The cursed towers 267
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From all round them dark, round heads popped up out of the marsh, showing their fangs in broad grins.
They clambered out onto the path and clustered round Iain, hugging their arms around his waist which
was as high as they could reach. In their four-fingered hands they carried blowpipes made of reeds and
over their shoulders were tiny quivers stuffed full of black thorns.
Dressed in an odd collection of cast-off clothes, their skin was the dark purple of sea grapes, rippled all
over with short, plush fur. Their anxious faces were dominated by huge, black, gleaming eyes. They all
chattered away in their high-pitched language and Iain patted and stroked them as he answered in the
same wailing speech.
The soldiers waited warily, their weapons at the ready, while those who had been stung by the poisoned
darts slowly twitched into silence.
"Relax, lads," Gwilym said, leaning on his staff. "They're bogfaeries and would never do anything Iain did
no' want them to do. They'd never have attacked us if they had known Iain was with us."
Iain looked up, smiling. "They tell me my m-m-mother has set up an ambush n-n-no' far from here. They
will show us another w-w-way through the m-m-marsh. Some m-m-more good news. My m-m-mother's
blaygird chamberlain, the one I was so w-w-worried about, M-M-Maya turned him into a toad! A
f-f-fitting end, do ye no' agree, Gwilym?"
The warlock smiled grimly. "One I would have devised myself. Who would've guessed the Ensorcellor
was capable o' so much insight?"
By sunset they were deep in the marsh. Although there had been many minor clashes with both soldiers
and marsh-faeries, the major confrontation was between the forces of weather. Margrit of Arran fought
to keep the air currents warm, moist and still so fog would hang above the swamp. Iseult and the witches
had bent all their skills to bring a cold wind to blow away the mist and harden the earth. For a while they
succeeded, and the Mesmerdean flew no more, hating the cold and retreating to warmer waters. The
deeper they penetrated into the marsh, however, the more difficult it was for the witches to hold back the
mist. This was Margrit's terrain and her greatest skill, and she had a team of trained witches to help her.
As the sun went down the breeze died away and the stifling atmosphere of the swamp rose up all around
them. The smell made Iseult feel sick and apprehensive and she could not rest, staring out into the gloom
with a frown etched between her brows. She was so tired she had gone beyond sleep, feeling as finely
drawn as a thread of silk. Meghan brought her a cup of valerian tea and ordered her to drink it.
"Do ye think we will be able to find the way to break the curse here in this blaygird bog?" Iseult said,
sipping the fragrant tea obediently.
"I hope so," Meghan said. "I have tried to break it but it is tightly bound, and I canna trace its source. I
feel Margrit o' Arran is behind it somehow, though it was no' her who cast it, that I'm sure o' it. Margrit
has a subtle, devious mind, and though this curse has a cunning twist, it does no' have the stamp o' Tower
training. It is more like a cursehag's work, or maybe a skeelie with strong powers. Whoever cast it had
something o' Lachlan's, though, something heavily soaked with his life force."
"Finlay again?" Iseult asked heavily.
"He swore he knew nothing about the curse and that he never gave Maya anything o' Lachlan's that may
have helped her cast it. Strange as it may seem, I think he is an honorable man and would no' lie . . ."
"Honorable as a swamp rat," Iseult said harshly. "He is so under Maya's spell, he would lie through his
teeth, the green-bellied snake."
