The Pool of Two Moons

by Kate Forsyth

  The Banrìgh alone showed no fear. She gathered the papers up and placed them before the Rìgh, guarding them with her arm. Gently she set the quill in his hand and said softly, ‘Sign, my darling.’

  ‘No!’ Lachlan shouted and tugged off the cloak so all could see him. There were gasps and cries, and most of the councillors shrank back in fear. The man in black velvet started forward, saying tentatively, ‘Lachlan?’

  The winged prionnsa knelt by his brother, clasping his arm. ‘Please believe me, please, Jaspar! Name me your heir! I am a true MacCuinn. I would no’ lie to ye, please believe what I have told ye …’

  The Banrìgh stood still, white as her husband, waiting to see what he would say. Latifa gasped and pressed the baby to her shoulder.

  Jaspar put up a hand and touched Lachlan’s burly shoulder, the soft feathers of his wings, the skin of his face. ‘Ye are back again,’ he whispered. ‘Ye feel real, but ye step in and out o’ shadows like a ghost. Am I dreaming? Am I dead?’

  ‘No, brother,’ Lachlan wept. ‘I live, I swear it. Name me heir! Why should Maya the Unknown rule? Who is she to steal the throne? I am Lachlan Owein MacCuinn, youngest son o’ Parteta the Brave. Ye should name me!’

  ‘It is my daughter I name heir,’ Jaspar said slowly, his voice strengthening. They could see a pulse beating rapidly in his temple. ‘My daughter.’

  ‘She is a halfbreed!’ Lachlan screamed. ‘Ensorcelled into being! Ye canna allow a Fairge halfbreed to inherit! She is the seed o’ evil!’

  ‘No,’ the Rìgh moaned. ‘Get ye gone, fiend!’

  ‘Jaspar, it is the truth!’

  ‘Maya is my wife, my beloved wife.’

  ‘She’s a sorceress!’ Lachlan cried desperately. ‘It is she who made me this … this uile-bheist!’ He indicated his wings and claws with one sweep of his hand.

  ‘Maya could never do such a thing. Never.’

  ‘I saw her!’

  ‘Ye’re naught but a nightmare, an evil ghost come to confuse me and frighten me. Shame on ye, shame!’ With the last of his strength he seized the papers and scrawled his signature along the bottom of first one, then the other. Lachlan tried desperately to seize the papers, reaching across the wide bed but Jaspar held them out of his reach, passing them to the chancellor. ‘Seal them for me, Cameron.’ Trapped in his corner, Lachlan could only watch helplessly as the chancellor shakily pressed Jaspar’s seal into the warm wax and stamped the papers.

  ‘It is done,’ the Rìgh said, slumping back against his pillows. ‘Bronwen shall rule when she is grown. The land is safe.’

  ‘Thank ye, Jaspar!’ Maya cried and fell to her knees beside the bed. She was weeping. She kissed his hand and it was flaccid in hers. With a soft cry, she called to him and pressed his hand to her mouth. He lay still. She turned and waved to one of the councillors and he brought the candelabra closer. As the light spilled over the pillow, they saw the Rìgh’s face, slack and grey, his eyes between the half-closed lids glassy.

  She screamed, a strange, high, echoing sound that bounced off the walls and shattered the mirror. They all ducked, hands to their ears. She screamed again and fell over the bed. Latifa began to sob, her whole body quivering. The baby began to wail. Lachlan cried, ‘No! Jaspar!’ and seized his wrist, shook his arm. He pushed Maya violently, so she fell to the floor, and flung himself onto the bed, clutching Jaspar’s shoulders and trying to rouse him.

  ‘Seize him!’ Maya cried. ‘Guards! Guards! Treason!’

  ‘Lachlan, quick! We must go!’ Iseult cried.

  As the door swung open, the chancellor said thickly, ‘The MacCuinn is dead! Long live the NicCuinn!’

  ‘Long live the Banrìgh, Bronwen NicCuinn!’ the councillors all echoed.

  ‘No!’ Lachlan shouted and would have dived over the bed if Iseult had not tripped him with her foot. He fell onto his brother’s body and began to weep, and Iseult caught his arm and dragged him away. With her free hand, she flung her reil and it sliced neatly through the throat of the soldier running through the door. Blood spurted across the cloud-blue walls and Latifa screamed.

  Iseult got them through the door and managed to get Lachlan composed enough to heave a cream and gilt wardrobe against the doors. It was a flimsy piece of furniture and she did not think it would hold long, so she dragged him into the nursery as quickly as she could, where Finn and Isabeau were waiting anxiously.

  ‘The Rìgh is dead,’ Iseult said as soon as they had secured the door behind them. They could hear hammering on the other door and shouting.

  ‘We guessed. Meghan is on her way. Gitâ has gone to her so she must be near enough to call him.’

  ‘Lachlan!’ Iseult cried. ‘Blow on the horn! We must summon help, we canna withstand the palace guard by ourselves!’

  Lachlan had stumbled to a chair, his head in his hands. Finn seized the horn, ran to the window, leant out into the wintry night and blew on it with all her might. Long and hauntingly beautiful, the peal rang out into the dark, lingering and lingering.

  At the first note of the horn’s call, Duncan was on his feet and shouting at the guards to seize arms. Dillon jumped to his feet in excitement, and the other children milled around him, waiting for his orders. Jorge sat up, his hands trembling.

  ‘We need someone to ring the bell!’ Dillon said. ‘To warn the rebels. Johanna, ye should do it.’

  She shrank back. ‘I … canna.’

  ‘Ye have to, canna ye see that? Jorge must no’ go, he is too sick, and we must keep Tòmas safe.’

  ‘I will be needed,’ the little boy said solemnly. ‘I can feel death.’

  ‘Jaspar MacCuinn is dead.’ Jorge’s face was haggard. ‘But there will be more deaths. Many more deaths.’

  ‘Tòmas will be needed after the fight, no’ during. He’d be no use during. Neither would ye, Johanna! Ye must stay and look after Jorge and Tòmas and the other children.’

  ‘I do no’ want to go,’ the girl said, shaking with tears.

  ‘But someone has to ring the bell. If ye canna fight, surely ye could do that—so all o’ us who can fight are where they are most needed.’

  Although he spoke with brutal frankness, there was such an air of seriousness and clear thinking about the boy that both Duncan and Jorge murmured, ‘He’s right.’

  Outside the tower a wolf howled. They all flinched back, even Jorge, and the raven croaked loudly. Johanna was trembling. But she remembered the delicate grey ashes of her Samhain wish, floating up the chimney with the words, magical loops of writing, that said, ‘I do no’ want to be afraid any more.’ To all their surprise, she squared her shoulders and said, ‘All right then, I will.’

  The wolf howled again.

  Anghus lifted his head in amazement. He had never heard the MacRuraich war horn before but he recognised its sound straightaway. He stopped mid-stride and Casey, following close behind, collided with him in the enveloping mist.

  ‘The MacRuraich horn!’ Meghan cried and grasped his arm. Gitâ was clinging to her shoulder, chittering with excitement. ‘They must have removed it from the relics room. But why? I never mentioned the horn!’

  From somewhere in the mist the howl of a wolf rose, taking up the sound of the dying horn. ‘Tabithas!’ Anghus and Meghan cried together. More howls arose, chilling and drawn out. The men following them all shuddered and drew closer together, but on Anghus and Meghan’s faces there was only joy.

  Out of the darkness drifted a battalion of ghost warriors, wielding swords of ice. They were dressed in the fashions of many different centuries, but all wore the ghostly remnants of the black MacRuraich kilt, the wolf rampant engraved on every sword and shield. The rebels shouted in fear and stumbled back, but Meghan and Anghus watched with fearless and fascinated eyes. Floating silently through the storm and mist, the ghost warriors converged on the palace. Shouts of alarm rang out and red-clad soldiers ran to engage. Soon there was fighting in the big square and on the rampart, and the palace began to blaze with lights.

&nb
sp; ‘Only Fionnghal could have called up the MacRuraich ghosts,’ Anghus said in exultation. ‘How could she have known that blowing the war horn at Samhain would call up the warriors o’ ages past? How did she know what the horn was?’

  ‘Luck? Instinct? Who knows? The ghost warriors have come and the Red Guards canna stand against them. Let’s hurry!’ And Meghan did not wait for them to follow her, but picked up her skirts and ran towards the palace, the donbeag clinging desperately to her plait.

  Anghus followed her, shouting the MacRuraich war cry. Those behind him took up the cry, shouting, ‘The wolf! The wolf!’ There were close on a hundred following them now, Meghan having unlocked the doors to all the cells in the dungeons below the palace.

  A Red Guard struck at Anghus from the shadows, and he retaliated with quick, hard strokes. Somewhere inside was his daughter—nothing would stand in his way now! A large black shape leapt from the shadows and tore out the throat of a guard who would have spitted the prionnsa on his spear. ‘Tabithas!’ Anghus cried, and the wolf turned and grinned at him, her jaws dripping with gore.

  Meghan hurried ahead. Somehow all who stood against her were unable to land a blow on her. Anghus ran after her, the wolf at his heels, and dived into the confusion of the fighting. Red Guards grappled with blue-kilted soldiers, ghost warriors swarmed in the shadows, wolves leapt and snapped.

  Anghus took intense pleasure in the thrust and strike of his sword. Too long he had had to bend his neck meekly! At last he could avenge the insults to his pride, the injuries to his family. Donald was at his back, shooting at those who fought to catch them from the rear. Casey was at his side, sword darting. The black wolf streaked ahead. ‘Tabithas!’ Anghus called. ‘Find Fionnghal! Find my daughter!’

  Iseult thrust the bow and quiver into Lachlan’s reluctant hands. ‘Lachlan, the Red Guards come! We have to go!’

  ‘No!’ he snarled. ‘Where is that cursehag? She has stolen my birthright! Where is she?’

  ‘She’s with the soldiers, Lachlan. They will kill ye! This place is swarming with them, leannan, we canna fight them all. Let us go!’

  He threw her away, got to his claws and prowled the room, gripping his bow, his golden-brown eyes so savage the others kept silent. ‘I will kill her and that Fairge baby. I will strangle her! Let us see if her death breaks the spell and restores me, since nothing else has. Call her the NicCuinn! That squalling brat, that halfbreed uile-bheist …’

  ‘If Cloudshadow is right, then both Iseult and I are half faery and thus uile-bheistean,’ Isabeau said, facing him, her whole body poised for movement. They were all surprised, and Iseult glanced at her twin with grudging admiration for her courage. She would not easily have crossed Lachlan in this mood.

  ‘And ye have promised to stand for the faeries,’ Iseult said, ‘and ye should no’ judge the babe for its parentage. She is your niece.’

  At that, Isabeau gave her sister back the same look and the twins felt their strange connection grow.

  They heard wolves howling outside, and then the clash of arms. ‘The Blue Guards come!’ Lachlan cried, and bent the longbow, testing it.

  There was a loud crash, and they knew the wardrobe had given way. They looked at each other and ran through into Maya’s boudoir, securing the door behind them. Suddenly bells began to peal out, loud and insistent. Iseult and Lachlan shared a quick, exultant look.

  ‘The League has done it again!’ Lachlan said, grinning. ‘Now we shall see how long the Ensorcellor rules!’

  ‘Lachlan, we have to get out o’ here,’ Iseult said urgently. ‘I canna fight them all—we canna! We have to join the Key and save the Lodestar if we wish to prevail. Ye ken that! Ye have precipitated the rebellion before we have the Lodestar and ye ken Meghan says—’

  ‘I do no’ give a damn what Meghan says,’ Lachlan snapped. ‘If I had gone to Jaspar earlier, I might have convinced him!’

  ‘And ye might have burnt on the fire,’ Iseult retorted.

  There was hammering on both the inner doors and the grand entrance to the Banrìgh’s suite from the hallway. ‘We need to retreat and find our friends,’ Iseult said. ‘Please, Lachlan, let us go!’

  ‘Where?’ Isabeau asked. ‘They are at both doors—I bolted them while ye were with the Rìgh, but they will no’ last long.’

  ‘Out the window!’ Lachlan cried, and threw it open.

  ‘What about Isabeau and Finn?’ Iseult cried. ‘They canna fly!’

  Isabeau felt a peculiar sensation, like a hand closing over her heart. She had not had time to wonder how Lachlan and Iseult had reached the royal suite’s windows, five storeys from the ground.

  ‘We shall have to carry them,’ Lachlan said. ‘Are ye strong enough to hold Finn? She’s only a skinny wee thing.’

  The sound of one of the inner doors breaking stilled Finn’s protests. She clambered onto the windowsill as Lachlan directed, Isabeau following, her heart slamming in long, hard beats.

  ‘Put your arms about my neck,’ he commanded, not looking at her. Isabeau obeyed stiffly, keeping a distance between them. With an irritated snort he grasped her, gripping her so tight she lost all her breath and was not able to take another. He launched off into the air, Iseult following a few seconds later. Behind them soldiers reached the window just as Iseult’s foot left the sill. One grasped at her skirt but she kicked him in the face and he fell, nose smashed.

  Behind the palace the darkness was lifting, the stars beginning to fade. They fell swiftly into mist, Lachlan struggling to slow their descent. Gradually the powerful beat of his wings steadied and they dropped more slowly, surrounded by gloom. Isabeau could only see his face dimly.

  ‘How does Iseult fly without wings?’ she asked.

  ‘Her mother is Ishbel the Winged,’ he replied and felt the electric shock that ran through her.

  Through the mist came the dull clash of swords, the screams and cries of dying men. All over the western square, Red Guards were in desperate hand-to-hand combat with warriors that seemed strangely insubstantial in the swirling mist. Here and there the dark, lean shapes of wolves leapt, dragging down the red-clad soldiers.

  Then they saw the flowing, changing shapes of ghosts all about them in the mist. As the ghosts flowed through them they both felt a quiver run down their spine, a sudden shock of cold. Isabeau clung to Lachlan, unable to stifle a scream. He landed heavily, stumbling and falling, knocking all the breath out of her. She lay still, her face pressed against his neck, then he hauled his heavy body away from her, scratching her legs with his claws. Red Guards materialised out of the mist, but the ghost warriors swarmed to meet them, so Lachlan had time to unsheathe his claymore. Isabeau knelt behind him, trying to catch her breath, as he moved to engage with the closest Red Guards.

  Iseult fought her way towards them, Finn keeping close behind. ‘Where did all these ghosts come from?’ Iseult asked, showing no fear, her dagger dark with blood.

  ‘Who kens? All I know is that they fight for us and no’ against us,’ Lachlan responded. She and Lachlan fought side by side, anticipating each other’s every move, fighting as one. Slowly they moved across the square, seeking to reach the garden, but as the light grew the ghost warriors began to fade, and they had difficulty in keeping the Red Guards from overwhelming them. From the garden came the hesitant melody of the first bird.

  There was a roar, and a huge man in a faded blue kilt came charging through the mist, swinging his claymore. With him were thirty or more soldiers, and soon it was the Red Guards retreating towards the palace walls.

  ‘Duncan!’ Lachlan cried. ‘Thank Eà ye are here. Come, I have unfinished business in the palace!’

  Duncan nodded and directed his men to pursue the soldiers. Lachlan leant on his claymore, breathing heavily. He flashed a look at Isabeau and said roughly, ‘Do ye have the other two parts o’ the Key?’

  Isabeau looked at him warily. ‘Latifa has them.’

  He swore and cast a look of intense dislike at her. ‘The auld fat o
ne. I remember her. Ye were meant to have it! Why do ye no’ have it?’

  ‘Latifa guarded it.’

  ‘Ye fool! It is dawn now. Are ye no’ meant to join it at the turn o’ power? Is that no’ what Meghan said?’

  ‘We joined it at sunset, moonrise on Midsummer’s Eve, but I think any turn in the tides would do it.’

  ‘Iseult, leannan,’ he said, the harshness gone from his voice, ‘ye must get the Key. It was your task, yours and Isabeau’s, to join the Key if Meghan was no’ with us.’

  ‘Meghan is near,’ Isabeau cried. ‘She will be here!’

  ‘I have to go and put my sword to that black-hearted witch’s throat,’ Lachlan said. ‘Then we shall see if she restores me! Then we shall see if her blood flows red or black like the blood o’ fish.’

  ‘No, Lachlan! Ye must come with us. I fear for your safety. We must stick together, please, Lachlan!’

  ‘Go! Join the Key. I will meet ye at the Pool o’ Two Moons. If ye need me, blow the horn and I will come. Do no’ fear for me—the rebels will have heard those bells, they will be at the palace gates already. Ye ken this is our plan, we have just done it backwards. Please, leannan, let me go. Did Isabeau no’ say Meghan was near? And I have the Bow!’ He flourished it.

  ‘Lachlan, it’s too dangerous! Wait …’

  ‘No, leannan. I must confront the cursehag. She will turn her foul sorceries against us. Ye do no’ understand her power!’

  ‘No, Lachlan …’

  ‘She killed my brothers!’ he snarled and ran to join the fighting.

  From all sides they could hear the clash of arms, screams, and the howling of wolves, closer than ever. As they watched Lachlan swipe and thrust his way through the fighting, Isabeau held her twin’s arm comfortingly. For the first time emotion was written clearly on Iseult’s face—both longing and terror mingled.