The Witches of Eileanan (14 page)

The dragon stared at Meghan malevolently.
Thou mayst ask, but I warn thee, I am becoming bored with thy presence.

Why did ye bring me Isabeau?
Meghan asked.

I? I brought thee nothing. I like humans not.

The dragons. Why did the dragons bring me Isabeau?

Isabeau?
The dragon mind-spoke the word with a twinge of distaste.
What is
. . .
Isabeau?

She is . . . or was
... a
babe. She was left on my doorstep by a dragon.
In her earnestness, Meghan looked directly into the dragon's topaz eyes for the first time. She was unable to look away. She had a sensation of time rolling away, vast vistas of years, the swing of planets and stars. Sunsets bloomed above her head, clouds raced away, the world spun on its axis and the dragon's eyes glittered cold. She was conscious of sorrows greater than she could ever have imagined, of a consuming hunger, of knowledge jealously guarded, the dragon's eyes glittering cold.

Suddenly there was a scrabble of claws up her body and Gitâ screeched in her ear. Meghan blinked, and was immediately able to look away. With horror she realized she was only inches away from the dragon, standing right in the shadow of his claws. He loomed above her, and she could tell he was smiling.

So the human witch has friends, has it?
he said sardonically and sent a sudden spurt of flame toward Gitâ, causing the donbeag to scamper back in dismay.

I
wish to understand why the dragons, in their wisdom and their perceptiveness, decided to leave the babe Isabeau in my care?
Meghan asked again carefully, not moving away from the dragon's shadow but addressing his sinewy leg, which was all she could see without raising her head.

Why would the Circle of Seven interest themselves in the affairs of puny humans?
the dragon said disdainfully, sending out a small puff of smoke and coiling away.

Meghan's eyes gleamed. At last, a break in the standoff. She had gained some information, and would hopefully be able to use it to her advantage.
Sixteen years ago, returning to my secret hideaway in fear o' my life, I found a squalling babe on my doorstep, with a dragoneye ring in her hand. It was no' hard to guess whose babe she was, but how and why did she arrive on my doorstep? I can see only one possible answer to the "how "
—
I
ken the dragons chose me to bring up Isabeau. What I do no' ken is why.

The dragon yawned again, though a little less convincingly than before, and rustled his wings.
And if thy pretty fairy story be true, what makes thou think we would explain ourselves to thee?
A world of scorn was contained in the last
word.

The Circle o' Seven must've had a strong reason for involving themselves in the affairs o' the land,
Meghan said, and tried not to look the dragon in the eye.
I
was chosen to undertake this task; if I am to fulfill the charge successfully, I must understand what I am meant to do.

The dragon smiled and stretched out his great yellow wings, hooked and clawed, so his shadow blotted out the sun and the dragon-fear washed over Meghan in a choking wave.
Thou knowest nothing.

I knew enough to come and find ye.

And still thou knowest nothing.

That is why I beg an audience with the Circle o' Seven.

The dragon stared at her until Meghan's legs trembled and her hands were damp with nervous sweat, the impulse to stare again into his eyes almost overwhelming.
The Circle of Seven do not wish to speak with thee.

But—

Rage against thy kind is hot in our breasts. Go, afore, I blast thy puny bones to ashes!

There was silence for a moment as Meghan desperately tried to think of another argument.

Thou no longer interest me, witch. Leave.
The dragon's mind-voice was silky with menace, and tendrils of steam were rolling from his nostrils.
Leave!

Meghan had no choice. She knew her life was of no account to the dragon. Reluctantly she bowed and began the descent again, the skin between her shoulderblades prickling, her senses stretched to their limits. As she climbed back down the steep steps, a sense of defeat welled up and overwhelmed her. She felt tired and very, very old. A haze obscured her vision, and she stumbled and fell, jarring herself badly, knocking her forehead and scraping her elbow. She swore and blinked away the tears that had involuntarily sprung to her eyes. It was many years since she had last felt so helpless and weak.

The memory of the Day of Betrayal always brought a sense of horror and pain to Meghan. That day her whole life had crumbled; her best friends had died or disappeared, and she had barely escaped with her life. The Witches of Eileanan had been a power in the land for hundreds of years before that fateful day. It had never occurred to any of them that a slip of a lass could swing the nation against them. Maybe they had become arrogant. But surely death by fire was no just punishment for a little arrogance. For that was how so many of the Coven had died, while the smoke from the Coven's ancient Towers had spiralled black and greasy into the sky.

Determination filled Meghan again. She would not allow the Coven to be crushed because the Banrìgh feared rival power. Although her own body ached and a trickle of blood was running down the side of her head, Meghan heaved herself to her feet. Slowly she began to limp back down the path, deep in thought.

She had escaped the Day of Betrayal, helped by the small animals of the field and forest who had warned her of danger and shown her their hidden paths and refuges through the countryside. She had retreated to her secret valley, working from there to rescue those of her kindred still imprisoned, and to build up a network of spies. Within days there had been a price on her head, and Meghan found it more and more difficult to move freely. She only ventured out to gather news or to buy any relics of the Towers that made their way into pedlars' carts. Soon after retreating to the valley, she had found Isabeau, and bringing her up had inevitably curtailed her movements too. So sixteen years had passed, and Meghan had worked all that time to undermine the power of the Banrìgh. She was not going to give up now.

Meghan set up camp on the bare field, well out of sight of the wide platform where she had met the dragon. This time she lit a fire and made herself a hot meal, knowing that she had been disorientated by tiredness and hunger. It had been a mistake to push herself so hard that she was exhausted when she met the dragon. Gitâ had warned her, but a sense of urgency had overridden Meghan's caution and so she had let the dragon intimidate her. She heard the donbeag chuckle as she mentally admitted her mistake, but she ignored him, making plans. Gitâ was anxious at her preoccupation, curling up on her shoulder with a cold paw tucked inside her neckline, but Meghan knew she had made an error of judgment, and she was determined it would not happen again.

At dawn the next day she made her way back to the stage at the foot of the stairs, and this time crossed under the arch resolutely.

The cobbled road lead upward at a steep angle, with a sharp step upward every twenty or thirty paces. Meghan's eyes widened with dismay when she saw how high each step was—an awkward scramble for
someone other small
stature. The walls on either side of the stairway were taller than her head, and decorated with partially obscured shapes and symbols—moons and stars and circles and wavy lines, depictions of battles and crownings, magic acts and magic creatures, all surrounded by intricate knots of stone and a border of double roses etched in thorns. As Meghan could only occasionally see the view through a gap in the wall where the stones had crumbled, she found herself becoming absorbed in the ever-changing scrollwork as she climbed. It seemed stories were being told, but she lacked the knowledge to decipher the scenes and so enjoyed them merely for their strange and sensuous beauty.

The higher she climbed, the thinner and colder the air became, and the more Gitâ wished for his snug little nest in a hole in the tree house's trunk. Meghan was glad of his chatter, no matter how complaining, for the further she climbed the more her apprehension grew. Once the shadow of a dragon passed over her and she found herself crouched against the wall in a paroxysm of terror, the instinctive response of humans to dragon-fear.

Once the sun was gone, Meghan had to rest for the night because the darkness hid gaps in the roadway where an unwary traveler could easily fall to their death. Even though the night was bitterly cold, she dared not light a fire, for it would act as a beacon to dragon and witch-hunter alike. She ate some bread and dried fruit, warmed some tea with her finger, as Isabeau did, and tilted back her head so she could see the stars. They seemed closer and brighter than she had ever seen before, and she studied them with a now familiar sense of unease.

Directly over her head, the Kingfisher spread his wings, while to the south the Centaur strode away, the great waterfall of stars they called his Beard glittering brightly. Just above the eastern horizon the Child with the Urn poured industriously, while to the west flamed the Fire-Eater. It was these constellations in particular which caused Meghan unease, for she had never seen them together in the sky. Normally the Child with the Urn had swung below the horizon by the time the Fire-Eater was rising. Even more strangely, the two moons seemed to have reversed position, so Magnysson the Red was lower than the delicate Gladrielle, rather than pursuing her as he always did. She wished she knew more about the night sky; she wished the Star-gazers had not all met their deaths at the hands of the Banrìgh's Awl; she wished she knew what the sky foretold.

Meghan did not fall asleep until a few hours before dawn, and woke to find a bird on her knee and a marmot in her lap, which comforted her greatly.

During the climb of the second day, she managed to scale the outer wall so she could examine the view. Despite the beauty of the panorama spread before her, Meghan's anxiety was not relieved. The lower slopes of Dragonclaw were dotted with the tents of Red Guards, and more soldiers were coming, the sun glinting off the narrow line of their spears as they climbed the steep paths. The size of the army sent against the dragons disturbed her and for the first time she wondered what other magic they commanded to be so confident. The presence of a Mesmerd with the Red Guards that had invaded her valley had been a shock, showing both the hypocrisy of the Awl's fight against magic and its ruthlessness. They must have made agreements with other magical creatures, some of which were very dangerous. Meghan tried to see what had become of her home, but the secret valley was hidden from view by a high spur of land.

As she climbed, the road became very steep, and was badly damaged by weather and time. Often she had to pick her way cautiously, testing the cobblestones before her with her staff and staying as close to the shoulder of the cliff as she could. At one point, the road entirely crumbled away, leaving a gap of nine feet or more that showed a dizzying fall of stone.

Gitâ bounded up Meghan's body to her shoulder, sending her a wry mind-message:
It's times like this I wager you wished you had Ishbel the Winged's Talent.

Meghan had to smile at the truth of this, and stroked the donbeag's silky fur. She looked about her carefully, and noticed a small plant clinging tenaciously to life in a crevice in the sheer rock face, about three feet above her head. About the size of her fist, the herb dropped a tangle of leaves and tiny blue flowers below its exposed root. Meghan raised her hand and slowly the tendrils thickened and grew, the roots giving a visible heave as they wound tighter into the crack. A shower of stones and gravel rattled down on their heads, and Gitâ retreated under Meghan's plaid. The witch had to sit down, clenching her fists on her lap, as the tangle of branches and flowers—now the size of dinner plates—spread across the cliff face. The donbeag nestled under her hand, and she took a deep breath, feeling her age.

When the stones and boulders at last stopped crashing down, some measure of strength had returned to Meghan and she stood, surveying her handiwork. The bunch of wild thyme had blossomed into a great waterfall of vines completely covering the wall along the dangerous gap. Gitâ gave an approving chirrup, and bounded from Meghan's shoulder to the wiry branches and in a few swift movements was on the other side, his tail high over his head. "I wish it were that easy for me," Meghan sighed, and secured her staff to her pack with a rope. It took her almost twenty minutes to make the crossing, sometimes stepping on the broken remnants of the road, sometimes having to trust the vines with her full weight. Once a stone crumbled and fell away under the testing pressure of her foot, and Meghan lurched forward, her hands slipping on the vine. She was able to regain her footing after an undignified moment swinging helplessly while the roots strained at her weight. The rest of the crossing was accomplished safely, though, and she sat with her head bowed and her chest heaving for quite some time afterward.

Although the magically enhanced plant would be of assistance to the Red Guards behind her, she left it be. It had struggled hard to survive and had helped her valiantly, and she could not bear to destroy it now.