The great bulk of the Fang shouldered out of the mountains ahead, its peak wreathed in dark storm clouds. It had taken them several weeks to cross the country from the Veiled Forest, for they had kept to the hidden paths, not daring to go into any of the mountain villages. They came to a burn tumbling down a steep slope, and followed its course through great thickets of thorn bushes. Goldensloe plums, beginning to wither on the branch, hung on either side, while a red cliff towered above, great boulders littering the slope. Jesyah flew down to the top of one giant rock, gave a caw of amusement and disappeared from view.
Iseult and Lachlan followed cautiously, finding a narrow, winding passageway through the rock. The donbeag, perched on Iseult’s shoulder, chittered in curiosity. Guards hiding among the rocks above challenged them, but Lachlan was known to them, and so they were allowed to continue.
Soon they could hear hammering and shouting and the crack of sword on sword. A horse neighed, sounding incongruous in the narrow passageway. Lachlan pressed ahead, leading the way into a huge corrie surrounded on all sides by high walls of stone pitted with caves. Tents covered the meadow, and everywhere armed men were working and practising their weapon play. At one end was a loch, fed by thin waterfalls that poured down from the lip of the glacier far above. Iseult lifted her eyes to the symmetrical peak of the Fang, briefly visible through a rift in the storm.
‘The Skull o’ the World,’ she whispered.
She had no time to do more than give the mountain, sacred to the people of the Spine of the World, a lingering glance. As soon as they stepped out from the shelter of the passageway they were again challenged by guards. Lachlan, his golden-topaz eyes brilliant with excitement, called out to them. Cries of greeting echoed around the corrie, and a huge man in a blue jerkin and a faded kilt came striding out of the crowd to grasp Lachlan’s hands.
‘Duncan!’ Lachlan cried. ‘It is good indeed to see ye!’
Duncan’s face was square, deeply tanned, and disfigured by a knotted scar that ran from his ear into his bushy black beard. His nose had been broken so many times it was hard to tell what shape it had originally been. He was thickset as an old oak tree, the muscles of his arms bulging. Iseult thought she would not like to engage in single combat with him.
He pulled Lachlan into a bear hug from which he emerged ruffled and short of breath. ‘Ironfist, when will ye give up trying to crack my ribs?’ he wheezed, holding his side. Duncan grinned widely, showing black gaps where teeth were missing, as Lachlan was hailed from all sides. ‘Look, there’s Jorge!’ Lachlan cried. ‘Let’s go and speak with him.’
He gestured towards an old man standing at the far end of the loch. A snowy-white beard flowed over his chest, reaching past his waist. He was dressed in a pale blue robe, and a raven was perched on his shoulder.
As they skirted the loch, Jorge lifted his shaggy head, and Iseult saw with horrified pity that he was blind. At that very moment, he startled her by smiling in welcome and calling, ‘Bacaiche! My dearest lad! I am so glad to see ye!’
‘Ye may call me Lachlan now,’ the prionnsa replied majestically.
‘Ye’ve declared yourself?’
‘Virtually.’
‘Och, I am so glad. It is time for ye to proclaim who ye are. Indeed, I think ye should have done so earlier but Meghan was too afraid o’ the possible consequences.’ Then, with a smile in his voice he said, ‘And who is the lassie?’
‘My wife,’ Lachlan replied proudly. ‘Iseult NicFaghan, I would like ye to meet Jorge the Seer, who did much to help me when I first found myself again in the body o’ a man.’
‘Obh obh! Your wife! With babe too, I can see. Congratulations to ye both, though surprised I am indeed to hear it. NicFaghan? That is no’ a name I ken, and I know all the clans, even the lesser ones. Though, mind ye, it has echoes …’
‘Iseult is descended from Faodhagan the Red,’ Lachlan replied.
‘From Faodhagan! But surely that family died out a thousand years ago?’ Jorge paused, then exclaimed, ‘O’ course, it is Isabeau ye remind me o’! Ye are twins? Faodhagan was one o’ a set o’ twins, that I do remember.’
‘They look exactly alike,’ Lachlan said. ‘I had forgotten ye had met Iseult’s sister.’
‘Indeed I did, I was one o’ the witches at her Testing. May I touch ye, Iseult? I canna get a clear picture o’ ye if I do no’.’
Reluctantly Iseult let the old man clutch her head in his gnarled fingers. Khan’cohbans did not like to be touched by strangers. His filmy white eyes repelled her but she swallowed her distaste and stood still until he at last let go. The whirling sensation his touch brought passed away, and she saw he was smiling.
‘Meghan must have been pleased to ken there were two Isabeaus,’ he said.
‘I am Iseult, and by all accounts quite different from my sister.’
‘Obh obh, no offence intended, lassie. I just meant it was rare to find two young witches o’ such power and potential. I can see for myself that ye are quite different from Isabeau.’
‘But ye are blind, what do ye mean ye can see?’
Lachlan gave a stifled protest, but Jorge said, ‘I do no’ see with the eyes o’ the body, my dear.’
He led them to sit on a fallen log, asking, ‘But how can this be, the discovery o’ a new clan? I had thought there was some terrible tragedy with the Red Sorcerers. Isabeau murdered him and killed all who tried to stay her hand, did she no’?’
Iseult slid down to the ground, crossed her legs and upturned her hands in her lap. Lachlan rolled his eyes. She ignored him, telling Jorge the tale of Sorcha the Murderess and how the line of the Firemakers had begun. He listened with great interest, nodding his shaggy white head and saying afterwards, ‘NicFaghan. Aye, it fits. Daughter o’ Faodhagan.’
Laughter rang all round the clearing as children raced through the trees. Iseult slid her hand to her stomach, just beginning to swell the fabric of her shirt. The seer smiled and said, ‘Ye carry twins, did ye ken?’
Iseult’s dreamy smile turned to a horrified stare. ‘Twins! I had hoped …’
‘Aye, twins, born o’ the MacCuinn and NicFaghan lines. Happy news indeed! But why are ye so distressed, my child? Twins are forbidden? By whom? Och, I see. Do no’ fret yourself, my dear, twins are no’ forbidden in Eileanan, particularly no’ twins born o’ a sorceress!’ Then he sighed, and said, ‘Actually, they are just now, but soon, my dear, soon! The Coven will be reborn, and your twin witches will be welcome indeed!’
‘But I am still in geas to the Gods o’ White,’ Iseult murmured, arms crossed tightly over her lap. Neither Jorge nor Lachlan understood.
There was a feast that night to welcome back the hunchback, with music and singing and many tales told of the rebels’ escapades. Duncan performed a surprisingly dainty jig over crossed claymores, his kilt swirling. One of the beggar lads played the fiddle till toes tapped and fingers rapped, and burly soldiers danced arm in arm about the bonfire. Lachlan sang them rousing war songs till the soldiers cheered and banged their claymores against their shields, then he crooned tender love songs till there was not a dry eye in the crowd. Even Iseult’s eyes were damp, her heart swelling with love for her husband. It was when he sang that Lachlan moved her most, his blackbird voice so piercingly sweet and flexible that it seemed to express all the things he could not say to her.
After Lachlan’s song had died away, Duncan Ironfist strode to the centre of the crowd and held up one huge hand. ‘Laddies, tonight is special indeed, for our auld friend Bacaiche the Hunchback is among us again. Many o’ ye here have fought with him over the past eight years and know well his courage and daring.’
Cheers rang out among the rebels, and Lachlan smiled and dipped his head, the cloak of nyx hair wrapped close about his throat. Duncan smiled around at them, his ham-sized hands on his hips. He waited for the uproar to die down then continued, ‘Now I ken ye laddies are all loyal to the Coven and wish for the guid auld days to return. Since the MacCuinn married the w
icked Unknown, the state o’ affairs in Eileanan has gone from bad to worse. The Red Guards strut around the countryside, taking what they want from croft and cottage, dishonouring our women, killing our lads, burning anyone who stands up to them. People are starving in the countryside, the rivers are filling again with the wicked Fairgean, and the blaygird Banrìgh rules the courts and the army.’
There were hisses and cries from the crowd. Duncan again paused for maximum effect, taking a swig from the whisky flask in his hand. ‘Rumours in the countryside tell o’ a prophecy—they say a winged man will come to save the land, bearing the lost Lodestar in his hand. He shall come with dragons at his shoulder and all the powers o’ sorcery at his command. He shall be Rìgh and save us from death and disaster!’
Lachlan stepped forward, unfastening the clasp of his magical cloak. ‘I give ye Lachlan Owein MacCuinn, fourth son o’ Parteta the Brave!’ Duncan shouted, then he knelt, his great claymore held like a cross before him.
To an amazed silence the nyx-hair cloak slid to the ground and Lachlan spread out his great, night-black wings. He was wearing the MacCuinn kilt and plaid, the stag brooch at his breast, the sgian dubh thrust into his leather gaiters. He looked every inch a prionnsa.
Even Iseult, who had seen the transformation from hunchback to winged prionnsa many times now, could not contain a gasp of admiration. There were sighs of astonishment from the crowd, then the night was ripped apart by shouts of excitement and recognition. ‘He is winged!’
‘The prophecy is true!’
‘A MacCuinn—one o’ the Lost Prionnsachan!’
‘We are saved!’
‘We canna lose now!’
‘Hurray for Lachlan the Winged!’
Cheers rang out again and again, and a thousand men knelt before him, their swords held out in supplication. Lachlan bowed his head gravely. He told the story of his enchantment, his years trapped in the body of a blackbird, his transformation back into the body of a winged and clawed man. He told how he had sworn revenge on the Banrìgh for her evil sorceries and had joined the rebels and fought with them in every land across Eileanan. He told them how he had been caught by the Banrìgh’s Guards, and how he had escaped, naked as a newborn babe, with nothing but the cloak of illusions to protect him. He told them his great-aunt Meghan o’ the Beasts still lived but had given herself into the hands of the Awl so that he might remain free. This news was greeted with groans of dismay.
Lachlan held out his hand for Iseult and told the soldiers she was born of the line of Faodhagan the Red, was a witch and a warrior in her own right and was carrying twin babes, heirs to the throne. Iseult stepped into the circle of light, the rebel soldiers cheering until her cheeks crimsoned with embarrassment.
‘It is time for us to strike at the very heart o’ Maya the Unknown’s power!’ Lachlan cried. ‘We shall ride for Lucescere, to win the city for our own and to retrieve the Lodestar! With the Inheritance o’ Aedan again in my hand, there shall be no stopping us! On with the rebellion!’
The clanging of claymores on shields, the stamping of feet, the clapping and cheering rang around the corrie until Iseult had to cover her ears with her hands. ‘Long live Lachlan MacCuinn! Long live the winged prionnsa!’ the rebels shouted. ‘Eà bless Lachlan MacCuinn!’
Finn woke early and bounced out of her bed of bracken, tumbling the sleeping elven cat to the cave floor. ‘Wake up, Jo!’ she cried, but the other girl only murmured in response. Finn ran out into the fresh morning, her bare toes curling in protest as she stepped onto the dew-laden grass. The sun gilded the leaves of the trees, the loch shone blue, and overhead the mountain peaks glittered with snow. The broad sweep of the glacier was so dazzling in the sun that Finn had to shield her eyes with her hand to stare up at the Fang, its steep sides symmetrical as any cone. The Fang was not often clear of cloud, and for some reason it strummed a familiar chord in her when she saw it like this, white-capped and sharp-pointed.
The rebel camp was already stirring, thin trails of smoke rising from the breakfast fires, and soldiers feeding the horses picketed against the cliff. Finn danced through the meadow towards the camp, hoping to see more of the new arrivals in the light of the morning.
Finn had been thrilled to the core by the wondrous and romantic events of the evening. She and the rest of the League had had front row seats, mainly due to Jay’s expertise with the fiddle. Lachlan MacCuinn’s magical cloak had dropped at their very feet, and the shadow of his wings had fallen across their faces. They were all now committed heart and soul to Lachlan MacCuinn’s cause.
Finn easily wheedled breakfast for herself and the little cat from the under-cook, who tousled her matted chestnut-brown curls and called her ‘a wee rascal’. With Goblin perched on her shoulder, she made her way through the tents and bedrolls till she came near where Lachlan the Winged and his party had spent the night. She easily evaded the guards set to protect his campfire, and crouched where she could watch the flap of the tent without being seen. By the time she had eaten her bread and bacon, the banprionnsa had come out and was stretching in the sunshine. She was dressed like a lad in breeches and a loose shirt, her red curls tied back in a bunch at the back of her neck. As Finn gazed in admiration, the blue eyes swung round and stared into the shadows where the little girl was hiding. Once she discerned the size and shape of the hidden watcher, her frown smoothed away.
‘Come out, lass, I shall no’ hurt ye,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’
Skipping delightedly into the sunshine, Finn told Iseult her name and all about the League and Tòmas, their mascot, who could heal by the laying on of hands. She told her about the past four months in the corrie, and how they had formed their own battalion, despite the jeers and laughter of the soldiers.
The League of the Healing Hand had more than tripled since the rebels came, for there were many children among the camp-followers. Dillon had ordered Johanna to sew them a banner, which Connor carried tied to a stick. Featuring an oddly shaped golden hand on a blue background, the children were very proud of it.
Each day the League practised manoeuvres under the anxious eye of their general, Dillon the Bold. They had had few weapons to begin with but had begged, borrowed and stolen from all over the camp until all thirty-two of the League had sharp daggers to thrust through their belts. The older boys had persuaded the soldiers to begin training them in the use of short swords and crossbows, and Finn was very annoyed that the soldiers refused to teach her.
‘They say a lassie canna learn to shoot!’ Finn said aggrievedly.
‘Och, they be fools!’ Iseult cried. ‘I shall teach ye myself, and we’ll show those soldiers how well a girl can shoot!’
This pleased Finn very much indeed, and she begged for a lesson there and then. Iseult shook her head and said she first had to attend a war council.
‘They are letting ye go to the war council?’ Finn was wide-eyed, having learnt to her cost how little the soldiers thought of women in war.
‘O’ course I am! I’d like to see them try and keep me out.’
Finn heaved a blissful sigh and asked if she could come too. Iseult shook her head. ‘Nay, Finn, I’m afraid that may be stretching the generals’ forbearance too far. There is something I would like ye to do for me, though.’ She rummaged around in a small pouch at her waist, drawing out a broken arrow, dark and brittle with age. ‘Jorge has told us that he thinks ye have a talent for finding things.’
Finn shrugged. ‘People are always asking me to find something for them.’
‘Ye sound as if ye wish they would no’.’
Finn crimsoned and looked at the ground, her hands twisting the hem of her ragged dress into a knot. ‘They always want me to find bad things,’ she muttered.
‘Well, I want ye to find something for Lachlan, something very important, that may help us win,’ Iseult said gravely.
Finn looked up, her hazel-green eyes shining. ‘I would love to find something for ye and the winged one!’ she cried. ‘Wh
at?’
Iseult explained about Owein’s Bow and how it had been hidden in the witches’ tower at Lucescere. Finn’s face fell. ‘I’d rather eat toasted toads than go back to Lucescere. I was apprentice to a witch-sniffer—the Grand-Seeker Glynelda herself bonded me. I ran away, and I’ll be beaten badly if they catch me.’
‘Glynelda is dead,’ Iseult reassured her. ‘There’s a new one, from Siantan—he bides at Dunceleste, no’ Lucescere. Ye would be safe.’
Finn shook her head. ‘They all know me, all the seekers in Lucescere. They ken I helped Jorge and Tòmas escape …’
Iseult’s blue eyes were thoughtful. ‘Mmm, that could be a problem,’ she responded. ‘Though our plan is no’ to go into the city ourselves, for we canna risk Lachlan falling into the hands o’ the Awl. We think to breach the rampart from the mountains.’
‘How?’
Iseult smiled ruefully. ‘That is one o’ our problems. I was going to try and jump it …’
‘But it’s two hundred feet high!’
‘Aye, I ken. I do no’ think I can do it now, the children weigh heavy on me and I have been sick … Hopefully we shall come up with a solution in the war council.’
‘Goblin and I could climb it for ye,’ Finn offered.
Iseult looked at her in surprise. ‘It is meant to be unclimbable,’ she objected. ‘It is smooth as ice and curves outwards. No-one has ever climbed it.’
‘Goblin is an elven cat,’ Finn said. ‘She climbs these cliffs and the rampart canna be higher or smoother than them.’
Iseult looked at the cliff that enclosed the corrie like a frozen wave. It was near three hundred feet high in places. ‘Your cat climbs that?’
‘Aye, as easy as walking a path. Ye should see her! Her claws are very sharp.’
‘But ye have no claws …’
‘No, but ye see, the witch-sniffer I was trained by was really a thief, and one o’ the best. He could steal a jewel from the Rìgh’s own crown if he wanted to. I climbed into many a house or castle for him and find most walls have crevices or ivy or something I can cling to.’