by Kate Forsyth
Suddenly she found herself shivering, and realised that not only had the candle-flame winked out, but the fire also, a thin veneer of ice forming across the bowl of water. She rubbed her thin arms vigorously, and said gently, ‘Think of warmth, lassie, ye’re freezing me to death!’
With a wondering expression on her face, Khan’derin brought the fire flickering up again, saying, ‘I have never done that before. The fires in the Haven are never allowed to go out.’
The last Trial, the challenge of clear seeing, Khan’derin had some trouble with, as all acolytes did, but at last she said tentatively, ‘Is it a star in a circle that I am meant to be seeing?’
Meghan smiled with relief and nodded. ‘Indeed, it is, lassie, and ye have done well. Feld must have managed to teach ye something. As we travel I will teach ye what I can, though any use o’ the One Power will be dangerous with so many witch-sniffers about.’
Having broken their fast in the goodwishing of the elements, they dressed and shouldered their packs, Meghan sighing at the weight. Indeed, her strength was not what it had once been. Gitâ rode high on the baggage, chittering farewell to the other donbeags, who glided from tree to tree ahead of them. The other animals clustered around Meghan, climbing onto each other’s backs to better reach her.
She fondled the hare’s long ears and stroked the otter’s gleaming wet back. ‘Guard the valley for me,’ she said to the sad-faced she-bear, lumbering along by her side. The bear raised her woolly snout and moaned piteously, for she had lost her mate in the battle with the Red Guards. Meghan patted the massive paw, for the woolly bear’s shoulder was far above her, and said gently, ‘Soon ye shall have a new litter of cubs to comfort ye,’ and was pleased to see the small eyes brighten. With another roar, the she-bear shambled off into the forest, and Meghan said smilingly to Khan’derin, ‘She says she must springclean her cave then, for she has been too dispirited to do it yet and it must be tidy for her cubs.’
‘Her coat would make a thick, warm rug,’ Khan’derin replied, and was surprised at the look of anger from the wood witch. Meghan gripped her flower-carved staff tightly and marched on, leaving Khan’derin to trail along behind her, conscious of having angered her but thinking it was her cheekiness in having spoken unbidden that was the problem.
It was some miles before Meghan’s temper began to die, and Gitâ chittered softly in her ear. She is only a babe, my beloved, she knows not what she says.
She takes pleasure only in killing and hurting …
She is like the saber-leopard, Gitâ said. It is her nature and her training. You cannot turn a sabre-leopard into a donbeag.
But Isabeau …
You have had the training of Isabeau. Remember this child has lived half her life with dragons, and the other half with hunters and warriors. It has not been an easy life, nor one to teach kindness.
No, that is true …
I have heard you say yourself that dark times are upon us. Remember the dragons see both ways along the thread of time. Perhaps it is a sabre-leopard that we will be needing.
Meghan put up a hand to stroke her little familiar, who rubbed his velvety head against her chin. You are right, she said in shame. I should not always be comparing her to Isabeau and finding her wanting. Who kens what threads the Spinners are weaving into the cloth o’ our lives?
After leaving Meghan on the slope of Dragonclaw, Isabeau and Jorge travelled south together, slipping down through the snowy valleys, the raven flying on ahead. Once or twice they had to find a holt while a contingent of Red Guards marched past, but the raven gave them plenty of warning and so no sense of danger ever worried them.
The journey was by necessity slow, the old man tapping his staff before him and pausing often to regain his breath. Isabeau grew so impatient she ran ahead, finding a rock with a pretty view to sit and wait for him. Great eagles soared far overhead, and on a rocky plateau below her, a pride of snow lions basked in the sun. Six tiny kittens, bundles of white fluff, bounded around, attacking their father’s tufted tail and swinging from his magnificent black-edged white mane. The lionesses yawned, showing rows of sharp teeth, and stretched, one swiping at her kittens with a lazy paw. Isabeau watched entranced until Jorge at last caught her up, and then reluctantly went to find them a way down into the valley below.
She offered to help the old seer, but her help proved worse than her hindrance for she forgot to mention things like low branches or sudden drops, so that Jorge was rather bruised by the end of the first day.
‘I will rely on Jesyah, who is used to my ways,’ he said with dignity, and Isabeau was happy to explore the path ahead and find them the perfect camp site as the light began to fade.
That first night, sitting around the campfire, Isabeau, curious as always about other people’s magic, pestered the old man to tell her more about his Talents. Jorge was tired, but told her gently he was a seer, someone who could see both ways along the thread of time.
‘So ye can see the future?’
‘I can see future possibilities,’ the old man said quietly. ‘The future is like a tangled skein o’ wool waiting for the first strands to be drawn and spun into a thread.’
‘Aye, that is what Meghan used to say.’ Isabeau remembered the long winter days confined within the tree-house while the snowy blizzards raged outside. She and her guardian spent most of the winter spinning and weaving the white, silky fur of the long-horned geal’teas and the grey wool of the wild goats, making cloth for their own garments and to barter with when spring came at last. Meghan knew many plants which dyed the cloth in a range of beautiful colours—blue and yellow and crimson. It was these dyed cloths that they would sell, dressing themselves in the natural grey of the wild goats’ wool.
Meghan always used the time spent spinning to teach Isabeau what she could about the history and politics of the land, or to tell her stories of the Three Spinners. There were many stories, of course, about babies bad-wished at birth by Gearradh, the cutter of the thread, but saved in the end by Sniomhar, the kindest of the three and the spinner of thread. One story Meghan told many times was about a beautiful girl who was summoned to the castle after her mother foolishly boasted of her spinning prowess. The laird was so struck with her beauty that he swore he would marry her if she could spin three rooms of flax into thread. If she could not, then she would die. Unfortunately, the girl had no skill at spinning and so she sat in the three rooms and wept. Moved by her tears, the Spinners appeared to aid her, asking only that she invite them to the wedding. Of course the girl agreed, and so the thread was spun. At the wedding, the laird remarked on the ugliness of the Spinners, one of whom had an enormous foot, one an enormous lower lip, and the other an enormous thumb. When he learnt their deformities came from working the spinning wheel’s treadle, moistening the flax and twisting the thread, he vowed his lovely bride would never spin again. Meghan had loved to tell her vain ward this story, for every time she would catch Isabeau anxiously examining her face in the barrel of water, in case her lower lip was swelling.
‘Meghan always said the future is the unspun fleece, the present the moment it is spun through the spindle, and the past the spun thread. Then she said history is what the Weaver weaves from the many threads o’ people’s lives.’
‘Your guardian is a wise woman.’
‘So tell me what ye see,’ Isabeau begged.
‘Ye may no’ want to learn what I will say,’ Jorge answered tiredly. ‘Once the trance is upon me, I ken no’ what I will see. It is no’ always a good thing to ken what is to happen in the future, my lassie.’ But Isabeau continued to plead until at last the blind seer consented.
‘It is good we have no’ eaten yet. I need to be pure and empty so the sight can fill me like water fills a glass. We must be careful, though. I canna sense anyone near by, but some of the Awl’s seekers are very powerful and we do no’ wish to bring them down upon us. Keep a sharp eye out, lassie.’ Jorge then washed himself carefully, stripping off his clothes till he was nak
ed, only the flowing beard and hair covering his sunken chest and belly, the spindly legs sticking out comically below. He drew the magic circle around him with the sharp point of his dagger, and threw fragrant powder and leaves on the fire, so strange smelling smoke billowed up into the night sky.
Isabeau felt dizzy, the smoke stinging her eyes and throat, but she crouched silently as the flames leapt up, green at their heart.
Holding his staff before him, the clear stone at its head reflecting the flames, Jorge rocked back and forth on his haunches, staring into the bowl of water he had set between his feet, muttering to himself. Several times he leapt to his feet and stamped beside the fire, before dropping to his haunches again, swaying and chanting, ‘In the name o’ Eà, our mother and our father, thee who is Spinner and Weaver and Cutter o’ the Thread, thee who sows the seed, nurtures the life and reaps the harvest, feel in me the tides o’ seas and blood; feel in me the endless darkness and the blaze of light; feel in me the swing o’ the moons and the planets, the path o’ the stars and the sun; draw aside the veil, open my eyes, by the virtue o’ the four elements, wind, stone, flame and rain; draw aside the veil, open my eyes, by virtue o’ clear skies and storm, rainbows and hailstones, flowers and falling leaves, flames and ashes …’
Isabeau began to feel afraid, the night bending over them, smoke swirling. Jorge’s blind white eyes rolled in his head, and his skinny body curled over itself, twitching. He threw back his head and began to chant. ‘I see red clouds—the sun is setting and red clouds race across the sky. There is danger … a whirlwind is rising … I see a multicoloured viper, striped like a rainbow. It attacks, jaws dripping with venom. Slash at it with your sword! Cut it! Ah, Eà! It throws itself into many pieces, and each piece attacks. There are ashes on the wind … ’
Isabeau was very frightened now, having never seen anyone in an ecstatic trance before. ‘What do ye mean?’ she whispered. But Jorge was deep in his vision and did not hear.
‘Storm clouds are coming. The moon is being eaten, the moon is being eaten!’ With a shriek the old man fell back, and Isabeau knelt beside him, chafing his cold hands and begging him to wake up. Although he stirred, his eyes did not open and he murmured a few words: ‘… The laird o’ the sea comes.’
‘Tell me what ye see about me?’ Isabeau asked anxiously, afraid the old man would drift out of his trance before she learnt anything at all. His eyes were open and he was staring up at the sky with blank eyes that leaked tears.
‘Give me your witch knife,’ he said feebly, and sat up.
She passed over the narrow blade. The old man rocked back and forth, muttering. The smoke billowed into the sky, and he clutched Isabeau’s knife, running his fingers over it. His voice changed, grew deeper. ‘I see ye staring into a mirror and your reflection reaches out and grips your wrist. I see ye with many faces and many disguises; ye will be one who can hide in a crowd. Though ye shall have no home and no rest, all valleys and pinnacles will be your home; though ye shall never give birth, ye shall rear a child who shall one day rule the land.’ His voice tailed away, and he blinked and looked up, his wrinkled face grey with exhaustion now the vision had passed. ‘Your destiny is indeed strange and mysterious, lassie. It fills me with fear—this vision is linked with others I have had—a child who straddles oceans and land; mirrors that break; moons that are eaten.’
‘What does it all mean?’ Isabeau wondered, feeling excitement creep through her. A strange and mysterious destiny, he had said. A child that will rule the land.
He shook his head and wrapped his shivering body in his ragged plaid. ‘I do no’ ken, lass. I only see what I see, and all the future is mysterious. Come, let us eat and sleep for we have another long day ahead o’ us.’
Isabeau spent most of the next day close to the old man’s side, hoping he could tell her more about her future. He told her no more, however, and grew angry when she became persistent. He did speak to her about the One Power, though.
‘The One Power is in all things,’ the warlock said. ‘In trees and plants, in the air that we breathe and the water we drink, in our blood and our spirit, in the stars and the moons, in the red comet that has been brightening our night skies. But the One Power is no’ inexhaustible. This is why we teach care in its use. When we draw upon the Power, we take it from all around us and within us. The greater the magic, the more Power is used.’
‘Why is it some witches can draw on a lot o’ Power and others only some?’ Isabeau asked. This was a question she had asked Meghan many times, but her guardian had only ever said, ‘Powerful is as powerful does.’ The blind seer was not much more forthcoming. ‘Why is it some men can throw a curling stone right to the end o’ the pond and others can only throw it over the hog line?’
‘Do ye mean that different people have different strengths?’
‘Is that no’ what I said?’
‘So ye mean ye can only draw on as much Power as ye have strength to hold?’
‘Is that what ye think?’
‘I do no’ ken very much about it,’ Isabeau said angrily. She wondered why it was that she knew so little, when she had been brought up by the Keybearer herself.
‘Good, good,’ the old man said. ‘That’s the first step.’
Isabeau was so exasperated she ran on ahead, smashing leaves and branches with her stick.
Once they reached the foot of the mountains, they said their farewells as Jorge was turning to follow the line of the mountains west, while Isabeau was continuing south into Rionnagan.
‘Will ye be all right?’ she asked anxiously.
The old man took her hand in his and touched it to his forehead and then to his mouth. ‘Aye, indeed, lassie. I have been blind many years longer than ye’ve been alive, remember. And I have Jesyah to show me the way and warn me of trouble. The raven is wise and clear-seeing, ye must ken. It is not my welfare that should be o’ concern to ye, but your own. Be careful and canny, lassie. It is a dangerous road that ye travel, and a vital task ye have undertaken. Guard the talisman well. I canna bear to think what would happen if it was to fall into the hands of the Banrìgh.’
‘It is that important?’ Isabeau was a little sobered.
‘Aye, indeed. Perhaps the most important thing in the land at this moment. Meghan places great trust in ye, Isabeau Apprentice Witch. Do no’ betray her trust.’
‘But what is it?’ Isabeau touched the black pouch through the cloth of her shirt. ‘Why is it so important?’
‘It is the key to unlock the chains that bind us,’ Jorge said cryptically. ‘Keep your courage high, Isabeau, and good wishes to ye.’
‘May my heart be kind, my mind fierce, my spirit brave.’
The seer kissed her on the forehead, between the eyes. ‘Do no’ fear, the time will come when the veil shall drop and ye shall see clearly,’ he said, then began to tap his way forward with his staff, the raven cawing a hoarse farewell as he flew ahead on midnight wings.
Isabeau put her hand to her head, which was ringing oddly, then set off down the path, unable to shake a sense of trepidation. At least I’ll now be able to make better time, she thought.
In reality, she found the journey slow and difficult. She had come down from the heights and now was in the thick forest that skirted the edge of the range. Here the undergrowth was thick with brambles that caught in her hair or tore her shirt. Often what seemed a well-defined path petered out and she had to spend hours fighting her way through the thick woods before she again found a path that followed the fast-flowing burn. Other times she came upon a deep ravine which meant a long journey until she could find a place to cross. Once she thought she saw a nixie diving under the surface of a pool, tiny feet and a swathe of transparent hair disappearing in a swirl and a splash. Another time she came across a great woolly bear fishing in the icy waters of the burn. Warily she made a wide detour, having no wish to face down a woolly bear, renowned for both its savagery and its stupidity.
At night she heard the howling of t
imber wolves as they sang to the moons, and she huddled under her blankets, wishing Meghan was there to protect her. During the day, she often found herself growing uneasy, the back of her neck prickling as if she was being watched. Several times she began to lengthen her pace in an attempt to shake the feeling, only to have it return later, when she had at last begun to relax again.
As a result of her haste, she twice lost her way. The first time she found herself in a great valley like the one in which she had lived, surrounded on three sides by towering cliffs and no way out but the way she came in. A storm had blown up, as it did so often in the months of spring, and she sought shelter in a cave, only to come face to face with a pride of elven cats who did not take kindly to her clumsy intrusion. Luckily, Isabeau was conversant with their language and was able to back out quickly, apologising and bowing, as she knew the small but savage black cats expected. The night was spent nervously and damply in a tree, for the bared fangs had been all too clear even in the dark of a stormy night.
The second time she followed a path for days, only to come out on a plateau looking down onto the forests of Aslinn far below. She cursed and swore, but had no choice but to turn and retrace her steps—she had come too far east if she could see Aslinn. She needed to head back and down to the south to find the way out of the Sithiche Mountains, the single break in the range called, appropriately enough, the Pass.
Isabeau should have known her way. She had made the journey down to the highlands of Rionnagan every year since she was a babe in arms. She had been confident that she knew the way, and indeed, all she had to do was bear southeast and wait for the lie of the land to take her into the fertile valleys and forests below. But in a year the landscape can change—storms and landslides make their mark, trees grow and fall, and even the animals of the forests change their paths as hunting grows scarcer. More importantly, Isabeau acknowledged reluctantly, her guardian had been with her on all her other trips and so Isabeau had not been responsible for choosing the path or the night’s camp site. And despite Isabeau’s knowledge of the languages and customs of the creatures of the forests, she was having more trouble with the wild animals than she had ever experienced when with Meghan. She reminded herself that Seychella had said all the creatures of the land were stirring. But that did not really explain why her journeys from mountain peaks to valley villages had always been so pleasant and easy, but now proved so arduous and difficult.