The Fathomless Caves

by Kate Forsyth

  Iseult said nothing, content to sit and watch her squire as he dropped fragrant leaves and flowers into the melting snow and got out a cup for her. In the dimness he looked more like a great hunched boulder than ever, his blunt features crusted all over with silvery lichen, his one eye like a crack in a stone.

  He brought her the steaming cup and, as she drank, busied himself making porridge and gathering more wood for the fire. By the time she had eaten and was warm again, most of the dream had faded away. The rest of the camp began to stir and Iseult rose and shook off her foreboding like a wolf shaking snow from his coat.

  ‘Looks like we’re in for another storm,’ Khan’gharad said, leaning on his pole and staring off at the clouds pouring in over the edge of the ridge. The wind was shaking the boughs of the pine trees and sending snow skirling about in little white devil-dances. The men all had their hoods up and were bent against the wind as they struggled to pack up the camp. The silvery light of the dawn had faded into a dusk almost as deep as the darkness of night.

  ‘I hope no’,’ Iseult answered. ‘We’re behind schedule. We canna waste any more time sitting out a storm.’

  ‘Ye dinna want to be caught in a blizzard while crossing the heights,’ he answered.

  ‘Aye, I ken, I ken,’ she said. ‘Happen we can climb above it though? It looks low.’

  ‘We can try,’ her father answered. ‘What a shame we do no’ have that hawk o’ your husband’s. It’d be able to fly above the clouds and see if it be fair sky above.’

  At the mention of Lachlan the shadow came back to Iseult’s face. Khan’gharad did not notice, busying himself packing up his knapsack.

  Iseult was very conscious of time trickling away. Lammas had been and gone, and the green months were almost over. Soon the days would begin to grow shorter and Iseult knew, better than anyone, how swiftly winter descended upon the mountains. She wanted to be through the passes and down the other side before the snow began to fall too thickly.

  ‘I can fly up and see,’ she said.

  Khan’gharad looked at her quickly. ‘It be too dangerous.’

  ‘It is more dangerous for us all to be trapped here on this side of the pass,’ she answered. ‘I will no’ fly too high, I promise. I ken I am no gyrfalcon!’

  He nodded and she took off her coat and let it drop to the ground, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Iseult’s ability to fly was not as profound as her mother’s, who flew as swiftly and powerfully as a snow goose. Iseult could only fly with short bursts of speed. She could not hover in the air for more than a few moments, nor fly as high as an eagle. She mainly used her Talent to get downstairs quickly or jump over high walls. Anything more taxed her strength to the utmost.

  She bent her knees and soared up into the air. The wind buffeted her. She had to fight to keep from being thrown back down to the ground. Ice needles drove into the exposed flesh of her face. For a while all was grey and rough and freezing cold, her sight wrapped in mist, then she burst through the canopy of clouds.

  Below her were white billows of cloud stretching as far as the eye could see, dazzling in the sun which poured down from above. All round stood a ring of high mountains, their steep sides grey and bare, their heads crowned with ice. Spindrifts of snow floated from every peak, like an exhalation of warm breath into the radiant blue sky.

  Iseult hung motionless for a moment, gazing about with pleasure, then she felt the weight of the earth dragging her back down. She slid back into the clouds, flailed by hail and sleet, the wind dragging at her strength. She came down faster than she wished, landing with a great splash of snow and an ungraceful ‘Humph!’ as all her breath was knocked out of her body.

  ‘My lady!’ Carrick cried, bending over her and offering her his huge, clumsy hand. ‘Be ye all right?’

  ‘Aye, I be fine,’ she answered breathlessly and let him pull her up. ‘It be clear above the clouds, we should be able to climb out o’ this gale. Let us get moving!’

  All morning they slogged through the storm, hoods pulled close about their faces, the snow soon reaching past their knees. Iseult ordered the men to lash themselves together, for nothing could be seen but white blowing snow and the occasional black thrashing of a tree. The ground began to tilt steeply. Men fell and slid helplessly, and were dragged up to their feet again. Rocky walls rose up all around them, the wind screaming down a long tunnel of ice. They had to cut steps with their axes and hammer in picks to lash their ropes to. Higher and higher they climbed, the ulez straining to drag up the heavy sleds, their broad feet somehow finding purchase on the slippery ice.

  Suddenly Khan’gharad called down, ‘I’m above the storm! Ye were right, Iseult, I can see blue sky.’

  Galvanised with fresh energy the men scrambled up the steep pathway, one by one climbing out onto the shoulder of the mountain. Below them was a tossing sea of white cloud. All around rose the jagged peaks, sharply etched against a crystal clear sky. Immaculate sweeps of snow, unmarked by a single footstep, fell down in graceful folds to their feet, shadowed a deep indigo blue. Iseult took a deep breath, feeling the last phantom of her dream drop away.

  The MacSeinn exclaimed with pleasure. Iseult pointed up to the mountain directly ahead of them, sheer cliffs of snow soaring up on either side. ‘This is the last o’ the mountains,’ she said. ‘When ye step over that peak, my laird, ye will step into Carraig. See that path? We o’ the Khan’cohbans call it the Bridge To Beyond The Known. It marks the end o’ the land of the Gods o’ White.’

  At her words the exhausted men gave a ragged cheer. Khan’gharad turned on them savagely. ‘Ye must be quiet. Do ye no’ see how the snow overhangs us here? Do ye wish to set off an avalanche?’

  They sobered immediately, looking up at the sheer white cliffs in some trepidation. ‘I ken ye are all eager to see the last o’ my homeland,’ Khan’gharad said with the faintest inflection of humour in his voice. ‘But nonetheless, be very careful how ye climb. Try no’ to make any noise, for if ye set the snow to moving, the whole mass o’ it shall come tumbling down.’

  They nodded and he gestured to the Scarred Warriors to lead the way. He and Iseult stood in silence for a time, watching the long procession snaking up the hill.

  ‘Once we have crossed the Bridge To Beyond The Known, ye have fulfilled your promise to show the MacSeinn the way into Carraig,’ Khan’gharad said at last. ‘What shall ye do then, Khan’derin my daughter?’

  Iseult did not reply. She knew what he asked. Khan’gharad, more than anyone, knew what the breaking of her geas to Lachlan meant.

  After a long moment she turned a wretched face towards him and said, ‘I dinna ken, I dinna ken.’

  He nodded his head brusquely. ‘I see. Well, in a few hours more we shall have crossed the Bridge To Beyond The Known. Happen your path will lie clear before ye then.’

  Iseult nodded unhappily. He unstrapped his skimmer from his back, tied it to his boots, and went flying across the snow towards the final ascent, as swift and graceful as a bird. Iseult watched, torn with grief and longing. This was her home, this world of white snow and black shadows, this world of cold purity, cold absolutes. All she had to do was stay here, bid goodbye to the MacSeinn on the threshold of his land, and skim back to her own people. She would have fulfilled her last promise to Lachlan, she would be free.

  Tears stung her eyes. Despite all her best efforts she could not help being haunted by fragments of her dream. Iseult had seen Lachlan and Isabeau, mouth to mouth, body to body, yearning together. She had heard Lachlan ask Isabeau into his bed. She told herself once again that the dream was just a phantom of her mind, an extrusion of her deeply buried jealousy and fear. Lachlan had met Isabeau first, Iseult’s sister who looked as much like her as a reflection in a mirror. He had met Isabeau first, and who was to say he had not fallen in love with her first? Certainly Lachlan had not said so, but he had meant so. Even Duncan Ironfist had seen it, and he was naught but a rough soldier with little knowledge of the ways of the
heart.

  And Iseult had ridden away and left Lachlan alone, all their anger and resentment unresolved, their bodies frustrated from weeks of coldness. She had left him there with Isabeau, her womb-sister, who would travel close beside him for months, with her face like Iseult’s face and her body like Iseult’s body and her straight fearless gaze just like Iseult’s. Lachlan had called Isabeau the most beautiful, bright thing he had ever seen. He had said he tried to hate her, for otherwise he could only love.

  And though Iseult would trust Isabeau with her life, and Lachlan with more, the dream gnawed away at her like an insect at a leaf. Round and round her thoughts went, reassuring herself that Lachlan loved her and only her, that it was not enough for Isabeau to look like her, Isabeau was not her, telling herself it was only a dream, only a silly dream. The last of the Scarred Warriors passed her, and Iseult began to climb in their tracks, hardly aware of the darkening of the indigo shadows, the rise of the bitter wind, too caught up in the tumult of her mind.

  Up the slope she toiled, not noticing that she was far behind the others, not noticing the creeping of cloud upon her footsteps. The sun dropped down behind the peak, its light blotted out. Darkness closed in upon the valley, upon the small figure alone on the steep fall of snow. There was a low mutter of thunder. Again it came, louder, more insistent.

  Iseult looked up. All at once she realised she had been left far behind. The light was gone, there was a strange purple dusk lying heavy on the valley. She began to climb more swiftly. Again came that low, angry growl of thunder. It rolled around the valley. Suddenly, a livid slash of lightning. Iseult’s heart constricted. The snow beneath her feet was trembling. There was a strange dull roar that rose up to meet the thunder, engulfed it. She looked up and saw the cliff of snow rearing above her like an enormous wave. The ground beneath her feet shuddered and heaved. Iseult was flung down. With a gasp she scrambled to her feet, launched herself into the air. Iseult had already flown high that day, however, and climbed a mountain and fought a nightmare. She did not have the strength to soar above the avalanche. With a boom like the clash of a god’s cymbals, the mountain fell down upon her and swept her away into darkness.

  After leaving Dide in the darkness, watching over his sleeping master, Isabeau made her way back to her own bed but still she could not settle. No matter how hard she tried to disengage her mind, it rattled round and round on the same rutted road. At last, in the chill of the dawn, she got up, straightened her tangled bedclothes and finished her packing. When the castle began to stir, she went downstairs and made herself some hot tea, which helped warm and revive her, then took up some breakfast for Meghan. The old sorceress exclaimed over the shadows under her eyes,

  ‘Could ye no’ sleep?’ she asked. ‘Silly lass, your last night in a real bed for weeks! Why could ye no’ sleep?’

  Isabeau shrugged. ‘Who kens?’ she answered. The old sorceress scanned her face with keen eyes but said no more, and Isabeau busied herself packing up her belongings and checking over the medicinal supplies with Johanna the Mild.

  Isabeau saw both Lachlan and Dide in the outer bailey as they mounted up, ready for the ride through the city. Both were pale and tired-looking, the Rìgh obviously nursing a bad headache and an ever worse temper. Isabeau ducked back inside the corridor before they saw her, her heart lurching uncomfortably. Even though she knew she would have to see them eventually, she found herself quite unable to go out and greet them and pretend nothing had happened. Isabeau waited for the Blue Guards to trot out through the long tunnel before stepping out herself. Finding the bustle and noise of the courtyard almost too much to bear, she climbed up into the carriage and buried herself in a book in the hope no-one would speak to her until she had regained her composure.

  Brun hopped up beside her, the collection of rings and spoons about his neck jingling. He had put off his green velvet doublet and wore the same rough clothes of most of the other soldiers in the Rìgh’s army, covered with one of the grey cloaks that gave the troops their nickname. The cloaks had all been woven through with spells of concealment and camouflage, making it difficult to see the wearer when they crept through long grasses or hid behind rocks.

  The cluricaun observed Isabeau with bright brown eyes, his ears pricked forward. ‘Though o’ many faces, it is no revealer o’ secrets,’ he said. ‘The two-faced one is the one to show the secret. The secrets o’ its face shall confide in ye, and ye will hear it wi’ the eye as long as ye are looking.’

  ‘What on earth?’

  Grinning, the cluricaun repeated his words, touching her book with one hairy paw. Isabeau stared at him blankly for a moment before she caught his meaning. ‘Och, it’s a riddle,’ she said. ‘I see, ye mean my book. The two-faced one is the open page, the secrets o’ its face are the words. That’s very clever, Brun, I’ve no’ heard that one afore.’

  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.