The Fathomless Caves

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Who would’ve believed it possible?’ Lachlan said, shaking his head. He offered his hand to the Fairge prince who looked at it in bafflement and then, urged on by Maya, reached out and clasped it. The cheers rose higher.

  Suddenly Isabeau felt a brush of electricity along her arms. All the hairs on her body stood up on end. She looked around and lost her breath in a gasp. Racing up the valley behind them was a storm of such ferocity and speed that she could only stare, lost in awe. High in the sky was an immense black cloud, lit from within by constant flares of lightning. Hanging below it was a spinning funnel of cloud, swaying back and forth, its tail lost in another great cloud of water and debris.

  She dragged at Dide’s hand, trying to speak but able only to point. At last her voice rose in a scream. ‘Whirlwind … comes!’

  The cheering faltered. Screams and shouts rang out. People began to run, to look for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere. Within minutes the twister would be upon them.

  ‘Get down!’ Lachlan cried. ‘Find something to hold onto!’

  ‘Caves!’ the MacSeinn called. ‘The saltpetre mines are nearby. If we could just get to the caves …’

  ‘Can ye run?’ Lachlan shouted. His voice was almost drowned in the booming thunder. ‘Show everyone the way. Run!’

  Everyone took to their heels, scrambling over the wrack flung up by the quake-waves, screaming in terror. There were many who could not run, however, too badly wounded or too exhausted. They shrieked and cowered down upon the ground.

  Lachlan’s hand fell to his belt but the Lodestar was not there. ‘No, no, it’s lost! I dropped it!’

  ‘The bairns have it,’ Isabeau cried. ‘Bronwen saved it from the sea.’

  The wind was whipping her matted red curls about. Hail peppered them cruelly. Lachlan spun on his heels and reached one despairing hand towards the ship. The Lodestar flew towards him but the wind caught at it, tossing it about. At last it reached Lachlan’s hand but even the effort of calling it had been too much for the Rìgh. He sank down to his knees, his face grey. Iseult crouched beside him, supporting him, as lightning stabbed down from the approaching tornado, striking a tree nearby. It crashed down slowly, and all the ground shuddered.

  ‘He doesna have the strength!’ Dide cried. ‘He canna calm the storm.’

  Isabeau knelt in the mud, looking up at the twisting funnel of air calculatingly. She knew a great deal about the forces of weather after the last six months of fighting it. She knew there was little chance any of them would survive.

  ‘This is no natural storm,’ she said quietly. ‘Can ye no’ feel it? There is strong sorcery at work here.’

  ‘The Priestesses o’ Jor,’ Dide said with conviction. Like her, he made no attempt to run, watching the funnel of storm race ever closer. ‘They seek to finish what they started.’

  ‘I must stop them,’ Isabeau said. She quickly began to strip off her clothes.

  ‘What are ye doing?’ he cried.

  ‘I’m going to change shape,’ Isabeau said, dragging her rings off her fingers. ‘Dide, I do no’ ken if I can get there in time, though I will try. Get everyone off the ship! It’ll be flung into the air for sure. Try to get everyone away from this exposed ridge. On the far side is a wee dip. Get as many as ye can to lie there.’

  She took off the Key and thrust it into the pocket of her coat, standing naked in the bitter cold. Hail lashed her bare skin, the wind whipped her hair about. She shut her eyes, clenched her fists and concentrated.

  Isabeau knew no bird could fly through that storm and survive. She knew of only one creature that had the strength, the power, the sheer immense size to soar through the whirlwind and live. She imagined herself a great, golden, sinuous creature, with wings as translucent as stretched cloth-of-gold and great cruel claws. She imagined herself with hypnotic eyes the colour of her dragoneye jewel, and scales as glossy as silk.

  The world rocked about her. She felt a painful stretching of her skin and bones and organs, a terrifying stretching of her consciousness. The young woman that was Isabeau shrank to a mere gutter of flame, deep within the shadowy cavernous mind of the dragon.

  She opened her eyes. Dide crouched between her claws, staring at her with dread and awe. Isabeau grinned, feeling her tail begin to lash. She tensed her muscles, preparing to spring into the wind. She heard a high, piercing whistle, and turned her huge, crested head.

  The Fairge with the black pearl had flung himself at her claws, whistling shrilly. Isabeau understood every word.

  ‘Please, no! It is Fand who conjures this storm. You must not kill her. You do not understand …’

  Dragons see both ways along the thread of time. Isabeau bent her head. The one thou callest Fand conjured the quake-wave that has devastated the land for many hundreds of miles. Now she calls up this whirlwind. Why should I not devour her with my flame?

  ‘She is my love,’ he cried.

  Every creature that has died this night is loved somewhere, by someone. Why should thy love be spared?

  He could not answer. The dragon did it for him.

  If I kill her, thou shalt hate us; if I spare her, thou shalt be grateful. If I kill her, sorrow will grow from her death. If I spare her, joy shall grow. These are reasons enough. Besides, thy love suffers in this conjuring, as she has suffered in the past. I will have an end to suffering.

  Then Isabeau spread wide her magnificent wings and soared up into the turbulent sky.

  Never had her strength been tested more sorely. The force of the wind was overwhelming. It tore at her wings, buffeted her long, sinuous body, stabbed at her with lightning. Isabeau soared on, using the tornado’s own velocity to hurl her round the edge of the twister and down towards the sea.

  Only the very tip of the Isle of the Gods still rose from the sea, although the flood caused by the quake-waves was slowly receding. A ray of green light shot up from the peak, playing queerly over the undersides of the clouds. Isabeau folded her wings and fell towards it.

  She could clearly see the little group of priestesses huddled together on a ledge above the water. Bending over the source of the light was a thin girl, both hands pressed to a glowing green sphere. Standing around her were the priestesses, each with one hand upon her own nightglobe and one hand upon the nightglobe of her neighbour. They were chanting.

  Isabeau came so fast they had no warning of her approach. As her shadow fell upon them they glanced up and screamed in terror. Isabeau snatched the girl up with her claws, then spat out a long plume of flame. Again and again she swooped down over the island, incinerating the priestesses with her fiery breath. All the while the girl hung limply in her claws. Isabeau could only hope she had merely fainted from terror.

  At last she knew there was none left alive on the island. She gave a loud bugle of triumph, rolled over and over in her joy, then swooped back towards the mountains.

  Although lightning still flashed intermittently and the wind still roared, the terrible spinning vortex of cloud and wind had sunk away. Where its swaying tail had touched the ground was a swathe of absolute destruction. Tree trunks had been smashed into splinters, giant rocks had been torn up from the ground and pounded into pebbles. There was nothing left of Kinnaird but a few shattered walls.

  Isabeau followed the path of devastation all the way up to the ridge. It stopped perilously close to the Royal Stag, which leant a little askew on the hill, every mast and charred sail still proudly raised.

  As Isabeau began to circle down to land, seven dragons suddenly soared out of the clouds piled upon the mountains. She saw them with a desperate sinking of her heart. With perilous speed they raced towards her, necks stretched out, tails coiling behind. The huge bronze in the lead opened his jaws and spat out a great gust of fire. For a moment Isabeau saw it belching towards her, felt its intense heat slam into her eyes. She shut her eyelids, waiting to feel all her skin shrivelling and blistering as the flames engulfed her. Then there was nothing but cool rain pattering against her scales.
She opened her eyes.

  The seven dragons swooped around her, golden-topaz eyes mocking her. Thou must knowest we could have burnt thy bones to cinders if we had so desirest.

  I know.

  We did not desire so. Take our form again and we may not be so merciful.

  I know. Isabeau’s mind-voice sounded shaky, even to herself.

  The dragons laughed and soared away again, and Isabeau circled down to the muddy wasteland of the battlefield, the sound of cheering ringing in her ears.

  She landed lightly, laying the unconscious girl down gently before transforming herself back into her own shape. She could not help an intense pang of regret, for the form of a dragon was the most magnificent and wondrous of any she had ever assumed. She felt her consciousness shrinking, all the knowledge and insights of the dragon’s mind lost, and tried hard to fix some of what she had learnt into her own mind. It was virtually impossible, however, particularly with the wave of dizziness and weariness that engulfed her.

  Dide was the first to reach her. He embraced her fiercely, shouting, ‘Ye did it, ye did it!’

  Lachlan and Iseult reached her next. ‘Ye saved us all!’ the Rìgh cried. ‘And as a dragon! Who could believe ye could become a dragon?’

  Iseult said nothing, just hugged her close, pressing her forehead against Isabeau’s.

  All round the battlefield men and Fairgean were shouting and cheering. Although a gusty wind still blew, bringing sleet to lash against their faces, the darkness had lifted. It was dawn. The Dragon-Star was sinking.

  Isabeau suddenly realised she was naked. As tired as she was, she simply did not have the power to warm herself with her magic and she trembled all over with the cold. ‘My … clothes,’ she whispered, her teeth chattering together. Her knees suddenly gave way and only Dide’s arms saved her from sitting down abruptly. Isabeau saw her pile of clothes a short distance away and held out her hands for them. They were thrust into her arms and Iseult helped her drag them on, wet and muddy as they were.

  ‘Come back to the ship,’ Iseult said. ‘There’ll be food there and we can make some hot tea. We’re all shivering with cold. Gods, what a night!’

  Isabeau suddenly stilled, her hand in the pocket of her coat. ‘The Key!’ she cried. ‘My Key!’

  Frantically she threw herself down in the mud, searching through the debris. There was no sign of the magical talisman of the Coven. She tore her clothes apart, crawled about on her hands and knees, weeping as she scrabbled through the fragments of branches, leaves, dead fish and mud. Suddenly Isabeau saw a pair of hairy paws before her. She looked up, dashing away her tears with her hand.

  Brun stood before her, his tail twisting about anxiously, his triangular face sheepish.

  ‘What force and strength canna get through,

  With a mere touch, I can undo,’ he said.

  Isabeau stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said sharply. ‘My Key.’

  He lifted the little jangle of rings and spoons about his neck. The Key hung there among them. ‘I guard for ye,’ he said. ‘It be so marvellous bonny, I did no’ want it to be lost.’

  Isabeau reached up and put her arms about the cluricaun’s furry waist, hugging him affectionately. ‘Thank ye, Brun, thank ye,’ she said. ‘I do no’ ken what I would do without ye!’

  The captain’s cabin was full of smoke and noise. Lachlan, drawn and white-faced, sat at the table, his wings drooping heavily. Iseult sat as close to him as she could get. Gathered around them were the lairds and prionnsachan, all bearing the scars of bloody battle.

  Sitting together at the other end of the table were Maya, her wrist manacled to the arm of her chair, and the Fairge who had helped rescue Lachlan. His name was Prince Nila, they had been told, Maya’s half-brother and the only surviving son of the King of the Fairgean. He stared about him with great arrogance, his slim, muscular body tense as if the slightest move would cause him to leap into action. Behind him stood two Fairgean warriors with the same proud, suspicious stance, holding tridents whose long handles of smoothed driftwood were embedded with diamonds.

  ‘So ye mean to tell us that ye are willing to make peace with us?’ Lachlan asked incredulously. Maya translated and the Fairge prince gave a long, melodious response.

  ‘He says, “On terms”,’ Maya replied.

  ‘What terms?’

  ‘The sacred Isle o’ the Gods must never be defiled by the step o’ a human again,’ Maya translated. ‘The Fairgean must be able to swim the seas and hunt the whale and the seal unmolested. The beaches and rivers must be returned to the Fairgean so that their women can give birth in peace and safety. The humans must no’ sail their ships upon the sea, nor harvest the sea’s riches, nor …’

  ‘He’s mad!’

  ‘This is intolerable!’

  ‘Never sail the seas or fish it or hunt the seals ourselves!’

  The prionnsachan all broke into angry refutations but the Duke of Killiegarrie, seanalair of Blèssem, laughed. The sound of his genuine merriment cut through the noise.

  ‘Who would have thought the Fairgean were born negotiators?’ he said. ‘Ye leave this to me, Your Highness.’

  As Keybearer of the Coven and advisor to the Crown, Isabeau sat through the early part of the negotiations but as it soon proved that Prince Nila was as shrewd and canny a bargainer as the Duke of Killiegarrie, she knew the talks would drag on for many hours, if not weeks. There were many sick and wounded to attend to and so, telling Gwilym to send for her should she be needed, Isabeau went out once more to attend them, Buba perched on her shoulder as usual. The little owl had taken refuge from the storm in the forest and had been very happy to be reunited with Isabeau. She sat with her feathers all ruffled up and her round golden eyes blinking sleepily. Buba would very much have liked a snooze-hooh.

  Isabeau would have liked a snooze-hooh as well, but there was so much to do after the dreadful events of the night, and her mind was still all churned up, going over and over what had happened. The comet spell, Meghan’s death, the rescue of the Lodestar by Bronwen, her own flight through the whirlwind as a dragon. It all seemed so incredible she could hardly believe it had happened. Only the rows and rows of wounded soldiers, and the view of the flattened forest from the deck of the Royal Stag convinced her it had not all been some terrible nightmare.

  They had buried the dead in the chilly light of the dawn. It had been a long, exhausting task, made no easier by grief and self-recriminations. ‘If only …’ people kept saying, Isabeau among them. ‘If only …’

  Meghan NicCuinn had been buried at the foot of a great oak tree in the forest. They had time only to build a cairn of rocks over her grave, but Lachlan swore to erect a monument engraved with the magical symbols of the Coven and an account of her remarkable life when things had returned to normal. The donbeag Gitâ had crouched on her dead body all through the tumultuous events of the night and refused to leave her even as the first clods of earth fell down upon her crude wooden coffin. If Isabeau had not lifted him away and held his quivering body closely, he would have been buried with her. Despite all Isabeau’s gentle chittering, he would not leave the grave and at last they had walked away, leaving him crouching there, keening softly in his throat.

  Enit Silverthroat was buried with just as much ceremony and grief under a rowan tree, where the birds she had loved would gather to eat its berries and sing in its green branches. Jay, Dide and Brun together played a lament of such heartfelt sorrow that even the most hardened soldier was moved to tears. Isabeau, who had been dry-eyed all through Meghan’s funeral, wept bitterly. She would have sought comfort in Dide’s arms, but Dide had loved his grandmother dearly and more than anyone else there asked himself, ‘If only …’ There was no answer to such questions, though, and so he played out his grief and regret through his music.

  Among the many hundreds who had died were the Duke of Gleneagles, Admiral Tobias, Stout John, Carrick One-Eye, and of course Tòmas the Healer. The funerals had taken much of the morning but
once they were over, everyone felt a lightening of the air, as if the ceremonies had truly marked the end of the war and the beginning of a new era of peace.

  Most of the refugees had safely reached the shelter of the saltpetre mines some twenty miles to the north. Enormous limestone caves that ran deep into the rock, the mines would provide shelter as long as it was needed. Those who were strong enough were set to gathering firewood and searching for whatever supplies the valley could offer. Many creatures had fled the quake-waves to the safety of the high country, and the soldiers were confident they could hunt down enough food to eke out the meagre supplies.

  Those who were too badly injured to walk had been carried to the ship for the healers and witches to work on. Every deck was so thickly lined with rough pallets that it was hard for Isabeau to find room to step. Her ears full of groans of pain, her vision filled with pleading hands and terrible gaping wounds, she found herself missing Meghan and Tòmas more than she would have thought possible. All decisions rested with her now. There was no lad with miraculous healing powers to save those closest to death; no old sorceress with almost four and a half centuries of experience and knowledge to guide her.

  Despite all her careful preparations, they were already running low on healing herbs, pain-numbing salves and bandages. Neither she nor the other healers had slept in twenty-seven hours and they were so numb with shock and exhaustion that they sewed up wounds, amputated limbs and measured out medicines by rote. To compound Isabeau’s difficulty, her most able healer was sunk in a profound depression. Johanna sat in a corner, staring at the wall. She had not cleaned herself of the night’s mud and blood, nor changed her clothes, which had dried stiff upon her.

  Isabeau knelt beside her. ‘Johanna, there’s naught ye can do for the laddiekin. He’s dead. There are many others who need your help. Canna ye let him go now and come and help me?’

  Johanna looked up at her piteously. ‘He was just a babe, a wee babe. And to die now, when the war is over, when there shall be peace at last. It’s just no’ fair.’