by Kate Forsyth
‘You’re shark bait,’ one brother said.
‘Burrowing barnacle,’ said another contemptuously.
‘Thought yourself so proud, flaunting a black pearl upon your breast,’ Lonan, his eldest brother, hissed.
‘You let yourself be tricked and ensorcelled!’ the King raged. ‘As soon as you knew she could sing the foul songs of human sorcery you should have torn out her tongue! You should have slit her throat and fed her to the sharks!’
Nila could feel anger building inside him but he said nothing, knowing no excuse or explanation would be acceptable. His silence only enraged the King further.
‘Impudent beardworm! What did you and your misbegotten sister talk about so long? What slippery treachery do you plan?’
Nila could keep silent no longer. ‘I plan no treachery!’ he cried. ‘I have always been loyal!’
‘You and your taste for filthy human flesh,’ Lonan jeered. ‘Always cuddling and canoodling with halfbreed dugongs. You lost your little slave, so seek now to replace her with another filthy halfbreed—’
Disgusted, Nila launched himself at his eldest brother. ‘How can you say such things?’ he shouted. ‘Maya is our sister, you loathsome seaslug!’
‘You think I claim kinship with that treacherous snake-eel?’ Lonan said contemptuously, knocking Nila to the ground. ‘Daughter of a human slave? I’d rather claim kinship with an elephant seal!’ He kicked him in the head.
Nila rolled free and staggered to his feet, only to be tripped over by another brother. Lonan laughed, bending down to rip the black pearl from Nila’s throat. ‘Think yourself chosen by Jor? I am the Anointed One, jellyfish! I am the heir to He Who Is Anointed by Jor!’ Viciously he kicked Nila in the ribs. As Nila rolled in pain, clutching his ribs, Lonan hung the black pearl about his own neck, already laden with necklaces of sea-diamonds, carved coral and white pearls.
Nila managed to get to his knees, but all nine of his brothers circled him, jeering, kicking and punching him mercilessly until he was unable to stand or fight back any more. Dazed, panting, bruised and covered in sand, he was dragged before the King once more.
‘So you feel sympathy for your traitorous sister?’ the King asked, his pale eyes glittering. ‘You let her escape our justice out of pity? She is nothing but a halfbreed slave, worth less than a blob of spawn jelly. Do you not realise we could have defeated the humans by now if not for her, we could have wiped them off the face of the earth! They would be mere bones picked white by crabs and fish, dissolving at last to sand. We would be once more the rulers of the sea and shore, the mightiest warriors in the world!’
There was a ragged cheer.
Knowing his case was hopeless, Nila drew himself upright, spitting out a mouthful of blood and sand. ‘Do you not understand that you condemn us all to doom?’ he said. ‘For a thousand years we have thrown ourselves against the humans and been dashed to pieces. It is our people who are picked clean by the crabs, it is our people who suffer hunger and cold and exile because of this stupid feud. When are we going to stop? When are we going to find some way to live in peace, forever and happy? When are we going to realise that the humans are here to stay?’
He was cut short by a vicious elbow in the face. He fell down to one knee, holding his jaw, involuntary tears welling in his eyes. He dashed them away with one hand and looked up at his father, who was roaring with rage.
‘You have lost seven sons already,’ Nila said. ‘How many more will you lose? How many more sons will your people lose?’
‘Only one more,’ his father roared. ‘Take him and kill him, the traitorous snake-eel!’
Nila’s brothers seized him and dragged him back, but Nila kept on shouting. ‘You have summoned the powers of Kani, you seek to raise the powers of the earth to drown all the land, but do you not realise you will kill us all as well? Do you think you can control Kani? Do you think you can subject her to your will? You condemn us all to death and destructiveness. How will the whales survive being flung upon the land? How will the fishes survive? How will we?’
Then there was only the roaring red of blows and kicks and taunts, and then the roaring black of unconsciousness.
Isabeau rolled over once again, bunching up the pillow under her head and sighing with frustration. Although she was so tired her very bones ached, she found herself unable to sleep. Her mind travelled round and round in well-worn paths, despite all her attempts to break free, and at last she sat up with a sigh of exasperation.
No-hooh snooze-hooh? Buba hooted softly from her perch on Isabeau’s bed-rail.
No-hooh snooze-hooh, Isabeau answered ruefully.
You-hooh troubled-hooh?
Isabeau shrugged and got up, wrapping her white woolly plaid about her shoulders. ‘I feel … Aye, I suppose I feel troubled. I do no’ ken why exactly,’ she said, more to herself than the owl.
Owl soar-swoop through moon cool-hooh? Buba said hopefully. Although the elf-owl had grown used to Isabeau wanting to be awake during the day and sleep at night, Buba was always eager for the sorceress to change shape and be an owl with her again.
Isabeau smiled and shook her head, opening her door quietly and stepping out into the corridor. No-hooh, sorry-hooh. ‘I thought some hot milk might help. I’m going down to the kitchen. Want to come?’
Hooh-hooh, Buba answered, swooping out the door eagerly.
The castle was very quiet. With her white plaid wrapped around her shoulders, her bright hair flowing down her back in thick waves and rivulets of curls, Isabeau went quietly through the dark corridors. She needed no candle, seeing her way clearly despite the lateness of the hour. Buba floated ahead of her, silent as smoke. They came down the grand staircase and into the front hall.
There Isabeau paused. She could hear the soft murmur of voices and see the golden flicker of light. For a moment she stood, undecided, then very quietly she made her way down the hall. One of the double doors into the dining room stood ajar. Isabeau touched it so it swung open a little more, allowing her to see into the room.
Lachlan sat at one end of the table, his wings drooping, his head laid on his arms. At his elbow was an empty glass. An almost empty decanter of whisky stood on a silver tray nearby.
Dide sat by the fireplace, strumming his guitar softly. He was singing, in a low plaintive tone, the song of the Three Blackbirds. He looked up at the sway of the door and saw Isabeau standing just outside. He frowned at her and shook his head slightly, but it was too late, the draught of the swinging door had caused the candles to gutter in their sconces and Lachlan had glanced up blearily. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard.
He saw Isabeau, a tall figure all in white, the candlelight wavering over her face and the red-gold river of her hair. He leapt up, his chair falling backwards, and lurched towards her.
‘Iseult!’ he cried hoarsely.
Isabeau just stared at him, the words of denial in her throat but her mouth not moving to make the sound. He seized her arms in his big rough hands and pulled her against him, his mouth seeking hers. Isabeau lifted her eyes to look at him, not really knowing what she was doing. He kissed her. It was like a shock of lightning. For a moment she simply stood there, her heart hammering, one hand clasping his forearm, drawing him closer. Then she stepped back, her senses reeling. He fell back also, staring at her, eyes wide.
‘I am Isabeau,’ she said, her voice hoarse, just as he cried her name.
For a moment longer they gazed at each other, then a shadow came down over Lachlan’s face; he stepped back, half staggering, and sat down heavily in a chair. He was very drunk.
Isabeau looked up and met Dide’s eyes. He cradled his battered old guitar, the smooth wood of its face painted with faded tendrils of leaves and flowers and birds singing. His hands were very still, his face closed. She gazed at him a moment and then stepped forward, laying her hand on Lachlan’s shoulder. ‘Ye should be in bed,’ she said. ‘Do ye forget we ride out with the dawn? What do ye do here, drinking in the darkn
ess by yourself?’
His shoulder had tensed at her touch. He leant back, saying with a bitter twist of his mouth, ‘My bed is cold and lonely, I canna sleep in it, why should I seek it?’
‘Ye shall make yourself ill,’ Isabeau said tersely. ‘Is this what ye’ve been doing, night after night, drinking alone? No wonder ye look like a death’s head.’
‘I havena been alone,’ Lachlan replied. ‘Dide has been with me.’
‘Dide should ken better,’ Isabeau said acidly. She looked up and met his black eyes. For once they were not merry with laughter, but shadowed and unhappy. One corner of his mouth lifted and he began to strum the guitar again, as gently as if he stroked a lover’s body. Isabeau recognised the poignant chords of the Three Blackbirds.
‘Canna ye play something else?’ she snapped.
Lachlan shook his head. ‘Nay. I want him to play that. I am the Rìgh. I command him to play it. Play, Dide!’ He had difficulty in speaking, his words slurring into each other. Dide played on, his head bent. The music crept through the dark room, exquisite, full of loss and sorrow. Isabeau felt a little prickling of her skin. From the far corner of the room Buba hooted sadly. Rue-hooh.
‘Ye must no’ grieve so much, Lachlan,’ Isabeau said very gently.
He flung out one hand. His eyes glinting with tears, he sang:
‘O where have ye flown, my black-winged birds,
Leaving me all alone?
O where have ye flown, my black-winged brothers?
Where have ye flown, my brothers?’
His voice was so beautiful, so deep and pure and full of magic, that Isabeau shuddered.
She wrapped her arms about her body. ‘Come, will ye no’ go to bed? Ye must no’ wear yourself out like this.’
‘Is that an invitation?’ Lachlan leered at her. One hand shot out and grasped her wrist. Although Isabeau stood stiff and unyielding, he was too strong for her and she was forced to step closer. She could smell the whisky on his breath, see the fire in his golden eyes as he lifted his face to look up at her. The candlelight played over the hard, strong planes of his face, the unruly jet-black curls, the powerful line of jaw and neck and shoulder, the soft sweep of black feathers. She leant back against the cruel grip of his hand, unable to help the tightening of nerve and muscle, the acceleration of her heart.
He felt the leap in her pulse and smiled at her, heart-breakingly sweet. ‘What do ye say, Isabeau? Will ye warm my bed for me? Iseult is gone, she has left me like my brothers, like everyone I have ever loved.’ Again he sang, under his breath, ‘O where have ye flown, my brothers, leaving me all alone?’
‘Iseult has no’ left ye,’ Isabeau said. ‘Ye were the one who sent her away. Ye released her from her geas.’
‘Why does she need a geas to stay with me?’ Lachlan cried. ‘Why canna she just love me for myself?’
‘She does love ye,’ Isabeau said, trying to draw her wrist free. He tightened his fingers, drew her down so they were face to face, only inches apart.
‘She does no’ love me,’ he said with great solemnity. ‘She does no’ love me at all. She loves her snows. She left me.’
Isabeau lifted her hand and smoothed back the curls from his brow. ‘She does love ye,’ she said very quietly. ‘She will return to ye. Ye must trust her.’
His breath was ragged. He stared at her intently. Isabeau knew that if she leant forward just a little, if she kissed the pulse that beat so rapidly in his throat, if she pressed her mouth against his, Lachlan would be hers, at least for the night. She knew it was in his mind, that all she had to do was let herself flow towards him, let herself close that small distance between them. She could not breathe with the certainty of it. Her mind flew towards Iseult, her womb-sister, her twin. Slowly Isabeau drew herself away. ‘Ye must trust her,’ she repeated, her voice wavering.
He let her go. ‘Yes,’ he said. He leant his head back, stared up at the ceiling.
Isabeau took a deep breath, stepped back, became aware again of the melancholy spill of music. She looked across the table at Dide. ‘Come, will ye no’ help me?’ she said, angry at herself for the weakness of her voice. ‘We must get him to bed. Ye must no’ let him brood like this. He needs to rest, he needs to be strong. He has a war to fight.’
‘Often the hardest wars are the ones we fight within ourselves,’ Dide answered softly. ‘It is no’ enough to say ye must no’ grieve. Grief and love are no’ commanded by the mind and the will, they are driven by the heart.’
After a moment she nodded. ‘Ye’re right,’ she said with difficulty, pierced by his words as if they were a sword. ‘I’m sorry.’
His long fingers stilled on the strings of the guitar, the last quivering chord dying away into silence. He laid the guitar down and got to his feet, coming round the table to kneel by Lachlan’s feet. He took one of the Rìgh’s hands in both of his. ‘Come, master, ye must go to bed. Ye will sleep now, I promise.’
Lachlan looked at him, barely able to control the movement of his head. There was the shine of tears on his face. ‘Promise?’
‘Aye, I promise. Ye will sleep like a babe, like your wee Olwynne, deep and sweet and free o’ dreams. Come, master, let me help ye up.’
Together Isabeau and Dide helped Lachlan to his feet. He was heavy, the broad line of shoulders and the great sweep of his wings weighing them down so they could barely support him between them. Together they helped him up the stairs to his room, Buba flying along behind them, the ghostly sweep of her wings ruffling their hair. Isabeau and Dide led Lachlan to his bed, where he sat silently watching as they unbuckled his belt and laid it on a chair. Kneeling, they took off his boots and then helped each other unwind his plaid. When he wore nothing but his shirt, Dide gently pushed Lachlan back down upon his bed, saying, ‘Sleep now, master. I will watch over ye.’
Obediently Lachlan rolled over so he lay upon his stomach, his wings folded along his back, his head resting on his crossed arms. He nestled his cheek into his pillow, saying, ‘I’m so tired …’
Snooze-hooh, Buba hooted softly from her perch on top of the mirror.
‘Ye’ll feel better in the morning,’ Isabeau said gently, unable to help tucking the sheet about him more securely. He opened his eyes at the touch of her hands, saying, ‘Isabeau …’
‘Aye?’
‘Thank ye. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. Go to sleep.’
He closed his eyes again, murmuring, ‘Sleep. I think I’d like to.’
He was asleep in a moment, his breath rising in a little snore. Dide and Isabeau watched him in silence for a moment, then Isabeau rose to her feet, drawing her own plaid about her. Buba fluttered down to perch on her shoulder, moving her feathered claws uneasily and swivelling her head.
‘Ye could have had him tonight,’ Dide said, very softly. Isabeau nodded, unable to look at him.
‘Why did ye no’? Ye wanted him.’
‘He was no’ mine to have,’ Isabeau answered.
‘But ye wanted him.’ He drew closer to her, bending his head to try to see her face.
‘Aye,’ she answered. ‘He has been in my dreams for many years.’ Somehow it was easy to tell Dide this, words she never thought she could utter, standing close to him in the darkness with the soft sound of Lachlan breathing behind them. ‘We are linked, ye see, Iseult and me. In my dreams I see through her eyes, and feel what she feels. It is no’ always a good thing.’
‘Does she ken? That ye dream o’ him, I mean.’
‘I do no’ think so,’ Isabeau answered with a little shiver. ‘I hope no’.’
‘Does Iseult see through your eyes too?’ he asked, tucking his hands into the warmth of her plaid and bringing it closer about her throat. Tears prickled Isabeau’s eyes.
‘I do no’ think Iseult’s Talents lie that way. I do no’ think she walks in her dreams,’ she answered, her voice again failing her.
Dide shook his head. ‘It is hard, to be dreaming o’ someone ye can never h
ave.’
Isabeau nodded, looking up at him. He bent his head and kissed her, and then kissed her wet eyes, and she bent her head into his shoulder and let it rest there. He held her for a moment, his arm strong about her back, and then he drew away.
‘Come, ye must be off to bed yourself,’ he said. ‘Dawn is close and we have a long way to travel today. Ye must try to get some sleep.’
She nodded, scrubbing her face, moving away a little. ‘What about ye?’
‘I shall watch over my master,’ Dide answered.
She nodded again and moved quietly to the door. As she opened it, Dide said with a little quiver of laughter in his voice, ‘Isabeau?’
‘Aye?’
‘Your wee owl dinna peck me this time.’
‘Nay, she did no’, did she?’
‘Happen she likes me a wee better now.’
‘Happen she does.’
Time for you-hooh to mate-hooh, Buba hooted. Time for you-hooh to build-hooh nest-hooh, lay-hooh eggs-hooh.
Sudden heat scorched Isabeau’s cheeks. She hoped Dide could not speak Owl.
I seult opened her eyes. Above her arched the night sky, the stars beginning to fade between heavy slabs of low cloud. She rolled over, sat up, tucked her arms about her knees, staring at the silhouette of the mountains beginning to rise up against a grey dawn. She was frowning. The dark remnants of a dream hung over her. She tried to shake her mind free but, although the details were already dissolving away, the sense of misery and betrayal lingered.
‘My lady?’ Carrick One-Eye whispered, sitting up in his furs on the far side of the embers. ‘Is all well?’
She nodded, rubbing her eyes with her hands. ‘Aye, all is well. Get ye back to sleep, Carrick, it is no’ quite dawn.’
He climbed out of his furs, shivering as the cold struck through his clothes. ‘Nay, my lady. Let me blow up the fire and make ye some tea. Ye look cold.’
‘I am cold,’ she answered, surprised.
The corrigan blew upon the embers, which gleamed red in the darkness, and fed in a handful of leaves and twigs. He scooped up some of the snow in the battered black pot and hung it over the fire, saying, ‘That’s one good thing about snow, ye do no’ need to travel far in search o’ water.’