His mother nodded slowly. ‘Ye seem to be growing into a man, my son,’ she said. ‘We will see if having a wife completes the growing process.’
Iain bowed his head in acquiescence, trying hard to conceal his exultation. To gain what he wanted so easily! Indeed, his attempt at emulating Douglas’s poise these past few months was paying dividends already. Now all he had to do was suffer the wedding, bed his wife (a task Iain was beginning to look forward to), and wait for a chance to break free.
Iseult was woken by her mother kissing her forehead. Filled with wellbeing, Iseult stretched in the dappled sunshine. The clearing was hung with flowers and a wedding feast was spread beneath the huge trees. Meghan and the Firemaker took her to the pool to be bathed with Meghan’s sweet-scented soaps. She stepped out onto the grass and the Firemaker took her dripping hair between her hands and dried it so it sprang into thick, fiery ringlets that hung down her neck. Cloudshadow held out her wedding dress for her to step into. Blue as the summer sky, tendrils of moonflowers in white and primrose-yellow climbed up from the ground and twisted along the neckline. She wore no other clothing, her feet bare, her head crowned with flowers. On one hand gleamed the moonstone, on the other the dragoneye flashed golden.
From the clearing came the sound of laughter and the pound of the hobgoblins’ drums. The cluricauns began to play their pipes, reminding Iseult of the Beltane festivities when she and Lachlan had danced together and loved for the first time. She sipped her wine, feeling its warmth spread through her, and wondered at her serenity. She had never thought to marry, yet here she was, only moments away from her wedding.
Meghan chanted the words of the wedding service as Iseult and Lachlan linked hands by the fire. They made their vows just as the sun was setting, the clearing awash with golden light. Above the hill of the Celestines, the two moons hung, round as coins.
Three times Iseult and Lachlan ran round the fire, keeping their right hands to the flames, then turned and circled three times again, this time widdershins. Lachlan swung Iseult round and, clutching her wreath, she ran with him round the fire three times again. The hobgoblins drummed in heart-disturbing rhythms, the cluricauns piped away on their wooden flutes, and the Firemaker suddenly gave a long ululation of approval. Everyone laughed and Lachlan pulled Iseult to him, kissed her mouth and prepared to jump the bonfire. At first Lachlan hesitated, but Iseult just whispered to him, ‘If ye use your wings, ye’ll be fine, ye fool!’
He cast her an angry look and ran forward so fast she almost stumbled. When they leapt over the bonfire, he spread both wings and for the first time ever, beat them strongly. Both he and Iseult soared over the flames, which hissed and crackled in the back-breeze, and for once it was Iseult faltering behind.
‘Ye flew!’ Iseult cried. ‘Lachlan, did ye feel it? Ye actually flew!’
He gripped her hand so tightly she gasped, and swept her into his arms to kiss her, to the delight of the nisses, who darted about their heads like dragonflies.
Meghan said, ‘Ye have sworn to be true to each other, and care for and respect each other, living and loving with courage and kindness and faith. Ye have taken strength from the fruits of the earth, ye have breathed o’ the air, drunk deeply o’ the water, and dared the flames. Let now your blood mingle and spill, and hold handfast, that your troth be given.’
Solemn now, Lachlan cut his finger and Iseult’s with the edge of his sgian dubh, and they pressed their wounds together above the fire, their blood trickling into the flames. Meghan said, ‘As your blood mingles, so do your lives and fates. May your path be free o’ stones and thorns!’
The great square at Dùn Gorm was strung with lanterns and crowded with people. All had come to see the Summer Fair, the festival of the jongleurs. On the road for most of the year, jongleurs, minstrels and troubadours came from all over Eileanan and the Far Islands to trade skills and compete against one another. Many old friends were briefly reunited at the Summer Fair, and the city was always filled with travellers who came to watch, listen and marvel.
Enit Silverthroat’s and Morrell Fire-Eater’s caravans had one of the best positions in the square, and the jongleurs were taking advantage of the large crowd to show off some of their most dazzling routines. Dide juggled swords in a breathtaking sequence; Morrell swallowed flaming brands and spat out fire like a dragon; Nina tumbled, cartwheeled and dived through a flaming hoop; while Enit sang poignant love songs that brought a prickle to the eyes of many. Now she sat on her caravan steps and gravely exchanged greetings with the jongleurs that passed by. Nobody noticed when a passing merchant stealthily thrust a large package into her hands. All eyes were fixed on the great plume of fire Morrell was exhaling.
Dide caught the flashing swords and bowed with a flourish. To cheers and whistles, he ran out of the performing circle and ducked back to the caravan. ‘Sunset, Coppersmiths Alley,’ his grandmother said softly as he stepped past her up the caravan steps. He made no indication that he had heard her.
Twenty minutes later he came out of the caravan into the dusky apricot of the summer evening. He had changed out of his sky-blue and crimson into brown breeches. He looked more like a clerk than a jongleur.
‘I be going to see if Iven Yellowbeard’s cart has come,’ he called to his grandmother, who nodded vaguely as she stirred the stew over the fire. He plunged off into the crowd, twisting through the maze of caravans. Occasionally he stopped and chatted to a fellow jongleur, scanning the people around him with sharp eyes and his witch senses. Once he was sure none followed him or paid him any attention, he ducked out of the square and into the streets of the city.
By the time the sun was setting he was in the metal-smiths’ quarter and strolling down the steps that led to Coppersmiths Alley. Children and small dogs were taking advantage of the warm evening to play in the streets, and a few women were leaning out the windows to gather in their laundry, which was strung overhead like carnival flags. Dide’s heart was beating quickly, but he felt none of the prickle of uneasiness that spelt danger. He paused at the corner and looked about him casually, then stepped down into the dark little alley.
Most of the smithies were shut for the evening, but at the far end a tall door stood open. Dide strode up to the door, hesitated as if trying to make up his mind, then stepped inside.
Once within its gloom, all pretence of casualness dropped from him. He peered through a spyhole cleverly concealed in the wall, while the old man mending a buckle at the bench checked the doors and windows. Satisfied all was clear, some of the tenseness left them and the old man beckoned Dide into the rooms beyond.
They climbed the stairs to the attic, and the old man pulled back a secret panel to reveal a narrow space in the ceiling. With thatch above and plaster and beams below, it was barely large enough for a man to crouch in. Dide would have to crawl down the centre beam, which ran the entire row of buildings in this quarter. One misstep and his foot would break through the ceiling into somebody’s attic.
He thanked the old man, swung lithely into the ceiling and began to crawl. It was slow and difficult, and Dide had to fight the desire to sneeze as the thatch tickled his nose. He came at last to his destination and felt his knees sag in relief. Carefully he opened the panel and dropped into the attic.
Dide hurried down four flights of stairs, listening always for any sign of danger, and ducked through the empty house to the wine cellar. He knew where to find the false wine rack, swung it open and slipped through into another large cellar, lit by only one lantern. Within were twelve of his fellow rebels, all dressed in the uniform of the Red Guards. They gathered close around him, clapping him on the back and asking after Nina and Enit. Dide had had many adventures with them all, for most witches were brought to Dùn Gorm for execution and so the rebels were most active in the capital city. Between them they had saved many witches from a horrible death.
Rapidly Dide changed into a red kilt and jerkin. He drew a sword, bundled in a red cloak, out of his bag, buckled the sword a
bout his waist and wrapped the red cloak about him with a swagger. To the laughter of the rebels, he took a few mincing steps about, waving his cloak and saying, ‘Och, aye, I be a fine soldier indeed! Such a pretty lad in my crimson finery!’ Although Dide was anxious about the task ahead, he knew it was up to him to support his men’s spirits.
The cellar had a trapdoor in its ceiling which opened into the floor of a storeroom in the Red Guards’ barracks. The complex had once housed the Yeomen of the Guard, the bodyguard of the Rìgh. After they had been disbanded, the Banrìgh’s Guards had taken it over. None of the Yeomen had thought to pass on the secrets of the military headquarters to their successors. Only the rebels knew of the cellar, thanks to Duncan Ironfist.
Dide clambered up first, carefully shifting the discarded furniture that shielded the trapdoor from view. He kept guard as one by one the rebels followed him into the darkness of the storeroom. Concealing the entrance again, they quietly filed out into a small enclosed courtyard. From beyond the wall came the shouts and thuds of men-at-arms practising their weapon play.
After checking to make sure no-one was in the yard beyond, the rebels marched out. This was where the danger truly began, for they were in the heart of their enemy’s stronghold. The barracks’ forces were much depleted, luckily, for many soldiers had gone to reinforce the palace and town guard during the Midsummer festivities.
It was from this point on that Lady Luck would take a hand in the dice game, and Dide was not a gambler like his father. He liked to be sure. The jongleur’s jaw was gritted tight as he led his men into the centre square where soldiers were sparring and jousting. The thirteen rebels kept an easy motion, stiff-backed and eyes forward, and were not challenged as they rounded the square and exited to the side. Dide breathed more easily and found his hands were damp with perspiration.
They came to the tower where prisoners were kept. A wave of despair and horror swept over Dide, and he resolutely shut his mind to the building’s aura. Several of his companions were also sensitive to atmosphere and paled, but their stride did not falter. He was proud of them.
They did not step out into the courtyard before the tower, but waited in the shadows of the corridor, keeping close watch in both directions. The old cook had told them it would take two hours for the contaminated ale to work, and they had timed it closely. Dide could only hope the guards would not decide to wait until they were off duty to celebrate Midsummer.
The door of the tower swung open and a soldier came stumbling out, clutching his stomach. They retreated before him till he was deep in the shadows, then came up to him, grasping his arm. ‘Wha’ is it, soldier? Are ye ill?’
‘Eaten … something,’ he retched. ‘We need … relief guard. The whole lot o’ us be taken ill … or poisoned. Must go and get … assistance.’
Dide hit him lightly on the back of the head with his sword hilt, and he fell back into one of the rebels’ arms. ‘Stow him safely,’ Dide said grimly, ‘then wait. In ten minutes or so we shall go in.’
When they reported for duty, the guard in the outer room was greenish and sweating, and he kept his hand pressed to his mouth. ‘Thank the Truth ye are come! That last batch o’ ale must have been made with tainted hops, for I tell ye, man, it is sick as cursed cats we all are!’
A convulsion ran over him and he ducked for the inner room, from which they heard the unmistakable sounds of retching. Dide suppressed a smile. He did not know how she had done it, but the old cook up at the palace had come through as promised. No questions would be asked about the relief guard; the soldiers were far too relieved to be free to report to the infirmary. All twelve of them staggered away, handing over the keys to Dide and warning them to steer clear of the beer.
As soon as they were out of sight, Dide set guards, beckoning the rest of his men to follow him as he hurried up the stairs to the cells above. The jongleur was taking no chance that someone would come and disturb him. There was only one prisoner in the tower this year, but he was important enough for a full battalion of guards. Dide was anxious to free him and be away.
The prisoner was a warlock called Gwilym the Ugly. He had once lived at the Tower of Mists, having escaped there after the Burning, seeking refuge in the only country to still celebrate magic. Ten years later he re-emerged from the mists and joined the rebels to fight against the Awl. He never spoke about his time in Arran, but it was common knowledge among the rebels that it had been the Mesmerdean that had trapped him and brought him to the Red Guards. One did not touch the thistle without pain.
Dide had liked the swarthy young warlock and had found his magic of great use in the past. He had been horrified to hear Gwilym the Ugly had been betrayed and was in prison, waiting to be fed to the Midsummer bonfires. Even if he had not felt drawn to Gwilym, and even if he did not want information about Arran, Dide would still have persuaded Enit to plan his rescue.
The warlock had been cruelly treated. One leg had been crushed in an iron device they called ‘the boot’, which smashed the bones of the foot, ankle and shin. The terrible wound had not been treated, and Gwilym was barely conscious. Bruises and cuts marred his face and body, and only one hazel eye snapped open as the door of his cell swung in. He smiled when he saw Dide, wincing as the movement tore a cut at the side of his mouth.
Dide smiled back, wishing fervently that the Awl had not chosen the boot as their torture instrument, for it would make their escape almost impossible.
‘Well, ye were never pretty, Gwilym, but truly ye earn your nickname now,’ he said, working quickly to relieve the warlock’s pain. He had known the warlock would have been tortured and so had come prepared. He gave him water to sip and some syrup made from wild poppies and valerian, and bid his men to hold the warlock steady. He then gritted his teeth and used his dagger to sever Gwilym’s leg below the knee. Summoning fire, he cauterised the wound and wrapped it well in bandages torn from his shirt.
‘Good lad,’ the warlock said hoarsely. ‘Help me up, quickly.’
‘How did they do it?’ Dide asked, trying to hide his anguish.
‘The Mesmerdean breathed on me but chose to give me a lingering, agonising death rather than the sweet bliss o’ their kiss,’ Gwilym said wryly. ‘I can see Margrit o’ Arran’s fair hand behind it all. I woke when they closed the boot upon me. It was no’ a happy wakening.’
‘Did ye speak?’
Gwilym shook his head. ‘Nay, I had that satisfaction at least. They have promised me the rack if I do no’ tell them my rebel contacts, but it be only a few hours till I am scheduled to burn. They will have to try and screw the information out o’ me soon if they are to do it at all.’
‘We had best get out o’ here then,’ Dide replied.
They had brought Gwilym a soldier’s uniform to wear but the kilt showed the dreadful blood-stained stump and his face was too badly bruised to pass even a casual scrutiny. There was no way they could disguise him as a soldier. They were just discussing what to do when Dide heard his lieutenant’s voice, raised in warning. ‘Someone is coming.’
Dide drew back behind the door, gesturing to the other rebels to follow suit. Gwilym sat wearily on the straw pallet, heavy lines of pain graven from his hooked nose to his mouth. He looked down sardonically at his butchered leg before hiding the stump under the rags of the blanket.
The cell door swung open and a red-clad seeker stepped isiden the cell, a tall cadaverous man with greasy black hair combed straight off his pale brow. ‘Ah, ye are awake, witch,’ he said. ‘Ready for your next meeting with the Questioner?’
Gwilym said gruffly, ‘Why do ye bother? Ye tell me I am to be the entertainment for the Midsummer crowds—surely they would prefer to see a whole man burn, no’ just parts o’ him?’
‘Ye think they care? Besides, it will make them think twice about helping the rebels, seeing the great warlock Gwilym the Ugly begging for mercy …’
‘Och, I will no’ beg,’ Gwilym responded, as Dide’s dagger hilt hit the seeker on the back of
the head. ‘But I think ye will.’
He raised his hand and pointed it at the slumped figure of the seeker, two fingers extended. Frowning in concentration, he muttered a spell and the seeker’s features blurred until they had taken on Gwilym’s pox-pitted skin and hooked nose. ‘Smash his leg, laddies. I think he shall see how it feels to die in agony.’
‘Ye mean him to burn in your place?’ Dide asked, feeling a little sick.
Gwilym nodded, a bleak smile flitting over his harsh features. ‘It seems befitting, do ye no’ think so? He was the one to close the boot.’
Dide nodded. The men stripped the seeker of his clothes, throwing the bundle to Gwilym. Grinning savagely, they then jumped on the unconscious seeker’s right leg with their heavy boots until blood and bone marrow were seeping from the crushed limb. The pain stirred him in his unconscious state, but they hit him on the head again and he lapsed back into oblivion. Hurriedly they dressed him in the warlock’s torn and bloodstained clothes and cleared away any signs that they had been there. This meant Gwilym’s severed limb had to be wrapped up and taken away, a task which made them all feel rather queasy.
They locked the seeker in the room, and half carried Gwilym down the stairs and into the guard room where the other rebels were waiting nervously. ‘How shall we get him to the cellar?’ one of the rebels asked anxiously.
Dide shook his head. ‘We canna take him past the practice square like this,’ he said. ‘We shall have to try trickery. We can say the seeker was overcome with the same illness as the guards. If that were so, what would we do? Get him a litter, carry him out? Gwilym! That spell ye placed on the seeker—to make him look like ye. Can ye do it to yourself?’
‘Ye mean, to make me look like him?’ the warlock said wearily. ‘Och, aye. I did no’ spend years with the mistress o’ illusions herself for naught. I can make myself look like anyone I please. It’s called the spell o’ glamourie. The illusion does not last long, but it’ll be long enough for our purposes.’