The Witches of Eileanan (18 page)

Meghan bowed as far as her stiff old body would allow her, and then began the long walk back down the hall with trembling legs. Gitâ's sleek brown head popped out of her pocket and she could feel him shivering against her side.

Boldly played, my witch. I don
'
t
know how you dared.
Meghan hardly knew herself.

She was almost at the ramp when there was a great roaring as the dragons lifted their voices in anger and pain. Meghan's heart filled with dread. What had happened? She saw the mother-dragon rise on her legs so that her head brushed the roof of the cavern, a hundred feet above.
My son!
she called, and the sound of her bugle knocked Meghan over as if she were a straw doll tossed by a storm wind. She rolled over and over, and slammed into the wall of the cavern, the breath knocked out of her.

Most of the dragons had taken flight and had flown down the shadowy hall and up the spiraling ramp like fiery arrows. Only the queens were left, pacing up and down on the dais, treasure scattering under their claws. The mother of them all was still bugling in distress, and Meghan covered her ears with her hands to try to block out the noise that was louder than a hundred cymbals.

After a long while, the male dragons flew back through the great carved entrance, bearing between them the body of the youngest and smallest of the dragons—the one Meghan had met at the start of the Great Stairway. He was thrashing from side to side, his long crested tail beating against the pillars and dislodging rocks that thundered down onto the floor.

They laid him on the ground, and he cried aloud in pain, a painful sound that made Meghan's heart swell. A short spear protruded from his side, but it seemed strange that such a small weapon could be causing such a large beast so much pain. One of the dragons seized the spear shaft between his teeth and made as if to pull it out.

Stop!
Meghan called.
The spearhead will be barbed. That's no way to get it out. Besides, I think it must be poisoned .. . Gitâ! Get my herbs, and hurry!

The old witch worked on the dragon all night, trying to stop the slow spread of dragonbane through his system. As she worked she questioned the moaning dragon until she found out what had happened. The Red Guards had climbed the Great Stairway just as Meghan had done and, despite the dragons asking them to turn back, they had continued on, just as Meghan had. At the final arch they had again asked permission to speak with the Great Circle, and despite many gifts and glib words, the mother-queen had refused. The youngest of her sons, sent with the message, had been first cajoled, then threatened, and finally, wounded as he spoke with them.

At first feeling nothing more than a sting, he had delivered another warning to the leader and flown home, but the higher he flew the dizzier he became and the more pain the wound caused him. By the time he struggled back into the valley, the young dragon was in agony.

As the poison spread, the dragon became fevered and almost killed Meghan by thrashing from side to side. She called upon the other dragons to help her, and they spoke to him with their minds and held him upright with their great bulk. The mother-dragon, too large now to move far from her dais, lumbered down the stairs so she could check her son's progress herself. At last the fever began to abate, and the ugly discoloring and swelling around the wound began to die down. Exhausted, Meghan slumped back, sitting with her back to a pillar and drinking some of her healing
mithuan,
a fiery liquid that would restart almost any heart, no matter how old and tired.

Thou hast saved my son, Meghan of the Beasts, Keybearer of the Coven, Sorceress of the Earth, and for that I thank thee.
The mother-dragon's mind-voice penetrated the mists of exhaustion clouding Meghan's mind.
In gratitude, I shall tell thee our name. Call it and one of my blood shall come, and give thee whatever aid is needed. Do not call it unless in great need, though, Meghan Keybearer, for even with my decree the dragon does not come lightly to any whistle.

Then, deep in her mind, Meghan heard a name of such power that it seemed to wrench away some veil, and again she had the sensation of time unrolling away, the great joy and sorrow of a living life.

Caillec Aillen Airi Telloch Cas,
the dragon intoned.

Meghan was overcome. She stared into the dragon's huge golden eye and said quietly,
Thank ye, my Banrìgh. I ken the honor done to me,
and felt a part of her drown in that rough fire.

Thou mayest choose anything thou desirest from our treasures,
the dragon said.

Meghan got to her feet and stumbled forward to kneel before the mother-dragon, who regarded her with a bright topaz eye that seemed suspiciously moist.
My thanks, Your Greatness, and indeed I want nothing but the safety o' my people and your help in defeating Maya the Ensorcellor.

So be it,
the mother-dragon said, and she lifted one great claw and threw something across the room to Meghan in a scatter of bright sparks. Meghan threw up her hand automatically and when she opened her fingers, found within all seven of her rings, including the moonstone Isabeau had made her. There was also a dragoneye stone, blazing with red-golden fire.
My thanks,
she stammered and with a bound of her heart slipped her rings back into her pocket.

Now, my sons, it is time to wreak our revenge on those misbegotten soldiers!
the mother-dragon cried and there was a great whirring of wings and lashing of tails as the dragons sprang into the air and flew out of the great hall. Meghan felt her breath catch for never had she seen a sight of such perilous grandeur as those great creatures on the wing.

Now, sorceress, I would like thee to meet my daughter,
the mother-dragon said and heaved herself back onto the pile of treasures, where she turned round and round before settling her great bulk down again.
She will fly thee down to where thy friend is kept. Be thou careful, Meghan Dragon-Lord, and do not stay long.

Meghan bowed her head in thanks, then rose as straight as her old back would allow, and looked the queen-dragon directly in the eye. The bright blaze opened all around her and she flew into its dark heart confidently.
My Banrìgh, there is one more thing I would fain ask ye. A few nights ago, at the height o' the Red Wanderer. . . something happened. A spell was enacted. We felt it and I ken ye did too, for we heard the bugling o' your sons. I would fain understand what it was.

The queen-dragon shifted her great bulk, and treasure scattered under her claws, a massive chalice rolling down the stairs and coming to rest at Meghan's feet, a string of lambent pearls tangled in its handle. When she spoke there was unease in her mind-voice.
It was a Spell of Begetting,
she answered.
A very ancient spell, and one that requires great power and careful timing. Was the spell successful?

Indeed it was. The babe born of that spell shall have great powers indeed. Conceived at the height of the comet, it shall be born with winter and the tides of darkness. It is then that the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead is at its thinnest. This will be no ordinary babe.

Meghan nodded, ice gripping her entrails. The queen-dragon blew gently on her, the steamy, sulphurous breath lifting her hair and warming her through.
Be of good heart, Meghan Dragon-Lord. I have known thy family for a very long time. Aedan's blood is strong in thee. Thou art his daughter indeed. Remember our name and when thou callest, I shall send my sons to thee. That I pledge for the centuries of friendship between our families.

Meghan thanked her again, though she was still shivering with a cold the dragon's warm breath and words could not dispel. A Spell of Begetting . . . and a child born at Samhain, night of the dead. A new thread had indeed been strung.

Slowly Meghan began the long ascent out of the dragon's hall, first checking her patient, who now lay still, his hide dull and gray tinged. His skin was cooler, however, and his breathing steady. She felt great satisfaction in having been able to save his life, particularly since it had resulted in the dragons pledging their support, a result she had hardly dared dream of. The climb up the spiral ramp left her legs trembling and her heart shaking, and she cursed her old body, wishing for the resilience and vigor she had once known. Of all the challenges Meghan had faced and bested in her long and challenging life, this had to be the most difficult, the one in which she would most need all her resources of strength, cunning and wit.

Meghan reached the blessed safety and light of the valley at last, and there found a tall youngster clad all in white fur. Dazzled by the contrast between the dark hall and the brightness of the rising sun, Meghan strained her eyes to see the person's features, wondering what he or she was doing here in the valley of the dragons. Then a shock like a knife blade went through her, for the shadowed face looked just like Isabeau's. She staggered and would have fallen except for the saving arm of the stranger with Isabeau's face.

Propped against the high step, Meghan groped into her pouch and came out with a small flask. The stranger helped her unscrew its lid, and she drank a few mouthfuls of the heady liquid.

"The dragons be indeed fearful, auld mother," the stranger said, by her voice a young woman.

Meghan said nothing, only scrutinized her face and body closely, realizing the resemblance had not been the wishful thinking of a fond old woman or the aftereffects of her terrifying day and exhausting night. This young woman was indeed identical to Isabeau, except perhaps a trifle thinner in the face. She was as tall as Isabeau, and as slender. Her hair was concealed by a fur hat and ruff, but by the color of her brows and lashes Meghan could tell she would be as red-haired.

"What is your name?" she finally managed to ask.

The girl's brows rose with a certain hauteur, but she answered readily, with a halting accent as if the language was foreign to her. "I am Khan'derin, ad-Khan'gharad gessep-Khan'lysa o' the Fire-Dragon Pride, Scarred Warrior and heir to the Firemaker."

"Khan'gharad. I ken that name ... Is he your father? Who is your mother? Ye could be Isabeau's twin, ye look so alike!" She scanned Khan'derin's face carefully, and the girl lifted her head and stared back at Meghan coldly, her face austere beneath the white fur cap.

"My mother has always been unknown to me," Khan'derin said with no sign of sorrow. "But I am daughter to the son o' the Firemaker, he who is called Khan'gharad."

"Who is the Firemaker?"

Khan'derin's answer was extremely reluctant and Meghan thought it was only the girl's respect for her age that made her answer at all. "The Firemaker is Auld Mother o' the Fire-Dragon Pride. The Firemakers are children o' the Red, given to the People in reward for their long exile, to bring warmth and darkness to the howling night, and protection from the enemies o' the prides. I am her granddaughter and heir, so it does no' really matter who my mother was. However, I am bonded to the service o' the sleeping sorceress, and I have wondered if that was done because she is my mother. Asrohc says she thinks this is so, though no one tells her anything either."

"Who is Asrohc?" To Meghan's amazement a wave of burning color swept up over the girl's face and her eyes fell for the first time. Against the crimson of her sunken cheeks Meghan saw two thin scars that ran across either cheekbone and remembered Khan'derin's strange way of introducing herself. Meghan repeated her question, but Khan'derin looked up coldly, saying, "Please come with me. I have been informed ye wish to travel down to see the sleeping sorceress. I will take ye there."

"Where are we going?"

"To the Cursed Valley, o' course," the girl replied scornfully.

Feeling very tired and very puzzled, Meghan leaned heavily on her staff, clutching her plaid about her. "I am tired. I need to rest and eat afore I can begin a journey."

"We may no' sleep in the dragons' valley, auld mother," Khan'derin said in a respectful voice that still seemed somehow mocking.

"I see," Meghan said. "Then we must go slowly, for indeed I am feeling my age this morning."

"We need no' go far, auld mother," the girl said in her cold voice. "I have been informed ye have been given the Queen's name. That means ye may cross your leg over the dragon's back. We shall fly down on dragonback."

Meghan had lived a very long time, so long she sometimes wondered why her body had not died long ago, letting her escape the prison of her body. Sometimes she longed for that release; other times she was afraid she would die before her tasks were complete. Still, she often wondered what more life could bring, she who had been born a banprionnsa but was likely to die outlawed and reviled. The moment she heard she was to fly by dragon-back, she knew, and great joy welled up in her. To think she was to fly, at last, after so many years reading of it, so many years longingly watching Ishbel's aerial acrobatics! To think she, Meghan of the Beasts, was to cross her leg over the back of a dragon, that most mysterious and frightening of fairy creatures.

Khan'derin lead Meghan toward the loch where steam billowed up from the warm waters that lapped at the sides of a small dragon. Only her head was fully visible, the eyes shut, the nostrils floating just above the water.