The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  Behind him the Bright Soldiers were signalling to the ships bombarding the city with fire. As he hurried along the walkway, he saw a caravel turn and head towards him, unfurling its mizzen sail to catch the dawn breeze. Then he saw the dark mouths of the cannons, and it dawned on him what they meant to do. The fools! he thought as he loped forward, desperate to reach the opposite shore. Do they no’ understand the Berhtfane will flood?

  There was a massive boom. Smoke billowed out of the cannons. Ten bronze balls crunched into the first of the gates. As they shuddered under the force of the cannonballs, water spurted through the spiderweb of cracks, quickly turning into thundering water-jets. Just as the gate smashed under the force, Donovan Slewfoot threw himself onto the eastern shore. Though water poured over his body, dragging him sideways, his powerful hands clenched the railing and held him firm.

  When at last the flood subsided, Donovan stood on the wall and looked to see the results of the Bright Soldiers’ action. It was far better than he could ever have hoped. Not only had the fleet of galleons wanting to enter the gates been swept away by the force of the escaping water, but chaos reigned among those ships left in the harbour. The Rhyllster had not flowed freely to the sea in over four hundred years, and the level of the Berhtfane had sunk alarmingly. Many of the burning ships had sunk, littering the harbour with obstacles the Tìrsoilleirean ships found difficult to avoid in the relentless outward sweep of the river. Some had been smashed upon the wrecks, others had run aground on the rocky shore. Many of the caravels and carracks had survived, being more manoeuvrable than the top-heavy galleons, but their decks were in confusion. It would take some time for the Tìrsoilleirean ships to regroup, and with the river-gates gone, the harbour was no longer the safe haven it had been. The ship commanders would now have to contend with the tides, the river and the Fairgean.

  Unfortunately, most of the Bright Soldiers were safe on shore and the fighting in the town was fierce, smoke pouring from the burning buildings. Donovan Slewfoot gripped his club and began to limp towards the city. He still had a few fighting years left in him, praise Eà!

  Isabeau had been woken by the first explosion. She sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, trying to catch the last remnants of nightmare. Again the ships’ cannons sounded, and she scrambled to the floor, sure now the sound of attack was no dream. Her narrow window looked out onto the stables and offered no view of the firth, so Isabeau wrapped her plaid around her nightgown and ran out into the corridor. The halls were filled with other servants, in nightgowns and nightcaps, all milling about uselessly. Isabeau hurried though to the upper floor where there was a window which overlooked the harbour. There she found a crowd watching the lurid play of the city in flame.

  Isabeau stared out at the harbour, alight with burning ships. Her sharp eyes saw the dim shapes of the Tìrsoilleirean caravels slipping about the harbour, leaving behind trails of flame and destruction. She saw the vicious fighting spilling into every street and square in the city, and the galleons at the wharf unloading great wooden platforms which she knew would be transformed into siege machines for the taking of Rhyssmadill. It seemed her dreams had been prophetic.

  Isabeau slipped back to her room and dressed hurriedly. She swiftly packed a few belongings in her satchel and caught up her plaid from the chair, then she hurried back through the crowded corridors, casting out her senses in search of Latifa.

  To her surprise she felt Latifa high in the palace. For a moment she hesitated, but instinct told her she should stay close to her mentor. Latifa had the Key, and Isabeau knew she could not let it be trapped by a long siege when Meghan needed it in Lucescere. At the worst, she would have to take it from Latifa by force or trickery, but Isabeau was sure the cook would see the seriousness of the situation as clearly as she did herself.

  Confusion reigned in the high-ceilinged halls. Servants were running everywhere, still dressed in their nightclothes. Sprawled across the floor of the front hall were the bodies of three Bright Soldiers. Although she had seen death before, there was something about the pools of blood glistening on the marble that sickened Isabeau.

  A band of guards ran down the stairs, their swords drawn. From the inner bailey came the sound of fighting. Isabeau hurried up the stairs. Someone grasped her and shouted in her face, ordering her to fetch water to help quell a screaming, weeping woman. Isabeau shook herself free and hurried on, all her senses attuned to the proximity of danger.

  She reached the palace heights. There were no guards at the head of the steps, and she saw blood on the pale blue marble. Her heart pounded in her chest. Keeping close to the wall, she slipped down the corridor. Two bodies were slumped before the Rìgh’s own quarters, their throats cut horribly. Blood was splashed on the walls and puddled on the floor. Isabeau heard Latifa’s voice and hurried forward, her stomach churning.

  The Rìgh was sitting up in his bed, a furred gown thrown round his bony shoulders. Lying against him was Dughall MacBrann, his white nightgown drenched with blood. His face was pasty, his breathing quick and shallow.

  Latifa was on her knees by the bed, tearing his nightgown open. She was still in her nightclothes and would have looked absurd at any other time, her great bulk unhindered by corsets, her grey hair screwed up into papers. She turned her head as Isabeau ran in.

  ‘Guid lassie! Did ye bring your herbs?’

  Isabeau shook her head, trying to control her ragged breathing.

  ‘Never mind, we can use the Rìgh’s medicines for now. Come help me, the laird has been stabbed. An attempt was made on the Rìgh’s life, but he is safe now, thank Eà!’ In her perturbation, Latifa did not realise she had used a witches’ oath and Isabeau cast a scared glance at the Rìgh’s face. He was pale but composed, and gave no reaction to the cook’s words. He held Dughall firmly against his shoulder.

  It was an ugly wound. After they had cleaned it thoroughly, Isabeau carefully stitched the ragged lips of skin together and dabbed it with a herbal potion to quicken the healing.

  Isabeau was just knotting the makeshift bandage together when feet hammered up the stone stairway. They all tensed and looked to the door. Latifa got to her feet and stood tight-fisted before the bed as if ready to guard the Rìgh with her own body. It was a brigade of palace guards, swords drawn.

  ‘We are under siege, Your Highness!’ the leader cried. ‘The Tìrsoilleirean have attacked the city! Dùn Gorm is lost, and the soldiers are at the palace gates!’

  The Rìgh began to issue quick orders, his eyes feverishly bright.

  ‘We must get ye to safety before they break through the gates!’ Dughall cried. The Rìgh began to make objections, but his cousin cried frantically, ‘Think o’ your unborn babe, Jaspar, think o’ Maya! Ye canna stay with the Bright Soldiers at your very gates.’

  ‘Rhyssmadill will no’ fall,’ Jaspar said, surprised. ‘Rhyssmadill has never fallen.’

  ‘The river-gates have been destroyed, Your Highness,’ the soldier said desperately. ‘All o’ Clachan and Blèssem lie open before the Tìrsoilleirean army, and Dùn Eidean’s beacon has been lit—we can see its glare from the highest tower. We should retreat and regroup, prepare to defend the highlands.’

  ‘Lucescere!’ Dughall cried. ‘We must get ye and the Banrìgh to Lucescere! Ye will be safe there.’

  ‘Lucescere,’ Jaspar repeated dreamily. ‘Very well, we shall go to Lucescere. Latifa! We must make ready. Start packing up—take only what is needful for the journey to Lucescere. Guards! Call the chancellor! Rhyssmadill must no’ fall!’

  The green meadows around Dùn Eidean were churned into mud, stained with blood and littered with the bodies of the slain. Many wore the silver mail of the Bright Soldiers; most wore the brown homespuns of crofters.

  On the city ramparts an old woman stood, wrapped well in velvet and furs against the wind. Tears ran down the wrinkles of her face. She shook her fist at the battle that raged around the base of the ancient walls.

  Suddenly there was a massive
explosion that shook the city walls. Black smoke mushroomed above the walls, and the Dowager Banprionnsa coughed and covered her mouth with her hands. When the smoke drifted clear, she realised with horror that a hole had been blown in the outer wall. The Bright Soldiers were cheering, and the defenders broke and ran, scrambling to get back as the invaders charged in a silver-glinting wave.

  ‘Damn ye!’ she shouted, but her words were caught by the wind and tossed away. She watched helplessly as the enemy prepared to fire again, and an idea came to her. She had been born in Siantan, home of the mighty weather witches. As a girl she had spent eight years at the Tower of Storm, as had all the children of the great lairds. Although witchcraft and witchcunning were not taught until a child had been accepted into the Coven as an apprentice, she had learnt many a trick from the older students, including how to keep rain away from picnic days.

  The Dowager Banprionnsa did not know what evil sorceries the Bright Soldiers used to so destroy the ancient wall of Dùn Eidean, but clearly the element of fire was involved. She shut her eyes, clenched her fists, and chanted under her breath:

  ‘Come hither, spirits of the west, bringing rain,

  Come hither, spirits of the east, bringing wind,

  Come hither, spirits of the west, bringing rain,

  Come hither, spirits of the east, bringing wind,’

  until she felt a fine mist of rain dampen her face. She opened her eyes and saw a grey deluge sweeping across the loch towards her. Far below, the Bright Soldiers manning the cannons were desperately trying to cover their fuses but the rain was soaking into everything. She saw them curse and throw down their flint boxes in anger, and smiled wearily. For the first time in decades she gave thanks to Eà, standing on the city walls with the rain pelting her grey head. The cannons did not fire again.

  The palace was thrown into turmoil as the retreat was ordered. Latifa the Cook sent servants scurrying into every storeroom and larder as she packed provisions for the journey. Out in the courtyard, horses neighed, rearing in terror at the smell of smoke and fear. The servants of the prionnsachan still in residence scurried to pack their fine velvets, while screams of hysteria rose from every grand suite of rooms. The palace seanalair was shouting orders, while grim-faced soldiers ran to arm the walls.

  The carriages of the aristocrats were the first to leave, guarded heavily. As they rumbled over the bridge, the guards on the outer walls shouted in dismay. The gates into the city had fallen, and fighting was spilling into the park. The coachmen whipped up their horses and the gilded carriages swayed wildly as they raced down the road towards the back gate.

  Isabeau was frantically helping the other servants pile the wagons with barrels, baskets and parcels. She could hear the sound of fighting very close, and the screams of pain and hatred sent adrenalin pumping through her veins. ‘Quickly, Isabeau!’ Latifa cried. ‘The enemy are upon us—we must flee! They will close the gates and raise the drawbridge any moment now!’

  Another fully laden wagon thundered out of the courtyard, piled high with bags of gold, precious plate and jewels, the tiny form of the Chancellor of the Exchequer perched amongst the trunks and sacks like a bird. There was only one wagon left, the great bulk of Latifa already perched on the seat with the driver. Isabeau threw her satchel up, then suddenly remembered the little spit-dogs still tied to the spit-wheels in the kitchen. She raced into the kitchen, untied them in haste and ran back, a dog under each arm. She managed to scramble onto the wagon just as it wheeled round, the driver whipping the horses frantically. She would never have managed it if it had not been for Sukey, who reached down and seized the dogs so Isabeau could vault onto the laden back. Sukey’s tight grip saved her from tumbling off as the wagon thundered out of the palace gates and across the narrow bridge. Behind them the gates slammed shut and the drawbridge shuddered upwards.

  ‘Ye fool!’ Sukey said, her round cheeks for once without any colour at all. ‘Must ye be always risking yourself for a dumb animal!’

  Isabeau could only hug the spit-dogs to her, breathless. As the wagon swung onto the road, fighting surged up against it. One division of Bright Soldiers had managed to strike through the defending soldiers and was trying desperately to stop the Rìgh’s retreat. She saw soldiers, their faces distorted with the lust of battle, press close to the side of the wagon, and she shrank back with a cry. Their silver mail-shirts flashed in the sunshine, their claymores and maces clotted with blood and flesh. Ahead a line of white-clad soldiers lifted harquebuses, resting them on wooden stakes driven into the ground. They exploded with a loud bang and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, and many of the Red Guards fell. Again the harquebusiers fired, and the driver of Isabeau’s wagon tumbled off his seat, a red flower blossoming between his eyes. The horses plunged madly and Latifa seized the reins and urged the terrified beasts into a gallop. They surged over the line of harquebusiers before they had had time to reload, knocking them beneath the iron wheels of the wagon. As the Bright Soldiers screamed, Isabeau covered her face with her hands.

  The wagon thundered on, the Red Guards forcing the Bright Soldiers back. Isabeau looked back at Rhyssmadill. Its delicate spires were half obscured by thick billows of black smoke as the city beyond burned. Desperately she wondered if Lasair would know to flee, or if he would wait for her along the fringes of the park. She sent a frantic mind-message, but there was no response.

  They reached the backwoods gate, the soldiers securing it behind them to slow any pursuit by the Bright Soldiers. The forest pressed in, so that branches scraped the sides of the wagon, the wheels rattling with broken twigs. One of the outriders trotted up close and held up a hand to Isabeau. With a glad cry she recognised Riordan Bowlegs and called to him. ‘Guid to see ye, Red,’ he called back. ‘Do no’ be feared now, will ye? Riordan Bowlegs will look after ye!’

  Isabeau sat back, feeling much happier. A stir of excitement quickened her blood. For weeks she had been worrying about the Key and how to get it to Lucescere. Yet here she and Latifa were, travelling to the old palace in the Rìgh’s own party. Indeed, the Spinners had taken a hand in the weaving.

  The wolf ran swiftly, her nose to the ground, her long, lean body bounding over rocks and bushes. Far below the Muileach River thundered through its gorge, and the faces of the men riding close behind were wet with its high-flung spray.

  Anghus was white-faced and tense-shouldered, his face still raw and bruised from his tumble down the hill. He had woken more than a day after the departure of the winged prionnsa, feeling as if he had drunk a dram too many. His head aching, his throat parched, he had opened his eyes blearily as the wolf had nudged him with her nose. Disorientated, he had stared up at the canvas overhead. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘We be at the rebels’ encampment,’ Donald had said soothingly, holding a cup of water to his lips. ‘Lie still, my laird, ye’ve taken a nasty knock.’

  Anghus had swallowed water obediently, trying to make his brain work. The roof of the tent was wavering, coming towards him, receding. He closed his eyes, set his hands flat to the ground, trying to regain his equilibrium.

  When he opened them again, a stranger was standing against the tent flap, a tall, lithe man with daggers bristling in his belt and boots. ‘So, ye’ve woken, my laird,’ he said very politely. ‘And how are ye feeling yourself?’

  ‘Like I fell beneath a stampede o’ geal’teas,’ Anghus had replied. ‘What happened? What am I doing here?’

  ‘A very guid question, my laird,’ the man answered suavely. ‘A question I’d be liking an answer to myself.’

  ‘Who are ye? Where am I?’

  ‘I, my laird, am Cathmor the Nimble, son o’ Desmond Cobbler. Ye are in the heart o’ the rebel camp, and I’d be warning ye, my laird, no’ to make any hasty moves for there are close on five hundred men surrounding this tent …’

  ‘By the Centaur, do ye think I feel up to making any hasty moves!’ Anghus had snapped. ‘Where’s my daughter?’

  ‘I’d like to ken how
ye knew where to find us, my laird?’ There had been a silky undercurrent of menace in the rebel’s voice.

  ‘I followed the MacCuinn lad,’ Anghus had replied, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘Where is he? I saw him riding out … Where’s my daughter?’ The quality of the silence made Anghus uncover his eyes, and he saw Cathmor had unsheathed his dagger, frowning fiercely. ‘For Eà’s sake, man, I’m no enemy o’ yours or o’ the MacCuinn.’

  ‘Are ye no’ in Maya the Ensorcellor’s service? Did ye no’ capture Meghan NicCuinn and give her into the hands o’ the Awl?’

  ‘Well, yes, but she understood … Put the dagger away, lad, ye’re unnerving me. I see I shall have to tell ye the whole story, and then ye’ll understand.’ Briefly and hastily Anghus had explained the events that had led him to the rebel encampment. ‘So ye see, I just want to find my daughter. Meghan said she thought she was here.’

  Cathmor had stared at him calculatingly. ‘She’s no’ here, my laird. There was a young lassie named Finn, but she rode out with the prionnsa.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘That I shall no’ tell ye, my laird. The prionnsa recognised ye, put ye into my care and told me to keep ye safe.’ There was a slight stress on the last words.

  ‘Have a heart, lad. I swear to ye I care no’ what ye are planning.’

  ‘So ye say, my laird. Indeed, it does no’ matter for soon we shall be gone. We shall keep ye here until ye can do us no harm, then ye shall be free to go. For some reason, His Highness did no’ want me to silence you permanently.’ Cathmor had caressed his dagger, adding, ‘Do no’ think I shall no’ kill ye if ye try anything, though, my laird. We have all fought too long to risk our plans now.’