‘No-one can wear the device o’ the MacRuraich clan if they be no’ descended from Rùraich the Searcher himself,’ Anghus said quietly, menace in his voice. ‘Such irreverence is punishable by death. Ye should be able to recognise my device. Ye are ignorant indeed for a man in the MacCuinn’s service.’
‘I serve the Banrìgh,’ the man responded.
‘Ye serve the Banrìgh?’ Anghus repeated incredulously. ‘Does that mean ye do no’ serve the Rìgh? Ye spurn to serve the MacCuinn, descendant o’ Cuinn Lionheart himself!’
Suddenly seeing where the conversation was taking him, the soldier rubbed his moustache with his hand. ‘Nay, nay, I just meant we be the Red Guards, sworn to serve and support the Banrìgh. I never meant …’ He stopped, laughed nervously, then tossed the crumpled tam-o’-shanter to Donald, who crammed it over his bald head. ‘No disrespect intended, m’laird,’ he said, backing away quickly.
Anghus’s declaration of his identity secured them the best rooms in the inn, and he allowed hot water to be brought to him to bathe with, and his mud-stained clothes and boots to be taken away to be washed and brushed. He woke in the morning greatly refreshed to find Donald tipping a dash of whisky into his porridge.
Donald was still incensed from the beard tweaking and muttered away as he served his laird, calling imprecations down on the heads of any who thought a man’s beard funny. Only when the tray was empty did he tell Anghus that a seeker was waiting downstairs for him.
The prionnsa groaned. ‘That’s what comes o’ declaring myself before a room full o’ Red Guards,’ he sighed. ‘Bring me my clothes and I’ll make ready.’
The young seeker waiting in the public room was so thin, the muscles in his cheeks shifted under the tight-drawn skin when he spoke. His long velvet robe had just two buttons, indicating he was still a lowly servant, only recently recruited to the service. His dark eyes burned with religious fervour, however, and his medallion was brightly polished.
Frowning mightily, the seeker said that the Awl was not pleased Anghus MacRuraich, Prionnsa of Rurach and Siantan, had come to Dunceleste without declaring himself to the Grand-Seeker Humbert and asking his permission to stay in the town first. Anghus interrupted the seeker’s grieved tones to purse up his lips and whistle. ‘Humbert’s here, is he? That’s cursed bad luck.’
All the muscles in the seeker’s jaw clenched, so it looked as if he was chewing walnuts. ‘Is that so? And why would it be bad luck that the Grand-Seeker Humbert be in Dunceleste?’
Anghus said, ‘Now, lad, no need to get haughty. Humbert and I have known each other for a long time. Tell him I’ll be along later.’
‘The Grand-Seeker Humbert requests your presence immediately!’
‘Aye, aye, I’m sure that he does. I have a few things to do first, though, so ye just run along and tell him I’ll be there shortly.’
Anghus did not really have anything to do that could not wait, but it went against his grain to jump at the command of Humbert of the Smithy, who had led the Awl in Rurach and Siantan over the past seven years, sending many poor old skeelies and cunning men to their deaths in the flames. Humbert and Anghus had had many confrontations in the past as the laird tried desperately to protect his people. It might, therefore, have been wise to have gone with the seeker, but Anghus just could not do it. He was still the MacRuraich, and he was on the Banrìgh’s business. Let him stew for a while, Anghus thought unkindly.
The Awl were staying in the best inn in town, a large, steep-gabled establishment with a taste for red velvet and patriotic tapestries. Anghus could not help feeling uncomfortable as he followed the thin young seeker into the public bar. Seekers sat at every table, most poring over the little red volume called The Book of Truth, published by the Awl to help disseminate their version of history. Some played chess or trictrac; there were no dice or card games, and very few goblets of wine as one might have expected in such a crowded inn. Many of them raked him over with that disconcerting stare that the Awl taught their seekers. Anghus kept his hand near his sword and his thoughts closely guarded, as he had been taught as a child.
They went up a grand flight of stairs, and the young seeker knocked nervously on a pair of carved doors and bowed as he ushered Anghus inside. The Grand-Seeker sat behind a massive desk, writing with a fine quill. He was an obese man, his pendulous cheeks pitted with acne scars. His crimson coat strained against the twenty-four small velvet buttons that indicated his rank. He did not look up, the point of his pen scratching in the silence.
Anghus glanced around the luxurious suite, noting the rich silken tapestries and feather-fat cushions. His hazel-green eyes lit up at the sight of the whisky decanter. Without hesitation he splashed a generous measure into a squat crystal glass and tossed it down. The Grand-Seeker glanced up in irritation. Anghus refilled his glass, sat down in one of the wing chairs and stretched his scruffy boots to the fire.
‘Thank ye for honouring us with your presence, MacRuraich,’ the Grand-Seeker said with heavy irony.
‘I am laird o’ the MacRuraich clan, and Prionnsa o’ Rurach and Siantan,’ Anghus said coolly. ‘Ye will address me by my title.’
‘And I am the Grand-Seeker o’ the Awl in all Eileanan and the Far Islands, and ye will address me by mine,’ Humbert answered, his fat cheeks taking on the hue of red plums.
‘Certainly O Grand-Seeker o’ the Awl in all Eileanan and the Far Islands,’ Anghus replied equably. ‘Do ye no’ find all that rather tiresome after a while?’
Between half-closed lids he watched the pudgy fingers clench on the quill. He said affably, ‘A fine drop o’ whisky ye have here, Humbert Grand-Seeker o’ all o’ Eileanan. Glad I am indeed to be wetting my whistle, for I’ve been parched ever since I arrived. Seems something has halted the whisky run, tho’ I canna seem to be able to get a straight story on what exactly. A pesky faery-serpent, some say, and others talk o’ dragons. Though how can that be? I be sure no dragon would dare peek its snout into Rionnagan with the Grand-Seeker Humbert in residence in the highlands.’
‘Wha’ are ye doing here?’ Humbert asked angrily.
‘I be here on the Banrìgh’s business, Grand-Seeker,’ Anghus replied smoothly, inserting just a faint stress of surprise in his tone.
‘Show me your authority!’ Humbert snapped.
Nonchalantly Anghus handed over the scroll with the royal seal and the Banrìgh’s own illegible flourish. ‘As ye can read there—can ye read, Humbert?—the Banrìgh summoned me to Rionnagan to take in hand Meghan NicCuinn and the leader o’ the rebellion, known rather colourfully as the Cripple. Odd ye have no other name for this rebel laird. I was told by your Seeker Renshaw that ye’d seized him several times and each time he managed to slip through your fingers.’
Humbert interrupted angrily, but Anghus raised his voice and continued with a smooth overtone of irony, ‘I do no’ ken exactly why the Banrìgh feels I can be o’ service, but there ye are, it seems she thinks I can. Apparently the Awl has had a wee trouble laying these pesky rebels by the heels.’
‘They are dangerous, ruthless outlaws, condemned to death for treason, murder and evil sorceries,’ Humbert leant as far forward as his vast paunch would allow him, crushing the quill in his clenched fingers. ‘The Arch-Sorceress has used her blaygird enchantments to rouse uile-bheistean from Dragonclaw to the seas. It is true a dragon flew over the highlands, for I saw it myself, a great golden beast that spat fire at us in contempt! The seas and firths are swelling with Fairgean, wolves are on the prowl …’
Anghus started and was sure the little gimlet eyes had not missed it. The Grand-Seeker continued without pause. ‘The wild beasts o’ the field and forest are restless, dogs turn against their masters, even the stars in the heavens have been wrenched awry by their foul sorceries. The dark powers o’ these witches are terrible, inciting madness and fear and turning the folk away from the Truth. Again and again have we fought to gain a grip on their throats, and always we are thrown off.’
Getting
a little tired of Humbert’s rhetoric, Anghus yawned, prodded a log with his foot, and finished off his whisky. ‘Sorry as I am to hear o’ all your travails, the day is getting away and I have business to attend to. Ye asked me what I was doing here, and I have told ye. Listening to ye, I begin to see why it is the Banrìgh wanted me here. The grip o’ the black wolf, my friend, is never thrown off. Once I find, I hold. So I shall do as my Banrìgh commanded. I’ll find Meghan o’ the Beasts and take her to the blue palace myself …’
‘Och, aye, ye’ll just saunter thro’ the blaygird Veiled Forest, take her wee hand and lead her awa’, I s’pose!’ Humbert shouted, his voice losing all traces of refinement. The twenty-four crimson buttons quivered with the strain.
‘How I do what I do is none o’ your concern!’ Anghus retorted. ‘All ye need to know is that I shall do as the Banrìgh commanded.’
‘I am the Banrìgh’s representative,’ Humbert said. ‘Ye report to me …’
Anghus laughed. ‘I do no’ think so,’ he said kindly. ‘I am still a prionnsa, remember, and laird o’ one o’ the Eleven Clans. Ye are merely the son o’ a blacksmith, even in your fine velvets and gold.’ He held up a hand as Humbert spluttered with rage. ‘Aye, aye, I know, ye are the Grand-Seeker o’ all the Awl in all o’ Eileanan and the Far Islands. I have an excellent memory, Grand-Seeker, and if I remember Jaspar MacCuinn rightly, he would never allow ye precedence over one o’ the blood. Ye would be wise to remember it is still the MacCuinn who rules this land, by blood, birthright and the power o’ the Lodestar. Maya the Blessed is Banrìgh by right o’ marriage only.’
‘The Lodestar is destroyed …’
‘Happen that is so, but the MacCuinn still rules, Humbert Smith, and do no’ forget it. Now I must be on my way …’
‘Wait!’ Humbert leapt to his feet, snatching the scroll back. Even standing, the Grand-Seeker was a full six inches shorter than the MacRuraich, and he pushed his chair back and stepped out of Anghus’s shadow to read the scroll again. Anghus was amused at the way his lips silently moved as he sounded out each word.
Eventually the Grand-Seeker puzzled out the meaning of the paper, and he stood silently for a moment, his little eyes gleaming. Anghus leaned over and took the scroll from between his fingers. ‘I’ll be on my way then,’ he said.
‘Wait,’ the Grand-Seeker said again, in a milder tone. ‘Have some more whisky, my laird.’ Anghus shrugged and poured himself a half tumbler, then sat on the edge of the desk, one sinewy leg swinging. Masking his irritation, the Grand-Seeker came round the desk to pour himself a glass and drank a mouthful. He swayed back and forth thoughtfully. ‘So ye believe ye can capture the Arch-Sorceress Meghan and the Cripple.’
‘I only have a true fixing on Meghan, though I was told the Cripple may be with her,’ Anghus replied.
‘The Cripple is with her, that be for sure, and he be winged, like one o’ them angels the Tìrsoilleirean believe in,’ Humbert said, amazement in his voice.
‘But are ye sure he is the leader o’ the rebels?’
Humbert frowned and sipped his whisky. ‘The former Grand-Seeker, Glynelda, had caught him twice before, once near Lucescere, again heading up through the Pass. It was she who first discovered he was winged. She had been hunting the Cripple and was very sure it was he.’
‘What proof have ye got? What eyewitnesses to his command o’ the rebels, what papers with his signature, what confession?’
‘Och, we’ll have no trouble getting a confession out o’ him!’
Anghus was silent, disliking having to think about the methods used by the Awl for extracting confessions of witchcraft and treason. He had seen Humbert at work and suffered nightmares in consequence. He turned away so the Grand-Seeker would not see how pale he had grown. Humbert saw, of course, and laughed again.
‘It is no’ enough for me,’ Anghus said sternly. ‘I am enjoined to find the Cripple, but I need to hunt surely and canna do so on such flimsy evidence. I need a paper he has signed, or even a scrap o’ his clothing …’
Humbert glanced up at him sharply, and Anghus thought frantically, Surely he kens how I search? The Banrìgh must know, and Renshaw certainly did. I should no’ have said anything.
‘If the Cripple is with Meghan, then I shall take them both and deliver them to the blessed Banrìgh together. If the leader o’ the rebels is no’ with her then I shall turn my attention to the Cripple after I return from Rhyssmadill …’ Anghus continued on smoothly, not showing his inner perturbation.
‘Nay, bring the Arch-Sorceress here to me at Dunceleste, and I shall take her to Rhyssmadill myself,’ Humbert commanded. Anghus knew the seeker wanted to win all the glory for himself. Although he had been hoping to manoeuvre the Grand-Seeker into just this position, the prionnsa put up a show of refusal.
‘Nay, it makes sense, my laird,’ Humbert argued persuasively. ‘If ye need to go on searching for this elusive Cripple, then ye shall save many months in the travelling. Once she is in our hands, we shall soon put a leash on that auld witch. I shall confine her myself with iron shackles and rowan, and weaken her with the Questioning, and she shall no’ escape us again!’
Anghus felt no need to tell the Grand-Seeker that his belief witches could be restrained by rowan and iron was a fallacy. He did warn him, however, that the Rìgh might take exception to one of the Awl’s Questioners torturing his greataunt. ‘Far better let the Banrìgh take the responsibility for that,’ he said offhandedly, and hoped the message had gone home. The idea of his sister’s old teacher in the brutal hands of Humbert and his Questioners made Anghus sick to his stomach.
Not wanting to linger in the Grand-Seeker’s offensive presence any longer, Anghus submitted to Humbert sending troops with him into the forest. Although he knew they would probably all die or go crazed, he only shrugged and warned the Grand-Seeker that they would have to obey his orders and his alone.
‘O’ course, o’ course,’ Humbert said, rubbing his hands together and accompanying Anghus to the door. ‘’Twas a pleasure to see ye again, my laird, and to be working with ye again.’
Anghus could only manage a stifled grunt in response.
The gates of the town swung open at dawn the following day. Out marched a cavalcade of men led by a small figure in a kilt and cocked bonnet playing the bagpipes. It was the same piper that Anghus had seen in the inn two nights before. The prionnsa had requested him to accompany the troops, for of all the soldiers sent into the Veiled Forest, he was the only one to have survived mind and soul intact.
To the sound of his bagpipes, ten soldiers in kilts followed in double file, claymores strapped to their backs. Anghus and Donald trotted behind on sturdy cobs, with four cavalrymen all round, pennants fluttering from their spears in the vigorous breeze. Behind them ran the urchins of the town, shouting and jeering.
As the gaunt, moss-draped trees loomed closer, the bag-pipes faltered.
Anghus said kindly, ‘Cease your caterwauling, my lad, I doubt the trees will like it.’ He swung down from the saddle gracefully, and Donald followed suit. He looked up at the four cavalrymen and said regretfully, ‘I am afraid we shall have to dismount here. I can see the horses will be o’ little use in that nest o’ roots. Ye four will need to return to Dunceleste with our mounts and explain to the Grand-Seeker.’
‘But he said …’
‘Come, lad, look into that forest. The horses will be nervy and the ground is much broken by the roots o’ those trees. I would hate to have to kill one o’ the mares because she broke a leg.’
‘The other three shall return. I shall travel with ye,’ the leader of the cavalrymen replied, swinging his leg across the saddle and dropping lithely to the ground. He was a tall black-browed man named Casey Hawkeye, immaculately dressed. A bandolier strapped his claymore to his back, and he carried a long spear.
‘If ye come, ye must leave that spear,’ Anghus said. ‘And ye must leave your pikes, lads. All other weapons must remain sheathed, unless I give ye the word. If
it is indeed true there is a garden o’ the Celestines in the woods, the trees will have soaked up their intuitive magic and will ken if ye think o’ violence. Keep your thoughts well shielded and your claymores in their strap.’
After the others had cantered away, the remaining fourteen entered the dim, greenish light of the forest in silence. Anghus was immediately aware of shadows that writhed along in their footsteps. Although he never saw anything directly, there was the occasional flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, a sense of being watched, followed, salivated over, brief scuffles of sound. Seeing how the soldiers’ heads jerked round at the noise, he said briefly, ‘Shadow-hounds. No need to worry. They’re merely curious, though if we had meat or were bleeding openly, they’d attack.’
They pushed on in silence. It was about an hour later that one of the foot soldiers fell forward with a startled cry. When he scrambled to his feet again, blood welled up from a cut on his forehead. The shadow-hounds swarmed closer, growling and whining, their eyes glimmering green where the light caught their dilated pupils. The soldiers scared them away with shouts and waves of the arms, while Anghus bound the cut up tightly.
After several hours of difficult walking, they found it growing chilly, and a mist began to rise from the earth. The group moved closer together, the soldiers’ faces anxious or belligerent, depending on the character of each. Ashlin the piper was nervy, as was the soldier with the cut forehead. Anghus and Casey were both alert and composed, while it was impossible to tell by Donald’s face what he thought, if he thought at all. The craggy brown features were set into an expression of placid acceptance that seemingly very little could shake—apart from insults to his beard, of course.
Several of the foot soldiers were clearly itching to pull their swords as the mist swirled up around their waists. ‘Easy, lads,’ Anghus said. ‘Let us tie ourselves together, that way we shall no’ lose each other.’
‘How can we ken which way to go?’ Ashlin asked. ‘We canna see our way. Last time we wandered thus for hours, no’ knowing which way was east and which way north. Many o’ the men just disappeared into the mist, to be heard o’ no more.’