The Skull of the World by Kate Forsyth
From the heart of the crystal came a thin, almost invisible ray of hissing blue light. It sliced down through the chain effortlessly, scorching a black line through the pillow, mattress and bedsprings until Isabeau switched it off hurriedly.
She had just released the last chain when the door crashed open. Isabeau swung round. In the doorway stood a tall woman dressed in a flowing gown of violet-coloured silk, a large silver brooch in the shape of a thistle on her breast.
‘Who dares work witchcraft in my domain?’ she cried. ‘Ye fool, to seek to break my chains! I shall flay the skin from your body and hang ye from the battlements for the crows to gorge upon. Seize her!’
Isabeau’s first impulse was to transform herself and flee, but she gripped her staff tightly and turned to face the sorceress.
‘I am Isabeau NicFaghan, Donncan’s aunt,’ she replied courteously. ‘And ye must be Margrit NicFóghnan.’
The sorceress was taken aback. She stepped into the room with a luxurious rustle of silk. Behind her were three men, all considerably shorter than she. One was a fussy old man in a velvet cap with a tassel, carrying a jar of leeches and a battered leather bag. Another, carrying a lantern, was a fat pirate with a wooden leg, a bristling grey beard and a very red face. The last was young and very beautiful, dressed in silks and laces. They all kept well to the rear of the sorceress and it was clear from their nervous demeanour that all three held her in very high respect.
‘Isabeau NicFaghan …’ The sorceress repeated, eyeing Isabeau up and down. ‘So, ye a banprionnsa then, unlikely though it seems at the look o’ ye. And a witch as well.’ Her eyes flickered to the bed where the boys crouched in terror. ‘A powerful one too if ye could cut through my chains. I must say I am impressed.’
Isabeau inclined her head. ‘Thank ye.’
Margrit tapped her damson-coloured mouth with one extremely long, damson-coloured fingernail. ‘Ye interest me, Isabeau NicFaghan.’ She swept forward and stood by a chair at the table. After a moment she turned her head and snapped, ‘Are ye deliberately trying to insult me or are ye merely slow-witted? Do ye expect me to pull out a chair for myself?’
The beautiful young pageboy rushed forward and pulled out a chair for her, and she caressed his cheek with her fingers. ‘Thank ye, sweet boy,’ she purred and sat down. With a graceful wave of her talons, the sorceress indicated Isabeau should also sit.
Isabeau said, ‘Thank ye, but I prefer to stand.’
The sorceress smiled, her eyes glittering. ‘It is a mark o’ high favour to allow ye to sit in my presence, Isabeau NicFaghan. Do ye dare insult me by refusing such a favour?’
‘Actually, I am rather weary,’ Isabeau replied. ‘A seat would be most welcome.’ She smiled at the pageboy as he clumsily pulled out a chair for her, then she sat down, her staff held between her knees.
Margrit observed her through narrowed eyelids. ‘Almost I find myself amused, my fledgling witch. It is no’ an emotion I have experienced in recent years. I may well let ye live.’
‘In that case, I shall endeavour to amuse ye some more,’ Isabeau replied. ‘What tickles your fancy, my lady?’
The sorceress smiled and Isabeau’s hands gripped the staff more tightly. Never had she seen such cold menace in a smile. ‘How do ye come here?’ Margrit suddenly rapped out. ‘And do no’ think to lie, witch, for I shall ken.’
Isabeau’s mind raced, though her face remained impassive. Coolly she replied, ‘I flew, my lady. Ye must remember my mother was Ishbel NicThanach, she that is called the Winged.’
‘How did ye ken where to find me?’
‘I followed the swan-carriage,’ Isabeau replied. ‘I was minding the children the night ye came and stole the boys. I saw ye from the window.’
‘Aaah, I see. Ye were the scapegoat the young nursemaid wrote about. Ye were meant to be drugged.’
‘I did no’ drink more than a mouthful o’ my wine,’ Isabeau answered. ‘Inebriation and reading textbooks do no’ mix well.’
‘So ye are still an apprentice,’ Margrit said with a small crease between her brows. ‘I thought ye were too young to carry a witch’s staff and I see your hands are bare o’ all rings. Have ye stolen someone’s staff? It must be a staff o’ some power to raise fire strong enough to break my chains.’
Isabeau did not answer. Although her hands and body were very still, she was preternaturally alert, watching every flicker of the sorceress’s hands and lashes, every nuance of her expression.
‘So ye have come to rescue your wee nephew,’ the sorceress said, ‘and my grandson too, I suppose. How were ye intending to do that?’
‘I do no’ ken,’ Isabeau admitted. ‘It was difficult enough getting here, I did no’ have time or energy for making plans.’
Margrit frowned. ‘Ye are dressed like a farm lad, ye have a crippled hand, ye look little more than a child yourself, yet somehow I suspect there is more to ye than appears on the surface. Ye carry a stolen witch’s staff and must have some power yourself for ye used it and used it well. And ye sit there as calmly as if we were at an afternoon tea party instead o’ caught like a cat with her paw in the cream jug. Are ye no’ frightened?’
‘Aye, terrified,’ Isabeau admitted truthfully.
Margrit’s frown deepened. ‘It is a shame I shall have to kill ye. Ye intrigue me, indeed ye do. I would quite like to find out more about ye, examine ye myself, see just what your powers are. It is a shame I canna take the risk.’
Isabeau smiled. ‘Somehow all I feel is relief, even though I ken that means ye will kill me sooner rather than later.’
The sorceress scowled with joy. ‘Ye are quick, quick as an elven cat.’
‘Thank ye,’ Isabeau replied modestly. She saw Margrit’s fingers lift and said rather hastily, ‘Ye said before that a young nursemaid wrote to ye. Do ye mean Sukey, Donncan’s nursemaid? She has been spying for ye?’ As she spoke she slowly loosened the drawstring of the nyx hair pouch and surreptitiously began to ease it down over the crystal head of her staff.
Margrit frowned in pleasure. ‘Aye, for years now. And here is the joke. She does no’ ken she does it!’
‘What do ye mean?’
‘Sukey was Maya’s spy, Maya the Once-Was-Blessed, Maya the Fairge’s daughter.’ There was contempt in the silken voice. ‘Maya came to me for help once and in return we set up lines o’ communication for her spies. She was no’ with me long and I have no’ seen her since, but faithfully the little fool nursemaid has been sending me all the information I need and more, for years now! I sign my missives to her with Maya’s name and much effusion o’ gratitude and she addresses them to me, “my beloved Banrìgh”. If it did no’ make me nauseous I’d find it amusing.’
‘I dinna believe it!’ Donncan suddenly cried, his voice trembling between tears and anger. ‘Sukey would never betray my mam and dadda!’
‘Oh, but she has, my lad,’ Margrit replied, her voice as soft and cold as silk. ‘Many, many times. And when I have thought fit I have passed on my information to the Tìrsoilleirean, who have been my allies in the past. They pay well for news on the plans and strategies o’ your father’s armies. It has given me much pleasure to see the MacCuinn thwarted time and time again, all his clever tactics made hollow and useless, his men cut down in ambushes, his ships plundered and sunk, his ability to rule questioned over and over again. A few more defeats like the ones he has suffered recently and the people o’ Eileanan will be looking around for a new rìgh.’
‘They will no’!’ Donncan shouted.
‘Yes, they will, and ye, my hot-blooded young fawn, shall be the one.’
‘Me?’
‘Aye, are ye no’ the heir to the throne? With a wise and loving regent like me to guide ye, ye shall be a rìgh that history shall never forget.’
Isabeau forgot her need to listen to every nuance of Margrit’s voice. ‘Is that your plan?’ she blazed. ‘Ye stole Donncan so ye can make him a puppet rìgh while ye rule!’
Margrit smiled a
‘And just how do ye plan to make Donncan rìgh when his father is alive and well? Do ye think Lachlan will give up the throne to ye so easily, when he has fought so long to gain it?’
Margrit’s smile deepened. ‘As we speak my fleet o’ pirate ships are preparing to set forth to attack the MacCuinn’s fleet. For I am sure once the winged uile-bheist hears his son has been stolen he will hurry to Dùn Gorm to overlook the hunt for him. Am I wrong?’
Isabeau could not say a word.
Margrit’s dimples flashed. ‘As I am sure ye ken, my pirates are renowned for their ruthlessness. They have been given orders to kill every man, woman and cabin-boy on board the royal fleet, with all booty to be divided between them. For this one special occasion I shall no’ demand my usual levy.’
Donncan sobbed. ‘Nay, no’ Mamma, no’ Dadda!’ He launched himself from the bed. Margrit threw up her hand and suddenly he dropped midflight, his face turning purple as he choked for breath. Vainly his hands pounded on his chest and throat, trying to clear his airways. Isabeau leapt up and ran to him, but as suddenly as it had begun, the choking fit was over. Wheezing for breath, Donncan lay on the floor, and Isabeau helped him sit up, soothing him as best she could.
‘Ye are a mean, nasty auld woman!’ Neil said clearly, sitting up and pointing at Margrit. ‘I dinna believe ye’re my granddam. I willna believe it!’
Margrit laughed. ‘Tie the brats to the bed,’ she ordered the one-legged pirate, ‘and ye, ye might as well make yourself useful and drain some o’ the choler from their bodies with your dear wee pets.’
The doctor nodded, his hands trembling as he struggled to undo the top of the jar.
‘And ye, carrot-top, ye have ceased to amuse me. It is time for ye to depart this hallowed earth and reunite with the universe.’ Margrit raised her hands, her dimples flashing in her cheeks.
Suddenly there was a loud bang and a flash of fire which left behind it a cloud of thick black smoke. Margrit coughed and waved her hand to clear the air. All that was left of Isabeau was a little pile of discarded clothes on the floor. The sorceress cried angrily, ‘Where has she gone? What is she, a firework magician to disappear in a puff o’ smoke? Find her!’
Isabeau crouched within the safety of the skirting board, the precious bag of nyx hair clutched in her trembling paws. All she could hear was the uneven stamp of boot and wooden peg-leg as the pirate searched all through the room, the low hiss of Margrit’s voice, his blustering reply. After a very long time she heard the swish of Margrit’s skirts and the rat-a-tat of the pirate as they left the room, followed by the nervous tread of the pageboy. Then there was only the nervous fussing of the doctor as he moaned and muttered over his task. At last the door shut behind him as well, and there was silence, broken only by the occasional sob of one of the boys.
Isabeau looked out from behind the skirting board, her whiskers quivering. When she was sure there was no-one left in the room beside herself and the boys, she crept out and transformed back into her own shape. Her clothes had been flung to one side and she threw them on hurriedly, grateful she had been wearing nothing but a loose shirt, a pair of cotton drawers and her knee-breeches.
The boys were tied to the bed, fat black leeches hanging all over their bare torsos, their striped tails wriggling happily. Swiftly Isabeau rummaged through the pouch until she found the bag of salt which all witches kept by them for use in ritual. She sprinkled salt on the leeches until they fell off, writhing, leaving the boys with many small Y-shaped wounds that streamed blood.
‘Do no’ worry, they’ll stop bleeding soon,’ she whispered to the boys, who were white-faced both from loss of blood and a squirming horror. It took only a few swift cuts of her knife to free them, and then Isabeau was lifting them off the bed and cuddling them close. ‘We have to get out o’ here fast so we can warn your parents!’ she said. ‘Besides, I do no’ ever want to see that blaygird cursehag again.’
She put her ear to the door and could hear the tortured breathing of the one-legged pirate on the far side. Very, very slowly Isabeau manipulated the lock with her powers until it clicked free, then in a flash she opened the door. The pirate’s chair, which had been leaning against the door, crashed to the floor. The old pirate gave a stentorian grunt and struggled to rise, only to find Isabeau’s knife pressed against his windpipe so hard he could scarcely draw breath. His face grew even redder and he wheezed and whuffed a little, but did not shout the alarm.
She had him tied to the bed in minutes, the boys enthusiastically helping her gag him with a torn pillow-case, then she locked the door behind them, setting Stumpy’s chair back where it had been.
‘Come, my laddiekins, let us pretend to be mice and creep through the castle as quietly as can be,’ she whispered.
‘Aunty Beau, ye really were a mouse, wasna ye?’ Neil said.
‘Aye, my cuckoo, I was.’
‘Canna ye show us how to become mice too and then we willna have to pretend?’
‘I wish I could, Cuckoo, but I’m no’ quite sure how I do it myself. Come now, ssshhhh! Tiptoe and do no’ say a word. I be sure there are many people in this place we do no’ want to meet.’
They crept along the dark corridor, Isabeau casting out her witch senses in all directions, her pulse galloping. Now she had the boys freed, she wanted to escape this filthy old fort just as fast as she could.
She felt the minds of many people about them, some so cruel and loathsome she recoiled from the contact. Frighteningly, she also felt the mind of Margrit, searching for her. She did her best to shield herself, grateful that she had been taught this skill so well by Latifa the Cook, one of her first teachers.
Isabeau knelt down so she could face the boys. ‘What I want ye to do, my lads, if we get separated, is to head up as far as ye can go, right up to the very top o’ the fort, on to its roof. No-one shall look for ye there, they shall expect us to head down towards the sea, to try and steal a boat or stow away on a ship. Get into the cages with the swans, they will hide ye with their wings if anyone does come searching for ye. Do ye understand me?’
They nodded, looking very small and dirty in their crumpled, blood-stained nightclothes. ‘Ye will no’ leave us though, will ye, Aunty Beau?’
‘No’ if I can help it, dearling. They search for me though, all through the fort they search, and soon they will realise ye are gone too. We must be very, very careful.’
Hearts hammering, they crept through the dark corridors till they came to the stairs. Light flickered up the stairwell and Isabeau held the boys back, looking cautiously over the rail. Men carrying lanterns were climbing up from a lower floor, the flickering orange light illuminating their cruel faces and sharp cutlasses. Some wore eyepatches, others had hooks for hands, or leant on crutches, or limped along on wooden legs like Stumpy. It was clear they had lived a rough, blood-thirsty life. Isabeau could not help a shiver of dread. She drew back, chewing her nail indecisively. Then she crept forward once more, beckoning to Neil.
‘I’m going to create a diversion. When the men look away, ye must run up the stairs as fast and quiet as a wee mouse. Do no’ look back, just run! Promise?’
He nodded and Isabeau hugged him close. ‘Be careful, Cuckoo.’
She peered over the rail again and when the men reached the landing below them, used her powers to cause a clatter from down the corridor. All the men whipped round. As they shouted and pointed, Neil went running up the stairs, his bare feet making very little sound on the wooden steps. As he reached the top, one of the boards squeaked and a few of the men turned round, though too late to see him.
‘Ye next, Donncan, my mousekin. Are ye ready? Be careful o’ that step.’
He nodded, and she repeated the clatter, so that more of th
The men began to charge up the stairs and Isabeau leapt back, spun on her heel, and ran down the corridor, trying to make as much noise as possible. As she had hoped, the men followed her instead of climbing up the stairs to investigate. She led them far away from the staircase, having to stop to fight once or twice as they caught up with her. None was expecting a lassie with a crippled hand to be able to fight, so the first few times she was able to escape them easily. As they grew warier it became more difficult, for they came at her from all sides with weapons drawn, but she somersaulted over their heads and ran on, searching for some way to escape them. If she could only have a few moments to herself she could transform into a mouse again, but they were too quick and too many and Isabeau was already dangerously overwrought by all the magic she had been using.
She ran on, her breath sharp in her side, then turned to look back over her shoulder. Suddenly she collided with someone very large. With all the breath knocked out of her, Isabeau could not react quickly enough to escape the hard hands that seized her. She had a brief impression of an ugly face all bristling with black hair under a tricorne hat, a grinning mouth of stained, broken teeth and an enormous crooked nose before a huge, hard fist slammed into her temple. She fell into a roaring darkness.
She woke to a crippling headache, lights scorching her eyes. She turned her face away, lifting her hand to cover her eyes.
‘The sorceress-babe has woken,’ Margrit’s silken voice emerged from the clamour in Isabeau’s ears. ‘I’m glad o’ that, I was afraid ye had killed her, Hammerhead.’
‘Ah,’ Isabeau said, not lifting her hand. ‘So at last I meet Hammerhand, the man who beats laddies black and blue. I wish I could say it was a pleasure.’