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. Bronwen sat 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 shoreline, 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 shore 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 realised we were halfbreeds they might have taken us for slaves, and if any recognised me, the King’s halfbreed 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 learnt 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 honoured 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 round 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 god’s favour. 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 Gods 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 god.
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 superstitious 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 God of the Shoreless Seas, had been born in the Fiery Womb, and all the lesser gods too, the god of thunder, the god of ice, the god of whales and seals, the god of the wind, the messenger god of dreams and visions, the god of the dead and drowned. Here, in the Fiery Womb of the Isle of the Gods, the indomitable all-powerful men of the Fairgean royal family were abject before the Mother of the Gods, the ever rapacious Kani, goddess of fire and earth, volcanoes, earthquakes, phosphorescence 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 towards 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 shap
es 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, goddess of fire, goddess of dust, rise to our bidding, Kani, goddess of volcanoes, goddess of earthquakes, come to our call, Kani, Kani, rise to our bidding, Kani, Kani, come to our call, Kani, Kani, goddess of fire, goddess of dust, rise to our bidding, Kani, Kani, goddess of volcanoes, goddess of earthquakes, come to our call, Kani, Kani, Kani …’
Suddenly a great arc of golden fire leapt 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 hoarse 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 Gods, 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 hoarse 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 hoarse 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 leapt 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 her away, 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 lust 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.
It seemed that no matter how hard she tried to hate and condemn Maya, she always found herself pitying her and empathising with her. Would Isabeau have acted differently if she had been born in Maya’s place? Would she have had the strength or wisdom to make different choices? Whenever she assured herself that of course she would have, Isabeau found herself remembering her torture at the hands of the Awl. She would have betrayed Meghan then, if she had been able to. She would have told the Awl everything in order to stop the agony of the rack and the pilliwinkes. And she had killed her torturer, murdered him to save her own life. As she had killed others, Margrit among them. It did not really matter that Margrit had died by drinking poison she had meant for Isabeau. Isabeau had still switched the wine and by her action had caused the Thistle to die. In what way was she better than Maya?
Maya had ordered the deaths of thousands, Isabeau reminded herself, and they had died in agony. She might say she did only as she was ordered by her Fairgean father and she was too frightened of the Priestesses of Jor to do otherwise. But the fact remained, she had ordered the deaths while she had been safe on land, married to the most powerful man in the world, rich, pampered and adored.
Her resolve thus bolstered, Isabeau thrust down her own ulterior motives for taking Bronwen back and hurried back to the hut. Tersely she ordered the boys to gather together as many of the milknuts, ruby-fruits, and vegetables as they could, while she oversaw the filling of the water-skins herself.
To Bronwen she said gently, ‘Dearling, it is time for us to return to the mainland. The sea-otters have agreed to pull the sleigh for us, and as they are strong swimmers it should only take a few days. Will ye get together your flute and your wee dolly and anything else ye want?’
‘I’m to go with ye?’ Bronwen exclaimed, flushing with excitement. Isabeau nodded and she gave a little dance, hugging herself. Suddenly her steps faltered. ‘What about Mam? Is she coming too?’
‘I hope so,’ Isabeau replied, not entirely truthfully.
‘But … they will kill her!’
‘I dinna think so,’ Isabeau said soothingly, again conscious that she was breaking her oath of truth-speaking. ‘At least, I hope they will no’. I am sure if I can just explain—’
‘I never thought ye were stupid,’ Maya said coldly from the doorway. Isabeau swung round, her heart pounding.
The Fairge was standing with her arms crossed over her breast, her mouth set angrily. ‘What gives ye the right to steal my daughter away from me? I saved your life and the life o’ your wee laddiekins and this is how ye plan to repay me?’
‘I’ve saved your life before myself,’ Isabeau pointed out coolly. ‘Several times. And Bronny’s, for she would’ve died at birth if it had no’ been for me. And it was me that gave Bronny back to ye in the first place. I dinna give her back to ye so ye could be teaching her how to do evil.’
She raised her voice to drown out Maya’s protests. ‘Only six years auld and compelling those around her to do her will, and singing people to death! It’s wrong! She has so much Talent, she must be taught how to use it properly and taught the responsibilities o’ power.’ Again she had to raise her voice over Maya’s. ‘Do ye wish her to end up like ye?’ she shouted. ‘I shallna let ye!’
Maya was shouting back at her, her pale face flushed. Isabeau took a deep breath and calmed her agitation. ‘Think, Maya, think!’ she said. Although her voice was low this time, it was fervent and cut through Maya’s anger. The Fairge stared at her.
‘If ye let Bronwen go, it will be seen as a sign o’ good faith,’ Isabeau said. ‘I promise ye I will never let anyone harm her. Surely ye can see that? I will stand up for ye, tell everyone your story, explain that ye have had a change o’ heart, that ye no longer wish to be their enemy. I will tell them how ye saved my life, and Donncan’s and Cuckoo’s too. I will tell them that ye will help in the fight against the Fairgean, if they offer ye an amnesty o’ some sort. They offered pardon to all the Red Guards, why should they no’ offer it to ye? Ye canna go on like this, on the run from human and Fairgean alike. Lachlan is no’ a lad any more, he’s a rìgh! He seeks
peace in the land, I ken he does. Why, he sent a messenger to your father seeking to make terms and he was bitterly disappointed when your father refused so horribly. Does that no’ show it is a true peace he wants, no’ some childish thirst for revenge? He will listen to reason, I am sure o’ it. Ye told me once that all ye ever wanted was peace for ye and Bronwen. Well, this may be your chance.’
For a moment she thought her words had won Maya over. There was a sorrowful longing on the Fairge’s face, a bittersweet regret. Then Maya said sadly, ‘Och, such a lamb-brained lassie.’
She gave a little gesture of one hand. Isabeau felt a sudden lurch. She staggered as the world reeled about her, growing huge and looming with grey shadows. All around her, from above and below, everything stank. She shied away, her hooves sinking into the sand. For a moment there was the familiar confusion of all her senses. She tried to cry out and heard herself bleating. In horror she looked down at herself and saw only woolly legs and little sharp hooves. It took her a moment to realise what had happened, for unfortunately a sheep’s thinking processes are rather slow. Once she realised Maya had turned her into a lamb, however, she gave a little shiver of anger and turned herself back.
Bronwen and the boys were crying and shouting, and Maya was saying, ‘Och, what was I to do? I couldna let her take Bronny away.’
Bronwen sobbed. ‘It’s true, ye are an evil-hearted witch! I do no’ want to stay wi’ ye. Turn her back, turn Beau back!’
‘It’s all right, Bronny, I turned myself back,’ Isabeau said with as much equanimity as she could muster. Her head was spinning so that she could hardly see and her ears were ringing, but she steadied herself with one hand on the wall and smiled coolly at Maya.
Maya was completely flabbergasted. ‘How …? what …?’
‘Did I no’ tell ye? I be a sorceress now,’ Isabeau said sweetly.
‘But … But how could ye? No-one … I turned Tabithas herself into a wolf and she was no’ strong enough to reverse the spell. How could ye?’ Maya demanded. She was white and frightened.