The Tower of Ravens (25 page)

“And about sleeping outside, I see no reason why Rhiannon canna sleep under the stars if she so wishes. I often do in summer, I must admit. The ground’s a little too cold for me at this time o‘ year but if Rhiannon does no’ mind, I do no‘ see why we should.”

“But…” Felice said doubtfully.

“Are ye worried about the proprieties? I wouldna be concerned, Felice. Witches rarely worry about such things. I for one ken Rhiannon can look after herself.”

Rhiannon smiled at her radiantly. “So I can,” she asserted. “Or should that be ‘So me can’?”

Felice sighed.

The other apprentice-witches were huddled by the fire in their cloaks, surreptitiously rubbing at their bruises and complaining about their aches and pains. Nina passed around a jar of salve and promised to warm up bags of dried herbs for the girls to take to bed with them, apologizing for the hard pace they were being set.

“Weather’s chancy in the highlands,” she said, “and we want to make good time while we can. Last time Iven and I were in the Broken Ring o‘ Dubhslain, we ended up being stuck in a goatherd’s cottage for two weeks while a snowstorm raged.”

“But it’s springtime,” Felice cried. “Surely we shallna get snowed in now?”

Nina shrugged. “Like I said, the weather’s unpredictable here. It’s something to do with being circled by mountains on all sides.”

“Cold the wind blows and bleak the raven cries, down the stony glens o‘ black Dubhslain,” Landon murmured. “What rhymes with ’slain‘? Wane? Fain? Pain?”

“I think ye could do something with ‘pain’,” Felice murmured, rubbing her backside ruefully. Everyone laughed.

“Do ye ken why it’s called the Broken Ring of Dubhslain?” Iven asked. “I dinna ken if it be true, but they say there was a great act o‘ sorcery in these hills, many years ago, in the time o’ Brann the Raven himself.”

He paused for effect, taking a sip of ale. “Now Brann was one o‘ the First Coven, as ye ken. But many o’ his people hated and feared him, for he was a cold-hearted ruthless man and much given to dabbling in mysteries that would have best been left undisturbed. One summer, it was said, Brann and his retinue were here in the highlands for he had decided to hunt down and capture the fabled black winged stallion for himself.”

He nodded and smiled at Rhiannon, who was listening, rapt.

“Some o‘ his men decided to lay a trap for him and murder him, making it seem like an accident. Brann’s son Dugald was only thirteen then and they thought they could rule through him. Brann saw into their hearts, though, and laid a trap of his own. In those days this valley was surrounded on all sides by mountains in a perfect ring. They had a hard journey climbing up here, but Brann urged them on, taunting them with their cowardice and weakness until at last they climbed the last cliff and came inside the ring. On they travelled, towards the high peak o’ Ben Eyrie where it was said the black winged horses flew. Three days they travelled, and always the rebels waited for their chance to slay the Raven. He never seemed to sleep, however, and they dared not face him awake.

“On the third night, Brann at last seemed to rest and they drew their knives and crept upon him. Just as the ringleader raised his blade, Brann leapt up and sent him flying back with the force o‘ his magic. The rebels turned to flee but Brann struck the ground with his staff, enacting a great spell o’ incredible strength by using the perfect ring o‘ mountains as his circle o’ power. The earth itself groaned and shook, and a great crack opened up in its flank.

“A fountain o‘ water burst up from the deepest depths o’ the earth and swept away all that lay afore it, including all o‘ Brann’s men, traitorous or no’. And the ring o‘ mountains was broken and the land cleared all the way to the sea, farms and villages and towns all drowned in the flood. And where Brann’s staff had struck was a great black fathomless lake, which he called Dubhglais.

“Then Brann came down alone from the mountains, following the new river, which he named the Findhorn. And where the river fell through the broken ring in a great roaring waterfall he built a castle and named it Ravenscraig. And on the far shore, in the shadow o‘ the broken mountain, he built his witches’ tower. And no-one ever dared rebel against him again.”

“I’m no‘ surprised,” Landon said, looking up from the fire with dreamy eyes. “He was a cold, strange man, by all accounts. Did ye ken he swore he would outwit Gearradh in the end, and live again?”

Everyone sighed and shivered and looked up at the tall icy peaks surrounding them on all sides but one, and hunched closer to the fire.

“Who that?” Rhiannon whispered to Lewen.

“Brann? He was one o‘ the sorcerers from the Other World, who brought humankind here to Eileanan. We call them the First Coven. Ravenshaw—this country we’re in now—that was Brann’s land and is still ruled by one o’ his descendants, Dughall MacBrann.”

“I meant t’other. The one that made everyone shiver.”

“Gearradh? Oh. She is the one who cuts the thread, the third of the weird sisters, that we call the Three Spinners.” Seeing Rhiannon’s puzzled face, Lewen tried to explain again. “She… I suppose she is like the goddess o‘ death. She decides when it is time for us all to die.”

“No wonder everyone shivered.”

“It was as much at the idea of Brann the Raven living again,” Lewen said. “He was a scary man.”

Nina laughed at their sombre faces and bade Iven play something to cheer them up while she served the stew. “Ye willna fancy ye hear ghosts crying on the wind with a bowl o‘ hot stew in ye,” she said.

Iven strummed his guitar and sang lustily:

“O Eà let me die,

wi‘ a wee dram at my lip,

and a bonny lass on my lap,

and a merry song and a jest,

biting my thumb at the sober an ‘just,

as I live I wish to die!

So drink up, laddies, drink,

and see ye do no‘ spill,

for if ye do we’ll all drink two,

for that be the drunkard’s rule!”

Despite the merry tune and the hot stew, the shadow of the tale lay on them all still. That night, as she lay rolled in her blankets by the fire, Rhiannon could still hear the wind sobbing in the trees and feel the dark gaze of the mountains upon them. It took her a long time to find sleep, and she heard the sighs of the other apprentices as they too sought sleep that would not come.

The next day they were all tired and heavy-eyed, and quick to snap at each other, but no-one demurred when Iven began harnessing the carthorses to the caravans before any of them had even finished scraping their porridge bowls clean. All were eager to leave the Broken Ring of Dubhslain behind them.

They rode hard that day, for clouds were pouring in over the great peaks like a grey flood, dimming the thin spring sunshine and swallowing the steep banks of pines and hemlock. When the road rolled out before them Rhiannon challenged them all to race and, to her great delight, beat every one of them. Her pocket began to jingle with coins and she often slipped her hand inside to caress them, liking the cool round perfection of them.

Most of the day they all rode quietly, though, pacing the horses and nursing along their saddle sores. Rhiannon kept close and quiet, listening to the conversation and later asking Lewen to explain anything she did not understand. Hardened by her upbringing, she did not suffer as much as the other girls from the long hours in the saddle and so she was glad to look about her with hungry eyes, and listen to everything that was said, sucking out its pith of knowledge. Rhiannon was determined to never again be mocked for her ignorance. If learning was the currency of power in this land, then Rhiannon would learn all she could.

They came to a town late on the third day, as the gloom of the cloud-hung day darkened to dusk.

“Thank Eà!” Felice cried. “A proper bed tonight! Proper food!”

“Ye do no‘ like my cooking?” Iven said, pretending to be hurt.

“Well, ye ken ye canna do much with a pot hung over a fire,” Felice said disarmingly. “Stew, stew, or stew.”

“Och, but such delicious stew!”

“Aye, the very best. It will be nice to have something different, though, don’t ye agree?”

“Mmm, a wee dram o‘ whisky would be nice,” Iven agreed. “Ye girls take up so much room with all your fimble-fambles I havena any room for anything but a keg o’ ale and that just doesna quench a man’s thirst the way a dram does. Let’s hope there’s an inn.”

The town seemed quite large and prosperous, sprawling round a square of green grass with a big old tree at one end and a small white rotunda at the other. Behind the houses were little walled fields devoted to vegetables and orchards and a few grain crops, running up to steep hills that disappeared into forest. The mountains behind were hidden in mist.

Many of the houses had large gardens, some hidden behind walls overgrown with ivy, others with nothing but a low wooden pole fence to separate them from their neighbours. Coming down a low hill, they were able to see how the town sprawled along a small river, following its curve. At the far end of the main street they saw a water-mill, and a hunchbacked stone bridge across the river, and then, away from the houses, in a big garden all bright with spring blossom, a small round turret built of stone.

“Aaah, they have a tower witch,” Nina said, pleased. “She’ll give us a bed for the night if there’s no‘ room for us all at the inn.”

Rhiannon stared about her with interest. Six boys, two girls and a mob of goats surrounded their cavalcade now, all the children chattering happily in high, piping voices, the goats bleating and leaping about madly. A woman came to the door of one of the little grey cottages, wiping red, damp hands on her apron, a cluster of children peeping out round her skirts. She exclaimed aloud and called to her neighbour. Soon there were faces at every doorway or window, pointing at the long-billed, iridescent bird perched on Nina’s shoulder and the arak leaping about on the roof of the red caravan, and exclaiming with awe at the magnificent winged horse. Blackthorn curved her neck in pleasure, lifting her feathered feet daintily. Rhiannon smiled and waved at the crowd, but did not answer any of the shouted questions, not knowing what to say.

They came down the main road by the village green, past a row of shopfronts with big glass windows filled with all sorts of amazing things. One, with the sign of a bee hanging above it, had windows filled with candles of all shapes and sizes and colours, many lit so the window glowed golden, and jars of honey with fabric tied over the top, some pale as sunlit water, some yellow as pollen, others dark as a forest pool. There was a honeycomb dripping with fresh honey, and large jars filled with round dark things Lewen said were toffees.

Another shop was filled with tools of all descriptions, hoes and scythes and enormous two-handled saws, and sacks of flour and meal, and bright saucepans and kettles and ladles, and mops and brooms and feather dusters, and brown bags of seeds tied with string. Another had stiff brown dried fish hanging from hooks alongside smoked hams, and huge round cheeses, and jars of preserved fruit and pickled vegetables and jam.

There was a tired-looking baker, giving away handfuls of sugar-dusted pastry twists to the children before locking up his shop for the night, and an apothecary’s shop, the window filled with jars of pills, and bottles of potions, and bowls of dried herbs and flowers and muslin spell-bags, and hooks hanging with bunches of bright feathers to sweep away bad dreams, and myriad charms and talismans dangling from leather thongs.

Next to it was a shop filled with bolts of lovely coloured material, spread out to show their silky weave. In one corner of the window was a headless wooden mannequin wearing a gorgeous dress made of blue shimmering fabric tied up with silver ribbons. Rhiannon gazed at it longingly. Though she pretended not to care, it bothered her that she had to wear hand-me-down boy’s clothes when Edithe and Felice were always so beautifully dressed in fabrics as soft as thistledown. It was a constant irritation to her, like a burr under a saddlecloth, and her only consolation was the embroidered shawl that Lilanthe had given her, which she wrapped around her shoulders every night as they sat round the campfire talking and singing.

“It’d look bonny on ye,” Lewen whispered shyly with a nod of his head towards the dress. Rhiannon scowled at him. She hated the way he always seemed to know what she was thinking, no matter how carefully she kept her feelings hidden. She gritted her teeth, waiting for one of the others to mock her, but they had not heard above the noise of the crowd and so she was able to pretend Lewen had not spoken and ride on, head held high.

They came to the inn in the very centre of town, facing the village green with its big old oak tree and its pretty white rotunda where, Lewen explained, the musicians would sit to play for weddings and festivals.

The inn was small and quaint, with an enormous blue-painted door, big windows with blue wooden boxes filled with herbs and flowers, and a very steep roof with two gabled windows in it like beetling eyebrows. Outside the inn were long benches where old men were sitting, hunched up in their heavy coats against the evening chill, smoking long pipes. Over their heads hung a brightly painted sign depicting a cat playing a fiddle.

The innkeeper stood in the doorway, beaming. He was a solid, red-faced man with a big apron tied over his breeches. Behind his square shoulder stood a thin woman, her hands clapped together in glee. It was clear they saw a good profit ahead of them that night.

Everyone was very chilled and stiff, and glad to dismount.

“Jongleurs!” the woman cried. “We ha vena had jongleurs in Ardarchy for years. And such a large company! Will ye be putting on a show for the town? Ye may have the use o‘ our taproom, for sure. Everyone will come. And a flying horse! Gracious me! Does it perform too? Och, I dinna ken if we have room for it in here!”

“My wife and I are minstrels and will be glad to give ye a show, but I’m afraid our companions are only travelling with us and willna be performing,” Iven replied. “They are apprentices journeying to the Theurgia at the Tower o‘ Two Moons.”