A Rush of Wings, page 24
The wind twined about Rowenna, mourning softly as the fuath at the menagerie’s heart hissed in frustration.
The sea, the deeps, the darkness, death and drowning was all the sense Rowenna could make of its thoughts.
“I’ll send the MacArthur boy away, but won’t make trouble for him,” Torr went on. “He’ll have to go far—across the Channel to France, or better yet to the Americas. But he’ll live, in spite of what he’s done. If you truly have the heart of a saint and you wish it for her, Elspeth could go with him. What do you say, witchling?”
But Rowenna was looking past Torr, to where the wind rustled the clipped yew hedge that grew around the base of the fuath’s cage.
“Girl,” Torr barked. “I want your answer. Will you help me or won’t you? Yes or no. Speak the word, so I know whether your family should live or die.”
Let me go, the fuath said. Let me do what you could not, minnow.
Across the menagerie, the fretful breeze toyed at the latch on the cage, tugging it back bit by bit.
No, don’t, Rowenna begged the wind, her eyes fixed on the fuath. She was agonizingly aware of the waiting guards, and of the archers looking down upon the courtyard. But the wind, which loved her, had a will and a mind of its own.
The fuath stilled, ceasing its irate pacing. All of its vicious, predatory attention fixed on the latch.
Rowenna watched the fuath watch the latch, while Torr Pendragon watched her. And when her devoted wind pulled the latch free, she turned her attention back to the tyrant, though the heart within her chest was breaking.
“Never,” Rowenna slurred around the spike of the scold’s bridle. “I will never do as you bid.” For good measure, she spat a mouthful of blood at Torr, and his face twisted with fury.
“Guards!” Torr began.
But there was a deafening clang as the fuath burst from its cage. Quicker than water and deadlier than lightning, it flowed across the graveled yard in a blur of scales and limpid limbs. The whining of crossbow bolts filled the air, but so swift was the monster that they sank into bare gravel, failing to find their mark.
“Witch, make it sto—” Torr began tremulously, but the fuath keened, a bone-chilling sound that reverberated from the walls and drowned out the tyrant’s words. The creature’s deepwater eyes flashed to Rowenna.
Then it was on top of Torr Pendragon, bearing him to the ground…
Mairead Winthrop on the shingle, at the bottom of the rain-slick burn
and wrenching his head back…
another fuath ’s hands, tangled in Mairead’s golden hair
as with a gleam of fishhook teeth and malice…
the lantern glow of monstrous eyes, the sound of breaking bone
the monster snapped his neck.
A dam of grief and regret and yearning broke open within Rowenna, and in response to it, the wind roared forward, not to kill, but to make the fuath the eye of its storm—to afford the only protection Rowenna could give. She watched, helplessly, as her wind did its work and sent another volley of crossbow bolts awry.
But then the guards on foot descended upon the fuath. Even her wind and the creature’s wild fury were not enough against so many men. Though the wind raged and the fuath moved like quicksilver, Rowenna felt the very moment a sword pierced its side. The pain was so sharp and fresh it was as if she herself had been run through, and a wordless cry tore itself from her throat. Again and again, the sensation came, until the wind calmed and returned to mourn around Rowenna, because it had failed in its work and could no longer bear to be parted from her.
The swarm of guards thinned and scattered. From somewhere beyond the menagerie, other noises were rising up—shouts and pistol shots and breaking things.
Rowenna was left alone, still in chains, her eyes fixed on the lifeless body of Torr Pendragon, and on the fuath, which lay in a spreading pool of its own blood. Now and then, the creature’s chest rose and fell with a shudder.
little fish, it thought at Rowenna, and even its unspoken words had grown very faint. do you remember the sea?
In answer, Rowenna sent it a flurry of images. The boundless expanse of the Atlantic, its cold lightless depths, breakers on the shore, the glory of sunset gilding a watery horizon.
The fuath sighed.
listen well, little fish. Its voice was a broken thing, a wave that had shattered into a thousand disparate drops. you have lived and unbound curses, and now I will tell you how to survive the deeps within. I will tell you how to end your monster.
Rowenna listened, with all her mind and with all her heart. When the fuath fell silent again, it fixed its pale-moon eyes on Rowenna and nodded its fearsome head.
Gently, so gently, she sent her wind slipping across the gravel. At least she could hold the creature this way, as it passed.
But by the time Rowenna’s wind brushed against the fallen monster, it was already gone.
* * *
Hours slipped by. Even from the menagerie, Rowenna could hear intermittent shouts from within the castle, followed by running feet and the occasional sharp retort of a matchlock pistol. But she could not call out, and the chains that bound her held fast despite the wind’s best efforts, so she stayed as she was—a lost thing waiting to be found.
Once a contingent of red-coated guards ran through the menagerie and halted in shock at the sight of Torr Pendragon and the fuath. Rowenna sat up straighter, wondering if they’d have pity on her. If they’d set her free.
“So it’s true,” the officer among them said gruffly. “They told me he was dead, either at the hands of his witch or his monster. Well, let him lie there. He was no good master in life, and deserves no loyalty in death.”
“What about the girl?” one of the soldiers asked.
“Leave her, too,” the officer said. “She’s a menace herself. And we’ve no time left—Foster’s called for a retreat, and we’re headed south for home. It’ll be good to see the back of this godforsaken northland—it’s no fit place for civilized folk. Pity those of us who don’t get word of the retreat, for they’ll undoubtedly all be dead by morning.”
Though Rowenna pleaded with her eyes, they carried on and left her as she was.
The sun had slipped to the western horizon when at last another clamor and a scuffling sounded down one of the alleyways that led into the menagerie. Rowenna could not hold back the small, helpless noise that escaped her as Gawen stepped into the gravel yard, forcing a uniformed guard before him with a knife to the man’s throat.
“The keys,” Gawen barked at the guard, who fumbled at his belt for a heavy key ring. “Drop them.”
The ring fell to the ground with a heavy clank. Gawen shoved the guard back into the alleyway, out of Rowenna’s field of vision. She heard the brief sounds of a struggle, followed by several moments of wet gasping. Then Gawen returned, wiping blood from his hands.
He bent and picked up the keys but froze at the sight of Torr’s and the fuath’s remains.
“What happened here?”
Rowenna shook her head. For the first time since entering the courtyard, Gawen really looked at her and saw the scold’s bridle and the iron gauntlets. His jaw set, and something dark etched itself across his face.
Gawen crouched before Rowenna and fumbled with the keys. She could feel the outrage radiating off him, and it made his hands unsteady. Catching Gawen’s eyes, Rowenna hummed the first few bars of “Queen Among the Heather,” and after a moment he calmed.
The third key fit the scold’s bridle, and with infinite care, Gawen removed it, easing the spike from Rowenna’s mouth.
“Tapadh leat,” she breathed. “Thank you.”
The second to last key fit the iron gauntlets, and Gawen let out a long breath at the sight of Rowenna’s hands, which had swollen overnight. She set them in her lap and looked at Gawen, and he looked at her. They stayed that way for what seemed a very long time. Darkness and pain and loss passed between them, and Rowenna knew that for the rest of their lives, there would be this moment, binding the two of them together.
As desperate as she’d been to have her voice back, Rowenna could not find words to tell him about the fuath, or the end of Torr Pendragon, and he did not speak of his father. Instead, as the moon rose above them, Rowenna leaned forward and kissed her stray, mouth featherlight against his, the taste of blood and despair still on her lips.
The wind moved softly about them, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, Rowenna’s fear melted entirely away, leaving only calm and certainty in its wake.
“Will you do something for me?” Rowenna asked Gawen. “Now that your tyrant’s dead and our curse is broken, will you come with me to kill my monster?”
“Aye,” Gawen said simply. “There’s nowhere I wouldn’t go with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In a stolen cart, the Winthrops and Elspeth and Gawen rattled out of the chaos of Inverness. The city was back in the hands of the Highlanders now, and the looks of those they passed were so fierce, Rowenna doubted Inverness would ever fall again.
Sitting in the back of the cart at Liam’s side, Rowenna watched him slip in and out of consciousness. The journey would have been agony for him, were it not for the generous dose of laudanum Elspeth had given him from a bottle she’d pocketed upon leaving the castle. Elspeth and Finn sat up near the wagon box, talking in low voices with their heads together—she was telling him stories of her own brothers and the mischief they’d gotten into when they were alive and young. Gawen and Duncan, who’d apparently resolved to be allies, sat on the box together, taking turns with the reins whenever one grew tired of driving the skittish horses.
As they left the city behind and made it into the sun-washed glory of the Highlands countryside at dusk, Liam’s eyes fixed on Rowenna’s face.
“Well, saltwater girl,” he said with a faint smile, using Mairead’s old nickname for her. “You’ve done the impossible, and saved us all.”
Swallowing past a pain in her throat that was part of no curse, Rowenna shook her head. “Don’t, Liam. I didn’t save you, at least not the way I should have. And there’s still Athair to think of.”
“I’m happy enough as I am,” Liam said, reaching out to take one of Rowenna’s hands with his own. His grip was weak, but she held fast to him, just as she’d always done with each of her brothers. “I’d have traded a piece of myself to be rid of that curse in a heartbeat, if it had been what was required. I’m only glad I could be a help and share in your work, at the end.”
Rowenna smiled down at him, though she had to blink back tears. “Màthair always said you were the best of us, if I’d just find a way to understand you.”
“Don’t know about that,” Liam said, his voice already beginning to slur and his eyes to drift shut again. “I’m not… not sure I’m even cut out for a priest, truth be told.”
And it was not Rowenna who held his gaze in the moment before he passed out of consciousness once more, but Elspeth. She still wore Liam’s rosary about her neck, and her face as she spoke to Finn was brighter and more unguarded than Rowenna had seen it yet.
Before long, they’d turned off the main road and into a pine wood. A bridle path through the forest led to a clearing, within which stood a stone house, smoke curling from the chimney.
Rowenna recognized the woman standing on the doorstep at once—Elspeth’s mother, who the wind had shown her in memory. Scrambling out of the wagon, Elspeth threw herself into the older woman’s arms.
“Your brothers will be safe here with the Crannachs if you want to carry on, scold,” Gawen said, his voice low as he turned on the wagon box to look at Rowenna. She was filled with a heart-deep gratitude for the understanding that existed between them—that she need not say there’d be no stopping and no rest for her till she saw the last of her kin safe. But it pricked her still, to think of leaving Liam and Finn behind.
“I’ll stay and look after everyone,” Duncan offered, seeing Rowenna’s uncertainty. “Can’t see as I’d be any good against a monster when we’ve got a witch in the family. But you must promise that you’ll send word the moment you’ve finished what needs to be done, Enna.”
The way Duncan spoke—with pride and satisfaction and approval—leached all the sting out of the word “witch,” and Rowenna thought she might never mind hearing it said again.
“Come here to me,” she said him. “You too, Finny. I want to look at all three of you before I go.”
Duncan and Finn joined her beside Liam at the back of the wagon. Just as she’d done the night after the curse had been laid upon them, Rowenna pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads.
“I’d move the world for any one of you. Don’t ever forget it,” she said, and the sharp edge to her voice only served to keep it from shaking. Her brothers nodded, for of course they knew and would not forget—hadn’t they seen Rowenna do as much for them with her craft already?
“Ready, scold?” Gawen asked.
“Yes,” Rowenna said firmly. “I’m ready.”
* * *
The stolen yoal they’d left in weeks ago brought Gawen and Rowenna back to Neadeala. Within sight of the village’s familiar coastline, Rowenna stood at the prow and squinted. Stone cairns dotted the cliffs and the shingle along the harbor. She could feel craft rolling off them—a raw, powerful magic that set her skin to crawling and her stomach to roiling. It was a ward of sorts, but nothing like the subtle protection Elspeth had wrought for Torr, or the wards Mairead as her true self had made. Those felt clean and soft and strong, while this was all headache and nausea and jagged edges.
Beyond the line of wards lay a dense, unnatural wall of fog, so thick and heavy that not a glimpse of the village or the moors could be seen. Mairead had hemmed the people of Neadeala in like sheep, cutting them off from the outside world entirely.
At the sight of it, Rowenna let out a long breath.
“All right, scold?” Gawen asked, and Rowenna nodded.
I need your help, she thought to the wind, which spoke to her, and to the sea, which had baptized her at birth. But here in this cursed place, where the tainted power of Mairead’s wards radiated out and out, neither the wind nor the sea answered back.
There was only Rowenna, alone with whatever innate craft she possessed, here at the edge of the world. She thought of her mother. Of how, before her death, Mairead had secured the power of her wards with the blood of swans.
I stand here in need of an offering from something wild and pure to make fast my ward, and protect this land.
“Drop the anchor,” Rowenna told Gawen, trying to sound more certain than she felt. “We’re going ashore.”
Gawen did as he was told, and Rowenna lowered herself into the waist-deep sea. Immediately the waves began to rise, working against the tide and with unnatural speed. They lapped hungrily up Rowenna’s chest, reaching for her neck and then her chin. She struggled toward shore, but her feet left the seabed as the water grew too deep for her to stand.
It felt like a perfect mirror of the sea within, which she sank into when attempting to push her craft further into darkness. Some ineffable force bore down on Rowenna, pushing her under. She heard Gawen call out in alarm and took a great gasp of air before submerging entirely.
Then a furious blast of wind surged into the harbor, beating the rising water back. Rowenna regained her footing as the waves dropped, finally leaving the boat they’d come in grounded and Rowenna standing on dry shingle.
The wind twined about her, singing its welcome song.
Our love, our light, our dark-hearted girl. Our salt, our fire, our light in deep water.
Rowenna let the untamable breeze into her. For a moment they were one, and she saw the small world Mairead had wrought beyond her ward. The cottages, cold and dark and unwelcoming. The villagers standing on the shingle, fear in their eyes and hunger written across their faces. Mairead herself, standing before them, at once wolf and shepherd to this anxious flock. The land itself, aching like a broken limb.
Beloved, Rowenna sang back to the wind. Let us right these wrongs.
When Gawen joined her, she turned to him.
“Give me one of your knives,” she said, and without hesitation he handed over one of the daggers from his wrist sheaths.
Clutching it tightly, Rowenna walked along the shore. Her soaked skirts clung damp and heavy about her legs, but she paid them no mind. In spite of the sickening feeling the wards projected, her wind had returned, frolicking about her like a faithful hound, and she would never be entirely at a loss when they were together.
Approaching the first cairn, Rowenna eyed it critically. She reached out with the part of her that could speak to the wind and to fuathan, that could sense craft and work in power. She could feel the texture and contours of this vast, far-reaching magic, the tightly bound, rough-fibered knots of it.
Whether she could break it or not, Rowenna wasn’t sure. But she meant to try.
An offering from something wild and pure, Mairead said from within Rowenna’s memories. To make fast my ward and protect this land.
An offering from something wild and pure, Rowenna echoed, as she drew Gawen’s knife across each of her ravaged palms. Thin lines of crimson blood beaded to the surface of her skin. Tucking the knife into her belt, she set her hands flat atop the first cairn.
At once, a twisting sense of decay flooded through her. Of deep water and drowning and things laid to rot at the bottom of the sea. But Rowenna took a breath and called the wind. It flooded into her once more, and she let their powers join together, a counterpoint, a joyous union, a partnership, and a dance.
Together, Rowenna and the wind drained the power from that cairn, until ink-black salt water poured from the rock itself and the very stones shattered beneath her hands. A mountainous billow of cold, wet fog poured forth from behind the bounds of the ward as it failed and foundered. At long last, Rowenna could see with her own eyes, rather than the wind’s, what had become of her home. The rooftops of Neadeala appeared, then the cottage windows, and finally, the people of the village standing like wraiths upon the shingle.
