The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  Douglas had not endured the night altogether alone. He had been crouched in shuddering silence when he had heard the faint sounds of the iron cover being hauled away. He’d tensed and looked up; someone was leaning over the dim hole far above.

  Do no’ be afraid … Words had slipped into his mind as a bulky package was lowered to him on a long piece of string. He scrabbled at it with urgent fingers and found the waxy texture of a candle. He kept searching but to his dismay there was no tinderbox.

  Immediately, the candle lit with a blue spark, startling him so he dropped it. He cursed, and in his mind heard someone say, Sorry. I forgot ye probably did no’ ken how to conjure fire. Hold the candle still, I’ll light it again.

  The candle flickered into life again, and by its light Douglas saw a hunk of fine bread, some fish, a fresh bellfruit and, best of all, a bottle of goldensloe wine, all wrapped in a thick but faded plaid. ‘Who are ye?’ he whispered. There was no way the person leaning over the manhole far above could have heard him, but he was answered.

  Hush now. We can talk later. I could no’ leave ye there in such distress. If anyone comes, do what ye can to hide the plaid, for they’ll ken it is mine …

  Then the manhole slammed shut, leaving Douglas to the precarious flicker of the candle. He sat shakily and drank some wine, then wrapped the plaid about him. Later he was able to eat, and the occasional small sip of wine was like a mouthful of summer light. The candle dwindled quickly, but after it sank away he slept. When he woke to stiffness and fear and pain, the memory of the voice in the darkness was there to give him hope.

  His unknown friend had returned later to draw up the bundle. Do no’ defy the banprionnsa, the mind-voice had whispered. Speak with courtesy and scheme in silence. It is the only way …

  Douglas had many long days to wonder about the identity of his secret friend. Lessons ran from dawn to dusk, with only a break for a meagre lunch at noon. The twenty-seven students of the Theurgia were kept within one tower—four rooms built one on top of the other and connected by rickety wooden ladders that could be drawn up when not in use. Their rooms were cold and damp, the mist rising off the Murkfane seeming to seep into their very bones. The banprionnsa was prone to unexpected visits and exams; their teachers were in turns morose, sarcastic and wrathful, and there was never ever enough food.

  Douglas was the eldest of the children, and his courage in outfacing the banprionnsa had made him a hero among them, so he easily ruled them from the very moment he arrived. Closest to him in age was Gilliane NicAislin, who had been stolen with her little sister Ghislaine while travelling to Dùn Eidean to stay at the prionnsa’s castle. They were the nieces of the MacThanach of Blèssem himself and were able to trace their lineage back to Aislinna the Dreamer, mother to daughter for a thousand years.

  There was a boy from Ravenshaw whose grandmother had been a NicBrann; the daughter of a thigearn stolen from Tìreich’s shore by pirates; three children from Rionnagan whose apprentice-witch aunt had died in the Burning. Another student came from Aslinn and showed clear signs of faery blood in her angular face and long, multijointed fingers. Yet another had only one eye, centred in features as blunt as if hewn from stone, all scaled with silvery lichen. He had been born of a rape on the Day of Reckoning, his corrigan mother left for dead by the soldiers. Of all the children he was the most sincere in his protestations of gratitude, for the Mesmerdean had saved him from being stoned to death.

  Most came from Blèssem, the children of lesser lairds and barons, rich merchants and tradesmen. One was the child of a crofter, born of a long line of cunning men and village warlocks. It had been his sister who had died under the chamberlain’s knife, and he was frozen still in grief and horror.

  Quite a few came from Tìrsoilleir, where witchcraft had been banned for so long it was a wonder Margrit of Arran had been able to find any with Talent. They were wary, sullen children, quick to take offence, and scorning the others for their heathenish ways.

  Douglas had only the occasional mind-conversation with his secret friend to sustain him through his homesickness and fear, as well as unexpected relish in the lessons in Craft and Cunning. He learnt faster than even his teachers suspected, urged on by the unknown voice.

  It did not take long for Douglas to realise he was not the only one receiving comfort and hope from his mysterious friend. Every few nights someone penetrated the tower while the children slept, hiding small gifts of food and toys. The gifts were always tucked out of sight where none but the children would find them—in the woodpile, under the bundle of rags the girls pretended was a doll, behind the atlas. This was the most popular book in the schoolroom, for not only was it one of the few to have brightly coloured pages in it to amuse the smaller ones, but even the eldest children hung over the maps of their countries, dreaming of home. It had seemed clear to Douglas that only someone who watched the children with sympathy would have seen these things, and he was sure it was the same person who had given him the candle and wine.

  One night Douglas waited until the tower was still and dark, then he hid in the schoolroom. After more than an hour he was just deciding to go to bed when he heard a faint noise. He crouched low and heard the door open. Someone came silently in. Unsure whether to light his candle or not, Douglas paused, his thoughts hurrying. The quiet footsteps stopped, then the voice said in his mind, Hush, make no’ a sound, she will be listening …

  Trying not to even breathe, Douglas crouched obediently still. There were one or two muffled sounds, then a long silence. He was all pins and needles when at last a flame flickered up in the hearth.

  It was then that he realised his secret friend was the thin, stooped, stammering young man with the ready blush and uncontrollable Adam’s apple who had gestured to him in the throne room. Douglas had often seen him wandering the grounds with a book tucked under his arm and had envied him his freedom.

  Douglas opened his mouth to speak but the gangly young man held up a hand, quickly drew a shape about the hearthstone with an ash-smeared finger and beckoned Douglas forward. Stumbling with cramp, the boy obeyed. He sat cross-legged where directed, staying silent as the other scribbled some more in the ashes and sprinkled what looked like salt about.

  At last the young man turned about, smiled shyly, rubbed his grubby hand down his shirt and offered it to Douglas, saying, ‘We can t-t-talk now, the circle is c-c-closed and ashes, salt and earth well-scattered. I am Iain. Be careful n-n-no’ to let any part o’ your b-b-body pass outside the circle and star, else the s-s-spell will be b-b-b-broken.’

  They talked half the night that first meeting. The next day, though his jaw cracked with yawning, Douglas listened with even greater concentration to the dried-up warlock teaching them. He had decided his only chance to escape was to listen to Iain, who told him he would need to know much about magic and its applications before he could hope to escape Margrit of Arran.

  They had met seven or more times before Douglas thought to notice the heather weave of Iain’s shabby kilt, or his distinctive thistle badge. Only then did he realise his dreamy midnight visitor was the Prionnsa Iain MacFóghnan of Arran, heir to the Tower of Mists.

  His first reaction was one of shock and suspicion, but as Iain pointed out, if he had wanted to trap Douglas into indiscretion, would he have worn his kilt? Or brought him goldensloe wine?

  ‘In f-f-fact,’ Iain said, ‘I want t-t-to escape this place as m-m-much as ye do.’ He tried to describe to Douglas what it was like to have grown up alone in the middle of the Murkmyre, with no companions but the endless procession of tutors. If it had not been for his books and the mysterious beauty of the marshes, Iain thought he might have tried to kill himself. He had tried to run away several times, but he was closely watched and guarded. Then he told Douglas that his mother had found a bride for him, against his will, and had already poisoned her mind against him.

  ‘She is a N-N-NicHilde,’ he explained. ‘My m-m-m-mother has signed an alliance w-w-with the Bright Soldiers o�
� Tìrsoilleir. In return for allowing them to m-m-march through Arran, we win more land, gain their f-f-forbidden library and a bride for the b-b-b-banprionnsa’s idiot son.’ There was bitterness in his voice.

  ‘The Bright Soldiers wish to march through Arran? Why?’ Douglas’s voice was tense. His country had suffered much from the warlike Tìrsoilleirean over the past thousand years.

  ‘I be no’ sure—I think they w-w-wish to strike at the MacCuinn, for the Witches’ Decree has rid the land o’ m-m-m-much o’ its strength. My m-m-m-mother says the Tìrsoilleirean have wearied o’ marching up and down the streets o’ Bride with n-n-n-nothing to strike at. She says b-b-better the MacCuinn than us, for the Bright Soldiers wish to attack someone and we may as well d-d-direct their attention to our ancient enemy, the M-M-MacCuinn, and see what we can gain in the m-m-m-meantime.’

  Douglas was white as chalk, his vivid sea-green eyes blazing. ‘We must escape!’ he cried. ‘We have to warn the Rìgh! We canna be allowing the Tìrsoilleirean to attack. They’ll burn the crops and murder the people—I have seen what they do when they’re on the march. They must be meaning to strike at Dùn Eidean, before marching on Dùn Gorm … My father is at Rhyssmadill, and all the clan! We have to warn them!’

  lain had never given much thought to the rest of Eileanan, his country having been independent for a thousand years. He had always heard his mother speak of the Rìgh with contemptuous malevolence, and knew the story of their antagonism as well as he knew his own face. He had thought of the implications of his mother’s treaty only in relation to himself, but Douglas’s words immediately kindled his concern. He knew at once that Douglas was right. If they could escape and warn the Rìgh of the impending invasion, perhaps much bloodshed and sorrow could be avoided, and the ancient rivalry between MacCuinn and MacFóghnan at last laid to rest.

  So an alliance between MacFóghnan and MacSeinn was forged, and the two conspirators began to plan their escape from the marshes and fenlands of Arran. All they needed was an opportunity …

  The week after Fools’ Day Lachlan returned from the forest, his face lit with excitement, and opened his hand to show Meghan a moonstone. ‘I found it in the burn,’ he said, suppressed delight in his voice. He shot a look at Iseult, and said, ‘See, she is no’ the only one to find a moonstone!’

  ‘Did ye go looking for it?’ Meghan asked sternly, and he quirked his mouth.

  ‘I have,’ he admitted, ‘but today I swear I was no’ even thinking about it.’

  ‘Good,’ the old witch said and tucked the glimmering white stone away.

  She heard from Jorge the very next day. The blind seer and his band of beggar children were safe in his valley hideaway. At Meghan’s request, Jorge sent his familiar Jesyah to fly over the corrie and he told her what the raven saw. To Iseult and Lachlan’s excitement it seemed sure it was big enough and secret enough to conceal near a thousand men. Talking eagerly about their plans for a rebel encampment, they did not notice the sudden silence from the old sorceress. Then Lachlan said sharply, ‘Meghan, what’s wrong? Ye have had bad news?’

  ‘Aye, Lachlan, in a sense.’ Meghan’s face was paper white, her eyes glittering like shards of black glass.

  ‘What have we to fear?’ Iseult said briskly. ‘Do we need to make defences?’

  ‘Perhaps …’ Meghan stroked the velvety brown donbeag as he curled into a ball between her chin and shoulder. ‘Hush, Gitâ, be still. There is no need to fear.’ She cleared her throat as her voice cracked, then said grimly, ‘I am sorry to have startled ye. Jorge has had visions of a black wolf on my trail.’

  ‘A wolf?’ Iseult echoed blankly. ‘I have killed many wolves, auld mother. There be no need to fear.’

  ‘I doubt ye have killed a wolf like this one.’ Meghan’s voice was bleak. ‘Besides, I should no’ let ye. This is a wolf I would be glad to see normally. Come, get back to your studies. There’s no need to stand gawking and wringing your hands over a dream. Time shall tell whether it be a true seeing.’

  She paced the clearing, one hand cradling Gitâ as he burrowed under her chin. ‘Iseult, where’s that broken arrow I pulled out o’ my pouch?’

  When Iseult had found her the white-fletched arrow, the sorceress sat by the fireplace again, her narrow face pensive. ‘This arrow is near a thousand years auld,’ she said slowly. ‘It was made by Owein o’ the Longbow, my ancestor and Lachlan’s. I have been watching ye bairns as ye fight and play, and it seems clear to me that Lachlan has the makings o’ a very fine archer. In less than a month he already can hit the clout more times than no’.’

  Iseult looked with pride at her pupil. Indeed he had both the talent and the strength to far outstrip her with the bow and arrow.

  ‘Jorge has had a vision o’ Lachlan wielding a bow o’ fire and magic. He says Lachlan won many a triumph with this bow. Immediately I thought o’ Owein’s Bow, which was kept at the Tower o’ Two Moons, along with many other objects o’ magical significance. When the soldiers attacked the Tower, I locked up the relic room, hiding the door and warding it cannily. Owein’s Bow was there. I want to find it and give it to ye, Lachlan. The Bow was made by Owein MacCuinn’s own hands and carried by him all his life. His magic should have soaked in deep.’

  ‘But ye do no’ even ken if the bow escaped the Burning,’ Lachlan protested.

  ‘Is there any harm in finding out?’ Meghan responded irritably.

  ‘But how?’ Lachlan drummed his fingers against his book in impatience.

  ‘If ye will let me finish, I will tell ye,’ Meghan said just as impatiently. ‘Jorge has gathered around him a motley collection o’ beggar children. One seems to have the Talent o’ Searching. Jorge says she is amazingly strong, has merely to concentrate her will on what she desires and knows at once what direction it is in.’

  ‘But does she no’ need to ken what she is Searching for? She has never seen the Bow or felt its psychic emanations, how is she—’

  ‘Lachlan, why do ye argue with me? She can use the arrow, o’ course. If she bears her mind upon it, I am sure she’ll be able to tell if the Bow still exists. We need to go to Lucescere to retrieve the Lodestar—how much more difficult will it be for the lassie to search the ruins for the Bow first, so ye have it when ye need it most? If Jorge’s vision is true, ye shall be invincible with it in your hand.’

  The idea appealed to Lachlan. His topaz eyes blazed; his swarthy face was alight with excitement. Unable to sit still, he began to stride around the clearing, his glossy wings moving restlessly. Iseult gazed at him in painful tenderness. It was when he was excited like this, his immense vitality bursting its bounds, that Iseult found it hardest to remember that he was forbidden to her.

  Meghan had to shush him with a laugh, saying, ‘Do no’ get too excited, my lad, it may have been burnt or lost, or she may no’ be able to locate it. It is an idea only, and an idea that shall take some pondering.’ She turned to Iseult, still gazing up at Lachlan, and cleared her throat to gain her attention. Iseult flushed crimson and bent her head over The Book of Shadows once more. There was a suspicion of laughter in Meghan’s voice as she said, ‘I have been watching ye also, Iseult. I have only ever seen one other person somersault as ye do. Is this common among your people?’

  ‘Many o’ the Scarred Warriors excel at such defensive manoeuvres, but I am considered among the best,’ Iseult replied with spurious modesty.

  ‘Ye do it very fast and with such power—can ye do it slowly?’

  Iseult looked at her in surprise. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. She did a leisurely and elegant tumbling run that took her high in the air.

  ‘Beautiful!’ Meghan applauded, while Lachlan gave a grunt and scowled at her. He always grew sullen when Iseult demonstrated her ease and grace of movement, the contrast between his own clumsy movements so sharp.

  ‘Could ye jump out o’ that branch without hurt?’ Meghan asked, pointing to a great twisted branch about ten feet off the ground.

  Iseult smiled. ‘Easy,
’ she said, climbing with effortless agility and bounding off.

  ‘What about that one?’

  Iseult frowned and shrugged. ‘I’ll try if ye like.’

  Lachlan scowled. ‘She’ll hurt herself, ye auld fool,’ he said disrespectfully.

  ‘I dinna think so,’ Meghan replied and, sure enough, Iseult managed the twenty-foot drop with no difficulty. Meghan pointed out another, and with a shrug and a grin, Iseult climbed the tree again. From this height she could see over most of the forest. She looked down, and her heart pounded heavily against her ribs.

  ‘Are ye all right?’ Lachlan called anxiously. ‘Do no’ do it if ye are afraid, Iseult, the drop’ll surely kill ye.’

  At that Iseult jumped. It was a long way and she fell fast. Her curls blew back from her face, and tears started to her eyes. The woods blurred into a haze of brown and green, then the earth was flying towards her. Terror gripped her, but she prepared her body for landing, loosening her muscles and centring her sense of balance. The world steadied, slowed. She dropped to the ground, and though she stumbled and fell, she did not even bruise herself.

  ‘By Eà’s green blood!’ Lachlan breathed. His face was white, his body tense. He helped her up and gripped her wrist in his hand. ‘Ye fool!’ he snapped. ‘What were ye thinking? Ye could have been killed!’

  ‘Meghan would no’ have asked me to do it if she did no’ think I could,’ Iseult answered, though now she was on the ground her legs were shaky.

  ‘Indeed I would no’, though it was a risk, that I admit. I have seen other witches do such a trick, but was no’ sure if Iseult could.’

  ‘She might have been killed!’

  ‘Lachlan, my lad, Iseult’s mother was Ishbel the Winged. She could float in the air as easily as a bellfruit seed in a breeze. O’ course I wondered if Iseult had inherited any o’ her Talent. It’s clear she has strong powers in air and spirit, and the only other person I’ve seen to somersault like that was Ishbel.’