A Rush of Wings, page 13
As the scent of smoke and peat descended, Rowenna carried on doggedly treading out the stalks. A few moments later her brothers appeared in the doorway.
“You don’t need to do that, En,” Duncan said brusquely. “We don’t need your linen-work to support us. I earned enough last night to buy us all something to wear and enough to eat. Not the stray, though—he’ll have to fend for himself.”
“The stray can look after himself just fine, thank you very much,” Gawen said. He edged through the small crowd of boys in the doorway and went to sit on the riverbank, just as he’d done the night before.
Rowenna said nothing to any of them. She kept on with her work, and only Finn looked back as her brothers set off, heading away from the castle and toward the busy heart of Inverness.
“You can go with them, if you like,” Rowenna said when it was only Gawen left. “There’s nothing to keep you here.”
“I’ll stay, just for a while,” Gawen answered. He lowered himself down onto the soft riverside turf and put his hands behind his head, staring up at the star-strewn night sky. Rowenna finished treading out the nettle stalks and knelt next to them, pulling fibrous strands free for her linen-work. It was difficult, working by hand rather than with a wooden-toothed comb, but she didn’t dare risk a tool. All her heart and intent went into the task, and the wind ducked low to flit about her as she worked.
“You should sleep tonight too, scold,” Gawen said presently, and it was not what Rowenna had expected.
“I’ll sleep when we’re free, or when time’s run out and we’re all cursed for good,” she answered. Her blistered hands were clumsy, the ferocious burning turned to pins and needles. But the moon overhead was near to full, and she hated to waste the light, so she worked on.
Down by the riverbank, Gawen began to sing, low and tuneful, and that was not what Rowenna had expected either.
Now as I roved out one summer’s day,
Among lofty hills, moorland, and mountain,
It was there I spied a fine young maid,
While I with others was out a-hunting.
No shoes nor stockings did she wear,
Neither had she hat nor had she feathers.
But her black hair hung in ringlets there,
And the gentle breeze played round her shoulders.
Now I said, “Fair lass, why roam the lane,
why roam the lane among the heather?”
She said, “My father’s away from home,
And I’m a-herding his ewes together.”
I said, “Fair lass, if you’ll be mine,
You’ll lie on a bed of feathers.
In silks and satins you will shine,
And you’ll be my queen among the heather.”
She said, “Kind sir, your offer’s good,
But I’m afraid ’twas meant for laughter.
For I know you are a rich lord’s son,
And I’m but a poor shepherd’s daughter.
“Oh but had you been a shepherd lad,
A-herding ewes in yonder valley,
Or had you been a plowman’s son,
With all my heart, I would have loved you.”
Now I’ve been to halls and I’ve been to balls,
And I’ve been to London and Balquhidder.
But the fairest lass that ever I’ve seen,
She was herding ewes among the heather.
So we both sat down upon the plain,
We sat awhile and talked together.
And we left the ewes to stray along the lane,
till I loved my queen among the heather.
“Anytime I’ve heard that sung, the girl has golden hair,” Rowenna said sternly, tugging at a stubborn strand of nettle fiber. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be? Or do you plan to spend your whole night mooning about on that riverbank?”
Gawen got to his feet, and at once Rowenna regretted chiding him. She hadn’t truly wanted him to go—it kept her mind off the pain in her hands and feet to have him there.
“I can go try to find my father again, I suppose,” Gawen said. “Though it’ll do no good. I need a cailleach’s help for that.”
“This one’s busy,” Rowenna answered. “You’ll have to ask another if you need help with your searching tonight. Perhaps Elspeth’s not occupied.”
She didn’t mean any of it. She didn’t want him to leave, and she certainly didn’t want him seeking out Elspeth’s company, whether he said the beautiful girl was a temptation or not. But it was as if something in Rowenna compelled her to say such things and be harsh when her heart bent toward softness.
“Did Elspeth not tell you?” Gawen asked, his eyes narrowing. “She has no more craft. She can sense it in others still, but not work it herself. The day after Drumossie, she tried to undertake a thing that shattered her power. Torr Pendragon was not pleased with that, and she’s little more than a prisoner here now, no matter how it might look.”
Rowenna faltered. “I didn’t… I didn’t know you could lose your craft, or break it.”
“Well, you can. And she did.”
Gawen was already past the hut on his way up the hill path when Rowenna stopped him with a word. “Wait.”
He did as he was told at once, turning to look back at her.
“I don’t mean to be sharp with you,” Rowenna offered. “You mustn’t mind me.”
Gawen gave her a crooked smile, and it was the first time Rowenna had seen him wear the expression. “I don’t mind, scold. I don’t mind at all.”
“Wherever you’re off to, just… promise me you’ll come back before the change,” Rowenna said. “For all our sakes, I’d rather no one see it happen.”
Gawen nodded. “I promise. And what’s more, I’ll find your brothers and get them back before it happens too.”
“Thank you,” Rowenna said, and managed, this time, to say the words gently.
“No, Rowenna.” Gawen frowned, his dark eyes fixed on her, seated among the witchnettle with her blistered hands and feet. “Thank you.”
Rowenna waited till he’d gone, and only then did she set her work aside for a few moments, keeping her hands and feet immobile while she tried vainly to breathe through the pain. The wind frisked about her, and she shook her head at it.
“I might run mad before this is over,” she admitted. “The work’s worse than I thought it would be.”
Our thanks, our thanks, our thanks, the wind sang back sweetly, as if to echo Gawen’s words.
Chapter Fourteen
Sometimes, by day or by night, Rowenna could hear the sounds of life in Inverness Castle. The shouting of servants, music drifting from hidden courtyards of an evening, laughter as courtiers spilled out across the hillside. But she kept to herself, bent upon her work. Her brothers came and went by cover of darkness, and though Gawen made a habit of lingering for longer, she spent most evenings alone, focused on her curse breaking. Only Elspeth seemed able to bridge the gap between Rowenna and the castle, appearing at midmorning every day to instruct the girl in her craft.
She came down the hill in her gossamer gowns, and to Rowenna, bound to the pain of her work and to haunted dreams of Mairead, it felt as if Elspeth were a denizen of an entirely different world. From Elspeth she learned to guide and direct the wind—to instruct it to go here or there across the riverside meadow, to lift handfuls of leaves, or to climb up and sway among the treetops. None of it seemed like the sort of work that might be of much use, but it was what Elspeth offered, and there was a certain joy about it.
One night after her brothers and Gawen took their leave, Rowenna went out to the meadow on the banks of the Ness only to find she’d pulled every last stalk of witchnettle. Experience told her that she’d nowhere near the quantity of flax she needed to piece together four linen shirts for four cursed swans, and she stood in the moonlight for a long while, racked by indecision.
It felt safe down here, in her strange solitary world beside the river. But to carry on her work, she’d have to risk searching elsewhere for a fresh crop of nettles.
“Come with me,” Rowenna called to the wind. “I want your company, beloved.”
Eagerly the wind did as she’d asked, circling about Rowenna’s ankles and roaming through the grass as she climbed the hillside. At the curtain wall, a guard stood aside to let Rowenna in, recognizing the mute swan maiden who’d taken up residence on the castle grounds.
It was the first time since her arrival in Inverness that Rowenna had been within the walls of the castle proper. It was all a maze—alleyways and courtyards and dead ends, and everywhere signs of more walls being built, more expansion undertaken. She wandered here and there, avoiding any doorway that looked as if it might lead to an interior passage, and finally found herself up against the tall hedge she’d seen upon arriving. It stretched from side to side as far as the eye could see, and Rowenna sighed.
But the wind rushed ahead of her and swept creeping vines from a door that stood ajar. Hesitating for a moment on the threshold, Rowenna stepped inside.
Beyond the box hedge lay a vast open space, dotted by large iron cages on pedestals of stone. Ivy ran up and around the bars, softening their outline and making it seem as if the cages had grown out of the earth itself. Within each of them was a creature like nothing Rowenna had ever seen before. There was a doglike beast, larger than even Laird Sutherland’s hounds, which had thick fur the color of new fallen snow and startling yellow eyes. Beyond it was some manner of horse, dun colored and thick bodied, with a brush of black mane that stood on end. Inside one cage, a brazier filled with hot coals glowed bright. At first Rowenna thought there was no animal there, but then what she’d taken to be a pile of leaves stirred, and she realized there was a vast, speckled snake coiled up upon itself near the heat.
There were apes and oryxes, tigers and tarsiers, jackals and jaguars, though Rowenna did not know their names and could not read the small brass plaques in front of each enclosure. At the center of the menagerie, she came to a cage set apart from all the others and stopped short, heart beating wildly in her chest.
Inside stood Mairead. With one pale hand, she clasped the bars of the cage, and with the other she reached out for Rowenna.
“Enna,” Mairead called, in a voice like heartbreak, “come here to me!”
Not stopping to think, Rowenna went. She gathered up her skirts and bolted across the gravel of the menagerie, but when she was nearly within arm’s reach of her beloved mother, the wind stopped her. It roared up in a gale, pushing at Rowenna and keening wordlessly.
Only a week ago, Rowenna would have dismissed it. But now she listened, coming to an abrupt halt and casting a cautious eye over Mairead. As she did, Mairead’s face wavered, and there beneath it were the familiar incandescent eyes, the jagged needle-thin teeth. Shedding its disguise, the fuath in the cage grinned wickedly at Rowenna. She’d not seen such a creature without at least some glamour on it since Mairead’s death, and the sight came like a blow to the stomach. Its mottled skin and unnatural limbs, its elongated and webbed fingers made for grasping and rending, all reminded her of Mairead’s hopeless last moments, and how she’d been unable to help.
Not until the wind subsided, sure of Rowenna’s safety, did she hear someone calling out. Turning, Rowenna found a boy running toward her. And not just any boy, but her acquaintance from the churchyard at Drumossie, who’d given her Elspeth Crannach’s name.
“Are you all right?” he asked breathlessly, stopping at Rowenna’s side. “It’s not safe in here sometimes.”
Rowenna smiled to show she was well, and the boy’s honest face lit up. “I’m glad you made it to Inverness, at any rate. Did you find your way to Elspeth, too?”
Rowenna nodded. There was something about this nameless boy that set her at ease, and she was tempted to speak—to tell him about the curse, and how his help had made a difference. But the wind murmured about her, whispering to itself.
Take care, take care, take care.
Rowenna heeded it and kept silent. Instead, she took a measure of the stranger. His clothes were still simply cut, though the fabric was very fine—finer than anything Rowenna or Mairead had ever woven. And that same sense of trustworthiness emanated from him. Rowenna found herself having to push against it a little, to keep herself from inadvertently speaking and baring more of her soul than was wise. Frowning, she glanced away from him and toward the fuath.
“Did you have a look about?” the boy asked eagerly. “I do a bit of work tending the creatures here. There are some curious beasts.”
But Rowenna knew she could not stay. The night was wearing on, and every evening that passed brought her brothers closer to a life spent entirely in swan form. She needed more nettles, and plenty of them. Perhaps this boy, who’d helped her once before, could be of help again.
Rowenna reached into her pocket, pulled out a single nettle leaf, and held it on her blistered hand to show him.
“Hellfire, what did you do to your hands?” the boy said at once, but Rowenna shook her head adamantly and pointed to the leaf.
“You… you want more of those?” he asked. “I suppose—there are more in the old chapel yard. Should I show you?”
Rowenna’s eager look was all the answer he needed. Together, they set off through the warren of the castle grounds. Around twists and turns they went, up and down alleys, and past shadowy doors, until they came into a wide, quiet courtyard. Grass and nettles choked it, growing up among old gravestones, and it reminded Rowenna palpably of the place she’d first met the boy guiding her, behind the church at the edge of Drumossie.
“What do you think of that?” the boy said. He settled himself on a broken headstone and watched as Rowenna began to pull up nettles. Though she’d expected him to take his leave of her, he did not—instead, he stayed where he was, silently observing Rowenna at her work. She ignored him after a few moments, focusing on the act of harvesting the witchnettle. As the blisters on her hands split and cracked and her palms began to bleed, she put all her hopes for her brothers into the work. All her love and all her heartbreak over the rift between them.
But when she’d nearly pulled as many nettles as she could carry, stealthy footsteps caught her ear from within the chapel. Rowenna glanced at the boy on the gravestone. He put a finger to his lips and motioned to her to hide herself away, so she dropped her work, shrinking back into the shadows along the wall. From where she stood, she could see in through one of the chapel’s low, glassless windows, which let in moonlight and fresh air.
A low groan rose from the chapel’s hinges, but no glow from a torch or votive candle showed. There was a long silence, and then a murmur of voices began.
Elspeth Crannach stood in a pool of pale light, which glinted off the gilt threads that embroidered her heavy velvet gown. The deep crimson of her frock stood in stark contrast to the milk-whiteness of her skin and the ruddy sheen of her auburn hair, which she wore long and unbound. She was, now and always, the most beautiful girl Rowenna had ever seen.
Rowenna watched as Elspeth whispered urgently to someone in the gloom. She heard a quiet reply, and then the girl’s companion stepped out of the shadows.
Black hair. A feral wariness. And yet the usual surly or sarcastic light was gone from Gawen’s eyes. Rowenna could see only eagerness there. Gawen glanced over one shoulder before pressing a note into Elspeth’s hand and pulling her into an embrace.
Something in Rowenna twisted at that. She balled her hands into fists, ignoring the pain the motion brought. Inside the chapel, Elspeth pulled on a long, hooded cloak and hurried away.
Dropping down to sit with her back against the chapel wall, Rowenna hugged her knees to herself and rested her chin atop them. She stared out across the graveyard, at the broken headstones and choking weeds, and felt as if something on the inside she’d never even known was there had suddenly withered and died.
Rowenna kept still for a long while, until well after she’d heard the chapel hinges whine again and the sound of sly footsteps retreating down some castle alleyway. She stared blankly up at the moon, until at last the towheaded graveyard boy came and sat himself down at her side.
“One of them played you false, didn’t they?” he said, his voice gentle. “I can see it on your face.”
Rowenna nodded, and the boy let out a sigh. “You’re not the only one. It seems our fates are bound together, lass. And I know I said it when we last met, but I’m sorry for your troubles. I’d make them easier for you, if I could. Do you want me to stay, and see you back to wherever you’re lodging, or would you rather be alone?”
Solitude was what Rowenna craved, and though the graveyard boy’s company was easy, she motioned to him to go. With a courteous bow, he took his leave of her.
“Until our paths cross again, little maid.”
Numbly Rowenna got to her feet. She’d believed Gawen when he swore there was nothing between himself and Elspeth. And she’d felt understood by him—he seemed so attuned to the darkness and bitterness she could never manage to keep fully at bay.
At last, with a supreme effort, Rowenna forced herself to lift the thick sheaf of stalks she’d have to carry down to the river. It was slow going, departing the castle—her feet burned fiercely, the shoes and stockings Elspeth had given her chafing terribly. She stopped often to set the nettles down and breathe, but at last the curtain wall appeared and Rowenna was out on the hillside with the River Ness below her. There was the hut that served her as home for now, and here was Gawen, waiting outside the door.
Rowenna let the bundle of nettles fall to the ground, too weary to spread them in the river’s shallows just yet. She brushed past Gawen, limped into the hut, and, sitting on the side of her narrow cot, put her head in her hands.
