The Fathomless Caves (12 page)

Though Isabeau found it hard to calm her thoughts she did at last sleep. In the clear radiance of the morning she could not help but wonder if all the undercurrents the previous evening had been purely her imagination. She dressed again in her austere white robes and witch’s dagger, bound her hair back tightly and hung the owl-talon necklace around her neck. With Buba riding on her shoulder she went downstairs and was directed by one of the soft-footed servants out to the terrace.

There a long table had been set up, loaded with fruits and cereals and silver pots of piping hot tea. Gravely Isabeau greeted those already seated at the table. Though most smiled at her and returned her greeting, Lachlan merely shot her a searching glance before returning his attention to his plate. Despite his brusqueness, Isabeau was immediately aware of the tension simmering away under the surface.

Dide leapt up and pulled out a chair for her, saying teasingly, ‘I see we have lost Beau the belle o’ the ball
and have back our stern sorceress. How are ye yourself, my bonny?’

She sat down, cursing her fair skin which showed the rush of blood to her face so clearly. ‘I am well, thank ye,’ she replied and served herself some of the rather odd-looking marsh fruits, which were enclosed within a thick prickly skin that stung her fingers as she peeled it. The flesh within was tender and white, however, and spurted into her mouth with a piquant sweetness.

Iain said warmly, ‘It be a lovely day, Isabeau. Elfrida and I thought we’d get together a party to sail up the river to see the golden goddess, who is in full bloom right now. Have ye heard o’ our golden goddess? It is a flower, ye ken, as tall as ye and, unlike ye, always hungry for meat. They are carnivorous, did ye ken? My ancestors were wont to throw unwelcome intruders to her, which may explain some at least o’ Arran’s fearsome reputation. She is bonny indeed, though, and well worth seeing.’

He cast a sly glance at the young earl, saying, ‘Happen ye’d fain taste Arran’s famous mulled wine, Isabeau, made from the golden goddess honey. I am sure Dide for one would fain drink a toast with ye.’

Both Lachlan and Dide looked up, one frowning, the other laughing.

‘Thank you but I’ve tasted o’ the honeyed wine,’ Isabeau replied gravely.

‘Is that so?’ Dide demanded. ‘And wi’ whom, may I ask?’

‘None o’ your business,’ Isabeau replied, smiling.

There was much laughter and teasing comments from those gathered around the table. Dide pretended to be mortally wounded, holding his heart and rolling his eyes back in his head. ‘Och, ye are cruel,’ he protested. ‘Never mind, if ye’ve drunk it once, ye’ll be eager to taste it again and I am here, at your service as always, my lady.’

‘I’ll order the punts then,’ Elfrida said through the laughter. ‘Meghan, will ye come too?’

Lachlan stood up abruptly. ‘We have no time for dillydallying,’ he said harshly. ‘I’ll thank ye to order our guides instead. I am grateful for your hospitality but we all must be on our way.’

Elfrida’s face fell. ‘Oh, but Your Highness, I was hoping …’

‘Will ye no’ bide a wee?’ Iain said gently. ‘We have all been on the march for months now, Lachlan. We were hoping we could take the time to rest.’

‘I have no time for feasts and picnics,’ Lachlan said harshly. ‘If we are to have all our men in position by autumn, we must make haste. Who kens how long it will take? Nay, we must be on the road again just as soon as we can reprovision and mobilise.’ He threw the end of his plaid over his shoulder, thrust the Lodestar deeper into its sheath and walked away, his black wings held stiffly behind him. His gyrfalcon gave a melancholy cry and flew after him. Without looking up, Lachlan held out his gauntleted wrist for the great white bird to drop down upon.

There was a momentary silence. Elfrida clung to Iain’s arm, her grey eyes brimming with tears, her
lip trembling. ‘Oh, Iain, I had hoped we could bide a wee …’

Iain was clearly disappointed that he could spend only the one night in Arran but he comforted his wife, saying, ‘Do no’ greet, sweetling. Ye ken ye spent too little time in Bride as it is. Ye are Banprionnsa there now, ye must make yourself kent to your people. And I must go to war, that is the way o’ it.’

‘But what if …?’ she wept. Iain drew her close and kissed her, smoothing back her fair hair.

‘Do no’ even think it, Elf, let alone say it,’ he warned. ‘Eà will turn her bright face upon us, I am sure o’ it. We canna have come so far and against such odds to fail at the last ditch. Besides, do ye no’ remember how Lachlan drew upon the Lodestar and cast all the pirate ships to the winds? Such a man canna lose, I promise ye.’

The Duke of Killiegarrie had stood up and was giving terse orders to his lieutenants, his thick dark brows meeting over his nose. The NicAislin’s men were grumbling under their breath as they hurriedly drank down their tea and crammed in the last morsel of toast. It was clear none were happy at the directive to mobilise again immediately.

‘I hope that cursehag o’ yours has made the dragonbane for us already,’ Duncan said gruffly, ‘for the mood his Highness is in, I do no’ think he’ll be happy if he has to bide much longer.’

‘I’ll send a messenger to Shannagh o’ the Swamp now,’ Iain replied, frowning. ‘We’re going to need that dragonbane.’

Dide stood up also, smiling at Isabeau ruefully. ‘Well,
my Beau, we shall just have to drink that honeyed wine together another time. No rest for the wicked, as they say.’

‘But he is such a strange moody man,’ Elfrida said unhappily. ‘I do no’ understand him at all. What would another day or two matter? Why could ye no’ stay here where ye are all comfortable, instead o’ riding out to camp in the marshes tonight?’

Iain said rather tightly, ‘He is right, sweetling. Midsummer has been and gone and we have a long way to go and much to do. Please try to understand.’

Meghan had been standing at the low stone balustrade, staring out at the serene blue loch. Isabeau realised she was watching a group of Mesmerdean nymphs who were hovering a short distance away, their many-faceted eyes flashing a metallic hue in the sun. The old sorceress turned at Elfrida’s words and said now, with much the same harsh arrogance as the Rìgh: ‘Lachlan is right, Elfrida NicHilde, and ye should ken it, being the descendant of the Bright Warrior-maid herself. Many a war has been lost because an army was too slow to mobilise.’ She turned back and stared at the watching marsh-faeries. Isabeau thought she heard her say, very low: ‘Besides, we canna leave too soon for my liking.’

Isabeau went up to her and slid her hand under her elbow. Meghan pressed her hand closer. ‘Happen I am growing auld,’ she said softly, ‘but I dread this coming war. I have fought the Fairgean before, a long time ago. They are no’ easy to defeat.’

‘But ye triumphed over them,’ Isabeau said reassuringly. ‘Ye helped Jaspar raise the Lodestar and together
ye swept them back to the sea. Ye and Lachlan shall do so again.’

‘But Jaspar had been properly trained, and still he could no’ fully master the Lodestar,’ Meghan said, a hot ache of misery in her voice. ‘Lachlan spent the years he should have been studying trapped in the shape o’ a blackbird. And he is so quick to lose his temper, so prone to melancholy. It is no’ enough to have strength o’ will and desire to control the powers o’ the Lodestar, no’ nearly enough. One needs mastery o’ oneself.’

‘But ye—’

Meghan turned a fierce black gaze upon her. ‘I will no’ be here, Isabeau. Do ye no’ realise that? The red comet shall rise in only a few more months and then I shall be dead.’

Isabeau was too shaken with grief and misery to speak. Meghan stared at her. ‘I will be dead,’ she said softly, ‘and Lachlan shall have to raise the Lodestar alone. Do ye wonder that I fear for ye all?’

After a moment Isabeau was able to say fiercely, ‘Do no’ speak that way, Meghan. Happen we can do something …’

Meghan shook her head. ‘There is naught ye can do. Have I no’ given the Mesmerdean my word? Come the rising o’ the red comet I shall be dead.’

Isabeau had to swallow hard before she could speak. ‘By then we shall have defeated the Fairgean,’ she said with a confidence she did not feel.

Meghan shook her head. ‘Defeat them so easily? I think no’. Besides, there is something I have no’ told ye. Jorge foretold the rising o’ the Fairgean with the
rising o’ the red comet. He saw the sea itself rear up and flood the land …’

I saw the scaly sea rise and flood the land, the Red Wanderer like a bloody gash in the sky. That is when they will come, with the rising o’ the red comet the Fairgean shall come
…Jorge’s words echoed in the space between them as if the old seer himself spoke.

Memory suddenly rose up in Isabeau like a great dark wave itself, flooding her so that for a moment she trembled and almost fainted. Meghan seized her arm and supported her, while Buba hooted in dismay. Isabeau came back to full consciousness to hear Meghan saying sharply, ‘What is it? Isabeau …’

‘I have had the same vision,’ she said shakily. ‘In the eyes o’ the queen-dragon. I saw the Red Wanderer burning in the sky, its tail a streak of fire. The sea reared up into a gigantic black wave, taller than any tower I’ve seen, and came crashing down upon a forest, drowning it. It was horrible …’

Meghan regarded her gravely. ‘It seems ye have a Talent for future-seeing, my Beau. Why did ye no’ tell me this?’

Involuntarily Isabeau glanced at the sacred Key of the Coven, hanging on Meghan’s chest. Clearly she remembered the sight of her own maimed hand cradling the star within the circle, which had hung upon her own chest. That had been the last of the visions she had seen in the queen-dragon’s eyes and the one that had stayed with her.

Meghan’s hand rose swiftly to cover the Key, and Isabeau raised her eyes and met the fierce gaze of the
Keybearer. There was no need to speak.

‘So,’ Meghan said at last, ‘ye too have had visions o’ the conjuring o’ a tidal wave to drown the land. I wonder how the Fairgean plan to enact such a spell. They are creatures o’ the sea, they have no affinity with things o’ fire magic like the comet.’

‘Maya drew upon the comet magic,’ Isabeau reminded her.

‘Aye, but Maya was half human …’ Again Meghan paused, lost in thought. At last she sighed, looking very drawn in the bright sunshine. ‘I fear the vision is a true telling, now that I ken ye saw it in the dragon’s eye. Dragons can see both ways along the thread o’ time.’

‘But ye ken even better than I that all visions o’ the future are naught but a vision o’ what
may
happen. It is a future
possibility
, nothing more,’ Isabeau said swiftly. ‘Jorge told me so many times. We can change the future, we can strike hard and swift at the Fairgean before they suspect a thing. Ye have six months to teach Lachlan how to control the Lodestar and me to use my powers. And Iseult shall convince the Khan’cohbans to come to our aid. Ye ken she has a genius for warfare, she shall win the day for us …’

Meghan sighed even more heavily than before.

‘What is it?’ Isabeau asked, though she was afraid she knew what it was that troubled the Keybearer so much.

‘Ye think I do no’ ken the meaning o’ the broken
geas
?’ Meghan replied. ‘I may no’ have lived among the Khan’cohbans like ye, but I have listened and tried to understand as much as I can about their ways. A
geas
is more than just a debt o’ honour, it is a sacred oath, as binding as the Creed o’ the Coven is to the witches. A Khan’cohban would rather die than break a
geas
, that I ken. Iseult kent what it was she did when she swore that sacred oath to Lachlan—she swore never to leave him, to always serve and obey him. That oath has been dissolved now. Iseult is free to stay upon the Spine o’ the World if she so wishes, and do no’ think she does no’ wish to. She is, and always will be, a Khan’cohban.’

‘But the bairns … and Lachlan. She loves him, I ken she does. Iseult will no’ stay on the Spine o’ the World. She’ll come back and help us win the war.’

Meghan stroked Gitâ’s fur, her eyes hooded. ‘Will she?’

I seult stood on the ridge, breathing in great lungfuls of the sharp cold air. For as far as she could see tiers of tall pointed mountains rose into the sky, glistening with ice. Enormous voluptuous clouds enveloped the higher peaks, their deep folds shadowed blue by the brilliant sunshine, so that it seemed as if the mountains climbed into the very heavens.

Linley MacSeinn stood beside her, his face shadowed with awe and fear. ‘Ye mean to say ye ken a way through there?’

She nodded. He cursed under his breath and pulled his blue-checked plaid closer about him. His breath
clouded the air and his face was mottled with cold. A tall man with a strong nose, piercing sea-green eyes and a neatly trimmed black beard, he had two deeply scored lines between his brows, marks of grief and anger. He wore a great two-handled sword strapped to his back, with a slim dagger at his belt and another thrust into his boot. Beside him stood his son Douglas, as tall and pale-skinned, with the same brightly coloured eyes and dark hair. Both had their plaids pinned over their shoulders with a badge forged in the shape of a crowned harp.

Behind them wound a long train of men, all well wrapped up against the cold. On their backs they carried light packs, and each had a coil of rope and an icepick dangling from his belt. At the rear of the convoy were sleighs drawn by huge woolly creatures with spreading horns and enormous flat feet. The sleighs were all piled high with weapons and provisions provided by Iseult’s father. They had spent a week with Iseult’s parents at the Towers of Roses and Thorns, while Khan’gharad had prepared both his men and Iseult’s for the crossing of the mountains. Iseult had spent the week playing with her new brother and sister and talking with her mother, whom she had not seen since the signing of the Pact of Peace.

It had been a bittersweet time for Iseult. The round curve of the babies’ cheeks and their sweet, milky smell had brought a rush of longing for her own children. Iseult had very much wanted to bring them with her to the Spine of the World, but Lachlan had forbidden it angrily. It was too dangerous, he had said. The Rìgh’s heir should stay with the Rìgh. The twins
were still babes, too young for such a journey.

Iseult knew that he simply could not bear to let Donncan out of his sight after the shock of the little boy’s kidnapping, but Lachlan’s veto had hurt and angered her nonetheless. She too felt the need to keep Donncan and the twins close and safe. Being apart from her children was a cold ache that grew unbearable at times. She longed to hold them close again, to feel their chubby arms about her neck and to kiss the soft nape of their necks, softer than the most luxurious silk, softer than the petal of a rose. Sternly she repressed her longing, immersing herself in the logistics of moving such a large body of men through the harsh, inhospitable mountain heights. She was the first to wake each morning and among the last to roll herself in her furs and sleep, and only her silence and the gravity of her expression told those who knew her best how troubled and unhappy she was.

The clean smell of the snow and the grandeur of the landscape had brought colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her blue eyes, however. It gave her new resolve and the comfort of knowing that she was at last coming home. Seven years she had been away, seven long years. Iseult took one more deep breath, then strode forward once again, her long steps bringing her to the side of her father.

Khan’gharad was dressed all in white furs like Iseult herself, his shaggy mane of red-grey hair tied back with a leather thong. Two thick curling horns sprang out from either side of his lean, hard face, which was slashed with seven white scars.

‘If we move swiftly, the prides shall still be together for the Summer Gathering,’ he said in his native language. ‘You shall be able to address them as one and try to win them to your cause. Otherwise your task will be much more difficult.’

Iseult made the swift Khan’cohban gesture of assent. She was frowning. She knew the Summer Gathering would be breaking up tomorrow. No matter how hard she had tried, she had simply not been able to push the men along any faster. They were not used to the high altitude or the cold, and the weather had been unseasonably stormy, so that their progress had been much slower than Iseult had expected.

‘The snow on the far side of this ridge is firm enough for skimming,’ Khan’gharad said.

Iseult glanced at him quickly then looked back at the long line of men, which stretched as far as the eye could see. Not for the first time, she wished that the MacSeinn’s men knew how to skim. How swift their progress would be if they could fly over the surface of the snow instead of this painfully slow slog. She saw her father’s glance linger on the sleighs and his meaning came to her. She gave a sudden quick smile.

‘Far better that we do no’ come to the Summer Gathering with a show o’ force,’ she answered. ‘We should leave most o’ the men behind and take only our personal guard when we approach the prides.’

For the first time in their quick conversation she spoke in the common dialect so that the MacSeinn could understand her also. He had been watching with narrowed suspicious eyes the rapid exchange of grunt
and gesture, and at Iseult’s words, his expression darkened even further.

He said gruffly, ‘If we arrive without a proper guard, they will think us weak, and we shall be vulnerable to attack.’

‘There can be no blood shed during the week o’ the Summer Gathering,’ Iseult said tersely. She found it hard to remember how little most people knew about the prides. Their ignorance angered her, though she rarely allowed her feelings to show. The suspicion in the MacSeinn’s eyes, however, brought her simmering resentment to the boil and so the anger was clear in her voice.

‘There may be a truce amongst your people but we are no’ o’ your kind and there is no love lost between us,’ the MacSeinn said. ‘Last time we tried to cross the mountains I lost many good men to the snow-faeries, who crept upon us without any warning. I will no’ risk that happening again.’

Iseult waited a moment before answering. When she spoke her voice was calm and low. ‘The prides are very territorial. Ye may no’ cross their lands without first seeking and being granted permission. It is a procedure o’ great ceremony. Ye would have been given warning before attack.’

He stared at her. Colour slowly ran up his pale cheeks. ‘Some fellow did come and wave a spear at us and grunt at us a day or two before, but it was gibberish, there was no sense in it at all.’ His voice was sharp and defensive.

Iseult said softly, ‘Believe me when I say there are
right and wrong ways o’ approaching the prides. Ye have no way o’ knowing but I was brought up with them, I ken their ways. Please trust me when I say that to approach with an army o’ this size will be foolishly aggressive. A small group will be able to utilise one or two o’ the sleds and travel down to the Gathering with great speed. If ye wish me to address the prides on your behalf and win their support, this is what we must do. Otherwise I must spend weeks and even months travelling from one haven to another, speaking with the Auld Mother o’ each pride separately.’

Despite all her attempts to keep her voice conciliatory, all Iseult could manage was the kind of slow deliberateness one uses when speaking to a young child or a simpleton. The MacSeinn’s colour darkened and he stared at her with great anger and suspicion. The sense of what she said struck him, however, and so he nodded, though with obvious reluctance.

An early dusk was dropping over the mountains and it was colder than ever. Iseult gave the order for the men to make camp, an operation that took some time, then ordered two of the sleighs to be unloaded, their baggage redistributed among the other sleighs. She was conscious of a rising excitement. The smell of the snow sang in her veins. Tomorrow she would see the Firemaker and all her old comrades. Tomorrow she would be among her own kind once more, among those who understood the meaning of honour. Tomorrow she would at last attend the Summer Gathering.

This was a spectacle Iseult had always longed to see. In her youth the prides had gathered only every eight
years, in the spring of the Dragon-Star, when the comet had flared red in the night skies. When Iseult had decided to leave and marry Lachlan, the Firemaker had declared a truce between the prides and proposed that they meet each year instead, in the midsummer. At the Gathering, all enmities were set aside. There was much feasting and dancing, trade and bartering, and competitions of strength and skill. Many new relationships were forged, both political and personal. Although Khan’cohbans did not marry in the same way that the islanders did, it was common for young Khan’cohban girls to see a man whose vigour they admired and to agree to accompany him back to his pride. In this way, the blood-lines were kept pure and the possibility of inbreeding avoided. The woman was free to move her furs to the fire of anyone else she admired, or to return home to her family at any time, though she must leave behind any child of the union.

Iseult woke early the next morning and in the bustle of preparing to leave did not think about Lachlan or her children at all. It was a clear day, the white points of the mountains very sharp against the blue sky, the air zinging with the smell of the pine forests. Iseult was filled with energy and good humour, much to her maid Gayna’s relief, and it was not long before they were on their way.

Iseult, Gayna and Carrick One-Eye rode in one sleigh with Khan’gharad and his squire, a thoughtful young man called Jamie the Silent due to his ability to go for hours and even days without uttering a word. It was this quality which had caused Khan’gharad to
choose him as his squire. Like Iseult, Khan’gharad sometimes found the humans’ need to talk incessantly very wearing. Gayna was a sturdy girl with more cheerful commonsense than style, who had been chosen to accompany Iseult as much to maintain the proprieties as to have a care for her person.

In the second sleigh rode Linley MacSeinn and his son Douglas; the MacSeinn’s gillie, a tall, grey-haired man named Cavan; and his chamberlain Mattmias, an elderly man with a shock of white hair. In the two sleds behind travelled the MacSeinn’s piper, his standard-bearer, his purse-bearer, his seanalair the Duke of Dunkeld and six of his personal bodyguard, called the
luchd-tighe
. If the MacSeinn had had his way, many more among his retinue would have accompanied them. Iseult had been rather bemused to find that the MacSeinn was accompanied everywhere by a whole crowd of aides and courtiers. Most of the posts were hereditary and had been passed down from father to son for a thousand years. Lachlan himself did not have so many personal servants, though Mattmias had very diplomatically explained to Iseult that he should have.

The MacSeinn, Mattmias said, was a clan chief of the old school, a man who ruled over his clan and his country with absolute authority. He was very proud and Iseult knew that he had found the thirteen years of exile from his own country very difficult to bear. Most of his retinue now served him without pay, for the MacSeinn had lost his wealth along with his throne and was totally dependent upon Lachlan’s largesse. The desire to regain his independence and his homeland
were all that permitted the proud laird to submit to Iseult’s ruling that most of his retinue be left behind with the soldiers. To her amazement Iseult found she had a sneaking sympathy for the prionnsa, despite his haughtiness, and so she had not insisted he limit his retinue to two, like herself or her father.

The four sleighs sped down the smooth white slope as the teams of woolly-coated
ulez
galloped ahead at a quite amazing speed given their ponderous build and huge hooves. Iseult leant forward eagerly, drinking in the pine-scented wind that burnt her lungs with cold. Soon the forest had closed about them but still the
ulez
galloped on, the lead pair obeying Khan’gharad’s slightest touch on the reins. Khan’gharad’s experienced eye recognised every rock or fallen log hidden below soft mounds of snow and so, although the men behind sometimes shouted in alarm at their breakneck speed, he brought them to the floor of the valley without a single spill.

It was high summer and the valley floor was free of snow, sunlit glades stretching in vivid spreads of alpine flowers and lush grass. The
ulez
were tethered and allowed to graze while the party proceeded through the forest on foot. Khan’gharad led the way, his scarred face turning from side to side as he drank in the scents and sights of the forest. He often had to stop and wait for the older men, who flushed with vexation as they paused to catch their breath. Iseult could see Khan’gharad’s silent ways, his air of arrogance, his sombre scarred face and curling horns all alienated the MacSeinn and his men, who found him intimidating
and disliked him for it. It gave Iseult an odd feeling, for suddenly she understood why so many people seemed wary of her too. She did what she could to ease the gulf between them and was rewarded by a new sense of closeness with Douglas and the old seneschal Mattmias. Even the MacSeinn smiled at her once as she held back a prickly branch for him, thanking her gruffly and warning her to mind her soft skin.

Khan’gharad was waiting for them at the top of a low ridge. Iseult came up eagerly beside him and looked down into a deep green bowl circled by stands of dark forest and bordered on one side by a narrow river that ran swiftly over stones.

In the very centre of the meadow was a large circle, marked out by ropes hung with clusters of feathers dyed in the various colours of the prides. At regular intervals around the circle stood tall, ornate poles, all carved with faces, wings and claws in symbolic representation of the prides’ totems. Behind each totem pole burnt bonfires, with the members of that pride standing before it, wearing their ceremonial cloaks, their faces painted with charcoal and ochre. The Pride of the Fire-Dragon was the largest, with nearly a hundred members all wearing red feathers and tassels. They were gathered close around an old woman with a high-boned face, snowy white hair and eyes the same vivid blue as Iseult’s own. Despite the warmth of the summer sun, she wore a heavy cloak of thick white fur with the snarling, white-maned head of its original owner hanging down her back. Iseult drew in her breath at the sight of her, anticipation quickening her pulse.