The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  Nothing Anghus said had changed the rebel’s mind. To his frustration, the prionnsa and his gillie were confined to the one small tent, Casey Hawkeye and the young piper to another. Tabithas paced the floor restlessly, whining, but each time they even looked outside they were menaced with claymores.

  The next day they had heard the unmistakable noises of a large body of men packing up and moving out. Their guards kept them incarcerated for another day and night, then drugged their food so all four men and the wolf fell into a heavy sleep. When they had woken, the corrie had been empty.

  At Anghus’s command, Tabithas had put her nose to the ground and led them on the trail of Fionnghal’s party. Through the valleys and gorges the wolf tracked her, the men riding close behind, until they came to the raging torrent of the Muileach River. They had been following the jagged course of the river’s gorge for several days now, but had not been able to catch up with the winged prionnsa’s party. Although Anghus was light-headed and sick still, he spurred his horse on relentlessly, certain now that the beggar-girl they called Finn was his missing daughter.

  They rounded a great boulder and came to an instinctive halt, staring ahead with fascinated eyes. Before them loomed a towering cliff, its craggy surface slick and black with the spray flung back from the river, which burst out of the cliff face several hundred feet above their heads. Boiling and frothing with the power of its escape, the waterfall poured down the cliff face in a white torrent, plunging into the gorge below.

  Tabithas ran back and forth at the edge of the cliff, whining, gazing up at Anghus with troubled eyes.

  ‘How can Fionnghal have just vanished into thin air? Find her, Tabithas!’ The wolf whined again, running back and forth, her nose to the ground. Then she looked up at the prionnsa, wagged her tail briefly, ran and jumped off the edge of the cliff. She fell down, her dark body twisting, and hit the water with a splash. ‘No!’ Anghus screamed, as she disappeared under the foaming torrent. ‘Tabithas, no!’ But it was too late. The wolf had gone.

  Isabeau sat by the fire, stirring the great cauldron of soup. Overhead, branches made a puzzle of the grey sky; on either side moss-covered boulders kept a multitude of slender, golden-leaved trees back. All along the road soldiers were setting up tents, hobbling horses, gathering firewood and scouting the paths that ran into the forest.

  The Rìgh’s ornately carved travelling carriage listed at a peculiar angle on the road ahead of her. It had lost a wheel that afternoon and the soldiers were still trying to repair the broken axle. All the other carriages trailed along the road behind the MacCuinn’s, unable to move forward until the cartwright was finished. The soldiers were gruff and tight-lipped—trying to guard the Rìgh and Banrìgh in such circumstances was not what they wished for at all.

  The three weeks since they had fled the palace had been slow and frustrating. Potholes had made the journey a bone-jarring nightmare, while skirmishes with bandits had kept them all on their guard.

  Isabeau was in a very bad mood indeed. Setting up camp meant rest for the occupants of the lairds’ luxurious carriages, but a great deal of work for the servants. Every bone in Isabeau’s body ached, her limbs were thoroughly chilled, and she was sick of being ordered around. Her crippled hand did not save her from having to lug heavy buckets of water, drag loads of kindling or run errands for laird, lackey, soldier and groom. Since Isabeau had not allowed anyone to tend the scars, her hand ached from the unaccustomed exertion, and some of the ugly scars had split, so her bandages were stained with blood as well as dirt.

  It was the evening of the autumn equinox. If Isabeau had been at home, she would have been celebrating the rites with Meghan, but here no-one seemed to care that day and night were again equal, the forces of male and female, light and darkness, good and evil, for a short time in perfect balance.

  There were still a few hours till sunset. On an impulse, Isabeau threw down the wooden spoon and caught up her plaid, slipping away into the forest. What did it matter if none of the other witches concealed about the Rìgh’s party dared celebrate the equinox? She had been raised by Meghan of the Beasts and knew better than to let Eà’s seasonal changes go past without celebration.

  It was the first time she had managed to get away from the camp since they had left the palace. If Latifa had been nearby, she would have had no chance of escaping, but the old cook had gone to vent her temper on the servants setting up a tent for the Rìgh and Banrìgh to sleep in.

  The MacCuinn’s health had worsened since their journey began, and Latifa was irritable and anxious. None of Isabeau’s potions seemed to help, and the red-haired girl was not hopeful of the Rìgh’s recovery. Her only reward for her efforts had been a box on the ear that had made her head ring, and a warning from Latifa that she would hold Isabeau accountable if the Rìgh died on the journey. Isabeau had muttered that surely that was a matter for Gearradh, she who cuts the thread, which had only earned her a blow to the other side of her head.

  Isabeau’s ears were still red and tender, and her feelings towards Latifa rancorous. She climbed the hill in an excess of energy, driven on by her resentment, and only paused when her breath grew sharp in her side.

  They were high in the mountains now, the road following the rapids of the Ban-Bharrach River as it tumbled towards Lucescere. The needle-tipped peaks of the White-lock range towered above them, the higher slopes shining with ice. Among the sombre evergreens, the brilliant autumn foliage of maple and beech brought sweeps of colour. Small waterfalls dashed down the rocky hills, feeding the Ban-Bharrach. Isabeau had to cross one, jumping from boulder to boulder.

  She lay on her stomach among the greygorse, watching the camp below, and was pleased to see Latifa’s fat form standing by the fire, spoon in one hand, her mouth open as she bellowed Isabeau’s name. Isabeau chuckled, wriggled away, and began climbing again. She was determined to at least chant the equinox rites, and she wanted to be well away from the camp before doing so. She reached the crest of the next hill and began to trot down into the valley on the far side. She could hear the tinkle of a waterfall and veered that way.

  She was almost at the base of the slope when she heard voices. If the conversation had been in a language Isabeau recognised she would simply have gone in a different direction, but the oddness of the voices made her pause to listen. They rose and fell in melodic rhythms, with a whistling inflection that was unlike anything Isabeau had ever heard before. She knew the languages of most animals and faeries of the land, yet this high-pitched, echoing sound baffled her. Carefully she pulled back a branch and looked down into the valley.

  Two figures were sitting on a log just below her. Between them they held something which glimmered and flashed. It was a hand-mirror. Staring into its silvery face, the two people crooned and warbled in that strange language, and to Isabeau’s astonishment, the mirror answered in a deep bass tone. As powerful and resonant as the ocean, the voice spoke for a very long time. After it had finished, the smaller of the two figures leant forward to answer, and Isabeau realised with a sharply dropping heart that it was Sani.

  Very slowly Isabeau let the branch drop back into place and began to inch away. She had no desire to let Sani know she was being observed. Luckily the old woman was too absorbed in the mirror to hear the rasp of leaves beneath Isabeau’s boots. She was able to regain the safety of the forest without being heard and hurried away, her heart pounding. She had no doubt that Sani had been communicating through the mirror as Meghan did with her crystal ball. What language had she spoken, though, and to whom? And who had the other hooded figure been? Isabeau had no doubt it was the Banrìgh herself, and she was fairly certain they must have been speaking the language of the Fairgean. It was the only faery dialect Isabeau did not know.

  At first she thought to hurry back to the camp and tell Latifa what she had seen. Isabeau’s ears still stung, though, and she had no desire to face the old cook’s wrath just yet. She decided to find a lonely hilltop and watch the sun set and the moons ri
se as she had planned to do. Plenty of time to tell Latifa—particularly when there was little she could do, here in the wilderness.

  Isabeau reached the hill’s crest, which gave her a clear view over the forest. The sun had dipped behind the mountains and the shadows of trees stretched long across the hillside. The sharp peaks were black, the sky golden, the forest singing with the snow-scented breeze, the moons translucent and scarred. Peace flooded her, healing her. Raising her arms to the cloud-streaked sky, she intoned the incantation to Eà, as she had done every solstice and equinox of her life.

  Afterwards she set off back down the hill, much calmer after the renewal of her contact with the natural forces of life. It was dark under the trees, but Isabeau had uncanny eyesight, seeing nearly as clearly at night as she did during the day. She scrambled through the birches, the little twigs snapping in her face, and began to hurry back towards the road.

  The noise of a large body crashing through the undergrowth stopped her in her tracks. She pressed her back against the bole of a mossy-trunked hemlock and listened intently. In the light of the two moons filtering down between the tree branches, she saw a tall horse cantering towards her. She recognised its finely drawn head and proud carriage immediately.

  ‘Lasair!’ she cried and ran forward to meet the stallion. He pawed the ground and tossed his head, and she threw both arms around his neck, pressing her face against his silky coat. ‘I have been worried indeed about ye,’ she scolded. He gave a hurrumph of disdain and pushed his nose against her. She stroked it lovingly and he snorted, dancing a little.

  The sight of the stallion cheered Isabeau immensely. She had been fretting about him ever since their flight from the palace, worried in case the Bright Soldiers found him, or the Fairgean swimming in from the sea.

  She was just telling the stallion to be sure to stay out of sight when she heard hooves trotting along the road behind her. She patted his nose, ignoring his jittery prance, the roll of his eye. Very faintly she heard a word in her mind. Danger …

  Go, Lasair! Be careful …

  He shook his head violently, pawing the ground, but she pushed him away and slipped through the forest towards the road. Crouched in the shadow of a huge fallen tree, Isabeau could see the track clearly, even though the moonlight fell through a criss-cross of tree branches. A black mare, nervous of head and ears, was picking its delicate way through the stones of the road.

  Isabeau stiffened in surprise. She knew that mare. But what was her seaside friend doing here, in the lonely forests of the Whitelock Mountains, three weeks’ away from the sea? On an impulse, she stepped out into the road. The mare shied, and the white hands on the bridle gathered up the reins quickly. Before she could spur the horse on, Isabeau cried, ‘Morag? It’s me, Red. Wait!’

  For a moment she thought Morag would urge the mare on so she gave a soft whicker of reassurance to the mare, who quietened, and said gaily, ‘It is Morag, is it no’? I would recognise your bonny mare anywhere. What are ye doing here?’

  Morag put back the hood of her cloak. ‘Red? What are ye doing here?’

  ‘I asked first!’ Isabeau said.

  Morag hesitated, then said, ‘I travel into Rionnagan. I have been cooped up in a stuffy travelling carriage all day and was stiff and restless. I thought I would ride poor Fleet-o’-Feet for she’s been on a lead-rope for days.’

  ‘Are ye camped nearby then? What a coincidence!’

  ‘Aye, we’ve had a slight accident, a broken axle …’ Morag paused, and Isabeau’s eyes widened in astonishment. Surely it was too much of a coincidence to expect two separate broken axles in such close proximity? But how could Morag be travelling in the same party as herself? Isabeau knew most of the servants by name, and all of them by sight. It was true she rarely saw any of the aristocrats, who travelled well ahead of Isabeau’s coach and had their own servants and meal-fires. Still, there were only a dozen in entirety and she had seen most of them as they strolled along the road on sunny afternoons, stretching their legs. She had never noticed Morag among them.

  A hawk screamed, right overhead. Isabeau stepped back instinctively, and the mare shied. Suddenly there was a shrill neigh. Lasair dashed out of the woods, his eyes rolling white. He reared over Morag’s mare, hooves flashing. Deep in her mind, Isabeau heard his distressed call: Beware! Evil! Hurt you …

  Morag dragged her horse’s head backwards, trying to get away from Lasair’s flailing hooves. The stallion reared again, screaming with rage. Isabeau tried to catch his mane, but he defied her, dancing away.

  No, Lasair! Friend!

  No friend! Enemy! Enemy! Evil …

  One of the stallion’s hooves caught the mare on the shoulder. She reared and Morag was tossed from the saddle, landing heavily on the ground. She gave a cry of pain and bent over, her face drawn. Lasair reared over her head, neighing wildly.

  Isabeau ran to the stallion’s head. ‘What have ye done, ye stupid horse?’ she screamed and tried to catch hold of his mane.

  Evil. Enemy. The stallion danced back, not allowing her near.

  ‘This is my friend! What have ye done to her?’ Isabeau half sobbed. She bent over Morag, who was groaning. A hawk screamed again and again and dived at Lasair’s head. He reared and struck out at it with his hooves, but it evaded him and flew shrieking into his face, extended claws trailing coloured ribbons.

  With a neigh Lasair tossed his head and cantered away into the forest. My enemy … beware …

  ‘My … babe,’ Morag panted. ‘My … babe!’

  To Isabeau’s horror, she saw a spreading stain on Morag’s riding skirt. ‘My … babe,’ she gasped.

  Isabeau was gripped with a paralysing indecision. She clutched Morag’s hand. ‘Can ye walk?’ she asked, but the white pain on Morag’s face answered her. She was rocking back and forth, and the stain on her skirt spread and spread.

  ‘Latifa …’ Isabeau scrambled to her feet. She knew the old cook was an experienced midwife. ‘I canna leave ye here, it’s dark already and the wind is cold. I’ll take ye back to the camp, I ken someone who can help ye.’ Morag only groaned.

  Panic coursing through her, Isabeau went to catch Morag’s horse. Although Lasair’s commotion had unnerved the mare, Isabeau calmed her enough to lead her to where Morag was crouching, her lip gripped between her teeth.

  Getting Morag onto the horse’s back exhausted Isabeau, who was already worn out after her climb. She was finally able to heave the pregnant woman’s bulk into the saddle, with the help of a fallen log, and she began to lead the horse back through the forest.

  The moons had risen into a bank of storm clouds, and it was darker than ever under the trees. Any stumble by the mare caused Morag to groan. Several times the pregnant woman was almost unseated as the mare shied at a shadow. Each time she managed to cling on. Isabeau peered through the darkness and saw the guards several paces before they saw her. Nonetheless, her heart hammered when they brought their swords up, crying ‘Halt!’

  ‘I must find Latifa,’ Isabeau cried. ‘Woman … injured. Having a babe!’

  A flaming torch was thrust into her face and the guard exclaimed in recognition, ‘Red, it’s ye!’

  The flaring light played over the mare’s nervous hocks, and he cried incredulously, ‘Fleet-o’-Feet!’ and hastily raised the torch high. In distress, he called, ‘Guards! Quickly! It is the Banrìgh!’

  Immediately there was an uproar. Isabeau gripped the reins, bewildered and so tired she hardly comprehended what he meant. Guards were running in all directions, shouting. Lights sprang up. Two of the guards tenderly removed Morag from the saddle. She fainted into their arms at the movement.

  ‘Get Latifa!’ Isabeau cried, trying to get near her friend. They held her back with hard but kindly hands. ‘Ye do no’ understand. She fell from her horse! She’s having a babe! It will die!’ Isabeau sobbed.

  The guard snapped orders and soldiers went running in all directions. Isabeau was unsure why her plea for help had been answered
with such enthusiasm, but she was grateful. She sank back on her heels in the middle of the road, unable to take her eyes off that awful dark stain spreading over Morag’s lap.

  Suddenly Latifa was there, her round brown face creased with anxiety. Torches were flaming all about them. ‘Oh, my Eà!’ Latifa cried, heedless of who was listening. ‘It is the Banrìgh!’ She gestured imperiously to the soldiers. ‘Out o’ my way, ye fools!’ She took one look at Morag’s face and posture and tore the crimson cloak off the soldier’s back.

  ‘Give me your cloak, ye great blithering idiot!’ she cried, using it to shelter the groaning woman from the soldiers’ eyes. ‘Your Highness,’ she said gently, ‘I need ye to sit up. Come now, that be right.’

  Morag was unable to respond, her breath coming in hoarse pants.

  ‘We canna let her be having the babe here on the road, in the view o’ all. Run, get me a tent and build me a fire, as quick as ye can. Isabeau, get your herbs and think what is best to calm the babe for the birth.’

  Isabeau sat stock-still, her mouth agape. She could not believe that Morag was the Banrìgh, the woman she had been brought up to think of as her enemy. She could not believe it. She kept thinking there must be some mistake, but surely Latifa would not make such a mistake?

  Latifa helped Maya sit up, pressing her fingers on her grossly distended stomach. Maya screamed and beat at Latifa’s hands with her own. ‘Gently, my dear, gently,’ Latifa chided. She said to Isabeau, ‘The royal babe is no’ due for a month! This is dreadful, indeed. Wha’ happened?’

  Isabeau, trembling with fear and anxiety, tried to tell her. Already in shock at the suddenness of Lasair’s attack, she was frightened and dismayed by the realisation that her friend Morag was the Banrìgh, the most powerful woman in the land. Everything had happened so fast. She stole little looks at the Banrìgh’s white, sweat-glistened face, as she lit the fire—now so used to flint that she never even thought of lighting it with her mind. This was her greatest enemy, the woman she had sworn to topple. The shift in perception was too much for her to deal with.