Part 19 (1/2)

Desperation filled her. She had to find some way to escape the island! Her attention was suddenly caught by a splas.h.i.+ng movement below her. She looked down and smiled in sudden delight, for a playful family of sea otters were romping about below her. There was a tall rock with a steep incline down into the sea and the baby otters were using it as a slippery slide, shooting down the wet slope on their backs to splash into the sea. One or two of the baby sea otters were chasing each other through the waves, while their mother watched tolerantly from a rock, rolling over occasionally to bake her other side in the sun.

Isabeau had known otters all her life and had counted them among her greatest friends. She had never seen a sea otter before and was struck by how much larger they were than the ones she had known, with strong webbed feet and a thick reddish-brown fur. Their antics were as playful, however, and their dark eyes as intelligent. As Isabeau watched, entranced, the father of the family floated on his back with a large stone resting on his belly, smas.h.i.+ng mol-lusks with his powerful paws. He tossed the mol-lusks to his children and they leaped and dived for them, making sharp little cries of delight.

An idea suddenly came to Isabeau and she leaned forward eagerly, noting the strength and power of the sea otters' legs, the speed with which they swam through the waves. If swans could pull a sleigh through the air, why not sea otters through the water?

She would need more than this one family, however. The wooden sleigh was heavy and it was a long way to the mainland. She glanced around, wondering if there were many other colonies of sea otters on the island.

Out beyond the reef were a number of dark sleek heads bobbing up and down in the waves. Isabeau's heart leaped in delight, for she could easily get together enough sea otters to pull the sleigh with that great number. Then her heart was suddenly squeezed in the viselike grip of fear. She stared at the bobbing heads. She could see pale ovals of faces, and sharp upcurving tusks. Then a great scaled tail with a frilled fin broke the water's surface. They were not sea otters surfing along the break of water but Fair-gean!

Tides of Destiny

Lachlan strode up and down the forecastle deck, his wings all ruffled up, his black curls in disarray. His dark face was haggard.

”Canna ye whistle up any more wind?” he called down to a tall, fair-haired girl who clung to the bowsprit below him, just above the Royal Stag's ant-lered figurehead.”Nay, Your Highness,” Brangaine NicSian called back breathlessly. ”Any more wind and the sails shall tear free! We sail at full speed already. Besides, I can barely control the wind as it is. It is taking all my strength to keep it blowing fair.”

Lachlan gave a groan of frustration and swung around, his kilt swirling up. Back and forth he paced, his hands clenched around the Lodestar. ”If only there was something I could do!” he burst out.

”Ye could come and play cards with me,” Dide said, looking up from the guitar he was lazily strumming with long brown fingers. ”I thought long sea journeys were meant to be restful, but watching ye pace up and down like a caged saber leopard is about as restful as a march to war. Will ye no' sit down, master, and set yourself to amuse me? For, indeed, all this display o' energy is most wearisome for the rest o' us.”

Lachlan cast the handsome young jongleur a look of exasperated affection. ”As if I could sit and play cards while that cursehag has my son,” he burst out, despair in his voice. ”Och, surely we can sail more swiftly than this?”

Duncan Ironfist, the captain of the Yeomen of the Guard, said calmly, ”We are doing all that we can, Your Highness. Wearing out the fo'c'sle deck with all this to-ing and fro-ing shall no' make the s.h.i.+p sail any faster. Why do ye no' rest and let the captain do his job? Ye have been driving yourself for months now, securing the peace in Tirsoilleir and keeping the lairds happy. Ye canna keep on this way. Rest, my liege, and let-”

There was a shriek of anger. Lachlan's gyrfalcon suddenly plunged out of the sky, talons clenched.

Duncan took an involuntary step back. As solidly built as an ancient oak tree, with arms the width of most men's waists, even Duncan Ironfist could be dismayed by the sheer power and speed of the great white bird, which dropped as fast as a boulder and with almost as much weight. At the last moment Stormwing flung out his great white wings and landed on the Righ's shoulder, golden eyes blazing.

”No point in getting angry with me, Your Highness,” Duncan said stolidly.

Lachlan stared out at the sea, his fists clenched. It was clear he was trying to control his temper but the young righ had hardly slept since hearing the news of his son's kidnapping. His shock and horror had come close on the relief and joy of their victory in Tirsoilleir, the contrast of emotion making it all that much more terrible.

Duncan looked at the rigidly set shoulders of his righ and said gently, ”We are making record time down the coast, thanks to the NicSian's wind-whistling. Another week and we shall be sailing into the Berhtfane.”

”Another week!” Lachlan cried. ”And to think my poor wee laddie is in the hands o' that cursehag Thistle.

It twists up all my insides even thinking about it.”

Iseult had been standing against the rail, staring unseeingly at the waves billowing and surging against the s.h.i.+p's sides. She turned now and said, with a little quaver in her voice, ”Isabeau went in search o' them.

Isabeau will save them.”

Lachlan turned on her with a falcon's screech, his wings outstretched, his head thrust forward. ”Isabeau!”

he cried. ”Isabeau should've kept a closer eye on them. This would never have happened if she-”

Iseult went white, her blue eyes as hot with anger as his own. ”Do no' dare blame Isabeau for this! It is Sukey who betrayed us, Margrit who stole the laddies. Isabeau is the only one who has a chance o'

saving our son.”For a moment they stared at each other, then slowly Lachlan's wings lowered, the hostility dying out of his eyes. He stepped forward, his hand held out, his mouth twisting in contrition. ”Och, I'm sorry-” he began.

Iseult was red with anger. ”I've had enough!” she cried. ”Why must ye be always so unfair? Isabeau saved ye from the Awl, she was tortured in your place and crippled horribly; she was the one that helped ye most to save the Lodestar and win your throne, she has been loyal and faithful every step o' the way!

Yet right from the very beginning ye have been against her, ye have misread all her motives, ye have been cold and hostile to her. Why? Why?”

Lachlan did not answer, his wings hunched. Iseult drew away from him. ”Isabeau is my sister, my womb-sister!” she cried. ”She is as like me as my reflection in a mirror. How can ye love me and hate her?”

The black wings stirred. Lachlan looked away, color running up under his swarthy skin. ”Happen that be why,” he muttered.

She fell back a step. ”What?”

He turned on her, every muscle in his strong body tense with anger and frustration. ”I met Isabeau first, remember!” he cried. ”When I met ye later, I thought ye were her. Apart from the cropped hair, ye were exactly the same, exactly! The same bonny face, the same fiery curls and summer sky eyes. I thought ye the most beautiful, bright thing I had ever seen. I thought her the most beautiful, bright thing I'd ever seen.

She was naught but a child though. She had no idea what she was getting into. Ye say she saved me from the Awl and was tortured in my place. Ye are right! And aye, it was my fault, all my fault. But how was I to ken? I thought I had to get away from her to keep her safe. But all I did was throw her to the wolves.

And when we met again, all that sweet innocence, that s.h.i.+ning beauty, was ruined. Ruined.”

Iseult stared at him, tense as a bowstring. He turned away, his golden eyes brooding, his wings hunched close about him. The gyrfalcon gave a hoa.r.s.e, melancholy cry, and Lachlan smoothed his white feathers.

”How can I love ye and hate her?” he said with a dark, mocking edge to his voice. ”What else can I do?

She has your face, your body, your fearless gaze. Or she had. Now she has a crippled hand and the knowledge o' terror in her eyes. And I gave her both. If I am no' to hate her, what am I to do? Love her?”

He laughed harshly and went away downstairs, leaving Iseult standing alone on the forecastle deck, the wind blowing her red-gold curls about.

Dide stepped forward, his face troubled. ”He does no' mean it,” he said gently. ”Ye ken what he is like when his black mood be upon him. He does no' mean-”

Iseult turned her cold, autocratic gaze upon him. ”Does he no'?” she said with a chill in her voice. ”I think he does.”

”Iseult-”

”Do no' look so troubled, Dide,” she said. ”Lachlan always suffers from feeling things too much, too intensely. He fears for Donncan very much. He will feel better when he is no' so confined by the s.h.i.+p.

Once we are on land and he can stride about and shout orders and feel like he is doing something, then he will feel better.” There was the slightest edge in her voice.

”Iseult . . .”She turned away from Dide, drawing her plaid up about her shoulders, her profile set as cold and white as marble. ”Oh, I ken,” she said impatiently. ”He will be sorry he spoke when his temper dies. I ken what he's like, better than ye. It does no' mean he did no' speak the truth.” She gave a little s.h.i.+ver and looked out again at the blue undulating horizon. ”Another week . . .” she murmured. ”Oh, Isabeau, please, save them, save my wee laddie.”

Isabeau scrambled down the rocks and ran along the sand, terror driving her steps. She burst into the hut, crying, ”There be Fairgean in the water! They look as though they're swimming for sh.o.r.e.”

Maya leaped to her feet, alarm on her face. She threw open the lid of a large, battered wooden chest and dragged out a clarsach. ”Bronny, where is your flute?”

The little girl was white with terror, but she scrambled to her feet and grabbed her flute, which she always kept by her. It was her favorite possession, along with a ragged doll. Isabeau had given both to her back in the days when Bronwen had lived with her at the Cursed Towers. With the flute clutched in her small hand, Bronwen followed her mother out on to the beach.

”What are ye doing?” Isabeau cried. ”Should we no' hide? I tell ye, they were swimming in past the reefs.”

Maya did not answer her, striding down to the edge of the lagoon where she sat down on a rock with the clarsach on her lap. Bronwen stood beside her, the flute raised to her lips.

”What do ye do?” Isabeau cried again. ”This is no time for a musical concert! Had we no' better find something to use as a weapon?”

Maya indicated her clarsach with a contemptuous gesture. ”This be a far better weapon than any stick ye'U find on the beach.”