The cursed towers 281
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At last they saw a great stretch of water ahead of them, its far shore hidden by mist. The road widened
out into a large square, surrounded on three sides by low warehouses, their roofs thatched with sedge. A
long jetty thrust out into the loch, with barges and small boats moored alongside.
Here, on the shore of the Murkmyre, the tattered remnants of the Thistle's army made one last, desperate
stand. There were witches among them, dressed in flowing purple robes, who fought with flame and wind
and illusion, but Meghan, Dughall, Gwilym and Iain were easily able to combat their magical powers.
One by one they fell, studded with arrows or slashed with gaping wounds, or were seized in the arms of
the Mesmerdean and kissed to death.
With the Mesmerdean fighting at the Graycloaks' side, the men and witches of the marsh had little hope
of winning, but they defended the last bastion of the fen-lands with their lives. Despite all Iseult's offers of
quarter, they fought to the very last man. Even the Banrigh felt rather sick at heart when they had finally
hacked down the last man and stood panting on the jetty, leaning on their swords.
Only then did the fog begin to drift away, and the Graycloaks saw the pearly spires of the Tower of
Mists rising out of the serene water, built on an island in the center of the loch. So still was the water that
the towers were reflected in perfect mirror image, stretching almost to their feet.
Iseult stood and stared, overawed. The palace was simply the most beautiful and fantastical building she
had ever seen, its towers and minarets all painted in dawn pink and ice blue, violet and softest green,
scrolled and pointed and domed. Rising as it did from the water, it shone like something spun from
rainbows. She heard indrawn breaths all round her and saw Iain's hands clenched, his Adam's apple
bobbing up and down.
"It's bonny," she whispered and he nodded, blinking away tears.
"I've been away far too long," he answered quietly. "The marshes get into your blood like a pox. I've
missed them indeed."
"Well, let us take ye home then," she replied with a sigh of sympathy as she thought about her own
snowbound home, long unseen. She nodded to Duncan, who gave the order to board the punts.
As the long, narrow boats were poled across the Murk-myre, Iseult heard a hoarse, drawn-out cry and
glanced up. "Look!" she cried.
Flying up into the sky was a carved sleigh pulled along by twelve crimson-winged swans. Crouched in
the sleigh, whipping them mercilessly on, was a tall woman dressed all in black. She turned and glared
down at them and shook her fist, then the sleigh curved away, the swans' wings beating strongly.
"The NicFoghnan flees," Meghan said, her face losing its look of melancholy for a moment. Gwilym gave
a swift order and a drove of Mesmerdean nymphs took flight in pursuit. They did not have the strength or
speed of the swans, however, and were left far behind. The swan-carriage soared into the clouds and
disappeared.
A ring of tall white candles encircled a fire built on the rock shelf near the curve of the waterfall, where
the waters of the loch poured over the edge of a cliff. It was sunset, moonrise, on the night of the spring
equinox. One of the key events in the witches' calendar, the vernal equinox marked the death of winter
and the birth of summer, the first day of the year when the hours of sunlight lasted as long as the hours of
night. An auspicious time for the breaking of a curse.
