The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  It was late afternoon on Midsummer’s Eve when Latifa came and found Isabeau. She was just about to sit down at the long table and eat some bread and honey. Somehow she had not managed to swallow a morsel all day. Her teeth were actually closing onto the bread when Latifa caught her arm. ‘Leave that, lassie, ye can eat later. Come with me. I want ye to clean out the furnace.’

  Sukey gave Isabeau a grimace of sympathy as the redhead reluctantly got up from the table. All the scullery maids hated cleaning out the furnace which heated the water pipes, for it was a long and filthy task normally reserved for the lowliest of the potboys. Everyone wondered what Isabeau had done to displease Latifa, to be given such a harsh punishment. Isabeau wondered herself.

  To her surprise Latifa took her in quite a different direction. They climbed up the narrow back stairs, higher than the maids’ quarters, higher than Isabeau had ever been before. Through long galleries, narrow corridors and tightly twisting steps, Latifa led her into the oldest part of the palace. Here the halls were narrow and of grey stone, not gleaming blue marble.

  Her keys clacking at her waist, Latifa paused in the corridor and held back the folds of an ancient tapestry. Hidden behind it was a door. Latifa fussed through her loaded keyring and found a long key with an ornate handle. She unlocked the door and they slipped through, Isabeau’s curiosity growing.

  They were in a dark hallway. Latifa summoned a tall flame from the tip of her finger and gestured Isabeau forward with her other hand. Isabeau went into the flickering darkness, moving her feet cautiously. Her back to Latifa, she raised her right hand and tried to mimic her. She could summon only a frail flame, though, and so she tucked her hand back under her apron with her crippled one.

  They came to a dark spiralling stairwell and began to climb, shadows dancing madly as Latifa huffed and puffed. They climbed into a warm dusk, the staircase winding up into a round tower. At each turn was an immensely tall window facing an ancient door with a dirty and cobwebbed lock. At first the lancet windows showed only grey walls and roofs, unfamiliar to Isabeau even after her weeks exploring the palace. Then the tower grew higher than the building before it and Isabeau could see the dark forests of Ravenshaw. A few more twists and she began to see glimpses of the firth over the palace’s peaked roof. Each turn and the view grew grander and wider.

  At the apex of the tower was a small room with great arched windows, taller than Isabeau herself, open to the air. The wind poured through the embrasures, tugging at the strings of Isabeau’s cap and causing her apron to flutter.

  The view made her exclaim in delight, for they could see right across the Berhtfane to the sea. The sun was sinking behind them, the tower casting a long shadow across the palace roof. The water was a blur of violets and blues, the towering islands kindled with sunset. From the other windows the countryside was swathed in a velvety apricot dusk, just beginning to prick here and there with lights. Four tall candlesticks stood at the four corners of the room, at the points of the compass.

  ‘Why have we come all the way up here?’ Isabeau asked.

  ‘It’s Midsummer’s Eve, lassie, surely ye ken that? We o’ the Coven try to gather when we can, and this is one o’ our meeting places. No window faces it from the palace, and there is none out in the forest to see our lights. At least, so we hope. This palace was built on the site o’ a far aulder castle, the home o’ the MacBrann clan. The Rìgh’s cousin let him have it when he decided to move the court away from Lucescere. Many witches’ rites have been held here in the past, and there are reverse spells woven about the tower door to mislead people who may wonder how to get to it. Few even realise it is here, even though ye can see it clearly from the firth.

  ‘I have been hoping and planning to hold the Midsummer rites this year, but with so many people about it is dangerous indeed! Still, Eà is with us, for the Banrìgh is in her bed, bless the babe, and that blaygird evil servant o’ hers is down in the town. Some uproar in the docks, and the Rìgh too weak and ill to attend to it. So I canna waste the opportunity. We must take advantage o’ the swell in the tides o’ power to join the Key. It is our last chance for a month or more, and I would no’ dare do it otherwise, no matter how important it is to keep the Key safe.’

  ‘What do ye mean by the Key?’ Isabeau asked.

  Latifa clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘In Truth, Isabeau, sometimes I think ye are a halfwit! Did Meghan teach ye nothing? The Key is the sacred symbol o’ the Coven, the circle and hexagram. It is carried by the Keybearer, the most powerful witch in the Coven.’

  ‘Och, aye, I remember that …’

  ‘So I should hope! What did ye think ye were carrying all those months?’

  ‘I was carrying the Key? The Keybearer’s Key? No!’

  ‘Did Meghan no’ tell ye? In Truth, she has an obsession with secrecy. I keep forgetting. Aye, ye were carrying the Key, or at least part o’ it. I have another portion, and Ishbel the Winged had the third. Meghan broke the Key, ye see …’

  Isabeau was remembering the cryptic words of Jorge the blind seer. He had said she carried ‘the key to unlock the chains that bind us’. Then the Celestine had also spoken about a key. She had said Meghan had locked away the Lodestar with the Key and it could not be freed without it. She had said the power in the Lodestar was dying. It needs to be touched and held, its power nurtured and used, not to lie in darkness and hollowness, the Celestine had said. If it is found and used at Samhain, then indeed all shall be saved or surrendered …

  Knowing she had carried a third of the Key suddenly made a great deal of sense to Isabeau. As that one jigsaw piece fell into place, so did many others. Samhain is the time …

  Latifa knelt on the floor of the little tower room and pulled a familiar black bag from her capacious apron pocket. Isabeau gave a little cry of delight and immediately itched to have her fingers on the talisman. Somehow it had grown to be a part of her. Its loss, as much as the loss of her fingers, had made Isabeau feel like only half a person these past few months.

  Latifa also pulled out a dagger, a bundle of candles, a bunch of herbs, and a bag of salt. She carefully removed the old candles, dark green and smelling of bay and juniper so Isabeau knew they had been burnt for Beltane. She replaced them with tall white candles that gleamed with sweet-smelling precious oils—rosemary, angelica and gilly-flowers, for healing, consecration, an increase of psychic powers and protection against evil. Isabeau wondered at her choice—normally Midsummer candles were made with lavender and rose for love spells and divination. Latifa knew far more about candlelight spells than Isabeau, however, so she said nothing.

  Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Isabeau tensed. Moving quickly for a woman of her bulk, Latifa stepped to the stairwell and peered down. ‘Toireasa, at last!’ she cried. ‘I was beginning to worry.’

  The head weaver and seamstress at the palace, Toireasa was a tall gaunt woman with thick brown hair bundled untidily into a bun at the nape of her neck. Isabeau had met her several times before. She carried a jug of water in one hand. ‘No need to worry,’ she said. ‘It is never easy for me to get away but I always manage it.’

  Isabeau stood awkwardly, unsure what to say or do. The seamstress said, ‘Good evening to ye, Red. Glad to see Latifa’s cooking is putting a little meat on your bones.’

  Before Isabeau could think of anything to say, they heard harsh panting and someone else came slowly up the stairs. Isabeau could only gape at him as he fought to catch his breath after the steep climb. It was Riordan Bowlegs. He smelt of the stables, and there was straw on his jacket. He twinkled at her, doffed his tam-o’-shanter to Latifa and Toireasa, and laid down his staff on the floor. Isabeau had often seen him leaning on it as he stood ruminating in the kitchen garden, but it had never occurred to her it might be a witch’s staff. It was a gnarled hazel branch, polished and oiled to a warm lustre and topped with a bulge of wood gleaming with years of handling.

  ‘It is good indeed to see ye, Red, and ye too, Latifa, Toireasa. I had some
trouble getting here, the corridors are swarming, and three o’ your lackeys took it into their heads to challenge me.’ He winked at Isabeau and said softly, ‘Stable-hands are no’ permitted in the palace, as ye well ken.’

  Last to come was a man Isabeau had never seen before. He was dressed in black silk, and his black beard was elaborately pointed and curled. His long white fingers were laden with rings, including a moonstone and an opal. Isabeau wondered that he dared. Jewelled rings were regarded with great suspicion these days. Tucked under one arm was a slender walking stick, embossed all over with intricate silver patterns.

  ‘Isabeau, this is Dughall MacBrann, heir to the Prionnsa o’ Ravenshaw and cousin to the Rìgh. My laird, this is Isabeau the Foundling.’ The slender laird bowed, fingering his curled moustache. Isabeau bobbed her head gauchely.

  Latifa laid the fire in a stone dish set right in the very centre of the room and gestured for the witches to enter the circle and star. Isabeau was silently directed to sit at one of the northern-facing points, Riordan Bowlegs next to her, with Toireasa to the west and Dughall MacBrann to the east. She sat bolt upright as Latifa drew about them the shape of the circle and pentagram with the point of her dagger.

  ‘Isabeau, make sure ye do no’ allow any part o’ your body to pass outside the magic circle,’ the cook warned. Isabeau looked up, wanting to protest that she was not an ignorant acolyte. The still, focused expression on Latifa’s face stopped her, and she sat silently.

  Latifa sprinkled the circle with water and salt, chanting, ‘I consecrate and conjure thee, O circle o’ magic, ring o’ power, symbol o’ perfection and constant renewal. Keep us safe from harm, keep us safe from evil, guard us against treachery, keep us safe in your eyes, Eà o’ the moons.’

  She did the same along the criss-crossing lines of the star. ‘I consecrate and conjure thee, O star o’ spirit, pentacle o’ power, symbol o’ fire and darkness, o’ light in the depths o’ space. Fill us with your dark fire, your fiery darkness, make o’ us your vessels, fill us with light.’

  Latifa took her place at the apex of the star, lowering herself to the floor with great difficulty. They chanted the Midsummer rites as the sun sank behind the mountains. Isabeau had sung these rhymes since she was a child, and the familiarity soothed her jangling nerves. She could not help feeling afraid. They were performing a forbidden ritual in the very heart of the Rìgh’s palace. What if someone heard? What if Sani returned and sensed magic was being performed? What if one of these witches was a spy of the Awl? The dangers seemed so many that Isabeau’s heart was pounding in her ears like a drum.

  By the time they had finished, it was dusk. The fire illuminated their faces with red; black shadows leapt about the tower room. ‘It is moonrise,’ Latifa said softly. ‘Focus your energies, my friends, guard your spirits. The spell shall begin.’

  Slowly she pulled the talisman from the bag of nyx hair. At once Isabeau could feel its power beating at her. It seemed to sing. A slender triangle, the flat surfaces of its three sides were inscribed with magical symbols. Latifa held it above the fire and let it go. With the scented smoke trailing around it and through it, the talisman floated above the flames.

  Latifa unhooked the large bunch of keys that hung on her belt. Isabeau had seen these keys every day since she had been in Rhyssmadill, for the cook never removed them. On the great hoop hung keys to the storerooms, larders, linen cupboards and cellars. Carefully the cook detached the keys, of all shapes, sizes and metals, and laid them together on the floor by her plump knee. In her hand remained the hoop from which they had hung. Isabeau found she had difficulty focusing on it. Latifa made a series of complicated gestures over it, muttering under her breath. Green fire flared. Suddenly the power coiling in the magic circle doubled; the song became a harmony.

  Isabeau was now able to look upon the hoop with clear eyes. She saw it was made of the same dark metal as her triangle, flat on either side and carved with magical symbols. ‘It’s part o’ the Key,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Latifa responded. ‘Wonderful what a simple wee charm like a reverse spell can do. I’ve worn the Key’s circle at my waist for sixteen years and no-one has been the wiser.’

  To the east Gladrielle had risen, transparent and blue. The crimson face of Magnysson was just beginning to peer above the horizon. Only a few of the island peaks were still gilded with the last rays of the sun; the rest swam in shadows. Latifa began chanting under her breath:

  ‘In the name o’ Eà, mother and father o’ us all, I command thee.

  By the power o’ all gods and goddesses, who are one, I command thee.

  By the power o’ the universe, time and space, I command thee.

  Make whole what has been broken;

  Make complete what was divided.

  By all the power o’ land and sea,

  By all the might o’ the moons and sun—

  Make whole what has been broken;

  Make complete what was divided.

  By all the power o’ land and sea,

  By all the might o’ the moons and sun—

  Make whole what has been broken;

  Make complete what was divided.

  As we wish, as we will, so let it be,

  Chant the spell, let it be done!’

  As she intoned the words, she suspended the circle in the air above the fire. It floated there, a few inches above the hovering triangle. The tower room filled with moonlight as the last rays of the sun faded. Gladrielle shone silver, mingling with the warmth of Magnysson’s light as the larger of the two moons lifted clear of the horizon. As Latifa cried the last few words, the triangle and circle sprang together with an audible click. Isabeau was immediately aware of a difference in the atmosphere; the song of the Key softened into a crooning lullaby.

  The five witches watched the talisman float above the embers, a circle crossed with three lines. In the moonlight, the shapes carved on the flat surface were like deep pits. With gesture and muttered word, Latifa replaced the reverse spell, then carefully hung her keys from the rim of the hoop again.

  Although Isabeau concentrated all her will, she could not make her attention stay on the keyring. Vaguely she could see the hoop was criss-crossed with metal where before it had been empty, but her eyes slid away before she could really examine it. Latifa smiled at her a little wearily. ‘It is done,’ she said. ‘The Key is no’ yet complete, but we have two parts o’ it and Meghan the other. We are closer to releasing the Lodestar than we have been in sixteen years.’

  ‘Let us hope it is no’ too much longer,’ the Prionnsa o’ Ravenshaw said. ‘The Lodestar has been buried long enough.’

  They all stretched and murmured, and Latifa opened the magic circle with her dagger and let them all stand and move about. Isabeau was bid to stamp out the fire and clean the room, while one by one the others slipped away. At last only Latifa was left, and she watched critically while Isabeau swept up the ashes with the little pan and brush she had brought, thinking she was to clean the furnace.

  ‘Ye can go and eat now,’ Latifa said with a smile. ‘I had to keep ye fasting until after the Midsummer rites, but ye’ll need all your strength for the festivities this evening. It shall be a long night.’

  I ain MacFóghnan was roused by a touch on his shoulder. His mother’s chamberlain, Khan’tirell, had slipped into his room without making a sound. Iain started and knocked over his inkwell. A river of dark blue poured over the table.

  ‘K-K-Khan’tirell …’ he said, mopping up the spilt ink. ‘How ye st-st-startled me! What is it?’

  ‘Your mother requests the pleasure o’ your presence in the throne room,’ the chamberlain replied in his harshly accented voice. His sharp-angled, fierce face and curling horns belied his smooth manners and expression, as did the three long parallel scars on each lean cheek that showed white against his skin. Iain was afraid of Khan’tirell, who had been a celebrated warrior among his own people. He knew well the chamberlain regarded him with con
tempt.

  ‘V-v-very well, tell my m-m-mother I will be along presently,’ Iain said with a fair attempt at coolness.

  ‘As ye wish, my laird.’ Khan’tirell left as silently as he had come.

  Iain got to his feet immediately and hurried through to his bedroom as he stripped off his ink-stained shirt. He poured water into the thistle-painted bowl from the jug on the side table and scrubbed his face and hands vigorously. Slicking back his soft brown hair with urgent fingers, he scrambled into a fresh shirt. After a moment’s thought, he changed his shabby old kilt for a pair of black velvet breeches, tied at the knee with purple, a purple and black doublet, and thistle-embroidered stockings. Best to give his mother nothing to berate him about. She had been in a foul mood ever since the Mesmerdean came and told her of the massacre of their egg-brothers in the Veiled Forest. An entire spawn of Mesmerdean had died at the hand of Meghan NicCuinn and her companions, and as a result the whole race was withdrawing into the marshes for the mourning. Only those Mesmerdean in active service to the banprionnsa herself were to be exempted, and that meant many of Margrit’s schemes had had to be postponed.

  Iain ran through the wide corridors to the magnificent sweeping staircase and hurried down as fast as he could without losing his step. No-one kept the Banprionnsa of Arran waiting if they could possibly help it. His footsteps slowed as he approached the great double doors of the throne room, and he nervously checked his hair and clothes before gently pushing the doors open.

  His mother was reclining on the purple cushions of her carved and gilded throne, regarding the rings which decorated nearly every finger of her hands. On either side stood long lines of soldiers dressed in long white surcoats over hauberks and chausses. Their surcoats and banners were emblazoned with scarlet fitché crosses. At their head was a berhtilde. The heaviness of her clothing could not quite conceal the fact that her left breast had been cut off.