Bringing up the rear was Dide, two long daggers at his belt and a tiny one tucked in his boot. As well as the light pack of tools and supplies that everyone else carried, he wore a guitar slung on his back, its battered case painted with entwining tendrils of flowers and birds, much faded with time. Dide never travelled without his guitar and a pocketful of juggling balls.
Each of the three witches carried their sorcerer’s staff, as usual, and Isabeau wore the familiar weight of the Key of the Coven about her neck. Her familiar, the little elf-owl Buba, flew silently ahead, white as a snowflake blown in the wind.
Isabeau was racked with impatience. She kept having to stop and wait for Cloudshadow, who walked as slowly and wearily as an old woman, her body still weak from the poison she had drunk. It was all Isabeau could do not to shriek, ‘Hurry! Hurry!’
She knew she was driven to the limits of endurance by the spell of compulsion that Brann the Raven had laid down in curlicues of his own blood, a thousand years earlier, in the Book of Shadows. The spell had been hidden behind another spell, the one that told the secret of resurrecting the dead, and so first Johanna and then Isabeau had unwittingly read the spell and were now subject to his implacable will. Johanna had kidnapped Donncan and Thunderlily, and forced them to travel back in time to the time of Brann’s death, compelled to try to raise him from the grave. Isabeau could only reassure herself that, by chasing after Johanna, and her two royal hostages, she too was not compelled by Brann’s hunger to live again.
They came at last to the circular garden at the very centre of the maze, stepping out of the confined corridor with relief and taking a deep breath of frosty air. Mist drifted along the ground and wreathed about the cypress trees, but it was growing light enough for them to see the domed roof of the observatory.
In silence they climbed the steps till they reached the immense blocks of stones that surrounded the Pool of Two Moons. The stones were ancient, far older than the garden or the maze, and Isabeau knew that they were all carved with mysterious symbols, the stylised shape of stars and moons and planets and trees and rocks. These runes were called the tree-language by the Celestines, and despite a lifetime of study Isabeau still understood only the barest fraction. The symbols had all been carved so long ago they were barely visible even in brightest sunlight, yet one could feel them clearly with one’s hand in the darkness. It was by touching these symbols, in certain formal sequences, that one was able to choose one’s destination when travelling the Old Ways. Isabeau knew the symbol for the pool above her parents’ home, at the Cursed Towers in Tírlethan. It was shaped like a crooked letter ‘M’, to represent the twin crags of the mountains above the lake there. Similarly, the sign for the Pool of Two Moons was like a ‘V’, representing the two rivers that came together to make the Shining Falls.
There were many thousands of runes in the Celestines’ tree-language, however, and some were very similar. This was just one of the many reasons why it was so dangerous for someone who did not know the whole tree-alphabet to try to travel the Old Ways. It was all too easy to put the wrong rune in the wrong place and end up in a quite different place or time than one had intended.
The circle of stones had been built about the sacred tarn by the Celestines many thousands of years before humans had come to Eileanan. It had been discovered by the witches who had settled Rionnagan and built Lucescere, and they had at once sensed the latent power in the water and stones and sought to harness it for their own. The maze about the pool had been built by Martha the Wise, the great-granddaughter of Cuinn Lionheart, the sorcerer who had led the witches across time and space to this new world. It was her father, Lachlan the Astronomer, who first noticed that at dawn on the summer solstice light struck like an arrow of gold through a hole the size of a fist on one great menhir, illuminating a symbol shaped like a sun, or a face, on the stone opposite. Later he was to notice that certain lines drawn here and there marked the rise of key constellations, and that if one put one’s eye to another great hole in a menhir at the time of the winter solstice, one could watch the red moon rise and fill its dimensions exactly. It was Lachlan the Astronomer who had built the observatory at the Pool of Two Moons, and he devoted his life to unravelling the mysteries of the great stones.
In time, the Tower of Two Moons was built nearby and this began a pattern that was repeated all over the country. Nearly all of the witches’ towers were built on or around a stone-ringed pool of the Celestines, wittingly or unwittingly driving away the peaceful forest faeries and banishing them from their most sacred sites. Many of the circles of stones fell into disrepair or were damaged. The Pool of Two Moons was entirely encased in stones, and the great menhirs topped with arches to create a graceful colonnade that, pretty as it was, obscured many of the celestial events the circle of stones had been built to record.
What Lachlan the Astronomer and his fellow witches failed to understand was that the circles of stones were more than just some giant calendar that marked the cycles of suns and moons. They were Hearts of Stars, places charged with magnetic energy that radiated invisible lines of power which connected one to each other across the entire planet. Reflecting the ellipses of moons, stars and planets across the land, these lines were like magical roads that could be travelled, enabling the Celestines to move about the land invisibly and at great speed. They were seams in the matter of the universe, connecting space and time in a way that Isabeau could still only dimly grasp. All she knew was that the Hearts of Stars, the sacred pools in their circle of stones, focused power like a magnifying glass concentrated light until it could burn a hole in paper.
The secret of the Old Ways was one of the most closely guarded mysteries of the Celestines. Isabeau had been taught a little, because her guardian Meghan of the Beasts had been a great friend and champion of the forest faeries. She was not permitted to reveal what she had been taught, however, and so none of the others knew why it was Cloudshadow stood before the doors, tracing one shape after another with her long, four-jointed fingers.
‘What does she do?’ Dide whispered.
‘She seeks to find the mark for the Tomb o’ Ravens,’ Isabeau whispered back. ‘We must travel there first, in this time, afore we can attempt to go back in time. One canna do both at the same time.’
Dide shifted his pack to the other shoulder. Somewhere a bird trilled. ‘It is almost dawn,’ he said and sighed.
‘Aye, it is time,’ Isabeau agreed, and was glad that he too seemed to share her anxiety to be on their way. Three days had passed since Donncan and Thunderlily had been abducted. It was no consolation at all to know that they would all be travelling back to the exact same point in time, so it made no difference if it had been days or even weeks that had passed. Apart from the sick urgency the spell of compulsion had tattooed upon her brain, Isabeau was driven by anxiety about the young rìgh and what exactly Johanna intended to do with him.
Take hands, Cloudshadow said. Remember, do not falter, do not look back, do not step off the path. Fix your eyes upon those that run before you, and do not listen to the ghosts. Run swiftly.
They all nodded. Dobhailen, the shadow-hound, growled deep in his throat, and Cailean laid his hand upon his neck.
The sun rose above the horizon and struck at the great pillar of stone. It was three days past the summer solstice, and so they could see the great ball of fire through the hole punched in the menhir, although the miracle of the arrow of gold did not occur. Cloudshadow gently pressed one of the symbols on the pillar facing due south and then stepped through the archway. She disappeared, only the hand that held onto Stormstrider’s still showing. He followed her, drawing Isabeau after him. She took a deep breath and ducked her head instinctively as she stepped into the glimmering, silvery haze that filled the archway. She knew to expect the shock that shot through every nerve, but it did not make the pain any easier to bear. Pulling Dide behind her, she broke into an awkward, stumbling run, keeping her eyes fixed on Stormstrider’s flowing white hair. It seeme
d to shimmer in the strange greenish light, lifting and swirling in the lightning-charged wind that buffeted her face.
It was like trying to run through cold, rough surf. Her feet were almost swept away from under her, and she could hear the eerie wailing and sobbing of many, many ghosts, and could feel the icy clutch of their fingers. Some were bold enough to wreathe about her head, shrieking in her ear, pounding at her chest and throat, seeking to insinuate themselves into her nose and mouth. She choked, unable to breathe, and shook her head violently, throwing them aside. Give us life, one whispered in her ear. Ye have the secret. Give us life again!
‘Begone, foul spirit!’ she cried. ‘Your life is long gone!’
Behind her she could hear Dide shouting and cursing too, and Ghislaine was chanting an ancient prayer against harm. Isabeau took up the words as well, and heard Cailean and then Dide join in.
‘In the name o’ Eà, our mother, our father, our child, thee who is Spinner and Weaver and Cutter o’ the Thread; thee who sows the seed, nurtures the crop, and reaps the harvest; by the virtue o’ the four elements, wind, stone, flame and rain; by virtue o’ clear skies and storm, rainbows and hailstones, protect us this day from all harm, O Eà, mother, father, child, spinner, weaver, cutter, maiden, mother, crone …’
Ahead of her the Celestines were humming deep in their throats, and behind Dobhailen growled and snarled, a strangely harmonic counterpoint. The words and the humming formed a rhythm that they could march by. Isabeau felt her stride lengthen and quicken, and her breath come more evenly. The ghosts seemed to shred away, until they were mere mist and shadows and a cold snaky wind about her ears.
All about them, above and below them, were sheets of silvery-green fire that leapt and roared and hissed. She could see vague shapes through the green fire, a forest of trees, a white rushing river, mountains behind. With each step the picture blurred and rushed past, however, and she never had the chance to recognise any landmark or realise where they were.
Then suddenly there was a great hiss of green sparks and Isabeau felt herself falling. She cried out and tried to wrench her hand free to save herself, but neither Dide not Stormstrider would let her go. She fell painfully to her knees, with a great ringing in her ears, blind with vertigo. When her vision cleared, she looked about her and realised she was slumped on the ground in a cool, grey dawn many miles away from the Pool of Two Moons.
Crouched in the morning mist, on the crest of a small hill, was a great grey mausoleum, guarded by brooding stone ravens. A long avenue of yew trees led up to it, gaunt and dark in the dawn. In the forecourt before the mausoleum was a long, oblong pool surrounded by formal urns and statues. It reflected the dome of the tomb in its still, black waters.
We are here, Cloudshadow said wearily.
‘I dinna realise this was a Heart o’ Stars!’ Isabeau exclaimed. ‘How extraordinary! When ye said we would travel to the Tomb o’ Ravens, I thought ye meant we would walk the Auld Way as close as we could get, and then go cross-country. Is this truly a Heart o’ Stars? Where is the circle o’ stones, the summerbourne?’
All gone, the Celestine answered.
‘But … why? When? Was it Brann the Raven who had the circle levelled? Did he no’ ken?’
Of evil mind was the man who built this grave, and of evil intent. He knew this was a place of power and sought to use its magic for his own ends, Stormstrider said. His mind-voice was deep and grave, and had the same stern arrogance of his face.
‘I never kent,’ Isabeau said slowly and looked about her with a troubled face. Now she knew, she saw the three elements that always composed the sacred sites of the Celestines – the hill, the pool, and the erection of stones – but its shape and composition, its essence, were all wrong. The natural spring of water had been trapped and forced into this stiff, formal, stone-bound shape, and the pillars constructed did not celebrate life and the passing of seasons, but death and one man’s vanity.
Buba came down to rest on Isabeau’s shoulder, and she put up one hand and petted him, comforted.
The others were all stretching and moving about, murmuring the occasional comment to each other. Dobhailen did not like the look of the crypt, and he curled back his lip and growled, his green eyes glowing like marsh-candles. Cailean fondled his ears, and the shadow-hound, stiff-legged, crept forward and sniffed at the broad steps. Suddenly he raised his muzzle and bayed aloud, the call of a hunting dog that has caught a scent. It was a deep, loud, savage sound that echoed off the walls and made them all jump and cry out in alarm. Dobhailen lunged up the stairs and bayed again at the door. Cailean followed him, and so did the others, hurrying.
The dog led them in through the massive doors and into the shadowy chill of the crypt. Within was a long hall, lined on either side with small vaults protected by heavy iron grilles. Above were elegant arches, the ornate pillars topped with carvings of sharp-beaked ravens amid fronds of acanthus and oak. In every dark vault were sarcophagi, thick with dust and cobwebs, their stone faces crumbling in the damp. The air smelt old and musty, and Ghislaine cupped her hand over her mouth and nose. She was deathly pale.
As they made their slow way down the hall, their boots echoed on the flagstones. Unconsciously they all drew together, Cailean’s hand gripping his dog’s ruff and holding him back. Isabeau had conjured light to illuminate their way. Witch’s light was a cold, eerie light to explore a crypt with, casting thick shadows behind every pillar and grave, and tricking the eye so it seemed the sarcophagi breathed.
At the far end of the hall was a large ornate tomb with another statue laid out upon it, arms crossed over its mailed chest, a sorcerer’s staff clasped between the huge ringed hands. The tomb was carved with ravens, sleeping, eating, flying, nesting. One rested beneath the sorcerer’s feet, beak curled into its chest.
‘I have been here afore,’ Ghislaine said in a high, shrill voice, breaking the echoing silence. ‘When I walked the dream-road with Olwynne. We were led here, to this place, by a raven. We saw the dead sorcerer, trailing his shroud. He told us …’ Her voice faltered.
‘What did he tell ye?’ Isabeau asked intently. Although Ghislaine had reported as much as she could remember of the dream-road she had walked with the missing banprionnsa, details of dreams were always vague afterwards and both Ghislaine and Olwynne had been struck down with sorcery sickness afterwards, making their account even more strange and wild than usual. Isabeau knew any details to be recalled could be of the utmost importance.
‘He said … he said the dream world is o’ no use to him, no more use than the world o’ spirits. He said to come again in daylight, with a living soul and a knife, and then we should see him walk again.’ Ghislaine looked with dread at the statue lying on the tomb and repressed a shudder.
Isabeau nodded. ‘Indeed he is a greedy soul, and strong, to be reaching out to touch my niece in her dreams.’
She bent her head and counted the rings upon the sorcerer’s hands. There were ten. Isabeau felt a little giddy. A sorcerer of ten rings! She herself had only eight. For the first time she felt a miserable shrinking of her confidence. How was she meant to defeat a sorcerer of ten rings, one who had clung to life for a thousand years? Cailean and Ghislaine had been counting too, and she saw their faces blanch and their breath catch.
Dobhailen had been straining to break free of Cailean’s grip and, at the involuntary relaxation of his master’s hand, leapt forward and sniffed eagerly at the base of the tomb where the shadows were thickest. He raised his head and gave that great baying cry, and at once Cailean came forward and knelt, seeking to see what had excited the dog’s interest. He cried aloud and picked something up.
‘Look! It is His Highness’s … His Majesty’s …’
In his hand he held a long golden feather.
‘He must have plucked it from his wing and hidden it there,’ Isabeau said, taking it from Cailean and turning it in her hand. ‘So we’d ken we are on the right track.’
‘How many days ago were
they here, though, and then where did they go?’ Dide asked.
Cloudshadow glanced at the feather, then continued walking slowly around the circumference of the tomb. Isabeau knew she was searching for some sign that her daughter too was alive and well.
Suddenly she hummed loudly and urgently and dropped to her knees. Isabeau came swiftly to join her. Laid down on the ground was a little collection of leaves, twigs and a white pebble. Isabeau brought the globe of witch’s light down to her hand so they could see the pattern clearly.
She was here, my daughter was here, Cloudshadow said. They arrived at dawn the day after Midsummer’s Day, and left again at dusk. They went back. Back to the beginning, she says.
‘Back to the beginning?’ Isabeau asked. ‘Does she mean back to the beginning o’ this building? To the time when the Tomb o’ Ravens was built?’
The Celestine hummed a negative, a sound of bafflement and indecision.
Isabeau was trying to decipher the message written with twig and pebble. ‘What is this?’ she asked, pointing to a little stick that had been broken and arranged in a jagged line like lightning. There was a long silence, and then Isabeau saw a drop of water darken the pale stone. She looked up in surprise and saw the Celestine was weeping.
It means goodbye, Stormstrider said.
No-one slept well that night. It was too cold. Even with the fire roaring away in its circle of stones, and their thick cloaks and plaids wrapped well around them, the cold bit up from the ground and tortured them. It was not a night to spend on the road.
Rhiannon crawled out of her tent at dawn. The stick which formed the ridgepole of the tent was caked with ice, and snow rose in hillocks and hummocks all about, white and unblemished. The sky had a pale silvery radiance to it, which meant a fair day ahead. Rhiannon wondered whether the Dowager Banrìgh’s grief had at last worn itself out. She hoped so. All had been turned summerset, and that alarmed Rhiannon. When the world was broken asunder, it left cracks through which dark walkers could crawl. Rhiannon had not left her satyricorn past so far behind that this was a notion that did not terrify her.