The Fathomless Caves

by Kate Forsyth

  So now Isabeau was making her way through the army camp to the shore, her thin red brows drawn together in a frown. Twilight was enfolding the harbour in a warm violet light and all the men were busy settling in for the evening. The army encampment filled most of the valley with rows of twinkling campfires and low, grey tents. Raising a forest of masts against the darkening sky was the royal fleet of ships, anchored in the wide sweep of the bay. Tomorrow the army would set sail for Carraig, but tonight the soldiers enjoyed their last night on solid ground. Barrels of whisky had been rolled out and shared around, and a herd of sheep had been slaughtered and roasted slowly over the fires. The sweet smell of burning flesh made Isabeau sick to the stomach.

  There was a burst of laughter from one circle of men, and Isabeau glanced their way before hurrying on. She had to use every trick she had ever been taught to pass through that bustling, rowdy camp unnoticed. Isabeau had been taught by Meghan of the Beasts, though, and so was as silent and unobtrusive as a shadow.

  Somewhere someone was playing a guitar and singing, rough voices joining in the sentimental chorus. Beyond the camp the forest pressed close upon the brow of the hill, the foliage black against the twilight sky. In her dark green dress, her bright hair covered with a dark shawl, Isabeau passed silently through the line of sentries and disappeared into the shadows.

  Down on the shore the last of the light lingered. Waves rushed and flowed, leaving scallops of foam like lace on the sand. The camp was hidden from view by low sand dunes where tall silvery grasses bent in the wind. Buba swooped first this way, then the other, catching the grasshoppers that leapt about in the undergrowth. It was almost dark.

  Isabeau walked along the edge of the water, her bare feet sinking into the damp sand, listening for any step other than her own, for the slither of sand or the rustle of grass. All was quiet. Despite the peace of the seashore, Isabeau was tense and unhappy. She felt a deep foreboding. Why was the Fairge taking such a dreadful risk? Had she come for Bronwen? What would happen if Isabeau was caught talking to her? Isabeau knew something dire was going to happen.

  There was the faintest disturbance behind her. She turned. A shadow stepped out of the deeper shadows in a cleft of the dunes. It was Maya.

  ‘What are ye doing here?’ Isabeau whispered. ‘How can ye take such a risk?’

  ‘I have come to warn ye,’ Maya said softly. Her husky voice was as full of charm as ever. She drew close to Isabeau, her face very white in the dim violet light.

  ‘Warn me? Warn me o’ what?’

  Maya hesitated. ‘The Priestesses o’ Jor plan a trap for ye all. They ken ye shall plan a strike against them in reprisal for the attack on Rhyssmadill. I do no’ ken all that they plan but they have drawn upon dreadful powers. They have a new acolyte. Like me, she is a halfbreed. She has recourse to both Fairgean and human power. I kent her as a child. Her mother was stolen in a raid on Siantan. She was a witch o’ some sort …’

  ‘Happen a weather witch if she came from Siantan,’ Isabeau said.

  ‘I do no’ ken. Happen she was. This lass must have strong powers though. She managed to stay alive.’ There was an ironic inflection in Maya’s voice. ‘Nila says—’

  ‘Nila?’

  ‘My brother. Half-brother, rather. He captured me as I was swimming along the coast, and told me all this, and then let me go. I do no’ ken why. He is either very brave or very foolish, or both, to dare the wrath o’ our father so.’

  ‘Happen it was part o’ the trap.’

  ‘I do no’ think so. He hates our father as much as I do, that I will swear to. Besides, he did no’ ken that I would come and tell ye. He told me so that I could flee.’

  ‘What did he tell ye?’ Isabeau was white. The feeling of foreboding was heavy upon her now, pressing her down like a giant hand.

  ‘That the Priestesses o’ Jor plan to raise a tidal wave and drown the land, using the magic o’ the comet, as I did when I conceived Bronwen. They will be able to do it, Red. They have drawn upon the power o’ Kani. She is the mother o’ all gods, the goddess o’ fire and earth. It is Kani that brings volcanoes and earthquakes and lightning and the evil glow o’ the viperfish …’

  The world was spinning around Isabeau. She put out a hand, but there was nothing to grasp. ‘I ken,’ she managed to say. ‘I ken …’

  Then she felt a dark roaring, felt the world crash down all around her. She fell to her knees. Very faintly she heard Maya cry, ‘Red, what is it? What is it?’

  ‘Iseult …’ she said. ‘Iseult!’

  She felt pain like daggers piercing her all over, felt a bitter cold like death. Iseult! For a moment she hovered over the clearing. She could see Maya’s dark form bending over her own, collapsed on the white sand. Then her spirit turned and fled. Iseult …

  Over the dark undulating landscape she flew, effortless as an eagle. She could see the tangled knots of rivers shining green and blue as they writhed and tumbled towards the sea. She could see the glowing clusters of town and village like throngs of fireflies, the light of people’s souls rather than the light of their lanterns. As she passed she felt shivers of their lives run over her, grief and joy, hope and despair, small contentments, small spites. Above her the stars wheeled and sang, a cruel terrible music like a death requiem. She soared among them, felt their temptation tug at her. Iseult …

  Below her the landscape upsurged and downfolded, creasing into sharp peaks and deep valleys. Isabeau felt herself growing weak. She glanced back for the first time, afraid. Behind trailed her spirit-body, as frail as candle smoke. From her heart spun a long thread, as silvery and delicate as a spider’s cobweb. It stretched behind her, throbbing slightly. It looked as if it might break at any moment.

  Isabeau flew on. Below her were shining sheets of ice, a sweep of glacier. Isabeau was having to fight now. Wind seemed to throw her up, suck her down. The music was clamouring in her ears. Iseult, she called. Iseult …

  She saw a great mass of broken snow and rocks below her. Very faintly she could feel her sister’s heartbeat, feel a great mass of cold and grief pressing her down towards death. Do no’ sleep! she called. I am here.

  Then, drowsy, faltering, she heard, Isabeau …?

  Isabeau flew down towards the mass of broken snow. She could see lights bobbing about. People were searching, digging, weeping. She could feel their horror and dismay more strongly than she could feel Iseult’s heartbeat. No, she cried. No’ there …

  No-one heard her. She was a ghost, wailing in the darkness. She was the wind, voiceless, faceless, without hands to dig, without words to warn. For long futile minutes she flung herself against their deaf unheeding ears, and then she swung away, searching, searching.

  Her mind brushed against someone she knew. Desperate, Isabeau flew down. She was at the end of her strength, the cord that bound her to her physical body was stretched thin, far too thin. Isabeau knew she would die if it should break. Isabeau knew both she and Iseult would die.

  On a ledge overlooking the valley lay a snow-lion. He was a magnificent creature, his paws huge and strong, his snowy mane tipped with black. Isabeau hung before him, pleading. In the proud golden eyes she saw her own reflection, frail and silver as the reflection of moonlight. She spoke in a tumble, her disembodied powerless hands stretching out, pleading. I saved ye when ye were but a cub, do ye remember? Ye are in geas to me, help me now …

  The snow-lion stood, shook his noble mane, began to lope down the hill. Exhausted, Isabeau drifted after him.

  Almost dissolved into the ether, she watched him as he ran across the snow. A longing came over her. How well she remembered the deadly grace, the sure power of a snow-lioness’s body. How much she longed to be running there, leaping over concealed rocks, stretching into full speed. How much she longed to be able to dig for Iseult, her sure sense of smell knowing where she lay buried under mounds of snow. But she was feeble as candle smoke in a wind, she was dissolving away.

  Iseult, help comes, she whispered. Hold o
n …

  Then she turned, followed the disintegrating trail of smoke, flew with desperate haste back the way she had come. In her mind she heard her Soul-Sage teacher warning, Never skim too far …

  Hurricanes buffeted her, dragged at her strength, confused her. Up, down, in, out, where am I, where am I?

  Somewhere, a long way away, she heard Meghan’s voice. Isabeau, Isabeau …

  She followed the sound.

  Isabeau came back to consciousness only slowly. She was aware first of angry voices. She recognised Meghan’s, sharper than she had ever heard, then Lachlan’s deep baritone, and then, surprisingly, Maya’s voice, raised in angry denial. Isabeau lay in a sort of stupor, wondering why they all sounded so angry. Then the oddness of it struck her. Lachlan and Maya?

  She opened her eyes. She lay curled on her side in sand. It was dark, but a group of men stood nearby with lanterns in their hands, casting wavering orange light over pale sand and the dark shapes of people. The orange light seemed to throb, making her feel sick. She turned onto her hands and knees, and retched into the grass. The ground seemed to tilt under her body. She clutched it, trying to reorientate herself, but the sand slithered away under her fingers. Then Meghan knelt beside her, holding her, asking her how she was. Isabeau had to concentrate hard to understand the meaning of the sounds. Then she said shakily, ‘In a minute. I’ll be fine in just a minute.’

  Meghan cradled her, soothing her as she would a sick child. Then Lachlan was kneeling beside her, gripping one of her hands. ‘What did she do to ye?’ he asked fiercely. ‘Did she try to enchant ye?’

  Isabeau did not understand. ‘Iseult …’ she whispered, then as agony suddenly lanced through her arm, she screamed. ‘Oh, Eà, Iseult!’

  Lachlan let go of her hand. ‘Iseult?’ he asked. There was an odd intonation in his voice. ‘What about Iseult?’

  Isabeau turned her head restlessly. ‘She was hurt, injured. She was near death. I could feel her slipping away. The pain … the cold … I had to go. I have never skimmed so far. I kent it was dangerous but I had to go.’

  ‘Iseult is hurt?’ Lachlan’s voice, his whole manner, had changed. He leant forward, seizing Isabeau roughly by the shoulders. ‘Where? What happened? Is she …? What happened, tell me, in Eà’s name, tell me!’

  ‘She’s alive.’ Isabeau found herself weeping. ‘I could no’ make them understand me, the soldiers searching for her under the snow, I could no’ make them hear me. I could feel her slipping away, it was so cold, it was so cold! At first it was like knives and then …’ She could not go on. She wiped her eyes with her hands, tried to catch her breath.

  ‘But she’s alive?’ Meghan said. ‘Are ye sure? Ye can feel her?’

  ‘Aye, I can feel her. The pain, I can feel it here and here and here.’ Isabeau pointed to her ribs, her arm, her knee. ‘They have set her broken arm. I could feel it, damn it. Why, oh, why do I have to feel everything she does?’

  ‘Oh, ye do, do ye?’ Lachlan said, raising an eyebrow.

  Isabeau could not look at him. She was grateful for the darkness. ‘How did ye ken?’ she said to Meghan. ‘I could never have found my way back if ye had no’ been here.’

  ‘Your wee owl came and got me,’ the sorceress said. ‘Luckily I speak Owl quite well, for she was very distressed indeed. She told me ye’d been speaking to someone on the seashore when ye’d suddenly fallen and then flown out o’ yourself. She told me ye were lost. I dinna understand at all, o’ course, but I came where she led me and Lachlan and the Blue Guards too. That was when we found Maya.’

  Isabeau sat up with a jerk. ‘Maya!’ Her gaze flew across the beach. She saw the former banrìgh standing proud and tall within the grasp of two burly soldiers, a dagger held to her throat. ‘Och no!’ she cried.

  ‘Naturally we thought the blaygird Fairge had tried to ensorcel ye,’ Lachlan said angrily, ‘though she swore she had no’.’

  ‘I told ye I had done naught to Red but stand guard over her when she fainted,’ Maya said silkily. ‘Ye always think the worst o’ me, MacCuinn.’

  The soldiers jerked her arms, crying, ‘Silence!’

  ‘Maya, why did ye stay?’ Isabeau said in distress. ‘Ye could have swum away and no-one would’ve kent. Oh, why did ye no’ flee?’

  ‘Ye mean ye kent she was here?’ Lachlan said incredulously. ‘We thought ye must have stumbled upon her and tried to detain her.’ His voice sharpened. ‘Ye met her here on purpose?’

  ‘Aye, I did,’ Isabeau said angrily, ‘and do no’ start thinking the worst, Lachlan MacCuinn, for if ye do, I swear I’ll slap ye! Why canna ye ever trust anyone, for Eà’s sake?’

  ‘Why?’ Lachlan began angrily. ‘Ye can ask me that?’

  ‘Aye, I can,’ Isabeau blazed. ‘We all ken ye suffered greatly, Lachlan, but ye are no’ the only man in the world to be betrayed and hurt. Do ye really think I’d betray ye? Do ye? Do ye think I’m a spy for the Fairgean?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Lachlan admitted.

  Isabeau’s temper suddenly drained out of her, leaving her deflated. ‘Well then,’ she said, suddenly at rather a loss.

  ‘Ye have got to admit I’ve a right to be angry,’ Lachlan said reasonably. ‘My own wife’s sister, sneaking out at night to meet with Maya the Ensorcellor. What am I meant to think?’

  ‘That I had a damn good reason,’ Isabeau said, her anger sparking again.

  ‘Well, I would fain hear it,’ Lachlan said.

  Isabeau eyed him resentfully. ‘I’ve been trying to tell ye.’

  ‘So, tell me.’

  Isabeau took a deep breath. ‘Maya came to give me news,’ she said. ‘At considerable risk to herself, I might add! She came to tell us we’re heading into some sort o’ trap. The Fairgean are expecting us to make a strike against them, they’re prepared for it.’

  ‘Well, that is no’ altogether news,’ Lachlan said slowly. ‘I did no’ really expect to find Carraig empty and undefended, in spite o’ all your assurances that the Fairgean all swim south for the summer.’

  ‘My assurances!’ Isabeau cried. ‘Ye asked me to tell ye what I kent, I only—’

  ‘Aye, aye, I ken. No need to get your drawers in a tangle. Is that the only news she has, for if so—’

  ‘Nay,’ Isabeau cried, thoroughly exasperated. ‘She has more, much more. But if ye are no’ interested …’

  ‘Come, my bairns, that’s enough fraitching!’ Meghan said. ‘Ye are as bad as Owein and Olwynne, I swear ye are. Is this the place for a discussion such as this? We are all tired and overwrought and talking in circles. Let us go back to the safety o’ the camp and talk about all this in private. And since the Ensorcellor has so kindly travelled all this way, and at such a risk to herself, to give us this news, happen she can do it herself. And explain why she would take such a risk. Forgive me, Maya, if I’m sceptical but I, like Lachlan, find it hard to believe ye would warn us out o’ the goodness o’ your heart.’

  ‘I did no’,’ Maya said huskily. ‘Why would I? Nay, I came to warn Red because she has my daughter. I do no’ want my wee Bronny to be drowned.’

  ‘Drowned?’ Lachlan said cynically. ‘She has fins and gills, remember. I doubt she’ll die o’ drowning.’

  ‘Ye will all die o’ drowning if the Priestesses o’ Jor have their way,’ Maya replied indifferently. ‘As far as ye or your nasty auld aunt there are concerned, I do no’ care. But I do care about my Bronny, and oddly enough, about Red. I came to warn her, no’ ye.’

  ‘Oddly enough, I believe ye,’ Meghan said. ‘Please, this damp sea air makes me ache all over and that makes me very irritable. Let us retire to somewhere where we can all sit down and talk things over in a civilised manner.’

  Lachlan gave a snort of incredulous laughter. ‘I suppose ye’ll want me to offer the Ensorcellor some wine and a wee bite o’ supper.’

  ‘Thank ye,’ Maya said suavely. ‘That would be most pleasant.’

  Lachlan laughed, though with a razor-sharp edge. He gave a court
ly bow and offered Maya his arm. ‘Madam, may I escort ye to the royal pavilion?’

  ‘Thank ye, kind sir,’ Maya replied, the same bitter sarcasm making the words a mockery.

  Together they strolled away from the beach, the soldiers lighting their way with lanterns. Dide came and pulled Isabeau to her feet. ‘Whoever would have thought we’d live to see that?’ he said. ‘It just goes to show, all things are possible.’

  Isabeau did not reply, too tired and troubled at heart to think of a witty response. He squeezed her arm. ‘Do no’ look so worried, Beau. I can feel the Spinners’ hand in this. Can ye no’ feel it? A new thread has been strung and who kens where it shall take us.’

  Snow flew up from the sleigh’s runners in a perfect parabola.

  The ulez cantered down the slope, their ugly heads held high with eagerness. Lying in the sleigh, one arm in a sling, her ribs tightly bound, Iseult watched the green forest come closer and closer. The Spine of the World was behind her, the ugly chaotic world of wars and politics and courtly intrigue before her once again. She sank her chin down into her furs with a little smile.

  Her father had known without needing to be told. He had merely said, ‘So ye travel wi’ us to Carraig?’ and she had answered merely, ‘Aye.’

  So, tucked up in one of the sleighs, the Scarred Warriors swooping and skimming all around her, she had left the Spine of the World for the last time. Soon they would be among the trees, and the sleighs would have to be abandoned. She would have to get out and walk like the other soldiers. Iseult could hardly wait. She hated being treated like an invalid, hated to be reminded that she had been foolish enough to be caught in an avalanche. The MacSeinn and his men had thought they were being kind, fussing about her and forbidding her to exert herself, but Iseult was a Scarred Warrior. She wanted to be invincible.