Meghan had first seen Ishbel waiting in the courtyard of the Keybearer’s quarters, her bags at her feet, a dove perched on her shoulder. The wood witch had come down to the Tower of Two Moons from her secret valley to visit Tabithas, the newly elected Keybearer, who had once been her apprentice. Such a chill of premonition crept over her when she noticed Ishbel that she had asked to be present when the girl took the First Test of Power which all novices had to pass to be allowed admittance to the Theurgia. Eight-year-old Ishbel had failed the Test, and so rightly should have been turned away. Strangely though, the old nurse who had brought her had wept and insisted Ishbel be taken in. Her father and brother had died in the Third Fairgean Wars, the old nurse told them, and a cousin had inherited the estate.
‘We are no’ an orphanage,’ Tabithas had said impatiently. ‘Surely the lass has some other relatives who will take her in.’
The old nurse shook her head. ‘They all be frightened o’ her.’
Tabithas and Meghan looked at the nurse in bewilderment. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, the girl was the very epitome of angelic beauty.
‘She can fly,’ the nurse said, and began to weep. ‘She does it all the time. In the middle o’ the summer fair or when the men are bringing in the harvest; when her cousin is trying to judge the cases o’ thieves an’ murderers or when she is meant to be in bed. She willna walk anywhere any more, an’ it’s just no’ good for the people.’
Keybearer Tabithas and her one-time teacher exchanged a meaningful look, and instructed the young girl be brought in again. Sure enough, the child floated a good foot off the ground, her fair hair shining in the light through the window, the dove flapping its white wings beside her. She drifted up and began to examine the paintings on the ceiling with an absorbed expression on her face, and would not come down or answer them. At last the old nurse climbed up on a chair and after a few futile leaps and jumps, managed to grasp Ishbel by the ankle and pull her down. All this time Ishbel had not said a word.
On impulse Meghan decided to stay at Two Moons, taking the child on as an acolyte. She had both taught her what she could and studied her closely for some clue to her magic. Nowhere in the library were there any records of flying witches, except those who somehow conquered or connected with dragons, flying horses or other magical flying beasts. There was one story of a pair of magical boots that enabled the wearer to make great leaps across the ground, covering vast distances in only a few seconds, but nowhere could Meghan find any reference to someone who could fly as easily and effortlessly as Ishbel. She seemed more at home in the air than she did on the ground, and sometimes unnerved Meghan by floating a foot or so off the bed while she slept. The mystery of Ishbel’s Talent gave Meghan back a sense of mission in her life. Much as she loved the serene beauty of her secret valley, Meghan had missed the company of other witches and the challenge of exploring a new Talent gave her a new interest in life. For the first time since giving up the Key, Meghan moved back to the Tower, and for the next ten years, enjoyed its staid routine more than ever before.
The beautiful, fair-haired fledgling witch had changed into a frail woman with such an air of other-worldliness that Meghan had been afraid. Why had she appeared just in time for the Testing of Meghan’s apprentice? How had she known she would be needed? All through the long night, Meghan pondered these questions, suspicions she had harboured for years crystallising into certainty.
Meghan was still stumbling along as the sun began to rise, her body stiff and sore, frantically trying to remember what she could of the language of dragons. She had had to learn all of the higher languages in order to pass her Sorceress Test of Earth, but that had been many, many years before, and she had never had to use it since. The energy which had carried her the long, weary miles had faded away, and Meghan was sorely troubled in mind and spirit by the exertion and events of the past three days. All she could remember of the dragons’ language were stray phrases and words, and she began to fear she had made a very bad mistake.
She ate a scanty breakfast, then continued the difficult ascent towards the peak, leaving Gitâ to sleep in the darkness of her pocket. Even in the dimness before dawn, she could now see the narrow line of the Great Stairway cutting across the sheer face of Dragonclaw in an ever-rising zigzag. Soon she was at the wide platform that marked its beginning, and ready to cross under the massive arch, guarded on either side by a much-damaged stone dragon, its weathered wings spread wide.
Meghan looked up uneasily, the fang of the peak jagged against the lightening sky, the first rays striking the arch so it sprang out against the dark backdrop. After a moment she sat down under its perfect curve towering far above her head, her back to the great stone dragons. She drank some water and fumbled for a handful of dried fruit. Every joint in her body ached, and she wished she could heat some tea. As sometimes happened to her lately, she slipped off into a light doze. What seemed like only a few moments later she jerked her eyes open, her witch senses warning her of danger. At first she saw nothing, but then with a chill and a sharp lurch of her heart, she realised the dragon perched above her was not another statue, as she had thought in the first confusion of waking, but living flesh.
The dragon was much smaller than Meghan expected, as high as two men but slender and surprisingly lissom. His angular head, silhouetted against the dawn-streaked sky, was crowned with a serrated crest that ran down the rippling length of his neck and back. He was perched on a high crag of rock, his tail wrapped several times around the stone, and he regarded Meghan with narrow eyes of gleaming topaz.
Despite herself, Meghan’s heart pounded and her legs trembled. She lowered her eyes and said in the oldest of languages, Greetings, Great One.
There was a silence, then the dragon slowly moved, rising up on his powerful legs and spreading his great wings with a leathery rustle. With heart-stopping quickness and grace, he flew down to the steps, light scintillating off his shining scales. Sweat broke out on Meghan’s face and hands and she had to fight the urge to scramble backwards.
The dragon spoke in a surprisingly melodious mind-voice. What brings thee here, foolish human?
I wish to speak with ye and would beg the favour o’ an audience, Meghan said carefully, trying to remember the many complicated courtesies of the dragon language.
The dragon smiled unpleasantly, and settled his wings along his smooth back. I have no wish to converse with thee. Humans hold no interest for me, except as a tasty morsel to add variety to my diet. He yawned. It has been a while since I tasted human flesh, but thou dost not look very tasty to me, all skin and bone and hair. Thou mayst leave.
Meghan did not know what to do. But I—she began, and heard a low growl begin in the dragon’s throat. His eyes were slitted dangerously, and he was smiling unpleasantly, showing rows of sharp teeth. Thou mayst leave, the dragon repeated, and began to whip his tail back and forth.
Meghan bowed her head. I would ask ye a question, my laird.
The dragon stared at Meghan malevolently. Thou mayst ask, but I warn thee, I am becoming bored with thy presence.
Why did ye bring me Isabeau? Meghan asked.
I? I brought thee nothing. I like humans not.
The dragons. Why did the dragons bring me Isabeau?
Isabeau? The dragon mind-spoke the word with a twinge of distaste. What is … Isabeau?
She is … or was … a babe. She was left on my doorstep by a dragon. In her earnestness, Meghan looked directly into the dragon’s topaz eyes for the first time. She was unable to look away. She had a sensation of time rolling away, vast vistas of years, the swing of planets and stars. Sunsets bloomed above her head, clouds raced away, the world spun on its axis and the dragon’s eyes glittered cold. She was conscious of sorrows greater than she could ever have imagined, of a consuming hunger, of knowledge jealously guarded, the dragon’s eyes glittering cold.
Suddenly there was a scrabble of claws up her body and Gitâ screeched in her ear. Meghan blinked, and was immediately able to lo
ok away. With horror she realised she was only inches away from the dragon, standing right in the shadow of his claws. He loomed above her, and she could tell he was smiling.
So the human witch has friends, has it? he said sardonically and sent a sudden spurt of flame towards Gitâ, causing the donbeag to scamper back in dismay.
I wish to understand why the dragons, in their wisdom and their perceptiveness, decided to leave the babe Isabeau in my care. Meghan spoke carefully, not moving away from the dragon’s shadow but addressing his sinewy leg, which was all she could see without raising her head.
Why would the Circle of Seven interest themselves in the affairs of puny humans? the dragon said disdainfully, sending out a small puff of smoke and coiling away.
Meghan’s eyes gleamed. At last, a break in the standoff. She had gained some information, and would hopefully be able to use it to her advantage. Sixteen years ago, returning to my secret hideaway in fear o’ my life, I found a squalling babe on my doorstep, with a dragoneye ring in her hand. It was no’ hard to guess whose babe she was, but how and why did she arrive on my doorstep? I can see only one possible answer to the ‘how’—I ken the dragons chose me to bring up Isabeau. What I do no’ ken is why.
The dragon yawned again, though a little less convincingly than before, and rustled his wings. And if thy pretty faery story be true, what makes thou think we would explain ourselves to thee? A world of scorn was contained in the last word.
The Circle o’ Seven must’ve had a strong reason for involving themselves in the affairs o’ the land, Meghan said, and tried not to look the dragon in the eye. I was chosen to undertake this task; if I am to fulfil the charge successfully, I must understand what I am meant to do.
The dragon smiled and stretched out his great yellow wings, hooked and clawed, so his shadow blotted out the sun and the dragon-fear washed over Meghan in a choking wave. Thou knowest nothing.
I knew enough to come and find ye.
And still thou knowest nothing.
That is why I beg an audience with the Circle o’ Seven.
The dragon stared at her until Meghan’s legs trembled and her hands were damp with nervous sweat, the impulse to stare again into his eyes almost overwhelming. The Circle of Seven do not wish to speak with thee.
But—
Rage against thy kind is hot in our breasts. Go, before I blast thy puny bones to ashes!
There was silence for a moment as Meghan desperately tried to think of another argument.
Thou no longer interest me, witch. Leave. The dragon’s mind-voice was silky with menace, and tendrils of steam were rolling from his nostrils. Leave!
Meghan had no choice. She knew her life was of no account to the dragon. Reluctantly she bowed and began the descent again, the skin between her shoulderblades prickling, her senses stretched to their limits. As she climbed back down the steep steps, a sense of defeat welled up and overwhelmed her. She felt tired and very, very old. A haze obscured her vision, and she stumbled and fell, jarring herself badly, knocking her forehead and scraping her elbow. She swore and blinked away the tears that had involuntarily sprung to her eyes. It was many years since she had last felt so helpless and weak.
The memory of the Day of Betrayal always brought a sense of horror and pain to Meghan. That day her whole life had crumbled; her best friends had died or disappeared, and she had barely escaped with her life. The Witches of Eileanan had been a power in the land for hundreds of years before that fateful day. It had never occurred to any of them that a slip of a lass could swing the nation against them. Maybe they had become arrogant. But surely death by fire was no just punishment for a little arrogance. For that was how so many of the Coven had died, while the smoke from the Coven’s ancient Towers had spiralled black and greasy into the sky.
Determination filled Meghan again. She would not allow the Coven to be crushed because the Banrìgh feared rival power. Although her own body ached and a trickle of blood was running down the side of her head, Meghan heaved herself to her feet. Slowly she began to limp back down the path, deep in thought.
She had escaped the Day of Betrayal, helped by the small animals of the field and forest who had warned her of danger and shown her their hidden paths and refuges through the countryside. She had retreated to her secret valley, working from there to rescue those of her kindred still imprisoned, and to build up a network of spies. Within days there had been a price on her head, and Meghan found it more and more difficult to move freely. She only ventured out to gather news or to buy any relics of the Towers that made their way into pedlars’ carts. Soon after retreating to the valley, she had found Isabeau, and bringing her up had inevitably curtailed her movements too. So sixteen years had passed, and Meghan had worked all that time to undermine the power of the Banrìgh. She was not going to give up now.
Meghan set up camp on the bare field, well out of sight of the wide platform where she had met the dragon. This time she lit a fire and made herself a hot meal, knowing that she had been disorientated by tiredness and hunger. It had been a mistake to push herself so hard that she was exhausted when she met the dragon. Gitâ had warned her, but a sense of urgency had overridden Meghan’s caution and so she had let the dragon intimidate her. She heard the donbeag chuckle as she mentally admitted her mistake, but she ignored him, making plans. Gitâ was anxious at her preoccupation, curling up on her shoulder with a cold paw tucked inside her collar, but Meghan knew she had made an error of judgement, and she was determined it would not happen again.
At dawn the next day she made her way back to the stage at the foot of the stairs, and this time crossed under the arch resolutely.
The cobbled road lead upwards at a steep angle, with a sharp step upwards every twenty or thirty paces. Meghan’s eyes widened with dismay when she saw how high each step was—an awkward scramble for someone of her small stature. The walls on either side of the stairway were taller than her head, and decorated with partially obscured shapes and symbols—moons and stars and circles and wavy lines, depictions of battles and crownings, magic acts and magic creatures, all surrounded by intricate knots of stone and a border of double roses etched in thorns. As Meghan could only occasionally see the view through a gap in the wall where the stones had crumbled, she found herself becoming absorbed in the everchanging scrollwork as she climbed. It seemed stories were being told, but she lacked the knowledge to decipher the scenes and so enjoyed them merely for their strange and sensuous beauty.
The higher she climbed, the thinner and colder the air became, and the more Gitâ wished for his snug little nest in a hole in the tree-house’s trunk. Meghan was glad of his chatter, no matter how complaining, for the further she climbed the more her apprehension grew. Once the shadow of a dragon passed over her and she found herself crouched against the wall in a paroxysm of terror, the instinctive response of humans to dragon-fear.
Once the sun was gone, Meghan had to rest for the night because the darkness hid gaps in the roadway where an unwary traveller could easily fall to their death. Even though the night was bitterly cold, she dared not light a fire, for it would act as a beacon to dragon and witch-hunter alike. She ate some bread and dried fruit, warmed some tea with her finger, as Isabeau did, and tilted back her head so she could see the stars. They seemed closer and brighter than she had ever seen before, and she studied them with a now familiar sense of unease.
Directly over her head, the Kingfisher spread his wings, while to the south the Centaur strode away, the great waterfall of stars they called his Beard glittering brightly. Just above the eastern horizon the Child with the Urn poured industriously, while to the west flamed the Fire-Eater. It was these constellations in particular which caused Meghan unease, for she had never seen them together in the sky. Normally the Child with the Urn had swung below the horizon by the time the Fire-Eater was rising. Even more strangely, the two moons seemed to have reversed position, so Magnysson the Red was lower than the delicate Gladrielle, rather than pursuing her as he al
ways did. She wished she knew more about the night sky; she wished the Stargazers had not all met their deaths at the hands of the Banrìgh’s Awl; she wished she knew what the sky foretold.
Meghan did not fall asleep until a few hours before dawn, and woke to find a bird on her knee and a squirrel in her lap, which comforted her greatly.
During the climb of the second day, she managed to scale the outer wall so she could examine the view. Despite the beauty of the panorama spread before her, Meghan’s anxiety was not relieved. The lower slopes of Dragonclaw were dotted with the tents of Red Guards, and more soldiers were coming, the sun glinting off the narrow line of their spears as they climbed the steep paths. The size of the army sent against the dragons disturbed her and for the first time she wondered what other magic they commanded to be so confident. The presence of a Mesmerd with the Red Guards that had invaded her valley had been a shock, showing both the hypocrisy of the Awl’s fight against magic and its ruthlessness. They must have made agreements with other magical creatures, some of which were very dangerous. Meghan tried to see what had become of her home, but the secret valley was hidden from view by a high spur of land.
As she climbed, the road became very steep, and was badly damaged by weather and time. Often she had to pick her way cautiously, testing the cobblestones before her with her staff and staying as close to the shoulder of the cliff as she could. At one point, the road entirely crumbled away, leaving a gap of nine feet or more that showed a dizzying fall of stone.
Gitâ bounded up Meghan’s body to her shoulder, sending her a wry mind-message: It’s times like this I wager you wished you had Ishbel the Winged’s Talent.