The Fathomless Caves (18 page)

No-hooh snooze-hooh?
Buba hooted softly from her perch on Isabeau’s bed-rail.

No-hooh snooze-hooh,
Isabeau answered ruefully.

You-hooh troubled-hooh?

Isabeau shrugged and got up, wrapping her white woolly plaid about her shoulders. ‘I feel … Aye, I suppose I feel troubled. I do no’ ken why exactly,’ she said, more to herself than the owl.

Owl soar-swoop through moon cool-hooh?
Buba said hopefully. Although the elf-owl had grown used to Isabeau wanting to be awake during the day and sleep at night, Buba was always eager for the sorceress to change shape and be an owl with her again.

Isabeau smiled and shook her head, opening her door quietly and stepping out into the corridor.
No-hooh, sorry-hooh.
‘I thought some hot milk might help. I’m going down to the kitchen. Want to come?’

Hooh-hooh,
Buba answered, swooping out the door eagerly.

The castle was very quiet. With her white plaid
wrapped around her shoulders, her bright hair flowing down her back in thick waves and rivulets of curls, Isabeau went quietly through the dark corridors. She needed no candle, seeing her way clearly despite the lateness of the hour. Buba floated ahead of her, silent as smoke. They came down the grand staircase and into the front hall.

There Isabeau paused. She could hear the soft murmur of voices and see the golden flicker of light. For a moment she stood, undecided, then very quietly she made her way down the hall. One of the double doors into the dining room stood ajar. Isabeau touched it so it swung open a little more, allowing her to see into the room.

Lachlan sat at one end of the table, his wings drooping, his head laid on his arms. At his elbow was an empty glass. An almost empty decanter of whisky stood on a silver tray nearby.

Dide sat by the fireplace, strumming his guitar softly. He was singing, in a low plaintive tone, the song of the Three Blackbirds. He looked up at the sway of the door and saw Isabeau standing just outside. He frowned at her and shook his head slightly, but it was too late, the draught of the swinging door had caused the candles to gutter in their sconces and Lachlan had glanced up blearily. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard.

He saw Isabeau, a tall figure all in white, the candlelight wavering over her face and the red-gold river of her hair. He leapt up, his chair falling backwards, and lurched towards her.

‘Iseult!’ he cried hoarsely.

Isabeau just stared at him, the words of denial in her throat but her mouth not moving to make the sound. He seized her arms in his big rough hands and pulled her against him, his mouth seeking hers. Isabeau lifted her eyes to look at him, not really knowing what she was doing. He kissed her. It was like a shock of lightning. For a moment she simply stood there, her heart hammering, one hand clasping his forearm, drawing him closer. Then she stepped back, her senses reeling. He fell back also, staring at her, eyes wide.

‘I am Isabeau,’ she said, her voice hoarse, just as he cried her name.

For a moment longer they gazed at each other, then a shadow came down over Lachlan’s face; he stepped back, half staggering, and sat down heavily in a chair. He was very drunk.

Isabeau looked up and met Dide’s eyes. He cradled his battered old guitar, the smooth wood of its face painted with faded tendrils of leaves and flowers and birds singing. His hands were very still, his face closed. She gazed at him a moment and then stepped forward, laying her hand on Lachlan’s shoulder. ‘Ye should be in bed,’ she said. ‘Do ye forget we ride out with the dawn? What do ye do here, drinking in the darkness by yourself?’

His shoulder had tensed at her touch. He leant back, saying with a bitter twist of his mouth, ‘My bed is cold and lonely, I canna sleep in it, why should I seek it?’

‘Ye shall make yourself ill,’ Isabeau said tersely. ‘Is this what ye’ve been doing, night after night, drinking alone? No wonder ye look like a death’s head.’

‘I havena been alone,’ Lachlan replied. ‘Dide has been with me.’

‘Dide should ken better,’ Isabeau said acidly. She looked up and met his black eyes. For once they were not merry with laughter, but shadowed and unhappy. One corner of his mouth lifted and he began to strum the guitar again, as gently as if he stroked a lover’s body. Isabeau recognised the poignant chords of the Three Blackbirds.

‘Canna ye play something else?’ she snapped.

Lachlan shook his head. ‘Nay. I want him to play that. I am the Rìgh. I command him to play it. Play, Dide!’ He had difficulty in speaking, his words slurring into each other. Dide played on, his head bent. The music crept through the dark room, exquisite, full of loss and sorrow. Isabeau felt a little prickling of her skin. From the far corner of the room Buba hooted sadly.
Rue-hooh.

‘Ye must no’ grieve so much, Lachlan,’ Isabeau said very gently.

He flung out one hand. His eyes glinting with tears, he sang:

‘O where have ye flown, my black-winged birds,

Leaving me all alone?

O where have ye flown, my black-winged brothers?

Where have ye flown, my brothers?’

His voice was so beautiful, so deep and pure and full of magic, that Isabeau shuddered.

She wrapped her arms about her body. ‘Come, will ye no’ go to bed? Ye must no’ wear yourself out like this.’

‘Is that an invitation?’ Lachlan leered at her. One hand shot out and grasped her wrist. Although Isabeau stood stiff and unyielding, he was too strong for her and she was forced to step closer. She could smell the whisky on his breath, see the fire in his golden eyes as he lifted his face to look up at her. The candlelight played over the hard, strong planes of his face, the unruly jet-black curls, the powerful line of jaw and neck and shoulder, the soft sweep of black feathers. She leant back against the cruel grip of his hand, unable to help the tightening of nerve and muscle, the acceleration of her heart.

He felt the leap in her pulse and smiled at her, heart-breakingly sweet. ‘What do ye say, Isabeau? Will ye warm my bed for me? Iseult is gone, she has left me like my brothers, like everyone I have ever loved.’ Again he sang, under his breath, ‘O where have ye flown, my brothers, leaving me all alone?’

‘Iseult has no’ left ye,’ Isabeau said. ‘Ye were the one who sent her away. Ye released her from her
geas
.’

‘Why does she need a
geas
to stay with me?’ Lachlan cried. ‘Why canna she just love me for myself?’

‘She does love ye,’ Isabeau said, trying to draw her wrist free. He tightened his fingers, drew her down so they were face to face, only inches apart.

‘She does no’ love me,’ he said with great solemnity. ‘She does no’ love me at all. She loves her snows. She left me.’

Isabeau lifted her hand and smoothed back the curls from his brow. ‘She does love ye,’ she said very quietly. ‘She will return to ye. Ye must trust her.’

His breath was ragged. He stared at her intently. Isabeau knew that if she leant forward just a little, if she kissed the pulse that beat so rapidly in his throat, if she pressed her mouth against his, Lachlan would be hers, at least for the night. She knew it was in his mind, that all she had to do was let herself flow towards him, let herself close that small distance between them. She could not breathe with the certainty of it. Her mind flew towards Iseult, her womb-sister, her twin. Slowly Isabeau drew herself away. ‘Ye must trust her,’ she repeated, her voice wavering.

He let her go. ‘Yes,’ he said. He leant his head back, stared up at the ceiling.

Isabeau took a deep breath, stepped back, became aware again of the melancholy spill of music. She looked across the table at Dide. ‘Come, will ye no’ help me?’ she said, angry at herself for the weakness of her voice. ‘We must get him to bed. Ye must no’ let him brood like this. He needs to rest, he needs to be strong. He has a war to fight.’

‘Often the hardest wars are the ones we fight within ourselves,’ Dide answered softly. ‘It is no’ enough to say ye must no’ grieve. Grief and love are no’ commanded by the mind and the will, they are driven by the heart.’

After a moment she nodded. ‘Ye’re right,’ she said with difficulty, pierced by his words as if they were a sword. ‘I’m sorry.’

His long fingers stilled on the strings of the guitar, the last quivering chord dying away into silence. He laid the guitar down and got to his feet, coming round the table to kneel by Lachlan’s feet. He took one of the
Rìgh’s hands in both of his. ‘Come, master, ye must go to bed. Ye will sleep now, I promise.’

Lachlan looked at him, barely able to control the movement of his head. There was the shine of tears on his face. ‘Promise?’

‘Aye, I promise. Ye will sleep like a babe, like your wee Olwynne, deep and sweet and free o’ dreams. Come, master, let me help ye up.’

Together Isabeau and Dide helped Lachlan to his feet. He was heavy, the broad line of shoulders and the great sweep of his wings weighing them down so they could barely support him between them. Together they helped him up the stairs to his room, Buba flying along behind them, the ghostly sweep of her wings ruffling their hair. Isabeau and Dide led Lachlan to his bed, where he sat silently watching as they unbuckled his belt and laid it on a chair. Kneeling, they took off his boots and then helped each other unwind his plaid. When he wore nothing but his shirt, Dide gently pushed Lachlan back down upon his bed, saying, ‘Sleep now, master. I will watch over ye.’

Obediently Lachlan rolled over so he lay upon his stomach, his wings folded along his back, his head resting on his crossed arms. He nestled his cheek into his pillow, saying, ‘I’m so tired …’

Snooze-hooh
, Buba hooted softly from her perch on top of the mirror.

‘Ye’ll feel better in the morning,’ Isabeau said gently, unable to help tucking the sheet about him more securely. He opened his eyes at the touch of her hands, saying, ‘Isabeau …’

‘Aye?’

‘Thank ye. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right. Go to sleep.’

He closed his eyes again, murmuring, ‘Sleep. I think I’d like to.’

He was asleep in a moment, his breath rising in a little snore. Dide and Isabeau watched him in silence for a moment, then Isabeau rose to her feet, drawing her own plaid about her. Buba fluttered down to perch on her shoulder, moving her feathered claws uneasily and swivelling her head.

‘Ye could have had him tonight,’ Dide said, very softly. Isabeau nodded, unable to look at him.

‘Why did ye no’? Ye wanted him.’

‘He was no’ mine to have,’ Isabeau answered.

‘But ye wanted him.’ He drew closer to her, bending his head to try to see her face.

‘Aye,’ she answered. ‘He has been in my dreams for many years.’ Somehow it was easy to tell Dide this, words she never thought she could utter, standing close to him in the darkness with the soft sound of Lachlan breathing behind them. ‘We are linked, ye see, Iseult and me. In my dreams I see through her eyes, and feel what she feels. It is no’ always a good thing.’

‘Does she ken? That ye dream o’ him, I mean.’

‘I do no’ think so,’ Isabeau answered with a little shiver. ‘I hope no’.’

‘Does Iseult see through your eyes too?’ he asked, tucking his hands into the warmth of her plaid and bringing it closer about her throat. Tears prickled Isabeau’s eyes.

‘I do no’ think Iseult’s Talents lie that way. I do no’ think she walks in her dreams,’ she answered, her voice again failing her.

Dide shook his head. ‘It is hard, to be dreaming o’ someone ye can never have.’

Isabeau nodded, looking up at him. He bent his head and kissed her, and then kissed her wet eyes, and she bent her head into his shoulder and let it rest there. He held her for a moment, his arm strong about her back, and then he drew away.

‘Come, ye must be off to bed yourself,’ he said. ‘Dawn is close and we have a long way to travel today. Ye must try to get some sleep.’

She nodded, scrubbing her face, moving away a little. ‘What about ye?’

‘I shall watch over my master,’ Dide answered.

She nodded again and moved quietly to the door. As she opened it, Dide said with a little quiver of laughter in his voice, ‘Isabeau?’

‘Aye?’

‘Your wee owl dinna peck me this time.’

‘Nay, she did no’, did she?’

‘Happen she likes me a wee better now.’

‘Happen she does.’

Time for you-hooh to mate-hooh,
Buba hooted.
Time for you-hooh to build-hooh nest-hooh, lay-hooh eggs-hooh.

Sudden heat scorched Isabeau’s cheeks. She hoped Dide could not speak Owl.

I seult opened her eyes. Above her arched the night sky, the stars beginning to fade between heavy slabs of low cloud. She rolled over, sat up, tucked her arms about her knees, staring at the silhouette of the mountains beginning to rise up against a grey dawn. She was frowning. The dark remnants of a dream hung over her. She tried to shake her mind free but, although the details were already dissolving away, the sense of misery and betrayal lingered.

‘My lady?’ Carrick One-Eye whispered, sitting up in his furs on the far side of the embers. ‘Is all well?’

She nodded, rubbing her eyes with her hands. ‘Aye,
all is well. Get ye back to sleep, Carrick, it is no’ quite dawn.’

He climbed out of his furs, shivering as the cold struck through his clothes. ‘Nay, my lady. Let me blow up the fire and make ye some tea. Ye look cold.’

‘I am cold,’ she answered, surprised.

The corrigan blew upon the embers, which gleamed red in the darkness, and fed in a handful of leaves and twigs. He scooped up some of the snow in the battered black pot and hung it over the fire, saying, ‘That’s one good thing about snow, ye do no’ need to travel far in search o’ water.’

Iseult said nothing, content to sit and watch her squire as he dropped fragrant leaves and flowers into the melting snow and got out a cup for her. In the dimness he looked more like a great hunched boulder than ever, his blunt features crusted all over with silvery lichen, his one eye like a crack in a stone.

He brought her the steaming cup and, as she drank, busied himself making porridge and gathering more wood for the fire. By the time she had eaten and was warm again, most of the dream had faded away. The rest of the camp began to stir and Iseult rose and shook off her foreboding like a wolf shaking snow from his coat.

‘Looks like we’re in for another storm,’ Khan’gharad said, leaning on his pole and staring off at the clouds pouring in over the edge of the ridge. The wind was shaking the boughs of the pine trees and sending snow skirling about in little white devil-dances. The men all had their hoods up and were bent against the wind as
they struggled to pack up the camp. The silvery light of the dawn had faded into a dusk almost as deep as the darkness of night.

‘I hope no’,’ Iseult answered. ‘We’re behind schedule. We canna waste any more time sitting out a storm.’

‘Ye dinna want to be caught in a blizzard while crossing the heights,’ he answered.

‘Aye, I ken, I ken,’ she said. ‘Happen we can climb above it though? It looks low.’

‘We can try,’ her father answered. ‘What a shame we do no’ have that hawk o’ your husband’s. It’d be able to fly above the clouds and see if it be fair sky above.’

At the mention of Lachlan the shadow came back to Iseult’s face. Khan’gharad did not notice, busying himself packing up his knapsack.

Iseult was very conscious of time trickling away. Lammas had been and gone, and the green months were almost over. Soon the days would begin to grow shorter and Iseult knew, better than anyone, how swiftly winter descended upon the mountains. She wanted to be through the passes and down the other side before the snow began to fall too thickly.

‘I can fly up and see,’ she said.

Khan’gharad looked at her quickly. ‘It be too dangerous.’

‘It is more dangerous for us all to be trapped here on this side of the pass,’ she answered. ‘I will no’ fly too high, I promise. I ken I am no gyrfalcon!’

He nodded and she took off her coat and let it drop to the ground, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Iseult’s ability to fly was not as profound as her
mother’s, who flew as swiftly and powerfully as a snow goose. Iseult could only fly with short bursts of speed. She could not hover in the air for more than a few moments, nor fly as high as an eagle. She mainly used her Talent to get downstairs quickly or jump over high walls. Anything more taxed her strength to the utmost.

She bent her knees and soared up into the air. The wind buffeted her. She had to fight to keep from being thrown back down to the ground. Ice needles drove into the exposed flesh of her face. For a while all was grey and rough and freezing cold, her sight wrapped in mist, then she burst through the canopy of clouds.

Below her were white billows of cloud stretching as far as the eye could see, dazzling in the sun which poured down from above. All round stood a ring of high mountains, their steep sides grey and bare, their heads crowned with ice. Spindrifts of snow floated from every peak, like an exhalation of warm breath into the radiant blue sky.

Iseult hung motionless for a moment, gazing about with pleasure, then she felt the weight of the earth dragging her back down. She slid back into the clouds, flailed by hail and sleet, the wind dragging at her strength. She came down faster than she wished, landing with a great splash of snow and an ungraceful ‘Humph!’ as all her breath was knocked out of her body.

‘My lady!’ Carrick cried, bending over her and offering her his huge, clumsy hand. ‘Be ye all right?’

‘Aye, I be fine,’ she answered breathlessly and let him pull her up. ‘It be clear above the clouds, we
should be able to climb out o’ this gale. Let us get moving!’

All morning they slogged through the storm, hoods pulled close about their faces, the snow soon reaching past their knees. Iseult ordered the men to lash themselves together, for nothing could be seen but white blowing snow and the occasional black thrashing of a tree. The ground began to tilt steeply. Men fell and slid helplessly, and were dragged up to their feet again. Rocky walls rose up all around them, the wind screaming down a long tunnel of ice. They had to cut steps with their axes and hammer in picks to lash their ropes to. Higher and higher they climbed, the
ulez
straining to drag up the heavy sleds, their broad feet somehow finding purchase on the slippery ice.

Suddenly Khan’gharad called down, ‘I’m above the storm! Ye were right, Iseult, I can see blue sky.’

Galvanised with fresh energy the men scrambled up the steep pathway, one by one climbing out onto the shoulder of the mountain. Below them was a tossing sea of white cloud. All around rose the jagged peaks, sharply etched against a crystal clear sky. Immaculate sweeps of snow, unmarked by a single footstep, fell down in graceful folds to their feet, shadowed a deep indigo blue. Iseult took a deep breath, feeling the last phantom of her dream drop away.

The MacSeinn exclaimed with pleasure. Iseult pointed up to the mountain directly ahead of them, sheer cliffs of snow soaring up on either side. ‘This is the last o’ the mountains,’ she said. ‘When ye step over that peak, my laird, ye will step into Carraig. See that
path? We o’ the Khan’cohbans call it the Bridge To Beyond The Known. It marks the end o’ the land of the Gods o’ White.’

At her words the exhausted men gave a ragged cheer. Khan’gharad turned on them savagely. ‘Ye must be quiet. Do ye no’ see how the snow overhangs us here? Do ye wish to set off an avalanche?’

They sobered immediately, looking up at the sheer white cliffs in some trepidation. ‘I ken ye are all eager to see the last o’ my homeland,’ Khan’gharad said with the faintest inflection of humour in his voice. ‘But nonetheless, be very careful how ye climb. Try no’ to make any noise, for if ye set the snow to moving, the whole mass o’ it shall come tumbling down.’

They nodded and he gestured to the Scarred Warriors to lead the way. He and Iseult stood in silence for a time, watching the long procession snaking up the hill.

‘Once we have crossed the Bridge To Beyond The Known, ye have fulfilled your promise to show the MacSeinn the way into Carraig,’ Khan’gharad said at last. ‘What shall ye do then, Khan’derin my daughter?’

Iseult did not reply. She knew what he asked. Khan’gharad, more than anyone, knew what the breaking of her
geas
to Lachlan meant.

After a long moment she turned a wretched face towards him and said, ‘I dinna ken, I dinna ken.’

He nodded his head brusquely. ‘I see. Well, in a few hours more we shall have crossed the Bridge To Beyond The Known. Happen your path will lie clear before ye then.’

Iseult nodded unhappily. He unstrapped his skimmer from his back, tied it to his boots, and went flying across the snow towards the final ascent, as swift and graceful as a bird. Iseult watched, torn with grief and longing. This was her home, this world of white snow and black shadows, this world of cold purity, cold absolutes. All she had to do was stay here, bid goodbye to the MacSeinn on the threshold of his land, and skim back to her own people. She would have fulfilled her last promise to Lachlan, she would be free.

Tears stung her eyes. Despite all her best efforts she could not help being haunted by fragments of her dream. Iseult had seen Lachlan and Isabeau, mouth to mouth, body to body, yearning together. She had heard Lachlan ask Isabeau into his bed. She told herself once again that the dream was just a phantom of her mind, an extrusion of her deeply buried jealousy and fear. Lachlan had met Isabeau first, Iseult’s sister who looked as much like her as a reflection in a mirror. He had met Isabeau first, and who was to say he had not fallen in love with her first? Certainly Lachlan had not said so, but he had
meant
so. Even Duncan Ironfist had seen it, and he was naught but a rough soldier with little knowledge of the ways of the heart.

And Iseult had ridden away and left Lachlan alone, all their anger and resentment unresolved, their bodies frustrated from weeks of coldness. She had left him there with Isabeau, her womb-sister, who would travel close beside him for months, with her face like Iseult’s face and her body like Iseult’s body and her straight fearless gaze just like Iseult’s. Lachlan had called Isabeau
the most beautiful, bright thing he had ever seen. He had said he tried to hate her, for otherwise he could only love.

And though Iseult would trust Isabeau with her life, and Lachlan with more, the dream gnawed away at her like an insect at a leaf. Round and round her thoughts went, reassuring herself that Lachlan loved her and only her, that it was not enough for Isabeau to look like her, Isabeau was
not
her, telling herself it was only a dream, only a silly dream. The last of the Scarred Warriors passed her, and Iseult began to climb in their tracks, hardly aware of the darkening of the indigo shadows, the rise of the bitter wind, too caught up in the tumult of her mind.

Up the slope she toiled, not noticing that she was far behind the others, not noticing the creeping of cloud upon her footsteps. The sun dropped down behind the peak, its light blotted out. Darkness closed in upon the valley, upon the small figure alone on the steep fall of snow. There was a low mutter of thunder. Again it came, louder, more insistent.

Iseult looked up. All at once she realised she had been left far behind. The light was gone, there was a strange purple dusk lying heavy on the valley. She began to climb more swiftly. Again came that low, angry growl of thunder. It rolled around the valley. Suddenly, a livid slash of lightning. Iseult’s heart constricted. The snow beneath her feet was trembling. There was a strange dull roar that rose up to meet the thunder, engulfed it. She looked up and saw the cliff of snow rearing above her like an enormous wave. The
ground beneath her feet shuddered and heaved. Iseult was flung down. With a gasp she scrambled to her feet, launched herself into the air. Iseult had already flown high that day, however, and climbed a mountain and fought a nightmare. She did not have the strength to soar above the avalanche. With a boom like the clash of a god’s cymbals, the mountain fell down upon her and swept her away into darkness.

After leaving Dide in the darkness, watching over his sleeping master, Isabeau made her way back to her own bed but still she could not settle. No matter how hard she tried to disengage her mind, it rattled round and round on the same rutted road. At last, in the chill of the dawn, she got up, straightened her tangled bedclothes and finished her packing. When the castle began to stir, she went downstairs and made herself some hot tea, which helped warm and revive her, then took up some breakfast for Meghan. The old sorceress exclaimed over the shadows under her eyes,

‘Could ye no’ sleep?’ she asked. ‘Silly lass, your last night in a real bed for weeks! Why could ye no’ sleep?’

Isabeau shrugged. ‘Who kens?’ she answered. The old sorceress scanned her face with keen eyes but said no more, and Isabeau busied herself packing up her belongings and checking over the medicinal supplies with Johanna the Mild.

Isabeau saw both Lachlan and Dide in the outer bailey as they mounted up, ready for the ride through the city. Both were pale and tired-looking, the Rìgh
obviously nursing a bad headache and an ever worse temper. Isabeau ducked back inside the corridor before they saw her, her heart lurching uncomfortably. Even though she knew she would have to see them eventually, she found herself quite unable to go out and greet them and pretend nothing had happened. Isabeau waited for the Blue Guards to trot out through the long tunnel before stepping out herself. Finding the bustle and noise of the courtyard almost too much to bear, she climbed up into the carriage and buried herself in a book in the hope no-one would speak to her until she had regained her composure.

Brun hopped up beside her, the collection of rings and spoons about his neck jingling. He had put off his green velvet doublet and wore the same rough clothes of most of the other soldiers in the Rìgh’s army, covered with one of the grey cloaks that gave the troops their nickname. The cloaks had all been woven through with spells of concealment and camouflage, making it difficult to see the wearer when they crept through long grasses or hid behind rocks.

The cluricaun observed Isabeau with bright brown eyes, his ears pricked forward. ‘Though o’ many faces, it is no revealer o’ secrets,’ he said. ‘The two-faced one is the one to show the secret. The secrets o’ its face shall confide in ye, and ye will hear it wi’ the eye as long as ye are looking.’

‘What on earth?’

Grinning, the cluricaun repeated his words, touching her book with one hairy paw. Isabeau stared at him blankly for a moment before she caught his meaning.
‘Och, it’s a riddle,’ she said. ‘I see, ye mean my book. The two-faced one is the open page, the secrets o’ its face are the words. That’s very clever, Brun, I’ve no’ heard that one afore.’