The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

‘Ye mun always remember to mind your tongue, lass,’ the plump old woman said. ‘Although no seer can overhear us here, anyone can eavesdrop. Ye mun never forget that a slip o’ the tongue could mean your death. What is it ye wish to know about the Banrìgh?

  ‘She seems to win everyone to her side,’ Isabeau said thoughtfully. ‘And she likes to have baths in salt water.’

  ‘Obh obh! So ye are no’ so dreamy dazed as ye seem. What do ye think it means?’

  ‘I do no’ ken,’ Isabeau said. ‘The salt-water baths are curious, I have never heard o’ anyone bathing in seawater before. I remember Meghan telling me that she has wondered in the past whether the Banrìgh could be a Fairge, and the overthrow o’ the Towers due to some crafty plot o’ the Fairgean to win back their land. She said the idea was impossible, though, for the Fairgean live in salt water and canna survive long away from the sea. But if the Banrìgh bathed each day in salt water, could that no’ explain how she can live on land?’

  ‘Happen it might,’ Latifa agreed, ‘though I have bided with the Banrìgh for sixteen years now and I have never seen any sure sign that she was no’ human. An impenetrable magic it mun be, to hide her fins and scales so well. Indeed, I canna see how it could be possible, for the Fairgean look nothing like us and have never had the ability to spin illusions, especially no’ such a strong one as that mun be! We mun remember that she comes from Carraig where they do no’ have the same fear o’ the sea as we do. Now run out into the garden and pick me some chives, for I can sense Sukey and Elsie coming down the stairs and I do no’ wish them to find us together. Keep your eyes and ears open and tell me anything ye hear o’ interest.’

  Every morning from then on, Isabeau woke early and hurried down to the kitchen, glad to leave her tangled sheets, damp from her restless dreaming. Strangely, to begin with, all she had to do was watch the fire. Sitting on a cushion on the floor, she observed as Latifa laid the fire in different ways and with different woods. She watched little twigs shrivel to a burning thread, and great logs smoulder their hearts into hollowness.

  Latifa also taught her to shield her mind, so Isabeau was finally able to shut out the thoughts continually crowding in on her. Her nights still swarmed with dreams, both beautiful and terrible, but at least her days were peaceful and free of pain.

  As a cook Latifa was particularly interested in the senses of taste and smell, though these were lessons that took place in the bright of day, before the disinterested gaze of many of the servants. For Latifa’s primary method of teaching Isabeau about the element of fire was to teach her how to cook. When Isabeau rather sulkily protested that she could not see what cooking had to do with magic, Latifa said firmly, ‘Cooking has everything to do with magic, ye fool. Cooking is understanding a food’s nature and working with its nature and the elemental powers to turn it into something else. Wha’ else is magic?’

  Although Latifa had spent eight years at the Tower of Two Moons as a child, she was not a fully accredited witch—she had never been accepted into the Coven as an apprentice as Isabeau had. Her mother had been the palace cook, and her mother’s mother before her. She had learnt her kitchen magic at her mother’s knee, and her years at the Theurgia had built on the knowledge and talents she already had. Unlike Meghan, her skills were entirely practical.

  So Isabeau spent many a long morning following Latifa from pot to pan to oven, from butter churn to ice room to smoking chamber, as the old cook explained to her how heat and cold changed the composition of the food they were preparing. Despite herself Isabeau was fascinated and learnt much about the element of fire that Meghan had never taught her.

  All morning, as Isabeau followed her around the kitchen wing, the old cook would hold up a laden spoon for Isabeau to smell or taste. The red-haired girl refused to sample anything containing meat, which caused some argument. Despite Latifa reminding her that many of the Coven had never abandoned the eating of animal flesh, Isabeau was filled with horror at the thought. Meghan had taught her to revere all life, and many of the creatures eaten with gusto by the lairds and their servants had been kin to Isabeau’s childhood friends. Latifa tried to trick her once or twice but Isabeau’s sense of smell sharpened to such an extent that she could detect the flesh of animals even as a supplementary ingredient. Latifa threw up her fat hands and said, ‘Just do no’ let anyone realise is all I ask, ye stubborn lassie, else ye’ll have the potboys gossiping and that I shall no’ abide!’

  Isabeau was shocked and sickened by many of the customs of the palace kitchen. Cheese-making time came with the summer, and Latifa ordered a lamb to be killed so she could use its digestive juices to curdle the milk. Meghan and Isabeau had always used the juice from the flower of the wild thistle, and it had never occurred to Isabeau that anyone would choose to kill an animal in preference to the long and arduous task of plucking thistle flowers. She had to fight hard to overcome her nausea and could not eat cheese again, even though she knew anyone who noticed would find it strange.

  The corpses of murdered boar and deer, delivered each noon by the hunters, were also a trial to Isabeau. She could not understand how Latifa could bear to look at them, let alone cook them and eat them, but the cook oversaw the feeding of up to a thousand people a day. Every day she tasted from countless dishes made from the bodies of slain pigs, sheep, goats, deer, coneys, geese, hens, pigeons, quails, pheasants, sea-stirk and fish.

  Isabeau still had not seen the Rìgh or the Banrìgh, nor any of the lairds or courtiers, for none of the servants were permitted to serve in the great dining room. The lairds’ own pages served them, the servants only permitted to bring the trays of food from the kitchen to the serving table set up along one wall.

  Not once did the old cook ask Isabeau to draw upon the One Power. The girl began to worry in case she had lost her magical abilities. The last time she had used the One Power had been to kill the man who had tortured her. Fervently she told herself that his death had saved her from great pain and humiliation, even from death. She had saved the talisman and killed the only person who knew she had it. It had been a fair death, even a good one. Still, it seemed something had been broken in her that would not mend easily and, as the days grew longer and hotter, she wondered if she would ever regain her powers.

  Although the summer dusk was usually long, one evening it darkened early as the sun sank into storm clouds. Mist rose from the moist, warm earth, and no birds sang. Iseult slipped through the dim forest to the glade where Lachlan practised his archery. He wore only his kilt, his bare chest sheened with sweat. As Iseult watched from the shadows, he drew back the bow with an effort that set all his muscles gleaming, then let the string go with a twang. The arrow flew through the air, splitting the arrow already embedded in the bullseye right down the middle.

  ‘Keen shooting!’ Iseult cried.

  ‘Aye, I’m getting good indeed,’ Lachlan said proudly and pulled her to him so he could kiss her throat. She wrapped her arms around his body, kissing his damp skin. ‘How are ye feeling, leannan?’ he asked, and she made a little moue and tilted her hand from side to side.

  ‘No’ very well,’ she admitted. ‘Meghan says hurry back to the clearing. The mist is rising and it makes her uneasy.’

  When they returned to the camp, mist was rolling over the thick roots of the trees in ghostly waves, and Meghan was tense-faced. ‘Thank Eà ye are back! I do no’ like this mist, and there’s a smell to the air … or a feeling … I’ve been fretting for ye ever since ye left. I think ye should stay close to the fire this night.’

  By the time they were rolling themselves into their plaids to sleep, the mist curled ghostly fingers over them. Iseult was not surprised at Meghan’s unease. The restless eddying of the fog was uncanny; the way it came no further, as if only Meghan’s magic was keeping it from pouring over them, drowning them.

  It was much later when Iseult woke. The mist was all about her. She lay still and listened. After a moment she slid away from the warmth of Lachlan’s body. Shivering a lit
tle as dank fingers of fog trailed over her, she scouted around the clearing, dagger in hand. Meghan’s bed of mosses and bracken was empty.

  Iseult frowned and peered through the trees. She saw the sorceress, her plaid thrown round her shoulders, staring out into the foggy darkness. Meghan sensed her coming and turned, finger to her lips, her face grim.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Iseult, go and wake Lachlan. Be quick and quiet. Hide in the forest. Head towards Tulachna Celeste when ye can.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I sense … something. A consciousness I am no’ familiar with. Dangerous.’

  Iseult nodded and hurried back. Lachlan had woken of his own accord and was staring out into the mist with compressed lips. Swiftly they dressed and made their way through the maze of twisting roots. Both were keenly conscious of danger.

  Meghan was near where Iseult had left her, poker-backed, arms folded over her chest. Even in the gloom they could see how angry she was. ‘Dinna I tell ye to head for Tulachna Celeste? Why must ye bairns always disobey me?’

  ‘We are no’ babes, Meghan!’ Lachlan came up to his great-aunt, so small against his bulk yet somehow the more powerful because of it.

  ‘Please, Lachlan, ye must listen to me. There are strange forces at work here tonight, and I have this dreadful suspicion … If what I fear is true, then ye must no’ be caught up in it.’

  ‘But what—’

  ‘I fear the Mesmerdean have come in search o’ me—I remember they are a vengeful race. It crossed my mind when I found that little pile o’ marshy-smelling ashes in the tree-house. I had woven a difficult ward indeed on that trapdoor, for I knew they would come in more easily from below once they lit fires. I had other things to worry about, though, and so it slipped my mind. If it is true, and I am no’ just a suspicious auld witch, then ye are both better out o’ it. Iseult, take my pouch, guard it well, remember The Book o’ Shadows has all the answers if only ye can learn to master it …’

  There was a sudden shriek from Gitâ as the donbeag flew to his mistress’s shoulder. Iseult swung round and saw a tall, grey figure looming out of the mist. Instinctively she let the arrow fly, but by the time it reached where the creature’s glittering clusters of eyes had been, the Mesmerd was gone. It had flitted across the clearing, reaching for Meghan with its claws. Suddenly its grey draperies collapsed as Lachlan drew the claymore and sliced off its head with one swift stroke.

  The body of the Mesmerd melted away, leaving such a strong stench of the marshes that Lachlan gagged. ‘Do no’ breathe it in!’ Meghan said frantically. ‘Do no’ touch! Come away, quickly!’

  Covering her mouth with the end of the plaid, Iseult scanned the fog with her senses as they hurried back through the trees. She felt rather than saw the Mesmerd drifting towards her in a misty cloud. Quick as thought, she pierced its eye with her skewer, and it thrashed in agony, a green ichor welling out of the wound.

  She wiped the skewer on the grass, amazed to see its surface mottled with holes as if it had been eaten by acid. The sound of an explosion made her leap to her feet, the skewer held close to her hip. Meghan had bombarded another of the winged faeries with blue witch-fire, and it had erupted into a raging ball of blue-green flame which sent evil-smelling smoke all through the trees.

  They stumbled back, coughing and choking at the reek. Gitâ, perched precariously on Meghan’s bony shoulder, screeched in warning and the wood witch threw up her hand instinctively. The Mesmerd dropping down from the branches behind her was tumbled away in a wind that came from nowhere. It recovered its balance almost immediately, spreading its translucent wings and darting sideways to attack Lachlan. Iseult threw her reil and it whizzed through one of its wings, causing it to shriek in agony, clutching the torn gossamer close to its torso. She plunged her skewer as deep into its chest as she could.

  Her gaze was caught by the green shimmer of its iridescent eyes. She felt a strange rushing in her ears, her hands slipping from the skewer’s handle to fall limply by her side. Her vision was swirled with green lights; she swayed and fell, hardly aware the dying Mesmerd had caught her in its six arms and was bending its strange face to hers. A sweet tide of painful tenderness swelled through her, and she put up a hand to stroke its glossy shell.

  Just as the swampy scent of the Mesmerd’s breath flowed over her and her eyes closed, a blissful smile parting her lips, the Mesmerd suddenly stiffened and disintegrated, its draperies floating down to cover the unconscious Iseult.

  Lachlan tugged his dagger free, swung Iseult into his arms, her curly red head hanging limply over his arm. Every few strides another Mesmerd darted from the shadows, but Meghan simply enveloped them in fiery blue so that one after the other they exploded into dust. They came at last to the edge of the hill, and Lachlan staggered up the steep slope, Iseult heavy against him. They fell through the gateway and Meghan began to work on Iseult’s frighteningly limp body.

  ‘The kiss o’ the Mesmerdean is death,’ she said bleakly as she massaged Iseult’s chest vigorously with pungent oils. ‘I hope I can save her. Why did ye come back for me, Lachlan? This is exactly what I was afraid o’!’ She paused to exhale her own breath into Iseult’s mouth, sending her chest rising and falling in artificial rhythms.

  Lachlan was white, two heavy lines graven from nose to mouth. ‘Ye canna mean she’s going to die!’ he cried. ‘The Mesmerd barely breathed on her at all!’

  ‘Let us hope that was no’ sufficient,’ Meghan replied. ‘Do no’ stand over me like that, Lachlan. Keep a close watch, for it is only a guess that the Mesmerdean will avoid Tulachna Celeste. They may be creeping up on us now, and the forest is no protection for they can simply fly above the trees.’

  She put her mouth back down to Iseult’s. For long, anxious moments, she breathed into Iseult’s mouth, only pausing to pound her chest with her doubled fists. At last her ward coughed and took a breath of her own volition. Soon she was breathing easily, though she did not fully regain consciousness. Meghan massaged her whole body with the strong-smelling oil and poured mithuan into her mouth so she coughed and spluttered, moaning in her sleep.

  By sunrise Iseult’s pulse had steadied and colour had returned to her scarred cheeks. Meghan went scouting through the forest and found thirteen little piles of ashes that smelt of the bog. She carefully scraped up every last mote of dust into a pot, which she corked and buried deep. Feeling sick and shaky herself, she then drank several mouthfuls of her precious heart-starting mithuan.

  ‘We’re in trouble now,’ she groaned. ‘If they sent that many in revenge for the one that died in my tree-house, what will they do in reprisal for thirteen?’

  ‘How will they know?’ Lachlan replied, stirring the oatmeal in the heavy cauldron hanging over the fire.

  ‘They share a memory,’ Meghan said. ‘The only way to rid yourself o’ a Mesmerdean vendetta is to kill each and every one o’ its relatives—egg-brothers, I think they are called. No, if there are any egg-brothers left, they will ken what has happened and they will want me dead. Ye and Iseult too, now.’ She sighed. ‘Still, what am I to do if ye never obey me?’

  The week before Midsummer’s Eve the palace began to fill with guests, throwing the servants into fevered activity. Isabeau was wide-eyed and overawed, for she had never realised how much work a banquet of this magnitude involved. All day and half the night Latifa bustled to and fro, ordering chandeliers to be unhooked so the thousands of crystals could be washed, preparing hundreds of sweetmeats, cakes and jellies and plucking dozens of bhanais birds, saving their gorgeous tail feathers to decorate the roasted meat later.

  Because of her crippled hand, Isabeau escaped much of the heavier work, but Latifa kept her on her feet from dawn to midnight. She was so busy she had no time to wonder about the Banrìgh’s mysterious powers or to worry about the apparent loss of her own. Each morning she was up well before dawn to meet Latifa in the kitchen, then she spent all day on the run, ordered here and there by impatient lackeys. If s
he was lucky, she could stumble to her bedchamber by around midnight. More often she was still awake in the wee small hours, following Latifa as the old cook jingled from one storeroom to another.

  She kept her thoughts to herself, finding it easier every day to lock away her inner self. She put on the character of a simple country lass, and each day it grew more comfortable. Meanwhile she listened and watched as Meghan had told her to, and found much to puzzle her.

  The maids’ favourite topic was the Banrìgh. They discussed the cut of her sleeves, the way she wore her hair, and how wonderful it was that she was at last with child. Their devotion was in such contrast to all Isabeau had ever heard of Maya the Ensorcellor that it aroused in her an intense curiosity to see the Banrìgh. Isabeau had always heard Maya described as evil, manipulative, dangerous and cruel. It was disconcerting to hear instead how kind, generous and considerate she was.

  Two days before Midsummer’s Eve, Isabeau asked Latifa when she would have a chance to see the Banrìgh. The shy question earned her a sharp slap. ‘And who do ye think ye are, to be wanting to rise so high so fast, and ye just a wee snippet o’ a lass from the back o’ yonder! Why, ye must be able to carry a tray without spilling the gravy before ye’d be allowed to serve anywhere near the Banrìgh, especially now she’s with babe, Truth bless her. So get ye back to your spitting stool before I box your other ear!’

  Her cheek burning, Isabeau stumbled back to her corner. So shocked was she by Latifa’s slap that she wept most of the afternoon, trying to conceal her distress in her apron. Later that evening, when the kitchen was empty, the cook gave Isabeau one of her gingerbread men, hot from the oven.

  ‘Stop your greetin’, lassie, your apron is sopping wet and your eyes look fit to start from your head. Ye should no’ be such a silly lass, asking me such a question in front o’ the whole kitchen! Be patient, I tell ye. Now, I think ye’re in need o’ some fresh air and some solitude. I forget ye’re no’ used to all this. Take the day off tomorrow. I can say ye’ve made yourself ill with your sorrow, so eager were ye to see the bonny Banrìgh.’