The Fathomless Caves (15 page)

The
ralis
were powerful swimmers, their broad flippers and long looping tail pushing them through the waves at a far swifter pace than the Fairge woman could manage. They closed upon her swiftly. Suddenly she turned upon them, floating upright in the water. Nila could see her white face and the long flowing black hair. The
ralisen
surrounded her. To Nila’s surprise they seemed to be listening to her. They swayed upon their steeds’ backs, and then slowly toppled over and sank beneath the waves. The
ralis
sank also, the waves closing over their glistening backs, their orange frilled crests.

For a moment Nila was frozen in surprise. The Fairge woman plunged on through the waves, increasing the distance between them. Then Nila gave a sequence of furious whistles. The Fairge had
sung
his men below the waves! This was no ordinary slave. She had to be captured. It was not sufficient to just surround her and seize her, however. This woman had the power of enchantment in her voice. She could kill them all.

He sent some of his remaining warriors to dive under the waves in search of their drowning comrades, and instructed the others to muffle their ears with their fur cloaks. He only hoped it would be sufficient to stop the sound of the enchanted singing. A few more men were sent to retrieve the canoe, now bobbing about erratically on the waves. When they brought it to him his sense of wonder increased. Within was a large, iron-bound chest, a small lap-harp fashioned in the human way, tools and weapons made of iron, a red velvet dress. These were the sort of wrack washed up on the shore
after a sea-serpent had wrecked one of the humans’ ships. It was not what one expected to find within a slave’s canoe.

The Fairge woman fought her capture desperately. She managed to drown a few more of Nila’s warriors by dragging away their cloaks as she sang, or by stabbing them with a knife she wore at her belt. At last the warriors overpowered her, however, and she was dragged, her mouth tightly gagged, to where Nila waited on his sea-serpent.

The first thing that struck him was her enduring beauty, even though she was past forty and there was grey in her silky black hair. She was thin to the point of gauntness but if anything this only emphasised the strength of the bones beneath the delicately lined skin. One cheek was marred by a fine spiderweb of scars but her ice-blue eyes had lost none of their brilliance. She stared at him defiantly, her webbed hands clenched into fists.

‘Leave us!’ he said sharply to the warriors. They protested, and he drew his dagger and laid it against her throat. ‘If she sings, I shall cut her a new mouth,’ he said indifferently. Reluctantly they drew away, working to revive the unconscious warriors dragged from the sea. Nila wheeled the sea-serpent about, the Fairge held hard against his knee. The great beast undulated away until none could overhear their conversation. Then he released the iron-hard grip on her and let drop the knife.

‘Maya,’ he said.

She stiffened all over, staring at him with frightened eyes.

‘It is me, your brother,’ he said. ‘Nila.’

‘Nila? Little Nila?’

‘Not so little now.’

She stared at him closely, noting the newly grown tusks, the black pearl on his breast, the jewels in his hair and on his belt, the rich fur of his cloak. ‘No, not so little any more. You are a man now.’

He was scowling at her. ‘What do you do here? Where have you been for so long?’

‘Trying to stay alive,’ she answered.

His scowl deepened. ‘Then what do you do here, swimming in these seas? We swim north again, home for the winter. Do you not realise our father the King is enraged at your failure to break the power of the human witches? He has pronounced the death sentence upon you.’

‘I thought he would.’

‘Then why do you swim here?’

‘I am following my daughter.’

‘Your daughter?’ Unconsciously Nila’s voice held all the scorn for women that every male of his race felt.

Maya’s face hardened. ‘Yes, my daughter,’ she snapped.

‘But why?’

There was silence for a moment. ‘I love her,’ Maya said at last. ‘I did not think I would but I do, more than I would have thought possible.’ She shifted a little uneasily and then said, with her head raised proudly, ‘Besides, in her rests my only chance for survival.’

‘So you swim north now, when all the pods are on the move? That is no way to survive. Do you not know
what he would do to you if he caught you?’

‘Has he not caught me now?’ she said huskily. ‘Are you not your father’s son?’

Nila’s eyes fell. One hand came up to cup the black pearl hanging on his breast.

‘I hate him,’ she whispered. ‘I hate him so very much. I warn you now, I would kill him if ever I fell into his power again.’

Nila was silent for a moment and then he said, very low, ‘I hate him too.’ Never before had he allowed the dark passion in the pit of his belly to take shape and be uttered. He felt at once a great release, and then, sharper than ever, the fear that rode with him always.

They were silent for a moment, rising and dropping with the natural swell and fall of the waves. The sea-serpent grazed calmly on a dark tangle of kelp.

Nila said swiftly, incoherently, ‘You must take care, Maya. He plans—the priestesses plan—something dreadful. Everything that lives upon the ground shall die, not just humans but all creatures. He plans to raise a tidal wave and drown the land …’

‘When?’ Maya was paler than ever, lines graven deep into her brow.

‘They said something about harnessing the power of the fire comet. Fand …’

‘Fand, the little slave girl?’

‘She is a Priestess of Jor now. They have turned her into something horrible. She speaks … She speaks with the voice of …’ He hesitated, then said with a voice stifled with dread. ‘She speaks with the voice of Kani. They have called upon the powers of Kani!’

Maya looked white and sick. ‘The poor child,’ she said involuntarily, remembering her own years upon the Isle of Divine Dread.

‘Our father grows confident now. We struck a cruel blow against the humans in their very stronghold. Many were killed. Four of our brothers, but many hundreds of them. They will strike back at us now but we are ready, more ready than we have ever been. We lure the humans into a trap.’

‘Four of our brothers killed?’

‘Just recently. Seven in this past year. I am now the tenth son.’ Nila gave a cruel grin and lifted the black pearl upon his breast. ‘Jor sent this to me, and it has saved my life more than once. Even my father respects me now, and seeks to win my favour with sea-serpents and jewels. But it is too late. I hate him!’ This time the words burst out of him. ‘I hate them all! I hope they all die.’

For a moment his hand closed so tightly about the black pearl it seemed he would crush it to powder. Then he released it and glanced quickly back at the pod of warriors, floating only a small distance away and watching curiously.

‘So you see, you must go far, far away from here, else you will be drowned too,’ he said rapidly. ‘Forget your daughter, she is more parts human than Fairgean anyway. She will drown with the others. Swim south and you shall be safe. Now you must sing. Open your mouth and sing me to sleep like you did the others. They will not let the tenth son of the king drown.’

She hesitated and he said harshly, ‘Do you not
remember I was born with a caul over my head? I shall not die by drowning, I promise you. Sing!’

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his, as pale as moonlit water. Then she took a deep breath and sang.

For a moment he listened, entranced. As deep as the voice of the ocean, as hypnotic, her voice lulled him into warmth, into darkness. He felt himself fall, felt the waves close over his head, felt himself sink. For a long moment there was only the black abyss of sleep. Then suddenly light was surging all around him, he was gasping and coughing for air, he was retching up water.

‘My prince, my prince, are ye alive?’ One of his
ralisen
leant over him, cradling Nila in his strong arms, his tusked face anxious.

Nila nodded, coughing.
For now …

‘She be a Fairge! Look, a blaygird sea-faery!’ Isabeau spun around, her hand tightening on Bronwen’s. A man stood pointing at them, his face suffused with anger. At his words cries of shock and outrage rose from the villagers crowded around the market stalls.

‘Ye can see her gills. How disgusting!’

‘What does a slimy frog like her be doing here? How dare they bring her?’

‘Look, that be a witch wi’ her! See her rings and staff.’

‘She got an owl riding on her shoulder! Mam, look at the wee white owl.’

‘And look at that hairy wee demon!’

‘They be
uile-bheistean
, all o’ them!’

Brun’s ears flickered unhappily and he clutched the little jangle of rings and spoons hanging around his neck. Isabeau pulled the little girl back against her as the mood of the crowd grew uglier. A few of the men hefted tools in their hands as if they were weapons. One or two bent and picked up stones from the ground, and all pressed closer, muttering ominously. Isabeau was suddenly very glad of the guards who stepped close around them, hands on their sword hilts.

Suddenly someone threw a sharp-pointed stone. Isabeau deflected it so that it fell harmlessly to the ground. There was a hiss of outrage. ‘She works sorcery!’

Quietly Isabeau said to the sergeant in charge, ‘We had best go back to the camp, I think.’

‘Aye, my lady,’ he said with a swift salute and gestured to his men.

With the villagers glowering angrily from every side, the small party moved quickly through the crowded marketplace. A few apples were flung, and then an old cabbage. Isabeau caught the apples deftly and bit into one with a friendly grin, tossing the stall owner a copper coin in payment. The mouldy cabbage she sent back to the stall from which it came, settling it back gently among the other vegetables. A few in the crowd grinned. Most just stared suspiciously, holding their children close or pulling them from the path.

‘Do no’ let her lay her evil eye on ye,’ they whispered. ‘She be a witch!’

Isabeau looked down at her empty basket ruefully. ‘Och well, at least we got some apples,’ she said to Bronwen. The little girl did not smile. Her cheeks were crimson, her pale eyes glittering with tears. Isabeau smoothed back her silky hair with a gentle hand.

‘Never mind, dearling,’ Isabeau said. ‘Just ignore them. They do no’ ken any better.’

‘Why are they so mean?’ the little girl whispered. ‘That woman called me a slimy frog? I’m no’ a frog!’

‘Ye must no’ mind what they say, dearling. People are afraid o’ what they do no’ ken, and when they are afraid they strike out, to try to make themselves feel bigger and braver. It does no’ work, but for a wee while they feel better. But then the feeling fades and all they feel is smaller and more afraid than before. That is why ye must no’ say anything back. It willna do any good, and afterwards ye will just feel small and mean yourself.’

‘But why are they afraid? Why do they hate me?’

Isabeau chose her words with care. ‘Ye are one quarter Fairgean, Bronwen, and you bear your ancestry in your face. Your mother’s people are the enemies o’ your father’s people. They have fought many, many wars over the years and there is much mistrust and hatred between them. It is easier to fight someone if ye can hate them, and to hate them, ye must make them seem different to you, lesser. That’s why they call ye a frog, or a fish, because it makes ye less like them. What ye need to do is show them that ye are really just like them underneath, even though ye have fins and gills and can change shape and swim underwater.’

Bronwen was silent, though her full bottom lip jutted
out and her eyes were swimming with angry tears. Isabeau pulled her close but the little girl shrugged her away. Unhappily Isabeau let her go. Isabeau had not given any thought to what it would be like for Bronwen, part-Fairge in a land where the Fairgean were hated. When she had decided to bring Bronwen back to Eileanan, she had thought only of the positive results of her actions. She had imagined Lachlan coming to love his niece, as surely he must once he knew her. Even deeper had been the hope that Bronwen would in some way be instrumental in bringing about a true peace in the land, standing as she did between two worlds, two cultures.

Isabeau had barely acknowledged her deeper, more personal reasons. The fact was she had missed Bronwen with an empty ache in the hollow of her shoulder where the little girl’s head used to lie. She had only ever given Bronwen back to her mother so Maya would break the curse she had laid on Lachlan. Isabeau had not found it hard to find reasons to take the little girl back again.

Yet Bronwen was unhappy. The little girl was very sensitive to the thoughts and emotions of others, and all about her were only suspicion and dislike. Her uncle Lachlan had said little about her presence, but he regarded her coldly whenever he saw her and Isabeau was careful to keep Bronwen out of his way. Lachlan’s court whispered behind their hands and stared at Bronwen’s gills. Even Meghan thought Isabeau had been unwise in bringing her. She shook her straggly white head when Isabeau insisted that Maya had had a change of heart, saying merely that the Fairge had always had a great deal of charm.

Only Donncan persisted in his warm admiration for his part-Fairge cousin. Now that Neil travelled in his parents’ retinue, Donncan had no other competitors for her attention. They played together happily in the evenings while the servants set up the tents and prepared their dinner, and whiled away the long wearisome hours of travelling with word games, cards or trictrac. Only rarely did they squabble, even though they were cooped up in a stuffy carriage all day, soldiers riding close all around.

The Greycloaks had been marching through Tìrsoilleir for several weeks now, able to make good time once the swamps of Arran were left behind. Isabeau was most excited about travelling through Tìrsoilleir, having often wondered about the land beyond the Great Divide. The Forbidden Land looked much like anywhere else, however. Softly rounded hills slid down into valleys where slow wide rivers wound their way towards the sea. Villages were small, cottages clustered close together about a green square where chickens pecked and goats were tethered to graze. In the larger towns the rattle-watch called out the hours, the mill ground grain into flour, and people went about their daily business with the same sure routine as country folk anywhere. The only difference between Tìrsoilleir and Blèssem that Isabeau could see was that here, in the Forbidden Land, every village and town had its kirk.

Built of stone, the kirks were constructed in a cruciform shape, crowned with tall spires that pierced the sky like a sword. From the hilltops one could locate every village for miles about by their spires which towered
above tree and rooftop, competing with each other for height. Used as she was to the round domes of the Coven, Isabeau found the sharp-pointed spires strange and a little frightening. Elfrida said that the builders of the kirks were all trying to get closer to their god, who lived in the heavens. Isabeau thought it looked like they were trying to stab him.

At least twice a day the villagers put down their work and filed into the dim interior of the kirk, which was plain and white and cold, with uncomfortable pews of dark wood. Meghan, Isabeau and Gwilym had covered their witch gowns with heavy cloaks and gone in secret to one kirk meeting, curious about this religion that was so different to their own.

Dressed in a black cassock as austere as their gowns, the pastor had shouted out his sermon from a high wooden pulpit, his eyes alight with fervour. He had spoken of justice and retribution, of terrible punishment in a pit of everlasting fire, of torture that would never end. Isabeau had been sickened and frightened, and Meghan angry. Gwilym had had to seize the old witch’s arm to stop her from leaping up and arguing with the pastor. The Keybearer’s eyes had been flashing as they hurried away from the meeting, her voice cracking with emotion.

‘I canna believe they sit there and listen to that every day!’ she cried. ‘No wonder they are so ready to die on the battlefield when their lives are so full o’ fear and misery. Isabeau, we need to teach them that they do no’ need to suffer in order to achieve some unreal vision o’ happiness in some unreal paradise when they die!’

Talking all the way back to the camp, Meghan had been the most animated that Isabeau had seen in months. Every town the army passed thereafter, the old sorceress insisted on going in and climbing upon a box in the village green to explain the ways and beliefs of the Coven. Isabeau and the other witches accompanied her, along with those faeries in Lachlan’s retinue, including Brun, Sann the corrigan, the wild-eyed satyricorns who had formed their own company in the army, and a handful of bogfaeries serving Iain of Arran and his friends.

For the first time in many years the Rìgh’s army was accompanied by thirteen witches and sorcerers, creating a full circle of power. Apart from Meghan, Isabeau, Arkening and Gwilym, the ring of power included Nellwyn Sea-singer, who had a wonderful mezzo-soprano voice, full of emotion and candour. When she and Enit sang together, silver and golden voices weaving together, they could bring a room of hard-bitten soldiers to tears.

A deep friendship had sprung up between Nellwyn and Enit, much to everyone’s surprise. All knew Enit had a deep aversion to using the songs of sorcery, having been sickened by the Yedda’s use of their powers in the past. The two women had travelled together for some months, however, and had much in common. Even though Enit remained adamant that she would not use her powers to murder, she had been convinced to lend her considerable natural powers to the Coven once again.

Brangaine NicSian had also lent them her powers, as
had Iain of Arran. It had been decided that Iain’s magical Talents far exceeded his fighting ability and so he no longer rode into battle beside the Rìgh if his powers were needed by the witches. Isabeau knew this decision had greatly relieved Elfrida’s fears.

The witches were Toireasa the Seamstress; Riordan Bowlegs; a fat, merry witch called Stout John; and a newly fledged witch from Siantan called Stormy Briant, who had a strong Talent with weather, a most useful power. His younger brother, Cailean o’ Shadowswathe, had been taken on by Meghan as her new apprentice and so accompanied the old sorceress everywhere, an enormous black shadow-hound slinking along at his heels. Since he was much the same age as Jay the Fiddler, the two young apprentices had struck up a close friendship and were often to be seen together.

The last witch to make up the circle was Didier Laverock, the earl of Caerlaverock, who had once been only Dide the Juggler. Although Dide, like Enit, had never formally joined the Coven, he had been persuaded to join Isabeau in her studies with the older sorcerers. He proved to be a very clever and capable witch, strong enough to have sat his Sorcerer Test if only he would accept the strict discipline of the Coven.

Isabeau found herself growing closer than ever to the black-eyed young earl, walking with him in the evenings as they argued about some point of philosophy, or listening to him play and sing. Of all her companions Dide was the closest to her in age and shared her love of music and stories, the forest and its creatures, her sense of adventure and her love of the ridiculous. Some
times Isabeau felt the easy camaraderie between them warming into something deeper but she always withdrew, though she would have been unable to explain why. Now that she was a sorceress and ripening towards her full powers, there was no reason for her not to explore a deeper intimacy. Something held her back, though, some imprecise fear that troubled her. ‘Let’s no’ spoil our friendship,’ she said to Dide when his teasing turned too warm, his gaze too intent. Once she said, slipping from his grasp, ‘It’s no’ the time, Dide, ye ken that. We ride to war, have ye forgotten?’

‘How could I forget?’ he had retorted, anger springing into his eyes. ‘I have done naught else but fight, all my life. Sometimes I think we shall never have peace. We should seize what we can now, for we could be dead tomorrow.’

Isabeau had been unable to reply, choked with hot, unexpected tears. She had shaken her head and pushed him away, and he had sprung up and gone, angrier than she had ever seen him. When she had seen him next, though, he had been as easy with her as if nothing had happened, but he had not again tried to kiss her or teased her with that devilish intentness in his eyes. Isabeau told herself it was better that way, and tried not to feel a little sting of disappointment.

Since the General Assembly had been overthrown and Elfrida NicHilde had been crowned, most of Tìrsoilleir had accepted the new order peaceably. Many had welcomed it. Lachlan was received everywhere with awe and joy, for he was seen as the living messenger of the Tìrsoilleirean sky god. People fell to their
knees when he rode by and children were held up for him to bless. Elfrida too was welcomed with cheers and bouquets of flowers and the waving of her red and gold banner.

Despite their acceptance of the restoration of the monarchy, few Tìrsoilleirean approved of Lachlan’s Decree against the Persecution of Faeries, nor the Restoration of the Coven. There was also much fear that the new order would oppress those who had worshipped in the kirks, despite all Lachlan’s proclamations to the contrary.

So no matter how enthusiastic the response to Lachlan, it always turned chill when the crowd saw Meghan, Isabeau and the other witches with their long white robes and tall staffs. Often the reaction was violent. Isabeau was rather shocked by how much disgust and loathing were evident in the faces and thoughts of those Tìrsoilleirean she met. She had expected fear and mistrust, but not revulsion. She knew long-held prejudices were difficult to overcome and so she tried not to blame the Tìrsoilleirean too much. She did blame herself, however, for bringing Bronwen into contact with it. And the closer they came to the coast, the more violent the antipathy would be, especially towards the Fairgean, and so the greater the danger of harm to Bronwen.

The Greycloaks forded the Alainn River early the next day and pressed on towards Bride, the capital of Tìrsoilleir. The villages grew larger and closer together, until the breaks of fields and orchards were rare among the houses and shops and kirks. Isabeau noticed that there were no taverns on the corners, as there
would have been in any other land in Eileanan. Instead, there was now a kirk every few blocks, some with steeples so tall it looked as if they must topple over and crush the smaller buildings all around. The lazy curves of the river were built close with jetties, wharves and warehouses, and boats and barges of all kinds were rowed or poled about on its smooth waters.