The Fathomless Caves (13 page)

In the centre of the fighting circle were two men with long poles, their bare torsos grey with mud. One vaulted high over the other, tucking his body into a neat somersault and landing nimbly on his feet, and a few in the crowd made a silent gesture of approval. There were no shouts or catcalls, no applause, no hissing or booing, as there would have been if the audience had been human, for such noises were considered extremely impolite.

Khan’gharad led the small party to the edge of the clearing, choosing to position himself in the empty area between the Pride of the Grey Wolf and the Pride of the Fire-Dragon so as to make clear their neutrality. No-one in the crowd took the slightest notice of them, which made the MacSeinn draw himself up to his tallest height, his hands clenched on his sword hilt. The young men of the
luchd-tighe
muttered angrily amongst themselves. Iseult would have liked to tell them that the Khan’cohbans were only being polite in paying them no attention but she dared not speak while the Scarred Warriors fought.

The pyrotechnic display of feints, ducks and somersaults brought a wary respect into the soldiers’ eyes. Again Iseult would have liked to tell them that all this was merely a sign of the Scarred Warriors’ arrogant youth and inexperience. When Scarred Warriors of seven scars clashed, there was very little movement, and when a move was made, it came with the suddenness and venom of a viper’s strike. Iseult watched with a critical eye, knowing already who would be the victor. A pole lashed out with sudden ferocity; there
was a thud and a groan, and one of the combatants fell heavily.

After the Scarred Warriors had bowed to each other and to the Firemaker and quit the circle, Khan’gharad motioned the others to follow him. He walked slowly and with great ceremony around the outside of the circle until he came to the bonfire of the Firemaker.

‘Ye must do as he does,’ Iseult murmured under her breath, angry with her father for his failure to explain some of the Khan’cohbans’ customs. As Khan’gharad knelt in the mud before the old woman, his head lowered and his hands folded, the MacSeinn halted for a moment, his heavy brows drawn together. Eventually he too knelt, and the rest of the retinue followed suit, though with obvious reluctance.

The Firemaker swept two fingers to her brow, then to her heart, then out to the ring of white mountains. Khan’gharad crossed his hands over his breast and bowed his head. Iseult mimicked his response and the others did the same.

‘Greetings, son of my daughter,’ the Firemaker said. There was a sheen of moisture in her eyes, though her gestures were made with ritualistic slowness. ‘Welcome to our Gathering.’

‘Greetings, Old Mother,’ Khan’gharad said with great respect. ‘May I have your blessing?’ When she made the gesture of assent, he rose and knelt at her feet, his horned head bent very low. The Firemaker raised her thin, vein-knotted hand and made the mark of the Gods of White on Khan’gharad’s brow. He thanked her and rose, retreating back to where the
others still knelt, gazing with amazement. Only Iseult kept her eyes lowered as one should, wishing she dared whisper to the others not to stare so rudely.

‘Greetings, daughter of my daughter’s son,’ the Firemaker said. Iseult returned the greeting and received the blessing from her great-grandmother, seizing the old woman’s hand and kissing it before retreating back to her position. The Firemaker allowed the indiscretion with an austere smile before regarding the others coldly.

‘Who are these mannerless strangers?’ she asked then, indicating the kneeling men. ‘Who are they that they dare raise eyes to the Firemaker?’

‘Please forgive them their ignorance, Old Mother,’ Iseult said softly. ‘They mean you no disrespect. In their own land they are men of honour. For them to kneel to you at all is a sign of their great respect and courtesy towards you. They are strangers among us, and know little of the ways of the People of the Spine of the World.’

‘Tell them to lower their eyes or we shall need to teach them respect,’ the Firemaker said with cold anger.

‘Yes, Old Mother,’ Iseult responded and turned to the others. ‘Ye must no’ gaze upon the Firemaker. Lower your eyes until she has given ye leave to address her.’

The MacSeinn opened his mouth angrily but Iseult said with smiling calm, ‘My great-grandmother can speak our language, my laird, and will understand all that ye choose to say to her, when it is time. For now, please lower your gaze.’

He fingered his beard and then nodded, moving his gaze down to the ground before him.

The Firemaker stared haughtily until she was sure no-one’s eyes were still raised. Then she said, ‘Why have you brought strangers to the gathering of the prides, Khan’derin?’

The sound of her Khan’cohban name brought a hot rush of emotion to Iseult but she explained their mission with great formality, using all the appropriate ceremonial gestures and keeping her face and voice free of any expression.

Although none of the many Khan’cohbans listening made any sound or interjection, she was aware of a little involuntary stir as she asked permission to cross the mountains.

‘This is something that must be discussed by the Old Mothers and the councils,’ the Firemaker said with a chill finality in her voice. ‘Such a thing has never been asked before. You ask us to allow a force of overwhelming strength to enter our lands, with the only surety your word.’

Iseult was incredulous. ‘You doubt my word of honour?’

‘Many years you have been away from us, daughter of my daughter’s son. You have lived among the white-skinned barbarians for seven of the long darknesses. Who is to say whether you have not been deceived by them or even corrupted into dishonour?’

Colour flamed in Iseult’s face. She rose, drew her dagger and flung it with one sure, swift motion. The men behind her gasped and leapt to their feet, but neither the Firemaker nor any of the Khan’cohbans moved so much as a muscle in their faces. The dagger
struck the ground just before the Firemaker’s feet and drove in to its hilt, quivering with the force of the impact.

‘I shall prove my honour and the honour of those with me with blood, should it be so desired,’ Iseult said with great formality.

The Firemaker stared at the dagger and the smallest of smiles softened her stern mouth. ‘So be it,’ she said.

Iseult bowed her head in acceptance.

‘These are matters of great importance,’ the Firemaker said. ‘They should not be discussed in the open like this. Tonight is the time for the meeting of the Old Mothers and their councils. Then shall we have the telling of the story in fullness and in truth. Till then, be welcome at our Gathering.’

‘Thank you, Old Mother,’ Iseult said, and at her prompting the men repeated her formal gestures and then withdrew.

Iseult spent the rest of the day watching the athletic contests with the MacSeinn and his men, doing her best to explain the customs of the Khan’cohbans. Her father had gone to greet many of his old friends and was eventually persuaded to take his place in the fighting circle, where he showed that he had lost little of his skill in his years away from the prides. As the sun set the Scarred Warriors retired and the storytellers took their place. Iseult was given permission to translate to the humans and had the gratification of seeing the haughty prionnsa weep at the culmination of a tale of particular tragedy.

‘The stories o’ the Khan’cohbans are nearly always
very sad,’ she said as the MacSeinn surreptitiously blew his nose. ‘The only ones that are no’ are the hero-tales, which usually involve a battle o’ some sort, or the naming-quests. If ye are lucky, they will tell the tale o’ my father’s naming-quest. It is very famous. He is called the dragon-laird for, on his naming-quest, he rescued a baby dragon who proved to be the only daughter o’ the dragon-queen. If she had died, the whole race o’ dragons may well have died out, for she was the last female young enough still to breed. As a reward, the queen-dragon gave him the right to call her name, a gesture o’ immense honour and power.’

It was not long before this tale was told to celebrate Khan’gharad’s return to the prides.

Then, after a silent exchange with the Firemaker, Iseult quietly made a request of the storyteller in the centre of the circle. As a result, he told next the story of how she herself had won her name. Although not as dramatic as Khan’gharad’s, it was still a story of great courage and daring and Iseult was glad to see a new respect and understanding in the eyes of the MacSeinn and his men.

Then he spoke of Isabeau’s journey, the tale of She of Many Shapes. Iseult had a particular reason for wanting this story and watched the faces of those in the Pride of the Fighting Cat closely.

The Pride of the Fighting Cat had always been bitter enemies of the Pride of the Fire-Dragon. An uneasy peace had been settled between them, after Iseult had relinquished her claim as heir to the Firemaker, allowing her second cousin Khan’katrin to replace her.
Khan’katrin, as redheaded and blue-eyed as the twins, had always claimed she was the true heir since she was descended from a straight line of daughters. Iseult and Isabeau were the daughters of the Firemaker’s grandson, and for Iseult to have inherited would have meant the breaking of a tradition that had seen the powers and duties of a Firemaker passed from mother to daughter for a thousand years. By naming Khan’katrin her successor, the Firemaker had brought peace between the warring prides and allowed Iseult to marry Lachlan and pursue her destiny away from the Spine of the World.

Khan’katrin had already found it hard to conceal her anger and suspicion at Iseult’s return, and now, as the storyteller told the story of Isabeau’s naming-quest, her cheeks burnt and her eyes glittered like blue ice. Isabeau had ignominiously defeated the young redheaded warrior in a duel of honour, which Khan’katrin had forced upon her in the hope of killing one of her rivals. Now everyone knew the young heir to the godhead was in
geas
to Isabeau. Perhaps as importantly, Iseult had made a gift of her name and her twin’s name to the entire race of Khan’cohbans. Such displays of trust and confidence carried with them their own invisible
geas.

They feasted that night and more stories were told. Then when the fires were beginning to die down low, and the children all slept curled up in their furs, the Old Mothers of the seven prides rose and led the way into the forest, followed by the Scarred Warriors, the storytellers and the soul-sages. All wore their cloaks of animal furs, and their faces had been freshly painted with fearsome masks of red and white and black. Behind them
strode Khan’gharad, silent as ever, Iseult, and a rather grim-faced Linley MacSeinn. Everyone else had stayed with the warmth and comfort of the fires.

High on a rock suspended above the river, under the icy stars, the true Gathering occurred. The Old Mothers sat in a circle, with their First Warrior, First Storyteller and Soul-Sage clustered close behind. Here the Firemaker was just one more Old Mother, given no greater precedence than any other. Iseult stood with the others while the long business of the council was undertaken—discussions over trade and hunting rights, concerns over falling birth rates and the turmoil in the weather, the comparison of the visions of the soul-sages and the resolution of many slights and insults.

At last they invited Iseult to speak. She stood and bowed to all the Old Mothers and thanked them for allowing her to address them. Then she sat with her legs crossed, her spine very straight, her hands upturned on her lap.

‘We seek permission to cross the Spine of the World on a matter of great urgency,’ she said. ‘The people of the sea have declared war upon the people of the land and have attacked them many times, inflicting much hurt and damage. As you know, the leader of those of humankind, he who is my husband, wishes to live in peace and amity with people of all kinds. He has extended the hand of friendship to the people of the sea, only to be spurned with grievous insult.’

She described how the Rìgh’s messenger had been returned to them, horribly maimed. A stir ran over the listening Khan’cohbans, for the snow-faeries took the
etiquette of war very seriously indeed. Iseult explained how they planned to strike against the stronghold of the Fairgean from three directions at once, a strategy that met with polite gestures of approval, and then, very carefully, she requested the prides’ assistance.

At once there was a stir of excitement and consternation. Many of the younger warriors were pleased at the idea. There had been few skirmishes between the prides in recent years, most of their differences being settled at the annual Gathering. They were trained rigorously as warriors but now had no-one but goblins and ogres to fight. Many of the older warriors vetoed the suggestion, however. ‘Who would hunt?’ they asked. ‘Our people would starve.’

When a natural pause occurred in the discussion Iseult, subtly and with great respect, reminded the Pride of the Grey Wolf how Isabeau had helped one of their children survive his naming-quest. She then reminded the Fighting Cats of Khan’katrin’s
geas
to Isabeau and how they had challenged her while she was under the protection of the White Gods. The Fighting Cats were ashamed of that memory and shifted uneasily. Khan’katrin herself sat bolt upright, her hands clenched upon her weapons belt. Iseult met her gaze and bowed her head respectfully.

‘I know that the sister of my womb has not claimed the debt of honour owed her. It is very important to her to acknowledge the ties of blood between us, which have made foes of us in the past and shall, we all hope, knot us close together in the future.’

Iseult had difficulty in saying this. She had been
raised to consider her second cousin the bitterest of foes. They had always looked for each other on the battlefield and had done their best to kill one another. Sometimes their clashes had reached such a pitch of ferocity that the other warriors had drawn apart to watch, understanding that here was a conflict of honour and so never interfering.

Such things were hard to forget. Behind it all was Iseult’s knowledge that she was now released from her
geas
to Lachlan. She had given up her right to the godhead to be with him. All her life she had thought herself destined to be the Firemaker, the sacred gift of the Gods of White to the people of the Spine of the World. She had never truly adjusted to having lost that, even though she had accepted her
geas
with fortitude, as a Scarred Warrior should. To be free of that
geas
was a sudden draught of heady liberty. It confused her to have committed her life and her being to one destiny and suddenly to have choices open up for her again.