The Shining City (29 page)

insurgents. Lachlan, tell me, have ye any enemies that may be wishing to assassinate ye?”

Lachlan twisted his mouth, flinging himself back in his chair. “Any new ones, do ye mean? For all rìghrean have enemies. Ye ken that. In every court there are those hungry for power and riches, or those who believe they have some grudge.”

“But any that hate ye enough to plan your death? For that is a desperate enterprise, the killing o‟

a king.”

Lachlan nodded. “Aye, that it is. No matter how greedy one may be, regicide is surely the last resort. The whole country would be plunged into chaos, and happen even civil war. No one prospers then, except perhaps the undertakers.”

He paused and rubbed his temples wearily. “Unless, o‟ course, it was no‟ just me ye wished to remove but the whole edifice o‟ power. It would have to be someone who wished to knock down all that I have built, happen someone who rues the day the Coven o‟ Witches were returned to power, even though twenty-odd years have passed. The Coven has its enemies. Ye ken that better than I, Isabeau.”

The Keybearer nodded, her face somber. She glanced at Iseult, who was struggling to bring herself back under control.

“I distrust this new Fealde in Tìrsoilleir,” the Rìgh continued. “My spies tell me she is preaching a return to the days o‟ the Bright Soldiers. . . . Och, no‟ overtly. She would no‟ be such a fool!

But softly and slyly, and more dangerously because o‟ it. If she had uttered a single word o‟

treason I could have her arrested and put on trial, or at the very least suggest strongly that she be replaced. But, nay, it is all hints and innuendoes, and I canna arrest her for those.”

Iseult took a deep breath and smoothed out her crushed skirt. “Tìrsoilleir is a thorn in our side,”

she said in a voice that shook only slightly. “Their tithes are always late and too small, and the soldiers they send to join the Greycloaks are sullen and unwilling.”

“They send us few acolytes for the Theurgia either,” Isabeau said, frowning, “and

journeywitches there are always reporting difficulties. None has faced anything worse than curses and insults, and perhaps a few rotten apples, but no one likes to be chosen to travel there.

It does no‟ take much for rotten fruit to become stones.”

“So do ye think it is the Fealde that wants ye dead,
Dai-dein
?” Owein demanded. “Surely she would no‟ dare!”

“We are a long way from Tìrsoilleir,” Isabeau said, massaging her tired eyes with her fingers.

“Would her arm reach so far?”

“There is trouble closer to home too,” Iseult said dryly. “That wool-witted bairn o‟ yours causes waves wherever she goes. I swear she delights in vexing us and making Donncan look a fool!”

Isabeau looked troubled. “Bronwen is no‟ as wool-witted as ye seem to think,” she said defensively. “But I take your point. There must be those who think she would be easier to sway than ye, Lachlan, particularly if she felt herself beholden to them for winning her the throne.”

“So ye think she wants it?” Lachlan said indifferently, toying with the brooch that pinned his plaid together.

Isabeau was not deceived. She bit her lip, then said frankly, “I do no‟ think so. I hope no‟. For it could only be won with a great deal o‟ bloodshed and misery, and to what avail? She will sit on the throne in time anyway, when she and Donncan wed. Ye may think her shallow and frivolous, Iseult, and indeed I do no‟ blame ye, but she is no‟ malicious or cruel. Why incite civil war to gain a crown she will wear anyway?”

“Only as Donncan‟s wife, though, no‟ as the true heir,” Lachlan said softly. “And she willna carry the Lodestar.”

“True enough,” Isabeau admitted. “Do ye think she wants to?”

Lachlan put out one lazy hand and caressed the glowing white sphere that stood in a special stand near his chair. At the touch of his fingers, it glowed more brightly and a delicate strain of music wafted through the room.

“O‟ course she does,” he said, quirking one side of his mouth in a sardonic expression so characteristic it had driven a line deep into his lean cheek.

True-hooh
, the owl said softly, opening its eyes wide and then shutting them again.

Isabeau sighed.

Made by Lachlan‟s ancestor Aedan Whitelock, the first Rìgh, the Lodestar responded only to the hand of a MacCuinn, killing anyone else who touched it. It had taken the current Rìgh many years to master its powers, but in the end he had succeeded, vanquishing the Fairgean, faeries of the sea, who had sought to drown the land and all who lived upon it. Lachlan had almost died in the attempt, and the Lodestar would have been lost if Bronwen had not dived down through the raging waters and seized it. Together she and Donncan had managed to raise it high, the two children together calling upon its magical powers.

The cousins had been betrothed soon after, their proposed wedding sealing the peace treaty between human and Fairgean. When Lachlan died, they would sit the throne and rule the land together. Only one could wield the Lodestar, though. Isabeau had no doubt that Lachlan was right and Bronwen wished it was to be her.

“I canna see that assassinating ye would secure Bronwen the Lodestar, anyway,” Isabeau said tartly. “Ye have named Donncan as heir. If someone wanted Bronwen to rule alone, they would have to kill him too.”

Iseult‟s whole body went rigid. “Do we have cause to fear this?” she said in a very low, dangerous voice.

“I dinna think so,” Lachlan reassured her. “They would have to kill Owein and Olwynne too, surely, if that was their plan. They are next in line to the throne after Donncan, no‟ Bronwen.”

Owein looked from his father‟s face to his mother‟s, looking suddenly white and frightened.

Lewen wondered if this was the first time he had ever realized that being a MacCuinn had its dangers and responsibilities as well as its privileges. The Rìgh saw his son‟s glance and smiled at him reassuringly.

“Unless, o‟ course, these mysterious assassins believe that Bronwen is the true heir, being the daughter o‟ your elder brother,” Isabeau argued. “Ever since she turned twenty-four last September, there have been more reports o‟ people recalling those auld stories, o‟ how she was named Banrìgh for just one day—”

“It was no‟ a day,” Lachlan said in exasperation. “A matter o‟ hours only. And she was naught but a newborn babe. How could she have ruled?”

“She could no‟ have, o‟ course,” Isabeau answered. “But the point is, ye did no‟ name her Banrìgh-in-waiting and appoint yourself as the Regent until she was auld enough to rule. Ye took the throne for yourself and named your children heirs—”

Lachlan leaped to his feet, shoving his chair back so hard it crashed over to the floor. “She was the Ensorcellor‟s get!” he roared. “A Fairgean half-breed!”

“She‟s only one-quarter Fairgean,” Isabeau pointed out reasonably. “And the sea faeries are our friends and allies now, remember.”

“Her mother cold-bloodedly seduced my brother and married him just so she could break the back o‟ our power,” Lachlan cried, his wings flaring open. “She murdered hundreds and

thousands o‟ innocent men, women, and children. Her daughter was only conceived with the help o‟ a Spell o‟ Begetting, and even then Maya sought the most evil time for her conception and birth—”

“Except Bronwen was premature, thanks to me,” Isabeau said.

“The point is she‟s the Ensorcellor‟s daughter!”

“The point is she‟s Jaspar‟s daughter,” Isabeau said softly. “Do no‟ glare at me like that, Lachlan. I am simply reminding ye what people are saying. I had no‟ heard those auld tales for many a long year, but since Bronwen has turned twenty-four, I‟ve been hearing them again, from all over the country. Nina and Iven heard them in Ravenshaw only a few weeks ago. There are some that call ye the Auld Pretender, I‟ve heard.”

“What!”

“Dinna tease him, Isabeau! Lachlan, ye ken none o‟ this is news. Sit down and stop shouting at Beau. Do ye want the whole court to hear ye?”

Lachlan took a deep breath. Slowly his wings sank down, and the yellow glare went out of his eyes. He picked up his chair and sat down, his arms crossed over his burly chest, his brows knotted. He looked at Isabeau angrily.

“What I‟m trying to say is Bronwen has no need to have ye killed,” Isabeau said gently. “She will rule in time anyway, hand in hand with Donncan, who adores her. Ye say she would like to wield the Lodestar. Well, happen that is true. Who is to say that she and Donncan canna raise the Lodestar together, like they did at the Battle o‟ Bonnyblair? Either way, I do no‟ believe Bronwen wishes to inherit a land soaked in blood.”

“Happen no‟,” Lachlan said heavily. “But what o‟ those who seek to find power for themselves through her? It is hard to challenge an established order. I have been Rìgh now for twenty-four years; I have proved myself worthy o‟ the crown. But if I was dead, and the court in chaos—

well, it would be easier then to challenge the legitimacy o‟ Donncan‟s claim and to set Bronwen up as rival.”

“It would have to be done soon then,” Iseult said. “Afore she and Donncan were married.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Mathias Bright-Eyed opened it with a bow, and Roy Steward came in, carrying a tray. He bowed to the Rìgh, gave the Banrìgh a smaller genuflection, inclined his head to the Keybearer, laid the tray down quietly on the table, and then withdrew.

Lewen went and poured the twin sisters each a cup of hot rose-hip tea with a swirl of honey.

They accepted it with thanks, and he went back to the table to make the dancey for the Rìgh.

Once it was brewed, he poured the seething black liquid into a small cup for Lachlan, adding a dash of mare‟s milk.

“I‟ll have a drop o‟ the water o‟ life too, I think,” the Rìgh said with a wry twist of his mouth.

“It‟s no‟ every day ye hear death‟s bells.”

“Aye, my laird,” Lewen said, and poured in a generous measure of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the sideboard.

“Give Owein some as well,” the Rìgh instructed. “It‟s been a shock for him too.”

Owein accepted the cup of whiskey-laced dancey with thanks and tossed it back with a grimace.

Lewen poured him another cup, glad to see some color returning to his friend‟s face.

“Sit down, lad,” Iseult said, sipping her tea with a grateful sigh. “I think the squiring lessons are over for the day. Ye too, Lewen. Get yourself a cup o‟ something if ye like.”

Lewen shook his head shyly and sat down on a chair against the wall, grateful to take his weight off his feet but uncomfortable to be on such terms of intimacy with the Rìgh and Banrìgh.

Although he knew Lachlan counted his father as a good friend, Lewen was still very much in awe of the royal couple.

There was a long moment of frowning silence; then Isabeau said, “Let us no‟ get too hung up on the idea that any assassination threat must be linked to Bronwen. Ye have other enemies, surely?”

Lachlan shot her a rueful glance. “Who, me?”

Who, you-hooh?
the owl asked.

Isabeau managed a smile.

“Ye spoke afore o‟ Ravenshaw,” Iseult said. “Could this dream o‟ Olwynne‟s be linked to the news Iven and Nina brought us about all the murders there? I mean, Olwynne did dream o‟

ravens.”

Isabeau nodded. “That thought has been very much in my mind.”

“It surely is no coincidence that I have two hanging charges on my hands at once,” Lachlan said.

“There is the satyricorn girl who killed Connor, and the laird o‟ Fettercairn, charged with necromancy, o‟ all things.”

“Could it be one o‟ them who seeks to kill ye?” Iseult asked. “Perhaps to stop the death penalty from being passed?”

“Do no‟ forget that Connor was on his way to us with news when he was killed,” Lachlan said.

“He would no‟ have tried to cross the Razor‟s Edge without sore need. Nina and Iven have pleaded for clemency on the satyricorn‟s behalf, but I canna help but wonder if she kent the news Connor was carrying and killed him so the news could no‟ reach us.”

Lewen‟s cheeks burned, and he had to bite back a sudden rush of angry words. Isabeau glanced his way, and he turned his gaze to his boots.

“What news could he have had?” Iseult wondered.

“Connor was with my uncle when he died,” Lachlan said. “Malcolm was often called mad, but though he was certainly eccentric, he was no fool. Perhaps he knew something o‟ this nest o‟

necromancers? If what Nina and Iven suspect is true, the laird o‟ Fettercairn is responsible for countless kidnappings and murders as well as grave robbing and the calling up o‟ the spirits o‟

the dead.”

Lewen could keep quiet no longer. “It is true,” he said indignantly. “I was there!”

Lachlan looked at him with interest. “Aye, I ken ye were, lad. But ye did no‟ see the necromancy yourself, did ye?”

“Nay,” Lewen admitted. “But I saw them try to kill Rhiannon, to stop her talking o‟ it. And I was there when they kidnapped Roden.”

“And ye‟ll be called to testify at Lord Malvern‟s trial, no doubt,” Iseult said coolly, “but, for now, do ye ken aught about the news Connor was carrying from Ravenscraig?”

It was a snub. Lewen colored hotly and muttered, “Nay, my lady.”

“Well, then,” Iseult said and turned back to Lachlan, who scratched his beard ruminatively.

“I have to wonder why, if Malcolm did ken about the necromancy and so on, he did naught about it? Apparently it‟s been going on for years.”

Lewen could have told them why, but he stared at his boots and said nothing.

“Nina says everyone who lives in the Fetterness Valley is too afraid and too much in awe o‟ the laird to say a thing,” Isabeau said, as if reading his mind.

“And if that was the news Connor carried, why would he feel it was o‟ such urgency that he risked coming through the Whitelock Mountains? As far as I ken, the last time anyone came safely over the Razor‟s Edge was when Duncan Ironheart and I fled the Red Guards in

Ravenshaw. That was no‟ long afore I first met ye, Isabeau.” He turned his brooding yellow gaze to Isabeau‟s face.

Isabeau nodded. Her gaze dropped down to her fingers entwined in her lap.