The Fathomless Caves (29 page)

The cannons all along one side of the
Royal Stag
boomed. Smoke billowed out. There was a distant crash and they saw debris fly up as the cannonballs slammed into the island. The dragons zoomed down, shooting long plumes of fire. As they passed and rose, the order was given again. ‘Fire!’

Again and again the cannons boomed. The dragons rose and dived in a beautiful, elaborate dance of fire and smoke. A sudden loud explosion. Green fire shot up out of the water, raining hissing sparks down onto the tranquil waters. Flames rose and ran out, following the sparks. Suddenly another explosion, another fountain of green fire. Soon the island was ringed in flame, immense boulders crashing down the cliffs as the rock shuddered under the impact of the explosions. The dragons bugled triumphantly, swooping down towards the burning sea. Their scales shone like molten gold.

Upon the
Royal Stag
, Maya stood in the prow of the ship. The flames danced upon her mother-of-pearl skin, making it shimmer. There was a look of fierce, brooding exultation on her face. ‘So the priestesses die,’ she said.

‘Come to our call, Kani, goddess of fire, goddess of dust, rise to our bidding, Kani, goddess of volcanoes, goddess of earthquakes, come to our call, Kani, Kani …’

Fand was incandescent with power. She could feel it racing through her, pouring out of all the pores and orifices of her body, blazing like a river of molten lava. The name of the goddess echoed in her ears. She screamed it with fury, with passion, with despair. ‘Come to our call, Kani! Give us the power, Kani! Hear us, Kani, Kani, Kani! Hear us, Kani, Kani, Kani!’

Fire leapt high. She was choking on smoke. Her lungs burnt.

‘Kani, Kani, Kani!’ she screamed. ‘Give us the power!’

The power drove down through her hands into the nightglobe, down through her feet into the ground. The earth rocked. The water in the giant Nightglobe of Naia surged from side to side. The viperfish were flung about, tails flopping. Someone screamed. The ground lurched again. Fand was flung to her knees. The nightglobe rocked and then fell from its crystal pedestal, smashing on the ground. Water crept out from the broken shards of glass, met fire and hissed away into steam. The giant viperfish thrashed about on the ground. Crouched down, Fand stared at them. Under her hands and knees the rock was heaving about as if it were a mere crust over an ocean. An ocean of fire. Dimly she became aware of more screaming. She could not move. She was nothing but a husk.

The ship was rocked by waves. From the peak of the island they saw a sudden arc of orange fire, a belch of black smoke. The dragons soared away, bugling. The tail of the comet suddenly flared brightly, a trail of sparks bursting free. As the waves leapt high, Lachlan was flung to his knees.

‘What’s happening?’ he cried.

‘The island! The volcano! It’s erupting!’

‘The spell!’ Iseult cried. ‘They’ve harnessed the comet magic.’

A bitter sense of failure filled Lachlan. He could have lowered his head and wept. Ashes and cinders were
showering down upon them, they were all choking in the thick black smoke. Flames danced everywhere. The rocking of the waves was bringing the seafire racing towards them, and through all the smoke they could see the volcano spitting more flame.

‘But … the priestesses?’ he coughed.

Maya was on her knees, white tracks of tears running down her soot-blackened face. ‘They must have been somewhere else. They must have been at the Isle o’ Gods.’

Lachlan spread his wings and was upon her in one single fluid movement, seizing her in his strong hands. ‘Ye mean … we … bombarded the wrong island!’ He could hardly speak for coughing.

‘How was I to ken?’ she wept, shrinking away from him. His face was dark and terrible. Fire framed him in fierce leaping colours, his wings all gilded with gold and red.

Iseult shouted. The sails were on fire. The boards smoked as falling cinders fell upon them like hail. Men were flailing helplessly from side to side as the ship plunged up and down in the savage waves. Water crashed over the bow, sweeping them all down the deck. Someone was swept overboard, screaming as he fell into the seafire reaching up to devour them all.

‘No!’ Lachlan shouted. He sprang to his feet. With one swift movement he dragged the Lodestar from his belt. Silver light leapt to life in its heart. They were all flooded with its radiance. For an instant the lurid red of the spouting volcano was blotted out, then suddenly the ship surged forward and up into the sky.
Everyone was flung to the deck. One man fell screaming down, down into the sea. Only Lachlan kept his feet, holding the Lodestar high before him. Where he had been outlined in glaring red before, now the clean line of his face, the curls blowing away from his face, the beautiful shape of his wings, all were bathed in pure, silver light.

The soaring flight of the ship steadied. Dazed, the men got to their feet. They were high above the world. The ship’s charred sails billowed out, the masts outlined in frosty starshine. On either side the dragons flew, their wings translucent in the blazing light of the Lodestar. Below them stretched the sea, the red light of the spouting volcano and the ring of raging seafire reflected for miles.

They saw the waters withdrawing from the land. Slowly the harbour floor was laid bare, fish flopping desperately among the shells and seawrack. Out to sea, the family of seals was swimming desperately in circles, the pups struggling to keep afloat in the drag of the retreating water.

Back and back the sea retreated, sucking itself up into a high wave. From the deck of the flying ship they saw it glistening and heaving, its back stained red with the reflections of the blazing island. It seemed to hover for a moment, a hundred feet tall, then with a shuddering, roaring sound, it swept forward.

The ship soared higher. The crew felt the slap of spray on their faces. There was a dreadful cracking sound. They all hung over the rail of the ship, watching in awed horror as the wave crashed down upon the
shore. Kinnaird was engulfed, the raging water funnelled by the two high cliffs into a raging torrent that raced over the shore and forest, drowning it in seconds. On and on the torrent poured, tossing now with uprooted trees.

‘How high can it go?’ Lachlan cried. ‘Oh Eà, please let them be high enough.’

The flood hit a high ridge and was flung up, surging and tossing. The ship leapt forward, driven by Lachlan’s fear. Three hundred feet above the flood, it soared in the tidal wave’s wake, while far above the flaming tail of the comet slowly dwindled away.

Isabeau sat at the edge of the ridge, her staff lying against her lap, staring out into the night. It was so clear she could see a long way, fields of soft snow falling away below her. The loch glimmered with moonlight and the night sky above was strangely bright.

It had been another long day. She was weary unto death. They had climbed all day, though the snow was so deep they had not climbed far. Many fell and could not rise again. Those strong enough lifted them and carried them, or they were slung on to the backs of ponies.

As they had walked, the witches had chanted the Candlemas rites, for it was the last day of winter, the beginning of the season of flowers. None had dared take the time to hold the rites as it was usually done, with a circle of power around a fire.

‘In the name o’ Eà,’ they chanted, ‘our mother and
our father, thee who is Spinner and Weaver and Cutter o’ the Thread; thee who sows the seed, nurtures the crop, and reaps the harvest; by the virtue o’ the four elements, wind, stone, flame and rain; by virtue o’ clear skies and storm, rainbows and hailstones …’

As they chanted, others in the procession took up the incantation until the valley had rung with their voices. ‘
Oh Eà, turn your bright face upon us this day.’

At last they had reached a wide valley where a loch stretched out, the Spine of the World reflected perfectly in its smooth, tranquil waters. Although the sun was setting, they had walked round its shores, climbing beyond it in darkness, fighting their way over rocks and through trees until they came to a wide clearing under a high cliff. They could not go forward and they could not go back, so there they stopped. No-one had said much as they had eaten their meagre meal. They were either high enough, or they were not.

Now Isabeau waited for the hour of her birth to come and pass, midnight on the eighth day of the comet. As she waited, she prayed.

Suddenly, far away, she saw a huge red flare. All her nerves jangled. She leapt to her feet. ‘Meghan!’

The far-distant flame leapt and danced. Then Isabeau heard, not with her ears but with her mind, the bugling of dragons. The comet sprouted a fiery tail. She knew, without doubt, that some great act of magic had been done.

‘Oh, no!’ Meghan cried. ‘No, no! The comet spell!’

The ground beneath their feet shuddered. The tranquil waters of the loch stirred. They heard the lap, lap
of waves. Again the ground heaved, more violently than before. A log fell from the bonfire, scattering sparks. Waves splashed upon the pebbly beach, then surged up towards their camp.

Then they heard, terrifyingly, a distant roar. Everyone sprang to their feet. There were screams and shouts of fear. The roar came closer and closer. People tried to scramble up the cliff or ran into the forest, searching for a way to climb higher. Some swung themselves into trees.

Isabeau leant forward. Moonlight glinted off high, tossing waves. She could not believe how high the water was, or how fast it travelled. Closer and closer the waves surged. They crashed against the cliff where they had left the carts, which were flung high into the air. Huge trees were thrown about like matchsticks. The flood was slowed, but not halted, by the cliff. Raging, it swept up the hill towards them.

Then Isabeau saw a white-sailed ship soaring through the sky, seven dragons swooping about it. She stared, unable to believe her eyes. It shone like a star, like a ghost ship. She pointed, a hoarse croak the only sound she could make. Other people saw the ship too, crying aloud in amazement.

‘It’s the
Royal Stag
!’ Gwilym cried. ‘That’s the Lodestar that shines so. The Rìgh lives!’

There were cheers of joy. Though some people still ran in panic, most stopped to stare and wonder. The waters of the loch surged up around Isabeau’s feet, wetting the hem of her dress, but she paid no attention, her face transfigured.

Slowly the ship floated down until it was resting on the breast of the hill. There it lay askew, the sails drooping as the wind of its magical flight died away. The dragons swooped about, bugling, then soared away, disappearing behind clouds.

Irresistibly Isabeau’s eyes swung back to the flood. Still it rushed towards them, gathering itself again into a high black wave, crested with whipping foam. Then Lachlan flew up from the deck of the ship and raised high the Lodestar. Its silver light fell upon the raging floodwaters, dropping a mantle of calmness upon it. Unbelievably, the rearing crest curled over and dropped, drew back, rushed forward, drew back once again.

People were clambering down the side of the ship. Isabeau stared through the misty darkness, the pulse in her throat galloping. ‘I see Iseult—and Dide! They’re alive!’ she cried. Feeling a rush of joy and relief that almost undid her, she turned, laughing, to embrace Meghan.

The Keybearer stood in a circle of six Mesmerdean. Mist rose up to her knees and flowed about her white head. The marsh-faeries were leaning over the old sorceress, eagerness on their strange, beautiful faces, their claws stretched out. She was standing calmly, her hand cupping the Key which hung around her neck. On her shoulder Gitâ stood on his hind paws, shrieking in distress.

‘No!’ Isabeau screamed. ‘Meghan!’

Meghan turned towards her, holding up her hand. The Mesmerdean swayed away. Isabeau stumbled forward, falling to her knees. ‘No, Meghan, we need ye! No, please …’

Meghan took her hand. Gently she said, ‘Ye do no’ need me, Isabeau. Trust in yourself.’ She pulled the weeping girl to her and kissed her forehead lovingly, smoothing back the damp red curls. ‘I have faith in ye. Ye must have faith in yourself too.’

‘No!’ Isabeau wept. She could hear a rushing sound as another wave raced up to engulf them. She heard screams and cries of fear. She took no heed, clinging to Meghan’s hand. Spray lashed their bodies, water swirled about Isabeau’s body, shockingly cold. Silver light cut through the mist, turning the spray to diamonds. Isabeau buried her head against Meghan’s side.

Meghan lifted the Key over her head. She opened Isabeau’s left hand and closed her two scarred fingers and thumb over the talisman. Isabeau gave a little cry. Electricity ran up her arm, banishing the icy cold of the water.

‘I give ye the Key o’ the Coven,’ Meghan said gravely. ‘Ye must guard it well and carry it with wisdom and courage and compassion, until it is time for ye to pass it on.’

Isabeau stared at her, bewildered. Her head ached, her pulse was thundering.

‘Take it,’ Meghan said.

‘But … why me?’

‘Ye are the one,’ Meghan answered. ‘I’ve known it for a long time.’

Isabeau looked down at the Key. Nestled into her palm, the delicate shape of star and circle burnt into her skin like a brand. Very slowly she lifted it and hung it around her neck. The talisman hung between her
breasts, at the place where her ribs sprang out, the centre of her breathing. She felt her pulse steady and deepen, felt the Key throb slightly as if it too had a heart. She looked back at Meghan.

The sorceress looked very frail. The gusts of spray had plastered her snow-white hair to her skull. Isabeau realised water was washing around their knees. Meghan smiled at her rather tremulously. “Eà, ever-changing life and death, transform us in your sight, open your secrets, open the door.’

‘In ye we shall be free o’ darkness without light, and in ye we shall be free o’ light without darkness. For both shadow and radiance are yours, as both life and death are yours.’ Isabeau took up the chant, though her voice wobbled alarmingly.

Meghan turned and stepped willingly into a Mesmerd’s embrace. With her hair whipping about her face, her vision obscured by tears and seaspray, Isabeau saw the Mesmerd bend its alien face over the wild white head of the sorceress. ‘No!’ she screamed.