The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Cast the spell then, while we organise ye a litter. We shall carry ye out under their very noses!’

  Isabeau returned rather wearily to the kitchen, helped herself to vegetable soup and bread, and sat at the far end of the long table. Servants were milling everywhere, and the kitchen buzzed with talk. Isabeau paid very little attention, eating steadily as she thought about what she had learnt that evening. The knowledge that Riordan Bowlegs was a witch was near as astounding to her as the realisation that she had carried a third of the Key right to the very door of the Banrìgh.

  A flock of serving maids came fluttering in, twittering in excitement. Seeing Isabeau sunk in a dream, they surrounded her with their bell-shaped skirts and high, shrill voices. ‘Have ye seen them yet, Red?’ freckle-faced Edda asked.

  ‘They came on a great boat, with big white sails marked with a red cross.’

  ‘They refused to open the river-gates to them at first.’

  ‘The hull o’ their boat is covered in holes where the Fairgean tried to sink it. They had to plug the holes with oilcloth before they could sail on.’

  ‘Fighting Fairgean the whole way!’ Elsie cried.

  Isabeau said, ‘What are ye all raving on about now?’ She was answered with a babble of voices.

  ‘The Tìrsoilleirean …’

  ‘… came in a boat …’

  ‘… even the women wear armour, and carry swords …’

  ‘They want to open trade again …’

  ‘… and fight together against the Fairgean.’

  ‘… Mistress Sani had to go down to the docks, for the harbour authorities wouldna let them in without the sanction of the Rìgh, yet the puir man is sunk in a fever and couldna be disturbed!’

  ‘… there’s a priest with them, and ye should smell him! Urgh!’ Edda finished triumphantly.

  Isabeau was as excited and intrigued as they were. This was the first contact between Tìrsoilleir and the rest of Eileanan in over four hundred years, a truly historic event. She had often wondered about the forbidden land, which she had been able to see from some parts of her valley home. It had looked much like any other land, except for the tall spires of the kirks which rose from every village. Rumour had it that the Tìrsoilleirean had to worship in their kirks as many as three times a day, and anyone who refused was disciplined severely.

  Isabeau knew the Tìrsoilleirean had rejected the philosophies of the witches, believing in a stern sun god that punished them mightily for any transgression. Unlike the witches, who thought that all gods and goddesses were different names and faces for the one life-spirit, the Tìrsoilleirean believed in one god with one name. They thought their beliefs were the only true faith and that other people must be forced to worship as they did. Many times they had tried to convert their neighbours. When missionaries and travelling preachers failed to win the people to their religion, they tried force.

  Meghan had considered them the greatest enemies of Eileanan’s way of life, for there was no force as unstoppable as that of fanatics. ‘It is no’ just that they think they are right,’ she had said. ‘They are so filled with certitude and religious zeal that they canna or willna allow the possibility o’ a different view. To them, there is only one truth, while anyone with wisdom kens that truth is a multifaceted crystal.’

  It occurred to Isabeau that the philosophical differences which had once divided Tìrsoilleir and the rest of Eileanan were no longer so rigid. Magic and witchcraft had been outlawed in the Bright Land for hundreds of years. The Day of Reckoning and its fiery legacy must have been viewed with approval in Bride, capital city of Tìrsoilleir. After that the witches’ belief in freedom of worship had been replaced by the Banrìgh’s vague but strictly enforced Truth, which also believed in only one path. Perhaps the Tìrsoilleirean had come from behind the Great Divide because they hoped to renew their crusade?

  The whole court was rife with speculation. The dignitaries remained closeted with the Rìgh, who had risen from his sickbed at the news. Soon the whole court knew that the Bright Soldiers had come seeking help against the rising of the Fairgean. The sea people had raided the northern coast of Tìrsoilleir just as they had Carraig and Siantan. Raised as warriors, the Tìrsoilleirean had fought them off for five years, but each spring and autumn the rising tides brought them in ever greater numbers.

  Now the tide was rising again with the coming of autumn, the Fairgean were looting and burning coastal towns and villages as far south as Bride itself. The Tìrsoilleirean were suffering terribly from the attacks and had decided to send a fleet of ships round to Dùn Gorm to ask for help and advice while the southern seas still remained free of the fierce, barbarous sea-dwellers.

  Isabeau alone seemed to find it strange that the Tìrsoilleirean should decide to seek help now, after centuries of isolation. Although the diplomatic party was full of smiles and smooth words, Isabeau wished she could talk it over with Meghan, who would have found their sudden friendliness peculiar too, she knew.

  She had little time to wonder, though, for as soon as her soup was eaten, the chamberlain’s lackeys were vying with each other to find work for her to do. She tended the spits, gathered herbs for Latifa, helped carry food out to the minstrels and jongleurs, and replaced the half-used candles in the great hall.

  Crowds of gaily dressed courtiers and ladies began to throng through the main part of the palace, and Isabeau was wide-eyed as she trotted to and fro in her white cap and apron. She could not help wishing she was a finely dressed banprionnsa, like the six daughters of the Prionnsa of Blèssem. They wore silk dresses printed all over with roses and lilies, and their golden hair was intricately braided with flowers. None of them noticed Isabeau as she hurried past, too busy laughing and dancing and flirting with their father’s squires.

  A stir was caused by the entry of the Tìrsoilleirean, who came in under the hanging banners as a closely knit group. In their silver armour and white surcoats, they stood out from the bright silks and velvets of the court, their stern, wary expressions in contrast to the idle pleasure on the faces of all about them. Even the pretty banprionnsachan of Blèssem stopped their giggling and gossiping to stare at the strangers.

  The Tìrsoilleirean were to eat at the high table, a mark of great favour, and much juggling of the table places had had to be done on very short notice. This meant many of the nobly born squires were squeezed out into the lesser hall where Isabeau was serving. Although a long, high room of grand proportions, the lesser hall was already overcrowded and Isabeau spent much of the evening on the run from one packed table to another. She could not carry the heavy trays with only one hand but she could serve, and so to her dismay she found herself trapped in the lesser room with little excuse to leave.

  Isabeau hated having to serve at the tables. The squires were forever pinching her bottom as she poured more wine into their glasses. It was Isabeau who would be blamed if she dropped the jug, yet there was little she could do to extract herself from their clumsy embraces without mishap, particularly with the use of only one hand.

  As the night wore on, their grabs at her grew more uncoordinated as the wine clouded their senses. She became more adept at ducking and weaving through them and began to think she would get through the night with only a few boxes to the ear from her superiors. Then a plump squire with food stains all down the front of his jerkin succeeded in capturing her and pulling her down onto his lap. Before she could struggle free, he had ground his hot, sour-breathed mouth against hers. Isabeau, finally losing her temper, bit him. He yelped and threw her away from him. She fell onto the floor, her cap tumbling off, her skirts billowing around her.

  All the squires howled with laughter. The plump one lurched to his feet, trying to straighten his crushed and stained doublet as he peered round for Isabeau. ‘Cheeky lass!’ he muttered, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. ‘Thinks she can bite me, eh? I’ll show her!’

  Isabeau scrambled to her feet, caught up her muslin cap and tried to slip away without
being seen. The squire lifted the tablecloth and peered underneath, calling, ‘C’mon, lassie, where ye be hiding?’ She hid behind the back of one of the tall menservants and let him shield her as she tiptoed towards the door.

  She had just made it when, to her horror, she saw Sani standing outside. Although everyone but the serving maids and footmen were dressed in their gaudiest clothes, the old woman was still clothed in black from head to foot. She looked like a black beetle amongst a flock of butterflies.

  Behind Isabeau the drunken squire was weaving his way towards her, his arms held out. She glanced from him to Sani, feeling trapped. At that very moment the old woman turned and saw Isabeau, her cap in her hand, her red curls dishevelled. The pale, fierce eyes focused instantly, and Isabeau was transfixed. She could not move or speak, whether from fear or some arcane power of the old woman, she did not know.

  ‘So, ye are Latifa’s grand-niece,’ Sani said.

  Isabeau nodded slowly.

  ‘Recently come from Rionnagan.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Ye have cut your hair?’

  Isabeau wanted to explain that she had been ill and feverish, and that her hair had been cut to bring down her high temperature. She could say nothing, however, her tongue a plank of wood in her mouth. So she merely nodded again.

  The old woman grinned. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘Nay, ma’am,’ Isabeau managed to say, though her voice sounded high and squeaky. She was conscious of the old woman’s eyes—so pale a blue as to be almost colourless—raking over her, and she trembled a little as she stood. Sani’s gaze sharpened as she saw the hand bound up in bandages, half hidden by Isabeau’s apron. ‘Injured yourself?’ she asked in a silky smooth voice, and Isabeau saw her gaze flick up to the little scar between her brows again.

  ‘Aye, ma’am,’ she answered politely.

  ‘And how did ye do that? Show me.’

  Isabeau dug her crippled hand deeper into her skirts. She could think of nothing to say. The story Latifa had told came back to her, and she said breathlessly, ‘Caught my hand in a coney trap.’

  ‘No’ very canny o’ ye, was it?’

  ‘Nay, ma’am.’

  In a voice as unctuous as precious oils, the old woman whispered, ‘Show me your hand, kin o’ Latifa the Cook,’ but before Isabeau had time to react, she felt the plump squire lurch against her back, trapping her arms in his so he could slobber into her neck.

  ‘Gie me a kiss, my bonny lass,’ he said. ‘It’s Midsummer, time for some loving …’

  Normally Isabeau would have pushed him away, but with Sani barring her exit and asking her awkward questions, she sagged into his arms so he staggered backwards. They lurched against the table, and then to the floor, the squire falling on top of her. She managed to free herself as he lay laughing and wheezing. She crept under the table as a dozen hands hauled the drunk upwards. ‘She’s gone again!’ he cried. ‘The tease! Find her, laddies!’

  A breathless game of chase-and-hide around the table followed, with Isabeau finally being rescued by one of the serving-men, who reprimanded her severely for flirting with the lairds’ attendants. By now thoroughly agitated, Isabeau burst into tears. ‘It was no’ my fault,’ she cried. ‘He was too strong for me! I’ve been trying to get away; I even bit him when he tried to kiss me!’

  The serving-man relented. ‘Obh obh! No need to greet, lassie. Get ye back to the kitchen, and I’ll no’ tell Latifa this time.’

  Dabbing at her eyes with her apron, Isabeau crammed her muslin cap back over her curls and ran out of the dining room, going the long way round so she could avoid Sani, who still lurked outside the door. She ran down the wide steps to the entrance hall and into the gardens, filled with crowds of revellers. Dodging and weaving through the long lines of dancers, she at last found a dark corner where she could regain her composure. Her pulse was galloping and she had to slide down to sit on the grass, swallowing great gulps of cool night air, before her blood calmed. Somehow Sani suspects, she thought. How could she ken?

  She tried to think but her terror bewildered her, so that all she could do was grip her fingers together and try and be calm. Sukey said Sani was the real leader o’ the Awl. Happen she heard about me from the witch-sniffer. It must have been big news in the highlands, a red-haired witch caught and tried. But everyone thought I died. I was fed to the loch-serpent. No-one knew I was still alive until I got here. No-one here knows who I really am except for Latifa …

  The thoughts reassured her, and she repeated them to herself. She remembered then how the sight of the Banrìgh’s red skirt had shocked her, and how Sani had looked up at the gallery afterwards. Somehow she must have betrayed herself. Latifa had said her thoughts were clear as shouts. Perhaps Sani did not really know anything, had just been alerted by some stray thought that Isabeau had let slip. So reassuring was this hypothesis that Isabeau got to her feet and straightened her skirt. Mid-movement she froze.

  ‘So ye’ve cut your hair,’ the old woman had said. And she had first asked Sukey and Doreen about a new red-haired scullery maid a month or more ago. Isabeau’s limbs began to shake again, and she slid down into a grey heap on the grass. It was true. Somehow Sani knew …

  The prisoner was dragged from his cell close on midnight and paraded around Dùn Gorm’s great square in a fool’s cap before being tied shrieking to the great pile of timber in the square’s centre. All the while he begged and pleaded with his captors, shouting that he was no witch but a seeker of the Awl. His guards only laughed. Jongleurs danced all round the square, spinning wheels of fire and spitting out long plumes of flame. Drums pounded, fifes trilled, and the crowd was filled with excited anticipation. The people of Dùn Gorm had grown used to the death fires of the Awl, and few in the throng felt pity for the screaming man. At last a burning brand was plunged into the kindling and flames roared up the bonfire. As the flames licked up the prisoner’s legs, the glamourie dissolved and the agonised features of the burning man were revealed as the Seeker Aidan the Cruel. The seekers lined up before the bonfire recognised their comrade at once, but it was too late to save him. As they shouted for water, his screams were swallowed by bright curtains of flames.

  Anghus shifted his pack wearily and said, ‘No’ much further, Donald. I can see the lights o’ Dunceleste twinkling yonder. A soft, warm bed would be grand, aye?’

  ‘Aye, m’laird,’ the gillie replied. ‘It’s sick to death I am o’ sleeping on stones. I think I am growing too auld for all this racketing around the country.’

  Anghus could only agree. They stumbled up the slick cobblestones of the road, the Rhyllster thundering past in swift moving rapids. Ahead rose the walls of the ferry town, and they could hear the clacking of the mill’s great waterwheel.

  They came through the gates into a courtyard lined with guards’ quarters, which led into a wide square, surrounded on all sides by tall cramped houses with high-pitched roofs. A rowdy crowd, mainly soldiers and merchants, spilled out from an inn, its sign freshly painted with a red dragon breathing flames. Anghus headed that way.

  He knew the Arch-Sorceress was only a few days’ journey away. She had not moved in all the months that he had been trekking through the mountains. He guessed that she must have some tricky hideaway, for he knew soldiers had been hunting her without respite since word of her first came through in the spring. He knew there was no better way of picking up news than to drink at the same place as the people who had the knowledge you wanted. Besides, Anghus’s whisky flask had been empty for a week, and he was in desperate need of a drink.

  The inn was crowded, and the two Rurachians had to edge their way past close-packed bodies, many brilliant in scarlet uniforms. Anghus found a seat while Donald shoved his way through to the bar, where four buxom and very pretty girls went a long way towards explaining the inn’s popularity.

  Perched on the edge of a bench, Anghus listened to the conversation around him. He would have no trouble gaining the information he want
ed. The talk in the inn was of nothing else but the foul sorceress Meghan and her blaygird companions. At the centre of attention was a young piper, no more than seventeen, the only one to have marched into the Veiled Forest and survived. Anghus’s eyes widened at his descriptions of the forest. He spoke of shadow-hounds tearing out the throats of soldiers; quicksands that opened under their feet; stones that moved and talked; trees that tangled their feet with roots; paths that shifted, leading the soldiers in circles until they died of hunger and thirst.

  Wondering what had become of his whisky, Anghus turned and saw a band of Red Guards had decided to ease their frustration on his bow-legged gillie. One had snatched his tam-o’-shanter and was holding it above his head, as another polished the bald crown of his head with a cleaning rag. The gillie’s shiny pate was pink with indignation.

  Anghus rose to his feet, loosening his sword as one of the soldiers tweaked Donald’s long beard. The gillie’s face flushed scarlet. ‘How dare ye!’ he roared and head-butted him in the stomach. Knives sprang out, but Anghus stepped into the fray, his sword gleaming. ‘I would no’ make any trouble, lads,’ he said mildly. ‘I be the MacRuraich and this is my gillie. Lay one hand on him and I’ll consider it an insult to me. An insult to me is an insult to my throne, and ye’ll be paying for it with your heads. Do ye understand?’

  The leader, a thickset, red-faced man with a swagger, looked Anghus up and down, then said, ‘Ye do no’ look much like a prionnsa to me.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceiving.’ Anghus threw back his faded black plaid so the soldiers could see the wolf device of his brooch. They were uneasy, he could feel it, though the one with a swagger was loath to have his fun taken away.

  ‘Anyone can wear a wolf brooch,’ he said, twisting Donald’s tam-o’-shanter in his hands. ‘Does no’ mean a thing.’