The Cursed Towers (10 page)

"Lasair!" she cried despairingly. "Whatever can be wrong?" Far across the mountains, curled in a nest of her own hair, Ishbel the Winged stirred in her sleep.

"Khan'gha-rad?" she murmured. Slowly her eyes opened and she looked blankly about the tower room. Gray stone curved about her, sculpted round the tall windows with the delicate shape of single-petalled roses. Impossibly long strands of silver hair floated about her. "Khan'gharad?" she said more firmly. Deep in her mind she heard a stifled cry of hatred and fear.
False, treacherous witch! Breaker o' faith!

Ishbel sat bolt upright. "Khan'gharad!" she called. "Where are ye, my love?" She caught only a fading echo of that frantic voice, but her blue eyes lit with ardor. "Wait, Khan'gharad!" she cried. "I'm coming!"

"Meghan!" Isabeau cried and knelt by the crumpled body of the sorceress. Meghan sighed faintly, and one hand groped for her heart, then she slid into unconsciousness again. White as whey, Isabeau called desperately for help and the grooms came running. A wet cloth failed to revive the old witch, and Isabeau was distraught to see a red patch growing on the shoulder of her dress. Meghan had been stabbed in the heart by Maya the En-sorcellor during the Samhain rebellion and had only been saved from death by Tomas's powers. The jolt of her fall must have pulled apart the lips of the slowly healing wound. The anxious donbeag crooned over Meghan as she was carried to the Tower on a stretcher made from an old door. Isabeau was hanging over her in distress, the baby clutched tightly in her arms. Tomas came and laid his hands upon the old sorceress, and the bleeding stopped, the lips of the wound slowly sealing over again. He shook his head, though, and said in his solemn way, "She is auld and has no' much strength. I do no' know how many more times I can heal her. She should lie quietly and rest and try to restore her strength."

Isabeau wept silently, for she knew Meghan would never submit to lying quietly in her bed. Lachlan and Iseult had hurried to the witch's side as soon as they had heard she had fallen, and the Righ turned on Isabeau as soon as the young Tomas had left the room. "Ye cause nothing but trouble and strife!" he cried. "Ye should never have let Meghan near such a savage creature as that horse o' yours! Ye think o'

nothing but yourself."

Isabeau was too distressed to defend herself, but Iseult uttered a quiet reproof. Lachlan would not listen. The shock of Meghan's last encounter with Gearradh, the goddess of death, was too fresh in his mind and he was tired and bitterly disappointed with the latest news from the countryside. Isabeau's protection of the little banpri-onnsa was an unacknowledged goad to his anger, and he lashed out at her in sullen frustration.

"The horse shall be shot!" he cried, slamming one fist into his hand. "He is a danger to us all! Meghan could have been killed, and six grooms were injured in his subduing! I canna allow him to rampage through the stables any longer. I'll have him put to death in the morning!" He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Meghan turned her head, muttering in her sleep, and Iseult rose to follow her husband. "I'm sorry, Isabeau, but indeed it would be for the best," she said. "Truly he is a savage and unpredictable horse."

"I do no' understand it," Isabeau cried, but her twin's mind was already turning back to her sleeping son, and she smiled a little wearily and left the room.

Isabeau dropped her head into her arms and wept, so tired and upset she could not think straight. A soft touch on her arm made her jump, and she raised her head to see Meghan staring at her with dazed black eyes. "A most strange and unaccountable horse," the sorceress whispered. "Almost I remember ... he seems . . ."

"Hush, Meghan," Isabeau whispered, scrubbing her hot eyes. "Ye must rest."

"I seem to remember . . . but surely he canna be . . ."

Isabeau lifted her guardian's head and gave her some soothing poppy syrup to sip. "Sleep, Meghan," she said in a choked voice. "Ye must rest and get well. We need ye." The sorceress looked as if she was going to say more, but then her wrinkled eyelids slowly closed and she sighed, slipping again into sleep.

* * *

The whore slipped out the back door of the brothel, a shawl wrapped close about her head, and struggled down the back alley, her boots sinking deep into the mire. Despite all her efforts, she could not keep her skirts from dragging in the thick mud. Flaring her nostrils in distaste, she toiled on, stepping when she could on the broken crates and sacks that littered the ground. Deeper into the maze of stinking alleys she went, down into the slums that clustered like a suppurating sore on the lip of the cliff. The stench of refuse, urine and excrement almost made her gag, but she pushed on grimly, holding the shawl close about her face.

At last she came to a warehouse, built so close under the surge of the waterfall that the spray dampened her face. Casting a quick glance about her, she pushed open the door and slipped inside. Within was a long room, piled high with trash and treasure from the back streets and sewers. There was a strange smell, like long-dead mice, mingled with a sharper scent, like pungent bay leaves. From the shadows an old man came shuffling, his hands clasped high before him, his bleary eyes peering to make out her face hidden behind the fold of her shawl.

"And wha' can I be finding for ye, missus? A bolt o' cloth, hardly mildewed at all, or a pot for the porridge? A stool for your weary bones, or a spindle for the spinning?"

"Ye know what it is I want, auld man," the whore said, and at the husky tones of her voice, he cringed back.

"Aye, aye, I ken, I ken wha' it is ye want. Cantrips and curses, spells and soothsaying, that be all they want, the fine ladies. Philtres and potions, glamouries and ghost-raising, that be all they want, the fine ladies."

She followed his bent muttering form through a dusty, cobwebbed shop, piled high with broken furniture and damaged goods, to a cupboard pushed in one back corner. Casting a furtive glance about him, the old man opened the wardrobe door and ushered the whore inside, closing the door behind her. She felt forward with her hand, found the secret catch and lifted it, her heart beating rapidly. The back of the wardrobe slid noiselessly aside and she stumbled forward in the darkness, climbing a narrow flight of stairs, steep as a ladder. The secret door closed instantly behind her.

Above was a long, overheated room hung with rich silks and furnished as richly as any merchant's house. A gilded candelabra hung from the ceiling, while bright tapestries covered every wall. The woman made her way forward, lifting her mud-stained skirts clear of the intricately woven carpet.

"Look at ye, tracking mud and filth into my fine house," a high, petulant voice said. "Obh, obh! Could ye no' have left your boots at the door?"

From a low chaise-longue pushed against the wall, a gaudily dressed dwarf hopped to his feet and came fussing around the whore, insisting she remove her caked boots and brush the mud from her skirts down the stairwell. He came no higher than her waist and wore a crimson doublet slashed with purple and green. His head was far too large for his body, the effect exaggerated by a huge round cap of purple velvet embellished with bha-nais feathers. With the matt white skin of his face dusted with no more than a few fine, fair hairs, he looked like an absurd child.

He reclined back on the chaise-longue, his short legs taking up barely half of its velvet-upholstered length, and looked her over with a lewd glance. "So it be Majasma the Mysterious come to visit her auld friend, the Wizard Wilmot, master o' the magical mysteries. Wha' is it this time, my bonny?" The whore sat on the chair opposite, letting the shawl drop from her head. The light fell full on her face, revealing its alien cast—the flat nose with its flaring nostrils, the thin, almost lipless mouth. Her pale skin was moist and had a iridescent shimmer like mother-of-pearl. One cheek was marred with a fine spider's web of scars. She cast the dwarf a scornful glance from her pale eyes and lifted one webbed hand to her cheek.

"Another spell o' glamourie to wrap your fair features in
youthful charm,
my bonny? To hide the cruel scars that mar your perfection?" He gave a high-pitched chuckle. "Do your lovers cringe at the sight o'

ye, my bonny?"

"No' as much as all who see ye, my wee manikin," she replied harshly. "Ye ken why I am here, let us cease these pleasantries and get down to business."

"Aye," he answered with another shrill giggle. "Show me your gold and we will begin to spin ye the spell."

"What do ye need gold for, Willie the Wee?" She waved one hand at the richness that surrounded them.

"Ye have a house stuffed with every imaginable luxury, ye wear the finest silks and the rarest perfumes and drink only the best whiskey. What more could ye possibly want?" A look of petulant anger screwed up his hairless face and he cried shrilly, "Ye want my wizardry, ye must pay the price!"

The whore pulled a small, jingling bag from her basket and tossed it to him with a scornful gesture. He caught it nimbly, and at once began to count it into his tiny hand. Twice he counted it, and then he snapped his fingers and the coins disappeared.

"It is no' enough, my bonny," he said with a lewd sneer. "I find the price o' my expertise has risen. Times are hard in Lucescere, and the winter has been long."

"We agreed on the price!" she cried, and he answered with another chuckle, "That was then, this is now, my bonny. Pay the price or find yourself another spell-monger er."

Reluctantly she fished another small bag out of the basket, and he counted the coins with glee, tossing them between his pudgy little fingers and letting them disappear one by one. Only then did he swing his legs round and begin to rummage in a chest by his side. She leant forward and watched what he did intently, and he turned his gaudy body so she could not see.

With another snap of his fingers he extinguished the candles so only the four-branched candelabra on the table between them was still alight. The light of the black and white candles danced over the paraphernalia arranged on the table's gilded surface. There was a three-dimensional circle and pentagram, a brazier of odd-smelling incense, bowls of water and sea salt, an urn of ashes, piles of crystals and colored stones, and bottles of dried dragon's blood, powdered herbs and desiccated insects. When he turned to face the whore, the dwarf held in his arms a fat book bound with leather so old it was cracking and discolored. He propped it on a stand held ready for it, his eyes gleaming with excitement, and held out his childlike hand for the whore to reluctantly pass him one of her silky black hairs. Just as reluctantly she unbuttoned her dress and drew it down over her arms until she was naked to the waist. He glanced at her, giggled obscenely, and licked his lips. Swaying back and forth, muttering strings of rhymes, he threw pinches from many different bottles and jars into the brass bowl, then waved his hands over it. Foul-smelling smoke billowed up, and he threw the disgusting mixture over the whore's face and body.

Although she had braced herself for it, she still gagged and choked, wiping her face and torso clean with a look of distaste. The wizard chortled, rocking back and forth still, the feathers on his absurd hat nodding. At last her skin was clean and she held out one imperious hand for the mirror. The gills at her neck and the little frills of fin that ran from her elbow to wrist were both gone, and her face was free of scarring. Subtly her features and figure had altered so she looked both younger and more human. She nodded her head abruptly and pulled her clothes about her, buttoning her dress again with rapid fingers. The dwarf stared at her with undisguised lust, muttering to himself once again. Although she was clearly anxious to be gone from this hot, crimson room, she hesitated before she rose, fingering the handle of her basket. "I have heard tell, Wilmot the Wizard, that ye can cast curses as well as spells," she said, her voice more conciliatory than it had been since her arrival. He laughed and twisted the many rings on his fingers.

"Ye ken curses are like chickens, my bonny, they come home to roost. If Wilmot the Wizard is to take such a risk, it's a high price he wants, a high price indeed."

"Name it," she said harshly.

He giggled. "It be ye yourself," he answered, raking her with such a lascivious glance there was no mistaking his meaning.

She drew back, making no attempt to hide her distaste. "Ye canna be serious," she replied, lip curling. The dwarf scowled like a sulky child, and said, "Ye think I jest, my bonny? I jest no'. If ye wish me to cast curses for ye, it is more than gold I want. As ye say, what need have I o' gold? I be one o' the richest men in Lu-cescere, with so many whores to buy my spells o' glam-ouries and so many fine ladies anxious to ken their futures. It is no' more gold I want from ye, Maya the Ensorcellor, but your own white body. Ye see, I ken who ye are, my bonny. Ye think me a mere bairn and a bagatelle, but I am the Wizard Wilmot and I see what other blind fools canna see. It will please me mightily to cast my seed into the MacCuinn's furrow."

Maya gave an involuntary jerk, unable to prevent the blanching of her lips and cheeks. The wizard chortled with amusement, sliding off the chaise-longue to come and press his squat body against her legs. "Aye, indeed. Ye canna tell me the new Righ will no' pay highly to ken where his brother's wife is hiding—more gold than ye can earn even with your fair face and your songs o' love. Ye see, I ken more about ye than ye kent, my proud lady o' the sea. So if ye wish me to keep my knowledge to myself, ye will open your legs to me as ye open them to any young laird with a pouch o'

gold. Aye, and ye will moan and sob for me too and tell me I be the finest lover ye ever had." As he spoke, he scrabbled under her skirt, stroking her legs with his hot little hands. Maya was rigid, her face as white as chalk, her eyes downcast. "And if I lie with ye, will ye cast this curse for me? A curse that shall no' fail?"

"Aye, I'll cast the curse," he sniggered. "I will need a lock o' hair or a scale o' their skin or a paring o'

fingernail, do ye understand? It needs to be part o' their living flesh for the curse to work." She shook her head involuntarily. "I canna get anything like that," she replied. "Do ye no' understand, this is my bitterest enemy I wish to curse. I canna come that close to him!"