The Fathomless Caves (19 page)

She tried to push away the flash of guilt and self-recrimination his words had given her, knowing the cluricaun delighted in riddles and conundrums. It did not mean he knew she had a guilty secret, or that he thought her two-faced. It was nothing but a riddle.

Determinedly Isabeau turned her attention back to her book, but the children were scrambling in, laughing and shouting and knocking the book flying. Then Gwilym was helping Meghan up and Isabeau had to help settle the old sorceress. As she sat back in her seat she felt the cluricaun’s inquisitive gaze upon her and flushed a little. The sun glinted off his jangling necklet and Isabeau suddenly leant forward.

‘Brun, where did ye get that spoon? I have no’ seen it afore.’

The cluricaun closed one hairy paw about the cluster of silver oddments. ‘Nowhere,’ he said guiltily.

‘Brun, let me see.’

Reluctantly the cluricaun opened his paw and Isabeau examined the trinkets hanging from his chain. There were silver keys, bells and buttons, a silver coin with a hole drilled through it, and two small spoons, all brightly polished. Upon the handle of one of the spoons was a crest she recognised immediately, a sword held up in a gauntleted fist. ‘Brun, ye wicked cluricaun! This be a MacHilde spoon.’

‘But it be so marvellous bonny,’ Brun said weakly.
‘I have never seen one like that, all curly. It be so wee I dinna think anyone would mind.’

‘Ye canna be stealing spoons!’ Isabeau scolded. She leant out the window of the coach. Elfrida was standing within the circle of Iain’s arms, her face pressed against his shoulder. His brown head was bent over her fair one and he was talking earnestly. Neil was clinging to his father’s leg, his face screwed up with the effort of holding back his tears.

‘Elf!’ Isabeau called. Elfrida looked up, her face wet with tears, and came closer, holding Iain’s hand with one of her own, the other mopping her eyes dry with a handkerchief.

‘I’m sorry to disturb ye, Elf, but … did I ever tell ye to count the spoons when ye’ve had a cluricaun visiting?’ Ruefully Isabeau held up the spoon.

Brun peeked a look at Elfrida and ducked his face down again. ‘I found it in the garden, all dirty. I dinna think anyone would miss it. I polished it till it was all sparkly again.’ He peeked up at Elfrida hopefully.

‘A MacHilde spoon!’ Elfrida exclaimed. ‘I wonder how long it had been lying in the dirt? It must have been years, I swear the Fealde would never have used a spoon with the MacHilde crest on it. After all, it is only silver, no’ gold.’ There was bitter sarcasm in her voice. She turned it over in her fingers, hesitated, then gave it back to the cluricaun. ‘Ye can have it, Brun. He may keep that finds.’

The cluricaun grinned happily and hung the spoon back on his chain.

‘I am glad to have a chance to say farewell,’ Elfrida
said. ‘Thank ye for all your help and support, Beau, I do no’ ken how I would’ve managed without ye.’

‘My pleasure,’ Isabeau answered, smiling. They kissed warmly, then Elfrida leant through the window to bid the children goodbye. ‘Ye must come back and visit my Cuckoo soon,’ she said.

‘We’ll have beaten the Fairgean by winter,’ Donncan said exuberantly. ‘We’ll come back and have my birthday party here.’

‘That would be grand,’ Elfrida answered. ‘I ken Cuckoo had a very happy birthday wi’ ye at Lucescere.’

‘They gave me a pony,’ Neil said importantly.

‘Well, if Donncan is back here at Bride for his birthday, we’ll have to try to think o’ something just as good for his present,’ Elfrida said with a smile, though her eyes were shadowed.

‘Ye have a care for yourself, Elfrida,’ Meghan said. ‘May Eà be with ye!’

‘And wi’ ye,’ Elfrida answered, her voice choked, and stepped back as the coachman cracked the whip. With a lurch the carriage started forward, rattling over the cobblestones as the horses trotted down the long tunnel and out into the city streets.

Once again it took a long time to make their way out of the city, for the streets were crowded with well-wishers. The children all hung out the windows, waving and smiling. Many recognised the golden-winged boy as the young heir to the throne and cheered him lustily. Bronwen had taken to wearing high-necked, long-sleeved dresses so her gills and fins were hidden, and so none recognised her as a Fairge.
They waved to her too, and threw her flowers, and she laughed and waved back. They had just clattered out through the city gate when suddenly Bronwen’s face blanched and she shrank back into the carriage.

‘What is it, dearling?’ Isabeau asked.

‘Naught, naught,’ Bronwen stammered, sitting back against the cushions.

Isabeau leant forward to look where the girl had been looking. Suddenly her breath caught. Maya was standing right at the front of the crowd, staring straight into Isabeau’s eyes. She was dressed in a rough grey gown and had a black shawl held close about her face. ‘Tonight,’ she mouthed. ‘Meet me tonight, by the shore.’

And then she stepped back into the crowd and vanished. Isabeau sank back against the cushions, astonished and frightened. No-one had seen, however. Meghan had been dozing, Gitâ curled on her lap; Donncan and the twins had still been hanging out the other window, waving and smiling; and the bogfaery Maura had been sewing up a rent in a pair of Owein’s breeches. Bronwen had been fiddling with a button on the sleeve of her dress. She looked up as she felt Isabeau’s gaze, then looked away, colour rising in her cheeks. Isabeau almost believed she had imagined Maya’s face, Maya’s silvery gaze. But she knew she had not.

So now Isabeau was making her way through the army camp to the shore, her thin red brows drawn together in a frown. Twilight was enfolding the harbour in a warm violet light and all the men were busy settling in for the evening. The army encampment filled most
of the valley with rows of twinkling campfires and low, grey tents. Raising a forest of masts against the darkening sky was the royal fleet of ships, anchored in the wide sweep of the bay. Tomorrow the army would set sail for Carraig, but tonight the soldiers enjoyed their last night on solid ground. Barrels of whisky had been rolled out and shared around, and a herd of sheep had been slaughtered and roasted slowly over the fires. The sweet smell of burning flesh made Isabeau sick to the stomach.

There was a burst of laughter from one circle of men, and Isabeau glanced their way before hurrying on. She had to use every trick she had ever been taught to pass through that bustling, rowdy camp unnoticed. Isabeau had been taught by Meghan of the Beasts, though, and so was as silent and unobtrusive as a shadow.

Somewhere someone was playing a guitar and singing, rough voices joining in the sentimental chorus. Beyond the camp the forest pressed close upon the brow of the hill, the foliage black against the twilight sky. In her dark green dress, her bright hair covered with a dark shawl, Isabeau passed silently through the line of sentries and disappeared into the shadows.

Down on the shore the last of the light lingered. Waves rushed and flowed, leaving scallops of foam like lace on the sand. The camp was hidden from view by low sand dunes where tall silvery grasses bent in the wind. Buba swooped first this way, then the other, catching the grasshoppers that leapt about in the undergrowth. It was almost dark.

Isabeau walked along the edge of the water, her bare feet sinking into the damp sand, listening for any step other than her own, for the slither of sand or the rustle of grass. All was quiet. Despite the peace of the seashore, Isabeau was tense and unhappy. She felt a deep foreboding. Why was the Fairge taking such a dreadful risk? Had she come for Bronwen? What would happen if Isabeau was caught talking to her? Isabeau knew something dire was going to happen.

There was the faintest disturbance behind her. She turned. A shadow stepped out of the deeper shadows in a cleft of the dunes. It was Maya.

‘What are ye doing here?’ Isabeau whispered. ‘How can ye take such a risk?’

‘I have come to warn ye,’ Maya said softly. Her husky voice was as full of charm as ever. She drew close to Isabeau, her face very white in the dim violet light.

‘Warn me? Warn me o’ what?’

Maya hesitated. ‘The Priestesses o’ Jor plan a trap for ye all. They ken ye shall plan a strike against them in reprisal for the attack on Rhyssmadill. I do no’ ken all that they plan but they have drawn upon dreadful powers. They have a new acolyte. Like me, she is a halfbreed. She has recourse to both Fairgean and human power. I kent her as a child. Her mother was stolen in a raid on Siantan. She was a witch o’ some sort …’

‘Happen a weather witch if she came from Siantan,’ Isabeau said.

‘I do no’ ken. Happen she was. This lass must have strong powers though. She managed to stay alive.’ There was an ironic inflection in Maya’s voice. ‘Nila says—’

‘Nila?’

‘My brother. Half-brother, rather. He captured me as I was swimming along the coast, and told me all this, and then let me go. I do no’ ken why. He is either very brave or very foolish, or both, to dare the wrath o’ our father so.’

‘Happen it was part o’ the trap.’

‘I do no’ think so. He hates our father as much as I do, that I will swear to. Besides, he did no’ ken that I would come and tell ye. He told me so that I could flee.’

‘What did he tell ye?’ Isabeau was white. The feeling of foreboding was heavy upon her now, pressing her down like a giant hand.

‘That the Priestesses o’ Jor plan to raise a tidal wave and drown the land, using the magic o’ the comet, as I did when I conceived Bronwen. They will be able to do it, Red. They have drawn upon the power o’ Kani. She is the mother o’ all gods, the goddess o’ fire and earth. It is Kani that brings volcanoes and earthquakes and lightning and the evil glow o’ the viperfish …’

The world was spinning around Isabeau. She put out a hand, but there was nothing to grasp. ‘I ken,’ she managed to say. ‘I ken …’

Then she felt a dark roaring, felt the world crash down all around her. She fell to her knees. Very faintly she heard Maya cry, ‘Red, what is it? What is it?’

‘Iseult …’ she said. ‘Iseult!’

She felt pain like daggers piercing her all over, felt a bitter cold like death.
Iseult!
For a moment she hovered over the clearing. She could see Maya’s dark form
bending over her own, collapsed on the white sand. Then her spirit turned and fled.
Iseult
…

Over the dark undulating landscape she flew, effortless as an eagle. She could see the tangled knots of rivers shining green and blue as they writhed and tumbled towards the sea. She could see the glowing clusters of town and village like throngs of fireflies, the light of people’s souls rather than the light of their lanterns. As she passed she felt shivers of their lives run over her, grief and joy, hope and despair, small contentments, small spites. Above her the stars wheeled and sang, a cruel terrible music like a death requiem. She soared among them, felt their temptation tug at her.
Iseult
…

Below her the landscape upsurged and downfolded, creasing into sharp peaks and deep valleys. Isabeau felt herself growing weak. She glanced back for the first time, afraid. Behind trailed her spirit-body, as frail as candle smoke. From her heart spun a long thread, as silvery and delicate as a spider’s cobweb. It stretched behind her, throbbing slightly. It looked as if it might break at any moment.

Isabeau flew on. Below her were shining sheets of ice, a sweep of glacier. Isabeau was having to fight now. Wind seemed to throw her up, suck her down. The music was clamouring in her ears.
Iseult
, she called.
Iseult
…

She saw a great mass of broken snow and rocks below her. Very faintly she could feel her sister’s heartbeat, feel a great mass of cold and grief pressing her down towards death.
Do no’ sleep!
she called.
I am here.

Then, drowsy, faltering, she heard,
Isabeau
…?

Isabeau flew down towards the mass of broken snow. She could see lights bobbing about. People were searching, digging, weeping. She could feel their horror and dismay more strongly than she could feel Iseult’s heartbeat.
No,
she cried.
No’ there
…

No-one heard her. She was a ghost, wailing in the darkness. She was the wind, voiceless, faceless, without hands to dig, without words to warn. For long futile minutes she flung herself against their deaf unheeding ears, and then she swung away, searching, searching.

Her mind brushed against someone she knew. Desperate, Isabeau flew down. She was at the end of her strength, the cord that bound her to her physical body was stretched thin, far too thin. Isabeau knew she would die if it should break. Isabeau knew both she and Iseult would die.

On a ledge overlooking the valley lay a snow-lion. He was a magnificent creature, his paws huge and strong, his snowy mane tipped with black. Isabeau hung before him, pleading. In the proud golden eyes she saw her own reflection, frail and silver as the reflection of moonlight. She spoke in a tumble, her disembodied powerless hands stretching out, pleading.
I saved ye when ye were but a cub, do ye remember? Ye are in
geas
to me, help me now
…

The snow-lion stood, shook his noble mane, began to lope down the hill. Exhausted, Isabeau drifted after him.

Almost dissolved into the ether, she watched him as he ran across the snow. A longing came over her. How well she remembered the deadly grace, the sure power of a snow-lioness’s body. How much she longed to be
running there, leaping over concealed rocks, stretching into full speed. How much she longed to be able to dig for Iseult, her sure sense of smell knowing where she lay buried under mounds of snow. But she was feeble as candle smoke in a wind, she was dissolving away.

Iseult, help comes,
she whispered.
Hold on
…

Then she turned, followed the disintegrating trail of smoke, flew with desperate haste back the way she had come. In her mind she heard her Soul-Sage teacher warning,
Never skim too far
…

Hurricanes buffeted her, dragged at her strength, confused her.
Up, down, in, out, where am I, where am I?