Nila woke to darkness. He was lying half in, half out of icy-cold water, his breast and face against wet, slimy stone. His body was aching and bruised, his forearm throbbing. When he shifted his weight, a sharp agonising pain shafted through his flesh. He cried out involuntarily and his voice echoed and echoed. Nila’s heart shrank with fear.
Painfully he crawled further out of the water, nursing his broken arm against him. The water heaved and fell about him. Something slimy brushed against his leg and Nila recoiled with a shriek. He managed to scramble further up the slippery rock but felt a thick tentacle wrap around his ankle. Desperately his hand sought his dagger but his belt was empty. Another tentacle groped up his body and wrapped around his waist, innumerable suckers seizing his flesh in an unbreakable hold. Slowly, inexorably, he was dragged back down into the sea. He screamed for help but heard only the thin echoes beating back at him.
The dark water closed over his head. Nila clamped his mouth and nostrils shut and let his gills flutter into life. With his uninjured hand he grasped hold of a rock ledge but his fingers were torn loose. Whatever terrible creature had hold of him was very strong. Despairingly he twisted and fought but felt the pressure of deep water as he was dragged down towards the monster’s lair.
Then he saw, far above, the glimmer of green light. Suddenly the surface of the water was smashed into foam as divers plunged after him. The green luminescence struck down all about him and he saw, for a mere instant, the dreadful gaping maw and the groping tentacles of the giant octopus that had him in its toils. Then the warriors were all around him, striking at the octopus with their daggers. A filthy coloured liquid spurted out, blinding them and paralysing their gills. For a while all was a confusion of thrashing water, thick tentacles and slender, scaled limbs. Then spears were flung into the water from above, striking the octopus in its vulnerable mouth. It released all its suckers and shot down into the water’s inky depths.
Choking for breath and unable to see or hear or move, Nila and the warriors sank down in its wake. Then the King himself plunged into the water, seizing Nila and two other tall warriors in his strong arms and towing them to safety. As they lay on the rocks, coughing and gasping, the King again plunged into the turbulent depths, seeking more of the paralysed warriors. At last all lay safely on the rocks, the weird green light of the viperfish sliding over them, two Priestesses of Jor gazing down at them with contempt.
Nila came back to full consciousness only slowly. His vision swam. He lay face down and stared blankly for quite a long time before he realised a pair of bare human feet were standing between the priestesses’ webbed ones. His heart jolted. He looked up and saw Fand, her shadowed eyes piteous.
Nila stared at her and she gazed back. He saw both priestesses had their hands clamped hard on her upper arms. They were smiling.
‘It seems this halfbreed slave has talents that will be of use to the priestesses in their service to Jor, god of whirlpools and tidal waves,’ one said with a sibilant hiss.
‘She is a very fortunate girl,’ the other said. ‘We are to release her from her bondage and take her into the priestesshood as one of our sisters.’
‘She shall be enlightened into the mysteries of Jor.’
‘Taught to harness all that raw human power.’
‘Discipline her weak human emotions.’
‘Discover strength of will and purity of purpose.’
‘Put to work.’
‘In the service of the priestesses.’
‘In the service of Jor,’ the first said with a light stress of reproof in her voice.
‘In the divine service of almighty Jor, God of the Shoreless Seas,’ the other said.
Nila stared at Fand. There was terror on her face. She strained against their hold, trying to reach him. Their hold tightened until her mouth twisted with pain, though there was no change on the gloating faces of the priestesses.
‘No!’ He jerked upright, fighting his dizziness. They smiled and he had to subdue his terror. ‘You are mistaken,’ he said through stiff lips. ‘She is only a stupid halfbreed, not worth the toss of a sea-stirk knuckle. She has no power, no talents.’
‘She had the temerity to accost me on my own throne and beg me to save you,’ the Fairgean king said, amusement in his voice. ‘When we asked her if she had seen you being attacked, she tried to lie and say that she had …’
‘But only fools lie to a Priestess of Jor,’ one priestess hissed.
‘It did not take her long to confess that she had sensed the attack on you,’ cried the other.
‘She was able to lead us here through all the Fathomless Caves,’ the King said. ‘It would seem she is like so many of these misbegotten halfbreeds and has very powerful talents indeed.’
Nila sought desperately for words. ‘She is my concubine …’
‘There are many halfbreed slaves,’ the King said indifferently. ‘If that sort of meat is to your liking.’ He waved his webbed hand and the priestesses bowed low before him; they gave Nila a far shallower obeisance, then turned to leave, Fand straining against their hold.
Nila scrambled to his feet. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘Leave her! You cannot take her. She’s mine!’
‘Actually,’ the King said, smiling, ‘she’s mine.’
He gestured and the warriors clamped their hands upon Nila’s arms as he struggled to reach Fand. Though he fought against them he was helpless against their strength. Fand did not struggle. Her head bent, her hair over her face, she allowed the priestesses to lead her away. The glimmer of the priestesses’ nightglobes sank away into darkness.
Spring was casting its warm green veil over the forest when Isabeau at last reached the Towers of Roses and Thorns. Although there was still snow on the mountain heights, she felt the warmth of the wind on her skin and rejoiced. The spring was the herald of a new season and a new life for Isabeau, free at last from the queen-dragon’s geas.
The bare branches arching over the road were sprouting with new leaves, while the rose briars trained over pergolas were budding. Isabeau was glad to see the neatness of the gardens, which had been completely overgrown when she had first come here five years earlier. Floyd Greenthumb, the head gardener, leant on his spade, calling to her, and she went over to greet him.
He had been among many who had sought a new life up in the mountains, away from the ravages of the wars which had so devastated southern Eileanan. The Rìgh, Isabeau’s brother-in-law Lachlan, had arranged for five hundred refugees to accompany Khan’gharad and Ishbel back to the Towers of Roses and Thorns. These included stonemasons and carpenters to help rebuild the ruined towers; gardeners and farmers to plant the land about with grains and vegetables; weavers, seamstresses, cooks and house servants to help in the running of the castle; scribes and apprentice witches to study in the library; and miners to look for lodes of precious metals in the mountains. There was also a retinue of the younger sons of the nobility eager to carve out a life for themselves in service to the newest of the prionnsachan.
It had taken the refugees almost a year to travel to Tìrlethan through the mountains, for they had brought with them many supplies and livestock. The ancient road that had once connected Tìrlethan to Rionnagan had virtually disappeared and the immigrants had had to rebuild it as they travelled. Consequently they had arrived only a short time before Isabeau had had to leave the valley to stay with her great-grandmother on the Spine of the World. She was most impressed with the changes to the valley in the months she had been gone. The meadows all about were busy with men and women ploughing, building walls and ditches, cutting back thistles and weeds, rebuilding ruined cottages that had been reclaimed from the forest, and tending goats, sheep and horses.
From an abandoned pile of stones, hung with cobwebs and occupied only by rats, owls and ghosts, the Towers of Roses and Thorns had become a bustling residence, well tended and self-sufficient, as it must have been in the days of the first Red Sorcerers a thousand years before.
‘What news, Flo
yd?’ Isabeau asked.
He shook his head lugubriously and sucked at his empty pipe. ‘’Twas a hard winter indeed, many storms and days when we could no’ set toe outside the doors for fear o’ being lost in the snow. I was worried indeed about the frost killing all my new trees, which I knew should have been planted earlier …’
‘What o’ my mam?’ Isabeau asked. ‘Is she well?’
‘Huge as a blue whale,’ the head gardener replied succinctly, ‘and in no guid humour, that I have heard.’
‘So the babes have no’ yet come?’ Isabeau exclaimed in relief. ‘Thank Eà!’
‘Aye, thank Eà,’ he replied. ‘Although auld Dimpna says she’s brought many a bawling babe into the world, I’d no’ be trusting her myself.’
Isabeau only smiled and bade him goodbye as she turned back to the towers, which soared grey and tall into the sky. Once they had been so entwined with rose briars and brambles they could hardly be seen, but now the grey bulk of the buildings rose uncluttered from the gardens, their great flying buttresses, cone-topped turrets and the graceful shape of arches over the river clear in the sunlight. The lawns swept down to the loch, where the reflection of the twin towers stretched out as if to touch the reflection of the twin peaks, cutting as sharply into the sky as the pinnacle of the Skull of the World. It was a scene of great peace and beauty and Isabeau was smiling to herself as she leapt up the steps and into the great entrance hall of the first tower.
Ishbel had seen her coming through the garden and was hurrying down the spiral staircase to meet her, both hands outstretched. Dressed in a voluminous white gown she was indeed huge, the swell of her pregnancy preceding her like the crest of a wave. Isabeau’s eyes widened a little at the sight of her. She was even bigger than Iseult had been during her two pregnancies, and Isabeau had thought then her twin must surely burst before she could carry her babes to term. Isabeau had assisted her sister through the birth of her twins, Owein and Olwynne, a year earlier, as well as through the birth of Donncan, the heir to the throne, and his stillborn sister five years before that. The experience had been enough to make Isabeau rather glad it had been prophesied that she was never to have children of her own.
Mother and daughter embraced awkwardly, and Ishbel gestured down to her swollen abdomen with a grimace. ‘Why oh why did I have to fall in love wi’ a man predestined to breed up twins?’ she lamented. ‘Have ye ever seen such a sight!’
‘Ye must be uncomfortable,’ Isabeau replied, slipping her arm through her mother’s and helping her to waddle back up the stairs. Ornately decorated with carvings of single-petalled roses entwined in thorns, the staircase was broad enough for seven people to walk abreast.
‘Uncomfortable! What an understatement! I canna sleep at night, the babes spend all night dancing jigs and reels, and I need to crawl to the privy every few minutes to squeeze out only a few drops o’ water. My feet and ankles are so swollen up I canna fit into any shoes or into any o’ my rings, and it takes all my energy just to get downstairs in the morning. Why do I have to live in a draughty auld tower with so many flights o’ stairs, for Eà’s sake!’
‘It could be worse, ye could be giving birth in a dragon’s lair again,’ Isabeau said with a smile. Ishbel gave a theatrical shudder and sank down on a couch in the grand drawing room. Isabeau looked about her with approval. The weavers had spent the winter making tapestries, cushions and embroidered upholstery which gave the room a cheer and comfort it had certainly lacked before.
‘I’m so glad that ye’ve returned in time for your birthday, dearling,’ Ishbel said once she had recovered her breath. ‘I was afraid ye might have to celebrate it alone again and ye ken I have promised never to let that happen again.’
‘I just wish Iseult and I could one day manage to celebrate it together,’ Isabeau said wryly. ‘We always seem to be leagues away from each other.’
‘Aye, happen the day will come when we can all be together at Candlemas. Ring for some wine, dearling, and send someone to fetch your dai-dein, he’s been longing to see ye. He wants to ken if they found ye fit for your initiation.’
Isabeau’s hand touched her cheek. Her scar was fully healed, thanks to her salve, but still rather red. Ishbel said quickly, ‘I can see ye have, ye poor dearling, but wait till your father comes afore telling me the story.’
Isabeau nodded and pulled the bell cord. While they waited she asked Ishbel for news of Lucescere and was regaled with stories of the twins’ beauty and cleverness, Donncan’s mischief and precocity, raids by pirates, the belligerence of the Fairgean, the stupidity of the lairds, and Meghan’s increasing frailty. Ishbel had been Meghan the Keybearer’s apprentice when she was only a girl herself, and she loved the old sorceress as dearly as she loved anyone. Real concern was in her voice and Isabeau frowned in sudden anxiety.
‘Does a Mesmerd still follow her everywhere?’ she asked in a low voice and Ishbel nodded, her swollen face creasing in fear.
Isabeau sighed and twisted her fingers. ‘I must go back to Lucescere,’ she said to herself.
Ishbel cried out in distress. ‘Nay, why must ye? I’ve been hanging on in the hope ye’d get here afore the twins were born so ye could help me through. Why must ye be going again so soon?’
‘I will no’ go just yet,’ Isabeau reassured her. ‘I shall stay for the birthing, fear ye no’. It is no’ every day I get a new brother and sister! Nay, I shall go once I ken ye and the babes are fine. Ye have plenty o’ people here to help ye now and I must see Meghan and take up my studies again. I have lost too much time as it is.’
Ishbel sighed and resettled her weight in an attempt to get comfortable. ‘But why can ye no’ stay here and study in the library as ye have the past few years?’
‘I need a teacher,’ Isabeau replied gently. ‘I am near auld enough to sit my Third Tests and be allowed to enter the Coven. I should have spent my apprentice years sitting at Meghan’s feet and learning from her but instead I’ve been either here or on the Spine o’ the World. I’ve learnt a great deal but no’ enough, I think, and probably no’ the right things. The lore o’ the Soul-Sage is different indeed to the lore o’ the witches.’
Ishbel nodded rather reluctantly.
‘Besides,’ Isabeau said, half to herself, ‘I may no’ have much time left with Meghan.’
‘Och, she’s a tough auld boot!’ Khan’gharad cried, coming in through the door. He was a tall, strong looking man with vigorous red hair tied back with leather, and the thick, curling horns of the Khan’cohbans. His stern face was marked with the seven scars of the Scarred Warrior and he wore a weapons belt around his lithe waist, the eight-pointed star of the reil hanging conspicuously in front. Dressed in rather shabby, dirty clothes, he was covered in dust. ‘Do no’ fret for Meghan o’ the Beasts, lassie. She’s lived this long, I do no’ think ye need to fear for her health now all is at peace.’
Isabeau did not reply, though her face was troubled. Khan’gharad bent and kissed his wife, who made a little sound of protest at his dirt and sweat.
‘I’ve been working, leannan,’ he replied. ‘I canna help mend a ceiling and no’ get a wee bit dirty.’
‘But why must ye help the labourers?’ Ishbel asked rather fretfully. ‘Are ye no’ acknowledged as the Prionnsa o’ Tìrlethan now, and laird o’ the clan? Why can ye no’ bide a wee wi’ me in peace and quiet?’
‘A good laird works wi’ his men,’ Khan’gharad said rather sternly, then looked Isabeau over with a keen gaze. ‘The mark o’ the Soul-Sage, I see. Well done! Will ye tell us the story o’ your name?’
‘But that’s hardly fair,’ Isabeau replied, laughing, ‘when I’ve heard the story o’ your name-quest so many times I could recite it in my sleep. What story shall ye tell me in return?’
‘Any story ye wish to hear,’ he said with a grin. ‘Come, Isabeau, we have been anxious indeed about ye. Your mother has had nightmares o’ ye being swept away by avalanches and drowned in raging rivers. Can ye no’ tell us the tale?’ r />
‘Ye ask o’ me a question. Do ye offer me a story in return?’ Isabeau said, only half jesting, and her father bowed and replied ritualistically.
As she told them her story her mother groaned and shuddered at every twist of the tale. Occasionally her father frowned and once he smiled rather grimly, but otherwise he was silent, as a Khan’cohban should be.
When she told them how she had changed shape her mother clapped her hands in delight. ‘Isabeau! What a Talent! I can hardly believe it. Where could such a Skill have come from? I’ve heard stories o’ witches being able to cast a glamourie so they look like an animal but to actually transform …’
‘Sssh, leannan,’ Khan’gharad said. ‘She has no’ yet told the end o’ her tale. It is rude indeed to be interrupting.’
Isabeau smiled but continued on without breaking the measured pace of her narrative. When at last she had finished, Ishbel caught her hand and squeezed it, the ready tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘Och, my wee lassie, to think o’ ye facing such dangers! And such a Talent! Ye shall be a powerful sorceress indeed. Can ye change shape into any animal ye please?’
‘I do no’ ken,’ Isabeau said. ‘So far I have only transformed into animals wi’ which I have a close affinity.’ She heard, deep in her mind, the resonating memory of the queen-dragon’s voice. To understand any living thing thou must creep within and feel the beating of its heart. To understand the deeper secrets of the universe thou must feel its heart beat too.
Khan’gharad made the Khan’cohban gesture of congratulations. ‘Khan’tinka,’ he said slowly. ‘Indeed a powerful name, if a somewhat unusual one. I think they will now be telling the tale o’ your naming-quest around the fire more often than they tell mine.’
‘Yours is still the favourite o’ the storytellers,’ Isabeau reassured him with a laugh.