Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 06 - The Fathomless Caves

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The Fathomless Caves

Book Six or the Witches of Eileanan

Kate Forsyth

A ROC BOOK

For all those who died—stripped naked, shaved, shorn,

For all those who screamed in vain to the Great Goddess,

only to have their tongues ripped out by the root,

For all those who were pricked, racked, broken on the

wheel for the sins of their Inquisitors.

For all those whose beauty stirred their torturers to fury;

And for those whose ugliness did the same.

And for all those who were neither ugly nor beautiful, but

only women who would not submit.

For all those quick fingers, broken in the vise.

For all those soft arms, pulled from their sockets.

For all those budding breasts, ripped with hot pincers,

For all those midwives, killed merely for the sin of

delivering man to an imperfect world.

For all those witch-women, my sisters who breathed freer

as the flames took them,

knowing as they shed their female bodies,

the seared flesh falling like fruit in the flames,

that death alone would cleanse them of the sin for which

they died—

the sin of being born a woman who is more than the sum

of her parts

—Anonymous, sixteenth century

(Published in Erica Jong, Witches, 1981)

1. Magic is the mother of eternity, and of the

essence of all essences, for it makes itself by

itself and is understood in the desire.

2. It is nothing in itself but a will....

5. Magic is spirit and being is its body....

6. Magic is the most secret thing.

—Jakob Böhme, Base des six points thesophiques, 1620

The Weaver's Shuttle Flies

Beltane Fires

The soaring towers of Rhyssmadill were bright with the light of a

thousand lanterns. They blazed from every window and were strung

through the palace gardens like garlands of fiery flowers. Beneath their

radiance, crowds of gaily dressed people talked and laughed as they

watched the spectacular acrobatics of the jongleurs and listened to the

minstrels. Many danced around the roaring bonfire in the center of the

square, or sat at the long trestle tables, loaded with delicacies of all

kinds.

The Merry May ale flowed freely. All were celebrating the victory in

Tirsoilleir that had brought an end to the civil war that had troubled

Eileanan for so long. No one needed to fear another invasion by the

Bright Soldiers of Tirsoilleir, for Elfrida NicHilde had gladly sworn fealty

to the Rìgh, Lachlan MacCuinn, after her restoration to the throne. For

the first time in hundreds of years, all the lands of Eileanan were united

and at peace.

As the two moons sailed higher in the starry sky, the dancing grew

wilder, the cheering and stamping grew louder, the minstrels' songs grew

bawdier and plates began to get broken. Brun the cluricaun amused the

crowd with his antics, swinging from lantern pole to lantern pole, and

playing his flute while hanging upside down from the trees. Dide the

Juggler walked on his hands, juggling a spinning circle of golden balls

with his feet. He left a trail of broken leaves and twigs behind him, for he

had once again been chosen as the Green Man of the Beltane feast and

so wore leafy branches tied to every limb. With his dark eyes alight with

merriment and his slim muscular body filled with vigor, he was the perfect

choice as the embodiment of the life-force that renewed the world in

springtime.

Isabeau took a sip of goldensloe wine. From the corner of her eye

she could see Dide dancing a spirited jig with a pretty blonde girl as the

crowd clapped and laughed and cheered. Resolutely, Isabeau shifted in

her seat so that she could not see him. She had to remind herself quite

forcibly that she had no time for dillydallying with a fickle, volatile,

unreliable jongleur, no matter how handsome. She looked down at her

right hand, a gleaming jewel on every finger, then lifted her head proudly,

raising the three fingers of her left hand to clasp the petrified owl talon

that hung around her neck on a leather thong.

The rings on Isabeau's right hand were not for mere adornment,

unlike the jewels at the throats and wrists of the other women sitting at

the high table. Like her tall staff crowned with a perfect white crystal and

her austere white robe, the rings showed Isabeau to be a powerful witch.

Isabeau was one of the youngest witches in the history of the Coven to

have won all five of her elemental rings, yet she was hungry to go on and

sit her Sorceress Test. She needed to focus all her will and desire upon

her studies if she hoped to master the High Magic, and no black-eyed

jongleur with a wicked grin was going to distract her from achieving that

goal.

You-whoo gloomy-whoo? the little white owl sitting on the back of

Isabeau's chair hooted anxiously.

"No' at all," Isabeau replied firmly and drained her goblet of

goldensloe wine.

Despite the noise and merriment of the crowds, the company sitting

at the high table did seem rather morose. The Rìgh was slouching on one

elbow, a goblet grasped in one hand, his chin resting in the other. His

glossy black wings were sunk low, his topaz-golden eyes heavy-lidded,

his mouth set sullenly.

In contrast, his wife, Iseult, was sitting very straight, the goblet of

wine before her untasted. She was dressed severely in white, her mass of

red-gold curls was pulled back from her brow and hidden within a white

snood, and she wore only two rings, a moonstone on her right hand, a

dragoneye on her left hand. But unlike the plainness of Isabeau's white

witch-robes, Iseult's austerity was a matter of choice. As the Banrìgh of

Eileanan, Iseult could have been dressed as richly and gaily as any other

lady at the Beltane feast. Her only adornment, however, was the clan

brooch that clasped her snowy-white plaid about her shoulders.

The brooch was exactly the same as that which pinned together the

white folds of Isabeau's plaid, a circle formed by the stylized shape of a

dragon, rising from two single-petalled roses surrounded by thorns, for

the two women seated side by side at the high table were twins, as alike

as mirror images. If it was not for Isabeau's scarred and maimed left

hand, and the staff and witch-rings that showed her status as a member

of the Coven, a stranger could well have had difficulty in telling them

apart.

The chill silence between the Rìgh and Banrìgh had affected the

spirits of all the other lords and ladies at the royal table. Most had gone

to seek more cheerful company on the dance floor or by the ale barrels.

Elfrida NicHilde, who could not overcome her lifelong indoctrination

against any kind of merrymaking, had gone to brood over her young son,

Neil, sleeping upstairs in the nursery suite with the other children. Her

husband, Iain MacFóghnan of Arran, had been drawn into a political

argument with some of the other prionnsachan, while the ancient

Keybearer of the Coven, Meghan NicCuinn, had sought her bed some

time ago. There was only Isabeau, Iseult and Lachlan left, all of them

somber and preoccupied.

Connor, the Rìgh's young squire, knelt by Lachlan's side with a

crystal decanter of whiskey. "It is near midnight, Your Highness," he said

respectfully as he once again refilled the Rìgh's goblet. Lachlan looked at

him rather blankly, his eyes bloodshot. "It's time for the crowning o' the

May Queen," Connor prompted, rising again and stepping back.

"O' course," Lachlan said, his words rather slurred. "The May

Queen. How could I forget?" There was a slight trace of sarcasm in his

voice and Isabeau felt her twin stiffen, drawing herself up even further.

Isabeau roused herself from her own miserable thoughts to turn and look

at her sister, but the Banrìgh's face was averted, her profile as cold and

white as if carved from marble.

Lachlan leapt up onto the table, his black wings sweeping out and

back so the movement was as swift and graceful as the soaring of an

eagle. "My good people," he called, his voice ringing out across the

tumult of laughter, chatter and music. Immediately everyone stilled and

turned to face him, for Lachlan's voice had a rare magic in it, as

compelling as the song of any sea-singer.

"It is Beltane Night, the night we celebrate the coming o' summer and

the passing o' winter. With the burning o' the Beltane fires, we drive

away the darkness o' the dead months and beckon the golden gladness

o' the growing months. This evening, our Beltane fires have even greater

meaning, for we have left the darkness and dreadfulness o' war behind us

and celebrate the dawning o' a new season o' peace and fruitfulness."

Cheering erupted everywhere. People clapped their hands, stamped

their feet, called out ululations of approval. Lachlan held up his hand for

silence and after a long moment, the noise died down again.

"As you know, spring is the time when Eà walks the world in her

green mantle, flowers springing up in her footsteps. We like to celebrate

May Day by crowning the bonniest lass we can find with a garland of

flowers and draping her with a mantle of green, to praise and honor Eà,

our mother. I think there can be very little doubt in any of our minds who

should be crowned May Queen tonight." He paused once again, to allow

the shouts and ribald suggestions to die down. "So I have great pleasure

in calling upon . .. Brangaine NicSian to be our May Queen this even!"

Isabeau could not help a little start of surprise. This was not because

the NicSian was not a young woman of uncommon beauty. Brangaine

NicSian, the Banprionnsa of Siantan, had hair the color and texture of

cornsilk, and eyes of clear emerald green. She was without question one

of the most beautiful girls Isabeau had ever seen. It was just that Isabeau

had expected Lachlan to name his wife as May Queen. Beltane was a

night of great significance to Iseult and Lachlan. It was the night of their

first loving, the night they had conceived their son, Donncan, now six

years old.

There was no change in Iseult's expression, though her fingers

tightened a little on the stem of her goblet. The crowd was cheering and

clapping, as a blushing, smiling Brangaine was led up to a

flower-bedecked dais. Lachlan draped the green silken cloak about her

shoulders and crowned her with a garland of pink roses and white

hawthorn, before bending to kiss her cheek.

"I dinna realize Lachlan kent the NicSian so well," Isabeau said

rather tentatively.

"Brangaine sailed back on the Royal Stag with us," Iseult said. "She

can whistle the wind, ye ken. It is because o' her that we were able to get

home from Tirsoilleir so quickly."

As she spoke, a great roar went up from the crowd. Dide had

somersaulted right across the bonfire, landing gracefully on one knee

before the May Queen and kissing her hand reverently. He then delighted

the crowd by pulling her down so he could kiss her hard on the mouth.

As everyone cheered and whistled, he leapt to his feet again with a

flourish of his green-feathered hat, allowing a flushed and dishevelled

Brangaine to regain her seat.

The dancers all came together in great circles of whirling color about

the tall maypole, which was decorated with leaves and flowers and long

trailing ribbons in all the colors of the rainbow. The inner circle of

dancers, all the prettiest girls at the feast, danced under each other's

upraised arms, tying up the maypole till it was bound tightly within its

cage of ribbons.

"She's very bonny, isn't she?" Isabeau said carefully.

Iseult smiled rather coldly. "Aye, indeed. Are ye worried my feelings

are hurt? I could no' be May Queen every year. It would hardly be fair."

She rose, Connor leaping to pull out her chair for her. "Would you

excuse me? I'll just go up and check the children are sleeping. Donncan

has been having nightmares every night since he and Neil were

kidnapped. He likes me to be near."

Although Isabeau nodded and smiled, it was an effort. All around her

people were dancing and laughing, rejoicing in the end of a long and

bloody war, but Isabeau could not shake off a heavy feeling of misery.

She knew she was tired—knew she had gone beyond tiredness to

bone-weariness, soul-sickness—but still it seemed she saw portents of

trouble everywhere.

The last few months had been hard ones for her. Isabeau had

strained her powers to their very limit, confronting and defeating the cruel

sorceress Margrit NicFóghnan, who had kidnapped the young heir to the

throne, Donncan, and his best friend, Neil, Margrit's own grandson.

Margrit had hoped to murder Lachlan and rule Eileanan through

Donncan, and it had taken all of Isabeau's wit and courage to rescue the

boys and overcome Margrit. She had so overtaxed her strength that she

had suffered sorcery sickness as a result, a dangerous illness that could

lead to death or madness or the complete loss of one's magical powers.

It was the second time she had succumbed to sorcery sickness in as

many months. She felt limp as an old lettuce leaf.

Isabeau never enjoyed Beltane Night, anyway, though it was meant

to be a celebration of life and love. The Rìgh and Banrìgh never failed to

renew their bonds of passion on Beltane Night, the anniversary of their

first joyous communion. Isabeau had strong psychic links with her twin

sister. On Beltane, the tides of power turned as a new season began, and

the psychic current that ran between Isabeau and her twin sister was

stronger than ever. She felt pain if Iseult hurt herself, and she felt rapture

when Iseult did, particularly if she was asleep and dreaming, all her

defenses dissolved. So, every May Eve, Isabeau went to bed knowing

she would dream of Lachlan's hands upon her body, Lachlan's silken

black wings caressing her, his strong arms enfolding her.

Tonight, though, Isabeau would almost welcome sharing Iseult's

joyous release. At least dreaming of Lachlan's mouth upon hers would

drive away the nightmarish visions of slimy, webbed hands, curving

yellow tusks, and long black hair streaming like seaweed, that every night

rose up from the dark well of her unconscious.

Isabeau knew why she was haunted by these dreams. Only a few

weeks ago, she had seen the bodies of drowned Fairgean rolling and

bobbing about in the waves that curled upon the beach where she stood,

their long hair undulating like kelp, their limp arms and legs swaying. The

image was scorched upon her inner eye. She tasted the ash of her horror

and revulsion upon her tongue every minute of every day.

It was not just the sight of the dead bodies that so troubled her.

Isabeau had seen death before. And these corpses had been Fairgean,

humankind's most bitter enemy. If those Fairgean warriors had seen her

and Donncan and Neil, they would have had no hesitation in gleefully

spitting them upon their tridents.

It was the manner of the sea-demons' death which tasted so foul.

The Fairgean warriors had been killed by Maya the Ensorcellor and her

six-year-old daughter, Bronwen.

Isabeau had helped bring Bronwen into the world. She had struggled

to keep the little newborn babe alive, had cared for her and fed her and

bathed her when her own mother had refused to even look at her. It was

Isabeau who had helped Bronwen take her first unsteady step, Isabeau

who had smiled and listened to her childish babbling, Isabeau who had

taught Bronwen her letters and numbers. Isabeau loved Bronwen as if

she herself had struggled and screamed to bring her, all blue and bloody,

into the world. To know Bronwen had been taught to kill sickened her to

the very depths of her being.

It had happened during their desperate flight from Margrit's

stronghold, after Isabeau had managed to outwit the sorceress by

swapping the wine in their goblets so that Margrit herself drank the

poison she had meant for Isabeau. Sorely wounded and swooning with

the sorcery sickness, Isabeau and the boys had taken refuge on a small

island in the Muir Finn. In a coincidence too strange to be mere chance,

the island proved to be the refuge of Maya the Ensorcellor, who had fled

into exile after her failed attempt to win the throne for her daughter.

Bronwen was Lachlan's young niece, the child of his dead brother

Jaspar. Named as heir and successor, Bronwen had ruled for just one

day before Lachlan had won the throne and the Lodestar for himself.

The Fairgean warriors had swum into the lagoon, seeking only to

harvest the kelp that floated in the sea about the island. Although Maya

was half Fairge herself, she was in as much danger from the warriors as

Isabeau and the boys, for she had failed her father, the Fairgean king, in

his plans to eradicate humankind once and for all. She feared the wrath

of her father and the Priestesses of Jor as greatly as she feared that of

Lachlan and the Coven of Witches. So she had taken up her clàrsach

and commanded Bronwen to take up her flute, and together mother and

daughter had sung the Fairgean warriors to death.

It did not help that Isabeau had taken Bronwen away from Maya. It

did not help that Bronwen now slept peacefully in the royal nursery, as

sweet-faced and innocent as the other children. Fairgean warriors still

swam through Isabeau's dreams every night, dragging her down with

their webbed hands, strangling her with their seaweed hair, drowning her.

Isabeau shivered and pulled her plaid up about her neck, even

though the night was balmy and the heat of the Beltane bonfire had the

dancers damp with perspiration. She wished Meghan had not retired to

her bed, or that her old friend Lilanthe was there, to talk and laugh with

and distract her from her troubled thoughts. She wished that Dide, her

oldest friend of all, was not flirting so outrageously with the newly

crowned May Queen, the prettiest girl Isabeau had ever seen.

Laughing wickedly, Dide was dancing and cavorting all round the

fire, scattering spring-green leaves behind him. He had not been still since

the dawn ceremony but he showed no sign of weariness, leading the

dancing in an unruly procession that overturned tables and knocked a

tray of goblets flying. With a shout of joyous excitement, he flung himself

over in a wild flurry of cartwheels, flip-flops, lion-leaps, hand-springs,

head-springs, sideways leaps and twists of every description that had the

crowd roaring. Brangaine leapt to her feet and clapped enthusiastically,

and Dide bowed and blew her a kiss. When she blew him a kiss in

return, he fell over backwards as if he had been felled by a blow, and lay

on the ground, his arms outstretched, his eyes shut, his chest heaving.

Isabeau poured herself another goblet of wine.

All the other jongleurs were spurred on to new feats of acrobatic

grace and dexterity. Dide sat up and watched them, occasionally jeering

or applauding a particularly deft somersault. Another pretty young girl

came and tried to drag him into a dance but he waved her away,

pretending he was swooning from exhaustion. Then he spied Isabeau,

sitting alone at the high table, the elf-owl Buba perched on the chair

behind.

Isabeau sensed rather than saw Dide get up and make his way

towards her. She turned her attention to the musicians, watching them

play as if she had no greater desire in the world than to study their

fingering. Then she felt him lean over her, his breath warm on her cheek

and smelling strongly of ale.

"If it's no' my bonny Beau," he said. "Look at ye, in your

witch-robes. And there's your wee owl. If I come too close, will she

peck me again?"

"Probably," Isabeau answered, leaning away from him.

"Och, as cruel as ever, my lady," he answered mockingly. He bent

and seized her hand and kissed it with an extravagant flourish of his

green-feathered hat. "May I have the pleasure o' this dance?"

"No, thank ye," Isabeau replied coolly.

"Och, come and dance, Beau!" he cried. "Come on, ye've been

sitting up here for hours like some auld grandam. A bonny lass like ye

should be dancing."

"I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you." Isabeau tried to draw

her hand away, but Dide dragged her up to her feet, almost pulling her

over in the process. He laughed, grabbing hold of her with both arms as

he tried to regain his balance, and almost fell over again.

"Ye're drunk!" Isabeau said.

"I'm the Green Man, it's my job to be drunk," he retorted and tried to

kiss her, getting a mouthful of hair in the attempt. "Come on, Beau, why

so cold? Will ye no' dance with me?" He whirled her into the dancers, his

arm sure about her waist, his hand holding hers firmly.

Isabeau's eyes flashed with angry fire. "I said I dinna want to dance!"

He spun her round. "Did ye?"

"Aye! Let me go!"

"No' likely! I havena seen ye in months! Years! The least ye can do

is dance wi' me."

"Ye ken I canna dance," Isabeau protested. "Dide, ye're treading on

my feet!"

He laughed. "No' as sure on my feet as I was twelve hours ago," he

panted. "Och, what a day!"

"Ye seemed to be enjoying yourself." Despite all her best intentions,

Isabeau could not help a note of pique in her voice.

He laughed at her and squeezed her waist. "Och, I have! I'd enjoy it

even more if ye'd stop glaring at me and give me a kiss instead. Am I no'

your auldest friend? Ye'd think I'd get a warmer greeting than this!"

"I think ye've had quite enough kisses for one day," Isabeau replied

primly.

"No such thing as enough kisses," Dide replied. "Especially from ye,

my bonny Beau."

He whirled her about so swiftly she had no breath to retort, and

smiled down at her with great warmth in his eyes. "So much has

happened since I last saw ye," he said. "How long has it been? Three

years? I see ye are a witch now, just like ye wanted. Soon to be a

sorceress, I hear."

She nodded, finding herself unaccountably tongue-tied.

"Congratulations," he said and bent his head to kiss her, his hand

tightening upon her waist. Then the steps of the dance separated them.

She was spun about by other arms, went from partner to partner all the

way down the line. Isabeau could not help looking back over her

shoulder. She met Dide's gaze, blushed hotly and looked away They met

again at the head of the line. His arm slid about her waist with great

assurance, pulling her closer than the etiquette of the dance truly

demanded.

"And I hear ye have been made an earl," Isabeau said lightly. "Who

would have thought it, the little boy I played with in the stableyard now

an earl with his own coat o' arms and a castle and everything."

He bowed with an extravagant flourish. "Didier Laverock, the earl of

Caerlaverock, at your service, my lady." They parted with a bow and a

curtsey, danced down the line and met again at the bottom. "I'm no' sure

how I feel about it," he admitted. "I'm glad for my grandam's sake,

though. She is auld now and badly crippled. I am glad she has

somewhere comfortable to bide awhile. And who kens? Happen I'll tire

o' the jongleur's life one day."

"Now that I doubt," Isabeau answered. The tune came to an end

with a flourish of violins, and they all clapped and bowed to each other.

Isabeau gathered up her long robe and stepped away, reminding herself

that she was a witch of the Coven and not a silly young lass to be dazzled

by a charming smile.

Dide caught her hand and halted her, seizing two cups of Merry May

ale from a tray. "Nay, I canna be allowing ye to sit around and mope like

a miserable auld maid! It's May Day and I be the Green Man! It is my

beholden duty to allow no one to mope, especially a bonny wee lass like

yourself. Drink! Drink!"

"Stop it, Dide!" Isabeau protested, almost choking as he poured the

ale into her mouth. "I ken what ye're like! Ye're only trying to get me

drunk so ye can have your evil way with me." She swallowed, coughing

and spluttering.

He laughed at her, his black eyes sparkling. "Och, I do no' have to

get ye drunk to do that!" he mocked, kissing her. It was the kiss of a

lover, deep, long, ardent. Isabeau was ensnared, unable to break away.

For a moment she heard only the beat of his heart against hers, felt only

the surge of her own blood in response. Then she broke free, or he let

her go, she did not know which. He kissed her again, his hand cupping

her chin, and smiled down into her eyes. "See?"

She pulled away, chin raised proudly. He had her plait in his hand,

his arm about her waist. He would have drawn her through the dancers

to the shadowy garden beyond, but she pulled against his grasp. "I

thought ye wanted to dance?" she cried and, laughing, ran back into the

throng of dancers. He caught the edge of her robe and pulled her back,

and she let him turn her so that his hands were on her waist again and she

was laughing up into his very bright black eyes.

Suddenly screams rang out, screams of terror. The throng of dancers

milled about, crying, "What's happened?"

There were cries of pain now, and high-pitched whistles and musical

Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 06 - The Fathomless Caves

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