Ghislaine said. ‘I wonder if I could use such a mechanism to aid me in dream-walking back in time? We tend to use memory markers. Ye ken, smells, shapes, the touch o’ certain materials, music or other sound prompts. But they are very imprecise.’
Cailean and Stormstrider spent the rest of the day studying the celestial astrolabe, and doing their best to explain its mysteries to those who did not have so much of a fascination with astronomy and mathematics. Ghislaine did not listen. She was off in a reverie, imaginingher own navigational tool to aid dream-walking. Dide sat and strummed his guitar, and began composing a dirge in Lachlan’s honour. Isabeau paced back and forth, biting her fingernails till her cuticles bled, and doing her best not to shriek with irritation at the dragging of the hours. Here, in Brann’s tomb, it seemed his voice was louder and more compelling than ever.
Gradually the sun had dropped towards the horizon and the little party began to make its preparations. Dobhailen had gone hunting, and came back with a bloody muzzle and a few tufts of coney fur sticking to his mouth. The Celestines ate a frugal meal of seeds, nuts, dried fruit and water; the witches had a slightly more substantial meal of bread and cheese and bellfruit jam, and dried apricots, and a bottle of goldensloe wine. This was a wine normally reserved for festivals and weddings, taking a great many goldensloes to make, and it gave their picnic a ritual feel, as if it was indeed to be their last supper.
When all had eaten and drunk their fill, and tidied up after themselves, they came to stand by the pool, linking hands in a chain. Cloudshadow had spent her time painting runic symbols into flat dark stones which she had gathered from the parkland about the mausoleum. She had arranged these around the pool in the same pattern that the menhirs would once have stood in. Now she held one of those stones in her hand. Painted upon it were four symbols, signs for setting sun, rising star, three-quarter moon and rock. She stepped forward through two of her rune-painted rocks and disappeared, drawing Isabeau after her.
Isabeau fell into a whirlpool of roaring red light. It dragged at her arms and legs, sought to draw her head away from her body. Although she tried to run, as one must do when travelling the Old Ways, her body responded onlyvery, very slowly. It was like one of those nightmares when one tries to scream but has no voice, tries to run but one’s feet are stuck to the floor, tries to punch but finds the air has turned to treacle. Even drawing of breath was an immense effort and the air seemed to shrivel her lungs.
Normally, when one ran the Old Ways, one could see the landscape which one traversed blurring on the other side, as if each step carried one a hundred leagues. What Isabeau saw through the red inferno of flames was quite different. The landscape in its essentials stood still. Everything, however, changed, and so rapidly Isabeau had no time to absorb any details before they were gone. Stars wheeled overhead, rising and setting in seconds, to be followed by the rapid blowing of clouds, the brightening and darkening of the sky, the swift passage of the moon from new to full, to new to full, over and over again. Grown trees shrank back to seeds, cleared land became forest again, storms raged and stilled, seasons flickered past. The courses of streams and rivers changed, and the thick, gnarled trunks of the ancient yew trees became young, slim saplings, newly planted. All this happened in the time it took her to take four painful, rasping breaths and to force her immensely heavy, unresponsive limbs four staggering steps forward. Her joints were screaming with pain, and her extremities were numb and tingling with pins and needles so that she could not feel Dide hanging onto her hand behind her.
Suddenly she was sucked down through the whirlpool. It happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that Isabeau could not scream. For a
Cailean and Stormstrider spent the rest of the day studying the celestial astrolabe, and doing their best to explain its mysteries to those who did not have so much of a fascination with astronomy and mathematics. Ghislaine did not listen. She was off in a reverie, imaginingher own navigational tool to aid dream-walking. Dide sat and strummed his guitar, and began composing a dirge in Lachlan’s honour. Isabeau paced back and forth, biting her fingernails till her cuticles bled, and doing her best not to shriek with irritation at the dragging of the hours. Here, in Brann’s tomb, it seemed his voice was louder and more compelling than ever.
Gradually the sun had dropped towards the horizon and the little party began to make its preparations. Dobhailen had gone hunting, and came back with a bloody muzzle and a few tufts of coney fur sticking to his mouth. The Celestines ate a frugal meal of seeds, nuts, dried fruit and water; the witches had a slightly more substantial meal of bread and cheese and bellfruit jam, and dried apricots, and a bottle of goldensloe wine. This was a wine normally reserved for festivals and weddings, taking a great many goldensloes to make, and it gave their picnic a ritual feel, as if it was indeed to be their last supper.
When all had eaten and drunk their fill, and tidied up after themselves, they came to stand by the pool, linking hands in a chain. Cloudshadow had spent her time painting runic symbols into flat dark stones which she had gathered from the parkland about the mausoleum. She had arranged these around the pool in the same pattern that the menhirs would once have stood in. Now she held one of those stones in her hand. Painted upon it were four symbols, signs for setting sun, rising star, three-quarter moon and rock. She stepped forward through two of her rune-painted rocks and disappeared, drawing Isabeau after her.
Isabeau fell into a whirlpool of roaring red light. It dragged at her arms and legs, sought to draw her head away from her body. Although she tried to run, as one must do when travelling the Old Ways, her body responded onlyvery, very slowly. It was like one of those nightmares when one tries to scream but has no voice, tries to run but one’s feet are stuck to the floor, tries to punch but finds the air has turned to treacle. Even drawing of breath was an immense effort and the air seemed to shrivel her lungs.
Normally, when one ran the Old Ways, one could see the landscape which one traversed blurring on the other side, as if each step carried one a hundred leagues. What Isabeau saw through the red inferno of flames was quite different. The landscape in its essentials stood still. Everything, however, changed, and so rapidly Isabeau had no time to absorb any details before they were gone. Stars wheeled overhead, rising and setting in seconds, to be followed by the rapid blowing of clouds, the brightening and darkening of the sky, the swift passage of the moon from new to full, to new to full, over and over again. Grown trees shrank back to seeds, cleared land became forest again, storms raged and stilled, seasons flickered past. The courses of streams and rivers changed, and the thick, gnarled trunks of the ancient yew trees became young, slim saplings, newly planted. All this happened in the time it took her to take four painful, rasping breaths and to force her immensely heavy, unresponsive limbs four staggering steps forward. Her joints were screaming with pain, and her extremities were numb and tingling with pins and needles so that she could not feel Dide hanging onto her hand behind her.
Suddenly she was sucked down through the whirlpool. It happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that Isabeau could not scream. For a
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