The Cursed Towers (65 page)

Suddenly there was a faint hissing sound and men began to fall with screams. They thrashed about on the ground in agony, their faces turning a mottled purple, a discolored foam covering their lips. Thin black thorns extruded from their necks.

The hissing sound came again and Iain cried, "Get down! Get down!" All along the path men dived for cover, some using the still thrashing forms of their comrades as protection. Then Iain called,

"Aaiiieeeeeeeee!"

Immediately there was silence, and then they heard a tentative, "Aaiieeee?"

"Aaaaiiieeee," Iain called back reassuringly.

"Ee-ann?"

"Aye, it's Iain. Who goes there?"

From all round them dark, round heads popped up out of the marsh, showing their fangs in broad grins. They clambered out onto the path and clustered round Iain, hugging their arms around his waist which was as high as they could reach. In their four-fingered hands they carried blowpipes made of reeds and over their shoulders were tiny quivers stuffed full of black thorns.

Dressed in an odd collection of cast-off clothes, their skin was the dark purple of sea grapes, rippled all over with short, plush fur. Their anxious faces were dominated by huge, black, gleaming eyes. They all chattered away in their high-pitched language and Iain patted and stroked them as he answered in the same wailing speech.

The soldiers waited warily, their weapons at the ready, while those who had been stung by the poisoned darts slowly twitched into silence.

"Relax, lads," Gwilym said, leaning on his staff. "They're bogfaeries and would never do anything Iain did no' want them to do. They'd never have attacked us if they had known Iain was with us." Iain looked up, smiling. "They tell me my m-m-mother has set up an ambush n-n-no' far from here. They will show us another w-w-way through the m-m-marsh. Some m-m-more good news. My m-m-mother's blaygird chamberlain, the one I was so w-w-worried about, M-M-Maya turned him into a toad! A f-f-fitting end, do ye no' agree, Gwilym?"

The warlock smiled grimly. "One I would have devised myself. Who would've guessed the Ensorcellor was capable o' so much insight?"

By sunset they were deep in the marsh. Although there had been many minor clashes with both soldiers and marsh-faeries, the major confrontation was between the forces of weather. Margrit of Arran fought to keep the air currents warm, moist and still so fog would hang above the swamp. Iseult and the witches had bent all their skills to bring a cold wind to blow away the mist and harden the earth. For a while they succeeded, and the Mesmerdean flew no more, hating the cold and retreating to warmer waters. The deeper they penetrated into the marsh, however, the more difficult it was for the witches to hold back the mist. This was Margrit's terrain and her greatest skill, and she had a team of trained witches to help her. As the sun went down the breeze died away and the stifling atmosphere of the swamp rose up all around them. The smell made Iseult feel sick and apprehensive and she could not rest, staring out into the gloom with a frown etched between her brows. She was so tired she had gone beyond sleep, feeling as finely drawn as a thread of silk. Meghan brought her a cup of valerian tea and ordered her to drink it.

"Do ye think we will be able to find the way to break the curse here in this blaygird bog?" Iseult said, sipping the fragrant tea obediently.

"I hope so," Meghan said. "I have tried to break it but it is tightly bound, and I canna trace its source. I feel Margrit o' Arran is behind it somehow, though it was no' her who cast it, that I'm sure o' it. Margrit has a subtle, devious mind, and though this curse has a cunning twist, it does no' have the stamp o' Tower training. It is more like a cursehag's work, or maybe a skeelie with strong powers. Whoever cast it had something o' Lachlan's, though, something heavily soaked with his life force."

"Finlay again?" Iseult asked heavily.

"He swore he knew nothing about the curse and that he never gave Maya anything o' Lachlan's that may have helped her cast it. Strange as it may seem, I think he is an honorable man and would no' lie . . ."

"Honorable as a swamp rat," Iseult said harshly. "He is so under Maya's spell, he would lie through his teeth, the green-bellied snake."

"Ye're mixing your metaphors," Meghan replied with a smile. "Come, try to sleep, Iseult. It'll be another hard day tomorrow. Ye'll need your strength."

Iseult leant her head on her hand. "Let me be, Meghan. I'm too tired to sleep." Meghan leant over and touched her between the brows. Iseult's eyelids fluttered and closed, and her head fell onto her knees. Meghan very gently laid her down, then took the plaid from her own shoulders and tucked it around the Banrigh. "Sleep, dearling," she said softly. Sunrise the next morning brought with it a horde of freshly emerged Mesmerdean nymphs. Still damp and glistening, their wings curled at the end, they hung all round the clearing where the soldiers had made camp, humming softly. Mist hung low over the swamp but the sky was clear so their great clusters of eyes shimmered with iridescent green and their translucent wings shone. The soldiers simply stood and stared, overcome with fear and awe. Iseult and Meghan stood with them, unable to believe how many of them there were.

"M-m-my m-m-mother has s-s-somehow h-h-hastened the h-h-hatching," Iain said. As always, when talking about his mother, his stutter became much more pronounced. "This is n-n-no' n-n-natural, this early e-mer-mer-mergence."

"What can we do?" Iseult said bleakly. "We canna fight off so many, no' here. There is no marsh gas to ignite and no room to maneuver. We shall be slaughtered."

"Enough is e-n-n-ough!" Iain cried. "I think it is time. I shall go and t-t-talk with them."

"Nay, it is too dangerous!" Iseult cried.

He smiled at her. "I've been talking to M-M-Mesmer-dean since I was n-n-naught but a laddiekin," he answered. "Do no' fear for me."

He gestured the soldiers back with his hands and walked over to the first phalanx of the winged creatures. He held out his hands, palm outward, and stood silently. The Mesmerdean stared back, and the humming of their wings died away into silence as they simply hung there, hovering, watching him with their great clusters of eyes.

"What is he doing?" Duncan whispered after a long period of silence. "I thought he said he was going to talk to them."

"He is," Gwilym said, watching closely, his hands clenched on his staff. "Mesmerdean have no spoken language. They have no ears and no tongue."

"But Iain said he would talk to them—and he's just standing there, staring at them."

"They read his thoughts, or perhaps it would be more exact to say they read his energy fluctuations. Iain knows that the Mesmerdean elders will be watching and listening too. It is they he wishes to communicate with. These newly emerged nymphs are still immature and canna make decisions about affiliations or actions. It is the elders that will decide whether to continue to uphold Margrit, to withdraw their support, or even to aid us."

"But are the Mesmerdean no' servants o' the Thistle?"

"The Mesmerdean are servants to no one," Gwilym said in exasperation. "They are free and powerful, and give their service to Margrit only because o' centuries-auld treaties between their people and the MacFoghnan clan. Many times they have withdrawn their support and Margrit works hard to keep them happy."

"If they canna talk, how can Iain ken what they intend?"

"They will tell him," Gwilym replied, clearly still exasperated. "Just because they do no' speak our language does no' mean they canna communicate. If they wish to woo a female or warn another male away from their territory, they rub their wings and claws together, and that is how they communicate with us too, though contemptuously. They think humans very crude and unsophisticated." Suddenly the humming began to rise again, and the Mesmerdean moved, some rearing back with their claws extended, others lowering their heads and dropping their wings. Some of the buzzing was so shrill the Graycloaks had to cover their ears.

"No' good," Gwilym said. "Some refuse to give up their vendetta." Iain continued to stand still, facing them, and the humming quavered, grew in intensity. Long minutes passed, and then the Mesmerdean melted back into the mist. The prionnsa came back to them slowly, his face thoughtful and rather grim. He sat down and called to one of the soldiers to bring him some food.

"So what happened?" Iseult demanded impatiently. "Why have they gone?"

"We have an amnesty o' sorts," Iain replied. "I simply sat and thought about my m-m-mother and how tricky and t-t-treacherous she can be. This impressed upon them forcibly. Then I thought about who was truly the p-p-power in the land, able to decide on b-b-borders and territory. Ye ken my m-m-mother has been promising them for ages that once she had the reins o' p-p-power in her hands she would make sure the m-m-marshlands spread out across the land again. I made it clear that only the M-M-MacCuinn had the power to do that. I said that we have already spoken with the NicThanach and that she agreed to give up the 1-1-land the MacTha-nach clan reclaimed for farmlands and allow the s-s-swamps to spread once m-m-more."

"I hope ye made them realize how many concessions we had to make to the NicThanach before she would agree," Iseult said with an expressive snort. "Who would have guessed such a milksop could bargain so shrewdly?"

Meghan smiled. "The MacThanachs are always shrewd when it comes to protecting their own interests. They are a practical clan indeed."

"Still, we are p-p-paying highly for land that has never been very fruitful," Iain said. "The s-s-soil was always sour and is even m-m-more so now that the bulwark has been b-b-broken down and the tide runs as it wills. The NicThanach w-w-would have had a hard time making it fertile enough for crops anyway. This way, she gets rich t-t-trade concessions with Arran as well as Rionnagan and Clachan."

"No' to mention rich dowries for her five sisters," Meghan said with a little laugh. "Indeed, she is a canny bargainer, that lassie. I have hopes she will make a fine NicThanach."

"So what did the Mesmerdean say? Did they agree to give us their assistance in return for no' rebuilding the bulwark and letting the water seep back? It is a significant concession." Iain shook his head wearily. "They are interested but n-n-no' convinced. After all, my m-m-mother has promised them the s-s-same result and they at least k-k-ken and respect her. Ye are strangers in their 1-1-land and they resent that. The only f-f-factor in our favor is that they are angry with my m-m-mother for waking them early. M-M-Mesmerdean dislike the cold and all this ice ye've been conjuring m-m-makes them very irritable."

"So what do we have to do to convince them? We have little hope o' victory without their help." Iseult tried hard to keep the despair out of her voice. She had hoped against all odds that they would be able to bargain for the Mesmerdeans' neutrality, at the very least. Iain had explained that the marsh faeries only supported his mother because she had promised to restore the lands the MacThanach clan had drained back to swampland. It seemed the Mesmerdeans' loyalties to the Thistle ran deeper, however.

"They will n-n-no' give up their q-q-quest for revenge so easily," Iain said grimly. "They have ye and L-L-Lach-lan marked as kin-killers, no' to mention M-M-Meghan, Gwilym and Isabeau . . ."

"Isabeau?"

"Aye, I think that is who they meant. It is hard to understand every subtle nuance o' their humming, but they certainly indicated one who was kin unto ye, and Isabeau was all I could think o'."

"But how could Isabeau have killed a Mesmerd up on the Spine o' the World?" Iseult said without thinking, immediately attracting Meghan's fierce gaze. The sorceress made no comment, however, twisting the rings on her gnarled fingers thoughtfully.

"If we w-w-want their help," Iain said, "they w-w-want the lives o' those who have killed M-M-Mesmerdean. I said that was n-n-no' possible. They 1-1-leave us to think about it. If we do n-n-no' agree they shall return when the sun is high and t-t-take all o' our lives."

"But why?" Iseult cried. "They attacked us, we were all merely defending ourselves. Does that count for nothing?"

Iain was silent for a moment. "I'll try and explain," he said at last. "The Mesmerdean do no' have the same respect for life as we do. They live only a few years anyway and most o' their existence is ruled by the copulation wheel." He blushed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. Not looking at Iseult or Meghan he went on rather rapidly, "This no' only means the actual act o' copulation, called the wheel for the shape they make, but for the whole cycle o' birth, life, and death. Only the nymphs have the freedom to travel far from their territory. Once they are fully mature, the Mesmerdean elders live very close to the swamp and their own patch o' water, where they breed and lay the eggs and watch over the naiads. So the elders live through the nymphs. They see what they see and experience what they experience. Nymphs can travel quite widely and have many adventures."

Iain paused, trying to find words. "It is hard to explain but Mesmerdean are rather like . . . spiritual leeches. When they kiss someone to death they swallow their life essence, all their memories and knowledge. Mesmerdean do no' kill for food or even sport. It is a sort o' intellectual hunger. What they learn from those whose lives they take is transmitted to all Mesmerdean. What one Mesmerdean sees, all Mesmerdean see. When a Mesmerd dies, however, that transmission is lost and all that they have learnt is lost too, unless they have had a chance to procreate. A Mesmerd's memories are passed down to its children and so preserved generation after generation. If a Mesmerd dies before it procreates, however, all that they have learnt is lost to the entire race—which o' course is what happens if they die while still nymphs. Do ye understand?"

"The auld ones get bored, live through the young ones; if a young one dies, they lose the connection, get bored again and want revenge for the knowledge they've lost," Iseult said swiftly. "Is that right?" Gwilym laughed harshly. "Bang on the nail, Your Highness."

Iain smiled reluctantly. "Ye see, the Mesmerdean elders are fascinated by what ye ken and have done. They want that . . . life knowledge. The Mesmerdean nymphs ye killed had traveled far and wide and learnt a great deal about life beyond the swamp. The elders were angry to lose that knowledge; having had it once, they want it back. Add this to the very strong kinship they feel for their own kind . . . Well, the fact is, they will only accept your lives in return for the lives o' their dead kin." He hesitated then turned to Meghan. "Ye in particular. They are greedy for your life. It has been very long and very interesting. They will no' give up the chance to taste it. Besides, ye have been responsible for the deaths o' many nymphs. They hate ye and are fascinated by ye, and that is a potent combination. I do no' think the offer o' swampland is enough."