The cursed towers 268
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"Ye're mixing your metaphors," Meghan replied with a smile. "Come, try to sleep, Iseult. It'll be another
hard day tomorrow. Ye'll need your strength."
Iseult leant her head on her hand. "Let me be, Meghan. I'm too tired to sleep."
Meghan leant over and touched her between the brows. Iseult's eyelids fluttered and closed, and her
head fell onto her knees. Meghan very gently laid her down, then took the plaid from her own shoulders
and tucked it around the Banrigh. "Sleep, dearling," she said softly.
Sunrise the next morning brought with it a horde of freshly emerged Mesmerdean nymphs. Still damp and
glistening, their wings curled at the end, they hung all round the clearing where the soldiers had made
camp, humming softly. Mist hung low over the swamp but the sky was clear so their great clusters of
eyes shimmered with iridescent green and their translucent wings shone. The soldiers simply stood and
stared, overcome with fear and awe. Iseult and Meghan stood with them, unable to believe how many of
them there were.
"M-m-my m-m-mother has s-s-somehow h-h-hastened the h-h-hatching," Iain said. As always, when
talking about his mother, his stutter became much more pronounced. "This is n-n-no' n-n-natural, this
early e-mer-mer-mergence."
"What can we do?" Iseult said bleakly. "We canna fight off so many, no' here. There is no marsh gas to
ignite and no room to maneuver. We shall be slaughtered."
"Enough is e-n-n-ough!" Iain cried. "I think it is time. I shall go and t-t-talk with them."
"Nay, it is too dangerous!" Iseult cried.
He smiled at her. "I've been talking to M-M-Mesmer-dean since I was n-n-naught but a laddiekin," he
answered. "Do no' fear for me."
He gestured the soldiers back with his hands and walked over to the first phalanx of the winged
creatures. He held out his hands, palm outward, and stood silently. The Mesmerdean stared back, and
the humming of their wings died away into silence as they simply hung there, hovering, watching him with
their great clusters of eyes.
"What is he doing?" Duncan whispered after a long period of silence. "I thought he said he was going to
talk to them."
"He is," Gwilym said, watching closely, his hands clenched on his staff. "Mesmerdean have no spoken
language. They have no ears and no tongue."
"But Iain said he would talk to them—and he's just standing there, staring at them."
"They read his thoughts, or perhaps it would be more exact to say they read his energy fluctuations. Iain
knows that the Mesmerdean elders will be watching and listening too. It is they he wishes to
communicate with. These newly emerged nymphs are still immature and canna make decisions about
affiliations or actions. It is the elders that will decide whether to continue to uphold Margrit, to withdraw
their support, or even to aid us."
"But are the Mesmerdean no' servants o' the Thistle?"
"The Mesmerdean are servants to no one," Gwilym said in exasperation. "They are free and powerful,
and give their service to Margrit only because o' centuries-auld treaties between their people and the
MacFoghnan clan. Many times they have withdrawn their support and Margrit works hard to keep them
