The Fathomless Caves (23 page)

Once again Isabeau’s and Iseult’s eyes met. Everything that needed to be said was said in that one glance. Isabeau turned and hurried away, her joy and her grief choking her. She reached the wall and stood in its shelter, her back turned to the crowd, scrubbing her wet eyes furiously and telling herself not to be a fool. Then Dide was beside her, his hand slipping inside her elbow. She turned and smiled up at him, knowing her face was blotchy with tears.

‘Does it hurt that much to see them together so?’ he asked, his voice low and intense.

She nodded. ‘Aye, hurts with happiness. I’m a fool, I ken, but I am so glad … I was so afraid …’

His tension slackened. ‘Afraid o’ what?’

She shook her head, laughing and crying at the same time. ‘I hardly ken. That one or the other would be too
proud, or too tongue-tied. Both find it hard to say what is in their hearts.’

He gazed down at her, then suddenly took her by surprise by bending his head and kissing her. She could not help her mouth responding, did not want to help it. He lifted his head and said huskily, ‘Well.’

Isabeau laughed at him, and wiped away the last of her tears. ‘Did ye think I was greeting for grief or for envy? Well, I was too, but no’ for the reasons ye thought.’

‘I’m glad,’ he said with difficulty.

‘So am I,’ she said with heartfelt sincerity. She saw he wanted to kiss her again and held him off with both hands. ‘Come, now is no’ the time or the place. We have much to do.’

‘So when shall be the time and place?’ he asked, some of his usual sparkle returning.

Isabeau hardly knew how to answer. It was her impulse to answer him lightly but she saw that beneath his insouciance was a true intensity of feeling. She took his hand, looked down at it, spreading his long, calloused fingers and winding her own through it. ‘I dinna ken,’ she answered simply.

He was silent for a time, looking down at their hands, fingers entwined. ‘Is it …? Do ye no’ feel …?’

‘I dinna ken,’ she said again. ‘I’m afraid …’ She could not finish the sentence. Something rose in her and choked her throat, filled her eyes with heat again.

‘Isabeau, when they took ye prisoner … when ye were tortured, did they …?’ He could not finish either. The heat in her eyes turned to a rush of tears but she did not answer. She pulled her hand free.

‘I’d best go and help Meghan,’ she said, pushing past him.

He caught her arm. ‘Isabeau …’

She pulled her arm free, moved past him in a rush. There was a great deal to do and Isabeau busied herself in doing it. Occasionally that hot rush of emotion threatened to undo her and she had to stand still and breathe deeply and find her
coh
before she could again be calm. She felt again that dangerous vulnerability that had overtaken her in the weeks after her Sorceress Test, her sense that barriers were being broken down which she would rather stayed intact. Brun the cluricaun hovered near her, sensing her distress, and Buba hooted an occasional worried question. She fobbed them both off with distracted smiles and assurances. To Meghan’s sharp query, she merely said, ‘It’s the war, the seafire. All that horrible death.’

The Keybearer nodded. ‘Aye, it’s even harder for witches to shut out when we hear the psychic distress as well as the physical agony. I find it hard myself and I’ve grown used to it after four hundred and thirty-five years.’

Isabeau had never really seen a war before. She had fled Lachlan’s court with Bronwen before the true conflict against the Bright Soldiers had begun, and she had been away during all the long years spent overcoming them. She found Meghan’s observation to be true indeed.

For this war, called now the Fourth Fairgean War, was to be the slow attrition of nerve and fortitude that all had dreaded. All winter it dragged on. The Fairgean defended the Isle of the Gods with the desperate valour
of fanatics. The Rìgh’s fleet was never able to come within spitting distance of the old volcano, despite all their cannons and ballistas and barrels of seafire. There were conflagrations in plenty, an abundance of flame and blood and waste and grief. Isabeau worked with the healers to bind up the wounds and send the soldiers out to be wounded again. Tòmas the Healer grew as thin as a twig as he poured all his energies for living and growing and being a child into healing one shattered body after another.

The Greycloaks concentrated on holding the shore. Their men occupied the old forts built on every major headland, and most of the key walled towns protecting the safe harbours. Although the towns had been deserted for many years, the news that the MacSeinn had returned slowly spread back into the hinterland where many people had fled. Gradually people began to return, fired by old hatreds, to help in the casting out of the Fairgean. Those sea-faeries that had settled in the old towns were driven back into the sea, and parties were sent with flaming torches into every cave and burrow in the cliffs. Each small victory was won hard, though, and there were many small defeats.

Lachlan spent most of his time on the
Royal Stag
, in constant attacks against the Fairgean, and Dide sailed with him. On the few occasions when Isabeau saw them, both were tired, anxious and preoccupied.

Bronwen’s seventh birthday came and went, and then Samhain, the darkest night of the year. No-one remembered what it was like to be warm, to be replete with food, to be free of sick anxiety. Sunshine was like
a vague dream of childhood. Despite all the efforts of the witches, storms constantly lashed the coast. Lachlan’s Ship Tax was slowly wrecked upon the rocks; sacks of grain were ruined with mould, and it was impossible to keep the babies clean and dry. Illness wracked them all, and their medicinal supplies ran out. For days Owein’s temperature soared so high that Isabeau thought they must lose him. Tòmas was rushed home to touch him and heal him, and meanwhile seventeen soldiers died of dysentery in Castle Forsaken, the fort built on the headland on the far side of the firth, where the MacRuraich was camped with his men and his disobedient daughter.

Often the gales raged for so long that none of the soldiers even bothered to leave Castle Forlorn. It was too dangerous to set sail in those winds, too cold to walk outside, too difficult to raise the energy or enthusiasm for another useless assault. The Fairgean had retreated into their Fathomless Caves and Maya taunted them with descriptions of their warm caves, hot steaming pools and thick seal furs. The Fairge was unaffected by the bitter cold. She could swim in seas where the very surface was frozen over and still survive.

By midwinter the witches had given up trying to control the weather. A brewing storm had whipped itself into a high gale. The continual roaring wind brought waves so high they would have towered over the
Royal Stag
’s mast, if Lachlan had been foolish enough to take her out of the meagre shelter of the harbour. Lightning glared continually, thick throbbing veins of incandescence plunging through the white
sheets of electricity. Thunder rolled around Castle Forlorn, an orchestra of crashes and booms. Snow built new walls over the old. No messengers had got through in almost a week and no-one could scry to those with witch senses in any of the other forts because of the static disturbances in the heavens. They were besieged, marooned, trapped, by the force of the storm.

Midwinter’s Eve was spent huddling together and trying to stay warm. Then it was Hogmanay and the stark, fateful dividing of one year and another. It was impossible for them all not to reflect on the past year and fret about the next. It was impossible not to feel bitter regrets.

It was shockingly cold. The wind shrieked like a banshee. Snow whirled out of the darkness, beating against the stones of the ruined castle. Despite all Isabeau’s efforts, the fire shrank and winced, sending out more smoke than warmth. The twins cried miserably. Isabeau rocked Olwynne against her shoulder, patting her with numb, frozen hands, murmuring, ‘Ssshhh, honey-bee, ssshhh, honey-bee.’ The words no longer had any meaning.

‘So much for being back in Bride for my birthday,’ Donncan muttered.

‘Never mind, laddie,’ Isabeau said. ‘Would ye rather no’ be here with your
Dai-dein
and
maither
than in Bride by yourself?’

‘No,’ Donncan said rebelliously. ‘Who would ever want to be here? Why are we fighting to win back this horrible place? Let’s beg the Fairgean to take it off our hands and go home.’

Isabeau said nothing. She could not have agreed more. From the looks on the faces of everyone clustered together in the freezing little room, she thought she was not the only one.

‘Besides,’ Donncan said angrily, ‘Mama and
Dai-dein
are no’ here. They’re stuck over in that other awful castle and there’s no way they can get back in this storm. And they promised they’d come back for my birthday!’

‘They’ll get here if they can, dearling,’ Isabeau said, but Donncan had thrown himself down on his makeshift bed, his face turned to the wall. Bronwen burrowed into the blankets beside him, throwing one finned arm over his shoulder. Isabeau sighed heavily. Lachlan and his retinue had been at Castle Forsaken for two weeks now. She did not really believe they could make it back. The snowstorm was too ferocious.

‘Well, there canna be any doubt that this priestess-witch o’ theirs has a Talent wi’ the weather,’ Meghan said, sitting as close to the fire as she could get. ‘Two months this blaygird wind has howled and no’ one day o’ peace have we had.’

‘The MacSeinn says the wind can blow like this in winter anyway,’ Isabeau said.

‘Aye, happen that is so,’ Meghan answered irritably. ‘But he canna tell me that it blows like this all day and all night, every single day. It’s no’ natural, and if it was, well, no-one in their right mind would ever settle here, no’ even a MacSeinn.’

‘Canna ye do anything?’ Isabeau said, her voice sharp with irritation.

‘If I could, do ye think I wouldna?’ Meghan snapped back. ‘I’m no weather witch!’

‘But the Lodestar? Canna ye help Lachlan raise the Lodestar and stop the storm?’ Isabeau was almost in tears. The constant whine of the wind was enough to wear anyone’s patience down, particularly when accompanied by the grizzling of two cold and hungry three year olds.

Meghan sighed. ‘The Lodestar is Lachlan’s now, only he can raise it, Beau. Ye should ken that. Besides, weather is always difficult to control. It is the interaction o’ air and water and fire and earth, and a witch needs to be strong in all these elements if they wish to manipulate the weather, and strong in spirit too. And a storm like this is virtually impossible to control. Once it has reached this pitch o’ intensity, the best thing ye can do is let it run its course.’ She huddled her plaid closer about her shoulders, holding her gnarled hands to the sullen flames. ‘At least we have the satisfaction o’ knowing the Fairgean are suffering the foul weather just as much as we are.’

Maya looked up with a malicious smile and Meghan said, ‘One word, Ensorcellor, and I’ll blast ye to ashes where ye sit. I do no’ lie!’ Maya held up her hands placatingly, then mimed locking her mouth and throwing away the key. Bronwen giggled.

Driven to breaking point, Isabeau stood up abruptly and went out of the room, huddling her plaid close against the shock of the icy wind.

In the courtyard a herd of goats and sheep huddled together under the makeshift lean-to the soldiers had
built against the wall. The snow banks were up to their withers and each sheep was so heavily encrusted with snow it was as if they wore another coat, heavier and whiter than their own.

Isabeau stroked their stoic, miserable faces and looked out into the stinging wind. Winter in Carraig was like winter on the Spine of the World. It had no mercy. ‘I just want to go home,’ she said to Buba.
Home-hooh
…

There was a sudden flash of brilliance. The castle was silhouetted black and broken against the silver light. Isabeau heard the clamour of music, the shiver of electricity that was like lightning but was instead the work of great magic being wrought. She sprang upright, all her hairs standing on end.
And radiance shall flood the land
…

It was not lightning that had lit up the sky from end to end. It was the kindling of the Lodestar. She heard the sudden cessation of the wind, heard the silence like the bang of a gong. Soft flurries of snow drifted down and then fell no more. Horses were whinnying from their stables, the sheep were milling about, bleating. Isabeau’s heart was pounding, her cold cheeks stretched in an unaccustomed smile. After all this time, after all the fighting and death and horror, Lachlan had at last kindled the Lodestar—and not to win a battle, not to defeat their enemy, but to fulfil his promise to his son.

Isabeau’s tears froze on her cheek. She struggled across the courtyard, climbed the stairs and clambered over mounds of snow to the front gate of the castle. She was not the only one. Everyone in the castle had heard
that triumphant ring of music, had seen the surge of radiance. They hurried to the castle gates, all animated by new hope. Meghan came, leaning heavily on her flower-carved staff, Gitâ perched on her shoulder. Donncan and Bronwen were hopping about, full of questions, while Maura Nursemaid clung tightly to Owein’s and Olwynne’s hands. Tòmas was leaning against the wall, colour in his face for the first time in weeks, while Johanna the Mild fussed about him with a warm cloak and a mug of hot milk. All the soldiers, wounded or whole, crowded close behind with the healers and the servants and the witches. ‘Himself will be here soon,’ they told each other. ‘And the storm blown over. What an omen for the new year!’

The guards flung open the door cut into the massive wood of the castle gates. Moonlight cast its pale radiance all over the snowy landscape, and bright stars were scattered across the sky like daisies in a meadow. A deep hush hung over everything. Far away they could see clouds still ringing the horizon but over the Castle Forlorn all was tranquil.

A bonfire was kindled in the courtyard for everyone to crowd close about as they waited, no-one wishing to go back into the dark, stuffy rooms. They huddled into their coats, plaids wrapped close about their throats, stamping their feet to keep warm as they kept watch for any sign of the Rìgh and his retinue.