by Kate Forsyth
‘So the horsemen ride to our aid?’ the Rìgh cried. ‘Och, well done, Dughall!
‘It shall take some time for them to gather an army and provision it for the campaign, but the MacAhern promised he would be with ye some time next year,’ Dughall said, blowing into his gloved hands. ‘They’ll help drive the blaygird Bright Soldiers out o’ Ravenshaw on the way, so happen we’ll capture them between us like a flea between our nails.’
‘And have the Tìreichans no’ seen any o’ the Tìrsoilleirean in their land?’ Iseult asked.
‘Only some along the coast, but the horsemen say they were easily led in circles until they were exhausted and then they crushed them. There are few towns or villages in Tìreich to conquer and, although I am sure the Bright Soldiers would have liked to have seized the horses for their cavalry, the thigearns were more than capable o’ keeping their herds safe.’
They exchanged a few more details of plans and dates, then Dughall MacBrann broke off the connection with a sweep of his hand.
‘Well, that is good news indeed,’ Meghan said. ‘Now let us see if Rurach and Siantan ride to our aid as well.’
The sorceress bent forward and stared into the black pool, her forehead furrowed. Through the glimmer they saw a face emerge and sink away, blur then emerge again. It was the MacRuraich, anxious and careworn. He had been trying to reach them for some minutes but had never before tried to scry and so had been unsure whether he would be able to summon them, despite the powers of the scrying pool.
Anghus had no good news for them. The Fairgean had been raiding and murdering all down the coastline and the hinterland was crowded with refugees. All the major rivers were impassable from early spring to late autumn, making it difficult to get supplies from one part of the country to another. To make matters worse, Siantan had erupted into rebellion and the MacRuraich had spent all summer trying to gather support from his lairds and barons to put the rebellion down.
‘It’s sorry I am indeed, Your Highness, but I can barely gather enough men to knock the rebellion on the head, let alone ride to your aid. On top o’ that, there’s a conclave o’ seekers here stirring up trouble and calling for support for Renshaw and the baby banprionnsa. Even those who support me are uneasy about the wee NicCuinn and I am having to argue your cause quite strongly. I am afraid I shall need ye to send men to help me, rather than being able to ride to your side as I had hoped.’
Lachlan scowled and clenched his fist around the Lodestar’s shaft. ‘Eà damn these cursed seekers, am I never to be free o’ them?’
‘Anghus, what is the root o’ the rebellion in Siantan? Is it still anger over the forming o’ the Double Throne?’ Meghan asked.
Anghus nodded. ‘Aye, I am afraid so. My parents thought they were doing what was best for the good o’ both countries when they combined the thrones, but there has been naught but trouble since.’
‘Why do ye no’ dissolve the Double Throne?’ Meghan urged. ‘Your wife is a NicSian, why do ye no’ let her rule in truth? Or what about her neice, what was her name? Brangaine or Breegeen? She grew up in Siantan, did she no’?’
Anghus shrugged, his mouth stubborn.
‘Ye ken I never approved o’ the joining o’ the thrones—Siantan needs its own ruler, someone who puts its people first and understands their needs. Ye ken ye have never spent much time there or got to know the people.’
‘True,’ Anghus admitted.
‘Well then. Think on it. Remember your wife is still a NicSian and it was she who was disenfranchised by the forming o’ the Double Throne. I can never understand why she has no’ insisted on ye giving it back before now.’
‘But she is my wife and Banprionnsa with it,’ Anghus protested, then threw up his hands. ‘Obh obh! No need to glare at me like that! I’ll think on it then.’
‘No other news?’ Meghan said with a smile hovering on her grim old mouth.
Anghus grinned. ‘Och, I canna hide much from your witch eyes, can I, Meghan? Aye, it’s true. Gwyneth is with child again, after twelve, long, barren years!’
‘Och, happy news!’ Lachlan cried. ‘Congratulations, Anghus.’
‘Well, there ye are then,’ Meghan said. ‘Ye’ll have an heir for Rurach and another for Siantan. Problem solved.’
A shadow settled on Anghus’s face again. ‘Except my daughter Fionnghal insists she has no’ the nature nor the inclination to be a banprionnsa. She swears she shall run away to sea and join the pirates before she accepts the throne.’
Lachlan laughed and even Iseult gave a fleeting smile.
‘Well, happen ye’ll just have to breed up another heir,’ Meghan said. ‘I have a feeling that lassie o’ yours may choose to enter the Coven anyway. She has a bright Talent indeed.’
Anghus scowled. ‘But she is my eldest born!’ he protested. ‘She should inherit the throne as I did.’
‘Anyone would think ye were dragging your heels at the idea o’ breeding up more heirs,’ Lachlan teased. ‘Is the task no’ to your liking?’
Anghus grinned in response and shrugged. ‘I only wish I had the leisure, Your Highness,’ he replied. ‘Truth is, I spend so much time out in the field, I rarely get to see Gwyneth or Fionnghal. The unborn babe was conceived the week I returned to Castle Rurach and I have been home again only twice in all these months.’
‘Let us pray to Eà that peace returns to Eileanan soon,’ Meghan said seriously. ‘So we may all rest and play with our children and have leisure to be with our loved ones.’
They all made the sign of Eà’s blessing, forming a circle with the fingers of their left hand and crossing it with one finger of their right. Then, after a sombre-faced Lachlan had promised to send a battalion of soldiers to Rurach, Anghus bid them farewell and good luck, and the connection was broken. They sat for a while staring into the dark waters of the scrying pool, melancholy on their faces, then Meghan stirred and looked up.
‘I shall look for Isabeau while we are here. My heart is troubled indeed about her. Happen I shall reach her, given that it is Samhain and the tide o’ powers is on the turn.’
‘Why do ye bother? We know she has gone over to the enemy,’ Lachlan said bitterly.
‘We know nothing o’ the sort, ye great fool,’ Iseult snapped, losing her temper. ‘Why is it ye persist in thinking the worst o’ her?’
Lachlan had the grace to look ashamed. He muttered something under his breath.
‘It’s because ye feel guilty about her hand,’ Iseult accused. ‘Ye ken she was tortured because she rescued ye from the Awl. Ye should be gentle to her because o’ it, though, no’ always so short-tempered and suspicious.’
Lachlan scowled and looked away, his clenched fingers white. ‘Why did she have to go gaily riding into Caeryla like that?’ he burst out. ‘She was tricky as a donbeag in shaking off that damned hard-mouthed bitch Glynelda before that. Why was she so stupid?’
‘That was my fault,’ Meghan said grimly. ‘She knew nothing about ye or the rebellion or the state o’ affairs in Eileanan. She thought it was all a game. I should never have sent her off on her own when she was such an innocent.’
She sighed and stared into the water. Iseult could feel her gathering in her will and did the same. Then they heard footsteps pounding along the stone corridor and a white-faced Anntoin burst into the quadrangle. ‘Keybearer Meghan, it’s Jorge …’
‘What’s the matter wi’ him?’ Meghan cried.
‘He did the sighting as he always does, but this time he sort o’ stiffened all over and cried out, then just fell over, and now he’s lying there all still and cold, and his eyes are just staring and white and oh Eà! I think he might be dead or dying,’ the boy gabbled, his freckled face frightened.
With a cry Meghan hoisted herself to her feet and hobbled out of the courtyard, Lachlan striding impatiently ahead. Iseult remained seated on the stone bench. Although she knew Meghan and Lachlan loved the old blind seer, she still had trouble overcoming her revulsion to his affliction. The scene ju
st described by Anntoin was enough to send a shiver of disgust down her spine, and she had no wish to distress Meghan with these feelings. She knew she would only be in the way, so she sat still and gazed into the pool, thinking of Isabeau.
Slowly an image formed deep within the water. It was hard to focus on, a puzzle of shapes and shadows that kept slipping away as if a hand were passing before it.
Iseult stared intently into the pool, her heart beginning to pound faster. She saw Isabeau sitting cross-legged before a fire, shadows gathering close about her. Her hands were upturned on her lap and her eyes were closed, but tears slid down her pale cheeks. Fire-shadows flickered over her face, distorting it. Iseult received such a strong sense of loneliness and desolation that instinctively she leaned forward and called her sister’s name. Isabeau’s eyes snapped open. Iseult? For a moment their eyes seemed to meet and Iseult felt a surge of longing and bitter homesickness. Then the image was blotted out again, and Iseult could not summon it back.
She sat for a long while, not noticing the cold, thinking and wondering. Then she rose and left the dark pool slowly, her hand twisting the dragoneye ring on her left hand.
When Iseult returned to Meghan’s suite of rooms, it was to find Jorge white and haggard in the old sorceress’s canopied bed, the Keybearer holding his hand and telling him sternly to drink her mithuan and be quiet. The League of the Healing Hand was clustered around with anxious faces, Tòmas sitting on the bed with his hands clasped in his lap. His blue eyes were brimming over with tears and his bottom lip trembled. Although he knew he could not lay hands on the old seer in case he healed his blindness, Tòmas could not bear to see his beloved master so frail and he longed to give him the magic of his touch.
Iseult touched Meghan briefly on the elbow and the Keybearer turned to her impatiently. ‘What is it?’ she snapped.
‘I saw Isabeau.’ Iseult spoke quietly so none but the old sorceress could hear. Immediately Meghan’s attention sharpened and she grasped Iseult’s shoulder. ‘Where was she? Was she safe? Was the Ensorcellor’s daughter with her? What could ye see?’
‘I could see nothing but Isabeau. It was somewhere cold, freezing cold, and she was very unhappy. The babe was no’ with her that I could see.’
‘Where? Where was she?’
Iseult hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. ‘I do no’ know. In some sort of cave. There was a fire—I could see the flames dancing on her face and snow on the ground.’
The deep lines of worry deepened on Meghan’s face but then Jorge moved his head uneasily, muttering, and she turned back to his side.
‘Flames,’ the old seer muttered. ‘Flames leaping, snow falling.’
‘Hush, auld friend,’ Meghan said. ‘Time enough to tell me your visions when ye’ve regained your strength.’ She lifted his head so he could drink from a silver-embossed flask. He drank, then choked as the stimulant burnt his throat. Johanna passed Meghan a flask of water and Jorge sipped it gratefully, then fell back on the pillows with a sigh.
‘I saw terrible things,’ he said pitifully. ‘This war is to drag on for years, Meghan, and many, many people will die. I saw the scaly sea rise and flood the land, the Red Wanderer like a bloody gash in the sky. That is when they will come … With the rising o’ the red comet the Fairgean shall come …’ His voice rose and Meghan stroked back the hair from his forehead, murmuring, ‘Hush now, Jorge. Sleep.’
Obediently the old man closed his eyes, though his shaggy white brows were bunched together and his spindly fingers plucked at the coverlet unhappily. ‘Flames leaping …’ he murmured with a shudder.
Exactly one month after her arrival Isabeau was finally allowed to eat from the communal pot, and for the first time her plate and spoon were washed with the others without being scoured with ashes and snow first. Isabeau knew this meant she was no longer tabooed and her heart lifted.
That evening she was once again permitted into the Firemaker’s presence. This time she made no mistakes, sitting cross-legged, her white-capped head bowed, her hands still.
Her great-grandmother sat very straight on her furs and looked Isabeau over. Her gaze lingered particularly on Isabeau’s maimed hand which was kept firmly clasped within the palm of her other hand. With an imperative gesture the Firemaker demanded that Isabeau spread it out for her to see. Her colour rising, Isabeau obeyed. She knew that the Khan’cohbans regarded any disability with repugnance. It was considered more merciful to kill a badly wounded warrior than to allow him to live crippled. Weak, ailing or deformed babies were left out for the White Gods, and people too old and frail to fend for themselves were given a death drink made from poisonous berries.
The Firemaker examined Isabeau’s hand closely, turning it over in her own two, thin, vein-knotted hands. She then lifted Isabeau’s face and traced the shape of the scar between her brows.
‘I would ask of you a question, Khan. Will you answer in fullness and in truth?’ she asked in the Khan’cohbans’ ritual phrasing.
‘Yes, I will, Firemaker,’ Isabeau replied in the same language, her heart lifting. A question asked meant a question owed, and Isabeau had many things she would like to ask.
‘You are scarred in hand and brow. Will you tell me how you came to be so disfigured.’
Isabeau turned her palms upwards in her lap and took a few deep breaths, calming and composing herself, gathering her thoughts and her words. When she spoke, it was not in her natural tone, but in a rhythmic singsong. Stumbling occasionally as she sought the right word or gesture, she explained how she had been captured and tortured, then put on trial.
When she had finished, the Firemaker pondered for a long moment. ‘So you underwent an ordeal to receive your scars,’ she said finally, then pointed at the scar on Isabeau’s forehead. ‘And it is the seventh scar that you received. In the law of the people of the White Gods, this means you are powerful and to be respected.’
Isabeau’s eyes widened a little in surprise, though she tried hard not to show any reaction. It had never occurred to her that the little white triangular scar between her brows could be seen as one of the ritual disfigurements of the Khan’cohbans. She knew the forehead mark was only earned by the very finest in their field, like the First of the Scarred Warriors.
‘Yet you are a stranger among us, crippled and nameless. The Soul-Sage and the Council of Scarred Warriors have pondered the dilemma you pose ever since your coming. Since your mark is that of the Soul-Sage, she who skims among the stars has been particularly perturbed. She has cast the boned and they have told her that you must seek your name and your totem, for though a child among us, you are marked by the White Gods and thus no child in their eyes.’
Isabeau sat still, thinking over the Firemaker’s words and puzzling out their meaning. She had never heard the term ‘Soul-Sage’ before and was not sure whether she had interpreted the words correctly, though she had seen a woman throwing a handful of old bones before—a woman with triangular scars on her cheeks and forehead. She too slept at the back of the cave and was served first, along with the warriors and the storytellers. The description of her skimming among the stars was especially strange, particularly since Isabeau had never seen her leave the cave.
The suggestion that she was to seek her name and her totem excited Isabeau. She knew her sister Iseult had undergone her ordeal and initiation, and knew now that the second part of her name, the ‘derin’ of ‘Khan’derin’, meant ‘savage like the sabre leopard’. This was a strong name, a highly respected name, indicating that Iseult had courage, strength and boldness.
‘If you are to make the journey to the Skull of the World and ask the White Gods for your name, you must be properly prepared. Some among the Council of Scarred Warriors believe that you must set out now, for already you are highly marked. The First, the Soul-Sage and I the Firemaker disagree. Already the long darkness descends and you are a stranger in this land and still a child in our eyes. We would not send a child out to face the Gods of White without the
right knowledge or tools and so we shall not send you. The children of the Gods of White are trained from birth, however. You are among us only a short time, so you shall begin your learning. Move your bed-roll from the fire of the little coney to the fire of the Soul-Sage. She shall teach you her craft, and the one who guided you to the haven shall teach you the art of the Scarred Warrior, and I shall teach you the wisdom and lore of the Firemaker. When you are ready, you shall make the journey to the Skull of the World.’
Isabeau made the gesture of affirmation and understanding. The Firemaker said: ‘I asked of you a question which you answered fully and with truth. Do you wish a story in return?’
After some thought, Isabeau said, ‘Tell me the story of the Soul-Sage, if you please.’
The Firemaker frowned and said reluctantly, ‘It is the story for the Soul-Sage to tell.’
‘I am but a stranger here and a child in your eyes. If I am to sit at the feet of the Soul-Sage, should I not know her story if I am not to offend from ignorance?’
The Firemaker bowed her head, turned her palms upward in her lap and said: ‘The Soul-Sage is the skimmer among stars, the speaker across distance, the caster of bones, the foreteller and foreboder. The Soul-Sage can hear the hidden thought and see the secret heart. Alone among the People does she hear the soundless speech of the Gods of White. The mark upon her brow is the scratch of their claw.
‘Before the first Firemaker was born, each pride was equal in strength and cunning. The old mother, the soul-sages, the scarred warriors and the storytellers would consult and counsel together, and so direct the prides. The firekeepers carried the coals, the metalsmiths forged the weapons, the weavers made the clothes, and the children herded the ulez and gathered roots and leaves. Everyone in the pride had their place.