The Shining City (59 page)

Fireworks were shooting up from the garth of the Tower of Two Moons, showering green and crimson sparks into the sky. Owein gazed towards the tower, wondering what Fèlice was doing.

He doubted she would be enjoying the midsummer festivities with the other students. Probably she was grieving quietly somewhere for her friend who she still thought was to be hanged.

She was not in her room. Owein knew that, for he had gone in search of her, to tell her the glad news of the royal pardon his father was issuing on Rhiannon‟s behalf. He wished he could have found her and told her, but there had been so little time. He had to get dressed for the wedding, and sit through all the interminable rites and rituals, and suffer the boredom of the feast. All the time feeling sick with anxiety, for he knew how upset Fèlice had been at the judges‟ verdict, and how much she had blamed him for not helping. All he had been able to do was leave her a message, begging her to meet him as soon as possible.

The dance came to an end. Owein bowed gracefully and led the giggling girl back to her mother.

He would have liked to have made his escape, but the determined mama had no intention of allowing him to escape easily. He was suffering her very unsubtle hints about the suitability of her daughter as a possible wife when a servant approached and bowed formally.

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” the lackey said.

Owein turned at once, trying not to show his relief and gratitude.

“Yes?” Owein asked.

The lackey drew him a little away. Owein did not recognize his face, but given the extra staff hired for the wedding, this was not surprising.

“Your Highness, I am sorry to disturb ye but there is a young lady who requested me to bring a message to ye,” the servant said in a discreetly lowered voice.

“A young lady?”

“Aye, Your Highness. Lady Fèlice de Valonis. She says she wishes the honor o‟ a word with ye, sir. In private.” The lackey‟s face was impassive.

“Really?” Owein‟s heart gave a little jump.

“Aye, Your Highness. She is in the rose arbor.”

Owein grinned. “I‟ll go at once,” he said, straightening up. “I do so hate to keep a lady waiting.”

“Aye, sir.”

Owein strode down the steps and on to the wide expanse of lawn lit by long oblongs of light from the banquet hall‟s windows. Thunder rumbled far away, and there was a flicker of lightning across the dark soft underbelly of cloud hanging so close over the trees. Rain splattered briefly on the leaves.

Bad omen
, he thought,
having a storm on Midsummer . . .

“Would ye bring me a bottle o‟ the sparkling honey rose wine?” Owein turned suddenly to the lackey, who was bowing low as the Prionnsa went past. “Very cold, please. Oh, and two glasses, properly chilled.”

“Aye, sir. At once, sir.”

Feeling much more cheerful, Owein strode out across the lawn, the wind whipping his unruly curls out of his neat, ribbon-bound ponytail, the cypress trees bending and creaking so their long shadows on the candlelit grass looked like fingers shaken in reproof. He spread his wings, just to feel the hot air ruffling his feathers, and gave a little bound.
How like Fèlice
, he thought.
Clandestine assignations in the rose arbor at midnight . . .

Behind him, he heard a sudden cry of alarm, and the music jangled to a halt.

Oh, no
, Owein thought.
No’ again.

He knew his brother was holding his temper on a very short leash. Donncan had been hurt, shocked, and humiliated by the whole terrible affair with Mathias Bright-Eyed. He had found it hard to forgive Bronwen for flirting with Mathias in the first place, for exposing him to such a sordid scandal on the very eve of their wedding, and for her refusal to admit she was in the wrong and apologize to him. All evening, watching Donncan‟s stiff face as Bronwen danced and flirted as much as ever, Owein had had a very bad feeling. He had not thought it would take much for Donncan to lose his temper, and by the sounds of distress rising from the banquet hall, he had done so explosively.

It did not occur to Owein to turn and see what had happened. All his thoughts were focused on Fèlice waiting for him in the rose arbor.
Let Donncan sort out his own mess
, he thought.

The tall golden windows fell out of sight behind stiff dark hedges. Owein conjured a little ball of witch-light so he could see his way. It bobbed and swayed in the breeze, and almost flickered out, Owein too busy wondering what to say to Fèlice to concentrate on holding it steady. He came through an archway into the rose arbor and looked about for her. The scent of the roses was heavy in the breeze, and crimson petals flew past him, torn free by the wind. All was dark.

Owein walked slowly, feeling his silken sleeve snagged by thorns he could not see.

He saw a cloaked shape in the stone-flagged circle at the heart of the garden and smiled.

“Fèlice?” he called.

The figure turned towards him. Owein intensified his witch-light, stepping forward eagerly. Then he recoiled in disappointment. It was not Fèlice who stood there but a tall, thin, stooped man with a sensitive, apologetic face. He had the familiar hunched shape of a piper, his bagpipes slung over one shoulder.

“I‟m sorry,” Owein said, stepping back and turning to go.

“Nay, Your Highness, it is I who am sorry,” the man said contritely.

Only then did Owein become aware of other men closing in from behind, one of them the grey-clad lackey who had directed him here. Owein felt instinctively for his sword, but of course he had not worn it to his brother‟s wedding. He glanced around wildly, spread his wings, and sprang into the air, only to be caught in a tight-meshed net that was thrown over him by the three men.

Owein thrashed and fought, but they held him down.

“I really am so sorry,” the lord of Fettercairn‟s piper said as he kneeled beside him. He held a strong-smelling cloth over Owein‟s mouth and nose until at last the Prionnsa‟s frantic movements faltered and grew still. Then the piper stood up and gestured to the other men, who wrapped Owein in the net and heaved him up, carrying the limp bundle out of the rose arbor and into the darkness of the wind-ruffled gardens.

Iseult cradled Lachlan in her arms. The Rìgh thrashed in agony, his face a mottled purple, his mouth frothing.

“Eà‟s blood!” Iseult wept. “Someone help him!”

“We need a healer!” Donncan cried. He kneeled beside his parents, white with shock and distress. “Look, Mam!” He pointed at a black thorn protruding from his father‟s throat.

“Don‟t touch it!” Iseult commanded sharply. “It may make it worse. Isabeau! Where is Isabeau!”

“I‟m here.” Isabeau pushed her way through the horrified crowd and kneeled beside her brother-in-law. “What in Eà‟s name happened?”

“It‟s a bogfaery dart,” Donncan said.

“Who did this?” Captain Dillon demanded, his hand on his sword. “Did anyone see anything?

Guards! Search the room! Find the man who did this!”

“It‟s a bogfaery dart,” Donncan said again, more loudly. “Whoever shot it would have a blowpipe.”

Captain Dillon spun on his heel. “No Yeoman would do this,” he said icily.

“I ken,” Donncan said, meeting his gaze steadily. “Bogfaeries and Yeomen are no‟ the only ones to have blowpipes, though. Someone in this crowd has one!”

Captain Dillon nodded. “Search everyone here,” he commanded. “No one is permitted to leave this room until we have found that blowpipe!”

The Rìgh cried out and arched his back. His arms flailed. His protruding eyes stared into Iseult‟s anguished face. He tried to speak, but his lips and throat were rigid. He could not frame the sound.

“What,
leannan
, what?” Iseult cried.

The Rìgh‟s tortured gaze moved slowly from her face to that of his son. He jerked one hand at him, and they heard him stammer, “Donn . . . Donn . . .”

“I‟m here,
Dai-dein,
” Donncan said, taking his father‟s palsied hand. Lachlan‟s lips were blue and flecked with foam. He jerkily tried to draw Donncan closer, and the winged Prionnsa bent his head and listened as his father whispered in his ear.

“No, no,
Dai-dein,
” Donncan cried. “No, we will make ye well. Auntie Beau! Help him!”

Isabeau had pulled the thorn out and had her mouth pressed to the tiny scratch, trying to suck the poison out. Still Lachlan endeavored to speak, and Donncan gripped his hand and listened, tears glistening in his eyes.

“Aye, sir,” he said. “O‟ course.”

Lachlan‟s head fell back into Iseult‟s lap.

Isabeau lifted her head and spat out a mouthful of blood. “No good,” she panted. “I need . . . a healer! Someone, get Johanna!”

“I‟ll fetch her!” Donncan cried and scrambled to his feet. “I can fly faster than anyone could run.

Where is she?”

“In her rooms, I imagine . . . I ken she is angry and upset, but . . . surely she will come. . . . Tell her . . . need . . . antidote . . . Does she ken . . .?” Isabeau said, alternating thumping on Lachlan‟s chest with both her hands to breathing into his mouth. “Quick . . . his heart failing . . .

Cloudshadow! Find Cloudshadow . . . She could heal him!”

Isabeau stopped her rhythmic pounding to breathe into Lachlan‟s mouth. Donncan spread his golden wings and soared high into the air, over everyone‟s heads and out the door of the banquet hall. Never had he flown so fast.

It was beginning to rain, huge heavy drops that splattered his skin. Donncan flew high over the gardens, his head down, his arms stretched long to make his passage as swift as possible. It was hard to breathe. He felt as if a vise had been clamped on his lungs. Tears burned his eyes, and he bent his arm to roughly wipe his nose.

Take the Lodestar
, his father had whispered.
Rule well . . .

Donncan saw the dark bulk of the Tower of Two Moons ahead of him. He came down,

stumbling, before the light-strung building and began to run, ignoring the groups of laughing, wine-flushed students gathered on the steps, who all turned to stare after him. Once he was inside the great doors of the Royal College of Healers, he spread his wings again and took flight, soaring up the grand spiral staircase.

It was dark in the healers‟ tower, and quiet. Only the occasional lantern shed its lonely circle of light. He wondered momentarily where everyone was.

He reached the top of the stairs and hammered on the head healer‟s door. “Johanna! Johanna!”

The door opened. Johanna looked out. For once she was not dressed in her treasured green healer‟s robe but in a brown woolen traveling dress with sturdy boots and a waterproof cape.

Donncan barely noticed.

Gasping for breath, he cried, “Johanna! My father . . . the Rìgh . . . he needs ye. . . .”

“Good,” Johanna said, smiling. “It is done then.”

Donncan fell back in dismayed confusion.

“But . . . what do ye mean? . . . Ye canna mean . . .”

Johanna unsheathed a long, cruelly sharp dagger from a leather scabbard hanging from her belt.

“I do, I‟m afraid.”

He stumbled back. “Ye kent . . . ye kent my father . . .”

“He pardoned that murdering satyricorn bitch,” Johanna said unevenly. “After all the years that Connor and I have served him, risking our necks again and again, and yet when Connor is killed, he doesna care enough even to make sure justice is done. I would no‟ have helped them if he had just let things be, no matter how they pleaded or argued. . . . He is my Rìgh, after all. But once he told me she would no‟ hang . . .”

Donncan stared at the dagger, which she held close to her body as she had been taught long ago by his own mother. He took a step back, and at once the knife darted forward like an adder, so that he stopped, hands raised.

“What do ye plan to do?”

“I must be the one to raise him,” she whispered, looking past Donncan into the shadowy corridor so that he jerked around to see what she stared at, only to find nothing but air. “He swore he would live again; he swore he‟d outwit Gearradh in the end. . . .”

“Who?” Donncan whispered, his skin prickling with horror.

Johanna glanced back at him and for a moment did not seem to know who he was. Then she stepped forward and rammed the dagger tip against Donncan‟s ribs so that he gasped in pain and surprise. “Inside,” she said, and he had no choice but to step into her room, though his heart slammed in sick fear.

Surprise made him stop short on the threshold, and Johanna jabbed him viciously so that he stepped forward again, crying, “Thunderlily!”

The young Celestine was lying on the couch, dressed in her silver bridesmaid‟s dress, her head lolling down onto her chest. Her hands had been bound with heavy rope.

“But why?” Donncan asked, turning slowly to stare at Johanna.

“The laird o‟ Fettercairn wishes ye to die, as his little nephew died so long ago, and I need a living soul to sacrifice,” she said in the same tone of voice that she might have used to discuss the weather. “I kent someone would come to get me. I was hoping it‟d be ye or your good-for-naught little brother, seeing as how ye can fly faster than any lackey could run. Dedrie will be so pleased with me.”

“Who?” Donncan asked again, edging away from the sharp tip of the dagger and hoping to distract her.

She moved with him, keeping her body turned so he could find no opening to strike at her.

“Dedrie, the laird o‟ Fettercairn‟s skeelie. She has become a great friend to me, loyal and true. I ken
she
shall no‟ betray me, as Himself did with his royal pardon. . . . She stayed here, at great risk to herself, just to make sure she could testify against that murdering bitch . . . and then Himself goes and pardons her! It‟s true—he cares naught for those who love and serve him.

Look at the way he used up all those poor laddies, Parlan and Artair and Anntoin and Tòmas, all dead in his service, and now Connor too.”

As she talked, she forced Donncan forward and bade him sit. He obeyed reluctantly, and she took up a little bottle from the table and poured herself a cup of some rich golden liquid with brown dregs in it that she stirred with the tip of her knife, her hands trembling with eagerness.