by Kate Forsyth
He looked down at the pattern for a very long time, then slowly swept up the bones and purified them once more. One stone he cradled in his hand thoughtfully. It was a moss agate with the fossilised shape of a bird’s skull delicately etched upon its smooth green surface. He weighed it in his hand and suddenly pointed at the MacSeinn.
‘He says that ye will fail in your endeavour,’ Iseult translated, ‘but that if ye accept that the world has turned, ye will find peace and plenty. If ye struggle to put together a broken stone it will crumble in your hand, but if ye sharpen the broken edges ye will make an arrowhead.’
‘What does that mean?’ the MacSeinn said blankly.
‘It is a riddle,’ Iseult said. ‘It means accept what ye are given and make something o’ it. Otherwise ye will lose all.’
A sort of despair settled down over the MacSeinn’s face. Iseult said gently, ‘He sees peace and plenty ahead for ye, remember. It may just mean that ye shall no’ find things as ye remember, that ye must settle for a broken stone, no’ a whole one. Do no’ despair.’
The MacSeinn gripped the crowned harp badge in his hand, saying nothing.
There was much low muttering among the gathered Khan’cohbans as the Soul-Sage finished purifying his bones, pouring them back into his pouch and tying the drawstrings tight. Iseult felt her body tense. The words of the soothsayer had not been as positive as she had hoped, but there was always death ahead, the council knew that. She waited patiently. The Old Mothers muttered together, the First Warriors leaning over to make their points with emphatic gestures. At last the Firemaker turned to her and said, ‘It is done. The people of the Gods of White have heard the gods’ message. You may cross our lands on your way, and any warriors who so choose may accompany you with our blessing.’
Iseult sighed in relief. She translated for the MacSeinn and watched the fire come back into his eyes. He struck one fist into the other and cried, ‘Now we shall surely win! Death to the Fairgean!’
Waves reared up all around, frothing with white. The pod of Fairgean warriors swam strongly through the green swell, occasionally leaping out of the water with a great thwack of their muscular tails. Prince Nila sat astride the neck of his sea-serpent, watching without pleasure. Although the sun glittered in the spray like sea-diamonds, he felt as if he was sunk in the black depths of the octopus pit, slimy tentacles dragging him ever deeper.
He had lost Fand, the half-human slave girl who had been his childhood playmate and was now the true love of his heart. To save him, she had revealed her telepathic powers to his father the king and had been given to the cruel and enigmatic Priestesses of Jor. They had done terrible things to her, had washed her mind and soul away and turned her into a vessel for dreadful powers. There was nothing left of the girl he loved. Now every breathing moment was black with despair.
It was not just losing Fand. It was not just the bitter shame of having failed to save her. As dark as the sorrow and guilt, and far far colder, was the ominous shadow of fear that hung over him everywhere he went. His dreams were filled with the echo of the priestesses chanting. Every night he woke in a sweat of terror and then lay there, dreading sleep, dreading daybreak, haunted by what he had seen and heard. The past month had been the most difficult of his entire life, even though the death of four more of his brothers had seen him promoted to leader of his own pod, with his own sea-serpent. Once he would have been overjoyed. Now he felt only leaden misery.
His brothers had been killed during the attack on the human stronghold on the shore of the southern sea. Nila had fought at his father’s command during that attack, had fought with fierce desperation even though he knew the assault was doomed to failure. Nila had been sickened to the depths of his being by that assault. It was one thing to kill in defence of oneself, or to drive people away from a stretch of soft sand so exhausted children could sleep in safety for a night. It was quite another to attack without warning, to kill without mercy, to murder children and young women and men without weapons, people who a moment before had been laughing and dancing. Nila knew that such an evil act could only bring bitter reprisals.
Yet if he had refused to fight he would have been executed for cowardice and insubordination. Nila wanted to die. He had no wish to live a life without joy or love or tenderness. Yet he did not want to die without honour, branded a coward. So he had sought death on the battlefield. Four of his brothers had died that night, and yet somehow Nila had lived. And for his reckless disregard for life, Nila had at last won his father’s regard, and had been made a jaka, rider of the sea-serpent. There was no higher honour for a Fairge warrior.
Under his command were forty warriors. Ten were ralisen, or riders of the ralis, a creature of sea, loch and river that had the ability to swell to almost twice its normal size when threatened. With skin of glistening dark green, the ralis had a long, looping tail split at the end, and broad flippers tipped with two hard claws. A crested mane surrounded its long snout, lying flat upon its strong curving neck when at rest. When the ralis was swollen to its largest size, this crest stood up all round its face, a vivid blood-red colour fading to orange at the black spiked edge. These spikes were poisonous. A mere scratch from a ralis’s crest was enough to kill a sea-serpent. As a result the ralisen were formidable warriors when fighting at sea, for their mounts fought with them with claw and teeth and crest.
The remaining thirty warriors swam alongside in their full sea-shape, able to dive under an enemy and come up on the other side. Called the zasha, they had to be very strong swimmers to keep up with the sea-serpent and ralis who could swim very fast indeed. The zasha were the first ones to change into their land-shape and set foot upon the shore, to search for food for their jaka and find a safe place for him to rest. They had to be ferocious fighters to survive long enough to be promoted to ralisen, for they were the first rank of any pod to meet attack. Few could ever hope to become a jaka.
From his vantage point high on the sea-serpent’s neck Nila could see for many miles. Far to the north he saw a flash of silver. He shaded his tired eyes and stared to the horizon. The flash came again. A curve of a silvery body. The flip of a frilled tail. It was a Fairge that swam there alone. Nila frowned. Fairgean never swam alone. The seas were far too dangerous. There were wild sea-serpents and deep-sea monsters of much greater ferocity, sharks and doom-eels, riptides and reefs. The Fairgean always swam in well-organised pods; everyone had their place and all must serve it.
He gave a high-pitched whistle and raised his arm. Two of the ralisen answered his call and set off in swift pursuit, the snouts of their steeds held high above the waves. The rest of the pod wheeled and followed at a more sedate pace.
Nila could clearly see the convulsion of anxiety that passed over the lone Fairge’s body when she heard his whistle. She was pushing along one of the long narrow canoes the slave women used to carry supplies on the long sea journey. At the sound of the whistles, she abandoned the canoe and began to undulate through the water at a tremendous pace. Her wake creamed long and white behind her, her tail thrashing the waves into spume. Nila’s frown deepened. He whistled again, long and high. Two more of the ralisen broke away from the pod to pursue and capture her. It was clear this lone Fairge was not someone who had been swept away from her pod by a freakish rip. She sought to escape him, which meant she could be a runaway slave or concubine. Although all his sympathies were aroused, Nila could not let her escape.
The ralis were powerful swimmers, their broad flippers and long looping tail pushing them through the waves at a far swifter pace than the Fairge woman could manage. They closed upon her swiftly. Suddenly she turned upon them, floating upright in the water. Nila could see her white face and the long flowing black hair. The ralisen surrounded her. To Nila’s surprise they seemed to be listening to her. They swayed upon their steeds’ backs, and then slowly toppled over and sank beneath the waves. The ralis sank also, the waves closing over their glistening backs, their orange frilled crests.
For a
moment Nila was frozen in surprise. The Fairge woman plunged on through the waves, increasing the distance between them. Then Nila gave a sequence of furious whistles. The Fairge had sung his men below the waves! This was no ordinary slave. She had to be captured. It was not sufficient to just surround her and seize her, however. This woman had the power of enchantment in her voice. She could kill them all.
He sent some of his remaining warriors to dive under the waves in search of their drowning comrades, and instructed the others to muffle their ears with their fur cloaks. He only hoped it would be sufficient to stop the sound of the enchanted singing. A few more men were sent to retrieve the canoe, now bobbing about erratically on the waves. When they brought it to him his sense of wonder increased. Within was a large, iron-bound chest, a small lap-harp fashioned in the human way, tools and weapons made of iron, a red velvet dress. These were the sort of wrack washed up on the shore after a sea-serpent had wrecked one of the humans’ ships. It was not what one expected to find within a slave’s canoe.
The Fairge woman fought her capture desperately. She managed to drown a few more of Nila’s warriors by dragging away their cloaks as she sang, or by stabbing them with a knife she wore at her belt. At last the warriors overpowered her, however, and she was dragged, her mouth tightly gagged, to where Nila waited on his sea-serpent.
The first thing that struck him was her enduring beauty, even though she was past forty and there was grey in her silky black hair. She was thin to the point of gauntness but if anything this only emphasised the strength of the bones beneath the delicately lined skin. One cheek was marred by a fine spiderweb of scars but her ice-blue eyes had lost none of their brilliance. She stared at him defiantly, her webbed hands clenched into fists.
‘Leave us!’ he said sharply to the warriors. They protested, and he drew his dagger and laid it against her throat. ‘If she sings, I shall cut her a new mouth,’ he said indifferently. Reluctantly they drew away, working to revive the unconscious warriors dragged from the sea. Nila wheeled the sea-serpent about, the Fairge held hard against his knee. The great beast undulated away until none could overhear their conversation. Then he released the iron-hard grip on her and let drop the knife.
‘Maya,’ he said.
She stiffened all over, staring at him with frightened eyes.
‘It is me, your brother,’ he said. ‘Nila.’
‘Nila? Little Nila?’
‘Not so little now.’
She stared at him closely, noting the newly grown tusks, the black pearl on his breast, the jewels in his hair and on his belt, the rich fur of his cloak. ‘No, not so little any more. You are a man now.’
He was scowling at her. ‘What do you do here? Where have you been for so long?’
‘Trying to stay alive,’ she answered.
His scowl deepened. ‘Then what do you do here, swimming in these seas? We swim north again, home for the winter. Do you not realise our father the King is enraged at your failure to break the power of the human witches? He has pronounced the death sentence upon you.’
‘I thought he would.’
‘Then why do you swim here?’
‘I am following my daughter.’
‘Your daughter?’ Unconsciously Nila’s voice held all the scorn for women that every male of his race felt.
Maya’s face hardened. ‘Yes, my daughter,’ she snapped.
‘But why?’
There was silence for a moment. ‘I love her,’ Maya said at last. ‘I did not think I would but I do, more than I would have thought possible.’ She shifted a little uneasily and then said, with her head raised proudly, ‘Besides, in her rests my only chance for survival.’
‘So you swim north now, when all the pods are on the move? That is no way to survive. Do you not know what he would do to you if he caught you?’
‘Has he not caught me now?’ she said huskily. ‘Are you not your father’s son?’
Nila’s eyes fell. One hand came up to cup the black pearl hanging on his breast.
‘I hate him,’ she whispered. ‘I hate him so very much. I warn you now, I would kill him if ever I fell into his power again.’
Nila was silent for a moment and then he said, very low, ‘I hate him too.’ Never before had he allowed the dark passion in the pit of his belly to take shape and be uttered. He felt at once a great release, and then, sharper than ever, the fear that rode with him always.
They were silent for a moment, rising and dropping with the natural swell and fall of the waves. The sea-serpent grazed calmly on a dark tangle of kelp.
Nila said swiftly, incoherently, ‘You must take care, Maya. He plans—the priestesses plan—something dreadful. Everything that lives upon the ground shall die, not just humans but all creatures. He plans to raise a tidal wave and drown the land …’
‘When?’ Maya was paler than ever, lines graven deep into her brow.
‘They said something about harnessing the power of the fire comet. Fand …’
‘Fand, the little slave girl?’
‘She is a Priestess of Jor now. They have turned her into something horrible. She speaks … She speaks with the voice of …’ He hesitated, then said with a voice stifled with dread. ‘She speaks with the voice of Kani. They have called upon the powers of Kani!’
Maya looked white and sick. ‘The poor child,’ she said involuntarily, remembering her own years upon the Isle of Divine Dread.
‘Our father grows confident now. We struck a cruel blow against the humans in their very stronghold. Many were killed. Four of our brothers, but many hundreds of them. They will strike back at us now but we are ready, more ready than we have ever been. We lure the humans into a trap.’
‘Four of our brothers killed?’
‘Just recently. Seven in this past year. I am now the tenth son.’ Nila gave a cruel grin and lifted the black pearl upon his breast. ‘Jor sent this to me, and it has saved my life more than once. Even my father respects me now, and seeks to win my favour with sea-serpents and jewels. But it is too late. I hate him!’ This time the words burst out of him. ‘I hate them all! I hope they all die.’
For a moment his hand closed so tightly about the black pearl it seemed he would crush it to powder. Then he released it and glanced quickly back at the pod of warriors, floating only a small distance away and watching curiously.
‘So you see, you must go far, far away from here, else you will be drowned too,’ he said rapidly. ‘Forget your daughter, she is more parts human than Fairgean anyway. She will drown with the others. Swim south and you shall be safe. Now you must sing. Open your mouth and sing me to sleep like you did the others. They will not let the tenth son of the king drown.’
She hesitated and he said harshly, ‘Do you not remember I was born with a caul over my head? I shall not die by drowning, I promise you. Sing!’
She nodded, her eyes fixed on his, as pale as moonlit water. Then she took a deep breath and sang.
For a moment he listened, entranced. As deep as the voice of the ocean, as hypnotic, her voice lulled him into warmth, into darkness. He felt himself fall, felt the waves close over his head, felt himself sink. For a long moment there was only the black abyss of sleep. Then suddenly light was surging all around him, he was gasping and coughing for air, he was retching up water.
‘My prince, my prince, are ye alive?’ One of his ralisen leant over him, cradling Nila in his strong arms, his tusked face anxious.
Nila nodded, coughing. For now …
‘She be a Fairge! Look, a blaygird sea-faery!’ Isabeau spun around, her hand tightening on Bronwen’s. A man stood pointing at them, his face suffused with anger. At his words cries of shock and outrage rose from the villagers crowded around the market stalls.
‘Ye can see her gills. How disgusting!’
‘What does a slimy frog like her be doing here? How dare they bring her?’
‘Look, that be a witch wi’ her! See her rings and staff.’
‘She got an owl riding on he
r shoulder! Mam, look at the wee white owl.’
‘And look at that hairy wee demon!’
‘They be uile-bheistean, all o’ them!’
Brun’s ears flickered unhappily and he clutched the little jangle of rings and spoons hanging around his neck. Isabeau pulled the little girl back against her as the mood of the crowd grew uglier. A few of the men hefted tools in their hands as if they were weapons. One or two bent and picked up stones from the ground, and all pressed closer, muttering ominously. Isabeau was suddenly very glad of the guards who stepped close around them, hands on their sword hilts.
Suddenly someone threw a sharp-pointed stone. Isabeau deflected it so that it fell harmlessly to the ground. There was a hiss of outrage. ‘She works sorcery!’
Quietly Isabeau said to the sergeant in charge, ‘We had best go back to the camp, I think.’
‘Aye, my lady,’ he said with a swift salute and gestured to his men.
With the villagers glowering angrily from every side, the small party moved quickly through the crowded marketplace. A few apples were flung, and then an old cabbage. Isabeau caught the apples deftly and bit into one with a friendly grin, tossing the stall owner a copper coin in payment. The mouldy cabbage she sent back to the stall from which it came, settling it back gently among the other vegetables. A few in the crowd grinned. Most just stared suspiciously, holding their children close or pulling them from the path.
‘Do no’ let her lay her evil eye on ye,’ they whispered. ‘She be a witch!’
Isabeau looked down at her empty basket ruefully. ‘Och well, at least we got some apples,’ she said to Bronwen. The little girl did not smile. Her cheeks were crimson, her pale eyes glittering with tears. Isabeau smoothed back her silky hair with a gentle hand.
