The cursed towers 159

it was all she could do not to scream or cry or hit out at someone. Her disappointment at Lachlan's string
of victories had been acute. As the Graycloaks' fortunes had eddied like the tide, so had her spirits.
News of defeat had her gloating, news of victory plunged her back into depression, and all the time she
did not know where Renshaw had taken her daughter. So she had stayed at the tail end of the army,
despite her frustration, knowing that any news of the Grand-Seeker would immediately be reported to
Meghan and Iseult, and so would eventually find its way to her. At last her patience had paid off.
She thanked her spy warmly, taking care to bind the girl even closer to her, then waited in the dark
courtyard till all was quiet, making plans. She would set out for Arran the very next day, spending some
of her hard-won money on a horse and carriage and some fine clothes. She must not turn up on Margrit
of Arran's doorstep looking like a beggar. It was imperative that the Nic-Foghnan did not realize just
how desperate Maya's straits really were. They had been allies before, but Maya had never deluded
herself that Margrit assisted her out of friendship or a kind heart. The Banprionnsa of Arran had some
plan of her own. Maya would have to be very careful indeed, for if her daughter was in Margrit's hands,
the Thistle would be in the position of power and Maya her supplicant. Maya's nostrils flared in
annoyance at the thought, and she began to think what she could offer Margrit in return for her aid.
Deep in thought, she left the courtyard, hurrying down the narrow passage to the lancet gate through
which she had come. Unexpectedly she collided with a large, soft form. She staggered back and flinched
as a lantern was raised, spilling light full into her face. For a moment she could not see, then terror flashed
through her as a well-known voice cried, "Maya! It canna be!"
It was Latifa the Cook. Her round, brown face was horrified, her small mouth opened in a perfect O of
surprise. Maya had not seen Latifa since Samhain Eve, when she had left her in the garden surrounding
the Pool of Two Moons. If she had thought about Latifa at all, Maya would have supposed her to have
been executed for treachery. That was what Maya would have done in Lachlan's place. She certainly did
not expect to find Latifa here, in Dim Eidean.
Before Latifa had time to do more than exclaim, Maya reached into her sleeve and withdrew her sharp
dagger. Gritting her teeth, she plunged it into the old cook's breast. Latifa grasped the knife in both her
hands, her eyes round in shock, then she staggered and fell.
Maya ran down the corridor and out into the town, her heart pounding with excitement and dismay. She
had always quite liked the fat old cook. She wished it had been someone else who pierced her
glamourie. Meghan of the Beasts, for example. It would not worry Maya to sink a knife into that old
witch's heart. Latifa, though, had been kind to Maya and had cooked her little delicacies of seaweed, rys

seeds and raw fish, knowing how she hated the fat-dripping roasts usually served up at the royal table.
As Maya ran past a street lamp, she saw her hand was red with blood and for a moment she was giddy
with horror. She clenched her fingers together, and ran on. Nothing could be allowed to stand in her way,
not even a fat, kind-hearted old cook.

The spinning wheel whirled steadily, Isabeau's foot pushing rhythmically on the pedal, her hands guiding
the thread through the spindle automatically. Propped up before her was a book which she was reading
intently, each leaf turning itself over as she reached the end of the page.
Isabeau was studying a very ancient book called De Occulta Philosophia Libri Tres, one of the many
books in the library which the Coven of Witches had brought over from the Other World. Sometimes she
frowned as she read, other times she smiled in disbelief, but every now and again she stopped reading to
say a line over again and commit it to her memory.