Free The Fathomless Caves by Kate Forsyth

anxiety tightening her nerves. This small patch of woodland was the only wild spot for manymiles, Blèssem being a land of meadows and hedge-rows. If she could not find somewhere to sit her Ordeal and take her Sorceress Test, it could be months before she had the opportunity again.
    Then she heard the tinkle of running water and her spirits lifted. She followed the sound, coming through a shadowy grove of oak trees into a small clearing lit by the sun. Isabeau knew she had found her place.
    A spring of crystal-clear water bubbled up from a cleft in the western face of the rock, cascading down the side of the hill to gather in a small pool in the centre of the grove. Waterlilies floated on its surface, white and crimson and blue, while bulrushes stood up straight as spears on either side. Beyond stretched a little meadow where butterflies danced above a tangle of wild herbs and flowers. A hawthorn tree in full blossom stood in a circle of bruised white petals, while an ancient yew leant drunkenly at the far end. The roots of the leaning yew formed a wide seat on the edge of a cliff, where the stream fell down in long, pale tassels. Framed in the overarching branches of the oak trees was a wide view of the valley below, the walls and towers of Dùn Eidean floating above the blue shimmer of a loch.
    Suddenly she saw a nixie sitting on a lily pad, regarding her with curious crystal eyes. The little water-faery immediately dived back into the pool but Isabeau’s heart had leapt. She stood in the sunshine, smiling, lifting her arms to the sky.
    Here-hooh? Buba asked.
    Here-hooh , Isabeau agreed.
    The sun was just rising when Isabeau came back tothe oak grove the next day. She was alone, Buba having reluctantly agreed to wait for her in the forest below, so Isabeau could sit her Ordeal in isolation, as she was meant to.
    Everything was very still, the meadow grass heavy with dew, the only sound the carolling of birds. Isabeau carried a large pile of firewood and a heavy satchel upon her back, which she unloaded in the sweet-smelling shade of the hawthorn tree. There were five tall dusk-coloured candles, a small bag of salt and another of dried dragon’s blood, a bunch of dried herbs and flowers, some pewter bowls, a little bottle of precious oils, a slim book with a blue cover, a loaf of bread, a bottle of goldensloe wine, a bag of little red apples and a wedge of cheese that Isabeau had made herself to be sure it had been curdled with the juice of thistle flowers and not the digestive juices of a lamb.
    She arranged everything neatly under the hawthorn, then sat within the yew roots and ate her last meal for three days, washing it down with water from the spring. The water was cold and tasted of earth and darkness. It made her throat ache.
    As she ate, Isabeau’s gaze kept returning to the blue book which she had laid down beside her knee. Meghan had given it to her the previous afternoon, with a quick, hard hug and a kiss between her brows. ‘Your acolyte book, Beau,’ she had said. ‘Ye are ready to read it now.’
    Isabeau was not so sure. Meghan had let her read a few pages once before, and it had been a humbling experience. The pages of the blue book recordedIsabeau’s growth and progress, and she knew she had been a wilful, disobedient child, more interested in climbing trees, swimming with the otters and playing with the squirrels and donbeags than in concentrating on mathematics, astronomy or history.
    Resting upon the book was a ring which flashed with a hot yellow light. It was a rare jewel, the dragoneye, only found in the far distant mountains where the dragons lived, and where Isabeau had grown to womanhood. It had her name engraved upon the inside, and had been a birthing gift from the dragons themselves.
    The dragoneye jewel was set between two exquisite single-petalled roses, with the band engraved with the curving spurs of thorns. The same design was repeated in the clan brooch that pinned together her soft