‘Oh, Beau,’ Meghan said gently. ‘Lachlan …’
‘I ken, I ken,’ he answered in exasperation. He put out his hand and grasped her arm, keeping her still. ‘I’m sorry, Isabeau. Do no’ be so much upset. I was simply trying to make ye see, make ye all see …’
The touch of his hand on her arm undid her. Worn out by the exertions of the night, Isabeau was unable to control the shuddering sobs that rose up and choked her. ‘Ye … think I … I would never … How could ye …?’ She could not get the words out.
Lachlan pulled her close. Isabeau could not resist the temptation to rest her head against his shoulder, muffling her sobs against his shirt. Under her cheek his muscles shifted, the soft silk of his midnight-black feathers brushing against her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said awkwardly, lowering his head to try and see her face. ‘I did no’ mean to hurt ye. Please stop greeting. Canna ye see I was just trying to prove a point?’
Isabeau rubbed her face with one hand. ‘I would never …’
‘I ken, I ken.’ He patted her back. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldna have said anything. I was angry. It was just that ye ken something that could make such a difference to us and ye will no’ tell. I shouldna have lost my temper, though. I’m sorry.’
Isabeau looked up at him, her hand resting on his chest, then suddenly she pushed herself away. She wiped her face with her fingers, turning away so they could not see her face. ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, trying to swallow her tears.
Lachlan had turned away also, staring moodily into the fire. ‘I did no’ mean to sound as if I thought ye were the spy, Isabeau,’ he said curtly. ‘I ken it canna be ye anyway. Ye do no’ ken any o’ our secret plans.’
Isabeau sank down on to her chair, hurt and unhappy. Buba crept into her hands and she cuddled the little owl close.
‘Come, Isabeau,’ Meghan said, getting to her feet. ‘We are all tired after our long night and happen none o’ us are seeing clearly. Why do we no’ all go and rest and recuperate our strength and we can talk again in the morning.’
Isabeau nodded, even though she was afraid they would again press her to tell the secret that she had sworn on Eà’s green blood never to reveal. ‘Where am I to sleep?’
‘The maids have made up your auld room for ye,’ Iseult said, rising to her feet.
‘Nay, ye must come to the Tower,’ Meghan said decisively. ‘Ye’ve been away from us far too long. Are ye no’ meant to be my apprentice? Some apprentice ye’ve been, spending all your time away from me.’
Isabeau was too tired to recognise Meghan’s humorous inflection. ‘But, Meghan, ye ken I …’ she began in some distress.
Meghan patted her hand, smiling. ‘No need to fret, dearling, I was only teasing ye. I ken the queen-dragon told ye ye must learn what ye could from your father’s people, but now ye have won your scar it is time for ye to settle down at the Theurgia and start studying in earnest. Such a hotchpotch education ye’ve had!’
‘Aye, that be the truth indeed,’ Isabeau said with a faint smile. She made to rise to her feet and was rather disconcerted when Lachlan bent and grasped her arm, pulling her upright. ‘Thank ye,’ she said, not looking at him.
As she walked slowly along the avenue with Meghan, they heard the sound of children’s shouts and laughter, then came out into the square before the Tower of Two Moons. Rebuilt to its former grandeur, the massive building dominated the western end of the palace gardens. Great flying buttresses held up four towering spires, one at each point of the compass. A broad terrace ran the length of the building, planted with the seven sacred trees in huge square pots marked with the sign of the Coven. Under the trees’ shade children squatted, tossing sheep’s knuckle, or ran, screaming with excitement. A few young men or women strolled, dressed in the flowing black gowns of apprentices, their heads bent in earnest discussion. As Meghan and Isabeau mounted the three wide stone steps to the terrace, the students bowed or curtsied respectfully. A few murmured humble greetings and Isabeau was astonished when they called her Highness.
She looked at Meghan in some surprise but the sorceress gave a little shrug. ‘The Theurgia tittle-tattles will soon spread the truth o’ it, Beau. Few here ken ye, remember.’
So Isabeau just nodded and smiled and accepted their respect. Soon enough they would know she was only the Banrìgh’s twin sister and a student like themselves.
They passed from the warmth of the terrace into the cool hush of the main building. Isabeau looked about her with interest. She was unable to correlate the grand hall within, the walls hung with tapestries and the hollowed stone softened with rugs, to the smoke-stained, ghost-haunted ruin she had seen six years earlier.
Meghan read her thoughts. ‘Children’s laughter does more to help the ugly memories fade than any other form o’ exorcism I ken,’ she said, her face softer than Isabeau had seen it since she had arrived. ‘I hardly feel the ghosts now.’
With the Keybearer by her side, Isabeau was taken swiftly through the formalities of acceptance into the Theurgia. She accepted the flowing black gown they gave her and let Daillas the Lame, the head teacher at the Theurgia, pile her arms with books and scrolls. The old sorcerer was determined that Isabeau catch up for lost time as quickly as she could. Isabeau submitted willingly, eager now to prove herself to her teachers. She had studied with Daillas when the Theurgia had first been set up in the days after the Samhain rebellion, and was fond of the old man who had been as cruelly tortured by the Awl as she had.
Aware of some sort of peace settling over her, she followed meekly in Daillas and Meghan’s wake as the two most respected witches in the land led her up to her new room.
Isabeau had been assigned a tiny room in the apprentice wing of the Theurgia. It was only large enough for a small white bed, a chest, a writing desk and a bookshelf, but it was considerably larger than her room in the tree where she had grown up. Through the mullioned glass of her window she could see the green leaves of the oak tree growing on the terrace. She dumped her armful of books on the desk and stood watching the children play as Daillas and Meghan stood in the open door behind her, discussing what lessons she should take and who she should study with. Buba fluttered down from Isabeau’s shoulder to perch on the back of the chair, her head rotating as she stared about with round-eyed interest.
Taken by surprise by an immense yawn, Isabeau opened her watering eyes to find Daillas peering at her sympathetically. ‘Ye must be weary, lassie. Why do ye no’ rest and restore your strength, and we shall save planning your lessons till the morrow. None should study on the day o’ the vernal equinox.’
Snooze-hooh? Buba hooted hopefully and Isabeau hooted back softly in reply. She saw both Daillas and Meghan smile, then with a fond pat of her hand and a gentle, ‘May Eà bless your sleep,’ they left her. She was alone at last.
It was dusk when she woke. She lay still for a long time, unable to recognise the dim shape of the furniture about her or the smell of wood polish, lavender and old leather. Feeling an instinctive clutch of terror, she let fire blossom in her hand. As the room sprang into brightness, she realised where she was and all her tension drained away, leaving only a feeling of contentment.
She lay quietly, smiling. Isabeau was very glad that she was here in the Tower of Two Moons and not at the palace. Here she had a chance of making her own way, independent of her sister the Banrìgh. Much as she loved Iseult, Isabeau had no desire to be a mere hanger-on at court. All her ambition to be a sorceress was hot and eager in her, and she was happy to be once again close to her beloved Meghan, able to see her every day, listen to her stories and learn her wisdom.
Isabeau swung her legs out of bed, and pulled the black gown over her head with a little quickening of pleasure in her veins. Sombre in hue and in cut, it hung loosely on her, without a single pleat or bow to relieve its severity. She pulled her unruly red curls back from her brow and plaited them swiftly into a thick braid that hung down to her waist. There was no mirror but when she hooked back the curtain sh
e could see her reflection in the window, broken into an intricate jigsaw by the many panes of glass. All she could see was a pale, serious face floating above a sea of darkness, haloed with the fiery glint of the curls that refused to be subdued by the plait. The sight pleased her and she smiled again.
Buba slept still, her head sunk down into her feathers, her ear tufts sticking straight up. Isabeau rubbed one finger on the white head lovingly and the round golden eyes opened, blinking sleepily. ‘I’m going out, Buba, do ye wish to come?’
Snooze-hooh, Buba replied and shut her eyes again.
Smiling, Isabeau let herself out her door. Beyond was a wide balcony, bounded by a colonnade of slim gothic arches that supported a high vaulted ceiling, fringed by an intricate frieze of stars and moons.
The balcony looked down onto a central garth of smooth green lawn, lined with cypress trees and with a fountain in the centre. The only sound was the tinkle of falling water, the singing of birds and the muffled chanting of incantations.
Isabeau found the Keybearer in her rooms in the main tower. Meghan was writing in The Book of Shadows, a massive thick book with a heavily embossed cover of red leather. It contained all the history and lore of the Coven of Witches and it was the duty of each Keybearer to record within its pages all of note that occurred in Eileanan.
‘I am just writing the tale o’ your adventures on the Spine o’ the World,’ Meghan said with an affectionate smile. ‘Come tell me once more, Isabeau. It gladdens my auld heart indeed to hear ye tell it.’
So Isabeau told her tale again and Meghan inscribed her words carefully, often asking her to pause so she could catch up. Isabeau saw how much Meghan’s hand trembled and how thin and wavering her handwriting was and offered to act as her scribe. But Meghan just shook her snowy-white head and wrote on. As she reached the end of the last page in the book, she shook sand over it carefully, shut the book for a moment and then reopened it. A fresh white page stood where a moment before there had been none. Meghan smiled at Isabeau, who took up her story once more, the old woman laboriously writing down every word.
At last Meghan had finished and she shut and locked the book with a silver key as long as Isabeau’s finger. Carefully she put The Book of Shadows back on the shelf.
‘What a tale!’ she sighed, pouring out two goblets of goldensloe wine. ‘Indeed, I do no’ think I’ve heard one like it. I always kent ye had a powerful Talent though, my Beau, ever since ye were naught but a wicked lass.’
Isabeau only smiled, sipping her wine and hungrily devouring, one by one, all of Meghan’s little honey cakes.
‘How ye puzzled me as a bairn,’ Meghan mused. ‘Ye had such a link with the beasts I often thought ye’d follow in my footsteps and be a wood witch, yet ye had little understanding o’ the other powers o’ earth. It was strange. Fire was clearly your strongest power, yet fire and talking with animals does no’ usually go together at all. And ye were always one for making up games and pretending to be what ye were no’, a tendency that troubled me sorely.’ She sipped her wine, the firelight playing over the deep wrinkles so that she looked ancient indeed. ‘It all makes sense now,’ she said softly. ‘Indeed it does.’
‘Latifa said fire is the element o’ transformations,’ Isabeau said.
‘Aye, indeed, she was right. I am glad I sent her to ye. She taught ye well.’
‘No’ just about fire magic.’ Isabeau spoke cheerfully, wanting to banish the melancholy darkening Meghan’s face. ‘Ye’ll be glad to ken she taught me to cook as well.’
Meghan smiled briefly. ‘Well, that was more than I could ever do.’
‘Aye, but was that because o’ the limitations o’ the apprentice or o’ the teacher?’ Isabeau replied cheekily.
Meghan smiled again but the shadow of melancholy on her face did not lift. ‘Can ye show me?’ she said suddenly. ‘Shapechange for me.’
Isabeau felt a little sink of her spirits, but she nodded. ‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘I am still no’ altogether sure o’ what it is I do.’
Isabeau gathered together her strength, looking down at her hands clasped together tightly in her lap. She flexed them, imagining them talons. In her mind’s eye she could clearly see herself as owl, white feathers faintly speckled with brown, golden eyes inscrutable. There was the odd dislocation of the world that came when she was changing, the bending and lengthening of shapes, the draining away of colour, the springing out of detail, sharp and precise. Then the transformation was complete. She looked up at the old woman, now so huge and frightening, her human smell causing Isabeau to cower down instinctively.
So-hooh, you-hooh see-hooh, she managed to hoot.
I do-hooh see-hooh, the human hooted back. Isabeau was aware of the kindness of her dark eyes, the waves of reassurance and understanding that beat from her, palpable as the scent of pine resin on a warm day. She relaxed a little, her feathers smoothing down, her ear tufts sinking. The human smiled gently, holding out her hand, willing Isabeau to come to her. After a moment Isabeau opened her wings and swooped across, alighting on the human’s twiglike hand. They regarded each other thoughtfully, the human turning her hand this way and that to examine Isabeau’s claws, her feathers, the cryptic pattern of grey-brown speckles and stripes that was only visible when she crouched down to hide. Isabeau’s head rotated first one way then the other as she kept her huge round eyes fixed on the human’s deeply wrinkled face. One gnarled finger came up and gently stroked Isabeau’s ear tufts and once again Isabeau let herself relax.
You-hooh are true-hooh owl-hooh, the human hooted.
Isabeau hooted back crossly and fidgeted her feathers.
No-hooh slur-hooh meant-hooh, the old human apologised. You-hooh may change-hooh back.
Isabeau regarded her for a moment, then suddenly shook herself and transformed back. Immediately she fell to the floor with a jolt, bruising her bottom and knocking the wind out of her. Meghan was nursing her hand, which had for a second borne all of the weight of Isabeau’s tall and muscular figure. ‘Ye silly lass!’ she cried. ‘Could ye no’ have flown to the floor first? I think ye have broken my hand.’
‘I did no’ think o’ it,’ Isabeau replied sulkily, rubbing her bare bottom and getting to her feet rather shakily. All the energy that the wine and cakes had given her was gone. She felt as if she had run the entire distance of the Old Way once again. For a couple of seconds she swayed, her sight obscured by a wave of dizziness, then she was able to sit down and sip her wine and rest her head on her hand, drawing her plaid about her.
‘It is incredible,’ Meghan was saying. ‘Indeed ye were an owl, no doubt o’ that. It was no mere illusion, I felt your feathers and claws, and your mind, your thoughts, they were the thoughts o’ an owl, no’ the silly lass I ken.’
Isabeau said nothing, just held out her goblet for more wine. Meghan poured her some more, still talking excitedly.
‘So ye have taken on the form o’ an owl, a snow lion and a golden eagle. All very different indeed. Can ye do anything else?’
Isabeau drained her wine and took a deep breath. In her mind’s eyes she imagined herself as a donbeag, as bright-eyed and plumy-tailed as Gitâ who was perched on Meghan’s knee, watching with interest. She had grown up with donbeags, she knew their every quirk and mannerism. With a thought she changed shape.
Suddenly the world was huge and dark and filled with stealthy sounds that had her quivering with fear. She gripped the wood with her claws, looking about her, her large round ears twitching back and forth as she listened for any sound of danger. The unsettling odour of humans caused her to spread her sails of skin a little in preparation for sudden flight. She smelt donbeag too, which reassured her. She heard an excited chitter of welcome from across the room and peered that way.
A huge white hand descended towards her. She took flight, her tail spreading wide. A wall of wood collided with her, she fell, shrieking. A human voice like the crash of thunder. All her nerves jangled, causing her to startle. A peculiar desire
to trust the voice fought against all her instincts, all her natural fear. The voice boomed about her. Somehow she recognised something in the thunderous sound. She turned, tried to answer. For a moment she was not sure whether she was owl, donbeag or woman. The room spun, she fell back into her own skin, naked, shivering and sick.
For several long, horrible moments she retched helplessly, vomiting the honey cakes and wine upon Meghan’s fine blue carpet. Her ears rang and the world whirled about her. Long after her stomach was empty she retched still, Meghan’s cool hand supporting her. At last she was able to lie back, limp as a scullery maid’s rag, her vision oddly blurred. Vaguely she heard Meghan moving about her, wringing out a cloth to lay on her forehead, giving her cool water to sip, stroking back her sweat-tangled hair.
‘Sorcery sickness,’ the Keybearer said softly. ‘Have ye found yourself sick and weak after changing shape before?’
Isabeau nodded, then wished she had not, for stabbing pain shot through her temples and the world sank away into a fizzing darkness once more. She came close to fainting but at last the whirling sickness subsided and she could try and concentrate on Meghan’s words once more.
‘Ye must no’ change shape again till I give ye leave,’ the Keybearer was saying with great emphasis. ‘Sorcery sickness is dangerous indeed. It can leave ye mad as a March hare or foolish as a babbling babe. Even worse, it can twist all your reason so that you use your Talents for evil or self-advancement, which as ye ken, all witches o’ the Coven swear no’ to do. Isabeau, are ye listening to me?’
Isabeau jerked her head up. ‘Aye, Meghan,’ she said, and heard her words thick in her throat.