The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Meghan NicCuinn, ye are charged with high treason, sorcery, murder, conspiracy against the throne, and foul heresies. It is alleged ye plot to overthrow our rightful Rìgh and Banrìgh and are in league with the wicked rebels terrorising the countryside. Under the laws o’ the Truth, if found guilty, ye shall be condemned to die by the fire.’

  Meghan said nothing. She stroked the grey cat and sipped from her wine. Humbert’s fat cheeks reddened. ‘Ye shall be taken and put to the Question this evening,’ he said hoarsely. ‘We shall wring a confession from ye—and the names o’ your evil conspirators.’

  ‘Have ye forgotten I am the Rìgh’s kin, Humbert?’ Meghan said. ‘After the Burning I was offered full amnesty if I went to the Rìgh and submitted myself to his will. That has never been repealed.’

  ‘Ye have been named as an enemy o’ the Crown and charged with sorcery and treason …’

  ‘My great-nephew is the ultimate arbitrator o’ justice in this land, Grand-Seeker,’ Meghan said with the faintest sneer in her voice. ‘It is for him to decide my guilt and to administer appropriate retribution.’

  Humbert’s face was purple, his bulbous nose threaded with engorged capillaries. Sweat sprang up on his face, and he again fingered his collar as if it were too tight for him. ‘The Anti-Witchcraft League was set up by the Banrìgh herself and does no’ report to the Rìgh.’

  ‘Nonetheless, the Banrìgh does no’ rule—she is Banrìgh by marriage only and subject to her laird and husband, Jaspar MacCuinn, who is Rìgh by blood and birthright.’

  ‘The Awl was set up with the blessing o’ the Rìgh.’ Humbert pressed his hand to his heart.

  ‘Aye, indeed, but I doubt he gave permission for his role as judge and judicator to be unsurped.’

  ‘It is the right o’ the Awl to question whomever they believe to be a witch, to establish guilt and—’

  ‘But ye ken I am a witch,’ Meghan said reasonably. ‘I do no’ deny that charge. I see no reason for ye to torture me to establish something everyone kens.’ She waved her hand in the air and blue witch-fire trailed in an arc. The crowd drew back with a hiss, and the Grand-Seeker pointed at her and cried, ‘See, the foul witch works her sorcery!’

  ‘What do ye think I have been doing since I first walked in through the gates o’ Dunceleste?’ Meghan spoke in the tone of voice normally kept for a not very bright child. ‘Do ye think the blossoming o’ the square was mere coincidence?’ She smiled and waved her hand again. Flowers began to rain down on the square, and children ran about laughing, trying to catch them. A few landed on Humbert’s head and shoulders, and he brushed them away irritably, not noticing a daisy had lodged perkily in his stiff curls, just behind his ear. A ripple of laughter ran over the crowd, and one of his seekers stepped forward and whispered to him. The Grand-Seeker’s round face flushed purple with rage, and he swiped at the daisy with his plump fingers. Somehow he kept missing it, his fingers merely pushing it into a more rakish angle. The laughter intensified. His second-in-command neatly plucked it out and threw it away, and Humbert tried to regain his dignity.

  ‘Take her away!’ he roared.

  Meghan sipped her wine, then said softly, ‘I warn ye, Humbert, I shall no’ allow ye or your evil-hearted minions to lay a finger on me. Ye think ye could have caught me if I had no’ allowed myself to be taken into custody? Attempt to question me and I shall be forced to forgo your kind hospitality.’

  ‘Ye canna escape the hand o’ the Awl!’ Humbert hissed in response.

  Meghan smiled. ‘O’ course I can,’ she replied kindly. ‘I have done so before, I shall do so again. I am only here because it suits my purpose. Remember I escaped the clutches o’ Maya herself on the Day o’ Betrayal. She and her blaygird servant thought they had me, and yet when they closed their fingers, I was gone. Ye think ye are more powerful than Maya the Ensorcellor?’

  ‘Speak o’ the blessed Banrìgh with some respect!’ Humbert roared.

  ‘I give respect where respect is due.’ Meghan made sure her voice carried to the far edges of the crowd.

  Humbert spluttered, grasping his collar with both hands as if it was strangling him.

  Meghan said sternly, ‘And remember, there is more than one way for me to escape. Believe me when I say I would rather die than submit to your torture. A sorceress understands the way her body works. I am auld, very auld; it would be easy enough to still my own heart before ye could lay a hand on me. With me would die all my secrets, and your beloved Banrìgh would no’ be at all pleased with ye should that happen.’

  The Grand-Seeker struggled to speak, his face so engorged with blood it seemed his eyes would bulge from their sockets. Meghan leant forward, fixing Humbert with the full force of her sharp black eyes. ‘Oh, yes, it is true a sorceress can stop the beating o’ a heart,’ she said conversationally. ‘Once ye understand the mechanics o’ the body, it is an easy enough trick. A heart such as yours would be as easy to still as closing my hand.’ Holding up her thin, blue-veined hand, Meghan clenched it into a fist, and Humbert gave a sharp cry and staggered. He tore at his collar, and his jacket sprang open as the buttons burst. Breathing harshly, his hand pressed to his breast, he stared at the sorceress, mesmerised.

  Meghan sat back, her hand returning to the fur of the purring cat. ‘O’ course, such things were forbidden by the Coven, who swore never to use the One Power to hurt, only to heal and help. The Coven is gone now, though, and I suppose the creed we once swore to no longer stands. Still, I think it would be best for ye all round if ye send me to the Rìgh and Banrìgh for questioning, do ye no’?’

  ‘Send ye to the Rìgh and Banrìgh for questioning,’ he repeated.

  ‘Aye, send me to the Rìgh and Banrìgh. Soon would be best.’

  ‘Soon,’ he repeated.

  ‘Good man,’ she said approvingly and took another sip of her wine.

  Humbert looked about, bewilderment on his face. The seekers were gazing at him in dismay; the soldiers were barely able to hide their contempt, and many in the crowd were openly laughing. He bit his lip and ordered the soldiers to lock Meghan up for the night and prepare to sail south in the morning. Then, with his collar still unbuttoned, he turned and retreated into the inn. Meghan smiled, picked a flower and threw it to a little girl staring up at her, who caught it with a delighted laugh.

  The soldiers began to strip away the flowers and vines, strumming the cage with their spears but not daring to come any closer. The crowd still surged and murmured, even though it was raining again and dusk was closing in over the town. The rattle-watch walked the square, rattling stones in his can and calling, ‘Sun is near to set, it be wild and wet, time to light your lamp, get out o’ the damp.’

  Meghan knitted placidly, the cat still sleeping on her lap. A young boy hovered white and anxious at the edge of the crowd. Meghan looked at him and smiled gently. ‘She is your friend, this cat?’

  He nodded, jumpy as a young colt. She stroked the plush grey fur and tickled her under the chin. ‘Your friend wants ye to go home with him now, orange-eyes. Thank ye for your company and support.’

  The cat yawned and stretched her fat paws, rubbing her back against Meghan’s knee before strolling over to the edge of the cage. Lithely she leapt down and the boy picked her up with a shy glance at Meghan, before running back to his mother. Meghan smiled and said to him, Ye should see if orange-eyes will deign to speak with ye. Cats rarely take the trouble with humans, but if ye try, she might. At his startled jerk and glance, she knew the boy had heard her.

  The soldiers opened the cage, ordering her to cease her evil sorceries and submit to being taken to safe quarters for the night. Meghan folded up her knitting and tucked it away in her bag. She fussed over the bag’s interior for a while, despite their orders to cease. The sergeant leant forward to grasp her arm, his other hand swinging back to strike her across the face. Suddenly he snatched his hand back with an oath. A wasp had darted from the folds of her clothes and stung him on his hand. He gripped his
wrist in pain, staring with horror at the red swelling.

  ‘Do ye have any feverfew syrup? That be the best for wasp bites,’ Meghan said helpfully. ‘Or lavender oil. Keep it in cold water to bring the swelling down.’

  The sergeant swung towards her as if wanting to try and strike her again, but checked his movement, shouting instead, ‘Take her to the mill—we shall lock her in there for the night with the rats and the grain-snakes.’

  Meghan laughed. ‘Rats are more my friends than ye are, soldier. Such company is no hardship for me. But I warn ye—rats know more secret ways in and out of this sewer-riddled town than any of your raw recruits. If ye wish to keep me another night, I would devise a better keeping-place than that.’

  The sergeant chewed his moustache in indecision, then cried, ‘We’ll lock ye in the inn’s wine-cellar then!’

  Meghan examined her nails. One of the guards said diffidently, ‘Be there no’ rats in cellars too?’

  The sergeant was taken aback, then angry, but he controlled his temper, saying, ‘Somewhere away from beasts. And plants. Somewhere with no easy way out, where we can guard all the exits.’

  ‘May I suggest the best room in the inn?’ Meghan said. ‘It has been a long time syne I slept in a comfortable bed. I can promise ye’ll no’ have to worry about me leaving unexpectedly. Indeed, ye’ll have trouble shifting me in the morn!’

  The sergeant’s eyes darted about, but all his soldiers’ faces were impassive. He spat on the bluish lump on his hand, and said, ‘Take her to the inn! And someone get me some feverfew syrup!’

  Meghan woke in the early dawn, disturbed by the unaccustomed sounds of the town waking. Out in the meadows the goatkeep was blowing his horn to call the goats out to pasture. The bakery was alive with the thump of dough on wood, and the clatter of coal in the bread ovens. The rattle-watch was making his rounds, declaring ‘a grey dawn, chill and forlorn’.

  She smiled and looked about her. If not the best room in the inn, it was still very comfortable. A hard and narrow bed, but then, anything softer and Meghan could not have slept, her old bones so used to tree roots and stones. They had given her only a thin blanket, but she had had her plaid and three mice had come to keep her company. They had left her without food or water, but she had packed a great deal of food for she knew the Awl was unlikely to feed her well, and she had simply hung the jug out the window before she went to sleep. It should be brimming over now, for it had rained all night. She had been happy to eat a solitary meal and had enjoyed a few glasses of goldensloe wine with her flat bread and cold potato omelette.

  The ashes in the fire blazed into life, and she huddled her plaid closer about her as she sat up in the bed. The mice squeaked protestingly and burrowed deeper into the blanket. She tweaked one pink tail and put her narrow bare foot out of the bed. The boards were cold as ice, and she pulled it back in. No need to freeze herself—or to hide her magic, now she was in the Awl’s very headquarters. With a grim smile, Meghan lay back on the pillows and prepared her breakfast.

  The window casements opened, the jug hanging outside lifted itself in and flew across the room, the window banging shut against the cold wind. The jug splashed water into the bowl on the wash table before setting itself down beside it. The wash bowl then swung through the air and hung mid-air above the fire. A bag of oats extracted itself from the half-open pack, flew across to the fire and poured a measure into the bubbling water. A whirl of salt spun out of another pouch as the water and oats stirred briskly together. Soon a smooth porridge was puckering and popping away, and then the bowl waltzed with a spoon over to the bed. Meghan tasted the porridge gingerly. ‘Och, a wee bit hot!’ she exclaimed and blew on it.

  She left the bowl for her captors to wash, bathing straight from the jug and braiding her hair tightly. How she missed Gitâ, who had always helped her plait the great length of her hair. By the time she was dressed, the soldiers were kicking open the door and she was able to receive them, straight-backed and neat.

  The cage, swept free of dirt, had been thrown onto the back of a wagon. They hustled her out, and with difficulty she climbed on board and settled herself in the cage again. ‘Humbert no’ here to say goodbye?’

  They shouted, ‘Quiet!’, pressing close about the cage so all she could see were their red cloaks. She took out her knitting, paying them no attention, as serene as if she was safe in a cottage somewhere. Every now and again one would grow too bold and attempt to strike her. Each time the wagon lurched or a foot slipped, and the fist fell awry. Each time the menacer would injure himself instead. Soon most of the soldiers were bruised and cut, glowering with superstitious fear and frustration.

  As the cart rumbled towards the town gates, the streets again thickened with onlookers. The mood was distinctly different from the previous procession through the town. Many still threw overripe fruit and stones, but again the missiles rebounded on the thrower, no matter how cunning the toss. At first the soldiers ducked instinctively, but they soon found no harm came to them if they did not attempt to harm Meghan. To the guards’ consternation, some in the crowd threw flowers—always melting away so quickly none could tell whose hand had thrown them. Each of the secret supporters found their good wishes returned threefold. Some found coins in the street, or a sick child miraculously healed on their return. Others won a longed-for contract or a lucrative job.

  The cart rumbled through the heavy gates and down the steep, winding road that led from Dunceleste to the loch below. Loch Strathgordon was the second in the string of lochan called the Jewels of Rionnagan, its banks built high with jetties, warehouses and inns. Because of the rapids that flowed between it and Tuathan Loch, the lower loch was the disembarking point for passengers from the south and the place where goods were loaded and unloaded.

  The cage was swung from the back of the cart straight onto the barge, the Red Guards taking no chances. A sharp eye was kept out for any attack by rebels attempting to free the sorceress, but nothing happened as the bargemen poled the low, flat boat away from the jetty. The boat was caught by the current and drawn down the loch towards the river. The water gleamed grey and silver, a brisk wind ruffling its surface. Dark green forest pressed close on the western shore, with the mountains towering above. On the eastern shore, green meadows and orchards rolled down to a wide valley, speckled with the steep roofs of villages. Meghan remarked to no-one in particular, ‘It is many years since I last took a pleasure cruise on the Rhyllster. It is bonny, is it no’?’

  The river journey from Loch Strathgordon to Lucescere Loch took more than a week, and all attempts to starve or intimidate the witch failed. She ate better than the soldiers, her pack filled to the brim with the wild produce of the Veiled Forest. She heated all her food with her finger, a trick that made her think of Isabeau, who had always been too impatient to wait for the kettle to boil. She knitted or read during the day and wrapped herself in her plaid to sleep each night, not showing any signs of discomfort. Her cage was a playpen for mice and rats, causing many a soldier to shudder. The only time she was allowed out of the cage was to relieve herself over the side of the boat. They had at first insisted she perform such tasks in her cage, under the eye of all the soldiers, but Meghan had magically deposited her wastes in the Grand-Seeker’s breakfast bowl until he relented. How she had managed such a trick exercised all their minds, for the guards had kept a close watch on her without seeing anything untoward.

  They rode the rapids from Loch Braemer to Lucescere Loch with nothing happening to alarm them. The Grand-Seeker had been sure that any attempt to rescue the sorceress would occur during this part of the journey, for the Rhyllster’s course ran through thick forests and deep gorges before tumbling down into the great stretch of loch below the Shining Waters.

  They reached Lucescere Loch just before sunset, and the bargemen dropped anchor well away from the tumult of froth where the waterfall plunged into the loch. Wreathed in rainbows where the sun glinted through the high-flying spray, the Shining Falls fe
ll almost two hundred feet down a steep cliff face. The domes and towers of Lucescere seemed to float on the curve of the wave above.

  Meghan sat in her cage, staring up thoughtfully at the city, now silhouetted against a colour-streaked sky. She tickled the nose of a huge black rat with a straw until it sneezed, batting at its whiskers with its paws. ‘It may be time to leave the sinking ship,’ she murmured with a twisted smile. She drew her crystal ball out of her bag and stared into its milky depths. The soldiers about the cage shifted uneasily but dared make no objection. She sat lost in its depths until the sky overhead was prickling with stars; then she tucked it away with a sigh.

  It was near midnight when the guard in the bow of the boat heard the sound of leathern wings swooping near. He shook off his odd sleepiness, got to his feet and stared up at the sky. A faint noise from the stern made him turn. He saw Meghan step out of her cage, the padlock somehow open, the chain falling away. ‘Oy!’ he cried. ‘Wha’ do ye think ye’re doing?’

  He saw with horror that the dozen soldiers who guarded the cage were all slumped on the deck, asleep. The Arch-Sorceress turned at his words, then looked up. He heard flapping right above him and glanced up instinctively. Slender serrated wings were silhouetted against the roundness of the moons. He saw wild, flying hair, the flash of gleaming eyes, then a bare foot caught him on the back of the neck and slammed him to the floor. Dazed, he raised himself high enough to see the black-winged creature catch Meghan in its arms and lift her away. Although he shot arrow after arrow into the night sky, it was too late. The Arch-Sorceress was gone.

  The raven flew down to a branch of a pine tree and cocked his glossy head. He gave a harsh caw, and Iseult raised an eyebrow at Lachlan. ‘He said it’s no’ too much further,’ Lachlan replied, hunching against the rain.