The Skull of the World by Kate Forsyth
Yet now the summer was almost gone and still Nila had not been able to find a way into the Isle of Divine Dread. And now a horrible fear lay upon him, choking him like an octopus’s tentacle.
All through the months they had been apart Nila had been aware of Fand as clearly as if she called out to him through the darkness. He had felt pain and grief and anger and desolation, he had felt a slow dying within her. Then last night, the night of the summer solstice, he had been jolted from sleep, crying aloud her name. He had dreamt of fire, that terrible weapon of the humans, that all-destroying, profane, unnatural power that melted ice, evaporated water, and burnt flesh to cinders. The horror of the dream lingered all day, and when at last he shook himself free of it, he realised that he could no longer feel Fand. It was as if she was dead.
Desperate with fear he had escaped the pod and swum for the Isle of Divine Dread, unable to admit that he might be too late. This was the sixth time he had swum all round the towering rock and he had seen no other sign of life but the clouds of crying seabirds. Black despair filled Nila once more.
Suddenly the seabirds roosting on one side of the rock burst into flight, screeching and circling. Nila watched in bemusement, wondering what had startled them. Suddenly all his nerves tightened. He dived beneath the waves, swimming strongly towards the rock, his long black hair streaming behind him. Far ahead he saw the bubbling green phosphorescence of a drowned nightglobe. Abruptly he stopped, wrenching his tail sideways. He floated deep in the water, his nostrils clamped shut, his gills fluttering. The light grew stronger, then he saw six priestesses come swimming up out of the inky black depths, carrying their nightglobes close to their bodies. With their eyesight dazzled by the green brightness, they did not see him. They swam up towards the glowing surface and then their heads broke through, so that all Nila could see was their strong silver tails undulating powerfully as they swam away.
He waited until his lungs were burning and his gills were quivering with strain, then swam up to the surface to breathe. He was very close to the island, perilously close. Just ahead of him the waves rose in long green swells that smashed upon the rocks in a welter of white foam. He could feel their strength dragging at his tail. He filled his lungs with air and then dived.
Down into the blackness he swam, his eyes wide open and staring. His hand brushed the plunging roots of the island, smooth and slimy to the touch. He followed the rock down, one hundred feet, two hundred feet. He had never dived so deep. His heartbeat slowed, a deliberate muffled pounding in his ears. His lungs burned with pain. Three hundred feet. Nila felt sick and giddy. He no longer knew which way was up, which way down. Only the rock sliding past his fingers reassured him. He wondered how long he had been diving. Certainly longer than he had ever dived before. Most Fairgean could only stay submerged for five minutes or so. He had been diving for three times as long. He had to fight the desire to breathe through his nose, knowing he would take in only water. Spots of colour danced before his eyes. His heartbeat was so slow he panicked in each long moment before its returning throb. Just as he had decided he was about to die, his fingers felt nothing but emptiness. He slowed his descent, twisted his tail, and followed the curve of the rock.
His head broke through into air. Nila took great whooping breaths, his starved lungs struggling to swallow more oxygen. His head swam, his pulse leaping erratically. He felt a ledge of rock below him and crawled out of the water, too exhausted to even attempt to change back into his land-shape. All was dark.
Minutes passed. His pulse steadied, his breaths grew more even. He transformed shape, crawled higher out of the water, banging his head on a wall of rock. The darkness was so complete it terrified him. It was as dark as the octopus’s pit, as dark as any of the Fathomless Caves. The darkness reminded him that he was committing sacrilege of the worst kind. A man trying to penetrate the mysteries of the Isle of Divine Dread?
Yet he had come too far to turn back. Nila crawled along the ledge, feeling his way with his hands, his head ducked down at an awkward angle to avoid any more collisions with the wall. He felt a breath of air on his cheek, turned that way, crept down a passageway that scraped the skin from his knees and palms. The wafting of air grew stronger. He received the impression of space. Although there was no sound, all the hairs on his head lifted, his scales shrank. He was being watched, being listened to. He froze into stillness, straining all his senses, trying to tell himself it was his terror that made him think so.
Suddenly light flared all around him, the queer distorted luminance of viperfish trapped within glass. He was surrounded on all sides by Priestesses of Jor, staring down at him malevolently. They did not speak, just stared at him, their pale eyes gleaming oddly in the greenish light. Nila stared back, a fatalistic calm settling over him.
‘Prince Nila, fourteenth son of he that is Anointed by Jor. Why do you come creeping and sneaking into our home? Do you not know that we can have you gutted and skinned like a fish for your effrontery?’
‘I have come for Fand,’ he said. His voice sounded odd to his ears.
‘There is no-one called Fand.’
‘Fand. My concubine. I have come for her.’
‘There is no-one called Fand.’
His head felt light, his pulse beat fast and erratic. ‘Fand,’ he said obstinately.
‘The slave you knew as Fand is gone,’ the priestess said. Her voice was soft and sibilant, yet somehow terribly frightening. ‘She is now a Priestess of Jor. She has no name. She is nobody.’
‘Fand,’ he said desperately, searching all their faces, which were lit from below by their nightglobes, giving them all a look of demonic glee.
‘Rise, Prince Nila, fourteenth son of he that is Anointed By Jor. You have dared to trespass upon the Isle of Divine Dread, and so you shall pay the price. But first, let us show you your one-time concubine.’
The circle of priestesses parted. Somehow Nila found the strength to stand, though his bowels were weak and his knees trembled. He followed them through endless caves and passages, stumbling in the uncertain glow of their nightglobes. They came at last to a gallery and looked down upon a huge cavern that was filled with concentric rings of priestesses, all holding aloft glowing nightglobes. Fand stood in the very centre, her eyes wide open and blank of all thought, her hands upon an enormous nightglobe set in a base of carved crystal. His eyes widened at the sight of it. The Nightglobe of Naia was the most secret and precious relic of the Priestesses of Jor. Many thousands had died to save it from the human attack, and it was sacrilege for any to look at it unbidden, let alone touch it. Fand must have very great powers indeed to be allowed to place her hands upon the Nightglobe of Naia.
‘Only the most powerful may touch the Nightglobe of Naia,’ came the sibilant hiss of the priestess in his ear, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Your former concubine is blessed indeed.’
Nila stared at Fand unhappily. She had the gauntness of all the other priestesses, the look of gloating fanaticism, the sickly paleness of a skin that sees no sunlight. He had meant to call to her but the words choked in his throat so that he could hardly breathe.
‘You may listen if you wish,’ the priestess whispered in his ear. She made a little sign with her hand, and as one all the priestesses below suddenly spoke.
‘What is your name?’ they hissed.
‘I have no name.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am nothing.’
‘Do you love us?’
‘No. I hate you.’
‘Do you love Prince Nila?’
‘No. I hate him. I love only Jor.’
‘Why do you hate Prince Nila?’
‘I love only Jor.’
‘Why do you love Jor?’
‘Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power.’
‘Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power. Jor is all,’ the priestesses chanted, and Fand chanted with them, her eyes staring straight ahead, unnaturally wide.
As t
‘Fand, I am so sorry … Forgive me! Forgive me, my darling, my love, forgive me …’
Fand stood with her hands pressed against the Nightglobe of Naia, staring into its luminous green heart. Within the great glass orb were two very ancient viperfish with enormous bulbous eyes. As they swam back and forth the light cast by their luminescent organs flowed over her face in wavering ripples. For a moment her staring eyes shone brilliantly green, then they sank back into cavernous shadows, then shone oddly green once more.
Around the sacred nightglobe stood an inner circle of six high-priestesses, each with her own nightglobe held beside her in her left hand, their right hands resting on top of the nightglobe of the priestess beside them. Around them stood a circle of twelve more priestesses, who were in turn circled by a ring of eighteen, and so on until a last ring of thirty-six young priestesses, all connected by the touch upon their nightglobes.
‘Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power. Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power. Jor is all.’ The chanting of the priestesses swelled and surged like the sea, rhythmic and unrelenting. Fand chanted with them, her eyes stretched wide and unblinking, the rhythm of the words in perfect harmony with the beat of her pulse, the rippling of green luminance, and the deliberate to and fro movement of the immense fish trapped within the glass.
‘Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power. Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power. Jor is all.’
Suddenly Fand’s voice faltered, her eyes blinked. She heard, from somewhere very far away, from another life altogether: Fand, I am so sorry … Forgive me!
Fand, she thought. I am Fand.
The ripples of light wavered, broke up. The two fish within the nightglobe stared at her with their huge, white eyes, no longer drifting back and forth in their terrible unrelenting rhythm. Fand stared back at them, her heart beating so fast it almost suffocated her. I am Fand.
Isabeau smiled as she heard the sound of giggling from within the playroom. She opened the door and stepped inside, only to be soaked with a deluge of icy-cold water. She shrieked involuntarily as a basin balanced on the top of the door missed her head by inches, clattering on the floor.
‘April Fool, April Fool!’ Donncan chanted, hovering in the air above her, his golden wings beating strongly.
‘Who’s the great gowk now?’ Neil cried, shouting with laughter. The twins clapped their hands with glee.
Isabeau sighed, laughed, and shook out her wet robe. ‘Och, ye wicked lads,’ she cried. ‘Could ye no’ have given me some warning?’
‘But it be All Fools’ Day,’ Donncan grinned, landing lightly on the ground, his wings folding. ‘What be the point o’ a trick if ye warn the sucker?’
Isabeau ran her hands down her dripping hair and it sprang up as vigorous and curly as if it had never been drenched. Then she ran her hands down her body until the linen steamed. She looked over at Elsie and grimaced. ‘Whoever thought o’ All Fools’ Day should be hung, drawn and quartered!’
‘Ye’ve only just stepped in, my lady. I’ve been wi’ these rapscallions all morn and no’ a moment’s peace I’ve had!’ the blonde maid replied with a smile. She was sitting sewing by the fire, a white cap framing her pretty face. ‘First o’ all I found an empty eggshell upside down in my eggcup, so when I broke the shell wi’ my spoon all I found to eat was air. Then they told me I had a spider on my head and when I shrieked, they rolled on the ground and laughed fit to split their sides. I’ve been made the gowk o’ four times already this morn, my lady, and I’ve only been here an hour or so.’
‘But what do ye do here, Elsie? Where be Sukey?’
‘She had to step out to run an errand and asked me to mind the bairns for her,’ Elsie replied, ‘though she’s been gone so long, I think she must be hunting the gowk.’
Isabeau gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘Have ye sent poor Sukey off on a fool’s errand?’ she said sternly to the boys.
They shook their heads, though Donncan replied cheekily, ‘We would’ve if we could’ve!’
‘I’ll see if I can find her,’ Isabeau said frowning. ‘I want to talk to her about Cuckoo’s birthday lunch.’
Neil gave another shriek of excitement. The little boy was nicknamed ‘cuckoo’ or ‘gowk’ for he had been born on the first day of April, Huntigowk Day. Gowk was another name for cuckoo, and although it was usually used to imply a fool or simpleton, in Neil’s case it was used affectionately. Isabeau hugged him lovingly. ‘Have ye had a happy birthday so far?’
‘Aye, indeed! Look! My da and mam had a whole pile o’ presents sent for me from Tìrsoilleir! There be my very own sword!’ Neil brandished a small wooden sword excitedly. ‘Donncan and me have been playing Bright Soldiers all morning and ’cause it’s my birthday, I got to be the seanalair o’ the Greycloaks for a change!’
‘Well, that was very nice o’ Donncan to let ye have a turn, Cuckoo,’ Isabeau said. Donncan grinned, perceiving the subtle irony of her words, but it went straight over Neil’s head, the little boy agreeing happily.
The son of Iain MacFóghnan of Arran and Elfrida NicHilde of Tìrsoilleir, Neil had been sent to stay within the safety of Lucescere while his parents were busy winning back the Crown of the Forbidden Land. The NicHilde clan had been deposed as the rulers of Tìrsoilleir when Elfrida was just a little girl, the land being ruled by the cruel and corrupt Fealde of Bride. Elfrida had spent her childhood locked up in the infamous Black Tower, only being released as a young woman when the Fealde negotiated a marriage of convenience for her with the son of Margrit NicFóghnan of Arran. Although both Iain and Elfrida had been unwilling pawns in Margrit’s machiavellian plots, the marriage of convenience had soon blossomed into a true, abiding love. The young couple had managed to break free of those who sought to manipulate them, fleeing Arran and giving their support to Lachlan. In return, the young Rìgh had helped to drive the treacherous Margrit out of Arran, giving the throne to her son. Now he endeavoured to do the same for Elfrida.
Neil’s face suddenly clouded and he looked down. ‘I wish Da and Mam could have been here for my birthday.’
Isabeau knelt beside him and hugged him close. ‘Aye, I ken,’ she said softly. ‘But the last news we had from Tìrsoilleir was very good indeed and they do no’ think it will be very long afore all o’ Tìrsoilleir submits to your mother’s rule. Once the country is at peace again, ye can go and join your parents again, and get to see what the land beyond the Great Divide looks like. Will that no’ be an adventure, my wee cuckoo?’
‘I wish the war was over. They’ve been away such an awful long time.’
Isabeau nodded. Nine months seemed like a long time to her too, and she was not six years old. She hugged him again and said, ‘Never mind, dearling. At least ye are here at Lucescere with us, no’ in Arran all by yourself. And today is your birthday, and no time to be sad. Happen your parents will have sent a pigeon with a birthday message for ye?’
‘That be what Sukey said,’ Neil replied, brightening. ‘Do ye think they would?’
‘I’m sure they would,’ Isabeau replied.
‘My da and mam sent me a birthday letter by pigeon post,’ Donncan said, floating up near the ceiling so he could examine the painted nisses’ strange, triangular faces. ‘And even though it was so snowy and stormy the pigeon made it safely, though it was three days late.’
‘Pigeons do no’ ken much about days and times,’ Isabeau said, smiling, ‘but they always fly just as fast as they can, so if there be no letter today, Neil, I’m sure there will be one soon.’
He nodded and began to play again, Donncan flying down to join him. Isabeau smiled at Elsie rather ruefully. ?
Elsie nodded. ‘No’ that I mind, my lady,’ she said. ‘I be far more comfortable here by the fire than I would be down scrubbing pots in the kitchen. I be hoping that if I help Sukey out often enough she’ll be putting in a good word for me to Her Highness and I’ll be getting a job as assistant nurserymaid.’
Isabeau nodded, hoping that Elsie was not dropping a hint in her direction as well. She had known Elsie since they had been scullery maids together at Rhyssmadill and had never really liked her. It may just have been that Elsie was altogether too pretty and knew it. Though Isabeau preferred to think she disliked the maid because Elsie was quick to tease others. Or at least she had been in the days when Isabeau had been nothing but a clumsy cook’s apprentice with a crippled hand. Now Isabeau was sister-in-law to the Rìgh himself and a banprionnsa in her right, Elsie was all smiles and friendliness.
Isabeau bid the children farewell, promising to return soon, and went out into the corridor, smiling at the guards who stood poker-faced against the wall.
Although Isabeau did not have the precise searching and finding powers of the MacRuraich clan, she could still sense out the minds of those she knew well, if they were nearby. She was worried Sukey may have been sent ‘hunting the gowk’ as a practical joke, sent perhaps to find a penny’s worth of elbow-grease or a pot of striped paint as was common on All Fools’ Day.
To her relief Isabeau felt Sukey close by, somewhere in the tangle of stables, kennels, pigpens, hencoops and fishponds behind the kitchen gardens. She made her way through the kitchen wing to the pigeon loft above the stables.
‘Be Sukey Nurserymaid here?’ Isabeau asked the pigeon-fancier who was busy cleaning out cages near the doorway.