The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Isabeau’s uile-bheist!’ Lilanthe gasped. ‘She’s a halfbreed like me?’

  ‘ “As much faery as human, if the people o’ the Spine o’ the World are included in your classifications,” ’ Brun quoted. Then in his normal voice, he said, ‘And she said that the answer was in the dark stars, and the coming o’ winter is the time.’

  ‘The coming o’ winter? Dark stars?’ Enit whispered, tangling her gnarled fingers in her amber beads which glittered with sunshiny fire. ‘She sounds as enigmatic as all the Celestines.’

  Silence dropped over the little party as Enit’s eyes grew dreamy and distracted. Then she stirred and rattled her beads. ‘I have told Brun he must come with us. It is no’ safe for him here with the Satyricorns so unsettled. Even if he can keep them away from the Tower itself, they will have sent word to the Banrìgh o’ activity hereabouts, and soldiers will come, or witch-sniffers.’ Her voice was contemptuous, and they knew she referred to the seekers of the Awl as much as to the bounty-hunters that plagued the countryside. ‘There has been too much magic happening for this Tower no’ to come under notice.’

  ‘Where are we going now? What are we doing?’ Lilanthe asked.

  ‘We came to the Tower o’ Dreams because we had had news o’ someone using the Scrying Pool here and we hoped it was one o’ the Dream-Walkers returned. It seems clear, though, that it was the Celestine, and she is gone now. So we’ll head into Blèssem,’ the old woman replied.

  Immediately the cluricaun stopped his excited capers, his face ludicrously anxious. ‘Blèssem bad,’ Brun said. ‘Blèssem bad place for cluricauns.’

  ‘I shall keep ye safe,’ Enit promised.

  Lilanthe was also shaking her head. ‘I canna go to Blèssem. They will burn me if they find me. I’m a uile-bheist, remember. I canna go where there are soldiers.’

  ‘I be uile-bheist too,’ Brun said in a puzzled tone of voice.

  ‘They will burn us if they find us. We canna go to Blèssem!’

  ‘Be at peace, my bairns,’ Enit said. ‘I shall keep ye safe. Do no’ look so fearful, lassie. I have smuggled witches and rebels all over the land for near twenty years now! Morrell’s caravan has a false bottom where ye can lie if we should come into danger, or ye can lie on the roof, hidden by the carvings. Ye shall be far safer with me, for sure, than here in the forest with the satyricorns on the hunt and Red Guards on their way. Besides, ye said ye wished to help us. I have a reason for turning back into Blèssem.’

  ‘What? Why is it so important? Canna we just stay here in the forest?’

  ‘I be afraid no’, my dear. Even if I wanted to spend the rest o’ my life outrunning satyricorns, I wouldna. Nay, I have had disturbing news from Meghan. She says a Mesmerd was with the Red Guards that attacked her secret valley at Candlemas. Also that bairns with Talent are being stolen from their homes, and she thinks the Mesmerdean may have something to do with it. I want to find if this is true, that it is the Mesmerdean and no’ just a rumour. If it is, then I fear Margrit o’ Arran mun be behind it. She is a bad enemy to have indeed, and I need to be sure she is no’ plotting something that will disrupt our plans.’

  ‘What are Mes … Mes …’

  ‘The Mesmerdean are faery creatures o’ the marshes. They are dangerous, and if the NicFóghnan has somehow convinced them to aid her in her schemes, then we may be in trouble indeed. Why the Mesmerdean would consent to accompany redcloaks, or steal bairns from their bed, I have no idea. It seems strange. Why would Margrit NicFóghnan want them to? What scheme o’ hers does it further? These are the questions I wish to find answers for, and so we travel into Blèssem, where most sightings o’ the Mesmerdean have occurred. Happen we may need to go into the marshes themselves to find the answers. We shall see.’

  ‘But they will kill me if they find me …’

  ‘Lass, if ye wish to fight against the Ensorcellor, ye mun face danger and possible death. I canna make that choice for ye. I will do my utmost to keep ye and Brun safe, but blaygird times be with us. What is your choice? Will ye trust me and the Spinners, or will ye try your luck in the forest?’

  The tree-shifter was silent, her hands twisting together in her lap. ‘I shall come with ye,’ she said at last. ‘Though I feel sick with fear at the thought.’

  ‘That’s a brave lassie,’ Enit said. ‘Just remember, all our lives are forfeit if ye are discovered. I have no desire to end up fodder for the Awl’s wicked fires either. We have many friends scattered through the countryside who will help us, and jongleurs come and go as they please. So do no’ fear, I shall keep ye safe.’

  The tree-shifter nodded, though her face was white and strained still.

  Enit patted her hand reassuringly, and said, ‘We’ll get on the road at first light, and we’ll plug our ears so I can sing the satyricorn to sleep again. That should give us a few hours’ head start. Brun, why do ye no’ pack up what ye will need now so ye are ready to go?’

  The hairy little creature nodded solemnly and began to gather his belongings together. As he crammed a sack full of food and clothing, he softly sang to himself.

  ‘Over the hills and by the burn,

  the road unrolls through forest and fern,

  taking my feet I know no’ where,

  happen I’ll meet ye at the fair!’

  A little prickle of excitement ran over Lilanthe’s skin, and she thought to herself that she was being as brave and adventurous as Isabeau herself. After she and the apprentice witch had parted ways, she had felt restless and without direction. Isabeau had made her feel rather ashamed of her aimless wanderings. Now she would be following in Isabeau’s footsteps and they could perhaps meet again. She had never felt such a close and natural affinity with anyone as she had with Isabeau the Foundling.

  ‘Why do ye no’ sleep some more?’ Enit suggested, a black, hunched figure in her many shawls and scarves. ‘It shall be a long day tomorrow.’

  Obediently Lilanthe lay back on the blanket. Through the gap in the broken wall she could see the stars swarming in a purplish sky. ‘Dark stars …’ she pondered. ‘I wonder what the Celestine meant?’

  ‘At night they come without being fetched, by day they’re lost without being stolen,’ Brun said, pausing in his packing.

  ‘What?’ Lilanthe asked.

  He pointed out at the night sky. ‘At night they come without being fetched, by day they’re lost without being stolen,’ he repeated.

  ‘Och, ye mean the stars!’ Lilanthe cried, and he danced a little jig, crying, ‘The stars, the stars!’ so that Lilanthe wondered just how much the little creature really understood. She pillowed her head on her arms and heard Brun murmur, ‘Dark stars and the coming o’ winter.’ For some reason, the words sent a cold thrill over her skin and down her spine, and she wondered if she had made the right decision, joining the jongleurs in their fight against the Ensorcellor. As if sensing her unease, Enit Silverthroat began to sing a gentle lullaby and again the heavy darkness of sleep washed over her.

  Snow fell out of a leaden sky, swirling in a capricious wind so that the rider rose in his stirrups in a vain attempt to see more clearly. The howl of a wolf drifted out of the forest to his right, and he spurred his flagging horse on mercilessly. The wolves had been hunting him from the moment he crossed the river into Rurach, and the howls were growing ever closer. They came now from the left, so close the mare neighed in terror and plunged on through the snow.

  The Seeker Renshaw leant forward, whipping the horse so she broke into a gallop. He could see the wolves now, streaking along behind him. They were great, grey, rangy beasts, eyes yellow with hunger, and they snarled menacingly as they ran. He could see the icy surface of Loch Kintyre to his left and knew Castle Rurach was beyond. He would be lucky to reach its protection with the wolves snapping at the terrified horse’s hocks. He drew his dagger and plunged it into the breast of one that leapt up to try and haul him from the saddle. The horse broke free of the pack, galloping wildly, and the seeker wiped his blade
on his white breeches.

  Renshaw heard another howl ahead, and his heart thudded. He peered through the snowy darkness and saw a wolf sitting on the bridge over the Wulfrum River. Her muzzle was raised to the darkening sky, her black ruff almost invisible in the shadows under the trees. He recognised the beast. She had come close to killing him earlier in the day. He had only just managed to fight her off with boot and dagger and the fleetness of his horse. The mare was tiring now, though, and an early dusk was sinking over the snowladen fields. The rest of the pack was close on his heels, and he could see other dark forms slinking through the copse of trees.

  With a defiant cry he turned the mare’s head and forced her off the road and down the bank. The snow was up to his mare’s withers, his boots and legs submerged. Then the horse was on the ice, her hooves throwing up splinters of frost as she galloped across the loch’s frozen surface. Renshaw heard the clamour of the wolves behind him and, looking over his shoulder, saw they were racing after him. Then another pack broke from the shelter of the wood and angled across, threatening to cut him off from the shore. He whipped the labouring mare on.

  He was only a few yards from the opposite shore, the two packs of wolves converging on him, when there was a great crack as the ice broke. With a scream, the mare was flung forward into the icy blackness. For a moment the seeker was swallowing water, then his head broke free and he grasped the stirrup. The mare was trying desperately to climb out onto the ice, but he dragged her back, using her height to climb out himself. Then he was running, for the castle was looming up ahead, and the wolves had reached the crack in the ice. He fully expected them to feast on his mare, who was still struggling desperately to be free of the icy water. To his horror, they bounded over her head and raced after him, the black she-wolf howling in triumph.

  Renshaw ran as he had never run before, hampered by the weight of his drenched clothes, now freezing to stiffness on him. He saw the drawbridge ahead. Thankfully it was lowered, and he pounded up the road, trying to shout. He felt hot breath on his neck and then a great weight took him down, pain searing through him.

  Anghus MacRuraich, Prionnsa of Rurach and Siantan, was brooding over a dram of whisky, the firelight warming his boots, when there was an outbreak of noise and activity below. He raised his chestnut-brown head, but did not move. Soon the castle’s chamberlain came, bowing respectfully.

  ‘There is a seeker below, my laird,’ he said.

  Instantly Anghus stiffened. ‘Here in the castle?’

  ‘Aye, my laird. He was attacked by wolves and barely made it here alive.’

  Pity, Anghus thought bitterly. He rose to his feet, wrapped his black-woven plaid around him more securely and followed the chamberlain down the long and draughty stairs to the lower hall. There his gillie Donald was waiting, and some of the guards from the drawbridge. All speculating and explaining at once, they led him into the inner bailey, through the bitterly cold courtyards and gardens, the snow-swirled outer bailey, and so to the gatehouse. On one of the guards’ beds lay a seeker, blood oozing from a wound to his temple. The back of his crimson tunic was torn, and Anghus could see he had been savagely bitten. He could hear howling and went to the narrow window to look outside. It was fully dark now, but he could see a great pack of wolves churning up the snow on the drawbridge. They were sniffing and growling at the scent of the wounded seeker.

  One, a large she-wolf with a black upstanding ruff, was sitting calmly in the very centre of the drawbridge, gazing up at the gatehouse with yellow eyes. He could see her clearly in the smoky light of the torches. It seemed as if she looked straight at him.

  He knew the wolf. She was the matriarch of the pack that hunted the lands around Castle Rurach. He often saw her when he was riding in the forests. She would step out of the undergrowth and sit where she could watch him, her yellow eyes compelling. The MacRuraich Clan had a long affinity with wolves, their crest a sable wolf rampant, and many in Anghus’s family had had wolves as their familiars.

  So although the pack around Castle Rurach had grown increasingly bold over the past few years, Anghus allowed no-one to harm them. It seemed his protection had been recognised, for although the wolves had attacked and harassed many a company of soldiers or merchant caravans, no-one wearing the device of the MacRuraich clan was ever harmed.

  ‘What shall we do with the seeker, my laird?’ the gillie Donald asked. ‘Shall we throw him back to the wolves? We did no’ realise he was a seeker until we’d driven them off and brought him in.’

  Anghus was severely tempted. He had no great love of the Awl, and neither did any of his people. It would be easy enough to say the seeker had died trying to reach them. He frowned and picked up the sealed scroll the seeker had carried, gripping it tightly. It was marked with the Banrìgh’s own scrawl, and he dreaded having to read what was concealed beneath the seals.

  Unfortunately Anghus was reasonably sure the Banrìgh had some method of scrying out those she liked to keep an eye on. Several times she had known things she should not have known. Like the stronghold of rebels that had taken up residence in the Tower of Searchers five years earlier. Anghus had been happy to let the rebels have the burnt-out pile of ruins, as long as they did not hunt out his forests. He could not see what harm they could do there, so far away from anyone.

  The Banrìgh had thought differently. She had sent companies of soldiers into Anghus’s land and had taken his young daughter hostage in a clever and underhand move, capturing the child as she played by the burn while the women washed the linen. The men had all been absent on a hunting trip and had only heard of the outrage when they returned, six days later.

  ‘She is hostage,’ the seeker in command had said coldly, ‘due to the Prionnsa Anghus MacRuraich’s failure to root out rebels and witches as the Rìgh had decreed. If ye do no’ lead the Banrìgh’s guards to their hiding place, your little girl will be killed.’

  Anghus’s daughter was dear to his heart, and only six years old. As much as Anghus disliked the Red Guards, who had grown cruel and arrogant since the Day of Reckoning, he had agreed to lead them to the Tower. He had been half tempted to try and warn the rebels but had been too afraid of the danger to his daughter to attempt it.

  So the rebels had been wiped out, and Anghus had been set to find any who had escaped. He had done so reluctantly but efficiently, wondering who had told the Banrìgh he could find anything once he knew the quarry. For there was no doubt she knew. The wording of the message had been cleverly phrased to show he should not attempt to deceive her by protestations they had escaped him. Only one witch had he let escape, his sister Tabithas’s apprentice, and only because he had known Seychella Wind-Whistler for years. As a young woman she had saved both him and his sister from drowning. The three of them had been boating on the loch below Castle Rurach when a fierce storm had blown up unexpectedly. Seychella had controlled the turbulent winds, taking the boat to safety and diverting the storm’s path. In memory of that day, he had let Seychella escape, shielding his thoughts when they interrogated him as he had been taught in his years at the Tower.

  With a cold and heavy heart, Anghus said, ‘Nay, tend him, and when he is well enough take him to the castle and put him in the third best bedroom. I will see him when he has recovered his wits.’

  ‘Be ye sure, my laird?’ Donald said in a low voice. ‘It be no trouble to dispose o’ him. We can do it early this morn, when all are asleep …’

  Anghus shook his head. ‘It is too dangerous, my auld friend. Let him live. I shall accept what comes.’

  When he climbed the stairs to his own quarters, Anghus found his wife Gwyneth waiting for him. Dressed in a warm velvet gown, edged with fur, she had fair hair that rippled down her back, almost to her knees.

  ‘I heard there is a seeker at the gate,’ she said in a tense voice. Once beautiful, her face was marked with grief and sorrow now, the lustre of her green eyes dimmed. He nodded.

  ‘Have they brought back our bairn?’ she asked, twisting
her hands together until the knuckles gleamed white. He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. She slumped in disappointment, turning away.

  ‘I think the seeker has come with further orders for me,’ he said in a gruff voice. His wife said nothing, just left the room swiftly, her downcast face glistening with tears.

  Anghus tossed back a full dram of whisky and poured himself another, his red-bearded face sombre. For a moment he considered defying the Banrìgh. Castle Rurach had never been breached, not even through the long years of civil war that preceded Aedan’s Pact and the crowning of the first Rìgh.

  The mood of defiance lasted only a moment, however. Sure as he was that Castle Rurach could withstand most forces, he had a healthy respect for the Banrìgh. Had she not thrown down the Towers and all the witches in them? Despite her protestations, the Banrìgh must have some terrible power at her command. How else had she triumphed so totally, that dreadful day so long ago?

  Anghus had no great love for the witches or uile-bheis-tean, but neither did he hate them. His own sister had been a witch, and a very powerful one. She had been the youngest Keybearer since Meghan NicCuinn herself. When news came of Tabithas’s banishment, he had grieved deeply and railed at the Rìgh who had so suddenly turned against the Coven. But what could he do? He just wished to be left alone with his people, to hunt geal’teas through the mountains, to fish the fast-running streams and idle away the bitter winters beside a huge fire, his wife beside him, his children playing at his feet.

  He gave a snort of desperate laughter. That was a merry jest! His only daughter had been stolen from him, and his beautiful wife, a NicSian, was slowly fading away with grief. Rurach was a wild, lonely country, not the place for a gentlewoman to overcome such a dreadful loss. There were no parties, no festivals, not even the occasional caravan of jongleurs to distract her from her grief. Although five years had passed, they had had no more children, for his beautiful wife no longer invited him to her bed.