The Witches of Eileanan (57 page)

Isabeau was still easily tired from her fever and she expected to need many breaks and rests, at least in the first day's journey. To her surprise, she felt quite fresh by the time the sun was directly overhead and Lasair was only slightly damp beneath the saddle. She decided to push on as long as she could before stopping to rest and eat, but by late afternoon was still feeling only slightly fatigued. She must have been hardened up by the riding before Caeryla, she decided, pulling Lasair to a halt.

However, when she dismounted, a wave of giddiness overcame her and she had to sit in the shade of a tree a while before she could gain the energy to open her pack and eat. She had intended to remove the saddle and bridle so Lasair could crop the grass in comfort, but so great was her exhaustion, she decided to leave it on until they stopped for the night. She ate and drank, and was just deciding to sleep for a while in the comfort of the sweet-scented turf, when the talisman began to burn and tingle against her side. At once Isabeau was tense and looked about her, but the clearing seemed deserted. There was a rustle of leaves and a crack of a stick, and immediately Isabeau got to her feet and shoved everything back into her bundle before strapping it behind the saddle.

Just as she put her foot in the stirrup to heave herself into the saddle, there was a rush of motion and a pack of horned women ran from the shelter of the trees toward her. Naked, their muscular bodies gleamed with sweat and she saw that a spine of stiff hair ran down their backbones, finishing in a short tail with a tuft of hair at the end. The horns of each were different. There was one with a single horn, long as Isabeau's arm and rapier-sharp. Another had the spreading antlers of a
geal'teas;
another, four short stumpy horns like a goat's. Each had a wild, gloating expression on their faces and as they ran they yelled and shouted in blood-curdling tones.

Isabeau was in the saddle and her heels hard in Lasair's sides in a flash. Lasair bolted gladly, his ears flat against his skull, his powerful hindquarters heaving beneath her. The Horned Ones were close behind, however, running swiftly as deer. The one with the rapier horn came close enough to graze Lasair's rump, bringing blood swelling; and another grasped Isabeau's stirrup so she had to smash her face with her boot to shake her. As the five-horned woman tumbled down, Isabeau urged Lasair toward a gap in the trees, leaning as close to his neck as she could. The stallion lengthened his stride and soared through the gap, so that the Horned One waiting in the tree branches misjudged her leap. Instead of knocking Isabeau from the saddle, she slammed into her, unbalancing her but falling backward herself so she landed heavily on the ground. Isabeau clung to the saddle and wondered how she had ever managed to stay on.

It was only when they left the shelter of the forests and struck across open ground that the horned woman fell back, and by that time Lasair was badly winded and flecked with gray foam. It was sunset, and the rolling fields were lit with a glorious light, vivid against a backdrop of storm clouds. Lasair slowed into an easy canter, and a fresh, green-scented breeze cooled their sweaty faces. Isabeau felt a great sense of freedom and salvation pour over her. Already she was free of the mysterious forests of Aslinn and into Blèssem—she could not believe how far they had traveled in just one day.

It was fully dark before they at last
stopped and rested.
Lasair buried his face contentedly into a field of fresh, young oats, and Isabeau made herself a cheese and herb omelette from some eggs she found in a nest in the hedge. She built the fire in the shelter of a stone wall so the flames could not be seen, and banked it low after she had cooked her meal. Already there were clear signs of the crofters of Blèssem. A red road ran decorously between stone walls, a patchwork of lush pastures spreading out on either side. Here and there small crofts broke the uniformity of hill and field, lamplight sparkling from the windows. Overhead a canopy of stars spread, and Isabeau, lying on her back in sweet meadow grass, pondered their mysteries, wondering what Cloudshadow had meant by the dark constellations.

Isabeau slept for only a few hours before rising and again saddling and mounting the stallion, an awkward job with only one hand. She had decided Blèssem was too populated for her to risk riding much by day, and she knew the crofters had a reputation for mistrusting strangers, especially strangers with an air of witchery about them. When the Rìgh had first passed the proclamation against
uile-bheistean
in the months before the Day of Betrayal, the people of Blèssem had rejoiced and had been the most assiduous in enforcing it. They had been a little troubled by the secret raids on the Towers and the Decree Against Witches which followed, but since they had never trusted the magic powers of the witches, they muttered it was probably for the best. In the sixteen years since the overthrow of the witches, the people of Blèssem had easily come to believe they had always thought magic and witchcraft evil, and were proud that their country was clean of any sorcery. It would definitely be far safer for Isabeau to travel at night and spend the days resting.

It rained before dawn, and Isabeau had trouble finding a safe place to stop. Here the land had been cultivated for centuries, and there were few woods in which to conceal herself and the horse. It was fully light and she had already seen the silhouette of workers trudging along the horizon before she at last found a copse of trees thick enough to hide in. Even so, children playing hide and seek woke her a few hours later, and she had to hide in a tree, her heart thumping. She found she was terrified of meeting anyone, and thought grimly that her experience at the hands of the Grand-Questioner had given her a legacy of nightmares and starting at shadows, as well as a ruined hand.

The beauty of the cornfields under moonlight soothed her, so she rode without thinking about very much at all. She found she and the stallion had grown so attuned to each other she barely had a thought before the stallion reacted. Many times she was so tired she barely realized they had stopped until she looked up and saw the safety of overhanging branches around them and knew Lasair had chosen them a place to rest. Other times vague anxieties troubled her and the horse would lengthen his stride so the moment of unease was left far behind. Soon the clear weather broke, and day after day of chilly rain followed. Isabeau was hungry, for her supplies had soon run out, and so the need to forage slowed her down. Several times she crept into some crofter's cottage and stole bread or a pie left cooling on the table, or pulled vegetables from a neat little garden. She had lost all guilt over her thieving ways, knowing only that she had to survive, to make it to Rhyssmadill.

Unable to keep herself dry, fever often swelled up and overtook her, so that her journey was broken by periods of inertia when she lay in someone's barn and stared out at the rain, unable to find the energy to search for food. On one such night she had taken shelter in a stable, hiding Lasair in a back stall and feeding him handfuls of the farmer's good grain. Hunger and exhaustion warred against each other in her body so that she drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of feasts with tables groaning with food. Suddenly she woke with a jerk and huddled deeper into the scratchy straw as a shadow passed in front of the stable door.

Feeling uneasy and vulnerable, Isabeau wrapped her filthy plaid about her and cautiously knelt and peered out into the yard. Across the cobblestones crouched the old farmhouse, light spilling from the kitchen door. She saw a shape flitter against the light. Nerves jangled everywhere in her body. She had seen a shape like that before.

Shaking with trepidation but drawn forward by an irresistible curiosity, Isabeau climbed up into the loft so that she could see across the stable yard. Through the kitchen window she saw two small children playing with sheep's knuckles while their mother stirred a pot on the fire. From a chair that had its back to the window she saw two long legs protruding, a pink toe peeping out from a hole in a woolly sock. The mother turned to say something but, instead, her mouth fell open and she screamed. Isabeau could see her eyes protruding and her mouth as wide as a mine shaft, but could hear nothing. As the father leaped out of the chair, a piece of wood he was whittling falling out of his lap and rolling across the floor, Isabeau saw the shadow detach itself from the door and step smoothly inside.

Isabeau felt like screaming herself. Seven feet tall and ghostly gray, the creature had wings like a dragonfly's—stiff and iridescent gray—and a calm, beautiful face. Remembering all too well the last time she had seen a Mesmerd, Isabeau wanted to cry out and warn the crofters, but it was too late, both mother and father were gazing at the winged ghost with a fascinated smile, and the Mesmerd had bent and scooped up both children, one in each pair of arms. Smoothly and silently the Mesmerd turned and left the cottage, with the parents still standing in the middle of the floor, idiotic smiles fixed to their faces, and the children equally as still and hypnotized in the fairy's arms.

As the Mesmerd crossed the stable yard, it turned and looked up at the opening into the loft straight at Isabeau, who immediately ducked her head down, trembling. For five agonizing minutes she lay as still as a stone, waiting for the moment when the Mesmerd's clawlike hand would touch her. At last she realized it was gone, and sat up, seeing the farmer and his wife still standing in the same positions. As she watched, the farmer stirred and the smile faded from his face, to be replaced by horror and fear. She watched him slap his wife across the cheek to rouse her, and then the wailing and crying began. Quickly as possible, Isabeau gathered together her things and saddled Lasair, knowing a search would be mounted. She had to be gone.

That night, as she rode through the endlessly driving rain, fearful questions hammered at her. Why had the Mesmerd stolen the children? Why had it not killed the parents as it had so lovingly killed Seychella? Most of all, why had she been spared? She was sure the Mesmerd had been aware of her presence—why else had it turned and stared up at her as she crouched in the straw? Was it waiting for her out in the wild night, the howling storm? In a panic, she kicked Lasair in the ribs and he shot forward, racing over the fields, careless of stones or coney holes or ditches.

After seeing the Mesmerd, Isabeau again began to fear pursuit, and her nightmares returned with frightening force. She took to riding through most of the day as well as the night, hidden behind veils of rain, her plaid drawn up to cover her face. Small villages huddled in every fold of the land, and it was now rare to ride more than a few miles without passing a croft or farmhouse, smoke rising from their chimneys into the damp air.

Most of the time, she existed in a daze, clinging to Lasair's saddle as he cantered through the streaming rain. They barely stopped, either to sleep or eat, for the magic of the saddle meant both felt reasonably fresh while riding, but pulverized with exhaustion once they stopped. As soon as she lifted the saddle off Lasair's back, he would begin to tremble with exhaustion, and soon she never removed it at all, riding day and night, sleeping in the saddle and only dismounting to search for food or to find a bush to squat behind.

One night they cantered up a steep incline to find a blaze of light and movement on the other side. A procession of torches was winding its way along the road toward her and, in a panic, Isabeau urged Lasair off the road and behind a wall, admonishing him to be quiet. In the darkness she crouched, sure the procession was angry villagers or soldiers come to capture her again. Then the cavalcade came closer and she heard laughter and jesting, and saw men and women dancing together and holding hands, crowned with leaves and flowers.

Beltane,
she thought with a pang.
It is Beltane already, the first of May.
She had been riding for over a month.

At the head of the parade danced a tall, thin man, dressed in leafy branches from head to toe. Isabeau peered over the wall in delight.
The Green Man . . . I have always wanted to see the Green Man. ..

She would have liked to follow the laughing, dancing figures and seen the end of the May Day celebrations, but with a sigh she mounted as soon as they had passed, and set her face to the south again. Later that night she saw another village in the distance and could not resist sidling close to the village square to watch the bonfire and the dancing. They had just crowned the May Queen and were tying up the maypole in honor of her. A feast was spread out on tables in the square and, overcome by a temptation she could not resist, Isabeau crept from tree to tree until the tables were tantalizingly close. She waited until all attention was on the acrobatics being performed in the center, then dived under the cover of the white cloth. There she lay all night, putting out a dirty hand and pulling whatever her fingers encountered back into her shelter. For the first time in weeks she was able to eat to her heart's satisfaction, watching the show from under her cover and wishing she could dance and laugh like the other girls, but feeling a chasm between them like the Great Divide.

Isabeau watched until the flames were beginning to die down, then slipped away again to resume her silent journey. This time though her pack was crammed with remnants of bread and roasted vegetables and baked cheese and mushroom pies, and waves of dizziness no longer washed over her.

Two days later Isabeau and Lasair came within sight of the river, winding down the valley in silver loops that once almost met itself before twisting away again. To the south lay the flatlands of Clachan, which had once been flooded with the winter tides every year. The Clachans had built retaining walls and causeways and canals with locks to control the wildly swinging tides, and nurtured the soil with seaweed and manure until it was almost as rich as the fields of Blèssem.