‘The boys and I are stuck here,’ Isabeau said. ‘We canna return to the mainland without your help. I have no way o’ reaching my sister to tell her where we are, for I canna scry over the sea. It is too far for us to swim. We canna hail down a passing ship for if one did happen to sail past, it would be a pirate ship and they would kill us.’ And though she did not say this to Maya, Isabeau knew she could not transform into a bird to fly the distance for she had barely survived the last bout of sorcery sickness. It would be too dangerous for her to use her witchcraft for some time yet.
‘And what would your loving brother-in-law do to us if we returned to Eileanan?’ Maya said icily. ‘I would be lucky if I were hanged, for at least then I would escape being burnt to fire, which is what he threatened to do to me if he ever caught me! And what about Bronwen? Ye were the one who took her and fled Lucescere in fear o’ what he might do to her, his own niece.’
‘Aye, but Lachlan is aulder now and no’ so afraid o’ losing his throne,’ Isabeau argued. ‘And if ye were the one to help restore his son and heir to him, he would no’ be so quick to condemn ye. Besides, the Fairgean threat has grown worse every year. Ye would be able to advise him on how best to overcome them …’
Maya laughed harshly. ‘Och, ye are a simpleton! Once the uile-bheist had me in his clutches and his wee son safe in his mother’s arms, do ye think he would care that I had aided in returning him there? I think I must ken him better than ye! He hates me, I tell ye, hates me with a passion.’
‘Ye should no’ call him uile-bheist,’ Isabeau protested. ‘Lachlan is no monster! Indeed, he has ruled wisely and kindly since he won the throne, and though he has his black moods, ye canna blame him when ye think what he went through as a lad, his father and all three o’ his brothers being murdered and he himself being turned into a blackbird! It canna have been easy to have adjusted to life as a man again, and as a hunted outlaw instead o’ a beloved prionnsa.’
Maya opened her mouth to say something scathing but Isabeau went on impetuously, ‘Besides, all that was your doing, Maya. Ye transformed him and his brothers into blackbirds and set your blaygird priestess hawk to hunt them down, and ye ensorcelled his eldest brother and sucked him dry o’ all his power and vitality until he was dead, and ye were the one who ordered all those witches to be burnt to death. Lachlan is justified in hating ye! And ye are bitter and resentful because ye have lost your power and wealth and the adoration o’ your people and are now exiled on this wee island. Well, ye are here because o’ all that ye chose to do. It is time for ye to accept the consequences. Ye canna hide for the rest o’ your life—’
Maya stood up abruptly. ‘And who says I intend to?’ she sneered. ‘Was no’ Bronwen declared the rightful heir by my husband the rìgh on his deathbed and proclaimed banrìgh? There are still those who mutter against the rule o’ the Winged Pretender.’
‘Who?’ Isabeau cried. ‘I canna see any on this wee island.’
But Maya had turned and strode off into the night, leaving Isabeau alone and much troubled in heart and mind. And still I make the same mistakes, too quick to speak and too quick to argue, she thought ruefully. When will I learn?
The companionship which had grown up between Isabeau and Maya was replaced by a silence that seemed to reverberate with hostility and suspicion. Although they remained polite to each other, both were preoccupied with their own thoughts and worries.
The days passed and gradually Isabeau’s strength returned. She began to think her only recourse was to leave the boys on the island while she resumed the shape of a swan and flew in search of help. Not only was she eager to let everyone know they were safe, she was anxious indeed about the pirate ships sailing in search of the royal fleet, for despite all her efforts, Isabeau had been able to cripple only a few of the pirate vessels. However, she did not dare risk changing shape, not only because of the sickness, but because she was loath to leave the boys in Maya’s care while she was gone. What would the Fairge do if she knew Isabeau would be returning to the island with Lachlan and his men?
It would be terribly dangerous for Maya to try and flee to another island. As the days grew warmer the seas would fill with the migrating Fairgean. Isabeau knew the peculiar topography of this small rocky island was all that had kept Maya and Bronwen safe from the sea-faeries in the past three years. Surrounded on all sides by sharp-edged reefs, it was not worth the struggle to reach its one small beach when there were so many other islands nearby with long stretches of sand where the sea-faeries could rest and bear their young. As she could not leave, Maya might decide to use the boys as hostages. Lachlan’s volatile temper and Maya’s ruthlessness were like lightning and a forest dry from too little rain. Bringing them together could cause wildfire.
And it was not just the little prionnsachan that concerned Isabeau. The weeks she had spent on the coral island had rekindled all her love for Bronwen. With her sweet, winning ways, her striking beauty, her obvious intelligence and Talent, Bronwen had them all enchanted. Yet Isabeau was troubled to find Bronwen was very quick to use her beauty and the force of her nature to keep Donncan and Neil dancing in attendance upon her. She was even prone to use compulsion upon them, a trick of bending others to your will which was forbidden under the Creed of the Coven, since all people had the right to choose their own path.
So charming was Bronwen in her requests, so prettily grateful when they were acceded to, that it would have been easy to think it was just a natural desire to please her that drove the boys to compete with each other for her favours. But before long the friendship between Neil and Donncan became so strained that they came to fisticuffs, and then Isabeau’s disquiet deepened into real distress. Not only did she feel it important to break Bronwen’s dominance over the boys, Isabeau also knew that the young Fairge needed to be taught the rules and responsibilities of power. It was time Bronwen went to the Theurgia.
One morning Isabeau sat up on the headland, staring out at the great expanse of blue sea that stretched before her, crisscrossed with the curling break of water over reefs and great dark beds of swaying kelp. Desperation filled her. She had to find some way to escape the island! Her attention was suddenly caught by a splashing movement below her. She looked down and smiled in sudden delight, for a playful family of sea-otters were romping about below her. There was a tall rock with a steep incline down into the sea and the baby otters were using it as a slippery slide, shooting down the wet slope on their backs to splash into the sea. One or two of the baby sea-otters were chasing each other through the waves, while their mother watched tolerantly from a rock, rolling over occasionally to bake her other side in the sun.
Isabeau had known otters all her life and had counted them among her greatest friends. She had never seen a sea-otter before and was struck by how much larger they were than the ones she had known, with strong webbed feet and a thick reddish-brown fur. Their antics were as playful, however, and their dark eyes as intelligent. As Isabeau watched, entranced, the father of the family floated on his back with a large stone resting on his belly, smashing mollusks with his powerful paws. He tossed the mollusks to his children and they leapt and dived for them, making sharp little cries of delight.
An idea suddenly came to Isabeau and she leant forward eagerly, noting the strength and power of the sea-otters’ legs, the speed with which they swam through the waves. If swans could pull a sleigh through the air, why not sea-otters through the water?
She would need more than this one family, however. The wooden sleigh was heavy and it was a long way to the mainland. She glanced around, wondering if there were many other colonies of sea-otters on the island.
Out beyond the reef were a number of dark sleek heads bobbing up and down in the waves. Isabeau’s heart leapt in delight, for she could easily get together enough sea-otters to pull the sleigh with that great number. Then her heart was suddenly squeezed in the vicelike grip of fear. She stared at the bobbing heads. She could see pale ovals of faces, and sharp upcurving tus
ks. Then a great scaled tail with a frilled fin broke the water’s surface. They were not sea-otters surfing along the break of water but Fairgean!
Lachlan strode up and down the forecastle deck, his wings all ruffled up, his black curls in disarray. His dark face was haggard.
‘Canna ye whistle up any more wind?’ he called down to a tall, fair-haired girl who clung to the bowsprit below him, just above the Royal Stag’s antlered figurehead.
‘Nay, Your Highness,’ Brangaine NicSian called back breathlessly. ‘Any more wind and the sails shall tear free! We sail at full speed already. Besides, I can barely control the wind as it is. It is taking all my strength to keep it blowing fair.’
Lachlan gave a groan of frustration and swung round, his kilt swirling up. Back and forth he paced, his hands clenched around the Lodestar. ‘If only there was something I could do!’ he burst out.
‘Ye could come and play cards with me,’ Dide said, looking up from the guitar he was lazily strumming with long brown fingers. ‘I thought long sea journeys were meant to be restful, but watching ye pace up and down like a caged sabre leopard is about as restful as a march to war. Will ye no’ sit down, master, and set yourself to amuse me? For, indeed, all this display o’ energy is most wearisome for the rest o’ us.’
Lachlan cast the handsome young jongleur a look of exasperated affection. ‘As if I could sit and play cards while that cursehag has my son,’ he burst out, despair in his voice. ‘Och, surely we can sail more swiftly than this?’
Duncan Ironfist, the captain of the Yeomen of the Guard, said calmly, ‘We are doing all that we can, Your Highness. Wearing out the fo’c’sle deck with all this to-ing and fro-ing shall no’ make the ship sail any faster. Why do ye no’ rest and let the captain do his job? Ye have been driving yourself for months now, securing the peace in Tìrsoilleir and keeping the lairds happy. Ye canna keep on this way. Rest, my liege, and let—’
There was a shriek of anger. Lachlan’s gyrfalcon suddenly plunged out of the sky, talons clenched. Duncan took an involuntary step back. As solidly built as an ancient oak tree, with arms the width of most men’s waists, even Duncan Ironfist could be dismayed by the sheer power and speed of the great white bird, which dropped as fast as a boulder and with almost as much weight. At the last moment Stormwing flung out his great white wings and landed on the Rìgh’s shoulder, golden eyes blazing.
‘No point in getting angry with me, Your Highness,’ Duncan said stolidly.
Lachlan stared out at the sea, his fists clenched. It was clear he was trying to control his temper but the young rìgh had hardly slept since hearing the news of his son’s kidnapping. His shock and horror had come close on the relief and joy of their victory in Tìrsoilleir, the contrast of emotion making it all that much more terrible.
Duncan looked at the rigidly set shoulders of his rìgh and said gently, ‘We are making record time down the coast, thanks to the NicSian’s wind-whistling. Another week and we shall be sailing into the Berhtfane.’
‘Another week!’ Lachlan cried. ‘And to think my poor wee laddie is in the hands o’ that cursehag Thistle. It twists up all my insides even thinking about it.’
Iseult had been standing against the rail, staring unseeingly at the waves billowing and surging against the ship’s sides. She turned now and said, with a little quaver in her voice, ‘Isabeau went in search o’ them. Isabeau will save them.’
Lachlan turned on her with a falcon’s screech, his wings outstretched, his head thrust forward. ‘Isabeau!’ he cried. ‘Isabeau should’ve kept a closer eye on them. This would never have happened if she—’
Iseult went white, her blue eyes as hot with anger as his own. ‘Do no’ dare blame Isabeau for this! It is Sukey who betrayed us, Margrit who stole the laddies. Isabeau is the only one who has a chance o’ saving our son.’
For a moment they stared at each other, then slowly Lachlan’s wings lowered, the hostility dying out of his eyes. He stepped forward, his hand held out, his mouth twisting in contrition. ‘Och, I’m sorry—’ he began.
Iseult was red with anger. ‘I’ve had enough!’ she cried. ‘Why must ye be always so unfair? Isabeau saved ye from the Awl, she was tortured in your place and crippled horribly; she was the one that helped ye most to save the Lodestar and win your throne, she has been loyal and faithful every step o’ the way! Yet right from the very beginning ye have been against her, ye have misread all her motives, ye have been cold and hostile to her. Why? Why?’
Lachlan did not answer, his wings hunched. Iseult drew away from him. ‘Isabeau is my sister, my womb-sister!’ she cried. ‘She is as like me as my reflection in a mirror. How can ye love me and hate her?’
The black wings stirred. Lachlan looked away, colour running up under his swarthy skin. ‘Happen that be why,’ he muttered.
She fell back a step. ‘What?’
He turned on her, every muscle in his strong body tense with anger and frustration. ‘I met Isabeau first, remember!’ he cried. ‘When I met ye later, I thought ye were her. Apart from the cropped hair, ye were exactly the same, exactly! The same bonny face, the same fiery curls and summer sky eyes. I thought ye the most beautiful, bright thing I had ever seen. I thought her the most beautiful, bright thing I’d ever seen. She was naught but a child though. She had no idea what she was getting into. Ye say she saved me from the Awl and was tortured in my place. Ye are right! And aye, it was my fault, all my fault. But how was I to ken? I thought I had to get away from her to keep her safe. But all I did was throw her to the wolves. And when we met again, all that sweet innocence, that shining beauty, was ruined. Ruined.’
Iseult stared at him, tense as a bowstring. He turned away, his golden eyes brooding, his wings hunched close about him. The gyrfalcon gave a hoarse, melancholy cry, and Lachlan smoothed his white feathers. ‘How can I love ye and hate her?’ he said with a dark, mocking edge to his voice. ‘What else can I do? She has your face, your body, your fearless gaze. Or she had. Now she has a crippled hand and the knowledge o’ terror in her eyes. And I gave her both. If I am no’ to hate her, what am I to do? Love her?’
He laughed harshly and went away downstairs, leaving Iseult standing alone on the forecastle deck, the wind blowing her red-gold curls about.
Dide stepped forward, his face troubled. ‘He does no’ mean it,’ he said gently. ‘Ye ken what he is like when his black mood be upon him. He does no’ mean —’
Iseult turned her cold, autocratic gaze upon him. ‘Does he no’?’ she said with a chill in her voice. ‘I think he does.’
‘Iseult—’
‘Do no’ look so troubled, Dide,’ she said. ‘Lachlan always suffers from feeling things too much, too intensely. He fears for Donncan very much. He will feel better when he is no’ so confined by the ship. Once we are on land and he can stride about and shout orders and feel like he is doing something, then he will feel better.’ There was the slightest edge in her voice.
‘Iseult …’
She turned away from Dide, drawing her plaid up about her shoulders, her profile set as cold and white as marble. ‘Oh, I ken,’ she said impatiently. ‘He will be sorry he spoke when his temper dies. I ken what he’s like, better than ye. It does no’ mean he did no’ speak the truth.’ She gave a little shiver and looked out again at the blue undulating horizon. ‘Another week …’ she murmured. ‘Oh, Isabeau, please, save them, save my wee laddie.’
Isabeau scrambled down the rocks and ran along the sand, terror driving her steps. She burst into the hut, crying, ‘There be Fairgean in the water! They look as though they’re swimming for shore.’
Maya leapt to her feet, alarm on her face. She threw open the lid of a large battered wooden chest and dragged out a clàrsach. ‘Bronny, where is your flute?’
The little girl was white with terror, but she scrambled to her feet and grabbed her flute, which she always kept by her. It was her favourite possession, along with a ragged doll. Isabeau had given both to her back in the days when Bron
wen had lived with her at the Cursed Towers. With the flute clutched in her small hand, Bronwen followed her mother out on to the beach.
‘What are ye doing?’ Isabeau cried. ‘Should we no’ hide? I tell ye, they were swimming in past the reefs.’
Maya did not answer her, striding down to the edge of the lagoon where she sat down on a rock with the clàrsach on her lap. Bronwen stood beside her, the flute raised to her lips.
‘What do ye do?’ Isabeau cried again. ‘This is no time for a musical concert! Had we no’ better find something to use as a weapon?’
Maya indicated her clàrsach with a contemptuous gesture. ‘This be a far better weapon than any stick ye’ll find on the beach.’
With the frightened boys behind her, Isabeau stared out to the edge of the lagoon. She could see the dark heads of the Fairgean as they swam in past the last ridge of coral. ‘I thought ye said the Fairgean never bothered to negotiate the reefs!’
‘They come sometimes,’ Maya said abruptly. ‘They harvest the kelp. Stop talking! Go and hide if ye wish. Bronwen and I shall defend ye.’ The last was spoken scornfully as Maya swept her hands over the strings of the clàrsach. Beautiful music spilled out. Bronwen’s fingers moved along the flute, silver notes trilling, catching the melody of Maya’s little lap-harp, blending into delicate harmonies.
The intensity of Isabeau’s fear and anxiety was dulled, wrapped about in music. Her mind was clouded, her senses benumbed. Her eyes began to shut and she felt her body swaying in response to the melody. Although all her witch senses prickled at the thrum of power in the air, the smell of enchantment, she was unable to fight against the fog which sank over her. It was like a dream in which she fought to stay awake, knowing there was something important she had to do. But the need to sleep was too powerful, too imperative. It dragged her down, a dark, heavy, oily wave that closed over her head and drowned her.