by Kate Forsyth
‘Aye, but Maya was half human …’ Again Meghan paused, lost in thought. At last she sighed, looking very drawn in the bright sunshine. ‘I fear the vision is a true telling, now that I ken ye saw it in the dragon’s eye. Dragons can see both ways along the thread o’ time.’
‘But ye ken even better than I that all visions o’ the future are naught but a vision o’ what may happen. It is a future possibility, nothing more,’ Isabeau said swiftly. ‘Jorge told me so many times. We can change the future, we can strike hard and swift at the Fairgean before they suspect a thing. Ye have six months to teach Lachlan how to control the Lodestar and me to use my powers. And Iseult shall convince the Khan’cohbans to come to our aid. Ye ken she has a genius for warfare, she shall win the day for us …’
Meghan sighed even more heavily than before.
‘What is it?’ Isabeau asked, though she was afraid she knew what it was that troubled the Keybearer so much.
‘Ye think I do no’ ken the meaning o’ the broken geas?’ Meghan replied. ‘I may no’ have lived among the Khan’cohbans like ye, but I have listened and tried to understand as much as I can about their ways. A geas is more than just a debt o’ honour, it is a sacred oath, as binding as the Creed o’ the Coven is to the witches. A Khan’cohban would rather die than break a geas, that I ken. Iseult kent what it was she did when she swore that sacred oath to Lachlan—she swore never to leave him, to always serve and obey him. That oath has been dissolved now. Iseult is free to stay upon the Spine o’ the World if she so wishes, and do no’ think she does no’ wish to. She is, and always will be, a Khan’cohban.’
‘But the bairns … and Lachlan. She loves him, I ken she does. Iseult will no’ stay on the Spine o’ the World. She’ll come back and help us win the war.’
Meghan stroked Gitâ’s fur, her eyes hooded. ‘Will she?’
I seult stood on the ridge, breathing in great lungfuls of the sharp cold air. For as far as she could see tiers of tall pointed mountains rose into the sky, glistening with ice. Enormous voluptuous clouds enveloped the higher peaks, their deep folds shadowed blue by the brilliant sunshine, so that it seemed as if the mountains climbed into the very heavens.
Linley MacSeinn stood beside her, his face shadowed with awe and fear. ‘Ye mean to say ye ken a way through there?’
She nodded. He cursed under his breath and pulled his blue-checked plaid closer about him. His breath clouded the air and his face was mottled with cold. A tall man with a strong nose, piercing sea-green eyes and a neatly trimmed black beard, he had two deeply scored lines between his brows, marks of grief and anger. He wore a great two-handled sword strapped to his back, with a slim dagger at his belt and another thrust into his boot. Beside him stood his son Douglas, as tall and pale-skinned, with the same brightly coloured eyes and dark hair. Both had their plaids pinned over their shoulders with a badge forged in the shape of a crowned harp.
Behind them wound a long train of men, all well wrapped up against the cold. On their backs they carried light packs, and each had a coil of rope and an icepick dangling from his belt. At the rear of the convoy were sleighs drawn by huge woolly creatures with spreading horns and enormous flat feet. The sleighs were all piled high with weapons and provisions provided by Iseult’s father. They had spent a week with Iseult’s parents at the Towers of Roses and Thorns, while Khan’gharad had prepared both his men and Iseult’s for the crossing of the mountains. Iseult had spent the week playing with her new brother and sister and talking with her mother, whom she had not seen since the signing of the Pact of Peace.
It had been a bittersweet time for Iseult. The round curve of the babies’ cheeks and their sweet, milky smell had brought a rush of longing for her own children. Iseult had very much wanted to bring them with her to the Spine of the World, but Lachlan had forbidden it angrily. It was too dangerous, he had said. The Rìgh’s heir should stay with the Rìgh. The twins were still babes, too young for such a journey.
Iseult knew that he simply could not bear to let Donncan out of his sight after the shock of the little boy’s kidnapping, but Lachlan’s veto had hurt and angered her nonetheless. She too felt the need to keep Donncan and the twins close and safe. Being apart from her children was a cold ache that grew unbearable at times. She longed to hold them close again, to feel their chubby arms about her neck and to kiss the soft nape of their necks, softer than the most luxurious silk, softer than the petal of a rose. Sternly she repressed her longing, immersing herself in the logistics of moving such a large body of men through the harsh, inhospitable mountain heights. She was the first to wake each morning and among the last to roll herself in her furs and sleep, and only her silence and the gravity of her expression told those who knew her best how troubled and unhappy she was.
The clean smell of the snow and the grandeur of the landscape had brought colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her blue eyes, however. It gave her new resolve and the comfort of knowing that she was at last coming home. Seven years she had been away, seven long years. Iseult took one more deep breath, then strode forward once again, her long steps bringing her to the side of her father.
Khan’gharad was dressed all in white furs like Iseult herself, his shaggy mane of red-grey hair tied back with a leather thong. Two thick curling horns sprang out from either side of his lean, hard face, which was slashed with seven white scars.
‘If we move swiftly, the prides shall still be together for the Summer Gathering,’ he said in his native language. ‘You shall be able to address them as one and try to win them to your cause. Otherwise your task will be much more difficult.’
Iseult made the swift Khan’cohban gesture of assent. She was frowning. She knew the Summer Gathering would be breaking up tomorrow. No matter how hard she had tried, she had simply not been able to push the men along any faster. They were not used to the high altitude or the cold, and the weather had been unseasonably stormy, so that their progress had been much slower than Iseult had expected.
‘The snow on the far side of this ridge is firm enough for skimming,’ Khan’gharad said.
Iseult glanced at him quickly then looked back at the long line of men, which stretched as far as the eye could see. Not for the first time, she wished that the MacSeinn’s men knew how to skim. How swift their progress would be if they could fly over the surface of the snow instead of this painfully slow slog. She saw her father’s glance linger on the sleighs and his meaning came to her. She gave a sudden quick smile.
‘Far better that we do no’ come to the Summer Gathering with a show o’ force,’ she answered. ‘We should leave most o’ the men behind and take only our personal guard when we approach the prides.’
For the first time in their quick conversation she spoke in the common dialect so that the MacSeinn could understand her also. He had been watching with narrowed suspicious eyes the rapid exchange of grunt and gesture, and at Iseult’s words, his expression darkened even further.
He said gruffly, ‘If we arrive without a proper guard, they will think us weak, and we shall be vulnerable to attack.’
‘There can be no blood shed during the week o’ the Summer Gathering,’ Iseult said tersely. She found it hard to remember how little most people knew about the prides. Their ignorance angered her, though she rarely allowed her feelings to show. The suspicion in the MacSeinn’s eyes, however, brought her simmering resentment to the boil and so the anger was clear in her voice.
‘There may be a truce amongst your people but we are no’ o’ your kind and there is no love lost between us,’ the MacSeinn said. ‘Last time we tried to cross the mountains I lost many good men to the snow-faeries, who crept upon us without any warning. I will no’ risk that happening again.’
Iseult waited a moment before answering. When she spoke her voice was calm and low. ‘The prides are very territorial. Ye may no’ cross their lands without first seeking and being granted permission. It is a procedure o’ great ceremony. Ye would have been given warning before attack.’<
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He stared at her. Colour slowly ran up his pale cheeks. ‘Some fellow did come and wave a spear at us and grunt at us a day or two before, but it was gibberish, there was no sense in it at all.’ His voice was sharp and defensive.
Iseult said softly, ‘Believe me when I say there are right and wrong ways o’ approaching the prides. Ye have no way o’ knowing but I was brought up with them, I ken their ways. Please trust me when I say that to approach with an army o’ this size will be foolishly aggressive. A small group will be able to utilise one or two o’ the sleds and travel down to the Gathering with great speed. If ye wish me to address the prides on your behalf and win their support, this is what we must do. Otherwise I must spend weeks and even months travelling from one haven to another, speaking with the Auld Mother o’ each pride separately.’
Despite all her attempts to keep her voice conciliatory, all Iseult could manage was the kind of slow deliberateness one uses when speaking to a young child or a simpleton. The MacSeinn’s colour darkened and he stared at her with great anger and suspicion. The sense of what she said struck him, however, and so he nodded, though with obvious reluctance.
An early dusk was dropping over the mountains and it was colder than ever. Iseult gave the order for the men to make camp, an operation that took some time, then ordered two of the sleighs to be unloaded, their baggage redistributed among the other sleighs. She was conscious of a rising excitement. The smell of the snow sang in her veins. Tomorrow she would see the Firemaker and all her old comrades. Tomorrow she would be among her own kind once more, among those who understood the meaning of honour. Tomorrow she would at last attend the Summer Gathering.
This was a spectacle Iseult had always longed to see. In her youth the prides had gathered only every eight years, in the spring of the Dragon-Star, when the comet had flared red in the night skies. When Iseult had decided to leave and marry Lachlan, the Firemaker had declared a truce between the prides and proposed that they meet each year instead, in the midsummer. At the Gathering, all enmities were set aside. There was much feasting and dancing, trade and bartering, and competitions of strength and skill. Many new relationships were forged, both political and personal. Although Khan’cohbans did not marry in the same way that the islanders did, it was common for young Khan’cohban girls to see a man whose vigour they admired and to agree to accompany him back to his pride. In this way, the blood-lines were kept pure and the possibility of inbreeding avoided. The woman was free to move her furs to the fire of anyone else she admired, or to return home to her family at any time, though she must leave behind any child of the union.
Iseult woke early the next morning and in the bustle of preparing to leave did not think about Lachlan or her children at all. It was a clear day, the white points of the mountains very sharp against the blue sky, the air zinging with the smell of the pine forests. Iseult was filled with energy and good humour, much to her maid Gayna’s relief, and it was not long before they were on their way.
Iseult, Gayna and Carrick One-Eye rode in one sleigh with Khan’gharad and his squire, a thoughtful young man called Jamie the Silent due to his ability to go for hours and even days without uttering a word. It was this quality which had caused Khan’gharad to choose him as his squire. Like Iseult, Khan’gharad sometimes found the humans’ need to talk incessantly very wearing. Gayna was a sturdy girl with more cheerful commonsense than style, who had been chosen to accompany Iseult as much to maintain the proprieties as to have a care for her person.
In the second sleigh rode Linley MacSeinn and his son Douglas; the MacSeinn’s gillie, a tall, grey-haired man named Cavan; and his chamberlain Mattmias, an elderly man with a shock of white hair. In the two sleds behind travelled the MacSeinn’s piper, his standard-bearer, his purse-bearer, his seanalair the Duke of Dunkeld and six of his personal bodyguard, called the luchd-tighe. If the MacSeinn had had his way, many more among his retinue would have accompanied them. Iseult had been rather bemused to find that the MacSeinn was accompanied everywhere by a whole crowd of aides and courtiers. Most of the posts were hereditary and had been passed down from father to son for a thousand years. Lachlan himself did not have so many personal servants, though Mattmias had very diplomatically explained to Iseult that he should have.
The MacSeinn, Mattmias said, was a clan chief of the old school, a man who ruled over his clan and his country with absolute authority. He was very proud and Iseult knew that he had found the thirteen years of exile from his own country very difficult to bear. Most of his retinue now served him without pay, for the MacSeinn had lost his wealth along with his throne and was totally dependent upon Lachlan’s largesse. The desire to regain his independence and his homeland were all that permitted the proud laird to submit to Iseult’s ruling that most of his retinue be left behind with the soldiers. To her amazement Iseult found she had a sneaking sympathy for the prionnsa, despite his haughtiness, and so she had not insisted he limit his retinue to two, like herself or her father.
The four sleighs sped down the smooth white slope as the teams of woolly-coated ulez galloped ahead at a quite amazing speed given their ponderous build and huge hooves. Iseult leant forward eagerly, drinking in the pine-scented wind that burnt her lungs with cold. Soon the forest had closed about them but still the ulez galloped on, the lead pair obeying Khan’gharad’s slightest touch on the reins. Khan’gharad’s experienced eye recognised every rock or fallen log hidden below soft mounds of snow and so, although the men behind sometimes shouted in alarm at their breakneck speed, he brought them to the floor of the valley without a single spill.
It was high summer and the valley floor was free of snow, sunlit glades stretching in vivid spreads of alpine flowers and lush grass. The ulez were tethered and allowed to graze while the party proceeded through the forest on foot. Khan’gharad led the way, his scarred face turning from side to side as he drank in the scents and sights of the forest. He often had to stop and wait for the older men, who flushed with vexation as they paused to catch their breath. Iseult could see Khan’gharad’s silent ways, his air of arrogance, his sombre scarred face and curling horns all alienated the MacSeinn and his men, who found him intimidating and disliked him for it. It gave Iseult an odd feeling, for suddenly she understood why so many people seemed wary of her too. She did what she could to ease the gulf between them and was rewarded by a new sense of closeness with Douglas and the old seneschal Mattmias. Even the MacSeinn smiled at her once as she held back a prickly branch for him, thanking her gruffly and warning her to mind her soft skin.
Khan’gharad was waiting for them at the top of a low ridge. Iseult came up eagerly beside him and looked down into a deep green bowl circled by stands of dark forest and bordered on one side by a narrow river that ran swiftly over stones.
In the very centre of the meadow was a large circle, marked out by ropes hung with clusters of feathers dyed in the various colours of the prides. At regular intervals around the circle stood tall, ornate poles, all carved with faces, wings and claws in symbolic representation of the prides’ totems. Behind each totem pole burnt bonfires, with the members of that pride standing before it, wearing their ceremonial cloaks, their faces painted with charcoal and ochre. The Pride of the Fire-Dragon was the largest, with nearly a hundred members all wearing red feathers and tassels. They were gathered close around an old woman with a high-boned face, snowy white hair and eyes the same vivid blue as Iseult’s own. Despite the warmth of the summer sun, she wore a heavy cloak of thick white fur with the snarling, white-maned head of its original owner hanging down her back. Iseult drew in her breath at the sight of her, anticipation quickening her pulse.
In the centre of the fighting circle were two men with long poles, their bare torsos grey with mud. One vaulted high over the other, tucking his body into a neat somersault and landing nimbly on his feet, and a few in the crowd made a silent gesture of approval. There were no shouts or catcalls, no applause, no hissing or booing, as there would have been if the audience ha
d been human, for such noises were considered extremely impolite.
Khan’gharad led the small party to the edge of the clearing, choosing to position himself in the empty area between the Pride of the Grey Wolf and the Pride of the Fire-Dragon so as to make clear their neutrality. No-one in the crowd took the slightest notice of them, which made the MacSeinn draw himself up to his tallest height, his hands clenched on his sword hilt. The young men of the luchd-tighe muttered angrily amongst themselves. Iseult would have liked to tell them that the Khan’cohbans were only being polite in paying them no attention but she dared not speak while the Scarred Warriors fought.
The pyrotechnic display of feints, ducks and somersaults brought a wary respect into the soldiers’ eyes. Again Iseult would have liked to tell them that all this was merely a sign of the Scarred Warriors’ arrogant youth and inexperience. When Scarred Warriors of seven scars clashed, there was very little movement, and when a move was made, it came with the suddenness and venom of a viper’s strike. Iseult watched with a critical eye, knowing already who would be the victor. A pole lashed out with sudden ferocity; there was a thud and a groan, and one of the combatants fell heavily.
After the Scarred Warriors had bowed to each other and to the Firemaker and quit the circle, Khan’gharad motioned the others to follow him. He walked slowly and with great ceremony around the outside of the circle until he came to the bonfire of the Firemaker.
‘Ye must do as he does,’ Iseult murmured under her breath, angry with her father for his failure to explain some of the Khan’cohbans’ customs. As Khan’gharad knelt in the mud before the old woman, his head lowered and his hands folded, the MacSeinn halted for a moment, his heavy brows drawn together. Eventually he too knelt, and the rest of the retinue followed suit, though with obvious reluctance.
The Firemaker swept two fingers to her brow, then to her heart, then out to the ring of white mountains. Khan’gharad crossed his hands over his breast and bowed his head. Iseult mimicked his response and the others did the same.