Eileanan - The Skull Of The World Part 19

Desperation filled her. She had to find some way to escape the island! Her attention was suddenly caught by a splashing movement below her. She looked down and smiled in sudden delight, for a playful family of sea otters were romping about below her. There was a tall rock with a steep incline down into the sea and the baby otters were using it as a slippery slide, shooting down the wet slope on their backs to splash into the sea. One or two of the baby sea otters were chasing each other through the waves, while their mother watched tolerantly from a rock, rolling over occasionally to bake her other side in the sun.

Isabeau had known otters all her life and had counted them among her greatest friends. She had never seen a sea otter before and was struck by how much larger they were than the ones she had known, with strong webbed feet and a thick reddish-brown fur. Their antics were as playful, however, and their dark eyes as intelligent. As Isabeau watched, entranced, the father of the family floated on his back with a large stone resting on his belly, smashing mol-lusks with his powerful paws. He tossed the mol-lusks to his children and they leaped and dived for them, making sharp little cries of delight.

An idea suddenly came to Isabeau and she leaned forward eagerly, noting the strength and power of the sea otters' legs, the speed with which they swam through the waves. If swans could pull a sleigh through the air, why not sea otters through the water?

She would need more than this one family, however. The wooden sleigh was heavy and it was a long way to the mainland. She glanced around, wondering if there were many other colonies of sea otters on the island.

Out beyond the reef were a number of dark sleek heads bobbing up and down in the waves. Isabeau's heart leaped in delight, for she could easily get together enough sea otters to pull the sleigh with that great number. Then her heart was suddenly squeezed in the viselike grip of fear. She stared at the bobbing heads. She could see pale ovals of faces, and sharp upcurving tusks. Then a great scaled tail with a frilled fin broke the water's surface. They were not sea otters surfing along the break of water but Fair-gean!

Tides of Destiny

Lachlan strode up and down the forecastle deck, his wings all ruffled up, his black curls in disarray. His dark face was haggard.

"Canna ye whistle up any more wind?" he called down to a tall, fair-haired girl who clung to the bowsprit below him, just above the Royal Stag's ant-lered figurehead."Nay, Your Highness," Brangaine NicSian called back breathlessly. "Any more wind and the sails shall tear free! We sail at full speed already. Besides, I can barely control the wind as it is. It is taking all my strength to keep it blowing fair."

Lachlan gave a groan of frustration and swung around, his kilt swirling up. Back and forth he paced, his hands clenched around the Lodestar. "If only there was something I could do!" he burst out.

"Ye could come and play cards with me," Dide said, looking up from the guitar he was lazily strumming with long brown fingers. "I thought long sea journeys were meant to be restful, but watching ye pace up and down like a caged saber leopard is about as restful as a march to war. Will ye no' sit down, master, and set yourself to amuse me? For, indeed, all this display o' energy is most wearisome for the rest o' us."

Lachlan cast the handsome young jongleur a look of exasperated affection. "As if I could sit and play cards while that cursehag has my son," he burst out, despair in his voice. "Och, surely we can sail more swiftly than this?"

Duncan Ironfist, the captain of the Yeomen of the Guard, said calmly, "We are doing all that we can, Your Highness. Wearing out the fo'c'sle deck with all this to-ing and fro-ing shall no' make the ship sail any faster. Why do ye no' rest and let the captain do his job? Ye have been driving yourself for months now, securing the peace in Tirsoilleir and keeping the lairds happy. Ye canna keep on this way. Rest, my liege, and let-"

There was a shriek of anger. Lachlan's gyrfalcon suddenly plunged out of the sky, talons clenched.

Duncan took an involuntary step back. As solidly built as an ancient oak tree, with arms the width of most men's waists, even Duncan Ironfist could be dismayed by the sheer power and speed of the great white bird, which dropped as fast as a boulder and with almost as much weight. At the last moment Stormwing flung out his great white wings and landed on the Righ's shoulder, golden eyes blazing.

"No point in getting angry with me, Your Highness," Duncan said stolidly.

Lachlan stared out at the sea, his fists clenched. It was clear he was trying to control his temper but the young righ had hardly slept since hearing the news of his son's kidnapping. His shock and horror had come close on the relief and joy of their victory in Tirsoilleir, the contrast of emotion making it all that much more terrible.

Duncan looked at the rigidly set shoulders of his righ and said gently, "We are making record time down the coast, thanks to the NicSian's wind-whistling. Another week and we shall be sailing into the Berhtfane."

"Another week!" Lachlan cried. "And to think my poor wee laddie is in the hands o' that cursehag Thistle.

It twists up all my insides even thinking about it."

Iseult had been standing against the rail, staring unseeingly at the waves billowing and surging against the ship's sides. She turned now and said, with a little quaver in her voice, "Isabeau went in search o' them.

Isabeau will save them."

Lachlan turned on her with a falcon's screech, his wings outstretched, his head thrust forward. "Isabeau!"

he cried. "Isabeau should've kept a closer eye on them. This would never have happened if she-"

Iseult went white, her blue eyes as hot with anger as his own. "Do no' dare blame Isabeau for this! It is Sukey who betrayed us, Margrit who stole the laddies. Isabeau is the only one who has a chance o'

saving our son."For a moment they stared at each other, then slowly Lachlan's wings lowered, the hostility dying out of his eyes. He stepped forward, his hand held out, his mouth twisting in contrition. "Och, I'm sorry-" he began.

Iseult was red with anger. "I've had enough!" she cried. "Why must ye be always so unfair? Isabeau saved ye from the Awl, she was tortured in your place and crippled horribly; she was the one that helped ye most to save the Lodestar and win your throne, she has been loyal and faithful every step o' the way!

Yet right from the very beginning ye have been against her, ye have misread all her motives, ye have been cold and hostile to her. Why? Why?"

Lachlan did not answer, his wings hunched. Iseult drew away from him. "Isabeau is my sister, my womb-sister!" she cried. "She is as like me as my reflection in a mirror. How can ye love me and hate her?"

The black wings stirred. Lachlan looked away, color running up under his swarthy skin. "Happen that be why," he muttered.

She fell back a step. "What?"

He turned on her, every muscle in his strong body tense with anger and frustration. "I met Isabeau first, remember!" he cried. "When I met ye later, I thought ye were her. Apart from the cropped hair, ye were exactly the same, exactly! The same bonny face, the same fiery curls and summer sky eyes. I thought ye the most beautiful, bright thing I had ever seen. I thought her the most beautiful, bright thing I'd ever seen.

She was naught but a child though. She had no idea what she was getting into. Ye say she saved me from the Awl and was tortured in my place. Ye are right! And aye, it was my fault, all my fault. But how was I to ken? I thought I had to get away from her to keep her safe. But all I did was throw her to the wolves.

And when we met again, all that sweet innocence, that shining beauty, was ruined. Ruined."

Iseult stared at him, tense as a bowstring. He turned away, his golden eyes brooding, his wings hunched close about him. The gyrfalcon gave a hoa.r.s.e, melancholy cry, and Lachlan smoothed his white feathers.

"How can I love ye and hate her?" he said with a dark, mocking edge to his voice. "What else can I do?

She has your face, your body, your fearless gaze. Or she had. Now she has a crippled hand and the knowledge o' terror in her eyes. And I gave her both. If I am no' to hate her, what am I to do? Love her?"

He laughed harshly and went away downstairs, leaving Iseult standing alone on the forecastle deck, the wind blowing her red-gold curls about.

Dide stepped forward, his face troubled. "He does no' mean it," he said gently. "Ye ken what he is like when his black mood be upon him. He does no' mean-"

Iseult turned her cold, autocratic gaze upon him. "Does he no'?" she said with a chill in her voice. "I think he does."

"Iseult-"

"Do no' look so troubled, Dide," she said. "Lachlan always suffers from feeling things too much, too intensely. He fears for Donncan very much. He will feel better when he is no' so confined by the ship.

Once we are on land and he can stride about and shout orders and feel like he is doing something, then he will feel better." There was the slightest edge in her voice.

"Iseult . . ."She turned away from Dide, drawing her plaid up about her shoulders, her profile set as cold and white as marble. "Oh, I ken," she said impatiently. "He will be sorry he spoke when his temper dies. I ken what he's like, better than ye. It does no' mean he did no' speak the truth." She gave a little shiver and looked out again at the blue undulating horizon. "Another week . . ." she murmured. "Oh, Isabeau, please, save them, save my wee laddie."

Isabeau scrambled down the rocks and ran along the sand, terror driving her steps. She burst into the hut, crying, "There be Fairgean in the water! They look as though they're swimming for sh.o.r.e."

Maya leaped to her feet, alarm on her face. She threw open the lid of a large, battered wooden chest and dragged out a clarsach. "Bronny, where is your flute?"

The little girl was white with terror, but she scrambled to her feet and grabbed her flute, which she always kept by her. It was her favorite possession, along with a ragged doll. Isabeau had given both to her back in the days when Bronwen had lived with her at the Cursed Towers. With the flute clutched in her small hand, Bronwen followed her mother out on to the beach.

"What are ye doing?" Isabeau cried. "Should we no' hide? I tell ye, they were swimming in past the reefs."

Maya did not answer her, striding down to the edge of the lagoon where she sat down on a rock with the clarsach on her lap. Bronwen stood beside her, the flute raised to her lips.

"What do ye do?" Isabeau cried again. "This is no time for a musical concert! Had we no' better find something to use as a weapon?"

Maya indicated her clarsach with a contemptuous gesture. "This be a far better weapon than any stick ye'U find on the beach."

With the frightened boys behind her, Isabeau stared out to the edge of the lagoon. She could see the dark heads of the Fairgean as they swam in past the last ridge of coral. "I thought ye said the Fairgean never bothered to negotiate the reefs!"

"They come sometimes," Maya said abruptly. "They harvest the kelp. Stop talking! Go and hide if ye wish. Bronwen and I shall defend ye." The last was spoken scornfully as Maya swept her hands over the strings of the clarsach. Beautiful music spilled out. Bronwen's fingers moved along the flute, silver notes trilling, catching the melody of Maya's little lap-harp, blending into delicate harmonies.

The intensity of Isabeau's fear and anxiety was dulled, wrapped about in music. Her mind was clouded, her senses benumbed. Her eyes began to shut and she felt her body swaying in response to the melody.

Although all her witch senses p.r.i.c.kled at the thrum of power in the air, the smell of enchantment, she was unable to fight against the fog which sank over her. It was like a dream in which she fought to stay awake, knowing there was something important she had to do. But the need to sleep was too powerful, too imperative. It dragged her down, a dark, heavy, oily wave that closed over her head and drowned her.

She woke much later, feeling as if her head was stuffed with wool. There was sand in her mouth and she spat it out, sitting up and looking about her.

It was just before dawn. The lagoon shifted and murmured before her, silvery in the growing light. Behind her the two boys slept where they had fallen, their naked bodies curled against the night chill. Bronwensat beside Isabeau, the flute grasped in both her hands. There was enough light for Isabeau to see that her face was puffy with tears.

"What happened?" Isabeau asked groggily. She sat up and rubbed her face, trying to shake off her sluggishness. "Where are the Fairgean?"

Bronwen pointed down to the lagoon. There Isabeau saw, with a sudden little jolt of her pulses, the dark shapes of bodies strewn along the sh.o.r.eline, half in, half out of the water.

"What?" she asked, uncomprehending.

"We sang them to sleep," Maya said from behind her. "They drowned."

"Can Fairgean drown?" Isabeau said, still bemused, not believing what she saw. "Do they no' have gills?"

"Aye, we have gills," Maya said. Her voice was without expression. "But we are no' fish. Our gills do no'

provide us with enough oxygen to stay submerged for more than five or ten minutes. Fairgean sleep on the land. Do ye think we would have fought so fiercely for the coastlands if we did no' need them to survive?"

Isabeau was aware of a growing distaste, a sickness in her heart and belly. "So ye sang them to death,"

she said harshly.

"What do ye think they would have done to us if they had come on sh.o.r.e and found us?" Maya asked.

"Ye and your precious lads would have been killed at once, and probably Bronwen and I too, for we are human enough for them to hate us. If they had realized we were halfbreeds they might have taken us for slaves, and if any recognized me, the King's half-breed daughter, well, I would have been taken back to face his justice." She spat out the last word. "This is no' the first time I have used the Talents I inherited from my mother to stay alive. She was a Yedda, did ye ken that? She could no' teach me her Skills herself, for my father tore out her tongue to make sure she could no' sing. Besides, she died when I was no' much aulder than Bronny is now. No, I learned the Yedda Skills from the few sea witches the priestesses allowed to live, ones too young or too weak to use their talents to save themselves. And I have taught them all to Bronny."

Isabeau looked from Maya's hard, closed face to Bronwen's, tear-streaked and swollen. "She is only six years auld and ye have taught her to murder?" she whispered, sickened.

"I have taught her the skills she will need to keep herself alive," Maya said harshly. "And why do ye look at me as if I were the monster? For centuries the Yedda sang the Fairgean to death. Why else were they honored and celebrated all over the land? They sang thousands to their death, babes among them."

"But ye are a Fairge yourself . . ." Isabeau was confused and dismayed, unable to express the repugnance she felt.

"My father was a Fairge and my mother was a Yedda. I am neither, hated and hunted by both. If the humans catch me I shall die, if the Fairgean catch me I shall die. What am I to do but save myself and teach my daughter to do the same?"

Isabeau could think of nothing to say. She stared at the dead bodies floating in the water, their long black hair streaming out like seaweed. The Fairgean were her natural enemy, they had inflicted great suffering on her own kind for centuries. She should feel relief and pleasure that they were dead. Yet she felt only revulsion and horror.

"We have to leave here," she said abruptly. "This is a horrible place.""And how do ye propose to leave?" Maya said roughly. "Fly?" She bent and put her arm around Bronwen, who shrugged her away.

Maya straightened, her jaw set grimly. "It is so easy for ye to judge me, ye with all your talk o' choosing one's own course! Ye think this is the destiny I would have chosen for myself? What would ye have done if ye were me? Ye do no' understand what it is like to be chosen by the Priestesses o' Jor. Ye think me cruel and ruthless. Do ye think I feel nothing when I sing a man to his death? Yet if it be a choice between my life and his, I will choose my life every time. Every time! And I will kill to save Bronwen's too, and yes, even yours, Isabeau the Red, although ye despise me for it."

She raised both hands and rubbed contemptuously at her eyes, which were glittering with tears, then turned and strode away down the beach.

Nila sat very still, his furs arranged around him so the black pearl hanging on his smooth chest could be clearly seen by all. It was the only way he could express how he felt, to his father and brothers, to the Priestesses of Jor, and to Fand.

Those Anointed by Jor sat all around him, Nila's thirteen brothers and his father, the King. The eerie green light of the priestesses' nightglobes wavered all over the cavern, giving all of their eyes and tusks a peculiar luminance, deepening the hollows of their eye sockets.

Fear was knotted and cold in the pit of Nila's stomach. He had not been so close to the Priestesses of Jor since they had discovered him trying to sneak into the Isle of Divine Dread.

He did not know why the priestesses had not killed him. Perhaps they feared the anger of his father.

Perhaps they had feared the wrath of Jor. One of the priestesses had lifted the black pearl in her hand, examining it closely in the weird green light. He had told the priestesses that Jor himself had led him to it, mocking them, flaunting the G.o.d's favor. He had seen the quick exchange of looks, heard the quick drawing-in of breath.

They had thrown him into a tiny dark pit then, and though Nila had spent all the long measureless hours waiting for their punishment, none had come. There was only the darkness and the cold and the malevolent sound of their breathing, the sense that they were hanging over him, listening, waiting. In the morning they had dragged him out and cast him into the sea. Weak from hunger and exhaustion, his limbs cramped from being so closely confined, Nila had barely been able to move. Somehow he had struggled through the waves back to the Isle of the G.o.ds and his own bed-cave. It had been days before he had been able to stop starting at shadows, and the wavering reflection of light from a nightglobe was enough to make his heart slam and his throat muscles clench tight. Nila thought the priestesses had tried to break his spirit, but all they had done was teach him a bitter hatred of them and their cruel G.o.d.

The rings of priestesses holding high their globes brought it all back to him, as painful as if it had all happened yesterday. The sight of Fand, gaunt and pale and expressionless, all the vivid life of her wiped away, was inexpressibly painful to him. He could not look at her, nor at the priestesses, standing so still and expectant in their formal rings, nor at his brothers, who all watched him gloatingly. He fixed his eyes upon the sullen red glow before him, and felt all his being shrink with a fear far more primal and superst.i.tious than the memory of loss or pain.

They were all gathered at the lip of the Fiery Womb, the most sacred of all the caverns of the Fathomless Caves. Jor himself, the G.o.d of the Sh.o.r.eless Seas, had been born in the Fiery Womb, and all the lesser G.o.ds too, the G.o.d of thunder, the G.o.d of ice, the G.o.d of whales and seals, the G.o.d of the wind, themessenger G.o.d of dreams and visions, the G.o.d of the dead and drowned. Here, in the Fiery Womb of the Isle of the G.o.ds, the indomitable all-powerful men of the Fair-gean royal family were abject before the Mother of the G.o.ds, the ever rapacious Kani, G.o.ddess of fire and earth, volcanoes, earthquakes, phosph.o.r.escence and lightning. It was her caustic breath that stung Nila's nostrils and rasped his lungs, her spirit that heaved and muttered in the red slit below them.

On and on, monotonous as the rise and fall of waves, the priestesses' singsong chant built up toward a crescendo, a joyous shout of invocation. "Kani, hear us, hear us, Kani, Kani, hear us, hear us, Kani, Kani, hear us, hear us, Kani!"

Then there was stillness. Fand raised her hands and laid them on the enormous nightglobe set in place before her. Nila swallowed, his webbed hands clenching. The dark writhing shapes of the viperfish inside stilled at her touch. Nila watched with horror as the two huge fish inside rose and rubbed their scaled backs against Fand's hands, the light cast by their luminescent organs shining through her flesh so he could clearly see the fragile shape of her bones within. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she quivered visibly. Softly, the chanting began again.

"Come to our call, Kani, G.o.ddess of fire, G.o.ddess of dust, rise to our bidding, Kani, G.o.ddess of volcanoes, G.o.ddess of earthquakes, come to our call, Kani, Kani, rise to our bidding, Kani, Kani, come to our call, Kani, Kani, G.o.ddess of fire, G.o.ddess of dust, rise to our bidding, Kani, Kani, G.o.ddess of volcanoes, G.o.ddess of earthquakes, come to our call, Kani, Kani, Kani . . ."

Suddenly a great arc of golden fire leaped out of the glowing chasm, scattering drops of molten fire.

There was a hiss and the priestesses gabbled faster and faster, "Kani, Kani, Kani . . ."

Suddenly Fand began to speak. Her voice was hoa.r.s.e and grating, much deeper than was natural. "Why have you awoken me, cold children of the sea?"

The High Priestess intoned, in counterpoint to the chanting of the other priestesses, "Great Kani, powerful Kani, Mother of All the G.o.ds, we have found the one who can raise fire and move earth, as you foretold.

We have brought her here to you, so that you may speak through her and give us your oracle. Tell us now how we may raise the tidal wave of Jor's wrath and drown the land beneath the raging seas. When last we asked, you told us we must find one who can raise fire and move earth. Although we did not understand, we did as you commanded. Here she is, born of those that walk the land and those that swim the sea, here she is, the one who can raise fire and move earth, here she is, Kani, the one you foretold. Tell us now how we may raise the tidal wave of Jor's wrath and drown the land beneath the raging seas?"

There was a long charged silence, and then Fand replied, in the same deep hoa.r.s.e voice, "To raise the tidal wave one needs to move the earth. To move the earth one needs to heave up its fiery heart. To heave up its fiery heart one needs to harness the fire magic of the red comet. To harness the red comet one needs great strength and courage. Does the one you found have such strength and courage?"

"We will make sure that she does," the high priestess answered with a' cruel grin. "We have harnessed the comet magic before and we know the time of its coming. We shall make sure she is ready."

"Then you shall raise the tidal wave and drown the land," the hoa.r.s.e voice answered indifferently. There was another brilliant arc of white-gold fire, another hiss of molten sparks, then the red slit darkened as the molten lava within sank back. Fand swayed and fell to the ground, a crumpled heap of white fur and dark hair.

Despite all his best intentions, Nila leaped to his feet, trying to reach her, but his brothers held him back, laughing. He watched helplessly as the priestesses bent and picked up Fand's slight body and carried heraway, six more bearing the great weight of the Nightglobe of Naia. He shook off the restraining hands and straightened his furs, cloaking the anger and despair in his heart beneath a charade of indifference.

They would kill Fand in their cold l.u.s.t for revenge, or break her mind, and many, many thousands would die, not just humans but all the creatures that lived on the land and breathed the air. The thought filled him with black horror and he was helpless to do a thing. Helpless.

"The tidal waves of Jor's wrath roll slow," the King said with great satisfaction, "but to sand the rocks shall always be ground."

It was with heavy steps and heart that Isabeau walked back along the beach after having spoken with the sea otters and cajoled their help. Even though the sea otters had been quick to agree, being friendly, inquisitive creatures with a love of adventure, Isabeau was still deeply troubled by their impending departure. She had decided she must take Bronwen back with her, but somehow the decision had not lightened her heart or her conscience.