The Fathomless Caves

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Greetings, son of my daughter,’ the Firemaker said. There was a sheen of moisture in her eyes, though her gestures were made with ritualistic slowness. ‘Welcome to our Gathering.’

  ‘Greetings, Old Mother,’ Khan’gharad said with great respect. ‘May I have your blessing?’ When she made the gesture of assent, he rose and knelt at her feet, his horned head bent very low. The Firemaker raised her thin, vein-knotted hand and made the mark of the Gods of White on Khan’gharad’s brow. He thanked her and rose, retreating back to where the others still knelt, gazing with amazement. Only Iseult kept her eyes lowered as one should, wishing she dared whisper to the others not to stare so rudely.

  ‘Greetings, daughter of my daughter’s son,’ the Firemaker said. Iseult returned the greeting and received the blessing from her great-grandmother, seizing the old woman’s hand and kissing it before retreating back to her position. The Firemaker allowed the indiscretion with an austere smile before regarding the others coldly.

  ‘Who are these mannerless strangers?’ she asked then, indicating the kneeling men. ‘Who are they that they dare raise eyes to the Firemaker?’

  ‘Please forgive them their ignorance, Old Mother,’ Iseult said softly. ‘They mean you no disrespect. In their own land they are men of honour. For them to kneel to you at all is a sign of their great respect and courtesy towards you. They are strangers among us, and know little of the ways of the People of the Spine of the World.’

  ‘Tell them to lower their eyes or we shall need to teach them respect,’ the Firemaker said with cold anger.

  ‘Yes, Old Mother,’ Iseult responded and turned to the others. ‘Ye must no’ gaze upon the Firemaker. Lower your eyes until she has given ye leave to address her.’

  The MacSeinn opened his mouth angrily but Iseult said with smiling calm, ‘My great-grandmother can speak our language, my laird, and will understand all that ye choose to say to her, when it is time. For now, please lower your gaze.’

  He fingered his beard and then nodded, moving his gaze down to the ground before him.

  The Firemaker stared haughtily until she was sure no-one’s eyes were still raised. Then she said, ‘Why have you brought strangers to the gathering of the prides, Khan’derin?’

  The sound of her Khan’cohban name brought a hot rush of emotion to Iseult but she explained their mission with great formality, using all the appropriate ceremonial gestures and keeping her face and voice free of any expression.

  Although none of the many Khan’cohbans listening made any sound or interjection, she was aware of a little involuntary stir as she asked permission to cross the mountains.

  ‘This is something that must be discussed by the Old Mothers and the councils,’ the Firemaker said with a chill finality in her voice. ‘Such a thing has never been asked before. You ask us to allow a force of overwhelming strength to enter our lands, with the only surety your word.’

  Iseult was incredulous. ‘You doubt my word of honour?’

  ‘Many years you have been away from us, daughter of my daughter’s son. You have lived among the white-skinned barbarians for seven of the long darknesses. Who is to say whether you have not been deceived by them or even corrupted into dishonour?’

  Colour flamed in Iseult’s face. She rose, drew her dagger and flung it with one sure, swift motion. The men behind her gasped and leapt to their feet, but neither the Firemaker nor any of the Khan’cohbans moved so much as a muscle in their faces. The dagger struck the ground just before the Firemaker’s feet and drove in to its hilt, quivering with the force of the impact.

  ‘I shall prove my honour and the honour of those with me with blood, should it be so desired,’ Iseult said with great formality.

  The Firemaker stared at the dagger and the smallest of smiles softened her stern mouth. ‘So be it,’ she said.

  Iseult bowed her head in acceptance.

  ‘These are matters of great importance,’ the Firemaker said. ‘They should not be discussed in the open like this. Tonight is the time for the meeting of the Old Mothers and their councils. Then shall we have the telling of the story in fullness and in truth. Till then, be welcome at our Gathering.’

  ‘Thank you, Old Mother,’ Iseult said, and at her prompting the men repeated her formal gestures and then withdrew.

  Iseult spent the rest of the day watching the athletic contests with the MacSeinn and his men, doing her best to explain the customs of the Khan’cohbans. Her father had gone to greet many of his old friends and was eventually persuaded to take his place in the fighting circle, where he showed that he had lost little of his skill in his years away from the prides. As the sun set the Scarred Warriors retired and the storytellers took their place. Iseult was given permission to translate to the humans and had the gratification of seeing the haughty prionnsa weep at the culmination of a tale of particular tragedy.

  ‘The stories o’ the Khan’cohbans are nearly always very sad,’ she said as the MacSeinn surreptitiously blew his nose. ‘The only ones that are no’ are the hero-tales, which usually involve a battle o’ some sort, or the naming-quests. If ye are lucky, they will tell the tale o’ my father’s naming-quest. It is very famous. He is called the dragon-laird for, on his naming-quest, he rescued a baby dragon who proved to be the only daughter o’ the dragon-queen. If she had died, the whole race o’ dragons may well have died out, for she was the last female young enough still to breed. As a reward, the queen-dragon gave him the right to call her name, a gesture o’ immense honour and power.’

  It was not long before this tale was told to celebrate Khan’gharad’s return to the prides.

  Then, after a silent exchange with the Firemaker, Iseult quietly made a request of the storyteller in the centre of the circle. As a result, he told next the story of how she herself had won her name. Although not as dramatic as Khan’gharad’s, it was still a story of great courage and daring and Iseult was glad to see a new respect and understanding in the eyes of the MacSeinn and his men.

  Then he spoke of Isabeau’s journey, the tale of She of Many Shapes. Iseult had a particular reason for wanting this story and watched the faces of those in the Pride of the Fighting Cat closely.

  The Pride of the Fighting Cat had always been bitter enemies of the Pride of the Fire-Dragon. An uneasy peace had been settled between them, after Iseult had relinquished her claim as heir to the Firemaker, allowing her second cousin Khan’katrin to replace her. Khan’katrin, as redheaded and blue-eyed as the twins, had always claimed she was the true heir since she was descended from a straight line of daughters. Iseult and Isabeau were the daughters of the Firemaker’s grandson, and for Iseult to have inherited would have meant the breaking of a tradition that had seen the powers and duties of a Firemaker passed from mother to daughter for a thousand years. By naming Khan’katrin her successor, the Firemaker had brought peace between the warring prides and allowed Iseult to marry Lachlan and pursue her destiny away from the Spine of the World.

  Khan’katrin had already found it hard to conceal her anger and suspicion at Iseult’s return, and now, as the storyteller told the story of Isabeau’s naming-quest, her cheeks burnt and her eyes glittered like blue ice. Isabeau had ignominiously defeated the young redheaded warrior in a duel of honour, which Khan’katrin had forced upon her in the hope of killing one of her rivals. Now everyone knew the young heir to the godhead was in geas to Isabeau. Perhaps as importantly, Iseult had made a gift of her name and her twin’s name to the entire race of Khan’cohbans. Such displays of trust and confidence carried with them their own invisible geas.

  They feasted that night and more stories were told. Then when the fires were beginning to die down low, and the children all slept curled up in their furs, the Old Mothers of the seven prides rose and led the way into the forest, followed by the Scarred Warriors, the storytellers and the soul-sages. All wore their cloaks of animal furs, and their faces had been freshly painted with fearsome masks of red and white and black. Behind them strode Khan’gharad, sile
nt as ever, Iseult, and a rather grim-faced Linley MacSeinn. Everyone else had stayed with the warmth and comfort of the fires.

  High on a rock suspended above the river, under the icy stars, the true Gathering occurred. The Old Mothers sat in a circle, with their First Warrior, First Storyteller and Soul-Sage clustered close behind. Here the Firemaker was just one more Old Mother, given no greater precedence than any other. Iseult stood with the others while the long business of the council was undertaken—discussions over trade and hunting rights, concerns over falling birth rates and the turmoil in the weather, the comparison of the visions of the soul-sages and the resolution of many slights and insults.

  At last they invited Iseult to speak. She stood and bowed to all the Old Mothers and thanked them for allowing her to address them. Then she sat with her legs crossed, her spine very straight, her hands upturned on her lap.

  ‘We seek permission to cross the Spine of the World on a matter of great urgency,’ she said. ‘The people of the sea have declared war upon the people of the land and have attacked them many times, inflicting much hurt and damage. As you know, the leader of those of humankind, he who is my husband, wishes to live in peace and amity with people of all kinds. He has extended the hand of friendship to the people of the sea, only to be spurned with grievous insult.’

  She described how the Rìgh’s messenger had been returned to them, horribly maimed. A stir ran over the listening Khan’cohbans, for the snow-faeries took the etiquette of war very seriously indeed. Iseult explained how they planned to strike against the stronghold of the Fairgean from three directions at once, a strategy that met with polite gestures of approval, and then, very carefully, she requested the prides’ assistance.

  At once there was a stir of excitement and consternation. Many of the younger warriors were pleased at the idea. There had been few skirmishes between the prides in recent years, most of their differences being settled at the annual Gathering. They were trained rigorously as warriors but now had no-one but goblins and ogres to fight. Many of the older warriors vetoed the suggestion, however. ‘Who would hunt?’ they asked. ‘Our people would starve.’

  When a natural pause occurred in the discussion Iseult, subtly and with great respect, reminded the Pride of the Grey Wolf how Isabeau had helped one of their children survive his naming-quest. She then reminded the Fighting Cats of Khan’katrin’s geas to Isabeau and how they had challenged her while she was under the protection of the White Gods. The Fighting Cats were ashamed of that memory and shifted uneasily. Khan’katrin herself sat bolt upright, her hands clenched upon her weapons belt. Iseult met her gaze and bowed her head respectfully.

  ‘I know that the sister of my womb has not claimed the debt of honour owed her. It is very important to her to acknowledge the ties of blood between us, which have made foes of us in the past and shall, we all hope, knot us close together in the future.’

  Iseult had difficulty in saying this. She had been raised to consider her second cousin the bitterest of foes. They had always looked for each other on the battlefield and had done their best to kill one another. Sometimes their clashes had reached such a pitch of ferocity that the other warriors had drawn apart to watch, understanding that here was a conflict of honour and so never interfering.

  Such things were hard to forget. Behind it all was Iseult’s knowledge that she was now released from her geas to Lachlan. She had given up her right to the godhead to be with him. All her life she had thought herself destined to be the Firemaker, the sacred gift of the Gods of White to the people of the Spine of the World. She had never truly adjusted to having lost that, even though she had accepted her geas with fortitude, as a Scarred Warrior should. To be free of that geas was a sudden draught of heady liberty. It confused her to have committed her life and her being to one destiny and suddenly to have choices open up for her again.

  In the clean sweeping air of the mountains, their every shape and shadow so dear and familiar to her, her other life seemed unbearably restricting. Iseult had been bound by court etiquette, frowned upon for fighting like a man, for refusing to dress in corsets and petticoats, for keeping her hair bound back and closely covered like a scullery maid. She had found the staid conventionality of Lachlan’s court so exasperating that she had wanted to scream, yet she had bitten down her aggravation and spoken softly and with such good sense that they had had to listen to her. All the time, though, she had longed for the free uncomplicated life of a Scarred Warrior, where one’s gender mattered less than one’s ability. She had missed the bite of icy air, the thrill of skimming down a sheer immaculate slope, the camaraderie that came of winning food for one’s pride when all would have starved without you. She missed the awe and respect that came of being the Firemaker’s heir, the descendant of the Red. She missed being the chosen one of cruel gods.

  Yet Iseult had gone gladly into Lachlan’s embrace. She had recognised and accepted the geas with knowledge of its cost. She had grieved bitterly when he had been cursed and prayed to all gods and any gods for his release. She loved her three children with the low, heavy, passionate intensity of all mothers and felt their absence like the loss of a vital organ, like a slow dying.

  She had been angry when she had ridden away from Lachlan but that anger had grown cold with time and distance. She felt as if she was poised on the brink of a dangerous slope, having to choose which way to skim. If she wished, she could stay in the mountains, resume her life with her own kind, regain the liberty she had lost. She could wrest back the godhead from her second cousin, and be once more the heir to the Firemaker, the gift of the Gods of White. It was clear Khan’katrin read these thoughts in her mind, for her face was stiff with suspicion.

  Iseult was not yet ready to turn her back on Lachlan, however, despite the cold pain of her anger. To leave her children was a wrench almost impossible to imagine, and Iseult had grown to love Meghan and her twin sister Isabeau, and Duncan Ironfist too, the huge captain with the broken nose and tender heart. To leave them would be a betrayal, and so she tried hard to banish thoughts of freedom from her mind, concentrating on the task she had been given. She had given the MacSeinn her word of honour that she would lead him through the mountains and so that is what she must do.

  So she spoke fairly to her second cousin, and used all her skills of diplomacy to persuade the Old Mothers to support her in their cause. She allowed the MacSeinn to speak, translating for him. A proud people with a strong, almost mystical attachment to their land and territory, the Khan’cohbans understood his urge to win back his domain. Many among them made the gesture of sympathy as he struggled to express his feelings, and Iseult saw they had warmed to the idea of helping him.

  At last she obliquely circled back to Khan’katrin, for she saw her as the key in winning the prides’ support. Iseult reminded the council that the Firemaker herself came from a long line of humans and that she had served the people of the snow faithfully for many centuries. She reminded them without speaking of it that both she and Isabeau had given up their claim to the godhead to return to the human world. There was a debt to be paid, she intimated, and saw in Khan’katrin’s eyes that the point had been made.

  Khan’katrin rose to her feet proudly, her red head held high. ‘Whatever the Old Mothers decree, know that I shall travel with you and fight at your side, in payment of my debt to your sister, She of Many Shapes.’

  ‘I thank you,’ Iseult replied. As if Khan’katrin’s words had broken a dyke, many more young warriors leapt to their feet and swore the same, led by the young warrior of the Grey Wolf Pride whom Isabeau had once helped.

  The Old Mothers nodded their white heads together, their lined faces troubled. It was then that the soul-sages were asked to cast the bones and augur the future.

  Iseult had known that no official decision would be made without the soul-sages’ soothsaying. She had both dreaded and longed for their casting. All her clever words would count for nothing if the soul-sages spoke against her. Yet Iseult also longed to
know what lay ahead. She was so troubled in her own heart that any insight into the future would be welcome. So she watched with anxious eyes as the soul-sages spun an ogre’s knucklebone to decide who would be the one favoured to receive the words of the Gods of White this night.

  The Soul-Sage of the Pride of the Snow-Lions was chosen. Iseult felt a measure of relief. He did not have the emotional involvement of the soul-sage of her pride or of their enemies, the Fighting Cats. She sat back a little, as the Soul-Sage slowly and with great ceremony purified his soothsaying bones in the smoke of the fire.

  He was a young man, no more than thirty of the long darknesses, with a gaunt face all angles and bony slopes. The fitful light flickered over his intent features, making his eyes cavernous hollows. His white mane was bound back tightly from his prominent brow, so his horns looked too heavy for his long, slender neck. He was dressed in ulez furs like a child or a servant, but his face was slashed with five arrow-shaped scars and around his neck hung a raven’s claw. Iseult knew he was a man of power.

  For a long time there was silence. A wind was rising, making the trees sing eerily. Overhead the stars burnt in a cold bright vastness, the mountains a ring of blackness below. Their fire seemed very small in all that blowing, sighing darkness. The Soul-Sage cupped his bones in his hand, his head bent, his eyes closed. Iseult wondered if his spirit still dwelt in his body or if he was skimming the night sky above, part of the stately dance of suns and planets and space. Suddenly he threw his hands outwards, the bones and stones within flying out and then falling down into the circle he had scratched in the earth. A little sigh went up from those watching. The Soul-Sage opened his eyes, stared down at the pattern with inscrutable eyes.

  ‘Much darkness lies ahead,’ he said after a long, tense moment. ‘The circle is full of the darkness of death. Fire shall bring water. Water shall bring death. And out of the drowning wave shall rise fire once more and it shall bring life.’ He paused, frowning, pointing at first one pattern of stones and then another. ‘Then shall dreams and waking life collide. Death lies before and death lies after, but in that moment will destinies be broken and remade.’