The Skull of the World (21 page)

"Ye have passed your third Test o' Powers, Isabeau the Apprentice Witch, with great skill," Daillas the Lame said. "We are glad indeed to welcome ye into the Coven o' Witches."

"By the Creed o' the Coven o' Witches, ye must swear to speak only what is true in your heart, for ye must have courage in your beliefs. Ye must swear no' to use the Power to ensorcel others, remembering all people must choose their own path. Ye must use the One Power in wisdom and thoughtfulness, with a kind heart, a fierce and canny mind, and steadfast courage. Do ye swear these things?" Meghan said.

"I swear. May my heart be kind, my mind fierce, my spirit brave." Isabeau spoke the ritual with a break in her voice, so tired and so happy she was close to tears.

"May Ea shine her bright face upon ye," Arkening said and the others added their blessings and congratulations.

"It is time for the Midsummer celebrations. Come and eat and be joyful. In the dawn ye must cut yourself a staff and say Ea's blessing over it, and then shall your new life as Isabeau the Witch begin," Meghan said. "Congratulations, my bairn, I am proud indeed o' ye."

Painfully they all got to their feet, rubbing their limbs to aid the return of their circulation. As the other witches packed up their paraphernalia and doused the fire, Meghan held up a long robe of white linen for Isabeau to put on. Cut from the one length of cloth, it was made without any buttons, buckles, hooks or knots. It was growing cool under the huge old trees and Isabeau received it gladly, for this was the first sign of her new standing within the Coven. Apprentice no longer, but a fully accredited witch, and at the age of only twenty-two and a half. Despite all her efforts to maintain a proper humility, Isabeau could not help glowing with pride.

Although Lachlan and Iseult had traveled with their court to Rhyssmadill for the Summer Fair, held in Dun Gorm each year, the witches were still throwing the traditional feast to celebrate Midsummer's Eve. As Isabeau and her teachers walked slowly through the warm dusk, the gardens were beginning to fill with people dressed in their finest clothes. Nisses were busy garlanding the trees with flowers, and a little band of cluricauns were tuning their instruments on a stage erected before the rose garden.

In the square before the Tower of Two Moons a huge bonfire had been built which would be lit at sunset. Those who wished to be handfasted would leap the fire together, giving them a year to live together as man and wife before being married. Those who had been handfasted a year earlier and wished to build a life together would jump the fire a second time, sealing their marriage vows. Midsummer's Eve was considered a time for loving and many a child was conceived on the night of the summer solstice.

Isabeau was so tired that it was an effort to keep her balance, but she stood for a while watching the dancers and mummers, and sampling some of the delicious spiced cakes. Children from the Theurgia were running everywhere, shrieking with excitement, and the older apprentices and witches were sitting under the trees or dancing. In her flowing white gown, with the new dagger hanging in its sheath at her waist, it was clear Isabeau had passed her Tests and so many came to grasp her hand and congratulate her. She smiled tiredly and thanked them, but would not stay for long. The one glass of goldensloe wine she drank made her head spin and so she made her weary way back to the tower and so to bed, sleep swooping down upon her like an owl upon a mouse.

Hand in hand, Lachlan and Iseult made their way through the dark garden, their way lit only by the light of the sinking moons. The tall spires of Rhyss-madill soared high into the sky, etched blackly against the starry sky. In the distance they could hear the faint sound of chatter and laughter, and the strumming of a guitar. A couple was entwined together under a tree, the woman's bare leg gleaming white against the darkness of her clothes. With a smile at each other, Lachlan and Iseult passed by silently.

Through the branches they saw the flicker of flames. Only a few revelers still clustered around the bonfire, drinking and laughing and listening to the music. From the bushes they heard a little trill of laughter and smiled at each other again.

"It is almost dawn," Lachlan said. "Our guests must be wondering what has happened to us. I hope none suspect we have been having secret meetings at midnight'. . ."

"It is Midsummer." Iseult smiled up at him. "No one will be wondering."

He caught her throat in his strong, brown hand and tilted her face up so he could kiss her. She felt the quickening of her pulse, and the same rise of urgent desire in him.

"It is our wedding anniversary tonight," he said when he at last released her.

Iseult leaned her head against his shoulder. "Aye, I ken."

"Have ye been happy these last five years,
leannan?"

"Ye ken I have."

He shook his head, trying to read her face in the moonlight. "It is hard to ken what ye are thinking sometimes. All that Khan'cohban reserve o' yours, it is impossible to break through at times. Are ye sure ye do no' regret jumping the fire with me?"

"Aye," she answered. "I'm sure."

He cupped her face in his hands. "Ye do no' sound sure," he said, only half joking. "Ye have never wished ye had chosen differently? Ye never long for the snows?"

"I swore a sacred oath that I would never leave ye and I shall no'," she answered, drawing a little away from him.

"That is no' what I asked."

She drew even further away, looking up at him seriously. "I miss the snows," she answered, "but ye ken that. What is it that ye are asking?"

He was scowling and she put up one hand to smooth his brow. He caught her hand and kissed it passionately. "Do ye love me?" The words were spoken low and with difficulty.

She slid her arms about his neck and kissed him on the mouth. "Ye ken that I do," she whispered into his ear, kissing the soft flesh of his throat. As her mouth moved lower, to the curve of his collarbone, he gave a little sigh and cradled her in his arms, his wings cupping around to enfold her.

"Do ye remember that first night we made love?" he whispered, slowly backing her under the shadow of a great tree. "In the forest, on the ground, among all the tree roots?"

She nodded and smiled against his skin.

He pressed her up against the rough bark of the tree trunk, his hands slowly undoing the laces of her gown. "I've rather missed the forest," he said huskily, sliding his mouth down her bare shoulder.

"We have a nice soft bed up in the palace," she whispered, drawing him down with her onto the ground, "with pillows and blankets and curtains to close against prying eyes."

"But it be Midsummer," he mocked, the words coming slowly, in between kisses. "We canna make love in a bed like an auld married couple when it's Midsummer Eve."

Naked now, his warm, rough hands and silky-soft feathers gently stroking the whole length of her body, Iseult sighed and looked up at the dark fretwork of leaves against the silvery-blue moon.

"There's something to be said for Midsummer madness," she said.

Isabeau woke, her body arcing upward instinctively. For a moment she was disoriented, the pattern of twigs and leaves against the moon etched sharply on her mind's eye. The dark room with its smell of beeswax and old leather confused her, the slight weight of her sheet. She had been in the garden, making love under the Midsummer moons, silken feathers caressing her . . .

Understanding came. She lay back against her pillows, her skin hot, her heart beating too fast. Deep inside her she still felt the twisting coil of desire. Though she tried to calm her breathing, the ache and throb would not fade. At last she drank some water from the mug by her bed and dampened her sheet so she could dab it against her face, fever-hot, fever-dry. Buba hooted anxiously, sensing Isabeau's distress, and crept close to comfort her. Isabeau could not bear the brush of the owl's feathers against her skin and pushed her away abruptly.

You-hooh angry-hooh?

"Nay, I ... I just had a bad dream," Isabeau said. She wondered if Iseult knew that she experienced her twin sister's moments of passion as vividly as she shared her moments of pain. Surely not. Surely Iseult could not open herself up to sensation so freely if she knew, if she realized. A flash of her dream returned to Isabeau—the hard curve of Lachlan's arm, the silken feel of his bare skin under her hands, the hot insistence of his mouth . . .

Isabeau shuddered. She scrambled out of bed and dragged her new white gown over her head, leaving her hair hanging free in wild disorder. Wrapping her plaid about her against the early morning chill, she hurried down the stairs and into the garden. With an anxious hoot, Buba flew after her.

A few revelers were still sitting on the front steps, leaning against each other and smiling drunkenly. Isabeau ignored their invitation to join them, plunging into the garden. Shadowy fronds closed over her head. The air was cool and smelled green with new growth. She pressed her body against a tree, the rough scrape of the bark grazing her skin, its solid strength supporting her. Tears stung her eyes but she did not weep. Buba came to rest on Isabeau's shoulder, butting her head against Isabeau's neck. She stroked the feathery head and took comfort from that until the tumult of anger, desire and frustration at last began to ease.

Birds were beginning to test their voices against the dark. Isabeau raised her head and looked about her. She could see now the fronds which had swallowed and enclosed her. Feeling tired and heavy with the weight of her dream, she slowly made her way through the lawns and shrubberies to the sacred circle where the witches had tested her yesterday.

She reached the glade in the center of the ring of seven ancient trees. In the growing light she could clearly see the black ashes of their fire. At one of the points of the six-sided star a large clay pot still stood, with a tall straight hazel sapling springing out of it. Among its roots nestled a clump of heart's ease. On the other side was a tall spray of oats, heavy with seeds.

It was Isabeau's task this morning to make herself her witch's staff, symbol of full acceptance into the Coven. She had to meditate for long quiet minutes before she was able at last to put aside the effect of the dream. Even then it was not lost but only locked away somewhere where it would no longer disturb her so powerfully.

Feeling very calm and very distant, Isabeau knelt under the oak tree and drew her witch's knife and the crystal she had found in the mountains out of her satchel, washing them carefully in the pool. Alone in the dim garden, she carefully drew the knife along her finger, watching the dark blood well up. She smeared the blade with her blood, then dipped it in the ashes of the fire till it was thickly encrusted. She then knelt at the sixth point of the star, breathing deeply and slowly.

At the very moment that the sun rose above the horizon, flooding the garden with warmth and color, she cut down the leafy sapling with one swift movement. Slowly, ceremoniously, Isabeau stripped all the twigs and leaves from the sapling then scoured the branch with earth and ashes till it was smooth and white. She washed it clean in the pool and stained it a pale silvery-white with starwood oil. Kindling the fire again with twigs gathered from beneath all seven trees, she then forged a silver cap for the end of the staff, magnetizing it with a lodestone as she had been taught. Finally Isabeau set the crystal at the head of the staff in delicate claws of silver, with a spring clasp that could be clicked open to allow the crystal to be lifted out of its crown.

As Isabeau labored she chanted words of power over the staff, pouring her energies into the wood and the crystal, making them a part of her.

"I make ye, staff o' hazelwood, in the name o' Ea, mother and father o' us all, and infuse ye with all that is good in me, all that is wise and strong and kind.

"I make ye, staff o' hazelwood, by the power o' the stars and the moons and the unfathomable distance o' the universe, and infuse in ye all that is bright and dark, all that is known and unknown.

"I make ye, staff o' hazelwood, by the power and virtue o' the four elements, Earth and Fire, Wind and Water; by the power and virtue o' all things, all plants that grow and die, all animals that crawl and fly and run, all rocks and mountains, all suns and stars and planets.

"With these things I infuse ye, that ye may stand as sure as the tree from which ye sprang, as full o' ancient power and wisdom, that ye may support me and shelter me as ye did the creatures that hid in your branches. With these things, I infuse ye, staff o' hazelwood, and make ye mine."

Then she blessed the staff, sprinkling it with water from a bunch of leaves from each of the seven trees, wound about with flowers plucked from the grass— rosemary, thyme, gilly-flowers, and clover. She stood up, lifting the staff toward the sun. "In the name o' Ea," she cried, "I command ye, staff o' power, to obey my will in all things. I command ye, staff o' power, to summon the powers I wish to call, and break and reduce to chaos all that I wish to destroy."

The crystal caught the sun's brightness and refracted it into a white flame, blazing as bright as a tiny sun. Rainbow sparks shot out from the stone, dancing over the glade like multicolored fireflies. Isa-beau felt a surge of power run down her fingers, shooting along her veins and nerve endings and up into her brain so that for a moment her whole body was seared with a white-hot energy. Then the clamor and pain receded, and the light sank down to a twisting flame of blue and gold and crimson, deep within the crystal's translucent heart.

Isabeau had consummated her bond with the staff of power, had poured all her sorrow and desire and impotent rage into its strong white body. She fell to her knees and kissed the crystal, incoherent thanks to Ea and the Gods of White and her own sorcerous powers mute and struggling in her heart.

I'll be a great sorceress,
she thought.
No man's love can be worth as much!