The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Grief! That’s a joke! Ye think I do no’ see through your play-acting?’

  ‘How do ye know what I feel? Ye think I have a heart o’ stone? Jaspar was my husband, and the father o’ my babe, and I loved him well!’

  She heard his claws click on the marble floor and turned her head, trying to conceal her fear.

  ‘Loved him well enough to drive him to an early grave, steal his throne and murder his family?’ The voice was thick with grief.

  She strummed the clàrsach, lightly, delicately, and said, ‘Why do ye no’ show yourself? Are ye afraid?’

  ‘I am no’ afraid!’

  ‘Yet ye skulk behind some enchantment so I canna see ye. Who is it who speaks?’

  He threw back the cloak and stepped forward proudly, his wings erect. He was dressed in the MacCuinn tartan and carried a bow as tall as himself. She ground her teeth with anger to see him wear the crest at his breast, as if he were the head of the clan and not his baby niece. ‘As if ye do no’ remember me,’ he said. ‘Did ye no’ wake us so we could see ye and understand what it was ye did to us? Did ye no’ smile as we watched our own faces being swallowed by feathers and beak?’

  Her fingers wandered into a lullaby, and she said thoughtfully, ‘How did ye escape the enchantment? I thought it would be impossible.’

  ‘Meghan o’ the Beasts brought me back with the help o’ some friends,’ he answered, pacing closer. ‘Yet ye can see they were unable to restore me fully.’

  She looked him over, flinching a little at the sight of his talons, which were blood-stained. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘No, I can see they could no’.’

  He cried, ‘Why would ye do this to us, Maya? Why?’

  The lullaby wrapped the room in soft rhythms of sound. ‘I was cursed, Lachlan, born o’ a Yedda and the King o’ the Fairgean, trapped between sea and land, trapped between cultures and races. Ye call me the Unknown, but if I am a stranger here I was no less a stranger among my father’s people.’

  ‘Ye are Fairge! I knew it, I always knew it.’ Lachlan sat and clasped his head in his hands, propping the bow against his knee. His shoulders heaved.

  ‘I am sorry ye were so trapped, Lachlan. I was young and jealous o’ Jaspar’s love for ye. Ye would never have let me be. It was peace that I wanted, it was to be left alone, it was peace that I wanted. Indeed I loved your brother, and I grieve much at his passing, but now he is at rest, he is at peace, be at peace with me, brother, be at peace.’

  She saw him cover a yawn. His face was grey with tiredness. She let one hand drop from the clàrsach into her lap, and she talked on in a gentle sing-song as she unwrapped the mirror. Lachlan had thought she had forced them to watch their own ensorcelment out of cruelty, but it was imaginatively changing their reflection in the mirror that effected the actual shape-shift.

  Lachlan shook his head and wiped his eyes angrily. ‘Be at peace with ye? I think no’,’ he said, glancing up. She had just lifted the mirror, and his eyes dilated at the sight of it. With a cry he brought the bow up and shot the mirror from her hand. There was a tinkle of falling glass and she screamed in pain, bringing up her hands to cover her face. She fell from the chair and writhed on the floor as changes rippled over her. Grey sprang from her brow, crinkling through the blue-black sheen. Her face altered, grew wider and more strongly sculpted, her nostrils flaring, her nose flattening. The webs between her fingers grew, and her skin grew paler and moister, a fine iridescent sheen to it almost like scales. Blood seeped up through a fine web of cuts on one cheek, patterned like the broken mirror that lay at her feet.

  Lachlan shuddered in horror. She gasped, ‘Ye fool! Ye just lost any chance ye had o’ being transformed back into a man. The mirror was magical—ye are trapped forever now!’

  Isabeau and Iseult fought their way down the hall, heading away from the battle. It was only the surge of fresh rebels from the city that gave them the momentum to enter the main wing of the building. Dillon and the League of the Healing Hand had somehow managed to raise the portcullis, so the city rabble had surged into the palace grounds.

  The twins reached the cook’s rooms and Isabeau whispered to Iseult, ‘Perhaps I had better speak to her alone. Why do ye no’ keep guard for me?’

  Iseult reluctantly nodded and Isabeau knocked on the door. ‘Latifa,’ she called. ‘It is me, Isabeau.’

  The door opened and a suspicious round face peered out. The old cook’s face was swollen and red with tears, her eyelids so puffy her tiny raisin-black eyes could hardly be seen.

  ‘Isabeau?’

  ‘Let me in, Latifa, we need to talk.’

  The cook pushed the door open and Isabeau went in. She saw the baby lying on the bed. At the sound of Isabeau’s step the baby opened her silvery-blue eyes and gave a little dreamy smile. ‘Bronwen!’ Isabeau picked the baby up and swung her to her shoulder. ‘Ye are safe! I was so worried.’

  Latifa sat heavily, looking down at her plump, work-chapped hands.

  ‘Latifa, it is time to join the Key,’ Isabeau said gently, laying the baby down again. ‘Ye must give it to me now.’

  Latifa clutched the keyring at her waist. ‘No,’ she said.

  Isabeau sat down, facing her, taking her hands in hers. She could see the cook was dazed with grief and shock. ‘Latifa, what is wrong? Why no’?’

  ‘Ye heard the Rìgh,’ Latifa said stubbornly. ‘He wanted his wee babe to inherit. If ye support that uile-bheist she will be disinherited. Puir Jaspar—all he wanted was to make sure Bronwen would be protected. He made me promise I would watch over her, keep her safe. Ye canna tell me she will be safe if the rebels win the day? I heard how that winged man spoke about my wee Bronwen. He called her evil.’

  ‘We will keep Bronwen safe,’ Isabeau said. ‘Ye and I will look after her. Meghan will make sure nothing happens.’

  ‘Meghan is gone,’ Latifa said harshly, and a sob shook her.

  ‘Nay, Meghan is here. I just saw her.’

  ‘Ye try and trick me,’ Latifa said suspiciously, staring at Isabeau. ‘Ye sound like Isabeau …’

  ‘I am Isabeau,’ she said, puzzled. ‘I speak the truth. Meghan is here. She needs the Key. She is the Keybearer and she needs it back.’

  ‘Meghan is dead,’ Latifa said. ‘This is all trickery and deceit. Before they said it was ye, and I knew it was no’. Now ye say it is ye again, but I canna tell. Ye smell all wrong, o’ smoke and blood.’

  Isabeau persisted gently. ‘Latifa, ye ken Meghan needs the Key, ye’ve guarded it for her all these years. Why will ye no’ give it to her when she needs it?’

  ‘Meghan is no’ here, she’s disappeared. Ye’ve been tricked, Isabeau.’

  Sunlight was striking in through the cook’s window, and with a shock Isabeau realised how much time had passed. The last few hours had been a blur. ‘I have no’ got time for this, Latifa, ye need to give me the Key!’

  A cunning expression crossed the old cook’s face. Her hands slipped under her apron and her lips moved silently.

  A strange lethargy crept over Isabeau. Her bones felt soft as butter.

  ‘Ye are mistaken, Isabeau.’

  ‘I am mistaken?’ she said with a questioning inflection.

  ‘Ye are mistaken.’

  ‘I am mistaken.’

  ‘Ye do no’ want the Key.’

  ‘I do no’ want the Key.’

  ‘Latifa will keep it safe.’

  ‘Latifa will keep it safe.’

  ‘Ye must leave now. This will soon be all over, and we will all be safe. Go, Isabeau.’

  ‘I must go now,’ Isabeau repeated and felt herselfstanding. Her legs were stiff, and her head muzzy. She shook it. The cook’s face swam before her and she tried to concentrate. Suddenly an image flashed before her—an old skeelie’s face, murmuring words, her gnarled fingers playing in her lap.

  Her eyes flashed to Latifa’s lap; she held something there, under the cover of her apron. Isabeau reached forward and seized it. Despite Latifa’s shr
iek, Isabeau was able to wrest it from the old cook’s hands. To her bemusement, it was a long snake of ruddy hair.

  At once she realised what had happened. Latifa had not burnt her hair but kept it. Meghan had often warned her to have a care for her discarded nails and hairs and flakes of skin—indeed, Isabeau had been trapped before by a single strand of hair. The Grand-Seeker Glynelda had used it to hunt her through the highlands. What could Latifa do with several feet of braid?

  Isabeau remembered gathering great armfuls of groundsel in the forest, mindlessly, like a puppet. She remembered many occasions when she had felt compelled to go to the kitchen or storeroom and had found Latifa there waiting for her. She remembered not eating the day before Midsummer’s Eve, despite her hunger, and how she had later thought how lucky it was she had fasted before they held the rites. Colour flamed over her face.

  ‘Ye were compelling me!’ she cried. ‘Why, Latifa, why? Compulsion is forbidden!’

  ‘An auld witch has to have a care for herself,’ Latifa muttered, rocking back and forth in her seat, tears streaming down her face. ‘Sixteen years I spied for Meghan in the very heart o’ the Rìgh’s household—ye think that was easy? No, no, an auld witch has to look out for herself.’

  ‘Give me the Key!’

  Latifa shrank back, clutching the keyring with both hands. ‘No!’

  Isabeau tried to wrest it from her but the old cook was strong and clung to the keyring desperately. Isabeau had the use of only one hand and could not pry her fingers free. They struggled, panting, then Isabeau was thrown back onto the bed. She clenched her fingers and concentrated. Her will was much stronger than her body and had been forged in the fires of the Awl’s torture room. The Key wrenched itself free of Latifa’s belt and flew to Isabeau’s hand, jangling loudly with the many keys that hung from it.

  ‘Latifa, I swear to ye I am doing the right thing,’ Isabeau said. ‘Meghan is here; if ye would just open your mind, ye would sense her …’

  The cook rocked back and forth, weeping. ‘I’m sorry,’ Isabeau said. ‘I have to go. Look after Bronwen, keep her safe.’ She kissed the baby then she was gone.

  As soon as Isabeau emerged from the cook’s room, her face flushed, her short curls in disarray, Iseult caught her hand and they ran. They could smell smoke and knew the city rabble must have fired part of the palace. Now they had all three parts of the Key, they could not risk being separated or injured.

  ‘Where?’ Iseult cried.

  ‘This way!’ Isabeau skidded as she tried to round a corner. They brushed past the milling servants, found the door into the kitchen garden, and ran through to the great paved square beyond.

  A group of Red Guards saw them and recognised them from an earlier confrontation. With a shout they ran to engage, but the twins fled into the garden.

  The snow crunched underfoot, and they saw they were leaving a trail of footprints. The sun was high in the sky, and there was nowhere to hide. All they could do was try and outrun the guards.

  For almost an hour the twins played a breathless game of chase-and-hide with the soldiers. At last they took shelter in the trees, baffling the soldiers by swinging from tree to tree so that no footprints were left behind. Even with only one hand, Isabeau was as nimble in the branches as any donbeag, and she told Iseult about the tree-house in the secret valley and how Meghan had made her do this every time she came or went.

  The twins had their first chance to talk as they crouched in the sweet-scented cave at the heart of the evergreen oak. Since their first meeting they had been in constant motion, running, fighting, climbing out of windows. Now they had the leisure to examine each other’s face and have some of their most pressing questions answered.

  Isabeau had the most questions to ask; since she had been isolated from Meghan for so long, she knew nothing about the discoveries the old witch had made at the palace of the dragons or the Towers of Roses and Thorns. By the time the soldiers had given up their search, she knew almost everything. She knew she was a banprionnsa, descendant of Faodhagan the Red and a Khan’cohban. She understood how she came to be abandoned on the slopes of Dragonclaw and the significance of the dragoneye ring. She knew that her mother really was Ishbel the Winged, the fabled witch who could fly as easily as any bird, and that she had taught Iseult the secrets of flight. She was thrilled, frightened, bewildered and jealous, all at once.

  It was a strange sensation, to see her face upon another’s, to feel a bond between them as strong as steel. In some peculiar way Isabeau felt as if the missing parts of her jigsaw self had at last been found, and she was whole at last.

  At the sound of Maya’s scream, the guards outside came running into the boudoir. Lachlan shot two down before they had taken more than a few strides, but had to throw the bow down and reach for the claymore as the two behind charged him. Claymores clashing, they beat him back towards the wall as the Banrìgh moaned.

  From down the corridor came a shout, and then the sounds of fighting. Lachlan held the two guards off, but he had been in violent action most of the long night and morning and was exhausted. One slashed his thigh, and he stumbled.

  Duncan burst through the door, roaring with rage. Behind him ran Meghan, her face ashen, her hand to her chest. The big man killed the other soldiers with a single sweeping stroke. Lachlan swung round unsteadily, advancing on Maya with his bloody claymore. She had her hands to her face, blood seeping through her fingers from the spider’s web of gashes that covered most of one side of her face.

  Meghan leant against the table and drank a few mouthfuls from a little bottle. Gitâ screeched from her shoulder, all his fur on end, his eyes huge and black. ‘No, Lachlan,’ she said tiredly. ‘Ye canna kill her now. There is too much we do no’ know.’

  ‘She says she canna change me back now the mirror is broken,’ he said in soft, silky tones. ‘We shall see if her death effects the miracle.’

  ‘No, Lachlan. Surely ye can see it would be better to put her on trial, to show the country the evil she has done? We still have much to do to win the people to our cause and help us drive out the Bright Soldiers. If she is murdered, the common folk will make o’ her a martyr. Canna ye see that?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘All I can see is that at last I have her at my feet. I shall show her the same mercy that she showed my brothers and me.’ He drew back the claymore.

  Meghan wearily raised a hand and he found he could not move. Maya crawled away from him, her silvery-blue eyes retaining their old beauty amidst the wreckage of her face. In her hand she clutched the remnants of the mirror.

  ‘Meghan, what do ye do?’ he cried. ‘Do ye turn against me now?’

  ‘Do no’ be a fool,’ she said and sat down heavily. She was ashen in the morning light, her face heavily lined. She sighed. ‘Lachlan, the rebels have won the palace. There is fighting still all through the city and grounds, and the countryside belongs to the Bright Soldiers, but we have won the first battle. We can join the Key, enter the labyrinth and save the Lodestar. Tonight is the time o’ the two moons crossing. We will wash the Lodestar and it will sing again for us. We can use it to free the countryside and drive the Fairgean back into the sea. The land will be ours, and ye will be Rìgh as ye wanted. It is time to think like a Rìgh. If ye kill Maya, who will ever know the truth o’ what happened? Ye will say she was a sorceress and murdered your brothers. Her supporters will say she was the rightful Regent and ye murdered her to win the throne. Think, Lachlan, think!’

  She released her hold on him, and he staggered and went down on one knee. ‘Jaspar is dead!’ he wept. She rose and went to him, soothing him with one hand on his sweat-tangled curls.

  Maya managed to get to her feet and looked at her bloodstained hands in disbelief. The unscarred side of her face showed faint lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes that had not been there before. She said, ‘Kill me now and be done with it! Indeed ye are a cruel, unforgiving woman, Meghan NicCuinn! Ye would rather shame and mortify me, parade me in public, pla
y out a farce o’ a trial and then watch me die a traitor’s death. Ye have no mercy.’

  For the first time Meghan looked at Maya, and there was no pity on her face. ‘Nay, Maya, I will show ye greater mercy than ye showed the witches. Ye will no’ die on the fire, the cruellest o’ all deaths. Ye will be tried and judged by the people, and the people shall choose your punishment.’

  She turned to Duncan, standing on guard nearby. ‘Duncan, glad I am indeed to see ye. How are ye yourself?’

  ‘Glad to be here, my lady,’ he replied, bowing to her deeply. ‘Though I never thought it would take sixteen years for the Blue Guards to overcome the Ensorcellor.’

  Maya laughed, a bitter sound. ‘The Ensorcellor! Well, at least it is better than the Unknown.’ She stood straight as an arrow in her crimson gown, her ruined face proud and unrepentant.

  ‘We need to make a circle and star,’ Isabeau said. With a stick she drew as perfect a circle as she could, the ground under the snow hard. She left it open, stepping inside and carefully drawing a hexagram within—it seemed appropriate to have the star the same shape as the one in the Key, and there were only the two of them so she thought they should try and balance the power. Hurriedly she built a fire in the centre, gathering kindling from under the yew trees and breaking dead branches from an oak tree, a hazel tree and a hawthorn bush, the only sacred woods to hand.

  These actions were familiar to Iseult. She sat on the ground and began unpacking the bottomless bag. The Book of Shadows was followed by a pouch of essential minerals, including salt, which she passed to her twin. She found her sheyata, which Meghan had carried for so many months, and ran her fingers over it lovingly. As soon as she pulled it free of the pouch, it began to hum, its strange melody rising through the air, and Isabeau gestured to her to keep it hidden.