The Shining City (22 page)

“Tell me exactly what it felt like,” Isabeau said very softly. “Tell me everything.”

Rhiannon took a deep breath, and then the words came tumbling out. She told the Keybearer as much as she could remember of the night she had first seen the ghost, here in Sorrowgate. It was hard to find the words to express so many things outside the usual realm of her experience, but the Keybearer was quick to understand and help her.

“So this ghost . . . she comes to haunt ye often?”

“Aye. She says she kens me now. She comes every night, to mock me. She tells me to enjoy my life while I have it. She says it will be over soon enough.”

“And this feeling o‟ being out o‟ your body . . . it‟s happened more than just this once?”

Rhiannon‟s eyes flashed up to Isabeau‟s face and then dropped again. “Aye,” she admitted.

“Every night since. I imagine I am riding Blackthorn. Sometimes we fly far, far away, but it is always dark and I start feeling . . . dizzy, as if I‟m about to fall into space. Or I think o‟ Lewen, and then I . . . come back.”

“It is a good thing ye do,” Isabeau said. “I thought at first ye were dream-walking, but it sounds more as if ye were skimming the stars, which is a very dangerous thing to do if no‟ properly trained. Ye can get lost and no‟ be able to find your way back to your body, and then ye would die.”

She put up one hand and fondled the little white owl, who gave a long mournful cry. “Have ye seen this ghost again? Have ye eavesdropped on her again?”

“Eavesdropped?” Rhiannon asked, puzzled.

“Watched and listened without her knowing.”

Rhiannon gave a little, reluctant nod. “I go sometimes, quiet as a wee mouse, trying no‟ to let her ken. I want to ken who she is. I want to kill her! But she‟s already dead.”

“There are ways to rid oneself o‟ a ghost, dinna ye worry! But tell me first everything she has said. I need to ken it all.”

Rhiannon tried to remember. “She says he must escape, and bring the sacrifice to her grave, and a healer, for if she was to be brought again to life, they must have . . . something . . . the anti-something . . .”

“Antidote?”

Rhiannon shrugged. “Maybe. I dinna ken. They needed it, anyway, to heal her. The laird was awake; he was sitting up in bed. He said he had a healer. She said the healer must find the anti-whatever-it-is, and the spell, and bring it to her grave by . . . I dinna remember when.”

“I wonder where her grave is?”

Rhiannon shrugged. “She said he would need a fast ship and fair winds, and he said that he could manage both o‟ those, once he is free.”

“This is getting stranger and stranger,” Isabeau said. “I must admit I am sorely puzzled. Did she say anything else?”

“Aye. She said she wanted the sacrifice to be a young woman, a beautiful young woman, just coming into her powers. And then . . . and then she said . . .”

“What?”

“She said I would do perfectly.”

“Ye?”

“Aye. She calls me the satyricorn girl with the dark hair and the ruthless heart. Only I‟m no‟, truly I‟m no‟.” To Rhiannon‟s surprise and chagrin, tears were suddenly burning her eyes. She rubbed them away angrily.

“So she kens who ye are.”

“Aye.” Rhiannon took a few deep breaths, trying to control her tears. Isabeau was frowning.

Rhiannon risked a look at her face, then went on. “She has come nearly every night since then. I tell her I‟ll never submit, but she says it is no‟ up to me. She says she will live again, and if I must die to give her life, so be it. That is why I want my charm. Lewen whittled it for me, to keep me safe from ghosts. I . . . I‟m afraid o‟ the night. I‟m afraid to sleep.”

Isabeau twisted her staff around and around, staring into the crystal embedded at its crown. “A powerful sorceress, poisoned to death, who longs for life again, who longs for revenge. Someone whose grave lies a long way away, across the sea. Someone powerful enough to cling to this world and seek another body to inhabit, a beautiful dark-haired body, with a ruthless heart—”

“I‟m no‟ ruthless!” Rhiannon cried, but Isabeau was not listening. She looked sick and white.

“Surely it canna be?” she whispered. “I must think on this.”

She got to her feet abruptly. “I will stay with ye tonight,” she said curtly. “I must see this ghost for myself. I will go now, and bathe, and change, and make my excuses to Lachlan and Iseult, and then I will come back.”

Rhiannon gaped at her, startled out of words.

Isabeau smiled at her. “Surely having me here is better than leaving the light on all night?”

Rhiannon felt so pathetically grateful, she scowled more fiercely than ever and said

ungraciously, “I suppose so.”

To her surprise Isabeau smiled and said, “I‟m glad. I will see ye again soon.”

At her commanding rap on the door, the guards opened it at once and she went out, the owl swiveling its head to keep its golden eyes on Rhiannon until the very last moment.

Then the door shut, the lantern winked out, and Rhiannon was left alone in her dark cell. She felt oddly exalted. Unable to sit still, she leaped up and paced her room again. Rhiannon wanted so much to believe in the Keybearer. Firmly she stamped down upon the little tendril of hope springing up in her mind, grinding it into the ground. It was a tenacious plant, however, fed and watered by the lightning charge the Keybearer seemed to emanate. Rhiannon had never met anyone quite like her. The Keybearer had seemed to fill the damp little cell with life and warmth and energy. It was as if she was a crucible filled to the brim with molten metal, blazing with white fire, all impurities dissolved into ash, leaving behind only power, truth, beauty. She was a newly forged sword, still smoking. Rhiannon could no more disbelieve her than raise a foolhardy hand against her. She knew, with absolute certainty, that she would never dare try to wrest away the Keybearer‟s dagger. Understanding that, it was only a small step towards believing Isabeau might indeed be able to save her.

By the time Isabeau came back, Rhiannon was weary indeed with all her pacing and thinking and wondering. It was late, and the Keybearer had a soft white plaid flung around her shoulders against the night chill. Rhiannon had taken refuge in her bed and was trying her best to stay awake. She jerked around when the Keybearer came in, haloed with the light of a single candle.

She would have sat up and spoken, but Isabeau smiled and lifted her finger to her lips.

“Sleep, lass. I‟ll stand watch over ye.”

The owl on her shoulder hooted softly, as if in agreement. Rhiannon lay down again, facing the room, watching as Isabeau set down the candle on the table. The Keybearer began to unpack the basket she had carried over one arm. Even though Rhiannon‟s eyelids felt irresistibly heavy, she fought to keep them open, fascinated by what she saw. First the Keybearer took out an

immensely thick old book covered in worn red leather, then a bundle of candles, small crystal bottles filled with various powders and potions, a silver saltshaker, and a squat, dark statue of a woman with three faces. Then the sorceress looked around and saw Rhiannon still watching. She came silently to her side.

“Sleep, lass,” the sorceress said gently and touched her finger to Rhiannon‟s brow. She felt herself sinking away into unconsciousness, as if into a warm dark cocoon of feathers. She slept.

It was bright morning when Rhiannon woke again. Light splashed through the grille high in the wall, casting bright lozenges against the stone. Rhiannon stretched and yawned, her eyes thick with sleep-sand. She rubbed them clear and saw Isabeau sitting quietly in the chair, reading a page in the old, red-covered book. She looked up as Rhiannon moved and smiled.

“Did ye sleep well, my bairn?”

“Aye. I did. Have ye been here all night?”

“Indeed I have. Did I no‟ say I would watch over ye?”

“Did . . . did the ghost come?”

The Keybearer shook her head and turned the corners of her mouth down ruefully. “No‟ a sigh or a murmur o‟ a ghost, I‟m pleased to say.”

“The ghost is real, I swear it!” Rhiannon cried.

The Keybearer raised her brows. “Did I say I disbelieved ye? I did no‟ really expect her to come while I was here. I fancy it would no‟ suit her to have me banish her back to the realm o‟ the dead forever, which is what I planned to do if she came. Whoever she once was, she sounds like a most unpleasant ghost to have haunting ye. And I can see only evil coming o‟ a spirit that kens the secret o‟ necromancy and is willing to trade her knowledge for life. Necromancy is a forbidden art, ye must ken, one o‟ the few the Coven prohibits. One should no‟ meddle with Gearradh.”

Rhiannon was confused. Although she felt she had heard the name before, she did not know where or to whom it referred.

“She who cuts the thread,” Isabeau explained. “Our name for the last o‟ the Three Spinners.”

Still Rhiannon did not understand.

“It is the way we describe birth, life, and death, the inescapable fates o‟ all,” Isabeau said with a tired sigh. “Come, I am weary. I have no wish to discuss metaphysics with ye now.” She shut the great thick book she had been reading and began packing away her wand and dagger and the silver cruets of salt and herbs and powdered dragon‟s blood. “I will tell ye tales o‟ the Three Spinners another time, and tell ye o‟ Eà, the three-faced goddess we worship, who contains these powers within her—maiden, matron, crone, as some see it, or child, mother, father. All ye need worry about now is that your ghost feared me enough no‟ to come, and ye have a good night‟s sleep behind ye, which I promise ye will make the future seem immeasurably brighter. I must go and catch some rest myself now, for I have a busy day ahead o‟ me, but I will send a message to Lewen and tell him he may come and see ye at the end o‟ the week. I willna be able to chaperone ye myself, I think, but I will send someone else, I promise. Oh, and by the way, I brought ye your charm.”

She gestured with her hand to the table, where lay a small talisman whittled from silvery rowan wood. Rhiannon sat up eagerly, and the Keybearer tossed it to her. Rhiannon snatched it out of the air and clutched it to her breast.

Isabeau smiled, one eyebrow raised at the speed of Rhiannon‟s response, then rapped sharply on the door. Once it had been swiftly opened by the guard, the Keybearer nodded and smiled at Rhiannon and went out, the guard bowing low to her and then slamming the door shut again.

Rhiannon did not mind so much this time. It was true that the future did seem immeasurably brighter.

F
ive days later, a sorcerer came. He came when the lengthening oblong of light on Rhiannon‟s wall was growing dim and red, and Rhiannon had given up hope of seeing anyone that day. He was a dour, gruff man with a sardonic look to him, dressed in brown with a tall staff made from an old knobbly stick. His name was Jock.

“Do no‟ try and ensorcell me, lassie,” he said curtly. “I have no liking for those o‟ your sex and will ken if ye try any o‟ your pretty tricks.”

Rhiannon lifted her chin. “I have no tricks.”

“Och, aye, o‟ course no‟,” he answered mockingly. “No lass o‟ your age does. Which is why I have one o‟ my best students mooning about and wasting my time in class instead o‟ listening as he should. He‟ll be waiting for ye in the garden, if ye‟re interested.”

“Lewen?”

“Nay, Lachlan the Winged himself,” he answered sarcastically.

Rhiannon stared at him, and he snorted. “O‟ course Lewen. Who else? The Keybearer tells me ye two are to have some time together to hang on each other‟s necks. Ridiculous leniency, if ye ask me. The lad should be packed home for his part in this sorry business, and ye kept locked up until after your trial like any other prisoner. No wonder Dillon the Bold is fuming. Well, aren‟t ye coming?”

Rhiannon took a deep breath and marched out the door. In the corridor four prison guards waited with impassive faces. One carried a long bow and quiver of arrows, another a great sword strapped to his back, another a long-handled double ax, the fourth a strange-looking weapon bristling with knobs and levers and a long pipe with a large round mouth. The sorcerer stalked off down the corridor with his staff tap-tapping loudly, and as Rhiannon followed meekly behind, the guards fell into formation around her.

The dimly lit corridor was lined with ironbound doors identical to Rhiannon‟s. At the end of the corridor was a set of stairs that they descended, their bootheels echoing hollowly. They came out into a big empty hall, then wound their way through to the back of the building.

Rhiannon looked around her with keen interest, glad to fill her eyes with something other than the four walls of her cell. She was led past a busy guardroom filled with men polishing weapons, cleaning boots, playing cards or trictrac, or crowding around a table where two men arm-wrestled, panting and laughing. They all looked up as she walked past the open door, and silence fell. Rhiannon gritted her jaw and walked on, her heavy skirts swishing around her legs and hampering her stride.

The sorcerer glanced over his shoulder. “Remember, no tricks now,” he warned. “Ye may think yourself very clever, bamboozling the Keybearer into allowing this folly, but I‟m no‟ as soft as she is and willna hesitate to strike ye down if ye should try to escape. Neither, I might add, will your guards, though their weapons are far more crude than mine.”