The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘It is I, Dughall.’ He felt the wrist slacken in relief.

  ‘Ye come to watch me sleep, Dugh?’ The Rìgh’s voice was sleepily affectionate. ‘Ye are afraid I shall die in the night?’

  ‘I am afraid,’ Dughall answered hesitantly. ‘I fear for your safety, Jaspar, though ask me no’ why.’

  ‘My death is close,’ Jaspar whispered. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘Obh obh! The cracked cup lasts longest, ye ken that!’

  ‘They said, when I was but a bairn, that I had Talent,’ Jaspar mused in the darkness. ‘Give me this, Dughall—if any Talent be left in me, it is to ken the coming o’ my own death.’

  Dughall was shaken. ‘I hope no’, Jaspar, for these be times when we need a strong Rìgh.’

  ‘I want to return to Lucescere. I miss the Jewels o’ Rionnagan gleaming in the light, I miss the Shining Waters, I miss the gardens and running through the maze. Do ye remember how we used to play chase-and-hide in the maze? They say it disappeared the day the Tower burnt.’ Jaspar sighed. ‘Sometimes I still think I can hear the Lodestar calling … My babe will need to be bonded to it, it canna be the first MacCuinn in four hundred years no’ to touch the Lodestar …’ His voice came in spurts as his energy failed him.

  The sense of danger was now so close Dughall felt it at his shoulder, breathing a polar wind down his spine. ‘Jaspar,’ he said urgently. ‘Something is wrong! I can feel it.’

  ‘It is almost dawn. I would like to see the dawn again before I die.’

  ‘I could help ye to the window,’ Dughall said eagerly.

  ‘I canna walk. My legs shake, and my heart pounds like a drum.’

  Dughall bent and gathered his cousin’s form to his breast, frightened at how light he was. Jaspar had never been tall, like most of the MacCuinns, but he weighed no more than a child now.

  ‘Take me to the west window,’ Jaspar begged. ‘I want to see the dawn on the Whitelock Mountains. I do no’ want to see the sea.’ He gave a superstitious shudder, and pressed his arm closer about Dughall’s neck.

  Dughall carried him across the suite and set him down so he could draw back the curtain and open the long windows. Jaspar leant against him, shivering in the cold. With an exclamation, Dughall stripped off his bedgown and wrapped it around the Rìgh’s emaciated form. He helped his cousin over the doorsill and they stepped out onto the small balcony.

  In his luxurious suite of rooms in the royal wing of the palace, Baron Neville of St Clair leant on his windowsill and watched the first bright blossoming of flame with austere pleasure. ‘Deus Vult!’ he cried, and rubbed his hand lovingly over the sword-hilt.

  The guild-master of the Ancient Guild of Firework Magicians had been useful indeed. With a little persuasion, he had surrendered the secrets of making gunpowder, and now the Bright Soldiers were assured of victory.

  The recipe for gunpowder had been carefully guarded by the Ancient Guild for over a thousand years. The guild sold their magical substance to the prionnsachan at a very high price for blasting, quarrying and metal smelting. The secrets of making the explosive powder had been brought from the Other World, but the white crystalline substance used to make it was rare here—found only in the northern countries of Siantan, Carraig and Tìrsoilleir.

  For many years saltpetre had been among those countries’ most lucrative exports, for all Eileanan loved fireworks and all the prionnsachan needed explosives for their industries. The Ancient Guild of Firework Magicians had been one of the wealthiest of all the guilds, and the most secretive about their activities.

  The fireworks powder had always been used in weaponry, but both muskets and cannons were slow to load and fire, prone to exploding at the wrong moment, and completely useless in damp weather. With saltpetre so rare, its use had primarily been reserved for industrial reasons, particularly in the past four hundred years. Since Aedan MacCuinn set himself up as Rìgh, there had been none of the civil war which had divided Eileanan for so long, and so such high-powered weaponry had fallen out of use.

  Tìrsoilleir had been no exception. Although its many limestone caves were rich in saltpetre, there had been no civil war in the Bright Land since the last attempt of the MacHilde family to regain their throne. The dour soldier society did not approve of fireworks, and so the Ancient Guild of Firework Magicians had only a small factory in Bride. After the Fealde, God bless her soul, decided to rid the world of the heretical, witch-loving Eileanans, they had tried to buy the secret from the guild, but they had all preferred to die rather than give up the recipe.

  This had presented only a temporary hitch to their plans, fortunately. There had been enough stocks of the gritty grey powder at the Bride factory to allow the legions to be trained in the use of the harquebus, and to allow the military engineers to design a more efficient cannon that could be bolted to the ships’ decks. By the time their gun-powder was running out, they had signed a treaty with the Banprionnsa of Arran. She had no gunpowder herself, nor saw any need for it with her foul sorceries, but she commanded the Mesmerdean, who could infiltrate any strong-hold. The marsh demons had led a company of Bright Soldiers into the heart of Dùn Eidean itself and had helped carry away sacks of gunpowder, as well as the slack body of the guild-master. With the Mesmerdean’s hypnotic talents, they had easily beguiled him into giving up the recipe, and killed him afterwards, along with anyone else who knew the secret in Blèssem.

  It had been a clever plan, this surprise attack on the Rìgh, and had been carefully coordinated. The treaties with Margrit of Arran and the pirates of the Fair Isles had allowed them to attack Dùn Eidean and Dùn Gorm simultaneously. The diplomatic party had flattered the Rìgh’s conceit and paved the way for the fleet of merchant ships at a time when all of southern Eileanan was hungry for trade. The galleons, welcomed in the Berhtfane with open arms, had concealed soldiers and siege machines. The stealing of the gunpowder recipe gave the Bright Soldiers the weapons with which to fight off the superior force of the Rìgh.

  It had been a stroke of genius to strike in the aftermath of the Lammas festivities. The barracks were all nursing hangovers, and Rhyssmadill was stuffed with the riches of the land which the prionnsachan had paid in tithes. Already the Fealde was planning a cloth-of-gold tapestry to drape the altar of Bride’s cathedral and a jewelled cross to hang above it.

  The rich lands of southern Eileanan would be theirs! The corn and barley fields, the saltpans, the abundant forests, the mountains rich in ore and jewels, the life-giving river, the huge harbour and gentle shores would all be theirs. Baron Neville’s austere lips almost smiled. ‘Deus Vult!’ he murmured.

  His lieutenant, Benedict the Holy, stood by his side, the only sign of satisfaction on his impassive countenance the faint gleam of his eyes. ‘Time, do ye think, my laird?’

  ‘Aye, time indeed,’ Baron Neville replied and picked up his helmet, fitting it over his cropped grey hair with finicky care before striding from the room.

  The upper floors of the palace were very quiet. A few lanterns glowed in the corridors, but otherwise all was dark. Baron Neville loosened his dagger in its sheath. If he felt any compunction about the task he was about to perform, no sign of it showed on his ascetic features. His grim mouth was folded firmly, and his fingers were steady. The twelve other Tìrsoilleirean who had been quartered in Rhyssmadill itself would now be creeping towards the drawbridge, prepared to do what they could to speed the fall of the palace. Even if they were unable to damage the mechanism to open and close the bridge, they could kill or wound many of the guards on duty and perhaps wedge open the portcullis to the inner bailey.

  Their white cloaks streaming behind them, Baron Neville and Benedict the Holy climbed the grand staircase to the highest floor, where the Rìgh and Banrìgh’s personal quarters were. The guards at the top of the stairs jumped to attention, their spears crossing smartly. If they thought it odd to find the leader of the Tìrsoilleirean diplomatic party creeping through the palace in the wee small hours, they had no chance t
o express their puzzlement. Both died quickly and silently, their bodies hidden behind the tapestries that hung over the stairwell.

  The guards outside the Rìgh’s door died as quickly, though their bodies were left to lie where they had fallen. The baron’s fingers trembled with excitement as he eased open the door of the Rìgh’s suite of rooms. It was dark inside. The fire was dead, the only light sliding through a crack in one of the curtains. He tiptoed across the rug, the knife in his hand slippery with sweat, Benedict at his back. The baron had never before been in the Rìgh’s own quarters and so had to guess where the bed was. His fingers encountered the soft plushness of the velvet coverlet, and he followed it higher until he felt the swell of a pillow beneath his fingers. His heart hammering, the baron and his lieutenant raised high their daggers. With loud cries of ‘Deus Vult!’, they thrust their knives deep into the yielding softness of the bed. Again and again they stabbed, shouting, ‘See how witch-lovers die, MacCuinn?’

  To the west, the outline of the mountains was just beginning to lift from the darkness. The moons were setting, round as wheels of cheese and near as orange. Even Gladrielle was bright hued, while the shadows on Magnysson’s rump were heavy, like the marks left after the slap of a hand.

  Dughall was filled with ice inside and out. He smelt burning, and from the corner of his eye saw the ugly stain of smoke against the paling sky. Together he and Jaspar watched the mountains spring to life before them, and breathed in the smoke-tainted air. Danger was cold steel against the nape of his neck. From the Rìgh’s bedroom, they heard exultant voices crying: ‘Deus Vult! Die, witch-lover!’

  Immediately all Dughall’s misgivings crystallised and he knew exactly what he had feared. Jaspar turned his head, his body rigid. ‘Bright Soldiers.’

  ‘Aye,’ Dughall whispered. He drew Jaspar back into the shelter of the wall, dread coiled like a snake in his belly. They were unarmed, dressed only in thin nightgowns and slippers. For the Bright Soldiers to have penetrated the Rìgh’s own suite meant the guards must be dead. Any moment the Tìrsoilleirean would realise the Rìgh’s bed was empty, and they would search the suite.

  ‘They will murder Maya!’

  ‘Quietly, my Rìgh, else they will find and murder us,’ Dughall replied, casting his mind about for someone who could help them. He sent an urgent mind-message to Latifa, hoping she was awake, hoping she would heed the call. He knew the old cook worshipped the ground on which the Rìgh trod and had the force of character to overcome any objections the guards might have to obeying her orders.

  From the harbour came the sound of explosions. The wind turned acrid, smoke billowing past the spire. It was brown against the pale sky. Within the room there was the sound of shouting. The Bright Soldiers had evidently discovered the Rìgh was missing from his bed. Dughall pressed back against the wall, one hand clamped on the Rìgh’s thin arm. The curtains swished aside and a man stepped out, a dagger held at the ready.

  In one clean, swift action, Dughall stepped forward and kicked the soldier hard in the small of his back. The man stumbled forward and half fell over the stone balustrade. For a moment he teetered, shouting with alarm, the knife falling from his grasp. Dughall did not wait, but caught the man about the legs and tipped him over. With a scream he fell, his white-clad body tumbling over and over. It took him only a few seconds to fall hundreds of feet to the steep-angled roof below. He landed with a sickening thud.

  His witch senses screaming beware, Dughall whirled round in time to see another man rushing towards him through the billowing curtains. He too wore chain mail beneath his white surcoat, the scarlet fitché cross like a stain of blood on his torso. Dughall had time only to lurch sideways as the dagger in the soldier’s hand whistled past him. It struck the stone wall, missing his stomach by inches, but before Dughall had time to do more than regain his balance, the dagger struck again. It penetrated deep into his side, bringing with it a cold so intense Dughall could do nothing more than cry aloud and fall to his knees. The dagger stabbed again and Dughall threw up what power he could to deflect the blade. The soldier hissed through his teeth as the dagger was wrenched awry in his hand and kicked Dughall brutally in his wound, crying, ‘Sorcery!’

  For a moment Dughall could muster no will, no desire, to strike back. He forced his eyelids to open and saw the burly figure sail over his head. His eyes were wide open, staring with terror, his mouth shrieking. Dughall clutched his bleeding wound with both his hands and looked up at Jaspar. The Rìgh’s hand was stretched out, the fingers splayed. Horror and triumph were mingled together on his face. He said shakily, ‘Seems I have more Talent left than I thought I did.’

  A long line of Tìrsoilleirean marched up the highway, the rising sun glinting on their silver mailshirts and the winding line of their pikes. As they marched, the Bright Soldiers surveyed the rich countryside with covetous eyes. They did not notice that the fields were empty of workers, despite it being harvest time and the sun already risen. Neither did they notice the absence of the fine flocks for which Blèssem was famous. Not one white fleecy sheep or one milk-heavy goat was to be seen anywhere in the meadows, although the goat-keep should have called the goats to pasture hours ago. Unheeding they marched on, filled with the glow of righteousness. They were professional soldiers, not farmers. Most had lived all their life in the military barracks in Bride, and they had a profound contempt for the farmers who provided their food and materials.

  The berhtilde raised her hand and the long line of soldiers stopped in perfect time. She rose in her stirrups and stared down the valley. On a low hillside to the west the walls and spires of Dùn Eidean rose above the placid waters of a small loch. The soldiers fingered their swords and harquebuses and prepared themselves for the battle to come. They had already sent on their messengers to beguile the city and confidently expected to find it open and waiting for them. They knew the prionnsa and his family were still travelling back from the Lammas Congress, so there was no-one in the city to take command.

  The berhtilde frowned. Although the city was too far away to see more than its shape, she did not share the confidence of her soldiers. It had occurred to her that more people should be out and about. Blèssem was closely populated, the villages lying no more than a day’s walk away from each other. Yet they had seen no-one since they had struck camp and marched for Dùn Eidean. She shrugged and gave the order to march on.

  By the time they reached the shores of the loch, the soldiers were as grim-faced as she was. Not only were the gates of the city shut tight, but outside a large force of men was drawn up in squares and columns. Many were dressed in the uniform of the city soldiery, but there were also five hundred men and women armed with pitchforks, axes and rusty swords. There was implacable determination on their faces. With a curse, the berhtilde realised all their advantages of surprise, numbers and position were lost. The Blèssem folk had the walls at their backs and the advantage of height, and there were nearly as many of them as there were Bright Soldiers. Nonetheless, none had the advantage of their war training nor any gunpowder. With a gesture, she ordered her soldiers into position. The Fealde of Bride had said Dùn Eidean must be taken, and so taken it would be.

  Donovan Slewfoot had woken well before the dawn, as he always did. He had eaten his porridge with a dash of whisky, as he always did, and had gone out to smell the wind. He was still greatly troubled, but his first pipe of the day helped soothe him, and he leant on the railing, enjoying the ripple of stars in the water.

  The first flowering of flame had caused him to straighten, clenching his pipe in his big fist. As one ship after another began to burn, he hurried back into his gate-tower and began to sound the alarm. He rang the bell until his arms ached, and then hurried out to see what he could.

  Red light from the burning city shone on the sails of a fleet of ships sailing towards him out of the dawn, while a band of Bright Soldiers hurried towards the watch-tower, grim determination on their faces and long swords in their hands.

&nbs
p; He knew at once what they intended. If the Bright Soldiers gained control of the river-gates, their remaining soldiers could be brought safely within the bulwark and all of southern Eileanan would lie open to their forces. If he could somehow manage to jam the gates, then those dozen galleons would be forced to turn and tack against the tide to avoid being shipwrecked on the shore. At best they would sail straight into the gates and be destroyed anyway. Donovan Slewfoot had been harbourmaster of the Berhtfane for thirty years. He had worked on the canals since catching a foot in the gates’ machinery as a mere lad. He knew the gates better than he knew the craggy lines of his own face. He knew exactly what to do to sabotage them.

  Working quickly, he lay on his back and inched under the massive chains, an iron spanner in his hand. Carefully he wedged the spanner into a gap that would prevent the chains from shifting, at least for a while.

  The pounding on the massive door at the base of the tower stopped, and for a moment there was silence. Given up already? Donovan Slewfoot thought with a wry smile. Then there was an almighty bang that made him clap his hands over his ears, and the tower filled with evil-smelling smoke. The harbourmaster was taken aback. Wha’ sorcery is this? Surely the Bright Soldiers are as witchcraft-fearing as the rest o’ Tìrsoilleir …

  The sound of feet pounding up the stairs caused his heart to slam. Limping as fast as he could, Donovan Slewfoot went out onto the walkway and locked the door behind him. As he hurried across the top of the gates, he heard the soldiers whipping the great horses into motion. Slowly the wheel turned and the gates began to swing apart. Donovan still had some distance to cover before crossing the crack where the two arms of the gate met. With a sinking feeling he hastened his gait, trying to reach it before the gates swung too far apart.

  Just then the gate shuddered to a halt and he was thrown to his knees. The crack between the gates was only a foot apart but it was a long jump for an old man with a crippled foot. Donovan Slewfoot wedged his stick under his arm, prayed to Eà and jumped. Thanks to his quick reflex in catching hold of the rail, he made it.