The Fathomless Caves (33 page)

‘So, my Beau, do ye think this be the time and the place now?’

Isabeau smiled. She looked about her. The cabin was very small, the roof pressing close above their heads. It smelt rather unpleasantly of the bilge. Buba slept still, perched on the only chair, her head sunk down into her wings. She could hear someone snoring nearby. Slowly she shook her head. Dide’s expression did not change, though he very gently laid her curl back on the pillow.

‘Happen it be the time,’ she whispered, ‘but definitely no’ the place.’ She sat up, just avoiding banging her head, and swung her bare legs over the edge of the bunk. Looking back, she saw his face had changed, grown more intent, the black eyes more brilliant. ‘Come on,’ she whispered, jerking her head.

He laughed then and followed her, catching up his breeches and dragging them on, tying back his long black curls into a ponytail with a measure of ribbon. Isabeau did not bother to tie back her hair. Dressed only in her white witch’s robe, made without buttons, buckles, hooks or knots, she left all her red curls hanging freely down her back, simply throwing her
plaid about her shoulders and leading him out into the passage.

They clambered down from the ship and made their way silently over the rough ground. Before the ship there was nothing but broken tree trunks and great piles of twigs and sodden leaves, dead animals and mud, all churned up into a thick, grey, gluey mess. Behind the ship the forest rose undamaged, slim white birches swaying, tall pines soughing, great maples and hemlocks showing the first unfurling of green leaf at the tips of their branches. It was just after dawn, and all the valley was filled with a gentle, silvery light. Birds sang softly and a breeze riffled the trees.

Deep into the forest they wandered, hand in hand. They came at last to a copse far from the sight of broken trees and high cairns of stone. There the bracken grew vigorously and tall trees cast green shadows over a smooth stretch of grass and the first few flowers of spring. There bubbled a spring swollen with melted snows. Dide cupped his hands for Isabeau to drink and then drank himself. When he slipped one wet hand down the side of her neck, it was shockingly cold.

There, in the sunlit glade, only the song of the wind and the birds to serenade them, Isabeau and Dide slowly, gently, disrobed each other. They did not talk of the future or of the past. There was only this moment. Neither felt any shyness or constraint. All barriers between them had been broken down in other places, at other times. Now there was only the rapture of touch and whisper, the sense of life reaffirmed, death banished, joy rediscovered. Afterwards, Isabeau lay
within the cradle of Dide’s arms, watching the shadows shift over his lean dark body curled about her soft white one, their fingers entwined, their hair curling together, red and black, fire and darkness.

‘I love ye,’ he whispered.

Isabeau turned her head so she could look into his eyes. ‘I love ye too,’ she whispered back. There was no need of other words.

The treaty between the two races was not one to be drawn up in a day, or even a week. It took almost two months. There were a thousand years of hatred to be overcome and many misunderstandings caused by the gaps between the two cultures and ways of thinking.

To complicate matters, there were many among the Fairgean who did not wish to make peace, and many among the humans who still thought the best solution was to totally disempower the sea-faeries, rendering them little more than slaves. Both Lachlan and Nila were determined, however, and the strength of their convictions and of their characters at last prevailed in winning over the dissenters.

After much angry discussion it had at last been agreed that the sea and its shore had always been the traditional home of the Fairgean and by rights belonged to them. Many of the northern islands had already been ceded to the Fairgean and most of the safe harbours too. In return, the Fairgean had promised the humans the right to use the safe harbours for their fishing and merchant fleets, as long as a tithe of some sort was paid. Since the
Fairgean had no monetary system, this was to be paid in kind.

Already a long list of desirable products had been drawn up. The Fairgean had a great need of grains and fruits, as well as fire-forged weapons and tools. They also had a great admiration of the fine silks and velvets the prionnsachan wore, while the humans coveted the rich furs hanging down the backs of the Fairgean warriors. Pearls had always been very rare among human society and highly prized, while diamonds were much admired by the Fairgean for their clarity and brilliance, yet were found in the sea only infrequently. Perhaps most importantly, the Fairgean prince desired lanterns, candles, tinder and flint, anything to assist in the making of fire. For so long the Priestesses of Jor had been the only ones with any form of illumination, deriving much of their aura of power and mystery from their night-globes. Prince Nila wanted to make it possible for any Fairge to light his cave and cook fish or seal meat.

For several weeks the only point of contention had been the Isle of the Gods. Even with the new feeling of accord between Prince Nila and Linley MacSeinn, neither would budge on this one point. Finally the MacSeinn had grown so angry he had threatened to leave the peace talks for good. His son Douglas had laid his hand on his father’s shoulder. Watching closely, Isabeau noticed at once that the young prionnsa’s hand had deep curves of skin running from knuckle to knuckle. His hand was nearly as webbed as Nila’s.

‘But
Dai-dein
, why do ye want the island?’ Douglas said in a low voice. ‘It has been drowned in the floods
and the Tower o’ Sea-singers was naught but a ruin anyway, and thick with ghosts, I’d wager. Why would we want such a cold, gloomy, Eà-forsaken place? Canna we build a new castle and a new tower up here, in the mountains? It be so bonny here.’

The MacSeinn had stared at his son for a long, tense moment, then suddenly his angry face had relaxed and he had laughed. ‘Why no’?’ he had said. ‘Eà kens this place has proved lucky for us. We shall call it Bonnyblair, the beautiful field o’ war.’

And so it was decided. The hallowed Isle of the Gods was given to the Fairgean unconditionally, with no human ever to enter the Fathomless Caves unless expressly invited. With that one concession, the MacSeinn was able to win many compromises from the sea-faeries on fishing rights and harbour fees.

At sunset on the night of the spring equinox, a time of significance for both human and Fairgean, the treaty was signed by Lachlan and the prionnsachan, and by Nila and the most prominent of the Fairgean families. It was signed within the Cave of a Thousand Kings, which had been cleared of sea wrack and restored to its former grandeur. Golden rays of light struck down through the chasm in its high, vaulted ceiling, highlighting the gleaming colours of the mother-of-pearl walls and striking deep through the vivid aquamarine water.

After the Pact of Peace was signed, Lachlan crowned Nila with the Fairgean King’s black pearl coronet and gave him the King’s jewelled sceptre to hold. The Rìgh had insisted that the Fairgean prince acknowledge his
overlordship and swear fealty to him, like all the other peoples of Eileanan. Although the new king of the Fairgean wore a long skirt stiff with diamonds, pearls and opals, and had fastened his magnificent white fur cloak about his shoulders with a jewelled brooch, about his throat he wore nothing but the black pearl hanging on its simple cord.

When the coronation ceremony had concluded, Nila stepped down from his sparkling crystal throne and raised up Fand, who had waited, kneeling, at the base of the throne. She was clothed all in white fur, with a small coronet of white pearls holding back her hair. Nila led Fand up the steps to the throne and stood facing the expectant crowd, speaking for a very long time in the melodic warbling language of the Fairgean.

‘What does he say?’ Isabeau asked Maya.

‘He takes the halfbreed as his wife,’ Maya answered.

‘Aye, I ken that,’ Isabeau answered impatiently. ‘I want to ken what he is actually saying.’ She was eager indeed to learn the language of the sea-faeries, but found it baffling and difficult, particularly since they seemed to take a very long time to say the simplest of things.

‘He says, “I take thee, Fand, as my wife”,’ Maya answered mockingly. Isabeau rolled her eyes but had to grin. Even though Maya remained a prisoner of state, she had not lost either her charm or her audacity.

The wedding ceremony was surprisingly brief, given the amount of time the Fairgean spent over most of their rituals. When it was finished, Nila and Fand sat together on the crystal throne, an act which Maya
explained was daringly egalitarian, particularly since Fand was the daughter of a human concubine, a halfbreed. It was a symbol of the new order, however, where women were no longer mere playthings, to be gambled away at the toss of a sea-stirk’s knuckle.

It was growing dark in the Cave of a Thousand Kings. Lanterns were kindled all along the walls, and candles set to bobbing about on the water, a very pretty sight indeed. Now was to come the last of the ceremonies and the one in which Isabeau and Maya were most interested.

It had been decreed, as part of the peace treaties, that the cousins Donncan and Bronwen were to be betrothed. As a part-human was to be queen of the Fairgean, the agreement said, so shall a part-Fairgean in time become queen of the humans.

Although Isabeau had been reluctant to tie the children together when they were still so young and did not know where their hearts would lead them, she knew the betrothal was politically astute. It would silence any lingering opposition to Lachlan’s rule, since those who still believed Jaspar’s daughter should have inherited the throne would know that in time Bronwen would share it with Donncan, Lachlan’s son. It satisfied Nila’s concern about the Fairgean swearing fealty to the MacCuinn clan, and showed Lachlan’s own clemency towards the sea-faeries. And it was a swift and visible way of showing the whole land that the Fairgean were no longer their enemy and that any prejudice towards them was unacceptable.

Donncan was happy and excited about the betrothal,
sure that he loved his cousin and that his feelings would not change by the time they were both sixteen, when the marriage was to be consummated. What Bronwen felt was harder to tell. She had learnt to keep her true feelings hidden long ago.

In a long, beautifully carved boat, the two children floated across the water towards the crystal throne, sitting side by side, hand in hand. Donncan was dressed in the MacCuinn kilt and plaid, but flung over his shoulders was a long cloak of plush white fur like the Fairgean wore. Similarly, Bronwen was dressed as a Fairgean princess, in white fur and pearls, but over her shoulder she wore a drapery of the MacCuinn plaid, crossing her breast and fastened at her waist with a brooch depicting the crowned stag of her father’s clan.

It was a striking picture, the boy with golden eyes and curls, his bright wings just showing beneath his cloak, the girl with straight black hair and silvery-blue eyes, both with the white lock of the MacCuinns at their brow. Together they climbed out of the boat and walked up the steps to kneel at Nila’s and Fand’s feet. The King of the Fairgean crowned them both with delicate little coronets of pearls and diamonds. In the centre of Bronwen’s coronet was a small black pearl, showing she was acknowledged as Fairgean royalty.

Nila then turned and faced the crowd, holding Bronwen’s hand with his right hand and Donncan’s with his left. He bowed low to the crowd, then with great ceremony placed the children’s hands together, stepping back so they faced the crowd hand in hand. There was much cheering and melodic ululating, then
servants began to walk through the crowd, pouring out sea-squill wine and offering little delicacies of raw fish, roe and seaweed.

‘Well, I can begin to breathe easier now,’ Maya said sardonically to Isabeau. ‘Surely the MacCuinn will no’ burn his future daughter-in-law’s mother to death?’

There was no doubt Maya the Ensorcellor remained a quandary for the Rìgh. He had been convinced not to demand punishment of Fand, despite her having conjured the spell that had drowned the land. Isabeau had been able to convince him she had been an unwilling tool of the Priestesses of Jor, whom she herself enacted justice upon with her fiery dragon breath.

Maya’s case was not so simple. It was not just that she had been Lachlan’s arch-enemy for many years now. She was dangerous. So strong and subtle was her charm that the soldiers set to guard her were constantly caught trying to set her free, their loyalties bewildered, their senses befuddled with her beauty. Wherever she went was a little turmoil of trouble and confusion.

Yet she had proved to be one of the linchpins of their victory at Bonnyblair, and Lachlan had to admit peace may not have been won without her. And he knew that peace was still precarious. Maya was King Nila’s sister and Bronwen’s mother. He would gain little but revenge from ordering her death.

Isabeau was able to provide a solution to one of the problems. Brun the cluricaun was set to be Maya’s guard. Cluricauns were impervious to magic and indifferent to
human beauty. Brun had suffered greatly from Maya’s Decrees Against The Faeries. He would not be swayed by her charm, physical or magical.

Thereafter Maya’s tall, slim figure was never to be seen without the little hairy cluricaun, a delicate chain joining them always. A comical sight, yet somehow pitiful. Maya made no attempt to escape, saying huskily, ‘But I am willing to accept the MacCuinn’s justice. I do no’ wish to escape.’ No-one knew whether to believe her, not even Isabeau.

A month after the coronation Lachlan and the Greycloaks were ready to return to Lucescere. They had erected monuments to the dead and recovered their strength in the clear mountain air. They had helped the MacSeinn begin building a new town on the shores of Loch Bonnyblair, with a new castle and a new witches’ tower, to be called the Tower of Song. There all types of music would be taught and celebrated, not just those that killed Fairgean. All were now eager to return home and pick up the threads of their lives, broken and tangled by the long and bloody war.