The cursed towers 164
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"Obh, obh!" Campbell replied. "Anyone would think ye were still the Banrigh, with your haughty looks
and manner. No' that that means anything here in Arran. We never recognized the MacCuinn as Righ and
I canna say we ever will."
"Is that so?" Maya looked out the window, though all she could see were dripping tree branches. "Is that
why Iain o' Arran fights at Lachlan the Pretender's command and does his bidding like any o' his other
squires?"
Campbell scowled and folded his arms. Maya smiled thinly and continued to stare outside. The road
wound through the swamp, the mist occasionally clearing enough for her to see banks of flowering sedge
and the straight arrows of bulrushes. Once she saw several pairs of pale, bulbous eyes floating just above
the surface of the mud and she recoiled involuntarily.
"Mudsprites," the warlock said with morbid satisfaction. "They'll pull ye under if ye set foot in the marsh."
"As I have no intention o' walking through the marsh, they are unlikely to concern me," Maya replied
coldly, pulling her furred cape around her shoulders. She was beginning to think she had made a major
mistake in coming to Arran.
At last they came to a great stretch of water, glimmering gray beneath the drifting mist. The horses came
to a jittery halt, sweating under their harness despite the coolness of the air. Maya could see her driver
and outriders were looking decidedly edgy, and she frowned at them even though she could understand
their unease. Gliding smoothly across the loch was a long pinnace, its prow curved high into the shape of
a swan. The boat was empty, and the sail was furled tightly, yet it moved as swiftly as if its oars were
manned.
Maya allowed Campbell the Ironic to assist her out of the carriage and looked about her calmly. Built on
the shore of the loch were several low buildings, their roofs thatched with flowering sedge. From the
doorways peered several bogfaeries, their black, wrinkled faces expressing an anxious curiosity, their
huge lustrous eyes as bright as jewels. Several other small boats were moored to the jetty, most of them
rough dinghies without the grace of the swan-carved pinnace. There was one large, flat-bottomed barge,
piled high with sacks of rys seeds and jars of honey. As Maya watched, a crew of bogfaeries slowly and
laboriously poled the barge away from the jetty, heading north up the river.
"My lady," Campbell said, indicating Maya should climb into the pinnace.
She regarded him haughtily, and said, "Ye will have a care for my men and my horses?"
"Indeed, they shall be cared for," he replied, with a sneer that did not make her feel comfortable. She
thanked him calmly, however, and watched the little, black-skinned faeries as they apprehensively helped
unhitch the carriage, being too small to reach the harnesses of the horses. Her driver, a large, placid man,
nodded at her reassuringly and said, "Never ye mind us, my lady, we'll wait here for your orders."
Maya smiled and thanked him, passing him a small bag of coins, then climbed into the pinnace, allowing
none of her perturbation to show on her face. Campbell climbed in after her, and she faced away from
him, staring across the loch. The swan-boat glided away from the jetty, its wake stretching behind as
straight as a plough furrow.
The mist above the loch was thin and drifted away from the boat, revealing huge water-oaks crowding
down the shore, their leaves beginning to color at the edges. Ahead of her was an island crowned with
tall, sharp-pointed towers, each carved into spiraling forms and painted in pale, opalescent colors so they
shimmered like hazy rainbows. Despite herself, Maya was overawed by her first sight of the Tower of
Mists. She had thought Rhyssmadill beautiful, but this was like a palace out of a faery story: graceful,
