The Skull of the World (19 page)

Fand crouched in the darkness. Her arms were wrapped tight about her knees, her head burrowed down in their meager shelter. She was naked.

It was freezing in this tiny dark hole. Her limbs twitched uncontrollably. She bit her lip and the blood that ran down her chin was hot. She concentrated on that heat, trying hard to find the strength to keep her body warm, as she had for so many years. For after only three minutes in the icy seas of the north, the human body began to shut down. Respiration failed, circulation stopped, the fiery track of nerves ceased their urgent pulse. The body's frail thrashing would slow, surrendering to the cold. Slowly it would sink below the waves, only to resurface again stiff and blue, many miles distant, many months later.

Fand, however, had survived for more than twenty years in these freezing seas, willing her blood to run hot and fast. Twenty years and she had not once succumbed to the temptation of drowning, not once let the cold defeat her.

But now the little spark of stubbornness was sunk down to nothingness. She could find no reason for living. Her mind wandered, traveling down well worn tracks. Fand rocked slightly, her eyes shut, her mouth shaping words and names that had almost lost meaning. It seemed she heard the sibilant hiss of voices slithering around her, searching to know what she knew, to make her speak those names, those words. She bit her lip harder and the blood ran into her mouth, sour as the taste of metal.

"Who? Who?" the voices hissed. "Who do you love? Who do you hate?"

Days before she had screamed. "You! I hate you! Leave me alone."

Now she merely rocked and mumbled, the sounds without form or meaning. The blood froze on her chin, and her eyes were sealed shut with icicles of tears.

Suddenly they were all about her, lashing her with doom-eels that stung her into screams of agony. She ripped her eyelids open, seeing only the laughing, gloating faces of her tormentors, their skin livid in the strange shifting light. The tails of the doom-eels shone blue-white. She twisted and turned, trying to avoid the shock of their touch. Each strike lacerated her frozen flesh so blood welled up, horribly black in the phosphorescent gleam of the nightglobes.

"Weak, sickly, stupid, halfbreed scum," the priestesses hissed. "Puny, useless, half-witted human, worthless as sea cow's offal. What use are you? What can you do? Can't even grow a tail. Any worthless concubine's get can do that. Can't even breathe underwater. Pathetic girl slave. No use even as a footstool. Can't skin her to keep warm, no flesh on her to eat, no blood in her to drink, no fire in her to keep us warm, feeble as sea anemones' piss, useless as spawn jelly."

Fand closed her eyes and did not listen, the slap of the doom-eels tails' no longer enough to jerk her into consciousness. For a long time she floated in darkness, pain occasionally twisting through her, damp and frail as the touch of seaweed against the leg. It was too tenuous to rouse her. When she did at last wake, it was to silence. She had difficulty remembering who she was or why her whole body was twitching with the memory of white searing pain.

"Fand," she said and remembered the mother who had named her.

"Fand," the voices hissed. Faces floated out of the blackness, lit from beneath with sickly green light that flowed and changed, causing eyes to sink back into cavernous sockets, teeth to gleam, hair to writhe and grope. "Fand," they mocked, circling her. She shrank back into herself and found, unexpectedly, a tiny guttering spark. She hid herself within it.

At last they left her. Fand rocked back and forth, weeping a little in despair.
Nila, Nila, Nila, Nila. A
movement nearby caused her to freeze, desperately afraid they had heard her silent plea. Someone knelt beside her, fed her raw fish and some bitter drink made of seaweed.

"You should do what they ask of you," the voice said softly, gently. "Why do you fight them? You cannot win. You should do as they ask."

"I can't, I can't." Fand found words. "I can't, I can't." Her.voice grew stronger.

"Of course you can," the voice hissed in her ear. "Of course you can, girl human."

Then Fand was alone. The silence and the darkness shook around her. The cold was like fire. It bit into her very marrow. She shook and shuddered. Tried to rub her body warm with her hands, but could not even feel the scrape of her flesh against flesh. Teeth chattered.
I
am Fand. Nila will come. I am Fand. Nila will come.

But he did not come.

Isabeau sat cross-legged in the garden, naked, her hair flowing down her back in a mass of unruly curls. Her eyes were shut and her face calm and empty of all expression. The clouds of stinging midges did not seem to bother her, nor the occasional low growl of thunder in the south. She sat as still as if she had grown from the rock itself.

Slowly the darkness lifted. Isabeau opened her eyes, swept one hand out then the other, stretched her arms overhead and rose to her feet. Gracefully she went through the thirty-three stances of
ahdayeh,
warming her muscles and keeping her focus still and small.
Ahdayeh
was meditation in movement, as her previous trance had been meditation in stillness. Both enabled her to reach a plane of heightened awareness, a sense of being both in the world and apart from it. It was in this plane that the One Power could be seized and wrought to her will.

When she had finished the last difficult ritualistic move, Isabeau picked up her satchel and walked slowly and steadily toward the Tower of Two Moons. She came to a small garden near the entrance to the labyrinth, surrounded by high hedges and planted with the seven sacred trees in a circle, their branches intermingling.

The trees were incredibly ancient, their trunks so thick two men could not have touched hands around them. Within the circle of overreaching trees was a stretch of smooth turf where five witches sat, their eyes closed in meditation, their long gray hair flowing down their bare backs. Firelight danced over their old faces and sparkled from the rings that loaded down their gnarled fingers.

Isabeau stood in the dimness, trying to calm her nerves. She breathed deeply till she was serene once more, then stepped into the glade. In the brightening light she could clearly see the shape of a circle and six-sided star scored deeply into the earth. The witches' staffs had been driven into the soil to mark where the six points of the star and the circle met. There was a gap of about a foot in the circle and without saying a word Isabeau walked around the outside of the circle until she came to the gap. She paused, made the sign of Ea's blessing, and stepped inside the circle.

At once the witches' eyes opened. Isabeau bowed to Meghan, who sat at the northern point of the star, a small pot of soil set before her. The old sorceress wore nothing but her rings and the Key, dangling down between her breasts. Meghan bowed back, unsmiling.

Isabeau then bowed to the other witches. At the southern point of the hexagram sat Daillas the Lame, his face heavily seamed with age. One leg hung thin and useless, withered as an old stick. He held a ceremonial dagger in his hands, its dark blade inscribed with magical runes.

On Meghan's left sat Gwilym the Ugly, a dark, saturnine man with a hooked nose and pockmarked skin. He too was crippled, with one leg ending at the knee in an ugly-looking mass of scar tissue. Beside him lay his wooden peg. He nodded his head in acknowledgment of Isabeau's greeting, though his stern expression did not lighten. Across his lap he held a slim wand of hazelwood, all carved with waving lines that had once been painted a soft violet blue.

Arkening the Dreamwalker sat at Meghan's right hand. Old and frail with a vague, anxious face, hands constantly in motion, Arkening fidgeted with the rings she wore on either hand. Before her was a silver chalice of water.

Beside her sat Riordan Bowlegs, beaming a welcome. Although he alone among the witches there had not won his sorcerer's ring, he was here today for Isabeau's Testing because of their long friendship and affection for each other. Isabeau grinned at him and took her place at the sixth point of the circle. Daillas reached out one thin trembling hand and closed the circle behind her with the point of his dagger.

"Isabeau the Apprentice Witch, ye come to the junction o' Earth, Air, Water and Fire, do ye bring the Spirit?" he asked.

"May my heart be kind, my mind fierce, my spirit brave," Isabeau answered.

"Isabeau the Apprentice Witch, ye come to the pentagram and circle with a request. What is your request?"

"That I be found worthy o' being admitted into the Coven o' Witches, that I may learn to wield the One Power in wisdom and in strength, and serve the people o' the land with humility and compassion. May my heart be kind enough, my mind fierce enough, my spirit brave enough."

All five witches made a circle with the fingers of their left hand and crossed it with one finger of their right, and Isabeau repeated the gesture.

"Meghan, your guide and guardian, tells us that ye have passed the First and Second Tests o' Power, and that ye have studied hard during your years as an apprentice o' the Coven. However, it has been noted that the last Testing took place on your sixteenth birthday and at the height o' the red comet, a most auspicious date for any young witch to sit her Tests. There is no comet magic to draw upon tonight and it is no' your twenty-fourth birthday, contrary to the usual traditions. Do ye feel ye are ready to sit the Third Test o' Power, even though ye are two years short o' your coming o' age?"

"I hope so," Isabeau responded with utmost sincerity.

She saw the sorcerer's lips twitch but he repressed the smile, saying sternly, "As the Third Test o' Power decrees, ye must first pass the First and Second Tests again."

Isabeau nodded. Smoothly and competently she did all that they instructed, unable to help feeling a little glow of satisfaction even though she was careful to let no expression cross her face. Isabeau remembered clearly how she had been reprimanded for being too conceited and willful the last time she had sat these Tests. She knew the council of sorcerers had argued long and hard about permitting her to sit her Third Tests of Power so early and she wanted to do nothing to risk them losing their faith in her. Witches with the potential to achieve the High Magic were rare these days, and Isabeau knew Meghan was eager to see her young apprentice inducted as a sorceress before she died. Consequently she had persuaded the council to go against a thousand years of tradition and Isabeau was determined the old sorceress would not be disappointed in her.

At last Isabeau had finished all the trials of the First and Second Tests, having been careful to do no more than they asked. Without giving her a chance to rest, the witches immediately began the third round of Testing.

The Third Trial of Air involved a more complex manipulation of the forces of air than before, but Isabeau was easily able to move around several objects at once. She lifted the apples from the bowl and threw them up into a spinning circle as if she were a juggler like Dide, all without moving a finger. After a moment the bowl and knife flew up to join them, waltzing together through the air.

Meghan held up her hand. "Enough, Isabeau."

Isabeau gently lowered the apples back into the bowl and the bowl back to the floor.

"Isabeau the Red has shown us she has great skill for a mere apprentice, and has passed the Trial o' Air with flying colors," Gwilym said. "Breathe deeply o' the good air and guidwish the winds o' the world, for without air we should die."

Isabeau inclined her head to him in thanks for his praise and breathed deeply of the warm, summer scented air.

Arkening rose stiffly to her feet, lifting the chalice of water with both gnarled hands. Isabeau leaped to her feet so that the old woman would not have to bend down to place it on the ground. As she lifted the chalice from Arkening's unsteady grasp, the sorceress peered up at her, smiling wistfully, and reached up one hand to pat Isabeau's cheek. "Such a bright, bonny lassie," she said dreamily and made her painfully slow way back to her place. Isabeau put down the chalice of water and helped the old woman lower herself back to the ground, before returning to her own spot, careful not to step outside the lines drawn in the dirt.

Isabeau had always found the element of water the most difficult to manipulate, for it was by its very nature fluid, inchoate, impossible to grasp. It required the most subtle and controlled use of the One Power, something which her impetuous nature had always found difficult. Her time spent with Maya, a creature of the water, had taught her a great deal, however. Maya had taught her how the pull of the two moons moved the tides, immense masses of water dragged first one way then another. She had shown Isabeau how reefs and sandbanks could create rips of terrifying strength, and described to her how the wind could whip a calm sea into a frenzy of wayward waves or even suck it into a vortex of spinning water. Of all the elements, water was the most receptive to the force of the other elements and paradoxically, the most resistant to change.

Isabeau stared into the chalice of water, seeing her own shadowy face reflected back at her. She took a deep breath and pointed at the gleaming, shifting liquid, slowly rotating her finger in a clockwise direction. Slowly the water began to swirl, gaining speed until it was spinning in a whirlpool, following her finger. She reversed the direction of her finger and the water followed, spinning widdershins. Isabeau clenched her hand into a fist and the water slowly subsided into mirror stillness again.

"Ye have passed the Trial o' Water, my bairn," Arkening said in her rather tremulous voice. "Drink deeply o' the good water, lassie, and guidwish the rivers and seas o' the world, for without water we should die."

Obediently Isabeau drank deeply, the water cool and tasting of herbs. When she had put the chalice down she looked across the fire to Meghan with a rather impish grin on her face. "I ken, I ken, I shouldna be using my hands but indeed, Meghan, it is so much easier!"

The sorceress allowed her grimly compressed mouth to relax. "Aye, I ken, lassie, which is why ye shouldna be doing it. A sorceress should be able . . ."

"... to use the One Power with both hands bound and a sack over her head. I ken, I ken!"

Meghan shook her head repressively. She said sternly, "Enough idle chatter, Beau. It is time now for the Trial o' Earth. Show us what ye can do."

Isabeau looked down at the little pot of soil before her. Earlier that morning she had chosen three seeds and planted them in this pot, watering them and fertilizing them with essential minerals. That had been the First Trial of Earth, the test of knowledge of the earth's properties.

Now she drew in her will and held her hands over the soil. She imagined the dry brown seeds unfolding, a little white rootlet creeping out, groping through the damp soil. She imagined the root spreading, dividing into delicate white lacework, imagined a frail green finger reaching up for the sun. The soil stirred and three green seedlings sprang up, unfurling leaves. Isabeau concentrated all her strength into the seedlings and was rewarded with a burst of growth that saw one spread out heart-shaped leaves and softly colored flowers, another spring up into a little hazel sapling and the third into a delicate oat stem with a full head of seeds.

Isabeau had often seen Meghan use her powers to help seeds grow and had developed the Skill herself during the long months of hunger after the Samhain rebellion. She remembered with a little smile how she had impressed all the witches at her Second Testing by showing off this Skill and wondered a little at her presumption. No wonder she had been scolded for vanity.

"Isabeau the Red has passed the Trial o' Earth— the challenge o' blossoming," Meghan said, deep pleasure in her voice. She brought Isabeau a plate of bread and cheese and the bowl of apples and poured her a goblet of goldensloe wine. "Eat deeply o' the good earth, my bairn, and guidwish the fruits and beasts o' the world, for without them we should die."

Isabeau ate again with pleasure, for it was now high noon and she was starving after her exertions of the morning. Even though she had not taken a step since sitting down at the fire in the dawn, she felt as if she had taken an arduous hike through the mountains.

Next she had to show she could handle the element of fire, something all the witches assembled knew Isabeau could do with ease. This time she did not juggle balls of fire, as she had done last time she had been asked to perform this Trial. She simply leaned forward and put her hand into the flames, cradling a burning coal as if it were an apple. There was a little sigh from the witches for this was a sign of great power indeed.

"Red has passed the Trial o' Fire—the challenge o' handling fire," Riordan Bowlegs said. "Draw close to the good fire, lassie, warm yourself and bask in its light. Guidwish the fire o' the world, for without warmth and light in the darkness we should die."

Although it was warm in the sunshine, Isabeau obeyed. She returned to her place, her skin slick with perspiration, and drank a little water to cool herself down. Then she looked about her with anticipation. It was time for the Third Trial of the Spirit, and as always Isabeau had been told very little about what they expected from her.

All of the five judges had their faces downturned, their eyes closed. There was no expression on their faces to indicate what they were thinking. Isabeau shut her eyes too, breathing deeply to refocus her mind and her will. As the clamor of her thoughts gradually subsided, she seemed to hear Arkening's dreamy voice. She listened to it. The old sorceress was rhapsodizing about the old days at the Tower of Dreamers, when she had been the High Sorceress and the tower had been a busy, happy place filled with witches who had worked and studied and worshipped together in idyllic peace. In Arkening's memories the tower was golden hued, filled with the chime of bells and the scent of flowers.

It
must have been lovely,
Isabeau said gently, keeping her own memory of the cold, ghost-haunted ruin firmly locked away.