by Kate Forsyth
Meghan followed, looking about her with amazement. The roof of the cavern was many hundreds of feet above her, smoothed into an arch and painted into the semblance of the sky, with moons and stars, comets and planets all gilded and jewelled so they glittered. The curving walls were carved like the trees of a great forest, the leaves and branches filled with the peering faces of animals and faeries, some as beautiful as a dream, others grinning wickedly. Soon it became so dark Meghan could not see, so she lit a witch light and set it at the head of her staff so she could see her way. Lit only by the faint blue light the faces seemed alive, winking at her as she passed.
The procession of dragons slowly descended into the mountain, the old witch in their midst, the taste of fear like steel in her throat. Gitâ, curled tightly into a ball, shivered in her pocket. Lost in shadows, the dragons were mere shape and sound—claws clicking on stone, wing and scale rustling, the hum of their breathing that seemed to swell and deepen the lower they descended. At last Meghan approached the end of the downward spiralling ramp and peered through the gloom, apprehension beginning to overwhelm her. The air smelt of smoke and sulphur, and the great cavern was filled with a sound like the sea, except the sea was many weeks’ journey away. The sound came and went in billows like waves on a pebbly beach.
Meghan edged her way forward, hearing the dragons spreading out behind her. Beneath her feet were great flagstones, hollowed by centuries of dragons pacing, and massive round pillars supported the vaulted ceiling. Suddenly light sprang up in torches attached high to the wall in ornate brackets. The shadows shrank and fled, and the dragons’ bright hides glowed. Their silhouettes, thrown against the walls, looked like a host of even greater dragons, lifting hooked wings and writhing tails in harmony with the dragons pacing forward below.
At the far end of the cavern was a set of shallow stairs that lead up to a wide dais piled high with treasures of all kinds—swords and cups and rings and statues, jewelled clasps and strings of pearls, all covered in dust and tarnished so that only here and there did gold gleam in the dancing light. The rhythmic roar grew louder, and Meghan’s heart beat erratically, her fingers clenched on the staff. Between the mounds of treasure, she saw a great clawed foot, as high as her head. She lifted her staff and spread the witch light out higher and higher, at last seeing the great mound of the shoulder, taller than any tree. At her first sight of the great queen-dragon, Meghan felt her knees tremble and she fell to the ground, shaking with awe and terror. The queen was a dark bronze-green, and far larger than the others, the arch of her back hidden in shadows. Her great eyes were shut, her massive angular head resting between her front claws, her tail writhing out over the steps and along the wall. It was the sound of her breathing that filled the hall with the sonorous roar that came and went in great rushing billows. Meghan’s skirt undulated behind her, the tendrils of hair that escaped from her plait blowing in the warm, sulphurous breeze of the dragon’s breath.
At last Meghan gained the courage to look up, trying to control the clenching of her bowels and the trembling of her limbs. Looming through the flickering light were five other dragons, their hides a burnished green, their heads alone as large as a crofter’s cottage. They were curled around mounds of treasure, in a loose half circle around the queen, their great unblinking eyes shining in the dim light. Dragon-fear washed over her in waves. If she could have moved, she would have run, but her body refused to respond to her panicked thoughts, and so for a long time the witch crouched, her arms crossed over her head.
At last Meghan’s trembling eased a little, and she glanced up again, realising as she did so that the male dragons had gathered at her back, and that they too knelt, their wings folded along their sides. There was a long silence, and then slowly the wrinkled lid rolled back and the queen-dragon looked at Meghan.
There was no looking away. The bright eye caught and held Meghan’s, and she felt a great rushing, as if the world was falling away. Again time seemed to unravel, so that she saw stars wheeling in their heavens, the passing of seasons as forests bloomed and shrivelled, the race of disintegrating clouds over skies that darkened and grew bright in moments. Flesh fell away from bones, the bones decayed into dust, grass sprang through, and all the while overhead the wheeling sun chased clouds across a flaming sky. She saw her own life, saw it in the space of a heartbeat—all the long years, her triumphs, sorrows and contentments sliding past and disappearing—felt herself unravel and blow away.
Thin and bright as a burning wire, she was floating somewhere beyond time. A voice spoke in her mind, and at the sound her whole being thrummed as if she was the string of a clarsach stroked by a minstrel’s fingers.
Meghan of the Beasts, I am surprised indeed to see thee, the voice said. I had thought thou were wise for a human. What folly is it that brings thee here?
Meghan felt like weeping. I am … sorry.
Twice thou hast crossed our command. We do not like our will to be crossed.
Meghan tried to remember why she had come, what it was she wanted, but all she could do was stare into the mother-dragon’s blazing eye and watch cities be built and destroyed, seas rise and disappear into abysses, mountains spout fire and crumble into dust.
My son tells me thou hast brought gifts. Show me.
Obediently Meghan brought out her rings and laid them on the ground before the dragon, though she was unable to tear her gaze away.
I do not think this is all, the dragon said, and Meghan felt her hand slip into her pocket and bring out her great emerald, flashing with green fire, and the opal, sorceress ring of spirit. With a pang of loss she laid her sorceress rings on the ground with the others.
Where is thy moonstone, sorceress?
I gave it to my apprentice, Isabeau, when she passed her Test, as is fitting.
Ah, so little Isabeau is now a fledgling witch. The dragon seemed to sigh in satisfaction. Her mother would be pleased.
I believe she was, Meghan said boldly. She seemed pleased.
The dragon’s eye widened, and Meghan felt the world spin and topple. Time rushed past in a burst of sparks, and for an instant she saw the pattern the Spinners were weaving and found it terrible. Then the insight was lost and the world steadied. She still stared into the dragon’s eye, but saw now only its vast rough colour and the flare of torches and vault of pillar reflected back to her, and her own tiny dark form. With the steadying of the visions came a steadying of her resolve.
Indeed, thou art not only wise for a human but clever, the dragon said. So thou hast guessed the secret of Isabeau’s birth. Did she not give thee a ring in return, as is the custom of witches?
Meghan felt sorrow pierce her. Reluctantly she slipped her hand into her pouch and took out the simple moonstone ring that Isabeau had made for her. The loss of this ring hurt even more than that of her sorceress rings, for it had been made and given with love.
The massive old dragon smiled, flickering a forked blue tongue as long as Meghan herself, though slender and supple as a snake. It is the gifts which come hard that we appreciate the most, she purred.
With a pain around her heart Meghan watched her rings as they were gathered up in the dragon’s great claw and flicked away into the mound of treasure. Each of those tiny rings had been worked and longed for, won with years of patience and study, and worn with pride. It was hard to see them disappear into a dusty corner of a dragon’s hall, just part of a pile of the treasures of ages.
So I was right? Meghan asked, determined now to extract information to the equal weight of those hard-won witch rings. Isabeau is Ishbel’s bairn?
Indeed, she is. Well puzzled out, sorceress. There was a trace of amusement in the mother-dragon’s mind-voice.
Ye forget Ishbel was my apprentice at the time o’ the Day o’ Betrayal, Meghan said coldly. I ken she was with babe and I ken she escaped the Burning for I made sure she did.
And so, my clever little witch, dost thou know who her father was?
I remember Ishbel’s
lover, the red-haired warrior from Tìrlethan. Khaghard was his name.
And what dost thou know of Khan’gharad, Dragon-Lord, Scarred Warrior of the Fire-Dragon Pride?
Meghan spoke slowly, picking her words carefully and making sure she now pronounced his name correctly. Khan’gharad came to the Tower o’ Two Moons many years ago, when the Coven o’ Witches was at the height o’ its power. He said he came to learn from us, saying he had mastered all that his country’s wise ones could teach him and he wanted more. He was, I remember, particularly interested in dragon lore, and so I arranged for him to be apprenticed to a warlock named Feld, a witch who had devoted much time to this study. It had been a long time since my former apprentice Tabithas had outgrown me, and I had taken on Ishbel as my acolyte. By the time Khan’gharad arrived, Ishbel was eighteen, and they met and became lovers, despite my concern over the disruption to both their studies. Yet young people are young people, even witches, and so soon I was both pleased and dismayed to learn Ishbel was with babe.
For a moment memories threatened to overwhelm her and as if in mockery of her pain, she saw again in the queen-dragon’s eye the burning of the Tower, the execution of the witches there, the escape of Ishbel and herself. Overcome with weeping, she dropped her face into her hands. Still the visions continued, though, and she saw the final confrontation with Maya the Ensorcellor, and the death of Khan’gharad at her own hands.
I had to, Meghan sobbed. I had no choice, it was our lives or theirs. I did no’ mean to kill him, I did no’ ken … Then she stopped, for even in her grief she could not lie, and she had known Khan’gharad was held by the Banrìgh, even as she ordered the earth to break open beneath their feet and swallow them. She had killed Khan’gharad, her apprentice’s lover, in her blood-lust to destroy the Banrìgh, and she had never forgiven herself.
And dost thou know who Khan’gharad was? the dragon asked, and Meghan heard anger in her voice. She shook her head, raising her head again and voluntarily looking the dragon in her massive golden eye. This time she seemed to fly, the earth dropping behind her and the wind rushing past her, hair billowing. She swooped and spun and soared, and the dragon’s eye was the sun, drawing her ever higher.
Khan’gharad was the First Warrior of the Fire-Dragon Pride and so precious to his people. He was also the Dragon-Lord, the only man permitted to cross his leg over our backs since Aedan himself. Dost thou know why he was so favoured? He saved the life of my daughter, the only female left of my line and heiress to the Circle of Seven.
Meghan’s head swam and she felt faint. Her vision spun. She felt herself falling. Then why did ye leave his daughter in my care? In the care o’ the one who killed him? she called into the sun-blazing void.
Khan’gharad is not dead, Meghan of the Beasts, Sorceress of the Earth. He still lives, though not in the form in which thou knewst him. Thou mayst rest easy in thy conscience if the thought of his death troubled thee. Besides, what care I? He was only a man, after all.
Somehow Meghan’s head had cleared again, and she no longer felt time buckling around her or saw visions of terror and beauty. She reorientated herself, clutching the solid stone beneath her crouched body, and stared steadily into the dragon’s blazing eye. Wise One, she said, I do no’ understand. Ye say Khan’gharad Dragon-Laird is alive, though I saw him swallowed by the earth at my very feet. I now ken that Ishbel is no’ dead either, though I thought she must be. Ye have confirmed that Isabeau is their daughter. Will ye tell me: did ye bring her to me?
Yes. I instructed my seventh son to take the baby between his claws and fly to the valley where thou wast living. I have often observed thee there over the years and knew Isabeau would be safe with thee.
Great One, I braved the journey to your land in order to understand what role it is that Isabeau is meant to play. I have taught her and protected her as best as I could but now my hand is forced. I have been driven from my valley, the beasts o’ the forest slaughtered, my own life threatened. Why did ye give me Isabeau?
There was a long silence and Meghan was aware of the other dragons still lying behind her, listening intently, though she sensed their presence rather than saw them, her eyes still fixed on the eye of the greatest dragon of them all, the mother-dragon, Queen of the Circle.
At last the queen-dragon answered, though reluctantly. It is simple, sorceress. He saved my daughter, I thought I would save his. I do not interest myself in the petty squabbling of thy kind. So many wars, so many lives and deaths, what are they to me?
Then, Wise One, why have ye broken the Pact o’ Aedan Whitelock and killed men and beasts in Eileanan?
Meghan was conscious of the dragons lashing their tails behind her, and the great bulk of the mother-dragon shifted, her breath hissing, so that Meghan scurried backwards in instinctive terror.
For four hundred years we have not dabbled our claws in the blood of thy land, beast or human, the mother-dragon said, and her mind-voice was resonant with an ancient anger. We honoured thine forebear, the great MacCuinn, who brought us many lordly gifts. But the skies are ours and shall always be ours. Four of our kith have been killed in the last sixteen years. Four!
All the dragons rose on their hind legs and began to bugle, a high haunting sound that echoed round and round the vast hall and must have been heard many miles away. Meghan fell to the floor, her hands covering her ears, but the sound penetrated deep into her brain, almost bursting her eardrums. At last the keening stopped, and cautiously Meghan lowered her hands. The great topaz eye regarded her sternly.
Meghan of the Beasts, Keybearer of the Coven of Witches, I know thou art not party to the hunting of dragons that seems to have become a national sport for thy people. The first dragon to die was but a kitten, and foolish to boot. He flew close to a herd and caused it to run. So when the lord of the castle rode out with his men and thy red-robed witches and shot him down, we grieved but understood it may be thy barbaric justice. Indeed, by running the herd to its death, the kitten had broken the finer points of Aedan’s Pact. However, the other dragons were killed in their own land, in our traditional hunting grounds in the Sithiche and Whitelock ranges. They had done nothing to court the ire of thy people.
Dost thou understand? Humans rode into their land and hunted them down, using trickery, guile and deceit. One of those dragons was a female, and with child! The Circle of Seven has been reduced to six! Never before have the dragons not had the full seven in the Great Circle, and to have a queen die without female issue is the worst of tragedies for us. We did not retaliate after the murder of our sons, in memory of thy ancestor, Meghan of the Beasts, but the butchering of our daughter and her unborn kitten, that we will not forgive!
The other dragons roared in approval, and Meghan felt the five other queen-dragons rustle their wings, their sinuous necks bending and rubbing together. The mother-dragon continued. It was then I called in the Circle of Seven to debate this cowardice and injustice, and a course of action decided upon. From all over the island, dragons have flown in, and the anger against thy people has been great. Still I advised caution. There are many omens surrounding us and I wished to wait until their message became clearer. Now, though, the forces of thy rìgh are climbing the Stairway and gathering at our gate, and I cannot think they mean us well. They must know all the dragons of the land are now here, in this one place. They shot down our daughter with a poisoned spear! If they come against us in force, I fear more of my children will be killed.
Again the keening filled the hall, rising and falling so that Meghan thought her head and heart would burst. She was horrified by what the mother-dragon had told her, and knew the dragons would lay waste to Eileanan in revenge for the death of the she-dragon. Dragons were slow to breed, and females rare among the offspring, so that the loss of a pregnant she-dragon could mean the dying out of the entire race. Meghan tried to express her shame and consternation, but the dragons were lashing their tails and twisting back and forth, so that waves of dragon-fear washed over her, choking
her throat. We shall have restitution! We shall have revenge! the dragons began to chant, and suddenly Meghan realised there were eighteen dragons in the room with her now, some almost as big as the mother-dragon, their skins dark with age.
These are all the dragons left in the land, the mother-dragon said sadly. Once our hordes darkened the sky, once the sound of our wings was like the beating of a god’s gong. Now there are only six left of the sacred Circle of Seven, and none to succeed us but children.
The keening and wailing went on for a very long time, and Meghan bowed her head and thought furiously as she waited. At last the grieving dragons quietened, and Meghan spoke again. Great Mother, I grieve with ye that the great and honourable dragons should be hunted and destroyed in this way. It is dark times indeed that have fallen upon us, and I swear by Eà, mother and father o’ us all, that I shall seek out the black-hearted witch who set her servants against ye. I think I understand now. The sorceress Maya who calls herself Banrìgh has long been jealous o’ other magics. She knows the dragons have long been friends and allies o’ the great Clan o’ MacCuinn—. Meghan heard hissing behind her and felt rather than heard the protest of the younger dragons, who had not known Aedan, direct descendant of Cuinn himself, the greatest sorcerer in the history of Eileanan.
Quickly she went on, Indeed, the Clan o’ MacCuinn has had many occasions to bless the goodwill o’ the dragons, who have so generously and indulgently allowed us to run our herds and build our villages on the land o’ Eileanan. I beg the kindness and mercy o’ the Great Dragons once more … Again she had to wait for the dragons to calm down, and felt deep sorrow that the dragons’ distrust of humans was now running so high.
When she could, she continued. All I beg is that ye do no’ punish the good people o’ Eileanan, who rightfully fear and respect ye. I ken your grief and rage consumes ye, and rightly so. So too does mine, who has always revered the wisdom and greatness o’ the dragons. I ken ye could lay the land to waste, killing the stock who are our livelihood and the men who herd them, destroying our cities and towns, and fouling our rivers and lochan. I know this is within your rights under the Pact o’ Aedan. It is no’ the good people of Eileanan who are your enemy, though. It is the evil-hearted Unknown, who has ensorcelled our rìgh, the descendant o’ the great Aedan Whitelock who was your friend and ally. I will ride out against her myself, and swear to ye I will waste my lifeblood to avenge the death o’ your brothers and sister!
