Her eyes shut, a wreath of dark leaves on her head, Iseult endured the lonely hours of the Ordeal, thinking of the great snow-capped needles of stone and the white valleys that had always been her home. Iseult missed the Spine of the World. The warmth of these green hills made her slow and soft, and prone to romantic imaginings. Still, she was proud to be following in the footsteps of her hero father, the first of her people to cross the Cursed Peaks and travel in the land of the sorcerers. He had died here, or so she had thought. The dragons had said that he was not dead, only lost, and so Iseult dreamed of finding him and bringing him back in triumph to her grandmother.
The flames were sinking low when suddenly all Iseult’s senses came alert. There was an alien presence within the circle of stones. Jerking her tired eyes open, Iseult saw three tall pale shapes slowly approaching the fire. Silently she fitted an arrow to her little bow, wound it with the hook on her belt and raised it to her shoulder.
Without warning, a gnarled old hand gripped hers, forcing her to lower the crossbow. If Iseult had not recognised Meghan’s touch, she would have killed her immediately, but she subdued her instinctive urge to defend herself, and let the bow and arrow slip to the ground.
I said we were safe here, Iseult, when will ye learn to trust me? The witch spoke in her mind. If ye had fired and killed one o’ our hosts, ye would have done great evil, for the Celestines are the gentlest o’ creatures, and we shelter here at their kindness. Learn to think afore ye seek to kill, my bairn, for else ye are as evil as those we seek to overthrow.
Iseult nodded, though she watched the noiseless approach of the mysterious figures with distrust. The Firemaker Meghan may be prepared to extend the hand of friendship to all creatures, but Iseult certainly was not.
The Celestines were tall and slender, with white hair that flowed down their backs. They were dressed in loose robes of pale silk that seemed to shimmer slightly so that a vague nimbus surrounded their forms. In the darkness their faces were indistinct, though occasionally she saw the gleam of their eyes. With the fingers of one hand to their foreheads, they bowed to Meghan. The air was filled with a sonorous humming.
Meghan rose to her feet, bowed, and answered them with the same deep, low croon. It sounded like bees swarming, elven cats purring, leaves rustling, rain blowing.
‘It is nigh on midnight,’ Meghan said softly to her wards. ‘We shall begin the chanting and dancing soon, and wait for the dawn, when the Celestines shall sing the sun to life. Ye may all join in if ye catch the melody; but if ye canna maintain the sound, do no’ start. It is a bad omen indeed if the song should falter, and the song o’ the Celestines needs stamina and control o’ one’s breath.’
Through the dark came another of the faery creatures, smaller than the others and stooped. When he came close to the fire to greet Meghan, Iseult saw his face was seamed with wrinkles, his forehead so heavily corrugated that his eyes were hidden in shadow. He and Meghan hummed at each other for some time, the sound surprising Iseult with its flexibility and expressiveness. Although she did not know what they were saying, she heard gladness and welcome, and questions. He placed one multijointed finger between Meghan’s eyes, and she bowed her head and let him touch her for a very long time. Then he took her hand in his and let her touch him in the same manner.
So quietly that Iseult did not hear her, another Celestine had come through the outer ring of stones and now stood beside them, humming softly. She and Meghan embraced, and Iseult heard the rising inflection of an anxious question in Meghan’s response.
Iseult had almost fallen asleep when Meghan at last returned to the fire. Lachlan was fidgeting under the gaze of the Celestines, grouped by themselves near the water. He looked up with relief as Meghan ordered them to light their torches, and he nudged Iseult with his claw.
The five white figures stood around the dark pool in the apex of the hill and waited in courteous silence as Meghan led Iseult and Lachlan through the rites of the witches. Iseult was growing used to Meghan’s ways, but still she felt awkward and rather silly chanting rhymes and dancing round the fire with those solemn figures watching. Again and again her eye was drawn to them, in both wonder and suspicion. With their long white manes and strong facial structure, the Celestines reminded her of the People of the Spine of the World, and you never turned your back on an unknown Khan’cohban if you could help it.
It was in the grey hush before dawn when the Celestines at last moved, stepping forward to hold hands around the pool. The burning torches which Iseult, Lachlan and Meghan had carried in their hands were scorched to their bases, barely glimmering with flame. The fire had sunk to embers, and Iseult was conscious of the dryness of her eyes and the empty ache of her body after a night without food or sleep.
One by one the Celestines began to croon, some so low the sound was felt as a thrumming in the veins and arteries and organs, rather than heard; others as high and clear as the tinkle of a waterfall. Meghan joined the Celestines around the pool, their slim tall figures towering over hers. Her murmur interlaced with the Celestines, building in blood-troubling rhythms.
The night was beginning to peel away along the horizon when, unexpectedly, a voice of the clearest and most poignant beauty wove through the song. Iseult, crouched by the fire in a daze, looked up and saw that Lachlan had quietly stepped forward to take Meghan’s hand and join the ring of singers. His wings were spread, the moonlight marbling the feathers with silver, highlighting the beautiful line of his jaw and neck. Iseult could only gaze at him and listen, filled with helpless longing.
As the stones loomed against the paling sky, birds of all sorts began to sing and carol. Water gurgled as clear liquid bubbles splashed into life, sending the water in the pool tumbling over the lip of stone and down the side of the hill. Still Lachlan sang, his voice the most beautiful music Iseult had ever heard. The sun rose, embroidering the landscape with colour, and the song of the Celestines slowly drifted into silence.
‘Och, well done, my laddie!’ Meghan cried. ‘Come and see, Iseult! The summerbourne is running.’
In the centre of the pool a clear spring now bubbled. Where the water cascaded down the western slope of the hill, a gaudy train of flowers had sprung up—the tiny crimson stars of waterlilies, golden buttercups, blue forget-me-nots, the white buds of wild strawberries and the heavy pink heads of clover.
The Celestines were humming excitedly, and Meghan turned and embraced her nephew. ‘It is true, ye have magic in your voice,’ she cried, and tears were wet on her wrinkled face. ‘The summerbourne is running, stronger than it has for years! They say it is the best singing o’ the dawn since the Faery Decree, for there are so few Celestines left and many are too sick at heart for the singing! Oh, Lachlan, I am so pleased and surprised! Emt said ye refused to use your voice, though she knew it had the power o’ enchantment. Ye have Talent indeed—look at the spring, how strongly it flows!’
The youngest of the Celestines, a slim woman dressed in palest yellow, came forward and took Lachlan’s hands and gazed intently into his eyes. A surprised expression crossed Lachlan’s face, then a look of squirming embarrassment. ‘That’s all right,’ he said gruffly. ‘It seemed the thing to do—I could hear the melody building …’
After another long, searching look, she moved then to Meghan and the two embraced and wandered off, deep in conversation. One by one, the other Celestines bowed to Lachlan and touched their fingers to the middle of his forehead and then to theirs. He scowled, unsure how to respond, but they merely smiled joyously then followed the course of the summerbourne as it tumbled down the hill. The air was sweet with the heady scent of the flowers, and woodlarks flew overhead, singing furiously. The whole forest seemed alive with gladness, bright leaves quivering, nisses bathing playfully in the overbrimming stream.
Only the oldest of the Celestines remained, running his fingers through the liquid silk of the spring, a buttercup tucked in his beard. His face in the fresh light seemed impossibly lined, as if he had se
en much pain and sorrow. His sparse hair and beard were white as that of a geal’teas, his eyes pale and glittering. Aware of Iseult’s gaze, he looked up and touched his fingers to his corrugated brow. Although he smiled, his face did not lose its tinge of melancholy.
At last Meghan and the Celestine returned from their intent conversation. Meghan’s face was bright, her black eyes soft with pleasure. ‘Come, let us eat o’ the flesh o’ our mother and drink the water o’ her body and let us rejoice, for the seasons have turned and the green months are upon us,’ she intoned, then her voice thrilled with a deep joy. ‘And let us rejoice, for Isabeau is alive and on her way to Rhyssmadill! Cloudshadow has seen her, and though Isabeau was sore hurt, she healed her at the turn o’ the tides. She gave Isabeau the Saddle o’ Ahearn to help her make haste to the blue palace. She says the portion o’ the Key which Isabeau carried is safe still. Such a dark load off my mind!’
Meghan turned to Cloudshadow and made the low humming noise in her throat which seemed to be the Celestines’ language. The Celestine trilled back, and came and sat by Iseult’s side, eagerly breaking the bread and biting into a piece of fruit.
Greetings, Iseult NicFaghan …
Iseult looked up and around, but Meghan and Lachlan gave no indication they had heard anything. Then she realised the Celestine was smiling at her and humming gently in her throat. Her eyes were clear and translucent as water.
We of the Celestine do not have the same sort of vocal cords as you humans. We cannot speak your language and it is the rare human who can learn to mimic our sounds. Meghan is the only one I have ever known to have managed it, and it took her centuries. Some of us can speak into your minds, though, if you are receptive. You have the blood inheritance of the Khan’cohbans in your veins. They are cousins of a sort to the Celestines, and so that makes it easier for me to speak to you thus.
‘What did ye call me?’ Iseult asked.
Iseult NicFaghan. I could just as easily have called ye Khan’derin daKhan’lantha, for both are your names. You are the offspring of the ill-fated union of Faodhagan the Red and Khan’lantha of the Fire-Dragon Pride, many hundreds of years ago. Although your ancestors bred but rarely with Khan’cohbans, you have still inherited some of their qualities—your clear eyesight, your fighting spirit—but I call you by your human name, for that is where your destiny lies.
But I am heir to the Firemaker! Unconsciously Iseult answered without words.
And heir also to the witches’ tower. It is time for the descendants of Faodhagan to take their place in human society. A thousand years your family has dwelled apart from their kin. It is time to be united … I have met your twin sister, you know. You are much alike, more so than I expected. She has a hard journey ahead of her, but then, I think the cost of your destiny will also be high. You have difficult choices to make, and more depends on your decision than you can be aware of. Do not be afraid, though. Although there is sorrow ahead, there is also great joy.
I do no’ understand what ye are talking about.
Always I find it difficult to communicate with humans such as yourself. I have studied your thought and emotion patterns and yet always there is this gap between what I know and what I can say. I am always surprised by how muddled your thinking is, and how vague your emotions.
I do no’ think I’m muddled …
Amusement rang clearly though the Celestine’s mind-voice. No, of course you do not. Humans never do. I have encountered few races more arrogant, especially when so many are so stupid. Still, the best of you have great minds and hearts, and I try hard not to judge the few by the many.
Thank you …
The Celestine gave a high trill, causing Meghan to look up and smile.
Humans always surprise me. I forget how lightly you live. It is true your lives are short. I fear the Celestines take everything too seriously, Meghan says we lack a … sense of humour, if that is the right term. An odd expression, for how is humour a sense? There are only six senses …
My grandmother is always admonishing me for not taking life seriously enough.
Yes, the Khan’cohbans do live heavily. They are conscious always of the weight of death pressing them down.
For the first time in their strange conversation, the Celestine had made a sound. She had said ‘Khan’cohban’ as the People would have said it: a harsh, guttural ‘Khan’, followed by two descending notes—the Gods! Children of. The sound had the same skin-shivering quality as the desolate cry of a raven at dusk.
In the same language Iseult replied, ‘Life on the Spine of the World is hard.’
Indeed it is. We of the forest are fortunate. Or at least, we were. Melancholy now clouded the soft voice in Iseult’s mind. We that you humans call Celestines were once as many as the stars in the sky. We lived in the forests and vales and cared for the land. We had our enemies. Who does not? What you call Satyricorn harried us often, and cursehags and gravenings, too. Sometimes the Khan’cohbans came down from the snowy peaks in hordes …
Iseult realised with a start that the complicated bud of wrinkles on the Celestine’s forehead had parted and she was being regarded with a third, dark eye. It gleamed with liquid reflections, so bright it struck through her like a sword. Below, her two other eyes were clear and empty.
Involuntarily Iseult started back, and the Celestine regarded her gravely, her long-fingered hands folded in her lap. The sight of my third eye frightens you? For some reason it always makes humans uneasy, perhaps because they lost theirs so long ago. Yet if I keep it shut, how else am I to see you clearly, or find the means to speak with you?
Iseult regarded the eye in the middle of the Celestine’s forehead. Ye see me differently through your third eye?
Indeed. It is hard for me to describe. It is your emotional energies I see, your hidden thoughts …
Do we no’ have a third eye too? Meghan said something …
Yes, but your forehead is smooth, your third eye cannot physically see. It is as much the sixth sense that you use. Your third eye is wrapped in veils, and you must learn to unwrap them. Your sister, of course, her third eye was sealed shut by Meghan, but she suffered a sharp blow to her head and that has shaken Meghan’s mark off. She will find the veils unravelling quickly now.
So what do ye see o’ me through your third eye?
You are yearning for the winged boy, yet you reprimand yourself for allowing yourself to think about him. He is bad-tempered and arrogant, you tell yourself many times. Be at peace, I tell you, for I feel your destiny and his lie together. The winged boy has enchantment in his voice. This morning saw the strongest running of the summerbourne in years. The summerbourne feeds the forest and the garden and all shall spring into life now and be renewed … Do not be angry with me for speaking of what I see. Your emotions are so tangled about this boy I can see very little else.
Lachlan MacCuinn irritates and exasperates me, if that is what ye mean by my emotions being tangled. Other than that I rarely think o’ him. Iseult looked down at the fruit in her hand, avoiding the Celestine’s three-eyed gaze.
I think I see you more clearly than you see yourself. It is of no use avoiding truth with a Celestine, you cannot lie to us about emotions … I must go and walk with my grandfather now, he has missed me much in recent months. Think on what I have said, and be at peace. One cannot always control what one thinks and feels, there is no wrongdoing in discovering one’s path lies in a different direction than one has thought.
I am the heir to the Firemaker, Iseult thought defiantly.
Cloudshadow rose to her feet, dusted off her pale silk gown, and smiled down at Iseult. Farewell, Iseult NicFaghan …
Iseult looked up to find Lachlan’s topaz eyes fixed on her, and scowled at him. Immediately he scowled back. Yearning for that sour-faced lad? I do no’ think so!
Dillon the Bold crawled on his stomach towards the ridge, motioning to his lieutenants to keep down, then raised his head to peer over the edge. The path that ran along the fast-
paced Muileach River was empty of all life as far as he could see. He waited for a few minutes, listening and watching, then pursed up his lips and whistled three ascending notes like a bluecap swift. Immediately his second-in-command, Jay the Fiddler, beckoned forward the group of ragged children crouched behind a boulder to the rear. They hurried forward, leading a feeble old man in beggar’s robes, whose long, knotted beard was thrust through a belt of rope. He tapped his way across the rough ground with a tall staff, his eyes white and clouded.
‘The path is clear ahead, Master, I think it be safe for us to scout ahead,’ Dillon said, caressing the black-patched head of his shaggy puppy.
‘That be good,’ Jorge the Seer replied, turning his blind head. ‘Tonight is the spring equinox and I really think we should hold the rites and do a sighting, though it troubles me to open myself so wide here in the wilderness. If any soldiers be near and see us, they’ll know we are following the auld ways and then we’ll be in trouble indeed.’
‘Do no’ fear, Master, we shall guard ye and keep ye safe.’
‘Thank ye, I know ye shall,’ the old seer replied with no trace of irony in his voice. After the last few weeks travelling in the company of Dillon the Bold and his gang of beggar children, he knew they would care for him with great efficiency.
Jorge had first met the children in the slums of Lucescere, where they had helped him and his young acolyte Tòmas escape the clutches of the Anti-Witchcraft League. The little boy had the miraculous ability to heal by his touch alone, and had drawn the seekers’ attention by curing those incarcerated in the Awl’s dungeons. Word of the miracle had spread quickly, and riots against the much despised Awl had broken out. Led by the sturdy, shock-haired Dillon, who was known then by his nickname Scruffy, the beggar children had led the city soldiers in circles while Jorge and Tòmas fled into the mountains. Grateful to Dillon for his help, Jorge had suggested he join their travels but had not expected the beggar boy to accept on behalf of the entire gang.