The Fathomless Caves (25 page)

She saw him smile. ‘Did it make ye jealous?’

‘Was it meant to?’

‘O’ course.’ His voice was warm with laughter. ‘Most o’ the time anyway.’

She smiled too, though she felt a little prick of jealousy. He wriggled a little closer. ‘What was I meant to do?’ he asked in mock despair. ‘Ye ignored me most o’ the time. What was a poor young jongleur to do?’

‘I did no’ ignore ye!’

‘Och, that ye did,’ he said. ‘I did everything I could to gain your attention and all ye did was scold me and order me around, or disappear on me. I canna count the times ye disappeared.’

‘It was only once or twice,’ Isabeau said, ‘and each time I had to do it.’

He nodded. ‘Aye, I ken,’ he answered, all laughter gone from his voice. ‘I told myself the time was no’ yet right. When it was time, I thought, the Spinners would bring our threads together.’

They lay silently in the darkness, their faces only a few inches apart. Isabeau felt a familiar tightening of her chest muscles, the roiling of confusion. He coiled one of her ringlets round and round his fingers, but said nothing.

After a moment she said, with great difficulty, ‘But I … I do no’ ken …’

There was a long silence and then he said calmly, still playing with her hair, ‘What, Beau?’

‘I do no’ ken if I …’ She paused, trying to sort out her tangle of thoughts. Then she said in a rush, surprising herself with the words, ‘Ye ken I canna have babes?’ His fingers kept on with their coiling. ‘Jorge said so, he did a sighting for me. He said:

“I see ye with many faces and many disguises;

Ye will be one who can hide in a crowd.

Though ye shall have no home and no rest,

All valleys and pinnacles will be your home;

Though ye shall never give birth,

Ye shall rear a child who shall one day rule the land.”’

Her voice had changed, grown deeper, more tremulous. ‘Do ye see? I shall never have a home or rest, I shall never have babes. When have any o’ Jorge’s sightings been wrong? Meghan says witches often prove sterile. It has something to do with the use o’ the One Power.’ Her words tumbled over themselves. ‘And because witches rarely marry …’

Dide said nothing, though his fingers slipped down from her hair and lightly drew circles on the side of her neck.

‘And ye see, I am a witch now, a sorceress. I’ve sworn myself to the Coven.’

‘So?’ he said. ‘Ye have sworn yourself to one master, I’ve sworn myself to another. What has that got to do with us loving?’

The slow circling touch of his fingers was calming her jumping pulse. She put up one hand and seized his wrist. ‘It means I’m no’ like a normal lass that ye can be jumping the fire with, or making a life with.’

He turned his hand so their fingers clasped. ‘I do no’ want a normal lass, or even a normal life. Ye’ve said all this afore, Beau, it does no’ change how I feel about ye.’

There was a moment’s silence and then he shifted towards her. Immediately her pulse leapt again. He very gently kissed the side of her mouth, and then her lips, and then her chin. ‘The question is … how do ye feel about me?’

His mouth moved down to the pulse jumping in the hollow between her collarbones. One hand was swiftly, expertly, unravelling the laces of her bodice. His mouth followed his hand. Isabeau felt again that sharp stab of desire, and with it, sharper still, fear. He felt her movement and drew away from her a little, though his hand was still pressed to the junction of her ribs, the place where
coh
was meant to be centred.

‘I would no’ hurt ye, Beau,’ he said gently. ‘Why do ye fear me?’

She said nothing. Her whole body was very still, very tense.

‘Have ye been hurt before, my Beau?’ he asked gently. Stiffly she nodded. ‘The Awl?’ She nodded
again. He kissed her ear, his other hand tangling in her hair. She could feel the hand against her sternum trembling. ‘How badly …? What did they …?’ He could not finish. She gave a little twist away, feeling again a spurt of shame and revulsion. He held her steady, stroking her hair away from her forehead. Slowly the gentleness of his touch soothed her. ‘Did they …?’

She shook her head. ‘Nay. Worse has been done to others.’ Her voice was very low, and bitter. ‘They just touched me. He liked it, Baron Yutta, the Grand-Questioner, he said he liked to hear me scream. So they touched me a lot, all over my body, and up inside me, very hard …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Then Baron Yutta, he did it too, while I was on the rack. He …’ Her voice broke and she said no more, amazed that she had been able to say so much. It was the warmth, the closeness, the darkness, Dide’s hand so gentle on her brow. ‘I bit him,’ she said then, more strongly. ‘He laughed. And then he put the … the thing on my hand. That was when I killed him.’ She said it very matter-of-factly.

Dide’s hand stilled. She twisted a little, wanting to see his face now. The fire had almost gone out but Isabeau had always been able to see in the dark like an elven cat. She could see how grim his mouth was, how tense the line of his jaw, and felt again the cold wind blowing between them.

Then he caught her to him, so hard she lost the breath in her lungs. ‘I wish I could’ve killed him for ye,’ he said. His voice was very rough. He pressed his face against hers and she was surprised to find his eyes were
wet. She put up one finger and laid it against his damp lashes. He caught it and kissed it, and then kissed the scars where her fingers used to be. Something dissolved in Isabeau’s chest. She found she too was near tears. It was not the dreadful hot choking that had so often overwhelmed her in recent months, but something much softer, like an autumn rain.

Dide felt the little heave of her chest, the catch of her breath. He stroked her back, and she buried her head in his shoulder, allowing herself the luxury of crying. ‘Sssh,
leannan,
ssshhh,’ he whispered, stroking and patting her as she did the twins. The little storm of tears was soon over, but Isabeau was so tired, so drained, she could not lift her head from his shoulder. He shifted a little, drawing her down beside him. ‘Go to sleep, little one,’ he whispered. ‘Go to sleep.’

Irresistibly Isabeau’s lashes fell. She sighed, crept a little closer, and fell fast asleep.

She woke just before dawn, her arm prickling with pins and needles. Dide slept beside her. She propped her head up on her arm and watched him. His dark, tousled curls hung onto his forehead, his swarthy skin flushed with sleep. One hand was resting beneath his cheek like a child.

She eased herself away from him, flushing a little as she realised her bodice was half undone. Quickly she laced it up again. When she lifted her eyes, she realised his eyes were open and he was watching her. The devil-may-care glint was back in his slumberous black eyes.

‘Must ye?’ he asked.

She flushed. Dide put out a lazy hand and very gently ran his finger along the curve of her breast. They both watched the nipple harden.

‘I suppose ye must,’ he said regretfully. He glanced back at the sleeping forms of his fellow officers. ‘As ye’ve said to me before, this really is no’ the time or the place.’

‘So when shall be the time and place?’ she asked roguishly. Quick as a flash Dide reached out and gently grasped her hair, and she was irresistibly drawn down to him. Their mouths met, clung, drew away, met again.

‘Anytime ye want, Beau,’ Dide answered when he at last let her go. He lay back on his pallet, watching as she rose to her feet, knotting up the thick mass of red curls at the base of her neck. ‘Just as soon as we are at peace.’

‘If we ever are,’ she said bitterly.

He smiled up at her, putting his hands behind his head. ‘Believe me, my Beau, I’ve never wanted peace more. If I have anything to do with it, we’ll win the war tomorrow!’

Red as blood, the comet pulsed faintly just above the eastern horizon. Already the stars were fading and the serrated outline of mountains was beginning to emerge to the east as the darkness seeped away. It was very quiet.

Isabeau leant her elbows on the parapet and gazed anxiously at the smudge of red in the sky. ‘It’s here,’ she said to Meghan.

The old sorceress was leaning heavily on her staff, her blue and green checked plaid wrapped closely about her. She squinted up at the sky and said, rather tremulously, ‘Are ye sure? I canna see it.’

Isabeau nodded. ‘I can see it clearly, I’m afraid.’

Meghan clucked her tongue. ‘My eyes are no’ what they used to be, for sure.’

‘We had best go and tell Lachlan,’ Isabeau said, turning away. She felt a deep despondency. They had all hoped so much to effect a quick end to the war, but here it was, almost Candlemas, and still they had not found the way to defeat the Fairgean. Lachlan’s navy had been reduced to less than thirty ships, and they had lost over five thousand men, a devastating loss. And even though Lachlan raised the Lodestar and stilled the storms again and again, yet another gale would rise the next day and lash them once more.

Despite the foul weather, Lachlan had kept all his men riding up and down the coast, for the Fairgean tried many times to climb the cliffs and attack them from the rear. As a consequence, Isabeau had seen Dide only twice and each time he had been hollow-eyed from exhaustion.

Isabeau closed her eyes and silently called her sister’s name.
The Red Wanderer has risen …
She knew Iseult would hear her and come.

Soon she heard the sound of boots on the stones and went to open the door onto the battlements. The Rìgh and Banrìgh came out first, Lachlan’s general staff close behind as usual.

‘Isabeau says she can see the Red Wanderer,’ Meghan said without preamble, her old face drawn and tired.

Isabeau nodded and pointed to the east. Iseult saw the comet at once, her eyesight as keen as her twin’s, though most of the soldiers had to have it pointed out to them. They stared at it, every face grim and worried.

‘It is always an evil omen, the Red Wanderer,’ Duncan Ironfist said.

‘The people o’ the Spine o’ the World call it the Dragon-Star,’ Iseult said. ‘It always portends doom, like the shadow o’ a dragon falling upon ye.’

‘Let us hope it portends doom for the Fairgean,’ Lachlan said, his hand dropping down upon the white glowing sphere he wore always at his belt. The touch of the Lodestar seemed to reassure him. The dark look lifted and he said, ‘At least the day looks like dawning fair. Happen that priestess-witch has run out o’ puff.’

Isabeau looked at him quickly. ‘Lachlan, ye canna mean to set sail again?’

He looked obstinate. ‘If the winds are right, aye, then I do.’

‘But Jorge’s dream …’

‘I ken what Jorge dreamed as well as ye, Isabeau,’ he snapped. ‘It means we have eight days and eight days only to crush the Fairgean. If we have defeated them, then they canna harness the magic o’ the comet and they canna drown us.’

‘But what if we canna defeat them?’ Gwilym the Ugly said grimly. ‘For six months we’ve been throwing ourselves against the Fairgean and for six months they’ve been throwing us off. They can obviously draw upon strong powers indeed. Will Castle Forlorn be high enough if they raise a tidal wave against us?’

‘I do no’ think so,’ Lachlan said, just as grimly. ‘We canna take the chance, either way. My bairns are here, remember! Nay, this is my plan. I have been thinking o’ what we must do for weeks now. We have eight days
till the comet reaches the zenith o’ its power. Ye and the other witches and the healers and the bairns, ye must all retreat back through the forest until ye reach the highlands. Ye must go as high as ye can for, as ye say, we have no idea how high this tidal wave o’ theirs will go. Iseult must go too, to look out for the bairns and to show ye the way.’

Iseult gave a little protest but he went on, not heeding her, ‘We’ll keep only a skeleton force here, to do what we can to crush the Fairgean before the comet reaches its full powers. I think we have made a mistake in concentrating all our forces on taking back the Tower o’ Sea-singers. Isabeau was right when she said they’d fight to the death to hold it.’

‘I’m glad ye can finally see it,’ Isabeau said rudely. He ignored her as he had ignored his wife.

‘Instead we shall send our force against the priestesses’ island itself. If we destroy the blaygird priestesses, the Fairgean lose much o’ their power. They willna be able to lash us with storms, or raise the tidal wave, or—’

‘But Lachlan!’ Isabeau and Meghan cried together.

He ignored them both, intent on making his point. ‘If we fail, then those o’ us still alive will flee to the highlands to join ye.’

‘But,
leannan
…’ Iseult said in distress. ‘Such a plan is surely suicide!’

Lachlan turned to her eagerly. ‘No’ if we take them by surprise, and strike hard and fast. We have barrels o’ seafire left, no’ having been able to use it, thanks to the weather. What if we blasted the entire island with it? Or lured them out in false security and doused them
with it then? There must be something we can do! That blaygird Fairge will ken. She was raised at the island. She will tell us how to defeat them.’

‘But ye canna trust the Ensorcellor, master!’ Duncan Ironfist cried. ‘She will betray us, as sure as the sky is blue.’

‘No’ if we have her daughter,’ Lachlan replied through his teeth. ‘If she betrays us, we’ll slit her daughter’s pretty white throat.’

‘No!’ Isabeau cried. ‘Bronny is only a lassiekin!’

Lachlan turned on her. ‘Do ye think I want to do it? She be just the same age as my own lad, and she be my brother’s daughter as well. I have no wish to wage war on bairns. I have no choice though, Isabeau. Either we crush the Priestesses o’ Jor or we die. Besides, are ye no’ the one who keeps reassuring me that Maya hates the Fairgean as much as we do, and the blaygird sisterhood even more? If what ye say is true, she’ll be glad to watch them burn!’

He turned on his heel, issuing swift orders to Duncan and Dide. Isabeau stood, her hands clenched, icy dread filling her. Did she really trust Maya? And what if Maya stayed true to them but somehow failed to give them the help they needed? Would Bronwen still be killed? And what o’ the Greycloaks? What o’ Dide? Surely such a mission was suicide.

She looked back up at the comet, its lurid red colour already fading as the daylight grew. Soon it would be invisible, but Isabeau would still feel it there, cold, malevolent, tugging away at her mind. An evil omen indeed.

Maya was sitting on their pallet, combing out Bronwen’s long black hair, when Lachlan strode in. The Rìgh looked pale and tired, his thick black brows folded tightly over the bridge of his aquiline nose.

‘Come, Ensorcellor, it be time for ye to make yourself useful!’

Her hand stilled. She looked up at him, all the colour draining from her face so that the odd, scaly shimmer of her skin was more pronounced than ever. ‘At your service as always, my liege,’ she said with the ironic inflection she knew flicked him on the raw. ‘What can I do to be o’ service?’

‘Ye can tell us what ye ken o’ the Priestesses o’ Jor. We plan to set sail for their island. We need ye to tell us which one it is and how we can best destroy it.’

Maya made an odd sound in her throat. If she had been pale before, she was bloodless now. ‘Do no’ be a fool! Ye canna strike against the Priestesses o’ Jor like that! They have such powers at their command, powers about which ye ken nothing.’

‘So tell me,’ Lachlan said, watching her closely. ‘What powers do they have at their command and how can we defeat them?’

‘They are the Priestesses o’ Jor! They are Jor’s chosen ones. They call upon all the force o’ Jor.’ Her voice was shaking.

‘So?’

‘Ye do no’ understand,’ she stammered. Her voice took on a strange, chanting quality. ‘Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power.’ She took a deep breath, relaxing her fingers on the comb. ‘He canna be
defeated. The priestesses canna be defeated.’

Lachlan’s wings relaxed a little. He leant against the wall, his arms resting on the Lodestar. The light within the sphere leapt and twisted at his touch. He said, very gently, ‘We o’ the Coven do no’ believe in gods and goddesses like ye Fairgean do. We believe there be a single source o’ power in the universe, that all o’ us are lit by it and linked by it. Your Jor is simply a manifestation o’ that power, one o’ the many faces o’ Eà. He is no’ our enemy. And your priestesses are no’ invincible. Did I no’ shoot Sani the Sinister down out o’ the sky with my bow? Ye were trained as a priestess too, were ye no’? Yet I have seen ye bleed and ye are here now, my captive.’

Maya said nothing, watching him, her body as tense as a bowstring.

Lachlan went on slowly, ‘The Coven o’ Witches had immense power at their command, they too would have thought themselves invincible, but ye were able to topple and destroy them in a few short days. Nothing in this world is unconquerable, nothing can avoid death in the end. How did ye defeat the witches?’

‘I … I took them by surprise, struck hard and all at once so that none kent what was happening or were able to organise a defence. I kent it had to be done fast and brutal, for a moment’s hesitation—’

‘Exactly. That is what we must do to the Priestesses o’ Jor.’

She shook her head. ‘Nay, nay, it canna be done.’

‘It must be done.’ Lachlan’s voice was still gentle but it had the inexorable ring of determination tolling through it. ‘And ye shall help us do it.’

Once again she shook her head. Bronwen gave a little whimper of fear. Lachlan’s eyes turned to her. He bent down on one knee. ‘Do no’ be afraid, lassie. Come, ye must go and find your Aunty Beau. It is time for ye to leave the Castle Forlorn, the most rightly named place I’ve ever been in. Your mother is coming with us, but there is no need to fear. She is going to help us win this war.’

‘And if I do no’?’ Maya asked.

Lachlan said, very harshly, ‘Och, I think ye will.’

At the tone of his voice Bronwen shrank back against her mother, though there was none of the instant understanding of his meaning that there was in Maya’s pale eyes. The Fairge held her daughter tightly, staring at Lachlan across the silky black head. Then she ducked down her chin and kissed Bronwen on the crown of her head. ‘Ye had better get your things together, sweetling. Mama has to go with your
Uncle
Lachlan now.’

‘No,’ Bronwen cried, starting up. ‘Do no’ go, Mama. Stay with me!’

‘I canna just now, dearling. Aunty Beau will have a care for ye.’

‘Ye ken ye must do all ye can to help us?’ Lachlan warned. Maya nodded.

‘Come, then. I have called a council o’ war. Time is running out for us and we must make haste. We have only eight days to do what we havena been able to do in six months.’

Bronwen did not fully understand all the undercurrents in the room but she was perceptive enough to be very apprehensive. She clung to her mother,
weeping. Maya hugged her close, then stood up slowly. She was very white.

Lachlan said gently, ‘Do no’ be so afraid, Maya. Ye have told us something o’ what your life with the priestesses was like. It is natural that ye should have a dread o’ them and their powers. They are no’ gods themselves, though. They are mortal too. And I have no wish to feel Gearradh’s embrace just yet. I love my children and wish to see them grow. If we canna overcome the priestesses, we shall all flee into the highlands, that I promise ye.’

‘All o’ us?’

‘Aye, all o’ us still living,’ he said. There was compassion on his face, an expression Maya had never before seen. She nodded, swallowing a constriction in her throat. Bending, she embraced Bronwen once more and then dragged herself free of the little girl’s clinging hands.

The council of war had been called in the hall where Lachlan and Iseult normally slept. The pallets had been rolled up hastily and the blankets folded. There was no table but the maps had been flung out on the floor and weighted down with stones. The officers of Lachlan’s general staff and the lairds sat on the rolled-up pallets or squatted on their heels.

Reluctantly Maya pointed out a small, isolated island. ‘But the Isle o’ Divine Dread is impregnable,’ she said. ‘Like all o’ the islands around here, it is an old volcano. Its cliffs rise sheer from the sea on all sides and there is no way in from above the water. The priestesses all live inside the volcano, which is riddled with caves and tunnels.’

‘But the priestesses must have some way of getting in and out,’ Dide said in some exasperation.

Maya nodded. ‘They swim in and out. A few o’ the tunnels open up under sea level.’

The general staff all looked rather daunted. Few of them could swim, most islanders having a superstitious terror of the sea.

Maya went on. ‘They are very deep, more than three hundred feet below the sea’s surface.’

‘But that’s impossible!’ Duncan Ironfist cried. ‘Can the Fairgean dive so deep?’

‘Most canna,’ Maya replied. ‘But if one wishes to get out o’ the Isle o’ Divine Dread, one must learn. Most Fairgean can dive two hundred feet or more. Some as much as three hundred, those who dive for pearls regularly and learn to slow their heart rate.’

‘So we have no way o’ getting in,’ Lachlan said, clearly disappointed. ‘Even if we all swam like fish, we could no’ dive so deep. What about from above? Surely some o’ the tunnels lead to the open air?’

‘If they do, I do no’ ken where,’ Maya said calmly. ‘I do ken I never saw the faintest trace o’ light or felt the faintest brush o’ fresh air in all the years I was kept in the black depths o’ the Isle of Divine Dread.’

Many of the men about her gave a shudder. She saw they glanced at her with newly awoken compassion. Maya did not care. Soon they would all be dead, and Maya with them. It was too late for compassion.

‘Besides, the cliffs are unclimbable,’ she said.

‘All cliffs can be climbed,’ Dide said. ‘They said the Black Tower was impregnable and yet we penetrated
that, and rescued Killian the Listener when all thought it was impossible.’