The Fathomless Caves

by Kate Forsyth

  The mangonel was a large catapult that, like the ballista, could be wheeled about the deck. The jars of seafire were loaded into the cup, and the arm was released from its tension, flinging the jars four hundred feet away from the ship. The jars smashed upon contact with the waves and ignited immediately. Everything within a hundred feet was incinerated. Not even diving under the surface of the water would avoid the flames, for the saltwater was the seafire’s fuel. There was no escape.

  The air was filled with the agonising screaming of beast and Fairge alike. Smoke billowed everywhere, the very air orange with it, and the lurid light of the burning sea played over sail and mast and carved poop, making the faces of the gargoyles and angels smirk and grimace.

  ‘Come about, come about!’ the bosun screamed as the seafire raged back towards them. The sailors heaved on the ropes and the helmsman leaned hard on the tiller. The Royal Stag swung about, her sails slackening and then filling once more. Isabeau glanced over the port rail and saw the cliffs rising over them, dwarfing the tall masts. Then the ship was racing through the immense mesh gates which were topped with cruel curving spikes and reinforced with thick steel bars.

  Buckets on long ropes were flung overboard to slow the galleon’s speed, and all the anchors were dropped. The sails were dragged down, everyone shouting and scrambling as they fought to halt the ship’s headlong advance. The harbour cliff loomed over them. Instinctively Isabeau flung her arms about her head, expecting to hear the crash as the ship leapt upon the rocks. Instead she was flung to her knees as the ship came about once more. Then the anchors settled down into the seabed and the Royal Stag rocked into stillness.

  It was a long climb up the cliff to Castle Forlorn. Donncan and Bronwen counted five hundred and eighty-six steps, all of them steep and slick with moisture. At first they counted loudly and enthusiastically, then haltingly between pants of breath, and finally sullenly, even tearfully. Isabeau had no breath to reply, since Olwynne had given up trying to climb after about ten and had refused to be carried by any of the soldiers. Lachlan was carrying Owein but he was much stronger and had wings to help him. He often flew from one landing to another, the little boy clinging to him and shrieking, half in excitement, half in terror.

  Most of the heavy weapons were left on the ships or down in the harbour guardhouse, but innumerable sacks and barrels had to be swung up with ropes and pulleys. Enit and Meghan were lifted up in the same way, much to Meghan’s chagrin. She had to admit the climb would be too much for her, though, and so she sat in the canvas sling, her back very straight, her black eyes flashing.

  From the steps Isabeau could see straight down the Firth of Forlorn, where the broken wrecks of four ships floated among a black stain of oily residue, thick with the charred bodies of dead sea-serpents, horse-eels and Fairgean warriors. Smoke drifted everywhere. Isabeau was too tired to feel anything more than numb, but the weight of her niece in her arms dragged her down until she thought she might weep from sheer exhaustion. Then Dide came and lifted Olwynne from her arms, settling the sleeping child against his shoulder, and lending her the strength of his hand. He smiled at her and said, ‘Almost there. Chin up, my bonny!’ so that Isabeau found a wellspring of fresh energy to climb the last flight.

  They came out into a wide bailey, surrounded on all sides by immense walls and watchtowers. From every broken tower fluttered the MacSeinn flag, a golden harp on a pale blue background.

  Castle Forlorn had been discarded thirteen years before when the Fairgean had driven the MacSeinn and his clan out into the storm. The sea-faeries had done their best to eradicate the fortress but they had no fire or machines of destruction. Time and the weather had done more to destroy the castle than anything the Fairgean could do.

  Most of the castle itself lay in ruins, a mere pile of mossy stones and the occasional half arch of broken stone. The central tower was open to the sky, the great hall filled with grass and thistles, its staircase collapsed and scattered. Some of the smaller wings still had some roof and it was here that the MacSeinn and his men had set up camp, stretching tarpaulins across the holes and clearing out the worst of the thistles. Most of the labour had been devoted to repairing the outer walls, which once again stood tall and stout against possible attack.

  The bailey was crowded with people, all greeting the new arrivals and helping unload the weapons and supplies. Isabeau sat abruptly on a barrel to one side. ‘Eà’s green blood, what a climb!’ she panted. ‘My legs are aching.’

  Lachlan thrust Owein into her arms, snapping, ‘Mind him a second, Beau?’ Before she had a chance to agree, he strode off through the crowd, accepting each shout of greeting brusquely, looking about him with a scowl. Suddenly his expression cleared. ‘Iseult!’ he cried.

  Iseult had just appeared at the head of the stairs leading into the ruined castle. She was wearing her battered leather armour, her hair concealed beneath a leather cap, one arm in a sling. She saw Lachlan and her whole face kindled. She leapt from the top step and swooped down, straight into his arms.

  Lachlan had spread his wings and flown to meet her, so Rìgh and Banrìgh met midair, breast to breast, mouth to mouth. She freed her arm from her sling so she could fling both arms about his neck, pulling his dark head closer. For a long moment they hung there, oblivious to the cheers of the crowd, then slowly, slowly they slid down to the ground. Lachlan’s wings cupped around her, hiding her from view. Their mouths met, clung, dragged apart to speak, met again. He dragged her cap from her head so all her long red curls hung down over his arm. Her fingers cradled the back of his head, slipped down to caress his broad, strong shoulder, slid down his back. Then Donncan was there, squirming through his father’s wings to clutch Iseult’s leg.

  ‘Mama!’ he cried.

  Iseult’s eyes were wet with tears. She dropped to her knees to hug him close, rocking back and forth. Lachlan bent and embraced them both, then Iseult was looking about for the twins. ‘My babes?’ she called huskily.

  Isabeau rose, lifting Owein in her arms, and carried him through the crowd. Dide was at her shoulder, carrying Olwynne, who looked about her sleepily. They saw Iseult and both lunged for her, their plump cherubic faces lighting up with joy. ‘Mama, Mama!’

  For an instant Isabeau and Iseult’s eyes met. They smiled at each other, then Isabeau passed over the eager little boy and stepped back.

  ‘I was afraid …’ she heard Lachlan mutter. ‘Oh, Iseult, I was so afraid ye would no’ come back. I’m sorry!’

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ she whispered and they kissed again lingeringly.

  ‘What made ye come back?’ he asked. ‘Ye were so cold when we parted, I was sure ye meant to stay in the snows.’

  Iseult nodded. ‘I meant to, if only to punish ye. For breaking the geas, ye ken. But when I lay beneath that avalanche, thinking I would never see ye again … or my bonny bairns …’

  Once again Isabeau’s and Iseult’s eyes met. Everything that needed to be said was said in that one glance. Isabeau turned and hurried away, her joy and her grief choking her. She reached the wall and stood in its shelter, her back turned to the crowd, scrubbing her wet eyes furiously and telling herself not to be a fool. Then Dide was beside her, his hand slipping inside her elbow. She turned and smiled up at him, knowing her face was blotchy with tears.

  ‘Does it hurt that much to see them together so?’ he asked, his voice low and intense.

  She nodded. ‘Aye, hurts with happiness. I’m a fool, I ken, but I am so glad … I was so afraid …’

  His tension slackened. ‘Afraid o’ what?’

  She shook her head, laughing and crying at the same time. ‘I hardly ken. That one or the other would be too proud, or too tongue-tied. Both find it hard to say what is in their hearts.’

  He gazed down at her, then suddenly took her by surprise by bending his head and kissing her. She could not help her mouth responding, did not want to help it. He lifted his head and said huskily, ‘Well.’

  Isabeau laughed at him, and
wiped away the last of her tears. ‘Did ye think I was greeting for grief or for envy? Well, I was too, but no’ for the reasons ye thought.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said with difficulty.

  ‘So am I,’ she said with heartfelt sincerity. She saw he wanted to kiss her again and held him off with both hands. ‘Come, now is no’ the time or the place. We have much to do.’

  ‘So when shall be the time and place?’ he asked, some of his usual sparkle returning.

  Isabeau hardly knew how to answer. It was her impulse to answer him lightly but she saw that beneath his insouciance was a true intensity of feeling. She took his hand, looked down at it, spreading his long, calloused fingers and winding her own through it. ‘I dinna ken,’ she answered simply.

  He was silent for a time, looking down at their hands, fingers entwined. ‘Is it …? Do ye no’ feel …?’

  ‘I dinna ken,’ she said again. ‘I’m afraid …’ She could not finish the sentence. Something rose in her and choked her throat, filled her eyes with heat again.

  ‘Isabeau, when they took ye prisoner … when ye were tortured, did they …?’ He could not finish either. The heat in her eyes turned to a rush of tears but she did not answer. She pulled her hand free.

  ‘I’d best go and help Meghan,’ she said, pushing past him.

  He caught her arm. ‘Isabeau …’

  She pulled her arm free, moved past him in a rush. There was a great deal to do and Isabeau busied herself in doing it. Occasionally that hot rush of emotion threatened to undo her and she had to stand still and breathe deeply and find her coh before she could again be calm. She felt again that dangerous vulnerability that had overtaken her in the weeks after her Sorceress Test, her sense that barriers were being broken down which she would rather stayed intact. Brun the cluricaun hovered near her, sensing her distress, and Buba hooted an occasional worried question. She fobbed them both off with distracted smiles and assurances. To Meghan’s sharp query, she merely said, ‘It’s the war, the seafire. All that horrible death.’

  The Keybearer nodded. ‘Aye, it’s even harder for witches to shut out when we hear the psychic distress as well as the physical agony. I find it hard myself and I’ve grown used to it after four hundred and thirty-five years.’

  Isabeau had never really seen a war before. She had fled Lachlan’s court with Bronwen before the true conflict against the Bright Soldiers had begun, and she had been away during all the long years spent overcoming them. She found Meghan’s observation to be true indeed.

  For this war, called now the Fourth Fairgean War, was to be the slow attrition of nerve and fortitude that all had dreaded. All winter it dragged on. The Fairgean defended the Isle of the Gods with the desperate valour of fanatics. The Rìgh’s fleet was never able to come within spitting distance of the old volcano, despite all their cannons and ballistas and barrels of seafire. There were conflagrations in plenty, an abundance of flame and blood and waste and grief. Isabeau worked with the healers to bind up the wounds and send the soldiers out to be wounded again. Tòmas the Healer grew as thin as a twig as he poured all his energies for living and growing and being a child into healing one shattered body after another.

  The Greycloaks concentrated on holding the shore. Their men occupied the old forts built on every major headland, and most of the key walled towns protecting the safe harbours. Although the towns had been deserted for many years, the news that the MacSeinn had returned slowly spread back into the hinterland where many people had fled. Gradually people began to return, fired by old hatreds, to help in the casting out of the Fairgean. Those sea-faeries that had settled in the old towns were driven back into the sea, and parties were sent with flaming torches into every cave and burrow in the cliffs. Each small victory was won hard, though, and there were many small defeats.

  Lachlan spent most of his time on the Royal Stag, in constant attacks against the Fairgean, and Dide sailed with him. On the few occasions when Isabeau saw them, both were tired, anxious and preoccupied.

  Bronwen’s seventh birthday came and went, and then Samhain, the darkest night of the year. No-one remembered what it was like to be warm, to be replete with food, to be free of sick anxiety. Sunshine was like a vague dream of childhood. Despite all the efforts of the witches, storms constantly lashed the coast. Lachlan’s Ship Tax was slowly wrecked upon the rocks; sacks of grain were ruined with mould, and it was impossible to keep the babies clean and dry. Illness wracked them all, and their medicinal supplies ran out. For days Owein’s temperature soared so high that Isabeau thought they must lose him. Tòmas was rushed home to touch him and heal him, and meanwhile seventeen soldiers died of dysentery in Castle Forsaken, the fort built on the headland on the far side of the firth, where the MacRuraich was camped with his men and his disobedient daughter.

  Often the gales raged for so long that none of the soldiers even bothered to leave Castle Forlorn. It was too dangerous to set sail in those winds, too cold to walk outside, too difficult to raise the energy or enthusiasm for another useless assault. The Fairgean had retreated into their Fathomless Caves and Maya taunted them with descriptions of their warm caves, hot steaming pools and thick seal furs. The Fairge was unaffected by the bitter cold. She could swim in seas where the very surface was frozen over and still survive.

  By midwinter the witches had given up trying to control the weather. A brewing storm had whipped itself into a high gale. The continual roaring wind brought waves so high they would have towered over the Royal Stag’s mast, if Lachlan had been foolish enough to take her out of the meagre shelter of the harbour. Lightning glared continually, thick throbbing veins of incandescence plunging through the white sheets of electricity. Thunder rolled around Castle Forlorn, an orchestra of crashes and booms. Snow built new walls over the old. No messengers had got through in almost a week and no-one could scry to those with witch senses in any of the other forts because of the static disturbances in the heavens. They were besieged, marooned, trapped, by the force of the storm.

  Midwinter’s Eve was spent huddling together and trying to stay warm. Then it was Hogmanay and the stark, fateful dividing of one year and another. It was impossible for them all not to reflect on the past year and fret about the next. It was impossible not to feel bitter regrets.

  It was shockingly cold. The wind shrieked like a banshee. Snow whirled out of the darkness, beating against the stones of the ruined castle. Despite all Isabeau’s efforts, the fire shrank and winced, sending out more smoke than warmth. The twins cried miserably. Isabeau rocked Olwynne against her shoulder, patting her with numb, frozen hands, murmuring, ‘Ssshhh, honey-bee, ssshhh, honey-bee.’ The words no longer had any meaning.

  ‘So much for being back in Bride for my birthday,’ Donncan muttered.

  ‘Never mind, laddie,’ Isabeau said. ‘Would ye rather no’ be here with your Dai-dein and maither than in Bride by yourself?’

  ‘No,’ Donncan said rebelliously. ‘Who would ever want to be here? Why are we fighting to win back this horrible place? Let’s beg the Fairgean to take it off our hands and go home.’

  Isabeau said nothing. She could not have agreed more. From the looks on the faces of everyone clustered together in the freezing little room, she thought she was not the only one.

  ‘Besides,’ Donncan said angrily, ‘Mama and Dai-dein are no’ here. They’re stuck over in that other awful castle and there’s no way they can get back in this storm. And they promised they’d come back for my birthday!’

  ‘They’ll get here if they can, dearling,’ Isabeau said, but Donncan had thrown himself down on his makeshift bed, his face turned to the wall. Bronwen burrowed into the blankets beside him, throwing one finned arm over his shoulder. Isabeau sighed heavily. Lachlan and his retinue had been at Castle Forsaken for two weeks now. She did not really believe they could make it back. The snowstorm was too ferocious.

  ‘Well, there canna be any doubt that this priestess-witch o’ theirs has a Talent wi’ the weather,’ Meghan said,
sitting as close to the fire as she could get. ‘Two months this blaygird wind has howled and no’ one day o’ peace have we had.’

  ‘The MacSeinn says the wind can blow like this in winter anyway,’ Isabeau said.

  ‘Aye, happen that is so,’ Meghan answered irritably. ‘But he canna tell me that it blows like this all day and all night, every single day. It’s no’ natural, and if it was, well, no-one in their right mind would ever settle here, no’ even a MacSeinn.’

  ‘Canna ye do anything?’ Isabeau said, her voice sharp with irritation.

  ‘If I could, do ye think I wouldna?’ Meghan snapped back. ‘I’m no weather witch!’

  ‘But the Lodestar? Canna ye help Lachlan raise the Lodestar and stop the storm?’ Isabeau was almost in tears. The constant whine of the wind was enough to wear anyone’s patience down, particularly when accompanied by the grizzling of two cold and hungry three year olds.

  Meghan sighed. ‘The Lodestar is Lachlan’s now, only he can raise it, Beau. Ye should ken that. Besides, weather is always difficult to control. It is the interaction o’ air and water and fire and earth, and a witch needs to be strong in all these elements if they wish to manipulate the weather, and strong in spirit too. And a storm like this is virtually impossible to control. Once it has reached this pitch o’ intensity, the best thing ye can do is let it run its course.’ She huddled her plaid closer about her shoulders, holding her gnarled hands to the sullen flames. ‘At least we have the satisfaction o’ knowing the Fairgean are suffering the foul weather just as much as we are.’

  Maya looked up with a malicious smile and Meghan said, ‘One word, Ensorcellor, and I’ll blast ye to ashes where ye sit. I do no’ lie!’ Maya held up her hands placatingly, then mimed locking her mouth and throwing away the key. Bronwen giggled.

  Driven to breaking point, Isabeau stood up abruptly and went out of the room, huddling her plaid close against the shock of the icy wind.