There she clung, looking about her, her hand shading her eyes. For as far as she could see the sea rippled away like crumpled blue satin. All about tall crags of rock thrust up through the water, some steep and bare, others round and green with high cliffs falling down to wicked-looking rocks where the water creamed.
Far below her, the deck of the ship swung to and fro as the mast swayed. The white sails billowed, filled with wind. Here and there a bare-chested man hung in the shrouds, tightening tackle or repairing rope. She was so high the blue line of the horizon seemed to curve.
‘Wha’ do ye think ye’re doing, ye gowk!’ The lookout turned with a shout of surprise. He was a skinny boy, not much older than Finn herself, and considerably smaller. He wore a large tricorne hat to shade his face from the sun and carried a spyglass which he had been holding to one eye as Finn climbed into his little crow’s nest. He had lowered it at her sudden appearance and was glaring at her angrily. Despite the protection of the broad-brimmed hat, his face was burnt red from the sun, and his freckled nose was peeling.
‘I wanted to have a look,’ Finn replied, grinning at him.
‘There be no’ enough room in here for a donbeag, let alone a great tall lad like ye!’ he protested. ‘Do ye no’ understand it be dangerous up here? They shouldna be allowing a raw recruit like ye to just climb on up.’
‘I dinna exactly ask permission,’ she answered. ‘Please, canna ye just let me have a squint through that spyglass o’ yours? Then I promise I’ll slide on down and leave ye in peace.’
After a moment’s hesitation he let her have it, only warning her not to drop it, ‘else the captain’ll have ye keel-hauled, that I promise ye!’
Eagerly she lifted the farseeing glass to her eyes and peered through it. At first all she could see was blueness, but she lifted the spyglass and swung it until suddenly the steep cliff of an island sprang towards her, bare and rocky. The lookout showed her how to focus the spyglass and she was amazed to see a bird crouching on a shaggy nest of twigs on the side of the cliff. As she watched two white fluffy heads with gaping beaks suddenly thrust out from their mother’s feathers, squawking for food.
She watched for some time, smiling, then swung the glass around slowly, amazed at how clearly she could see things many miles away. At last the lookout said gruffly, ‘Give me it back, porridge-head. It is no’ a plaything. I’m meant to be on the watch for sea demons and the captain will have my hide for a floor mat if I miss their approach.’
‘They said ye’d seen a sea serpent. Couldna ye just show me that? Then I’ll go, I swear.’
‘Och, I suppose so,’ he answered unwillingly and took the spyglass from her and focused it on the curving blue line of the horizon. ‘There it be,’ he cried in excitement. ‘Quick, look—do no’ move the glass, for Eà’s sake!’
Finn peered through the spyglass again and sucked in her breath in amazement. A great sinuous creature was undulating through the waves, its glossy spotted scales shining in the sun. A vivid green in colour, it had a small graceful head crowned with spiny fins that ran down its curving neck. Spectacular flowing fins surrounded its gaping jaws and sprouted from its shoulders like wings. It swam with its head held high out of the waves, its immensely long body coiling behind, its finned tail creating a powerful wake.
She ran the spyglass along its serpentine length, marvelling at the speed with which it coiled through the water. Suddenly she froze, the spyglass trained just above its soft orange and yellow wings. On the monster’s neck rode a man. All she could see of him was a bare chest, wet flowing black hair and a raised trident, but it was enough to cause her heart to slam sickeningly, her stomach to lurch.
‘A Fairge be riding it!’ she gasped.
The lookout seized the spyglass from her and raised it to his eye. He stared through it frowningly, then said begrudgingly, ‘Aye, ye be right. Ye have guid eyes. Happen ye’d better scoot and tell the captain.’
Finn slid down the ropes, landed with a thump in the main topcastle, and began the long descent down to the deck with quick and easy agility. Men sat crosslegged on the wooden boards with canvas draped over their knees, repairing a long rent in the mizzen sail. She swung down onto the deck and looked about her for someone in authority to tell. She might still be a landlubber but she knew better than to try and see the captain herself.
The fourth mate was standing by the helmsman, watching the horizon for any telltale break of water that might indicate a reef ahead. Finn told him about the Fairge she had seen and saw his sunburnt face crease with concern. He cast a quick glance up at the full-bellied sails, nodded and thanked her brusquely.
With the little elven cat riding in the crook of her arm, Finn went in search of Dide. Their watch had finished and so he was not on duty any more. She found him up in the forecastle with his grandmother, Jay and Dillon playing trictrac at their feet.
Enit’s chair had been wedged right up in the bow of the ship, so that she looked rather like another figurehead with her wood-brown face all carved with deep lines of age and her twig-like knotted fingers so stiff she could barely hold a spoon any more. Seabirds floated around her head and perched on the bulwark before her, some sitting along the back and arms of her chair so that she was surrounded by their white feathers like a living cloak. The sound of the birds’ quarrelling was deafening and Finn felt no hesitation in telling the others what she had seen, sure that none could overhead their conversation.
‘Will we be able to outrun the Fairgean?’ Dillon asked soberly, smoothing Jed’s silky black ears between his fingers. The hound looked up at him with adoring eyes, his shaggy white tail beating the wooden boards.
Dide was frowning. ‘No’ here amongst the islands,’ he answered. ‘I be surprised already how many sails we are carrying. It be dangerous indeed to whip the ship along at this rate in such treacherous waters.’
Jay and Enit were looking very troubled indeed. ‘Can we no’ sail out to deeper waters and leave the Bay o’ Deception behind?’ the fiddler asked.
Dide nodded. ‘That is the plan soon enough. The problem is once we lose sight o’ the coastline we canna use landmarks to help us navigate and must rely on the stars and the sea, a chancy business at best. The other thing is, we have a better chance o’ staying hidden among the islands, since once we’re on the open sea our mast and sails can be seen for many miles.’
‘Still, if the Fairgean have spotted us, happen we’d best change course now and head for the open sea where we have some chance o’ outrunning them,’ Enit said. Her voice was heavy with dread.
‘Happen ye be right,’ Dide answered, caressing the hilt of one of his silver daggers.
‘The first mate told the sailors no’ to fear the Fairgean, that the Yedda would sing them to death,’ Finn said. ‘Did he mean ye, Enit?’
Enit nodded, though her face was pinched and white. ‘Aye, he meant me,’ she answered. ‘Wha’ do ye think I do here, an auld crippled woman like me, Finn? I am no use in fighting off pirates, like young Dillon here, or climbing into the Black Tower like ye. Do ye think the captain would ever have let me on board his ship, given how he feels about women being bad luck, if he had no’ thought I’d be some use?’ Her voice was bitter.
‘I did no’ ken ye were a Yedda.’ There was awe in Finn’s voice. Although the sea-singers of Carraig had all died in Maya’s witch-hunts long before Finn was born, she knew all about them, as any child who listened to the old tales and songs must know. The Carraigean witches had been the main line of defence against the Fairgean for centuries, for they had the power to sing the sea-faeries to death. Before they had been massacred by Maya and her seekers, no ship had ever left harbour without a Yedda on board, no seaside town or castle had been without its sea-witch, no prionnsa’s retinue had been complete without a musician trained at the Tower of Sea-Singers.
‘I am no Yedda,’ Enit replied wearily, ‘though I have been taught the songs o’ sorcery. They would have had me, if I had been willing to submit m
yself to the Coven. I was never interested in being a witch, though, and I feared the power o’ the songs o’ sorcery. I still do.’
‘Yet ye’ve been teaching them to Jay,’ Finn said, staring at him with new eyes. Sudden realisation brought her gaze flying back to Enit. ‘And to Ashlin!’
‘Aye, both the lads have talent,’ Enit said. ‘I could no’ refuse to teach them what I ken, although my heart misgives me.’
‘But why?’ Finn asked. ‘Toasted toads, what I would no’ give to be able to sing or play like ye do! I have seen ye bring tears to the eyes o’ the roughest soldiers and why, Dide can even make Arvin the Just smile with his songs, and he be the dourest man I’ve ever seen.’
‘Aye, music has the power to move,’ Dide replied when his mother did not, her sombre black eyes gazing out to the tumult of waves ahead. ‘But like all power, it can be misused and misunderstood. The songs o’ sorcery are specifically designed to compel and constrain.’ She heard the stress of subtle power in his voice, the lilt of enchantment. ‘With the songs’ o’ sorcery ye can seduce and bring to love, ye can incite war and revolution, ye can stupefy and confuse, ye can kill. No matter how much ye wish to use your powers only for good, always ye may find ye have moved a man in ways he would no’ wish for or look for. We all must choose our own path.’
‘But surely all art is designed to move people, to make them think and feel things they have never felt and thought afore,’ Jay argued. It was clear this was a discussion they had had many times before, for Dide gave a little grin in response. ‘Did Gwenevyre NicSeinn no’ say that if ye can just stretch a man’s mind in a new direction, it shall never return to its old dimensions? Surely that is a good thing, to make people’s minds and souls greater than afore?’
‘Aye, that it is,’ Dide responded warmly. ‘Why else do we sing and play and tell tales o’ valour and gallantry and compassion, if we do no’ want to move our listeners to high ideals and aspirations? It is just that granddam has seen the evil that can be done with such power …’
‘But can no’ all power be turned to evil ends?’ Finn asked.
‘Aye,’ Enit cried, startling them all. ‘And sometimes the greatest evil can be done in the name o’ good. The Yedda were honoured and celebrated for what they did, yet I have seen the sea black with the bodies o’ a hundred drowned Fairgean. I have seen mere babes loosen their grip on their mother’s hair and sink away below the waves, their gills closed, water filling their lungs. Do ye think I wish to use my powers in such a way? My dreams are haunted by the fear that I may have to sing the song o’ death, that I may cast a spell like the Yedda used to cast. Eà save me from ever having to do so again.’
There was a wrought silence, then Finn whispered, ‘Ye have sung the song o’ death afore?’
Her contorted fingers gripping the arms of her chair, Enit slowly nodded. ‘Aye, I have,’ she answered, ‘and I swore I should never do so again.’
All that day the Speedwell crept through the islands, the lead-line constantly being checked to make sure deep water still lay under her hull. In some places they had to drop most of the sails, seize oars and slowly manoeuvre their way through a narrow channel of water, surrounded by wide stretches of sand on either side. Several times they saw Fairgean basking in the sun on the sand, or sporting about in the shallow lagoons formed by the retreat of the tides. They were never close enough to see more than their black heads, though once or twice male Fairgean swam after their ship, shaking their tridents and whistling mockingly.
Finn grew used to the shout of the fathoms’ depth and was taught to recognise the feel of the different markers sewn along the lead-line’s length so that even in the blackest night she could tell how deep the water was under the ship. No-one wanted to run aground on a sandbank when the Fairgean were there.
Close on sunset they sailed past a tall island that reared out of the lesser islands about it like a carthorse among ponies. Crowned with a tall square tower set behind a great crenellated rampart, its steep cliffs rose straight out of an expanse of white sand that stretched for miles in all directions. Scattered across the sand were a few ancient walls, encrusted with dried seaweed and barnacles.
‘That be the Tower o’ First Landing,’ one of the sailors told Finn and Bran as they leant over the bulwark, staring up at its stern grey height. ‘They say when we first came to Eileanan, the people built down on the shores o’ the island, not realising that the tides would sweep in and drown them all. When the autumn tides did come, it brought with it the Fairgean and those that were no’ drowned were murdered. If they had no’ built the tower they all might have died.’
‘Does anyone live there now?’ Finn asked in curiosity, for the walls were stout still and the tower reared up straight and tall.
‘Och, I doubt it,’ the sailor answered. ‘All the towers were torn down by the Ensorcellor, were they no’? Besides, I’ve heard tell it be haunted by the ghost o’ Cuinn Lionheart. His grave is in there, ye ken, all covered in white heather, the only place where heather grows in all o’ Eileanan. That be a flower from the Other World, ye ken. They say he carried it in his buttonhole and when they laid him down on the bank after his ship was wrecked on the rocks, it fell out o’ his lapel and took root there where he lay.’
‘What a storm that must have been,’ Bran said dreamily, ‘to carry a ship across the entire universe. No wonder they called her Storm-Rider.’
Finn made sure the sailor had stepped out of hearing before whispering crossly, ‘Well, your ancestor may have conjured the storm but it was mine that found Eileanan on the star-map!’
Unexpectedly, Bran smiled at her. ‘Aye, they all must have been amazingly powerful witches indeed,’ she whispered. ‘What a feat that First Crossing must have been! And what courage. It makes this journey seem somewhat less dangerous and foolhardy in comparison, doesn’t it?’
Finn grinned. ‘I suppose so,’ she answered. ‘Though I still hit myself over my head sometimes, wondering what I be doing here when I could be safe in Castle Rurach.’
Bran immediately sobered. ‘If Castle Rurach be still safe.’
Finn’s smile faded and her face grew troubled. ‘Och, I do so hope they are all safe,’ she whispered, stroking Goblin’s silky head. ‘I wish …’
After a long pause Bran prompted her. ‘What?’
‘Och, naught. I sure they all be fine. Come, where be the lads? I want to challenge Ashlin to another game o’ trictrac. He’s been winning far too many lately.’
‘Ye should no’ say “lads” like that,’ Bran reprimanded Finn as she followed her down the ladder towards the galley. ‘We’re meant to be lads too, remember.’
Finn took a breath to say something scathing, then bit the words back. ‘Aye, I ken. Sorry, Bran.’ She said the boy’s name with a subtle stress.
‘It’s hard to remember sometimes, I ken,’ Bran answered with a little giggle. ‘Harder for me, ’cause I’m used to seeing ye looking all ragged and brown. It should be easy for ye to remember, seeing me look like this.’ She lifted the short end of her pigtail with a grimace.
‘It’s odd how quickly I’ve got used to it,’ Finn answered. ‘I find it hard to remember ye all pretty and girly.’
Bran gave her a little pinch in retaliation as they came into the galley, as always crowded with the men who were not on watch. ‘I’ll give ye all pretty and girly if ye do no’ watch it,’ she hissed. ‘We’ll see who punches more like a lass!’
As Finn turned a surprised face towards her, Bran chuckled and sauntered away, mimicking Finn’s boyish swagger perfectly.
Under the cover of darkness that night, the Speedwell changed course, setting sail for the deep uncluttered ocean beyond the hundreds of islands scattered along the coastline. When Finn was roused by the bosun’s whistle the next morning, it was to find the little caravel racing along a deep swell, the coastline a mere shadowy blur along the horizon. The sun was rising red above an ocean the colour of tarnished silver, turning the sails to p
ink. The only sign of life was the sea birds soaring ahead of the ship, their wings stained the same colour as the sails.
With the ship under full sail, it was hard work for all the sailors that day. The bosun shouted himself hoarse with the captain’s orders, the deckhands were kept busy trimming the sails as the helmsman fought to keep the ship running as close to the wind as possible. ‘We’ll have left that blaygird sea serpent miles behind,’ Finn said to Dillon with great satisfaction that evening as she examined her red, sore palms, rubbed raw from hauling on ropes all day.
‘I hope so,’ he answered without conviction. ‘I have no wish to be drawing blade against a sea serpent.’
Finn glanced up at him in puzzlement. ‘Once ye would have thought this a high adventure,’ she said, finding it hard to speak the words. This stern-faced, broad-shouldered man was so unlike the Scruffy she had known that speaking to him was worse than making conversation with a stranger.
‘Would I have?’ Dillon answered, gently fingering the curiously wrought hilt of the sword he wore always at his side. ‘I suppose I would have, when I was a bairn, with no more sense than a newly hatched chick. I ken better now.’
Finn hesitated, then said with a little burst of words, ‘It must have been so awful for ye, Scruffy, having Jorge captured and burnt, and having Antoinn, Artair and Parlan all die like that, right in front o’ ye.’
He said nothing for a long time and Finn shrank back a little, sorry she had spoken. Then he said, ‘Ye should no’ call me “Scruffy”, Finn. Scruffy died a long time ago.’
With an attempt at humour, Finn said, ‘O’ course, ye’re Dillon the Bold now, are ye no’? I keep on forgetting.’
‘Dillon the Bold is dead too,’ he answered, and his hands caressed the sword as if it were flesh. ‘They call me Dillon o’ the Joyful Sword now.’
Finn stared at him, her skin creeping. He looked up at her, a strange half-smile on his face. ‘This be a magical sword, did ye ken that, Finn? Do ye remember when I found her that day in the ruin o’ the Tower o’ Two Moons? I did no’ ken then, I did no’ ken that she was a magical sword.’ He stroked it lovingly. ‘She be a thirsty sword, thirsty for blood. Once ye draw her, ye canna sheathe her again until her thirst is slaked. And she will drink and drink until there is no more blood to drink, till all are dead …’