The Skull of the World by Kate Forsyth
‘Beau, are ye well? Can ye hear me?’
‘Aye, Meghan, I hear ye,’ Isabeau replied, holding her head straight so it would not fall off her neck. It sounded as if she spoke through a thick woolly plaid and she shook her head to try and clear it. At once the world spun down into darkness again and she reached out her hands for anything to grip on to, anything to hold her still in all this giddy, spinning, roaring darkness. Something hit her hard. She saw the edge of Meghan’s white robe sweep close, and then nothing but darkness.
Isabeau woke much later to find a pair of round golden eyes staring unblinkingly into hers. She stared back, feeling very light and thin, as thin as a bellfruit seed dangling in the wind.
You-whoo well-whoo?
‘I’m no’ sure,’ Isabeau answered. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
The owl gave an expressive little shrug of her wings. Clever as owls were, they could not count very high. Isabeau had a vague memory of easing in and out of a fevered sleep, and thought she must have been unconscious for quite a long time.
‘Three weeks,’ Meghan said softly. ‘We have all been worried indeed about ye.’
‘Three weeks!’ Isabeau echoed. ‘How …? I mean …’
‘Sorcery sickness can take ye like that,’ Meghan said, smoothing back Isabeau’s hair. ‘I blame myself. Ye had walked the Auld Way only that night, and who kens the toll that takes on your mind and body? And ye have no’ been properly trained in the High Magic, ye do no’ ken how to prepare yourself or conserve your strength. And for me to be asking ye to perform for me like a dancing bear in a travelling circus! I o’ all people ken the cost o’ such sorcery and should never have asked ye to overextend yourself like that. Please forgive me, Beau.’
‘O’ course,’ Isabeau replied rather dazedly, glad to let her head sink back into the pillow. After a moment she said, ‘I think I’m hungry.’
‘Och, that’s a good sign,’ Meghan said encouragingly. ‘I’ll ring for some soup for ye. Lie still, Isabeau, do no’ try and sit up yet. And do no’ even think about summoning the One Power! It’ll be some days before we’ll even let ye light a candle for yourself, and months before we allow ye to try and shapechange again.’
She caught Isabeau’s expression and said sternly, ‘It’ll do ye good, my bairn. Rest now and when ye are well and strong again, then we’ll begin to teach ye the ways o’ the High Magic. Ye must be patient.’
Isabeau lowered her eyes. ‘Aye, Keybearer.’
Meghan glared at her suspiciously for a moment, clicked her tongue against her teeth as if in annoyance, and went swiftly out of the room.
You-hooh snooze-hooh, Owl guard-hooh you-hooh.
Thank you-hooh, Isabeau hooted back, and turned her cheek into the pillow.
As spring warmed towards summer, Isabeau settled happily into her new life at the Tower of Two Moons. She wore with pride the loose black gown of an apprentice and studied hard with the other students. Most of her lessons were in mathematics, history, alchemy and the old languages, but she was also given a thorough grounding in the many basic skills that all witches must learn – the manipulation of the forces of air, water, fire and earth. To her great pleasure she also studied the element of Spirit with Arkening the Dreamwalker, learning much about the use of her witch senses, the uncanny insight into the minds of others that most witches seemed to possess.
To her surprise this did not merely involve the use of her third eye, though this was growing clearer and sharper every day. The training a witch received at the Theurgia was designed to increase their natural powers of perception, intuition and logic to such a degree that many so-called Skills required no use of the One Power at all. Isabeau was taught to interpret the slightest change in expression and intonation, the flicker of a glance, the flutter of the fingers. Her memory was honed to a preternatural extent so that she carried with her all that she saw and heard and read. And over and over again she was taught the lessons of humility, sympathy and compassion.
‘If there is naught else to learn from the lessons o’ history,’ Arkening said dreamily, ‘it is that witches can grow arrogant and, worse, manipulative. Because the motives and emotions o’ the common folk seem transparent to us, and their messy muddling ways downright foolish, it is not uncommon for a witch to begin to feel she is superior in every way. But we are mere humans ourselves, and as prone to self-deception as any other human.’
Isabeau nodded, knowing how true this was. Arkening leant forward, her eyes for once losing their vagueness. ‘Ye must remember that the Coven is here to help and heal and teach, to try and guide the rest o’ the world towards an ideal o’ wisdom and kindness. That is why we swear to the Creed, to remember that all people must choose their own path and tread it alone. Witches o’ the Coven must always remember their oath – to speak only what is true in their heart, to never use the Power to ensorcel others or change their destiny, to only ever use the One Power as is needed, and then with a kind heart, a fierce and canny mind, and steadfast courage.’
‘May my heart be kind, my mind fierce, my spirit brave,’ Isabeau replied with fervour, and the old sorceress smiled at her and patted her hand.
Soon after this conversation Isabeau was allowed to begin studying with Meghan herself, a sign of how quickly she had learnt. Once a day Isabeau climbed the stairs to the Keybearer’s own rooms. Surrounded by all the familiar objects of her childhood – the spinning wheel and lap-loom, the piles of books and scrolls, the globe of another world, Meghan’s sphere of shining crystal – Isabeau was taught to draw upon the One Power, and to wield it with increasing subtlety and control.
Isabeau loved her lessons in magic. She loved the feeling of euphoria as her body was filled to brimming with the One Power, the delicious quivering tension, the urge to release it all in one white blaze, the struggle to contain it as she brought her will to bear upon the world around her, the gratification and relief as what she willed came to pass. There was no feeling to match it, no sensation so exquisite, no experience so fulfilling.
She climbed the stairs to Meghan’s room with eagerness every day and left it reluctantly, no matter how exhausted she was or how highly strung. Working magic left one overwrought, all one’s senses too highly attuned, all one’s nerves exposed. Isabeau came to understand how it was that great acts of magic left her limp and wrung out like a scullery maid’s rag, unable to find the strength to light a candle flame. And so at last she understood why it was that Meghan and the council of sorcerers had forbidden her to practise shapechanging.
At first she had resented this dictum deeply. Many times she was tempted to break the rules and fly the night with Buba in the shape of an owl. Always she managed to resist, knowing how harshly Meghan and the council would view any transgression. This was the time for Isabeau to practise all the humbleness and reserve taught to her by the Soul-Sage, to keep her mind on her books and her thoughts to herself. For the more Isabeau learnt, the more ignorant she felt. She was finally understanding what Meghan had told her so many times – that to master the One Power she needed to understand the immutable laws of nature and the universe. That was not something to be learnt easily.
When Isabeau was not studying she wandered in the gardens or walked down to the palace to see her sister and play with her niece and nephews. Sometimes she accompanied Meghan to the council meetings, though she always found it hard to face Lachlan with any degree of composure.
Despite his words of apology, Isabeau found that the young Rìgh kept a wall of reserve up against her, and that troubled her very much. At first she had been hurt that she was not taken into his and Iseult’s confidence, but as time went on, she came to realise that she was not the only one to be excluded from Lachlan’s inner life. He seemed to trust only Iseult, Meghan, Iain of Arran and Duncan Ironfist, the captain of the Blue Guards. Only with them did his air of regal reticence drop away into warmth, merriment and affection. Only with them did he discuss his plans and strategies for dealing with the many proble
The rising of the spring tides had brought the Fairgean in greater numbers than ever before. The sea was teeming with their sleek black heads as the sea-warriors swam in the wake of the great blue whales, while the soft beaches of the south grew crowded with the Fairgean women, many swollen with pregnancy. Despite all the arguments of the lairds and merchants, the Rìgh would not launch an assault against them, saying tersely that the Fairgean must be offered the chance to sign the Pact of Peace as all the other faery kind had been.
This proposal was met with hoots of scorn and cries of dismay by the council, but Lachlan was adamant. ‘For a thousand years we have sought to force the Fairgean to submit to our will, but always they have risen again. We shall never gain a lasting peace unless we can come to terms with them,’ he said, frowning down into the lambent glow of the Lodestar, which he held cupped in his hands. ‘There has been much evil done on both sides and unless we can learn to forgive each other, this war will go on until all o’ us are dead.’
‘No’ if we destroy all the Fairgean first!’ Linley MacSeinn, the Prionnsa of Carraig, cried furiously.
‘By trying to destroy them, we may destroy all chance o’ a true peace,’ Lachlan replied, but the prionnsa cut across him impatiently.
‘Their concubines loll in comfort on our beaches, ready to bear litters o’ the foul black-blooded creatures. Why do we no’ attack them while the bulk o’ the warriors are swimming south to hunt the whales?’
Lachlan glanced his way, his dark face softening in sympathy. ‘Linley, I ken ye lost most o’ your family in the Fairgean invasion o’ your homeland twelve years ago, but ye are asking me to send soldiers against women heavy with babe. I canna and shallna do it. I canna believe that Eà would wish me to have the blood o’ innocents on my hands …’
‘Innocents! No Fairgean is innocent!’ the MacSeinn retorted, his face white with fury and grief. ‘Did they no’ murder my wife and my son? Did they no’ massacre my clan till I have naught but a few hundred men left?’
‘Aye, they did,’ Lachlan said, ‘and that is no’ something to be forgiven lightly—’
‘I shall never forgive, never,’ the MacSeinn shouted, his voice raw with grief. ‘Do ye forgive the murder o’ your brothers so easily, Lachlan the Winged?’
The Rìgh’s face froze and his fingers tightened convulsively on the Lodestar so that it flashed with silver fire. ‘I do no’,’ he said in a cold voice.
‘Or your father, Parteta the Brave, who was murdered by the sea-demons’ king on the very beach where his concubines now lie fat and idle?’
‘I do no’ forget my father.’ Lachlan’s face was tight with anger and a bitter grief.
‘Then how can ye speak o’ innocents? How can ye waste the lives o’ our men trying to subdue Tìrsoilleir when the Fairgean have us trapped like coneys in a cornfield, too terrified to set our noses outside the harbour? My clan have been loyal to yours for a thousand years, yet ye make no move to restore my throne to me! It is the lands o’ the MacFóghnan and the NicHilde that ye fight to regain, when they have been your enemies for centuries! Where is the justice in that?’
‘Linley, ye ken we canna launch a strike against the stronghold o’ the Fairgean just now.’ Lachlan tried to control his temper but his voice and his body were trembling with anger. ‘We have no’ the men nor the money. If we can win Tìrsoilleir back for the NicHilde, then she will pay us well for all the damage the Bright Soldiers inflicted upon our lands. Better still, we shall have access to a whole army o’ highly trained soldiers. We shall be able to march on Carraig from both the west and the east, aye, even from the south with the Khan’cohbans’ help. Then we may have some chance o’ winning back your lands for ye.’
‘By that time the Fairgean will have swelled their numbers even more with all these newborn pups,’ Linley cried with disgust. ‘Why let them bear their young now if we plan to kill them all later?’
‘Happen we will no’ need to kill them all,’ Meghan said, her voice very stern. ‘If we can parley—’
‘Parley! Faugh!’ The MacSeinn made a sound of disgust. ‘Parley with the Fairgean? Your brain has grown soft with age, Meghan Keybearer!’
There were cries of outrage from the council, but most of the room remained silent. Fear and hatred of the Fairgean ran deep.
‘And is my brain soft with age too, Linley?’ Lachlan said, his voice very cold. He got to his feet and advanced on the MacSeinn, his wings raised so he was surrounded by darkness like a storm cloud. The prionnsa from Carraig shrank a little, despite all his attempts to stand firm. ‘Do ye think I do no’ understand the threat o’ the Fairgean? For twelve years they have rampaged unchecked, growing in strength and numbers every year. We are indeed trapped like coneys in a cornfield, unable to sail the seas, unable to send out our fishing fleets to harvest the ocean’s riches, unable to even water our herds at the rivers in fear o’ a webbed hand reaching out to drag us in. Do ye think I do no’ hate them too? My father died trying to repel them, all three o’ my brothers died at the hands o’ Maya the Ensorcellor, their wicked deceitful daughter. I have lost all my family and many o’ my friends because o’ their sly stratagems …’
He paused and took a deep breath, stepping back so he no longer loomed over the prionnsa of Carraig. He stared into the Lodestar and some of the angry colour left his face. For a long moment he seemed to listen, and then he looked up, holding out one hand appealingly to the MacSeinn.
‘We have so few men,’ he said simply. ‘Our losses in the Bright Wars were heavy indeed, and ye ken the lairds are reluctant to commit more men to our cause when they need so many to rebuild their ruined lands. Will ye no’ be patient a wee while longer?’
‘Patient!’ Linley MacSeinn shouted, his face suffused with rage. ‘For twelve years I’ve possessed my soul in patience, I’ve served my Rìgh loyally, and for what? For what? My home lies in ruins with those blaygird sea-demons swarming through its heart like maggots through dead meat, the ghosts o’ my loved ones haunt my sleep, and ye, ye wish to parley with them. Are ye mad or merely a fool? The Fairgean will never come to terms with ye. They hate us, and they will never rest until we are dead, every last warm-blooded one o’ us.’
Lachlan tried to speak but the MacSeinn threw his goblet across the room, splashing wine across the gilded walls like a stain of blood. In the shocked silence that followed, the MacSeinn strode out of the room, his unhappy son following with a shy glance of apology. Lachlan stood silently, his face heavy with trouble, his jaw clenched tight. Isabeau had to fight down an urge to comfort him, to smooth away the lines graven between his brows. She watched her sister lay her hand on the back of his neck and saw with a strange little twist beneath her breastbone how his tension eased.
After a moment Lachlan said with great authority, ‘We do no’ send soldiers against pregnant women and boys, no matter the bloody history that lies between our people. We shall attempt once more to parley. A messenger must be sent to the Fairgean king with an offer to discuss terms o’ peace. We are creatures o’ the land and they are creatures o’ the sea. Surely there is some way for us to live side by side?’
Three weeks later the Rìgh’s messenger was flung down from the back of a sea-serpent by one of the Fairgean princes. The messenger’s hands and feet had been hacked off, his eyes gouged out with coral, his tongue torn out by the roots. There would be no peace.
Fand crouched in the darkness. Her arms were wrapped tight about her knees, her head burrowed down in their meagre shelter. She was naked.
It was freezing in this tiny dark hole. Her limbs twitched uncontrollably. She bit her lip and the blood that ran down her chin was hot. She concentrated on that heat, trying hard to find the strength to keep her body warm, as she had for so many years. For after only three minutes in the icy seas of the north, the human body began to shut down. Respiration failed, circulation stopped, the fiery track of nerves ceased their urgent pulse. The body’s frail thrashing
Fand, however, had survived for more than twenty years in these freezing seas, willing her blood to run hot and fast. Twenty years and she had not once succumbed to the temptation of drowning, not once let the cold defeat her.
But now the little spark of stubbornness was sunk down to nothingness. She could find no reason for living. Her mind wandered, travelling down well-worn tracks. Fand rocked slightly, her eyes shut, her mouth shaping words and names that had almost lost meaning. It seemed she heard the sibilant hiss of voices slithering around her, searching to know what she knew, to make her speak those names, those words. She bit her lip harder and the blood ran into her mouth, sour as the taste of metal.
‘Who? Who?’ the voices hissed. ‘Who do you love? Who do you hate?’
Days before she had screamed. ‘You! I hate you! Leave me alone.’
Now she merely rocked and mumbled, the sounds without form or meaning. The blood froze on her chin, and her eyes were sealed shut with icicles of tears.
Suddenly they were all about her, lashing her with doom-eels that stung her into screams of agony. She ripped her eyelids open, seeing only the laughing, gloating faces of her tormentors, their skin livid in the strange shifting light. The tails of the doom-eels shone blue-white. She twisted and turned, trying to avoid the shock of their touch. Each strike lacerated her frozen flesh so blood welled up, horribly black in the phosphorescent gleam of the nightglobes.
‘Weak, sickly, stupid, halfbreed scum,’ the priestesses hissed. ‘Puny, useless, half-witted human, worthless as sea-cow’s offal. What use are you? What can you do? Can’t even grow a tail. Any worthless concubine’s get can do that. Can’t even breathe underwater. Pathetic girl-slave. No use even as a footstool. Can’t skin her to keep warm, no flesh on her to eat, no blood in her to drink, no fire in her to keep us warm, feeble as sea anemones’ piss, useless as spawn jelly.’