The cursed towers 163
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for the Bright Soldiers only burnt the land when it was lost. She was grateful for that, for the sight of the
charred and ruined meadows had made her sick at heart.
Maya had been stopped several times by squads of Bright Soldiers but had simply told them she was the
Dowager Banrigh on her way to see her ally, Margrit of Arran, and they had waved her on her way.
Their instant deference had pleased her. She knew it was Margrit's reputation that caused them to bow
and speak humbly, but it had been so long since she had commanded such respect that she had almost
forgotten how it felt.
Maya leant forward and looked out the window, hoping to feel some breath of air on her face. Beyond
the road stretched rough, uncultivated land, with only occasional clumps of low, thorny shrubs relieving
the gray-brown monotony. Here and there stretched shallow lochs, glimmering a brilliant blue under the
burning sky. Overhead the sun beat down, hot and unrelenting, as if it were still summer and not the last
month of autumn. Then she saw a glimpse of the sea, half hidden behind the sand dunes. She felt a rush of
longing so intense she had to grip the carriage windowsill to stop herself from calling out to the driver.
She sprayed her face and wrists with salted water instead, and urged him to hurry.
At last they came over a low hill and saw, far down the road, a wavering wall of mist, drifting like thick
streamers over the swamp. Maya smiled, though her neck was stiff with tension. She felt the carriage
falter as the driver unconsciously tightened his grip on the reins. She leant out of the window and urged
him on again.
The road disappeared into the mist as if into a tunnel of white. The horses hesitated, and the driver had to
crack the whip over them before they went on, shaking their heads nervously. The postilions all drew
close about the carriage and Maya herself was unable to help a shiver of apprehension.
Suddenly the horses neighed and reared in terror. The driver shouted and cracked his whip, and the
postilions wrenched at their horses' reins. Maya tried to see out the window but she could see nothing but
writhing tendrils of mist. Then tall, gray shapes loomed up out of the gloom, their huge eyes glittering
oddly, their multijointed, clawed arms reaching out as if to grasp. The horses plunged and screamed and
Maya was flung to the floor as the carriage pitched. She heard a high-pitched humming then a sharp rap
on her carriage door.
She cried out, biting her lip immediately afterwards in chagrin. The door was opened and a man with a
long gray beard and a crooked nose looked in. "If it is no' the Dowager Banrigh herself," he said.
"Welcome to Arran, my lady. May I assist ye off the floor?"
After swinging himself uninvited into Maya's carriage, he introduced himself as Campbell the Ironic, a
warlock in the service of Margrit of Arran. He was a tall, lean man with a sarcastic twist to his mouth. His
stringy gray hair hung halfway down his back, tied back with a leather thong, and he wore a long, rather
grubby purple robe inscribed with mystical symbols around the hem and sleeves. Leaning out the
window, he tersely ordered the Mesmerdean to retreat back into the mist, for the horses were shying
nervously at their dank, swampy smell. Maya reseated herself, smoothing her crimson velvet and staring
down her nose at the warlock, who had rather a swampy smell himself. He was not at all discomposed
by her haughty look, rapping on the wall to order the coachman to drive on, then turning to rake her with
black eyes almost hidden under shaggy gray eyebrows.
"This is unprecedented, indeed," he said. "So many visitors to Arran at once. And witch-haters and
witch-hunters at that. What do ye do here, Maya?"
"That is a matter for me to discuss with your mistress," Maya replied icily. "And who gave ye leave to call
me by my name, sirrah? Ye shall address me as 'my lady,' if ye address me at all."
