The Shining City (24 page)

They stared at the bird in silence. It warbled and sang, cocking its head to one side.

The sorcerer strode up, his face screwed up in an expression of anger. “Lucky that horse o‟ yours didna fly closer, else they‟d have shot it down out o‟ the sky,” he said.

Rhiannon did not answer. She was staring down at the bird with an expression of wonder.

“What do ye have there?” the sorcerer demanded.

She held it out for him mutely.

“A mountain bluebird. Strange. I‟ve never seen one so low at this time o‟ year. Normally they are back in the highlands by spring. It looks tame. I wonder where it can have come from.”

“Lewen carved it for me,” Rhiannon said. “And then he brought it to life.”

“What? Rubbish!”

“No‟ rubbish. True.”

“But . . . Lewen, is this the truth?”

Lewen nodded.

“Heavens! But that‟s high sorcery! I‟ve never heard o‟ it being done afore. Are ye sure? O‟

course ye‟re sure. Here, let me feel the bird.”

Rhiannon would not let him take the bird, which nested happily in her hands still, but allowed him to feel its soft blue feathers, its rapidly beating heart. As he tried to run his hand down its back, it turned its head and pecked him, drawing up a bright bead of blood on his leathery skin.

“Gracious alive! Lewen, my boy, this is extraordinary. I must tell the Keybearer, show it to the Circle o‟ Sorcerers. I‟ve never heard o‟ a creature carved o‟ wood being given life afore. Here, girl. Give me the bird. I‟ll take it now—”

“Nay,” Rhiannon said. “Bird is mine.” She clasped it close to her, within the circle of her hands, and the bird gave a little trill of contentment.

The sorcerer stared at her for a long time; then he nodded his head once, sharply. “Very well.

Lewen made it for ye; Lewen brought it to life for ye. How, boy? How did ye do it?”

“I dinna ken,” he said, the first words he had spoken.

“I‟d think on it, boy. Try to do it again. The Keybearer will want to see. My heavens. Talk about ye being a wood witch!”

Rhiannon bent her head and stared at the little bird in amazement. It chirped at her, then, suddenly, spread its wings and launched itself into the sky. Rhiannon cried aloud in dismay, and the sorcerer cursed her for a fool. But the bird did not fly away. It darted through the sky, snapping at insects, then came back to rest on Rhiannon‟s shoulder, rubbing her cheek with its smooth beak. There it rode, all the way back to Sorrowgate Tower, up the narrow dark stairs and into Rhiannon‟s cell. That night, Rhiannon did not eat alone, staring at the blank wall. She shared her supper with the bluebird, listening to its liquid song with a painful swelling in her heart.

“He made ye for me,” she whispered to it, holding out a seed for it to peck. “Ye‟re mine now.”

Walking the Dream-Road

O
lwynne followed Ghislaine Dream-Walker through the trees, her eyes downcast. Although she had seen the green-eyed sorceress many times before, she had never spoken to her and she could not help feeling nervous.

Ghislaine was a beautiful woman, with hair the color of corn hanging to her feet. Her face was pale and the skin under her eyes was faintly touched with purple, as if she slept uneasily. There was a faraway quality to her, as if she was touched only lightly by the demands of this existence.

Olwynne had heard that she took many lovers, though she was so ethereal it was hard to imagine her feeling any earthly desires.

Ghislaine was dressed in a loose white gown fastened at the waist with a cord from which hung a black-handled silver dagger. Around her neck hung a small silver shield engraved with the shape of a flowering tree, and she wore three rings on each hand, green and white and blue. She was a powerful sorceress, descended directly from Aislinna the Dreamer herself, mother to daughter for a thousand years. Her cousin, Melisse NicThanach, ruled Blèssem, and her elder sister, Gilliane, had inherited the throne of Aslinn only a few years earlier. Ghislaine herself had spent the winter in Aslinn, overlooking the rebuilding of the ruined Tower of Dreamers, and had returned to Lucescere only the day before. Soon she would go back to Aslinn, to head the new tower and begin her own school. But for now she had resumed her usual role at the Tower of Two Moons, teaching the senior students and walking the dream-road in service of the Coven.

No wonder she was always so pale and bruised under the eyes.

Olwynne was feeling rather pale and bruised herself. She had hardly slept the last few weeks.

Every night she replayed in her mind‟s eye the sight of Lewen holding his black-haired satyricorn girl in his arms. Olwynne saw again the moment that Lewen had run his hand down the curve of Rhiannon‟s waist, and the way the girl had flowed into his arms, mouth to mouth, breast to breast, groin to groin. She tortured herself with imaginings of what had gone on inside the cell. She had scolded herself silently.
They would no’ dare
, she told herself.
They would no’

have time. Surely they are only talking. . . .

But Lewen had come out, flushed and heavy-eyed, his tunic askew, his curls rumpled, a smile playing on his lips. He had hardly acknowledged Olwynne, lost in his own thoughts. It was clear to Olwynne that Lewen and the satyricorn were lovers, and that she had lost any chance of winning him for herself. Every time she thought of it, Olwynne was scalded with a bewildering mix of scorn, dismay, jealousy, and humiliation. Here she was, a brilliant scholar, learned and literate, able to match Lewen word for word in battles of wit, able to read the old languages, sing and play the clàrsach, quote from the old masters, navigate a ship by the stars, and work out difficult mathematical equations; a banprionnsa, descended on both sides from the First Coven of Witches, daughter to the Rìgh, niece to the Keybearer, and ready and willing to lay all her wit, wisdom, and worldly goods at the unnoticing feet of Lewen the Whittler, son of a woodcutter‟s son and a tree-shifter.

Every night she went through the same cycle of emotion. First she would burn with indignation and anger, declaring her indifference to Lewen, her hope that he would be happy with his wild girl of the mountains, her utter scorn for men who could be wooed by a shapely figure and a pair of blue eyes. Then she would sink into a morass of utter mortification, only able to hope that no one had guessed how much deeper than friendship were her feelings for Lewen. She had

miscalculated, she had to admit, telling Isabeau about Lewen‟s wild ramblings on the night at the Nisse and Nixie. Not only had Lewen felt hurt and betrayed, and had drawn away from her, but Olwynne felt sure she had betrayed herself to her aunt. Isabeau had turned a very keen look on her, and Olwynne had often felt the Keybearer‟s gaze upon her since.

At times Olwynne hated herself, both for loving a man who did not love her in return and for the degree of antipathy and spite she felt towards her rival. It shocked her, that she could hate so intensely. At such times, black misery and despair overwhelmed her, and Olwynne would turn her face into her hot pillow to blot away the tears she could not control.

It did not help that, when she did finally fall asleep, her dreams were still haunted by black-winged horrors. Night after night, Olwynne jerked awake, unable to breathe, her heart pounding, oppressed by the utter certainty that evil crouched around the next corner. Often she lay awake the rest of the night.

Racked with misery and exhaustion, Olwynne moved through her days like a revenant, trying hard to retain her usual composure so no one would realize just how overwrought was her nervous system.

Isabeau must have guessed something of her state of mind, though, for she called Olwynne to her the moment Ghislaine returned to Lucescere.

“I want Ghislaine to walk the dream-road with ye and find the source o‟ all these nightmares,”

Isabeau said kindly. “I do no‟ like to see ye look so pale and wan.”

Olwynne was not at all sure she wanted to do this. Her dreams frightened her dreadfully. But she nodded her head and agreed, obedient and respectful as always.

So now, in the warm dusk of an early summer day, she followed the Dream-Walker through the shadowy forest to the sacred glade in the heart of the Tower of Two Moon‟s garden. The glade had been planted a thousand years earlier, by Martha the Wise. Seven enormous old trees grew in a circle, their branches knotted together. Ash, hazel, oak, blackthorn, fir, rowan, and yew, the seven trees sacred to the Coven. Beneath the trees grew soft grass and flowers—clover and angelica and heartseage —and a spring burbled nearby. The shape of a star within a circle was scored heavily into the soil.

Ghislaine led Olwynne into the circle and silently gestured to her to lie down. Olwynne obeyed, looking up at the intermingling leaves above. The sky was fading from blue to green. She could see the round uneven shape of the smaller moon through the leaves, looking almost transparent.

It was very quiet and peaceful here in the glade. Olwynne took a deep breath, feeling some of her tension leave her.

Quietly the sorceress set tall white candles at the six points of the star and anointed them with oil from little crystal bottles. Olwynne could smell rosemary, angelica, hawthorn, and gillyflowers, for healing, consecration, an increase of psychic powers, and protection against evil. Then she smelled lemon verbena, which she knew from her studies aided clear-seeing and clear-dreaming.

The aromatic oils worked on her senses, making her feel both more peaceful and more alert.

Then Ghislaine drew her knife and traced the shape of the circle and star, chanting:

“I consecrate and conjure thee,

O circle o’ magic, ring o’ power,

Keep us safe from harm, keep us safe from evil,

Guard us against treachery, keep us safe in your

eyes,

Eà o’ the moons.

I consecrate and conjure thee,

O star o’ spirit, pentacle o’ power,

Fill us with your dark fire, your fiery darkness,

Make o’ us your vessels, fill us with light,

Eà o’ the starry skies.”

She sprinkled the deeply scored lines with water and salt and ashes, each time chanting: “Keep us safe from harm, keep us safe from evil, open our eyes, open the door, draw aside the veils, keep our bodies safe, keep our spirits safe, I beg o‟ ye, O Eà o‟ the mysteries.”

Ghislaine then sat down cross-legged at the apex of the star, lifting Olwynne‟s head so it was cradled in her lap. She placed her fingers lightly on Olwynne‟s forehead, at the point between her brows where her third eye was meant to be.

“First we must sit the Ordeal,” she said. “From sunset to midnight, ye must no‟ move or speak.

Have ye fasted today?”

Olwynne nodded.

“Good. Make yourself as comfortable as ye can. Close your eyes. Listen now to the wind as it moves among the trees. Let it move through ye. Breathe deeply o‟ the good air, let it fill your body, let your body empty. Feel the earth beneath ye, feel it spin as it moves about the sun. Feel at one with the earth, feel at one with the darkness as it slowly falls upon the world, feel at one with the great trees reaching down deep into the soil, feel at one with the sun as it sinks away into night, feel at one with the moons as they fill the sky with radiance, feel at one with the wind, breathe now with the wind, breathe now with the earth, breathe now with the universe, breathe now . . .”

Olwynne was very tired. Within moments she felt herself spiraling away from the soft insistent voice. Meditation was part of Olwynne‟s daily routine, but never before had she felt such a quick or powerful response. She felt like she was falling. Some time passed, she did not know how long, before she became aware of Ghislaine‟s fingers tracing a spiral shape on her forehead as she began again to chant.

Around and around the chant went, spiraling with the touch of Ghislaine‟s voice. Only her voice and her touch kept Olwynne anchored. Otherwise she could have been floating in darkest space, untethered to any world. Then the circular motion stopped and Ghislaine pressed her fingertip hard against Olwynne‟s third eye.

“Ye are standing afore a door,” she whispered. “Reach out your hand and open the door.”

Olwynne saw with surprise that she was indeed standing before a door. It was green and had a knocker in the shape of a gargoyle‟s face. She lifted her hand and pushed it open. Beyond was a wild, desolate landscape. A pale road led away under low grey skies, through wind-blasted thorn trees. Perched on one of the thorn trees was a great black raven, as big as a gyrfalcon. Olwynne shrank back at the sight of it, but she felt someone take her hand reassuringly. Ghislaine stood there beside her.

“Do no‟ be afraid, Olwynne,” she said. “I am here. I shall walk the road with ye.”

The raven regarded them with a mocking yellow eye and gave its melancholy cry. Olwynne shook her head, leaning back against Ghislaine‟s hand. She remembered her dream, when a storm of ravens had whirled about her head, pecking at her eyes with their sharp beaks. At once she and Ghislaine were engulfed with frantically beating black wings and the scream of raven voices. Olwynne shrieked and tried to protect her head with her hands. One hand was held in a viselike grip. She tried to drag it away, but Ghislaine would not let her go.