The Witches of Eileanan (47 page)

"Can we go down to the loch?"

"Maybe. They say the Rhyllster is the only river in Eileanan the Fairgean have no' seized. Though how anyone could ken about the rivers o' Tirsoilleir is beyond me. It's been many a year syne we heard anything from beyond the Great Divide."

"Why have the Fairgean no' invaded the Rhyllster?"

"The Rìgh's proclamations say it is because they fear his power, though syne the loss o' the Lodestar that canna be as true as it once was. The navy shipmen believe it is because o' the gate they have constructed at the mouth o' the Berhtfane. The merchants whisper it is because the Fairgean canna leap the series o' locks and canals the witches constructed to control the tides, and indeed it is true we have seen no Fairgean syne. The most pervasive rumor is that it's because our mysterious Banrìgh is really a Fairge and some foul subtle plan o' theirs is only now coming to fruition."

"How could the Banrìgh ... ?" stuttered Tomas in amazement, and Jorge realized his country loyalty to the High Crown was bred deep.

"Stranger things have happened. Indeed, if it is by horrible mischance true, it answers many questions that seemed unanswerable."

"But Fairgean have tusks! And scales!"

"Only when in their seagoing form," Jorge reproved. "And even then they look amazingly human. And they shape-change to come on land, ye ken that."

"But my mam says even then they do no' look .. . anything like us."

"They are no' like us, foolish lad, so why should ye think that they should? No, a Fairge in their land-shape is just as strange and bonny as they are in their sea-shape."

"I've never heard them called bonny before. People mostly call them repulsive."

"Well, I doubt many villagers in the Sithiche Mountains have seen a Fairge."

"Still, my uncle's wife's brother's cousin has seen the Banrìgh and he said she was very bonny. He did no' say anything about scales. And I thought she was the daughter o' a Yedda, and can sing the heart out o' a man, just like a Yedda."

"The Fairgean sing too. That is why they are so susceptible to the song o' the Yedda."

"But surely if she were a Fairge, everyone would be able to tell? I think that's a stupid story."

"Unless some magic was at work. We never really have understood the magic o' the Fairgean. They are a mysterious people." Jorge heaved himself to his feet, and faced toward the spray, breathing deeply of the water-scented air. "Come, lad, I will need your help negotiating this steep slope. Set your face toward the city, and try and keep close."

They made their stumbling way down to the cobbled road, ridged with battlements, that wound along the hillside toward Lucescere. Already groups of laborers were making their way back to the city, picks and hoes over their shoulders, their tired faces grimy with the dust of the fields. It was almost sunset, and only the heights were still lit with sunshine, the valley below sinking into shadow.

As he tapped his way over the uneven stones, Jorge again pondered the dangers his new apprentice presented. He had to find a way to shield the boy. Witch-sniffers abounded in Lucescere, hired frequently both by the city officials and soldiery and by private citizens to hunt out bad-wishers, curse-mongerers, fairy half-breeds, and anyone with rebel tendencies. Lucescere had long been considered a cesspool of rebels, witches and thieves by the Crown and, despite a large contingent of Red Guards, a ruthless baron, and regular surprise raids, the Guild of Seekers had long been considered the most effective method of control. Hiring a witch-sniffer was also an excellent way to rid oneself of an enemy, since anyone accused of witchcraft had little chance to defend themselves. It was therefore dangerous for the old man and the boy in Lucescere, and Jorge remembered clearly Meghan's story of how Isabeau had once brought them near disaster in an inn in Caeryla by changing the outcome of a dice game. Although the story made Jorge smile to himself, his wrinkled face was worried. Tomas's magic was bright and loud, and he had no idea of discretion, wanting to help and heal all he came across. Jorge's strength and magic were insufficient to shield him, particularly if the child drifted too far away from him.

As they approached the Bridge of Seven Arches, which soared over the river to the city, Jorge's face relaxed a little— he had thought of someone who might be able to help. As if sensing the old man's subtle relaxation, Tomas ran ahead singing, and Jorge stared after the sound of his bare feet affectionately.

"
You grow fond of the lad,"
the raven said in his mind.

"
I
have been too long alone."

"My companionship over the past years not, of course, counting."

Jorge did not reply, just sent the raven a mind-smile, and Jesyah flapped on ahead leisurely, uttering a hoarse caw of laughter.

The bridge was wide enough for twelve men to march side by side, and more than two hundred feet long. Broken and defaced statues leaned here and there, though most were gone, destroyed in the riots of the Day of Betrayal. Underneath its seven massive arches, the Muileach River thundered toward the falls, where it mingled with the waters of the Ban-Bharrach River. Where the two rivers poured over the crescent-shaped lip of the cliff, rainbows shimmered in the sunset air. It was these ethereal shimmers which gave the Shining Waters their name, and so also the city.

Guards lined the bridge, examining the faces of those that passed and poking spears into any carts or baskets of produce. Occasionally they would jerk someone out of the crowd and interrogate them, sometimes with mere prods with the hafts of their short spears, sometimes with fists and boots. By now the bridge was crowded, with the bells ringing out to announce the closure of the city gates. Jorge mingled with the throng, the child close to his side, his cold little hand tightly clasping Jorge's plaid.

"Do no' be afraid," the old man whispered. "They will no' notice us." And they did not. With everyone pushing forward, anxious to be safe inside, Jorge and Tomas were able to slip through quite easily. The bent old man with his dirty beard and blind eyes was a familiar sight on the Bridge of Seven Arches, and no one noticed the wide-eyed little boy peering out from the tattered folds of his robe, or the raven flying overhead, dark against the bright cascades of water.

Beyond the iron-bound gates, twenty feet tall, they plunged into the dirty, noisy city. The great road wound on through the jumble of buildings toward the abandoned palace with its bronze-topped domes and the half ruined Tower of the witches, but Jorge did not follow it, turning left into the poorer parts of the city instead. Here the streets were narrow and dark, the cobbles thick with mud. Only occasionally could Tomas see a strip of stars shining faintly overhead, for the houses leaned so close their crooked roofs sometimes touched.

The little boy stared around him with amazed eyes, for he had never seen a town bigger than his little village, nor so many oddly dressed people. Used to gruff crofters dressed in brown wool, he was fascinated by the bellfruit sellers with their wide crimson pants; the merchants in their long robes selling teapots, jeweled knives, perfumed oils, powdered spices and wooden bowls; the butchers shouting out their prices, scrawny carcasses hung from hooks over their shoulders. Lucescere was famous for its dyes, and so the people were dressed in clothes dyed crimson and blue and saffron yellow. Even the beggars were more brightly dressed than anyone Tomas had seen before, though their clothes hung in tatters about their bodies. Ragged children ran screaming and laughing through the crowd, their legs muddied to above the knees from playing in the ooze that covered the cobblestones. Jesyah the raven fluttered down to scavenge through the piles of refuse, and was chased away by a stout matron in a grubby apron, wielding a broom.

The boy shrank even closer to his master's side, so that the old warlock could barely take a step without stumbling over him. Luckily Jorge needed little assistance in these streets. He could sense people much more easily than he could natural obstacles such as rocks or low-hanging tree branches, and he had been born in the slums of Lucescere. He knew every winding alley, every half hidden archway, every secret of its labyrinthine structure. Deeper and deeper into the ancient city they wandered, their senses assaulted by the noise, the smell of dampness and refuse, the occasional touch of spray on their faces. They were close now to the falls, and their roar sounded like some angry dragon.

They came to a tall, narrow gate set deep under a overhang of gabled roofs. Jorge felt his way along the wall with one gnarled hand until he found the bolt and handle, then opened the gate a crack and slipped though, Tomas close behind him. Unexpectedly, the gate led not into a courtyard or front hall, as might be expected, but into a narrow alley that ran between the backs of houses, piled high with boxes, crates, broken furniture, mops and brooms. Through this obstacle race they made their way, Jesyah fluttering down to perch on Jorge's shoulder, his beady eyes bright.

Under a massive pile of moldy sacks and broken crates, Tomas uncovered the round lid of a grate as Jorge had said he would. Reluctantly the boy followed the warlock down the hole, trying not to breathe as the raw smell of the sewers closed over them. He was astounded to discover another city beneath the one they had already explored. A maze of dark tunnels ran off in every direction with, here and there, what seemed to be a pile of old bones and rags but proved instead to be someone sleeping, or gnawing on a crust of bread. Through this dark maze they made their way, stumbling over recumbent forms and trying not to step in the foul stream that trickled down the center of every drain. Occasionally bursts of song and laughter came down one of the openings, but mostly it was quiet and dark.

By the time they arrived at their destination, Tomas was stumbling, rubbing his eyes with his fists and yawning widely. Jorge had made his way through the tunnels with no hesitation, coming at last to a ladder that dropped sharply into a round duct. "Come on lad, almost there," he whispered. "Quietly now."

The ladder seemed to lower itself into darkness for an age. Tomas followed Jorge's lead, though the blackness swallowed him up like a great throat. For ten minutes or longer they descended the steep steps, then Jorge felt earth beneath his feet. He lifted Tomas down the last few feet, then summoned blue witch light to his staff.

They were in a large cave, filled with shadows that moved and flowed around them. The air was thick with spray, for the mouth of the cave was concealed behind a wall of water. They had gone so deep below the city they were no longer on the island between two rivers, but actually behind the Shining Waters.

"Ceit Anna?" Jorge called over the roar of the water. "Are ye there?"

There was silence, though a shadow seemed to detach itself briefly from the darkness, before disappearing again. Although there was no sound, Jorge looked in that direction. "Ceit Anna?" he whispered.

A hoarse voice answered him. Although it spoke in the common language, the voice was oddly accented, rising and falling in cadences quite unlike the accent of Tomas's native village. "Jorge the Sightless. You bring a stranger to my cave. I gave you no such right."

"Greetings, Ceit Anna. I beg your pardon. He is only a lad, and harmless."

"I gave you no such right."

"He is my apprentice. It is on his account I have come."

"You want my help?"

"Aye."

"Why else would you be here? What do you want?" There was a slither of sound, and Tomas clung to Jorge's side, burying his face against the rough cloth of his plaid. Jorge stood straight.

"Can ye no' tell, Ceit Anna?" There was a challenge in his voice.

There was a dry chuckle, and a tall, spindly shadow darted across the floor. "The lad has magic. Strong, pure magic. He smells delicious."

"What can ye tell me about his powers?"

"They are strong . . . his hands . . . the magic is in his hands." The shadow seemed to be circling round them. In a paroxysm of terror, Tomas huddled closer to Jorge, but was unable to resist watching the flicker of movement, the occasional dry rustle of sound. "He is too young and foolish to know how to hide himself—that is why you have come to me."

"Ye are the mistress o' illusions," Jorge said softly.

She laughed, a dry, papery sound like a leaf blown by the wind. "Once, perhaps, Sightless One. No longer." Slowly the moving shadows resolved themselves into a tall figure, far taller than Jorge, with spindly arms and legs, black, leathery wings, and a great mane of wild hair. The slanted eyes took up most of her face, and shone in the blue witch light like an elven cat's. She stooped over them, and Tomas felt a thin finger touch his cheek. He buried his head against Jorge's thigh, but she trailed her fingers over the back of his head and down his spine. "I have never encountered a Talent like his," she mused. "It is wild, a wild Talent in a human lad. Interesting. He must have fairy blood mingling with his. Let him look into my eyes."

Tomas buried his face deeper, but inexorably the long, stick fingers turned his head and the frightened blue eyes looked into the narrow face of the nyx.

Her eyes were black and lustrous, without any whites, her pupil a narrow slit, set at the same sharp angle as her eyes. In the semidarkness they shone with an unearthly light. Tomas stared at her wonderingly, and found he could not look away, though his heart beat suffocatingly fast.