Kate Forsyth - The Fathomless Caves: Book Six of the Witches of Eileanan

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The Fathomless Caves

Book Six or the Witches of Eileanan

Kate Forsyth

A ROC BOOK

For all those who died stripped naked, shaved, shorn, For all those who screamed in vain to the Great Goddess, only to have their tongues ripped out by the root,

For all those who were pricked, racked, broken on the wheel for the sins of their Inquisitors.

For all those whose beauty stirred their torturers to fury; And for those whose ugliness did the same.

And for all those who were neither ugly nor beautiful, but only women who would not submit.

For all those quick fingers, broken in the vise.

For all those soft arms, pulled from their sockets. For all those budding breasts, ripped with hot pincers, For all those midwives, killed merely for the sin of delivering man to an imperfect world.

For all those witch-women, my sisters who breathed freer as the flames took them,

knowing as they shed their female bodies,

the seared flesh falling like fruit in the flames,

that death alone would cleanse them of the sin for which they died

the sin of being born a woman who is more than the sum of her parts

Anonymous, sixteenth century

(Published in Erica Jong, Witches, 1981)

1. Magic is the mother of eternity, and of the

essence of all essences, for it makes itself by

itself and is understood in the desire.

2. It is nothing in itself but a will....

5. Magic is spirit and being is its body....

6. Magic is the most secret thing.

Jakob Bhme, Base des six points thesophiques, 1620

The Weaver's Shuttle Flies

Beltane Fires

The soaring towers of Rhyssmadill were bright with the light of a thousand lanterns. They blazed from every window and were strung through the palace gardens like garlands of fiery flowers. Beneath their radiance, crowds of gaily dressed people talked and laughed as they watched the spectacular acrobatics of the jongleurs and listened to the minstrels. Many danced around the roaring bonfire in the center of the square, or sat at the long trestle tables, loaded with delicacies of all kinds.

The Merry May ale flowed freely. All were celebrating the victory in Tirsoilleir that had brought an end to the civil war that had troubled Eileanan for so long. No one needed to fear another invasion by the Bright Soldiers of Tirsoilleir, for Elfrida NicHilde had gladly sworn fealty to the Rgh, Lachlan MacCuinn, after her restoration to the throne. For the first time in hundreds of years, all the lands of Eileanan were united and at peace.

As the two moons sailed higher in the starry sky, the dancing grew wilder, the cheering and stamping grew louder, the minstrels' songs grew bawdier and plates began to get broken. Brun the cluricaun amused the crowd with his antics, swinging from lantern pole to lantern pole, and playing his flute while hanging upside down from the trees. Dide the Juggler walked on his hands, juggling a spinning circle of golden balls with his feet. He left a trail of broken leaves and twigs behind him, for he had once again been chosen as the Green Man of the Beltane feast and so wore leafy branches tied to every limb. With his dark eyes alight with merriment and his slim muscular body filled with vigor, he was the perfect choice as the embodiment of the life-force that renewed the world in springtime.

Isabeau took a sip of goldensloe wine. From the corner of her eye she could see Dide dancing a spirited jig with a pretty blonde girl as the crowd clapped and laughed and cheered. Resolutely, Isabeau shifted in her seat so that she could not see him. She had to remind herself quite forcibly that she had no time for dillydallying with a fickle, volatile, unreliable jongleur, no matter how handsome. She looked down at her right hand, a gleaming jewel on every finger, then lifted her head proudly, raising the three fingers of her left hand to clasp the petrified owl talon that hung around her neck on a leather thong.

The rings on Isabeau's right hand were not for mere adornment, unlike the jewels at the throats and wrists of the other women sitting at the high table. Like her tall staff crowned with a perfect white crystal and her austere white robe, the rings showed Isabeau to be a powerful witch. Isabeau was one of the youngest witches in the history of the Coven to have won all five of her elemental rings, yet she was hungry to go on and sit her Sorceress Test. She needed to focus all her will and desire upon her studies if she hoped to master the High Magic, and no black-eyed jongleur with a wicked grin was going to distract her from achieving that goal.

You-whoo gloomy-whoo? the little white owl sitting on the back of Isabeau's chair hooted anxiously.

"No' at all," Isabeau replied firmly and drained her goblet of goldensloe wine.

Despite the noise and merriment of the crowds, the company sitting at the high table did seem rather morose. The Rgh was slouching on one elbow, a goblet grasped in one hand, his chin resting in the other. His glossy black wings were sunk low, his topaz-golden eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth set sullenly.

In contrast, his wife, Iseult, was sitting very straight, the goblet of wine before her untasted. She was dressed severely in white, her mass of red-gold curls was pulled back from her brow and hidden within a white snood, and she wore only two rings, a moonstone on her right hand, a dragoneye on her left hand. But unlike the plainness of Isabeau's white witch-robes, Iseult's austerity was a matter of choice. As the Banrgh of Eileanan, Iseult could have been dressed as richly and gaily as any other lady at the Beltane feast. Her only adornment, however, was the clan brooch that clasped her snowy-white plaid about her shoulders. The brooch was exactly the same as that which pinned together the white folds of Isabeau's plaid, a circle formed by the stylized shape of a dragon, rising from two single-petalled roses surrounded by thorns, for the two women seated side by side at the high table were twins, as alike as mirror images. If it was not for Isabeau's scarred and maimed left hand, and the staff and witch-rings that showed her status as a member of the Coven, a stranger could well have had difficulty in telling them apart.

The chill silence between the Rgh and Banrgh had affected the spirits of all the other lords and ladies at the royal table. Most had gone to seek more cheerful company on the dance floor or by the ale barrels. Elfrida NicHilde, who could not overcome her lifelong indoctrination against any kind of merrymaking, had gone to brood over her young son, Neil, sleeping upstairs in the nursery suite with the other children. Her husband, Iain MacFghnan of Arran, had been drawn into a political argument with some of the other prionnsachan, while the ancient Keybearer of the Coven, Meghan NicCuinn, had sought her bed some time ago. There was only Isabeau, Iseult and Lachlan left, all of them somber and preoccupied.

Connor, the Rgh's young squire, knelt by Lachlan's side with a crystal decanter of whiskey. "It is near midnight, Your Highness," he said respectfully as he once again refilled the Rgh's goblet. Lachlan looked at him rather blankly, his eyes bloodshot. "It's time for the crowning o' the May Queen," Connor prompted, rising again and stepping back.

"O' course," Lachlan said, his words rather slurred. "The May Queen. How could I forget?" There was a slight trace of sarcasm in his voice and Isabeau felt her twin stiffen, drawing herself up even further. Isabeau roused herself from her own miserable thoughts to turn and look at her sister, but the Banrgh's face was averted, her profile as cold and white as if carved from marble.

Lachlan leapt up onto the table, his black wings sweeping out and back so the movement was as swift and graceful as the soaring of an eagle. "My good people," he called, his voice ringing out across the tumult of laughter, chatter and music. Immediately everyone stilled and turned to face him, for Lachlan's voice had a rare magic in it, as compelling as the song of any sea-singer.