The Fathomless Caves (14 page)

In the clean sweeping air of the mountains, their every shape and shadow so dear and familiar to her, her other life seemed unbearably restricting. Iseult had been bound by court etiquette, frowned upon for fighting like a man, for refusing to dress in corsets and petticoats, for keeping her hair bound back and closely covered like a scullery maid. She had found the staid conventionality of Lachlan’s court so exasperating that she had wanted to scream, yet she had bitten down her aggravation and spoken softly and with such good sense that they had had to listen to her. All the time, though, she had longed for the free uncomplicated life of a Scarred
Warrior, where one’s gender mattered less than one’s ability. She had missed the bite of icy air, the thrill of skimming down a sheer immaculate slope, the camaraderie that came of winning food for one’s pride when all would have starved without you. She missed the awe and respect that came of being the Firemaker’s heir, the descendant of the Red. She missed being the chosen one of cruel gods.

Yet Iseult had gone gladly into Lachlan’s embrace. She had recognised and accepted the
geas
with knowledge of its cost. She had grieved bitterly when he had been cursed and prayed to all gods and any gods for his release. She loved her three children with the low, heavy, passionate intensity of all mothers and felt their absence like the loss of a vital organ, like a slow dying.

She had been angry when she had ridden away from Lachlan but that anger had grown cold with time and distance. She felt as if she was poised on the brink of a dangerous slope, having to choose which way to skim. If she wished, she could stay in the mountains, resume her life with her own kind, regain the liberty she had lost. She could wrest back the godhead from her second cousin, and be once more the heir to the Firemaker, the gift of the Gods of White. It was clear Khan’katrin read these thoughts in her mind, for her face was stiff with suspicion.

Iseult was not yet ready to turn her back on Lachlan, however, despite the cold pain of her anger. To leave her children was a wrench almost impossible to imagine, and Iseult had grown to love Meghan and her twin sister Isabeau, and Duncan Ironfist too, the huge
captain with the broken nose and tender heart. To leave them would be a betrayal, and so she tried hard to banish thoughts of freedom from her mind, concentrating on the task she had been given. She had given the MacSeinn her word of honour that she would lead him through the mountains and so that is what she must do.

So she spoke fairly to her second cousin, and used all her skills of diplomacy to persuade the Old Mothers to support her in their cause. She allowed the MacSeinn to speak, translating for him. A proud people with a strong, almost mystical attachment to their land and territory, the Khan’cohbans understood his urge to win back his domain. Many among them made the gesture of sympathy as he struggled to express his feelings, and Iseult saw they had warmed to the idea of helping him.

At last she obliquely circled back to Khan’katrin, for she saw her as the key in winning the prides’ support. Iseult reminded the council that the Firemaker herself came from a long line of humans and that she had served the people of the snow faithfully for many centuries. She reminded them without speaking of it that both she and Isabeau had given up their claim to the godhead to return to the human world. There was a debt to be paid, she intimated, and saw in Khan’katrin’s eyes that the point had been made.

Khan’katrin rose to her feet proudly, her red head held high. ‘Whatever the Old Mothers decree, know that I shall travel with you and fight at your side, in payment of my debt to your sister, She of Many Shapes.’

‘I thank you,’ Iseult replied. As if Khan’katrin’s words had broken a dyke, many more young warriors leapt to their feet and swore the same, led by the young warrior of the Grey Wolf Pride whom Isabeau had once helped.

The Old Mothers nodded their white heads together, their lined faces troubled. It was then that the soul-sages were asked to cast the bones and augur the future.

Iseult had known that no official decision would be made without the soul-sages’ soothsaying. She had both dreaded and longed for their casting. All her clever words would count for nothing if the soul-sages spoke against her. Yet Iseult also longed to know what lay ahead. She was so troubled in her own heart that any insight into the future would be welcome. So she watched with anxious eyes as the soul-sages spun an ogre’s knucklebone to decide who would be the one favoured to receive the words of the Gods of White this night.

The Soul-Sage of the Pride of the Snow-Lions was chosen. Iseult felt a measure of relief. He did not have the emotional involvement of the soul-sage of her pride or of their enemies, the Fighting Cats. She sat back a little, as the Soul-Sage slowly and with great ceremony purified his soothsaying bones in the smoke of the fire.

He was a young man, no more than thirty of the long darknesses, with a gaunt face all angles and bony slopes. The fitful light flickered over his intent features, making his eyes cavernous hollows. His white mane
was bound back tightly from his prominent brow, so his horns looked too heavy for his long, slender neck. He was dressed in
ulez
furs like a child or a servant, but his face was slashed with five arrow-shaped scars and around his neck hung a raven’s claw. Iseult knew he was a man of power.

For a long time there was silence. A wind was rising, making the trees sing eerily. Overhead the stars burnt in a cold bright vastness, the mountains a ring of blackness below. Their fire seemed very small in all that blowing, sighing darkness. The Soul-Sage cupped his bones in his hand, his head bent, his eyes closed. Iseult wondered if his spirit still dwelt in his body or if he was skimming the night sky above, part of the stately dance of suns and planets and space. Suddenly he threw his hands outwards, the bones and stones within flying out and then falling down into the circle he had scratched in the earth. A little sigh went up from those watching. The Soul-Sage opened his eyes, stared down at the pattern with inscrutable eyes.

‘Much darkness lies ahead,’ he said after a long, tense moment. ‘The circle is full of the darkness of death. Fire shall bring water. Water shall bring death. And out of the drowning wave shall rise fire once more and it shall bring life.’ He paused, frowning, pointing at first one pattern of stones and then another. ‘Then shall dreams and waking life collide. Death lies before and death lies after, but in that moment will destinies be broken and remade.’

He looked down at the pattern for a very long time, then slowly swept up the bones and purified them once
more. One stone he cradled in his hand thoughtfully. It was a moss agate with the fossilised shape of a bird’s skull delicately etched upon its smooth green surface. He weighed it in his hand and suddenly pointed at the MacSeinn.

‘He says that ye will fail in your endeavour,’ Iseult translated, ‘but that if ye accept that the world has turned, ye will find peace and plenty. If ye struggle to put together a broken stone it will crumble in your hand, but if ye sharpen the broken edges ye will make an arrowhead.’

‘What does that mean?’ the MacSeinn said blankly.

‘It is a riddle,’ Iseult said. ‘It means accept what ye are given and make something o’ it. Otherwise ye will lose all.’

A sort of despair settled down over the MacSeinn’s face. Iseult said gently, ‘He sees peace and plenty ahead for ye, remember. It may just mean that ye shall no’ find things as ye remember, that ye must settle for a broken stone, no’ a whole one. Do no’ despair.’

The MacSeinn gripped the crowned harp badge in his hand, saying nothing.

There was much low muttering among the gathered Khan’cohbans as the Soul-Sage finished purifying his bones, pouring them back into his pouch and tying the drawstrings tight. Iseult felt her body tense. The words of the soothsayer had not been as positive as she had hoped, but there was always death ahead, the council knew that. She waited patiently. The Old Mothers muttered together, the First Warriors leaning over to make their points with emphatic gestures. At last the
Firemaker turned to her and said, ‘It is done. The people of the Gods of White have heard the gods’ message. You may cross our lands on your way, and any warriors who so choose may accompany you with our blessing.’

Iseult sighed in relief. She translated for the MacSeinn and watched the fire come back into his eyes. He struck one fist into the other and cried, ‘Now we shall surely win! Death to the Fairgean!’

Waves reared up all around, frothing with white. The pod of Fairgean warriors swam strongly through the green swell, occasionally leaping out of the water with a great thwack of their muscular tails. Prince Nila sat astride the neck of his sea-serpent, watching without pleasure. Although the sun glittered in the spray like sea-diamonds, he felt as if he was sunk in the black depths of the octopus pit, slimy tentacles dragging him ever deeper.

He had lost Fand, the half-human slave girl who had been his childhood playmate and was now the true love of his heart. To save him, she had revealed her telepathic powers to his father the king and had been given to the cruel and enigmatic Priestesses of Jor. They had done terrible things to her, had washed her mind and soul away and turned her into a vessel for dreadful powers. There was nothing left of the girl he loved. Now every breathing moment was black with despair.

It was not just losing Fand. It was not just the bitter shame of having failed to save her. As dark as the sorrow
and guilt, and far far colder, was the ominous shadow of fear that hung over him everywhere he went. His dreams were filled with the echo of the priestesses chanting. Every night he woke in a sweat of terror and then lay there, dreading sleep, dreading daybreak, haunted by what he had seen and heard. The past month had been the most difficult of his entire life, even though the death of four more of his brothers had seen him promoted to leader of his own pod, with his own sea-serpent. Once he would have been overjoyed. Now he felt only leaden misery.

His brothers had been killed during the attack on the human stronghold on the shore of the southern sea. Nila had fought at his father’s command during that attack, had fought with fierce desperation even though he knew the assault was doomed to failure. Nila had been sickened to the depths of his being by that assault. It was one thing to kill in defence of oneself, or to drive people away from a stretch of soft sand so exhausted children could sleep in safety for a night. It was quite another to attack without warning, to kill without mercy, to murder children and young women and men without weapons, people who a moment before had been laughing and dancing. Nila knew that such an evil act could only bring bitter reprisals.

Yet if he had refused to fight he would have been executed for cowardice and insubordination. Nila wanted to die. He had no wish to live a life without joy or love or tenderness. Yet he did not want to die without honour, branded a coward. So he had sought death on the battlefield. Four of his brothers had died that night, and yet
somehow Nila had lived. And for his reckless disregard for life, Nila had at last won his father’s regard, and had been made a
jaka
, rider of the sea-serpent. There was no higher honour for a Fairge warrior.

Under his command were forty warriors. Ten were
ralisen
, or riders of the
ralis
, a creature of sea, loch and river that had the ability to swell to almost twice its normal size when threatened. With skin of glistening dark green, the
ralis
had a long, looping tail split at the end, and broad flippers tipped with two hard claws. A crested mane surrounded its long snout, lying flat upon its strong curving neck when at rest. When the
ralis
was swollen to its largest size, this crest stood up all round its face, a vivid blood-red colour fading to orange at the black spiked edge. These spikes were poisonous. A mere scratch from a
ralis
’s crest was enough to kill a sea-serpent. As a result the
ralisen
were formidable warriors when fighting at sea, for their mounts fought with them with claw and teeth and crest.

The remaining thirty warriors swam alongside in their full sea-shape, able to dive under an enemy and come up on the other side. Called the
zasha
, they had to be very strong swimmers to keep up with the sea-serpent and
ralis
who could swim very fast indeed. The
zasha
were the first ones to change into their land-shape and set foot upon the shore, to search for food for their
jaka
and find a safe place for him to rest. They had to be ferocious fighters to survive long enough to be promoted to
ralisen
, for they were the first rank of any pod to meet attack. Few could ever hope to become a
jaka
.

From his vantage point high on the sea-serpent’s neck Nila could see for many miles. Far to the north he saw a flash of silver. He shaded his tired eyes and stared to the horizon. The flash came again. A curve of a silvery body. The flip of a frilled tail. It was a Fairge that swam there alone. Nila frowned. Fairgean never swam alone. The seas were far too dangerous. There were wild sea-serpents and deep-sea monsters of much greater ferocity, sharks and doom-eels, riptides and reefs. The Fairgean always swam in well-organised pods; everyone had their place and all must serve it.

He gave a high-pitched whistle and raised his arm. Two of the
ralisen
answered his call and set off in swift pursuit, the snouts of their steeds held high above the waves. The rest of the pod wheeled and followed at a more sedate pace.

Nila could clearly see the convulsion of anxiety that passed over the lone Fairge’s body when she heard his whistle. She was pushing along one of the long narrow canoes the slave women used to carry supplies on the long sea journey. At the sound of the whistles, she abandoned the canoe and began to undulate through the water at a tremendous pace. Her wake creamed long and white behind her, her tail thrashing the waves into spume. Nila’s frown deepened. He whistled again, long and high. Two more of the
ralisen
broke away from the pod to pursue and capture her. It was clear this lone Fairge was not someone who had been swept away from her pod by a freakish rip. She sought to escape him, which meant she could be a runaway slave or concubine. Although all his sympathies were
aroused, Nila could not let her escape.