The Fathomless Caves

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Never mind, dearling,’ Isabeau said. ‘Just ignore them. They do no’ ken any better.’

  ‘Why are they so mean?’ the little girl whispered. ‘That woman called me a slimy frog? I’m no’ a frog!’

  ‘Ye must no’ mind what they say, dearling. People are afraid o’ what they do no’ ken, and when they are afraid they strike out, to try to make themselves feel bigger and braver. It does no’ work, but for a wee while they feel better. But then the feeling fades and all they feel is smaller and more afraid than before. That is why ye must no’ say anything back. It willna do any good, and afterwards ye will just feel small and mean yourself.’

  ‘But why are they afraid? Why do they hate me?’

  Isabeau chose her words with care. ‘Ye are one quarter Fairgean, Bronwen, and you bear your ancestry in your face. Your mother’s people are the enemies o’ your father’s people. They have fought many, many wars over the years and there is much mistrust and hatred between them. It is easier to fight someone if ye can hate them, and to hate them, ye must make them seem different to you, lesser. That’s why they call ye a frog, or a fish, because it makes ye less like them. What ye need to do is show them that ye are really just like them underneath, even though ye have fins and gills and can change shape and swim underwater.’

  Bronwen was silent, though her full bottom lip jutted out and her eyes were swimming with angry tears. Isabeau pulled her close but the little girl shrugged her away. Unhappily Isabeau let her go. Isabeau had not given any thought to what it would be like for Bronwen, part-Fairge in a land where the Fairgean were hated. When she had decided to bring Bronwen back to Eileanan, she had thought only of the positive results of her actions. She had imagined Lachlan coming to love his niece, as surely he must once he knew her. Even deeper had been the hope that Bronwen would in some way be instrumental in bringing about a true peace in the land, standing as she did between two worlds, two cultures.

  Isabeau had barely acknowledged her deeper, more personal reasons. The fact was she had missed Bronwen with an empty ache in the hollow of her shoulder where the little girl’s head used to lie. She had only ever given Bronwen back to her mother so Maya would break the curse she had laid on Lachlan. Isabeau had not found it hard to find reasons to take the little girl back again.

  Yet Bronwen was unhappy. The little girl was very sensitive to the thoughts and emotions of others, and all about her were only suspicion and dislike. Her uncle Lachlan had said little about her presence, but he regarded her coldly whenever he saw her and Isabeau was careful to keep Bronwen out of his way. Lachlan’s court whispered behind their hands and stared at Bronwen’s gills. Even Meghan thought Isabeau had been unwise in bringing her. She shook her straggly white head when Isabeau insisted that Maya had had a change of heart, saying merely that the Fairge had always had a great deal of charm.

  Only Donncan persisted in his warm admiration for his part-Fairge cousin. Now that Neil travelled in his parents’ retinue, Donncan had no other competitors for her attention. They played together happily in the evenings while the servants set up the tents and prepared their dinner, and whiled away the long wearisome hours of travelling with word games, cards or trictrac. Only rarely did they squabble, even though they were cooped up in a stuffy carriage all day, soldiers riding close all around.

  The Greycloaks had been marching through Tìrsoilleir for several weeks now, able to make good time once the swamps of Arran were left behind. Isabeau was most excited about travelling through Tìrsoilleir, having often wondered about the land beyond the Great Divide. The Forbidden Land looked much like anywhere else, however. Softly rounded hills slid down into valleys where slow wide rivers wound their way towards the sea. Villages were small, cottages clustered close together about a green square where chickens pecked and goats were tethered to graze. In the larger towns the rattle-watch called out the hours, the mill ground grain into flour, and people went about their daily business with the same sure routine as country folk anywhere. The only difference between Tìrsoilleir and Blèssem that Isabeau could see was that here, in the Forbidden Land, every village and town had its kirk.

  Built of stone, the kirks were constructed in a cruciform shape, crowned with tall spires that pierced the sky like a sword. From the hilltops one could locate every village for miles about by their spires which towered above tree and rooftop, competing with each other for height. Used as she was to the round domes of the Coven, Isabeau found the sharp-pointed spires strange and a little frightening. Elfrida said that the builders of the kirks were all trying to get closer to their god, who lived in the heavens. Isabeau thought it looked like they were trying to stab him.

  At least twice a day the villagers put down their work and filed into the dim interior of the kirk, which was plain and white and cold, with uncomfortable pews of dark wood. Meghan, Isabeau and Gwilym had covered their witch gowns with heavy cloaks and gone in secret to one kirk meeting, curious about this religion that was so different to their own.

  Dressed in a black cassock as austere as their gowns, the pastor had shouted out his sermon from a high wooden pulpit, his eyes alight with fervour. He had spoken of justice and retribution, of terrible punishment in a pit of everlasting fire, of torture that would never end. Isabeau had been sickened and frightened, and Meghan angry. Gwilym had had to seize the old witch’s arm to stop her from leaping up and arguing with the pastor. The Keybearer’s eyes had been flashing as they hurried away from the meeting, her voice cracking with emotion.

  ‘I canna believe they sit there and listen to that every day!’ she cried. ‘No wonder they are so ready to die on the battlefield when their lives are so full o’ fear and misery. Isabeau, we need to teach them that they do no’ need to suffer in order to achieve some unreal vision o’ happiness in some unreal paradise when they die!’

  Talking all the way back to the camp, Meghan had been the most animated that Isabeau had seen in months. Every town the army passed thereafter, the old sorceress insisted on going in and climbing upon a box in the village green to explain the ways and beliefs of the Coven. Isabeau and the other witches accompanied her, along with those faeries in Lachlan’s retinue, including Brun, Sann the corrigan, the wild-eyed satyricorns who had formed their own company in the army, and a handful of bogfaeries serving Iain of Arran and his friends.

  For the first time in many years the Rìgh’s army was accompanied by thirteen witches and sorcerers, creating a full circle of power. Apart from Meghan, Isabeau, Arkening and Gwilym, the ring of power included Nellwyn Sea-singer, who had a wonderful mezzo-soprano voice, full of emotion and candour. When she and Enit sang together, silver and golden voices weaving together, they could bring a room of hard-bitten soldiers to tears.

  A deep friendship had sprung up between Nellwyn and Enit, much to everyone’s surprise. All knew Enit had a deep aversion to using the songs of sorcery, having been sickened by the Yedda’s use of their powers in the past. The two women had travelled together for some months, however, and had much in common. Even though Enit remained adamant that she would not use her powers to murder, she had been convinced to lend her considerable natural powers to the Coven once again.

  Brangaine NicSian had also lent them her powers, as had Iain of Arran. It had been decided that Iain’s magical Talents far exceeded his fighting ability and so he no longer rode into battle beside the Rìgh if his powers were needed by the witches. Isabeau knew this decision had greatly relieved Elfrida’s fears.

  The witches were Toireasa the Seamstress; Riordan Bowlegs; a fat, merry witch called Stout John; and a newly fledged witch from Siantan called Stormy Briant, who had a strong Talent with weather, a most useful power. His younger brother, Cailean o’ Shadowswathe, had been taken on by Meghan as her new apprentice and so accompanied the old sorceress everywhere, an enormous black shadow-hound slinking along at his heels. Since he was much the same age as Jay the Fiddler, the two young apprentices had struck up a close friendship and were often to be seen toget
her.

  The last witch to make up the circle was Didier Laverock, the earl of Caerlaverock, who had once been only Dide the Juggler. Although Dide, like Enit, had never formally joined the Coven, he had been persuaded to join Isabeau in her studies with the older sorcerers. He proved to be a very clever and capable witch, strong enough to have sat his Sorcerer Test if only he would accept the strict discipline of the Coven.

  Isabeau found herself growing closer than ever to the black-eyed young earl, walking with him in the evenings as they argued about some point of philosophy, or listening to him play and sing. Of all her companions Dide was the closest to her in age and shared her love of music and stories, the forest and its creatures, her sense of adventure and her love of the ridiculous. Sometimes Isabeau felt the easy camaraderie between them warming into something deeper but she always withdrew, though she would have been unable to explain why. Now that she was a sorceress and ripening towards her full powers, there was no reason for her not to explore a deeper intimacy. Something held her back, though, some imprecise fear that troubled her. ‘Let’s no’ spoil our friendship,’ she said to Dide when his teasing turned too warm, his gaze too intent. Once she said, slipping from his grasp, ‘It’s no’ the time, Dide, ye ken that. We ride to war, have ye forgotten?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ he had retorted, anger springing into his eyes. ‘I have done naught else but fight, all my life. Sometimes I think we shall never have peace. We should seize what we can now, for we could be dead tomorrow.’

  Isabeau had been unable to reply, choked with hot, unexpected tears. She had shaken her head and pushed him away, and he had sprung up and gone, angrier than she had ever seen him. When she had seen him next, though, he had been as easy with her as if nothing had happened, but he had not again tried to kiss her or teased her with that devilish intentness in his eyes. Isabeau told herself it was better that way, and tried not to feel a little sting of disappointment.

  Since the General Assembly had been overthrown and Elfrida NicHilde had been crowned, most of Tìrsoilleir had accepted the new order peaceably. Many had welcomed it. Lachlan was received everywhere with awe and joy, for he was seen as the living messenger of the Tìrsoilleirean sky god. People fell to their knees when he rode by and children were held up for him to bless. Elfrida too was welcomed with cheers and bouquets of flowers and the waving of her red and gold banner.

  Despite their acceptance of the restoration of the monarchy, few Tìrsoilleirean approved of Lachlan’s Decree against the Persecution of Faeries, nor the Restoration of the Coven. There was also much fear that the new order would oppress those who had worshipped in the kirks, despite all Lachlan’s proclamations to the contrary.

  So no matter how enthusiastic the response to Lachlan, it always turned chill when the crowd saw Meghan, Isabeau and the other witches with their long white robes and tall staffs. Often the reaction was violent. Isabeau was rather shocked by how much disgust and loathing were evident in the faces and thoughts of those Tìrsoilleirean she met. She had expected fear and mistrust, but not revulsion. She knew long-held prejudices were difficult to overcome and so she tried not to blame the Tìrsoilleirean too much. She did blame herself, however, for bringing Bronwen into contact with it. And the closer they came to the coast, the more violent the antipathy would be, especially towards the Fairgean, and so the greater the danger of harm to Bronwen.

  The Greycloaks forded the Alainn River early the next day and pressed on towards Bride, the capital of Tìrsoilleir. The villages grew larger and closer together, until the breaks of fields and orchards were rare among the houses and shops and kirks. Isabeau noticed that there were no taverns on the corners, as there would have been in any other land in Eileanan. Instead, there was now a kirk every few blocks, some with steeples so tall it looked as if they must topple over and crush the smaller buildings all around. The lazy curves of the river were built close with jetties, wharves and warehouses, and boats and barges of all kinds were rowed or poled about on its smooth waters.

  They came over a hill and saw a great city laid out on the shores of a wide harbour. It was crowded with spires and towers, many gilded so that they gleamed in the fitful sunshine. Isabeau leant out of the window of their carriage, fascinated. The twins hung out beside her, clamouring with excitement, and Donncan and Bronwen hung out the other side. Even Meghan leant forward to see the fabled city of Bride more clearly. The cavaliers rode close on either side and she waved them away irritably. ‘Move over, man! I’ve seen enough o’ your horse’s rump this past month, let me see the view, for Eà’s sake!’

  The cavalier spurred his horse away with a grin and Meghan stared out for a long time, unable to help showing her amazement and wonder. Bride had been hidden beyond the Great Divide for most of her supernaturally long life. She had never thought to see it. At last she sat back with a sigh and said to Isabeau, ‘Well, the Mesmerdean could take me now and I wouldna mind a bit. To think I’d live to see Bride!’

  Isabeau smiled and nodded, even though the old sorceress’s words cut deep. Meghan read her thoughts as always and smiled grimly. ‘Och, ye have a few more months o’ me yet, my bairn. Make the most o’ it!’

  The long cavalcade of infantrymen, cavaliers, supply wagons and carriages clattered in through the city gates and through a long, heavily guarded tunnel. Beyond the high, grim walls, houses crowded onto the streets, which were filled with garbage, sewage running down the gutters. Although the main thoroughfare was wide, a tangle of dark, mean-looking streets twisted away on either side, all overshadowed by the immense spire of the High Kirk which crouched on a hill in the centre of the city surrounded by yet another high, heavily guarded wall.

  Many curious, anxious faces stared at them from windows and doors. At first the mood was one of trepidation but as the soldiers waved and smiled, the bagpipes skirled and the drums boomed, the people of the city began to come out to look and marvel. Quite a few waved their aprons and cheered, and children ran alongside, shouting with excitement. All were dressed very plainly, in black or grey, with their hair dragged back and rough wooden sabots on their feet.

  Lachlan’s piper led the procession, playing a martial tune, followed by a small marching band of drummers and fiddlers, Dide and Jay among them. Lachlan’s squire Connor proudly carried the Rìgh’s standard, a crowned white stag on a green background, while the Rìgh rode slowly forward on his great black stallion, his magnificent wings folded, the white gyrfalcon riding on his gauntleted wrist. Iain and Elfrida rode beside him, waving to the crowd and accepting their accolades with smiles and nods. Elfrida looked very young and beautiful upon her dainty white palfrey, and the cheers grew loudest as she passed. Her standard-bearer was a local boy and he was swollen with pride as he held high the flag of the MacHildes, a golden sword held aloft by a gauntleted fist on a scarlet background.

  The deeper into the city they marched, the more joyous grew the reception. Hundreds of people thronged the highway, making the army’s progress very slow indeed. Dusk pressed down upon them. Lanterns were kindled along the road and on the sides of the carriages. The roofs of the houses pressed so close over the street that no moon or stars could be seen. The air was fetid, causing Donncan and Bronwen to choke and cover their noses as they peered out the windows. The twins fell asleep with their heads on Isabeau’s lap, and at last even the older children drooped and rested their heads against each other’s shoulders.

  At last they came to another high wall, as strongly protected as those encircling the city. Beyond that wall were many parks and fine mansions, their windows all blazing with lights. Although crowds lined the avenue or leant out of the windows, throwing streamers and flowers, the road was much wider here and so the cavalcade was at last able to pick up speed. They came to the last of the city’s three walls and passed through yet another dark tunnel, the horses’ hooves booming. By now Isabeau was yawning so widely her jaws cracked, but still she peered out the carriage window, eager to see everything. They passed the Hi
gh Kirk, its hundreds of spires all lit up against the night sky and then, some time later, drove through a magnificent set of gates, with the shield of the MacHilde clan set upon them. Beyond stretched only darkness, though in the flickering light of the torches carried by their outriders, Isabeau could see they were driving down a long straight avenue lined with blossoming trees.

  At last they came to the palace. Isabeau received a confused impression of many tall turrets, all topped with cone-shaped roofs, before the weary horses dragged the carriage in through the castle gates and into the gatehouse. Here they were asked to step down out of the carriage. Rather hesitantly they did so. The buildings towering about were so grim and militant-looking, the guards in their white surcoats so stern, that even Isabeau could not help feeling a little apprehensive. Meghan stepped down willingly enough, though, scorning the hand offering to help her, and so Isabeau clambered down too.

  She had first to wake the children, the twins beginning to wail from tiredness. Maura Nursemaid, the bogfaery hired to attend them, tried without success to quieten them. She was only young, born and bred in the marshes of Arran, and she had never before left her home. As shy and timid as most bogfaeries, she found her new role very intimidating indeed. Isabeau took Olwynne into her arms and patted her back to sleep against her shoulder. Maura tried to imitate her, but Owein’s wails turned into angry roars.

  The cavaliers were milling about on one side of the courtyard. Isabeau saw Lachlan among them, his dusty cloak flung back, his sweaty curls hanging on his forehead. He turned at the sound of Owein’s angry cries and started towards them, Isabeau’s heart lifting at the sight of him. He took Owein in his arms, rocking him gently, and the little boy at last stopped crying, though he clung very tightly to his father’s neck.

  ‘How are ye yourselves?’ the Rìgh asked tersely.