Latifa hurried through the corridors, the babe pressed to her heart. The puir wee babe, the bonny Bronwen, she thought and felt the babe stir in response. She was not crying now, her silvery-pale eyes wide open, her hand clenched into a tiny fist.
The old cook reached her room and locked the door behind her. Her heart was hammering, her breath wheezing. Too auld and too fat for this. She laid the baby tenderly on her bed and turned to rummage through her drawers. Her fingers closed upon a thick braid of red hair, as long as she was tall. She pulled it out and held it to her. Indeed, many times she had thought it may come in useful, this plait of hair she had cut from Isabeau’s head. Already she had used it several times—to call Isabeau to the kitchen that first dawn, to get her to gather the groundsel that had wrought the sickness in Gwilym the Ugly’s guards, to call her when she needed her.
She felt a little guilty, but the lass had been feverish and incoherent and would have died if Latifa did not bring her temperature down. Latifa had some knowledge of herbs, but her skills were in cookery, not healing. The only way she knew to break the fever was to cut away the great length of curly hair. Admiring its fiery vigour, she had hidden it away and told Isabeau that she had burnt it.
Latifa had been sorely troubled by the scene in the Rìgh’s bedroom. Apart from her grief at the death of Jaspar, who had always been her favourite of the prionnsachan; apart from the sudden appearance of the winged apparition, the ghost that had said such dreadful things and appeared so disturbingly familiar; apart from all her misgivings and confusion, there had been the peculiarity of Isabeau. She had sounded all wrong; worse, she had smelt all wrong. She had smelt of someone who had eaten meat—and Latifa knew Isabeau never tasted the flesh of any living thing. And she had killed a guard as easily as she would swat a fly. Latifa could not imagine Isabeau, who wept to see a lamb taken to the slaughter, so nonchalantly cutting the throat of a man. It puzzled her greatly, and she could only think that someone had been impersonating her apprentice.
Either that, or Isabeau was not what she had seemed.
Within a moment the naked emotion on Iseult’s face was gone. She said impatiently, ‘Well, we’d better get the other parts o’ the Key then. Do ye know where they are?’ With a nonchalant kick of one foot, she knocked out a Red Guard trying to attack them from the rear.
Isabeau closed her eyes, trying to locate Latifa amongst the confusion of minds. ‘I think she’s in her room. I hope she’s got Bronwen away safely!’
‘Who’s Bronwen?’
Isabeau looked at her warily. ‘The babe.’
‘The Ensorcellor’s babe?’
‘Maya and Jaspar’s babe,’ Isabeau said, a little shakily. Lachlan had said he would kill them both! Isabeau had cared for the little Banrìgh since her birth a month earlier, and she could not bear the thought of her death. ‘We have to find Meghan!’ she cried. As Iseult protested, she said, ‘Meghan will guard Lachlan—she will stop him doing anything stupid.’
Her twin nodded eagerly. ‘That’s true. She will protect him.’
Isabeau now sent out her senses in search of her guardian, and with a glad hammering of her heart cried, ‘She’s close, she’s very close. Let us find her and tell her what’s happening, then we can run and find Latifa. Come on!’
They ran along the side of the square, Finn clutching the elven cat to her breast, and came round the corner. There the fighting was thick, red-cloaked soldiers hand to hand with rough-clad rebels. Wolves were fighting with them, led by a black she-wolf with a thick, upstanding ruff. She was at the head of the rebels, fighting by the side of a tall red-bearded man in a black kilt. The mist was melting away in the pale sunshine, the sky above a wash of blue.
As Finn pushed her fair head between Isabeau’s and Iseult’s to see, the black wolf raised her muzzle and sniffed the air. Suddenly she howled in triumph and leapt into a ground-eating lope across the square. The three girls drew back. It looked exactly as if the wolf was heading for them.
The wolf tore out the throat of a guard who tried to stop her, fixed her terrible golden eyes on the girls, and leapt towards them. Iseult pushed the other two behind her and drew her dagger.
‘No!’ They heard Meghan’s voice and saw her standing across the square. With her was the man in the black kilt, an agonised expression on his face, his hand thrown up. ‘No, Iseult!’ Meghan cried. ‘The wolf is a friend. Do no’ harm her.’
It was too late—the dagger had already left Iseult’s hand and was spinning through the air, straight for the black wolf’s breast. Isabeau threw up her hand and the dagger spun away, clattering to the ground. The wolf flung herself on Finn. The little girl fell with a scream, only to have her face licked enthusiastically, the wolf’s paws on her chest.
Meghan and her companion hurried towards them, the man staggering, his hand to his head. He was supported by an old man with a long beard thrust through his belt, while a spearhead of rebels slashed through the ranks of palace soldiers. Finn tentatively stroked the wolf’s thick ruff, trying to wipe her face dry with her other hand.
The red-bearded man fell on his knees before her, and with one hand wrenched the medallion away, the much knotted string snapping. Finn wriggling and protesting in his arms, he clasped her to his chest and wept. ‘My Fionnghal, my Fionnghal,’ he muttered, rocking back and forth. ‘I have ye at last, my Fionnghal.’
‘What’s wi’ this name all the time?’ Finn sighed, pushing herself away from him. ‘Who are ye? Stop squeezing me!’
‘I’m your father,’ he cried. ‘Do ye no’ recognise me at all? I’m your father!’
Her hazel-green eyes widened, and she tugged herself free. She stared at him and said, ‘I have no father.’
‘Ye were stolen from me,’ he cried. ‘The Awl took ye, to make me do what they said! Five years ye’ve been kept apart from me. Do ye remember nothing?’
She shook her head, suddenly frightened.
‘I gave you this medallion when ye were born. See, here is mine.’ And he pulled out the medallion he too wore around his neck and showed her the crest on his sword and brooch. The wolf, lying beside them, thrust her black muzzle into the man’s hand. ‘We are MacRuraichs, clan o’ the black wolf,’ he said. ‘This is your aunt, Tabithas.’
Finn said with a quaver in her voice, ‘This is no’ a joke, is it?’
‘No, no! I have been searching for ye five long years. Ye think I would joke about such a thing? And see! Tabithas knows who ye are. She tracked ye here from the mountains. And did ye no’ call the horn? Ye must have, no-one else could have called up the ghost warriors.’
‘I do no’ understand,’ she said.
Meghan panted up beside them and said, ‘Anghus, this is she? Ye have her?’
‘I have her,’ he wept and held her so close that Finn could hardly breathe.
‘I am glad,’ she said and dropped her hand on his shoulder. Then she turned and stared at the twins, ignoring the fighting surging around them. ‘Well, well, Iseult in Isabeau’s clothes and Isabeau in Iseult’s clothes. Did ye seek to trick me?’
Isabeau shook her head, tears thick in her throat. Meghan smiled at her and embraced her fiercely, her head only coming up to Isabeau’s shoulder. ‘Good it is indeed to see ye, my bairn. Ye are well?’
She nodded.
‘Nothing to say? Things have changed indeed if my Isabeau is speechless.’ She smiled at Iseult and grasped her hand, but did not let go of Isabeau, who had begun to cry. ‘Obh obh! No time for tears, dearling. Where is Lachlan? What are ye doing here in the palace?’
‘The Rìgh is dead,’ Isabeau said, unable to stop her sobs. ‘He died about half an hour ago. And Bacaiche says he is going to kill the baby! Ye have to stop him, Meghan! She’s only a babe, no’ more than a month auld, and the dearest wee thing!’
Meghan looked at her closely. ‘I see. Where is Latifa?’
‘She has the two parts o’ the Key still, Meghan. I did no’ ken I was meant to get it, no-one told me I was mean
t to have the Key now.’
A troop of Red Guards charged them, shouting, their claymores raised. Meghan lifted her hand and they tripped and went down in a red seething mass. ‘Anghus!’ she said sharply. ‘Ye must get your daughter out o’ here. It is no place for a bairn. Take her to the tower. Jorge is in the tower?’
‘Aye,’ Iseult replied.
‘Take her there—she will know the way. If the fighting spreads and it looks as if we shall lose the day, flee out the secret gate into the forest behind. Tell Jorge to take the children to the summer palace. He will remember the way.’
Anghus nodded and picked Finn up. She put her arms about his neck and said shyly, ‘I think I remember the beard.’
He smiled and pressed his cheek against hers. ‘Come, my Fionnghal, let us get ye to safety. Come, Tabithas!’
‘Bye bye, Iseult, Isabeau! Will we see ye at the tower?’
‘Perhaps,’ Meghan replied, and the twins both kissed Finn and said they would see her there for sure.
The soldiers had picked themselves up and were again charging towards them. Meghan waved her hand, and their legs tangled and down they went again. Anghus stepped round them, the wolf growling so menacingly the soldiers pressed themselves closer to the ground. Then the prionnsa was running across the flagstones, the old man in the tam-o’-shanter at his heels. The wolf ran with them, tail wagging.
‘Isabeau, Iseult, we must penetrate the palace. I will go in search o’ Lachlan if ye can find Latifa. Tell her I am here and that we must join the Key! Dawn has passed, so we have until noon to do it. I charge ye with the task—whatever else happens, ye must join the Key!’
‘Latifa has Bronwen,’ Isabeau said.
‘Bronwen?’
‘The baby.’
‘Tell her to keep the babe safe. No matter what Lachlan says, she is a NicCuinn and there are far too few o’ the clan left to be quibbling about her parentage. I will seek out Lachlan and keep him safe, I assure ye. Now let us go!’
Maya lay across the foot of the bed, weeping. Great sobs shuddered through her. Pain like she had never experienced before penetrated her like a spear. Jaspar was dead.
She had never thought of how she would feel when he died. His death had been part of their plans from the very beginning. If she had conceived an heir when they first married, he would have been dead years ago. But it had taken her sixteen years and an ancient, powerful spell to plant the seed in her womb, and by that time she had drained all the life force from him. She and Sani had known his death was coming since the night she conceived—it had been Jaspar’s powers she had used as well as her own that night, and he had had little left to give.
Yet she wept for his passing as if she had truly loved him, as if he had wound about her heart and in the uprooting taken great chunks of her flesh with him. Sixteen years she had played the role of loving wife, and now found it was not such a charade.
At last she lay silent, composing herself with a great effort of will. Dimly she had been aware of the soldiers trying to break down the doors; dimly she had felt anger at Red’s betrayal, and fear at the sudden appearance of the winged man when she had been sure they had hounded him far away. Now she was aware of light seeping in around the curtains, and the singing of birds.
‘My lady?’ A guard bent over her, voice worried. She ground her teeth at the change in her title—her husband not twenty minutes dead, and already she was merely ‘my lady’.
‘What is it?’
‘We could no’ catch the uile-bheist—he and his conspirators escaped from a window.’
‘Escaped from a window? We’re five storeys from the ground, man. What did they do, fly?’
‘Aye, my lady.’ His voice and face were wooden.
Fear and chagrin flashed through her. It had been a shock to see her husband’s little brother, caught halfway between blackbird and man. Ever since they had first heard the rumours of a winged man, she and Sani had feared that somehow one of the lost prionnsachan had survived. It had seemed impossible, however, and equally impossible that he could evade their grasp for several years. He obviously had powerful magic at his command.
Suddenly she thought of her daughter, the newly declared Banrìgh of Eileanan. Her hands gripped into fists. Bronwen was in danger. She sat up, wiping her cheeks surreptitiously.
The Rìgh was laid out on the bed, candles burning all about. Guards stood against the wall, backs straight, cloaks as red as blood. The door into the dressing room lay in splinters, a broken wardrobe half blocking the way. There was blood on the floor and the walls, but they had taken the dead soldier away.
‘Guard!’ she said peremptorily. ‘Where have they taken Her Highness?’
‘Latifa the Cook took her, my lady, for the babe was much distressed.’
‘Tell Latifa to bring the babe to me at once.’
She stood up and went to the mirror to straighten her dress and hair. There was only the empty frame, the mirror lying in glittering shards on the floor. A shudder ran over her, and she had to stand still, hand on the table, before she could collect herself again. There was a jug of water by the Rìgh’s bed. Ignoring the soldiers, she washed her face and hands and drank a mouthful of wine.
As she paced the floor, she heard the sound of fighting grow ever fiercer. It was coming from within the palace now as well as outside and, despite herself, her agitation grew.
The chancellor came in, flanked by guards. ‘My lady, there is bad news.’
‘Worse news than that my husband is dead?’ Even roughened by grief and fear, her husky voice was melodious.
‘The city has risen, my lady. There is a mutinous crowd at the palace gates, and the guards are having trouble keeping them back. They were all taken by surprise, no’ expecting the witch-lovers to take action on Samhain Day.’
‘Surely there are soldiers enough to put down the city rabble?’ she said scornfully.
He hesitated. ‘The palace guards are already engaged in repelling an attack from the rear, my lady. Somehow the grounds themselves have been infiltrated with a battalion o’ rebels, and they now close in on the palace.’
‘This is incredible!’ she said. ‘Ye tell me the rebels attack in the very hour o’ the Rìgh’s death? What conspiracy is this?’
He said nothing, and then lifted his grief-reddened eyes to her face. ‘The winged uile-bheist said he was Lachlan MacCuinn, my lady. The Rìgh’s brother?’
‘It is all a foul plot o’ the rebels to discredit me!’ she cried. ‘Jaspar knew it was no’ true.’
He did not believe her, she could see. Rage engulfed her. She had to fight as hard to control her anger as she had her grief, for she needed the chancellor and could not afford to strike him or screech at him, as she so wanted to do. It would be twenty-four years before Bronwen would be able to rule in her own name. By that time Maya would be an old woman and ready to step aside. Until then, though, she needed the support of those around her.
She hid her emotions under the guise of a grief-stricken woman who needed help and advice. The chancellor was an old and kindly man. He could not maintain his stiffness. She clung to his hands and wept, ‘Ye must secure the palace. Ye must keep the wee Banrìgh safe! Where is she? I sent for her half an hour ago, and yet they have no’ brought her. Find me my Bronwen!’
He went to give orders to the seanalairs, and the Dowager Banrìgh moved slowly through the wreckage of the doors and into her chamber, ordering the guards to leave her alone. She needed to have her clàrsach and the magic looking-glass to hand. It seemed she was beset on all sides.
For the first time she wished she had not decided to trap Sani in the shape of a hawk. The priestess would be useful now—Maya could use her far-seeing and clear-seeing skills, and the benefit of her advice. She wondered if the hawk would come if she called it to her hand. It was probably too late now. Sani would never forgive her for not changing her back after Bronwen’s birth on the road. At first Maya had been too unwell, and she was never left alone, surr
ounded by servants and guards until they arrived at the palace. Later, Maya had procrastinated, enjoying the freedom from Sani’s cutting tongue, her constant reminder that Maya was a mere halfbreed, begotten on a mute slave.
Maya opened the cabinet and took out the Mirror of Lela wrapped in its silk. She carried it carefully, knowing any mischance would deprive her of much of her power. It was the mirror that helped create Maya’s illusion of youthful, human beauty. It was the mirror that facilitated her ability to transform others.
She brushed her hair and massaged cream into her cheeks. In the mirror her face looked hollow-cheeked and haunted. She stared at herself and imagined herself in the first flush of youth and beauty. Slowly the marks of grief faded, and subtly the strangeness of her features modified until she looked more human than ever.
She stood at the window, wondering why no-one had brought her the baby, and saw how the fighting washed around the palace like a wild sea-storm. Her throat constricted with fear. Surely the palace would not fall? The battle was loud in the corridors now, so loud she could hear it, and she wondered if she should go in search of her daughter herself. If Latifa did not keep her safe, everything was lost.
She heard a door open behind her, and turned, eyebrow raised. There was no-one there. She looked around uneasily, her skin prickling. There was a scrape on the floor. She remembered how the winged prionnsa had sprung from the shadows, a dark cloak falling from him. Her heart quickened. She sat at the table and pulled her clàrsach to her. With the mirror concealed in her lap, every sense aware of danger, she caressed the strings so sweet, lilting cadences filled the room. ‘Be at peace’, she sang. ‘Rest and be at peace’.
As long as Maya could remember, her singing and playing had charmed those who listened to her will. She had spun the spell of love with her music and tied Jaspar to her for sixteen years. She had soothed angry crowds, beguiled recalcitrant prionnsachan and won enemies to her cause.
‘Ye think I do no’ know what ye do?’ A man’s voice said scornfully. ‘Ye sing the song o’ sorcery.’ And to her chagrin, he began to sing, his baritone skilfully blending with her contralto. She felt the silken strands wrap around her, soothing her, sapping her will. With an effort, she quickened the tempo, saying, ‘What coward is this that hides behind evil enchantments and sneaks into a widow’s room, mocking her grief?’