The Shining City (53 page)

“I will live again,” she whispered, in a deep, rasping voice, “and ye shall be the one to raise me.”

B
ronwen lay in her ocean-green, gauze-hung bed and tried to tell herself that this was the happiest day of her life.
All brides feel anxious on their wedding day
, she told herself.
It’s only
wedding jitters. Nerves. That’s all it is.
But Bronwen knew the leaden lump of misery in the pit of her stomach was not normal. A bride should not lie in her lonely bed on the morning of her wedding fighting back tears.

Bronwen tried to think of her husband-to-be objectively. He was heir to the throne of Eileanan, young, tall, strong, good-looking, and intelligent. Certainly every girl Bronwen knew would think her lucky indeed.

He would not dance, which was a major strike against him, and he was a weak swimmer,

hampered as he was by his heavy golden wings. This made him a poor mate for one of Fairgean ancestry, she thought. Bronwen had to swim in salt water every day, for the health of both body and spirit.

He loved music as much as she did, though, and there was no one with whom she would rather play a duet, or go to the music halls and theater.

He was far too serious and would not dress up and act in masques or follies, nor would he write poetry extolling her eyes or her lips. Bronwen had begun to find that one love poem was much like another love poem, however, and Donncan at least could make her laugh out loud, which was something few could do.

She thought of him as one of her best and dearest friends. She had known him all her life. He was her cousin. They shared the white lock that bonding with the Lodestar had seared at their brow. It was the visible insignia of their lineage from Cuinn the Wise, the leader of the First Coven of Witches, who had commanded the amazing and perilous journey across time and space from the Other World, the true home of humans, to this world, a land of scattered islands floating in a boundless ocean.

Cuinn the Wise had died in the Crossing, but his son had survived to found this ancient city of Lucescere, and the MacCuinn clan. In time one of his descendants, Aedan Whitelock, had been crowned Rìgh of all Eileanan. It was Aedan MacCuinn who had created the Lodestar, using its magic to quell the warfaring faeries of the sea and bring peace to the human inhabitants of the island, at least. All those born into the MacCuinn clan were given the Lodestar to hold as a babe, forging a bond that never corroded. Bronwen could hear the song of the Lodestar in her dreams.

She always knew where it was, even when Lachlan was far away traveling the land. She

remembered how it had responded to the touch of her hand, all those years ago when she had saved it from being lost in the waves at the Battle of Bonnyblair. She had never been permitted to touch it since, though Donncan and the twins had often been given it to play with as children.

If it had been up to Lachlan to decide, she would never have been allowed to bond with it at all.

It was her mother, Maya, who had brought Bronwen to the Lodestar, not her uncle, who had seized the magical sphere from her and, with it, the Crown.

This was an old resentment, though, like having to endure her mother being named the

Ensorcellor, or having to watch her scrub floors at the witches‟ tower. It had not been easy being the Ensorcellor‟s daughter. It had not been easy being of Fairgean descent, either, no matter how many peace treaties were signed. Hardest of all had been having one‟s mother rendered mute during all the years of one‟s growing up, unable to comfort or advise her in times of trouble.

Bronwen‟s mother could not sing her a lullaby, or share a joke, or tell her a story, or say that she loved her.

It had been such a relief, such a joy, to find the spell broken with the death of the old nyx, Ceit Anna. The morning after the nyx‟s death flight had been the happiest of Bronwen‟s life. She had been woken by the eerie wailing of the nyx‟s dirge but was slipping back towards sleep when she had heard, deep in her mind, her name called, and then a single exultant word.
Come!

Bronwen had not heard her mother‟s voice since she was seven years old but she knew it at once.

She had leaped out of her bed, scrambled into the first dress she could find, and then crept through the dark sleeping palace, avoiding the guards. It had been the night of the full moon.

Bronwen had made her way through the silver and black garden with a thumping heart. She had not dared conjure a witch-light so close to the witches‟ tower, knowing they would sense magic being used, and so she had had to find her way like a blind girl, hands stretched out before her, feet feeling their way. It had been exhilarating.

At last she had come to the servants‟ quarters at the Tower of Two Moons, heart pounding so hard she thought it would choke her. Maya had been waiting for her, her door held open just a crack to show a thin sliver of warm light. She had drawn Bronwen in without a word, so that her heart had sunk with disappointment. But then, once the door was shut fast behind them, Maya had embraced her, whispering hoarsely, “Bronwen, my darling girl!”

Her voice, once so rich and sweet and warm, had been harsh and cracked after so many years of disuse, but it was still the most beautiful sound Bronwen had ever heard. She had wept and hugged her mother hard, and then at once begun to think of ways of keeping her mother‟s secret safe.

For no one must know that Maya was mute no longer. All of Maya‟s considerable power was contained in her voice—the power to charm, to compel, to sing and seduce and enthrall. If the Rìgh had known the ribbon Ceit Anna had woven to bind Maya‟s voice had dissolved upon her death, he would have ordered another made at once.

There had not been much time. Bronwen had known she could not be the only one to wake at the sound of the nyx‟s lament. Already it was growing light. Birds were beginning to sing. So Bronwen had stepped away from her mother‟s embrace and seized her scissors from the

workbasket on the table. She had grasped a hank of her own hair in her hand and chopped it off, then swiftly twisted and plaited it into a long black ribbon, whispering as many spells as she could remember as she wove—spells of binding and containment, dark spells of negativity and silence, and bright spells to deflect suspicion. Bronwen had barely had time to knot the ribbon about her mother‟s throat before the Keybearer‟s imperious knock had sounded on Maya‟s door.

While her mother had answered the door, Bronwen had thrust the scissors back in the basket and the basket under the table. She had then done her best to pretend all was as usual.

So far the deception had not failed. No one suspected Maya was no longer mute. She went about her work as silently and obediently as ever, speaking to Bronwen only when they were sure no one was listening. Deep in the witches‟ wood, at night or in the dawn when no one was about, Maya sang and shouted and laughed and declaimed spells as loudly and exultantly as she liked, reacquainting herself with the range and subtlety of her powers.

She had disguised herself in a glamourie and walked out into the city as freely as any other woman, pausing to chat with the fishwives and the flower sellers, to buy herself a cup of wine at the market and laugh with the crowd at the antics of the jongleurs. Bronwen knew of these forays and approved, having resented the bitter silence and loneliness of her mother‟s life, cut off forever from normal human communication.

When she had heard of a new singer at one of the inns in the faery quarter who was causing a sensation with her treasonous songs, however, Bronwen had known at once that it was her mother, and her heart had quailed. She would much have preferred her mother to keep herself safe. Although Bronwen felt a certain sour melancholy that she would only ever be Banrìgh in name, as the Rìgh‟s consort, she had grown resigned to that many years earlier. She had no desire to start another civil war. Bronwen had lived through one, and that was more than enough.

She knew Donncan to be a gentle, loving, courteous man who valued her wit as much as her beauty. She would have power and influence in plenty, without having to enforce it with the slash of a sword.

Bronwen had begged Maya not to go to the Nisse and Nixie anymore. “There are cluricauns in that crowd, and witches, Mama. Ye ken they can see through any glamourie! They will recognize ye.”

“If I see a cluricaun, I‟ll slip away, I promise.”

“What about a witch, or anyone else with the gift o‟ clear-seeing?”

“Very well, then, I‟ll wear a mask. That‟ll only add to the air o‟ intrigue.”

“But why, Mama? Why draw such attention to yourself? Ye canna really hope to throw Uncle Lachlan off the throne, can ye? I do no‟ want ye to, truly!”

Maya‟s mouth had set into the adamantine line Bronwen knew so well. “Ye would no‟ deny me the pleasure o‟ a small revenge, would ye?” she said. “I do no‟ want to throw him off the throne, just to make him uneasy on it. Slip a burr under the saddle, as it were.”

“But if ye are discovered . . .”

“I will no‟ do it for long, I promise,” Maya said. “In a few weeks‟ time I‟ll start singing somewhere else.”

“But, Mama . . .”

Maya had smiled at her and said softly, “It is petty, I ken, but deeply satisfying nonetheless. And it will no‟ do ye any harm, my dear, for the court to remember ye are the true heir.”

Bronwen knew this to be true and so did not try to dissuade her, though she remained anxious in case Maya‟s disguise was penetrated. If there had not been so much else for the court to gossip about that summer, an investigation into the perfidious singer would probably have been launched, but Maya‟s small rebellion had gone largely unremarked, to her disappointment, and so their secret had remained safe.

Bronwen‟s lip curled in scorn as she remembered how Donncan had assumed she had cut off a lock of her hair as some kind of love token, as if she was a frivolous country miss without sense or morals, and not a daughter fighting to keep her mother safe. The very next instant, though, tears smarted her eyes, for it hurt Bronwen that Donncan, her cousin and dear friend, could so underestimate her. And his suspicion, and her hurt pride, had erected a wall of coldness between them that Bronwen did not know how to dismantle.

The weeks between May Day and Midsummer‟s Day had only seen the wall grow higher, for an inquiry had been called into Mathias Bright-Eyed‟s death that had seen his relationship with Bronwen examined exhaustively. Every dance, every conversation, every flirtation Bronwen had enjoyed over the past year or so was scrutinized, and many of Bronwen‟s friends and servants were called to give evidence, much to her chagrin. Although the inquiry had eventually found Donncan innocent of any wrongdoing and established that the relationship between the guard and the Banprionnsa had been no more than occasional dance partners, still it had galled Bronwen badly to have her behavior inspected so closely.

During all this time Donncan had remained cool and distant, never seeking her out, and when forced into her company, giving her only the politest of exchanges. His parents, too, seemed to view her with disfavor, something Bronwen could not entirely blame them for since the list of her parties, masques, and escapades was long enough and silly enough to make her squirm with mortification. She could not explain even to herself why she had embarked on such an expensive and frivolous way of life after graduating from the Theurgia. It may have had something to do with the fact that she was not permitted to join the Coven and study to be a sorceress, despite her obvious Talents. It was always the custom to keep Crown and Coven independent of one

another, and so any of the prionnsachan who wished to pursue their magical studies must, like Finn the Cat, abdicate any claim to their country‟s throne.

Or perhaps it was because Donncan, the acknowledged heir to the throne, had been sent away on a tour of the country he would one day be ruling, to learn what he could of its people, while Bronwen was kept kicking her heels at court. Perhaps it was just pique that Donncan was away from her for so long. She could not explain it, and so she just raised a brow to the inquiry and said languidly, “Well, any antidote to boredom.”

Donncan had frowned and turned away from her, and Bronwen had tossed her head and

pretended she did not care. She did, though. She cared very much. She had not been able to forget the horror of the May Day feast, when Mathias‟s dagger had sunk so inexorably into his own flesh and cut short his bright, careless life. Again and again Bronwen went over it, wishing she could have the time again. Why had she not realized how dangerous her lighthearted flirtation had been? She had not meant to cause any harm.

But harm she had caused, and now Mathias was dead. He would never again dance the galliard, or bow over a pretty girl‟s hand, or wrestle with his friends.

And Donncan would never be able to forgive her. She saw that in his face every time he turned his eyes away from her. All of their lives, he had adored her and championed her. She could do no wrong in his eyes. But that was all over. Everything had changed.

Tears seeped out between Bronwen‟s lids and she put up a hand to wipe them away. At her movement Maura rose from her chair by the door and came trotting over. She was not much bigger than a child, though her plum-black skin was heavily wrinkled. Her eyes were huge and sad, and as lustrous as a pool of ink.

“What wrong?” she whispered. “Ye sad, Miss Bron?”

Bronwen tried to smile. “Och, nay! I‟m grand! And hungry as a horse. Where is my breakfast?”

“I go get,” Maura said. “Ye stay.”

As the bogfaery went to call the maids, Bronwen rubbed away her tears ferociously, exhorting herself not to be a fool. She sat up and eagerly took the cup of hot dancey that Maura brought her and drank it down in three great gulps, burning her tongue but feeling at once its buzz in her blood.

“Is it dawn yet? Have I missed the singing o‟ the summerbourne?”

Maura shook her head. “No sing-sing yet. I no‟ let my miss sleep too long. No‟ good, on wedding day, to thumb Rìgh so.”