The Tower of Ravens (58 page)

He passed in and out of uneasy sleep all the long, unhappy night. The sound of the wind in the broken stone worried him like icy teeth, so that only the imprecise memory of nightmares showed he had slept at all. Yet when he finally woke, feeling a great weight of misery, it was to find a clear, cold dawn and the winged horse gone from the stall. Argent stood there alone, his head sunk, eyes shut, one hoof relaxed.

Lewen stared in stupefaction, then turned and ran into the kitchen. It was grey and empty, smelling of smoke. On the table were the silver goblet, the music box, the golden medal, and a gruesome necklace of teeth and bones. There was no sign of Rhiannon.

Lewen could not believe she had gone. How had she managed to get Blackthorn out of the stall, when he had slept in the straw right next to the horses? He imagined her creeping out into the dark and the storm, and felt such a pit of loss open up inside him he came the closest to weeping since his roan pony Aurora had died when he was still a lad. Anger and grief together make a bitter brew, and Lewen was so angry he was blind and deaf with it. He did not know what to do. He sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands, trying to hold back the howl that seemed to be gathering inside him. At last the howl knotted itself into a hard lump in his chest, and he was able to get up. He filled the goblet with water and drank deeply, trying to wash the knot away, and then splashed his face again and again. A longing to speak to his mother came over him. He imagined her distress and felt his stomach quiver. Hurriedly he gathered up Connor’s treasures and shoved them in his own saddlebags. Then he led the big grey stallion out into the courtyard.

It was almost dawn and the sky was clear. Puddles gleamed everywhere, and the courtyard was littered with broken branches and torn leaves. High overhead ravens wheeled in the wind, hundreds of them, calling harshly. They looked like ashes blown from a bonfire. Lewen moved slowly through the ruin, the stallion following. Much of the main body of the building had been destroyed by fire, leaving nothing but blackened stones all overgrown with brambles and nettles. He found the gate that had once led out to the bridge across the waterfall, and looked out over the dizzying chasm, able to see nothing of the castle on the far side of the river for the great gusts of spray that dashed him in the face. He left Argent lipping at weeds in what once would have been a pleasure garden, and climbed an old stone staircase to explore the wreck of a vaulted gallery where once great sorcerers and prionnsachan would have walked together. He came down again carefully, feeling desolate and alone. Nowhere was there any sign of Rhiannon.

Then he and the stallion came to the central courtyard and found there a round pool of water, shimmering with reflections of the dawn sky. Despite the wrack of the storm that littered the cracked paving-stones, not a single leaf spoiled the sparkling perfection of the silver-lined pool. It was enclosed inside stone arches fretted with entwining lines and knots, and guarded by large stone ravens.

Lewen sighed and sat down heavily on the curved bench encircling the pool. He had half-hoped, half-dreaded finding the Scrying Pool.

He remembered hearing Dughall MacBrann tell the story of how he had crept here to the Tower of Ravens one bitter winter’s night so he could scry to Lachlan and tell him news of the war against the Bright Soldiers. “It’s a wonder my hair and beard are no‘ as white as my father’s,” he had said. “For the tower was thick with ghosts and evil memories, and all I could remember was that old story about Brann the Raven and how he swore he would outwit Gearradh in the end and live again. I swear I felt him breathing down my neck the whole time!”

If the MacBrann had been able to use the Scrying Pool twenty-five years ago, the chances are the pool would be useable now. The fact that it was still brimming with crystal-clear water, untarnished after fifty years of neglect, indicated the magic of the pool was unbroken. Lewen badly wanted to speak to someone. He felt as if his inner compass, that had led him true all his life, was now spinning out of control. He did not know what was right and true anymore. Rhiannon had lied to him, she had tricked and deceived him, she had made a fool of him. The thoughts spilled through his mind like acid. He looked back over the past few weeks and writhed in internal torment, seeing how easily he had been seduced by her air of wild and innocent beauty. Had it all been a lie? He could not tell anymore. He longed to be able to tell someone, and have them set him straight again. He longed for comfort and reassurance, for someone to say to him, “But she is naught but a wild child, she did no‘ ken what she did, how could she? O’ course she loves ye, o‘ course her heart is pure and true, o’ course she is no‘ a cold-blooded murderess, how can ye think such things o’ her?”

So he sat cross-legged before the pool, staring into its silvery depths, calling to Nina in his mind. It took only a few seconds for her image to appear to him in the pool. She looked white and anxious and he heard her voice in his mind.

“Lewen, where are you? What happened to ye?”

“We were caught in the storm. We took shelter in the auld tower.”

“Are ye all right?”

“Aye, we’re grand. At least, I am…”

“What do ye mean? Where’s Rhiannon? Is she with ye? She’s disappeared!”

“Nay. I mean, I do no‘ ken. She’s gone.”

“Gone? Do you mean she
was
with you? Where has she gone?”

“I dinna ken. She crept away last night, while I was sleeping… she’s run away.”

“But why?”

“I found out… something.” He took a shaking breath, then the words burst out of him. “Oh Nina, it was Rhiannon who murdered Connor. She confessed it all to me last night, and now she’s gone. I dinna ken where, she disappeared during the night.”

Nina was silent for a long moment, then she said steadily,

“We all kent it may have been her, Lewen, we’ve suspected it from the beginning. Even Lilanthe feared so, and ye ken your mother always thinks the best o‘ everyone. We will have to find her, we need to take her to Lucescere to be tried and judged.”

“But, Nina, they will hang her!”

“Maybe no‘. If it was an accident…”

“It was no accident,” Lewen said harshly.

“That will be for the court to decide,” Nina answered. “Lewen, come back to the castle. We will find her, dinna ye worry.”

“I am no‘ sure I want to find her,” Lewen said, his voice breaking.

Nina looked troubled. “I canna just let her fly away, Lewen, no‘ if she is responsible for Connor’s death. The Rìgh would want us to make every effort to find her.”

He said nothing, and she said again, with deep concern in her voice, “Come back to the castle, Lewen. We’ve all been very worried about ye. Ye must be cold and hungry indeed. Come back, and we’ll talk about it then.”

“But what about Rhiannon?” Lewen said. “I do no‘ want to just leave her. She went out into the storm, and she’s been so sick, and Blackthorn is so nervy…”

“The laird sent out search parties for the two o‘ ye, happen they will have had sight o’ her. We’ll talk about it when ye are here.”

Lewen sighed. “All right.”

“Are ye using the Scrying Pool? For indeed your face and voice are clear as if ye were standing afore me.”

Lewen nodded, feeling sick at heart.

“Thank Eà! Have ye spoken to the Rìgh? What did he say?”

“I havena contacted him yet.” Lewen’s voice was dull and a trifle defensive. “I have only just found the Pool.”

“Then will ye scry to the Rìgh now? I think he should ken everything we do, just in case we fail to make it back to Lucescere. My heart troubles me… the laird is angry and suspicious indeed about ye and Rhiannon going missing.” She paused, then went on more strongly, “Tell His Highness all ye can, Lewen, he needs to ken.”

“But it is so far… I do no‘ ken if I’ll be able to reach him. I am no good at scrying.” Lewen knew he was making excuses. He did not want to have to face his Rìgh and tell him he had fallen in love with a murderess.

“The Scrying Pool will help ye, Lewen, that’s what it’s for. Remember your scrying exercises. Empty your mind, control your breath, and imagine his face. Reach out to him. Ye will reach him if ye focus strongly enough.”

Lewen nodded reluctantly and closed his eyes, emptying his thoughts. He waited a few minutes, then stared once more into the pool, imagining the dark, stern face of Lachlan MacCuinn, the Rìgh of Eileanan. “My laird,” he called in his mind, “can ye hear me? Can ye hear me, my laird?”

The shadows in the pool gradually shifted into the shape of a man, black-haired and black-bearded, with the curve of black wings rising from his shoulders. Lewen heard the startled mind-voice of the Rìgh.

“Lewen, my lad?”

“Aye, my laird, it is me.”

“What on earth is the matter? Why are ye calling me?”

“I have news, my laird, I thought ye should ken.”

“If it is the news o‘ Connor’s death, we received word o’ it, thanks to a very tired and bad-tempered golden eagle. It is unhappy news indeed, we are all most distressed.”

“Aye, my laird. I’m glad the eagle made it, we were no‘ sure he could cross the mountains, the weather has been foul indeed.”

“Has it? I’m sorry for that. Are ye delayed?”

“Aye, my laird, we are.” Lewen took a deep, shaking breath and forced himself to go on. He felt quite sick with the conflict of emotions inside him. “There’s more news than that, though, my laird. We have found out who killed him, Your Highness. It was a girl we found in the mountains, dressed in his clothes, a satyricorn girl.”

“A Horned One killed him?”

“She’s no‘ horned, my laird, but a satyricorn nonetheless.” Lewen heard the bitterness in his own voice. “She was travelling with us but when I discovered the truth… she fled, my laird.”

“Ye must find her, and bring her here,” the Rìgh commanded.

“The satyricorns have signed the Pact o‘ Peace, they are subject to the laws o’ this land. The murder o‘ a Blue Guard is a heinous crime indeed, and Connor the Just was one o’ my best and most faithful men.”

“I ken, my laird,” Lewen said unhappily.

“Ye must capture the murderess and bring her here to face trial, do ye hear me, Lewen? The whole city grieves his death. Where are ye? Are there men ye can call upon to help lay this murderess by the heels?”

“I think so, my laird. I am at the Tower o‘ Ravens.”

“Ye are using the Scrying Pool? Good lad! No wonder your face just popped up in my wash-bowl. I was wondering how ye managed to scry across the mountains so clearly, I thought ye must have found some way to fly across like the eagle. I could wish ye were closer, we are all keen indeed to charge the murderess and deal with her afore the wedding. We want no unpleasantness to mar the festivities.”

“No, my laird.”

“Well, fare ye well, then, my lad, and good work.”

“Your Highness, there is more. I think ye should ken it all, just in case something happens to us…”

“Happens to ye? What in Eà‘s green blood do ye mean? Are ye in some kind o’ danger there? Is it that satyricorn girl?”

“Nay, my laird. It’s just… my laird, in our effort to return to ye quickly, we came down the eastern bank of the Findhorn River, through the Fetterness Valley.”

“Aye, o‘ course, ye must’ve, if ye’re at the Tower o’ Ravens. A bare, bleak place, if I remember rightly. We fought a battle there, at Fettercairn Castle, many years ago.”

“That is where we are now, my laird. We’ve been trapped here for some days…”

“Trapped? Held against your will, do ye mean?” The Rìgh spoke urgently.

“Nay, no‘ entirely. The road was blocked. Things are no’ right here, though, my laird. There is much talk o‘ murders, and children missing, and corpses that will no’ rest, and there seems to be necromancers using the auld tower…”

“Necromancers!”

“Aye. Trying to raise the dead. Rhiannon saw them invoke a circle, my laird, and sacrifice a cock, and speak with the spirits o‘ the dead.”

“Who is Rhiannon?”

Lewen’s heart sank. “The satyricorn, Your Highness.”

“The murderess?”

“Aye, my laird.”

“Did anyone else see this so-called necromancy?”

“No, my laird, but—”

“She could be seeking to deceive, to throw suspicion for her nefarious deeds onto others.”

“I do no‘ think so, my laird.” Lewen saw the Rìgh’s frowning eyebrows shoot up and went on quickly, “Please, I havena much time. Your Highness, there has been much evil done in this valley, evil much greater than Rhiannon is responsible for. She killed Connor high in the mountains, my laird, up under Ben Eyrie, no’ here in Fetterness. She has never been here afore. The murders and the necromancy, that is the work o‘ others, and I fear it means some danger to ye, my laird. The laird here talks o’ seeking revenge for the death o‘ his brother—I think ye may have killed him, sir. Or one o’ your men. A little boy died too.”

“I do no‘ remember a boy,” the Rìgh said.

“I think Connor heard something, knew something o‘ the laird o’ Fettercairn’s plans, though I do no‘ ken how or what. Connor was just across the loch, at Ravenscraig, when the auld MacBrann died. We were there too, for my mother to help ease him. The MacBrann was very ill, raving o’ ghosts and auld prophecies and evil deeds. We all thought him mad. All except Connor. My laird, the very night the MacBrann died Connor took his horse and rode out for the Razor’s Edge. That is a pass through to Rionnagan, Your Highness…”

“I ken the Razor’s Edge, I walked it myself once, long ago,” the Rìgh said gruffly. "It is no‘ a road one would take lightly.”

“Nay, my laird. I think Connor must’ve had heard something that made him fear for ye, or for your kingdom. Why else would he ride that way? He died afore he could tell ye his news…”

“Fettercairn Castle,” the Rìgh said broodingly. “That is a name I have no‘ heard for many years, but I remember it well. A place o’ blood and treachery.”

Lewen nodded.

“Ye have done well,” the Rìgh said abruptly. “Ye must go. If there are sorcerers there strong enough to raise the dead, they will be strong enough to eavesdrop on your scrying. Get out o‘ there, Lewen, as fast as ye can, and come here to me. I will hear all your news and judge then what is best done.”