The cursed towers 282
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The smoke of the candles smelt sweet, rising into the dusk like blue, wavering ribbons. Maya sat at the
point of the pentagram, naked. The firelight glittered on her scales and made strange shadows of her fins.
On either side of her were Isabeau and Bronwen, also naked, while Ishbel and Khan'gharad sat at the
opposite points of the star. They found it hard to look at Maya, bending their gaze instead to their
clasped hands.
Isabeau said softly, "It is sunset. Time for the Ordeal to begin."
Obediently they all closed their eyes. Isabeau breathed deeply of the forest-scented air and tried to find
peace. Despite the stillness, serenity eluded her and as the long hours trickled away, she found herself
crying. Occasionally she heard a muffled gasp or sob from elsewhere in the sacred circle and knew she
was not the only one to weep.
She felt the tide of the seasons turning within her, more clearly than she had ever felt them before.
Isabeau opened her eyes and said, with a choke in her voice, "It is midnight and the tides turn. Let us
chant the rites."
The husky voice of the Fairge, the sweet, weary stumble of the little girl, Ishbel's light voice and
Khan'ghar-ad's deep baritone all chanted with her:
"Darksome night and shining light,
open your secrets to our sight,
find in us the depths and height,
find in us surrender and fight,
find in us jet-black, snow-white,
darksome light and shining night."
The familiar chant soothed her as the long hours of meditation had not, and her voice grew stronger. She
said in a low sing-song: "Ever-changing life and death, transform us in your sight, open your secrets, open
the door. In ye we shall be free o' slavery. In ye we shall be free o' pain. In ye we shall be free o'
darkness without light, and in ye we shall be free o' light without darkness. For both shadow and
radiance are yours, as both life and death are yours. And as all seasons are yours, so shall we dance and
feast and have joy, for the tides o' darkness have turned and the green times be upon us, the time for the
making o' love and harvest, the time o' nature's transformations, the time to be man and woman, the time
to be child and crone, the time o' grace and redemption, the time o' loss and sacrifice . . ."
Although tears came again, it was not the hot, stifled, painful weeping of earlier but a flood of cleansing
tears which left her feeling pure and empty. Bronwen wept too, from sympathy and tiredness and fear at
the coming separation. Isabeau had explained to her that she was to leave with her mother in the morning.
At first the little girl had been distraught but all her tears and tantrums had not moved Isabeau to relent
and say she did not need to go. So at last the banprionnsa had grown sulky, refusing to speak to Isabeau
at all and clinging close to her mother. Her sullen anger had hurt Isabeau far more than her tears, and she
had found the previous day one of constant heartache. It was some comfort to her to hear the child's
weeping and to know that Bronwen would miss her as much as she would miss the little girl.
