The Fathomless Caves (21 page)

‘What a grand idea,’ Douglas replied, leaping to his feet. He helped his father rise and then turned to offer Iseult his hand but she had taken advantage of his distraction to clamber to her feet herself, her hand clamped to her side. With her face wiped clean of all expression, she was rather gingerly shouldering her very heavy pack.

‘Your Highness,’ Douglas cried in dismay, just as Carrick One-Eye leapt forward, saying, ‘My lady, please, let me carry it for ye!’

‘Ye are already carrying your pack and Gayna’s,’ Iseult said reprovingly, sliding her splinted arm back inside her sling. ‘I ken your shoulders are broad, my lad, but then so are mine. I canna order the men to all carry such a load and then no’ carry it myself.’

‘But my lady …’

‘Come, stop fussing!’ she said sharply. ‘Let us be on our way.’

Reluctantly Douglas and Carrick fell into step behind her, as she called to Khan’gharad and the other Scarred Warriors to lead the way.

By sunset Iseult was white, the weight of the knapsack on her shoulders obviously bothering her. She would allow none to help her, though, and only the MacSeinn’s repeated requests that she slow down and wait for a poor old man who could not step as sprightly as she could gave her the excuse to stop occasionally and recover her strength.

‘Ye are no’ so auld,’ she said on one such occasion, when he insisted on her sitting beside him on a fallen log and sharing a wee dram of whisky with him. Through the trees they could see a blue winding ribbon of water that led to a wide stretch of sparkling loch.

‘No’ so young any more either,’ he replied. ‘And definitely no’ used to all this clambering over rocks. It’s grand for ye young things, bounding around like puppies, but I find it does no’ suit my dignity to have my men seeing me pant like an auld dog. So humour me, lassie, and let me bide a wee and catch my breath.’

In the soft twilight they finally reached the banks of the river. Iseult was able to drop her load and sit quietly for a while, keeping the MacSeinn company while the men set up camp. The river murmured quietly to itself, running deep and swift over fine gravel between banks crowded with slender birch trees, their leaves blowing grey.

The loch glimmered beyond, reflecting in serene perfection the tall peaks of the mountains behind them, radiant in the last bright burst of light from the sun. Douglas came and sat next to his father, breathing out a sigh of pure happiness. ‘This must be the loveliest spot on earth,’ he said. ‘I would fain live here always. Canna we build a castle here,
Dai-dein
?’

His father frowned. ‘The MacSeinn clan has always lived on the coast,’ he said slowly.

‘Och, well, happen the coast is bonny too,’ Douglas said, not wanting to disturb the tranquillity of the evening.

His father smiled rather grimly. ‘Actually, it be a
wild, rugged sort o’ place,’ he admitted. ‘The cliffs are very high for much o’ the way and there are only a few safe harbours, which we’ve always had to fight hard to keep, the sea-demons wanting them too. There are no beaches like the ones ye have seen in Clachan, with soft sand where the waves creep in as gentle as a kitten. It’s all rocks and wild waves and steep cliffs, and in winter icebergs as big as castles drift past, and the water is so cold a man will die in minutes if he falls in.’

‘Oh,’ Douglas said, daunted.

‘It has its own beauty,’ the MacSeinn said, a faraway expression in his eyes. ‘But the wind in the winter! It never seems to stop, blowing the very soul out o’ ye.’

He looked down at his son and smiled suddenly, though the deep lines between his brows did not soften. ‘I had forgotten the wind,’ he said. ‘Happen we can build a house here for the winter and come here to fish and hunt and climb in the mountains. Happen ye can learn to skim like the Khan’cohbans.’

The sparkle came back into Douglas’s brilliant sea-green eyes. ‘Och, I’d like that!’

In the morning the valley rang with the sound of axes against tree trunks. Iseult walked with her father on the gravelly river bank, discussing the safest method of rafting the river. Suddenly Khan’gharad squatted down, turning over the stones in his big hand.

‘What is it?’ Iseult asked.

He turned his dark, scarred face towards her, holding up a pile of large, opaque pebbles. ‘These be diamonds.’

Iseult’s breath suddenly caught. ‘Diamonds?’

‘Aye.’

She took the pebbles from his hand. ‘But they’re so dull.’

‘All gems look like that in the rough. They are like weapons, they need to be honed and sharpened and polished.’ He straightened in a single fluid movement. ‘Like Scarred Warriors.’

Iseult nodded, testing the weight of the pebbles in her hand. ‘Let us go and tell the MacSeinn,’ she said with a little rush of happiness. ‘If there are diamonds in this river, he need no’ worry about being poor ever again.’

‘If he survives,’ Khan’gharad replied.

Nila woke. All his body ached. He felt cool wetness on his brow. He opened his eyes with difficulty, light stabbing into his brain. He moaned and tried to cover his eyes with his hand, but his arm would not move. A shadow fell upon him. He flinched back, but a gentle hand held him still. One of his
ralisen
was leaning over him, his face creased with concern.

‘How do you feel, my prince?’ he asked.

‘Like shark bait,’ Nila answered hoarsely, coughing. He tried to sit up and the warrior helped him, passing him a shell full of cool rainwater. Nila drank thankfully, looking about him. They were on a narrow stretch of sand between high rocky headlands. Nila recognised it. It was the same beach where he had woken before. There was the rock where his father had sat and ordered his brothers to beat him to death.

‘Why am I alive?’ he asked.

The warrior gave an ironic laugh. ‘I do not know, my prince. We thought you were dead when we found you. Almighty Jor must have his hand upon you, for you still breathed despite the beating they gave you.’

There was anger and condemnation in his voice. Nila squinted up at him. ‘We?’ he asked.

‘The warriors of your pod, my prince.’

Nila looked about and saw the faces of all his men leaning over him. Involuntary tears sprang up in his eyes. He swallowed, determined not to show how deeply touched he was.

‘They bade us follow them but when they had beached for the night, we left the others and came back,’ another warrior said. ‘We did not expect to find you alive, my prince. We thought only to give you the honours due a prince and send you into Jor’s embrace as one of your courage deserved. You may have trusted the sea-singer foolishly but you did not deserve such a death, nor to be left stranded on a beach like a jellyfish. We thought to chant the rites and send you out to sea, with your pearl upon your breast and gifts for the gods at your feet.’

Nila put up his fingers and feebly touched the black pearl upon his breast. ‘But my brother …’

‘Your brother Lonan was stung by a sand scorpion,’ the warrior said softly. ‘Somehow one crept into his furs.’

‘They gave
him
all honour due a prince,’ another said. ‘The proper rites were spoken and he was put to sea with many fine gifts for the gods.’

‘But
not
the black pearl,’ the first said. ‘Jor gave the
pearl to you, we thought you should be the one to give it back to him.’

‘Except you were not dead. So we washed you and bound your broken ribs and arm, and hung the black pearl around your neck once more.’

‘Why?’ Nila asked. ‘Do you not realise what they will do to you if they find out?’

There was an uneasy movement. The warriors looked at each other.

‘It would not be honourable for us to do anything else,’ one of the warriors said at last. ‘You are our
jaka
.’

‘You spoke against the King with wisdom and great courage,’ another said. ‘It was wrong for a wise and brave man to die with such dishonour. Our king may choose to act so and command his sons to act so, but we are beholden only to our own consciences. That is not the way of a warrior, to beat a good man to death because he speaks what he sees to be true.’

Nila could not speak for a moment. At last he was able to say, ‘I thank you.’

They nodded their heads. One gave him some more water to drink and another brought him some fish, tender, white and salty. He ate gratefully, although the salt stung his bloodied mouth.

‘Is it true what you said?’ one said at last. ‘That the Priestesses of Jor seek to raise the sea into a tidal wave?’

Nila nodded.

‘And that tidal wave shall fall upon the land and drown it?’

Nila nodded again. With one eye sealed shut with puffy bruises and the other still wincing from the light,
it was hard for him to read the expression of the
ralisen,
and his voice was carefully free of intonation. Nila wondered where these questions were leading.

‘And all life on the land shall be drowned?’

‘All life near the sea,’ Nila answered.

‘And is it true that the Priestesses of Jor have called upon Kani, Mother of the Gods, for the power to raise this tidal wave?’ Despite all his best intentions, the warrior could not keep the fear and dismay from his voice.

‘Yes, it is true,’ Nila answered. ‘I was there, I heard Kani speak through one of the priestesses.’

‘It cannot be a good thing, to raise the goddess of earthquake and volcanoes,’ the warrior said, his voice shaking a little.

‘No,’ Nila said.

‘How will we survive?’ another said anxiously. ‘How will any of us survive?’

‘I do not know,’ Nila answered, feeling the shadow of despair falling upon him again.

‘What can we do?’ the warriors all asked. ‘How can we stop it? How can we save ourselves? And our soul-brothers the whales? What can we do?’

‘Nothing,’ Nila said, closing his eyes again. ‘There is nothing we can do.’

War is an unpredictable beast. Once unleashed, it runs like a rabid dog, ravening friend or foe alike. It can drag on for years, a slow attrition of nerve and fortitude, or be over in one brilliant flash, an extravagant conflagration of flame and blood and waste.

At first it seemed as if the war against the Fairgean would be won in just such a blaze, a holocaust of burning ocean in which flaming sea-serpents writhed and shrieked, and a hundred Fairgean warriors were incinerated in an instant. Black, oily smoke rolled up, choking those that watched in stunned horror from the royal fleet. The waves themselves burnt with a strange
green fire. No matter how frantically the sea-serpents thrashed, no matter how deep the warriors dived, still they burned and burned until all that was left was a crust of ash and cinders that clogged the roll of the waves. The sides of all the ships were smeared with it, black and oily.

‘Eà’s green blood!’ Lachlan coughed, wiping his streaming eyes. ‘That seafire o’ my uncle works as well as he promised!’

‘It does no’ seem honourable, to spray them with that stuff and then simply watch them burn,’ Duncan Ironfist said, his bearded face very grim.

‘Was it honourable for them to attack us in the midst o’ our Beltane feast?’ the Duke of Killiegarrie retorted. He was holding his plaid over his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed from the acridity of the smoke. ‘We are at war, and any strategy that brings us victory must be honourable.’

Duncan Ironfist shook his head. ‘Eà save us from such a war,’ he answered. His golden eyes troubled, Lachlan watched him walk away down the forecastle.

‘They shall no’ attack our fleet so quickly next time,’ Admiral Tobias said with satisfaction. ‘And the wind blows unusually fair, thanks to the wind-whistling o’ your witches. We shall round Cape Providence in just four days if we have no more trouble.’

‘There’ll be no more trouble,’ the Duke of Killiegarrie said confidently. ‘With this seafire o’ the MacBrann’s we shall simply incinerate any Fairge that pops his head out o’ the water.’

‘Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit
before a fall,’ Arvin the Just, the first mate of the
Royal Stag,
intoned solemnly. Like many Tìrsoilleirean, he had a proverb for every occasion, most of them very depressing. In this case, though, he was proved right. As the royal fleet rounded Cape Providence three days later, they were taken by surprise by a storm of such ferocity that seven of the royal fleet were sunk, and the remaining ships much damaged. Nearly every boat had one or two broken masts, their sails torn into shreds and holes ripped in the hulls. Supplies were ruined by saltwater, men were swept overboard, and many of their goats and sheep were drowned.

Isabeau and the other witches wrought a circle of power and sought to calm the storm, but they were hampered by the pitching and rolling of the ship, the drag of the gale-force winds and the lashing of the icy sleet. All they were able to do was swing the calm eye of the storm over the fleet long enough for the navy to limp to safety in one of the few deep harbours along the wild and rocky coastline.

There the royal fleet was stuck for almost a week, struggling in the gusty aftermath of the gale to repair the ships. And there they were ambushed by the Fairgean. The sea-faeries slipped up to the damaged ships under the cover of darkness, so silently and so swiftly that they were swarming over the railings before a single alarm could be sounded. Savage hand-to-hand fighting resulted. In such close quarters the seafire could not be used, nor the giant ballistas and cannons lined up along every deck. It was sword against trident, dagger against dagger, webbed fist against fist. When the fighting grew
too fierce, the Fairgean dived back into the water and swam back out to sea.

Plagued by foul weather and constant ambushes, the fleet took twenty-two days to reach the Firth of Forlorn, a journey they had expected to take ten. Another four ships were lost, one being incinerated by its own load of seafire after a capricious wind changed just at the wrong moment.

By the time the Firth of Forlorn was reached, the mood upon the
Royal Stag
was grim. All had hoped they would be able to sail up the coast without even sighting a Fairgean. Isabeau grew defensive since it had been on her knowledge of the Fairgean migratory habits that the plan had been based.

‘It is no’ my fault,’ she protested one evening. ‘The Fairgean have obviously swum north earlier than usual. They were expecting a strike against them, ye ken that …’

‘Och, aye, so our Fairge spy has told us,’ the Rìgh replied acidly, glancing at Maya, who was sitting placidly at the far end of the cabin, playing trictrac with Bronwen.

The former Banrìgh had been kept under close custody ever since her capture at Bride Harbour. Isabeau had been afraid Lachlan would lose his judgement in his hot desire for revenge against his brother’s wife but she had misjudged him. Much as Lachlan hated Maya, he knew she could prove useful indeed in the war against the Fairgean. Maya knew more about the customs and beliefs of the sea-faeries than anyone and she swore that she wished only to ensure her and
Bronwen’s safety. Besides, Lachlan knew he had more to gain by putting Maya on trial for her crimes and showing the people of the land that he was a fair and just rìgh than there was in killing her out of hand.

So Maya sailed with them and had been of some use in explaining the military formation of the pods and what their likely strategies would be. The Fairge had remained composed the entire journey. Despite the iron cuff and chain she wore on one wrist, she acted as if she was an honoured guest rather than a prisoner-of-war. Bronwen was overjoyed to have her mother back again, though she was humiliated by the chain and angry at Lachlan for insisting upon it. She would have unlocked Maya if she could have. Isabeau had to warn her to be careful not to arouse Lachlan’s anger.

‘The Rìgh could have your mother locked down in the bilges if he so chose,’ she had admonished. ‘And remember, she is safer here than out there in the open sea, for if the Fairgean caught her they’d put her to death straightaway. Ye ken your family motto is “Wisely and Boldly”? Well, now is the time to be wise, no’ bold.’

Now, biting back angry words, Isabeau looked across at the two sleek dark heads bent over the trictrac board. ‘We always kent this would be a bitterly fought campaign,’ she said softly. ‘I ken it is a hard blow to have lost eleven ships afore we even reach the Firth o’ Forlorn, but we could’ve lost more wi’ all these gales. Indeed, I think this priestess-witch o’ the Fairgean must be descended from weather witches, for indeed these storms canna be natural.’

‘She must be aye powerful,’ Lachlan said gloomily.
‘I am meant to have a Talent with weather too, but even with the Lodestar and the circle o’ witches, it is all I can do no’ to lose the entire fleet!’

Maya looked up. ‘Do no’ forget the Fairgean have their own magic,’ she said coolly. ‘Nila told me that he saw Fand using the Nightglobe o’ Naia. That is the most powerful talisman o’ the Priestesses o’ Jor, and far more ancient than your wee orb.’

Isabeau and Lachlan just stared at her, then the Rìgh’s brows knotted together. ‘Is it eavesdropping ye are now?’ he demanded angrily.

‘No’ at all,’ Maya replied sweetly. ‘Did ye no’ ken the Fairgean have very acute hearing? We can find our way safely by listening to the echoes o’ our whistles bouncing back from rock or iceberg or whale. If ye wish me no’ to hear what ye say, ye should no’ talk anywhere near me.’

Lachlan’s colour deepened. ‘Thank ye so much for telling me,’ he said with dangerous calm.

‘No’ at all,’ she answered and turned back to her game.

Lachlan glared at her, seething, then rose and caught up his plaid. ‘Come and walk on the deck with me then, Beau,’ he said through his teeth. ‘We dinna want the Fairge listening to all that we say.’

‘Do no’ be walking just overhead then,’ Maya said without looking up.

Isabeau followed Lachlan out onto the deck. It was grey and blustery, spray slapping them in the face as the
Royal Stag
pitched forward in the wild seas. To the port side, high cliffs soared out of the sea, waves smashing
violently upon the rocks at their base. Many spectacular crags reared up out of the waves, some forming archways with the mainland. To the starboard side the grey ocean stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only by the tall, triangular peaks of many small islands. They looked like giant shark fins.

Lachlan stared out at the horizon, his black brows drawn close over his eyes, his mouth grim. ‘I wish I had no’ brought the bairns,’ he burst out.

‘Why did ye?’ Isabeau asked. ‘A war campaign is no’ the place for bairns.’

‘I wanted to keep them close,’ Lachlan answered. ‘I kent we could be away for many months. It seems I’ve spent all o’ Donncan’s childhood away fighting one battle or another. I never really kent my father. He was killed by the Fairgean king at the Battle o’ the Strand when I was only three. I did no’ want that to happen to my bairns.’

Isabeau was silent. She thought of Owein and Olwynne, in the midst of their second year, fighting constant seasickness down in their cabin. She thought of Donncan, not yet seven, who had seen one dreadful sea battle after another. Isabeau herself had been sickened by the conflagrations of seafire, and she was no innocent child.

‘Donncan has been waking with nightmares,’ she said. ‘Every creak o’ the ship has him starting awake in terror.’

Lachlan nodded. ‘He wants his mother,’ he said. ‘I want her too. Oh, Beau, will she come back? She was so angry …’

‘She’ll come back,’ Isabeau said. ‘Wait until we reach Castle Forlorn. Iseult will be waiting for ye there, I’m sure o’ it.’

Lachlan gave a little shiver, his wings rustling. ‘What a name,’ he whispered. ‘Indeed the MacSeinns are a strange, melancholy clan. Who would call their castle such a thing?’

They saw Castle Forlorn the next morning at dawn. It was a bleak, cold morning, the waves running high below the prows of the ships, seagulls crying plaintively. They all clustered at the port side, staring up at the small fortress built at the very height of the headland guarding the entrance into the Firth of Forlorn. Once it had been a tall, proud tower, guarded by high walls and thick flying buttresses. Now it seemed no more than a tumbled pile of stones, dwarfed by the immense height of the cliff.

‘It’s naught but a ruin,’ Dide said in disbelief. ‘We canna take shelter there. We shall have to rebuild the whole damn thing!’

‘Nay, look!’ Isabeau cried, her keen eyesight seeing what the others had not. ‘It flies a blue and gold flag. The MacSeinn must be there!’

The fleet of ships came round the headland, the
Royal Stag
leading with a billow of white sails. The green flag of the MacCuinn clan flew proudly from every mast. The Firth of Forlorn stretched before them, guarded on each side by a great headland surmounted by a ruined fortress. The one on the far side was called Castle Forsaken. If everything had gone according to plan, Anghus MacRuraich would already be there with
his men. It was too far across the firth to see if the wolf ensign of the MacRuraich clan flew there, but they could see a thin column of smoke rising from the ruins.

‘The Fairgean canna make fire so it must be the MacRuraich,’ Isabeau reassured them.

‘Do ye really think so?’ Jay asked wistfully, leaning against the rail and staring across at the trail of smoke.

‘I certainly hope so,’ Lachlan said. ‘That is the worst o’ being at sea, we canna scry over water and so we have no way o’ communicating with each other. Just as soon as we have landed I shall send Stormwing across with a message. We shall soon ken if it is the MacRuraich.’

‘I wonder if Finn is wi’ him?’ Jay murmured. ‘She was determined she would no’ be left behind this time.’

‘Och, then I’d say she’s there,’ Lachlan replied with a wry grin. ‘Even if she had to conceal herself in the baggage train to get there!’

The fleet of ships tacked against the wind and sailed in through the headlands. Rising out of the grey water was an island that rose high into a pointed peak, its apex concealed by a wreath of hazy cloud. Faintly through the dark smudge of smoke they could see the shape of a wall and a broken arch. It was all that remained of the Tower of Sea-singers.

‘The Isle o’ the Gods,’ Maya said, triumph ringing out in her voice. She hugged Bronwen close to her side, the chain about her wrist jangling. ‘See, Bronny? That is the divine home o’ the Fairgean. Within its Fathomless Caves all the gods o’ the world were born— Jor the God of the Shoreless Seas, Mika the thunder
god, Tahsha the ice god, Muki the god of our soul-brothers the whales, Ryza the god of dreams … All were born there and spat out into the world in the fiery breath of the Mother of all Gods, Kani, the goddess of earthquakes and volcanoes.’

Maya hugged Bronwen closer, giving a strange little shiver that could have been fear or joy. She then raised herself proudly, looking across at Lachlan defiantly. ‘Do ye ken I have never afore seen the Isle o’ the Gods, the most sacred place for all Fairgean? When I was born, the Fairgean lived on rafts or clung to auld bits o’ driftwood or whatever rocks the humans did no’ bother to guard. If we tried to swim ashore we were beaten to death or sung into oblivion by the evil Yedda. When I was about the same age as Bronny, or happen a wee younger, I was taken to the Isle o’ Divine Dread.’ She pointed back at another island peak that rose black and forbidding behind them. ‘That is the island o’ the Priestesses o’ Jor. I did no’ see daylight again for many, many years.’

She laughed. It was a terrible laugh, full of a ferocious glee that had them all staring at her. Even Bronwen shrank back. ‘Ye are in the heart o’ the Fairgean waters now, MacCuinn,’ Maya said. ‘Indeed I always kent ye were a fool.’

Lachlan stared at the smoking island, his hands nervously gripping and releasing the shaft of the Lodestar, his face drained of colour. A few of the other men made mocking replies, full of bravado, but the Rìgh said nothing. He could not take his eyes off the Isle of the Gods.

From high above the deck they heard a shrill, frightened cry. ‘Sea-serpents, Cap’n, hundreds o’ them! Coming this way.’