Eileanan - The Skull Of The World Part 10

Ye had walked the Auld Way only that night, and who kens the toll that takes on your mind and body?

And ye have no' been properly trained in the High Magic, ye do no' ken how to prepare yourself or conserve your strength. And for me to be asking ye to perform for me like a dancing bear in a traveling circus! I o' all people ken the cost o' such sorcery and should never have asked ye to overextend yourself like that. Please forgive me, Beau."

"O' course," Isabeau replied rather dazedly, glad to let her head sink back into the pillow. After a moment she said, "I think I'm hungry."

"Och, that's a good sign," Meghan said encouragingly. "I'll ring for some soup for ye. Lie still, Isabeau, do no' try and sit up yet. And do no' even think about summoning the One Power! It'll be some days before we'll even let ye light a candle for yourself, and months before we allow ye to try and shape-change again."

She caught Isabeau's expression and said sternly, "It'll do ye good, my bairn. Rest now and when ye are well and strong again, then we'll begin to teach ye the ways o' the High Magic. Ye must be patient."

Isabeau lowered her eyes. "Aye, Keybearer."Meghan glared at her suspiciously for a moment, clicked her tongue against her teeth as if in annoyance, and went swiftly out of the room.

You-hooh snooze-hooh, Owl guard-hooh you-hooh.

Thank you-hooh, Isabeau hooted back, and turned her cheek into the pillow.

As spring warmed toward summer, Isabeau settled happily into her new life at the Tower of Two Moons. She wore with pride the loose black gown of an apprentice and studied hard with the other students. Most of her lessons were in mathematics, history, alchemy and the old languages, but she was also given a thorough grounding in the many basic skills that all witches must learn-the manipulation of the forces of air, water, fire and earth. To her great pleasure she also studied the element of Spirit with Arkening the Dreamwalker, learning much about the use of her witch senses, the uncanny insight into the minds of others that most witches seemed to possess.

To her surprise this did not merely involve the use of her third eye, though this was growing clearer and sharper every day. The training a witch received at the Theurgia was designed to increase their natural powers of perception, intuition and logic to such a degree that many so-called Skills required no use of the One Power at all. Isabeau was taught to interpret the slightest change in expression and intonation, the flicker of a glance, the flutter of the fingers. Her memory was honed to a preternatural extent so that she carried with her all that she saw and heard and read. And over and over again she was taught the lessons of humility, sympathy and compa.s.sion.

"If there is naught else to learn from the lessons o' history," Arkening said dreamily, "it is that witches can grow arrogant and, worse, manipulative. Because the motives and emotions o' the common folk seem transparent to us, and their messy muddling ways downright foolish, it is not uncommon for a witch to begin to feel she is superior in every way. But we are mere humans ourselves, and as p.r.o.ne to self-deception as any other human."

Isabeau nodded, knowing how true this was. Arkening leaned forward, her eyes for once losing their vagueness. "Ye must remember that the Coven is here to help and heal and teach, to try and guide the rest o' the world toward an ideal o' wisdom and kindness. That is why we swear to the Creed, to remember that all people must choose their own path and tread it alone. Witches o' the Coven must always remember their oath-to speak only what is true in their heart, to never use the Power to ensorcel others or change their destiny, to only ever use the One Power as is needed, and then with a kind heart, a fierce and canny mind, and steadfast courage."

"May my heart be kind, my mind fierce, my spirit brave," Isabeau replied with fervor, and the old sorceress smiled at her and patted her hand.

Soon after this conversation Isabeau was allowed to begin studying with Meghan herself, a sign of how quickly she had learned. Once a day Isabeau climbed the stairs to the Keybearer's own rooms.

Surrounded by all the familiar objects of her childhood-the spinning wheel and lap-loom, the piles of books and scrolls, the globe of another world, Meghan's sphere of s.h.i.+ning crystal-Isabeau was taught to draw upon the One Power, and to wield it with increasing subtlety and control.

Isabeau loved her lessons in magic. She loved the feeling of euphoria as her body was filled to br.i.m.m.i.n.g with the One Power, the delicious quivering tension, the urge to release it all in one white blaze, the struggle to contain it as she brought her will to bear upon the world around her, the gratification and relief as what she willed came to pa.s.s. There was no feeling to match it, no sensation so exquisite, noexperience so fulfilling.

She climbed the stairs to Meghan's room with eagerness every day and left it reluctantly, no matter how exhausted she was or how highly strung. Working magic left one overwrought, all one's senses too highly attuned, all one's nerves exposed. Isabeau came to understand how it was that great acts of magic left her limp and wrung out like a scullery maid's rag, unable to find the strength to light a candle flame. And so at last she understood why it was that Meghan and the council of sorcerers had forbidden her to practice shapechanging.

At first she had resented this dictum deeply. Many times she was tempted to break the rules and fly the night with Buba in the shape of an owl. Always she managed to resist, knowing how harshly Meghan and the council would view any transgression. This was the time for Isabeau to practice all the humbleness and reserve taught to her by the Soul-Sage, to keep her mind on her books and her thoughts to herself.

For the more Isabeau learned, the more ignorant she felt. She was finally understanding what Meghan had told her so many times-that to master the One Power she needed to understand the immutable laws of nature and the universe. That was not something to be learned easily.

When Isabeau was not studying she wandered in the gardens or walked down to the palace to see her sister and play with her niece and nephews. Sometimes she accompanied Meghan to the council meetings, though she always found it hard to face Lachlan with any degree of composure.

Despite his words of apology, Isabeau found that the young Righ kept a wall of reserve up against her, and that troubled her very much. At first she had been hurt that she was not taken into his and Iseult's confidence, but as time went on, she came to realize that she was not the only one to be excluded from Lachlan's inner life. He seemed to trust only Iseult, Meghan, Iain of Arran and Duncan Ironfist, the captain of the Blue Guards. Only with them did his air of regal reticence drop away into warmth, merriment and affection. Only with them did he discuss his plans and strategies for dealing with the many problems that beset the new order.

The rising of the spring tides had brought the Fair-gean in greater numbers than ever before. The sea was teeming with their sleek black heads as the sea-warriors swam in the wake of the great blue whales, while the soft beaches of the south grew crowded with the Fairgean women, many swollen with pregnancy. Despite all the arguments of the lairds and merchants, the Righ would not launch an a.s.sault against them, saying tersely that the Fairgean must be offered the chance to sign the Pact of Peace as all the other faery kind had been.

This proposal was met with hoots of scorn and cries of dismay by the council, but Lachlan was adamant.

"For a thousand years we have sought to force the Fairgean to submit to our will, but always they have risen again. We shall never gain a lasting peace unless we can come to terms with them," he said, frowning down into the lambent glow of the Lodestar, which he held cupped in his hands. "There has been much evil done on both sides and unless we can learn to forgive each other, this war will go on until all o' us are dead."

"No' if we destroy all the Fairgean first!" Linley MacSeinn, the Prionnsa of Carraig, cried furiously.

"By trying to destroy them, we may destroy all chance o' a true peace," Lachlan replied, but the prionnsa cut across him impatiently.

"Their concubines loll in comfort on our beaches, ready to bear litters o' the foul black-blooded creatures. Why do we no' attack them while the bulk o' the warriors are swimming south to hunt the whales?"

Lachlan glanced his way, his dark face softening in sympathy. "Linley, I ken ye lost most o' your family inthe Fairgean invasion o' your homeland twelve years ago, but ye are asking me to send soldiers against women heavy with babe. I canna and shallna do it. I canna believe that Ea would wish me to have the blood o' innocents on my hands . . ."

"Innocents! No Fairgean is innocent!" the MacSeinn retorted, his face white with fury and grief.

"Did they no' murder my wife and my son? Did they no' ma.s.sacre my clan till I have naught but a few hundred men left?"

"Aye, they did," Lachlan said, "and that is no' something to be forgiven lightly-"

"I shall never forgive, never," the MacSeinn shouted, his voice raw with grief. "Do ye forgive the murder o' your brothers so easily, Lachlan the Winged?"

The Righ's face froze and his fingers tightened convulsively on the Lodestar so that it flashed with silver fire. "I do no'," he said in a cold voice.

"Or your father, Parteta the Brave, who was murdered by the sea demons' king on the very beach where his concubines now lie fat and idle?"

"I do no' forget my father." Lachlan's face was tight with anger and a bitter grief.

"Then how can ye speak o' innocents? How can ye waste the lives o' our men trying to subdue Tirsoileir when the Fairgean have us trapped like coneys in a cornfield, too terrified to set our noses outside the harbor? My clan have been loyal to yours for a thousand years, yet ye make no move to restore my throne to tne It is the lands o' the MacFoghnan and the NicHilde that ye fight to regain, when they have been your enemies for centuries! Where is the justice in that?"

"Linley, ye ken we canna launch a strike against the stronghold o' the Fairgean just now." Lachlan tried to control his temper but his voice and his body were trembling with anger. "We have no' the men nor the money. If we can win Tirsoilleir back for the NicHilde, then she will pay us well for all the damage the Bright Soldiers inflicted upon our lands. Better still, we shall have access to a whole army o' highly trained soldiers. We shall be able to march on Carraig from both the west and the east, aye, even from the south with the Khan'cohbans' help. Then we may have some chance o' winning back your lands for ye."

"By that time the Fairgean will have swelled their numbers even more with all these newborn pups,"

Linley cried with disgust. "Why let them bear their young now if we plan to kill them all later?"

"Happen we will no' need to kill them all," Meghan said, her voice very stern. "If we can parley-"

"Parley! Faugh!" The MacSeinn made a sound of disgust. "Parley with the Fairgean? Your brain has grown soft with age, Meghan Keybearer!"

There were cries of outrage from the council, but most of the room remained silent. Fear and hatred of the Fairgean ran deep.

"And is my brain soft with age too, Linley?" Lach-lan said, his voice very cold. He got to his feet and advanced on the MacSeinn, his wings raised so he was surrounded by darkness like a storm cloud. The prionnsa from Carraig shrank a little, despite all his attempts to stand firm. "Do ye think I do no'

understand the threat o' the Fairgean? For twelve years they have rampaged unchecked, growing in strength and numbers every year. We are indeed trapped like coneys in a cornfield, unable to sail the seas, unable to send out our fis.h.i.+ng fleets to harvest the ocean's riches, unable to even water our herds at the rivers in fear o' a webbed hand reaching out to drag us in. Do ye think I do no' hate them too? My father died trying to repel them, all three o' my brothers died at the hands o' Maya the Ensorcellor, theirwicked deceitful daughter. I have lost all my family and many o' my friends because o' their sly stratagems . . .".

He paused and took a deep breath, stepping back so he no longer loomed over the prionnsa of Carraig.

He stared into the Lodestar and some of the angry color left his face. For a long moment he seemed to listen, and then he looked up, holding out one hand appealingly to the MacSeinn.

"We have so few men," he said simply. "Our losses in the Bright Wars were heavy indeed, and ye ken the lairds are reluctant to commit more men to our cause when they need so many to rebuild their ruined lands. Will ye no' be patient a wee while longer?"

"Patient!" Linley MacSeinn shouted, his face suffused with rage. "For twelve years I've possessed my soul in patience, I've served my Righ loyally, and for what? For what? My home lies in ruins with those blaygird sea demons swarming through its heart like maggots through dead meat, the ghosts o' my loved ones haunt my sleep, and ye, ye wish to parley with them. Are ye mad or merely a fool? The Fairgean will never come to terms with ye. They hate us, and they will never rest until we are dead, every last warm-blooded one o' us."

Lachlan tried to speak but the MacSeinn threw his goblet across the room, splas.h.i.+ng wine across the gilded walls like a stain of blood. In the shocked silence that followed, the MacSeinn strode out of the room, his unhappy son following with a shy glance of apology. Lachlan stood silently, his face heavy with trouble, his jaw clenched tight. Isabeau had to fight down an urge to comfort him, to smooth away the lines graven between his brows. She watched her sister lay her hand on the back of his neck and saw with a strange little twist beneath her breastbone how his tension eased.

After a moment Lachlan said with great authority, "We do no' send soldiers against pregnant women and boys, no matter the b.l.o.o.d.y history that lies between our people. We shall attempt once more to parley.

A messenger must be sent to the Fairgean king with an offer to discuss terms o' peace. We are creatures o' the land and they are creatures o' the sea. Surely there is some way for us to live side by side?"

Three weeks later the Righ's messenger was flung down from the back of a sea serpent by one of the Fairgean princes. The messenger's hands and feet had been hacked off, his eyes gouged out with coral, his tongue torn out by the roots. There would be no peace.

Fand crouched in the darkness. Her arms were wrapped tight about her knees, her head burrowed down in their meager shelter. She was naked.

It was freezing in this tiny dark hole. Her limbs twitched uncontrollably. She bit her lip and the blood that ran down her chin was hot. She concentrated on that heat, trying hard to find the strength to keep her body warm, as she had for so many years. For after only three minutes in the icy seas of the north, the human body began to shut down. Respiration failed, circulation stopped, the fiery track of nerves ceased their urgent pulse. The body's frail thras.h.i.+ng would slow, surrendering to the cold. Slowly it would sink below the waves, only to resurface again stiff and blue, many miles distant, many months later.

Fand, however, had survived for more than twenty years in these freezing seas, willing her blood to run hot and fast. Twenty years and she had not once succ.u.mbed to the temptation of drowning, not once let the cold defeat her.

But now the little spark of stubbornness was sunk down to nothingness. She could find no reason for living. Her mind wandered, traveling down well worn tracks. Fand rocked slightly, her eyes shut, hermouth shaping words and names that had almost lost meaning. It seemed she heard the sibilant hiss of voices slithering around her, searching to know what she knew, to make her speak those names, those words. She bit her lip harder and the blood ran into her mouth, sour as the taste of metal.

"Who? Who?" the voices hissed. "Who do you love? Who do you hate?"

Days before she had screamed. "You! I hate you! Leave me alone."

Now she merely rocked and mumbled, the sounds without form or meaning. The blood froze on her chin, and her eyes were sealed shut with icicles of tears.

Suddenly they were all about her, las.h.i.+ng her with doom-eels that stung her into screams of agony. She ripped her eyelids open, seeing only the laughing, gloating faces of her tormentors, their skin livid in the strange s.h.i.+fting light. The tails of the doom-eels shone blue-white. She twisted and turned, trying to avoid the shock of their touch. Each strike lacerated her frozen flesh so blood welled up, horribly black in the phosph.o.r.escent gleam of the nightglobes.

"Weak, sickly, stupid, halfbreed sc.u.m," the priestesses hissed. "Puny, useless, half-witted human, worthless as sea cow's offal. What use are you? What can you do? Can't even grow a tail. Any worthless concubine's get can do that. Can't even breathe underwater. Pathetic girl slave. No use even as a footstool. Can't skin her to keep warm, no flesh on her to eat, no blood in her to drink, no fire in her to keep us warm, feeble as sea anemones' p.i.s.s, useless as sp.a.w.n jelly."

Fand closed her eyes and did not listen, the slap of the doom-eels tails' no longer enough to jerk her into consciousness. For a long time she floated in darkness, pain occasionally twisting through her, damp and frail as the touch of seaweed against the leg. It was too tenuous to rouse her. When she did at last wake, it was to silence. She had difficulty remembering who she was or why her whole body was twitching with the memory of white searing pain.

"Fand," she said and remembered the mother who had named her.

"Fand," the voices hissed. Faces floated out of the blackness, lit from beneath with sickly green light that flowed and changed, causing eyes to sink back into cavernous sockets, teeth to gleam, hair to writhe and grope. "Fand," they mocked, circling her. She shrank back into herself and found, unexpectedly, a tiny guttering spark. She hid herself within it.

At last they left her. Fand rocked back and forth, weeping a little in despair. Nila, Nila, Nila, Nila. A movement nearby caused her to freeze, desperately afraid they had heard her silent plea. Someone knelt beside her, fed her raw fish and some bitter drink made of seaweed.

"You should do what they ask of you," the voice said softly, gently. "Why do you fight them? You cannot win. You should do as they ask."

"I can't, I can't." Fand found words. "I can't, I can't." Her.voice grew stronger.

"Of course you can," the voice hissed in her ear. "Of course you can, girl human."

Then Fand was alone. The silence and the darkness shook around her. The cold was like fire. It bit into her very marrow. She shook and shuddered. Tried to rub her body warm with her hands, but could not even feel the sc.r.a.pe of her flesh against flesh. Teeth chattered. I am Fand. Nila will come. I am Fand.

Nila will come.

But he did not come.

Midsummer Madness

Isabeau sat cross-legged in the garden, naked, her hair flowing down her back in a ma.s.s of unruly curls.

Her eyes were shut and her face calm and empty of all expression. The clouds of stinging midges did not seem to bother her, nor the occasional low growl of thunder in the south. She sat as still as if she had grown from the rock itself.

Slowly the darkness lifted. Isabeau opened her eyes, swept one hand out then the other, stretched her arms overhead and rose to her feet. Gracefully she went through the thirty-three stances of ahdayeh, warming her muscles and keeping her focus still and small. Ahdayeh was meditation in movement, as her previous trance had been meditation in stillness. Both enabled her to reach a plane of heightened awareness, a sense of being both in the world and apart from it. It was in this plane that the One Power could be seized and wrought to her will.

When she had finished the last difficult ritualistic move, Isabeau picked up her satchel and walked slowly and steadily toward the Tower of Two Moons. She came to a small garden near the entrance to the labyrinth, surrounded by high hedges and planted with the seven sacred trees in a circle, their branches intermingling.

The trees were incredibly ancient, their trunks so thick two men could not have touched hands around them. Within the circle of overreaching trees was a stretch of smooth turf where five witches sat, their eyes closed in meditation, their long gray hair flowing down their bare backs. Firelight danced over their old faces and sparkled from the rings that loaded down their gnarled fingers.

Isabeau stood in the dimness, trying to calm her nerves. She breathed deeply till she was serene once more, then stepped into the glade. In the brightening light she could clearly see the shape of a circle and six-sided star scored deeply into the earth. The witches' staffs had been driven into the soil to mark where the six points of the star and the circle met. There was a gap of about a foot in the circle and without saying a word Isabeau walked around the outside of the circle until she came to the gap. She paused, made the sign of Ea's blessing, and stepped inside the circle.

At once the witches' eyes opened. Isabeau bowed to Meghan, who sat at the northern point of the star, a small pot of soil set before her. The old sorceress wore nothing but her rings and the Key, dangling down between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Meghan bowed back, unsmiling.

Isabeau then bowed to the other witches. At the southern point of the hexagram sat Daillas the Lame, his face heavily seamed with age. One leg hung thin and useless, withered as an old stick. He held a ceremonial dagger in his hands, its dark blade inscribed with magical runes.

On Meghan's left sat Gwilym the Ugly, a dark, saturnine man with a hooked nose and pockmarked skin.

He too was crippled, with one leg ending at the knee in an ugly-looking ma.s.s of scar tissue. Beside him lay his wooden peg. He nodded his head in acknowledgment of Isabeau's greeting, though his stern expression did not lighten. Across his lap he held a slim wand of hazelwood, all carved with waving lines that had once been painted a soft violet blue.

Arkening the Dreamwalker sat at Meghan's right hand. Old and frail with a vague, anxious face, hands constantly in motion, Arkening fidgeted with the rings she wore on either hand. Before her was a silver chalice of water.Beside her sat Riordan Bowlegs, beaming a welcome. Although he alone among the witches there had not won his sorcerer's ring, he was here today for Isabeau's Testing because of their long friends.h.i.+p and affection for each other. Isabeau grinned at him and took her place at the sixth point of the circle. Daillas reached out one thin trembling hand and closed the circle behind her with the point of his dagger.

"Isabeau the Apprentice Witch, ye come to the junction o' Earth, Air, Water and Fire, do ye bring the Spirit?" he asked.

"May my heart be kind, my mind fierce, my spirit brave," Isabeau answered.

"Isabeau the Apprentice Witch, ye come to the pentagram and circle with a request. What is your request?"

"That I be found worthy o' being admitted into the Coven o' Witches, that I may learn to wield the One Power in wisdom and in strength, and serve the people o' the land with humility and compa.s.sion. May my heart be kind enough, my mind fierce enough, my spirit brave enough."

All five witches made a circle with the fingers of their left hand and crossed it with one finger of their right, and Isabeau repeated the gesture.

"Meghan, your guide and guardian, tells us that ye have pa.s.sed the First and Second Tests o' Power, and that ye have studied hard during your years as an apprentice o' the Coven. However, it has been noted that the last Testing took place on your sixteenth birthday and at the height o' the red comet, a most auspicious date for any young witch to sit her Tests. There is no comet magic to draw upon tonight and it is no' your twenty-fourth birthday, contrary to the usual traditions. Do ye feel ye are ready to sit the Third Test o' Power, even though ye are two years short o' your coming o' age?"

"I hope so," Isabeau responded with utmost sincerity.

She saw the sorcerer's lips twitch but he repressed the smile, saying sternly, "As the Third Test o' Power decrees, ye must first pa.s.s the First and Second Tests again."

Isabeau nodded. Smoothly and competently she did all that they instructed, unable to help feeling a little glow of satisfaction even though she was careful to let no expression cross her face. Isabeau remembered clearly how she had been reprimanded for being too conceited and willful the last time she had sat these Tests. She knew the council of sorcerers had argued long and hard about permitting her to sit her Third Tests of Power so early and she wanted to do nothing to risk them losing their faith in her. Witches with the potential to achieve the High Magic were rare these days, and Isabeau knew Meghan was eager to see her young apprentice inducted as a sorceress before she died. Consequently she had persuaded the council to go against a thousand years of tradition and Isabeau was determined the old sorceress would not be disappointed in her.

At last Isabeau had finished all the trials of the First and Second Tests, having been careful to do no more than they asked. Without giving her a chance to rest, the witches immediately began the third round of Testing.

The Third Trial of Air involved a more complex manipulation of the forces of air than before, but Isabeau was easily able to move around several objects at once. She lifted the apples from the bowl and threw them up into a spinning circle as if she were a juggler like Dide, all without moving a finger. After a moment the bowl and knife flew up to join them, waltzing together through the air.

Meghan held up her hand. "Enough, Isabeau."Isabeau gently lowered the apples back into the bowl and the bowl back to the floor.

"Isabeau the Red has shown us she has great skill for a mere apprentice, and has pa.s.sed the Trial o' Air with flying colors," Gwilym said. "Breathe deeply o' the good air and guidwish the winds o' the world, for without air we should die."

Isabeau inclined her head to him in thanks for his praise and breathed deeply of the warm, summer scented air.

Arkening rose stiffly to her feet, lifting the chalice of water with both gnarled hands. Isabeau leaped to her feet so that the old woman would not have to bend down to place it on the ground. As she lifted the chalice from Arkening's unsteady grasp, the sorceress peered up at her, smiling wistfully, and reached up one hand to pat Isabeau's cheek. "Such a bright, bonny la.s.sie," she said dreamily and made her painfully slow way back to her place. Isabeau put down the chalice of water and helped the old woman lower herself back to the ground, before returning to her own spot, careful not to step outside the lines drawn in the dirt.