‘Yes?’ I prompt.
If there’s anything I can do to make Abelio more willing to help us in the war against Wyvernmire, I will.
‘. . . to never return.’
I feel my shoulders slump as Abelio holds my gaze. His scales are a deep blue against the roiling grey sea in the background. They are alike, Abelio and the sea. Wild and passionate on the surface. yet unmoving beneath the waves.
He will never agree to fight in a war.
‘You may stop your machine,’ Abelio says.
I flick the switch and follow him back inside the cave. As we walk through the tunnels, I hear a loud thumping.
‘To the left,’ Abelio says.
I follow the source of the noise into one of the chambers. Serena is standing at a large wooden table with Cindra andseveral other wyverns. A length of thick grey material is spread out on the table, with three wyverns on each side and Serena at the head. They are beating the cloth with their long index talons.
Cindra lets out a low, hissing whisper and Serena looks up in surprise as the other wyverns copy her.
‘What are they doing?’ I ask quietly.
‘They are waulking the tweed,’ Abelio replies. ‘It is an ancient Gaelic tradition, shared by humans and wyverns. Once the wool is removed from the loom it is drenched in urine and beaten to shrink the fibres, to ensure that the cold and damp of the Hebrides cannot pass through.’
I recognise the word forloom. It appears in Clawtail’s journal at least a dozen times. I watch Serena, but the expression on her face is imperceptible. Is she going to dip her hands in urine in the name of the feminine arts?
‘Where are the looms?’ I ask Abelio.
‘In the weaving chamber,’ he replies.
Of course.
‘The tweed,’ I say. ‘It holds your memories, doesn’t it? And you use it to make rugs and—’
The soft whispers become low, haunting chants. Serena presses her hands into the tweed as I try to understand the sung Cannair, but I don’t recognise any of the words. The rhythmic thumping of the cloth on the table, accompanied by the wailing song, is almost hypnotic.
‘The waulking of the cloth serves many purposes, but one is to tell stories and express emotion. It is a tradition that wyverns and humans once undertook together, a way tocommunicate.’
‘Did the humans of Canna speak Cannair?’
‘It is said they did in centuries past, but certainly not in my lifetime,’ Abelio replies.
‘What are they saying?’ I ask as I stare at Cindra and the other wyverns.
Abelio attempts to explain but I don’t understand the words he uses, so I just look quizzically at him. It’s odd, being able to understand only when he uses the simplest of sentence structures and vocabulary I remember from the journal.
‘It is the story of a wyvern with abrotnacroí.’
I understand part of the word –croí, which means heart and is pronouncedkree– but not the rest. A big heart? A broken heart? I can only guess. Instead, I content myself with listening, relaxing now the first demonstration of the fake tunnel detector is over, and as the singing echoes through the tunnels I almost forget Abelio and the other wyverns are there. The beauty of the chanted words was unknown to me back when I was studying Cannair in Hollingsworth’s office with just the journal for reference. Studying this language on paper was like feeling around in the dark, Clawtail’s notes revealing only a muted chink of a much brighter, fuller light. And yet I still feel blind. Afterwards, I go looking for Aodahn. I find him still at work with Gideon.
‘No,’ I hear Gideon say as I enter the cave. ‘In French, thenofdragonis silent.’
Aodahn re-attempts his pronunciation.
‘Better,’ Gideon says.
Aodahn’s cave is smaller than the one we sleep in, theground littered with so many piles of books that I don’t know where to stand. The walls are painted the colours of the rainbow and wooden shelves hold all sorts of trinkets: colourful stones, seashells, an arrowhead and a pair of reading glasses. Aodahn gestures for us to sit around his central fire.
‘Have you been at this since this morning?’ I ask Gideon.
