Dide tumbled down beside her, then Ghislaine, then Stormstrider, then Cailean, his hand still on Dobhailen’s thick ruff. And over their heads came whizzing a crossbow bolt, scraping Dide’s cheek and burying itself deep in the tall stone menhir that stood, one of many, in a circle dance about the pool.
The first thing Isabeau realised was that she had brought the spell of compulsion with her. It was not so loud, not so insistent, but still it hissed in her inner ear and tormented her limbs with uncontrollable twitches and urges. Blood, I must have blood, it whispered. I shall live again!
The second thing she realised was that they were not alone beside that tranquil pool. Donncan and Thunderlily were backed up hard against the menhir of stone. The crossbow bolt had plunged home between their faces, missing them by less than an inch. Blood trickled down Donncan’s cheekbone from a splinter of stone it had gouged up.
Standing before the young couple, menacing them with a dagger, was Johanna.
At the whizz of the crossbow she had spun on one heel. Her eyes dilated at the sight of Isabeau and her companions, all on their knees, sick, dry-mouthed, bent and retching, trying to catch their breaths.
Johanna gave an exclamation, then sprang forward, wild-eyed, and seized Cloudshadow, holding the dagger to her throat.
‘Ye do no’ care enough for the life o’ your friend Donncan to take me back? So tell me, do ye care enough for that o’ your mother?’ she spat at Thunderlily.
The young Celestine started forward, humming wildly in distress.
Johanna held up her free hand imperatively. ‘Stay back! I’ll kill her, I swear I will! Stay back!’
Dragging Cloudshadow upright, she wheeled away from the group still on their hands and knees by the pool, putting the Celestine before her like a shield. Still dazed and trembling from their leap back in time, it took the others a few seconds to react. Then Isabeau was up and on her feet, calling to Johanna.
‘Jo, don’t! Please don’t! I ken about the spell o’ resurrection, about Brann. Ye mustn’t …’
Johanna’s lips curled back in a snarl. ‘Brann shall live again and I shall be the one to raise him!’
‘Ye must fight the compulsion,’ Isabeau said. ‘Please, Jo! Ye are no’ an evil woman, and yet this is an evil thing ye do. Please!’
‘He must have blood, he needs blood. A living soul, willing or unwilling, and a very sharp knife.’
‘Jo, no!’
‘A Celestine to heal his wounds, and a rìgh to offer up his blood. He will be pleased, very pleased with me,’ Johanna gabbled.
She was very white and strange-looking, with perspiration beading her face and hands that shook so much she could barely keep the knife steady. Her pupils had shrunk to pinpoints, giving her a strange look of blindness. Her lip was swollen where she had bitten it through, and her ragged nails were edged with red half-moons of blood where she had torn her cuticles to rags. She could not stop talking, repeating snatches of Brann’s spell over and over, and every now and again her arm jerked, as if her knife was a living animal struggling to escape.
‘He will live again, he swore it so, and I shall be the one. Blood, blood, blood, he must have blood. Blood. A living soul, willing or unwilling, and a very sharp knife. I have the knife, I have the soul, he will be pleased with me. I just … I just … I just need to get there. Back. Back. Back to the time o’ his death. I must get back. Ye do no’ care about him, well, I have your mother now. Do ye care about her? Blood. He needs blood. Does it matter whose? He wanted a young man, strong and handsome, and full o’ power. Who better than the Rìgh himself? What a joke! What a hoot! Dedrie will be pleased with me. He will be pleased with me, everyone … everyone …’
Isabeau watched with horror as the knife jerked in her hand, cutting Cloudshadow’s throat and drawing blood.
‘Jo, please,’ she said, gripping her own hands together as she tried to ignore the eerie echo of her words whispering in her brain. A soul, willing or unwilling, and a very sharp knife …
‘Blood, blood, blood, he needs blood. Her blood is red and hot, will it do, will it do? We must go back. Take me back or I will kill her, do ye understand?’
No! No! Thunderlily was humming in horror and distress. My mother, what do you do here? I had thought to escape, to bring her back to a time before the passion and confusion of humankind, back to when all was sure and sweet and at peace …
‘I’ll kill her, I tell ye! All o’ ye, get up! We must go back. Back, back, back. Will ye lead me, or do ye watch your mother die?’
I will lead ye, Thunderlily said, and stepped forward, her hands held out in a gesture of peace and reassurance. Please, leave my mother be.
The knife hand jerked, and blood ran down and stained the Stargazer’s collar.
Cloudshadow put up both hands and seized the knife, holding it firm and steady against her throat.
Do you think I value my own life above that of my daughter? What will happen to her if she takes you back to the time of the raven man? She will die. You think I do not know this? She will die, and many others, for the raven man takes pleasure in hurting and killing. Do you not think I would rather die myself and keep my daughter safe?
Then, with her third eye wide open and fixed upon the despairing face of her daughter, Cloudshadow dragged the sharp-edged dagger across her own throat. Blood spurted. The Stargazer choked, gave a strange burbling sound deep in her throat, and fell, dragging Johanna down with her.
The knife fell from Johanna’s blood-slick hand as she fell backwards, knocking her head on the menhir behind her. At once Dide leapt forward and seized the knife. Thunderlily scrambled forward, weeping, and drew her mother’s lifeless body into her arms. And Johanna, realising she had gambled and lost, threw back her head and screamed.
The madwoman’s scream echoed round the circle of stones, causing all within to flinch back.
Johanna’s hands were soaked with blood. Her brown hair hung wet with it, and it was sprayed across half her face, looking like the painted mask of some bizarre ritual. Screaming still, she stared down at her hands, then she drew a deep breath and raised her hands to press against her mouth, drinking the blood.
Isabeau turned her face away. Blood, blood. I must have blood.
Thunderlily had laid her hands over the gaping wound in her mother’s throat, tears streaming down her face. Dide wiped the dagger on his breeches so it would not slip in his hand, and held it threateningly, every muscle in his body ready for some quick movement from Johanna. She was licking her fingers with relish, though, laughing and muttering.
‘Blood, blood. He must have blood.’
Isabeau turned and began to retch helplessly. Ghislaine supported her with her arm, stroking back the wildly tangled red hair. Stormstrider had fallen to his knees beside Thunderlily, one arm about her back, the other hand holding Cloudshadow’s. The terrible gurgling sounds from her throat were slowly fading.
Donncan stumbled forward and fell to his knees near Cloudshadow’s body.
‘Thunderlily, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he gabbled.
Stormstrider raised his hard-planed face and stared at him angrily, lifting his hand in a gesture that clearly meant ‘Stop! Go away!’
Donncan sat back on his heels, distress etched into his handsome features.
Johanna finished licking her fingers, and lifted her eyes to stare at them. ‘Why do ye stare at me so? Do ye no’ ken he shall live again? Naught left o’ him now but grave-dust, and his will and his desire. It is all ye need. Will and desire. And blood. Blood, blood, blood.’ She laughed, a crazy laugh that made Ghislaine shudder and Isabeau shrink back down again in terror. ‘Ye think ye have stopped him. Ye think ye have won. But Brann the Raven never loses. Canna ye hear him? Canna ye hear him? He is calling, he is calling, and someone, somewhere, will heed his call.’
She turned her blank eyes on Isabeau, who was whimpering and shivering with dread and the force of the spell of compulsion. ‘Ye hear him, Beau, don’t ye?’
she whispered. ‘He calls to ye like a lover. He calls to ye like a laird. He is your master now, as he is mine.’
‘No, no,’ Isabeau whispered.
‘Yes. He shall live again, and who shall be the one to raise him? No’ ye! No’ ye! It should have been me! I’ll kill ye myself first. He is mine, mine, mine, my laird and master, no’ yours, no’ yours.’ She flung herself towards Isabeau, and was caught by Dide and flung back roughly against the stone.
She raised her face to the brightening sky and howled like a dog. ‘I must go back,’ she wept. ‘I must go back. Take me back, please, take me back. I must raise him. I must, I must. Oh, blood, blood, blood. He must have blood. He must live again. He has sworn it. Oh, please, please, take me back.’
‘This is unbearable,’ Ghislaine whispered, and turned her face into Cailean’s shoulder. He drew her closer, stroking the long fair hair that had tumbled down from under her tam-o’-shanter. Beside him, the dog Dobhailen stood quivering with tension, his keen nostrils scenting the blood, one paw raised as he thrust his pointed muzzle towards the madwoman rocking and sobbing beside the great block of stone.
‘No, Dobhailen,’ Cailean said softly, and the dog snarled in frustration.
‘What are we to do with her?’ Dide said, his jaw clenched in distress. ‘She is quite, quite mad.’
‘That will be me soon,’ Isabeau sobbed. ‘I read the spell only a few hours after her. Already I can feel it happening. He’s winning, Dide, he’s winning! What a spell! He wrote it with his own blood, ye ken that?’ She laughed wildly. ‘Blood-magic, the worst, the most powerful o’ all.’
‘Blood, blood, blood,’ Johanna wept. ‘He must have blood!’
Suddenly she leapt up and hurled herself forward, her hands like claws, straight at Thunderlily, who was still crouched over her mother’s body, hands cupping the Stargazer’s throat.
‘Ye must take me back!’ Johanna screamed. ‘Now! Take me back, else I’ll rip your throat open myself.’
Dide lunged forward and caught her about the waist, dragging her back. Johanna screamed and writhed, fighting to reach Thunderlily. The nails of one hand scratched the young Celestine’s cheek, raising red welts. Dide swung her away, and she struggled to reach the dagger he still held in one hand. He raised it high above her head, trying to hold her off with his other hand. She punched and kicked and slapped and bit and clawed, and he stepped back and kicked her full in the chest so she fell with a cry of pain. Breathing hard, Dide put one hand up to his cheek, where blood was flowing freely from the bite wound. She had torn away a hunk of flesh.
‘Eà’s eyes!’ he cursed.
Johanna was up in an instant and hurling herself upon him. Instinctively Dide brought up both hands to protect himself, forgetting he held the dagger still. Johanna ran full upon it. It was well sharpened. It ran into her chest as smoothly as if she were made of butter, not flesh and gristle and bone.
Johanna’s eyes opened wide in surprise. She looked down at herself and raised both hands to cup the knife, just as Dide, in horror, let go and stepped back. Johanna cradled the knife hilt and laughed. ‘Blood,’ she said, then dropped to her knees. For a moment longer she was alive and conscious. Her eyes sought Isabeau’s, and for that one instant sanity seemed to return and Johanna’s eyes begged for mercy, for forgiveness, for understanding. Then she crumpled and fell.
Dide knelt beside her. ‘She’s dead,’ he said blankly. ‘Eà save me, she’s dead!’
Isabeau would have liked to have said something to comfort and reassure him, and to mourn the passing of her friend, but Brann’s ghost was suddenly seizing her and rattling her, shouting in her ear. I must live again and ye are the one to raise me!
‘No, no, no!’ Isabeau screamed.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ Dide cried.
She reached out her hand to him and stumbled forward into his arms. With her head buried against his chest, the sound of his thundering heartbeat in her ears, she was able to drown out the worst of Brann’s voice. Dide wrapped her close, rocking her, his words coming like sobs. She wrapped her own arms about his back, trying to press herself as close to him as she could. Too much blood, too much death, she felt as if she was being torn apart with pain. Isabeau had thought of Johanna as one of her dearest friends. Her death, Lachlan’s murder, the horror of her niece and nephews being stolen away, Iseult’s gut-ripping grief which Isabeau shared as if it was her own, the dreadful ordeal of travelling through time, and the struggle with the spell of compulsion, the horror of Cloudshadow’s self-sacrifice and Johanna’s madness, all had wrought Isabeau to a high pitch of intensity. It was an utter relief to break down and sob in Dide’s arms.
At last, though, her natural composure reasserted itself. Isabeau caught her breath and wiped her face with her sleeve, stepping a little away from Dide, who cleared his throat self-consciously and surreptitiously dabbed at his own eyes. Feeling weak and rather shaky, but somehow much better, Isabeau looked about her, eyes red-rimmed. Cailean was still comforting Ghislaine, Donncan was still kneeling before the limp body of Cloudshadow, his golden wings folded tight against his back, and Stormstrider still supported Thunderlily, who had bent her head over her mother so that her long mane of silvery-white hair fell across Cloudshadow’s face like a curtain. A dark, sticky pool had slowly crept out across the dirt from beneath the Stargazer’s body. Thunderlily’s shoulders heaved.
Isabeau watched in pity and misery. Then Thunderlily raised her face. She was laughing.
For a moment, Isabeau feared that Thunderlily too had lost her mind in the horror of the moment. But then she saw Cloudshadow’s blood-soaked breast rise and fall, and slowly rise and fall again.
‘She lives!’ Donncan cried. ‘Thunderlily, ye healed her! Thank Eà!’
Thunderlily laughed and cried together, and Stormstrider bowed his head formally, his two hands pressed together, humming low in his throat. It was a gesture of great honour and respect.
Isabeau went down on her knees beside the Stargazer, tears of gladness pouring down her face. She had known, of course, that those of Stargazer blood had magical powers of healing. It was the gift of the Summer Tree to them, and one for which they paid a high price. It had seemed impossible, though, that such a terrible wound could be healed. Yet all that was left of the slash across Cloudshadow’s throat was a thin pink line, and the dreadful staining of blood on her dress and on Thunderlily’s hands.
The act of healing had cost Thunderlily dearly. She was white as moonlight, and her breathing was shallow and uneven. If it had not been for Stormstrider, she would have crumpled. He held her gently, and she accepted his support, near fainting with exhaustion and emotion.
Isabeau took Cloudshadow’s hand. The Stargazer turned her face feebly towards her. ‘Is it over?’ she whispered.
‘Aye, thank Eà, it’s over!’ Ghislaine said and freed herself from Cailean’s arms, dropping on her knees beside Isabeau. ‘We must all rest and eat first, o’ course, and give Cloudshadow and Thunderlily time to recover, but then we can go home!’
‘Thank the Spinners!’ Donncan said. ‘What a nightmare this has been. I canna believe all that has happened.’
‘I bet ye’re keen to see your wife,’ Dide said, trying to joke in his usual manner. ‘Cruel o’ Johanna to kidnap ye afore ye had a chance to consummate the wedding.’
‘Aye, indeed,’ Donncan said. ‘She could’ve waited a couple o’ hours, at least.’
‘Hours!’ Dide said. ‘Lucky Bronwen.’
Isabeau said nothing. She knew it was not all over. Brann spoke to her still, and Isabeau knew her resistance was wilting. It would not be long and she would be as mad as Johanna.
They set up camp under the hemlock, which was now a vigorous young tree, its branches not yet curving all the way down to the ground. From here they had a view all the way to the sea. There was no grey castle on the crag above the firth. There was no town or village or croft or shepherd’s hut, no roads, no bridges, no goat track, no app
le tree or vegetable plot. Nothing but thick, green, virgin forest rolling up to mountains on one side, and down to the strand to the east. The pale sand-dunes stretched for miles all along the coast, broken by the occasional shallow lagoon gleaming like an aquamarine, and by the narrow thread of the Rhyllster, which broke at the mouth into a great delta, a thousand tiny streams wriggling through the sand and into the sleepy blue ocean.
All were weary in body and spirit. Although Cloudshadow lived, the dreadfulness of the moment in which she had drawn the knife across her own throat weighed on them still. For Isabeau and Dide, who had known and cared deeply for Johanna, the shock of her death would not pass easily. Sorrow is always made more bitter by guilt and recriminations, and both wished they had acted differently.
‘If only I had seen something was wrong earlier. If only I had realised how bitterly angry she was that Lachlan planned to pardon Rhiannon, or realised that the lord of Fettercairn’s skeelie had been poisoning her, body and mind, for so long. Perhaps she would no’ then have gone looking for the spell o’ resurrection in the Book o’ Shadows,’ Isabeau said to Dide, who was doing his best to bury his grief and sense of self-recrimination in work. After helping make up soft beds of grass and leaves for Cloudshadow and Thunderlily, he had gathered great piles of firewood and was now building a fire to cook up something hot for them all.
He paused and slowly put down the faggots of wood he was holding. ‘If only I had tossed the dagger away … If only I had realised how beside herself she was with this … this madness the spell brings.’
‘If only someone had listened to Rhiannon! She warned us about Lord Malvern, and Dedrie, and their search for the spell of resurrection.’