The sea, she thought. At least I have seen the sea.
She was anxious to try to rescue Owein and Olwynne before the lord set sail, for the idea of leaving solid land behind her and flying out across that deep immensity was terrifying. Once they took to the wing over the ocean, there was nowhere to rest, nowhere to sleep, nowhere to land if body or heart grew too weary.
So Rhiannon dragged herself up onto Blackthorn’s back once more, and the mare sighed and snorted and pawed the ground discontentedly, but at last stretched out her wings and took to the air. They flew along the coast, looking in every bay and cove, but there was no sign of the lord of Fettercairn, nor of Olwynne and Owein.
It was growing dark. The waves grew greener and gloomier, and still Rhiannon flew along the wild, rocky seascape, looking, looking, but the coast was as wild as if no-one had ever lived here.
Then the setting sun slipped down from under the heavy-bellied clouds and suddenly the sea was transformed. It gleamed and shone all around, golden as coins, and the curve of the wave on the shore was pale green and translucent as glass. Rhiannon came down onto a headland, sitting and watching until the gold was all gone and the sea was violet as dusk and the air was filled with the white wings of screaming seabirds. She sat and watched until the sea was swallowed by darkness and there was only the smell and the sound of it. She sat and watched until the red moon rose and built a ladder into the heavens. Only then did she stir and sigh, and realise she would have to make camp in the darkness. She did not care. Rhiannon had finally seen the sea.
Olwynne moaned in her sleep.
In her dreams, she was walking down an overgrown path. Thorns snagged in her dress and tore it. Mist swirled up around her legs. It smelt dank and old. All around her old gnarled yew trees loomed out of the gloom. She came out onto a hillside. Before her yawned an open grave. Olwynne’s steps faltered and dragged, but she forced herself to walk on. Dread weighed on her limbs and froze her heart.
In the grave was a skeleton. It was dressed in the tattered remains of a satin bridesmaid’s dress. As Olwynne stared down at it, transfixed, it turned its hollow eyes and looked up at her, raising one bony hand beseechingly.
Olwynne screamed. Screaming, she woke herself. She sat bolt upright, her hands pressed hard against her chest where her heart was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Despite the cold, she was drenched in perspiration.
‘Olwynne?’ Owein whispered. ‘What’s wrong? Are ye all right?’
‘I dreamt … I dreamt …’ Olwynne said, and could not go on. Too often, the worst of her dreams had come true. It was terrifying to think she was dreaming her own death. Not all dreams tell of the future, she told herself. Some are only phantoms thrown up from the deep, a vision of our most dreadful fears.
‘Don’t worry,’ Owein reassured her, shifting closer to her so he could drape an arm and a wing over her. ‘They’ll be close behind us. Any time now, we’ll hear them come bursting in, a whole regiment o’ Blue Guards, blasting away with their fusils.’
‘It’s been nine days,’ Olwynne said in despair. ‘Nine whole days. Surely …’
‘They’ll have Finn the Cat on our trail,’ Owein said. ‘Ye ken Finn always finds what she seeks. This blaygird laird is a slippery bugger, that’s all. They’ll be drawing the net tight about him, never ye fear.’
Olwynne swallowed a sob and pressed closer to her twin. They were both lying on hard boards in a dark hold that smelt unpleasantly of bilge water. The captors had cut their bonds, giving their badly chafed wrists some relief, but there was no chance of escape. Owein and Olwynne had already crawled over every inch of the hold, which was piled high with sacks and barrels and coils of rope, but contained nothing they could use as a weapon. Not even an old lantern or a box of nails. It was difficult to keep track of time in the darkness, but Olwynne did not think she had slept for long. It had been late when they had been thrown in here, and by now the night must be almost over. They would sail at dawn, she knew.
The last week had been one long horror. Bound and often gagged, they had been hustled from one stolen conveyance to another, or pushed out and forced to walk miles and miles over rough tracks that bruised and cut her bare feet. Sometimes they were thrown over a horse’s back and bounced until they were retching as the horses were whipped along at a cruel pace. Other times they were forced to hide in thorny thickets as soldiers searched for them, knives at their throats and knees in the smalls of their backs, pushing them into the ground. Once she had seen the black winged horse soaring away over the forest, and Olwynne had not been able to help making a small sound and gesture, whether of hope or hopelessness, she hardly knew. One of the men had seen, and they had got off the path and hidden until Rhiannon and her horse were long gone.
Somehow the lord of Fettercairn had managed to keep a step ahead of their pursuers. Olwynne remembered that he had once been a witch-sniffer, a Seeker who had hunted down witches and faeries for Maya. That finely honed extrasensory perception was now being used to avoid capture, and Olwynne was filled with a sense of utter despair. She did not share Owein’s confidence that they would be rescued in time.
Snuggled under the warmth of Owein’s wing, Olwynne was just dozing off again when a faint thrumming in the boards beneath her roused her. She sat up, both hands flat to the floor, feeling the ship come to life. Owein sat up too, and she heard his sharp indrawn breath.
Timbers creaked. Sails flapped. Men called to each other, and the ship began to sway, gently at first, then more strongly as the wind filled the sails. Tears welled up in Olwynne’s crusted eyes. She had been to sea often enough in her father’s great ship, The Royal Stag, to know what the sounds meant. They had raised anchor, and were setting sail.
They’ll never catch us now, she thought, and the tears seeped from under her eyelids and ran down her face.
Rhiannon had suffered a cold, uncomfortable night on the beach, too afraid to light a fire in case it drew unwanted attention. She had gnawed on a hard heel of stale bread and drunk the last of her water, cursing herself for wasting so much time staring at the sea instead of finding a better campsite, with a spring of fresh water.
She had been woken in the middle of the night by the inrush of the tide, and would have drowned if it was not for Blackthorn. Cold and wet and utterly furious with herself, she had managed to grab her gear and leap onto Blackthorn’s back, the black water swirling around her knees. The winged mare had soared up into the night sky, and they had found a safe landing place on the cliff-top, more from luck than anything else. Rhiannon had spent the rest of the night huddled under Blackthorn’s wing, shivering in her damp clothes and wishing she was snuggled up in a warm bed, firelight flickering on the walls, Lewen’s knee flung across her leg.
At first light they were aloft, Rhiannon determined to find Lord Malvern and stop him somehow. She unslung her crossbow and hung it from the pommel of her soft saddle, even though the idea of shooting a man dead made her feel strange and shivery inside. Rhiannon had killed once before, and it haunted her still, as did the ghosts of all the people she had seen die since – Bess Balfour with her crooked face and imploring eyes, a mad girl who had murdered her tiny baby and been hung for it, Shannley the groom who she had knocked out with a chamber-pot and so helped him on the way to the gallows, the massive shape of Octavia casting its hideous shadow on her dreams. Those ghosts had been with her a while now, and to their gallery were added new ones – an old valet dressed all in black, a peddler and his faithful little dog, and two eager-faced grooms. It was no use Rhiannon telling herself it was not her fault. She felt she was to blame, for not shooting Lord Malvern dead when she had had the chance. She had tried, during that mad chase the first time Lord Malvern had kidnapped Roden, but his seneschal Irving – the father of his present seneschal – had flung himself in front of his master and taken the arrow meant for Lord Malvern. If she had not hesitated for just a scant few seconds, the whole dreadful affair would have ended there, at the gates of Fett
ercairn Castle. She would not hesitate next time, she told herself, if the opportunity presented itself. She was a soldier now, in service to the Banrìgh, she told herself, and Lord Malvern was an enemy of the Crown.
The coast of Ravenshaw was riddled with countless tiny bays and coves, each hidden by steep cliffs. Rhiannon flew along the edge of the cliffs, the rain in her eyes, the bluebird darting ahead of her. Then she felt a rush of wind at her back, strong enough to almost knock her from the saddle. Rhiannon felt the chill and tingle of it, and knew it was an enchanted wind. She urged Blackthorn on, bending close over the mare’s neck, gripping her knees tight. The wind rushed past, blowing her hair forward, cutting through her clothes. Blackthorn fought to keep her wings steady.
There was a high singing sound that Rhiannon had never heard before, and the slap of canvas and rope. Then, from a deep hidden cove directly before them, a ship suddenly sailed out into the open. It was a big, ocean-going craft, with three tall masts and another lying almost flat at the front of the boat. Rhiannon had never seen such a big ship before. It was laden with sails, both square and triangular, and they bellied out, filled with the enchanted wind that streamed sure and strong past Rhiannon.
She cried aloud in dismay and seized her crossbow, firing arrow after arrow into the ship. A few tore the sails and made them flap wildly. One caught a man in the rigging, and he tumbled down and fell into the sea. No-one made any attempt to rescue him, and Rhiannon was relieved to see him bob up and begin to swim strongly for shore. Rhiannon wheeled Blackthorn about and swooped down low over the ship. She saw Dedrie turn her face up to her and point, and the big bodyguard Ballard fired an arrow at her which Blackthorn deftly dodged. Then she saw Lord Malvern standing up on the high poop deck, a cloak wrapped about him, his raven perched on the rail behind him. He stared up at her and then shouted an order to one of the ship’s crewmen. Rhiannon put her last arrow to her bow and bent forward, taking careful aim.
There was a gigantic bang and a huge puff of black smoke. Rhiannon flinched, and instinctively Blackthorn flung out her wings and wheeled away. It was sheer luck that saw her turn to the left and not to the right. An iron cannonball came whizzing up from the ship, barrelling through the air at incredible speed. It missed Blackthorn by only a few scant feet, enveloping them all in foul-smelling smoke. Rhiannon was shocked and astonished. She had never seen cannons before, or even heard of them, and had no idea what had just occurred. There was another bang, and then another, and Rhiannon took Blackthorn soaring up into the sky. Below them, the ship turned and gathered speed, and Rhiannon watched it go, clenching her jaw in bitter self-recrimination.
It was her urgent desire to speed after them, but her quiver was empty of arrows, her water-bag was dry, and her supplies almost all gone. Common sense prevailed, and Rhiannon brought Blackthorn’s head about and headed back to land.
She found a small fishing village a few miles down the coast, called Islay-on-the-Cliff. It was a rough collection of huts, built halfway up the cliffs, with a narrow path down to the cove, guarded by a stone wall and a sturdy gate. It had an inn with one big common room opening onto the steep cobbled street, and one shop where anything and everything could be bought. Prudently keeping Blackthorn well out of sight, Rhiannon went into the shop and replenished her supplies.
The shopkeeper was amazed to see her. ‘I havena seen a strange face hereabouts in close on a year and then so many in the last few days! What brings ye here, lass?’
‘I travel on the Banrìgh’s service,’ Rhiannon said, ‘and I’d be most interested to hear all ye can tell me about any other strangers in the area.’
‘On the Banrìgh’s service! Ye mean the young lass, the Ensorcellor’s daughter? Och, that’s a sorry tale! To have her wedding day ruined like that, her father-in-law murdered and her husband stolen. Is there any word o’ the young Rìgh? Is it true the whole family was taken? We could scarce believe our ears when we heard the news!’
The shopkeeper was all agog, and Rhiannon was sorry to have declared herself. She wanted the news, though, and so she did her best to answer the shopkeeper’s questions and to impress upon him the importance of telling her anything out of the way.
The ship had been hired elsewhere, she learnt, and brought to this part of the coast a full two weeks ago. The crew had grown bored with waiting about and had visited the Islay Inn a few times. They had had plenty of money to throw about, but had been a rough nasty lot with quick tempers and a few too many weapons for the villagers’ liking. The innkeeper had been careful to keep his pretty daughter out of their way, and once had had to break up a knife fight between two of the men over a dice game.
‘Did they give any clue as to where they were heading?’ Rhiannon asked as she hesitated between a string of smoked herring and a hank of bacon. Anything she took with her had to be carried, and Rhiannon was so hungry everything looked good.
The shopkeeper shrugged. ‘Ye’d have to ask Martin up the inn. They dinna come in here at all, Eà curse them. I could’ve done with some new customers, but their ship was well provisioned, I believe, and they wanted naught.’
So once Rhiannon’s saddlebags were again bulging, and her quiver filled with what she considered very poor quality arrows, being used to Lewen’s finely balanced and beautifully fletched creations, she trudged up the street to the inn.
Martin-up-the-inn was a big, burly man with a red face and a shrewd eye. He had kept a close eye on his unruly guests, ‘no’ liking,’ he said, ‘the jib o’ them’. When Rhiannon asked him if they had given any clue to where they were sailing, he nodded and said, ‘Aye. They made much o’ the fact they’d be leaving this cold, benighted coast and sailing to warmer waters. They were off to the Fair Isles, they said, and indeed I thought it the place for them, it being the haunt o’ pirates and cutthroats still.’
‘The Fair Isles,’ Rhiannon repeated, and he nodded and jerked his thumb at a map that had been rather crudely painted on the wall behind him. It showed all the crooks and hooks of the Ravenshaw coast, and every rock, reef and island all about.
‘Painted by my great-grand-dai,’ Martin said proudly, ‘and what any foreigner wouldna give to have a copy.’
Rhiannon examined it closely. She could see the six islands named the Fair Isles, far off to the south, separated from the coast of Eileanan by a very large stretch of sea, painted bright blue and populated by an improbably large sea-serpent. Her heart sank. She did not think Blackthorn could fly so far without coming down to land at some point.
‘How far to sail there?’ she asked, wondering if the map was to scale and guessing it was not, considering the size of the sea-serpent.
‘Three days with a fair wind,’ Martin said with a shrug. ‘It’s rare for the wind hereabout to be fair, though.’
Rhiannon tried to calculate in her head how long it would take for Blackthorn to fly the same distance, but it was impossible for her to know. She had never learnt to count any higher than twenty, the number of her fingers and toes, and the books she had been brought to read in Sorrowgate Prison had all been storybooks and histories, not mathematical textbooks. Lewen would have been able to estimate the distance and time in a flash, she thought to herself unhappily, and wished once again that he was here, to lend her his strength and wit and common sense.
She saw another village marked on the map, about the length of her first knuckle away from Islay-on-the-Cliff. When asked, Martin told her it took about half a day’s walking to get there, which Rhiannon thought she could probably fly in a few hours. So, using her forefinger to measure, she plotted out a rough course for herself on the map, jumping from rock to island to reef. Martin was invaluable. He knew every mark on the map and was able to tell her their names and properties.
‘Och, aye,’ he said, ‘we call those the Demon’s Teeth. They’re only uncovered at low tide, and even then they’re dangerous indeed, the waves break over them pretty steadily. It’s high summer, though, and the tides are at their lowest. Ye couldna ta
ke a boat into them, though.’
‘What about this one?’ Rhiannon asked.
‘Aye, that’s a fair rock, we go there in summer to gather the kelp and hunt sea-otters. It’s a fair stretch from here, a day in one o’ our wee boats. We stay there overnight, there’s a spring o’ fresh water, and plenty o’ redfruit and other things to eat.’
‘What’s this over here?’
‘They call that Sailors’ Ruin,’ Martin answered. ‘The number o’ ships that run aground on that auld rock! It’s low, ye see, especially in autumn when the tides run high, and if ye are no’ looking out for it, it’s easy to miss. But why do ye need to ken all this, lassie … I mean … ma’am? If ye’re wishing to chase after those pirates, surely ye’ll be taking the quickest sea route, no’ exploring all these auld rocks?’
‘I like to ken what lies ahead,’ Rhiannon said.
‘Aye,’ he said, nodding his head wisely. ‘Well, then, this wee island here may interest ye. It’s small but it’s high, and it’s got fresh water on it, which is rare enough. We call it Muckle Roe, Eà ken why.’
Rhiannon measured the distance with her eye, tried to fix its position in her mind, and thanked Martin for his help. She had been tormented during their conversation by the rich smell of fish stew wafting from the kitchens. So she ordered a bowl of it, and a mug of weak ale, and asked Martin for some pen and paper. Very laboriously she wrote: ‘Ship gone Fair Iyell. Magic wind. I fly after. Rhiannon.’ She always liked writing her name. It looked like a horse in full gallop, mane and tail flying. It was the only word she could write with full confidence, and she liked to give it a little flourish at the end.