s favourite gown—a red velvet similar in style to the one she had been wearing when they first met—and combed her hair sleek against her head.
‘It is almost time,’ the old woman murmured, her strange pale eyes bright. ‘Ye must no’ fail tonight, lassie, this be our last chance.’
Maya nodded, and slipped through the door into her husband’s suite. The Rìgh was sitting listlessly on the padded seat of the eastern bower, staring out at the comet. She smiled and sat next to him, slipping her arm about his emaciated form.
Jaspar turned his head, only then noticing her. His face lit up. ‘Och, my darling, ye’ve come back. Ye’ve been gone so long, I was worried. Where’ve ye been?’
Maya laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Hunting, darling. It was such a fine, crisp day.’
‘Aye …’ he said, and frowned, his eyes vacant. Then his face brightened. ‘I remember once—’
‘Och, do no’ tease me any more about that!’ Maya interjected quickly. ‘Ye ken it’s not usual for me to be such a wet goose! I have no’ fallen off a horse in years!’ Jaspar laughed dutifully, but his eyes were vacant again. Maya sighed gratefully—it was not always so easy to deflect him from some memory of the past, a past that did not include her. So many of his memories were dangerous to her that she tried hard to keep him from remembering at all.
That night they ate alone in the Rìgh’s quarters, served only by her own servant, Sani. The old woman said nothing the whole time, slipping silently away after the last course was served. The Rìgh was quiet during the meal, his eyes often straying to the eastern window where the casements had been left open. The comet was rising through the sky, red as life’s blood, and unsettling to look at. Maya let her husband be, getting her clarsach and strumming softly so that music drifted through the gloomy room, filling the corners with melancholy. The Rìgh leant his head on his hand, and listened. When she had finished, he said fretfully, ‘Sit with me,’ and so she came and sat next to him, idly running her fingers over the clarsach’s strings. ‘Maya, are ye sure?’
‘What, darling?’
‘Are ye sure the Lodestar’s gone?’
‘Jaspar, it’s been sixteen years, surely ye still canna be mourning the loss o’ that … stone?’
‘Maya, I can hear it ….’
‘Jaspar, ye ken the witches destroyed it. It was part o’ their treachery to take the Inheritance and demolish it. I’m sorry, I wish I could bring it back to ye but it’s gone.’
The Rìgh sighed and rubbed at his forehead irritably. ‘But I can hear it.’
‘It’s only a memory.’ Maya began to play again, a more lively tune this time, one that made the feet want to skip. The expression on her husband’s face lightened a little, and she began to sing, a bawdy song normally heard in the lowest of taverns, not in the Rìgh’s palace. That made Jaspar laugh, and soon he had forgotten the Lodestar, though occasionally a vague expression of disquiet crossed his face.
Maya sliced a bellfruit for him and poured him more wine, and as he ate, she dragged back the curtains and opened all the casements so the fresh sea breeze flowed through the room. A few of the candles blew out and the fire leapt higher, but the Rìgh hardly noticed, staring into the ruby depths of his wine. Maya gathered the silken cushions off the hard-backed couch and heaped them on the floor just below the door out onto the balcony. Casting a quick glance out at the night sky, she saw by the position of the stars that it still wanted a few hours to midnight.
Jaspar startled her by speaking. ‘I still canna believe that she would take the Lodestar from me like that. She must’ve known I would no’ hurt her. It was all those other witches, they were the traitors, they were the ones who worked against me.’
‘All witches’ loyalty goes first to the Coven,’ Maya said, filling his goblet with wine again. ‘Ye ken that.’
‘But she was my cousin!’ Jaspar cried, and there were tears in his voice. ‘Everyone turned against me—the Coven, Meghan, even my brothers—they all turned against me! Everyone!’
‘No’ me, darling,’ Maya
said, and kissed the side of his neck. He reached for her at once, greedily, but she slipped out of his arms, kissing the crown of his head in passing.
‘No, no’ ye, my darling. Ye have never betrayed me,’ the Rìgh said, and caught at her skirts, kissing her hand.
She had trouble freeing herself, but managed it with a smile, crossing the room to sit on the pile of cushions in the moonlight. As she expected, Jaspar followed her at once, grasping her waist and kissing her throat. She played a soft, gentle melody on her clarsach. ‘Talk to me some more, my Rìgh. It’s been a long time since ye have spoken like this.’
‘How can I be Rìgh without the Lodestar? It’s a mockery!’
‘Ye are Rìgh, by birth-right,’ Maya said. ‘The Lodestar does no’ matter. Already the people are forgetting …’
Jaspar sighed, and began to talk of his childhood, while the comet rose steadily overhead and the light of the two moons crept further into the room. Maya played her clarsach and watched and listened, filling her husband’s glass as it grew steadily emptier. Inevitably his talk came back to the Lodestar, as it so often did, but this time Maya did not distract him, just played her instrument and kept an eye on the time.
‘It sings to me still. Happen it is true what they say, that it changes your blood, enters your soul … I can hear it calling me … I remember Dada used to let us play with it when we were bairns. He said the more we handled it, the closer the bond; it was always our right and our burden, he said, it could never harm or be harmed by us …’ A thought seemed to cross his mind. ‘Maya, how could she have destroyed it? She’s a NicCuinn, she could never have destroyed it.’
Maya’s fingers moved more nimbly over the strings. He sighed, and listened for a moment, sipping his wine. ‘I remember one time Lachlan dropped the Lodestar over the battlements. It came back to his hand when he called it, though he was only a babe.’ Tears flowed down his face, and Maya gritted her teeth. She could not bear the way his face clouded whenever a memory of one of his brothers came to him. It was twelve long years since that fateful day when his three brothers had so mysteriously disappeared, yet still he grieved. He should think only of her, dream only of her, love no-one but her.
Again her hand quickened on the strings and she began to sing to him, a crooning lullaby that soon deepened into a more insistent beat. The Rìgh’s breath came more quickly, and he caressed her breast through the velvet. Maya slipped away from his grasp and sat on the floor at his feet, playing faster and faster. He tried to kiss her, and she got to her feet, and began to dance as she played, the heavy skirts swaying about her pale legs. Faster and faster she danced, the skirts whirling higher and higher. The Rìgh lay back on his cushions and stared at her over the top of his goblet, his breath uneven. At last the song reached its final wild crescendo and she threw the clarsach from her, dancing without music, her fingers unlacing her bodice. The mad tempo her feet were stamping out slowed, the skirt dropped away from her, and she was on the cushions beside him, his hands caressing her greedily.
As they kissed and stroked each other, Jaspar groaning in pleasure, Maya began to chant, very softly under her breath, an ancient spell. The rhythm of the words seemed to mingle with the rhythm of their bodies, quickening together, and then the tower bells were striking the hour. Triumph and gladness filled her, and she rolled on top of him so his breath caught and his back arched. As the twelfth bell sounded, she ran her tongue inside his ear and whispered, ‘I love ye.’
Jaspar’s body jerked upwards in instantaneous response, and she shouted the last words of the spell, the binding incantation. Immediately the comet overhead flared brightly and behind it sprang a long tail of fire. Maya closed her eyes, savouring her triumph, sure the spell had worked, as Jaspar clutched her to him, half sobbing, half panting into her neck.
Meghan waited for a long time in the shadow of the trees, watching her blind friend and her ward struggle down the snowy slope, the raven flapping lazily overhead. Her gaze lingered on Isabeau’s bright head. Knowing the child was soon to be left alone to travel these dangerous roads, Meghan’s heart misgave her. Maybe she had been wrong to protect her so much. Maybe she had been wrong to let the child wind herself around her heart.
She sighed and began to climb the mountain, the donbeag cuddling under her plaid. She too had a dangerous and difficult journey ahead of her, and she must make headway while the sun still remained. Meghan feared none of the animals of the forests or hills, but these were wild mountains and there were many magical creatures who cared nothing for the sorceress Meghan. Even she had to sleep sometimes and it was then that the danger was greatest. It was then her body and spirit were unprotected. She must sleep as little as possible.
Even though Meghan’s magic allowed her to glide lightly over the snow, it was still a difficult journey. She stumbled now and then; the wind was very sharp, and the higher she climbed the colder it became. Soon she had left the trees behind, and was struggling through ice and snow, her breath sharp in her side. The sun had already set behind the mountains so although the snow on the mountains to the west glowed red and gold and orange, all around her were shadows.
Gitâ gave an exasperated chitter and laid his paw on her shoulder. You should rest, my beloved, he said, deep in her mind.
Meghan shook her head. No, there’s so little time, she answered. That comet spell last night, I think it means nothing but evil for us.
You are tired. You have not slept for several nights. You must save your strength, Gitâ scolded.
What is my strength compared to the dragon? she replied. The dragon is more powerful than any other creature. Its strength would easily overwhelm mine.
It is power of the spirit you need with the old one, Gitâ said, patting her earlobe. Strength of body too, so it does not weary you. It has many tricks, the old one.
Time is o’ the essence, Meghan said.
As are you, my beloved, the donbeag said. Sleep awhile and I will watch over you. No harm will come to you when Gitâ watches.
Meghan shook her head. She felt clear-headed and filled with a strange strength. Her witch senses told her the Red Guards were on her trail, and she knew she had to move quickly. Her whole body ached, and reminded her of the many years she carried, the long, wearying life that dragged at her strength. When Gitâ protested again, though, she felt an aching hunger in her belly and remembered the long hours since she had last eaten. I will stop for a while, and eat. Find me a holt, she said, and Gitâ bounded ahead, almost invisible in the darkening air.
He found her a narrow cave in the side of the hill. Meghan sat and chewed some potato bread halfheartedly, thinking about Isabeau. Did she understand what a trust Meghan had placed in her hands? What would happen if she failed? Dread washed through her, and once again she wished she had been harder on the girl, driven her more fiercely, hammered knowledge into that stubborn, wayward head. Still, Isabeau had passed her Test, and as an apprentice witch, it was fitting she travelled her road alone. She was canny and she had power, and the journey in its way was as necessary a test as the Trials themselves.
Thinking this made Meghan rise to her feet again and begin the climb. The path was narrow now, and the fall steep. Although the moons shone brightly, each turn showed a section of path deep in shadow that could hide pits or enemies. She stumbled a little, but kept on walking, the great peak of Dragonclaw looming above her. As she walked, Meghan pondered the meaning of the comet spell, and the mysterious appearance of Ishbel the Winged. She had thought Ishbel dead. For sixteen years she had searched for any trace of her young apprentice, who had disappeared on the Day of Betrayal. She had rescued Ishbel from the Red Guards herself, and had drawn fire so Ishbel could escape. Then the girl had vanished. Meghan had sent out dream messages and carrier pigeons, asked pedlars and skeelies, tried to scry through water and fire—all to no avail. For sixteen years there had been no word or sign of Ishbel; then suddenly she had reappeared at the Test-fire for the night-long Ordeal, naked as the other witches
were, hair unbound as theirs was, and as long as a banrìgh’s mantle. Her blue eyes had met Meghan’s in one charged look before they had closed their eyes as the Ordeal ordained, but the silence between them all the long bitter night rang with questions, accusations, pleadings and a fierce joy. It had been hard for Meghan to empty herself, to become a vessel of quietness and solitude as the Ordeal demanded. She knew it had been even harder for Ishbel for she heard the stifled breath and gasp of her weeping several times during the night.
Meghan’s teeth ground in frustration. To have found Ishbel sixteen years after losing her, and be bound to silence and ritual proclamations! To have her disappear again, swept off the cliff like a white feather spinning into a storm! Where had she come from so unexpectedly, and where had she gone? Meghan’s mind was busy with calculations, a burning ember of hope in her chest.
Years ago, she had been ‘weighed down by an aching sadness that came from having outlived most of her friends and family. It was then she first wondered why her old body lived on, and began to wish for release. Then a young fair-haired girl from Blèssem had arrived for training at the Tower of Two Moons, as so many nobly-born girls did in those days. The Tower of Blessed Fields in Blèssem was more of an agricultural college than an initiator into arcane mysteries, and the other neighbouring Towers had either fallen into ruin or were dedicated to a single Talent or school of thought. Only at Two Moons was there training in all different facets of witchcraft, and research into magic’s many manifestations. Even those with minor abilities found themselves a place at Two Moons, and there an increasing diversity of Talents was explored and celebrated.