The cursed towers 261
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after herself, let alone tend to Khan'gharad's needs. She leant on Isabeau very heavily and resented Maya
for taking Isabeau away from the Cursed Valley so much. Even Asrohc was bored with the situation and
often failed to come to Isabeau's call, leaving her stranded and anxious about whomever was waiting for
her.
Isabeau left the warmth of the kitchen, huddling her plaid close about her as she went out into the cold to
feed and milk the goats. It was a chill, gray day with an ominous sky and a nasty, bitter wind that nipped
at her ankles and tugged at her plaid. She leant her head against the nanny goat's warm flank and milked
her swiftly, her eyes hot and stinging. It was Candlemas, the day of her twentieth birthday, and none had
thought to wish her happy birthday. She had had no time nor inclination for chanting the rites of spring
and so for the first time in her life, Candlemas had come without Isabeau celebrating the end of winter
and the beginning of the season of flowers. She made a silent apology to Ea, did her tasks with a weary
step and heavy heart, then turned back to the old Tower.
On a sudden impulse she turned aside and went instead to the scrying pool, which lay in the center of the
gardens. Completely covered over with rose briars and brambles when Isabeau had first found it, the
little round gazebo that protected it from the elements was now clear of all shrubbery. With a verdigris
dome and arches all carved with the pattern of roses and thorns, it was a beautiful little pavilion with
views across the garden to the loch. Inside the pool glimmered blackly. A stone bench at each of the
points of the compass had legs carved like dragons' claws, with a ferocious dragon's head at one end,
their wings folded back to form the seat. Isabeau sat on one of the benches, staring into the water which
reflected her face back like a dark mirror.
She thought wistfully of her sister. It was Iseult's birthday too, and it had been some time since Isabeau
had last looked to see how her twin fared. It had been such a busy winter, and the weather had been so
cold, she would have had to have dug a path through the snow to even reach the scrying pool. Isabeau
wondered whether Iseult had managed to march on Arran as she had planned and whether they had
found the means to break the curse that held the Righ in such an unnatural sleep.
The water's still surface seemed to darken, then Isabeau saw her sister's face as clearly as she had seen
her own reflection moments before. Only the difference in their clothes and stance showed it was not her
own face she was staring at.
Iseult was crouched beside Lachlan, who lay still, barely breathing, on a low pallet, his wings folded
beside him. He looked like a statue in a tomb, a white cloth draped over him, his aquiline profile looking
as if it had been carved from marble. Iseult was holding his hand, chafing it between both of hers, talking
to him in a low voice. Her face was harrowed with grief. Isabeau's heart was wrung with pity, for she had
never seen her sister so distressed, not even when her baby daughter had died.
The Banrigh was dressed in her leather breeches and breastplate, and her weapons belt was hanging
over the chair behind her. As Isabeau watched, she stood up and buckled it round her waist, and came
to stand before a mirror on a stand to check it was straight. She looked at herself in the mirror and the
twins' eyes met.
"Isabeau," she whispered.
"Iseult, dearling."
"I was just thinking o' ye," Iseult said. "It has been so long and no word o' ye. Are ye well?"
Isabeau nodded and said, "And ye?"
Iseult's face was grim. "I have had happier days."
