The Witches of Eileanan (53 page)

She nodded, and got to her feet. "That is true." Without a backward glance she walked away, and gingerly crawled back under the graygorse bush, scanning the empty valley for any sign of Meghan.

After pacing the clearing for close on half an hour, Bacaiche came and crouched beside her, ignoring the vicious thorns of the bush. "I'm sorry. It is hard for me to speak about it." Iseult did not reply. "I have killed a man for asking just that question," he went on in a troubled voice. "Most o' my life I have been hunted down, pursued, reviled, for something that is no' my fault." Iseult still said nothing.

He went on, his voice thick with passion. "It is the cursed Banrìgh. This is all her fault, all o' it! Sometimes I long to close my fingers around her throat and squeeze till there is no life left in her! She could beg and plead, and I would no' care. I would smile at her and kill her with as little mercy as she killed my brothers. The foul witch! She has the whole land ensorcelled!"

They were silent a very long time. Bacaiche said at last, almost in a whisper, "I was no' born like this. For the first twelve years o' my life I was a lad much as any other lad is. I had a home, a family who loved me, every toy and luxury I could want. Then I was ensorcelled. What ye see today is the remnants o' an enchantment so strong and so mysterious than no one can find the cure. No' even Meghan."

"Ye were put under a spell?"

"It was Maya. She could no' bear for Jaspar to love anyone but her. She smiled at us and spoke sweet words, and he was angry that we did no' like her, and said we were silly and jealous, and should ken better. One night she came to us, smiling still. I woke from a deep sleep to see her standing over our beds. I was half asleep still, and watched as she turned Feargus and Donncan into blackbirds. Before I even had time to cry out or try and escape, she had transformed me also. It is strange to try and scream, and have only a bird's squark come out, or try and run, and find your body does no' work the way it should. She threw us out the window of our bed chamber, and set her hawk upon us. I saw Feargus caught almost immediately, and I flew as fast as I could, though I had not yet learned to manage my wings. Behind me I heard Donncan's cry and knew he had been caught too, and then the hawk was above me. I could hear it and feel its shadow upon me, and I folded my wings and dived into the forest. In the trees, the hawk could not catch me and so I escaped.

"The next few years are all a blur. Slowly, my memories, my language, my knowledge of who I was, all were lost. I became a bird, fighting for the worm and living my days between heaven and earth. At last I had lived so long in the body o' a bird that nearly all sense o' being a man was lost to me. Eventually I was captured and caged, sold to a family as a songbird, to be fed seeds and bits o' bread and sing for their pleasure. It was there the auld jongleur woman Enit found me and rescued me. Somehow she recognized me, and tried to save me. She has a way with birds, can sing them to her hand; perhaps she saw I was a man trapped in a bird's body, or perhaps she saw the white lock remained still. Who knows? All I ken is that she brought me to Meghan, and together they tried to break the spell, but could no'. Meghan says she has never encountered a spell like it before. They tried all they knew and more still, and at last brought back my body, though marred as ye see it now. That was eight years ago. I have been this way ever since. I barely remember that—for weeks I was a wild bird, trapped in the body of a man. Enit had to teach me to speak again, and to use my hands and legs, and all that time I was kept in a tiny caravan, too afraid to go outside. While Enit tamed me again, Meghan sent the blind prophet Jorge to find me this cloak o' illusions. Only then was I was at last able to walk in daylight."

"I see. Do ye wish to be like other men again?"

"I will never be like other men. Even if my body was like that o' others, my soul will never be. I was half-bird too long."

"So the . . . Rìgh o' your land is your brother?"

"Aye, Jaspar is my brother. I am one of the Lost Prionnsachan of Eileanan, that the minstrels sing o' in cold, winter evenings . .." His mouth twisted wryly.

"So Bacaiche is no' your name?"

"No, I am the Prionnsa Lachlan Owein MacCuinn, fourth son of Parteta the Brave."

"I am Khan'derin, gessep-Khan'lysa o' the Fire-Dragon Pride, Scarred Warrior and heir to the Firemaker."

He glanced at her coldly, and looked away.

"Did ye never try and reach your brother, tell him what happened?" Iseult asked.

"Isn't that a whole new question?" he sneered. "I have told ye my story, what more do ye want?"

Iseult nodded and moved away. Like many stories, Bacaiche's tale had raised as many new questions as it had answered. She knew that the telling had been difficult for him, however, and so she asked no more questions, returning her gaze to the valley. As if reminded of his past, Bacaiche began to sing again, and his blackbird's voice pealed out clear and melodious, charming Iseult anew.

It was a long, hot afternoon, tense beneath the spiky branches, as gradually the sun crossed the sky and still the slope was empty of Meghan's small fierce body. Iseult stood it much better than Bacaiche, used as she was to stalking prey in much harsher conditions than these. The heat bothered her but the restless swish of Bacaiche's wings as he fidgeted and fretted created a cool breeze that helped considerably. It was almost sunset when Meghan at last appeared beside them, remarking sardonically that she'd been able to hear Bacaiche's mutters a mile away. Both jumped at her words and were badly scratched by the gray-gorse's spikes.

"Where did ye come from?" Bacaiche asked. "We've been watching and watching and we never saw a sign."

"As if ye could see me approach if I did no' want ye to!" Meghan said harshly. Iseult looked at her anxiously. Gitâ was nestled up against her neck, always a sign Meghan's mind was troubled, while her face was as grim and shadowed as Iseult had ever seen it. Meghan answered her unasked question. "Isabeau was executed last night, at sunset."

To her surprise Iseult felt a stir of pain, but she told herself it was the darkness on the Firemaker's face.

"Apparently she killed the Grand-Questioner when he tried to torture her, even though she was fastened to a torture-table at the time. She did no' go lightly, at least."

Iseult was impressed—Is'a'beau could not have been such a softling, after all.

"They fed her to the serpent o' the loch, apparently," Meghan said. She was gathering her pack together. Bent over, her hands busy at her task, she shot a look at them. "So, ye took advantage o' my absence and killed, Iseult?"

Involuntarily Iseult met her gaze, heat sweeping over her cheeks. "Aye, Firemaker."

"And what small animal did ye murder? Coney, by the smell o' ye."

Iseult clenched her fingers. "Aye, Firemaker."

Meghan shouldered her pack, and started walking quickly through the trees. "Stay well behind me, then, both o' ye. The smell o' ye makes me sick to my stomach."

Iseult slung her already loaded satchel onto her shoulder, picked up the long staff of ash she had taken to carrying, and followed in silence. She felt Bacaiche lurching along at her shoulder, and stared straight ahead.

"She's taking it hard," he whispered, but Iseult would not reply.

Down below the valley was filling with mist, only the opposite peaks still touched with light. Within an hour the mist had risen enough to cover their forms, and Meghan led them out of the copse of trees and down the slope toward the loch. Iseult looked around carefully. She was surprised that Meghan had not waited until they were further away from the township, bright with torchlight and still clearly within sight. There would be patrolling soldiers this close to the town. The loch's shore was bare of trees that would conceal them, and if the mist should waver, they could be seen.

Meghan had a purpose though. She lead them inexorably to the shore, planted her staff in the mud, and stared out at the misty surface.

"What are we doing?" Bacaiche whispered, looking about him with some anxiety. The shadowy loch, wreathed with mist, was a sinister place, thick with mystery and magic. "Is there no' an
uile-bheist
in this loch?"

"O' course. That is why I am here." And from Meghan's thin form came an eerie ululating cry that echoed around the shore. Again she raised her voice, and again the long, sobbing cry rang out. Iseult felt her skin crawl.

Out of the mist loomed the serpent of the loch, its tiny head high above them, its long sinuous neck swaying back and forth. It opened its mouth and wailed, and it was all Iseult could do not to fall back in terror. In the Spine of the World few fairy creatures could survive the bitter cold. Apart from frost giants, she had no experience with
uile-bheistean,
and had no desire to make a closer acquaintance. She held her ground, however, and felt gratification when Bacaiche stepped back involuntarily.

Meghan and the loch serpent wailed and bobbed at each other for fully ten minutes. Iseult concentrated on keeping a watch for any passers-by, but they were undisturbed. Listening to the eerie ululation, Iseult thought to herself that anyone who might be nearby would surely be too afraid to come any closer.

When at last the strange conversation was finished, Meghan's small dark face was alight. "Come, let us go," she said, and grasped her staff with more vigor than Iseult had seen in days.

"Where are we bluidy well going now?" Bacaiche asked bad-temperedly.

"In search o' Isabeau," she answered.

"Isabeau is dead," Iseult said as gently as she knew how.

"Och, no, she's no'. Isabeau has my mark upon her. The loch serpent did no' harm her."

"Then .. . where is she? What happened?"

"That is what I am going to try and find out," Meghan said, and the usual grimness of her voice was drowned beneath her evident joy. "Isabeau must have escaped, for else we would have heard. All we have to do now is find her."

THE THREADS ARE SPUN

ISABEAU THE HUNTED

The shock of the cold water and the scald of the talisman against her hip roused Isabeau as she plunged into the loch. Immediately panic filled her, and she struggled against her bonds. Finding they would not yield, she gathered her will together and tore the ropes apart. For an instant she felt the world contract about her, and her inner self was a hard, clear stone, unnaturally conscious of water, weeds, darkness, and the rush of currents. Then it seemed she would swoon again, her lungs and head bursting, multicolored lights swirling in her head. The pain of her hand and her own will was all that kept her conscious as she kicked feebly to the surface.

There was a loud keening sound and she saw far above her the long neck and tiny head of the
uile-bheist
of the loch. Torchlight flickered on the water as the soldiers leaned forward, searching the waters. Terrified, Isabeau shrank back under the barnacle-encrusted poles of the jetty and began to swim as silently and quickly as she could in the opposite direction. Injured as she was, she could barely keep afloat, and gave a half hysterical sob at the thought of the
uile-bheist
bearing down on her. Then it was on top of her, a huge sinuous creature that opened its mouth to wail again, showing a mouth full of tiny, pointed teeth. The long neck bent and, although she swam as hard as she could, Isabeau felt its length brush against her. Then the mouth closed on the cloth of her shoulder and she was being towed along, water swelling on either side. For a moment Isabeau was stiff with astonishment, then she realized, with shocked gladness, that the
uile-bheist
was towing her to safety.

"Do ye think it got her?" she heard one guard say, and the other chuckled, and said, "Look at that thing, ye think a wee girl like that could outswim it, bound hand and foot? No, she's monster bait, for sure." Isabeau smiled tiredly, and cradled her injured hand against her body, letting the loch serpent tow her.

For long, anxious minutes they swam through the heavy mist, Isabeau craning her ears for any sound. There was none. She could hardly believe the
uile-bheist
had rescued her, and she wondered what it wanted. She did not know the language of loch monsters and although she tried sending out a mind-message, she had no way of knowing if it understood. Did the shock waves from her breaking her bonds attract it? Was it not hungry? She prayed to Eà, mother and father of them all, to protect her.

The loch serpent swam for what seemed like hours, the fog thick about them. Isabeau slipped off into a feverish daze where voices seemed to speak to her through the mist—Meghan scolding her; the witch-sniffer sneering at her and hurting her; the Grand-Questioner Yutta, his cavernous face leaning over her, the stench of blood in her nostrils. She was half woken by the loch serpent's eerie call as, with a flourish of foam, he beached himself, and bent his neck so she slid forward and onto soft sand. Just before nightmares filled her eyes, she heard his haunting call again.

The next few days were a feverish blur. The bitter cold of the water, the lack of dry clothing and food, and the throbbing pain of her injuries combined into a whirl of dancing lights and darkness that kept threatening to overwhelm her. She knew she had to keep going, though. The Grand-Seeker might send out a party to search for her body, or she may even be discovered by sentries. Although all she wanted to do was rest her aching head on Eà's breast, Isabeau kept staggering forward.