The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  As summer swung towards autumn, their preparations intensified. Lachlan and his party had to leave first, for they had a long and difficult trek ahead of them through the Whitelock Mountains. It was necessary for them to cross the Muileach River in order to come down behind Lucescere, and that meant they had to climb deep into the mountains to cross the river near its source. There was no other way of fording the fast-running river.

  Finn was determined to disguise herself before going anywhere near Lucescere, despite all Iseult’s reassurances. She decided to dye her hair blonde, and keep her distinctive elfin features well smeared with mud. None of them knew how to dye brown hair blonde, but Iseult simply drew The Book of Shadows out of the pouch and asked it. The pages riffled over by themselves, to the children’s amazement, falling open at last on a recipe that promised to bleach hair with a paste made from the ash of barberry branches. Finn’s head was wrapped in this putrid mixture for most of a day, and when at last the ashes were washed free, her chestnut-brown hair was a pale blonde.

  That afternoon the cobbler came to Iseult with a collection of small but sturdy boots. He and the blacksmith had also designed and made a frame with twelve sharp, curved spikes for Finn to strap over her boots, with cruel-looking clawed gloves for her hands. The blacksmith had also made sharp skewers that could be hammered into any crack to give Finn a handhold.

  Not allowing anyone to watch, Finn took them away to the end of the corrie. For the next four days she climbed trees and rock walls, practised techniques with ropes and pulleys, and at last said she was ready to show Iseult and Lachlan. In high excitement, the League swarmed around the little girl as she solemnly strapped on her claws and prepared to climb the cliff. Slowly but surely she clambered up the steep, smooth slope, making sure the hooks were dug deep into the stone before attempting to trust her weight to it. She slipped several times, but each time was able to cling on, though Iseult’s heart was in her mouth.

  When Finn eventually reached the top of the three hundred foot cliff, cheers and whistles ran out all round the corrie. ‘She’s just like an elven cat herself,’ Jay muttered to Dillon. ‘That’s what we’ll call her from now on—Finn the Cat.’

  Two days later Anghus and his men rode into a valley at the very foot of the Fang. Anghus’s Talent told him the winged man was straight ahead but there was nothing but a towering red cliff. He tried to sense Fionnghal but each time his perceptions grew confused and jumbled to the point of nausea, and so at last he desisted.

  Early the next morning a calvacade of soldiers came marching out of the very rock itself. Anghus and Casey glanced at each other in surprise, for they had seen no crack or fissure in the wall. Then Anghus cried out softly, for at the head of the calvacade marched the hunchback, wrapped again in the black cloak.

  By his side was the tall woman, a white tam-o’-shanter pulled low over her red-gold curls, and a blind old man with a raven on his shoulder. Behind them marched a troupe of children, led by a small boy who proudly carried a crude flag—a yellow hand on a blue background.

  Anghus scanned the troupe of children anxiously, looking for the chestnut-brown hair of his daughter. The only girls among them were fair, one with a bunch of curls pale as flax. As his eyes passed over her, dizziness washed over him. He could not see, blackness whirling before his eyes. He took a step, meaning to call out to the MacCuinn lad, but his head was spinning, he could not tell which way was up or down. He stumbled and fell, rolling down the rocky hill.

  Bruised, his hand and temple bleeding, he lay still. Faces dipped about him. He heard the MacCuinn lad shouting orders, then he was being carried. He was aware of a vast emptiness, sorrow, disappointment. Tabithas was whining at his side, tugging at his sleeve, trying to make him get up. His internal compass was spinning—he did not know where he was, he did not know what he did here. All he knew was that he was lost.

  A week before Lammas Day, the witch-banprionnsa of Arran, Margrit NicFóghnan, rode into Rhyssmadill. She came with a long train of servants and dependants, and a wagon loaded with gifts for the Rìgh. The kitchen hummed with gossip—everyone wondered what brought her to Rhyssmadill, and why the Awl had allowed a sorceress into the palace.

  Isabeau sneaked away to catch a glimpse of her. She was a tall woman, dressed grandly in black velvet with gold brocade and lace. Her face was only delicately lined, but it was cold and disdainful. At her breast she wore the crest of the MacFóghnans, the flowering thistle. So rare was it for a MacFóghnan to visit a MacCuinn that the Rìgh got up to receive her.

  He had been very ill, spending the days in his great canopied bed. Latifa was concerned about him and made many a hot broth or posset to try and tempt his appetite and build up his strength. Isabeau was usually with her, for Latifa’s herb lore was not as wide and deep as Isabeau’s. She was shocked by the Rìgh’s sunken cheeks, the greyness of his skin, the irregularity of his heartbeat. He was only a few years past thirty, but he looked like an old man. She shook her head and met Latifa’s eyes gravely, for he had the look of death about him.

  The servants had been kept busy preparing for Lammas Day, an important festival in Eileanan. Not only was it the celebration of the first harvest, but the day when crofters and farmers paid their rents and taxes to the lairds, the lairds paid the prionnsachan, and the prionnsachan paid the Rìgh.

  The great hall at Rhyssmadill was thrown open for gifts of grain, rams, silks, precious stones and minerals, finely worked metals and bags jingling with coins. The prionnsachan came from all over Eileanan, some having spent a month in the travelling, for Lammas Day was traditionally a time to speak with the Rìgh and discuss problems and negotiate loans. With the land in turmoil from the raids of the Fairgean and the rebels, the Lammas Congress was expected to be tumultuous.

  Gwyneth NicSian came, representing her husband Anghus MacRuraich of Rurach and her own homeland of Siantan, now joined as the Double Throne. She was a very beautiful woman, with a long pale plait. She brought a wagonload of rare timbers, sacks of charcoal, and luxuriant snow-lion furs.

  The Prionnsa of Carraig, Linley MacSeinn, returned after an unsuccessful attempt to cross the mountains into Carraig. He was coiled up tight as a spring with anger and grief, for his son and heir had disappeared from the court in early spring, and all his attempts to raise the men and arms to win back his country had failed. Once the MacSeinns had been a rich clan, trading in furs, fish, base metals and Fairgean scales, but its wealth had been lost with the invasion of Carraig. A proud man, the prionnsa obviously found his position difficult, and there was much speculation in the kitchen about what he would have to say at the Congress.

  From Tìreich came the MacAhern clan, who had travelled through Ravenshaw to get to Rhyssmadill. The prionnsa, Kenneth MacAhern, caused an absolute sensation by riding in on one of the famous flying horses. It was a deep-chested, honey-coloured animal, with rainbow-tinted wings and a pair of spreading antlers. The MacAhern rode without saddle or bridle, as all thigearns did. One did not tame a flying horse with such constraints.

  Piquant as the arrival of the horse clan was, it did not excite near as much interest as the diplomatic party from Tìrsoilleir continued to do. The white surcoats of the Bright Soldiers were to be seen everywhere in the palace and city. Some carried a long, oddly shaped weapon called a harquebus over their shoulders, which the potboys said shot out fireworks with a loud bang. Isabeau could not see any reason for a weapon that shot fireworks, and the idea made her uneasy. Her sleep was filled with nightmares, many of which took the shape of silver and white soldiers.

  Her bad dreams had increased in frequency and intensity until Isabeau was reluctant to close her eyes at night. She dreamt she was trying to escape through mist, running desperately away from something, someone, only to have her feet caught by mud, her body by thorns. She had dreams of war, filled with blood and flame. She had dreams of love, both beautiful and strange. Sometimes the face that bent to kiss hers was dark and passionate; other times it was alien, w
ith great glittering eyes.

  A few days before the harvest festival, her guardian appeared in a dream. Isabeau was filled with pleasure as sharp as pain at the sight of Meghan’s narrow, wrinkled face and glittering black eyes. She was shrouded in shadows hovering like dark wings about her. Isabeau … She called as if from a long way away. Isabeau, ye must come. Ye must come …

  Where?

  To Lucescere. To the auld palace. Ye must come with the Key …

  Meghan, where are ye?

  Come to Lucescere. Ye must bring me the Key. Isabeau, need ye. Come to Lucescere …

  When Isabeau woke, she crept down into the kitchen where Latifa was stoking up the fires. The keyring at the cook’s belt jingled, and Isabeau looked longingly at it. Her months carrying one-third of the Key had left her with yearning she found hard to shake off at times. Keeping her voice low, she told the old cook what Meghan had said.

  Latifa frowned, and clutched her keyring. ‘It be far to dangerous for ye to set out for Lucescere by yourself,’ she said. ‘Particularly on the suggestion o’ a mere dream. Very few have the ability to walk the dream road and ye are still only a fledgling witch—I have never seen any evidence you have that Talent! If Meghan wanted me to give the Key into your hand, she would have told me so. Yet she does not answer me when I scry to her, and we have heard nothing o’ her since she disappeared. I canna be letting the Key out o’ my hand just because ye’ve had a nightmare.’

  ‘But Meghan said—’

  The cook’s voice softened. ‘It be natural that ye dream o’ her, worrying about her as ye mun be. And ye are a nerve thing, I can see ye have no’ been sleeping. Dreams at chancy things, my lassie, often naught but fragments o’ the sleeping mind.’

  ‘But why would I dream o’ Lucescere, it means nothing to me …’

  She shrugged. ‘Lucescere is a fabled city, spun about with rainbows and auld tales. I think it is natural for ye to dream o’ it.’ Though she spoke kindly, there was an edge to her voice and she caressed the keyring with possessive fingers.

  ‘But—’

  ‘It was just a dream, lassie. Let it rest.’

  Meghan began to haunt Isabeau’s dreams, as frequent as the beautiful, golden-eyed man or the alien creature which brought her such bliss, as frequent as the dreams of flame and blood. In desperation Isabeau drank chamomile tea before she went to bed, but even in her deepest sleep the dreams still came.

  During the day, the guests were amused by jongleurs and troubadours, while the gardens were turned into a sort of fair, with stalls handing out sherbets, jellies and cups of ice-cold bellfruit wine. Small groups of men talked quietly in corners, occasionally erupting into sword fights or wrestling matches. The women flirted and gossiped and whispered behind their fans.

  Isabeau was filled with curiosity and excitement. This was closer to her expectations of life in the Rìgh’s palace—a court filled with prionnsachan and banprionnsachan in gorgeous clothes, swirling with intrigue. She longed to eavesdrop on the Lammas Congress, and wondered if there was any way she could conceal herself in the conference room. She might pick up invaluable news for Meghan and the rebellion and restore herself in the eyes of her guardian. For Isabeau had been unable to throw off a sense of failure, despite the successful joining of two parts of the Key. She had been so cocksure when she had parted ways with Meghan, but it had only been with the help of the Celestine that she had completed her quest at all. Now Isabeau’s strength and health were slowly returning, she wished to be involved in the rebellion once more.

  The morning of the Lammas Congress, as she and Latifa were making fat yellow candles for their Lammas sabbat, she expressed her wish rather wistfully to the old cook.

  ‘So ye wish to hear what the prionnsachan say? Well, ye have worked hard and are no’ so bad at shielding your thoughts now. I shall let ye listen in when I do, but ye must keep your mind carefully guarded.’

  ‘So ye were planning to watch the Lammas Congress?’

  Latifa smiled at her, her little raisin eyes disappearing into folds of skin. ‘Indeed I was. Ye’d think I’d let slip such an opportunity? O’ course I have to listen. It is very dangerous, though, Isabeau. I shall only let ye watch with me if ye stay quiet as a mouse.’

  Isabeau nodded excitedly.

  ‘And I do no’ mean your body, for we shall be well away from the conference room. I mean your mind, my lassie. The Banrìgh’s blaygird servant shall be listening and watching too, and we do no’ want to draw her attention. So ye must curl up your impatient, questing thoughts and keep them locked up tight as ye can.’

  Isabeau nodded again, and knew she could do it. These last few months had taught Isabeau much about screening her thoughts. She could even hide herself from Latifa now, which made the cook rather grumpy.

  They watched the conference from the safety and privacy of Latifa’s room. The fat old cook lit candles all round them, ones made with murkwoad, hawthorn and rose, to aid divination and clairvoyance. Isabeau thought it was very interesting how Latifa added precious essences to her candles to aid her own Skills, and she stored away the recipe for future use.

  Latifa bid Isabeau stare into the heart of the fire. With the sweet smoke clouding her senses, she became absorbed in the patterns of fiery light and darkness. The room behind her faded. She experienced a sensation of lightness, giddiness, as if she was floating. She let herself drift. It was as though Latifa had touched her on the top of her skull but there was no physical connection. She felt herself drawn up into the air, as though Latifa were pulling her by her hair. She could see nothing but flames, but it was as if she was turning, twisted into Latifa’s fabric like a strand of wool is twisted into a thread. There was a sensation of spreading. She was light and fragile as dust motes floating in sunshine. Then she saw shapes in the embers of the fire and heard words.

  Gwyneth NicSian was describing the reign of terror the Fairgean had implemented all along the coast of Siantan and Rurach. Many of the fisherfolk and sea-hunters had been massacred, coastal villages from Morrigan Bay to the Wulfrum had been raided, river trade had halted as boats were sunk and capsized from below, and the mountain villages were flooded with refugees. They did not have enough grain for the merchant ships from Rhyssmadill had never arrived.

  ‘Also,’ the banprionnsa continued in a careful voice, ‘the continued absence o’ my husband, the MacRuraich, makes finding solutions to our problems difficult.’

  ‘The Prionnsa is away on the Rìgh’s business and canna be recalled,’ Sani said in her sibilant voice. Isabeau wondered why the Rìgh did not speak for himself. She tried to see the Banrìgh’s servant, but in the fire-pictures she was merely a black, hunched shape.

  The MacAhern said his people had simply withdrawn from the Tìreichan coast, taking their caravans into the hinterland. They missed being able to exercise their horses on the sand dunes, however, and supplementing their diet with fish and crustaceans. The Tìreichan were also keen and canny traders and regretted the closing of the trade fairs. In the five years since the Fairgean had begun raiding, the summer fairs had gradually been abandoned and this greatly hurt the wealth of the MacAhern’s people.

  The MacSeinn tried hard to keep his deep sense of betrayal out of his voice but it rang through every word. His land had been invaded. His people had been brutally massacred. He, the laird of the MacSeinn clan and direct descendant of Seinneadair the Singer, was a refugee, dependent on the kindness of others. His eldest son had been killed in the invasion. His daughter had died in the scramble to escape. His last living child had been stolen from the Rìgh’s own court.

  ‘If we had struck hard at the Fairgean and driven them from Carraig when first they invaded, perhaps the whole country would no’ now be suffering,’ he said earnestly. ‘They have built themselves a base in my land and have used it to strike at others. We should have nipped them in the bud five years ago! It is no’ too late.’

  The MacThanach had not suffered much human loss at all, Blèssem bei
ng protected from the sea by Aedan’s Wall. He had plenty to say nonetheless. Many of the missing children had come from his territories. Two of them were his own kin, and descendants of Aislinna the Dream-Walker herself. ‘Something has to be done to find out who is stealing all the children,’ he shouted.

  He complained about the dangerous creatures infesting Aslinn, so the trappers, charcoal-burners, foresters and miners were too afraid to go about their business. The MacThanach needed base metals to make ploughshares, charcoal for his whisky vats and timber for the building of new crofts. ‘Why do your Red Guards no’ clear the forests o’ the blaygird horned faeries, instead o’ causing trouble in the provinces with their drinking and whoring? My grain is rotting on the docks, and yet Siantan is rioting for lack o’ bread. We must get the trade routes open again!’

  This caused an uproar, for the fleet of heavily armed ships that had been sent north at Midsummer had simply disappeared. No word had come from them since they sailed out of the firth into the Muir Finn. Dughall MacBrann of Ravenshaw said they had been sighted by his father’s people off the coast, but the lookout at the mouth of the Wulfrum had scanned the sea without success for the past month.

  ‘I have heard reports o’ pirates in the seas again,’ Dughall said. ‘Apparently they’re hiding in the Fair Isles. Could they have attacked the fleet?’

  ‘It must be the Fairgean,’ the Admiral of the Rìgh’s navy said. ‘My sailors ken how to throw off an attack by those blaygird pirates. Only the Fairgean could have sunk an entire fleet, with their sea-serpents and whales.’

  He was attacked from all sides with criticism, and when he responded his bluff voice was defensive. ‘Ye must realise, my lairds, no work has been done on the navy’s fleet for nigh on fifteen years. His Highness the Rìgh said the Fairgean were defeated, and he needed the money for other things. We’ve maintained only a skeleton fleet, and many o’ those ships are old and ill-kept. Most o’ our men were conscripted to serve in the Red Guards, and so our forces are much depleted. Can we no’ call them back to the navy to help us get our ships in order?’