‘They say this rampart has nothing. No’ even a crack.’
‘All walls have cracks. But if ye like, I could tie a thread to Goblin and a rope to the thread …’
‘Aye, but surely your kitten canna be tying the rope up securely?’
‘No, but she could go round a projection and then climb down again so the rope can be pulled up.’
‘Ye’d have to train her first though, and that we do no’ have time for …’
‘Och, I’ll just tell her what to do, that’s no problem!’
‘Ye can talk to the cat?’
Finn nodded. Iseult looked at her with interest. It seemed this little girl had great powers indeed to have found herself a familiar when so young.
‘How can ye be sure the projection is secure? We dinna want the rope to be coming undone when ye are climbing it.’
‘Och, Goblin will no’ want me to fall. She’ll make sure the string is secure.’
Iseult looked at the little girl with admiration. ‘A grand idea indeed. Happen I should take ye with me to the war council!’
Finn straightened in pride. ‘Really?’
Iseult smiled briefly. ‘No, sorry, Finn, war councils are no’ really the place for lassies, no matter how canny. I’d like to see ye climb the cliff, though, and see if we canna devise a way to ensure ye can breach the rampart. It would be dangerous though. Red Guards patrol the auld tower, and ye heard Lachlan tell how he was caught there.’
‘I could disguise myself!’ Finn cried in excitement. ‘I be just a lassie, the soldiers will no’ ken I am a rebel if I disguise myself.’
Iseult said, ‘Maybe. We’ll see.’ She stretched and added, ‘I must wake my sleepyhead husband if we are ever to get our plans finalised. Run along now, Finn, and we will talk later.’
With the tiny black cat a silent shadow at her heels, Finn went running through the camp, shouting with excitement. She had met the banprionnsa and was to help them breach Lucescere! Just wait till she told Scruffy!
The war council took many hours, even though Lachlan and Iseult had gone over the plan with Meghan a hundred times, polishing it and looking for flaws. Partly the delays were caused by arguments between the different divisions of the rebel army, but most of it was due to the generals refusing to listen to a word Iseult said. Women were never trained for warfare in Eileanan, and women who knew how to fight were regarded as unnatural as a lamb with two heads. The only country in which women warriors were common was Tìrsoilleir, and the Berhtildes were generally regarded with horror due to their love of sacrifice and self-mutilation.
The fact that Iseult still had both her breasts reassured them slightly, but she had to defeat several of the rebel leaders before they would believe she really could fight. Cathmor the Nimble was the most agile of them all when it came to hand-to-hand combat, yet Iseult disarmed him with a few fierce, swift movements. Then Duncan Ironfist stepped up with a jeer and a jest, and she somersaulted right over his head so he spun round, lost his balance and was knocked flat with a powerful blow of her foot. She downed three more in such rapid succession that the soldiers looked at her with awe and lined up to try their mettle against her.
She had gone to such lengths to prove herself that it was afternoon before she was able to rather wearily outline the plan of attack. With Meghan’s map of Rionnagan pinned to the side of the tent, Iseult demonstrated her points with her skewer, answering all the generals’ objections with a patience most unnatural to her.
After sundown the cooks brought in stew and bread. As Iseult ate, she was pleased to hear the excitement in the soldiers’ voices as they argued over the plan. By midnight they were all agreed and it was only the smaller details that still needed to be worked out. By two in the morning every leader knew exactly what he and his men were meant to do, and Iseult and Lachlan were being saluted with tankards of ale.
Like all successful military campaigns, it was a simple plan. Lachlan, Iseult and Duncan were to travel with a select group of soldiers down through the Whitelock Mountains to the forest behind Lucescere. From there they would infiltrate the city, relying on the beggar children to rouse the guild of thieves and make contact with rebel leaders already hiding out in the slums. The soldiers were to be called the Blue Guards, as Lachlan’s father’s bodyguard had been.
Jorge was to scry to one of the warlocks in the rebel camp in the Whitelock Mountains. There were close on five hundred rebels scattered throughout the south, and they would be secretly gathered on the far side of the Ban-Bharrach River. The remaining soldiery in the corrie would march through Rionnagan to infiltrate Lucescere from the north, led by Cathmor the Nimble. Thus the attack would come from three directions at once, with the gates to the city being opened by their allies within.
‘Wha’ about the Lodestar?’ the soldiers all cried. ‘Once ye have the Lodestar in your hand, nothing will be able to withstand us!’
Lachlan had known this question would come, but had no intention of telling the soldiers that he and Iseult first had to recover the other two parts of the Key and join them into one before they could even hope to recover the lost orb. He said merely that the Lodestar was hidden within Lucescere and could only be recovered with great difficulty. He also told them that the song of the Lodestar was dying, and the closer winter came the less likely they would be able to rescue the Lodestar in time. ‘Meghan o’ the Beasts says it will die if it is no’ found and touched,’ he said bleakly, ‘so we canna be relying on the Lodestar’s powers.’
As he and Iseult finally trudged to their tent, it was this last problem that occupied both their minds. ‘Meghan said she would make contact with Isabeau and ensure she brought the other part o’ the Key to Lucescere,’ Iseult said softly as she undressed. ‘Yet how are we to be sure Meghan got the message to her?’
‘We canna,’ Lachlan replied in sombre tones. ‘We canna be sure o’ anything.’
Isabeau lay in the yellow grass, chewing on a straw, while Lasair cropped contentedly behind her. The sun on her arms was warm, but the wind off the sea was keen. She rolled over, looked up at the cloud-hazed sky and sighed. If it were not for her rides through the forest, she would have found her life in the palace this last month very difficult. Sani seemed always to be watching her, and Latifa was short-tempered and anxious.
Both Latifa and Isabeau had been very disturbed at the news of Meghan’s capture. The idea that her beloved guardian was in the hands of the terrible Awl had distressed Isabeau greatly. If the Grand-Questioner had tortured her so cruelly, what would they do to the Arch-Sorceress Meghan NicCuinn?
Meghan’s true identity was as much a cause of Isabeau’s shock as the news of her capture. She had never known her as anything but Meghan of the Beasts. It had made her feel rather strange to know her guardian was a banprionnsa, descendant of Cuinn Lionheart himself. In her heart she cursed the sorceress for her secrecy and lack of trust. Would she not have done things differently if she had known?
The old cook had been afraid not only for Meghan’s safety but also for her own. She had been intimately connected with the rebellion for sixteen years and was one of Meghan’s most useful spies. If under torture Meghan revealed the names of the witches and rebels she knew, Latifa was sure to be denounced.
A week later, however, word had come that the Arch-Sorceress had escaped. Gossip whispered of evil sorceries and strange beasts; all anyone knew for sure was that the Grand-Seeker Humbert had hanged himself in his fine quarters on hearing the news. His successor, Grand-Seeker Renshaw, had his men beating the forests and hills around Lucescere, but there was no sign of Meghan.
Isabeau had had to hide her excitement, pretending to be as frightened as the rest of the palace servants. She kept her head down and worked diligently, waiting for Meghan to contact her. Loneliness was seeping into her bones, despite the crowds that surrounded her every day. She wished she could have found a friend at the palace. All her life she had dreamt of a companion who felt as she did, a friend and confidante
she could tell her secret heart to.
Isabeau scrambled to her feet and wandered along the seawall, looking out at the clear ripples of water creeping over the sand below. A few hundred yards along was a break in the bulwark where one could climb down to the sand dunes below. Although only two iron posts had rusted through, it was enough for Isabeau to squeeze her slim body through.
Isabeau swung easily down the ladder, though it was so long her arms were aching by the time the beach was finally beneath her feet. She sat, unlaced her boots and wiggled her toes in the sand. Shells and dried wisps of seaweed decorated the dunes, and she gathered some as she walked the long distance to the water’s edge. A reef ran out into the sea, forming a small lagoon where the water was crystal clear and flickering with shoals of fish that gleamed with fluorescent lights. In seconds Isabeau was paddling in the foam. She kilted her skirts up through her belt so her legs were bare to the knee. No-one else would come so near the seashore so there’s no chance of anyone seeing, she thought defiantly.
Isabeau had been brought up so far from the coast that many of the stories she had heard about the sea’s danger had had a faery tale quality, not quite believable. She had no fear of water, having been taught to swim by otters as a very young child. Many of her contemporaries at the palace were too afraid to even duck their heads under the pump in case a Fairge’s webbed hand should reach out and strangle them. Isabeau was rather contemptuous of such fears, though not so derisive that she would dare go deeper than her knees.
This lonely stretch of coastline was one of the few places on Eileanan where there were calm waters and a natural harbour. Across the river’s mouth was a series of massive gates, joined by a sequence of canals. Within their shelter, the navy and merchant ships rested in the Berhtfane, safe from storm and invasion.
The locks had been built by the witches in the time of Aedan Whitelock, after the end of the Second Fairgean Wars. Meghan said they were an engineering triumph, allowing ships to be raised and lowered at will, but keeping the Fairgean out. The MacBrann of the time had designed them and overseen their building, and for four hundred-odd years they had not failed.
On the opposite side of the firth began the Strand, a long expanse of sand that curved round into the salt marshes of Arran. The Strand extended the entire length of Clachan, undulating with dunes where sand lions hunted and sea-stirks roared and fought each spring.
Before humans came, the Fairgean had ridden the spring tides each year to bear their young on the soft dunes of the Strand. The male Fairgean had hunted the sea-stirks for their rich meat and thick coats; the females had taught their babes to swim in the calm waters and harvested the seagrapes to store for the winter.
It was at the Strand that most of the battles against the Fairgean had taken place. It was here Parteta the Brave had died, three years before Isabeau was born. There the young Jaspar had raised the Lodestar against the Fairgean and driven them back into the seas. Never to be seen again, the tale had always ended.
The thought of the Fairgean made Isabeau’s stomach twist, for the sea-dwelling faeries had been seen again in the waters to the north. A cloud crossed the sun, turning the water to steel-grey. She turned and hurried back the way she had come. Her footsteps were already blotted out by the rising tide, and her wet legs were cold.
It took a long time to climb the rusty ladder again. Isabeau looked up to see how much further she had to climb, and froze. Someone was watching her. They leant over the bulwark, the sun behind them so all Isabeau could see was the dark shape of a head and shoulders. Her blood began to drum in her ears. She could not decide what to do. With the tide on the turn, it might be difficult to find another breach in the bulwark, designed specifically to keep people out. She really had no choice. Her legs heavy as lead, she began to climb again.
The watcher said in a deep feminine voice, ‘Ye’re brave, walking the seashore. Are ye no’ afraid o’ the Fairgean?’
Isabeau replied carefully, ‘To tell ye the truth, I’m a wee bit disappointed.’
‘Oh? Why? Ye did no’ see any Fairgean? Ye were wanting to?’
‘I have never seen the sea before. It’s so calm. I have always heard it is dangerous, and filled with strange, marvellous beasts. I must admit I was hoping to see something—a sea-serpent perhaps, or a flying fish. But I only saw birds.’
‘It was unusually calm today; it’s been such a still, warm day. It’s still summer, so the tides are low.’
The woman had one of the most compelling faces Isabeau had ever seen. Her face was square, the line of her jaw strong, her skin a clear olive. Her silky hair was cut straight across her brow and again near her ears, curving in two black glossy wings against her wide cheekbones. Every time she moved her head, blue lights darted over its inky surface. Her eyes shone a silvery-blue between thick dark lashes. A dark plaid was wrapped loosely around her.
‘Do no’ let the sea deceive ye,’ the woman said. ‘Even in summer, the sea is dangerous. That is when the sea-adders teem, and the young sea-stirk bulls begin to test their strength. Besides, the sea and the sands are always treacherous. There are poisonous fish that look like rocks, and doom-eels, and sand scorpions—their venom will kill ye in seconds, so ye must always keep a wary eye out.’
‘I’ll no’ be going down there again!’ Isabeau wriggled through the railings.
The stranger continued teasingly, ‘I had no’ yet got to the reefs and whirlpools and swordfish and sea-serpents …’
‘Enough, enough!’ Isabeau dusted off her feet and put her boots back on. ‘What a fool I am! After all the lectures, still I go paddling the first chance I get!’
The stranger gave a low, infectious chuckle. ‘Ye can still go paddling, as long as ye ken what ye are doing.’
‘Which I do no’! Ye seem to, though. Were ye born near here, to be knowing so much about doom-eels and sand scorpions?’
‘Nay. I would stay away from the sea if I were ye,’ she said, her voice suddenly changed. It had grown cooler, more reserved, as if she, like Isabeau, had remembered she should be more cautious. ‘It be dangerous, and besides, people do no’ like it. I gather ye are a stranger here, but ye should know the Clachans are superstitious indeed about the sea. Ye should no’ walk through Dùn Gorm with sand on your skirt.’ She stopped and held out her hand. ‘I must be going. Remember what I said—stay away from the sea. Goodbye.’
Isabeau grasped her hand and thanked her. In the shadows under the trees, she could hardly see the other’s face. She saw a flash of teeth as the other smiled, and then she was gone. Only then did Isabeau call Lasair.
Even though they galloped all the way back to the edge of the forest, Isabeau was still late. She hurried round to the stables, knowing she had to clean herself up before showing her face in the kitchens. If the servants saw her water-bedraggled dress, they would be suspicious indeed.
Riordan Bowlegs was smoking a long clay pipe and cleaning a harness. He took one look at her and grew very distressed. ‘Ye’ve been to the sea,’ he accused. ‘Look at ye! Red, ye canna be paddling and playing about in the sea. Do ye no’ understand? Look at your dress!’
She tried to make light of it, but he seized her chin so she had to look him in the eye. ‘Red, no-one but witches and faeries dare look upon the sea. Ye do no’ want the Awl asking questions about ye! Stay away from the sea!’
She nodded, saying, ‘I understand.’ Riordan’s agitation was valid, she knew. She certainly did not want to draw the Awl’s attention to herself again. Nonetheless she was conscious of deep disappointment. Her stroll along the seashore had fascinated her, for there was something about such a huge mass of water, shifting and murmuring, that enchanted the eye and the mind. She had also been strongly attracted to the dark-haired woman. All the way home she had wondered if she would ever see her again. It seemed unlikely, and Isabeau was sorry for that.
Late that night Isabeau was sweeping out the dairy room, trying to stifle the yawns that cracked her jaw, when she heard
an urgent squeaking. She glanced up and saw a huge black rat perched on the top of the butter churn. It ran back and forth, its long tail twitching restlessly. Must come, it said to her in its high-pitched squeak. Big mother rat want.
Careful, little one, she said, covering a yawn with her hand. They have a cat here who would eat you in one gulp!
The rodent squeaked in dismay and ran round the rim of the great barrel. Must come, it said again, standing on its hind legs, its beady eyes bright with fear.
Not now, she squeaked back, thinking it wished to show her its nest of babies. Must sleep. And she put away her broom and trudged up the many stairs towards her room, rubbing her heavy eyes and wishing she had not walked so far that day. The rat followed her some of the way, but bolted at the sight of the kitchen cat sitting on the landing, washing its striped golden head with one paw. His flight led him into the granary, where a careless maid had left the lid off one of the grain bins. All thoughts of his message were lost in the delight of a feast of uncracked wheat.
The closer to Arran the jongleurs travelled, the wilder and more infertile the landscape became. To the east the land sloped down into stagnant salt marshes, here and there broken by shallow salt-water lochs and firths. At the horizon was the grey shimmer of the sea. Lilanthe stared at it as she walked, having never before seen any body of water greater than a forest pool. It dipped in and out of sight as the road meandered through the wild grasses.
It had been a busy few months. They had travelled the length and breadth of Blèssem, even dipping down to Dùn Gorm for the Midsummer festivities. Since the Red Guards had their headquarters in the blue city, Lilanthe and Brun had spent two weeks at a rebel safe house in Blèssem. The old lady who owned the safe house had a beautiful garden where Lilanthe had been able to sink her roots in peace.
When Enit returned to pick the faeries up, another caravan was travelling with them—a friend they had met at the Summer Fair who was as shy of crowds as Lilanthe and Brun. To the tree-shifter’s dismay, Dide spent a great deal of time with the stranger—a dark, short man with a hooked nose, a sardonic smile and a wooden leg. Despite herself, Lilanthe was jealous and withdrew into a cold silence. After two weeks away from her, she had been hoping for some indication that the young jongleur had missed her, but he seemed hardly to notice they were together again.