The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  Sani’s initial response had been to have the girl killed immediately. A pillow over her face in the night, some hemlock in her tea, a stumble on the stairs—such things were easy to arrange. Caution held her hand, however. Alive, she could be tricked or tortured into revealing the Arch-Sorceress’s plans. Once dead, the girl could tell no secrets.

  It was not Sani’s way to take hasty action. Her plans had been decades in the making, and decades more in the doing. She worked in shadows and in silence, planting a seed here, a suggestion there, then waiting with long and cunning patience to reap the rewards. Why, she had been nurturing Maya’s powers for thirty-five endless years; she could afford to let the red-haired witch live a little longer.

  So for two months Sani kept her own counsel, and in all that time she saw nothing to confirm her suspicions. It was true that she too was affected by the heat, even more than Maya. Priestesses of Jor were used to physical deprivation, however, and so Sani suffered in silence. She did not have the option of riding on the seashore or spending all day in a pool of cool salt water. She slept in the pool, of course, for without long immersion in seawater she grew sick and dehydrated. During the day, though, she must wear heavy clothes to hide the gills at her throat. She did not have Maya’s ability to trick the eye, for the Fairgean could not spin illusions. That was a Talent Maya had inherited from her human mother and Sani relied on her spells of glamourie to hide her own Fairgean features. For this reason she could never leave Maya’s side for long, since the glamourie soon wore off and needed to be renewed frequently.

  Sani had begun to wonder if she was mistaken about Latifa’s grand-niece. Red-gold hair was uncommon, but not so rare that Sani could be sure this girl was Meghan’s apprentice. She could be just what she appeared to be, a rather simple country lass who just happened to have hair the colour of newly minted pennies. True, there was the mysterious bag of nyx hair, but could there not be a natural explanation for that? Many relics of the Towers turned up in odd places, and it was possible that the lass had had no idea the bag had magical properties. It could have contained a gift from Latifa’s sister, tucked into the bag for ease of carrying …

  Then on the night before Midsummer’s Eve, after the Banrìgh had sung for the court, Sani had heard such a cacophony of emotion from the girl that her suspicions had again been aroused. Such an agony of terror, and all at the sight of crimson-coloured velvet. She searched out the girl and, seeing her crippled hand, at once knew two things that she had not known before. Firstly, she was now certain this redhead was the same as the one who had killed the Grand-Questioner. She remembered what she had forgotten before—the witch at Caeryla had suffered the pilliwinkes, a cruel torture which crushed the hand.

  The second realisation was that she could not be the girl travelling in Meghan’s company. This thin, pallid lass with the crippled hand had certainly not killed an entire troop of Red Guards. Therefore there must be two redheads. The trick was knowing whether Latifa’s grand-niece had been captured and tortured by mistake, or whether both redheaded girls were connected with Meghan.

  Sani ground her teeth in frustration and tried without success to make the mirror focus in on her enemy. That old witch was a sea-urchin spike in her foot that should have been drawn years ago. Everything had gone wrong since that first sighting of Meghan in the spring, and Sani dreaded the anger of her king.

  She had only one hope left. It was several months since they had sent a seeker to Rurach with orders for its prionnsa, Anghus MacRuraich. He must be on the hunt by now, and if anyone could track down the slippery Arch-Sorceress, he could. Her fingers twitched at the idea of having Meghan in her hands. Meghan and that disgusting freak, the winged uile-bheist. More than anything Sani wanted to know how Meghan had managed to transform him back from a blackbird. He should have been trapped in the body of a bird forever.

  Sani knew all too well how damaging the young MacCuinn’s testimony could be. No-one knew of Maya’s powers. No-one knew the shape-changing ability she had inherited from her Fairgean father had been transmuted into the capacity to transform anyone into any shape she chose. Only Sani knew, and a few of the priestesses of Jor, and the king himself, Maya’s terrible father. If the winged uile-bheist’s story became common knowledge, it could destroy all that Sani had worked for.

  It was more than thirty years since the high-priestess had recognised the latent powers in the young halfbreed daughter of the king. Maya’s mother had been a Yedda, a sea witch trained to use her voice to ensorcel the Fairgean. A beautiful woman, black-haired and blue-eyed, she had been stolen from the Tower of Sea-Singers in one of the Fairgean’s fierce raids. The king had seen her and wanted her. The blow aimed to kill had instead only knocked her unconscious. When she woke, he tore out her tongue so she could not sing, and used her for his pleasure. Maya had been conceived almost immediately, and so the king had let the Yedda live. A male Fairge was admired for his potency, and many of the king’s offspring had been killed in the wars against the humans. He would not kill the human woman while she carried his child.

  Nine months later Maya was born. Disgusted that she was a girl, the king lost all interest in her or her mother. In Fairgean politics, daughters were worth much less than a well-trained sea-serpent or a cave that offered shelter from the icy winds. It was not uncommon for a female Fairge to be given to another male at the toss of a stirk-knuckle. The priestesses were the only females the men would listen to, and few would dare raise a hand against them. Most Fairgean women therefore longed to be chosen for Jor, but few had the abilities required.

  Sani had not realised Maya had the power to change people’s shape until much later. It was her ability to make people do what she wanted that had first attracted the high-priestess’s attention. The witches called it compulsion—to override someone’s will with the strength of your own. The priestesses of Jor called it leda, which meant simply ‘mindforce’.

  At that time the Fairgean were living on a few bare rocks in the northern sea. Only the most powerful of the men were allowed on the rocks; everyone else lived on rafts made from driftwood and dried seaweed. Many Fairgean children drowned before they had learnt how to use their fins, for competition for food and raft space was fierce. Many mothers were not averse to pushing some other woman’s babe into the sea to make more room for their own. The Yedda had no voice and no status. Both she and the babe should have died fairly soon. Yet somehow the babe never went hungry and never had to fight for somewhere to sleep. As she grew, her powers became more obvious. She even ensorcelled food out of the men, and that was peculiar enough to capture Sani’s interest.

  So she took Maya away from her mother and the overcrowded, flimsy rafts, and back to the tiny island given over to the sisterhood. The next day the Yedda no longer clung with desperate tenacity to the raft. She simply let go. No-one cared enough to stop her from sinking away below the water. A Fairgean could stay underwater for up to fifteen minutes before being forced to surface for air. They were designed to live in water so cold, great mountains of ice sometimes floated past. Humans were not. The king’s whore would have died quickly.

  On the dark, cold island of the Sisterhood of Jor, Maya grew to adulthood. She was trained to instant obedience to both her father and the priestesses and indoctrinated with stories of the Fairgean’s greatness. She was taught to have one desire only—to win glory in her father’s eyes and revenge her people against the evil humans who had stolen their land and their seas. Sani had been glad to see she had inherited her mother’s human beauty, for that would make the winning of the Rìgh’s heart that much easier. She had also inherited her human mother’s talent with music, and Sani guarded that secret carefully for if the king knew, he would tear out Maya’s tongue in fear she might use it to ensorcel him.

  Sani undertook most of Maya’s training herself, which she was grateful for as she came to realise the strength and range of Maya’s abilities. Not only was her leda unusually strong and subtle, particularly when she played
her clàrsach or sang, but she had the ability to draw strength from others without them realising. Most people had only the strength of their own will and intelligence to draw upon, but Maya borrowed magical power from all around her. This meant her strength was without limits.

  Of course, those she borrowed strength from gradually failed. If Maya continued long enough, they sickened and died. Her husband Jaspar had lived longer than any other human, and Maya had borrowed so constantly from him that she would be hard put to manage when his life at last flickered out. Of course, once they had realised Maya was not going to conceive easily, they had stopped draining him quite so heavily, finding alternative sources of power instead. They could not risk Jaspar dying before they had a clear claim to the throne. None of them had realised it would take Maya sixteen years to conceive and that an ancient and powerful spell would be needed to achieve procreation.

  The power to transform had only revealed itself when Maya was almost a grown woman. Sani’s plans had taken definite shape then, and she had approached the king with her idea. He hated it, of course, for it meant relying on a woman’s wits, not a man’s brute strength. But his final attempt to win back the coastlands had failed catastrophically at the Battle of the Strand. The Fairgean forces had been so broken that it would be many years before they again had the strength to attack. Reluctantly he had given his permission.

  Sixteen years the plan had been unfolding, and nearly all their strategies were complete. Come winter, the babe would be born. The Rìgh would be allowed to slip into death, a mere husk of the ardent youth he had been. The Banrìgh would permit the people to make her Regent, and would rule in the babe’s name. Then at last the humans’ power would be broken, and the Fairgean would once again rule the coasts.

  Sani was wrapping the mirror in its tattered silk when she saw the silvery surface begin to swirl with clouds. Someone was trying to contact her. Hoping desperately that it was not the Fairgean king, Sani gazed into its depths.

  Slowly the swirling clouds settled into the chubby, choleric face of the Grand-Seeker Humbert. He was sweating with mingled unease and excitement, for of all the seekers he was most sincere in his hatred of all things witch-tainted. He strongly disliked using the same skills that the Awl burnt witches for and would have much preferred to send messengers. Sani had no patience with his discomfort, however, and told him he either had to use the scrying bowl she gave him or she would find another Grand-Seeker. Ambition won over unease, and Humbert obediently contacted Sani once a week. It was not his usual time, however, and it was clear he was labouring under some intense excitement.

  ‘We have the Arch-Sorceress!’ he blurted out as soon as the courtesies were done with. ‘The MacRuraich came in with her no’ half an hour ago! I do no’ ken how he managed to capture her, but she’s chained up with iron and rowan in the town square this very minute!’

  Sani hissed in satisfaction. ‘I want her here!’ she said in her sibilant voice. ‘How quickly can ye bring her to me?’

  ‘By river is the fastest way, o’ course,’ Humbert replied. ‘I will arrange for her to be brought down by barge.’

  ‘If she escapes again, I’ll rip out your heart and eat it!’ she warned. She saw Humbert blanch, and smiled.

  ‘She shall no’ escape, I swear it!’ he cried.

  ‘She had better no’,’ Sani replied, sweet as poisoned sugar, and banished the Grand-Seeker’s ashen face from the mirror. As she wrapped the magic looking-glass up and put it away, her pale eyes were shining strangely. Once the Arch-Sorceress Meghan NicCuinn was dead, nothing would stand in her way.

  Meghan was led through the streets of Dunceleste with her wrists in iron shackles. She walked with her head high and her black eyes scanning the crowd with interest. Her grey plait was pinned at her nape, and a huge emerald clasped together the folds of her finely woven plaid. Despite the chain, the jeering crowd, and the soldiers riding all around her, she looked more a banprionnsa than a condemned outlaw.

  Every now and again a stone or egg or rotten fruit was thrown at her, but always the missile reversed its flight mid-air and flung itself back in the face of the thrower. The more forceful their heave, the harder the corresponding blow. The witch did not even look or move a finger, or show any sign that she had noticed what was happening.

  She reached the main square and saw there a crudely built platform with a large wooden cage hung from a gallows. She smiled in genuine amusement, and the soldiers nearest to her felt their uneasiness increase.

  ‘Get ye in,’ they ordered gruffly, moving to grasp her arms, but a strange dizziness came over them. As they paused to recover their balance she stepped forward and climbed the stairs unassisted. She was small but had to bow her head to enter the cage, which rocked wildly at her weight. Showing surprising nimbleness for one of her age, she sat down cross-legged in the very centre, lifting her plaid clear of the straw and manure which littered the floor.

  ‘Charming,’ she said. ‘Quarters fit for a banprionnsa. I gather from this that Humbert o’ the Smithy fancies a public discussion. I had heard he was no’ very wise and now I ken it is true. Tell him I am looking forward to speaking with him. In the meantime, I would like some water.’

  ‘No water for the prisoner,’ the sergeant ordered.

  ‘Och, it is no’ for me.’

  He ignored her, and she pulled her large bag towards her and undid its buckle. First she pulled out her knitting, causing one of the soldiers to smile involuntarily. Then, to their bemusement, she withdrew a bundle of gardening tools. She took out her little rake and spade and began raking the floor of the cage, pushing the dirt to the four edges. Fastidiously she swept underneath her, dusting off her skirt and wiping her fingers on a cloth.

  As she laboured, a flock of pigeons flew down, circling the cage and settling along the top of the gallows. A fat grey cat with orange eyes gracefully bounded up the steps and slipped in between the bars to curl up on her lap, purring loudly, paws kneading. Dogs threaded through the crowd, tails wagging, and a great carthorse ignored the cries and whip-blows of his driver to drag the huge dray right up to the platform, nudging the cage with its roman nose. She patted it through the bars, and it nudged again, setting the cage swinging and the cat miaowing in protest.

  Tucking her tools away neatly, Meghan pulled out a little canvas pouch and poured a selection of seeds into her palm. The crowd pressed close to the platform, anxious to see what she was doing. The soldiers had to keep them back with crossed spears. Meghan smiled at them, carefully planting the seeds round the inside of the cage. She took out a pinch which she blew into the air. Tiny parasoled seeds drifted out. She did so four times, at the points of the compass, then looked down at the sergeant and said, ‘As ye see, I need some water.’

  ‘No water for the prisoner.’ The sergeant’s neck turned red.

  Meghan shrugged, saying, ‘What the Red Guards forbid, Eà provides.’

  To the surprise of the crowd, it began to rain, a light, blowing shower. It had been threatening for the past hour or so, but it seemed eerie that it should begin just at that moment. They wrapped their plaids tighter about them and pulled on their tam-o’-shanters, wondering what would happen next. As quickly as it came, the scatter of rain passed over and the sun came out, the cobblestones steaming.

  A soft sigh rose from the crowd, and the sergeant jerked his red coat nervously. Small green tendrils were winding their way up the bars and soft leaves were spreading over the bed of straw and manure. Soon flowers were budding, and Meghan’s cage became a sweet-scented bower.

  The sergeant attempted to break off the flowering branches, then noticed daisies flourishing in the cracks beneath his feet. Despite all his attempts to grind them to death, they soon made the cobblestones a cheerful patch-work of stone and golden flowers. Meghan took a silver goblet from her bag, poured herself a glass of goldensloe wine and reclined back on the soft bag. The cat in her lap purred loudly, paws kneading constantly, eyes mere slits of topaz.

>   The Grand-Seeker Humbert paused on the steps of the inn in chagrin. The whole square was decked with flowers, and the filthy witch-hag rested at her ease while the crowd murmured and smiled, the hostile voices now drowned by cries of wonderment. Worse, her shackles of iron and cage of rowan wood had had no effect at all upon her foul sorceries. He pulled his crimson robes tighter about him and walked down into the square. Twelve seekers followed him, an arrowhead of red that stilled the crowd and stiffened the spines of the soldiers.

  He raised his pudgy hands and exulted, ‘We have ye now, sorceress!’

  ‘Have ye, Humbert?’

  He struck out at the cage with his fist, and the cat spat at him, arching her back. Meghan stroked her plush grey fur and smiled gently at the Grand-Seeker. Her black eyes were fixed on his face with tolerant interest.

  ‘For sixteen years ye have evaded the grasp o’ the Awl, but now I, Humbert, fifth Grand-Seeker o’ the Awl, have captured ye!’

  ‘Actually it was the MacRuraich,’ Meghan answered. ‘I really do no’ think ye had anything to do with it at all.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, witch! Ye dare speak thus to the Grand-Seeker!’

  ‘Is he new to the position that he needs to remind himself who he is?’

  Humbert grasped a pike from a soldier and attempted to stab Meghan through the bars, but the pike was long and very heavy and somehow the cage swung about so the pike was tangled. Humbert was almost dragged off his feet, and a few people in the crowd laughed. He dropped it, putting a finger in his collar as if the high-necked robe was too tight.