The Cursed Towers (23 page)

Now Ishbel was awake, she was regaining her appetite, and Isabeau took pleasure in cooking for them all. Luckily it was spring and the valley was rich with all sorts of herbs, mushrooms, roots, early berries and leafage. The apprentice witch had found a beehive and she managed to coax the bees to swarm to a new hive she had made for them in the garden. Many of the herbs and vegetables she found she transplanted into that part of the garden she had reclaimed from the weeds and rose briars, and she stripped seeds from many of the valley plants to sow later, when the earth was well warmed by the sun. Isabeau's major problem was finding salt to add to Bronwen's bath water. The Fairgean were sea-dwelling creatures and died if away from salt water for too long. At Lucescere there had been no shortage of salt. It was one of Clachan's principal exports, used to cure fish, pickle vegetables, preserve hides and make glass and enameled jewelery. It had even become fashionable for fine ladies to add sea salt to their baths in imitation of Maya, and so it had been sold at the markets in little canvas bags, with rose petals or sweet herbs mixed through. There were no saltpans in Thiethan, however, and the sea was hundreds of miles away. Isabeau had packed a sack of salt, but that was almost all gone, and she worried about what she would do once it was empty.

She had wondered whether the loch at the foot of the Towers was, like many in the mountain region, rich in salt and minerals, but she now knew it was as pure and sweet as the loch in the secret valley. Isabeau frowned, paddling her feet in the loch and smashing the serene reflection of red and white roses. She lifted her eyes from Ishbel and Lasair, still wandering together on the far shore, and gazed at the twin peaks of Dragonclaw.

A dragon soared far above the sharp-pointed mountains, gleaming as brightly as newly polished bronze in the sunshine. Instinctively, Isabeau's stomach muscles clenched and her heartbeat quickened. She lifted her numb feet out of the icy water and dried them on the edge of her plaid. As she walked back to the Towers, Isabeau pondered her problem. If she did not find a source of salt soon, Bronwen would sicken and die. The only solution Isabeau could think of was to take Bronwen back to the secret valley. Deep beneath the mountain was an underground loch. Stalagmites and stalactites grew there in writhing columns, and the water was bitter. Hopefully bathing in its mineral-rich waters would help Bronwen avoid dehydration and fever. If it did not, Isabeau would have no choice but to head back toward the coast as fast as she could; she had not rescued Bronwen from danger in Lucescere only to place her in a far more life-threatening situation.

Isabeau was not sure how she was going to make the long and difficult journey back to the secret valley. From what Meghan had told her, it seemed the only road was the Great Stairway which led directly through the dragons' valley. She still felt a shiver of fear at the memory of the dragon she had seen while galloping the Old Way. Isabeau had not realized how huge or how fearsome the great, fire-breathing creatures were. Even though she had lived most of her life beneath Dragonclaw, she had only seen dragons twice, and even then they had been mere shadows passing over the moons. She knew Meghan had climbed the Great Stairway to seek counsel from the queen-dragon, but she was quite sure she did not have the courage to climb the stairs herself.

Isabeau washed the rosehips and put them on to boil with honey, then strained the syrup and laid it aside to cool. She then made her way through the cold, dark corridors to the library on the sixth floor where she was certain to find the old sorcerer.

It was a huge room with a fireplace at each end and two cunning spiral staircases made of iron lace which led to the upper galleries. Three stories high, the walls were lined with shelves which ran from the floor up to the ornately painted ceiling and were crammed with books, scrolls, letters and ledgers. The windows and fireplaces were bordered with the design of single-petaled roses and thorns, while above the mantelpieces were the stylized shapes of dragons, wings raised and tails writhing. Feld sat at a huge desk at one end of the room, dying coals in the grate behind him, a candle casting uncertain light over the page of the book he was reading. He peered through a pair of glasses, took them off, rubbed his eyes and peered again.

Isabeau waved her hand so the candelabra on the mantelpiece and the coals on the hearth leapt into life.

"I made you a fresh batch o' candles especially so ye would no' strain your eyes, yet ye never think to light them," she scolded. "I might as well no' have bothered."

"Sorry, my dear. I'm afraid I always forget they are there," Feld replied absently. He was wearing a long velvet bed-gown, moth-eaten around the sleeves and hem, over a woolen jacket and breeches, with his stringy gray beard tucked through the gown's sash to stop it from hanging over the page. A badly knitted scarf was wrapped around his neck and dangled down his back, and he wore a mitten on one hand. On his feet were shabby slippers with holes in the soles. Bronwen lay on the floor beside him, kicking her legs vigorously in the air, her hands waving aimlessly.

Isabeau put the cup of tea she had made him by his elbow and perched on the side of the table. "Feld, do ye know o' any salt lakes or pools nearby, or any deposit o' rock salt?"

"The hot springs in the dragons' valley are salty," the sorcerer replied, putting his finger in the book so he would not lose his place. "I have seen salt encrusted on the rocks nearby, and many times have gathered some for use in ritual or to add to my porridge. Porridge is so tasteless without salt, do ye no' agree?" Isabeau agreed rather defensively, having not used any of her or Feld's salt to add flavor to food since leaving Lucescere. She had saved it all for Bronwen. "Is that the only place, at the dragons' valley?" she asked.

He shrugged. "One can sometimes find deposits o' sodium chloride in volcanic regions like this, but it is no' common. I am sure there must be some rock salt somewhere in the mountains, but I have never seen it. My needs are simple, I rarely have much call for salt."

Isabeau sighed. It seemed her only choice was to brave the dragons. She knew her sister had served the great magical beasts for eight years and had often flown on the back of the youngest of the dragons. Many years before, her father had saved the life of the baby dragon and had won the creature's friendship as a result. Just because her father and sister were accepted by the dragons did not mean she would be, though. The thought of facing them was enough to make Isabeau feel rather sick. She glanced down at the baby girl, who stared up at her intently, her pale eyes shining oddly in the firelight. Bronwen's face lit up with a wide smile. A pang of tenderness shot through Isabeau, and she knew she must make the journey to the dragons' valley. She only hoped she would be welcome.

"Make way for the Righ's soldiers!" a stentorian voice shouted. "Make way!" Lilanthe parted the curtains of the window and peered out. On either side of the carriage were twelve straight-backed riders clad all in gray, their claymores strapped to their backs. Niall the Bear rode ahead, carrying the Righ's standard, his blue plaid and jacket showing he was one of Lachlan the Winged's Yeomen of the Guard. His great war-charger pranced as if enjoying the unusual warmth of the evening, and wide-eyed children stood and stared, their fingers in their mouths.

Ahead the village of Gilliebride was nestled in the dip of the valley, a small, prosperous-looking town that lay close to the borders of Aslinn. The road wound down the center of the wide strath, with golden barley fields stretching out on either side. A windmill turned lazily near the river, and to the west Lilanthe could see the blue waters of Loch Gillieslain lying at the foot of Tumbledown Ben. Forest grew thickly all round the stony feet of the hills, which rose steeply to the north. Lilanthe stared at the green trees with mixed feelings. In one way she longed to be under the thick canopy of leaves again, sinking her roots in the soil in peace and searching for her own kind without fear. But in another way she felt regret and a sense of failure, for Lilanthe had desperately wanted to be accepted by human society. She had hoped the victory of the Coven of Witches would enable that to happen, but it seemed the people of Eileanan were not yet ready to embrace faery kind again.

The cluricaun pushed his furry face out of the other carriage window so he could enjoy the evening breeze. She pulled him back, saying, "Best lie low, Brun, we do no' want anyone to see us." His ears swiveled anxiously, and he said, "Why do they hate us, Lilanthe? We do no' hate them."

"Sometimes I do," she replied.

The carriage rattled into Gilliebride's large main square. Keeping her hood close about her leafy hair, Lilanthe gazed out rather wistfully at the stalls, bright with vegetables and pots of jam and marmalade. Gilliebride was high enough in the hills to have escaped assault from the Bright Soldiers, and so the marketplace was a peaceful scene. Women in rough plaids and wooden sabots stood gossiping in the warm dusk, their bare-legged children squatting on the cobblestones, tossing sheeps' knuckles. A wagon loaded with barrels stood outside a white-painted inn, the driver leaning down to talk to the innkeeper, a pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth. Above the town, the bare crown of Tumbledown Ben was fuzzed with golden light.

The party came to a halt before the inn, which had barley sheaves painted on its sign. Ostlers ran out to unhitch the horses and offer the outriders a dram of whiskey, and they dismounted thankfully, stretching and laughing.

Niall the Bear rapped on the door. "We had best stop here, lass," he said in his gruff, kind voice. "It is growing close to sundown and we need to make the Righ's proclamations and see the town council. Besides, the Barley Inn is famous for its whiskey, and my men are thirsty indeed after the dust o' the road."

"Ye do no' think there are too many people about? Wha' if they decide to try and stone us, like they did in Glenmorven?"

"Och, ye are in the highlands now, and highlanders were ever more comfortable wi' the faery than those stodgy Blessem folk," he replied comfortingly. "Besides, the people o' Gilliebride have always been faithful to the MacCuinns and will no' want to start a rebellion over a tree-shifter and a wee cluricaun. Why, last time I was here they had a cluricaun turning tricks in the inn for pennies and the occasional wee dram."

"How many years ago was that, though, Niall?" Lilanthe asked wearily. "I'll wager ye there is no cluricaun here now."

"Happen ye're right, but there's a new broom sweeping clean now, and these folks will ken it. So do no'

trouble yourself, we'll keep ye safe, lassie." Niall smiled at her kindly, his teeth flashing white through his beard. He was a tall, strongly built man with a great mane of dark brown hair grizzled with gray, and broad shoulders that threatened to split the cloth of his blue jacket. Unlike most men of his stature, he walked very lightly, with the grace of a swordsman.

Lilanthe smiled and thanked him. Wrapping her new green cloak tight about her, she let him open the door of the carriage so she could step out. Brun hopped out after her, pulling his own hood up to cover his furry ears. The soldiers formed a tight barrier around them and marched them into the inn, the tree-shifter walking with a halting step.

The innkeeper came placidly to greet them, showing no curiosity at the shrouded figures standing within the circle of gray-clad soldiers. He greeted them warmly, then called to his daughter to take them up to their rooms and bring them warm water and towels. Lilanthe's room was small but very clean, with a view over the town square. She sat there and watched the dusk deepen as the rattle-watch made his rounds and lanterns were kindled outside the inn. She felt uneasy. Although the scene was the very essence of rustic serenity, she felt an undercurrent of terror and pain. The smiling women, the children screeching with excitement as they played together by the pond in the village green, all hid some intense emotion which the tree-shifter's acute perceptions could sense.

She leant forward, scanning the crowd with both her eyesight and her more subtle senses. Her whole body tensed as she saw a rabble of children poking sticks at a cage hung from a willow tree. The cage swung wildly, and inside a little nisse huddled miserably, trying to protect herself from the sharp ends of the children's sticks.

Lilanthe struggled to her feet and limped as fast as she could out through the door, in her anger forgetting to catch up her new cloak. Niall heard her limping step and looked out his door. When he saw her hurrying down the stairs, he called after her, but Lilanthe ignored him, leaning on the balustrade and descending as fast as her crippled leg would let her.

Niall called to his men and followed her hastily, catching up his huge, double-edged sword. The little cluricaun heard the commotion and ran after, his tail waving excitedly.

There were eleven children in the group, ranging in age from four to thirteen. Barefoot and sunburnt, they were large, healthy children, armed with sticks and switches. As Lilanthe limped across the crowded square, calling to them to stop, they turned and faced her, lifting their sticks. For once she did not falter, coming straight up to them.

"Wha' do ye think ye are doing?" she cried. "Why do ye torment the puir wee nisse so? She does ye no harm. Look at her! It is cruel to keep her locked up in a wee cage like that and poke her with sticks and call her names."

The cage was so small the little faery was pressed in by wicker on all sides, unable to move more than a few inches. No larger than Lilanthe's hand, the nisse's triangular face was scarred with cuts and bruises. Only one bright eye peered through the tangle of filthy hair, the other glued shut with her sticky, greenish blood. Her water-bright wings were bent back by the walls of the cage, the iridescent gauze of one torn and lacerated. As Lilanthe spoke, the nisse screeched and threw herself desperately against the open weave of the cage.

The eldest of the children, a stocky, freckle-faced girl, jeered loudly. "Look, it be a tree faery! Look at its hair, all leafy like the willow tree. Where's my father's axe? There's enough firewood there to feed our fires all winter!"